HELP IS ON THE WAY

For people with chronic pain

I wrote to the Edmonton Journal in response to their series on chronic pain. I wrote because the series was a good informational series that seemed to leave no hope at all beyond the eventual hope of a cure. In response to the letter from me to the edmonton Journal, Linda Baker wrote: Hi Wendy,
   I wanted to thank you for writing that letter about people suffering from chronic pain.  I, too, suffer from chronic pain - for 16 years now and I really
did not have any hope at all of feeling better until we moved to Edmonton and we found our wonderful doctor, Dr. Shute.  He really understood what I was
going through and didn't hesitate to offer me morphine for the pain.  He made such a difference in my life!  My hope is that there will be more research
on chronic pain and maybe some day, people will not have to suffer as they do now.  Your letter reaffirms that we shouldn't give up and there is hope for
chronic pain sufferers.  There are resources out there and we should spread the word. For too long now, we've been under-treated or not treated at all;
particularly women (it's all in our heads you know!)  My doctor in Westlock refused to have the opioid conversation with me as she asserted that I would
become addicted.  That we know is a fallacy.  We don't become addicted; we rejoin life.
Thanks again Wendy - I hope a lot of people read your letter!
Linda

MARK MY WORDS

And it came to pass that, after our Thanksgiving dinner,
When Mark had made the after-dinner walk especially fun for 11-year-old abbey,
And retrieved Pirate from his frolic in the bush,
And dealt the cards that weren’t a complete deck,
And re-dealt a better deck, but not quite right because the number of players kept changing,
And dealt again, then dealt again for Abbey, and for me, and for Aunty Donna,

Yes it came to pass that I promised to be grateful for Mark,
For all the things he does just because,
He can make the world a better place.
And to say that I am grateful—say it with feeling!

THANKSGIVING BY THE DOZEN

It was in City Hall Not in a church That representatives of 12 faith traditions Gathered on a Wednesday night To welcome each other, To support each other, To say prayers of Thanksgiving.

CHANGE OF PLAN

Me: “What do you think of our new lady Premier?”. I admit that I was baiting him. Him: “Oh, I guess we’ll see how she makes out. I voted for her, you know.” Me: “really?” Him: “Yes. I always said I’d never want a woman there. But health and education are important, and that’s what she was talking about. I didn’t vote for her on the first ballot, but I did the second time around.” Just one more thing to remember when I get to thinking that people don’t change.

LIFE CHANGES

"Life changes fast." --Joan dideon Life changes fast. Didion didn't say it in a hopeful way, but from a hope perspective, the fact can be a good thing.

HOMEWORK 2: ABOUT MY NAME

As a little girl I planned only two things for my grown-up years: I would have my birthmark removed, and I would change my name to anything but Wendy. In retrospect, these seem like small plans, given that my more focused contemporaries were dreaming of marriage, wealth and career advancement. But I held the theory that once my birthmark had been vanquished and my name changed to anything but Wendy, other things would be able to fall in behind. Now the birthmark, as my mother liked to point out when I mentioned it, was a harmless hill on my left cheek. Covered in soft brown hair it had the texture of a grassy knoll and spanned a circumference that would nicely have framed a fifty-cent piece. “Distinctive,” is what my mother called it in a fruitless effort to free me. Having survived medically necessary surgeries on a variety of body parts, she was disinclined to show any enthusiasm for surgery for beauty’s sake alone. I, in contrast, wrapped in a cloak of surgical innocence, remained steadfastly convinced that no mere operation could rival the indignity of wearing a big, brown, hairy birthmark. “What’s that?” babies would ask their mothers, pointing at the hideous thing. Cringing in embarrassment, I told all who noticed it that it would be coming off my face soon and hoped that Mother would soon come to see the wisdom of my declaration. . Mother said in a compromising tone that, when I was a grown up, I could make up my own mind about the surgery, though she, herself, would never recommend it. On the subject of changing my name some day, she was a little more flexible. Had it been her favourite name for a daughter, she might have been defensive. But Wendy was, in fact, her fourth-favourite. Her favourite name for a girl was Donna, and that name had long since been assigned to my eldest sister. The second sister had claimed Sandra, the second favourite name. The third favourite name, Diane, was reserved for use in case they should accidentally produce a third daughter while trying to have a son. But though I followed Sandra into the family, my mother overheard a conversation that changed her plans while I was still wriggling inside her. My aunt was heard to say that she intended to call her unborn daughter Diane. And so my mother opted for Wendy, publicly pretending—most of the time—that she thought it a good name. It was fashionable in those days to assume that any girl named Wendy must have been named in honour of Wendy Darling, the motherly little girl created by J.M Barrie to stand guard over her family amid the playful antics of the rascally Peter Pan. It’s a great story, and many a modern Wendy is said to be her namesake. I, however, am not one of these. My mother simply heard the name somewhere, and liked it fourth best among the names she considered giving to daughters. In childhood I cared neither for J.M. Barrie’s creation nor my mother’s name preferences. Being a Wendy was almost as humiliating as having a brown, hairy birthmark and I wished the curse of death by mosquito bites on every playground bully who ever called me WindyWendy As adulthood approached I occasionally indulged in tantalizing daydreams about the pleasant life led by a clear-faced woman named Karen, or was it Elaine? But then, before I had found the time and energy to seek out a surgeon, the birthmark sprang to life and grew with such enthusiasm that doctors insisted upon its removal and urged me to sign papers saying I was willing to submit the future landscape of my cheek to a plastic surgeon. It wasn’t until surgery day that I met the surgeon in question, a miserable fellow with all the bedside charm you’d expect of a rhinoceros. By the time I emerged from a half hour with him snipping, tugging, stitching and barking at the nurses, and subsequently survived the ripping off of bandages, I had decided to stick with the name Wendy. Perhaps, I mused, not being personally acquainted with any official name changers, I should leave well enough alone, maybe even try to like the name I was given. Wendy, it is said, is a modern derivation of older Welsh names with similar sounds, Gwendolyn, for example, and Guinevere. But it was J.M. Barrie who made the name famous. Legend has it that a little girl named Margaret Henley adored J.M. Barrie and called him Friendy, except that she wasn’t good at making the R sound. So her term of endearment sounded like Fwendy. Thinking of Margaret, he named his heroine Wendy, and the rest is history. Not surprisingly, dictionaries of baby names claim that the name Wendy means “friend”. Odd at this point to remember that the birthmark and the name once shared space in a single category of my consciousness. For the round, brown hairy birthmark has long since been reduced to a straight hairless scar, while the name has become a friend-maker. Occasionally I am introduced to one of my kind. “Wendy, meet Wendy.” As we smile in a shared greeting, I am only mildly surprise to hear myself say, “Good name, isn’t it?” To read more about the Wendys of the world, go to THE HISTORY OF WENDY

STRAIGHT LINES

When I get to thinking I would rather be Somebody who can walk a straight line, Shortest distance to the end point, Brief, efficient journey Taking advice from the ones who advise: “Focus on home while at home.” “Focus on work while at work.” “Know where you’re going and how to get there.” Then it’s time to stop and notice That some of my proudest moments Are remnants of the days When the lines of my life went crooked, Accidentally intersected, And taught me something. I learned something new while thinking about my relationship to straight lines. Research shows that human beings do not possess inate ability to walk straight. Read more at Why Can’t We Walk Straight? pride, positive emotions,

HOMEWORK

In the interest of interest, one of the ten positive emotions, I decided to spend three Saturday mornings at Grant MacEwan College, Writing Creative Fiction with instructor Kath MacLean. The first class was yesterday. Today I’m experiencing the side effects: homework. First on the list is the task of articulating my goals as a cnf writer. There’s space for three goals. Hmmmmm! My goals! This would be easy if I were a better goal-setter. Sometimes it’s better to move past the questions you can’t answer to the ones you can answer. Second on the list is the task of choosing a book. I am to choose a book that exemplifies the genre that most interests me as a writer of cnf. Shall I choose Beyond Belfast by Will Ferguson? Maybe. I do seem to like that book. I have been reluctant to delete it from the memory of my tiny talking book reader. But then, probably any book by Will Ferguson would do. But then there’s a bit of a snag. If I choose a book by Will Ferguson, I’ll wonder why I didn’t choose a book by Gary Lautens. Any book by Gary Lautens would probably do. I particularly like Peace, Mrs. Packard and the Meaning of life. Maybe I’ll choose it. If I choose that book, I’ll wonder why I neglected to choose a book by Greg Clark. Any book by Greg Clark would probably do. I could make it easier and choose Greg’s Choice. That would be a good choice. The only thing is, choosing any of these books would prevent me from choosing anything by Robert Fulghum, and that would be a shame. Any book by Robert Fulghum would probably do. Perhaps the best choice would be maybe—Maybe Not. Come to think of it, it might just be easier to define my personal goals than to choose a single book. Suppose I abandon the task of selecting a book, and consider the other assignment: stating my personal goals as a cnf writer. There are three spaces on the empty list. 1. I want to do writing that helps me think about my world in a way that makes me want to live in it. When I read books by Ferguson, or Lautens, or Clark, or Fulghum, I find I want to live in the worlds they write about. They, of course, are different from me. They have made a living with their writing, which could be my second goal, only it isn’t. If I wanted to make a living at something I’d probably study it on a Wednesday, or maybe a Monday afternoon. I’d be taking a rest from it on Saturday. . 2. I want to chuckle more. Ferguson, Lautens, Clark and Fulghum make me chuckle. But you can’t always be relying on others. I used to have a plaque that said, “Those who learn to laugh at themselves never cease to be amused.” 3. I want to play as I write, to play with emotions, with ideas, with the ever-changing truth. And if the things I write are not exactly true, well, then at least I hope they are entertaining.

LOVE

THINGS I LEARNED ABOUT BLUE AND GREEN OVER THE PAST WEEK That a lot of people in my world like blue and green together That the tipping point for blue and green together comes when you mix two shades of blue with green before 6 AM That a person who accidentally wears green with blue, even with two shades of blue is still worthy of love.

AMUSEMENT

“You’re wearing a green top,” he says. “With blue pants,” he says. We are hurrying through the airport. Our seats are confirmed. Our suitcase has hit the conveyer belt. The time is 5:58 AM. I run my hand along the neck of my shirt. It’s smooth, no ridge denoting the change of colour from blue to white. He is right. The green top is occupying the spot where the blue and white top ought to be. I hate him! “You could have told me before we left home,” I grumble. “You could have told me before we sent the suitcase down the line,” I bluster. “You could have just kept it to yourself and not told me until we had the suitcase back and I could do something about it,” I rage. “Yes,” he said. “But it’s early, and I just noticed it, and you usually dress yourself.” He is right again. I hate him. We are proceeding, arm in arm, along the concourse. We are not speaking. It’s quiet here, but not peaceful. I am hearing the voices of my childhood. When I was a kid, adults would tell me important things that every blind child needed to know. When I was a kid, people would say, “You’ve got to learn that people see you, even though you don’t see them. So don’t do things you wouldn’t want to see if you were a sighted person.” Modern English translation: Don’t wear green shirts with blue pants!!!!!!! Wearing a green top with blue pants, I am walking with my husband along a quiet concourse at 6:00 AM on Saturday morning. Quiet though it may be, I squirm under the critical scrutiny of a thousand eyes. Could I have counted wrong? Are there ten thousand eyes, twenty maybe? “Stop a moment,” I say. “I’ll button up my sweater.” The blue sweater now pulls tightly across my front. Only a thin green line shows above. “But we’re going through Security,” he says. “We usually take sweaters off.” “I’ll wear the look of a woman who has nothing to hide,” I declare. At 6:08 AM, wearing the look of a woman who has nothing to hide, assuring the screener that I am carrying no liquids, I try to remember whether, on past trips, I have ever been subjected to a lie detector test. That’s what gets me thinking about past trips. This particular trip is a short trip, all trips considered, only a couple of days. We’ll be home before we notice ourselves gone. I didn’t give its preparation a lot of thought. Maybe that explains why I am wearing a green top with blue pants. Maybe that explains why I didn’t dream the dream I often dream before I take a trip. Here is the dream I didn’t dream. I am at the airport, standing in a line. My ticket is in my hand, my suitcase has hit the conveyer belt. I shiver a little. It is cold in here, and I am naked. Naked? I am naked? Oh no! What should I do? Crouching forward, my right arm stretched across my breasts, my left arm shielding lower parts, the back end fending for itself, I try to think. Should I go home now, leave my suitcase and go home? How could I go home? A naked person can hardly find a service clerk and ask to hail a cab. Shall I simply go on, pretend I don’t know I am naked? People might buy that. They think the blind have no idea what they are wearing. And so it goes, on and on, fussing, figuring, dithering, indecision for as long as it takes for me to wake up. The dream I have so often dreamed, the dream I didn’t dream for this trip, never ends. I never find out what happens next, never have the luxury of making the choice. But on this particular morning, things move along. At 6:13 AM, on the other side of Security, touching the thin green strip along my neck, in that liberated space where we are again allowed to carry liquids, I reach a decision. I have decided not to hate this man. It is, after all is said and done, very early, and I do usually dress myself without incident. Our little trip is so short that it seems a shame to waste any of it hating someone. And ultimately, perhaps the most important thing of all, I actually got a chance to live a milder-and-more-comprehensive version of that tiresome old dream. It’s nice to know it ended well.

PRIDE

And when Lawrence brought in a huge trophy: Employee Of The Week!  That was pride for a mom.

INSPIRATION

There are teachers in my world
Working through the weekend,
Learning names of students
Writing WELCOME messages
Soothing anxious parents
Making friends with colleagues
Seeking help from mentors
Cleaning messy classrooms,
Bursting with excitement

How could I fail to be inspired?

JOY

Joy is: (though not exclusively nor necessarily in this order)
Laughing aloud at something he said in his sleep, and waking him up to laugh with me
Hugging her when she meets us at the airport
Throwing the ball when he leaps to catch it
The warm hello at work after holidays
The nights when all of us joke in the kitchen
The enchanting fragrance of sweetpea, evening scented stock, acidanthra
The juicy chin drip from the fresh fruit of summer
A thousand birds in the hedge and the yard
The days when I grin and ask: “Do you think you might be done needing counselling?” and my smile is returned with a simple: “I truly believe that I am.”
DARK CHOCOLATE!!!

RIVERDALE SUNFLOWERS

The sunflower blooms beside the sweet peas,
Bushy abundant, dozens of blossoms.
Descended from a lineage of Riverdale sunflowers
How the line started, nobody remembers.

Its cousins have rooted in cracks along driveways,
In patches of clay where no hand will remove them
One tiny flower adorning each stem
Producing enough tiny seeds to keep going.

But once in a blue moon a seed will drift onto
A spot where the rain can begin to ignite it.
And then if the humans too late with their weeding
Continue the nurture as if they had planted it,
Then one in a million old Riverdale sunflowers
Will grow as a tree sprouting multiple granches
Resplendid with blossoms, the radiance of joy!
The parent of ten million new possibilities,
The infinite future of Riverdale sunflowers.

Lucky are we at those magical hours
To witness the good that can come from nurturing
Ideals and talents and people and sometimes
The visiting seed of a Riverdale sunflower.

CHRONIC PAIN MEETS POSITIVE EMOTIONS

IF WE DON’T PLAY FIRST, HOW WILL WE DO OUR WORK?” (Lenora M. LeMay)

Chronic Physical Pain: I don’t like to be paranoid, but I believe the people at the Hope Foundation are out to get me. They’re putting on more of those hope and strengths groups for my sufferers. They’re bringing in positive emotions to work against me. It’s not fair.
Awe: isn’t that amazing? A few years ago nobody would have thought you should pit positive emotions against chronic pain. And now, here’s Pain, claiming it’s not a fair fight.
Gratitude: That’s something to be thankful for.
Joy: How absolutely delightful. I’m thrilled.
Amusement: I think it’s rather funny. Chronic Pain is such a monster that not even the medical profession can vanquish it. And here it is whining about fairness.
Pride: Yes, it is most satisfying to see how much attention we positive emotions are getting in the psychological research. Barbara Fredrickson says we broaden the repertoire of potential responses and build resources. It seems like people who have us find more options for themselves and more ways of getting the things they need. That’s why we’ve been asked to square off against Chronic Pain. There are people out there who believe we can really make a difference.
Pain: But it’s not fair. Here we have ten positive emotions fighting against little old me. I have been around a long time, and I know that ten to one fighting is not fair. I say you make it a fair fight. Choose one positive emotion. One to one. That’s fair.
Inspiration: I have an idea that might solve this. If Pain insists on having only one opponent, we should send Hope. Hope is the most complex of us all, and the only one that’s equipped to focus on the future. People with chronic pain need to be able to hope for a good future. Yes, I do believe that Hope can go in alone. Raise your hands if you agree,
Hope: Not so fast. I have my doubts about the wisdom of sending me in alone against Pain.
Serenity: Don’t worry. Hope always has doubts. That’s what distinguishes it from positive thinking and optimism.
Pain: I hope they don’t send Hope. It gets people thinking that they could have a good future, and I find that very threatening.
Hope: But I still don’t want to go in alone. We positive emotions have done it together and it has worked out well. I wouldn’t want to try it without your support. You’ve all been there to help. I am a helpful conversation piece. People can think about me, and talk about me, and make me the centre of activities, and it’s good when they feel me.
Pride: Actually, you have a bit of each of us in you.
Hope: That may be true. But each of you makes a special contribution. I say we all go together. Usually there’s more than one way to get what you need. Is there some other way of thinking about Pain’s complaints?
Inspiration: I suggest we send interest over to have a look at Chronic Pain. Maybe Interest will be able to notice something that will help us decide who should join the fight. Go on over, Interest. Take a look.
Interest: hello Chronic Pain. I’ve come over for a closer examination of your corner. Now that I have a better view, I see you’ve been misleading us a little. You are hardly here alone.
Pain: Of course I am. It’s just me against all of you. Not fair, I say.
Interest: Oh no you’re not. You are taking all the credit. But some others are acting alongside you. Fatigue is over here, tiring out the people who have to live with you, and Disappointment is demoralizing them when they try to find solutions. Hiding behind you I see Isolation, keeping your sufferers away from their friends and routine activities. And who is this over here on the left? Is it Despair? Why, yes it is. How are people supposed to take advantage of opportunities and resources if they don’t expect anything good to happen? And there’s Depression keeping its head down, making people feel like they’re not worth helping. Shame on you for whining. You aren’t alone at all. I say it’s a fair fight. Positive emotions against you and your team. We all should go in.
Awe: Nice job, interest. A case well stated.
Pain: okay okay. So I admit that my sufferers might be feeling more than me alone. But it still won’t be a fair fight. The leaders of the Hope Foundation groups are against me. They don’t give me a fair hearing. It starts on the first day.
Interest: Tell us more about what happens.
Pain: The sufferers come in, thinking mostly of me. Then the leaders just ignore me. First they make people feel welcome.
Love: That’s where I begin, with the warm welcome.
Pain: Then, instead of acknowledging me and giving me the right to speak for every sufferer, they get people to introduce themselves in ways they never expected. They don’t even mention me.
Joy & Amusement: Yes, it is a pleasure to be there for introductions. We’re always there at introductions.
Pain: After they get going, the leaders help them brainstorm about hope. I can’t stand it when the sufferers start brainstorming ideas about hope. Pretty soon they all think they are poets or something.
Hope & Inspiration: It does set a lovely tone, doesn’t it?
Pain: Near the end of the first session they start talking about hope suckers. I’m usually on the list of hope-suckers they mention, of course. But even then, I hear people giggling. How can I have power if people don’t take me seriously?
Amusement: Laughing and being truthful at the same time. They’re mentioning their discouragements and laughing at the idea of hope-suckers. I love it.
Pain: Sometimes nobody mentions me at the end of the day. I feel so small when that happens. But the second day is just as bad, or maybe worse. They start making those hope collages. It wouldn’t be so bad if they’d stick to picking pictures of things they hope for. I could definitely get in the way of that. But then they start picking out pictures of beautiful scenery.
Awe: That’s me at work.
Pain: It’s disgusting. They start choosing pictures of happy families.
Love: That’s my territory.
Pain: They’re always showing pictures of things they like to do.
Joy: It does get very pleasant.
Pain: Worst of all, it seems to be contagious. All that pleasantness and awe starts spreading. It’s like a disease and it’s hard to stop once it gets going. And there’s always something about peace and patience in those collage pictures. Don’t bother saying anything Serenity. I recognize your hand in it.
Amusement: Pain certainly is going on and on. It’s being positively chronic.
Gratitude: Thank goodness we sent Interest over to stir things up. I now see that we all have a part. Hope ought not to have to face it alone.
Pain: Pay attention to me. I am not finished yet. On the third day those leaders get going on strengths. Depression has a terrible time with that. You can almost see people getting bolder, prouder.
Pride: Oh, I love it. Depression is my worst enemy.
Pain; But that’s not the end of it. By the fourth session, they’ve started paying attention to me. But are ,my sufferers complaining, letting me have the day? No! They’re making lists of resources, sharing information on ways of putting me down. All sorts of things come to light. One person knows something and pretty soon everybody knows it.
Awe: They actually start talking about things that help them.
Interest: And they get excited about searching for options.
Pain: How am I to defend myself against all that?
Gratitude: Can’t you just be happy that they’re dealing with you? You were complaining about being ignored.
Pain: The worst thing about the strengths and resources is that they start to build up Hope.
Amusement: I get a kick out of watching Hope sneak in, growing a little bigger all the time. Maybe on the first week Hope is the subject of a little amateur poetry. But on the last day, people are laughing about the future and imagining all sorts of adventures. Hope seems to be running the show.
Love: Don’t forget about me. The people with pain always say they hate to leave. They get rather attached to each other, and to the leaders, and to us. They remember that Isolation made them lonely and they don’t want it back. I guess they really aren’t too keen on facing Pain alone.
Pain: I don’t see why. I’m not nearly as powerful at the end as I am at the beginning. All those positive emotions release hormones that work against me. The sufferers aren’t nearly as willing to bow down to me. They’ve got their new friends and their new resources. They’ve got funny things to remember and pictures to look at. They’ve got ideas of things to try. Even if I stay around, I am not nearly the force I used to be.
Interest: Well, Pain, I have assessed the situation from many perspectives and I do believe you are justified in being fearful. Over the next few years there will be a lot more research that will help us find more effective ways of handling you. The medical people are working on it, and the psychology people too.
Hope: Sounds like there’s good reason to have me. When it comes to your future, Chronic Pain, I think you can expect to meet some stiff opposition. In the meantime, we positive emotions, your sufferers and the Hope Foundation leaders will be at the Hope Foundation on Tuesdays this fall, waiting to take you on.

ON BEING A GROUNDED COUNSELLOR

What do counsellors of broken people have in common with forest fire spotters who study the landscape from lonely towers?

The answer lies in this quote: "You can't go there to find yourself. You have to like yourself," (Tim Klein, Alberta's provincial wildfire detection co-ordinator, Edmonton Journal, Aug. 21, 2011.)

AWRY

Me: You seem a little down today. What’s up?
Myself: Oh, nothing really. I’m just a bit worried about retirement.
Me: Retirement! Worried about retirement?
Myself: Yes. I’m worried that I might not be happy in retirement.
Me: Okay. Let’s just think about this for a minute. We’re now on the second to last day of a 3-week holiday, right?
Myself: Right.
Me: And we have had a wonderful time doing relatively simple things at low cost. Right?
Myself: Right.
Me: We’ve had time to read. Right?
Myself: Right.
Me: We’ve had time to write. Right?
Myself: To write? Right.
Me: We’ve had time to garden. Right?
Myself: Right.
Me: We’ve done some fabulous exploring. We even learned a lot of new things on the free tour of downtown. Right?
Myself: Right.
Me: Sounds like good practice for retirement.
Myself: Right.
Me: When are you thinking we would retire?
Myself: Oh, we’re not ready for retirement yet. We still love working, at least I do. I am quite certain that retirement is a long way off.
Me: So tell me then. Why are you worrying about whether you will be happy in retirement?

This blog post sponsored by AWRY (Associated Worriers about Retirement Years)

HOT DIGGITY DOG!

Pirate: I have some concerns and perhaps we ought to discuss them.
Me: Oh. What’s on your mind?
I see you’ve been reading Internet articles about how to deal with dogs who dig.
Me: Yes.
Pirate: Is it because of that cute new hole I started in the lily patch?
Me: Not entirely.
Pirate: Is it because David caught me digging up the gladioli?
Me: Well, not entirely.
Pirate: Is it because David fell in the hole I dug in the raspberries.
Me: Well, maybe that’s part of it.
Pirate: You aren’t still mad about the holes I dig in the lawn every spring, are you?
Me: Don’t be ridiculous! You know I’ve never been one to hold a grudge. But I do wonder why it isn’t enough for you to have the three holes we’ve allowed you to dig behind the peonies.
Pirate: What does the Internet suggest?
Me: It says you might be bored, or anxious. It says we should install electrice fences, or put balloons in your holes to scareyou when you dig, or go out in thenight and dig up all the things you bury.
Pirate: And ...
Me: It suggests that we spend more time playing with you, build you a sandbox to play in, take you to behavior classes, give up gardening when we are in your sightline, or give you to people who don’t mind a few dozen holes in their yards.
Pirate: Perhaps you should be told that, at this point in life, I’d rather not be given away.
Me: Okay.
Pirate: And I’d rather not be shocked by a fence.
Me: Okay.
Pirate: And I already know that you garden. So there’s no pint in sneaking out to do it in secret.
Me: Well, actually, I thought as much.
Pirate: What did it say about yelling and spanking your dog?
Me: It said not to bother.
Pirate: And did it say that all dogs like digging?
Me: No. It said that terriers like to dig more than any other dog.
Pirate: And I’m part terrier. Right?
Me: Well, that’s what the vet said.
Pirate: In that case, I guess I’ll have to forgive you.

One short search of the Internet, one giant defeat for humankind.

SUMMER DELIGHT

If I didn’t live in Edmonton, I’d come here just for the Fringe. So far we’ve seen:

Ring The Bells, a snappy musical melodrama from the 50’s,
This Is Cancer, a commedy of the funniest kind (deeply serious underneath)
Mrs. Lindeman Proposes, a love storyin Jasper
Firing Lines, an historical play about a journalist covering World War I

And we have seen theatres packed to the limit, a great thing for the actors who make their money off ticket sales. Some people see 30 plays, maybe even 50 at the Fringe. We will be seeing 6. Six plays seemed a lot when we bought the tickets, but now it doesn’t seem excessive. Only the delight is excessive.

THE BEST KIND OF HAPPINESS

"The best kind of happiness is the happiness one creates for oneself, quite incidentally, out of the everyday materials and commonplace beauty of the world at hand."

(Anne Giardini, The Sad Truth About Happiness, Harpercollins, 2006 P12 of the P.S. Section)

Him: You sure are writing a lot of animal conversations lately.
Me: I know. I’m doing it for Tracey.
Him: Really?
Me: Yes. She likes them.
Him: I know she likes them. She always reads them out loud to me. But she doesn’t think you’d be writing them for her.

Of course she doesn’t think I’d be writing for her. She is, after all, the modest type. That’s one of the things I like about her. Another is her approach to happiness. Tracey has a happiness blog: LIFE, LOVE, HAPPINESS. There is absolutely nothing extraordinary about its content—absolutely nothing except for its focus. The name says it all.
I suppose there are some who would say that blogs like Tracey’s are disingenuous, even misleading. There are those who would criticise them for telling only half the truth, for leaving out the gritty details.
Gritty details definitely have their place. They are the stuff of interesting gossip. They help create narrative tension in the best of stories. But they also shape our emotional response to the world in which we live. When it comes to writing our own diaries, we tend to believe what we read.
The truth is a matter of selection. Of course there are gritty details in tracey’s life. But you won’t read them on her blog. You have to get to know her to know them. Tracey writes this blog for herself, to shape and record an important aspect of her emotional life that might get lost in the daily routine of coping and complaining. She could keep it private, but she makes it available to any of the rest of us who like to know about her life. In a world where upcoming newspeople are taught to shape our reading by the saying “If it bleeds, it leads”, blogs like Tracey’s help to tip the scales a bit. And every time I write an animal conversation, I think of happiness. I picture Tracey, smiling, and reading it out loud to Him.

HOME-COMING

Pirate: (scratching at the door) Ruff, Ruff!!!
Me: Oh Hi Pirate. Did you miss me?
Pirate: (wagging) Yes, I want to go for a walk.
Me: Just let me put down this suitcase and then I’ll give you a pet.
Pirate: (Jumping on my leg) I want to go for a walk.
Me: Just let me check the messages and then I’ll see if you need some food in your dish.
Pirate, (scratching) I want to go for a walk.
Me: We had a great weekend Pirate. It was the 100th anniversary of the village of Lougheed. We spent so much time visiting with all the relations and many friends.
Pirate: (lying down in front of my feet) I want to go for a walk.
Me: I saw people I haven’t met in 40 years. They had a 45-minute parade, a street dance and an indoor dance. They fed us 2 breakfasts and 2 suppers. We saw all the exhibits at the Lougheed Fair, and we watched the horse show for a bit, and we went through the buildings in the museum. They had a big church service that filled the community hall. We had pie and a drink at the curling rink for only $2.00. Two dollars Pirate. Where can you get a bargain like that? We went to the ice cream shop. We visited the cemetery and spent time with some of dad’s former neighbours at the nursing home in Killam. The weather was fabulous, Pirate.
Pirate: I want to go for a walk.
Me: Okay Pirate. Why don’t we go for a little walk before we unpack.

(Excerpted from the forthcoming book: PERFECTING PERSISTENCE: EVEN THE DUMMEST HUMANS CAN BE TAUGHT TO LISTEN By Pirate J. Edey)

GARDENER'S HOPE

"Gardening is a way of showing that you believe in tomorrow." (Source unknown)

One: Remember those petunias that I watered because they looked like they might be dying?
Other: Yes.
One: Well, it looks like they are waterlogged. They look deader than they did yesterday and weigh three times as much. Let’s take them down.
Other: And what would we replace them with?
One: The healthy geraniums from the side.
Other: Okay.
One: What are you doing with those petunias?
Other: Putting them where the geraniums were. They’re not quite dead.
One: They will be dead tomorrow.
Other: You don’t give up hope that easily, do you?

And that is how gardening progressed from spiritual pursuit to resurrection theology.

A CONVERSATION ABOUT HAPPINESS

Me: How happy are you, on a scale of 1 to 10?
Myself: How happy am I about what?
Me: About everything. How happy are you in general?
Myself: Right at this minute?
Me: Sure. Right at this minute. How happy are you?
Myself, Well, so-so, I guess. Maybe 5. I certainly can’t say I’m delighted to be answering these boring questions. We are on holidays, you know, or perhaps you’ve forgotten. Seems as if you have us thinking about some pretty serious stuff.
Me: Serious stuff? We’ve been thinking about happiness. How serious can that be?
Myself: Pretty serious when we’re supposed to rate our happiness on a scale of 1 to 10. Looks like psychological research to me, the kind we’d be thinking about at work.
Me: exactly. It is what we’d be thinking about at work, if we were in the mood and if we had spare time. But right now we’re on holidays, and we’re having fun, and we’d got time to think. We’ve got time to be thinking and reading about happiness, which is why I’m wondering how happy you are.
Myself: Well, I’m very happy to be on holidays. I’ve been having a great time seeing friends, working in the garden, spending time with family, having little adventures, finding places in the city that I hadn’t known about before.
Me: So if you are very happy, then that must count for more than 5 out of 10. I’ll raise it to 8, maybe 9. How happy do you think you’d be if we were at work?
Myself: I don’t know. It depends which day, maybe even which hour. It’s just like holidays. One minute you are 5 and the next you are 9. It goes up and down.
Me: the pleasure part goes up and down.
Myself: The pleasure part? What other part is there to happiness?
Me: According to Martin Seligman, 2 other parts, meaning and engagement. In fact, it appears that meaning and engagement may be even more important than pleasure when it comes to being happy.
Myself: Meaning and engagement? What are they?
Me: Meaning is whether you think your life is important, whether it seems to matter. Engagement is about the things you do. Do they seem important?
Myself: Well I guess we must be pretty happy then.
Me: How do you mean?
Myself: Well, here we are, at home on vacation, reading research articles and thinking about things that pertain to work. And in a minute, we’re going to stop this conversation and go to a flower show. Then we are having company over for dinner. Nobody’s making us think about happiness, or go to a flower show. We’re doing these things because we like to. They give us pleasure. And when we go back to work, we’ll tell everyone how much fun we had on holidays. And it won’t matter that we are wasting work time thinking about holidays, because we were thinking about work when we were on holidays. Sounds like a happy life to me.

Schueller, S. & Seligman, M. (2010). Pursuit of pleasure, engagement, and meaning: Relationships to subjective and objective measures of well-being, The Journal of Positive Psychology 5(4) 253-263.

TEN POSITIVE EMOTIONS

Research psychologists have developed a genuine interest in positive psychology. What better news could there be for a HOPE LADY? It’s hard to say why that interest took so long to develop. But some things are worth waiting for.
Hope is one of ten positive emotions Barbara L. Fredrickson discusses in her book Positivity. The other 9 are: joy, gratitude, serenity, interest, pride, amusement, inspiration, awe, and love. She asserts that positive emotions broaden our repertoire of responses and build our inventory of resources. I was thinking about this theory last Friday night while a thunderstorm raged outside my bedroom. The room was ablaze with flashing and the air roared. All over the city people and pets were trembling with fear. Trees might fall. Power might fail. Gardens might be ruined. Fires might start. Those who were fearful had good reason to be. I was a little frightened myself. I am not certain whether you can decide not to be frightened. You can try to be safe, and still you’ll feel the fear.
While fear is a legitimate response, other responses are also possible. While you are feeling the fear, you might be able to feel other things. I decided to notice what I could feel. I could feel interest—could be interested in the cause of such storms. I could feel awe—be awe-struck at the power of the thing that was happening in my city. I focussed on the awe and the interest as I crawled out of bed to protect the computer by shutting it down. A fascinated person—more resourceful in some obscure way--finds it a little easier to leave the bed for an entry into the uncertainty beyond.
The focus on positive psychology brings with it a shift in perspective regarding emotional life and the role of a professional counsellor. When the primary emotions of interest are anger, sadness, guilt, etc., the professional seeks to help people reduce the emotional severity and subsequent consequences. But when it comes to positive emotions, the professional seeks to produce the positive emotions. The goal is to enliven them, to intensify them so that they can become a vibrant component of emotional life.
The counselling program at the Hope Foundation of Alberta was ahead of its time in the early 1990’s. As a new employee I was asked to do an unusual thing: use all my psychologist skills to create an atmosphere of hope in which problems could be addressed. The atmosphere of hope was more important in the hierarchy than the problem itself. Nowadays this idea would not seem radical, but at the time professional respect for the theory was hard to come by.
In the current research environment a considerable amount of energy is being devoted to the study of basic positive emotions. As we learn more about how they work, counsellors are asking what they ought to do with the information. To THE HOPE LADY, this perspective shift brings joy and a sense of serenity. And—oh yes—it also brings hope.

ASK THE EXPERTS

The Association for Psychological Science has released a new report by Psychologist Harold Herzog. In an article entitled Are Pet Owners Healthier and Happier? Maybe Not, Herzog asserts that current research is inadequate to support the popularly held theory that pet owners are healthier and happier than their petless counterparts. Surprised by this finding, I decided to dig a little deeper in search of the truth.
Me: (to Kitty) I’ve just read an article by a scientist who says there is inadequate research to prove that pets improve the health of their owners. I am wondering what goes through your mind as you hear this news.
Kitty: Absolutely ridiculous!
Me: Do you have evidence to support your view.
Kitty: No, and I don’t need any.
Me: (to Pirate the Shih-tsu) I’ve just read an article by a scientist who says there is inadequate research to prove that pets improve the health of their owners. I am wondering what goes through your mind as you hear this news.
Pirate: Ridiculous! When is the last time you got sick?
Me: Do you claim that I am healthier because I have you?
Pirate: Of course. It’s obvious.
Conclusion: 100% of the pets interviewed believe that pet owners are healthier and happier than their petless counterparts. How can you argue with evidence like that?

ON DEEPLY HAPPY PEOPLE

"Deeply happy people are noticers and thinkers. They are attentive. They are aware of, and appreciate beauty, goodness, and complexity. They find a way to do meaningful work,or have the knack of investing the work they do with meaning. They stay connected with people they enjoy. Happy people believe that the future will be good. A set back is only temporary.”

(Anne Giardini, The Sad Truth About Happiness, Harpercollins, 2006 P12 of the P.S. Section)

GLEE

It’s a good week to be writing about happiness—a good week to be feeling it too. There is some happy news. Rachel says she’ll soon be back at work—back from a journey that started in the spring and consumed much of the summer.
Happiness is a complicated condition—layered and nuanced—not so simple as happy versus sad. I was happy while she was gone. I was contented. I had hope. Days were pleasant. Still, something I valued was noticeable by its absence.
The absent thing—the thing that took a rest with Rachel’s leaving, was the glee—that quality described by Anne Giardini as “hopped-up happiness”. Glee takes hold of you. Transports you. It sets you down in a place you had no idea you were about to visit. Glee surprises you. Glee, in my case, is the edge of happiness that announces itself in the sudden entry of a giggler upon a scene that seemed to be benign a moment before. The giggler is irrational, irreverent, often irrelevant. She lies in wait, waiting to burst out, somewhere behind the eyes, ready for a call, a challenge, an invitation. In my reactionary world of relationship chemistry, Rachel is an artist in the medium of giggler invitation.
I have missed the giggler in me—missed having her pop out in the early morning, at lunch, during the most serious of discussions. I have missed Rachel too. So I am looking forward to seeing more of them both, Rachel and the giggler, looking forward, among other things, to an increase in the number of moments of glee.

ON HAPPINESS AND HOPE

"Happiness has many aspects and comes in more guises than we may readily recognize. Contentment is a purring, low-maintenance kind of happiness; it is
happiness without the energy to aspire to joy. Glee is hopped-up happiness, happiness on a tear. Nostalgia is the craft of discerning happiness in the
past, just as hope is all wrapped up in happinesses that are anticipated in the future." (Anne Giardini, The Sad Truth About Happiness, Harpercollins, 2006 P12 of the P.S. Section)

ROOM FOR EFFICIENCY

Kitty: (Sighing with pleasure)Day 2 of our new routine!
Me: New routine? Maybe we should review day 1.
Kitty: Okay. I convinced you to save time and bother getting me back into the apartment before you went to bed. I spent the night in your house so that you didn’t have to crawl into small spaces, waste your breath calling me, and make me spitting mad by carrying me over to my place.
Me: And then …
Kitty: And then, about an hour before it was time to serve my breakfast I jumped up on your night table and purred in your ear to wake you softly. Then I walked on your face to ease you in gently and I let you pet me until you got up.
Me: And the consequences of that were …
Kitty: You saved the time and bother you would have had putting me to bed, had the pleasure of petting me, and I got breakfast half an hour earlier than schedule. Just another success story from the Kitty Cat school of Behavior Management.

AND YOU SAID CATS ARE SELFISH

Kitty: They’re packing the camping gear into their backpacks.
Me: Yes, I know.
Kitty: I suppose that means they are planning a trip.
Me: Yes, it does.
Kitty: I suppose that means you’ll be looking after me again.
Me: Right again, Kitty.
Kitty: You remember the routine? Remember how I don’t eat for a day, and then I eat, but not when you are there, and then I eat when you are there but I don’t let you touch me for a day, and then I sniff you from a distance for a while and then I rub your leg and then after a few days I jump up on your lap?
Me: Yes, I remember that routine?
Kitty: Looks like they’ll be gone for about a week.
Me: Yes Kitty. That’s right.
Kitty: Well, I was thinking that under the old routine, you had to wait almost a week for attention from me. So this time, instead of putting you through all that, I’ll just rub your leg today and jump on your lap in an hour.

HOPE AND THE HEALTHY SNACK

From the University of Chicago Press, media release

An article to gladden the heart of a hope lady, or anybody else who strives to enhance hope. I’ve printed the release here in full. The original source is named at the end.

Happy people are more likely to eat candy bars, whereas hopeful people choose fruit, according to a new study in the Journal of Consumer Research. That's
because when people feel hope, they're thinking about the future.

"Most of us are aware that we often fall victim to emotional eating, but how is it that we might choose unhealthy or healthy snacks when we're feeling good?"
write authors Karen Page Winterich (Pennsylvania State University) and Kelly L. Haws (Texas A&M University).

Because previous research has explored how feeling sad leads to eating bad, the authors focused on the complicated relationship between positive emotions
and food consumption. "We demonstrate the importance of the time frame on which the positive emotion focuses and find that positive emotions focusing on
the future decrease unhealthy food consumption in the present," the authors write.

To understand why someone who is feeling positive would be more likely to choose a candy bar versus a piece of fruit, the authors teased out the difference
between positive feelings that arise from thinking about the past or the present (pride and happiness) and hope, which is a more future-oriented emotion.

In the authors' first study, hopeful participants consumed fewer M&Ms than people who experienced happiness. In a second study, the authors found that consumers
who were more focused on the past chose unhealthy snacks, even if they felt hope. In the third study, the researchers shifted the time frame of the positive
emotion (having participants feel hopeful about the past or having them experience pride in the future). "That is, if someone is anticipating feeling proud,
she prefers fewer unhealthy snacks than someone experiencing pride."

Finally, the authors compared future-focused positive emotions (hopefulness, anticipated pride) to future focused negative emotions (fear, anticipated shame).
They found that the combination of positivity and future focus enhanced self-control.

"So, the next time you're feeling well, don't focus too much on all the good things in the past. Instead, keep that positive glow and focus on your future,
especially all the good things you imagine to come. Your waistline will thank you!" the authors conclude.

Karen Page Winterich and Kelly L. Haws. "Helpful Hopefulness: The Effect off Future Positive Emotions on Consumption." Journal of Consumer Research: October
2011 (published online March 18, 2011).

STORMING TOGETHER

David had already left for his early morning work out at the gym when I awoke to a house dark and deathly hot. Surprised, with the clock reporting not yet 5:30, I stumbled downstairs to open some windows. There was an eerie
feeling about the place. With windows opened and little else to do, I went back to bed.
Within moments the world was whirling. Rain was pelting and veranda
furniture was on the move. Pirate, never one to miss an opportunity to snatch what is forbidden, leapt trembling on to my bed and dug his paws into my
breast bone as the first brilliant flashes consumed the sky. With the walls vibrating in a thunderous massage, Mark came out of his house, closely followed by Kitty, to report
that the heat had awakened him to a sky of brilliant orange that lasted about a minute before the storm hit. Lawrence, displaying a family solidarity reserved
for the few seconds before and after an event of doom, rushed up the stairs to evaluate and commiserate.
The sleepy radio morning crew took up their Monday post. Ignoring the forecast in hand they resorted to reporting that something cataclysmic was going on downtown. They'd get the updated weather report later, they promised. They were shaken, but willing.
A reluctant Monday began to take shape. Rain filled the barrels depleted by yesterday’s watering. The phone rang. By 7:20 I had turned down two offers of a ride to work. The sky was clearing. The tempest had moved on. The trees were dripping. The edges were muddy on the path up the hill. At the office we gathered, each with our own story of awakening.
The sun is out now. The pavement is steming. The air is sweating. We are left with the memory of a surprise, the drama, the unmistakeable reminder that the world is an uncertain place. It is impossible to deny the magnetic power that draws people together in the wake of an unanticipated Monday morning storm, and that is a good thing.

A MILESTONE IN THE PROGRESS OF HOPE WORK

Have you ever discovered, to your utter surprise, that a milestone you’ve been chasing has somehow been reached—and you didn’t even notice? Well, if it hasn’t happened to you, as I suppose it possibly has not, that I truly hope it will.
This week it happened to me. The realization dawned with startling clarity in the middle of Wednesday afternoon as I distractedly jotted rushed notes in preparation for a Thursday lunch meeting. I answered a phone call, made an appointment, then returned to my notes. I read over the first point. The first point said: We now have an identifiable, replicable transferable body of knowledge that we can use for practice, research and teaching. In our own practice we refer to it as Hope-Focused Counselling, or simply Hope Work. In the teaching context we call it Hope and Strengths Tools For Counselling and Group Work. It was a surprise to see that I had written this, and also that I could provide evidence that it was true.
I was not the only one working on notes. Preparing notes for the same meeting, our Director of Research, dr. Denise Larsen had written: “Our research appears to be the only sustained, ongoing program of applied research on hope in the world. Specifically, we research *how* to work effectively with hope. This draws international attention, including international visitors and correspondence, and some programming. Our service programs are documented and delivered in a manner that makes them highly researchable. Indeed, we have ongoing funded programs of research with both our school-based work and community counselling service. In short, we are a well-organized and collaborative team, working to the mutual benefit of our research and service. This makes it possible to provide very unique research of excellent quality with high external validity to international practice and research communities.”
Across the room at the meeting sat Lenora LeMay, the team member who has done parallel work beside me for years, adapting hope tools and strategies for use in classroom setting and youth projects. It is Lenora who made a book of my early group work with teachers on disability. It is Lenora who offered a conversion of the boring counselling and research language of hope threats and barriers to the vibrant engaging language that describes threats and barriers as hope-suckers.
It takes a team of extraordinary people to create an on-going sustained program of applied research on hope. You could see it at the meeting. There were people who had supported the Hope Foundation for a long, long time, and people who were quite new to the work, yet very interested. The were people who had played multiple roles, board members who had used the hope materials in their places of employment, board members who had once been clients, staff who had been clients or volunteers.
Not in the room, but still very present, was Dr. Ronna Jevne, the person who started the Hope Foundation, the one who introduced me to hope work back in 1995. At that time we had the writings of a few wise hope theorists, combined with Ronna’s practical ideas, her inspiring presence and her unshakable commitment to building a resource team that could develop the practice of hope work. The objective of having an identifiable, replicable transferable body of knowledge that could be used for practice, research and teaching was her goal. Not an aim that could be accomplished by a single individual or in a neatly defined plan, it was the type of thing that could only be advanced by many cogs in a wheel of human effort rolling forward.
Call me a cog! This is the end of a week during which I felt particularly proud to be part of a team that has worked hard in relative obscurity for a long time on something that felt important. I felt enthusiastic about the prospect of working with the foundation that has been laid. As I left the meeting to begin a conversation with a client who was in pain, I turned for direction to the body of knowledge that informs our counselling and group work. That body of knowledge, ever growing, open to investigation, translatable into formats that meet the continuing heducation requirements for various professions, felt important still.

SOLSTACE

On the first day of summer we sat on the veranda,
Watching the robbin on her nest and sipping a beer.
And after deconstructing the day’s most boring meetings,
And reliving the thunderstorms, and lamenting things that didn’t go as planned,
What else was there to do but give ourselves completely
To unbridled celebration of a perfect June evening
In the company of flowers on the world’s most exquisite veranda?

KATHRYN TUCKER WYNDHAM, I'M GOING TO MISS YOU!

I’d never heard of Kathryn Tucker Wyndham when first I went to hear her tell stories in a huge tent in Jonesborough Tennessee. I’ve never forgotten her since. Her first story was about a man named Ernest who gave a legacy donation to the public library in Selma Alabama. It was a library he had not been permitted ot use as a boy—because his skin was black. The second story she told was about the Sunday afternoon comb concerts on the lawn of the Selma Library, concerts at which everyone can play. The third story was about her coffin, fashioned under her direction by a craftsman friend from the finest wood, now waiting in her garage, buried under piles of unused china and other household goods.
She was 88 years old when I first heard her stories. So inspiring were they that they took my breath away.
It is easy to watch a little of Kathryn Tucker Wyndham. The Montgomery advertiser has saved her for us at Kathryn Tucker Wyndham Dies at 93 I am grateful that it is easy to see you on line Kathryn. I wasn’t ready to give you up yet.
I shall think about you, Kathryn, when I need to find hope: that the world can be more tolerant; that elderhood will be a time of learning good things; that laughter can overcome just about anything; that we can choose the best from history and use it to give hope to others. I shall think about you, Kathryn, and thinking about you will give me hope.

A PROUD MOTHER GOES TO CONVOCATION

To spend ten joyful seconds celebrating the achievement of Mark David Edey above all the others in the crowd,
To hear, as an added bonus, Dr. Indira V. Samarasekera, President of the university of Alberta, give a speech on imagination. Spring Convocation June 9, 2011
She started with humour. “Your parents,” she said, “are thrilled to know that they have done at least one thing right. ... If there’s something special you’ve always wanted, now would be a good time to mention it.”
She expressed confidence. “I’m sure all of you have the imagination to navigate life, and find fulfilment by making a contribution.”
She began in the present and moved to the future. “The skills and knowledge that you leave with today will help you get started, but in the future it willl be your capacity to keep learning and to imagine a different and better future that will be more valuable than anything.”
And finally, she said “Pay attention to your imagination. Your imagination can be aforce for great good. ... Take care of your imagination. Use it freely but wisely.”
It was a great speech, the kind of thing that cheers the heart of a HOPE LADY.
Knowing that he has had enough of university for the time being, I asked Mark David Edey what he would like to learn in the future. He said he would like to learn more about the processes that help us learn to read. A fitting beginning, I thought, for an avid reader planning a career working with those for whom the easy joy of reading must all too often be a figment of imagination.
More on future wishes for Mark can be found at HAPPY GRADUATION

WHY DON'T PEOPLE HAVE HOPE

Because they’ve been disappointed when they’ve hoped before
Because depression blinds them to the hope that other people see,
Because they are bruised from too many hurts in quick succession
Because they were born with a personality that tends not to hope,
Because they aren’t in the habit of expressing their hope.

All of these are reasons why they don’t have hope.
But that doesn’t mean they can’t.

CAN THE ENERGIZER BUNNY BE A CREDIBLE SIGN OF HOPE?

The Montreal Gazette reports that the Energizer Battery Company is changing its tag line from “keep going” to “now that’s positivenergy.”
"When we look at consumer themes and underlying universal truths, the Energizer Bunny is very well positioned to be a sign of optimism and hope,” says Kent Hatton, brand group director at Energizer Canada Inc.
With the change of tagline comes a corporate commitment to donate money to environmental causes, and a website encouraging people to support good causes and perform acts of kindness.
Only time will tell whether the Energizer Bunny can become a sign of hope and optimism. Marketing aspirations notwithstanding, the tagline transformation has a familiar ring. As one who has discussed hope with many people, I can honestly say that it is common for them to start out plodding, to keep going, taking one step at a time to cope with illness or adversity. Then, over time, a transformation occurs and they begin to gather positive energy, to join forces, and to take action.
Looking to the future, a doubtful person might accuse the company of cloaking a marketing strategy in the garb of charity. A hopeful person, on the other hand, would wait and see. It just might be possible for a company to promote its own products and do good for the world at the same time—using the symbolism and language of hope.

HOW CAN HOPE AFFECT PEOPLE'S LIVES?

People who ask this question usually have an answer in mind. Though the answers they give would seem to be contradictory, occupying the entire range of possibilities extending from “hope makes all things possible” to “hope sets you up for disappointment because you can never have the things you hope for”, each answer, given from the heart, rings with an element of truth for that person. This complicated truth presents a particular challenge when we strive to make hope explicit.
To be honest, I like some of the answers better than others. The ones I prefer are—you guessed it—the positive answers. What, after all, could please THE HOPE LADY more than a story about how hope triumphed over a host of terrible predictions, enabling people to try things they never would have tried without it?
In the earliest days of the Hope Foundation, when hope as a concept garnered little respect in professional circles, researchers combed the literature for studies that would demonstrate the ways in which hope helped people. They came up with plenty of evidence to support the worthiness of practices and strategies designed to foster and enhance hope. I am grateful for their efforts, and have used their findings on many occasions. Still, there remains one essential truth for THE HOPE LADY and that is this: If you are going to ask people to tell you about their experience of hope in a world where they are not solely in control, you have to be willing to live with whatever truth they give you.

WHAT IS HOPE?

Here is what some experts say. First some definitions from the famous hope writiers, then some quotes from other experts--the people in our Hope Foundation chronic pain groups.
Hope is: “A process of anticipation that involves the interaction of thinking, acting, feeling and relating, and is directed toward a future fulfillment that is personally meaningful”
(Charlotte Stephenson, 1991, p. 1459)

Hope is: “… the fundamental knowledge and feeling that there is a way out of difficulty, that things can work out, that we as human persons can somehow handle and manage internal and external reality…”
(Lynch, W. F., 1965, p. 32)

Hope is the “yes” to life.
(Ronna Jevne, 1999, p. 59)

Hope is the thing that: “enables individuals to envision a future in which they are willing to participate”
(Ronna Jevne, 1994, p. 8)

Hope is: “a cognitive set that is based on a reciprocally derived sense of successful agency (goal-directed determination) and pathways (planning to meet goals)” (Snyder et al, 1991, p. 572).

People with chronic pain say:
Hope is...
... fun to work with
... positive
... good health
... makes getting up in the morning easier
... chocolate
... a dream
... vital
... children’s laugher
... fun
... energizing
... being able to attain something that you dream of
... to live pain-free
... believing it will work out, even with bumps in the path
... being able to retain the strengths that I have
... focusing on what I can do, not what I can’t
... sometimes difficult to see
.. courage
... a thing that goes up and down
... faith
... believing in yourself
... tomorrow
... birds singing
... a pathway
... lost
... life force that keeps us going
... creative
... sunshine
... having good family and relationships
... spring
...worth working to find
... not giving up
... found in family ties
... working through negatives to get to positives
... a foundation

BRINGING HOPE TO OTHERS

The most useful thing I have learned about bringing hope to others is this: I have to keep a huge inventory of stories, symbols and language that grounds my own hope. I do this so that I can still find my hope at the times when I don't appear to be successful at bringing hope to others. Far from being a well ordered searchable catalogue, my inventory is a random assortment of positive societal changes I have noticed, things that turned out better than I expected, times when I was okay but didn’t know it, and physical reminders of pivotal life events. I polish this collection regularly and
keep it firmly centred in my mind. When I need them, I choose items from the inventory to remind me that I can hope even when the world refuses to change at my behest. I need them more often than I ever could have imagined.
Yesterday I found myself trying to jot a simple answer to a question asked by Loraine, a psychologist who works with troubled teens. She wrote:”How can I help bring hope back to those who have hoped and been repeatedly disappointed and with good reason do not believe in hoping for anything?”
It’s a good question, one faced by so many of us in the helping professions. As Karen W. Saakvitne so aptly states in an article entitled How to Avoid the Occupational Hazards of Being a Psychotherapist, “psychotherapists hear that which society wishes to silence.” Society wishes to silence it for good reason. Hearing it makes us feel terrible!
The act of opening ourselves to hearing terrible things presents us with two important challenges, the obligation to do our best for the people we are helping, and the duty to be all right after we have done the work. As we strive to improve our professional practice, we tend to search for better tools we can use to help others, losing sight of the things we might need to do so that we ourselves can be healthy.
Loraine had mentioned hope to a troubled teen. He had said,”When you hope for something it never happens. Chances of it succeeding are 0.7 million zeros, no, infinite zeros!" You can bet that every one of those zeros represented a disappointment, a time when adults and friends had failed him. No wonder Loraine felt stuck. I felt stuck also when I first read his words. Why should such a boy be expected to hope again?
I myself rarely work with troubled teens. On the matter of dealing with them, I have very little advice to give. Yet even as I read her question, characters from my hope inventory were lining up, ready to parade along the road of my consciousness. Among them was the teacher who once lived under a large tree in the far corner of the grounds of the school where he now teaches. Following close behind was a woman who told me that her life was changed by foster parents who took her in when she was 16. These leaderly adults, now the prize of our society, came to me, real and clear, raising my hope by their very presence. They had been through hard times. They had not turned out as expected. What could I do but thank them for reminding me that, when I get to thinking that nothing good can come of a situation, it’s time to start doubting myself?
To Loraine I wrote: “Implicitly your very presence and interest likely brings hope because you are a caring, reliable adult. This is the most important thing to keep in mind when you are working. You are already bringing hope. It is all too easy to forget this when you get bogged down in agreeing that they have no reason to hope because they have been disappointed.” When I wrote this I was imagining the adults who, in years to come, would remember Loraine’s caring. I was hearing the stories they would tell.

Saakvitne, Karen W., (2001). How to Avoid the Occupational Hazards of Being a Psychotherapist, Innovations in Clinical Practice: A Source Book (Vol. 20) P329.

MURRAY LAMBERT ON RE-ESTABLISHING HOPE

”You ride again when you’ve been bucked off, but not necessarily on the same horse that threw you.”

ROAD TRIP

I planned a trip to Leduc with a curious sense of anticipation. Though my work at the Hope Foundation takes me lots of places, it is most unusual for me to visit a group of visually impaired seniors. But that is the thing I would be doing in Leduc. Sometimes a thing in your future will take you right back to your past.
The first full time professional job I ever had was with the CNIB in Edmonton. I was the area representative for northern Alberta and the Northwest Territories. The year was 1977 and I had been hired to travel thousands of miles along dusty country roads offering CNIB services to blind people in their homes. The CNIB employed drivers to assist those of us who could not drive ourselves. Monday mornings would find my driver and me heading out of the city. Between us on the front bench seat stood a box of file cards containing client information organized alphabetically by town. All the blind people living in Smoky Lake, for example, would be filed under S. Each card would contain specific directions for finding the house or farm we were seeking. Behind us were boxes of goods that our clients might want. There were players for talking books, magnifying glasses, white canes, braille watches, and tubes of silicon we could use to make tactile marks on the dials of appliances that were designed solely for the use of sighted people.
The country clients, living as they did among the sighted, were glad of our visits. And I, remembering a childhood spent on a farm 9 miles south of a village most people never heard of, felt at home on the dusty roads running along the railroad tracks where the crocuses unfolded their flowers in early May. Hour after hour we’d sit sipping coffee at kitchen tables in sunny farmhouses and tiny villages discussing the problems posed by vision loss. At some point in the discussion I would produce the technological wonders designed to solve them. Friday afternoons would find us back in the city, us tired, the boxes half empty, the car caked with mud.
On the whole it was a great job. On the whole, I figured I was a most suitable candidate for the position. Born with very little vision, I was raised in the British tradition—the stiff upper lip, don’t wine, take on your goals, overcome barriers tradition. There had been times when I despaired as I tried to compete on an unlevel playing field. There had been unmentionable worries about my future. But now, with this great new job, I was making a contribution, earning money, using my professional skills, setting an example. Who, better than I, could offer something of value to these isolated country folk?
I did not know, when I took to the road for the first long trips of early May, how different from me my clients would be. Because most vision loss happens in response to diseases associated with aging, the clients tended to be older—70 was a young age on my case list. Most of them had lost their vision late in life, and the adjustment was difficult to make. This did not surprise me. What did take me by surprise though—me with a narrow viewpoint of my British raising—was the manner in which people from other backgrounds responded to their circumstances.
Take, for example, the Ukrainian grandmothers. The Ukrainian settlement towns of northern Alberta had dozens of them. Beckoning us to enter tiny warm homes fragrant with garlic, they would throw their arms around me and burst into a flood of tears. “Oh, oh!” they would cry in thickly accented English. “You are so young! You are blind! It is a tragedy! So sad! You are so beautiful and so afflicted! It is so sad, so so sad!”
My first impulse, on receiving this unexpected onslaught of unreserved pity, was to jump into the car and lock the doors, for the rules of professional conduct, with their focus on confidentiality and boundaries gave no helpful direction. But there was a job to do. There were braille alarm clocks these women would never see if I did not show them. So I would do it.
Into their kitchens I would slink, wet-shouldered and protesting. “I am fine,” I would say.
This, however, was not the message they wanted to hear. They had no ears for it. “It is so sad,” they would wail. “So sad, you are so young.” As they moaned in sympathy for my plight, it was clear that they were feeling better than they had in some time. Here was rehabilitation turned on its head. Finding somebody in worse condition makes you feel better.
In the first year I conducted a hundred human experiments, trial responses to keep my shoulders dry and my pride intact. I kept my arms primly crossed to ward off their hugs. I brought pictures of my husband to prove that I could get a man. I took to introducing myself as a social worker. But all of it was a waste of time. I could show them how to mark their spices with large print. I could teach them to tell when a cup was full by placing a finger a little below its edge. These things they might learn from me, but what they loved most was to feel better by feeling sorry for me. Eventually I got used to it, even grew to welcome it in some strange way. It was they, more than anyone else, that I missed when I moved on to other jobs.
It was these passionate women who came to mind the day Mary called to ask if I would speak to the Sight-Seekers support group for visually impaired seniors in Leduc. She said, “We need somebody to come and tell us not to feel sorry for ourselves.” She promised me that transportation would be provided. When the day arrived, and Leona from the CNIB came to pick me up, it was the memory of them that stirred my thoughts.
The Sight-Seekers meet in a church hall. They were sipping coffee and chatting when Leona and I entered the room. I was careful not to cross my arms. Boundaries are not nearly as important to me as they used to be.
So maybe I was a little disappointed when hands were politely extended, greetings were cordial and nobody rushed forward to enfold me in a watery embrace. I was thinking of this, and that’s when the force of a new reality hit me. Even if there were any Ukrainian grandmothers in the room, things would be different. That was 1977, this is 2011. And I—no longer a girl in the bloom of early 20’s--am so much closer to being one of them that I might not even qualify for their sympathy.

TO THE LEDUC SIGHT-SEEKERS

A shout out and thanks for a few good laughs in a lively chat about hoping, coping and moping after a vision loss. I was invited to your monthly get-together by Mary, who said, “We need somebody to tell us not to feel sorry for ourselves.”
But even though all of us need a bit of encouragement once in a while, there really was no need for a lecture on self-pity. You hadn’t the time for such a thing because you were busy signing up your members to help with the CNIB’s upcoming vision awareness project.

CONFRONTING A HOPE-SUCKER "ON THE BEACH"

There are certain things I do—or should I say don’t do—for the sake of my hope: I don’t spend much time griping in groups of cynical people; I don’t watch the late night news before bed; I don’t read books that predict a terrible future—not usually anyway. But last week—when the mailman delivered the CD copy of Nevil Shute’s On The Beach, the CD packaged tidily by someone at the CNIB Library in Toronto, a scary book tucked snug and secure in an envelope bearing my name, I crushed the impulse to return the thing, and waited for the final act of reading to begin.
The first act of reading On The Beach opened in the mid 1960’s, opened in the aisles that separated the stacks of braille volumes that comprised the tiny library at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind in Vancouver. Braille had opened a new world for me, a world where I could browse a colleciton of—let’s be generous here—a hundred books and think I had the key to the knowledge of the world. On The Beach was on one of those shelves, three thick braillle volumes comprised it, I think. I would wander among the stacks, touching all the titles, pulling out the books, reading the first page. On The Beach, they said, was a book about the death of the human race after a nuclear war. Fifty times I put the book back on the shelf. Twice I checked it out and read the first 5 pages, the way you read the first five of so many books, over and over, starting over each time and never going forward—never breaking through. On The Beach was still on the shelves when I left Jericho in 1968. What happened to its fine braille volumes, and all the others that I did read, is something I have never found out. Thus ended the opening act, the act of not reading Nevil Shute’s On The Beach.
Still, I never forgot about that book, never felt quite comfortable with the failure of courage that kept me from finishing it. I have a friend who works tirelessly for disarmament and the advent of peace to replace the habit of war. He is The Honourable Douglas Roche In recognition of his efforts as a statesman, activist and author, he has been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. “Surely,” I said, taking myself in hand, “Surely if Doug could stick with the cause all these years, advocating and educating an apathetic public in times of relative peace and times of relative fear, surely you, Wendy, could summon the courage to read one hope-sucking, fear-raising book. After all, that book only describes a predicted disastrous future that didn’t come to pass--a terrible chain of events that started in 1961 and ended definitively in 1963. If you’d bothered to read beyond the first 5 pages back in the library at Jericho Hill, you’d have known that the time had already come and gone. Read the book, Wendy, for Doug, and get it over with.”
I started slowly, carefully, picking at it the way you pick at a hot potato. Would I send it back unread? Would I justify my actions by saying I had no need to read a book that would scare me half to death? For a while it appeared that this would be the story. This is no way to make it past the first 5 pages of a hope-sucking book.
Then Friday came—that was yesterday--a day off—a day for catching up on things. “What did you do with your Friday off?” David asked when he got home from work.
“Not much,” I said. As for the truth, well, I got up early and read On The Beach after breakfast and after coffee and after lunch and after the mid-afternoon break. I interrupted the reading briefly for some conversations and a few chores and I read it while I waited for supper to cook. By suppertime I was done.
As for today, Saturday, well, I’m still here, here with mixed feelings, trying to sort them out on a keyboard. I don’t know what I would have said of the book had I read it back in the days of early adolescence. I wanted then to grow up happy, to have a life, to find a husband, to have some children, to work at something I would love. I didn’t want to contemplate a future in which these things could not come to me.
Today—a woman who has all these things and more--I ponder the hope-sucking book Nevil Shute

Nevil Shute published back in 1957. I poke at it, dig in it—mining its depths for hope. The hope, of course, is there. It’s there all right, just where I’d expect to find it, in the people. Shute was a wise man when it came to writing a story. Somehow he knew that if you set up a bad enough situation, you don’t need any antagonistic characters. You can make them all lovable, put them through the paces of daily life and still have a great story. Here they are, lovable characters in Australia, a country where no shots were fired, a place unsullied by bombs. Here they are, accepting some responsibility for not acting to stop the war, waiting to die in a world where we cannot stop the air from circulating, from bringing on its breezes the dust that killed the people of the northern hemisphere. Here they are, calculating the time left to them, and wondering what to do while they wait.
And what do they do while they wait? They make new friends. They take care of each other. They encourage each other. They buy gifts. They go home to be with the ones they love. In honour of hope Shute seems to be promising that if the worst happens, the best of humanity will rise to the occasion. And I like that.
Tomorrow will be Sunday. The next day will be Monday. Something unusual may happen to scare me. Maybe the days will be ordinary. But something has been gained. Now, more than ever, I am grateful to Doug Roche for his efforts to prevent the worst from happening.

CELEBRATING GOOD NEIGHBOURS

Dawn was only moments away when I awoke to behold my very favourite kind of May morning. Light had not yet touched the horizon. Robins were advertising for mates. A slight breeze was teasing the drapery strings and then—here was something new—I rolled over and found myself face to face with the guy who won the Good Neighbour award for Edmonton’s Ward 6. You might say that I’m his very closest neighbour. Perhaps he was thinking that also.
“You must have helped them with the nomination,” he said on the day when he first heard about the coming honour.
“Actually, I didn’t,” I confessed sheepishly. The nominator was another woman, Lorna Thomas, vice-president of the Riverdale Community League. I would have helped if she’d asked, but she didn’t need me. Her information, limited as it was, was comprehensive enough to clinch the case.
Last night we attended a gathering to celebrate the contributions of 12 good neighbours and a vigorous band of Snow Angels. The Snow Angels shovel snow for people who need help—a lot of help this past winter. The Good Neighbours are nominated for all sorts of reasons. Each of the 2011 award winners undoubtedly does a few dozen neighbourly things that were not mentioned on the application. Last night we heard about the dedicated staff of a neighbourhood grocery store, a committee that refurbished a playground, a community league that started a special program for low income children, a community garden founder, a helpful handyman, safety patrollers, party planners, a generous jack-of-all-trades, and people who make their neighbourhoods feel like friendly caring places.
When it was time to celebrate my own closest good neighbour, the host read a short paragraph to the assembled crowd. Among other things, the host said, “His nominator Lorna Thomas noted not just what David does for his neighbourhood but how
he does it. He goes about things quietly and diligently, getting the job done, getting people involved and simply making Riverdale the best it can be.” She did, of course mention a few of the things he does. He’s been Community League secretary, planning committee co-chair, and facilitator of multiple processes, some controversial, some dull-but-necessary. He sells League memberships and makes connections while he collects. He organizes teams and plans parties.
Life quickly returned to normal for the Ward 6 Good Neighbour after last night’s celebration drew to a close. He drove me to choir practice, did the grocery shopping and walked the dog.
“Good choice, Wendy,” I said to myself, turning to face the sleeping guy in the last few seconds before the dawning of today. “You sure do know how to pick a close neighbour.”

HOPE AND STRENGTHS TOOLS FOR COUNSELLING AND GROUP WORK

Here’s a shout out to the 30 social workers who shared two full learning days in Calgary with me at the Alberta College of Social Workers annual confrence. I had a lot of fun laughing and singing and addressing painful issues with all of you. It was truly amazing that you came from so many different interest areas, kids in care, kids with disabilities, troubled teens, long term care, palliative care, adult psychotherapy, and probably a few others I have neglected to mention—truly amazing given our varying backgrounds that we could all be on the same page much of the time in a conversation about hope. I sincerely hope that some of the hope and strengths tools in our collection will find a happy home in your work.
An additional shout out to the ACSW for crediting those social workers who chose the hope and strengths workshop with 12 continuing education credits in Category A. In the days when our work did not have this recognition, social workers had to make other time for hope workshops after they had completed their Category A requirements.
The social work literature is beginning to reflect an interest in the practical application of hope theory to social work practice. With my thought still lingering in the social work context, I leave you with two quotes that say a lot.

Schwartz et Al, 2007: “We believe that social work administrators who find ways to create work contexts that have a positive effect on social workers might not only reduce the incidence of staff burnout, but also increase something that is intrinsic to social worker effectiveness: hope.”

Koenig & Spano, 2008: “Unfortunately, many professionals have relied on predominant practice models that are based on client pathology and problems instead of hope in client potential and possibilities.”

EVIDENCE FOR THE POWER OF HOPE

Hope Foundation had 305 followers on Twitter.
Barack Obama had 17 million. Both the Hope Foundation and Barack Obama have seen the power of explicit expressions of hope. Can 17,000,305 followers be wrong?

A TIP OF THE HOPE HAT TO TODD BABIAK *YEG

If you ever wanted to start a ball rolling but didn’t know how to start, turn to Todd Babiak’s article on beautifying our city. He gives us a living example of how an idea at a meeting can cause you to notice something that could be improved, how one phone call can lead to an interest in creating something beautiful, and how people can work together to fan the contagion of inspiration into possibility. He believes our city can look better. Apparently, he’s not alone. Have you noticed how not being alone so often leads to getting things done?
Downtown by design is within reach; Give us your ideas on 'beauty interventions

GIGGLES

When I am as old as I am going to be
I hope I will still get the giggles.
I don’t mean laughter, or mild amusement,
Though certainly those will be welcome.

The giggles I hope for are unpredictable,
Unignorable, irrepressible!

The bursting-out giggles pillow-muffled at sleep-overs
When the parents cried, ”Quiet or we will separate you!”

The gulping giggles we swallowed at choir practice
When the leader begged, ”Please pay attention!”

The giggles suppressed in the silent group
When one stomach growled
And others responded
Like seabirds calling across the waves.

If aging should bring me
Disability, indignity,
It will go down more easily
When giggles assail me.

NOW BLOOMING

Sipping morning coffee in a room beset with blossoms.
Pots of perky tulips brought by last night’s dinner guests,
Dapper Daffodils we bought for last night’s dinner table,
Eager Easter lilies opening boldly for the season,
Christmas cactus counting flowers second round edition,
Handsomest hydrangeas petals poising in profusion,
Patient pansies planning planting when the snow has melted.
And in the kitchen window,
The all season, ever blooming orchids.

COUNSELLORS-IN-TRAINING CONTRIBUTE TO HOPE WORK

Our Hope Foundation time machine now has a set of prompts for families. When I think back on how this came to be, it kind of makes me think of families, of how they grow, and develop their stories, of how they add to each other’s lives. Because the Hope Foundation is a bit like a family, we now have three sets of prompts for our Time Machine.
The Time Machine Game is a future-focussed exercise that stimulates the imagination with hopeful language. Players can have fun while brainstorming hopeful possibilities. Players spin a wheel that points to a certain time in the future—maybe next week, maybe 15 years from now, possibly a time in between. Then the player draws a prompt from a selection of questions. The task is to imagine yourself in the future time and respond as if the time had come. For example, if I were playing, I might be imagining myself as I would be in the year 2021 and responding to the prompt: I am doing something I never thought I would be able to do. This is what I am doing.
The idea for the game came to me one evening in 2001. I was making a salad for dinner, playfully spinning the salad spinner, and wondering what activity would make a pleasant and hopeful ending to send people on their way at the close of a 5-day hope retreat. By the time the meal was over and the dishes were washed, my salad spinner had begun its transformation. A few labels on its spinning lid, thirty hope-focussed prompts tucked inside its bowl,, and you’d never really believe it had once been a humble kitchen gadget. The refinement of this game has been, and continues to be an on-going Hope Foundation project. We started with one idea and each addition makes it useful in a new way.
The initial group of questions were so general that they could be answered by just about anybody. We tinkered with them if we noticed that the language of any particular questions was confusing and we used time machine for many different audiences. The first significant modification was made in 2010 for use in the final session of our hope and strengths groups for people with chronic pain. Rachel Stege and I targeted the game more specifically by adding prompts relating to hopeful management of and adjustment to chronic pain. For example, I’m talking about pain in a more hopeful way today. This is what I’m saying…
The most recent innovation took shape when some University of Alberta students in counselling psychology got the idea of using the Time Machine as a catalyst for intergenerational discussion in a family. To make this work, Gabriela Corabian developed additional prompts to help families envision hopeful futures. Some of the new prompts are: A big event happened in my family; and I found a picture from my last family get together. This is what it shows.
Thank you, Gabriela, for adding this new resource to our Time Machine collection.

HOPE IS A LEADER IN ITS OWN RIGHT

You might say there really is no evidence that hope can make a difference
Given that we still have wars
And Poverty,
And injustice,
And cruellest illness,
And people dying.

But if you’d been with us last night at Audrey’s memorial service
To hear how every grieving person
Spoke of Audrey’s devotion to hope
Her unflagging will to be hopeful
Her diligent attention to hope’s manifestations
Both human and symbolic,

Then you would have seen the firsthand evidence
That hope is contagious,
That hope is comforting,
That hope is inspiring,
That hope pulls us together,
That hope leads to action,
That ultimately, even without the cooperation of the physical body,
Hope is a leader in its own right.

THE EAR'S HOPE

A robin sang from 9 to 10
Beyond my open window pane
And I believed he’d found a mate
And thus I grieved the finish of his song.

But birders tell me not to fret
The mates they say are not here yet
The coming weeks will bring more song
The ear’s hope seeks the choristers of spring

EDMONTON JOURNAL HAS A HOPEFUL STORY TODAY

Project turns stories of recovery into city’s hidden treasures
In this story--much longer than the exerpt quoted below--we find a fabulous way to combine modern technology and our love of treasure hunts with our ancient need to see meaning in our lives! Our saddest stories can dwell alongside a sense of fun and adventure.

”For P. Jez, Boyle Street is a symbol of her time in two different worlds.
About five years ago, she made her way to downtown looking to feed her drug habit.
Now, through Boyle Street Community Services programming, she is enrolled in a course run by the University of Alberta.
She calls herself P. Jez; she doesn’t want her real name used. She’s off the streets and looking to further her education in carpentry school.
To mark her progress, she has put an empty lighter in a small plastic container and hidden it behind a railing in a parking lot across from Boyle Street.”

SPRING PUDDLES BRING HOPE #YEG

When the boys aged 2 to 72
Join forces an shovels
And take to the alleys
Canal builders every one!

MORE SUPPORT THAN WE KNOW

“Nice duet you sang,” said my friend, advancing boldly in my direction at the close of the church service. He wore the grin of a Cheshire cat, and turned to beckon his granny who was following closely behind. I turned his way, surprised as he had intended, waiting in momentary silence for the joke to be unveiled.
“Duet?” said a bystander, giving voice to the confusion she saw in my eyes. “I didn’t hear a duet. I thought it was a solo.”
“No,’’ said my friend. “It was a duet. Granny was singing along.”
Not surprising that I hadn’t heard Granny, that only a few people heard Granny singing. I, after all, had been granted sole custody of the microphone. I said as much to Granny, who replied with the gracious acknowledgement that she didn’t mind singing without the mike.
I picture her now, her behaviour less filtered than it used to be, the lone joiner singing spiritedly along to an old favourite, a song she learned in childhood and practiced decade upon decade, Sunday after Sunday in churches wherever she might be. I picture her now, her natural self. She would sing with the congregation. She would sing with the radio. She would sing doing housework. She would sing in the shower.
Music, it seems, lodges deep in the heart, thrusting forth toward the smallest invitation, blooming in the warm light long after other life blossoms have faded. I wonder then about the treasures that might be trapped in the filters that govern us. In those moments when I believed myself to be carrying the full weight of attention, when I felt the vulnerability of singing alone, were there others singing also, singing silently? Was there, after all, unheard by any of us, actually a small choir supporting me, a full chorus?

AUDREY STECHYNSKY, I AM GOING TO MISS YOU

You have taught me a lot about hope, Audrey. On the subject of WAITING FOR SOMETHING BIG you blogged “I used to think that life was about events. I have been waiting to write on my Blog until something BIG happened. What I am beginning to realize is that
life is about small moments. If the moments give me energy, I usually classify them as hopeful. Small moments can make a hopeful week or day.”
I often heard you say this in the 16 years that have passed since I met you. You said it in so many different ways. In Part 1 of This Thing Called Hope, the film you helped us make at the Hope Foundation, you said that hope could sometimes just be a cup of hot chocolate. Other times you would say, “I think I’ll come to the Hope Foundation and have lunch. I need some hope.”
You will be remembered for your indomitable spirit, for your published articles on the role of hope in career counselling, for your professionalism, for your I-can-do-it approach to disability, for the cure party you gave in 2004 to celebrate the successful conclusion of a round of cancer treatment.
But in addition to all the big contributions you made, I will treasure the memory of all the little things you said about hope.“ You wrote, Hope and health go hand in hand and every day you walked the talk and worked to prove that it was true. You walked the talk, and in doing so, you proved that to me, over and over again. Audrey Stechynsky, I am going to miss you!

A FAMILY TRANSFORMS A TRAIN AT RUSH HOUR

Travelling together, they paid me no heed.
Two little girls, is it aunty and uncle?
Adults and children in opposite seats
Not minding who got on at University.

X’s and O’s and signs and words,
Merriment, chatter, no shushing, no scolding!
“Daddy, what station will we get off at?”
“Mommy, I’ve counted 7 more stops!”

“Four more stops Daddy!”
My time to leave. It’s Churchil.
And yet I would linger, reluctant to go.
I might sit down and ride to the end of the line to savour this unexpected delight.

Would the office be cheerier if every commuter
Were granted the privilege of riding unnoticed
For ten joyful minutes of X’s and O’s
Arm’s length from a happy family?