Today is the day to celebrate the flight of Cupid’s Arrow piercing our hearts. A day when in ancient times, the mating of birds inspired acts of love in the hearts, not to mention the bodies, of men and women. A day when chocolate lover’s get free licence to overdose on their favourite vice and poets give free reign to their creative urgings to express their romantic inclinations for the one’s they love. Or, for the cynics in the crowd, it’s a day when florists and chocolatiers’ and jewellers and Hallmark shareholders rub their hands in glee as they celebrate the bounty that overflows with the commercialization of Valentine’s Day.

I like Valentine’s Day. I like the soppy and romantic. I even like 2-star rated romance flicks where the emotions are even more cloying than the syrupy dialogue impregnated with attestations of love and broken-hearted cries of ‘I’ll never speak to you again!’ I like the idea that February 14th is set aside as a day to acknowledge the one you love. If you’re prone to the excessive, today is a day to pay tribute to your beloved without reservation, without embarrassment or hesitation or even fear. Because, today is the day to express your love freely. And in your expression, love makes the biggest difference of all.

For the past 15+ years, I have received a Valentine’s Day Card from Mr. X. No matter where I’ve lived, he has always found my heart and I’m sure the heart of the other’s to whom he sends his beautifully crafted, albeit poetically deficient cards. In fact, other than the hearts and feathers and glitter that are sprinkled on the front of the card, the inside is subscribed with just a few words. “Happy Valentines Louise. Mr. X.”

Now, don’t tell Ron… I know he’s Mr. X. I have known it for years. He and his wife, Lynn, are two of the warmest, most caring and generous people I know. In the past, Mr. X. has walked down many a street with me, sat in many a coffee shop, not to mention on many a curbside, consoling me through various manifestations of ‘my true loves’ appearances and disappearances in my life. In fact, if I dig deep into my Memory Box, I probably still have the business card he once wrote those famous last words upon as a stopgap to tide me over another ‘love gone wrong’ saga of my escapades in the playing fields of amore — “I am officially so over _______________(fill in the blank)!”

He is witty. Funny. A real Renaissance Man, Mr X. knows lots about love and is quite willing to share his opinions — whether you want them or not!  🙂  He’s pointed in his observations. Keen in his insight and, even when he’s sharing something I don’t want to hear, he is always loving.

On this day, while I share my love (and poetry) with C.C. my beloved, I must open my heart to the joy and beauty Mr. X. and his anonymous Valentine’s Day Cards have given me.

Thank you Mr. X. Your constancy, your generosity of spirit and Love, make a difference in my world.

This one’s for you…

Today is the first ‘guest post’ here at A Year of Making a Difference. I am delighted to share Dave Cunnin’s story Holding Out Our Hearts as the inaugral posting in what I intend to make a regular Sunday experience here.

I first met Dave working at the homeless shelter where I worked for almost 6 years until the end of last year. At the time, Dave was the Senior Building Supervisor, over-seeing the comings and goings, to’ings and fro’ings of 1200 clients a night and a staff of 125. It was a busy place and a busy job.

Dave left the shelter in 2008, became a life coach and facilitator and it wasn’t until two years later that we met up again through the meditation group I attend on Wednesday nights.

Dave’s story is powerful. Moving. And true. Dave is powerful. A human being of light and truth. A seeker on this journey of life. Dave makes a difference in my world everyday. I’m grateful he’s here to make a difference in your’s today.

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It was a day filled with opportunities to be the change I want to see in the world through many shared smiles.

A woman at the grocery store behind me in the self-help check-out line, troubled she sounded rude when she pointed something out to me, apologizes. I smile, touch her arm and tell her I didn’t think she was rude. I appreciated her direction as I wasn’t paying attention. We wish eachother a ‘good-day’ and we part on a note of laughter. A smile and thanks from the man at the next gaspump. “Your tire looks a bit flat,” I tell him. And it was. And the favour is returned when I leave my sunglasses on the counter and a woman runs after me to hand them back to me. A man with a dog at the park laughs when I warn him as we approach eachother that Ellie, my golden retriever, sometimes like to share her big girl attitude with small dogs. We pass each other with enough distance to preserve the dignity of everyone and he calls back that he appreciates my letting him know — his dog likes to nip at big dog’s ears. That would not have been pretty.

Little things that add up to moments of grace. Moments of sharing smiles and laughter and kindness.

And then, in my email, the link to the TEDxCalgary talks where I shared, “Lessons in Love: How Volunteering Saved My Life” in November. Sending the link and having my sister write back her impressions of my talk, I am reminded — giving is receiving. And in the remembering the excitement and wonder of that day, I receive again the sense of gratitude I felt being part of it.

And the difference of that day ripples out as I share TEDxCalgary, November 18, 2011 — Volunteer… Even Better.

Below is my talk — and this is the link to all of them — do take the time to visit all the speakers — they are all amazing. And, you’ll be inspired watching so many people shine!

All ten speakers:  http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL41E9A5C6E42C501A

Since the beginning of January I’ve  committed one day a week to making a difference in the world by not driving my car for a day and not spending any money on that day. Yesterday was my weekly date with austerity and the pedestrian life-style.

Except… on Monday evenings I go to a dance workshop. Two hours of free-flowing movement through CoreConnexion. I can’t think of a better way to begin the week than to enter the dance and connect into my body and dance myself into aliveness and freedom, joy and balance.

But, the studio where it’s held is too far to walk. It’s too dark to ride my bike and bus service just isn’t part of that equation.

As my Aunts in Paris would say, “What to do? What to do?”

And then I remember one of the lessons I’ve learned through this process of living A Year of Making a Difference. Making a difference begins within me. When I am balanced, whole, centered, the difference I make in the world ripples out from a centre of harmony. When I am taking care of me, I am better able to take care of others.

I decided to go to dance. Other than driving there, I didn’t have to spend money as I pre-paid for the sessions at the beginning of the year.

And in the process, I came home excited, feeling joyful and grateful for having immersed myself in ‘life’, my whole being transformed through dancing it out and moving into that space where I am one with the world around me.

And that was the biggest lesson from the day. It’s important to be flexible. To allow suppleness into my thinking, and my doing. To give myself room to flow around obstacles, rather than making them hard brakes on the road of life that stop me dead in my tracks.

I know. I know. I didn’t do the whole day without driving, but I did learn another valuable lesson. Look at my calendar before I make decisions with my time. Don’t set the day to not drive on a day when I have something that is important for me to do!

Making a difference does begin within me. For my difference to come from a place of wholeness I need to pay attention to my needs, wants, well-being — and my calendar!

And, I’ll move my making a difference through not driving my car to Friday this week!

All is well. I’m flexible! And supple when I flow into Life, dancing my way to Joy. Life is a Dance and I am grateful for the music.

Namaste

I am thinking of the article in the newspaper about bottle-pickers and the conversation I just had with a friend who volunteers as a board member for an agency in the homeless sector as I pull into the laneway leading to my garage. “We need to ensure we have a portfolio of affordable housing that will not be sold, that will always be managed well to ensure those who need it will have a secure source of appropriate and well-maintained housing,” he’d said over coffee. I’d shown him the article on bottle-pickers. The men interviewed have a ‘home’. They were housed through the ‘housing first’ model under the city’s 10 Year Plan to End Homelessness.

And I wonder about the ‘full circle’. There were many men like them in the past who used to live in SROs (Single Room Occupancy) apartments. The difference back then, before the boom, before ‘economic growth’ dictated tearing down vast swaths of low-rent housing to make way for gentrification of inner city neighbourhoods, was that the landlords were ‘for-profit’, the rents were cheap but the accommodation sub-standard. The men in the article have all they need — low rent, support, a roof of their own, and a means to augment their monthly stipends — bottle-picking.

When I lived in the inner city, I had Greg. He came and picked up the bottles I left out on my back porch every week. He sometimes brought me ‘gifts’. A barbeque arrived on my back porch one day. I didn’t ask its pedigree. I think he may have found it in a laneway, placed there by its previous owner who didn’t want to take it to the dump. It was not in fine shape. But Greg’s enthusiasm over its possibilities was engaging. I paid him $30 and later had it hauled away to the dump. Greg did me a service every week, cleaning up my bottles. It was an easy way to repay his work.

I live slightly outside the ‘inner city’ line now. Not in the suburbs. But not downtown either. Bottle pickers are not as common out here.

I thought.

And then, I drove up to the garage and couldn’t get in because there was a rust riddled pick-up truck, motor running with a distinctive, putt-putt-miss-a-spark- putt-putt sound, parked in front of the door. Two men were digging through the blue bin, tossing any bottles they found into the back of their empty-bottle-laden truck.

I pushed the opener for the garage door. One of the men, hearing the sound, withdrew his head from within the blue bin. He looked around, saw me. Gave me a sheepish grin and a wave.

I smiled. Rolled down my window. “Do you come every week for the bottles?” I asked.

He looked worried. One of the comments in the newspaper article this morning was that removing items from bins is an infraction of city bylaws.

“It’s okay if you do. If you like I could just leave the bottles in a bag beside the bin. Would that help?”

He smiled. A gapped-tooth grin like so many grins I used to see at the shelter where I worked.  “That would be great!” He paused. Glanced back at his partner who was still sorting through the blue bin. “Got any more bottles inside?” and he motioned to the interior of the garage.

“No. I put them all in the bin this morning.”

Mission accomplished, the other man came out with one more bottle. Threw it into the back of the truck. The two men climbed into the cab of the truck, the driver’s door giving a big groan as the man used two hands to force it open. Another sheepish grin, wave and they drove off to the next bin and I drove into the garage.

Sure, giving your bottles to pickers is frowned upon by some. One writer wrote in a neighbourhood newsletter that it’s not good to “feed the bears’.  He upset me with his derogatory take on the human beings engaged in bottle-picking. I figure it’s a good way to help someone make a difference in their life by supporting them through whatever circumstance they’re encountering. If the extra income from cashing in my empty bottles helps them, why not let it? ‘Cause I’m not doing it. Why shouldn’t he?