truth and reconciliation

Last night I attended a public forum at the National Archives for the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) which is being set up for survivors of Indian Residential Schools. Scheduled on National Aboriginal Day, this was an opportunity for the public to learn about TRCs and give input on how a TRC might work in Canada. Other forums have been held around town, at Native centres and at universities.

The TRC is part of the negotiated settlement between government, churches and Indigenous peoples in response to the recognized human rights violations of the Residential School system. I'm taking a spring course right now which is looking at post-colonial, Indigenous issues in Canada - so this discussion is really relevant to what we have been studying. In other course work, and in preparation for my thesis, I have been researching TRCs in Africa and reading a lot about healing and reconciliation. Sometimes reading can seen sterile - removed from experience. So it was exciting last night to watch and listen to how a Commission could be set up in Canada - what are the expectations, the limitations, the hopes and the fears. It seems corny to say, but it was one of those times when I was aware of being part of history.

I also felt like I got a little taste of what a TRC could look like. Two speakers talked about their experience in the Residential School system. Violet Ford, an Inuit lawyer and Residential School survivor spoke through tears about the feelings of anger, loss and frustration that she and her community is working through. "I see the TRC as such huge hope for our people, for our nieces and nephews and those who come after us," she said. She added that she hoped it would not only help heal her community, but also allow the Canadian public to understand "what we've been suffering from." When she talked about the need for Canadians to attend the TRC and "hold out their hands" to survivors, I could see my place in all this.

I am also excited to be finding opportunities to use my role as an academic and researcher. I met someone who recently finished a conflict resolution master's at University of Victoria. She is doing research for this TRC process in order to provide Commissioners (who will be selected in September) with background on TRC process as well as the input received from these forums. I talked to her about the possibility of doing some of my course research on the TRC project and she welcomed the idea. I know that I tend to bite off far more than I can chew when it comes to research papers, but often doing coursework just for the grade seems inefficient to me. If I'm going to be putting in all this time, why not make it count?

That is a huge part of what it means for me to be an academic. How do I make it count? How can I contribute to social justice? Last night I saw an opportunity.

fashion knits

I found this fabulous patter at the Red Cross this week. I brought it home to show V what I could knit for him and his greyhound (should he ever get said greyhound).

Wouldn't they make a stunning pair strolling down Byron Avenue?




There was also a great sweater set I could knit for us as a couple. It may not be exactly what is in the fashion magazines these days, but it will catch on.

Now where am I going to find someone who can style my hair like that?

wedding dreams...

For the last two nights I've dreamt that I am late and ill-prepared for my wedding. Last night I showed up at a small wooden church where everyone was waiting but I was wearing a strange pink dress and kept insisting I was not ready. "Don't worry," I was told. "This is just the practice run."

There was a minister behind a ticket-booth like window who gave me a form to fill out. The first question was, 'Who is the person in your life with whom you get along with the least and how are you addressing this problem?' Apparently I have to pass a conflict studies pop quiz before I am allowed to get married.

I was then in a car with V, driving in snow-filled streets on last-minute errands. We were stopped waiting for something and I offered to run to Tim Horton's to get him a hot chocolate. But I kept missing the restaurant and got lost in the snow. A car stopped to give me a lift, but once in their car I realized we were leaving town so asked to get out. I was walking through the snow when I met a good friend of mine out walking her dog Beemer. She and her boyfriend gave me a lift back to the church where it was now time for the real thing.

Suddenly it was summer again and I was told that my mum had my dress. Someone handed me a long silver gown. "But I've never even tried this on before," I thought. Behind the chapel was a series of curtained stalls to change, with small signs indicating the stalls for bride, groom and wedding party. I was just trying on the dress when I woke up.

Right now I can't remember the other dream, but know that in it as well I was rushing around disorganized and late. I actually have to plan and organize very little of my wedding - in fact all I really need to do is show up. And yet in my dreams I rush and worry. I rush and worry during the day too - but not about that. I guess I save my wedding dreams for bedtime.

Living on the Streets

For four days this month, I was homeless.

For four chilly nights I slept in parks and learned the value of cardboard. I ate at homeless shelters and begged for food. I learned how generous people are, especially those who have the least to give.

This was part of a 'street retreat' called Bearing witness to Homelessness. Organized by a local Shambala mediation center and lead by Zen peacemaker Sensei Gauntt, it was described as an opportunity to go beyond our selves and our limits, to open ourselves to the experience of poverty and homelessness. Indeed it was all this and more.

The 15 other participants and I had been instructed to come to this retreat with warm clothes, a bus ticket, a piece of ID - and nothing else. No money, no watch, no cell phone or notebook. For five days we had not washed our hair; the men had not shaved.

Since we would be availing ourselves of some of the homeless services in town, in order to participate on this retreat we were required to raise $350 for local shelters and services. I am sincerely grateful to my friends and family who collectively gave me $420. For each person who gave, their initials were written or carved on my Tibetan mala which I carried with on the retreat.

But those are the logistics of the retreat. The experience is harder to describe. I'm still processing it.

What stands out most is the time we spent in shelters and missions. In the past I have volunteered and worked at drop-in shelters, but that was always from the perspective of me offering something to others. This time, I was receiving.

I am grateful for every meal I received - made sweeter by the hunger and by the community I shared it with. One morning at the Salvation Army I sat across from an elderly woman with plastic bags at her feet and gold in her teeth. She noticed that I had not taken the small carton of milk that came with breakfast and I tried to explain that I didn't want it, but she did not seem to understand. "Milk," she said again. I went back to the counter and got my milk and gave it to here. "Merci," she said with a smile. There was bacon on my plate, I gestured to see if she wanted it and gladly she took it. "Merci." When she saw I was not eating all my toast, she pointed to those as well. I handed them over and she carefully wrapped them in a paper napkin before putting them in a plastic bag. She got up to leave and I realized there was a small container of margarine on my tray. I touched her arm to get her attention and handed it to her. "Merci," she said again, then bent over and kissed me on the cheek. That kiss stayed with me all day.

'Sharing' could probably be the word that best describes this retreat. Body heat at night, food during the day. When my lips were chapped and burning from the cold and wind I panhandled for $2 to buy a small container of lip balm which soon was being passed among all. A man living at the Salvation Army gave us toothpaste and sunscreen. One loaf of bread fed 16 mouths.

There are so many other stories I could tell. Of old André and his dog Mutt. Of the restaurant which gave us delicious soup at closing. Of the construction of cardboard condominiums. Of circles of sharing and community. Of a man who gave me two bags of groceries when I had only asked for some bread. All together, I feel very blessed.

"Let us forever remember the causes of suffering.
Let us forever believe in the end of suffering.
May we always have the courage to bear witness,
To see ourselves as Other and Other as ourselves."
- Zen Peacemaker cantation

end of term

There is something a little surreal about student life. Cramming my head full of information, only to have that buried under more. Reading so much that at a certain point my eyes keep scanning the page but nothing is registering in my brain. Writing so many papers and assignments that I can't always remember what I said and if I really even think that anymore...

But the end is in sight. Two more classes (at both of which I need to hand in term papers), then a take home exam on Thursday. Then I'm done for the summer! I'll be able to read novels! Paint the walls! Excavate the den and find my desk under the piles of papers...

It actually has been a good term. I took a class in identity-based conflict where we looked at the basic human needs - security, connection, action, meaning and recognition - and how threats to these fuel conflicts. Our prof had a supplementary reading list for the class of about 50 books and we had to read 120 pages from this list each week. These books were so excellent though that often I didn't stop at page 121. Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning actually made me change certain thoughts and patterns in my life. Other books like Destructive Emotions and No Future without Forgiveness have also challenged me to reexamine the way I do things and my motivations.

But during these last weeks, curling up with an inspiring book even seems too much of a luxury. I've been tied to my computer cranking out assignments and term papers. I'm proud of myself though - in the last 3 days I wrote a 5,500 word paper, complete with about 40 pages of appendices! Today I have to finish a 5,000 word paper. Right now I'm sitting at around 3,500 words.

This last week reminds me of when I walked the pilgrimage to Santiago in 2004. Toward the end, I was so tired and so ready to arrive. There were over 50 kilometres left and instead of breaking it into two legs as most people did, I decided to push all the way through. I had never tried to walk more than 50 kms in a day, but then again I always had to be keeping some energy in reserve for the next day, and the next. But so close to the end, there was no need to hold back. I set off early and paced myself. For the last 15 kms I did not stop walking, since I knew that if I sat down I would not get up again.

I made it to Santiago in just under 12 hours. The next day my aching feet would barely carry me from the hostel to a cafe. But I was proud to have pushed myself, seen what I was capable of.

This is no physical feat I'm attempting this weekend. But if I can write almost 10,000 words in 4 days, it will be a new record. And oh what a feeling of satisfaction when I can hand it both papers on time and have nothing more hanging over me.

Now back to work.

Another passing?

Went to see Mr. D today. He is the other senior I visit on Sundays - the only one now that Ann is gone. I haven't seen him for a few weeks and it was a shock to walk in to his room and find him lying in bed, sunken and shriveled. Wearing only a night shirt and no teeth, he looked skeletal. He said he hasn't eaten in weeks.

I've never before seen Mr. D in bed. Usually when I come he is bent over his little table, working on a hook rug or a puzzle. Sometimes he is dozing, but he has always been more or less upright. But he's been mostly in bed for the last few weeks - the time that I have been away.

I can't say for certain that he is dying. But he certainly doesn't look well and it is hard to know what to hope for. He had surgery in his stomach years ago and apparently it has become infected and he is coughing up some nasty stuff. I held a glass so he could sip water through a straw - such tiny, weak sips- and gave him spoonfuls of ice. But when the nurse came by to give him his pills crushed up in chocolate pudding, he spent the next 15 minutes coughing up brown phlegm.

He seemed alert, but very tired. He would lose his breath mid-sentence. There were long pauses when we did not talk at all and I just sat in the wheelchair beside his bed, watching him breathe heavily, squirm in discomfort. Felt helpless.

I stayed for an hour, but eventually had to leave. That felt wrong. It is one thing to come and go each week, when I know that he is going down to dinner, will come back to his room and puzzle or hook for awhile before going to bed. But to leave alone a man who is dying. That is just not right.

But yet, here I am back home and there he is across town, alone in a room on the 5th floor as the sky grows dark outside and a long night falls.

Passing

I went to Ann's funeral this week. She was my 93-year old friend I visited most Sundays. I wish I could say every Sunday, since of course, now that she is gone, I regret those ones I missed.

I am looking at her picture as I write. I wish I could scan it in so you could see, but I can't find the cord for the scanner. So let me tell you what I see - a cautious smile; thin shoulders overwhelmed by a blue jacket made for a woman the size she once was; her soft, grey hair which was letting grow this last year, fans out around her face. The face is soft, wrinkled and pale. The eyes are weak and surrounded by old fashioned, over-sized glasses. She seems uncertain, a little shy, but like she has her own little joke she will keep to herself.

The day after we got back from Europe, there was a message on my phone from Ann's friend telling me Ann passed away on Thursday. Peacefully at 7 p.m.

I had been looking forward to seeing Ann that Sunday. I hadn't told her I was going away and felt bad about that. In fact, I had missed the week before as well. The last time I saw her was shortly after I got engaged - I am glad at least that I was able to share that with her.

Why is it that guilt is usually my first reaction upon hearing of someone's death? When I heard that Uncle Henry had passed, for weeks I was overwhelmed with guilt that I had not done more for him in his last months, been there with him at the hospital, written him, called more often. It is hard to forgive myself for these things, even though I know I must.

But when I put aside my own guilt or regret, I can actually be happy for Ann. She truly was ready to go - she would tell me so almost every time I saw her. Parkinson's had robbed her of so much and her body was a burden, a prison. I am glad she is free.

Even the funeral was not so mournful. Everyone knew she was ready to go. As the minister said, she longed to be free of this world. We sang her favourite hymn, 'What a friend we have in Jesus' - a wavering, weak rendition that somehow seems so appropriate to this old, familiar song. Ann's friend read a touching eulogy. The minister said a few words and led some prayers in a passionless voice. We sang 'Amazing Grace', a hymn that apparently Ann had agreed 'would do', and the service was over.

When I came out of the funeral home into the bright light of a cold winter afternoon, everything seemed vaguely surreal. Ann was gone. This simple, brief funeral was the last tangible connection I would have with her. It actually felt like a chapter in my life was ending. I have known and visited Ann for almost five years. I always knew she wanted to go, but now that she is there is an emptiness in the space in my life where she was.

Euro trip

Just got back from a holiday in Berlin and Prague.

The people were rather cold and intimidating.

	But the animals were friendly.

	And of course there was plenty of beer.

happy news

I have not been writing much lately. Well that's not really true - I've been writing a lot, it's just that most of it is for school. Reflections on readings, research proposals, assignments, etc. I think I have also become one of amazon.ca's favorite customers.
But schooling aside, there have been some rather momentous events in my life.








We knocked down a wall in our house.









And I said yes.

talking to the woman who broke me

Most people who have heard the story of how a physiotherapist separated my shoulder have told me to sue. Certainly, during the 3 months of almost constant pain, I entertained the thought more than once.

But there's something about doing a master's in conflict studies - makes me evaluate any conflict in my life from a more theoretical point of view. Personal conflicts take on more significance as I found myself analyzing them and how they should be handled.

If I really believe that people in conflict should first try to talk honestly about the situation and hear the other person's perspective... well I guess that's what I should do.

But for all my lofty theories, I am still a chicken. It took my physio's secretary calling to check an address for sending my last bill for me to ask for an appointment to talk with her. I then had a week of restless dreams before the appointment - this morning at 11:30.

I went in prepared for the worst - armed with receipts of almost $350.00 in physio bills and a copy of the doctor's diagnosis of an A/C sprain (a separated shoulder).

She greeted me with a warm smile, wished me a happy new year and asked how my Christmas was. I was too nervous to make small talk, but I did make an effort to demonstrate friendliness and good intentions.

I started by saying that I wanted to talk about the 'whole shoulder thing', to give my perspective. I went over the events quickly and she agreed with me. She seemed glad to hear that I had got a diagnosis and treatment that has helped. She said it is very unusual for a shoulder to separate like mine did, but did not in any way deny that she had done that to me. I told her that since she knows my situation (full-time student, working part-time for an NGO), she could appreciate that this has been not only painful and disabling, but also very expensive. I asked if she would consider refunding the money I had paid for her treatments. She agreed immediately and asked if I would also like her to refund the physio I did at Carleton University. I handed over all my receipts and she said she would mail me a cheque for everything.

It was all over so quickly! Not five minutes had passed and everything was resolved. How long have I been mulling over this, frustrated and complaining? I'd like to think I've learned something today.

For the Snowmen of St. John

Spent some of the Christmas holidays in St. John this year. They have rather strange traditions there.

For example, on Boxing Day (during which, incidentally, all stores are closed) they build miniature snowmen and carry them down to the river.

They sing 'Frosty the Snowman' and hop on one leg.

Then pitch the poor snowmen into the river, which immediately melt.

It's a grisly, but strangely hilarious, spectacle.

Saturday Bingo

I am late getting to Ann's room, so she is getting ready for Bingo on her own. Slumped forward in her wheelchair, she is trying to attach the footrests.
"I didn't think you were coming," she says.

"I'm sorry I'm late." I attach the footrests and then ask if she needs anything else before going downstairs to the common room where Bingo is held each Saturday at 2:00.

"I think I should use the washroom," she whispers. Ann, who is in her 90s, has Parkinson's and in addition to robbing her of most of her mobility and sight, this disease is taking away her voice. I have to lean in very close to hear her words. Her hearing is also failing, so conversation is limited.

I wheel her into the washroom and pull down her pants and underwear so she can use the toilet. As she has grown increasingly weak in the last year she has become almost indifferent to the assistance she needs in performing what most of us take for granted as a very private task. I have become accustomed to, but never unaware of, the pale flesh hanging in loose, wrinkled folds on bone-thin legs, the monstrous plastic underpants, the way her legs dangle when she sits on the seat...

After this task is finished, I fix her sparse but silky-soft grey hair into a thin clip at the back of her head, fetch her small purse and we are ready to go down for Bingo.

It is busy today; over a dozen residents, many accompanied by family. I take Ann to her regular place and greet the others at the table - the sharp-witted German lady who plays four cards and watches everyone else's to make sure they don't miss a number, and Mr. D, the other senior I visit on Sundays.

I search through the stack of Bingo cards for Ann's lucky numbers - 8 and 13 and in the upper left hand corner. (I'm not too fussy about the cards I take for myself, but I must have picked right today since I win the first game.)

The man who calls Bingo is a volunteer who has been spending his Saturdays here for years. He has a thick German accent, but enunciates clearly and speaks slowly into the microphone, so everyone hears him. Each game is played in the same order each week, but he never fails to remind us which game we are playing - one line any direction, full card, four corners, little fence around the house...

To play a card for an hour costs only 25 cents, so this is not expensive entertainment. Neither is it fast paced. I keep an eye on Ann's card and point out numbers she misses - but she usually doesn't need my help. As I wait for our numbers to be called, I look around the room.

...A man with and baseball cap on long, greying hair, thick sideburns and a burly chest holds his mother's hand and helps her cover the numbers on her card.

...A woman is sitting beside her elderly mother on the other side of the room. Several times during the hour mother leans toward her and says loudly, "I love you".

"I love you too," her daughter always replies and I always smile to hear them and watch the elderly woman lean toward her daughter with a full, childlike smile and the daughter place her arm around her mother's shoulders.

After the last game has been called, Ann agrees to stay for tea and crackers, so I fetch two cups and a plate of soda crackers and processed cheese from behind the bar. She forgot to put in her lower dentures, but still manages to eat a couple of crackers. She doesn't eat much these days and I don't know how she can afford to lose any more weight, so I am glad to see her eat even this much.

When she is done I take her back upstairs to her room and make sure she is comfortably in her reclining chair before leaving. So many times I have said good-bye to Ann at the end of a visit and wondered if I would ever see her again. She tells me often that she wants to die, and yet her disfigured body refuses to give up. All I can do, today as any other day, is to say good-bye, tell her I will be back next week. She thanks me for taking her to Bingo; I tell her it was my pleasure. It really was.

getting ready for spring

"So we should start our garden soon," she says.

"What? Winter is just beginning," says he.

"Winter? There is no winter. Look outside, the grass is green. Squirrels are still running around our backyard. I'm sure the trees will be budding soon."

"Stupid climate change."

"That's okay. I bought you a composter." She says this as if composting is the most exciting thing you can do next to hang-gliding off the Peace Tower. "You can put in in the backyard. I'll fill it with my coffee grinds and grapefruit rinds. And then what fun we will have this spring with our lush compost dirt."

And so here he is, on December 20, putting a composter in the backyard. Just in time for the first day of spring.

give a pig or polar bear this year

There are few things that make me so grumpy or tire me so quickly as shopping. Especially in a mall. Especially in December. If I was to decide to live off the land in some remote cabin, it wouldn't be as much about preserving nature as it would be fleeing big box stores and giant parking lots.

But what is tolerable for 11 months of the year now becomes unbearable. The endless christmas pop bopping distractedly in every store, interrupted for customer announcements or price checks... the crowds of impatient shoppers... the line-ups... the sticky hot feeling of sweat forming on your back when you have three layers of winter clothes on because it is -20 outside but tropically warm in the store...

In case there are any of you out there who share even partially my aversion to all things mall-like in December, but have some people in their lives they would like to give presents to, I have found some solutions you make like.

What's great about these is not only do you avoid the malls (your purchases are mailed right to you or to the recipient), but these are extra warm and fuzzy gifts since they do good things besides just making someone happy.

For example, check out Gifts that Matter, of Plan's Gifts of Hope , both of which suggest things you can buy on behalf some someone to benefit communities around the world - things like seeds for Vietnam or Zimbabwe, a goat for a family in Zambia, or a bee-keeping kit for people in Egypt. These gifts usually come with a certificate and card that you can give to someone - perfect for the person who has everything.

But if you still want a little something to give besides the feel-good of a good cause, World Wildlife Federation has the cutest stuffed toys that you get when you adopt an animal. My mum gave us a panda last year who sits on the bookshelf in the bedroom. The year before I had given her a surprisingly docile and floppy Bengal tiger.

Of course, there are always the on-line stores I have resorted to when looking for that hard-to-find book or cd, and there I can avoid the malls and line-ups too, but this year, since so many of the special people in my life are also scaling back from the consumerism of the season, I'm giving education and livestock. And buying these has made me neither grumpy or tired, in fact I feel pretty good. Rather unusual for a post-shopping trip.

did it work?

The question has been asked - has pushing the bones back together actually worked?

I'd say the answer is mixed. If we are actually dealing with a Grade 3 (see images showing the gradations of AC separation) - a sign of which is the raised bump on the shoulder - then I am not so sure that simply pushing on my bones is going to fix this. As perhaps is understandable, I have lost some faith in my physio. I would really like to get a second opinion.

Admittedly, after she pushed on my shoulder, it did seem to fall a bit lower (it had been noticeably higher). Also, while with my left hand I can reach behind my back up to my shoulder blades, with my right I could not get past my waist. Now I can force my hand halfway up my back. It's not pretty, it's not painless, but supposedly is a sign that things are on the mend.

I don't know how long it will be before I am back to normal however. But at least I can study, write papers and exams and read... that's about all I have time for these days anyway.

Thanks for the concern!

I'm paying for this?

Did you know that you can shift the position of your bones by pushing on them? Apparently you can - it's been done to me.

That migraine I wrote about in September was actually a misdiagnosed pinched nerve - which explains the jerking of my arm and the tingling in my fingers. I went to a physiotherapist who diagnosed me with thoracic outlet syndrome, which is basically a pinching of nerves from compression of bones or ligaments around the spine. The physio's solution for this was to manipulate my shoulder by pressing, tugging, turning, taping... to open it up so it would stop pinching the nerve that weaves through these bones. In three painful sessions she tried to shove my shoulder into "the right place".

Physiotherapy is not only painful, but expensive, so after a few of these sessions I told her that I would work on the exercises she gave me and perhaps come back to see her in a few months. On our last session she used super-tape to pull my shoulder down.

Foolishly I went to a yoga class that night, with my taped up shoulder freshly raw from the physio's pummeling. Half-way through the class I was unable to lift my arm above my head or support any weight with it.

That was almost 2 months ago. Since then I have been in almost constant pain - often it seems like hot knife blades are stabbing my shoulder. The weight of my small purse is too much for that shoulder. Reaching back to put my arms in the sleeves of my jacket is torturous.

But I went to 2 doctors, one of which told me (and I kid you not, I am quoting here) "Sit down and shut up... I don't care about your pain." Another one said it was a rotator cuff injury and to come back in 6 months if I still had pain. Sigh.

And I sit around getting fat since even going for a walk is too jarring. Yoga is out of the question, as are any of the other fitness classes I was doing. Dropped out of curling. No to volleyball invitations...

I was reluctant to go back to the physio who did this to me in the first place, but yesterday I finally went to see her, figuring that at least she knows my history and may listen to me...

So it turns out that she had been successful in pulling down my shoulder. Problem is - the collarbone didn't go with. She now thinks I have a separated shoulder - yup, that's the kind of injury that sidelines pro football players.

See where the clavicle is supposed to touch your shoulder? Well, mine doesn't. It's sticking up like there is marble tucked under the skin of my shoulder. Technically, I have an acromioclavicular joint separation, or AC separation.

The brilliant solution? Push them back together! I'm not kidding, I lay on my left side while she pushed on that painful tip of clavicle that's poking up. She alternated this with ultrasound to try and keep the swelling down.

Yes, first she pulls my bones apart, now she is pushing them back together.

And I'm paying for this??

handy knits

I began knitting about two years ago and have always seen it as a little nerdy. I defend it adamantly and call it my yoga, but admit that it may not be the hippest thing around.

So it was nice to discover that other people seem to enjoy something I knit.

I first made myself a pair of funky fingerless mitts about a year ago and found them so useful and cozy. They were great for fall and spring weather, and even in the winter I put them over another pair of mitts to keep my hands extra warm.

In September a friend of mine complained of cold hands after curling for a few hours, I lent her these mitts and she didn't take them off for the rest of the night. The next day she was wearing them again and I insisted she keep them - it was nice to see something I made being enjoyed by someone else.

I made myself another pair, but gave those to a friend on her birthday in November - they warmed her hands and showed off her lovely manicure.

The mitt shown in the photo above is of my latest pair, a thick, warm set of blended wools. Now that is quite chilly out, I've been wearing them everywhere - and have been picking up compliments... so I've decided to see if I can go into business. I'm going to make up little business cards and next time someone asks where I got my mitts, I can pass them a card and tell them I take orders. $25 a pair, of $15 if they want to provide the wool. I've already set up an email account at gmail.com where I can take order - handy.knit.

So if you know of anyone who has cold hands and likes some funky handmade handy knits... pass this on.

(above photo is of a winning scrabble game and the first of these mitts I made)

meow!

No time to blog these days.

There are balls to chase, socks to fetch, kibbles to eat... a nap to be had by the fireplace.




And there are those darn feathers to catch.

back to school

I am aware that my blogs all over the place - birds to headaches to pirates... this reflects my life. I swing between topics, between passions, between jobs and crises. I'm constantly coming up with new projects - many of which fall by the wayside as new ones take their place.

It was partly because of this swinging, this tendency to have too many irons in my weak fire, that I decided to narrow my focus for the next couple of years.

Each September, as leaves turn gold and red, the breeze chilly, I would turn envious of the students going back to school. Even in my university years, I never got over the thrill of starting a fresh notebook - knowing it would fill with ideas and knowledge. I loved that sense of a new beginning.

I thought I had had my fill of school when I finished in 2000. But every fall I would be looking at university programs, considering schools to apply for. I did LSAT trial tests, I studied course outlines...

And so I'm back. Last week I started the masters program in Conflict Studies at Saint Paul University here in Ottawa. It's exciting to be back in school, even though I am at times overwhelmed by the amount of reading I have to wade though. Conflict studies is not, as I sometimes joke, about learning how to box or fight. It's a bit of a misnomer really - what I'm doing is studying conflict resolution. This is a new field and there still aren't many texts, so a lot of our reading is cobbled together from various sources. But it's exciting to be in a field that is still developing - and developing with a sense of urgency as international conflicts affect everyone in the global village.

It looks like it's going to be a really interesting fall - not just for the class work, but also for the classmates I'm studying with. There is a soldier from Tanzania who was highly trained in the military but had a change of heart while stationed at a refugee camp - he realized that war is what had made these people homeless and displaced. There is a girl from Burundi who wants to understand how two groups of people (Tutsi and Hutu) who have so much in common could grow to hate each other so much. There is also a beautiful girl from Somalia and a young man from Ukraine - both of whom want to apply their studies to conflicts in their own countries. The Canadians come from a wide variety of backgrounds - sociology, psychology, political science and humanities.

At St. Paul's I am surrounded by professors and students who are all interested in resolving conflict and bringing solutions for peace to their sphere of influence, however small. As much as I might moan about my readings and assignments in the coming months, I really don't think I could ask for a better place to be.

Avast maties!

Arrrgghh.

International Talk Like a Pirate Day it be. Ye wenches and landlubbers, all hands on deck.

Be ye lustin' to spout stories of yer bucanneerin' fame? Boast o' yer booty? Well me hearties, today is the day.

Raise yer mug o' grog and drink to the wealth o' the seas, the beauty of wenches and the victuals in yer galleys.

But avast, perhaps ye be in need of some instructioning. Refer to this here site for hearty tips from hearty men.

Or ye jezebels, ye might tire o' knot-tyin. Then tis time to knit. Make straight fer knitlikeapirate.com.


And me handsom' laddies out there... how'd you like to scrape the barnacles off of me rudder?

More on www.talklikeapirate.com

Ahoy!

at least it's better than the alternatives

So I have apparently experienced my first migraine. As I explained to the TeleHealth nurse over the phone, then to the triage nurse in the ER, then to the first nurse to see me after waiting over an hour, then to the two doctors who subsequently saw me - what started as a headache in the early evening turned into excruciating pain which woke me around 1 a.m.

In the next half hour, I think I took 800mg of Advil - 400 of which was liquid gels. But steel claws were gripping my temples and the pain went all the way to my toes. Dizziness, nausea, difficulty breathing, tingling sensation... I had the works.

I woke V around 1:30 and that's when he phoned TeleHealth. I felt like I was dying, but the nurse still made me give my address, postal code, telephone number, date of birth, etc before asking about my symptoms. She recommended I go to an emergency. "Do you understand my recommendation?" she asked.

"Yes," I breathed.

"Will you go to the emergency?"

"Yes."

I thought I would throw up or pass out on the drive there, but the cool breeze from a window open onto a rainy night helped a little. There was still a vice grip on my head and now my right arm and leg had started twitching and shaking. By the time we got to emergency, my right hand felt like it was asleep (and it hasn't completely woken up since).

Emergency wards are such dreary places. Not at all the drama of tv's ER. A nonplussed triage nurse took my blood pressure and temperature, asked me a few questions and told me I was "textbook". Whatever that means.

The room was large and harshly lit. Most of the rows of chairs had curved bars between each seat which prevented lying down. But after an elderly couple left, V and I were able to get the only 4 seats without where I could lie my shuddering body down with my head on his lap. Fear Factor was playing loudly from the tv suspended from the ceiling. Doors opened and closed, people walked or shuffled by. We waited.

It was about 4:00 a.m. by the time they called me into a small examination room. So close to another room, I heard every detail of the complaint from the woman in the room next to mine. She had come in because she was concerned by a blood pressure reading of 175 and likely waited as long as I did only to get told that in the emergency ward they really aren't going to do anything for you if it's still under 210.

The 800 mg of Advil were finally taking some effect and my headache came in waves instead of the unbearable pressure. I was expecting to be similarly dismissed. As usually happens when I start to recover after complaining a great deal, I feel sheepish and almost guilty that the pain is no longer so severe, my symptoms no longer intense.

But the first nurse to see, a young man with a non-hurried, gentle manner, listened carefully and then fetched me a hot blanket to try and stop my shaking. Another 20 minutes or so later - which I spent lying on a too-short exam table in a narrow room with cold bare walls around and neon lights above - a young female doctor came in. Immediately she asked if I would like the lights dimmed. Thank you!

I was starting to feel like a warped record, but she listened carefully, asked quite a few questions, checked my reflexes, my neck, my head, sensation in my hands, my grip, etc... She seemed uncertain so she fetched the attending. He was a short man with a huge grey beard and closely cropped grey hair (by this time I was finally opening my eyes). He checked my balance, my eyes, my hands, etc. I was impressed with the concern both he and the young woman still hovering nearby showed.

They consulted with each other and after awhile the young doctor came back to tell me I was free to go. It is not uncommon for women in their 30s to start developing migraines. Now I just need to figure out the triggers. What sucks is that besides trying to guess the triggers, there is little I can do. But still, I was relieved with this diagnosis since it was better than the other possibilities they had been checking for - like a stroke or meningitis.

We got home around 5:30 in the morning. If it was summer, the sun would have been coming up. The headache was fading and pure fatigue was taking its place. V deserves a medal for sitting up all night with me - and still getting up for work in the morning.

As for me, I'm just laying low today. My mind is dulled with sleepiness and the lingering ache between my temples. Outside it's a grey, cold rainy day. If I can stay awake I will try to make a dent in the masses of reading I now have as a grad student...

for the birds

Check out that bird!

This is the coolest thing - a couple of creative people have created the site www.bulbsforbirds.com - and they will make you a bird of your own if you replace at least one of the lightbulbs in your house with a compact flourescent (CFL).

If you scroll around the bird page, you will see my bird there with the others - mouse over it and you'll see my name.

What I love about this - not just that I get my own bird - but that there are people out there putting themselves out to try and encourage others to make small changes for our environment. As their site says about Rosemary, the artist, she "would reduce atmospheric CO2 with her bare hands, if only she had magic hands."

I know that desire to have magic hands. Sometimes it seems as if my own hands are so powerless. But it encourages me when I see others with small hands doing big things.

If you would like a bird, check out their site and then post a comment so others can see your bird too. Each little bit helps to reduce pollution - and make the air cleaner for us and for the birds.

Saint John, NB, Act II, Scene 3

"Psst, can I tell you someting?

"There is this guy I really like... He brought me out here to Saint John... pretty city, really - despite the drifting stink from the pulp mill. And you guys have the biggest seagulls I've ever seen...

"Anyway, this guy, he's really cute.

"Have you ever been in love? Why do you sit here all day staring out at the harbour? Did your love run off with a sailor? Are you in love with a lobster fisher?

"Oh, shhh! Here he comes!"

Grand Manan, NB

"This whale watching is for the birds. Nothing to see but sea.

"Wait... What's that? A whale?

"Where?"







"Damn."

Saint John, New Brunswick

"Excuse me, sir. When is the next ferry?

"We are stuck in Saint John. I need to get out of here. Soon.

"My girlfriend, she don't like the smell of the sea.

"Please don't stare at her. She is very shy.

"Sir, please. Don't stare.

"You're scaring me sir.

Sir?"

crafts & knitting

This collection of bold-coloured knits is my long overdue donation to the Red Cross.

Last March I responded to a post for volunteer knitters. The Red Cross provided the wool, which I was to turn into things that could be used in shelters and hospitals.

With such colours as I was given, it was hard to be inspired. But it was fun trying different patterns of mittens and toques, even though some were utter failures - like a toque the size of tea cozy!

I still have some wool left - and a few thumb-less mittens lying around. (Attaching the thumb is my least favourite part). But as we are cleaning house and getting ready to move, I have finally bundled this all up and will drop it off at the Red Cross today. Will they remember who I am? Will they be disappointed with my sad offering?

I have admittedly become a bit of a knitting junkie. One of the reasons I decided to volunteer knit was that I could get all this free wool and have someone to knit for. My own scarf basket is already overflowing.

But in our recent heat wave, it has been hard to pick up the heavy mohair poncho I am currently working on. Still, on Sunday evening I convinced a friend of mine to go with me to a craft and bingo night. It wasn't an easy sell... "Um, we'll do crafts and play bingo. And there will be d.j.... and it's in a gallery".

She is sweet and said she'd give it a try. She brought a craft she has had lying around for a few years - a picture frame and seashells she collected in Peru. I brought my mohair poncho. We didn't know what to expect and were prepared to leave early.

The event was a blast! Held in a funky downtown gallery - whose current exhibit is titled 'The Museum of Bad Art' - it was cool and hip and all the things you wouldn't expect crafting to be. It was bad art indeed that hung on the wall - reminiscent of pictures found in elementary school hallways or amateur art schools. But this was freeing and humourous. Art felt accessible and fun.

The crafts we had brought were quickly abandoned as we were invited to make our own bad art. Canvases were provided, as were heaps of craft supplies. It was like being at summer camp. We rummaged through buttons, crayons, paint, play-dough, glitter! and sequins. There was fabric, lots of glue, old photos, magazines... And with our only objective being to create bad art, we let our imaginations wild.

While we made bad art - and mine truly is bad - (The lady beside me said it reminded her of scrambled eggs and hash browns) a man named the Chinadoll, wearing denim drag and a hat like a pineapple perched on his head, called out bingo numbers and a d.j. put out funky disco beats. Chinadoll would interrupt his calls every so often to do some impromptu karaoke.

Who knew the craft crowd could be so hip? As a knitting junkie, I have new hope.

on the bright side...

It is sweltering in Ottawa these days. Trying to work in this sticky heat is like trying to push boulders through sludge. So as the current heat wave nears record levels, our energy consumption soars. When I open the windows at night to try and get some cool air, all around I hear the whir of air conditioners. And even though I hate doing it, we've had to turn ours on a few times.

It's not on the coldest days of the year that we burn the most fuel, it's on the hottest. The government optimistically says it hopes to avoid rolling black outs, but if the heat continues, I don't think we should be surprised if we exhaust the energy grid.

Gloom and doom. I'm just finishing Jared Diamond's Collapse - and if I wasn't already depressed about the state of the environment and global warming, I certainly am now. We are not only exhausting our energy sources, we are destroying our forests, our oceans, our air, our water, etc...

But this is why, in the middle of all this pessimism, when we find something to cheer about we should make sure to cheer extra loud.

Stopped at our local Loeb grocery store on the way home Sunday night. A small sign on the door said the store was reducing its energy consumption by using only half the interiour lights. Not only is this great news from the environmental perspective, but it was also much more pleasant to shop under gentle lighting - instead of the usual harsh glare of grocery and department stores.

Wouldn't it be great if more stores adopted a similar policy? Switched to energy saving bulbs and turned off half their lights? Sometimes I feel like my small measures of turning off lights, recycling garbage or washing dishes by hand become worthless compared to the big box stores with 24-hour bright lights and overflowing garbage bins.

So I wrote to the Loeb today. Raised a little hurrah and congratulated them. I hope that they make this a permanent decision. I hope other stores follow suit. And I hope we all cheer them on when they do.

something nice each day

'Treat others as you would have them treat you.' It's an adage I was raised on.

We were taught early on to be nice to each other. We learned that rude and selfish behaviour is punished, good deeds are praised.

I can recall specific instances when I thought, 'that is how I want to treat other people' - such as a woman I met who loved to bake and always made extra. She would give the extra loaves, buns or cakes to whomever happened to be around - guests, neighbours, her friends or her children's friends. She also had a way of asking questions and listening, really listening to what you said in reply.

I have friends in town who, when I was struggling to make ends meet, would take me out for dinner or a drink and insist they pay. Their generosity was humbling, but appreciated.

I have been inspired by people who give of themselves, and their possessions, selflessly. Also by those who do those few extra little things to make you feel really welcome, really appreciated. Although I know I fail, I could say that I am always trying to live in a way that is more generous and considerate of others.

So it was a bit of a shock when I was told to stop focusing on others and try to do something nice for myself. I am seeing a psychiatrist who has a no nonsense approach and seems to see her job as shattering all my assumptions.

"If you were to write me a cheque for 1 million dollars to feed all the hungry people, that would be very nice," she said. "I'm sure it would make you feel very good.

"But if I tried to cash that cheque, it would bounce. You don't have a million dollars."

"You can't give to others what you don't have."

She said she honours my intentions to help others. But she wants me to learn to help myself. She asked me what I do for myself that is kind. What do I give to myself?

Not an easy question to answer.

She has challenged me to do one nice thing for myself each day. Treat myself as if I were my own friend, a friend who was struggling though some tough times and needed some extra kindness. Is it strange that it's only when I think of treating myself as someone else that I get ideas of what nice thing to do?

She wants to see my list next time I visit her. A list of something nice each day.

So on Tuesday I went to Bridgehead to get a coffee on the way to the office. But instead of taking it to go, I asked for it in a mug then sat in the coffee shop, looking over work notes and planning my day instead of rushing in to it. That was nice.

Yesterday I finished most of my work in time to make popcorn and watch France beat Portugal at the World Cup finals. That was very nice. (-:

Today.... well, it's early. I'm still working on it.

For anyone reading this, I invite you to join me in this challenge.

Let's treat ourselves the way we want others to treat us.

lapses (& Bingo)

Isn't it odd? The longer there is a silence, the harder it is to fill. Like sitting beside a stranger in a small room. If you don't make conversation quickly, it becomes almost impossible to do so the more that time goes by.

I keep waiting for something profound to happen in my life that I could write about. Or perhaps come across some interesting news item. A funny story to tell... But days pass and the silence is harder to drown out.

What to say? I played Bingo today at the seniors' centre. Usually my elderly friend has another friend who takes her down to Bingo each Saturday. Today her regular Bingo partner couldn't make it and called to see if I could fill in.

She was waiting when I arrived, her teeth on her lap. Without them she looks 50 years older and I was worried she was having a bad day. But she insisted she was up for it. A few minutes later, teeth in and $0.50 in hand, she was ready to go.

I found her two lucky cards - one with the 8, the other with the 13 in the top left corner. (For myself I chose two with 11 in that spot - figured I would either double my luck, or un-luck that way.) My friend seldom wins, but faith in her cards is unshaken.

Perhaps it was these cards (though I'd like to think I brought her luck today) - she won a game. I called out Bingo! for her since today she could barely raise her voice above a whisper. I don't think I've ever won a game of Bingo in my life, so it was nice to get to shout it out.

Afterward we had tea, crackers and cubes of cheddar cheese. I saw her looking at the snack dispenser nearby and asked her if she wanted anything. We both agreed that Mars bars are much too sweet. She likes Oh Henry!, but there weren't any. I suggested M&Ms, since they are easily shared. "No," she said. "I don't want to put on weight" - coming from a woman practically paralyzed with Parkinson's who is in her 93rd year, the idea that she still worries about her weight makes me laugh with pleasure. How tightly we hold on to our ideals of self, despite everything. That she is still concerned about gaining weight tells me she has not given up all hope yet, no matter what she may say some days.

I'm sure there are feminists who would be appalled to hear that an elderly, wheelchair-bound woman is still concerned about such idealized vanities as a slim form. But I love that she still thinks about her figure - though masked under plastic underpants and ill-fitting dresses. I love that she is trying to grow out her hair, so white and fine it is a like a thin gauze on her pink scalp.

I wonder what things I will still be worrying about if I should be so lucky, or un-lucky, to live to 92.

statistical blunders

I have not written much lately. Nor have I read much, exercised much, ate much or slept much. Who knew when I took the job with Statistics Canada that it would become so consuming?

Census 2006 was 13 days ago, so one would think we would be wrapping up our work and congratulating each other on a job well done. Not quite.

I have been working in the part of Census that deals with collectives - which is any dwelling where several people live together and share some facilities, such as hotels, nursing homes, group homes, convents and rooming houses. I have about 150 collectives which I am responsible for - in the west end of Ottawa and in a few towns north-west of the city.

Obviously we couldn't be everywhere on May 16th - and in fact the enumerators working for me have a schedule they are to follow which tells them on what days they should be enumerating each type of collectives. And this is where the mind-boggling logic of the Census process really shines.

For example, on Census Day we were supposed to enumerate every rooming house in our listing (which is my case was 14). But unlike nursing homes, hospitals and group homes where we only need to know the gender, date of birth and room number of each resident - people living in rooming houses were expected to complete a long census form. If any of you have every completed a long census questionnaire, you know that it asks very personal questions about employment, health, and income. And if any of you have spent much time in rooming houses you may also know that this is not a segment of the population who would want to tell a nosy government rep about such things.

Trying to contact residents of rooming houses (the most transient population after hotels) and then get them to fill out a lengthy form has gone beyond being frustrating. It borders on comédie noire.

True, we do get the occasional person willing to cooperate. One of my enumerators, a pretty young woman with a friendly face and manner, got stuck for over half an hour with a man recently out of jail. While not wanting to answer her questions, he wanted to keep her in his company as long as possible. I interviwed an elderly man who suffered a stroke in March and was equally grateful to have some company.

And as frustrating as the process is, the experience is sobering. We knock on rickety doors in dirty hallways of run-down buildings, meet people fighting to eke out a living, and others who have given up and resigned themselves to television and cigarettes in a small room on a noisy street. I am embarrassed for my intrusion.

In other collectives though, we get a much different welcome. "I felt like a rock star," said one of my enumerators. He went to a seniors residence where a table had been set up so he could enumerate the residents. They didn't wait for him to get settled before they crowded around him, calling out their names and room numbers. Some even returned to his table several times, having forgotten that they just completed the form 10 minutes ago.

I was scolded at one seniors home for not being there sooner. Again, in the baffling logic of the process, nursing homes - which are the most eager to be counted - were not to be contacted until after the 16th. By the afternoon of the 16th - when media across the city was telling the public they could go to jail for not completing their Census forms - we had dozens of homes across Ottawa phoning all the way to head office at StatsCan asking why they had been over-looked. The first week after Census was filled with commands to drop everything and go enumerate a particular home. Squeaky wheel gets the grease and I was, according to my boss, the grease. How flattering.

It's been a hectic, scattered project that continually teeters of the brink of complete chaos. "You will never be on top of everything," my manager tells me. Perhaps my desk will never get clear. Perhaps I will never find my way down from this mountain of paperwork.

Yet for all the stress, it is fascinating to have a chance to peek behind the curtains of so many lives. And when you spend your days collecting information on those whose residence is decided not by choice but by disability, failed health and poverty, you realize again just how lucky you are.

Crisis in Nepal

On Thursday evening I went to a meeting held by a newly formed organization called Canada Nepal Solidarity for Peace. It is a group formed by human rights workers, Canadian and Nepali, who are working to raise awareness of the on-going crisis in Nepal.

The photo here shows Nepalis celebrating the King Gyanendra's promise to restore democracy. While his announcement was certainly cause for celebration, many fear it is little more than words since he has not given up any of his power nor his control over the army.

Millions of Nepalis have participated in pro-democracy demonstrations and general strikes across the country calling for an end to Gyanendra's autocracy. Police and army have responded with bullets and tear gas. At the presentation on Thursday I saw photos of people who had been shot in the back while fleeing the police, as well as photos of people being beaten, dragged and killed.

Having grown up in Nepal, these images were shocking and very sobering. Although I have been vaguely aware of the situation, followed what little I could find in newspapers, I have not realized the gravity of the situations. Hospitals are overflowing with injured, while many others cannot afford treatment. Jails are over crowed with people arrested for participating in demonstrations. Thousands of them are injured and denied treatment. Amnesty International claims Nepal has the highest rate in the world of disappearances.

Yet even all these facts and statistics don't convey the situation. As so often in the face of such news, I feel helpless and discouraged. However, as was often mentioned at the meeting, the Nepali people have come together in a way that would never have been anticipated ten years ago - people from all professions, ethnic groups and castes marching together in solidarity. Women's groups are finding a new voice. And finally the world seems to be paying attention.

Although after September 11, 2001, Gyanendra declared the Maoist political party as terrorists and received $42 million worth of weapons, troop training and helicopters from the USA. That's not the kind of world attention the Nepali people need. International pressure is needed to urge the King to surrender power back to the people in the form of democratic parliament.

I have not in any way done this issue justice in my short blog. If you'd like more information, you can read Nepali online media such as www.kantipuronline.com. You can also lobby your government to support Nepali political parties in forming a constituent assembly and re-writing the constitution. (Currently the King has veto power over Parliament and directly controls the army.)

I will post new developments on this situation as I become aware of them.

A fan no more, Rick Mercer

So Rick Mercer walks into a bar.

That's not the beginning of a joke. On Thursday night I was in the hip little Elgin Street Freehouse with V when Rick Mercer walked in. Mercer, for those who don't know, is a comedy star in Canada. So popular in fact that in a recent poll 1 per cent of Canadians said he should be the next Prime Minister.

Rick Mercer walking into the bar - how cool is that? I don't remember what V and I had been talking about before he came in. After he was there all we talked about is ways I could get a photo of him on the cellphone camera, or what I would say to him if I could work up the courage to go over to where he stood at the end of the bar chatting with a couple of men.

I didn't want to just go up and say, "I think you're so cool, Rick Mercer. You're such a funny man." Then I remembered the newspaper poll. There's a conversation starter. He's always going on about politics on his weekly 'Mercer Report'. I'm sure he'd have something witty to say if I mention this to him.

My nerves twitching, I take the bill up to the bar and use this as a chance to stand beside Mercer.

"Mr. Mercer," I say. He turns and holds out his hand, which I shake.

"Nice to see you again," he says.

"Oh, we haven't met before. My name's Anita."

"You're sure we haven't met?"

"Absolutely. But I guess I have a dobbelganger out there." The waitress gives me the receipt to sign and Mercer interrupts her to order drinks for the two young guys sitting at the bar who he just introduced himself to.

"Did you hear that 1 per cent of Canadians think you should be the next Prime Minister," I say to Mercer. He mutters something in return.

"I think that's great," I add. "Did you read about that in the Globe and Mail."

"I did."

"What did you think?" Here's where he'll say something really funny, I'm thinking. I've set him up perfectly.

"Buzz off." Mercer says.

I'm so shocked I give a stupid smile and mess up my signature on the bill.

"That's right, buzz off," he says and turns his back to me, turns back to the young men.

I was crushed. Perhaps he thought I was a reporter under cover, some gossip columnist hoping he'd trash talk Harper or claim rights to the Liberal Party. But I was just a fan trying to make conversation.

A fan no longer. Mercer, you stink.

Take that.

book too hot for minister to handle

Not long ago I wrote about the Conservative government axing the environmental One-Tonne-Challenge program. Fifteen Kyoto research programs have also been cut. But it's not just programs being felled. People who say - or write - the wrong thing are being silenced too.

Mark Tushingham, a writer and scientist with Environment Canada, has written a science fiction novel called Hotter than Hell. It presents a scenario in which global warming has advanced and Canada and the US go to war over water resources.

Apparently this is not the kind of bedside reading Environment Minister Rona Ambrose wants people to know about - perhaps since her government is busy cutting environmental protection measures and building treaties with the US which gives them increasing access to our natural resources. So Minister Ambrose shut down the book's promotion event.

Just before Tushingham was supposed to speak at a book launch in Ottawa he got an email from the minister's office warning him not to attend. Officially, he had not followed proper protocol.

Minister Ambrose claimed there was "concern" that since Tushingham works for Environment Canada people may think he is a "government representative" - even though promotional materials for his book just described him as an Ottawa scientist.

If this doesn't raise concerns about censorship, I don't what does.

I've been on a letter writing kick lately. Perhaps I should drop a line to Minister Ambrose. Will her government be trying to silence others who write about potential consequences of irresponsible management of our environment? Will she be screening other book launches in the city? Or only those for books written by government employees? There are a lot of public servants in this city - should they all abandon any writing aspirations for fear that their topic of choice may offend the new government? The new government, I may add, which just passed whistle-blower legislation and has promised more transparency and accountability.


For more info:
cbc coverage
Toronto Star story

botanical gardens

Last weekend we went to Montreal and visited the botanical gardens. Here are some of the photos V and I took.

Part of the exhibit was "Butterflies Go Free". This Heliconius hecale was so intent on sucking nectar he did not mind me taking his photo.

a new challenge

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.

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.

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.