22 - Mrs. Dobler

When Laurèn turned three, I started thinking about pre-school. Looking back, I have no idea why I thought that was a good idea, given Laurèn’s slow approach to new situations (Read: shy), cautious engagement with new people (Read: glued to my side), and her difficulty separating from me. I suspect I wanted some time to myself: two hours, twice a week, sounded like an all-inclusive holiday! Moreover, Laurèn, being raised like a lone child, despite her two (part-time) teenage siblings, needed to learn about sharing, lining up, waiting your turn, and doing something that other people wanted. Laurèn may have been shy, but she directed play at home as if she were the director on the set. She not only told us where to sit/stand/jump/dance/lie, she also told us all of our “lines”. She exhibited strong leadership skills (Read: bossy). 

I registered her for pre-school at our community centre. 

On the “parent orientation” night, I met Laurèn’s teacher. Lovely. Nice sounding voice. Caring. And able to make a room full of grown ups cry. She read, “Love You Forever”, by Robert Munsch. She sang the “chorus” to us: 

I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always,

As long as I’m living

my baby you’ll be. 

On the first day of pre-school, Laurèn was excited, right up until the minute that we arrived. I lifted her out of the car; she tried to wiggle away. “It’s going to be fun,” I said—not quite believing it. We made it inside the building. I tried to put her down; she climbed up me like a tree. “Look at all the kids,” I said. She buried her face in my shoulder. 

The pre-school classroom door opened. The teacher, Mrs. Dobler, came out carrying a small chair, and a secret pouch. “Hello everybody”, she said, with a Julia Roberts smile. Everyone stopped what they were doing. She sat down on the child-sized chair. “Who would like to come and see what I have in my bag?” The extroverts leaped forward. “Okay,” she said, and waved to one child to come over. The rest of the children couldn’t help but be entranced by the interaction she had with that one child, and the mystery that awaited in the little bag. She asked the child his/her name. She told them to put their hand in the bag, and feel around. She told them to whisper to her what they thought was in the bag. One after the other, the children did this, and then went into the classroom where the teaching assistant awaited. Heck, I wanted to line up and play that game. 

Fewer and fewer kids stood in the hallway. The shorter the line up got, the farther Laurèn went from the doorway. Eventually, she watched from an alcove across the hallway. When there were only two children left, Mrs. Dobler came over to Laurèn. She took her by the hand, and led her over to the little chair. To my surprise, she went. I stood watching, with tears in my eyes. They spoke to each other so softly that I could not hear. Laurèn reached into the bag and moved her hand around. “What do you think it is?” Mrs. Dobler asked, with a curiosity that belied her already knowing. Laurèn leaned close to her new teacher, and whispered something into her ear. “Yes! You got it.” Laurèn walked into the classroom without a backward glance. 

Not every single day went so well for Laurèn (or I), but Mrs. Dobler attended to every single child, every single day with purpose and delight. She found common ground to connect to each and every one of them. 

Yup...she wore pajamas to school. Her orangutan (named Olive?) helped her every day, and often wanted to eat the children's snacks. The kids loved her.

Creative ways to teach the letters of the alphabet. 

Skiing at COP

Look WHO is rocking down while the 3-year-old watch and copy, at the Seniors home in Edgemont. 

Not every day at pre-school was good. 

The preschool class at the zoo, where Mrs. Dobler volunteered. 

They grew caterpillars, which seemed to me to symbolize the "transformation" that occurred through the year, beautifully. 

Mrs. Dobler, Michelle, now a friend, inspires me every time I see her, and read her Facebook posts. It is hard not to feel good in her presence. She remains attentive to individuals. I admire and enjoy her smile, the funny animal videos, her own SOY challenges, her obvious love of her family, her bravery (she got a tattoo), and taking on IRONMAN—an arduous physical, mental, and emotional challenge that starts long before, and lasts far longer than the 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, and 26.2 mile run. You rock Michelle!

Laurèn is now a thirteen-year-old who is no longer slow-to-approach. In fact, most days I can no longer even see the three-year-old that she used to be. Many things have contributed to her growth, not the least of which was an amazing introduction to school. Thank you Mrs. Dobler—you made my days so much easier during pre-school, and I have thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to get to know you, as we both close out our fourth decades. :)

23 - Caffeinated Inspiration & Joy

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, 2008

When I arrived at the orphanage, a group of small children played in the courtyard, and the rest of the kids attended school nearby. My guide Mesfin left, and I briefly wondered what would happen if he didn’t come back. I took a deep breath and drew in the heady scent of incense. What a journey, I thought. Less than two years ago, we had adopted Yohannes, and subsequently found out about his sister Faven. I went inside the brick house and sat down to wait for Faven to return from school. Smoke slid soundlessly into the room through the shutters, causing me to cough. The preparation of coffee had begun, and the fumes triggered my asthma. 

The coffee ceremony is considered the most important social occasion in many villages; it is a sign of respect and friendship to be included. Coffee is prepared three times a day; in the morning, at noon, and in the evening; and each time people gather they pause to share their views, their stories, and their lives. 

I walked outside, and pulled my inhaler out of my shoulder bag. 

Two women squatted by a coal-burning stove that rested on a bed of flowering grasses. Incense smouldered nearby, allegedly keeping the evil spirits away. In a flattened frying pan with a long metal handle, green coffee beans popped and crackled, creating a smell like burning grass. One woman, the performer—wearing traditional Ethiopian dress—held the long handle and shook the pan back and forth, creating a rhythmic roast. The second woman ladled water from a large-bellied barrel into a black, clay carafe; she placed it over another stove to boil. Then she set about organizing a tray of handle-less miniature cups. Into each cup, she scooped two or three spoons full of sugar. Over the next half hour, the roasting beans turned from green, to brown, to glistening black. 

The pungent, musty smoke poured off the beans like fire on wet logs. The performer carried the sizzling pan toward me and waved her hand through the smoke; it danced around me like a carefree spirit. I held my breath, and smiled. When the beans cooled, she crushed them with a pestle-and-mortar, and finally the robust smell of coffee released onto the breeze. She spooned the fine powder into the clay carafe, and brought it to another boil. With a steady hand high above the tray, she poured coffee in a single stream until the cups over-flowed. 

She carried the tray to me, and I took a cup. “Amisegnalo (Thank you),” I said, bowing my head and cradling the cup between my palms like a holy object. 

Calgary, Alberta, 2015

In a local Starbucks, I order my coffee and join a group of women friends. My coffee—during this season of indulgence—is a grandé, soy, half-sweet pumpkin spice latté, no whip. Each of us has our poison, all with equally long-winded names. We may have missed the point of coffee, or tea, according to a coffee grower in Costa Rica. Coffee is meant to be  “enjoyed like a good glass of wine, […] straight black so you can swirl the aroma and smell and taste all of the different flavors. And like a good glass of wine, the flavor of the coffee directly relates to where it's grown and produced” (Don Juan Coffee Plantation). Starbucks coffee comes from Latin America, Africa, and Asia-Pacific, but—like a good glass of wine—that hardly registers with me as I sip the over-priced mug of prepared perfection. 

I am not solely there for the coffee. The main ingredient is women. The “performer”, in this case a barista, trained “to inspire and nurture the human spirit—one person, one cup, and one neighbourhood at a time” (starbucks.ca), takes care of our physical "need”, while we attend to the emotions and experiences. 

Coffee, discovered in Ethiopia in the 10^th C, was found to have stimulating properties in those who ate the berries. Later, the Yemeni Sufis drank it as a kind of spiritual intoxication. Its stimulant properties prompted the more orthodox and conservative religions to ban coffee starting in the 15^th C, and lasting into the 19^th.  Coffee arrived in the Americas in the early 1700’s, and continues to be grown predominantly in the developing world. The cultivation of coffee is a hot topic—extra hot. Sustainability leads the charge. Can producers continue to supply the massive amounts of coffee consumed? Are coffee farmers, and workers being paid adequately for their labour, and product? What sacrifices are they making in order to provide relatively “wealthy” countries with the beans they desire? Who looks after them when nature strikes, and they are unable to produce? 
        Some of the things we do in the developed world, create harm in another part of the world. Certainly if we took the time to learn about how our consumption affected others, we would become responsible consumers.  

“Fairtrade certification set the tone to fulfill the need for socially sustainable coffee production by providing a price safety net to coffee producing cooperatives. However, the output of Fairtrade certified production is mostly mass market commodity grade coffee which doesn't deliver the impact to really change producers' lives in a significant way” (Steven Macatonia, The Guardian, Mar. 4, 2014).

“The “shared value” in coffee is symbolic of a 21st-century colonialism where the vast bulk of profits are kept in developed countries while most of the hard work, sacrifice and risks are heaped on coffee-producing nations” (Fernando Morales-de la Cruz, The Guardian, Apr. 16, 2015). 

Over the last decade, there has been a philosophical shift in some of the larger Canadian coffee houses. For example, Starbucks has, “pioneered a new approach to ethical sourcing with an aim to both ensure a long-term supply of high quality coffee for our customers and positively impact the lives and livelihoods of coffee farmers and their communities”. And, Good Earth has incorporated something it calls “Direct Trade”; "We have partnered with a coffee roaster who works directly with farmers where our coffee is grown. This gives us the opportunity to choose farms based upon their social and environmental sustainability practices, as well as the quality of the coffee”. Many of the smaller coffee crafters display the Fair Trade logo, and/or have products that are locally sourced, but they cannot afford to create relationships across the continent, or the world, like the bigger companies. 

Coffee is the number one foodservice beverage in Canada, with 14-billion cups sold in 2010. An estimated 51% of people drink their coffee at home. Western coffee drinkers need to continue with self-education. "What we do matters. The choices that we make, the products that we buy have an impact on somebody," Alexander Meyers, a doctoral candidate at the University of Kansas said. "Sometimes it's a good impact. Sometimes it's negligible or negative. But they do have impacts, so just trying to keep that in mind is important, especially in researching what is behind these consumption choices" ("Trading in Crisis: Coffee, Ecological Rift, and Ecologically Unequal Exchange”, August 24 2015).

Meeting with friends for coffee or tea is much more than a social past-time for me. My women friends inspire me to be exactly who I am. We listen empathically to one another; and the spontaneous laughter fills us up with endorphins—natural pain and stress fighters. 
Endorphins + Caffeine = Endless Possibility. 

Coffee and tea are mediums through which we connect. Clearly, meeting near to the actual coffee plantations is not possible. However, my hope is that we are consuming responsibly, and creating a positive effect to those individuals and families that are part of the seed to cup cycle: planting, harvesting, processing, drying, milling, exporting, tasting, roasting, grinding, and brewing. 

28 - Sanctuary

I recently walked with the dogs at our cottage. I saw some paw prints across the snow, too small for a dog, plus there were no human footprints alongside. “A cat", I thought, and started to follow them. 

A number of days prior I had received a call from Bob at Ghost Station—a gas station and convenience store near our cottage. He wanted to know if I had found my cat. I had lost hope of finding Jazmin, who went missing from our cottage in the middle of August, three-and-a-half months ago. 

“No,” I said, “we haven’t found our cat.” 

“Well, there has been a cat out here periodically that looks like the cat on your poster,” he said.

“Oh,” I said.

“It has the same striped tail. I just saw it go under the deck. I’ve tried to call it, and it meows at me, but then hides whenever I get near.”

That doesn’t sound like Jazmin, who loves a good belly rub from a stranger. “Wow. Is she there now?”

“Yes, I just saw her.”

“Okay, I’ll head out and take a look. It’ll take me about forty minutes to get there.” 

I parked in the lot out front, and went around the back of the station, just as Bob had told me to do. I had brought a bag of cat treats, and rattled them as I called out, “Jazmin. Heeyyy Jazmin. Come on Jazzie.” A man came out of a trailer parked in the attached camp ground. I noticed that the campground was half full, which struck me as odd at the beginning of December. People lived here?

“Are you looking for your cat?” Bob said. 

“Yes I am,” I answered.
“Just a bit ago, she went past the little cabin, and over the edge,” he said. 

“Oh, okay, I’ll just look around for awhile then.” 

I went to the edge of the embankment, and it looked pretty steep. I found a tree branch bent at the angle of a seat and sat there. The light of a sun ray reached through the tall fir trees, and landed on me. I called out for Jazmin every three to five seconds. After a few minutes of that, I skidded down the hill, grabbing branches of bushes to stabilize my descent. 

As I dropped down into the valley, no sounds of human existence occurred, except my own breath, and careful steps. I came to a wooden hut that backed into the hill, no bigger than a hobbit home. The door was missing, and green forest mould was the only inhabitant. I found a path—a wild life trail—and followed it as it traversed across the hill. “Jazmin, are you here?” I called out, again and again. 

I could hear water flowing in the distance, and headed toward it, water being my favourite thing. At the bottom of the valley, where two equally steep hills met, a three-foot wide creek ambled over fallen logs, and partially frozen ice shapes. 

Jazmin, no ordinary cat, would enjoy it here. She loved the outdoors more than anything else. When I jingled the dogs leash to go for a walk, she appeared out of nowhere to join us. Whether we walked for twenty minutes, or forty, she accompanied us, sometimes panting like a long distance runner. At our cottage, she refused to come in for weeks at a time; a voracious hunter, she left gifts at both front and back doors every single night. When I stepped on the back deck with my morning coffee and journal, she met me there. She jumped into my lap, put her paws on my chest, and nose-butted my face, while meowing her happiness. My heart purred as well. 

As I wandered across the soft, needle-covered ground, surrounded by nature’s cat trees, I realized it was the perfect place for Jazmin. I left the peaceful sound of the creek behind, and climbed up the steep hill. On my way up, I noticed cave-like hideouts created by roots and rocks, as well as holes of all sizes, burrowed into the ground. A plethora of rodents for the choosing. 

I didn’t find Jazmin in the forest sanctuary, nor did I find her when I followed the cat paw prints across fields, and under bushes at the cottage. I don’t know if she is still “out there”. But, if she is, I could wish for no better place for her to reside. 

30 - BMW Eagles

I am a soccer player. I know—hard to believe that someone my age plays a contact sport that requires coordination, and running. Many people (non-soccer players) don’t understand. In the words of my long-time massage therapist Linda, “I don’t get it, why do a bunch of grown women get pleasure from knocking each other down?” 
Well, it is not as if we are sumo wrestlers—jiggling bellies, and butts in thongs notwithstanding—we don’t randomly knock each other over, take each other out, or kick each other in the shins. It is all in the name of gaining possession of the ball. She who has possession often wins. 

Soccer continues to provide me many things. Competitive sport—though not as competitive as days gone. Fitness. Stress relief. And time every week with a group of amazing women on BMW Eagles. 

A week ago, one of our players moved suddenly, and then fell to the ground. This happens in soccer. But, Michelle did not get up. Players from our box went onto the field to check on her; one went for ice. Our opponents went to check on her—because our whole league is like that, caring. The referee called the emergency medical team. Michelle was lifted, carried, and supported off the field. The remaining players on both teams took a sober, collective sigh. Every time we walk onto the field, we know there are risks. 

Life is full of risk.

Let me remind you of Roosevelt’s speech, “The Man in the Arena”, April 23, 1910.

Admittedly there was no joy in this event. Our teammate Michelle suffered a complete tear of her achilles tendon, which will affect her for several months. We knew that it could have been ANY ONE of us. Michelle does boot camp for God’s sake! 
I myself had an injurious outdoor season. I began with a tear to my Anterior Tibialis Extensor Digitorum (say that five times fast), and finished with a tear to my Medial Collateral Ligament. I went to physio more times than I actually played soccer. Reason enough to quit, you might think. At our age (our youngest is 40 and our oldest is 63) when injury strikes, we think of quitting, we think that we have played our last game, we think that we will have to give up this thing that runs through our blood like oxygen. But often, the injury and subsequent treatment, provide an opportunity to rehabilitate, to re-build mind, body and soul. *Remember my physiotherapist from Day 38?

Sport is simply a metaphor for life. 

Take golf—

Take hockey—

Take baseball—

Take dance—

Take gymnastics—

Take running—

AND Take Soccer—

The inspiration comes from watching each woman’s strength amidst a field of like-minded women. We are not in control of our destiny, we may as well enjoy the journey. 

Day 32 - Waldo

Inspiration & Joy

Laurèn: Punch-buggy black, no punch backs. (Punch)

Wendy: Ouch. (Sigh) I want a punch-buggy when I grow up.

Laurèn: Mom, I hate to tell you this, but, you’re already grown up.

Wendy: What?…not true.

Laurèn: You want a punch-buggy?

Wendy: Yeah . . . 

Our baby-blue 1968 Volkswagen Beetle careened into our driveway in approximately 1978. A relic. Waldo, the wonderful wokeswagon! Waldo taught me to drive. Yes—he could do that, haven’t you seen “The Love Bug”?—interestingly, released in 1968.  

At first, Waldo was my mom’s car, and my sister and I merely drove it during the years we learned to drive. My sister Tobi and I, only thirteen months apart, learned to drive at roughly the same time. Tobi, clearly more responsible than me, only drove it with a “licensed adult over eighteen years of age”—as per the learner’s licence restrictions. 

I once took it on a day-long joy-ride with my red-headed, spirited friend, Judy. My memory tells me that I was a goody-goody, however on that day, I clearly had a lapse in judgement. At fourteen, maybe I hadn’t yet developed judgement. I am going to say that it was Judy’s idea—a born leader! (You wanna weigh-in here Judy?) I let her drive, because I hadn’t mastered roads or street signs yet; I had only driven in abandoned parking lots. However, Judy had never driven a standard (manual transmission) before, so she operated the clutch, and I shifted the gears. Team work. 

During high school, and after Tobi and I had gotten our licences, we shared our little beetle. Waldo had some idiosyncrasies that made driving him entertaining for all passengers, and perhaps even passers-by. As long as Waldo was well-rested, he would start up with a simple turn of the key in the ignition. However, he had a habit of stalling at intersections, and not wanting to re-start.  During those times, the driver and passenger each opened their door and got out. Then each put a hand on the door, and a hand on the door “frame”, and began to run. Yes, run—pushing our little car forward. As we picked up enough speed, the driver would slide back in and depress the clutch while the passenger kept pushing. And then on a count of three the passenger jumped into the rolling car, and the driver popped out the clutch; Waldo magically came to life. 

The other difficulty with Waldo, presented itself in the winter. The heat exchange system was not effective below zero degrees. Getting above zero was unheard of between October and March in Sherwood Park where I grew up. So, we had a separate heater installed; it hung off the bottom of the dash. It kept us warm(er), but did nothing to prevent frost build-up on the inside of the windows. So, driver and passenger had to constantly scrape the windows while in motion, in order to see. 

One never wanted to be caught alone in Waldo.

This is not our VW Beetle, but it fits my memory, though ours was more beaten up. 

I know you must be wondering if my friend Judy and I got caught. Here’s a bit more about our day. 

When the car idled, the driver had to hold their left foot on the clutch, and their right toe on the brake, while simultaneously using their left heel to rev the gas, so it wouldn’t stall. Judy didn’t have this technique perfected, so Waldo stalled each time she slowed down, or came to a stop. By the afternoon, Waldo was either exhausted from all the jump-starting, or we were too tired from all the pushing; we couldn’t get Waldo’s engine to turn over. So, we pushed the car to a nearby church parking lot. It just happened to be the church that my mom went to, and the Pastor lived in a house beside the church. We left the VW there for awhile, and I think my sister and her friends went to get it later. 

Also, Judy and I—no fools—put gas in the car so that my mom wouldn’t be able to tell that we had taken it. Having no idea about gas and prices, we put in $5.00. In 1980, that bought 16 L of gas, and the tank only held 40 L. 

Lastly, at five foot nothing, Judy had to adjust the seat and the mirrors. In the end, that is what got my mom’s attention. But, I have no idea how she knew it was ME. She marched into the kitchen one evening while Tobi, Troy and I did the dishes, and said, “Wendy, did you use my car?” I looked at her, with wounded bewilderment, and asked, “What would make you think that?” She dragged me outside, and I had to fess up. 

Today, Laurèn’s gentle punch reminded me of the punch-buggy I spent my teens with, and I began to relay the stories to her. It brought me (and her) some extended moments of joy. I hope you are smiling too. . . especially those of you who rode shotgun. 

Day 33 - Mr. Hasinoff

Grade four.
Mr. Hasinoff. 
My first male teacher.
A great first. 

He must have been young because during his year with us, he and his wife had their first baby. But, at eight years old, he looked ancient to me. . .and sooo tall, at least five-foot-seven! I remember Mr. Hasinoff having red, curly hair, but I also remember baldness. I could walk downstairs and check the yearbook in my cedar chest…but I might never come back, because those memories can suck me in. 

Mr. Hasinoff helped me feel calm. I never liked school start up, too many unpredictable variables: who would the teacher be, what would they be like, who would be in my class, and would I know anyone? He talked to us; he didn’t yell. He walked around the classroom a lot; he checked in on how we were doing. He intercepted a lot of notes that way! And he walked with us all the way to the gymnasium to make sure we didn’t get lost. 

By the spring, I’d proclaimed him my favourite teacher. Every year, my mom planned one day when me and my siblings would each bring a teacher home for lunch. I know, right? I chose Mr. Hasinoff. We walked out of the school together, that giant with the red tufts of hair amidst baldness, and down the sidewalk toward my house, which was only seven or eight houses away from the school parking lot. I have no idea what we ate; I hope it wasn’t beans and wieners. I had made his baby a present—a footprint in felt, with the baby’s name in macaroni. The name began with a B.

Mr. Hasinoff instilled in us calm confidence. I believe we tried harder just knowing how pleased he would be by our results. 

Recently—you loyal blog readers would know—I quit the daily loonie spending a bit earlier than anticipated. Part of me saw that as a failure, because it felt like I took the easy path, amidst family chaos and overwhelm. 

But then—weeks later—I turned my gaze toward something new: inspiration and joy. 

I received a response to my last blog posting that reminded me of Mr. Hasinoff, and what I have been trying to do this whole time. 

She wrote, “I have admired your One Looney idea project, and wondered how you were able to stay so focussed. I don't see your ending this segment of daily commitment as failure. 
As a teacher once said to me "There is no such word as quitting, only a tank full of try". 
Doesn't that say it all?”

34 - negative balances positive balances negative . . .

I listened to a podcast called “Tapestry” on my drive to the cottage recently. The title, “The Upside of Down Emotions” looked at the myriad of emotions that we label as negative. Sadness, anger, fear, boredom, and jealousy—to name a few. The so-called negative emotions are not as accepted by society, even though they are just as prevalent. We kid ourselves if we think we can live our life with joy and not sadness, hope without despair, and pride but not shame. Our emotions are on a continuum, we move between one and another to realize what each one represents in our lives. They all serve a purpose. 

Inspiration comes in many forms. Some people have a hard time knowing about sadness in others. 

Positive emotions are appealing, and attract people to each other, but negative emotions bring individuals closer together. It takes courage to share true feelings with others. When I have done it, I find that someone else can relate to me, I get more support, and I feel lighter inside. 

My inspiration and joy comes from all of those who have been able to tolerate my sadness, and sit comfortably beside me.