The Unbearable Lightness of Being Selfish

Posted on May 18, 2012 by Wendy

I didn’t see it coming. “People who decide not to have kids—that’s just selfish, isn’t it?” Wide-eyed, earnest, entreating. Oh no, here we go again. I brace myself. A rhetorical question from an acquaintance who knows that I don’t have children but has somehow failed to make the connection that, well, I don’t have children. I smile politely and hope that she doesn’t belatedly come to and follow with an awkward backpedal.

It’s been a while since I’d heard the S word from someone I barely know. Almost always it’s come from friends of friends, or strangers, whose casual use of such a weighty adjective tells me that my decision not to have a baby is somehow offensive, antisocial, an affront to humanity! I’ve also long ago stopped being offended back. I’ve learned to let someone down easy when, eyebrows raised, a genuinely puzzled albeit microagressive challenge is issued: Why don’t you want kids? (To date, the best one has come from a relative who pulled me aside and whispered, “Who has the problem…you or him?”)

I’ve heard it all before. Kids are wonderful. When you see our baby you’ll want one too. You’ll regret it later on. I feel sorry for your parents. Are you and your husband OK?
So that’s why you have a dog. You can still freeze your eggs. Who’ll take care of you when you’re old? You’re going to die alone. When I’m feeling cheeky, I look them in the eye and tell them everyone dies alone. Most of the time I nod sympathetically, even apologetically (especially with older family members), and try to offer words of comfort. I don’t think I’ve ever fired back and questioned anyone’s desire or decision to procreate. Because it’s none of my business, and it wouldn’t be polite.

Child-free people are often defined as those who decide not to have children as a negative reaction born out of fear, or misgivings, or distrust of their own abilities to nurture, or mistrust of the world at large. Some cite economics or not wanting to burden the planet. My reasons are not that complex, and no, they’re most certainly not altruistic. In any case, do my reasons matter? Does it matter whether any of us decides to have one? Or eight? Or none?

Every so often I re-watch “The Hours,” not for Nicole Kidman’s infamous prosthetic but for Julianne Moore’s suburban housewife character trapped in a perfect life that wasn’t her own choosing. (OK, spoiler alert coming up.) She abandons her children, is branded a monster, and as an old woman in the end, she says, “It would be wonderful to say that you regretted it. It would be easy. But what does it mean to regret when you have no choice? It’s what you can bear. There it is, no one’s going to forgive me. It was death…I chose life.” I cry each time over the unbearable lightness of her singular, devastating, indefensible decision to cling to her life on her own terms.

An extreme example, but it does make me wonder about the choices we make when there is no do-over. Are we all not equally weighed down by the agonizing lightness of our existence?

Posted in children, relationships, women | Tagged , | 6 Comments

And A Happy Mother’s Day To You Too

Posted on May 13, 2012 by Sara

The provocative cover of Time Magazine depicting a mother breastfeeding her three-year-old son is supposed to get your attention.  My first reaction to seeing the photo was “Yes!” because I’m a big big fan of breastfeeding.  Then the more I looked at the photo, the more I realized it wasn’t just about breastfeeding.  The mom’s bold stance, with her hand on her hip, is threatening to the reader rather than nurturing toward her son.  The expression on her face, as well as the direction of her gaze away from her child, indicates she could be doing absolutely anything else in that moment.   Her son is awkwardly posed on a chair as opposed to being breastfed in a more typical, cozy environment.  Rather than being just about breastfeeding, the photo appears to be a challenge.  As a young, blonde, slim woman, this mother typifies the “model” of Western society; the cover photo then challenges motherhood and, in using such a model, challenges us to do it her way or else risk being The Mom Who Isn’t Enough.

This brings us to the title, “Are You Mom Enough?” It invokes images of a Mark Burnett-style reality show of moms competing against moms.  The format could challenge mothers to breastfeed in extreme situations (e.g., in a 4×4 on a bumpy road), to wear their babies for hours on end (The Baby Bjorns versus The Slings),  to endure sleep deprivation, to go without showers and to constantly wear saggy yoga pants, to survive on a diet of puréed green beans and some Cheerios all while holding down a full-time job and enjoying every minute of it.  The tag line for the show could be ‘The mothers who out-mother each other’.  The tag line for the Times cover indicates the related article is about attachment parenting and specifically the work of Dr. Bill Sears.  It seems Dr. Sears’ theory and work on attachment parenting is ‘driving some mothers to extremes’ although probably not in a way that Mark Burnett would get excited about.

These are the tenets of attachment parenting (which you can read more about here and here):
1.  Preparation for Pregnancy, Birth and Parenting
2.  Feed with Love and Respect
3.  Respond with Sensitivity
4.  Use Nurturing Touch
5.  Ensure Safe Sleep, Physically and Emotionally
6.  Provide Consistent Loving Care
7.  Practice Positive Discipline
8.  Strive for Balance in Personal and Family Life

Nothing mentioned above is particularly alarming and the principles of attachment parenting would seem to conjure images of a safe, loving environment in which a child is responded to in a way that is beneficial to the child.  Critics of the attachment parenting approach argue this method is particularly demanding for parents.  But the absolute beauty of parenting is taking the bits and pieces of advice (even from your mother-in-law if you choose) and various approaches (including attachment parenting if you choose) that work for us as parents, that benefit our child/ren and fit our family.  The cover of Time would suggest otherwise but as mothers we know that we are not required to commit to any one parenting approach; nor are we required to follow a parenting guru in order to meet the standard of Mom Enough.  We do what works for us (as long as this doesn’t mean we’re leaving our child on a dirty mattress with a bottle of sugar water all day long.) Day in, day out, we are doing IT. 

Undoubtedly as parents, we often feel pressure to do IT better (I’m still talking about parenting by the way).  In the last month, after moving house, I turned into some kind of yelling ogre mom, the kind I swore I wasn’t going to be.  I yelled at my kids for spilling things, running in the grocery store and even yelling at each other.  Go figure.  Essentially, I was getting mad at them for being kids.  I walked into a room where my girls were and the older one automatically covered her ears.  I scared them, I know I did.  It was a major turning point in our parent-kid relationship and I hated it, I cried about it and I felt guilty about it.  The bits and pieces of advice I found to help bring me closer to IT and some sort of calm were two things:

1) This often referred to blog entry by Glennon Melton of Momastery fame in which she talks about seizing Kairos time (but mostly I just liked reading about the weird things her kids do in stores and knowing my kids are not much different) while NOT seizing the day and, 

2) This interview with Toni Morrison where she touches on parenting and the three simple things kids actually need.  To paraphrase, kids need their mom to be competent (read: not perfect), to have a sense of humour and to be the adult.  Yelling at my girls meant I was being less than what I would expect of a competent parent, no one was having any fun and it felt more like I was having the tantrum rather than them. 

I am trying – I’m enjoying those kairos moments inside of chronos time, sharing more laughs with my girls and yelling a lot less.

Parenting, and specifically mothering, is hard.  My own theory is that mothering isn’t meant to be easy.  Even Dr. Sears never said it was.  But when did it become a competition to out-mother each other?

Happy Mother’s Day.  Truly.

Posted in children, parenting, relationships | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

A Letter to My Daughter

Posted on May 9, 2012 by Amber

It’s the closest I’ve ever been to someone, even though I’ve never looked you in the eyes.

I believe you can read my thoughts and feel the depth of my love without ever having to speak a word. Though I want you to know the sound of my voice, and be soothed by my off key songs, I don’t feel connected to you through my belly. My connection to you is less obvious, deeper and much more natural.

Your first touch was so typical of our relationship. Three soft pokes as if to see if I was out there, as if to see if you had really made it through and to make sure I knew it. I did. I knew it.

I love it when you surface and explore your temporary home. I love to feel you poke and prod as you learn to use your quickly growing body. Not only does it reassure me that you’re really there, that you’re getting strong and that in a few months I’ll get to hold you in my arms, but it also tells me that everything is going to be okay.

There are moments, not built into real thoughts, more a sense or feeling, that when we finally do meet and I get to look into your eyes, that I will know you and you will know me.

Grow big and strong so when that day comes you’re able to handle all the love your Father and I have for you in the form of hugs, kisses and endless tickles.

I anticipate missing the blessing of carrying you with me, but look forward to sharing your adventures on the outside world. Watching you grow, laugh and love.

I love you already, most of all.

Posted in beginnings, children, parenting, pregnancy, relationships | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Microzen

Posted on May 3, 2012 by Kimiecat

Micro is “in.” Micro-meetups, micro-finance, micro-philanthropy, microskirts have been in, out, up & down. The latest micro is microaggression!

The topic is bubbling over in Tokyo since being introduced by a popular and sometimes controversial commentator on issues affecting the foreign community in Japan. First of all, I’m glad there is someone who cares about issues facing the foreign community over here. His website compiles a lot of useful information about legal rights and he has helped people who have felt that they were victims of discrimination.

So, what are examples of microaggressive comments I’ve received?

“Oh, thank goodness you speak some Japanese. I can’t speak any English and I was worried I wouldn’t be able to help you here in this shop. I’m so relieved.”

Oh, wait–that wasn’t really very aggressive was it? Actually it was very conscientious and probably what runs through a lot of the minds of Japanese people when they are relieved to have run into someone who makes an effort to speak Japanese. Remember in those school language classes when they say the locals will appreciate it if you try to speak a few words of the local language, well, in Japan it’s actually true! Whereas in Italy I was screamed at for butchering the Italian language and then asked out on a date in the same breath. Let’s not get started on the reactions my French causes in Paris, or how my Russian was met in  Russia, (or my English in London where people couldn’t understand me even though we actually really are speaking the same language.) But please NO COMPLIMENTS, it’s microaggressive.

These microaggressive comments in Japanese may sting more when speaking fluently to people in your second language. No doubt it stings certain people more than others depending on personality/desire to be “Japanese” or treated like one of the gang. I’ve also heard lots of  complaints from single men who get trapped in the same silly conversations over and over in bars while picking up chicks.  Whose fault is this? The chicks’ limited English? The guys’ poor Japanese? (This might happen to single women as well, I just don’t have as many single female friends in Japan.) Would these first meeting conversations really be less inane in any other country in any other language? Replace chopstick skills and language ability with taste in music, TV programs, or the classic ‘So, what do you do? Perhaps the act of getting to know someone is fraught with microaggression and tension anyway? We are determining who the other will be: a lover, friend, good contact, drinking buddy? We are judging and sussing people out all the time. This ritual is similarly awkward & strained with social customs the world over, trust me I know…best to cut all talking short and cut straight to *ahem* body language.

As far as never getting to a deeper level with people you have known as a long term resident of a foreign country perhaps what starts as a superficial question could lead to something more fun and interesting when approached with humor? For example, my father lost two fingers off his right hand in Vietnam. I’ve heard him answer the same question my whole life a different way every time, even with people who know the true story, each time more outrageously than the next. I asked him does the question bother him? What happened to your hand? Don’t you get sick of hearing it? His answer? Not since I came to peace with the fact that my fingers are gone.

My friend is visiting from the States and I asked her what she thought about this microaggression idea. Her response? “Oh, like how we ask ‘How are you a million different ways in the US yet always want to hear ‘fine’ as an answer?’ Once a Norwegian friend of mine commented on the same issue, “Why do you Americans ask me ‘How are you’ when you don’t care? You ask ‘what’s up?’ but the right answer is ‘nothing.’ In Norway, we don’t ask unless we want to really talk about it.” He was baffled at this idea of politeness. Every American I know asks “where are you from?’ if they see a foreign face or hear an unfamiliar accent, some call this curiosity some call it microaggression. Really have you never done something similar to someone in your life? After the 2004 tsunami I asked my good friend who is ethnically Indian, “Jeez, Harsh, did this tsunami affect your family?” He said, “What Kim, my family in Pittsburg?” *Cringe* Of course he knew I meant his extended relatives but it was too good an opportunity to point out how we all make microassumptions about each other.

My final thought is could this be less about other people and more about how we see ourselves? When we come to peace with the fact that we are foreigners living in Japan, or foreigners living wherever, will people stop getting angry about being complimented on their chopstick skills?   My Dad, by the way, uses chopsticks even missing two fingers—I bet he wouldn’t mind being told that’s awesome.

 

Posted in expatriate life | Tagged , , , , , , | 12 Comments

A Moving Post (pun intended)

Posted on April 26, 2012 by Cheney

On the first anniversary of Empress Tea, I find myself going through a season of change. My next month is crammed full of weddings, trips interstate and milestone birthday parties. I was just informed as I was leaving work today that I’ve got a temporary promotion to head editor, starting Monday. And starting that same day, I’ll be signing a lease on a new apartment.

I’ve had a few years of good share-house living, with no crazy housemates, my own tiny bathroom and a decent amount of wardrobe space. I’ll be moving in with my gentleman (who has selected the pseudonym “Jesus” for blog appearances). It feels like a big step – I’ve lived with partners before, but it’s been a while and I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like. I’ll once again be able to walk around in my underwear at all times of day, but sleeping diagonally on the bed is unlikely (Jesus accuses me of being a blanket thief, so I guess I bring my own set of disadvantages). Fortunately, due to shared interests, I’ll still get to eat toast-pizza for dinner and make pillow forts in the bedroom.

Moving house is one of life’s great Stressful Events and it doesn’t help that I’m terrible at it. I have difficulty staying on task long enough. I’ll start with emptying out a drawer, find something shiny, get distracted, try on a long-forgotten dress, look something up on the internet… 5 hours later there’s stuff all over the floor, I’m wearing a weird hat and the empty boxes remain untouched.

Here is something cool you can do with a box besides putting your stuff in it!

But this time WILL be different.

It’s 3 weeks until moving day and I’ve got boxes at the ready. I’m sorting through a mountain of stuff,  deciding what to keep/repurpose/sell/throw away. Since I’ve never had an organised move before, I’ve got a trail of stuff following me around that dates back to the turn of the century. I’ve found out all sorts of facts about local recycling (You can recycle batteries, but you have to get to the other side of town. You can’t recycle CDs, so your best bet is to find someone who’s still really into Jamiroquai). I’m enjoying being a bedroom archaeologist, unearthing forgotten remnants of my existence. But it’s also questions. Such as -

How many pairs of underwear does one person need? One for each day of the week, plus a couple of spares? Is there a way to re-purpose cute, yet supremely uncomfortable (hence unwearable) lingerie?

If I have a book that isn’t very good, but it has a nice cover or makes me look clever, should I keep it? What if the book IS very good, but is a super embarrassing self-help title? What about the book I ordered on Amazon when I was procrastinating, about How To Stop Procrastinating, and it hasn’t been read yet, but I’ll get around to it any day now…

How do you get rid of a broken suitcase? An old mattress? A backpack shaped like a penguin?

I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t want to end up crying on the floor, shoving my belongings into heavy-duty garbage bags while Jesus sighs and puts them in the car. Again. So I still need a little moving advice. There’s a free Fatboy Slim CD in it for you…

Posted in apartments/flats, beginnings | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments

It’s Our First Anniversary!

Posted on April 21, 2012 by Bridget

Empress Tea just had it’s one year anniversary! So to celebrate, we’ve compiled another fabulous group post with the theme, Firsts. There are nine bite-sized stories – perfect for reading on the go, or while you’re snuggled under the covers in bed. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have.  —Bridget

Happy Anniversary!

Bridget is the reason I blog.  She forced me, and now I like it.  I even force other people to do it, too.  We started Empress Tea about a year ago, in fact, we had been in conversations about it since just after January 1st, and we were going to have a regular Skype date on the Friday the big earthquake happened probably to talk about the blog and other things. Bridget sent me a message on Twitter or email or something “Hi~ I’m waiting for you on Skype.” Well, I didn’t want to talk to anybody that day, but Bridget didn’t give up.  She really kept me from wallowing in fear and if I got freaked out about something she just said “Let’s look it up online, get the facts, Kim.” Somehow starting this blog (which is something I would never do on my own) changed my attitude about things I would “never” do. We can’t ever go back, but maybe I wouldn’t have come this far without Bridget, Jen, and their vision for this project. I love being part of this network and am amazed at how it’s grown to truly span the globe. Thanks, Miss B. You brought a lot of good things to me this year.

Kimberly Tierney
TOKYO, Japan

First Love…?

Starting at age eleven or twelve, I consumed books.  I spent cool northern summers indoors reading Nancy Drew upon Babysitters Club. Thank goodness for book series.  I didn’t venture far from these series because, I think, deep down I was, ahem, rather frugal.  I didn’t want to risk purchasing a book that wasn’t entertaining. Reading any sort of classic never occurred to me either.

The first book I ever loved that fell outside of Nancy Drew and Babysitters Club and all the books they make you read in school was White Oleander by Janet Finch.  I read it and re-read it and even…cracked…the…spine.  There is nothing all that similar between Astrid and myself but I loved absorbing her journey, her growth and her need to change herself in order to adapt to each new situation and, above all, her surviving spirit.

After reading White Oleander, I got excited.  I took more literary risks and threw my money at any book with an interesting back cover. I don’t ever remember being disappointed.  For me, books never disappoint.  So thanks, White Oleander – my first bookish love.

Sara Patterson
ADDIS ABABA, Ethiopia

Fringe, Feathers, Falsies and Other Firsts

Nothing beats serendipitous firsts. Just yesterday morning, a casual Twitter exchange with Kim turned into this—a first blog entry on firsts, in the company of women whose voices resonate oh so strongly. I am honored to be among you.

This month, I’m also celebrating my first year as a student dançarina with my samba group. A friend had wanted to try samba no pé, we did, and I was hooked…in love! In the past few months, I had been in a handful of public performances, and though the initial white-knuckled stage fright has since given way to a mild-to-medium case of butterflies, that terrifying First Public Appearance—fueled by nothing more than adrenalin, muscle memory, and the miraculous Samson-like strength derived from donning false eyelashes—that will remain with me forever.

Nowadays, staying “in character” has become less self-conscious, the show smile has somewhat relaxed, no longer inducing cheek cramp and parched mouth. Now there is suddenly, astonishingly, pleasure in being wholly present, in body and in spirit, before an audience; an awareness of letting thoughts cease and inhibitions wither until there’s nothing but movement, energy, rhythm, heartbeat.

And freedom.

From what was, into what can be…making every first foray a rebirth, each one a birthday. When we choose to cross that threshold for the first time, be it in sorrow or in joy, in darkness or in light, we’re someone else—someone other than who we were—when we emerge on the other side. We reincarnate ourselves. We give ourselves life.

Happy Birthday, Empress Tea, may this second year abound with ever more (re)births.

Wendy Gin
MANILA, Philippines

Wendy is our most recent addition to Empress Tea. Welcome Wendy!!!

First Masterpiece

Dear four year old self,

It is very much ok to play. To draw outside the circle. To paint on walls, on glass, on the ceiling. To experiment. To make mistakes. To be curious about everything. Don’t let anyone tell you that elephants aren’t circular and orange. Because in your mind, they can come in every shape and colour you can imagine. Inhibitions and doubt come too soon as part of growing up, smothering creative impulses with their countless “what if”s and “can’t”s. When it comes to art, stay childish. Don’t be afraid of ruining a canvas – even the great masters painted over their pictures a dozen times. Seek inspiration. Marvel at everything.  Admire other artists. Learn. Imitate. Share. Transform. Every painting, every drawing, every sketch is a document of your progress – a picture history of your heart, each one a little first masterpiece of its own.

Best regards, In 26 years.

Lem von Brünken
MUNICH, Germany

The First Forever

There is an importance attached to the first anything. It brings with it new beginnings. Our first step, our first kiss. Magic is created and the moment is stored in the memory to be shared in the days and years to come. We look forward and hold onto the first, forgetting that the truth is more often found in the moments that come after it. The 87th kiss can be more telling than the first and the 10,054th step could be the start of a brand new adventure. There is beauty in watching your firsts grow into forevers.

Amber Henry
YELLOWKNIFE, Canada

Grown-up Firsts

Life is full of firsts, so I’ll admit that I’m having trouble narrowing down just one thing to write about.  There’s my first apartment… my first apartment of my very own… first boyfriend, first lover, first breakup… the ever famous first kiss.  My first apartment, I thought, was a cool downtown loft.  It was more like a flop house.  With dogs.  But for eight whole months I loved it and thought I was incredibly hip and urban.  My first apartment of my very own… well, that romance quickly ended as some of you may have read in my previous posts.  Firsts of the relationship variety are best left untouched in this particular post.

I think one first that is sticking with me is a strange and very ordinary moment that stands out in my mind.  I remember one day making dinner for myself… opening a bag of frozen peas and corn, a corn kernel made a bid for freedom.  It rolled across the floor and under the table.  For a moment I ignored it, before having the following thought:

“Hey, stupid.  If you don’t clean that up, nobody’s going to do it for you.  You don’t live with your mother anymore.”

And that was it.  The first moment I realized that I was a grown-up.  That from this moment on I am responsible for myself.    Every decision I make is mine to make.  Every mistake, every failure, every success, every step… all mine.  My responsibility and my privilege.  One tiny corn kernel, and for the first time I realized, my life was in my own hands.  For better or worse I was a grown-up.

Jennifer Bunt
TORONTO, Canada

My First Foray with Photography

This particular first came as a result of saying goodbye. After several tumultuous years living in Denmark, I threw all caution to the wind and decided to make a move from the pølser loving, Nordic shores of Copenhagen to the ever-green and rolling hills of Kigali in the heart of Africa. Anyone who knows me knows why I never had any serious love for Denmark, but what surprised them (and myself for that matter) was how I made peace with that stubbornly proud Viking nation and came to have an amicable fondness for it in the end. This was thanks, in part, to a hobby I acquired during my last 10 months of Danish living. Being a latecomer to many things, I picked up my first DSLR in late 2007. The minute my hands gripped that bulky device I entered a whole new (digital) world. It was a virginal and riotous experience. The first few “photo essays” were a mess: poorly composed shots that were blurred, burned and/or riddled with a cacophony of unintentional tilts. Yet despite all the clumsiness, confusion and trepidation faced when losing oneself in something for the first time, I trudged along anyhow. Why? Because it was fun and challenging. It still is actually (and for the record I continue to burn shots and can’t rid myself of that unintentional tilt to save my life).  I mean, why give a damn of all the missteps and botched attempts when it was – and remains – so enjoyable, interesting and freeing?  Not only did it help me dig deep and find some love for Denmark, but I also gained a fantastic creative outlet in the end that’s opened more doors than I ever could have imagined. Total awesomeness.

JoAnna Pollonais
CAIRO, Egypt

First Bike-Riding Adventures

When I think of firsts, I always think of childhood, since it’s such an obvious time for learning. One of the big “firsts” for just about everyone I grew up with was learning to ride a bicycle. Summertime in the suburbs wasn’t complete without your bike, a trading card pegged to the back wheel spokes, tracing lazy circles down the end of your street while you finished off the last of the fast-melting lemonade icy pole you’d just gone and bought from the shops.

I think the images of my first bike-riding adventures will stay with me for a long time, but that might also be an effect of them taking place so late in life. That’s because I’m learning to ride a bicycle for the first time this year.

An overly-cautious, anxious child without the requisite older relative to put me on a bike and push me down a hill, I spent my earliest years loudly proclaiming I didn’t want to learn, then, when I was older, pretending I could but just didn’t feel like it. Finally, now at an age where I care less about how inevitably dorky I am, I’ve procured myself a second-hand purple bicycle and a helmet that will inevitable give me the most spectacular hat-hair.

You can find me, this Australian winter, rattling awkwardly around the grass slopes of the park near my house, letting out the occasional squawk when I fall off. Feel free to stop by and suggest a name for my bike.
Come summertime, I will be ready to make some memories.

Cheney Brew
CANBERRA, Australia

My First Airplane Ride; thanks Nanny

I’ll never forget the first time I rode an airplane. I was in my tween years and my Nanny (my mom’s mother), randomly invited me on a summer vacation out West with her. I couldn’t be more delighted! I’m still not sure what spurred my grandma to take me on a trip with her, I’ll never know, but I’m so glad she did. We flew to Calgary, I even remember liking the plane food (mind you I think it used to be far better back then), and then we did a bus tour to Jasper & Banff. Canada has such a wealth of beautiful countryside, lakes, wild animals, and gem-like glaciers and we saw the best of it on that western trip.

Sure, I had some typical tween moments of being embarrassed of my Nanny’s bad memory, or wishing that there were some younger people to hang out with, but what I got out of that trip was an insight into my grandmother as a real person. She told me stories about the war in England, how she met my grandfather at a dance/social, and how they lived with his family after they were married. She even hinted at the fact that it was difficult to really ‘be together’ because there were only sheets covering the doorways and her in-laws in the next room. My grandmother was well educated, strong-willed, a bit of a socialite, and apparently she even had sneaky sex!

I miss my Nanny, who would have been 102 this month. She lived until the ripe old age of 97. In my older years, I hope I can be as agile & peppy as her. Thank goodness she invited me on that trip with her so many years ago. My first plane ride, but more importantly, a loving bond and precious memories of a woman I’ll forever hold dear to my heart.

Bridget Steis
HONG KONG SAR, China

-fin-

We all have so many firsts throughout our lives. Do you have a favourite? Feel free to share yours below…

Posted in beginnings, group compliations, inspiration, memories, relationships, travel | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The path less chosen… or saying no when the obvious choice is yes.

Posted on April 14, 2012 by Niffer

I’ve not held what anyone would call a “normal” job for over ten years.  I haven’t had a 52 week a year, 7 day a week, 8 hour a day career for, really, my entire adult life.  That’s okay by me… it’s actually my choice.  I’m easily bored and frankly hate knowing more or less precisely what I’ll be doing day in and day out for the foreseeable future.  There’s nothing more terrifying than a long, flat, and clearly defined career path stretching unchanged into the future.

Scratch that.

There’s one thing more terrifying… a fog shrouded, forested, barely defined career path that is nearly invisible and not marked with any type of discernible sign posts.

And that’s where I find myself, digging around poking bushes, and hoping that someone will come along with a map of some sort.

To fill you in, I’m a freelance costumer in the film industry.  And yes that title is just as vague as it sounds.  Ultimately, I’m a designer, hopefully building towards major motion pictures and t.v. series.  But that’s all the way down this scary path, and there are so many forks in the road I’m not sure I’ll ever get there some days. I’ve had a lot of steps forward, and a few back… but I’m still wandering around just a little bit lost and hoping that I’m making good choices.

Most recently I had the good fortune to be offered some work on a rather great major network show.  The original offer was for three weeks in a position that I’m not fond off, which is referred to as the “truck supervisor” (laundry, ridiculously early hours, long days, and taking crap from everyone), with possibility for further employment in a position that I much prefer.  Half way through my three weeks, I was tentatively offered the truck position for the rest of the season (6 months of work in the film industry is about as close to job security as a person can get) and I found myself in a conundrum.

Would I take the very good money and secure pay in a position I neither enjoy nor find my strong suit… or would I walk back out into the woods of uncertainty?

Several factors came into play in my decision.  The show is great, the crew friendly, the actors lovely, most of my department a delight to work with and people I could learn a lot from.  The position owns your life, leaves you physically and emotionally drained, gives you about 1.5 days off a week.  Every decision has its pros and cons.  And it basically came down to this:

Would keeping this position make me happy… probably not.  So if not, would I feel it was advancing my career or teaching me skills that I needed and didn’t already have… also, not so much.

So I did the unthinkable.

I very politely responded that I was probably not the best choice to take the position for the full season, and walked away from the job.

So here I am, wandering on this bloody overgrown path hoping another fork in the road will appear to take me a little further on towards my goal… I could really use a flashlight.

Posted in career, trying | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Musings

Posted on April 9, 2012 by Lem

I must admit that I nearly forgot the deadline for my blog posting today (and technically missed it, boo me), and even though the general topic for it – a quote by romantic poet John Keats from one of his letters to a friend that made me think – lingered in my mind since saturday, I could not form a decent text to go with it. Writer’s block? Easter egg overdose? Quite possibly. So here’s a simple list of moments, nowhere complete, but it’s a start:

The roses your mother planted in neat rows in the dark, rich soil from which you rescued every single earthworm that was dug up to keep it out of harm’s way.

The tulip you proudly raised in a clay flower pot in kindergarden and for which you feared it might “get lonely” after you left for home in the afternoons.

The daisies you used to make wreaths out of as a child, playing “he loves me, he loves me not” a hundred times until the answer you hoped for came up.

The poppies growing wild in fields of wheat through which you ran barefoot, faster and faster until you didn’t know anymore why and where to you were running.

The wild lilac that grew in the garden, satiating the humid summer air with a thick, sweet scent and providing shade for you to sit underneath and read books of adventures in far away countries.

The onion, of which you had never thought could produce such a delicate flower in the first place, proving that beauty lies in every living thing. Even in onions.

The iris in your family crest, a silent reminder of a time where no one smiled in photographs.

The sunflowers you tried to paint in art class, realising that a painting cannot possibly depict all the brilliant shades of sunny yellow in all their perfection – except maybe Vincent’s.

The lilies you brought to your grandmothers’ funeral.

The daffodils you bought at a small flower shop to say “I’m sorry”, after you had a huge fight with someone dear.

The blooming cherry trees announcing the beginning of spring you walked underneath with a loved one, a friend, family.

[tbc...]

To complete the list, I’d love to know what your flower moments might be? Is it possible that we share one, like the making of daisy wreaths? Or can one flower be connected to totally different moments or meanings…?

Posted in beginnings, memories, relationships | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

Cure for Pain

Posted on April 3, 2012 by JoAnna

I’m in quite the mood and I can’t tell you why. I chalk it up to being one of those days. The type where nothing cataclysmic has occurred, but a few choice encounters have soured the afternoon and the sky feels like it’s tumbling down nonetheless. This is where I’ve been at for the last couple of weeks actually, a place where my moods fluctuate at the drop of hat, I feel mentally tired and emotionally overwhelmed, and something just isn’t quite right. There’s a strange vibe in the air that’s laced with aggression, anger and gloom, and it’s contagious. My insides feel slick and viscous, like they’re part of a soup that’s frothing in this bodily cauldron. The brew is churning and bubbling and threatens to boil over. Wait, it already did. Of course it did.

As with all things crazy and beautiful that have occurred lately, this bubbling over took place on my yoga mat. I’ve recently learned how to drop back into a backbend from standing position, which is an ever evolving process. It’s said that backbends have the potential to activate the heart and throat chakras (wait, bear with me for a second) and stir up all sorts of shit locked deep inside that empathic cavity. Shit you’ve experienced. Shit you’ve seen or heard. Shit that’s around you. Shit you’ve dealt with. Shit you haven’t. For some reason, pushing your heart open has the potential to be deeply healing, cleansing and can bring you to your knees, if you stick with it long enough. The other day I was minding my business as I drew my prayer-positioned hands over my head, pushed my hips forward and lifted my chest towards the ceiling. I gently bowed backwards, head lolling, eyes scanning the back of the room, while my brain rapidly (and rightly) informed my body of my absurd decision to invert myself so my hands could make peace with the floor.

First carve is the skin. The second is the muscle.

My palms and feet pushed into the mat and with each breath I became increasingly steady. I began to gently rock back and forth in preparation to spring up to standing. My lower back hinged gracefully and I straightened my arms, encouraging my rib cage to expand. This should have been a wildly liberating moment, but instead of feeling awesomeness and power flooding through my body, an unusual feeling of panic and sorrow swiftly rose up from the cavernous depths of my chest to knock on the door of my heaving ribs.

*breathe*…rock back…*breathe*…rock forward…*breathe*

My teacher came over to support my hips, but I didn’t want any of it. Instead an uncontrollable urge to plunk myself in the corner of the room, curl up in the foetal position and have a good cry washed over me. To distract myself I continued to rock and breathe deeply into my – now tired – posture. As I swayed forward on my last breath my chest moved shockingly close to the wall; opening wider than I thought it ever could. I could feel the ribs expanding as every fibrous muscle and ligament in my upper torso hung on for dear life. In that moment there was a tension so strong I felt like someone was reaching through the bony gates of my ribs into that spongy cavity and was preparing to rip me in two.

*POP*

There’s a crack of the bone. And he’s at your heart.

It’s an audible sound that originates around my sternum. It doesn’t hurt (it’s actually accompanied by a wave of relief), but it is followed by that persistent feeling of panic and sadness. As I sit on my mat and fold into a deep forward bend the cauldron starts to bubble over. No one can see me, but I feel embarrassed nonetheless as I squish my face between my knees and a few salty wet ones slip quietly onto my pants. I rub my face against my legs to remove all signs of ‘weakness’ and sigh inwardly. My breaking point had arrived.

Since that self-inflicted open heart surgery, I’ve thought about what was at the crux of my moody-meltdown, and why it lingers. Various things come to mind, but nothing sticks because there isn’t a single catalyst for my sternum-popping, bleeding heart moment. My conclusion is that life simply decided to sit squarely on my chest with all its brute force, causing my ribs to snap wide open, which left a gaping hole for all sorts of stuff to rush in – and out. My stuff. Your stuff. Old stuff. New stuff. Good stuff. Bad stuff. Ugly stuff. Stuff that comes and goes. Stuff that feels like crap, that aches. The kind of stuff that leads me to despair about the state of the world (North Korean boy born into a gulag), the kind of stuff that makes me sick with rage (‘You know what men are like’: Indonesia to ban mini-skirts over links to rape or Ethiopian maid publicly abused in Lebanon takes her own life or Woman thrown into Egypt’s Nile over divorce) and just plain-old day-to-day human interaction stuff that leaves me despondent and shaking my head thinking “What in God/Allah/Jesus/Buddha/Vishnu/the Universe’s name is WRONG WITH PEOPLE?”

So what to do? Life gets stupid and maddening, sometimes for no good reason, and lately things are insistent on remaining out of sync, which nudge me to the edge of a precipice where I’m tempted to kneel prostrate and give into the panic and despair. Thankfully, I realize that going down that rabbit hole would be a pointless exercise which doesn’t make anything better. Indeed, allowing my heart to constantly weep crimson all over my desk is not only terribly unproductive, but it’s extremely unsightly. There’s a big, bad-ass world out there to face up to – like it or not. So instead of dwelling on the magnanimous, metaphysical, and painfully hideous things I can’t control I’ve changed tactics and challenged myself to seek out the goodness currently on offer in bustling, schizophrenic Cairo. Spring is around the corner and it’s time to get started on cleaning up this sopping, palpitating mess and setting things back in place so they have time to mend.

It’s not the cure-all by a long shot, but for today…it’s a start.

Posted in body, faith, global, inspiration, relationships | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Culture War in Burnaby

Posted on March 28, 2012 by Kate

We were so innocent.

When the Burnaby School Board began debating Policy 5.45, a sexual orientation and gender policy,  no one I knew noticed or cared.

You can read more about the policy here: http://sd41.bc.ca/budgets_policies/input.htm

All of a sudden – out of nowhere – a group no one had ever heard of opposed the policy. They stacked the school board meetings.  They called themselves Burnaby Parents’ Voice and claimed to be speaking for Burnaby parents.  (Note: their original website, which was created to oppose Policy 5.45, has since been removed).  They felt the school board had a ‘homosexual agenda’ and that the policy would interfere with their religious beliefs, beliefs that included, among other things, the thought that life begins at conception.  On the website that has since been removed, there was a form letter to be given to school principals requesting that they respect their students’ religious beliefs and not teach them anything that opposed these.

http://www.burnabynow.com/news/Parents+protest+positive+policy/4703819/story.html

Stunned, a few parents got together on Facebook and created a group to oppose BPV and support Policy 5.45.  Within a few weeks it had over 100 members.  The first order of business: rallying in support of Policy 5.45.

http://thetyee.ca/News/2011/06/15/GaySafe/

School board elections were coming up.  Burnaby Parents’ Voice decided to run a slate of candidates.  There was no longer any mention of homosexual agendas or opposition to Policy 5.45 on their website.

http://www.burnabyparentsvoice.ca/welcome.html

A right wing Christian website called Roadkill Radio/Culture Guard endorsed them.  Interestingly, there is no link to this website on the Burnaby Parents’ Voice website.  On Roadkill’s website,  BPV candidates claimed to be the targets of hate attacks from 5.45 supporters.  I found myself wondering if this was what happened when traditionally religious people felt threatened: the website was rich in hatred, paranoia, and fear of the society around it.

http://roadkillradio.com/2011/11/08/8-11-2011-webcast-hate/

It was during their campaign that I realised my neighbour was a BPV candidate.  She was out on the street with a pile of BPV signs, busily putting them up in our neighbours’ front yards.  I was so upset that I followed her down the street and confronted her.  I couldn’t believe that this person I thought I knew, who had babysat my child, who I believed to be a kind and caring person, could be so bigoted.  We had a long conversation.  I could tell she was surprised that I didn’t agree with her, but she was mature enough to listen as I ranted about the importance of 5.45.  It was clear, though, that we could never agree.  For the first time I really confronted the depth of the divide between us and within the community.  This was not going to be easily solved.  She and I were literally looking at the same thing and seeing something totally different.  Our minds were different.  It was hard to see where there could be middle ground.  She felt the government had too much power over children’s education and that BPV was misunderstood.  I felt the government was doing the right thing and that BPV was a party of bigots.   There was a cavern between us.  How strange it was to realise we were foreigners to each other.
I went on Facebook and told everyone I knew not to vote for BPV.  I was convinced they would win.  They had signs up all over Burnaby and they appeared organized.

But they lost.  The incumbent trustees won in a landslide.

We thought this might be the end of BPV, but we were wrong.  Recently my child’s school did a dance to the Lady Gaga song “Born This Way” to support anti-bullying day.  The BPV immediately went to the media to state their opposition to the video the schools made.

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/the-hot-button/kids-lady-gaga-anti-bullying-video-offends-parents-group/article2353818/

The war continues.

Posted in children, community, parenting | Tagged , , , , , | 15 Comments