The new Conservative government has abruptly dropped funding the One Tonne Challenge, an environmental initiative aimed at getting individuals to moderate their energy consumption.
Sure, the program had its critics. Rick Mercer's commercials - 'com'on, we're Canadian. We're up for a challenge' - may have seemed a little hokey. But individuals and communities across Canada have been signing up. If nothing else, this campaign has emphasized that everyone has a role to play in fighting global warming.
Forty communities received funding through this program to "engage their citizens in greenhouse gas reduction". The EcoAction Community Funding Program also funded environmental projects by non-profit, NGOs like Equiterre. A Google Search on One-Tonne Challenge will bring up sites for these Challenge projects in cities and communities across Canada: Toronto, Regina, Halifax, Waterloo, Whistler... Now all these projects are being axed. Felled like a clear-cut forest.
I admit, I have not done all I could have in the One-Tonne Challenge. I jumped on the band wagon a year ago - even sent out a challenge to all my friends and tried to get a pool going as an extra incentive to join (www.oasys.ca/anita/one_tonne. I had intended to get everyone to do their second count last September and find our winner.
But here were are in April 2006 and I never did ask people for their second tally. After reading the news of One-Tonne's funding cut, I thought I would send around the site again and get people to quickly count their emissions before the government site goes down.
Too late. The site is already down. I must say, the Conservative government can move quickly.
So apologies to those who responded to my challenge last March. I should have gotten back to you sooner.
But it looks like we have a new challenge now: keeping our government from backtracking on the steps we were taking toward a cleaner environment.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
dog tales
It's been a dog's age since I last wrote. Juggling 3 jobs, plus various other commitments, has proved to be quite time-consuming. It is actually rather invigorating to have to keep so many balls in the air, but by the end of the day I'm exhausted. My daytimer is becoming indispensable as I plan days in advance to try and squeeze everything in.
But of all the things I had to do in the last few weeks, dog-sitting seemed to be the one thing that at times I thought would be the straw on the proverbial camel's back. When the alarm went off at 6:28 each morning, when my hectic schedule had to take doggy bladders into account, I nearly regretted my promises.
And yet, there is something about being greeted by a happy dog - with wagging tail and excited whimpers - that is pretty nice to come home to.
This is Vera - her head cocked to the side in the way she had of looking at me, as if she hoped to find just the right angle so she could understand my human speech. She would also give me this head-tilt at various times as if to say, 'Come on, aren't we going to do that thing? You know, the thing?' Problem was, I could never quite figure out what 'thing' she was referring to.
I lived at Vera's house for 9 days - got up with her early each morning to take her for a walk along a wooded trail at the end of the street. Part retriever, she loved to carry a stick in her mouth on her walks. Once she found a stick she particularly liked in the park, brought it home, and left it (reluctantly) by the door. When we left that afternoon for another walk, she picked it up and carried it to the park. She left it at the edge of the trail, but picked it back up for the walk home. She did the same thing the next morning and for the rest of our walks.
And this is handsome Chester, a Rhodesian Ridgeback. He's an old man - more than 11 now. He's as tall as my waist, but completely gentle. He doesn't bark when I come to his door, just welcomes me with slobbery kisses.
Chester could easily be the alpha dog on the dog run in the park. The current alpha dog of one pack slinks into the trees and tiptoes away when she sees Chester coming. Other dogs freeze in their tracks and stare in horror and the huge beast lumbering toward them.
But he lopes on by, often not even bothering to stop for the customary butt-sniffing. He is real suck for treats though and if he sees another dog-owner handing them out he will get in there and refuse to leave unsatisfied. He will also adopt the last treat-giver as his new best friend and follow that person like a fawning puppy. The only way I could get him to come back to me was to entice him with treats from my (now smelly) coat pocket.
I took Chester for a walk this afternoon - and that is the last of my doggy duties. These last weeks have reminded me of the commitment needed to get a pet - certainly something I am not willing to take on fulltime right now, no matter how much fun I had with Vera and Chester. I will even admit that once I got out of bed, I actually enjoyed our early morning walks with a companion so easy to please. But it is lovely to be back in my own bed again with that extra half-hour of much anticipated rest.
But of all the things I had to do in the last few weeks, dog-sitting seemed to be the one thing that at times I thought would be the straw on the proverbial camel's back. When the alarm went off at 6:28 each morning, when my hectic schedule had to take doggy bladders into account, I nearly regretted my promises.
And yet, there is something about being greeted by a happy dog - with wagging tail and excited whimpers - that is pretty nice to come home to.
This is Vera - her head cocked to the side in the way she had of looking at me, as if she hoped to find just the right angle so she could understand my human speech. She would also give me this head-tilt at various times as if to say, 'Come on, aren't we going to do that thing? You know, the thing?' Problem was, I could never quite figure out what 'thing' she was referring to.I lived at Vera's house for 9 days - got up with her early each morning to take her for a walk along a wooded trail at the end of the street. Part retriever, she loved to carry a stick in her mouth on her walks. Once she found a stick she particularly liked in the park, brought it home, and left it (reluctantly) by the door. When we left that afternoon for another walk, she picked it up and carried it to the park. She left it at the edge of the trail, but picked it back up for the walk home. She did the same thing the next morning and for the rest of our walks.
And this is handsome Chester, a Rhodesian Ridgeback. He's an old man - more than 11 now. He's as tall as my waist, but completely gentle. He doesn't bark when I come to his door, just welcomes me with slobbery kisses. Chester could easily be the alpha dog on the dog run in the park. The current alpha dog of one pack slinks into the trees and tiptoes away when she sees Chester coming. Other dogs freeze in their tracks and stare in horror and the huge beast lumbering toward them.
But he lopes on by, often not even bothering to stop for the customary butt-sniffing. He is real suck for treats though and if he sees another dog-owner handing them out he will get in there and refuse to leave unsatisfied. He will also adopt the last treat-giver as his new best friend and follow that person like a fawning puppy. The only way I could get him to come back to me was to entice him with treats from my (now smelly) coat pocket.
I took Chester for a walk this afternoon - and that is the last of my doggy duties. These last weeks have reminded me of the commitment needed to get a pet - certainly something I am not willing to take on fulltime right now, no matter how much fun I had with Vera and Chester. I will even admit that once I got out of bed, I actually enjoyed our early morning walks with a companion so easy to please. But it is lovely to be back in my own bed again with that extra half-hour of much anticipated rest.
Friday, March 10, 2006
it never rains...
Not that long ago I was scrounging for employment wherever I could find it. I started doing the Multiple Sclerosis Read-a-Thon presentations. I took care of a demanding disabled woman in her home. I went back to the restaurant I had worked in years ago. I dog sat for the neighbours.
One of the dogs I looked after was Vera. Her owner was so happy to find someone available (and likely ridiculously cheap since I had no idea what going rates are but now suspect they are more then $20 a day) that she booked me months ago to watch Vera over March break.
She contacted me last week, asking if I was still available. I'm no longer in her neighbourhood and considered saying no, but I hate to leave people in the lurch or turn down opportunities. I said I'd be happy to.
Her friend and owner of the huge yet friendly ridgeback Chester then called to see if I could also look after him the next two weekends. Well since I'm already back in the neighbourhood... why not?
My old landlords, also going away for March break, asked me to look after their cats. Bring 'em on, I said. The more the merrier.
I give you this story because it not only will make for a very pet-filled upcoming week, but also because it is indicative of the rest of my life.
I have gone from struggling to fill my time and make ends meet to wondering how I will juggle all the commitments I have.
In February I started a part-time job managing a web site. Also in February I finally got paid for a communications contract I was given months before - and was asked if I can do more work for them. I'd love to, I said.
Then I was called by the house manager British High Commission. (Around Christmas I had worked a few events for him - basic serving in a super-classy environment.) He wanted to book me for upcoming events in March.
Around this time I also got the call from said dog-owners.
I got an email reminding me that the next round of Read-a-Thons I had agreed to do begins March 27th. (At least I won't still have the dogs then.)
And THEN I got offered a full-time supervisory position with Statistics Canada for the upcoming census.
So now instead of lying awake at night wondering how to stay afloat, I itemize in my head. Take the dog for a walk at 7:00, then have to be at Stats at 8:30, be back to walk dogs at 5:00. On the morning I'm in at the office for the web job, I have to leave a bit early to be at the High Commission at 12:00. I'll have to find a way to beg off Stats for the other lunch I must work. Then the Read-a-Thon begins!!
Somewhere in there I also have to move the last of my stuff out of my old apartment. And then we were going to rip up the carpet and put in laminate....
It never rains till it pours.
One of the dogs I looked after was Vera. Her owner was so happy to find someone available (and likely ridiculously cheap since I had no idea what going rates are but now suspect they are more then $20 a day) that she booked me months ago to watch Vera over March break.
She contacted me last week, asking if I was still available. I'm no longer in her neighbourhood and considered saying no, but I hate to leave people in the lurch or turn down opportunities. I said I'd be happy to.
Her friend and owner of the huge yet friendly ridgeback Chester then called to see if I could also look after him the next two weekends. Well since I'm already back in the neighbourhood... why not?
My old landlords, also going away for March break, asked me to look after their cats. Bring 'em on, I said. The more the merrier.
I give you this story because it not only will make for a very pet-filled upcoming week, but also because it is indicative of the rest of my life.
I have gone from struggling to fill my time and make ends meet to wondering how I will juggle all the commitments I have.
In February I started a part-time job managing a web site. Also in February I finally got paid for a communications contract I was given months before - and was asked if I can do more work for them. I'd love to, I said.
Then I was called by the house manager British High Commission. (Around Christmas I had worked a few events for him - basic serving in a super-classy environment.) He wanted to book me for upcoming events in March.
Around this time I also got the call from said dog-owners.
I got an email reminding me that the next round of Read-a-Thons I had agreed to do begins March 27th. (At least I won't still have the dogs then.)
And THEN I got offered a full-time supervisory position with Statistics Canada for the upcoming census.
So now instead of lying awake at night wondering how to stay afloat, I itemize in my head. Take the dog for a walk at 7:00, then have to be at Stats at 8:30, be back to walk dogs at 5:00. On the morning I'm in at the office for the web job, I have to leave a bit early to be at the High Commission at 12:00. I'll have to find a way to beg off Stats for the other lunch I must work. Then the Read-a-Thon begins!!
Somewhere in there I also have to move the last of my stuff out of my old apartment. And then we were going to rip up the carpet and put in laminate....
It never rains till it pours.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
$ missing, $ taxed
I had that sinking feeling today. A panic that started slowly, but steadily grew.
My wallet was missing.
At least a dozen times I rifled through my shoulder bag, as if somehow I would find in it's pockets something I had not seen on the 11 other searches. I did the same thing with my jacket pockets. The floor of the closet. The floor of my car. The floor underneath the heap of clothes in the bedroom. I even opened kitchen cupboards (I tend to throw my wallet into my grocery bag, so it wouldn't be unreasonable to expect that it might turn up in the crisper).
But I was not so lucky. The panic grew.
Retracing my steps, I remembered that I went out on Sunday night for dinner with V and a friend he had just driven back from Toronto with. Although our friend generously picked up the tab, I know I had taken my wallet with me. With shaking hands, I looked up the restaurant in the phonebook and left them a hopeful message.
In order to take my mind of things, while waiting for his call back I did my tax return. I had money on the brain anyway, so it seemed appropriate. I've also realized in recent years that there is really no need to strain myself doing taxes. No matter how precise I think I may be, no matter how carefully I enter each amount on each slip, add and subract the various lines - my work is always corrected by some unknown employee of Revenue Canada. Why even bother? Each year I am tempted to simply scrawl a few random numbers on the form, toss it and all my receipts into the envelope and mail it in. Knowing they will redo it anyway takes away any incentive to get it right.
So with half my mind still running over where else my wallet might be, the other half placed a few numbers here and there on various forms and schedules. (Why schedules? It's not a time sheet.) The phone call from the restaurant came just as I was filling in the last lines.
"Unfortunately," he said, "... we do have your wallet."
"I was just teasing you." I twittered a nervous laugh.
So the story ends happily after all. I got my wallet back. And I got my taxes done.
My wallet was missing.
At least a dozen times I rifled through my shoulder bag, as if somehow I would find in it's pockets something I had not seen on the 11 other searches. I did the same thing with my jacket pockets. The floor of the closet. The floor of my car. The floor underneath the heap of clothes in the bedroom. I even opened kitchen cupboards (I tend to throw my wallet into my grocery bag, so it wouldn't be unreasonable to expect that it might turn up in the crisper).
But I was not so lucky. The panic grew.
Retracing my steps, I remembered that I went out on Sunday night for dinner with V and a friend he had just driven back from Toronto with. Although our friend generously picked up the tab, I know I had taken my wallet with me. With shaking hands, I looked up the restaurant in the phonebook and left them a hopeful message.
In order to take my mind of things, while waiting for his call back I did my tax return. I had money on the brain anyway, so it seemed appropriate. I've also realized in recent years that there is really no need to strain myself doing taxes. No matter how precise I think I may be, no matter how carefully I enter each amount on each slip, add and subract the various lines - my work is always corrected by some unknown employee of Revenue Canada. Why even bother? Each year I am tempted to simply scrawl a few random numbers on the form, toss it and all my receipts into the envelope and mail it in. Knowing they will redo it anyway takes away any incentive to get it right.
So with half my mind still running over where else my wallet might be, the other half placed a few numbers here and there on various forms and schedules. (Why schedules? It's not a time sheet.) The phone call from the restaurant came just as I was filling in the last lines.
"Unfortunately," he said, "... we do have your wallet."
"I was just teasing you." I twittered a nervous laugh.
So the story ends happily after all. I got my wallet back. And I got my taxes done.
Friday, February 24, 2006
espresso dating
Have you heard about this one? Starbucks has teamed up with Yahoo! Personals in what they call 'Espresso Dating'.
advision.webevents.yahoo.com/personals/espressodating/index.html
The site includes a dating guide and dating suggestions - and stories of success: i.e. "lingered over lattes... got married in April"!
I tell you, if I didn't have such lovely date myself, I'd be tempted to join - if nothing else then for the $10 Starbucks card you get just for signing up! Even if the dates suck, I'd have at least 5 grande coffees or a couple of fancy lattes.
Yet even the promise of free coffee may not be enough to lead me to cast on-line for my chances at true love. I've always been one to despair about Internet personals - although I do know several people for whom it's worked out quite well.
I did, briefly, put myself up on lavalife. There were a few things I found strange about it: first, it seemed to create a false perception that there were hundreds of matches for me. Scrolling through the photos is like walking up to a buffet table the length of a football field. All this, just for me!!! But all these options actually make people pretty darn picky. You walk past the bagels, which on a regular day you quite enjoy, because you're sure there is smoked salmon and brie farther along. When you meet people in a human setting, such as at a house party, you are one of perhaps a dozen 'options' in the room and actually score a better chance of connecting with someone than when you are one option in a thousand.
The other thing I noticed about online dating - and this leads from the last point about the sheer size of it all - is that it encourages arbitrary criteria. So I'd search for men between the ages of 30 - 35, who were over 5'9" but under 6'2". I could even choose if I wanted someone who was interested in having kids yet didn't have any, who had an income over a certain amount and who lived within a certain radius of my home. Interestingly, V had a lava profile on line at the same time as I and yet in our searches we never came across each other since our ages 'don't match'.
I did get a few hits on my lava profile. A man in Niagara asked if I wanted to meet for a date, but I considered the 6 hour drive a little much. A man in his 50s, with the tag line 'I'm ready!' sent me his photo. (Did it take him 50 years to get ready for dating?) I had one awkward coffee date with man who had lied about his height and his weight.
But to be honest, I found that having a profile up there - while at first an exciting for all the suggested possibilities - was just another source of discouragement. Perhaps for some people, those photogenic ones with a knack for writing witty intros - it's a great ego boost. But for others like me it can just be one more place you feel like you are being sized up, compared to the multitudes of others, and in some way found lacking.
But my profile has been off-line for almost a year now. Thanks to an offer to sub in for a basketball game, I met someone the old fashioned way. And it was even Valentine's Day - so when both of us were willing to go for drinks with the team after the game, it was pretty clear neither of us had someone to hurry home to... and here we are, one year later.
If I had been dependent on lava, I may be dating someone who is the right height, age and proximity to me - yet not the uniquely right match for me as V is.
advision.webevents.yahoo.com/personals/espressodating/index.html
The site includes a dating guide and dating suggestions - and stories of success: i.e. "lingered over lattes... got married in April"!
I tell you, if I didn't have such lovely date myself, I'd be tempted to join - if nothing else then for the $10 Starbucks card you get just for signing up! Even if the dates suck, I'd have at least 5 grande coffees or a couple of fancy lattes.
Yet even the promise of free coffee may not be enough to lead me to cast on-line for my chances at true love. I've always been one to despair about Internet personals - although I do know several people for whom it's worked out quite well.
I did, briefly, put myself up on lavalife. There were a few things I found strange about it: first, it seemed to create a false perception that there were hundreds of matches for me. Scrolling through the photos is like walking up to a buffet table the length of a football field. All this, just for me!!! But all these options actually make people pretty darn picky. You walk past the bagels, which on a regular day you quite enjoy, because you're sure there is smoked salmon and brie farther along. When you meet people in a human setting, such as at a house party, you are one of perhaps a dozen 'options' in the room and actually score a better chance of connecting with someone than when you are one option in a thousand.
The other thing I noticed about online dating - and this leads from the last point about the sheer size of it all - is that it encourages arbitrary criteria. So I'd search for men between the ages of 30 - 35, who were over 5'9" but under 6'2". I could even choose if I wanted someone who was interested in having kids yet didn't have any, who had an income over a certain amount and who lived within a certain radius of my home. Interestingly, V had a lava profile on line at the same time as I and yet in our searches we never came across each other since our ages 'don't match'.
I did get a few hits on my lava profile. A man in Niagara asked if I wanted to meet for a date, but I considered the 6 hour drive a little much. A man in his 50s, with the tag line 'I'm ready!' sent me his photo. (Did it take him 50 years to get ready for dating?) I had one awkward coffee date with man who had lied about his height and his weight.
But to be honest, I found that having a profile up there - while at first an exciting for all the suggested possibilities - was just another source of discouragement. Perhaps for some people, those photogenic ones with a knack for writing witty intros - it's a great ego boost. But for others like me it can just be one more place you feel like you are being sized up, compared to the multitudes of others, and in some way found lacking.
But my profile has been off-line for almost a year now. Thanks to an offer to sub in for a basketball game, I met someone the old fashioned way. And it was even Valentine's Day - so when both of us were willing to go for drinks with the team after the game, it was pretty clear neither of us had someone to hurry home to... and here we are, one year later.
If I had been dependent on lava, I may be dating someone who is the right height, age and proximity to me - yet not the uniquely right match for me as V is.
Monday, February 13, 2006
great canadian wins
It's nice to be able to be patriotic and a couch potato at the same time. Seldom are such opportunities afforded. Fortunately, with Olympics being shown almost around the clock on television, I can cheer for Canadian athletes while sitting on the couch and knitting the day away.
Well, to be honest, I don't actually cheer. I've never been much for yelling at a television. But I'm thinking 'Com'on Christopher, don't let that Korean duo get by you! Skate, Cindy! Skate!'
Admittedly, I know almost nothing about any of these sports (luge, anyone?), but the athletes make it all looks so easy that I can be forgiven for thinking I simply can encourage them to just go that little bit faster, smoother, higher...
Canada has managed two medals so far - both earned by young women from Western Canada. (And the Canadian women's hockey team absolutely pummeled their opponents 16-0 & 12-0!!) I know I have nothing to do with their wins, but somehow their triumph makes me happy. Odd isn't it, how we identify with things so beyond ourselves. I guess that's what patriotism is, or cheering for your team or your local gal. You take on this athlete or team as an extension of yourself, and somehow their wins, or losses, reflect back on you. This has always puzzled me, but this weekend I decided not to worry so much about the psychology behind it and just root on our Canadian team.
But there is one win this weekend that I do feel personally proud of. After a tight race, a come-from-behind shocker and a back-and-forth struggle for the lead.... I managed to pull off a 288-269 win against V in Scrabble. Oh sweet victory!
Here is photo proof. I'm holding the 2 extra points from V.
Okay, you may find a questionable word there - but in my defense I did think it was legit. And V did not contend it. Anyway, I let him have ghats and dis.
You may also notice the stylin' fingerless glove I have on - I had finished it that day. (Watching racing makes me knit faster.) I finished its mate on Sunday.
So all in all it was quite a successful weekend. Sometimes you have to coat-tail on the victories of others. Sometimes you have to celebrate your own small ones: a finished knitting project and (finally) a Scrabble win over my brainy love.
Well, to be honest, I don't actually cheer. I've never been much for yelling at a television. But I'm thinking 'Com'on Christopher, don't let that Korean duo get by you! Skate, Cindy! Skate!'
Admittedly, I know almost nothing about any of these sports (luge, anyone?), but the athletes make it all looks so easy that I can be forgiven for thinking I simply can encourage them to just go that little bit faster, smoother, higher...
Canada has managed two medals so far - both earned by young women from Western Canada. (And the Canadian women's hockey team absolutely pummeled their opponents 16-0 & 12-0!!) I know I have nothing to do with their wins, but somehow their triumph makes me happy. Odd isn't it, how we identify with things so beyond ourselves. I guess that's what patriotism is, or cheering for your team or your local gal. You take on this athlete or team as an extension of yourself, and somehow their wins, or losses, reflect back on you. This has always puzzled me, but this weekend I decided not to worry so much about the psychology behind it and just root on our Canadian team.
But there is one win this weekend that I do feel personally proud of. After a tight race, a come-from-behind shocker and a back-and-forth struggle for the lead.... I managed to pull off a 288-269 win against V in Scrabble. Oh sweet victory!
Here is photo proof. I'm holding the 2 extra points from V.Okay, you may find a questionable word there - but in my defense I did think it was legit. And V did not contend it. Anyway, I let him have ghats and dis.
You may also notice the stylin' fingerless glove I have on - I had finished it that day. (Watching racing makes me knit faster.) I finished its mate on Sunday.
So all in all it was quite a successful weekend. Sometimes you have to coat-tail on the victories of others. Sometimes you have to celebrate your own small ones: a finished knitting project and (finally) a Scrabble win over my brainy love.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Is this a steak I see before me?
When the doctor's office calls to say you need to come in to discuss your blood work, it's not such a good feeling.
I gave up 4 vials of blood last week - and then on Monday the doctor's office called. She wanted to book an appointment Thursday or Friday to discuss the results.
A feeling of dread. I've never had problems show up in my blood before. Do I have some A serious illness?? I tried not to fret, but there was a dark shadow on my thoughts.
I only recently got a family doctor. Never had one before. This is all very new to me. She actually seems to care about my health, my general well-being. She remembers my name and things I told her on prior visits. She is also no-nonsense and old-school. I have a feeling she would not suffer fools - in her patients or her friends. I like this about her.
"I am assuming something about you," she said as she sat down across from me in her sunny, little office. "You don't eat beef, do you?"
"No, I don't."
She then showed me my blood counts for iron and B12. "Maybe if I show you the numbers, you'll start eating sensibly," she said. Iron should be over 110 - mine is 40. B12 should be 150, mine is half that. These numbers were circled on the print-out of my lab results, like errors on an exam.
I told her that red meat makes me sick and I usually throw it up. She said she had never heard of any medical reason for that. She didn't deny that I might throw up from eating red meat, but she had never heard of a loss of enzymes that wouldn't enable me to digest it. "But I always say I don't know very much," she said with a modest laugh. (I have the feeling she knows very much indeed.) She said the medical field is so vast, that each person can only know a little bit of it.
But, as for me, she wants me to go on iron and B12 supplements and get my blood tested again in 3 months.
Supplements I bought on my way home. Can't wait to start the iron ones tomorrow. The National Institute of Health's Dietary Supplement Fact sheet lists "side effects such as nausea, vomiting, constipation, diarrhea, dark colored stools, and/or abdominal distress". Well hopefully if I can get my iron up quickly so I can stop taking them. But what's this? 3 1/2 ounces of chicken liver has 70% of my daily intake. Love that chicken liver.
I should maybe state here for the record that I have been a mostly vegetarian for years. I'm learning to eat chicken and fish, but I like my them disguised by plenty of spice. I also have a real problem with the texture of meat and can't shake the image of chewing through what was once living flesh.
Yet it seems I am paying the price for my squeamishness. Both iron and B12 deficiency are caused by lack in diet of meat, fish and dairy products.
Still, the B12 lack doesn't seem so serious. Although the NIH Dietary Supplement Fact Sheet warns that B12 deficiency can lead to "anemia and dementia". And I should really try to avoid that dementia thing. There is hope though: 3 ounces of mollusks have 84.1 micrograms of B12 - which is 1400% of my recommended daily intake. Skip the supplements and had over the mollusks.
Is it time to reconsider a vegetarian diet? Am I destined to become a meat eater?
I'll let you know in 3 months.
I gave up 4 vials of blood last week - and then on Monday the doctor's office called. She wanted to book an appointment Thursday or Friday to discuss the results.
A feeling of dread. I've never had problems show up in my blood before. Do I have some A serious illness?? I tried not to fret, but there was a dark shadow on my thoughts.
I only recently got a family doctor. Never had one before. This is all very new to me. She actually seems to care about my health, my general well-being. She remembers my name and things I told her on prior visits. She is also no-nonsense and old-school. I have a feeling she would not suffer fools - in her patients or her friends. I like this about her.
"I am assuming something about you," she said as she sat down across from me in her sunny, little office. "You don't eat beef, do you?"
"No, I don't."
She then showed me my blood counts for iron and B12. "Maybe if I show you the numbers, you'll start eating sensibly," she said. Iron should be over 110 - mine is 40. B12 should be 150, mine is half that. These numbers were circled on the print-out of my lab results, like errors on an exam.
I told her that red meat makes me sick and I usually throw it up. She said she had never heard of any medical reason for that. She didn't deny that I might throw up from eating red meat, but she had never heard of a loss of enzymes that wouldn't enable me to digest it. "But I always say I don't know very much," she said with a modest laugh. (I have the feeling she knows very much indeed.) She said the medical field is so vast, that each person can only know a little bit of it.
But, as for me, she wants me to go on iron and B12 supplements and get my blood tested again in 3 months.
Supplements I bought on my way home. Can't wait to start the iron ones tomorrow. The National Institute of Health's Dietary Supplement Fact sheet lists "side effects such as nausea, vomiting, constipation, diarrhea, dark colored stools, and/or abdominal distress". Well hopefully if I can get my iron up quickly so I can stop taking them. But what's this? 3 1/2 ounces of chicken liver has 70% of my daily intake. Love that chicken liver.
I should maybe state here for the record that I have been a mostly vegetarian for years. I'm learning to eat chicken and fish, but I like my them disguised by plenty of spice. I also have a real problem with the texture of meat and can't shake the image of chewing through what was once living flesh.
Yet it seems I am paying the price for my squeamishness. Both iron and B12 deficiency are caused by lack in diet of meat, fish and dairy products.
Still, the B12 lack doesn't seem so serious. Although the NIH Dietary Supplement Fact Sheet warns that B12 deficiency can lead to "anemia and dementia". And I should really try to avoid that dementia thing. There is hope though: 3 ounces of mollusks have 84.1 micrograms of B12 - which is 1400% of my recommended daily intake. Skip the supplements and had over the mollusks.
Is it time to reconsider a vegetarian diet? Am I destined to become a meat eater?
I'll let you know in 3 months.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
one very bad school
Yesterday I did my last presentation for the MS Read-a-Thon winter tour. Thank goodness it was the last and not the first. It almost was enough to scare me off public schools forever.
It had actually been slotted in for the 18th of January. But the presentation was cancelled - not once but twice - due to freezing rain. This was perhaps an omen I should have heeded.
I arrive about 15 minutes before the 1 o'clock scheduled time. The office receptionist tells me to go to Mrs. M's classroom - which is dark and empty. Luckily public school gyms are always easy to find, so I go in and set up my stuff.
After about 10 minutes a lady comes and introduces herself as a volunteer who is going to help with the Read-a-Thon. That's nice, I say. She asks what I'll be doing in the gym and I tell her about the assembly.
"You're brave," she says.
"Why?" I ask. So naively, so confidently, I tell her that I've done assemblies with up to 600 kids. I don't expect the 300 at this school to be a problem. Again, I am not heeding the warnings.
The volunteer then disappears and I do not see her again.
It is now one o'clock and the gym is empty. I go back to Mrs. M's classroom. She is just coming in from outside and suggests I tell the volunteer lady to get an announcement made that the assembly will start. But volunteer lady has disappeared. I wander around the school looking for her till I see teachers bringing students to the gym.
The classes trickle in. A teacher wearing sweats and a t-shirt thinks to take chairs out from beneath the stage for teachers to sit on - something which is usually done before I arrive. But he doesn't want to bother pulling out the whole rack of chairs. He tries to yank out just one chair, but it won't come. So he pulls the rack partly out and tries again. The chair still won't come. Cursing under his breath, he labourisouly bends down to pull the rack out.
I guess he realizes at this point it would be rude to take just one for himself, so he tosses a few others out. No one comes to help - so I take some from him. He does not acknowledge me except to push chairs toward me, scraping them along the gym floor like fingers on a chalk board.
By now the gym is filling up with children and their excited voices. Three little girls in the front row are lying on their bellies, kicking and squirming like frying bacon. Older students are slouched against the far wall.
Mrs. M and her grade-one class are among the last to arrive. It is now about 1:15. At last it seems everyone is here, so she stands in front of the rowdy assembly and without fully quieting them or getting their attention, she says something about Mrs. Grace from the MS Society here to talk to us about Multiple Sclerosis and Reading. She smiles at me and sits down.
I begin as I always do - 'Hello, my name is Anita Grace and I'm here to talk to you about 3 things: Multiple Sclerosis, Reading and how MS and Reading fit together.' Then I lead into my attention-grabbing intro: a rainstorm. "But first of all. It's kind of funny weather today isn't it. Sort of raining, sort of snowing. You know what I think...'
But before I can say that I think we could make a rainstorm inside which might stop it from raining outside, a boy shouts out, "It's foggy!" The rest of the assembly erupts into giggles, laughter and chatter. And they won't stop. I try again, "Well, you know what I think..." But instead of quieting down to hear me, they are getting louder. I try sshh-ing them. No go. I try raising my hand - the age-old quiet down sign. About half the kids raise theirs, the others are lost in conversation and laughter.
I look over to Mrs. M. She comes toward me. Without thinking I blurt out, "They are really bad!" Then I apologize; say I shouldn't have said that out loud.
"Boys and girls," she shouts and finally they hush. "This is not how we behave here. Now I expect you to sit quietly and listen to Mrs. Grace."
She hands them back to me with an apologetic smile. Trying not to let my frustration show, I tell the kids I'll start over and that I will give them one chance to make noise. They make the noisiest rainstorm I have yet heard.
But for the rest of the presentation, they remain inattentive and disruptive. It takes everything I have to keep a happy tone in my voice and a smile on my face. Many time I have to stop my talk just to quiet the worst of them. When I resume talking I can still hear a buzz of whispers. When I ask questions, some kids will raise their hands, but many others will simply shout out answers. I try to still pick the kids with raised hands to talk.
"But that's what I was going to say," a kid shouts at me.
Sometimes, to reward a quiet child with his or her hand up, I ask if there is a question. But these questions rarely have to do with my topic. One girl talks about her mom breaking her collarbone. One boy tells me he has a scar on his forehead. Another boy, with a comic expression and wild hand gestures, asks what's up with God if he is letting stuff like this happen.
"That's a hard question to answer," I say and for the hundredth time try to rein in their attention. By now I am just trying to get through this without entirely losing my cool. When I finally say all I need to, I ask if there are any last questions. But the kids are so loud I can't hear the quiet voice of whatever child I indicated. I give up. Shouting above their racket, I thank them for having me in to speak to them. "If you have any questions you can come and see me... Thank you and happy reading!" I do not say, as I usually would, that they had been a great audience.
Neither Mrs. M or any teacher gets up to thank me. I turn to get my materials together and find myself surrounded by children. The first little boy, with shy stammering and several false starts, tells me he has asthma before slipping away, replaced by 15 or more kids vying for my attention. They literally have me backed up against the stage.
"Are we all going to get prizes?"
"How do you get MS?"
"Someone in my class wants to know - do you have MS?"
"When do we get the prize posters?"
"I'm reading the 5th Harry Potter book."
"Is MS serious?"
"I have a scar on my tummy."
"Can I count a book I am already reading?"
"Your friend Tracy, is that her first name or her last name? Because there is a Tracy who is the author of Pokemon books."
"How many of your friends were born in the 20th century?"
No teacher comes to call the kids away. By the time I have heard from the last one and suggested he go back to class, the gym is empty. No volunteer. No Mrs. M. Again, I go to her classroom - taking the materials she had not yet collected or asked for.
"I'm so sorry about the kids!" she says. "I was so embarrassed. They aren't usually like that."
I'm sure. Anyway, here's your stuff. Thanks for nothing.
Ok - I don't say that, but I am thinking it. I give her the things and leave. As I am signing out in the office, another teacher apologizes for the students, saying they had been unusually bad.
Well thanks for stepping in and helping me out.
I had noticed, while up there like a clown on a dunk seat, that the teachers were mostly young and indifferent - as if they had long ago given up on trying to control these kids who could go to hell in a hand basket for all they cared. A few other teachers were older, middle-aged and large. One man, with pudgy hands clasped around a protruding belly, had old-fashioned coke-bottle thick glasses. He seemed as uninterested in his class as they were in him.
Oddly enough, as I am leaving I notice that on the other side of the playground is the Catholic school that had been one of my favourite schools this trip. There the principal drew her kids attention by holding a rainstick. The students had been attentive, eager and polite throughout my talk.
If I ever had to choose which of these two schools to send my kids to, I think I just found a good reason to convert.
It had actually been slotted in for the 18th of January. But the presentation was cancelled - not once but twice - due to freezing rain. This was perhaps an omen I should have heeded.
I arrive about 15 minutes before the 1 o'clock scheduled time. The office receptionist tells me to go to Mrs. M's classroom - which is dark and empty. Luckily public school gyms are always easy to find, so I go in and set up my stuff.
After about 10 minutes a lady comes and introduces herself as a volunteer who is going to help with the Read-a-Thon. That's nice, I say. She asks what I'll be doing in the gym and I tell her about the assembly.
"You're brave," she says.
"Why?" I ask. So naively, so confidently, I tell her that I've done assemblies with up to 600 kids. I don't expect the 300 at this school to be a problem. Again, I am not heeding the warnings.
The volunteer then disappears and I do not see her again.
It is now one o'clock and the gym is empty. I go back to Mrs. M's classroom. She is just coming in from outside and suggests I tell the volunteer lady to get an announcement made that the assembly will start. But volunteer lady has disappeared. I wander around the school looking for her till I see teachers bringing students to the gym.
The classes trickle in. A teacher wearing sweats and a t-shirt thinks to take chairs out from beneath the stage for teachers to sit on - something which is usually done before I arrive. But he doesn't want to bother pulling out the whole rack of chairs. He tries to yank out just one chair, but it won't come. So he pulls the rack partly out and tries again. The chair still won't come. Cursing under his breath, he labourisouly bends down to pull the rack out.
I guess he realizes at this point it would be rude to take just one for himself, so he tosses a few others out. No one comes to help - so I take some from him. He does not acknowledge me except to push chairs toward me, scraping them along the gym floor like fingers on a chalk board.
By now the gym is filling up with children and their excited voices. Three little girls in the front row are lying on their bellies, kicking and squirming like frying bacon. Older students are slouched against the far wall.
Mrs. M and her grade-one class are among the last to arrive. It is now about 1:15. At last it seems everyone is here, so she stands in front of the rowdy assembly and without fully quieting them or getting their attention, she says something about Mrs. Grace from the MS Society here to talk to us about Multiple Sclerosis and Reading. She smiles at me and sits down.
I begin as I always do - 'Hello, my name is Anita Grace and I'm here to talk to you about 3 things: Multiple Sclerosis, Reading and how MS and Reading fit together.' Then I lead into my attention-grabbing intro: a rainstorm. "But first of all. It's kind of funny weather today isn't it. Sort of raining, sort of snowing. You know what I think...'
But before I can say that I think we could make a rainstorm inside which might stop it from raining outside, a boy shouts out, "It's foggy!" The rest of the assembly erupts into giggles, laughter and chatter. And they won't stop. I try again, "Well, you know what I think..." But instead of quieting down to hear me, they are getting louder. I try sshh-ing them. No go. I try raising my hand - the age-old quiet down sign. About half the kids raise theirs, the others are lost in conversation and laughter.
I look over to Mrs. M. She comes toward me. Without thinking I blurt out, "They are really bad!" Then I apologize; say I shouldn't have said that out loud.
"Boys and girls," she shouts and finally they hush. "This is not how we behave here. Now I expect you to sit quietly and listen to Mrs. Grace."
She hands them back to me with an apologetic smile. Trying not to let my frustration show, I tell the kids I'll start over and that I will give them one chance to make noise. They make the noisiest rainstorm I have yet heard.
But for the rest of the presentation, they remain inattentive and disruptive. It takes everything I have to keep a happy tone in my voice and a smile on my face. Many time I have to stop my talk just to quiet the worst of them. When I resume talking I can still hear a buzz of whispers. When I ask questions, some kids will raise their hands, but many others will simply shout out answers. I try to still pick the kids with raised hands to talk.
"But that's what I was going to say," a kid shouts at me.
Sometimes, to reward a quiet child with his or her hand up, I ask if there is a question. But these questions rarely have to do with my topic. One girl talks about her mom breaking her collarbone. One boy tells me he has a scar on his forehead. Another boy, with a comic expression and wild hand gestures, asks what's up with God if he is letting stuff like this happen.
"That's a hard question to answer," I say and for the hundredth time try to rein in their attention. By now I am just trying to get through this without entirely losing my cool. When I finally say all I need to, I ask if there are any last questions. But the kids are so loud I can't hear the quiet voice of whatever child I indicated. I give up. Shouting above their racket, I thank them for having me in to speak to them. "If you have any questions you can come and see me... Thank you and happy reading!" I do not say, as I usually would, that they had been a great audience.
Neither Mrs. M or any teacher gets up to thank me. I turn to get my materials together and find myself surrounded by children. The first little boy, with shy stammering and several false starts, tells me he has asthma before slipping away, replaced by 15 or more kids vying for my attention. They literally have me backed up against the stage.
"Are we all going to get prizes?"
"How do you get MS?"
"Someone in my class wants to know - do you have MS?"
"When do we get the prize posters?"
"I'm reading the 5th Harry Potter book."
"Is MS serious?"
"I have a scar on my tummy."
"Can I count a book I am already reading?"
"Your friend Tracy, is that her first name or her last name? Because there is a Tracy who is the author of Pokemon books."
"How many of your friends were born in the 20th century?"
No teacher comes to call the kids away. By the time I have heard from the last one and suggested he go back to class, the gym is empty. No volunteer. No Mrs. M. Again, I go to her classroom - taking the materials she had not yet collected or asked for.
"I'm so sorry about the kids!" she says. "I was so embarrassed. They aren't usually like that."
I'm sure. Anyway, here's your stuff. Thanks for nothing.
Ok - I don't say that, but I am thinking it. I give her the things and leave. As I am signing out in the office, another teacher apologizes for the students, saying they had been unusually bad.
Well thanks for stepping in and helping me out.
I had noticed, while up there like a clown on a dunk seat, that the teachers were mostly young and indifferent - as if they had long ago given up on trying to control these kids who could go to hell in a hand basket for all they cared. A few other teachers were older, middle-aged and large. One man, with pudgy hands clasped around a protruding belly, had old-fashioned coke-bottle thick glasses. He seemed as uninterested in his class as they were in him.
Oddly enough, as I am leaving I notice that on the other side of the playground is the Catholic school that had been one of my favourite schools this trip. There the principal drew her kids attention by holding a rainstick. The students had been attentive, eager and polite throughout my talk.
If I ever had to choose which of these two schools to send my kids to, I think I just found a good reason to convert.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
$1.75
Some people, when stressed, get ulcers. Others get stomach aches or headaches. I get a sore throat. A killer sore throat. The kind that wakes me up in night because it hurts too much to swallow. The kind that make the back of my mouth bright, angry red and has me constantly drinking fluids, sucking on cough drops or mints .... In short, the kind of sore throat really not convenient to have when doing multiple presentations each day.
I started this morning at 8:30 with an assembly of 600 kids. While I wasn't exactly shouting, I had to get my voice all the way to the back of a very large gym. I think it cracked at least 3 times during that presentation alone. From there it was a race to the next school, then a race to another, and another. I was sucking on lozenges between each school, sipping water during the video part of my presentation - and praying that my voice would get me through the day. Thankfully, it did, and now I'm home drinking hot water with honey, ginger and lemon. Aaaaahhh.
I only have 2 more schools tomorrow, then 2 on Monday. While I sincerely enjoy doing this Read-a-Thon tour, it will definitely be nice to be done.
And as it would work out, this was supposed to be my last week at the restaurant I quit, but when I called today to check that I was still on the schedule for tonight - it turned out I was not. So no more of that. Curling up with a book and a hot toddy tonight.
I did want to mention in particular one school I stopped at this week. It was on Monday - in the evening actually, after all the kids had gone home - a little school in my neighborhood. There was a bright yellow sign on the door - a cirle with an X in the middle. Voting station.
I was in Spain the last time we had a federal election, I think in Europe the time before that - so it's been awhile. And I think this is the first time I've actually voted for a candidate who won my riding. With our archaic first-past-the post voting system, unless your vote goes to the winner, it is basically worthless. Well, not completely - after the last election it was determined that each party receiving over 2% of votes will annually get $1.75 per vote. That's how much your vote is worth if it wasn't for the winner. It's not worthless. It's worth $1.75.
We have another minority government - and, if patterns repeat themselves we will likely be back at the polls in 18 months. But I am actually not displeased with the outcome of this election. I think minority governments, while perhaps less effectual in producing laws and passing bills, demand more cooperation among parties and prevent the kind of radical policy changes many Canadians fear.
Newspapers, radio and tv are still full of political talk. Being in the capital, we probably get an even greater share. It is a very political town - we had the highest voter turn out of any major city. 74%. Sad that is our highest, but still glad that we had at least that much interest.
Anyway, enough rambling about politics... there are better informed opinions out there on the web. My 2 cents is really only worth... well, $1.75.
I started this morning at 8:30 with an assembly of 600 kids. While I wasn't exactly shouting, I had to get my voice all the way to the back of a very large gym. I think it cracked at least 3 times during that presentation alone. From there it was a race to the next school, then a race to another, and another. I was sucking on lozenges between each school, sipping water during the video part of my presentation - and praying that my voice would get me through the day. Thankfully, it did, and now I'm home drinking hot water with honey, ginger and lemon. Aaaaahhh.
I only have 2 more schools tomorrow, then 2 on Monday. While I sincerely enjoy doing this Read-a-Thon tour, it will definitely be nice to be done.
And as it would work out, this was supposed to be my last week at the restaurant I quit, but when I called today to check that I was still on the schedule for tonight - it turned out I was not. So no more of that. Curling up with a book and a hot toddy tonight.
I did want to mention in particular one school I stopped at this week. It was on Monday - in the evening actually, after all the kids had gone home - a little school in my neighborhood. There was a bright yellow sign on the door - a cirle with an X in the middle. Voting station.
I was in Spain the last time we had a federal election, I think in Europe the time before that - so it's been awhile. And I think this is the first time I've actually voted for a candidate who won my riding. With our archaic first-past-the post voting system, unless your vote goes to the winner, it is basically worthless. Well, not completely - after the last election it was determined that each party receiving over 2% of votes will annually get $1.75 per vote. That's how much your vote is worth if it wasn't for the winner. It's not worthless. It's worth $1.75.
We have another minority government - and, if patterns repeat themselves we will likely be back at the polls in 18 months. But I am actually not displeased with the outcome of this election. I think minority governments, while perhaps less effectual in producing laws and passing bills, demand more cooperation among parties and prevent the kind of radical policy changes many Canadians fear.
Newspapers, radio and tv are still full of political talk. Being in the capital, we probably get an even greater share. It is a very political town - we had the highest voter turn out of any major city. 74%. Sad that is our highest, but still glad that we had at least that much interest.
Anyway, enough rambling about politics... there are better informed opinions out there on the web. My 2 cents is really only worth... well, $1.75.
Monday, January 23, 2006
kids, MS & reading
For two weeks, in school gymnasiums across Eastern Ontario, I am up in front large groups of kids talking about the Multiple Sclerosis Read-a-Thon. 15 schools down, 14 more to go.
My job is to get kids informed about MS and excited about joining the read-a-thon fundraiser. It's a great cause and a lot of fun, even if I am losing my voice.
Today I had a grades-7 & 8 group, then a country school of 110 kids in grades 5 - 6. The older the kids are, the harder it is to get them hyped. It is so not cool to show you like reading.
My favourite schools are those where I have rows of kindergarten and grade 1's sitting right in front of me. To start off my talk I get them snapping their fingers, stomping their feet, then clapping their hands to make a rainstorm. They love it. It's also a great way for me to get their attention and lead into how our brains send messages to our hands to make them clap, or feet to make them stomp, etc...
But when you're in grade 7, you're way too cool to make a rainstorm. Luckily a teacher I talked to in a staff room at the second school gave me a suggestion that worked as well as the rainstorm for my segue- and was cool enough for pre-teens. She suggested I do a clap-back: I clapped a brief rhythm and the kids clapped it back. They responded well - and were dead on in their clapping. I felt like I'd been given the inside track to this school and the rest of the presentation went really well. It's easy to spot who are the 'cool kids' in a class. It feels like a real accomplishment to get them participating. At the first school I had this morning I had no such inside track and could tell I had not made it in to being cool in their eyes. I was not deemed worthy of much attention or interest.
Before I started doing these MS RATs, I never thought much too much about the differences from one school to the next. But each year I visit about 50 schools (Jan, Mar & Oct) and there can be huge differences from one school to the next. The age of the building doesn't seem to be factor - old schools can be more dynamic and high-energy then some new, big schools. Rural schools are definitely more white, but some country kids seem keen, kind and less cool-obsessed. But then others are sullen and miserable. I remember one small town school where the teachers had no control of the students and stood with arms crossed and bored expressions throughout my talk. They made it very clear that they were frustrated about being stuck in this town lost somewhere between Cornwall and Ottawa. Their actions and tone of voice communicated this negativity to their students - who of course responded in kind. I could have stood on my head and juggled flames with my bare feet and I still wouldn't have drawn a smile.
I never know what to expect when I'm heading in to a new school. Some inner-city schools are bitter and run-down. Some are great - teachers giving all they have to give these kids a decent shot at life.
I visited one school in the poor east-end of Ottawa last week. It was day of freezing rain and one school had already cancelled on me; I wasn't sure what kind of reception I would get here. Approaching the school, I noticed all the low-income rentals, the shabby duplexes, the run-down apartments. "Most of the fund-raising we do is just for the school," one of the teachers told me in the staff room.
But can I tell you that those kids were the some of the keenest I have met? After I had shown a little video about the RAT, I asked the kids if that looked hard to do. 'No!' they shouted back.
"Do you think you can do that?" I asked.
"Yes!!" they cried. I knew they didn't come from money and that their parents wouldn't be pleased to be asked for a few more dollars, so I emphasized reading over raising cash. But it was really touching to see the kids who have so little be so eager to help others. Wish I could say there was the same positive response in some of the richer schools I've talked at.
It's an old saying, but it seems so true that those who have the least always seem to give the most.
I don't know what kind of school is waiting for me tomorrow. Will my city suburbs school be the rainbow of nationalities I love to see? Will the teachers be keen or tired and grumpy? Will I be able to hold the attention of the youngest for the whole half-hour? Will my voice hold out? (It cracked a few times today - something which perhaps won me sympathy from the adolescent boys.) This is all a little draining at time, but when it works - when the kids are with me, laughing and participating - when I seem to be able to communicate at least the basics about MS and the importance of helping fight this disease - well then it all seems pretty worthwhile.
My job is to get kids informed about MS and excited about joining the read-a-thon fundraiser. It's a great cause and a lot of fun, even if I am losing my voice.
Today I had a grades-7 & 8 group, then a country school of 110 kids in grades 5 - 6. The older the kids are, the harder it is to get them hyped. It is so not cool to show you like reading.
My favourite schools are those where I have rows of kindergarten and grade 1's sitting right in front of me. To start off my talk I get them snapping their fingers, stomping their feet, then clapping their hands to make a rainstorm. They love it. It's also a great way for me to get their attention and lead into how our brains send messages to our hands to make them clap, or feet to make them stomp, etc...
But when you're in grade 7, you're way too cool to make a rainstorm. Luckily a teacher I talked to in a staff room at the second school gave me a suggestion that worked as well as the rainstorm for my segue- and was cool enough for pre-teens. She suggested I do a clap-back: I clapped a brief rhythm and the kids clapped it back. They responded well - and were dead on in their clapping. I felt like I'd been given the inside track to this school and the rest of the presentation went really well. It's easy to spot who are the 'cool kids' in a class. It feels like a real accomplishment to get them participating. At the first school I had this morning I had no such inside track and could tell I had not made it in to being cool in their eyes. I was not deemed worthy of much attention or interest.
Before I started doing these MS RATs, I never thought much too much about the differences from one school to the next. But each year I visit about 50 schools (Jan, Mar & Oct) and there can be huge differences from one school to the next. The age of the building doesn't seem to be factor - old schools can be more dynamic and high-energy then some new, big schools. Rural schools are definitely more white, but some country kids seem keen, kind and less cool-obsessed. But then others are sullen and miserable. I remember one small town school where the teachers had no control of the students and stood with arms crossed and bored expressions throughout my talk. They made it very clear that they were frustrated about being stuck in this town lost somewhere between Cornwall and Ottawa. Their actions and tone of voice communicated this negativity to their students - who of course responded in kind. I could have stood on my head and juggled flames with my bare feet and I still wouldn't have drawn a smile.
I never know what to expect when I'm heading in to a new school. Some inner-city schools are bitter and run-down. Some are great - teachers giving all they have to give these kids a decent shot at life.
I visited one school in the poor east-end of Ottawa last week. It was day of freezing rain and one school had already cancelled on me; I wasn't sure what kind of reception I would get here. Approaching the school, I noticed all the low-income rentals, the shabby duplexes, the run-down apartments. "Most of the fund-raising we do is just for the school," one of the teachers told me in the staff room.
But can I tell you that those kids were the some of the keenest I have met? After I had shown a little video about the RAT, I asked the kids if that looked hard to do. 'No!' they shouted back.
"Do you think you can do that?" I asked.
"Yes!!" they cried. I knew they didn't come from money and that their parents wouldn't be pleased to be asked for a few more dollars, so I emphasized reading over raising cash. But it was really touching to see the kids who have so little be so eager to help others. Wish I could say there was the same positive response in some of the richer schools I've talked at.
It's an old saying, but it seems so true that those who have the least always seem to give the most.
I don't know what kind of school is waiting for me tomorrow. Will my city suburbs school be the rainbow of nationalities I love to see? Will the teachers be keen or tired and grumpy? Will I be able to hold the attention of the youngest for the whole half-hour? Will my voice hold out? (It cracked a few times today - something which perhaps won me sympathy from the adolescent boys.) This is all a little draining at time, but when it works - when the kids are with me, laughing and participating - when I seem to be able to communicate at least the basics about MS and the importance of helping fight this disease - well then it all seems pretty worthwhile.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
quitting work
I had not planned to do this without a back-up in place. But it seems I quit my job yesterday. It also seems I have become so good at quitting that my boss was apologetic when I gave my notice!
I have been working on and off at this restaurant for over 3 years. When I first quit my job as Communications and Public Relations Manager for a national arts organization in 2002 I thought I could do part-time work until I managed to earn a living through writing. First I went to Starbucks since I heard they have a dental plan for employees and despite their bad rep with leftists, they actually pay decently, give shares in the company etc. Plus you get tons of coffee - a pound a week to take home and plenty during and between shifts. I'm all about the coffee. But I lasted just under 3 months - before any dental plan kicked in - since they would not give regular schedules and not being able to plan anything further than 2 weeks in advance was rather frustrating.
Word of mouth, I heard there was a job at an upscale restaurant in Ottawa's trendy, touristy Byward Market. It's all about who you know, so when I went in saying I heard Kate was leaving, I was given the job right away. That was in October of 2002.
The tip-out was good. The hours were fixed and it seemed a decent fit. I got on as a regular reporter for an Ottawa weekly, a contributor for an arts report and for a time I was happy writing, reporting and bartending. I stuck around for a year, then left to go to Africa for five months.
Since coming back from Africa, and subsequently Europe, I maintained a good relationship with my former boss and sometimes she'd call me in to pick up some shifts when she was short-staffed. Somewhere along the line I also started managing the restaurant website - at a ridiculously good rate for them.
She called me up around August of last year and asked if I could take some shifts. Some shifts turned in to regular shifts and suddenly I found that I had stepped back to 2002. Felt I was moving backward instead of forward with my life. 'Well,' I told myself, 'at least this will motivate me to find something else to sustain myself so I can quit.'
I've been hunting since then - always struggling with that balance between something that pays the bills but still allows time to write. Whenever I got close to finding something, I would look forward to giving my notice at the restaurant. But these things would fall through and I would keep going back to the restaurant, increasingly frustrated with this stalled place I'm at.
But now lately things have been coming up. I'm busy enough that sometimes it is hard to find the time for my shifts - which I end up swapping or giving away. I have an interview coming up next Thursday for a part-time web admin job. And starting Monday I will spend the next two weeks visiting 29 schools in and around the Ottawa area telling kids about Multiple Sclerosis and getting them to join to a read-a-thon campaign.
But the Read-a-Thon conflicts with my restaurant shifts. After unsuccessfully trying to get them filled, I had to tell my boss that I won't be able to work for 2 weeks. At first she seemed okay with it, then yesterday she told me she liked me, liked my work - but it seems I'm not too committed to the restaurant and am too often not available to work.
The moment of truth had come. I felt it burning in my stomach like a hunger pain. I could lie and tell her I was committed, that this was temporary, etc... or I could admit that I am desperately trying to find other work so I don't have to keep coming back to where I stood three years ago.
Obviously, this calls for more tact than the words in my heads. So I apologized to her, told her I wanted to do right by her and respected the fact that she has a business to run. 'But,' I said, 'I also feel that when I have opportunities to advance in my career, I have to take them.' She said she could understand that.
She had said before that she has not hired someone else because she does not have enough shifts to give. So I told her that if she needs to hire someone, she should maybe go ahead with that - and give that person my shifts.
I've never been good at confrontations. I was nervous and could feel my eyes tearing up. To my amazement I saw hers do the same. She said she appreciated my honesty. 'No one is mad at anyone, are they?' she asked.
'Oh no,' I said. 'At least I hope not.' She said no and thanked me. Asked if I was okay with that. I told her yes and that I would be happy to pinch hit if she needed me.
As she walked away I realized I must be getting pretty good at this, since I just quit my job and she asking me if I was upset with her! Times like this I don't know if I should feel proud of myself for handing this well, or feel guilty of manipulation.
Either way, it seems I have now given notice. I don't know when my last shift is - or what I will do afterward. It will be nice to not go back there. I just hope something else will fall in to take its place.
I have been working on and off at this restaurant for over 3 years. When I first quit my job as Communications and Public Relations Manager for a national arts organization in 2002 I thought I could do part-time work until I managed to earn a living through writing. First I went to Starbucks since I heard they have a dental plan for employees and despite their bad rep with leftists, they actually pay decently, give shares in the company etc. Plus you get tons of coffee - a pound a week to take home and plenty during and between shifts. I'm all about the coffee. But I lasted just under 3 months - before any dental plan kicked in - since they would not give regular schedules and not being able to plan anything further than 2 weeks in advance was rather frustrating.
Word of mouth, I heard there was a job at an upscale restaurant in Ottawa's trendy, touristy Byward Market. It's all about who you know, so when I went in saying I heard Kate was leaving, I was given the job right away. That was in October of 2002.
The tip-out was good. The hours were fixed and it seemed a decent fit. I got on as a regular reporter for an Ottawa weekly, a contributor for an arts report and for a time I was happy writing, reporting and bartending. I stuck around for a year, then left to go to Africa for five months.
Since coming back from Africa, and subsequently Europe, I maintained a good relationship with my former boss and sometimes she'd call me in to pick up some shifts when she was short-staffed. Somewhere along the line I also started managing the restaurant website - at a ridiculously good rate for them.
She called me up around August of last year and asked if I could take some shifts. Some shifts turned in to regular shifts and suddenly I found that I had stepped back to 2002. Felt I was moving backward instead of forward with my life. 'Well,' I told myself, 'at least this will motivate me to find something else to sustain myself so I can quit.'
I've been hunting since then - always struggling with that balance between something that pays the bills but still allows time to write. Whenever I got close to finding something, I would look forward to giving my notice at the restaurant. But these things would fall through and I would keep going back to the restaurant, increasingly frustrated with this stalled place I'm at.
But now lately things have been coming up. I'm busy enough that sometimes it is hard to find the time for my shifts - which I end up swapping or giving away. I have an interview coming up next Thursday for a part-time web admin job. And starting Monday I will spend the next two weeks visiting 29 schools in and around the Ottawa area telling kids about Multiple Sclerosis and getting them to join to a read-a-thon campaign.
But the Read-a-Thon conflicts with my restaurant shifts. After unsuccessfully trying to get them filled, I had to tell my boss that I won't be able to work for 2 weeks. At first she seemed okay with it, then yesterday she told me she liked me, liked my work - but it seems I'm not too committed to the restaurant and am too often not available to work.
The moment of truth had come. I felt it burning in my stomach like a hunger pain. I could lie and tell her I was committed, that this was temporary, etc... or I could admit that I am desperately trying to find other work so I don't have to keep coming back to where I stood three years ago.
Obviously, this calls for more tact than the words in my heads. So I apologized to her, told her I wanted to do right by her and respected the fact that she has a business to run. 'But,' I said, 'I also feel that when I have opportunities to advance in my career, I have to take them.' She said she could understand that.
She had said before that she has not hired someone else because she does not have enough shifts to give. So I told her that if she needs to hire someone, she should maybe go ahead with that - and give that person my shifts.
I've never been good at confrontations. I was nervous and could feel my eyes tearing up. To my amazement I saw hers do the same. She said she appreciated my honesty. 'No one is mad at anyone, are they?' she asked.
'Oh no,' I said. 'At least I hope not.' She said no and thanked me. Asked if I was okay with that. I told her yes and that I would be happy to pinch hit if she needed me.
As she walked away I realized I must be getting pretty good at this, since I just quit my job and she asking me if I was upset with her! Times like this I don't know if I should feel proud of myself for handing this well, or feel guilty of manipulation.
Either way, it seems I have now given notice. I don't know when my last shift is - or what I will do afterward. It will be nice to not go back there. I just hope something else will fall in to take its place.
Monday, January 09, 2006
the world's biggest skating rink
I feel so Canadian. No, I didn't go to the advance polls and take part in the democratic process.
I went skating on the world's largest outdoor skating rink.
Those of you who know me will know this is significant. This is my 5th winter in Ottawa and 2nd time on the canal. I am grateful to friends who dragged my unwilling butt out onto the canal last year and encouraged me into a pair of skates. Luckily for me there was an ice-wary mother in our group who wanted to ride in a little push-sleigh - I volunteered to push her so I would have something to hang on to. After a time my friends pried me away from the sleigh and I expected at any moment to go crashing to the ice - bruising knees and pride.
Surprisingly I managed to remain on my feet and to my amazement, realized I could grow to enjoy this treacherous sport. Done right, it looks so graceful. I resolved to try again next winter.
So this weekend the canal opened. V and I went to a used sporting goods place and joined the crowds buying and sharpening skates. A young blond guy - with that weary look of a pro dealing with idiots - picked out a pair of old skates for me. They felt stiff as wood, but apparently that is how they should be? Having no better opinion of my own, I accepted his and bought them.
The ice conditions were "fair". The canal was crowded. There are benches on the ice beside stairs leading down from the street. V and I inexpertly donned our skates and rose to our wobbly feet. Left our boots under the bench, counting on the goodwill of fellow skaters.
Fortunately V is as confident a skater as I, so we stumbled along together and felt no shame. Large cracks in the ice and patches of pebble-like unevenness made us both stutter step and weave, but I am proud to say we both managed to remain on our feet and even picked up a bit of speed.
We skated down to Dow's Lake. Trucks were on the ice clearing large paths in the light layer of slow. Skaters of all ages and abilities surrounded us. Parents pulled toboggans and red wagons with bundled children aboard. Fearless kids zipped around, fell and jumped up again. I admired all those moving with even, effortless strides. This is something to aspire to.
We rewarded ourselves with hot chocolate - which V insisted he couldn't drink and skate at the same time. My feet were hurting by the time we got back to our boots. I was aware of certain muscles in my legs I haven't felt in awhile. And I felt great. My Canadian blood was warm and tingling.
So if you happen to be out on the canal this winter you may see me clumping along. But before you get too close - I should warn you that I can't yet stop.
I went skating on the world's largest outdoor skating rink.
Those of you who know me will know this is significant. This is my 5th winter in Ottawa and 2nd time on the canal. I am grateful to friends who dragged my unwilling butt out onto the canal last year and encouraged me into a pair of skates. Luckily for me there was an ice-wary mother in our group who wanted to ride in a little push-sleigh - I volunteered to push her so I would have something to hang on to. After a time my friends pried me away from the sleigh and I expected at any moment to go crashing to the ice - bruising knees and pride.
Surprisingly I managed to remain on my feet and to my amazement, realized I could grow to enjoy this treacherous sport. Done right, it looks so graceful. I resolved to try again next winter.
So this weekend the canal opened. V and I went to a used sporting goods place and joined the crowds buying and sharpening skates. A young blond guy - with that weary look of a pro dealing with idiots - picked out a pair of old skates for me. They felt stiff as wood, but apparently that is how they should be? Having no better opinion of my own, I accepted his and bought them.
The ice conditions were "fair". The canal was crowded. There are benches on the ice beside stairs leading down from the street. V and I inexpertly donned our skates and rose to our wobbly feet. Left our boots under the bench, counting on the goodwill of fellow skaters.
Fortunately V is as confident a skater as I, so we stumbled along together and felt no shame. Large cracks in the ice and patches of pebble-like unevenness made us both stutter step and weave, but I am proud to say we both managed to remain on our feet and even picked up a bit of speed.
We skated down to Dow's Lake. Trucks were on the ice clearing large paths in the light layer of slow. Skaters of all ages and abilities surrounded us. Parents pulled toboggans and red wagons with bundled children aboard. Fearless kids zipped around, fell and jumped up again. I admired all those moving with even, effortless strides. This is something to aspire to.
We rewarded ourselves with hot chocolate - which V insisted he couldn't drink and skate at the same time. My feet were hurting by the time we got back to our boots. I was aware of certain muscles in my legs I haven't felt in awhile. And I felt great. My Canadian blood was warm and tingling.
So if you happen to be out on the canal this winter you may see me clumping along. But before you get too close - I should warn you that I can't yet stop.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
the future in the palm of my hands
I had my palms read the other night. Saw a sign in a coffee shop window and impulsively went it. Something about the start of a new year turns me toward plans, goals and that curiosity about the future. Where will I be at this time next year? What will I be doing? Never one to be locked in one place, a year can often bring radical differences (and usually at least 2 changes of address).So what did Jocelyn, the palm reader, have to tell me?
She was a blonde woman, perhaps in her late fifties, with short hair and glasses. A face not unkind, but not warm. I did not get the sense of strange mystical powers, but more of a housewife who has studied hard and approaches each client with academic sincerity.
She pulled a lamp toward my outstretched hand and spent about five minutes tracing the lines of my hands with a black ballpoint pen - first my right, then my left. The right she told me is my conscious side, the part of me I have affected. The left is more innate, what I was born with. She picked up some insecurity on the left, but said my self-doubt and anxieties shown on the right I had done to myself. "Question self / Trust in self" she wrote on heel of my right.
She also wrote a few other things - 'open mind', 'avid reader'. "You can be giving," she said, and added that I enjoyed the arts. 'Curious' she wrote, 'worries'.
She made a number of hatches on the lines she drawn, then seemed to use those marks to come up with significant years. Apparently my 30th year was supposed to be big for work, but I must have missed that somehow. My chance may come around again when I turn 35. For relationships the big years are 32 and 35 - she said that could mean a new relationship, a marriage, a child, etc. Pretty much covered her bases. She thinks I'll have 2 children.
I can't say my future is much clearer for having let Jocelyn peer at my hands and write all over them. For a few hundred times what I paid her I could go to a clinic in Ottawa and get a genome test that would predict my chances of having cancer, high blood pressure, osteoporosis, Alzheimer's and other diseases. That test, though highly debated by ethicists, doctors, and geneticists, would likely tell me more than she could. But the problem with predictions is that they can never tell the whole story. It's like peering through the keyhole and trying to describe the room.
I don't know what I was really looking for in having my palms read. Some confirmation of who I am perhaps? Do it make it more true that I am an avid reader with a curious mind because a woman claimed to see that written in my palms. That she did not see I am a writer, does that make me less of one?
It is one of my core beliefs that as humans we spend a lot of time running around trying to get others to confirm who we believe we are. A desire to be understood is, I believe, one of our most fundamental motivators.
Even when it makes us do strange things like pay $20 to get our hands written on.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Christmas
The past two years I was not at home with family to celebrate Christmas. Last year I sat on a basement couch with the hairy beast of a dog I was sitting, watching While You were Sleeping and downing cheap red wine. The year before I was in Africa, toasting the holidays with a multi-national crowd - temporary friends brought together more by circumstance than choice.
This year I went home to Saskatchewan - but instead of traditions seeming more important for having been missed, they seemed less so. Perhaps it was the recent passing of my grandpa; it's as if the trunk of the tree has been felled and its branches are scattering - though I have always been the branch that grew long quickly and stretched away from the others. I go back now, acknowledging our common roots, yet still feeling the distance of space between us. I am hesitant to get tangled in the thicket of the other inter-twining branches.
So I didn't go home expecting or even wanting large festivities. I did not have any illusions that a date on a calendar would magically mend family rifts. And over the years presents under the tree have dwindled in number and size, so I did not fantasize about what Santa would bring me. I simply hoped to have some lazy time to build puzzles, introduce V to some old haunts, sleep-in each morning...
I've learned that the best way to avoid disappointment is by keeping my expectations low.
Yet my low expectations were exceeded in many ways. I was surprised and blessed by the comfort of simple pleasure. By old friends and open doors. By supporting arms and moments of grace. Santa may not have been so generous - but others were surprisingly so.
In other ways my low expectations were justified and, by not wishing for more, I was able to see how little there really is. I know more clearly now what I am fortunate to have, as well as what I do not need to chase after. This is freeing.
So this Christmas I am so very grateful for those who have blessed my life with their love, support, encouragement and friendship. I truly am blessed. Thank you.
Merry Christmas each and everyone.
This year I went home to Saskatchewan - but instead of traditions seeming more important for having been missed, they seemed less so. Perhaps it was the recent passing of my grandpa; it's as if the trunk of the tree has been felled and its branches are scattering - though I have always been the branch that grew long quickly and stretched away from the others. I go back now, acknowledging our common roots, yet still feeling the distance of space between us. I am hesitant to get tangled in the thicket of the other inter-twining branches.
So I didn't go home expecting or even wanting large festivities. I did not have any illusions that a date on a calendar would magically mend family rifts. And over the years presents under the tree have dwindled in number and size, so I did not fantasize about what Santa would bring me. I simply hoped to have some lazy time to build puzzles, introduce V to some old haunts, sleep-in each morning...
I've learned that the best way to avoid disappointment is by keeping my expectations low.
Yet my low expectations were exceeded in many ways. I was surprised and blessed by the comfort of simple pleasure. By old friends and open doors. By supporting arms and moments of grace. Santa may not have been so generous - but others were surprisingly so.
In other ways my low expectations were justified and, by not wishing for more, I was able to see how little there really is. I know more clearly now what I am fortunate to have, as well as what I do not need to chase after. This is freeing.
So this Christmas I am so very grateful for those who have blessed my life with their love, support, encouragement and friendship. I truly am blessed. Thank you.
Merry Christmas each and everyone.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
election study, part II
Casting myself as an average voter, I naively assumed I would be the target of campaign information, vote solicitation, blitzing... whatever.
I get nada.
Last night, on one of the busiest party nights of the year, was the leaders debate in English. I was already double-booked. So no, I didn't tune in. (Neither did I make the party where my curling team was awarded league championship.) If strategists wanted to find the best night to hold a debate when no one would actually tune in, Dec 16 was probably the choice just behind Christmas day or eve - and those two would have been too obvious.
I'm getting the sneaking suspicion that the politicians running for government don't actually want me to know their platforms or policies. They want me, the average voter, to make my decision based on headlines and 30-second news clips.
Last time I blogged about this I thought I would keep a tally on how each party seeks to win my vote. Obviously I have nothing new to report. At least I now know the name of my NDP Ottawa-Centre candidate: Paul Dewar because my landlords had his sign on the lawn for a day. Then it was down. Paul, what did you do to offend so quickly? I'm a little suspicious of him myself since his web page begins with "Wow!" Golly gee! Do I really get to run for government? Gee, thanks guys. This is so cool.
Well, maybe I should be more pro-active in my approach... If I want to vote intelligently in the next election, I will have to take it on myself to become informed. I follow the NDP links to ask for their policy info - but when I click submit, I get an error message, web page not found. Hmm...
Try the Green Party web site. The home page for Ottawa Centre hasn't been updated since the last federal election. Something happening on Aug 29, 2004 is listed under upcoming events.
Next.
The Liberal Party web site. Looking better. This guy must have some funding. Blog-stlye update posted Dec 15. Mahoney sounds keen - and a bit too big on strategy. "When I go canvassing, I'm accompanied by a team of volunteers who help me move from conversation to conversation as efficiently as possible." Feeling the love.
Take a look at the Conservative page. Last update on Aug 2005. Pre-election. And I still have no idea who their candidate is for my riding. Their last news release is from Jan 2004.
Now I really am convinced my candidates don't want me to be informed.
In a comment to my previous election blog, Charles J offered a CBC link where you can take a quiz to find out which party leaders you agree with most. I took the quiz and there were no surprises (Layton won by a long-shot) - but I kept thinking how I really didn't know enough about the issues - gun control, agriculture, economics, reform, etc. - to accurately judge which sentence best reflected my view.
It's going to be a lot harder than I thought to become an informed voter. Is there not something wrong with the system if it's this difficult?
I get nada.
Last night, on one of the busiest party nights of the year, was the leaders debate in English. I was already double-booked. So no, I didn't tune in. (Neither did I make the party where my curling team was awarded league championship.) If strategists wanted to find the best night to hold a debate when no one would actually tune in, Dec 16 was probably the choice just behind Christmas day or eve - and those two would have been too obvious.
I'm getting the sneaking suspicion that the politicians running for government don't actually want me to know their platforms or policies. They want me, the average voter, to make my decision based on headlines and 30-second news clips.
Last time I blogged about this I thought I would keep a tally on how each party seeks to win my vote. Obviously I have nothing new to report. At least I now know the name of my NDP Ottawa-Centre candidate: Paul Dewar because my landlords had his sign on the lawn for a day. Then it was down. Paul, what did you do to offend so quickly? I'm a little suspicious of him myself since his web page begins with "Wow!" Golly gee! Do I really get to run for government? Gee, thanks guys. This is so cool.
Well, maybe I should be more pro-active in my approach... If I want to vote intelligently in the next election, I will have to take it on myself to become informed. I follow the NDP links to ask for their policy info - but when I click submit, I get an error message, web page not found. Hmm...
Try the Green Party web site. The home page for Ottawa Centre hasn't been updated since the last federal election. Something happening on Aug 29, 2004 is listed under upcoming events.
Next.
The Liberal Party web site. Looking better. This guy must have some funding. Blog-stlye update posted Dec 15. Mahoney sounds keen - and a bit too big on strategy. "When I go canvassing, I'm accompanied by a team of volunteers who help me move from conversation to conversation as efficiently as possible." Feeling the love.
Take a look at the Conservative page. Last update on Aug 2005. Pre-election. And I still have no idea who their candidate is for my riding. Their last news release is from Jan 2004.
Now I really am convinced my candidates don't want me to be informed.
In a comment to my previous election blog, Charles J offered a CBC link where you can take a quiz to find out which party leaders you agree with most. I took the quiz and there were no surprises (Layton won by a long-shot) - but I kept thinking how I really didn't know enough about the issues - gun control, agriculture, economics, reform, etc. - to accurately judge which sentence best reflected my view.
It's going to be a lot harder than I thought to become an informed voter. Is there not something wrong with the system if it's this difficult?
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
stalled in indecision
I can pick a paint for my walls in less than 5 minutes, can move to a new city/country without hesitation. I have perfected the shopping technique of a 10 minute dash-in, try-on, purchase, and leave. But there is one decision I just can't seem to make. I go 'round and 'round in circles and yet always end up at the same point of indecision.
A few years ago I made a big, scary decision to quit my job as a communications manager for a national arts organization and dedicate myself to writing. It took awhile to make that choice, but once I had, I didn't expect to have to make again. And again. And again.
Virginia Woolf is remembered for having written that a woman needs a room of her own in which to write. But she also said she needs an income of her own. This is the constant struggle of being a writer. I have a room of my own, but I continually lack the means to sustain myself in this room. I need to work to earn enough to keep body and soul together - and here comes the choice again and again. Do I go back to the kind of office work that would provide me with a decent living, yet deprive me of the time and energy to write. Or do I continue to scrape together a living on jobs that offer me the time to write, but leave me short at the end of the month.
I finished my book almost a year ago. It still is not published. The discouragement of rejection time and again has sapped my energy to begin another. I decided to concentrate on shorter works of fiction. But these have only served to add to my dejection as I get rejections for them as well.
The question that keeps me awake night after night: if I don't have what it takes to be a writer, should I really cling to this starving artist identity? Should I not just go out and get a real job, a job which utilizes and rewards my professional skills?
Sometimes I feel overwhelmed with desire to achieve more, to be more. Other times I feel overwhelmed by discouragement. How can I have such lofty aspirations and yet struggle just to get my feet off the ground?
It is becoming harder to find the discipline to write when deep down I doubt the value and worth of what I write.
There. I've said it. No rant today, just an honest piece of me and my uncertainty.
A few years ago I made a big, scary decision to quit my job as a communications manager for a national arts organization and dedicate myself to writing. It took awhile to make that choice, but once I had, I didn't expect to have to make again. And again. And again.
Virginia Woolf is remembered for having written that a woman needs a room of her own in which to write. But she also said she needs an income of her own. This is the constant struggle of being a writer. I have a room of my own, but I continually lack the means to sustain myself in this room. I need to work to earn enough to keep body and soul together - and here comes the choice again and again. Do I go back to the kind of office work that would provide me with a decent living, yet deprive me of the time and energy to write. Or do I continue to scrape together a living on jobs that offer me the time to write, but leave me short at the end of the month.
I finished my book almost a year ago. It still is not published. The discouragement of rejection time and again has sapped my energy to begin another. I decided to concentrate on shorter works of fiction. But these have only served to add to my dejection as I get rejections for them as well.
The question that keeps me awake night after night: if I don't have what it takes to be a writer, should I really cling to this starving artist identity? Should I not just go out and get a real job, a job which utilizes and rewards my professional skills?
Sometimes I feel overwhelmed with desire to achieve more, to be more. Other times I feel overwhelmed by discouragement. How can I have such lofty aspirations and yet struggle just to get my feet off the ground?
It is becoming harder to find the discipline to write when deep down I doubt the value and worth of what I write.
There. I've said it. No rant today, just an honest piece of me and my uncertainty.
Monday, December 12, 2005
western victims = media coverage
The photo on the front page of Saturday's Globe and Mail showed a vigil for the two Canadian hostages being held in Iraq, whose fate is still unknown. Many Canadians are especially concerned about Torontonian Jim Loney who has been involved in negotiating peace at Burnt Church and Grassy Narrows. From all accounts he is an upstanding man who shows respect for other cultures and has a gift for soothing conflict.
But even while I share in this world-wide concern for their fate, this strikes me as yet another example of when Western victims receive such disproportionate media attention and global sympathy. From a BBC newscast 'Analysis: Iraq's forgotten hostages' : "Meanwhile - virtually unreported by the international media - the kidnapping of Iraqis for ransom has become commonplace, particularly in Baghdad."
We see this kind of focus on Western victims almost any time there is an international disaster or crisis. After the Tsunami disaster a great deal of media space was given to Australian, European and North America victims - while the local ones become statistics, nameless faces in the crowd.
What makes the fate of Jim Loney, Harmeet Singh Sooden, Tom Fox and Norman Kember so much more important than the thousands of Iraqi victims - killed, kidnapped, left homeless and unemployed?
There is something about people identifying more strongly with people from their own culture. We relate better to people who speak our own language and use similar cultural references. So when waves wash out whole villages in Thailand, instead of profiling the numerous Thais who lost homes and loved ones, the media stirs us with big stories on stricken foreign tourists. Heroic attempts are made to rescue them - their fate takes priority and no one seems to challenge or question this.
I finally got up the courage to watch Hotel Rwanda the other night. There is a scene early in the movie when French troops are sent to evacuate all the foreigners - while Rwandans were left in the inferno of genocide. A genocide of over 800,000. Almost all the victims were African and the world was almost indifferent.
So when I read yet another story about the four hostages in Iraq, listen to yet another story about them on the radio, I wonder whose story we are not hearing. How many Iraqi's have died this month? How many families are grieving?
I wonder why our global perspective still remains so narrow.
But even while I share in this world-wide concern for their fate, this strikes me as yet another example of when Western victims receive such disproportionate media attention and global sympathy. From a BBC newscast 'Analysis: Iraq's forgotten hostages' : "Meanwhile - virtually unreported by the international media - the kidnapping of Iraqis for ransom has become commonplace, particularly in Baghdad."
We see this kind of focus on Western victims almost any time there is an international disaster or crisis. After the Tsunami disaster a great deal of media space was given to Australian, European and North America victims - while the local ones become statistics, nameless faces in the crowd.
What makes the fate of Jim Loney, Harmeet Singh Sooden, Tom Fox and Norman Kember so much more important than the thousands of Iraqi victims - killed, kidnapped, left homeless and unemployed?
There is something about people identifying more strongly with people from their own culture. We relate better to people who speak our own language and use similar cultural references. So when waves wash out whole villages in Thailand, instead of profiling the numerous Thais who lost homes and loved ones, the media stirs us with big stories on stricken foreign tourists. Heroic attempts are made to rescue them - their fate takes priority and no one seems to challenge or question this.
I finally got up the courage to watch Hotel Rwanda the other night. There is a scene early in the movie when French troops are sent to evacuate all the foreigners - while Rwandans were left in the inferno of genocide. A genocide of over 800,000. Almost all the victims were African and the world was almost indifferent.
So when I read yet another story about the four hostages in Iraq, listen to yet another story about them on the radio, I wonder whose story we are not hearing. How many Iraqi's have died this month? How many families are grieving?
I wonder why our global perspective still remains so narrow.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
waiting and being waited for
Just south of Ottawa's trendy Glebe area is a tower of rooms where seniors with physical and mental disabilities spend their days waiting. They wait for their meals - which are always late and usually unappetizing. They wait for their pills, for coffee hour, for bingo on Saturdays... Many of them are just waiting to die.
I have seen indignity personified in an elderly woman sitting on the toilet, her back curved forward, her feet suspended a few inches from the ground, her pants and underwear bunched at her ankles. Sometimes she will be like this for half an hour, waiting for someone to come and help her get down. Waiting in helpless pain.
"Why doesn't God just let me die?" she has asked me the last two times I have visited her. "This isn't living."
She is 91-years old and was diagnosed with Parkinson's ten years ago. Some days she can stand on her own, other days she cannot keep her eyes open or speak on the telephone. She is at the mercy of nurses in an under-funded, under-staffed care centre. "I feel neglected," she has said numerous times. She tells me her frustrations with the poor care, the poor food that does little to tempt a stomach nauseated by medication. I find myself always at a loss for words. "That must be frustrating," I say.
"It is," she replies softly. Sometimes she is so frustrated she breaks down in tears.
One day when I came by, two other women from her floor were visiting with her in her room. I thought this was nice and told her so. Apparently they were talking about how they all just wished they could die.
It's hard to know what to say when she tells me she doesn't want to keep living. Death is too prevalent lately. I tell her that I enjoy her company, that she is like family to me. But I know that does not change her situation. I would not want to live as she lives. No one should have to live like this.
Often I feel helpless when I am with her. Helpless in the face of her pain, her despair. I know that being there I offer some comfort, but some days it feels like I am watering the desert with a bucket. I leave sometimes wanting to rant about under-funded public care and the indifference of our society that abandons its elderly to such towers of neglect. And yet visiting her has also brought me some subtle joys.
There have been many times in the last few years when I had few people around who cared about me. Loneliness is a dark emotion. But I always knew that there was a woman in the Glebe who would be watching the clock on Sundays, waiting for me to come. Every time I visit her I feel appreciated. Every time I see her she thanks me for coming. Every time I enter her room she smiles.
It's both a responsibility and a humbling pleasure to be waited for.
I have seen indignity personified in an elderly woman sitting on the toilet, her back curved forward, her feet suspended a few inches from the ground, her pants and underwear bunched at her ankles. Sometimes she will be like this for half an hour, waiting for someone to come and help her get down. Waiting in helpless pain.
"Why doesn't God just let me die?" she has asked me the last two times I have visited her. "This isn't living."
She is 91-years old and was diagnosed with Parkinson's ten years ago. Some days she can stand on her own, other days she cannot keep her eyes open or speak on the telephone. She is at the mercy of nurses in an under-funded, under-staffed care centre. "I feel neglected," she has said numerous times. She tells me her frustrations with the poor care, the poor food that does little to tempt a stomach nauseated by medication. I find myself always at a loss for words. "That must be frustrating," I say.
"It is," she replies softly. Sometimes she is so frustrated she breaks down in tears.
One day when I came by, two other women from her floor were visiting with her in her room. I thought this was nice and told her so. Apparently they were talking about how they all just wished they could die.
It's hard to know what to say when she tells me she doesn't want to keep living. Death is too prevalent lately. I tell her that I enjoy her company, that she is like family to me. But I know that does not change her situation. I would not want to live as she lives. No one should have to live like this.
Often I feel helpless when I am with her. Helpless in the face of her pain, her despair. I know that being there I offer some comfort, but some days it feels like I am watering the desert with a bucket. I leave sometimes wanting to rant about under-funded public care and the indifference of our society that abandons its elderly to such towers of neglect. And yet visiting her has also brought me some subtle joys.
There have been many times in the last few years when I had few people around who cared about me. Loneliness is a dark emotion. But I always knew that there was a woman in the Glebe who would be watching the clock on Sundays, waiting for me to come. Every time I visit her I feel appreciated. Every time I see her she thanks me for coming. Every time I enter her room she smiles.
It's both a responsibility and a humbling pleasure to be waited for.
Monday, December 05, 2005
election study, part I
I have never had my opinion solicited in a poll or been surveyed about which way I will cast my vote in the upcoming federal election. So I thought I would do a little study of my own.
Casting myself as an 'average citizen', I am going to keep track of how the different political parties seek to win my vote or inform me of their platforms. If I go out of my way to attend some political function I will not include it in my little study - I will simply keep track of how often, in going about my day-to-day activities, I run in to campaigners.
Well, the Liberals took an early lead. (They didn't see this coming, did they?) Richard Mahoney had a bi-lingual flyer in my mailbox a few short days after his party lost the confidence vote and the election was set. (Ed Broadbent, the NDP MP for my riding had dropped off a brochure about a month ago - but I won't count this since a) it was prior to the election and b)Broadbent won't be running this time.)
Riding the bus to work on Tuesday, I saw a David Chernushenko's (had to go his site to get the spelling of that one!) Green Party sign beside the road. But by the end of the week, Mahoney had red signs on several corners in downtown areas. So I don't know who wins there - I guess signs won't count unless someone directly approaches me about having one on my lawn.
Yesterday, walking down snowy Bank Street in the Glebe, V and I were offered blue candy canes by smiling Conservatives. I didn't take one, but they get a point for the effort.
So Liberals and Conservatives are tied at 1. Green Party is at least on the radar. NDP has yet to make a showing - I don't even know who will be campaigning in my riding.
Any other 'average citizens' out there are welcome to post comments with the run-ins they have with politicos in the coming weeks... Who's making the best effort to win your vote?
Casting myself as an 'average citizen', I am going to keep track of how the different political parties seek to win my vote or inform me of their platforms. If I go out of my way to attend some political function I will not include it in my little study - I will simply keep track of how often, in going about my day-to-day activities, I run in to campaigners.
Well, the Liberals took an early lead. (They didn't see this coming, did they?) Richard Mahoney had a bi-lingual flyer in my mailbox a few short days after his party lost the confidence vote and the election was set. (Ed Broadbent, the NDP MP for my riding had dropped off a brochure about a month ago - but I won't count this since a) it was prior to the election and b)Broadbent won't be running this time.)
Riding the bus to work on Tuesday, I saw a David Chernushenko's (had to go his site to get the spelling of that one!) Green Party sign beside the road. But by the end of the week, Mahoney had red signs on several corners in downtown areas. So I don't know who wins there - I guess signs won't count unless someone directly approaches me about having one on my lawn.
Yesterday, walking down snowy Bank Street in the Glebe, V and I were offered blue candy canes by smiling Conservatives. I didn't take one, but they get a point for the effort.
So Liberals and Conservatives are tied at 1. Green Party is at least on the radar. NDP has yet to make a showing - I don't even know who will be campaigning in my riding.
Any other 'average citizens' out there are welcome to post comments with the run-ins they have with politicos in the coming weeks... Who's making the best effort to win your vote?
Sunday, December 04, 2005
V
So we went to the symphony on Friday. There were a lot of old people there. I got hungry and all I could think of was Soylent Green. You know what else is green... spinach. I could sure go for a spinach sandwich right now. A spinach sandwich? Crazy.
Friday, December 02, 2005
...and the poor get poorer
The city of Ottawa raised the bus fare yesterday - up 25 cents to $3.00. A group of angry transit-users, called the Under Pressure Collective, claims this gives Ottawa the highest bus fare in Canada. They took to the streets in protest yesterday morning and walked in the bus lane from Vanier to City Hall, snarling up rush hour traffic. I was still in bed when I heard about their protest, but if I'd known about it I would have been out there marching with them.
Raising bus fares is not the answer to traffic congestion and pollution - problems the city claims they are tackling. This hike will discourage people from taking public transport and punishes those who already do.
Often when I ride the bus I am struck by how people around me are those with the least amount of political power : immigrants, seniors, students and working poor. Sure, at rush hour the downtown buses have their share of suits and office workers - but get on just about any bus at 11 in the morning and tell me honestly if the riders look like they can afford another increase in their daily expenses. And this increase follows only 5 months after the last - marking a 10% jump in 2005.
The city claims that it has to raise fares to off-set fuel costs. Understandable. But I think bus fares should be subsidized by public coffers and if the city needs to raise funds, they shouldn't do so on the backs of those who can least afford it.
Why not target those who insist on commuting to work in single-occupancy cars? - which seems like the majority of the city's working population. Incentives should be given to take public transport to work, instead of the other way around.
Currently I take the bus downtown when I work a lunch shift at the restaurant. But parking in the little lot right by the restaurant would cost $6.00. Same as 2 bus fares. As winter sinks in, it's going to be increasingly tempting to drive in to work and avoid the cold wait for buses that always run late.
To make it more, not less attractive to use public transport there could be partnerships made with schools, universities and businesses to get discounts for bus use. In Sherbrooke, Quebec, students can ride local buses for free when they show their student id. A similar initiative in Vancouver saw a 13% ridership increase in UBC students. Or how about raising downtown parking rates? Making more bus lanes? Building more park-n-ride lots in the suburbs?...
But in the end, it comes down to changing people's attitudes and habits. Equiterre, a Quebec environmental group, has some good sustainable transport campaigns - but I can't help wondering if the people they attract are those who already share similar views. How can you make someone care about something they don't? I wish I knew. And I'm sure everyone who campaigns - whatever the issue: AIDS, poverty, cancer, MS, etc. - would love to know the answer too.
But while we ponder that one, I'm going to write a letter to Alex Cullen, the city councillor for my ward. I don't know if my squeak of protest will mean much - but I think if everyone in Ottawa who is concerned about this would write to their councillors, perhaps the city might reconsider who they treat the transit riders they claim to want to attract.
You can find your city councillor on the city web page... or add a comment to this blog if you want another way to voice your concerns.
Raising bus fares is not the answer to traffic congestion and pollution - problems the city claims they are tackling. This hike will discourage people from taking public transport and punishes those who already do.
Often when I ride the bus I am struck by how people around me are those with the least amount of political power : immigrants, seniors, students and working poor. Sure, at rush hour the downtown buses have their share of suits and office workers - but get on just about any bus at 11 in the morning and tell me honestly if the riders look like they can afford another increase in their daily expenses. And this increase follows only 5 months after the last - marking a 10% jump in 2005.
The city claims that it has to raise fares to off-set fuel costs. Understandable. But I think bus fares should be subsidized by public coffers and if the city needs to raise funds, they shouldn't do so on the backs of those who can least afford it.
Why not target those who insist on commuting to work in single-occupancy cars? - which seems like the majority of the city's working population. Incentives should be given to take public transport to work, instead of the other way around.
Currently I take the bus downtown when I work a lunch shift at the restaurant. But parking in the little lot right by the restaurant would cost $6.00. Same as 2 bus fares. As winter sinks in, it's going to be increasingly tempting to drive in to work and avoid the cold wait for buses that always run late.
To make it more, not less attractive to use public transport there could be partnerships made with schools, universities and businesses to get discounts for bus use. In Sherbrooke, Quebec, students can ride local buses for free when they show their student id. A similar initiative in Vancouver saw a 13% ridership increase in UBC students. Or how about raising downtown parking rates? Making more bus lanes? Building more park-n-ride lots in the suburbs?...
But in the end, it comes down to changing people's attitudes and habits. Equiterre, a Quebec environmental group, has some good sustainable transport campaigns - but I can't help wondering if the people they attract are those who already share similar views. How can you make someone care about something they don't? I wish I knew. And I'm sure everyone who campaigns - whatever the issue: AIDS, poverty, cancer, MS, etc. - would love to know the answer too.
But while we ponder that one, I'm going to write a letter to Alex Cullen, the city councillor for my ward. I don't know if my squeak of protest will mean much - but I think if everyone in Ottawa who is concerned about this would write to their councillors, perhaps the city might reconsider who they treat the transit riders they claim to want to attract.
You can find your city councillor on the city web page... or add a comment to this blog if you want another way to voice your concerns.
Monday, November 28, 2005
personality colours
It’s amazing how we can spend weeks, months even, within routine - experiencing predictable, familiar emotions - and suddenly something happens and the palette with which we colour our lives is changed. Or all the colours seem to be a different shade.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
grieving, part II
Wednesday night, a week after being admitted to hospital, Grandpa passed away. He had been ready to go for days, but his strong heart kept beating as the life-force inside him - a force that had carried him over 95 years - would not so easily give up the fight. And we had stood around his bed, caught in the complexities of grief. Each in our own way trying to say good-bye.
I had arrived in time to see him. He said my name and took my hand - his grip still so strong. He had shrunk to a pale shadow of himself - except for those strong hands.
Words fail in times like this.
But what we wanted most was for him to be at peace. "We're all okay here, Dad," my mother said, touching his gaunt face. "You can rest." See, even until the end he wanted to care for his family. Though it was often hard to understand his words in his final days, we'd realize he was telling us to go home, get something to eat, get some sleep. He waited til he was alone to slip away. As if he could not sleep til he knew everyone else was asleep as well.
I remember when my Grandma, his wife Violet, passed away. He stood beside her coffin in the funeral home and looked at the family sitting in the chapel. You are all here because of her, he said to us. And I looked around at aunts and uncles, cousins and their children. All of this life, here in this room, came from the two of them.
He and Grandma were the roots of our family tree. A firm foundation. He, so strong, dependable. A man of faith and goodness. Family is often difficult and spending time together not always easy. But it was never difficult to go visit Grandpa. I never felt judged, though I knew he was concerned for my well-being. We would talk a little. He would serve tea and cookies or sweets. His presence was peaceful. Kind.
He told my Mum that he had lived a full life and that it was his time. No one could, in good conscience, try to hold him back. He died surrounded by the life he founded. I am grateful for his life-blood in me and his example of goodness and strength.
I had arrived in time to see him. He said my name and took my hand - his grip still so strong. He had shrunk to a pale shadow of himself - except for those strong hands.
Words fail in times like this.
But what we wanted most was for him to be at peace. "We're all okay here, Dad," my mother said, touching his gaunt face. "You can rest." See, even until the end he wanted to care for his family. Though it was often hard to understand his words in his final days, we'd realize he was telling us to go home, get something to eat, get some sleep. He waited til he was alone to slip away. As if he could not sleep til he knew everyone else was asleep as well.
I remember when my Grandma, his wife Violet, passed away. He stood beside her coffin in the funeral home and looked at the family sitting in the chapel. You are all here because of her, he said to us. And I looked around at aunts and uncles, cousins and their children. All of this life, here in this room, came from the two of them.
He and Grandma were the roots of our family tree. A firm foundation. He, so strong, dependable. A man of faith and goodness. Family is often difficult and spending time together not always easy. But it was never difficult to go visit Grandpa. I never felt judged, though I knew he was concerned for my well-being. We would talk a little. He would serve tea and cookies or sweets. His presence was peaceful. Kind.
He told my Mum that he had lived a full life and that it was his time. No one could, in good conscience, try to hold him back. He died surrounded by the life he founded. I am grateful for his life-blood in me and his example of goodness and strength.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Go in peace
I'm still grieving my great-uncle who passed away earlier this month. His death was not sudden or unexpected, but the finality of it is still sinking in. I still see him in my dreams and cry hot tears that I will never again see him awake.
And now, today, I will be flying home to Saskatchewan to say good-bye to his dying brother, my grandfather. This too is not sudden - though not as expected since, while his health has been deteriorating, not so long ago he still seemed strong. I was sure I would see him when I came home for Christmas. Now I don't think I can wait so long.
To be honest, I haven't cried yet - though I'm sure there will be plenty of that in this coming week. It's strange when one grief is added to another - somehow they both seem diminished though the combined weight increased.
My grandpa is 95-years old. Mum says he is ready to go. He is tired. He has been in pain for months. He recently had to sell his home, lose his independence, the activities he enjoyed. I don't think anyone in the family can begrudge him his death. 'Go in peace,' pastors and priests often say at the end of service. My grandpa has attended church regularly for most of his life; perhaps that is what he is hearing now: 'Go in peace.'
That would be my greatest wish for him right now. I hope his faith is being rewarded with a certainty that he goes to a better place. Those in my family who believe the same will also be comforted. I'm not sure what happens after death, but if Grandpa's faith can give him peace now, make the parting easier, then I am grateful for it.
Faith. Hope. Peace. Love. ... in so many ways I am coming to understand that, at the end of the day, they are all that really matter.
And now, today, I will be flying home to Saskatchewan to say good-bye to his dying brother, my grandfather. This too is not sudden - though not as expected since, while his health has been deteriorating, not so long ago he still seemed strong. I was sure I would see him when I came home for Christmas. Now I don't think I can wait so long.
To be honest, I haven't cried yet - though I'm sure there will be plenty of that in this coming week. It's strange when one grief is added to another - somehow they both seem diminished though the combined weight increased.
My grandpa is 95-years old. Mum says he is ready to go. He is tired. He has been in pain for months. He recently had to sell his home, lose his independence, the activities he enjoyed. I don't think anyone in the family can begrudge him his death. 'Go in peace,' pastors and priests often say at the end of service. My grandpa has attended church regularly for most of his life; perhaps that is what he is hearing now: 'Go in peace.'
That would be my greatest wish for him right now. I hope his faith is being rewarded with a certainty that he goes to a better place. Those in my family who believe the same will also be comforted. I'm not sure what happens after death, but if Grandpa's faith can give him peace now, make the parting easier, then I am grateful for it.
Faith. Hope. Peace. Love. ... in so many ways I am coming to understand that, at the end of the day, they are all that really matter.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
uninformed kindness
I received one of those 'Irish blessings' emails yesterday - which I was supposed to forward to as many people as I knew within the next hour so that my wish would come true!!! I immediately forwarded it to the trash file.
I'm sure I'm not the only one who can't stand such emails - and why is it they always seem to come from people who would never write me otherwise? I don't usually have to think twice about how I handle them - except to restrain myself from firing off a reply requesting to be dropped from that person's contact list.
But then I got this email - from a trusted friend.
Subject: FW: Very Important...do you know her ?????????
Let's keep this one moving. It only takes a couple of seconds to forward and God works in mysterious ways.
P. S. If you have a second I'm sure she would appreciate your prayers.
Subject: Do you recognize this girl?
This little girl is at the Phuket Hospital in Thailand.
She does not remember her own name or anything! She has lost her parents.
She must be of Western origin. She was a victim when she got caught in the tidal wave disaster in Phuket, Thailand and nobody knows who she is, so we are hoping if we distribute this email around the world someone will know her.
Please don't break the chain, your contribution could be the one that solves this little girls problem. Please forward this to all your contacts.
The email was followed by contact info of a sergeant in Perth, Australia. Not sure if this was a hoax, I sent him an email to find out if it was legit. He replied surprisingly quickly to say this was real, but that the little girl had been reunited with relatives in January. He apologized for any inconvenience.
Further research has told me that this girl's name is Sophia Minhl. Though her parents were never found after the tsunami disaster, she is being cared for by relatives in Germany.
German officials are asking people to stop forwarding the letter. Sophia and another boy child were successfully identified through email campaigns and by photos posted on the Phuket hospital web site. I imagine that while families are grateful for the world-wide compassion that helped reunite them with their children, they probably wish they could find a way to put an end to a sort of out-of-control cyber kindness.
A website - breakthechain.org - says child find chain letters are often based on real events, but while they may have successful results in the short term, they are so compelling that they continue to circulate long after they are useful - and eventually become problems of their own.
Even the friend who forwarded this to me said, "I am not sure it this is real, but it looks like it is. Better safe than sorry, so pass it on." Everyone means well. But these letters can turn in to monsters - see the story about the boy with cancer who asked for greeting cards
I don't want to be critical - but this seems just another example of uninformed kindness - like aid money that is thrown away on unfeasible or unsustainable projects because those responsible did not take the time to do the leg work before signing the cheque. Or the extreme example - which may be far too generous to even call kindness - when the American forces dropped 37,000 ration packs with peanut butter and strawberry jam on Afghanistan. As Indian novelist, Arundhati Roy wrote in an 2001 article for the Guardian: "Aid workers have condemned it as a cynical, dangerous, public-relations exercise. They say that air-dropping food packets is worse than futile. First, because the food will never get to those who really need it. More dangerously, those who run out to retrieve the packets risk being blown up by landmines. A tragic alms race.
Like many others, I think it is important to give - time, money, resources, etc - but IMHO our generosity and kindness have to be informed. Otherwise our efforts are at best wasteful and at worst insulting and dangerous.
I'm sure I'm not the only one who can't stand such emails - and why is it they always seem to come from people who would never write me otherwise? I don't usually have to think twice about how I handle them - except to restrain myself from firing off a reply requesting to be dropped from that person's contact list.
But then I got this email - from a trusted friend.
Subject: FW: Very Important...do you know her ?????????
Let's keep this one moving. It only takes a couple of seconds to forward and God works in mysterious ways.
P. S. If you have a second I'm sure she would appreciate your prayers.
Subject: Do you recognize this girl?
This little girl is at the Phuket Hospital in Thailand.
She does not remember her own name or anything! She has lost her parents.
She must be of Western origin. She was a victim when she got caught in the tidal wave disaster in Phuket, Thailand and nobody knows who she is, so we are hoping if we distribute this email around the world someone will know her.
Please don't break the chain, your contribution could be the one that solves this little girls problem. Please forward this to all your contacts.
The email was followed by contact info of a sergeant in Perth, Australia. Not sure if this was a hoax, I sent him an email to find out if it was legit. He replied surprisingly quickly to say this was real, but that the little girl had been reunited with relatives in January. He apologized for any inconvenience.
Further research has told me that this girl's name is Sophia Minhl. Though her parents were never found after the tsunami disaster, she is being cared for by relatives in Germany.
German officials are asking people to stop forwarding the letter. Sophia and another boy child were successfully identified through email campaigns and by photos posted on the Phuket hospital web site. I imagine that while families are grateful for the world-wide compassion that helped reunite them with their children, they probably wish they could find a way to put an end to a sort of out-of-control cyber kindness.
A website - breakthechain.org - says child find chain letters are often based on real events, but while they may have successful results in the short term, they are so compelling that they continue to circulate long after they are useful - and eventually become problems of their own.
Even the friend who forwarded this to me said, "I am not sure it this is real, but it looks like it is. Better safe than sorry, so pass it on." Everyone means well. But these letters can turn in to monsters - see the story about the boy with cancer who asked for greeting cards
I don't want to be critical - but this seems just another example of uninformed kindness - like aid money that is thrown away on unfeasible or unsustainable projects because those responsible did not take the time to do the leg work before signing the cheque. Or the extreme example - which may be far too generous to even call kindness - when the American forces dropped 37,000 ration packs with peanut butter and strawberry jam on Afghanistan. As Indian novelist, Arundhati Roy wrote in an 2001 article for the Guardian: "Aid workers have condemned it as a cynical, dangerous, public-relations exercise. They say that air-dropping food packets is worse than futile. First, because the food will never get to those who really need it. More dangerously, those who run out to retrieve the packets risk being blown up by landmines. A tragic alms race.
Like many others, I think it is important to give - time, money, resources, etc - but IMHO our generosity and kindness have to be informed. Otherwise our efforts are at best wasteful and at worst insulting and dangerous.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
girl talk
As I do not have an internet connection at home, in order to get on-line I often end up at the local Bridgehead café. For $1.75 I get a medium cup of fair trade coffee and a wireless connection. This isn't the most economic way to use the Internet, but it has the added benefit of getting me out of my small basement apartment and providing some excellent people watching opportunities.
Today, watching the conversations around me, I am reminded of how much I enjoy watching women communicate. I'm not saying men don't talk - but women make up the majority of those who are visiting over a cup of coffee or tea here. Strains of their conversations float around the room, but without concentrating I cannot follow a single strand. Instead, I watch the language of their bodies.
... two women who look to be in their mid-thirties are chatting animatedly over tea in the far corner. Their bodies mimic each other - in the way they lean in, rest their arms on the table or sit back to laugh. Beside them, an older woman with a purple sweater and smooth grey hair seems to be counseling a young woman, perhaps in her 20s. She is leaning in, her elbow on the table and her face resting in her hand. Her whole body communicates earnestness, respect. The older woman's hands flutter and gesture - as if drawing the contours of her phrases....
It's hard to find the right word - but I almost want to say it is comforting to watch these conversations. Seeing expressions of concern, empathy, joy... Even if I am not actually part of these conversations, they reach me and in a sense communicate some goodness to me as well.
Today, watching the conversations around me, I am reminded of how much I enjoy watching women communicate. I'm not saying men don't talk - but women make up the majority of those who are visiting over a cup of coffee or tea here. Strains of their conversations float around the room, but without concentrating I cannot follow a single strand. Instead, I watch the language of their bodies.
... two women who look to be in their mid-thirties are chatting animatedly over tea in the far corner. Their bodies mimic each other - in the way they lean in, rest their arms on the table or sit back to laugh. Beside them, an older woman with a purple sweater and smooth grey hair seems to be counseling a young woman, perhaps in her 20s. She is leaning in, her elbow on the table and her face resting in her hand. Her whole body communicates earnestness, respect. The older woman's hands flutter and gesture - as if drawing the contours of her phrases....
It's hard to find the right word - but I almost want to say it is comforting to watch these conversations. Seeing expressions of concern, empathy, joy... Even if I am not actually part of these conversations, they reach me and in a sense communicate some goodness to me as well.
Monday, November 14, 2005
inspired by the Yes Men
In my last entry I asked how I can bring peace. Sometimes I feel my arms, my reach, is so small...
Then I watched 'The Yes Men' last night - a documentary about a few very ballsy guys who practice "identity correction". Their website - www.theyesmen.org - defines this as: "Honest people impersonate big-time criminals in order to publicly humiliate them. Targets are leaders and big corporations who put profits ahead of everything else."
The Yes Men name comes from funny-house mirrors where reality is exaggerated to the point that it becomes hilarious or grotesque. Passing themselves off as members of WTO, these guys gave speeches and did tv and press interviews around the world. With intelligent, dark satire they advocate for corporate and economic power. What seems to amaze them, and likely most people watching their movie, is how so many people sat through their lectures and interviews and did not notice the monstrous and often bizarre image reflected back at them.
At the end of a long series of FAQs on their site, someone asks the Yes Men if, with all their pranks and odd activit they think what they are doing is making a difference. They reply, "We guesstimate that it is, somehow, somewhere. At least it’s better than sitting on our asses waiting for the world to change on its own."
I like that. It's always inspiring to meet or hear about those who refuse to be small and do something big. These guys managed to reach globally and they have not only been successful in embarrassing large corporations and the WTO, they recently held DOW's feet to fire over the Bhopal disaster in India - see www.bhopal.net.
Sometimes I feel so helpless. Other times I feel so inspired. I want to change the world and then recognize the egotism and naivety of that desire.
At the end of the day, at least you want to feel like you've made some sort of difference? Don't you?
Then I watched 'The Yes Men' last night - a documentary about a few very ballsy guys who practice "identity correction". Their website - www.theyesmen.org - defines this as: "Honest people impersonate big-time criminals in order to publicly humiliate them. Targets are leaders and big corporations who put profits ahead of everything else."
The Yes Men name comes from funny-house mirrors where reality is exaggerated to the point that it becomes hilarious or grotesque. Passing themselves off as members of WTO, these guys gave speeches and did tv and press interviews around the world. With intelligent, dark satire they advocate for corporate and economic power. What seems to amaze them, and likely most people watching their movie, is how so many people sat through their lectures and interviews and did not notice the monstrous and often bizarre image reflected back at them.
At the end of a long series of FAQs on their site, someone asks the Yes Men if, with all their pranks and odd activit they think what they are doing is making a difference. They reply, "We guesstimate that it is, somehow, somewhere. At least it’s better than sitting on our asses waiting for the world to change on its own."
I like that. It's always inspiring to meet or hear about those who refuse to be small and do something big. These guys managed to reach globally and they have not only been successful in embarrassing large corporations and the WTO, they recently held DOW's feet to fire over the Bhopal disaster in India - see www.bhopal.net.
Sometimes I feel so helpless. Other times I feel so inspired. I want to change the world and then recognize the egotism and naivety of that desire.
At the end of the day, at least you want to feel like you've made some sort of difference? Don't you?
Friday, November 11, 2005
How to build peace??
When I worked in the Reserves I used to enjoyed participating in Remembrance Day parades - even though, being in
Our veterans made great sacrifices and too many died. They deserve to be honoured. But while I have great respect for them, I wish, wish, wish the focus we gave to the war today would fuel a greater drive to prevent future conflict and bring peace to existing ones.
'The World at War' lists 39 ongoing conflicts in the world. How many hundreds, thousands of people will die in these conflicts before the next November 11th? Will they be honoured with marching bands, wreaths and speeches in years to come? Or will they just become statistics, forgotten victims of global political and power struggles?And how can I, sitting here in my little world, do anything to change their fate??
If you know, could you tell me?
Thursday, November 10, 2005
take your flu shot and stick it
So after writing about expectations, dying, grief... here's something a little more innocuous:
inoculations.
a.k.a. the flu shot.
I've never had one before this year. When I get sick, which isn't often, I trust my home remedies of rest, lots of water, oregano oil and a few hot toddies. But for the first time in my life I have a 'family doctor' and she is an intimidating woman with a Czech accent and a no-nonsense face. She pointed out that while I may be healthy enough to fight off a flu, I could infect others around me. "You must think about the public good," she said and my socialist heart fluttered.
So I let her assistant prod my left arm, swab it with alcohol then plunge a needle into the muscle.
"Will I get flu symptoms?" I asked.
"Oh no. This won't even hurt. You won't feel a thing."
Hmm. For the record - that night I had a fever and felt quite flu-ish: chills, lethargy, no appetite, etc. My arm, which hurt when she jabbed it, ached the rest of the day and into night. And here's the real good part - two weeks later - it still hurts! I'm not kidding (and I'm not a wimp either, well, not really). I can still tell exactly where she jabbed me and there is a nagging discomfort in the muscle.
Did you know there is mercury in the flu shot? Maybe next time I'll just break a thermometre and suck on that for awhile.
Ok, I'm being a bit dramatic. But for anyone out there debating the flu shot this year - don't let the avian flu panic infect you. Even World Health Organization officials admit the best we can do is wash our hands. (I love these reports: doom! doom! death! millions infected!!!... prevention? well, wash your hands.)
You may have elderly or frail people in your life you want to protect by immunizing yourself. That's great. All for the public good I am. But let's keep things honest at least.
The flu shot is not painless.
The flu shot does not guarantee you won't get sick - it may even make you sick.
So the next time my steely doctor and her jabbering assistant try talking me into getting shot for the greater public good I'll tell them just where they can put that needle.... yeah, you know.
Well, okay... probably I'll just roll up my sleeve like a good girl and grit my teeth. Then go home and make a hot toddy and put an ice pack on my arm.
Monday, November 07, 2005
anticipating 31
I've learned as I've gotten older that the best way to avoid disappointment is to lower my expectations. I'm a bit of a dreamer and I used to spend far too much time anticipating how lovely a holiday, birthday, celebration, party, date, relationship... would be. And I would inevitably end up disappointed.
But the problem now with keeping myself perpetually un-anticipating is that I seem to have lost a bit of that fun, childish excitment. My birthday is tomorrow and for the first time in years I actually have reasons to look forward to it. I have a lovely man and good friends to celebrate with. My mother has already sent a couple little gifts I can open when I wake up... But I don't feel anything besides a vague contentment. Of course there is something about celebrating less then a week after my great-uncle died, but more than that I think the effort over the last few years to suppress any anticipation.
Is this really the secret to happiness - live fully in the moment and not in the future or past? What if part of living in the present is to savour the anticipation of future pleasure?
By not anticipating that my birthday would be anything particularly special this year, I didn't bother to invite friends till late this afternoon. You could say I didn't put any effort into making it special. Keeping expectations low means I didn't really try.
There must be a balance here between expectations that drive you to achieve more, build better, etc and those that lead to disappointment. I'm thinking I may have gone too far on the side of lowering my hopes. I no longer really think I'll get published, so I'm not sending out much stuff. I don't expect friendships to last, so I don't put much work into them. I even wonder sometimes if I am holding out in my relationship since there is that voice in the back of my head telling me not to expect too much, not to really expect him to still be around when things get bad, grow old....
So I think I've found my resolution for my 31st year:
Dare to hope a bit more
Risk more. Strive more. Dream big.
Disappointment be damned.
But the problem now with keeping myself perpetually un-anticipating is that I seem to have lost a bit of that fun, childish excitment. My birthday is tomorrow and for the first time in years I actually have reasons to look forward to it. I have a lovely man and good friends to celebrate with. My mother has already sent a couple little gifts I can open when I wake up... But I don't feel anything besides a vague contentment. Of course there is something about celebrating less then a week after my great-uncle died, but more than that I think the effort over the last few years to suppress any anticipation.
Is this really the secret to happiness - live fully in the moment and not in the future or past? What if part of living in the present is to savour the anticipation of future pleasure?
By not anticipating that my birthday would be anything particularly special this year, I didn't bother to invite friends till late this afternoon. You could say I didn't put any effort into making it special. Keeping expectations low means I didn't really try.
There must be a balance here between expectations that drive you to achieve more, build better, etc and those that lead to disappointment. I'm thinking I may have gone too far on the side of lowering my hopes. I no longer really think I'll get published, so I'm not sending out much stuff. I don't expect friendships to last, so I don't put much work into them. I even wonder sometimes if I am holding out in my relationship since there is that voice in the back of my head telling me not to expect too much, not to really expect him to still be around when things get bad, grow old....
So I think I've found my resolution for my 31st year:
Dare to hope a bit more
Risk more. Strive more. Dream big.
Disappointment be damned.
Friday, November 04, 2005
grieving
My great-uncle passed away yesterday. And though it's not a surprise, the finality of it all is hard to grasp. I know he's is gone, but I can't stop wishing to see him again. To talk to him. To have his voice waiting on my answering machine: 'It's Uncle Henry. Nothing urgent, just calling to say...'
I know that so much in life is fleeting - it just seems so unfair. Life isn't fair, my mother used to say. And like I child I want to stomp my feet and demand it to be so. It's not fair that my uncle was taken away when I was only getting to know him. How is it that someone who brought into my life such love, acceptance, support, and encouragement be already gone? Gone.
Yes, I know. I have the memories. I have a photograph of him standing in a shaft of sunlight by the mulberry tree at his farm... But memories can't replace him - there are such a dim, small shadow of his life.
Still, I will treasure those memories. I'll be grateful for them, grateful for him. I'll cry a little yet still feel blessed.
Blessed to have, however briefly, walked on this earth with him.
I know that so much in life is fleeting - it just seems so unfair. Life isn't fair, my mother used to say. And like I child I want to stomp my feet and demand it to be so. It's not fair that my uncle was taken away when I was only getting to know him. How is it that someone who brought into my life such love, acceptance, support, and encouragement be already gone? Gone.
Yes, I know. I have the memories. I have a photograph of him standing in a shaft of sunlight by the mulberry tree at his farm... But memories can't replace him - there are such a dim, small shadow of his life.
Still, I will treasure those memories. I'll be grateful for them, grateful for him. I'll cry a little yet still feel blessed.
Blessed to have, however briefly, walked on this earth with him.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
for my great-uncle, dying
I don't know if you're already gone. This sadness I've felt for the last two days tells me you will not be here much longer, if you have not already left...
How to say good-bye when I'm 500 miles away?
The last time I saw you, I knew it was the last - but the room was full of people and I didn't want to seem pessimistic. Hard to say 'I know I'll never see you again so I must say good-bye now'. But I did now and that knowledge was breaking me inside, but I didn't want to cry right then - under bright lights and family eyes.
I also wanted to keep hoping that you would find the strength to fight. I though if I said good-bye you would think I didn't believe you could make it. Torn between the truth and an encouraging lie, my honesty and my words failed me.
In the months that followed, I thought maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe you could pull through and I was thinking about how nice it would be to get to visit you again. Go down to your farm in Indiana, which you call the halls of liberty - where time doesn't matter and the days slip by with music (of course, always music), crossword puzzles, walks with Sandy-dog, chess games and your anecdotes, quotes, erudite tidbits of wit and information. Before going to bed you would say good-night and tell me not to stress. My reply would be, as always is, 'there is no stress here'. Outside there would be a silence deep with peaceful sounds - leaves rustling, trees sighing... and in the morning a chorus of birds and you, already awake, listening to the news in the kitchen...
I've only really known you a little over a year and am so grateful to have had the chance - and yes, a little angry that it's over so soon. You were already 84 when I met you (when you'd see a recent photo of yourself you'd ask who the old goat is). A car accident and a wreck of complications... these have taken what time you may have had left. But I can't feel cheated because I have been truly blessed to know you. You have been a source of such generous support and I can only hope, can only pray with every inch of my being that in your last moments on this earth you will know how much you were loved and how dearly you will be missed.
How to say good-bye when I'm 500 miles away?
The last time I saw you, I knew it was the last - but the room was full of people and I didn't want to seem pessimistic. Hard to say 'I know I'll never see you again so I must say good-bye now'. But I did now and that knowledge was breaking me inside, but I didn't want to cry right then - under bright lights and family eyes.
I also wanted to keep hoping that you would find the strength to fight. I though if I said good-bye you would think I didn't believe you could make it. Torn between the truth and an encouraging lie, my honesty and my words failed me.
In the months that followed, I thought maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe you could pull through and I was thinking about how nice it would be to get to visit you again. Go down to your farm in Indiana, which you call the halls of liberty - where time doesn't matter and the days slip by with music (of course, always music), crossword puzzles, walks with Sandy-dog, chess games and your anecdotes, quotes, erudite tidbits of wit and information. Before going to bed you would say good-night and tell me not to stress. My reply would be, as always is, 'there is no stress here'. Outside there would be a silence deep with peaceful sounds - leaves rustling, trees sighing... and in the morning a chorus of birds and you, already awake, listening to the news in the kitchen...
I've only really known you a little over a year and am so grateful to have had the chance - and yes, a little angry that it's over so soon. You were already 84 when I met you (when you'd see a recent photo of yourself you'd ask who the old goat is). A car accident and a wreck of complications... these have taken what time you may have had left. But I can't feel cheated because I have been truly blessed to know you. You have been a source of such generous support and I can only hope, can only pray with every inch of my being that in your last moments on this earth you will know how much you were loved and how dearly you will be missed.
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