hey, it's OK...

In Glamour magazine, there is a page called the "Hey, it's OK" page. I don't buy Glamour anymore, for reasons both economical and social, but I do still have a few of these pages, ripped from Glamour, tacked up on my wall. And I've added to them, too - in blue ballpoint pen I've written in my own things that it's OK to have, do or be.

I like the idea of a list like this. It runs in the same vein as the phrase "Just enough is plenty," which I wrote about a few weeks ago, and which my cousin Maile was inspired by. The idea these two phrases share is that you don't need to be Super You in order to have a healthy and happy life. "Just enough" of something is just that, enough. And therefore, plenty. All you need.

Where "hey, it's OK..." comes in is as a reminder, and as a list we can post on our actual walls, or just carry around in our heads. We then apply the phrase to whatever it is that's flying around us like a pesky horsefly, wanting to land and bite us with guilt. "You're not sexy enough! You're not thin enough! You don't have all of this [whatever your project might be] under control! Everything is chaotic! Why even start that when you know you won't finish it perfectly?" Et cetera, ad nauseum.

Here is the list I have posted on my wall. It's from the May 2008 Glamour. What I've added in blue pen to the real list, I've added here in blue too.

After you read it, tell me your additions to the list. They don't have to be witty, they just have to be true.



Hey, it's OK...

...to cancel things.

...to have a strict no-bed-making policy on weekends. And no socializing, if that's how you feel.

...if you've never quite figured out what to do with the back of your hair. Or the front!

...to ask for whatever it is - an intern, an appliance, a third shot in your cappuccino - that helps you get the job done.

...if you're happy to have sex on the beach, provided it's actually on a bed in a room in a house that's on the beach.

...to buy $200 shoes but hoard Splenda packets from Starbucks.

...if you just don't get the appeal of techno and some indie music.

...to make your guy see the Sex and the City movie with you. Consider if payback for Rambo.

...if you're not especially interested in finding yourself. (Some days of the week.)

...TO SAY NO.





***

just enough is plenty

How do you memorialize a person? Especially someone you didn't know well?

This is the question I'm pondering these days. It has been at the back of my mind for several months now, as I've been planning a memorial service for Emily Cardwell, but it's really coming to the fore now.

The memorial is this Sunday, at 2:30 PM, at the Uisge Ban Falls trailhead and parking lot. In some ways the Memorial has really planned itself, as people have given willingly of time and ideas, and luckily what to do at a memorial for a girl who was a gardener is nice and easy, and lovely as well: plant some trees. Give away some seeds. Be outside in nature.

All the same, I wrestle with this. I want to do five million wonderful things in this person's memory, which isn't actually possible! So I need to keep reminding myself to keep it simple. We honor her memory by simply gathering, by saying the words we will say. It doesn't have to be an over-the-top spectacle to be sufficient. In fact, maybe I'll make this my motto: "Just enough is plenty." (It's the title of a book my family loved when I was a child.)

I'll definitely write an update next week about how the memorial went. In the meantime, if you'd like to leave a comment, I'd love to know about a memorial service you went to that really touched you, or about some neat idea you've had to memorialize someone.

just enough is plenty, part two

So.

Last Sunday, May 3rd, was the day of Emily's memorial. The weather cooperated, and we had a lovely day for it, sunny with some clouds, and mildly warm. I went out to Uisge Ban Falls Provincial Park early, around 1, and started setting up. On a picnic table I arranged a vase of daffodils, a guestbook to be signed and sent to her family, and an old peanut-butter bucket modified to take the Free-Will Offering. (Meaning, I cleaned it, labelled it, and cut a hole in the top.) The money collected will be donated to the Every Woman's Center in Sydney.

People began to gather, although there were also plenty of people coming out to hike in the park, so I was never sure if a car rolling in contained people there for the ceremony, or not. However, by the time 2:30 came around, a crowd of fifty-two people milled about, talking to one another. Some sat at the picnic table and wrote in the guestbook. I went around with the seed packets (see above photo) and the programs, greeting people and telling them I was glad to see them there.

2:40: I cleared my throat and spoke up above everyone. "May I have your attention please?" Then I directed everyone to a little clearing just off the parking area, and asked them to arrange themselves in a circle. I joined them and had a split-second of waiting for it to start, before remembering that, hey, it's ME who starts this one! It's ME who welcomes everyone and gets things going. So, I did.

Reverend Lloyd Murdock was up first. He was dressed in dark-blue robes, with a long shawl in a blue and green tartan, and a heavy silver Celtic cross around his neck. He read some parts of scripture, including the piece from Ecclesiastes, "To everything there is a season," and led us in a Christian prayer.

Then two singers from the local ecumenical choir sang a hymn, "Here I Am Lord." Then myself and another woman read out three pieces which Emily's family had written in her memory. (Her family lives on the West Coast and wasn't able to be here at this service.) Annie, her mother, had written about Emily's birth and toddler-hood. Rick and Betty, Emily's father and stepmother, wrote a poem where the recurring line was "We can't cry hard enough." Juniper, Emily's half-sister, wrote a little letter to Emily, saying how much she missed her.

Then we opened up the circle to anyone who wanted to speak, to share memories. One person spoke, then another, then another. There were six in all who braved it. The rest listened respectfully. One man of Mi'kmaq heritage sang two healing songs of his tradition. Another man, a blues musician, pulled a harmonica from his pocket and played an impromptu lament. All who spoke talked of Emily's beautiful smile, and of her even-more-beautiful soul. She was a nurturer, a gardener, who nurtured others and was just beginning to nurture herself.

We planted the trees last. Mike, a dear friend of Emily's and now of mine, silently and determinedly dug a small hole, thenwe planted the bare-root white pine sapling. I had brought some compost mix to fertilize it, so we tucked some of that around it, packed down the earth and watered the tree. The man who had sung the Mi'kmaq songs blessed the tree with tobacco, and laid some rocks around it. Others brought little polished stones or shells. Then we got out the dibble and planted the twenty-five spruce seedlings.

Eventually it was just me and Mum and a few others left. I sat at the picnic table and let out a long sigh. Now, I could relax, and I could let it all sink in. And to be honest, it is still sinking in. I am so grateful that I was able to do this, and that everyone took part, and that Emily touched our lives even as briefly as she did. But I think I'm still too close to it to really know what it means for me.

However, I do know that it turned out, as I knew it would, that "just enough" WAS plenty. Fancy that.

Below: Emily's white pine tree.

this time I'm the time thief

It's Wednesday evening. I'm stealing a moment to post. That's how it feels these days to take time to do something like write a blog post or an email to a friend: stealing time.

I've got my money binder open on my desk/lap (my desk is rather small, one that someone gave me and I'm making do with), and piles of things all around me that don't feel like they're getting my full attention. Because, well, they're not. And I'm thinking, "I don't have time to write a well-thought out post! All I can really do is ramble for a few minutes and post it the night before!"

But, that just is what it is. "Just enough is plenty," right? I hope so.

I know that things are busy because I planned it that way - my schedule is filled with things that I put there. Which is good to remember sometimes. But I think that even if all I did was work one job, there would always be other things. There would be meals to make, family to be with, neighbours passing away (as one did this week). Food to grow or buy. And so on, and so on.

I've been thinking about multitasking. And the environment. And how we get so busy in our jobs and lives, and then have a consciousness moment where it's like, OH YEAH, holy crap, there is some serious shit going down in the world. And the two realities are side by side, just barely touching, but somehow not the same.

And that's where a lot of the anxiety comes from - from half the time feeling like the world is or could be seriously ending - or at least, you know, the world as I know it, as is hospitable to humans and to my culture - and the other half the time going about my business as if nothing has changed. I still drive a car. I still get stuff shipped to me from around the world. We're still going about our business as if nothing is wrong with the way we're doing things.

Yet some things are changing. And then - are they? It's hard to know - the world is a big place. There are a lot of people doing positive things out there, and there are also a lot of people NOT doing positive things. It really depends on what mood I'm in or on how much sleep I've had, how hopeful I feel.

Anyway. That's where my head's at right now. There and about sixty-two other places! Including but not limited to: all the day-to-day decision-making of work (which I usually forget about ten minutes later and have a hard time remembering - just what DID I do all day?), sailing lessons starting tomorrow, my writers' groups, yoga classes, et cetera. But - my family is now watching a movie and my "office" - the tiny desk and a few other desks and some makeshift shelves - is right behind the couch, and I get terribly distracted by movies playing right next to me. So I'll end it there for now.

Are you busy, like so busy you steal time? Or are you comfortably paced, and wondering what the fuss is all about?

PS STILL NO CAMERA! And that makes me a little bit pissed off. I called them today and asked them what the EFF was up. Well, I said it a lot nicer than that. Apparently the part is in, it's on the camera, I've been billed for it. It was supposed to get on the courier either Friday or Monday, and arrive Tuesday. Nada! So when I called they didn't know whether or not it had gotten on the courier. The girl who would know wasn't back from break, or something. They would call me back. And they didn't call me back.

Mind you, I know what that's like - at work, we're constantly getting calls. And most people have requests that they feel are super important, meanwhile, there are a bunch of things actually more important and ahead of them for attention. So, I'm pretty sympathetic. But still - I guess I was expecting a lot from a small, locally-owned business. And turns out - they're human too. Whaddaya know?

winter, weather and worries

We've been having a mild winter in Cape Breton, this year. At least, parts of the island are. People tell me that in the Highlands and the areas just on the edges of them, there is plenty of snow, and the snowmobilers are happy. But here in the lowlands, the temperature hovers around the freezing mark. Some days water is liquid, other days ice. Most days, slush. There is some snow in the woods, but not enough to make it worthwhile to put your snowshoes on (in other words, not over a foot). The ice on Baddeck Bay only goes partway out of the bay, enough that the ice fishermen have something to sit on, but not enough to fly a plane on, like last year.

This warm and mild weather worries me.

My brain wants to "figure it out," make a logical plan of steps to follow. Something like: 1) research climate studies of Maritimes. 2) Read studies to determine if this IS an anomaly, or if mild winters come along every so often in Maritime weather history. If it is an anomaly, determine what is causing this weather. 3) Solve worries in my head; know what to do.

But then real life takes over and I get distracted. It's time to make my lunch for work tomorrow, or to plan the weekend, or talk to one of my best friends or my boyfriend. Or figure out my finances and figure out where all my money's going to go this week. Or it's time to go to work. But it seems you can't completely ignore the weather, because it will always crop up again - I'll be at work, sitting at the circulation desk, talking to patrons, and someone will mention the weather. It happens once an hour on average, I'd guess.

Most of the people I talk to are happy about how mild and snowless it's been. I go back and forth on how I respond to that - some days I want to say, "Are you crazy? Doesn't it kind of take the fun out of wearing a lighter jacket to think that this might be climate change and our world might be about to change in ways we don't even know about?" And when I'm feeling like this I'll make some comment about how I miss winter, how much I love snowshoeing and the cold weather. Other times I'm not up for the effort of disagreeing, however politely and non-confrontationally I do so, and I'll smile, nod, and agree that it is certainly nice to have this mild weather. Aren't we lucky. Oh my goodness.

Then I get distracted again, and several days will go by, and then I'll be reminded of it again, of my worries about what this weather might mean. Distraction, reminder, distraction, reminder. Frustration and worry.


The problem - of climate change - is so big that it feels absolutely overwhelming. And yet our rational minds want to "figure it out," solve the problem. There's got to be a logical plan of steps to follow! (Right??!) Yet all the "little things" that various articles and activists tell us to do, which we would put in such a plan, don't fare well in a cause-and-effect experiment. Turn off the lights when you leave a room, save the world. However, I've been turning off the lights like an electricity evangelist and the world is nowhere near saved. Does this mean the little things don't work?

I don't know. I wish I could end this on a positive note and say, "Well, we've got to do those little things anyway, because we'll never know, and these things could have an effect." They certainly could. They're definitely having an effect on something, like my house's energy bill, and the amount of electricity this one household draws from NS Power on a given day. NS Power gets its energy mostly from coal-fired plants, so my turning a light switch on or off does make an impact on those plants. How big that impact is, or how small, is impossible to know, especially when factoring in all the other houses and businesses and how much or little they're drawing.

Having a talk about this with a friend usually ends up here: the point where we both agree that climate change is huge, and that we feel powerless to do anything about it. That we do what we can, but we live in this society and it's impossible to completely change everything about our consumptive lives. Some days you feel great because you eat a totally-locally grown meal. Other days you're stressed and out of time and you buy a fast food meal on the run, which you eat in your car as you drive somewhere.

Some days you think about the worrying mild weather, and other days you don't because there are 632 other things to think about in the run of a day. (Exact amount unknown, but you get my drift.)

Rational, logical-plan brain won't give up. "OK," it says, "We've come this far. We've got the problem and we just haven't found a solution yet." So I take my brain for a walk. I lace up my hiking boots (made in China, shipped across the oceans, trucked to my town - but bought in a local shop, even though it's more expensive, because I want to support local businesses and not big-box stores) and head out. It's a mild evening. There's a feeling of spring in the air. (It's Cape Breton in February, there shouldn't be a feeling of spring in the air. But still, it feels nice.) Part of the road is slushy snow, and other patches and dark brown, bare earth. The air is slightly misty and the sky is pinky blue.

I walk and I think: Here I am, here, now. In this time, this day, this minute, unable to jump twenty years ahead or go twenty years backward. Weighted down and held in place by limitations beyond my control. For a while, the last three years, one of those limitations was not having a vehicle of my own. Plenty of times that was frustrating, so irritating that I'd take myself for a walk. Get my head out, away from the problem, walk and realize that it was OK to have this limitation, because I could still walk. Still breathe outside air, still vent my frustrations to the snowbanks and trees.

Coming to terms with those limitations isn't the same thing as finding a solution. But in a weird, roundabout, emotional and not-quantifiable way, it IS the necessary step before finding your way to a place where you can figure out how to live with the limitations, and still get around them. At least, I think so.

Beyond that? I don't know.

It goes without saying, really, but it's true each time I post. And especially for this one: I'd really like to hear your thoughts.

Bing Crosby's Cherries

There are cherry pits and stems scattered around my house. I've seriously decimated the number of cherries that were in the container now that my family has left me alone in the house; I'm addicted to the deep, scarlet color of the fruit, to the soft resistance to my teeth, to the simultaneous sweetness and tartness of the little red bulb. I try to eat only what's in season (or what can be kept in a root cellar or other storage, like apples in winter), so as we move into summer the abundance of fresh fruit is astounding. Someday I'll be older and I'll have the time and energy (and desire) to can fruit for winter, but for now I'm young and impetuous so I just bite in and enjoy the moment.

Starting today, I am living on my own. I'll pile all my groceries in the back of a neighbour's truck and be driven up to North River, and will unpack everything into the little farmhouse that could. The phone will no longer be tied up by step-sisters on the Internet (of which I only have one), and the kitchen will be all mine, instead of filled with puppy dog and newspaper. I have my stereo, I have lots of food (it seems like every week I bring enough up to feed a small village), I have my sarong and swimsuit. I have plenty of books to read, I have a bunch of copies of "The Way You Feel When The Sun is On Your Face", my long-titled short story of Whistler origin, which needs working on, and I also have a dictionary. There's a river nearby which is absolutely perfect for all those things you do in rivers, and a job which is more fun than not, and two room-mates who like the same things I do, namely sleeping and hanging out. There won't be as much Internet contact as now, but I should be able to post once a week. And in the meantime, you know I'll be spending my time as wisely as I know how.

power down, part III

Tuesday morning we woke up with no power. Third day in a row.

By now it was starting to get irritating, and restrictive. The house was largely quiet -- no radio programming, no CDs, no movies. I have realized as a result of this temporary deprivation how much I love to listen to music, and need it, really. Also, the house was chilly except when the sun shone, as Mum didn't want to use the wood stove in case it heated up the freezers.

The house was quiet, the computer didn't work, and doing what used to be simple and easy tasks like flushing the toilet, washing dishes or doing much of anything after dark now came with associated work: hauling buckets of water upstairs, maneuvering around the buckets while in the bathroom, heating water, etc. My initial feeling on Sunday of "This power outage is kind of good in a sense, because it shows us all how vulnerable we are when we lose our electricity," had given way, or worn away, really, to a sense of frustration. Also, I had the sense of being a lot more reliant than usual on sunlight. Until this power outage, I hadn't realized how great a sunlit house really is, until I couldn't cheer up a cloudy day just by flicking a switch.

But at least Tuesday was sunny. I went for my power-walk, which made me feel somewhat normal, and when I got back there was that telltale rough hum coming from behind the house, and Monty's truck in the driveway. The power was still off, but the generator was going full tilt. Monty reported that the crew from New England was working hard, but it looked like it would be late tonight before the power was restored. Mum, tired, translated: "So that means tomorrow, at noon." The original worst-case scenario had come true, day by day: 72 hours without power. Of course, by now there was no longer any trace of the storm, and the sun was shining bright among the leafless trees, but the effects of Post-Tropical Storm Noel lingered on, becoming normal as we did our best to carry on with our lives despite the lack of electricity.

Lunch was, again, potatoes with onions, and again, delicious. I had sliced a few ripe tomatoes and seasoned them liberally with salt and pepper, and had some sharp cheddar on the side. The balsamic vinaigrette on the potatoes gave it all a light kick. I was going to do the dishes after, but decided that I'd rather spend what few hours of sunlight remained, outside, knitting on the deck. After I'd had enough of that, I came inside and started writing out what would become these blog posts, by hand on scrap paper, with the steady, one-note hum of the generator behind me. The rest of the house was quiet. Every now and again a crow would fly silently by the window. I wrote as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, and until it set behind the mountain around 5.

This power outage has certainly got me thinking. We rely on electricity for so many things, and as a result of it, have lost touch, somewhat, with the world outside our houses. This is the kind of phrase you often hear, condemning modern society, but in this case it's my first-hand experience. Not only that, but I've realized that it doesn't really matter whether you consider yourself an environmentalist or not -- having electric lights that you can turn on at night, and that you become used to, will by virtue of their existence cause you to pay less attention to when the sun sets. Similarly, if you have electric heat, you'll get used to that, and won't pay as much attention to wearing wool socks and sweaters, or to designing houses to face the south so the windows capture solar heat.

This unplanned experiment in "off the grid" living, now wearing on into the third day, was certainly showing us the wide use of and dependence on electric power in this community, and the simple power of habit keeping it that way.

(Of course, if you were truly living "off the grid", you would have chosen to do so, and not only that, but you would likely have alternative power sources in place -- small-scale solar, wind or hydro power for necessary appliances. And there'd be plenty of other aspects of your life running on human or animal power, like food production, bringing wood in, transportation, etc.)

For the rest of the evening I puttered quietly: I did the dishes by lamp again, which was, to be fair, very cozy. I played Solitaire and read. Around 7 I heard the fridge trying to start, as the power flickered, then turned off again, flickered, then went off. I realized that when we could turn on the electric lights, I would really miss the coziness of the kerosene lamp! Then, at 7:30, the fridge sputtered to life. "Hurrah!" Mum exclaimed. I flicked a light switch, experimentally. On came the light! Miracle! Mum was excited: "I can warm up a bean bag in the microwave again! I can turn the heaters on!" Having electricity again was luxury. Having become used to not having it, it felt like too much, suddenly. We could flush the toilet, and turn on the hot water tap, and heat the rooms! All using electric current. Amazing! I found, as well, that having electric lights on at night, lighting the whole house if we wanted to, felt a bit garish.

We decided to play one more game of cribbage, to carry on the tradition. I insisted on using the kerosene lamp.

***

It's now been a little over a week since the power came back on. The shock of having power again has worn off, as of course it would, since we've lived much longer with electricity than without it. But writing these blog posts about our 72 hours powerless allows me to remember it in detail, and be that much more thankful for the computer I'm writing on, the music I'm listening to, and the electric light bulb I'm writing by.

There are also the "It Could Be Worse" questions, like: "What if it had been the middle of winter?" Or, "What if there had been no fossil fuels, either, so we couldn't run generators or cars?" These are the kinds of questions I think a lot more people need to be talking about, because there is a very good chance that our worldwide, abundant energy resources will stop peaking and start running out, in this century to be sure. And maybe experiencing power outages for 72 hours would get people thinking?

How about a lighter question -- in the event of a power outage, and assuming you're relatively comfortable like we were, what would you do to pass the time?