An Army of Love

Today I made a donation to The Compassion Collective for Refugee Relief. With all the spewing hatred in the world, seeing that a call for donations no larger than $25.00 for refugee relief can bring in $750,000 in less than 24 hour's time does me a world of good. The following letter was written by Elizabeth Gilbert this morning, Tuesday 22 December.  

Dear Ones -

If I have ever written to you from the heart, it is right now.

So here's a question: Have you seen the movie Schindler's List? Have you read The Diary of Anne Frank?  Did you ever read Night, by Elie Weisel? Or Nelson Mandela's autobiography, Long Walk To Freedom? 

I know you have. We all know these stories. They are painful stories, from history. They tell of impossibly brave people, suffering during impossibly difficult times.

When you read a book like that, do you ever ask yourself this challenging question: "What would I have done back then?" For instance: If I were a German industrialist during World War II, what would I have done? Would I have risked my life to save the lives of so many others?

If I were a common householder in Holland during the Nazi occupation, would I have hidden a Jewish family in my attic? In the 1980's in South Africa, would I have gone to prison to stand up against apartheid? Would I have marched in Selma with Martin Luther King, Jr? For that matter, back in the 19th century, would I have been an abolitionist? Woud I have hid slaves in my house, on the Underground Railroad?

Or here's a question, apropos to the holiday: If I were alive 2000 years ago, and a wandering Middle Eastern couple from a distrusted minority — a pregnant woman and a desperate man — knocked on my door in the middle of the night and asked for shelter...would I turn them away? Or would I give them a place to rest?

Sometimes these questions are painful, because sometimes we look deep into our souls for the answer, and we think, "Uh-oh." Because sometimes we aren't so sure that we would've been on the right side of history — on the side of justice and compassion and courage.

But then we can think, "Oh well! Good thing I'm not living in the historical past, where I'm not being tested! Good thing I'm not being faced with these kind of disasters, emergencies, and upheavals, so I never need to find out what kind of person I am!"

And then you look at the newspaper and you think, once more, "Uh-oh." And it's time to look into your soul again, and ask, "Who will I be?"

Dear Ones — here's the thing. History isn't over. The story is still being told. And we have the chance to show — today and every day — what kind of people we are. Right now.

The biggest humanitarian crisis in the world right now is the refugee situation in Europe. These people (our human sisters and brothers) are starving, freezing, dying, suffering. There are children with rotting feet who are sleeping in the mud, who need shelter and warm clothing and food, or they will die. There are people being fished out of the ocean, freezing and half-drowned, who need warm blankets and heaters, or they will die.. There are women standing at borders, begging guards to let them pass, begging, "Either let us in, or please kill us now" — because they cannot bear to watch their children starve and suffer for another day.

I don't consider myself an expert on theology or ethics, but what I do know for sure is what I say in the quote below — there is one central law of basic compassion that binds all of humanity together, and this is it:

Those of us who are warm and dry and safe and well-fed must show up for those who are cold and wet and endangered and hungry. That's a rule of life. Every ethical and religious and spiritual tradition in world agrees on that rule. 

Yesterday, I asked you to stand in love with me and my friends Cheryl Strayed, Brene Brown, Rob Bell and Glennon Doyle Melton in our audacious goal to raise one million dollars for refugee aid.

You guys, we are almost there. Here is what you did already — you and your beautiful hearts:

You already helped us to raise almost $750,000 for refugee relief. In less than 24 hours.  Which is incredible and powerful and beautiful — and all of it with donations of $25 or less...thereby proving that it doesn't take much to be part of something huge.

It doesn't take much to put yourself on the corrrect side of history. At a time of year when you would be excused for just thinking about your own list of obligations, and stresses, and busy-ness, you were able to turn your thoughts toward the most desperate people in the world....and you have helped them.

Lives will be saved because of this. Immediately. I was able to speak last night to our partners on the ground in Greece (the amazing British start-up humanitarian organization Help Refugees) and they literally could not stop crying in gratitude.

These people — the rescuers — are people who do not sleep. (That is exactly what our friend Dani said through her sobs: "You have to understand: We do not sleep.") All they do is help. All they do is give. All they do is pull people out of the water, and try to feed the hungry, and try to find shelter for the old and the sick, and try to save the lives of children whose feet are rotting in the cold.

Your money that you donated yesterday will buy blankets and food and medicine and housing and sleeping bags and lanterns... Your money will save lives. Immediately.

These people from Help Refugees are my heroes. They are not professional anything...they are just regular, untrained British citizens who went to the beaches of France and Greece and said, "We are here. What can we do?" They are just regular people who cannot turn their backs on suffering.

They do not sleep, because they never stop helping. They do not sleep because these are people who will not let suffering win, who will not let suffering have the last word about life.

These are people who insist that the last word about life must be LOVE. This is the kind of person I want to be. Not in the abstract, not in some imagination of the past, and not someday in the future. But now. Right now. Right here.

That is why I am doing this. That is why we have created www.thecompassioncollective.org.

Because when I look into my soul and ask, "Did you show up? Did you help?" I need the answer to be YES.

Will you join us?

For those of who have not yet chipped in, will you give me the greatest Christmas gift in the world, and go to this website, and join us: http://bit.ly/1NyoLf1

And for those of you who already gave — please believe me when I tell you that you are an Army of Love. You have done something stupendously important, in real time. And if you want to donate again today (I have heard from several people who are making donations in their family members' names, for Christmas gifts), keep doing it.

I know that Brene and Cheryl and Glennon and Rob are the biggest-hearted and most stubborn people I know. I am determined to be big-hearted and stubborn, as well. I know that you are big-hearted and stubborn, too. Let's do this! When we say we're gonna raise a million dollars...heaven help us....we're gonna raise a million dollars.

Because the final word of every human conversation absolutely has to be LOVE....or else, what are we even here for?

Donate here, and god bless every single one of you: http://bit.ly/1NyoLf1

ONWARD,
EL 

(Elizabeth Gilbert)

(And thank you, to the wonderful Emily McDowell, for making the image! Another proud member of the Army of Love.)

What to Say When Someone You Love is Grieving

I thought I’d end the year with some articles I’ve found of particular help. Things I wish I were wise enough to have put into words, things I wish I’d known long ago, things I wish others would have known when dealing with me.  Hopefully these articles will be thought provoking and helpful to you as well.  The first originally appeared on Tim Lawrence's blog, The Adversity Within.  

Eight Simple Words to Say 

When Someone You Love is Grieving 

I'm listening to a man tell a story. A woman he knows was in a devastating car accident, and now she lives in a state of near-permanent pain; a paraplegic, many of her hopes stolen. I've heard it a million times before, but it never stops shocking me: He tells her that he thinks the tragedy had led to positive changes in her life. He utters the words that are nothing less than emotional, spiritual, and psychological violence:

"Everything happens for a reason."

He tells her that this was something that had to happen in order for her to grow. But that's the kind of bullshit that destroys lives. And it's categorically untrue.

After all these years working with people in pain as an advisor and adversity strategist, it still amazes me that these myths persist despite the fact that they're nothing more than platitudes cloaked as sophistication. And worst of all, they keep us from doing the one thing we must do when our lives are turned upside down: grieve.

Here's the reality: As my mentor Megan Devine has so beautifully said: 'Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried.'

Grief is brutally painful. Grief does not only occur when someone dies. When relationships fall apart, you grieve. When opportunities are shattered, you grieve. When illnesses wreck you, you grieve. Losing a child cannot be fixed. Being diagnosed with a debilitating illness cannot be fixed. Facing the betrayal of your closest confidante cannot be fixed. 

These things can only be carried.

Let me be clear: If you've faced a tragedy and someone tells you in any way that your tragedy was meant to be, happened for a reason, will make you a better person, or that taking responsibility for it will fix it, you have every right to remove them from your life.

Yes, devastation can lead to growth, but it often doesn't. It often destroys lives — in part because we've replaced grieving with advice. With platitudes.

I now live an extraordinary life. I've been deeply blessed by the opportunities I've had and the radically unconventional life I've built for myself.

But loss has not in and of itself made me a better person. In fact, in some ways it's hardened me.

While loss has made me acutely aware and empathetic of the pains of others, it's also made me more inclined to hide. I have a more cynical view of human nature and a greater impatience with people who are unfamiliar with what loss does to people.

By unleashing platitudes and "fixes" on those we claim to love, 

we deny them the right to grieve.

Above all, I've been left with a pervasive survivor's guilt that has haunted me all my life. In short, my pain has never gone away, I've just learned to channel it into my work with others. But to say that my losses somehow had to happen in order for my gifts to grow would be to trample on the memories of all those I lost too young, all those who suffered needlessly, and all those who faced the same trials I did but who did not make it.

I'm simply not going to do that. I'm not going to assume that God ordained me for life instead of all the others, just so that I could do what I do now. And I'm certainly not going to pretend that I've made it simply because I was strong enough, that I became "successful" because I "took responsibility."

I think people tell others to take responsibility when they don't want to understand.

Understanding is harder than posturing. Telling someone to “take responsibility" for their loss is a form of benevolent masturbation. It's the inverse of inspirational porn: It's sanctimonious porn.

Personal responsibility implies that there's something to take responsibility for. You don't take responsibility for being raped or losing your child. You take responsibility for how you choose to live in the wake of the horrors that confront you, but you don't choose whether you grieve. We're not that smart or powerful. When hell visits us, we don't get to escape grieving.

This is why all the platitudes and focus on “fixes" are so dangerous: by unleashing them on those we claim to love, we deny them the right to grieve.

In so doing, we deny them the right to be human. We steal a bit of their freedom precisely when they're standing at the intersection of their greatest fragility and despair.

The irony is that the only thing that even can be "responsible" amid loss is grieving.

I've grieved many times in my life. I've been overwhelmed with shame so strong it nearly killed me. The ones who helped — the only ones who helped — were those who were simply there.

I am here — I have lived — because they chose to love me. They loved me in their silence, in their willingness to suffer with me and alongside me. They loved me in their desire to be as uncomfortable, as destroyed, as I was, if only for a week, an hour, even just a few minutes. 

Most people have no idea how utterly powerful this is. Healing and transformation can occur. But not if you're not allowed to grieve. Because grief itself is not an obstacle.

Healing and transformation can occur. But not if you're not allowed to grieve. Because grief itself is not an obstacle.

The obstacles come later. The choices as to how to live, how to carry what we have lost, how to weave a new mosaic for ourselves? Those come in the wake of grief.

Yet our culture treats grief like a problem to be solved or an illness to be healed. We've done everything we can to avoid, ignore, or transform grief. So that now, when you're faced with tragedy, you usually find that you're no longer surrounded by people — you're surrounded by platitudes.

So what do we offer instead of "everything happens for a reason"?

The last thing a person devastated by grief needs is advice. Their world has been shattered. Inviting someone — anyone — into their world is an act of great risk. To try to fix, rationalize, or wash away their pain only deepens their terror.

Instead, the most powerful thing you can do is acknowledge. To literally say the words:

I acknowledge your pain. I'm here with you.

Note that I said with you, not for you. For implies that you're going to do something. That's not for you to enact. But to stand with your loved one, to suffer with them, to do everything but something is incredibly powerful.

There is no greater act for others than acknowledgment.

And that requires no training, no special skills — just the willingness to be present and to stay present, as long as is necessary.

Be there. Only be there. Don't leave when you feel uncomfortable or when you feel like you're not doing anything. In fact, it's when you feel uncomfortable and like you're not doing anything that you must stay. I acknowledge your pain. I'm here with you.

Because it's in those places — in the shadows of horror we rarely allow ourselves to enter — where the beginnings of healing are found. This healing is found when we have others who are willing to enter that space alongside us. Every grieving person on earth needs these people.

I beg you, be one of these people.

You are more needed than you will ever know. And when you find yourself in need of those people, find them. I guarantee they are there.

Everyone else can go.

This article originally appeared on Tim Lawrence's blog, The Adversity Within.  

I Remember Mama

For Mother's Day last year some Facebookers changed their profile pics to one of their mother. So I added two of my mother, the one her family called "Little Matt" all her life. One of my FB friends remarked she looked "adorable", which about made me splort my morning coffee onto my keyboard. 

Little Matt - age 43

Mother was tiny, she stood four foot ten inches in her size four shoes, and she never weighed 90 pounds before she hit 50. But she was a force to be reckoned with, and she was in no earthly sense "adorable". 

"Mothering" comes in all forms and styles. My Mother's style was Marine Boot Camp. You were scoured clean twice daily, dressed in heavily starched and ironed clothes, and drilled in piano and ballet. You wore starched pajamas for your afternoon nap, and were fed the traditional three squares a day Southern-style, a diet so high in fat, salt and carbs that none of her family escaped their 50s without heart attacks. 

My much older siblings thought I was spoiled because I wasn't whipped the way they'd been, but if I was spoiled I didn't notice. I was afraid of my mother. 

I remember looking at my friends' mothers and thinking, "My Mama's different." She never kissed me, held me, or even touched me unnecessarily. I have a small grainy snapshot of her kneeling in the grass holding me at the age of six months. I am lying on my back, looking into the sun, arms and legs flung out in startle. She has a perplexed frown and holds me away from her like an awkwardly wrapped parcel. 

As an old man my brother would weep, "Mom and Dad never loved us," and I would gently argue that they did, but neither of them knew how to show it, other than to house, scrub and feed us. Whatever love they'd learned as children was crushed beneath the weight of their own misery. Their relationship was like that of two tectonic plates, slowly grinding the life from each other. They were not suited. 

As an adult, I am inclined to be tender toward my Mother. She and my father had been married for 25 years when I was born. My sister was married and had children of her own, my brothers were at the cusp of adulthood and off to college and career. She dreamed of freedom at last. 

She engaged a lawyer and began divorce proceedings, but then she found herself pregnant. Freud might make something of that, saying she was giving herself a reason not to leave, but he would be barking up the wrong neurosis. Her spirit cracked. I was a prison she could not escape. When my father worked nights I sometimes could hear her sobbing and pounding the bedroom wall with her small fists. 

She's been gone 34 years this Christmas but time is only meaningful on a calendar. She is as with me now as she was one summer morning when I was five. She'd pulled green onions from the garden, and while cleaning them stopped to show me how you could make the green blade into a whistle. We whistled our green onions together, in a shrill note I could not hold. She laughed with me.  

Adorable? By no means. She was a small fire of thorns. To approach her was to be both burned and scratched. She could have been a better mother but she did the best she could with what she had. I learned from her. Sometimes you learn how to do something by seeing how it isn't done.   

KIVA Loan # 75 - Buffalo in Pakistan

Our KIVA Loan this month goes to Sakina of Lahore, Pakistan. Sakina is 48 and the mother of two sons and four daughters. Her husband is a milkman who delivers fresh milk to households and businesses. 

Her husband is in the classic catch-22 of the small business person. In order to increase his income, he needs to have more milk to sell; to have more milk he needs to buy another buffalo. In order to buy another buffalo he needs money, but he has not been able to accumulate enough money to buy a second buffalo. In order to help her family, Sakina has requested a loan so that her husband can buy a second buffalo. 

Sakina and her husband are thankful to BRAC Pakistan for the opportunity to have access to a small business loan and are hopeful that having a better income will enable them to provide a better future for their children.

BRAC Pakistan focuses its work in some of the most underdeveloped parts of Pakistan, characterized by poor infrastructure and high levels of poverty. BRAC Pakistan enables people living in some of Pakistan's poorest areas to access financial services. 

About BRAC Pakistan

BRAC Pakistan is a subsidiary of BRAC, one of the world’s largest development organizations with a focus on microfinance and economic empowerment. It offers micro-loans designed to help small businesses, very poor clients and others, in addition to health and education services. Kiva’s flexible, zero-interest capital will enable BRAC to expand its outreach in underserved regions and to women who have had no access to microfinance services.

This is a Group Loan

In a group loan, each member of the group receives an individual loan but is part of a larger group of individuals. The group is there to provide support to the members and to provide a system of peer pressure, but groups may or may not be formally bound by a group guarantee. In cases where there is a group guarantee, members of the group are responsible for paying back the loans of their fellow group members in the case of delinquency or default.

Kiva's Field Partners typically feature one borrower from a group. The loan description, sector, and other attributes for a group loan profile are determined by the featured borrower's loan. The other members of the group are not required to use their loans for the same purpose. Each will use her loan to finance her own small business. 

Consider becoming a KIVA lender today! With only $25.00 you can change the life of a hardworking small business person in the Third World, help a family build a decent home, send a young person to school, pay for medical expenses, buy seed for a crop or livestock for a farm. In short you could provide the miracle someone is praying for this Christmas. 

Shaken and Stirred

I had to go have some lab work this afternoon, and never one to waste an opportunity, I popped into the Wall-to-Wall-Mart for a bit of fruit and veg before coming home. 

Now our local WalMart is attached to the rest of the mall by a wide hallway which fronts the store. It’s all windows above the four foot level, and there are benches to rest on.  As I came out of the WalMart, standing at the entrance to the hallway was a young woman, holding a sign. 

You may not know that Calgary’s economic engine, no pun intended, is oil-fired. The price of oil has dropped from over $100 US a barrel to $36 a barrel in the last 10 months, and Calgary’s economy has done a swan dive.  There are probably 40,000 unemployed people in Calgary right now.  The oil companies have slashed staff to the bone, or closed altogether. Companies which serviced oil companies have collapsed. Just this last week a major national realtor closed all six of its Calgary offices. People are hurting. 

But this is the first time I’d ever seen this. A pleasant, clean, well-dressed woman in her mid-30s holding a sign which said, “Please, I have 4 children. I cannot find work and I have no money for food or diapers. Any help gratefully received.”  She looked straight ahead,  resolute. Only desperation could have brought her to this on a bitter December afternoon. 

I stopped and dug around for my wallet. Everyone was walking past her, as if she wasn’t there. All I had on me was a $5.00 bill. It wasn’t enough. I pushed my cart up to her and folded the bill into her hand. “I wish it were more,” I said, “but it’s all I have on me.” 

“Thank you, thank you!” she said, “it’s... just...” and her eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away. 

Another young woman approached us, “Don’t feel bad,” she said, “I’ve been in your shoes. What do you need most, right now, something that's expensive for you to buy ...”

“Diapers, size 4.” 

“Got it,” the young woman answered. “Two packs, I’ll be right back.”

And another one, “Do your kids like bananas?” And a big bunch of bananas was handed over. Other food was passed to her, until she had several bags of food sitting around her. 

I stood and talked to her for no more than five minutes and in that five minutes a woman handed her two $20.00 bills, someone else handed her a $50.00 bill, someone else a handful of change, a $10.00 bill, with each one was a word of encouragement or comfort. Another woman coming in said she was just starting her shopping but on learning the young woman had walked to the mall said she’d help her shop and take her home afterwards. 

All of these were women, from young mothers with babies to grandmothers, but there was not a hint of censure or disapproval, nor of pity. The feeling was we are all mothers together. We all contribute to feed and care for society’s children, and sometimes any of us might need a little help.  

                                    

"The Tree Boss! The Tree!"

I happily crawl toward Christmas. I managed to gather myself together and get out the door by 3:00 pm yesterday to go shopping for groceries, catz fud and gifties, mostly of the stocking stuffer variety, but also to replace the boombox mentioned in my last post. 

I returned the one purchased earlier which apparently was the reincarnation of Tony’s grandmother’s coffee grinder. That appliance came to a gruesome end when Tony and his brother, ages six and eight, decided to grind rocks in it in 1947. I don’t see why I have to be haunted by the darn thing’s ghost. I’m not the one who put rocks in it. Why should I be smacked in the head with the karma which rightly belongs to two naughty little boys?   

Never mind, this time I bought a cheap CD, unpacked the new boombox, plugged it into one of the store’s outlets and did a test drive. Satisfied I had a CD player and not another appliance in disguise I stuffed it back in the box and went upon my merryful way. 

Negotiating the aisles was very much like playing with one of those puzzles where there is a picture made up of scrambled squares inside a frame and only one empty space. Someone, somewhere, had to move for anyone, anywhere, to move. No one cared, there was lots of laughing and reaching over heads and passing of boxes and bottles down the line, except for one little boy about nine who got separated from his mother in the crowd and panicked. He didn’t speak English and was howling in terror.  It took two or three minutes to find someone who spoke whatever language the poor kid was speaking and to make a “Lost Child Call” in his language on the PA system. He was being comforted and fed chocolate by two clerks when his substantial Mama arrived to claim him. 

Since the sun goes down at 4:30 it was black dark by the time I finished shopping. I ran by our favourite Thai place to pick up dinner and somehow in the dark made a wrong turn on my way home and ended up in a strange neighbourhood. I had absolutely no idea where I was, and I got completely turned around. I ended up coming out on a busy street a couple of miles west of where I thought I was.  I couldn’t turn left toward home across traffic so had to turn back the other way and drive toward downtown until I found a light and could circle around.  This is why they don’t let me drive the firetruck! 

I finally got the “tree” up and decorated. The “tree” is a two-foot-high stick with some others sticks poking out of it, all wrapped in what appears to be coloured hockey tape. Each branch ends in a tiny LED light. We have an actual tree hidden away in a box in the hall closet, but we also have an extremely naughty cat who is determined to do away with the tree and decorations as quickly as they can be put up. So this tiny tree is six feet ( 2 m) off the ground on a narrow shelf he can’t jump on.  

But I rather like this bare little stick. It reminds me of my maternal grandfather Henry Clark. He always slipped out on Christmas Eve and cut an evergreen tree and decorated it with paper chains, strings of popcorn and tiny candles for his children to wake up to on Christmas morning. One Christmas they were living on the Oklahoma prairie and there were no evergreens for miles. He solved his "tree" problem by buying a roll of red crepe paper, cutting a small oak tree, wrapping the trunk and branches in red crepe paper and seating the tree in a coffee can full of plaster. On each branch he put a candle, and he draped the branches in their usual paper chains and popcorn garlands.  

My next Christmas task is the wrapping of gifts, but I’m also going to make gluten-free fruitcake for my fellas and I wanted to share the recipe. It’s not in the trad loaf shape, but it tastes good all the same. I guess if I run short of time I can always just drink the brandy and eat the fruit in my porridge. LOL   

Gluten-free Fruitcake

Ingredients

• 3/4 cup (175 mL) chopped dried apricots
• 3/4 cup (175 mL) chopped golden raisins
• 1/2 cup (125 mL) candied ginger
• 1/2 cup (125 mL) dark raisins
• 1/2 cup (125 mL) chopped dried figs
• 1 cup (250 mL) brandy
• 1 cup (250 mL) gluten-free all-purpose baking flour
• 1 tsp (5 mL) baking soda
• 1 tsp (5 mL) cinnamon
• 1 pinch ground cloves
• 1 pinch ground allspice
• 1/4 cup (60 mL) chopped toasted walnuts
• 1/4 cup (60 mL) toasted pine nuts
• 1/2 cup (125 mL) butter, softened
• 1/2 cup (125 mL) packed brown sugar
• 3 eggs
• 1/4 tsp (1 mL) salt

Preparation

• Line 8-inch (2 L) square metal cake pan with parchment paper; set aside.

• In saucepan, combine apricots, golden raisins, ginger, dark raisins and figs; stir in brandy. Bring to boil; reduce heat and simmer until no liquid remains, 6 to 8 minutes. Cover and let cool, 15 minutes. 

• In bowl, whisk gluten-free baking flour, baking soda, cinnamon, salt, cloves and allspice; transfer 2 tbsp (25 mL) to small bowl. Set aside remaining mixture.

• Add walnuts and pine nuts to flour in small bowl; toss to coat.

• In large bowl, beat butter with sugar until fluffy; beat in eggs, 1 at a time. Stir in flour mixture just until combined. Stir in fruit mixture and nut mixture. Scrape into prepared pan, smoothing top. 

• Bake in centre of 300°F (150°C) oven until cake tester inserted in centre comes out clean, about 1 hour. Let cool in pan on rack. (Make-ahead: Wrap in plastic wrap and store at room temperature for up to 2 days.)

The Stage is Sorta Set

Ian and I went shopping yesterday. He took me downtown to a mall which has several shops which carry imported/Asian goodies, and to the fancy “Natural” foods store, which carries all kinds of goods, from organic veggies to hand-woven baskets from Central America. 

It’s been unusually warm for the last 10 days, and by warm I mean 10 degrees higher than our normal temperature, so ranging from 8-10 degrees C, or in the high 40s-low 50s F. Yesterday it was 10 C (50F) . Snow was predicted for today, and has begun to fall, along with the temperature. It’s now 0 C (32 F). 

I had ambitious plans for today; I was going to clean house, put up the Christmas tree (not much to that) and wrap gifts. The truth is that I haven’t accomplished a bleeding thing. Ugh, today's energy budget was spent shopping yesterday, what little may have been left the dropping barometer stole. 

I did one thing when I got home last night which was hang the string of prayer flags I bought. I tied one end to the bracket for the blinds in the dining room, pulled the string across the dining room/kitchen, down the hallway, around the doorframe into the living room and still had about six feet left, so I wrapped the string around the bracket holding the cherub, and pulled the remaining flags down and behind Tony’s model ship. Next summer the flags will go outside on the deck to flutter in the breeze and add some colour, but for now they add some welcome colour, and who knows, maybe some happy happy, inside. These winter days are so grey. 

I still have some shopping to do. We stick to mostly practical gifts at Christmas time, clothes and other items we need. But we decided to buy a boombox to replace our old one which died a year or so ago, as we have a lot of Christmas music and my new computer has no CD slot. When I shopped last week I bought a boombox but it is suffering from an identity crisis, and believes itself to be a coffee grinder. I have to return it and go shopping for one at a different store. 

I do try to buy one “fun” item for each of us. And then there are the stocking stuffers, the chocolate bar, a tin whistle or child’s puzzle, a bar of scented soap or lip balm, always an apple, an orange, nuts and hard candy and cheeses. Christmas is about these traditions carried from year to year. 

I don’t know about you but I am fed right up with the news and have turned it off. The only good news is that Canadian-sponsored Syrian refugees will begin arriving at the end of the week and it looks like the Paris Climate Conference is going to be much more successful than any of its predecessors and there will be some kind of binding agreement reached. And I’ve pretty much had it with FB for the time being. I don’t think I’ll open it again until after Christmas. 

So, I'm off to be bizzy - TTYL! 

The Loveliest Gift

I was looking through my blog for a recipe and started reading some old posts and came on this one from 2009. Lots of water under the bridge since then, but the post is as true as ever. Tony and I have been married 50 years, and he's still the solid, quiet presence the family rotates around. I've spent time with couples and families who constantly quarrel and bicker, who say unkind things to each other. It's painful for me to even visit in a home like that, and I can only imagine the unhappiness in the hearts of those who live there. 

Ian, Tony and Salvador the cat in 2008

Tony faced serious health challenges from the time our eldest son Ian was a newborn. Because he was often unable to work for extended periods we never had much money when our boys were growing up. He was sometimes the stay-at-home parent while I worked outside the home, but this was in many ways a blessing, as it gave him an extraordinary amount of time to spend with his sons. 

He often expresses amazement at our boys' fearlessness, their ability to turn their hand to almost anything, to repair anything, to build anything, to figure out anything, and he never stops to think that they learned these skills at his side, as he taught them to hold a hammer, use a saw, wire a plug, frame a wall or repair an engine. 

They didn't have designer jeans or sneakers, but they apparently had what they needed to grow into well-rounded, productive adults, which was an incredibly gentle and patient father by their side. We are so proud of our sons, they are everything we ever hoped they would be and more. But they are that in great part because their father poured his whole life into them. 

Zak and Tony 2009

We are not shy about telling them how much they are loved and appreciated and on Father's Day 2009 Zak wrote a lovely note to his Dad which meant more to him than any material gift could have. He wrote in part, "I started thinking about the various gifts that you've given your family over the years and that I've probably never fully thought about or thanked you for.

Growing up, I remember you and Mammy having hard times but never being mean to each other, even when we were broke, sick and deeply stressed out. Despite all the trouble I made and got into, you were never mean to me either - and I know what a terrible handful I must have been. I didn't realize that this was anything out of the ordinary until I started to spend time with other families and understood that the love, gentleness and kindness that you showed each other, Ian and I, and the others in our life was extraordinary. 

As I've grown older and am not so invulnerable, I further understand that you both made many hard choices while dealing with real challenges. These gifts of love, kindness, patience and gentleness are some of the most important things in my life.

Watching (and sometimes helping with) your projects taught me to be inventive, thrifty and determined. I now know that most things can be repurposed, most plans are guidelines rather than rules, and given time and enough 2x4s, I know that most things can be built. I also improved my vocabulary from being near you when the projects were in their more difficult stages. ;-)

I'm grateful for all of these things and much more. I'm so proud to have you as a father and hope one day to do as well with my own children."

Love,

Zak

[edit] After Ian read this post he wrote,"That was a very nice letter that Zak wrote. People often marvel at my level of resourcefulness and mechanical ability... I usually explain it by saying my parents weren't afraid of doing anything, least of all learning or trying something new." 

-- 

The First Casualties of Fatigue

I was happy to be able to shop yesterday and restock the larder, which had grown pretty bare, but the physical work of loading and unloading and loading and unloading wore me out.    

I’ve been troubled by insomnia for months. Thursday night I didn’t sleep until after 5:00 am. and even then I had not a single hour’s uninterrupted sleep.  Last night, even after shopping it was 4:30 before I slept and I woke this morning before 9:00.  I’m tired!  

Tao de Ching 

Verse 15 

…when a man is in turmoil how shall he find peace
Save by staying patient till the stream clears?
How can a man's life keep its course
If he will not let it flow?
Those who flow as life flows know
They need no other force:
They feel no wear, they feel no tear,
They need no mending, no repair.

As you probably know the first casualties of fatigue are serenity and a sense of proportion. I am hyperflexible in both body and mind; to put it another way, I can easily shake hands with myself behind my back, but I also easily get bent out of shape when people spout racist, bigoted claptrap on Facebook, or aggressively defend candidates who do. While I am able to keep their antics from disturbing my “inner” environment when I am rested and feeling reasonably well, I find it very difficult to keep them outside my skin when I am this tired. I get my innards in a wildstorm. 

I want to grab them and give them a good hard shake and scream, “Do you have any idea what you are promoting?” 

While I know the GOP candidates are all scrapping for 10 second sound bites on the evening news and feel like they have to say ever more outlandish and frankly stupid stuff to get attention, it’s getting harder to beat Trump on stupid, though Lord knows several of them are working that pump handle.

For a while I’d think, “Boy, that remark is going to take him down,” when Trump would say something outrageous, but it seems he knows his audience. The more bigoted, stupid, outlandish and ignorant the remark, the more his followers hop up and down and hoot with glee. Finally, a politician for the common man, the very common man, apparently. 

As the last of the generation that saw the rise of Nazi Germany dies, the generations following have no memory of what happened in the years between 1941 and 1945 when the Nazis systematically murdered six million Jews, along with five million others Hitler found “unfit”, including the mentally and physically disabled. In total, the Third Reich killed 11 million people, not counting those killed in the war. 

And it started just like this, singling out those who were in any way different than Hitler's fantasy "Aryan" race  and claiming their differences made them "less valuable" or "less desirable". In today's world this concept is even more outrageous since we know genetically the variance between humans is minuscule. Your "ethnicity" depends very much on how you shuffle the genetic deck. Among my DNA cousins are African Americans, Latinos, Native Americans, Chinese, an Icelander, Brits, French, Norwegians and Finns, plus the melting pot of nationalities which comprise the US and Canada. 

It is well to be cautious when you decide to start getting riled up against your fellow citizenry because of colour, religion, national origin or the way he parts his hair or cooks his fish, because as Voltaire said, "Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities." Thus I am left in apprehension at this talk of databases and armbands for Muslims, the wholesale deportation of Latinos, the shipping of immigrants back to their home countries, the building of walls around borders. A man aspiring to be president of the USA who encourages violent racism and bigotry and mocks the disabled is not only an unfit candidate but frightening. If I still lived in the USA I’d be inconsolable that this brutish lout has not been hounded from the running by now. 

As I shopped yesterday I felt completely at ease among my United Nations of neighbours. Here is where I find peace and kindness, from the young Latino man who untangled my cart at the door going in, to the Japanese checkout lady who packed my bags light and then loaded half of them into the cart for me to the Black man who carried my huge new cat tree to the car.

The store was busy. The aisles were packed. Muslim women wearing the hijab (head scarf), a few wearing the niqab (face covering), a few Sikh women wearing a turban, families dressed up for Christmas portraits milling around the portrait studio, people from everywhere dressed up fancy and little girls with big bows and lots of ruffles.  Everyone had to negotiate for space. I am never in a hurry - who are we kidding? I move at a turtle’s pace, so I always let people go by me. Like life, you have to let traffic flow in the WalMart. I talk to the babies.  We get along just fine. 

A Real Thanksgiving

PM Trudeau, Mrs. Trudeau and children 

I should have posted this on October 20th, the day after the election, but I was too overcome with emotion, and busy pinching myself, and hoping not to awaken from the dream. 

I admit to having been in a long-standing funk caused primarily by living under the increasingly racist and scientifically hostile Conservative Government. 

Watching the policies of the Canadian Government dragged down by a man who represented the worst of his Party was painful in the extreme. But the recent election, in which the Conservative Party was rejected with decisive force, proved that Canadians will not stand for the institutionalization of racism and bigotry into their Government.

One of the many final straws in the game of political pick-up sticks was learning that not only had the Harper Government closed the monitoring stations for Fisheries, Oceans and Arctic Climate and Regional Libraries but he had 50 years of climate, fisheries and biological data destroyed so it could not be used to show climate change, including the life's work of biological scientists who had donated it to libraries expecting it to be preserved for future reference. If there was a sector of society Stephen Harper hadn't offended, other than his very wealthy friends in the oil sector, and the far-right "Dominionist" Christians who feel that protecting the environment is against God's will, I'm not sure who it was. 

Other than Albertans of course. Most Albertans are like the old Scot (with a very frugal wife) who went out of his own village to Edinburgh for the first time in his life to serve on a jury and stayed in a hotel. First day at breakfast the waitress came to the table; he ordered porridge. At lunch he ordered porridge. At dinner he ordered porridge. Second day; At breakfast he ordered porridge. At lunch he ordered porridge. At dinner he ordered porridge. Third day; At breakfast he ordered porridge. At lunch he ordered porridge. At dinner he ordered porridge. 

The waitress finally asked him, "Man, do ye eat nothin' else but porridge?" 

He looked up at her with a puzzled expression and said, "Is there else?" 

That's the Alberta voter. If he/she didn't come from away since last election they don't know there's else but Conservative.   

But as usual I have digressed. The Leader of the Liberal Party and our new Prime Minister, Mr. Trudeau, has a fine head on his shoulders. Within 24 hours of his swearing in he had begun setting the wrongs of the previous government to rights, a process he continues. 

As he said while addressing the Paris Climate Talks within the past few hours, “My very good friends, Canada is back.” 

And I will add, Thanks be to God!  

Zoot Picklemass

Really, I should just stay the hell off Facebook. I am by nature an essayist and no one has the attention span to read more than a seven word meme on FB. Honestly, someone posted a 20 word meme with the comment, "I know it's a bit long, but please take the time to read..." the other day. 

 So, I've decided to inflict my highly opinionated self on my blog reader, assuming I have one. And if I have one, I'm sure that difficulty will soon be quickly resolved.

The following tedious essay was written in response to the 10th or 12th  meme such as the one accompanying; the likes of which, as you may or may not know, are most often simply link bait. "Like" or "share" it and all the information you have shared with Facebook slides right into the database of the originators of the meme through a bit of clandestine software. 

 If your concern is to "Keep Christ in Christmas", then you should celebrate his birth in April, when it almost certainly occurred, ("There were shepherds in the fields keeping watch o'er their flocks by night.." ) The only time of the year shepherds are out in the fields at night is when the ewes are lambing, and this takes place in April, in the spring, not in the dead of winter.

 The big celebration in December is actually the continuation of the Roman Feast of Saturnalia, a 10 day orgy of drinking, uninhibited sex, gift exchanges and throwing off the roles of servant/slave and master which took place in Ancient Rome at the Winter Solstice. 

 The 4th Century Romans were so loathe to give up Saturnalia that it was a disincentive to join the newly adopted Christianity of Constantine's Empire. So the Roman Church simply said, "Let's rename it "CHRIST'S MASS", make everyone to go to church at midnight on the 24th and they can party hearty afterward." That solved the problem. 

 The party-pooping Puritans (have you guessed that I have several notable Puritans as ancestors?) came along in the 1600's and felt that even acknowledging Christmas was sinful. But then they thought having buttons on your shirt was a sinful adornment. They were very SOMBRE folk. (But I digress.) They and the Calvinists, another group of religious sour-pusses, managed to get the celebration of Christmas banned for a century or so in England. 

 Meanwhile German reformer Martin Luther began the custom of bringing an evergreen tree into the church, and placing small candles on the branches, to symbolize God's everlasting love for mankind. The custom of bringing a tree indoors came to America with German emigrants. Which is why we go to Walmart and buy a plastic tree made in China, with 600 fibre-optic lights which change colour every 15 seconds for only $149.99. 

 The modern celebration of Christmas didn't really take off until the Victorian era. Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" popularized the celebration of Christmas, but if you look at the book itself Dickens concentrates entirely on the precepts of societal responsibility for each other, kindness to others, paying fair wages, feeding those in want and helping the sick. Scrooge learned that true joy was gained by giving, not by grasping. 

 In short, though I have taken some 10,000 words (slight exaggeration) to say so, "Keeping Christ in Christmas" is not done by saying, "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy Holidays", or "Zoot Picklemass" (which sounds pretty awesome, and I may start saying it from now on!) Christ is kept in Christmas only when he is found living in our hearts, whatever the season, and with or without buttons on our shirts. So, "Zoot Picklemass" my dearly beloved reader. May this be one of your most joyous Picklemasses ever!

KIVA Loan #74 Sept 2015

Our KIVA loan this month goes to Mohammad, a 30-year-old single man from Khan Younis, Gaza Strip, which is both a city and a refugee camp. He lives with his family in a small, old house. He is the only breadwinner in the family, and they depend on him for support. 

Mohammad has a medical laboratory in the city. It is a good business and provides him with a good income, but the economic situation in the Gaza Strip is bad because of the ongoing conflict in the area. 

Mohammad applied for a loan from KIVA Partner “Palestine for Credit & Development” or “FATEN” to buy a new modern analysis device for his lab, which will offer a wider range of medical testing to patients. This new device will enable him to increase his services to patients and increase his income. Eventually he hopes to save enough money to get married.

FATEN is a non-profit organization that provides micro- and small loans to economically-active entrepreneurs in Palestine. Originally founded as program of the Save the Children Federation, FATEN spun off and became completely independent in 1999.

Initially, FATEN served only women micro-entrepreneurs, but has grown to include men as well. Now it operates through 20 branches across the West Bank and Gaza. Its growing staff travels extensively to towns, villages and refugee camps throughout the regions surrounding its branch offices.

FATEN aims to expand financial access for marginalized communities. It also supports projects in new and existing economic sectors, as well as farmers who own land isolated by Israel’s separation wall. To ensure that people benefit from their loans, FATEN provides considerable follow-up services.

Since its inception, FATEN has focused on social responsibility. This extends to humanitarian, developmental, environmental, educational and health initiatives, in addition to economic outreach for women and youth. 80% of the beneficiaries that have received loans from FATEN are women.

FATEN’s unique lending approach

FATEN’s credit products include group, environmental, small investor and housing improvement loans.  The institution has also launched projects targeting young people in Palestine.  Student and computer loans help Palestinian youth obtain higher education and gain diplomas. This success qualifies them to access labor markets and to secure brighter futures for themselves and families.

Please consider making a $25 KIVA loan today. This small amount, combined with the loans of other KIVA lenders, can provide a hardworking man or woman almost anywhere in the world you choose with access to a micro-finance loan of a few hundred to a one or two thousand dollars, which can be paid back in small weekly or monthly payments. Such small amounts can enable a mother to make enough profit to send a child to school, or buy medicine to treat a persistent infection. It's good Karma. :)   

A Day Crowded With Incident

It was a day “crowded with incident”, to quote Lady Bracknell of Oscar Wilde’s play; “The Importance of Being Earnest”.  

Our weather has been a yo-yo of summer to winter to summer again. We had a day of heavy rain and then snow on Thursday, sandwiched neatly between hot summer days. Weather changes flatten me as effectively as a steamroller, and I was flatter than a crépe this morning. 

Add to that a subluxed L5 vertebrae which is impinging the nerves going down my legs so I feel as if I have a bad sunburn on my thighs. The darn vertebrae keeps slipping in and out, when it’s in I’m fine, when it pops out, not so much. Loosey-goosey me.  

I was sitting here reading at about 1:00 when the smoke alarm started shrieking. My first thought was, grab the cats, get them in the carriers and head downstairs but when I stood up and looked into the kitchen it was full of thick smoke! The fire was here! Yikes!

Tony came running from the bedroom saying, “What did I do?” He’d put the kettle on the front burner to boil water for tea, but turned on the back burner by mistake. I keep my bamboo cutting board on that burner because we never use it, and yes, I know this is a dumb/ stupid place to keep something flammable, and he'd wandered off and laid down for a nap, and now the cutting board was on fire!  

I grabbed the cutting board with my silicone glove, dropped it in the sink and doused the blaze with water, but the place was thick with choking smoke. We turned on the exhaust fans in kitchen and bathroom, put the fans in the windows to pull the smoke out and opened the front door to increase air circulation, but 12 hours later it still reeks in here. Guess I need to look for ways to remove the smell of smoke. 

But all that adrenaline wired me up, and when our older son Ian sent me an e-mail at 2:00 asking if I wanted to go for a walk later I said yes, despite my misgivings and the state of my back. 

When he arrived about 4:00 we decided to go in my car since I have trouble climbing into his Land Cruiser. However my car wouldn’t start. I haven’t been anywhere in weeks and even then I’ve not driven any further than to the doctor’s office 12 blocks away in three months. While I was waiting for him to dig out the trickle charger cord from under the hood I felt a tickle on my arm and, without thinking, brushed it away and got nailed by a yellow jacket on my right hand ring finger. That hurt!  It swelled up nicely and is tight and hard to bend. 

I used my walker as a step to crawl into the Land Cruiser and off we went to the newly reopened Inglewood Bird Sanctuary. This is a spot we’ve visited since Ian was four years old, and it’s been closed since Calgary’s big flood of 2013 when it was all underwater and the trails and bridges were washed away. 

It was a gloriously beautiful day, and we had a lovely walk across their beautiful, lush meadow and through the aspens and pines and down to the bridge that crosses a quiet backwater of the Bow River. We watched a little female merganser fishing for minnows, and saw some mallards sleeping in the sun. Other than the briefest  glimpse of a chickadee we didn't see any other birds. The only other “wildlife” we saw were grasshoppers and hornets, all of whom were madly attracted to me, and paid no attention whatsoever to Ian. Every time we paused or sat on a bench, pretty soon there would be a hornet or two buzzing around me. 

On the way home we stopped at the grocer’s, then squeaked in 15 minutes before the roads were closed for Global Fest, the annual fireworks competition which is held in the park across the street from us.  

I was happy to plop into my chair once the groceries were put away. And my bed now looks very inviting. As soon as my pills kick in I am headed there.