We need a Canadian Obama

We stayed up last night to watch Barack Obama's acceptance speech. Now I couldn't vote in that election and I don't live in the United States, but his speech, his monumental victory, brought tears to my eyes.

It may be hard to believe what politicians say, but Obama's rallying cry for change, for racial harmony and cooperation goes beyond politics. As the camera panned people's faces, you can see how is message is touching them, resonating with them, inspiring them.

In fact, watching the crowd of over 100,000 people in Chicago cheer and wave at their president-elect, I couldn't help thinking back to our recent Canadian election. The contrast between what was happening last night south of our border and what happened here last month is depressing.

I went to an all-candidates debate in my community. I watched our party leaders point fingers and snipe at each other on national television. I can't say I was ever inspired or moved even remotely close to tears. I can't remember if I stayed up to watch Harper's acceptance speech. If I did, it was obviously not that memorable.

When was the last time a Canadian politician, or even a widely-known public figure, inspired this nation? (Someone told me this morning that Pierre Trudeau had done that. I wish I'd been around to see it - but that was 40 years ago).

I know that Canadians don't tend to blow their own horns or shout out our patriotic pride. But perhaps it is time for a leader who does it for us. A leader who reminds us of our heroes and their legacies, great men like Lester B. Pearson, Tommy Douglas and Terry Fox.

Today I am celebrating with Americans and with people all around the world - celebrating an historic moment and what will hopefully be a catalyst for real change. But I am also hoping that we, as Canadians, will be inspired to consider ways that we can change as a nation and ways that we can find pride in our country, in each other and in our history. That we will ask of our politicians to do more than stick to the party line and argue about tax cuts or municipal infrastructure. Like Obama has done for Americans throughout this campaign, I wish that our politicians would remind us of what it means to rally the power of democracy, to build upon the legacy of what we are most proud of, and to believe that together, real change is possible.

in for the long stretch

So I heard back from Guinness regarding the current record for the longest scarf knitted by one person. It's worse than I'd thought.

"The longest knitted scarf is 3,463.73 m (11,363 ft 11 in; 2.15 miles) long and was completed after 23 years of knitting by Helge Johansen (Norway), in Oslo, Norway, on 10 November 2006."

23 years!!! I gotta hand it to Helge. I am impressed - and not a little daunted.

Also discouraging is that I have to start over - there are very few requirements for this record, but they do specify the size of the needle (4mm) - I was using 5 - and the number of stitches per row (66!) - I was using 33. Oddly, 66 stitches on a 4mm needles gave Helga a width of 7 inches - whereas I get 13. Not only will this scarf be ridiculously long, it is also unwearably wide. (I was hitting 7 inches width with my 33 stitches.)

So does anyone want a 30 foot scarf? As V and his sister demonstrate, it comfortably fits 2. Three if you want to be cozy.

I've started world longest scarf, take two. Annoying, each row takes take twice as long as it did with the previous model. Also - a lot of yarn I have already bought at Value Village is too bulky for this size of needles. Sigh.

I was keeping a log book of my knitting - but they don't seem to require anything like that. I don't even have to knit this continuously since they specify how lengths are to be sewn together. At least that solves the problem of portability - based on previous calculations, this 2+ mile scarf could weigh over 200 kgs!

Anyway you look at, this project just gets crazier as I go. In 23 years I will be 56 years old - either vaguely remembering that I once had a foolish ambition to knit the world's longest scarf, or perhaps measuring out my annual length and adding it up to see if I have yet beat Helge's record - this is of course assuming that in the meantime some other knitting maniac hasn't wasted her record - Guinness encourages me to check back in.

So I will be posting regular updates, charting my slow but hopefully steady process from a scarf that is now only a few inches over 2 feet to what will eventually be several feet over 2 miles.

knitting update

I'm 3 months in to the monster scarf project. Just a quick update on my progress.

I seem to have established my average pace - which isn't as speedy as I would like. Did 49.5 inches this week - bringing me in at just over 17 feet.

It was suggested that I try stretching the scarf, which is a good idea and will likely give me a few more feet. It will mess up my log though - hopefully that won't matter in the long run.

I'm still waiting to get the official word from Guinness re: the record to beat and evidence to acquire. It would really suck if everything I've done to date doesn't count!

the knitting continues

Even I have to laugh at myself for how ridiculous this project is - my ambitious ambition to make the world's longest scarf. And as you can see in the photo - V keeps rolling his eyes about it all. But he's a good sport - posing here to show that I have at least a scarf for 1 person.

After 2 weeks I have just over 13 feet of this multi-coloured scarf. I usually switch colours each time I pick it up since I am keeping a knitting log and this makes it easier to measure how much I did in each sitting. Sadly, my pace has actually slowed this week.

One reason is that I've got my nose to the grindstone with my master's thesis. Ever one for setting deadlines and targets, I've drafted up a tight timeline to get it done by Dec 15. It's doable, but just. Unfortunately I can't knit my arguments and lit reviews.

Still, every now and then it's nice to take a break from the computer and sit down with my knitting for a bit. My two favourite ways to clear my head and focus my thoughts are walking and knitting. I find that my mind often gets so busy and restless, I need to step back and sort my thoughts out. Walking, knitting or doing puzzles seems to occupy that restless or superficial part of my mind - giving me better access to the deeper levels. If I could ever master meditation I suppose I'd be able to transcend all levels of my mind, not just the superficial part. But for now, as I try to keep my mind clear for my thesis, knitting is my fix, my meditation. It's just because I'm a little crazy that I have to turn my meditation into a Guinness world record.

crazy ambition

I had a crazy idea last week. Watching the Olympics got me thinking about world records and I've always thought I'd like to try and make a Guinness World Record. I can't run, row or swim to make the kind of records being set now in Beijing. But there has to be something I can do.

I browsed around on GWR site and decided I would not beat the largest stamp mosaic (50.8 m²) or the 9.6 m tall sandcastle. I don't think I'll have the longest appendix removed - 26 cm or pull 187 tonnes of aircraft.

Then I got it - I can knit. I can knit the world's longest scarf.

GWR doesn't have this record on their site (I guess they want me to buy the book) but the internet tells me the world's longest scarf is 33.74 miles!! Um, maybe I need to rethink my project. But wait - this scarf, made as a benefit for Feed the Children, was stitched together from the knitting of over 2000 knitters. There has to be a different standard for a scarf knit by one person.

I can't be sure since I have not got official word on the record to beat - but one site had the world's longest scarf by one person, continuously knit at slightly over 1 kilometre - which is still crazy long, but doesn't seem impossible.

I began the process of applying to break a world record. First I had to register on the site, stating what record I would like to break. A few days later they sent me a detailed agreement and a claim number. I have to sign this agreement and fax it back to them. Within a couple of months I should hear back with details regarding the current record and what kind of evidence I will need to produce to claim to have beaten this.

I am a bit worried by all the talk of witnesses that is in the agreement. World records have to be witnessed by people with 'standing' in the community - such as police officers, judges, mayors or town councillors. But the man who may have the current world record took more than 4 years to do knit his scarf. I think it would be hard to find a justice of the peace to sit and watch me knit for 4 years.

I'm hoping they will accept some other proof that I was the one who knit this (pictures as I go?) - and that witnesses will only need to be brought in for the final measurement.

Even though I haven't got the official go-ahead from GWR, I cast on last Monday. This morning I measured my progress so far and have roughly 2.5 metres. If I was to simply meet his record, going at this pace it will take me about 400 weeks! If I want to significantly beat it (which of course I do) it will likely take a lot longer. I'm well off his pace (I'm looking at more than 7 years at this rate) - so I'm going to need to pick it up a bit. Good thing the Olympics are on - I knit faster when I'm watching a race. (The Amazing Race is a great show to knit to - I'm super speedy).

Once I have official confirmation, and I've knitted about to 500 metres, I will contact a local charity - the Ottawa Snowsuit Fund - and let them know that I will be doing this to raise money for them. I'm hoping I'll get some donated yarn and maybe even sponsorship as I go - and then after it is measured and witnessed, I will break it up into regular length scarves to sell as a fundraiser.

V keeps telling me I have no idea how long 1000 metres is. He may be right. I may be crazy. But as Confucius would say, "It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop."

summer gardens

I'm still fairly new to this whole gardening thing - seems it's either feast or famine with me. Flower beds overflow the borders as plants crowd each other out - or the plants struggle to fill their allotted space, looking spindly and forlorn.

But not one for admitting defeat, this spring, instead of just planting flowers, I put in a vegetable garden as well. And it will be a feast of tomatoes, zucchini and squash - while a famine in carrots, onions, peas and peppers.

Well, I'm learning as I go. Learning that 3 zucchini plants is more than enough - I now greet my neighbours with 'hello, would you like some zucchini?'


V and I are learning what to do with this feast of zuccs - yesterday he made a moist, dense zucc spice cake. We've also had grilled zuccs, zucc frittata, zuccs in tomato sauce, zuccs with couscous, zuccs in curry... and that was probably just last week.

I also have what seems like 100 tomatoes almost ripe on the vines - we're having a string of cool days and even cooler nights, so they seem to hanging there, unchanged, taunting me. I know when they do start to ripen we're going to be overloaded. 'Hello neighbour, how about some tomatoes?'

The one squash plant I put in has also gone crazy. A couple weekends ago V built a 9 ft frame for it to climb on since it was reaching around and strangling everything it could get its tendrils on - tomato vines, day lillies, zucc stems, raspberry bushes... We leaned the frame against the garage and I tore up an old pillowcase to make strips to attach the squash vines. Already the plant is climbing up and over its frame. Seems we might be up on the garage roof to harvest this fall.

So for all my inexperience, I'm seeing how forgiving gardens are. I may not have put things in the best location, or foreseen how much room each plant would need, but they seem willing to make do with what they've got, rewarding at least my effort. And I'm learning from my mistakes, seeing what works and what doesn't. V has already dug up more ground for an expanded garden next summer... but now I have to go, the zucchini muffins are ready to come out of the oven.

weddings in India

V and I just got back from a trip to Bangalore. His parents generously flew us out there to attend two weddings - one on each side of the family.

I discovered that by Indian standards our wedding was a very simple, short affair. These weddings are lavish, colourful and stretch for days. There are poojas (religious ceremonies), weddings, dinners, lunches...

I had taken two sarees with me, figuring that would be fine for at least the first occasion. But I discovered women are expected to have about 3 to 5 different outfits - each event provides a new opportunity to show off your finery. Luckily my mother-in-law was there to dress me. Gracefully wrapping metres of cloth around your body is not as easy as it might look. Thank goodness for safety pins!

Most of the clothes I brought to India didn't even get worn. When we weren't at we weren't at weddings we were often visiting my in-laws - and most of these visits involved gifts of sarees or other traditional Indian clothes - from us (V's parents, V and me) to our hosts, and from our hosts to us. And of course there was shopping.

I love wandering through the busy market areas - flower and fruit vendors, shops selling spices, textiles, jewelry, sarees... V bought some fabric for pants and a shirt. A tailor came to the shop and took his measurements. Two days later he had a custom-fit pair of pants and a shirt to match. Hard to beat that.

We found a great store - fabindia - stocked with great cottage industry products. I could have happily bought up half the store, but settled for a great, bright bedspread and some fun pillow covers.

We were able to do a little bit of sight seeing. V and I visited a few temples and gardens in the city and we went on a day trip to the nearby city of Mysore with his parents. Visiting something which has been standing for centuries certainly puts history in perspective.

Our trip to Mysore - stopping at a bird sanctuary, the temple shown in the photo, and a large palace - was the only really touristy thing we did. One of the few times I saw other white folk. For me, this holiday was a strange combination of the foreign and familiar - I had never been to Bangalore before, but in so many things there were reminders of my childhood in Nepal. Also, since much of the time was spent with V's parents and relatives, much of our time was spent visiting in living rooms.

All in all, it was quite interesting, but I'm glad to be back home. My back injury flared up during the trip - aggravated by the long flight out, the hours spent on plastic chairs for wedding events and the back seats of cars stuck in the permanent traffic-jams of Bangalore city streets. And as much as I enjoy the discovery of travel, I'm stubbornly independent enough to want to follow my own agenda. This trip was not about our agendas - it was about family. And that, as anyone knows, has both its blessings and its challenges.

an evening with Leonard Cohen

There were a few hours last night where I couldn't imagine being any happier. I was sitting in the middle of more than 2,000 people at Kitchener Centre on the Square, soaking in the raspy, growly, sultry voice of Leonard Cohen.

I hadn't been quite sure what to expect for what was billed as 'An evening with Leonard Cohen'. The man is in his 70s and this tour seems to have been fueled more by financial necessity than artistic passion. But if I had been expecting a performance that showcased his talents as a musician, poet and artist, that was backed up by fabulous musicians, and whose poetic poignancy brought tears to my eyes - I wouldn't have been disappointed.

He didn't need anyone to warm up the stage for him. There was no opening act or long, instrumental introduction. As the musicians took the stage, a slim, spry, man jogged to the centre, swept his hat off his grey head and bowed to an audience that leapt to its collective feet.

He said a few words, but seemed eager to start playing and rolled into 'Coming Back to You' then upped the tempo with 'The Future'... and then for the next three hours - including several generous encores - he swept through his repertoire, bringing us old favourites like 'Closing Time' or 'Suzanne', less-familiar tunes like 'The Gypsy's Wife', and some of his recent collaborations with Sharon Robinson like 'Boogie Street' from Ten New Songs.

Here I should say something about his tour band - for he certainly kept drawing our attention to them, sharing the credit. I had the feeling each member of the band could have put on a stellar solo show - like flamenco-style, bandurria-playing Javier Mas, the eclectically talented Dino Soldo or the beautiful vocalists Robinson and, as Cohen said, "the sublime Webb sisters". All together, they created this wide, full sound that swelled around the old man's gravelly voice.

When he sang "I was born with the gift of a golden voice" (Tower of Song), the audience laughed and applauded loudly. 'Golden' isn't quite the adjective most people would use. But what he lacks in vocal range, he more than makes up for with words.

In fact, when he sang 'Hallelujah' - perhaps one of his most covered songs - I was reminded what he has that the other don't. Rufus Wainwright and k.d. lang may be able to make their voices soar when they sing these achingly beautiful lyrics, but ultimately those lyrics are his. And last night he sang another, last verse I've never heard and it was like pulling back the curtain to reveal the master puppeteer.

His words, his lyrics, have a power that was tangible last night. Sure, we loved the melodies, the instrumental accompaniment - but it's his words that really move us. He might be grey-haired and aged, but when he sang 'if you want a lover' (I'm your man), women screamed and cheered to let him know that given the chance, many of us would gladly take him for a ride, walk with him a mile, or let him examine every inch of us.

I could go on about this. I'm still going over it in my head. But perhaps it might be best to let him have the last words. These are the words of what is one of my most favourite songs, words I often ground myself with - and when he sang them last night I felt so incredibly blessed to hear him sing them live.

Ring the bells that still can ring
forget your perfect offering
there is a crack, a crack in everything
that's how the light gets in

City chicks

The masses of snow in our back and front yards are finally melting - revealing dirty grass and dead, broken plants. This is good incentive to start planning what we can do with our back yard this spring.

I imagine colourful blossoms, lush tomatoes and pots of fragrant herbs. My husband imagines chickens.

It isn't just him. Apparently urban chicken raising is a growing trend - if blogs and websites are any indication (i.e. The City Chicken, The Urban Chicken Underground, How to Keep Chickens in a City and Urban Chickens). These sites are full of advice - such as, under things you'll need for collecting eggs, 'a shield and a little self-confidence if you're scared of birds'.

Unfortunately, it is illegal in Ottawa to raise chickens in backyards. According to BY-LAW NO. 2003 - 77, Respecting Animal Care and Control, section 74 (1) "No person shall keep livestock in any area of the City unless the area is zoned for that purpose or is lawfully used for that purpose." And yes, livestock includes "any domestic fowl (including chickens, geese, ducks, turkeys, guinea fowl, etc.)". I wonder how hard it would be to convince our city councillor to zone our backyard as livestock-appropriate.

Or we could be chicken rebels and raise illegal birds; bribe our neighbours into complicity with fresh eggs. I admit I like the idea of fresh eggs - and when it comes to getting your food locally, it's hard to get much more local than our own backyard.

Still, I can't say I'm sold on the vision of our back yard becoming a hen house. It might ruffle a too many feathers in the neighbourhood and bring some problems home to roost.

turning out the lights

Last night people around the world powered down in a symbolic gesture of support for the environment.

WWF claims that Canada had one of the highest participation rates in the world - 150 cities - an estimated 55,000 people - participated in Earth Hour by turning off the lights between 8 and 9 p.m.

Ottawa symbolically got on board, with the Parliament Hill turning off all exterior lights (except a spotlight on the flag) - although Prime Minister Harper kept his lights burning at 24 Sussex (how surprising). At least our Governor General had Rideau Hall in darkness, as did Stéphane Dion at Stornoway.

Ottawa Hydro noted a 4% drop in energy consumption, compared with the same period last week. So while that's not huge, it is notable.

What has surprised me with Earth Hour is the backlash. A Facebook group calling themselves 'Waste electricity for Earth Hour' were just some of the reactionaries. Critics accuse Earth Hour of being a gimmick with no significant impact. ("Go to the bathroom with the lights on, bike to work" read one comment on an Earth Hour news story).

But Earth Hour organizers don't deny that this is symbolic. It is a gimmick, but market analysts agree that gimmicks are often effective to raise awareness. If anything, all the debate that Earth Hour has raised is a sign of it's success.

For my part, I don't think that our lights out for the night is enough to make us green - I'm more proud of our carbon-free Bullfrog powered home, our daily efforts to consciously tread softly on this earth. But I can thank the Earth Hour organizers for an excuse to have a cozy night in with my sweetie. I filled the living room with candles, cushions and flowers; V made a tasty dinner. We lounged in warm candlelight, talking and sipping wine long after the hour was up.

stuck in bed

As of today, I've been three weeks in this bed. I can walk and stand for short periods, but am still unable to sit for more than a few minutes - although I think I managed about 20 on Saturday. I spend my days, evenings and nights on the bed, mostly lying on my belly since this relieves pressure on the herniated disc in my lower spine.

My world seems different when observed from bed. My possibilities for action are diminished - and yet I find myself plagued by the questions like, what kind of person am I? how will I be remembered? will I be remembered? am I contributing anything of significance to this world?

I'd prefer if the questions my mind came up with were more along the lines of - should I read another chapter or play a game of sudoko? I already have 5 books on the go, should I start a 6th? These are queries I can answer, or at least act upon.

To pass the time, I've been reading about Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Satre. V gave me a book of Beauvoir's letter's to Satre; from the library I borrowed Lettres au castor - his letters to her. To fill in the gaps in their correspondence, I'm reading Tête-à-tête, a biography of their relationship. Then I have Beauvoir's The Second Sex, which I've always meant to read and now have the time.

Perhaps it is reading about these two ambitious, driven individuals who were absolutely devoted to their careers as writers that has me wondering about my own posterity - although their relationship to each other and those around them is, while fascinating, is not exactly inspiring.

I like to read biographies and auto-biographies of people I respect - often writers and artists. What troubles me is that few of them have balanced or 'normal' lives. I used to want to be the troubled artist, writing in an attic hovel while smoking French cigarettes, chasing wine with strong, dark coffee. I flirted with that life for a few years, even realizing my dream of renting a room in Paris from which I huddled and wrote.

But that life never really worked for me. I was lonely. I was unpublished. I felt selfish and self-absorbed. And yet when I read about the lives of writers I feel that longing. When I am stuck in bed, that longing is compounded by a desire to do something, anything, more significant than reading about the exciting lives of others while watching my own drift by outside the bedroom door.

injured. again.

It's 2 a.m. in the emergency ward at Ottawa's civic hospital. We've been waiting to see a doctor for almost 7 hours. The woman who was brought in with police escort, the woman who the ward had heard singing and shouting from behind the door of a private waiting room, has just pulled the fire alarm. The piercing blasts of an alarm designed to rouse the dead and heavily drugged is shrieking from and grid in the ceiling above my head.

Eventually the alarm is turned off. The firemen who appeared in full dress with equipment ready are sent back to their station. The regular noises of the urgent care ward can be heard again - patients being called, people coughing, staff chatting, phones ringing... I turn back to my book while trying to shield my eyes from the three bands of neon light which glare down at me.

V is a trooper. He's been with me all night. Has read a book cover to cover and is trying to get comfortable on the stiff plastic chair.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm injured again. I'm embarrassed to be back in a hospital, complaining of my pain to a busy and unimpressed doctor. What is it this time? In what new way is my body expressing its displeasure?

The doctor tells me brusquely that it's a herniated disc. As far as he's concerned these are a dime a dozen. Nothing new here; why are you wasting my time? He'll write me up an illegible prescription for anti-inflammatories and get a nurse to stick a needle in my arm to take the edge off. That at least is effective - within 10 minutes the place she jabbed me hurts more than my lower back.

So now, its the following evening and I'm lying in bed as I have been for the last five days. Half-propped up against the head rest, laptop on my stomach and thighs. I've managed to do some work this way. Can't let a little back pain stop me from researching a gender perspective on urban violence. Can't let the boredom creep up through the blankets and wrap around my shoulders, whisper in my ears. Can't let the anxiety steal in...

What really am I fighting?

I've got to admit I've been feeling pretty sorry for myself, been feeling pretty resentful toward this body of mine. Strange how our identity, our well-being is so tied up in something which sometimes seems to be so beyond our control. We may do our best to exercise, eat well, sleep right, listen... yet we can never fully control what happens in and to this flesh and blood. A car accident, an illness - or even nothing we can identify - and suddenly we don't seem to be in charge anymore. This thing, this being is calling the shots

I think of friends who have been injured far worse than I, who have illnesses that keep them in bed far longer than will a slipped disc. How does one learn to reconcile with the restrictions, the pain, the frustration of a body that is not what we think need it to be? What do I need my body to be?

My cat has climbed on to my chest. He at least seems to appreciate all this time I'm spending in bed. He's fallen asleep but there is still a faint purr to his breathing. His contented warmth is a reminder of something that needed remembering. I'm not in control of what happens around me - or what happens to me. What I can control is how much energy I spend it fighting and resenting it, or in accepting it. Accepting the burning in my back, the tingling in my feet - and warmth of this bed, the weight of my kitty and my body as teacher of humility and surrender.

frustrated artist

If ever I've liked to imagine myself as an 'artist', it's been as a writer or poet. While I don't rate myself too highly as either, I've put most of my creative energy into writing. I've learned more or less what I can expect of myself, what I will be satisfied with, and how to make hard work pay off. But all this changed when I switched mediums.

Over the last couple of years my writing has been almost completely academic. I spend so much time at the computer writing papers and reports that even though I miss creative writing it's hard to want to spend a few more hours with the same tools. Perhaps this is why I've done so much knitting in the last few years - a frustration for lack of creative outlet. And while I consider knitting to be creative, it's hard to knit a masterpiece. There is some sense of satisfaction, but not quite the same pride.

Then for Christmas V gave me a choice of either cello or painting lessons. A new opportunity for a creative outlet. I chose painting and signed up for an intro class at the Ottawa School of Art. I wasn't expecting to become Van Gogh or Renoir, but I was looking forward to a new artistic medium.

Although the somewhat-deaf instructor is more interested reminiscing about painting holidays and talking about people who have admired his work, he does get us to paint things we might not have otherwise chosen - fake fruit, a snow-filled back yard, green glass bottles... and our selves.

When it came to the self-portrait, his only advice was 'get a mirror' (he's really not so big on instructing). So I got a book from the library and on the weekend sat down in front the mirror with the book, my canvas and paints, and struggled to put to canvas what was staring warily at me.

She and I squinted, frowned and grimaced at each other all weekend. I peered at the unevenness of her skin tone, the oddly long space between her nose and mouth... and could that be the beginning of jowls on her cheeks? Staring so closely at myself, and fighting with the paint, was more frustrating than creatively satisfying.

When I brought my painting to class the instructor said, "It looks like a battle has been fought." That was the most insightful thing I've heard him say yet.

In his opinion this 'battle' was successfully won. He thought the painting showed intelligence and diligence.

Maybe I just don't know how to take a compliment. Or maybe there is just a certain kind of compliment I want to hear: raw talent, artistic ability.

Diligence, skill in battle - those aren't exactly the characteristics of the artist I wish I was.

Winter in Ottawa

Growing up in Nepal, I imagined that winters in Canada meant deep blankets of fluffy white snow. When we moved to Saskatchewan in '86 I was disappointed by the dry, bare winter ground. Sure, there was snow, but never like I'd imagined.

'Til the winter of 2007 that is. This has been a record-breaking year for snowfall in Ottawa. The city has already spent millions clearing roads of the metre and a half of snow that has fallen in the last month. Often the snowplows just can't keep up and cars get stuck on residential streets and in parking lots. It's messy, but it's just like what I'd dreamed of as a kid. I'm loving it.

Of course, I'm not the one who has to clear it. Thanks (?) to my physio injury - the chronic pain in my shoulder - I can't do such things as shovel mounds of heavy snow. V keeps talking about buying a snowblower, esp. after he comes in from a two hour stint of shoveling our driveway and sidewalk.

But since I'm not the one battling the snow, I enjoy it all the more. Today I walked out to the little island between Ontario and Quebec that is just down the road. The fog that's hung over the city all day was so thick I could taste it. Everything seemed slightly mysterious, hidden beneath the deep snow and behind the mist. Dark, naked branches of trees cut stark silhouettes against the pale sky and snow. It was absolutely enchanting.

my snowgirl

In talking to a friend today I had a visual image of myself: a kid at a carnival running after balloons, catching far more than she can hold.

For someone who loves challenges, being in an MA program is like being at a carnival. My inbox fills up with emails about conferences, job opportunities, research grants. Professors and fellow students compare the challenges we taken on, how full we've filled our plates.

If I'm shown new opportunities - esp. if they're difficult or competitive - I can't help jumping at them. I don't even stop to think if they are what I really want, or how they fit in to my already busy life.

So the thesis option is more time-consuming and difficult? Let me at it. A conference? I want to present. Ooh, and at that one too... and at that one. A research grant? Please, pretty please. An employment contract - ooh, that too! And I don't just want to do it, I want to do all of it and get an A+.

But these balloons are lead and I've finally realized I'm sinking.

I might not be able (or willing) to drop them all now, but at least I can assess what I'm holding, and why. Maybe see how tightly I really need to hang on to everything, and if it's okay if they slip a little.

So this today, instead of sitting at my computer for my usual 8-10 hours, I went outside and built a snowgirl. You might not be able to tell, but she has dried flowers on her head. If you could see what my life's been like for the last two weeks, you'd know what an accomplishment she is for me.

And you'll notice there's not a balloon in sight.

it's been awhile - or - why I am a hypocrite

I haven't blogged in a quite a long time... It was a busy summer with travel, weddings, etc. And I wouldn't even know where to begin now in writing about all that. So I will write of something completely unrelated: Harry Potter. Or, more accurately, why I am a hypocrite.

The first Potter book came out in 1997 - but I don't think it was till the 4th (2000) that it became huge with adults as well as children. Now I tend to be a snob about all things popular. If there is a television show (Survivor, Desperate Housewives) everyone talks about, I won't watch it. I'm unlikely to go to blockbuster movies, or buy the latest charting-topping album.

Perhaps I have been disappointed too often by what the majority adores (i.e. I don’t think violence is entertaining). And even while I am pro-democracy, I tend to disagree with political choice of the electoral majority. Or perhaps I am just a plain, old snob. Or a hypocite.

This brings me back to Potter. I didn't understand why adults were going gaga over a kids’ book. I picked up a copy a few times. On first time I opened the book at random and found a misplaced modifier - something like 'while running down the stairs, Harry's glasses fell off'. Now I love misplaced modifiers for their unintended hilarity (a favourite of mine is from the Globe and Mail describing the dangers of post-earthquake Pakistan where there were 'wildcats with glowing eyes that could leap across canyons'. I still laugh at the image of blinded cats crying for their eyes that have leaped on to the other side.) I digress. Potter. Another time I tried it in Spanish, which was entertaining for its educational value, but still rather dull. To put it bluntly, I felt I was above the Potter-mania.

I clung to my self-congratulatory position for years. When the latest book came out I puzzled at all the adults I saw around town with noses buried in the book. I marveled at the hype of the books, movies, merchandise, etc. I maintained I was above it all.

Then came the summer of 2007. We had a lot of driving to do in August – 24-hour round trip to New Brunswick for the wedding. The public library was woefully short on audio books. So my fiancé 'acquired' the Potter series in MP3s. Books 1-3 kept us awake and somewhat entertained on our drives.

I grew accustomed to Jim Dale's smooth voice, his talent for giving characters unique voices... There was also something very passive about sitting and listening to Potter. I wasn't reading the books. They were being read to me.

Back home, after all the craziness of August, I found myself turning to Jim Dale and his Potter narration. I would sit and knit while Mr. Dale read me Book 4, then Book 5... At some point a friend lent us the actual books 4-7 and eventually I realized it was much faster to read them myself than to listen to Mr. Dale. A new bedtime ritual was born...

And so, for the sake of honesty and humble pie, I must admit that the once adamant Potter-rejecter has read and listened to 6 books since August. And I am half way through the 7th. Perhaps you won't believe me when I say I am still not convinced of their greatness. The author misuses words in strange ways and creates one-dimensional characters. There are stretches of each book which bore me greatly and the endings are rather trite... And yet, I can't deny, despite the mountain of books awaiting my attention, that I will have finished the entire heptology in less than 4 months.

conference presentation

I meant to blog about my presentation soon after I wrote about Amsterdam, but time too often runs away from me. I have been three weeks running to catch it. But if I can recall....

First, some background. I took a summer-session course in June and July which looked at research ethics in a Canadian post-colonial context. The professor grew up in Nunavut and brought an Indigenous perspective to the course material. We examined the 'isms' - racism, sexism, regionalism, etc.... We criticized structures of dominance... Basically, the class opinion seemed to be that everything the white, male, Christian says is wrong. Yes, I exaggerate, but not by much.

In Amsterdam I found myself at a conference filled with white, male Christians. A paper which I had written in the context of my Conflict Studies program did not quite toe the party line here.

This conference is pinned on the work of French philosopher René Girard. After 'coming out' as a Christian in his later years, his work has attracted a large number of Christian academics who appreciate his interpretations of the Bible and other literary texts.

My paper was a Girardian analysis of the Legacy of Indian Residential Schools in Canada. Girard understands violence as a destructive imitation (you hit me, I'll hit you back) and an infection which can spread within communities. His theory offered an interesting perspective into the long-term effects of the violence children experienced in Residential Schools.

Along with violence such as physical, emotional and sexual abuse I included the removal of children from their families and communities, and forced conversion to Christianity.

Thus, the point of controversy. After my presentation a man said something to the effect of 'we may not have done it well but at least we brought them Christianity. Are you saying we should all go back to being pagans?'

The moderator said I was controversial because I suggested that healing within Indigenous communities is being done as people return to their traditional identities and reject the inferior identity imposed on them through colonialization. In other words, it is not being done through the 'saving grace' of Christianity.

I don't consider myself someone who likes to swim against the tide, but I enjoy being around people who differ from me. I learn more that way. I am also challenged to reassess what I think. I didn't take back anything I had written in that paper or had said during my presentation. But presenting it in a context which differed greatly from the one in which it was written challenged me to reassess it.

I took into consideration the views of an Anglican minister who rose to say that lawsuits from survivors of Residential Schools is crippling his church, and the evangelical Christians who sincerely believe that spreading the gospel is a great gift to others. I weighed my responses carefully.

When I ran into the session moderator after my presentation she told me she thought I was "courageous." I got the feeling she really meant stubborn and wrong.

The conference gave me an award for the paper, so they couldn't have all thought it was bad. Either way, it was a great experience to present. If I am going to be critical of the way a certain group acts, I should be prepared to listen to their point of view. I like to think of it as studying the shades of gray.

Amsterdam

Just got back from my little Euro trip, the purpose of which was a conference and paper presentation. But more on that later...

On July 2 I flew from Ottawa to Philadelphia, sat in that airport for 8+ hours, then flew the red eye to Brussels. With a small child kicking my seat, I got very little sleep and arrived rather dazed and groggy. Took the train straight to Amsterdam and arrived there even more dazed and groggy. It was around 2 p.m. - far too early to go to bed - so after depositing my backpack at a youth hostel I roamed the streets.

The centre of Amsterdam is a maze of canals and small streets - confusing at the best of time and more so when I was too tired to properly read a map. I kept heading the wrong way, turning around, twisting upon myself.

I had another chance to visit the city after the conference and was just beginning to get my bearings when it was time to leave. What I loved most was all the bicycles - vintage, uprights that were everywhere. Streets have several lanes - one in each direction for bikes (photo is of one of the signs designating bike lane), one for trams and others for traffic.


Of course the red light district is partly what makes this city so famous. My last night in Amsterdam I was in a youth hostel right in the heart of this - but I had chosen it because it was one of the few that has a 2 a.m. curfew. Most hostels advertise with 'No lockout! No curfew!' which isn't great if you want some sleep. The streets were full of young male tourists who strutted by the windows where prostitutes in glowing bikinis put on a half-hearted shows. There were also rasta youth with glazed eyes, drifting between coffee shops and hanging out in the cobblestone plazas.

For the most part I was alone in my wanderings, but Amsterdam is a great place to people watch. I liked the accepting, non-judgmental attitude. Those which are considered vices in most cities are placed in the open - and become much more humane.

We didn't have your phone number

It has been two weeks since I last visited Mr. Ditchfield, a senior I have been visiting almost every Sunday for over 5 years. I went this afternoon, ready with apologies, hopeful that I may be able to convince him to allow me to take him outside so he could see the roses and day lilies.

"Where are you going?" Theresa asked when she saw me in the hall. I know her from the Saturdays at Bingo and as a friend of Mr. Ditchfield.

"To see Mr. Ditchfield."

"He's dead."

I can't say the news came as a total surprise. He was 96-years old and his health wasn't good. For the last few months he has had difficulty eating, has fallen a few times and was in considerable pain.

"We didn't have your phone number. I was thinking about you and wanted to let you know... Come with me, I'll show you the paper for his funeral."

I walked with Theresa down the familiar hall to the nurses' station. The head nurse was glad to see me. "I've been thinking about you," she said. "We didn't know your name or how to contact you. I've seen you here every week, but I never got your name."

Theresa showed me the obituary pinned on the bulletin board. She fought back tears as she recalled what a good friend he was to her.

It seems he died a few hours after I last saw him. Theresa had also visited him in his room that day and was building a puzzle in the common area when someone came to tell her he had passed away. Quietly. Alone.

In the picture I've posted here he is standing beside a hook rug he made. Ever since I first met him, he has almost always been working on one of these, or taking a break with a jigsaw puzzle. He made a beautiful, large Canadian flag that hangs in the cafeteria on the main floor. All his friends have at least one colourful square.

In the last year he has had more difficulty following patterns and often during my visits I would help him by re-doing sections, filling missed stitches or outlining an area. Time passed quickly as I worked on his rugs or helped him build the difficult part of a puzzle. He would watch me work and tell stories of the days when a riding the streetcar cost a nickel and horses pulled sleighs and carriages down Bank Street.

Theresa has offered that I go with her to the funeral in the car that is being sent for her. The head nurse gave me a hug and told me that Mr. Ditchfield talked often of me and cared for me. I choked on some tears and left with the obituary in my hand. It really shouldn't be surprising. Perhaps I shouldn't even grieve. But Ann passed away in February and now he is gone too. It's a quiet sort of sadness... a passing, a loss of a loved friend.

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.