Here I am, wondering how to go about making a hope presentation to a group of workers in palliative care, and thinking about my hope roots. It was Cheryl Nekolaichuk who invited me to make the presentation, and that, perhaps is the root of the perplexing issue. Cheryl was a hope scholar before I was, and through the years she has retained a focussed and abiding interest in hope. She has written some impressive articles about hope in palliative care, articles I frequently quote. So what could Cheryl possibly want to hear from me? What would she want me to say to her colleagues, so that, when I have left the building, they would turn to her and say, “That was certainly a good idea, Cheryl!”
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when my head is churning out possibilities while my common sense begs me to go to sleep, I find myself wishing I were the kind of person who could make a hope presentation without wondering what the audience wants to hear. It would save me hours of prep time—an efficiency in business language. And then I realize that this is simply a wish, a wouldn’t-it-be-nice pie-in-the-sky musing. It is not a hope. If it were a hope, I would eventually get around to giving it serious attention and commitment. So that while I might wish I could give hope presentations without wondering what the audience wants to hear, I don’t hope to be one and most definitely have no intention of taking large or small steps toward being one. I don’t even like those kind of presenters.
Theoretically, palliative care workers are an easy target for a hope talk. If they have any hope at all, and my experience is that they are generally a hopeful lot, they have already learned to differentiate between hope and cure. Their work begins when cure is no longer a primary objective—a wish still, but not much of a hope. Their job is not to prevent death, but rather to make it as pleasant as possible. That would be easy if everyone involved could simultaneously agree that cure is not a primary objective, and if it really were possible to use our modern technologies to make death a pleasant experience. But alas, patients, families and friends don’t always come on board with the simultaneous acceptance, and the idea that drugs make people comfortable in the presence of enormous pain is a bit of a myth. The drugs reduce the pain, but as for promoting comfort, well you just have to ask a cancer patient,”Are you comfortable?” And you’ll likely get an answer your hoping self didn’t want to hear.
I think it was Cheryl who first introduced me to the concept of the hoping self. It was back in the days when she was undertaking a thorough and comprehensive study of hope, back in the days before she worked in palliative care. The hoping self is the part of you that hopes or has hope. It may, or may not be your whole self. When we talk about fostering hope, or enhancing hope, or instilling hope, we are really talking about increasing the size and working capacity of the hoping self. My own hoping self, I have discovered over the years, is a porous and permeable thing, sensitive to its surroundings, susceptible to bouts of growth and shrinkage.
THE HOPE LADY Blog is the public face of my hoping self. On the days when I am hopeful, the blog has free reign to be about anything it chooses. But on days when my hoping self is small, out-sized by the discouraging events in the world around it, the blog becomes a disciplined embodiment of the hope work I lecture about. ”Do the hope work,” my friend and fellow hope scholar Christy Simpson once said to me at a time when my hoping self had shrunk to Lilliputian scale, ”and the hope work will work on you.” Some days THE HOPE LADY Blog is the hope work.
What, I wonder, is strengthening my hoping self these days? Well, there’s my old hero Barack, and the things I am learning while teaching the hope class, and the new stories in incubation that are getting themselves ready for storytelling. My family loves me, the amaryllis bulbs are budding and the good old orchid is about to have more blossoms than it’s ever had. There’s a book chapter in a nursing text on the meaning of hope in the dying. There are my hope buddies who take it for granted that I can speak to a group of palliative care workers without having to duck thrown tomatoes. Put all that down on paper and my hoping self seems a little more vital than I had thought.
And what is it that threatens my hoping self when I think of making this presentation? Well, quite frankly, it’s fear: fear of being boring; of being insensitive; of being irrelevant; of being condescending. It’s the fear of discussing matters of the heart with professionals trained in science.
This blog has been going for about two-and-a-half years, long enough that sometimes I think of myself as THE HOPE LADY. Other times I’m just Wendy. On the best days, the two are interchangeable. On the bad days, not so much. On this day Wendy says, “Be sure you know exactly what you intend to say at the palliative care presentation. The paper they sent you says you must have clearly defined objectives.” And I know this is true, that I should have clearly defined objectives.
Then THE HOPE LADY says,”Could it be that you are distracting yourself by worrying about objectives? The paper they sent you also instructs you to spend at least 25 percent of the time interactively, and you know they don’t actually mean what the paper says because they put you in a classroom set up theatre style, hardly a friendly environment for interaction. So, rather than setting clear objectives, why don’t you plan to listen to your audience and go with your instincts? You are speaking to a group of people with hoping selves. These hoping selves are challenged on a daily basis by the frustration of working in groups who are struggling with elusive things--the wish for a cure and the need for comfort. Think of your hope tools. A presentation that seems impossible today can be possible on Friday. This is probably one of those times when you are okay, only you don’t know it yet.”
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
OBAMA IS STILL MY HERO
There is something that’s been arousing my curiosity lately. How long, I have wondered, will I feel comfortable defending Barack Obama? It’s an issue relevant to my future credibility. If you are planning to be around for a while it’s a big risk to openly and unapologetically support an audacious hoper. Such is the nature of audacious hope that audacious hopers don’t tend to get the things they hope for with a simple command or snap of the fingers, and political observers don’t tend to give leaders the benefit of the doubt, or time to make changes before they start in with their criticism. . So it was only a matter of time before Obama’s image would tarnish, and mine also, perhaps, by association with a loser.
Today’s radio news brought the first big test. Barack was on the radio saying he hadn’t got the cooperation he’d hoped for. Well, as you can imagine, I jumped right up and cheered, because he framed the disappointment in the context of hope. It’s a strategy I use in hope-focussed counselling almost every day. It keeps the hope in the picture alongside the disappointment. Obama was still my hero.
Today’s newspaper brought the second big test. The Edmonton Journal editorial page observed that the American politicians had not agreed to Obama’s bill. The Democrats added things, which gave the Republicans something to complain about, and the finished product will be different from the product he originally proposed. The editorial went on to observe that the Canadian budget was passed more collaboratively. I will admit that I am kind of proud that our Canadians settled down and got the job done. That said, I am not giving up on my hero. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m giving him some of the credit.
Hope theory tells us that there are many ways to get to any given end. Canadian politicians cooperated on the budget. Could it be that they noticed how uninspired we all were with the politics we saw during December. Could it be that they noticed how Canadians didn’t seem to want to vote, or even to talk about Canadian politics? They wanted to talk about American politics, the politics of collaboration and hope. To fail to collaborate was to force another election.
The U.S. situation was a different matter. Having just been elected, politicians over there felt quite secure in doing what they had always done. Collaboration hadn’t been their platform after all. It was Obama’s—Obama’s audacious hope. He was hoping they would change, and it was he who would get the negative attention if they didn’t.
As for me, I’m still hoping for political collaboration, and I’m not going to blame Obama if his own countrymen don’t share that hope. I’m going to thank him for showing a path to our Canadian politicians, and then I am going to hope they’ll see the success of it. Then maybe they too will start hoping for collaboration. If they do, they’ll be joining Obama, me, and a few million American voters. Regardless of his success in the short term, I hope Obama will still be audaciously hoping for collaboration when the next election comes around.
Today’s radio news brought the first big test. Barack was on the radio saying he hadn’t got the cooperation he’d hoped for. Well, as you can imagine, I jumped right up and cheered, because he framed the disappointment in the context of hope. It’s a strategy I use in hope-focussed counselling almost every day. It keeps the hope in the picture alongside the disappointment. Obama was still my hero.
Today’s newspaper brought the second big test. The Edmonton Journal editorial page observed that the American politicians had not agreed to Obama’s bill. The Democrats added things, which gave the Republicans something to complain about, and the finished product will be different from the product he originally proposed. The editorial went on to observe that the Canadian budget was passed more collaboratively. I will admit that I am kind of proud that our Canadians settled down and got the job done. That said, I am not giving up on my hero. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m giving him some of the credit.
Hope theory tells us that there are many ways to get to any given end. Canadian politicians cooperated on the budget. Could it be that they noticed how uninspired we all were with the politics we saw during December. Could it be that they noticed how Canadians didn’t seem to want to vote, or even to talk about Canadian politics? They wanted to talk about American politics, the politics of collaboration and hope. To fail to collaborate was to force another election.
The U.S. situation was a different matter. Having just been elected, politicians over there felt quite secure in doing what they had always done. Collaboration hadn’t been their platform after all. It was Obama’s—Obama’s audacious hope. He was hoping they would change, and it was he who would get the negative attention if they didn’t.
As for me, I’m still hoping for political collaboration, and I’m not going to blame Obama if his own countrymen don’t share that hope. I’m going to thank him for showing a path to our Canadian politicians, and then I am going to hope they’ll see the success of it. Then maybe they too will start hoping for collaboration. If they do, they’ll be joining Obama, me, and a few million American voters. Regardless of his success in the short term, I hope Obama will still be audaciously hoping for collaboration when the next election comes around.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
THE DINING HALL
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how we couldn’t get to it without walking a block down the hill in the drenching Vancouver rain.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill school for the Blind is how, having ascended its rickety wooden steps, we would open the heavy door to a swish of steam that carried upon it the remnant odour of every cabbage boiled, every sausage fried, every turnip mashed, every fish battered, every drop of milk soured over all the decades of meal manipulation in its cavernous kitchen.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how, during those first few days, I would cover my mouth and gulp in deep breaths to steady the nerves and squelch the imperative to wretch as the door closed behind me.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how they tried to make us swallow down the dried-out eggs cooked too long ago and the runny cream cheese on tepid toast by threatening us with no dessert.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is my amazement that even an adult would ever imagine that a child could be bribed to eat such slop by threatening to withhold a generous wedge of cardboard-crusted pie, or a medium-sized bowl of lumpy, scum-covered tapioca pudding.
What I don’t remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how it came to pass that I got used to the thrice-daily trudge, and the odour within, and the taste of the stuff on my plate.
But I must have got used to it. For I stayed there three years with no money for snacks, and no place to buy any.
What I don’t remember are the details of how I ate there so often, yet did not starve.
But then, in a roll back of shutter in memory, I find silky hot chocolate steaming in pitchers alongside our breakfast prunes, dreamy rice pudding with wipped cream and pineapple, ice cream on Wednesdays and French fries on Fridays.
Then the hardy hot soups and soft fragrant sandwiches, replacements for cream cheese and aging omelets, new on the menu and welcomed with cheering when the old Scottish matron retired.
And one cup of tea, brewed especially for me, in true sympathy on a terrible day when my plane could not leave for Alberta.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill school for the Blind is how, having ascended its rickety wooden steps, we would open the heavy door to a swish of steam that carried upon it the remnant odour of every cabbage boiled, every sausage fried, every turnip mashed, every fish battered, every drop of milk soured over all the decades of meal manipulation in its cavernous kitchen.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how, during those first few days, I would cover my mouth and gulp in deep breaths to steady the nerves and squelch the imperative to wretch as the door closed behind me.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how they tried to make us swallow down the dried-out eggs cooked too long ago and the runny cream cheese on tepid toast by threatening us with no dessert.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is my amazement that even an adult would ever imagine that a child could be bribed to eat such slop by threatening to withhold a generous wedge of cardboard-crusted pie, or a medium-sized bowl of lumpy, scum-covered tapioca pudding.
What I don’t remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how it came to pass that I got used to the thrice-daily trudge, and the odour within, and the taste of the stuff on my plate.
But I must have got used to it. For I stayed there three years with no money for snacks, and no place to buy any.
What I don’t remember are the details of how I ate there so often, yet did not starve.
But then, in a roll back of shutter in memory, I find silky hot chocolate steaming in pitchers alongside our breakfast prunes, dreamy rice pudding with wipped cream and pineapple, ice cream on Wednesdays and French fries on Fridays.
Then the hardy hot soups and soft fragrant sandwiches, replacements for cream cheese and aging omelets, new on the menu and welcomed with cheering when the old Scottish matron retired.
And one cup of tea, brewed especially for me, in true sympathy on a terrible day when my plane could not leave for Alberta.
Friday, February 06, 2009
MUSICAL DOG
A dog named Pirate scratches gently but firmly on my leg whenever I play the piano. This behaviour perplexes me because Pirate is normally a calm and accepting dog. What’s more, other dogs named Benji and Spuds have cuddled on the floor near my pedal foot, or chosen to listen to the music from the warm spot at the piano end of the couch.
But Pirate scratches at my leg, the way he might scratch if he needed to go to the bathroom when I was talking on the phone. I try to ignore it, knowing from experience that he will opt to stay inside if I interrupt the song to open the door. Yes, I try to ignore him. Sometimes I make it all the way to the end of the song. But generally I stop and give him a pat on the head. That’s what he wants, a pat on the head. And could it be that this is my first dog with musical taste? It is, after all, impossible to pat and play at the same time.
But Pirate scratches at my leg, the way he might scratch if he needed to go to the bathroom when I was talking on the phone. I try to ignore it, knowing from experience that he will opt to stay inside if I interrupt the song to open the door. Yes, I try to ignore him. Sometimes I make it all the way to the end of the song. But generally I stop and give him a pat on the head. That’s what he wants, a pat on the head. And could it be that this is my first dog with musical taste? It is, after all, impossible to pat and play at the same time.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
TURTLE
Sometimes I wonder just how a person is supposed to notice all the interesting things there are to notice in this short life we have been given. There are all these things around us, things we know a little about, things that contain whole worlds of facts and associations we simply haven’t noticed. The enormity of it boggles the mind. But I do love it.
Take turtles, for example. Now I know turtles a little, turtles with shells, turtles with soft underbellies, turtles in basement cages, turtles in pet shops, sea turtles defended by environmental activists against threat of extinction, mass turtle migrations that block highways in certain areas, chocolate turtles with sticky nutty fillings. Yes, I know turtles a little. So when I meet someone who hopes to have a turtle in future I think, Turtle!’ That’s nice. But I wouldn’t want one.
I once had a turtle, he tells me. ‘’I didn’t know much about turtles then. We didn’t have the Internet, you know. But anyway, I’d come home in the evening and let Turtle out of his cage. He’d wander around my room, and he’d nuzzle my feet. Turtle was afraid of other people, but not of me. ‘
And there am I, taken suddenly aback by the realization that in all my turtle awareness, no turtle has ever before entered my frame of reference as a loyal, loving companion. A little more turtle knowledge. A stirring of curiosity. Would I ever want a turtle?
Take turtles, for example. Now I know turtles a little, turtles with shells, turtles with soft underbellies, turtles in basement cages, turtles in pet shops, sea turtles defended by environmental activists against threat of extinction, mass turtle migrations that block highways in certain areas, chocolate turtles with sticky nutty fillings. Yes, I know turtles a little. So when I meet someone who hopes to have a turtle in future I think, Turtle!’ That’s nice. But I wouldn’t want one.
I once had a turtle, he tells me. ‘’I didn’t know much about turtles then. We didn’t have the Internet, you know. But anyway, I’d come home in the evening and let Turtle out of his cage. He’d wander around my room, and he’d nuzzle my feet. Turtle was afraid of other people, but not of me. ‘
And there am I, taken suddenly aback by the realization that in all my turtle awareness, no turtle has ever before entered my frame of reference as a loyal, loving companion. A little more turtle knowledge. A stirring of curiosity. Would I ever want a turtle?
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
ROOPH AWARDS ADDRESS ON HOPE AND HOMELESSNESS
Introduction:
Hope is a topic that always springs to mind when we think of housing homeless people, so it is particularly appropriate that today’s Rooph Awards will be
presented during Hope Week. Our guest speaker is an award-winning hope specialist. Wendy Edey is a university lecturer, and a counsellor at our local
centre for hope studies, the Hope Foundation of Alberta. She is known for her ability to make hope practical.
What a marvellous time it is to be talking about hope. I’ve been studying and talking about hope for years, and sometimes it’s hard. But following in Obama’s wake is like riding your bike in the suction of a speeding greyhound bus. Phew! How Obama engaged the imagination of the world is the summary of whole libraries of hope research. It has been such fun to watch him create hope by talking about hope, revisit history to collect the hope, gather the people around hope in bigger and bigger circles, and then reap the rewards as they start to do things differently. They would even vote for an African-American president. You see, people always do more things and do them differently when they have hope. You can have hope and reality at the same time. You can talk about them together and still have both. Obama did it the easy way, he talked about the hope first. He knew reality would be there anyway. What is it that we can learn from Obama?
I’ve been a hope psychologist for years, creating hope in a counselling office by talking about hope, having hope to give. And then, in 2007, people began coming in to my office—poor people, desperate people with no place to live. And I knew I should write to the government, I knew I ought to give them hope, but I had little hope to give them.
When we have a shortage of hope at hope house we eventually start asking questions. What is sucking out all the hope? What are the hope suckers?
The media was a hope-sucker. Every morning at breakfast my husband would read me another article, another ad. Houses were selling for a million dollars, people were rushing in at the last minute and bidding them up another ten thousand! I had a house, and it was going up, but the only thing I felt was fear. I couldn’t go to work that scared. “Stop reading this stuff to me,” I said. “I know this is happening and I don’t need to hear it every morning. If there’s something I need to know, I’m pretty sure the information will get to me somehow.” One hope-sucker was a little smaller.
Helplessness is a hope-sucker. Even without the newspaper the fear persisted. People were coming in for counselling, people whose dingy apartments were being sold as condos. And sure, the owners had a right to make a profit? But what about my clients? I felt utterly helpless! I couldn’t go to work every day feeling like that. And then one day I saw something I had overlooked. We were actually subsidizing market rent down to an affordable level for three people. I just hadn’t noticed it because they are my relatives. And then when I looked around I saw that others were doing it too, some for friends as well as relatives. We weren’t helpless. It’s easier to be leaders when you start out as people who are doing something. “Some property owners are helping,” I said to my clients, and I knew it was true. Another hope-sucker had just got a little bit smaller.
My neighbourhood was a hope-sucker. We recently moved to the river valley, but my neighbour lived there in the 1940’s. He loved Dawson Park back when it was a garbage dump. Now that it is a beautiful park, he walks in it every day with a garbage bag and picks up garbage. He marks bush trails in little symbols to delight all of us. No wonder he got upset in 2008 when tent after tent was set up along the trails, when people in the tents told him to get off their place, when he could hear stuff every night outside his open bedroom window, when so much garbage and filth appeared that a dumpster couldn’t even make a dint in it, let alone a garbage bag. No wonder he got upset when he called to say that the tent city hadn’t closed after all, that it had simply moved into his backyard, and the people on the end of the line said, “We know. We’ll come and give them notice to move, but they’ll just move a few feet.” Fear gripped us. Hope-suckers in action. We needed to make a bigger circle.
A group of neighbours asked the parks people to join us on a tour of the park. The parks people graciously agreed to come. There were about a dozen of us. We didn’t walk the whole park, only a tiny section. Nobody knew exactly what to do, but it felt better, being together. Together we saw a lot of tents and a lot of filth. But some of the most prominent tents were missing on that morning. Where had they gone? Well, my neighbour, the one most distressed, the one who loves the park, had paid them a visit, to warn them. “They’re nice people,” he said. “I didn’t want them to lose their belongings. They don’t cause any trouble.” The parks people brought in many dumpsters. They worked weekends and cleaned up unimaginable filth. They said the Mayor’s ten-year plan for housing first would be coming out soon. They said the committee had a really broad range of representation. The circle of people doing something had just got bigger. “My neighbours are helping,” I said to my clients, for I knew it was true. Another hope-sucker had just got smaller.
Housing first, says the Mayor’s ten-year-plan. It’s such a sound idea that nobody can argue with it. And yet, A billion dollars needed screamed the media! In a single word the community was split down the middle, caring do-gooders against victimized taxpayers. The hope was sucking out so fast you’d think they were testing a new Hoover vacuum cleaner. Already a paralyzing fear was taking root. The man on the street was saying, A billion dollars. Yeah right! The good story about Charles Guick got second billing. He got a house first and turned his life around, but it takes a lot more than one story on one day to offset the hope-sucking effect of a billion dollars.
Now this is hope week and today we are presenting four awards to celebrate the excellent work in the housing circle. What would we be doing differently if we put a hope first theory into practice? Could we ask the media to print a great story about an award-winner each day for four days? That would be reality. That isn’t Pollyanna! It’s news, news with hope first. Could we change our working approach a little, resist all efforts to categorize us as either do-gooders or taxpayers? Many of us are already helping. We are helping in very concrete ways. A hope-first approach would put that message out there every single day until just about everybody wants to get on the bandwagon just because it’s the thing to do, the way the food bank does it at Christmas! Could we advertise hope-first homeless tours of the streets and parks, showing the reality and the vision of how those same streets will look in ten years? Can we keep telling the taxpayers about the things that are happening and the difference it is making until they want to help too? That is reality. That is putting the hope first. Can we engage the imagination? Can we make the hope-suckers a little smaller, the hope a lot bigger? This is what we can learn from decades of hope research. All of us, community leaders and even the media can put hope first. Obama’s shining example of a relentless focus on hope first, and the food bank at Christmas have proven that. We can do it. Yes we can! Happy hope week! Thank you.
Hope is a topic that always springs to mind when we think of housing homeless people, so it is particularly appropriate that today’s Rooph Awards will be
presented during Hope Week. Our guest speaker is an award-winning hope specialist. Wendy Edey is a university lecturer, and a counsellor at our local
centre for hope studies, the Hope Foundation of Alberta. She is known for her ability to make hope practical.
What a marvellous time it is to be talking about hope. I’ve been studying and talking about hope for years, and sometimes it’s hard. But following in Obama’s wake is like riding your bike in the suction of a speeding greyhound bus. Phew! How Obama engaged the imagination of the world is the summary of whole libraries of hope research. It has been such fun to watch him create hope by talking about hope, revisit history to collect the hope, gather the people around hope in bigger and bigger circles, and then reap the rewards as they start to do things differently. They would even vote for an African-American president. You see, people always do more things and do them differently when they have hope. You can have hope and reality at the same time. You can talk about them together and still have both. Obama did it the easy way, he talked about the hope first. He knew reality would be there anyway. What is it that we can learn from Obama?
I’ve been a hope psychologist for years, creating hope in a counselling office by talking about hope, having hope to give. And then, in 2007, people began coming in to my office—poor people, desperate people with no place to live. And I knew I should write to the government, I knew I ought to give them hope, but I had little hope to give them.
When we have a shortage of hope at hope house we eventually start asking questions. What is sucking out all the hope? What are the hope suckers?
The media was a hope-sucker. Every morning at breakfast my husband would read me another article, another ad. Houses were selling for a million dollars, people were rushing in at the last minute and bidding them up another ten thousand! I had a house, and it was going up, but the only thing I felt was fear. I couldn’t go to work that scared. “Stop reading this stuff to me,” I said. “I know this is happening and I don’t need to hear it every morning. If there’s something I need to know, I’m pretty sure the information will get to me somehow.” One hope-sucker was a little smaller.
Helplessness is a hope-sucker. Even without the newspaper the fear persisted. People were coming in for counselling, people whose dingy apartments were being sold as condos. And sure, the owners had a right to make a profit? But what about my clients? I felt utterly helpless! I couldn’t go to work every day feeling like that. And then one day I saw something I had overlooked. We were actually subsidizing market rent down to an affordable level for three people. I just hadn’t noticed it because they are my relatives. And then when I looked around I saw that others were doing it too, some for friends as well as relatives. We weren’t helpless. It’s easier to be leaders when you start out as people who are doing something. “Some property owners are helping,” I said to my clients, and I knew it was true. Another hope-sucker had just got a little bit smaller.
My neighbourhood was a hope-sucker. We recently moved to the river valley, but my neighbour lived there in the 1940’s. He loved Dawson Park back when it was a garbage dump. Now that it is a beautiful park, he walks in it every day with a garbage bag and picks up garbage. He marks bush trails in little symbols to delight all of us. No wonder he got upset in 2008 when tent after tent was set up along the trails, when people in the tents told him to get off their place, when he could hear stuff every night outside his open bedroom window, when so much garbage and filth appeared that a dumpster couldn’t even make a dint in it, let alone a garbage bag. No wonder he got upset when he called to say that the tent city hadn’t closed after all, that it had simply moved into his backyard, and the people on the end of the line said, “We know. We’ll come and give them notice to move, but they’ll just move a few feet.” Fear gripped us. Hope-suckers in action. We needed to make a bigger circle.
A group of neighbours asked the parks people to join us on a tour of the park. The parks people graciously agreed to come. There were about a dozen of us. We didn’t walk the whole park, only a tiny section. Nobody knew exactly what to do, but it felt better, being together. Together we saw a lot of tents and a lot of filth. But some of the most prominent tents were missing on that morning. Where had they gone? Well, my neighbour, the one most distressed, the one who loves the park, had paid them a visit, to warn them. “They’re nice people,” he said. “I didn’t want them to lose their belongings. They don’t cause any trouble.” The parks people brought in many dumpsters. They worked weekends and cleaned up unimaginable filth. They said the Mayor’s ten-year plan for housing first would be coming out soon. They said the committee had a really broad range of representation. The circle of people doing something had just got bigger. “My neighbours are helping,” I said to my clients, for I knew it was true. Another hope-sucker had just got smaller.
Housing first, says the Mayor’s ten-year-plan. It’s such a sound idea that nobody can argue with it. And yet, A billion dollars needed screamed the media! In a single word the community was split down the middle, caring do-gooders against victimized taxpayers. The hope was sucking out so fast you’d think they were testing a new Hoover vacuum cleaner. Already a paralyzing fear was taking root. The man on the street was saying, A billion dollars. Yeah right! The good story about Charles Guick got second billing. He got a house first and turned his life around, but it takes a lot more than one story on one day to offset the hope-sucking effect of a billion dollars.
Now this is hope week and today we are presenting four awards to celebrate the excellent work in the housing circle. What would we be doing differently if we put a hope first theory into practice? Could we ask the media to print a great story about an award-winner each day for four days? That would be reality. That isn’t Pollyanna! It’s news, news with hope first. Could we change our working approach a little, resist all efforts to categorize us as either do-gooders or taxpayers? Many of us are already helping. We are helping in very concrete ways. A hope-first approach would put that message out there every single day until just about everybody wants to get on the bandwagon just because it’s the thing to do, the way the food bank does it at Christmas! Could we advertise hope-first homeless tours of the streets and parks, showing the reality and the vision of how those same streets will look in ten years? Can we keep telling the taxpayers about the things that are happening and the difference it is making until they want to help too? That is reality. That is putting the hope first. Can we engage the imagination? Can we make the hope-suckers a little smaller, the hope a lot bigger? This is what we can learn from decades of hope research. All of us, community leaders and even the media can put hope first. Obama’s shining example of a relentless focus on hope first, and the food bank at Christmas have proven that. We can do it. Yes we can! Happy hope week! Thank you.
Friday, January 30, 2009
SCOTCH SCONES
Last Wednesday I attended a monthly meting of the ACW—Anglican Church Women. Oh, how it took me back. It took me back to cramped little living rooms on Thursday afternoons—always the third Thursday of the month. It took me back to the days before I started school; when I would sit among the women, sit as still and as quietly as was humanly possible, when I would listen to the endless deliberations of the women. Would it be $50.00 to the boys camp, or $75.00 to a mission in Uganda? Should the church be cleaned with Pledge on Tuesdays, or lemon oil on Fridays? Would the Valentine’s Day tea and bake sale be better on February 10, or ought it to wait until the 17th when Patsy would be back from visiting her daughter? And then there were the letters, endless letters read aloud by the secretary: pleas for support from far-off missionaries; thank-you notes for a get-well card send last month; vital instructions from the Bishop. Through all of this I would wait, and wait, and wait.
It took me back to the waiting, waiting for the moment when the ladies would perch daintily on the edge of chairs, balancing the hostess’s finest china teacups in their hands, never spilling a drop in the saucers below. It took me back to the homes of the women, to the foods that each one served when her turn came around: to Mrs. Clouston’s sausage rolls; Mrs. Thomas’s egg sandwiches; Mom’s tiny cupcakes dipped in coconut; to butter tarts and lemon squares and the miniature buttermilk pancakes that Jean Hepworth called Scotch Scones. I liked it all, but I loved those scones. I ate one scone, then another, then another.
“Let her eat them,” crooned Jean, when my mother moved to stop me. “She’s a skinny little lass.”
It took me back to later times, when I went to school and Mom went without me to the ACW meetings, even the meetings at Jean’s. I couldn’t be there of course. So Jean sent the Scotch Scones home for me. What a thrill it was to find a stack of them kept fresh in a plastic bag, too many for me to eat at a single sitting, waiting for me in our kitchen after a long day of arithmetic! This is what I ought to remember when I wonder whether it is worth the effort to show a little appreciation.
It took me back to the waiting, waiting for the moment when the ladies would perch daintily on the edge of chairs, balancing the hostess’s finest china teacups in their hands, never spilling a drop in the saucers below. It took me back to the homes of the women, to the foods that each one served when her turn came around: to Mrs. Clouston’s sausage rolls; Mrs. Thomas’s egg sandwiches; Mom’s tiny cupcakes dipped in coconut; to butter tarts and lemon squares and the miniature buttermilk pancakes that Jean Hepworth called Scotch Scones. I liked it all, but I loved those scones. I ate one scone, then another, then another.
“Let her eat them,” crooned Jean, when my mother moved to stop me. “She’s a skinny little lass.”
It took me back to later times, when I went to school and Mom went without me to the ACW meetings, even the meetings at Jean’s. I couldn’t be there of course. So Jean sent the Scotch Scones home for me. What a thrill it was to find a stack of them kept fresh in a plastic bag, too many for me to eat at a single sitting, waiting for me in our kitchen after a long day of arithmetic! This is what I ought to remember when I wonder whether it is worth the effort to show a little appreciation.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
TEACHER'S DILEMMA
Ronna Fay Jevne:
When we are able to articulate, to name the mission to which we are called, we are able to examine our work through the lens of hope rather than the lens of success and failure. We can attempt what is important rather than make important what it is that is easily achieved. To work without a call is to live in a place of doubt about what is and is not important. We are more easily enticed to working for the system than to working for the client when we are without a vision of the difference we truly want to make. Levov (1997) reminded us that Calls are essentially questions. They aren’t questions you necessarily need to answer outright; they are questions to which you need to respond, expose yourself and kneel before. You don’t want an answer you can put in a box and set on a shelf. You want a question that will become a chariot to carry you across the breadth of your life, a question that will offer you a lifetime of pondering, that will lead you toward what you need to know for your integrity, draw to you what you need for your journey, and help you understand what it means to burst at the seams. These questions will also lead you to others whose lives are propelled by the same questions, and from them you will receive, ”oh, never an answer,” as writer P. L. Travers says, ”but a spark of instructive fire” (p. 7).
And here I am today, looking at this passage, outlining a three-hour session whereupon I will be expected to impart my knowledge about counselling with hope and humour to a class of novice counsellors who hope to be psychologists.
And how shall I be: mysterious, inspiring, practical?
What if I say: “You have to start by being the person you are, and then find reliable tools you can use to structure your work with integrity?” They’ll be disappointed. They were expecting wisdom and a how-to manual.
What if I say: “I have this box of hope tools. I’ll show them to you. I have this box of humour tools. I’ll show them to you. But the thing I have learned over the years is that a person with integrity can’t effectively use a hope tool in a counselling session unless one person in the room can express some hope. Nor can a person of integrity use a humour tool in a counselling session unless there is somebody in the room who has a genuine compulsion to laugh.” They’ll be frustrated. “Integrity-shmegrity! They’ll whisper. “Who does she think she is?”
Or maybe I should just say: “I have this box of hope tools, and this box of humour tools. I love using them. I use them when it feels right to use them. I’ll show them to you. I want you to know they are available.”
Perhaps that is as much sense as I can make of the potential for using these tools with integrity given three hours in a roomful of novice counsellors.
(Quote by Ronna Jevne taken from page 272 of Jevne, R.F. (2005). Hope: The simplicity and complexity. In J. Eliott (Ed.). Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Hope (pp. 259-289). New York: Nova Science.)
When we are able to articulate, to name the mission to which we are called, we are able to examine our work through the lens of hope rather than the lens of success and failure. We can attempt what is important rather than make important what it is that is easily achieved. To work without a call is to live in a place of doubt about what is and is not important. We are more easily enticed to working for the system than to working for the client when we are without a vision of the difference we truly want to make. Levov (1997) reminded us that Calls are essentially questions. They aren’t questions you necessarily need to answer outright; they are questions to which you need to respond, expose yourself and kneel before. You don’t want an answer you can put in a box and set on a shelf. You want a question that will become a chariot to carry you across the breadth of your life, a question that will offer you a lifetime of pondering, that will lead you toward what you need to know for your integrity, draw to you what you need for your journey, and help you understand what it means to burst at the seams. These questions will also lead you to others whose lives are propelled by the same questions, and from them you will receive, ”oh, never an answer,” as writer P. L. Travers says, ”but a spark of instructive fire” (p. 7).
And here I am today, looking at this passage, outlining a three-hour session whereupon I will be expected to impart my knowledge about counselling with hope and humour to a class of novice counsellors who hope to be psychologists.
And how shall I be: mysterious, inspiring, practical?
What if I say: “You have to start by being the person you are, and then find reliable tools you can use to structure your work with integrity?” They’ll be disappointed. They were expecting wisdom and a how-to manual.
What if I say: “I have this box of hope tools. I’ll show them to you. I have this box of humour tools. I’ll show them to you. But the thing I have learned over the years is that a person with integrity can’t effectively use a hope tool in a counselling session unless one person in the room can express some hope. Nor can a person of integrity use a humour tool in a counselling session unless there is somebody in the room who has a genuine compulsion to laugh.” They’ll be frustrated. “Integrity-shmegrity! They’ll whisper. “Who does she think she is?”
Or maybe I should just say: “I have this box of hope tools, and this box of humour tools. I love using them. I use them when it feels right to use them. I’ll show them to you. I want you to know they are available.”
Perhaps that is as much sense as I can make of the potential for using these tools with integrity given three hours in a roomful of novice counsellors.
(Quote by Ronna Jevne taken from page 272 of Jevne, R.F. (2005). Hope: The simplicity and complexity. In J. Eliott (Ed.). Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Hope (pp. 259-289). New York: Nova Science.)
Monday, January 26, 2009
Obama's remarkable accomplishment affirms the power of hope
Edmonton Journal
(2009-01-26)
Letters
Obama's remarkable accomplishment affirms the power of hope
What a blessing Barack Obama is to a hope scholar. His remarkable journey summarizes the findings of entire libraries of hope research. He has mastered
the art of creating hope by talking about hope. He has shown that you can talk about hope before you have a solution to everything. You can talk about
hope and reality in the same sentence and still have both.
Obama knows that hope is not the simple equivalent of wishing. It is a complex interaction of thinking, feeling, acting and relating. He knows that when
you pull hope from the past, you start having hope for the future. Then, in an incredible act of pulling all of this together, he capitalizes on the knowledge
that hopeful moments make people more proactive, more flexible, and more inclined to risk trying something new.
It is not always our first impulse to choose hope over fear. Obama has shown us how easily it can be done, and how good it feels to do it. He has chosen
to be openly hopeful for his country, to be the unapologetic target of cynics. Rather than mobilize its citizens with fear, he has given his country permission
to celebrate.
Hope is worth celebrating. In recent years, Edmonton and surrounding municipalities have proclaimed the first week of February to be Hope Week. The idea
came from the Hope Foundation of Alberta, a centre for hope studies.
Hope is a force that deserves respect. It enhances the work of counsellors and teachers and doctors and nurses and leaders. It changes the lives of patients
and students. It influences the actions of voters of all colours. Knowing more about the dynamics of hope helps us make better use of it. Talking about
hope creates hope.
During Hope Week we celebrate the difference that hope makes. We will go into Hope Week 2009 with the message that hope changes futures. We have an amazing
example of thinking, feeling, acting and relating to show us how it works.
Wendy Edey, director of counselling, Hope Foundation of Alberta, Edmonton
(2009-01-26)
Letters
Obama's remarkable accomplishment affirms the power of hope
What a blessing Barack Obama is to a hope scholar. His remarkable journey summarizes the findings of entire libraries of hope research. He has mastered
the art of creating hope by talking about hope. He has shown that you can talk about hope before you have a solution to everything. You can talk about
hope and reality in the same sentence and still have both.
Obama knows that hope is not the simple equivalent of wishing. It is a complex interaction of thinking, feeling, acting and relating. He knows that when
you pull hope from the past, you start having hope for the future. Then, in an incredible act of pulling all of this together, he capitalizes on the knowledge
that hopeful moments make people more proactive, more flexible, and more inclined to risk trying something new.
It is not always our first impulse to choose hope over fear. Obama has shown us how easily it can be done, and how good it feels to do it. He has chosen
to be openly hopeful for his country, to be the unapologetic target of cynics. Rather than mobilize its citizens with fear, he has given his country permission
to celebrate.
Hope is worth celebrating. In recent years, Edmonton and surrounding municipalities have proclaimed the first week of February to be Hope Week. The idea
came from the Hope Foundation of Alberta, a centre for hope studies.
Hope is a force that deserves respect. It enhances the work of counsellors and teachers and doctors and nurses and leaders. It changes the lives of patients
and students. It influences the actions of voters of all colours. Knowing more about the dynamics of hope helps us make better use of it. Talking about
hope creates hope.
During Hope Week we celebrate the difference that hope makes. We will go into Hope Week 2009 with the message that hope changes futures. We have an amazing
example of thinking, feeling, acting and relating to show us how it works.
Wendy Edey, director of counselling, Hope Foundation of Alberta, Edmonton
Friday, January 23, 2009
PREPARING FOR HOPE WEEK
We were standing in the Hope Foundation reception area, Joan and Lenora and me, just chatting about Hope Week. Oh yes, Hope Week 2009 will begin on February 2, and there will be media coverage. After all, the purpose of Hope Week is to celebrate the difference that hope makes.
Talking about hope in the media is always harder than it seems. I never fail to be surprised at how much harder it is to discuss hope with a reporter than with a street person, or somebody who’s just been diagnosed with ALS. Maybe it’s because most media interviewers start with the premise that hope is intangible. Maybe it’s because we’re a little bit cautious, not wanting to sound like snake oil salesmen. Whatever the reason, we find it pretty easy to get lost when we start promoting Hope Week in the media.
At Lenora’s suggestion, we were looking for one simple idea, one eloquent phrase to keep us focussed. We were saying, “Hope changes lives,” and then, “Hope can change a future,” and then Lenora said, “Hope changes futures.” We stopped at that, pausing to reflect, wondering where to go from there.
The front door of Hope House opened, and there was Bev Carlson, in for an appointment, not with any of us. Oh dear, we thought. This looks bad, three of us just standing around chatting. It’s kind of normal at Hope House, where we truly enjoy each other’s company and learn together on a daily basis. But we don’t like to get caught in the act. We prefer to leave the public with the impression that we are mysteriously wise.
I don’t know Bev well. But I do have a lot of respect for her ideas. She once wrote a passionate letter about hope, a letter full of kitchen table wisdom that made us cry. Later she gave permission to reprint part of the letter in our annual fund-raising solicitation. So when she offered a warm smile from lips half frozen by the wintry blast I said, “Bev, I am going to say a phrase, and then I want you to say whatever comes to mind. Okay?”
She laughed. She knows I am a counsellor. Perhaps she was thinking of the word association tricks movie psychiatrists use to reclaim beautiful hysterical women from the crazy-making effects of long-buried memories.
I took a moment to gather strength, to imagine myself wise and resplendent, a paragon of wisdom among all the experts they call on to fill the endless hours of stuffy airtime on Newsworld. Assuming my most authoritative professorial tone I boomed: “Hope changes futures.”
Bev didn’t miss a beat. “Of course it changes futures,” she cried. She didn’t add, “That’s obvious!” But it was apparent that she had been expecting something a little deeper from an educated woman such as myself.
“And how does it change futures?” I asked.
“It makes people not give up,” she replied. “It keeps them going.” Then she gave us a few dozen examples from her own experience just in case we needed convincing.
Why do so many of us tend to start with the idea that hope is intangible, too fragile to stand alongside the facts? It’s not as if we have to choose between hope and reality. We can put them in the same sentence and still have both. Bev faces challenges. But her hope was as solid at the end of her story as it was when she walked through the door. And when she moved on into the meeting in the library that had brought her across our path, she left us standing there at the reception desk, hoping that Hope Week coverage will be a little simpler this year, daring to believe that it can.
Talking about hope in the media is always harder than it seems. I never fail to be surprised at how much harder it is to discuss hope with a reporter than with a street person, or somebody who’s just been diagnosed with ALS. Maybe it’s because most media interviewers start with the premise that hope is intangible. Maybe it’s because we’re a little bit cautious, not wanting to sound like snake oil salesmen. Whatever the reason, we find it pretty easy to get lost when we start promoting Hope Week in the media.
At Lenora’s suggestion, we were looking for one simple idea, one eloquent phrase to keep us focussed. We were saying, “Hope changes lives,” and then, “Hope can change a future,” and then Lenora said, “Hope changes futures.” We stopped at that, pausing to reflect, wondering where to go from there.
The front door of Hope House opened, and there was Bev Carlson, in for an appointment, not with any of us. Oh dear, we thought. This looks bad, three of us just standing around chatting. It’s kind of normal at Hope House, where we truly enjoy each other’s company and learn together on a daily basis. But we don’t like to get caught in the act. We prefer to leave the public with the impression that we are mysteriously wise.
I don’t know Bev well. But I do have a lot of respect for her ideas. She once wrote a passionate letter about hope, a letter full of kitchen table wisdom that made us cry. Later she gave permission to reprint part of the letter in our annual fund-raising solicitation. So when she offered a warm smile from lips half frozen by the wintry blast I said, “Bev, I am going to say a phrase, and then I want you to say whatever comes to mind. Okay?”
She laughed. She knows I am a counsellor. Perhaps she was thinking of the word association tricks movie psychiatrists use to reclaim beautiful hysterical women from the crazy-making effects of long-buried memories.
I took a moment to gather strength, to imagine myself wise and resplendent, a paragon of wisdom among all the experts they call on to fill the endless hours of stuffy airtime on Newsworld. Assuming my most authoritative professorial tone I boomed: “Hope changes futures.”
Bev didn’t miss a beat. “Of course it changes futures,” she cried. She didn’t add, “That’s obvious!” But it was apparent that she had been expecting something a little deeper from an educated woman such as myself.
“And how does it change futures?” I asked.
“It makes people not give up,” she replied. “It keeps them going.” Then she gave us a few dozen examples from her own experience just in case we needed convincing.
Why do so many of us tend to start with the idea that hope is intangible, too fragile to stand alongside the facts? It’s not as if we have to choose between hope and reality. We can put them in the same sentence and still have both. Bev faces challenges. But her hope was as solid at the end of her story as it was when she walked through the door. And when she moved on into the meeting in the library that had brought her across our path, she left us standing there at the reception desk, hoping that Hope Week coverage will be a little simpler this year, daring to believe that it can.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
GOING YOUR WAY
"Tell me about a time," says hope professor Dr. Denise Larsen, "when something was going your way, only you didn't know it." It's a hope cue, an invitation to remember an incident and then to believe that something you don't know about might be going your way at this very moment.
In October of 2006 David and I vacationed in Nashville after attending a storytelling festival in Jonesborough. I recorded the following on this blog.
We were walking toward to Saturday morning farmer’s market in Nashville Tennessee when a loud booming voice drew our attention. It’s Abraham Lincoln,”
said my husband. And sure enough, there was Abe, addressing an audience seated on folding chairs in the sun.
What a man he is! Dead a hundred and fifty years and still riveting audiences, still making people stop their journey and sit down to listen!
And what was he doing there? Well, defending himself I would say. After all, he was speaking to a Tennessee audience. Tennessee was not on his side
of the American Civil war. And he was also spreading hope, inspiring it in the adults, enacting it with the children.
He told us how firmly he believed that the slaves must be freed, how painful it was to have so many of his wife’s relatives fighting for the south. He
got out his most famous speech, the Gettysburg Address, and delivered it with such trembling passion that I had to search for a tissue because tears came
to the eyes of this previously disinterested Canadian tourist.
Suddenly he changed pace and began to enact a message of hope to the children in the audience. First, he encouraged them to stay in school so that they
might benefit from the best America has to offer. Then he drew them from the audience. To Emily he said: Ï hope that, in your lifetime, we will have
the first female president.” To Jim he said: Ï hope that in your lifetime we will elect the first African-American president.” He also wants an American-Indian
president, but he thinks that might take one more generation.
When he had finished, we left our chairs and resumed our stroll among the vegetables. But his message stayed with us, grounded in the past, delivered
in the present, showing a hopeful way for the future.
I will never forget that sunny Saturday, first because it left me hopeful, and second, because our imaginary abe was talking theoretically, hedging his bets. He was thinking about a far-off future. He was choosing the youngest people in the crowd and promising a black president or a female president some time in their lives. There was no mention that it could happen in just two years. Who knew? Who would have dared to publicly predict such a thing?
Sometimes things are going your way, only you don't know it.
In October of 2006 David and I vacationed in Nashville after attending a storytelling festival in Jonesborough. I recorded the following on this blog.
We were walking toward to Saturday morning farmer’s market in Nashville Tennessee when a loud booming voice drew our attention. It’s Abraham Lincoln,”
said my husband. And sure enough, there was Abe, addressing an audience seated on folding chairs in the sun.
What a man he is! Dead a hundred and fifty years and still riveting audiences, still making people stop their journey and sit down to listen!
And what was he doing there? Well, defending himself I would say. After all, he was speaking to a Tennessee audience. Tennessee was not on his side
of the American Civil war. And he was also spreading hope, inspiring it in the adults, enacting it with the children.
He told us how firmly he believed that the slaves must be freed, how painful it was to have so many of his wife’s relatives fighting for the south. He
got out his most famous speech, the Gettysburg Address, and delivered it with such trembling passion that I had to search for a tissue because tears came
to the eyes of this previously disinterested Canadian tourist.
Suddenly he changed pace and began to enact a message of hope to the children in the audience. First, he encouraged them to stay in school so that they
might benefit from the best America has to offer. Then he drew them from the audience. To Emily he said: Ï hope that, in your lifetime, we will have
the first female president.” To Jim he said: Ï hope that in your lifetime we will elect the first African-American president.” He also wants an American-Indian
president, but he thinks that might take one more generation.
When he had finished, we left our chairs and resumed our stroll among the vegetables. But his message stayed with us, grounded in the past, delivered
in the present, showing a hopeful way for the future.
I will never forget that sunny Saturday, first because it left me hopeful, and second, because our imaginary abe was talking theoretically, hedging his bets. He was thinking about a far-off future. He was choosing the youngest people in the crowd and promising a black president or a female president some time in their lives. There was no mention that it could happen in just two years. Who knew? Who would have dared to publicly predict such a thing?
Sometimes things are going your way, only you don't know it.
Friday, January 16, 2009
WISHING AND HOPING AND LEADERSHIP
So here I am, a staunch and loyal Canadian, doing something I never dreamed I would do, wishing something I could not have imagined wishing.
What am I doing? I am preparing exerpts from Obama’s speeches to present in a university class called Hope And The Helping Relationship. I will be using them to illustrate the points made in Eliott and Olver’s study of the discursive properties of hope derived from cancer patients’ speech. It seems an odd combination, I know, but the class will be taking place on inauguration day, and I can’t say I have ever seen a better example of the emotional, behavioural, relational and cognitive momentum that can be achieved through using a variety of word forms to make hope explicit. Hope is an adjective describing a noun: “Do we participate in a politics of cynicism or do we participate in a politics of Hope?” Hope is a noun. “It’s the hope of slaves sitting around a fire singing freedom songs; the hope of immigrants setting out for distant shores; the hope of a young naval lieutenant bravely patrolling the Mekong Delta; the hope of a millworker’s son who dares to defy the odds; the hope of a skinny kid with a funny name who believes that America has a place for him, too.” Hope is presented as the emotion of hopefulness: “if you feel the same energy that I do, if you feel the same urgency that I do, if you feel the same passion that I do, if you feel the
same hopefulness that I do -- if we do what we must do, then I have no doubt that all across the country, from Florida to Oregon, from Washington to Maine,
the people will rise …” Hope is a verb: “This is our time -- to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth -- that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with
cynicism and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: yes, we can.”
Obama calls upon the temporal dimension of hope through stories stretching back hundreds of years. He enables the contextual dimension by placing his oratory firmly in the realm of current American politics. If you count out the charitable fund-raising campaigns and the pharmaceutical advertisements, it would be difficult to find anyone Who has ever made better use of hope. It’s the inspirational fire. It’s the multidimensional approach to the construct. It’s the perfect educational storm!
And what am I wishing? Well, as a staunch Canadian, it pains me to say it. This is atime of uncertainty. This is a time where the language of the leadership of my own country is the language of division, not the language of coming together. So here I am, wishing something I never imagined wishing. I’m wishing that I were an American, and only hoping to be a proud Canadian.
Mentioning hope, I have often heard it said that it is important to be realistic. This I do not dispute. But it seems to me that if you are faced with the need to be hopeful and realistic, and the challenge of placing one before the other, you can count on having them both if you start with hopefulness. For realism will follow hopefulness. Whether hopefulness will follow if you start with realism is open to question.
What am I doing? I am preparing exerpts from Obama’s speeches to present in a university class called Hope And The Helping Relationship. I will be using them to illustrate the points made in Eliott and Olver’s study of the discursive properties of hope derived from cancer patients’ speech. It seems an odd combination, I know, but the class will be taking place on inauguration day, and I can’t say I have ever seen a better example of the emotional, behavioural, relational and cognitive momentum that can be achieved through using a variety of word forms to make hope explicit. Hope is an adjective describing a noun: “Do we participate in a politics of cynicism or do we participate in a politics of Hope?” Hope is a noun. “It’s the hope of slaves sitting around a fire singing freedom songs; the hope of immigrants setting out for distant shores; the hope of a young naval lieutenant bravely patrolling the Mekong Delta; the hope of a millworker’s son who dares to defy the odds; the hope of a skinny kid with a funny name who believes that America has a place for him, too.” Hope is presented as the emotion of hopefulness: “if you feel the same energy that I do, if you feel the same urgency that I do, if you feel the same passion that I do, if you feel the
same hopefulness that I do -- if we do what we must do, then I have no doubt that all across the country, from Florida to Oregon, from Washington to Maine,
the people will rise …” Hope is a verb: “This is our time -- to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth -- that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with
cynicism and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: yes, we can.”
Obama calls upon the temporal dimension of hope through stories stretching back hundreds of years. He enables the contextual dimension by placing his oratory firmly in the realm of current American politics. If you count out the charitable fund-raising campaigns and the pharmaceutical advertisements, it would be difficult to find anyone Who has ever made better use of hope. It’s the inspirational fire. It’s the multidimensional approach to the construct. It’s the perfect educational storm!
And what am I wishing? Well, as a staunch Canadian, it pains me to say it. This is atime of uncertainty. This is a time where the language of the leadership of my own country is the language of division, not the language of coming together. So here I am, wishing something I never imagined wishing. I’m wishing that I were an American, and only hoping to be a proud Canadian.
Mentioning hope, I have often heard it said that it is important to be realistic. This I do not dispute. But it seems to me that if you are faced with the need to be hopeful and realistic, and the challenge of placing one before the other, you can count on having them both if you start with hopefulness. For realism will follow hopefulness. Whether hopefulness will follow if you start with realism is open to question.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE
Today’s mail brings a note from Elizabeth Ellis, one of my very favourite storytellers.
I thought you might like to know that I am
a. doing a conference call for the NSN's Healing Story Alliance tonight and
b. doing a keynote for the Timpanogos Storytelling Conference in Utah in February.
The topic for both of these things is HOPE: Storytelling in Economic Hard Times.
In each I am going to talk about the importance of the artist in helping a community maintain Hope and how essential it is to think about that responsibility
in these financial hard times. Gonna ask folks to look for the blessing in our current situation and remind them that many of their listeners are grieving
people.”
Now there is nothing I would rather do than hear a presentation by Elizabeth ellis. My enthusiasm wouldn’t be dampened, even if it was a presentation about taking responsibility and being careful. Regrettably, I won’t hear this presentation, but it has got me thinking.
So here we go now, into a time of great uncertainty where so many people fear that the comfortable future they envisioned will be swept away by financial melt down.
And here I go now remembering so many conversations from my youth and young adulthood, proudly told stories By people who somehow lived
Through the Great depression.
And I wonder if the people who are grieving in 2009 would fine comfort in the stories about how people made it through the Great Depression.
I thought you might like to know that I am
a. doing a conference call for the NSN's Healing Story Alliance tonight and
b. doing a keynote for the Timpanogos Storytelling Conference in Utah in February.
The topic for both of these things is HOPE: Storytelling in Economic Hard Times.
In each I am going to talk about the importance of the artist in helping a community maintain Hope and how essential it is to think about that responsibility
in these financial hard times. Gonna ask folks to look for the blessing in our current situation and remind them that many of their listeners are grieving
people.”
Now there is nothing I would rather do than hear a presentation by Elizabeth ellis. My enthusiasm wouldn’t be dampened, even if it was a presentation about taking responsibility and being careful. Regrettably, I won’t hear this presentation, but it has got me thinking.
So here we go now, into a time of great uncertainty where so many people fear that the comfortable future they envisioned will be swept away by financial melt down.
And here I go now remembering so many conversations from my youth and young adulthood, proudly told stories By people who somehow lived
Through the Great depression.
And I wonder if the people who are grieving in 2009 would fine comfort in the stories about how people made it through the Great Depression.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
ARRANGING THE CHAIRS
“Supposing,” I say to some university students whose opinion I value, “supposing you were an occasional professor teaching a hope class, a fairly small class in a fairly large classroom. And supposing you wanted the students to feel comfortable, and to get to know each other quite soon, and to talk to each other rather than always to you. Now supposing that this classroom is full of old-fashioned student desks, not tables and chairs. Would you move the desks into a semi-circle? “
“No,” say the students.
This is not the answer I had hoped to hear. I ask them: Are you sure?” They’re sure. They’ve got me on a technicality. They remind me that I said comfortable, after all.
It is the first day of class now, and I arrive early, about the time a nervous professor ought to arrive. Time enough, I think, to rearrange the furniture if I decide to do it, even though I have already decided not to do it, because I shouldn’t have asked for advice if I wasn’t willing to hear it. Yet this is a very large classroom, and I really don’t want students sitting in the corners at the back of a room in rows.
Like I said, I arrive early. Still, I have not arrived early enough. Two people are already in the room, and yes, they are registered in my class, and yes, they are sitting just where the most pessimistic among us would expect to find them, at the back of a classroom organized in rows.
"It’s a fairly small class,” I say. ”We’ll be talking quite a lot to each other. How do you think we ought to arrange the furniture?”
"In a semicircle,” says one, and then, as I take a step to pull a desk aside, “Can we help you move the desks?”
And that’s how the desks got to be in a semi-circle. Some things turn out better than expected.
“No,” say the students.
This is not the answer I had hoped to hear. I ask them: Are you sure?” They’re sure. They’ve got me on a technicality. They remind me that I said comfortable, after all.
It is the first day of class now, and I arrive early, about the time a nervous professor ought to arrive. Time enough, I think, to rearrange the furniture if I decide to do it, even though I have already decided not to do it, because I shouldn’t have asked for advice if I wasn’t willing to hear it. Yet this is a very large classroom, and I really don’t want students sitting in the corners at the back of a room in rows.
Like I said, I arrive early. Still, I have not arrived early enough. Two people are already in the room, and yes, they are registered in my class, and yes, they are sitting just where the most pessimistic among us would expect to find them, at the back of a classroom organized in rows.
"It’s a fairly small class,” I say. ”We’ll be talking quite a lot to each other. How do you think we ought to arrange the furniture?”
"In a semicircle,” says one, and then, as I take a step to pull a desk aside, “Can we help you move the desks?”
And that’s how the desks got to be in a semi-circle. Some things turn out better than expected.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
NOT TO MISS A MOMENT
Yesterday, when we were playing games after eating, discussing how many layers we would need to wear when taking Pirate for a walk, Margaret said she hated to go to bed because sleeping would end the Christmas holidays more quickly. Others might have thought this strange. I understood it completely. Christmas holidays are a friend of mine.
My love affair with Christmas holidays started long ago, perhaps when I started school, maybe even before that. And throughout my working career it has been my great privilege to be allowed time off around Christmas and New Year’s. My deepest sympathies extend to people who cannot choose to have time off. For them I would gladly permit the closure of stores, and I’d wish for wellness to cut the demands on hospital staff, and I’d wish for strong water and power lines to give utility workers the pleasures I’ve known.
Not everyone loves Christmas holidays the way I do. Others who have the choice say it’s good to work around Christmas and New Year’s. You can get a lot done, they say, with so few people in the office and the phone not driving you crazy. You can get more value for your days, they say, because the powers that be are apt to close the place down early. The logical side of me understands these principles completely. Still there’s nothing logical about my love for Christmas holidays. The experience is unabashedly emotional. So emotional is it that, even though I love working, I start looking forward to Christmas holidays—well, some time in October at the latest.
It’s the mornings I look forward to, dark mornings when the outside lights come on at 6:00 with the automatic timer, brightening our bedroom, and I hear Pirate barking at the newspaper delivery, then turn over to pretend it isn’t really morning yet.
It’s the afternoons I look forward to, walking Pirate in the sunshine. Can it really be –30? Feels like –28, or maybe even –25. It’s the evenings I look forward to, night after night of socializing with family and friends until I think I just cannot stand one more dinner, and then there is yet another dinner. There’s the presents on Christmas morning, and whatever happens New Year’s Eve, and the Boxing Day leftovers. I love it all.
Don’t misunderstand me. Christmas holidays are not perfect, in fact they are far from it. But this is the season when, despite the war and tragedy that annually occupies the newscasts, things seem somehow fixable. There is family tension, always family tension, but there is also good will to mitigate the worst of it. There’s over-eating, so much over-eating, and there are good intentions for weight losing in the new year. There is game-playing, all kinds of games, with a lot of game-losing to help build character. There is cold weather, usually cold weather anyway, and doesn’t that promise to stop the pine beetle from reproducing?
Oh I love Christmas holidays! I’ve tried to explain how much I love them, but Margaret said it better than I ever have. Is it any wonder that Margaret and I just want to stay up, to savour every last hour, even though we really like to work?
My love affair with Christmas holidays started long ago, perhaps when I started school, maybe even before that. And throughout my working career it has been my great privilege to be allowed time off around Christmas and New Year’s. My deepest sympathies extend to people who cannot choose to have time off. For them I would gladly permit the closure of stores, and I’d wish for wellness to cut the demands on hospital staff, and I’d wish for strong water and power lines to give utility workers the pleasures I’ve known.
Not everyone loves Christmas holidays the way I do. Others who have the choice say it’s good to work around Christmas and New Year’s. You can get a lot done, they say, with so few people in the office and the phone not driving you crazy. You can get more value for your days, they say, because the powers that be are apt to close the place down early. The logical side of me understands these principles completely. Still there’s nothing logical about my love for Christmas holidays. The experience is unabashedly emotional. So emotional is it that, even though I love working, I start looking forward to Christmas holidays—well, some time in October at the latest.
It’s the mornings I look forward to, dark mornings when the outside lights come on at 6:00 with the automatic timer, brightening our bedroom, and I hear Pirate barking at the newspaper delivery, then turn over to pretend it isn’t really morning yet.
It’s the afternoons I look forward to, walking Pirate in the sunshine. Can it really be –30? Feels like –28, or maybe even –25. It’s the evenings I look forward to, night after night of socializing with family and friends until I think I just cannot stand one more dinner, and then there is yet another dinner. There’s the presents on Christmas morning, and whatever happens New Year’s Eve, and the Boxing Day leftovers. I love it all.
Don’t misunderstand me. Christmas holidays are not perfect, in fact they are far from it. But this is the season when, despite the war and tragedy that annually occupies the newscasts, things seem somehow fixable. There is family tension, always family tension, but there is also good will to mitigate the worst of it. There’s over-eating, so much over-eating, and there are good intentions for weight losing in the new year. There is game-playing, all kinds of games, with a lot of game-losing to help build character. There is cold weather, usually cold weather anyway, and doesn’t that promise to stop the pine beetle from reproducing?
Oh I love Christmas holidays! I’ve tried to explain how much I love them, but Margaret said it better than I ever have. Is it any wonder that Margaret and I just want to stay up, to savour every last hour, even though we really like to work?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
TIME MANAGEMENT
I've known for several days now that, due to adjustments demanded to syncronize the atomic clock, experts plan to add an extra second to this day before it ends. What I can't figure out is how to use the bonus time.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
WHEN I RETIRE
When I retire
My life will be
Much like it is
In the Christmas holidays.
Except that..
There won’t be a mountain of chocolate in the cupboard
Or turkey and trifle in the fridge
Or company coming every second day,
And dinners with others on other days,
Or New Year’s eve to consider,
Or a pile of new clothes to try on
And new records to listen to every day.
Yes, when I retire
My life will be
Just like it is
In the Christmas holidays.
My life will be
Much like it is
In the Christmas holidays.
Except that..
There won’t be a mountain of chocolate in the cupboard
Or turkey and trifle in the fridge
Or company coming every second day,
And dinners with others on other days,
Or New Year’s eve to consider,
Or a pile of new clothes to try on
And new records to listen to every day.
Yes, when I retire
My life will be
Just like it is
In the Christmas holidays.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
GRANNY'S TRIFLE
Today we are eating leftover trifle. We didn’t really need to make trifle at all, given the large number of sweet things that were already here. But Christmas is the only time when we ever have trifle. So I made it anyway. Trifle is layered, like my life. It is something I make with my heart.
It is impossible for me to make trifle without remembering Granny Cookson. So far as I can recollect, my trifle is fairly similar to hers. Granny always made trifle at Christmas. In those days I ate it happily without stopping to consider its ingredients. In fact, I thought all trifle was Granny’s trifle until I met David and heard that his idea of trifle was a layered dessert containing Jell-O.
“Jell-O!” exclaimed my mother, when I told her what I had discovered. “Granny’s trifle doesn’t have Jell-O in it.” And that was only the beginning of my trifle education. One year I proudly carried a trifle to the Mill Woods United Church Choir Christmas potluck party. My trifle was Granny’s trifle. I was the first to arrive. There followed in my footsteps six other choir members bearing six bowls of trifle. Each of them was different from all the others. Each of them was made with layers of cake and other things, but none of them was granny’s trifle.
To eat a dish of Granny’s trifle is to taste all my childhood Christmases, to be once again warmed in the holiday good nature of my father’s family. Christmas was at granny’s house. We ate the meal and washed the dishes. We played board games and snickered at the men snoring in the living room. We played hide-and-seek in Granny’s closets, and listened to the Queen’s Christmas address. Then we ate a late-night snack and I cried because we had to go home. Christmas was the day that should have lasted forever.
Mom’s family did not gather at Christmas. So even though Granny was not my mom’s mother, it seemed natural that Mom should take up the cause of recreating Granny’s trifle when Granny stopped hosting large Christmas dinners. David and I would arrive at Mom’s a day early to help prepare the feast. The trifle would already be in progress. Mom would have the cake made and the raspberries thawing. We would make the custard, toast the nuts and whip the cream. To make a bowl of Granny’s trifle is to stand in Mom’s kitchen, stirring the custard and talking to Mom. "Don't leave yet," she'd say on Boxing day. "We haven't finished the trifle."
Nowadays, the job of trifle making has fallen to David and me. David’s family was never much committed to the Jell-O layered dessert, so Granny’s trifle it is. No matter that its assembly creates a pile of dishes. The process begins in warmest August. First we eat the ripening raspberries hot off the bushes, then we bring them in for breakfast. Finally, when there are too many for breakfast, we freeze the first bag. “That’s the trifle,” I say. After that I forget all about Christmas and go back to appreciating summer.
A few days before Christmas is the time to think about the cake. Will it be half an Angel Food, or a yellow cake mix, or a recipe for jellyroll? Usually it’s the recipe for jellyroll. I bake it, tear it into little pieces and place a layer in the bottom of the straight-sided berry bowl I got as a wedding gift. (It came with six little bowls, but they didn’t fit well in the dishwasher, so the ones that have survived now serve the dog his daily meal.)
On Christmas Eve morning it’s time to thaw the raspberries. Two cups of berries go nicely atop the cake in the berry bowl. Then, if you are only making one bowl, which is something we rarely have the good sense to do, you make one recipe of custard using the directions on the can of Byrd’s Custard Powder. The hardest part of the operation is waiting for the custard to cool before you pour it over the berries. I don’t know precisely why you have to wait for it to cool. Mom said so and she’s gone, so I can’t ask her. I suspect that if you poured it hot it might cook the berries and soak right into the cake instead of hovering above the berries in a tasteful layer. While you wait you can pass some time toasting a few slivered almonds to sprinkle after you pour the custard.
Some people might add a layer of whipped cream, but we don’t. Instead, we always whip the cream during a very chaotic time on Christmas morning and keep it in a separate bowl. I don’t know why we do it this way. That’s how Mom did it. Some day we might serve trifle to somebody who doesn’t want to eat it with sweetened whipped cream and that person will definitely be grateful.
While we clear the turkey from the table we start begging people to eat the trifle. “Please eat it so we won’t have so much left over!” Then we force them to work up a new appetite playing games before serving trifle again. Eventually we have to let them go home, leaving us with the leftover trifle. Then we try to appreciate it for as many days as it takes to finish. After all, we won’t make it again for at least another year.
It is impossible for me to make trifle without remembering Granny Cookson. So far as I can recollect, my trifle is fairly similar to hers. Granny always made trifle at Christmas. In those days I ate it happily without stopping to consider its ingredients. In fact, I thought all trifle was Granny’s trifle until I met David and heard that his idea of trifle was a layered dessert containing Jell-O.
“Jell-O!” exclaimed my mother, when I told her what I had discovered. “Granny’s trifle doesn’t have Jell-O in it.” And that was only the beginning of my trifle education. One year I proudly carried a trifle to the Mill Woods United Church Choir Christmas potluck party. My trifle was Granny’s trifle. I was the first to arrive. There followed in my footsteps six other choir members bearing six bowls of trifle. Each of them was different from all the others. Each of them was made with layers of cake and other things, but none of them was granny’s trifle.
To eat a dish of Granny’s trifle is to taste all my childhood Christmases, to be once again warmed in the holiday good nature of my father’s family. Christmas was at granny’s house. We ate the meal and washed the dishes. We played board games and snickered at the men snoring in the living room. We played hide-and-seek in Granny’s closets, and listened to the Queen’s Christmas address. Then we ate a late-night snack and I cried because we had to go home. Christmas was the day that should have lasted forever.
Mom’s family did not gather at Christmas. So even though Granny was not my mom’s mother, it seemed natural that Mom should take up the cause of recreating Granny’s trifle when Granny stopped hosting large Christmas dinners. David and I would arrive at Mom’s a day early to help prepare the feast. The trifle would already be in progress. Mom would have the cake made and the raspberries thawing. We would make the custard, toast the nuts and whip the cream. To make a bowl of Granny’s trifle is to stand in Mom’s kitchen, stirring the custard and talking to Mom. "Don't leave yet," she'd say on Boxing day. "We haven't finished the trifle."
Nowadays, the job of trifle making has fallen to David and me. David’s family was never much committed to the Jell-O layered dessert, so Granny’s trifle it is. No matter that its assembly creates a pile of dishes. The process begins in warmest August. First we eat the ripening raspberries hot off the bushes, then we bring them in for breakfast. Finally, when there are too many for breakfast, we freeze the first bag. “That’s the trifle,” I say. After that I forget all about Christmas and go back to appreciating summer.
A few days before Christmas is the time to think about the cake. Will it be half an Angel Food, or a yellow cake mix, or a recipe for jellyroll? Usually it’s the recipe for jellyroll. I bake it, tear it into little pieces and place a layer in the bottom of the straight-sided berry bowl I got as a wedding gift. (It came with six little bowls, but they didn’t fit well in the dishwasher, so the ones that have survived now serve the dog his daily meal.)
On Christmas Eve morning it’s time to thaw the raspberries. Two cups of berries go nicely atop the cake in the berry bowl. Then, if you are only making one bowl, which is something we rarely have the good sense to do, you make one recipe of custard using the directions on the can of Byrd’s Custard Powder. The hardest part of the operation is waiting for the custard to cool before you pour it over the berries. I don’t know precisely why you have to wait for it to cool. Mom said so and she’s gone, so I can’t ask her. I suspect that if you poured it hot it might cook the berries and soak right into the cake instead of hovering above the berries in a tasteful layer. While you wait you can pass some time toasting a few slivered almonds to sprinkle after you pour the custard.
Some people might add a layer of whipped cream, but we don’t. Instead, we always whip the cream during a very chaotic time on Christmas morning and keep it in a separate bowl. I don’t know why we do it this way. That’s how Mom did it. Some day we might serve trifle to somebody who doesn’t want to eat it with sweetened whipped cream and that person will definitely be grateful.
While we clear the turkey from the table we start begging people to eat the trifle. “Please eat it so we won’t have so much left over!” Then we force them to work up a new appetite playing games before serving trifle again. Eventually we have to let them go home, leaving us with the leftover trifle. Then we try to appreciate it for as many days as it takes to finish. After all, we won’t make it again for at least another year.
Friday, December 26, 2008
A COMPARATIVE STUDY OF CHRISTMAS MEMORY
From A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas, (1914-1953) first read publicly in 1952, published posthumously in 1955
“One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes
hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days
and twelve nights when I was six.”
From the Cookson/Martin/Edey Christmas at our house yesterday
“Okay, we need to finish up this food so we’ll have room on the table for the plum pudding, caramel sauce, trifle, whipped cream, and seven trays of Christmas baking. Now, will you have turkey (basted by david with melted butter and red wine like they suggested on CBC)? Cranberry sauce? Potatoes and gravy? Turnips (We made them for Andrew.) Andrew—any turnips? Corn festively mixed with green and red pepper? Brown or white bun? How about Donna’s fruit salad? Layered salad with peas? Oh, and here’s the pickle tray and the olives! Now Donna, we need you to eat more. What will you have, donna?”
“Oh, more stuffing please.”
“Okay, I’ll get you some. Now where is it? Pass the stuffing please. Donna wants more stuffing. Hey down there, could you pass the stuffing up here? Where is the stuffing anyway?”
“Are you sure we had stuffing?”
“Well, yes, I think we had stuffing. We did have stuffing didn’t we?”
“Sure we had stuffing.”
“Yes, we had stuffing.”
“Where can it have gone?”
“Maybe it’s still in the oven.”
“Can’t be. We already had it and I only made one big bowl.”
“Maybe somebody should check the oven.”
“Oh, here it is, in the oven. Untouched. Now let’s have the stuffing course before we get to dessert!”
Summary: On Christmas Day 2008 only half the diners remembered having stuffing. People are even more forgetful than they used to be.
“One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes
hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days
and twelve nights when I was six.”
From the Cookson/Martin/Edey Christmas at our house yesterday
“Okay, we need to finish up this food so we’ll have room on the table for the plum pudding, caramel sauce, trifle, whipped cream, and seven trays of Christmas baking. Now, will you have turkey (basted by david with melted butter and red wine like they suggested on CBC)? Cranberry sauce? Potatoes and gravy? Turnips (We made them for Andrew.) Andrew—any turnips? Corn festively mixed with green and red pepper? Brown or white bun? How about Donna’s fruit salad? Layered salad with peas? Oh, and here’s the pickle tray and the olives! Now Donna, we need you to eat more. What will you have, donna?”
“Oh, more stuffing please.”
“Okay, I’ll get you some. Now where is it? Pass the stuffing please. Donna wants more stuffing. Hey down there, could you pass the stuffing up here? Where is the stuffing anyway?”
“Are you sure we had stuffing?”
“Well, yes, I think we had stuffing. We did have stuffing didn’t we?”
“Sure we had stuffing.”
“Yes, we had stuffing.”
“Where can it have gone?”
“Maybe it’s still in the oven.”
“Can’t be. We already had it and I only made one big bowl.”
“Maybe somebody should check the oven.”
“Oh, here it is, in the oven. Untouched. Now let’s have the stuffing course before we get to dessert!”
Summary: On Christmas Day 2008 only half the diners remembered having stuffing. People are even more forgetful than they used to be.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
BANANA DISCOVERY
Here is some information you may, or may not have. If you take a banana, (it has to be fairly ripe, though not squishy) peel it, then pinch gently on one end, the banana will divide lengthwise into three long, curving, beautiful banana sticks. Of course, I am aware that you probably already knew this. Everybody seems to have known it, except, that is, for me. And my question is: Why wasn’t I told?
Is it because I am not curious enough? Surely I could not have been expected to find this out on my own! That would have required playing with my food, an activity frowned upon by the adults of my childhood.
Or was I deliberately left out of the loop? This seems unlikely. Try as I might, I certainly cannot think of any reason why the truth should have been hidden from me. It’s not as if I have a history of cruelty to bananas.
The truth slipped into my sphere of awareness. It came so softly, so unobtrusively that I might have missed it had I been daydreaming. I first heard rumblings of it while having lunch with my colleagues. “What did you say?” I queried, rousing myself from visions of an afternoon nap. “A banana will divide lengthwise into perfect thirds? Describe to me the exact process.” I assumed they were pulling my leg (they are prone to antics like that). But they described a process, and insisted it could work. . I’ll confess it. I didn’t believe them. Trouble is, they’ve been right in the past.
I recalled how the friend of one of my friends convinced my friend that you could boil water in a paper bag over an open fire. He said it wasn’t easy. You had to start with a very hot fire so the water could boil quickly. It was, he said, a race against time. I recall how vehemently I argued. I said the bag would catch fire. Then I reasoned that the water would soak right through it. He praised my deductive skills (I am a sucker for flattery). Then he said that explained why you had to hurry. It is just possible that I believed him for a moment. Tricksters are everywhere. My friend believed him more than I did. I’ve mentioned it to a lot of people over the years. None of them believe it.
But the banana thing? Well, I just couldn’t tell for sure. And so, on the off chance that there might have been some substance to it, I asked David a tentative question about the nature of bananas. He answered me calmly. He said you could split a banana in three by squeezing its tip. He offered to show me. I didn’t know what to think when the experiment did not work on my breakfast banana. He said maybe the banana had to be riper.
Then, yesterday, all by myself, I peeled a banana and deftly but gently pinched its tip. Voila! Three long, perfect, curving banana sticks. I didn’t know what to do. I thought of bronzing them. I almost called my friend in Vancouver to ask her if she believed a banana would split in thirds if you gently squeezed its tip. Then I remembered that it was only 5:30 AM in Vancouver, so I gazed at them in a prolonged rhapsody of wonder. . They were so exquisite I could hardly eat them, though I will say that they formed a lovely pattern on my toast.
Now I am wondering what other amazing discoveries await me. This morning I spoke to a green pepper in the vegetable compartment of the fridge. “What secrets have you been keeping from me?” I asked. I tapped its top, massaged its middle. I bonked its bottom. Nothing happened, no change I could determine at the time, anyway. But it could be that the results have a delayed effect. Science is like that. It’s a lot easier to interpret a result once you know what result you are expecting. And then again, it may be that I aimed my inquiry at the wrong source. I didn’t hear about the banana miracle from a banana.
If there’s an extra spring in my step this morning it is because a window of possibility has opened for me. A lot of things are possible. I can’t tell you what they are. Nobody has told me yet. Well, maybe people have been telling me and I haven’t believed them. I didn’t actually try the thing with the paper bag. I don’t know if I will. Opportunity may be limited. I am hardly ever left all alone with a paper bag, a cup of water and a very hot open fire.
This I can say for sure. In 2009 I will be keeping my ears open for unsolicited tips on the nature of green peppers, or red peppers, or any other facts that have been kept from me all these years.
Is it because I am not curious enough? Surely I could not have been expected to find this out on my own! That would have required playing with my food, an activity frowned upon by the adults of my childhood.
Or was I deliberately left out of the loop? This seems unlikely. Try as I might, I certainly cannot think of any reason why the truth should have been hidden from me. It’s not as if I have a history of cruelty to bananas.
The truth slipped into my sphere of awareness. It came so softly, so unobtrusively that I might have missed it had I been daydreaming. I first heard rumblings of it while having lunch with my colleagues. “What did you say?” I queried, rousing myself from visions of an afternoon nap. “A banana will divide lengthwise into perfect thirds? Describe to me the exact process.” I assumed they were pulling my leg (they are prone to antics like that). But they described a process, and insisted it could work. . I’ll confess it. I didn’t believe them. Trouble is, they’ve been right in the past.
I recalled how the friend of one of my friends convinced my friend that you could boil water in a paper bag over an open fire. He said it wasn’t easy. You had to start with a very hot fire so the water could boil quickly. It was, he said, a race against time. I recall how vehemently I argued. I said the bag would catch fire. Then I reasoned that the water would soak right through it. He praised my deductive skills (I am a sucker for flattery). Then he said that explained why you had to hurry. It is just possible that I believed him for a moment. Tricksters are everywhere. My friend believed him more than I did. I’ve mentioned it to a lot of people over the years. None of them believe it.
But the banana thing? Well, I just couldn’t tell for sure. And so, on the off chance that there might have been some substance to it, I asked David a tentative question about the nature of bananas. He answered me calmly. He said you could split a banana in three by squeezing its tip. He offered to show me. I didn’t know what to think when the experiment did not work on my breakfast banana. He said maybe the banana had to be riper.
Then, yesterday, all by myself, I peeled a banana and deftly but gently pinched its tip. Voila! Three long, perfect, curving banana sticks. I didn’t know what to do. I thought of bronzing them. I almost called my friend in Vancouver to ask her if she believed a banana would split in thirds if you gently squeezed its tip. Then I remembered that it was only 5:30 AM in Vancouver, so I gazed at them in a prolonged rhapsody of wonder. . They were so exquisite I could hardly eat them, though I will say that they formed a lovely pattern on my toast.
Now I am wondering what other amazing discoveries await me. This morning I spoke to a green pepper in the vegetable compartment of the fridge. “What secrets have you been keeping from me?” I asked. I tapped its top, massaged its middle. I bonked its bottom. Nothing happened, no change I could determine at the time, anyway. But it could be that the results have a delayed effect. Science is like that. It’s a lot easier to interpret a result once you know what result you are expecting. And then again, it may be that I aimed my inquiry at the wrong source. I didn’t hear about the banana miracle from a banana.
If there’s an extra spring in my step this morning it is because a window of possibility has opened for me. A lot of things are possible. I can’t tell you what they are. Nobody has told me yet. Well, maybe people have been telling me and I haven’t believed them. I didn’t actually try the thing with the paper bag. I don’t know if I will. Opportunity may be limited. I am hardly ever left all alone with a paper bag, a cup of water and a very hot open fire.
This I can say for sure. In 2009 I will be keeping my ears open for unsolicited tips on the nature of green peppers, or red peppers, or any other facts that have been kept from me all these years.
Monday, December 22, 2008
ANNIVERSARY
It’s December 22, deep, deep winter. But it’s not always cold on December 22. Thirty-five years ago today the sun shone brightly. It melted the snow and turned the streets to mud. I don’t need a weather calendar to confirm this statistic for me. It was hot that day. There was mud on my wedding dress to prove it. And later in the evening, when the ice fog dropped low over the countryside, turning the roads to glass, the family chimed: “We told you so!” But we didn’t care what they said. We were newly-weds dining on deluxe burgers and fries in our going-away clothes at the Esso Voyageur in Camrose, the only place open at 3:00 AM. Later, we’d be settling down in the cozy comfort of the Camrose Motel.
On future anniversaries, I would look at our wedding day as a curiosity, witnessed proof of the only real rebellion I ever had. “Get married next summer,” my mother said. She had every right to say it, seeing as how she was already making a wedding dress for my sister’s wedding on the Thanksgiving weekend. “Wait for next summer,” said David’s mother. She had every right to say it, seeing as how she would be travelling two hours east for the wedding, most of the Edey relatives would be travelling hundreds of miles from the Peace River country in northern Alberta.
But I, family pleaser extraordinaire, was mysteriously deaf to their pleas. For I, to my great surprise, had come upon a man I wanted to marry. He also wanted to marry me. We had decided to delay our announcement when David’s brother announced his wedding plans for the summer of 1973. Then, as we were contemplating Thanksgiving, my sister announced her intentions for that date. That left us no choice. December 22 it had to be. We were both going to university, both working part time. At that time grocery stores were closed on Sundays, and also on Boxing Day. So David could get five days off in a row.
Thirty-five years later I can see an easy solution. We would simply tell our parents we were moving in together and announce that a wedding date would be chosen for their convenience. And though we had lived in the Free Love mentality of the sixties, and couples were living together in many apartments, neither of us could envision the conversation in which we would tell them that David was leaving the comfy family nest for the other half of the bed in my cramped basement suite. So wedding it was, over all objections. (No, we did not have a baby on the way.) We simply couldn’t wait through the long winter months for the kiss of June. I couldn't wait. Never before or since have I felt anything so urgently. For the privilege of filling up the other half of that bed I would have eloped, really made our parents mad, done without all those presents. I suppose this is why other parents got on with the wedding plans.
Thirty-five years ago today we received the card table and folding chairs we will use on Christmas day, the green flowered dishes we use every day, the pots and pans that will cook our dinner, the bowl that will hold our Christmas trifle.
We got pieces of the china that adorns our company feasts. We got the simple candleholders we were given before the days of candle parties. One of the mixing bowl set is broken. Some of the wine glasses bit the dust.
As for the grumbling parents, they bit the bullet and showed us uncompromised support when they saw that the battle was truly lost. It wasn’t the marriage they objected to, after all, only the timing of the wedding. David’s father made an insistent phone call, prompting the relatives to change their minds about making the long journey from Northern Alberta. My mother designed for me a white velvet gown with overjacket that supported a train and a Margaret trudeau hood. My parents gave us a piano because I asked for it. David’s parents bought us a bedroom suite and fed us Sunday dinner every week.
When we drive down the highway, passing the Camrose Motel, looking just as plain now that it is thirty-five years older, Ruth asks: “Why would anybody have a honeymoon in the Camrose Motel?” It’s a good question. The answer might surprise you.
I had never spent Christmas away from my parents, and the Camrose Motel was only an hour down the road. Staying there, we were well positioned to return to their place on Christmas eve. In later years I often spent Christmas away from them, but never to this date away from David. And all of these Christmases have felt right, except that all of them are a little too close to our anniversary. This, I guess, is the dawning of perspective in a process of growing up.
On future anniversaries, I would look at our wedding day as a curiosity, witnessed proof of the only real rebellion I ever had. “Get married next summer,” my mother said. She had every right to say it, seeing as how she was already making a wedding dress for my sister’s wedding on the Thanksgiving weekend. “Wait for next summer,” said David’s mother. She had every right to say it, seeing as how she would be travelling two hours east for the wedding, most of the Edey relatives would be travelling hundreds of miles from the Peace River country in northern Alberta.
But I, family pleaser extraordinaire, was mysteriously deaf to their pleas. For I, to my great surprise, had come upon a man I wanted to marry. He also wanted to marry me. We had decided to delay our announcement when David’s brother announced his wedding plans for the summer of 1973. Then, as we were contemplating Thanksgiving, my sister announced her intentions for that date. That left us no choice. December 22 it had to be. We were both going to university, both working part time. At that time grocery stores were closed on Sundays, and also on Boxing Day. So David could get five days off in a row.
Thirty-five years later I can see an easy solution. We would simply tell our parents we were moving in together and announce that a wedding date would be chosen for their convenience. And though we had lived in the Free Love mentality of the sixties, and couples were living together in many apartments, neither of us could envision the conversation in which we would tell them that David was leaving the comfy family nest for the other half of the bed in my cramped basement suite. So wedding it was, over all objections. (No, we did not have a baby on the way.) We simply couldn’t wait through the long winter months for the kiss of June. I couldn't wait. Never before or since have I felt anything so urgently. For the privilege of filling up the other half of that bed I would have eloped, really made our parents mad, done without all those presents. I suppose this is why other parents got on with the wedding plans.
Thirty-five years ago today we received the card table and folding chairs we will use on Christmas day, the green flowered dishes we use every day, the pots and pans that will cook our dinner, the bowl that will hold our Christmas trifle.
We got pieces of the china that adorns our company feasts. We got the simple candleholders we were given before the days of candle parties. One of the mixing bowl set is broken. Some of the wine glasses bit the dust.
As for the grumbling parents, they bit the bullet and showed us uncompromised support when they saw that the battle was truly lost. It wasn’t the marriage they objected to, after all, only the timing of the wedding. David’s father made an insistent phone call, prompting the relatives to change their minds about making the long journey from Northern Alberta. My mother designed for me a white velvet gown with overjacket that supported a train and a Margaret trudeau hood. My parents gave us a piano because I asked for it. David’s parents bought us a bedroom suite and fed us Sunday dinner every week.
When we drive down the highway, passing the Camrose Motel, looking just as plain now that it is thirty-five years older, Ruth asks: “Why would anybody have a honeymoon in the Camrose Motel?” It’s a good question. The answer might surprise you.
I had never spent Christmas away from my parents, and the Camrose Motel was only an hour down the road. Staying there, we were well positioned to return to their place on Christmas eve. In later years I often spent Christmas away from them, but never to this date away from David. And all of these Christmases have felt right, except that all of them are a little too close to our anniversary. This, I guess, is the dawning of perspective in a process of growing up.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS MORE OF: HOPE
Today I got a letter from Wilma Clark. It said, “You are what the world needs more of—hope.” I don’t think I could claim to be hope itself, but I do confess to being a great supporter of hope, and I totally agree with Wilma that hope is what the world needs more of.
There are those who disagree with me. They are saying that the world needs common sense, the wisdom of the free market, solutions to all its problems, the annihilation of certain destructive elements. Some are even saying that hope is destructive. Some say it’s a waste of time.
But I still like hope. I like to hear Obama talk about it. I like to know that there is a guy next door who wants to talk about working together to make a better world. I like to hear how he doesn’t blame anybody. It gives me hope.
Of the leaders in my own country, at this time when they are taking a rest, this is what I would like to say.
Let's put all four leaders in one room and ask them hope questions. Each question must be answered with the words I hope.
What kind of country do you hope canada will be?
What do you hope Canadians will have?
How do you hope they will interact with each other?
What do you hope Canadians will do?
What do you hope other nations will say about Canada?
What do you hope to achieve in Afghanistan?
What do you hope other countries will say about Canada's environmental policy?
What do you hope historians will write about your contribution to Canada?
What do you hope will be your proudest accomplishment at the end of your career?
I hope this experiment will some day be tried. I believe it would raise debate to a mush higher level. You will notice that this approach asks for no
promises, no action plans. It will be much criticized for this. It will be called pie-in-the-sky, derided as impractical. But I believe the hopes will
direct the actions.
There are those who disagree with me. They are saying that the world needs common sense, the wisdom of the free market, solutions to all its problems, the annihilation of certain destructive elements. Some are even saying that hope is destructive. Some say it’s a waste of time.
But I still like hope. I like to hear Obama talk about it. I like to know that there is a guy next door who wants to talk about working together to make a better world. I like to hear how he doesn’t blame anybody. It gives me hope.
Of the leaders in my own country, at this time when they are taking a rest, this is what I would like to say.
Let's put all four leaders in one room and ask them hope questions. Each question must be answered with the words I hope.
What kind of country do you hope canada will be?
What do you hope Canadians will have?
How do you hope they will interact with each other?
What do you hope Canadians will do?
What do you hope other nations will say about Canada?
What do you hope to achieve in Afghanistan?
What do you hope other countries will say about Canada's environmental policy?
What do you hope historians will write about your contribution to Canada?
What do you hope will be your proudest accomplishment at the end of your career?
I hope this experiment will some day be tried. I believe it would raise debate to a mush higher level. You will notice that this approach asks for no
promises, no action plans. It will be much criticized for this. It will be called pie-in-the-sky, derided as impractical. But I believe the hopes will
direct the actions.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
PROGRESS
Yesterday we celebrated the International Day of Persons with Disabilities. We watched improv comedy by Laugh Inc. Dogs with Wings picked up money from the floor and turned on lights for us. I thought back to the days—not so long ago—when there were no comedy troops of people with brain injuries. I thought back to the years when service dogs who might have served other disabilities were jealously guarded by the blind community, and the training of such dogs was sanctioned only by the Seeing Eye Inc. in Morristown NJ. And it seemed to me that a lot of progress has been made in the past few years.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
CONTAGEOUS HOPE
I have been noticing lately
That our hopes regarding others
Tend to be only as large
As the world we can imagine.
And I have been noticing lately
That our hopes regarding others
Tend to have an influence
On the hopes they have for themselves.
Which is why it pays to be diligent
In exploring the world with vigor
So that the world we can imagine
Is a large, large world.
That our hopes regarding others
Tend to be only as large
As the world we can imagine.
And I have been noticing lately
That our hopes regarding others
Tend to have an influence
On the hopes they have for themselves.
Which is why it pays to be diligent
In exploring the world with vigor
So that the world we can imagine
Is a large, large world.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
SOCIABLE CHRISTMAS IDEAS FOR LONELY PEOPLE
There would be more hope if lonely people had somewhere to turn for ideas about how to spend a sociable Christmas Day. In a good world people wouldn’t have to be lonely. One of my hope projects this year is to make a list of sociable things lonely people can do on Christmas Day. I am thinking of any and all people, but I am not thinking of dating services, which is what you get when you search the Internet for ideas. . I am thinking of suggestions that would be helpful to people who need people, people who are not expecting anyone to reach out with a Christmas Day invitation. I began the project by looking for ideas for the Edmonton area, but will welcome other ideas as well.
Send ideas to wendy.edey@gmail.com and look for future postings on this topic.
Here are the first three ideas I have received.
1. Call the International Student Centre at the university and offer to host a student who has no Christmas plans.
2. Contact a travel agent to ask about short Christmas trips.
3. The Victory Christian Center in Edmonton puts on a huge Christmas Day dinner at the Shaw centre. Attend the dinner or volunteer to work at it.
Send ideas to wendy.edey@gmail.com and look for future postings on this topic.
Here are the first three ideas I have received.
1. Call the International Student Centre at the university and offer to host a student who has no Christmas plans.
2. Contact a travel agent to ask about short Christmas trips.
3. The Victory Christian Center in Edmonton puts on a huge Christmas Day dinner at the Shaw centre. Attend the dinner or volunteer to work at it.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
DRAWING HOPE IN A CLASSROOM
What fun it is to go to a classroom where the kids have been making hope art. If you haven’t had a chance to do it, you have missed an amazing experience.
Last Thursday I visited a very active classroom. Most of the children were either 6 or 7 years old. All had met the requirements for assignment to the category known as ‘behavior disorder’. They were lively and bouncing by the time I got there, but their teacher said they had had a very peaceful morning. Why had they had such a quiet morning? Well, it seems they had been doing their hope art, giving it their full and undivided attention. It was so unusually tranquil that their teacher called the principal in to witness this uncharacteristic peace.
A memory, clear and sharp, came to me as the children introduced themselves, telling me about their hope creations. The memory was of a conversation I had a couple of years ago, when the hope art project was still an idea in its infancy. The conversation was with a teacher.
Her: “I just don’t think this project can work.”.
Me: “Why not?”.
”I know it’s a good idea and all,” she said thoughtfully, “giving the kids the challenge to think about hope and draw something. But I am thinking about some little people I have known, little people with no support from home, maybe not too smart, been through unspeakable things that you and I cannot even imagine. I think about me asking them to draw about hope, and these kids sitting there, failing again. It would be cruel to expect them to draw hope!”
I don’t recall what I said. I wanted to persuade her, so I imagine I told her that I believed it would be okay. I believed it because I have met hundreds of adults who have been through unspeakable things. Some of them are seriously considering suicide. Some of them are not too bright. And yet I would be willing to risk asking any and all of them to reflect on hope and draw something. If they seemed unable, I would help them a tiny bit.
I don’t recall exactly what she said in response, but I do recall that she wasn’t convinced by what I had said. She was thinking that it’s different for adults than for these little people. She was thinking that classrooms are different from counselling sessions. She was thinking that I probably didn’t understand what teachers face in their classrooms. I wouldn’t have disagreed with any of this.
I know a number of teachers who have struggled with the idea of making hope explicit in their classrooms. Many years ago I had another conversation with a teacher. He told me that a teacher wouldn’t be wise to ask kids to draw hope because they would all draw pictures of the latest toys in the department store. Since those toys would be unavailable to some of the children, he said it would be unfair to start such a process. At that time I had much less experience. What he said made sense to me, given the materialistic attitude of our society.
On the other hand, I have known teachers who embraced the idea of doing hope projects. They did them purposefully, anxious to see what would happen, suspending any fears they might have had about the worst possible outcomes. One of these was in command last Thursday, in the classroom where I was meeting little people who were proudly displaying pictures of rainbows and animals and such. There was no mention of toys, even though Christmas is coming. I couldn’t keep myself from thinking about the conditions that disrupt children’s behavior so badly as to render them unmanageable in a regular classroom by the age of 6 or 7. We know they are more likely to be in a behavior disorder classroom if they have been abused, neglected, or have parents with mental illness or addiction issues. Some were damaged by drugs or alcohol before they were born. We know that poverty is common in their ranks.
It was an exciting day in that classroom. They had a guest—me. The had art to show. But there was more. One of the children was proudly displaying a chicken puppet. It was on loan from the principal. It was his reward for the marvelous behavior he had shown during the peaceful art time that morning. The whole class was bursting with chickenly pride.
Many lessons were evident during my hour in that classroom. It was abundantly clear that you don’t have to be smart to understand what hope is. You don’t have to be rich, or clean, or popular, or happy. You don’t have to be an artist to draw hope. What is it about hope art that leads children to that reflective place deep into their centre core? From where does it draw the power to create a quiet lull in a behavior blizzard?
Hope art projects create many benefits. They give children the space and quiet time to think about hope, to feel hope, to do an act of hope, and then to see the mirrored image of their own hope when they show their work to others. Some of the children in this busy classroom found time to make two or three drawings. Some of the drawings will be exhibited in the children’s hope art show. Others will be displayed in their school.
Though the art can stand on its own, and sometimes it has to, there is no doubt that the best way to experience a hope art project is to see the children and the art in the same room. You get more out of it when you see what went into it. That’s when you feel the hope. That’s when you experience the separate, private and individual meaning of each and every rainbow that found its way onto a page. That’s when you know that the process of considering hope is every bit as significant as the outcome. I wish you had been there with me. If you have never visited a classroom where the children have been making hope art, you have missed an amazing experience.
Last Thursday I visited a very active classroom. Most of the children were either 6 or 7 years old. All had met the requirements for assignment to the category known as ‘behavior disorder’. They were lively and bouncing by the time I got there, but their teacher said they had had a very peaceful morning. Why had they had such a quiet morning? Well, it seems they had been doing their hope art, giving it their full and undivided attention. It was so unusually tranquil that their teacher called the principal in to witness this uncharacteristic peace.
A memory, clear and sharp, came to me as the children introduced themselves, telling me about their hope creations. The memory was of a conversation I had a couple of years ago, when the hope art project was still an idea in its infancy. The conversation was with a teacher.
Her: “I just don’t think this project can work.”.
Me: “Why not?”.
”I know it’s a good idea and all,” she said thoughtfully, “giving the kids the challenge to think about hope and draw something. But I am thinking about some little people I have known, little people with no support from home, maybe not too smart, been through unspeakable things that you and I cannot even imagine. I think about me asking them to draw about hope, and these kids sitting there, failing again. It would be cruel to expect them to draw hope!”
I don’t recall what I said. I wanted to persuade her, so I imagine I told her that I believed it would be okay. I believed it because I have met hundreds of adults who have been through unspeakable things. Some of them are seriously considering suicide. Some of them are not too bright. And yet I would be willing to risk asking any and all of them to reflect on hope and draw something. If they seemed unable, I would help them a tiny bit.
I don’t recall exactly what she said in response, but I do recall that she wasn’t convinced by what I had said. She was thinking that it’s different for adults than for these little people. She was thinking that classrooms are different from counselling sessions. She was thinking that I probably didn’t understand what teachers face in their classrooms. I wouldn’t have disagreed with any of this.
I know a number of teachers who have struggled with the idea of making hope explicit in their classrooms. Many years ago I had another conversation with a teacher. He told me that a teacher wouldn’t be wise to ask kids to draw hope because they would all draw pictures of the latest toys in the department store. Since those toys would be unavailable to some of the children, he said it would be unfair to start such a process. At that time I had much less experience. What he said made sense to me, given the materialistic attitude of our society.
On the other hand, I have known teachers who embraced the idea of doing hope projects. They did them purposefully, anxious to see what would happen, suspending any fears they might have had about the worst possible outcomes. One of these was in command last Thursday, in the classroom where I was meeting little people who were proudly displaying pictures of rainbows and animals and such. There was no mention of toys, even though Christmas is coming. I couldn’t keep myself from thinking about the conditions that disrupt children’s behavior so badly as to render them unmanageable in a regular classroom by the age of 6 or 7. We know they are more likely to be in a behavior disorder classroom if they have been abused, neglected, or have parents with mental illness or addiction issues. Some were damaged by drugs or alcohol before they were born. We know that poverty is common in their ranks.
It was an exciting day in that classroom. They had a guest—me. The had art to show. But there was more. One of the children was proudly displaying a chicken puppet. It was on loan from the principal. It was his reward for the marvelous behavior he had shown during the peaceful art time that morning. The whole class was bursting with chickenly pride.
Many lessons were evident during my hour in that classroom. It was abundantly clear that you don’t have to be smart to understand what hope is. You don’t have to be rich, or clean, or popular, or happy. You don’t have to be an artist to draw hope. What is it about hope art that leads children to that reflective place deep into their centre core? From where does it draw the power to create a quiet lull in a behavior blizzard?
Hope art projects create many benefits. They give children the space and quiet time to think about hope, to feel hope, to do an act of hope, and then to see the mirrored image of their own hope when they show their work to others. Some of the children in this busy classroom found time to make two or three drawings. Some of the drawings will be exhibited in the children’s hope art show. Others will be displayed in their school.
Though the art can stand on its own, and sometimes it has to, there is no doubt that the best way to experience a hope art project is to see the children and the art in the same room. You get more out of it when you see what went into it. That’s when you feel the hope. That’s when you experience the separate, private and individual meaning of each and every rainbow that found its way onto a page. That’s when you know that the process of considering hope is every bit as significant as the outcome. I wish you had been there with me. If you have never visited a classroom where the children have been making hope art, you have missed an amazing experience.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
GROWING
Ruth is growing my hair, tending it, touching it, encouraging it the way she brings along the flowers on her deck. This is Ruth of the long blonde hair, Ruth of the silky strands, Ruth the gorgeous, Ruth the sleepy riser who would rarely have time for breakfast, always have time for beauty. This is Ruth, whose father used to sit for half an hour, twisting the French braids while her mother did something else, read a book maybe.
Under Ruth’s supervision I am hosting my ever-lengthening hair, trying my best to be welcoming to the unruly tufts at the sides, the errant strands that slide across my face. “Don’t cut your bangs,” warns Ruth. And then, “You’ve been cutting your bangs, haven’t you?” Turning in frustration to a friend she says, “She cuts her hair sometimes.”
Her tone is serious. It makes me think of the people on my counselling caseload who cut their arms for reasons we cannot fathom. But I am not one of these. Cutting my hair is a natural thing. I know why I cut it, to get it out of my eyes.
Hair grows when you don’t cut it. “Your hair is growing,” my friends say in wonder, when it suddenly comes into their awareness. “You must be growing it.” They gaze in wonder. This is not the Wendy they have known.
“Ruth is growing my hair,” I say in return.
“How long is she growing it?” they ask.
“I don’t know,” I say. Then, fishing a little, “How long would you grow it?”
My baiting never catches. “How long do you want it to be?” they always ask. That’s where the conversation ends, possibly because I want it to be short. But if it isn’t short, I want it to be as long as Ruth wants it to be, and she doesn’t exactly know how long that is yet. She has no standard by which to measure it, no memory to which she would return.
My hair has been short for quite some time now. It was long in high school. It was long in university—the first degree. It was long at my wedding. Then I cut it off. I stored the old brush rollers at the back of a very dark cupboard. Gradually my brain recovered from the dulling effects of the piercing of their picks and bristles through my scalp on all those sleepless Sunday nights. I gave the electric rollers to a garage sale. They never really worked as well as the brush rollers. I stored the old hooded hair dryer under the basement stairs, in case I ever had a daughter to need it some day. It has been happy there for many a decade.
A little attention is a powerful thing. Ruth was watching my hair. I was growing it. There was a wedding in our family last summer. “Ruth,” I said, “maybe you could do my hair.” She could hardly refuse, now that there was hair to do. I sat on a chair in my mother’s kitchen while she stood behind me, comb in hand, curling iron blazing. My ears shrank in terror. “Sorry Mom,” she said. “You’ll have to trust me.”
I trusted her. “I’ll have to spray it,” she said. What could I do at that point? I swallowed my environmental concerns, screwed my eyes shut and pinched my nose. I remembered all the times I sat in my mother’s kitchen while Mom stood behind me, doing my hair. They were good memories.
“Ruth and I are growing my hair.” That’s what I almost wrote in the first draft of the annual Christmas letter. Then I deleted it. Something told me it would bring a cry of frustration from Ruth, and maybe she’d tell me to cut it.
Okay, I confess that it is actually me who is growing this hair, growing it for Ruth, and maybe even a bit for me. Her dad used to like it long, though he never pressured me to keep it that way. He’s a practical man. But he still might like it long.
I can always cut it off, I tell myself, or, even better, get somebody else to cut it. And, as long as I don’t have to spend another Sunday night lying awake on brush rollers, I think I’ll just celebrate this time of noticing that I am still capable of change.
Under Ruth’s supervision I am hosting my ever-lengthening hair, trying my best to be welcoming to the unruly tufts at the sides, the errant strands that slide across my face. “Don’t cut your bangs,” warns Ruth. And then, “You’ve been cutting your bangs, haven’t you?” Turning in frustration to a friend she says, “She cuts her hair sometimes.”
Her tone is serious. It makes me think of the people on my counselling caseload who cut their arms for reasons we cannot fathom. But I am not one of these. Cutting my hair is a natural thing. I know why I cut it, to get it out of my eyes.
Hair grows when you don’t cut it. “Your hair is growing,” my friends say in wonder, when it suddenly comes into their awareness. “You must be growing it.” They gaze in wonder. This is not the Wendy they have known.
“Ruth is growing my hair,” I say in return.
“How long is she growing it?” they ask.
“I don’t know,” I say. Then, fishing a little, “How long would you grow it?”
My baiting never catches. “How long do you want it to be?” they always ask. That’s where the conversation ends, possibly because I want it to be short. But if it isn’t short, I want it to be as long as Ruth wants it to be, and she doesn’t exactly know how long that is yet. She has no standard by which to measure it, no memory to which she would return.
My hair has been short for quite some time now. It was long in high school. It was long in university—the first degree. It was long at my wedding. Then I cut it off. I stored the old brush rollers at the back of a very dark cupboard. Gradually my brain recovered from the dulling effects of the piercing of their picks and bristles through my scalp on all those sleepless Sunday nights. I gave the electric rollers to a garage sale. They never really worked as well as the brush rollers. I stored the old hooded hair dryer under the basement stairs, in case I ever had a daughter to need it some day. It has been happy there for many a decade.
A little attention is a powerful thing. Ruth was watching my hair. I was growing it. There was a wedding in our family last summer. “Ruth,” I said, “maybe you could do my hair.” She could hardly refuse, now that there was hair to do. I sat on a chair in my mother’s kitchen while she stood behind me, comb in hand, curling iron blazing. My ears shrank in terror. “Sorry Mom,” she said. “You’ll have to trust me.”
I trusted her. “I’ll have to spray it,” she said. What could I do at that point? I swallowed my environmental concerns, screwed my eyes shut and pinched my nose. I remembered all the times I sat in my mother’s kitchen while Mom stood behind me, doing my hair. They were good memories.
“Ruth and I are growing my hair.” That’s what I almost wrote in the first draft of the annual Christmas letter. Then I deleted it. Something told me it would bring a cry of frustration from Ruth, and maybe she’d tell me to cut it.
Okay, I confess that it is actually me who is growing this hair, growing it for Ruth, and maybe even a bit for me. Her dad used to like it long, though he never pressured me to keep it that way. He’s a practical man. But he still might like it long.
I can always cut it off, I tell myself, or, even better, get somebody else to cut it. And, as long as I don’t have to spend another Sunday night lying awake on brush rollers, I think I’ll just celebrate this time of noticing that I am still capable of change.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
STORYTELLER'S REPERTOIRE
Five years have passed since the day when I impulsively decided to take a step towards being recognized as a storyteller—an official storyteller. I was already the unofficial kind. These days I happily say that my hobby is storytelling. And as I look back I can see, to my surprise, that with the help of many others, I have actually acquired a repertoire of 20 stories, told on storytellers’ stages, stand-alone stories with beginnings, middles and ends. Wonders never cease! Here, listed under the year in which each was added to the repertoire, is the list of stories
2004
The Man Whose Mother Was A Pirate by Margaret Many
A man and his mother set out on a voyage to find the sea.
2005
The Berlin Wall by Wendy Edey
Back in the 1960’s, when we were practicing for the end of the world, we never imagined what might be happening in 1989.
Put On Your Own Mask First by Wendy Edey
They give you a lot of advice on airplanes. Some of it is more valuable that you think.
My Financial Career by Stephen Leacock
A bank is a scary place when you’re “rattled”.
Good-by Grandma by ray Bradbury
Grandma organizes the family for her final exit.
The Cat Who lived A Million Times by Hyakumankai Ikita Neko
Sometimes it takes a million tries to learn the most important lesson.
2006
The Wedding of Dame Ragnell, A Tale Of King Arthur
King Arthur searches the land to find out what women want.
The Street That Got Mislaid by Patrick Waddington
Who could imagine that a treasure lay behind that ordinary-looking brick wall?
Felicity’s Fortune by Wendy Edey
We know that a chicken was found in Dawson Park. What we wonder is how she got there.
Comb Concert by Wendy Edey
This is a story about Kathryn Tucker Windham, Selma Alabama and the transformative power of audacious hope.
2007
Miracles and Wonders by Wendy Edey
Mother couldn’t perform miracles, but she could do wonders. When she seemed the most helpless, she showed us all what a simple hope-opotamus could do.
The Words the cat took by Wendy Edey
59,995 words is a lot to lose in a single night. On the day after the big stroke Harry still had five good words, and a message he wanted to deliver.
I Could Use Some Help Up Here by Wendy Edey
Even a damsel in distress will try just about anything before she admits she can’t do it on her own.
Lawrence Gives A Hope Talk by Wendy Edey
Only a desperate person would seek public speaking advice from somebody who would rather eat carpenters’ tools than make a speech.
Knitters by Wendy Edey
“Murdering her is not a good idea,” he said. “We’ll send her to Gramma for knitting lessons.”
2008
Mr. Andrews by E.M. Forster
A Christian and a Muslim meet on their way to Heaven. This tale is as relevant today as it was when Forster penned it in 1914.
Stream, Wind, Fire (a Sufi tale)
A stream tries to hold its shape while crossing the desert.
Burnout and Rekindling by Wendy Edey
How do you inspire a group of social workers after a presentation that tanked, sank and went all the way down the toilet?
The French Invention by Wendy Edey
Louis Braille made it possible for blind people to read and write. All he needed was support from the school for the blind. But few people know how long it took for Louis to get any respect.
Learning To Play Jacks by Wendy Edey
At last I had found a game I could win. It was a story that seemed too good to be true.
Singing Country Music by Wendy Edey
Everything I ever needed to know about moonshine I learned before the age of six. I learned it while sitting on the edge of the bed with my sister, singing country music.
How High’s The Water by Wendy Edey
If the North Saskatchewan River could talk it would have some stories to tell. It would tell about the floods that changed its banks forever, and the people who had to change their plans.
Little Mary Ann (adapted from a tale by Donna Lively)
Jane thinks it would be just about impossible to be as good as little Mary Ann.
The Woman With Many Names by Wendy Edey
In the 19th century pipe organs were springing up in American churches. There was a demand for American hymns, and there were many writers to meet that demand. This is the story of the amazing life of one writer, Fanny Crosby.
The Sword Of Wood (a folk tale adapted by Doug Lipman
A King sets out in peasant’s clothing on a quest to understand the people of his kingdom.
2004
The Man Whose Mother Was A Pirate by Margaret Many
A man and his mother set out on a voyage to find the sea.
2005
The Berlin Wall by Wendy Edey
Back in the 1960’s, when we were practicing for the end of the world, we never imagined what might be happening in 1989.
Put On Your Own Mask First by Wendy Edey
They give you a lot of advice on airplanes. Some of it is more valuable that you think.
My Financial Career by Stephen Leacock
A bank is a scary place when you’re “rattled”.
Good-by Grandma by ray Bradbury
Grandma organizes the family for her final exit.
The Cat Who lived A Million Times by Hyakumankai Ikita Neko
Sometimes it takes a million tries to learn the most important lesson.
2006
The Wedding of Dame Ragnell, A Tale Of King Arthur
King Arthur searches the land to find out what women want.
The Street That Got Mislaid by Patrick Waddington
Who could imagine that a treasure lay behind that ordinary-looking brick wall?
Felicity’s Fortune by Wendy Edey
We know that a chicken was found in Dawson Park. What we wonder is how she got there.
Comb Concert by Wendy Edey
This is a story about Kathryn Tucker Windham, Selma Alabama and the transformative power of audacious hope.
2007
Miracles and Wonders by Wendy Edey
Mother couldn’t perform miracles, but she could do wonders. When she seemed the most helpless, she showed us all what a simple hope-opotamus could do.
The Words the cat took by Wendy Edey
59,995 words is a lot to lose in a single night. On the day after the big stroke Harry still had five good words, and a message he wanted to deliver.
I Could Use Some Help Up Here by Wendy Edey
Even a damsel in distress will try just about anything before she admits she can’t do it on her own.
Lawrence Gives A Hope Talk by Wendy Edey
Only a desperate person would seek public speaking advice from somebody who would rather eat carpenters’ tools than make a speech.
Knitters by Wendy Edey
“Murdering her is not a good idea,” he said. “We’ll send her to Gramma for knitting lessons.”
2008
Mr. Andrews by E.M. Forster
A Christian and a Muslim meet on their way to Heaven. This tale is as relevant today as it was when Forster penned it in 1914.
Stream, Wind, Fire (a Sufi tale)
A stream tries to hold its shape while crossing the desert.
Burnout and Rekindling by Wendy Edey
How do you inspire a group of social workers after a presentation that tanked, sank and went all the way down the toilet?
The French Invention by Wendy Edey
Louis Braille made it possible for blind people to read and write. All he needed was support from the school for the blind. But few people know how long it took for Louis to get any respect.
Learning To Play Jacks by Wendy Edey
At last I had found a game I could win. It was a story that seemed too good to be true.
Singing Country Music by Wendy Edey
Everything I ever needed to know about moonshine I learned before the age of six. I learned it while sitting on the edge of the bed with my sister, singing country music.
How High’s The Water by Wendy Edey
If the North Saskatchewan River could talk it would have some stories to tell. It would tell about the floods that changed its banks forever, and the people who had to change their plans.
Little Mary Ann (adapted from a tale by Donna Lively)
Jane thinks it would be just about impossible to be as good as little Mary Ann.
The Woman With Many Names by Wendy Edey
In the 19th century pipe organs were springing up in American churches. There was a demand for American hymns, and there were many writers to meet that demand. This is the story of the amazing life of one writer, Fanny Crosby.
The Sword Of Wood (a folk tale adapted by Doug Lipman
A King sets out in peasant’s clothing on a quest to understand the people of his kingdom.
Friday, November 14, 2008
MAKE SURE THE HOPE IS VISIBLE BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE ROOM
Hopeful people are better copers. That’s what the research says. They heal more quickly, deal with problems more creatively, demonstrate more tolerance for uncertainty and pain. Regardless of the circumstances, hope is most certainly influenced by the things we hear from others. That’s what the research says. It says we are susceptible to hope.
Gramma is susceptible to hope. I think of this when I visit her. Though she speaks with conviction and clarity, she is not always an easy woman to understand.
As I understand it, there are two things Gramma would like. She would like to die suddenly and conclusively of a heart attack. Any time would do. Now would be fine with her. She would also like to resume her active and happy life after recovering quickly and fully from the hip fracture that sent her to surgery. Though apparently in conflict, these two wishes dwell side by side in Gramma’s conscious awareness. The slightest shift will turn her attention from one to the other. “Gramma is susceptible to hope,” I tell myself when I am with her. “Make sure you help her to see it.”
A test of hope arrives while I am visiting. In comes the physio team. This is the team that gets Gramma moving. Though she wants more than anything else to get moving, she has been anticipating their arrival with a sense of impending doom.
Gramma’s mind is on the pain. Come to think of it, it’s even more than that. Her mind’s on the hope-sucking implications of the pain. She has been saying, “I shouldn’t be in this much pain. They tried to cut back the medication. It’s been six days. I shouldn’t be in this much pain!”
Gramma does everything she can to help the physio team get her moving. The pain is unspeakable. She tries to make them hear it. They are kind, and I know they hear what she is saying. To her they say, “You’re doing better.”
This convinces her that they haven’t heard her. She says, “It’s not better!” They don’t argue. They know she’s talking about the pain.
The physio team is about to leave. They are going to leave now, taking Gramma’s hope out with them. When they are gone there will be only the memory of Gramma saying, “It’s not better!” I picture the remains of the day. When her son comes she will say, “It is not better!” To her granddaughter she will say, “It’s not better!” Soon the whole family will be saying, “Gramma’s not better!” It will be the truth.
But it won’t be the whole truth, only the truth without the hope. I was sure I had heard them say something that should have brought hope, something that would have brought hope if only they’d said more about it. “Wait,” I cry to the retreating physio team. “Gramma says she isn’t better because of the pain, which I know you have heard and I know you are dealing with in terms of medication. But I heard you say that she is better. What did you mean by that? Could you tell us why you said that?”
Back comes the team. They tell us that Gramma is stronger today then she was yesterday. They show us what they mean. She has lifted her foot higher, stretched it farther. Then they go back a few days and remind us of what Gramma cold do a few days ago—much less.
“She is stronger you say?” I repeat. Then I ask if it is normal to have this pain.
They explain that pain is extremely variable, that it is affected by bone density, that some medications work better for some patients, that we just have to experiment with medications. They get the doctor and we all have a chat about the pain. Gramma is in control now. I tell them what Gramma has told me about the medications, she enthusiastically backs up what I say she said. A new pain plan is made.
When they are gone Gramma is ready to take a tour of the hospital in her wheelchair. The nurse asks about the pain and she says it is a little better now. As we wait for the elevator she says, “It’s so much better if somebody is here to ask questions when they come.”
Now she is chatting in the elevator. Things are factually no different then they were ten minutes earlier, but Gramma is visibly different. The part of her that wants a heart attack has receded into the background. She is different because the physio team came back and put the hope in the room instead of taking it away with them.
It is one of those times when I know beyond all doubt that it matters to be a hope specialist. There is still so much to teach so many about the need to pay careful attention to hope when you talk to vulnerable people. There is so much to teach about the need to make sure hope is visible before you leave the room. It is my day off, but it seems that I have been at work anyway. How could I not be?
Gramma is susceptible to hope. I think of this when I visit her. Though she speaks with conviction and clarity, she is not always an easy woman to understand.
As I understand it, there are two things Gramma would like. She would like to die suddenly and conclusively of a heart attack. Any time would do. Now would be fine with her. She would also like to resume her active and happy life after recovering quickly and fully from the hip fracture that sent her to surgery. Though apparently in conflict, these two wishes dwell side by side in Gramma’s conscious awareness. The slightest shift will turn her attention from one to the other. “Gramma is susceptible to hope,” I tell myself when I am with her. “Make sure you help her to see it.”
A test of hope arrives while I am visiting. In comes the physio team. This is the team that gets Gramma moving. Though she wants more than anything else to get moving, she has been anticipating their arrival with a sense of impending doom.
Gramma’s mind is on the pain. Come to think of it, it’s even more than that. Her mind’s on the hope-sucking implications of the pain. She has been saying, “I shouldn’t be in this much pain. They tried to cut back the medication. It’s been six days. I shouldn’t be in this much pain!”
Gramma does everything she can to help the physio team get her moving. The pain is unspeakable. She tries to make them hear it. They are kind, and I know they hear what she is saying. To her they say, “You’re doing better.”
This convinces her that they haven’t heard her. She says, “It’s not better!” They don’t argue. They know she’s talking about the pain.
The physio team is about to leave. They are going to leave now, taking Gramma’s hope out with them. When they are gone there will be only the memory of Gramma saying, “It’s not better!” I picture the remains of the day. When her son comes she will say, “It is not better!” To her granddaughter she will say, “It’s not better!” Soon the whole family will be saying, “Gramma’s not better!” It will be the truth.
But it won’t be the whole truth, only the truth without the hope. I was sure I had heard them say something that should have brought hope, something that would have brought hope if only they’d said more about it. “Wait,” I cry to the retreating physio team. “Gramma says she isn’t better because of the pain, which I know you have heard and I know you are dealing with in terms of medication. But I heard you say that she is better. What did you mean by that? Could you tell us why you said that?”
Back comes the team. They tell us that Gramma is stronger today then she was yesterday. They show us what they mean. She has lifted her foot higher, stretched it farther. Then they go back a few days and remind us of what Gramma cold do a few days ago—much less.
“She is stronger you say?” I repeat. Then I ask if it is normal to have this pain.
They explain that pain is extremely variable, that it is affected by bone density, that some medications work better for some patients, that we just have to experiment with medications. They get the doctor and we all have a chat about the pain. Gramma is in control now. I tell them what Gramma has told me about the medications, she enthusiastically backs up what I say she said. A new pain plan is made.
When they are gone Gramma is ready to take a tour of the hospital in her wheelchair. The nurse asks about the pain and she says it is a little better now. As we wait for the elevator she says, “It’s so much better if somebody is here to ask questions when they come.”
Now she is chatting in the elevator. Things are factually no different then they were ten minutes earlier, but Gramma is visibly different. The part of her that wants a heart attack has receded into the background. She is different because the physio team came back and put the hope in the room instead of taking it away with them.
It is one of those times when I know beyond all doubt that it matters to be a hope specialist. There is still so much to teach so many about the need to pay careful attention to hope when you talk to vulnerable people. There is so much to teach about the need to make sure hope is visible before you leave the room. It is my day off, but it seems that I have been at work anyway. How could I not be?
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
PAST WARS AND FUTURE LEADERS
November 12 is different for me this year—different because I am still remembering November 11. For as long as I can remember I have spent November 11 doing what the media have asked me to do—remembering the sacrifices of soldiers and their families, gratefully appreciating my own personal freedoms. What I did on past Novembers 12 I frankly have no idea.
But today I am remembering yesterday—not because I reconnected with the soldiers and the wars, though certainly I did do this—but because I also held Baby Matty, 2 days old, weighing in at 6 pounds 10 ounces. What I noticed as I cradled her was that I felt hopeful, hopeful for the future. It felt strange. Hope is something I do not usually feel on November 11. Though I don’t dispute the importance of remembering the sacrifices of the soldiers and their families, I try hard to hope there will be no more wars. While others see this hope on November 11, I have yet to be convinced that remembering past wars helps us prevent future wars. Holding Matty, for whom anything is currently possible, I really did wonder, if more of us held more babies, came closer to the perfect hope of an unfolding life at its very beginning, would we be more motivated to work harder to prevent the wars that cause so much pain?
But today I am remembering yesterday—not because I reconnected with the soldiers and the wars, though certainly I did do this—but because I also held Baby Matty, 2 days old, weighing in at 6 pounds 10 ounces. What I noticed as I cradled her was that I felt hopeful, hopeful for the future. It felt strange. Hope is something I do not usually feel on November 11. Though I don’t dispute the importance of remembering the sacrifices of the soldiers and their families, I try hard to hope there will be no more wars. While others see this hope on November 11, I have yet to be convinced that remembering past wars helps us prevent future wars. Holding Matty, for whom anything is currently possible, I really did wonder, if more of us held more babies, came closer to the perfect hope of an unfolding life at its very beginning, would we be more motivated to work harder to prevent the wars that cause so much pain?
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
GREAT!!
Great nephew Isaac was born on Saturday
Great Niece Matty was born on Sunday.
A great weekend all round
To be a great aunt.
There were great aunts when I was a kid,
And they were okay I guess,
But great aunts were older and wrinklier back then.
Great Niece Matty was born on Sunday.
A great weekend all round
To be a great aunt.
There were great aunts when I was a kid,
And they were okay I guess,
But great aunts were older and wrinklier back then.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
WHY?????????????
I am pondering life’s mysteries—the big ones—like, Why does the sun shine? And Why is it harder to launch a kite on a windy day than a zillion-ton airplane in the calm? And, get ready for the biggest one of all, Why do dogs roll in stuff?
Pirate escaped yesterday. I suppose it was my fault really. I didn’t check to see if all the gates were closed. I simply let him out when he asked. It was such a sunny day, the kind of day when pirate can pass two happy hours in the yard without ever calling on me for anything. So out he went, and that was that. Silence was golden.
Maybe an hour had passed when two big dogs strolled by, dragging their person behind them. The neighbourhood went into an uproar. There were deep wolfish barks from across the street. There were yelpish barks from down the street. Pirate wasn’t barking. I was so proud of him for that! Well, on second thought … How much can a dog actually change in an hour?
Out I went, calling pirate’s name. No response. He’s a good dog. It was probably my mistake. No response could mean that perhaps I had let him in half an hour ago and simply forgotten about it. It has happened before. I checked the living room, the couch, the love seat, both rocking chairs. I checked the family room, the love seat and both rocking chairs. I checked our bedroom, the study, the spare room, Mark’s place. I checked them all again.
I sighed heavily. On went my shoes. On went my coat. Out went I, calling Pirate’s name.
Pirate came when I called him. I had to admit that he really is a good dog. He wanted to be at home. A smarter dog might have re-entered through the back gate which stood wide open, instead of marching along the front walk to the front gate, waiting for me to open it and welcome him home. But I did acknowledge that he was a good dog. Then we hurried inside, because it sure did smell bad out there.
We hadn’t been in the house for more than a second when the inside began to smell a bit like the outside. Bad smells can come in through an open door. I reached down to give Pirate a pat.
There are a lot of things I can’t say for sure. But one thing is certain. Somewhere in the neighbourhood there is a pile of poop that is a lot flatter than it was at this time yesterday.
I don’t think it would be honest to say that Pirate was grateful for all that I did for him, for the free shampoo and cream rinse and the time under the hairdryer, for the removal and washing of his collar, for scraping it out from inside his ears, under his chin, in the curve of his long bushy tail, lathering the flat of his back. In fact, though I confess that I don’t always understand exactly what Pirate is saying, I believe he may have told me that he’d do it all again if he had the chance, which still leaves me wondering—WHY DO DOGS ROLL IN STUFF????
Pirate escaped yesterday. I suppose it was my fault really. I didn’t check to see if all the gates were closed. I simply let him out when he asked. It was such a sunny day, the kind of day when pirate can pass two happy hours in the yard without ever calling on me for anything. So out he went, and that was that. Silence was golden.
Maybe an hour had passed when two big dogs strolled by, dragging their person behind them. The neighbourhood went into an uproar. There were deep wolfish barks from across the street. There were yelpish barks from down the street. Pirate wasn’t barking. I was so proud of him for that! Well, on second thought … How much can a dog actually change in an hour?
Out I went, calling pirate’s name. No response. He’s a good dog. It was probably my mistake. No response could mean that perhaps I had let him in half an hour ago and simply forgotten about it. It has happened before. I checked the living room, the couch, the love seat, both rocking chairs. I checked the family room, the love seat and both rocking chairs. I checked our bedroom, the study, the spare room, Mark’s place. I checked them all again.
I sighed heavily. On went my shoes. On went my coat. Out went I, calling Pirate’s name.
Pirate came when I called him. I had to admit that he really is a good dog. He wanted to be at home. A smarter dog might have re-entered through the back gate which stood wide open, instead of marching along the front walk to the front gate, waiting for me to open it and welcome him home. But I did acknowledge that he was a good dog. Then we hurried inside, because it sure did smell bad out there.
We hadn’t been in the house for more than a second when the inside began to smell a bit like the outside. Bad smells can come in through an open door. I reached down to give Pirate a pat.
There are a lot of things I can’t say for sure. But one thing is certain. Somewhere in the neighbourhood there is a pile of poop that is a lot flatter than it was at this time yesterday.
I don’t think it would be honest to say that Pirate was grateful for all that I did for him, for the free shampoo and cream rinse and the time under the hairdryer, for the removal and washing of his collar, for scraping it out from inside his ears, under his chin, in the curve of his long bushy tail, lathering the flat of his back. In fact, though I confess that I don’t always understand exactly what Pirate is saying, I believe he may have told me that he’d do it all again if he had the chance, which still leaves me wondering—WHY DO DOGS ROLL IN STUFF????
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
THE LIVES OF WITCHES AND WALDOS
Last Friday night Susan and her friends dressed up as Waldos and Wendas from the "Where's Waldo" books. There were 3 Waldos and 4 Wendas (Waldo's female friend) and 1 Odlaw (the barely known evil Waldo). They painted striped shirts, sewed red and white hats, and bought cheap glasses. I never saw them, but I heard about it from Susan. It was Halloween. Dressing up is a tradition for Susan and her friends. One year they went as five bowling pins! I, in contrast, dressed up as Wendy. It’s what I do every year on Halloween—a tradition, you might say.
Susan says it’s fun to dress up, and even more fun to have a photo session with your friends before you leave for the party. That’s the jolly time, the optimistic time, the hour when you feel connected yet certain of your uniqueness. If there are going to be other Waldos at the party, you don’t yet know it.
Those to whom I am connected, in contrast, tend not to photograph me on Halloween. Admittedly there’s not much to photograph, seeing as how I look like the same Wendy you’d photograph any other day, except for wedding days when there tend to be a lot of photos of me dressed up, and Christmas mornings when the focus is on the gift I am holding not the outfit I am wearing. When I was a kid I used to dress up as a witch. I wore an old black cape and a pointy hat my mother made of cardboard and crepe paper. The hat had an elastic that hurt my chin. One year I wore the hat without the elastic. It was windy that year. Windy years and calm, I believe I was always a witch. I don’t believe there are any photos to prove it. I liked being a witch. What else can I say?
There is, however, one photograph of me on Halloween. I am an adult in the photograph. My mother was not around to make me a pointy hat, and hat-making has never been a talent of mine, so David made me a hat. It was a memorable evening. I went as a sunflower. I don’t recall the party, but I do remember putting on the costume and feeling like—like—like a sunflower, bright and perky, an unusual situation for a sunflower on Halloween in Edmonton, just about as unusual as Wendy in a costume.
Susan is my niece. She probably wouldn’t have written to me had I not begged her to do so. She used to write to me when she was travelling and I have found that life gets a little bit boring without her letters. The subject of her letter (because it was an email it had a subject) was: An Update On Susan’s Life In Edmonton. She would not likely have mentioned the Waldo costumes, were it not for the fact that she was finding it a struggle to think of interesting things to tell me about her everyday life—going to work, evening classes etc. The costumes were something a little different, a little more interesting. It got me to wondering how much Susan knows about my daily life. Probably very little. If she were to ask what I’d been up to lately, I’d probably say Not much. Then I’d think up the only extraordinary thing that’s happened to me in the past month and tell her about it. The rest of the details I would leave for her to take for granted.
I am told that archaeologists develop a passion for knowing the ordinary details of lives lived in the past. They dig and scrape and survey and catalog in a frenzied attempt to figure out what people ate for breakfast, how they cooked it, and why their neighbours a hundred miles away ate something different. Most of the details are fashioned through informed speculation which may, or may not be well-informed. I wonder how many of these same archaeologists go home after a hard day’s work, never stopping to notice the details of their own daily lives, never quite taking the time to catalog them for the educational benefit of future archaeologists. The relative interestingness of current detail is subject to many variables, distance and familiarity being two.
Come to think of it, Halloween is not the only event which is under represented in our photo albums. I wonder if there is a single picture of me cooking supper, or doing the dishes, or shopping for groceries, or getting on the bus at Corona Station. Future photo lookers will undoubtedly conclude that I opened a lot of presents and took a lot of vacations. Will they think I had a full-time cook? And if they deduce that routine events were seldom photographed, how will they explain the presence of only one sunflower photo? Will they surmise that I probably dressed up as a sunflower on a regular basis, thereby rendering the event unworthy of further recognition?
After so many hours of listening while sad people tell me what they believe to be the interesting parts of their life stories, I think I am developing an appreciation for both the exceptional and the normal. We need the normal to keep us grounded, to give us security. We need the exceptional to shake us up occasionally, to change our position in life. Exceptional things throw us off balance and increase our core strength. It is the core strength that gives us the ability to re-establish our balance. Too bad we fall into the trap of thinking that the normal is boring.
I myself am pretty attached to normal, though I admit to an occasional rash decision based on the need to break the pattern. Had I received Susan’s letter last week, I likely would have vowed to dress up on some future Halloween, not because I like dressing up, not even because that sunflower costume was comfortable. Heaven knows I can still remember sweating like a sprinkler under the brown polyester centre while trying to relieve the future scalp blisters by fiddling with the poky petal-wires. But when I read Susan’s letter I immediately felt the connectedness, that moment of fun when you and your friends get to laughing and taking pictures.
How grateful am I that another letter, one that arrived on Halloween, threw me off balance, thereby saving me from the tyranny of the costume Susan’s letter would undoubtedly have inspired! The letter came from Linda. It was a thank-you letter. In farewell it said: Happy Halloween Wendy, the good witch of North Riverdale! I only met Linda recently. She doesn’t know I used to be a witch. She doesn’t even know about my brief stint as a sunflower! She probably thinks I never dress up on Halloween. But when I read that letter I felt really connected. And just for a minute I felt like a kid again, pointy hat and all, counting up the candy.
Susan says it’s fun to dress up, and even more fun to have a photo session with your friends before you leave for the party. That’s the jolly time, the optimistic time, the hour when you feel connected yet certain of your uniqueness. If there are going to be other Waldos at the party, you don’t yet know it.
Those to whom I am connected, in contrast, tend not to photograph me on Halloween. Admittedly there’s not much to photograph, seeing as how I look like the same Wendy you’d photograph any other day, except for wedding days when there tend to be a lot of photos of me dressed up, and Christmas mornings when the focus is on the gift I am holding not the outfit I am wearing. When I was a kid I used to dress up as a witch. I wore an old black cape and a pointy hat my mother made of cardboard and crepe paper. The hat had an elastic that hurt my chin. One year I wore the hat without the elastic. It was windy that year. Windy years and calm, I believe I was always a witch. I don’t believe there are any photos to prove it. I liked being a witch. What else can I say?
There is, however, one photograph of me on Halloween. I am an adult in the photograph. My mother was not around to make me a pointy hat, and hat-making has never been a talent of mine, so David made me a hat. It was a memorable evening. I went as a sunflower. I don’t recall the party, but I do remember putting on the costume and feeling like—like—like a sunflower, bright and perky, an unusual situation for a sunflower on Halloween in Edmonton, just about as unusual as Wendy in a costume.
Susan is my niece. She probably wouldn’t have written to me had I not begged her to do so. She used to write to me when she was travelling and I have found that life gets a little bit boring without her letters. The subject of her letter (because it was an email it had a subject) was: An Update On Susan’s Life In Edmonton. She would not likely have mentioned the Waldo costumes, were it not for the fact that she was finding it a struggle to think of interesting things to tell me about her everyday life—going to work, evening classes etc. The costumes were something a little different, a little more interesting. It got me to wondering how much Susan knows about my daily life. Probably very little. If she were to ask what I’d been up to lately, I’d probably say Not much. Then I’d think up the only extraordinary thing that’s happened to me in the past month and tell her about it. The rest of the details I would leave for her to take for granted.
I am told that archaeologists develop a passion for knowing the ordinary details of lives lived in the past. They dig and scrape and survey and catalog in a frenzied attempt to figure out what people ate for breakfast, how they cooked it, and why their neighbours a hundred miles away ate something different. Most of the details are fashioned through informed speculation which may, or may not be well-informed. I wonder how many of these same archaeologists go home after a hard day’s work, never stopping to notice the details of their own daily lives, never quite taking the time to catalog them for the educational benefit of future archaeologists. The relative interestingness of current detail is subject to many variables, distance and familiarity being two.
Come to think of it, Halloween is not the only event which is under represented in our photo albums. I wonder if there is a single picture of me cooking supper, or doing the dishes, or shopping for groceries, or getting on the bus at Corona Station. Future photo lookers will undoubtedly conclude that I opened a lot of presents and took a lot of vacations. Will they think I had a full-time cook? And if they deduce that routine events were seldom photographed, how will they explain the presence of only one sunflower photo? Will they surmise that I probably dressed up as a sunflower on a regular basis, thereby rendering the event unworthy of further recognition?
After so many hours of listening while sad people tell me what they believe to be the interesting parts of their life stories, I think I am developing an appreciation for both the exceptional and the normal. We need the normal to keep us grounded, to give us security. We need the exceptional to shake us up occasionally, to change our position in life. Exceptional things throw us off balance and increase our core strength. It is the core strength that gives us the ability to re-establish our balance. Too bad we fall into the trap of thinking that the normal is boring.
I myself am pretty attached to normal, though I admit to an occasional rash decision based on the need to break the pattern. Had I received Susan’s letter last week, I likely would have vowed to dress up on some future Halloween, not because I like dressing up, not even because that sunflower costume was comfortable. Heaven knows I can still remember sweating like a sprinkler under the brown polyester centre while trying to relieve the future scalp blisters by fiddling with the poky petal-wires. But when I read Susan’s letter I immediately felt the connectedness, that moment of fun when you and your friends get to laughing and taking pictures.
How grateful am I that another letter, one that arrived on Halloween, threw me off balance, thereby saving me from the tyranny of the costume Susan’s letter would undoubtedly have inspired! The letter came from Linda. It was a thank-you letter. In farewell it said: Happy Halloween Wendy, the good witch of North Riverdale! I only met Linda recently. She doesn’t know I used to be a witch. She doesn’t even know about my brief stint as a sunflower! She probably thinks I never dress up on Halloween. But when I read that letter I felt really connected. And just for a minute I felt like a kid again, pointy hat and all, counting up the candy.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
BREAD MEMORIES
I made buns this morning, soft dinner rolls, cinnamon rolls fragrant and sweet. David made fried bread with some of the dough and served it hot with cheese for me to nibble while I formed the cinnamon buns. It was just like old times.
I started baking buns 35 years ago to please my new husband. I used his mother’s recipe. His mother was kind of thrilled and she kept on baking them too. It wasn’t a competition. She seemed constantly to be changing up the ingredients with some brown flour, less sugar, and healthy additions of bran or Sunny Boy porridge. My buns, in contrast, didn’t change much. Some brown flour did creep in during one health phase, but mostly we liked them the way they were. For her it was a win-win situation. It was flattering that I made them the old way, and she didn’t have to be bored to tears.
I haven’t made buns in a few years. I wanted to, but things got complicated. My mom got sick and my back got bad and my shoulder flared up with tendonitis. Then we started going to the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings to buy bread from Baker Bill or Cinnamon Girl. We lived fine without my buns, no doubt about that.
But this morning was one of those Saturdays when we didn’t have to go anywhere and my back didn’t hurt and my shoulder was fine. I remembered the time the TV repairman came just as I was packaging up cinnamon buns I’d promised to a bake sale. “Oh,” he cried, “It smells wonderful in here!”
Like I said, they were all packaged up for the bake sale, so, instead of unpackaging them and giving the money to the bake sale, I ignored his compliments, his hopeful hints. I’m still regretting that.
I remembered all the Saturday mornings when I’d call the kids from their date with Saturday morning cartoons. Up from the basement they’d come. Each would take a small glass pan, grease it with margarine, lift a sizable lump of dough, and start the process of creating bun people. Out of the cupboard would come the raisins, the walnuts, the chocolate chips (Bun people need a lot of buttons and facial decoration). Down the hatch would go copious quantities of raisins, nuts and chocolate chips (growing bakers need sustenance for the work ahead). Out of the oven would come the bun people, adorned with squishy chocolate melt and singed raisins. Down the hatch would go the lot.
This morning, as I kneaded the dough, recalling the perfect stretch and give between my hands, punching and pressing with mounting glee, I imagined the scene in two hours or so. Out would come the cinnamon buns, sweet and warm and smelling like Heaven itself. Out would come Mark, opening the door of his upstairs apartment, coffee cup in hand, calling “Something smells good down here!”
He would remember his childhood! I would glow. I would bow. Everything would be perfect!
And this is how it happened. Out came the cinnamon buns sweet and warm and smelling like Heaven itself. Out came Mark, coffee cup in hand from his upstairs apartment. “Something smells good down here,” he called. In the sound of his voice I knew that something was wrong. But what was wrong? What could be wrong? I pondered the question as he started down the stairs.
In only a moment I had the answer. Mark was carrying more than just his coffee cup. Both his hands were full. He and Tracy had made cinnamon buns. He was bringing them for breakfast.
“How terrible!” I cried in anguish. “To have waited so long and then have two lots in one day! How terrible!”
But Mark was having none of it as he sat at the table, eating a bun he had brought. “They're not the same," he said. "Ours have raisins. How can it possibly be terrible,” he asked, “to have a few extra cinnamon buns?”
And so, as I lick my lips, awed to observe the passage of things among the generations, I am left wondering: How can it possibly be terrible?
I started baking buns 35 years ago to please my new husband. I used his mother’s recipe. His mother was kind of thrilled and she kept on baking them too. It wasn’t a competition. She seemed constantly to be changing up the ingredients with some brown flour, less sugar, and healthy additions of bran or Sunny Boy porridge. My buns, in contrast, didn’t change much. Some brown flour did creep in during one health phase, but mostly we liked them the way they were. For her it was a win-win situation. It was flattering that I made them the old way, and she didn’t have to be bored to tears.
I haven’t made buns in a few years. I wanted to, but things got complicated. My mom got sick and my back got bad and my shoulder flared up with tendonitis. Then we started going to the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings to buy bread from Baker Bill or Cinnamon Girl. We lived fine without my buns, no doubt about that.
But this morning was one of those Saturdays when we didn’t have to go anywhere and my back didn’t hurt and my shoulder was fine. I remembered the time the TV repairman came just as I was packaging up cinnamon buns I’d promised to a bake sale. “Oh,” he cried, “It smells wonderful in here!”
Like I said, they were all packaged up for the bake sale, so, instead of unpackaging them and giving the money to the bake sale, I ignored his compliments, his hopeful hints. I’m still regretting that.
I remembered all the Saturday mornings when I’d call the kids from their date with Saturday morning cartoons. Up from the basement they’d come. Each would take a small glass pan, grease it with margarine, lift a sizable lump of dough, and start the process of creating bun people. Out of the cupboard would come the raisins, the walnuts, the chocolate chips (Bun people need a lot of buttons and facial decoration). Down the hatch would go copious quantities of raisins, nuts and chocolate chips (growing bakers need sustenance for the work ahead). Out of the oven would come the bun people, adorned with squishy chocolate melt and singed raisins. Down the hatch would go the lot.
This morning, as I kneaded the dough, recalling the perfect stretch and give between my hands, punching and pressing with mounting glee, I imagined the scene in two hours or so. Out would come the cinnamon buns, sweet and warm and smelling like Heaven itself. Out would come Mark, opening the door of his upstairs apartment, coffee cup in hand, calling “Something smells good down here!”
He would remember his childhood! I would glow. I would bow. Everything would be perfect!
And this is how it happened. Out came the cinnamon buns sweet and warm and smelling like Heaven itself. Out came Mark, coffee cup in hand from his upstairs apartment. “Something smells good down here,” he called. In the sound of his voice I knew that something was wrong. But what was wrong? What could be wrong? I pondered the question as he started down the stairs.
In only a moment I had the answer. Mark was carrying more than just his coffee cup. Both his hands were full. He and Tracy had made cinnamon buns. He was bringing them for breakfast.
“How terrible!” I cried in anguish. “To have waited so long and then have two lots in one day! How terrible!”
But Mark was having none of it as he sat at the table, eating a bun he had brought. “They're not the same," he said. "Ours have raisins. How can it possibly be terrible,” he asked, “to have a few extra cinnamon buns?”
And so, as I lick my lips, awed to observe the passage of things among the generations, I am left wondering: How can it possibly be terrible?
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