1993

The year that John and I got engaged, we spent the Christmas holiday at the farm.  I had already met most of John's extended family at Thanksgiving, which was when we had announced our engagement, and it was John's turn to meet my clan.

I'm not sure that I adequately prepared him for this experience.  I think he was a bit overwhelmed at the volume: of activities, of people, and of noise (there are not very many introverts in my family, especially on my Dad's side).

What John remembers most from that first Christmas (aside from the amazing ability of my family members to effectively participate in multiple conversations at one time) was how much time we spent in church.  Christmas Eve service.  Christmas morning service.  Sunday morning worship service.  New Years Eve service.  New Years Day service.  Sunday morning worship service.  Throw in a family gathering or two (also at the church) and I think we were in church every day we were there.

I remember being surprised that John was so surprised at this.  This was the Christmas ritual that I grew up with.  The air that I breathed.  It was becoming clear to him just how important church was/is to my family.  And to me.

From what I understand, the church I grew up in no longer has all these services.  Likely, I'm guessing, that's because people like me wouldn't attend them all anymore.  While I have fond memories of the candlelight choir services, Sunday school nativity programs, solemn (and German!) New Year's Eve and all-too-early New Year's Day services, my life and community has grown beyond the church in ways that mean other activities and people also share priority.  To be clear, I'm not saying that my church commitments (or my faith) have been replaced, just complimented - by relationships and activities outside of it. 

Though many things have changed over time to be sure, many of the fundamentals remain and continue to be important to both John and me and our boys, as well as our respective families:  the importance of relationships, life-giving and life-deepening activities and the role of church, both our community and our faith.

I must say I was relieved that, after that first Christmas, John still (and with the full knowledge and understanding that only multiple family gatherings can provide) chose to be with me.  And by extension, my family.

And we're still celebrating, 17 Christmases later.

Christmas dreams

Let Christmas not become a thing
Merely of merchant's trafficking,
Of tinsel, bell and holly wreath
And surface pleasure, but beneath
The childish glamour, let us find
Nourishment for soul and mind.
Let us follow kinder ways
Through our teeming human maze,
And help the age of peace to come
From a Dreamer's martyrdom.  

- Madeline Morse

(Thanks, Maura.)

Béal Feirste

I've been thinking lately, again, about our year in Northern Ireland.  Five years ago we had Christmas there with our friends in North Belfast.

Christmas pageant at Fortwilliam and the whole bit.  Drinks with friends at the pub.  Neighbourhood children knocking on our door singing, "Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat...", hoping for a couple of P so they could run down the hill to the shop for sweets.   Ryan.  Demi.  Janet.  Sean.  Where are they now, I wonder.

Our time in Belfast was complicated.  It's taken a long time for me to understand what happened there.  Why we had to leave before we really wanted to.  Why things ended differently than anyone had expected or hoped for.  And why there was so much pain - both for us and for the people who had become our friends, our family.  I'm not certain I do understand it.  But I see it now with the perspective of time and distance and I no longer feel that pain in the same way.

Yesterday, I received an unexpected email from an old friend from Belfast, a friend I had lost track of.  She emailed a quick Christmas hello and tacked on a birthday wish for me.  I'm not sure why this touched me so much.  Perhaps it was the thoughtfulness of remembering my birthday after all these years (something many of my friends and family here understandably forget, due to its proximity to Christmas).  But really, I think it's just good to know that old friends there still think of me sometimes.  Because I sure think of them.

Mi familia

En mi familia, hay mi padre, mi madre y mi hermano.

15 years ago, when John and I were studying Spanish in Colombia, this was one of the basic sentences I practiced in conversation with our tutor, Ingrid.

Today, this sentence would sound more like:  En nuestra familia, hay mi esposo y nuestros hijos.  Además, hay nuestros padres, nuestros hermanos y hermanas en la ley y sobrinas y sobrinos.

And they were all at our house for an early Christmas this last weekend.  And it was grand.

Frintschoft

They descend today, my kin.  The first batch from the east, then on Friday they come from the west.  Our first Christmas together in 9 years.  Our first Christmas with all the kids.

Didn't get all the baking done.  Didn't get all the meal planning done.  Didn't get all the shopping done.  Didn't get all the cleaning done.  But I did get some of each of those done.  And some is enough.

I'm excited about having my family for Christmas.  It likely won't be perfect - I'm not perfect and that's not surprise to them.  It won't be perfect but it will be just right.  Especially because we all here.

The finest of wines

There's nothing like an old friend.  The kind of friend you've known forever.  The kind you don't have to pretend with.  The kind of friend who just knows you.  And calls you on your bullshit when necessary.  I feel lucky to have a handful of such friends.

It's hard to imagine navigating life without them.  Throughout the years, drawing on one or another of their perspectives and insights as part of some kind of eclectic cosmic wisdom without which I would be lost.  It's true, we all see in the mirror dimly, but it helps to have a few kickass friends holding the mirror at just the right angle.

This morning I was thinking about someone I know who does not appear to have any old friends.  No one to be a shoulder for the tears.  No one to tell it like it is.  No one who knows her from way back.  I'm not sure why this is, because she is a lovely, sincere and earnest, totally likable, lovable person.   I wonder whether part of that is her choice.  She just hasn't claimed them. 

I wonder whether my old friends are aware that I have claimed them, placed them in special reserve, high on the shelf, the finest of wines.  I think they know who they are.  If they don't yet, they will soon.  I will tell them.  Cheers, my friends.

Happy ponies

Every day at 3:25 pm, I trot the 1.5 blocks to the local school, mug of tea in hand, to pick up the boys.  I have learned that the mug of tea is absolutely critical for me to maintain a non-hypothermic body temperature.  The boys and their friends love to play in the school yard after school lets out, which is great in spring and fall.  Not so great when it's sub-zero, which really is most of the school year, let's face it.

ANYWAYS, today was a day like any other.  Sipping my tea, waiting and watching the kids play in the snow.  Andreas and his best friend, sitting in a drift, talking and licking the snow off their mitts.  Nicholas and his 2 best pals having fun playing out some kind of drama that includes slow-motion fight scenes, complete with slo-mo sound effects.

Having fun, that is, until they tumble within earshot of me, which is when Nicholas becomes conscious of my proximity.

I think we should stop now, guys,  he says in a hushed voice.  My mom is right there.  And she doesn't like violence.

Then he suddenly brightens.  And declares quite clearly: Boys, it's time for HAPPY PONIES!

Apparently, his friends have received these instructions before because they clearly understand what is expected of them.  They begin at once to frolick and prance all over each other, mewing some kind of sing-songy something.  Then they begin to giggle.  Then they run off.

I'm not sure why this little vignette delights me so.  Perhaps there's assurance in knowing that Nicholas still cares what I think.  Perhaps it's the silliness of 8 year old boys frolicking and prancing.  Perhaps it's just the very idea of happy ponies.  I don't know.  But I love it.

Google

Mom, do you know why medieval architecture favours the spiral staircase?

These and other equally intriguing questions have been coming my way since our 8 year old's interests have waned from all things marine toward a variety of more mature pursuits including medieval history, Greek mythology, chemistry and geology.  He calls them bigger kid interests - it seems he relegates his marine biology days to the realm of the juvenile...?

Mom, which do you think would be more difficult to manage - a long bow or a cross bow?

I generally wholeheartedly endorse any interest that either boy brings forward.  Even, reluctantly, if it means learning about the various methods by which medieval knights eviscerated one another.  It gets a bit challenging for my ego, however, when it's clear that I have no capacity to answer the questions that come to me.  Even to fake it. 

Mom, which is the harder mineral - pyrite or olivine?

Worse than that, is when I get a question that I should at least be expected to answer at a primary level.  And still I embarrass myself.  I tell them that they should not judge their own level of intelligence on their assessment of mine.  It skews the baseline.  And makes them feel smarter than they really are.

Mom, what's E=MC2?

God bless Google.  That's all I can say.  When I was a kid, it was to the stately set of World Book Encyclopedia, with their gilded gold, Bible-paper thin pages, that my mother ran when my brother and I came to her with questions.  Google wasn't even a word let alone an idea.  How far we've come.

Perhaps it's just me but I really wasn't interested in learning about medieval architecture when I was in grade 3.  I honestly doubt that I was even aware of the medieval era until sometime in high school.  And even then, I didn't care about it.  Nor did I care about the periodic table of elements (still don't) or the ranking of mineral hardness (nope, just don't care).  But I love the fact that Nicholas does.  And he cares a lot.  

I can now tell you why spiral staircases were an essential component in a castle's defense against enemy attack.  I can tell you about the difference between quartz and amethyst.  And I can give you a (very) basic overview of Einstein's theory of relativity.  A world of information, literally at our fingertips.

But another question, posited a few days ago by Andreas, stumps Google.

Mom, how do you know that you love somebody?

One of the things I love about hanging around kids a lot is that they make you answer questions like this.  And force you to be thoughtful about how you answer it.  A question too big for Google and just big enough for me.

Saying sorry

In my work life, I sometimes spend time coaching people on how to accept responsibility for the negative consequences of their actions, even if those consequences are unintended.  A person might say and do things that come out of neutral or even positive intentions, but those words and actions might still have a very hurtful impact on the other person.  This happens to all of us.  And we need to accept that even the best of intentions can still sometimes hurt.  It happens to high level executives.  It happens to front-line workers.  It happens in families.  And it happens to my children. 

Today, I struggled with how to transpose my coaching spiel into a key that my 6 year old might grasp.  I have to say, I have better luck engaging with a client, helping them understand why it is important to meaningfully show the other person that they understand and regret their actions.  I feel like I failed miserably explaining this to my son.

That's because it's probably less about the explanation and more about the simple fact that it's just plain hard to do.  Even for grown-ups.  The initial I-didn't-do-anything denial shape-shifts into the but-he-started-it justification and finally into the but-I-wasn't-thinking-when-I-said-that face-saving posture.  These aren't just the plaintiff cries of a 6 year old.  It's hard to own my part when I feel so wronged by another person.

And yet, learning how to say sorry is so important.  And I say learning because I believe that apologizing is actually a skill.  It is something that we need to learn to do.  And do we ever.  I know that I have been the recipient (and deliverer!) of more than a few lousy apologies in my lifetime.  You know the type, the I'm-sorry-but kind.

This is why I am one of those mothers who insists that her children make the effort to authentically apologize when they have hurt another person.  A former coworker and friend once shared with me her approach to teaching kids about meaningful apologies - three simple steps:

Feeling sorry. 
Saying sorry. 
Showing your sorry.

A fantastic guide for kids and grown-ups alike.  If only it were that easy.

Push

I have been wondering lately whether it might be time to push myself and allow a few of my close friends into my little blogging experiment here.  (I must admit that having conversations with myself is getting a bit boring.)  This thought, however, is always accompanied by a substantive dash of anxiety and terror.

You see, the only people that currently know about this are those in my life whom I know love me unconditionally.  I know my moms won't think any less of me if my writing seems contrived.  Or petulant.  Or just plain sucks eggs.  In fact, I know I can count on them to, at the very least, pretend that the opposite is true.  And I love that about them.

I'm less sure about others.  And whether I can weather the knowledge of their presence.  I suppose this is my precursive plea to them to be kind if and when I muster the courage to invite them here.

Why women leaders quit

Today I started my noon hour with unconscious hopes of getting all the answers.  I was attending a "Lunch and Learn" session entitled Why Women Leaders Quit.  My first reaction was: Do we really need a seminar to figure this out?  Besides, I'm not really interested in hearing about the why.  Believe me, I get the why. What I need to learn about is the how.

How to stay the course.  How not to compromise the important things.  How to passionately invest yourself while not becoming completely depleted in the meantime.

I wonder if men in leadership ask themselves the same questions.  I somehow imagine that their questions would be different from mine but perhaps not.  I don't really know.

I would be lying if I said I didn't think fairly regularly about quitting my job.  But I've come to realize that I don't think that this would solve my problems.  Many of the problems and tensions I face in my role are not unique to the organization I work with.  And they are not unique to me either.  Sure, the challenges that women in leadership face are coloured by the expectations that others, including men, have of us.  But for me, like so many other women, the edges of my palette bleed to greyblack with the near impossible expectations that I place on myself to excel at it all: to be an strong and authentic leader and an attentive and engaged mother and wife and an ever-available listening ear and supportive friend and a contributing community member and and and...

I smiled to myself in the line at the Safeway, where I stopped on my way home this afternoon, as I tried in vain to balance my armload of milk cartons and eggs cartons while digging for a notepad to take down the contact info of the client I had on the cellphone.

I know I am not alone.  It was good to hear this today.  I guess I'll figure out the how some other day.

Snowscapes

Probably the thing I love most about wintertime is the feeling of being wrapped together with the earth in blanket of crisp purity by freshly fallen snow.

Winters north of the 49th in central Canada can be harsh to be sure, but there's nothing like a calm, sunny, post-snowfall day, even if it is -20.  Clean.  Bright.  Still.  Glorious.  It's nigh impossible to be grumpy on days like these. 

For a few days, I get to experience again the innocence that comes with the fresh snow.  I worry less about the chemicals and crap in the cotton-candy fluff that my kids lick from their mittens.  I forget about the litter and crud in the alley, the immaculately cleansed back lane feel like a miracle.  The world is shiny and new.

But, as always, the snow turns yellow brown too fast.  A new generation of Tim Hortons cast away cups defile the once unadulterated beauty.  And everything becomes grey and dirt.  Until the next snowfall breathes its crystal sigh.

So it goes.

For some reason, today I reluctantly remember the mixed feelings that always accompany me during those last weeks of winter, when the snowscapes melt as a harbinger of spring to reveal the disgusting truth of what has been hiding and decaying beneath.  This, bringing with it a final and bitter acceptance of the crumbling facade of winter, leaves me both mourning the clarity and purity of the once whiteness and lusting ravenously after the smells of wet earth and green rebirth that feel so far away yet.

Until then, though, I am content to sit by the fire and wait in anticipation for the skies to once more cleanse my view.  And, in denial, cover up and over the dirt and decay and wrap me together with the earth, warmed, by a blanket of comfort and a cup of hot chocolate.

Light

I realized last night, with a bit of a start, that it has been 9 years since my Oma died.

One of the things that I remember about my Oma's death was that she passed away on the same day as our first baby was due to be born.  I remember when we found out we were expecting, I was so excited that my Oma would be able to meet our little one.   But.  Our baby died in miscarriage and never met my Oma.  My Oma died in 2001 and never met my other children.  Sadness.

I so wish my boys could see the light in her eyes when they ran into her kitchen.  Would feel her light as she played games with them.  Would taste her light as she unwrapped those raspberry candies that seemed in unending supply at the bottom of her purse.  Would breathe in her light as she hugged them tight.

But of course, she was old.  And she died.  And these things just aren't possible.

I knew her light.  And now all that's left, besides memories, is for me to keep her light alive by seeking to live as compassionately, as humbly and as generously as she was.

Oma, lass die Augen dein uber meinem Bette sein.

Regular

I started my latest project (here) just for fun.  I thought it might be interesting to document regular boring life at out house - imperfect and unposed.  It was the simplest of ideas really.  I decided to take a photograph each day and just put it out there.  It would give our out-of-province family a chance to see more regular pictures of our handsome boys, both regular: every-day and regular: consistent (admittedly, I've not been very conscientious about emailing photos, sorry Mom!).

What I have discovered through this exercise is that I have begun to notice, more acutely, the beauty and wonder in these most regular of moments.  Nicholas tying his shoes.  Andreas working on his music theory.

It is so easy for me, especially when things at work are stressful and busy, to be deceived into thinking that these micro moments are really of no consequence.  Especially when I need to review the financial statements, need to check over the outgoing invoices, need to get that quote finished off, need to email this client confirming a meeting, need to return those phone calls and promised to have this report in the client's hands yesterday.

It is so easy for me to lose sight of the fact that, while work is important, it is not my life.  Life is a series of the simplest and boringest moments.  And if you don't stop and notice them regularly, they disappear.

Paradise

Nicholas, upon taking a bite of chocolate this morning (a rare allowance):   
It's just like falling into paradise!

Oh, to be young and filled with the joy of simple pleasures.
I wish for him that this never ends.

A little dose of crazy

Friends of ours have embraced the idea of home renovations like no other I know. They recently purchased a rickety house down the street from us and have since demolished it to build a new home in its stead.  They are doing this in several phases which means that they have been living on the property the whole time, in various stages of chaos.

Nicholas summed it up precisely when we took a recent tour of the progress:
Wow, that is a big job he has made for himself there!

He is essentially building this whole thing with his own two hands.  He's done it before, taking on projects of epic proportion, working hard and steady to get it done.  And it amazes me.  The idea itself seems just so enormous to me, let alone managing all the details of bringing that idea to life.  I am frozen at the very thought.  It's a good thing my friend isn't.

Slowly, week by week, the lumber stacks miraculously evolve into walls, into joists and floorboards, into a building, a home.  It takes hard work and sheer determination, creativity and big thinking.  And perhaps just a little dose of crazy. 

The outcome will undoubtedly be spectacular.  Their home will stand on the next block as an encouragement and reminder for us to always always dream big and colourful, crazy and all.  Then just work hard to make it all come alive.

I wish

A good friend recently asked me about whether I had ever experienced a time in my adult life when things were uncomplicated.  Unstressful.  Balanced.

I thought for a few moments.  And I surprised her, and myself, by saying yes.

Back in 2002, I think I surprised many people by having no interest in going back to work after the birth of my first boy.  I remember being questioned and challenged by people who were closest to me about what I really wanted and needed.  Didn't I need the intellectual stimulation of being engaged at work?  Wouldn't I feel empty being so baby-focused?  I even had a friend kindheartedly accuse me of not being honest with myself.

I think in some ways I was even surprised at how easy it was for me to leave work behind.  After all, I love my work.  My work/home balance problems didn't just emerge after my babies were born.  You can ask John about that.  But I remember reconnecting with colleagues over tea at the kitchen table soon after Nicholas was born and, while I was genuinely interested in what was going on at work, I really was quite happy to see them out the door and let them to it.

I've been back to work now for 4 years.  And I still grieve the simplicity of a singular focus in my life.  I remember fondly the days of folding diapers.  Of bundling the babies up and taking meandering morning walks on chilly November days.  Of baking cookies or baking anything really.  Of productive afternoons consisting of nothing more than story books and play dough.  It sounds romantic and revisionist.  But it was romantic.  I really loved every minute of it.

It's harder than I ever realized, negotiating this crazy tight rope that stretches between work and family.  The pull between the two means that both are inadequately attended to as I am left alone, teetering midway, immobilized by the competition between my own wants and needs and the screaming demands coming from either side of the great black hole below.

I am a mom.  And a mediator.
And I wish I still had the time and inclination to make yogurt from scratch.

Love Song

...Everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin's bow
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

Happy birthday, John.

On conversation

Right now I'm in a little 12 seater prop engine, somewhere over northern Manitoba, thinking about the last two days.  And the power of conversation.

When we first met Sally and Ben yesterday morning, we knew that we were going to be earning every penny of our fees.  After meeting with both of them privately it was clear that they were miles apart in their perspectives and totally at odds in terms of their respective assessments of the root cause of the difficulties between them.  They were unwaveringly convinced of each others' spiteful motivations.  They were unable to allow for the possibility that another, equally valid perspective or experience could exist beside their own.

But things in the workplace had to change.  Morale in the unit was as an all time low, with the tension between Sally and Ben leaking out and poisoning the work team.  Staff were bickering and gossiping.  Some staff were threatening to quit.  Ben and Sally were openly accusing one another of disrespectful behaviour.  Sally said Ben was undermining her authority as manager.  Ben said Sally was a bully.

Yesterday afternoon, we risked a conversation.  No.  They risked a conversation.

With our help, they spent the rest of the afternoon and most of today talking about several moments from the past year, examples of experiences when things did not go well between them.  Much of it was difficult, confused and angry.  But they did their best to listen to each other, trying to suspend the knee jerk response to call the other a liar.  Or worse.

We heard from Ben that the straw that broke the camel's back of their relationship, for him, was something that had happened 6 months ago.  It was the thing that ignited the flame of action in him, compelling him to begin filing critical incident reports regarding Sally's behaviour and sending them over her head to senior management without her knowledge.  New, state of the art technology had just been set up in the unit, a real feather in the cap for this small town office.  Sally was enthusiastically extolling its various bells and whistles to a small group of staff who had gathered around the machine.  Comments were made about how all of the accessibility features would hopefully make life easier.  Now, Ben had an invisible disability that he was extremely sensitive about.  When he heard Sally's comments about life being easier, he felt that like he had just been sucker punched below the belt.  That Sally was "calling him out" and making a spectacle of his disability.  He felt disrespected and totally humiliated.

Sally, hearing this for the first time yesterday, was utterly shocked.  She said she had no idea that Ben had ever dealt with any challenges whatsoever and that this was totally new information to her.  Ben had a very difficult time accepting that this could even remotely be true.  He had lived for the last 6 months, believing in his soul that Sally had been intentionally seeking to humiliate him in the hopes that he would finally quit.  Sally was appalled and angry that he would ever imagine that she could possibly be so cruel.  The tension of their opposing narratives and the uncertainty of no longer understanding what was true was acute.

Sally eventually disclosed to Ben that her grandson also struggled with a disability (a fact unbeknown to us).  If anyone would ever say something malicious to him about it she would <insert choice of torture here>.

And gradually the conversation shifted.  After some dialogue, Ben was able to begin the process of letting go the long held belief that Sally was intentionally out to get him.  Sally was able to offer an apology for saying something (however harmless the intent) that was really hurtful and humiliating for Ben.

And then they made a plan for managing their relationship going forward.  They put in place the nuts and bolts for how to have conversations related to performance management issues, for how to manage their extremely different communication styles.  They came up with a long list of agreements and through them, committed to work at rebuilding the trust that had been destroyed.

I am convinced that, left unattended, the relationship between Sally and Ben was headed for utter disaster.  They never would have been able to have the kind of conversation that happened yesterday and today on their own.  Even if HR would have called them both to the carpet and insisted on some basic behavioural agreements, and even if those agreements looked very similar to the list that the two of them came up with today, that wouldn't have resolved a thing.

The surprise connection that Ben and Sally made after she shared about her grandson's experience was what turned the corner for them in our conversations.  That's not to say that things will be easy for them; I'm sure they will continue to have struggles in their relationship. But they both have a little more good will today than they had yesterday.  And this is why we left their community a few hours ago feeling positive about their capacity to make things work.

Every person has the potential within themselves to transform conflicted relationships.  But sometimes that potential is so fragile and so naked that it would never risk coming out of hiding unless it knows it has a safe container in which it can expose itself to be seen and shaped by the other.  That is what the process of mediation offers.  That is the power of facilitated conversation.

Contrast

The antithesis of the human experience has been undeniably exposed these last few weeks in the news media.  The joy of the miners' rescue, a global fete to be sure, in juxtaposition with images and excerpts of horrific crimes - torture and death relived by the already mourning.

We sit, riveted to our screens by images of dramatic heroism and hope, accounts of elation and answered prayers.  And we watch, averting our eyes perhaps, but largely unmoved, in horror, at the retelling of unspeakable acts and images of darkness and depravity, worst nightmares come alive.

I understand why the collective experience of watching the miners' rescue was so compelling.  It's harder for me to understand why I feel drawn to absorb everything I can about things I do not want to know.  This, another stark contrast, became so obvious to me this week, when I was faced with the face of Russell Williams.

The photography world defines contrast as the ratio of light to shadow.  Perhaps it is somehow this idea of contrast that compels me to want to understand how such things can happen in the first place.  And leaves me with a need to understand the light to shadow ratio not only in our world today but in the heart of someone like Russell Williams.

The world we live in

Can I call my mom when we get to your place?  asks Nicholas' friend on the way to our house for an after school play-date.  He looks sad.  Sure, I say.  Is something wrong?  What's going on? 

I need to talk to my mom.  Some kids were telling me today that my family is all weak and dumb.  Because we're black.

He then proceeds to tell me about how this kind of thing has been going on since Kindergarten...

Clearly I must be naive otherwise this would not have shocked me so much.   Now, I'm not so Pollyanna as to think that the world has miraculously become a just and fair place.  I am, however, disturbed and distraught to hear that this sweet little almost-8-year-old boy has already experienced more than his fair share of injustice and hurt because of something so arbitrary as skin colour.  I mean, c'mon! Aren't we all passed this yet?

Clearly not.

When I connect with his mom when we drop him off, she tells me through tears that she is trying to teach her boys to cope with the inevitable pain they will experience in life as a result of being of African descent.  That this is just their reality and she will not allow her kids to grow up to be victims.  That they will need to grow a thick skin, to find and develop the tools within themselves not to bend and break under the pressure of ignorance and mean-spiritedness. 

Today, I am reminded that my boys will never know this particular brand of ignorance and mean-spiritedness.  They will never need to learn how to shake off the kind of hurtful comments that Nicholas' friend regularly receives.  I will never need teach them ways to cope with this kind of pain.

My friend T does.

I think one of the hardest things about parenting is learning over and over again, through the eyes and hearts of our kids, that sometimes the world we live in just sucks.

More Mary Oliver

 The Milkweed










The milkweed now with their many pods are standing
like a country of dry women.
The wind lifts their flat leaves and drops them.
This is not kind, but they retain a certain crisp glamour;
moreover, it’s easy to believe
each one was once young and delicate, also
frightened; also capable
of a certain amount of rough joy.
I wish you would walk with me out into the world.
I wish you could see what has to happen, how
each one crackles like a blessing
over its thin children as they rush away.

Thanksgiving

I exhale as I open the dryer and pull out:  3 bath towels, a pillow case, 3 pairs of underwear, a t-shirt, one sock (!) and 3 dish rags.

This is a true story.  This is how John does the laundry.

What I feel is a unique blend of utter stupefaction and hopeless resignation.  Then comes the inner dialogue:

Me:  What the H?  How can he think that this makes any sense?!
Me:  Remember, though, that he took the initiative to do the laundry this week again, and that is a good thing.
Me:  But he does it all wrong!!!!
Me:  According to whom?
Me:  According to ME!!  And I'm willing to bet all women in the developed world.
Me:  It's not a big deal.  He's making an important contribution.
Me:  Yes, he's contributing to my insanity...

You get the idea.  This conversation goes on for some time.

But eventually, I get tired of hearing my own complaints (yes, that can happen from time to time), and I shift into problem solving mode.  (What a good mediator I am!)

As I look around at the piles of yet-to-be-washed laundry that John had sorted (I use that term loosely, obviously), I am compelled to totally reorganize it all.  Better yet, I should call him down here so I can, once again, explain the basic rules of laundry sorting to him (e.g. you do all the towels together,  the sheets and pillow cases to-geth-er...).

Instead, I smile as I fold the bath towels, the pillow case, the underwear, the t-shirt and the dish rags.  I search for the stray partner of the lonely sock.

I go back upstairs and I thank John for all his help.  And I really mean it.

The Autumn

Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them —
The summer flowers depart —
Sit still — as all transform’d to stone,
Except your musing heart...

- Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Time to leap

Neither of the boys are real risk takers.  I think this is why I was surprised at the thrill they took from leaping off the hay bales at the farm we visited a couple of weeks ago.





   

As I watched them, I couldn't remember the last time I had a thrill like that.  The kind that makes your stomach jump to your throat.  Climbing the ladder to wash the windows doesn't count.

I'm talking about the kind of leap-with-reckless-abandon you take just for the fun of it.

For no other reason at all.

It's a great day to be alive and I like you

On my walk to church yesterday morning, I varied my usual route and found myself on a new-to-me street.

At first I thought it was hilariously hoakey.  But for whatever reason, the sentiment stenciled on the stranger's mailbox stayed with me all day:

It's a great day to be alive and I like you.

This

My six year old son came home from school yesterday with a girl's phone number. 

Apparently it was an exchange because she called him last night.

I am totally unprepared for this.  Whatever "this" is.

Signs and wonders

Perceptions, recollections and memories are not always real .  And in fact, it may be argued that only rarely, if ever, are they completely factually accurate.  I totally allow this.  And yet.

When I think back to my years as a child (like, let's say pre1985) and my felt perception of our family values, expectations and rules, I recall with what feels like crystal clarity, many things were verboten. 

A few examples:
+  Rock music and/or dancing - I remember getting "caught" dancing to a Beach Boys record (which was, ironically, part of my parents' own vinyl collection)
+  Work on Sundays - including homework and piano (so I didn't really mind this one)
+  Movies - Oh, the devastation when I was not allowed to go see E.T. with my friend Jennifer and her mom!
+  Mini-skirts, nail polish, getting my ears pierced...

The list goes on.................................................................................................................

The bold, blue "Judy for Mayor" placard that sits stiffly on our yard has got me to thinking lately.

Perhaps it was the indoctrination of the public school system, but I always remember being proud to be Canadian.  So proud, in fact, that I was viciously jealous of my neighbour Dawn and the huge Canadian flag that flapped in the wind on her yard.  I thought we should have one too.  After all, we love Canada as much as anyone.

Of course the answer was: No way.

Now, looking back, I can imagine that the "no" was about many things, not the least of which was likely the expense and sheer hassle of putting the pole up in the very first place.  (In some ways, it was a ridiculous request.)

The rationale that was provided at the time, however, came in the form of a small seminar on Church and State.  In summary: As Christians, our only loyalty is to God and the church.  And the church, by its very nature, needs to separate itself from the state to maintain its integrity.  Therefore: no flag.

I suppose this made some sense to me.  It was at least consistent with the other values that I had been taught at home.  It conflicted, though, with the ideas about civic pride that I was learning in other places in my life.  Particularly in a post cold war era.  Canada was the best place on earth and would always be as long as the Soviet nukes didn't explode over us on their way to the US (Nyet nyet Soviet. Da da Canada...). 

In my childhood, this idea of the separation of Church and State felt like a great, unresolved dilemma for me.  While I understood that the evil/sinful influences of "the world" must be resisted (a la Paul: Do not conform to the patterns of your world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind), I also understood that it was only through actual participation that one can affect change (a la Gandhi: Be the change you want to see in the world).

So, I am surprised when a red Liberal poster board appears on my uncle's lawn circa 1987: Vote for Harry Pelissero!  WHAT is going on?!  I am confused.

Another memory from around that same time seems so strange that it must not be true.  I think it's Christmas time, some time in the late 80's.  Singing German carols in the basement of our church with extended family.  And my great grandfather suggests that we sing the national anthem.  And we do.  And it blows my mind.

One of the blessings (and curses too, I suppose) of human interaction is the ability that people, family, communities have to influence one another.  The power of ideas to shape and reshape our thoughts, our opinions, our sense of self, our actions.............................

By the time I get to high school, I'm all about Michael J. Fox and Bryan Adams.  With my parents (albeit tacit) approval, I wear hideously huge earrings, purple eye shadow and always leave my homework to the last possible moment on Sunday night.  I only dream I could ever be as cool as Molly Ringwald.

We never did get a flag pole, but I remember writing letters to politicians and standing with pride beside both of my parents as we march in protest of conservative government policy.

So today, my little "Judy for Mayor" sign proclaims to me something big.  Not just about the power of participation in change (VOTE FOR JUDY!!!) but about the power of ideas and the wonder of human engagement.

Dirty windows

I never imagined that dirty windows could save lives.  Now, had I known this...

If you know our place, you know that we live in a bit of a fishbowl.  Big windows all over our house - living room, dining room, family room, office.  I love our windows.  But I hate the fact that they really need to be washed at least three times a year for me to feel good about looking through them.

It's a really big job, washing windows.  Especially the second floor windows.  It involves leaning extension ladders at precarious angles.  And serious scrubbing at unheavenly heights.  It's a bit of a death wish.

OK, yes, that is slightly melodramatic, but it's enough of an ordeal that we routinely procrastinate and put off the job.

Two days ago, I invested in the best little invention ever.  A squeegee.  With an extention handle.  And I can't believe this thing.  I was skeptical that this would actually do a good job, but I was pleasantly shocked at how effective it was, how easy it was to use, and how much reach it had.  I am so pleased with my clean windows.  And even more pleased with how effortless a job it was to get done.  I am a squeegee convert.

The three exterior walls of my office are windows.  I love this room, especially in fall when the golden leaves still clinging to the trees contrast with the crystal blue of the September skies.  Clean windows revealing the neighbourhood drama of prowling cats and foraging squirrels with a clarity that I hadn't anticipated.  I rejoice.

Unintended consequences, however, are often a byproduct of positive intentions.

The death toll is already at 5.  And counting.  Poor little things.  Sparrows, chickadees who would normally sense the grime on the glass, see nothing now.  Pronounced dead on impact.

Every time I hear the crash, I say a little prayer for the little innocent bird.  I'm sorry, I say aloud to the poor, dead thing.  I didn't want that to happen to you.

Later, when I go outside to take care of the little feathery corpse, I discover it's gone.  And I hope that maybe it's somehow miraculously recovered.  But, sadly,  more likely it's the consequence of our clean windows, rather than the clean windows themselves, that has me noticing all the cats in our yard lately.

The river

I realize, in hindsight, that it's fortunate I don't notice it's 2:45 pm when I look out my office window at the beautiful fall afternoon, then over at the stack of out-going mail on my desk, and decide to go for a little stroll. 

When I get to the mailbox a few blocks away, I check the time.  2:55.  I grumble internally, wishing I would have checked before I left because then I wouldn't have bothered to come now.  I have to pick up the boys from school at 3:20.  And there's really not enough time to head back to my desk and get anything productive done.

I stand at the red mailbox on the corner for a few moments, weighing my options.  And I feel the wind on my face and the warmth of the sun in my hair.

I walk down to the river.

I love this river.  I regularly come here to walk along it.  But I have never come here to sit.

Today this is what I do.  I has been the most productive afternoon I've had for ages.

The poet

The dictionary defines the word "expectation":  A strong belief that something will happen or be the case in the future; A belief that someone will or should achieve something.

We all have expectations of each other.  Every relationship is built on assumptions and expectations that are developed over time.  Bumps occur when someone does something (or doesn't do something) that is contrary to what you expected of them.  Learning how to manage these inevitable moments is basic conflict resolution 101.

All the conflict theory in the world, though, has not taught me a single thing about how to manage my own inner voices when it comes to dealing with others' expectations of me and my own perceptions of whether or not I meet these expectations.  And, to be honest, whether or not my perceptions of these expectations are even real.

Maybe it was growing up in the context of a large extended family.  Maybe it was being raised in a fairly conservative faith community.  Maybe it's partly fear based.  Maybe it's all of that, and more.

True confessions: I am a people-pleaser.  In the last 18 months, this is something that has become increasingly clear to me.  And I'm not very happy about it.

I prefer to see myself as strong, independent, clear-minded.  I know I am these things sometimes.  But in honesty, I also am very affiliating, afraid of criticism, and desperate for the approval of others.  Like every other human person, I make mistakes and I fail to meet expectations.  And I kick myself around the block for it.

On a beautiful golden Sunday, I read Mary Oliver and know she is writing to me.

The Poet with his Face in his Hands

You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.

So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can

drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,

puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

The never ending journey

I suppose that I've always been a product-oriented, task-oriented person, gleaning gratification from acknowledging the tangible outcomes of whatever efforts I have afforded.  Some people find joy in the process, the journey, the getting there, rather than the destination.  Not me.

I think I've always been like this.  Tell me what I need to do so I can do it and then it will be done.  (Ironic, in some ways, that I've chosen a profession that is almost ALL about process.  But more on that another time.)  My greatest satisfactions come from closing the file (literally or figuratively) on any particular project, feeling good about a job well done and basking in the moment of relegating said file to it's alphabetical resting place in my filing cabinet.  Done and dusted.

This is perhaps why I hate laundry.

Laundry is never done.  Even when it is, it isn't.  The next day there are another four sets of smelly socks, 2 pairs of grass stained jeans, t-shirts with ketchup drips...

I'm not sure why I feel so regularly defeated by the laundry.  It's sad but it's a battle that I often lose, watching, hopeless with surrender, at the growing mountain that sits there taunting me.  Only to realize that upon conquering that particular summit there is a lifetime of mountain ranges beyond it.  Give me help.

I know that a big part of my life's work is to grow to love the journey, wherever it leads.  Even if it happens to be the eternal trek that takes me from washer to dryer to back again.

Cheers to the road.

On praise

A lot has been said about how recent adult generations are wrecking the capacity of the younger ones to deal with criticism, pain and basic life in the real world.  And I don't totally disagree.  The pendulum swing on this issue has indeed taken its course as the generations (mine included) that have wrestled with chronic low self esteem over-correct, heaping boatloads of unearned accolades on their children in a well-meaning attempt to save them from themselves.

I, too, often find myself tempted to shower my kids with easy offerings of how amazing they are, how smart they are, how beautiful they are - because of course I believe, like all parents, that my children are exceptionally special.  And they are.  The reality is, however, that they are not any more (nor any less) special than any other child.  Every child, every person is exceptionally special.  And this simple idea is what I really want them to understand about life.  In many ways, it's really the only important thing.

Now, this is not to say that providing recognition and acknowledgment of hard work, effort or accomplishment is not also incredibly important, serving both as a positive reinforcement and an incredible motivator.  And not just for kids.

John has taken guitar lessons for well over half of his life.  He works hard at it and practices every day.   He doesn't have lofty performance goals or dreams of virtuosity.  It is something he does for himself, to feed his soul.

Yesterday, John came home after his lesson, eyes shining.  His teacher had offered a single well-placed, well-deserved honest acknowledgment of hard work, accomplishment, skill.

And he sat down with his guitar and it sang all night.

Brothers

I have one brother.  My husband has one brother.  My sons each have one brother.

Life with brothers is complicated.  Love and fury alive in one body, sometimes in one moment.

Upon the birth of our second son, a wise friend and colleague (and veteran father of 2 brothers himself) told me that the greatest mistake I could make as parent is to intervene too quickly when the boys are in conflict with each other.  I took this slightly premature advice to heart, especially seeing as his boys, now in their 20s, seem like responsible, respectable, respectful members of the adult world.  And as a mediator, the concept is kind of obvious.  I had no idea, however, how hard it would be to live.

I need to say that it is truly amazing, the yowls and howls that I sometimes hear roaring up through the floor boards as the boys play (and by that I mean fight) in their basement playroom.  I have worked hard over the years to steel myself against my strong inner need to immediately run and help, to rush to the rescue like the super-mom-hero I'd like to think I could be.  But I've learned to make myself wait, one ear at the top of the stairs, listening to them work it out... or not.

The boys know that if they need help solving a problem that they can (and should) come to me or John and we will drop what we are doing to help them with what is going on.  But more often than not, they don't take that trip up the stairs.  This is probably because they know that a long boring conversation will inevitably ensue which is seriously undesirable from their perspective and therefore must be avoided if at all possible.  I'm not always sure how they do it but most of the time they find a way to manage the mess and get back to the very serious business of lego building (or whatever they were doing).

The complexity of emotions that live inside each of us and weave sometimes intertwined and enmeshed with the inner lives of others is something that I find totally amazing.  Watching brothers share a joyful, playful moment that can, in a flash, travel down the various pathways of bitter spite, furious self-righteousness, woeful hopelessness, practical resignation and sometimes even honest forgiveness feels tantamount to a miracle.  And perhaps it is.

On joy and assurance

Sometimes I am overwhelmed with feelings of blessedness and joy that I know I have done nothing to deserve. As I watched my children dance in fields of gold this afternoon I felt wrapped in an assurance and ease that was coloured with a shade of knowledge that they are healthy, happy, safe and mine.

And I was reminded of a prayer that I had tucked away several years ago.

By Francis Drake:

Disturb us, Lord, when we are too pleased with ourselves
When our dreams have come true, because we dreamed too little
When we arrive safely, because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly
To venture on wilder seas
Where storms will show your mastery
Where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars.
We ask you to push back the horizons of our hopes
And to push back the future in strength, courage, hope and love.

Zilch

A few weeks ago an old friend was telling me of the fun he's been having lately playing a dice game with his two young sons.

And it all just came flooding back.

My Oma was a mean Zilch player.  For some reason, I am reminded of a particular memory, sitting with her and my brother at the table in our camper.  Not sure where we were.  Algonquin Park?  Florida perhaps?  Oma, shaking the dice in a dark brown tupperware tumbler, spilling them out, clacking, onto the melamine tabletop.  Risking everything to hear our squeals of "Zilch!" when she loses it all, eyes twinkling, apple-cheeks glowing.

This weekend, we resurrected the game with a little help from Google where I looked up the rules that had long been buried beside my memories of Oma and the brown tupperware tumbler.

I see the twinkle of joy in Andreas' eyes now as he proudly declares "I'm goin' for it!".  And the hoots of "ZILCH!" ring out in another generation.

The Fabers

I wish Nancy and Randall Faber were never born!

These were the words I heard Nicholas hiss bitterly under his breath on Monday afternoon as he sat down at the piano bench for the first time in 2 months and I knew we were in for a rough start.  It didn't keep me from laughing out loud, however.

Nicholas, on the other hand, was not laughing.  That first practice lasted a walloping 1 hour and 15 minutes.  All he was required to do was to play 3 short pieces 4 times each.

Nick, sitting in front of his Faber "Piano Adventures" book, sobbed when he couldn't make it through what, in June, was an easy, perfectly memorized piece.  He asked me to go to the basement so I couldn't hear his playing.  He moaned.  He wailed.  He declared he couldn't do it.  He proclaimed it was the worst day of his life. 

I sat beside him.  Quiet for the most part.  Praying to all the saints and angels above for patience to sit it out with him.  Occasionally and calmly encouraging him along.

It's difficult to sit down at anything and discover that what once came so easy now feels so impossible and overwhelming.  And to really be OK with the mistakes you make, even though you know that you're better than that.  It's a hard lesson, even for us grown ups.  The pain (and shame?) of making mistakes-even-though-you-know-better just manifests itself differently, more quietly, in adults.  The days of pounding on the keyboard in frustration are perhaps and hopefully behind most of us.  But that's not to say that it's not still there, real and alive, biting at us from the inside out.

On Monday, I didn't shelter Nicholas from that pain.  We didn't deny it.  We didn't pretend that it wasn't there.  We allowed it in and it overtook us for 75 excruciating minutes.

On Tuesday, Nick sailed through his practicing in 20 minutes (I think on sheer determination alone not to have a repeat of the previous afternoon).  I was tremendously relieved because I don't think I could have done it again either.

By tonight he was playing his 3 pieces without any mistakes. 

He just might forgive the Fabers one of these days yet.  Here's hoping.

Welcome?

So.  This is new.  And really weird.  I've never really seriously considered trying this blogging thing, yet am somehow drawn to idea of finding a way to regularly and intentionally reflect on my life, in an ever-important attempt to strike a satisfactory (joyful, even?) work-life balance.

Crew KH is a stupid name for a blog (then again I think "blog" is a stupid name for anything).  But I was prompted by the cyber-gods to enter a blog name when I opened this site and I panicked.  So Crew KH it is. 

The actual KH crew is made up of me plus my 3 favourite male humans in the whole wide world:  John, my best dude, and our offspring:  Nicholas (age 8) and Andreas (age 6).  I love them.

Those also living under our roof (whom I love slightly less) include: Snowflake and Sal our 2 budgies, Icarus the gecko, and Rocket the crayfish.  Occasionally and somewhat regularly, other house guests include my parents from Ontario and John's parents from Saskatchewan.

The essentials about us:

John is a family therapist who works mostly with kids and families in crisis.  He is an avid cycling enthusiast, commuting by bicycle to work even through our most extreme winters.  He reads voraciously, everything from work-related non-fiction to crappy vampire novels (yes, even the Twilight series).  He is a classical guitarist and usually blesses our home with his music for at least an hour or so each day.  He is an uber-dad, most recently taking a hiatus from work for the summer so he could spend it with the boys.  Introverted, kind-hearted, and generous.  And he likes to think that today's teenagers still think he's cool.

Nicholas is a grade three-er (as he says).  He loves reading - yesterday he declared that the world's greatest invention was the library.  He also loves animals, especially kittens.  And large rodents, like raccoons and possums.  He, like John, is contemplative and introverted in nature, often preferring to bypass groups of people for the solitude of his own company.  Yet, he is confident and independent and is not afraid to share his thoughts and ideas even if it makes him unpopular with his peers.  He has the most amazing imagination and has been creating elaborate worlds for himself since he was 3 years old when we met his first invisible friends "Birdie" (the sparrow) and "Mice" (the mouse) on the Metro in Paris.

Andreas is in grade one. He is a warm-hearted, relational boy who loves to cuddle.  He also loves to play games and have books read to him.  He is interested in basically anything that his brother is and defers to him on most matters, from what colour candy he should choose to what game they should play together.  Andreas has a keen ear for music, often commenting on song lyrics or interesting instrumentation he hears.  He is very proud of the fact that he a recently learned to tie his shoes and while he looks forward to learning how to read, he is simultaneously fearful that this means his days of listening to stories read by others are coming to an end.   

As for me, I feel like (at least for right now) I am mostly defined by my inner struggle to balance my family/personal life with my work life.  And I almost never get it right.  My work is something that I take very seriously; I work with 6 great partners in a workplace conflict management firm.  I've been involved in the mediation field since 1996 and know in my bones that this is the work I was meant to do.  It's more than just a job.  However, raising my boys (together with John) to be loving, respectful, contributing young men is my most important work right now.  And they make this job easy (mostly).  I am very proud of the people that they are and am filled with joyful anticipation to watch them grow into who they are becoming.

Other random tidbits about us as a family:

+  John and I have been married for 16 years.  I am happy to say that I still really like him.
+  We've been living in Fort Rouge since 2006 when we returned from Belfast, Northern Ireland where we had lived and worked for almost a year.
+  Previous to 2005, we lived in the West End for 10 years.  We finally acknowledged recently that neither of us has any real desire to move back to our home provinces (much to our parents' disappointment).  This, however, also means that inter-provincial road trips will continue to be a regular family activity for at least the next decade or so.
+  We are active in a faith community where we have many friends and where we find food to fuel our inner journey/s.
+  CBC Radio One plays in the background of our lives almost all the time.
+  When the radio is off, there is almost certainly some kind of music happening in our home:  John on guitar, the boys practicing for their piano lessons, or some selection from a very eclectic collection of recorded music is playing.
+  We regretfully contribute vast amounts of newsprint to the city's recycling efforts every week.
+  Earlier this year we finally ditched our television.  The TV never went on during weekdays anyways and on the weekends, the boys sometimes watched dvd's.  They now watch their weekend dvd's on the computer.  Not much has changed.
+  We try very hard (sometimes unsuccessfully) to limit the amount of busyness we experience in our lives.  John and I are careful about over-committing ourselves to work and volunteer activities.  The boys are only involved in very selective extra-curricular activities - only piano and swimming and soccer in springtime.  This gives us all a lot of time to be together.  The fruits of this are clearly seen in the (mostly) joyful relationship that is developing between the boys.  They literally spend hours upon hours playing together in their basement playroom.  They hurry home together after school each day, talking animatedly about their latest lego plans (or whatever) and then promptly disappear as soon as they get in the door.

I think that's us in a nutshell.  I will be curious to see if this endeavor is one that I continue.  Not sure about any of it yet.  It's all a grand experiment.