It's Hard to be Salt and Light

 I'm not supposed to care -- but I do.  

I grew up less than 20 miles north of the border between Quebec, here in Canada, and northern NY State -- and not all that far from Vermont.  We'd go to Malone for movies that hadn't come to our home town or even to Montreal.  We'd go for shopping.  We'd go to Chateauguay, NY (not to be confused with Chateauguay, Quebec!) for dining.  I think some of my cousins there still do.

My parents -- my mother and my step-father, who married in July 1957 -- procured a lease on a piece of land on a bay in the St. Lawrence River.  They -- with the help of some hired experts and a LOT of friends -- built a cottage there (no basement -- mounted up on cement block underpinnings) -- and we spent summers there as a family.  

Some years we also lived there from Victoria Day Weekend (a week before Memorial Day for y'all in the US) through Thanksgiving (CANADIAN Thanksgiving, y'all -- the 2nd weekend in October).  Our parents figured out a way to get us in to town to go to school until we were back 'home' again and able to get there on foot.

Once we learned to swim, there was an ongoing competition to see who was brave enough to jump into the bay on May Long (or earlier!) and again at Thanksgiving.  Just so  you know.

The farmer who owned the land had many tenants -- including Americans.  There were some from not far away (Chateauguay, NY, etc.) and others from as far away as Michigan.  One cabin/cottage was named "The Detroiter".  I remember meeting the younger generation there -- visiting their grandparents who owned the place. Good kids.

There were French Canadian families who moved there too.  One of them had several sons and Jean, the youngestof 3 boys (as I recall), joined us Anglos and Americans for our regular afternoons of softball on the large green space behind some of our cottages.  We taught him English, and given his good looks, several local gals were rather sweet on him.

As we got older, we stayed out later.  Our parents rigged up lights between our cottage and the next-door neighbour's cottage, so that we could play ping-pong in between the cottages after dark.

Those same neighbours had a shed that they fixed up so we could put a record player (an electronic device on which one could play recorded music at 33 rpm -- revolutions per minute -- or 45 rpm -- get it?!)  The older teens would play DJ (especially my (step)brother, from his wheel chair) and we'd dance on the grass in front of the open door of the shed.

There were corn roasts too -- not every summer, though it felt like that at the time. The men would set up tables and over-head umbrellas (against the sun) and barbecue burgers and weiners.  The women would make all sorts of salads and ensure there was enough buns for the meat, as well as ensuring everyone had enough water/soft drinks (pop or soda for you 'mericans).  And there was watermelon and ice cream to polish it all off.

That was all before...we got older. And 1968 happened, and the War (Viet Nam) and the assassinations (MLK and RFK)...

And we lost our innocence.

My step-father was an Immigration Officer on that border.  His job was to look out for draft dodgers.  I don't think he ever found any, but our arguments were fierce -- he lost 2 fingers on his right hand in WWII and took a bullet through his right arm.  I long ago ceased to be surprised at his outrage -- at his arguing that the Viet Nam war had to be The Right Thing To Do.  But I think, really, he knew it wasn't the same as WWII.

On the other hand...this year, in this time and this place, as Canada's 'mouse' sleeps next to the US 'elephant', trembling lest it roll over on us...

Well...all we can do here is our best.  All we can do is keep those with authoritarian bents, who are being egged on by the infection south of our border -- people like Pierre Poilievre, leader of Canada's Federal Conservative Party; people like Danielle Smith, Premier of Alberta and well-influenced by the Black Hat Movement south in Medicine Hat, infected by the right-wing in Montana; people by the far right premier of Saskatchewan, Scott Moe...

What to do?

• Create beauty every day;
• Love one's neighbour as oneself;
• Give without thought of thanks;
• Feed the hungry;
• Clothe the poor with comforing clothes/blankets/shelter;
• Tell our children (and so many others) we love them;
• Speak truth to power;
• Vote for what is right;
• Highlight corruption;
• Thank God/the Universe/your "higher power" for your life and for your ability to bring light, love and truth to the world.

As Jesus (called the Christ) might have said, "Now, go and do likewise."

I Am Thankful...

This weekend, Canadians are celebrating their Thanksgiving holiday.

I am thankful that I am a Canadian living in this generous, open-minded (for the most part) land.

I am thankful to live in a country...

The Peace Tower
Parliament Hill, Ottawa, Ontario

With a parliamentary system of government that can be voted out of (or into) office earlier than (but no later than) every five years. With a system that votes for political parties rather than political personalities. Where there is (at least as long as I can remember) no longer 'gerrymandering' -- excluding voting rights for Canadians of colour or race. (Yes, Canada had 'gerrymandering' once upon a time. Look it up.)

Where we continue to try harder to be better citizens in the world. Where our armed forces are tough fighters against dictatorships, violent theocracies etc., but are also brought in as peace keepers.

That has laws that control the use of firearms by those not in the military or police service.

Where we welcome those seeking asylum, who are willing to put up with our winters because what's winter when you've faced persecution and death threats for your faith or your race?

Where we are trying to do better with relationships between the founding European nations and the pre-founding Aboriginal/First Nations peoples.

Where we are trying to encourage more equal representation of genders in government at all levels (and we hope one day for another (wiser) woman to become Prime Minister because...it will be 20..., right?).

Where a woman has the final say over her own reproductive system (whether or not her sisters and (br)others agree. (If you want to know -- and I can tell you are itching to ask! -- I don't support abortion as a matter of course; I believe in adoption as an alternative. And education -- LOTS of education!)

Where I am hopeful that victims of serious sexual assault (i.e. more than a tickle under the shorts or a hasty "goosing" as it once was called) are beginning to be believed and their assailants brought to trial -- and where, if an accused assailant was a nominee to our (appointed) Senate or Supreme Court -- that person would be denied the privilege.

Where people are people.  Or...to put a finer point on it, persons are persons.  

Next year, on October 18, 2019, Canada marks 90 years since the "Persons Case" -- wherein a handful of women from across Canada took their petition to Westminster in the UK and were HEARD -- and moreover, determined to be "PERSONS" under the law, such that they could vote and hold office and become active in the political life of this young country.  And where, in 2015, the Prime Minister selected a capable, well-qualified cabinet that was 50% male and 50% female -- because...

This means that try as some might, there can no longer be dividing lines in this country between who are considered "persons" and who are not. If women are persons equal with men, this means ALL women -- not just Caucasians, but Aboriginal/Indigenous women, refugee women...ALL women. All residents, equal in the eyes of the law and -- once confirmed citizens -- equal in voting and other political and socio-economic rights.

I am thankful that I was married to a man who recognized me as a person.

I am thankful that we tried our best to raise our daughter and our son to know the truth of their person-hood...and grieved that through our history, this has not been supported this as well as it might have.

I am thankful that I live in a country that hasn't (at least in my living memory) politicized religion, and that the faith expression I practice refrains from preaching politics along with its Gospel -- but that it expects followers to live out their professed faith - "...and when necessary, use words" (attributed to Francis of Assisi).

And...I am thankful to have had this forum within to showcase my work, to express my thoughts and to share with my readers ideas and information these almost 16 years.

Happy Thanksgiving to Canadian celebrants!  Fervent prayers for unity and so much more, for those readers in the United States...and blessings to Gentle Readers everywhere...

An art post is pending.  Soon.  I promise!

Clear as Mud

As a long-time member of SAQA's Visioning Project*, I enjoy reading my colleagues' posts, especially at year-end, when many are reviewing the past year and planning for the next.  Such clarity of mind there seems to be!

This year though, for the first time in my life many years, I'm prepared to admit I lack a strong vision for the coming year.  I long ago tossed away my 'word' for 2014 .  Though it continued to follow me around, riding along in the back of my brain like an ear-worm, I realized that while I "finished" many things this past year, those "things" weren't the "things" I'd intended to "finish" at the get-go.  I'm finished with "Finish"!

And I have nothing with which to replace it as a beacon for 2015.


Does this mean I plan to lie around all year and eat bonbons?


Not!

There are a few things I'd like to do/accomplish, to wit:

• Successfully complete Elizabeth Barton's Master Class.  By 'successfully' I mean:
• Go into each monthly theme/assignment with a positive, enthusiastic attitude;
• Face my fears and work at the work anyway;
• Finish (there's that word again!) the assignments to the best of my ability and in a timely manner.
• Obtain meaningful and positive critique of my work and progress.
• Complete the year with a few actual pieces -- in addition to a multitude of samples.
• Enjoy my up-coming holiday to Cuba with a dear friend from university days;
• Enjoy my trip to the SAQA Fiberlandia Conference in Portland, Oregon at the end of April;
• Enjoy sharing Section 'F' of the SAQA 25th Anniversary Trunk Show at guilds around Alberta and at Quilt Canada in Lethbridge, AB, in June;
• Complete my second year (of the two-year term) as SAQA Western Canada Co-Rep and 'retire' gracefully at the end of November, having made some small in-roads in the challenges of communication across a vast region, and of public education about art quilts;
• Do all of this only under the shelter of the Creator's wings...because I've learned that coming out from under that protection leads to falling flat on my face!

And so I close this year-end post with wishes to all of you, Gentle Readers, for a healthy, happy and creative New Year...and with this small prayer for the journey into 2015:

From the late Thomas Merton:

"My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore will I trust you always, though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone."

Thomas Merton, O.C.S.O.
Jan. 31, 1915 - Dec. 10, 1968

*Note: while non-members can view posts to the VP, one needs to be a member to post a comment.  :-)

In Betwixt and Between

hot weather

distractions

monkey mind

landscape so beautiful it hurts

going underground for a while

Every day I want to speak with you. And every day something more important
calls for my attention—the drugstore, the beauty products, the luggage
I need to buy for the trip.
Even now I can hardly sit here
among the falling piles of paper and clothing, the garbage trucks outside
already screeching and banging.
The mystics say you are as close as my own breath.
Why do I flee from you?
My days and nights pour through me like complaints
and become a story I forgot to tell.
Help me. Even as I write these words I am planning
to rise from the chair as soon as I finish this sentence.

Prayer - Marie Howe, Poet

'The Tank', Take II

You can't always get what you want,

You can't always get what you want,

You can't always get what you want,

But if you try sometime, you just might find

You get what you need.

- Mick Jagger & Keith Richards, 1969

Photo Courtesy Wikipedia Commons

Years ago, when my husband lost his left leg to Type I Diabetes, he could no longer drive a standard shift car.  The last car he owned was a second-hand, caramel-coloured 1988 Bonneville I dubbed -- only slightly affectionately -- "The Tank".  When he lost his right leg too, he drove her with hand controls.  When he died, I gave her to my son, who drove her till her transmission died, and then donated it to the Kidney Foundation, where she gave her last service to humanity to raise funds from what few functioning parts she had left.

I drove her very little, because even with the electronically-raised seat, I could barely see over the dashboard (I'm 5'2") and never knew where her front and back ends were in relation to vehicles around me.

Fast-forward to this weekend -- three very intense days at the Entheos Retreat Centre, attending Cursillo (or 'Little Course') in Christian faith.  

Since my Howard's long illness, I've had real trouble with trust in God -- trust He loves me, is with me and is providing for me.  Lovely things happened on the weekend after I prayed that He would show me that His promises are real, for me as much as for anyone else.

Enter Mick and the boys and their song (above)...

Then, yesterday. 

Before I left for the weekend, I had booked to take my sweet little red Toyota Echo in for it's long-needed repairs.  (It was backed into while parked at the curb beside my church back in September.)  I was very clear with the body shop and with the car rental company (arranged for by the insurance company and the body shop) that I wanted a small (read: 'compact' or 'sub-compact') car for the nine or ten days it's going to take for the 'surgery' on my Echo.  I knew a standard shift was too much to ask, but they assured me they could provide 'small'.

Here was their idea of 'small':

It's a new (2012? 2013?)  Chevrolet Impala.  At 200.4" long and 72.9" wide, it's both longer and wider than the Bonneville (198.3" long, 72.4" wide) and significantly larger than my Echo (163.2" long, 65.4" wide).  

I was terrified, and I'm afraid I let the rental agent who brought it and the body shop owner know my displeasure in no uncertain terms.  (I don't swear, but I can do a very fierce Seriously Annoyed Person voice.)

When I drove it back to the church -- where I spend most of every Monday afternoon -- my priest gave me a hug and then she and I spent some time praying.  My fears were allayed -- but only slightly.  We asked God to please arrange a smaller vehicle ASAP -- if He were willing.

There was one possibility.  After the rental agent left me with the car, I popped the trunk.  In it I found a lovely tote bag, clearly left by the previous renter.  In it, there were three unopened bottles of wine!!  I left the package with the body shop owner, who said he would have the company pick it up -- perhaps later that day, and perhaps with a smaller car.

I stayed on at the church through music practice, and carefully drove home in the dark (the Impala's high beams are not as high or as far-reaching as my Echo's).  I parked it in the green space in front of my house, not taking the risk of backing it out of my driveway -- and into my neighbour's back fence.  It wouldn't fit in my garage, anyway.  Well, it would, but there'd be no room on either side to open the doors.

I called the body shop and apologized for my temper which, I explained, had been triggered by a measure of fatigue (normal after a Cursillo), and sheer terror.

This morning in my prayer time I promised God I wouldn't complain any more, but would make do with this car and pray for His constant protection for me and those around me whenever I drove it.

And then, the miracle.

As I was crafting this post, the rental agency called and told me they have a Ford Fiesta and are driving it out to my home within the hour.  Roughly speaking, I can expect it to be between 154" and 174" long, and 66" to 68" wide, depending on the model -- a bit shorter and wider than my Echo.  

I was so thankful, I gushed at the agent over the phone, and then called my priest to let her know, and we both gave prayers of thanks then and there.  Clearly God's operating principal is similar to that of the Stones:

You can't always get what you want,

But if you [pray] sometime, you just might find

You get [the grace] you need.