// BLOG
Something To Think About . . .
May 24, 2010
Is it possible to have no regrets? Does everything in life have a purpose? What makes something beautiful?
These are just a few questions—ones off the back cover, actually—from a nifty little book I picked up a few years ago called CONSIDER THIS . . . Questions That Make You Think by Barbara Ann Kipfer.
On the recommendation of a friend, I bought the book a few summers ago to use as a journaling prompt. My plan was to open the book (eyes closed) and drag my finger down the blindly chosen page, then to stop, open my eyes and use whatever question I’d randomly arrived at as the jumping off point for a writing session. It worked better than I could ever have hoped.
At a first glance over a question, a pithy one-line answer often leapt to mind, but then as I started to think about the question further (and my rule was that I had to write at least three pages, no editing, no censoring, no stopping), my answers suddenly became circular and opened up more questions, suggested new, related ideas, generated scenarios for could-be stories . . .
For example, “If everyone thinks you are wrong, are you wrong?” triggered a journal entry that ended with, Take in advice offered. Weigh criticism with a level head, as unswayed by emotional response as possible. And in the end, pray you have the guts to act on what you believe is right and good, no matter what everyone else thinks.
The story idea it triggered reads thus: If everyone thinks you’re wrong, are you? That’s the question Brenham must do battle with when his village, plagued by natural disaster, then subsequent illness and poverty, decides that Aster, the physically deformed daughter of a village outcast is responsible for the troubles and makes plans to burn her as a witch. Brenham realizes that despite any consequences, he must save her. And if he was expecting gratitude—at least on her or her family’s behalf, he is painfully misguided.
What is grace? Is it ever right to break a promise? When is a terrorist not a freedom fighter?
If you like to meander about in your own head, figuring out what you think about life and living, this book might be just the treat you need this summer. Make fresh coffee (or pour an iced-tea), grab the book (and paper and a pen—or not), and find a secluded place outside to sit and mull, semi-regularly . . . I think you’ll find it fun, interesting, and even, at times, a bit surprising.
Originally published in The Terrace Standard, May 19, 2010
Age and Wisdom
March 24, 2010
I’ve always liked to think that as I grow older, I will learn important truths about how best to live, about what’s truly valuable, beautiful, worthy to pursue, etc . . . Unfortunately, though, while aging is a given, my hopeful equation, years = wisdom and altruism, is not.
A recent online news story about two sisters who haven’t spoken for over five years because of a squabble over lottery winnings proves my point.
Apparently, one sister won ½ a million dollars. The other claimed she was “owed” half. Now they’re finally in court and their petty bickering is big news splayed all over the Internet. It seems the sister insisting the winnings be split has a legal argument.
The two women gambled together regularly for years, always split their winnings, and even went so far as having a contract drawn up stating that they would divide all winnings.
Seems clear cut, except that it’s not—or so the winning sister argues. She claims that they fought and severed all communication a year prior to the big win and that severing included an end to any co-operative gambling.
I’m not curious about how it turns out. I was completely mouth-hanging-open baffled by them. These two very elderly women have not spoken to each other in five years. Because of greed. How much longer can they spend money anyway? And on what?
It doesn’t matter who “wins.” Both women are impoverished and saddest of all, they don’t even see how.
Then another Internet kafuffle caught my eye. Miley Cyrus, a teen star with hit TV series, movies, and a pop music career to her credit, is scheduled to be a mentor on the next season’s American Idol. The controversy? Her youth. Apparently a lot of people think she’s too young to have any advice of value.
That attitude baffles me. Who hasn’t learned from their children? Or figured out something of life long importance in their youth? Miley Cyrus fan or not, anyone wanting to be an entertainer could do a lot worse than listen to the advice of a teenager with her experience.
Those stories struck me as especially tragic and ludicrous, because they contrasted so dramatically with an event I got to take in last week: our local 4H club’s speech arts competition.
Youth of all ages presented speeches they’d written. With humour, great descriptions and thoughtful construction, they showed that you’re never too young to work on your ability to communicate, to celebrate your relationships, or share your passion—whether that be operating heavy machinery, raising floppy eared goats, writing stories, skiing or snowboarding, learning about animals and insects, studying Egypt, or so much more.
The young presenters showed that knowing what’s important and valuable in life—wisdom—turns out not to be about age at all. It’s about attitude. Experience can and should lend to wisdom, but you have to want it to. Thankfully that desire is something we can cultivate now, whether we’re 6, 16, or 79!
And if we take wrong turns, value the wrong things at times in our lives? Well, we don’t run out of chances. I wish those sad sisters luck—and not the kind that comes with a string of zeros, the kind that shows them they’re missing the point of living.
Originally published in The Terrace Standard, March 23, 2010
A New Year . . . At Last
January 28, 2010
The just-finished first month of 2010 was weird for me. Usually I’m the kind of person who, while excited to ring in a new year, feels nostalgic for the year past and laments the fast passage of time. This year I wished I was sad to see 2009 go, but I wasn’t. I was (am!) happy to have it behind me.
There were some good times and some important, lovely moments, but bigger parts of the year were, for a variety of reasons, really difficult—for me and for my family. And when I thought about potential goals for 2010, I wondered whether I should even “do” resolutions this year.
But since I always have things that I want to accomplish/change/try, I decided I would—but I didn’t put them into words until after a visit at friend’s house.
A bunch of us were discussing whether we were going to do resolutions and why or why not. The pervasive sentiment was “No . . . they just fail anyway.”
My husband, who doesn’t usually bother with resolutions, mentioned that one year he’d resolved to catch a Steelhead and a Spring.
Someone laughed. “That’s not a resolution. Resolutions are supposed to bring pain, be horrible—you’re supposed to change something about yourself that you don’t like—like quitting smoking, or stopping drinking, or losing weight.”
The conversation moved on, but I was still thinking. Is that right? Is that what a resolution is—a vow to change whatever we hate most about ourselves and/or our habits, even (or especially!) if the attempt makes us miserable?
Why should it be like that? Why not resolve to let ourselves do the things that bring us joy, cause pleasure, and create mental and emotional energy? Why not spend more time fishing?
A theme for my year was born: 2010 – My Year of More. Here are just a few of the things I’m looking forward to doing more of:
More Wii video games. More gallivanting to interesting, out of the way spots. More talking with husband and kids—in a “go for coffee” meandering-conversation way, not just to relay information, get information.
More time praying, reading my bible, thinking, stretching . . . More hanging out with my friends. More camping . . .
I don’t know how your 2009 went, but even if it was great in every way (and I hope it was), I’m sure you wouldn’t mind more good things in 2010. And I don’t know how your resolutions are coming along either, but I suspect, seeing as it’s February, some have fallen by the wayside and you’re beating yourself up.
Give yourself a break and go do something just because you like to do it—then repeat, repeat, repeat. I suspect that when we do more of what we enjoy, hard things don’t have the same power to pull us down and vices lose their grip . . . All the best in 2010. When the time comes, may we be sad to see it go.
First published in The Terrace Standard, January 27, 2010
Merry Memories
December 23, 2009
I love to peruse and admire the “new” looks of Christmas in storefront windows and aisles every year, but I rarely buy anything decorating-wise anymore. In the first years of my married life, it was our tradition to buy one holiday decoration every Christmas.
The first year, pre-kids, we purchased an inexpensive box of tiny, ornate wooden ornaments from Northwest Specialities. Each one, be it a baby angel with paper thin wings, or a small Christmas tree, elf, or star, was painted white, detailed with gold and silver, with only the smallest bit of black for eyes and such. They are still my favourite store bought whimsies.
Year two we purchased a myriad of small foil Christmas balls in bright reds, blues, greens, silvers, and gold—and a baby’s first Christmas ornament! Year three’s addition was very special—we splurged on a Victorian village with seven buildings, a train, and lots of little people who sled, carry parcels, chase Christmas geese, and sing carols—there’s even an old-fashioned bobby to keep festivities in line.
A lovely porcelain angel tops our tree, a gift from Nana—my husband’s mom—when our kids were small. Every year when we put her in place and turn on the lights, I still hear the oohs and ahhs my then toddler children made when they first saw the angel’s little candle flame.
A large nativity—something I’d wanted first, but we couldn’t afford—became the living room’s central decoration a few years after that. My kids shuffled the figures around to different places so often that it seemed the animals walked about on their own, while Mary and Joseph took turns pacing with Baby Jesus.
Over the years, the number of our decorations grew bit by bit just like our kids, and homemade treasures for the tree replaced store-bought additions. I love these ornaments from years gone by—when the kids were small—best. It doesn’t matter if they’re torn a bit or worn. If the sparkle is fading or an edge a bit crumpled. As I pull them out one by one from the boxes we’ve accumulated, memories flood back, as strong as the scent of cinnamon.
A red-clay dinosaur, decked out in red and green glitter, joins a host of handcrafted angels made during my years at the now (sadly) defunct Moms’ Time Off. There’s a small clay dog about the size of half my pinky that frolics near similarly rolled and cut-out gingerbread people, a teddy bear, stars and wreathes.
A juice can top picture frame stars my son at four, topped with a red ribbon so it can hang and look pretty. Little painted puzzle piece reindeer sport my children’s names and Rudolph’s nose. And it’s not just memories of the kids our collection triggers.
My little sister gave my husband and me a box of homemade Christmas ornaments one year early in our marriage: pasta angels with the cutest heads of tiny-crinkly noodle hair, little jewel-toned satin balls, and paper drums. I can’t look at them without smiling.
A family of snowmen, labelled with our names, brings my sister-in-law’s face to mind. A origami crane, a cross-stitched card, and similar intricate gifts make my friend Allison—and her five or six year phase where she treated everyone in life annually to a homemade present—flutter into my head.
The Christmas boxes have the same power over the rest of my family as they do me, and listening to them chatter about this memory and that as they unpack things makes me happy that I’ve never weeded out our collection. Even the things too beaten up to make it on the tree bring happy squeals. Stuff is just stuff and I’m usually quick to dismiss it, but in the case of Christmas trinkets, I admit my weak spot. I love the memories sparkling in their shiny surfaces and folded into their fabric.
I hope you experience peace, laughter, and joy this holiday—all things found easily stashed and stored around your home. Merry Christmas.
First published in The Terrace Standard, December 23, 2009
November Nesting – Make a warm drink, grab a book, settle in . . .
November 28, 2009
The snow is coming and accompanying it, with any luck, is some truly nasty weather. Why the ill sounding wish? Wet, white and wind create the perfect excuse (as if you need one!) to do nothing but snuggle into the couch with a book.
If you aren’t nodding your head excitedly at the above scenario, it’s because you’ve forgotten a deep truth. Everyone loves to read. No, seriously, they do. Even if they don’t know it’s true yet. There is, literally, a book or magazine to catch anyone and everyone’s fancy.
Too many people associate books with drudgery: lists of vocab words, pages of comprehension questions, blathering discussions . . . Still others—the horror!—have linked books with feelings of failure, of “not getting it,” of feeling stupid. Some of us have forgotten—or not yet experienced—that reading is a deep pleasure, the silliest form of fun, the most intense, intimate form of personal connection—and the best dang source of practical, factual information out there.
Read widely, read unashamedly, and read what you want. A “fantastic” book is always a matter of personal preference, whether it’s a history of war, a romance, a mystery, or a How-To-Fix-Your-Motorbike manual.
In no particular order, here are a few recommendations—lots of non-fiction, which is weird for me, since I’m a fiction addict, but like I said, good is good.
Searching for the April Moon by Nancy Robertson, a Prince Rupert writer. This stick-with-you collection of personal essays shows the beauty and deep value of relationships, especially within family, even as it explores the damage and confusion we cause accidentally (and sometimes not). We laugh at childhood recollections—and shake our heads with dismay and recognition of life’s harder elements. We ride our bikes in Baja and scurry along rainy Rupert streets. Our hearts break, but we find love again. We disappoint our kids—and are disappointed. We mourn parents as they age and pass away . . . Most of all, we grow to accept and celebrate that relationships don’t have to perfect, or fixed, or even fully understood to be exactly what they’re meant and needed to be.
The Practice of Poetry – Writing Exercises From Poets Who Teach, edited by Robin Behn and Chase Twichell. If you, or anyone you know, expert or novice, dabbles in the form (or wishes to), this is the perfect book. Its short essays inspire thought, and its practical, specific exercises (if completed) give that lovely thrill: I’ve written a poem!
28 Stories of Aids in Africa by Stephanie Nolen. I confess that I recommend this book, newly added to my own to-read pile, on the beset of my friend, Sarah Zimmerman. She couldn’t say enough good things about it, calling it “powerful, insightful and a little heart wrenching.” What really swayed me to decide to read it though was her comment—“It makes you understand why we should care about a place so far away.” It’s not that I don’t care; it’s that sometimes, wrapped up in my own secure life, I can become shamefully insulated against the realities so many other people live.
On a similar note, my husband is still, years later, affected by Shake Hands With the Devil – The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda by Romeo Dallaire. I find such unflinching accounts of the horrible things humans do to each other hard to read, but valuable. Perhaps one day (soon, please) we will know enough to say, It must stop, and make it thus.
Blankets by Craig Thompson is a graphic novel that convinced me that the phrase graphic novel isn’t an oxymoron. Not for children by any stretch, I was (still am) awed by the intensity of emotion and the depth-of-content such “simple” illustrations and text can render. Some folks will hate it, but especially for people with any kind of fundamentalist church background, it’s a deeply moving, thought-provoking book—as sensitive and lovely as it is sharp-fingered poking at a bruise.
And last but not least—I recommend Peter Abrahams. Yes, the whole author, not just one book. I just discovered him this year and thought, “Hey, where have you been all of my life?” If you like crime novels/thrillers, he’s for you—and is, regardless of genre preferences, a stinking good writer. A master.
Here’s to a deliciously cold season of good reading. May you never run out of books—and if you have to venture off the couch, make sure it’s for a truly important reason: a trip to the bookstore. A jaunt to the library.
First published in The Terrace Standard, Nov. 25, 2009
