Remembering Beauty in 2012: Yoho National Park

Takakkaw Falls, Yoho National Park (ground level view)

 Yoho National Park, the Iceline Trail.  Completed in September, this was our last back-packing trip of the season, and most definitely the coldest.  Despite mainly freezing my nibs off nearly every night, I loved this trail.  Every section was completely different from the last.  Also, we had learned how to pack lighter food by this point in the season, so we could enjoy the views more and experince less backpack- straps-cutting-through-our-collarbones pain.

 That's right, ladies and gentlemen: Daniel cooks, bless him, even when it's finger-numbingly cold in the morning.

And here is Takakkaw Falls again, this time at eye level.

Day 2: we reached the end of the tree line.  Welcome to the scrub brush growing part of the mountains.

And then we went above the scrub line, to the glacier and these giant rock steppes.

 I literally had to crawl up the last 14 meters to get to this level because I was sure I was going to fall backwards and die on a set of carved stairs that I kid you not looked like the ones in the Lord of the Rings that Gollum leads Frodo and Sam up to get through Mordor.  Nevertheless; I survived, and what a fabulous view! (the mountains are nice, too).

It's a game: where in this photo is Faye?  Or Daniel.  Whoever that is.

This is a petrified tree.  No, it didn't get scared of the heights, too.  It got buried in something, and then eventually turned into rock after years of pressure.

 This was some sort of organic lifeform surviving in ridiculously cold glacier water at the top of the mountain.  If you want a more specific definition, you'll have to ask someone else.

 Looking back at where we'd been only a day earlier.

 Close-up of tree sap on a pine tree.

 Hiking out on Day 4.  There were some very vibrant red plants that grew on the ground on the trail that led us out.

I hate saying good-bye to the summer, because depression is so much harder to fend off in the winter without the sun, but it was a beautiful fall.  And this photo is of Daniel, who did not fall, despite being dressed to match it, and is also beautiful to look at.

Remembering Beauty in 2012: Berg Lake Trail

Dan and I did a few backcountry backpacking trips in the Rockies last summer.  These are some of my favourite pictures from our trip to Mount Robson National Park to do the Berg Lake trail.    

 

The vegetation in this park, particularly at the base of the mountain, was ridiculously large.  This is Dan's hand, in comparison to the size of a ground cover plant leaf. 

 

Dan versus the vegetation.  Yes, yes that is some sort of rhubarb type plant that is taller than Dan.  And yes, Dan is carrying a backpack that probably weighs as much as him.  Our packs were so heavy on this trip that we had to help each other lift them onto our backs.  One of the most ironic aspects of backcountry camping is that your burdens are always the heaviest for the most difficult part of the journey- when you're going uphill.  Admittedly, we also packed waaaay too much heavy wet food for this trip (this was before we figured out how to make good use of dehydrators), but what a delicious trip it was...

Pretty as this waterfall is, the most amazing thing about it is how long it is.  The Berg Lake trail follows this rush of water in its alternating rivers and falls for over 5 kilometers.  This is maybe the bottom 15th of the falls.  It originates from Berg Lake, which is about 2 kilometers up Mount Robson's total 4 kilometer height. 

After our climb-800-meters-in-one- day Day, we did this really pleasant level day hike from our camp site to Berg Lake which crossed through this long flood plain.

How to keep your children occupied on a long mountain treck without bringing along excess toys/electronics (which, when you're back-packing means excess weight).

That is a glacier.  Yes, they are actually blue in colour; it's not just an artists' rendition.  Weird, I know.  

 Me and Dan.  I'm happier than I look, I promise.  I just think this was before we ate lunch.

Mount Robson and the glacier that feeds Berg Lake.

A zoom in of the glacier.  Yeah, it's pretty cool.

Some mini bergs in Berg Lake

My feet after dipping them in the lake

And these would be photos of Tobaggan Falls (photos above, beside, and 2 below).  Neatest looking water falls I've ever seen.  They just run straight down the maintain at a nearly perfect 45 degree angle through these shoots that look like they should be water slides.

 This is a spot about 1/2 way up the Tobaggan Falls when I couldn't hike anymore because my blood sugar levels were dropping too low.  We stopped in a little cleft in the rock and cooked pizza and hoped no bears would come to eat us and our pizza.  As I said, waaay too much wet food, but such a delicious trip. 

Remember I said the falls are really long?  This is the beginning of them (Emporer Falls).

Eventually we had to go home again (sigh).  

These are mountain sheep we encountered around a sudden bend in the road and the reason why you shouldn't speed too much while driving through the mountains. 

All the Little Whispering Ghosts

As you may or may not know, Dan and I both applied to 3 schools to start our Master's studies in psychology this September.  While we waited to hear whether or not any of them would take us, we put our future lives on hold; drifting along, continuing to work, but not committing ourselves to any further responsibilities or plans.  Nolan used to have some sort of war-strategy video game where when you pressed the "pause" button, a flashing sign would come up stating, "Reality Check: Press Start."  The video-game designers were not wrong in their philosophy- wars, and life in general, will not stop just because you need or want a break. Most of the time, anyways.

Thanks to the thrift-awareness of my friend Jen, Dan and I learned about a year ago that you can use Airmiles points to pay for hotel stays.  It's a pain to arrange, but makes mini "luxury" travels much more affordable.  We recently used some of our points to stay an extra night at a hotel in Canmore where we were staying for a foster parent event.  (No, we haven't taken up foster parenting at this point in our lives, thank you for checking.)  Rather, the agency my parents used to foster with gives out an award in my mom's name each year (called the Marilyn Archer Memorial Award, MAMA for short) to a current foster parent who displays perseverance, creativity, and a sense of humour in their parenting, and this year I was the family member presenting the award.  Anyways, while we were in Canmore, we heard that the Canmore public library was having a used book sale.  Being suckers for cheap deals and the written word, we went in search of said sale.  We did find it, but before the library, we discovered an art show being put on by the Canmore Art Guild.  Being suckers for beauty and things that involve the word "guild", we went in.  We looked around a long time.  Each piece was quite different, and had an attached note from the artist explaining the inspiration for the piece and its materials.  Some members of the guild were sitting at a table, and warmly invited questions if we had any.  They also expressed love for my abominable snow-monster touque, and who wouldn't? I must have been dressed funny, or we stayed longer than their average vistors or something, because one of the guild members eventually came to stand by me and said, "You must be an artist."  I smiled politely and told her I wasn't really; I hadn't created anything in years, though I'd attended an art school when I was a kid.  I hate to take credit for being more than what I am.  My sister Melanie is an artist- she works on her craft 14 hours a day.  I've been "working" on the same mural on my wall since before I got married 3 years ago and there's barely 4 cartoon animals added per year, on average.  But as we left the gallery, I had the strangest sensation of being Peter, denying Christ the second time.

The second time?  Jesus, when was the first?  Oh, silver stormtrooper head necklaces, riiiiight.  Earlier in the month, Dan and I visited ACAD for their metal and jewelry show and sale, called Hephaestus.   I was excited to be the kind of pop children's literature reading nerd that understood the reference to the Roman god of metal working, and I brought $$ along to buy stuff and support starving students.  Apparently they hadn't had too many visitors, and I was one of 5 people who had bought anything the entire weekend of the show and sale, so many of the artists presenting their work were eager to find out how I had heard about the event, and seemed to be under the impression I must be an artist as well.  Then, as with the Canmore Artist Guild, I responded that I wasn't an artist, and I had heard of Hephaestus from my little sister, Melanie, who was a student there.  Melanie they knew.  One of the students helpfully informed me that Melanie was in the school that day, "She's on the third floor, working.  You could go see her if you like...oh wait, you're not a student, you don't have a key card to get up there.  Sorry, never mind."  I left feeling just a little bit sad.  ACAD wasn't really a part of my world- I was just a visitor, looking in from the outside, with no key to enter deeper realms.

Denial thrice: aaaaand check [mate].  Last night I went out to a Karla Adolphe house concert I'd been invited to over facebook via a former house-mate (who is now living in a smaller house with 9 new house-mates, the brave hippie soul).  I love house concerts.  They're intimate and relaxed, allow the musician(s) to interact with their audience like a large boisterous family at dinner, but don't deafen and crush you the way that "pro" concerts do.  And I would go to a Karla Adolphe house concert even if her music was wretched (happily, it's fabulous)- she's so delightfully human and humane, stretching herself out to engage her audience with personal stories, awful jokes, humour-filled self deprecation, and pursuasive encouragements to sing along.  Toward the end of her show, Karla invited anyone with an artistic bent to stay in touch by adding their name to her email list, adding a star to let her know they were interested in talking with her more personally about art and spirituality and community.  I wanted to add my name, and a star.  But at the end of the night, I left without leaving either.  I don't want to be a burden. Why should I take up space in their busy lives when I have no art to speak of and already struggle to maintain the relationships I have?  And yet.  And yet listening to her music reminded me why I had ultimately asked God to have U Vic reject me: because I need to learn how to be a psychologist from someone who can also teach me how to use art to communicate beyond words and logic.

Reality Check: Press Start.  The morning I asked God to take the decision of whether to accept U Vic or not away from me, was the morning that U Vic sent me an email telling me they had declined my application because they didn't have a professor for me.  So.  So now what?  Apply to more schools for acceptance in 2014, yes.  But what do I want to study?  And what will I commit myself to in the meantime so I will be ready?  I'm not sure.  But it seems suspicious that my place of employment recently informed me that my entire job and it's unpredictable hours may change by June, and that 3 of my closest friends from Milton Williams Creative Arts School have all recently reappeared in my life.  Hmmm.  Art class? 

Western Blessings

In honour of my dad, whose birthday is fast approaching, I am posting the lyrics of a song I heard on cbc radio while driving home that made me laugh until I cried.  May I present to you: Cows Around, by Corb Lund, on his album, Cabin Fever.
  
Chorus:  
Well everything is better with some cows around  
Livin' in town sometimes brings me down  
Let me bestow this western blessing, share what I have found  
May you always have cows around  

First verse:
What else you gonna spend that extra money on?
What else is gonna get you up hours before dawn?
What else is gonna keep toiling on and on and on? 
May you always have cows around  
C’mon you know that you got too much time on your hands  
Not merely enough complication in your plans  
You need to invite all the frustration that you can  

Chorus:
May you always have cows around  
Everything is better with some cows around  
Livin' in town sometimes brings me down  
Let me bestow this western blessing, leave you saddle bound  
May you always have cow around  

Second verse:
What else can make the bishop swear like a sailor might?  
What else can cause such tension between a man and his wife?  
What else could ever bring all these enhancements to your life?  
May you always have cows around  
What else is gonna get out when ya don’t close the gate? 
What else’ll make ya prematurely show your age?  
What else’ll take a run at you in a fit of bovine rage?  

Chorus:
May you always have cows around  
Well everything is better with some cows around  
Livin' in town sometimes brings me down  
And although this western blessing leaves you cattle bound  
May you always have cows around  

Third verse:
What kinda cows, Corb?  
Well there’s Hereford, Highland, Simmental, Welsh Black and Maine-Anjou, 
Chianina, Limousine, Shorthorn, Charolais, Watusi too, 
Texas Long Horn, Kuri, any Roan, Ankole, Galloway, 
Red Angus, Brahma, Brangus, Jersey, Guernsey, Holstein, Hey!  
Well ya mighta had to let 'em dig for oil and gas  
Ya mighta had to turn the place to an exotic game ranch  
Ya mighta had to do all things to raise the cash  
So you’d always have cows around  
How else ya gonna lose it all like daddy did?  
What else will make sure you leave nothing for your kids?  
It’s too late now you know it is, you might as well admit  
That you’d a barely floatin', sentimental, masochisticness  
And that despite all the statistics and the advice that you get  
You will always have cows around  

Chorus:
Ya everything is better with some cows around  
Livin' in town sometimes brings me down  
Well you won’t know what you’re missing till ya hear that sound  
May you always have cows around  
May you always have cows around  
Mooo moo

On Snapping Turtles

"Look Ray," Fraser gestured out the open plane door as they flew over the frozen Canadian ice fields, "turtles." 
"Turtles?! What...Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."
-Due South, final episode, sooooo awesome.

Actually, I don't know anything about snapping turtles, so maybe it's a bit presumptuous to write a blog post where I talk about feeling like one, but I'm going to use my imagination and make an attempt anyway.

My not-so-imaginative assumption about turtles in general is that they are prone to withdrawing their head and limbs into the safety of their shell if they are feeling threatened.  Um, yeah, that's pretty much been my self portrait since at least the beginning of the fall.  I am retreating.  Mostly into myself.  

My not-so-imaginative assumption about snapping turtles is that they're ornery and will snap at potential threats to discourage predation or attempted stealing of the turtle's resources.  Hmmm, have I been reactive lately?  The best person to ask is usually Daniel, but he's at work so I'm just going to give you some snap-shots from the last few weeks and you can judge for yourselves.

Christmas Day Dinner with My Sibs:
I have the year's meanest cold, and so does pretty much everyone else. Incredibly, my youngest foster sister, Samantha, actually came to dinner with her boyfriend.  Samantha is a human lynx- super quiet, shy, graceful, and nearly impossible to find.  Thus, when I ended up seated beside her for supper, I was trying really hard to come up with topics we could chat about that would help her feel welcome and at ease.  We ended up on the topic of furbies.  I've only ever seen a furbie once, so to keep the conversation going I was trying to relate an amusing 2nd hand story of furbie destruction.  "Faye," my sister Melanie complains loudly from across the room, "you're doing a terrible job of telling that story.  Please stop."  Melanie does not bother offering an alternative, more entertaining version of the story; rather, disaster averted, she returns to her nap.  Thank you, Melanie, for that constructive feed-back.

Pre New Years Eve Dinner with a Few of My Sibs:
I still have the year's meanest cold, and so does pretty much everyone else.  I am physically exhausted and really just want to be at home snuggled in cosy blankets and watching some sort of happy-endinged children's movie, but Val and Dwayne will only be here for a short time so Dan and I accepted Val's dinner invite and I am doing my best to be sociable.  I am in the midst of telling a story when Melanie interrupts, "Faye, you are making that the most boring story ever."  Looking back, I can't even remember what the story was about so she was probably right, but at the time my pride was stinging so I threw a spoonful of potatoes at Melanie's face.  They make a very satisfying "splat" when they hit her cheek.  Nevertheless, I feel myself melting inwards a bit more.  I'm quiet for the rest of the night.

New Year's Eve Day, at work:
Work is dead.  We're fully staffed and maybe getting a call an hour.  The calls we're getting could be answered by a trained monkey: "Excuse me, what is the number for the Mustard Seed?"  All around me, my co-workers are exchanging stories about their Christmas experiences, future or current academic aspirations, travel plans, and favourite you-tube videos and pintrist items.  I am reading a book.  I read for 8 hours, then go home and have a nice dinner with Daniel, watch a comedy, and try to extinguish underlying feelings of guilt about enjoying myself while Sijie continues to sleep in her guest room 23 hours a day trying to fight off migraines and discouragement about still being stranded in our house.

Last Sunday afternoon:
I pull my car up to the curb in front of the church I attend.  I wait impatiently for Daniel and our friend Lynn to get out of the church and get in the car so we can hopefully get back to our house to serve lunch to our guests before all said guests get there before us.  Lynn just can't be rushed.  She has her own sense of time and that sense doesn't seem to notice that she's the last person in the church, still talking to the Young Adult pastor, who is hoping to lock the church up and go have lunch himself.  I try to remind myself that she can't help it- Lynn's a single woman on AISH who only has her dog for company the rest of the week so this is her "grown-up social time" and she's reluctant to leave it unfinished. 

In preparation for their arrival, I turn my stereo down to half its former volume and switch to a classical radio station.  This is my compromise.  Lynn is certainly not my only friend who prefers to have the radio off or extremely quiet when we drive together, but she is the only one I refuse to entirely appease.  I would like to feign ignorance about why that should be the case, but I know: it's resentment.  While giving her a ride to a train station previously Lynn moaned and asked if I always have my radio on, then informed me that I can't hear God's voice if my radio is on.  That pissed me off.  I gritted my teeth and politely told her that I often find God speaks to me through music, and I leave it on all the time in my car to drown out the mysterious loud sounds my car makes.  She made no response to that statement, and I have felt a slightly wicked urge ever since to play something like Chevelle or Demon Hunter as loud as my stereo will go when she gets in my car.  Today I resist the urge again.

I pull away from the curb once I make sure Lynn is properly buckled in.  As soon as Lynn settles herself, she immediately looks at me with piteous eyes, begins rubbing her temples like she's having a hang-over, and cries, "Oh no! I forgot that you are one of those people who always leaves their stereo on.  I just can't take it today- it interrupts my ability to think and concentrate on what I'm saying.  Oh can't I please turn it off?  Or wait, let me get out and go with Grace- she would let me turn off her stereo."  And somewhere inside my head a door slams shut.  As if I've left the scene and become some sort of omniscient narrator in a movie, I sit back and watch myself shut down.  My hands grip the wheel and I continue driving.  I don't respond to her request.  I don't say anything at all.  When we're several blocks away, I witness myself attempt to employ a very obvious attempt at changing the topic, and duly note that in psychology this would be considered an avoidant communication strategy intended to provide emotional distance from an emotionally-triggering situation.  "So Lynn, how's your arm doing?"

Aaaaaand BLAM! Yoshi the turtle is blown out of the water.  Mario Cart 4Eva!  Well, I guess I'm not an omniscient narrator for my life after all. I didn't see that coming: Lynn shoots my diversion down as soon as I finish saying it.  "Faye, I like you.  Now, I consider myself to be someone who likes straight-forward communication.  Have you noticed that when I ask things of you, you don't actually answer my question?  I have a sense of humour, you know.  When I asked you for help walking my dog, I was joking.  You didn't say whether you would help me, but the next week you asked if I'd thought of tying my dog's leash to my belt.  I am not stupid, or inexperienced.  I have owned 6 dogs before this one- I know all those dog-walker techniques."  I attempted to break in right then with an ill-thought out argument, but fortunately Lynn talked right over top of me.  "I have had to learn to ask for and accept help.  I find it difficult- before God stripped me of everything, I used to be very independent.  The pastor spoke today of the need to forgive and not hold on to bitterness about things.  I have had to learn that, too.  One time when I was at the Central campus, I asked a lady in the foyer if she knew of anyone living in the NW who might be able to give me a ride home.  Rather than saying, 'Yes,' and introducing me to someone she knew, or going off to ask around, or simply saying she wouldn't help me, she proceeded to list all the alternative ways I could get home- cab, city transit, etc.  She wasn't actually answering my question, just doing something to make it look like she was being helpful without actually being so." 

And then it was Lynn's turn to abruptly change the topic. 

Friday afternoon:
I am sitting in our agency's board room with my fellow full-timers as we trudge through hour 7 of our 8 hour training session/meeting.  We are given the sobering fact that call volume is down but our send-outs for rescues have gone up.  Our team leader's theory on the cause of this statistical oddity is that we're paranoid and freaking out over things that aren't actually emergent.  The topic of how to appropriately handle calls where a caller is at risk of self-harm/cutting comes up: "If the person tells you they are not suicidal, they indicate that the self-harm is not life-threatening, and they don't want medical attention, there is no reason to send a rescue.  When you do that, you are sending that rescue because it makes you feel better, because it reduces your anxiety about them cutting; it's not because that rescue is actually beneficial for that person, or because sending a rescue is going to magically cause that person to stop cutting as a coping mechanism."
Then the topic switched to how they're changing our contract and need us to be more "flexible" to "meet the needs of the agency".  A.k.a. please give up your silly, selfish dreams of having any semblance of a normal schedule where you could do things like sign up for an evening course or fitness class and have a hope of being able to attend 1/2 of the sessions you paid for.  By the way, we highly support self-care and professional development activities for our staff. 


Harsh words that have the ring of truth.  How I hate them.  But they're everywhere, knocking on my shell when I'm trying to hide inside and pretend nobody's home, jabbing me in the nose when I come out to bite. 
When I engage with people, am I allowing them to be genuine, or trying to control the conversation so my anxiety isn't aroused by another person's expression of need?  Why am I feeling anxious about that, anyway?

Because I can't meet the needs of all the people I know. 

That's an impossible task.  Why am I even trying to do that? 

Because I'm trying to be God, rather than just be with Him.  Because I'm still lugging around the sorrows I encounter, rather than bringing the sorrows of the world to God for Him to deal with. 

It's really hard sometimes to distinguish between what it looks like being a reflection of God versus trying to be God himself.

God, my heart is bleeding all the time.  I'm so tired of trying to fix it. 

Dear Anne

Dear Anne,
I miss you.  I won't ever wish you back to the life on earth that was endlessly painful for you, but I miss you.  You were the dark, conscientious, quiet in our church.  Sensitive and delicate, your heart stretched out to the congregation tenderly in prayer and in music.  After my mother died, you came to see me with watery eyes: "I loved your mother.  I'm sure going to miss her."  You meant it.  Not that other people didn't, but you really meant it.  You understood sorrow.  I appreciated that. 

When you were first hospitalized and diagnosed with bi-polar disorder, you asked me to come visit you.  I was quite surprised- both that you had been diagnosed with bi-polar, and that of all the people you knew you would want a girl in her 20s who only knew you from seeing you briefly for a few minutes each week at church to be your only permitted visitor.  So I came.  You told me a lot about your life; all kinds of struggles I would have never guessed at.  You felt emotionally neglected by your husband, rejected by most of your family, abandoned by your more chipper church friends.  You had experienced a miscarriage and were never able to have children of your own.  You had silently struggled with an addiction to alcohol for many years, an addiction which began as an attempt to self-medicate your depression.  Your rapidly failing health was slowly robbing you of the small pleasures in life: your ability to write, to play the organ, to go for solitary walks outside, to drive to warmer places.  Your house had never been finished properly and seemed to have nurtured a rather disturbing amount of black mould that I suspect had a lot to do with your poor health, but your husband's pride would not allow any inspectors to check it or contractors to fix it. The constant flourescent lighting in the hospital was bothering you- you had a hard time sleeping there.  You had only one glove, and there was a blizzard that week, making it difficult for you to go for even the short 1/2 hour evening walk with your husband that had become customary during your relatively long stay at the hospital.  I bought you a new pair I hoped you would like, but they were the wrong size.  I wanted to surprise you, but given that I was buying the gloves on sale, it probably would have been wiser to ask you what size your hands were beforehand.  I bought you another pair in the size I thought you told me was correct (I'm horrible at remembering numbers), but I never ended up giving them to you because I was afraid I'd gotten it wrong again. 

When you were released, I asked a few times if I could come visit you, or take you out for tea.  Each time you said you weren't up to having visitors just yet.  I gave up asking.  And after our second, rather bizarre phone conversation while you were in a prolonged manic state, I admit I gave up calling as well.  I kept hoping your husband would take you back to the hospital, but he just kept saying you didn't want to go, and that was that.  I regret not coming to see you.  You must have felt very lonely. 

My dad called on Saturday to tell me that you'd passed away.  Like your illness, no mention of it was ever made in the church; maybe your husband's same secrecy shrouding you.  My dad only found out because he'd just been asked by your husband to be a pal-bearer.  Evidently that was because dad was one of very few men in the church who could both remember who you were and still walk...  I suppose we are rather lacking in longer-standing middle-aged church members...  I almost cried at work when I discovered that there was simply no way for me to leave my desk to come attend your funeral on Monday.  Maybe it's just as well.  My cynical self suspects it would have been a superfluous memorial of you.  Not that it matters to you now, but I strongly suspect your husband suffers from an avoidant attachment style- when he described how you died he was chuckling about it like it was some sort of amusing anecdote of a mildly funny incident at work, even though it must have been quite horrifying. Defense mechanism?  I'm thinking so.  Sigh.  I would have liked to hear stories from when you were younger, though.  Small, fragile, understated, and hidden; were you always like a sparrow?  That is not a judgement.  Sparrows are my favourite bird.  Perhaps a more accurate question would be, were you always like a sparrow in a bird cage, isolated from your host?*. (*A group of sparrows is called a host). 

You're gone now, to a place that is always light.  And happily, that won't bother you a bit, because it isn't flourescent and your body no longer needs sleep.  And although I believe God is creative enough to come up with a way to keep snow in heaven, I suspect a place that is constantly filled with the light and warmth of God's presence is a sort of tropical place, so you won't be needing gloves anymore either.  In fact, the first image that came to mind after I heard that you had passed away was of you and my mom enjoying icy Pina Coladas in parfait glasses at a wrought-iron table in a lush garden near an exceptionally blue river of life.  You had wide-brimmed white lace hats like the kind my mom wore to her wedding, and you were chatting amiably together, enjoying the sunshine, and looking down with love on the world you had left.  You looked happy, with none of the shadows in your eyes I always observed while you were alive here.  There is no sorrow in heaven.  I hope there's still inner tubing.  If there is, I hope you're laughing gleefully as you fly through the waves behind some insane boat driver that looks like a robe-wearing elf (upon my word, is that Jesus?!). 

Love,
Faye.

Chanting in Cars with God

I really resisted voicing or making any New Year's resolutions for 2012. That was a first for me. Resolution-making, daiquiri, and fire-works are the only parts of New Year's celebrations that I've held any respect for since becoming an adult. Yet, I hate making promises I can't keep. "Let your no be no, and your yes be yes" (Matt. 5:37). To resolve to do something should mean that you do everything within your power to follow through and complete the quest you have chosen. Resolution shouldn't be the weak, ironic word it's become. I don't want to be thought of as inconstant. So, I try not to say things I don't mean, to offer things I can't give; but to never have the courage or discipline to resolve to do anything also smells a lot like laziness and cowardice. Funder says, "Doing something is better than doing nothing, 9 times out of 10." Thus, under the pressure of curious eyes and a guilty mind at our small New Year's Eve party, I verbally spouted a plan to read the bible every day and to apply for grad studies. I forgot about those ambitions pretty quickly. God elicited one real resolution from me after New Year's hype had run away with everyone's gym memberships and promises of sobriety, and that was to try to alway obey the posted speed limit. Given my lack of winter tires and the number of minor injuries my car has incurred due to my driver's haste, it was a reasonable command, but I had many reasons picking at me. I knew it was only a matter of time until I would be charged with a speeding ticket given how many red light cameras and bored officers with speed radar equipment there are in my neighbourhood. And I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to "test" the Lord your God with repeated requests for grace while doing something illegal unnecessarily. Some repeated thought about scriptures related to submitting to authority in the Lord and the law-abiding not fearing arrest irritated me daily for 2 years straight every time I would stop at the major intersection near my house after speeding on my way to or from it. But this winter, even though I was still speeding, the irritating whispers stopped. And that disturbed me more than 2 years of hearing antagonizing voices. I don't like long silences from people I know. Long silences make me worried that I've done something to offend or hurt someone, or that a misunderstanding has occurred to cause someone to feel slighted by me where no slight was intended, that someone is hiding from me because they've done something they think I'll judge them for or be disappointed in them for, or that I'm no longer needed and have been replaced in someone's life. I've heard from many quarters over my life that if you tell God to piss off frequently enough, eventually he'll give you the space you demand and leave you to face the consequences of your choices alone (think of tormented King Saul at the end of his life). I also know that sin separates us from God, so if you repeatedly ignore God's commands/truth about something, eventually you won't be able to hear God anymore (picture the dwarves in the New Narnia in C. S. Lewis' The Last Battle). So the final silence seemed to me to be quiet disappointment, acute loneliness, and a deep fear of having gone deaf. Even though God and I don't always get along, I don't want to be alone in a universe where the only One who gives ultimate meaning to life isn't a part of my life anymore. I decided my relationship with God was worth more to me than 2 minutes shaved off my commute every day. Really flattering to the Creator of the Universe, I know. It's been at least 2 months of mostly non-speeding and I have to say it remains a challenging permanent fast. I still have to check my speedometer continuously to make sure I'm not "cheating" by just blending in with the speed of traffic. I feel sorry for the people behind me who can't understand the aggravating 'old lady' ahead of them who insists on going the speed limit on empty highways at low-traffic flow times and I want to make them happy and not die a road rage victim. It's not just a little bit humbling and embarrassing to be the 'old lady driver' I fumed at not so long ago. On the up-side, I have fewer anxiety attacks about being caught speeding when I pass the photo-radar dudes, I haven't had to deal with all the guilt and adrenaline from nearly crashing due to excessive speed, and I've gotten to witness the local wildlife waddling safely across the street (yes, waddling- it was a skunk, which I suppose most people wouldn't be excited to see in their community, but I was safely in my car and it wasn't headed for my backyard, after all) in lieu of running it over and feeling sorrow for it. Nevertheless, I still have fits where I angrily wonder why I must go the speed limit when no one else seems to be doing so and it would probably be safer for me to go 10 km/hr faster, or why the speed limit is so painfully slow on the long, empty road that leads to my house. Why?! For just those kinds of occasions, God now has a new irritating chant he intones with me in my green car: "It's ok. They can go around you." Like we're a giant rock in the middle of a river, breaking the rushing current with our solidity. Mostly the chant is soothing, reminding me to let go of hurry and embrace beautiful things in the moment: the awesome music I'm listening to, the scenery I get to witness while I drive, the overall sense of safety enhancement, the rare time alone with my thoughts and my God. Sometimes I let this chant take on a slightly judgmental tone towards the other drivers in their envied speed, and then God has to add more of a harsh emphasis to the "can," which is a reminder to me to let go of my competitive attitude and to not feel bitter when people pull ahead of me in line at a traffic light. When I'm feeling especially discontent about it, God helps me encounter someone else who has made a similar commitment so we can commiserate with and encourage each other. Thanks, God. Oh, and Happy Easter. Correction, as Sonja would put it, Blessed Easter. Though I still remain unclear about exactly how one can "bless" God.

Invisibility is Not a Superpower Anymore

So, to acknowledge the complaints of my dearly beloved loyal readers, Yes, it's been a while since I've posted anything (you know, apart from the post from 2 minutes ago). I feel like the reasons have been two-fold: first, for at least a year's time, I had no time to write. I was busy dealing with crises in my own life (ex. my mom's illness and death) and then I was busy dealing with other people's crises, which I didn't write about and can't list, because they're not my stories to tell. My life story was not about me for that time; rather, it was about supporting other people in their life stories. Work was also very busy and involved a lot of sitting at a computer reading information and frantically typing up mostly tragic mini-stories all day, so the inclination to attempt creative or narrative-type writing at home was quite diminished. My second reason developed after that crisis-jumping year was over. I had a year of rest and simple social interactions where I worked at my stable, moderately meaningful, comfortable job; attended church activities; supported the performing arts with my attendance or someone else's; and practiced not burning or exploding new healthy food recipes I was trying out and serving to friends, family, or myself. This is where I sit now. Essentially, I have became Martha Stuart minus the criminal record. This afternoon, Dan and I finished serving our second large Easter dinner of the weekend at 6:00 pmish. We differed in our feelings of how successful this one was. After getting home from a Sunrise Easter Service 6:15am-7:30am and a morning Easter Service 9:30am-12:00, we worked like mad (while blessedly not feeling mad) preparing a roast lamb supper for Dan's parents, sister, aunt & uncle, grandmother, and cousin. We had it ready reasonably close to the time we claimed it would be, everyone agreed it was incredibly delicious food, and we went for a cheery walk through sunny Fish Creek Park before indulging in dessert. For the first time ever with Dan's family, there was absolutely no zombie-like t.v. watching involved, only conversation and enjoyment in our senses' perceptions. There was also no ham, happily. Dan saw it as a major success. I suppose I should also count my blessings and victories, but I mostly felt disappointed. Dan prayed over the food when I asked him to, and it was an improvement over past Christian holiday feasts with Dan's family where Dan's parents would prod Dan's younger sister Steph to chant, "God is good, God is great, thank you for this food." I don't want to be critical of other's prayers, it's just that I don't think they believe they're actually talking to God and it hurts me a little inside to see the Guest of Honour and Founder of the Feast treated like the mailman. "H & G: Hi and Goodbye" (Sleepless in Seattle). A friend was recently enraged and hurt when some of her birthday party guests left her with a $200 tab at the restaurant where they was celebrating. I think sometimes that's how Jesus must feel on Christmas (his birthday) and Easter (the anniversary of his torture, death, and resurrection) when half the people celebrating look right past him in their bedazzlement of the decorations, party favours, and food, and forget to even bring him a card. My goal this year was to not only eliminate celebration practices I find distasteful, but to replace them with meaningful traditions. Specifically, I wanted to read a piece of scripture from the story of the crucifixion or resurrection, to remind everyone WHY we're feasting. But somehow it got pushed aside in the bustle of food prep, and I had to force myself to smile and not swear out loud when Dan's father proudly announced that the Easter Bunny had visited their home again, while Dan's mom beamed and handed us each a cute gift bag of Easter candies. #%*!ing Easter Bunny. I know that giving us little tangible gifts is one of the ways they like to show us that they're thinking of us and love us. It's a very sweet (no pun intended, well, mostly not intended) act of kindness, and something my mom used to do frequently as well. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," my father liked to admonish when I was growing up. Sage advice. But to me, when they give us gifts we don't want it's also a sign they don't really know us. I'm a diabetic who doesn't really like candy apart from chocolate, and I think it's been many years since Dan really liked any kind of sweet. And today, especially today, I really didn't want our house to be a place celebrating the Easter Bunny. "The bunny, the bunny, whoa, I hate the bunny. I don't hate Dan's mom or his dad, just the bunny..." (Veggie Tales, slightly revised). And I feel I'm mostly to blame for the lack of attention drawn to Christ at Easter in our own home. I don't know how to talk to Dan's family about anything but the most shallow or practical things, and those tend to make for boring conversations so mostly I'm just quiet altogether around them. Then again, maybe it's not just with them that I pull on an invisibility cloak. We also invited my side of the family over for Easter dinner on Good Friday. Once again, we avoided zombie-like retreat to the t.v., everyone thought the food tasted great, and there was friendly conversation everywhere. I asked my Grandfather to pray, and he did, and his prayer was genuine and filled with thanks to God. But again I felt like a sell-out for not reading a piece of scripture first. I gave way to panic about people being hungry and irritable after supper was delayed for a cousin and her young children I had given an erroneous address to and whose desperate calls I had missed for over 45 minutes because I'd accidentally forgotten my phone in my car. In sum, I cared more about being "nice" than in being any sort of genuine light to the family members who have not given their hearts to God yet. I want to be more than nice. Niceness is a camouflage for the middle-class in "first-world" countries to appear gracious and kind and it seems to be what we use as evidence of goodness to justify our selfish extravagance on ourselves. I need a bigger dream for myself than eating tasty healthy food, showing up for endless church events, and filling time at a job that makes me look like a good person while I slowly die of boredom. Those are side dishes and I feel like I'm missing the garlic encrusted roast beast at my own Who-ville banquet of life. You can't be heard without saying something. You can't be seen unless you're present and standing in the light. I'm too old for Easter candy baskets and I'm too old to be hiding under the stairs when I want attention, miffed that no one has noticed I'm gone.

Mental Illness is Calling- Shall I Answer?

A couple weeks ago I was sitting at my desk when my co-worker exclaimed, "Hey, Schizophrenia is calling me." Then abruptly she started laughing, "Should I answer a call from Schizophrenia?" I peeked around our cubicle divider and a quick glance confirmed that the caller ID did indeed simply read, "Schizophrenia." She picked it up, bless her. But ever since then, the question has been drumming through my mind like a military band: "Mental illness is calling me: shall I answer?" There's no one answer, really. Just like when people call 2-1-1 and ask for "the" number for "Alberta Health" when there is, in fact, something like 800 different numbers that belong to that agency, more information is needed before an answer can be given. Is it my mental illness, or someone else's? Why is it calling me? Is it calling me at home, or while I'm at work? Supposing it's my own mental illness, I would be tempted to say that I wouldn't answer: "Just say 'no'" and all that jazz. However, my knowledge of Freudian psychology suggests that if I have a mental illness that has built enough strength to call me on a phone, perhaps I ought to at least listen to what it has to say, because it probably needs attention. And if it's my own mental illness calling, having it call me at work or home would probably be equally disturbing. If my mental illness called me at work, I would probably need to go on some sort of sick leave or change of occupation. If my mental illness called me at home, then I'd have to ask how it obtained my unlisted phone number and/or address and it's probably bothering my husband and family as well as stalking me. Paranoia, paranoia, everybody's out to get meeee, you told them all I was crazy, and I don't even own a t.v... (though Dan does. Still, we don't get cable, after all). Conversely, supposing it's someone else's mental illness calling, I would be very tempted to say, "Of course I'll answer! I'm always happy to help!" But again, the problem contains more complexity than it first appears to. What kind of mental illness is it? And how severe? Whose is it? Does it just want to talk, need directions elsewhere, or does it expect me to resolve it? I only have a BA in behavioural science, so I'm really not qualified to treat anyone. Even if I had a full PhD and license to practice, I would be bound by the ethical code of conduct of Registered Psychologists in Canada, so I also can't treat anyone I have a dual relationship with (ie. family, friends, coworkers, archenemies, etc) and I must only work within my areas of specialized training. So, for example, if I specialize in using body mindfulness techniques and dialectical behaviour therapy to treat dissociative disorders and emotional trauma, but don't have any training in prescribing anti-psychotics or using cognitive behaviour treatment, I can't accept schizophrenic patients as my clients because I'm not competent in that area. I really don't want to bring my work home with me, either, as I suspect this would have adverse effects on my marriage and family. Repeat after me, self: "I can't be everything to everyone," and the newer mantra, "I can't be everywhere and available to everyone all the time." Sorry, they're not very catchy mantras. And whether at home or work, if the mental illness calling is Psychopathy, and it belongs to the very angry psyche of a controlling/abusive ex of a client, friend, or family member, it might be wiser to allow it to leave a message and then possibly make an out-call to 9-1-1. Then again, maybe it'd be a good idea to answer so I could conduct a risk assessment. I don't know how to record live calls, though, and damn is it ever important to maintain physical evidence to show to police and judges when seeking justice for or protection in domestic abuse cases. Maybe if it was a really clingy/dependent mental illness I would just allow it to leave a message, or if I did pick up, perhaps I would have to give it a time limit. I always find that really hard though- most often, it seems as though I gain much more insight into a person's life/views if I just allow them to tell their stories in their own time and in their own way. I don't think I ever want to go into "Solutions focused therapy". Not that I believe therapy shouldn't be about finding solutions- it should. I believe God can heal anything, and people were meant to live abundantly, so a therapy that doesn't bring healing is an unethical waste of time, money, and emotion. But solutions-focused therapy is generally short-term therapy devised to appease insurance companies with their lower cost and fix surface-level problems for clients in a hurry. And despite all my insecurities, I still believe I was meant to seek bigger challenges than that. Alas, I digress, and I'm speaking with unpolitically correct terms. Correction: a person is not the same thing as the mental illness that plagues them. How's that for decisive decision making? My answer is, "Maybe."

Like Gilligan's Island

No phones, no lights, no motor-cars

not a single luxury

like Robinson Crusoe

it's primitive as can be

I know, I know. Who watches Gilligan's Island anymore?

Well, I do sometimes.

The gift of my father's television taste, now fortunately freed from the tyranny of commercials by boxed seasons.

I also sometimes watch Hogan's Heroes and I Dream of Jeannie, but that's beside the point.

Gilligan's Island was a comedic sitcom about a tour boat crew and its passengers who got stranded on a tropical island and had to (a) survive with whatever they'd brought along and the natural resources of the island, and (b) forge a small, functioning community out of an odd assortment of people. Admittedly, Gilligan's Island is not a perfect simile to my life at the moment: I certainly have no professor available who can figure out how to make a bomb out of a couple of coconuts to diffuse an imminently erupting volcano, and obviously if I am writing this post I am not lacking electricity or technological options to connect to the outside world. I did leave my car at home, though. And, of more relevance, I am trying to find harmony in the midst of living with an odd conglomeration of personalities, isolated from my normal community, with minimal access to my usual "drugs".

Normally when I'm stressed, I either self-medicate with chocolate (which a good health teacher from Jr. High taught me is filled with chemicals that initiate calm emotional responses) or I do my best to escape by distracting myself with fictional stories that have happy endings. Sometimes I will also listen to loud music in my car that I can sing along with to soothe my soul. However, a couple weeks ago our church Young Adult group challenged all its members to try a fast. Too much of a coward to do a full food fast for a day or two, I opted for a much longer but much less stringent fast from chocolate and fictional book reading. Since Dan opted to fast from coffee, I decided I might as well cut that out, too. We arbitrarily chose a traditional time length for our fast, and away we went.

It just hasn't been as easy as I thought. Oh, I've resisted temptation to the listed items alright. Rather, the challenge has been to allow God to fill those empty spaces, rather than just filling them with other things (ex. lemon squares in lieu of chocolate, and movies in lieu of books). Particularly, now that I've been travelling for nearly two weeks and my alternative drugs aren't easily accessible either (Dan, my little lemon square of sunshine, is still at home), I'm finally starting to feel the strain of the fast I chose. I am really struggling to put into practice the idea of "resting in God," and in God alone. Practically speaking, what does that look like?

I have some guesses. Rest is what you get when you're not anxious about something, regardless of whether or not your body is in motion. The banes of anxiety and helplessness seem to be competence, power, and trust. You don't need to worry about x if you believe that someone has the power, ability, and desire to handle x with care. My former room-mate, Jasmine, seemed to have a pretty good grasp of the concept of resting in God. God always seemed so obvious to her, and she followed Him like a child, curious and content. She'd chat with him about life, and he'd tell her to do things like, "Go for coffee at the Starbucks on 14th now," and she would obey and then find an old friend she hadn't seen in years. (Her summary of said 'coincidence' was: "Yeeees! I'm getting so good at this game, God!"). Graham Cooke also described his relationship with God as one of trust, and a game of giving. Bitterness and hopelessness are not synonymous with rest. These emotional/psychological states appear to carry an underlying belief that others will not take care of x (due to incompetence, unwillingness, or impotence), so I must do x myself, and it's too hard. I've been reading through Job again. I love Job like I love reading treatises on mathematical formulas, or like I like eating broken glass, or listening to screaming babies, or eating my birthday dinner at McDonald's, or having my fingernails pulled out with pliers, or riding a bicycle in a snowstorm, or building a summer home in the middle of a Florida swamp, or going down-hill skiing in Saskatchewan, or keeping a pile of live snakes and tarantulas on the floor in lieu of carpet, or eating household pets for supper, or putting moldy potatoes in my fruit smoothie for breakfast, or rolling naked in piles of festering garbage, or watching reality tv shows on tv, or stubbing my toe on the heat register, or accidentally stabbing myself in the finger with my syringe, or presenting sex ed to a class of grade 7 students, or... I mean, honestly, has anyone ever tried to count how many similes, proverbs, and metaphors are used by each character in that story to make a point that could have been stated in under 10 seconds? Of course not- they would shoot themselves first. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh, right; I think Job is a counterfoil to Jasmine, or he would be if they were in the same story. Job's sin was pride and self-righteousness. He was so sure of his own perfection that he was willing to accuse God of being unjust when the blessings of his life were removed. Everyone gets so angry on his account: how could God allow such a righteous man to suffer so much and then respond to his anguish with a "Shut up and stop questioning me- I'm God, you fool!"? But how do we know Job was actually righteous, except from his own account? (ex. "Everything I did was honest. Righteousness covered me like a robe, and I wore justice like a turban" Job 29:14). How accurate was Job's account? How do you know when someone is righteous? God never argued that Job hadn't done good things with his wealth and influence while he held them. Rather, it seems that God saw something ugly coming that Job, and all Job's friends, family, and acquaintances had not seen; a temptation hidden in Job's heart Job had never recognized because Job had never been in the sort of uncomfortable place where such a thing could be revealed. He had too much chocolate and fictional reading and lemon squares and movies to watch to see that tiny little crack in his soul Satan was panting at, ready to rip in and tear it wide open for disease and death. So after all Job's angry ranting, Elihu, the young one, speaks on God's behalf: "But by means of their suffering, [God] rescues those who suffer. For he gets their attention through adversity. God is leading you away from danger, Job, to a place free from distress. He is setting your table with the best food. But you are obsessed with whether the godless will be judged. Don't worry, judgement and justice will be upheld. But watch out or you may be seduced by wealth. Don't let yourself be bribed into sin. Could all your wealth or all your mighty efforts keep you from distress? Do not long for the cover of night, for that is when people will be destroyed. Be on guard! Turn back from evil, for God has sent this suffering to keep you from a life of evil" (Job 36:15-21). A very little bit of discomfort is already showing me that I lean a lot more on my "easy-going" and "tempered" nature to deal with conflict around me than I do on God, and when my little stress relievers of chocolate and happy distraction and people who are always nice back to me aren't available, I'm not quite as easy-going and tempered as I like to believe. I have some of the appearance of a Jasmine, but underneath is mostly the pride-cracked heart of Job with a secret doubt that God will not take care of everything the way that it should be. So come Holy Spirit, and transform me. You must increase, and I must decrease (wince). Or, since I'm looking at Job, in Job's words: "I had only heard about you before, but now I have seen you with my own eyes, I take back everything I said, and I sit in dust and ashes to show my repentance" (Job 42:5-6).