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In celebration of Hinamatsuri, March 3, and International Women's Day, March 8.
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I recently visited someone in federal prison. It wasn't the first time. I've visited the same person several times in prison over the past several years. I don't like it, and I didn't want
to go.
I didn't want to spend my Friday night driving for over an hour in the middle of rush hour traffic and then an hour home. I didn't want to put up with dehumanizing security measures -- locked doors, metal detectors, standing in a line-up and removing my shoes to get sniffed by dogs, condescending guards with too much swagger. I didn't want to sit in a bleak crowded room at a table bolted to the floor on an uncomfortable chair also bolted to the floor. I didn't want to plug quarters into vending machines for crappy snacks and bad coffee that neither of us need. Of course we're not allowed to bring in anything else.
Some people think that visiting someone in prison makes me a good person, that I've done something good. I suppose, no I know, my visits mean a lot to him, however I don't think that makes me especially good.
Visiting is difficult for me. I don't do small talk well at the best of times. And small talk is hard inside. Imagine it. You sit down across from someone whose whole life is scheduled and constructed by institution and ask, "so, what have you been up to lately?" Absurd.
This is not someone who has seen the latest Star Wars movie, been following the new Heroes reboot on TV or even likely seen the game. Any game. He didn't do anything for Christmas. We're not family so we're not catching up about Aunt Edna. And it's hard to have a good spiritual conversation when you've got guards staring over you and you know that every word is being heard by someone through the mic built into the table. More importantly he knows someone is listening to every word. It doesn't really make someone open up.
to go.
I didn't want to spend my Friday night driving for over an hour in the middle of rush hour traffic and then an hour home. I didn't want to put up with dehumanizing security measures -- locked doors, metal detectors, standing in a line-up and removing my shoes to get sniffed by dogs, condescending guards with too much swagger. I didn't want to sit in a bleak crowded room at a table bolted to the floor on an uncomfortable chair also bolted to the floor. I didn't want to plug quarters into vending machines for crappy snacks and bad coffee that neither of us need. Of course we're not allowed to bring in anything else.
Some people think that visiting someone in prison makes me a good person, that I've done something good. I suppose, no I know, my visits mean a lot to him, however I don't think that makes me especially good.
Visiting is difficult for me. I don't do small talk well at the best of times. And small talk is hard inside. Imagine it. You sit down across from someone whose whole life is scheduled and constructed by institution and ask, "so, what have you been up to lately?" Absurd.
This is not someone who has seen the latest Star Wars movie, been following the new Heroes reboot on TV or even likely seen the game. Any game. He didn't do anything for Christmas. We're not family so we're not catching up about Aunt Edna. And it's hard to have a good spiritual conversation when you've got guards staring over you and you know that every word is being heard by someone through the mic built into the table. More importantly he knows someone is listening to every word. It doesn't really make someone open up.
In Matthew 25:36-40 Jesus says that when you visit the imprisoned, even as you have done to the least of these you have done to him. Yes. But you don't feed the hungry, clothe the naked and visit the imprisoned to get on Jesus' good side. Powerful as that is, if you're only doing it for that reason it kind of loses something. For me, the most important reason to go there is because I am the imprisoned.
"Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them; those who are being tortured, as though you yourselves were being tortured." Hebrews 13:3
One of the great spiritual lessons I'm trying to learn is what Oneness actually means. Or in different language, what does it truly mean to be the body of Christ? More and more we are becoming re-aware that there is no separation. Creation is all of a thing. If there is some part of Creation that is suffering and imprisoned, then some part of me is suffering and imprisoned, indeed we are all suffering and imprisoned. If you've ever experienced either back spasms or a headache that set your stomach on edge, you have an idea about this. If one part of us is suffering the whole is suffering.
The hardest part about a prison visit is visiting the imprisoned parts of myself, the parts I'd rather not have to see. In the same way, we'd rather not see the people we put into prison. Those parts of me are also what imprisons others.
We like to imagine that we only incarcerate those who are the bad parts of society, that it's good, it makes us safe. My experience is that most people in prison are not as bad as we like to think and most of us aren't as good as we pretend. We are all struggling and broken in some way. At least I know I am. I would venture that most of what under-girds the actions that land people in prison is less about badness and more about pain. And what happens when we try to ignore or suppress our own pain? It just gets worse. Wounds fester. Locking up people who are in pain is neither helpful nor humane. We heal when we acknowledge what hurts us, not by locking it away.
If all of Creation is connected, I am only able to heal the world in as much as I can heal myself. Going to prison forces me to look at my own wounded places and heal those. What wounds in me wound other people?
"Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them; those who are being tortured, as though you yourselves were being tortured." Hebrews 13:3
One of the great spiritual lessons I'm trying to learn is what Oneness actually means. Or in different language, what does it truly mean to be the body of Christ? More and more we are becoming re-aware that there is no separation. Creation is all of a thing. If there is some part of Creation that is suffering and imprisoned, then some part of me is suffering and imprisoned, indeed we are all suffering and imprisoned. If you've ever experienced either back spasms or a headache that set your stomach on edge, you have an idea about this. If one part of us is suffering the whole is suffering.
The hardest part about a prison visit is visiting the imprisoned parts of myself, the parts I'd rather not have to see. In the same way, we'd rather not see the people we put into prison. Those parts of me are also what imprisons others.
We like to imagine that we only incarcerate those who are the bad parts of society, that it's good, it makes us safe. My experience is that most people in prison are not as bad as we like to think and most of us aren't as good as we pretend. We are all struggling and broken in some way. At least I know I am. I would venture that most of what under-girds the actions that land people in prison is less about badness and more about pain. And what happens when we try to ignore or suppress our own pain? It just gets worse. Wounds fester. Locking up people who are in pain is neither helpful nor humane. We heal when we acknowledge what hurts us, not by locking it away.
If all of Creation is connected, I am only able to heal the world in as much as I can heal myself. Going to prison forces me to look at my own wounded places and heal those. What wounds in me wound other people?
I spent the the drive out to the prison praying. I looked into my own brokenness to find where my wounds, my pain, my brokenness, contributed to the brokenness of the person I was visiting.
I looked, for example, at my irritation at the long drive, acknowledging the pettiness that could make me feel justified in complaining about something relatively trivial when I am visiting someone whose life circumstance resulted in imprisonment. I did the same for my impatience with guards, recognizing that my energy of impatience impacts their work. I looked at my sense of judgment and prayed into that. For the duration of the drive, over an hour, I acknowledged and prayed for those parts of me that point to greater woundedness. Modelled after the ho'oponopono prayer, I breathed into those places, saying "I am sorry. I love you. Please forgive me (and feeling the forgiveness). And thank you." I breathed healing prayer into my wounds.
And you know, this visit was better. The guards were friendly and relaxed. The one potentially condescending remark I shrugged off. While I had to walk through a metal detector, there was no lining up to get sniffed by drug dogs or having to take my shoes off. The person I was visiting seemed much more relaxed. There were few visitors so it wasn't so noisy or crowded feeling. We bantered and laughed. He taught me how to play Texas Hold-em with cards that the guards put out when he said into the the table mic that he wished there were cards. We also talked a bit about his concerns about getting out and his experience his whole life of being labelled and how that has impacted him. We visited for close to an hour and a half.
I looked, for example, at my irritation at the long drive, acknowledging the pettiness that could make me feel justified in complaining about something relatively trivial when I am visiting someone whose life circumstance resulted in imprisonment. I did the same for my impatience with guards, recognizing that my energy of impatience impacts their work. I looked at my sense of judgment and prayed into that. For the duration of the drive, over an hour, I acknowledged and prayed for those parts of me that point to greater woundedness. Modelled after the ho'oponopono prayer, I breathed into those places, saying "I am sorry. I love you. Please forgive me (and feeling the forgiveness). And thank you." I breathed healing prayer into my wounds.
And you know, this visit was better. The guards were friendly and relaxed. The one potentially condescending remark I shrugged off. While I had to walk through a metal detector, there was no lining up to get sniffed by drug dogs or having to take my shoes off. The person I was visiting seemed much more relaxed. There were few visitors so it wasn't so noisy or crowded feeling. We bantered and laughed. He taught me how to play Texas Hold-em with cards that the guards put out when he said into the the table mic that he wished there were cards. We also talked a bit about his concerns about getting out and his experience his whole life of being labelled and how that has impacted him. We visited for close to an hour and a half.
I will continue to pray for me. For those parts of me that cause him to be labelled and judged for past action. And not denying that he has made bad choices, I will pray into the parts of me that also make bad choices. I will connect to the Infinite Divine and breath into those parts apology, love, forgiveness and gratitude. And I will continue to hold gratitude for the healing that he has brought me by inviting me into his pain.
At the end of the visit, I was able to get into a car and drive away but the person I had visited was escorted back to a cell. It was a tangible sign of our collective brokenness and the many parts of me that need healing. And so my on-going prayer. I am sorry. I love you. Please forgive me. Thank you.
At the end of the visit, I was able to get into a car and drive away but the person I had visited was escorted back to a cell. It was a tangible sign of our collective brokenness and the many parts of me that need healing. And so my on-going prayer. I am sorry. I love you. Please forgive me. Thank you.
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Writing, life and turning 50, Part 1
Every so often I pick up my journal, longing to write, and nothing happens. Longing. Which as I write this now seems a funny thing. Who longs to write? People long for home or love or God, but writing? And some part of me realizes that in writing I can connect to all of those things.
But there are those days that I pickup my journal, which is one of those blank sketch books that you can get in art supply stores. And I choose the colour pencil crayon that calls to me in that moment. I find the next blank page after the last time I visited and with eager anticipation write the date. And nothing. No words come out.
Sometimes I think that this is because I want something profound to emerge out of that colour pencil, rather than just letting what's there stand on its own, no matter how mundane it might seem. And yet, other times, that space fills me. The blank space is just what I need. It's as if that longing I sometimes get to connect through written words leads me to what I really need in the moment, which is silence and openness and pause.
I'm not necessarily a prolific writer. Or perhaps I should say that I'm not a prolific catcher of all of the stories that I think of. I can turn almost anything into a story, but only manage to write down some of them. Sometimes if I'm driving or showering or don't have anything to write with I try to remember and plan to write it down later. Lots of time by the time I step out of the shower or arrive where I'm going I've forgotten the fact that I was going to remember something. This doesn't happen every time. Sometimes when I stop I will pull out a note book, or now quite often the memo app on my smart phone, and try to re-catch what I had been writing in my head earlier. Sometimes this works. And sometimes I read it over later and realize the brilliance of my original thinking has eluded me.
Lately I've been thinking a lot about age. 2015 was the year that I and many of my friends turned 50. I'm not hung up about it, but at the same time I also often find myself both reflective and confused. For example, I am a voracious reader. I always have a book on the go, sometimes more than one. I am a particular fan of mysteries which, I confess, I read more than anything else. I particularly like mysteries featuring tough but soft women sleuths where the back story is well developed and there is good focus on interpersonal relationships. As a younger adult I remember reading those stories with a sense of possibility. Not that I aspired, really, to be a detective, but to be smart and tough and have the accouterments of a real adult. The detectives were always older than me and I harboured this unspoken notion that when I got to be that age, I too would have a successful career, friends who would rally around during life's hardships and maybe even a handsome, smart boyfriend who loved me despite my quirkiness.
Suddenly I'm finding that I'm reading those books and the heroine is now younger than me and I have somehow gotten twenty years older than her and haven't even landed on that career, let alone a house and an airplane, or whatever. I have to work hard some moments to remind myself that if I don't see friends surrounding me ready to step into the fray on my behalf, it's mostly because I don't remember to keep in touch, or tell anyone about whatever it is I need support with or want to celebrate. My spouse actually does seem to love me even though I'm messy and inconsiderate. But I really, really feel like I should have my life way more figured out by now.
Every so often I pick up my journal, longing to write, and nothing happens. Longing. Which as I write this now seems a funny thing. Who longs to write? People long for home or love or God, but writing? And some part of me realizes that in writing I can connect to all of those things.
But there are those days that I pickup my journal, which is one of those blank sketch books that you can get in art supply stores. And I choose the colour pencil crayon that calls to me in that moment. I find the next blank page after the last time I visited and with eager anticipation write the date. And nothing. No words come out.
Sometimes I think that this is because I want something profound to emerge out of that colour pencil, rather than just letting what's there stand on its own, no matter how mundane it might seem. And yet, other times, that space fills me. The blank space is just what I need. It's as if that longing I sometimes get to connect through written words leads me to what I really need in the moment, which is silence and openness and pause.
I'm not necessarily a prolific writer. Or perhaps I should say that I'm not a prolific catcher of all of the stories that I think of. I can turn almost anything into a story, but only manage to write down some of them. Sometimes if I'm driving or showering or don't have anything to write with I try to remember and plan to write it down later. Lots of time by the time I step out of the shower or arrive where I'm going I've forgotten the fact that I was going to remember something. This doesn't happen every time. Sometimes when I stop I will pull out a note book, or now quite often the memo app on my smart phone, and try to re-catch what I had been writing in my head earlier. Sometimes this works. And sometimes I read it over later and realize the brilliance of my original thinking has eluded me.
Lately I've been thinking a lot about age. 2015 was the year that I and many of my friends turned 50. I'm not hung up about it, but at the same time I also often find myself both reflective and confused. For example, I am a voracious reader. I always have a book on the go, sometimes more than one. I am a particular fan of mysteries which, I confess, I read more than anything else. I particularly like mysteries featuring tough but soft women sleuths where the back story is well developed and there is good focus on interpersonal relationships. As a younger adult I remember reading those stories with a sense of possibility. Not that I aspired, really, to be a detective, but to be smart and tough and have the accouterments of a real adult. The detectives were always older than me and I harboured this unspoken notion that when I got to be that age, I too would have a successful career, friends who would rally around during life's hardships and maybe even a handsome, smart boyfriend who loved me despite my quirkiness.
Suddenly I'm finding that I'm reading those books and the heroine is now younger than me and I have somehow gotten twenty years older than her and haven't even landed on that career, let alone a house and an airplane, or whatever. I have to work hard some moments to remind myself that if I don't see friends surrounding me ready to step into the fray on my behalf, it's mostly because I don't remember to keep in touch, or tell anyone about whatever it is I need support with or want to celebrate. My spouse actually does seem to love me even though I'm messy and inconsiderate. But I really, really feel like I should have my life way more figured out by now.
Writing, life and turning 50, Part 2
When I turned 50 a few months ago, I imagined that I would write something to mark the occasion. Not that I had words of wisdom, per se, but I figured I'd have something to say. And yet nothing particularly rose to the surface.
I carried my wondering into a time of busy-ness as I hit the September new year in full gear, on the road while continuing to hold the congregation where I work. Being on the road suggested the image of journey. I had some profound thoughts about that which I wish I'd been able to write down except I was driving. Now those thoughts are just glimmers about times when we can see the road and times when we cannot.
On the long flat drive from Calgary to Lethbridge there were miles of open land stretched out and the scenic edges reached horizons. This I imagined as those times when possibility stretched out before me. But during the long open stretches to Lethbridge I would catch myself mesmerized by the straight, flat roads and find my mind wandering.
The drive the following week from Prince George to McBride could hardly have been more different. Here in BC, where I've lived most of my life, roads curve and mountains surround us. We learn to read signs because we cannot see what's around the corner. The scenic edges were right there outside the window as I wound my way through valleys, alert from the turns and twists of the road.
I wonder what those drives can tell me about life. About the times when things should have been clear but my mind wandered or the times when quick turns kept me wondering what was next.
My life has most often been like a BC road trip. I rarely know what's around my corners. I imagined, though, that by the time I hit 50 my life would seem more clear. Or I'd feel more like a grown-up. Or something. In my early 20s I figured that by the time I was in my mid-thirties I'd have a career and a sense of self. Yet I found myself back in school in my late 30's. I'd already passed through several careers from black and white photographic printer to communications professional to community organizer. Now I add minister to the list but I'm far from feeling like I've landed yet, still trying to figure out what I'm doing. I'm sure my congregation will be happy to hear that. (Read that last bit as sarcasm.) And I am increasingly feeling called to offer energy healing into the world.
I find myself startled more and more now when I meet people or read about characters in books who are distinguished by maturity and life experience and, I don't know, place in society. And then I realize that we are the same age. That's the startling part. Not that I aspire to place in society, but I feel like somehow I've failed to grow up. Not that I aspired to grow up either.
So I guess that the wisdom that I've gained is just that the whole thing is a process. There are things I feel like I learn over and over, every day. Like don't put something on the stove and then go do something else "just for a minute." My compartmentalizing mind immediately forgets about the stove and, well, you can fill in the rest. Another one -- when I write an e-mail response and think "you should probably wait before you send that," -- I should probably wait before I send it. I don't always listen to my own advice. *Sigh*.
I have tried to be less judgmental and more kind. That was one of my goals of the last year. Fast on judgment, feast on kindness. I suck at this. As you've probably just noticed. But I don't give up. Every day provides a new opportunity. And as I see social media foment judgment against others, I am determined to do better, to be more compassionate.
I recognize that I am imperfectly human, just like everyone. Although there are moments when I feel the divine flowing through me. And in those moments I am aware that I am accompanied on this journey, thanks be to God. And I only hope that when I don't get it right, when I am cranky, when I react in judgment, when dinner boils over on the stove, when I think it's all up to me, when I. . .
What I hope is to remember that grace is for me too.
The journey continues. And eventually I'll get somewhere. But for now the journey is the thing.
When I turned 50 a few months ago, I imagined that I would write something to mark the occasion. Not that I had words of wisdom, per se, but I figured I'd have something to say. And yet nothing particularly rose to the surface.
I carried my wondering into a time of busy-ness as I hit the September new year in full gear, on the road while continuing to hold the congregation where I work. Being on the road suggested the image of journey. I had some profound thoughts about that which I wish I'd been able to write down except I was driving. Now those thoughts are just glimmers about times when we can see the road and times when we cannot.
On the long flat drive from Calgary to Lethbridge there were miles of open land stretched out and the scenic edges reached horizons. This I imagined as those times when possibility stretched out before me. But during the long open stretches to Lethbridge I would catch myself mesmerized by the straight, flat roads and find my mind wandering.
The drive the following week from Prince George to McBride could hardly have been more different. Here in BC, where I've lived most of my life, roads curve and mountains surround us. We learn to read signs because we cannot see what's around the corner. The scenic edges were right there outside the window as I wound my way through valleys, alert from the turns and twists of the road.
I wonder what those drives can tell me about life. About the times when things should have been clear but my mind wandered or the times when quick turns kept me wondering what was next.
My life has most often been like a BC road trip. I rarely know what's around my corners. I imagined, though, that by the time I hit 50 my life would seem more clear. Or I'd feel more like a grown-up. Or something. In my early 20s I figured that by the time I was in my mid-thirties I'd have a career and a sense of self. Yet I found myself back in school in my late 30's. I'd already passed through several careers from black and white photographic printer to communications professional to community organizer. Now I add minister to the list but I'm far from feeling like I've landed yet, still trying to figure out what I'm doing. I'm sure my congregation will be happy to hear that. (Read that last bit as sarcasm.) And I am increasingly feeling called to offer energy healing into the world.
I find myself startled more and more now when I meet people or read about characters in books who are distinguished by maturity and life experience and, I don't know, place in society. And then I realize that we are the same age. That's the startling part. Not that I aspire to place in society, but I feel like somehow I've failed to grow up. Not that I aspired to grow up either.
So I guess that the wisdom that I've gained is just that the whole thing is a process. There are things I feel like I learn over and over, every day. Like don't put something on the stove and then go do something else "just for a minute." My compartmentalizing mind immediately forgets about the stove and, well, you can fill in the rest. Another one -- when I write an e-mail response and think "you should probably wait before you send that," -- I should probably wait before I send it. I don't always listen to my own advice. *Sigh*.
I have tried to be less judgmental and more kind. That was one of my goals of the last year. Fast on judgment, feast on kindness. I suck at this. As you've probably just noticed. But I don't give up. Every day provides a new opportunity. And as I see social media foment judgment against others, I am determined to do better, to be more compassionate.
I recognize that I am imperfectly human, just like everyone. Although there are moments when I feel the divine flowing through me. And in those moments I am aware that I am accompanied on this journey, thanks be to God. And I only hope that when I don't get it right, when I am cranky, when I react in judgment, when dinner boils over on the stove, when I think it's all up to me, when I. . .
What I hope is to remember that grace is for me too.
The journey continues. And eventually I'll get somewhere. But for now the journey is the thing.
- Published on
by Florence Capsey Karpoff and Kimiko Karpoff
Florence carefully wrapped up the Christmas cake. She had saved pennies and scraped together enough to purchase precious sugar, fruit and flour to make the cakes. It was hard during the war. The minister couldn't expect to get paid if everyone else in town was just getting by. Even if they had money, supplies and staples weren't easy to get.
Her children gathered around her legs, eyes round, wanting to eat the cake now but knowing that if they waited it would be even better at Christmas.
Florence was not surprised to hear a knock at the door; the minister's family often had callers. The children followed as she ran to answer it.
"Is the minister home?"
An elderly couple stood at the door, wrapped against the November cold. They were not locals.
"He's not in at the moment, but will be home shortly. You're welcome to come in."
With her guests seated in the living room, Florence turned back toward the kitchen when she noticed little Jimmy had already climbed onto the gentleman's lap. Smiling, he waived away her protest.
"I like children," he said. So Jimmy sat and Florence sat and John, Polly and Teena gathered on the floor around them. And a story unfolded before their eyes.
Harry and Mary had come to be married by the minister. Mary had been Harry's housekeeper for close to 40 years. She was the widow of Harry's friend Bill, an old school mate from his childhood in Minnesota. Harry's family had a pioneer place in the 1870's. His father was a bum and the fighting household was ruled by his Mother. She had no time to show her boys affection. But he remembered always the gentleness he felt from Bill's mother whenever he went home with Bill.
Harry had run away to Canada when he was in his mid-teens and had eventually homesteaded near Empress Saskatchewan. He'd gone back to Minnesota one winter in time to act as Bill's best man when he married Mary.
Over the next five years, luck had fallen hard on Bill. He lost his farm and had had to work out as hired help. He and Mary and their two girls lived in a shack on the farmer's land. Harry's homestead, on the other hand, prospered, and he found time to make another trip south to visit his old friend whom he found leading a bleak existence with his family. Mary was expecting another child in the spring.
During Harry's visit,
Bill was gored by the farmer's bull and died.
At the funeral, Harry listened to conversation of the women preparing the coffee. The farmer would need new help and would need to have his shack back. Where would Mary go? they wondered. She had no family.
As neigbours left the funeral gathering, Harry stayed. He wanted to know, was it true, did Mary have to move? "Yes," Mary confirmed, "the farmer needs his shed." "Well, I need a housekeeper," Harry decided right then. "Come home with me."
The next day Harry loaded Mary and the girls and their few possessions into his sleigh and brought them back home to his homestead.
So in a sense, Bill's family became Harry's family. He set Mary and the girls up in the living room. It had never had any furniture anyway. She took over the housekeeping and all waited for the spring baby, a third girl.
Over the next few years Harry added a lean-to onto the house. Now the girls had a room and so did his hired man. The girls grew up, went to school. Mary had refused to accept wages from Harry having felt that she could expect no more than that he feed the four of them.
Now, like many farm women, she laid the breakfast table at night -- turning upside down the big soup plates ready for oatmeal. Mary soon found that on the first of each month she would find bills under her plate. Harry would say of the money, "Oh, go buy something." As the girls grew older their plates began to give silver, and then bills.
When the girls finished high school Harry sent them to university, one into nursing. "I could afford to," Harry said. When the oldest daughter shared the news that she was marrying a young doctor, Harry thought the old house too shabby for a big wedding. He built a new house and the hired man moved into the old one with his family.
And so the years went on. Each daughter was married with Harry giving away the bride. Each of Mary's grandchildren had been welcomed.
Last fall Mary's eldest daughter and her doctor husband had come home to visit. She embraced her mother and then stood back to look at her. "Mother, what is the matter? Are you sick?" Mary was evasive. She was really just tired, she said. "You know, since the war we've taken on another hired man. They're both older so it takes two to do the work of one. But it makes three men to cook for and wash for and many things are hard to get," and on she went.
For the first time Harry looked at Mary and saw a frail, white-haired woman. He suddenly realized that he, too, was a white-haired old man. Before the week was out he went to town and returned with a "girl" to help out.
This spurred a question among the neighbours. "Does Harry need a housekeeper to help out his housekeeper now?" When this filtered back to Mary she was mortified. She announced that she better try to find a place in the little nearby town. Perhaps the girls could give her a bit of money to help out.
Harry had another idea. "Let's get married, Mary. Frankly, after forty years, home wouldn't be home without you." After much discussion, Mary agreed. They had their license and here they were.
Just then, Florence's husband Ted, the minister, arrived.
"I'll go next door and get Claira," Florence said. "She can act with me as one of the witnesses. Come," she said to the children, thinking to take them across the road with her. Harry, smiling at his new friend Jimmy said "Let them stay."
And so the wedding proceeded. When the ceremony was over, Ted announced, "You may now kiss the bride." Harry leaned down and kissed Mary heartily. Beaming at the minister's family gathered around he said, "That's the first time I ever kissed her." Mary smiled. "That's not true," she said. "You kissed me on the day I married Bill." "That would only have been a peck, not a real kiss like this," he said and kissed her again.
Florence slipped out of the room to put on coffee. On the counter were the cakes she had just wrapped for Christmas. When she carried the plate in, Mary knew exactly what she'd done and protested. But Christmas cake was now wedding cake and the children got their wish of not waiting to Christmas to taste it.
As Mary and Harry collected their coats and prepared to leave, Florence wrapped up the rest of the cake and slipped it into Mary's hands. Mary smiled. "Now I'll have a piece of wedding cake to share with our girls when we go into Saskatoon next week to tell them," she said. The bill Harry pressed into Ted's hand was enough to pay for supplies for several Christmas cakes. If they could get the sugar.
Florence carefully wrapped up the Christmas cake. She had saved pennies and scraped together enough to purchase precious sugar, fruit and flour to make the cakes. It was hard during the war. The minister couldn't expect to get paid if everyone else in town was just getting by. Even if they had money, supplies and staples weren't easy to get.
Her children gathered around her legs, eyes round, wanting to eat the cake now but knowing that if they waited it would be even better at Christmas.
Florence was not surprised to hear a knock at the door; the minister's family often had callers. The children followed as she ran to answer it.
"Is the minister home?"
An elderly couple stood at the door, wrapped against the November cold. They were not locals.
"He's not in at the moment, but will be home shortly. You're welcome to come in."
With her guests seated in the living room, Florence turned back toward the kitchen when she noticed little Jimmy had already climbed onto the gentleman's lap. Smiling, he waived away her protest.
"I like children," he said. So Jimmy sat and Florence sat and John, Polly and Teena gathered on the floor around them. And a story unfolded before their eyes.
Harry and Mary had come to be married by the minister. Mary had been Harry's housekeeper for close to 40 years. She was the widow of Harry's friend Bill, an old school mate from his childhood in Minnesota. Harry's family had a pioneer place in the 1870's. His father was a bum and the fighting household was ruled by his Mother. She had no time to show her boys affection. But he remembered always the gentleness he felt from Bill's mother whenever he went home with Bill.
Harry had run away to Canada when he was in his mid-teens and had eventually homesteaded near Empress Saskatchewan. He'd gone back to Minnesota one winter in time to act as Bill's best man when he married Mary.
Over the next five years, luck had fallen hard on Bill. He lost his farm and had had to work out as hired help. He and Mary and their two girls lived in a shack on the farmer's land. Harry's homestead, on the other hand, prospered, and he found time to make another trip south to visit his old friend whom he found leading a bleak existence with his family. Mary was expecting another child in the spring.
During Harry's visit,
Bill was gored by the farmer's bull and died.
At the funeral, Harry listened to conversation of the women preparing the coffee. The farmer would need new help and would need to have his shack back. Where would Mary go? they wondered. She had no family.
As neigbours left the funeral gathering, Harry stayed. He wanted to know, was it true, did Mary have to move? "Yes," Mary confirmed, "the farmer needs his shed." "Well, I need a housekeeper," Harry decided right then. "Come home with me."
The next day Harry loaded Mary and the girls and their few possessions into his sleigh and brought them back home to his homestead.
So in a sense, Bill's family became Harry's family. He set Mary and the girls up in the living room. It had never had any furniture anyway. She took over the housekeeping and all waited for the spring baby, a third girl.
Over the next few years Harry added a lean-to onto the house. Now the girls had a room and so did his hired man. The girls grew up, went to school. Mary had refused to accept wages from Harry having felt that she could expect no more than that he feed the four of them.
Now, like many farm women, she laid the breakfast table at night -- turning upside down the big soup plates ready for oatmeal. Mary soon found that on the first of each month she would find bills under her plate. Harry would say of the money, "Oh, go buy something." As the girls grew older their plates began to give silver, and then bills.
When the girls finished high school Harry sent them to university, one into nursing. "I could afford to," Harry said. When the oldest daughter shared the news that she was marrying a young doctor, Harry thought the old house too shabby for a big wedding. He built a new house and the hired man moved into the old one with his family.
And so the years went on. Each daughter was married with Harry giving away the bride. Each of Mary's grandchildren had been welcomed.
Last fall Mary's eldest daughter and her doctor husband had come home to visit. She embraced her mother and then stood back to look at her. "Mother, what is the matter? Are you sick?" Mary was evasive. She was really just tired, she said. "You know, since the war we've taken on another hired man. They're both older so it takes two to do the work of one. But it makes three men to cook for and wash for and many things are hard to get," and on she went.
For the first time Harry looked at Mary and saw a frail, white-haired woman. He suddenly realized that he, too, was a white-haired old man. Before the week was out he went to town and returned with a "girl" to help out.
This spurred a question among the neighbours. "Does Harry need a housekeeper to help out his housekeeper now?" When this filtered back to Mary she was mortified. She announced that she better try to find a place in the little nearby town. Perhaps the girls could give her a bit of money to help out.
Harry had another idea. "Let's get married, Mary. Frankly, after forty years, home wouldn't be home without you." After much discussion, Mary agreed. They had their license and here they were.
Just then, Florence's husband Ted, the minister, arrived.
"I'll go next door and get Claira," Florence said. "She can act with me as one of the witnesses. Come," she said to the children, thinking to take them across the road with her. Harry, smiling at his new friend Jimmy said "Let them stay."
And so the wedding proceeded. When the ceremony was over, Ted announced, "You may now kiss the bride." Harry leaned down and kissed Mary heartily. Beaming at the minister's family gathered around he said, "That's the first time I ever kissed her." Mary smiled. "That's not true," she said. "You kissed me on the day I married Bill." "That would only have been a peck, not a real kiss like this," he said and kissed her again.
Florence slipped out of the room to put on coffee. On the counter were the cakes she had just wrapped for Christmas. When she carried the plate in, Mary knew exactly what she'd done and protested. But Christmas cake was now wedding cake and the children got their wish of not waiting to Christmas to taste it.
As Mary and Harry collected their coats and prepared to leave, Florence wrapped up the rest of the cake and slipped it into Mary's hands. Mary smiled. "Now I'll have a piece of wedding cake to share with our girls when we go into Saskatoon next week to tell them," she said. The bill Harry pressed into Ted's hand was enough to pay for supplies for several Christmas cakes. If they could get the sugar.
- Published on
I didn't know she was dying. Not, know know, if you know what I mean. I mean, I knew she had been sick but actually thought when I'd been told that, that she had a flu. Still, as I passed by her street I had a sudden thought that I should visit. That should have been a clue.
I hadn't seen her in a while and passed by her house frequently since it was in the neighbourhood. So this sudden thought was unexpected. I didn't listen. Instead I thought of all of the reasons why not, like maybe I didn't have the time and anyways it would be inconsiderate to just stop by unannounced. Not giving credence to the truth that if it was a bad time they would just say so. They would not be polite with me.
She died before I saw her again. That was the first time.
The second time I was on my way to meet a friend for lunch. As I passed by the church I noticed his car. And I remember thinking I should take a minute and stop and say hello. I knew he was there working on the renovations.
But I convinced myself that I should not be late for my luncheon date. So I passed by. And then, and this is the even worse part, I was stood up. My friend had forgotten of our plan and didn't show up. When I called her, it was too late. Lunch wasn't going to happen. When I drove past the church going the other direction I noticed his car still there. And I remember thinking that I should stop and say hello and now I had no excuse. Except I was hungry and a bit peeved at my friend. And I had no reason to think I would not see him again. So I ignored what in retrospect was much more than I nudge.
And then he died. It was an accident. We held his funeral on the same day that he had originally planned to have his 60th birthday party which I had planned to attend.
Of course their deaths have nothing to do with me. But I am still haunted by my not listening, not following my gut, not heeding the message to act. And instead letting my ego, my laziness, my not wanting to put myself out, to convince me to pass by the moment.
And now that I'm on this topic I think of one more time. Recent. Perhaps too recent to be retrospective, the sting still acute. I'm walking across the street to my car and notice an elderly man down the block, not far down, and he's turned to look at me as I leave my parents' house. It doesn't register until I'm in my car that I know him. And I recall a snippet of a conversation about neighbours from the old 'hood, an invitation for supper with mutual friends, something like that. It's not really too late. Even though he's carried on down the street I could have got out of my car and gone after him. But I don't. Typically, I'm thinking of where I'm heading and the time and the fact that I'm on the just-barely-enough-time-to-get-there-on-time side. As if that matters.
And the next I hear of him he has died and once again I am filled with regret. I am asked to preside at his service, which, of course, I am glad and honoured to do.
These are, of course, only the ones that I know about. There may be other missed opportunities, missed moments that I don't know. These are just the times I know I didn't heed God's call, God's invitation and the paths closed.
I know, intellectually, and in my heart, that there are plenty of times I said yes and it was good. Or not, it really doesn't matter. Only that I heeded and the lack of specific memory about them equals the lack of regret. Tolstoy's three questions take on a sharp acuity.
As I head into presiding at my third funeral in five days, I wonder if this is God giving me a small opportunity to make amends. In hosting closure and comfort for families, in some small way I am reclaiming the path I had ignored, the one where I put myself aside and reach out to others. The one where I give of myself. Although I often feel that my ministry call is not to pastoral ministry, maybe this is a moment of opportunity to redeem in some small way what I lost by saying no.
I don't know. But if it is, then thanks be to God.
- Published on
There's so many Jesus bugs here!
Says the girl with rainbow popscicle coloured hair
Jesus bugs. Little crosses skittering across the water
But for the hair, these kids could be 35 years ago
Adult free, free-wheeling on bicycles
All cut offs and flipflops
Older girls big sistering bare-chested little boys
Wading in the river picking blackberries into empty slushy cups as the day slips away
And I'm thinking of my childhood summers
Adventures to the candy store
Hanging out at Innvergary park, swinging out into the pond
And I'm thinking of days before fingertip entertainment
Of neighbourhood kickball, truth or dare in the back yard, building forts
Hanging at Hummingbird Park as the single lamplight flickers on
And night settling on my skin
As I fill my bucket I wonder
Do the berries have to be directly in the sun?
Or does sun on some sweeten all?
And I'm thinking about the absurdity of one perfect blackberry
God doesn't make imperfect blackberries or imperfect summer days
It's when we pick them
The summer kids drift toward their bikes, grabbing sweaters as they swing away
I lean into the vines, reaching, as Jesus bugs drift around my legs
Just a few more before heading home
August 1, 2015
Says the girl with rainbow popscicle coloured hair
Jesus bugs. Little crosses skittering across the water
But for the hair, these kids could be 35 years ago
Adult free, free-wheeling on bicycles
All cut offs and flipflops
Older girls big sistering bare-chested little boys
Wading in the river picking blackberries into empty slushy cups as the day slips away
And I'm thinking of my childhood summers
Adventures to the candy store
Hanging out at Innvergary park, swinging out into the pond
And I'm thinking of days before fingertip entertainment
Of neighbourhood kickball, truth or dare in the back yard, building forts
Hanging at Hummingbird Park as the single lamplight flickers on
And night settling on my skin
As I fill my bucket I wonder
Do the berries have to be directly in the sun?
Or does sun on some sweeten all?
And I'm thinking about the absurdity of one perfect blackberry
God doesn't make imperfect blackberries or imperfect summer days
It's when we pick them
The summer kids drift toward their bikes, grabbing sweaters as they swing away
I lean into the vines, reaching, as Jesus bugs drift around my legs
Just a few more before heading home
August 1, 2015
- Published on
As soon as I stepped into the river, felt that momentary thrill of the cold water burbling over my feet, inhaled the hot perfumed air, I knew that I had been longing for this. Blackberry season. Picking blackberries in the river is my most beloved spiritual practice, the one that most fills my soul, connects me to the Divine. The mix of the sun, water, quiet and the meditation of picking invite me to open to God.
River picking is special. The berries hang off the bank over the water so you don't tangle with the vines. You do have to be willing to get your feet wet, though. All the way up to your thighs at times. Part of the spiritual practice is really being in each moment. You learn to spot, walk, then pick. You can't walk and spot at the same time because the river will take you down. Once you've decided which part of the bank you're heading for, it's a good idea to close up the bucket to prevent spills, and watch your feet as you move through the water. And then plant your feet where they will be as stable as possible while you stretch and pick. I've learned this through experience. There's nothing more sad than watching a bucket full of berries spill into the running water.
Picking blackberries brings to mind many metaphors for reaching toward God. This is one of them. Make sure you're rooted first. There is always a bundle of plump dark berries dangling just beyond your finger tips. You can reach them with a stretch, maybe, but you risk falling in and losing everything if you are not rooted first. These are the kind of thoughts that pop into my head as I root, stretch, pick.
This hot summer has put the blackberries many weeks ahead. The dry weather has not impacted the river berries, though. The ones that grow on the river banks receive both maximum water and maximum sunlight. They are huge, plump and sweet. A perfect berry comes off with only a gentle tug. If you have to tug too hard it's not ripe enough. If it falls off, just eat that one. It's sure to be sweet and probably won't travel well, particularly if it's near the beginning of the picking and will soon be covered in a few pounds of it's buddies.
Every year, each time I go, I am amazed to be there picking alone. Not that I want a crowd. Blackberry picking is at its best as a solitary practice. The few people I invite to join me soon learn that they are there because they are tall and it is not really a time to chitchat. I just can't understand how it is that few people seem to bother. No, bother is not the right word because this glorious, spiritual experience is anything but a bother. People don't seem to partake? Imbibe? Engage? Occasionally I do see people there, mostly watching their dogs play in the water. It's like they don't even notice the sacred, kairos moment that is right there, but, like Brigadoon, only for a short time.
River picking is special. The berries hang off the bank over the water so you don't tangle with the vines. You do have to be willing to get your feet wet, though. All the way up to your thighs at times. Part of the spiritual practice is really being in each moment. You learn to spot, walk, then pick. You can't walk and spot at the same time because the river will take you down. Once you've decided which part of the bank you're heading for, it's a good idea to close up the bucket to prevent spills, and watch your feet as you move through the water. And then plant your feet where they will be as stable as possible while you stretch and pick. I've learned this through experience. There's nothing more sad than watching a bucket full of berries spill into the running water.
Picking blackberries brings to mind many metaphors for reaching toward God. This is one of them. Make sure you're rooted first. There is always a bundle of plump dark berries dangling just beyond your finger tips. You can reach them with a stretch, maybe, but you risk falling in and losing everything if you are not rooted first. These are the kind of thoughts that pop into my head as I root, stretch, pick.
This hot summer has put the blackberries many weeks ahead. The dry weather has not impacted the river berries, though. The ones that grow on the river banks receive both maximum water and maximum sunlight. They are huge, plump and sweet. A perfect berry comes off with only a gentle tug. If you have to tug too hard it's not ripe enough. If it falls off, just eat that one. It's sure to be sweet and probably won't travel well, particularly if it's near the beginning of the picking and will soon be covered in a few pounds of it's buddies.
Every year, each time I go, I am amazed to be there picking alone. Not that I want a crowd. Blackberry picking is at its best as a solitary practice. The few people I invite to join me soon learn that they are there because they are tall and it is not really a time to chitchat. I just can't understand how it is that few people seem to bother. No, bother is not the right word because this glorious, spiritual experience is anything but a bother. People don't seem to partake? Imbibe? Engage? Occasionally I do see people there, mostly watching their dogs play in the water. It's like they don't even notice the sacred, kairos moment that is right there, but, like Brigadoon, only for a short time.
Last summer I picked blackberries from New Westminster to Saltspring to Point Roberts to Duncan. I made pies, tarts, popsicles, smoothies and blackberry lavender gin. I froze enough to last me through the year, just to have a taste now and again to remind me of the experience. I enjoy eating blackberries. And I enjoy the delight my family and friends take in the blackberry treats I served to them. But it is picking that fills my soul. This is where I meet God.
Last year, on my first trip out, I noticed that the path from the car park to the river bank had been paved with blacktop. I tried not to feel foreboding. Perhaps it helped prevent run-off into the river? As I headed to the border where the groomed park meets the river bush, the sense of foreboding increased. Normally I stepped over that threshold and felt transported, like stepping from the city to the country or what the children must have felt when they passed through the wardrobe into Narnia. But this year was different. Instead of stepping onto a bush path, I stepped onto a bare patch of dirt. Bushes had been pulled out, hacked back. A few meters along there was a fence blocking the path that led to my favorite picking spot. I had been going there for years. I remember taking little Finn and his best friend Emily down there, helping them to carefully negotiate the path, parts of which rose above the river. Every year those paths got a little more eroded by the BC rain. But they led to a lovely spot, accessed by rappelling down a bank with the help of a tree root, to a place where the river was shallow enough to sport pebble bars and laden with berries hanging low over the water. The kids would play happily while I picked.
Confrontation with the fence gave me momentary pause. But only momentary. I ducked around it and carried on. The path was no more treacherous than I remembered from other years. Not really treacherous at all. After all if a 5 and 7 year old could manage, how bad could it be? I carefully let myself down the bank with the trusty old tree root. I made my way across the shallow water stopping to look for a good spot to begin. But there was nothing. The bank had been cleared. Every blackberry bush gone. Devastated I waded back up the river hoping to find something.
The river at my favourite picking spot rarely went deeper than the knees on me, but walking upriver required careful navigation in order to not get in too deep. Some areas dipped to the thighs and higher. The deeper the water, the greater the pull of the current over slippery rocks. Happily as the river shallowed out again, I could see the banks laden with berries. Which does not mean I don't lament the loss of my favorite place, but the new spot ended up providing a similar experience of water, sun and berries.
About three years ago, I invited (he might say dragged, but that's just semantics) a then 15-year-old Finn on one of my blackberry excursions. We had gone to my favorite spot where he and Emily had played as children and were making our way back on the path along the corroded edge of the river bank. I was ahead when I heard an odd noise and turned just in time to see Finn hovered mid-air like the Wile E Coyote before plumetting into the river. I had a mother's stricken moment of helplessness as he plunged under the water, luckily deep enough in that spot to catch him. As he popped out of the water saying "I'm ok, I'm ok," I breathed in relief. Somehow he hadn't been gored on his blackberry picking pole, hit his head on the crumbled bank, or landed in a spot shallow enough to knock him senseless. I remember thinking, "thank God I'm carrying the berries."
Last year, on my first trip out, I noticed that the path from the car park to the river bank had been paved with blacktop. I tried not to feel foreboding. Perhaps it helped prevent run-off into the river? As I headed to the border where the groomed park meets the river bush, the sense of foreboding increased. Normally I stepped over that threshold and felt transported, like stepping from the city to the country or what the children must have felt when they passed through the wardrobe into Narnia. But this year was different. Instead of stepping onto a bush path, I stepped onto a bare patch of dirt. Bushes had been pulled out, hacked back. A few meters along there was a fence blocking the path that led to my favorite picking spot. I had been going there for years. I remember taking little Finn and his best friend Emily down there, helping them to carefully negotiate the path, parts of which rose above the river. Every year those paths got a little more eroded by the BC rain. But they led to a lovely spot, accessed by rappelling down a bank with the help of a tree root, to a place where the river was shallow enough to sport pebble bars and laden with berries hanging low over the water. The kids would play happily while I picked.
Confrontation with the fence gave me momentary pause. But only momentary. I ducked around it and carried on. The path was no more treacherous than I remembered from other years. Not really treacherous at all. After all if a 5 and 7 year old could manage, how bad could it be? I carefully let myself down the bank with the trusty old tree root. I made my way across the shallow water stopping to look for a good spot to begin. But there was nothing. The bank had been cleared. Every blackberry bush gone. Devastated I waded back up the river hoping to find something.
The river at my favourite picking spot rarely went deeper than the knees on me, but walking upriver required careful navigation in order to not get in too deep. Some areas dipped to the thighs and higher. The deeper the water, the greater the pull of the current over slippery rocks. Happily as the river shallowed out again, I could see the banks laden with berries. Which does not mean I don't lament the loss of my favorite place, but the new spot ended up providing a similar experience of water, sun and berries.
About three years ago, I invited (he might say dragged, but that's just semantics) a then 15-year-old Finn on one of my blackberry excursions. We had gone to my favorite spot where he and Emily had played as children and were making our way back on the path along the corroded edge of the river bank. I was ahead when I heard an odd noise and turned just in time to see Finn hovered mid-air like the Wile E Coyote before plumetting into the river. I had a mother's stricken moment of helplessness as he plunged under the water, luckily deep enough in that spot to catch him. As he popped out of the water saying "I'm ok, I'm ok," I breathed in relief. Somehow he hadn't been gored on his blackberry picking pole, hit his head on the crumbled bank, or landed in a spot shallow enough to knock him senseless. I remember thinking, "thank God I'm carrying the berries."
- Published on
The sweet scent of sun-dried pine needles releases with a crunch of feet
Stepping along the path more forest smells rise
Fern, moss, the compost of fallen trees, new shoots and green berries
Stepping along the path more forest smells rise
Fern, moss, the compost of fallen trees, new shoots and green berries
This symphony of smells is kairos time
I am held here in my childhood summer
in my now moment of reprieve
paused in the mid-June late-day shadows as
the breath of God livens the soil of my skin
I am re-membered by the sacrament of this. . .
This
By the sacrament that this is
June 15, 2015
I am held here in my childhood summer
in my now moment of reprieve
paused in the mid-June late-day shadows as
the breath of God livens the soil of my skin
I am re-membered by the sacrament of this. . .
This
By the sacrament that this is
June 15, 2015
- Published on
Fifteen years ago I was lying in a hospital bed thinking that I had just made the worst mistake of my life. At the age of 34 I had hip replacement surgery. In that moment as I lay in recovery I felt sick, in pain and, worst of all, couldn't move my leg at all. "You've done it now," I thought. I'd dreamed of being able to run with my three-year-old; here I was not even able to turn myself over in bed.
One year after surgery I could run with my son. I took up karate and earned my yellow belt. Ten years after surgery I travelled to west Africa, to the the village of Adexor-Kpodzi in the Volta region of Ghana. I travelled by airplane, trotro, taxi and boat. The final leg of the journey was a two hour walk along a dirt path, carrying on my back all that I needed for one month. The mere ability to do that walk was amazing to me.
Getting a joint replaced is an awesome thing. I know that I am fortunate and privileged to have access to the kind of medical technology and care that allowed me to walk again. As a story catcher, I also took it as an opportunity to capture a particularly poignant moment in my life. I asked local photographer Alex Waterhouse-Hayward if he would be willing to photograph the event. He suggested that we do before and after studio portraits. As well, he photographed part of the surgery. This is from my journal at the time.
Journal, June 11, day before surgery
Alex wanted me to come today for photos so I’d be nervous.
He’s right, I’m nervous. About the photos, about tomorrow.
Finn’s gone with my dad this morning. He seems singularly undisturbed by the closeness of surgery. “Bye Mom. See you when you get home from the hospital.”
Last night I dreamed about having the surgery. I don’t know what drug we used, but I want that one. No pain at all. I’ll tell the anaesthesiologist.
Now that the time is here, I almost can’t believe it. I have no second thoughts, yet I wonder about the oddity of getting a part replaced. It’s almost like I’m, we’re, too laissez faire about this. There should be some sort of ritual like birth, death and marriage. Some way to honour the joint that has served me for 34 (nearly 35) years, as best as it could. Now it will be summarily tossed aside. Quite literally thrown in the incinerator I believe.
Perhaps these photos can be my ritual. A way to honour and immortalize this part of me that I’m saying good-bye to. I want them to be beautiful. After all, this is the hip that carried my child, that made love to my husband, that helped me win a track and field award when I was 14 even though every indication is that it was already damaged.
I can’t believe I’m getting nostalgic about a joint that has given me such grief. But, at least, I’ve cut through my confusion about what I’m feeling. I love my hip. The bad it brought was only physical pain. The joy it helped me carry was so much greater. I guess I just want to give it a proper and fitting good-bye.
So here I am fighting tears on the Skytrain, weepy, thinking about replacing my hip. Oh, my. I think Alex wants to show my fear and trepidation. Now I want a joyful thank you to a part of me that has been so important, although I’ve never even seen it.
Good-bye old friend, and thank you.
One of my ideas was that I would publish some magazine articles about the experience, but I was ultimately unsuccessful in pitching the story. Alex garnered some press with a triptych of the photos in a gallery show. Pete McMartin wrote a column in the Vancouver Sun and quoted me saying, "After they tell you what you'll go through you start thinking before the operation, 'This is terrifying; this is awful.' At the same time, there were all these emotions I couldn't quite recognize, until one day when I was riding on SkyTrain and I was writing in my 'hip' journal about how I felt about the operation. And I'm realizing that a part of me was almost in mourning for -- and I know this sounds ridiculous -- losing a friend. . . [My hip] wasn't perfect, but it did the best it could, and it seemed disrespectful not to recognize that."
A hip is something that always travels with you, but eventually I put the story of it away and went on to other things. An anniversary, however, invites occasion for reflection.
When I first had the surgery I was told that an artificial hip lasts 15, maybe 20 years before wear and tear requires another replacement. About a month ago I saw a surgeon for the first time since having the staples removed from the surgery site. I was prepared to consider that after 15 years I would be looking at at least a revision to the surgery, which I thought preferable to a full new hip replacement. I dug my old film x-ray out of the closet and took it along for comparison to the new one. Before I even showed it to him, the surgeon commented that the old and the new would probably look a lot alike. The hip looks great, he said. Come back in 5 years.
This past year I took up hot power yoga. There are some things this new hip doesn't do. No lotus potion. No pigeon or frog poses. It's painful to do the kind of one leg balances where your body is not upright so not so much on the dancer's pose on the one side. But I can do a lot and in the year I've gained balance, strength and flexibility. Most people seeing me would not know that I have an artificial hip. A friend once commented that I could be the poster child for hip replacement surgery.
15 years ago I learned that sometimes situations that seem devastating, can, given time and nurturing, become life affirming. I learned that it's ok to need help. Following surgery I couldn't care for my son or myself. My husband, parents and friends were invaluable. Learning to ask for help was humbling, but a precious lesson. I have an understanding of living with a disability which was my life before surgery, as well as some of the trepidations that people feel as they are confronted by the possibility of needing surgery. This has made me more compassionate and, probably, a better pastor.
Now I have three hips to thank for the ways in which they have carried me through life. Thanks be to God.
*
Alex Waterhouse-Hayward has reposted this with the photographs that he took. He also includes the original column by Pete McMartin.
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2015/06/nuts-bolts-its-hip-life.html
One year after surgery I could run with my son. I took up karate and earned my yellow belt. Ten years after surgery I travelled to west Africa, to the the village of Adexor-Kpodzi in the Volta region of Ghana. I travelled by airplane, trotro, taxi and boat. The final leg of the journey was a two hour walk along a dirt path, carrying on my back all that I needed for one month. The mere ability to do that walk was amazing to me.
Getting a joint replaced is an awesome thing. I know that I am fortunate and privileged to have access to the kind of medical technology and care that allowed me to walk again. As a story catcher, I also took it as an opportunity to capture a particularly poignant moment in my life. I asked local photographer Alex Waterhouse-Hayward if he would be willing to photograph the event. He suggested that we do before and after studio portraits. As well, he photographed part of the surgery. This is from my journal at the time.
Journal, June 11, day before surgery
Alex wanted me to come today for photos so I’d be nervous.
He’s right, I’m nervous. About the photos, about tomorrow.
Finn’s gone with my dad this morning. He seems singularly undisturbed by the closeness of surgery. “Bye Mom. See you when you get home from the hospital.”
Last night I dreamed about having the surgery. I don’t know what drug we used, but I want that one. No pain at all. I’ll tell the anaesthesiologist.
Now that the time is here, I almost can’t believe it. I have no second thoughts, yet I wonder about the oddity of getting a part replaced. It’s almost like I’m, we’re, too laissez faire about this. There should be some sort of ritual like birth, death and marriage. Some way to honour the joint that has served me for 34 (nearly 35) years, as best as it could. Now it will be summarily tossed aside. Quite literally thrown in the incinerator I believe.
Perhaps these photos can be my ritual. A way to honour and immortalize this part of me that I’m saying good-bye to. I want them to be beautiful. After all, this is the hip that carried my child, that made love to my husband, that helped me win a track and field award when I was 14 even though every indication is that it was already damaged.
I can’t believe I’m getting nostalgic about a joint that has given me such grief. But, at least, I’ve cut through my confusion about what I’m feeling. I love my hip. The bad it brought was only physical pain. The joy it helped me carry was so much greater. I guess I just want to give it a proper and fitting good-bye.
So here I am fighting tears on the Skytrain, weepy, thinking about replacing my hip. Oh, my. I think Alex wants to show my fear and trepidation. Now I want a joyful thank you to a part of me that has been so important, although I’ve never even seen it.
Good-bye old friend, and thank you.
One of my ideas was that I would publish some magazine articles about the experience, but I was ultimately unsuccessful in pitching the story. Alex garnered some press with a triptych of the photos in a gallery show. Pete McMartin wrote a column in the Vancouver Sun and quoted me saying, "After they tell you what you'll go through you start thinking before the operation, 'This is terrifying; this is awful.' At the same time, there were all these emotions I couldn't quite recognize, until one day when I was riding on SkyTrain and I was writing in my 'hip' journal about how I felt about the operation. And I'm realizing that a part of me was almost in mourning for -- and I know this sounds ridiculous -- losing a friend. . . [My hip] wasn't perfect, but it did the best it could, and it seemed disrespectful not to recognize that."
A hip is something that always travels with you, but eventually I put the story of it away and went on to other things. An anniversary, however, invites occasion for reflection.
When I first had the surgery I was told that an artificial hip lasts 15, maybe 20 years before wear and tear requires another replacement. About a month ago I saw a surgeon for the first time since having the staples removed from the surgery site. I was prepared to consider that after 15 years I would be looking at at least a revision to the surgery, which I thought preferable to a full new hip replacement. I dug my old film x-ray out of the closet and took it along for comparison to the new one. Before I even showed it to him, the surgeon commented that the old and the new would probably look a lot alike. The hip looks great, he said. Come back in 5 years.
This past year I took up hot power yoga. There are some things this new hip doesn't do. No lotus potion. No pigeon or frog poses. It's painful to do the kind of one leg balances where your body is not upright so not so much on the dancer's pose on the one side. But I can do a lot and in the year I've gained balance, strength and flexibility. Most people seeing me would not know that I have an artificial hip. A friend once commented that I could be the poster child for hip replacement surgery.
15 years ago I learned that sometimes situations that seem devastating, can, given time and nurturing, become life affirming. I learned that it's ok to need help. Following surgery I couldn't care for my son or myself. My husband, parents and friends were invaluable. Learning to ask for help was humbling, but a precious lesson. I have an understanding of living with a disability which was my life before surgery, as well as some of the trepidations that people feel as they are confronted by the possibility of needing surgery. This has made me more compassionate and, probably, a better pastor.
Now I have three hips to thank for the ways in which they have carried me through life. Thanks be to God.
*
Alex Waterhouse-Hayward has reposted this with the photographs that he took. He also includes the original column by Pete McMartin.
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2015/06/nuts-bolts-its-hip-life.html
I can do side crow! Photo by Linda Hibbard.
- Published on
It was the wind that brought me back to life, back to the sureness of You
To feel creation blowing against my skin
the gift of release from walls and roofs, relief from constant shelter from you
God created,
You created out of chaos with wind, with voice, with dance.
We pretend we are not part of the rhythm, not part of the blowing about
We box ourselves in houses, in shops, in cars and churches,
dashing from door to door and avoiding the falling water
the continuing dance
Creator and Creating God
I knew I was alive with you
when I felt the wind blow with the prickly sureness of goose-bumped skin
November 12, 2011
To feel creation blowing against my skin
the gift of release from walls and roofs, relief from constant shelter from you
God created,
You created out of chaos with wind, with voice, with dance.
We pretend we are not part of the rhythm, not part of the blowing about
We box ourselves in houses, in shops, in cars and churches,
dashing from door to door and avoiding the falling water
the continuing dance
Creator and Creating God
I knew I was alive with you
when I felt the wind blow with the prickly sureness of goose-bumped skin
November 12, 2011
