When we lose the greats

Lee Maracle (1950-2021)

Marie-Claire Blais (1939-2021)

bell hooks (1952-2021)

Joan Didion (1934-2021)

Candy Palmater (1968-2021)

Archbishop Desmond Tutu (1931-2021)

When we lose the greats, it is as if the earth stops turning, for a fraction of a second, and exhales. Be they old or young, we think: It's too soon.

When we lose the greats, we worry and wonder how to move forward. Who will comfort us, who will teach us, who will help us navigate these confusing times? In our grief it is difficult to contemplate that others may follow. 

The world has lost 6 more greats in these fading days of 2021, as though the year's losses -- loss of stability, of time, of friends and family members to cancer, heart attack, covid, steely old age -- weren't bad enough.

Perhaps our planet thought that it could trade away its dread of the new year to come; as though releasing them to the universe might also release its own fear, or maybe even motivate its citizens -- us -- to alter our destructive ways and pay attention for a change. A grand bargain for peace, justice, climate action.

How could anyone possibly replace them? They whose words kept us afloat in dangerous waters, through times of conflict and grief, in search of truth, in hope of reconciliation:

"Even the waves of the sea tell a story that deserves to be read. The stories that really need to be told are those that shake the very soul of you... I prepare to be shaken." Lee Maracle, Celia's Song, 2014.

"Tout est immortelle et rien ne sera oublié de ce qui fut." Marie Claire Blais, Les voyageurs sacrés, 1962.

"I choose to re-appropriate the term ‘feminism’, to focus on the fact that to be ‘feminist’ in any authentic sense of the term is to want for all people, female and male, liberation from sexist role patterns, domination, and oppression." bell hooks, Ain’t I A Woman: Black Women and Feminism, 1981.

"Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant." Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking, 2005.

"The reality is that words do hurt. Which is why, as a society, we remove hurtful words from our vernacular as we evolve." Candy Palmater, in Chatelaine, 2017.

"We are fragile creatures, and it is from this weakness, not despite it, that we discover the possibility of true joy." Archbishop Desmond Tutu, The Book of Joy, 2016.

How fortunate are we to have shared time on this planet with these greats. May their memory be eternal, and may their words be their legacy and an inspiration to a new generation -- to all of us -- to be great. 

The Erotic Theodorakis

The Greek singer, Yiannis Parios, compiled the love songs of the legendary Mikis Theodorakis and the two sang together on a starry night at Lykavitos.

This was a soundtrack to my childhood. My Dad singing in the car, or in the basement with the men's barbershop choir he pulled together. Dancing with my friends and our parents late into the night at church community dances. Summer beach parties with my cousins in Greece. 

I'm reading more and more about Theodorakis, and listening to his music again, following his death at 96 on September 2. He was THE Greek composer of the past century. I'm old enough to know his music and to remember - to be stirred by the first note or two of a song and know in my heart the words and notes that follow - but young enough that I did not really know of his significant political impact during Greece's dark days of dictatorship. Imprisonment. Torture. Exile. I'm learning that he also collaborated with Pablo Neruda, whose life experience as a Chilean poet and political protagonist mirrored his own.

You've all heard his music, whether you are Greek or not. Think of Zorba's dance - those first 2 notes that summon you to dance, to put your arms on the shoulders of strangers next to you and to move to an ever faster rhythm until you collapse, breathless and laughing - and you'll go "Ohhhh, right. I do know that one."

If you have Greek blood running through your veins, then you know that his music is more than entertainment. It is the soundtrack of almost a century marked by conflict, occupation, poverty, political and economic extremes, perseverance. And one that is also based on the deepest passion and love - eros - for country and fellow travellers on this earth. 

Now, I get it. May he rest in harmony, his memory eternal.

The rhythms of winter are shaken.

The light is expanding and the air feels moist -- the ick factor of growth initiating beneath our feet, as the worms begin to slide through the softening soil with no knowledge of why, or of the colours of spring: the brilliance of beauty not yet realized.

The dust and gravel on the streets, stirred up by cars passing and churning small particles that choke the air in my lungs and scratch at my eyes. 

There is a hint of warmth from the sun, as the temperature cracks ten degrees celcius for the first time in many months. Was it only months ago?

These days may be more silent, as we retreat and maintain our distance, owing to the unseen murderer that circulates, hijacking the droplets of one to land on the skin of another, infecting an ever-increasing number of people and, possibly, a whole generation: Those who were birthed as the world -- at war with itself -- began its slow implosion. 

My skin expands, wants to open, rather than contract, and there is softness where before there were flakes that itched despite the lathering of lotions to protect it, this outer organ that holds me together; a thin veil between health and decay.

It is spring, and the rhythms of winter strike a slow retreat, fading to stillness as we await the chatter of newborn birds in cloistered nests, the scurrying of critters across our decks, the patter of rain, and then the thunder: the symphony of summer to come.

This is a night that stays with me forever

This is a night that stays with me forever.

The fourth Sunday in September. The turn of summer to autumn. The night we sat - my aunt, my brother, and his partner - as we listened and waited for our mother to pass from this life to the next.

It was the part of the journey on which we could no longer accompany her. She no longer responded to our voices or to our touch. The silence broken only by her watery, raspy breaths and the whoosh of the machine that administered pain medication. We pushed that button every 20 minutes: push, whoosh, and wait.

All night.

And then, as the light of dawn began to break, there was only silence. The silence and freedom of eternal peace.

Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness

It turns out that all the proverbs are true.

As my neighbourhood and city begin the recovery following this weekend's double tornadoes, I find myself saying and thinking all sorts of truisms that have emerged from crises worse than this. I suppose it is human to want to soothe after catastrophe strikes. We immediately move to make it better, to fix, to heal. Some things we can fix with tools, others with words.

Home is where the heart is. I realized this weekend that when push came to shove, my preference was to hunker down and hibernate in the midst of a crisis. No doubt the stores and coffee shops were full of people stocking up on supplies, but I had no interest in going beyond the surrounding streets of my neighbourhood. And, while I myself walked around to take in all that had happened, I felt a slight resentment of those who seemed to come from elsewhere to gawk and take photos for their social media news feeds. Instead I wanted to surround myself with my family, have tea with my neighbours, and insulate myself from the rest of the city. Although we were without power, we had food, water and each other.

There's a silver lining in every cloud. Silver, not gold or platinum. I love silver. It is cool and crisp, unassuming and dependable, yet beautiful. I don't trust people who are always seeking "the best". Why the best, why more, why shinier, when good is more than good enough? Perhaps this makes me seem unambitious. When the clouds rolled in late Friday afternoon, the darkening sky was ominous and heavy. As the rain started, I quickened my pace to the car and began to drive home. Half way there, the rain and wind were too heavy to continue and I pulled into a plaza parking lot to wait it out. With the radio newscast interrupted by tornado warnings, the thought occurred to me that perhaps sitting in a parked car in an open lot was not the safest place to be. By the time I realized that I should look for a place to take shelter, the wind had stopped blowing and the rain had lessened to a drizzle. I continued home, stopping for takeout on the way. At least Mucho Burritto was still open, with power and food, and the lineup not too long.

Count your blessings, not your troubles. Four. I have many blessings. But my four greatest blessings are my husband and my children. With these four people in my life, I can go anywhere, do anything and be happy. I hate Monopoly. I am not competitive, I am not inspired by money, and I don't have the patience to build an empire one green house and one red hotel at a time. But Monopoly by candlelight, without power, was enjoyable because I was with these four lovely (though highly competitive) people. Ok, a glass of white wine also helped. Make that five blessings.

Many hands make light work. The relief in our home was palpable when a neighbour a few streets away said she had power and we could go over to charge our devices. There were trees down in her back yard, but we were relieved to be able to charge our phones and "reconnect". We compared notes on the street, or by texts. Some had power but no damage. Others had experienced some damage but had power. Fences were righted, fallen trees chopped to smaller bits. Ice packs and coolers tallied and at the ready. All around us people were at work putting the streets and power lines back in order. In a city of a million people, power was back within a few hours or a couple of days for most. While there are still parts of the city without power, everything is being taken care of in a peaceful and orderly manner. (This is a government town, after all.)

Make hay while the sun shines. While I am certainly grateful to have emerged unscathed, with my home and family intact, I find myself wishing that we had a few more candlelit nights ahead, that we had a few more days without wifi, that we had to be creative for just a few more meals. We were just starting to realize that in fact we were in pretty good shape : we had candles and flashlights, we had batteries and a portable phone charger, we had a portable cook stove, we had food; and, while the freezer would have held out for another day or two, we had a plan to distribute its contents to those with power if necessary. We were prepared and had more than enough of what we needed. Although we had never planned ahead with a tornado in mind, my husband was excited to be able to pull out his head lamp and  we didn't have to ration food or candles.

Tonight I lit candles again, despite the power restored.

One year ago, my family in Puerto Rico, together with their fellow 3.5 million islanders, were hit by hurricane Maria and were without power and water for months and months on end. They had to make decisions and to ration their time and resources every day, just to put together the bare necessities, not knowing how long it would take for life to return to normal. An estimated 3000 people perished in the aftermath of the storm, and recovery and reconstruction continue still.

No one died here this weekend as a result of the tornadoes, and there were very few serious injuries. There are many families, particularly in Dunrobin outside Ottawa, whose homes were levelled. I can only imagine their devastation. Some neighbours' homes and cars sustained damage. We lost many beautiful trees. These are significant losses, indeed.

But in the darkness, there is light. And every once in awhile it is good to be reminded of it.

Home is where the feta is

Photo credit: Jody Martin

My cousins tease that a good job in Greece is as a feta seller to me. I buy, and eat, it by the kilo. A single serving for me might last a week or a month for someone else.

The perfect feta is a balanced mix of salt and tang, creamy and crumble. It pairs well with extra virgin olive oil and oregano, crusty bread and a ripened tomato. Kalamata olives on the side are divine.

It's best enjoyed at a tavern by the beach, after a few hours of swimming and floating in waves under the baking sun, sand stuck to your feet and your skin slightly sticky from the salty sea, with a bottle of cold water (or beer) and a plate of fried calamari or smelt. Or, melted in the oven, with roasted red peppers and oregano, to dip with oven-baked pita.

The food of my Greek heritage is simple and good, filling and nourishing to both body and spirit: fresh vegetables or beans slathered in olive oil, fish and seafood pan-fried with a side of greens, white grilled meat or poultry, baked pasta or potatoes. And feta on the side of everything.

When I was a kid we could only buy feta at the Italian food store, also the sole source of kalamata olives and olive oil, which my mother used to measure out and mix with vegetable oil to make it last longer. Now, even McDonald's does a Greek salad with crumbled feta and black olives.

I've just returned from a too-short, two-week holiday in Greece, where we ate fresh figs and grapes plucked from our hosts' trees, and feta accompanied every meal: layered with phyllo pastry for breakfast, on a horiatiki (village) Greek salad for lunch, alongside a souvlaki or on baked pasta for supper. We swam in the Aegean, racing against the waves and calling out "There's another one! Watch out for that one!" under the bluest sky and the hottest sun. We trekked through the ruins of Mycenae and Knossos, the dust of thousands of years' past on our feet. We drove past blackened mountainsides, stark evidence of the previous month's wildfires in which over 90 people lost their lives as the wind propelled towering flames across acres of dry brush in the matter of minutes.

Now at home, and still jet-lagged despite several days back in the eastern time zone, I indulge in Canadian-made feta on toast for breakfast despite my husband's sideways glance. Outside, it starts to rain. The grass is green and the trees are lush in Ottawa, but the newspaper documents wildfires blazing in Western Canada.

I've napped each day this weekend, giving into jet-lag and lulling myself to sleep, imagining I am still in my beloved Greece, where the cicadas buzz with deafening cacophony, where the sea cradles me with refreshing waters and buoyancy, where the sun bronzes my skin despite lathering on the sunscreen, and where the hospitality and feta are plentiful.

To donate to recovery efforts from wildfires in Greece:
https://www.desmos.org/

To donate to recovery efforts from wildfires in BC:

https://www.canadahelps.org/en/crisis-relief-centre/2018-british-columbia-wildfires/

"The flesh pulls downward, the spirit toward the heights"

Last week I finally completed my official trip report for work, one month late, specifying the objectives and results achieved on my recent trip to Haiti in December. I appended my official schedule, and outlined all the meetings I attended, the issues and challenges raised, and specific items for follow-up.

But this is the report I wanted to write:

When I travel, it's the moon that grounds me. I look up and see that it is the same moon that I see at home, or in Paris or in South Africa or any of the places I've been to.

The sky, the stars and the moon: These are constant.

When I look up, I don't see the crowded and ramshackle housing, the smoke rising from kitchen fires, the broken streets, the traffic, the schools without walls, the streets teeming with people selling everything and anything they can lay their hands on -- toilet paper, bananas, tires, clothing, dishes, artwork. Life happens outside here, by nature, by necessity.

I didn't see any begging, except for one lady with a baby at one street corner. There are few people from whom to beg -- the rich, the Westerners, the diplomats, the elite, the NGO workers -- they all drive around in armoured cars or SUVs, protected by tinted windows and bodyguards. We aren't allowed to walk around, to explore the streets on foot, or to take taxis or public transportation. No one wants to be a consular case. And so, there is no begging.

People warned me, and now that I'm back they ask if I am shocked at what I saw. Yes, and no. Of course, to see such levels of poverty, in this hemisphere, in this day and age, is shocking. But it is not only here. I have seen it elsewhere -- Venezuela, Puerto Rico, Mozambique, the Philippines, India, Cambodia... and not that long ago. I know, also, that poverty exists in my own country: on First Nations reserves, in pockets of rural communities, on the streets of Ottawa.

I visited a village where latrines for each home were only recently built, and yes, there, I was shocked. My grandfather, who spent decades as a missionary in Latin America in the 1960s, 70s and 80s, would say that the poor didn't need proselytizing; they needed schools and latrines. So yes, I was shocked to discover that in this day and age, only 1000 km away from mainland USA, people were still defecating outdoors. We held a meeting with a group of village leaders to discuss the project. We sat outside, in a circle underneath the trees. Everyone present wore clean and decent clothing. My colleague asked them: "What impact has the project had on the community?" At first I felt embarrassed at the question. The leader spoke clearly, unfazed: "It means we no longer have to defecate outdoors." Behind him, a young man was ironing the day's wash. In the trees, corn hung to dry. The December breeze was cool.

I left feeling quite inadequate: who am I to think I have anything to offer here? In what manner can I serve that will truly change the course of a single life, let alone of a country?

In his book, Letters to Jesus, my grandfather wrote: "Each new experience rekindles the fire that cannot be extinguished. One day, I heard the song of a peasant as he worked: 'The spirit and the flesh are in a fierce struggle; the flesh pulls downward, and the spirit toward the heights.'"

When I look up to the heights, I see the same moon, the same stars, the same sky as do those people whom I met, and I am reminded that we occupy the same planet. I have no inherent right to the things that I have, to the life that I live, and neither do they have an inherent obligation to live as they do.

Perhaps all I can offer is to bear witness to their fierce struggle.

Random thoughts for a Sunday evening in December

The kids are finally in bed. They are staying up later as they grow older, and I'm losing (and missing!) quiet time in the evening. We do have different conversations in the evenings though, I find there is more opportunity for openness, for questions, for revelations. A bit more closeness. Tonight, a conversation about how sometimes meaning gets lost in translation.

This week I am going to Haiti for the first time. I am excited and daunted. My grandfather Marcos had planned to take me there, almost exactly 21 years ago. He wanted to show me, freshly out of grad school with my International Development Studies diploma, what development was really about. We had already been to shanty towns in Puerto Rico, where we had lunch with a man who lived in a shack on stilts. He and my grandmother also took me to Venezuela. I remember the mountains and coffee plantations, and getting stuck in a traffic jam for 9 hours. We cancelled the trip to Haiti because of political instability at the time. It was just after American Thanksgiving, the last time I was in Puerto Rico together with my mother.

Lasagna and chili batch-cooked for the week ahead. It makes me feel better about going, knowing a few meals are tucked away. I had to pull out summer clothes to pack, all while hearing there will be snow here tomorrow.

Second Sunday of Advent. A few decorations in place. The Christmas lights aren't up yet, but this year I am focusing on candles. The flickering light. The warm smell of melting wax. The heat emanating from light. 

The Week After

As we emerge from a collective hangover, I wonder how many people Stateside are feeling "I'm never going to vote badly (or not vote) again". Still, it remains surprising to see how much support the President-elect has. It is a gong show. And there's no end in sight. Clearly this won't be business as usual, and no one really has any idea of what will happen.

The political scientist in me is curious. What will the US look like after four years? What will the world look like? Maybe this is the US' undoing. China must be pretty happy. Maybe he surprises us all: wins the war on terror, cleans up the inner cities, fixes immigration. (I caught you laughing, didn't I?)

The human being in me is disappointed. Disappointed in the hateful and vicious rhetoric that has emerged, not only in the US but here in Canada as well. This isn't what my parents signed up for when they chose to live here. Work hard, pay your taxes, be nice. In return, you'll be able to educate your children, have access to good healthcare and live peacefully.

It's really a simple equation.

The healing balm of art and driving on the 401

I spent much of Friday and today driving on the 401. Normally the Ottawa-Toronto drive on Canada's biggest highway is a mind-numbing experience, but on this weekend, after the shock and awe of the past week, I found it comforting and restoring.

On both days, I tuned in to CBC radio as I careened down the highway. On Friday the airwaves were full of melancholy. It was Remembrance Day, and the morning after the world had learned of Leonard Cohen's passing. The haunting tones of The Last Post, and the reminiscences of Cohen's poetry and love songs buoyed me and gave me all the permission I needed to tear up and give in to the sense of loss I was already feeling.

During various outings yesterday and today, I had the pleasure of visiting an art gallery in Hamilton and my friend's gift shop in Port Credit. Both places were finely appointed, with keen attention to colour, light and detail.

And then on the return today, again listening to CBC radio programming, I was introduced to a painting I had never heard of -- The Sun, by Edvard Munch, better known for The Scream -- and also to Zadie Smith, a writer I have never read but who sounded like a kindred spirit as she spoke of playing with fiction and of the power of joy.

These episodes reminded me of the necessity to the human spirit of creativity and imagination -- whether through music, the written or spoken word, or fine arts -- to soothe, to inspire and heal, to bridge cultural and political divides, to explain (or at least bear witness to) the inexplicable.

There is a spot along the 401, just outside Napanee, where someone has built an Inukshuk, a compelling example of how art and communication can be as simple as piling a few stones to take the form of a person, one who stands with arms outstretched, not mocking or harming, but guiding, witnessing and welcoming.

This coming week, as you pore over competing narratives, hilarious memes, contradictory analysis and maddening explanations, take some time to read or write a poem, to listen to a piece of uplifting music, to paint or to view a piece of artwork. Do something creative and constructive with your hands, with your mind. Allow your ears and eyes to feast on something beautiful, made through human or divine creation.

Escape.

This weeping and anxious world will still be here when you get back. But you might feel ever so much stronger to handle it.

Fall

The sky is blue. Piercing blue, and the air is crisp and cold.

The backyard, resplendent in fall colours: red, yellow, orange. One tree is still almost entirely green, with the leaves on only the topmost branches turning blood red, each day, one by one. Another tree, in the neighbour's yard, is almost completely bare, save for a bird's nest that sways in the wind but stays secure.

Wet leaves blanket the yard, and the black-eyed Susans have lost their bloom. The bougainvillea branches, stringy and dry, stubbornly hold onto a few last fuchsia petals.

I should be planting tulip bulbs. And daffodils. I will be mad at myself next spring if I don't plant them now.

Instead I collect the last of the kale and a bowl full of green tomatoes. There wasn't enough sun for them to ripen on the vine. Google promises me they can be roasted or fried, turned into chutney, salsa or soup. I am skeptical, but willing to try.

My husband is putting away the patio furniture: piling up the chairs, dismantling the table, drying out the seat cushions. The deck looks much larger. We should have painted it this summer. It would have dried quickly in the heat. But now the worn out browns blend in with the turning leaves and speak gently with the memory of barbecue suppers and laughter with friends late into the night.

The sun through the glass feels warm and teases me into thinking it could still be summer, if I just close my eyes and believe.

Let me tell you about the men in my life

I can hardly believe this behaviour we are witnessing, the insults and revelations revealed daily, indeed with such alarming frequency that they risk becoming almost meaningless. Such venom and bile that spews forth from this awful being and the people who surround him. Why must we listen to his garbage, to give it credence or even the tiniest bit of attention? Who is he, with his billions? He may have great wealth in material but he lives in extreme poverty of spirit. His jowls quivering, his sausage fingers wagging, his tangy hair flapping -- he is so far removed from reality as to be a farce, a caricature of a certain kind of creature (I won't call him a man) that he deserves only to be ignored and rendered irrelevant.

He is the furthest away in action and temperament from all the men I have ever known, so far away as to be in an alternate universe, now hopefully careening towards a black hole to be sucked up in one great gasp and then forgotten.

The men in my life are good: Husband, sons, father, stepfather, father-in-law, brothers, brothers-in-law, uncles, cousins, nephews, ex-boyfriends, neighbours, coworkers and friends. They are respectful without being condescending, loving without being violent, protective without being patronizing, gentle without being weak, proud without feeling threatened.

I have never been threatened or felt unsafe or insulted by a man. I do know women who have been treated badly by men. I know it happens all too often, and I know it leaves lasting and painful damage. I simply am fortunate to have been treated well by the men in my life, so I also know that good men do exist and that it is possible to live and thrive in a world where women can shine without eclipsing or being eclipsed by men.

I want my sons to be proud of who they are, not shamed because of the behaviour of one jackass who should apologize, not only for his behaviour and not only to the women he has violated, but also to the men whose reputations he sullies by his own words and deeds.

The men in my life are good and decent people, and treat me as a good and decent person. For this I am not grateful -- it is as it should be! -- but rather I am cognizant that it is not the experience of every woman and so I must raise my daughter to expect it as her right, and my sons to emulate the very good men I know.

Lightning

lightning through the window
lights the sky and

brings to mind all the crevices
of darkness from where

we are born
and when we die

we die in darkness
and the light breaks through us

until we shine as lightning
through the window

The New Year is in September

One more day. One more day until bedtimes and awake times become more routine, until homework and studies dominate conversations, until Husband and I once again relinquish our status as Most Visible Adults in our children's lives.

The binders and pencils and pens and erasers and glue sticks and pencil crayons and markers and lined paper and liquid paper and sticky-white-holes-for-when-your-holed-paper-tears thingies and highlighters and calculators and stickies and knapsacks and lunch bags are bought (though not yet organized). Husband has begun assembly line lunch preparations for freezer sandwiches, and today I bulked up at the Bulk Barn with snacks and fillers. Thankfully everyone can take peanut butter and trail mix to school now that no one is in elementary school any longer.)

For the third year in a row, our three kids will be attending separate schools and this year two of them are at new ones. All three on public transportation, with the youngest the farthest to go. I want to ride with them, to walk into the school holding their hands still sticky with applesauce, to give them a hug as they trip over still-too-big and too-white running shoes with their impossibly big knapsacks weighing them down. There will be no glitter glue or popsicle-stick creations this year, but I know instead there will be debates and discussions about big issues and much puzzling over equations that I don't remember how to do. New schools, new teachers, new friends, new subjects, new goals, new ideas, new opportunities: this is the time of change.

It is September, much more the start of a new year than January.

It's not just the return to school, but also the obvious change in season that signals a shift in the universe and brings in me a feeling of joy and melancholy all mixed together. January from December? More of the same usually: cold, snow, weeks and months of winter to come, a brief hiatus for Christmas and New Year's celebrations, and then a quick return to routines. But August to September? The nights darken earlier, the mornings and evenings are cooler, the leaves on the trees carry a dullness in the green -- a green that almost seems brown -- with only a slight hint of the colours with which they will soon present their orchestral radiance in autumn.

The new crescent moon last night, a slice of silver in the quieting sky.

This is the time for change.

Summer Night

strains of an oboe, 

echoes of fireworks,

the buzzing of a fly

trapped on the inside of my window pane

the sounds of a summer night

waft through the screen

the breeze so soft,

holding on its breath the fragrance of petunia

leaves blackened against 

deep sea blue of sky, 

which is not the sea but is of the sea,

as the sea is of it, and on and on in perpetuity

Love, and be loved

Sometimes this world makes me weep
I tell my kids to be friendly,
To be generous
To be kind
To love
And to be confident that they are loved
Without judgement
Without fear
Without condemnation
To love, and be loved.

If there are to be tears,
Let them be tears of joy
In ecstasy
or in the quiet of the night
But let there not be
Shame or violence.
Just love, and be loved.

Is that too simplistic?

Yes.

It really is that simple.

Love, and be loved.

Breakthrough

Creativity involves breaking out of established patterns in order to look at things in a different way
--Edward de Bono

There is a man in Paris who is stuck in a concrete wall. Is he emerging from encasement or being held back? Is he escaping or calmly moving forward to his next destination? Is he being boxed in or breaking free?

I feel somewhat like this man these days, as I wait to learn what my next assignment at work will be. Our department has a necessarily convoluted approach to job placements. Being a rotational department, with people going out on postings to our embassies or returning from overseas over the summer, or simply moving on to a new challenge at headquarters, means a significant portion of our workforce is on the move every year, like a swarm of bees or a murmuration of starlings. Having reviewed a list of available positions posted in April, and having had numerous conversations with potential managers and colleagues, to strategize and theorize about what the best approach and best fit will be, we have submitted our top 5 preferences and we now await the judgement of an assignment committee whose members presumably have our best interests at heart. It is not an efficient process -- 12 weeks to run from start to finish in this current round. There are still weeks to go. And so we wait, floating and hovering, pushed this way and that by gusts of wind, not yet ready to land and still unaware of our journey or destination.

What am I looking for? I don't mind being busy, but I refuse to do crazy. I want to keep my head above water so I can be present at home and still leave time for writing, reading, listening, meditating, gardening, making wine, exercising (I must get back to exercising) -- while working with good people.

The smell of the fresh air after rain that wafts through my window, the washed-out grey of the clouds that still blanket the sky: I want to remain aware of these, without dulling my senses with the senseless beating and endless churn of forever trying to move forward while being held back. I am where I want to be. I have already broken through concrete and I have no interest in building myself back into it.

When a woman tells you she's fine

When a woman tells you she's fine, she's probably just hanging on by a thread. She may be thinking, "I'm drowning, and don't know which way is up," but she'll tell you she's fine because she doesn't want to worry you, or maybe because she doesn't have enough oxygen in her lungs to explain that she feels lonely and abandoned, frightened and confused. If she feels strong enough, she might say that she's had a hard day, or week, but more than likely she'll tell you she's fine, never mind that she's barely holding on til morning when the sun might start a new day.

If a woman tells you she's okay, she might mean okay enough, even though she doesn't remember the last time she laughed with abandon, or talked to a good friend until the moon set and Orion rose, and felt joy like a nine-year-old girl lying on her back on a beach with the waves lapping at her feet.

If a woman tells you she's hanging in, she's nearing the truth, even though she probably holds her breath every time the phone rings or the Blackberry blinks, and feels like screaming at every email message or query around her, even though it's her job to answer questions, her responsibility to make decisions, her role to provide.

If a woman tells you it doesn't matter, it really does matter so very much because she's letting go of her interest and offering up to you the accumulated savings of her fortune: her time.

But, if a woman tells you she's happy, rest assured she is overcome with an ecstasy that cannot be contained or explained. It is joy, shared freely and completely, wrapped in stardust and presented to you with no strings attached and no money-back guarantee, but with all truth and wonder, her eyes shining and lips quivering as they utter words of simple gratitude: I am happy, thank you.

Weight Lifting

Do not ask yourself, 
when you breathe, 
if the oxygen is better used by another --
someone else, somewhere else, sometime else --
dance, sing, write, create
create! so that others around you may 
also breathe.

Easter saved, thanks to Jewish Challah and my xeno husband

I woke up this morning to the scent of lamb roasting in the oven, with a hint of garlic, lemon and oregano tickling my nose. It's Easter Sunday for Orthodox Christians, and this is the smell I associate with this day.


The Greeks celebrate everything well, but Easter is the best feast of all. Why do we celebrate now, so much later than Western Easter? Easter is marked on the first Sunday after the first full moon of Spring. For Orthodox Christians there is one more caveat: as long as it's after Passover, for Jesus was a Jew and had celebrated Passover before the passion. Every six years or so, Passover falls the same week as Western Easter, so Orthodox Christians wait another moon. It usually means the weather's nicer too, which makes for a better barbeque!

Having married an old stock Canadian, or a "xeno" ("foreigner") as the Greeks would say, my family celebrates Easter twice every year, and my children benefit from the best of both traditions -- they can have their chocolate bunny and eat it too! There was no Easter Bunny in the Easters of my childhood, which were spent dyeing eggs red, not pastels, and feasting at the homes of family friends, where we roasted lamb on a spit in the backyard. The men took turns rotating the rotisserie for hours, basting the meat with olive oil, lemon and oregano. The drippings would sizzle on the coals and lift up a sweet aroma with the smoke. If a youngster happened to run nearby at the right time, about 5-6 hours in, she would be treated to a slice of perfectly roasted meat held out by the tanned hands of one of the uncles. We ate all day, and danced in the back yard, or in the garage or basement if it was too cold. 

My mother would spend the week prior cooking and baking, and we would attend church services every night where my father would accompany the cantor with his rich baritone voice reciting and singing the hymns and prayers in response to the priest. Holy Thursday was a marathon session, with the reading of 12 gospels detailing the Passion of Christ (and one year, just like an old Greek song goes, the priest made 12 into 13, accidentally repeating one of the readings and extending the three-hour service even longer!). On Good Friday we got to skip school, and I spent the afternoon at church with my girlfriends and our aunties and yiayiades ("grandmothers") decorating the epitafio -- a flowered wooden bier that would be carried in procession during the candlelight night service that night, symbolizing a funeral procession -- and snacking on antidoro -- soft, fluffy white bread blessed by the priest. Our fingers were still red from dyeing Easter eggs the day before.

The Resurrection service on Saturday night commenced at 11pm, and carried on until 2 in the morning, with candles glowing at midnight as we shared the new light passed on by the priest, from parishioner to parishioner, one by one until the whole building was alight in a soft glow. Xristos anesti! Christ is Risen!, we chanted over and over again, in song and in word, and, Alithos anesti! Indeed, He is risen!, ever louder, in response. The scent of incense and beeswax mixed with burnt hair, as one or another of the girls' hair inevitably caught fire as the light was passed from one to another. When I was very young, our parish rented the local hockey arena so that everyone would fit -- on a regular Sunday there might be 200 people filling the pews, but at Easter, when every lapsed Greek came out of the woodwork, we needed space to hold 2000!

The service ends with a joyfully welcoming sermon, written by St John Chrysostom in the 4th century AD, and repeated in Orthodox churches worldwide every Easter since: 

Let all rejoice in the splendour of this feast! 

...If any have laboured from the first hour,

  let him receive today his rightful due.
If any have come after the third,
  let him celebrate the feast with thankfulness.
If any have come after the sixth,
  let him not be in doubt, for he will suffer no loss.
If any have delayed until the ninth,
  let him not hesitate but draw near.
If any have arrived only at the eleventh,

  let him not be afraid because he comes so late...

One year, our young priest, no doubt exhausted from the week of services and parenting his own young family of four children, but also overcome by the radiance of the night, was moved to tears and could not complete the reading of this text, so my friend Chris, now a priest himself, took the book from his hands and delivered the concluding, triumphant phrases: O death, where is your sting? O hell, where is your victory? Christ is Risen!

This year, life took over and I was unprepared for the feast. We had house guests arriving, a sick son had just returned from a three-day school trip, and an exhausted family overall, so I had decided we wouldn't do "Greek" Easter this weekend. We had celebrated Western Easter a month prior, and I didn't have it in me to pull out all the stops again. We had guests so we would not make it to church. I hadn't coloured any eggs, I hadn't made tsoureki (Easter sweet bread, which takes at least 8 hours to make, given time needed for the dough to rise) or koulourakia (twisted cookies with sesame seeds). I had bought a leg of lamb but it remained frozen solid in the freezer and would need a day to thaw. I decided to wait until next weekend; since Bright Week (the week that follows Easter) is considered as one long day of feasting, there remained time enough to celebrate.

But yesterday afternoon, the gravitational pull of history, tradition and home overcame my indolence. All afternoon, I felt homesick. "It's as though it is Christmas Eve, but with no decorations hung, no gifts wrapped, no Christmas carols, no church, no plans, no cookies baked and no food cooking!" I wailed to my family, and then pulled myself together. We could at least colour some eggs, I thought. I still had half a packet of red dye from last year. We would dye them in the evening and at least have red eggs for breakfast on Sunday. That would be good enough, right? Oh, but the eggs would taste so much better if accompanied by tsoureki. But it was 5pm! How to make dough and have it rise for 6 hours, knead it, and then rise two hours more, before baking? And then it hit me: I pulled out my bread-maker recipe book, and found it: a recipe for Jewish Challah -- sweet egg bread -- the dough could be ready in two hours, twisted into braids and baked for half an hour. After all, Jesus was Jewish. There would even be time to make koulourakia while the dough was rising. Easter was saved!

"Oh, it smells so good in here," my kids said, one after the other, over the course of the evening, warming my heart. I lit a few candles and sat in easy conversation with my childhood friend, and then I went to bed, sleepy and satisfied. It was the eleventh hour, but my fingers were stained red and smelled of sugar and butter, and the scent of candles floated throughout the house.

I awoke this morning, slowly, emerging from dreams mixed with the scent of lamb. Confused, at first, I forced myself to consciousness. I still smelled lamb: could the smells from a dream cross over to reality? But no, the smells were real. My husband -- the "xeno" -- had bought fresh lamb and potatoes, which he was roasting in the oven with olive oil, lemon and oregano.

Rich and poor, dance together.
You who fasted and you who have not fasted, rejoice together.
The table is fully laden: let all enjoy it.


Indeed, Easter was saved.