After racing around DC, I returned, worked 2 days and 1 night and was chauffeured out to camp.
Yes. Camp was so desperate for any sort of staff that they were willing to drive me there. I also have a soft spot for camp, so was willing to go despite tortuous sleep deprivation.
For the first time ever: I was OFFICIAL kitchen staff. Previous years I was the camp nurse and just helped out in the kitchen because it was where the people to hang out with were...and a pretty central location if anyone needed to find me to take out a sliver or hand out tensor bandages for twisted ankles. This year though, ALL my time was spent in the kitchen. Chopping. Peeling. Stirring. Cleaning. Planning. Sweating. Swatting mosquitoes. Etc. My head chef and I were amazed that we made it through the week AND did not run out of food...and we came close multiple times.
When I am old and don't remember anything, I am sure I will still remember this week of "loaves and fishes" (the kitchen theme of the week that we said half-jokingly, half eternally gratefully).
I lost the tan I had sweat for in DC.
I still have a faint ring of mosquito bites on my ankles.
I have 2 scabs on my left leg that were mosquito bites I couldn't stop scratching.
I haven't had more than 1 day off at a time, and haven't had time to sleep on those lonely islands of "rest" days because camp was an extra week of not working I hadn't actually planned for originally and I am so exhausted that I am feverish as I write this.
Yet, I am so very glad that I went.
My first camp experience was at Redberry Bible Camp, somewhere in Saskatchewan. My mom and grandparents drove me out to camp, and I locked myself in the car and cried hysterically. Not how you were expecting that story to end, right? Eventually I was coaxed/dragged out of the car, settled into my cabin, and reassured that I was going to love it there. I sincerely doubted it. The next day, my Grandpa drove out to see if I needed rescuing, but I was so busy swimming and playing that I hardly took the time to wave. Camp was that awesome. My grandpa was that awesome.
A couple years later, my family moved, my new classmates hated me, and they were also my new campmates. From then on, camp was fun, but not the same free-happy-go-lucky fun because I was keenly aware that I was not popular and did not have a group to which I belonged. Covenant Bay Bible Camp was a much smaller camp. So, everyone already knew eachother, and had known eachother for ages. On my registration I requested the one person I knew, and she cried hysterically until she was moved into the cabin with her friends. I know I had great times at Covenant Bay, and I dearly love the place, but when I am there I have this awareness that I didn't really belong. (Disclaimer: I have that awareness almost everywhere I go)
Yet, I love camp, and have a soft spot for camp, and will be eaten alive by mosquitos to make sure that camp goes on. I went to one chapel, and the kids were singing a song, and doing the same actions I had learnt when I was their age. It made my heart so glad that camp goes on. I don't know what these kids will think of when they look back on their camp days, but when I heard them singing, and saw them "not be shaken" my crazy emotional side went all bleary eyed because camp hasn't changed. It's still this awesome place kids go to hang out, play games, laugh, scream, yell, get bit by mosquitoes. It's profound and powerful. And God is in it. It's a relief to see that even though every one of those kids probably has an iPhone (and I don't) they are still so enthusiastic and joyful that they jump to the side when they sing "I will not be moved".
Which leads to the most obvious point of this entire post: camp is awesome, and we should have actions with the songs in church every Sunday.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
642 Things to Write About: A Woman thinks she might be living next door to her grandson
She spent her spare moments, and retirement gave her many, gazing out the window waiting for him to come or go. Each brief glimpse revealed something she thought she recognized. Her daughters wavy black hair. Her husbands nose and chin. Her son-in-laws broad shoulders and towering height. Once, he'd passed her on the street, and her own dark green eyes looked back at her.
She knew it was wishful thinking. The chances of him being here, next to her, wer so slim; but it fuelled her. There was a chance that these features she recognized were more than just what she wanted to see. There was a chance that he was her grandson.
If she could just figure out what to say and how to say it, she could fix everything, and end her loneliness. Unfortunately, in the last three years, she had not figured out what to say or how to say it. She was not sure if he would know who she was. She could only guess what her daughter and son-in-law had told him about her. What if they had told him the horrible things she had said? What if they had filled him with fear? Or, worse, what if they had never mentioned her at all?
These were the questions th at had plagued her since that rainy day in June when the moving van pulled up to the house next door. It was a terrible day to move. The wind drove the sheets of rain at an angle, soaking everything and everyone. She had just retired, and the loneliness had settled, and promted her to adopt a dog, when she opened the door to let the dog into the front yard she'd heard this young man calling to someone in the van, and there was something in the tone of voice, in the inflection, in the phrase used that made her think of her daughter. Whatever it was he said, it was long lost to her, was said in the same way that Natlie would have said it.
She could not see his face through the rain, and his head was covered in a hood, but from that moment on she obsessed. She gathered bits and pieces of information and pinned her hopes of a happy reunion on them. Three years of timid detective work left her certain of a few things. His name was Daniel (and hadn't Natalie loved the name Daniel as a child?). His parents had died when he was young (her grandson had been orphaned when he was eight). He had moved to the neighbourhood from the East, and had spent several years abroad (she thought Natalie's sister-in-law had been a photographer or writer or some sort of traveller). Every bit of overheard conversation was something to obsess about. Anything could be a clue.
Natalie had been such a boisterous child. Always singing and dancing and shouting. She wanted adventure; she didn't realize that it was safer at home. Always safer at home. She had accused her mother of being "old fasioned," but what was old fashioned about needing to know her daughter was safe? When Natalie turned 18, she left for college. She went as far away as she could, sent an occasional letter, made the even more occasional phone call, and in four years, when she returned, she brought Paul with her.
There was no reasoning with her! She was being flighty and irresponsible! She had to be reined in! To keep her safe! These things could lead to heartbreak, they could lead to terrible pain. Natalie didn't understand! Then, Natalie and paul vanished. One night, they left. No note. No explanation. Just gone.
Two years later, a note came in the mail. No return address, just a Boston postmark on the envelope. The scrap of paper inside read: We had a son. He has your eyes.
Eight years after that she saw Natalie and Paul in the news. They were dead. Their orphaned eight year old son was fine, and would be cared for by an aunt. A drunk driver was responsible. There was no keeping Natalie safe now.
No one sent her a letter or a note to let her know her daughter was dead. Perhaps no one knew that Natalie had a mother, or perhaps everyone knew that Natalie wanted nothing to do with her mother. Years passed, she was alone. Working at the library, looking after her flowers, eating toast and soup. The time came when the library asked her to retire, and so she did. Retirement isolated her, making her loneliness her only company. Joints stiffened with age, and the garden became too much to keep up: just the bed outside the front window with some low maintenance blooms to make her go outside. She hired a boy to mow the grass or shovel the snow. The days, and seasons, and years blended together, and she wished she'd been able to keep Natalie safe.
Then, he moved in, and everything changed. A voice in her head woke up, and chanteed "It has to be him! It must be him! It can't not be him!" She imagined scenario afte scenario in which she found a gentle, clever way to tell him the truth; to reveal that she was not alone, that she had him! Yet, three years had passed, and other than the occasional neighbourly wave as they passed on the street, she had made no progress.
If only she had found a way to keep Natalie safe, with her! Then she might know her grandsons name. She would have been a part of his life, instead of wondering if he was this young man. She could have spent her retirement years chatting freely with him, sharing in his day, visiting his wife, and sneaking cookies to the children after school.
It was a sunny afternoon when pain suddenly crushed her chest, and she collapsed while fumbling in the flower bed. She heard the frantic voices of the children next door calling to their father. He ran to her side, leaned over her and told her that help was coming. She looked up into his eyes-her eyes-and prayed for a glimpse of recognition as the pain went away and his face blurred into darkness.
The paramedics came, and took her away. No, no one knew if she had any family. No, they had never seen any visitors, just a dog. Yes, they could look after the dog until someone claimed her.
A few weeks later the public trustee assigned to the case cleared out the house. The dog was left with the family next door, they didn't mind, she was well trained, and the kids had become attached. A new family moved into the house, they had children close in age to the children next door. After school the two yards were filled with shouts, screams, and laughter as the boys teased the girls, and the girls shared their secrets with eachother.
A box was found in a space under the stairs, there was some rubbish, old keepsakes, and among them a framed newspaper photograph of a young boy, with a piece of paper, worn from much handling, on which all that could be read was "He has your eyes." They showed what they found to Daniel and his family, wondering if they had known anything about the previous occupant and her past. They passed around the photo and the note; spending the evening speculating about the boy and the mysterious past of the lonely old woman. In the morning, the phot and the note went out with the trash, and were never thought of again.
She knew it was wishful thinking. The chances of him being here, next to her, wer so slim; but it fuelled her. There was a chance that these features she recognized were more than just what she wanted to see. There was a chance that he was her grandson.
If she could just figure out what to say and how to say it, she could fix everything, and end her loneliness. Unfortunately, in the last three years, she had not figured out what to say or how to say it. She was not sure if he would know who she was. She could only guess what her daughter and son-in-law had told him about her. What if they had told him the horrible things she had said? What if they had filled him with fear? Or, worse, what if they had never mentioned her at all?
These were the questions th at had plagued her since that rainy day in June when the moving van pulled up to the house next door. It was a terrible day to move. The wind drove the sheets of rain at an angle, soaking everything and everyone. She had just retired, and the loneliness had settled, and promted her to adopt a dog, when she opened the door to let the dog into the front yard she'd heard this young man calling to someone in the van, and there was something in the tone of voice, in the inflection, in the phrase used that made her think of her daughter. Whatever it was he said, it was long lost to her, was said in the same way that Natlie would have said it.
She could not see his face through the rain, and his head was covered in a hood, but from that moment on she obsessed. She gathered bits and pieces of information and pinned her hopes of a happy reunion on them. Three years of timid detective work left her certain of a few things. His name was Daniel (and hadn't Natalie loved the name Daniel as a child?). His parents had died when he was young (her grandson had been orphaned when he was eight). He had moved to the neighbourhood from the East, and had spent several years abroad (she thought Natalie's sister-in-law had been a photographer or writer or some sort of traveller). Every bit of overheard conversation was something to obsess about. Anything could be a clue.
Natalie had been such a boisterous child. Always singing and dancing and shouting. She wanted adventure; she didn't realize that it was safer at home. Always safer at home. She had accused her mother of being "old fasioned," but what was old fashioned about needing to know her daughter was safe? When Natalie turned 18, she left for college. She went as far away as she could, sent an occasional letter, made the even more occasional phone call, and in four years, when she returned, she brought Paul with her.
There was no reasoning with her! She was being flighty and irresponsible! She had to be reined in! To keep her safe! These things could lead to heartbreak, they could lead to terrible pain. Natalie didn't understand! Then, Natalie and paul vanished. One night, they left. No note. No explanation. Just gone.
Two years later, a note came in the mail. No return address, just a Boston postmark on the envelope. The scrap of paper inside read: We had a son. He has your eyes.
Eight years after that she saw Natalie and Paul in the news. They were dead. Their orphaned eight year old son was fine, and would be cared for by an aunt. A drunk driver was responsible. There was no keeping Natalie safe now.
No one sent her a letter or a note to let her know her daughter was dead. Perhaps no one knew that Natalie had a mother, or perhaps everyone knew that Natalie wanted nothing to do with her mother. Years passed, she was alone. Working at the library, looking after her flowers, eating toast and soup. The time came when the library asked her to retire, and so she did. Retirement isolated her, making her loneliness her only company. Joints stiffened with age, and the garden became too much to keep up: just the bed outside the front window with some low maintenance blooms to make her go outside. She hired a boy to mow the grass or shovel the snow. The days, and seasons, and years blended together, and she wished she'd been able to keep Natalie safe.
Then, he moved in, and everything changed. A voice in her head woke up, and chanteed "It has to be him! It must be him! It can't not be him!" She imagined scenario afte scenario in which she found a gentle, clever way to tell him the truth; to reveal that she was not alone, that she had him! Yet, three years had passed, and other than the occasional neighbourly wave as they passed on the street, she had made no progress.
If only she had found a way to keep Natalie safe, with her! Then she might know her grandsons name. She would have been a part of his life, instead of wondering if he was this young man. She could have spent her retirement years chatting freely with him, sharing in his day, visiting his wife, and sneaking cookies to the children after school.
It was a sunny afternoon when pain suddenly crushed her chest, and she collapsed while fumbling in the flower bed. She heard the frantic voices of the children next door calling to their father. He ran to her side, leaned over her and told her that help was coming. She looked up into his eyes-her eyes-and prayed for a glimpse of recognition as the pain went away and his face blurred into darkness.
The paramedics came, and took her away. No, no one knew if she had any family. No, they had never seen any visitors, just a dog. Yes, they could look after the dog until someone claimed her.
A few weeks later the public trustee assigned to the case cleared out the house. The dog was left with the family next door, they didn't mind, she was well trained, and the kids had become attached. A new family moved into the house, they had children close in age to the children next door. After school the two yards were filled with shouts, screams, and laughter as the boys teased the girls, and the girls shared their secrets with eachother.
A box was found in a space under the stairs, there was some rubbish, old keepsakes, and among them a framed newspaper photograph of a young boy, with a piece of paper, worn from much handling, on which all that could be read was "He has your eyes." They showed what they found to Daniel and his family, wondering if they had known anything about the previous occupant and her past. They passed around the photo and the note; spending the evening speculating about the boy and the mysterious past of the lonely old woman. In the morning, the phot and the note went out with the trash, and were never thought of again.
642 Things to Write About--intro
I've been wanting to write, but never know what to write about, and then I found this book called "642 Things to Write About" and it looked interesting, but I didn't buy it. Until yesterday, I bought it, and now I shall write, and it might all be terrible, but it will be written, and maybe I'll share some of it. This is just to explain what you will see in some of the posts. When you have no idea what I am talking about or why: it is because 642 Things to Write About told me to.
So there.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
If You Nap all Day is it Still a Nap?
I don't even care if it's not a nap if you nap all day...I had 5 days off, and they were relatively busy, and now worked 1 day, and have 1 off (for babysitting) and then work and then on Saturday I'm going to a Introduction to the Enneagram (it's a personality thing that I expect to tell me why I'm a bad decision maker and only make plans that never get followed through...so just you wait...I'll be living overseas by Monday!)
Actually, I work Monday. And babysit next wednesday, and work Thursday and Friday and babysit saturday and work monday and tuesday and thursday and saturday and sunday and monday and tuesday and thursday. Then March is over.
I think I'd like March to be over NOW. Then I can go to Norquay and see lovely people and, Psalms are soothing, and by then I'm going to need soothing. Or the world will have become all Psalm 88 on me. It's only been all Psalm 88 on me once before, and I'd rather not go back there.
Speaking of Bible-y things, I realized that I wrote a panicked blog about having no ideas for Lent and never wrote the next one about having too many ideas for Lent, or the one after that about how I couldn't narrow them down and now have like 4 things for Lent.
1. Added: random acts of kindess every day...which is challenging, in a couple ways: I did it last year, and mostly did things that I was comfortable with, helping people who I am close to already. This year I'm trying to edge out of my comfort zone and do things for people I don't totally know all that well. It's also challenging because I tend to be all-or-nothing and I seem to think that my random acts HAVE to be huge lifechanging events, and I forget that little random acts like, calling my grandparents are good things to include and not at all cop-outs.
2. Subracted: weighing myself. Because that is a negative way in which I measure my value, and I truly believe that God wants me to measure my value in some sort of qualitative way that has nothing to do with weight.
3. Added: working on some scripture memorization, specifically the Sermon on the Mount, while also going through my Sermon on the Mount class notes from CBC. I've pretty much acknowledged that I'm not going to get through all 3 chapters, but I am at least halfway through the 1st chapter (although...technically that part is just re-memerizing what Kristina and I learnt while walking in Spain), but it is something good to dwell on...even though sometimes, when I'm falling asleep and trying to recite it, somehow it becomes the ABC's..."Now when Jesus saw the crowds he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him and began to teach them. He said, "ABCDEFG..."' Yeah. That's the NEW TNIV version.
4. Subracted: all beverages except water, this was an idea someone else had to remind them to be greatful for the water we have and the abundance we have in general, because so many people in the world do not have clean, fresh water available. At first I really missed juice and pop and coffee. And my boss tried to convince me that tea is really just water with salad in it. But I'm keeping on, and it is getting easier. I had a coffee on Sunday, and it was good, but didn't make me want to leap of the wagon. I'm getting by on water, and truly do appreciate the fact that it is available along with so many other things.
That is all. I suppose I ought to let my dog out and then go to sleep. If I can't nap all day, I'm sure as heck gonna try to nap all night!
Actually, I work Monday. And babysit next wednesday, and work Thursday and Friday and babysit saturday and work monday and tuesday and thursday and saturday and sunday and monday and tuesday and thursday. Then March is over.
I think I'd like March to be over NOW. Then I can go to Norquay and see lovely people and, Psalms are soothing, and by then I'm going to need soothing. Or the world will have become all Psalm 88 on me. It's only been all Psalm 88 on me once before, and I'd rather not go back there.
Speaking of Bible-y things, I realized that I wrote a panicked blog about having no ideas for Lent and never wrote the next one about having too many ideas for Lent, or the one after that about how I couldn't narrow them down and now have like 4 things for Lent.
1. Added: random acts of kindess every day...which is challenging, in a couple ways: I did it last year, and mostly did things that I was comfortable with, helping people who I am close to already. This year I'm trying to edge out of my comfort zone and do things for people I don't totally know all that well. It's also challenging because I tend to be all-or-nothing and I seem to think that my random acts HAVE to be huge lifechanging events, and I forget that little random acts like, calling my grandparents are good things to include and not at all cop-outs.
2. Subracted: weighing myself. Because that is a negative way in which I measure my value, and I truly believe that God wants me to measure my value in some sort of qualitative way that has nothing to do with weight.
3. Added: working on some scripture memorization, specifically the Sermon on the Mount, while also going through my Sermon on the Mount class notes from CBC. I've pretty much acknowledged that I'm not going to get through all 3 chapters, but I am at least halfway through the 1st chapter (although...technically that part is just re-memerizing what Kristina and I learnt while walking in Spain), but it is something good to dwell on...even though sometimes, when I'm falling asleep and trying to recite it, somehow it becomes the ABC's..."Now when Jesus saw the crowds he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him and began to teach them. He said, "ABCDEFG..."' Yeah. That's the NEW TNIV version.
4. Subracted: all beverages except water, this was an idea someone else had to remind them to be greatful for the water we have and the abundance we have in general, because so many people in the world do not have clean, fresh water available. At first I really missed juice and pop and coffee. And my boss tried to convince me that tea is really just water with salad in it. But I'm keeping on, and it is getting easier. I had a coffee on Sunday, and it was good, but didn't make me want to leap of the wagon. I'm getting by on water, and truly do appreciate the fact that it is available along with so many other things.
That is all. I suppose I ought to let my dog out and then go to sleep. If I can't nap all day, I'm sure as heck gonna try to nap all night!
Sunday, March 4, 2012
What Makes Blue?
Blue. It's how I've been feeling. My sinus thing keeps coming and going, and when it's here the pressure is so intense with the occasional stabbing pain in my ear. I wish I knew if it is because of allergies or some sort of infection I can't shake. I suppose it means another dr visit. Sigh. The worst part of making a dr appointment is the whole trying to get ahold of them thing...I always end up on hold for 10 minutes and then get told to leave a message and never get called back. Although, I shouldn't complain, since in Edmonton I got to experience the joys of NOT having a GP and the walk-in clinics you get to deal with instead.
This whole church plant thing has me on the verge of hysterics. Ugly-crying-hysterics. I know it is a fabulous thing that the church is able to expand and reach out to the city in another location, but it is taking ALL my new friends from church and some of my dearest old friends. I don't have the time, level of commitment, or the skills needed for being a part of the church plant, so I just get to say goodbye to everyone. And I am not a crazy die hard fan of that. It makes me just want to vanish into the background and hide out somewhere so that goodbyes just don't have to happen. Yay for withdrawing! Lifesaver.
I think I have decided that I LOVE the transplant part of my job...which is kind of sad because as much as I love the transplant part, it's not the only part, and I don't love the other part as much. I think it's incredible though. Ooh, ear stab.
Tomorrow is a Briony day. I'm psyched. She usually jumps around all excitedly when I show up...which is heartwarming, and who can stay blue when someone ADORABLE is excited to see you. Who can be blue then?
G'night.
This whole church plant thing has me on the verge of hysterics. Ugly-crying-hysterics. I know it is a fabulous thing that the church is able to expand and reach out to the city in another location, but it is taking ALL my new friends from church and some of my dearest old friends. I don't have the time, level of commitment, or the skills needed for being a part of the church plant, so I just get to say goodbye to everyone. And I am not a crazy die hard fan of that. It makes me just want to vanish into the background and hide out somewhere so that goodbyes just don't have to happen. Yay for withdrawing! Lifesaver.
I think I have decided that I LOVE the transplant part of my job...which is kind of sad because as much as I love the transplant part, it's not the only part, and I don't love the other part as much. I think it's incredible though. Ooh, ear stab.
Tomorrow is a Briony day. I'm psyched. She usually jumps around all excitedly when I show up...which is heartwarming, and who can stay blue when someone ADORABLE is excited to see you. Who can be blue then?
G'night.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Step 1: Apologize
When I was 11 I moved. I don't know how, but in my first 11 years of life I was friends with the cool kids, and obliviously niave...not just niave, obliviously so. I didn't even know I was niave.
So, when I moved to my new town, where there were only 20 other kids in my class I had quite the learning curve, I slowly picked up on things, always too afraid to ask my friends what they meant, but I'm a smart cookie, so caught on to most things eventually.
Sadly, early on, when I first arrived in grade 6 I had very few fiends. I was picked on. I was terrified. I just followed along, and flew under the radar. Anything to avoid attention because attention was negative. That's why, when my classmates bullied a boy in our class I did nothing. I don't remember ever doing anything to him, I don't remember ever talking to him myself. He may have spoken to me once, and I think I wasn't my normal overaccomodating self, maybe rude. I didn't really understand why. My classmates had been bullying this boy for a while. We had to go to group counselling and the police had to talk to a class of 12 years olds about harrassment. Someone stomped on his foot and broke it. Someone stabbed him with a pencil. Someone threatened him with a lighter and bugspray, or some sort of thing that was never really clear. Someone vandalised his locker. He had no friends.
He was called a "fag".
I was afraid and new and all manner of excuses.
I probably laughed a few times when people said something cruel so that I might fit in, or at least not stand out.
I may have been passive, but I feel like I contributed to what is going on now. I don't watch/read/listen to the news, and yet I know that kids across North America are committing suicide because people are bullying them. They are bullied about whatever other people don't like about them. A lot of the kids in the news today were bullied about their sexual preferences. The boy in my class was transferred to a different school because we were intolerable.
Listening to the news, and watching the most recent episode of Glee, has had me thinking for the last few days about the issue. I don't understand why the people who are considered "straight" feel so entitled to abuse others. Schools and religious groups make a huge deal about who can say about the issues or ignore them all together, and so people SUFFER.
Really and truly I don't even think the boy in my class was gay. I don't know. And it really doesn't matter because someone decided to give him that label and he was treated horribly.
And I've been thinking, what if the actual answer to the bullying was if we, the grown ups, started apologizing to the people we hurt when we were young. Or are hurting now. What if we stood up for people being bullied. What if kids saw us regretting the things we did? Would they see that ostracising and mocking people who are not "just like me" is something they will one day regret?
I don't know if it will make a difference. But what if, step 1 is apologizing?
Pierre Maltais, I don't know where you are or how you are and I can't take back what was done in grade 6, but I deeply regret never standing up and passively going along with what we did to you. You deserve to have found wonderful people to share life with, and I hope you haven't let our 12 year old selves hold you back.
It is stupid to believe that one apology that no one will read can make a difference, but I am choosing to hope that the world can change, that instead of legislating children's intereactions they will learn from their parents to interact with compassion and love.
Those are my thoughts. And that's my apology. My ownership of responsibility.
Do you need to step up to the plate and help spread a whole new attitude of compassion and love? To change the future. I love the idea of making a future so unlike our past that the news makes us smile...
So, when I moved to my new town, where there were only 20 other kids in my class I had quite the learning curve, I slowly picked up on things, always too afraid to ask my friends what they meant, but I'm a smart cookie, so caught on to most things eventually.
Sadly, early on, when I first arrived in grade 6 I had very few fiends. I was picked on. I was terrified. I just followed along, and flew under the radar. Anything to avoid attention because attention was negative. That's why, when my classmates bullied a boy in our class I did nothing. I don't remember ever doing anything to him, I don't remember ever talking to him myself. He may have spoken to me once, and I think I wasn't my normal overaccomodating self, maybe rude. I didn't really understand why. My classmates had been bullying this boy for a while. We had to go to group counselling and the police had to talk to a class of 12 years olds about harrassment. Someone stomped on his foot and broke it. Someone stabbed him with a pencil. Someone threatened him with a lighter and bugspray, or some sort of thing that was never really clear. Someone vandalised his locker. He had no friends.
He was called a "fag".
I was afraid and new and all manner of excuses.
I probably laughed a few times when people said something cruel so that I might fit in, or at least not stand out.
I may have been passive, but I feel like I contributed to what is going on now. I don't watch/read/listen to the news, and yet I know that kids across North America are committing suicide because people are bullying them. They are bullied about whatever other people don't like about them. A lot of the kids in the news today were bullied about their sexual preferences. The boy in my class was transferred to a different school because we were intolerable.
Listening to the news, and watching the most recent episode of Glee, has had me thinking for the last few days about the issue. I don't understand why the people who are considered "straight" feel so entitled to abuse others. Schools and religious groups make a huge deal about who can say about the issues or ignore them all together, and so people SUFFER.
Really and truly I don't even think the boy in my class was gay. I don't know. And it really doesn't matter because someone decided to give him that label and he was treated horribly.
And I've been thinking, what if the actual answer to the bullying was if we, the grown ups, started apologizing to the people we hurt when we were young. Or are hurting now. What if we stood up for people being bullied. What if kids saw us regretting the things we did? Would they see that ostracising and mocking people who are not "just like me" is something they will one day regret?
I don't know if it will make a difference. But what if, step 1 is apologizing?
Pierre Maltais, I don't know where you are or how you are and I can't take back what was done in grade 6, but I deeply regret never standing up and passively going along with what we did to you. You deserve to have found wonderful people to share life with, and I hope you haven't let our 12 year old selves hold you back.
It is stupid to believe that one apology that no one will read can make a difference, but I am choosing to hope that the world can change, that instead of legislating children's intereactions they will learn from their parents to interact with compassion and love.
Those are my thoughts. And that's my apology. My ownership of responsibility.
Do you need to step up to the plate and help spread a whole new attitude of compassion and love? To change the future. I love the idea of making a future so unlike our past that the news makes us smile...
Sunday, February 19, 2012
A Day for the Books
Kristina and I may have scared a lot of little children...but we caught Fred Penner's eye! (He made eye contact with us as we sang along to "Sandwiches" and after gave us hugs and told us he liked our energy.
FRED PENNER!!
That's right. A day for the books.
I have also mostly sorted out my Lent issues, and just have to decide that I can commit to what I've come up with (with assistance).
FRED PENNER!!
That's right. A day for the books.
I have also mostly sorted out my Lent issues, and just have to decide that I can commit to what I've come up with (with assistance).
It Sneaks Up Every Year
Every year Lent sneaks up on me. Perhaps it's my non-liturgial lifestyle. I always remember Epiphany (my birthday) but less about what it is (perhaps a refresher on the church calendar is in order...)!
Anyway. Lent. The sneaky season of Lent. I always find myself about 2 days away from Ash Wednesday, realizing it's Ash Wednesday and I have NO IDEA what to give up/take on for Lent this year.
It is definitely TIME TO PANIC!
Anyway. Lent. The sneaky season of Lent. I always find myself about 2 days away from Ash Wednesday, realizing it's Ash Wednesday and I have NO IDEA what to give up/take on for Lent this year.
It is definitely TIME TO PANIC!
Friday, February 10, 2012
40 Below Zero
Not quite 50 (sorry Mr. Munsch), but chilly nonetheless.
I have heard it said, "After -10 (or other unreasonably warm temperature) it's all the same."
I do not agree.
There is "cool", "cold", "colder" and "I am not going outside".
These descriptors are not consistently defined by any of the temperature markers, but are more dependent on my mood and my planned activity for the day. So, when the world revolves around me meteorologists will have to actually be trained in psychology in order to actually predict the weather (or how it will be interpreted and forecasted).
I should go now.
I have heard it said, "After -10 (or other unreasonably warm temperature) it's all the same."
I do not agree.
There is "cool", "cold", "colder" and "I am not going outside".
These descriptors are not consistently defined by any of the temperature markers, but are more dependent on my mood and my planned activity for the day. So, when the world revolves around me meteorologists will have to actually be trained in psychology in order to actually predict the weather (or how it will be interpreted and forecasted).
I should go now.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Ending Paragraphs with CAPS
Today I went to the gym (which was awful as I haven't been there since before the plague took me out, and I felt like I was starting the entire program all over. I'm hoping THAT doesn't think it can take as long as before!), then to the blood bank to donate, and there I found out that my hemoglobin is 146. Yeah, I'm made of IRON.
I also sliced up pears from Costco and stuck them in my dehydrator. Last time, I made them chips, but this time I cut them thicker (like the book said) and we'll see what comes out...it was good that I went out, because while I'm here I just keep checking. I'm like the kid in the garden who wants to dig up the seeds immediately after the dirt has been patted down. That's why I'm writing now...to stay away from the dehydrator because I can't keep turning it off, and taking off the lid. Tomorrow I have to endure the tempation all over again, just with mango instead of pear. SIGH.
I think I forgot to water my poinsetta one day too many. Not that I can say for sure that if I had watered it yesterday it would be ok, but I think it's been too long now. I watered it this morning and it has not made any attempt to recover. If it had a heart it would try, but it's done NOTHING.
Today I also (finally) finished (I had started a long long long time ago) making my photo album of Spain and Israel for Facebook. It was hard to look at the pictures today. It was the trip of a lifetime, and I love what I accomplished and who I was. I was in pictures and I didn't think twice. I saw so much more than Breton or Edmonton or Winnipeg. I know if it lasted forever it would not be the same, and I am going to learn to be that person anywhere I am, even if not on vacation. Or seeing incredible things or doing incredible things. So, here's to being in more PICTURES!
I also sliced up pears from Costco and stuck them in my dehydrator. Last time, I made them chips, but this time I cut them thicker (like the book said) and we'll see what comes out...it was good that I went out, because while I'm here I just keep checking. I'm like the kid in the garden who wants to dig up the seeds immediately after the dirt has been patted down. That's why I'm writing now...to stay away from the dehydrator because I can't keep turning it off, and taking off the lid. Tomorrow I have to endure the tempation all over again, just with mango instead of pear. SIGH.
I think I forgot to water my poinsetta one day too many. Not that I can say for sure that if I had watered it yesterday it would be ok, but I think it's been too long now. I watered it this morning and it has not made any attempt to recover. If it had a heart it would try, but it's done NOTHING.
Today I also (finally) finished (I had started a long long long time ago) making my photo album of Spain and Israel for Facebook. It was hard to look at the pictures today. It was the trip of a lifetime, and I love what I accomplished and who I was. I was in pictures and I didn't think twice. I saw so much more than Breton or Edmonton or Winnipeg. I know if it lasted forever it would not be the same, and I am going to learn to be that person anywhere I am, even if not on vacation. Or seeing incredible things or doing incredible things. So, here's to being in more PICTURES!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
D-A-N-C-I-N-G & P-U-Z-Z-L-E-S & G-A-M-E-S. Oh My.
The problem, I have decided, with living in an attic apartment is that you can't really just dance (and sometimes, I just want to dance!). There is always this concern that the people downstairs don't want loud music OR jumping and leaping going on above them. I wish I was not aware of that possibility...cuz then I'm blast some music and do some cleaning dancing (dancing to music while cleaning is really the best way to clean).
I love writing with brackets. I am not entirely sure, anymore, what brackets are actually used for. Yet, I love to use them to insert whatever I want to say with complete disregard to grammar and punctuation.
My apartment now has a fantastic coffee table (it's glass, and I always VOWED never to have a glass coffee table because they have a knack at becoming fingerprinty and the dust that accumulates is incredibly obvious, but I do kind of really like this one). I put a tiny plant and 2 brass and glass candleholders on it, and now just need to find some candlesticks for the candleholders to make it perfect. There is a kitten puzzle that I can open, put out, and maybe start. I'm not a puzzler. I'm hopeful that someone will come and visit and put it together for me. My mom suggested I should not put it out because it will be one more thing I'll have to dust. I'll just have to have company over sooner rather than later.
So, if you are a puzzler, feel free to come over and work on the kittens with (for) me.
Under my tv I have Grey's Anatomy the Board Game (it was passed on to me, not sought out and purchased ha ha), Apples to Apples, iMAgiNiff, BopIt, and 2 decks of cards. I want a games night so bad, but am not sure who should come or where it should be. Part of me is very much afraid that no one would come. Oh The Fear. It follows me every-which-way I go, but a games night would be full of laughs, and smiles, and cheer! At least that is how I envision it.
All around my lovely new coffee table with some yummy snacks.
I love writing with brackets. I am not entirely sure, anymore, what brackets are actually used for. Yet, I love to use them to insert whatever I want to say with complete disregard to grammar and punctuation.
My apartment now has a fantastic coffee table (it's glass, and I always VOWED never to have a glass coffee table because they have a knack at becoming fingerprinty and the dust that accumulates is incredibly obvious, but I do kind of really like this one). I put a tiny plant and 2 brass and glass candleholders on it, and now just need to find some candlesticks for the candleholders to make it perfect. There is a kitten puzzle that I can open, put out, and maybe start. I'm not a puzzler. I'm hopeful that someone will come and visit and put it together for me. My mom suggested I should not put it out because it will be one more thing I'll have to dust. I'll just have to have company over sooner rather than later.
So, if you are a puzzler, feel free to come over and work on the kittens with (for) me.
Under my tv I have Grey's Anatomy the Board Game (it was passed on to me, not sought out and purchased ha ha), Apples to Apples, iMAgiNiff, BopIt, and 2 decks of cards. I want a games night so bad, but am not sure who should come or where it should be. Part of me is very much afraid that no one would come. Oh The Fear. It follows me every-which-way I go, but a games night would be full of laughs, and smiles, and cheer! At least that is how I envision it.
All around my lovely new coffee table with some yummy snacks.
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