By Degrees

I was a strident atheist for most of my life. Having grown up in a community quagmired in religion and all the fear and hate that so often accompanies unquestioned faith I found it impossible, unconscionable, even morally reprehensible to believe in the Judeo-Christian god.

When I was in University though, almost all of my electives were of a spiritual nature- Death & Concepts, Comparative Religions, the Psychology of Religion - because I wanted to understand why and how people could believe in these myths and, worse, allow such dogma to shape bigoted, small minded world views. These courses didn't change my atheist stance at the time, but they did make me see how these issues could be discussed intelligibly, and how religion need not preclude reason.

Still, University was a good three years behind me before I had the astonishing (to me) revelation that atheism required just as much faith as theism. This epiphany, at what was probably one of the darker points in my life for a lot of unrelated reasons, led me to the shift from atheism to agnosticism. And this shift, in turn, opened my mind, and my heart or soul or both, to some fascinating possibilities.

Since then, the more I learn about science-quantum physics, biology, human biology and evolution, the more convinced I become that, at the very least the world we inhabit, must be the result of some sort of intelligent design. We're actually at a point in scientific history where scientists are quite comfortable predicting our extinction and the rise of a new wave of hominid based on what we know about the past. (This will happen, by the way, based on a simple shifting of a skull bone known as the sphenoid, just as it has at every other point in our evolution). Once you can predict evolution it becomes difficult not to view it as something pre-programmed to move us forward, toward an inevitable and purposeful end. But what end?

That's where it starts getting good, and that is, I think where science, particularly quantum physics, will eventually lead us. Straight to the place where we'll find the great big mystery humans have given a million names and faces.

I feel silly now when I recall all the hours I spent vehemently arguing god does not exist, as I would if I had to admit I'd wasted so many evenings arguing against Santa Claus. What interests me now are the possibilities far more than the probabilities and I really can't wait until we discover just who, or what, is behind all this madness. I would love to know whose amusement it is, exactly, that I seem to have been placed here for. So far the only contribution I can make towards this identification is it seems to have a very twisted sense of humour and somedays the jokes seem to be disproportionately made at my expense.

Ma

A world without mothers would have far too many monster trucks and one eyed people, don't you think? 

My mother was only 18 years old when she had my older brother. By contrast, I am nearly past a reasonable age for child bearing and I still can't fathom being solely responsible to and for another human being. But she did it, twice, and she did it with all the patience and graciousness of a saint. Of course she isn't a saint, which only makes such a feat even more remarkable.

To all the amazing women in the world who make it look easy, including my own ma: Happy Mother's Day! 

Plautdietsch phrase of the day: Miene mama hat mir jesagt = My mother told me so.

Sunbeams and Violet Rays

Only when the last tree has died and the last river been poisoned and the last fish been caught will we realize we cannot eat money.
- Cree Indian Proverb

I am writing a novel that is set about two generations from now and food, or more succinctly, the food system figures prominently in the plot so I was excited to see the exhibit "Food Justice" at our local museum. My expectations were low but, though the exhibit was small, the art was beautiful, accessible and thought provoking. The globalized nature of our food system was well represented in works from Japan to India to Iran, and included artists like Alejandro Aranda and Bert Monterona.

I had the entire place to myself  and afterward I sneaked out the back door to the museum proper. The museum is actually a re-creation of a typical Mennonite village and served me well as a reference point while reading Pahlaniuk's "Choke" a few years back. In the summer the "streets" are lined with townspeople in period costumes, the blacksmith's shop is fully operational and you can buy sommaborscht, zweiback and platz at the restaurant. Schmeck's gut (gut pronounced "goot"= tastes good). On some Sundays you can even catch a sermon at the church, where the men sit on one side and the rest on the other.
But yesterday it was basically deserted and made a perfect playground for a (finally) sunny afternoon.

Our Diva is home and Ma and I were invited to the farm for the evening. After dinner (perfectly grilled steak, tender asparagus and mini roast potatoes schmeckt sehr gut) the Violet Ray, which promises to cure every "disease germ" known and unknown to man, made an appearance.

Among her many talents, the Diva mixes a mean martini and I think this may have been the one that tossed me over the edge and I started missing the plot of the evening.

I know for certain I didn't drink enough water which is why this post is more picturesque than verbose. Lucky you.

As for me, I am off to nurse my headache at the Diva's concert tonight, after which it's headlong into a whirlwind weekend of mixing, whirring and stirring. (Does anyone else remember the Kids in the Hall: Mix, mix stir stir marry young, it's all a blur...) It's lemon rhubarb cheesecake for the party tomorrow night, then I'm making Mother's Day brunch, the menu for which can't be divulged just yet. I'm quite excited about it though, for it's combined simplicity and creative twists.

Melancholy

"A river to the south to wash away our sins
A college to the east of us, to learn where sin begins
and a graveyard to the west of it all which I may soon be lying in..."
-Oregon Hill, Cowboy Junkies




My parents live one street over from what, when I was growing up, we jokingly referred to as the "Highway to Heaven." Following the road from west to east there is a medical clinic, no less than three churches, a "college" and finally a cemetery.

This afternoon, during a lull in this week long rain, I attempted to shake my malaise, and possibly stir up some inspiration from the nuanced stories in the headstones, with a visit to the cemetery. There are two other, more atmospheric, cemeteries in town but the prairie winds were piercing cold and I didn't know when the rain would start again so I decided to stay close to home.

I love visiting cemeteries, particularly when I travel. They are a true history of any place you might find yourself. Like the rings in the trunk of a tree, graveyards provide a record, both obvious and subtle, of life and loss to be deciphered. Plagues, population and demographic shifts and immigration influxes, all these things can be measured by the clues on the headstones.

More than just history there's also the culture, philosophies and poetry of life cut to the quick in pithy epitaphs:
"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers
the o'erfraught heart and bids it break... "- Shakespeare
 or
``If I should die think only this of me:
That there`s some corner of a foreign field that is England.`` - Rupert Brook


In Halifax we found cemeteries with the remains of Titanic passengers, in Prague the Jewish cemetery dates back to 1300. I once did a road trip to Neepawa, Manitoba to try and find the marker that inspired Margaret  Laurence to write the "Stone Angel". (I never found the exact grave, but it was autumn and the Pembina Valley was such a vibrant red and gold that trip still rivals Salem, Mass.-which, by the way has some fascinating cemeteries of it's own- as my favourite place to have experienced fall.)

And beneath these layers of geographic histories are the personal sagas hinted at by the styles of stones, the words etched eternally in stone and the souls that surround them. In some graveyards I've seen whole families dead within months of each other, couples who pass within days of each other and the sad mysterious anonymous or unknowns.

But, while the mature couples who cannot seem to live apart make me whimsically sigh, there is always one section in every cemetery that breaks my heart. I had thought, maybe hoped, that because the one I was in this afternoon was modern and new, maybe this section wouldn't exist, or at least it would be smaller thanks to all our advances and modern medicine. But there just the same, in the southwest corner, was the baby cemetery with all the uniquely familiar tombstones marked " Our Dearest" or "Sweetest" or "Most Cherished Littlest Angel.``

Thinking of the story, attributed to Hemmingway:  ``For Sale: Baby shoes. Never Worn.`` I turned to head for home with that piercing prairie wind making my eyes sting.

Plautdietsch phrase of the day: Dot stiemt und stiemt und stiemt noch immer = It storms and storms and storms forever.

Gender Benders

Internet dating is not an activity for the faint of heart. Last fall, after realizing it had been four years since my only love (aka the Dude) and I parted ways, I thought I'd give a relationship another whirl. As nobody seems to speak without first filtering through Facebook or eHarmony I signed up on a free site and waited for the adventures to begin. Within days my inbox was full of puzzling responses from men assuring me they could single-handedly take down three men in service of my protection or various poorly spelled variations thereof. Most included pictures and most were freakishly large men with thick necks so I assumed it was just the steroids and hit delete. After about a week of this, some chap with the moniker Tru2U asked "What's a mensch?"

My profile indicated I was "looking for a mensch-someone you can count on to have your back in sketchy situations." In retrospect I ought to have predicted the confusion that would result from this ambiguity. It seems my would be paramours who bothered to google mensch had as much difficulty defining manly as me.

On a trip to Nepal I spent time over the course of a week with a local business man. The first day he laughed at me and my adamant, if floundering, attempts to do everything for myself. Many of these things, ordering dinner, asking directions, would have been easier if I'd demured to his capable countenance but I was nothing if not obstinate in my efforts. "I've heard," he said shaking his head and chuckling, "that you Western women are like men and now I see it's true."

Naturally, I was deeply offended by this and pressed him for an explanation but he just laughed and waved his hands. By the second day however, I was already resigned to following his lead and began to see how much simpler things were when he handled them. I began to relax. I let him take care of me. He was not only solicitous but he anticipated my needs. For the first time in years I was able to let my guard down. And, as embarrassed as my culture would insist I should be to admit it, I fell in love with this man in the chaos that is Katmandu for this simple reason: he made it easy. Like he made everything easy. Anything I needed or merely wanted he made it happen. Mind you, I'm a simple girl and my wants and needs are fairly simple too, but still, to me, that was manly. How, I ask you, is a girl to resist?

Since then I've had numerous conversations with males about manliness because it seems to me something that's sorely lacking in our culture. How did we lose it? Was it ever there or am I just being sentimental about some place we've never been? One fellow I discussed this with said simply, "You're liberated now, get over it." Possibly. But does my right to education and the vote necessarily preclude his right to have good character and be nurturing?

One Christmas the Ex (not the Dude) and I were shopping in a big box electronic store. In the middle of the second verse of "Run, Run Rudolph" there came the resounding crash of breaking glass and a voice yelling, "Give me everything in the case!" Someone was robbing the camera section of the store. I knew this because I witnessed the entire event from where I stood behind the movie shelves. My ex, on the other hand saw nothing, as he had ducked behind me and was using me as a human shield. This then, by my standards, is not manly.

I am not suggesting, by the way, that he ought to have sheltered me from any potential onslaught of bullets but I do maintain that he might have retained a shred of my respect (and respect is, according to psychologists, sociologists and others who study these things, actually more important to the viability of a romantic relationship than love) had he not pinned my arms to my side in an effort to hold me in place. So yeah, not manly but this is, apparently, what a mountain of burned bras has bequeathed me.

How did this happen? Is there more to this than culture? It seems I'm not alone in asking these questions about masculinity and, most heartening to me, Oscar Boyson has, in "An Emasculating Truth", reached the same definition of manliness as me; among other things a man accepts responsibility, is caring and nurturing. And where there's one there must be more than one. So there may be hope for this spinster yet.

Plautdietsch Word of the Day : Kjäakjsche = kitchen maid (or "the help")

Parlour Games

Apparently this was Proust's favourite parlour game. I can see why, I mean I had no idea I even had a favourite bird until I played this. If rain is keeping you inside today too make some tea and play along. Just copy and paste the questions into the comment section or, if you're shy, e-mail me your answers. But really there's no need to be shy. Despite evidence to the contrary, I won't judge you. These are profoundly important questions I want to know your answers to.

What is your dream of happiness?
I’m living it. I mean, I have problems and things I have to work on but that’s all part of it I think. And, in the meantime, I eat good food, I drink good wine, I get enough exercise and, most days, I have clean underwear. I have people in my life who love me, challenge me, inspire me and/or make me laugh. It’s kind of impossible not to be happy.

What is your idea of misery?
Living in a QualiCo home inside a gated community and driving a mini van full of kids around suburbia.

Where would you like to live?
Wherever I land as long as I have the option to leave.

What qualities do you admire most in a man?
Self-sufficiency, dependability, intelligence, menschness

What qualities do you admire most in a woman?
Independence, graciousness, intelligence, muchness

What is your chief characteristic?
Neuroticism, I think. Possibly just plain crazy but I think most of my crazy stems from my neuroses? Does that make me a bad person? Is that why I’m unlovable? Am I unlovable? Oh my... yeah, mostly I’m just neurotic. But I’m cuddly too.

What is your principal fault?
I am fantsastically impatient. As my mother says, “ You do not suffer fools gladly.” Unfortunately for me, I am also often a fool.

Bertinelli Blues

From the moment I arrived home I have been dogged by the vague notion of being in a made for broadband TV movie. The kind about a divorcee who returns home to care for her ailing grandma/settle her parents estate/find herself. Hijinks and poignancy ensue as she tries to reintegrate into the small town, running into a seemingly endless cast of characters from her past on every trip to the post office or bank; her Jr. High gym teacher, her first kiss, her childhood dentist. (That is, I confess, the part of the plot that makes me cringe the most). Unabashed in her metropolitan urbanism, her attempts to transform the town to a mecca of sophistication are consistently frustrated by their small town mentalities. In the end it's she who trades her high heels for galoshes, when she falls in love all over again with her recently widowed high school sweet heart. (That, is the part that wakes me up screaming and in cold sweats. Not the heels. I don't actually wear heels. The falling in love in this town).  Valerie Bertinelli would play me even though she's 50, or maybe I'm playing Valerie Bertinelli playing me in some bizarre meta movie hologram.

I left home when I was seventeen. Actually I eloped. With a boy named Steve. It wasn't a serious elopement, I don't even recall ever kissing him to be honest. It was more of a political statement, a satirical poke at the institution of marriage if you will. Or so I thought. Somewhere between our prairie town and Victoria Island- a bar brawl in Calgary to be precise- it became apparent what we had, and all we had, was a failure to communicate. By the time we crossed the Rockies, not only were the farcical nuptials off, but we were no longer speaking. We parted ways in the shadow of the mountains and I never came back.

Half my life later I decide to make my lemon ginger Asian pasta which required coconut milk and meant a trip to the grocery store. It was here, in what passes for the imported food aisle, I finally had my Valerie Bertinelli moment. There, pushing a wobbly shopping cart with a toddler, case of PC coke and mega box of sugary breakfast cereal, was Steve. I managed to avert my eyes the instant I recognized him but he stopped and gaped. I sauntered carelessly down the aisle then, rounding the corner, made a mad dash for the Liquor Mart conveniently located on the other side of the parking lot, barely pausing at the check out counter long enough to pay.

It took me two glasses of wine to realize it wasn't Steve himself that sent me running to the bottle, which was a relief because I didn't remember liking him enough to require liquid eraser. It wasn't even the fruition of the dreaded Bertinelli moment. It was the sight of this person who, when I knew him, idolized Thoreau and wanted to hire hookers just to talk to them, pushing a kid in a cart and me instinctively knowing what that meant. He had grown up while I still want to marry someone on Friday just to divorce them on Monday, I still see a child as too big to fit into my backpack and prefer planes to mini vans. Not to mention the amount of sugar in that shopping cart would give a small elephant diabetes. In retrospect that was also very distressing.

Saccharine aside though, I can't help but wonder, how does this happen? Am I lost in Neverland?

On the plus side the wine went really well with dinner. Check out the beautiful label. I love the 70's design. Something about it captures the essence of a day like today, when the rain is finally turning the brown to green and it's all filtered through a grainy gray sky, perfectly.

 My father, on the other hand preferred to eat this:

Maybe I'm adopted?


Mom and I were fortunate enough to be invited to a Latin jazz concert tonight, gratis. Trio Bembe was brilliant but the situation awkward being that the concert was in a church and you really ought to be swinging your hips when the latin rhythms are beating. Pew dancing just doesn't quite cut it. Which reminds me of the joke: if you want to confuse a Mennonite offer them free dance lessons.

German phrase of the day: Eine stille Antwort meint ja= a silent answer means yes