I went to a fund-raiser dinner last night. Okay, well I intended to go, drove to the other side of the city, rang the doorbell of the house whose address I was given as the location — only to discover, the address was wrong.

Alas, my cellphone was on the kitchen counter at home, I had no way to phone my hostess and get the correct address.

There is a gift in every moment, value in every circumstance. Last night, not being able to find the right address, not having my cellphone gave me the gift of time to listen to one of my favourite programs on CBC Radio — As It Happens. As I drove back across the city, I listened to As It Happens hosts, Carol Off and Jeff Douglas interviewing Jason Becker, a  musician who at the age of 20 was set to scale the heights of rock fame. Slated to be lead guitarist for superstar — David Lee Roth of Van Halen fame, Jason was living it up, playing hard and loving life.

And then, life happened. In the midst of recording the tracks for David Lee Roth’s latest album, Jason began to experience pain in a leg, he acquired a limp, his hands grew weak. His parents convinced him to go see a doctor and the diagnosis was stunning. At 20 years of age, Jason was diagnosed with ALS — commonly known as Lou Gherig’s disease.

The doctor’s gave him three years, five at most. Twenty-three years later, Jason is still alive. Still creating music. Still loving life.

I sat in my car last night, listening to, first, Jesse Vile, a film-maker whose documentary about Jason’s life, “Jason Becker: Not Dead Yet“, is out in limited release in Canada this week and then, to Jason’s father, Gary, as he spoke the words Jason said through moving his eyes. Up, left, right, down, — it is a language Gary created to be able to communicate with his son. Listening in, imagining this father interpreting his son’s words through eye movements, hearing  Jason’s words, was stunning. Inspiring. Moving.

I cried.

Such beauty. Such spirit. Such grace.

I had never heard of Jason Becker before last night. Never heard of this remarkable young man whose life took a decided turn in 1989 away from the dreams and plans he had to be a rockstar.

I’m glad I’ve heard of him now. I’m glad to know there is a Jason Becker, out there in the world, creating music with his eyes, interpreting grace through sound and sharing his beautiful heart.

I am grateful.

When asked by Carol Off, how has your music changed, Jason replied, “Well, it is sort of different because without my guitar playing, I can’t stick my soul into a tune, so it all has to come from the composition.”

If you want to be moved today, if you want to be reminded of the sacredness of life, the grace of this moment, if you want to be inspired, do go watch the trailer for Jesse Vile’s documentary of this remarkable human being, “Jason Becker — Not Dead Yet.”

Me, I’m going to go checkout when the movie’s coming to town.

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To listen to the As It Happens segment, click HERE — click LISTEN  – click on Dec 4 – Jason Becker Documentary – Part 2

My friend and inspirational founder of Leading Essentially, Ian Munro, shared his first blog with us a couple of weeks ago. Ian is new to blogging. But, given the tone of his first few blogs, he’s a natural!

Today, Ian shares a powerful story about our human need for connection, and the possibility of living in ‘the difference’.

Thank you Ian for sharing your gifts and your insights and for opening this first Sunday of Advent with a powerful story of our human condition.

People Like Us

by Ian Munro

My wife Kendra and I have just completed a marvelous 25 day trip to Europe. While in Europe we saw and experienced many things. Above all we reveled in the opportunity to share these things together and to discuss our discoveries every day. On the way home Kendra watched a movie called “People Like Us”, and just the title made me reflect again on our trip.

Europe is not at all like Canada. In Canada we marvel at old things whereas in Europe the modern attracts attention. Home is wide open spaces while in the old world you always seem to be craning in anticipation to see around the next corner. We are used to understanding every word we hear and don’t give a second thought to our ability to express ourselves … Europe is a melting pot of language with most of the skill residing with the residents, not the tourists. In Canada history is studied in schools whereas our counterpart’s children learn history by visiting it.                          To read the rest of People Like Us, click HERE…

As this is the first Sunday of Advent, I invite you (in case you missed the invitation yesterday) to join me in an advent celebration. Every Monday until Christmas Day, I shall be sharing reflections on Advent through, Make Time for the Sacred.  Please join me. I’d love to connect.  Find out more, HERE…

It is Saturday. A day to celebrate heroes on this, the first day of December.

This is a month of celebration. Looking at religious and holy feasts this month, there are many significant ones on the calendar:

December 2 – First Sunday of Advent (Christian, Catholic)

December 8 – Bodhi Day/Rohatsu (Buddhist)

December 8 –  Feast of the Immaculate Conception (Catholic)

December 9 –  Hannukkah (through 16th) (Jewish)

December 23 – Gita Jayanti (Hindu)

December 25 – Christmas (Christian, Catholic)

December 26 – Kwanzaa (through Jan 1^st) (Interfaith)  

(source:  http://www.princeton.edu/religiouslife/find-a-religious-home/holy-days-and-holidays/ )

Those who pause and take time to keep their faith, to acknowledge the holy days of their spiritual life are heroes.

Relando Thompkins blog and website is called: Notes from an Aspiring Humanitarian (N.A.H.) It is filled with wonderful stories of human beings at their best, with those striving to make a difference in the world, and with Relando’s own ideas and thoughts on what it takes to make a difference. Last Saturday, he shared about his work in a highschool around bullying. In his blog, he included a video created by a teen from India who was part of a group of 26 teens from around the world invited to participate in the IRMAS International Youth Media Summit in July 2006. Do go watch the video (2:36 min) and read Relando’s ideas on how to identify our own responsibility/ participation/complicity/capacity to stop bullying.

Relando Thompkins, Nikhil and all those working to stop bullying in our schools are heroes.

Last Saturday, Glynn Young at his wonderful blog, Faith. Fiction. Friends. posted about a new book on what a dying father wants his sons to know. I haven’t read, Tell My Sons (though it is on my Christmas WishList once it gets into print copy sometime this month) but in his article, Glynn shares a video of book co-author, Lt. Col. Mark M. Weber singing a Civil War song, Tell My Father, with his teenage son. At the end of the video, the two hug and the tears flow. There is also an invitation to go and watch the full 20 minute speech Mark Weber gave in which the singing took place. Go. Watch it. It is stunning. Poignant. Moving. Inspiring. Go. Watch it.

Lt. Col Mark M Weber, co-author David Murray, Lt. Col Weber’s son and the young men and woman standing with him and all the men and women who have heeded the call of their country are heroes.

And now… for the video portion of my post.

This is not my usual kind of video — first off, I’ve created the following video, secondly, it is an invitation.

It is December. Outside, the world remains dark as silent as long winter nights linger. The frosty air hangs suspended beneath the halo of street lights, snow blankets the ground. Inside, I am warm and toasty, an advent chant plays softly in the background, steam rises from my coffee mug.

This Advent I am inviting you to join me in meditations and reflections of the month. Every Monday between Dec 3 and Dec 25 I shall be sharing an 8 – 10 minute audio recording of my musings on this time of waiting. This time of sitting quietly in the dark reflecting on the spiritual nature of my being human. Mine is not a ‘faith-based’ reflection as much as a spiritual journey into this time of expectancy, this time of waiting for the light to return, the seasons to shift, the night to ease its path into the light. Of waiting for the birth of a child whose birth reminds us of our human capacity for Hope. Peace. Love and Joy.

To encourage you, I’ve prepared a short video about my Make Time for the Sacred Advent reflections. To sign-up, simply click HERE, submit your email through the form and your first audio reflection will arrive in your inbox on Monday. I hope you join me. I hope you choose to share a few moments sitting in the quiet of the season reflecting on all that is miraculous in our world.

Namaste.

Ah yes. This is now officially the last Friday of November (thank you Diana S! 🙂 ) which also means, the last Friday of Family Violence Prevention Month in Alberta.

My challenge is… it’s also the last day of November which means… tomorrow is the first day of December… which means Christmas is just 25 days away. And I love Christmas.

But, I also made a commitment at the beginning of the month to write about Family Violence Prevention every Friday of the month and I like to, need to, keep my commitments.

Where to begin…

I remember our first Christmas together. I had just learned about his heart condition, about the fact he was scheduled for radical, experimental heart surgery that if successful, would save his life. If not, he would be dead within 3 months.

At least, that’s the story he told me. That’s the story that became truth as I watched him struggle for breath. As he disappeared for repeated stays in hospital where I could not visit because his daughters were there and we had never met. It’s best you not be there too, one of his ‘minions’ informed me. It will only make it more difficult for everyone.

I didn’t like it. I wanted to be there, but I understood. His daughters were only slightly older than mine and I was the first woman he’d fallen in love with since his divorce.

It was a time of joy and happiness and sadness and anxiety. A time where, in between his bouts of ill-health, he created a world of wonder all around. From my birthday, which kicks off the holiday season on December 9 (just saying…) to Christmas, my little house began to fill up with presents and trinkets and signs of the season.

I baked and wrapped presents, decorated the tree and house with my daughters. Perhaps, if I hadn’t been so blinded by all the glitter and glitz I might have noticed the red flags falling softly upon the rose strewn carpet of our romance. But my eyes were blind to the harbingers of dark clouds gathering on the horizon. I could only see the rosy glow of happily ever after unfolding in the arms of love — as long as those arms stayed strong.

It was the challenge of that relationship.

He was really good at lying and I was really good at believing.

I wanted to. Believe.

I wanted to believe that I was the amazing, incredible, astonishing woman he told me I was.

I wanted to believe he wouldn’t lie about that. Just as I wanted to believe he wouldn’t lie about his health. About his heart giving out. His life ebbing.

I wanted to believe so desperately I let go of any disbelief my rational mind might have held had I stopped to listen to reason.

I was too infatuated. Too in love. Too mesmerized by his promises of creating a life for me greater than any I’d ever imagined.

And he was, a really, really good liar.

He disappeared that first Christmas. He’d appeared on my doorstep a few days before to tell me the date for his surgery had been brought forward. “My heart won’t last if I don’t get this done right away,” he said. The surgery was taking place in California. He was going down early to acclimatize, to get ready and to spend some time with his daughters.

My daughters and I shared Christmas with my family as we always do and in that beautiful air of  family time, we laughed and played and sang Christmas songs and decorated and cooked and ate and spent time just being together.

And through it all, at the back of my mind, worry for his health crawled silently through my thoughts. At times, I’d catch my mind wandering into the fear of ‘what if he doesn’t make it?’; ‘what if he dies?’ and I had to let it go. I wanted to be present for my daughters.

But still, I worried.

I’d call his cell, only to be sent to voicemail. I’d call one of his ‘minions’, only to be told there was no news.

And then, I got a call from a man telling me he was his doctor. The surgery went well, he told me. We’re hopeful.

Hopeful.

Such a small yet powerful word. So humble. So filled with possibility.

Hopeful.

Yes, I was hopeful too.

It would be almost four years later that I would awaken to the truth.

It had all been a lie. He was never sick. Never in hospital. Never put under the knife for radical surgery.

Like every thing else in that relationship, it was all a lie.

And that is the blessing I found in acknowledging the truth. From hello to good-bye. I love you to I hate you. You’re beautiful to you’re ugly. It was all a lie.

And in that truth I stopped searching for my meaning in him. I turned away from looking for ‘the reason’ he did what he did and accepted. He is the lie.

And I deserve more than lies. I deserve truth. And that is where I found myself. In my truth, buried within me.

I don’t need another to tell me I am amazing, incredible, astonishing. I am who I am. And when I believe in me, when I live up to my highest good, it doesn’t matter what’s happening in the world around me, what matters is what’s happening within me. What matters is what I am willing to do to make my dreams come true, because, I’m responsible for making my dreams come true. I’m responsible for my own happiness.

And that’s the truth.

Namaste.

Ellie’s Friends Dejana & Mike

When Dejana was in grade 3 her parents made the difficult decision to immigrate. The war in their native Serbia was too close.

A brother killed. A cousin raped. Another missing.

These are the stories of the war. Stories that touched too many lives of their family, friends and neighbours. Stories Dejana’s parents did not want their daughter to grow up knowing or experiencing.

They came to Canada. A land far, far away from the beautiful country of their birth. They came to Calgary, a city far, far different than their beloved hometown.

They came and made a life. They learned English. The parents found work. Dejana went to school. She made friends. Memories. Stories. She created her life. A life that reflects the heart of this amazing young woman whom I’ve known for 12 years, when she and my eldest daughter became fast friends their first few days of Junior High.

Dejana and her parents have lived in Calgary sixteen years now. They’ve bought a home. Settled into their adopted land and become Canadians. They’re proud of how far they’ve come, and, as her mother recently told me when I asked if she ever wished she could go back to her native land, “We did this for Dejana. We wanted her to have a different life, one that didn’t include always fearing what might happen.”

There is sadness in Dejana’s mother’s voice. Sadness for the loss of the times she remembers before the war when her country was safe, secure. “We had one of the highest standards of living anywhere,” she proudly said. But politics and centuries old animosities over-took the peace.

“It could happen again,” she said. And she sighs. “It is not stable. Who knows what might happen?”

And then she smiles. “Coming here has been worth it.” She puts one arm around her daughter’s shoulders where she sits beside her. “We are so proud of her. She’s worked so hard and now, she has achieved her goal. She has made it happen.”

This Friday Dejana defends her masters thesis. She flies to Victoria this morning and her parents will join her tonight. On Friday morning, two cousins, and a handful of friends, including my eldest daughter, will be there to support her and celebrate her achievement.

It is an amazing accomplishment. To come to a strange land. Learn the language. Make friends. Study. Excel. And now this.

It is amazing, but not really. If you knew Dejana you’d know why. She has always been committed. Dedicated. A hard worker. She’s always been willing to do what it takes to create more of what she wants in her life.

At twenty-six, Dejana portrays the same qualities that made her so engaging 12 years ago when I first met her. Compassionate. Kind. Caring. Dejana has a beautiful heart. When C.C. and I go away, Dejana turns up at our house to care for the animals. On her phone she has pictures of Ellie the wonder pooch and Marley the great cat. She likes to show people how Marley helped her write her thesis — by sitting on the keyboard of her laptop. “I couldn’t tell him to get off,” she laughs. “He was just trying to help.” Ellie on the other hand was not so helpful. She just wanted to play. To convince Dejana to feed her or, better still, take her for a walk. “She used to dance around me where ever I sat, begging me to play with her.”

Ellie is no slouch. She knows a mark when she sees one and Dejana’s kind heart cannot not help but give in to Ellie’s entreaties. Her daily walk goes up to 3 or 4 times a day when Dejana is here.

Dejana’s parents are incredibly proud of their daughter. So am I.

Dejana will make a difference in the world. She already has. Her thesis is on Community Engagement. What it takes. What it means. Why it’s important. Living here in Calgary, there’s a lot of room for community engagement — oil companies are constantly trying to push the envelope so they can drill on prairies soils. Engaging community in the process is imperative.

Dejana knows this and she wants to ensure it happens — the right way, for the right reasons, for the best outcome.

Tomorrow, Dejana defends her thesis. She’s worked hard for this. She deserves to celebrate and be celebrated.

Congratulations Dejana. Go for it!

You are amazing.

Yesterday, on my way to a meeting, I stopped to pay for my parking at one of the meters that lines our city streets. A man approached, visibly homeless, stumbling unsteadily on his feet. As I pulled my credit card out of the meter he stopped beside me. I could feel his presence and for a second, a voice of worry slithered through my mind. My wallet was open in my hand, my credit card held mid-air between the parking meter and my purse.

“I like your outfit,” the man told me loudly. “I like the get-up.”

I turned to look at him. Smiled. Slipped my card back into my wallet. I debated searching for coins but held off. He wasn’t asking for a handout. He was giving me a compliment.

He was older, but life on the street is hard, so he could have been anywhere from 45 to 65. Face encased in a long white beard beneath a red toque with a white pompom bobbing at the apex. Green jacket. Prerequisite backpack. He stood and smiled at me, his blue eyes sparkling in his weathered face. He was missing a front tooth in his smile. He waved one hand as he checked out my long  winter white coat and matching flapper style cloche.

Thank you, I replied as he once again told me how much he liked my outfit.

“I know you,” he said. “You’re that lady who used to work at the DI. I remember you!”

Down the street, three men waited at a light. They called back to him, cajoling him, teasing him. “C’mon buddy. Leave the pretty lady alone.” “She’s not going to date ya!”

He waved a dismissive hand at them and turned back to me.

“You always smiled. I liked that,” he said.

“And I remember you,” I told him, which was true. I remember seeing him at the shelter. Like so many, he wandered in and out, spending his days scrambling for a dollar, spending his nights on a mat in Intox. “I apologize,” I continued. “I don’t remember your name.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I don’t remember yours either.” He laughed at himself, slapped his leg and then added, “but I sure remember your smile!” He nodded his head some more, told me again how much he liked my outfit before shuffling off down the street to meet up with his friends who were still calling to him from the corner where the light was now green.

I thanked him again and crossed over to the other side of the street to go to my meeting.

When I worked at the shelter I used to tell visitors that the shelter was a ‘gated community’. Surrounded by tall wrought iron fencing and a gate that could be drawn across the driveway to lock off access and egress, the difference between that gated community and its more tony neighbours is, you had to lose everything to qualify to come through those gates. You had to be lost on the road of life to end up there.

But like any fence, like any gated community, it sets the occupants apart. It creates a divide between the haves and the have-nots.

And we stand  on the other side of the street, looking in, wondering what it’s like to live on the other side of those gates. Sometimes we venture in just to take a look.

And when we meet them, those fortunate and unfortunates who live in the gated community, we wonder, “How did they get there?” “What path did they take that lead them to that side of those gates?”

The stories are many. They come from every walk of life. They come from every community, faith, demographic. And the only difference is, one road leads to abundance beyond the gates, the other to scarcity.

And always, for those who enter the gates of the shelter, no matter what lead them there, the reason they stay is the same. They are lost in the grips of something they never imagined would be part of their life. Something they never dreamed would become their reality. Homelessness.

A man stopped beside me on the street yesterday to pay me a compliment. He was a passer-by. A stranger. But I know where he lives. I know the gated community he calls home.

It didn’t make a difference. His compliment was lovely. Welcome. Engaging. He didn’t want anything other than to share his thoughts on what I was wearing.

He was the only one who did that. Pay a compliment to a stranger.

I didn’t stop anyone else during my day to say, “I like your outfit.” I didn’t stop a stranger to make a human connection and in my not doing it, my day was made less different than if I’d taken the time to share a compliment with a stranger.