I've neglected this space

There's a lot going on. It's all good, but at the moment it's not allowing me much time at the computer.

I'm writing....daily...but write most of my work in longhand, in my notebook, with mental notes to transfer my work to the computer. This is how I write, but it takes time to transition from cursive to times new roman.

It probably seemed like I dropped of the radar when I met someone. I guess this is true, for all the right reasons. I was very lonely when I first came out, and now I'm not. I have someone to talk to, to hold, to love...and my need to unburden to a general population has changed. It's not that I have less to say. It's just that the things I want to say are very different than they used to be. There are facets to my life that bear recording, and repeating. My life and words have value. I'm a lesbian, a mother, a sister, a daughter, an earth-loving witch who has dreams, a full-time job and a lot of other work to do.

I'm not disappearing.

You see, three weeks ago, the girl and I decided that it was time to make the big move. The one I've been resisting. The one where I emotionally put myself on the line and make a firm decision. And once we decided that living together was the natural, right thing to do, everything else fell into place very quickly. She was offered a position in a local college that's almost the same as the one she has now. We've booked the movers. We're in the midst of sorting and packing, and trying to fit the trappings of two mature lives into one space. It's working. It will be as wonderful as it is now. But in the meantime, between now and the middle of June, I am a bit short on time. Parenting comes first, always. But then....

There's my poor, wretched waterlogged garden, yet to be planted. Will it ever stop raining?

The Conservatives won the election. Boo!

I am going to take voice lessons. I need to build my confidence.

We have summer plans...witchcamp in a few weeks, Pride events, a chance for me to attend a writing workshop with Ivan Coyote, a Ferron concert, Michfest, Melissa Etheridge in August.

My birthday. And possibly new ink....

Lots going on. Much to tell you...I'll be back as soon as I can.

camlin gets political

Canadian politics generally don't garner a lot of attention at a more international level. Unlike our neighbours to the south, our elections appear, on the surface, to only cause a minor ripple on the political landscape. This time, I feel it's different. Our Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, has characterized this election as unnecessary. I beg to differ.

For the uninformed (judging from my stats, more people from the US read my site than from Canada, so if you are Canadian, you can skip this part...) Canada is being governed by a Conservative minority. That means, the Conservatives hold more seats than any other party, but the other parties (four of them) have a combined total of more seats than the party in power. An election can be triggered by a vote of non-confidence, supported by a majority of MP's. This happened on Friday April 1st, sending Canada to the polls for the third time in seven years. Some people believe this to be a frivolous waste of time and money. However:

• The vote of non-confidence was declared because our Prime Minister has been found in contempt of parliament, for failing to disclose the true cost of several items - the purchase of a large number of fighter jets, corporate tax cuts, and a new law-and order agenda. This is akin to a President of the US being impeached. It's big. Harper has dismissed these allegations as frivolous political noise.
• Our government has become more secretive and closed, despite Harper's campaign, many moons ago, for a more open and accountable governmental process. At the early stages of this election, the general public has been held at arm's length, and the press has been limited in the number of questions they can ask our Prime Minister. The Canadian Association of Journalists released this letter describing the frustrations they face.
• Many of Haper's public appearances and photo opportunities are staged. The general press have been barred from attending and are kept at bay by the RCMP, our national police force. This prevents Harper from having to answer any potentially embarrassing questions.
• At two recent rallies, university students who had registered to attend were barred from the event. In one case, a political science student was barred because her Facebook profile featured a picture of her with the leader of the Liberal Party. In a separate incident, a number of enthusiastic students created a video and their own gathering, a non-partisan rally to encourage other students to get out and vote. Some of them subsequently found themselves barred from attending the Harper rally that was taking place on their campus, in spite of having been previously registered.

Stephen Harper and the Conservatives are attempting to mimic US-style, right-wing politics. They are trying to convince everyone that the Canadian "taxpayer" (as opposed to citizen, I guess) has one primary concern: the economy. And the best way to achieve economic stability is to lower corporate taxes, and cut unnecessary government spending. Apparently, spending twice as much as you said you would for an F-35 fighter jet qualifies as fiscal prudence. But child care is not a priority. Nor is child poverty. The Conservatives were touting a new program that would offer forgivable loans to immigrants that would help them achieve equivalent Canadian qualifications for their professions, but no one has yet mentioned the drastic funding cuts recently made to English as a Second Language programs.

If the current government is returned as a majority, I expect to see an erosion of the services and benefits that we take for granted as Canadians. And, our Prime Minister has previously shared his personal views on sexual orientation, before it was politically prudent to remain silent. He has eroded the office of the Status of Women, and has promoted aid programs that focus on abstinence, while ignoring women`s reproductive rights. There is currently no abortion law in Canada, as it was struck down by the Supreme Court a number of years ago - but a conservative majority might try to change this. In spite of the fact that Harper says gay marriage and abortion rights are not part of his platform, I simply don`t believe him. He voted against the recent Transgender Rights bill - which was passed, but then died as a result of the election. This government is completely lacking in transparency and accountability - I don`t think this will improve if they are given more power. Canada`s human rights record has been tarnished since Harper took office, and he has taken several large steps backwards with regards to environmental protection.

There is no doubt in my mind that Harper has to go. I just hope that the rest of the country feels the same way.

arrival

A trip down memory lane...if you were are familiar with small towns you might recognize some of these themes....

Arrival

The town appears unexpectedly, a ripple on the landscape of gentle hills and rich farmland. It owes its existence to the meeting of two rivers, one being the powerful Thames. Thousands of years ago, the rivers cut deep into the soft earth, forming the high-walled fortress of hills that surrounded and enclosed the town. The water’s strength compressed the earth, and over generations the mud became limestone, and the limestone gave the town its sustenance.

It began as a thriving village nestled in the forks, fed by the river’s energy which churned through man-made canals into the flour mills, the cotton mill, the lumber mills. It was sustained by the railroad, for as two rivers met in its centre, two prominent railway lines criss-crossed the skyline with towering viaducts, joining the tiny community to the outside world. People and goods could travel northeast to Stratford, southwest to London, west to Sarnia, and east to Hamilton.

As the town grew larger, houses spiraled up the hillsides, proudly built with the products of the lime quarries. Stately grey, chiseled, mortared solidly into place, these houses lined the streets, outlasted their inhabitants,  and remained unchanged as the town grew around them. Homes spilled into the higher elevations as the twentieth century began. Churches built their prominent spires on commanding hilltops, visually reminding the good citizens of their parochial duty, of the extreme and patriarchal authority of God.

Efforts were made to bring culture to the community. A group of enterprising sousl built an Opera House. Choirs and orchestras flourished in community centers. A town Hall was erected, and its limestone towers continue to dominate the downtown area. The pious citizens argued and raged over accepting Andrew Carnegie’s gift, but at last, a library was built. Goods came in from far away via the railroad. Life was comfortable convenient, familiar, for those who lived in town.

But even then, did the shelter of the hills insulate the residents from the finer points of acceptance? There were few initial ties beyond the railroad. Did the isolation create an environment where the hierarchy was strictly enforced, where the small-town stereotypes of clannishness and secrecy became fully operational?

Or, is this the way of all small towns?

Before the car, before the rapid, convenient transport of humans across distance, movement in or out of town was limited, remarked upon. Notices were, are sometimes still printed in the local paper:” Mrs. Andrew Smith entertained her cousins, the Missed Marielle and Ruby Langford of London last week.” People did not drive out of town to work, not until the eighties and nineties, when cars became more affordable and credit was easy to acquire, when the cost of gas was lower than the cost of property tax in bigger cities.

New families occasionally move in, sometimes having connections in town through friends and family. A family from outside can transplant successfully, given the right ingredients: money, prominence, and willingness to conform. It matters whether or not you join the Lion’s Club, the IODE, or the Odd Fellows. It matters whether or not you are eligible to join the Royal Canadian legion, or the slightly less-respectable Army and Navy, based upon your family’s participation in the previous war.

What you do for a living is critical. Did you take a job that Walter’s cousin applied for, but didn’t get? Did they hire you to bring a new perspective – if so, be aware that newfangled notions are not always welcome. Are you properly respectful of the old guard? Did they tell you all the established family names on your first day of work?

It matters where you shop. Are you buying in local shops,  thus assuring that goods are bought and sold in the historic, yet sadly-provisioned business district? Or perhaps you make a pretence of local shopping, but you are wealthy enough to travel to London, or even Toronto, and acquire your goods in fashionable, upscale establishments. Kingsmill’s. Simpson-Sears. Eaton’s – after all, Timothy Eaton was once a local boy. Do you dare admit your scarcity in a public manner and shop at the Salvation Army thrift store?

Anonymity does not exist in small towns. People watch you. They notice where you go. They remark upon your presence. Just being neighbourly, is all. They discuss what you wear, and how you present yourself, after you’ve left the room. They feign surprise at the door left ajar, the conversation overheard in the ladies’ room at the church bazaar. Are you pleasant, yet respectful, to the old guard, the denizens who can trace their family lineage in this town back to the nineteenth century?

You’re new here, aren’t you? Haven’t seen you here before. Know anybody, before you moved up? Did you know the Jackson’s, or the Reese family from London? They’re cousins of mine. How long have you been here? Found your way around yet?  After you’ve been asked the questions a dozen or more times, you become weary. Does it matter? Why does it matter? Your answers may become more elaborate, or they may become short and sharp. If you start asking the questions, or heaven forbid, provide any feedback, you are either greeted with over-enthusiastic warmth, or you are coolly reminded of your station. What right do you have to ask those questions? That’s the way it’s always been done, nobody’s had a problem with it before you came along. Maybe you should live here awhile before you pass those kinds of judgments.

You feel the resident’s coolness, watch them dance in tight circles, shoulder to shoulder, as they weave in and out of building, down sidewalks, past rows of chairs at PTA meetings. They dance facing inwards, with their backs to the forlorn, the misfits. The circle grows tighter and tighter until they are stuck, unable to move forwards or backwards. Their feet stomp in place for so long that they are digging themselves into the ground, buried in the stagnant, infertile clay of exclusivity.

You live here. You are an outsider. They will take your money, but not your advice. Your presence is required at PTA meetings, but you are expected not to speak. Your children are welcome at school, but please do not ask the bus driver to pick them up, you’re out of the busing area. We make allowances for some families depending on the difficulty of the walk. No, your children may not bring a lunch to school, even if it takes them twenty minutes to walk home at lunch time. Only bus students may bring a lunch.

And so on.

The streets are clean. The roads are deserted at night. The town is steeped in silence; there is a calm that cannot be found in your former urban home. It is so quiet that it’s hard to sleep, at first. And after your eyes drift closed, you are forcefully awakened by the blast of a train whistle.

Everything is closed on Mondays.

Mail is not delivered. You pick it up at the post office. The Post Office is a modern building that smells like a dusty stack of books. You ask for your mail at the counter, as you are on the waiting list for a post office box. You open your mail and discard the junk. Before you leave, five or six people have noticed you, eyes shifting away when you make contact. Some acknowledge you with a glimmer of a nod.

On Sundays you pile the kids into the car and go to church, six to a pew. Back pews are always filled, so you march the little ones to the very front, on the left hand side of the church, under the watchful eyes of the priest as he delivers his sermon. You make the sign of peace with everyone around you, but they do not speak to you as you hurry the children to the car. You are asked to join the Catholic Women’s League. You pay your dues and discover that only the executive meets, there are no regular events, and the single ongoing project is knitting red slippers for altar servers. You don’t knit.

Your kids are divided at school. Separate playgrounds, different teachers, each child concerned with preserving their own social integrity at all cost. This could mean that your daughter mocks your son, as she trudges the long road to and from school with him. But, in the face of adversity on that walk, they become unified. They turn their backs with stoic despair, having learned from you that it is better to ignore those who taunt them, than to rise to the insults. You really didn’t know how bad it was, you tell yourself later. In the other world, the world that was, they whooped and hollered their way to school, with friends fore and aft.

They don’t fit. Their clothes don’t fit. They don’t understand the distinction between town kids and country kids, what passes for the racial dividing line in a sea of white faces. They don’t laugh at appropriate moments, like when the kid from the dairy farm arrives with a head full of straw and muck on his boots. They don’t know not to laugh at the girls who huddle in a circle, giggling at nothing. Their silence at home about such matters causes you pain. You only overhear them as they whisper to each other after dark, consoling each other at the end of another long day.

In winter, they are the kings and queens of the best toboggan hill in the south ward. All the kids become their friends for a hour or two. Everyone goes home at night, and arrives at school the next morning with a bemused expression and frosty silence when your kids greet them with familiarity.

In winter the snow piles high. Schools close when it storms. People stay indoors, watch the snow swirl and settle, and wait for the plows to clear out their streets. You learn to carry jumper cables, you buy a block heater for the car, and you invest in snow tires. The children walk to school, trudging from one end of town to another four times a day because you are five houses away from the busing area. At lunch, they barely have time to take off their wet mittens before you send them back out the door. If they’re late, the principal will call you and suggest that you re-organize your schedule so that your children arrive at school on time.

Here, the trees are taller than you had imagined, healthy and abundant. Your children laugh and squeal at the squirrels, still a novelty. They play in a huge back yard filled with trees, alive with the voices of birds and the rustle of movement from the wind. Bats swoop from leafy branches at night and settle in the vacant barn, in the lot next door. You sleep with the doors unlocked, the windows wide open, and you awaken to a chorus of birdsong every morning. There is no traffic. There are no squeals of bus brakes, no distant hum of transport trucks moving goods along the 401.

Your friends and family are long-distance calls away. They visit when they can.

You walk alone for hours when the kids are at school. You travel along the riverbank, by the abandoned railway. There’s a dirt road that follows the Thames for miles out of town and you hike along its dusty track. You take the kids with you, and teach them to wade in the water, and to fish. All of you watch in awe as a great heron flaps its wings and sails skyward, with long legs trailing gracefully behind. Your kids expand their vocabulary and knowledge, learning about cattails and milkweed, burdock and skunkweed. And skunks. You listen as the water cascades over rocks, an endless burble, a trickle between your bare toes. You rest on the limestone banks and forget time, forget place, forget that you are a stranger.

You are here.

family restaurant

Every small town had one.  In the days when people didn't leave town as often as they do now, there had to be a place for the locals to hang out, for the older folk to bring their families for Sunday dinner after church. My small town was no exception. You’ve seen one like it, I’m quite sure. Maybe you got lost one day, and end up in my hometown, driving down the main street with cars parallel parked on both sides. You probably noticed the striped awning below the white sign with red lettering. “Family Restaurant," it  announced proudly. The windows were partially occluded by grease, but the sidewalk in front of the building was swept clear of any offending particles of dirt. Through the window, you could see the photos of hockey teams sponsored by the restaurant, and dusty, artificial plants.

Somehow, I ended up working in this fine establishment.

The uniform puzzled me. Why deck waitresses out in black bottoms and white tops, in a greasy spoon where everyone dines in jeans and their work clothes? Why bother telling the waitresses that skirts are mandatory? I worked briefly in a teahouse, where the chef served fresh scones with double Devon cream and cranberry chutney, and even there, I wasn’t required to wear a skirt. I left that job for a different one, with more hours and the promise of better wages, and instead I ended up looking like an oversize penguin in a French fry wagon.

Black skirts are mandatory, and the shiny polyester hooks on the jagged counter as I sidled past Jimmy, the owner. His eyes never met mine; his hair was greasy and slicked back. Some weeks he trimmed his mustache, and other weeks the hairs dipped past his upper lip and into his mouth. He was a slight man, shorter than me, and he constantly wore a dour expression, broken only by insincere smiles of welcome and departure as the patrons arrived and left, pushing their wallets into their back pockets as they strode out the front door and into the main street of our town.

My white blouse was a shiny faux satin and it gaped in front. I hated blouses and buttons because nothing ever fit right. I tried to fix the gape with pins, but that never worked; there was always a telltale mark on the front of the blouse. Nylons were mandatory, and I was been told that heels were acceptable but I stuck to comfortable shoes. I thought about waitresses from the 1950’s behind lunch counters, effortlessly serving coffee and pie to hungry men who sat on red vinyl stools. I thought about the TV show Alice, where Mel the cook was blustery, but had a heart of gold. The girls at Mel’s Diner wore pink dresses and frilly aprons, so I guess I was better off.

We had vinyl-covered booths and counter service in front. The back of the restaurant looked dark, because of the burgundy flocked-velvet wallpaper and fake mahogany wainscoting. Red Tiffany lamps were suspended over tables surrounded by overstuffed banquettes.  The owner hoped to attract a different crowd in the dining room, people who could afford his hot beef dinners, lamb chops, pork schnitzel. But most of the people who bought those things spent their Sunday Dinner budgets at the fancier place around the corner at the old post office, where the windows were two stories high.

There was always something to do, unless you were in the boss’ good graces, and then you could sit whenever you wanted. I didn't particularly care to be in his good graces, so I filled Heinz bottles with cheap substitute ketchup and  wiped the sugar bowls when it wasn't busy, I mopped floors, cleaned bathrooms and sanitized counters over and over again. I took orders, and tried to remember who ordered what. I brought the tickets to the kitchen where the owner’s nephew made comments in Greek that may or may not have been sexually suggestive.

 I learned to fill drink orders first. There were round plastic trays with cork inlays to catch the drips of liquid spilled by careless hands. I would open a spigot and pour pop into an ice-filled glass half way, and then let the fizz bubble down before I filled the rest of the glass, just as he taught me.

There was so much to remember. Pick up. Walk down the stairs without falling. And always his hands were on my waist as he moved past me, fingers inching lower, accidentally brushing my buttocks once, twice.  He would casually sidle past me to the bar, to serve a favoured customer, to stand at the other end of the counter instead of this one. On that particular morning, coffee was in order for almost everyone, and I grabbed the steaming pot as I walked past the drink station, deftly avoiding both the blank stare and creeping hands of the owner.

My co-workers tittered when Ethel walked in. They didn't seem to notice Jimmy's hands, always creeping, the air full of suggestion, the meaningful looks he gave them under greasy locks. They didn't see anything wrong with the monthly staff meetings where he plied everyone with beer, even the underaged, and then ruminated about the skirts (shorter) and the blouses (tuck them in).  But when an undervalued customer walked through the door, they screeched about like starlings that flocked to the same branch, weeding out the undesirable element for the sake of conformity. Other times they were like seagulls, pecking over a single scrap of hot dog bun from a vendor’s cart.

“You’re newest,” they told me. “You get to wait on her.”

I didn't understand. I’d seen her all my life. She often stopped into the convenience store where I used to work,  asked for “Export A” cigarettes, bought a Coke and a sub, and left again. She always said hello. Always thanked me. Not so tall, but taller than I am. Built like – a man, I guess, with her square frame, her gravelly, cigarette-soaked voice, and her hands, large and rough. Most often she wore farmer green coveralls, winter and summer, and black rubber boots with red soles, winter and summer.  Our town drew farmers from three nearby counties. It was the nearest place to buy groceries for miles around. When they were in town, the farmers picked up the local paper, stopped for a coffee, and heard the news on the bench outside the  Royal Bank. They almost all wore the same thing, except on Sundays; coveralls and black rubber boots with red soles, often with muck and straw clinging to the heels.

She was loud and confident, shooting the shit with the other farmers she met, and sometimes ate with. I knew her farm; had seen her truck parked at the end of her laneway. She lived on the Winterton road, in a place where the creek had cut a cleft into the hillside. On the property there was a big old yellow-brick farmhouse. The fields and yard were well cared for, and there was a barn in back of the house, like almost every other farm on that road. Beautiful horses grazed her fields, horses that wandered and galloped under her watchful eye.

So what if she called herself Hal and her name was really Ethel? If my name was Ethel, I’d change it too. So what if she lived with another woman – that was the rumor. A dyke, the girls called her, and giggled behind their hands at her like she was  about to proposition them, run her hands subtly around their waistlines as she passed them in narrow spaces. I approached her with trepidation, waiting to be swallowed whole, so fearsome did the other girls make her sound.  I felt afraid, even though I knew her, even though I was aware that there was really nothing to fear. I was conscious, as always, of my shiny skirt and squeaky shoes which betrayed my inexperience, my newness in this place.

“Yeah. I’ll have the breakfast. Two eggs over easy, bacon, white toast,” she said, before I could pull out my little notepad and look official.

“Would you like coffee?”

“I sure would, ma’am.” She looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes, clear and blue. Her face was dark tanned, her skin rough and uncared for. She turned back to the man in the booth next to her, and continued their conversation about the hole in the roof of his barn, and whether or not he could fix it himself.

What’s the big deal? The other girls were smirking at me.

“Oooh, she likes you. If she really likes you, she’ll leave you a big tip.”

I didn't get big tips. I was a lousy waitress. I hated this job. I was only putting in time until I started college in January.

The two girls I worked with were lifers. One worked there because she left school at sixteen to have a baby. She used to be in my class, before she dropped out. She was nice enough, but I never knew her well. She was always flawless-looking in high school, with perfectly blonde hair and big, blue eyes. The fatigue she felt in every bone in her body was clearly visible. The rings under her eyes, her sweet smile, and the redness of her fingers should have drawn her more tips than the older girl, but they didn't.

The other one was waiting to marry her fiancé when he graduated the next year from Lakehead University.  She was always angry. She took all the regulars, flashed her big fake smile at them, and was always ready with a joke. But as she served, she swore and muttered and mumbled under her breath at the same people she just smiled pretty at. She got the tips. Most of them.

I wanted to ask my old school mate, “Doesn’t it creep you out when Jimmy….?”

But nobody talked about it. They might fawn over the local vagrant with strong family connections. They would greet the mayor with a welcoming smile. They'd go out of their way to serve hot chocolate to a cement-plant bastion for a twenty-five cent tip. But they fought over who must serve Ethel, just as they argued over who must serve the residents from the Community Living Centre. And they took the owner's advances as a matter of course, as the price to pay for the privilege of working here.

When other waitresses moved with grace, I was awkward in my role. I stumbled over nothing. My larger-than-average body took up too much space. Perhaps that's why Jimmy’s hands were always touching me, gently moving my soft curves aside so that he could pass, brushing just a little too close. I preferred working on the days that his wife was there, as taciturn as she could be. And I noticed that when his daughters were working, they were not subject to the same treatment as the other staff.

I poured Ethel's coffee, and I carried her cup to the corner booth, near the front window. Her green cotton cap was sitting on the table now, and there were bits of straw falling out of her short, untidy hair. She was no different than the other farmers we served, who frequented local establishments complete with the tools of their trade. They'd been mucking out stalls and milking. Nobody paid any attention to their attire, or to the mud they tracked through the front door, because local merchants were conscious of the need to retain their steady business. But Ethel, a farmer, with the same boots and hat, was considered a pariah, an eyesore, an embarrassment to the community.

I slide the cup onto the formica table. “Thanks dear,” she said to me, without looking up.

My shift was over. But the other waitress pleaded with me to stay a bit longer.

“Can you finish Ethel's table before you go? She really creeps me out.” So I did, serving her breakfast and clearing away the dishes, waiting as she lingered over her coffee. For my trouble I pocketed a three dollar tip, almost as much as my hour's wages. And I learned something about what the others might think of me, should they discover the secret of what I did last year, when I was a counsellor at an all-girls summer camp.

The owner watched me from his station at the till, lowering his eyes so that we didn't connect in that way. Always watching, shaking hands with my father, smiling widely for the mayor, sweeping the store front on Main Street as the important people walk by. He shoved his fingers in his pockets and jingled his keys as the young single mom, her face flushed and warm with effort, moved to the counter to fill a drink order. He sidled past, with his hands on her waist, and brushed against her in the narrow passage between the lunch counter and the service area.

evolve

People change. It's true. Attitudes and opinions can evolve over time.

And, it is also true that the more one thinks and talks about a particular topic, the more thoughtful and articulate they become. I'm learning, only now, in my forties, to state my position carefully, and to respond and listen with thoughtfulness. Most of the time. When I get pissed off, my remarks tend to be more "off the cuff." That's when I get in trouble. We've all done it. We've said or done things that we regret, we've made public comments that in hindsight never should have been said, or perhaps were said with great conviction, but misconstrued by an audience all to willing to condemn.

If you had met my parents 20 years ago, you would have rightly noted that they were homophobic. The only experiences they had, if any, were negative. It shaped me, and my notions of who I am. Was. But as they grew in their own experience and wisdom, they began to take on a different view of the world. It was not easy to come out to them in 2008, but it was a heck of a lot easier than it would have been 20 years ago. And their growth - the growth of my family as a whole over this past year has been nothing short of astounding. At least for me.

The thing is, I didn't give them enough credit in the first place. I had my own pre-conceived notions of who they were, and how they would respond to my situation. I let my fear shape my behaviour in ways that I truly regret. I made presumptions about them that were unfair and inaccurate. I kept myself emotionally distant from my family at a time when I needed them most, and we all paid for it.

My girl comes to all our family gatherings. We sit together, we are affectionate with one another, and she talks hockey for hours on end with my dad and my three brothers (insert eye-roll here - I am learning to like hockey so that I can get a word in edgewise). It may not seem remarkable to the average reader. But when you consider the leaps and bounds my family, especially my parents, have made, it is truly a blessing to me to have everyone on the same page, and eating together at the same table - well, two, since my family is so darn big that we don't all fit at one table anymore. My sister, my parents, my two married brothers, all our combined kids, and my middle brother, who will be a priest in a few short years. A Catholic priest.

Clearly, we don't see eye-to-eye on every issue. Our predominantly Catholic family likely has opinions on the subject of same-sex marriage that I definitely do not share. But I am free to state my opinions as they are free to voice theirs. Do I like their opinions? No, but if I want to be heard, I also need to listen. And understand that if I am persistent, peaceful and loving, their ideas about marriage may shift and evolve, just by being exposed to a different way of looking at the world.

Almost four years ago, I made a decision to have surgery, that permanently altered my appearance. I lost 120 pounds in a little over a year. People didn't recognize me. Some days I didn't recognize myself. But when I looked in the mirror, I thought "this is who I was always meant to be." It's a small thing, weight-loss surgery, compared to other life-altering decisions that people make every day. I really wasn't prepared for the reaction that some people had, upon learning how I had lost my weight. As though I had somehow cheated nature, just because I relied on surgery to restore my health.

The funny thing is, I reacted in very much the same way to someone else's weight loss surgery, once upon a time.

I know, I know, it's taking me a long time to get to the point. I've been doing a lot of reading and thinking lately, and I've come to realize something important. There are lots of things that divide humans from one another. A good friend of mine is hurting, because of how she is perceived, based on media reports and quotes that were made several years ago, that have been requoted, reposted, and taken out of context. The internet is an excellent medium, but it's also a great place for people to spread their own brand of negativity. People will say things online, and in email that they would never say, or perhaps say very differently, if they could just look each other in the eye and have a conversation.

I don't think I'm done with this topic. I'd intended to stew a little bit more over my words, but I'm feeling a bit impatient today. Perhaps I will get more specific in the coming days, but I hope I can remain concise, articulate and respectful. This is enough for now. I had a long weekend with little sleep, during which I started writing my first novel, attended a kick-ass concert and made plans to potentially record a CD. You all think I'm kidding, but I'm not.

ETA: I'm updating my post a wee bit to include some specifics. My friend B has been dogging accusations of transphobia for years. I've sat across a kitchen table from her, looked her in the eyes, and witnessed the hurt and pain that she has endured. You can read her statement here.

There is enough true hatred in the world. Let's not create divisions where they don't need to exist.
As usual, Amy says it best:

back to normal - more or less

Things aren't any crazier than normal around here. But things have shifted, mostly in positive directions since the last time I posted - round about a month ago, give or take a couple of weeks.

I have been writing - every day in my morning pages notebook. Sometimes in the evening when I have the time or energy. And it's starting to feel like maybe, I just might, perhaps, move in a more creative direction. I certainly have the time and the tools. And I can feel myself unblocking, ever so slowly, as time passes, and as I continue to discipline myself to write every day. I highly recommend The Artists Way by Julia Cameron, because it goes beyond writing prompts and trite advice, and helps one to see the whole picture. I've learned, through reading that I have enough - money, time, ideas, inspiration, support. It's all a matter of how I allocate my abundance.

There have been some challenges at home. My seven year old has taken up a fair amount of time and energy lately. We are dealing with patterns of behaviour that I have been working with for several years, but every once in a while, the anger and anxiety escalates, and we have days, weeks where every night is a conflict, an event to be "gotten through," instead of just savoured. It seems to happen most often in winter, when our access to the outdoors is restricted at times, and resolves itself almost fully by summer, when school is over, and the nice weather keeps us outside long past bedtime. She is beautiful, brilliant and talented, but she is also anxious, and likes to stick to her own little schedule. I am trying to teach her to breathe before she reacts, and to build a little bit of resilience and compassion into her life. it's an uphill battle some days. And then on other days, you can see the blossom, like a spring crocus under a fine layer of snow, waiting to appear.

My relationship with the girl continues to thrive. We have no plans to change anything on the home front yet, as change is very difficult for one member of the household. But we're hoping at some point to lessen the distance between our homes, somehow. I have to admit, that having gained my independence, and having, after 45 years, finally figured out how to manage my household budget, and egads, even save a few pennies, I am reluctant to give it up. I like being alone. More than that, I need my alone time. I'm around people and kids all day long, and it's hard to find a peaceful night, like this one.

I think I can safely blame the Artists Way for my new-found love of knitting. I've taken to knitting socks, since finding the lovely skein of sock-wool on a weekly artists' date. Socks don't take tons of time, so completing them is inherently rewarding.

And I am sick of winter. Sick of it. Could someone send me some warm weather? I promise to blog more often if I get it....

A Poem for Brigid

February 2 is generally celebrated as Groundhog Day in North America, a day when amateur weather enthusiasts (or those of us who are just tired of winter) truly believe in the fantastic - that the presence or absence of a shadow denotes the length of winter. February 2 was a snow day here, a rather anticlimactic snow day, to be sure. I could have made it to work, but it was closed for the day. I was happy to spend the day hanging around with my seven-year-old doing nothing in particular.

February 2 is also Imbolc. Imbolc is one of eight sabbats that we celebrate throughout the year.  At Imbolc we mark the mid-point between winter solstice (more or less) and spring equinox. Imbolc is also a feast which honors the goddess Brigid - who is goddess of the forge, the well, healing and poetry.

For the last several years, I've participated in an annual online poetry slam honoring Brigid, where bloggers and readers post their favourite poems. This year, I missed the boat, so to speak. I wanted to write something new - I have been combing through old notebooks and found some imagery that I love. The poem I wanted to share is almost completely written, except for a few refinements. But work-related stress got in the way of creative thinking for a few days. And then I hurt my knee.

 You might well ask how a sore knee relates to blogging or poetry writing. It's all about sitting. I am on my feet, walking or standing all day long at work. By the time I get home, my knee is quite sore and needs to be iced and elevated. I hate sitting still. And I dislike parking myself in front of the television for hours on end, but that is exactly what I've been doing since Friday. My brain is turning to mush. I am reading some, and watching mindless junk like Nanny 911,Ghosthunters and Little Miss Perfect (who, I ask you, who does that to little girls?), and wishing I could just get outside and walk the dog for an hour to clear my head. I just don't have the knack of balancing my laptop on my lap and typing away yet. So I've stolen a few minutes, while Emily practices the piano, to sit with my knee at a painful 45 degree angle, all for the sake of posting something.

The unfinished poem must wait for another day. Instead, I'll offer you something else. I wrote it almost a year ago, and rediscovered it last week....enjoy.


"I am forgetting things,"
she sighs
with a sidelong glance,
as we walk swiftly
through decaying leaves.
The path winds up and down
through her woods,
between the bare-branched trees
of early spring.

I think
she really forgets nothing.
It may not be
the merciless recall of time and date,
but she holds the memories
of a woman floating
down the river.
She has seen thousands
of faces, can recall
the nuance of
a simple speech.
She sings her spellbound notes.
Words upon unwritten words are
remembered, recalled,
submitted for approval.

When it happened doesn't matter.
Where is unimportant.
The ache that brings us back
is the embrace of her
arms, strong enough to love
each facet of
the universe.

The position of the heart
transcends
the disposition of the body.