What You See; What I See.....

What you see: A confused, disordered adult who spills her guts online endlessly.
What I see: An average human being picking up the puzzle pieces, day after day, and slowly but surely seeing a picture get put together. Not so different from you, your neighbor, and your paper boy.

You see a little boy who doesn't know his bum from applesauce. You see a little boy who is wearing bottoms on his noggin.

I'm seeing a whole lot of creativity, life, joy, and kids growing up happy and together.

What you see: An adorable puppy dog. Bringing play and love to the family. Endearing us all with her wide-eyed wonder and soft little puppy fur, and wiggy waggy tail.

What I see: A bum and a ureter. Just seconds from depositing puddles and poops here, there, and everywhere. Then running and hiding in the cupboard when I bellow in my most sincere sinister badgirl voice....... SHADOW!!!!!!!!!!

What you see: The ridiculous plan of packing up two daughters, their two friends, and their auntie and driving to Grand Forks loaded up with American dollars, a couple of granola bars, and a determined plan to shop ourselves into a dither for as long as humanly possible, then drive back home. All in the same day. In March, when the roads are unpredictable and usually snowy and icey. Two days after two accidents.

What I see: One heck of a great memory.

A daughter who is alive and very much 13.

My other daughter- eleven, and great at giggling.

Enough dollar store candy to make Halloween look like a cake walk.

New clothes so exciting that they will probably make my girls satisfied and excited until at least next Tuesday.

*

It's all in how you look at it.

World of Warcraft

Slowly and repeatedly, some things dawn upon me. For one- I am not ill. I, for numerous reasons need to see myself as ill, and as one who has not recovered from a lifetime of food and body issues. But that's just not true any more. No matter what size I wish I were; I am not in an unhealthy relationship with food any more. I don't struggle with it any more. Alone in a kitchen does not make me afraid that I will begin to eat and end up 600 lb on a gurney en route to gastric bypass. Sitting down to a meal does not make me feel afraid or panicked. Snacks are not the boss of me. My bathroom scale is not my disapproving sargent. Weeks can pass by without me fighting the urge to stand upon it and measure whether I deserve to live or not.

I struggle with feeling that I am a failure. The truth is that I am a success. It's difficult for me to type that, as we've been trained that shitting upon oneself is righteous, whereas measuring one's true abilities and making an honest evaluation is a dangerous practise. It's the pride that comes before the fall. I just can't carry on indefinately believing that I am a flop and will never amount to much. It's tiresome. It's a lie.

The truth is that we all play world of warcraft. There is a whole fleet of rubbish getting thrown our way on a moment to moment basis. And there is an army of good stuff. Life giving stuff. You just get one pack of lies beaten down when you turn around and see another fire breathing dragon. You think.... "I CAN'T EQUIP THAT". I must be a failure. I must be stupid. I must have skipped that class and gone to 7-11 for slurpees and menthols. But the truth is that you're in a battle and it's just not tidy and linear.

The more that I learn and grow, the less time that I can really spend believing rubbish about myself. It just doesn't ring true any more. I've seen too much that contradicts those lies. I also know that if we are community, we do one another no good if we stay as small as possible. We are susceptible to depression and disappointment in self. That seems inevitable. To a certain degree we need those moments for balance. But to be deceived about who we can be in all our giftedness (read: God) is nearly irresponsible. It doesn't put your skills out there to serve the community. Nor does it make God look good.

We can only know in degrees whether we are successful or failures. In the day to day, we must ask ourselves: "How have I loved today?" We must take honest evaluation of where we need to make peace with others. Where we need to defend someone, where we need to feed, water, love, or listen.

I remember a pivotal moment many years ago in therapy. My counsellor looked at me and said; "Today you are not bulimic."
Here I had been striving and waiting and wrestling for years for the moment when I would no longer be ill, so that I could begin to live. And all we really have is today. If today I am not ill, how will my day look? There is no default, no excuse to wait, nothing to blame.

When I write the words; "I am not ill", I am filled with the strangest sensation. Like I am on the first square of a brand new game, ripe with possibilities. I don't have to be handicapped by my twenty pounds. It doesn't limit me from being well today. But if I believe that I am ill, then it is no wonder to me that I've made little of myself. It's a familiar place to be- one where you believe that you've been cut off at the knees and you just can't walk the same any more.

What I actually believe is that God has more for me. I know that sounds trite and maybe contrived. But when I trace my finger along the map of my life thus far, I see how things went when I carried on doing what I felt in my heart of hearts to do and be. I like the way that Jesus did only what his father asked him to do. And I want that. I'm not interested in a life lived outside of Jesus because I don't see anything there except the absence of God. Now, I'm miles away from the whole blessing theology. Therefore I don't believe that me doing the correct behaviors, praying enough, or praying correctly will iron all the kinks and unpleasantries out of life. The Bible I read tells about John the Baptizer's head being served on a plate. That was no punishment because he didn't pray hard enough or tithe less than 10%. It's just life. And I imagine that at the end of John's life as his head was getting sawed off, he didn't wish he had gone into business or farming instead. He was sold out- he knew who he was in the context of marching relentlessly after God.

In this world, with its warcraft, getting distracted is absolutely constant. Getting confused is a useful tactic. Having a form of godliness but denying its power is trendy and current.

We are all normal. There is a range of psychoses that falls within what we deem as "normal" in our culture. The truth is that we all battle demons that take upon themselves different forms, depending upon what our life story has been thus far. We all struggle with issues of identity. We all wonder about significance. Some of us are aware of these dramas, some further along in their resolution of them, and some up to their nackers in la-la land denial.

But I have a hope that they can be beat down. Well, maybe not beaten down, because maybe they'll keep hanging around and baring their teeth and snarling. But I think that in the battle, one can get to the point where the messages no longer seem personal. They are no longer defining. They don't have to be wrestled with for months or years because they will immediately be recognized as UNTRUE and therefore POWERLESS.

*thanks to my friends this week, many of whom were Jesus to me. Constantly pointing me to the truth, sharing their stories with me, feeding me cinnamon buns, drinking my coffee, invading my inbox. Jesus was really onto something when he said that strength lies in weakness. Always surprising, always miraculous to behold.

Weight Preoccupation + Stress: The Experience

If on thursday your kid gets hit by a car, then by saturday you find yourself standing in the changing room at Salvation Army shocked and horrified at the condition of your thighs. You feel compelled to make changes. To get back to exercise, to make a concerted effort to sculpt away from the flacid excess you see before you. You are shamed by the look of pastey rising yeast dough punctuated with a thousand pricks of a pencil. You dread the exposure of summer; the inevitability of the great reveal.

Within the hour you are in a fitness store, pulling on sport socks and new running shoes. Surely this time you will follow through on your commitment to make regular exercise part of your daily routine. You feel your spirits begin to rise as you imagine your thighs tightening.... March, April, May.... maybe by June you could minimize some damage? Maybe you won't be so ashamed. Maybe you won't worry about people recognizing your inadequacies, your soft spots, your lack of discipline. Maybe it will compensate for your insecurities.

Sunday night you change your alarm settings before you get into bed. 6:00 am. That leaves time for lacing up your sneakers and heading out to start the new you. You wake up before your alarm and wait for it's rude break in the revery. The alarm blasts. You imagine going out into the wind instead of grinding coffee beans and staring off into space. You lay your head on the pillow. Think about it.

There's something familiar about failing again. There's a place to put your sense that you'll never change. Never succeed. Your thighs speak for you when you have no words. They remind you that life is unstable, embarrassing, frightening; and there's no place to hide.

Monday finds you staring into space. Chewing the inside of your lips and fantacizing about how you'll start running again, real soon. Occasionally you remember the dread of your parents' accident, your shock at seeing your daughter on the street with tight lipped Samaritans around her. You remember how it might be today, and how it really is. It's altogether surreal.

But your thighs are not.
They spread out before you.
Endlessly challenging.
Endlessly demanding.
Endlessly aggravating.

What does it feel like to be normal?

Thursday. Usually the day before Friday, but sometimes a day you'll never forget

The next time someone calls you hard-headed, take it as a compliment.

February 28, 2008. 4:00 pm. My mother phoned to tell me that she had totalled their van by flipping it into the ditch near St Agathe. She told the tale of hanging upside down in the van, a nice trucker guy stopping to help them out and let them sit in his warm truck, and their police ride back home. She said they were absolutely fine.

I was still on the phone when I saw Arianna's friend Julia come flying up the back step. She flew into the house and said this:

Arianna has been hit by a car.

Really. she really said that. And that really happened. Really. (I'm repeating myself for my own sake, as I'm in a surreal zone)

Julia and I raced through the snow, over the snow mound at the edge of the church parking lot, and towards the cars and people situated on main street. I was trying to run faster than my feet, and I fell flat out on the snow. I was annoyed that it would take time away from me getting to my girl. Arianna was sitting on the street, lucid, with blankets piled on her. She was surrounded by calm, helpful people who encouraged her to stay still, kept asking her questions, and doing what they could to be helpful. 911 had been phoned, and the first responders were there shortly. They put Arianna in a neck brace, and slid her onto a board. She was saying that her back and head hurt, but she was clearly not in agony.

I met the man who had hit her, and I felt as sorry for him as I did my little girl. He was shaken, and apologetic, and I gave him a hug which may have made him feel worse, I'm not sure. That's when I saw his windshield, which was shattered, in a pattern that looked like the impact of a head, with splinter marks stretching out from it. I had to look back at my daughter. How could she be conscious?! How could there be no blood?!

We had a ride in the ambulance to St Pierre hospital. On the way, their radio was busy with incoming calls, most containing the words MVA. The roads were really, really bad. It was clear that mom and dad and Arianna were not the only ones making it to the emergency room.

At the hospital, we had a series of X-rays which all came back absolutely fine. I was anxious for the attendants to roll her over so I could get a look at the bruises on her back.

Her back was as beautiful as the day she was born. Not a scratch, a bruise, NOTHING. After the doc took a look at the pictures and gave her the okay, we were able to take off the neck brace and help her sit up, then stand up, then walk. Seriously. There was my absolutely beautiful daughter, standing tall and pretty and smart and strong as ever. Unbelievable.

We learned that most of the highways in the area had been closed by the RCMP. Good thing we always have uncle Mel. Brian, and mel, and Kathy came up in that wonderful truck of his, with interior heating and four wheels and everything and drove us home through the storm.

My little girl has a really sore lower back. And a tiny scratch on her pinkie. And did I mention that they were eating ketchup chips on their way to the church? In addition to shattering the guy's windshield, she also sprinkled it with ketchup chips. How thoughtful of her.

I'll probably write about this another 49 times. Right now I'm trying to write down the facts because living in a small town with wonderful, genuine, helpful people means that there are probably a lot of people who actually saw the accident. They will be wondering what actually happened, and what the fall-out is. Right now, we've got a sore back to deal with. although the x-rays came back normal, we may have chiropractic in our future.

One more thing. Tell your kids that when they are waiting to cross the street, and someone waves them across.... THAT DOES NOT GUARANTEE THAT IT IS SAFE TO CROSS. And that if you have a hard head.... that's not such a bad thing.

(the picture of the windshield is not the actual windshield. It's a picture that I took off the internet)

Excuse me... but... That's a Kitchen You're Carrying on Your Shoulder...

This messenger bag brought to you by a 1976 wall tea towel; a green and teale coloured table cloth, and a kitchen apron.

On Hair and Hearts

I don't get my hair cut every six weeks.
Not even every six months. I have a bit of a bizarre relationship to my hair- I don't like to shower, blow dry, product, or fuss. I can't be bothered. Still, I want the option, and I want it done right. I would rather hack into it myself than trust it to someone who is going to get it all wrong, and then watch me suffer while my hair grows a quarter of a millimeter every solar eclipse.

But I'm sort of opinionated and passionate about hair. When I was a teenager, I wanted to go into cosmetology at the high school, but my mother told me in no-nonsense low german that there were better things to do with one's lifetime. (she hasn't had a hair cut since 1954, I think. I should have probably checked the source of the advice before I caved to it...)

In my lifetime, at a rate of one hair cut every half year or so.... I've met three outstanding hair persons. One was back-in-the-day when I could be selfish and hip and get my hair cut at Edward Carriere with the fancy uptown people with the stellar hair trends and runway type clothing. We would listen to Leonard Cohen moan in the background while envisioning the whisper thin stylists snorting cocaine in the ladies room. My stylist had a plain name like "Helen" or "Susan", and I always thought about the contrast between her name, which was reminiscient of girdled Mennonites in Silver fields, and the cutting edge modern world in which Sue-Helen worked in. And it fit. Sue-Helen certainly didn't swish about in a girdle and thick brown nylons, but she had a sensible mind. She didn't really resonate with the fickle people around her whose main concern was whether they were thin enough, trendy enough, and where the hippest party was going to be that night. And although she didn't point that out to me, it was obvious because I could see her heart through her eyes, and in her choice in conversation.

After we moved to Brandon, I suffered from bad-ass-haircut-itis for the first few years or so. (ah, yes.... such lean years....) Then I met Suzanne. Suzanne is one of those people who gives you the impression that she has been staring longingly out the front window of her shop, hungering and thirsting for your bi-annual appearance. I would go in expecting a hug, a scalp massage, a kick-ass haircut, and an intense therapy session- All swathed and padded in loving compassion and empathy. We talked about women and their bodies, loving God, growing up Mennonite, our family histories, and life in and out of the church. It was Suzanne who taught me most clearly about living life with passion. About loving people outside of the constraints and guidelines of the organized church, utterly between your heart and the God you love. Boy, that was refreshing.

Then we moved again. And I resorted to cutting my own hair again. Ugly, yes. Affordable, yes. I prefer to laugh at my own attempts to bastardize my hair than to be annoyed at someone I paid hard earned dollars to do it for me. But in September of '07, I stuck my neck and scalp out again and entrusted them to a fella named Kyle. He was here for a short time, between cutting famous heads in Vancouvar and jetting off to Australia to learn stuff at Hillsongs. And Kyle was brilliant. He was incredibly gifted with the scissors, he had a humble attitude, and he had such a beautiful heart. I was sitting in the presence of something rare, and I knew it. I didn't get enough time listening to his heart to be able to categorize it. I only know that here was a person who had asked big questions and lived some pretty tough confusions in his short life, and yet he had a hunger and a wisdom and a peace that was waaaay beyond his years. My haircut experience with him was nothing short of inspirational.

So, here I am six months later. The hair has grown about a tenth of a millimeter now, but the haircut I got was so well done that it continues to work as it grows out.

The bigger truth is that everyone has influence. And some of the professions have more influence than one might think.

Do you think it's possible that just this once, my mother might have been wrong?!!
Well, I'm off to Scientific Marvel School of Aesthetics now. Right after I get my degree in design so that I can generate income by making something out of nothing. Then I'm going to finish my University degree so that I can stop calling myself a loser. Then I'll publish a book and go off on a book signing tour.

Nah.... Maybe I'll just lock myself in the bathroom with a pair of sewing scissors, and talk philosophy to myself in the mirror.

I best take care not to use the pinking shears.

As time went on, a sure but steady realization settled upon her.

The practicalities of purchasing cast-off furniture had further reaching sensibilities than she had ever quite anticipated. When one tired of parking oneself upon the settee, one can simply slice it into more manageable bits and sling it over one's shoulder.

Monday makes the Weekend Feel like a Postcard From the Past

The boys were cookie dough depleted.
This calls for an intervention.
Oh, Yay!
The days are getting longer. We no longer feel like going to bed at 3:30pm and getting up in July.
Micah learned to fry his own eggs, and is contemplating the life of a chef in his father's posh eating establishment. Sam has been talking a great deal about swimming pools, beaches, and bonfires. He's mad at the dog for chewing the head off his little wooden turtle from Mexico. (sorry, auntie Kathy). Chap stick makes a nice light snack as well.
The girls have shopping on their minds, and me? Just happy to have a Saturday and a Sunday to caress my best, old friends.
Vintage fabrics.
yum.

A Father's Love

Pretty freaking important.
Reminds me of a certain beautiful child I know who is missing some massively important neural connections because of his mother's decision to drink like a fish while she was growing him. There's just stuff missing. Stuff that can't be replaced. The compromised result is pretty devastating, like a row of carrots that got planted with the corn and never got the sun or moisture that they needed to get orange and thick and juicey. It's insanely unjust on so many levels.

Follow the analogy. The pregnant drunk made a choice to drink. The emotionally absent father makes a choice to shut down. Of course, it's all layered in far reaching complications. The poor choices were probably fueled by their own impoverished history of crummy parenting, and they themselves are the walking wounded, not recognizing that the power of changing history rests with them.

But I don't feel like sticking up for the generation one back right now. I want to be mad about the people right now who are stunted because of what they didn't get. I want free corrective surgery for the wounded. And I want to walk right up to dead beat dads and ask them- Was it worth it? Was it easier to disengage? Is it rewarding to avoid eye contact, or are you afraid that I can see directly into your soul?

It bugs me that dads are just people who got the testosterone ration, turn the lights out and release some of that pent-up repression and then land up as surprised fathers nine months later. I wish you`d have to have some sort of a clue of what you were getting into. What is required. What is the minimum amount of time, energy, teaching, and unconditional love it takes to raise a decently balanced kid. I wish these guys would have had an epiphany back in their twenties or thirties. I don`t think it`s ever too late to start being an engaged dad. Clearly a bunch of stages are erevocably lost, but I think most people`s hearts are always thirsting for that daddy recognition. I bet a bunch of those neural connections could grow themselves later on in life if a daddy would wake up and smell the coffee.

There is a stupid amount of unnecessary wounded in this life. The little people without a decent gestational chance have only got that much to go on. I am sure there is no medical intervention that will ever change how they developed in those crucial nine months.

And the rest of us? What are we doing to not repeat history? Granted, we`ve all got our own scars to work around, and we`ll all mess up our kids and relationships in one way or another.

Just, for crying out loud- can we get real? Can we face up to our humanness, maybe choke out a sorry now and again, maybe get the nerve to look inside and recognize the grip that fear has had on us, and how staring it in the face might weaken it a whole bunch?

Sometimes the cheap Redi-Fill that people use to patch up their crippled selves really gets on my nerves. It`s hard and painful work to face up to your crap, but so is passing your crap on to the next generation.

Marriage Class

Brian and I joined a seven week marriage enrichment class, which we are over halfway through tonight. I figured that all we needed was a bit of a tune-up- Brian could just change a few of his filters and fuses, stop doing stuff that annoys me, start giving me more backrubs and unsolicited vacuum projects, and we'd likely graduate at the top of our class. They'd likely have us teach it immediately upon our completion, I figured. But as we slogged through the video teachings and handbooks, a slow, horrendous realization began to dawn upon me.

If I'd have known that they'd expect me to examine my inner motives and attitudes, I would have set them straight early on.


Dang.

Sabotage

I may be a little overdramatic here, but there seems to be an observable pattern to aspects of my life thus far. I seem to have programmed in a default mode for when I "succeed" to a level beyond which intimidates me. Take the "get over it already and like your body" support group for example. I have talked about it for years now (ten?!). I've spoken to church people about it, been encouraged to pursue it, and met with an elder a few times. I found the materials on the internet complete with teaching packages. I've pretty much decided to go "community" and advertise outside of the bounds of church, but still I've not ordered the materials. My first excuse is money. The van cost us ridiculous sums of money in January, and I've been trying to minimize in some areas to compensate for that. But is it really about the money, or is it just more exciting to talk about doing this stuff, but really too frightening to stick one's neck out and begin?


Then there is the blogging/writing schtick. Within forty-eight hours this weekend, I had two distinctive and opposite conversations with people who have read my blog. The first encouraged me heartily to not compromise on the raw and the honest. That people resonate with what is expressed here, and it provides a voice for others who hadn't formed the thoughts into words and sentences. We talked about the risks of being misunderstood, and she shared her opinion that one should write to the audience that understands the intent,, and that nay-sayers should understand that reading the contents invokes the saying I used to have in my sidebar. "Know that if you read here; I am choosing to trust you. One cannot be trusted without consequences." Readers should understand that they are reading one person's perspective, and that this immediately makes it inconclusive, incomplete, and one-sided.

The conversation with the second party was that there is a distinct difference between a blog and a journal, and that a blog is not and should not be a personal journal. Openly processing raw and untidy thoughts and emotions is best reserved for notebooks and therapists.

I can see both viewpoints are valid. In processing, one must be mindful of respecting other people's privacy. In some cases, it's so near impossible, that it's just easier not to write about it at all. That frustrates me, because I believe that in the world of writing and reading, we all share common struggles. Some of the issues are less common, and when one discovers a blog that writes openly about something that you too deal with, it's a bonding, comforting, supportive place to go to. Staying quiet sometimes feels like pulling down the blinds and pretending that these pains do not exist.

Writing relatively uncensored has important things to consider as well. You've got to have the inner strength to cope when all hell breaks loose, and things get misunderstood. Maybe you've been too casual about an issue, or your words sound crass and careless to the hurting, or your humour totally offends a reader. The ideal reaction in my opinion is to listen, validate, and then learn from the fallout. Becoming defensive is rarely a grand plan, nor is it particularly effective. Not that I'm not prone to all that. Defensiveness, curling up into a fetal position and crying for a month, breaking small appliances, and smoking menthols. All not terribly effective solutions. Most attempted.

But, what, may I ask is the difference between a writer who blogs and a writer who publishes a book? Books are full of opinions, sarcasm, personal anecdotes, private struggles, references to others. How come that's "okay"? Or is it the same, and those authors have developed certain coping skills to help them deal with hate mail and fallout?

After the conflicting discussions in my own mind, and the recent conversations of the weekend, I heard myself speculate that I'd likely begin posting fewer and fewer things, and make them increasingly more shallow. Then people would drop off, I'd have failed again, and I could go back to being a comfortable wanna-be.

How annoying is that? I'm sick of being a wanna-be. I'm sick of feeling like I need permission to fully exist. I'm absolutely not willing to push my own agenda at the cost of relationships, leaving a trail of wounded in my wake. But there must be a line between what one feels compelled to do and be, and learning to live in peace with others.

Epiphany to share, anyone?

Weekends This Delicious Might Be Illegal In Some Countries

Oh, the decadence.

No,we didn't fly away to someplace hot and humid. The weather here was rotten. The children were not shipped off to stay with relatives for an indefinate period of time. The dishes did not clean themselves.


But the food that kicked off our weekend on Friday was especially delightful. Lobster and hot butter. Linguine with feta and sundried tomato; salad with carmalized almond slivers; spinach and ricotta pie; dilled carrots; nice wine. Pleasant company. All that- quite a gift.


The rest of the weekend, I had time to lose myself in my fabrics. Saturday a warmer front blew in from the south, and it was quite pleasant outdoors, so I was able to take a lovely walk down to the thrift shop. They were having a half off sale, and I scooped up a number of fabrics and the hugest cache of shell buckles ever. For practically free. These goodies are going to look pretty sweet on the bags of my imagination. So far, I've oggled them, rearranged their order on my coffee table/beat up chest, and then oggled them some more. Sometimes these delicacies get stared at quite a lot before I'm ready to send them off into the retail world, like a mommy watching her baby leave for kindergarten.







Last winter, my friend slipped me a luscious piece of fabric she'd found at the Steinbach thrift shop. I loved it so much that I could hardly stand to look at it, oggle it, or rearrange it. This weekend, I took the leap of faith and fitted those gorgeous swirls of "peace, happiness, love" into a terrific little messenger bag. I hope I have the courage to sell it. I may like it just a little too much. (well, ok, I made three......)


On Sunday at church, a little angel slipped me a baggie with the most mouthwatering buttons inside it. Wow. What a find. During the message I lined those buttons up in a row on my thigh and just gazed at them. Call it meditation if you will.

Loss of wages aside, ought we not to consider making every weekend three days long? After our first Sunday (being Sunday) we had our second Sunday (being Monday), and easily had time to share a meal with my folks as well. This is something that all too often stays on the list of the well intentioned.

So, the dryer toast of tomorrow's workday may stick in my throat just a little.
Then again, maybe the linger in the air of tantalizing leftovers will waft me down toward Friday again.

Friday Again

Is it any wonder that a city as cold as Winnipeg is known for its quality and variety of restaurants? I don't know too many people who would rather strap on a pair of skates or skis and navigate the river skating path than to sit down to some hot comfort food on a bitterly cold night in February.

We're too content to stay inside to even consider making a trip to Winnipeg to check out their marvelous restaurants. Instead, we've worked out a bit of a pattern for ourselves, right here at home. Brian has become utterly obsessed with the Moosewood cookbooks, and most fridays he rushes home to put together the chosen recipes of the weekend. Last friday it was spinach and ricotta pie; Italian cheesecake; and spaghetti squash smothered in cheese and other delicious morsels. (I pretty much stay out of it, aside from picking up the necessary ingredients on my weekly trip to the city.) The kids aren't much for trying new, vegetarian fare, but they are rarely disappointed in fridays, as Brian makes it a habit to stop at the store on the way home to load up on ketchup chips and coke. (shut up). While I try to dredge up some enthusiasm for my last hour or so of work, and Brian's dishes begin to permeate the air; we wait for our friends to arrive. People pile in with dishes for us to try, balanced with the wine of their choice.

Thus, we usher in the weekend.

We put samples of numerous new recipes onto our plates, and through mmmmmmm's and ahhhh's, and "that's-a-keeper"s, we begin to engage in conversation. My friend Cheri calls it "small group" which is a not-so-new church trend that people are highly encouraged to participate in. In its ideal form, it is an oppurtunity for exploring spirituality in a safe place, a venue for asking the hard questions, and a place to develop relationships beyond the superficial. We've got all of that going on.

Sometimes the conversations stretch well past the point of the kids getting tucked into bed, and long enough for the dessert to have begun to digest. Sometimes long enough for that spinach pie to look appealing again, or for heads to begin dropping onto chests. (well, for me anyway.)

It's an awesome way to start the weekend. Even if Saturday is painfully dull and dominated by dustballs and static-haired offspring, it's a good feeling to remember that Friday was a highlight, and not a horizontal exercise in channel surfing.

Tonight, we get to pretend we've travelled off to the East coast. Our friends are hosting, and cooking lobster. Brian's moosewood cookbook has been studied, the drool wiped off, the ingredients purchased. There's still a bottle of red wine from last Friday. We're both fighting the flu, and the temperature refuses to budge much higher than minus thirty (for about 800 consecutive days now).

But there's a lot of good to focus on instead.

Happy Valentine's Day

It started out innocently enough.
Little did he know that he was rapidly becoming an irresistable chic magnet.

Almost Mexico

I've been away for the past couple of days- mostly in the jahnt zeed area of Manitoba. (That's german for "the other side of the Red River" for those Anglisch amongst you). And I never had to leave the house.

"I Am Hutterite" by Mary Ann Kirkby transported me to the beautiful Manitoba prairies and into a lifestyle that has always held a certain intrigue for me. Her writing is easily read, and tears fell unbidden as I read about her lifetime of joys, losses, hopes, and the loneliness of life off the colony. I thought about human nature being ubiquitous, regardless of culture. I thought about the endurance of the human spirit. And I thought about all the many immigrants we have right under our noses that we probably snub and discount without a second thought. It's easier to feel regret when the account is told by someone with such mastery of our familiar English language, and an understanding of our more mainstream culture. But that doesn't discount the reality that people know when they are perceived as second class citizens, and that naturally they feel the sting and inferiority of rejection. Something to be mindful of in my interactions with people who cross my path.

"Almost Eden" by Anita Horrocks settled me into life of a younger, smaller Winkler. I remember as a child hearing whispers about Eden Mental Health Centers; about shock treatments, and drug therapies. This book is written from the perspective of a twelve year old child whose mother struggles with depression. Another easy read. (It's written for a young audience). I loved all the low German colloquialisms and the direct translation of grammer from that gutteral language. It was easy to relate to the story, having grown up in an extended family basted and marinated in all manner of mental illness challenges.

My head will be in yahnt zeed for a few days yet, anyways.
Nah, yo.
mein zeit!

Sometimes You Think....

..... That what you have done on a Saturday morning is to volunteer for I Love To Read! month at a local mall by offering to spend a half hour reading to anybody's children who happen to show up with ears on.

But that's not it at all.

You did drive through a snowstorm in really poor visibility with a bag full of books, and you had every intention of reading to those children. You did make it to the mall without loss of life or limb. You did make your way to the center, and settle into a comfy wicker chair and wait the arrival of the youngsters.

But that's really not who came.
And that's really not why you came.

There was an entirely different appointment that had been set up, independent of the Arts Council, I Love to Read Month, or humans in general.

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

As I sat in that chair with my bag of books, I was relieved to be away from home for a change, and content to watch the local world walk by. Three women walked by, then paused, looked back and me, and spoke to one another. One of the women turned from the others, approached , and introduced herself to me.

Thus began the dialogue that convinced me again of God's goodness, of the intricate and layered nature of life and relationships, and of the beauty that can come of pain and vulnerability.

This stranger and I had shared one of life's bittersweet and complex experiences, but had not known one another. But we now resonated. We knew the complexities of love and hate coexisting. We knew the pain of their push and pull. We knew the sting of rejection; the ache for recognition, validation, the burn of inferiority.

And in that "chance" meeting of prior strangers, so much was validated and redeemed.
Something was confirmed and encouraged in us, and we were strangers no more.

So, sometimes when life doesn't go the way you had planned; just look between the layers. It may not be at all about what you sometimes think.

(I read one book to one child, and drove home in even worse visibility. And it was worth every minute.)

There is NO medication for this.

You know you've fallen through brand new cracks and well outside of the reaches of conventional medicine when....

You watch those de-cluttering shows on tv, then google for the address so you can get to the yard sale.

You feel overwhelmed at the clutter in your sewing room, so you go to the thrift shop to look for some vintage fabrics.

You own five kitchen tables.

You have so many plates, that you've begun to categorize them by colour and store them in rough totes in the garage.... and the basement.

You actually feel sorry for old things that might be abandoned in a landfill if you don't provide a warm and loving home. You can't leave them at the thrift shop or the yard sale and trust other people to step up.

You have buttons in ziplocs, tins, bowls and plates. You need more. Many of the ones you have are too wonderful to sew onto things and sell. How can you know that they will be lovingly cared for?!

You are obsessed with organizing, tidying, wiping, and clearing. Clutter makes you crazy.
For fun, you go out treasure hunting.

Due to your history of collecting and expiring pets, your garage houses: two hamster cages, a bird cage, and a pet taxi. They are all eerily empty.

Damaged books get picked up at junk places, thinking what wonderful business cards, birthday cards, and collages could be made with them. I rarely have the heart to rip them. I feel sorry for them.

Great admiration and pleasure is derived from other people's straight, tidy, uncluttered living spaces. Then one's mind wanders into imagining what lovely collections could be displayed here, there, and everywhere.

On de-cluttering expeditions, you covet throwing out all your husband's stuff so that you can drive to Rapid City, go see the world's best junk man, and bring home a trailer of really great stuff to put up around the house.

WE GOT OUT TODAY!!

It was a balmy minus ten, and with the windchill felt like a managable minus twenty-one. We strapped on our bonnets and flip flopped over to the church for a change in scenery. The kids were happy for a new space to run in and new toys to strew about. I was completely happy to drink someone else's coffee and eat someone else's cake and hear adults speak. In fact, I so enjoyed listening that I overstayed, and some gracious church saint offered to clean up the toy room for me and the kids.

(thanks Lisa).

Here's what I like about getting over to the church. I already mentioned the change in scenery, and since my sister refused to let me sneak in her suitcase to Mexico this morning, Maranatha church was a very close second. I love the conversation. There is no pattern to it. Sometimes it's silly and humurous. Sometimes its light and weather-related. Sometimes it's real people telling real stories about how they perceived a real God being in their real lives.

Pretty much I like all of it. Today I especially loved getting out of the ding-dang house, even when it involved swaddling six preschoolers in all manner of thermal wear. They are such lovely preschoolers, and I'm absolutely certain that they were glad to get out as well.

people. PEOPLE! What Scurvey Luck!

(Bedknobs and Broomsticks)
This line from my childhood story on record has been bouncing around unrelentingly in my head over the past number of days. It's what the bear says after fishing in the beautiful briney sea and pulling up a bed filled with people. It was so not what he'd hoped to haul in.

And it fits.
It's great to theorize about people and how to get along with them, and how to be the sort of person that gives life to others. It's quite another thing to try and live the thing out. There are so many holes in my heart and in my perceptions. There is so much hunger and neediness and fear.
I love watching our dog Shadow when people come to the door, and especially when Brian comes home from work. She is unabashedly needy and enthusiastic. She launches herself at people, turns herself in circles, tries to grow wings and fly so she can cover mouths and noses with sloppy dog kisses. She never grows self-conscious or embarrassed of her neediness and enthusiasm. She doesn't appear to indulge self-doubt or construct alter-egos to hide her flawed self behind.

But I'm afraid my own neediness embarrasses me. My own vulnerabilites make me indulge in speculations and put thoughts in other people's heads. And worse than that, sometimes people just annoy me. It becomes a tricky balance to recognize my own frailties and acknowledge them, but not to the exclusion of all the simultaneous holes and neediness of the people I am interacting with. It's tempting to begin the compare my relational style with those of others. That's potentially dangerous because we all have our own strengths and weaknesses and the way to celebrate a strength is not by comparing it to anothers' weakness. It's cheap strokes to feel self-righteous by pouncing on someone else's apparent failures.

It's just sad to have a lightbulb moment and see that even when you are being "yourself" , you land up hurting and disappointing, ignoring and disregarding, or just generally annoying people. And you know that this phenomenon will never stop.

I don't know how anyone can stand to be a pastor or a counsellor. I imagine that people have some pretty massive expectations of their relational skills. I imagine that they are expected to be selfless at all times. To do this well and not land up drooling into a bib wrapped in a straight jacket must require a really intense knowledge of your place in God's set up. To do it well and maintain joy and peace must require a constant dependence on the Holy Spirit- a really effective running conversation with the Designer. And a pretty fine tuned knowledge of yourself- your strengths, weaknesses, temptations, typical pitfalls. I see these type of skills a great deal in the pastor of my church. I am hugely encouraged by this example. (I still don't want to be a pastor though....)

Ironically, I've also seen a lot of churched people fall into quite a trap of gossip and finger pointing. Alternately, a lot of nonreligious people have taught me respect for others, the guidelines of love and goodness, and the freedom in loving others without fear. That's not to suggest that church people got it wrong and yellow brand people have it all together relationally. That would be stupid and judgemental as well. It is evident that people who call themselves followers of Jesus don't hold all the relational cards (duh). Which leads me to think that it's more a matter of the heart? Do we get "points" for meaning well? Is it more important to remain supple and willing to learn, willing to humble self and ask questions? Sometimes Christians are so acclimatized to looking for categories of "right" and "wrong", that they forget that people's perceptions should probably trump all of that. And a lot of the time, relationships are just plain muddy. They require dialogue. Redefinition. Active listening.

People. What scurvey luck! A fish I could just fry and eat...

Weekend Reflections

I've wanted to do this for a really long time. I've lugged this window around, hauled it out from under a desk and fished around for where to place it on the wall, thought about what quilt pieces to use, then get interrupted by life and never have the chance to finish it. This weekend the earth stood still for a tiny time and I got the thing done! I don't even need YOU to like it; that's how much I love it.

The two middle pieces are out of the quilt that my sister Laura made for our wedding gift. It has disintegrated to the point of repurposing. There are some green calico pieces in there that came from one of my grandmother Marten's house dresses. I just love it. The bottom lower left piece comes from an old quilt that my friend Rose gave me when Arianna was a baby. It has taken me this long to be willing to cut a piece out of it. Now I get to enjoy it on my wall every day.
We sneaked a little thrift shopping time on our way to a family celebration in Winkler this Saturday. I found a great old suitcase for a dollar and a number of aprons and textiles for re-use. The messenger bag on the bottom of the photo I managed to put together on Saturday morning over a cup of coffee, sun coming in the window, and the kids creatively playing computer games.

This is my happy place. On Sunday mornings, I perch myself on the couch in front of the living room window with my coffee, my cat, my dog, my peace, and my quiet. Then I observe church culture across the street. I watch people and families go into the Mennonite church and speculate about the quality of their lives, their fears and disappointments, their beliefs and quiet doubts.

It was a good weekend. There was a subtle quality of heaviness to portions of it because of human relationships. That's how humans are though. And no matter what, I can never get quite enough of humans.

The Mind, Body, Spirit Connection

When God took a day or a million years or so to create the human body, he sure put a lot of amazing creativity into it. Some of that creativity is subtle enough that not everyone becomes aware of them, even though they walk around with all the componants of the project for the entire duration of their human existance.

Something that holds a great deal of reverence and fascination for me is the mind/body/spirit connection. On some level I've always been aware of it, but the first time I was fully conscious and grateful of it was when my kindly Doctor first suggested antidepressants to me. I spoke aloud some of my fears about medicating my mind- fearing that it was similar to smoking dope or snorking cocaine when what I needed was some sort of God revelation or healing.

My Doctor took his prescription pad, turned it over, and drew three conjoining circles. One he labelled "body", one "mind" and one "spirit". Then he indicated how when one circle is skewed, it pulls the other two out of alignment. (sort of like a chiropractic schtick). How, if I was treating a spiritual problem with a physical solution, the spiritual problem would still continue to exist and would still cry out to be addressed. With, or without antidepressants.

And that's one of the ways that these three componants befriend and look out for each other. If your brain or your spirit is not restful, it lets your body know. If you've not learned how to hear your feelings or your spirit,, your body starts acting up and yelling a little louder, in the hopes that all the voices will be heard. Maybe your back will hurt. Your head will hurt, or you'll need more rest than usual. It's because yourself is trying to tell you something.

This kind of thinking freaks some people out because it sounds beat-a-drum-in-the-woods-ish. But I believe that's because the credit is not going where credit is due: the creator. Somehow it's easier to say that people have depressive or anxious issues because they didn't get the answer that they were taught at Sunday School: Jesus. (Remember when you sat on the long bench in Sunday School, and half-listened, and when you heard your teacher's voice lilt in that "question' way, you just shot your hand up and shouted "JESUS!", 'cuz you just knew that would always be the right answer?) Problem is, I knew the answer, but I had little or no idea what that meant on a practical level. What it sounded like to me, was that you had better believe that was the answer, then squelch anything that felt awful because that meant you weren't believing quite hard enough. That you were obviously quite sinful or something, because shoving up your hand and shouting Jesus just didn't make anything better at all.

Now, I believe that it's all much more mysterious than we'd first suspected. It's not coincidental that Jesus spoke in riddles and stories to the complete conundrum of most of his listeners. Disciples included. It's all wrapped up in a tonne of mystery. Whenever I get anxious about 'believing all the right stuff", I think about all those religious leaders who followed the jewish laws and customs and ran the synagogues and did the animal sacrifices for all the church people of jesus' day. Turns out that Jesus called them weird stuff like "brood of vipers". And stuff about how they'd never make it unless they expected God to do it for them.

So, when I discover connections between my body, my brain, and my heart, I credit it to God. I figure he's the one who put it all together, so He's the one who gets the credit.

Recently, I've had a little help getting in touch with an emotion or two. Weirdly, it's always intimidating. You wonder if you'll turn into Sybil or something, maybe grow fangs or additional facial hair, or get one of those slippery beasts bursting forth from your bosom. Usually, it's only a slippery tear or two; nothing out of the ordinary at all. And that's not the brain/body connection after all. The connection is more practical than discovering that you have a slippery monster sharing your skin.

Your body begins to feel more fully inhabited. Luminous. Less foreign and frightening and less like a potential criminal that needs restraint.

The road to getting there is by tunneling down into your body and locating an emotion that you suspect is trying to tell you something. You hold it close, look at it in your hand, check for colour and a voice, and feel around to see where in your body this emotion makes its home. You stop trying to hide from it, you stop trying to make it go away. You "shake hands with the neighbors", so to speak.

Weird and wonderful stuff happens. Turns out that your emotions can teach your brain and your body a thing or two if you just listen. And you're not listening to a drum in the bush, sitting in the lotus position and emptying your mind.

You are listening to the amazing piece of machinery that your Creator made.

Hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Something to think about.

Processing Out Loud

I (foolishly)........ valiantly..... posted about this support group idea. I know the premise. I know what I want to communicate, I know what I want to explore. I'm plugged into a church, I have begun making the phone calls to get me to point of standing up on a Sunday morning and asking women whether they want to join me. I found the Geneen Roth website, and with Brian's help, discovered teaching packages complete with books and teaching DVDs.

Here's my hangup. It's not Christ-centred teaching. And I'm okay with that on a personal level- from the perspective that no matter who you are or where you've come from, you are created of God and have good to share with the world. Geneen has thought this food and body stuff through to a level that I believe it unprecedented. I've yet to find anything close to it, and I've yet to find anything comprehensive that centres on our wholeness originating from who we are in God.

It's not exactly that I feel I need to "Christian-ize" it.
But I believe that my faith is my center. I believe that when we are bound up in addictions and preoccupations, it is nearly impossible to be effective and move very far forward in our spiritual walk. I also think that if I promote a teaching in church, it should be one that not only aids in the promotion of emotional and physical health, but should urge people into relationship with their Creator. It should teach a new identity- God esteem to replace self esteem.

And if I use a teaching series under the context of church, but it teaches on a spirituality that doesn't have to do with Jesus, that I could be messing with some very non-churchy stuff. It could be suggested that I was "preaching another gospel". I take seriously that the Bible warns against stupid, irresponsible people posing as teachers and then messing individuals up worse than they were when they came to you for "help".

Ironically, I would be willing to host this type of support group outside of the umbrella of the church. I feel like in that context, all I would have to do is make clear my own spiritual beliefs (just for authenticity purposes), and then let the tapes do the teachings without me worrying about heresy.

Hmmmmm. What to do.
I will for now, order the teaching packages and view them myself at home. From there I'll have to decide what direction to go in.

Those Darn Kids

Sometimes on the weekend I think the kids are bored and having the horriblest time of their lives. But on Monday when I dump the pictures out of the camera, I discover that maybe it wasn't so bad after all!

Letting Go of the Past

I've always been a journaler. I have a stack of notebooks scrawled full of crushes and questions, anxieties, diets, plans, and numbers. Lots of numbers. I've always valued the fact that I kept these journals, imagining what insights and memories I could gain at some other, older point in my life walk. This morning I had reason to dig up that stack of journals to hunt for some of those apparent insights.

But I mostly found numbers.
The numbers related to the scale, or how many bread servings or cookies I had guiltily consumed that day. These numbers were interspersed with self-hatred, self-doubt, anxiety, fear, and all manner of harsh intentions to change into something, someone, who I was not.

I had no desire to reread any of this nonsense. The only wisdom I came away with was stuffing all those notebooks into a garbage bag and saying good-bye to that stunted girl forever.

There are valuable lessons to take away from this huge stranglehold on my life. And here's what they are. We are not our body. Food is good, creative, and a wonderful sensory pleasure to be taken full advantage of. The human body is an excellent vehicle to drive into the ground, with the sole intent of living life with all it has to offer- all that God has for us.

If I seem preoccupied with the topic of women and their bodies right now; its because I am. I am working on organizing a support group dealing with food and body image. My desire is to provide a forum for supporting women in learning to listen to and trust the intrinsic wisdom of their God-given body, and thereby come to a place of peace in their relationship to food and their body.

We have a choice in our culture. We can be in the world and of the world- Accept what Hollywood says about us as true. That we cannot be trusted. That we cannot be of any significance unless our body is sleek and thin. Or we can become the voices for the alternative. That we are all different in our beauty. That we are powerful, and able to make great impact in our circle of influence. The more we choose the voices and attitudes that support our belief in our power, the quieter the voices of pressure for thin or muscley can become.

And this is my choice. I choose to empower others. I choose not to join in the guilty whispers in the buffet line of life. I choose to define myself by a different standard than Shape and Cosmo.

And I hope you'll do the same. I know that I'll have many times of doubting these decisions, and I could use a strong, sensible woman or two to turn to.

Permission To Exist

Yes, Hello. I am here to apply for "Permission To Exist". As I understand it, thus far I've been getting by on a Limited Access Pass. It works out all right, but it can be a bit of a hassle. There is a lot of time and effort and energy spent standing in lines getting stamps and permission slips for some of life's rides. The review board schtick is getting a bit tiresome as well. It would make things a lot simpler if I had immediate access to all my potential, and maybe if I could get the lifebank statements sent directly to me, that would be more straightforward as well? A lot of these folks who've been on these boards for long enough for tenure really need to move on. I think it's a system that has seen better days.

Right, so. What do I have to do to get on with the process? Oh, you say its mostly internal? And that I already have the handbook somewhere? And what's that you say? That people will always disapprove and want to silence you but that its up to you how you respond?! Huh. Well, that's kind of sobering.

Uh, huh. Yes.... I think I'd still like to apply for that "Existance" pass.
Sounds kind of scarey, but then again, so is the fear of the unknown....

You Know It's Cold When

It's awfully nice to find something in your mailbox that doesn't require writing out a cheque.

So when Brian blustered in with an envelope addressed to MRS Joyce Hildebrand, my curiosity was arroused.

*

It was from my friend Ruth, who lives four streets over, in the very same town, with the very same windchill, experiencing the very same cabin fever as I.

*

It was a picture of a mildly hysterical artist woman looking mildly hysterical in the midst of her studio filled with even more supplies than my room-stuffed-of-inspiration.

*

And the caption from Ruthie read: "Joyce- I saw this picture and I thought of you. (SMILE)."

*

This I take as great encouragement. Maybe I could make a magazine spread for being hysterical and hoarding tonnes of stuff and turning it into other types of stuff like collages, and bags, and other artlike thingies. Maybe I could hoard more stuff.

*

Maybe.... no.... Definately, I'm really lucky to share this windswept town with someone like ruthie!

I Like My Kid's Brain

boy: Some things that people think are just wrong.
mom: Like what?
boy: Like when boys want a girl to disappear, or girls want a boy to disappear; if that would really happen, and then there wouldn't be women for men to marry, and then the human race would run out.

Weight Preoccupation: The Experience

It would be nice if our daughters would listen to us. It would be nice if they understood us when we spoke to them about nutritious food choices, listening to their bodies, and seeing themselves as more than a silhouette. It would be nice if all mothers believed those things about their own bodies.

But when in my life,the mental tapes begin in grade six, at the vulnerable age of eleven.... it seems that a lifetime of neural pathways become cemented, resurfaced, hardened, with towns and cities and roadsigns and parkways and sewers and landfills surrounding them. A long way down the road, you glance at your thighs one day and realize that you are forty. Not only are you definately not in grade six any more, but you find yourself to be the mother of daughters who are now navigating that very stage of their own lives.

And although you know for sure that as a forty year old you know a lot of stuff you didn't know as an eleven year old.... You still have plenty of days and moments where you wonder if you have changed at all. You wonder if any of the new tapes you have pumped into your head have taken any root whatsoever. You recognize that you are still hostage to numbers and girth , dimples and rolls, and all the meanings you have always attached to your size or to the size you wish you were. There are moments where your brain still believes that you would feel peaceful and secure if you would just lose that 15. or 10. or 5. And there are even more days where you don't even care whether you would find peace or not. You just want to walk about in a body that is thin. You don't really even know why. You feel like it would be worth it to take any risk, do any stupid restrictive diet, just to feel your pants with space in them.

And then you remember that it was that thought exactly that got you into the pickle that you've chewed and choked on for the past twenty nine years. You remember starving in junior high, puking in University. And you know for sure that you've learned something. You've learned how to eat again. How to enjoy food. You know that you have learned that there is something worse than carrying some extra weight. You know that the weight of an eating disorder is incomparably heavier to carry on your mind and body than the pounds your pants stretch to accomodate.

But your twisted mind with its hardened asphalt highways attempts an illegal u-turn. It engages in endless traffic circles. Like a shameless telemarketer it has a comment book for every thought, every hard-earned new way of thinking. With a smooth voice, it titillates. "Well, Kehler. You've pretty much beaten the eating disorder thing. Now all you have to do is lose ten pounds."

I exhaust myself.
And I think that I can do better than this.

It is more challenging now, in ways. My metabolism has slowed down, what with sleeping at night instead of nursing babies, eating suppers as a family now that Brian has a day job, being able to afford groceries (now that Brian has a day job...), getting older, being on anti-anxiety medication, hating most forms of exercise, and Brian making irresistably good food every weekend with the corkscrew in his spare hand.

I don't really want to give any of that up.
I don't know if I will ever completely, entirely, totally love my physical body. I don't know if I will ever forgive myself for not being committed to exercise my legs to counteract their sag and dimply genetic predisposition. I don't know if I will ever get over the guilt of knowing that it would take some seriously committed pattern of running or aerobic exercise to get legs that don't look like my mother's and auntie's.

Ironically, I don't know either whether I will ever accept my legs the way they are. Embrace the lumps.

There is just something about being thin that has endless appeal for me. Maybe its what a recovered crystal meth addict feels like. Every cell in his/her body screams out for that hit, even while knowing that the chemical that gives euphoria is the chemical that deals death.

On days when I lose hope of ever being truly clear-minded, I imagine that I'm more a case of changing diagnoses. Where the morbidly obese patient might be relieved to achieve "obese" status, I ought to be grateful that I've progressed from "eating disordered" to "weight preoccupied". I keep trying to do the mental work of getting better. I keep trying to feel the feelings and not wrestle with making sense of the insensible. I keep trying to experience life as it hits me and trying not to project failures and disappointments on my physical self.

But I do believe that if I were to truly work my program, my mind would clear considerably, and my thighs would shrink. I've made it that far before. So, today I've discovered the website of Geneen Roth, my body image hero. It was her wisdom that saved my life some 18 years ago, and I believe that if I were to truly re-commit to the way of life that she taught me, I could be up for another rediagnosis.

I'd settle for "Moderately Sane Woman".

Frozen and Bored

I'm tired of the last post.
I keep thinking that any day now, I will have a thought.
But then, its just achingly cold. The days consist of small children piling in, consumed with cabin fever... and then we make a day of trying to survive. I try to be nice. They try to enlarge their space by bashing themselves and other objects into the walls. I've opened a new "ride at the fair". The ancient brown couch downstairs is now available for bouncing, jumping, somersaults, and general pounding into the ground. We are currently down one seat in the basement, as last week one of my old-enough-to-know-better daycare gems couldn't be bothered to walk upstairs to the toilet. Instead, she stetched out on the grey armchair and had a good, long, warm peeeeeeeeee.

Maybe she was just cold. And lazy.
The cold does that, you know.

I keep telling myself that I'm grateful to be working at home. That I could be standing at a bus stop somewhere, freezing my arse off. I could be in a frozen car, inching along a frozen road. But that would require a vehicle. Seems that ours has whined its way over to the car hospital repeatedly this month, fussing about this and that. I won't bother to go into the sad song about it being January and all, and how I hate to spend mastercard's money on fixing a vehicle. That all goes without saying.

Well, I'm feeling cold. And lazy. Maybe I'll just go stretch out somewhere and have a good long pee.

Writers Club

With the calendar indicating that my fortieth birthday was imminent, I wanted to do something stick-neck-out-ish to challenge myself not to get fat and complacent. So, I joined the Steinbach Arts Council writers club. I felt sort of shy about pretending to think of myself as a writer, and wondered if I'd feel stupid and naked there, much like I did in science, geography, and history (oh, and math...) throughout my school life. But the point was to challenge myself. Stick my neck out. Take some risks.

The first challenge was the Carillon News annual Christmas writing contest. I couldn't think of a thing to write. But I got very stern with myself and had myself a bit of a talking to.

"Self.

You MUST submit something. It does not have to be brilliant. It only has to be written, and submitted."

In the back of my mind, I knew that if I sent something in and didn't get so much as a nod, I would know for sure what a boneheadlosernogoodgoodfornothingwannabe I was. So, it was pretty easy to beat my own personal best. So far, my personal best had involved staying small so that there was no question about it- I could not succeed.

The other, much larger, much scarier, much more tear-inducing concern was that two Decembers ago, my brother Ken had won first place in that very same writing contest. He wrote an incredibly brilliant, layered piece that was so loaded in symbolism that much of it embarrassingly sailed right over my head.

I felt really intimidated to swim in the same pool as my really smart, really talented brother who I'd never see again on this side.

The day before the deadline, I still had no epiphany of brilliance.

So, I tricked myself. I logged into my blogspot, and just did what I do: Open the gates of neural pathology and semantics, and let my fingers do the talking.

I couldn't get the dang laptop to connect to the internet. But, determined to beat my pathetic personal best, I phoned the editer and asked for an extension until the following morning, so that my less electronically crippled husband could help me out with the internet issue.

A few days later, I received an e-mail from the fearless leader of the writers club, congratulating the media winners. I anxiously scanned the names in the e-mail and found that my name was not in the mix. Now I was really starting to feel like I was back in grade 11 geography. Plus, I was ashamed at my selfishness. Here I was part of a secret club- kind of like a writers cult or something, and I ought to be thrilled for all the cult members who had gotten their names in print. Instead I resented and envied them.

But then.
On the first Wednesday of the month of December, I got a phone call from my mother.

"Well.... You made it!" she chirped.
"Made it through what, mom?"
"You made it in the paper!"

Here's where it gets all layered and weird and holy and Anne-Lammott-ish.
All the layers started floating and intersecting and a whole bunch of them got bunched up in my tear ducts and clogged up my throat and my ability to breathe. I couldn't speak. I began to fear that my mother was victem to the dreaded dementia and she was hallucinating.

I made her read the name out loud. Tell me the page number. Tell me she was sure. And I wept. For my brother, for me, for life.

But what about writers club? Well, it turns out that they had done an internal review on each other's work and voted in the best pieces to be sent to the editer of the paper. I hadn't been able to make it to that month's session, and just assumed that I ought to send my work directly to the editer himself.

Which meant that I was the only member of the cult to get paid for the honour of seeing my name in print. I was like some kind of writer snob now, who could write off huge portions of her house, due to being a writer and all. I would have to claim the thirty-five big ones on my income tax receipt, look for tax cuts, try not to let it all go to my head- remember the small town from whence I came...

What I really learned was this: Time will continue to pass in 24 hour segments. You can live small, offend no one, not even dare to take any risks. Or you can celebrate. Embrace. Live out loud. You may or may not get your strokes, but at least you know you challenged your own status quo.
At least you get to know your own heart.

Christian Sales Pitches

I just read a "22 Minutes style" post about the super-spiritual-ness of Jesus paraphanalia. The watch that has a cross as an arm. The stuff out there that we can buy so that we apparently look more committed to our faith or something.

And it made me remember what's been on the back burner of my brain for many years, and especially over the past few days. Does anyone else think its weird or curious that of all the hundreds of laws and guidelines and suggestions that the old testament is stuffed full of, there remains one that apparently still applies just as perfectly today as it did in the days before Christ?

I'm referring to the concept known as titheing. Where the current day Jesus believer gives ten percent of his or her income to "God". Now, I've heard it say, that the Bible also teaches that this ten percent is to be given to your local church. (I guess that is where God is?) That if you choose to give money to soup kitchens, starving orphans, youth going on work trips, etc, that these funds should be above and beyond your ten percent tithe amount.

Now, this makes good business sense. It's also good common sense. The church is about the community and its needs. Its about love and giving a hand up to anyone who needs it. So, you need money for the church. The pastoring people need money. The hydro people need money. The youth people need money. The library needs money. Even the bathroom needs money. And its pretty handy to figure that the Bible says that all the people who come into the church and depend on it, should give ten percent of their income. That amount would likely cover the cost of tp and paying employees, and it goes without saying that we'd like to see those things happen. (nothing worse than the old drip-dry method....)

But it really gets my goat when all kinds of other stuff gets attached to giving money in church. I can't stand it when someone says; "God can't bless you if you don't give". I generally have to hold onto both sides of my seat so that I don't jump up and yell; "Oh, yeah? I'm pretty sure that God can do whatever He wants!" And to be honest, I'm not real thrilled to hear all about "what's in it for me". How, suddenly I'll have "the socks blessed off me". (if I didn't, and I was genuine about giving.... well then I'd give anyway. I wouldn't be giving to see what I'd get out of it).

I don't exactly think that none of it is true, so that's not why it bugs me so much.

I was talking to a friend about this, and I like the word picture he drew for me. It was about a hand clutched tight around a penny. Closed. How giving opens up movement in the universe. And when there is movement, there is usually enough. Or maybe it just takes your fearing mind off of hoarding for yourself.

Maybe we should sacrifice some goats or something.
Weird, when someone says that, isn't it? So how come the guys who followed Jesus around, plus Jesus himself, didn't teach on titheing? I know the short answer, and its that Jesus asked not for ten percent, but for everything. And that would be tougher to talk about as the offering basket is going around.

I'm not a bible hero by a long stretch. In my experience of life, I've had long periods of time where I have given that specific ten percent amount. I've not given. I've also given without keeping track. I've chosen to try and pay bills and groceries and not given much at all. I've given to causes, to churches, to schools, to people. And there is no remarkable difference in my wallet.

Because I happen to think that God is not nearly that fickle. And I think that if I were "accountant" enough to clearly give ten percent, then I'd probably be accountant enough to be really stellar at keeping up the books. If I was stellar at that, there would probably be "enough". Because I would probably be more intentional about how the money got spent.

Am I saying that God has nothing to do with money?

Nope.

I just think that a lot of us rich North Americans are always looking for linear constructs to attach to the spiritual. That there must be more to giving than getting. That maybe we need to concentrate on a bigger God. That maybe the world is now our neighbor, and there's a whole lotta lovin' that needs to be done.

Any thoughts? Or did I just marr a sacrificial lamb here?

Never Underestimate What a Preschooler Can Teach You

After observing her young charges busy themselves all morning with playing house, their daycare provider wondered if they now related to her own sense of exhaustion gained from running after their numerous needs for hours on end. Then, thanks to a brilliant child at the tender age of not-yet-two, She had an epiphany. With the use of an ordinary kitchen appliance, she too could learn to "put herself back in the equasion" as she had heard Oprah and her therapist insist on numerous times.

Who's In Your Audience?

*its been done before, but the audience has shifted somewhat. Allow me to introduce the new gang. Why? you ask? I find myself doing extensive mental reviews of my audience these days when I sit down to express my thoughts. It's somewhat debilitating, and needs to be defined so some meaning can be attached to it all. Then I can decide if shunnings need to occur.

God.
And I want to take that one seriously, and I already know I won't want an eviction for that box seat.

"Grow up. You're kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously towards others, the way God lives toward you. Be especially careful when you are trying to be good so that you don't make a performance out of it. It might be good theater, but the God who made you won't be applauding. When you help someone out, don't think about how it looks. Just do it- quietly and unobtrusively. That is the way your God, who conceived you in love, working behind the scenes, helps you out." (Matthew)

Family.
We share parents, history, current events, genetics. But that doesn't mean we share perceptions. That doesn't mean we live in the same reality. And when you come from family, there are certain things that constantly require redefinition.

Somehow I have to know how to express my reality without disrespecting others, or disregarding their need for privacy. I have to figure out where my role in the family is appropriate and acceptable to me, and alternately where I can hand myself a pink slip.

The legalist.
The legalist regularly hangs over my shoulder and notes my wrongful thinking. My sins. My soft spots, my vulnerabilities. Then the legalist tiptoes away softly and goes to someone else to review all the areas in which I am failing. What really bothers me is that this bothers me. I still want the legalist's approval.

The lurker/supporter.
Maybe at some point I said something useful. The lurker/supporter comes back hoping for more. Then it turns out that that was the bottom of the well. Turns out that instead of remaining silent and benign and leaving the possible illusion of brilliance, I've opened my big snout and removed all doubt of my ignorance and stupidity.

The reader/writer.
This is where I want to apologize endlessly. I keep writing, but I can't keep up with all the reading. So, even though there are many blogs out there that I love to read, I just can't do it all regularly any more.

The openly hateful.
Scarey. And the very fact that this audience wants me to shut down, live small, be quiet; brings out a more mature thing in me. I say No. But I'm really sad about it. The old me still wants to keep asking for permission to live out loud, to learn, to grow, to disagree. And so there is this constant struggle.

The big thinker.
Smart, you are. And responsible, integral, even intimidating. You think and live in ways that inspire me, sometimes frighten me. I don't want to bore you, annoy you, but I'm afraid it's just a matter of time.

Blasts from the Past.
Some of us were kids together, some of us were young adults together. For all I know, I dated some of you. Creepy. I'm sure there is bushels of stuff on this blog that's news to you. It's definately news to me that you would choose to come back. Yet, I'm glad you do. It's incredibly validating. It has meant reconciliation and new relationships, and new constructs in which to mentally file things from the past.

And then there are the seats who are occupied by goodness-knows-who-or-why.
Some of those spots have become clear to me since the last time I wrote about my audience. Some of them were just waiting for me to slip up. Some others graciously came out of lurking. I guess the fear is that I just don't know why the heck you are taking seats. I'm afraid of attack, I suppose. But I wish I had the backbone to not be afraid and not desire your approval.

So, those are the nails currently hanging around my coffin.
How about you? Who is in your audience?