Happy Birth Day to ME

I would like to tell you a little bit about my birth . . . but I don’t remember a thing. It must be due to aging. 

Somehow, I got from that January day in 1966, to this day, Jan. 14^th 2016. 

I didn’t get here alone. 

In counselling a few years ago, my psychologist introduced the concept of a “Circle of Support” to me. I think she wanted to ease my feelings that something was wrong with me because I needed (prolonged) counselling support. She told me that we all have a circle of support, and its members change through the ages and stages of life. 

I liked the image it evoked: all of those who support me, connecting around me to form a complete circle. And each of them with circles of their own; me standing in support of them. The circle signifies so many things for me: rhythm, completeness, love, inclusivity, wholeness, the sun, and the moon. 

My inner circle of support consists of family, friends, teammates, trainers, counsellors, mentors, teachers, facilitators, and specialists in health & well-being. And the outer circle of support consists of all the people who work to make my life easier and possible: farmers, city workers, gas station owners, drivers, repair and maintenance workers, those in the service industry, and many more. 

I am blessed to have been born in Canada, to have family who love me, to have friends who accept me as I am, and to have my needs met abundantly. Another fortunate part of my life is that I have been able to travel to many different countries--at least a dozen--and I have witnessed alternate ways of living.  

The “Loonie” year has taught me that habits are hard to break, and change happens slowly. 

“Our mission is to build a better world. To leave no one behind. To stand for the poorest and the most vulnerable in the name of global peace and social justice.” 
Ban Ki-moon, United Nations Secretary-General 

The world is still an inequitable place. But each year CHANGE happens, for example: 

-  The global under-five mortality rate continues to fall.(UNICEF)

-  The number of people who are newly infected with HIV is continuing to decline in most parts of the world. (UNAIDS)

-  Progress in stopping new HIV infections among children has been dramatic. Anti-retroviral medicines are becoming available to give to HIV pregnant mothers, so that the virus will not pass to her baby. (UNAIDS)

-  The number of people living in extreme poverty (<$1.90/day) around the world is likely to fall to under 10 percent of the global population in 2015, according to World Bank projections released in October. 

In 2015, I decided to make change. I dedicated a portion of my year to spending less money, and increasing my awareness about issues faced around the world. I wrote many blogs. I just counted them, and remarkably (and without planning) THIS is the fiftieth blog. How cool is that? Moreover, SEVENTEEN of you pledged your support to me, and my “cause” in some way. Thank you. Together we have made a difference. 
Mostly, over the last 365 days, I learned how easy is was to fail, to not even try, to get up and just pretend that I wasn’t interested in poverty and disease in the world, to reach into the bottomless cup of coins, and buy a latté—just this once. Spending money on things that I didn’t need was way easier than stopping to reflect on my needs, and those of other people. I think that we all know what to do to end world hunger. But, knowing doesn’t translate into action—NOT when it doesn’t affect us every day.

But, even charting my failure felt like some small success. If nothing else, I paid attention. People were moved, and they contributed to lessening the burdens—just by bearing witness. 

I am proud of what we have accomplished together. Canadian Humanitarian received financial pledges that wouldn’t have otherwise come their way, and that means that vulnerable and at-risk children will get the support they need to break the cycle of poverty. 

(If you are interested in their work, or want to donate to their work, click this link.)

2013 - Ethiopia

I arrived at Kid’s Hope Centre in Guelele on my last afternoon in Ethiopia. Three of us were facilitating a sewing project with some of the older kids. This was my fourth time to Guelele in the last seven years. On our first trip in May of 2006, we were introduced to Canadian Humanitarian, and to a group of forty young children who were just learning about sponsorship. After some singing, dancing and playing games with the kids, I asked if there were any children there who still needed a sponsor.

We were introduced to Mekedes.

Mekedes and me in May 2006

She was twelve or thirteen years old. She was a gangly teenager. She had a spark in her eyes, and a quick smile; she said that she wanted to be a doctor (they all did). The Guelele sub-city where she lived is a very poor area where local markets sell basic foods, old clothes and fresh produce. In 2005, a local NGO called YTH, partnered with Canadian Humanitarian to develop a community-based approach to caring for children in need.

That year, Mekdes was identified as one of a hundred orphaned and vulnerable children in the Guelele area. Her parents had died. She lived with her grandmother, who also cared for four other children. Her grandmother was a day laborer, and her income was inconsistent. The family had to live without basic essentials. When there is not enough money, boys are sent to school and girls are kept home. It is the role of the girl to take care of younger children, chop wood, collect water, go to the market and help their mothers, aunts and grandmothers. In times of desperation, prostitution may be the only way to make a living. Adolescent girls are at great risk. 

Canadian Humanitarian and YTH had resources (in 2005) to support fourty of those vulnerable children in the Kid’s Hope program, and Mekdes was chosen. Children were selected based on their personal circumstances, but also on the desire and motivation of the child.

Initially, the Kid’s Hope program provided the funds that allowed Mekdes to go back to her community school. It was a simple gift. However, over the ensuing years, Kids Hope has undertaken the challenge to break the cycle of poverty while helping children to find what they need to meet their unique potential. To increase the likelihood of success, CH uses a child-centered model that addresses the whole of the child’s life. This includes support in the areas of: education, family life, medical, dental, nutritional, social, emotional and mental support, life skills, programs for the guardians, research and expeditions that bring volunteers into the country.

Mekedes (left) in Feb. 2008

Mekedes, with me, Laurèn, Faven, and Yohannes, in October 2009

Mekedes in 2010

Mekedes in 2011

As a sponsoring family, we are unusual. Members of our family have seen Mekedes in Ethiopia in ‘06, ’07, ’08, and ’09; so we have been able to observe the kind of change that occurs over time. Moreover, Mekedes has understood that there are people across the world who are pulling for her. Hope.

On my last day in Addis in 2013, I met the manager of the Kid's Hope Guelele Centre, and told him that I was part of the family who has supported Mekedes these past seven years. I knew that she had just started University, and he asked me if I wanted to phone her. He led me to his office and picked up the phone, dialed, made a number of requests in Amharic, and then simply handed me the phone.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied.

“Mekdes! This is Wendy from Canada!”

“Oh! Hello. How are you?”

“I am fine. How are you?”

“I am fine.”

“You are at university.”

“Yes.”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“I am in Addis right now, I am sorry that I will not see you.”

“You are in Addis?”

“Yes, I have been here for three weeks.”

“Oh. How is Kristine?”

“Kristin is fine. She is at university too. She is not here.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Mekdes, I just want you to know that we are so proud of how hard you have worked.”

“Oh. (giggle) Okay. Thank you. I love you.”

“We love you too…. Continue to work hard. . . . Goodbye.”

“Okay. Goodbye.”

Faith is believing in something you can’t see.

Patience is waiting to see what will be revealed.

And wisdom is knowing that change is not always better, only different.

Salam.

5 - A SoCal Sabbatical

I am in Southern California (SoCal) on sabbatical. Yes. Yes I am. I am on sabbatical. (I know, I already said that.)

Did you know that the word sabbatical comes from the word sabbath? Of course you did. Well, I didn’t ever think about it. It’s not like a mother gets every seventh year (or seventh day) off work to “rest, or acquire new skills and training”. Nonetheless, here I am executing a “period of rest” from my customary work. 

Normally, I come to SoCal in January to get away from the dark season—lest I be seduced by the corruptive and addictive dark side of the Force, and cast as a Sith Lord in the next Star Wars movie.  

I come to California alone to unwind the effects that Seasonal Affective Disorder along with emotional overwhelm have on my life. While I walked along the beach on my first day, I realized that I worked really hard in 2015—as a writer, as a mother, and as a seeker of knowledge, wisdom, and right action. I realized that this year—my seventh year parenting Faven—I have earned a sabbatical. 

It seems that God started the first sabbatical—so it must be a good idea. After creating the universe in six days, He ceased work on the seventh day, and after that every seventh year was a sabbatical year where no planting was done, and the people and the land rested and rejuvenated. The church and academia picked up on the concept, and offered a sabbatical every seventh year to clergy and professors. According to The Sabbatical Coach, “This stepping outside one of our most insidious false identifications (the mistaken belief that I am my job) gives access to immense personal freedom and spiritual renewal. In fact the freedom to explore beyond the bounds of our normal routine is often essential if we are to connect deeply with ourselves and our vision for what is next in life.”

I am met at the San Diego airport by my inner self, and I am always so happy to feel her presence. I know, this sounds crazy, but it is the only way I can describe it. There are pieces of my authentic self that cannot exist in my Calgary life, and I miss those pieces, because—of course—they make me whole. 

What is it about being in SoCal that makes me feel so peaceful and joy-filled?  
The ocean. 
The ocean has rhythms and moods, and it changes dramatically in short periods of time. Naturally adaptive. My first afternoon here, it poured rain. I put on my rain gear, and headed onto the beach; oddly, I was completely alone. (Smile) The ocean had an angry sound, a thunderous crashing upon the sand that vibrated inside my body like a massage. The next day, the ocean rumbled—hungry, or seeking; reaching out and tumbling over itself, again, and again. 

The sand.
The fine sand that spreads for miles is like the cover of a book. It is much more than it appears. When I drag my heel through it, a black track forms. Down near the break water, the sand becomes a series of veins, or roots, where pathways of water flow with ease. And the ocean erases the steps and missteps; every single day you get to start over without any visible mark or reminder of what came before, all there is is this moment.

The Seagulls.
In 2012, I wrote about Jonathan Livingston Seagull on my Mumfullness blog. The California Seagulls are companions on my journey, whereas the Canadian Seagulls are scruffy, dirty, and noisy. Moreover, I am quite fearful of birds in general. I don’t like their unpredictability, and I have been known to throw an entire tray of french fries when attacked by seagulls in Vancouver. 
But on the beach, where they congregate in a supportive flock, I can watch them for lengthy periods, in the same peaceful way that one watches a newborn. Standing on the beach, they don’t do much, but their feathers create a picture of softness, and when their necks are turned and beaks are tucked into their back, they look like solemn meditators. 
Three times yesterday, a teenage girl ran toward a group of fifty or more birds, and they quickly took flight—toward me. Instead of screaming and laying face down in the sand—something I have also been known to do in the past—I stood still and watched. The fact that they can untuck their wings so quickly and take flight seems almost miraculous. They soared over the water and land, above, beside, and along with me. 
At the beach I am united with the seagulls,  they are attracted to me, and even when I have retired to my patio table at the end of the day, they sit, just on the bluff, in front of the patio railing, and I am certain they are watching over me. 

Water balloons
There are these little rubber blobs on the beach. The ocean has pulled them from their natural habitat, torn them apart, and laid them haphazardly along the shoreline. The vines that once held them securely in the water, lack the strength upon land, and tiny water balloons are scattered across the wet sand. They are the same colour and texture as a tourniquet (the rubber strap that gets wrapped around your upper arm when you get blood drawn). I love to step on them. They make a pop like a perfect grape makes in your mouth when you crunch down. 
Stepping on them as I walk across the beach is like playing a video game and getting all the red or pink stars. Every time I hear the crunch and feel the pop, I feel like I have been given bonus points, or extra “life”. However, sometimes I step on them and they sink right into the sand, what a let down. 

People
An elderly couple, spines already bent from aging, shuffle along the beach—jogging. Their matching outfits, white hair, and attentiveness to each other makes me smile. 
Young men with toques and shorts play frisbee on the beach. They are eager like dogs, and begin their run for the frisbee before it ever leaves the hand of their mate. 
Small children chase the tide in and out with giggles erupting out of them with the same rumbling cadence as the wave. I want small children. I mean, not right now on the crest of turning 50, but I want to go back and do it over again with my children. 
A petite woman holds her smart phone in one hand, gazing at it fleetingly, and then moving her body in some meditative dance. I laugh; if she needs her phone as a guide, she cannot really be letting go, and having the spirit move through her. 

  Yesterday I walked to the pharmacy to buy a wrist brace. After I made the purchase, I spoke to the young male pharmacist. “I’m on holiday here, and my tendonitis is acting up  . . so is the arthritis in my big toe (I lifted my foot, as if her were superman, and could see through my shoe), and—Oh—such an ache in my back.” He stared at me. “I think it’s the humidity,” I said. 
What am I, like, a 50-year-old grama? 
I pulled my ball cap down, and walked out muttering to myself, because it also seems that when I am on my own, I talk to myself.

I do love being here.

A sabbatical is the “extended absence in the career of an individual in order to achieve something”. I am achieving rhythm, and peace.

7 - Grama

My grandparents farmed near Silton, Saskatchewan, a small town at the intersection of a long dirt road, and a paved highway. The only things I know for sure about Silton are that we went for ice-cream cones there on hot summer days, and the park had a hand-built, larger-than-life elephant that we climbed inside of, and slid out through the elephant’s trunk. 

At the end of the dirt road—the one that rode like a rollercoaster, with hills just steep enough to cause your stomach to lurch and float—sat the stone and mortar barn that marked the edge of the farm. We kids leaned eagerly over the front seat, watching and hoping to be the first to spot it, at the end of our long trip from Alberta to Saskatchewan. 

The farm became a family summer camp, most years. We would meet there with aunts, uncles and cousins. We kids enjoyed untethered freedom across acres of prairie grasses, on the edge of Last Mountain Lake. Prairie meets beach. 

My Grama and aunts packed up huge picnic lunches, and we’d head into the fields to intercept the combine, tractor or truck. We would scamper through the fields where stems of wheat brushed against our legs, and grasshoppers jumped out of our way. When it was time to get back to work, my Grampa would allow us each a turn to ride in the cab with him, a thrill—despite the smoke-filled enclosure. 

Grampa died when I was in my mid-twenties. The last time I saw him, we were gathered for the wedding of a younger cousin. I sat softly on Grampa’s knee, as I loved to do, even though I was no longer a child. He bounced me, and said, “Wendy, you better get married soon. You’re not going to be able to fool him with your good looks forever.” I always knew I was his favourite. 

My Grama lived another twenty-some years, and died at ninety-five; she accomplished many things in her life, some of which I only learned about at her funeral. The only grama I really knew was the one I saw as a child. That grama spent a lot of time in the kitchen; she made you sit at the table and finish every bite—even if it took hours, and you cried; she gave you Buckley’s cough syrup if you got sick; she sewed and knit many clothes for her dozens of grandchildren; and she always appeared in control of her emotions. If anyone had ever asked me, I would have said that she was happy. 

But now, on the brink of my fiftieth birthday, I know that happiness flits in and out with the speed of a hummingbird; pausing long enough so that you can taste the nectar. She must have had struggles I never saw. Why didn’t I ask her? How on earth did she manage seven children? What “tools” did she use to sustain her marriage? Did she ever consider self-care? How did she package up her feelings and keep them from spilling out? Maybe she didn’t. 

Grama was an enigma—but maybe that is only because I am two generations away, so I never lived with her. I only knew the “cover” of her, not the inside. Beautiful, poised, friendly, and accepting. Even when she was alive, I mostly learned about her from the stories that her seven children told. 

Grama was smart, she conversed about religion, politics, music, art, and other topics. Her pride in all of us revealed her acceptance of the different paths we chose. My brother married a “dancer” years ago; she danced while removing her clothes. When finding out about her occupation, my grama said, “Well, she must make a lot of money.” And that was that.

Once my grandparents retired, my grama seemed to blossom. She took courses at university, and helped to develop programming specifically for seniors. Playing cards allowed my Grama to use her brain, and get together with friends. Grama played the piano and organ, and we often had sing-a-longs in the living room of their seventh floor apartment—my mom and aunts doing a rendition of “Sisters” from the movie “White Christmas”. She had seasons tickets to the symphony, and got out as often as possible to enjoy the compositions. Her and Grampa travelled a lot after they retired—all over the world. 

My greatest joy in thinking about Grama was her noticeable love of family. She laughed a lot when we gathered, and she never seemed to tire of us. I know that all seven of her children talked to her on the phone regularly, and many of her grandchildren called as well. 

As I struggle through the days with my own family, I will think of my Grama’s smile, and garner strength, joy, and inspiration from that. 

8 - Faven

“You should be happy about turning fifty,” Faven said as we drove through the city. “Look at all of the things you have done.”

“I’m not . . . umm . . . unhappy about it,” I said. 

“You look really good for your age,” she continued—like my personal cheerleader. “You look way better than so-and-so’s mom, and she’s forty-six!”

I raised my eyebrows and grimaced. What do you know?

“Look at everything you have,” she continued. “A house. A husband. A car. Some kids. And!—you’re a writer.” 

I write, therefore I am. “I’m not, exactly a — writer,” I said.

“You’re not?” she asked, and looked at me. “Then how come you’re on the internet?”

“Lots of people are on the internet,” I told her.

“I’m just saying that you’ve done a lot. You should be happy.” She paused for a moment, then asked, “What have I done?” (as if we two could even be compared).

I pulled my eyes off the road, and glanced at her in the passenger seat beside me. 

Her skin the colour of a copper penny worn down; her gold-flecked eyes hopeful, then fiery—with only a blink between the two; and her tiny body draped in seventeen-year-old finery, but curled like a child into the bucket seat. 

My gaze swung back to the road as I said, “You’ve moved to a country across the world from where you we’re born. You’ve learned a whole new language. And you’ve moved in with a bunch of strangers—that you didn’t choose—who you now call family. 

But, other than that, (smile) you haven’t done very much at all.” 

We both burst out laughing. 

Faven has had to adapt more than people three times her age. Definitely more than me. 

It has not been easy, and there are a ton of days that I would say it has not been worthwhile. Not for her. Not for me. 

It is hard for me to remember that she has been fearfully and wonderfully made; and that her struggles and imperfections are simply part of her journey. And hers happens to be intertwined with mine. 

Faven and me, Ethiopia, 2008

Faven delights people almost everywhere she is known. She has an uncanny ability to make people who are less fortunate than herself feel good. Her “Faven is in the house” attitude draws people to her like iron flecks to a magnet. And although she struggles to be in our family, she offers me bite-sized pieces of joy, and I need to chew more slowly, and linger a bit longer there, whenever I can. 

Faven and me, Spring, 2015