Christmas

I really think it is sad that some places don't allow "Christmas" to be used as a word at this special time of year. Happy Holidays just doesn't cut it for me. Merry Christmas, or the English "Happy Christmas" says it all. Christmas is a time of year to be grateful AND happy. There's some special feeling in the air that has nothing to do with Santa. It's almost palpable. And non-Christians should just deal with it. We Canadians are, for the most part, entirely tolerant of others' beliefs.

From the crowded malls and harried shoppers, to the little kids I hear in my store crying because they don't know why their friend is getting that particular thing and they can't have one... and who is Santa anyways? Something is missing; particularly when I hear how most parents speak at this time of year when they are rushed and stressed and the poor kids don't know what the heck is going on nor understand why.

Why does Christmas have to mean over-eating, over-indulging, over-spending, keeping up with the neighbors? Why did the mall Santa's never impress me as a child? How many little kids really think that they're with Santa when Santas are allover? They probably don't. But give them that to hang onto.... it's a small thing that could be so much more.

Christmas shouldn't be gifts given to children because their friends are getting them. Advertising sucks all year long but at Christmas, it makes me gag. There's the guilt advertising that absolutely kills me. You know commercials that would have you believe that you will not be loved, valued nor appreciated should you neglect to provide blah blah blah as a gift to your lover, spouse, child...

Christmas should be about wood fireplaces, a tree, carols, stockings, hot chocolate, snow outside, Church, family, a good meal, a big star in the sky and Jesus. That's all Christmas should be about.

Gone Fishin' without flies

Why is it that I enjoy fishing so much? It is, after all, not a woman's "sport". My girlfriends could never see the joy it gave me and if they did, they never understood it.
Some of my guy friends would take me with them to humor me. Sometimes they would laugh at me regarding my choice of lure. But most times the last laugh was on them because I would catch fish and they many times came up empty handed.

My one time, long time, since passed, friend Mike used to get quite frustrated. When we would fish, I was often lucky. I recall his practicing his fly-fishing technique religiously. One day he just had it up to his ears. I'd caught two trout. One rainbow and one brown.
"Here I am, doing everything perfectly, and you just throw a chunk of aluminum in there and get the fish!!" It was funny.

On one particular day, out in a canoe on Wapta Lake with a couple of serious fishing men, I decided to use a "buzz bomb" lure, some wobbly thing. Both men had a chuckle. After I landed a fine sized lake trout, their laughter was replaced by their frenzied scramle to find any "buzz bomb" they might have in their tackle boxes. It was priceless. The fish always seemed to come to me.

I always preferred the river. And since those days past, I have often found great solace in waking up very early to head out alone. The joy of those days would begin the moment the smell of my morning brewing coffee hit my nose. Packing things to take with me added to the anticipation. I would sip coffee, fill a thermos, pack a lunch, check my tackle box, rod and reel....

Heading out of doors before the birds had even begun to sing, I would breathe in the mountain air deeply, almost down to my toes. It was always cool, even in summertime, at that time of day. I would drive down the highway a bit and park the truck off the road. Then I'd hike a ways, over the train tracks and way down to the Bow.

No one ever understood my true reasons for fishing. I wasn't doing it to catch fish, although they were a bonus. I was doing it for the feeling of utter calm that would come over me. It was like a kind of healing meditation. There I would stand at the river's edge, no waders to be had, but happy. The water was with me and I was lulled by the sounds it made as it flowed by, over pebbles, big rocks, half submerged tree branches. The repetitive motion of my casting and reeling would soothe me for hours. I never thought about much when I fished. I simply WAS. I was in the moment, always. I'd note the vague sensation of rocks under my feet, I'd listen to the trees, yes, and notice the air, the wind, breezes or sun as they would touch my face.

Blue jays would sometimes watch me, safe at a distance, happy to stay awhile. What did they think of this strange human who would stand for hours, casting and reeling, casting and reeling? The pull of the lure as it traveled downstream and worked gently against my effortless sensation of bringing them back was some sort of constant companion for me. The pull never slowed and it was always there.

Lake fishing was never my preference, unless I had a boat handy, which was a rare thing. Once, though, I recall I just had to get out and as it was later in the day I did not want to go too far. I headed for a lake just north of Lake Louise. When I arrived, I was surprised to find that no one but myself was there. Though I suspect it was mostly popular for hardy swimmers who braced themselves against the glacier water. The lake was shallow and I later found out from others that the fish within tasted muddy. Shallow lakes were rarely a destination for me. But I was happy that day to just go through the routine of my standing meditation. No fish came my way..... unusual. But what did come my way, as the darkness approached, were bats. They showed up and flew around me but not quite at me. It took me awhile to realize that my reel was squeaking. Was that what was attracting them? Or was it the myriad mosquitoes that had showed up? I lit a cigarette to keep the bugs away from me and packed my things away. Was it the high pitched squeaky reel that lured the bats or was it the mosquitoes? I hope the bats fed well that night. Or do bats even eat bugs? What would I know, I just fish.

I love a parade in a cowboy town.

It's weird going to a parade by yourself. Especially when the people around you are a hard crowd.... not like the people in the town where you used to live. After awhile, I didn't care. I hooted and hollered and cheered for the bands... even though everyone else on the sidewalk just watched them and listened. I could barely believe it. It didn't seem right.

I met Dexter, a tiny little froo froo kind of puppy. I knew he was Dexter because three kids were hauling him around on a leash saying "don't do that Dexter." Or "Dexter, you can't go there." Or simply "Dexter, NO". What kind of place is a parade for a little puppy whose body length is about one twentieth of that of the leash? Puppy was shaking and looking scared. At last! A rescue and the mom picked him up and popped Dexter into her jacket. He was up there for quite some time and ended up falling asleep.

The lady looked at me strangely when I would talk to her, when I would make remarks about the parade. What a world, I thought, when you can't even speak to some lady you're standing next to on a parade route. After awhile, she seemed to accept the idea that I wasn't going to shut up. I made a comment about how dangerous it was that a little girl was standing in an advertising mini van, in the parade, with the side door open as she hung outside and waved. I thought that was crazy. Maybe because the woman with Dexter in her jacket was a mom; maybe because she finally realized it isn't so bad talking to strangers at a parade; maybe because she simply forgot herself: she actually agreed with me. Verbally.

Dexter woke up due to trail riders in "olden days" dress firing blanks out of all kinds of guns, just in time to see some "past it" fat cowboys on their poor horses. After recovering from both of those traumas, the puppy was placed on the sidewalk again to stretch his little legs no doubt. Wouldn't you know it but a family walked past and a tiny little toddler was wearing squeaky running shoes. Step step. Squeak squeak. Dexter was off! After the squeaking little feet. He pulled himself up short at the end of the long leash and back he went into the mom's jacket.

The aforementioned mom's children were all complaining that they were cold. It became like a mantra. I got a little tired of listening to them because apparently, they had all refused to bring jackets. (One becomes privy to this sort of info. when standing next to folks at a parade.) Yet when one of the many fire trucks showed up with firemen brandishing soaker water guns, all those boys were yelling "GET ME!!!". It was too cold outside for soaker guns. But that's what happens at a parade... kids forget that they were whining and what they were whining about.

Dexter fell asleep again. I took photos of the British Army guys, my neighbour's pipe band, and four guys who were dressed suspiciously like The Knights Who Say "ni!". They were hanging out with the entire would-be cast of MP and the Holy Grail. I missed the opportunity to get a photo of Jack Sparrow. Partly because I was absolutely stunned at the resemblance to the REAL Jack Sparrow and partly because he was moving too fast and never did stand still for one second. Merlin had his back to me the whole time he walked down the other side of the street.

A smiling citizen rode by on a huge black bull and I had to remind myself again where I was.

The old cars made me wistful. Beautiful old boats with people who lovingly care for them, performing miracles to keep them timeless; non-stop care and attention; a luxury that humans do not really ever know.

The Rotary Club had a guy with a microphone asking for donations but no one was coming forward for the money so mine went to the food bank instead. I cheered for the shriners and for a military band. I looked at the RCMP's red serge the same way I always do year after year at parades. They GOTTA do something else besides walk or ride. Or not.

I saw the street sweeper about a block away and decided that was a good time to head back to my car.

Bye little Dexter. You were one of the best things about that parade.

Everyone deserves to be happy.

I am wearing my long green velvet dress and silver shoes. I wend my way down the stone path past all the sea reeds and make my way to the beach. At each Celtic cross I stop and touch and feel their energy pour into my heart. The air is sweet and damp as I reach the small pier and the boat where the smiling wise man waits to row me over to my island.

He is elderly and grizzled and poorly dressed. He is smiling a beatific smile and doesn't speak although I hear him and I cannot put into words what he says. When we reach my island, he ties the boat and we walk together to the remains of a castle, the solid standing parts contain all manner of my favourite things. Thick, stained glass windows mark the castle walls... they are not fully graced nor seen as the rain and mist have come to cocoon me. Inside the massive castle door I see the warming fireplace and the dogs run to me before returning to their mats near it. The wise man lets me know that all is well. He pulls on a rope with pulleys and around my island the veil comes up. All within are safe and white light floods the entire dome. With a nod to the smiling man, I turn and exit, finding my way to the cottage that I love so very much.

Many roses and many dark grey stones. No wall is needed as I know I am safe, yet there is some time I need separation total. In my cottage I see my key lying on a dark poslished table just inside the door. It's a key I have never needed from the outside. I pick it up, it is also dark grey and it is old, cold and heavy in my palm. What peace this key has given me. For even within the safety of my island, I feel the need to lock the fears outside of this special place. In goes the key. Effortlessly I turn it. The silver slippers come off my feet and I walk toward a small room to my right, breathing deeply. I want desperately to sit and listening to the tall standing clock as it ticks beautifully next to my deep red comfortable chair. But something must be done first.

I enter the small room and turn the gas lanterns so that they are brighter. I pull aside some oak paneling and sit down at a sophisticated wall of IT equipment. it is inconguous, yes, but it has always been there for me. There is one functional yet otherwise unremarkable keyboard and a very large screen in front of me. I sigh with fatigue for I cannot help it. I reach for wine and pour some and sip and then place the large glass down carefully.

"Everyone deserves to be happy". I type and the cursor brings my words, hopes and determination to life. I stroke the "enter" key and sit back knowing that this message has been sent. That is all I need to do and this I know.

The comfort of my deep red chair awaits me. So there it is that I go. I take my wine and sit and eventually close my eyes and listen to the lullaby of the clock. It isn't long before I place the wineglass to one side and pull my white thick blanket over me and rest for who knows how long. My clock I never look at. My clock I listen to as I tell myself that everyone deserves to be happy and this becomes a mantra.

The wise old man is still smiling in the castle. He's sitting on a trestle and the dogs are hearing him no matter that his lips move not.

And this too shall pass...

Everything is transitory. When the Divas look at us from wherever they are, they see our entire lives on earth as about an hour in our time. Why do we persist in living in the past or worrying about the future when all we really have is now, and now, and now? How can a person live their life with any authenticity when he or she is not truly "in the moment"?

Everything is transitory. Your possessions never belong to you, you're borrowing them until you die. Everyone that you know and love or know and dislike or know and detest, well they will be gone just as surely as you will be gone.

Everything is transitory. So why do we cling? Why do we cling to anything? What is that all about? When did it come upon us this desire to fight our lives? Who are we to question destiny... and YES there is destiny and fate. There are far too many inexplicable things which happen for destiny and fate to be discounted.

Everything is transitory. Buddhists say that the only permanent thing is impermanence. That may well be the truth, but none of us seem to realize it. Particularly when we're down at the bottom of a slippery walled well with nothing but algae around and above us.

Is there not only one way to go from that deep down place? Everything is transitory.

Do I really want to go there?

God I hate hospitals. I regularly go to a specialist who works out of the local hospital and every time I go in there, I feel a sense of dread. Can people really get well in these places? Each time I walk through the door on my way in, I am reminded of my mortality. It is as if it is immediately re-emphasized. First thing I see upon entering the "lobby" is a wall of metal plaques on brick. Atop this wall are the words "In Memoriam". GREAT!! The Wall of Death!! People have died, donations have been made and they are immortalized by little pieces of metal glued to a brick wall. Did they die here or at home?? Whatever.... it's a depressing thing to see when one walks into a hospital.

After that initial shock, which isn't diminished for me over time nor with repeated visits, maybe I hear EMT's rushing people in through a "side door" on gurneys, maybe I don't. I walk down sickly lit corridors into the depths of the place toward the doctor's "office". The floors are too shiny. The majority of staff that I usually pass, volunteers I warrant, from their flimsy, clear plastic name badges and civvies; they always seem too cheerful. It is disconcerting.

Along the way I hear ominous sounding beeps and blips, seemingly from every room. Sometimes a lost looking soul wearing a faded blue gown and their own shuffly slippers wanders past me with a mobile IV drip. I don't want to look at their faces nor see their pain. They emanate confusion and their auras seem to project a sense of non-belonging.

I continue to walk. There may be a patient lying fast asleep on a hospital bed in a hallway. I don't see them as IN hospital beds, people are ON them. They're waiting for a room... or are they. Were they sleeping? I mentally cross myself as my imagination tries to get the better of me but I walk on and finally reach the waiting "room". It's not a room. It's divet off the freaky hallway and it's directly across from the cancer treatment areas of the place. Nine times out of ten when I am sitting in the waiting "room", the doors to the cancer place are left wide open. Emanating from within are more beeps and blips and I hear everything that's spoken. Why aren't the doors closed? I hear nurses and doctors words and more quietly the voices of patients. Why are the doors open?

Perhaps the decision makers have determined that no lay people have ventured so deeply into the place. Perhaps my doctor's "office" has been forgotten along with the waiting "room".

Ah, the doctor's "office". The only distinction between it and a hospital room is the lack of a bed. At least there's a place to sit down in there behind a closed door with a window and there are shelves with books on them.

I always exit the building via a fire door which is, ironically, only half a hallway away from the "office" and always locked from the outside.

Lord let me die IN my own bed and at home, whenever and wherever that may be.

Things my cat, Ankha, does... read it. Don't run away.

I have a cat who goes to the metal door in my basement suite and puts her paws on it to find out how cold it is outside. If it is cold, she shakes her paws and walks away with her nose in the air. If it's warmer, she starts yeowling and because she's an indoor cat, I won't let her out... this leads to the next thing she does:

When I don't let her out, she swats at my ankles and takes runs at me from across the room. Then, when I ignore said behaviour, she goes barreling into her very large cardboard play box and scrabbles around in it for 5 minutes or more. This is followed by mad dashes around the place and another trip to the door.

If I want to sleep in and Ankha thinks it's time for her breakfast, I often disagree. I know how many hours it has been seen she last ate. I try to pull the covers over my head. Firstly, she pokes my head beneath the covers by reaching in and prodding my skull. Then she pulls covers off my head and starts licking my hair. This usually does it and I attempt to get out of bed. Rather than stick around for a nice "good morning kitty" moment, she flies off the bed and straight to her food bowl. If I've slept 6 hours, it means she probably had something to eat about 6 hours prior. She likes to breakfast before she's due. This may explain, in part, her pendulous abdomen. And let's face it, she's too small a cat to carry a belly like that with any grace whatsoever.

When other cats stroll by outside the windows, Ankha couldn't give a darn. If a big dog does the same, Ankha couldn't give a darn. But if the neighbours' little Yorkshire Terrier happens to mosey along outside, the cat flies from window to window flicking her tail manically. Go figure. I think she wants to play and that cats and big dogs seem boring to her. Little hyper dogs are right up her alley.

Ankha will pull my hair elastics out of their box in the bathroom and fling them about at random. But buy her an expensive toy and she won't even look at it. Or if she does, it is with disdain. Actually, the look of disdain is more directed towards myself for being a silly human who is trying to play with a silly toy. No game. No deal.

She licks plastic bags or any piece of sheet plastic.

As soon as I have finished brushing her each night, she tries to bite me and then takes off and lies in the same spot on the floor with one of her back legs stretched straight out.

When she eats, her tail lays flat on the floor in the shape of a question mark.... always.

After she has her favourite dinner, New England Boil or Surf and Turf by Merrick, she sits in her chair, on her tailbone with her tail straight out in front of her between her legs. She licks her tummy for awhile. Then she licks her paws. Then she takes her wet paws and rubs her tummy with them.

I have not seen all of this behaviour in one cat at all. Come to think of it, I don't remember my other kitties doing these things. What a character she is. And whomever abandoned her is missing out on all of it.