Friday, September 16, 2016
Monday, October 19, 2015
Because Canada
SEPTEMBER 26, 2016 You know I need to post this because: 100 yards away from me two days ago. And: I told you so. Scroll.
NOVEMBER 4, 2015 It's official!
Dear Prime Minister Trudeau:
OCTOBER 19, 2015
"In Canada, better is always possible."
I introduce prime minister-designate Trudeau!
Dear Monsieur Trudeau,
Re-reading my post of May 3, 2011, I am embarrassed. I called you
out. Like a 10-year old bully on a school playground. And I had nothing but some vague call to duty and a lame analogy.
And you showed up. And now. This election, this vote, this victory is within reach.
Of course you didn't show up because my quiet Canadian blog outed you. I know I have nothing to do with where you are today. Tonight. In a place and a mind space I cannot even fathom. On the verge of leading this incredible country and people who crave peace and stability, who covet hope and possibility, who need to be challenged and inspired to be better, stronger, kinder.
That's the cheese. I can't help it. I'm a hopeless optimist. When we met two years ago, that is the only thing I asked of you: to inspire a new generation.
The cashier at my local grocery store was impressed that there was a pop-up poll booth on his university campus. Made it easy for him to vote. Allowed him to join the swell of his peers as they exercised their franchise. It took a full hour for him to deliver that final X. He didn't notice the time. "I voted Green," he proclaimed proudly. I wanted to hug him. Different colours, same democracy.
Justin (as your campaign and the press call you—although lately that has morphed to "Liberal leader Justin Trudeau"), that student is the reason you are doing this. Putting your face, your family, your beliefs front and centre day after day, press punch after punch, slur ad after ad. It's not about Green. Or Blue. Or Orange. It's about giving a damn. I know that. I feel that. Who the hell would want to be a politician.
My vote Monday won't even help you get elected. It frustrates me. But I know how it works. This island is wrapped in ribbons of orange and green. My neighbours came by tonight to *suggest* I put my vote "where it could count". My vote counts no matter what the result. It counts because it represents me. And that's the whole point of democracy. Bonne chance, Justin. Thank you for taking on the bullies. Because Canada.
DECEMBER 17, 2013 - MOST IMPORTANT AWESOME UPDATE! Fiona Bramble meets Justin Trudeau at the Victoria Conference Centre, at approximately 7:05 p.m. Yes, you saw it here first.
APRIL 14, 2013 - ANOTHER IMPORTANT UPDATE! Justin Trudeau took 80% of the vote today to become the new leader of the Liberal Party of Canada. Watch this space in 2015.
OCTOBER 3, 2012 - IMPORTANT UPDATE!
I'm totally not going to take credit or anything but Justin Trudeau has just announced his intent to run for the leadership of the Liberal Party. Ok. You're welcome.
May 3, 2011
Dear Monsieur Trudeau,
First, a hearty congratulations on your successful bid for Papineau. They are lucky to have you. You are a hard-working and dedicated MP. Your supporters behind you in the television frame on May 2nd looked as jubilant as you did serious. I can only assume you were feeling both relieved to be re-elected and heartbroken that your beloved Canada had sent your Party to the um...comment dit-on "doghouse" en français? Je suis désolé.
Of course you were terribly busy in the month of April, I realize, but did you catch the Royal Wedding by chance? I understand that anything related to the English monarchy might offend your French sensibilities, again, forgive me, but it was quite le spectacle!
Not garish at all, however, really just a quiet family wedding on a grand scale with some beautiful, dignified, and somber touches. Oh, and a hot maid of honour. All in all, a very appropriate event that also signaled the beginning of a new era and the gradual ascent of Prince William to the throne.
Now I know with some certainty that you will loathe what I write next, but, well, can you see any parallels with your position and Wills'? Any teeny, tiny similarities at all? Like, for example, a young man born of a mythical past in lockstep with an inevitable destiny? If that seems a bit much, how about: a hard-working, charismatic heir who represents a new generation?
You see, mon ami, as you tossed your dark curls in annoyance when, on election night, you were asked if perhaps the time had come for you to seek the leadership of the Liberal party - almost every liberal/Liberal Canadian was holding his or her breath. On the eve of the greatest defeat the Liberal Party of Canada has ever suffered, there was a collective pause, albeit brief, before you replied: non.
Much has been said regarding the failure and future of the Liberal Party since the fateful election that is but 7 days into history. Most of it doesn't matter one fig. Not une figue. Yet there is one fact that is not only obvious to all but necessary: the Liberal Party needs a new leader.
Not a leader who is arrogant or acts with the sense of entitlement that many say was the downfall of the Party, but one who has proven leadership, hard work, and dedication. This new leader also conjurs the single thing that is a political alchemist's gold: inspiration. You, mon ami, by virtue of birth or chance or determination, have this, this je ne sais quoi, that will inspire a new generation of Canadians.
Monsieur, you are no Prince Harry. You have chosen a path that is your destiny. You have quietly, diligently earned your place in the political court of Canada and now it is time to do what our dear Rex Murphy boldly and rightly referred to as your duty.
The men and women in your campaign office showed more than a little hope in their eyes as they held their breath that night and hoped what would come from your lips would be a resounding: OUI!
Let the inspiration begin. Vive la révolution!
Très sincèrement votre ,
Canada
p.s. please pardon my French
NOVEMBER 4, 2015 It's official!
Dear Prime Minister Trudeau:
OCTOBER 19, 2015 "In Canada, better is always possible."
I introduce prime minister-designate Trudeau!
p.s. Historic victory—sincere congratulations to you, Sophie, and the team.
OCTOBER 18, 2015 - ELECTION EVE UPDATE! Geez, it's here, and gosh, even the Post is saying "Liberals continue to surge". The National Post, I tell you. And now I need to pause. Because maturity. Read on.
Re-reading my post of May 3, 2011, I am embarrassed. I called you
out. Like a 10-year old bully on a school playground. And I had nothing but some vague call to duty and a lame analogy.
And you showed up. And now. This election, this vote, this victory is within reach.
Of course you didn't show up because my quiet Canadian blog outed you. I know I have nothing to do with where you are today. Tonight. In a place and a mind space I cannot even fathom. On the verge of leading this incredible country and people who crave peace and stability, who covet hope and possibility, who need to be challenged and inspired to be better, stronger, kinder.
That's the cheese. I can't help it. I'm a hopeless optimist. When we met two years ago, that is the only thing I asked of you: to inspire a new generation.
The cashier at my local grocery store was impressed that there was a pop-up poll booth on his university campus. Made it easy for him to vote. Allowed him to join the swell of his peers as they exercised their franchise. It took a full hour for him to deliver that final X. He didn't notice the time. "I voted Green," he proclaimed proudly. I wanted to hug him. Different colours, same democracy.
Justin (as your campaign and the press call you—although lately that has morphed to "Liberal leader Justin Trudeau"), that student is the reason you are doing this. Putting your face, your family, your beliefs front and centre day after day, press punch after punch, slur ad after ad. It's not about Green. Or Blue. Or Orange. It's about giving a damn. I know that. I feel that. Who the hell would want to be a politician.
My vote Monday won't even help you get elected. It frustrates me. But I know how it works. This island is wrapped in ribbons of orange and green. My neighbours came by tonight to *suggest* I put my vote "where it could count". My vote counts no matter what the result. It counts because it represents me. And that's the whole point of democracy. Bonne chance, Justin. Thank you for taking on the bullies. Because Canada.
DECEMBER 17, 2013 - MOST IMPORTANT AWESOME UPDATE! Fiona Bramble meets Justin Trudeau at the Victoria Conference Centre, at approximately 7:05 p.m. Yes, you saw it here first. APRIL 14, 2013 - ANOTHER IMPORTANT UPDATE! Justin Trudeau took 80% of the vote today to become the new leader of the Liberal Party of Canada. Watch this space in 2015.
OCTOBER 3, 2012 - IMPORTANT UPDATE!
I'm totally not going to take credit or anything but Justin Trudeau has just announced his intent to run for the leadership of the Liberal Party. Ok. You're welcome.
May 3, 2011
Dear Monsieur Trudeau,
First, a hearty congratulations on your successful bid for Papineau. They are lucky to have you. You are a hard-working and dedicated MP. Your supporters behind you in the television frame on May 2nd looked as jubilant as you did serious. I can only assume you were feeling both relieved to be re-elected and heartbroken that your beloved Canada had sent your Party to the um...comment dit-on "doghouse" en français? Je suis désolé.
Of course you were terribly busy in the month of April, I realize, but did you catch the Royal Wedding by chance? I understand that anything related to the English monarchy might offend your French sensibilities, again, forgive me, but it was quite le spectacle!
Not garish at all, however, really just a quiet family wedding on a grand scale with some beautiful, dignified, and somber touches. Oh, and a hot maid of honour. All in all, a very appropriate event that also signaled the beginning of a new era and the gradual ascent of Prince William to the throne.
Now I know with some certainty that you will loathe what I write next, but, well, can you see any parallels with your position and Wills'? Any teeny, tiny similarities at all? Like, for example, a young man born of a mythical past in lockstep with an inevitable destiny? If that seems a bit much, how about: a hard-working, charismatic heir who represents a new generation?
You see, mon ami, as you tossed your dark curls in annoyance when, on election night, you were asked if perhaps the time had come for you to seek the leadership of the Liberal party - almost every liberal/Liberal Canadian was holding his or her breath. On the eve of the greatest defeat the Liberal Party of Canada has ever suffered, there was a collective pause, albeit brief, before you replied: non.
Much has been said regarding the failure and future of the Liberal Party since the fateful election that is but 7 days into history. Most of it doesn't matter one fig. Not une figue. Yet there is one fact that is not only obvious to all but necessary: the Liberal Party needs a new leader.
Not a leader who is arrogant or acts with the sense of entitlement that many say was the downfall of the Party, but one who has proven leadership, hard work, and dedication. This new leader also conjurs the single thing that is a political alchemist's gold: inspiration. You, mon ami, by virtue of birth or chance or determination, have this, this je ne sais quoi, that will inspire a new generation of Canadians.
Monsieur, you are no Prince Harry. You have chosen a path that is your destiny. You have quietly, diligently earned your place in the political court of Canada and now it is time to do what our dear Rex Murphy boldly and rightly referred to as your duty.
The men and women in your campaign office showed more than a little hope in their eyes as they held their breath that night and hoped what would come from your lips would be a resounding: OUI!
Let the inspiration begin. Vive la révolution!
Très sincèrement votre ,
Canada
p.s. please pardon my French
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
On Anniversaries
The nurse is tap tap tapping my arm and yelling
that I have no veins. She has no veins!
My muddled mind counts 3 or 4 murmuring doctors on my right and several bustling
nurses on my left. I see someone running towards me out of the corner of my
eye; he is waving a piece of paper and shouting we know what it is! She has Strep A! Does he really say this? The
IV team is here and they find a vein. It takes twenty milligrams of IV morphine
to get me to lie down on the bed. What is
your pain now? 7. My tongue rolls in my mouth. - March 19, 2012, approximately 2 p.m.
Today is the 2nd anniversary of this day, a day so jammed with awful, raw events that it doesn't take much to slip back into the memories of pain and fear I felt that spring morning. A Victoria spring morning like today - replete with nodding daffodils and budding tulips. The sharpness of their colours would slay me almost three weeks later when Eric brought me home from the hospital and guided me up our front path. I wept at the feeling of the wind on my face and the audacity of the yellows, pinks, and reds crowding our garden. I wept with grief and gratitude.
It seems inevitable I suppose that when the season slides out of the grey nothingness that is February and spring makes it bold approach that I will always recall this day, this time. Only those closest to me truly know what that deadly blood infection cost me and the price I continue to pay. My anniversary is a private one.
It was a friend's 23rd birthday yesterday. 23! Her grandmother died early in the morning. Her birthday will also now forever be the anniversary of her grandmother's death.
Anniversaries - a mash-up of public and private, of life and loss, of commemoration and celebration in the calendars of our lives. Some are days we want to pass in darkness; others, events we hasten to bring into light.
Spring.
Today is the 2nd anniversary of this day, a day so jammed with awful, raw events that it doesn't take much to slip back into the memories of pain and fear I felt that spring morning. A Victoria spring morning like today - replete with nodding daffodils and budding tulips. The sharpness of their colours would slay me almost three weeks later when Eric brought me home from the hospital and guided me up our front path. I wept at the feeling of the wind on my face and the audacity of the yellows, pinks, and reds crowding our garden. I wept with grief and gratitude.
It seems inevitable I suppose that when the season slides out of the grey nothingness that is February and spring makes it bold approach that I will always recall this day, this time. Only those closest to me truly know what that deadly blood infection cost me and the price I continue to pay. My anniversary is a private one.
It was a friend's 23rd birthday yesterday. 23! Her grandmother died early in the morning. Her birthday will also now forever be the anniversary of her grandmother's death.
Anniversaries - a mash-up of public and private, of life and loss, of commemoration and celebration in the calendars of our lives. Some are days we want to pass in darkness; others, events we hasten to bring into light.
Spring.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
VOTE 4 ME, my sister, my cousin, my dog's chew toy...
You know I love you guys. I do! I love your baby pics, your food pics, your mid-winter-I'm-in-Hawaii-toes-in-the-sand pics and your almost-3 a.m.-drunk-song posts. Totally love. And like, like, like. But then there's THE VOTE.
Please don't be mad when I call you (us) out on this. Because it's not your fault. Or mine for that matter. We've all been totally manipulated by the all-powerful survey monkey. Herein lies the problem:
Just the other day, I found myself on the edge of clicking a link to get to a link that would allow me to click to vote for the friend of a friend for god-knows-what. Seriously. I almost did this. I'm not even sure what stopped me. Perhaps it was the fresh air that blew into my office and brain at the very moment of clicking to a link to click to a link to..whoooooooosh.
My next thought was: why? No, really, why? Who is Suzy? What does she do? And why in God's name would I vote for her?
Yes, my dear friends and followers, we actually make completely uninformed decisions that may or may not have important consequences, like someone getting a kajillion scholarship dollars, getting on a national television program, or winning a pink stuffy. Or even perhaps, electing a Prime Minister. EVERY DAY. Uninformed. Every day.
I understand that some of it is the point and power of social media. I believe anonymity plays a role. I also think we want to like and be liked. To show we care. And there is, of course, what I like to call: LAZI-ASS-NESS. It's just so darn easy. Click, link, click, VOTE. Phew, my social and political contributions made for the day. Time for Tims!
My dilemma? I still want to support you and yours. Vote for you and yours even. But now that my slippery slope has hit the buffer, I realize I need more from you. Tell me why it should be you. Or yours. Pretend you're Justin Trudeau and you want to lead the Liberal party. Because I'm already on your side; you just need to push me over the wall.
Please don't be mad when I call you (us) out on this. Because it's not your fault. Or mine for that matter. We've all been totally manipulated by the all-powerful survey monkey. Herein lies the problem:
Just the other day, I found myself on the edge of clicking a link to get to a link that would allow me to click to vote for the friend of a friend for god-knows-what. Seriously. I almost did this. I'm not even sure what stopped me. Perhaps it was the fresh air that blew into my office and brain at the very moment of clicking to a link to click to a link to..whoooooooosh.
My next thought was: why? No, really, why? Who is Suzy? What does she do? And why in God's name would I vote for her?
Yes, my dear friends and followers, we actually make completely uninformed decisions that may or may not have important consequences, like someone getting a kajillion scholarship dollars, getting on a national television program, or winning a pink stuffy. Or even perhaps, electing a Prime Minister. EVERY DAY. Uninformed. Every day.
I understand that some of it is the point and power of social media. I believe anonymity plays a role. I also think we want to like and be liked. To show we care. And there is, of course, what I like to call: LAZI-ASS-NESS. It's just so darn easy. Click, link, click, VOTE. Phew, my social and political contributions made for the day. Time for Tims!
My dilemma? I still want to support you and yours. Vote for you and yours even. But now that my slippery slope has hit the buffer, I realize I need more from you. Tell me why it should be you. Or yours. Pretend you're Justin Trudeau and you want to lead the Liberal party. Because I'm already on your side; you just need to push me over the wall.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
These women I know - celebrating enterprising women in Victoria
Each year, a local newspaper will announce an event or gala or two that aim to celebrate and honour our Victorian women in business. There are categories like: "Rising Star", "Eco-Entrepreneur", or "Business Owner of the Year".
Each year, as I scan the details of the full-page spread, I usually have these three thoughts: 1) What a great event! 2) Do we still need a woman-only event? and 3) Why don't I know anybody in these pictures?! Once these inevitable musings have cycled through my brain, I almost always assert, and almost always out loud: I should nominate __________!
While #2 will likely remain fodder for women's studies' theses for some time to come, I can usually resolve #3 all my myself: the quite substantial and incredibly-talented, self-employed/entrepreneurial group of women that I know are just quietly going about their, ahem, business.
Regardless of what title(s) each of these women might hold, these self-starters are all-in-one bookkeepers, tax experts, tech wizards, editors, marketers, social media contributors and curators, designers, general contractors, salespeople, content providers, mediators, project managers, caregivers, teachers, facilitators, employers and employees cramming all their responsibilities into what is often much more than a 12-hour work day.
These women I know employ people, provide essential services, engage the community, inspire innovation, and contribute creative talent. These women I know are the backbone of our lives and our small town. These women I know I am proud to call friends.
So, from my home office to yours, in no particular order of fabulosity, and in honour of a new year and old-fashioned hard work, please join me in recognizing:
Marnie Frolek: Mynx Boutique
Lisette & Leah Scabar: Lizzy Lee & Me
Paisley Aiken: Story Studio
Meaghan Smith: Trapper Jane
Jo Zambri: Zambri's
Carollyne Yardley: Carollyne Yardley, Artist
Rena Kendall & Christine Wood: Kendall Wood
Karen Rivers: Karen Rivers, Author
Emma Zolbrod: Zolbrod Consulting Inc.
Pamela Úbeda Bosman: Coast + Beam Architecture
Rosemary Lee: Modus Inc.
Rachel Staples: Academy Dental
Jodi Baker: Remax
Kendi Kurka: Fairfield Children's House
Silvia Schriever, General Practitioner
Julia Stolk: The Midwives Collective
SPECIAL MENTION: Debbie Currie Henry: The Revive Company (based in Leeds but Victorian-at-heart)
I welcome any worthy additions to this list.
*any omissions of fabulous self-employed women I know and love is completely accidental and due to the second glass of wine I had last night.
Each year, as I scan the details of the full-page spread, I usually have these three thoughts: 1) What a great event! 2) Do we still need a woman-only event? and 3) Why don't I know anybody in these pictures?! Once these inevitable musings have cycled through my brain, I almost always assert, and almost always out loud: I should nominate __________!
While #2 will likely remain fodder for women's studies' theses for some time to come, I can usually resolve #3 all my myself: the quite substantial and incredibly-talented, self-employed/entrepreneurial group of women that I know are just quietly going about their, ahem, business.
Regardless of what title(s) each of these women might hold, these self-starters are all-in-one bookkeepers, tax experts, tech wizards, editors, marketers, social media contributors and curators, designers, general contractors, salespeople, content providers, mediators, project managers, caregivers, teachers, facilitators, employers and employees cramming all their responsibilities into what is often much more than a 12-hour work day.
These women I know employ people, provide essential services, engage the community, inspire innovation, and contribute creative talent. These women I know are the backbone of our lives and our small town. These women I know I am proud to call friends.
So, from my home office to yours, in no particular order of fabulosity, and in honour of a new year and old-fashioned hard work, please join me in recognizing:
Marnie Frolek: Mynx Boutique
Lisette & Leah Scabar: Lizzy Lee & Me
Paisley Aiken: Story Studio
Meaghan Smith: Trapper Jane
Jo Zambri: Zambri's
Carollyne Yardley: Carollyne Yardley, Artist
Rena Kendall & Christine Wood: Kendall Wood
Karen Rivers: Karen Rivers, Author
Emma Zolbrod: Zolbrod Consulting Inc.
Pamela Úbeda Bosman: Coast + Beam Architecture
Rosemary Lee: Modus Inc.
Rachel Staples: Academy Dental
Jodi Baker: Remax
Kendi Kurka: Fairfield Children's House
Silvia Schriever, General Practitioner
Julia Stolk: The Midwives Collective
SPECIAL MENTION: Debbie Currie Henry: The Revive Company (based in Leeds but Victorian-at-heart)
You are my Victorian ENTERPRISING WOMEN OF THE YEAR and each of you is, naturally*:
*any omissions of fabulous self-employed women I know and love is completely accidental and due to the second glass of wine I had last night.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
It's Cold Inside
I had this thought today: "I hope I don't die just before Christmas". Crazy as it sounds, my year has been a bit rough and my health concerns have made me paranoid about every racing pulse or short breath. But when I thought this to myself, I actually wasn't overly concerned about dying just about dying this close to Christmas.
It was a cruel thought, particularly as a mere 6 days ago and 11 days before Christmas, 27 people, 20 of them children, were gunned down and killed in Newtown, Connecticut. The week before, a friend's sister had committed suicide. I know with certainty and without googling it that millions of people are suffering or dying in some sort of fashion regardless of the advent of December 25th. Of course, suffering or dying does not limit itself to calendar holidays, be they religious, secular, or silly. What are held fast to that digital or paper calendar, perhaps even one magnetized to your fridge, are the cultural and familial traditions that bind us to the rituals, emotions, and expectations of this particular "holy day".
Grief and loss can be unbearable in any context and fraught with private and painful reminders and triggers. But grief born at Christmas? A constant, excruciating sensory inundation of reminders - each song, smell, tinsel string a slap. Each year, a grief to be ushered in by early November and marched relentlessly through December in a fierce grip of public celebration, commercialism, and obligation.
When we were 24, my same-aged cousin nearly died. Just before Christmas, however, he came out of a coma, and the family rejoiced and did great goofy happy dances down the hospital halls. My cousin, however, came out of the coma a quadriplegic. He had a year of physiotherapy and suffering ahead of him. (spoiler alert: he has since recovered and is almost his old self) For years, we never understood why he would withdraw around Christmas time. He had lived! He had survived! He had proven all the "experts" wrong!
But, of course, he had lost a great deal too: his independence and mobility, for awhile; his short term memory, for a long time; his youth and innocence, forever. He grieved at Christmas, for his lost self. None of us in the family realized this until he finally stood his ground three Xmases ago and said, "I can't do this anymore". He couldn't fake the frivolity any longer. Christmas made him sadder than sad and none of us had noticed.
I don't need to tell you that Christmas oscillates, that some years it seems crass and others magical; some are twitch-inducing; others, delightful. I don't need to tell you that just as we are conscious of those in financial need at Christmas, we can be equally sensitive to those whose hearts are quietly breaking and re-breaking at every sight, smell, and sound of Christmas cheer, their grief and sadness inextricably and irrevocably linked to this cultural zenith of celebrations.
We can pray our own times come, late in life, on a bright, insignificant Spring day when frosts are slain and flowers begotten. Peace to all.
And, to banish what might be your imposed Christmas soundtrack of grief, there's nothing like a little Van Morrison, Summertime in England. It just is:
It was a cruel thought, particularly as a mere 6 days ago and 11 days before Christmas, 27 people, 20 of them children, were gunned down and killed in Newtown, Connecticut. The week before, a friend's sister had committed suicide. I know with certainty and without googling it that millions of people are suffering or dying in some sort of fashion regardless of the advent of December 25th. Of course, suffering or dying does not limit itself to calendar holidays, be they religious, secular, or silly. What are held fast to that digital or paper calendar, perhaps even one magnetized to your fridge, are the cultural and familial traditions that bind us to the rituals, emotions, and expectations of this particular "holy day".
Grief and loss can be unbearable in any context and fraught with private and painful reminders and triggers. But grief born at Christmas? A constant, excruciating sensory inundation of reminders - each song, smell, tinsel string a slap. Each year, a grief to be ushered in by early November and marched relentlessly through December in a fierce grip of public celebration, commercialism, and obligation.
When we were 24, my same-aged cousin nearly died. Just before Christmas, however, he came out of a coma, and the family rejoiced and did great goofy happy dances down the hospital halls. My cousin, however, came out of the coma a quadriplegic. He had a year of physiotherapy and suffering ahead of him. (spoiler alert: he has since recovered and is almost his old self) For years, we never understood why he would withdraw around Christmas time. He had lived! He had survived! He had proven all the "experts" wrong!
But, of course, he had lost a great deal too: his independence and mobility, for awhile; his short term memory, for a long time; his youth and innocence, forever. He grieved at Christmas, for his lost self. None of us in the family realized this until he finally stood his ground three Xmases ago and said, "I can't do this anymore". He couldn't fake the frivolity any longer. Christmas made him sadder than sad and none of us had noticed.
I don't need to tell you that Christmas oscillates, that some years it seems crass and others magical; some are twitch-inducing; others, delightful. I don't need to tell you that just as we are conscious of those in financial need at Christmas, we can be equally sensitive to those whose hearts are quietly breaking and re-breaking at every sight, smell, and sound of Christmas cheer, their grief and sadness inextricably and irrevocably linked to this cultural zenith of celebrations.
We can pray our own times come, late in life, on a bright, insignificant Spring day when frosts are slain and flowers begotten. Peace to all.
And, to banish what might be your imposed Christmas soundtrack of grief, there's nothing like a little Van Morrison, Summertime in England. It just is:
Monday, December 17, 2012
Informative and devastating: school lockdown procedure for parents
This was in my inbox this morning and while it may be deemed necessary, I couldn't stomach this line: "These sights have been selected based on their visibility to an intruder". Rest in peace, children and guardians of Sandy Hook.
Good morning SJD
parents,
As a follow up to my
email earlier this morning, I would like to provide you with information
regarding our procedures here at the school should we need to go into a lockdown
situation. I am providing this email for information only at the request
of our PAC president and am not anticipating any need for an actual lockdown at
our school.
You may recall that
we had an unconfirmed sighting of a cougar around the school in mid-November.
Our school went into an indoor only lockdown so that no child and/or
staff member was out on the playground during the school day. This type of
lockdown is the least intrusive to our school as the children and staff are able
to move freely within the school but not permitted outside. We were able to stay
in contact with the conservation officer and Victoria Police throughout the day
as to the level of risk to our community, and provided that information to
parents on email as well.
Should there be a
need to go into a full lockdown of our school, the teachers and students
are trained to lock the classroom doors (if not already locked) and move the
children to the designated lockdown area of the classroom, music room, library
or gym. These areas are identified by a symbol of a lock that is displayed in
clear view within the classroom. These sights have been selected based on their
visibility to an intruder. The children practice this drill regularly, just as
they do fire and earthquake drills. The administration, office staff and
custodian have additional duties during a full lockdown drill (e.g. locking our
front door, accounting for missing students …). We run our emergency drills from
time to time with our police liaison officer in attendance and/or the Victoria
Fire Department. We are also required to log our emergency drills with our
district Health and Safety Department.
Should we need to go
into a lockdown while the children are outside (threat is within the
school at the time), we have a protocol to move our students to the nearest
available facility which is Central Middle School. Children would go into the
gymnasium at Central and parents would be contacted to pick the children up from
there.
I hope that this
information regarding lockdown procedures reassures you that we have protocol in
place to keep your children safe at SJD. Please contact me if you have any
questions.
Regards,
Mrs. Teri
Wickes
Principal,
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Is school out forever? Teachers, students, and the inevitable now of education
Coming soon to an educational institution near you: the
innovation revolution*
The school PAC had a presentation on Smart Boards last
month. I couldn’t make the meeting but I was certainly curious – my American
tweeps have been tweet tweet tweeting about them for almost two years now. I
hear they are useful, *engaging*, and de
rigeur in this modern age. I’ve never seen one except on Youtube.
There are times I feel the outside world might be whipping
circles around our cosy lil’ Victorian town. Everyone else seems tech-light
years ahead of our education system. Geez, all last year, our teachers weren’t even filling out
report cards.
My #edtech twitter feed freaks me out: pinterest, iBooks, cramberry,
audiopuzzler, wibbitz, edmodo, mixbooks, juno, voki, dvolver, gosoapbox,
zooburst – no, it’s not a Clingon language- edtech tool choices multiply by the
minute. And you thought Facebook took up
too much of your time.
BYOD, BYOT –bring your own device, bring your own tech –
these are the #hashtags of the edtech revolution. This call to arms naturally invites push back.
The push and the push back are usually summed up thus:
PUSH: Students are using technology already and using it
better than us teachers; let’s learn it and implement it fast to enhance the
educational experience.
The PUSH BACK: Students are already using technology too
much and it’s distracting and detracting from the essential information; let’s
explore it cautiously and limit it to very specific use.
And if that weren’t enough to put a knot in your pedagogical
knickers, students are saying things like this:
While not exactly yearning for a “flipped classroom” –
another 21st century learning innovation – this sentiment hints at the
perceived need for what Juliette LaMontagne calls “models in the margins [that have] effectively disrupted the status quo” - models that also have educators questioning their own purpose and paradigm
shifts that will almost certainly include technology.
But there is a disconnect between the perception and reality
of what is actually occurring in a technology-enhanced classroom just as there
is a disconnect between what is #edtech trending on Twitter and what is really happening
in the majority of educational institutions around the world. And as we reach what might be, paradoxically, a critical mass in innovation, there is
time for REFLECTION:
As I pull out some hairs and grow a few grey ones over how
to engage this new crop of learners, all my questions and fears rise to the
surface: How much of the old can we
keep? How much of the new has value? Why
does this new paradigm of education feel like shifting sands? If my students are not even reading but only taking
pictures of my boardwork, what is retained in their own memories? Does the lack
of remembering mean not learning? And if not retaining and not remembering is
part of the new learning, then there remains this inescapable question: what is
knowledge?
And if it comes down to “what is knowledge?”, I’m screwed.
*will not be tweeted
because it has already happened
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Road Pizza
Question: What's the definition of eternity?
Punchline: 4 Victorians at a 4-way stop.
(Ok, so it's supposed to be "blonds", instead of "Victorians" but that's not very nice is it? My poor, sad, blond friends who feel soooooooooo discriminated against...)
Well, if you live here in our wee city, you are probably chortling even a little, particularly if you have observed and cursed at the kajillion 4-way stops that are splattered all over Victoria B.C. and of course, if you are thinking about telling that joke later to a sad, blond friend of yours.
BUT IT'S NOT FUNNY, so STOP CHORTLING. Even if you are not sure what chortling means, stop it now. It's not funny because, every morning, I am now sitting in the passenger seat as my "L"-licensed child drives us to his high school. Did I mention that he is still technically a child and that he also technically has a license to propel our 4000-pound family Ford Focus through the law-breaking-cyclist-jammed, jaywalking-pedestrian-entangled, unsynchronized, 4-way-plagued streets of Victoria? Oh yes, I said it. You've been thinking it. Some of you have been doing it. My question to you: Why do you want to be road pizza?
Once, in Thailand, I'm certain I ate road pizza disguised as,well, something unrecognizable. My BFF and I called it pizza because calling it road kill came too close to acknowledging that yup, it's a rat. Or maybe a small, hairless dog. Whatever it is, it is flat and hanging from a hook at a roadside "eatery". That shack was roadside for a reason and not just because there was lots of foot traffic. But we were hungry.
Victorians, you are one careless step or wheel rotation from being hung from a hook in a Thai roadside shack. Lunching at or lurching off a 4-way stop is not the real problem in our fair city. If only.
No, you charming but seemingly self-entitled Victorians think drivers are paying attention to you as you swoop your cyclist ass into traffic without signalling, shuffle across the road with your ipod on and head down, spring onto (egads!) a crosswalk without even looking at the car that is currently in your path and couldn't stop even if God himself pressed his mighty thumb on the front tire. Guess what? Some of those drivers are 17-year old newbies that are still trying to figure out which pedal is the clutch and how to turn off the back wiper blade. Your Evel Knievel ass? That driver hasn't even thought of you yet, never mind prepared to save you from your solipsistic self. Just how magic do you think these new-fangled cars are?
But it's not just the 17-year olds; driving is HARD and not getting killed or making road pizza generally hinges on everyone else doing what they're supposed to be doing too, plus some luck. And visibility. And dry roads. And. So, you two-legged and two-wheeled citizens; if you're near or on a road, you are just as responsible for your own safety as the 4000-pound Ford Focus hurtling towards you is. If you don't start paying attention - in a contest with a 4000-pound gorilla, my money is on the gorilla.
p.s. This awesome song has very little to do with road pizza and 17-year old drivers. Or does it?
p.p.s. For those of you younger than my old self, this is: Evel Knievel
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
#whyareyoufollowingme?
My husband will tell you that I have an unhealthy obsession, which, I suppose, is a bit redundant given the innate nature of obsession but still, this is what he believes.
(aside: do you ever feel that you are the only person on the planet who spots the obvious logic of a situation and yet cannot persuade others to see it your way?)
I call it a pet peeve, not an obsession - I have broached the subject less than 6 times, so it hardly qualifies but I won't quibble (again). It's Twitter.
I love Twitter. I tweet often. I re-tweet. I mention. I follow. I follow back. My pet peeve, and I'm only slightly embarrassed to announce this publicly, is when other tweeps unfollow me. I just don't understand and frankly, you unfollowers, my feelings are a bit hurt.
People use Twitter for a myriad of reasons but for me, Twitter is primarily a professional platform. I am building my "personal learning network" - a.k.a. #PLN - and connecting and sharing with like-minded educators around the world. It's fantastic. I'm not trying to sell tea cosies or porn or get a kajillion followers. I am methodically and conscientiously building my network.
Following someone new on Twitter can be a bit like a blind date, except that you have ALL THEIR PREVIOUS TWEETS TO READ and kind of assess a) what kind of person they are b) what they are interested in and, obviously, c) what they tweet about. If the abc's don't gel with what you're up to on Twitter, don't follow them. It only takes a few minutes to see if you're a match or not. Seems simple to me.
My twitter heart is on my sleeve. So, why, for the love of Pete, do people start following me and then quite unceremoniously unfollow me a few days later?
My photo is front and center. My profile is there for you to read. I have over 2000 tweets you can scan to see what I'm up to. Is the "what you see is what you get" just a little too obvious for you? Did I not surprise you enough? Did you think I would follow you back even though your entire Twitter feed is in Japanese or worse, incredibly boring and irrelevant?
I feel like you're driving me home because I didn't make out with you in the back of the car even though you knew I had a boyfriend. You just wanted another notch in your Twitter belt.
Honestly, I think you're kind of sluttish and well, I have my pride. Go tweet with @suzy745 and think before you follow. I did.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Oh, Luke Skywalker, where have you been?!
Christmas at the Bramble house brings a brooding cloud of parent shame that is on par with the should-be shame of toddlers-and-tiaras-special-juice parent pushers. There exists in our humble home enough lego to build a second summer home in the Hamptons or, at least, Lake Cowichan - enough for a wrap-around deck and extendo-dock. The collection hit the ground running with #1 and then over the last decade and with child #2 gathered enough momentum to be the natural disaster plot in a Will Smith doomsday flick.
So, it was with some happiness coupled with deep embarrassment that I announce two new babies in the Bramble-lego-brick household: the adorable "Alien Conquest" and its collectible twin "Indiana Jones". Merry Christmas 2011.
And so begins the great clean-up of 2012, for, in order to make room for these enormous new sets, one must reorganize and as I like to say - redistribute (to the neighbours, to charity, to the recycle bin). This past Saturday, as I shuffled and lugged and carted, I rediscovered the joy of rediscovering.
Every baby and child-rearing book touts the power and simplicity of the "put away for a rainy day" toy strategy. But not having read such books since, well, I was pregnant, I guess it had slipped my mind.
You see, my children are spoiled rotten. Like budding hoarders, they are mostly unaware of all the cool stuff they already have. But with a little bait-and-switch, suddenly they are looking at Luke Skywalker as if they had never held his little plastic body in their sweaty, greasy hands or as if they had never snapped his blond hair off and replaced it with Harry Potter's...or Hermione's. They'll be mesmerized anew. For at least 20 minutes.
So, my fellow long-suffering-long-guilty parents, I recommend doing the ol' switcheroo every few months - shuffle a few books, move the playmobil upstairs, and bring the puzzles out of the closet. It'll be like Christmas without well, the Christmas.
p.s. My 16-year old is going to kill me for lumping him in with his little brother but replace "Luke" with "Winston" and it's all the same.
And so begins the great clean-up of 2012, for, in order to make room for these enormous new sets, one must reorganize and as I like to say - redistribute (to the neighbours, to charity, to the recycle bin). This past Saturday, as I shuffled and lugged and carted, I rediscovered the joy of rediscovering.
Every baby and child-rearing book touts the power and simplicity of the "put away for a rainy day" toy strategy. But not having read such books since, well, I was pregnant, I guess it had slipped my mind.
You see, my children are spoiled rotten. Like budding hoarders, they are mostly unaware of all the cool stuff they already have. But with a little bait-and-switch, suddenly they are looking at Luke Skywalker as if they had never held his little plastic body in their sweaty, greasy hands or as if they had never snapped his blond hair off and replaced it with Harry Potter's...or Hermione's. They'll be mesmerized anew. For at least 20 minutes.
So, my fellow long-suffering-long-guilty parents, I recommend doing the ol' switcheroo every few months - shuffle a few books, move the playmobil upstairs, and bring the puzzles out of the closet. It'll be like Christmas without well, the Christmas.
p.s. My 16-year old is going to kill me for lumping him in with his little brother but replace "Luke" with "Winston" and it's all the same.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
What to Wear: The Poppy ( Red is the New Black)
Is the Poppy's ubiquity something new or is my noticing it simply something new to me? Official "poppy policy" sees our civil servants and broadcasters don the poppy two weeks prior to Remembrance Day, November 11th. In late October, our young cadets and Legion members swamp grocery and liquor stores trading poppies for donations. From what I have seen, business is brisk.
Perhaps it is my own predilection for the poppy that has me interpreting my world through red-coloured glasses, but I can't help sense that Canadians are establishing a new patriotism, a patriotism that naturally extends to our appreciation for our active military personnel but also to those who helped establish Canada as a nation. This pride in our country, in ourselves, may stem from the new-found respect afforded us as a global leader side-stepping a crumbling world economy or it may simply be that we are growing up.
As I move into what my son refers to as a "certain age", I am finding myself more sentimental, even nostalgic but I am also more grateful. And perhaps that is all it is, those of us in developed nations are finally feeling grateful for what we do have.
In the news today, Prince William "demands Fifa U-turn on poppy ban", a long-standing policy that match
shirts should not carry political, religious or commercial messages. The Duke of Cambridge insists that poppies do not represent political, religious or commercial messages. I don't know quite what to say to that except that perhaps they don't, but they so also obviously do. What the poppy represents may now become the stuff of future debate. For me, it is a show of gratitude and quiet commemoration.
As Rick Mercer says: remember to remember. I'm looking forward to seeing you and your poppy until 11:11 a.m. on November 11th and then we will do what our military personnel, their families, and our veterans do every year, move past the remembering and back into the doing.
And just to prove I am a sentimental old fool, here is Terry Kelly's "A Pittance of Time"
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
It's election time - do you know where your children are?
Rock the vote, man, Yeah, like rock it totally. Come on you young uns - get out and VOTE! Tweet your vote, facebook your vote, shoot, facepaint your vote. Just VOTE already.
We oldies are sure keen to get our youth democratically motivated. And we should be; it ain't no democracy without every last eligible voter voting.
( Are you sure all your boys are doing their best? Are they ALL making noise? Are you sure every Who down in Who-ville is working? Quick! Look through your town! Is there anyone shirking?)
The funny thing I've noticed lately, though, is that only parties of a certain colour seem hyper-engaged in rockin' the youth vote. By colour, I mean the red, green, and orange variety. The blues, well, they are noticeably absent on this particular mandate.
This is good, right? I mean, getting those 18+ "kids" out to vote can only be something fantastically great and democratic, regardless of who lights the fire under their derrières. Right?
Cue ominous music and whisper: be careful what you wish for....
Ponder this: there is the remote possibility, dear parents and assorted oldies, that, even though you may be waving a red, green, or orange flag, the brilliant son or college-aged niece that you've been pushing aggressively to the ballot box may actually be A CONSERVATIVE. Still want them to vote? Huh?
I can almost hear the deafening silence that would transpire should those 2.6 million young voters show up on May 2 and vote in a Conservative majority.What if Jo-jo is no shirker but simply a quiet Conservative?
Now don't panic. Just because our first born put campaign signs in his bedroom window when we denied him the front yard and embarrasses us in public with his bold blue pin. And just because he's been reduced to saying "the Party" in mixed company. And just because he may blast his political beliefs all over public radio sometime this afternoon - don't panic. Or toilet-paper our house, please.
All of that and none of that necessarily means we should be careful what we wish for. I'm just saying, democracy can sometimes be a bit of a surprise.
Now get out and VOTE. Election. May 2nd, 2011. Coming to a school gym near you.
YOPP!
We oldies are sure keen to get our youth democratically motivated. And we should be; it ain't no democracy without every last eligible voter voting.
( Are you sure all your boys are doing their best? Are they ALL making noise? Are you sure every Who down in Who-ville is working? Quick! Look through your town! Is there anyone shirking?)
The funny thing I've noticed lately, though, is that only parties of a certain colour seem hyper-engaged in rockin' the youth vote. By colour, I mean the red, green, and orange variety. The blues, well, they are noticeably absent on this particular mandate.
This is good, right? I mean, getting those 18+ "kids" out to vote can only be something fantastically great and democratic, regardless of who lights the fire under their derrières. Right?
Cue ominous music and whisper: be careful what you wish for....
Ponder this: there is the remote possibility, dear parents and assorted oldies, that, even though you may be waving a red, green, or orange flag, the brilliant son or college-aged niece that you've been pushing aggressively to the ballot box may actually be A CONSERVATIVE. Still want them to vote? Huh?
I can almost hear the deafening silence that would transpire should those 2.6 million young voters show up on May 2 and vote in a Conservative majority.What if Jo-jo is no shirker but simply a quiet Conservative?
Now don't panic. Just because our first born put campaign signs in his bedroom window when we denied him the front yard and embarrasses us in public with his bold blue pin. And just because he's been reduced to saying "the Party" in mixed company. And just because he may blast his political beliefs all over public radio sometime this afternoon - don't panic. Or toilet-paper our house, please.
All of that and none of that necessarily means we should be careful what we wish for. I'm just saying, democracy can sometimes be a bit of a surprise.
Now get out and VOTE. Election. May 2nd, 2011. Coming to a school gym near you.
| Talking Heads - Burning Down The House .mp3 | ||
 | ||
 | Found at bee mp3 search engine |  |
YOPP!
Sunday, April 10, 2011
I gave to #japan and all I got was this stupid t-shirt
It usually comes in plain white, with short square sleeves, and a banded snug neckline. It is also usually printed with a bold logo stretched across its front in some horrible primary colour, or worse, a pastel.
It is the Charity T-shirt - perfunctory, ubiquitous and quite possibly the ugliest and most unflattering item in my wardrobe, (except for those beige, flared cords - shut up, Judy)
Not suprisingly, the Charity T-shirt happens to also be the least worn item in my wardrobe and somehow, regardless of its many sizes, it still manages to fit me only slightly better than a paper bag. The crazy thing? My Charity T-shirt is not alone - oh no - I have at least TEN CHARITY T-SHIRTS, each as equally ugly and unworn as the next.
The origins of my collection could quite possibly be traced to a crazed night at the Vagina Monologues when I got carried away and insisted my newly-purchased "I heart Vagina" t-shirt would be my favorite protest shirt when disillusioned with my three boys at home. My teenager was predictably disgusted but even I couldn't bring myself to wear it in the end. Not even to bed. Bed, by the way, being the place where all my Charity T-shirts go to die.
I realize that my I-heart-vagina shirt does not strictly qualify as a Charity T-shirt, but something slipped that night, some small sliver of sense. Soon I had drawers stuffed with Cancer, MS, and Chicken Pox T-shirts.
Do not get me wrong - I LOVE CHARITABLE ORGANIZATIONS (except of course when you call mid-lasagna-bite). Some of my friends even belong to charitable organizations. But, please, for the love of Japan, can we lay the Charity T-shirt to rest?
There have been some decent alternative efforts out there. Thanks, Lance - the bands worked for awhile, until the kids got bored and their parents started making them wash their band-infested and increasingly sweaty lower arms. Stickers and pins, bless them, are hanging in there. But do charities truly need to spend money and to manufacture junk to thank people for donating?
Of course I understand that such items also have a promotional component, as well as sending a strong social message. Perhaps it is simply the style of the shirt that has run its course. By that I mean, the cheap style. The style that is literally a T and of no fashion use to anyone.
Japan, I am more than happy to raise and donate money for disaster relief, but I will be satisfied with a mere thank you when you get around to it. Keep the shirt.
It is the Charity T-shirt - perfunctory, ubiquitous and quite possibly the ugliest and most unflattering item in my wardrobe, (except for those beige, flared cords - shut up, Judy)
Not suprisingly, the Charity T-shirt happens to also be the least worn item in my wardrobe and somehow, regardless of its many sizes, it still manages to fit me only slightly better than a paper bag. The crazy thing? My Charity T-shirt is not alone - oh no - I have at least TEN CHARITY T-SHIRTS, each as equally ugly and unworn as the next.
The origins of my collection could quite possibly be traced to a crazed night at the Vagina Monologues when I got carried away and insisted my newly-purchased "I heart Vagina" t-shirt would be my favorite protest shirt when disillusioned with my three boys at home. My teenager was predictably disgusted but even I couldn't bring myself to wear it in the end. Not even to bed. Bed, by the way, being the place where all my Charity T-shirts go to die.
I realize that my I-heart-vagina shirt does not strictly qualify as a Charity T-shirt, but something slipped that night, some small sliver of sense. Soon I had drawers stuffed with Cancer, MS, and Chicken Pox T-shirts.
Do not get me wrong - I LOVE CHARITABLE ORGANIZATIONS (except of course when you call mid-lasagna-bite). Some of my friends even belong to charitable organizations. But, please, for the love of Japan, can we lay the Charity T-shirt to rest?
There have been some decent alternative efforts out there. Thanks, Lance - the bands worked for awhile, until the kids got bored and their parents started making them wash their band-infested and increasingly sweaty lower arms. Stickers and pins, bless them, are hanging in there. But do charities truly need to spend money and to manufacture junk to thank people for donating?
Of course I understand that such items also have a promotional component, as well as sending a strong social message. Perhaps it is simply the style of the shirt that has run its course. By that I mean, the cheap style. The style that is literally a T and of no fashion use to anyone.
Japan, I am more than happy to raise and donate money for disaster relief, but I will be satisfied with a mere thank you when you get around to it. Keep the shirt.
| Right Said Fred - Right Said Fred - I m Too Sexy .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Dear God: please don't let it snow on a Sunday
Living in the the "green" belt of BC, snow comes perhaps twice a year and usually, a light dusting at worst. Here today. Gone tomorrow.
That said, we have been blasted by Mother Nature a few times in the past decade and have been completely paralyzed - our ineptitude and anguish drowned out by the loud snickers and snorts of Canadians elsewhere. Our comeuppance usually arrives in the form of a high flower count in late-February.
Our fair city is adapting to climate change, however, and so, when the latest wintry blast blew somewhat unexpectedly in the early hours of morning yesterday, Victorians were basically back on their feet by this morning.
Well, let's say some Victorians were back on their feet. Those with wheels on their strollers or wheelchairs or those with casts, canes, crutches, unsteady feet, high heels or just plain common sense took one look at the minefields the sidewalks in their neighbourhoods had become and beat a hasty retreat back inside.
My youngest and I crunched and tiptoed and slid to school this morning, along the ice-pocked sidewalks of our urban-residential neighbourhood. He, brashly pushing forth like any five-year old with some pluck, sturdy boots, and a close proximity to the ground should. Me, less so -older, wiser, fragile bones reluctant.
Yesterday was smooth sailing by today's comparison. Soft, wet snow. The smush and crunch of boots. If not driving or cycling, your chances of calamity were slim. Of course, for those who have any sense whatsoever know, if you didn't shovel and clear your sidewalk yesterday, with an overnight forecast of more snow and -7 degrees, those same pathways would be deadly today. Not clearing your sidewalk is basically telling your neighbours to f*ck off and break a leg.
I think it goes without saying that we do not expect people who are incapable or unable of clearing their sidewalks to do so. Being a lazy a*s does not qualify as a good excuse. Nor does being a renter. Nor does worshipping God. The single worst perpetrators of sidewalk sabotage by apathy in my neighbourhood? Houses of the holy.
Um, are you there, God? It's me, Fiona. Nope, don't have my period. No, not worried about kissing Sam in 4th grade. Um, please don't send me to Hell just for this but, um, your peeps are not doing their civic duty and I'm pissed.
The bricks and mortar that occasionally house your faithful sit on larger, longish corner lots. With two longish sidewalk sides. On snowy, inclement weather days, these lengths of sidewalk lie embarrassingly and treacherously unshovelled. Uncleared. Ice-pocked. Hazardous. Pray tell why they are not cleared? Are you in our hearts always, but in church only on Sundays? I know someone was there, I saw footprints in the snow exiting from the side door. Do your worshippers only kneel, not scoop or sweep? Do they pretend not to see their church as they walk their kids to school? Cough and look the other way?
Listen, I'm not trying to judge you or anything but I'm not fast or strong enough to catch every able and un-able being that is trying to pick his or her way across the icy path that is your threshold.
I know, I know - it's a weekday. I feel your pain. Faith these days seems to be practiced only on Christmas Eve and Sundays.
Dear God: I pray it snows this Sunday, so everyone can walk home without falling on their arses.
Love the Chilis:
That said, we have been blasted by Mother Nature a few times in the past decade and have been completely paralyzed - our ineptitude and anguish drowned out by the loud snickers and snorts of Canadians elsewhere. Our comeuppance usually arrives in the form of a high flower count in late-February.
Our fair city is adapting to climate change, however, and so, when the latest wintry blast blew somewhat unexpectedly in the early hours of morning yesterday, Victorians were basically back on their feet by this morning.
Well, let's say some Victorians were back on their feet. Those with wheels on their strollers or wheelchairs or those with casts, canes, crutches, unsteady feet, high heels or just plain common sense took one look at the minefields the sidewalks in their neighbourhoods had become and beat a hasty retreat back inside.
My youngest and I crunched and tiptoed and slid to school this morning, along the ice-pocked sidewalks of our urban-residential neighbourhood. He, brashly pushing forth like any five-year old with some pluck, sturdy boots, and a close proximity to the ground should. Me, less so -older, wiser, fragile bones reluctant.
Yesterday was smooth sailing by today's comparison. Soft, wet snow. The smush and crunch of boots. If not driving or cycling, your chances of calamity were slim. Of course, for those who have any sense whatsoever know, if you didn't shovel and clear your sidewalk yesterday, with an overnight forecast of more snow and -7 degrees, those same pathways would be deadly today. Not clearing your sidewalk is basically telling your neighbours to f*ck off and break a leg.
I think it goes without saying that we do not expect people who are incapable or unable of clearing their sidewalks to do so. Being a lazy a*s does not qualify as a good excuse. Nor does being a renter. Nor does worshipping God. The single worst perpetrators of sidewalk sabotage by apathy in my neighbourhood? Houses of the holy.
Um, are you there, God? It's me, Fiona. Nope, don't have my period. No, not worried about kissing Sam in 4th grade. Um, please don't send me to Hell just for this but, um, your peeps are not doing their civic duty and I'm pissed.
The bricks and mortar that occasionally house your faithful sit on larger, longish corner lots. With two longish sidewalk sides. On snowy, inclement weather days, these lengths of sidewalk lie embarrassingly and treacherously unshovelled. Uncleared. Ice-pocked. Hazardous. Pray tell why they are not cleared? Are you in our hearts always, but in church only on Sundays? I know someone was there, I saw footprints in the snow exiting from the side door. Do your worshippers only kneel, not scoop or sweep? Do they pretend not to see their church as they walk their kids to school? Cough and look the other way?
Listen, I'm not trying to judge you or anything but I'm not fast or strong enough to catch every able and un-able being that is trying to pick his or her way across the icy path that is your threshold.
I know, I know - it's a weekday. I feel your pain. Faith these days seems to be practiced only on Christmas Eve and Sundays.
Dear God: I pray it snows this Sunday, so everyone can walk home without falling on their arses.
Love the Chilis:
| Red Hot Chilli Peppers - Snow .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Friday, February 4, 2011
Say It Like You Mean It Dammit
In a recent Globe and Mail piece, Ian Brown wrote about public speaking and political rhetoric and reflects, mainly, that well, the speech-making of our modern-day leaders sucks. Brown quotes one of Winston Churchill's powerful rallying cries:
"You ask, 'What is our policy?' I will say: it is to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and with all the strength that god can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, 'What is our aim?' I can answer in one word: victory; victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival. "
I imagine Brown quoted this in its entirety for the same reason I have. Churchill's words are unequivocal. They are bare. They are terrifying. They are truthful. They don't give one fig what spin the newspaper might put on them.
Brown, as my husband did over coffee this morning, conceded that Churchill had a war as a dramatic, galvanizing backdrop. Brown and my husband also suggested that we don't trust our leaders anymore, so instead of being galvanized into action by their words, we roll our eyes and say, whatever.
Blame Wikileaks; blame the media. Hell, blame the economy, the schools, the parents, the weather - whatever floats your boat. Brown writes that President Obama is one of the better speakers on Earth - but we are not receptive to [his rhetoric]. I disagree. A great speaker creates a receptive audience. Our leaders and speakers today make tepid calls to action, if at all. In trying to predict what the spinners might spin, all content is stripped of substance.
There doesn't have to be a war going on to be passionate about something, to be brutally truthful about something, to inspire your people into action. As it happens, there are many current, ongoing conflicts around the world that fall under the banner of "monstrous tyranny". As it happens, there is no shortage of difficult issues or problems that are not scattered in a minefield of political correctness.
Leaders, shout clean and clear your policies on human kindness, on work ethic, on common human values and concerns.
Imagine bellowing:
"You ask, 'What is our policy?' I will say: it is to wage war on child poverty with all our might and with all the strength that our faith can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. " You ask, 'What is our aim?' I can answer in one word: victory; victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival. "
You are not just our governors, you are our leaders - inspire us. Scare us a little. Galvanize us.
Let the media muddy the waters if they wish but it's your job to say it like it is and say it like you mean it. Do your job, dammit.
"You ask, 'What is our policy?' I will say: it is to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and with all the strength that god can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, 'What is our aim?' I can answer in one word: victory; victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival. "
I imagine Brown quoted this in its entirety for the same reason I have. Churchill's words are unequivocal. They are bare. They are terrifying. They are truthful. They don't give one fig what spin the newspaper might put on them.
Brown, as my husband did over coffee this morning, conceded that Churchill had a war as a dramatic, galvanizing backdrop. Brown and my husband also suggested that we don't trust our leaders anymore, so instead of being galvanized into action by their words, we roll our eyes and say, whatever.
Blame Wikileaks; blame the media. Hell, blame the economy, the schools, the parents, the weather - whatever floats your boat. Brown writes that President Obama is one of the better speakers on Earth - but we are not receptive to [his rhetoric]. I disagree. A great speaker creates a receptive audience. Our leaders and speakers today make tepid calls to action, if at all. In trying to predict what the spinners might spin, all content is stripped of substance.
There doesn't have to be a war going on to be passionate about something, to be brutally truthful about something, to inspire your people into action. As it happens, there are many current, ongoing conflicts around the world that fall under the banner of "monstrous tyranny". As it happens, there is no shortage of difficult issues or problems that are not scattered in a minefield of political correctness.
Leaders, shout clean and clear your policies on human kindness, on work ethic, on common human values and concerns.
Imagine bellowing:
"You ask, 'What is our policy?' I will say: it is to wage war on child poverty with all our might and with all the strength that our faith can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. " You ask, 'What is our aim?' I can answer in one word: victory; victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival. "
You are not just our governors, you are our leaders - inspire us. Scare us a little. Galvanize us.
Let the media muddy the waters if they wish but it's your job to say it like it is and say it like you mean it. Do your job, dammit.
| Muse - Uprising .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Friday, January 21, 2011
Hi Pammy! And Other Truncation Horror Stories
Don't EVER call me *Liz*, she spat.
I choked a little.
It was my second week on the job and I was loving it. My new colleagues were smart, fun, and funny. I couldn't believe my luck. When "Thanks, Liz" left my lips one afternoon and entered our immediate sound space, I had no idea I had committed a punishable offence.
I choked a little.
It was my second week on the job and I was loving it. My new colleagues were smart, fun, and funny. I couldn't believe my luck. When "Thanks, Liz" left my lips one afternoon and entered our immediate sound space, I had no idea I had committed a punishable offence.
This witty, stunning Elizabeth had transformed into a spittle-spraying dragon lady. I backed up a few inches, looked down at my shoes and promised never to do it again. I felt 12. Unbeknownst to me, Elizabeth detested being called Liz, perhaps for many reasons, but none more paramount than the fact that her husband's ex-girlfriend, also an Elizabeth, was called "Liz".
Later in life I will meet another Elizabeth who refers to her husband's ex as "Elizabeth I", or sometimes just "crazy Elizabeth" while my friend is, naturally, the current reigning monarch, Elizabeth II. But I digress.
You see, I am one of those people, those friendly folks that shorten other people's names. All the time. Just call me the Truncator. In linguistic terms, I am often guilty of what is known as "apocopation", a shortening of the sort that retains only the beginning of a word, also known as "back-clipping" (thanks Wikipedia). Now before you go and wag your finger at me, I think it goes without saying that the newest, youngest generation are back-clipper, truncators extraordinaire, what with texting and tweeting and well, talking and everything.
And really, it is just people's first names that are victims of my clip. Unfortunately, this little habit of mine ticks some people off to the mammoth degree. Who knew?
I was having a wee chat with a good friend or two, let's call them Krissy and Pammy (not to their faces of course), when the conversation steered towards what one prefers to be called, is called, and any discrepancies there within. Turns out, Pamela gets right steamed when someone calls her Pam. Just who do they think they are, she says. My new best friend? I HATE being called Pam! By the time Kristina has expressed her feelings about being called Kris, Krissy, or, egad, Kristy, I am looking intently at my shoes and feeling my ears turn bright red.
P and K are not only frustrated by such presumption, they are insulted. The nerve of these people. P and K are certain that some sort of sycophantic, ingratiating plot is at work. By some small miracle, neither of these ladies is aware that I am one of these people. And as my backbone would have it, I am far too chicken to confess my sins, so instead I attempt to come to the defense of my fellow clippers.
Perhaps he feels comfortable with you. Maybe her pet rabbit is named Pam. Could be that she just really likes you alot.
Truth is, I don't know why I do it. There are certainly people to and with whom I will never do it. Especially Pamela. A list of some of my oldest and newest friends might look and sound like this: Col, Marn, Steph, Lis, Uni, Kat, Seoni, Sheel, Dee, Jude, Nik, Lor, Em...
Ladies, please forgive me.
Future friends: I promise that if I clip you, I'm not being sycophantic, I simply feel comfortable with you and maybe even like you alot. I also promise I won't clip you if you already have a single syllable name. And I promise I won't name a pet rabbit after you.
I can't promise, however, that I won't touch your arm when we're talking. It's just the way I am. Oh, and please call me Fi.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
KD & Me: personal story * travel guide & playlist
UPDATE: I've been living 2+ years now with my PRC and suffer from very little pain and almost only when I "overuse" my left hand. My right wrist has happily not yet progressed, so I'm just careful - and grateful!
press play & read4(double-click first track if necessary - the rest will play!)
press play & read4(double-click first track if necessary - the rest will play!)
Monday, December 27, 2010
In the End: It Just Is
Pain
I know little about the physiology of pain - the neural pathways, the synapses, the receivers and transmitters of pain signals - some sense, some medical mumbo-jumbo. I understand a little more about the psychology of pain, acute and chronic, which both aids and hinders us humans along the path of illness and hopefully, wellness.
It's possible we humans do not possess identical pain processing plants. It's certain that we humans perceive, and therefore, feel pain on radically different scales of agony. That we perceive pain differently is widely accepted. Why we perceive pain differently is universally questioned.
And so we are left with this: pain is relative. There can be no hierarchy of pain because there is no constant template from which to establish a frame or point of reference.
The pain you perceive to feel is as real as and as *painful* as you believe it to be. You are your brain and your body. You cannot escape this simple fact. You cannot compare yourself to another or your affliction to another's. You are not stronger or weaker or braver or more cowardly than other sufferers. You just are. Your pain just is. Or isn't.
Medical practitioners and caregivers know this - they are willing to treat and mitigate your pain without judgment. Enlist them when you need to and discharge then when you don't.
As I've written: In the end, it is only you. You, and what you can bear.
Illness
"There is a psychology to any illness, whether you have chicken pox or a broken leg. There is a particular psychology to a progressive illness or disease, one in which the pain, loss of mobility, and exhaustion are all framed in a race against the clock. The matter of you walking or not, or living or not, is a matter of time and timely treatment and, occasionally, of timely miracles." So I once wrote.
I don't profess to know much about illness on the whole but even in my short journey, I fell victim to the sudden sense of isolation that envelops one when sick or injured. We've all had a bad cold and spent a sick day or two in bed with tissues and a book. Remember the feeling you had when you eventually showered and dressed and went back to work and life. It seemed like you had been away for ages. It may have only taken a few minutes or perhaps an entire morning before you slid back into your routine, but for a short time, you felt the tiny stab of knowledge that the world marched along without you. Unaware and unconcerned.
For those with lengthy or terminal illnesses or injuries, you begin to feel like a ghost in the outside world, neither fully present, nor completely absent.
The reasons for your phantom existence are multi-fold but mainly it is because you feel terrible and unable. Participating in regular life might highlight or antagonize your disability. Worse, you might utter a complaint or an audible moan of pain. You want neither to be a martyr nor be viewed as one.
You sometimes believe and behave as if it is easier to stay home, to be alone, to not have to ask, explain, or negotiate what should be simple things, like small talk in the grocery store or ladies' baking night. Of course, this is what life is - but it suddenly seems so daunting, and tiring.
Illness is a state of mind and body.
Support
Everyone has a support network. They may or may not be individuals or organizations that you automatically identify as such. It may be your spouse but it could also be your aerobics class or your dog.
Even your standard definition of support may be unrecognizable. It might be in the form of drug therapy, aromatherapy, or laugh therapy. It might be more concrete, like a buying an automatic can opener when the task finally becomes insurmountable.
You may desperately seek out support, reject it outright, grudgingly accept it, or fall into it, as I did.
My wise advice: When any such supportive form begins to make itself recognizable to you, embrace it and surround yourself with it. Don't abuse it but don't feel guilty about drawing strength and assistance from it either, whenever necessary.
Me
There's no great epiphany here. I haven't seen the end of the world. I've just explored more terrain and foreign topography.
Some clichés: I am learning how to be grateful, more patient, less judgmental, more helpful, lighter, freer.
I am learning that cold, damp winters will be hard. I am a 40-year old with the hands of an arthritic octogenarian.
I am learning that I can bear more than I realize but not as much as I thought.
I am learning that there are many causes and reasons for a person's appearance and behaviour.
I am learning that everyone bears some pain in some form.
I am learning that good and bad can come at anytime in equal or unequal measure and that *fair* is a myth.
I am learning how to age.
I am learning how to accept.
I am learning It Just Is:
(Summertime in England - Van Morrison. I know Van doesn't approve of this whole file-sharing thing, so I hope he'll forgive me this one time. Long before KD, this was one of my favorite-all-time-celebrate-life-with-wisdom songs. Wise man, Van. It's 15 minutes long - close your eyes and just be.)
I know little about the physiology of pain - the neural pathways, the synapses, the receivers and transmitters of pain signals - some sense, some medical mumbo-jumbo. I understand a little more about the psychology of pain, acute and chronic, which both aids and hinders us humans along the path of illness and hopefully, wellness.
It's possible we humans do not possess identical pain processing plants. It's certain that we humans perceive, and therefore, feel pain on radically different scales of agony. That we perceive pain differently is widely accepted. Why we perceive pain differently is universally questioned.
And so we are left with this: pain is relative. There can be no hierarchy of pain because there is no constant template from which to establish a frame or point of reference.
The pain you perceive to feel is as real as and as *painful* as you believe it to be. You are your brain and your body. You cannot escape this simple fact. You cannot compare yourself to another or your affliction to another's. You are not stronger or weaker or braver or more cowardly than other sufferers. You just are. Your pain just is. Or isn't.
Medical practitioners and caregivers know this - they are willing to treat and mitigate your pain without judgment. Enlist them when you need to and discharge then when you don't.
As I've written: In the end, it is only you. You, and what you can bear.
Illness
"There is a psychology to any illness, whether you have chicken pox or a broken leg. There is a particular psychology to a progressive illness or disease, one in which the pain, loss of mobility, and exhaustion are all framed in a race against the clock. The matter of you walking or not, or living or not, is a matter of time and timely treatment and, occasionally, of timely miracles." So I once wrote.
I don't profess to know much about illness on the whole but even in my short journey, I fell victim to the sudden sense of isolation that envelops one when sick or injured. We've all had a bad cold and spent a sick day or two in bed with tissues and a book. Remember the feeling you had when you eventually showered and dressed and went back to work and life. It seemed like you had been away for ages. It may have only taken a few minutes or perhaps an entire morning before you slid back into your routine, but for a short time, you felt the tiny stab of knowledge that the world marched along without you. Unaware and unconcerned.
For those with lengthy or terminal illnesses or injuries, you begin to feel like a ghost in the outside world, neither fully present, nor completely absent.
The reasons for your phantom existence are multi-fold but mainly it is because you feel terrible and unable. Participating in regular life might highlight or antagonize your disability. Worse, you might utter a complaint or an audible moan of pain. You want neither to be a martyr nor be viewed as one.
You sometimes believe and behave as if it is easier to stay home, to be alone, to not have to ask, explain, or negotiate what should be simple things, like small talk in the grocery store or ladies' baking night. Of course, this is what life is - but it suddenly seems so daunting, and tiring.
Illness is a state of mind and body.
Support
Everyone has a support network. They may or may not be individuals or organizations that you automatically identify as such. It may be your spouse but it could also be your aerobics class or your dog.
Even your standard definition of support may be unrecognizable. It might be in the form of drug therapy, aromatherapy, or laugh therapy. It might be more concrete, like a buying an automatic can opener when the task finally becomes insurmountable.
You may desperately seek out support, reject it outright, grudgingly accept it, or fall into it, as I did.
My wise advice: When any such supportive form begins to make itself recognizable to you, embrace it and surround yourself with it. Don't abuse it but don't feel guilty about drawing strength and assistance from it either, whenever necessary.
Me
There's no great epiphany here. I haven't seen the end of the world. I've just explored more terrain and foreign topography.
Some clichés: I am learning how to be grateful, more patient, less judgmental, more helpful, lighter, freer.
I am learning that cold, damp winters will be hard. I am a 40-year old with the hands of an arthritic octogenarian.
I am learning that I can bear more than I realize but not as much as I thought.
I am learning that there are many causes and reasons for a person's appearance and behaviour.
I am learning that everyone bears some pain in some form.
I am learning that good and bad can come at anytime in equal or unequal measure and that *fair* is a myth.
I am learning how to age.
I am learning how to accept.
I am learning It Just Is:
(Summertime in England - Van Morrison. I know Van doesn't approve of this whole file-sharing thing, so I hope he'll forgive me this one time. Long before KD, this was one of my favorite-all-time-celebrate-life-with-wisdom songs. Wise man, Van. It's 15 minutes long - close your eyes and just be.)
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