Skating solo

I can't remember the last time I went skating all by myself. Over the almost 30 years of my marriage, I've always had my partner, my kids, or a friend to go along with me.

And for the last three winters, I don't think I managed to go skating even once. With a dog to walk, and all the trekking of the valleys and ravines of Edmonton we've been doing, we just never seemed to go skating. But this winter I vowed to put my skates to use at least once. 

I suggested heading to Victoria Oval or Hawrylak Lake several times over this wintry season, but no one seemed very keen. Then it got so cold, it felt like there was no point going as there are no warm skate shacks where people can lace up thanks to covid, and I didn't much relish going through the effort for a short skate with frozen toes... I wanted it to be a good long one! Maybe I'm a wimp, but I'm a warm one!

Last night's weather forecast said today would be balmy in comparison to the last two weeks -- above zero! So I made plans to go skating by myself. Since my partner is working from home, I have the car and decided to drive myself to Hawrylak Park to loop the islands on the lake. As I left, I told my daughter I'd be back shortly, after a good skate.

What I had forgotten was that the Silver Skate Festival is happening at the park, and of course, I had to see it all... snow sculptures, snow flowers, the "undersea garden" area, and the new Community League Plaza (which quietly opened during this pandemic), before I skated. 

My early morning timing was perfect -- there weren't too many people around so I didn't need to wear my mask, and the ice was smooth from the flooding and lower numbers of skaters during the cold snap. So I had a lovely two hours looking at art, listening to stories told by Indigenous Elders, and gliding around the two islands in the lake on my skates. I imagine the whole area would be magical at night as it's illuminated with different coloured lights.

It was lovely to be there on my own... usually, I want to really look at things, and it was wonderful to go at my own pace instead of being rushed along by impatient folks! By the time I left, people were arriving by the droves, and I was glad to be heading home before mask wearing became necessary. Those darn masks fog up my glasses!

The Silver Skate Festival runs just two more days, until February 21st. If you're planning to attend, I'd recommend going early in the day, as I expect the crowds who stayed away while we were in the deep freeze will come out by the thousands this weekend. And If you don't plan on going, you can always check out the festival's website... and my photos below.

If the ice doesn't melt too quickly, maybe I'll see you on Victoria oval in the next few weeks. Have a good weekend!

My fave in the snow sculpture competition --
owl and fox in masks!

Snow flowers...

This fellow accompanies an interesting folktale
about envy trolls...

A school of fish. 
Wish I'd gotten pictures of the jelly fish in the pines...

The Community League Plaza
has an interesting display about the
100 years of Edmonton's Community Leagues.

Stories in Indigenous languages can be heard
in the four seasons section of the Silver Skate displays...

This would make for a fun family photo!

A Tribute to Lidia

When the text came this morning, I was surprised by how hard grief hit me. Alfonso, the son of my 85-year-old Italian neighbour, Lidia, texted to let me know that his mom had died.

Lidia was an extraordinary friend, arriving in my life just when I really needed someone like her to make me laugh and to commiserate with me over the difficulties of raising kids. She was balm for my soul at a time when I was finding motherhood particularly challenging. Over the last few years, I spent many mornings in her kitchen -- she didn't have to twist my arm very hard to convince me to come in for coff (coffee, in Lidia's inimitable English) which often turned into lunch before I even realized it. 

Lidia had this knack for pulling food out of thin air, often a homemade minestrone with bread and asiago cheese, or a simple pasta dish with her homemade tomato sauce. And if someone extra showed up, there was always room for one more! Good Italian espresso was ever present, leaving me buzzing a little for the rest of the day. When I told her how much I loved her "coff," she gave me one of her little espresso makers, which I used this morning so that my daughter and I could drink a fitting toast in Lidia's honour. It went well with the last few Bertozzi ciambelline cookies she gave me on one of my last visits with her. Shadow-dog enjoyed a cookie in Lidia's honour, too. Whenever we walked past her house, he would automatically turn up her sidewalk.

Through long chats since her husband of 67 years died almost 18 months ago, I learned a lot about her life. An farm girl whose father died when she was 17, Lidia was married "by proxy" in Italy (an uncle stood in for her husband-to-be, Ralph, who was 27, and already in Canada). Ralph promised to send money back to support her mother and siblings near Cosenza (close to Naples) in exchange for Lidia's hand in marriage, and sponsored many of them to come to Canada in the years following. In the meantime, Lidia arrived in Edmonton at the age of 18, an early Italian immigrant who, to hear her tell it, "lost my papa, and married another papa." I suspect the difference in their ages became less of a factor over time as they grew into love for each other, and that love became clearly visible in their care for each other.

Ralph, who had found a job with one of Canada's railways after the end of World War II, already spoke passable English and knew his way around, but Lidia didn't know the language and stayed alone in their apartment for a time -- with a chair to hold the door shut as there was no lock. Her husband did most of the errands around town, and I don't think Lidia ever learned to drive. But at some point she found work in a Chinese restaurant (which turned her off restaurant food for life when she found a mouse in the soup) then as a cleaner of a large office building, and eventually a seamstress. As the Italian community grew in the 1950s, so did Lidia's circle of friends. She was very happy when one of her sisters came to live nearby.

Lidia's three children, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren were the loves of her life, but she "adopted" me because her own daughter lives "too far" in Hamilton, ON. Whenever I phoned, it made it easier if I began, "Hello, my Italian mama," because she knew exactly who she was talking to, and she would often reply, "My daughter, you been away too long. You sick?" Other Lidia-isms -- "No to Fi'e Guys with Fries! I cooka my own food!" "Dat'sa da life," and "Goooda luck!" used both to exclaim over any kind of news or to wish someone well. How I loved her accent, though it sometimes made it difficult for me to understand her over the phone. She made me wish I could speak Italian!

The last year of Lidia's life was probably her most challenging because she was a social butterfly who loved to share food and stories with everyone she met. It was nearly impossible to visit without Lidia serving some kind of food. After losing Ralph to cancer, she found it hard to be alone -- and then the pandemic hit. Because she was unsteady on her feet, I worried about her, and sure enough, she had a few falls that left her bruised and sore. But she kept on going, determined to live out her life in her family home. 

I tried to check in regularly, usually standing at the door of Lidia's porch, though it took a while and many COVID deaths in her beloved Italy for her to understand why I would no longer come into her kitchen. Through the summer, we managed many visits in her back yard because she and her sons let me plant corn, peppers, tomatoes and a friend's perennials in her garden and greenhouse. 

Whenever I stopped by to water plants, I tried to make sure that Lidia and I sat properly distanced on the patio to chat, though it was always hard to dissuade her from bringing out cookies and coffee. If Shadow was with me, she gave him bits of ciambellini, and if it was late in the day and I complained about not knowing what to make for supper, she often had a perfect idea about what I could do. She gave me my one and only lesson on making gnocchi, and everything I know about cooking with squash blossoms, I learned from her.

When the weather got colder and we couldn't sit outside, I phoned each week, just to check in and make sure she was okay, and whenever Lee and I took our evening neighbourhood dog-walk past her house, we would look to be sure the hood light over her oven was on, a sign that all was well. But one evening in early December, only the porch light was on. So I texted Alfonso, and learned that Lidia had a stroke and was in the Glenrose Rehab Hospital, going through tests. About ten days ago, he let me know that she had been diagnosed with a brain tumour, and this morning, he let me know that she had "passed."

I have many reminders of my friend... a few perennials in my yard, my Lidia rose bush, a couple of houseplants she gave me, a couple of embroidered linens she created for her hope chest as a young woman, and the aforementioned espresso pot that has become my "Lidia coff" Sunday morning ritual. 

How I will miss my friend who, in her own words, "spoke English like minestrone," mixing it with her native Italian. I will miss the way she and her boys teased each other in "Lidia's Restaurant -- Please leave a tip" as the sign over her kitchen door announced. Lidia's voice was always the loudest, and her laughter was contagious. 

I will miss Lidia's phone calls and how she sometimes got my phone number mixed up with that of her neighbour next door, who is also named Maria. I will miss the way she could cry one minute and roar with laughter the next, her emotions always close to the surface. I will miss her way of looking at the world with deep faith in God, and optimism in spite of life's sorrows and struggles. 

Lidia, how blessed I was to know you. Thank you for being my friend, and for all your kindness since we met in 2013. I hope you and Ralph have had a joyful reunion! You both have a room in my heart. I have been missing you a lot over the last three months, and I hope that when you see those pink flowers (Lavatera, they’re called) in God’s garden, you’ll remember me, too. I look forward to a cup of espresso together with you and Ralph in heaven. I love you, my friend!

Lent again, sigh

Remember the beginning of Lent last year? When we received ashes on our foreheads instead of having them sprinkled on the crown of our head like this year? Lent began, as it usually does, before the pandemic, and then it went on, and on, and on... as a friend said, The Longest Lent Ever!

In many ways, to me it feels like Lent never ended. In the past, I've spent my Lents fasting from certain things so as to appreciate their Creator more, and to remind myself to be more grateful for the many blessings in my life. But the pandemic means that the thing I value most, being close to family and friends, is replaced by staying away from them indefinitely. Even with the vaccine coming, it still feels like it's going to be a long wait.

So this year, I feel like a two-year-old ready to throw a tantrum. "What, You expect me to do another Forty Days, as if these 344 days of pandemic weren't enough? I don't wanna! Waaaaahhh!"

But then my sad little heart gets up off the floor and says, "Well, okay, Holy Spirit, I guess I can continue with your plan at this time. I can continue to fast from being with the people I love for the sake of the health and well-being of my community. I can spend a bit more time in prayer, fast from a few daily things that I know I've been taking for granted. I can creatively give the alms of my time, talent and treasure by reaching out to those who need the support I can offer from the abundance with which you have blessed me."

And I know that, in the giving of myself, my sad little heart focuses less on its losses and more on the joy it can bring to others. In not taking things for granted, I savour their goodness more. And in spending more time in prayer, my heart shifts from preoccupation with my petty concerns to a deep desire to rest in the heart of the Creator who sustains us all, and to follow the Holy Spirit's inspirations to do her and his will.

And in doing those things, my sad little heart becomes a joyful little heart set on serving others and making Lent worth living, even in pandemic times.

Sunday Reflection: A pandemic's gifts

Today's reflection is brought to you by 

Job 7:1-4,6-7.

These days

it's easy to feel like Job,

that biblical character 

who lost everything.

We complain 

about how hard life is,

the long labours we face

until things are better.

We see the months of emptiness,

the blandness of our days

behind and ahead,

the nights of worry,

the misery all around us

(and especially,

in the news).

Honestly,

though we are body- and soul-weary,

more often than not

it's a relief 

when our nights

give way to morning.

It's like we are 

wishing our lives away

in feeling hopeless,

though we know life is short.

We forget

that

God surrounds us 

with good,

visible 

if only we lift our eyes.

Remind us,

You 

who made all that is,

that Creation

and our puny selves

are held 

in hands 

much gentler

than our own.

Help us 

to let go of our misery

and see you...

and to gentle our own hands

and hearts

to care

where care is needed most.

+Amen.

* * * * * * *

I don't know about you, but lately it feels like there's so much complaining going on that I want to stick my head under a pillow and stay there. 

Yes, all that we have lost because of this pandemic -- our connections, our freedom, our sense of security, our old ways of doing things, our very equilibrium -- is weighing us down, depressing us, shortening our tempers, and trying our patience, if we have any left.

So we might be able to relate to Job, who lost everything dear to him. Have we really lost everything dear to us? Really? I hope we can see that there is always something good that comes, even out of loss. I've been dealing with a rather serious loss for the past couple of years, and though it hurts, it holds gifts in its hands, too. In the end, Job came to understand just Who was in charge, and once he did, when he put his faith and trust in the right place, things dramatically improved for him. As they have for me. Life is about learning to let go.

We don't know when the pandemic will end, but we have to believe that we also will see things improve if we have the patience of Job, and put our faith and trust in the right place. Freaking out about the things we can't control (vaccine shortages, for example) only makes life more miserable. Focusing on "months of emptiness and nights of misery" (Job 7: 4) only dims the light of goodness around us.

Last night, I participated in an online gathering with a dozen girlfriends from High School who hadn't met since a party at my house in 2015. We shared about the things that have changed in our lives and how we are coping with this strange time we are in. With educators, moms, health care professionals, caregivers, an engineer, a librarian and a chef in our group, it was an interesting evening... one that filled me with hope. Though we all face different challenging circumstances, we celebrated our long term friendships and the recent marriage of one of our group, and we listened to and cared for each other even though we were scattered around five cities in two provinces. As one friend laughed through her tears, "Thanks for the therapy," I suspect we all felt the value of our connection. It was better than therapy in my books (and I know therapy)!

It reminded me that when we reach out to each other and find common ground, hope rises from our brokenness and brings us light to move us forward. Even though this pandemic causes a lot of pain, it has the power to remind us of the goodness in you and me.

In the week ahead, I invite you to connect with a friend you've lost touch with. Perhaps that reconnection can be one of the pandemic's gifts for you.

Mental health practices in a pandemic

What have you done for your mental health lately?

Bell Canada, one of our communications providers, is marking its eleventh annual "Let's Talk" day, focusing on mental health. They post a video (that I'll share below) and donate five cents toward these mental health initiatives each time it's viewed. They'll add another five cents when we use their "Let's Talk" promotional images on social media platforms (for example, a Facebook or Instagram photo frame).

Besides supporting Bell's efforts to assist mental health, I'm giving some thought to my own mental health, and I invite you to do the same. What are you doing to lift your own spirits in these strange days of pandemic? Here's my list, some of which I manage to do daily:

- physio exercises (to repair a sore shoulder) 

- a pot of tea (to keep myself hydrated) 

- morning meditation (trying to let go, let be, be inspired to make a difference)

- Tai chi (to keep my body in shape)

- a walk with Shadow-dog (to keep him from driving us all crazy)

- some cheerful tunes or an amazing symphony (with or without dancing)

- creativity (these moodlings, or maybe some other writing)

- a word puzzle or sudoku (to keep the neurons firing)

- one piece of fair trade chocolate (antioxidants!)

- a video or phone call with people I love (beyond my home)

- a bit of effort to encourage others in some way (my life is not just about me!)

In honour of "Let's Talk" day, I phoned three friends this morning, people who, like me, are hunkered down at home, and struggling with the strangeness of these days. I realize that not everyone is able to live as physically distanced as I do, or able to give much thought and effort toward their mental health on a regular basis. 

But maybe it helps to be aware that our bodies, minds and spirits are so connected that even if we can't invest a lot of time or energy into defined mental health practices, anytime we get up and move, eat something healthy, breathe deeply, hear inspiring music, appreciate beauty, see the face of someone we love, or stroke the fur of a beloved pet, that we are contributing to our overall wellness, which adds to mental health.

And if that's not enough and you are feeling lower than you've ever felt, please, please, talk to someone. Share your struggle. We all need help now and then, and we all need to talk things out with people we trust. I do that at least once a month for my sanity's sake, and daily with my partner. Whatever works for people is what I want to support.

Here's Michael Buble in that lovely little "Let's Talk" video I mentioned earlier.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUY-rizctHA

 

And if that didn't cheer you, here he is again, this time singing a tune that never fails to get me up and dancing, with a big smile on my face... wanna dance with me? Appreciation to Bell Canada for its "Let's Talk" initiative. Be good to yourself and everyone else today!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdRIDS6UmYU

Livestreamed Ecumenical Prayer for 2021

My prayer life during this pandemic has been different, but good. The only thing I am really missing (besides the people with whom I usually share my faith) is the almost monthly gathering of people for ecumenical meditative prayer with scripture, silence, and the songs of Taizé. But I've found a way around it, sort of.

We can't all gather together to sing and pray in these days of pandemic, but I've figured out how to broadcast prayer from my own home via Facebook. I was a bit worried about infringing on music copyrights, so I contacted the Brothers of the Taizé Community, and they don't mind if I use recordings of their music interspersed with readings and prayers during the pandemic. In fact, Brother Jean-Marc wrote, "We are glad to hear about the ecumenical prayer that you hold, and we would certainly encourage you to keep going even if you can only meet online at present."

So I have set up a schedule of nine Sunday evening prayers throughout 2021, and I invite you to join me online via the Taizé Prayer in Edmonton and Area facebook page, which you can find by clicking here. It's not like singing and praying together in one place, but it's still a good opportunity to lift the needs of our world to God. Our first prayer coincides with the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, and incorporates prayers that will be used in other local prayer services as well as prayers from the Taizé Community. 

It almost goes without saying that unity (my word of the year!) is what our world really needs right now, so feel free to invite others to join us, as united hearts are the only thing that can change our human trajectory...

That poem

 For me, the most moving moment of the Inauguration of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris was this young woman's impassioned delivery of her poem, The Hill We Climb. Well done, Amanda Gorman... words do this no justice, you've used all the right ones.

st. Father Mike, pray for us

Father Mike -- around
the time I met him.

My heart broke a little when I received a text message from my friend last Tuesday morning telling me that Father Mike had died. I had been praying for him since the previous Sunday, hoping, when I heard that he was in hospital with COVID-19, that he would pull through. But, as Father Mike said in a last video made just before he got sick, "God is always mysterious, that's what makes it exciting." I just wish God had different plans this time around...

I met Father Mike 35 years ago, when my friend Pauline died because of unexpected complications from what was supposed to be a fairly routine heart valve replacement. He was the priest at her parish at the time, and his gentle pastoral presence for Pauline's family and friends helped to ground us at a time when we could barely get our heads around the death of someone so young. She was only 21.

Because Pauline was a student at our local theological college, her funeral was held in the chapel there, and organized and presided over by some of her friends. But Father Mike and his pastoral team were the ones who held the grieving family during and after the funeral, and I remember Pauline's mom speaking very fondly of him every time I visited her in the years that followed.

Not two years after Pauline's death, her dad was killed in a search-and-rescue mission plane crash, and the family was plunged into grief a second time. Again, Father Mike and his team came to offer the family what consolation they could. Mom Plumbtree, as I called Pauline's mom, counted on Father Mike's friendship until he left the parish to become rector at St. Joseph's Basilica downtown, and beyond. She often reported on where he was and what he was doing when I visited, his friend right to the end. He presided at her funeral, too, nine years ago.

Father Mike also found the proverbial five minutes of fame when he handled the marriage of Edmonton's most famous hockey player while at the Basilica, and developed a lifelong friendship with the couple. I picked up a signed hockey jersey from Father Mike for a L'Arche fundraiser once -- he had pull with many Edmonton sports heroes.

Father Mike was the kind of man who had a heart for others, who cared enough to spend time and really listen to a person's questions and struggles. He wasn't one to stand on Catholic ceremony or traditions that excluded people. I loved the mischievous twinkle in his eye when he was pulling someone's leg, or they were pulling his. He spoke his heart, even when he disagreed with the official teachings of the church on certain issues, so although he became the Archdiocesan Chancellor for a time, his views probably disqualified him from ever becoming a bishop. He was one of the few priests I ever met who talked about his belief that women should also be priests, never mind the hierarchy's rules. He called women to leadership positions whenever he could, and if I'm not mistaken, my last real conversation with him was at the funeral of my Roman Catholic Woman Priest friend, Ruthie, about how well she carried her vocation.

I've seen him a few times since, as I often walked my dog around the residence where he was living for the last few years of his "retirement" that really wasn't a full retirement -- he kept busy filling in at parishes when priests were away. I always liked his homilies because they were short and to the point, no theological gobbledygook, just sensible, practical Christianity.

In these days of pandemic, it strikes me that we need more wise men like Father Mike, people who cut to the heart of the matter, who call people to honesty, who see the value of every person and exclude no one, who listen deeply, and who celebrate God's mystery among us. Father Mike was a good man, a good priest, and a good friend to many people. And to me, that ranks him with the folks we call saints.

st. Father Mike, pray for us. And please greet Pauline and her parents for me!

His funeral is online January 20th at 11 am at https://www.facebook.com/archedmonton.

The last word on the basement tomato experiment

Last night I dreamed about tomato plants heavy with big, red, juicy fruit, at least a dozen tomatoes per stalk, growing in pots in my very own laundry room. And then I woke up to reality...

Well, we tried. We really did. We grew a few handfuls of tomatoes in our basement this winter... and there are probably a few handfuls left ripening on the vines even now. But overall, I must admit that our "green wall" wasn't really worth the time or electricity required to grow enough tomatoes to garnish a few Christmas salads.

Lee and I had great hopes for our 18 happy little plants at the beginning. They flowered like they meant to produce enough tomatoes to get us through the winter. I pollinated them daily with my little water colour paintbrush, watered from the bottom to try to keep the fungus gnats to a dull roar, and sprayed their leaves with milk solution as often as necessary to try to handle an outbreak of powdery mildew.

But those little plants needed more. It seems they were stressed because they didn't have enough soil to really stretch out their roots, and the soil became nutrient depleted over time. Our grow lights simply weren't strong enough to make up for the lack of true sunlight, the powdery mildew kept spreading, curling and drying previously healthy leaves, and the gnats -- oh, the gnats. We complain about them daily because they've now made homes upstairs in my houseplants, too, and are always flying into our faces.

Five or six salads with lovely red and gold tomatoes and cherry tomatoes have graced our table, and though they do taste like real tomatoes -- as opposed to the cellophane tomatoes from the grocery stores this time of year -- they are nowhere near as sweet, juicy, and delicious as summer-grown tomatoes. 

I guess grow lights, tap water and oscillating fans are no substitute for the sweetness of sun, rainwater and gentle breezes provided by Mother Nature. Which also explains why the flavour of cellophane tomatoes isn't worth their price. They've grown in hothouses, not under Mother Nature's care, and probably lost food value during shipment.

I've also realized that growing tomatoes in my basement is nothing like backyard gardening -- at first, I was enthusiastic, but now I see that I really do need a winter break, a time for catching up on indoor chores, taking a break from dirty broken fingernails, and recovering my enthusiasm for a new season of growth -- outdoors!

I have reconciled myself to the idea that tomato plants are not meant to be grown in pots in basements. I'm also certain that my pioneer grandparents wouldn't have dreamed of a tomato or cucumber in the winter unless it was preserved in jars in a warm August kitchen. 

The fruits and vegetables that we North Americans choose to eat "out of season" are usually shipped huge distances from other parts of the globe this time of year using vast amounts of fossil fuels. Often, the farmers who grow our winter produce are barely paid for it, but by the time it reaches us, our so-called supermarkets get away with charging outrageous prices because we are willing to pay for Chilean Christmas tomatoes... or Venezuelan Valentine's Day strawberries. 

Our seasons -- and our freezers -- have a wisdom all their own. Summer is meant for fresh garden food and for preserving or freezing the abundance we can't eat at the time. Winter is for enjoying those preserves, for quiet evenings, and for dreaming about starting next year's garden. 

So tonight, pasta with pesto, tomato sauce, and last summer's wax beans, all from the freezer. Though I've enjoyed the few tomatoes our basement experiment has yielded, I certainly won't need to repeat it. 

Sunday Reflection: On Being Beloved

Photo by Jude Beck on Unsplash

Today's reflection is brought to you by 

Acts 10:34-38.

You love us all,
O God.

Each one of us 

is your favourite child,

and so is all of creation.

Clearly, 

my heart is not so big as yours.

I only want to love 

the people who do good things,

who care for the oppressed,

who love their neighbours and pray for their enemies,

who love their enemies and pray for their neighbours.

But we are all 

your Beloved,

neighbours and enemies alike.

You are present 

in every single one of us,

and ask us to see 

your presence 

in each other

no matter who we are 

or how we behave.

Clearly, 

my heart is not so big as yours.

Loving our enemies... 

doesn't come easily.

Thank you for loving me, 

Beloved.

Enlarge my heart to love as you love.

+Amen.

What's the good word for 2021?

Happy New Year! Those who have been following these moodlings for a while probably remember that every New Year, rather than making a bunch of New Year's Resolutions, I choose a word to focus on for the 365 days ahead. 

I have to chuckle a little when I look back at the word for 2020. One year ago, I picked the word COMMUNITY, because certain struggles and challenges in 2019 made me withdraw too much from some of the people I love, and I needed to reach out and include them more fully in my life rather than quietly indulging in my own pity party. I also wrote that

if we want to continue as a human race, we need to put our divisions behind us and become COMMUNITY when it comes to world peace, caring for our environment, eliminating poverty, working for the rights of the marginalized, and the list goes on... There are so many issues that have to be tackled by good people who care, and though we all have different pet concerns, perhaps we can agree that the common good of ALL, no matter the stripe, is what we need to work toward. Because really, our divisions are just our fears being given too much credit.

Dog walking view, January 2, 2021

I launched myself into 2020 with optimism and the desire to connect with others. I set up a full schedule for ecumenical prayer in different churches in the city, put together some lovely recipes for baking with my friends at L'Arche, and found a wonderful job with some marvelous people involving a lot of really great music (one of my passions). But after only 8 shifts at the Winspear Centre for Music, COVID shut everything down. Concerts, baking, ecumenical prayer. Everything except my daily dog-walking routine, a community of me and Shadow-dog! (Thank heavens for my husband and daughter being here, too, or I probably wouldn't be laughing at my 2020 choice for word of the year. They were a pretty great little community, most days!)

Community has also been something a lot of us find at a certain physical distance or online if we are fortunate. After the initial lockdown was eased somewhat, in person opportunities (with masks) became a possibility. I managed to join the Sunday Community of Emmanuel at the Bissell Centre, and felt like I had come home in so many ways, even though physical distancing and COVID protocols (taking temperatures, hand sanitizing, providing bagged snacks instead of lunch, masking, and wiping everything down with bleach) were in play... until November/December, when case numbers took off and doors closed again.

I suppose I could try a do over with COMMUNITY as the word of the year. But in this time where we must stay apart for the sake of our health system and the vulnerable people in our midst, I've decided that instead of physically distanced community, I want to use 2021 to focus simply on UNITY, especially after the storming of the Capitol Building in Washington DC yesterday.

In my understanding, UNITY doesn't mean that we all need to think the same, act the same, love the same, have the same skin tone, believe in God the same, or hold the same political views. Rather, it means that we are conscious that, although there are many things we disagree on, we can work together for the good of all. Unity asks us to set down our hurt and anger and outrage and try to understand others in a way that invites them to work with us toward the beauty, goodness, and truth that we are all created equal, and the reality that really, we are all one family that needs to come together, not just for our own personal good, but for the good of our earth, especially post-COVID, whenever that time comes.

So my word of 2021, my meditation mantra, is UNITY. In my morning prayer, I am asking God of many names to unite our hearts daily. And I hereby vow to unite with others who desire to make the world a better place in whatever way I can. Maybe by writing letters. Signing petitions. Telling jokes. Smiling at other dog-walkers from that physical distance. Participating in Zoom meetings. Planning for a positive future even in the midst of this strange time. Wearing my mask for the sake of the vulnerable. You get the drift.

What's your word of the year?

Farewell to 2020

Last walk of 2020

Like many people, I suspect, I've been giving a lot of thought to this year of 2020. There's a lot about it that we have complained about, some of it rightly so. But the bellyaching about minor inconveniences has driven me a little bit bonkers, because most of it has come from people who are very well off in comparison to our essential workers, medical staff, and those who were struggling due to marginalization and injustices since long before the pandemic was declared.

I guess that many of us had certain expectations of 2020, and then when the world was forced to slow down because of COVID-19, some of those expectations were dashed. But how bad was it, really? It was so bad that 1.81 million people have died. That's horrendous for every single person who lost people they love, and there's no getting around that kind of grief.

But... do we still have the love of our family and friends? Do we have a roof over our heads and food on our tables? Have we found new ways of connecting to the people who are important to us? Does nature continue to revive us when we spend time outdoors? Has our earth had a chance to breathe because of a lower level of consumption of its resources? 

No, we probably didn't travel great distances, and we may have sacrificed many things for the sake of the health of people we love, but the fact is that life changes in the blink of an eye all the time, it's just that we generally live in denial about that fact since it hasn't happened on a collective basis in North America since the World Wars.

2020 has been a year where we have been forced to realize that our way of life isn't as secure as we imagined it, and as a result, we have seen both the best and the worst of people. But to me it feels like rather than taking the credit or the blame ourselves for the way things have been going, we are assuming that if we can sweep the old year out the door and get a vaccine, things will automatically be better in the new year. The problem is that if we continue playing fast and loose with the truth, and if our leaders continue to choose wealth over wisdom, we'll be in worse shape yet in a year's time. It's up to us to demand better of ourselves and them.

Remember the cartoons of the old man year being followed by the baby new year? This afternoon, I made my own version of Old Man 2020, with his truthful comment, "But none of this was my fault!" If I was to do a follow up cartoon, I'd definitely remember to put a mask on him, and have the 'old man year' offer counsel to the 'baby new year' along the lines of, "Do your best to develop a thick skin. You'll need it!"

Throughout the year 2020, perhaps we have rediscovered the problem -- we've become a very individualistic society, which hasn't been very helpful in a time when we all need to pull together for the sake of the most vulnerable, and for ourselves. So I was delighted to discover the words of the US civil rights leader, John Lewis, who died earlier this year, in my inbox this morning. And I want to end this difficult year with his words, as an antidote to our individualistic tendencies in North America, and an encouragement toward positive change in 2021:

Study the path of others to make your way easier and more abundant. 

Lean toward the whispers of your own heart, discover the universal truth, and follow its dictates. 

Know that the truth always leads to love and the perpetuation of peace.  

Its products are never bitterness and strife. 

Clothe yourself in the work of love, in the revolutionary work of nonviolent resistance against evil. 

Anchor the eternity of love in your own soul and embed this planet with goodness. 

Release the need to hate, to harbor division, and the enticement of revenge.

Release all bitterness.

Hold only love, only peace in your heart, knowing that the battle of good to overcome evil is already won.

Choose confrontation wisely, but when it is your time, don't be afraid to stand up, speak up, and speak out against injustice.

And if you follow your truth down the road to peace and the affirmation of love, if you shine like a beacon for all to see, then the poetry of all the great dreamers and philosophers is yours to manifest in a nation, a world community, and a Beloved Community that is finally at peace with itself.

-- John Lewis with Brenda Jones, 

Across That Bridge: A Vision for Change and the Future of America 

(Hachette Books: 2017, ©2012), 208.

My "Uncle Vic" ring

My Uncle Vic is an amazing man, one of those people whose sometimes gruff exterior holds a heart of gold, the kind of guy whose straight face suddenly surprises you with a wink you didn't see coming. I didn't know him very well as I was growing up because he lived in Saskatoon, 520 km from my home, and when we did visit him, our visits were short because there were numerous relatives to see from both of my parents' families. But I always liked catching up with his kids, and seeing Uncle Vic and my dad kibbitzing. 

Over the last few years, I haven't been to Saskatoon, but my parents have told me some interesting stories about Uncle Vic. He got into and really enjoyed barbershop singing with a group in Saskatoon -- he's always had a great singing voice, coming from a pretty musical family. My kids were amazed by him and my dad harmonizing at a family reunion/birthday party a few years ago, as he was a great-uncle they had only just met, a part of their grandpa's life that they had missed out on. Vic was also a jack of all trades, having more varied occupations over the years than any of his brothers, or so it always seemed to me. 

Not long after I started my short-lived teaching career, I remember visiting with Uncle Vic and Auntie Jennie on my own steam, having driven all the way to Saskatoon without the rest of my family, a first visit as a young adult. We went out for lunch somewhere and caught up on life in general. When I learned that Uncle Vic was managing a jewelry store, a lightbulb went off in my head. I showed my uncle the birthstone ring I was wearing, good gold with a cheap imitation emerald that had a bad chip.

"I can fix that, no problem," he told me. "Just leave it with me." When I insisted on paying for the repair, he waved me off, saying it wasn't worth fretting about. So I gave him the address of the school where I was working in rural Alberta, and sure enough, about a month later, the school secretary handed me a very special package. My ring looked brand new, and I was so delighted! I sent Uncle Vic a thank you card and wore that ring proudly for many years, until my knuckles started to thicken and I couldn't slide it on and off my right ring finger very easily. I put it in my jewelry box, and only wore it on my birthdays.

In his retirement, Uncle Vic wasn't content to rest on his laurels, and took a job as Walmart Greeter in Saskatoon. The next thing the extended family knew, he was an internet sensation, because someone on a high-traffic Facebook page named him as their favourite greeter and all around good guy. There were dozens, if not hundreds of accolades from customers who appreciated his friendliness and his willingness to go the extra mile in helping people, and it was wonderful to see him recognized that way.

Unfortunately, 2020 has not been kind to my uncle, and my parents have been keeping me informed about a dementia diagnosis and other health issues. When I heard about Uncle Vic's struggles, I went straight to my jewelry box and put on my ring as a reminder to pray for him, Auntie Jennie and their family. The problem was that it only fit loosely on my little finger, but I took a chance and wore it anyway. In the midst of this pandemic, my aunt made the difficult decision to move to Calgary and stay with their daughter's family so she would have help caring for Uncle Vic, and many prayers from many people went with them.

About two weeks ago, after a wintry walk with Lee and the dog, I suddenly realized that Uncle Vic's ring was missing from my finger. I had switched from leather gloves to warmer mittens halfway through a walk around the Legislature grounds, and when I checked my gloves, mittens, pockets, the floor of the car, and every other possible place where the ring might have ended up, I grieved when I couldn't find it. Even more so when my dad called four days later to tell me that Uncle Vic was in hospital, diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.

It goes without saying that this is a tough Christmas for Uncle Vic and his family. They are never far from my thoughts and prayers. I was thinking about him this morning as I was sorting our clean clothes to put away... and when I went to put a couple of sweaters in my dresser drawer, I noticed a glint of gold and green at the bottom. 

My ring probably slipped off the last time I put my sweaters away, just before the walk! I laughed out loud, delighted to see it again, and slipped it onto my finger. There it stays, a constant reminder of these loved ones who are walking the toughest road right now, that of illness and decline, one that we all walk in different ways and at different times. I keep them all in my prayers, and ask God for wise healthcare professionals and gentle moments of music, simple joy and deep love for my uncle, aunt and cousins.

Update: Uncle Vic died early in the morning of January 6, the Feast of the Epiphany, with his daughter Nadine by his side. It's a comfort to know that God's presence was revealed (Epiphany means revelation) to him that day. Prayers for his family in this time of loss are appreciated.

Christmas Prayer 2020

I think it was an old "father of the church" named Irenaeus who said something like "God became human, so we could become divine." A very loose (and inclusive) translation, but one that I have been reflecting on throughout the days leading up to this Christmas.

Over the past few years, my heart and my belief in God have expanded to the point that I cringe whenever Christians insist on Jesus above everything, as if to say that all the other faiths in the world, many of them far more ancient than Christianity, are somehow less valid or valuable than Christian belief. I wish that everyone was able to take a course on World Religions, and learn that there is so much more to faith and spirituality than what our churches teach us.

But the one thing about Christianity that I really do appreciate is the idea that God wanted  to be with us, to live the life we live, to suffer as we suffer, to rejoice as we rejoice, and to teach us that if we rely on love to guide us, the world is a better place. So Jesus came in solidarity with our human condition, to remind us that when we let God's love guide us, we are more like the force that sustains the universe than like pitiful, fallible human beings.

After a month of meditation about God-coming-to-be-with-us, this is my Christmas prayer for all of us in this strange pandemic year:

You,
O God,

Emmanuel,
came to be with us
in all our struggles,
to demonstrate humility and selflessness
and to remind us 
that when we let love for all that is
guide our ways,
we are as close to you
as we can come.

Be with us
and move us
to reach out to all who are struggling
so that in our own struggles
we learn the solidarity
you came to teach us.

Bless us
and help us.

Help us to re-make our world

so that those who have much

divide what we have with those who have little,

so that those who are in sorrow

receive reasons for joy,

so that those who are sick 

reach good health once again, 

and those who are lonely

are surrounded by your love in us,

your people.

+Amen

Ecumenical Advent Prayer 2020

If you're looking for a bit of Advent reflection, here's an opportunity in these pandemic days to pray for our healthcare workers, those who are sick, and for an end to COVID-19 and its many related issues. I'll be livestreaming the prayer at 7 pm (Mountain Time) from the safety of my own home, thanks to the wonders of the internet, and we'll spend some time with scripture, silence and song, in a way that we can sing along in our own places with no worry about catching or spreading the virus. 

The icon of the Mother of Tenderness, above, written by a brother from the Taize community, will grace the prayer space as we anticipate the birth of Christ among us in these dark days. Those of us who long for God's light can sing it together. Feel free to copy the link below and share with friends...

Please join us by clicking here: https://www.facebook.com/events/381497772952842/

The green wall

For the last few years, I've been puzzling about how to have fresh tomatoes in winter without buying the tasteless greenhouse varieties that travel long distances -- and use more energy calories in the fossil fuels that transport them to me than my body could ever derive from them. A first world problem, to be sure, but I can't help it that I love tomatoes all year round. That's why I can and freeze as many as possible every autumn -- but even so, nothing beats a fresh, homegrown tomato!

So this year, we're trying an experiment. We cleared out the corner of our basement nearest to our furnace and moved our grow lights in from the greenhouse (which doesn't get enough sun or heat to grow anything in these darkest wintry days). Lee put up a few shelves on brackets, and I set 18 little tomato plants on them, curious to see how they will grow.

October 18

It's been over 40 days since this picture was taken, and things have been progressing. At first, we had issues with fungus gnats because tomato plants need good moisture or the fruit ends up with blossom end rot, and maybe I was overdoing the watering. Now I'm watering from the bottom, thanks to the recycled lasagna trays under each pot, and the gnats, which come from the top inch or so of the soil, have died down. 

Then, there was the issue of pollination -- which I have been handling with a small water colour paint brush, pretending to be a happy little bumblebee. And last week, I discovered that some of the plants were developing bad cases of powdery mildew fungus, which I spray treated with 1 part milk to 4 parts water solution. A good trick, that. I'm thinking to use it on my rose bushes next summer. 

These tomato plants aren't quite as hearty as I would hope -- maybe I planted the wrong varieties, their roots can't reach down through 3 meters of good soil, and I'm not fertilizing enough (my vermicomposters are just getting going again after being outdoors all summer, so there's no worm casting fertilizer yet, and I refuse to buy chemicals). The bone meal stuff we have leftover from the days before we got wise to more organic means simply isn't soluble. 

At least our plants get stalk thickening breezes from a couple of fans we've set on timers, and they are flowering and fruiting, so we should have a few edible tomatoes somewhere down the road. It's an experiment, and if there's a yield, that will be wonderful. 

Of course, I've already reaped the bonuses of keeping my fingers in the dirt in spite of winter, and of watching things grow!

The Social in social justice

Photo by Matt Collamer on Unsplash

Last week, I was asked to write an article for the national social justice newsletter for the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. I share it here, for reflection purposes, as it sort of ties in with my previous moodling.

The Social in Social Justice 

As a volunteer for the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, I have never questioned the need for social justice for those living under the poverty line. It’s clear with every home visit that there are people in need, but our faith teaches us that if God’s justice truly lived in our land, no one would be struggling to survive. No one would have to choose between food or a roof overhead, and society’s fears about unemployment, crime, addictions, loneliness, and mental health issues would simply cease to be. Instead, we live in a world where the gap between rich and poor continues to grow, and where racism, sexism, homo- and transphobia continue to take their toll on peoples’ mental health and well-being, especially during this pandemic. 

But even with the corona virus raging, SSVP volunteers continue to think, talk and act toward making social justice a reality. Those who are able in these days continue to deliver groceries and furniture to our sisters and brothers in need while trying to follow the protocols set by our health experts and other community leaders. We continue to engage in advocacy for those who live on the margins by contacting officials who hold power when it comes to improving public policy, and participating in fundraising where possible to increase our capacity for outreach. 

But sometimes I wonder if we’re maybe missing something. I don’t question the need for social justice, I just wonder where the Social part of it is when it comes to really connecting with the marginalized during this pandemic. I wonder, is it enough to make a few phone calls and deliver some groceries? Is a load of furniture really the most important thing for that family of migrants? And even before covid, when Ray used to come to the Clothing Room every week for another pair of mittens because “somebody stole my last pair, and I know I’m only supposed to come once every ninety days, but my hands are cold, and I have a buddy who also needs mittens, and it’s really good to see you, Maria,” was it really mittens that he needed most? 

The Social in social justice is about creating social change for the common good of all, but isn’t it also about building human connection? As a volunteer, I find it easy to focus on the need for justice, the things that we can do to improve the lives of those who are struggling to make ends meet, or to find a job, or to get out of situational domestic violence. 

Providing material things is relatively easy. But often it’s the immaterial that is the deeper need -- the need for community, the need to be seen as a valuable and valued member of society. I guess what I’m wondering about is whether all this doing we are doing doesn’t also need an equally large side order of being during this pandemic. How can we be available for more than just the time it takes to drop things on the doorstep when we are told that we have to keep social distance and it’s cold outside? How, when making contact with someone in need, can we listen more, to offer not just material, but also emotional and spiritual support even when we can’t be so physically present? How do we build up the family of God in a time of pandemic? 

I suspect that while many of the brothers and sisters we serve through our work for the Society of St. Vincent de Paul appreciate the goods we deliver to them, what they really crave is eye contact, a listening ear, some cheerful conversation, and perhaps a heartfelt prayer that things finally go right in their world, a prayer that mentions them, their loved ones, and their needs, and gives them an extra helping of hope. 

 As for Ray, I saw him on the street the other day, and I have no doubt that he was looking for my smile far more than those mittens. It gets lonely on the street sometimes. He was delighted to have a socially-distanced chat when I asked him how he was doing, what was new, and whether he likes living in his sister’s basement. His eyes teared up when I told him that whenever he comes to mind, I pray for him. 

For me, that’s the Social in social justice – a ministry of presence to let the people we serve know that we see, hear, and truly care about them, COVID-19 protocols notwithstanding.

Sunday Reflection: When did we see you...?

Today's reflection is brought to you by

Matthew 25:31-46.

I'm not sure you can be any clearer.

The way to bring heaven to earth is

to feed the hungry.

Give drink to the thirsty.

Welcome the stranger.

Clothe the naked.

Care for the sick.

Visit those in prison.

It sounds so simple

but what you are 

really saying

is that we must

stop worrying about ourselves and

work to fix 

the real injustices

that surround us.

We must serve you

not only by loving life's beauty,

but serving 

to alleviate life's harsh realities

and the injustices

we prefer to ignore.

Christ Creator,

give us the courage

to know

ALL of

humanity,

ALL of creation

as our family,

and to do what must be done.

Help us 

to really understand 

that when one suffers,

all suffer,

and to act

as your hands, 

feet,

and heart in our world.

+Amen.

* * * * * * *

Below are a few ways to do what can be done locally in these covid times. If you have suggestions for broader outreach, please share!

Bent Arrow Traditional Healing Society

The Bissell Centre

Boyle Street Community Services

Edmonton Food Bank

Hope Mission

Homeward Trust

The Marian Centre

The Mustard Seed

The Society of St. Vincent de Paul

Short Story #27 -- Nine-Year-Old, Reimagined

Yesterday when I sat down to work on a Writing Club story (for the club composed of my best friend, Cathy, and me) I was surprised to see that it had been over two years since I'd written the last one, The Killer Whale and the Meadowlark. Cathy suggested the topic for this one -- an opportunity to look back at some event that impacted our younger selves and to respond to it differently.

One of the defining moments of my life was when I was nine years old, and my parents moved our family from small-town Saskatchewan to Alberta's capital city so that they could take over a church supplies store. It was a big adjustment for a little prairie girl. I knew so little about the big wide world, and how was a nine-year-old supposed to handle racism?

One day, helping at my parents' store, I picked up the first badge mentioned in the story below, and when I wore it to school and the kids asked its meaning, they started to call me “Holy-holy.” My nickname didn’t bother me as much as some of the other girls’ nastier nicknames bothered them, but we were all bothered, no question. Here’s that life event reimagined, as my affirmation for anyone who was ever teased or bullied by other kids.

Nine-Year-Old, Reimagined

MCWC #27

November 17, 2020

There was no way around it, these kids were strange.

And loud, and rude, and mean.

Not all of them. But more than I was used to, including the gossipy girls and Tom S and Tommy W. Maybe being a city slicker made you that way. But Diane wasn’t a city slicker in my old hometown, and she had seemed loud and rude and mean sometimes, like these kids. Especially when she swore, and when she tried to make my baby sister eat a mud, leaves and sticks pie. And now it seemed like I was going to a school with lots of Dianes.

Moving from a Saskatchewan hamlet of three hundred to a city of 450,000 was a shock to the system. So was going from a quiet class of 17 to a noisy group of 22. I liked Mrs. Collins, but some of the kids, not so much.

Laurel was paired up with me as soon as I walked into the classroom. She was allowed to pull her desk next to mine so she could help me find my way through the textbooks and activities that the other Grade Fours had already been working through for two months. At first it seemed like she was really excited to show the new girl around, like I was her prize, not to be shared with the other girls. But then at recess two days later, she got into a fight with Tommy W, and I was shocked by the way her fists flew. She seemed to expect me to jump in and help her, but I didn’t understand that until after, when she told me I was useless. After the fight, I overheard her and some of her usual friends whispering about me. The words “small town nobody” filtered into my consciousness, and Laurel abandoned me.

Joan, Karen, and Patricia told me to ignore the mean girls, who were mean to them, too. The unlikely trio who adopted me were quieter than Laurel and her friends, but they were also made fun of by the mean girls, and were picked on relentlessly by Tommy W and Tom S. Patricia’s dad was from the West Indies and her mom was from Holland, so she wasn’t quite as white as the rest of us. She was a small but feisty target for the class bullies’ entertainment, able to shout them down sometimes, backed up by Karen, the tallest kid in our class, and Joan, who invoked her big brother’s name whenever she deemed it necessary to strike real fear into the school bullies’ hearts. They all seemed to know about John, and backed off when she threatened his intervention.

Even so, no one could stop Tom S and Tommy W from chanting at Patricia from a distance, “Paki! Paki! Your dad is a Paki and so are you!” until she was in tears and they ran off laughing.

What on earth was a Paki?

I had no idea or explanation, but Joan, Karen and Patricia would sometimes launch themselves after the Grade Four bully boys and chase them all the way across the school yard, and pull their hair or kick their shins. These chases made me really uncomfortable because I didn’t want to fight like Laurel had. I could see that the boys’ nastiness came out of boredom. It was always a relief when they were busy playing soccer with the Italian kids at recess because they forgot to bother us. But when the Italians got fed up with Tom S and Tommy W’s cheating and kicked the two bullies out of the game, look out! They took it out on Patricia.

Joan, Karen and Patricia seemed kind of strange compared to friends back in my old hometown. They didn’t want to play games at recess. Mostly, they stood around talking about cable TV shows and pretending they were Pinky and the Tuscaderos. They liked to gossip about David Cassidy, Donnie Osmond, or whoever was the flavour of the day on the cover of the latest teen magazine that Joan’s big sisters subscribed to.

And they had so many ‘clubs.’ At recess, I never knew whether it would be The Six Million Dollar Man, Tiger Beat, Fleetwood Mac or any number of other fan clubs from one day to the next. It baffled me, but I tried to seem interested, though I had little idea what they were talking about because my house didn’t have cable TV yet.

After three weeks in Grade Four, Mrs. Collins pulled me aside one recess and asked me how I liked my new school. “It’s okay, I guess,” I said, “and the work is pretty easy so far.”

“Well, Maria, how would you like a bit more of a challenge? The tests Mrs. Hilderink gave you in the Resource Room say that you’re reading way above Grade Four Level, so I was wondering if you would like to go for Grade 5 Language Arts with Sylvia and Simon? This afternoon, Sylvia will take you with her to Mr. Wozny’s room, and help you figure things out.”

Sylvia was one of Laurel’s friends, but I soon discovered that, away from Laurel and the rest of the mean girls, she was okay. I didn’t like Mr. Wozny very much, but he was pleased with my reading and writing, and I kept up just fine. Plus I got to know a few of the Grade Five girls, who seemed nice, if a bit aloof.

Mr. Wozny put me in a desk right behind Anna. She and her older sister were the only Chinese Canadian students in the entire school. She was smart and pretty, I thought, and nicer than Sylvia. She had a quiet smile and a sharp sense of humour, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that she was always having to use it to deflect nasty comments from some of the other Grade Fives, who seemed to be jealous of her.

One Friday morning recess when Joan and Patricia were pretending to be Police Women and had commandeered Francis and Karl to be bad guys, I noticed Anna walking along the edge of the school fence all by herself. I ran over to her, and saw that she was crying.

“Anna, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing you should bother with.”

“No, I want to know.”

She sniffed and used her mittens to dry her eyes. “Michael, Scott, and Greg were just calling me a Chink, like they always do. This time, they tripped me and ran away before the supervision teacher saw it.”

The boys were off in the distance, pointing at us. I frowned and found a crumpled Kleenex in my pocket to give to her. “Is Chink anything like Paki?” I asked.

She gave me a funny look, then laughed out loud. “I guess so. But my family is Chinese, not Pakistani.”

“Neither is Patricia’s family.”

“No, the bullies don’t care what they call people, they just want to pick on someone for being different.”

“But we’re all different.”

“No, you’re white.”

“I know. But they treat me different because I don’t know how to be a city kid. And because my parents run a church supplies store and I’m learning lots about church stuff.”

“That’s not like being Chinese.”

“I guess not, but I think you’re so smart and pretty and funny, and they just need to see it.”

“I don’t think they can,” she sighed. “They just think what they think, and it’s like they all think the same.”

“Well, they need to think different,” I said. “Maybe there's something we can do. In the meantime, can I hang out with you? Karen’s not here today, and I don’t really like being part of the “Police Woman Club.”

“Sure.” Anna smiled a small smile. “I’m not an Angie Dickinson fan either.”

“Who’s she?”

“What else don’t you know, country girl?”

I took a chance and asked Anna a lot of the questions that I had been afraid to ask the other kids in my class since arriving in the city. She told me that Pakistan was closer to China than the West Indies, and that the bullies probably were confusing Patricia with the Pakistanis who were immigrating to Edmonton to get English educations. Anna’s own family had emigrated because things had been difficult for them in China. And Anna knew way more about cable TV shows than I did.

When the recess bell rang, we started back to the school, but Michael, Greg, Scott, Tommy W and Tom S were waiting for us mid-schoolyard.

“Chink, Chink, Chinky-Chink!” Michael, Greg and Scott screamed. “You eat cow stomachs for lunch!”

Tommy W and Tom S circled around me, vying for the older boys’ approval, saying, “Why are you hanging out with the Chink, Small Town Nobody?” Tom S pounded my back with his fist for good measure, watching for the Grade Fives' grins, catching me by surprise. Angry tears jumped to my eyes, but I just stood there, staring them all down.

“Huh,” Tom said. “She doesn’t hit back.”

“Don’t you know that Jesus said to turn the other cheek?” I said quietly. “Leave us alone.”

“Chinky-chink and Holy-holy,” Michael yelled, as Anna and I moved closer together and glared at them. The boys all took up the chant as they ran for the school.

“Are you okay?” Anna asked.

“Yeah, just mad. And I’m thinking about what to do about it.”

When I walked into the Grade Four classroom, Karen was telling Mrs. Collins that she came late because her dad forgot to wake her up. She was eating a cereal bar, and it looked like she had just climbed out of bed and put on her clothes about a minute before. Her socks didn't match and her hair was sticking out all over the place.

“Rooster Tail, Rooster Tail!” Tommy W and Tom S started another chant, and for a few seconds, I was glad they weren’t chanting Holy-holy anymore. But Karen was livid. “Don’t call me that!” she said loudly, her face turning bright red.

Mrs. Collins silenced the boys with a look, and started a Social Studies lesson. But whenever the teacher was distracted by other kids, Tom and Tommy were quietly rude and mean, goading Karen with her new nickname, which they had shortened to Rooster. By the end of the day, she was in tears, too.

When I got home from school, Mom told me that the evening’s plan was to rearrange and reorganize another corner of the new store. When Dad came home, we all had a quick supper and drove back downtown as a family. My sisters went straight to the kids’ corner to look at the picture books and read to each other, but I wandered around aimlessly, thinking about Anna and Karen and the bullies.

“Maria,” Mom called, “would you mind sorting out this box for me? All of these pins have gotten mixed up, so they need to be separated back into their proper compartments.”

There were doves, crosses, rainbows, happy faces, lambs, peace symbols, more different pins than I had ever imagined. I dumped the whole mess out onto a countertop and it took me a good half-hour to sort everything. When I was finished, I had about two dozen pins that didn’t fit into the box with the others, including ten round badges of different fluorescent colours that bore the cryptic message, PBPGINTWMY.

Mom checked on my organizational efforts. “Thank you, Maria, that’s much better.”

“You’re welcome, Mom. There are a few single ones that don't match any of the others. And what do these fluorescent ones mean?”

“I’m not sure. Is there a sticker on the back?”

“Just the company name.”

Mom went to the order desk and pulled out a catalogue. “Let’s see if we can find out. She flipped through the pages until she found it. “Hmm, it seems to be shorthand for ‘Please Be Patient. God Is Not Through With Me Yet.’ But if you have to ask, maybe no one else will know what it means either. Do you want these things?”

“Sure. They give me an idea.”

Monday at school, I gave out my own reinvented fluorescent badges to Anna, Patricia, Karen, Joan and a few other quieter girls on the playground who were picked on by the bully boys, or who the mean girls gossiped about. My badges said IASAKAFABANOWSOKWTTA.

“I-a-sak-a-fab-a what?” Joan tried to pronounce it.

“What does it mean?” everyone asked.

When I told my new friends that it was a new club to protect them from the nasty kids, and what the letters meant, they laughed, but they nodded when I said, “You don’t have to tell the nasty kids what it means. You’re the one who knows who you are. Just point to your badge, walk away, and find other friends with badges. We’re a club, remember?”

The loud, rude and mean kids were flummoxed. “What language is that supposed to be? And what does it mean? What does it mean?”

“That’s for us to know and you to find out,” we replied, and I’m not sure even one of us ever revealed our badges’ secret super powers, probably because it was hard to get the saying right. Even I got it mixed up, but it translated as

I
Am
Smart
And
Kind
And
Funny
And
Beautiful
And
No
One
Who
Says
Otherwise
Knows
What
They’re
Talking
About.