I gardened yesterday. Hit the garden shop by 8am. Loaded up my car with all sorts of goodies and was in the backyard by 9:30, digging into dirt, moving pots and replanting flowers and all that jazz.

I had a blast and now, my deck is set for summer, all decked out in pots and flowering plants. Herbs waiting to be plucked. Flowers waiting to be enjoyed.

It still looks skimpy though. The Lobelia has yet to cascade over the edge of its containers. The parsley has yet to leaf out.

Patience grasshopper. Patience.

It is the thing about gardening. Dig. Plant. Water. Wait.

Like dreams. Dig. Plant. Water. Wait.

Shift. Move. Water some more. Change.

And then…

Revel in the beauty and the wonder.

At one point, C.C. came out to the deck and told me how he’d watched me from behind the kitchen window. “You didn’t know I was watching,” he said. “But I could see you treating the whole thing as a canvas you paint. Moving pots. Changing textures. Shifting patterns of flowers and light and colour.”

Like life. Dig. Plant. Water. Wait.

And Shift. Move. Water. Change.

And always, revel in the beauty of the act of creation.

I had a wonderful day creating yesterday. Of feeling life growing between my hands. Of digging into the dirt, revelling in the pure joy of being part of nature’s relentless quest to create beauty in our world.

I had a wonderful day of seeding dreams, living life in the sea of beauty all around.

Sometime ago I signed up for a daily “Message from the Universe“. This morning’s message reads:

Everyone’s scared, Louise.

Few carry on.

Keep calm,
The Universe

PS – I mean really carry on, Louise, as if it were your reason for being.

 When I was young, the Carry On movies were big. Farcical British humour that poked fun at… well, just about everything. I don’t remember much of the particulars of the movies, all I remember is that they made me laugh.

And laughter is good for the soul.

As I was writing this post this morning, however, I thought I’d do a quick check on the Carry On series and discovered — there were way more of them than I remember! From the time the first Carry On movie was produced in 1958 to the last in 1992 a total of 31 of the low budget were released. 31. Oh my. Who knew there could be such silly humour in the world?

I was curious what it was about the films that made them so appealing and decided to watch a few clips. Mistake. They’re not really all that funny — just rather slapstick and still, they do make me laugh, or at least smile. And perhaps it is a sign of my ‘age’, but I find their sexist outlook and low brow humour a tad tawdry!

Harumph. Maybe it’s my attitude that needs a shift.

Maybe, I need to take myself a little less seriously!

The other day, driving down a hill from a girlfriend’s house, a man leapt out from the sidewalk onto the road and started swinging his arms and yelling at me. At first, I thought there was an emergency, that possibly something was wrong and he needed help. I slammed on my brakes, intending to see what I could do to help, but he kept screaming and yelling until I realized, there was nothing wrong. He was telling me to slow down. I laughed. I was driving at 41 km/hr. The speed limit was 40. I knew my exact speed because moments before I’d driven past a large lit sign that flashed my speed as I drove past.

Harumph. Maybe he needs to take himself a little less seriously — especially as he might have caused an accident had someone been directly behind me when I hit my brakes.

On Sunday, my mother and I were just finishing up at the Farmer’s Market and rather than make her walk all the way back down the market to the side where we were parked, I told her to sit by the door where we were and I would bring my car around. When I drove up to the entrance, there was a woman sitting on her walker seat right in the middle of the pick-up zone. As I was only going to be a moment to get my mother and her walker, I parked in the first available handicap spot. As I got out of my car to get my mother who was walking slowly towards the doors, the woman yelled at me. “You can’t park there! You’re not handicapped.”

I smiled and replied, “True. But I’m just picking up my mother and couldn’t park in the loading zone because that’s where you’re sitting.”

“I’m waiting for my cab,” she replied.

And I helped my mother get in the car, wished the woman a good day and drove off.

Harumph. Maybe she needs to take herself a little less seriously.

If I could fix the world, maybe that’s what I’d do — make everyone watch all 31 of the Carry On movies just so they can see how ridiculous we humans can be in our insistence that we are the only one’s who get it right and need to tell the rest of the world how to do it.

Now, I know that man on the side of the road was doing what he was doing because obviously they must have an issue with speeders on that roadway. And I know the woman on her walker was only trying to ensure I wasn’t abusing a handicap parking spot because they often do get abused, yet, I wonder, if there isn’t a better way to create change.

Patrick Lencioni in The Advantage, talks about the 10-70-20 principle. Spend your time supporting your 20% he says. Don’t divert your energy to those who are not your most ardent supporters. Don’t spend your time trying to convert your detractors. Focus on making your 20% shine. When your 20% shine, others will want to bask in their glow.

And so, I come back to what I’ve always known. Rather than ‘harumph’ my way through moments of discord, I shall simply return to what creates more of what I want in my life and world — joy, harmony and love.

“Bless them. Forgive me.” I chant my mantra calmly, peacefully, lovingly.

And I begin again.

What a glorious day to awaken to this morning. Blue sky. Trees are budding, Birds are singing and life is a beautiful banquet of opportunity waiting to be devoured.

Letting go of harumphing my way into my morning, I spread my wings, lighten  my spirit and Carry On! Bravely. Joyfully. Peacefully. In Love. With Gratitude.

Message received loud and clear. Thank you Universe!

I am excited. I got to spend last evening with a group of young up and cominger’s looking to make a difference in our city. They are engaged in the United Way of Calgary’s BeCause initiative and its Urban Exposure Project. Last night, I got to engage in conversation around photography, and story-telling, and the exploration of the stories they want to tell of what ‘more’ they want to create in our city through the photographs they are taking of our what makes a difference to them and to Calgary.

I want to inspire people to know that together we can make a difference, said one young man who shared his ideas for how through the agencies he’s visited with UEP he’s seen the impact each agency is making on creating change in our city. He wants to inspire people to take action, or, as another young man suggested, encourage people to be bold. Believe. Get involved.

It was inspiring. Uplifting. Energizing and I came away, as I so often do after engaging in conversation with ‘the next generation’, I felt reassured. I know the world is in good hands. I know that there are those who care, who want to create the change they want to see in the world. Those who are willing to step out of their comfort zones to see and feel and share and learn.

When I asked one young woman what moves her, what change she wants to see in the world she replied that it’s all about community. What does community mean for you, I asked. And she shared how visiting the agencies who support people in need, the homeless, the disenfranchised, youth at risk, she realized no one can do it alone. Change is a community undertaking.

Get clear on the change you want to create, I challenged the group. Ask yourself, what change do I want to create in my city? What do I want more of in my life? What values/characteristics are important to me.

And then, tell your stories through the lens of what you are passionate about. Speak through the voice of what it is that’s important to you. What do you want to see more of in our world?

It’s not a head or belly kind of question. It’s all heart. What is that I want to see more of in the world? In my life? What do I want more of?

And what am I willing to do to create it?

Am I willing to take the path of harmony, not discord? Am I willing to give up drama to create peace? Am I willing to let go of the story I tell myself why I can’t, to accept that I can?

Am I willing to surrender and fall into Love?

As we explored the stories and ideas the group shared, I was reminded of how fragile, and beautiful, and delicate the human spirit is. I was reminded that we all have dreams. We all have the need to connect, to find a sense of meaning in our lives and to feel part of something bigger than… just ourselves going through the motions of living day to day.

We are beings of light. We dream. We fly. We fall. We leap. We have moments of doubt. We have moments of bliss. We have times when all we can do is put one foot in front of the other in the hope that each footstep will lead away from where we are, that place we don’t want to be, to where we can and do feel connected to eachother, our communities, the world beyond the sphere of our knowing.

I had a conversation with a group of 20 – 40 year olds last night. Men and women seeking to express what it is they want to see in the world through stories they tell with the photographs they’ve taken of our city.

I am excited.

I am hopeful.

The change we want to see in our world is possible. The love, joy, beauty, community, spirit, connection, kindness, acceptance — it’s all here. It’s all possible. BeCause, there are people engaged in making it happen. There are bright, shining stars willing to do whatever it takes to be the change they want to see in the world.

Yup. I am excited.

Let me begin by saying, this is not the post I thought I would write today, but….

then I dropped into Megan Willome’s beautifully designed new website and read her post, Rock-Paper-Scissors and I had to share!

Let me also say, I had no idea. Seriously. I did not know there is a world federation for those who compete in Rock Paper Scissors. Now that I think about it, I didn’t even know there was a way to compete at RPS. Imagine. Hundreds of people world wide competing in what I thought, but now find out as not to be the case, the randomness of RPS.

Yes folks. You heard it here first. Or maybe somewhere else but what the hey!  I’m tellin’ you now — RPS is not a random game. Nor is it a game for sissies!  But seriously, we humans are not random. We are predictable. We seek patterns. We seek the deliberate.

Huh? Seriously? It’s not all random?

Dang. And here I thought all those life-changing decisions I made playing RPS with myself were answers founded on solid evidence and research. And heck,  my answers always surprised me — and if they surprise me, they must be good answers right?

I mean seriously, when trying to decide between wearing the red dress or the black pant suit, I play RPS with myself and always wear whatever my left hand says. Of course, sometimes, and don’t hate me for this, I mighta cheated just a little bit. I mean, I don’t own a red dress so really, it was kinda predictable what my left hand would choose.

I know. I know. Self-defeating behaviours but really, I wanted to spice up my morning just a little bit and thought, I could fool my lefthand into choosing the red if I told it I had a choice.

How hard we fall when the one we are fooling is only ourself.

But honestly, it seems to me that always, the left hand knows the answers. Heck. It’s not as well-used as my right hand so it must have extra energy to make these life-changing decisions, right? It can ‘see’ better than my right hand which is always busy taking care of cutting, chopping, driving, drinking, eating, earning, fishing, fixing… you get the picture. My right hand is my dominant useful hand. My left has much more time to just laze about and ponder life’s dilemmas. Which is why, when I play RPS with myself, I hold fast to my conviction that the left hand knows.

And now, I discover after reading Megan’s post that maybe, my left hand has been playing tricks on me. Maybe its decision-making skills are not that random, not that sound. Maybe, it really is predictable just how and what it will choose.

In the spirit of true confessions, I must acknowledge that I have broken one of the cardinal rules of RPS — Rule no. 3. Always establish what is to be decided or whether the match is to be played for honour. 

I sometimes know what I want the answer to be, and tell my left-hand what the right-hand is going to choose.

I know. I know. Cheater/Cheater. But honestly, sometimes I just don’t want to go for Chinese. I really do want Greek. And the right hand will always take the easy route out, especially when everyone else is looking to eat chinese. So, surreptitiously, I tell my left hand to go for the scissors, ’cause I know the right will always vote paper when the stakes are about food.

Sigh.

No more.

Another game toast on the playing fields of life. Another bubble burst in the illusions of every day.

The left hand knew all along what the right was doing.

It wasn’t random.

It was all a big act.

Sigh.

Back to the drawing boards. Gotta go find me another game to play.

(and yes, this entire post was inspired by Megan and my horrifying realization that all along I’ve been playing RPS by myself when really, I could have been playing it for fame and fortune! ‘Cause seriuosly, I’m that good at it!  🙂 )

find out how you can dominate the world of RPS, HERE, at the World RPS Society website — and yes, they do have tips on “How you can beat anyone at Rock Paper Scissors” — hint… it’s all about manipulating your opponent into not choosing one element, like rocks, because, so they say, we humans are terrible at trying to be random. We just ain’t so.

Alexis, my eldest daughter, wrote on her blog yesterday about her struggle to come to grips with her inner voice mocking her for the fact that to heal from an eating disorder and depression she needed to use antidepressants.

And in the world millions and millions of voices rise up and say, Thank you. Thank you for the courage to speak up, speak out, speak of this thing so many do not acknowledge — that sometimes, to survive a day we need help. It is in our willingness to reach out that we find the courage to learn how to shine.

As I wrote on Alexis blog, it is the courage to surrender and let go that gives us the strength to get back up and fall in love. It isn’t how we get there, it is that we get there that makes the difference.

Years ago, when I was in therapy recovering from a relationship that almost cost me my life, I asked my psychiatrist what it was that kept driving me to take these big experiential steps to get to where I wanted to be in life. “I like where I’m at,” I told him. “But did I need such a big experience to get here?”

He laughed and told me that there were 1,000 paths to where I wanted to be. This was just the one I happened to take. It’s judging the path that was the problem. Not the route I’d taken.

That made sense to me. Especially because I was an expert self-judgment hurler. No matter the judgment others might throw at me, I always knew I could out-do them. I was my own worst enemy.

I had to give it up. Give up judging my path. It wasn’t the path I’d taken to get to where I wanted to be that made the difference, it was my acceptance of every part of my path that changed my direction and turned me around to face myself in Love. Because, in my acceptance of all of me, however I judged myself — good, bad or indifferent — I was making choices to love myself, or not.

And so, I chose to accept who I am and to let go of my judgements about how I got to be where I was at, or where I am. Here I am is what matters. Do I like where I’m at? Am I feeling grounded, centered, free? What choices am I making to love me as I am, where I am? Do my choices celebrate me and the world around me? Do they send out ripples of harmony and love, or discord and unrest?

I have spent much of my life fearing the beauty within me. Today, I know the truth. No matter the path I took to get here, I am magnificent. So are you. We all are — because that is our birthright. Magnificence.  That is the gift of life we are given when we come into this world to celebrate every step of our  journey.

In my journey, I have learned to dance with the sun and the moon. To dance at the edge of the waters of life ebbing and flowing upon the tides. I have learned to dance in the rain and under the blanket of night. For in my dance there are a thousand steps, and everyone of them is a dance of Love. In love, I have learned to express all of me — the joy and sadness, the laughter and tears, the love and sorrow I feel ebbing and flowing with every breath I take. for no matter how I dance, I am and always will be magnificent.

And I am grateful. In my daughter’s dance with darkness, she has found the light of Love shining ever brightly. And in her courage to reveal her path into the light, she shines magnificently for all to see their way through the darkness. How beautiful she is in her dance of life as she calls out to each of us….

Come, let’s dance!

It was a weekend to remember. To celebrate. To dance. To cherish. A weekend like no other, but then, this weekend never happened before, and will never happen again, because like today, it was unique, different, one of a kind. Special.

The art show was fabulous. It was more than just the fact I sold 5 paintings. It was all about joy and experience and sharing and being part of something I never before imagined, and now wonder why not! But that’s the thing about what we ‘cannot imagine’. We have to let go of our belief we don’t know. We have to move above the line of telling ourselves that not experiencing what we don’t know keeps us safe. We have to breathe into the purified air of falling into the wonder and awe and joy of living beyond our comfort zone to find what it is we don’t know that we have yet to experience. We have to cast our ‘knowing’ into the wind to free ourselves to fly out there where we are living it up, living large, living beyond our wildest dreams in the rapture of now.

I had lots of affirmation of  my artistic abilities on the weekend. Lots of feedback on what and how I was doing which was lovely and affirming and gave me a sense of wonder — it is nice to know the beauty I paint is seen as beauty in the eyes of others. And, in the process, lots of opportunity to share with other artists the joys, and perils, of putting yourself out there, onto the canvas.  One man, he came to see the show and bought one of my paintings, is an artist who makes his living through his painting. When I asked him if he teaches (I want to paint horses and he showed me some photographs of his horse paintings, and they are stunning), his reply got  me thinking. “I don’t teach because I don’t know what I’m doing. I just paint what I see.”

Paint what I see.

When I heard him say that, the voice inside my heart whispered, I paint what I feel.

It surprised me that voice, but it felt so true, so right, so real. I paint what I feel.

What a lovely thing to know and be immersed in.

And then, yesterday, I spent the late morning, early afternoon with my mother. I took her to the market. We had one of Phil and Sebastians to die for coffees, wandered the aisles (did I mention she’s a speedo with her walker? Crazzzy fast!), checked out the wares and bought each other flowers. And then, I took her to one of my favourite little restaurants in Inglewood, Jacquelin Susan’s. It was a delightful time to spend Mother’s Day and to celebrate the woman who gave me birth.

Later, my youngest daughter along with my step-daughter, took me for dinner at our favourite restaurant. Lele brought me flowers, and together we celebrated, life and living and loving and being part of this amazing thing called family. C.C. came to join us for dessert and we spent another hour laughing and sharing in the joy of our connections.

It was late when we got home so I waited to read my eldest daughter, Alexis’, blog.

I’m glad I waited. My heart needed time to breathe so it could savour the beauty and spirit of her words.

When Alexis was a little girl she used to write torrents of poetry she called, The Mommy Poems. Usually, these poems were written in the angst-filled moments after an incident where she felt particularly unheard, unseen, unknown by me. They were always dramatic, heart-driven, deep emotional poems filled with the honesty only a 5 or 8 or 12 year old young girl can create when she is so connected to her heart her lungs do not have room to breathe. They were also very raw. And, did I mention, emotional?

After whatever the altercation, Alexis would stomp off to her room, scribble away and then, after an appropriate period of time to allow me to stew in the wrongness of whatever I’d done or said, she would appear and promptly inform me she had a Mommy Poem to share. Often her sister would be there too and Lele and I would desperately try to keep straight faces as Alexis performed her poem for us. It’s not that they were funny or that we were making fun of her. It’s just that they truly were creative and deep and so over the top in drama-filled angst that it was hard to believe they really were her thoughts and feelings — and they were. All her.

Unfortunately, many years later, Alexis discarded her Mommy Poems. I always thought they warranted keeping and possibly pulling together into a book.

I’ve always missed Alexis’ Mommy Poems and this Mother’s Day, Day 132 of her amazing The Wunder Year blog, she has honoured me with one of her poems.

I am blessed. I am touched. I am speechless. My heart cries for joy, my body yearns to wrap my arms around her slender form and whisper the most powerful prayer in the world – Thank you.

Thank you my darling daughters for being you. Thank you for the gift of your light, your love, your being. Thank you both for sharing your beauty and your grace.

Love you more than all the words that will ever be spoken.

Promise me you’ll always remember: you’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. — Christopher Robin (to Pooh)

When I was a little girl I loved to draw. Faces fascinated me and eyes held a particular appeal. I liked to draw cats and dogs and horses too, but eyes were the real draw. My sister loved to write poetry and my brother to play music. Given that all four siblings had to learn an instrument, that I took dance, and sang in talent shows and in the kitchen doing the dishes with my sister Anne, it’s obvious that the arts held some import to my parents. But still, I never felt as though I was supported. I never believed my creative expressions had any relevance to my mother and father. Combined with the teasing and poking that my brother and sisters liked to dole out and which I as the youngest seemed to attract on a regular basis, I grew up believing my artistic yearnings had no value. No inherent place to shine under the sun.

And then there was the trust issue.

I didn’t trust people’s reflections of my work. In my teens, I sang and I sang. Sometimes people told me I sang like an angel. I was creative and expressive. I acted in school plays. I wrote diddly’s for class performances. When my eldest sister ran for School President, I took over the job of creating all her posters. Beatniks were in, and man, could I draw a mean cool dude. I was quick on the one-liners, and even faster on the turn of phrase. I had so much going for me and I didn’t believe it. And woe the day you tried to tell me so. I didn’t believe you either.

Fast forward a couple, okay more than a couple, of decades and here I am sailing through the twilight glow of my 50’s about to shine in my first art show, when what do I come up against? My lack of trust in what people say.

Yup. I may have grown in years, added a few pounds and many grey streaks. I may be considered wise in areas of my expertise and I may even be known as an advocate for our city’s disenfranchised. It doesn’t matter how many times I’m quoted, or how often I’m asked to speak on an issue, or represent a cause. Nope, all that I’ve done, and all that I’ve accomplished pales in the face of what’s really at the heart of my hesitancy in my creative expression. I’ve still got trust issues.

I felt it last night. As my two painting cohorts and I wrapped and taped and drilled holes for screws and wire for hangers in our canvases, one of my painting buddies looked at one of my completed pieces and said, “Wow Louise. You’re so talented.”

And that’s when it happened. That’s when the critter of self-doubt and denigration leapt onto centre stage. “Liar, liar pants on fire,” he screamed inside my head while outwardly I smiled and said, (graciously I might add) “Thank you.”

Later, as I chatted with C.C. on the phone about my excitement over the art show today, I said, “And it’s okay if I don’t sell anything. I’m just so thrilled to be doing this. It’s been so much fun just getting ready for the show and stretching my painting muscles.”

“Liar, liar pants on fire,” all the voices screamed inside my head. “You bloody well do care. It’s just you don’t want to be disappointed. You don’t want anybody to know you do care because, hell, then they might thing you’re invested in your art and oh my wouldn’t that be a tragedy. They might make fun of you, or call you names or even, horror of horrors, think you’re stupid to even try. You are such a phony. You care. It’s just you don’t trust people to like you if you’re not perfect, and you don’t trust people to be there for you — whether you fly or fall. Face it. You care. Lots. You just don’t trust people to care about you.”

Gosh, those voices can be deafening.

Fortunately, C.C. can hear the voices in my head, and call me on my shite. “Louise, that’s not true. You do care.”

UNCLE!

He’s right. I do.

And here’s a little fact I guess I should be proud of. I’ve already sold two of my paintings just from people seeing the photos here on my blog. Both are allowing me to have the paintings at the show, complete with their little red dots that say…. I’m sold. I mean, really. I’m walking into my first art show with two paintings already sold!  It’s already a success!

Take that you voice of self-doubt and denigration. Ha!

‘Cause in a world of plenty, I’ve got everything I need to trust the universe is on my side and so are my friends and family. Heck, my sister Jackie took time out from eating Moules and drinking wine in Avignon where she and her husband are currently on a 3 week tour of France just to write me a note to wish me well at the show. And Heck again!  I’ve got friends who support me — when I leap and when I fall. And seriously? There’s no room to fall now. My car is packed to the gunnels with bubble-wrapped paintings and art show supplies. It’s all systems go.

Houston. We’ve got take-off. The shows a-waiting and I am trusting in the process to light up my world and give me room to shine ’cause I am. Braver than I believe!

,

On my daughter, Alexis’, blog today, she writes about a disturbing product promoted by the NRA. Zombie Industries markets a line of life-size mannequins for shooting practice. Not just any target, these bleed when a bullet penetrates the skin of the mannequin.  In Alexis’ blog she writes about the disturbing fact that of the company’s 15 mannequins, there is one female. The fact they thought they needed to not appear sexist by creating a female mannequin to even out their offerings is not what is most unsettling. Nope. That’s small potatoes compared to the name they’ve given this abomination. The Ex.

Yup. They’ve got ‘Terrorist’, ‘Wiggles’, ‘the Alien’ and ‘SS Nazi’, all of whom are considered to be male. But the female one comes complete with big breasts, white bustier that reveals a skimpy bright pink push up bra and the target name, ‘The Ex’.

Yes folks, not only did they think it was necessary to create a female shooting target mannequin, they decided the only real woman to shoot at was, the Ex.

Now, this isn’t envy ’cause seriously, I’d rather they didn’t use anything closely resembling human or animal form for target practice. In fact, just so we’re clear, I like Canada’s gun control laws. I like living in a country where owning a gun is not considered ‘a right’.  I like the fact that I can’t just pop into the corner store and pick up a quart of milk, and say, And while I’m here, I’ll take that cute little pearl handled hand gun with it and  3 cartons of ammo too. Oh, and does it come in a gazillion rounds a second automatic-firing version?

But wait! This is Canada. We thoughtfully limit magazine capacity to only 10 rounds. That’s of course, unless you want to use a drill to take out that cute little rivet thing-a-ma-bobbie that limits the magazine capacity. But not in Canada!  We don’t have people who want to cause harm to others who would dream of doing such an illegal thing!  Of course not!

But I digress. My angst isn’t about gun control or even the fact that Zombie Industries could only dream up one image worthy of being their female mannequin, the Ex.

Nope. It’s about the fact we, and yes, I mean all of us, let this happen.

I am 100% accountable for what happens in my life. I’m not accountable for Zombie Industries. I am accountable for what I say and do, or don’t do once I learn about what is happening.

I am accountable for my voice, and my silence.

In Canada, Half of all women  have experienced at least one incident of physical or sexual violence since the age of 16.

On average, every six days a woman in Canada is killed by her intimate partner. In 2009, 67 women were murdered by a current or former spouse or boyfriend.

I suppose, Zombieland would tell me that they weren’t all killed by guns. We don’t encourage gun owners to shoot real people, they’d say I’m sure. We just like to give them something real-like to practice on, cause who knows when an Alien might invade your backyard, or an Ex leap out of the bushes and start acting all crazy like in front of you. Why, if you hadn’t practiced on our mannequin, you might have mistaken her for the 80-year-old widow down the street and hit the wrong target!

Colour me confused. Colour me disturbed. Colour me aghast. But do not colour me speechless.

I once did have a man jump out of the bushes in the dark. I did not mistake him for an 80-year-old neighbour down the street, nor did I stop to chat. I used the best weapons I have. My lungs and my legs. I screamed and ran like a banshee into the light of a doorway across the street.

If I’d had a gun in my purse, I might have thought about sticking around and firing it. Especially, if Zombieland had conveniently me provided me a target named, the Male Ex and dressed him up in Speedo bathing trunks complete with a nice big bulge where his balls should be. Of course, if I had stuck around he might have overpowered me and taken the gun away and who knows what might have happened then.

Seriously people. What are we thinking?

That guns make peace? That guns protect us?

The evidence says otherwise. A woman’s likelihood of a violent death within the home actually increases by 270% when a gun is kept inside the house. Homicide figures don’t lie. Having a gun within their possession didn’t protect women from murder. In fact, it accurately predicted their higher likelihood of death.  (SOURCE:  http://www.policymic.com/articles/40049/nra-vendor-sells-ex-girlfriend-target-that-bleeds-when-you-shoot-it)

So, what do you say? Will you stay silent or will you use your voice. It is a powerful tool for creating a world of difference for all of us.

It began with a vision, an idea to create a piece that spoke of the beginning of time, the universe evolving, life creating.

I swirled and painting and glazed and after many, many layers got it to a place where I was happy, but not satisfied.

I dug in. Deeper. Adding a hint of green. A splash of white. A sprinkle of gold dust.

It was the gold dust that got me.

It was too much. Too shiny. Too chintzy. Too cute.

I painted over it. More swirls of blue and burgundy. It wouldn’t disappear. (Thanks alot Martha Stewart – your gold dust won’t be repressed. Sorta like you!)

I added a door. A bird.

That just made it look ridiculous.

I had to make the decision. What to do, what to do?

I sighed. I hemmed. I hawed. I avoided.

I worked on another painting. And still it called to me. This 36″ x 36″ canvas that had evolved from ‘not bad, I kinda like it’ to, “OMG. I need to give up painting. I have no talent. I am a hopeless amateur.”

I kept going. On another painting. I liked this one. It reminded me of the most important thing that both writing and painting have taught me — Trust In The Process.

I decided to paint over it.

White gesso splashed everywhere. I let the original painting become the under coating. I left parts of the blue exposed. There was no way to remove the textures now, so I left them as they were. Ridges of swirls, raw cotton pulp that was the body of the bird exposed.

And then, I began to trust in the process. I let the canvas speak to me and “He” appeared.

At first, TZ, one of my painting cohorts said, “It looks like Stephen Harper.”

I am a Liberal. No way can one of my paintings look like… him.

I kept working it.

Jesus Christ? Is that who you see? And at one point, it was, Jesus with his crown of thorns. But the face was too broad. He didn’t have a beard. And anyway, I originally saw him as a she — and was still kinda going for the feminine, even as the masculine kept revealing itself more and more with every brush stroke.

I kept going.

And the Shaman kept appearing.

Until last night when I sent my eldest daughter a photo of him and she text back. “Is John Travolta speaking to you?”
John Travolta?

Seriously? How did he get into my painting?

“He must be speaking to you in your dreams,” she quipped.

ha! If Johnnie T. was speaking to me what would he say? Greased Lighting?

“I got chills / They’re multiplyin’ / And I’m losing control / Cause the power you’re supplying / It’s electrifyin’.”

Or maybe in my dreams he’d be screaming in my ear, “Dance baby dance!”

I hear you John Travolta.

Dance baby dance.

And so I dance with paint brush and colour. I throw my body into the air. I leap into the canvas. I dance.

I dance with the sun and the moon. The stars and the sand. I dance at the edge of the waters of life flowing ever through me. I dance with life.

The Shaman aka John Travolta

And in my dance I let go of controlling the process and give into the joy that rises up within me as I give myself up and trust in the dance.

Thank you John Travolta.

Thank you Alexis.

Thank you the sun and the moon and the stars and the sand. Thank you Life. What a dance!

Once there was a man who pushed a shopping cart down the street where I lived. He collected bottles. Sold found objects for a profit. Cleaned up the garbage on the streets and all in all took care of his life in simple ways with simple means. His name was Dave.

He told me his name the first time I saw him pushing his cart past my house and asked him to stop, I have a shed full of bottles, I told him. Would you like them?

His glee when he saw my bottles was contagious. Not only did he clean out my shed of bottles, he also cleaned it up. Took apart the boxes waiting for recycling, packing them up in a neat stack. He swept the floor, threw out the garbage and when I introduced myself, he told me his name. He used to live at the shelter where I worked at the time but had found an apartment on his own that he could afford and was never going back, he told me. No one should live in a shelter for long, he said. It isn’t healthy. There was pride in his voice. Pleasure in how he was taking care of himself. He hadn’t quit drinking, but, he said, it wasn’t getting him down like it used to. “I get by,” he told me. And getting by ‘on the outside’ [of the shelter] made Dave happy.

Yesterday, I sat in a meeting with co-workers to discuss a client who has been lobbing complaints into every camp they can find in order to get some attention to what they consider ‘unfair, unjust and probably illegal behaviour’ on the part of the foundation I work for. Our conversation wasn’t about ‘What to do about ________.” It focused on how to protect the individual from further spiralling into paranoia. On how to ensure they got support they needed as they journeyed through the mental health issues that were at the core of their unease. They were a human being whose life was in turmoil and needed support and my co-workers were intent on finding a path to supporting them no matter how challenging their behaviour had become. And, they were also a human being whose name we refrained from using as much as possible because of Canada’s Freedom of Information and Protection of Privacy Act.

Now, I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I think it is vital that every citizen, me included, know that their personal information is protected and that those in positions of ‘power’ take care to protect their privacy. And, I admire my co-workers for being so judicious and considerate in how they protected this individual’s identity, and how hard they worked to find answers that respected not just their identify, but their human needs.

I also remember Dave’s joy when I used his name the next time I saw him after our first encounter. “You remembered my name,” he commented when I greeted him. “That’s nice.” It felt good to know I had given him a small measure of joy through the simply act of remembering his name.

It was the same for a young woman who used the services of an outreach bus that travels our city streets at night, handing out comfort kits, hot chocolate, condoms and other things that street engaged teens might need to stay safe on city streets. I was out with the group to learn more about their work and the lives of the young teens they support. This young girl tottered onto the bus in her six-inch stiletto’s, slipping them off the moment she sat down. A worker stepped up and, noticing the blister on her heel asked if she would like a band-aid. “You remember my name,” she said when he greeted her. “Nobody remembers my name.” And she smiled. real big. A tear formed in her eye.

What ‘s in a name?

So often, for street engaged individuals, their name is the only thing they can cling to, hold onto, carry with them. Their name is the last possession they have that speaks to who they were, how they were, where they were before the street took over. Their name connects them to a past that, no matter how painful, reminds them that they were someone else before they picked up the label, homeless, junkie, prostitute, drifter.

A name is important. Especially when others use it not to call you down, but to lift you up.

As we sat around the boardroom table yesterday, I remembered Dave and the young girl on the bus. I remembered their joy in hearing their names spoken. I remembered the joy I felt in being able to give them something so simple that touched them so deeply and connected us so easily.

It is a delicate balance to walk when working with people whose lives have been torn apart by homelessness, poverty, mental illness and the host of other factors that have taken away so much of what they care about, so much of what they need to thrive in our societies.

What does someone on the street need? What do any of us need? To be seen. To be heard. To be known. To be visible — not as the label we carry but rather, as the human being whose name means something more than just being an unnamed figure drifting amongst the masses.