On Birds and such

Today, I noticed that the magpies touched down for the first time; strutting our lawn with feigned aloofness, secretly delighting at the unturned mysteries beneath yesterday’s snow-melt.

It was only a few weeks ago, the sky overcast and the air hostile and chilly, that I gazed out this same window and marveled at the collection of sparrows flocking the tree. Busily pecking at this and that, they animated these seemingly naked branches. To my untrained eyes, these branches are stripped of any sustenance – What, little sparrow, do you find that pleases you?

Their congregation reminded me of my recent trip to the grocery store – my first experience of a whole aisle stripped bare from panicked hoarding. The reality of global turmoil settling in for the first time, and with it the realization that we are puppeteered by the old familiar human fear of “not enough”. Yet these sparrows, prophetic in their simplicity, seem liberated from such fears.

Our neighbour hollered a warning down the street at me yesterday. He warns me that if we find seeds and peanuts littering our lawn its because he feeds them- the magpies and such. And if their chirping turns to squawking its because he’s forgotten to feed them that day. As we talk, he dutifully spreads snow around his yard, strategically anticipating the melt and directing it to nourish the trees that line his property. All the while, he’s dreaming of his oasis welcoming humming birds, grapes and maybe even kiwi this year.

Something about these birds gives me assurance in these unprecedented times. The sparrows, liberated in their paradox of abundant naked branches. The magpies, calculated in their participation of the changing seasons. A retired neighbour with back pain, mischievous in his kindness and undeterred in his hope. I learn from these teachers that isolation does not negate companionship and we will only and always thrive in our interdependence on Creator, the land and one another.

Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Matthew 6:2

Interpret

We switch seats so he can be near me as he translates
The words his mom is speaking to the congregation

“She is sharing about family values”
Yet his interpretation questions whether she really values
her family

“we are not like the other families here. We,
We are not good enough” he confides

“our walls bear the scars from my brothers fists, my sister – more of a whisper than a presence, and I ,
I am not good enough.”

This condemning self assessment baffles me. I see him as the glue that holds his family together, the shoulders that bear the weight of their shared concerns, the ever-flexible schedule prepared to accommodate every unpredictable need that arises. Hosting his brother on visits from the group home, picking up meds for his sister, taking his mother to appointments, and translating for them all,

All the time.

What more could he do to prove his worth?

Still he feels like he is never enough to please the perceived incessant demands

“My mother was upset with me today” he goes on, losing track of his mother’s message, I receive the unscripted, in-between the lines, message of my self-reflective interpreter.
“She wanted me to wear my cultural clothes here. ‘Today is for family’ she says ‘ let us dress with respect’” or for respect, he  wonders.
“But I don’t think it matters what we wear, what matters is in our heart.”
True.
But,
When his heart is postured to shame, when he is poised to earn and to compare, the ravenous appetite of never enough will never be satisfied, always wanting more

And while he refuses to dress to impress outwardly, these are the inner clothes he bears

It occurs to me that what ever he does in action will never. Be. Enough.

The true state of his heart,
Unperceivable to the passerby
Only revealed through
the leaned over whisper of an interpreter

 

Fire

One thing I can’t live without?
Fire.

And not so much for the basic survival instincts of my ancestors,
But still for its warmth

That draws, beckons, welcomes …
The flickering flames trace a circle of warm light
and everything within is engulfed in a dome of intimate safety.
Whatever dwells beyond this dim circle is momentarily forgotten.

Your eyes are shadowed by your listening brow
And so we instinctively stare into the fire instead of meeting gazes
Speaking to you, but not at you,

I feel safe to cast fear to the ashes
To sacrifice my vulnerabilities to the flame,
And send my hopes adrift with the shooting sparks.

I can’t read your faces or know your thoughts and still the fire dances
Encourages
It is safe here,
So the story seeps out slowly,
The pauses,

,,,

held with reverence, the words unhurried
There is patient space here.

My final pause says I am finished for now
And a chorus of “thank-yous” scatters back to me as the circle continues:

“My name is Betty and I’m an alcoholic.”

Enshrined in intimate safety,

Everything beyond, momentarily forgotten

We are cast together in the light.

snow mischief

The magic of the first snowfall is that it makes me pay attention in a new way.

It was my day of rest so I was frustrated that I had woken up early when my body could have used more sleep. But as I yanked my blinds open and noticed a blanket of white outside this morning, I couldn’t help but succumb to the invitation to experience the transformation that had transpired in our city overnight.    I threw on a jacket and clunky snow boots and stepped outside into the frigid air and the crisp crunch of fresh snow beneath my feet. As I journeyed towards the river, aware of the snow swirling around my face, I found myself asking God what sort of mischief he woke me up for today.

I returned home to prepare breakfast and, drawing the curtains of our living room window, I invited this fresh scenery into my day.

In the midst of breakfast preparations I learned we were short of flour, so, encouraged by my housemate, I dashed back outside and down the street  to a neighbour’s, bowl and measuring cup in hand and returned, mission accomplished, in time to enjoy a casual breakfast with some housemates and a neighbour that I’ve been getting to know. While we were chatting, we noticed flashing red lights reflecting through the window. I went to perch on the couch and investigate.

From that perch throughout the day we watched a procession of ambulance, then police and finally a coroner coming to my next door neighbour’s house to receive the body of our now deceased friend Willy. Willy’s memory had been going downhill recently.  He was the first person to welcome me as I stepped out of my car the day I moved to Saskatoon. He proceeded to welcome me anew every time we saw one another.  Finally the procession of professional responders ended, and the familiar white van that Willy’s son drives pulled up into their disabled parking zone. Watching him climb out of his van and step onto the snowy walk, I was struck with how ordinary his homecoming seemed, and how drastically different this homecoming would be from every other one when his father rose on shaky knees to greet him.

My housemates and I decided we should be more than witnesses to this great shift, but offer some sort of neighbourly companionship in their grief – a demonstration that we see you and are with you. We delivered warm soup and bread and I proceeded to shovel their walk. I’ve always enjoyed this chore because it’s not very often I get to use my body in practical helpful ways. So as I was getting into the scrape-lift-toss flow of it, I remembered we had new neighbors that moved in on the other side of us. Besides a quick hello when they commanded their dogs to quit barking at me one night, I had yet to meet them. So I cruised with the shovel on over to their place, realizing the futility of this act as the swirling snow quickly covered my tracks. Then I paused at the edge of their property line and thought of Dave, the next house over. A passionate advocate for non-violence and redistribution of food and power to the poor, I’ve grown a fondness for this self-proclaimed punk-rocker neighbour. I hadn’t seen him in a while, I suppose the change of seasons makes our friendly porch greetings less frequent. And across the street, I knew this mother and son duo had just returned from a sunny getaway because I had been on the same flight with them that weekend and we carpooled home together. I’m sure the snow wasn’t a welcome surprise as she rushed off to work early that morning.

I laughed at the dilemma I had gotten myself into, I’d be shoveling snow all the day through before I got to the end of the neighbours that I cared about, only to have to start all over again as the snow kept falling. Giving into the futility of the chore, I committed to finishing this task when the snow stopped swirling, and packed it up to head inside and reheat my coffee. I noticed a message from Dave when I went in. He had been checking in on us, seeing the commotion of police and ambulance earlier and wanted to make sure we’re okay.

In this love your neighbour business that I’ve embraced, I was dreading the come of winter, the end of picnics in the park, and casual chit chats in front yards. I imagined these being replaced by frenzied dashes from door to car, closed doors and covered windows, protective hoods shielding our faces and limiting our ability to see one another.  But now, embracing the change of seasons, I’m noticing that presence and togetherness is still possible in this wintry wilderness. I’m not a saint for shoveling snow. Please don’t hear that. But I am learning from saints how to pay attention to the invitations in my day.

‘It used to be

That when I would wake in the morning

I could with confidence say,

”What am ‘I’ going to

Do?”

That was before the seed

Cracked open.

Now Hafiz is certain:

There are two of us housed

In this body,

Doing the shopping together in the market and

Tickling each other

While fixing the evening’s food.

Now when I awake

All the internal instruments play the same music:

”God, what love-mischief can ‘We’ do

For the world

Today?”’

-Hafiz

 

welcome

I found myself getting heated with anger and judgement as I listened to a minister speak. It seemed to me like he was refusing to acknowledge that he had things to learn and space to grow from his First Nations neighbours. As with most strong emotional reactions, I realized the very thing I was judging him for was something that I fear in myself. This invitation to grace is as much for me as it is for him and other white/privileged folks trying to grapple with pride as we yearn for a better way forward.

come and know your limits
come and name your fears
come and claim your longings
come and face the taunt and jeers
come to learn your liberation
you’ll  be surprised to find
we’ll only find our new way forward
when your extended hand joins mine

inspired by the invitation from Lilla Watson, an indigenous Australian artist, activist and academic.
“If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”

Home for now

Adventure fills me up, but home sustains me. I recently spent 5 weeks traveling across Canada, moving from Vancouver to Saskatoon. In this season of transition, in the limbo between homes, the challenge I embraced was to make every place home for now. Here’s what that looks like:

When I wake up in a city

That yesterday was strange

Today I can imagine

That I might have place

Amidst the bustling crowds,

Strange sites and foreign sounds

With the help of google maps

I begin to find my way around

I recognize that street sign

I remember where to turn

These ordinary victories

Start making foreign feel like home

My morning runs are helpful

I build a map while I explore

And when I sip my afternoon coffee

I feel at peace a little more

I stop to buy a postcard

It’s more fun than on the phone

Telling you my stories

Reminds me I’m not alone

I spend my evening strolling

No longer skittish like last night

My spacious mind now welcomes

The setting sun and city delights

little steps

I approached a group that was pausing to take a picture by this new art installment. Two young first nations boys posed proudly under the beams of this towering structure while their caregiver kept re-positioning himself to get the best angle for a photo. A sign nearby explained that this art was commissioned in 2016 as part of Saskatoon’s year of reconciliation. Still, I was puzzled about the symbolism and meaning of the art. So I asked this group if they could help me. I noticed that on one side, the wind chimes were all ordered by colour, but on the other side, they colours were all intermingled.  The older of the boys pondered this with me,
“well I recognize those colours”, he replied  “They’re Metis and Cree colours!”
“He would know”, the caregiver eagerly backs up the young boy “they’re learning native studies in school now!”

Creator God, thank you for the strides taken in this city towards better understanding one another. Thank you for the beauty of diversity here and the hope that our lives may be intertwined. Help us to approach the distance ahead that still needs to be covered with humility and openness.

“The Coming Spring,” by Canadian artist, Gordon Reeve, was commissioned by the Saskatoon Tribal Council and the City of Saskatoon, with funding from the Government of Canada.  Its creation is in response to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada’s Calls to Action, No. 79: educating and creating a sense of shared awakening.   For more information, visit saskatoon.ca/publicart.

the circle

Being harassed by a man didn’t seem like a surprise to her.

Shoulders hunched, her plaid jacket, nestled right up close to her ears serves as a protective barrier,
and it still won’t block out his nagging.
With one hand                                                                                                                                    he holds a gasoline soaked rag up to his nose and huffs.
With the other hand, he tries to grabs hers. Instinctively, She recoils her hand inward into her puffy barrier.

“Fuck off!” she yells as she darts across the street.

She leaves a trail of colourful language behind, and he daringly follows.
Across the street he holds up his rag and huffs. His defensive barrier. He’s invincible.
“Come with me”. He begs her.
She shrugs her coat up higher and bolts across the street again, straight towards two other men.

She approaches them with the determination of a wounded warrior entering her refuge, her fortress. They huddle together these 3, confer a little, and within seconds the men are off on a mission, following that brazen man.
“Those two were my uncles”, she explains to me as we step into the gas station where we’ve congregated.

“Let’s take a breather” I suggest, I offer to buy her a coffee.
“ya, okay. Can I have a pepsi instead?”
By the time we’ve had our drinks, the uncles are back. I’m relieved we’re not left to guess what happened.
“I know that guy.” One explains, “ He come into the 601 all the time. I volunteer there. I’ll give him a talking to tomorrow.
She visibly relaxes in the wisdom that elders speak.

the circle

now fortified,

it’s function in its protection,

it’s acknowledgement and immediate response to harm done,

It’s hope for healing and

a cry for never again.

A resilient Cree family in Saskatoon.

Heartwarming Housewarming

We have a friend in the neighbourhood who pops by with predictable frequency. Through the summer, we’ve been were grateful for these visits. With her unstable shelter situation and her variable mental health, every visit brings with it the assurance that she is alive and well and embracing another day. She always comes by with treats. Recently we each received a card wishing us a happy thanksgiving, Halloween and belated birthday. The cards were signed from “her royal highness”

two weeks ago she approached me excitedly at church to tell me she has a new place! It’s in the notorious Regent hotel, whose owners are currently being sued for their negligence. The Sahota’s are known for taking advantage of the poor’s vulnerable housing position to charge rent for ill-maintained rooms. Another building of theirs, the Balmoral, was closed this summer and all the tenants relocated because it was deemed unfit to live in.
So my friend agrees that it’s not the best living situation, BUT, she has her own bathtub. Normally you’d have to pay extra for a room with a bathroom and even more for a room with a tub – paying around $800 for these basic accommodations.

I pick up a simple plant from Chinatown on my way to visit her and wait outside the front doors for Lena, my roommate who is along for the visit. I watch the cops arrest someone across the street. I wonder if this is one of the dealers the police have been cracking down on lately as they try to grapple with the opioid crisis.

When Lena arrives, we take a deep breath and exchange a look that says “here-we-go!” Neither of us has been in the notorious hotel before. We pull open the door and although there are signs everywhere about limited visiting hours, and guests needing to provide ID, the front desk workers don’t even bat an eye as we breeze through the lobby. I whisper to Lena it’s because we look like nurses and social workers. One win for privilege.

We beeline past the elevator – knowing from our neighbours that it is constantly malfunctioning and usually out of service, leaving many residents with disabilities stranded, cooped up in their rooms. Not wanting to risk it, we opt for stairs. The marble staircase is impressive, it hearkens back to the original grandeur of this building a century ago when it was located in the heart of the theatre district. The wooden floor that once carried tourists and business people is now littered with trash and rigs that we step over as we search for our friend’s room.

We find it, with a banner on her door bidding us “welcome”

our friend beams as she welcomes us in and shows us around. She points to the card table and suggests adding the plant to the small collection of dishes there. Besides her bed and a wooden chair this is the only furniture. She doesn’t have a kettle or a fridge yet, but she offers us tea, coffee or milk anyways.

She has great vision and sees the potential in the room – she imagines a fridge and a loveseat in one corner, a curtain draping over her bed, giving the illusion of a separate room. She shows us where she’s labelled on the walls “this is where the rats come in”. Today, she is hoping someone will come and fill those holes. In the meantime, a few rat trips are strategically placed. We peek through the plastic curtain on the window to check out the view. We watch the rats playing on the other side of her window. Just past them is the new condo development, sequel 138. Her window offers a view into their bright courtyard complete with skywalks and a glass elevator. The fresh, clean luxury of the new building is jarring in comparison to this crumbling, neglected hotel.

The finest feature of the room is the adjacent bathroom, and it’s true this room is nearly the size of a typical SRO room in the neighbourhood. The toilet leaks, the sink doubles as a dish washer and clothes washer, the bathtub constantly looks dirty thanks to someone’s attempts to paint it over. But it’s a luxury compared to sharing the dorm style toilets down the hall.
She continues to point out the character of the room. You can tell where a sloppy paint job attempted to cover up graffiti left from some previous residents. “This one here was a nude woman”, our friend explains. ”See she’s sitting, and there’s fish crawling up her crotch. That one there is another nude. It’s not really my style. I’m thinking of getting a bunch of flower pictures to cover them up.”
her optimism baffles me and her creativity inspires me.

When we ask about her neighbours, she tells us that when she came home after visiting us on thanksgiving evening, she watched her neighbour get beat up down the hall. It all started with a small yippy dog. Her stories both fascinate and terrify me as I try to keep up, discerning what is true and what is embellished by her paranoia. Then I wonder why not just give her the benefit of the doubt? Then I can step into her world and see things as she does.

As she sees it, this room is brimming with potential. Especially because she has her own bathtub.

Improving Eyesight

Improving Eyesight

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”     Luke 4:18-19

We all are born blind to realities other than our own. This was true for me growing up in places where most others were Caucasian, middle class. We ate the same food at lunch, we had the same values for independence, creativity and achievement. There wasn’t much diversity, and if there was, difference was awkward and uncomfortable. So I ignored it, assuming everyone’s realities mirrored my own. I was colorblind. In my blindness, racism and othering didn’t exist. But as I began to pursue God’s kingdom values, I was invited to expand my circles and rub shoulders with people different than me. It was awkward and it was beautiful

Meeting Asha* for the first time  –I walked into her home – an apartment that was too hot in a cold Saskatoon winter that was too cold. I was expecting a joyful welcome and introduction to the Iraqi family. Instead, I was greeted by the daughter and ushered quietly into a room full of women, dressed in black, covered heads bowed respectfully. Sorrowfully.  They were grieving in an unfamiliar way. I learned that Asha* was grieving for her father who had just died back home, a world away. I heard her long for her husband, her family, her support back home in Iraq. In the midst of sorrow, I saw the beauty in these Muslim women’s practice of togetherness, even when my first instinct was to let her grieve privately. I was humbled as the daughter served me food and cared for me, honored me amidst all the other distractions. Out of this, a curious, beautiful friendship was formed.

I began to seek out interactions like this. I searched for opportunities to sit at the feet of First Nations elders, to celebrate Chinese New Year, to make dulma and dumplings and momos and samosas. I learned to shake my booty from the Congolese cultural group in the west end of Saskatoon, I learned to belly dance in my kitchen from my Afghani roommate and I learned to don myself in a sari at a Bengali New Year celebration.  I’m a bad cook and a worse dancer but my eyesight is improving!

The scales began to fall from my eyes and I saw and I noticed – why are there way more First Nations people in my poor neighbourhood than in the rest of the city – at the local soup kitchen or in prison or in foster care? Why are others applying stereotypes to my Asian friend? Why is it only the white people who are talking from the front at church? Why are my friends living in a tent or in their car or numb to the effects of their bud bug ridden home? I need to first see these discrepancies to begin to get to the root of the injustices I’ve been blind to. And I see these only when I am up close, in proximity with the poor, the powerless,  and those with stories that have been different than my own.

*not her real name