Public Mourning Public Ignorance

" I do not believe that sheere suffering teaches. 

 If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise, since everyone suffers.

 To suffering must be added mourning,

 understanding, patience, love, openness

 and the willingness to remain vulnerable."

~Joseph Addison~

Tomorrow we say good-bye to Jack Layton, who, until a short time ago was the elected leader of our country's official federal opposition. 

As you may or may not know, I'm kind of a pro when it comes to saying good-bye, especially, the formality of it all, arranging and staging funerals.  I am not a wedding/funeral junkie, but I recognize the great importance of ritual. We often tisk at over-done anything (weddings, showers,

birthday parties).  We scoff at show and pomp, but do we consider the important communal aspect of ritual?

One local GTA columnist wrote about what she (ignorantly) understands to be inappropriate mourning; "What once would have been deemed Mawkish is now considered to be perfectly appropriate" (Christie Blatchford, National Post, August 22, 2011).

The columnist scoffs at Layton's last letter to his fellow Canadian citizens as a piece of political propaganda, and at Layton for a being, "a 24/7 politician who was always on".  Clearly she thinks quite highly of herself sniffing out this more than obvious truth. Layton was a 24/7 politician who was always on. Better than some of the Conservative Cabinet Ministers who were more often "turned on" and breached security I would say.  Seriously Ms. Blatchford, do you think we need your column in a second-rate "national" news rag to point out that someone else likely helped Jack Layton write the letter? A letter which would inevitably hit the press like the historical piece of news that it in fact is?

Regardless of how orange your political stripes are, you would have had to be a cave dwelling gnome not to have known who Jack Layton was, or how important his leadership was changing the political landscape of this country. His letter read, "We can restore our good name in the world,", and yes Ms. Blatchford, as a nation we have lost that. Apathy is not globally respected. Well, not outside the padded leather walls of the old boys club where they masturbate over stock portfolios padded by dirty employment and environmental practice.

I could go on about this poorly thought-out rant by a writer who is reminiscing about her journalistic hey-day. This piece doesn't deserve any more dissection. What the column did for me was to help me realize the importance of public ritual.

Fear, anger, joy and even grief become energized and eventually dispelled much more easily when they are shared. As an individual we grieve and mourn. As a group we grieve and mourn together. Together -that's key here. As Canadians we have lost our good name in the world as we leave other nations to hang out in the wind when they need human rights advocates and collaborate to save our planet.  Through this public display of grief and mourning, we, as a nation,have shown our true colours. We will mourn together, and hopefully, celebrate that ethical piece of our identity that has been swathed by apathy.

It only takes one bad apple to make the rest of the bunch seem perfectly ripe and delicious. Thank you Christie for sharing your ignorance so we could disrobe from our  national shame that is called apathy and celebrate the gifts that have been given by a much more wise and compassionate leader.

Classmates

This is a quick post - not in the general sarcastic spirit of On The Cork, but most sincere.

My friend died yesterday. He was an MMA trainer, and one of the few "good guys". We went to school together for 9 years, and shared many moments together as most kids do.

He lived his dream, married his best friend, and died all too young at 37. This is why we should never hold back saying, " I love you". Say it every day, as often as you can.

You were a bright light Shawn Tompkins, and you will be missed.

Romance Novels: Relationship Manure

" Love is like a friendship caught on fire.
In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce,
but still on ly light and flickering.

As love  grows older, our hearts mature

and our love becomes as coals, deep burning and unquenchable”

~Bruce Lee~

Two of my very best friends on the planet love to sneak in  time with re-runs of Little House on the Prairie.  Every woman I know cherishes her girlfriends, going to the spa, and cries in the bathtub. Despite being educated, well-travelled, and independent, we are women.

Being gentle, sympathetic, and loving being snuggled up with our head resting on our man's chest are not weaknesses. Read on dear reader, for what I have to say may surprise you, what with my reputation as the Colonel Ball Breaker in the battle of the sexes.

Last month I had an epiphany at Wal-You-Know-What. After dropping off my kiddo at ball practice I had to run an errand for more junk to clean my little home with. Dish soap in hand, I was standing, trance-like at the romance novel rack.  "How pathetic am I?", I thought to myself as I took note of my very matronly denim capris, cotton t-shirt and hair clipped up off of my neck. "Have I really been reduced to this frumpy house-cleaning mom standing at the romance novel rack?".  That wasn't the epiphany. I'm a pretty happy frumpy house cleaning mom after my professional 9-5 gig. 

The epiphany came as I stood there scanning the titles and cover shots of beautiful men and women holding one another in passionate embraces.  Two other women joined me. Both wearing denim capris and cotton tops, both with their hair clipped up off of their necks, and both clinging to bottles of dish soap.  We all wore glasses, and we were all about the same age. I was the only one not sporting a diamond and wedding band. Harlequin had us by our proverbial balls.

Until a few years ago, I had only ever ventured into the land of romance novels as a curious teenager, intrigued by heaving bosomed heroines being rescued by rippling-biceped  heroes.  At that point, I was all intellect and proud of it. No way was I, an honour student, student reporter, peer counsellor and die hard human rights advocate going to be so weak as to actually feel better because I had a man in my life. Boys were up there with experimenting with new eyeshadow colour and thong underwear.

It was my dear friend Jan who reintroduced me to the genre years later. I was (am) a very serious professional, who read non-fiction, highly intellectual books and articles about very important things.  I did not, repeat, NOT have time for poorly written, formula romance novels about women and men who live happily ever after. I mean come on.  If I were ever to snag my rippling-biceped hero, surely he would want his intellectual equal. I could not be caught with this drivel littering my coffee table.

Passages like the following used to make me roll my eyes and close the book; "Despite her reservations about falling for such an obvious bachelor, her breath caught in her throat as soon as she saw him standing there, soaking wet, on the other side of her screen door, " and, " Dammit! He knew that she was stubborn, but he couldn't resist being away from her for another moment let alone another night. He swallowed his pride, as he pulled into the parking spot just outside her door.  He was going to do whatever it took to make sure she knew she was the only woman that he loved."

What plays out in these romance novels, as most of us are aware, is that there are a couple of people who meet, and against all odds live happily ever after in our imaginations after we close the back cover and snuggle into our pillows for the night.

So, you might ask what on earth could be beneficial reading such unabashed smut? First of all, you get both perspectives - male and female - without the flavour of bias you get in conversation with friends.  Besides recounting our daily who, what, where, when and why, girls often spend a lot of their time involved in discussion about women not understanding men and men not understanding women. Or, more accurately, about men being insensitive and not being emotionally available.  Men would be wise to flip through some of these little gems to glean insight into the female psyche.

There's a lot of skepticism and even cynicism out there about the value of relationships.  Who needs a man in their life/ or a woman in their life when they are strong, independent and capable all on their very own?  Isn't monogamy and marriage an outdated necessity now?  If these things are true, why do 99% of all single people I know wish that they could find exactly the right partner? Like it or not, everyone wants to be desired, and someone else's number one.

Where can we find better, more affirming myths to encourage our dream of finding and making it work with Mr/Mrs Right?

Besides the obvious part of the formula where two people meet and get together against all odds, each person has an internal conflict happening as well. For example, a determined woman to be successful on her own does not want to ask for help.  The man may not want to get involved helping the woman because he can't bear disappointing someone else again. Despite their fears, and individual journey, the two overcome their internal conflicts because the power of love is greater than all of that ego stuff.

We read about women who are insecure about their appearance, of getting hurt (again), who have children they want to protect, and feel misunderstood. We read about men who are insecure about their sexual prowess, of getting hurt (again), who have children they want to protect, and want only to please and not disappoint their woman. We're all a bit insecure. We've all been hurt. Trust is painfully hard when you've been betrayed.  Reading about other people who have the same warts and still make it work just makes us feel good.

Besides that, love is supposed to be patient and kind. Romance novels give us great examples of patience, kindness, and the value of letting off steam with friends while cultivating this patience and kindness.  It's ok to be gentle ladies, and desire having someone to talk to and rest your head against after a hard day. It doesn't make you less strong, less intelligent, or less independent. It just makes you human.

I like to believe that a man's idea of romance and lasting love is as simple as the, "Bring Beer and Show Up Naked" myth but I'm not that much of a ball breaker. Not quite. I do think that it would benefit all men to pick up a few romance novels. Go ahead guys - I dare you.

 

You Don't Say?

“Count no woman wise, until thou
 hast received a letter from her hand;
but love none thou hast not seen
face to face, for she who is
 not foolish on paper is worth knowing”


~Frank Gelett Burgess~

I love writing. Even more than writing, I love receiving written notes. There's nothing better than opening the mailbox to find a letter handwritten from my Newfie friend Jan.  When you're in love, there's nothing better than a card or note from that special someone pouring out their heart to you.  When you're in a slump, it's such a pick me up to get a crazy "thinking of you" card from your wackiest and most faithful of pals.

Too often we don't thank our friends enough, or people in our circle of acquaintance who go out of their way to make life more civilized. I'm trying to get better at that.  I have yet to write a very important thank you to my gal-pal Vicki who helped me move some large items in the dark of night thanks to her hubby's truck that was borrowed under the strict condition that it would not be used to move anything. Thank you Vicki. Hallmark thank you smut to be mailed .....soon?

Have you ever written a "love letter", or more accurately, a letter to your lover? That's a serious sitting down to write something really important. These are the letters of the wishes of our heart. Have you ever felt like you need to clarify something you said, or explain the essence of your very self? Has it ever been something that you just so badly want someone else to understand that when you read the sentiment back to yourself,  you hit the delete button, or scribble out the words, or just shred the paper, because you  can't put yourself out there? I mean, we've all heard the quotes about love and madness.

I've done that a few times - crumpling the paper, or hitting the delete button.  Just today in fact. I began an email, typed it all up, got to the part that I really, really needed to say, froze completely, and deleted the whole darn thing.

Years ago I (likely in an inebriated state) I wrote a veritable tome to someone who turned out not to be the love of my life.  One of my best friends read it and in the most gentle way possible said, "McDish are you nuts?! If you send that I'll kill you".  So I didn't.  That may have been the only wise thing she's said since I met her almost ten years ago. That, and, "Get your purse and run!"...but that's another story.

About a month ago I came across the very  letter my friend told me to toss. I had written it  in one of my many notebooks, and I was so relieved that I took her advice.  I would never want that letter in anyone else's  hands but my own now. Reading it over, I realized how much I've matured, and how much more I like "me" now.

Everything I said in that letter shouldn't have needed to be said.  In intimate relationships, the really important stuff should just flow.  We should just know what someone else wants or needs. Or should we?  I really don't know. By this stage in life, we've all been knocked around a bit, and have a few battle scars to prove it. Making yourself emotionally vulnerable is a huge risk.

Two of my older and much wiser friends have given me two good pieces of advice;

1)     A relationship only changes when a woman decides it needs to be changed.

2)     Men  really  just want to please us, they just don't know how.

It's the repetition of the same issues that wear a relationship down.  When needs are expressed and ignored, communication just seems redundant. It's not quite as simple as wining and dining us and buying sparkly jewelry.  Wouldn't that be simple. When I talk to my friends (both male and female) in their time of relationship frustration and need, the same themes repeat themselves: time, communication, respect. 

How do we negotiate our time? How do we communicate, at what frequency, about what???  Respect is the biggie...respect me enough to spend time with me, respect me enough to communicate openly and honestly, respect me enough to make me feel welcome without ghosts of relationships past hanging around like bad art. That fine balance of defining your space, both domestically and socially, individually and  as a couple, lies in navigating the elements of what the other partner values the most.

So, today I deleted a great pouring out of my heart. Older and wiser? Older and cynical? Maybe just older.

I wonder though, what would happen if we all chose to strip ego-bare, and vulnerable in our most intimate relationships? Would we all soften up and evolve into more authentic relationships? What would you say?

Meet Clint

"The only difference between
a cult and religion
is the amount of real estate they own"

~Frank Zappa~

Meet Clint, your friendly neighbourhood devout Christian, marijuana addicted, real estate agent....

The house was tidy.  Thank goodness. Some home owners didn't take enough care preparing their homes for sale, which made his job much more difficult. Clint looked at his watch impulsively as he rushed to open the patio doors, reaching into his left pocket for his lighter.  From his right pocket he drew a very small joint, almost finished, but enough to get him through this showing.

In the three o'clock shadow of the October sun, he lit his smoke and inhaled deeply, checking hurriedly over his shoulder.  Yes, the fence was high enough, surely any nosey neighbours  in this little bedroom town would think he was just smoking a a cigarette.

It had been over two weeks since he closed a sale.  He needed this .  The church was expecting his annual donation for their Thanksgiving food drive.  How could he, as one of the elders, let the congregation down?

Checking his watch again, Clint took a long, last drag of his cigarette, madly waving the smoke away from his head as if swatting at flies.

His addiction sated for the moment, Clint relaxed into his new state of mind. "Gosh those chrysanthemums are wild colours," he thought to himself, "God is good man. God is good."

Satisfied that the breeze had made it's baptismal offering by blowing away the smell of his inhaled afternoon delight, Clint sauntered back into the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared blankly at the contents.  The fridge stared back.

"Ah, thank-you Jesus - they have cake," Clint thought as he reached into the back of the fridge and pulled out, what was a  a less than a fresh dessert leftover.  He peeled back the plastic wrap which clung to a top layer of the cake, picked up the entire piece, and shoved it into his mouth all at once, "Mmm...." He crumpled up the plastic wrap and pressed it down on the empty plate, shoving it all back behind bottles of who knows what.  Clint hung onto the door and continued to stare into the refrigerator.

Basking in the richness of the cake, Clint was alarmed by a sudden loud knock at the door, followed a few seconds later by another.

His watch said 3:45pm. "Cheese and Rice!", he was running late.  They were supposed to be here half an hour ago, they being one Livinia Stone and her daughter Bridgette, prospective buyers.  Clint scrambled to collect himself, checked his lapels for any lingering aroma and flung the front door open with a wide grin on his face.

"Mrs. Stone? " he asked.

"Ms.", Livinia replied as she stopped into the foyer, "This is my daughter Bridgette," she purred as she smiled up into Clint's cloudy eyes.

Keep Summer Simple Silly

And there's that one particular harbour
Sheltered from the wind
Where the children play on the shore each day
And all are safe within
Most mysterious calling harbour
So far but yet so near
I can see the day when my hair's full gray
And I finally disappear.

~Jimmy Buffett~

I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, summer was really simple.  Days ran into weeks, running barefoot between the beach and the water sprinkler in the yard. My wardrobe consisted of a bathing suit and baby doll jammies and Noxema  for the occasional sunburn.  Footwear? Simple; Flip flops and my Bionic-Woman running shoes. I can't recall whether I wore socks between June and September at all. I remember being dumped in a tub to scrub up with Ivory soap and drifting off to sleep with that smell on my clean, sun kissed skin.

I grew up in a small town, and had all of the freedom afforded of such an environment. Your conscience wasn't imposed, it was bred into you like your hair colour and your heart beat. If you weren't blood-related to someone in the little town, they surely knew your dad or grandpa.  Nobody but nobody would hesitate to let them know of any indiscretion you might hope to conceal.

I remember one summer day, my cousin and I thought that we should hold what I like to refer to now as, "Hallowe'en" in July. We scratched out a couple of Hallowe'en masks from the upstairs storage closet, grabbed two grocery bags, and were out the door. We only made it to three houses. Behind door number three was an old lady who hated Hallowe'en so much in October that she gave out pennies and peanuts instead of yummy-sugary treats. She sat us down in her kitchen while she called my mother. That was the abrupt end of what could have been a terrific summer tradition.  Mom let us eat the two cookies that the other nice old ladies dropped in our July trick-or-treat bags, after we went back and apologized for being so bold, of course.

Besides the Hallowe'en in July cookies, food was simple. Mom would dish up cereal or eggs with toast "fingers" most mornings, and we would be out the door as fast as our barefoot legs would carry us.  Kool Aid  could have sold stock in our town, and we routinely melted chocolate covered graham wafers in the sun on the sidewalk. We ate them when the chocolate was soft and melted, shaking away the ants and sidewalk debris the best we could. Do you remember the Tupperware iced pop molds? Mmm, there was a recipe that used Jello and Kool Aid, and I loved it!

At some point during our daily adventures,we made our way through the back yards of grandparents, aunts and uncles. That's where we would snack. Maybe we were hungry, maybe we were just kids looking for a bit of mischief, but our snacks were pilfered from neighbourhood gardens. Tomatoes were always best from my grandma's garden patch behind the woodworking shop. My aunt's carrots were the very best, but she'd get upset when we ran the garden hose out to rinse off the crunchy yummies. She used to yell out the window to, "Shut that hose OFF!".

Raspberries and pears. Mmmmm!!!  They were kinda fun to get. My neighbour Pete was old. Like antique-old, born in the 1800's old. But he was nice. He was like a big kid  and when we wanted pears or raspberries, he used to just smile at us as we made our way through his weedy berry bushes and dodged bees to get the pears.

Lunch. I don't remember many lunches. I'm sure we had them, likely sandwiches and mac and cheese. Lunch would be around the time that Mr. Dressup came on, followed by the, "News at Noon". At 1pm, most of the ladies in town would be transfixed by Days of Our Lives, and as long as we didn't interrupt, we were free to play in the yard, down the street, or at the beach. That's also when we did a lot of chocolate wafer melting on the sidewalk and sucking the nectar out of pink clover.

At the end of the day, everyone sat down for dinner with their family. When I grew up, I thought my mother was the BEST cook in the whole world. Summer menus were different than winter menus. During the winter  it was usually some kind of roasted meat, potatoes and veggies from a can. I think this was the quintessential rural Canadian meal. Summer was different. Potatoes and meat were cooked in the back yard on the big brick BBQ, and mom had lots of cold, fresh salads ready. Food was simple and delicious.  Dessert was often whatever fruit was in season with vanilla ice cream or cake.

Corn on the cob.  Grilled chicken, steak, fish, and sausage from the butcher shop. Fresh strawberries, , lettuce, peppers and green onions from the garden and cucumber picked fresh and tossed in some vinegar with salt and pepper. We had pies made with peaches, elderberries, currants, apples and cherries from our yard or our neighbour's.

We had such an abundance of fresh food that we spent hours and hours in August putting up tomatoes, beets, chili sauce, jams, peaches, pears, corn, beans.....and in the winter we would eat them, and would remember the work we put into preserving our food.

Summer was simple. Simple because we were kids. So this summer, the best gift I can give my kid is to keep it simple. Simple, fresh food, lots of time outside in the pool and beside the lake. Simple dinners. Simple ball games. Simple late nights watching the thunderstorms roll in. Simple, simple, simple.

Chicks Shouldn't BBQ

"A man can be short and dumpy and getting bald,
but if he has fire, women like him."
~Mae West~

Women love looking after their man. You can tell how great a man is to his partner by how well he's taken care of. When my friends and I are in relationship bliss with our significant others, we cook for them, buy them little gifties, let them have all the man-cave time they want and think it's cute, sexy even. When a man looks after his woman, she gives it back in multiples. Pun absolutely intended.

Cooking becomes more than making sure he eats, it's a pleasure watching him enjoy his food. His nodding off while lounging at home in the evening is so sweet. Watching him help your kiddo with their homework or going outside to play catch melts your heart. When a man is gentle with his woman, everything is bliss.

...and then there's reality...

I think that's why we have raw meat and flames.   When a man's manliness gets in the way of relating - he doesn't listen, he's insensitive or his head is generally hidden up his butt, there's always the BBQ. You know what I'm talking about when I say "man-dumb" don't you ladies? I mean MAN DUMB. As in, you could tell him in eight bazillion ways about how you feel and he still wouldn't get it and doesn't seem to care to get it- that's MAN DUMB. Not complimenting you in your new outfit that was clearly bought for a special night out with him - MAN DUMB. Pointing out how you could have done everything better - cut your hair, baked cookies, spoken to your boss - and then get defensive saying he's just trying to help - that's MAN DUMB.

We don't want you to fix things boys, we want you to wrap your big strapping arms around us and say it's ok. We want you, as well groomed and smelling pretty as you may be, to be our Manosaurusrex. Anything else at the pinnacle of girl-crisis is MAN-DUMB.  We have our girlfriends for strategy. That's who we commune with in the war-room of life. We need you for moral support and unconditional adoration.

I once had a man tell me that he adored me. Only now do I realize how very sweet that was. At the time I thought it was MAN DUMB for not saying I love you. I get it now. Very sweet.  I also had a man call me a bleeping c word. I think secretly he was really in love with me too. How could he not be, what with all of my feminine charm and grace?

So, meat and flames....what gives? Well, I think when the battle of the sexes has reached a long, cool, stalemate, the last bastion of hope is the grill. There's something very sexy, primitive even about a man feeding a woman. It's like he went out and slayed the beast and is protecting his woman.  Sorta. Maybe that's just when we're delusional post-period, or when we're absolutely desperate to justify spending time with someone who seems like an an alien from another planet? Someone who apparently either can't hear, read non-verbal cues, or appreciate that he's in a relationship with a woman, not his mother?

It doesn't matter how MAN DUMB your man has been.  If you see him out there, grilling, over a red-hot flame - you can't help but be turned on a little bit. I mean, can you?  Just think of it, Mr. Sexy-I've-worked-hard-all-day-but-I'm-still-takin'-care-of-my-baby.....give him a break ladies.

So, Chicks Shouldn't BBQ. We should meditate on the meat, er, I mean testosterone standing out there on the deck, and smile knowing what we get for dessert. After all ladies, we all know that summer is the best time for shakin' up the bacon that the Manosaurusrex brought home.

Have BBQ - auditioning for guest chefs...

How I'm Going to Spend My Summer Vacation Dammit

"Vacation is what you take when you can't take
what you've been taking any longer."
~Unknown~

In a state of Yo. As in the definition used by the Smothers Brothers. In a state of  relaxed bliss, whether it be camping in the great Canadian outdoors, paddling, concert-going, putting up preserves, or, as I have been earnestly practicing; sitting on my patio chair reading smut.

Just so you know, smut is modular. You can pack it up and take it anywhere. Some of the smut I purchased this weekend includes; magazines - Woman's World (oh yah baby!!! In honor of great-granny who used to clip the Ziggy cartoons and pin them to her cork board as motivation), The Rolling Stone (because a girl has to keep up with what's going on), Self ('cause it motivates me to move myself in this state of Yo), Books - Driftwood Cottage (the essence of the quintessential summer chick-novel), The Lincoln Lawyer (because I'm too happy here on my patio to get to the discount theatre showing), News - The Globe and Mail (just 'cause that's what I do). I'm fully loaded with smut for a summer of Yo.

My fridge is stocked with my favourite beer, and a tiny variety of other bottled alcoholic beverages. I even have a vintage 2009 Bacardi Breezer floating around in there. Wine suits me fine, but once in a while I like a cold summery drink - if only to remind myself to stick to wine and beer, and the odd cocktail produced in the dead of winter by gracious hosts conjuring Caribbean shores. We have frozen fruit pops, frozen yogurt, and yes, we have ice cubes (something I'm told chicks are famous for not having)! Ahhh, summer time!

The past two summers have passed with a pathetic shortage of outdoor-enjoy-every-bit-of-sunshine-that-you-possibly-can due to an acquiescence of leadership in relationship on my part. In other words, I bowed to the social preferences of, shall I say, at least one acquaintance who desperately needs to become familiar with the colloquial, "shit or get off the pot"-ism.

I am astounded that adults of my generation think you are either a responsible parent/adult/housekeeper OR you get outside and have fun. Sometimes it's just about letting the outside in. Feeling the breeze blow through the windows, hearing the neighbour kids giggle and play. Enjoying an after dinner walk, taking in the waterbirds and flora that populate our little lake. There is a balance to this being responsible and enjoying life, and I think, at least when it comes to summertime, that I've perfected it.  I am determined his will be a grand summer in the land of Yo (dammit!).

This year I plan to make up for my two summers of hibernating.  My legs, if you were unlucky enough to glimpse them are still long and shapely, but an ungodly shade of white that I've only seen in the morgue and at very special June-church-strawberry socials between the hem of walking shorts and the tops of knee socks. Not sexy. Although one gentleman caller that I knew in a previous life liked to refer to that shade as "China Doll" white. Hey, whatever works.

This is the summer of McDishy and Monkey Lips in land the Yo.  My neighbours have been subjected to the awe inspiring sight of me in tunics and stretchy capris, beer and wasabi peas at hand as I write you these blogs, or pen my not-so-tongue-in-cheek poetry.  I think I have gained a reputation in the neighbourhood as the very intelligent crazy lady who loves kids and trots off some evenings in tottery heels, not to be seen for days. I'm a bit of an enigma, but I'm fun.

You might be wondering about summer romance. Well, I've never given up on my dream of a great man, a loving home, and kids driving us clinically mad on a daily basis. As you do know, I have given up men who have briefly starred in the dream. In other words, I'm just going to hang out and see what happens.  There is an article in my new Elle magazine that argues the benefits of summer flings. I'm pretty sure a fling is not on the map of Yo this year. I think I'm pretty content with my stretchy pants, tunics, wasabi-peas, beer and smut. I'm pretty sure Mr. Romance-Renaissance-Hot-Pants is not going to hunt me down in the backyard, campground or writing class. Yep, like I said, I'm just going to hang out and see what happens.

Even though summer just officially started, I feel like I've actually had a summer.  I've enjoyed my new-used BBQ, my little planters, my new muskoka chairs and patio lanterns. I've already had one weekend packed full of outdoor baseball games (courtesy of my kiddo), and dragon boat racing. Friday night we took our blankets and met friends for the Aretha Franklin concert downtown. Boy can that girl sing!!! It was packed, and somewhere in the crowd we lost our friend Karen, sacrificed to the I'm-going-in-search-of-something-to-drink-gods.

I'm looking forward to our planned visit up north with Carrie, Sandy, Evan, little Mr. X, and Andrea's brood, followed by two days of mom-son-white-water-rafting bonding time.  I'm wondering how my son  will feel bonding with my A5-35'ed bones in a tent? I have time booked off  I'm hoping to use for spur of the moment camping trips and gourmet smore and banana boat making expeditions. Every parent owes it to their children to teach them how to make smores, pitch a tent, and pee in the woods. You know, just in case you get lost with a bag of marshmallows.

Jimmy Buffett is coming to town which means Toronto Parrotheads will host  pre-concert and tailgate parties.  Jimmy is summer. Of course, it wouldn't be summer in the city if you weren't booked into something Mirvish-ish, and we are.

August will come and I'll be happy to get to the farm to buy tomatoes and beets and veggies so I can make preserves. This year I may even make my red pepper jelly, which is yummy during the winter time, snugged up with a bottle or two of wine. Glass, I meant glass or two of wine.

Just this afternoon I made kinda-sorta plans with a friend to get-up-and-out-early-walking before work. He's a good sport, lives close enough to motivate me to move, and isn't afraid to see me un-make-uped or un-hair-did. Besides if we start this little routine together, I can tell everyone I'm "seeing a younger man"! I'm hoping he forgets our conversation and I can lay my aching bones in bed with the snooze alarm until 6:30am tomorrow morning.

My evening walking routine has been salvaged and is in full swing. I'm registered for yogalates and writing classes. I write this eating marshmallow bananas and sighing that there is actually no latte involved in the yogalates. Besides that, summer looks pretty darn good from this angle. But what about rainy Sundays? Well, I still have a date with the summer fling at the AGO, and need to absolutely find myself in the audience at Stratford for Camelot.

Even now, I have chicken on the BBQ, and homemade potato salad cooling in the fridge.  My summery-island-tunes are playing and Leonard the cat is stretched out by the screen door listening to the birds. Kitty Wells is perched in her cage on the grass having a bird bath. I have my ever-ready bottle of bubbly chilling ready to add some yummy blueberry bliss. Come on over, sit down, relax. Do a little summer time dreaming with me.

Ai Weiwei all the way home



Say to yourself, ‘I’m here on purpose,
I can accomplish anything I desire,
and I do it by being in harmony
with the all-pervading creative force in the universe.

~Wayne Dyer~

“I’m okay, I’m out, I’m fine now,” he said quietly."  Was the crux of the report in the Globe and Mail this week following news of the release of Ai Weiwei.  What more could he say besides that?

After all, he has been released on bail after 10 weeks of being detained at an undisclosed location on the condition that he not speak of the who's, what's, where's, when's, why's and how's of his kidnapping. There was some talk of unpaid taxes, but we all know how easy it is for any  government to doctor tax records -or anything else for that matter- when looking for justification to silence dissidents.

In Our Creative Nests, I use Ai Weiwei as an example of how the human spirit often flourishes under pressure. What shall I say of him now? Described as, "only a distant echo of his usually bombastic self", can we assume that his creative spirit has succumbed to his oppressors during the mystery of his abduction? We can assume that he's damn glad to be home, and whatever the heck the giant "THEY" did to him, or threatened or tortured him with has been a great tonic for subduing the creative spirit. But I rather like to think of it as a sleeping pill for the creative animal that is curled up and healing now. May we see that animal stretch and rise again with care, and give great love and support for Ai Weiwei as he becomes comfortable with his recently silenced voice again.

So why am I writing to you about this? Why bother reporting the release of a silenced creative powerhouse?  I'm writing to ask who you think is responsible for speaking out against oppression? Is it the job of  courageous artists like Ai Weiwei? Or is it the sole task of  women like Rumana Monzur who was just viciously attacked and blinded by her husband? He gouged her eyes out and bit off half of her nose because she dared to be successful. Or maybe speaking up about oppression and violations of human rights and freedoms is the job of marginalized gay teens or movie stars confessing their addictions?

Does this all sound a bit absurd? Does it seem like perhaps, just maybe, just an eensy weensy teensy bit,  that we sit back in our Adirondack chairs and kinda take for granted that the rest of the world is just able to hang out on the weekends and relax?  Perhaps all of those people in Syria and Libya and Tunisia get a break from the hell they've been enduring on the weekends and get together for pool parties and community yard sales? You know, just to "get away from it all".
We owe it to ourselves and the rest of the world to get a little more involved with what's going on. We owe it to ourselves and the rest of the world to be more discerning in our consumerism and politics.  Even if it simply starts at home. Not just watching the news, but questioning it.  What do you mean the Canadian government, when asked for documentation about whether our soldiers knowingly handed over Afghan prisoners to torture, blacked out much of the information? How come? Why? If this happened, how did it affect our soldiers who were ordered to carry out these actions?

We are blessed to live where we do. Blessed with our freedom and cursed with complacent apathy. We have come to expect our freedom, soothed by the hand of "THEY", and guided without our knowing into a sugared silence. It's time to sit up and pay attention.

As I was hinting at in Our Creative Nests, we owe it to ourselves to let our creative self out of the stall and run for it's life.  Write a letter, paint like it's your last chance, sing, dance, sculpt, let your humanity be exalted so the rest of the world might be freed.

Toddlers and Other Annoying People

"When the toddler does something
 and there are consequences for his action
 civilization begins."
~Alicia Lieberman~ 

Every day I look forward to correspondence from my incredibly wise, hilarious and gorgeous cousin. We check in with one another, reflect on experiences, current events, spirituality and creativity. It's cool if we laugh or if we cry. I think we're kindred spirits. You might think we're a little bit nuts. That's ok. I think we're cool with that, right cousin?

My cousin, a few years younger than I am  is single with no children. He has yet to enter into the secret brotherhood of fathers club.  Today, while my head was wrapped in foils at the salon, I received the very best email of my week thus far.

Today my cousin, (let's give him a false name here, just for the sake of not over-using the phrase, "my cousin"-let's call him Daniel), told me about his afternoon at a coffee shop.  He was enjoying his time out, but somewhat overwhelmed by the people around him. No, he's not anti-social, quite the opposite.

Saturday or Sunday mornings I enjoy my own special time at my own special coffee spot with my very own special copy of the Globe and Mail. I totally get what Daniel was saying about being ambivalent in the presence of the activity and noise of other people. During my weekend newspaper reading and coffee drinking session, I enjoy being surrounded by other people. I enjoy being surrounded by other people that is, if they behave in a way that I find unobtrusive. This means no talking too loudly, sitting too closely, and absolutely no requests to move a chair or heaven-forbid-I-have-to-get-out-the-touch-my-newspaper-and-die-look, ask to read a section of my paper.  I like my newspaper in order. I like to think that no one else's  grubby paws have oiled up the places my hands will touch. Ooga booga.

I like to eavesdrop on conversations if I choose, but not be forced to hear one because the volume is inappropriate. I like to nod or say a quick, "good morning" to whomever I sit next to.  I don't like feeling obligated to hear about what someone is reading, being asked what I'm reading, or if I'm enjoying the weather. I like the idea that we can gather in a public space without being obnoxious or be forced to interact. Interaction optional. Coffee, news, intellectual thought without interruption welcome. Ahhh....life ain't easy being an idealist.

Relating completely to to the conundrum of being around people but not having to engage with them, I was happy to be sitting in the salon with my tinfoil baking blond streaks broiling on my head, blissfully alone.  I laughed when I read his question; why on earth would people bring their toddlers to a Starbucks?!

Instantly my memory took me back to my own experience of "mom with toddler" at Starbucks. I remembered my son at that age, being dragged along Saturday morning for my morning coffee.  One of my friends from a previous life came to mind - a very sweet man who very generously offered an afternoon of babysitting when I was in a pinch for child care. He picked my wide-eyed kindergarten aged son up at school, and promptly took him to Starbucks.  My son, thinking the attention combined with a public outing was fabulous, took advantage of a then-not-yet-father, and ordered an orange flavoured soda just before lunch time.

Guess what happened next? Yep. You got it. My little angel spilled his orange soda.  My friend bought him another one, and decided against the toddler-in-public adventure and brought him home (hopped up on sugar). This same friend was kind enough to keep us company on a walk one evening.  Again we ended up at Starbucks. That was about a year before the soda incident, diapers and a spilled hot chocolate may have been involved, but I'm a bit foggy on the details. It could be the ammonia residue from my visit to the salon. I do know that my son's behaviour was akin to that of a baby raccoon, hiding under tables and swinging on the chair legs.

The short answer to why people take their children to Starbucks Daniel, is that being stuck at home with miniature, intellectually impaired people with no control over their id or ego can drive an adult insane. Also, parents of toddlers rise for the day at almost the same time university students come in for the evening. By the time we see these little people at the cafe, they've had breakfast, messed up the house, been grocery shopping, had snacks and a nap. Oh yah, another reason; taking them out in public is how you train toddlers to behave in a socially acceptable manner.

I do not abide parents who use the excuse, "He/She's only 5", in response to their child picking at common dishes on a table with their fingers or not being able to use utensils.  This is lazy parenting. All parents must go through the humiliation of publicly socializing their toddlers, so they're not socially obtuse children, just (as I'm now finding out) as all parents must go through the humiliation of publicly re-socializing their teens so they don't become socially obtuse adults.

Believe it or not, I now feel nostalgic for the days when my son's head was just at the right height for patting when we bellied up to the barista bar.

When I see little ones tagging along with mom or dad on Saturday morning, or any other time for that matter, I'm filled with nostalgia.  I remember how the soft pudgy hand felt in my own, how my own son loved being able to choose his very own drink, and most of all, how his wide-eyed wonder at the world had the power to change my own perception.

I didn't have the luxury of reading my much cherished Saturday Globe and Mail in those days, but I'd give up my paper if I could have just one more day with my son, pudgy little legs dangling from the chair he struggled to climb up on, calling me mommy, and asking "why" about everything.

Instead of dreading the company of small children in social spaces now, (after all, toddlers are messy, noisy and unpredictable) I am completely entertained by them. As a matter of fact, that's one of the only things that can tear my attention away from Russell Smith's tongue-in-cheek men's fashion column. Toddlers package up the gift of  of young-mommy-memories now. Who knew that such annoying people could come bearing such priceless gifts? Maybe this weekend I'll talk to the guy who's always eyeing "my business" section. Just sayin'.

Row,Row, Row Your Boat Down the BLEEPING Stream....

"If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance."
~Bern Williams~

I love the water.

I grew up on the beach, and feel calm and at home whenever I'm near the water, whether it's a lake, ocean or stream.  Sometimes I'm just grateful for a bathtub full of water!

This year, in an effort to regain my sanity and get away from the four, sweat-sticky walls of the gym I had been avoiding for months, I decided to take up a water sport. What better way to shake off the winter blahs and celebrate our great Canadian summer?

I thought I would start out easy, you know, a beginner team of lady paddlers. We all come out to socialize, but we also all enjoy it because our cute little 20-something coach pushes us just enough to make it feel like we've worked our matronly buns. I give him credit. He's a serious paddler, and I believe we were sent to teach him patience.

Tonight, as in every paddling night, we were called to do our drills; up and down the boat, hard strokes, pausing, technique, boat positions.  Paddles clashed, swells flooded the boat, water was tossed up by faltering strokes, and arms and backs were banged in the process. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Each week, we get together and paddle our little hearts out for an hour.  As the weather has morphed  from a cold, wet, windy April  to full bloom June, we have witnessed nature dress in her summer finery.  Even though we were having a good workout, I couldn't help but wonder at the willows and maples on the river bank. The word pastoral comes to mind.

I felt like I was in a classic painting somewhere. There were ducks and ducklings puttering along the bank. Canadian geese and goslings formed an orderly line headed north up the river while gulls flew overheard.  There were paddlers and rowers sharing the waterway, and as the sun came to rest further on the horizon, the scene was absolutely breathtaking.

As I set up over the water to "hit!", the beauty of it all fell in line with my technique, and all of the stress of the day was washed away with each stroke.  Boy was I happy to be there. 

And then it happened. Behind me I heard, "Have an eye!"

silence

"HAVE AN EYE!"

and then the more panicked and less proper, "WATCH OUT!"

The sound of scraping and low screeching preceded my view of the small collision, as the lone rower careened into the side of our boat,  his oar striking my teammates at the front of the boat, and finally, under some semblance of control, scraping down the length.

"What the f@(k are you doing?!" the foul-mouthed rower yelled to our cute little coach,"Get out of the f@(k^g  way! You're supposed to be on the f@(k!^g right! " This from the man who had taken up centre stage in the river weaving a suture-like baseball stitch in the water.

"I'm sorry. We were stopped, and I wasn't sure whether you were going left or right." our coach said, rather politely under such f-bombing rapid fire.

"F@(k YOU!" our neighbour from the rowing club expleted emphatically as he buried both oars in the water and carried on up the center of the river.

Dude. Not cool. Dropping the f-bomski on a group of 20 women is NOT proper river etiquette.

"It gets like this," our coach said, as we "took it away" for one last five minute ladder of paddling.

It gets like this.

Yes, yes it does. It gets like this, and then it passes. Isn't it nice to get back to the rhythm of the water and wondering at the beauty that we are blessed with?

Expounding on Being a Weirdo #1 - Why Dr. Hook Rocks

"We keep gettin' richer but we can't get our picture
on the cover of  The Rolling Stone"
~Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show~

 With lyrics like, "Smear my body up with butter and take me to the Freaker's Ball," and introductions like, "George is going to sing a song from it [Penicillin Penny] just in case you have V.D. ", it's not surprising that there hasn't been a mass demand for a sunset return of Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show. I hope this blog changes things. I hope I can do justice to the tacky, yet touching music that I love. This misunderstood band with a bad-ass reputation deserves some thoughtful analysis.

Music provides the soundtrack for our lives. I remember hymns sung at my grandparent's funerals, the song that was playing when I was in a car accident, and the first lullaby I sang to my own child. Music is a powerful human interpretation of creation, complete with warts and all.

In my life, Leonard Cohen is the great musical poet, Rod Stewart the great musical sex pot, and Jimmy Buffett the great musical partying pirate. I love Rachmaninoff, Elton, Aerosmith, Alison Krauss, Willie Nelson, Ella Fitzgerald, The Beach Boys and I could go on and on. What all of these artists have in common is that their art - music - stirs our emotions. The music and lyrics bring us back to the essence of who we are.

More often than not, I use music to pick me up when I feel cut down. When I'm brought to my knees, a good laugh and a bit of silliness helps remind me of the impermanence of all things, and the happiness that comes with being in the moment. And what kind of life do we have if we're not silly during at least a few of those moments every day?

This is musical genius at it's silliest;




In my best concert going form, you might find me shaking it next to the dude with the eye patch, and going home with the lead guitarist, if only in my rocked out imagination of course (seriously though, dig him as the lead singer in this video and tell me he's not just an oozing sexy little piece of man-pie). But I digress....

Dr. Hook and the Medicine show makes me laugh. One of my favourite 'isms goes like this, "Anything that makes you smile, giggle or laugh; Marry it or Buy it."  I'm not married and I'm not a shopper, so I have to settle for what's at hand. A lot of the lines in their lyrics make me laugh out loud. Good solid belly laughs;

"When your body's had enough of me and I'm layin' flat out on the floor. When you think I've loved you all I can, I'm gonna love you a little bit more." What the hell?! If my body has had enough of you pal, just keep layin' flat out on the floor unless you're getting up to order pizza or get me a glass of water!

OR

"Night falls on the city. Baby feels the beat. Slick and sexy angel of the street. The queen of all the night birds, watch her when she walks. She don't say nothin' but baby makes her blue jeans talk." The queen of all the night birds? Really??? Seventies slang all sounds so porn, and porn is just silly.

OR

"Who's gonna water my plants? Who's gonna patch my pants and who's gonna give me the chance to feel brand new? Who's gonna iron my shirts?" HAHAHA!!! I luvvvvvv 70's dumb-man-isms. 70's men are crowned the kings of all things man-dumb. Ironically, they are still alive and well today. You've heard the one about the man who asks his wife to do all of his laundry, and his wife's reply is that the next person to dress him is going to be the funeral director. Unfortunately, I am the funeral director, so it's not so funny at my house.

OR

"Grease your lips and swing your hips, don't forget to bring your whips..." Ok, just funny 'cause who doesn't like to be greased and whipped once in a while?

OR

"I could get myself a nose job. I could diet for a year, but I'll never be Robert Redford 'cause I'm much to fond of beer." If the John Mellancamp fan is out there reading this, you'll also get a buzz from these blue collar lyrics.

OR the classic,

"Now it took seven months of urgin' just to get that local virgin with the sweet face up to my place to fool around a bit. Next day she woke up rosy and she snuggled up so cozy and when she asked me if I liked it, it hurt me to admit; I was stoned and I missed it." I need not comment on this little lyrical gem. The words paint a thousand pictures do they not?

In the style of Ray Stevens, Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show tells a story with many of their songs. Roland the Roadie and Gertrude the Groupie is a classic example.

Besides having wonderfully silly lyrics and funkadelic beats like we hear in, "Sexy Eyes", or "Walk Right In", the band cuts to the heart of things with songs we can all relate to in our broken-heartedness like, "The Things I Didn't Say".  With lines like, "Instead of saying sorry babe, we'll work it out, I said, if that's the way you want it I won't stand in your way. I said good-bye, good-luck, god bless you and then she walked away. She's gone and now I'm hearing all the things I didn't say." 

And then there are songs like, " I don't want to be alone tonight";




We've all felt like this. We can all relate to songs like, " I Don't Feel Much Like Smiling Today", and, "Life Ain't Easy". Life ain't easy sista, I can testify to that!!!  I love the lyrics, " Here I am in the wind again, blowing wherever it takes me. Laughing and splashing in the summer sun, until the alarm clock wakes me.....Life ain't easy and nothin' comes free."


In their 1969-1985 heyday, Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show was touted as a Rock, Soft Rock and Country band from New Jersey.  Most famous for their song, ``The Cover of the Rolling Stone``, and their subsequent success as the cover photo, Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show came into their own after their tape was demoed for the obscure 1971 film, "Who is Harry Kellerman and Why is he Saying Those Terrible Things about Me?".  Shel Silverstein, the popular children's poet wrote the music for the screenplay, and thought that Dr.Hook and the Medicine Show had the right sound to sing songs like, "I Never Got to Know Her", and "The Last Morning".

Believe it or not, Shel Silverstein, author of one of my favourite children's books, "The Giving Tree", also penned, "Penicillin Penny" and "Sylvia's Mother". When I was in public school, we were treated to a viewing of "The Giving Tree", once every year. Little did I know that Silverstein was the writer of such genius lyrics that I sang my heart out to on the pier with my high school friends.  With the trademark soul-rasping voice, Dr. Hook sang our adolescent heart songs.

The band produced over a dozen albums between 1970 and 2007.  If you happen to eye one somewhere, be a good lad and pick it up for me will ya? Dr. Hook and the Medicine  Show has given generations simple beats, great lyrics and endless entertainment.  Buy my ticket, sign me up, and get me a front row seat next to Gertrude the Groupie. I'm in for a road trip!

One last piece of tacky kitsch for all the sentimental (aka hormonal) romantic chicks out there like me;

Joy Makes you Excellent



"Joy is a net of love by which you can catch souls"
~Mother Teresa of Calcutta~

 Life becomes monotonous.

We fall into our daily, weekly, monthly and annual patterns like robots. We work, we exercise, we celebrate birthdays and Hallmark holidays (which in my opinion are highly underrated).  Days bleed into weeks and weeks into months. Before you know it, we're saying to our best friends and colleagues, "Can you believe it? It's been five years already!" Life slips by, greased to lightening speed by our work/life routine.


We know from year to year who we will spend our time with. But when that changes, when our relationships are in flux, whether it's due to changing life stages, death, marriage or other major events, our routine is held hostage. We must step back and consider the relationships in our life and re-prioritize. I don't know about you, but I'm not so good at this, and as I age, I'm not getting a whole lot better. It's often during these times when we're in flux, unstable, and redefining ourselves that we mine our joy.
 
At hospice, I am repeatedly called to witness life changing circumstance. When people ask me about my work, I'm never quite sure what to say. Whether to say I'm always surprised or never surprised. I suppose this is the conundrum of witnessing life transition to death. And what do we really know about those last breaths but that it is part of the mystery of being human? As with birth, there is beauty in this stage of life that cannot be found anywhere else, and I will argue, for anyone experiencing loss it is a significant time of creation .
 
Recently, I read a Toronto Star  review about Stephen Garrett, a speaker and hospice worker. He is quoted as saying, "You’re going to die. That should give you some juice to live", I couldn't agree more.
 
So while we're here, what is it that gives us that juice?  Some people may ask, "What is your passion ?". Quite frankly I'm tired of the over-use and watering down of "passion". Everyone says that their passion is their project du jour, or uses it as an excuse to be the expert-ruin-everyone-else's-experience-jack-ass in social situations. Passion means a strong emotion, love or adoration, and I believe that when we ask what someone's passion is, we're trying to get at something that has developed over a lifetime. Passion is the wrong word. What we want to know is about something or someone that you adore. It is something that you've learned about through experience - making mistakes, attesting to the experience of  others, and being humbled by the very vast expanse of everything which that "passion" encompasses. Being passionate about something goes beyond enjoyment. It goes beyond self.
 
Since the word "passion" is so overused in our society of over-grown-self-indulgent-adults, let's find another word to work with here shall we?   How about joy - what brings you great happiness and pleasure? What is your joy? 
 
Joy is exuberant. Joy, by it's very nature wants to reach out and embrace everyone and everything in it's midst. Joy cannot be caged or contained. The essence of joy is to be jubilant, euphoric and triumphant. It may have been years since you - the average Joe/Josephine out there  has felt anything close to "euphoric" or "triumphant". Then again, I feel euphoric when I wake up well rested, and manage to read the newspaper during the day. Triumph comes when I have remembered to put underwear on and am on time for work. Ahhh...it's the simple things.
 
So instead of that overworked, kinda spoiled-I-have-everything-I-could-ever-ask-for-and-more-adult-whiner-word passion, let's start feeling the joy that comes from being good at something. We're all good at something. Sometimes it's just hard to separate what we're good at from what we do; What we do for a living to pay the bills, what we do to keep food on the table, our cars on the road, and have a holiday once in a while.
 
For instance, I'm notoriously durable, which is a nice way of saying strong and determined, which often comes across as hard. Just ask the love of my life.  So, in relationships, this isn't always a great thing, but it makes me really good at being able to help people die in a way they feel is dignified. I am not brought to my knees by the pain and suffering of others. Instead, it is my "durable" nature which makes me good at remaining steadfast and able to function under circumstances where the individuals and their loved ones experiencing the end of life feel too weak or fatigued.  I am able to fearlessly go into the mystery of last words, wishes, confessions and breaths. 
 
Do not mistake this for me getting joy out of someone's dying. Do understand this as me getting joy out of the moments where my strengths allow others courage to say and do things they didn't think were possible. Sometimes that looks like simply saying, " I love you," or " I forgive you," or "I'm going to be ok." These moments may not make daily headline news, but they are life altering.
 
Because I'm able to glimpse the light of joy amidst the suffering of grief, I believe I am a valuable resource for anyone who has experienced, or will experience loss. That's a whole heck of a lot of people.  To be able to provide some comfort to the dying and their loved ones brings me joy, and so, I will continue to do this, whether it's by the bedside, or speaking to large groups and businesses to promote end-of-life care. This is my juice.
 
My good friend and mumster finds joy in being helpful, connecting people, and helping them reach their potential and achieve their dreams. Her CV does not include the titles; motivational speaker, teacher or public relations expert, yet she fulfills all of these rolls from the job description that she has and lives by. This is joy. This is leadership. This is the juice that makes us really go about the business of living.

Both my friend and I have a way of knowing beyond the logical.  Margaret Sommerville discusses ways of knowing in her book, The Ethical Imagination.  She speaks of knowing through logic, and intuition and experientially. All of these ways of knowing are as valid and valuable as the other. So, more often than not, we do not have a PhD in what gives us joy, but we are excellent at it.
 
When you are joyful, you cannot help but create joy for others. Whether your joy is inherent in your nine-to-five, put-food-on-the-table work, or not, there is a way to nurture it in yourself and others. Observe yourself, listen to your friends and colleagues. When mining your joy, you won't have to dig too deep because it will be close to the surface. Your joy has not wandered off and gotten lost forever. It is tethered to you and you to it. You will find it. When you do rediscover your joy, you won't be able to help but share it.

You're a Weirdo

"Life isn't weird, it's just the people in it"
~Author Unkown~

We’re all so cool aren’t we? We wear the right clothes, have jobs, equip ourselves with holiday experiences to be envied in our day to day conversations. We’re current. We read the news. We're just far enough left to be considered kind, and far enough to the right to maintain the status quo. We buy organic and complain about the lack of environmental legislation to keep us healthy, all the while popping manufactured vitamins and drinking from plastic containers while talking on our wireless headsets.

We’re so cool.

You know what’s really cool though. Well, what I think is really cool. I think our weirdness is cool. We’re all a little bit weird. Come on, you know who I’m talking about. No, no, not the woman at the office who wears the hippy skirts and yoga tops. Nope, not the dude with the weird haircut and bad breath in the cubicle next to yours. And no. I’m not talking about your kids’ school bus driver with the teddy bear strapped to the front grill (what the heck is that freakish phenomena about anyway, besides scaring the hell out of 4 year olds who still believe in the tooth fairy and tuck their teddies in before they leave for their half day of free daycare-aka-education?).

I am gloriously weird sometimes. Despite what may be on the seasonal menu of “normal”, we all tend to tip the scale sometimes. Our tastes vary. Our opinions come from unique experience, and although the majority of us who don’t call prison home, manage to walk our lives on the balance beam of the accepted norm, with only the occasional toe dip into the realm of weird.

This morning, as I drove up the airstrip-wide streets of suburbia, I rocked out to one of my favourite albums. As I was singing along, reminiscing, I thought to myself, “I would never listen to this with anyone who didn’t know me really, really well.” The kind of really well that knows under which circumstances they may be called upon to, “Hold my hair up!!!!”, or has been with me on my wedding day, or me with her, standing terrified in our crinolines bawling our eyes out. Yep, you’d have to know me pretty darn well to get a glimpse of my secret weirdness.

But, today is your luky day. As I was driving along I thought, "Why not?" Why not share some of my secret indulgences? The PG rated version of course.

Number One on my list of weird crap that I like (which inspired this little piece in the first place), is Dr. Hook’s Greatest Hits album. Who can’t relate to Sylvia’s Mother, or The Cover of the Rolling Stone, or A Couple More Years? A Little Bit More conjures hilarious images of  classic 70’s ‘stache lovin’ and I roll my eyes and giggle whenever I hear it. When I listen to this album, I can’t help but be in a good mood. Ditto for Bat out of Hell, which I have dubbed, "The Greatest Album Ever".

Number Two; canned mushrooms. Deadly good, and every once in a while I crack open a can and eat the entire thing – sodium and carcinogens from can lining and all. Mmmmm.

Number Three; stretchy pants. Yep, we all have those fat days. If I have a day when I can get up, not do my make-up, hair or bother getting dressed properly (these days have only happened a few times in my life), I want to be in something fabulously comfortable. If I ever wore these pants in public other than at a gym or paddling, I would condone the sniping of myself by the fashion police. Still, I love them ( and you do too, but you’re just too darn cool to admit it, you go-green-or-go-home-organic-cotton-wearing sissy!). You know you also love granny panties and tightie-whities too.

Number Four; curlers. What could be more girly than walking around with curlers in your hair, those pedicure thingy-ma-bobs between your pretty painted toes (do those things have a name?), and singing Peggy Lee’s, “ I Enjoy Being a Girl”. None of that is possible without the curlers. I think listening to Peggy Lee should get it's own number here on the weird list, but let's just refer to that as Four B.

Number Five; Cheese Whiz and oysters on Ritz crackers. ‘nuf said.

Number Six; Tacky art. I have a tacky art collection much to the chagrin of some of my nearest and dearest. I have my Cuba Lady, My Whatever Happened to the Girl from Iponema, and a handful of feminist art. I almost snagged a photo of the Queen. You know the one I'm talking about -like the ones that hung at the front of every classroom within the "dominion" in the 70’s and 80’s. It was going to be mine until the “seller” caught on that I was buying it because it was gloriously tacky. He got insulted and refused to let me buy it. Jerk.

Number Seven; I will gut a fish but not kill it. Gut a fish but can’t bait a hook. Gut a fish but can’t clean a fish tank because taking a fish out of water freaks me out. I’m sure there must be some whatever-o-phobic name for that.

Number Eight; Caftans. On a man. On a man wearing slip on slippers who also sports a ponytail. Very dude.

Number Nine; 80's love ballads.

Number Ten; quoting sacred text in arguments infuriates me to the point that when anyone does this I immediately write them off as a nitwit and disengage. Sheesh! Get off your soapbox and give the world a big hug you ding-dongs. If you think you know what scholars and mystics were saying a bazillion (that’s slightly more than a billion) years ago, get a Ph.D and teach me about it. Otherwise, shut your pie hole, breathe deeply and be nice.

Number 11; I think wearing underwear to bed may be unhygienic, but I think we all need to do it anyway. Except of course if you’re crashing at my place. Under those circumstances, please do not introduce your nether-flesh to the fabric on my furniture.

Number 12; I hate cleaning the bathtub, but I find cleaning the toilet cathartic.

Number 13; Wearing costumes. I love Hallowe’en, Buffett concerts, theme parties, and being a little quirky. People, it’s not about fashion, it’s body art. It's play time for adults.

Number 14; I can’t sleep if there’s an animal in the room. Don’t be smart, you know what I mean. If a man in my room is being an "animal" I definitely will sacrifice my sleep for that.

Number 15;  When I'm really sad I go to Hallmark and read the cards.

Number 16; I will not end a conversation with a loved one without saying " I love you." It's just bad mojo. I refuse to celebrate birthdays until the day of or after the specific date. It's the same idea as saying I love you. You can't just assume someone knows this always, especially in a heated argument or under less than ideal circumstances. Without saying it you're taking them for granted. Just like celebrating birthdays too early - you're assuming you're going to make it to that date, thereby taking your life for granted.  Pretty arrogant.

I could have written an entire blog on my tasteless taste in music and art. I could have went on about how I love Boxcar Willie, my own watercolour paintings, and how I despise eating tuna sandwiches without a thick layer of sour cream and onion chips beneath the top slice of bread. Instead, I painted a little rainbow of weirdness for you,  so you might feel better about your own dirty little uncool secrets.

I've shown you mine. Are you brave enough to show me yours?

Our Creative Nests

"Great indeed is the sublimity of the Creative,
 to which all beings owe their beginning
and which permeates all heaven. "
~Lao Tzu~

Given the right conditions our creative selves can explode, burning energy like a matchstick jungle. The more oppressive the atmosphere, the more powerful the art.

It was during a holiday in Camaguey, Cuba that I had that omniscient sense of knowing art was an unstoppable expression of the human spirit.  Martha Jimenez's sculptures grace a tiny parkette in Camaguey which has been protected as a World Heritage Site because of her art.

In the small space of Martha Jimenez's studio, the expression of the universal creative spirit was screaming .Within a small area, no greater than 800 square feet, I entered Jimenez's home and studio. No matter how oppressed, abused, marginalized or exploited, the creative spirit cannot be extinguished completely. It exists only in fullness, and bursts the boundaries of any physical space.

In the front room, pieces of sculpture were humbly displayed, but beyond that, past a drawn curtain that separated public space from private, like many of the store-front/homes, I had the privilege of entering Jimenez's courtyard. Drenched in the heavy July sweat of the tropics , the courtyard was wild, the centre piece,a pint-sized sculpted fountain of a woman. Local myth held that any man who rinsed with the water that flowed between this woman's legs would be lucky in love. All of the men left with wet hands that afternoon.

I left with four original oil paintings. Strung up with clothespins on a wooden drying rack, they were gems tucked away in a city hidden behind the teeth of the forced communist smile.

Ironically, not too far, far away in our global history, Jimenez was honoured by the Chinese government in Shanghai. Her work, two clay pots with rough outer exteriors mimicking Cuba's royal palm ironically comes from a series called, "What I Carry Inside". What Jimenez carries inside represents what we all, as creative beings, carry within us. The seeds to create, inspire and connect from a place within ourselves of universal knowledge.

Enter Chinese artist Ai Weiwei. A closet architect-wanna-be, I was captivated by a recent article in the Globe and Mail about the lasting effect of Wei's collaboration with Herzog and de Meuron. Their masterpiece is the Bird's Nest Stadium which was built in Beijing for the 2008 winter Olympics.

To be quite honest, it was the photo of countless sunflower seeds above the headline, " Ai Weiwei: Planting Originality, reaping Beijing's Fury", that caught my attention. The sunflower exhibit includes countless individual porcelain sunflowers made and painted by Chinese artists. The sheer brilliance of engaging hundreds of artists in a traditional craft ( porcelain ) which would receive global recognition is inspiring to say the least. Wei managed to water the seed of the creative human spirit, deep in the underbelly of a nation of famous for silencing it's artists.

Part of the exhibit, as displayed at the Tate Museum was the ability of patrons to walk over the sunflower seeds, breaking the seeds as they walked. Rather symbolic, no? Just ten days after the exhibit opened at the Tate Museum, Asthma UK kicked up a fuss about the kicked up dust caused by the interactive exhibit. The exhibit was changed so it could be viewed, but not interacted with, effectively disconnecting spectators from the art.

This must have been Director of Research at Asthma UK's 30 seconds of fame; "Leanne Metcalf, Director of Research at Asthma UK, said the Tate had made the right decision. "This new installation at Tate Modern has understandably attracted a great deal of interest and Asthma UK is relieved to hear that concern over the potentially damaging effects that the exhibit can cause to those interacting with it, especially people affected by asthma, is taking priority," she said. " I have to wonder, when the political wagging of the dog settles on this one, in what form the made-in-China political bone will be tossed to the UK.

I hope that the irony of breathing in silica dust was not lost on anyone. Ironic that a Chinese artist should inadvertantly create and exhibit art which reflects the reality of life in China? The very dollar-store-infatuation that the world has with goods made-in-China is rather poetic. The silica dust was gagging spectators. Kind of like gagging artistic expression, political freedom, and the human spirit...hmmm....?



So, despite his unkown whereabouts, Wei is still making headlines, as powerful and influential (if not moreso) than before. Unlike his demolished studio in Shanghai, the Bird’s Nest Stadium is a mark on the political landscape of China, and a globally recognized symbol for Beijing. I have been told that the symbolism of a bird’s nest in China is in it’s careful construction, one piece at a time,  creating a protective, insular environment. Standing as two independent structures, and weighing in at 42,000 tonnes of steel, The Bird's Nest stadium has one inner ring for seating, surrounded by another protective ring, it is indeed a symbol for the insular social and political make up of modern China.

Despite various degrees of man-made oppression, the creative spirit of “artist” remains alive and well within each individual. Wei found pleny of artists willing to help create his exhibit. It must have been like watching lava flow from an erupting volcano, watching the creative process ripple across the rural landscape.

The creative spirit is something that is hard to express in language. It goes beyond the physical. The closest I have come to understanding it is reading Rudolph Otto’s, Idea of the Holy. It is best described in a paragraph from Amazon’s description; "Otto, following the tradition of mystics, gave careful consideration to an oft-neglected aspect of theology: the non-rational aspects of God. In doing so, he coined the word "numinous" to depict that which transcends or eludes comprehension in rational terms. It suggests that which is holy, awesome, and 'wholly other.' He also applies the expression "mysterium tremendum overpoweringness of an ineffable transcendent Reality. "

Artists like Wei and Jimenez work dilligently at their art. I write. You may paint or sing, or create in other ways.  Why?  I believe we make art to communicate in a universal language. We are here sharing this experience together. We are all connected.

It is the very dust of life that we stir in our living that is the creative energy flow between us. This is where we draw our inspiration. It  keeps us connected and thriving. It is beyond the skin and blood and bones of our bodies, wrapped up in the wonder and mystery of life.