The constructs of one's living can be well designed to show and conceal at once.
To live with, among and around others and yet be unknown.
Presently absent, absently present.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
i believe
I believe.
I believe in love.
I believe in God, who actually IS love.
Please don't cringe.
I will not thump you with anything or throw preachy barbs in your direction.
I will not talk in any way that is unfamiliar or odd.
Here's some of what I don't believe.
I do not believe in a celestial Santa who metaphorically sits me on his knee and listens as I rhyme off everything I want or think I need.
I don't believe in a Grand Receiver who has no mouth, no words, only ears to hear as I ask and ask and ask.
Nor do I believe in a puppeteer, who pulls my strings for his own amusement.
I certainly don't believe in a mean, punishing deity who finds satisfaction in smashing me with heavy hand.
That's not love.
That's not what he's like.
I don't believe that God is aloof or haughty, 'up there' removed, unfeeling.
I believe his feelings for me (and you) are so deep that there is no adequate measure to describe. He is not all ears, or all heavy hand but all heart. All heart.
Big, beautiful heart so full, if I could only understand it would be my undoing.
I hear him when children say profound things.
I hear him in beautiful songs and in distressing sounds.
I see him sitting on a park bench, half clothed, matted head hung down.
Calling out, stirring up compassion within me.
I call God 'he', but I'm not sure if gender tags are even appropriate when describing this beautiful being.
There is no room in my mind or heart for a God who 'watches us from afar'.
No, I have no room for such a notion.
He is not far.
In fact is very close and as present as the unseen molecules whirling around me and the invisible air I'm breathing. He inhabits atmosphere, he's at home in cloud filled expanse of sky.
He's at home with me and knowing me still has only love in his heart.
I could not believe if I thought that belief in God meant checking my brain at the door, forsaking questions, wearing blinders or becoming hermetically sealed off from 'dirty' society.
It means none of those things. There is no judgmental finger wagging. There are no laws except for love. It is the only one.
You know, I feel for us all as we grapple with genuine spirituality, which is our very own life's breath.
Not the spirituality of self help, of paid for predictions or of exotic cultural magic.
Not the spirituality of incense and ommmm, of secrets, of levels.
Not the spirituality of setting intentions, of aligning chakras.
Not the spirituality of flirting with darkness and engaging powers which ought not to be engaged.
I mean the spirit of truth and life.
The one we are all gasping for in all of our selfish and reckless pursuits.
and we breathe so shallow, and we have spiritual apnea.
Some of us have stopped breathing all together.
We cannot live if we stop breathing.
I can't live.
You can't.
I believe this is true.
If I didn't, I wouldn't say it.
I believe.
I believe in love.
I believe in God, who actually IS love.
Please don't cringe.
I will not thump you with anything or throw preachy barbs in your direction.
I will not talk in any way that is unfamiliar or odd.
Here's some of what I don't believe.
I do not believe in a celestial Santa who metaphorically sits me on his knee and listens as I rhyme off everything I want or think I need.
I don't believe in a Grand Receiver who has no mouth, no words, only ears to hear as I ask and ask and ask.
Nor do I believe in a puppeteer, who pulls my strings for his own amusement.
I certainly don't believe in a mean, punishing deity who finds satisfaction in smashing me with heavy hand.
That's not love.
That's not what he's like.
I don't believe that God is aloof or haughty, 'up there' removed, unfeeling.
I believe his feelings for me (and you) are so deep that there is no adequate measure to describe. He is not all ears, or all heavy hand but all heart. All heart.
Big, beautiful heart so full, if I could only understand it would be my undoing.
I hear him when children say profound things.
I hear him in beautiful songs and in distressing sounds.
I see him sitting on a park bench, half clothed, matted head hung down.
Calling out, stirring up compassion within me.
I call God 'he', but I'm not sure if gender tags are even appropriate when describing this beautiful being.
There is no room in my mind or heart for a God who 'watches us from afar'.
No, I have no room for such a notion.
He is not far.
In fact is very close and as present as the unseen molecules whirling around me and the invisible air I'm breathing. He inhabits atmosphere, he's at home in cloud filled expanse of sky.
He's at home with me and knowing me still has only love in his heart.
I could not believe if I thought that belief in God meant checking my brain at the door, forsaking questions, wearing blinders or becoming hermetically sealed off from 'dirty' society.
It means none of those things. There is no judgmental finger wagging. There are no laws except for love. It is the only one.
You know, I feel for us all as we grapple with genuine spirituality, which is our very own life's breath.
Not the spirituality of self help, of paid for predictions or of exotic cultural magic.
Not the spirituality of incense and ommmm, of secrets, of levels.
Not the spirituality of setting intentions, of aligning chakras.
Not the spirituality of flirting with darkness and engaging powers which ought not to be engaged.
I mean the spirit of truth and life.
The one we are all gasping for in all of our selfish and reckless pursuits.
and we breathe so shallow, and we have spiritual apnea.
Some of us have stopped breathing all together.
We cannot live if we stop breathing.
I can't live.
You can't.
I believe this is true.
If I didn't, I wouldn't say it.
I believe.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
who are you?
A kid doesn't know what time is really like.
It seems so stretchy and long.
I didn't know how to inhabit time when I was young, I only knew how to wish it away.
I was in such a hurry to grow up.
It crawled for me.
I was always kicking at it, trying to make it go faster.
I don't do that any more.
Days pass, weeks, months. Is time speeding up now that I don't want it to?
I'm a mother of grownups.
I'm a grandmother.
I'm thinking of retirement planning.
My decades of memories are becoming more like a series of fading vignettes.
I'm a bit shocked that I can recall decades.
Sounds like such an elderly thing to say.
I remember turning 10, riding in our car, hearing my mother say: "You're going to be a whole decade old."
It sounded pretty impressive. I was on my way.
My grandson will turn 10 in a few months. I wonder if he'll be impressed?
It seems odd that I have a grandchild who's getting into the double digits.
When his sisters follow suit I suppose I'll just feel old.
I used to look in the mirror and make faces, make myself look like a skeleton by jutting my lower teeth up over my top lip and widening my eyes scarily. I'd poke around to feel the bones of my eye sockets, play with the cartilage in my nose.
Now I look in the mirror and I put my index fingers on my temples and pull slightly up, to see myself 20 years ago, and sigh when I release my fingers and gravity brings me back to the present.
I stare at myself and wonder "Who are you? How can you be that same goofball kid"?
I certainly don't feel like that kid who used to say 'goodie' when I was happy,
until Valerie Sitnik quietly told me, while sitting next to me on a school bus trip, that I shouldn't say that word any more.
Am I the child who sat and ate dog toothed violets on our front step, or cried when David John Miller threw her beautiful doll down the sewer?
I ride kilometers at a time on my bike, but I have not forgotten the older neighbourhood kids taking me to the top of the street, telling me to sit on my new two wheeler and pushing me down the incline.
I'm the little water baby who walked to the outdoor pool every chance she got and became so darkly tanned that adults would say "My, aren't you brown as a berry?", which I found odd, as I knew of no brown berries.
Watching the moon landing in 1969 on our little black and white set didn't seem a big deal, just another thing to watch, like "Let's Make a Deal" or "Big Al's Cartoon Roundup". I still remember chewing on an oxo bouillon cube because I thought it was chocolate. I can see myself wearing my souvenir wooden shoes from Holland outdoors to play, not caring that they hurt my feet, shredding the soles to splinters. Lurching around Emerson Street's sidewalks in my clunky metal roller skates, turning key tied on a shoelace around my neck. Going from 'baking' doll sized pastries with a 60 watt bulb in my turquoise Easy Bake, to making cakes and pies from the "Five Roses" cookbook at the age of 9, with full stove operating privileges. I remember what a punchy and shovey older sister I sometimes was. Sorry sisters, I was such an ass. I also remember us watching for Nana walking toward our house to babysit us after she finished work. We always hoped she'd have a National Bakery box in her hand, holding it by its string tie, swinging with the rhythm of her steps. Donuts always, our favourite, chocolate glazed.
Weird to think that I grew up so fast that by the time I reached grade 8, bus drivers questioned my use of student tickets and people would shut the door on me at Halloween, shaming me for trick or treating at my age?!
I have an unfortunate memory of being centered out by a loud family friend who, as if seeing me for the first time in my friend Starlene's family kitchen, said: "WOW! I see your training bra broke training!"
After which all eyes went right to my ta tas and my face turned crimson, but nobody was looking there, so they didn't notice.
It was me, that awkward girl, who was embarrassed to wear home made clothing when everyone else wore Lee jeans from Thrifty's, who had no self confidence, blushed with any sort of attention and 'dumbed down' my vocabulary so I wouldn't be made fun of.
It must have been me who was that moody, make-up obsessed girl, dousing herself with Love's Baby Soft and abusing her hair with Sun In and excessive straightening sessions over the bathroom sink. Yes, it was. Always feeling older than everyone else at school, driving that stupid Dodge Omni, with its ridiculous steering column that vibrated like a jack hammer when i applied the brake.
There was also the idiot who walked home from school, with a cigarette hanging jauntily from her fingertips, when her father happened to drive by and catch her. Thankfully it was all about being a poser, so vile and nasty. And thankfully he didn't tell her mother, for if he had she wouldn't be alive to write this now. She's the student who told her high school english teacher that Oedipus Rex was distasteful and didn't want to participate in the study of it, and was sent to the principal's office, to be told 'study or fail'. Both me. Idiot and supposed conscientious objector.
At 15 I met this boy at music camp and knew I would marry him, I don't know how, but I did know this as fact. It made me feel special the way he held doors open for me, walked on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me should any car suddenly go beserk and jump the sidewalk and try to flatten me. How could I not love someone who was willing to be flattened by cars in my place?
This boy proudly introduced me to all his friends as 'my girlfriend' and stared at me with lovely eyes and pronounced me beautiful as I walked toward him in white lace.
Together with that boy - who bore the same name as my elementary school, like God was planting my future husband's name in mind while I happily skipped on the tarmac at recess - we grew up.
I can still see myself as a newlywed, trying to impress my new husband with my cooking, causing us both to gain 15 pounds;
sharing our little attic apartment in a blessedly ghost free century home,
and shoehorning ourselves into our room at night.
Having two cars we couldn't afford to put gas in.
Labouring in the front room, writing my contraction times down on a piece of scrap paper, watching Jan and Dean in concert on the tv.
We had beautiful daughters who went from kicking my innards to riding two wheelers, to driving cars, to independence, when my back was turned.
I can still see Rob, walking the floors at night with our colicky babies, shushing them and holding them close as he paced around the rooms.
I thought to myself even then: "Don't wish this away, it'll go fast enough."
I see our 2-year-old daughter at Victoria Park, running happily toward me with her golden hair bouncing, calling "Mama! Spin me around!!"
I see us putting a candle at our twins' grave that first Christmas after they had passed, praying it would stay lit despite the wind and cold. . and seeing the next morning that it had miraculously melted into a pool of wax, burned right to the quick.
I'm on the deck, putting together our youngest girl's 'big wheel' as her reward for becoming fully day and night potty trained. It looked great and it didn't fall apart!
All those years of diapers, first steps, sloppy baby kisses, pudgy hands picking up cheerios, learning to read, tooth fairy, report cards, girl guides, birthdays and lessons, summer camp, Christmas trees, sunday school, graduations; all swirled together as emotions and boxes and cartons of keepsakes, videos of trips and school plays, photos of bad haircuts I gave them and the tacky clothes I dressed them in. I have this montage of mother memories. Cleaning puke and being peed on. Braiding hair and applying bandaids. Baking cookies for their class and volunteering on school trips. Chasing two girls out from inside the clothing racks at the department store and reading "Sooki, the Saggy Baggy Elephant" before bed for the two hundredth time. It doesn't seem that long ago, but it also feels like eons.
It's funny how one's concept of 'me' changes and yet is always true, reaching back and stretching forward. Time is elastic. Who am I? I am the kid, the lovesick teen, the adult; all those things at once, integrated. I had a Nana and I am a Nana. I was a kid and I have kids and grandkids. I am a wife. I am an employee. I am a tax payer,a home owner and a road weary driver. I even feel myself lapsing into 'senior citizen like fits of temper', as I cluck my tongue at things like loud motorcycles, young male drivers blasting rap so loud I can feel it thumping in my gut, and middle of the night mailbox tippers who wake me up with all their hollering and swearing. I wonder if becoming easily annoyed and crotchety is a middle ager's rite of passage into the 'golden years'? Geez, I hope not. Save me from stereotype.
I'm still not much wiser in this whole area.
Time is time.
It's still slippery and stretchy,
seems to speed up and slow down.
It doesn't change.
But it changes me.
I don't know yet if I've learned how to inhabit time,
but I've learned not to wish it away.
It seems so stretchy and long.
I didn't know how to inhabit time when I was young, I only knew how to wish it away.
I was in such a hurry to grow up.
It crawled for me.
I was always kicking at it, trying to make it go faster.
I don't do that any more.
Days pass, weeks, months. Is time speeding up now that I don't want it to?
I'm a mother of grownups.
I'm a grandmother.
I'm thinking of retirement planning.
My decades of memories are becoming more like a series of fading vignettes.
I'm a bit shocked that I can recall decades.
Sounds like such an elderly thing to say.
I remember turning 10, riding in our car, hearing my mother say: "You're going to be a whole decade old."
It sounded pretty impressive. I was on my way.
My grandson will turn 10 in a few months. I wonder if he'll be impressed?
It seems odd that I have a grandchild who's getting into the double digits.
When his sisters follow suit I suppose I'll just feel old.
I used to look in the mirror and make faces, make myself look like a skeleton by jutting my lower teeth up over my top lip and widening my eyes scarily. I'd poke around to feel the bones of my eye sockets, play with the cartilage in my nose.
Now I look in the mirror and I put my index fingers on my temples and pull slightly up, to see myself 20 years ago, and sigh when I release my fingers and gravity brings me back to the present.
I stare at myself and wonder "Who are you? How can you be that same goofball kid"?
I certainly don't feel like that kid who used to say 'goodie' when I was happy,
until Valerie Sitnik quietly told me, while sitting next to me on a school bus trip, that I shouldn't say that word any more.
Am I the child who sat and ate dog toothed violets on our front step, or cried when David John Miller threw her beautiful doll down the sewer?
I ride kilometers at a time on my bike, but I have not forgotten the older neighbourhood kids taking me to the top of the street, telling me to sit on my new two wheeler and pushing me down the incline.
I'm the little water baby who walked to the outdoor pool every chance she got and became so darkly tanned that adults would say "My, aren't you brown as a berry?", which I found odd, as I knew of no brown berries.
Watching the moon landing in 1969 on our little black and white set didn't seem a big deal, just another thing to watch, like "Let's Make a Deal" or "Big Al's Cartoon Roundup". I still remember chewing on an oxo bouillon cube because I thought it was chocolate. I can see myself wearing my souvenir wooden shoes from Holland outdoors to play, not caring that they hurt my feet, shredding the soles to splinters. Lurching around Emerson Street's sidewalks in my clunky metal roller skates, turning key tied on a shoelace around my neck. Going from 'baking' doll sized pastries with a 60 watt bulb in my turquoise Easy Bake, to making cakes and pies from the "Five Roses" cookbook at the age of 9, with full stove operating privileges. I remember what a punchy and shovey older sister I sometimes was. Sorry sisters, I was such an ass. I also remember us watching for Nana walking toward our house to babysit us after she finished work. We always hoped she'd have a National Bakery box in her hand, holding it by its string tie, swinging with the rhythm of her steps. Donuts always, our favourite, chocolate glazed.
Weird to think that I grew up so fast that by the time I reached grade 8, bus drivers questioned my use of student tickets and people would shut the door on me at Halloween, shaming me for trick or treating at my age?!
I have an unfortunate memory of being centered out by a loud family friend who, as if seeing me for the first time in my friend Starlene's family kitchen, said: "WOW! I see your training bra broke training!"
After which all eyes went right to my ta tas and my face turned crimson, but nobody was looking there, so they didn't notice.
It was me, that awkward girl, who was embarrassed to wear home made clothing when everyone else wore Lee jeans from Thrifty's, who had no self confidence, blushed with any sort of attention and 'dumbed down' my vocabulary so I wouldn't be made fun of.
It must have been me who was that moody, make-up obsessed girl, dousing herself with Love's Baby Soft and abusing her hair with Sun In and excessive straightening sessions over the bathroom sink. Yes, it was. Always feeling older than everyone else at school, driving that stupid Dodge Omni, with its ridiculous steering column that vibrated like a jack hammer when i applied the brake.
There was also the idiot who walked home from school, with a cigarette hanging jauntily from her fingertips, when her father happened to drive by and catch her. Thankfully it was all about being a poser, so vile and nasty. And thankfully he didn't tell her mother, for if he had she wouldn't be alive to write this now. She's the student who told her high school english teacher that Oedipus Rex was distasteful and didn't want to participate in the study of it, and was sent to the principal's office, to be told 'study or fail'. Both me. Idiot and supposed conscientious objector.
At 15 I met this boy at music camp and knew I would marry him, I don't know how, but I did know this as fact. It made me feel special the way he held doors open for me, walked on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me should any car suddenly go beserk and jump the sidewalk and try to flatten me. How could I not love someone who was willing to be flattened by cars in my place?
This boy proudly introduced me to all his friends as 'my girlfriend' and stared at me with lovely eyes and pronounced me beautiful as I walked toward him in white lace.
Together with that boy - who bore the same name as my elementary school, like God was planting my future husband's name in mind while I happily skipped on the tarmac at recess - we grew up.
I can still see myself as a newlywed, trying to impress my new husband with my cooking, causing us both to gain 15 pounds;
sharing our little attic apartment in a blessedly ghost free century home,
and shoehorning ourselves into our room at night.
Having two cars we couldn't afford to put gas in.
Labouring in the front room, writing my contraction times down on a piece of scrap paper, watching Jan and Dean in concert on the tv.
We had beautiful daughters who went from kicking my innards to riding two wheelers, to driving cars, to independence, when my back was turned.
I can still see Rob, walking the floors at night with our colicky babies, shushing them and holding them close as he paced around the rooms.
I thought to myself even then: "Don't wish this away, it'll go fast enough."
I see our 2-year-old daughter at Victoria Park, running happily toward me with her golden hair bouncing, calling "Mama! Spin me around!!"
I see us putting a candle at our twins' grave that first Christmas after they had passed, praying it would stay lit despite the wind and cold. . and seeing the next morning that it had miraculously melted into a pool of wax, burned right to the quick.
I'm on the deck, putting together our youngest girl's 'big wheel' as her reward for becoming fully day and night potty trained. It looked great and it didn't fall apart!
All those years of diapers, first steps, sloppy baby kisses, pudgy hands picking up cheerios, learning to read, tooth fairy, report cards, girl guides, birthdays and lessons, summer camp, Christmas trees, sunday school, graduations; all swirled together as emotions and boxes and cartons of keepsakes, videos of trips and school plays, photos of bad haircuts I gave them and the tacky clothes I dressed them in. I have this montage of mother memories. Cleaning puke and being peed on. Braiding hair and applying bandaids. Baking cookies for their class and volunteering on school trips. Chasing two girls out from inside the clothing racks at the department store and reading "Sooki, the Saggy Baggy Elephant" before bed for the two hundredth time. It doesn't seem that long ago, but it also feels like eons.
It's funny how one's concept of 'me' changes and yet is always true, reaching back and stretching forward. Time is elastic. Who am I? I am the kid, the lovesick teen, the adult; all those things at once, integrated. I had a Nana and I am a Nana. I was a kid and I have kids and grandkids. I am a wife. I am an employee. I am a tax payer,a home owner and a road weary driver. I even feel myself lapsing into 'senior citizen like fits of temper', as I cluck my tongue at things like loud motorcycles, young male drivers blasting rap so loud I can feel it thumping in my gut, and middle of the night mailbox tippers who wake me up with all their hollering and swearing. I wonder if becoming easily annoyed and crotchety is a middle ager's rite of passage into the 'golden years'? Geez, I hope not. Save me from stereotype.
I'm still not much wiser in this whole area.
Time is time.
It's still slippery and stretchy,
seems to speed up and slow down.
It doesn't change.
But it changes me.
I don't know yet if I've learned how to inhabit time,
but I've learned not to wish it away.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
swing
Feels like i sit on this pendulum that swings widely from angst to revelation
and back again, over and over.
I don't like the back again part.
Who wants to go back, when there's forward waiting?
Why don't I jump off at revelation and stay?
I think I'm getting there and I become somehow assured that the years have been working their 'growing up magic' on me,
then I make a misstep, a gaffe,
and feel like an awkward 10-year-old who knows nothing of wisdom
and everything about being foolish
and i learn from realizing I have lots to learn
about people,
about life.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
age
age is playing hopscotch up and down my spine
and silverishly creeping at my temples.
she is settling my inner jumpiness,
a little bit anyway.
she's confering wisdom
which i take in sips,
when i really should take gulps.
no wonder it takes so long
to learn
how to live.
i have thought of age in such negative terms,
all the things it takes away. .
independence, dignity, continence
strength.
yes, I've thought of it as a
thief
of thoughts
dreams
health
but as much as she seems to take away,
she also gives
experience and knowledge
insight
patience,
(sometimes).
age seems capricious,
far too stingy with some
and way too generous with others.
no rhyme
no reason.
just mystery.
it is no hardship really
to pay the toll
that age exacts
in exchange for
the messy sweetness
of being
here.
i know
i should be
infinitely more grateful
to breathe,
and feel and
think thoughts.
laugh,
know love
and
feel that reassuring thump
in my chest.
because there's no telling
how long.
i need to come
to a detente
with age
she will not stop for me
she will not,
my lifelong companion.
i try to erase all traces of her
with hair dye
and barbells.
i stick out my tongue
at age.
but age just grins back
at me through
my own laugh lines.
and says
"You know I'll win".
and silverishly creeping at my temples.
she is settling my inner jumpiness,
a little bit anyway.
she's confering wisdom
which i take in sips,
when i really should take gulps.
no wonder it takes so long
to learn
how to live.
i have thought of age in such negative terms,
all the things it takes away. .
independence, dignity, continence
strength.
yes, I've thought of it as a
thief
of thoughts
dreams
health
but as much as she seems to take away,
she also gives
experience and knowledge
insight
patience,
(sometimes).
age seems capricious,
far too stingy with some
and way too generous with others.
no rhyme
no reason.
just mystery.
it is no hardship really
to pay the toll
that age exacts
in exchange for
the messy sweetness
of being
here.
i know
i should be
infinitely more grateful
to breathe,
and feel and
think thoughts.
laugh,
know love
and
feel that reassuring thump
in my chest.
because there's no telling
how long.
i need to come
to a detente
with age
she will not stop for me
she will not,
my lifelong companion.
i try to erase all traces of her
with hair dye
and barbells.
i stick out my tongue
at age.
but age just grins back
at me through
my own laugh lines.
and says
"You know I'll win".
Sunday, January 10, 2010
A bit of interesting news. .
A little something to think about when we shop at Dollarama, WalMart, well, anywhere really.
China overtakes Germany as biggest exporter
10/01/2010 12:09:11 PM
CBC News
New trade figures show that China has overtaken Germany to become the world's top exporter.
According to data released by China's customs agency Sunday, Chinese exports surged by 17.7 per cent in December, compared to the same month in the previous year.
Exports for the last month of 2009 were $130.7 billion, raising the total for the year to $1.23 trillion, ahead of the $1.20 trillion forecast for Germany.
Last year wasn't easy for China's exporters as the global economic slowdown cut demand for the country's goods.
Every month since late 2008, the government has reported export figures lower than they had been a year earlier. Then in the last few weeks of 2009, the trend reversed.
China's gross domestic product expanded 8.9 per cent in the third quarter of 2009, up from 7.9 per cent in the second quarter and 6.1 per cent in the first, buoyed by $603 billion in stimulus spending.
China surpassed the United States as the biggest auto market in 2009 and is on track to soon replace Japan as the world's second-largest economy. China passed Germany as the third-largest economy in 2007.
China overtakes Germany as biggest exporter
10/01/2010 12:09:11 PM
CBC News
New trade figures show that China has overtaken Germany to become the world's top exporter.
According to data released by China's customs agency Sunday, Chinese exports surged by 17.7 per cent in December, compared to the same month in the previous year.
Exports for the last month of 2009 were $130.7 billion, raising the total for the year to $1.23 trillion, ahead of the $1.20 trillion forecast for Germany.
Last year wasn't easy for China's exporters as the global economic slowdown cut demand for the country's goods.
Every month since late 2008, the government has reported export figures lower than they had been a year earlier. Then in the last few weeks of 2009, the trend reversed.
China's gross domestic product expanded 8.9 per cent in the third quarter of 2009, up from 7.9 per cent in the second quarter and 6.1 per cent in the first, buoyed by $603 billion in stimulus spending.
China surpassed the United States as the biggest auto market in 2009 and is on track to soon replace Japan as the world's second-largest economy. China passed Germany as the third-largest economy in 2007.
I'm excerpting Chapter 1 page 24, "Even Them, Even Then?" Brad Jersak's book "Can You Hear Me? Tuning in to the God Who Speaks". You can order this on Amazon, and I really, really recommend it if you are wanting to have an authentic relationship with God, improve on the relationship you have with him, or begin one with him. I am re-reading this for the third time. Maybe I don't retain information very well? Well, that may be true, but the book is that good. There are familiar references to Bible characters (for those of you who haven't read the Bible, there are books, chapter and verses for you to look them up).
" In theory, those who are most repentant, most obedient, most holy should hear God's voice most clearly and most often. Those who live to please God and submit wholly to his Lordship should get the best 'reception' as they tune in to his voice. Oddly, neither scripture nor experience support that theory. God's voice calls us to repentance, obedience and submission; those who hear and obey are blessed. But those are the results of hearing him, not the pre-conditions. If I can't hear his voice until I'm obedient, what am I obeying? And how obedient do I need to be for him to talk to me? Or how disobedient before he stops talking to me? If hearing God's voice was conditional upon my behaviour, the relationship would be a formula revolving around me and my performance. "Good people hear - bad people don't". That's the very religion Jesus opposed. Getting right with God is always and only a response to the grace gift of his voice.
Certainly there can be a famine of hearing when hearts are unrepentant, but that doesn't mean God is not speaking. As a band called "Out of the Grey" once wrote, "He is not silent, we are not listening." But the Lord has ways of catching our attention, even while we're plugging our ears. The danger of refusing to heed God's voice is not that he will resort to the silent treatment. Rather, we are warned that he will begin to speak more clearly and more forcefully, which is not always a pleasant experience (remember Jonah?). You can hear his voice as an ointment that heals or a sword that pierces. In either case, it will bring freedom and life when we finally listen.
When the prodigal son was still wallowing in the pigpen of his rebellion, he came to his senses and resolved to repent (Luke 15:17 - 18). Why? It was only because the voice of God graciously spoke to his heart. When Hosea's unfaithful wife had left her husband, forgotten the Lord and chased after multiple lovers, God said "Therefore I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the desert and speak tenderly to her." (Hosea 2:14). In fact, most of the prophetic words in scripture are negative, not because God is generally grumpy, but because his love compels him to keep speaking to his wayward ones until they return home. If I read men like Jonah and David right, whether we are following God perfectly or running away feverishly, he graciously, relentlessly, even indiscriminately continues to speak! No wonder the poet Francis called him "the Hound of Heaven".
I've met a number of men in prison Bible studies who shared that it was while they were still in a stupor of a heroin trip or in the despair of prison lock-up that God visited them, spoke to them and saved them. I've heard the testimonies of women who, while still working the streets in East Vancouver, heard God's voice inside, warning them about which men would beat them and which were safe. God spoke to them even then, even there. Does this offend you? Why not let the scandalous kindness of God hearten you instead? On your very worst days, while you are still kicking against his will (Acts 26:14) God continues to broadcast his words of love, comfort, warning and promise in your direction. You will hear him and when you do, just see to it that you don't heard your heart."
The remainder of the book has very practical exercises, to help you know God, help you learn how to 'tune in', listen to him. . . for real.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Ode to a Canadian winter
Winter, I feel that I must tell you something.
Since I have long since lost my sense of wonder with snow fort building,
eating icicles and tobogganing,
I have come to find you pretty much intolerable.
By the way, lots of us Canadians feel the same way, though I certainly don't speak for all those who have fallen under your frosty spell, who think they've befriended you, I see right through you and your wiles, Winter.
I will not gush about your beauty.
Not today. Today I am determined to tell you exactly what I think of you.
Spring is gorgeous and fresh, liberating.
Summer though sometimes smothering, is so much more easygoing and mellow,
Autumn, though lovely is always overshadowed by you.
Then, once the distracting niceties of Christmas and the new year are
used up and worn out,
We remember what you're really like and we don't want you.
Because you suck.
You take away our carefree and spontaneous feelings.
There is no more 'quick' about anything.
Everything takes longer . .
getting ready to go out
traveling,
doing errands,
There are layers to put on,
This takes time.
We have to shovel snow.
We scrape it off our vehicles.
This is just annoying.
Your ice is slippery and you lash at us with your frozen rain and whipping wind.
You're so cold.
I don't like you.
In fact, the older I get the more I can't stand you.
You take away fun.
You make my nose run.
You make my teeth clack.
You make me wheeze when I breathe.
You make cycling mostly impossible,
(for which I despise you)
You take away the gorgeous sunshine and you substitute
brooding clouds.
You make getting into and out of the bath and shower unpleasant.
You make our rooms cold.
and our bedsheets freezing.
You breathe on the blankets.
You make furnaces a necessity, which only pleases the gas company.
You make us shut our windows and doors.
You turn us into homebodies.
We don't want to go out in you.
You always wear out your welcome.
Most of us only tolerate you for that 2-week interval between Christmas and New Year's,
by which time we are thoroughly sick of you and want you to go away.
But you stay
and stay.
You stretch out your icy fingers and smite our lovely plants.
We raise them up and you take them out with your sparkly blanket of death.
You cause us to slip and fall.
You turn our roads into skating rinks.
You turn walking the dog into a frantic, frozen gauntlet.
You are the father of all potholes, which are born every spring,
making driving less like straight lines and more like an obstacle course.
Turning our other 3 seasons into prolonged bouts of road closures and repairs.
You turn our eavestroughs into breeding grounds for ice daggers.
You turn our beaches into frozen wastelands,
and you squash our memories of warm sunshine.
You take away our picnics and barbecues.
Yes, even that feisty fireball seems to rise and set behind your curtain of ice.
You drive away flocks of birds, butterflies and senior citizens.
Who, in their infinite wisdom, avoid you like the plague
because
they all know
you suck!
At some point I'd like to fly, or at least drive away from you and your ice grip.
Become a stereotype.
A snowbird.
Top up my out of country health insurance.
Hide from you in the land of Dentu-Cream and support hose.
Get a wicked tan.
And laugh in your general direction.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
hot and not
here are a few little thoughts from my brain on what's hot and what's not
note:
i may or may not confer hotness upon any of these things, just trendspotting.
HOT/ NOT
So You Think You Can Dance / SYTYCD without Mia Michaels
reduce, reuse, recycle/ not caring about the 3 Rs
saving $/ wasting $
teen vampires/ teen vampires
looking younger when you're older/ botox, surgery and suddenly fat lips
H1N1/ H1N1 - blech.
'bucc', 'sick'/ gee whiz, neat
blindingly white teeth/ you guessed it. . . yellow ones
reality tv/ desire to vote ppl out of everything in real life
XBox/ Wii
any other hockey team/ Leafs
gift cards/ gifts that make you cringe inwardly
cyber/ face to face *this is so sad :( *
sliders/ giant, artery clogging burgers
scarves/ pen necklaces
castro hats/ bucket hats
getting Christmas shopping done early/ having to do Christmas shopping at all
note:
i may or may not confer hotness upon any of these things, just trendspotting.
HOT/ NOT
So You Think You Can Dance / SYTYCD without Mia Michaels
reduce, reuse, recycle/ not caring about the 3 Rs
saving $/ wasting $
teen vampires/ teen vampires
looking younger when you're older/ botox, surgery and suddenly fat lips
H1N1/ H1N1 - blech.
'bucc', 'sick'/ gee whiz, neat
blindingly white teeth/ you guessed it. . . yellow ones
reality tv/ desire to vote ppl out of everything in real life
XBox/ Wii
any other hockey team/ Leafs
gift cards/ gifts that make you cringe inwardly
cyber/ face to face *this is so sad :( *
sliders/ giant, artery clogging burgers
scarves/ pen necklaces
castro hats/ bucket hats
getting Christmas shopping done early/ having to do Christmas shopping at all
Thursday, November 12, 2009
mystery
I'm wondering how comfortable I am with mystery.
There are things I will never know.
Why is death so capricious and random?
Why do the bad get away with their badness?
Why are the good given the shaft?
Why does the heart choose the way it does?
Why does the sun seem to shine upon some and the shadows never lift from others?
Why is justice so often miscarried?
Why can't people come back from the dead to tell us what to expect?
Why can't we see God?
God.
God is a mystery.
God is
at home in paradox,
existing, working in and through
divine, human
architect, infant
one, three
love, judgement
almighty, intimate
creating the universe, matter and anti matter,
forces, light, elements,
intricate creatures, seen and unseen.
Maker of worlds unknown, far, far, far from our weak eyes
and our toy telescopes circling a tiny corner of the cosmos.
i could stop there, stupefied,
monosyllabic.
unable to comprehend.
mysterious greatness is all around
I look but can't see.
Why is my vision reversed?
Why do i magnify the trivial and trivialize the magnificent?
Mystery, I'm Helen Keller.
How can I make sense of you?
I can yell and flail my arms to strike out at you.
I can bump into you and not even see you.
You will elude me
and entice me,
frustrate me.
Goodness is sweet like honey.
It's no mystery.
It just is.
Why question it?
It's the quintessential feeling of being home.
It's aaaaaaahhh, like lying down when you're tired and feeling so perfectly at rest.
It is light, it's that gorgeous 'blindness' we get when the brightness of the sun is too much for us and we close our eyes
and bask and sigh.
So welcome.
So wanted and loved.
The origin of evil perplexes me.
Blackness.
Malignant.
It makes my brain and my soul hurt to think about it.
God is good.
He designed everything to be perfect.
We all know it didn't turn out that way.
How did Lucifer, his perfect creature change?
What was the catalyst for this thing, this evil that grew and gestated in his core? and how dare he infect us with it?
Some say there is no evil.
I am certain this is untrue and that is no mystery.
Blatantly present everywhere.
viral,
predatory,
destructive.
real.
Mystery.
God.
Good.
Evil.
A few small words with so many billions of us crammed into them.
Trying to make sense, grow, live.
Trying to understand these hard to understand things.
Will we ever?
Of course not. . .
and that's okay.
There are things I will never know.
Why is death so capricious and random?
Why do the bad get away with their badness?
Why are the good given the shaft?
Why does the heart choose the way it does?
Why does the sun seem to shine upon some and the shadows never lift from others?
Why is justice so often miscarried?
Why can't people come back from the dead to tell us what to expect?
Why can't we see God?
God.
God is a mystery.
God is
at home in paradox,
existing, working in and through
divine, human
architect, infant
one, three
love, judgement
almighty, intimate
creating the universe, matter and anti matter,
forces, light, elements,
intricate creatures, seen and unseen.
Maker of worlds unknown, far, far, far from our weak eyes
and our toy telescopes circling a tiny corner of the cosmos.
i could stop there, stupefied,
monosyllabic.
unable to comprehend.
mysterious greatness is all around
I look but can't see.
Why is my vision reversed?
Why do i magnify the trivial and trivialize the magnificent?
Mystery, I'm Helen Keller.
How can I make sense of you?
I can yell and flail my arms to strike out at you.
I can bump into you and not even see you.
You will elude me
and entice me,
frustrate me.
Goodness is sweet like honey.
It's no mystery.
It just is.
Why question it?
It's the quintessential feeling of being home.
It's aaaaaaahhh, like lying down when you're tired and feeling so perfectly at rest.
It is light, it's that gorgeous 'blindness' we get when the brightness of the sun is too much for us and we close our eyes
and bask and sigh.
So welcome.
So wanted and loved.
The origin of evil perplexes me.
Blackness.
Malignant.
It makes my brain and my soul hurt to think about it.
God is good.
He designed everything to be perfect.
We all know it didn't turn out that way.
How did Lucifer, his perfect creature change?
What was the catalyst for this thing, this evil that grew and gestated in his core? and how dare he infect us with it?
Some say there is no evil.
I am certain this is untrue and that is no mystery.
Blatantly present everywhere.
viral,
predatory,
destructive.
real.
Mystery.
God.
Good.
Evil.
A few small words with so many billions of us crammed into them.
Trying to make sense, grow, live.
Trying to understand these hard to understand things.
Will we ever?
Of course not. . .
and that's okay.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
food
I love food.
I love everything about it.
I love to shop the market, love the grocery store, the gourmet shop, the baking supply store, the cheese shop, the butcher, the farm.
I love to take a collection of disparate ingredients and put them together
to make something beautiful and delicious.
I love fresh, in season, quality food. I love to develop its flavour. I love to serve food.
I love to make people happy with meals, desserts.
I might not always hit the mark, but I really try.
It's an ever increasing passion.
I love to watch chefs prepare food, this is a longstanding fixation. . from watching Julia Child on PBS in the early 70s, to Food Network's molecular gastronomists like Heston Blumenthal, the Rubino brothers from Rain, i watch and watch. . there is almost nothing I love more than seeing things stirred, sauteed, melted, poured, ladeled, browned, chopped, minced, kneaded and glazed.
I love to think of cooking.
I love to pore over my food magazines, cookbooks. I love to plan menus.
I try not to waste food, that makes me sad.
I get giddy thinking about buying a new knife.
I love my sharpening steel.
I love my copper bottomed, heavy gauge stainless cookware.
I love tongs.
I love my microplane grater.
I love smoked paprika.
I love grey salt.
I love thyme and parsley.
I love vanilla beans.
I love melting chocolate over simmering water.
I love fresh pineapple.
I love cinnamon and fresh ginger.
I love to work with. .
a fresh cut of meat,
a fragrant, piney bunch of rosemary,
fresh, ruby coloured berries,
a dense loaf of bread,
beautiful 'rainbow' carrots with lacy green tops,
golden paper-wrapped bars of french bittersweet chocolate,
amber jars of melon blossom honey,
blocks of pale yellow butter,
the most wonderful things I can afford . it makes such a difference.
You can't make bad food taste good, but you can make great food taste amazing, if you respect it, respect the gift of the ingredients, respect the preparation techniques and respect the people you will be serving.
I don't really enjoy eating at restaurants. . I feel too removed from the process, I don't know what they're doing to the food. I don't know what kind of ingredients they're working with. Do they care about quality? Are they fry happy? Do they nuke everything? Do they use frozen, canned, packaged? Do they care? Are they handling food safely? There are too many unknowns. Makes me angry when people don't care. I'd rather go hungry. I want to go into their kitchens, their walk in fridges, their freezers . .or maybe I don't? Cooking at home is the way to go. . unless you can find those people out there who love good food, who can do it justice.
I spend pretty much every day daydreaming of recipes, ingredients.
I work at my job, but my mind is always dreaming of running a shop,
baking, serving, catering, planning events, talking to customers. .
Who knows, some day I might take a giant risk and go for it?!
In the meantime there are cookbooks to collect, food to make, new ingredients to try.
*smile*
Sunday, October 11, 2009
you, me, us.
do you feel like you've reduced yourself to a mere Tweet? status line?
do you feel like your contact with others is changing,
becoming more hands off?
do you feel strange when it's real?
do you feel like we are all heading down this 21st century path in parallel tracks,
with less and less intersecting?
less connecting.
feelng less authentic.
'keeping in touch' never felt less like touch.
never felt less kept, just the opposite.
shifting, moving away, with only illusions of being joined
by flimsy, breakaway ties,
no one has time.
everyone is busy.
'we should get together' comes out of everyone's mouths,
but is becoming more of a vague sentiment.
no one reads
everyone skims.
things have to be said in less time because no one has any.
wrds r chngng, ppl.
phrases are disappearing, btw.
c u L8r, English language.
magazines and newspapers are vanishing.
phones are becoming unlike anything we've known before.
they follow us everywhere,
but nobody talks.
rapid fire abbreviation codes.
thumbs are wearing out.
there's nothing wrong with technology.
We humans have a big problem with moderation.
i think we have a problem, period.
boundaries are disappearing.
wireless,instant, everywhere.
faces all staring at screens.
hands on keyboards.
we have stopped dreaming and doing
and we pretend.
we take endless quizzes, we play games,
we pretend to be farmers,
we pretend to run cafes,
we pretend to garden,
we display our lives in picture albums,
video clips.
we think we know each other
but we are losing our way.
we are losing our ability to think
google thinks for us, tells everything we need to know.
we are losing our patience.
everything has to be high speed.
click,
click,
search, scroll.
we are simultaneously awakening and falling asleep.
our creations are holding us captive,
and we are so willing.
it's so easy to sacrifice live interaction, if we want.
and we do.
we communicate on our own terms,
when we want,
how we want,
with whom and
for how long.
what's happening to us?
are we losing our essence? is living becoming virtual and spiritless?
is the mess and drama of each other being distilled into YouTube clips?
is human need and cry being made into 'cause groups' to join?
undemanding, sterile and manageable.
Can we do something that costs us something other than money?
Can this spell be broken?
Can we learn to live with technology without being sucked into it's vortex of unreality?
Can we still hear and see each other?
Can we bring back face to face?
Can we get back to meeting and joining?
Parallel is not so good for us.
We need to cross.
Sometimes we need to crash and break down
to notice each other.
Real will always be better than unreal.
Real isn't always good.
It isn't always pleasant or tidy or easy.
But it is what we are. .
you
me
us.
do you feel like your contact with others is changing,
becoming more hands off?
do you feel strange when it's real?
do you feel like we are all heading down this 21st century path in parallel tracks,
with less and less intersecting?
less connecting.
feelng less authentic.
'keeping in touch' never felt less like touch.
never felt less kept, just the opposite.
shifting, moving away, with only illusions of being joined
by flimsy, breakaway ties,
no one has time.
everyone is busy.
'we should get together' comes out of everyone's mouths,
but is becoming more of a vague sentiment.
no one reads
everyone skims.
things have to be said in less time because no one has any.
wrds r chngng, ppl.
phrases are disappearing, btw.
c u L8r, English language.
magazines and newspapers are vanishing.
phones are becoming unlike anything we've known before.
they follow us everywhere,
but nobody talks.
rapid fire abbreviation codes.
thumbs are wearing out.
there's nothing wrong with technology.
We humans have a big problem with moderation.
i think we have a problem, period.
boundaries are disappearing.
wireless,instant, everywhere.
faces all staring at screens.
hands on keyboards.
we have stopped dreaming and doing
and we pretend.
we take endless quizzes, we play games,
we pretend to be farmers,
we pretend to run cafes,
we pretend to garden,
we display our lives in picture albums,
video clips.
we think we know each other
but we are losing our way.
we are losing our ability to think
google thinks for us, tells everything we need to know.
we are losing our patience.
everything has to be high speed.
click,
click,
search, scroll.
we are simultaneously awakening and falling asleep.
our creations are holding us captive,
and we are so willing.
it's so easy to sacrifice live interaction, if we want.
and we do.
we communicate on our own terms,
when we want,
how we want,
with whom and
for how long.
what's happening to us?
are we losing our essence? is living becoming virtual and spiritless?
is the mess and drama of each other being distilled into YouTube clips?
is human need and cry being made into 'cause groups' to join?
undemanding, sterile and manageable.
Can we do something that costs us something other than money?
Can this spell be broken?
Can we learn to live with technology without being sucked into it's vortex of unreality?
Can we still hear and see each other?
Can we bring back face to face?
Can we get back to meeting and joining?
Parallel is not so good for us.
We need to cross.
Sometimes we need to crash and break down
to notice each other.
Real will always be better than unreal.
Real isn't always good.
It isn't always pleasant or tidy or easy.
But it is what we are. .
you
me
us.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
El Paso
When I was a young teenager I used to lie in bed at night listening to Rockin' Robin's show on FM 108. He played the Diamonds, the Big Bopper, Sam Cooke, Little Richard. I adored 50s music. There was something about it, I don't know why it appealed so much to me.
Sure there was goofy stuff, Jan and Dean's "Baby Talk" was just ridiculous. "Purple People Eater" was pathetic, "Kooky, Lend me Your Comb" was worse than lame, but somehow even these novelty songs were weirdly entertaining. There was the syrupy stuff like "The Last Kiss", which made me all misty, "Tell Laura I Love Her" which made me cry and need to reach for the tissues and "Patches" which also had a similar effect. There were the dance craze songs like "Watusi" and "The Stroll" that told you how to do the dance right in the lyrics, kind of handy, I thought. I loved the spare, basic,catchy stuff like Buddy Holly's and I pined for true love listening to the lush song tapestries from the Platters. Among my favourites were the story songs, and my favourite among them was 'El Paso" by Marty Robbins.
The sweet guitar picking intro, the bouncing bass, the lilting Mexican melody, and there was Marty's golden voice, swooping and soaring through all the verses of a cowboy's painful, one sided love; transporting me to a place I've never seen, the badlands of New Mexico, the Rio Grande, cutting it's swath through rugged land. I pictured a hill overlooking Rosa's cantina in El Paso, horses tied out back, waiting. I saw this cantina as a rough, wooden watering hole where a cowboy fell under dancing Felina's spell. And in this cantina Felina flirted brazenly with a wild, young stranger. I thought of how this pained her cowboy love, spurring him to question the stranger's intentions, and killing him before he was killed himself. I saw him stealing a horse and riding for his life. I thought of Felina's shock and sadness. I wanted to smack her for being so casual with his heart. She didn't deserve such love, but she had it.
As I listened to this beautiful story I knew that I wanted someone to love me like this cowboy loved Felina, without bounds and without conditions, accepting even my badness and still loving, unable to live without me. I wanted the kind of love that would not be quenched by threat of or arrival of death. Maybe because I'm a girl I daydreamed like this and maybe boys would just think about the cowboys, horses and six shooters? Romance is something I sigh about still and say "awwww" about.
Decades later, when I listen to this song I still feel swept away to Texas. I still see them, the cowboy lover and his beloved, faithless Felina. My heart still goes out to him and I'm still mad at her, but I no longer wish for such love, I am blessed enough to have it. So blessed.
***********************************************
Out in the West Texas town of El Paso
I fell in love with a Mexican girl.
Night-time would find me in Rosa's cantina;
Music would play and Felina would whirl.
Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina,
Wicked and evil while casting a spell.
My love was deep for this Mexican maiden;
I was in love but in vain, I could tell.
One night a wild young cowboy came in,
Wild as the West Texas wind.
Dashing and daring,
A drink he was sharing
With wicked Felina,
The girl that I loved.
So in anger I
Challenged his right for the love of this maiden.
Down went his hand for the gun that he wore.
My challenge was answered in less than a heart-beat;
The handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor.
Just for a moment I stood there in silence,
Shocked by the FOUL EVIL deed I had done.
Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there;
I had but one chance and that was to run.
Out through the back door of Rosa's I ran,
Out where the horses were tied.
I caught a good one.
It looked like it could run.
Up on its back
And away I did ride,
Just as fast as I
Could from the West Texas town of El Paso
Out to the bad-lands of New Mexico.
Back in El Paso my life would be worthless.
Everything's gone in life; nothing is left.
It's been so long since I've seen the young maiden
My love is stronger than my fear of death.
I saddled up and away I did go,
Riding alone in the dark.
Maybe tomorrow
A bullet may find me.
Tonight nothing's worse than this
Pain in my heart.
And at last here I
Am on the hill overlooking El Paso;
I can see Rosa's cantina below.
My love is strong and it pushes me onward.
Down off the hill to Felina I go.
Off to my right I see five mounted cowboys;
Off to my left ride a dozen or more.
Shouting and shooting I can't let them catch me.
I have to make it to Rosa's back door.
Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel
A deep burning pain in my side.
Though I am trying
To stay in the saddle,
I'm getting weary,
Unable to ride.
But my love for
Felina is strong and I rise where I'd fallen,
Though I am weary I can't stop to rest.
I see the white puff of smoke from the rifle.
I feel the bullet go deep in my chest.
From out of nowhere Felina has found me,
Kissing my cheek as she kneels by my side.
Cradled by two loving arms that I'll die for,
One little kiss and Felina, good-bye.
Sure there was goofy stuff, Jan and Dean's "Baby Talk" was just ridiculous. "Purple People Eater" was pathetic, "Kooky, Lend me Your Comb" was worse than lame, but somehow even these novelty songs were weirdly entertaining. There was the syrupy stuff like "The Last Kiss", which made me all misty, "Tell Laura I Love Her" which made me cry and need to reach for the tissues and "Patches" which also had a similar effect. There were the dance craze songs like "Watusi" and "The Stroll" that told you how to do the dance right in the lyrics, kind of handy, I thought. I loved the spare, basic,catchy stuff like Buddy Holly's and I pined for true love listening to the lush song tapestries from the Platters. Among my favourites were the story songs, and my favourite among them was 'El Paso" by Marty Robbins.
The sweet guitar picking intro, the bouncing bass, the lilting Mexican melody, and there was Marty's golden voice, swooping and soaring through all the verses of a cowboy's painful, one sided love; transporting me to a place I've never seen, the badlands of New Mexico, the Rio Grande, cutting it's swath through rugged land. I pictured a hill overlooking Rosa's cantina in El Paso, horses tied out back, waiting. I saw this cantina as a rough, wooden watering hole where a cowboy fell under dancing Felina's spell. And in this cantina Felina flirted brazenly with a wild, young stranger. I thought of how this pained her cowboy love, spurring him to question the stranger's intentions, and killing him before he was killed himself. I saw him stealing a horse and riding for his life. I thought of Felina's shock and sadness. I wanted to smack her for being so casual with his heart. She didn't deserve such love, but she had it.
As I listened to this beautiful story I knew that I wanted someone to love me like this cowboy loved Felina, without bounds and without conditions, accepting even my badness and still loving, unable to live without me. I wanted the kind of love that would not be quenched by threat of or arrival of death. Maybe because I'm a girl I daydreamed like this and maybe boys would just think about the cowboys, horses and six shooters? Romance is something I sigh about still and say "awwww" about.
Decades later, when I listen to this song I still feel swept away to Texas. I still see them, the cowboy lover and his beloved, faithless Felina. My heart still goes out to him and I'm still mad at her, but I no longer wish for such love, I am blessed enough to have it. So blessed.
***********************************************
Out in the West Texas town of El Paso
I fell in love with a Mexican girl.
Night-time would find me in Rosa's cantina;
Music would play and Felina would whirl.
Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina,
Wicked and evil while casting a spell.
My love was deep for this Mexican maiden;
I was in love but in vain, I could tell.
One night a wild young cowboy came in,
Wild as the West Texas wind.
Dashing and daring,
A drink he was sharing
With wicked Felina,
The girl that I loved.
So in anger I
Challenged his right for the love of this maiden.
Down went his hand for the gun that he wore.
My challenge was answered in less than a heart-beat;
The handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor.
Just for a moment I stood there in silence,
Shocked by the FOUL EVIL deed I had done.
Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there;
I had but one chance and that was to run.
Out through the back door of Rosa's I ran,
Out where the horses were tied.
I caught a good one.
It looked like it could run.
Up on its back
And away I did ride,
Just as fast as I
Could from the West Texas town of El Paso
Out to the bad-lands of New Mexico.
Back in El Paso my life would be worthless.
Everything's gone in life; nothing is left.
It's been so long since I've seen the young maiden
My love is stronger than my fear of death.
I saddled up and away I did go,
Riding alone in the dark.
Maybe tomorrow
A bullet may find me.
Tonight nothing's worse than this
Pain in my heart.
And at last here I
Am on the hill overlooking El Paso;
I can see Rosa's cantina below.
My love is strong and it pushes me onward.
Down off the hill to Felina I go.
Off to my right I see five mounted cowboys;
Off to my left ride a dozen or more.
Shouting and shooting I can't let them catch me.
I have to make it to Rosa's back door.
Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel
A deep burning pain in my side.
Though I am trying
To stay in the saddle,
I'm getting weary,
Unable to ride.
But my love for
Felina is strong and I rise where I'd fallen,
Though I am weary I can't stop to rest.
I see the white puff of smoke from the rifle.
I feel the bullet go deep in my chest.
From out of nowhere Felina has found me,
Kissing my cheek as she kneels by my side.
Cradled by two loving arms that I'll die for,
One little kiss and Felina, good-bye.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
i'm a mutant
Genetic mutation linked to need for less sleep
13/08/2009 4:28:54 PM
CBC News
People who are able to thrive on just six hours of sleep may have a genetic mutation to thank, researchers say.
In Friday's issue of the journal Science, researchers at the University of California, San Francisco, reported that a mutated gene not found in their relatives seemed to allow a mother and daughter to wake up refreshed by 5 a.m. after going to bed at 11 p.m.
Short-term and chronic disruptions in length of optimal sleep can have serious consequences on physical health, including cancer and endocrine function, as well as cognition and mood, said the study's senior author, neurology Prof. Ying-Hui Fu.
The finding offers a chance to probe the regulation of sleep quality and quantity, but is likely to help people with insomnia, she said.
For most people, eight to 8½ hours of sleep are best, but others function well on six hours.
In the study, the team found mice genetically engineered with the DEC2 mutation also slept less and recovered faster from sleep deprivation compared with normal mice.
When the mutant mice were hooked up to brain-scanning instruments, their brain wave patterns suggested they were well rested even though they had slept less.
The findings point to differences in the sleep needs based on a person's genetic makeup.
Work hours, leisure time activities such as exercising and watching late night TV as well as light and noise levels are also known to affect how much we sleep.
"The question 'How much sleep do we need?' is not only of practical interest for obvious societal reasons, but is also of major importance for understanding sleep function," Hyun Hor and Mehdi Tafti of the Center for Integrative Genomics at the University of Lausanne, Switzerland, wrote in a journal commentary that accompanies the study.
Hor and Tafti said while the mutation is probably rare, the finding offers new approaches to studying the effects of sleep on human health.
****************
I have always been a mutant
and now my strangeness has an official seal.
Some people, it seems, just need less sleep.
I have never been someone who has gone 'early to bed'.
I love the night.
I was appropriately born at 12:51 a.m.
6 hours sleep for me is lavish,
i usually get 5.
Sometimes i get less.
Even night owls have to be careful not to push it too much.
If i do and consistently get less for too many days in a row
i end up feeling so terrible -- weak and faint.
But I usually know what I can get away with.
When i was a kid i was always the last one asleep,
at home,
at camp,
at sleepovers
I could wander half the night, trying to 'become' tired.
the sandman and i weren't on good terms.
I didn't understand why i was like that.
Now I do. . I'm still the same,
nothing has changed.
Me and the sandman have an understanding.
he doesn't visit me until he's taken care of all the larks first!!
it seems to work out just fine.
I can't say this bit of news was very 'new' to me,
but its somehow comforting to know that i'm a genetic mutation
and that's okay!
'morning, all!
13/08/2009 4:28:54 PM
CBC News
People who are able to thrive on just six hours of sleep may have a genetic mutation to thank, researchers say.
In Friday's issue of the journal Science, researchers at the University of California, San Francisco, reported that a mutated gene not found in their relatives seemed to allow a mother and daughter to wake up refreshed by 5 a.m. after going to bed at 11 p.m.
Short-term and chronic disruptions in length of optimal sleep can have serious consequences on physical health, including cancer and endocrine function, as well as cognition and mood, said the study's senior author, neurology Prof. Ying-Hui Fu.
The finding offers a chance to probe the regulation of sleep quality and quantity, but is likely to help people with insomnia, she said.
For most people, eight to 8½ hours of sleep are best, but others function well on six hours.
In the study, the team found mice genetically engineered with the DEC2 mutation also slept less and recovered faster from sleep deprivation compared with normal mice.
When the mutant mice were hooked up to brain-scanning instruments, their brain wave patterns suggested they were well rested even though they had slept less.
The findings point to differences in the sleep needs based on a person's genetic makeup.
Work hours, leisure time activities such as exercising and watching late night TV as well as light and noise levels are also known to affect how much we sleep.
"The question 'How much sleep do we need?' is not only of practical interest for obvious societal reasons, but is also of major importance for understanding sleep function," Hyun Hor and Mehdi Tafti of the Center for Integrative Genomics at the University of Lausanne, Switzerland, wrote in a journal commentary that accompanies the study.
Hor and Tafti said while the mutation is probably rare, the finding offers new approaches to studying the effects of sleep on human health.
****************
I have always been a mutant
and now my strangeness has an official seal.
Some people, it seems, just need less sleep.
I have never been someone who has gone 'early to bed'.
I love the night.
I was appropriately born at 12:51 a.m.
6 hours sleep for me is lavish,
i usually get 5.
Sometimes i get less.
Even night owls have to be careful not to push it too much.
If i do and consistently get less for too many days in a row
i end up feeling so terrible -- weak and faint.
But I usually know what I can get away with.
When i was a kid i was always the last one asleep,
at home,
at camp,
at sleepovers
I could wander half the night, trying to 'become' tired.
the sandman and i weren't on good terms.
I didn't understand why i was like that.
Now I do. . I'm still the same,
nothing has changed.
Me and the sandman have an understanding.
he doesn't visit me until he's taken care of all the larks first!!
it seems to work out just fine.
I can't say this bit of news was very 'new' to me,
but its somehow comforting to know that i'm a genetic mutation
and that's okay!
'morning, all!
Sunday, August 09, 2009
don't want to
i want to write
but i don't want to
it seems like such an effort
where has that spark gone?
i'm not very good at blogging about current events
or topics of interest.
i have no aspirations to blog about cooking through a cookbook,
though that certainly worked for "Julie Powell"
i'm not handy with incorporating media in my posts
i'm not slick, trendy or savvy.
i just write when i feel like i want to write.
and lately i am not moved to do so.
i'm uninspired and tired.
but i don't want to
it seems like such an effort
where has that spark gone?
i'm not very good at blogging about current events
or topics of interest.
i have no aspirations to blog about cooking through a cookbook,
though that certainly worked for "Julie Powell"
i'm not handy with incorporating media in my posts
i'm not slick, trendy or savvy.
i just write when i feel like i want to write.
and lately i am not moved to do so.
i'm uninspired and tired.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
learning lessons
i've got this cool magazine cut out on permanent display on my bulletin board.
It shows a picture of a fluffy looking couch.
This is the caption:
Big,
soft
and squishy,
like you're going to be
if you don't
GET UP.
For ages I ignored this thing i cut out
I knew it was right,
but i had a million excuses. . .
i work full time
i'm tired
i don't have time to exercise
i don't feel like it when i do have time
its not fun
i have asthma
i have degenerative arthritis in my upper and midspine
i have a protruding disc in my lower spine
i'm getting older
the gym's class times aren't convenient
my gym closed
i need to be motivated by someone else
because
i
have
no motivation
my dance class folded
i miss it and i don't like anything else
I discovered something important
excuses are ridiculous
i can motivate myself
i DO need to get up
i don't want to be big, soft, or squishy
i don't want to be limited, despite my limitations
i will not be held back by them
they are not the boss of me
things like eating properly and exercising are not things anyone can really afford to think of as optional
i have discovered that since i HAVE to do these things
i might as well pick things that are fun
i discovered something else on the way to having fun
sometimes despite being fun and rewarding
things that require consistency, effort, exertion, dedication and discipline
are not fun at first.
when we bought our bikes last year, we took them out for that first spin
i thought i was going to die after 2 blocks.
my legs burned
my lungs hurt
i begged to go back home
so i could collapse
i did.
right on the living room floor
flat on my back
things didn't seem to improve much on subsequent rides.
hills were my nemesis
my city is full of hills
its easier to name the streets that aren't giant hills
than it is to name the ones that are.
great going down
hell going up
walk the bike up
lungs bursting
legs burning
feeling like i'm going to puke
I thought my asthma was to blame for my lack of ability to go up hills
it kept triggering
i'd honk
and cough
and wheeze
damn!
Rob said to me one day after a brutal ride: "I think your bike is too heavy. Try riding mine for a while."
HALLELUJAH!!
The angels sang. .
I felt like i was in bike heaven
effortless
beautiful
it had shocks
it had a light frame
i was using the wrong kind of bike
After that lovely epiphany my husband went out and bought me a bike like his
I adore it.
and him.
Then we began to get serious.
Getting out.
Checking out the trails.
Finding routes.
There were only so many places that were flat.
We had to make our peace with hills.
We tried to choose the easier ones.
Just kept going out,
Clocking kilometers.
7.5
10
12
15
winter came
we got l a z y
we did nothing
we had no back up plan.
i had my many fitness DVDs. . but they weren't nearly as exciting as being
outside
there was no destination
there was no beautiful scenery
just counting and loud music and drudgery
boring.
winter chub, that Canadian phenomenon
i was becoming just like that fluffy couch. .
when we started up again for this season
it was like starting all over
winter robbed all of our progress
we let it
no endurance
burning legs
and
lungs
i've learned that you cannot ever stop
you can't think that you can afford to.
or you'll be sorry
i've also learned that you must plan when circumstances change
if you can't do 'this',
do 'that'
but do something! (heading out to get a pool membership, so all that conditioning does not disappear through the fall and winter)
Now, we look for every opportunity to get out
a short ride for us is now at LEAST an hour.
yes, its hard work
yes it takes a lot out of you
but it gives a lot back to you.
its such a feeling when you've just given it all
wrung yourself out and climbed tough hills and gone LONG
distances
and you THINK its gonna kill you
and your mind tells you things
like
'you can't do it'
'its too hard'
'you should stop'
climbing
and sweating
and feeling like you can't go on
to see your 'reward' up ahead. . .
a beautiful, huge hill
going DOWN.
ahh. . . its amazing.
you get to fly
into that delicious wind
you don't have to do a thing
gravity does all the work for you
when you go far
you learn that you can farther every time
2 hours
3 hours
4 hours
15 km becomes 20
then 25
then 30.
you learn new routes
you see new things
you get faster
you shave time off your rides
you go faster
you stop complaining
and start enjoying
you sleep like a rock
you 'earn' your *food* treats
and you really ENJOY them!
i've learned the paradox of energy expenditure
you think you don't have enough to spend
but when you spend what you have
you get more
and more.
thank you, magazine ad cut out
thank you for telling me to
get up.
it took me long enough
but i've realized
that you're so right.
It shows a picture of a fluffy looking couch.
This is the caption:
Big,
soft
and squishy,
like you're going to be
if you don't
GET UP.
For ages I ignored this thing i cut out
I knew it was right,
but i had a million excuses. . .
i work full time
i'm tired
i don't have time to exercise
i don't feel like it when i do have time
its not fun
i have asthma
i have degenerative arthritis in my upper and midspine
i have a protruding disc in my lower spine
i'm getting older
the gym's class times aren't convenient
my gym closed
i need to be motivated by someone else
because
i
have
no motivation
my dance class folded
i miss it and i don't like anything else
I discovered something important
excuses are ridiculous
i can motivate myself
i DO need to get up
i don't want to be big, soft, or squishy
i don't want to be limited, despite my limitations
i will not be held back by them
they are not the boss of me
things like eating properly and exercising are not things anyone can really afford to think of as optional
i have discovered that since i HAVE to do these things
i might as well pick things that are fun
i discovered something else on the way to having fun
sometimes despite being fun and rewarding
things that require consistency, effort, exertion, dedication and discipline
are not fun at first.
when we bought our bikes last year, we took them out for that first spin
i thought i was going to die after 2 blocks.
my legs burned
my lungs hurt
i begged to go back home
so i could collapse
i did.
right on the living room floor
flat on my back
things didn't seem to improve much on subsequent rides.
hills were my nemesis
my city is full of hills
its easier to name the streets that aren't giant hills
than it is to name the ones that are.
great going down
hell going up
walk the bike up
lungs bursting
legs burning
feeling like i'm going to puke
I thought my asthma was to blame for my lack of ability to go up hills
it kept triggering
i'd honk
and cough
and wheeze
damn!
Rob said to me one day after a brutal ride: "I think your bike is too heavy. Try riding mine for a while."
HALLELUJAH!!
The angels sang. .
I felt like i was in bike heaven
effortless
beautiful
it had shocks
it had a light frame
i was using the wrong kind of bike
After that lovely epiphany my husband went out and bought me a bike like his
I adore it.
and him.
Then we began to get serious.
Getting out.
Checking out the trails.
Finding routes.
There were only so many places that were flat.
We had to make our peace with hills.
We tried to choose the easier ones.
Just kept going out,
Clocking kilometers.
7.5
10
12
15
winter came
we got l a z y
we did nothing
we had no back up plan.
i had my many fitness DVDs. . but they weren't nearly as exciting as being
outside
there was no destination
there was no beautiful scenery
just counting and loud music and drudgery
boring.
winter chub, that Canadian phenomenon
i was becoming just like that fluffy couch. .
when we started up again for this season
it was like starting all over
winter robbed all of our progress
we let it
no endurance
burning legs
and
lungs
i've learned that you cannot ever stop
you can't think that you can afford to.
or you'll be sorry
i've also learned that you must plan when circumstances change
if you can't do 'this',
do 'that'
but do something! (heading out to get a pool membership, so all that conditioning does not disappear through the fall and winter)
Now, we look for every opportunity to get out
a short ride for us is now at LEAST an hour.
yes, its hard work
yes it takes a lot out of you
but it gives a lot back to you.
its such a feeling when you've just given it all
wrung yourself out and climbed tough hills and gone LONG
distances
and you THINK its gonna kill you
and your mind tells you things
like
'you can't do it'
'its too hard'
'you should stop'
climbing
and sweating
and feeling like you can't go on
to see your 'reward' up ahead. . .
a beautiful, huge hill
going DOWN.
ahh. . . its amazing.
you get to fly
into that delicious wind
you don't have to do a thing
gravity does all the work for you
when you go far
you learn that you can farther every time
2 hours
3 hours
4 hours
15 km becomes 20
then 25
then 30.
you learn new routes
you see new things
you get faster
you shave time off your rides
you go faster
you stop complaining
and start enjoying
you sleep like a rock
you 'earn' your *food* treats
and you really ENJOY them!
i've learned the paradox of energy expenditure
you think you don't have enough to spend
but when you spend what you have
you get more
and more.
thank you, magazine ad cut out
thank you for telling me to
get up.
it took me long enough
but i've realized
that you're so right.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
the f word
no, not THAT word.
the word I have in mind is considerably less popular.
i think its safe to say that it isn't popular at all
because it requires so much from us.
forgiveness
this word is like a burr in my saddle
a splinter under my skin
it refuses to leave me in peace
it hounds me
i stubbornly put off yielding to it.
when you need to forgive and you don't
you suffer to a ridiculous degree
such a degree that you'd think that you'd want to say 'uncle' already.
still you cling to your right to ruminate
and you and everyone around you suffers
when something trips the switch and sets you off
why hold something so destructive?
is it really too hard to surrender to forgiveness?
no.
it isn't.. .
yes! it is.
pride won't bend
oh, why won't it bend?
i've been hurt.
i'm justified.
i have a right to be angry.
i am angry.
how can i forgive people who pretend there is nothing to forgive?
how can i forgive when they're not sorry
and I'm left with all this damage?
I'm not God, after all.
God has a metaphorical 'sea of forgetfulness'.
Which in my mind could also be called the 'ocean of forgiveness'
Its capacity?
Infinite.
When he forgives, its as if he tosses the offense into the depths and it never surfaces again.
He doesn't forget because if he did, he wouldn't be God.
He knows what's in there.
But he knows how to forgive.
He can leave it there and never bring it up again.
Maddening thing is, he forgives those i can't seem to forgive
and he expects me to do the same.
I have a 'puddle of i'm not going to forget-fulness'.
Everything i try to throw in there piles up.
I can still see it.
and i do not forget it.
forgiveness?
it goes against all my inclinations.
but my inclinations are all inclined wrong.
i want it for me
but i don't want to extend it.
and there it is,
laid bare and obvious.
this will never work
a puddle will never do.
limited capacity is nowhere close to adequate in the face of that maddeningly gracious infinity.
This quote from the book 'The Shack" by William Paul Young, I can't say i love it, but it certainly got my attention and its on my mind...a lot.
". . . I'm stuck, Papa. I can't just forget what he did, can I?", Mack implored. "Forgiveness is not about forgetting, Mack. It is about letting go of another person's throat."
the word I have in mind is considerably less popular.
i think its safe to say that it isn't popular at all
because it requires so much from us.
forgiveness
this word is like a burr in my saddle
a splinter under my skin
it refuses to leave me in peace
it hounds me
i stubbornly put off yielding to it.
when you need to forgive and you don't
you suffer to a ridiculous degree
such a degree that you'd think that you'd want to say 'uncle' already.
still you cling to your right to ruminate
and you and everyone around you suffers
when something trips the switch and sets you off
why hold something so destructive?
is it really too hard to surrender to forgiveness?
no.
it isn't.. .
yes! it is.
pride won't bend
oh, why won't it bend?
i've been hurt.
i'm justified.
i have a right to be angry.
i am angry.
how can i forgive people who pretend there is nothing to forgive?
how can i forgive when they're not sorry
and I'm left with all this damage?
I'm not God, after all.
God has a metaphorical 'sea of forgetfulness'.
Which in my mind could also be called the 'ocean of forgiveness'
Its capacity?
Infinite.
When he forgives, its as if he tosses the offense into the depths and it never surfaces again.
He doesn't forget because if he did, he wouldn't be God.
He knows what's in there.
But he knows how to forgive.
He can leave it there and never bring it up again.
Maddening thing is, he forgives those i can't seem to forgive
and he expects me to do the same.
I have a 'puddle of i'm not going to forget-fulness'.
Everything i try to throw in there piles up.
I can still see it.
and i do not forget it.
forgiveness?
it goes against all my inclinations.
but my inclinations are all inclined wrong.
i want it for me
but i don't want to extend it.
and there it is,
laid bare and obvious.
this will never work
a puddle will never do.
limited capacity is nowhere close to adequate in the face of that maddeningly gracious infinity.
This quote from the book 'The Shack" by William Paul Young, I can't say i love it, but it certainly got my attention and its on my mind...a lot.
". . . I'm stuck, Papa. I can't just forget what he did, can I?", Mack implored. "Forgiveness is not about forgetting, Mack. It is about letting go of another person's throat."
Monday, July 06, 2009
snap
sometimes when you really hope something will change you may see possibility where none really exists.
Then you have a moment where you realize the truth.
no change is going to happen.
and you feel like an idiot for thinking that it even could.
and you're angry
and you're sad
and something in you just snaps.
again.
Then you have a moment where you realize the truth.
no change is going to happen.
and you feel like an idiot for thinking that it even could.
and you're angry
and you're sad
and something in you just snaps.
again.
Monday, June 22, 2009
light
Luke 11:33 "No one lights a lamp and hides it or puts it under a basket. Its put on a stand to give light to all who enter a room. Your eye is a lamp for your body. A pure eye lets sunshine into your soul, but an evil eye shuts out the light and plunges you into the darkness. Make sure that the light you have is not really darkness. If you are filled with light, with no dark corners, then your whole life will be radiant, as though a floodlight is shining on you."
I read this last week and I've though about it quite a bit.
Tonight I discovered that the first thing God says in the first chapter of the Bible is 'Let there be light." and in the last chapter of the Bible, God IS all the light anyone needs. There is no more use for the sun, there is no dark, so nobody needs lamps, candles, lights. . No more dark?
But its all we've ever known. . living with light and dark.
No more use for the sun?? God will be all the light anyone needs.
What kind of megawattage does He give off??!!
None of us can look directly at the sun.
It is too much for us.
It will fry our retinas,
blinding us.
Revelation 1: 12 *John was praying, this is what he wrote* ". . .suddenly I heard a loud voice behind me, a voice that sounded like a trumpet blast. When I turned to see who was speaking to me, I saw seven golden lampstands. Standing in the middle of the stands was the son of man. His eyes were bright, like flames of fire. His feet were as bright as bronze, refined in a furnace and his voice thundered like mighty ocean breakers. He held seven stars in his right hand. His face was as bright as the sun in all its brilliance. When I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead, but he laid his right hand on me and said: 'Don't be afraid!"
Somehow all my puny thoughts about God seem so childish.
I can't imagine such contact.
I'd faint too.
He IS light.
I can only reflect dimly.
He's like a football field full of klieg lights. .
I'm a penlight.
He's a raging infero.
I'm a birthday candle.
A voice like ocean breakers, trumpet blasts? I've heard the noise of several trumpets playing triple forte. .ear splitting. I've vacationed ocean front. . i've heard the pounding of the waves in a storm. . such power.
A face as bright as the sun?
The sun gives off the equivalent in light of 4 trillion trillion (yes, double trillion) 100 watt lightbulbs.
Its core temperature is 15,000,000 degrees.
I'm more than amazed by thoughts of God's light, his power.
But even more amazed by this question:
Why love?
Why love us?
Why does such greatness love such disobedient, troublesome, ungrateful, irrational, childish creatures?
I don't know.
But I'm so glad.
The thought of such power unbuffered by love is scary.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
1 observation and 2 thoughts
i work in a hospital.
The main lobby has a little chapel, sandwiched between Tim Horton's and the public washrooms.
its a nondescript little room, all beige and earthy, maybe 8 feet x 8 feet.
quiet.
i like to take my breaks there.
I go in and shut the door
i feel like i can finally breathe.
there are no phones ringing.
no computers.
no demands.
no endless tasks.
There are several pictures on the walls, i can see them in my mind. . the floral still life. . the winding path with grecian trees, the cloud 'angel' picture.
There is an old communion table at the front of the room, lettered with these words: "Do This in Remembrance of Me"
There are chairs enough for a small army, lining the walls, empty.
and there's a Bible in the centre of the table, flanked by boxes of kleenex.
observation 1:
The most well worn page in this Bible is, Psalm 23. Its grimy and smudgy. . and tear stained. Its almost always turned there when i come in. I love that. I wonder how many different people have looked up maybe the only thing they know: The Lord is my shepherd. .
thought 1:
as i had trouble trying to focus and not think of work, not hear the noise outside the door, trying to pray, i thought of writing one honest page per day.
I could not stop thinking of that. . . one honest page.
So, this is what i've started to do, write to God one page every day.
A way to 'pray' that helps me focus and corral my thoughts, which go wandering off in every direction.
thought 2:
this morning as I wondered why it was so hard to 'hear' God speak to me, I know the disconnect is on my end, I thought about how hard it is to talk to people when they're sleeping. You call their name over and over and over, you try to tell them something -- nothing. You say their name a bit louder. You shake their shoulder. . they mumble and mutter. .still not waking. You're speaking to them, they're fast asleep. hmmmm. . . am i asleep? i think so.
I think a most of us are.
The main lobby has a little chapel, sandwiched between Tim Horton's and the public washrooms.
its a nondescript little room, all beige and earthy, maybe 8 feet x 8 feet.
quiet.
i like to take my breaks there.
I go in and shut the door
i feel like i can finally breathe.
there are no phones ringing.
no computers.
no demands.
no endless tasks.
There are several pictures on the walls, i can see them in my mind. . the floral still life. . the winding path with grecian trees, the cloud 'angel' picture.
There is an old communion table at the front of the room, lettered with these words: "Do This in Remembrance of Me"
There are chairs enough for a small army, lining the walls, empty.
and there's a Bible in the centre of the table, flanked by boxes of kleenex.
observation 1:
The most well worn page in this Bible is, Psalm 23. Its grimy and smudgy. . and tear stained. Its almost always turned there when i come in. I love that. I wonder how many different people have looked up maybe the only thing they know: The Lord is my shepherd. .
thought 1:
as i had trouble trying to focus and not think of work, not hear the noise outside the door, trying to pray, i thought of writing one honest page per day.
I could not stop thinking of that. . . one honest page.
So, this is what i've started to do, write to God one page every day.
A way to 'pray' that helps me focus and corral my thoughts, which go wandering off in every direction.
thought 2:
this morning as I wondered why it was so hard to 'hear' God speak to me, I know the disconnect is on my end, I thought about how hard it is to talk to people when they're sleeping. You call their name over and over and over, you try to tell them something -- nothing. You say their name a bit louder. You shake their shoulder. . they mumble and mutter. .still not waking. You're speaking to them, they're fast asleep. hmmmm. . . am i asleep? i think so.
I think a most of us are.
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