Ready Aim Fire

My hands were shaking as I took the gun.

The .243 was heavy and awkward as I held it against my shoulder. I cocked my head to peer through the scope and wrapped my finger gingerly around the trigger.

I took a deep breath and tried to relax. The world stopped for a moment.

Then I fired.

The shot rang in my ears for a second, and there was a strange, slightly unpleasant burning smell.

"Good job," said our friend Kevin encouragingly, stepping toward me and carefully taking the rifle.

I gave it up more reluctantly than I would have predicted, as my husband prepared to take his turn.

For there is something strangely (and surprisingly) thrilling about shooting.

I suppose, chemically, it might just be the pleasing effects of adrenaline. It felt lovely to be out in the fresh afternoon air, mastering this powerful skill. But the excitement was tempered by solemn seriousness. And in large part, the adrenaline was the result of a heavy realization, the recognition of a scary potential for harm.

It is not often that I hold the power to take life so easily, possibly without even meaning to.

Yet at some point I decided that I wanted to learn how to safely handle a gun. I was thinking about what it would be like to need a gun in an emergency, to have one, but not to know how to shoot it.

And now, after handling one, I am happier than ever to live in Canada...where gun laws are tough.

I Want To Ride It Where I Like

"For instance, the bicycle is the most efficient machine ever created: Converting calories into gas, a bicycle gets the equivalent of three thousand miles per gallon." ~Bill Strickland, The Quotable Cyclist

I caught sight of it last Thursday. There it stood, leaning with a rakish tilt on its slender kick-stand. It's lines were smooth and graceful. Bright red frame, thick white-wall tires. It stood in line among snowblowers and lawnmowers, patio furniture and tarps.

But if I wanted it, I'd have to fight for it.

The bidding began. My fingers tightened around my paper number, and my heart pounded. I pushed through the crowd to stand sentinel at the front, keeping my red beauty in sight.

"$25?"

A nod from a lady with a red jacket.

"$30?"

Man wearing denim coveralls lifts his hand.

"$35?"

Red jacket nods

"$40?"

Coveralls stays with it.

"45?"

Red jacket pauses, then shakes her head no.

I haven't yet raised my hand, and a vision of some set of clumsy paws wheeling my bike away flashes before me. I set my jaw.

"$45?"

I raise my number with determination.

"$50?"

Coveralls balks. The fight is over. With very little fuss, I have emerged the victor. I wheel my new bike to the parking lot where I gleefully ride around the cars in circles.

My bike is nothing special to anyone other than me. But to me, it feels like pure joy as I set my face to the wind and head out. It's the same rush of freedom I felt when the training wheels finally came off and it was just me and the sandy road to the candy store.

"Melancholy is incompatible with bicycling." ~James E. Starrs

Sharing Is Caring

Collectively, we humans know a lot of stuff. Too much stuff, in fact, for any one person to possibly hope to grasp in the course of a lifetime.

But, lucky for us, we share. We rely on the knowledge of others to allow us to move forward in our lives, unhindered. Most people don't know how a combustion engine works, but we drive happily along, free to contemplate other things.

We are literally surrounded by objects invented, created, and maintained by the expertise of a vague "them", but in "putting our heads together", we give each other the freedom and time required to delve deeply into whatever it is that interests us.

I've noticed the same thing happening in relationships.

It is only economical for my husband and I to pool our collective resources. I allow him to step in where my knowledge fails, and he does the same. In this way we are an efficient unit, pulling together.

But here's the downside: We're not forced to confront our weaknesses, and maybe some small aspects of our independent selves are lost.

A few days ago I drove down to my parents' cottage for a swim. It had been sunny and hot, but as I approached, I noticed threatening black clouds curdling over the West shoreline. A sharp wind was hurling the surf at the rocks and blowing ominous mists across the water. And there was the sailboat, completely off it's cradle, groaning and scraping against the sharp rocks of the groin.

I looked at the situation and immediately thought, "I need help." I turned to look at the empty cottage for backup, before it struck me that I was on my own. My first thought had been for my big, strong man, but it was with a sense of exhilaration that I took up the weight of responsibility and jumped into the water.

After a few moments of intense struggle, the boat was safely back in its mooring. I straightened up and felt a glimmer of pride. I had done it, on my own.

"Any woman can do anything," said my Grandma. (She was encouraging me not to worry, after reading my last blog post. "I'd never kill you," she added.)

But the strange paradox is that we can all 'do anything' only because we don't have to do everything. Others do some of it for us.

Reclaiming a small piece of my own self-sufficiency was an empowering experience. I remembered that I am capable and strong.

And yet, don't get the wrong impression. I don't mean to imply that we should be striving for stark independence. Aren't we sharing, communal, relational beings? Haven't you heard about prisoners being put in isolation? It's punishment.

It seems an inescapable fact: We belong to a web of interconnected yet separate lives. I've never met the person who invented my microwave oven, or the one who built it, packaged it, sold it, transported it, or wrote the commercial that made me buy it, but all of these people had some small part to play (for good or ill) in the thing that sits on top of my refrigerator, smelling slightly of cooked weiners.

Have you thought about your contribution lately?

What would you like to share?

The Frustrating Thing About Animals

Horse Eyelashes by Photos8.com
Originally uploaded by Photos8.com

I'm looking after my parents' place while they are away.

This means watering the gardens, feeding the cats, tending the chickens, and letting the horses in and out of the barn. And, for an apartment-dweller like me, this also means a certain degree of stress and frustration as I try to maintain control.

You see, in my little apartment, everything has its place and nothing is too surprising. I don't have any pets or small children and, even though he sometimes pretends otherwise, my husband IS capable of feeding himself. No one is dependent upon me for sustenance.

But here, I know that if the horses' water supply fails and I haven't checked it, they could die. If I fail to water the veggie garden, all my mother's hard work will wither. If I can't round up the chickens and get them safely put away at night, they'll be eaten.

And if I anything happens to my Grandmother's cats, I'll be dead. Because she'll kill me.

It's some heavy responsibility.

Which is why last night, after a nice anniversary dinner, I spent forty-five minutes chasing one idiot chicken around and around the garden. All the others found their way back into the enclosure, but not this one. Eventually she sprinted in, but only after two more had wandered back out.

I gritted my teeth and had to remind myself not to be angry at the chickens. It's not their fault. They're really just not very bright.

Eventually, I took a deep breath and unclenched my fists. I had to relax my need for control and order. I went into the house, sat at the kitchen table, and ate a ginger cookie. The dying sun pushed long shadows across the grass.

I waited twenty minutes and went back out to the chicken house. All six sat side-by-side on the roost and looked at me blankly: "What?"

Children Of The Corn

Corn
Originally uploaded by jasonippolito

The day was crystal clear, breezy, and filled with insect hum. I stepped forward through tall green stalks into the cornfield and dropped my bucket. My husband's grandparents disappeared in similar fashion into the waving green.

We were collecting young corn for pickling.

I worked my way down and across rows, as the rest of the world vanished into a rushing, ocean noise of green stalks slapping. A blue sky overhead dipped and wheeled. The upper half of the great black barn was still visible; the only landmark in sight.

I thought of all the creepy stories I'd ever heard about cornfields, and began to understand. How easy it would be to lose oneself in the disorienting mass of reaching, touching, slapping appendages. A trickle of blood flowed from my hand where a stalk had sliced it, fine and precise as a paper cut.

Bursting out into the day with my full bucket, I realized I had finished first. I waited in the bed of the pickup for the grandparents as a greedy blackfly made persistent attacks at my head. Not a sound could be heard from the cornfield. It was as if my two companions had been swallowed up.

I watched the huge field sway and riot in the wind, and thought about the world. Isn't this what we're like? Aren't we so distracted by what is immediately surrounding us that we fail to recognize our place in the whole? How often do we become dangerously entangled and lose sight of the larger reality that surrounds us?

My grandparents-in-law broke through the stalks into the clear day. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Pickled Beets and Green Fields

ball jar
Originally uploaded by theogeo

As a kid, I never truly appreciated all the wholesome things my mother did. She grew vegetables and harvested wild chokecherries, grapes, and elderberries. She spent hours making jars of pickles and jam, syrup and mint jelly.

I thought, "So what?"

I also remember a time when my father must have despaired of me. I was fifteen, and it was a sunny summer day. I was in the living room watching "The Young And The Restless".

"Why don't you go outside and enjoy the day?" he argued.

"It's boring out there," I complained, "What am I supposed to do?"

"Go for a walk in the field."

I sighed loudly and rolled my eyes, "Oh yeah, that sounds exciting."

While this attitude surely didn't typify my entire childhood, I'm sure at that moment my worried Dad must have been thinking 'what have we done wrong?'.

Now, years later, there is hardly anything I enjoy more than a good old-fashioned, rubber-boot-clad walk through the tall grass. And in this age of mass-production and degraded food quality, I have nothing but enthusiasm for the idea of home-produced food. I'm turning now to the wisdom of my mother to help me reclaim the lost arts of self-sustainability.

We all go through phases of waxing and waning interest and enthusiasm. We all have wild inconsistencies and areas where we stumble repeatedly.

I use all-natural toothpaste but sleep with the air-conditioner on.

In attempting to change our lives for the better, we're bound to have moments of hypocrisy. None of us are perfect.

Should we allow this fact to dissuade us from making the attempt? Should we despair when others don't seem to share our excitement? Should we write them off for good?

Or can we relax and hope for the subtle shifts to take place, not only in them, but in us?

Seeds To The Earth

Seeds to the earth
Originally uploaded by seanmcgrath

Are we aware of the moments when little seeds are being planted in us by someone or something? Can we ever look back and pinpoint the exact moment when something pivotal was finding its way in, maybe laying dormant for a while, but eventually bursting into bloom?

I think these seeds fall more often than we realize. We walk around scattering them all over the place willy-nilly.

But every so often, if the conditions are just right, a seed will take hold and thrive.

Tonight I was having a conversation online with a very old friend, someone who features heavily in all my best childhood memories. We haven't spoken in years.

"I've been reading your blog," he said, out of the blue, "It's been making me want to write my own."

I was flabbergasted. And delighted.

I was blown away that this little thing I do, way over here, in the seclusion of my small apartment, has influenced his life in however small a way.

Are we all doing this to each other, all the time, for good or for ill?

When I was thirteen, I had problems with my friends. They were determined to throw themselves into a world of experience that I couldn't keep up with. My immature brain could not figure out why I had suddenly been cast out. I took it personally. I thought I must be lacking. For a couple of years I didn't feel like I could trust anyone, as one by one my friends let me down.

Then came Erin. She wore her heart on her sleeve. She was loyal and trustworthy and hilarious. She planted seeds all over the place. I remember being very wary of her open offer of friendship, but then she surprised me by meaning it.

Have I ever told her how much that meant to me at that particular moment in time? Does she know how her honest heart won out over the cynicism that had been growing in mine?

The Stuff We Hold On To

Serendipity
Originally uploaded by shannonpatrick17

It's funny the way memories attach themselves to things.

How often have you come upon some THING - in a musty box hidden away in the attic, at a neighbour's garage sale - and been flooded with long-forgotten recollections of times past?

Where have those memories been, all this time? Would we ever have stumbled upon them again, or is this THING a key; the only one capable of unlocking them for us?

Is this why we hesitate to part with our THINGS? Is it that we've realized how our memories fail us?

My in-laws own an auction business, and this week I worked for them, unpacking boxes and boxes of other people's stuff.

I was blown away by the sheer number of objects one person could have, as each box yielded up it contents, filling the tables around me. But, strangely, I began to see the THINGS as subtle receptacles of memory. The collection of items, when viewed as a whole, seemed to tell a story - however fragmented and incomplete - about the life to which it had been attached.

It felt weird. Like snooping through your brother's dresser.

Today found me sitting on the floor in my childhood bedroom, sorting through the contents of my 'memory chest'. Outside, rain poured down as I discovered pictures and notes, love letters and certificates. I let forgotten memories wash over me, soothing that deep inner thirst we all have for the answer to the question: Who am I?

Yet, while memories give us clues, I don't think any real answers are to be found in these relics. We are bound to stumble if we keep our gaze fixed over our shoulders.

I laughed and remembered, kept a few dear THINGS, then let go of the rest. I stood, brushing the dust off my clothes, and left the room. Trying not to look back.

Unexpected Detours

4th of July Storm at Sunset on Trail Ridge Road
Originally uploaded by AlphaTangoBravo / Adam Baker

It's so easy to get sidetracked, isn't it?

On the drive from Philadelphia to New Haven, my husband and I drove fifty miles out of our way because of one small mistake. Was it carelessness, an unavoidable error, or something else? It's hard to know for sure. But there we were, thrown miles off track, with nothing to do but go forward.

Has this ever happened to you on the road? What about in life?

In the first year after I finished theatre school, I got a call from a cruise ship company offering me a seven-month contract as a dancer. I was surprised. I thought they were going to offer me a singer's position. I turned them down with the hope that they might change their minds and ask me to sing.

They didn't.

It felt like a big mistake at the time. I was watching my exit fly past as I flew down the road at a hundred kilometers an hour. I was wasting valuable time and energy in a huge detour.

Then I got a call. Did I want a gig in my hometown, choreographing a full-length show for the first time ever?

And another call, this one from a certain great guy I had had a crush on since our first meeting in grade seven homeroom. Did I want to go for coffee?

A few years and one big question later, we're married.

From where I stood that first year out of theatre school, I could never have predicted where my life is now. The twists and turns have been many; some for better, some for worse. The detours have, in many cases, led me away from the arrow-straight highway of success. But I wouldn't trade this sweet, soulful, winding road on which I find myself.

Miles and miles out of the way of our destination, my husband and I stopped for a break at a road-side rest stop. We stood surveying the scene, stretching out our car-cramps. My husband ate a ripe plum and it oozed down his chin.

The sun was beginning to set behind the distant peaks of the Catskills. The dusk was warm and fragrant with the smell of moss and damp earth. Ivy climbed in a verdant frenzy up the towering trees that wrapped around us. I shaded my eyes with my hand and gazed out over the golden trees.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I asked.

He nodded, grinning. The sun behind him created a halo of light.

"Beautiful," he echoed.

What Kind Of Wich?

Ham and Cheese Sandwich Lunch 4-6-093
Originally uploaded by stevendepolo

"I'm three-burger-hungry!" I declared as my husband and I sat across from our friends in a little pub in New Haven, Connecticut. It was our first night visiting them and, having made an unintended detour (more on that tomorrow), we had arrived late and hadn't eaten.

By the time our main courses came, we were well into our first pitcher of beer, the wings and fries had covered our mouths and fingers with a pleasing smear of grease, and the conversation had become loud and animated.

I took a bite of my "Southwest Chicken Wrap", paused, then shook my head. Hmm...That doesn't taste right. But no, it can't be. I took a few more bites, trying to concentrate on the question one of my friends was asking me.

The room was hot and loud, and the beer consumed on an empty stomach was starting to send warm fuzzies to my brain.

"...I'm sorry," I interrupted her, "I think there's something wrong with my sandwich."

The men looked over.

"What's wrong with it?" someone asked.

"Well, it sort of tastes like..." I blush and falter, then begin to giggle, throwing my hands up in defeat, "...POO?"

Their mouths drop open. Then a general burst of laughter.

"What!?" they cry in disbelief. The sandwich is passed around, and it's confirmed. It's a definite poo-wich.

Next, I have to explain the situation to the waiter, and if saying the word 'poo' to my friends wasn't hard enough, imagine how I blushed and choked as I told him that the food he had just served me tasted and smelled exactly like excrement.

It was really a shame. Apart from the chagrin of having eaten more than ONE bite of the stinky crap-wrap, I felt a little sad as I sent back food for the first time ever. The waitress in me rebelled.

But the rebellion was brief, and in the end the rebellion of my olfactories won out. The poo-wich disappeared into the kitchen, never to be heard from again.

Leaving...

leaving...
Originally uploaded by muha...

I'm flying the coop for a week. A glorious getaway, a giddy galavant, a tumultuous traipse! I wanted to let you know since it's more than likely that you won't be hearing from me while I'm away.

But isn't summer the perfect time to slack off a little? Isn't it wonderful to pack up the car and drive for parts unknown? Isn't there something exhilarating about flip-flopping down some foreign pavement in the ten o'clock dusk with the laughter of friends around you and a warm breeze whispering against your bare legs?

And then when the moon rises and there's nowhere you have to be, doesn't your heart burst open like a glittering night sky?

When Your Presence Is Not Presents Enough

"I don't think most 26-year-olds would know that thing is meant for holding garlic," said my husband.

"They wouldn't?" I asked. I looked at the hand-made pottery and furrowed my brow. "What about this?" I picked up a beautiful, blue and purple glazed serving dish, and caressed its smooth loveliness.

"I don't know," he said, hesitating, "I don't think most 26-year-olds who live in the city cook."

I sighed in frustration, "Well, the wedding's this weekend, we've got to get them something. What do you suggest?"

"Cash."

The conversation got me thinking about the joys, terrors, and potential pitfalls of giving gifts.
For there are many social guidelines for gift-giving, but are there really any hard and fast rules?
Some people say "I don't want anything" and really mean it. Others are just testing you. Some people are genuinely pleased to receive a gift, whatever it is, while others are happy only if it is something they want, while still others couldn't care less about the whole process.

I think it's important that our motives be true:

If someone you know genuinely does not want a gift, but you insist on getting them one anyway, who is that gift really for? Or maybe you know someone who wants something, but it's not in your taste so you get them something else. Maybe you are so afraid of making a mistake you don't even bother.

It's a tricky business.

It didn't take my husband and I long to realize that we're on opposite spectrums of the gift-giving scale.

He's not a gift-guy. He doesn't appreciate presents for himself, he detests the societal pressure to give gifts at prescribed occasions, and he thinks the commerce of gift-giving (taking wine to a dinner party, for instance) is at best stuffy, and at worse a cheap attempt to buy friendship.

I, on the other hand, LOVE giving and receiving gifts. I am thrilled when I have found just the right thing for somebody. I feel loved and cherished when opening something, anything, given to me by someone who cared enough to think of me.

Suffice it to say, this combination doesn't always work well.
Christmas can be dicey.

"I want a present this Christmas," I'll say.

"I don't want anything," he'll answer.

Some years we fail each other, usually when we both insist that our way is the right one.

But the best years are when we both succeed in truly honouring the other's wishes, despite our own personal views and desires.

Because, really, isn't this what gift-giving is all about?

Uncertainty As Freedom

Nobody likes uncertainty. It's uncomfortable, and vaguely threatening.

'What's going to happen!?' we all want to know.

And yet, even though it doesn't feel like it, isn't uncertainty a kind of freedom? Doesn't it reveal that there are multiple possibilities open to us? Isn't it beautiful that we have the freedom and capacity to choose our own paths?

So why does uncertainty oftentimes feel more like a cage, trapping us and hindering our forward momentum? We fear to take a risk because of uncertainty about the outcome. In many cases this is a good thing, as our wax wings can't take the heat. But frequently we are so afraid of the terrifying unknown, that we barely allow ourselves to look at the sky.

As Melville wrote in Moby Dick: "Ignorance is the parent of fear."

My days right now are steeped in the emotional upheaval that is the result of living in uncertainty. I'm impatient to know what's coming next. I want the illusion of security that comes with feeling certain about where one's life is heading. I want it now!

But when I stop to reflect, I realize how foolish it is to try to chain myself to the ground, just because the wide sky that has opened up overhead frightens me with it's vastness.

I realize, too, the hard (yet liberating) truth that it's no more than a pipe-dream; this notion that certainty exists at all in the world.

How Rude

Yesterday, a friend and I were talking to a man who had recently attended a funeral. His eyes widened and he spoke passionately about it.

"Could you believe," he asked us, "That this Korean priest kept his HAT on during the whole burial?" He shook his head in disbelief, "I mean, show some respect!"

I listened as sympathetically as I could, but all I could picture was this man, standing at the graveside of a friend, witnessing the momentous passage of her human body into the earth that sustained her...seething about a hat.

It verged on the ridiculous.

"Maybe they don't take their hats off at burials in Korea," my friend suggested, timid in the face of his outrage.

It's amazing to think about the complexities and subtleties of the rules of etiquette that keep us all on an even keel. Most of these things are so ingrained in us that we don't even realize they're there until someone from a different culture points them out to us. Because, although globalization continues to make the world feel small, the rules of fair play are not universal.

Did you know, that in some parts of Asia it's considered rude to finish all the food offered to you? As rude as if you were to say "Well, that was an awfully small meal." In other parts of the world, not finishing everything on your plate would mean that the food wasn't up to your standards. And whatever you do, don't lean back at the end of a meal in Australia and announce to the table that you are "stuffed". If you do, expect some hearty congratulations, as they'll take this to mean that you're pregnant.

In China, a common greeting on the street is "Where are you going?" It is less of an actual question and more of a casual hello, but to someone from the West, it might be taken as curiosity verging on impertinence when asked by a stranger.

Public smooching on the streets of Paris? Go for it. Kissing in the streets of Cairo? You might get arrested.

Speaking of bad manners, Prime Minister Stephen Harpur was in the news this week:

He was attending a Catholic funeral, when the priest offered him the host. In a Catholic service, non-Catholics are not supposed to partake of communion, and the Prime Minister should not have taken the wafer.

But, take it he did. Then, most likely realizing his mistake, he put the host (to a Catholic, the very body of Christ) into his pocket. Not good.

Catholics everywhere threw back their heads and howled.

But my first thought is, what were his intentions?

Did the Prime Minister INTEND to disrespect every Catholic from here to the Vatican? I doubt it. For that matter, did the Korean priest MEAN to thumb his nose at the dead body of a 92 year-old woman? I'm thinking not.

Don't get me wrong, I think manners are very important. They are the key to showing every human soul that crosses our path the reverence and respect it deserves. But when someone makes a mistake, wouldn't it be good manners to give them the benefit of the doubt?

Your Own Personal Pot Of Gold

Originally uploaded by duckiemonster

How much do you like money? A lot? A WHOLE lot?

How often does it influence your decisions? What percentage of your day is devoted to the pursuit of it? Has your personal value system ever been altered by it?

Money is a huge part of our lives, but we rarely talk about it except in very limited terms: "I need to make more money", "That's too expensive", "You owe me five bucks".

Rarely do we think about its deeper impact on our psyches.

Have you ever done something you didn't feel good about for money?
As a waitress, this issue arises daily because, in every customer interaction, the all-important tip is on the line. Do you flirt with the guy at the bar who is demeaning you, so you can part him from a little more of his cash?

Has money ever come between you and a friend? (i.e. He's not pulling his own weight, or she's taking advantage of me). How much is too much for the friendship to bear? What is the friendship worth, monetarily? 20 bucks? A hundred? A thousand?

Recently, I've become aware of the desire of people to take any talent or skill a person possesses and commercialize it: Bake really great pies? You should sell them! Enjoy helping your elderly neighbour with yard work? Why not start a small business?!

For a while I was working two jobs, one in the day, and another at night. At first it was exciting to see how much money I could make, how little sleep I could survive on. But eventually, I began to notice changes in myself. I felt my normally cheery disposition begin to sour. By the end of a workweek, I was screaming profanities at people in my head over the tiniest things. I also became slightly obsessed with the growth in my savings account, determined to hang on to every last dollar.

I had literally chosen money over my soul.

Still, everyone needs money to live on. The fact is, that most of us will be faced, at one point or maybe often, with a choice to make between more money or more time.

Neither of these choices is wrong in and of themselves. They are right or wrong only in relation to the way they affect your quality of life, and that of the people around you.

But, when the time comes, let the decision be yours and yours alone. Don't let the pressure of a money-obsessed world decide your values for you.

Comfort Food

Free Orange Macro Macaroni and Cheese Creative Commons
Originally uploaded by Pink Sherbet Photography

I woke up this morning to the sound of rain clinking on the metal chimney. Cars driving by make splashing sounds in the wet street, and the sky is dark.

My first thought was: "A good day to make chocolate chip cookies."

What is it about rainy days and comfort food?

I think it has to do with childhood. In summertime, when you're a kid, if it's sunny you play outdoors, and if it's rainy, you stay in. I remember being happy as a clam, curled up in a window seat as the rain pattered against the glass, with a book and a whole sleeve of saltines.

I still read for hours when it rains, and I inevitably turn to those comfort foods that feed my soul much more than my body: Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, macaroni and cheese, bowls of honey nut cheerios.

I think it's important to relish these quiet days of contemplation, when the sky opens up, pours down, and urges you to 'slow down, stay in'.

Think about it, next time, when the weatherman is calling for 'bad' weather, and rain threatens to 'ruin' your weekend, because there is a whole world of creature comforts just waiting to be enjoyed indoors.

Our Secret Lives

Free Pretty Princess Picking Her Nose Creative Commons
Originally uploaded by Pink Sherbet Photography

Years ago, in one of my classes at theatre school, we played a game of confession. We were told to think of something, one thing that we most definitely DID NOT want anyone else to know about us, and then stand up and confess it in front of the class. It was a crazy two hours.

Many of the secrets told were dark - secretly hating a parent, lying, cheating, stealing - so I remember the levity one particular confession brought:

A beautiful, smart, accomplished woman stood up in front of us all. Her face turned red. She began to giggle hysterically. Then, barely able to speak, she blurted:

"Sometimes, when I sit on the toilet...(blushing, giggling)...I like...(giggle)...to...(then all at once in a loud rush)...PICK MY NOSE!"

The class erupted. We laughed for a solid minute, and she laughed too. We wiped tears from our eyes, and held our aching sides. We chuckled all afternoon.

It was the most amazing confession. One of those things that we have ALL done. But which you would NEVER, EVER confess to.

It makes me wonder, what other things do we all do and never confess to?

Alone With Humans

Bark
Originally uploaded by Clownhouse III

It's easy, if you don't live in the country, to go days and weeks without animal contact.

Even for a nature lover like me, the reality of apartment living is that the places I do 'escape to nature' in, are generally well worn forest paths, or parks, or beaches, and it is seldom that anything more exciting than a seagull crosses my path.

I wonder what this does to us? Is it not strange to live in a world teeming with living things - cougars, slugs, porpoises, otters - yet live a life that fairly denies their existence?

Children are fascinated by animals, yet as we grow, we forget to imagine all the animals living LIVES around us, and see them in a narrow, limited sense: food, threat, nuisance, or pet. (To counteract this, please read the children's classic, "The Wind In The Willows").

Being home, surrounded by lush green places of my youth, I have lately been reminded of the presence of animals. There were puppies for sale at the market on Tuesday, and I nearly brought one home.

Then, yesterday afternoon, still trying to shake off the last remnants of the flu, I sat quietly by the pond on my parents' farm, writing. I wrote a little, then lay back to watch dragonflies skimming the surface. I wrote a little more, then investigated a turtle. A big, black snake slithered past my feet as I walked back to the dock, and I jumped, then laughed at myself. Looking up at the far field, I could see something yellow creeping quickly along. Through the telescopic lens I watched as a yellow coyote leaped into the air and pounced down onto something in the grass. He looked up as if he could sense me watching him and stared straight into the lens. I looked away out of a sense of propriety, and he slipped away over the crest of the hill.

It was an animal day. A rare, precious day in which I glimpsed a world larger than the mostly invented cares of my daily existence. I closed the laptop, leaned back, and opened my eyes wide, waiting to see what the world would reveal.

In The Grips Of Something Sinister

Yesterday morning I awoke at 3am and knew something was very wrong.

I was flushed with fever, overcome with wave after wave of nausea, and I spent the next ten hours unhappily revisiting what I had eaten the day before.

It was a dark day. The darkness of the apartment with all the shades drawn mirrored the darkness of my soul. My normally cheerful disposition left me via the toilet bowl, accompanied by so much filth. I writhed on the living room floor begging for relief, succumbing to childish tears of frustration.

Then...

My mom appeared at the door.

She bore freezies and ginger ale. She smoothed my hair and brought me things. She called me "sweetie pie", and clucked sympathetically.

It was just what the child in me had been crying out for.

Isn't it strange how one malevolent microorganism could sweep away my pride, my many years of independence and self-sufficiency, and make a child of me? It was a humbling experience, this needing someone else for comfort. A test, too, to be deprived of activity. To feel my body weak and incapable, watching the world going on without me through the window.

I was forced into a monk-like state of deprivation, a meditative state: no food, no conversation, not even a book to read (for reading only made the nausea worse), only the constant prayer of a body crying out for mercy.

Happy Birthday Canada!

Canada Day Fireworks Finally 2 [Woodbine Beach]
Originally uploaded by Delfi's World [In Focus]

Cross Your Heart And Hope To Die...

Whispering secrets.
Originally uploaded by ms_geek_chic

Stick a needle in your eye!

How dark. How gory. Ever wondered where all these strange childhood rhymes come from, or what in the world they mean?

I think it's amazing how the superstitious lore of childhood - crossing your fingers behind your back nullifies a promise, stepping on a crack will "break your mother's back" - are passed along from generation to generation, spreading through playgrounds like weeds.

In ages past, our ancestors lived in a verbal culture, and stories were told, remembered, and passed down with an accuracy we find hard to believe. Are these childhood fables the last remnants of this?

There is something solemn and serious about the passing on of this secret knowledge. Hands are cupped around ears, and rules are whispered on hissing breath: "Never let a black cat cross your path!"

Will little girls forever pluck the petals of daisies, murmuring "He loves me, he loves me not..."?

Will I always make a wish when the clock reads "11:11"?

Will schoolyards ever ring with the hauntingly familiar cry?:
"Jinx! You owe me a Coke!"

Death

I sat at a funeral yesterday, listening to many words being poured out: Attention paid to the smallest gesture of kindness and generous action, credit long overdue finally being paid.

Death lends grace and forgiveness to us that we cannot seem to extend to the living.

I'm thinking about this now, as I consider the effect that Michael Jackson's death is having on the world. Why is it so much easier now to choose to remember and honour only the very best of him?

Is it that we are able to open our hearts to him now that he's gone, secure in the knowledge that he can't hurt us or disappoint us again?

Or have we been forced to confront his (and our) human frailty? Is it the realization that even the brightest of us cannot live forever, that death comes to us all?

Whatever it may be, there is something precious about the depth of forgiveness death grants. And something very precious about experiencing it with millions of others.

Wouldn't it be great if we could hold on to just a little of this feeling?

To remind us to hold on to what matters.

To see the flesh and blood humans around us not simply in the fleeting moments they appear in our lives, not in reference to ourselves, but with a long view, the view that somehow blurs the mistakes and sharpens the most beautiful parts of a life.

T.L. Snider, J.O.A.T., M.O.N.

I've always wanted letters behind my name.

They carry with them such an air of distinction; The more obscure the better.

The letters in front of your name tell a different story: A "d" and an "r" together make people stand up and pay attention. An "m", an "r", and an "s" tell that man hitting on you that you probably don't want to see the inside of his houseboat.

Unfortunately for me, I don't have a degree, and my theatre school didn't give out letters, only a fantastic education.

These last two months have been an education in themselves for me, as I've been working at a series of "odd jobs": From painting a carport, to alphabetizing a library, to catering a funeral, each day brings something new and interesting. I've been collecting skills, putting them in my back pocket for a rainy day.

Therefore, the letters. I've decided to add them myself:

T.L. Snider, Jack of all trades, Master of none.

Have Your Cake And Eat It, Too

My dear Granny had her 80th birthday bash yesterday and, in preparation for the event, I volunteered to make the cake. I decided to be ambitious and try for a three-tiered, fondant covered, raspberry and lemon-filled monster cake. From scratch.

Little knowing what was in store.

I gathered the ingredients in multiple trips, since each time I got home with the supplies, I would realize with extreme frustration that I had forgotten something.

I set about whipping up the cake batter - quite a process with only my arm for a mixer. The oven in my apartment's little kitchen is from the seventies, and the elements are a little like Saturday Night Fever: Hot in places and crap in others. My cakes were coming out severely lopsided. Two dozen eggs and five hours later, I gave up and went back to the grocery store.

Remember when I said I little knew what was in store? There were the cake mixes: Three for four dollars. In the store. I bought them and went home.

Seriously, friends, they taste just as good as the homemade version. I'm not usually about the easy way out, but in this instance, those mixes were like a gift from Heaven. (As my mom likes to say: "That's why God invented Duncan Heins").

I filled the many layers with lemon curd and raspberry filling, iced them with buttercream, inserted dowels for support, made some mint-green fondant, rolled out the playdough-like fondant and smoothed it over the cakes, attached ribbon, wrapped 'em all up, and called it quits.

After two full days, my creation was complete!

I must admit, it was a pretty cake all stacked and decorated as it was with yellow and purple pansies.

But looks can be deceiving, can't they? I put a forkful of cake in my mouth and it was...Dry. Hmm...Definitely dry.

Luckily, my family loves me, and nobody said anything. But it goes to show, don't spend too much time worrying about looks while ignoring the inside.

You'll end up hard and dry as a graham cracker.

(*As a shout-out to my awesome mother-in-law, today's picture is the cake she made for our wedding. Pretty good for her first try. It was a looker AND tasted great.)

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

"Mr. Snyder"
Originally uploaded by ellievanhoutte

...To get the Chinese newspaper. You get it?

No?

(I guess the chicken got it.)

Member At Large

Board meetings: Serious business, suits and ties, florescent lighting, and paper cuts.

This is what a free-wheeling, twenty-something gal like me thought of when I first considered joining the board of directors for the choir I was involved with for ten years of my childhood. But I thought about how great an experience the choir had been for me, and how good it feels to volunteer, and I took the plunge.

So last night was my first ever Board Meeting. I felt nervous going in (What if I don't measure up?!) and I sat under the florescent lights at the large table and swiveled in a big, puffy office chair. I held a pen in my hand (since everyone else was doing it) and put on my best 'serious business' face.

And then...

We started chatting. Jokes were made and we laughed. Suggestions were made and we voted. Business was discussed, but through it all it was very clear that these were good, kind people, giving of their time to promote an organization that they believed in.

In the end, I went home feeling very good, and I decided I didn't need to go out and get myself a power suit and blackberry after all.

Holy Cow

Have you ever milked a cow? Neither had I.

The teat is rougher yet squishier than I expected as I milked a cow for the first time this week. It was a little tricky, but after a couple of tries I managed to produce a few quick squirts of milk. Unfortunately, I couldn't coordinate the cereal bowl beneath the cow.

It made me think about how much distance most of us have from our food. There is so much to know about the operation of a farm, and I was fascinated as my friend Andrew explained the feeding, milking and care of these large mooing animals that provide so much of my daily sustenance.

I'm not a vegetarian, but I might be if I had to do the killing myself. Does this make me a hypocrite? I've always thought I'd like to take up fishing, but every time I catch a fish I lose my nerve to do the deed and end up throwing it back.

My mom says it is partly biological. That, as a female, I am hardwired to nourish and nurture, not kill. But then I think of all the women on homesteads throughout history, grabbing a chicken out of the yard and wringing it's neck for dinner. And my husband was just as soft-hearted toward that gasping fish.

Are we soft? Or do we leave these things to others because we have the luxury to do so?

I don't have any answers. But I think that if you have the opportunity to milk a cow, you should go for it. That tall glass of milk will taste just a little bit better.

So, Um, The Worms Have Disappeared

That's right.  

The TWO HUNDRED worms I lovingly collected, the ones I've been feeding and tending for weeks, are AWOL!  

It's honestly baffling, but I've searched painstakingly through the piles of decaying food and worm castings, and cannot find a single worm.  It's disheartening, really.  And just when we were really starting to gel.

So, um, I'm not exactly sure what to tell you.  I haven't really decided what to do.  Do I throw out the bin along with my good intentions?  Do I go get more worms and start again?  

Or, do I wait by the phone, hoping they'll call? 

An Impromptu Dip

duck on a pond
Originally uploaded by BotheredByBees

Today, as I walked through the fields in my rubber boots and shorts, wet grasses slapped my bare knees in an itchy kind of way and mosquitos buzzed around my head.

Puffy, white clouds sailed over green hills to the distant Bay, so I did my best to ignore the insect hum as I made my to the back woods. 

Two cows watched mournfully as I went.

The bugs were aggravatingly thick in the woods, and soon had me heading home. As I went, I stopped by a large pond. Geese floated on the far end, and every now and then a fish would plop up through the surface of the water.

I itched my knees and looked at the water, dark and glimmering, hesitating but tempted.

And then SPLASH! I was in.

There's something special about pond-swimming. It's a very different feeling than swimming in a lake or an ocean or a pool:  Your small head poking up out of the flat, glimmering water sees only sky and trees and tall, whispery grasses on every side. 

There is a shimmery sensation of calm as you float on your back beneath the bright sun, and a quick gasp as every now and again a fish brushes past your leg.

Poetry To Pass The Time

Getty Museum #11 (Venus Reclining on a Sea Monster with Cupid and a Putto)
Originally uploaded by kevindooley

So if you haven't noticed, I've been scandalously absent from the blog boards this whole week. Blogger's block is real, I tell you! Nothing for it.

And still it persists. So, to assuage my guilty conscience, here is a bit of poetry I wrote a few years ago. (Even though, according to the CBC, poetry is dead). I think I must have been reading Homer or Dante or something.


The Poison Cup

O my dear, what bliss! What bliss!

A cup of poison, slit of the wrist!

A silent, dark and maudlin twist.

It’s bliss! It’s bliss! This treachery, this!



Now deep in the bowels a steamy hiss,

The foul stench of stagnant piss,

The monster smiles with pointedness,

She cannot miss! She cannot miss!



How hotly burns the treason kiss,

The coins that pass from fist to fist.

They’ll eat the bones, the bile, the grist.

The innocent succumb to this.



The angel choir begins to twist

The clouds roll dark and ominous,

The monsters in their dirty tryst

Are crunching bones and smacking lips.



Now sweet the voice behind the mist:

“Angelicus! Angelicus!

Now all rise up and come to this!”

Her song all golden gloriousness.



From deep below they hear a hiss:

“You never will succeed at this.

For Man was made to seek this bliss,

This hot embrace, this devil’s kiss!”



“For O my dears, what bliss! What bliss!”

Another hissed in wickedness,

“O cup of poison, pile of grist,

The weak ones will succumb to this!”



The mountainside grew dark with mist,

While ocean swells began to list,

But in a desert oasis,

A small companion raised her fist.



She cried, “Oh wicked viciousness!

If ever there was truth in this,

I’ll fight you and I won’t resist,

You’ll nevermore make prey of us!”



A vicious pop and sizzling hiss,

In pain the monsters writhe and twist,

As arrows of Angelicus

Pierce scaly hides of wretchedness.



“But O my dears, what’s this? What’s this?

This wretched sizzle, burn and twist!

How did it all come down to this?”

The monsters fell into the pits.



The small companion dropped her fist,

She kissed her hand, she danced with bliss,

While in the sky, Angelicus,

Sent up the cry, “Victorious!”

Birdsong Radio

Headphones
Originally uploaded by flattop341

On May 14th, I blogged about how an overload of human noise can increase stress in our lives, and mentioned how refreshing it was to be surrounded aurally by nothing but birdsong.

So I was pleased yesterday when listening to the CBC, to hear the story of a man who works in radio in Great Britain. He told how he used a forty-minute recording of birds in his backyard as a test sample for a new radio station he was working to set up. He did this to protect the secrecy of the new radio station, and was shocked when people responded in droves, praising the birdsong radio!

It seems people were thrilled to listen to nothing but birds as they fought commuter traffic, relaxed in the bath, or waited in the dentist's office. It was popular with prison inmates as a connection with the world they could never see. One crafty real estate agent even opened all the windows of a home during an open house, put on Birdsong Radio, and then went on about the "charming country feel of the place"!

After eighteen months on the air, Birdsong Radio has been replaced with an easy-listening station, to the outrage of many devotees.

Because Celine Dion is okay, but really, she can't hold a candle to a chickadee at dawn!

Listen to a sample (Scroll down and click on "Live Dawn Chorus Birdsong Stream").
More about Birdsong Radio.

What I Found In The Forest

A huge, black, slobbering dog took me for a walk through the woods yesterday.  He loves the forest, and dashes this way and that, sniffing up one tree, marking another.  As we neared home (my husband's parents' place), he bounded away and didn't return to find me.  I was left alone under the trees.

I stopped to check out some bark that was peeling off onto the forest floor, when I spotted the strangest looking mushroom I had ever seen.  

It was huge for one thing.  The cap was almost as big as my fist and looked like a strange brown brain.  The stem was thick and white with folds and wrinkles that looked a little too much like human skin not to be eerie.

I've got to admit, it looked seriously phallic.

At this point, I had absolutely no inclination to eat aforementioned phallic, brainy mushroom, so I left it where it was and returned to the house where people were gathering to celebrate the wedding anniversary of Grandma and Grandpa Reid.  Everyone was sitting in the late afternoon sun in adirondack chairs out on the patio.

"You'll never guess what I found," I said.  

But I was wrong, they did guess.  They knew as soon as I described it to them, that I had found a morel.  One of the most sought-after, prized fungi around.

"Go get it!"  they said, eagerly.

So I did.  I brought it back in a pail, and we chopped it up and fried it in enough sizzling butter to supply Lobsterfest for a week.

I chewed on the rubbery, butter soaked morel and contemplated.  To me, the taste was certainly not worth all the fuss, but I think the real mystique and appeal of morels is in the finding of them.  This is one kind of food you can't just go into the grocery store and buy at any time of the year.  Morels must be hunted, stealthily, through leafy places in the glimmering wood.

I'm A Hippy?

Hippies
Originally uploaded by Todd Huffman

"You're a hippy," my husband teased last night, as I offered him some of my homemade granola.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, as I dropped vials of essential oils back into their tub to make room on the table, "Because I make my own granola?"

"Yes, that and we have WORMS in our kitchen."

"And you're just noticing this now?"

He laughed, but didn't reply. His mouth was full of granola.

"I'm NOT a hippy," I declared, vehemently.

Yet it is true that there came a day when I decided to stop bleaching my hair. And another when I decided to try to avoid chemicals in my shampoo. And another when I decided that I would pay a little extra to know where my food was coming from.

But that doesn't mean I'm into labels like "hippy" (or "redneck" or "yuppy" or "preppy" for that matter).  And someday I may decide I want to bleach my hair, eat nothing but McDonalds, spend all my free time in a tanning bed.

I'm still growing and learning and changing my mind, and I hope that never stops.  Because I don't think anything good comes of trying to over-simplify the complexity of a human life.

Except, perhaps, some good cable TV.

Farmers

Lindenhof Lambs
Originally uploaded by ejhogbin

I went to my first 'farm sale' a few days ago. That is, an auction that takes place on a farm.

I was amazed, looking around at the various characters as they poked through buckets of rusty bolts, checked out old wooden ladders, murmured knowingly over some piece of farm machinery that was a mystery to me, looking as if it had seen a hundred summers.

These men (for I was one of the few women in attendance, other than those selling pie at the snack booth) had lined faces, cracked hands, and penetrating gazes. Some wore ripped shirts and dusty jeans, others were neat as a pin in coveralls and ballcaps.

There was something deadly serious about it all, and something comical.

My wonderful friends Erin and Andrew have a farm deep in the rolling countryside. Erin is busy running around after her delightful one-year-old daughter, and Andrew works full-time for the Ministry of Natural Resources, but in their 'spare' time, they farm.

They spend hour after hour tending their flock of sheep, tapping the maples to make syrup, going through the exciting and stressful process of lambing. They make a little money at it but, with the amount of time and labour that goes in, their real motivation is love of it.

This year, one little lamb had to be bottle fed, having been born small and unable to compete with her siblings for milk. So, while we all slept soundly, Andrew rose in the dark and made his way to the barn. He held the lamb gently and fed her from a bottle, before returning to bed, only to repeat the process again before work, and after work, and after dinner, and before bed, day after day.

Thinking about this kind of dedication, I feel ashamed at my urge to mock the farmers at the sale. Their seriousness about their work is no joke. They made the choice to live a life they love even though isn't easy, they work harder, longer hours than most of us for less pay, and, best of all, they can look at a pile of rusty wire and see the possibility of plenty.