Hello, dear Reader; I've missed you.
I've been doing a lot of writing away from the Lighthouse over the past week, and will likely continue to do so for the next few days as well. So much to do!
Not to mention a certain small thing called the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics, in which my country, the host nation - CANADA won fourteen golden medals... the last of which being for hockey. Those fourteen medals broke records, for no other host nation has won as many, and in fact no other country ever, has won as many golden medals in the winter games. Well done, athletes of Canada! Life returns to normal now, which means catching up on assignments that have piled up and other dreary things like grocery shopping and laundry.
If you are so minded, please offer a prayer for me: there is a lot to get done, of a challenging nature. Thank you! I shall offer those challenges for your intentions.
In the meantime, I did recently receive another challenge: to use the word 'coolio'. Here is the result:
It was late at night on the West Coast, which made it even later on the East Coast. A phone that was dialled in Burnaby rang a phone that was answered in Antigonish.
“Ugh.” was all that was said on the shores of the Atlantic.
“Georgie, is that you? You up, man?” -- the query from the Pacific side of things.
“Leo? Buddy, it’s, like, three in the morning. Whadda ya want?”
The sounds of a happy heart traveled down roughly three thousand miles of cable to arrive in the ear of a very dear friend. “I’m engaged, man! I asked Jessie tonight and she said yes! I’m getting married!”
A mumble wrapped in a yawn traveled those three thousand miles in the opposite direction. And then a click was heard – Georgie had hung up the phone.
A girl wearing a very large and sparkly ring asked of her beloved, “What did he say?”
The beloved who had bestowed that ring was puzzled, but answered, “It sounded like he said ‘coolio’ but I don’t know what that means.”
“He was happy for you sweetie. He said, ‘Cool, Leo.’”
Which was all that was needed to make this the happiest of days for the successful suitor.
*'golden' medals was deliberate. Number Two and Three Peanuts refer to them so.
solitude + inspiration
28 February 2010
23 February 2010
At last
While the hauntingly lovely tune as sung by Etta James wafts through your mind, I bring the image of love-at-last-requited to a screeching halt with the news that today's At Last is actually Number Two Peanut's birthday.
Two has been marking thick black X's through the boxes on a calendar in the kitchen since Christmas. Christmas was exactly 60 days ago. That's 60 X's, 60 boxes, 60 times the question has been asked: How long 'till my birthday now? It started out as a vague awareness that his birthday was next in the family lineup, but in the last two weeks or so, it has gained in intensity; until, approaching this weekend, he began to think we really may as well begin celebrating now, eh?
Yesterday morning, he asked his Mama Nut if she could call him The Eight-year old from now on, to which she answered: Well, yes of course, if you really want me to. I could say "The Eight-year old, time for supper! The Eight-year old, stop hitting your brother with the sword! I love you, The Eight-year old.
He gave that some thought, and concluded that The Eight-year old sounded a bit too... something, so he kindly informed his Mama that instead, she could just call him Eight-year old.
Two has been dispensing birthday beneficence for a few days now. For example, indicating he would like his brothers to be served first, since it was going to be his birthday; and, if one or the other of his brother Peanuts got into trouble (something, I assure you, that rarely happens) he would plead their cause on behalf of the fact that he would shortly be a year older.
Yesterday he asked how many hours until his birthday, suggesting that his level of anticipation had racheted to an unbearable level, but when he got up shortly after midnight to visit the loo, we called out to him that it was finally his birthday! Happy birthday, birthday boy! To which he answered, very blase: I know. And shrugged. With one shoulder!
This morning was an altogether different story though, as the house fairly vibrated with his excitement. I said extra prayers for his teacher today, for I can only imagine how many times the words 'my birthday' will be mentioned, and how hard it will be to keep this boy - who needs to be glued to his chair at the best of times - in his seat for seven whole hours! Not to mention, a once-famous Canadian singer is at their school today, giving a small concert. No doubt for Two, it's no coincidence it happens today, and surely Mr. Frew will be singing just for him.
Don't you just love the whole-hearted enthusiasm and utter self-abandonment of the young?
Two has been marking thick black X's through the boxes on a calendar in the kitchen since Christmas. Christmas was exactly 60 days ago. That's 60 X's, 60 boxes, 60 times the question has been asked: How long 'till my birthday now? It started out as a vague awareness that his birthday was next in the family lineup, but in the last two weeks or so, it has gained in intensity; until, approaching this weekend, he began to think we really may as well begin celebrating now, eh?
Yesterday morning, he asked his Mama Nut if she could call him The Eight-year old from now on, to which she answered: Well, yes of course, if you really want me to. I could say "The Eight-year old, time for supper! The Eight-year old, stop hitting your brother with the sword! I love you, The Eight-year old.
He gave that some thought, and concluded that The Eight-year old sounded a bit too... something, so he kindly informed his Mama that instead, she could just call him Eight-year old.
Two has been dispensing birthday beneficence for a few days now. For example, indicating he would like his brothers to be served first, since it was going to be his birthday; and, if one or the other of his brother Peanuts got into trouble (something, I assure you, that rarely happens) he would plead their cause on behalf of the fact that he would shortly be a year older.
Yesterday he asked how many hours until his birthday, suggesting that his level of anticipation had racheted to an unbearable level, but when he got up shortly after midnight to visit the loo, we called out to him that it was finally his birthday! Happy birthday, birthday boy! To which he answered, very blase: I know. And shrugged. With one shoulder!
This morning was an altogether different story though, as the house fairly vibrated with his excitement. I said extra prayers for his teacher today, for I can only imagine how many times the words 'my birthday' will be mentioned, and how hard it will be to keep this boy - who needs to be glued to his chair at the best of times - in his seat for seven whole hours! Not to mention, a once-famous Canadian singer is at their school today, giving a small concert. No doubt for Two, it's no coincidence it happens today, and surely Mr. Frew will be singing just for him.
Don't you just love the whole-hearted enthusiasm and utter self-abandonment of the young?
21 February 2010
Hermitage
Lent, Day Four.
I haven't written about Lent yet. Normally I'd be all over it like white on rice. Or like ashes on a Catholic's forehead the day after Mardi Gras. My feelings about Lent vary from year to year: sometimes I'm really eager for it, and settle right into it; other times I feel as warm and fuzzy toward it as I do a toothache.
Lent is an important beat in the yearly rhythm of our lives. We need this reminder that we are more than body, and that our concerns compass more than this life. Lent then, offers balance and perspective. More than that though, Lent can be an intimate encounter with God. If we take care to ease our busy activities, and hush the frantic noise in our lives, it becomes possible to hear Him.
As part of my Lenten observance, I am reading a book called 'The Hermitage within'. It addresses the vocation (call from God) of actual hermits - those who cast off all earthly pursuits to live in solitude and silence in order to attain holiness - but it also speaks of the need we all have for solitude and silence in our lives. As St. John of the Cross said:
There is a tradition of 'desert' in Catholicism. There was the 40 years pilgrimage in which God led the Hebrews out of slavery; John the Baptist lived in the desert before he began preaching about the coming of Christ; Jesus withdrew to the desert for 40 days, and endured the temptations of Satan; the Desert Fathers of the early Church withdrew to live secluded lives in the desert. There is also a metaphorical understanding of desert - it is an arid state, parched of consolation.
It is the arid and parched I was somewhat dreading this Lent. All of last year was difficult enough, that we (my family and I) felt permission to tread more lightly through the penitential season. No such excuse this year - it's time to stand on my feet again. No more hunching over in protective self-pity.
That is where I will be this Lent - in the desert.
God is bestowing a special favour on you by drawing you into the desert. [...] He is calling you to live on friendly terms with him: to nothing else. (pg. 10)
I pray that you too, will have an experience of solitude and silence in the coming days.
I haven't written about Lent yet. Normally I'd be all over it like white on rice. Or like ashes on a Catholic's forehead the day after Mardi Gras. My feelings about Lent vary from year to year: sometimes I'm really eager for it, and settle right into it; other times I feel as warm and fuzzy toward it as I do a toothache.
Lent is an important beat in the yearly rhythm of our lives. We need this reminder that we are more than body, and that our concerns compass more than this life. Lent then, offers balance and perspective. More than that though, Lent can be an intimate encounter with God. If we take care to ease our busy activities, and hush the frantic noise in our lives, it becomes possible to hear Him.
As part of my Lenten observance, I am reading a book called 'The Hermitage within'. It addresses the vocation (call from God) of actual hermits - those who cast off all earthly pursuits to live in solitude and silence in order to attain holiness - but it also speaks of the need we all have for solitude and silence in our lives. As St. John of the Cross said:
The Father only utters one Word, that is to say, his Son, in a eternity
of silence. He is saying it forever. The soul too must hear it in silence.
(The Hermitage within, pg. 15)
There is a tradition of 'desert' in Catholicism. There was the 40 years pilgrimage in which God led the Hebrews out of slavery; John the Baptist lived in the desert before he began preaching about the coming of Christ; Jesus withdrew to the desert for 40 days, and endured the temptations of Satan; the Desert Fathers of the early Church withdrew to live secluded lives in the desert. There is also a metaphorical understanding of desert - it is an arid state, parched of consolation.
It is the arid and parched I was somewhat dreading this Lent. All of last year was difficult enough, that we (my family and I) felt permission to tread more lightly through the penitential season. No such excuse this year - it's time to stand on my feet again. No more hunching over in protective self-pity.
For you, the desert is not a setting, it is a state of soul. This is
where the difficulty lies. The centre of this solitude is you, in whom the
absence of human beings and human vanities creates a first zone of silence. On
the steppe there is only one sound: the moaning of the wind. 'This is,' runs an
Arabic proverb, 'the desert weeping because it would like to be a meadow.' It is
for you, O arid, waterless land, to beg the Lord to distil His dew on you. Only
the breathing of the Spirit should be heard. (pg. 13-14.)
That is where I will be this Lent - in the desert.
God is bestowing a special favour on you by drawing you into the desert. [...] He is calling you to live on friendly terms with him: to nothing else. (pg. 10)
I pray that you too, will have an experience of solitude and silence in the coming days.
18 February 2010
Doodadderie
Doodadderie: unnecessary and distracting embellishments, such as the arm flapping of figure skaters who don’t know what to do with their arms, and the excessive assortment of doobers young girls use in their hair all at once (clips, pins, elastic AND hair band).
Doodadderie as a word came to be while we were watching the Olympic Men’s Short Program Figure Skating. Our pet peeve with figure skaters is the boring ‘skate skate skate jump’ business which puts more emphasis on gymnastics than it does on artistry - closely followed by the incessant flapping. My sister lamented the flapping and all the hoo-ha, saying “enough with the doodadderie”, thus minting a new word for our lexicon.
Which got me thinking about what it would be like to be a figure skating judge. Not as a professional, totally-into-the-moment-judge, but me – someone who has lots of opinions but little inside knowledge of ice skating.
--
Fade to black
Scene opens on an ice arena, early evening, crowded stands of cheering fans waving national flags, piped rock music, occasional indecipherable announcements.
Skaters are seen in various conditions of dress en route to changing rooms, walking through routines on rubber-covered floors, twitching and kicking nervous legs, rink-side. Coaching staff, medical teams, security personnel, event officials, and the press blend with the athletes to create an atmosphere of tension, anticipation and important-business-underway.
Seated at the blue-draped judge’s table is the heroine of our story. She doesn’t belong at that table, behind her very own computer (the instrument by which she is supposed to render judgement on the hopeful bladed, but instead emails her boyfriend who is currently in Indiana looking for himself - India being too costly a flight), as she is not an expert in figure skating, figure skaters, or figure skates. How she ended up at that table remains a mystery, and may actually be a case of mistaken identity.
As the evening progresses and the skaters take their turns exhibiting their athletic and artistic prowess, she submits her marks to the panel: 6.8, 5.3, 7.0, 7.2. Not knowing a lutz from a salchow (imagine her surprise to discover it wasn’t actually a sow cow), she devised her own marking scheme: everyone starts with a 5.5, and either gains or loses points depending on how much she likes the costume and music. Glitter is good, and the more there is, the higher the mark. Generic classical music warrants point deduction. Not making her stomach clench in failed-jump-anxiety is worth a solid two points, whereas points are taken away for useless arm flapping – doodadderie being the worst offense as far as she is concerned. She always adds an extra column on her marking sheets for ‘instances of doodadderie’ and keeps track of each empty gesture of the hands, every pointless toss of the head, the meaningless hops, and the void-of-artistry accelerations across the ice.
The highest marks of the night go to a young man from Spain. Not generally considered to be a hotbed of figure skating superstars, she gives him a point for nationality. Another point is awarded for not choosing the obvious matador costume, and still one more for sequins on his skate covers, which are mesmerizing in contrast to his all black outfit. His jumps are simple but landed cleanly – another point. Only one moment of awkward flapping – minimal doodadderie deduction. Too bad about the floppy blond hair though, which seems to circle his head when he spins, which he does often. Maybe she should have docked a point for repetition?
The story goes on, but I have lost interest in it. Our unqualified judge continues to monkey with the international figure skating federation; her boyfriend discovers he’s in Cleveland, not Indiana; and the blond sequin-footed Spaniard goes on to win the 500 m. short track in the next Olympics. It was all that spinning.
Thanks to my sister (and the oliebollen)for this challenge.
Doodadderie as a word came to be while we were watching the Olympic Men’s Short Program Figure Skating. Our pet peeve with figure skaters is the boring ‘skate skate skate jump’ business which puts more emphasis on gymnastics than it does on artistry - closely followed by the incessant flapping. My sister lamented the flapping and all the hoo-ha, saying “enough with the doodadderie”, thus minting a new word for our lexicon.
Which got me thinking about what it would be like to be a figure skating judge. Not as a professional, totally-into-the-moment-judge, but me – someone who has lots of opinions but little inside knowledge of ice skating.
--
Fade to black
Scene opens on an ice arena, early evening, crowded stands of cheering fans waving national flags, piped rock music, occasional indecipherable announcements.
Skaters are seen in various conditions of dress en route to changing rooms, walking through routines on rubber-covered floors, twitching and kicking nervous legs, rink-side. Coaching staff, medical teams, security personnel, event officials, and the press blend with the athletes to create an atmosphere of tension, anticipation and important-business-underway.
Seated at the blue-draped judge’s table is the heroine of our story. She doesn’t belong at that table, behind her very own computer (the instrument by which she is supposed to render judgement on the hopeful bladed, but instead emails her boyfriend who is currently in Indiana looking for himself - India being too costly a flight), as she is not an expert in figure skating, figure skaters, or figure skates. How she ended up at that table remains a mystery, and may actually be a case of mistaken identity.
As the evening progresses and the skaters take their turns exhibiting their athletic and artistic prowess, she submits her marks to the panel: 6.8, 5.3, 7.0, 7.2. Not knowing a lutz from a salchow (imagine her surprise to discover it wasn’t actually a sow cow), she devised her own marking scheme: everyone starts with a 5.5, and either gains or loses points depending on how much she likes the costume and music. Glitter is good, and the more there is, the higher the mark. Generic classical music warrants point deduction. Not making her stomach clench in failed-jump-anxiety is worth a solid two points, whereas points are taken away for useless arm flapping – doodadderie being the worst offense as far as she is concerned. She always adds an extra column on her marking sheets for ‘instances of doodadderie’ and keeps track of each empty gesture of the hands, every pointless toss of the head, the meaningless hops, and the void-of-artistry accelerations across the ice.
The highest marks of the night go to a young man from Spain. Not generally considered to be a hotbed of figure skating superstars, she gives him a point for nationality. Another point is awarded for not choosing the obvious matador costume, and still one more for sequins on his skate covers, which are mesmerizing in contrast to his all black outfit. His jumps are simple but landed cleanly – another point. Only one moment of awkward flapping – minimal doodadderie deduction. Too bad about the floppy blond hair though, which seems to circle his head when he spins, which he does often. Maybe she should have docked a point for repetition?
The story goes on, but I have lost interest in it. Our unqualified judge continues to monkey with the international figure skating federation; her boyfriend discovers he’s in Cleveland, not Indiana; and the blond sequin-footed Spaniard goes on to win the 500 m. short track in the next Olympics. It was all that spinning.
Thanks to my sister (and the oliebollen)for this challenge.
17 February 2010
Squirrel chase
I'm taking a break. Well, it's not a sanctioned break so much as my feet got cold, so I went upstairs to get my slippers. But before that, I posted a thought online, which caused me to wonder if my style guide was in a box or on the book shelf upstairs. Why not check the basement, I thought, and so off I went. As the laundry machines are set up there, I strayed from my course to shuffle some loads around, thinking about my sister while I did so. Which thought propelled me all the way upstairs to make sure the door was unlocked for when she comes home. On the way I spotted the main phone, which reminded me that one of the extensions went missing a few days ago, so why not look for it while the house was quiet? But when I pressed the button to signal each extension, I couldn't tell if what I was hearing was the one I knew was downstairs, or the one that might be hidden downstairs. So back down I went to get the one I knew about, and back up again to press the button once more. The phone was found under a sofa cushion in the living room. By this time I was feeling parched, so I prepared a glass of water with a squirt of lemon (it's Ash Wednesday) and headed back downstairs to the laptop. At the bottom of the stairs I remembered the book I was wanting, so went back up again, found it on the shelf, and descended again to where the work is. Then I realized my feet were still cold, as I had totally forgotten to get my slippers which triggered all of the above.
Which does rather make me question: how do people manage to get work done, when their office is in their home? Discipline is definitely required - a virtue I demonstrably do not have, as one random thought led me on a convoluted squirrel-chase through the house, before settling down again, 20 minutes later!
Since I'm not being productive at the moment, I'll take this opportunity to share with you some exciting news: I got my first rejection letter yesterday! It's official, folks -- I'm a writer!
Now where did I put my glasses....
Which does rather make me question: how do people manage to get work done, when their office is in their home? Discipline is definitely required - a virtue I demonstrably do not have, as one random thought led me on a convoluted squirrel-chase through the house, before settling down again, 20 minutes later!
Since I'm not being productive at the moment, I'll take this opportunity to share with you some exciting news: I got my first rejection letter yesterday! It's official, folks -- I'm a writer!
Now where did I put my glasses....
15 February 2010
Solitary
Solitary
Solitary
Like the top-most leaf
In the last tree
Before the end of the world
Softly stirring
Trembling
Grasping
In the final
Last breath of wind
With a gasp of soft
Almost silent despair
Fall, twisting, drifting
To earth
Solitary
Thanks to Unnamed for the word 'solitary'
Solitary
Like the top-most leaf
In the last tree
Before the end of the world
Softly stirring
Trembling
Grasping
In the final
Last breath of wind
With a gasp of soft
Almost silent despair
Fall, twisting, drifting
To earth
Solitary
Thanks to Unnamed for the word 'solitary'
Maple Leaf forever
I. AM. CANADIAN!!
My blood and bone are from the soil of another land; my imagination is stirred by the histories of other countries I spent time in before settling down here in the True North Strong and Free, so I don't always think of myself as being Canadian. But seeing the red and white uniforms of Canadian athletes, and the proud Maple Leaf on flags and mittens stirs up a national pride I'm not aware of most of the time. Not to mention the understated but (again) proud display of the opening ceremony in Vancouver which had me wanting to yell out from the front stoop: "Hell yeah, Canada!" And then add for good measure: "eh!"... there is no doubt: I am Canadian.
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