Oh the plague of facts and numbers! With what I’ve been through this week, I find it a wonder that any history ever gets recorded accurately, or maybe it doesn’t.
First, there was the matter of the river floods on the North Saskatchewan. When I set out to develop a story about the floods, I thought I’d just get the numbers for the dozen or so high-water years. Not so simple though. Take 1915, for example. Did the water rise 14M as quoted by the Edmonton Public Library, or 12M as quoted in the City of Edmonton Disaster Plan, or 45.2 FT as recorded in the history books (No, 45.2 feet doesn’t equal either 12 or 14 meters. I already thought of that.) And then there is the catastrophic flood of 1899, which we are somewhat certain happened in 1899, though the 1915 Edmonton Bulletin newspaper refers to it often as the flood of 1898. Only 16 years passed between those two floods, and already they were getting it wrong.
With all this confusion going on, I wanted to drop the story, not wishing to be responsible for spreading inaccurate information. But I had already promised the story for a program, provided advertising details and taken up the time of the Provincial Archives staff doing the research, so quitting was out of the question. Alas, I have settled for the relative certainty that the 1986 flood was almost as big as the 1899 flood, which was almost as big as the 1915 flood. And I am not even going to mention the 1 in 100 year flood projection, which doesn’t mean that a flood will happen once every 100 years. In fact, the 1 in 100 year flood could theoretically happen every year, though it doesn’t seem to, especially since they installed the big dams up river, the dams which are supposed to prevent all serious floods, which they seem to do, except they didn’t in 1986. Nobody knows whether they prevented a serious flood in 2005, when we all prepared for a flood that didn’t turn out to be much of a flood, just a flood scare at 8.8M according to the Edmonton Public library.
Then there was the matter of Fanny Crosby. I started out knowing that she was a blind woman who lived to the age of 95 and wrote a few hymns, so I thought I’d do a little research and tell my music buddies about her. But it wasn’t more than ten minutes before I was mired in confusion. Did she write approximately 8000 hymns, or roughly 9000 hymns? There are only four in our hymnbook, though it is possible there are more, because the stories say that many of her hymns were published under other names, it not being appropriate for publishers to publish so many under one name. One story says that Fanny would occasionally hear a song by an unknown author and, finding it pleasing, would remark upon it, only to discover that it had actually been written by her. Well, that could be true. Surely nobody could actually remember 8000, let alone 9000 hymns. Fanny, born 1820, published three books in her lifetime—not books of hymns. At one time she had a publisher’s contract to write three hymns a week for the Sunday school—no problem for one who sometimes wrote seven hymns a day. She married but had no children—all the more time for writing. A minister said she told him she would have chosen to be blind so that she might praise her savior. This may have happened, but to me, a pragmatist jaded by the real life limitations of blindness, it sounds like the kind of story ministers really like to hear, and guilty congregations like to repeat with possible embellishment. And did I mention that Fanny also taught history at the New York Institute?
In the end I settled for one basic truth. Fanny Crosby was still a remarkable woman, even if she only wrote 8000 hymns. And one other truth, the North Saskatchewan River caused a lot of consternation with its flooding.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
A BLIND PERSON CELEBRATES CROSSING THE STREET
Many thanks to the City of Edmonton for installing an audible traffic signal on Rowland Road at 89 Street. This retrofit to the visual signal makes a huge difference to me. For the first time ever, I now feel confident that I am crossing to my bus stop at the appropriate time. I also want other blind people to know that this new signal is there so they can use it when they pass by, though I haven’t yet figured out how to communicate it to them.
Although many Edmontonians believe that these signals are installed wherever they are needed, this is not the case. Audible signal installation has received minimal attention compared, for example, to curb ramps. I am told that the current plan calls for installation of only three per year, and since new lights are not equipped when they are installed, the possibility of making all walk signals accessible to blind people gets further out of reach each year.
Though budget limitations are a contributing factor, the responses I got when requesting the signal show how the situation is made worse by the persistence of myths about blind people. Officials use these myths to defend policies when blind people ask for signals. In turn, we blind people are silenced by these myths. Having spent so much time trying to gain acceptance by proving ourselves, it is difficult for us to change gears and admit to our needs.
When I asked for the audible signal, I was told that the CNIB could solve my problem. This is a myth, though the official who told me this believed absolutely that it was true. Contrary to popular belief, the excellent training provided by the CNIB does not take the place of knowing when the signal changes. Like sighted people, blind people need a signal that tells them when to walk. The CNIB trainers are sighted. They teach blind people how to guess when the signal has changed. They watch the walk signal, and they pull you back if the traffic conditions don’t allow you to guess accurately. After they leave you, you’re on your own.
When I insisted that the CNIB could not solve my problem, I was told that blind people have a sixth sense which they use to cross Edmonton streets. Unfortunately this is not true in my case. I only have four senses, the number that sighted people have when they cover their eyes. If you think blindness gives you a sixth sense, try guessing at walk signals with your eyes closed several days in a row. You will still be able to peak to make sure you got it right.
When I confessed to having only four senses, I was told that the street I live on would never be a priority because it makes sense to spend limited resources on putting signals in central locations. In fact, signals are needed in central places, but these are usually the places where you can get help from other pedestrians. It is near your own home, where traffic is irregular and the streets are empty of pedestrians that you generally cross unaided on a daily basis.
When I argued that it would be difficult for me to reach a central location without leaving home, I was told that the neighbours complain about the noise when audible signals are installed. No numbers were produced to show the extent of the complaining, but I took their word for it and offered to reduce the chances by doing some P.R. work in my neighbourhood. No response was made to this offer.
I will admit that I was discouraged. I thought it would be impossible to influence a system that seemed so disinterested. I likely would have given up had it not been for the unwavering support of some people who love me.
The good news is that the City installed an audible signal that doesn’t make any noise unless you keep it pressed for about five seconds. . I am absolutely delighted with the 89th Street signal, though I don’t understand why this quiet version is automatically de-activated between 11:00 PM and 7:00 AM. Still, I hold out the hope that policy changes can be achieved, another reason for writing this piece. We have organizations that could be taking an active role, using information to shape policy change—the City’s advisory committee on disability services, and the CNIB, to mention two. The city’s advisory committee has begun to show an interest kin the past year. And though it takes both work and courage to make even a small change amid the apathy and ignorance that holds things back, individuals do have the ability to make a difference.
Today I joyfully crossed the street after getting off at my local bus stop. Had it not been for the audible signal, I would not have known that the light had changed. There wasn’t anyone there to help me, and there wasn’t quite enough straight through traffic, and two cars were turning in different directions. But I knew I could go because the signal told me so. I found myself hoping that audible signals will some day be considered a given, rather than a gift, that, like ramped curbs, they will be automatically installed. I am hoping that visually impaired people will step forward and ask for the signals they need, that they will challenge the policies with facts, and that they won’t feel ashamed of admitting that they have difficulty knowing when to cross. Any person asking for a signal should remember that sighted people also find it difficult, and that the problem is addressed by giving them visual walk signals.
Although many Edmontonians believe that these signals are installed wherever they are needed, this is not the case. Audible signal installation has received minimal attention compared, for example, to curb ramps. I am told that the current plan calls for installation of only three per year, and since new lights are not equipped when they are installed, the possibility of making all walk signals accessible to blind people gets further out of reach each year.
Though budget limitations are a contributing factor, the responses I got when requesting the signal show how the situation is made worse by the persistence of myths about blind people. Officials use these myths to defend policies when blind people ask for signals. In turn, we blind people are silenced by these myths. Having spent so much time trying to gain acceptance by proving ourselves, it is difficult for us to change gears and admit to our needs.
When I asked for the audible signal, I was told that the CNIB could solve my problem. This is a myth, though the official who told me this believed absolutely that it was true. Contrary to popular belief, the excellent training provided by the CNIB does not take the place of knowing when the signal changes. Like sighted people, blind people need a signal that tells them when to walk. The CNIB trainers are sighted. They teach blind people how to guess when the signal has changed. They watch the walk signal, and they pull you back if the traffic conditions don’t allow you to guess accurately. After they leave you, you’re on your own.
When I insisted that the CNIB could not solve my problem, I was told that blind people have a sixth sense which they use to cross Edmonton streets. Unfortunately this is not true in my case. I only have four senses, the number that sighted people have when they cover their eyes. If you think blindness gives you a sixth sense, try guessing at walk signals with your eyes closed several days in a row. You will still be able to peak to make sure you got it right.
When I confessed to having only four senses, I was told that the street I live on would never be a priority because it makes sense to spend limited resources on putting signals in central locations. In fact, signals are needed in central places, but these are usually the places where you can get help from other pedestrians. It is near your own home, where traffic is irregular and the streets are empty of pedestrians that you generally cross unaided on a daily basis.
When I argued that it would be difficult for me to reach a central location without leaving home, I was told that the neighbours complain about the noise when audible signals are installed. No numbers were produced to show the extent of the complaining, but I took their word for it and offered to reduce the chances by doing some P.R. work in my neighbourhood. No response was made to this offer.
I will admit that I was discouraged. I thought it would be impossible to influence a system that seemed so disinterested. I likely would have given up had it not been for the unwavering support of some people who love me.
The good news is that the City installed an audible signal that doesn’t make any noise unless you keep it pressed for about five seconds. . I am absolutely delighted with the 89th Street signal, though I don’t understand why this quiet version is automatically de-activated between 11:00 PM and 7:00 AM. Still, I hold out the hope that policy changes can be achieved, another reason for writing this piece. We have organizations that could be taking an active role, using information to shape policy change—the City’s advisory committee on disability services, and the CNIB, to mention two. The city’s advisory committee has begun to show an interest kin the past year. And though it takes both work and courage to make even a small change amid the apathy and ignorance that holds things back, individuals do have the ability to make a difference.
Today I joyfully crossed the street after getting off at my local bus stop. Had it not been for the audible signal, I would not have known that the light had changed. There wasn’t anyone there to help me, and there wasn’t quite enough straight through traffic, and two cars were turning in different directions. But I knew I could go because the signal told me so. I found myself hoping that audible signals will some day be considered a given, rather than a gift, that, like ramped curbs, they will be automatically installed. I am hoping that visually impaired people will step forward and ask for the signals they need, that they will challenge the policies with facts, and that they won’t feel ashamed of admitting that they have difficulty knowing when to cross. Any person asking for a signal should remember that sighted people also find it difficult, and that the problem is addressed by giving them visual walk signals.
Monday, September 08, 2008
STEREOTYPING
And when he said, I’ll just leave now because you walk faster than me and I can get a head start,” it seemed right to us. He is, after all, eighty-two years old.
And when he started the stairs, half a block ahead of us, we wished in worry that he had waited, so we might have directed him up the gentler slope of the hill.
And when he reached the top of the 230 stairs, turning back to say, easiest steps I ever climbed," we were once again reminded of the dangers of stereotyping.
And when he started the stairs, half a block ahead of us, we wished in worry that he had waited, so we might have directed him up the gentler slope of the hill.
And when he reached the top of the 230 stairs, turning back to say, easiest steps I ever climbed," we were once again reminded of the dangers of stereotyping.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
THE DISTRACTED CENTIPEDE
If ever there was a poem to describe how THE BEGINNING OF THE September ROUTINE GETS THE BETTER OF ME, it HAS TO BE this one.
THE DISTRACTED CENTIPEDE
By Edith L. M. King (1871-1962)
A centipede was happy quite,
Until a frog in fun
Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?"
This raised her mind to such a pitch,
She lay distracted in the ditch
Considering how to run.
BUT DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME!!! The historical perspective predicts that I'll be fine by October.
THE DISTRACTED CENTIPEDE
By Edith L. M. King (1871-1962)
A centipede was happy quite,
Until a frog in fun
Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?"
This raised her mind to such a pitch,
She lay distracted in the ditch
Considering how to run.
BUT DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME!!! The historical perspective predicts that I'll be fine by October.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
RIVER
When you float down the North Saskatchewan River on a sunny Friday morning, stalling momentarily on sand bars, gliding effortlessly beneath the bridges, dodging ducks, peaking at the holes in the bank where the swallows make their nests--when you float down the North Saskatchewan River on a sunny Friday morning—it is almost impossible to believe that such a peaceful river could have caused so much consternation to so many. But then, rivers are unpredictable. They ebb and flow like life itself, sometimes stalling or going in circles, sometimes racing, other times overwhelming with their flow, picking up the flotsam in their way.
What good are sunny Friday mornings on lazy rivers? Would we not get more exercise if we paddled? Would we not earn more money if we worked? We certainly would get farther and go faster if we hired a jet boat.
Let me take a stand for Friday morning floats, just as I have taken a stand for positive emotions when others have said they are simply a cover-up for the more important serious issues. We need the lazy Friday morning floats, the shining sun, the cooling breeze. We need that perspective to reinforce our resources against the day when we face the floods. So also do we need the positive emotions, love, joy, hope, mirth. They build us up. We need not rush through them, expecting the worst, waiting for the shoe to drop. These positive emotions, along with whatever does not kill us, make us stronger. They give us strength to face whatever is to come.
What good are sunny Friday mornings on lazy rivers? Would we not get more exercise if we paddled? Would we not earn more money if we worked? We certainly would get farther and go faster if we hired a jet boat.
Let me take a stand for Friday morning floats, just as I have taken a stand for positive emotions when others have said they are simply a cover-up for the more important serious issues. We need the lazy Friday morning floats, the shining sun, the cooling breeze. We need that perspective to reinforce our resources against the day when we face the floods. So also do we need the positive emotions, love, joy, hope, mirth. They build us up. We need not rush through them, expecting the worst, waiting for the shoe to drop. These positive emotions, along with whatever does not kill us, make us stronger. They give us strength to face whatever is to come.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
INHERITANCE
Aunty Linda left a legacy
To a group of twenty-somethings.
One bought a car with low kilometres.
One saw the way to a great vacation.
One paid the rent for a year’s university.
And in the end it seemed to me
That this was just the kind of thing
Aunty Linda would have mentioned
When she went with friends to breakfast.
You can live on in a good used car,
Or a beach resort
Or pre-paid rent.
And a million zillion other ways
They can find to remember you fondly.
To a group of twenty-somethings.
One bought a car with low kilometres.
One saw the way to a great vacation.
One paid the rent for a year’s university.
And in the end it seemed to me
That this was just the kind of thing
Aunty Linda would have mentioned
When she went with friends to breakfast.
You can live on in a good used car,
Or a beach resort
Or pre-paid rent.
And a million zillion other ways
They can find to remember you fondly.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
DENSITY
My bones are not as dense as they ought to be—indeed, not as dense as they used to be. Just where that mass has gone I do not know. Possibly it gradually escaped out my mouth while I was talking. But anyway, it seems to have escaped. But the news is good. It can be rebuilt.
Apparently it won’t be all that difficult to rebuild it. All I have to do is take one pill per week, not such a big pill either. The thing is, I’m not to lie down after taking that pill, and it must be taken at least thirty minutes prior to taking anything else, including food, beverage or other medication. As far as I can figure, this is a Monday morning pill, a pill to be taken on a day when everything else is already messed up. All I have to do is get up a little earlier than usual, take the pill, take a shower, doddle in the bathroom, dress slowly, take my other medications, have breakfast, and then arrive for work, possibly a little late, which seems pretty natural for a Monday morning.
There’s just one more little thing. I ought also to be taking calcium, which doesn’t seem to absorb unless it is taken with vitamin D. The doctor has jotted down a formula for the balance between the two. We stare for hours at the pharmacy shelves, only to conclude that No product, either pre-mixed or individually packaged, meets his exact specifications. So we finally settle for the drug company recommendations and ignore the line on the package that tells us to follow these directions unless otherwise specified by a doctor. There’s just one more little thing, though. The calcium should not be taken two hours before or four hours after other medication, which allows me to take the four gigantic pills at bedtime, except if my arthritis flares up again and I have to take a pill for that at bedtime, at which point I will have to skip supper, I think. Or maybe Monday morning breakfast.
The more I think about it, the denser I feel. Could this possibly explain where the bone density has gone?
Apparently it won’t be all that difficult to rebuild it. All I have to do is take one pill per week, not such a big pill either. The thing is, I’m not to lie down after taking that pill, and it must be taken at least thirty minutes prior to taking anything else, including food, beverage or other medication. As far as I can figure, this is a Monday morning pill, a pill to be taken on a day when everything else is already messed up. All I have to do is get up a little earlier than usual, take the pill, take a shower, doddle in the bathroom, dress slowly, take my other medications, have breakfast, and then arrive for work, possibly a little late, which seems pretty natural for a Monday morning.
There’s just one more little thing. I ought also to be taking calcium, which doesn’t seem to absorb unless it is taken with vitamin D. The doctor has jotted down a formula for the balance between the two. We stare for hours at the pharmacy shelves, only to conclude that No product, either pre-mixed or individually packaged, meets his exact specifications. So we finally settle for the drug company recommendations and ignore the line on the package that tells us to follow these directions unless otherwise specified by a doctor. There’s just one more little thing, though. The calcium should not be taken two hours before or four hours after other medication, which allows me to take the four gigantic pills at bedtime, except if my arthritis flares up again and I have to take a pill for that at bedtime, at which point I will have to skip supper, I think. Or maybe Monday morning breakfast.
The more I think about it, the denser I feel. Could this possibly explain where the bone density has gone?
Saturday, August 23, 2008
HOW WE SPENT OUR SUMMER VACATION
And what did we plan for our two-week vacation?
Well, not much, really, except for a wedding.
And what did we do on our two-week vacation?
We went on
An architectural tour of historic buildings in the 104 Street Warehouse District,
A self-guided walking tour of West Oliver and Glenora
A ghost tour of Old Strathcona,
A raft trip down the North Saskatchewan River,
A ramble through a corn maze,
And a visit to the burial grounds on the spot where they’ve decided not to build a new power station.
We attended
Three Fringe plays in the blistering heat
Two Fringe plays in the freezing cold,
A wedding rehearsal
A wedding,
A gift opening,
A funeral
Two Sunday services
And a party to celebrate the 147th birthday of John Walter.
We visited
Four farmers’ markets,
Four City Parks we had not walked in,
The Provincial archives in search of a story,
A casino in search of a win,
A doctor
Five show homes,
Our brand new minister,
Friends in the country
And relatives too numerous to mention.
We ordered a bathtub,
And also bought
Six towels
A low-flush toilet,
Three pairs of casual pants,
Four chrysanthemums,
Some excellent bread
Several cups of coffee
And a lot of fresh vegetables.
We played
Many games of dice.
We ate
Elephant ears,
Buffalo burgers,
Ed’s garden cucumbers
Lunch at Teddy's
Dinner at Rat Pack Louie's
And a free lunch courtesy of the Allen Pharmacy.
We planned to
Watch the Olympics on TV
But we didn't get around to that.
Well, not much, really, except for a wedding.
And what did we do on our two-week vacation?
We went on
An architectural tour of historic buildings in the 104 Street Warehouse District,
A self-guided walking tour of West Oliver and Glenora
A ghost tour of Old Strathcona,
A raft trip down the North Saskatchewan River,
A ramble through a corn maze,
And a visit to the burial grounds on the spot where they’ve decided not to build a new power station.
We attended
Three Fringe plays in the blistering heat
Two Fringe plays in the freezing cold,
A wedding rehearsal
A wedding,
A gift opening,
A funeral
Two Sunday services
And a party to celebrate the 147th birthday of John Walter.
We visited
Four farmers’ markets,
Four City Parks we had not walked in,
The Provincial archives in search of a story,
A casino in search of a win,
A doctor
Five show homes,
Our brand new minister,
Friends in the country
And relatives too numerous to mention.
We ordered a bathtub,
And also bought
Six towels
A low-flush toilet,
Three pairs of casual pants,
Four chrysanthemums,
Some excellent bread
Several cups of coffee
And a lot of fresh vegetables.
We played
Many games of dice.
We ate
Elephant ears,
Buffalo burgers,
Ed’s garden cucumbers
Lunch at Teddy's
Dinner at Rat Pack Louie's
And a free lunch courtesy of the Allen Pharmacy.
We planned to
Watch the Olympics on TV
But we didn't get around to that.
Monday, August 11, 2008
ABSOLUTELY FREE
Here’s hope for you. Yesterday we participated in an absolutely fre activity. It was John Walter’s birthday party at the John Walter museum in Edmonton’s river valley. We had a guided river valley tour, two storytelling sessions under shade trees, a tour of three houses, an intro to the historic logging industry in Edmonton, live music, birthday cake, lemonade, parking, and all of it was free. We passed on the bannick making. The weather was perfect!!!! There were lots of kids activities there also, but we didn’t have any kids with us. We were there three full hours.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
HOW THE AFORE-MENTIONED HERITAGE TOMATO IS DOING
Mike and Anne came to dinner. They brought with them a tomato plant grown from a heritage seed. As soon as I held it I forgot that I’d said we were absolutely
not planting any more tomato plants this year. And even though I have always declared it inefficient to start tomato plants from seed, I could feel myself
sliding into the future, slicing gently into ripe juicy tomatoes to extract the finest seeds for next year’s planting. This, I suppose, is the magical
influence of a heritage seed.
I never gave much thought to what expectations I ought to have of a heritage tomato. It is only now, in early August, that I realize I had expectations, expectations based on stereotypes rather than research. I could have done some research, can’t now figure out why I didn’t. I could have asked Anne how big the plant gets, when it produces fruit and how much water it takes. I did none of these. I simply thanked, her, told her we would be planting it in a pot on the deck, and ignored her response, which was to hesitate, and then say that it would likely need a good stake, or even a cage. What I ignored was the nonverbal message: Don’t plant it in a pot on the deck!
The heritage tomato seemed pleased with its new home. I transplanted it from Anne’s small carrying pot to a good sized deck pot and put it in the sun to do whatever heritage plants do, missing one important fact—heritage plants didn’t grow in pots. I now realize that the word heritage carries with it certain suggestions, visions of a hardy, independent, self-reliant plant, caring for itself and producing misshapen fruits that generate seeds without the benefit of the planned care given to its grower-bred cousins. That said, I decided to give this heritage tomato a little extra care—regular watering, a dash of fertilizer to compensate for nature’s lack of rain and the pot’s limited nutritional potential.
Things have turned out just as a more discerning psychologist might predict they would. That tomato has become dependent. Relieved of the responsibility of self-care, it grew and grew. Fearing that a tomato cage would be inadequate, we bought it a cage big enough for a peony. It grew out over the top. First came the flowers, then the tomatoes—perfectly symmetrical pear-shaped specimens decoratively adorned with rounded ridges stretching at intervals from top to bottom. One day we came home to find that the plant, pot, cage and all had tipped over. There it lay, begging for assistance. We stood it up. Must have been windy here,”” we said.
The next day was calm. Still, the plant tipped over as it had the day before. That’s when we realized that the cage secured the produce, but did not compensate for the heaviness of the tomatoes on one side, throwing off the balance. That’s when we pressed the geranium pots into service, circling them around to guard against tipping—or so we hope.
So now we wait. Every day we water—sometimes twice. That plant is thirstier than a dusty cowboy in a saloon. And every day those tomatoes grow bigger—and bigger. Who knows how big they can get?
And at summer’s end we will face an existential question: If you coddle a plant, giving it every chance to produce the best seeds, thus affecting future generations through the process of unnatural selection, is it still a heritage plant?
not planting any more tomato plants this year. And even though I have always declared it inefficient to start tomato plants from seed, I could feel myself
sliding into the future, slicing gently into ripe juicy tomatoes to extract the finest seeds for next year’s planting. This, I suppose, is the magical
influence of a heritage seed.
I never gave much thought to what expectations I ought to have of a heritage tomato. It is only now, in early August, that I realize I had expectations, expectations based on stereotypes rather than research. I could have done some research, can’t now figure out why I didn’t. I could have asked Anne how big the plant gets, when it produces fruit and how much water it takes. I did none of these. I simply thanked, her, told her we would be planting it in a pot on the deck, and ignored her response, which was to hesitate, and then say that it would likely need a good stake, or even a cage. What I ignored was the nonverbal message: Don’t plant it in a pot on the deck!
The heritage tomato seemed pleased with its new home. I transplanted it from Anne’s small carrying pot to a good sized deck pot and put it in the sun to do whatever heritage plants do, missing one important fact—heritage plants didn’t grow in pots. I now realize that the word heritage carries with it certain suggestions, visions of a hardy, independent, self-reliant plant, caring for itself and producing misshapen fruits that generate seeds without the benefit of the planned care given to its grower-bred cousins. That said, I decided to give this heritage tomato a little extra care—regular watering, a dash of fertilizer to compensate for nature’s lack of rain and the pot’s limited nutritional potential.
Things have turned out just as a more discerning psychologist might predict they would. That tomato has become dependent. Relieved of the responsibility of self-care, it grew and grew. Fearing that a tomato cage would be inadequate, we bought it a cage big enough for a peony. It grew out over the top. First came the flowers, then the tomatoes—perfectly symmetrical pear-shaped specimens decoratively adorned with rounded ridges stretching at intervals from top to bottom. One day we came home to find that the plant, pot, cage and all had tipped over. There it lay, begging for assistance. We stood it up. Must have been windy here,”” we said.
The next day was calm. Still, the plant tipped over as it had the day before. That’s when we realized that the cage secured the produce, but did not compensate for the heaviness of the tomatoes on one side, throwing off the balance. That’s when we pressed the geranium pots into service, circling them around to guard against tipping—or so we hope.
So now we wait. Every day we water—sometimes twice. That plant is thirstier than a dusty cowboy in a saloon. And every day those tomatoes grow bigger—and bigger. Who knows how big they can get?
And at summer’s end we will face an existential question: If you coddle a plant, giving it every chance to produce the best seeds, thus affecting future generations through the process of unnatural selection, is it still a heritage plant?
Sunday, August 03, 2008
UNWRAPPING YOUR CHILDHOOD
Ruth says, “I never knew you guys were rich until I grew up. As a child, I thought we didn’t have much money.”
I am stunned to uncharacteristic silence. What can she possibly mean? Number one, we are hardly rich, in the sense of capital R Rich! Surely she has only to look at the homes of her friends’ parents to see that ours, comfortable and lovely as it is, is not the quality of theirs. And, number two, how could she have thought us to be poor? Did we not take her twice to Disneyland and once to Disney World? “Rich people,” I declare with feeling, “don’t usually drive around in mini-vans.”
But Ruth is unyielding, not persuaded by anything I can say. She says she drew her conclusions not so much from what we did, as from what we said about ourselves. In this she probably has a point. We would hardly have gone about speaking of ourselves as rich, and no doubt we denied her a request or two on the grounds of insufficient funds.
“Of course we could have afforded to buy silver wrapping paper,” I tell her when she raises the subject of gift-wrap. “We just didn’t, because we were trying to help the environment by wrapping birthday gifts in brightly coloured newspaper comics. Weren’t you proud that we were saving the environment?”
“Not especially,” she says. “I was embarrassed.”
“Oh well,” I soothe, “you turned out very nicely anyway.”
Ruth is a generous person. She will gladly give you a ride in her car, but there are a lot of bottles and cans rattling around. She recycles them and uses the money to buy things for her classroom. A big load from our garage will bring her ten dollars, maybe fifteen. And somewhere in the back seat you can find her new cloth shopping bags.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree! And so goes the confusion when you start to sort out the memories of your childhood, what you knew versus what you thought to be true.
I am stunned to uncharacteristic silence. What can she possibly mean? Number one, we are hardly rich, in the sense of capital R Rich! Surely she has only to look at the homes of her friends’ parents to see that ours, comfortable and lovely as it is, is not the quality of theirs. And, number two, how could she have thought us to be poor? Did we not take her twice to Disneyland and once to Disney World? “Rich people,” I declare with feeling, “don’t usually drive around in mini-vans.”
But Ruth is unyielding, not persuaded by anything I can say. She says she drew her conclusions not so much from what we did, as from what we said about ourselves. In this she probably has a point. We would hardly have gone about speaking of ourselves as rich, and no doubt we denied her a request or two on the grounds of insufficient funds.
“Of course we could have afforded to buy silver wrapping paper,” I tell her when she raises the subject of gift-wrap. “We just didn’t, because we were trying to help the environment by wrapping birthday gifts in brightly coloured newspaper comics. Weren’t you proud that we were saving the environment?”
“Not especially,” she says. “I was embarrassed.”
“Oh well,” I soothe, “you turned out very nicely anyway.”
Ruth is a generous person. She will gladly give you a ride in her car, but there are a lot of bottles and cans rattling around. She recycles them and uses the money to buy things for her classroom. A big load from our garage will bring her ten dollars, maybe fifteen. And somewhere in the back seat you can find her new cloth shopping bags.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree! And so goes the confusion when you start to sort out the memories of your childhood, what you knew versus what you thought to be true.
Friday, August 01, 2008
FALSE ALARM
Just when I get to thinking that I’d better be finding my snow boots
Because it’s the first of August
And you can never be too well prepared
Given that the geraniums are full and luscious
The pansies are on the wane
With the lilies on their tail
And the peony blossoms a distant memory,
That’s when I notice that the Acidanthra are opening,
And the gladioli are poking up their buds through the evening scented stocks,
With the roses preparing for a second blooming round,
While the asters perform final stage checks before making their dazzling August entrance.
And then, noticing these things,
I am grateful that I, in many mid-summers past,
Heard the false alarm of snow boots pressure,
And found a way to silence it with flowers.
Because it’s the first of August
And you can never be too well prepared
Given that the geraniums are full and luscious
The pansies are on the wane
With the lilies on their tail
And the peony blossoms a distant memory,
That’s when I notice that the Acidanthra are opening,
And the gladioli are poking up their buds through the evening scented stocks,
With the roses preparing for a second blooming round,
While the asters perform final stage checks before making their dazzling August entrance.
And then, noticing these things,
I am grateful that I, in many mid-summers past,
Heard the false alarm of snow boots pressure,
And found a way to silence it with flowers.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
FOLLOWING A PRESCRIPTION
Bev went out and bought me a huge bag of almonds. She has heard they are good for people who have arthritis and—face it—I’ve been whining quite a bit lately. Her suggestion made sense to me, given my history. When my mother was about my age, she went on a vitamin diet which appeared to help her arthritis. Unfortunately, none of us can remember the name of the diet or the name of anyone associated with it. We only recall the success of it, plus the story she used to tell, a story about how hard it is to find an address in Sherwood Park, where so many of the streets are named for trees.
So I decided to go for almonds. It was a heady prospect, following a prescription to eat something I already love. Unlike every other treatment known to humankind, it would be gentle, pleasurable, even a little classy. I imagined myself saying, I eat almonds. They are very nutritious, you know.
I recall my mother telling me that her doctor prescribed eleven almonds a day. In that memory I remember exactly where she was sitting when she counted them out. She was sitting at the kitchen table. Bev, in contrast, recommended a serving of fifteen which, O took seriously, knowing Bev to be a woman who can be counted upon for wisdom, balance and moderation.
I decided that I would eat thirteen almonds. It was a compromise, a safe compromise. I’ve been working with numbers lately. Last week I gave up coffee because one doctor and one bone density equipment operator told me that excessive caffeine can be hard on the bones. But I didn’t actually give up coffee in the pure sense. I get a headache when I do that. I cut down to two cups a day, sometimes two at home and one at work. I figure that the coffee doesn’t add up so much if you drink it in different places.
I opened Bev’s big bag and counted out thirteen almonds. It was like clicking of the kilometers on a long road trip. I counted and counted and when I got to thirteen ... Do you have any idea what a puny pile you get when you count out thirteen almonds? I could store them in my right ear (don’t worry, I wouldn’t do that unless it was raining.) I could inhale them in a single swallow!
I ate thirteen almonds. I listened to my body, which is what we always suggest to people who are trying to set limits with regard to pain. My body said, “Eat more almonds.” I don’t exactly know how many. It takes a long time to count almonds.
Instead of wasting the time I’d saved by not counting the almonds, I looked up the calorie content of almonds. It looks to me like a cup of almonds contains about 543 calories. The kind of cup they usually mean in these lists isn’t very big, not nearly as big as a cup of coffee, good thing I didn’t start with chocolate-coated almonds. That was my plan, changed at the last moment by Bev’s quick intervention.
All this happened yesterday. This morning I was up bright and early, excited to see if the pain was gone. I listened to my body. It said, “Not quite gone. Maybe you ate too many almonds.”
It was hard to argue with that theory. How often do I tell people, “You have to take your prescriptions according to directions?” Today at lunch I counted out thirteen almonds. I tried to remember the calories, but I wanted one right away. So I didn’t put them in a pile. I ate one, then took the other twelve down to the lunch table and arranged them neatly, with spaces between. My buddies agreed with me that it looked like a reasonable serving of almonds. But I didn’t stop there. I put other psychological measures in place. Instead of considering the almonds as one whole group, I asked each almond to stand proudly on its own. I had a pattern, two bites of lunch, one almond. Sometimes I took three bites, or even four. And it worked! At the end of lunch, I still had two almonds to eat. And when I got back to my office, I only had five more. Maybe six. And I don’t feel too terribly guilty. After all, authorities don’t agree on the exact number.
So I decided to go for almonds. It was a heady prospect, following a prescription to eat something I already love. Unlike every other treatment known to humankind, it would be gentle, pleasurable, even a little classy. I imagined myself saying, I eat almonds. They are very nutritious, you know.
I recall my mother telling me that her doctor prescribed eleven almonds a day. In that memory I remember exactly where she was sitting when she counted them out. She was sitting at the kitchen table. Bev, in contrast, recommended a serving of fifteen which, O took seriously, knowing Bev to be a woman who can be counted upon for wisdom, balance and moderation.
I decided that I would eat thirteen almonds. It was a compromise, a safe compromise. I’ve been working with numbers lately. Last week I gave up coffee because one doctor and one bone density equipment operator told me that excessive caffeine can be hard on the bones. But I didn’t actually give up coffee in the pure sense. I get a headache when I do that. I cut down to two cups a day, sometimes two at home and one at work. I figure that the coffee doesn’t add up so much if you drink it in different places.
I opened Bev’s big bag and counted out thirteen almonds. It was like clicking of the kilometers on a long road trip. I counted and counted and when I got to thirteen ... Do you have any idea what a puny pile you get when you count out thirteen almonds? I could store them in my right ear (don’t worry, I wouldn’t do that unless it was raining.) I could inhale them in a single swallow!
I ate thirteen almonds. I listened to my body, which is what we always suggest to people who are trying to set limits with regard to pain. My body said, “Eat more almonds.” I don’t exactly know how many. It takes a long time to count almonds.
Instead of wasting the time I’d saved by not counting the almonds, I looked up the calorie content of almonds. It looks to me like a cup of almonds contains about 543 calories. The kind of cup they usually mean in these lists isn’t very big, not nearly as big as a cup of coffee, good thing I didn’t start with chocolate-coated almonds. That was my plan, changed at the last moment by Bev’s quick intervention.
All this happened yesterday. This morning I was up bright and early, excited to see if the pain was gone. I listened to my body. It said, “Not quite gone. Maybe you ate too many almonds.”
It was hard to argue with that theory. How often do I tell people, “You have to take your prescriptions according to directions?” Today at lunch I counted out thirteen almonds. I tried to remember the calories, but I wanted one right away. So I didn’t put them in a pile. I ate one, then took the other twelve down to the lunch table and arranged them neatly, with spaces between. My buddies agreed with me that it looked like a reasonable serving of almonds. But I didn’t stop there. I put other psychological measures in place. Instead of considering the almonds as one whole group, I asked each almond to stand proudly on its own. I had a pattern, two bites of lunch, one almond. Sometimes I took three bites, or even four. And it worked! At the end of lunch, I still had two almonds to eat. And when I got back to my office, I only had five more. Maybe six. And I don’t feel too terribly guilty. After all, authorities don’t agree on the exact number.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
RELATIONAL CHEMISTRY
When it comes to human chemistry, I think of my mother and her sisters. Any gathering that combined them would inevitably give off a high voltage energy. It was the mixing that did it.
I wouldn’t say they were close. In reality they might go for months, maybe even years without making contact. I can’t say they were similar in characteristics beyond appearance, though each was most likely the bookkeeper in her own world. It is certain that their choice of husbands emphasized what must have been genuine differences between them. I don’t even know if the sisters had much in common. There were five of them originally. One of them I did not know because she died when I was a child. Of the remaining four, two of them were farmers, one ran a thriving hardware business. The other was a justice of the peace. I never knew about it if they ever sought one another in search of advice.
So what was it that generated the chemistry? It wasn’t the past that brought them together. They rarely, if ever, reminisced about the old days. It probably wasn’t mutual agreement on current issues. Stubborn, strong-willed and boisterous by nature, it would have been plausible for them to burst into raucous argument.
We know, through observation, that chemistry happens. But we don’t usually know what actually causes it. The nature of elements remains a secret of the universe. Different and determined though the sisters were, they did not argue when they got together. Their gatherings were invariably loud and hilarious. They would pass the time in lengthy description of whatever was interesting to them at present, wich might be anything at all, what you could get at $1.49 day, or the process by which a prospective bride chose the style of her wedding cake. Smart women without much formal education, they shared an affinity for detail in any project that captured their attention. The longer they were together, the funnier they got. As a child, as an adult with children of my own, I was drawn to accept invitations to any event that would bring them together. There were weddings and funerals and birthday parties and baptisms. There was a family reunion with dogs and grandchildren and fireworks and enough food for an army.
One other characteristic they definitely shared. Their health was fragile, an odd thing for women so robust in other ways. Of five who grew to adulthood, to motherhood, not one made it to the average lifespan of Canadian women. Oldest of the pack, my mother was the last to go, and though my sides still ache recalling how their gatherings convulsed me into laughter, my heart breaks with the memory of hearing my mother sob, “All my sisters are gone!”
It is this confusion of joy and sadness, the intimate experience of a unique and irreplaceable chemistry that comes to my mind when strangers call to inquire if I do grief counselling. And though I still hear myself asking, “Were you close to the one you lost?” I hesitate to interpret too much from the answer, knowing how the chemistry can be more complicated than that.
I wouldn’t say they were close. In reality they might go for months, maybe even years without making contact. I can’t say they were similar in characteristics beyond appearance, though each was most likely the bookkeeper in her own world. It is certain that their choice of husbands emphasized what must have been genuine differences between them. I don’t even know if the sisters had much in common. There were five of them originally. One of them I did not know because she died when I was a child. Of the remaining four, two of them were farmers, one ran a thriving hardware business. The other was a justice of the peace. I never knew about it if they ever sought one another in search of advice.
So what was it that generated the chemistry? It wasn’t the past that brought them together. They rarely, if ever, reminisced about the old days. It probably wasn’t mutual agreement on current issues. Stubborn, strong-willed and boisterous by nature, it would have been plausible for them to burst into raucous argument.
We know, through observation, that chemistry happens. But we don’t usually know what actually causes it. The nature of elements remains a secret of the universe. Different and determined though the sisters were, they did not argue when they got together. Their gatherings were invariably loud and hilarious. They would pass the time in lengthy description of whatever was interesting to them at present, wich might be anything at all, what you could get at $1.49 day, or the process by which a prospective bride chose the style of her wedding cake. Smart women without much formal education, they shared an affinity for detail in any project that captured their attention. The longer they were together, the funnier they got. As a child, as an adult with children of my own, I was drawn to accept invitations to any event that would bring them together. There were weddings and funerals and birthday parties and baptisms. There was a family reunion with dogs and grandchildren and fireworks and enough food for an army.
One other characteristic they definitely shared. Their health was fragile, an odd thing for women so robust in other ways. Of five who grew to adulthood, to motherhood, not one made it to the average lifespan of Canadian women. Oldest of the pack, my mother was the last to go, and though my sides still ache recalling how their gatherings convulsed me into laughter, my heart breaks with the memory of hearing my mother sob, “All my sisters are gone!”
It is this confusion of joy and sadness, the intimate experience of a unique and irreplaceable chemistry that comes to my mind when strangers call to inquire if I do grief counselling. And though I still hear myself asking, “Were you close to the one you lost?” I hesitate to interpret too much from the answer, knowing how the chemistry can be more complicated than that.
Monday, July 28, 2008
ON HOPE AND LIGHT BULBS
And the old joke asks, “”How many counsellors does it take to change a light bulb?
And the answer is, “”Only one, but it has to want to change.
And the million-dollar question, if you happen to be a counsellor is, “”What in the world do I have to do to make that light bulb want to change?
And the wise leader replies, “”Ask not what you have to do to make the light bulb want to change but rather ask what makes that light bulb stay the same when everybody else in the room can see how much brighter things would be if only it would change.
And the counsellor says, “”You have to really know a light bulb in order to understand what gives it that unique perspective on the room.
And the hope theorist asks, “”Is it possible that the difference between that light bulb and everybody else in the room is somehow related to hope?
And the wise leader says, “”I think I’ll get on with other work while you all sort this out.
And I, a counsellor prone to wondering impatiently why I have yet to devise, after more than thirteen years of mind-blowing concentration, a universally effective one-size-fits-all hope-focussed light-bulb-changing technique, have only one thing to say: “”A counsellor’s work would be a whole lot easier to describe in a training manual if there weren’t so many different kinds of light bulbs.
And the answer is, “”Only one, but it has to want to change.
And the million-dollar question, if you happen to be a counsellor is, “”What in the world do I have to do to make that light bulb want to change?
And the wise leader replies, “”Ask not what you have to do to make the light bulb want to change but rather ask what makes that light bulb stay the same when everybody else in the room can see how much brighter things would be if only it would change.
And the counsellor says, “”You have to really know a light bulb in order to understand what gives it that unique perspective on the room.
And the hope theorist asks, “”Is it possible that the difference between that light bulb and everybody else in the room is somehow related to hope?
And the wise leader says, “”I think I’ll get on with other work while you all sort this out.
And I, a counsellor prone to wondering impatiently why I have yet to devise, after more than thirteen years of mind-blowing concentration, a universally effective one-size-fits-all hope-focussed light-bulb-changing technique, have only one thing to say: “”A counsellor’s work would be a whole lot easier to describe in a training manual if there weren’t so many different kinds of light bulbs.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
EMERGENCY RESPONSE
Trudy and Andy left Calgary at 6:00 on a Saturday morning in search of Edmonton. It was an emergency. Our lilies were at their peak and they simply had to be viewed in person—I being technologically incapable of emailing a photo.
Though we had no particular plans, we could tell right away that this would be an exceptional day, because they had stopped on the road for ice cream some time around 8:30. Now that’s a special day! Even at the all-inclusive in Mexico we never had ice cream before lunch!
We spent the morning testing the ripeness of peas and comparing red cherries to yellow at the outdoor market. We spent the afternoon in a fierce dice-throwing competition on the veranda. Andy showed us how his new camera could zoom in on a person at the top of the hill (so much for the theory that we don’t need to close our bedroom curtains). At the end of it all there could be absolutely no doubt about two things: cousins ought to get together more often; and also, Andy and Trudy know exactly what to do in an emergency.
Though we had no particular plans, we could tell right away that this would be an exceptional day, because they had stopped on the road for ice cream some time around 8:30. Now that’s a special day! Even at the all-inclusive in Mexico we never had ice cream before lunch!
We spent the morning testing the ripeness of peas and comparing red cherries to yellow at the outdoor market. We spent the afternoon in a fierce dice-throwing competition on the veranda. Andy showed us how his new camera could zoom in on a person at the top of the hill (so much for the theory that we don’t need to close our bedroom curtains). At the end of it all there could be absolutely no doubt about two things: cousins ought to get together more often; and also, Andy and Trudy know exactly what to do in an emergency.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
BEST THINGS I'VE HEARD LATELY
From Joan: I can't believe how rude the people on the buses are these days. They're talking so loud on their chokecherries and you hear everything they're saying!
From Trudy: I've lost the same four pounds ten times this summer.
From Pirate: You know i wouldn't dream of asking to get into bed withyou if it wasn't for that scary thunder!
From the City of Edmonton: We're planning to install an audible traffic signal at the 89 street crosswalk because it has been requested by a visually impaired resident.
From a grade four student who had been studying hope: Where you go, hope follows. You can find that one and many other great slogans from grade 4 students on Lenora's blog www.learningtohope.blogspot.com
From Trudy: I've lost the same four pounds ten times this summer.
From Pirate: You know i wouldn't dream of asking to get into bed withyou if it wasn't for that scary thunder!
From the City of Edmonton: We're planning to install an audible traffic signal at the 89 street crosswalk because it has been requested by a visually impaired resident.
From a grade four student who had been studying hope: Where you go, hope follows. You can find that one and many other great slogans from grade 4 students on Lenora's blog www.learningtohope.blogspot.com
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
UNDERSTANDING PERSON-TO-KEYBOARD DYNAMICS THROUGH THE LENS OF RELATINSHIP THEORY: A SINGLE SUBJECT CASE STUDY
An electronic keyboard can give you the power and the inspiration to do things you never, ever could do before. Placed in the hands of a musical dreamer, it is a dangerous thing.
You can lay down a piano track, solid and steady, a fitting foundation for that which will be built—track 1. You can smooth the surface with soft strings—track 2. You can embellish the bridge with a flute accent—track 3. You can fancy up the transition between the bridge and the final verse with a few bells—track 4. You can give the last verse a grand finale with a dash of piano and strings—track 5. You can bring in a trumpet—track 6, and then take out the trumpet because it really does not belong there.
That sense of building something spectacular from the ground up can be intoxicating. Over and over you can listen to your creation, awed by its beauty, proud as your mother used to be when she stood back to admire the elaborate wedding cakes she had created. Nobody ever really understood how Mom could put so much time, artisstry and effort into something she knew would presently be eaten. Keyboard music , to be sure, is not like wedding cake. It can be captured. The following day it will be there for you—OR so you think.
But the next day, puelled by a fire of pleasant anticipation, you can press the ON switch to discover that the previous day’s creation has vanished without a trace. or maybe only part of your creation has vanished, likely the foundational piano accompaniment on track 1. Perhaps you will never know how it happened. Maybe there was some warning on the screen that a blind musician cannot read, or maybe there is a clue buried somewhere in the multilingual instruction manual, Or maybe there are gremlins in the house. And you know you will never hear that song again, which makes its memory all the sweeter as the days pass by.
Common sense tells you to put that keyboard up for sale. It has disappointed you, diverted your attention from important things, wounded you deeply. You bought it secdon-hand and some other sucker will buy it from you. You lived without it before and you can live without it again. Don’t be sad. Get angry! It has no right to treat you this way!
I have known the pain of losing the beautiful music. Common sense bids me to get over my keyboard And yet, to my surprise, I persist. It would be one thing if I had never heard that music, but it is quite another to have heard it and lost it. You can’t just walk away pretending it never happened. Surely the options are not entirely exhausted. If the whole song has disappeared, then I can start from scratch. If only the foundation is gone, perhaps a new foundation can be wedged in somehow.
Today, as I prepare for my daily routine of summoning common sense while listening to others talk about the hurts and longings of past and current relationships, it occurs to me that I have been fooled into thinking I had bought a keyboard. I bought more than a keyboard. I bought a relationship with a keyboard, a relationship founded on hope, trust and the expectation of a future fruitful joy.
So maybe that explains why I just can’t wait to start the whole song-building process all over again, a little wiser, though not much wiser. Any counsellor worth her salt surely knows that Relationships which begin with hope, trust and the expectation of a future fruitful joy tend to be governed more by emotion and longing than by common sense. You see it over and over again. The people who have those thrilling-yet-disappointing relationships are willing to try a lot of things and not too ready to give up.
You can lay down a piano track, solid and steady, a fitting foundation for that which will be built—track 1. You can smooth the surface with soft strings—track 2. You can embellish the bridge with a flute accent—track 3. You can fancy up the transition between the bridge and the final verse with a few bells—track 4. You can give the last verse a grand finale with a dash of piano and strings—track 5. You can bring in a trumpet—track 6, and then take out the trumpet because it really does not belong there.
That sense of building something spectacular from the ground up can be intoxicating. Over and over you can listen to your creation, awed by its beauty, proud as your mother used to be when she stood back to admire the elaborate wedding cakes she had created. Nobody ever really understood how Mom could put so much time, artisstry and effort into something she knew would presently be eaten. Keyboard music , to be sure, is not like wedding cake. It can be captured. The following day it will be there for you—OR so you think.
But the next day, puelled by a fire of pleasant anticipation, you can press the ON switch to discover that the previous day’s creation has vanished without a trace. or maybe only part of your creation has vanished, likely the foundational piano accompaniment on track 1. Perhaps you will never know how it happened. Maybe there was some warning on the screen that a blind musician cannot read, or maybe there is a clue buried somewhere in the multilingual instruction manual, Or maybe there are gremlins in the house. And you know you will never hear that song again, which makes its memory all the sweeter as the days pass by.
Common sense tells you to put that keyboard up for sale. It has disappointed you, diverted your attention from important things, wounded you deeply. You bought it secdon-hand and some other sucker will buy it from you. You lived without it before and you can live without it again. Don’t be sad. Get angry! It has no right to treat you this way!
I have known the pain of losing the beautiful music. Common sense bids me to get over my keyboard And yet, to my surprise, I persist. It would be one thing if I had never heard that music, but it is quite another to have heard it and lost it. You can’t just walk away pretending it never happened. Surely the options are not entirely exhausted. If the whole song has disappeared, then I can start from scratch. If only the foundation is gone, perhaps a new foundation can be wedged in somehow.
Today, as I prepare for my daily routine of summoning common sense while listening to others talk about the hurts and longings of past and current relationships, it occurs to me that I have been fooled into thinking I had bought a keyboard. I bought more than a keyboard. I bought a relationship with a keyboard, a relationship founded on hope, trust and the expectation of a future fruitful joy.
So maybe that explains why I just can’t wait to start the whole song-building process all over again, a little wiser, though not much wiser. Any counsellor worth her salt surely knows that Relationships which begin with hope, trust and the expectation of a future fruitful joy tend to be governed more by emotion and longing than by common sense. You see it over and over again. The people who have those thrilling-yet-disappointing relationships are willing to try a lot of things and not too ready to give up.
Monday, July 21, 2008
WHAT CAN YOU SAY ABOUT PAIN?
Back pain! I didn’t want it. I didn’t need it. But there it was anyway, disturbing my sleep, demanding that I sit when there are no chairs, lie down when I would rather sit. The psychologist in me had a question. It’s a question I have asked of people who are in pain. Are you controlling the pain, or is it controlling you? But somehow that question was not quite enough to make a difference. Funny, it sounded like such a good question when the pain belonged to somebody else. But what are you to do when you acknowledge that the pain is controlling you?
I tried to explain my pain to others, walking that tight rope between being a whiner and giving enough information. My listeners were sympathetic. ”Oh yes,” they’d say, ”that can be bad. I know a woman named Laura and sometimes Laura has such bad pain that she has to take a week off work.”
And there we’d be, talking about Laura. Now how did the conversation turn to Laura? Could they not see that my pain wasn’t the kind of pain other people get? It was really, really big, and I’d be off work too if I didn’t have so much to do.
I kept going back to the doctor. The doctor had a question. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most pain imaginable, what number would I give my pain?
”Ten,” I wanted to shout. But then I remembered the time when I woke up from surgery feeling like a truck was parked on my chest, and the hours in the Emergency ward waiting for somebody to look at my broken arm. Maybe this pain was only a nine. That confused me.
The doctor said, ”Please, just pick a number.” I didn’t want to pick a number, but I clearly remembered asking others to pick a number. So I picked seven, just in case I was over-estimating. Nobody likes a whiner.
But I was still hurting. My husband said he’d join me at the doctor’s office. Maybe he’d read the articles about taking a loved-one for support. He reminded me that our poodle once had back pain. That suffering dog screamed all the way to the vet’s, then stopped screaming the moment we laid him on the vet’s table.
“Don’t worry,” said the vet. It was all in a day’s work for him. “The stress of getting here has likely given him an adrenaline rush that temporarily killed the pain.”
Just to prove he knew what he was talking about, he knew how to get the screaming started again. We were grateful for that. We left the vet’s office with painkillers and vitamins. I don’t recall our poodle thanking us for any of it.
We were huddling in the cramped little examining room, remembering all of this, when the doctor came in asking, “How are you today?”
“Fine,” I said bravely, and then, sensing this might not be enough, I added, “I’m still having more pain than I’d like.”
Here is the point where my husband took over. Maybe he read the articles that tell you to give your doctor a functional description of the limitations your pain imposes. “I want to say,” he said, “that she has a lot of pain. In fact, she has so much pain that I have to wash and dry the dishes myself because she can’t stand up long enough to do either, let alone both.”
It might have been my imagination, given that I was not at my best. But I sensed a real bond forming between these two. And it might have been coincidence, or possibly the X-ray results, but that was the same day I got the prescription for a painkiller that really worked. And I’m still wondering if or how I might be helped by vitamins.
I tried to explain my pain to others, walking that tight rope between being a whiner and giving enough information. My listeners were sympathetic. ”Oh yes,” they’d say, ”that can be bad. I know a woman named Laura and sometimes Laura has such bad pain that she has to take a week off work.”
And there we’d be, talking about Laura. Now how did the conversation turn to Laura? Could they not see that my pain wasn’t the kind of pain other people get? It was really, really big, and I’d be off work too if I didn’t have so much to do.
I kept going back to the doctor. The doctor had a question. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most pain imaginable, what number would I give my pain?
”Ten,” I wanted to shout. But then I remembered the time when I woke up from surgery feeling like a truck was parked on my chest, and the hours in the Emergency ward waiting for somebody to look at my broken arm. Maybe this pain was only a nine. That confused me.
The doctor said, ”Please, just pick a number.” I didn’t want to pick a number, but I clearly remembered asking others to pick a number. So I picked seven, just in case I was over-estimating. Nobody likes a whiner.
But I was still hurting. My husband said he’d join me at the doctor’s office. Maybe he’d read the articles about taking a loved-one for support. He reminded me that our poodle once had back pain. That suffering dog screamed all the way to the vet’s, then stopped screaming the moment we laid him on the vet’s table.
“Don’t worry,” said the vet. It was all in a day’s work for him. “The stress of getting here has likely given him an adrenaline rush that temporarily killed the pain.”
Just to prove he knew what he was talking about, he knew how to get the screaming started again. We were grateful for that. We left the vet’s office with painkillers and vitamins. I don’t recall our poodle thanking us for any of it.
We were huddling in the cramped little examining room, remembering all of this, when the doctor came in asking, “How are you today?”
“Fine,” I said bravely, and then, sensing this might not be enough, I added, “I’m still having more pain than I’d like.”
Here is the point where my husband took over. Maybe he read the articles that tell you to give your doctor a functional description of the limitations your pain imposes. “I want to say,” he said, “that she has a lot of pain. In fact, she has so much pain that I have to wash and dry the dishes myself because she can’t stand up long enough to do either, let alone both.”
It might have been my imagination, given that I was not at my best. But I sensed a real bond forming between these two. And it might have been coincidence, or possibly the X-ray results, but that was the same day I got the prescription for a painkiller that really worked. And I’m still wondering if or how I might be helped by vitamins.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
MY KEYBOARD
I wanted an electronic keyboard, so I trolled the Internet for prospects. To my surprise I found one, just the one I wanted. And yes, I will admit that I was a little bit defensive when David said, “Really, it’s just a toy for you.” And yes, I’ll confess to temporarily forgetting a few guilty memories when he sighed and said, “Looks like we won’t have to plan anything for your two weeks summer vacation.” And yes, I did silently blame him for making these comments while aiding and abetting, which is to say that he drove me in the pouring rain all the way to the outskirts of the city to buy it, and said it didn’t matter to him how much money it cost. All he wanted was my happiness. Marriage, after all, is a complicated institution.
Okay, so maybe I can see why he called it a toy rather than an essential item. I really didn’t need a keyboard, given that I have a piano, and a guitar, and an accordion, and two little flutes from foreign countries and three drums and a rainstick and a tiny harmonica bearing a metal plate that says Grand Old Opry, Nashville Tennessee. It’s not as if there wouldn’t be any music in the house if I didn’t buy an electronic keyboard. And okay, so maybe I did get some new electronic device several times at Christmas, and maybe I was a little reclusive for a week or two every time this happened. But it couldn’t have been all that bad. Otherwise, why would he have been so accommodating about getting this new (second-hand) keyboard?
Still, marriage is a complicated institution, a dance of give and take. So I have been talking about using the keyboard at church after I get really good at operating it, which makes it seem like something a little more useful than a toy, and I try not to get so carried away with its 600 tones and five-song six-track memory that I forget to make supper. I’ve done pretty well at this too. In two weeks I’ve only forgotten supper a couple of times, and stayed up until 2:00 one time. And I’ve tried not to bother him when he’s on the toilet with questions about what the screen says and I‘ve tried not to ask him to read the instruction manual to me during the few minutes of free time that he generally devotes to the newspaper.
But it’s hard to do these things because I am having a lot of fun with that keyboard, even though my back is hurting so much these days that it’s hard to have fun at anything, , which is probably why he mistakenly thought it was a toy.
Okay, so maybe I can see why he called it a toy rather than an essential item. I really didn’t need a keyboard, given that I have a piano, and a guitar, and an accordion, and two little flutes from foreign countries and three drums and a rainstick and a tiny harmonica bearing a metal plate that says Grand Old Opry, Nashville Tennessee. It’s not as if there wouldn’t be any music in the house if I didn’t buy an electronic keyboard. And okay, so maybe I did get some new electronic device several times at Christmas, and maybe I was a little reclusive for a week or two every time this happened. But it couldn’t have been all that bad. Otherwise, why would he have been so accommodating about getting this new (second-hand) keyboard?
Still, marriage is a complicated institution, a dance of give and take. So I have been talking about using the keyboard at church after I get really good at operating it, which makes it seem like something a little more useful than a toy, and I try not to get so carried away with its 600 tones and five-song six-track memory that I forget to make supper. I’ve done pretty well at this too. In two weeks I’ve only forgotten supper a couple of times, and stayed up until 2:00 one time. And I’ve tried not to bother him when he’s on the toilet with questions about what the screen says and I‘ve tried not to ask him to read the instruction manual to me during the few minutes of free time that he generally devotes to the newspaper.
But it’s hard to do these things because I am having a lot of fun with that keyboard, even though my back is hurting so much these days that it’s hard to have fun at anything, , which is probably why he mistakenly thought it was a toy.
Friday, July 18, 2008
A FEATURE INTERVIEW WITH PIRATE
It’s happened again. Our front yard has been noticed by the people who celebrate Edmonton’s Front Yards In Bloom. The note they delivered says that somebody will soon be over to take photographs.
All I can say is it’s a good thing the camera can’t take in the entire picture in one fine shot, because that shot would have to include the hole Pirate has dug, front and centre in the lawn. That hole has been bothering me lately. I felt it was time for me and Pirate to have a talk about this matter. I document that conversation here. Note; I have taken some liberties with interpretation of Pirate’s comments.
Me: “Pirate, why do dig holes in the lawn?”
Pirate: “To bury my toys so I’ll know where to find them when I need them.”
Me: “Well, that’s very conscientious of you. But there are other options for toy storage. Would you rather we built you a little toy cupboard on the veranda?”
Pirate: “No thank you. I prefer to bury them. They’re my treasures, you know. After all, my name is pirate.”
Me: “pirate, is there any particular reason why you have chosen the lawn as the place to dig holes?”
Pirate: “Yes of course. You always yell at me when I dig in the flowerbed.”
Today’s Edmonton Journal contains a quote from Kim Poznanski, a master gardener and pet lover from St. Clair Shores, Mich. The keys to successfully gardening with a pet around are, she says: "consistence, training and compromise on my part,"
With Pirate’s voice ringing in my ears I read the article over and over again, looking for some advice, looking for some comfort. Finally I found it. Looks to me like we’re doing everything right.
All I can say is it’s a good thing the camera can’t take in the entire picture in one fine shot, because that shot would have to include the hole Pirate has dug, front and centre in the lawn. That hole has been bothering me lately. I felt it was time for me and Pirate to have a talk about this matter. I document that conversation here. Note; I have taken some liberties with interpretation of Pirate’s comments.
Me: “Pirate, why do dig holes in the lawn?”
Pirate: “To bury my toys so I’ll know where to find them when I need them.”
Me: “Well, that’s very conscientious of you. But there are other options for toy storage. Would you rather we built you a little toy cupboard on the veranda?”
Pirate: “No thank you. I prefer to bury them. They’re my treasures, you know. After all, my name is pirate.”
Me: “pirate, is there any particular reason why you have chosen the lawn as the place to dig holes?”
Pirate: “Yes of course. You always yell at me when I dig in the flowerbed.”
Today’s Edmonton Journal contains a quote from Kim Poznanski, a master gardener and pet lover from St. Clair Shores, Mich. The keys to successfully gardening with a pet around are, she says: "consistence, training and compromise on my part,"
With Pirate’s voice ringing in my ears I read the article over and over again, looking for some advice, looking for some comfort. Finally I found it. Looks to me like we’re doing everything right.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
THE SEARCH FOR A HEALING STORY
I was searching for connections between my work—counselling psychology, and my hobby-storytelling when I came upon the Healing Story Alliance. I was pleasantly surprised to find that its website has a lot of story resources and that its members actively reach out to professions beyond storytelling circles. The Healing Story alliance—HSA—is a special interest group of the National Storytelling Network. It brings together people who can see the value of stories in the context of healing.
There are differing views on the value and place of storytelling in the work that counsellors do. Professional counsellors usually look at storytelling through the lens of narrative therapy. This model presents clients as people who tell problem stories. A narrative therapist is a skilful listener with tools. The therapist guides a process of restructuring clients’ stories so they can gain power over their lives. In a successful therapy, the restructured stories would be healing stories, I.e. stories that create healing. In a grounded theory study of people who found healing in their own stories, Swaton and o’callaghan identified three healing story characteristics: a struggle, a healing process that revealed options, and the enduring ability to inspire.
Healing Story Alliance members envision a larger role for storytelling than narrative therapy would suggest. They imagine scenarios in which a doctor, a nurse, a pastor or a psychologist might purposefully select a story for telling to patients or clients. Their website offers a selection of stories and some instruction on how to conduct a post-story discussion. It also has a list-serve where people regularly ask for story suggestions. Many users of the list-serve have comprehensive story repertoires backed up by storytelling experience in a variety of circumstances. When you ask for suggestions, you usually get a lot of them. I have sought advice on the list-serve a number of times and occasionally offered advice to others.
Any story can be a healing story. The final assessment of its healing value is always determined by the listener response. That said, a story’s healing prospects improve when the teller finds the right voice for the story and the right story for the occasion.
Finding the right story can be a bit of a challenge. My first question to the list-serve members was propelled by desperation. I was booked to facilitate a discussion attended by a group of men in a last-chance addictions program. All things considered, it was an invitation I would rather have declined. I had been recruited because I am a hope specialist, but with my limitations, being neither male nor addicted, I was pretty certain I would feel out of place and uncomfortable in this group. I needed to find a way to be comfortable.
I asked the people on the HSA list-serve for a story that could help me connect with these guys, a story I could tell to set a tone of understanding and empathy. Somebody suggested a King Arthur story, sometimes known as the Half Man story, the story of King Arthur’s wrestling match with Hanner Dyn.
I’ll admit that I was skeptical about that suggestion. Up to that point I had never liked King Arthur stories, or wrestling matches either. But Arthur was a man, and men like wrestling, and I really needed a story, so I searched the Internet for the story. I gave it a feeble practice and took it with me, predicting that I would not tell it.
But accurate prediction was not my long suit. I was even more uncomfortable than I had imagined. The men were agitated. Their skin was dry and itchy. Listening in on their conversation I gathered that some of them would rather have been elsewhere. Lacking a better alternative, I decided to tell that story—tell it very slowly—make it last as long as possible so there would be less time for other things.
I started the story. Right from the beginning I could feel that the presence of the audience was giving the story more power than I thought it had. It really was the perfect story. It’s a guy story, through and through, wrestling all the way, each match more challenging than the last. King Arthur wins the last match, but just barely. He wants to try again but he stops when he is told that there will be no more victories for him. He will never again be able to win. His worthy opponent—growing more powerful in every match--is Hanner Dyn. The name Hanner Dyn means habit.
So goes the story, and by the time the story had ended those guys and I were connected. We were comfortable. Inspiration was in the air. Hardly anybody was scratching. The remaining hour passed quickly enough. The Healing story alliance had proven its worth.
I made a little curtsy—to HSA and also to that wise King Arthur.
REFERENCES
Swaton, S. & O’callaghan, J. (1999). The experience of 'healing stories' in the life narrative: A grounded theory
Counselling psychology quarterly 12(4), pp. 413-429
You can find the Healing Story Alliance on the Internet at http://www.healingstory.org/home.html
There are differing views on the value and place of storytelling in the work that counsellors do. Professional counsellors usually look at storytelling through the lens of narrative therapy. This model presents clients as people who tell problem stories. A narrative therapist is a skilful listener with tools. The therapist guides a process of restructuring clients’ stories so they can gain power over their lives. In a successful therapy, the restructured stories would be healing stories, I.e. stories that create healing. In a grounded theory study of people who found healing in their own stories, Swaton and o’callaghan identified three healing story characteristics: a struggle, a healing process that revealed options, and the enduring ability to inspire.
Healing Story Alliance members envision a larger role for storytelling than narrative therapy would suggest. They imagine scenarios in which a doctor, a nurse, a pastor or a psychologist might purposefully select a story for telling to patients or clients. Their website offers a selection of stories and some instruction on how to conduct a post-story discussion. It also has a list-serve where people regularly ask for story suggestions. Many users of the list-serve have comprehensive story repertoires backed up by storytelling experience in a variety of circumstances. When you ask for suggestions, you usually get a lot of them. I have sought advice on the list-serve a number of times and occasionally offered advice to others.
Any story can be a healing story. The final assessment of its healing value is always determined by the listener response. That said, a story’s healing prospects improve when the teller finds the right voice for the story and the right story for the occasion.
Finding the right story can be a bit of a challenge. My first question to the list-serve members was propelled by desperation. I was booked to facilitate a discussion attended by a group of men in a last-chance addictions program. All things considered, it was an invitation I would rather have declined. I had been recruited because I am a hope specialist, but with my limitations, being neither male nor addicted, I was pretty certain I would feel out of place and uncomfortable in this group. I needed to find a way to be comfortable.
I asked the people on the HSA list-serve for a story that could help me connect with these guys, a story I could tell to set a tone of understanding and empathy. Somebody suggested a King Arthur story, sometimes known as the Half Man story, the story of King Arthur’s wrestling match with Hanner Dyn.
I’ll admit that I was skeptical about that suggestion. Up to that point I had never liked King Arthur stories, or wrestling matches either. But Arthur was a man, and men like wrestling, and I really needed a story, so I searched the Internet for the story. I gave it a feeble practice and took it with me, predicting that I would not tell it.
But accurate prediction was not my long suit. I was even more uncomfortable than I had imagined. The men were agitated. Their skin was dry and itchy. Listening in on their conversation I gathered that some of them would rather have been elsewhere. Lacking a better alternative, I decided to tell that story—tell it very slowly—make it last as long as possible so there would be less time for other things.
I started the story. Right from the beginning I could feel that the presence of the audience was giving the story more power than I thought it had. It really was the perfect story. It’s a guy story, through and through, wrestling all the way, each match more challenging than the last. King Arthur wins the last match, but just barely. He wants to try again but he stops when he is told that there will be no more victories for him. He will never again be able to win. His worthy opponent—growing more powerful in every match--is Hanner Dyn. The name Hanner Dyn means habit.
So goes the story, and by the time the story had ended those guys and I were connected. We were comfortable. Inspiration was in the air. Hardly anybody was scratching. The remaining hour passed quickly enough. The Healing story alliance had proven its worth.
I made a little curtsy—to HSA and also to that wise King Arthur.
REFERENCES
Swaton, S. & O’callaghan, J. (1999). The experience of 'healing stories' in the life narrative: A grounded theory
Counselling psychology quarterly 12(4), pp. 413-429
You can find the Healing Story Alliance on the Internet at http://www.healingstory.org/home.html
Monday, July 14, 2008
BOOK REVIEW: Big Trouble
And here’s to back pain with all its power
To rule my life
To show me the middle of the night in real time
And here’s to Dave Barry, that funny man
Who wrote a novel
About a nuclear bomb and called it Big Trouble!
And here’s to humour so utterly compelling
That I, the 3:00 AM sleepless sufferer
Must cover my mouth to hold in the laughter that would surely awaken David.
It takes a lot of laughter to steal the spotlight
From stabbing pain at 3:00 AM
Nice job, Dave Barry!
THANKS!!!
To rule my life
To show me the middle of the night in real time
And here’s to Dave Barry, that funny man
Who wrote a novel
About a nuclear bomb and called it Big Trouble!
And here’s to humour so utterly compelling
That I, the 3:00 AM sleepless sufferer
Must cover my mouth to hold in the laughter that would surely awaken David.
It takes a lot of laughter to steal the spotlight
From stabbing pain at 3:00 AM
Nice job, Dave Barry!
THANKS!!!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
SEARCHING FOR A SUPERVISOR
I wasn’t looking for a mentor when I first met Ronna Jevne. I was looking for a thesis supervisor, somebody who could get me through a process so I could come out of academia with a degree. In fact, I had already asked several potential supervisors. My rate of rejection was 100%.
The problem, at least on the surface, seemed to be my choice of thesis topic. I wanted to study humour. All the professors I approached denied any knowledge of the academic material relating to humour and therefore declined my request. It’s a cruel process, looking for a supervisor. Chalk it up to lack of preparation on my part, but I had never supposed that professors, once you had been admitted to the program, would cherish the right to refuse you. Even if I had imagined it, I would never have dreamed that they would not want to supervise a study of humour. Of all the potential topics I could pursue, it was far and away the one for me. I thought everyone would be equally fascinated.
By the time I got to Ronna, late in the game because she was just returning from a sabbatical, I was getting desperate. I’d never been good at sales, but it seemed that I either had to convince Ronna to supervise my thesis, or change my topic and restart the pleading process. Nothing could be taken for granted so I did a little research. The findings were inconclusive. My knowledge of Ronna was limited. I knew of her work from reading newspaper articles. I attended the event launching her book, the Voice of Hope. The student Rumour mill offered mixed reviews.
Gathering the shreds of my confidence, I made an appointment to meet at her office. It was clear at the outset that she hadn’t been sitting there idle, hoping a student would come by with a thesis idea. So I leapt into unfamiliar territory and put forth the theory that humour is related to hope. Not missing a beat she asked me how they were related. If I had an answer, I don’t know what it was. At that point I went into shock. My memory of the next few minutes has been distilled to a single point—she said she’d do it.
If this meeting had taken place a year earlier I would have greatly relieved Ronna by rejecting her. I would have said that I did not want to study with someone who was not completely enthusiastic about studying with me. After all, I was nearly forty, and I had left a good job to come into the Master’s program. But the very real possibility of being forced to abandon my dream of studying humour had humbled me. In return for her grudging agreement to take me on, I promised to make the process as painless as possible.
With a tentative foot in the door, I pursued my interest in humour, and later whole-heartedly joined Ronna’s quest to develop the finer strategies that could be employed in a search for hope. Many concrete ideas developed a reliable stability as we practiced using them. We now call them hope tools. One of the ideas, originally worded by Denise Larsen, was to ask people to recall a time when things were going their way, only they didn’t know it.
The day I met Ronna Jevne was definitely one of those times. If I had known the person behind the agreement, I would have been more hopeful. I never guessed that I had just gained the support of somebody who would stick with me through thick and thin, a teacher who would look beyond my faults with a curious gaze on my potential. I did not know that I had found someone who would call me up to ask if I needed encouragement, someone who would cover for me if I missed a deadline, compensate for my ineptitude at logical academic writing, nurture me when I was overwhelmed, stand boldly beside me when I made errors and ultimately turn me into a hope specialist. But I did not know her at all, so I thought I was making a compromise, forfeiting my ideals, settling, out of desperation, for something less than I had hoped to receive.
Hope tools help us search the past for experiences that might support our hope in times of uncertainty and pessimism. There are days when things look bleak. I rail against injustice. I predict the worst outcomes. When I am clear-headed enough to remember the hope tools in my kit, I take a moment to ask myself if there was ever a time when I was okay, only I didn’t know it. Searching my memory I find indisputable evidence of times when I was unknowingly okay, even more than okay. Then I have to open the door to the possibility that this bleak moment might be another of those times.
The problem, at least on the surface, seemed to be my choice of thesis topic. I wanted to study humour. All the professors I approached denied any knowledge of the academic material relating to humour and therefore declined my request. It’s a cruel process, looking for a supervisor. Chalk it up to lack of preparation on my part, but I had never supposed that professors, once you had been admitted to the program, would cherish the right to refuse you. Even if I had imagined it, I would never have dreamed that they would not want to supervise a study of humour. Of all the potential topics I could pursue, it was far and away the one for me. I thought everyone would be equally fascinated.
By the time I got to Ronna, late in the game because she was just returning from a sabbatical, I was getting desperate. I’d never been good at sales, but it seemed that I either had to convince Ronna to supervise my thesis, or change my topic and restart the pleading process. Nothing could be taken for granted so I did a little research. The findings were inconclusive. My knowledge of Ronna was limited. I knew of her work from reading newspaper articles. I attended the event launching her book, the Voice of Hope. The student Rumour mill offered mixed reviews.
Gathering the shreds of my confidence, I made an appointment to meet at her office. It was clear at the outset that she hadn’t been sitting there idle, hoping a student would come by with a thesis idea. So I leapt into unfamiliar territory and put forth the theory that humour is related to hope. Not missing a beat she asked me how they were related. If I had an answer, I don’t know what it was. At that point I went into shock. My memory of the next few minutes has been distilled to a single point—she said she’d do it.
If this meeting had taken place a year earlier I would have greatly relieved Ronna by rejecting her. I would have said that I did not want to study with someone who was not completely enthusiastic about studying with me. After all, I was nearly forty, and I had left a good job to come into the Master’s program. But the very real possibility of being forced to abandon my dream of studying humour had humbled me. In return for her grudging agreement to take me on, I promised to make the process as painless as possible.
With a tentative foot in the door, I pursued my interest in humour, and later whole-heartedly joined Ronna’s quest to develop the finer strategies that could be employed in a search for hope. Many concrete ideas developed a reliable stability as we practiced using them. We now call them hope tools. One of the ideas, originally worded by Denise Larsen, was to ask people to recall a time when things were going their way, only they didn’t know it.
The day I met Ronna Jevne was definitely one of those times. If I had known the person behind the agreement, I would have been more hopeful. I never guessed that I had just gained the support of somebody who would stick with me through thick and thin, a teacher who would look beyond my faults with a curious gaze on my potential. I did not know that I had found someone who would call me up to ask if I needed encouragement, someone who would cover for me if I missed a deadline, compensate for my ineptitude at logical academic writing, nurture me when I was overwhelmed, stand boldly beside me when I made errors and ultimately turn me into a hope specialist. But I did not know her at all, so I thought I was making a compromise, forfeiting my ideals, settling, out of desperation, for something less than I had hoped to receive.
Hope tools help us search the past for experiences that might support our hope in times of uncertainty and pessimism. There are days when things look bleak. I rail against injustice. I predict the worst outcomes. When I am clear-headed enough to remember the hope tools in my kit, I take a moment to ask myself if there was ever a time when I was okay, only I didn’t know it. Searching my memory I find indisputable evidence of times when I was unknowingly okay, even more than okay. Then I have to open the door to the possibility that this bleak moment might be another of those times.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
SEEKING A MENTOR
I hope to find a mentor who can teach me what I need to know in order to make my knowledge relevant and interesting in the business world. I express it as a hope rather than a goal because I don’t really know if you can set the goal of finding a mentor. Mentors in my experience have always surprised and delighted me by their presence. Sometimes it has taken me years to realize that they were mentors. What’s more, it’s hard to look for people who can teach you what you need to know when you don’t know exactly what you need to know. So my search for a mentor is a hope, more like a pleasing vision than a plan.
Even though it’s not really a goal, I am hoping to find a mentor. It’s a little difficult because I don’t exactly know where to look. Hopes aren’t quite so pressing as goals. So, rather than do nothing at all, I am filling my time with other things while I try to figure out where to look for a mentor.
One of my projects is to develop a hope presentation that would be interesting and relevant to people in the business world. It’s a bit of a stretch, since my experience lies in the area of developing topics of interest to people in health care and social services. But you have to start somewhere, so I made a start. I started with my specialty, the language of hope. I drafted the following promotional paragraph with a broader audience in mind. I didn’t have a business mentor yet, so I emailed it to my husband. .
Those who speak the language of hope have the power to engage others and change the direction of any conversation. The language of hope has impact. Obama used it to gain political strength. Charities use it to inspire donors. Successful companies give it a prominent place in their advertising. The language of hope extends far beyond positive thinking and pointing out the good things. It makes room for honesty and realistic assessment. This presentation offers tools you can use to enhance your oral and written communication with the language of hope.
We were sitting at the supper table when he acknowledged receiving my emailed paragraph. His response was lukewarm. I had the feeling he wouldn’t be shelling out thousands of dollars for this presentation any time soon. He asked me why he would be interested in learning a language of hope. I could give him no response. I was tired. I was frustrated. I was too busy controlling the impulse to throw a glass of milk at him. If I had been able to answer that question, I wouldn’t have asked for his help.
I didn’t have an answer. The silence dragged. Disappointment clouded my eyes. Tears threatened to fall. Finally he came up with an answer. It was a good answer—good enough to make me want to drink the milk in the glass, the kind of quality answer a mentor would give you, though I admit that it took me a day-and-a-half to appreciate it.
He said he would want to speak the language of hope on a day when he had one promotion to offer and two worthy employees who would be disappointed because they didn’t get it.
Even though it’s not really a goal, I am hoping to find a mentor. It’s a little difficult because I don’t exactly know where to look. Hopes aren’t quite so pressing as goals. So, rather than do nothing at all, I am filling my time with other things while I try to figure out where to look for a mentor.
One of my projects is to develop a hope presentation that would be interesting and relevant to people in the business world. It’s a bit of a stretch, since my experience lies in the area of developing topics of interest to people in health care and social services. But you have to start somewhere, so I made a start. I started with my specialty, the language of hope. I drafted the following promotional paragraph with a broader audience in mind. I didn’t have a business mentor yet, so I emailed it to my husband. .
Those who speak the language of hope have the power to engage others and change the direction of any conversation. The language of hope has impact. Obama used it to gain political strength. Charities use it to inspire donors. Successful companies give it a prominent place in their advertising. The language of hope extends far beyond positive thinking and pointing out the good things. It makes room for honesty and realistic assessment. This presentation offers tools you can use to enhance your oral and written communication with the language of hope.
We were sitting at the supper table when he acknowledged receiving my emailed paragraph. His response was lukewarm. I had the feeling he wouldn’t be shelling out thousands of dollars for this presentation any time soon. He asked me why he would be interested in learning a language of hope. I could give him no response. I was tired. I was frustrated. I was too busy controlling the impulse to throw a glass of milk at him. If I had been able to answer that question, I wouldn’t have asked for his help.
I didn’t have an answer. The silence dragged. Disappointment clouded my eyes. Tears threatened to fall. Finally he came up with an answer. It was a good answer—good enough to make me want to drink the milk in the glass, the kind of quality answer a mentor would give you, though I admit that it took me a day-and-a-half to appreciate it.
He said he would want to speak the language of hope on a day when he had one promotion to offer and two worthy employees who would be disappointed because they didn’t get it.
Monday, July 07, 2008
FUCHSIA
I think I have made some significant progress toward atonement for a past wrong. It’s a little too soon to tell for certain, but the very real possibility of at last being able to make amends has got me singing from the peak of optimism. It’s a heavy burden indeed, the burden of guilt. It’s weight increases with the passage of time.
The crime I committed was not entirely unintentional. There were days, long ago, when time hung heavy on my hands. I was in the middle of a life transition, too tall to stand erect underneath the kitchen table, too short to be employed at the sink for the washing and drying of dishes. Back behind the kitchen table I would wander. Kneeling backwards on a kitchen chair, knees digging into the red leatherette upholstery, I would rest my chin on the cool metal studs that secured the covering to the chair back. And then, while Mother and Sisters busied themselves at the sink, I would lift my chin and sink my upper teeth into the soft leatherette just in front of the metal studs. Raising my chin yet again, I would hover in deep contemplation, admiring the craggy imprint of my own personal signature.
I was an inexperienced criminal in those days, realizing too late that the evidence would speak for itself. When the long arm of the law reached out to capture me, it extracted a promise that I would never again attack an innocent chair. It is a promise I have kept to this day. Red leatherette upholstery, I assure you, has been safe with me. My atonement came off without a hitch. Not so easily were other reparations made.
Behind that same chrome and arberite table, behind the backs of the red leatherette chairs stood a pair of south-facing windows, their wide sills bathed in the winter sun and shaded from the summer blast by the shadow from the veranda roof. On the sills stood old kitchen saucers to catch the water dripping from the bottoms of the clay pots that held geraniums and fuchsias. The hardy pungent geraniums were safe in my presence, the delicate fuchsias—not so much.
The fuchsia itself was of little interest to me. But the blossoms were another matter entirely. A healthy fuchsia dangles fancy blossoms. They will wave on the slightest breeze like crystals on a chandelier. They’ll sway if you blow on them. They’ll swing like little children at a playground if you push on the branches. But if you push hard on the branches, they fall off. In those cases, if you are under six and already have a criminal record of upholstery damage, it is best to crush the fallen blooms and cram them down heat register in the hope that the evidence will be permanently incinerated in the furnace below.
One or two blossoms off a healthy fuchsia are apparently not missed by adults. But a fuchsia also holds other possibilities. The delicate fuchsia flower begins its life as a tiny bud, shaped at first like the bean from a can of pork and beans. If you check its progress several times a day, you’ll find that as it grows longer, it also grows fatter. And if you are the kind of person who has always wanted to squish a pork and bean between finger and thumb to find out what would happen, and if your pork and bean squishing urge has been thwarted by the presence of adults at the table, you might find it extremely difficult to resist the temptation to squish a fuchsia bud when the adults are at the sink. This is what happened to me.
I can report that a fuchsia bud handled in this manner makes a satisfying pop, like a midget balloon, not quite loud enough to be heard from the sink. A fuchsia, I have learned, is not quite so able as chair upholstery to report an assault and bring the aggressor to justice. The long arm of the law did not accost me. But I was not completely absolved. In fact, my punishment did not begin until several years later when, as an adult, I began to realize that I had inherited a deep and enduring desire to nurture plants. Thus began my crusade to assuage my guilt by enhancing the life of a fuchsia.
“Let’s get a fuchsia,” I said to David. “Mom used to grow fuchsias in the south window when I was a kid.”
We got a beautiful fuchsia and hung it in the living room over the stair rail. Within a week it had dropped all its flowers and most of its new buds. Before a second week had passed we were vacuuming up the leaves. So we took it down and hung a Swedish ivy instead, but we did not give up on fuchsias.
We hung a beautiful fuchsia on the awning support outside the front door. It was warm there, and a bit sheltered. Within a week the summer sun had toasted it to a crispy golden brown. We took it down. But we didn’t give up on fuchsias.
Not quite defeated, we accepted a stem cutting as a gift from a friend who said her fuchsia had been in the family for years. The cutting rooted easily enough. When the future of the plant looked most promising, we gave it a berth among the healthy crowd that flourished in the greenhouse window. There it set a record for shortness of life in our greenhouse window. Still, we did not give up on fuchsia.
We hung a healthy fuchsia from the eves trough of the garage. Not wanting it to be alone, we placed it securely beside a healthy hanging begonia. It hadn’t been there more than a week when a summer storm with more wind than the big bad wolf blew it down and smashed it on the ground. Begonias also hate wind. Nevertheless, the begonia remained smugly in its place, sporting new blooms the following week. From that day forward, whenever David gazed longingly at a healthy fuchsia, I became the fuchsia’s advocate and persuaded him not to put it in my care. Still working on that earliest guilt, with so many additional assaults piled on top, I declared that I had done enough damage to the species.
But then, last Saturday, my resolve again crumbled. There is so much wonderful stuff at the outdoor market! We bought peas. We bought carrots. We bought new potatoes and the last of the asparagus. We got cherries. We hoisted a basket of freshly picked strawberries. Bill The Baker sold us some homemade bread. And then--we bought a healthy fuchsia. We’ve changed houses since the last time we tried.
The fuchsia was a beauty, hanging resplendent with ornate flowers and pregnant with swelling buds. It was just the kind of plant that tends to look a lot worse after the journey home. And yet--it was hardly damaged at all when the grower stuffed it I into a market bag. It didn’t tip over or slide around during the car trip home. Nobody dropped it or fell over it when we got it out of the car. I began to hope.
With the same level of gentle care we gave on the day we escorted our first baby home from the hospital, We gingerly positioned the fuchsia pot in a pedestal crystal bowl on a cocktail table between two lawn chairs. The chairs stand away from the house, visible from our bedroom window, on the brick patio at the bottom of the front yard. Sheltered by hedges to the north and west, protected from aloft by the spreading branches of an ancient elm, it was perfectly situated to catch the gentle rays of morning sun.
“There,” I said, when the pot was placed. “This could be the perfect spot for a fuchsia.” Fate, apparently, decided to waste no time before planning a test of my theory.
From out of nowhere there blew a summer storm, black and ferocious and terrifying. Like a locomotive without brakes it seized the yard, west winds driving torrential rain across the eight-foot veranda and into the house via the front door. Leaves flew. Branches snapped. Overwhelmed by water pouring off the roof the luscious geranium flowers hung their heads. My optimism appeared to have been premature. But amid the tempest the fuchsia stood its ground, lofty and unassaulted on its pedestal as water pooled on the table beneath. And then, as if one was not enough, there were more storms.
Our fuchsia stood the test. Of course, we are not out of the woods yet. Who knows how it might end? There still could be hungry insects, or hail the size of baseballs. We might forget to water, or perhaps a visiting child will spend an unsupervised moment reaching out for the buds from one of the temptingly placed lawn chairs. Still, given the force of that storm, and the other storms that followed it in rapid succession, I do dare to hope that the spell has been broken, that I will earn the reputation of one who helped prolong the life and foster the beauty of a fuchsia.
The crime I committed was not entirely unintentional. There were days, long ago, when time hung heavy on my hands. I was in the middle of a life transition, too tall to stand erect underneath the kitchen table, too short to be employed at the sink for the washing and drying of dishes. Back behind the kitchen table I would wander. Kneeling backwards on a kitchen chair, knees digging into the red leatherette upholstery, I would rest my chin on the cool metal studs that secured the covering to the chair back. And then, while Mother and Sisters busied themselves at the sink, I would lift my chin and sink my upper teeth into the soft leatherette just in front of the metal studs. Raising my chin yet again, I would hover in deep contemplation, admiring the craggy imprint of my own personal signature.
I was an inexperienced criminal in those days, realizing too late that the evidence would speak for itself. When the long arm of the law reached out to capture me, it extracted a promise that I would never again attack an innocent chair. It is a promise I have kept to this day. Red leatherette upholstery, I assure you, has been safe with me. My atonement came off without a hitch. Not so easily were other reparations made.
Behind that same chrome and arberite table, behind the backs of the red leatherette chairs stood a pair of south-facing windows, their wide sills bathed in the winter sun and shaded from the summer blast by the shadow from the veranda roof. On the sills stood old kitchen saucers to catch the water dripping from the bottoms of the clay pots that held geraniums and fuchsias. The hardy pungent geraniums were safe in my presence, the delicate fuchsias—not so much.
The fuchsia itself was of little interest to me. But the blossoms were another matter entirely. A healthy fuchsia dangles fancy blossoms. They will wave on the slightest breeze like crystals on a chandelier. They’ll sway if you blow on them. They’ll swing like little children at a playground if you push on the branches. But if you push hard on the branches, they fall off. In those cases, if you are under six and already have a criminal record of upholstery damage, it is best to crush the fallen blooms and cram them down heat register in the hope that the evidence will be permanently incinerated in the furnace below.
One or two blossoms off a healthy fuchsia are apparently not missed by adults. But a fuchsia also holds other possibilities. The delicate fuchsia flower begins its life as a tiny bud, shaped at first like the bean from a can of pork and beans. If you check its progress several times a day, you’ll find that as it grows longer, it also grows fatter. And if you are the kind of person who has always wanted to squish a pork and bean between finger and thumb to find out what would happen, and if your pork and bean squishing urge has been thwarted by the presence of adults at the table, you might find it extremely difficult to resist the temptation to squish a fuchsia bud when the adults are at the sink. This is what happened to me.
I can report that a fuchsia bud handled in this manner makes a satisfying pop, like a midget balloon, not quite loud enough to be heard from the sink. A fuchsia, I have learned, is not quite so able as chair upholstery to report an assault and bring the aggressor to justice. The long arm of the law did not accost me. But I was not completely absolved. In fact, my punishment did not begin until several years later when, as an adult, I began to realize that I had inherited a deep and enduring desire to nurture plants. Thus began my crusade to assuage my guilt by enhancing the life of a fuchsia.
“Let’s get a fuchsia,” I said to David. “Mom used to grow fuchsias in the south window when I was a kid.”
We got a beautiful fuchsia and hung it in the living room over the stair rail. Within a week it had dropped all its flowers and most of its new buds. Before a second week had passed we were vacuuming up the leaves. So we took it down and hung a Swedish ivy instead, but we did not give up on fuchsias.
We hung a beautiful fuchsia on the awning support outside the front door. It was warm there, and a bit sheltered. Within a week the summer sun had toasted it to a crispy golden brown. We took it down. But we didn’t give up on fuchsias.
Not quite defeated, we accepted a stem cutting as a gift from a friend who said her fuchsia had been in the family for years. The cutting rooted easily enough. When the future of the plant looked most promising, we gave it a berth among the healthy crowd that flourished in the greenhouse window. There it set a record for shortness of life in our greenhouse window. Still, we did not give up on fuchsia.
We hung a healthy fuchsia from the eves trough of the garage. Not wanting it to be alone, we placed it securely beside a healthy hanging begonia. It hadn’t been there more than a week when a summer storm with more wind than the big bad wolf blew it down and smashed it on the ground. Begonias also hate wind. Nevertheless, the begonia remained smugly in its place, sporting new blooms the following week. From that day forward, whenever David gazed longingly at a healthy fuchsia, I became the fuchsia’s advocate and persuaded him not to put it in my care. Still working on that earliest guilt, with so many additional assaults piled on top, I declared that I had done enough damage to the species.
But then, last Saturday, my resolve again crumbled. There is so much wonderful stuff at the outdoor market! We bought peas. We bought carrots. We bought new potatoes and the last of the asparagus. We got cherries. We hoisted a basket of freshly picked strawberries. Bill The Baker sold us some homemade bread. And then--we bought a healthy fuchsia. We’ve changed houses since the last time we tried.
The fuchsia was a beauty, hanging resplendent with ornate flowers and pregnant with swelling buds. It was just the kind of plant that tends to look a lot worse after the journey home. And yet--it was hardly damaged at all when the grower stuffed it I into a market bag. It didn’t tip over or slide around during the car trip home. Nobody dropped it or fell over it when we got it out of the car. I began to hope.
With the same level of gentle care we gave on the day we escorted our first baby home from the hospital, We gingerly positioned the fuchsia pot in a pedestal crystal bowl on a cocktail table between two lawn chairs. The chairs stand away from the house, visible from our bedroom window, on the brick patio at the bottom of the front yard. Sheltered by hedges to the north and west, protected from aloft by the spreading branches of an ancient elm, it was perfectly situated to catch the gentle rays of morning sun.
“There,” I said, when the pot was placed. “This could be the perfect spot for a fuchsia.” Fate, apparently, decided to waste no time before planning a test of my theory.
From out of nowhere there blew a summer storm, black and ferocious and terrifying. Like a locomotive without brakes it seized the yard, west winds driving torrential rain across the eight-foot veranda and into the house via the front door. Leaves flew. Branches snapped. Overwhelmed by water pouring off the roof the luscious geranium flowers hung their heads. My optimism appeared to have been premature. But amid the tempest the fuchsia stood its ground, lofty and unassaulted on its pedestal as water pooled on the table beneath. And then, as if one was not enough, there were more storms.
Our fuchsia stood the test. Of course, we are not out of the woods yet. Who knows how it might end? There still could be hungry insects, or hail the size of baseballs. We might forget to water, or perhaps a visiting child will spend an unsupervised moment reaching out for the buds from one of the temptingly placed lawn chairs. Still, given the force of that storm, and the other storms that followed it in rapid succession, I do dare to hope that the spell has been broken, that I will earn the reputation of one who helped prolong the life and foster the beauty of a fuchsia.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
THE BRIDGE BETWEEN HOPE AND BUSINESS THEORY
Hudson H. & Perry, B., (2006). Putting hope to work: Five principles to activate your organization’s most powerful resource. Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
THE ULTIMATE BURN-OUT PREVENTION TOOL
And when I reflect on how hard I have worked
To be informed
To be credible
To present important content
To accurately convey the results of research …
Then what choice have I but to be amazed
That the feature people most often remember
From the training I have given them
And mention when they see me years later
And ask to have repeated
Is a verse my children brought me from a week at summer camp?
And why do they respect it so fully?
Is it the humour?
Or the repetition?
Or the body movement?
Or the message it delivers?
Or is it simply the touch of amazement
That the Ultimate burn-out prevention Tool
The pride of any management guru
Could wear the disguise of a simple verse
Brought home by kids from summer camp?
To be informed
To be credible
To present important content
To accurately convey the results of research …
Then what choice have I but to be amazed
That the feature people most often remember
From the training I have given them
And mention when they see me years later
And ask to have repeated
Is a verse my children brought me from a week at summer camp?
And why do they respect it so fully?
Is it the humour?
Or the repetition?
Or the body movement?
Or the message it delivers?
Or is it simply the touch of amazement
That the Ultimate burn-out prevention Tool
The pride of any management guru
Could wear the disguise of a simple verse
Brought home by kids from summer camp?
Saturday, June 28, 2008
POINTS OF VIEW
I married a man who had a secret fantasy. He hoped to live in a place with a view. Being a patient man, not to mention thrifty, he moved into the basement suite I was renting. Its large windows looked into the basement windows of other apartments on both sides. The living room commanded a foundational view of the back yard double garage. He did not fret. He knew we would move on.
From our second basement suite—basement suites were cheaper than loftier places—he had a grass roots view of the front lawn and any feet that happened to be passing along the sidewalk. He did not fret about this one either. There was nowhere to go but up.
Our first home with a mortgage stood on a busy Calgary street. Across the wide expanse of service road, median and traffic artery lay the vista from the rear end of a Zeller’s store.
Shopping was oh-so-convenient. Our second house looked across at other houses. I never cared for that house, so moving out of it took little negotiation.
In front of our third house stood three trees on a tiny island that a street architect had inexplicably created. Cars liked to go around it. Friends would stand at the window and say how nice it was not to have to look directly into other houses. That view lasted us for 23 years.
Twenty-three years is a long time—long enough to raise a family of babies, long enough to contemplate the next move, time enough to search for just the right place. This was the point where my husband began to come to terms with the unintended consequences of marrying a blind person. In order to win her heart, a prospective house has to offer more than a view.
If you have a lot of money, the world is your oyster. You can contemplate luxurious castles and executive penthouses overlooking breath-taking panoramic vistas that stretch across the river and the urban skyline all the way to the wheat fields beyond the outer suburban reaches. Less money gives you fewer choices. Guided by his quest for beauty, we journeyed to a house advertised as “stainless industrial non-allergenic interior.” But even as we clattered up the open-backed metal stairs leading from the front door to the living room, with my promises to be openminded still ringing in my ears, I began to pine for “homey, warm and intimate.” He chanced upon a dwelling with its panoramic kitchen so far above the garage that a dumbwaiter had been installed to lift the groceries. But the dumbwaiter was smart enough to make the people walk the stairs. The trip was an exercise in—well—exercise. I thought of all the furniture the dumbwaiter would be smart enough not to carry and persuaded him to keep on looking. He admired the valley from a tall narrow house where the master bedroom closet and most of the living room had been replaced by an elevator. Though I had to admit that the trip to the view in this one was a little less exhausting, I found I had been hoping for a closet and a living room.
On and on went the search until finally, we found a place with carpeted stairs, large closets and a living room thrown in with the bargain. It has what I call a diagonal view. It stands at the bottom of a bank looking up in a westward direction across the slope and the trees to the buildings on the cliff high above. And if the sun sets at our house two hours earlier than it does in other neighbourhoods, which is definitely the case at this time of year, well, even the luckiest people can’t have everything. Some sacrifices have to be made in order to get a view.
And what lies in the future? Well, we might move to a hilltop, or it is just possible that we will some day give up our garden and retire to the 20th floor of a high rise. Perhaps it will be a large, homey, intimate apartment with windows on three or four sides. Possibly it will have several elevators as well as a living room. Or maybe, like our present place, it will be something we cannot yet imagine.
One lesson life has taught us. At the start of any process there are usually more options than we can name.
From our second basement suite—basement suites were cheaper than loftier places—he had a grass roots view of the front lawn and any feet that happened to be passing along the sidewalk. He did not fret about this one either. There was nowhere to go but up.
Our first home with a mortgage stood on a busy Calgary street. Across the wide expanse of service road, median and traffic artery lay the vista from the rear end of a Zeller’s store.
Shopping was oh-so-convenient. Our second house looked across at other houses. I never cared for that house, so moving out of it took little negotiation.
In front of our third house stood three trees on a tiny island that a street architect had inexplicably created. Cars liked to go around it. Friends would stand at the window and say how nice it was not to have to look directly into other houses. That view lasted us for 23 years.
Twenty-three years is a long time—long enough to raise a family of babies, long enough to contemplate the next move, time enough to search for just the right place. This was the point where my husband began to come to terms with the unintended consequences of marrying a blind person. In order to win her heart, a prospective house has to offer more than a view.
If you have a lot of money, the world is your oyster. You can contemplate luxurious castles and executive penthouses overlooking breath-taking panoramic vistas that stretch across the river and the urban skyline all the way to the wheat fields beyond the outer suburban reaches. Less money gives you fewer choices. Guided by his quest for beauty, we journeyed to a house advertised as “stainless industrial non-allergenic interior.” But even as we clattered up the open-backed metal stairs leading from the front door to the living room, with my promises to be openminded still ringing in my ears, I began to pine for “homey, warm and intimate.” He chanced upon a dwelling with its panoramic kitchen so far above the garage that a dumbwaiter had been installed to lift the groceries. But the dumbwaiter was smart enough to make the people walk the stairs. The trip was an exercise in—well—exercise. I thought of all the furniture the dumbwaiter would be smart enough not to carry and persuaded him to keep on looking. He admired the valley from a tall narrow house where the master bedroom closet and most of the living room had been replaced by an elevator. Though I had to admit that the trip to the view in this one was a little less exhausting, I found I had been hoping for a closet and a living room.
On and on went the search until finally, we found a place with carpeted stairs, large closets and a living room thrown in with the bargain. It has what I call a diagonal view. It stands at the bottom of a bank looking up in a westward direction across the slope and the trees to the buildings on the cliff high above. And if the sun sets at our house two hours earlier than it does in other neighbourhoods, which is definitely the case at this time of year, well, even the luckiest people can’t have everything. Some sacrifices have to be made in order to get a view.
And what lies in the future? Well, we might move to a hilltop, or it is just possible that we will some day give up our garden and retire to the 20th floor of a high rise. Perhaps it will be a large, homey, intimate apartment with windows on three or four sides. Possibly it will have several elevators as well as a living room. Or maybe, like our present place, it will be something we cannot yet imagine.
One lesson life has taught us. At the start of any process there are usually more options than we can name.
Friday, June 27, 2008
8 IDEAS FOR IDLE INVENTORS
These may not be the sexiest things to invent, but I’ll be grateful to the one who invents any of them.
Mammograms so gentle they make you smile and beg for another.
A way to clean your teeth perfectly the day before you visit the dental hygienist, even if you haven’t flossed since two days after the last time you saw her.
A DVD player a blind person can operate.
Clog-free toilets.
Dog poop that picks itself up.
Motorcycles that automatically hush themselves when they irritate somebody.
Something to neutralize salt or chilli powder after you add too much.
Flies that are willing to be swatted.
Mammograms so gentle they make you smile and beg for another.
A way to clean your teeth perfectly the day before you visit the dental hygienist, even if you haven’t flossed since two days after the last time you saw her.
A DVD player a blind person can operate.
Clog-free toilets.
Dog poop that picks itself up.
Motorcycles that automatically hush themselves when they irritate somebody.
Something to neutralize salt or chilli powder after you add too much.
Flies that are willing to be swatted.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
THE HOPEFUL STORY
Once upon a time there was a hopeful story. It was only a little story, a tale from past experience. But its theme was so compelling, its content so alluring, its timing so profoundly, precisely perfect that the little hopeful story became very powerful. How powerful was it? It was so powerful that when it fell upon ears fitted with filters that were open only to hopeless stories, it slipped through. It was so powerful that when it reached the dense layer of hopelessness that filled the space just inside the eardrums, it slipped right through. It was so powerful that when it shouted, “Hey, is there a hoping self in there?” the tiny little hoping self, the eeny-weeny battered, baffled, curled-up hoping self that everybody thought was dead, opened its eyes and yawned. It blinked a few times, flexed its cramped muscles, and struggled to its feet. Then it followed the hopeful story out through the thick layers of hopelessness, on through the ears that had been previously closed to hopeful stories, and into the world. The eeny-weeny hoping self licked its lips and said, “Maybe this time things will turn out better than I expect.” And the ears could hear it.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
ADDRESS TO THE DANDELIONS
According to today’s edition of the Edmonton Journal, Raymond Loo, a farmer in Hunter River, in central P.E.I., has a contract with a Japanese company to produce 1,400 kg of dried dandelion root, used as a diuretic
and coffee substitute in Japan. He can’t take the dandelions from our lawn because his have to be certified organic and pesticide free.
To my lawn I go to practice my motivational speaking. "Dandelions unite! Leave this wicked place of persecution and harassment. Move to a land where your children and grandchildren will be free to grow! Cling not to your troubled past. Flee from your abusers! Don’t look back! Leave not a trace. Peace and freedom await you. Go now! Go swiftly! Good-bye!"
And the dandelions ask, "Who are you kidding?"
It's not easy to fool dandelions.
and coffee substitute in Japan. He can’t take the dandelions from our lawn because his have to be certified organic and pesticide free.
To my lawn I go to practice my motivational speaking. "Dandelions unite! Leave this wicked place of persecution and harassment. Move to a land where your children and grandchildren will be free to grow! Cling not to your troubled past. Flee from your abusers! Don’t look back! Leave not a trace. Peace and freedom await you. Go now! Go swiftly! Good-bye!"
And the dandelions ask, "Who are you kidding?"
It's not easy to fool dandelions.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
WHAT IS HOPE, ANYWAY?
“This may be the million dollar question you are trying to answer, says the newspaper reporter. ”But can you define what you mean by hope?”
The implication of his question is clear. He’s not going to be able to take the topic of hope research seriously unless I can clearly define what we are talking about. His approach sets my memory into overdrive, recalling all the conversations I’ve had with reporters over the years, conversations that started just the way this one has. It’s a slow but worthwhile process, educating one reporter at a time.
As we start down the path toward shared understanding, I am aware that there is an obstacle to overcome. It is, to be sure, a paradoxical obstacle. He believes that he has asked the million dollar question. His words suggest that the question has no answer. He is reflecting a very common belief that hope cannot be defined and therefore cannot be studied.
Though he may think there is no definition, the million dollar question has many answers, and all of them are correct. There are a number of well-respected definitions. Like excellent dinners, they have a lot in common when you look at the basics. Most of the differences lie in the final touches. Hope experts choose one that works for the job they need it to do. Some definitions focus more on the cognitive end of things. Others focus more on the emotional.
Since my own work is largely in the counselling area, often with people who still have hope, even though they are not totally in control of things that are causing them grief, I need a comprehensive definition with a good deal of flexibility. My preferred definition comes from Charlotte Stephenson in the nursing literature. It has grown from the body of research that developed a definition by asking people questions about hope.
Hope is: A process of anticipation that involves the interaction of
thinking, acting, feeling and relating, and is directed toward a future
Fulfillment that is personally meaningful" (Charlotte Stephenson, 1991, p.
1459). Thinking, feeling, acting, relating, future fulfillment, personally meaningful, in the context of counselling, there's a lot you can do with that. It means something to people who are suicidal, or grieving the loss of several loved-ones, or facing the prospect of imminent death, or fighting gang violence. When you have a conversation about hope, you sort out the tangle of thoughts, feelings, actions and relationships. As you untangle, you begin to see possibilities for a future fulfillment that is personally meaningful.
Different people use hope for different purposes. Newspaper reporters write about hope all the time. They use the word in articles that cover just about everything. They use it with confidence, certain that their readers will understand their meaning. As far as I can tell, they have few worries about hope’s definition until they find themselves interviewing hope researchers. This, I think, is because they already know what they need to know in order to make use of hope.
Our human understanding of any topic or thing is a layered phenomenon. Take water for example. All of us know that water is wet, something we drink, and something we use to clean. When we take a chemistry class we learn its chemical formula. Geologists know about the relationship between water and soil. Bridge designers understand how it impacts building materials. Health experts explore the relationship between water and digestion. We all know what water is. We observe that hot water is different from cold water. We are taught that tap water is different from distilled water. But in our complex world, where many things impact water, there is so much we don’t know about water that we will likely be studying it for thousands of years.
So it is with hope. We all know something’s about it. It is a feeling we have about the future, a good feeling. Some people have more of it than others. Most of us go looking for it when disaster strikes.
Like the geologists and bridge builders who study the behaviors and impacts of water, those who want to know more than the basics about hope have their own reasons for being interested. Some believe that more knowledge can improve the medical system, others the educational system. I study it because I believe that knowledge about hope can improve the practice of counselling. And every once in a while, a newspaper reporter gets interested because he wants to write an informed article about hope. Some of the people who read that article will get interested for their own reasons. For us hope enthusiasts, that is cause for celebration.
The implication of his question is clear. He’s not going to be able to take the topic of hope research seriously unless I can clearly define what we are talking about. His approach sets my memory into overdrive, recalling all the conversations I’ve had with reporters over the years, conversations that started just the way this one has. It’s a slow but worthwhile process, educating one reporter at a time.
As we start down the path toward shared understanding, I am aware that there is an obstacle to overcome. It is, to be sure, a paradoxical obstacle. He believes that he has asked the million dollar question. His words suggest that the question has no answer. He is reflecting a very common belief that hope cannot be defined and therefore cannot be studied.
Though he may think there is no definition, the million dollar question has many answers, and all of them are correct. There are a number of well-respected definitions. Like excellent dinners, they have a lot in common when you look at the basics. Most of the differences lie in the final touches. Hope experts choose one that works for the job they need it to do. Some definitions focus more on the cognitive end of things. Others focus more on the emotional.
Since my own work is largely in the counselling area, often with people who still have hope, even though they are not totally in control of things that are causing them grief, I need a comprehensive definition with a good deal of flexibility. My preferred definition comes from Charlotte Stephenson in the nursing literature. It has grown from the body of research that developed a definition by asking people questions about hope.
Hope is: A process of anticipation that involves the interaction of
thinking, acting, feeling and relating, and is directed toward a future
Fulfillment that is personally meaningful" (Charlotte Stephenson, 1991, p.
1459). Thinking, feeling, acting, relating, future fulfillment, personally meaningful, in the context of counselling, there's a lot you can do with that. It means something to people who are suicidal, or grieving the loss of several loved-ones, or facing the prospect of imminent death, or fighting gang violence. When you have a conversation about hope, you sort out the tangle of thoughts, feelings, actions and relationships. As you untangle, you begin to see possibilities for a future fulfillment that is personally meaningful.
Different people use hope for different purposes. Newspaper reporters write about hope all the time. They use the word in articles that cover just about everything. They use it with confidence, certain that their readers will understand their meaning. As far as I can tell, they have few worries about hope’s definition until they find themselves interviewing hope researchers. This, I think, is because they already know what they need to know in order to make use of hope.
Our human understanding of any topic or thing is a layered phenomenon. Take water for example. All of us know that water is wet, something we drink, and something we use to clean. When we take a chemistry class we learn its chemical formula. Geologists know about the relationship between water and soil. Bridge designers understand how it impacts building materials. Health experts explore the relationship between water and digestion. We all know what water is. We observe that hot water is different from cold water. We are taught that tap water is different from distilled water. But in our complex world, where many things impact water, there is so much we don’t know about water that we will likely be studying it for thousands of years.
So it is with hope. We all know something’s about it. It is a feeling we have about the future, a good feeling. Some people have more of it than others. Most of us go looking for it when disaster strikes.
Like the geologists and bridge builders who study the behaviors and impacts of water, those who want to know more than the basics about hope have their own reasons for being interested. Some believe that more knowledge can improve the medical system, others the educational system. I study it because I believe that knowledge about hope can improve the practice of counselling. And every once in a while, a newspaper reporter gets interested because he wants to write an informed article about hope. Some of the people who read that article will get interested for their own reasons. For us hope enthusiasts, that is cause for celebration.
Monday, June 23, 2008
FEAR AND HOPE
Our Deepest Fear
by Marianne Williamson from A Return To Love: Reflections on the Principles of A Course in Miracles (INCORRECTLY ATTRIBUTED TO
Nelson Mandela)
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens
us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small
does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine,
as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own
light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates
others.”
And so, if this is indeed our greatest fear, and if fear, as some people say, is the greatest enemy of hope, then it leaves us no choice but to wonder: What would a powerful person do?
by Marianne Williamson from A Return To Love: Reflections on the Principles of A Course in Miracles (INCORRECTLY ATTRIBUTED TO
Nelson Mandela)
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens
us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small
does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine,
as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own
light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates
others.”
And so, if this is indeed our greatest fear, and if fear, as some people say, is the greatest enemy of hope, then it leaves us no choice but to wonder: What would a powerful person do?
Saturday, June 21, 2008
FROGS
We were down in the Peace River valley, just at the Dunvegan Bridge when I heard them—frogs chanting—a mantra for rest, and country and peace.
“I haven’t heard enough frogs in my life,” I said to David. I was thinking nostalgically about the farm, about long childhood evenings on the east porch listening to the frogs in the slough half a mile away. The memory was fragrant, idyllic, completely devoid of mosquitoes, which means it probably was not an accurate memory.
“We’ll have to move to the country then,” said David. He said it with a smile. He said it with the confidence of one who knows he is on safe ground. There are no city buses in the country, no taxis you can afford. My love affair with the frogs would last only until the first time I wanted to go out and had nobody to drive me. They say you can’t take the country out of a country girl, but in my case, they are wrong. We went back to the city.
At home the next evening I opened our north bedroom window. I listened. I listened again. There it was, the chant of frogs, loud enough to be heard over the din of traffic on Jasper Avenue just above us, loud enough to be heard over the hum of the cars and buses crossing Dawson Bridge. I listened in wonder. Is it possible to wish frogs into existence? It is our sixth summer in this house, six open-windowed summers. We are near the river, but not the marsh. We hear gulls, ducks, geese and boats but never once in six years had I heard any frogs.
I mentioned the frogs to David. I could see he had his doubts. But the next night, when they were there again, I made him come to listen. “Frogs,” he affirmed.
“There,” I said. “Now we don’t have to move.”
It’s a good thing I made him listen, because that was the last night they chanted. I didn’t want to mention them again. I went back to Turner Classic Movie Channel, where they play a lot of old movies with frog soundtracks.
This has been a hectic spring. Three weekends in a row I travelled to Calgary. It rained. The first weekend’s rain didn’t bother me much because I was working. The second weekend’s rain didn’t bother me too much after the bride moved the wedding indoors, abandoning her plans for an outdoor wedding at Heritage Park with prenuptial champagne on the midway. The third weekend’s rain wasn’t so bad given that its bride’s family had procured tents for her outdoor wedding. Yes, they’ve had a lot of rain in Calgary.
Because of the rain, the vacant industrial land outside the Sandman Airport Hotel where we stayed last weekend was drenched and waterlogged. Oblivious to the cool wet weather, our room was airless and hot. So we were please to find that, unlike most hotels, its windows could be opened. No sooner was the window open than I heard them—a chorus of frogs, sounded like dozens of them. All night long they sang and most of the next day. When the sky cleared after the wedding they sang beneath the round full moon—a song of rest, peace and celebration. The music went on all night. I had to go home just to get some rest.
I still haven’t heard enough frogs in my life. But we’re getting there.
“I haven’t heard enough frogs in my life,” I said to David. I was thinking nostalgically about the farm, about long childhood evenings on the east porch listening to the frogs in the slough half a mile away. The memory was fragrant, idyllic, completely devoid of mosquitoes, which means it probably was not an accurate memory.
“We’ll have to move to the country then,” said David. He said it with a smile. He said it with the confidence of one who knows he is on safe ground. There are no city buses in the country, no taxis you can afford. My love affair with the frogs would last only until the first time I wanted to go out and had nobody to drive me. They say you can’t take the country out of a country girl, but in my case, they are wrong. We went back to the city.
At home the next evening I opened our north bedroom window. I listened. I listened again. There it was, the chant of frogs, loud enough to be heard over the din of traffic on Jasper Avenue just above us, loud enough to be heard over the hum of the cars and buses crossing Dawson Bridge. I listened in wonder. Is it possible to wish frogs into existence? It is our sixth summer in this house, six open-windowed summers. We are near the river, but not the marsh. We hear gulls, ducks, geese and boats but never once in six years had I heard any frogs.
I mentioned the frogs to David. I could see he had his doubts. But the next night, when they were there again, I made him come to listen. “Frogs,” he affirmed.
“There,” I said. “Now we don’t have to move.”
It’s a good thing I made him listen, because that was the last night they chanted. I didn’t want to mention them again. I went back to Turner Classic Movie Channel, where they play a lot of old movies with frog soundtracks.
This has been a hectic spring. Three weekends in a row I travelled to Calgary. It rained. The first weekend’s rain didn’t bother me much because I was working. The second weekend’s rain didn’t bother me too much after the bride moved the wedding indoors, abandoning her plans for an outdoor wedding at Heritage Park with prenuptial champagne on the midway. The third weekend’s rain wasn’t so bad given that its bride’s family had procured tents for her outdoor wedding. Yes, they’ve had a lot of rain in Calgary.
Because of the rain, the vacant industrial land outside the Sandman Airport Hotel where we stayed last weekend was drenched and waterlogged. Oblivious to the cool wet weather, our room was airless and hot. So we were please to find that, unlike most hotels, its windows could be opened. No sooner was the window open than I heard them—a chorus of frogs, sounded like dozens of them. All night long they sang and most of the next day. When the sky cleared after the wedding they sang beneath the round full moon—a song of rest, peace and celebration. The music went on all night. I had to go home just to get some rest.
I still haven’t heard enough frogs in my life. But we’re getting there.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
BELIEVING IS SEEING
Dewitt Jones says, “I won’t see it til I believe it.“ What an extraordinary thing to say! He’s a photographer from National Geographic. If you want to see his video—Celebrate What’s Right With The world—go to http://www.celebratetraining.com/?x=19&y=20
I love how it turns our rational notion of discovery on its head. It’s the sort of thinking that makes sense to a hope specialist.
It is summer time and I have a few spare moments to do some serious hope reading. For the millionth time I am struck by the ever-present paradox of hope science. Scholars outdo themselves trying to make their hope research look scientific. They develop measuring instruments. They make graphs and correlations. They present at conferences. When you meet these scholars you can’t help but notice that they are studying hope because they believe it is important.
When I ask them why they go to the trouble to make the measures and do the graphs, they tell me they have to do it to convince the scientists. They don’t need to convince themselves, they tell me, because they already believe it. But, they say, the scientists need proof. They have to see it before they’ll believe it.
I myself am not skeptical about hope. I wasn’t skeptical when I started working with it. So it may not be too surprising that I could keep on experimenting with hope strategies, over and over again, until I could get them to work so reliably that I could demonstrate them in impromptu interviews in classroom situations.
But I do notice that people who are skeptical about the importance of hope aren’t much interested in studying it. Perhaps this is why I am now testing the theory that you have to inspire them before you will get the chance to convince them. It is just possible that after you’ve inspired them, you won’t have to convince them at all. They’ll talk themselves into it and produce the evidence they need.
I love how it turns our rational notion of discovery on its head. It’s the sort of thinking that makes sense to a hope specialist.
It is summer time and I have a few spare moments to do some serious hope reading. For the millionth time I am struck by the ever-present paradox of hope science. Scholars outdo themselves trying to make their hope research look scientific. They develop measuring instruments. They make graphs and correlations. They present at conferences. When you meet these scholars you can’t help but notice that they are studying hope because they believe it is important.
When I ask them why they go to the trouble to make the measures and do the graphs, they tell me they have to do it to convince the scientists. They don’t need to convince themselves, they tell me, because they already believe it. But, they say, the scientists need proof. They have to see it before they’ll believe it.
I myself am not skeptical about hope. I wasn’t skeptical when I started working with it. So it may not be too surprising that I could keep on experimenting with hope strategies, over and over again, until I could get them to work so reliably that I could demonstrate them in impromptu interviews in classroom situations.
But I do notice that people who are skeptical about the importance of hope aren’t much interested in studying it. Perhaps this is why I am now testing the theory that you have to inspire them before you will get the chance to convince them. It is just possible that after you’ve inspired them, you won’t have to convince them at all. They’ll talk themselves into it and produce the evidence they need.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
ZINNIAS
And this year’s new veranda flower is …………Zinnia!
“You’ll like zinnias,” Sandra said when she heard the announcement. “They are big bright flowers. Mom used to grow them.”
I’m not sure why we haven’t grown zinnias before. Probably it’s because the greenhouse flowers tend to be laid out in alphabetical order and our trays are usually overflowing by the time we get to the petunias. In the flower world, as in the people world, there are advantages to having a name that’s closer to A. Still it is surprising that we never got zinnias. They were already in flower when we brought them home, and even when our trays are full, we can often find a finger to balance one extra blooming carton And now they flourish in the #2 long cedar planter, their multi-coloured splendour growing bigger and brighter every day. “They’re so perfect,” says Amy giving them the practiced planter’s eye. “You’d almost think they were plastic.”
Meanwhile, in planters #4 and #5, last year’s new flowers—asters and amaranthus--are making a comeback. Amaranthus seeded a few of her own babies, just in case we decided not to replant. But she needn’t have worried. We couldn’t forget those long dangly flowers. We made an extra greenhouse visit for amaranthus.
“I don’t see any sign of flowers on the asters,” says David.
I remind him that we got the asters last year knowing full well we would have to wait for August blooms. I assure him that we thought they were worth the wait. I know this because I wrote it down. Experience has taught me to write everything down about flowers, especially the things I feel certain I cannot forget. We are expecting amaranthus flowers in July. And if only I had written about the purple bearded iris, I would know who gave it to us. I must have thought I would never forget. Maybe it was one of the few original flowers that greeted us from their mint-infested beds when we bought the house.
But the award for big flower surprise of this year will have to be given to the sweet peas that self-seeded from last year’s crop. Some of them will be in flower by the end of the week. A June flowering? Whoever heard of such a thing? We have not known sweet peas to self-seed in thirty-two summers of sweet pea growing in three different yards why this year? And why did they take root four feet from the original location, several inches below the ground? Why were there so many—maybe thirty?
Could have been something quirky in the weather. Could have been some special variety. We never kept records of sweet pea seeds. The truth is, we don’t know. Maybe we will never know. Just as we cannot now anticipate next year’s new flower. Will its name start with E, or even U? It’s this evidence in support of the unexpected that keeps us interested, keeps us hoping.
“You’ll like zinnias,” Sandra said when she heard the announcement. “They are big bright flowers. Mom used to grow them.”
I’m not sure why we haven’t grown zinnias before. Probably it’s because the greenhouse flowers tend to be laid out in alphabetical order and our trays are usually overflowing by the time we get to the petunias. In the flower world, as in the people world, there are advantages to having a name that’s closer to A. Still it is surprising that we never got zinnias. They were already in flower when we brought them home, and even when our trays are full, we can often find a finger to balance one extra blooming carton And now they flourish in the #2 long cedar planter, their multi-coloured splendour growing bigger and brighter every day. “They’re so perfect,” says Amy giving them the practiced planter’s eye. “You’d almost think they were plastic.”
Meanwhile, in planters #4 and #5, last year’s new flowers—asters and amaranthus--are making a comeback. Amaranthus seeded a few of her own babies, just in case we decided not to replant. But she needn’t have worried. We couldn’t forget those long dangly flowers. We made an extra greenhouse visit for amaranthus.
“I don’t see any sign of flowers on the asters,” says David.
I remind him that we got the asters last year knowing full well we would have to wait for August blooms. I assure him that we thought they were worth the wait. I know this because I wrote it down. Experience has taught me to write everything down about flowers, especially the things I feel certain I cannot forget. We are expecting amaranthus flowers in July. And if only I had written about the purple bearded iris, I would know who gave it to us. I must have thought I would never forget. Maybe it was one of the few original flowers that greeted us from their mint-infested beds when we bought the house.
But the award for big flower surprise of this year will have to be given to the sweet peas that self-seeded from last year’s crop. Some of them will be in flower by the end of the week. A June flowering? Whoever heard of such a thing? We have not known sweet peas to self-seed in thirty-two summers of sweet pea growing in three different yards why this year? And why did they take root four feet from the original location, several inches below the ground? Why were there so many—maybe thirty?
Could have been something quirky in the weather. Could have been some special variety. We never kept records of sweet pea seeds. The truth is, we don’t know. Maybe we will never know. Just as we cannot now anticipate next year’s new flower. Will its name start with E, or even U? It’s this evidence in support of the unexpected that keeps us interested, keeps us hoping.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
CROSS-POLINATION
Rachel says she notices that when you give a self-care workshop
People at the workshop tend to ask, “How can I care for others?’
And Wendy says she notices that when you give a caring-for-others workshop
People at the workshop tend to say, I really need to use this for myself.
Compelled by an irresistible urge we take an idea that works in one place
Then carry it off like a seed on the wind and entice it to grow in another.
People at the workshop tend to ask, “How can I care for others?’
And Wendy says she notices that when you give a caring-for-others workshop
People at the workshop tend to say, I really need to use this for myself.
Compelled by an irresistible urge we take an idea that works in one place
Then carry it off like a seed on the wind and entice it to grow in another.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
SEARCHING FOR HOPE
Today I am reading about childhood sexual abuse and thinking about hope. Rachel and I are preparing to offer a hope series for parents of sexually abused children. We will need to be compassionate. We will need to know where our own hope can be found. So far the hunt for hope resources is still on. The question I would like to be addressing is this: How can I care about a child who has been sexually abused and be hopeful at the same time?
So far I have found some things. I’ve found stories written by survivors. Several of them mention hope. But of course, they talk a lot about the trauma and how hard they had to work to get past it. That’s what makes their stories notable. But I don’t feel very hopeful saying: it can be overcome but the child will have to work really, really hard. So I continue the search.
There are statistics. On the most thorough pages there are a lot of disqualifiers. Childhood sexual abuse is not measured by consistent standards. Different studies get different numbers. The thorough pages list all the numbers. Then I notice that the less thorough websites tend to quote the highest numbers, without quoting the smaller numbers. And I wonder why anyone would choose to discredit the smaller numbers by not mentioning them.
I go to the website of the American Psychological association. It carries a long list of bad effects childhood sexual abuse has on children. Then it says: In short, the ill effects of child sexual abuse are wide ranging. There is no one set of symptoms or outcomes that victims experience. Some children even
report little or no psychological distress from the abuse, but these children may be either afraid to express their true emotions or may be denying their
feelings as a coping mechanism. Other children may have what is called "sleeper effects." They may experience no harm in the short run, but suffer serious
problems later in life.”” (http://www.apa.org/releases/sexabuse/effects.html).
This is where I lose my temper. What I read here is that if a child reports no ill effects, we psychologists don’t believe him or her. We say the child is probably in denial, and will likely experience bad effects later.
What I see here is a media approach that has failed to attend to any evidence that would give us hope. If I am to run a hope group for parents of children who have been sexually abused I will need to believe that their children will likely be okay. It would be nice to have the evidence, but we don’t hear much from people who experienced sexual abuse and then moved on. Why would they tell us they are okay? They have, after all, moved on. I will also need to believe that even if they told us they were okay, we professionals may choose to disbelieve them, expecting them to fall apart later. It sounds a little like the olden days, where it is said that children who told stories of sexual abuse were not believed.
If I am to run a hope group, then I will need to believe that children of this generation are better off than those in the past, because our society has made a commitment to hearing their stories and setting up systems to protect them. Hopefully, in the next generation of adults, today’s children will be less traumatized than their predecessors. Hopefully they will tell the stories of how our openness helped them get past their trauma. May we be open to hope. That’s my hope.
So far I have found some things. I’ve found stories written by survivors. Several of them mention hope. But of course, they talk a lot about the trauma and how hard they had to work to get past it. That’s what makes their stories notable. But I don’t feel very hopeful saying: it can be overcome but the child will have to work really, really hard. So I continue the search.
There are statistics. On the most thorough pages there are a lot of disqualifiers. Childhood sexual abuse is not measured by consistent standards. Different studies get different numbers. The thorough pages list all the numbers. Then I notice that the less thorough websites tend to quote the highest numbers, without quoting the smaller numbers. And I wonder why anyone would choose to discredit the smaller numbers by not mentioning them.
I go to the website of the American Psychological association. It carries a long list of bad effects childhood sexual abuse has on children. Then it says: In short, the ill effects of child sexual abuse are wide ranging. There is no one set of symptoms or outcomes that victims experience. Some children even
report little or no psychological distress from the abuse, but these children may be either afraid to express their true emotions or may be denying their
feelings as a coping mechanism. Other children may have what is called "sleeper effects." They may experience no harm in the short run, but suffer serious
problems later in life.”” (http://www.apa.org/releases/sexabuse/effects.html).
This is where I lose my temper. What I read here is that if a child reports no ill effects, we psychologists don’t believe him or her. We say the child is probably in denial, and will likely experience bad effects later.
What I see here is a media approach that has failed to attend to any evidence that would give us hope. If I am to run a hope group for parents of children who have been sexually abused I will need to believe that their children will likely be okay. It would be nice to have the evidence, but we don’t hear much from people who experienced sexual abuse and then moved on. Why would they tell us they are okay? They have, after all, moved on. I will also need to believe that even if they told us they were okay, we professionals may choose to disbelieve them, expecting them to fall apart later. It sounds a little like the olden days, where it is said that children who told stories of sexual abuse were not believed.
If I am to run a hope group, then I will need to believe that children of this generation are better off than those in the past, because our society has made a commitment to hearing their stories and setting up systems to protect them. Hopefully, in the next generation of adults, today’s children will be less traumatized than their predecessors. Hopefully they will tell the stories of how our openness helped them get past their trauma. May we be open to hope. That’s my hope.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
LEARNING ABOUT HOPE IN MANAGEMENT TRAINING
Recently I have begun to wonder how my enormous experience with hope in conversation might be useful to managers. When I posed the question to my husband, he responded that my experience in hope has been incredibly useful in his management role. He said he has learned to think about the need to be positive before he speaks, and to govern his language according to that need.
The credit for making these linkages goes entirely to him. He has gained his knowledge through a process of seepage over the years—sitting in on my Saturday morning hope presentations to foster parents and cancer patients; manning the book table during my hope workshops at conferences on elder care and clinical hypnosis. He’s taken the inspiration from my stories about impossible things becoming possible, and things turning out better than expected. He has noticed how language changes perspective. But the day is rapidly approaching when managers will not have to learn these things through seepage. Hope will be a popular topic in management training.
There’s a new trend in hope studies these days. People are beginning to ask how hope strategies could help managers do their work more effectively.
Though much attention continues to focus on strategies for sustaining hope when people are ill or otherwise challenged, and hope continues to be a topic of great interest to doctors nurses and social workers, hope is finding its way into management theory. Books and articles that take hope seriously are beginning to appear.
If there’s one excellent reason why managers ought to be interested in hope it is this: Hope and hopelessness are silent factors in most work environments, active yet unacknowledged. Research in the counselling world has shown that new opportunities for growth are created when the influence of hope and hopelessness is brought out into the open. Many of the strategies we use for making hope explicit in counselling can be applied in other types of conversations as well. They can be used in one-on-one encounters and also in group settings. Hope and hopelessness shape individual and group behavior. So it is not surprising that management theorists are beginning to pay attention to hope.
Hope is a motivator that keeps people moving forward. It is the underlying emotion that makes us want to pursue goals. Not only do we hope to achieve goals, but goals often make up part of a large picture with hope at its centre. Our underlying hopes give goals their importance and personal meaning. Hope is a complex, yet simple concept. It is a feeling that changes the nature of thoughts, actions and relationships. High levels of hope, according to the research, can be linked with success at just about everything. People with high hope scores do better at athletics and academics. They cope better with illness and pain. Hopeful people direct attention toward a future that seems important to them.
Hopelessness, in contrast, is a de-motivator. It is the absence of purpose that keeps people plodding forward without inspiration, confines them in the old ruts, limits them to sticking with what is familiar. Without stepping out to take either credit or blame, hopelessness gets in the way of many things that could be happening.
People in general are interested in talking about hope, reducing hopelessness and rallying around hope symbols. This interest can create opportunities. Managers could now be using knowledge about hope and hopelessness to make things better in the workplace. Ultimately there will be management training in the area of hope. You can see it coming.
Hope theory and management theory have begun reaching out to one another. Patricia Bruininks and Bertram Malle have conducted conversational research to identify perceived differences between hopes and goals.
Longtime hope scholar Kay Herth has emerged from a nursing context to write about the role of a hope leader. Management consultants Harry Hudson and Barbara Perry have built a management book around five principles for promoting and sustaining hope in organizations.
As hope theory and management theory converge, managers will find themselves learning how to talk about hope. Like other management training, the hope training will start with big ideas and move toward practical strategies that make sense to the trainees. The gap between the big ideas and the small contextual strategies is still relatively unexplored. Most of the knowledge about how to inspire hope through guided conversation still rests in the counselling and nursing literature. It hovers expectantly at the brink of the gap, searching for bridges, waiting for invitations, preparing to cross over.
References
Bruininks, P. & Malle, B., (2005). Distinguishing hope from optimism and related affective states. Motivation And Behavior 29(4)
Herth, K. A. (2007). Hope-centered leadership in practice. Academic Leader, 23(8), 4-5.
Hudson H. & Perry, B., (2006). Putting hope to work: Five principles to activate your organization’s most powerful resource. Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers.
The credit for making these linkages goes entirely to him. He has gained his knowledge through a process of seepage over the years—sitting in on my Saturday morning hope presentations to foster parents and cancer patients; manning the book table during my hope workshops at conferences on elder care and clinical hypnosis. He’s taken the inspiration from my stories about impossible things becoming possible, and things turning out better than expected. He has noticed how language changes perspective. But the day is rapidly approaching when managers will not have to learn these things through seepage. Hope will be a popular topic in management training.
There’s a new trend in hope studies these days. People are beginning to ask how hope strategies could help managers do their work more effectively.
Though much attention continues to focus on strategies for sustaining hope when people are ill or otherwise challenged, and hope continues to be a topic of great interest to doctors nurses and social workers, hope is finding its way into management theory. Books and articles that take hope seriously are beginning to appear.
If there’s one excellent reason why managers ought to be interested in hope it is this: Hope and hopelessness are silent factors in most work environments, active yet unacknowledged. Research in the counselling world has shown that new opportunities for growth are created when the influence of hope and hopelessness is brought out into the open. Many of the strategies we use for making hope explicit in counselling can be applied in other types of conversations as well. They can be used in one-on-one encounters and also in group settings. Hope and hopelessness shape individual and group behavior. So it is not surprising that management theorists are beginning to pay attention to hope.
Hope is a motivator that keeps people moving forward. It is the underlying emotion that makes us want to pursue goals. Not only do we hope to achieve goals, but goals often make up part of a large picture with hope at its centre. Our underlying hopes give goals their importance and personal meaning. Hope is a complex, yet simple concept. It is a feeling that changes the nature of thoughts, actions and relationships. High levels of hope, according to the research, can be linked with success at just about everything. People with high hope scores do better at athletics and academics. They cope better with illness and pain. Hopeful people direct attention toward a future that seems important to them.
Hopelessness, in contrast, is a de-motivator. It is the absence of purpose that keeps people plodding forward without inspiration, confines them in the old ruts, limits them to sticking with what is familiar. Without stepping out to take either credit or blame, hopelessness gets in the way of many things that could be happening.
People in general are interested in talking about hope, reducing hopelessness and rallying around hope symbols. This interest can create opportunities. Managers could now be using knowledge about hope and hopelessness to make things better in the workplace. Ultimately there will be management training in the area of hope. You can see it coming.
Hope theory and management theory have begun reaching out to one another. Patricia Bruininks and Bertram Malle have conducted conversational research to identify perceived differences between hopes and goals.
Longtime hope scholar Kay Herth has emerged from a nursing context to write about the role of a hope leader. Management consultants Harry Hudson and Barbara Perry have built a management book around five principles for promoting and sustaining hope in organizations.
As hope theory and management theory converge, managers will find themselves learning how to talk about hope. Like other management training, the hope training will start with big ideas and move toward practical strategies that make sense to the trainees. The gap between the big ideas and the small contextual strategies is still relatively unexplored. Most of the knowledge about how to inspire hope through guided conversation still rests in the counselling and nursing literature. It hovers expectantly at the brink of the gap, searching for bridges, waiting for invitations, preparing to cross over.
References
Bruininks, P. & Malle, B., (2005). Distinguishing hope from optimism and related affective states. Motivation And Behavior 29(4)
Herth, K. A. (2007). Hope-centered leadership in practice. Academic Leader, 23(8), 4-5.
Hudson H. & Perry, B., (2006). Putting hope to work: Five principles to activate your organization’s most powerful resource. Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers.
Friday, June 06, 2008
MEAT ON THE BONES OF HOPE
Every so often you meet somebody who says something that resonates. This happened to me last weekend. A stranger came to shake my hand following a hope presentation. She said, “You really put the meat on the bones of hope for me.”
She is the first person ever to say that to me. And so, even though I knew there was a risk of scattering my vegetarian followers, I began to wonder about the bones of hope. What are the bones of hope, anyway?
Main bone: HOPE MATTERS TO PEOPLE. They like it. They want it. Some say they need it. Some say they fear it. Some say they have lost it. But this is the thing that binds all these people together. Hope matters to them.
Second bone: HOPE RELATES TO OTHER THINGS! For whatever reason, be it psychological or physiological, people who have HOPE do better than people who don’t. There’s a ton of research that shows this. You can spend a whole day on that.
Third bone: HOPE SCARES PEOPLE!!!! Professionals are particularly susceptible to fearing it. They fear that if other people hope, they’ll be the ones left to mop up the tears after the big disappointment occurs. But professionals aren’t the only ones who fear hope. Most of us have small attacks from time to time.
Fourth bone: HOPE IS CONTAGEOUS!!! If you hang around people who have it, it’s hard to keep from catching some.
Fifth bone: HOPE CAN BE DEFINED!!! It is not, as many believe, an intangible idea. Hundreds of researchers have defined it and their definitions are quite similar. In my favourite definitions, hope is described as the involvement of thinking, feeling, acting and relating toward a future fulfillment that is personally meaningful. Now that is definitely not intangible.
Sixth bone: HOPE CAN BE MEASURED!!! Not everyone is interested in measuring hope, but those who wish to can use any one of a number of standardized, validated instruments. Some focus more attention on the emotional aspects, others on the cognitive. But a good selection is out there for anybody who wants to use them.
Seventh bone: HOPE CAN BE EVOKED!!! (or inspired, or activated, or nurtured, or fostered, or instilled). Say it any way you like. Hope can be evoked. This bone is my particular favourite. My work has focused almost entirely on the language, symbols, strategies and methods available to enhance the work of serious hope evokers.
There they are, seven of the larger bones that comprise the skeleton of hope. Most researchers find smaller bones and work away on them. They study hope in the context of cancer, or academic success, or business management, or childhood, or seniorhood. In any given presentation we can choose which bones to put the meat on.
My thanks go out to the stranger who enjoyed the meat of a hope presentation , and then, through the gift of thanks, brought my attention back to the bones.
She is the first person ever to say that to me. And so, even though I knew there was a risk of scattering my vegetarian followers, I began to wonder about the bones of hope. What are the bones of hope, anyway?
Main bone: HOPE MATTERS TO PEOPLE. They like it. They want it. Some say they need it. Some say they fear it. Some say they have lost it. But this is the thing that binds all these people together. Hope matters to them.
Second bone: HOPE RELATES TO OTHER THINGS! For whatever reason, be it psychological or physiological, people who have HOPE do better than people who don’t. There’s a ton of research that shows this. You can spend a whole day on that.
Third bone: HOPE SCARES PEOPLE!!!! Professionals are particularly susceptible to fearing it. They fear that if other people hope, they’ll be the ones left to mop up the tears after the big disappointment occurs. But professionals aren’t the only ones who fear hope. Most of us have small attacks from time to time.
Fourth bone: HOPE IS CONTAGEOUS!!! If you hang around people who have it, it’s hard to keep from catching some.
Fifth bone: HOPE CAN BE DEFINED!!! It is not, as many believe, an intangible idea. Hundreds of researchers have defined it and their definitions are quite similar. In my favourite definitions, hope is described as the involvement of thinking, feeling, acting and relating toward a future fulfillment that is personally meaningful. Now that is definitely not intangible.
Sixth bone: HOPE CAN BE MEASURED!!! Not everyone is interested in measuring hope, but those who wish to can use any one of a number of standardized, validated instruments. Some focus more attention on the emotional aspects, others on the cognitive. But a good selection is out there for anybody who wants to use them.
Seventh bone: HOPE CAN BE EVOKED!!! (or inspired, or activated, or nurtured, or fostered, or instilled). Say it any way you like. Hope can be evoked. This bone is my particular favourite. My work has focused almost entirely on the language, symbols, strategies and methods available to enhance the work of serious hope evokers.
There they are, seven of the larger bones that comprise the skeleton of hope. Most researchers find smaller bones and work away on them. They study hope in the context of cancer, or academic success, or business management, or childhood, or seniorhood. In any given presentation we can choose which bones to put the meat on.
My thanks go out to the stranger who enjoyed the meat of a hope presentation , and then, through the gift of thanks, brought my attention back to the bones.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
STUDYING HOPE
And the doctor who had just shown his PowerPoint
Saw the hope presentation that followed his,
The presentation about how to evoke the hope experience
And asked, “Is there any hard research to prove it?”
The medical system is committed to evidence.
So I felt a little foolish, defending myself
In the shadow of such a learned man.
And I felt that anything I could say about the mountains of hope research
Could not be enough to gain his respect.
But then I remembered seeing many doctors
For many things across the years
And coming away without a cure
Or researching the cure before I went
And asking for what had not been suggested.
So I figured I’d keep on talking about hope,
Even if they schedule the doctors first on the program
And give them more respect because they’re doctors
Remembering how often they schedule me at the end
Saying they have chosen me especially
Because, after hearing the doctors,
The audience will need some hope.
If you get a reputation for giving hope
Just by making a presentation
Then doesn’t that prove that hope can be evoked?
What more research do we need?
Saw the hope presentation that followed his,
The presentation about how to evoke the hope experience
And asked, “Is there any hard research to prove it?”
The medical system is committed to evidence.
So I felt a little foolish, defending myself
In the shadow of such a learned man.
And I felt that anything I could say about the mountains of hope research
Could not be enough to gain his respect.
But then I remembered seeing many doctors
For many things across the years
And coming away without a cure
Or researching the cure before I went
And asking for what had not been suggested.
So I figured I’d keep on talking about hope,
Even if they schedule the doctors first on the program
And give them more respect because they’re doctors
Remembering how often they schedule me at the end
Saying they have chosen me especially
Because, after hearing the doctors,
The audience will need some hope.
If you get a reputation for giving hope
Just by making a presentation
Then doesn’t that prove that hope can be evoked?
What more research do we need?
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
THE SYNAGOGUE
I was on my way to a synagogue to make a hope presentation on Sunday evening when I realized a surprising thing. Until that evening I had never been through the door of a Synagogue.
How peculiar, I thought. Have I not been to church most Sundays for the past fifty years or so? Have I not heard stories about the Jewish people every week? How curious that the worlds of Christians and Jews should overlap so much and yet touch each other so little!
I was one of four presenters. Two were from Calgary, two were from Edmonton. Two were Jewish. Two were not. I basked in the warm hospitality offered to me that evening, and again the next morning when I took my hope tools to Calgary Jewish Family Services. That little introduction got me interested. My first visit had its limits. I did not enter the sanctuary, only the church hall, to attend a panel presentation to which the general public had been invited. But alongside my amazement that my first visit should have come so far along in my life, I felt a surge of hope, aware that many new experiences are still waiting for me, not very far from home.
How peculiar, I thought. Have I not been to church most Sundays for the past fifty years or so? Have I not heard stories about the Jewish people every week? How curious that the worlds of Christians and Jews should overlap so much and yet touch each other so little!
I was one of four presenters. Two were from Calgary, two were from Edmonton. Two were Jewish. Two were not. I basked in the warm hospitality offered to me that evening, and again the next morning when I took my hope tools to Calgary Jewish Family Services. That little introduction got me interested. My first visit had its limits. I did not enter the sanctuary, only the church hall, to attend a panel presentation to which the general public had been invited. But alongside my amazement that my first visit should have come so far along in my life, I felt a surge of hope, aware that many new experiences are still waiting for me, not very far from home.
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