Christmas is for Canada Post

"What a lot we lost
when we stopped writing letters.
You can't reread a phone call."


~Liz Carpenter~

Dear Friend,

You know who you are. How are you doing way over there?  I hope you don't think that I've forgotten about you even though I haven't written in a long time.  I miss our talks, and knowing that you're just a few minutes away if I really need you.

Someone told me not so long ago that words are empty. Meaningless. Words on paper don't equal action. Maybe they're right. Maybe I, in particular write way better than I express myself in actions and spoken words. I guess we all have our strengths and weaknesses.

We're all so busy these days. Often it's just all we can do to get through our days from obligation to obligation, and isn't it odd that we really are hardest on the people who we love the most?

Anyway, I thought about you this weekend as I went about my solitary business. As I settled into my seat at the very back of the theatre to watch The King's Speech, I thought that you'd like it. I know you're not much for crowds, but I thought it would be nice if we were watching it together. It was a great movie, and as much as I've always not-so-secretly had a Hollywood crush on Colin Firth, I enjoyed Geoffery Rush's performance even more.  

You would have gotten a kick out of the blue-haired-matinee-set who mostly filled the theatre. They were so precious, I even had to forgive them their ringing cell phones. I mean, let's face it, all of that ringing was likely their 50 year old children checking up on them, and the poor dears have no idea how to answer the darn thing let alone dig through their coat pockets to turn them off.  You would have thought that the three old British ladies who cried at the end of the movie were adorable.

I was famished after the movie, and, since it was the dinner hour I gave into my craving for coconut curry and a beer.  You would have cringed at the loud music in the bar.  Britney Spears singing Joan Jett remakes is just wrong; Wrong, Wrong, Wrong.  Slithering Shakira punched up with some Quiet Riot and AC/DC...not my usual choice of ambiance. You would have been surprised perhaps to know that when I'm down and out, bone tired and sad that I go to this place to eat. I think I went there once last year. You see, I tuck myself in a corner booth and take a good look around. I know the menu, and what I like, so it's a quick in and out affair, but it gives me great perspective. 

I'm now convinced that all men under 50 in such places,  who are short and bald, with any bicep definition at all will wear shirts way too tight, and speak way too loudly. It's as if the great spirit has imbued them with an unexplainable sense of grandiosity. They think that everyone is infatuated with what they have to say. 

Also, I've decided that bald men with goatees look decidedly phallic - they look like large genitals or, bumholes.  Also, besides the cold beer, and the coconut curry, I know that I would never strike up any kind of intelligent conversation in such a place. Exactly what I was looking for.  I miss your company, and I don't really want to share my thoughts with anyone else. A mouth full of curry and beer is all I wanted, the loud music and obnoxious company just helped numb me out a little bit more.

The night before last I went wandering through a few shops because I just didn't want to go home yet. Sometimes it feels nice just to get out. I found this pretty china tea cup that I thought I might buy. It's always better to drink out of a nice china cup when you're sad right? Anyway, I took at look at the cup, and ironically, it was made in China. I miss you, but I'm not willing to put my health at risk by drinking out of a teacup infected with god only knows what kind of toxic material.  I went home and drank out of my glass mug instead and worked quietly away on my needlework.

We're ready for Christmas now. I just need to buy some last minute groceries to ensure the Christmas dinner traditions are complete; potatoes, turnip, and orange jello. Funny how jello always seemed to pull it all together for my family at Christmas time.  I think that says a lot about the family from wence I came....

The tree and decorations are up. Isn't it amazing how mesmerized we can be when the house is dark, and just the Christmas tree lights are on?  It makes me lonely and hopeful all at the same time. It was almost ten years ago to the day that my grandmother died. I always think about what I've done with my life since then. Kinda puts things in perspective as the years pass. Have I accomplished all I wanted? Have I been a good mother? How many more Christmas's will I have staring at this damn tree before bed time all alone?

I hope that you're doing well. I hope that your days aren't too hard. I'm glad that I know you have family around - that always helps.

Well, that's all for now. Nothing exciting here.  

Love you like waking up with no alarm clock,

Trish

Christmas is for Crying

"I am not alone at all, I thought.
I was never alone at all.
 And that, of course, is the message of Christmas;
 We are never alone. 
Not when the night is darkest. 
The wind coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. 
For this is still the time God chooses.”

~Taylor Caldwell~

I don't like paper napkins. First of all, one paper napkin is never sufficient.

At the little Vietnamese place I frequent for weekday lunches, they have those little paper napkins that are always displayed a-la-Happy-Days-style in a stainless steel holder. 

As a group the little single ply paper napkins do the job, but you'd better not have to blow your nose.

Recently I met my friend there for lunch, and after we ordered - me my usual soup and she, a warm bowl of comforting noodles with curried chicken - we began to chat about all things girlish.  My friend confided in me that she was having a hard time this Christmas season. Things weren't going her way. On top of mom things, man-things were not going her way.  Ew. Bad combination.

Our meals came. Mine was just exactly what the doctor ordered on a blustery December day; hot soup, yummy, soft, noodles....mmmmm.  My friend on the other hand was presented with a substantial plate of large chunks of curried chicken sans-noodle-comfort-staple.   This was the tipping point.

She looked up at me, and said that this holiday was "sh!t". Then, as if on cue, came the text message that the man she was supposed to see during her holidays was not indeed flying back home. Her holiday became that much more lonely. 

Tears dropped into the huge hunks of curried chicken.  I could feel a heavy-weight round of, "men suck" coming on, and I scrambled in my purse to find something massive-crying-runny-nose-worthy for my friend to blow her nasal sorrows into. 

We commiserated about how it feels to be the person not chosen to spend time with during the holidays. How absolutely disappointing it is not to be the woman receiving the flowers, the jewelry, the date.  We did not however have to mention how great it is sometimes not to be the overworked, overstressed, overtired wife who also is not receiving flowers, jewelry or the "date".  That, in my opinion would be worse.  Trapped.  At least as single women, we have the potential for those things, for that loving relationship, for hope, and for a wine cupboard that never ends....For a wine cupboard that never ends. Wait. Did I say that already?

We nodded in agreement about how hard it is to be a woman holding "it" all together.  Working, paying the bills, homeworking, disciplining, Christmasing and trying to be "soft" and "lady-like", and not falling to bits because we're worn to the bone in every way. We laughed about how pathetic we are stuffing our own stockings, and that's not a metaphor folks. On the up side, I'll wake up to red suede mittens and french milled, lemon scented soap December 25th. Perhaps Santa may also drop into the California valleys and pick up a little something liquidish and deep red for mommy too.

We laughed and we cried. But it's not just our romantic relationships that the curried chicken tears reminded me of. Anyone who has lost a loved one during the holidays knows how difficult this time of year can be. We remember what it's like to have gifts wrapped -to and from- the great unconditional loves of our life wrapped and under the tree just days after they have died.

Every year, as the greenery, red ribbons and mistletoe come out, we are reminded of how empty these special holidays can be. How sad. How very lonely, even in the midst of social parties and merry making grief can leave a hole so big that it swallows everything else. Our grief, years later, blinds us in sudden, unexpected blustery gusts of emotion. After some time, we come to the realization that our grief makes the holiday that much more precious with the people we love now. 

Years ago I decided that despite my losses, I would be grateful for the friends and family that I do see during the holidays.  I would be thankful for the friends who have become my Christmas day tradition. It's hard not to long for that Norman Rockwell family waking up together Christmas morning. It's hard not to be disappointed that this is not the year Mr. Right makes my Christmas bright.  It's hard not to cry sometimes.

This year at the end of November I called a holiday truce. I would be grateful. Grateful for those people in my life who choose to spend some time during the holidays with my little family of two.

As we sat at that lunch table, my friend dabbing tears from the corners of her eyes, the wait staff came over to ask if everything was ok.  I wanted to pertly say, "NO! Bring her noodles damn it! That's why she's crying!", but I didn't think the waiter would get my humour, and I didn't think my friend would have been any happier.

So cry if you need to. Cry if your heart is hurting. Remember your blessings too, even if it's just a temporary Christmas truce....trust me on this one.

Christmas is for Christ and Buddha and Allah and Vishnu and...



"God is too big to fit into one religion"
~Unknown~

Last weekend, in a vain attempt to avoid anything stressful (hahaha I'm so deluded!), I turned to a fashion magazine as an avenue of escape.
The only time I read fashion magazines, tabloids, or as I like to refer to those genres, "smut", is when I'm having my pedicures. Let me digress from the heavy subject of this blog for a moment;

I maintain regular pedicures for two reason; first of all, the thought of having ugly, rough feet makes me weep, and it's pretty much the only time someone touches me without needing me to give them something back. God bless aestheticians! Amen and hallelujah! Rejoice!

Bi-weekly I settle into the giant massage chair with my tootsies soaking in a nice warm pedi-spa and lose myself in literary 'trash'.  Last weekend it was Elle magazine, (forgive me, I can't recall whether it was the Canadian or the American edition).

Yet I digress further;

Let me explain the phenomenon of the pedi-massage chair.  When I tried the third and most recent edition to my regular aesthetics watering hole, I was delighted to try the new seating.

I mean, what could possibly be better than getting a back massage and a pedicure at the same time?!  Pure indulgence.  "Worth every penny," I whispered to myself as I justified the additional ten bucks for the new and improved atmosphere.

For those of you not versed in the finer etiquette of Girldom, spas and all places aesthetics-like have an unwritten code of empress-like conduct.  It is as follows;

1)     Thou shalt not make unnecessary eye contact with other empresses.
2)     Thou shalt not speak unnecessarily unless it involves shoes, handbags, jewelry or man-issues.
3)     Thou shalt turn off thy cellular phone, or at least all sound, vibrating or other irritating options (note -silent texting is allowed).
4)     Thou shalt compliment all neighbouring empresses on their choice of polish colour regardless of how unflattering, tacky and atrociously trashy.
5)     No children beyond the waiting area, no politics, religion, work or other nonsense.

As my lady-of -McDishy's-own-four-foot-square section of Girldom handed me my trash magazine and cup of green tea, I gave the royal nod to her when she asked to turn on the chair.

A little side note here - When someone asks whether or not you'd like the furniture turned on, give consent only after demanding a training session and demonstration of what exactly the furniture will do when "turned on".

Enthusiastically, I nodded my head...oh yes!  Yes! Turn on my miracle massaging chair! Weeee! What a delight!

It began with some sort of mechanical readjustment, thumping and tapping once up, and then down the length of my back. "Just resetting, " I thought as I snugged deeper into the leather seat. And then there was stillness. Oh yah...feet soaking, green tea at my side and a great, light read. Bliss!

Then something went wrong.  Terribly wrong. A huge lump of something rather persistent slowly, but with great machine-like pressure arose under my tailbone and came to rest right there in that space between your thighs that only your lover and gynaecologist know about.  My eyes widened, "What on earth is wrong with this chair?" I thought silently to myself.

Wide eyed, I abruptly looked up to see if anyone was watching me.  Nope. The "little man in the chair" so to speak, then started to thump my back. I was bouncing around in that chair and suddenly wishing I'd worn my sports bra for the occasion. I had never experience turbulence in a pedi-chair before. Any second I expected an oxygen mask to drop from the ceiling. Forget the green tea, I would have scalded myself to death.

The button on the control pad looked straightforward enough, but slightly outside of what I consider to be a comfortable reach.  As I bounced forward, stretching my fingertips toward the controller, the lump between my thighs started massaging (quite nicely by the way) between my thighs. 

My fingers strained to reach the power button as my thighs were squeezed by what only can be described as side air bags. Squeezed so tightly together, my outer thighs were borderline painful as my inner thighs were saying a breathless "Hello" to Julio the massage lump.

I looked up again to see if anyone was witnessing my "massage" chair molestation.  This was getting embarrassing.  My back, neck and shoulders were being kneaded and knocked as my thighs were pinned in the seat and being massaged just above my knee to my butt cheeks - back and forth, back and forth.

Forget the reading. I had all but forgotten about what was going on with my feet.  Feet!?  I was worried I was either going to get trapped in the damn chair or have a giant orgasm.  It was a complete toss up between fear and a breathlessly gasped, "Oh-gawd!".

More than being upset that that flipping anomaly of  technological dimwittedness had ruined my very expensive pedicure, I was shocked at all of the other women shaking and wobbling and not-so-secretly getting their soft spots massaged en masse.

It felt a little dirty.  I felt a little deceived.  Although, in retrospect, I suppose I should have some gratitude for now knowing where to go should my normally vibrant sex life suddenly dry up and go the way of Toni perms.

So, last weekend when my lady-in-Girldom asked if she could turn on my chair, I politely declined and began to read my precious bi-weekly load of trash.

The article that drew my attention was not one about over-the-knee boots, or who was dating the hunk of the moment, or which stud-star of the moment has the best pecs, but  one exploring the recent, "Spiritual But Not Religious" (SBNR) phenomenon.

It is a well known, well documented, thoroughly explored trend that in lean economic times there is a swell in the number of people who turn toward their spirituality for meaning. I mean when things are booming, when the bills are paid, cupboards full, and children well-clothed and over-fed, who needs deeper meaning?

Through the ages plebs and scholars alike have delved into the black hole spiritual dilemma of what it means to be human. Since the swinging 60's it has become more common for people to explore religions other than their own traditions to find what 'works' for them - the individual. 

Increasingly religious institutions are on the decline while the number of individuals incorporating elements from diverse religious practice is climbing.  You could say economic hardship is a boon to introspection, existentialism; who am I if I'm not my profession, what does this mean to me, why am I here now, what is my greatest purpose, if God/Allah/Jehovah/The World is good, why am I suffering.....?????

Reading the Globe and Mail the day following my ritual pedicure, I was sidelined by another article on the decline of "religion" and trends in attendance at traditional religious institutions.

Recently my friends and colleagues have questioned my attendance in Dharma classes at my local Mahayana Buddhist temple. Was I searching for another faith, why did I need to do it, was I straying from my own faith, how can I introduce my son to other religious traditions when he's not solidly grounded in the history and stories of Christianity? Wow.

First of all, as a student of religious studies, and being raised in a protestant Christian family, I have a very strong belief (that I can intelligently argue), that exposure to other faith traditions can strengthen your own.  Not questioning one's own faith is not human nature. It's ok to questions god's(in my case) greatness when great suffering occurs.  If god is good, why are things so bad? When people of strong faith suffer loss, whether it be through death, divorce, job loss, or loss of self, they struggle more with their own spirituatlity than those who have not explored their faith, practice and traditions. After all, if you do the right thing, shouldn't you be rewarded instead of punished with suffering?

In my own experience, the concepts of the Four Noble Truths, the Noble Eightfold Path, and the Three Dharma Seals are concepts that helped me more deeply understand the concept of the trinity, the heart of
Christ, and "Love Thy Neighbour".  Meditation and mindfulness are wonderful practices that can only add to one's ability to function day to day in a more compassionate way.

Not everyone has studied religions. Not everyone understands or can sort out the differences between faith, spirituality and religion. But we all can be better people, and I think that's what's behind the drive of the ebb and flow of the SBNR trend.  We are all compassionate beings just trying to find our way.

The great freedom in debating religion, faith, love, and friendships is that they are all based in emotion and not logic. Yes, an inclusive study of history can answer a lot of questions about religions, but nothing about faith itself. That is the beauty of secular politics - logic. That is why we, as North Americans cannot comprehend issues in areas of the world where politics are faith based.  Faith equals emotion and emotion can't be argued logically. It can only be felt, believed and lived.

So, as I read my trashy magazines, and short articles on such intricate subjects of SBNR let me say that I balk at pop-culture, pandering to the here and now self-absorbed-self-help-pseudo-Oprah-spirituality that seems to have taken my generation by storm. 

I encourage everyone to go back to the source. Go to a temple, church, synagogue, mosque - discover the wisdom in our great traditions. Study. Question. Learn. Question. Practice. Question. Love.









Christmas is for Charlie Brown

“It always looks darkest just before it gets totally black.”
~Charlie Brown~

Good old Charlie Brown. "Chuck," as Peppermint Paddy so often referred to her downtrodden Pal.  Charlie Brown is the Hallmark of Christmas and Hallowe'en children's television. At least it used to be in the late seventies when I was a "children".

If you ever google "Charlie Brown psychology", you'll find a long list of resources which site Charles Shultz's comic strip as a study in human psychology - existentialism, personality types, depression, early psychiatry etc. 

I mean, "Good Grief", haven't we all felt a little Charlie-Brownish on occasion?  We feel left out, misunderstood, like the world just isn't on our side.  Calling out to the powers that be, we hear a thundering echo of silence in return.  Instead of a glowing white light, or soft, reassuring voice coming from the heavens, we're surrounded by Lucyss and Pigpens and little sister Sallys. "Good Grief!", indeed.

Poor old Charlie Brown.  He gets volun-told to direct a play in which none of the cast will take direction. He is sent out to find a Christmas tree to use as a prop in the play, and in the true spirit of Christmas, he decides to love a tree that needs the most loving.

Only after good ole' Chuck convinces himself that the group will criticize his choice, he abandons the decrepit little tree that can't even bear the burden of one shining Christmas ball. After his leaving, Charlie Brown's peers gather around, love the tree, and make it the most beautiful Christmas tree ever.  Charlie just doesn't get to see this or be part of making the tree beautiful.

Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. Receiving a gift is a gift to the person giving.  In being able to love the tree, the Charlie Brown children created their own wonder.  When someone wants to care for you, whether it is materially or spiritually, their is an alchemy in the exchange. The person giving and the person receiving are sharing an intimate ritual that gives meaning to both of their lives.

Wishing you the magic of sharing this Christmas.