Signs of life

For a number of days now, i’ve been (somewhat anxiously) watching a certain section of my garden, the area that was seeded instead of filled up with bedding plants. Waiting, looking, even poking around to see if a tiny green sprout exists, hiding under the dirt.   i’ve figured that the crops that i’ve seeded – carrots, beets, beans, and peas – are hardy enough to live into the fall, but with such a short, unpredictable growing season, every day counts.

So, it was a joyful experience to finally see a section of wee tiny little red sprouts filling out the beginnings of what will be a row of beets.  No pics, since i haven’t gotten used to bringing my camera up to the Hen House every day, although i felt all puffed up with pride over these baby plants that finally took their first move towards eating up sunlight.

Encouraged by this development, i took the bold move of shoving a spade in the ground to investigate what on earth was going on with my delinquent bean and pea seeds.  The verdict: wee worms eating up the tender beans. Arrggh.  i eventually found two little beans that were managing to sprout, and got them nicely packed away in their dirt homes again, vowing to start sprouting some beans and peas in a more sterile environment like a nalgene bottle this week at work.  Maybe that will get them the head start they need.

As i finished my snooping around underground and returned to the much more routine task of watering, i thought about what it would be like if it were only that easy to unpack some of the problems that i see the kids at work struggling with. So many times, we staff all know that there is a ton of stuff going on under the surface that is keeping a client from moving forward in a positive way. Most of the kids we see have pain and problems that run so deep, they often don’t even know themselves how to dig them up or what’s happening in the deep soil of their own life.  It’s hard to watch from a removed vantage point and be unable to poke and prod and dig around, to be able to only water what is good, fertilize the positive choices made, weed a little negative behaviour out of the picture, and wait patiently, creating an environment where a sensitive issue can finally sprout up and be identified.   Then sometimes, there are the lives that, beyond any caring we offer, are eaten up by the worms of negativity, pain, burdens that we never truly see, except to know that while in our care, no good living thing sprouted up because of those things unseen.

It’s been one of the hardest things that i’ve ever learned to deal with when working with people – the times when there is no growth to be seen, no living, no joy.  It’s hard to step back and to know that it’s not reflective of my level of caring or my skill set.  Perhaps it’s just not the right environment sometimes, perhaps there was knowledge that i don’t have, or factors beyond my control have truly overtaken my ability to help.  Most of the time i’ll never really know.

Then again, from the same vantage point, it is a humbling knowledge that the only thing i can help do to bring life to the surface is to be the waterer, someone who tends to making the environment a safe and welcoming place for a sprout of goodness to surface.  i didn’t make those beet sprouts grow, and i don’t make the positive (and often difficult) choices for the youth i care for, but i can live and act in such a way that it’s more likely to happen, and i thank God for that.

i’ve been thinking a lot lately about influence and choices, about how to impact the communities that i live in and around in ways that encourage joyful, fulfilling life.   It’s so easy to forget this calling towards a generous and loving life sometimes, so easy to just think of myself and what would make my life easier.  Like missing a morning watering just to sleep in another hour or so, it’s so easy just to escape a difficult conversation or follow a lengthy protocol at work, to leave a questions about accountability or about a friend’s dreams about life for banal chatter about the day.  It’s not the sleeping in or the simple chats that are the problem, but left on their own, it’s hard to create an environment where something good and meaningful grows.  It takes the same kind of commitment as early-morning garden watering to nurture life of any sort, and i’m slowly learning to take these lessons from my garden into the rest of my life.  So from beet sprouts to deeper friendships and more meaningful work, i’m trying to keep the reminders from my garden close to heart.

Greening up

This evening when i walked over to the Hen House to water the garden, i had some time to snap those pics i promised!

Everything is growing well, everything that is but the peas, beans, beets, and carrots. Those were all planted from seed, and there’s no sign of life yet…. i keep waiting and watching, oh so hopeful!

The Tomato-Chive-Pansy-Marigold Patch:

The Greens Corner:

Up close and personal:

How does my garden grow?

Wouldn’t you like to know!
Photos of my little patch of greens and growing things coming soon….but first, the groundwork.

It’s been so exciting to actually have a chunk of land to dig up this year, graciously supplied by my four lovely friends at the ‘Hen House’ up the street. Not only that, but one of them is helping me with watering when i’m at work!! So good…so good.

This is what i started with:

A day’s worth of elbow grease got me this far:

Another day of digging, a massive heel blister, a few roots chopped up with a Saws-All, some bamboo sticks and a bunch of found&rearranged paving stones:

i’ve since planted tomatoes, chives, onions, a variety of lettuce, kale, pak choy, nasturtiums, pansies, marigolds, chamomile, broccoli, cabbage, beans, peas, carrots, and beets – filling in all these spaces quite nicely!

i promise i’ll get photos up of the growing things within the next day or so!

Caught up in a sticky jam

It all started with an innocent Saturday stroll through the Calgary Farmers Market, when i happened to glance at a slightly sad looking flat of strawberries, next to bundles of $2 vegetables.  There was no sign of mold on the berries, although they looked a little dark, bruised, and kinda homely.  ‘$10′ was written on the side of the box.

And then the curly-haired vendor caught me looking, and told me she would give me the flat and the one under it for $15, if i took them both.   What’s a mennonite, deal-loving, home-canning girl to do? Some people go for lost-looking puppies….apparently i fall for jam berries.

i figure there were about 24-30 lbs….which worked out to about $0.63/lb at most!

They weren’t the best eating berries, but mixed with the right stuff….

And bottled up with cute, handmade labels (thanks Mom for the help!):

Et voila!  Two days of sporadically slaving over the stove resulted in  52 jars of strawberry preserves: Strawberry Jam, Balsamic & Pepper Strawberry Preserves, Drunken Strawberry Sauce, Strawberry-Chili Sauce, and Lavendar-Rosewater Strawberry Preserves.

Strawberry Chili Sauce Recipe:

:: Heat on the stove in a big pot until simmering
5 cups hulled, sliced, and slightly mushed Strawberries

:: Stir in and bring to a boil
1 box Certo pectin
6 cups Sugar
2 diced yellow peppers
1 diced red onion
1/4 – 1/2 cup sriracha or other asian chili-garlic sauce

:: Boil for 5-7 minutes, then take off the heat and skim/discard foamy stuff off the top.
:: While still hot, pour into hot, sterilized jars and continue with your preferred method of jam-canning.  I pre-soak my lids in hot water, pop them on, finger-tighten the rings, and invert the jars immediately for 5-8 minutes. After that, i turn them right-side up onto a towel-covered surface and leave them for 24 hours….all the while smiling every time i hear the characteristic ‘pOp!’ of the lids sealing!

Being good to oneself

It wasn’t so long ago that i would have laughed myself out of town at the idea of early bed-times, choosing not to go out with a group of people, or spending time washing dishes on a Saturday night.  Okay.  i’ll amend that. i STILL have a hard time accepting these things as good decisions and not signs that i’m going to turn into a spinster cat-lady, gah.
And yet, i’ve been lying on my couch, semi-napping, trying to psych myself up to go out for the night (for the second night in a row), and slowly realizing that i’m fighting the very things that i long for when i’m at work – rest, peace, processes that have visible results…

Attending a suicide intervention training for the last few days, i was part of a group of people that discussed the idea of self-care in the helping role/profession.  A lot of similarities cropped up in people’s responses: conversations with a friend, coffee dates, baths, wine, movies, exercise, getting enough sleep.  Reflecting back on the lists, it surprises me how introverted the lists seemed.  Not once did i see ‘night on the town’ or ‘throw a party’ on any of the group’s self-care lists, and it makes me curious about why that was.  Very possibly, it was just the certain mix of attendees, though perhaps there is something about self or soul-care that necessitates the quietness of being either peacefully alone or in meaningful or intimate relationship instead of exuberant crowds and dynamic social settings.  At this moment, my bias is towards the latter.

As much as it still annoys me on some level to choose against getting some also-much-needed social time tonight, i’m going to admit that these are a few of my favorite self-care things right now:

drawing, sleeping, comfort food, making things…

Nothing so very different from the rest of life, just chosen over friends and a social life at this moment.

What do you do to rest/revive?

A Rally, Some Realism, and Other Reflections

12:20pm

Behind me, up high and strategically positioned along long banks of windows are police, crouched with cameras, computers, radios. The are scanning the crowd i stand in, pointing at individuals amongst us. i raise my camera phone to take a picture of them too, but the glass is tinted, and all i get is a glare of a winter sun shining back at me. i wonder how many more are positioned in the offices above us, and if there are snipers somewhere today.

From an opposite vantage point, men and women in business attire and holding glasses of champagne also point down at us from behind tinted windows, laughing, waving, jeering.   i stare at one, and receive a sardonic grin and the middle finger in a salute back.

On the ground, where i stand, it is cold air, cold pavement, and my cold hands shoved into my pockets. i don’t hold a sign today, though there are plenty around to be carried: “Go Home Bush!” “Shoe Bush the door!” “War Criminals Not Welcome Here” and so many more.  i don’t have a flag or beat a drum. Mostly i’m just observing my first protest rally.  i am close enough to the centre of all the action to know that it is likely that my face will end up on the news somewhere tonight, and it makes me wonder at what i’ve chosen to be a part of.

If i shiver, it’s because i’ve been here for an hour already, somewhat overwhelmed by the social disparity between the protesters that i am shoulder to shoulder with and the endless line of black business suits we are yelling at.  But, i also shiver at the oddness of this all.  At some level, i believe that i need to be here, to add my voice to those who say it is not right that Calgary is welcoming someone accused of war crimes, including “torture, illegal renditions, wrongful incarcerations, denials of due process and other gross human rights violations”.  i agree that as a person even SUSPECT for such acts, George W. Bush should have been stopped at the border, if only to be consistent with the level of suspicion and ’security’ that has been so ramped up in the last eight years.

At the same time, i recognize that my presence is for all intents and purposes, pointless. The 1500 tickets ($400 minimum) have already been purchased. The event is paid for. The time off or extended lunch hours that allow the attendees to be, well, attendees, is already in full-swing.  Bush is somewhere inside the Telus Convention Centre, safely ensconced in throngs of secret service, and i highly doubt that the home-made signs, the bags of shoes to be thrown at his effigy, the chants, the coffee-can drums, the ‘Raging Grannies‘, or the girl walking around in a red devil suit and Dubya mask are really going to convince him that he should pack up and leave.  It’s all very attention-getting, but what kind of attention?

A woman is shouting into a bullhorn that is not turned on.  An old, grizzled dooms-dayer is spouting verses from Jeremiah.  Euphemisms, blanket statements, irrelevant information is all being shouted at random, and there are cameras everywhere, capturing images of the spectacle in rapid-sequence. i observe the rather comical air emanating from the gathering, and then i watch the seemingly endless line of individuals waiting to enter the building and begin their lunch.  They are a relatively quiet crowd, largely ignoring the noise around them. Every once in a while, you can see a ripple of laughter as several of them point to something in our crowd, or as a particularly loud rant is directed their way.  Dressed almost entirely in black, grey, and navy, the attendees’ appearance of professionalism could be perceived as credibility and invincibility. Only once do i actually hear someone yell back at the protesters surrounding the entrance to the building. A young man, about my age, dressed in an expensive grey suit stepped out suddenly, exasperated: “WE’RE not the ones who went to Afghanistan!!!”  It is the one time i speak out, and i look him in the eye as i shout back that they ARE the ones paying to support the individual who started it all.  He returns to the line, blending in once again. It seemed to me like he was tossing out an excuse, an effort to distinguish himself from the person he was paying to see, and i want to know more. Why is he here? Why is anyone here?

i keep wanting to break with the rest of the protesters that i am with, to leave the rag-tag army behind me and reach for a more credible debate. What is the use of the chanting?  Bush isn’t in power any more. He doesn’t make the calls any more. It’s true, i would have liked it if he had never come in the first place, but instead of Bush going home, what i’d really like to see is the hundreds of Calgarians lined up to applaud him go home.  i’m filled with frustration at the pointlessness of the rally, of an effort that is big on passion and spectacle, but is failing to effectively communicate clearly and logically the reasons why we feel that attending the lunch is wrong. It is frustrating that we protesters both appear non-credible, and in some cases, probably aren’t.  i’m frustrated with feeling that rallying at this event is the only way to be a part of the opposition, and i’m frustrated that i don’t have the courage to simply walk up to an attendee and talk with them about their perspective and mine.

In the end, it is these frustrations that begin to match the deep cold of the day and send me walking back down the road i came on, in search of a hot coffee and some more collected thoughts.  i’ve always considered myself an idealist, though i credit a good dose of realism when i see it. Ideology is only a weapon when it convincingly enters the heart and mind of another individual: you can’t fight a war on it, and you can’t spout it at spectators hoping for an effective result.  Besides, i don’t believe in using weapons against other people, ideological or otherwise. So what then?

i believe there is a better way, one that involves direct and personal conversations, increased public dialogue, a setting aside of anger and prejudice, and the courage to step out of fear, apathy, or conformity in order to move towards greater moral action, whether that’s forgoing a $400 lunch ticket, or breaking a protest line to speak with one of the people who’s minds you’re hoping to change.  Pie-in-the-sky? Perhaps.  But, if we as individuals and society do not hold to those ideals, then we’re liable to become as base as those who use power and the threat of it to accomplish whatever is wished.  Maybe one day i’ll protest again, but if i do, i’ll be keeping these things in mind.

New paintings!

i haven’t often written down what my scripted paintings say, and i don’t often explain them very much either. Something i’ve always held on to in these series has been their ambiguity, the ability for people to read into the images their own story, their own narrative. And the correlating problem is this: people still want to know “What does it say??”

Recently, though, i’ve been enjoying using prose or poetry as a counterpoint to a few of my images, and using that as a launching point for conversation. Some of the writing is simply paired with images, and sometimes it’s acting as my muse.

Today i’ll leave you with two: the first is untitled, the second is ‘lost at sea’

Somewhere between
The world you see and me,
So far between
Here and there
Lie depths that I still plumb
to find a floor,
a resting place

Had you heard those siren songs
What it was that has gone wrong?
Could I see that space?
Could that be the place?
I lost you in a sea
Far gone from here
And memory washes up in waves
The shipwreck of a time I loved
In vain

Somewhere between
The world you see and me,
So far between
Here and there,
I lost you to a melancholy
fluid indecision
Freedom on a dizzy mission
Drifting on a whitecap hope -
A madcap scope of life to come
With roving dreams
casting nets
to catch a song i could not sing

1,2,3…jump….

Remember the feeling of jumping off the high-dive board for the first time?

The jealousy and admiration of other kids, screaming as they hurtled through the air and cannon-bombed into the deep water, curiosity curling around in the pit of your stomach, toes clenching in anticipation. The gritty resolution of climbing the ladder, one rung at a time, palms sweaty and eyes focused straight ahead (don’t look down!). The arrival at the top, looking across that long stretch of pebbly-textured plastic and realizing that there are two ways down, but only one will get you the cheers of approval you know you’ve come up here for.
A tentative first step. It seems secure enough.
Another step, then three or four more, and then – no more hand rails.

Squeezing eyes shut against the sight of a world much, much higher than you’re used to, blocking out the echoing din of the swimmers below. The deep curiosity that was felt at the bottom is turning into a knot of panic – swaying, bouncing, slowly up and down and up and down at the end of what feels like a very flimsy board right now. Breathe in, breathe in, breathe out and don’t think Don’t THink DON’T THINK – 1- 2 – 3 -

JUMP!

…

Empty air

Rushinghurtlingracingdownwardfreedom flying along every inch of skin -
-and then the world suddenly shatters into silky clarity, tinged blue and ruffled with a vortex of air bubbles. Up…  Go up.   Air.   Breathe.  Close eyes. Relief. Swim away.

And then it’s done. You challenged yourself and you won. You grew up a little in that moment.

And perhaps it’s not so surprising that some twenty years after i first jumped off of a high dive, i feel the same gut-knotting anticipation of leaping into other ventures in life. Purchasing my first new car (in the next days? weeks? months?), and doing it without my dad holding my hand on the way to the dealership or my brother test-driving it with me. Opening my first line of credit and looking into a potential pool of debt that i’ve done my best to stay away from for a very long time, in order to buy said car. Going shopping for a new laptop (yes, contrary to most of my generation, computers are scary to me). Selling my art to someone i don’t know. Deciding on how much to CHARGE said people….

So here i am, swaying a little under the heady realization that it might feel like an exhilarating spending spree for the next little while, coupled with the very likely possibility that if i don’t manage the mild chaos that i call my life, i could very well belly-flop. Or, i can hold my breath, focus myself towards that deep end of grown-up financial and marketing decisions, and try my best for a swan dive, smoothly gliding towards a more successful future. Forgive me if i’m a little nervous

Choose my own adventure (?)

Someone asked me recently where i saw myself in 15 years. i responded that a long time ago, i gave up planning that far ahead. Determined, he still pressed the question.

i drew a total blank.

Then, i had to work at figuring out what 15 more years even looks like. Let’s see, i’m 27 now, plus 15……. 5 and 7 is. . 12, carry the 1… that makes it, um, forty. . . . 42? i think that’s right. (Yes, you can laugh at me. Yes, i do tell people up front to never trust my math skills)

Gawsh. Forty-two. Fifteen years.

Hell, i don’t know what i’m going to be doing next year! i do know that i want to finish up at least another year with Enviros here in Calgary, that i do want to eventually go back to school, and that i have to make at least enough money to figure out how to best deal with my rapidly dying car. i want to start selling paintings, i’d like to keep travelling, i’d like to spend another 1-2 years cooking in planting camps, and well, that’s pretty much my list of the things i’m sure of right now. So projected 15 years forward?

i’d like to arrive on the other side of my 30s relatively unscathed, somewhat wiser, better educated, perhaps in love. i’m not sure i still want to be in Calgary, but you know how life twists and turns and ends up keeping you where you say you don’t want to be (so i’m definitely not saying i don’t want to stay here!!). The old v-dub will most likely be gone, home ownership is something i’ll be more than crossing my fingers for, and i’m hoping that i make sound enough financial decisions to avoid a pile of debt while i’m at it all. It’s nice to project a family onto my future, but that’s hard to do, currently missing key players and all.

And that’s all i’ve got. Somewhere between moving to California on a greyhound bus one year, a surprise arrival at TWU, grocery deliveries via helicopter in northern BC, a concrete post-soviet dormitory, and now waking up to prairie sunrises, i lost all sense of wanting to lock down a future in my own planning. i don’t want to grasp at the small tangible things that i foresee – i’d rather open my eyes, hang on for dear life, and embrace the uncertainty of so many crazy possibilities that life tosses me. There’s a rough framework of expectations/goals in place, but i’m leaving it at that. Perhaps this is naive, but then, perhaps this approach hasn’t done too badly for me yet.

What about you? Do you plan? Do you not plan? How do you balance goals and unpredictability?

A cheat, a treat, and a little chivalry tossed in

Working backwards, i experienced a moment yesterday that left me at loss for words (rare, i know).
A quick trip down to the Safeway for t.p. and coffee cream last night before company was coming over had me scanning the checkout lines for something shorter than 12 people waiting for the self-checkout stand.  So when i found a line at the far end with only two people in front of me, i was fairly happy with that.  But, i had barely stepped behind the man in worn Carhart coveralls, callused skin, and slightly frizzled greying hair, when he glanced over, smiled (revealing somewhat crooked, yellowed teeth) and said,
“You know, when i was a kid, it was ladies first, so…”
And he gestured that i step ahead of him in the line.
Smiling what i hoped to be a warm, friendly smile, one that i hoped was devoid of the perplexed and slightly suspicious thread of thoughts running through my head, i said ,”Thanks”, and took the offered spot in line.  He shook his head, “No problem. It makes me feel like a kid again.”  And here, i have to admit, my thoughts continued to run something along the lines of,
“Why would he do that? Nobody does that. Does he want something? He looks decent enough, a little work worn, but….’like a kid again’? Is that creepy? Maybe not. i should say something. Return conversation. hmmmm…… i wonder if..nah, he looks like a normal enough guy working a labor job…come to think of it, he’s not that old…when was he ‘a kid’? How long ago was that?..”
And i watched my purse a little more closely, and i made some small chitchat – something to do with the huge sandwich that he was purchasing (it would last him 3 lunches, apparently) – and it wasn’t until i was fully out of the store and on my way to my car that it hit me.

No one has ever done that for me before.
Oh, okay, maybe when i’ve been with friends and we’ve been ordering something, coffee perhaps, but not this. Not a stranger freely and publicly giving up a spot in line or anything else to that effect, simply based on a rather old-fashioned idea of courtesy.  It was straight-up, old-school chivalry.  And it was pretty damn nice. And i hadn’t known what to do with it.

So to the stranger, who may never read this, thank you again.
Thank you for making my busy afternoon a little bit more special, for making me pause and put a hold on my normally overly-independent pace of life, and for living a little more graciously than we expect.

—————————–

The treat: Secret’s out – i’m absolutely loving Kawa’s soy latte with Malabar Italian espresso-style beans.  i could live on that stuff.

_________________________________

Cheated? Well, not quite.

i’m not getting evicted after all!
Nope, no moving, no roomate, no nothing….never was.  So, why then was i all up in a tither, trying to figure out a new living situation?
Turns out my (still) current landlord was playing us tenants for additional commissions. Apparently she would keep the commission from us re-signing our current leases for 2008/09, but if we managed to break them by Nov.1 (when the new landlords take over) and agreed to rent one of the other places that she was offering to show us (as a help, in our dismal situation, poor us), she would gain the commissions off of those as well.  When my neighbour finally got the new landlord’s phone number from her to clear things up, landlady du jour (who was proposing to stay on as building manager….thereby gaining four more commissions when she filled our vacant apartments) suddenly announced that she was resigning as building manager.   C’est la vie…. and so long, landlady!