Saturday, December 31, 2016

Leaving it to Freddie and David

I have read multiple "2016 Fuck You and Good Riddance" messages busting all over social media. From a global, community and personal perspective, there is an agreed consensus that 2016 basically sucked ass.  I don't have any enlightened message or solution moving forward to 2017. I leave it to the tangled and honest lyrics from Freddie and Bowie.

peace and love to all of you,  and let's give 2016 a fabulous send-off! xo vagi

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a01QQZyl-_I

Can't we give ourselves one more chance
Why can't we give love that one more chance
Why can't we give love give love give love give love
Give love give love give love give love give love
Because love's such an old fashioned word
And love dares you to care for
The people on the (People on streets) edge of the night
And loves (People on streets) dares you to change our way of
Caring about ourselves

(Under Pressure:  Bowie,Queen)

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Bits and Pieces


For weeks, many thoughts, issues, reflections,  and realities have been swirling around in my head - almost like a snow-globe when shaken and all the shiny bits and pieces do their dance before settling on the bottom.  I apologize in advance for the regurgitation of my consciousness, I just hope my written vomit is not as vile as the result of the American election that I witnessed as a Canadian ex-pat living in Colorado.   It is not even the reality that the voting population has put into power someone that I do not deem a leader - in any capacity, it really is a "Little Bit of Everything" as sung by Dawes.  It is the "suggested daily dosage, or the matador and the bull" as the lyrics suggest that contributed to my rant today.

In my native Canada, our immigration online portal crashed last night and the sweet gal at my morning caffeine stop is hopeful that I can adopt her.  But, my dear American neighbours, Canada is not the paradise that you perceive.  From the late 1800's until 1996 (yes the late 1990's) we displaced First Nation children from their loving parents and put them in "Residential Schools" to take the "Indian" out of them.  One of our Rock icon's, Gord Downie, frontman of the The Tragically Hip, is taking on our inhumane treatment of First Nations head on (while he is dealing with a terminal brain tumour).  My dear friend, Queer Advocate,  and proud First Nation said to me:

"Don't understand why it took 150 years and a famous white guy dying of cancer to bring reconciliation to the forefront. But I'll take it" @teddysyrette

So to learn more about our "less than perfect" society, check out Gord's swan song, "A Secret Path" and our flawless appearance might grow an ugly pimple or two:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yGd764YU9yc

Both nations collectively:  Canada and America as close neighbours, distant relations, reluctant dinner guests - must try to dig through the shit and find common ground to build the bridge and grow. And while my opinion may be swayed by the fact that I have planted my family from the protective arms of loving "Mother Canada" into the Land of Opportunity - it is my optimism, my hope and my knowledge that there are good people out there who are like minded.

So yes, it is a a puzzle that has fallen apart - in both Countries.  But, people will still get up and go to work, children will go to school, and day to day life will continue, and it must.  I continue knowing my goal is to create opportunities for my children and raise them to be compassionate and loving humans.  It starts there.

Be kind and love each other, xo vagi





Saturday, September 3, 2016

Joy

One morning this past week (like many mornings), I was driving my boys to school, only to quickly get to a meeting immediately after drop-off.  My reality is filled with work commitments, volunteer obligations, and family schedules and duties all swirling around in my head at once.  That was my brain heading to this meeting.

So while the endless lists were moving through my head like items on a conveyor belt, I had a moment, a glorious moment.  Moving toward me, in the opposite lane was a gentleman riding his bike.  He was of a "certain" age, close or past my own 49, his silver locks blowing in the wind, he was laden with a backpack and pushing hard with the traffic.  What stopped me to pause was his smile.  He had the biggest ear to ear grin that I have ever seen.  His commute involved only 2 wheels, not 4, he was physically challenging himself and he was in pure bliss.

I felt joy and calm and my list did a full stop.

My strong reaction to this bike riding commuter and his grin forced me to contemplate the thoughts around joy and what they mean.  If you search "joy" it is shocking how we are all searching for it, examining it and exploiting it.  It is my humble opinion that the joy we experience is not internal, (so Fuck that find 'joy in yourself' theory), it is rather a feeling caused by external forces that relate to our senses.  Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch and their finite qualities combined with an outside stimuli create that reaction of joy (pure pleasure, pure peace, pure happiness).  Perhaps if we stop for a moment, for only a few seconds as I did to appreciate that smile, we can let joy be felt.

Make your list, what makes you feel joy?  Here is mine:

Sticking my toes in the sand and feel the water lapping on my feet

The smell of a freshly bathed baby

Holding hands with my best friend

Watching my children sleep

Sitting outside and feeling the sun on my face

A sunset

Don't over analyze your joy, just let it happen.


This blog is dedicated to my friend who continuously reminds me of the little things, and time with her gives me much joy, to A.W., love vagi xo

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Food, Family and Friends

Growing up I was surrounded by food.  Luscious smells, textures and tastes.  My family gathered, constantly, it was expected, it was what we did.  My maternal Irish grandmother, Mary Ellen or Mamie as she was known to all, continuously had a pot of something simmering on the stove.  Her cookware was stained and heavy with a dull silver finish - not my fancy Le Creuset of many colours that I now own.  She was born Christmas day 1898 and raised nine children during the depression.  I cannot imagine the hardship and how different her life was compared to mine.  I can still see her by her pot, large wooden spoon in hand, slowly stirring away (usually with a cigarette poised).  Her repertoire of recipes were simple and honest and a direct reflection of needing to “make ingredients go far” to feed many.  I can taste her tomatoe macaroni soup (heavy on the macaroni, not meat), robust chilli (with lots of beans) and what she called BBQ Hamburgers (which were sloppy joe’s, her style).  Every Saturday the pot was on, and you were expected to come, before or after your ballet class, grocery shopping, house cleaning - and if you didn’t make an appearance, you got a phone call.  It was a time to pause, to reflect, to connect with aunts, uncles, cousins and as I got older I dragged a friend or two along.  

I try to continue the tradition of door always open and the “soup” is on.  From family to friends to neighbours and colleagues - share a meal, spark an idea, have a conversation.  What we do around our “tables” however they look, is how we nourish our bodies and our souls.   

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Third Time Offender

Last week I attended a conference;  went to meetings, met new people, and your life story tends to surface in those polite back and forth conversations.

"Where do you work?"
"How many children do you have?"
"Wow, that is a big age gap between your first and second"
 
And then the conversation turns into an explanation of why my first born is ten years older than my second (while the third was a close runner-up).  I then have a "duty" to explain the marriage that resulted in the outcome of my almost 23 year old son, was from a previous union.  Which leaves me to ponder, should I reveal, that prior to husband #2, there was a husband #1 (at a ridiculous young age) and now I am on #3 (hence, 3rd time offender)?

Is it an "offence" in the traditional sense of committing a crime?  I definitely have (and do) feel that sense of failure and shame that I couldn't hold it together to endure the test of time.  As I was struggling with this, on my twitter feed this article popped up. 
 

The Inconvenient Truth About Love - And Divorce 

http://ideas.ted.com/the-inconvenient-truth-about-love-and-divorce/?utm_campaign=social&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=t.co&utm_content=talk&utm_term=social-science

The Teller's examine and provoke the "norm" of guilt and shame when it relates to the end of a marriage.  "Guilt, shame and a sense of failure significantly raise the emotional cost of divorce." They give Gwyneth Paltrow's example of her self-prescribed "Conscious Uncoupling" when her marriage unravelled - and I had to admit that I was one of those "WTF" responders to this new definition, I had a sense of relief that this possibly gave way to a method of "no blame" and acceptance that sometimes love cannot endure. 

The ending of a marriage results in a myriad of issues and complications - perhaps if we all judged less and stopped promoting the current adversarial methods, we would have a society that understood the pain and process of all dealing with or who have dealt with a divorce in their lives.

I will leave you with another quote from the Teller's "let's imagine a world where empathy and support trump old fashioned concepts." I think this translates to many aspects of our culture.

Be kind and don't judge, xo vagi

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Endings and Beginnings

During my life I have moved often, flipping and flopping from home to home without much thought or regard.  In my childhood it was due to my parent's divorce and my rebellious nature, and later into adulthood, due to my own marriage collapses.  I did not build a firm home base until moving back to my Northern Ontario hometown in late 2006.  By summer 2007, my husband and I bought "the house." It was my dream home of old creaky floors, airy front porch and in the neighbourhood of my youth.

"Home"

It was not perfect, the main floor toilet froze in winter, mice occasionally found their way indoors in the spring and it did not have the "essential" master ensuite bath.  It was solid, it was honest and it was welcoming.  Our street had front yards and sidewalks and stoops to sit and meet.  Kids were watched as they toddled recklessly upon their first flight of freedom from the clutches of their parents.  Hockey games were played seriously with tennis balls and torn nets.  Dogs greeted people passing by for a head scratch.  The street was its own community, we created it and made it a great place to live.

Our home was continuously full of an extra one or two or ten at the dinner table (much to the dismay of the resident teenager).  Children were nurtured and fed (bellies and souls), and whether they were mine or not did not matter.  Family was not defined by blood lines or legal agreements, if you crossed the threshold, you were family.  Friendships were made by both young and old and many have been maintained defying distance and geography.

It was a house of ideas and strategies and community plans.  A career flourished from the third floor office cubby.   Political strategies discussed around the dinner table and issues raised and challenged. Much wine was poured and meals shared. 
 
This physical structure of bricks and mortar is no longer ours.  The neighbours and children whom we all watched and loved have also left our street of open porches and open hearts.  One of those neighbours and  I were chatting last night about my feelings of loss and nostalgia (who I consider a "sister"),she was helping me to understand and accept my good bye permanently to this chapter of my family's life in this Northern town.  She guided me to poet and philosopher Mark Nepo, and one of his quotes forced me to reflect this change, "life is where you are." So while my geography and walls have changed, who I am has not.

Find your "homestead," be there for your neighbour and be kind.   I will contemplate these things as we search for our next "home." xo vagi 
 

Friday, May 6, 2016

Ma!

I picked up my phone this morning and all the text said was, "Ma!" I knew it was an excited, proud and an opening to ask how well things were going.  I am "Ma" to many it seems, this person has been my confident, my editor, my wine drinking companion and my ally.  He is not my "son" by birth or any other formal arrangement - he is just part of my life, as I am part of his.

The "Ma!" was due to the fact that a presentation he gave that morning went really well.  I know his day to day activities even though he is in Toronto, Ontario and I am in my little hamlet of Louisville, Colorado.  This spiritual son of mine (I have 3 others "born" to me) is a Two-Spirited Advocate.  Teddy is Indigenous Canadian, identifies as a gay male and looks great in a dress and heels.  His retelling of the morning was full of amazing pride due to the positive impact on a group.  He further stated that he, quite possibly maybe even "saved a few lives." My morning activities were not as dynamic:  cleaning up dog poop, doing laundry and tackling some enormous weeds - no social change work here in my yoga pants.

My Teddy
 
His timed text to me was intuitive as I have been struggling with my semi-retired state as full time hausfrau.  I do write grants on a casual part time basis, but left a robust career in the Not-for-Profit sector that was, quite honestly, burning me out.  I continue to return to that debate of value proposition.  Why do I not value what I do?  I am a full time mom.  Why do I struggle with that description?  My partner is sincere in his support that he could not pursue his career full speed ahead without me managing kids, home, and all the rest.  I think North American society has judged the roll of caregiver as something less than worthy.  Is my (and everyone's) contribution to society measured based on job title and salary?
 
The "Ma!" came at a time when I needed some confirmation of my worth.  We should not solely identify ourselves by how we earn a paycheque, but rather how we support each other.  I am a very proud "Ma" today and will continue this internal debate, and hope that I realize that I am valuable due to my love and kindness that I am able to give freely to others (especially all my "kids"). 
 
To all the caregivers out there (moms, grandmothers, sisters, aunties, mentors) a very happy Mother's Day, be kind to yourself and each other.  Love vagi, xo 

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

1929

In a society where a nude selfie of a certain celebrity crashes the internet, my motivation on this International Women's Day is to remind each other (men and women alike) of the history (and continued struggles) of women world wide.
 
In my native Canada, women were not deemed PERSONS until 1929, 87 years ago.  The "Famous Five" as they are known:  Emily, Irene, Nellie, Louise and Henrietta fought until women were equal to men in Canadian legislative law.  WTG Ladies! 
 
My grandmother who was born December 25, 1898 did not realize full "personhood" until she reached 31 years old.  
 

The theme for this year's International Women's Day is #PledgeForParity.  The United Nations is pushing "Planet 50-50 Gender Equality by 2030." How can we make this happen? Equality is still a struggle in both developed and non-developing countries.  We need women as political leaders, decision makers, advocates and mentors to each other.  Women in poverty need the tools to earn income, be safe and support themselves and their families.  It is not an easy "Band-Aid" fix, it will need global messaging and awareness to bring forth this movement.

I take inspiration from my Canadian sisters, back in the early 1900's who continued to fight and won.  We all need to keep the fight going, not just on March 8th every year. And it is not just women supporting women, but the great fathers, brothers, sons and political leaders that support the cause and empower women world wide.  We all need to work together to make change happen.

Support your sisters (and your brothers) xo vagi 

Friday, February 19, 2016

Objects, Obsessions and Obligations

Objects, Obsessions and Obligations were incorporated themes in Betye Saar's artist statement at a recent exhibit I was privileged to see.  Those three words stayed with me beyond the hour or so that I strolled through the galleries of her work at the SMOCA.   It was my first glimpse into this artist's life (still going strong at the age of 90) and it rocked me to my feminist core.
 
 
Betye graduated in 1949 from UCLA and her work expands over six decades.  Her use of the everyday from her past:  washboards, linen handkerchiefs, bird cages, ironing board - all transcend us (the observer) into her world as a black woman and the struggles she endured.. The subtle "KKK" embroidered on white linen, fresh on the line and starched to perfection, sent me back to a life that I cannot even imagine.  I do know Betye must be a badass. Very few women (let alone black women) aspired and completed higher education.  Her message in her creations do not subdue the situation of the racism and struggles of her time, they amplify it loud and clear. 
 
 
 
Before I left the exhibit, a guide (very proudly) told me that Bety herself came and oversaw the installation, attended the opening, chatted with patrons, signed books - all with no signs of fatigue.  Bety is a warrior and I am happy to have discovered her.  I will forever keep those three words in my memory:  Objects, Obsessions and Obligations and use them as reminders of what we cherish or hold onto in our lives and how to release those that don't service us.
 
Find your warrior, xo vagi