Bag Trims

Went hunting for "bag" trims, and came home with the mother load. Looks like someone's needling granny may have passed away, and her 7 sons threw all her bits and bobbins in a bag and hauled it off to the thrift shop. After sifting through a tonne of crap, I came away with some terrific vintage buttons, a bunch of trims and ribbons, and some belt buckles for Michelle, if they are anything she can use for her funky candy wrapper belts. There are also these packages of sewing needles that must have come as samples along with flour, and milk. How come we don't get treats with our flour and milk any more?

Dinner with Homo Escapeons

Its Saturday morning, but no time for diddle daddle and lazy coffee sipping in jammies and bathrobe. Nope, today is the long awaited day to have dinner with Homo Escapeons and his lovely counterpart, Alice.

I will be hunched behind my thesaurus most of the day, so as not to embarrass Brian with my apparent lack of wordiness, and to give Mr HE the impression that I understand every third or fourth word that he will no doubt awe me with.

And Alice? She already knows MY innermost thoughts and workings, so the burden of conversation will clearly fall on her shoulders. Does that mean that my role is to listen, and look pretty?

I learned last night on CNN that Canada has re-approved the use of silicone breast implants for use in breast reconstruction or augmentation. That got me thinking about this whole pressure I am under to impress Alice with my actual, physical presence instead of the phoney-pack-of-lies clap track that I peddle on-line. Its too late for liposuction, and my nose piercing refuses to heal because I continually, obsessively pick at it......but should I pursue this whole silicone option?

I think we have some leftover caulking in the garage from a home reno project. I think I can prop up my thesaurus on the bathroom counter, brighten up my hair with half a box of highlighting product, and simultaneously pump some caulking into my flacid appendages using one of my kids old medicine syringes.

I just hope that my preoccupation with sore-picking won't be an overwhelming obsession tonight.

Rupturing a hand made implant over a bottle of shiraz is sure to leave a lasting impression.

Funny Mama

Okay, so I messed up the hyperlink.
Please try it again!

You must read this post about my mom.
My sis wrote it, and the photos are just the best!
Enjoy.
http://www.from-a-to-b-via-xyz.blogspot.com/

spring 2006

I will always remember this day in spring as the last day that we were a whole family. We weren't preoccupied with our mortality; watching the kids play at the park, feeling the timid sun on our overly wintered skin.

We'd have many more days as the sun got hotter- days of being family to one another in increasingly intense ways. But, on this day, it seemed that life could go on forever.

The seasons have shifted again, and a thin layer of snow now coats the ground.
We have woken up now.
Our fragility is undeniable.

Identity Theft

Checking up on a few of my favourite invisible people this morning, I came across this set of words:

"So I will be kinda like Joyce, with the exception that she knows how to knit. OH! And she also looks great with short hair. But other then those 2 minor incidentals, we will be nearly the same. (Job wise, anyhow)

"Joyce! What do you do when - 2 kids want the same toy, one wants to go to the bathroom, and one kid is crying for his mama....at the same time?" "

Turns out that Ruth is trying to steal my identity. Oh, it started out innocently enough, with little things that one could easily overlook. But I really started to get frightened when she shaved her head, and she only pretended that she'd had head lice. (or have I paraphrased that a little, and she actually got lice while being a missionary to children, kept loving the chidren, and kept her hair long? Anyhow, those are just trivial details, really). Then she went ahead and had the bold-faced nerve to ask me to learn her how to knit. With sharp, impalable instruments. Shocking, but not at all made up.

NOW, she plans on running a little daycare operation on the side. (did I mention the sharp instruments?) Wow.

So, Ruth, I know what you did last summer. I'm on to you. I've got my eye on you. I've got your number. I've just now run out of cliches.

But I'll be the bigger man. (mostly since I've not been running for about a year now, and I REALLY like nacho chip layered dips.... but I digress). What you want to know is how to share toys, and how to otherwise split your body in 5 or 6 equally portioned pieces? The moment the children enter your home, you duct tape potties to their precious little behinds. They double nicely as booster seats for snack time and in no time, you'll find your toilet training woes behind you. (well, more like behind them, but I think you follow).

Toys: All you really need is a couple of cats, and an assortment of fly swatters, available at most dollar stores for an affordable price. I find this encourages exercise, cooperation, strategy, and teaches some of the necessary building blocks for early education. You can: Count the swatters. Discuss colours. (What colour is kitty with one of auntie Ruth's knitting needles imbedded in her furry little paw?)

If you follow the first two suggestions diligently, you will find no need to deal with homesick babes. They will be so busy running about and swatting, screaming with joy, that even if one of them is actually crying; "mama, mama!!", you're not likely to discipher it over the din.

Best of luck Ruth.
You can steal my identity, because, believe me-- there are days when I really wish someone would.

Blog, Blog, Blog

This is my response to Heather's questionairre:

1. Why did you start blogging?
My husband discovered it, I saw how much attention it generated,and I wanted to get me summa dat.

2. Do you feel that you've developed meaningful relationships on your blog? If so, tell a story or two of a relationship that made a difference to you. How are these relationships different and/or similar to your in-person relationships?

I've met a lot of lovely people through this venue. I would have to say that some of my best surprises are real life people who I'd already met in person, and so they'd have to be polite and listen to me rant in real life...... but some of these people voluntarily come around and anonymously read my thoughts. "They LIKE me! they really, REALLY like me!!" (Woops, did I write that out loud?) One of my favorite surprises has been my sis-in-law; we didn't know each other really well, yet she voluntarily has become a faithful reader. (really, I don't pay her, or anything!) It has given me such a sense of warmth, and my visits to the family gatherings there have become more precious as a result.

3. Have you used your blog as a place to work out tough situations in your life? If so, what was the situation/challenge, and how did the blog help?

I have made references to some of my personal struggles, without actually spelling out in blatant terms what the deal it. Its like therapy for me- write down the good that I believe, then re-read it. Somehow I believe myself better that way.

Of course when my brother became ill with terminal cancer, my blog was an invaluable tool. I was able to get in touch with my emotions by just letting the thoughts flow out.

4. Were there people you met through blogging who helped you through those tough situations? What did they do that helped?

Local people brought me flowers and meals and prayers. Far away people expressed their love and support, shared their prayers, identified with my pain.

5. Were there ever things that you felt you could talk about on your blog to "strangers" that you couldn't tell your flesh-and-blood friends and family?

Oh, sometimes I wish I were more private....
I kind of think of everyone as my friend and family until proven otherwise...

6. Do your family and "in-person" friends read your blog? Why or why not?

Many of them do, and I have no idea why. It must be some form of ministry.

7. Have you ever regretted admitting really personal things on your blog? Why or why not?

Yes, once. And the next day I deleted the post.

8. Have you come into conflict with anyone on your blog? Did it destroy a relationship that you valued, or was it someone you didn't care about?

I once overreacted to a question asked in my comments. I think if I had remained more calm, I could have kept his readership and been more useful and loving instead of just scaring him away.

9. Do you ever think about quitting blogging? Why or why not?

Never, ever. Not in a million years. When I was a little girl, I used to fall asleep making up sentences in my head. I used to dream of writing books. Eventually I concluded that it was about as likely as me becoming a marine biologist, or an aerobics instructer.
Now, I'm so grateful to be able to write.

10. Any other interesting stories that might be applicable.

I have met a psychologist who is writing a book called "Every Woman Has An Eating Disorder". Her work is fascinating, and relevant.

I have begun work on a fund-raising project for the women in Darfur, in partnership with one of my favourite bloggers, "Bobita". This work was inspired by one of her posts expressing her anguish and sense of helplessness for the horrible abuse that our African sisters endure there on a daily basis. Within the proximity of our own homes, we have "met", shared a passion, and are now embarking on a pro-active mission. That's empowering.

I'll end on a very personal note.
My brother Ken lost his ability to walk early this summer, the first of his many losses due to the cancer. One of his lifelines was his blackberry, which we affectionately referred to as his "crackberry", and my father tended to confuse as a "blueberry".

Ken spent hours communicating with his friends on that little gadget, and it enabled him to send love messages to his parents, which will be treasured eternally.

Ken is a very intelligent man. I have spent a lot of energy in my younger years looking for and craving his approval. He was always very popular, very front and center. He seemed to be good at anything he put his hand to. Last December, less than a short year ago, Ken won first prize in a local newspapers writing contest. I was proud of him, and remember thinking-- oh gee, that just figures! He just puts his hand to it, and Presto! he succeeds. Ken's first girlfriend love was Miriam Toews. I mean, this guy never did anything boring or by the regular passageways.

All this to say that one day when I visited Ken at the hospital, he told me that he had been reading Chronicles of Blunderview.

"It's good", he said, "If I were you, I'd keep writing."

Blogging for me, has been one of the most humbling, most therapeutic, most healing outlets in my life.

OH, YES!!

I got the bestest package in the mail and for ONCE it had my name on it, and not my e-bay-in' husband's. It was a care package from my fellow vintage loving, sweet friend. The brown paper package contained: a non-cheesey condolence card, an old fashioned wall plaque, and some useful pamphlets about puberty. I like the title "Growing up And Liking It". Sounds sort of threatening.- like "Just please, for your mothers sake and mine, SAY YOU LIKE IT! It'll take away so much of OUR discomfort and anxiety about you being a teenager with hair and body odour!

A few of my favourite tips on "What's OK on "those days":

Dance with moderation.
Avoid violent exercise.
Careful when it rains!
In consideration of others, stay out of pools.
Competitive sports involve an emotional strain. If you find the excitement gets you in a dither, better sit on the sidelines.

And finally, a tip on purchasing the necessary products:
"In case you have to ask a clerk, just say "Teen-Age by Modess, please". (pronounced MO-dess; rhymes with Oh, yes.)

(Thank you, Rosa. You have NO IDEA how timely this information was.
Then again, maybe you do, do you?!)

Prenatal Classes

Oh sure, they call themselves public health nurses and set up weeks and weeks of special exercises and educational lectures. No qualms speaking boldly, unabashedly about mucous plugs, afterbirth, placenta, and engorgement. No holding back on the full colour videos of splashy squalling purplish blobs that are taught to say; "mama, mama".

Aahh, it all appears so thorough in its education. But it is nefarious in its omissions.

Never once was I told that just as I was getting used to them wiping their own bums, it would be time to anticipate the rites of their pubscient development. No one bothered to tell me that although many, many days would feel monotonous to the extent where I actually felt my brain oozing from my ear canal, I would simultaneously feel completely intellectually ill equipped for the job of adequately teaching my offspring. I was not told that although the evening holds approximately four to five hours, you will need to homeschool (after a full day in school), feed, clean, medicate (oh, sorry that's for me), buff, polish, encourage, listen (With your whole self, not a yawning, moaning version thereof) for the equivalent of four to five hours.

For. Each. Child.
OH! And don't forget to do some tasks "ahead of time" to free up your schedule.
And if you don't make these suggestions work, you run the risk of being "Dr Phil"-able.

I'd like to stroll back into that stuffy prenatal class and stretch my big 'ol ass back out on those floor mats.

And then,I'd like to tell THEM a thing or two.

Baby Steps

Grief is a funny thing, because at the weirdest, and wildest times, you feel like you've just been severed at the knees and its time to dig your own grave, legless, and bleeding, and willingly surrender to the darkness.

On the weekends, I work at an assisted living home. Our lovely patron is fond of calling her staff f**king bitches whenever things aren't going EXACTLY the way she wants them to. Last night, I was the resident bitch. I'm familiar with how to deal with the situation: calm speech, redirection, etc. But at one point I was just BROKEN. It was challenging enough to be there, feeling quiet and sad as I was, when I knew that she would prefer more of a party atmosphere. I simply could not dredge up the necessary credentials. On some very base level, I felt that perhaps she was right about who I am.

Its the morning after the night before now. And I still don't feel like wonder woman. So, I'll have a few small goals for myself in order to survive my day with few regrets.

1) Not go with the "F--ing B" prophesy.
I just don't think people would feel good about leaving their precious children with me
if that were indeed who I made myself out to be.

2) Not pick my nose.
Not snack on it.
I think this is ONE area where I can most certainly feel successful in.

Some days, you just gotta start small, so that you can start at all.

Thoughts on Healing

I have vague childhood memories of my dad's sister hiding under her bed because she saw satan drive by her house in a black car. She spent years in and out of facilities, and in my opinion, never found real healing. It seemed to take over her, and actually become her identity. I don't think she would have known who to be if some part of her body or mind weren't hurting and needing to be attended to.

My more immediate family has also dealt with issues related to the area of mental health. Uncles, Cousins, and siblings and their children have dealt with diagnoses such as: bipolar disorder, anxiety disorder, clinical depression, and a few other garden variety challenges. Most received good medical care in timely fashion, cooperated with the advice of their physician, and have gone on to living full, productive, authentic lives. They recognized their struggles as illness. They treated the imbalances with the appropriate medication- much like a diabetic takes insulin, assuming that the research on the illness was correct, and that supplementing their bodies with chemicals that it was not producing on its own would help it run in its intended healthy way.

Not so for everyone. For reasons mysterious to me, some have refused medical treatment, and believed that God would heal their minds. I believe that this is possible. I believe that God heals in our day and age and that he is the Great Physician. But these are the same people who take tylenol when their head hurts, antibiotics for strep throat, and trust the anesthetist and surgeon to repair broken bones and ripped ligaments. Which begs the question-- Why is the issue one of faith if your mind is ill, and science when your physical body is ill? What would one do in response to cancer? Refuse treatment? Spend more time in prayer? I'm all for prayer. I just think that God is way less narrow minded than we are. Who made the scientists smart? The Great Physician. And I say, thank God for that.

When people see lithium, prozac, clonazapam, and anti-psychotic pharmaceuticals as "giving up on God" and instead pray for healing, and believe that God will change a persons blood chemistry, I can't help but think of a little story that my 12 year old daughter recently shared with me.

There was a man inside of his house who saw a huge flood approaching. He cried out to God to save him. A van pulled up alongside of his home and offered to take him to higher ground.
"No, thank you", the man responded, "I'm, believing in God to deliver me."
The flood waters continued to rise, so the man went up to the second story, and again, cried out to God to save him. A moterboat roared up to his second floor window and offered to take him to safety. Again, the man insisted that his God was faithful, and would deliver him from the flood waters.
As the waters drove him up to his roof, he refused to give up on his faith.
"Thank you Lord for your faithfulness! You, and You alone can deliver me from this trial!"
At this point, a helicopter flew above him and lowered a rope for the man to climb.

Needless to say, the man stood on his rooftop crying to God for deliverance, until the floodwaters washed him away.

We have the privelege of living in the wealthy west. We have medical care at our fingertips. We have pharmaceuticals. We have caring professionals.

We have vans, boats, and helicopters.

Thank God.

grief

I hate the question "why".
Mostly because it begs some sort of lame attempt to make sense of non-sensable events.

Many endure negative, unloving, ill-paired relationships.
Others live alone, or with Jack Daniels.
small.

But others live well, and love deeply, fiercely, sincerely.
And die.

injustice
unavoidable, poingnant pain.

does it feel like hunger?
or adrenaline overload?
nausea?
rebellion?

Nothing much can be done.
not much can be answered.

Getting Lucky

Spent some time mall-hounding and picked
up a few things.

I had enough savings to buy the couch without a
payment plan.

Also on special were vintage Christmas bulbs, a
little stool with a worn stencil of Little Bo Peep,

an April Cornell wool sweater in fall colours, some

sewing trims and vintage dress patterns. On the way

out, I picked up a zucchini and a butternut squash.

Total spent: $11.25

Am I Allowed to Say That?

Less notable daycare moments:

"I know for sure that you are NOT hungry. There isn't a single good reason for you to pick your nose, then eat it. Any more than you would want to lick your own bum. Dirty. Very dirty."

Manual, Anyone?

Being a self-professed scrounger/thrift shop goddess, I am accustomed to things coming my way sans manual or instruction sheet. Even when things come from a real retail store, and you don't actually get around to reading the enclosed booklet, its still reassuring to know that you have it.

Not so with offspring.

I was reading Heather's post this morning, and nodding my head vigorously. ("fumbling for words", friggin hyperlink won't cooperate) We make zillions of decisions daily affecting our childrens' present and future. Should we work more hours so they can have some half decent clothes and take a few lessons? or does that mean we've bought into a Western notion of child rearing, and we're totally missing the point? Should I insist that the children eat what I cook, or focus on making meal times pleasant and turn a blind eye about fifty five times a day? Will they grow up unhealthy? But if I turn it into a power struggle will they grow up to be neurotic, hating their bodies, obsessing about their sizes?

Children do not come with instructions. Complicate that with the fact that no matter how many times you procreate, every single child will break the previous mold. What "works" for one may be damaging to the other. Complicate it further with the fact that no matter how "grown up" we mommies and daddies appear, we are all still growing. We don't hold all the answers. We make mistakes. Every. day.

I started apologizing to my firstborn when she was a wee babe in the crib. I knew enough to recognize that humility would be a key ingredient. Still, I've been at it for over 12 years now, and I can't tell you how many times I've shouted out--

"Isn't it about time for a mid-term exam or an evaluation, or SOMETHING?!"
Its at this point that my brother-in-law calmly advises me to simply put an extra $100.00 in the kids therapy fund. This only exacerbates the angst. FUNDS? Holy macaroli! Another area of FAILURE!

If you are hoping I am going to wrap this up with some really touchy feely advice about living in the moment, just doing your best, or my favourite: "Just ENJOY them, they grow up so FAST"! I'm sorry that I will have to disappoint you. Sure they grow up fast. That's the point, isn't it? By the time I figure out a few things about parenting, they'll be horizontal on the proverbial couch of overpriced counsel.

Yup, I've had lots of experience with missing manuals. With the bread machine, I did my best guessing with flour and yeast,a bit of hydro and a splash of milk. Even the cats looked frightened. After dark I reluctantly slunk back to the charity shop (that's what they call it in the UK, and I just think its adorable, so humour me) and dumped the instruction-free thing back into the donation box.

I've tried it with the kids, but they keep following me home.

Who Wouldn't Be Thankful?!

A whole extra day without daycare, two out of four kids off at the lake with their aunties, and time enough to sew!

This time, I made the bag backpack size- good for school kids, or adults like me who like to have a whole closet full of bag choices.



I hadn't gotten around to buying a turkey in time for thanksgiving, but when a friend stopped by and smelled my borscht simmering on the stove, she agreed to a turkey for soup swap.
We pulled off this colourful, delicious dinner with minimal effort.

I'd like to do Thanksgiving weekend all over again, starting right now.
Siiiiigh......

The aunties: Chapter one

It was Anne Lammott who named her thighs "the aunties" when she grew weary of trying to change them. This more affectionate, gracious approach struck a chord with me, since I confess I have openly and secretly hated my thighs for way too long.

It doesn't take a whole lot of expensive therapy to figure out how we get ourselves into these culturally condoned relationships of hatred. The economy must remain viable. The magazines must sell. Every month, we want new ideas on how to pummel our bodies to better suit our impossible standards.

I'd like to change.

The truth is, its not easy. My mother hated her body. Her sisters hated theirs. I grew up learning about the value of loving your neighbor, loving your enemies, loving God. But, somehow, it was okay to hate yourself?

My fragmented, and often diametrically opposed trains of thought often collide or hold shouting matches inside my aching head. I believe that our bodies hold wisdom. That if we never read stupid articles about what to feed them, or how much, and just listened, recognized, and acknowledged our sensations, we would know how to take care of ourselves-- ALL BY OURSELVES!

But: I live in fear of becoming potluck lady.

I want to think of my body as more of a vessel, and less of a symbol.

I must tread gently. The aunties, and the colliding trains of thought upstairs, are all sending me signals that perhaps I have exposed enough of them for now. I must care for this complex vessel, learn to listen to its subtlties more closely, learn to treat my aunties with the respect that they deserve.

The aunties

The following post must be at least partially credited to Linda.

I have written many a post listing the accolades of more than one of my family members. It seems fair that I should "thin my skin" a little and introduce you to the seamier underbelly of my counterparts. Allow me to introduce: The Aunties.

The aunties are an integral part of the family. Without them, much doing would go undone, many scenes would go unseen, things would seem undeniably lop-sided. But they are that high maintenance, embarrassing, omni-present type of relative. Over time, they have been hated, cried over, abused, scrutinized, and under-valued. I have tried to change them. There were periods of time when I really believed that I had them under control. But as anyone with control issues can testify, there comes a day when you are brought to your knees and you recognize the need for genuine acceptance if you really want to live in peace and harmony.

I won't make any promises that I can't keep, but I intend to make peace with the aunties. I intend to practise what I preach about the futility of judgementalism, the healing powers of love, the decision to live fully, regardless of the fragmental, imperfect condition of living human.

This may just stretch me in entirely new ways.
Consider yourselves my partners in accountability.
Think of the aunties, and wish me God speed.

Pie Songs

Cherrypie is a sweet slice of humanity. She has tagged me to list the top 10 songs that mean something to me.

Now, I confess that this was intimidating to me. Not because I don't love music. Not because there aren't at least ten that have meaning for me. But because in typical, overanalytical, introspective, neurotic fashion, I feared what this might reveal about me.

Then I remembered: I WRITE A BLOG! ON THE INTERNET! That doesn't exactly fit the profile of a woman who values her privacy. So, bring it on, Miss Pie. However, there is nothing tidy or chronological about Mrs Blunderview, and so consider this your warning.

I grew up Mennonite. For those readers outside of the Bible belt, WE ARE NOT AMISH! We had electronics (You know, the 8 track...), we had vehicles, electricity, flush toilets, and wore relatively normal clothing. But, we were conservative, we valued family, hard work, the laws and suggestions of the Bible, quiet living. There wasn't a lot of loud music being pumped through our farm house, and if I listened to rock 'n roll, I did so very quietly, very furtively, and could rarely make out the words in the songs. Still, music was huge in our lives.

My sister was an achiever, and she took piano lessons for many years. After school, she would practise scales and complicated pieces for many hours, sometimes till she cried and felt compelled to kick at inanimate objects. I can still hear her piano playing in my memory and I can feel all my nerves and tendons cheering her on as she attempted to perfect a particularily difficult run. Many times, she would play hymns and we would sing together- she got harmony and I would sing tenor or alto and when we thought it was really something, we would perform at church on sunday morning. (The infamous "Special Number").

My brothers played guitar. When Al decided to teach himself, he would play until his fingers bled. When Ken picked it up, he played Whoa, black Betty bam-a-lam until our ears bled. Ken always got away with way more worldliness than the rest of us.....

When I was about 22, I was bored of my job as a medical receptionist and decided to move to Wichita Kansas to work for a non-profit housing company through MDS. (How stupid was that?!) The only things that got me through that blotch on my life were dating a bonehead from my team, and because that really only made things much, much worse for me, I lived for evening when I could listen to James Taylor on my walkman, alone in my ugly bedroom. Especially: "Damn, that traffic jam, how I hate to be late, by the time I get home, my supper be cold......damn, that traffic jam." It was probably just cathartic to listen to someone use a bad word...

When I was dating Brian, he wrote me a song for my birthday. It was pretty cute.
He is a very persuasive person, and a couple of times now in the past 16 years, he has convinced me to sing with him. Now, Brian is a very talented musician, which only enunciates the truth that I am not. Still, we sang at our wedding, then at my friend Danielle's wedding, then again at last year's Christmas Eve service. I love the sound of Brian's voice, singing, or not. Mine-- Not so much.

I once bought Brian and I tickets to go see Le Miserable. I love that story. I listened to that soundtrack ad nauseum.

Years later, I surprised Brian with tickets for Holly Cole. I felt a little threatened by her. She was thinner than me, and sang a whole lot better, and I had a sinus infection. I never took Brian to see Holly Cole again.

We love to go to the Winnipeg Folk Festival. Brian gets lost in the beauty of the sounds. I get lost in the crowds of people, drinking in their diversity, and enjoying the atmosphere of the park in the summer, with constant and varied music always in the background. It feeds my creative spirit, and I always resolve to make enough time one day to sell my handicrafts in the handmade village, and to revisit my dream of becoming a hippie when all the kids have grown up and are living comfortably in bungaloes with 2.5 children.

These days, one of the sanest, most meaningful, personal, and spiritual moments that I live during the week is worship music at my church on Sunday mornings. I go alone. Something deep inside is broken each time, and I drink in something pure, something holy, something indescribable. I receive hope. I see beauty in life's brokenness. I sing with my entire body-- my heart, soul, mind, sinew--- everything.

And God knows, I don't care if I sing well or not.
God knows: for once, its not about me.

That may or may not have been 10. I'm an artist, not a mathematician.
Thanks Cherry pie. I don't even feel the darkness so far today, you've given me oppurtunity to be grateful for SO MUCH.

Pawing Feebly In the General Direction of the Dark

Last night I had support group.
Actually, I met two sisters at the mall food court - we laughed, we cried, we ate, we counselled. Its cheaper than a real therapist, plus one can scoot over to Wal-Mart on the way out for milk and granola bars, fabric for Arianna's home ec, and a couple of bags of candy for my mindful eating program.
I talked my sisters out of a pricier Italian restaurant in favour of the food court since what I really wanted to do was watch people. I know I have stooped to a new low when I make a point of finding people who clearly are much worse off than me. And that's where I spawned my highly cynical, super sarcastic list of gratitudes:

My breasts are saggy, but comfortably within the "c" range. If I had to haul around pendulous appendages in the double "z" zone, optimism would seem a lofty goal. So would the hopes of my back ever feeling aligned.

I'm not exactly a trend-setter, but at least I've glanced around since 1981, and I don't sport a MULLET!! Maybe, I'm just not self-confident enough. Either way, I'm good with it.

My husband does not think of track pants as formal wear. Or casual wear. Or as something that goes with a mullet.

I was genuinely, un-sarcastically touched and encouraged by the food court cleaning ladies. They weren't pretty, or well-dressed, and I'm sure they worked very hard for very little financial return. The one lady was decidedly warty. Still, she came by our table (we stayed for hours, there didn't seem to be a "no loitering" by-law... ) and with the most pleasant smile and graciousness that would lend itself well to a better paying establishment, offered to clear our trays for us.

She didn't have to do that.
She could have been a grouch, and to be honest, I would have expected that from her. Whether she had decided to or not, this lady was doing the ordinary in extraordinary ways.

And that, folks, is some of what I learned at the food court yesterday.
Stay tuned. By late this afternoon, or tomorrow, I may be simply be reduced to reminiscing about the days when I kicked at the darkness. Kicking right now sounds way too closely related to another thing I suck at : consistent exercise.

Kicking at the Darkness

Every day, I can feel this dark cloud creeping up behind me. I already decided that I don't want to turn this trial into another one of those body image problems where I channel all my uncertainty, depression, and other messy emotions into the singular goal of shrinking my body. So, without that to focus on, I find myself dealing with: boredom, restlessness, anxiety, fear, self doubt, sadness, guilt......
Every day it feels like I need to make a decision all over again. Give in to the emotions that tell me to hide away,
that tell me its hopeless,
that tell me I"M hopeless, OR: kick at the darkness. Here is how I thrashed yesterday.
I took the kids out for a walk in the unbelievably gorgeous autumn weather. Then we came home and made ma and pa leaf people. They are ideal relatives. So unintrusive. They seem to get along with just about everyone, and they always have these smiles plastered on their faces. If I didn't like them so much, I'd swear it was an act...

Today, after chewing my cuticles down to bloody pulps, eating pink wafer cookies that I don't really like, a handful of stale pretzels, and consuming nothing less than six cups of coffee with cream......

I sewed this bag.
There is nothing simple about the complexity of human emotion.

Maybe tomorrow I'll dig an in-ground pool.

Secondhand Smoke

Once upon a time, smoking was a sign of sophistication. Important decisions were made through a haze of grey in the boardroom. Classy restaurants, coffee shops, public transportation, even elementary education staff rooms were places to light up in. Mothers gathered in each others kitchens to encourage one another and enjoy their coffee with a smoke. Indoors.

Now, smoking has got a really bad reputation. And for good reason. We've all heard the sad stories about non-smoking waitresses dying of lung cancer, babies with asthma, and people dying of emphysema. We've come to accept the negative image associated with smoking-- poor health, smokey clothes, people shivering outside , 12 feet from the exit.... OUTCASTS!

Here's the thing though- the associations I have built around smoking don't tidily fit the I-live-for-bingo-and-I-don't-bath type of mentality. Some of the big players in my life are smart, educated, wise people who.... --GASP-- SMOKE!!

When I was a little girl, my big brother Wally smoked menthols. He was my daddy in many ways. It was always him who drove me to and from events, took me sledding at the ski run, took me to the beach in the summer, and then bought me a pizza pop and ice cream on the way home in his 70's velveteen van. I always felt safe and loved, roaring around in that ugly van and enjoying the smell of Wally's menthol in the air.

In my adult years, one of my favorite friends enjoyed every cigarette she furtively smoked as though it were her last. She respectfully hid this from her children, but when they were in bed, we would chat over the fence and I would soak in her wisdom. Lory thought out of the box. She was unconventional, gracious, brilliant, creative.

In the summers at the cottage, I enjoy watching and learning from Al as he packs and savours his summer pipe. I don't mean I learn how to pack a pipe- I mean I have enjoyed getting to know him, glean from his wisdom, watch him mellow with the years, and watch his intellect morph into something messier, something more grey than the textbooks ever taught him.

Recently, many bridges have been built with smoke. Without a bonfire to gather around, we would wheel Ken's wheelchair outside of the hospital, and although he had kicked the habit, we would light one up for him for old times sake. I wept with Ken's friends under a pergola rich with cigarette smoke. Al and I ran funeral errands in the comfortable presence of Du'Maurier.

The short answer, the tidy one, is that smoking is evil.
That nothing good could come of it.

But there's not much room for the hazy shades of grey in that.

Hi, I'm Joyce, and I..........

I have a confession to make. Its time to stop hiding the truth, and to just come clean.
I may come across as this nice, clean, well-meaning, small-town, girl-next-door type BUT I am an ADDICT! I routinely torture myself with resolutions to STOP! To think of my children! To set my thoughts and goals on higher places! To recognize the problem, and thereby to take the first step to healing and wholeness.

Ready??
I AM A COMPULSIVE HUNTER AND I DON'T REALLY BELIEVE THAT I WILL EVER GET WELL!!
oh, it starts out innocently enough with a little thought, or a good intention. (hmmm, I should slip by the thrift shop, see if they have any jars for my compulsive-salsa-canning disorder; or hmmm wonder if anyone has donated their excess garden zucchini so I can make some of that fabulous tomato and zucchini soup).
Well, like any gripping disorder, I rearrange my entire existance to fit in that trip down cast-off aisle. I peruse for old quilts, trampling hunched and grey haired volunteers in my wake. Like a greedy raccoon gone wild, I sniff and scavenge for vintage buttons, lustre ware plates, coloured bits of glass, or Christmas decor from the 50's or earlier. All my good intentions wash out of me as I barge through the doors, nose to the air, sniffing out those good finds with my killer cheapskate instincts.

At home, I lay out my spoils and secretly feel grateful that all the other collectors were responsibly staying at home that day, lovingly putting together alphabet puzzles with their well-scrubbed offspring. I carress my prized possessions, lean back in my chair grinning like the cat who snagged the bird.

Then the guilt settles on me like a dark cloak of condemnation.

HOW SOON BEFORE THE AUTHORITIES DISCOVER YOU? YOU'RE PROBABLY A FIRE HAZARD WITH ALL THAT OLD STUFF GATHERING DUST ALL AROUND YOU! YOU'RE SO ADDICTED TO FINDING OLD STUFF THAT YOU DON'T EVEN DUST YOUR HOUSE! WHAT KIND OF PERSON ARE YOU?! YOU'RE ONE OF THOSE FREAKS WHO TAKES IN ALL THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS AND KIDS AND LETS THEM PISS ON YOUR COUCH AND EAT RAW MACARONI WHILE YOU ALL LOLL ABOUT ON OLD QUILTS WATCHING OLD MOVIES AND GNAWING ON DAY OLD DONUTS!

(wonder what I'll find tomorrow?)

Pay it Forward

I have been humbled but giddy like a school girl at all the gifts of love that have made their way onto my kitchen counter in the past weeks. I am right now being soothed by a cd of beautiful songs that Ruth (its true, sighed roo) just brought over. Not only are the sounds good, so are the smells of the nummiest looking cinnamon buns and a casserole for dinner that I didn't have to cook.

I really have NOT cooked since Ken died last Wednesday. Meals have arrived via neighbors, friends, and church folk. If that wasn't enough to make me wonder if I was coming across as entirely too needy... on Sunday after church, there were two BOXES of food at the exit that had our name on it.
"People just want to help" is all I heard.

Brian's family, living a bit of distance away, pooled together to send us a beautiful floral arrangement, and a basket full of fruit, nummies, and chocolate. I say one can never be too sad to eat chocolate.....

A new daycare family that have been cancelled more than once in Ken's last days brought me a huge basket of food, a lasagna, and a garlic bread. Talk about humbling. Am I this nice when other people are going through bad times? I don't think I've been in tune with people in grief before. I hope I learn my lesson by watching how well others have loved us in such practical ways.

I hope to pay it forward.
I hope I notice when people could use a hand up. Even if its nothing as obvious as a death. People live chronically with all sorts of pains in their hearts and
maybe a casserole and some flowers would help to prop them up.

Normal? HAH!!

Today it was back to "normal".
Everyone was headed back to somewhere- even the birds seemed more determined to get on with their lives. They busied themselves with flying south while my sister and brother also took flight - returning to jobs and family and the normalcy of routines. I resumed daycare duties, Brian returned to the classroom, and the kids headed off to school. Cocooned in my cozy little house, the hours slipped by uneventfully. I'm completely sure that events occured, but I rarely attempt to listen to the news over the sounds of "spongebob squarepants" on the leap pad.

Yesterday, the kids came home with a notice from the school office, alerting parents to the presence of lice in some unfortunate kids head. I dutifully did the checks, all the while thinking that if I had to go through that stupid crisis again, I'd likely burn the house down. Everyone came out clean, so I resumed my assumption that life would get boring and regular again. What a relief that would be, I thought, it might be nice to have a regular heart rate for a while.

But by some crazy, sadistic twist of the humour molecules in the atmosphere, there was another note brought home from elementary school this afternoon. It wasn't meant to be funny, and its really NOT, but the possibilities of DEATH, FEAR , and living with UNCERTAINTY throughout the mundane tasks of every day living just kind of struck me as ironic and funny.

All right, so its just some crazy ex-Niverville murderer. And all this time, I was worried about cancer.

Isn't that kind of funny? Or is it just high time that I got committed?

L'chayim (to life)

How much loving have you done?
How full and free your giving?
For living is but loving
And loving only giving.
(GD Johnson)

I suspect that some relatives may have left Ken's funeral a little disappointed at its lack of ritualized morbidity. But those of us who knew Ken at all, recognized that he would want the last laugh, and so through the solemnity and grief of our farewells, we celebrated. There was a party to be had.

Still, there is nothing light hearted about such a loss-- and in the living, the loving, and the dying, there was much provocative thought spawned. Who are we really but who we love? And those who love us in return? And in that rhythm, no lack is found. The wealth in caring always warms us, and opens our eyes to the hurt in others. Our loss can not be recovered. Still, we huddle, and strength is found in widening our circle to embrace every person who Ken loved.

Ken's memorium read:

Do the ordinary in extraordinary ways,
Do the extraordinary in ordinary ways.

Let this be my shrine for Ken.
May I not busy myself caring for my children to such a frenzy that I do so without CARE.
May I go about my employment as the means to living my life with fullness of giving and not to fuel the desire to GET.
May I eat to live and never LIVE to EAT.
May I be willing to stand alone.
May I not strive to make myself small and powerless.
May life and love have the last laugh, and may we have God's power in us to kick at death and darkness and wherever we go, to leave that place a little brighter.

I am reminded again of Nelson Mandela's powerful speech, and because he says it so well, I will conclude in his words, and not my own.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

INAPPROPRIATE & IRREVERANT Quotes

Warning to all people I love and respect: the Kehler mutated gene makes one susceptable to dark, caustic humour. If you are offended by it, my name is Joyce Hildebrand. If it makes you giggle; my name is Joyce KEHLER Hildebrand.

1) Mother, age 80:
"Cremation? Oh, the idea of that doesn't bother me at all. Its MUCH better than being
BURIED ALIVE!"

2) eldest brother Al:
(in reference to people trying much too desparately to say "the right thing").
"Oh, I am allergic to all things CLICHE".

3) annonymous:
(regarding a bench made from the remnants of Ken's wheelchair ramp)
"Hey! If we sprinkle some of "Ken" on here, then I could park my ASS on his ASH!"

Funeral Details

The celebration of Ken's life will be held on Tuesday, September 26 11:00 am at First Mennonite Church, Notre Dame and Arlington in Winnipeg. For anyone who may have read the Wpg Free Press obituaries, you may be under the impression that the service is not open to the public. This is definately not the case. Everyone is welcome, and we look forward to meeting Ken's many, many friends.

Thank you, Shelli

I'm glad I don't have to do this alone.

This morning when a little dandruff was tickling my scalp, I was reminded of my friend Shelli. That doesn't sound flattering, but allow me to ellaborate. It was Shelli who confirmed my icky fears last December when the lice invaded. She hung around, picking for nits, and when desparation descended it was Shelli who delivered clippers for the great lice eviction.

On Friday morning (Ken's readmission), it was Shelli (and Esther :) that I scooped off the street to rush over to my house and run the circus. They watched and fed the kids. They finished my four zucchini nut loaves, they even canned my infamous salsa!

Tuesday morning, all I squeezed out of my twisted face over the phone was-- "Shelli- I CAN'T DO THIS!". She came right over.

She was there when I got the phone call.

Shelli knows what its like to lose a brother. She knows that a person continues to eat, to laugh, to cry.

She knows how to say "yes" and be Jesus with skin on.

* just a note: there are many others who loved extravagantly. But today, its Shelli's turn.

Something Good

Today is my brother Al's birthday.
He was the first child born to my parents, and it would be 16 years before the eighth and last child, (me) was born. Suffice to say, we grew up in different families. Still, because life can be a ridiculous sandwhich of the unexpected, His children and mine were born within years of each other.

Al and his family live in Uganda so cousin times are crammed into trips to the cottage in Ontario where they live for 6 weeks in the summer. It is through these cabin times that Al has become my friend.

Al is intelligent, skilled in the administrative, personable, and kind. He is insightful, sensitive, caring, and comfortable with vulnerability. He knows the love of God, and is in tune with His "still small voice". He has cultivated humility. Al acknowledges ugliness and injustice, and has seen and known both intimately, but he insists on the eternal goodness of God.

Over the past number of months, Al's presence has been invaluable. Ken found great comfort in his presence, as did our parents. Al has been able to use his skills amongst the living and the dying to be instrumental in working out details of a senstive nature. He has reconciled administration with humanity-- sensibility with sensitivity.

I'm glad to call Al my brother and friend.
Happy Birthday!

We celebrate LIFE.

Ken Kehler

June 27, 1963 - September 20, 2006

May he dance with Joy.

September 19, 2006

Cholangio Carcinoma
Ascites
Jaundice
Dementia
Words- just words.

All around, the scenery has shifted.
A cold wind has blown in.
All the colours have changed now.
Winter will come soon with her killing frost.

Old men shake and tremor.
Toddlers kiss and cuddle.

There are no words.

***

Dad is 84. He has seen the better part of all his friends die. Some whose minds had died years before. He trembles now, over his young son, dying in a body aged eons beyond his calendar years. A son whose mind has betrayed him.

All those years I worked in nursing homes. I used to imagine having to care for my father that way-- guiding the urinal, rubbing his boney back. Never once could I have known how cruel life would be to a brother four years my senior.

My dad looks young to me now.
Looks like he could live forever.
And that makes this cruelty ever more austere.

Family Hotel Weekend

It's true that we didn't know what to expect this weekend. And still, it didn't go the way we thought. On Friday, instead of checking Ken into the hotel at 3:00 pm, we instead admitted him back into HSC. To honour him and his daughters, we went ahead with the hotel idea, needing to spend time in one anothers company in any case. That was healing - just being together, sharing information,some tears, snippets of conversation, food, and quite a few laughs.

Ken's symptoms now indicate liver failure, to the point of forgetfulness and disorientation. His colour is remarkably yellow. I found my mischevious mind particles wondering what eloquent name Martha Stewart would come up with for such a colour-- Autumnal Pumpkin? Ill-beyond-belief-palour? It gave me pleasure to know that if Ken were quite himself, he would find humour in such irreverence. But, as it was, the mere act of opening his eyes and whispering a few words exhausted him.

Amongst the living and the dying, there was one unifying theme: Love. And I saw many elements of how Jesus himself described love:

Love never gives up.

Love cares more for others than for self.

Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.

Love doesn't strut,

Doesn't have a swelled head,

Doesn't force itself on others,

Isn't always "me first,"

Doesn't fly off the handle,

Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,

Doesn't revel when others grovel,

Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,

Puts up with anything,

Trusts God always,

Always looks for the best,

Never looks back,

But keeps going to the end.

Love never dies.

Let's Just Clarify

Comments usually stay in their designated area, but not today.

Laura said...
If you were not already my sister, I'd probably be too in awe of you to think we could relate on the same level. I often think of people as stained glass masterpieces that come to life when the light of God shines thru them. I have seen so many masterpieces lately, including you.

************************************

Is Laura being extra nice, because I keep puking up my heart and watching it splatter against my computer screen? This comment is so kind.

Am I a walking contradiction? Or do "masterpieces" typically present bodily as F-U-B-A-R? (f*ed-up-beyond-all-repair) I am terrible to be with. I am irritable. I throw fits. I fight the urge to do something crazy enough to land me on the Dr Phil show. I barely speak to my husband. And the bit about God shining through? Gee, I like that. But that would be entirely his doing. Any preparation that I haven't done up to this point is obvious. I'm not one of those shiney people who can tell what scripture has held me up through all this. Again, I'd have to say that maybe God stuck that Healing Rain song in my head, because its there all the time, and it comforts me and I don't own that cd. I had to google for the lyrics. What about the song that came to me yesterday after I saw Ken for the first time in 10 days? That song was "Jesus loves the little children" Not because when we are dying we are symbolically childlike, and become aware of him as our heavenly father, and how our childlike faith is honoured.

No.
It's the line... "red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight". What ridiculous lyrics. I used to think-- who has ever seen a red kid on the playground?!

But yesterday, I saw a yellow man.

I like comments. No, I love comments. I like encouragement too. I like to hear that people offer up prayers. I like to know that others can relate. I love to write. I love to have an audience that aren't necessarily hungry or need a bathroom. I mean everything that I write.
I believe imperically in lots of sensible and wise things. I make an effort to live with authenticity.

But guys-- I just don't know if I'm as swell as I'd wish to be.

The Weekend

Check-in: 3:00 pm, Winnipeg Victoria Inn.
Agenda: Be a family.

Re-Admission: 12:15 pm, Health Sciences Centre.
Agenda: Whose should I speak of?

9:11 am

Four zucchini nut loaves in the oven.
One pot of salsa simmering on the stove.
Three kids taking turns down the slide.

I'm off to a good start. Will continue to work at break neck speed until 3:00 pm this afternoon, at which time I hope to be of some use to the one whose illness gives me nearly unlimited nervous energy.

Since my infancy, my family has celebrated Thanksgiving by renting cabins at Clear Lake, MB. Its a beautiful tradition. This year, no one much feels right about heading that way, and at Ken's suggestion, we will instead be renting rooms in a local hotel just so we can spend a little time together.

I pray God's blessing on this weekend. Humanly, I feel frightened. Emotions are riding high- there is potential for some healing, but there is fear of causing more pain.

God- I ask your blessing on our weekend. Infuse us with the gift of being selfless, of always seeing anothers' perspective before our own. Allow us the grace to use both ears and both eyes to their potential, and our lips with reverence and discretion. Bless us with Joy amidst agony.

You are our father. You love us, and your vision is limitless. Ours is short-sighted, and so I choose to trust your perspective over my own. Bless my earthly mother and father. Give them oppurtunity to weep openly with their precious son. Cover them with your healing rain.

Healing rain, I'm not afraid to be washed in Heaven's rain.
(Michael Smith)

I am stalked by death.
She sneaks up behind me and whispers cold truths.

I am a machine. I cook and bake and can and clean and store up for living after the frost.

I am constantly preparing for the shift in seasons.

I am unprepared.

So, I move, frantically, helplessly.

I am a machine.

Something In Between

Lest I frighten away my readership with melancholy attempts at expression, allow me to present "something in between": A post designed not to make you laugh, nor make you want to slash away at your jugular with a dull paring knife.

Allow me to be comfortably mediocre.Words that make my heart take flight: Community Yard Sale.
The day couldn't have been more perfectly autumn, with a strong flavour of residual summer.
I wound my bike round and round town and came home with: 6 cookies (fundraiser to send a youth of YWAM), a piece of green fabric, three t-shirts and a pair of pants for the kids.

I also came home with a light spirit-- I wasn't out for the bargains, really. I was out for the interaction. I came home with a heart full of love for people in my community who know how to live with love in their actions. Sunday morning, I made it through an entire church service without bawling. I know its because for the first time ever, I remembered to pack some kleenex in my handbag. Next Sunday I'm likely to remember to wear mascara, and forget the tissue, then wipe my nose and drip black smudges on some poor soul to my left.

Sunday afternooon we had an outdoor picnic and enjoyed a stream of people coming and going, munching on my fresh salsa and soaking up the generous sun.

Soon, winter will be upon us. This pretty patch of rhubarb will be four feet under, and it will seem unbelievable that kids would voluntarily throw water balloons at one another in this very same spot.

Now, I hope you feel sufficiently neither emotionally hot nor cold.

And I hope I get through the day without throwing my snotty self against some unsuspecting victem who dares to show me some care or compassion.

LIFE Casserole

The following is (at least for me) a brand new recipe, but its not a family secret.

Mix together:
*essence of death
*the smell of fear
*2-3 dashes of anger

Add to one failing liver and allow to simmer on low heat for an undetermined amount of time.
Add chunks of:
*homework that drives a child to tears
*dialogue lost in translation
*large bills, when in season.

For seasonings, toss in grass clippings and recycling, tears of grandparents and children, sibling rivalry,transmissions and wheel bearings, prayers and hymns, and a generous portion of irritability.
For a more pungeunt flavour, blend with bottled pain and/or resentment and home-grown personal truths, numbering in the tens or hundreds.

Stew all ingredients.
Add more to taste.
Keep stirring the pot.







*******I am soooooooooooooooo not a good cook. No matter how many times I try to stir nicely, there's always slop slopping off the sides. Its a mess.

Reflections

I had reason to flip through some old photo albums this afternoon, and have the oppurtunity to pause and reflect back on the past 20 or so years of my life.

That's about how long I've been trying to be an adult now. Thus far, I must say, the pictures confirmed what I've suspected all along: its been a good life. Not every picture was necessarily a party, or a really rib-tickler, but most of them have precious and unique life seasons associated with them.

The early pictures of me and Brian freely reflect the silly, free-spirited love we have always enjoyed. Not to pretend that every moment of our time together in the last 16 years has been sheer bliss, but there's no denying it-- HANGING ONTO HIM WAS A GOOD DECISION!

By the end of my short time of reminiscance this afternoon, there were two distinct photo categories: ones that reflected good choices, or had some redeeming value, and secondly, those which made me smack myself in the head and wish I could redeem time, and go back to think with the correct end of my anatomy.

This is where I like being almost forty.

I'm not delusional enough to pretend I've never done foolish things, but I am smart enough to decide not to celebrate them, not to give them a permanent spot in my psyche, or even just on my bookshelf.I took those stupid pictures, which made me feel like a stupid girl, and I threw them in the stupid garbage. It gave me a great, cathartic burst of pleasure to hurl an entire album into the trash.

And now I'm holding onto the good.

Laura

Once upon a time, there was a large family. Five daughters were born, and because mommy was quite busy feeding, clothing, and giving birth, these five learned to depend upon each other quite a lot. By the time the littlest was born, the eldest was right fed up with mommy bringing home smelly, noisey, squishy surprises, so as soon as she turned 18 , it was time to seek greener, quieter pastures. Unbeknownst to either one, these two sisters were actually very much alike, and many years and many miles between them later, they would discover with joy that they shared so much more than their biological beginnings.
This is my sister Laura. She is very special to me, and if we didn't live 15 hours apart, I would be on my way to her house right now- to share a pot of coffee, drool over her latest, ingenious quilting project, laugh at the threads inground in her carpet, and last years Christmas cards still on her piano. After the coffee had grown cold, and half a bottle of really bad, overly sweet wine was gone, we would begin to philosophize. We would laugh at the irony of turning out very much alike, although having spent most of our lives away from one another. We would pore over magazines and books about fabrics and quilting designs. Laura would get excited about buying some high tech equipment to launch her craft to a whole new level, while I would imagine thrift shopping at bag sale day to get a bunch of old aprons and dresses to repurpose into a nifty neato something-or-other.

Most of all, we would laugh.

A month ago, when Laura flew out to spend some time with our brother, we had the privelege of spending an unusual amount of time together. One night, we decided to spend the night at the hospital, sharing the dark with Ken. First we needed to make a few stops. Laura managed to spend $45.00 on snacks and a bottle of really bad wine for us to share as we wiled away the nighttime hours. She spared no expense-- even purchasing two pretty plastic goblets so that we could enjoy our beverage with some class. We giggled and whispered and slurped and smacked until Ken's roommate politely informed us that he couldn't sleep to our accompanyment. We then politely reduced our rustling to a bare minumum.

Laura is one of the most fascinating, loveliest, gracious people in the world....and one of the goofiest. She knows how to buy in bulk. She knows how to laugh at herself. She knows how to be honest- with herself, and with others. She knows how to enjoy a good book. (even if it means staying up til four a.m. and being a yawning sack of uselessness the next day) . She knows how to enjoy a good speed boat ride. She has known hardship and heartache. She has given when there was nothing left to give. She has loved without being loved in return.

Laura- May the Lord bless and keep you. May the Lord lift his countenance to you, and give you peace.

I love you.

Arianna Faye Kehler Hildebrand

Tomorrow is the first day of the new school year. It's been quite a summer of changes, and we're not through yet. Tomorrow,my firstborn is going to junior high, and it'll be another season of new beginnings. She's baby-sitting age now, and a second mommy to her little brother. But to me, It seems a lifetime ago, and just yesterday that "monkey" was her constant companion, and I still got to choose her clothes every morning.

You were the start of it all for your dad and me-- you launched us from him and me, to....... "US". We became a family. You were/are my pride and joy. I couldn't believe that you were my little girl! I so hoped for my first to be a baby girl, that I decided it was impossible, and fell in love with a boy named Graeme instead. When you were finally born, I nearly asked the Doctor to check again! When Auntie Carol came to the hospital to meet you and saw you sleeping in the bassinet (I swear the first and last time that you slept, until you were four or five.....) She insisted that you were indeed a BOY!! We had to undress you, and then there was no getting around it! God gave me a girl? I just couldn't believe it, I was over the moon with joy!
Arianna.
You have become a lovely young woman, despite the fact that you have human beings for parents. I can't wait to see you join sports teams, enjoy your friends, and make excellent choices in your current reality as Junior High School student.

I love you , kid.
xo Mom

What Not to Do

Do not forget to refill a very important prescription on the Friday of a long weekend. Especially one which within seven hours of a missed dose demonstrates itself in nasty side-effects. Do not then work two consecutive night shifts with broken and insufficient jags of sleep. After the second such a night, do not come home, intend on going straight to bed but instead begin to CAN SALSA.

Do NOT drink coffee, eat muffins and cheddar cheese, fresh pickles from grandma, a chocolate chip cookie, and a few tastes of fresh salsa while canning and feeling your head float several feet above your shoulders. And all this before 10:00 am.

I repeat. If you want to be well, DO NOT do as I do.

Beauty from Ashes

Grieving the impending death of a brother has had dimensions that I was unprepared for. We've probably all read the "stages of grieving" and other insightful reads on what to expect when facing loss. Those are not the sorts of things that I am attempting to express here.

What has surprised and sometimes shamed me has been the rising up of some less evolved "inner child" in me. I first noticed it in photos that were being taken as people gathered in support of Ken. I observed that I tended to place myself in the rear of the group, even hanging back a step or two from the others, appearing peripheral and secondary-- as though I expected at any moment to be asked to "sit this one out".

I managed to laugh out loud at myself the day Ken's professional legal colleagues congregated outside of the hospital room. We'd never had reason to meet before, and though I was sincerely interested in meeting his friends, I once again felt myself hanging back and waiting for someone else to take the initiative. The exchange went sort of as follows: (well, its actually ridiculously paraphrased, to reflect the dysfunctional inner workings of my mind).

Lawyer guy: "Hi, I'm Ken's friend Mr so-and-so. This is my lawyer wife. She's as brilliant as she is physically beautiful and we just flew in from Ottawa, between extremely pressing and important meetings to spend some time with your brother."

My brother (not the sick one): "It's nice to meet you. I'm Ken's brother, and I just flew in yesterday from Central Africa. I'm smart, well-read, but also sensitive and kind. Most of the time I solve problems for the U.N., but I'm not just booky and beurocratic. I'm also a really great guy, and I have a close relationship with my sick brother. He needs me."

Joyce: "Hi. I'm a little girl in a woman's body. I've never known what I wanted to be if I grew up, so I'm mostly angst and I'd really feel better if you told me how much you like me, and how valid I am, even if I run a daycare in Niverville and don't even like flying".

(Okay, that was mostly just indulgent, please forgive me! But it was FUN and CATHARTIC to be irreverent and not so serious for a moment.)

Back to the point of being surprised about ugly lies and fears from the past who have also come around to visit at this time of meeting and gathering. I have done enough healing to know that I have a place on this earth, and that I don't need people to constantly remind me of my validity.

Still, I would be kidding myself to pretend that I don't appreciate validation and sincerity. I made a point of not actively seeking it out though, not wanting to feel selfish and narcissistic while the real issue is that of my brother falling terribly ill. This is not about me, I tell myself time and time again.

Which is why I wept all the harder when I met Ken's friends and found them to be among the loveliest, most authentic, and fun-loving bunch around. They were easy to like. They were the farthest from snobbish. They were unconcerned about titles and degrees and accomplishments. Meeting them has introduced me to a side of Ken that makes me sad I can't get to know him better, hang out with him and his friends, share more meals, more bottles of wine.

Which is why, upon receiving the following e-mail from a close friend of Ken's, I felt the tears of a small girl mix with those of an older, wiser, and stronger woman.

"Joyce, I am sorry that I have met you in this sad time, however I think I am going to take it as the good thing in all this "shit" because I find you quite an interesting, complicated, tormented, and beautiful woman. Your insight into your struggle and your comments that first day I met you when we talked about "body image" and our daughters, left me thinking for many days.

You are always welcome at my table. "

Unexpected pain. Unexpected pleasure.