Christmas in Darfur

In the last little while I have spent a lot of time researching Darfur for the purposes of a five minute blurb in church this evening. I thought I would test run it here.


In October of 2006, I came across a post linking to a CNN report on the crises in Darfur, Sudan. Reading about the horrific realities that our sisters survive prompted me and a number of other bloggers to plan a website dedicated to the support of these hungry and hurting people. While waiting for my partners, who are working on web design and fund-raising plans, I have begun a small project named: Bags for Darfur. These bags are made from reclaimed fabrics and are useful for book carrying, grocery shopping, making a fashion statement, or for carrying bags of money to donate to our cause.

I imagine that Christmas in Sudan will be much like any other day. For most, there will be nothing to look forward to.

Listen, as I share the stories of two Sudanese women who were brave enough to tell the truth of what life is like in Darfur.

“I am 16 years old. One day, in, I was collecting firewood for my family when three armed men on camels came and surrounded me. They hold me down, tied my hands and raped me one after the other. When I arrive home, I told my family what happened. They threw me out of home and I had to build my own hut away from them. I was engaged to a man and I was so much looking forward to getting married. After I got raped, he did not want to marry me and broke off the engagement because he said that I was now disgraced and spoilt. It is the worst thing for me.

…When I was eight months pregnant from the rape, the police came to my hut and forced me with their guns to go to the police station. They asked me questions, so I told them that I had been raped. They told me that as I was not married, I will deliver this baby illegally. They beat me with a whip on the chest and back and put me in jail. There were other women in jail, who had the same story. During the day, we had to walk to the well four times a day to get the policemen water, clean and cook for them. At night, I was in a small cell with 23 other women. I had no other food than what I could find during my work during the day. And the only water was what I drank at the well. I stayed 10 days in jail and now I still have to pay the fine, 20,000 Sudanese Dinars (65 USD) they asked me. My child is now 2 months old.” Woman, 16, February 2005, West Darfur.

Halima Bashir was born into the remote western deserts of Sudan. She grew up in a wonderfully rich environment and later went on to study medicine. At age twenty-four she returned to her tribe to begin practising as their first ever qualified doctor. But then a dark cloud descended upon her people...
Janjaweed Arab militias began savagely assaulting her people, invariably with the backing of the Sudan army and air force.
At first, Halima tried not to get involved. But in January 2004 they attacked her area, gang-raping 42 schoolgirls. Halima treated the traumatised victims and sickened by what she had seen, she decided to speak out in a Sudanese newspaper and to the UN charities.
Then the secret police came for her. For days Halima was interrogated, subjected to unspeakable torture and gang-raped.

Her crime was to tell people that a group of Janjaweed militia and Government soldiers had attacked the primary school for girls, raping pupils as young as 8. She paid a terrible personal price. "They were aged between 8 and 13," she said. "They were in shock, bleeding, screaming and crying. "It was horrific. Because I told people what happened, the authorities arrested me. "They said, 'We will show you what rape is'. "They beat me severely. At night, three men raped me. "The following day the same thing, different men. Torture and rape, every day, torture and rape." tens of thousands of women and girls have been subjected to rape and other extreme sexual violence since the crisis erupted in 2003. The Islamist Government in Khartoum has given the Janjaweed militia a free hand in putting down a rebellion by African tribes in the region, and there has not been a single conviction in Darfur for rape against displaced women and girls.

Please join me as I share with you :
Desmond Tutu’s Prayer for Darfur
“We pray for the people of Darfur who have been terrorised and forced from their homes; for those who have fled to refugee camps, and who still live in fear;
We pray for those who have died, and for their families;
We pray for the women in Darfur who face danger every day as they leave their camps for firewood – may You watch over Your daughters;
We pray for the children of Darfur, especially those who face a frightening world without one or both of their parents – may they be protected and comforted;
We pray for the safety of the humanitarian aid workers as they feed and care for the people of Darfur;
We pray for the safety of the African Union's Mission in Darfur as they work in difficult circumstances;
We pray for the safety of the United Nations' Peacekeepers when they begin their duties in Darfur;
We pray that the world's leaders will be guided by You in their quest for justice and safety for Darfur's people – may they be inspired by Your humanity;
Remind us that we are all Your children, and teach us to listen;
We pray that those who are causing death and misery in Darfur will turn away from racism and violence – may they be forgiven when they turn to You for guidance instead;
Teach us to rejoice in all the things we have in common and respect each others’ differences;
We pray that people everywhere will strive to live in peace, tolerance, and respect, no matter what their faith or race – may we gain the wisdom, grace, and generosity of spirit to overcome our differences and live as one.”

Thank you.

A God Thing

Something as irreverent as an Ugly Sweater Party brings me back to the same simple statement- It just had to be a God Thing.

There was a lot of neat stuff that transpired beween the knits and the purls. The schtick with the press was fabulous. These people blended right in, it was completely effortless. I learned a lot of interesting information from Sanderson, including the unbelievable fact that the Vancouvar chapter of Ugliness is H.U.G.E. We're talking Commodore Ballroom and a thousand attendees! I found a list of guidelines for people seeking information on ugly sweater party etiquette. This is freaking me out all over again, because once again I'm wondering about this whole fear of success thingie. I mean- I could fail at what I believed I had thought of ?? Now, there's etiquette, lists of what types of sweaters to look for, how to designate categories for the contests and prizes for the best/worst appearance.

The pressure.
THE PRESSURE!

Which brings me back to wanting to dwell on the God Thing.
I believe that people come to these darn events for a reason. I may or may not know what those reasons may be. But I no longer categorize my life by "churchy/faithlife events" and "regular day-to-day life". I live. I am loved. I believe there's a reason. There are seasons, and boy, oh boy, I'm in a fun one right now. And we are made for a reason. Quirkiness is no curse- its part of the obvious creativity of a loving God.

Sweatering With The Oldies

Last year, it was my 39th birthday that prompted the madness. This year it is the paparazzi.

I've had no time to get my pullovers in a knot about it. Its been that kind of a week.

But some really crucially important stuff got taken care of.

I took a good , hard look at the couch. Well, what I could see of it through clouds of dust and flying straw. Yes, that's right. Straw.

I pushed, pulled, and dragged that monstrosity through the kitchen, out the entry way, and over the edge of the deck. I saw it laying there covered in leaves, torn, abandoned.... And I just knew that Brian would kill me if I left it there for more than fourteen seconds. So, I went after that beast, and hurled it continuously, ass over tea kettle, til I could slide that motherload into the garage.

*

(and hey, if we need an overflow area at the party on Saturday, November 24 at 7:00 pm at my house, bring your own nummie, dwinkie, and sweater.... that couch in the garage may come in really, really handy.....)

*

I meant to recover the remaining worn furniture in old sweaters, but GEE! Where'd the time go?!

*

So, you're fresh out of excuses. In fact, you badly NEED a party. I've got two spare nasty sweaters upstairs in my closet, Brian has just done a big party run in the stadt, and the now infamous couch has been replaced.

*

Did you ever stop to wonder what kind of parties the next generation is likely to throw? Well, repeated bending-over in my line of work, combined with the utter lack of tact and discretion in the preschooler population, has led me to believe that the next generation will be scouring thrift shops for slacks to wear to the Butt-Crack-Pants parties that they are most likely to host.

*

Aren't you glad you only have to find a sweater?

The Navitity Scene

Tis the season. That trusty old nativity scene came out of hiding this afternoon. The one where at least one of the shepherds isn't snowy white. Its old and the paint is faded and kind of weird looking in a wonderful sort of way.

And of course, my son Micah appreciates that sort of thing. Well, okay... not exactly. What he actually appreciates is the oppurtunity to torture these righteous plastic individuals in varied and creative ways.

"I'm not a sheep!
Mary exclaims, her arms thrown up in the air- aghast at this THING which lays in the manger before her.













Somebody! Get this sheep out of my baby's manger!













Joseph? JOOOOOOOOOOOOOH-SEPH!!!

Get That Child Off That Filthy LAMB! Do you know where that thing has been?

JO---SEPH!!!!!

I Wish; I Want; I Wonder

I wish it were possible to do everything well. To think of everything. To not be brought face to face with my dark side.
Defensiveness. Self-pity. Negativity.

I wish I wouldn't run out of ideas for cooking and baking edibles that children will actually consume and don't have sugar as their first ingredient and syrup as the second. I wish children would stop commenting about the inadequasy of whats set before them.

I wish I would stop chewing the skin around my fingernails. Its been about thirty years now.
I hate it. I keep doing it.

I wish the day would lengthen to being 36 hours long, without exhaustion setting in. Then I could e-mail cougar attendees some great pictures, bake some pies, get through my paper stacks, maybe even find my way back into my sewing room and make something.

And that brings me to what I want. Time to create. Which is ironic, because a month ago I wanted my daycare numbers back up to what they were before. Which I now have. And now, by evening I'm so tired, and so busy putting the house back together in time for the next day, that there's no time for creating.

So I want to be content. Enjoy the moment.

I want to get involved in my daughter's youth group. Sort of. Teen-agers intimidate me, and I'm not sure I have the language to relate to them. Plus, there's the whole thing about waiting for the 36 hour day. And the whole exhaustion thing. But I want to get to know her world better. I want to observe her friends in their own element. I want to enjoy my daughter by entering her reality.

I want to do a "Yahnt zeed" thrift shopping tour. Morris. Winkler. Morden. Altona.
Yes, I do. It's been years.

I want to get out walking every day. Its an excellent mental health enhancer. I was doing really well there for a bit, until the whole exhaustion thing set in. Still, I strive for the goal.

I wonder what awaits us? What inconcievable bends in the road are yet to come?
What will my kids say about growing up here? with us?

I wonder how many more old quilts and chenille spreads I can fit into a modest house? when I'll be able to get to those other towns to find out?

I wonder if the ache in my heart for significance will ever be answered on this side of forever?

I wonder who's reading all this rubbish?

The Sweater Segue

dear diary;
I've been so busy learning how to deal with conflict that I nearly forgot that our big party is in four sleeps! But Dave Sanderson of the Winnipeg Free Press hasn't forgotten! He keeps sending these e-mails talking about his big fancy photo spreads in the Detour section, and then whispers "front page" in my ticklish ear. ooooh! I must confess I've always wanted to be somebody.... I can just feel it-- This is my big moment!!

Here's how I bet it will go.... We'll start out chatting about knitted garments- about sleeve length, cowell as opposed to v-necked; the benefits of broomstick knit versus traditional knit and purl.... and that will effortlessly segue into a piece about my various and many skills and accomplishments to this point in life. Forty will never look so good! After I get published and my name gets networked around the city, around the surrounding communities, and then.... well... worldwide...Well, after that I just know that I'll really be SOMEBODY! Then the calls will start pouring in. I'll do seminars. Weekend retreats. Do those signing thingies at Chapters, with a fancy Starbucks coffee in one hand. I'LL BE ABLE TO AFFORD STARBUCKS! I'll spend so much time running from signing to signing that I'll develop long, luxurious, muscular thighs. Then I'll have to write more books about how I got over compulsive eating, started running from reporter to reporter, and how I henceforth and forever more look really good on the photo on the backs of all the books I'm publishing. Then, because my life is full and rich, and I've become wildly successful, I won't have any problems ever again. I'll not have to deal with conflict. Disappointment. Security issues.

And that's only the good that I expect will come through Dave Sanderson and the Winnipeg Free Press.

Now, the blurb on Shaw TV with Joanne Kelly..... Well, there's just no telling where that could go!

Dealing With Conflict

The temptation:
Bite back. Locate a weakness in your opponant.

no.

Locate as many weaknesses as possible in your opponant. Exaggerate if necessary. Round up. Look for questionable motives. Theorize on psychiatric maladies. Begin as many sentences as possible with the word YOU. Other valuable words are: Always, and Never. Ask as many people as possible for "advice" on how to deal with the conflict. Mention names. Stay local.

But.

Be prepared for the same kind of set-up when you're in the need of grace. Don't count on getting off easy. Prepare for legalities. Heated exchanges. Mention of lawyers and paybacks and name-smearing.

*sigh*

I've been reminded again of God's burden being easy and His yoke being light. There's good reason behind the precepts of loving our enemies and praying for those who despitefully use us. It goes against the grain, but there's such freedom in it. The small voice inside is easily drowned out, but doesn't go away. Doesn't stop whispering. Doesn't limit itself to three chances.

Its another reason that I love to work at home. There's a certain stillness in all this noise. I'm not tempted to pull up all the mental filters and blab away about others in the staff room on my coffee break. Its good to work with narcissistic kids. If I tried to pick their brains about how to deal with conflict, they'd just shout for snacks 'n water a little more forcefully.

Relationships worth their salt involve some conflict.
And pouring salt on wounds is not part of the recipe.

Oh, Brother

Sam has not had many "real" haircuts in his short lifetime. Usually, I notice him peering out from underneath a mass of blonde bangs, stick him in front of the tv , and hack away at his hair until his eyes become visible once again. Today, however, I had time to stop in at the local hairdressing shop and book him in for a haircut that doesn't look like he's been put under the lawn mower. It became immediately apparent that Sam equated the hairddresser's chair with the dentist and the medical laboratory. He cried and cried and tried to curl up into a ball to escape the scissors and electric razor. We pulled our best tricks out of our bags- me, the victem hair-cutter, and the stylist behind her. We chatted about the interesting figures on his plastic cape, the candy we would feed him if he sat nicely, and the little children across the street on thier way to the park. Outside, his big brother zoomed left and right past the window wearing his ski mask against the November chill; reaching new speeds on the scooter thanks to the accelerating effects of the wheelchair ramp. Even our efforts to point out his favourite big brother's antics refused to stop Sam's river of tears.

Finally the hair was cut. I made my rounds apologizing to all the customers who"d had to put up with the wailing and drama, and made my way to jackets and home. By this point, big brother Micah had come into the shop and was guiding Sammy's hand to turn the wheel of the tantalizing candy dispenser that mommy always refused to feed quarters into.

Micah had observed that his brother was not exactly getting the whole "spa thing". That all Micah's efforts to distract him with speedy scooter-ing had been in vain. So, he'd raced home, gone upstairs to get into his allowance stash for some quarters, then speeded back to the salon on his bicycle. He'd been sure to hurry so as to get back in time to reward his little brother for surviving the haircut. Sammy quickly changed his tune, stuffing yellow and green peanut M&M's into his mouth, and with a friendly "Whaddya say?" from Micah, even remembered to shout a grateful "Thank you!"

I'm sure Sammy thinks of his big brother as a bit of a hero, but I think it will be many years before he remembers and becomes fullly aware of just what a hero his brother really is.

And I've got to say, I'm feeling a little starry-eyed myself.

Psychiatric Help

Last night I dreamed that I checked myself into a treatment centre. It was late at night, after my fortieth birthday party, I had lost a couple of kids and it was too dark to find my way home. So I found my way back into the building, picking up birthday gifts and dirty socks along the way and stood in line for a brain scan. I was unclear on exactly why I needed to check out of life for a time, but felt somewhat confident that the scan would pick it up. My daughter was in line behind me, but she decided to lock herself into the bathroom for the night, and I was not sure why she needed the scan either.

Although I seem to thrive on a certain amount of chaos and insanity, I hate being confronted on things, details, or important perspectives that I have neglected to consider. I want to react with defensiveness, counter attack, self-protectiveness. Or alternately, its tempting to accept every bit of the criticism without editing for accuracy- to go the other extreme and kick your own self while youère down. Whenever someone rips off a strip, there is value in hearing it out and noting what hurts, what resonates, what you can challenge yourself to be more aware of in the future.

Its great to be appreciated and to get strokes, especially when it about something you value and want to be good at. But I suppose there is an equal and opposite that goes along with accepting compliments and apreciativeness. It hurts to have them pointed out and I can not pretend to like it, but dang-it-all, maturity is a noble goal........ plus defensiveness is only going to go so far, since I wonèt be able to pretend to have it all together for more than a few minutes at a time anyhow.

Its either that, or line up for a brain scan.

Want Ads

This morning while hoping to discover an old-fashioned chiropractor on a local online classifieds, I came across the following advertisement.

I ---- ---- along with my Husbend are kooking for Cleaning Job

Offices Banks Churches

we are Christians and will do a good Job

My first reaction was decidedly prickley. I hmmmph-ed, imagining that a Hindu or Sikh or Wicca must be a horribly dirty, lazy thief, never to be trusted with a broom inside the house of God, or in the hallowed halls of money handling.

But then I got thinking about christian culture. How the only real difference between this unpolished appeal and what we accept as normal is a little pinache. Do you ever flip through flyers from faith-y book stores and feel incredulous at all the big problems and challenges you could overcome just by buying a couple of shiney new books and reading seven or fewer tips and steps and exercises and commitments ?

And I imagined the submitter of the ad. How she has probably never been exposed to other cultures, never shared a cleaning cart shoulder to shoulder with a coworker of an entirely different persuasion. How frightening she would likely imagine such an experience to be. How easy it would be to assume that a cleaning person not sharing her faith ( and possibly skin colour, manner of dress, and first language) must be untrustworthy, deceived, threatening.

She probably just really needs a job and is drawing on her mental bank of what a stellar employee looks like. I hope she gets a great paying job at one of those churches that prays with the prostitutes before they head out onto the street,and serve soup and munchies to the crack addicts. Or maybe a really scarey office building filled with NON-Christians. Its sure to be filthy dirty and in serious need of a good, honest cleaning.

Gift of the Day

People disregarded the "no gift policy". And since they came up with incredible, thoughtful, creative, awe-inspiring tidbits; I'm so glad they chose not to listen to me.

This piece is from my dear friend Rosa. I was not expecting her, or her vanful of Brandon-area accompanyists. Their arrival surprised me to the point of jumping up and down repeatedly, wearing blue plastic high heels, and screaming: I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!

Rose has an amazing gift of putting things together with buttons. This little piece showcases bathing suits made of coloured buttons. I say its an excellent momento of the kind of night we enjoyed together, baring all. Literally and figuratively.

And all the figures owned their beauty and mystique.

Some Party Thoughts

The abundance of hilarity poses as the baseline of all these wonky parties. But there is another thing that goes on, that a person could miss if they chose not to tune in. There's something a lot deeper than the acrylic nails, cheap nylons, and under-elastized snakeskin minis.

Somehow in shedding our typical wrappings, we lose something else - our safety in whatever packaging we've grown accustomed to. We're given the gift of making new friends without the distraction of superficial judgements based on what "life grouping" we may assume that people belong to. As "cougars", we shared an imaginary identity that opened gateways for exploration that we may not have uncovered at an epicure party in our Sunday best. (not that I have any issue with eating dips for hours on end, dripping mayo on my Sunday School blouse and rayon skirt...)

And one of my favourite things was the joy and beauty we found in each others bared midriffs, lycra-ed thighs, rounded bellies, and plungeing necklines. It was a bold embracing of our femininity. A recognition of our God-given beauty as women without the shame and confusion of inappropriate or unwanted sexual attentiveness. Women too often react in fear to their own bodies, and the bodies of their fellow women. We envy. We covet. We criticize, torture ourselves, condescend to one another.

But on November the tenth, we celebrated. And it reminds me of one of my favourite passages in Geneen Roth's beautiful book: Feeding The Hungry Heart.

"...I have a fantasy that I repeat to myself, instead of turning to food, when I need comfort and nurturing. I am at a celebration with hundreds of other women. It is a summer evening, about dusk, when fireflies begin to play. It is warm and the smell of honeysuckle is strong. We build a fire and set tables around it covered with lovely embroidered cloths. We bring out a glorious array of foods: roast chicken, turkey, potatoes, yams, large colorful salads, nuts, hot wheat breads, platters filled with fruit- pineapple, papaya, mangoes, apples, bananas, figs, dates- whipped dream, cakes and pies, wine and rich coffee. A feast for women, not one where the food is prepared for men to enjoy- or one of those horrible parties where the women gather guiltily around the food table and pick furtively. We eat and enjoy every bite. I add various pleasures, depending on my mood; sometimes we pile all the Cosmopolitans, Vogues, Seventeens, and Playboys on the fire and sing as they crackle and spew. Always we dance and sing, and finally I lie back on the cool fragrant grass. (on a great vintage quilt, I would add) The fire warms the night air. Staring at the stars, I know that this world is mine. I feel the food in my belly, feel it nourishing my body, feel the laughter and strength in my bones; and I am completely and overwhelmingly satisfied." (Rachel Lawrence)

~

Thank you, my friends. Thank you who came, and you who I thought of. You have enriched my life. You have taught me so much. You have expanded the table that is my life, and piled it high with sumptuous, guilt-free indulgences. Not the sort that leave you feeling light-headed, full, and hungry. But the sort with substance, subtleties, bold spices, and life-giving nourishments.

Yeah, About Those Nails

Nancy wasn't able to come out to the grand fortieth, but she very thoughtfully sent out six packets of plastic fingernails covered in leopard print. Last night during the party, Alice (with her servant heart) graciously applied nails to any finger or toenail that came within her grasp. I quite enjoyed the roleplay of claw-lady, even though my fingers audibly and literally moaned and begged for an oppurtunity to breathe and move.

~

In the morning, I awoke to find myself picking at those nails. My fingers were really gasping for breath by now. Remembering some less tolerant guests with zero etiquette who began soaking their high quality nail jobs in nail polish remover just minutes after their application, I sensed that the removal of this accessory may pose quite a challenge.

~

By mid-afternoon I received an e-mail from a guest whose alter-ego in the "RW" is that of elementary school teacher... and it was clear that the tenacity of our nails was a common bond. She had given up on authentic removal and had settled for trimming them down with hedge clippers and hoof trimmers, and applying several hundred coats of a more subtle tone of polish to cover the leopard print. The following day was, incidentally, parent and teacher school interviews. It seemed prudent that some manner of professionalism be applied, lest the parents have evidence of their son's downward spiral since being placed under the classroom tutelege of Ms. So-and-So.

~

By faspa time at ma and pa's, the conviction of the nails burned with shameful urgency. The nails had to come off. Mother refused to make eye contact with those little round leopardy bits on the ends of my hands. Her nose and lips curled in visible disdain and disgust at her daughter's obvious indiscretions and lack of proper training. I don't think she could have been less pleased if I'd shown up in an animal print thong and thrown a bottle of rye into the summa borscht.

So, I came up with a perfectly sensible solution. I gently worked the butter knife under the edge of the nail, grimaced a little, felt the dna in my fingers stretch and cry audibly and literally, then I popped those babies off.

~

Hopefully none of them landed in the schmondt faht.

Sorry You Missed It

wow.
Is is hard to type wearing really long plastic fingernails.....


These legs are all connected to human faces. Their true identities will never be revealed.
I don't think it was any bored, self-pitying has-been who coined the phrase "Life begins at forty"!

Passing Through Winkler?

My sister-in-law lives in Winkler, and has set up two rooms in her house as a Christmas store. If you live in the area, know someone who does, or are passing through, please check it out.

Everyone is Welcome to shop, browse, or just satisify your courisity at:

Under the Tree Gift Boutique

This boutique has crafts from 16 different people. Such things as:
-dip, cheeseball, coffee & cookie mixes
-frames (barnboard and painted wood)
-candles
-baby blankets
-hot and cold bags
-handbags (very unique and proceeds go to women in Darfur)
-pet beds and pet neckties
-eye spy bottles
-towels
-afgans
-kids knitted sweaters
-wheat weaving
-advent calenders
-christmas art
-gift tins
-christmas ornaments
-magnets
-table runners
-jewellery
-cheeseball trays
-denim blankets (proceeds go to MCC)
and more

I am located at 178 8th Street (north of Pembina Ave.) Winkler, Manitoba
Don't be shy about just walking in - it may be my home but it is also a store and I want you all to feel welcome here.
My hours are Wednesday 10-5, Thursday and Friday 1-8 and Saturday 10-3

Come and check us out we have some great Christmas ideas and Christmas decor.

Thursday... that's Two Days Before Saturday, Right?!

I blinked once or twice, spit out a cuticle or nine, and
SHA-ZAM! suddenly its The Thursday Before The Saturday That We've All Been Planning For. The pumpkins have gone the way of the compost, the nails have been counted, a snappin' pair of shoes have been purchased, and a fresh bouquet of flowers plucked. The seams in my lycra pants have been let out. aaaaaahh. But that only increases their appeal.

So what remains, you ask? Well, for you, my guests, I really wanted to get the curtains up in the front window just in case you have some reservations about local voyeurs parading past. Your comfort level may not include showing off your prowess to all those gossipy old farmers and spectis employees on their way serve up some dish at "The Chef".

Then there's the details, such as finding out what culinary delight Brian will stir up for us to enjoy. I may find the time to mop up the splotches of macaroni and curdled milk as well. Maybe hang up the mirrors that have been precariously leaned up against the entry wall for many days now.

OH! and I better not forget to touch up my roots!
I just have to decide whether I was blonde, and then went red, or whether I was mousey brown and then decided to go ash blonde. This whole colouring to let the roots look really bad might get complicated....

See you Saturday!

Why Its Probably Best That I Never Finished My Degree

.... because then I'd likely expect myself to keep track of all the stuff that comes with running a home daycare.

Take for example; "Debbie". Typically known as a given name for a child of the female persuasion, this is a word, which when expressed by one particular two year old means some-word-which-I-don't-know-how-to-say. Hence, he calls it "debbie" and its up to me to figure out what the item in question may be. But. When its uttered by a particular three year old, and its enunciation is varied to that of "Debra"; it means: "Quick! I'm feeling emotional or tired or homesick and I need that tiny fabric doll that goes everywhere with me. If you don't find it NOW, you WILL have a full blown situation on your hands."

Then there's the child who says; "Me home" in response to most things. This can mean: I have that very same thing at my home ; or I'm planning to take this toy home; or I really wish I were at home right now. All other children interpret "me home" as: I'm going to take away your toy right now, and I will bring it home with me, and you will never see it again. Without appropriate interpretation, total chaos ensues.

No, if I had finished my degree, I'd probably be off doing some really important, world event type stuff. I would expect more from myself than getting through the workday retaining a cool head, and refraining from bashing said head against the kitchen center repeatedly.

on Turning Forty

Many people come to the "mid-section" of their lives and experience some sort of crisis. They bemoan their lost dreams and ambitions. They fear that their life will leave no impact on this world. They view other forty-somethings with their career empires, or their svelt figures in an empire style tunic with grief and envy. They fear that they have lost their edge, or even the potential of every acquiring an edge. Or possibly that their edge has been well buried under pounds and pounds of Costco truffles, hint of lime chips and McDonalds hot fudge sundaes with nuts. They recognize that while they were off living young and reckless lives on extravagant cross country used-clothing and furniture shopping sprees that they forgot entirely to plan for their future. The not-so-distant future when they can no longer be gainfully employed, due to the fact that the middle-aged-spread has conquered and they can no longer tie their own shoes to get to work on time. This becomes so overwhelming that they find themselves sitting down in their polyester mumu for a nice warm snack of toast and almond butter and a box of halva to wash it down.

Then they do something crazy. Buy an expensive car. Get one of those fridges that dispense ice cubes. Have an affair. Buy something retail. Grow a curly moustache. (it becomes easier for women to acquire this goal right around this time.) Begin to dress in ways less becoming to a forty-something. (Hey! I hear there's a party for just that sort of woman on NOVEMBER TENTH! GEE, that would be in just six short days!!)

And for women, there's another twist. She may be entering that less-than-glamourous period of her existance known as the change of life. (A man must have thought up that watered down version of waking up sweating, feeling your head explode, and throwing yourself into a snowdrift to resume some semblance of normal temperature.) She begins to assume that her childbearing years are behind her. Another age of oppurtunity slamming her in the face, thank you very much. She stumbles through her grief of never again waking up to the demands of a ruddy faced squalling little bundle of selfishness. Never again will that splashy sound of vomit erupt from the back seat on the way to anal retentive Aunt Bertha's house for faspa. No, the days of pablum crusted high chairs, perma-snot on the right shoulder, the garbage can being pushed (scratched) across the hardwood (now distressed) floors and nights of awakening to that sweet baby smell plus mustard diaper and puckered expectant lips every fifteen minutes are sadly behind her.

And in her grief, she just might do something crazy.

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So it IS true what they say....

That good things come in small packages! (thank you lettuce. When I first met you, it was your words about the agony of loss by cancer that gave me the shivers. Now we meet in more pleasant places, but will never forget the place from whence we've come.)
Have you ever received a gift that was so perfect, so delicious, so rare, so interesting, and so inspiring that you could hardly stand to look at it? Its November now. And far be it from me to remind you that in nine short days, I will no longer be in my thirties. And what better way to usher in a time of womanly blossoming than a sweet box full of incredible buttons?!
These rare bits of history and creativity travelled all the way from London, England. Thoughtful Lettuce was so selfless as to part with some of her babies and entrust them into my care. (I'm so sorry. I could never so good and generous a friend.) There are many in this box that I have never, ever laid eyes on before. There are a few glass ones. Some painted ones. Swirly ones. Flower-shaped and sparkly ones. Flashy ones, modest ones. They couldn't be more delicious if they really were coated in chocolate.

Life Here is Short. Make it Happy.

Jane made this plate of cookies for her grade six party tomorrow. She first made one ENTIRE batch thinking that baking soda was the same as baking powder. (Woops, I think we've all tried THAT one). Those went in the garbage. Even Sammy wouldn't eat those....) Then, whilst baby-sitting her brothers so her father and I could go buy more groceries to stuff into them.... She mixed, shaped, and baked her second batch. And my, oh, my. Were we impressed to see what lengths she went to to have fun making these treats. (The spider took eleven minutes to bake, she tells me.) And in case you are a bit slow, the letters read "Happy Halloween". There. Shove that in your pipe and smoke it. Happy.
Gosh. Its hard to say who's handsome-er.
And I wasn't talking about Jane and Eve's pumpkins, either. (A little too much candy indulgence, perhaps?)
Cast your cares aside for one day. Eat some candy with your kids. Or your neighbors kids. Or your cat. Or, even all by yourself.

But if you want to share with a spider..... wait eleven minutes, and come to Niverville.
Spider Capital of the World.

Language Barriers

Brian and I did not go to work today. It was Sam's appointment with the pediatric neurologist, and coincidently, Brian damaged his finger on the weekend and needed to tend to that as well. So we headed off to the city first thing in the morning, just the three of us. After navigating the children's hospital and getting Sam through another appointment with no "pokes", we were off to the Pan Am Sports Injury Clinic. In two and a half hours of moving from waiting area to waiting area, Sam made a lot of new friends. By our third waiting room (the one after x-ray, but before splints) we came around the corner to a chuckle and a "Hi Sam!" from a cheery man with a heavy accent who we'd been periodically sharing spaces with for a few hours. He reminisced about his three sons, grown up now, and how he imagined that Sam was a bright and happy boy, since he was actively asking question after question throughout the morning waits. We smiled and easily understood one another.

The long awaited reward for all that doctoring was a midday meal at McDonald's. We noted pessimistically that it was precisely lunch time, and we were located directly across from a high school. Should be reminiscient of field trips, we speculated. Brian graciously gave me the best "people-watching" position at the table, and I noticed all the unspoken languages amongst the teenaged patrons. The ones with skateboards wore their hoods, slouched, and let their pants drag behind them. Certain girls seemed to understand that language. A lone boy sat behind us, avoiding eye contact and concentrating on his soft drink. I wondered whether he didn't understand the language? or didn't want to? Was he new to the school? How did kids manage life some days, I wondered.

An energetic and friendly McDonald's employee, way beyond the age of "earning a couple of extra bucks" scooted around graciously picking up garbage that the kids literally crunched up and threw onto the floor around them. Not only was he quick, he was genuinely friendly. I tried to imagine having such a good attitude after bussing tables at a fast food store, serving snotty nosed teens, and not earning a whole lot for the effort. I knew for sure that I'd want to throw myself off of Abe's hill if I had to trade places with him.

Then, as we licked the last of our hot fudge off our fingers, it happened.
Surly-mc-surls'a'lot beside us got up to get a refill. Simultaneously, energetic clean-up boy- turned-man came around the corner and scooped up the paper wrappers and ketchups and deposited them into the trash. Surly I-hate-my-life guy came back from the counter and began the language. "HEY! Did you just F*%#@'in take away my F*%#@'n Food?!"

And here's the thing. Clean up guy stayed nice. Even though he could have been the brat's dad. Maybe even Grandfather.

But Surly wasn't done.
Nope, he stormed to the counter to complain to the manager, to demand a replacement meal, to snatch a comment card and make great show of filling it in in view of all the staff.

I was mad at him, and felt sorry for clean up guy. I noticed that clean up guy was looking more worried than annoyed, and that annoyed me even more because of the man's age, and the position he was in, having to take F&%*'s from some snotty nosed overgrown kid.

But then I started wondering about surly-McQ's language. Did he get taught at home that the only way to get what you need is by being aggressive? Mean? F%#@$-ish?

And that's the thing. Most of us only know our own language very well and so we interpret everyone around us through that filter.

There's no feel-good conclusion here. I still think it stinks that decent people have to (microwave) burgers and push brooms after stink-faced customers. But maybe it stinks just as bad that this kid never learned better conflict management.

Don't Say I Never Told You

(Scroll down for more posts)

Just in case I'm not being entirely clear, and the dates draweth near, here are the details:

November 10, 2007

Women's Night

Cougar party to celebrate Joyce's fortieth birthday

7:00 pm

BYO... drink, appetizer to share, and cougar outfit

The basics will be provided. Toilet. Glass. Possibly a plate.

Soft drinks, coffee, H2O, and box'0'wine will be flowing.

If I'm feeling particularily generous, I may throw in a bag of generic potato chips.

This blogspot is your invitation.

oh, and. Your presents is your presence.

I mean, your presence is all my heart desires. Well, that, and a laptop.....

Thereafter...

November 24, 2007

Second Annual Ugly Sweater Party

Co-ed!!

Come celebrate ugliness, friendship, and the ridiculous side of life.

7:00 pm, at our house

Please bring stuff to share. Maybe an addition, we may run short on room...

This blogspot is your invitation.

I Am Woman Hear Me Roar... no. I Am hypocrite. Hear me Whine.

I don't buy fashion magazines. I avoid full-length mirrors when I can. I work hard at not engaging in guilty whispers with other women about how fat we are and how we should be exercising more and we should be eating less. I eat anything and everything. I avoid food rules. I abhor the culture that glorifies skinny while ignoring actual skinny people who are that way because they can't afford food. I work at not judging my value by the numbers on the scale, or by the number of indents in my thigh. Inner and outer. I put (Brian's) scale up high so I won't be tempted to climb onto it and so that my daughters won't fall into the trap that I did at their age.

But I have times when I am fat. Embarrassingly fat. Encumbered by fat. Obsessed with fat. And I search my mind for ways to lose weight. To return to that weight where things fit better. Felt better. I dream about it. Conscious and asleep.

And this is a trap, decorated in numerous red flags. I've learned too much to diet. I know its unwise, and a seemingly innocent "first step" to falling down the rest of the stairs, broken and bruised, down into the hell of obsession and possession.

But I hate my weight. And then because I am frustrated, and "too evolved" to diet it off, I just turn it inward and hate myself. Which I hate. And when I hate myself, I want to improve, and to improve, I want to lose weight. But I can't because I won't diet.

Couple that with the fact that my disorder is closely enmeshed with my emotional health. Stress me out, embarrass or frighten me, or throw life into overdrive, and my brain goes straight to default: must control. Must manipulate body.

Sometimes if the stress level gets high enough, it all sort of works itself out in a dysfunctional way. I get upset enough to feel nauseated and I can't eat. I feel myself begin to lose weight. I rejoice in my stress. But here's where things get weird. (er)

I feel frightened.

The looser feeling in the rear of my jeans scares me. As much as I've been craving it and dreaming it and desiring it, I'm scared. And my appetite returns. My ass returns. And I hate it.

(Anyone still with me?)
What I really need is peace in my head and in my heart. The irony is that when I have that peace, the fat falls off without me becoming obsessed with it. My recovery was largely thanks to Geneen Roth, author and speaker whose sensible, rule-free approach to making peace with food and body resonated with me like nothing else. So, many times over the past nine years, I have picked up her books, determined that I will once again find my way. But her words fall on rocky ground. I continue to eat mindlessly. I continue to abhor my body. I go back to considering desparate measures like the cabbage soup diet or something equally revolting.

I need a gifted surgeon to separate all the entangled stuff in my brain so that I can think/behave straight again.

Or maybe a lobotomy.

With All These Planks and Splinters Piling Up, Brian Just May Get That Addition Yet

Recently, any spare brain space has been dominated by thoughts of hidden forms of judgementalism and how unnatural the practise of grace can be. Lessons learned at the thrift shop, coupled with an amazing series on total forgiveness at church right now has brought about a desire for greater freedom in this whole area of grace.

What I really want is for people who bug me to change, but the other thing the preacher-guy said that stuck long and fast in my head is that the common denominator in all our problems is the "me" factor. I'm in all of my problems, every single one. So it seemed sensible to try and redirect my telepathic messages from the thrift shop legalists back to "me" and see what I could do to contribute in a more positive way. Enter: Pumpkin loaf. I thought I'd bake an extra loaf, slice it up and put it on a plate left over from my bridal party (a plate I really don't need back, and I'm tired of seeing kids eat toast off of: "Happy 25th Anniversary!"...). I wrote a little note for the thrift shop volunteers and tucked it in with the loaf. With two kids filling the double stroller, I balanced the plate of loaf and my handbag up top of the sun shade that we clearly wouldn't be needing that day. We strolled through 80 mile an hour winds past the church, over the crooked sidewalk, past the other church, through the parking lot, over the footbridge, and into the parking lot of the thrift shop.

That's when the plate fell.

Pumpkin loaf with shards. Didn't seem all that gracious. I considered stealing a 25 cent plate and transferring the loaf over... but there was still the risk of razory bits of "Happy 25th Anniversary!" clinging to the underside of the bread so I thought better of it. It also struck me as pretty ironic to go snitching things in the thrift store when what I wished they would do is stop treating their customers with such suspicion. Well, I'd have to try to behave graciously instead and in this case, that appeared to include keeping the pumpkin loaf to myself.

I did a quick scour of the place for vintage bits of this and that for my sewing projects. Then the kids and I went to pay. As I approached the cash out, the woman made a comment about my bag; something to the tune of, "Oh! She's got a bag like that too!"

"Bag like what?" , I had to know.

That's when it came out about the volunteer who had come in, toting one of my roomy bags-for-Darfur and was asked to leave her "backpack" at the front, lest she should go about stealing their precious, dented donations. Well, it seemed like an oppurtunity to me. So I launched into how disappointed I had been to hear this tale, how sure I was that neither of the two of them would ever treat a customer so suspiciously, how this was a place all about God and his love, and that if people chose to sin by stealing, wasn't that between them and God? Wasn't it wonderful that they donated their time, and could spend the day making people feel welcome and happy to be in such a place of good service?

The women half-nodded in sort-of-confused, token agreement. Then with a toss of the head, pointed out a customer from a different religious perspective, and leaned closer to me. "You have to watch those people"; she shared with me conspiritively, "I once saw a woman leave the store with things in her hand that she never paid for. Why would people come into a place like this, that's for missions, and steal things when the prices are already so low?"

Her partner nodded vigorously.
"Yes, you sure have to watch those kind of people."

And with that, I gathered up my planks and splinters, my shards, crumbs and the kids.
With my addiction to thrift shopping, I imagine that God will have many more oppurtunities to try and help me work my way through this whole grace thing.
So far, I mostly have stuff to haul around.

Splinters Hurt, but Planks Can Really Get In The Way

Yes, I'm well aware of the irony.

I'm judging people for being judgemental. And legalistic. I'd prefer if they followed my "rules for life". But that's the pickle. If grace were so easy and natural, people who walk in suspicion and fear wouldn't make me angry. They would make compassion rise in me, and I'd want to contribute to their lives in such a way to show how much easier JOY is to walk in. Instead, my base nature wants to turn their very tools against them and throw defiance and rebellion at them. But isn't that what they are afraid of? Isn't that fulfilling their prophesies that people are not to be trusted and that stringent guidelines and avoidance of punishment is our only hope? How comfortable am I to give respect to people who I don't believe deserve it?

Its trendier now for people of faith to be gracious to people on the "fringe". Maybe those with a different sexual orientation. Maybe with a shadey past; a recovering drug addict; or a prostitute. But its waaaay harder to be kind and gracious to people who think they have all the answers for me, and view my parenting, my lifestyle, and my faith with squinted eyes. Who want to correct me. Who want to condemn me.

Its ironic to recognize how badly I want to correct them.

I may be wrong, but it seems that Jesus had some of the same struggles. It was the religious leaders who really got his goat and seemed to make him crazy. I never heard Jesus call a prostitute or a robber a "brood of vipers", but he reserved that for the religious men, the money changers in the temple, and the self-righteous who seem to surface in every time, in every culture. Not that it would be wise to use that as justification for my disdain for that small number of cross volunteers who parol our local thrift shop. And its important to clarify that there are at least as many sunny, helpful, joyful volunteers in the very same facility.

But if I've learned anything in my first forty years, its that you can change no one.
Well, except for yourself. And that only by the power of the Maker. So, I guess I'll sign up for some changes. The angry judgementalism in me is what annoys me in others, so back to the workshop to learn more of planks and splinters.

Care to join me?

Sorry, but its Hard to See With This Plank In My Eye

How deeply lines rivet the faces of those whose role in life is that of keeping other people from sinning. How precious and valuable used, unwanted, chipped, sweat-stained, and skin follicle speckled junk is. What great responsibility to protect it, to ensure it is securely and diligently locked up so that only the keeper of the key can unlock the bounty of those one dollar and fifty cent broaches and belly rings. How critical to maintain the integrety of these objects so that good may be done. This good which will be bestowed upon the great and blessed field far, far away. Visited by few, the field is vaguely known by the glossy pictures carefully fastened to white walls- gleaming pictures of cleansed field dwellers whose lives have been eternally changed from dusty monotony to ceaseless gratitude.

How tremendously rewarding and exciting it must be to deliver this good news to that land far far away. Surely it would not be as complex as being the keeper of the keys here in the Land of the Plank. It takes a great deal of commitment to confiscate backpacks and large handbags at the door, lest untrustworthy locals should be found allowing merchandise to fall into their greedy folds. Its no small task to sleuth about the place, scowling down at children and sticky-fingered mothers who are surely in this place to take and take and take, never once thinking of the good that could be done to those in the field far, far away. Or what of the responsibility to ensure that no one should fondle an item yet unpriced!! Or slip an item with a pink tag into their satchel on bag sale day when the signs clearly read blue tags; priced $5.00 and under! (no fabric, no tea towels, no pretty things, no vintage things, no laughing, no smiling, and certainly, no dancing, drinking, or loitering). No, nor shall we support the hedonistic pleasures of campers, seeking to purchase a cooling receptable whose exterior clearly depicts bottles of Coors, or Labatts, or Kokanee. Woe to the fingers of the fallen pricer who brought such an abominable thing of shame onto the floor.

These are the thankless, unrecognized duties of those who were left behind. Their pictures will never smile from a brochure that promises tax deductable receipts to support the efforts of those lucky messengers of good in that land far away. In that place, surely the good is always well received and its recipients never fall into traps of greed and carelessness like the lowly, base thrift shoppers from the land of plenty. Surely their men marry women without question. Surely their mothers teach children to be seen and not heard. Surely all its people have learned the value of not asking questions; not challenging the status quo.

But someone must stay behind to ensure that the cracked and faded donated things don't get all dirtied up by some local before the proceeds can be used for some good. Somebody must ensure that some local doesn't carry off the merchandise improperly priced, or taken from behind a staff only sign, or that backpacks and large handbags don't get stuffed with eight tracks and cd games from the cheerio boxes seven years ago. Somebody has got to stay behind to make sure there are no toys in the area that the kids are allowed to play in. They might carelessly damage one, and what good would that do?

Its a diry job, but someone's got to make sure that nobody is doing anything wrong. No good could come of it.

All That Glitters Befits a Cougar

Cougars, prepare the way for the alpha Cougar, the Great Alluring One. Her time in the chambers is nearly complete, for her ladies in waiting have bestowed upon her many gifts from afar.

Thus far, her fingers are well adorned, but her cheeks are found lacking.

The request has been made that any prospective apprentices might at this time present their case before council. Alpha Cougar is ready to receive considerations for three women who would henceforth be formally invited to the third party of November: The Party Before The Party.

This is an exclusive event, closed to the public. Only the three chosen ones will join our Lady of Forty to share in the great ceremony of the Glueing-On-Of-The-Nails about which generations of cougars before us have woven their legends.

Ceremony is to commence on November 10, an hour before the previously announced event: The Great Cougar Party to celebrate the first forty years of our esteemed one.


State your case in the comments, and they will be presented for consideration.

Words to study before November 10, 7:00 pm.

*muffin top
* fishnet
*stiletto heel
*skanky

Stuff That Makes Me Crazy

when I'm kissing toddlers, listening to Hillsongs, and furtively ripping strips of plaid flannel out of my husband's shirts to use in table runners, I don't like to hear the phone ring. If its my friend Cheri offering to come over and bring me chocolate, or take me to some distant village thrift shop, I soon get over my sense of intrusion and loss of privacy. But when I run to the phone and hear that tell-tale click and pause, I begin to brace myself. If I'm feeling particularily brash and crusty, I will generally tell the telemarketer that Mrs Hildebrand has just thrown herself off a Manitoba hill and is unable to come to the phone. Or that she's lost in the corn maze is won't be found until spring. Or that our phone is for pleasure only, and does not cover the extra privelege of her/him wasting my time with dull surveys or pleas for money.

Unfortunately, my moral barometer has been rising, plus there are people who actually, mistakenly name me "Mrs Hildebrand". I always glance over my shoulder, expecting to see my mother in law approaching, as I am known only as "Joyce" or "Kehler", or a variety of endearing nicknames that I won't burden you with. So now when someone on the phone asks for my mother in law, I fear it may be someone at the church or school asking me to bake brownies or to chide me for my naughty child, or beg explanation for why some agendas rarely get signed. So, today I was stuck in that no-man's land as the gentle voice on the phone started in on me. She launched into a spiel about predators hunting down our children as they ride their bikes, meander to school, or play in their yards. She tried to convince me that its the school's responsibility to educate children about dangers and that for $100.00, I could rest assured that four Manitoba children would find their safety and redemption in a new educational supplement.

I say for a hundred dollars, we could go to the pool for a swim, have a treat at McDonalds, buy a new nest for the budgie, and tell our kids how precious they are to us. We could tell them what we want for them, how much they are valued, and how glad we are they picked us. We could spend a few hours enjoying the good in life and revelling in the knowledge that so far, we are unbelievably fortunate. We are a whole family. We love one another.

And if I have my way, none of my children will grow up to be a telemarketer.

Glad this, Glad that....

After the previous post, it seemed prudent to write about something responsible, dull, deep and ordinary. One would hate to give the impression that life is good, that there were no large bills in the mail, or that we're doing the PollyAnna dance twenty-four-seven over here. Still..... Sunday was really good! (I'll say it quietly so that its not too annoying) Just about as good as that glowing Friday and Saturday report that got spillt over here.

After a darned good cup of Sunday morning coffee, I wandered across the street, through the Mennonite parking lot, over main street, and into my church. Its a church even though it looks like a barn connected to a box connected to an office. And, hey, I'd go to church in a barn if it meant that getting there was as easy as this is. Long gone are the days of stuffing three or four miserable, cranky little brats (Godly brats, I'm sure) into the car, screaming all the way to Sunday School for the love of the Lord. Now they pretty much wander through parking lots in their own good time, and go home when they've had enough. I can stay behind and talk the ear off every croney and baby in the place to my heart's content.

But I digress. The sermon was deadly good. One of those messages where you think; "Hey! don't stop now... carry on for another hour so we can get to the punchline. I've got a squashed banana in my purse, and a wrinkled up sandwhich baggie full of crushed triscuits.... please don't stop at noon! I'm sure those vomit-stained volunteers in the baby room would feel blessed to spend an extra hour with those little gifts of creation!" (I warned you that this post was sickeningly PollyAnna-ish...)

When I got home, the husband had cooked up a little lunch feast! Yum, yum. Too bad about the squashed banana. Tummy happy, I whirred and stitched the afternoon away in my fabric nest while Brian worked his way through the Moosewood Cookbook in the kitchen. At four oclock I emerged to vacuum up the threads and invite some friends to enjoy our dinner with us.

WHAT A TIME WE HAD! Enough hilarity to fill another post, I'm sure. But I'll nauseate you with that tomorrow, or another time. After I've thought of something melancholy and depressing to bring you down with in the mean time...

But there's MORE! I've recently received three gifts. THREE, I tell thee! Two in the mail, and one via Brian. And I was going to have a great time sharing them here tonight but the camera is not available, and what good is a tale of gifts without some photos?

So, for now.... Thank you Lettuce and Nancy and Alice! You wonderful silly geese!

Pinch me. Or not- Its the Weekend.

The smell of portabello mushrooms with red pesto and feta cheese steaming on the barbeque and wine waiting in my favourite cobalt blue goblet is the sweetest way to kiss good-bye to my last two daycare babes on the cusp of a glorious weekend. Excellent company, impassioned conversation, and the promise of hours with my textiles yet to come send me to bed early with a smile clung to the corners of my lips.

Saturday morning dawned with no dreaded alarm or glommy eyes begging for more rest. No sweet smelling babies to crawl across my favourite drafting table- the wide expanse of floor covered in colours, swirls, checks, and strips of delicious piecing potential. There is an hour or two of cutting and sewing before Jane lures me away to our favorite haunt- the local thrift shop whose windows boast promise of half price. We come away grinning- a perfect pair of skates for a dollar. Two large housecoats perfect for repurposing; one in swirls of old fashioned colour and the other a soft pink chennille. A bag of fabric scraps apparently hoarded since the 1970's, complete with vintage patterns of ladies underwear, bridal wear for dolls, and fashion clothes for those 21 inch fashion barbies we never had back in the day. No ugly sweaters or cougar accessories, but who can survive too much stimulation before noonday?

Time for a toasted tomatoe before loading the girls up for a day in the city. We begin at Value Village where new heights of joy are found in a pale purple chennille bedspread, a heavy green spread perfect for carpet bags, two vintage curtain panels, an old broach, and a packet of placemats perfect for Christmassy table runners. Then off to the real world- the mall for Arianna's skinny jeans, a soft sweatshirt for Jane, and even a little something new for mama.

We've spent much of the day, enjoyed each others company, and taken a break from the regular monotony of sibling rivalry, dishes, tidying, and homework. As though that were not already too much to hope for, peaceful ride home is followed by the surprise of an unsolicited meal of pork tenderloin, baby potatoes, and stuffed tomato whipped up by the sweet love of my life.

Sometimes life can have a storybook quality. Moments or hours that are too much to wish for, but are true and real. And now, off to church- where the music will fill me, beginning in my heart, radiating down my limbs, and ending in that happy lump in my throat.

Seasonal Winds

There's no denying that a different wind has been blowing in. Daycare walks have been few and far between with the wind and the wet to contend with. Still, along with that dreaded change another wind has come again- that irresistable urge to create!

Brian's sister is launching a "home store" (similar to home-schooling but completely unrelated) for the Christmas season. She'll be turning the front room of her lovely, well-fixed-up character home into a crafty vendor's paradise. I've taken the bait.


Priding myself on normally being sort of wanna-be-ish practical, I have always thought of retail magazines of a luxury broaching on carnal sin. Lately though, if the hounds release me, my wallet and I are carried directly to the nearest glossy sleeved brothel and I scan and salavate for something different.

Well, this week I found it! Cloth, Paper, and Scissors is unique. Its subtitles are
collage, mixed media, artistic discovery. And it delivers! (not to my door, but in the artistic sense).

It was a short leap from there to deciding what my tags for the Christmas store would look like. I used the pages out of an old autograph book, then glued borrowed letters from a flyer to form the word "re joyce" which I thought went nicely with my basic addiction to repurposing anything that isn't glued down.

So, the blood is pumping happy pumps and the days feel too short again. But in a good way. The kind of short that at the end I can say- Hey! I still have five things I'm in the middle of, and I wanted to spend an hour or two reading my book! (The Red Tent, by Anita Diamont).

On The Go

1. Picnic blankets made from recycled denim pants. One completed, two on the go.

2. Table runners made from various recycled fabrics. Christmassy types of plaids and greens and off whites.

3. Wall quilts or throw pillows (dependent upon how I finish them up) made out of quilt scraps and embroidery thread. Several complete. Many more existing in my head.

4. button bouquets that I fashioned for the first time while at the cabin this weekend. The idea comes from ME. (not me, but ME from the links).

5. Bags. I did a short Bags for Darfur run last winter, and I've picked up the torch once again. I think I have thirteen bags now, but I keep coming across insides or outsides of bags in my fabric stacks, so its impossible to measure how many I am currently working on.

6. Sam's medical tests. An eeg tomorrow, thank God that Brian is going to take the day off since Sam has to go in sleep deprived and I wasn't sure how I'd keep him from falling asleep on the van ride in to Children's.

7. Life in my head. Somehow I don't know if that will ever conclude. Hopefully there comes a point in the future where its a little less confusing and painful.

8. Trying to keep this house from imploding. I keep hauling more vintage stuff into this over crowded space because I have so many ideas of what to do with them.

9. Keeping envy at bay. My wonderful, amazing, gracious, kind, smart, and supportive friend Cheri went to an auction on Saturday and came away with a mother load of quilts and enamel. I don't know if our friendship will survive. Like I said, my house may be imploding, but that doesn't satiate my greed.

10. Oh. And remembering that I'm happy to host two parties in November. Before that, I'd really like to get some form of curtain/drape up in my front window because the trash that's currently hanging up there is tattered from the cats hanging off of it, and there isn't a real curtain rod up, just some lame thing I hammered up when we first moved here. Then there's the old couch thingy. I'm caring less and less. They are ugly. The green one currently keeps its level of elevation with the help of several two by fours, 2 cans of corn, and a piece of plywood. It doesn't take much to improve on ugly. But the grey one. Oh, boy do I want to haul it outdoors at my cougar party and light a match to it.

So, in light of some of the stuff I need to be busy working right now, I sit here chewing my hangnails and typing on the computer.

Three Words Worth Thinking About

heart [ haart ] (plural hearts)
noun
Definition:

3. basis of emotional life: the source and center of emotional life, where the deepest and sincerest feelings are located and a person is most vulnerable to pain .

Quote from an old friend:
---the beauty, pain and ugliness of what is life and death and how it seems the harder you love the harder it hurts, but that's the preference nonetheless.
.......idyllic, broken, hopeful, real, loving, loud and soft all at the same time--


per·spec·tive [ pər spéktiv ] (plural per·spec·tives)
noun
Definition:

1. particular evaluation of something: a particular evaluation of a situation or facts, especially from one person's point of view.

con·text [ kón tèkst ] (plural con·texts)
noun
Definition:

1. text surrounding word or passage: the words, phrases, or passages that come before and after a particular word or passage in a speech or piece of writing and help to explain its full meaning.

2. surrounding conditions: the circumstances or events that form the environment within which something exists or takes place.

Becoming aware of new information requires an attention to that perspective and context. It is also true that one can not measure steps and choices indefinately preoccupied with what may exist in someone else's context or how one's intentions may be perceived.

We are all interconnected. My life circle will always enter the life circle of others. The lines will cross and intersect, and although the boundries are clear, its interpretation is largely dependent upon which circle one's focus begins on.

Its a comfort that the God who "knitted us together in our mothers womb" also knows the heart. More than I. More than others.

Its a good perspective.

Overheard at Thanksgiving

The children have some highly favoured friends from life in that other city who have come to spend Thanksgiving Day with them. They sat down to a lovingly prepared lunch of tuna and tomatoe slices and toast. Eldest daughter offered to pray.

"Dear Lord;
SHUT
UP!

Micah! I'm trying to pray over here!
.... Thank you for this food and these friends...."

Family Traditions

(Thank you God, for my family)

"Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.” ~George Eliot

*thank you Brandy



Its a tradition that began long before any of us had children of our own. Every autumn, the family and all its counterparts make the trip to Riding Mountain National Park to celebrate Thanksgiving.

We always hike the marsh, and at the end of the weaving plank walkway is a gazebo where we have probably posed for a drillion or more family photos. Then there is the treasure hunt, another hike along the lake that is cleverly disguised as a candy hunt so that the children beg for it every year. Uncle Mel's trail mix has become another favourite legend. It was initiated the year he arrived with a rough tote filled with nuts, raisins, chocolate, and candy. Which works out well for my preferred weekend parenting style. Book in one hand, a magazine in the other, and the dimples of my cellulite holding coffee, dark chocolate truffles, four dozen vintage buttons, some scraps of unbleached cotton, and a gin and tonic. Whenever the children approach something relating to hunger I just glance up and scream at them... GO EAT THE FRIGGIN TRAIL MIX!! DO I LOOK LIKE A CARING, ENGAGED MOTHER RIGHT NOW?!



And then of course, it goes without saying that there are hours and hours of family bonding.

Grace

(msn encarta dictionary)

Grace:

kindness, kindliness, decency, favor, mercy, mercifulness, charity, benevolence, clemency, leniency, reprieve

clemency:

act of mercy: an act that bestows or shows mercy toward another person.

I have a picture of grace that envelopes both "sides" of a loaded and charged situation. Its not that remarkable to rush to the defense of someone you call your friend and don't like to see hurting, but it is remarkable when the grace is so plentiful that both, diametrically opposed perspectives and the choices that flow from them can be viewed with decency, mercy, and clemency.

Its the kind of grace that allows plenty of room for differing viewpoints, and for the possibility of a new reality at some other time when wounds are not so weepy. Its the kind of grace that says; "We'll do this together." Instead of spending precious energy on choosing allegiances or nailing others firmly to their crosses, it speaks with tenderness of the hope for restoration. It shelters the weak and vulnerable from undue hurtfulness. It hopes against hope.

Paul says it best; "But for right now... we have three things to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly.

And the best of the three is love.

My Son, the Prodigy

Ahhh, another prodigy in the Hildebrand line. Sammy has taken up drawing and does quite a remarkable Sponge Bob.

I suppose he'll draw like his sister Jane. Hopefully if Brian sets up an art blog for him like he did for Jane, he won't drop the pencil and run immediately for cover.

woops.


Today he moved into another medium. This always amazes me, when the drawing progresses towards having limbs protruding from the body and not the head, and the head holds eyes and a mouth. The fingers are new also.

While they were at it, I asked Jane to show him how to write his name with lower case "a" and "m". The brilliant little mind mastered it immediately.

Later as I was humming away at the sewing machine, I asked Sam to go all by himself and wash around his face. He came back so perfectly clean that I suggested he go out and get a job so I could spend all day on the couch reading, and maybe just playing with my sewing machine.

For the rest of the day, he just drew himself up a little taller, waved his arm towards the sagging couches and declared.... "I'm better at stuff now, so I can get a job and you can just sit on the couch ALL day, and read books!"