Heather Cardin

2011-03-20T06:50:00.000-07:00

photo credit: ramez

It's the final day of the annual 19-day fast, a time during which Baha'is worldwide abstain from food and drink between sunrise and sunset. I have just breakfasted with my sister and her husband, and then we gathered together for prayers. We are looking forward to this evening when we will join fellow Baha'is and their friends in breaking the fast and greeting Naw Ruz, the New Year, with celebration, music, dancing, and of course, breaking bread together (or in our case, potluck). It's a time of reflection for me. There have been explanations to those who are unfamiliar with the idea and purposes of fasting, although most people know about Christian practices like Lent, or Muslim ones like Ramadan, so are familiar with the ACT of fasting. Fewer seem to have a context for it, however; in these days of health crazes galore, and what I think of as "the cult of the body," fewer people I encounter seem to comprehend the motivations of those of us who willingly give up sleep, food, and water for twelve hours a day, replacing them with...prayers?

I thought I might share some of the more personal aspects of this time of year, the mysterious and truly nebulous elements of the gifts of the spirit, about which it is more accustomed to be private, or perhaps reticent. I am going out on a limb: it's very un-Canadian to be public about your spirituality. Conversation about what is happening to one on a spiritual basis is not your garden-variety talk in most situations; for me, as a school-teacher, I am somewhat careful about how I phrase my faith within the professional world. I can tell stories, of course, of the transformative nature of travel...most people who have travelled can relate...but I can't really convey the depth, for example, of what it meant to go on Baha'i pilgrimage in 2007 with my family.

How can I explain how it felt, as we entered the sanctum of Baha'u'llah's gravesite at Bahji, near Haifa, with other pilgrims, and as we were about to approach that spot, sacred to us, my husband whispered to me, "Let's go together," took my hand, and joined me in unity as we offered our prayers, heads bowed, to the Lord of Ages? How can I convey the moments outside the sacred buildings, looking towards the Qiblih (point of adoration to which we direct our prayers in the same way as a Muslim facing Mecca) from right outside it, surrounded by the scent of frangipani in bloom, knowing that every time I turned to this point in the future, I would recall this place, those trees, that gorgeous scent? To go on such a pilgrimage, in the company of your loved ones, is a bounty beyond retelling with the limitations of language, even for a poet, though surely many have tried. Perhaps, in this secular world, the most eloquent has been the Persian poet of the past, now read widely, in the west in translation: the mystic dervish, Rumi, who reminds us, "When you find yourself with the Beloved, embracing for one breath,/In that moment you will find your true destiny./Alas, don't spoil this precious moment/Moments like this are very, very rare. "

I think that's what fasting is about: it's a way of seeking the rare and precious moment, in turbulent times, of spiritual embrace, our 'true destiny'. To find those moments of connection to the Divine, that which is beyond expression through our own abilities to speak and reflect, and meditate upon them, share them with others as best you can when the moments arise: this is, perhaps in part, what is meant by the desire for "elevated conversation", reiterated in a recent message to the Baha'is of the world. It's one of the reasons that Baha'is are grateful that Baha'u'llah and 'Abdu'l-Baha gave us so many of their own prayers to say and to listen to: there's a litany of spirit embedded within these words, even in translation, that is capable of transporting a soul to another place, beyond the "changes and chances" of the daily moments which risk routine and mediocrity.

One of the gifts of fasting is that you can have opportunities to offer such prayers in the company of loved ones: my husband's favourite prayer during the fast, revealed by Baha'u'llah, has a chant through its many verses, which names and re-names some of the virtues or qualities of the Creator: "Thou seest me, O my God, holding to Thy Name, the Most Holy, the Most Luminous, the Most Mighty, the Most Great, the Most Exalted, the Most Glorious..." The sheer incantatory experience of repeating this phrase over a dozen times during the course of the prayer is a reminder to ourselves of the source of our lives. I know of few joys greater than hearing my beloved's voice chanting these names of my Beloved. It's not my own personal favourite prayer, but it's a joyous time to listen to him saying it.

Another gift of fasting is that the prayers themselves tell us that this is a powerful time: "Thou hast endowed every hour of these days with a special virtue...Thou hast, also, assigned unto every soul a portion of this virtue..." One of the things which intrigues, no, comforts me about these statements is that there is a holism there: you don't have to be any particular religion or faith to enjoy the spiritual mysteries inherent in the fast. "Every soul" receives a portion of the bounty of our Lord through the blessing of its time. It's one of the reasons I feel that when I utter the name of a person for whom I am praying, maybe the angels will carry him or her special blessings. It's a gift to be able to offer a prayer on behalf of anyone, but to be able to do so, to say their name out loud into the universe, to imagine what Baha'u'llah calls "the scattering angels" coming to pick up the words of the prayer and take them to the recipient, wherever he or she may be, in this world or the next: well, there's a particular joy in that, too, in just naming their name and wishing them blessings.

Our souls are not bound by the physical limitations of the world: I am sitting here, reflecting onto the page, on an overcast day on 14th Street East in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada, temperature hovering around 0 C., still in my red housecoat, looking at a painting my sister made when she was at my house. The painting is an impression of a winter scene looking over the prairies from my front windows, and the power of thought and imagination allows me to be there and here at the same time; my mind can be where it prefers, in any given moment. How much greater than the mind is the human spirit! Prayer and fasting, we are told, are "twin pillars" in our spiritual practice; times to be reminded of why we are alive.

So I can look left and see the words of a prayer for children which adorns my sister's desk (she's an educator): "O God! Educate these children. These children are the plants of Thine orchard, the flowers of Thy meadow, the roses of Thy garden..." and revel in the metaphors of joy created by these words and images... I can look at my prayer book and think of the people around the world for whom I said this prayer this morning (some of you know who you are...so I hope you can feel the blessings!):

"O Divine Providence! This assemblage is composed of Thy friends who are attracted to Thy beauty and are set ablaze by the fire of the Thy love. Turn these souls into heavenly angels, resuscitate them through the breath of Thy Holy Spirit, grant them eloquent tongues and resolute hearts, bestow upon them heavenly power and merciful susceptibilities, cause them to become the promulgators of the oneness of mankind and the cause of love and concord in the world of humanity, so that the perilous darkness of ignorant prejudice may vanish through the light of the Sun of Truth, this dreary world may become illumined, this material realm may absorb the rays of the world of spirit, these different colors may merge into one color and the melody of praise may rise to the kingdom of Thy sanctity. Verily Thou art the Omnipotent and the Almighty!" 'Abdu'l-Baha

Assembled around the world today, anticipating the feast of Naw Ruz, (or in some time zones, already enjoying it!) are people, millions of people, who through Faith, Fasting, and Friendship are focusing all of their hopes, actions, and dreams on the ability to see beauty, to become angels, to speak eloquently, to have the courage of "resolute hearts," to be strong and merciful, and this, the ultimate purpose of faith, "to become...promulgators of the oneness of mankind and the cause of love and concord in the world of humanity." Last night I had a long visit with a new friend, here at my sister's home, and we found, in the course of our conversation, how small the world really is; we found that we were jointly committed, each in our own unique way, to removing "the perilous darkness of ignorant prejudice." The prayer acknowledges that the world is "dreary"...but implicit within 'Abdu'l-Baha's words are the ideals that we humans are not limited to that dreariness. Today is gray outside, but I do have faith that this being the prairies, the sunshine will soon return. Spring IS coming: if you trust the calendar, pretty soon!

Well, I do live in Saskatchewan, so I am not expecting the physical springtime by the equinox...but I have the evidence of memory to imagine the future, and to believe that this future is not too far away. I believe that the Divine Springtime will arrive. Similarly, I can envision, in "my mind's eye," that "radiant morn" when the spiritual destiny of humanity will be transformed to something more angelic. We all have the ability to change into angels: not the kind that fly around on large white bird-wings (we are not earth-bound versions of Big Bird!) but the kind that use the impetus of spirit to work, every day in the world, to serve the goals of unity in diversity.

It's as good a reason as any for fasting: to remind ourselves of the possibilities of spiritual practice to overcome physical limitations.

One of the fasting prayers has the person uttering the prayer say, "Do not bring our fasts to an end with this fast." I don't think that's just asking to stay alive in the world until next year's fast, although that's what I thought for several years. It occurred to me, this fast, that it's a prayer asking for the constancy implied by the covenant we accept when we make the decision, as consciously as possible, to commit ourselves to a spiritual life. I think that for many of us, every day offers small and larger opportunities to re-visit the reasons for our belief, the thoughts and feelings that brought us to this place of dedication to God, however puny we are in the eternal scheme of Creation. Asking to be granted the privilege of another fast is not only asking for the health to be able to do so, and the life to be able to do so, but for the certitude to be able to do so. Every day is a mystery, before its beginning, and every moment, one can find reasons for vacillation. There are no guarantees; we must constantly return to our spiritual centre. The opportunity to pray, the opportunity to fast, the opportunity to serve, to do good works, to try and become one of those 'earthbound angels', is given through carrying our spiritual selves into the dailiness of the world. So this is the last day of this year's fast, and I am grateful.

I am grateful to have been offered the privilege of fasting; to ask for mercy and forgiveness for the past, for joy in the presence, and for constancy in a future that is arriving every second. I am grateful for candlelit breakfasts with Bernie and prayers shared with Andrea, for stories from our daughter about the blessings she is finding in her fast and opportunities to try and explain to friends why I am fasting, and finding that they honour such attempts at developing a spiritual life. I am grateful for conversations with new friends, telephone chats with old friends, my sister's birthday on the first day of the fast, my dad turning 81 during this particular fast, and all the attendant celebrations of loved ones who share the spiritual sustenance of this incandescent time. I am, again and again, grateful.

Happy Naw Ruz, friends. Joy, light, and love to each and every one of you, now, and tomorrow.

"Praised be Thou, O my God, that Thou hast ordained Naw-Ruz as a festival unto those who have observed the Fast for love of Thee.... He Who is Thy Branch and all Thy company, O my Lord, have broken this day their fast, after having observed it within the precincts of Thy court, and in their eagerness to please Thee. Do thou Ordain for Him, and for them, and for all such as have entered Thy presence in those days all the good Thou didst destine in Thy book. Supply them, then, with that which will profit them, in both this life and in the life beyond." Baha'u'llah

May God abundantly supply you with "that which will profit" you, mind, heart, and spirit. God bless.

2011-03-17T18:02:00.000-07:00

photo credit: Coral Gomez

I know I should care about Japan. And I do. I know I should care about the Middle East. And I do. I know I should care about poverty, and I do, and I know I should care about abuse, and I do.

I teach my students about social issues, we read about global issues, we study the ideas of sympathy and empathy and why it's important to care. I sometimes contribute money to disaster funds (I do) and I try not to destroy the environment any more than any North American who drives a car or buys stuff in grocery stores (I do...try, that is.)

But sometimes, friends, I have to say: I need to step back, say prayers (put all of these things in the hands of God), and enjoy very simple things: my gardenia plant is in bloom in my kitchen. The soft brown of our eggs, collected freshly each day from our chickens, which, incidentally, eat all the leftover peelings and apple cores and reduce waste in my kitchen. The sound of a new song that moves me (currently it's an old song, a piece by Beethoven that I can't stop listening to). The rapid approach of Naw Ruz, when I will break bread with old friends and new, and dance the evening away...

My dad's birthday, 81 years old today. I'm glad he's alive, I'm glad he's well, and I'm glad he's my dad.

My daughter's impending visit: counting the days.

My husband's laughter.

Holding a small baby at work today when one of the moms came in to school, a tiny girl named Lira.

Chickadees at the bird feeder.

Poetry.

I have to stop and count all the little things I'm grateful for, so that I can support my own capacity to care about the bigger things.

That's all for now.

2011-01-23T18:03:00.000-08:00

photo credit: Ashraf Ogram

The winter is long in Saskatchewan, and in the last few days here it has also been very changeable, from -40C windchill on Thursday to +4C and melting today, along with scattered snowfall and sometimes, frost as you see above. Like the weather, I find myself a little moody; this is rare for me, but it happens.

Last night was a good one. I attended an evening of devotions, and was particularly struck by these words of 'Abdu'l-Baha, from Divine Philosophy page 103:

When we speak, let our speech be an outward evidence
of the inner light, for we must speak the truth,
otherwise we shall not act wisely.
I hope that you will all become eloquent.
The greatest gifts of man are reason and eloquence of expression.
The perfect man is both intelligent and eloquent.
He has knowledge and he knows how to express it.
Unless man expresses himself in this day
he will remain like a closed casket
and one cannot know whether it contain jewels or glass.
I desire that all of you may speak on the material and divine
sciences with clear and convincing words.

As one who has far too often put her foot in her mouth, only to pull the foot out and make room for the other one, I feel this quote. I love eloquence; I love hearing a good orator, whether or not I agree with everything s/he says (thank you, Mr. Obama, for your wonderful speeches!) I enjoy a lot of the talks at www.TED.com, most recently Dr. Brené Brown and Elizabeth Lesser. I am delighted when a friend or student offers a particularly compelling turn of phrase; recently, one of my grade eights, when pressed to identify a principle which was a part of her life, said, "Elegance." Not bad. She was referring to the love she has for the beauty of horses. Not bad at all.

One of my students has started a "no-cussing" club. Her religious background (Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints) teaches her that one should not defile speech by profanity; so does mine, but I can't say I've been very good at following it. Her reminder has been timely; I am going to try very hard to be a better example in this regard.

I also think of the principle of eloquence as it relates to backbiting, which the Baha'i writings assure us is "grievous error...inasmuch as backbiting quencheth the light of the heart, and extinguisheth the life of the soul." (Baha'u'llah in Gleanings, page 264) Anyone who has ever been the subject of gossip knows the truth of this; many of us who have found ourselves saying things we ought not have also known the truth of it. Another of the devotions chosen last night said,

Man's speech is the revealer of his heart.
In whatever world the heart travels,
man's conversation will revolve around that center.
From his words you can understand in what world he is travelling,
whether he is looking upward toward the realm of light
or downward to the nether world,
whether he is mindful or unaware,
whether he is awake or asleep,
whether he is alive or dead.
Man is hidden behind his tongue.
Out of the abundance of his heart does man speak.
Compilations, Lights of Guidance, page 339

A selection from the Chinese classics tells us, "One word sums up the basis of all good conduct: loving-kindness." You just can't be profane if you are speaking loving-kindness. You just can't backbite if you are speaking loving-kindness. You just can't eschew eloquence if you are speaking loving-kindness. If you think trash, talk trash, and consume trash, you can't be surprised if your life gets a little trashy!

When 'Abdu'l-Baha enjoins us to turn our thoughts around: when he says to overcome thoughts of war with more powerful thoughts of peace, or to defeat thoughts of hatred with greater thoughts of love, then he is teaching us a clear principle: our minds can change our thoughts, and our thoughts, concentrated on loving-kindness, can create more loving-kindness in action. Cause and effect.

So, I don't know about you, but I want to try to concentrate on beauty. Part of teaching school is making sure that kids know about history, but there is a tremendous emphasis on the grievousness of history: Holocausts, apocalypses, wars and battles. But Anne Frank said "Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart." I want to remember these words from a girl who was the same age, writing her diary, as the young people I meet each day. I want to remember possibility: I want to remind myself that she said, from the midst of the Holocaust, "How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world." She wrote that, and she wrote "Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy." And she said, from her place stuck in that attic, looking at the sky through a sliver of window:

"The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature. As longs as this exists, and it certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles."

Last night, after we listened to devotions, we watched a very powerful film: it's called "Oh My God," and it's a documentary which listens to people from many cultures, traditions, and experiences of the Divine. Check it out at http://www.omgmovie.com/ when you have a minute. I liked it a lot: it struck me, apart from some minor glitches, as visually powerful and eloquent of speech. It underscored, perhaps, the Zoroastrian idea that "the religious person's entire duty is: the correct thought, the truthful word, the righteous action..." The Zoroastrian believer says, "I repent, am sorry, and do penance for all that I ought to have thought, and did not think; for all that I ought to have said, and did not say; and for all that I ought to have done, and did not do." I found that very interesting because I probably would have prayed the opposite: I'd probably have said, "I repent and am sorry for all that I've thought that I ought not to have thought, for all that I've said that I ought not to have spoken, and for all that I have done that I ought not to have done." The Zoroastrian passage turns that way of thought on its head, and forces us to view the world through a different lens, as 'Abdu'l-Baha tells us to do: it's as though since the past is over, we should just acknowledge, and do better today, and tomorrow.

Anne Frank knew, young as she was, isolated as she was, writing eloquence as she was, that people are still essentially loving and kind. How did she know this and believe this? It's enough to make you believe in miracles. It's miracle enough that she was able to conceal the sins of her time, to remove herself from the Zeitgeist of hatred in which she lived, in order to believe in beauty. She was aware, she knew that there was evil in the world, but she somehow managed to be...generous, with her eloquence. Loving-kindness.

Baha'u'llah says, on page 54 of Epistle to the Son of the Wolf, "If ye become aware of a sin committed by another, conceal it, that God may conceal your own sin." This is something that I want to take to heart: that if there is a way to say something that will bring beauty and eloquence, why would I say it in another way?

It's a goal from mid-winter Saskatchewan, where I am reflecting on the power of language, and on the power of human capacity for change. It's a goal, from a place where, just for a few hours today, the power of the sun melted the snow, foreshadowing a dearly-longed for spring. It's a goal. A compilation from the Baha'i Scriptures includes these mighty words, in the voice of the One God:

"I am that light which illumines the path of insight...I bear healing in My wings, and teach the knowledge of soaring to the heaven of truth."

Miracles.

2010-09-28T14:47:00.000-07:00

photo credit: Coral Gomez

To all of those out there who have been sending me comments: I'm sorry, I just found them! I don't like ignoring people and it's still better simply to email. The address is somewhere in the site if you want to find it.

That's not what I want to write about today, though. A friend has written to ask why I chose to self-publish my anthology of poetry (Hierophany: Poems of the Sacred). The truth is that many people had been asking me for a collection, and I was having no luck with the small independent publishers here in Canada. It's discouraging to send your work out consistently and have it come back with "Lovely work. Unfortunately it's not right for our company right now" letters. I understand that this is part of the writing process, and I am not really as peevish as I sound to myself as I type, but...well, part of me is a little peevish!

I think it's not entirely because I am dubious about what else I will need to do to turn "pro", so to speak. Poetry continues to be a passion, and I continue to read other poets widely as well as occasionally getting up the gumption to submit to things. However, I am gradually recognizing a few things about getting published: one, the field is capricious. It's often just a bit of a crapshoot: who receives your poem, who reads it, who shortlists it, who just doesn't like your style or the way you put words together. Another reason is that I am rather cheerful by nature: I don't write a lot of I'm-depressed-woe-is-me poetry. Yet it strikes me that at least some of the post-modernist ethos is to revel in the dismal (or perhaps, as one of the Baha'i prayers puts it, to "dwell on the unpleasant things of life".) I am usually not a "dweller". Yes, I like the contemplative life, and yes, I tend towards the serious, but no, I am not a dweller.

My poems tend, however, to be a little "spiritual", and I think that doesn't go over well in 2010. I don't mean this in a self-help-guru-I-have-all-the-answers kind of way. I'm not (self-helpish), I don't (guru), and I don't want to pretend to know more than I do. But I do tend to want to lean towards the spiritual. I wonder if I should explain that a little?

There are some classic, and in some cases, quite popular writers (Rumi, Mary Avison, Lorna Crozier, Mary Oliver, Rilke) whose voices are spiritual. They may not be commenting directly on the spirit (although sometimes they do) but they imbue the words with the transcendent nature of longing, which to me is a spiritual condition. Exploring God, or whatever you might wish to call the Creator or the Universe or the Magic-that-makes-us-alive, is an essential component of their relationship with the world. It's beyond time-and-space. It's soul work. I love it; I love reading a poem by Rumi or Oliver and discovering that even back then, even now, there is someone who speaks my language and who has left letters to the world about spirit, in poetic form. This is also intimately connected to beauty, both in the Big Letter Beauty sense and in the small, macrocosmic, delight-in-the-beauty-of-the-world beauty. The poetic ability, it seems to me, is to take the time and place you find yourself surrounded by and make it, through your words, a time and place anyone can enter with you through the magic of your words, descriptive, narrative, and honest.

So if I am to write, I want to write from the spirit. And in this day and age, it's really hard to do well. Sometimes I hit it, and some of the poems in my own collection are ones which I feel leave a glimpse of the unblemished spirit within me, the part which has been untouched by all the mistakes I've made. For this is the thing: it's the human condition, it seems, to make mistakes and have regrets (or at least something like) but to dwell on those is also to deny the beauty of the power of redemption. And trust me, redemption is not a popular word in modern-day poetry, really, although there are a few authors who write themselves into that sacred space through beauty. That's the poet I'd like to be, and gradually, through patience, prayer, and some perseverance, she's emerging. I hear her voice whispering within, sometimes softly, and I want to recognize her and allow her to speak.

Annie Dillard did this in prose, of course, with that amazing work, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés, whom I've just re-read, kindled spirit throughout Women Who Run With the Wolves...and Barbara Kingsolver consistently does it, works through words and the deep longing of the world to create beauty. Their works are redemptions, and they are not alone. And their poetry is lovely, too...but, there's something hesitant, perhaps, when we try to understand the numinous. I find that I have to wait for it, and sometimes it just flows into me like heat. Something kindled. Crozier said this; I listened to her at the Ottawa Writers' Festival a few years ago and she reminded us of the gift of immanence. Yes.

This is also kind of why I blog, too: not just to send letters to my parents (although that too) but to leave an exploration out there, something for both friends and strangers to ruminate about and perhaps share right back. So I published myself because I got impatient! And when you hope that what you have said can kindle something for someone else, find that resonance, then you want the words out there. If poets are given a gift (even minor poets like me!) then it's best to share it, and sometimes you just have to get it out there whether the literary powers-that-be think it's worthwhile or not. One acquaintance reminded me that there is value in following your passion.

So here's someone who said all of this better:

Word Fog

Words, even if they come from
the soul, hide the soul, as fog

rising off the sea covers the sea,
the coast, the fish, the pearls.

It's noble work to build coherent
philosophical discourses, but

they block out the sun of truth.
See God's qualities as an ocean,

this world as foam on the purity
of that. Brush away and look

through the alphabet to essence,
as you do the hair covering your

beloved's eyes. Here's the mystery:
this intricate, astonishing world

is proof of God's presence even as
it covers the beauty. One flake

from the wall of a gold mine does
not give much idea what it's like

when the sun shines in and turns
the air and the workers golden.

Rumi

2010-09-21T15:49:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago, I wrote an elegy for Joan Doran. Today, I write one for her husband, Bob, who died today. I cannot say that I knew this couple well; we were related through marriage. They were my sister's parents-in-law. From time to time I visited them, over the years, and have met all of the brothers (there are six) and most of their families; I guess you could say that they are extended families. There are ties that western kinship systems don't really have words for; maybe that's a reflection of our low expectations regarding connectedness. What do you call your sister's mother and father-in-law? They are my nephews' and niece's grandparents, my grand-nieces great-grandparents, and were loved by more than just their blood relations. I loved Bob and Joan Doran, not in a terrible, grieving way, but in a we-are-connected way. I loved Joan for her grace and charm and kindness; I loved Bob for his exacting and meticulous appreciation of the best things in life. I loved them because they upheld, sometimes in an unconscious way, the principles of truth and beauty.

Their grandchildren are my nephews and niece. I visited in their home, I cooked them some meals in the days when Joan was becoming more frail, and I liked listening to their stories, especially Bob's stories of the war, which he could repeat as though the 1940s and the war in Europe had happened yesterday. Bob was a veteran, one of the few remaining in the world who had helped to fight the scourge of the Nazi era. I was proud of him.

I remember accompanying him, my sister and her husband, and some of their family, to the War Museum in Ottawa. We wandered through those grand hallways and, as someone who has taught a generation of students about that war, in history classrooms, it was like walking through a diorama of the Grade Eleven textbook. The sections on World Wars One and Two brought to visual memory the names and places I had required hundreds of students to memorize: the Battle of the Somme, Vimy Ridge, the Phony War, the Battle for the Atlantic. The words of Winston Churchill are not the only ones immortalized there; everywhere there are comments from soldiers about their experiences. One of the most visceral exhibits re-creates a World War trench, complete with facsimiles of dying soldiers lying face down in muddy bogs. It is eerily lit and a testament to a time now almost a century old. I have posted one photo of the many I took on that occasion, including my sister with her dearly-loved father-in-law.

Today a fine man passed on. Bob Doran raised a family after surviving World War Two from a cold ship in the North Atlantic. He came home to Ottawa and married Joan. If I recall his story correctly, he saw her step from a streetcar and admired the turn of her ankle. It's a good beginning, I suppose, for a family of six strapping sons. They worked hard, the two of them, to build a family with high values and morals. Their sons inherited their determination, their world view, their high expectations. They also inherited a little proclivity for rabble rousing...ah, there are some stories. But those are not mine to tell!

They inherited the arts. Bob Doran was a meticulous painter, and he could build anything. The sheen of perfection was on all his work, from beautifully carved and painted Canada geese to exquisitely-rendered oil paintings. He also loved music: most of the sons are musicians of a professional calibre, and that gene appears to have continued into the next generation, as well. His grandsons Tim and Mitch are both excellent music-makers, born with a natural and sometimes almost uncanny talent. They owe some of this legacy to their grandfather, to whom they must say goodbye today.

If I were to write an elegy for Bob Doran, picturing him, as I do, joining his beloved Joan in a world beyond pain and cancer and Alzheimers, and surrounded by the most extraordinary beauties of a heaven he believed in, it would be this one. Joan has been in my prayers each day since her passing; today, Bob joins her in an homage to a couple of ordinary people who, in their own steadfast and formidable way, were extraordinary. God go with you, Bob, and take our love to Joan.

Luthier

for Bob Doran

There's a craft to life.
There's perfection in its building,
in the strokes across fine grains
of fallen trees,
in the plucking of a string.

When you hold something you've made
in your arms:
a son,
a grandchild,
a picture,
a piece of wood carved
as preciously as any of these,

when you touch the divine
in His own creation,
offer prayers and blessings,
when you believe that right is right
and live it with all your might,

then the just reward,
the right outcome
is not fairy tales or pipe dreams,
angels and minstrels at some
imaginary pearly gates:

it's to find yourself
surrounded. There's a wife
in her beauty,
opening her arms in welcome;
there's incantatory music
all around you,
tall steeples of gold and gems,
Irish roads riding you to
this new country,
this beauteous whirligig of eternity.

Here you are, Grandpa Doran,
there you are waving
from a ship sailing
not through angry, war-worn
waters but through
seas made of music.
Here you are, Grandpa,
holding hands with Grandma
from that island beyond the sun
where joy waves like wings
and you create the music.

You are the luthier, Grandpa.
If prayers were wings,
we would be flying alongside,
exultant in the salt spray
of light, this new life,
yours to play in pride,
and ours to dream, and ride.

2010-08-17T12:08:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: Kai Bighorn

l. to r.: Heather Cardin, Hooper Dunbar, Will Gomez, Ovidio Gomez, Coral Gomez

Yesterday I wrote some impressions of the 2010 conference of the Association for Baha'i Studies held in Vancouver, BC, Canada. This morning I received a link to the official Baha'i News version, (copyright), and am providing it here. Aside from a minor typo, it's a helpful reflection of the event, and I must say I was surprised to know that it was attended by closer to 1800 than 1000, as I had previously reported. That's a lotta people! Here's the link for your perusal.

2010-08-16T22:19:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: Coral Gomez

There is a gentle rain, much needed, falling here as I write, late in the evening after my return home from very full summer holidays. The photo above was the one I used with the kind permission of my sister, Coral Gomez, for the cover of my now-available book of poetry, Hierophany: Poems of the Sacred, which traces a spiritual journey inclusive of Papua New Guinea, Belize, Honduras, and here at home in Canada, through reflections on inner and outer locations. I suppose that the purpose of this post is to reflect about some of these journeys more in prose, and most specifically, about the times I have spent with family and friends this summer, culminating in the Association for Baha'i Studies in North America conference, held last weekend in Vancouver.

During a July heatwave, my husband and I went to Ottawa and Montreal to visit our precious daughters, and I have already blogged about that journey. I then came home and weeded the garden, mowed a lot of lawn, and read fiction. On August 3, it was time to go west, instead, and I flew to Victoria, where many family members were gathering. The ensuing week was filled with laughter and good company: my parents, my cousin Ray, my sisters Coral and Laurel and many of their family members, and even a brief visit with my son. I went swimming, read some good novels, ate a peach fresh from the tree at my sister's house, visited with dear friends, including the beautiful Laura, known as Señora to the Maxwell School Crew, and had a lovely Spanish luncheon with my brother-in-law, as well as a drive along the beautiful coastline amongst the gorgeous homes of Oak Bay.

Too soon, that visit ended and Dad and I set sail with Coral and her family, as well as Rowan and Mitchell, for the ABS conference in Vancouver: the Association for Baha'i Studies. Each year, this conference takes place and includes several plenaries, a special lecture in memory of Mr. Balyuzi, breakout sessions by different scholars with a plethora of ideas and from wide venue of locales, and a great arts program (organized for beauty by Dr. Anne Gordon Perry, doing an extraordinary job). This year's conference sought to explore the assumptions that are made about human nature, with a view to finding ways that we can learn to see, and act, from a more grounded spiritual viewpoint. The memorial lecture was given by scholar Dr. Julio Savi, from Italy, and an extra blessing, on the Thursday night, was a talk delivered by a former member of the Baha'i Universal House of Justice, Mr. Hooper Dunbar.

The talks themselves will be published both in print and on CDs which can be ordered from the ABS website, so I don't intend to speak much about what they spoke about, except to say this. Most of the time, we live "in the world". At least, I do, and I imagine that most of do. I think about what I have to do in a day, my work, my goals, my communications with family and friends. I take time each day to offer prayers, and to be thankful for many blessings, which I find is supported mostly when I am able to do something that feels simple and true, like today, weeding the garden and then gathering a bouquet of portulaca, nasturtiums, a gladiolus, some sweet peas, some snapdragons, marigolds, and some burgundy leaves for a very pink and orange table bouquet. I made coleslaw from a cabbage from the garden, and gathered two zucchinis for grilling with tomorrow night's dinner. I watched yellow finches playing in the carraganas and sparrows in the lilacs, and several times, stopped to look south, over the prairie, where canola fields are ripening into gold. It was a lovely summer day and I felt like action was a form of prayer.

The value of being at the conference, for me, was that I was reminded, again, that I am not alone in feeling a sense of the presence of the Divine. I was amongst over a thousand people, gathered from all over the continent and beyond (several Australians, even!), whose sole purpose was to participate in an event designed to raise our spirits in the sense of unity provided when listening to elevating thoughts, participating in wonderful conversations, and meeting old and new friends, most of whom are adherents of the Baha'i teachings. A panel of scholars from the First Nations offered insights into breaking down barriers between cultures; a Canadian-Iranian lawyer gave a profoundly deep assessment of the gravity of the human rights situation for the Baha'is of Iran, based in his extensive work with peacekeeping and important organizations; a Chinese choir came and sang and several of the women danced in a gorgeous traditional piece; an excerpt was offered from a play by the Asplunds; various wonderful musicians, including Eric Harper, Mo Carlton, RoseMarie Peterson, and Nancy Ackerman, performed a wide-range of types of music; I was offered the opportunity to share my poems with a thousand people, along with fellow poet Jim West; we were addressed by a woman who serves to counsel and encourage the Baha'is of the world.

It was a rich opportunity to visit with friends, and to make new ones. I spent one late evening having a conversation with our dear friends Gord and Cheryl; I enjoyed seeing some of the alumni of the Maxwell International Baha'i School, most of whom are now in their late twenties and early thirties (a special shout-out to Vafa Rohani, Steve Fallows, and the beautiful Melissa, Emily, Elise, & Jelana, along with Laura Lee, Dale Robertson, Steve and Anne Waite, Rob and Pat Johnson, Brigitte Aiff...the list goes on and on). With some friends there were only moments to spare: Ed & Leanne, I would have loved to have had more time to chat but it was good to see your smiling faces, anyway! I enjoyed hearing from Gordon Kerr about his life in Macau, and stole a little time for a meal with my old friend Kim. Good times.

What resonates with me, though, is how palpable love can be. The whole place was buzzing (literally; the babble of a thousand voices in hotel lobbies). But more than the physical hubbub was the gift of being surrounded by people who believe in God. Sometimes, in this secular age, I miss that: I miss being able to speak freely of what my faith means to me, because faith seems to be pushed to a TIME and a PLACE, when it is actually meant to be a constant part of our consciousness. I have not always realized this; in fact, there have been times of rebellion, or of mistakes, or of disillusionment, or of apathy. But mostly, I have been given the gift of feeling that there is purpose for this world, this place we live for a while, and how we can serve our fellow human beings. While I missed having my husband with me, because he would have enjoyed visits with so many of our dear friends, and he would have loved hearing Mr. Hooper Dunbar and Dr. Julio Savi, whose talks completely centred on our service to God and to humanity, I nonetheless was with loved ones in a place resounding with love. There was love everywhere, and it was love grounded in unity. In fact, it was very noisy with love!

Sometimes the music transported me to the spiritual world. There was one man who chanted a prayer for the persecuted Baha'is of Iran, whose name, I was told, is Amir Haghigi. I have no idea if that is spelled right. His voice, chanting in the Persian language I think (Farsi) was heavenly. Dr. Lee Brown also offered a compelling Honour Song, making use of his drum, in opening one of the sessions. There were hiphop artists from L.A., a traditional Scottish balladeer, an innovative classical pianist (Mr. F. Samandari) and a rock 'n roll guy named Jason. There were Eric Harper and MJ Cyr, MCs and singers extraordinaire. There were so many performers, and they were all singing for the joy of the Lord.

I met the brilliant educator Dr. Michael Penn, listened to a panel of experts including Dr. Michael Karlberg, Dr. Holly Hanson (google them for some very cool learning!), Mary K. Radpour and a couple of young men whose names I forget but whose words were fascinating. I listened to a Kenyan woman who has just completed her Ph.D. in Education at UVic, a Persian woman who traced the history of the oppression of women, and an Italian man whose deep scholarship explained the synthesis of destiny and freedom.

I have been energized by being surrounded by love and spirit. It's a wonderful note to come home with, to prepare for my daughter's visit, and to get ready to go back to work when the school year begins two weeks from today. I hope that I will be able to bring some of what I have learned, and seen, to offer my own students some of the wealth that is knowledge, volition, and action. I hope I can live my life, each day, as though it were a prayer, and that I can manifest, as our Master, 'Abdu'l-Baha, tells us, that "Joy gives us wings."

2010-07-14T05:02:00.000-07:00

I am writing from Ottawa. For the last twelve days, I have been visiting our National Capital Region as a tourist, with one overnight jaunt to Montreal. It's intense, coming back as a tourist to a place you have lived. The main purpose, of course, was to see family (our daughters and my husband's sisters) but there have also been reunions with dear others (my cousin, my niece, good friends). We have enjoyed dinners (all-you-can-eat sushi at "Yummy Sushi", Korean barbecue, Indian buffet, Thai, and Ethiopian) in these cosmopolitan cities. We have been hosted by Persian friends who prepared a buffet, both spiritual and physical, to commemorate the martyrdom of the Bab (check out this link, among other good ones), and by our wonderful friends and former neighbours, Bob & France, as well as good buddies Wendy & Bernie. I was also thrilled to have some pool time with Judy, Linda, & Darlene, with Judy hosting, as usual, with generosity and charm. There were chance encounters: Maury, who works in Tanzania, in a book store; Bob, at Chapters, not quite so chance but nonetheless good to chat with him; it has been a very people-oriented time. Some of my family sneaked in a visit to our National Gallery, always a wonderful place; I have had the opportunity to visit with various older friends (Don & Diana at the delicious Green Door restaurant), David & Belinda at Raw Sugar on Somerset (recommended both for its treats and its lovely decor), and today, I am off for a luncheon with France & Bea before catching a plane. Did I say it's been intense, and people-oriented?

Highlights in the National Capital: in the incredible heat wave here, air conditioning was a blessing, and one evening we took in a show at the Umi cafe by the delightful Kate Elliott of Oregon, whom we hope to hear again live on her cross-Canada tour (watch for her) in addition to having purchased her CD; then we walked up to Parliament Hill to see the annual light show on Centre Block. Fortunately the evening had cooled to a sultry and muggy 28 C. Have you taken this show in? If you are in Ottawa, in summer, it's a must. For one thing, folks, it's absolutely free. Only in Canada...My daughter and I had been before, but you really must go if you can: it has a new look, high tech, very beautiful, multilingual, historic...We were reflecting on what the odds would be to have such a show at the White House, on the lawn, for the public to stroll in and enjoy. Free. Without obtrusive security. Crowds, but with bleachers (and folding chairs for dignitaries, including elder William Commanda. Why the VIPs? we wondered, as the chair of the NCC gave an intro? Because we had happened upon the opening night of the new show. It was splendid.

We took in the Miles Davis exhibition at the Musee de Beaux Arts in Montreal (fascinating, & filled with some amazing photographs and of course his music; I had not realized he was also a creditable painter). Afterwards my friend Susi and I (in a brief reunion; she's from Brazil and I'd not seen her in 28 years!) wandered through a bit of the rest of the collection. I am still awestruck every time I see a Monet painting, & my husband is amazed by Rodin and sculpture. This exhibit offered some Monets for me and one sculpture for him. However, there were also some other lovely paintings and I enjoyed discussing Picasso, Miro, Sisley, Renoir, and Magritte, among others, with my lovely Persian-Brazilian companion. Wahoo!

Yes, I will be posting some pictures...but today, the adventure continues. Did I say it's intense? I am very blessed to have this time with my husband, family, and friends, spent in two great Canadian cities.

Next, Victoria and my parents!

2010-05-24T10:33:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking about apostasy, which dictionary.com defines as "a total desertion of or departure from one's religion, principles, party, cause, etc." While accurate to a degree, I think that such definitions cannot recognize the importance of nuanced language. Of course there are those whose rejection of their religion is so visible and powerful that they are excommunicated (Martin Luther, famously) but excommunication is a message that those in power are displeased, and not necessarily that the person has lost belief (Luther was critiquing the Papacy and the Catholic Church, but he was not rejecting Christ).

If one is to examine apostasy more closely, I think that it ranges from the indifference that people display when born into a religion which they never practice nor truly understand, to the complete rejection and attack by someone who moves into some form of vitriolic atheism. In the faith to which I belong, very rarely someone is designated a Covenant Breaker. This is when the person is so disenchanted with the faith that he or she becomes its public opponent and attacks some of its most sacred beliefs; this step, ie being declared a Covenant Breaker, is so extreme that it can only be done through a lengthy process under the explicit guidelines of the head of the faith, the Universal House of Justice. It's a rare and deeply saddening move.

This is not the kind of "apostasy" about which I have been thinking. I have been thinking more of the differences in perception of faith and its truths, and for this, I will tell a story. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, my parents encountered the Baha'i teachings in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Both encountered the 'new' faith independently and accepted it before they met one another. They have described to us the ethos of that time: Dad was a very active member of the United Church of Canada, and his parents, his brother and his sister spent almost all of their leisure time involved in church activities. Mother was a member of a deeply Baptist family; my grandmother was deeply reliant on her Bible.

Over a period of some years, they each encountered Baha'is, Dad while in high school, Mom through her sister, who had gone to the United States and worked in conjunction with a Baha'i there, a Persian named Ali Kuli Khan. Meanwhile, Dad's friends, Elizabeth Manser and the Robarts brothers, were holding "firesides" or gatherings at which they shared the message of the new teachings. Dad was incensed, and set out to study this faith with the intention of debunking it and rescuing his friends from what he perceived to be a cult; Mom was initially disinterested, until one day she realized that her sister Ruth had tried to share something very important and that she had virtually ignored it. At this time she began to study the Baha'i Faith, attending firesides at the home of Laura and Victor Davis, about whom an excellent biography has recently been published by Marlene Macke. It was at one of these gatherings that she first met my father, in 1954. The rest, as they say, is history, although that story is beautifully told in my first book, Partners in Spirit.

So here were these two young Christians, not atypical of their times, and they both, through their respective processes, ultimately "declared" themselves to be Baha'is. From the perspective of my United Church grandparents and my Bible-toting maternal Grandma, this must have seemed like apostasy. Seriously, as a parent, I begin to gain more appreciation for my respective grandparents, at the time; they must have been deeply concerned, angry, and really worried that their children were involved in a misguided, little-known cult.

Those of you who know enough about the Baha'i Faith will know that this was not the case; my parents were simply amongst one of the earlier waves of people to embrace the Baha'i Faith's broad social principles, which in turn are based on the stunning writings of the Founder, Baha'u'llah, and the explanations of His son 'Abdu'l-Baha and subsequently, 'Abdu'l-Baha's grandson, Shoghi Effendi. That these names are very strange to those first hearing them is sure, but as one wit describes it, or words to this effect, Do you think Christ was an easy name for the early Jews? (Sears, God Loves Laughter). In fact, as my grandparents learned more and more about the faith that their children were espousing (in my father's family, both he and his sister became lifelong Baha'is; in my mother's, she and all three of her sisters), my maternal grandparents themselves accepted the Baha'i teachings and my paternal grandmother became very sympathetic.

When you think about it, though, and I do, I think about what it must be like for the parents, and the society, of people who choose a "new" faith. Of course, the Baha'i Faith, in some ways, is very comforting when those parents truly understand it, but I try and imagine myself back in the time of Christ or Muhammad. Can you imagine what it must have been like for the parents of Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and all the sainted Apostles? Their children were following a simple fisherman who was doing very weird things (destroying graven images, and the like) in a highly regimented colonized society where Judaism was the dominant norm (in its many forms). To become a Christian was a truly revolutionary and potentially life-threatening declaration, and would certainly have been perceived as apostasy; it is only now, after two thousand years, that we can almost take it for granted, at least in the 'Christian' parts of the world. Similarly, those early Muslims: following an illiterate into battle to defend, essentially, the ideals of monotheism and new forms of justice. People must have thought they were crazy! Some still do. Yet Muhammad established an entirely new order, with far-reaching implications including, some have argued, the rise of the Renaissance and the scientific insights of the Enlightenment (the principles of questioning began from earlier days than we might historically think). This is a necessarily brief and simple overview of centuries of religious history, and does not examine the other great religions (Buddhism, Hinduism, First Nations spirituality) but does attempt to say, however simply, that to change one's faith is viewed as apostasy by those in that faith. But what if, in doing so, you are making a good choice?

So I've been thinking about apostasy, partly because I am living around people who, in some cases, have never heard of a Baha'i, and I gain a further appreciation of how truly weird it must seem. My husband left the Catholic church to become a Baha'i; he has several aunts and an uncle who are nuns and a priest. I doubt if they're even aware that he is a Baha'i, but if they were, they would surely wonder. Why? What is it about Baha'i teaching which would motivate a secular humanist Quebec Catholic to choose to follow it? I am the daughter of "apostates": people who left 'respectable' Christian churches to follow a religion originating from the Middle East (hotbed of dissent and sometimes, anarchy, from the perception of the West). Why switch from being good Christians to followers of the Baha'i Faith? It's just...weird.

It seems to me that the only fair way to know whether apostasy is apostasy is to look at what people are doing when they choose faith. One has to subject the belief system to criteria which are somewhat separated from blind acceptance of the status quo. How can a Baha'i claim to accept the teachings of Christ, but not call him or herself a Christian? How can a Jew become a Baha'i (as did my beloved friend L.) without betraying her history? How can a Muslim become a Baha'i without rejecting Muhammad? How can an atheist believe in God the Creator, called by any name, when the "science of reason" makes such a premise seem so unreasonable?

To apostasize completely is to reject out of hand, and a Baha'i does not do that. A Baha'i still affirms the Divine origins of those Messengers of the past who brought world-shaking messages from the One Creator in Whom we believe. A Baha'i can be simultaneously a Buddhist, a Hindu, a Jew, a Christian, and a Muslim: that's what a Baha'i is, actually. One who believes in the importance of unity as a central principle of God's gradual revelation, throughout history, of the vibrating influence of spirit; one who recognizes that Baha'u'llah spoke with His brothers of the past to give the word of God.

None of this is "official" and perhaps I have made mistakes...this is just me, thinking aloud onto the page, about what an apostate really is. So if you want to view the "gospel", so to speak, you're better to go to www.bahai.org or some other legitimate site, or ask a Baha'i near you. I wouldn't recommend asking your rabbi, minister or mullah: by definition, their job description requires you to stay where you are, and they may not have investigated the 'new' claims without that agenda. There are, of course, members of the clergy who themselves are apostates: in our faith, George Townshend comes to mind. He has become iconic of those Christians of a high profile who accepted the teachings of Baha'u'llah.

However, I reiterate: I think it's way too simple to believe in dichotomies. To believe, either he is this, or she is that. I think that's simplistic. I think that religious, spiritual experience lies on an ever-shifting, ever-nuanced timeline of possibilities, and if we claim to be open-minded, it's important to check out what might be possible. My parents did that, and I am proud of them; I often ask myself, if I had been born in the time of Christ, would I have been able to recognize Him? Or Moses, or Krishna, or Muhammad? Quite frankly, I am doubtful. I don't know what type of mind and heart it requires to make such a change in one's world-view. I was given the Baha'i teachings as an article of faith from childhood, and I chose them as an article of personal belief in adulthood. My husband made his choice for different reasons, and I wonder if I would have had his courage, in his shoes.

"Ask, and it shall be given." It's an interesting principle of spiritual truth. What, in this day and age, are we asking? And what are we asking for? Baha'is simply ask their families and friends to investigate with an open mind. There will be elements you may not like; there may be deal-breakers. There is always, in my mind, the need for the resolution of paradox, inherent in any faith's true complexity. Yet, the bottom line becomes, is it possible? Is Baha'u'llah's claim legitimate? Could it be? And if so, how will I know it? How can I feel it? How will I believe it? And if I do, what will I do about it?

'Abdu'l-Baha says, "Little by little, day by day." This is my little, on this day. I think it's important to think. I think it's important, if we say that we are a part of something, to be a part of it, for all our many mistakes, for all our struggles, for resolving all our demons, and engaging all our angels. I think it's important that we not use words like "apostasy" without really knowing what they mean, and asking ourselves, "Could it be true?"

Which brings me to truth, an examination for another day. Now there's a paradox!

2010-04-25T14:58:00.000-07:00

Here's a link to an interview about my book which you might enjoy: http://www.bahaiwriters.com/Interview_with_educator/author/poet_Heather_Cardin

2010-03-06T06:44:00.000-08:00

As International Women's Day approaches, I have been sharing, on Facebook, some of my favourite TED talks which empower women: Eve Ensler on the girl cell, Isabel Allende's Tales of Passion. This morning, however, I want to share one with a warning: it's not easy to listen to or to see. Sunitha Krishnan speaks of her work rescuing girls from the sex/slave trade. It's powerful, heartbreaking, and worth every minute, if it brings our awareness to this most vital issue. I have been thinking a lot about this, in part because I am so protected (dare I say 'we' are so protected?) but lately, popular films like "Human Trafficking" or "Taken" are attempting, in their way, to make this issue more visible, and there are many books now available on the issue, perhaps none more striking than Half the Sky: Turning Oppression Into Opportunity For Women Worldwide by the Pulitzer-Prize winning husband and wife team of Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn. As a Baha'i, as part of a faith which articulates frequently and eloquently the fundamental spiritual principle of the equality of women and men, I find myself agonizing over the extreme gap between our 'comfortablity' with the grievous afflictions of the world (what we don't know doesn't hurt us) and our increasing awareness of the depths of the depravity of the world we live in when it comes to the treatment of women and children. This is an issue which transcends politics, national borderlines, or pettiness; this is an issue which is a call to arms for every man, woman and child who wants to walk the talk of real change. Just as the enslavement of African-Americans became enough of a moral outrage for people of heart and conscience to make change, now the enslavement and assault on women and children world-wide transcends outrage and becomes the vilest anathema for those of us who feel this world in the sense of "the honor of one is the honor of all." If my sister is hurt, I am hurt. How many voices must be raised in order for the critical mass of humanity to end the rape, trafficking, and prostitution of children and young girls? I teach middle school in Canada. Our curriculum in the middle and high school years requires that we begin to educate sheltered young Canadians in the broadest social issues of the world; in other words, our curriculum, in the subjects I teach (English, Social Studies, and Health/Guidance), requires us to begin the process of creating "inquiry" about "relevancy", ie exposing the students, through reading, writing, and media studies, to the larger and larger issues of the world in which they live. It's done in small and incremental ways: for example, my lovely colleague MT, in addition to teaching Math and Science with verve and passion, has begun a "Me to We" club in our small rural space, encouraging students to look at the model provided by Craig Kielburger, who as a young Canadian, at only 12 I believe, became so passionate about children's poverty that he vowed to make it his work to change it. Check it out to see what he has managed so far with Free the Children!

It is difficult, sometimes, to believe that one voice can make a difference. But there is not only one voice. Each voice raised is another voice joining a larger chorus. Each action against a wrong becomes a part of rightness. No one is alone in creating change, and when the importance of the change becomes visible and clear to a mighty chorus of voices, then change can and does occur.

I have been thinking a lot about what to write next. I have written books on marriage, youth, education, and elders, gathering stories from around the world. I ground my writing in my faith; it is my faith which gives me a foundation from which to want to make my life matter in the world. I am deeply conscious of my frailties, as one lone and very imperfect woman, but I do not feel alone. I feel the power of unity, the power of prayer, and the power of action. I believe the statement in the pamphlet from the National Spiritual Assembly of the United States,
Two Wings of a Bird, when it reminds us that "The effort to overcome the history of inequality requires the full participation of every man, woman, youth, and child."

How can I use my writing to assist in the battle against the most vile crime against humanity, the slavery and sexual exploitation of girls and women? This will be the subject of my meditations, prayers, and actions in the days, months, and years to come. I thank the articulate voices, Sunitha Krishnan's among them, who have assisted me in my journey to begin to ask this question of my life.

2010-02-21T14:11:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I will be the chicken lady for a week or so; with my husband working long days, it's up to me to give the birds their water and gather our eight daily eggs. Today I went out with him to learn the routine and was amused to find myself wearing oversized rubber boots along with my other home gear; quite a change from the professional image I will again have to resume tomorrow, as school recommences post-February break.

Wandering out to the chickens put me in mind of what I think of as the Warman years. When I was in university in Saskatoon, before I was married, my parents bought an acreage just outside of Warman, Saskatchewan. They lived there for four years. Each day, Dad and I would do the commute to Saskatoon, I to go to U. of S. and he to his job with the Canadian government. He was in suit and tie; I wore the uniform of public schools past and present, blue jeans. I recall those drives as companionable. The acreage had 80 acres, mostly unused, but near the house (which was a lovely rancher with lots of room for we six kids and our friends, plus a couple of boarders) was a classic red barn and a chicken coop. Dad became a 'gentleman farmer'. I think it was a déjà vu of sorts for him, too; he'd mucked out barns and fed animals on his Uncle Fraser's farm, while in high school and university, and now he and Mother kept a few cows for milk, some goats in a famous experiment, chickens and turkeys. Those were, I might add, the best turkeys I would ever eat until Bern and I kept turkeys ourselves, many years later, on our acreage north of Fort St. John.

I think it was really relaxing for Dad to keep those few animals, for him and Mother to go to the auction every Saturday and bid for this and that (Mother almost single-handedly kept the Baha'i community of Saskatoon in fruits from the auction). I didn't pay much attention to the whole farming deal: I was pretty busy with school and with an active social life. But we all now recall those as happy years. My sister Andrea was married on that farm; our late aunt Joyce commented that it was the only wedding she'd ever been to where you had to step over the cowpies to get to the ceremony. It was a gorgeous wedding; Andrea was just short of 18, and she and her husband are now happy parents and grandparents. We became very close to the people who would visit us at the farm, or who lived there for a time; Lorenzo, Edward, Bruce, David, Vicky, Pam, Wilf & Rita and many others became dear friends and remain so to this day. I wonder, sometimes, if that's the time during which I fell in love with the prairies. Probably.

So here time has come almost full circle and my husband and I have an acreage, and I am the one, for the next few days at least, to go out to the chickens and gather their eggs. This spring Bern will start raising turkeys and meat birds, and increase the number of layers...Sometimes our home near Richard, Sk feels a lot like when I was younger and lived near Warman, Sk which is, after all, just a long stone's throw down the road. I could not have imagined, then, that I would come back to these roots, nor that the intervening years would take me to so many places I'd never been before, and to so many new friends, but in remembering, I am grateful. I'm grateful for then, and I'm grateful for now, and this week, Dad will be eating farm fresh eggs for breakfast as he awaits his 80th birthday on this year's St. Patrick's Day. Who'd a thunk it?

2010-02-09T17:53:00.000-08:00

Every so often you read a book that truly has meaning, and that makes a difference. I have just finished reading Half the Sky: Turning Oppression Into Opportunity for Women Worldwide, by Pulitzer authors Nicholas D. Kristof and his wife Sheryl WuDunn. It took me longer to read than a book normally would, because it's hard reading; while the authors are upbeat as writers, they are dealing with devastating situations in the world, including the trafficking of girls and genital mutilation. Some of the stories are hard to read, quite frankly, and then you tell yourself that people lived these lives, and you should have the courage to at least read about them.

The book is not doom and gloom, however, and in fact that's why I decided to take the advice that they offer in the final chapter, "Four Steps You Can Take in the Next Ten Minutes." Before I do that, though, I want to add their links to this page so that anyone who comes across these words will share in the bounty of doing something that might change your life.

Here are the links, and links, and links, and links, and links, and links. Find out what's there, and make a difference in the world.

2009-12-29T14:15:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we held a day for the arts, which I called "Arts for the Heart", here at our home. About 30 people came by to take part in workshops offered by area experts. Potter Ken Wilkinson (I'd offer a link but he has yet to set up a homepage; however, you can find examples of his work at several outlets if you google him) showed over a dozen people how to use the wheel and to also do other pottery; mandala artist Margaret Bremner demonstrated how to do Zentangles, an intricate ink form, and several of the participants made some lovely work; watercolourist Ivy Moore showed several participants, in a couple of sessions, how to work with bright coloured spray; poet Bruce Filson read poems with animation, including a poem by the late Larry Rowdon and a contrapuntal reading with me of the forthcoming Spirits in a Broken World: A Poetic Conversation, which I hope to publish with Rob O'Flanagan in 2010; young poet and musician, Thomas Mitchell Doran, read some remarkable works and accompanied himself on his guitar for three original, quite delightful songs; I read some poetry and a segment from Annie Dillard's amazing Pilgrim at Tinker Creek; Bernie demonstrated to an admiring crowd how to make homemade linguine (which they subsequently ate all up!)...in short, the place was a relatively well-organized zoo. My niece Stephanie made a lovely acrylic painting, and her brother Graham, along with partner Chelsea, made a couple of lovely paintings of their own; the children painted and 'blinged' to their heart's content, and really enjoyed trying out the pottery wheel. We fed 30 people, with a little help from our friends, and had a very good time. Bernie thinks we should do this event twice annually. We are starting to think seriously of converting the barn into a studio and putting the chickens (in spring he intends to order a lot of poultry to raise for meat) in the back outbuildings.

So the first week of holidays is almost over; the sun is making its way down as I type. During the next week we will venture out to spend time with my sister and her family on New Year's Eve, hopefully taking in a movie or two. There are, uncharacteristically, several from which to choose. I am interested in Invictus, and in the Sherlock Holmes film with Jude Law & Robert Downey Jr., and in the comedy with Hugh Grant & Sarah Jessica Parker...decisions, decisions. I think there's something with Sandra Bullock, too, but it looks like a sports movie from the poster so I'll probably wait and get it on DVD. I will have to spend one day doing preparation for the coming term and exams, but will wait until the new year for this.

I always feel a little split when I talk about the new year as the calendar changes; the Baha'i calendar actually celebrates the new year on March 21, along with several other cultures. So I guess I get to have two new years a year; this one, when we go from 2009 to 2010, and then the celebrations of March. Fine with me. The important idea, I guess, is that as each day opens we have the opportunity for renewal. It's not just a question of making new year's resolutions (I don't; if there's something that important to me to accomplish, I start when I feel strong enough to do so, generally speaking). It's a question of how we think; how we view the time we spend here on this planet. It's about substance; about how to improve each day of our lives, regardless of the numbers on the calendar. It is with this in mind that I will close this post with one of my favourite quotes from the Baha'i writings, one which I used as part of the dedication in my most recent book:

"Let each morn be better than its eve and each morrow richer than its yesterday." Baha'u'llah

2009-12-26T11:12:00.000-08:00

Photo Credit: Coral Gomez

Sometimes I think that the theme of my life, as I grow older, becomes "Beauty". Baha'u'llah, the founder of our faith, thought that the principle of beauty was profoundly important, as evidenced by many of His writings, including a title awarded Him, "the Blessed Beauty." So my thoughts this week turn to beauty for a number of reasons, and as such, it seemed appropriate to begin with one of my sister Coral's photographs; she has an exquisite eye and the whole family enjoys receiving the results of her ability to find beauty in many places in the world.

This week, in addition to the natural landscape around us, which, covered with hoar frost and sunlight demonstrates the reasons that some of us like the prairies despite the cold, beauty is found, of all places, in a movie theatre. Bernie and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary by going to the film "Avatar." Much has already been written about this film, including at Baha'i Thought, Phillipe Copeland's very intelligent blog. Much has been said about the technology (and less about the story, which has differing points of weakness depending on your politics), but I wanted to say, here, that I was overcome by the sheer beauty of the world James Cameron has created. I fell in love with colour again; I fell in love, again, with all the shades of turquoise I had forgotten existed. It was my first experience of 3D, but that was less interesting to me than sitting, mesmerized, by the beauty of the Pandoran world and its creatures. Bravo to the film if only for this: that it is a film drawing our eyes, our minds, and our spirits, to the spiritual principle of beauty. Beauty prevails, even as we watch magic threatened by the earthbound minds amongst us. It's a salient reminder at this season, which is, I am sure, no coincidence.

Speaking of the season, I always breathe a slight sigh of relief once Christmas Day is over. I used to abhor the slogan, "Jesus is the reason for the season" but I am coming to the point in my life where I think it may be the most important reminder of the end of the year. As many of you know, we Baha'is affirm and uphold the beauty and perfection of the Christ; for me, raised a Baha'i, and without the celebration of Christmas, this time is a wonderful holiday time to be together with family and friends, but it has nothing to do with shopping or overconsumption, whereas the majority of my acquaintances seem to spend a relatively frenzied month of buying, wrapping, and eating chocolate (the latter a little enviable for a person currently not eating sugar!) I keep my eyes and ears out for just a whisper of the beauty of the reason for the season, and sometimes, a song sidles my way, or someone makes a beautiful piece of art which reminds me of the spirit of Christ. Santa Claus is someone else's myth; Christ's birthday is someone else's story; however, I love the Nativity story. It is, indeed, for me, the reason for the season. I watched at our school Christmas pageant as shopping became the central reason for the season, but was deeply touched when our grade one/two teacher, perhaps courageously, had her class do a sweet scene of the Nativity and sing "Away in a Manger." Many of my students are so completely secularized that they are unaware of some of the deeper values associated with Christmas. Thus, at this time, I am fonder of wishing people a happy new year.

I have hope for 2010. I don't know why; perhaps it is because 2009 has been a lovely year for us, and because, in every way I can find, I am focusing on beauty, whether through prayer and meditation, or more commonly through the natural world in which I find myself. I look out over the prairie each day, and find its nuances more beautiful; I find that this winter, cold as it is, does not bring me down but is confirming a sense of joy. Birds feed at the feeder outside our kitchen window and I watch them (I'll share a few photos next time, perhaps), glance over to the western treeline where the frost is sparkling, to the right where a line of lilac bushes waits to burst into bud in the spring, appreciate the new, warm brown eggs my husband brings in each day from the chicken house out back, watch the flickering of the fire in our living room, and listen to the laughter of my son and his cousins...and remember that beauty is all around us.

I truly wish every reader an exceptionally beautiful 2010. God Bless.

2009-11-24T12:31:00.000-08:00

I took this picture (the sunrise, yes, RISE), while driving south to school, about 8:20 a.m. I find it hard getting up in the dark and always have, but there are some things to be grateful for (a lot, actually), and seeing the magnificent prairie sunrise is one of these. Every morning (well, almost every morning...this morning was cloudy) I am treated to skies so spectacular that sometimes it's a little hard to keep my eyes on the road. Fortunately it's a decent road and there's no traffic. On this occasion, though, I stopped to savour God's own painting.

We are gradually settling in to acreage life. As with any new home, there are glitches to be worked out; the previous owners left us with several repair jobs to do. More accurately, Bernie does most of the repairs, and some are simply going to have to wait for renovations. Bern is pleased with the fresh brown eggs he gathers each day from our eight chickens. With my parents having returned to their home in Whitelaw, AB, after a stay of five weeks, we have a few more eggs than we need, at that rate, so are able to send a dozen or so towards Jerry and the kids, or friends in the city. Some of the chickens have ended up in stew, however...

And summer is a memory. I would have liked to put my dill-weed bouquet picture here, rather than above, but one of the things I don't like about Blogger is that it does not allow you to distribute your pictures throughout (or maybe it does and I don't know how. Proposed solutions could certainly be emailed to me...)

Anyway, the days are shortening but the nights are lengthening. We are approaching Bernie's 50th birthday (he's allowing me to throw him a party, which is lovely from a man who doesn't like birthdays) and also approaching is our 25th wedding anniversary, at the solstice in December. I married him mostly because he made me laugh...and he still does. I think if you asked him why he married me, he'd say something about...well, actually, let's not go there. (Just kidding. I think he'd say he thought I was smart. Maybe sometimes, but I'm glad the kids got his math genes.) BTW, I took a picture of my shadow the other day (it's the only way these days to get a skinny picture!) Cool, hey?

And about reading...I continue to enjoy my afternoon and evening reading sessions. Last week I read from my new book at a launch at McNally-Robinson booksellers in Saskatoon and while I was there, picked up two books, both of which I am greatly enjoying. They are not 'easy reading' but they are taking me out of my own small world here and reminding me of other interests: philosophy, and changing the world. Check them out: Moral Clarity: A Guide For Grown-Up Idealists, by Susan Neiman, and Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide, by the wife-and-husband team of Sheryl WuDunn and Nicholas D. Kristof. The former is fascinating, and the latter hardhitting and not for the weak of stomach.

By the way, I am often asked how to get a hold of my book (ie 'where can I buy it?'), and really, there are a number of booksellers which have it in addition to the above-named McNally's. Try online with Amazon, for example; here in Canada, that would be Amazon.ca

Of course, my book can be purchased through its publishers and other Baha'i booksellers. I want to say something about this. It's a comment that I made when I was speaking at the launch last week. Some people have asked me why I publish through Baha'i Publishing. Well, for one thing, they publish me. I have not wanted to self-publish, at least not usually (current blog excepted) because having someone ELSE accept your book for publication gives it, in my mind, not only legitimacy but a better infrastructure. Baha'i Publishing is pretty good at marketing their works, IMO. I have also been published through the U.K. at George Ronald; A Warm Place in My Heart, which comprised stories by youth world-wide, is not as eclectically marketed so is a little harder to get a hold of.

However, I am really proud of this book (A Warm Place), because I think it was a good idea: gathering other people's stories fascinates me still, but these youth, well, they are, as my dad would say, 'humdingers'. Apparently I am not alone in thinking so: I recently received an intensely heartwarming email from a reader in an oppressed-country-not-to-be-named and this reader was in the midst of translating the stories and sending them out to others by e-mail to 'encourage' and 'hearten' them, as the individual put it. Wow. Bravo for the translator.

Anyway, I digress. What I really wanted to say is that nobody ever faults Deepak Chopra for writing from his tradition, integrating Hindu practice with Quantum Healing or The Spontaneous Fulfillment of Desire or How To Know God. Actually, since I seem to be in a very chatty mood this afternoon, let me tell you a wee story about how I came to own the latter volume. One of the basic points of Baha'i belief is that God is "Unknowable". It's a long story....but anyway, there I was, in Value Village in Kelowna, BC, (I get a lot of my books at what my husband calls the "VV Boutique"). As I was browsing books I saw Deepak's How To Know God, which I had not yet read. As I stood there, I realized I was having a conversation with Deepak. Out loud. In front of the book display. Regardless of any curious bystanders. And let us just say that as a former drama student, I do not have weak projection. So here is Me: Deepak, you can't know God. He's the unknowable. More so, if you can't know Him, how the hell can you write a whole book about Him which has a title that suggests that you can? Mutter mutter mutter. Deepak: (No, just kidding, I don't think he really answered me!)

In fact, I bought the book, read it, found it brilliant, and have since bought a few other copies to give to family and friends. But really, no one does fault Deepak (I know narrative of people should use their last name but I feel like I know Deepak....not unlike God lol) for writing from his beliefs; in fact, his beliefs add infinitely (pun intended) to whatever subject he's writing about. Furthermore, does anyone fault Rabbi Jonathan Sacks for writing as a Jew? Duh? Or Rabbi Harold Kushner (whose bestseller, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, is deservedly and frequently read), for writing as a Rabbi? Or Dr. M. Scott Peck, the ubiquitous, writing from his Christian practice? Or Karen Armstrong, who has made a career, after her renunciation of the cloister, of speaking about a variety of subjects, often religious and clearly scholarly, and has successfully broken into the mass market of book buyers? People don't NOT buy their books because they are religious, do they? Do they? Any more than I don't refrain from buying books by people like Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens and their ilk (and that's maybe even a plug), who've made writing careers, possibly writing history, out of slamming God, just because they're atheists (although admittedly that's kind of like knowing the opposing viewpoint in a debate).

Without the spirit animating our words, we believers in this world being more-than-the-sum-of-its-parts, we wouldn't have as much to say, nor, presumably, as much good sense about what we are saying. So yes, my books, including this most recent one on education, unabashedly speak of spiritual life in education as if it were a meaningful enterprise. So, yes, it's a "Baha'i" book but it's not ONLY a Baha'i book (and even if it were....) There is Baha'i content in my non-fiction books but the subjects (marriage, youth, education) are universal. Right?

Well, I seem to have started from a prairie sunrise and then gone on an authorial rant. Mea culpa. I think I'll dedicate this post to E.W.S. in New York, a former student, now a graduate of Wellesley College, I believe...who says she turns to my blog occasionally for book recommendations. Allow me, Elizabeth, to recommend my own books, today! And for good measure, let me suggest to you the writings of Chopra, Sacks, Kushner, Peck, and Armstrong, all of whom you will find on the shelf at your nearest bookstore (Dawkins and what's-his-name don't need any help from me!). I wish Oprah would read mine too, and then I could join these famous people on the mainstream shelves in literary land!!! (Be careful what you wish for, especially publicly.)

Seriously, I really like Susan Neiman's Moral Clarity: A Guide for Grown-Up Idealists, and will therefore now order her Evil in Modern Thought. And I'm learning a lot about Immanuel Kant. Very cool.

And it's very cool on the prairie, but not yet stone forty-below cold. In fact, there's not even snow yet (touch wood) and the drives continue to enliven the morning. I'm glad working makes me get up for the sun.

2009-11-12T17:29:00.000-08:00

I am pleased with the publicity that McNally-Robinson is giving to my coming book launch. I hope the turnout is good. I was very pleasantly surprised recently when the librarian from nearby Speers, SK did a truly excellent job in organizing a Monday night reading at the library. The room was full, probably about 30 people, and the books well-received. At that event I read both prose and poetry. Thanks, Colleen!

2009-11-05T11:01:00.000-08:00

Dear Grade 9s: This is an open letter for our class on November 12 because I won't be there and it is our computer day. Your instructions for the class will be found below. I wanted to explain that I am absent because it is a very special day for my faith. You know that Christians celebrate Christ's birth with an occasion called Christmas. It's not actually Christ's birthday, but people around the world use the day to remember the spirit of Christianity (although in some places it's become a commercialized holiday). Well, in my faith, we celebrate the birth of our founder, Baha'u'llah, on the day which was His actual birthday, and if Baha'is are able to do so, we take the day off work as a special Holy Day. In fact, I will be hosting the North Battleford area Baha'is at my house in the afternoon. We will share prayers, readings, music, refreshments, and fellowship in celebration of this day. You are welcome to look this information up by following this LINK after you have done your work below. Have a great day!

Step 1: At the right side of my blog, you will find a list of links. Look at each one. Choose the one which is most interesting to you and write a paragraph in a Word document. Keep the doc because you will be using it shortly.

Step 2: Go to www.blogger.com and create your own blog. Follow the site instructions (which are easy) and remember that the name of your blog should be something you are going to be happy with for a long time. You will be using this blog in English classes and if you wish to, personally, and when you put something on the Net, anyone can check it out. It's public.

Step 3: Find a picture you'd like to use. You may have to access one from home to do this. Take the writing you did earlier, commenting on the link of your choice, and post it. You may write an introductory paragraph about yourself, first, if you like.

Once you have finished your post, doublecheck it for English errors and accuracy. Bring in a link if you like (the button is above the part where you write, once you are into your blog page, and is a green symbol at the left of the margin choices). You can link to a favourite video, Youtube, an article, an advertisement, or other choice. Or, you can learn how to set your permanent links by following the model under the "Settings" section above. If this is too difficult, leave it for next time and I'll show you how to do it.

Step 4: If you have finished all of these tasks, and have successfully created your first blog, send me an email (heather.cardin@gmail.com) to provide me with the link.

Step 5: Sign out. DO NOT FORGET TO KEEP YOUR PASSWORD SO YOU CAN GET BACK TO YOUR BLOG WHEN YOU NEXT WANT TO DO A POSTING.

Step 6: If you have time left, go to www.freerice.com and learn some new words while you give some rice to people less fortunate than yourselves.

See you tomorrow!

2009-09-20T09:28:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: Ashraf Ogram

With our return to the prairies, every day is a discovery. Today is raining and I find myself grateful for the slight moisture offered to my newly planted peonies, irises, roses, lilac, and lilies of the valley, not to mention the solo sunflower which volunteered in the middle of the garden and which is in full bloom. There are also some tomatoes and zucchinis from the previous owners, along with a few buckets of fall potatoes. Bernie has purchased chickens so we are wakened in the mornings by the proverbial cockadoodledoo, and hear it throughout the day. I have been teaching now for about three weeks and am very much enjoying the school and the students. The city is different. Give me the countryside any day.

However, there is a great shadow, and that is the disappearance of the son of dear friends here in the province. In July, this young man drove off in his car and because he is 19 and because he was under some stress, it was essentially treated as an adult leaving home and not as a runaway situation, understandably. However, last week his abandoned car was found on a road near his home and the evidence in the area suggests that something has gone very wrong. He was unable to walk; he could drive but not walk, and it may be that he was stranded and simply unable to return home. Search parties are now out looking, under the auspices of the RCMP, and we have been asked to offer prayers on behalf of this young man and his extended family. Might I ask anyone who reads this blog to also offer prayers for this beleaguered family? While his life expectancy may not have been great (he had HIV from birth), he had, and has, a strong, loving, and supportive family and community. It has been a very rough summer for his parents; his father's mother passed away, suddenly, at age 90, just after his own disappearance. I find that I think, these days, of Rabbi Harold Kushner's helpful book, Why Bad Things Happen to Good People. These are good people, and they are enduring great sadness. Let us send all the prayers and loving energy we can to the Perreault family at this time.

We are anticipating having my parents come and spend a couple of months with us. They hope to arrive early in October, and since I am home most afternoons, we'll no doubt have lots of time together. Dad will no doubt help me with the garden and Bernie with chickens and perhaps rabbits. They are both enthusiastic about such projects. Mom likes to watch tv, close up because of her eyes, and with technology these days we are able to offer her many options. I tend to buy a lot of the films I have in the house. The next one I'll be using, actually, is for school: I intend to show excerpts from the fascinating film, The Rabbit-Proof Fence, to my grade seven social studies students, as part of our study of Australia, and as introduction to colonialism. I am not sure Mom has seen the film so perhaps she'll enjoy it.

I imagine that Dad and I will also read her my new book. It is now available (at Amazon, at least) and my own copies are apparently en route (so I should be able to have a look at it soon). That would be Mind, Heart, & Spirit: Educators Speak. It's full of amazing stories from educators around the world and if you know a teacher, may I suggest that it would be a truly appropriate gift for October 5, World Teacher Day? It's not expensive and I think the book is heart-warming and perhaps even thought-provoking.

That's all for now from this rural Saskatchewan rainy day, where it is not yet cool enough to light the first fire of the season in my stone fireplace...but it will be soon. In the meantime, I have bulbs to plant.

2009-08-11T21:00:00.000-07:00

Homecomings

Near the weir I watch white pelicans, fishers
far from home, as I have been.
Now, I walk from a building where once I was young
along a river, where once I was young, find statuary upon the dry green grasses, scent wild roses and the heat of this summer day in Saskatoon.

Near the weir I watch the water, rushing somewhere, anywhere east or west, running along rushes. A pelican dives; another soars above the river like any other wing-spanned bird you've watched. White on white water. Wingspan like mine has been, journeys. Till now, returning, the spot I left, still the same. Still not the same. The pathway curves around the river, paved for we walkers, for the cyclists on Sunday afternoon. Every day a gift comes to me from this place, where once I was young. It's still the Saskatoon wind which whispers at my greying hair/

this space fills me like years.
This is the beauty I sought.
I am the beauty I sought.

2009-07-04T14:23:00.000-07:00

It's full summer in Saskatchewan. We're in Saskatoon, at my sister's home, until we buy our own house, and I am enjoying the summer holiday, reading, for the most part, in the backyard sunshine. I have completed works by educator Parker J. Palmer, and am reading one of Steven Pinker's books on language. Perhaps I'll pick up some fiction soon. I bought The Wal-Mart Effect for my husband and at Value Village yesterday, Andrea and I stocked up on teaching books for our respective assignments this fall. I will be teaching English, Social Studies, and Health/Guidance to Grades 7-9, and she will have a grade 3/4 classroom. A change for both of us...but it should be fun to try newer things, in my case in a smaller school and in her case at only one school.

I will soon load new photos and post a couple, both from our journey and from the past few months in British Columbia with other extended family members. A lot of them get put on Facebook!

For those unfamiliar with Saskatchewan, it's incredibly beautiful in summertime. The license plates call it "Land of Living Skies" and the school board I'll be working for is called "Living Sky" and both names are appropriate. The long summer evenings yield to sundowns you can watch for an hour or more as the sky lights up in every possible colour and vista. The prairie is awash with colour: multiple shades of green, brown, and golds, punctuated with flowers everywhere. The canola fields are just coming into bloom and if you haven't seen these acres and acres of golden flower, you've really missed one of farming's beauties. I like watching the birds, too, over and on the sloughs, and the glimpses of redwing blackbirds make me happy.

I have begun to write poetry again. I must be happy.

2009-05-30T21:16:00.000-07:00

It is almost the first of June and the weather in northern Canada, at least this section of it, continues unseasonably cold. The snow is gone now, but rain, grey skies, and wind continue to be the order of the day. I have seen a few hardy tulips and daffodils but everything in the green world seems delayed. School will continue for a few more weeks. I am looking forward to my husband's return from a business trip and my daughter's visit during a side journey from her business trip.

In the meantime, my editor and I have been very busy with preparing my next book, Mind, Heart, & Spirit: Educators Speak, for fall release. Watch for it coming from Bahá'í Publishing U.S. For those of you who would like the perfect gift for World Teacher Day on October 5, I think it's a good choice. It's full of stories from wonderful educators from around the world.

My mother continues to struggle along. She will be 78 in a couple of weeks and has become very brave about bearing her pain. I think it's the arthritis that bothers her most now, although she has become almost stoic with the residual pain from shingles, and the thing that is mildly frustrating is the capricious come-and-go nature of the pain. Dad takes good care of her, though, and she continues to be able to watch movies if she gets close to the big screen. Recently my son was able to download several to her computer and she was very pleased.

I have just ordered myself a treat: three volumes in one of the Cairo Trilogy by Naguib Mahfouz. I read them many years ago and remember loving them, so it's about time for a close re-read. Titles, for those interested: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street.

More anon.

2009-04-15T19:54:00.001-07:00

Today I received the news of the passing of Gale Bond, Knight of Baha'u'llah for the Canadian Arctic. Gale and her late husband Jameson (Jamie) were dearly loved 'extended family' members for our family, from the days that my father and Jamie were Bahá'í students together in the 1950s at the University of Toronto, until the present when we spoke with Gale by phone, last week, and reminisced with her about many wonderful times together.

Some of you know that I have a book forthcoming (date yet to be determined) in which stories of Bahá'í elders are gathered, giving a glimpse of people who have embraced the Bahá'í teachings from the turn of the last century to the turn of this one. Gale sent me a wonderful story of her life as a Bahá'í, and her life with Jamie. It is copyrighted but I offer you here a sneak preview: a short excerpt of Gale Bond's story, in her voice, of her life of service.

Safe journey, dearest Gale.

In Memoriam: Kathleen Gale Bond

excerpted from The Bright Glass of the Heart: Elder Voices on Faith,
forthcoming, edited and compiled by Heather Cardin

…one Sunday afternoon at yet another fireside, I heard myself ask, "How does one become a Bahá'í?" All at once I was whisked into the hallway and asked if I had read The Will and Testament of ‘Abdu’l-Baha. "No," I said. We read a few paragraphs and someone asked me if I believed and accepted the Báb, Bahá'u'lláh and 'Abdu'l-Bahá. I did not understand everything they were talking about but from that moment I was accepted as a declared Bahá'í. The date was November l6, 1949. … Sometime towards the end of December the Bahá'ís held a social evening and dance at the tennis club. Lloyd Gardner was the Master of Ceremonies. Towards midnight two people came in and, nodding towards one of them, I said to a friend, "I bet that's Jamie Bond." He danced with everyone except me. Lily Ann invited Jamie to dinner the night of the Feast in January. This was really the first time I met him. I had a ticket for a concert that night at Massey Hall featuring the German soprano Erna Sack. Because I was a new Bahá’í and didn’t really understand the importance of attending the Feast, I excused myself after dinner and went to the concert. …

We were married in Montreal on July 14, 1953, at the Maxwell home and the very next day we left on our honeymoon on the icebreaker "D'Iberville", which took us to our new pioneering post in Arctic Bay, at the northern tip of Baffin Island. Jamie had secured a job with the Department of Transport at the weather station there and, after much negotiation with his employers, I was allowed to go with him, hired as the cook. Before I knew whether or not I would be hired, I had lunch with Mr. George Spendlove in Toronto and he asked me if I knew how to cook. When I told him I only knew how to do simple things, he said, “Don’t worry. I will give you Fanny Farmer’s Cookbook, and you place your whole trust in Bahá’u’lláh. He will look after you and protect you.” This went straight to my heart and, from that moment on, the doors were opened. I was hired, the arrangements were made and I gave no thought to the hardships to come.

Our trip north took two months. We traveled down the Saint Laurence River, then along the coast of Newfoundland – that’s when the temperature began to drop, and we saw our first iceberg. Before long icebergs became common sights.

In late August the ship stopped briefly at Buchanan Bay on Ellesmere Island. As it was the day of the Feast of Names, Jamie and I asked the Captain for permission to go ashore. We wanted to celebrate the Feast on land, to set foot on this territory in the name of the Cause. The Captain refused us permission. However, we were determined. So at 4:00 a.m., when everyone else was asleep, we climbed over the side of the ship and down the pilot’s ladder (the Jacob’s ladder, it was called) onto a landing barge and went ashore. We walked inland about a mile, (it was daylight of course, because that far north the sun doesn’t actually set in the summer) and beside a beautiful glacial stream we celebrated the Feast. We also picked some Arctic poppies there. These we enclosed in a letter (sent by aircraft from our next stop, the settlement of Resolute Bay) to Ruhiyyih Khánum, telling her that the Feast had been celebrated less than 700 miles from the North Pole!... Throughout the years following our Arctic Pioneering, I also made many teaching trips to Hungary. The first one was in 1974, taken at Jamie’s urging. He felt that, since ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had placed considerable importance on that country, visiting it Himself, and that since I was of Hungarian descent, I could be of service there. ...

In all, I made fifteen teaching trips to Hungary. When I first went, there were hardly any Bahá’ís, only a few Persian students pioneering there. Gradually the community grew, conditions changed, Local Spiritual Assemblies formed, and in 1992 I was able to witness the election of the first National Spiritual Assembly of Hungary. I was also present at the formation of the first National Spiritual Assembly of Romania. My last trip to Hungary was in 1998, which was also the year of my last Pilgrimage. Many times when I traveled to Hungary I included a three-day Pilgrimage in Haifa.

We returned to Canada from New Zealand in 1988 and have enjoyed our years here on Vancouver Island, where we have been privileged to assist in the development of Maxwell International Bahá’í School. We have spent our time here encouraging the friends and trying to keep them aware of the great destiny of the Canadian Bahá’í community.

On June 1st, 2007, my beloved husband ascended to the ‘Abhá Kingdom. I miss him very, very much, but I am sure that he is always looking after me from the next world and that, freed from the physical constraints of age and illness, he is now even more occupied with encouraging the friends and inspiring their teaching work.

2009-04-11T13:26:00.000-07:00

We have just returned from a trip to Saskatoon and area. Somehow, for some reason, that province is home: there's a comfort level there for Bernie and me that we can't quite explain but that visits us as soon as we cross the border. Maybe it's because we were both so young when we lived there, married there, had one of our children there, made some of our closest friends there. There's such a beauty there, too, when you have eyes to see it. It's not the prettiest time of year, right now, with the snow melting and the detritus of winter emerging: mud and clean up time, followed by dust. Yet we enjoyed stopping in some of the small towns; we are looking for a home there, and find smaller venues more and more appealing.

We stayed with my sister and some of her family, and many of our relatives joined us; Grandma & Grandpa, two more of our sisters, several nieces and nephews, plus our son came from Regina to spend time with us (and I gave him the worst haircut I have done on anybody, ever; I'll never live this one down.) Normally I'm not too bad at haircuts, at least for our son, but the scissors slipped (really, they did) and I took a chunk out. The less said about that, the better. Anyway, we had the chance to visit with some good friends, go out for lunch and dinner and a wonderful brunch (thanks, Rita and Wilf), and go to book stores. One book I recommend, still reading but liking it very much, is Dr. Lewis Mehl-Madrona's Narrative Medicine. I also got a chance to go twice to my most amazing massage therapist, who is a true healer and uses myofascial massage (and a lot of strength and patience) to take very good care of his patients.

We very much enjoyed the Bahá'í Feast the night before we left. My sister created a short devotional program where she took the writing of 'Abdu'l-Baha, during which the chant is raised "Glad Tidings, Glad Tidings" and had the children speak the refrain "Glad Tidings" while distributing flowers to all at the Feast. Two women played drums to announce each "Glad Tidings" and she (my sister) read these verses of joy. After this, my father read a passage about the significance of the Feast (from a marvelous booklet my mother has prepared for Feasts and Holy Days). There were several other readers, and I closed by singing the Healing Prayer, which was directed to several people (both by me and by the gathered friends saying their names aloud) but especially, in my case, to one of my editors at Bahá'í Publishing who is healing from cancer.

The consultative portion of the Feast was longer but really inspiring: one of the youth, recently returned from service in the Holy Land, shared his passion for the writing "These Perspicuous Verses," which Bahá'ís have been enjoined to memorize, and another youth shared an account of going with the Wildfire dance group to the report north of Canada. I was also pleased, during the social portion of the Feast, to chat with a friend who is also a remarkable artist, Lorenzo Dupuis. He currently has a show on with Art Placement; google to see his fascinating people studies. He is also a marvelous landscape artist and Francophone teacher, whose children are from Vietnam and China, respectively, and are adorable.

Well, that is a rather longer description of the Feast than I had intended to share, but it was truly a lovely experience.

The drive each way is a full day, and both ways we had passengers so enjoyed spending time with William and Angelica en route, and Julie and Sarah coming home.

Now I have to mark essays and tests from before the break, and prepare to teach poetry, Shakespeare, and the short story before exam time rolls around in June. At least the days are lighter and lighter, warmer and warmer, and this evening the family is gathering for Easter turkey.

As always, much to be grateful for.

2009-03-09T21:57:00.000-07:00

And why not? Here's the link to Rainn Wilson's interview with Oprah:

http://www.oprah.com/article/spirit/inspiration/pkgoprahssoulserieswebcast/20090309_oradio_oss_rwilson.

Listen, enjoy, reflect...and eat a pancake.

2009-02-21T10:47:00.000-08:00

A friend has written to tell me that my last posting, on Forgiveness, resonated for her. So I thought I might add that I have also been thinking about friendship and unconditional love.

It seems to be true that when you mess up, you find out who your friends really are. People can say "I love you" for years, but when you make a mistake (which you will) it can turn out that their love was based on their ideal of you or who they wanted you to be, not really the struggling self that every human being is. I think one of the reasons I love my friend Lisa is that she has such a merciful attitude towards other human beings that when her friends make mistakes, she is capable of "instantly forgiving" them, or so it seems to me. She counsels to ask, "What can you learn from this?" It's always the question, isn't it, if we believe that our mistakes, our heart-breaks, are purposeful? Ultimately, of course, no one can punish more than you can do to yourself, but it is a harsh punishment when a consequence of your mistake is the withdrawal of love by someone whom you thought really loved you.

One of the things I have learned is that love is easy to say, harder to do. Unconditional love is even harder: saying, and meaning, I will love you even when you make mistakes, or hurt me, or disappoint me. That's really, really tough: even in relation to one's children, I have discovered that it's grand theory to say "I love you unconditionally" but that there will be times when you really have to prove it.

There are certain givens: people will make mistakes, people will hurt each other, people do regret (although some will say that they don't, and I think they may be kidding themselves when they say that, or rationalizing some behaviour they're trying to put in context). I have always been fascinated by a wonderful passage in which 'Abdu'l-Baha says,

Act in such a way that your heart may be free from hatred.

Let not your heart be offended with anyone.

If some one commits an error and wrong toward you, you must instantly forgive him.

Do not complain of others.

Refrain from reprimanding them, and if you wish to give admonition or advice, let it be offered in such a way that it will not burden the bearer.

Turn all your thoughts toward bringing joy to hearts.

Beware! Beware! lest ye offend any heart.

Assist the world of humanity as much as possible.

Be the source of consolation to every sad one, assist every weak one, be helpful to every indigent one, care for every sick one, be the cause of glorification to every lowly one, and shelter those who are overshadowed by fear.

In brief, let each one of you be as a lamp shining forth with the light of the virtues of the world of humanity.

Be trustworthy, sincere, affectionate and replete with chastity.

Be illumined, be spiritual, be divine, be glorious, be quickened of God, be a Baha'i.

(`Abdu'l-Baha: Promulgation of Universal Peace, page 453)

Who can do that? Who can be that? Well, Bahá'ís believe that 'Abdu'l-Baha was able to be what He was asking of us, and that we can strive towards this ideal. None of us will be able to be all of this, all of the time: but maybe sometimes we can be some of it, some of the time. Maybe loving is recognizing in each other our efforts to move forward, even when there's a two-step backwards, until we start moving forward again. Maybe the reason we slip is to teach us that we must love each and everyone with all their imperfections, with what the Bahá'í writings call a "sin-covering eye." I want to be one of those people who, when I am hurt, can "instantly forgive" and look deeper into their hearts and souls to focus on the shining light that they are underneath their pain, which is often what causes the hurt in the first place. And I hope to be loved by people who have also embraced this ideal, because then, when we hurt each other, we will find ways to "instantly forgive" because we love. Because we love.

I am far from this, but I have known people who seem closer, who love you even when you make terrible mistakes, and who instantly forgive you. It seems to me that the greatest love, as Lisa says, is not to love someone because they are perfect, but because they are not.

2009-02-19T19:31:00.000-08:00

Part of Bahá'í 'ecumenism', if you want to call it that, is the embrace of diversity of ideas. We are happy to find "truth" in any place in which we encounter it. This is part of the reason that I have become a regular at the Thursday noon-hour gatherings in our school, where students join together in a "Socrates" philosophy club to discuss deep questions of spirituality and morality. It's a small group, but I enjoy spending time with committed, thoughtful, enthusiastic youth. They know that I am a Bahá'í, and I find that the Christians amongst them are particularly open to the many questions offered by their peers, and do not automatically consign those of us who are not "saved" to their idea of hell. It's refreshing. One young man is a "Deist" and has been studying Voltaire for a year...at 17. Today the discussion was based in the question, "Where does morality come from?" I am encouraged by how many people care about these ideas.

These are the kinds of questions about which I, and clearly many people, reflect. In my own life, I have spent a lot of time reflecting on forgiveness, in particular. Bahá'ís do not believe in the confession of sins (Baha'u'llah forbids "humiliation" before another human being). This suggests to me that for those of us who are deeply conscious of our errors (and I am one) and who struggle daily to reconcile the gap between our idealism and the reality of our actions, forgiveness (of self and by others) is a multi-faceted and complex process. We are given, in the Bahá'í teachings, many prayers for forgiveness, and counsels in this regard: the implication, from my perspective, is that we are going to need them. This is not to say that one goes out and deliberately commits a wrong (although that can happen, through weakness, rebellion, or ego), but it seems to be the human condition to make errors, consciously or unconsciously (hence, the Christian adage that he who is without sin may cast the first stone). Forgiveness and judgment seem to dance their wicked dance and most of us end up feeling badly about our actions much of the time. How does this help us to advance? I am informed by a line in one of 'Abdu'l-Baha's prayers, in which He has us say, "Cause me to possess a spiritual heart and conscience." I think it is critical for us to understand that we humans need to have the vision of a spiritual conscience as a means to improving our actions...but that conscience is not the same thing as guilt. One of the best books I have read on this subject is Justice St. Rain's Falling Into Grace, available from his company, Special Ideas. Another very handy booklet, which I often carry with me, is from the series "Jewels", which collects some of the most comforting of 'Abdu'l-Baha's wisdoms on different subjects. My most-thumbed copy is the one on Forgiveness, which includes such interesting concepts as

"If some one commits an error and wrong toward you, you must instantly forgive him."

Indeed, the Bahá'í writings go so far as to suggest that if someone offers you poison, you must offer honey in return. People who understand the idea of turning the other cheek will understand the moral and spiritual implications of such positions quite well.

I guess all of this is a preamble to sharing something I found when looking online for statements from Rumi. I am not alone in finding great inspiration from this Persian poet. He is cited in a sermon, below, (Unitarian, I think it must be) which was compelling. Since it's online, I think it must be somewhat in the public domain, so I have taken the liberty of copying it. Here it is, for you to consider also.

I wish I could tell everyone I've ever hurt how sorry I am. I cannot...some, of course, will know, and will also know that "I'm sorry" is never enough. But I am grateful that the Bahá'í teachings offer prayers so that we can ask, at least, for God's gracious mercy in the face of His knowing our hearts and souls more than we can know them ourselves. I am hopeful because I believe in forgiveness. For some things, one can never make amends...but with God, all things are possible, and this journey of life brings, perhaps, a kind of healing when we acknowledge the truth and necessity of forgiveness, and start from that place in our hearts.

I have put a couple of lines that have meaning for me in bold print.

Forgiveness

by Doug Muder

Where this sermon comes from

This sermon has its roots in a mistake that I made about a year ago when I was preparing for the Religious Questions discussion group that John Gibbons and I led last spring. The course centered on 12 questions that are too big to have definite answers, but too much a part of everyday life to be ignored. The discussions explored the answers that are implicit in the way we lead our lives.

It was tricky, writing those questions. Some of them came easily, like "Can people be trusted?" It’s obviously too big a question to have a simple answer, and yet we do answer it every time we pull into traffic. Another one "Is the world getting better or worse?" sits in the background of all our plans for the future.

I wanted a question that would explore our attitudes towards our own mistakes. When we make a mistake, or imagine the possibility of making a mistake, do we expect the world to shrug it off, or do we imagine that there will be a black mark next to our names for all eternity? John had explored this issue in a sermon earlier in the year, talking about our "permanent record".

The group never had the discussion I imagined, because in writing this question about mistakes, I made a mistake: I used the word forgiving in the question. I asked "Is the world a forgiving place?" Now, I meant forgiving in the same sense that we say "Clay is a forgiving medium." If you make a mistake in clay, you just fix it, and there’s no problem. Diamond, by contrast, is not a forgiving medium; if you cut the diamond wrong it shatters. I wanted to ask whether life in general is more like clay or more like diamond.

But the word forgiving derailed the discussion for the entire evening. We had something like 15 people in the room that night, and while we all had very strong feelings about forgiveness, none of us (it turned out) meant the same thing by it.

Over the years, I’ve come to believe that when a group takes off on its own, and has a discussion totally different from the one I planned -- probably that is a discussion that needed to happen. And that’s why I’m up here today: to get us talking about forgiveness.

Preliminaries

Before I get too deep into this, I want to address a question that I know will come up in talkback if I don’t deal with it now: If we couldn’t agree on the meaning of a word, why didn’t we just use a dictionary? Unitarians don’t usually believe in the revealed truth of books like the Bible or the Koran, but some of us have amazing faith in the dictionary.

The dictionary would only have swept the problem under the rug. In that room we had 15 important human concepts fighting over the word forgiveness. If one of them is declared right, the other 14 don’t go away, they just become nameless. The problem isn’t to find out what forgiveness really means. The problem is to deal with and make sense of the cluster of concepts swarming around the word forgiveness.

Components of forgiveness

Everybody’s notion of forgiveness begins with the same situation: One person has caused another person to suffer. That suffering creates a separation between them that makes it impossible to go on with their previous relationship. Whatever you used to be to each other -- friends, relatives, parishioners, fellow citizens -- you can’t do that any more, because it hurts too much. In the first reading Lawrence Langer feels compelled to deny that the worst of the Nazis were even human beings, because what they did was so horrible. In order to record their deeds, he says "we require a scroll of inhuman discourse." he says. That’s how extreme the sense of separation can be.

At the other extreme, the sense of separation need not develop at all. In the story of the Tibetan monk, he preserved his sense of compassion for the Chinese, in spite of 20 years in their labor camps.

One notion of forgiveness, I think, doesn’t deserve the name. In this false form of forgiveness, we accept the other person by denying our own pain. We lie to ourselves and say that it really wasn’t that bad. Saying that doesn’t heal anything inside us, and in fact makes it harder to heal. Those of you who felt resistance during the responsive reading may have been resisting this false kind of forgiveness.

How the word forgiveness is used

Forgiveness, in all of its genuine forms, is a means of healing. The story of that healing might or might not contain any of the following components: The sufferer may be angry and might want revenge. The blamed person might feel guilty. There might be a confession, restitution, a promise never to do it again, or some kind of punishment. Eventually there could be a reconciliation. After the reconciliation, the two parties might agree to forget, or to pretend to forget, that this ever happened.

The different notions of forgiveness disagree about which of these components are necessary, or even desirable. One issue in President Clinton’s impeachment trial, for example, is whether he has confessed adequately. In arguing against the motion to dismiss the case, House manager Charles Canady said: "Some have asked of us, 'Where is the compassion and where is the spirit of forgiveness?' Let me say that I, for one, believe in forgiveness. Without forgiveness, what hope would there be for any of us? But forgiveness requires repentance; it requires contrition."

Several books on the market recommend forgiving your parents for things that they did when you were a child. This forgiveness is supposed to happen even if your parents don’t confess, or don’t even realize what they did. They don’t have to make restitution. They may even be dead, so a reconciliation isn’t possible. But something important is happening nonetheless, and people call it forgiveness.

Debbie Morris’ forgiveness of Robert Willie is similar: Only on the morning of his execution did she realize that she needed to forgive him, and she was not able to forgive him until years after his death. The only reconciliation she imagines is in Heaven. If you don’t believe in a literal Heaven, it’s easy to trivialize this kind of forgiveness. But reading her book, I was struck by the level of healing that must have occurred for her even to imagine her kidnapper and rapist in Heaven. She writes: "If Robert Willie is there, it’ll be the same way I get there -- only through God’s generosity and grace."

Many other popular uses of the word forgiveness make no sense if we assume that all the components have to be present. In the Spiritual Bestsellers discussion group we read Harold Kushner’s When Bad Things Happen to Good People. He mentions people who are angry at God because of some personal loss. Healing, in this case, involves learning to forgive God and be reconciled to Him. Similarly, non-theist authors talk about people who are angry at the World, and must learn to forgive the World. God or the World or whatever you want to call it, is not going to confess or ask for your forgiveness or offer restitution.

The responsive reading -- and many, many self-help books -- talk about forgiving yourself. How does that make sense?

As a final example, I want to tell a story from my own life. My best friend from high school, Steve, has never been reliable about keeping appointments. We’d make plans to do things when I was home from college, and he’d be hours late, or he wouldn’t show up at all. There was nothing personal about this; he did it to everybody. I’d try to punish him by getting angry, but it never made any difference. Finally one day I realized that if Steve’s mother and all his girl friends over the years hadn’t been able to change him, I probably wouldn’t be able to change him either. I needed to decide whether or not I wanted him in my life the way he is.

It turned out I did want him in my life. And so I made a decision, which I never told him about. I took for granted that he was unreliable, and whenever we made plans together, I made plans for what I would do if he didn’t show up. If we were supposed to meet somewhere, I’d make sure it was a good place to sit, and I’d bring a book to read, or something else to keep me occupied. I’d decide ahead of time how long I was willing to wait, and have something in mind to do after I was done waiting.

That was about 20 years ago. We’re still friends, and he still can’t be counted on to keep an appointment. And looking back, I’m convinced I did the right thing. It’s been good having him in my life.

Now consider what that story says about forgiveness. There was no confession, no restitution. I jumped straight to reconciliation, and didn’t even tell him about it. And in this case forgiving means not forgetting. The solution only works as long as I remember Steve’s faults and allow for them. Or think about this: Steve is forgiven for things he hasn’t even done yet. Looking at it another way, I forgave him for being the way he is.

Forgiveness as justice

I need three different notions of forgiveness to account for all these examples. They’re related, and each one is a little more complicated than the last one. The first one, which I’ll call forgiveness as justice is simply the recognition that guilt is not infinite. Reconciliation is possible.

Contrast this notion with the Christian concept of Hell. Hell embodies the idea that guilt is infinite. No restitution is possible, and no amount of punishment will ever be enough. There can be no reconciliation.

Forgiveness-as-justice is the willingness to put a fair price on reconciliation. "You hurt me," it says, "but I’m willing to restore our relationship if you are willing to pay the price." Sometimes, when there has been hurt on both sides, that price requires a certain amount of negotiation. But both parties are looking for the same thing: a chance to restart their relationship on a fair basis.

Forgiveness as bankruptcy

If that were the only kind of forgiveness, reconciliation would be rare, because sometimes the price will not be paid. Sometimes it can’t be paid. What could the Nazis have done to make up for the Holocaust? What could the Chinese do to make up for that Tibetan monk’s 20 years in labor camps? What could Robert Willie have done? There isn’t anything.

We’re in danger at this point of letting our imaginations run off into stories of great horrors that seem far away from us. I don’t want to lose touch with our lives. Maybe you have never been kidnapped or raped or wrongly imprisoned. Probably you’ve never murdered anyone.

And yet, I think that all of us, if we are honest, can look back at things we have done or suffered that can’t be fixed or paid for. At one time, life could have gone a certain way. And now, no matter what anyone does, it never will. Any fair price we might put on forgiveness could never be paid.

The Islamic mystic Rumi said this: "A pearl goes up for auction, but no one has enough. So the pearl buys itself." The second kind of forgiveness is like the pearl that buys itself. I call it forgiveness as bankruptcy.

When a person has economic debts he can’t pay, we declare him bankrupt, forgive the debts, and let him start a new economic life. Every civilized country does this. Why does it work? And what can we learn from it?

First, we need to realize that bankruptcy, while it is merciful, is also a selfish act on the part of the economic system. A potentially productive person is being kept out of production by an unpayable debt. By forgiving the debt the economic system gains a productive citizen and loses nothing, because the debt was not going to be paid anyway.

How do we apply this idea? Imagine, for example, that you and I have been friends for years, and during those years, I made your life better. But then we had an auto accident, which was my fault, and you were injured in some permanent way. Maybe you even lost someone close to you in that accident. I can never make that up to you. You are within your rights to condemn our relationship to Hell. But if you do, you still have your losses and your injuries, but now you have lost a friend as well. I could be a productive part of your life again, if you would just let me. Declare me bankrupt. Start me over.

The downside of forgiveness-as-bankruptcy is that by staying connected to people who have caused us pain, we could just be giving them a license to hurt us again and again and again. To use this kind of forgiveness effectively, we need to believe that the future will be different from the past. Either our luck will be better, or the other person has learned something, or we have learned something. In the example of my friend Steve, the future was going to be less painful not because Steve was going to be different, but because I had learned how to deal with him.

Messianic forgiveness

We still haven’t explained how it is possible to forgive people we will never see again, or to forgive the World, or God, or ourselves. How can any of those notions make sense?
Let’s go back and examine that sense of separation, the one that forgiveness is supposed to heal. What am I separated from really?

Have you ever noticed how the people who are most important to you seem to be with you even when they aren’t? You know what they would say if they were here. You know how they will react when you tell them what has happened. You know that they’ll understand something if you explain it this way, but not if you explain it that way. How do you know these things?

I believe that when I am getting to know a person, I am taking a part of myself and molding it like a piece of clay to resemble them. Those parts of myself stay with me even when the people they are based on have gone.

When in pain and anger I separate myself from you, when I say that you are not my friend, not my relative, not a member of my church, that you are not even a human being -- what happens to the part of myself that I have molded to resemble you?

I think it goes to Hell. I believe that somewhere in my head is a place of rejection, a place of separation, a place of eternal punishment -- a Hell. My own personal Hell.

If you do something to hurt me, do you wind up in the Hell in my head? Of course not. You’re out there; I don’t have that kind of power over you. But the part of me that I’ve shaped to resemble you -- I have a lot of power over that. I can rage at it. I can argue with it. I can humiliate it. I can torture it in oh-so-many ways. And who am I hurting? Not you. You’re out there.

If you also have a Hell in your head, I would advise you to take a census of it. You may find entire political parties there, entire countries, entire races. Some people have God in Hell. Some people have the whole world. Some people have condemned themselves to Hell.

And so we come to the third kind of forgiveness: Messianic forgiveness, opening the doors of your own personal Hell and letting everybody out. Let them out: the Nazis, the Robert Willies, everybody. Because they’re all you. Hell is a place where you punish parts of yourself, because they resemble someone else. And you can just stop doing it.

I’m still working on that one. I’ve managed to shrink my Hell a little bit, and I’ve begun to have a vision of what it would mean to empty Hell completely and shut it down. I’d like to end by sharing that vision with you.

Shutting down my personal Hell would mean that a certain kind of fear, terror, and anxiety would vanish from my life. It would mean living with the knowledge that whatever happens between us, we remain connected; whatever mistakes I make, I cannot reject myself; and whatever the World chooses to do, it remains my World.

2009-02-17T18:42:00.000-08:00

It has been a while, again, but I want to post today because of the critical nature of this message about what is happening to the Bahá'ís of Iran. To do so, allow me to post a link: it's an article at CNN in which Bahá'í actor Rainn Wilson (of The Office fame) sends out his voice as a plea for the arrested Iranian Bahá'ís currently in prison (due to religious intolerance). The voice of the world protests this unfair incarceration, and Wilson is one of the recent people of prominence to bring this travesty to the attention of the world. In other news, I have been saddened to hear from my friends Craig and Susanne that Craig's cancer has escalated and he is now preparing for his journey to the next world of existence. This journey has been documented through their amazing blog which, if you haven't read it yet, and you want to see the dignity and grace with which a couple face this disease, I recommend.

Teaching and writing continue to be busy. I currently have four classes in English (two grade 12s, one grade 11, and one grade 10 Adapted). I am enjoying each of them for different reasons. One of the things I enjoy, in fact, is the increasing diversity in this northern community. In addition to people from the city itself, there are several Nigerian students here to get credit for entry into Canadian and American universities, some Filipinos, several First Nations students (not only of the local Cree and Beaver peoples but also from other areas of BC, including a young Haida woman), and students from India and from Asia. The BC curriculum requires thematic teaching so that I am able to use a number of resources dealing with the idea of Global Issues. I love this: I am teaching writing to students to whom I suggest the theme that when one is going to write, it ought to be for relevance and they ought to have something to say. I get to listen, every day, to such a variety of views! I am also grateful for the diversity of resources available, from YouTube playlists (of which I have created several for teaching purposes) to TED talks (www.TED.com/) and a number of educational institutions which offer "poetry luncheons" and other delightful opportunities to bring the world into your home.

Our library also offers outstanding films. The other night my husband and I finally discovered a film we had heard of: Atarjanuat: The Fast Runner. It is, indeed, remarkable, and one of our new favourites, along with Planet Earth and the Blue Planet series. I am also spending some of this long, long winter reading, and have been enjoying a couple of Lydia Millet's rather funny novels: satire, indeed.

My sister has also begun a blog. I am linking it along with others, at the side. Do enjoy!

I took the photo above at the beginning of our long winter...somehow, silver gray seems to be my theme these days. Beauty of the world...and we approach the festive days, for our faith, of Ayyam-i-Ha, followed by the blessed Fasting period.

I am grateful.

2009-01-05T19:53:00.000-08:00

Perhaps one becomes more reflective in the winter time. We are locked into a very cold one here in the frozen north of British Columbia. We enjoyed the festivities of the holiday season by travelling to Saskatoon and visiting with family and friends there. Highlights included an arts day on the last day of the year at the home of friends, one of whom is a stellar potter. I read and wrote, and discovered poets whom I hadn't read before and whom I will now read with attention. One is the recent Pulitzer Winner, Robert Hass. Brilliant. Another is Robin Blaser of SFU. Yet another is a woman from near Saskatoon who has written beautifully of the geography around the Cypress Hills, Barbara Klar. Discover them if you haven't already. I wanted also to give a shout out to www.leafpress.ca for their continued dedication to poetry.

We're well, for the most part. Seasonal colds...you know the drill. My husband and I had thought we would be going through a year of "empty nest syndrome" with our children all established in other places, but we are residing with extended family and this means that we are usually surrounded by people (we love them) and bustle (renovations) and sound (television, music, YouTube). One of my favourite sites has become www.TED.com, for pithy and interesting talks; another interesting spot is on YouTube when you go to the many interviews done by veteran American journalist Charlie Rose. I can use some of these in my classes.

I think a lot about the culture of high school, and how it has changed with the YouTube and cell phone generation. Distractions? There is so much change: I recommend the YouTube lecture by Professor Mike Wesch on the subject. Schools have become so much more than places of learning, or less, depending on your perception. I am certainly having to adapt my teaching style, and may make some notes on this to add a paragraph or two to my forthcoming book on education (Baha'i Publishing, fall this year or next spring).

Anyway, for those who read me from time to time, I didn't want you to think I'd fallen off the face of the map. I just got busy. I'll download some pictures soon to share, but thought I'd catch up a little with the worldwide web of those of us who blog.

Feliz Nuevo Año.

2008-10-04T17:13:00.001-07:00

Fort St. John is having uncharacteristically warm weather for the fall. It's October, month of birthdays (niece Celeste, friend Susan in Brazil, friend Lisa in Washington State, and I are all born on the same day), niece Sarah and my eldest daughter later in the month...a fine month indeed. Last year at this time I was alone in southern BC, doing a "commuter marriage." My husband is still in the east, yes, but will join me later this month, and in the meantime I have lots of family and friends with whom to spend my time...not to mention two dogs in this household and two in the other one. I am working with colleagues with whom I worked previously and of whom I am fond, and for whom I have respect, especially the principal of the school, who formerly was my drama teacher friend. The students are all plugged into their iPods...but cell phones are banned in the classroom since they would text each other and ignore whatever the teacher says, or at least some would. On the other hand, I try to avoid lecture, and I am very glad of the resource provided by YouTube: my classroom is hooked up so that when I go to a site on my computer, a projector sends it to the screen in front of my whiteboard (which used to be a blackboard, back in the day). I've prepared a number of Playlists as teacher resources: I, for one, am glad of the new technology. No smart boards yet, but they'll come, I'm sure. In the meantime, we still do plain old reading and writing, and the students chose their novels this last week, a number of different ones. There are several students here on exchange from Nigeria, and I recommended The Poisonwood Bible to a few. Many students also chose Kurt Vonnegut or the classic To Kill a Mockingbird. Others chose new and popular authors whom I'll now have to read in order to decide whether or not their choices have literary value (and that begs the question of how we define literature!) Mostly my reflections today, though, are memories occasioned by the death, this morning, of my friend Jacob Bighorn. Jacob died surrounded by the members of his family; they had been gathered from far and wide to wish bon voyage to their Dad, husband, son, grandfather... He knew he was being called to the next world, as his body gradually shut down, and was prayerfully prepared. I have been thinking about the bounty of being prepared: of knowing you are going on the final journey from this world, of believing absolutely in the mercy and grace of the loving Lord and the birth to a new realm of existence, of being surrounded by many, many people who love you and your legacy, and of being supported by the prayers of a deeply loving network of friends literally from around the planet. Jacob had been a teacher at the Maxwell International Bahá'í School, and had brought the Lakota culture, ceremony, a sense of the intrinsic worth of every soul, and his beautiful wife Deloria and their children, to the Maxwell family. He is being remembered in prayer by a great gathering of those who loved him. It's a legacy of pride and honour. Allah'u'abha, Jacob. All my love. All our relations.

An anthropological introduction to YouTube

2008-09-26T22:03:00.001-07:00

Take the time to check this out.

2008-08-27T17:58:00.000-07:00

Tonight we celebrated my son's birthday. It's a special one: he's turning 18 next week, but he will be away at university by then so tonight my husband, his sisters, their partners, he and I gathered on the deck and enjoyed a BBQ and cake together...It was grand.

My gifts to him were simple but I think he liked them. One was something special I've been keeping for him since he was born. The other was his baby blanket, from which he was inseparable for his first four years. I figured now that he's a grownup, and leaving home, he should have these remnants of his actual birth in 1990.

It's very interesting for my husband and me, this empty nest business. One daughter still lives close by. The other two children, as of the weekend, will be at some distance. I am glad that I am occupied with writing, which fills my thoughts, so that I don't notice the silence of the house.

That's all I have to say about that.

Persecution of Baha'is in Iran

2008-08-15T20:09:00.001-07:00

2008-07-16T06:22:00.000-07:00

I am a history person: I cannot resist learning about the past. So it was with pleasure that I noticed, as I drove east from Summerland, a sign indicating a point of historic interest. It seemed a good place to stop, so I found myself wandering around the site of the Last Spike. Later in the journey, east of Thunder Bay, Bern and I stopped in at the memorial to Terry Fox. I enjoyed both of these immensely, despite their brevity. It's always interesting to reflect about what spirits may be nearby, and how they came to be in that place in the past. I probably have felt that feeling most intensely when at the sites of the Plains of Abraham in Quebec City or at Batoche in Saskatchewan, and Bernie and I also stopped at the Agawa pictographs in northern Ontario: so many spirits nearby. Anyway, as each juncture of a person's life passes, history is an interesting contemplation, whether political, social, or personal.

And it is on that note that I will answer a question several people have asked: are you going back to BC to work? The short answer is no. The long answer, for those into detail and reasons, is that while I enjoyed working at The Glenfir School, and became very fond of many of my colleagues and students, there were reasons not to return. One important one was financial: while Bern and I had contemplated a move west, if the circumstances were conducive, we discovered that the Okanagan Valley has become prohibitively expensive. We just couldn't afford a house, despite my good job. To move across a country, you need to be advancing, and the move would have set us back financially for a considerable time to come. Another reason was that we have three children in the east; granted, our son is going to university this fall in another province, but it's easier to hop on a plane to visit him than to move lock, stock and barrel. A third reason, although this was slightly less important, was the prospective teaching assignment. I would have had to teach grades four through ten English; I am really a senior teacher. I like the scholarship, or at least the potential for scholarship, in grades nine through twelve. Because of the demographics of the school, I would have had to take on the challenge of grades four through six, and to be honest, that proposition did not appeal. I had taught grades five and six drama, with some effect, but I am more skilled with older children (although my grades seven through nine this year were fun).

Anyway, for all of these reasons, I have come home. Now, where home will be remains to be seen: while Bernie and I like Gatineau, we are also interested in buying more land and in "gentleman farming", so to speak. He and I share this interest, so are looking at different possible locales, including in the Hawkesbury-Cornwall-Brockville belt south of Ottawa, and of course, in my beloved Saskatchewan.

Winter isn't a good enough reason not to go somewhere. I never thought I'd say that, since I am not a big fan of cold, and with my bum knees, don't find it easy to walk in winter on the rough surfaces of ice...but I suppose, in the future, that perhaps I will be fortunate enough to balance between life in the Canadian spring, summer, and fall, and perhaps a more tropical winter. We still have a home in Belize... but enough speculation. I am trying to learn that wherever you are, there you are, and to take each pleasure in the present moment. That includes this moment, now, writing about what might happen and what has happened. Time to re-read Eckhart Tolle...

2008-07-14T17:50:00.000-07:00

2008-07-14T17:49:00.000-07:00

2008-07-14T17:48:00.001-07:00

2008-07-14T17:46:00.000-07:00

2008-07-14T17:21:00.000-07:00

I have just finished sorting through two hundred pictures. I took them during my journey east, and will share some when I can, but right now for some reason the blog is having trouble uploading. In the meantime, let me give you a word view of our journey, and thank you to those who have written to let me know you're still reading!

On June 27 I worked until the early afternoon at the Glenfir School, where we were proofreading final report cards. Then, with fond goodbyes to my colleagues, I set out east over the Rogers pass, a journey I had taken a few weeks previously so I knew what to expect. Tired, I found a hotel in Calgary late that night and set off again on Saturday morning (my second daughter's 20th birthday) and drove to Three Hills, AB to visit friends. I had a delightful time with them and then continued my drive, revelling in the beauty of summer in the prairies. I just love the colours and the open feeling of the plains...and I stopped for the night in the town of Kindersley, Sask., before driving on to sister Andrea's in Saskatoon on the Sunday. I arrived in before noon, and later that afternoon our parents and brother Robin arrived in from their equally lengthy drive from Fort St. John/Whitelaw. Accompanying them was my delightful great-niece, Mary Jane Daisy D. So the visiting began! I have several dear and lifelong friends in the area, and was able to see all but Fraser, who is currently on Bahá'í pilgrimage in Haifa.

One highlight was spending time with some other visitors. Ed and Leanne had come from B.C. along with her brother Rocky and wife Linda, to enjoy the 100th anniversary of the town of Asquith. I had lived there briefly in the '70s, and spent Friday evening there, including a short visit with David, Susan and their daughter, and a hello to Ken and Eleanor. Then I drove out to Eagle Creek to spend the evening at a campsite with Keith, Dale and Ailsa and their daughter Aleta. Just before Aleta went to sleep, Keith (who is a wonderful musician) played a prayer on his guitar and Dale and I harmonized as we sang a song of the Bab. At the end of the prayer, Aleta made her feelings known, with a delighted "Yay!" Amen.

The weekend included more music, short visits with musician Garry and my musical-artist nephew Tim. Both are going to be famous for their music...and I will be the first to buy their CDs. The weekend also included an opportunity to lunch with Sally and buy pottery from her very talented husband Ken. I had also spent time with Lorenzo, Mary and their children Yannick and Charlotte...quelle joie!

Bernie arrived by plane on Tuesday. We spent the afternoon with friends, including Kim, Vicky, and Pamela...and Steve's brother Bill and wife Tracy had also arrived. You can see that Andrea was kept very busy entertaining us all...and on Wednesday we left for a cottage at Middle Lake, where we were joined by Arnold, Junia, and for a while, their son Calixte. My husband and my nephew Mitchell were both delighted to catch some fish...and although the rain was omnipresent, I enjoyed watching the hummingbird feed at the birdfeeder outside the screened in porch.

On Friday morning Bern and I set out east. It was a marathon drive but I took pictures to my heart's content, especially of the prairie landscape, the canola in full bloom. We stopped briefly for a rest at the memorial to Terry Fox. Do you all know who this Canadian hero was? If not, look him up...and I'll perhaps share a picture of the site. I was very moved. And we kept moving...it is a very long way from Thunder Bay to the Sault Ste. Marie. They don't call it Lake Superior for nothing. We took the time for a short rest at the site of the Agawa pictographs, where Bernie climbed the steep hills and rocks down to the lake and took a couple of pictures of these ancient testaments. We continued through a very long day and ended up doing a night time push home, driving from just east of Nipigon, ON to home, about 1500 km. in a day that began at 8 a.m. and finished just after midnight.

I have arrived to find my garden lovely but in need of weeding, and lots of work to do in the house to unpack from a year in British Columbia. One of the first things I did was to hang new paintings: a mandala by artist Margaret Bremner, a painting purchased from my student Derrill A. so that I will have a beautiful memory of the Okanagan beauty, and the batik my daughter brought me from Rwanda last year. I am in a freshly painted blue room and surrounding myself with lilies...and my children, all home for supper.

I am grateful to God and to all who have touched my path with love and beauty. Now let's see if I can share a picture or two. The one of me, by the way, has been cropped for decency...I was at the South Saskatchewan River for a swim with Andrea, Dad, Mary Jane, and some friends, and I had removed the straps of my bathing suit...so here I am. I am also including some photos of the prairies and Ontario, and friends and family...but will have to do so in several posts, because I can't arrange them the way I want in one post. So, till next time...I am off to make pie for my children.

2008-06-24T22:24:00.000-07:00

It's a cool summer in Summerland, and I am about to leave. I have been taking photographs, mostly of flowers. Here is one of my recent ones...very Georgia O'Keeffe, I guess...it's quite beautiful around here right now. Tonight's particular Beauty was the Feast of Mercy (well named, well named) held at Farideh, Sia and Mish's house. I was invited to a farewell dinner before the Feast, and Farideh had made Persian dinner extraordinaire, followed by homemade Persian baklava. I cannot describe the taste of heaven, but it must include ground almonds, cardamom, and rose water.

At the Feast itself, we offered prayers for women who have recently left this world and are hopefully journeying in the invisible gardens of God. This post is, in part, an In Memoriam for a young one gone too soon. My cousin, Steve McLean, lost his daughter Lisa to a house fire last weekend. I am thinking of him, of her mother and three sisters, and am comforted in part by something which was shared by one of the relatives. She had seen Lisa, radiant, arm-in-arm with Grandmother Joyce (my mother's sister), in the gardens. Non-believers say to those of us that such visions are wishful thinking; those of us who are believers need not worry about such skepticism. We know what we see and feel, and I am heartened to think of that young one joyously received by her family, and mine. This news followed hard upon hearing about my old friend Edwina finally losing her courageous battle with cancer, and an acquaintance lost her daughter, only short months after losing her son. Heaven is gathering.

I am deeply conscious, as I prepare to journey homeward, of the blessings and mercy of love. Farideh showered me not only with delicious foods, and prayers, and our community with her incomparable hospitality, but with a Persian shawl, a card of the Greatest Name, her original Persian artwork, and her husband, Sia, presented me with sprigs of Japanese honeysuckle. Have you ever smelled Japanese honeysuckle? Its combination of intense perfume, delicate blossoms, and perfect colour overwhelmed me, once again, with the infinite variation of God's creation.

This is the Bahá'í Feast of Mercy. I feel like I've been bathed in a sensual blessing of mercy, through the gentle kindness of my friends here in Summerland, through the prayers offered for women wandering the gardens of the next world, and through the wash of tears. I am deeply grateful for the community here, and their welcome, as I set out.

On Friday I will begin the long drive home. I am going home. I will exit singing.

2008-06-11T20:09:00.000-07:00

My time in British Columbia is drawing to a close. We have two weeks and two days of school left; the students are finished on Friday. Then it's time for Administration: report cards, planning, year-end discussions. Bernie was here for a few days last weekend and we had a delightful time, exploring this area a bit more and also travelling to Lumby to see a couple of friends there. We also hosted a dinner and a small dessert party for local friends, so it was a busy time, and Bern got many of my books packed and sent home by bus. All in all, despite the unseasonable cool and way too much rain, life goes kindly day by day.

Soon I will journey, by car, from here to home in Gatineau. I plan to stop with my sister Andrea in Saskatoon, coinciding with a visit to her from our parents, and will also visit with various Saskatchewan friends. Then Bernie will join us in S'toon for a short visit before he and I head east together. Thankfully, then, I don't have to do the whole drive by myself. I shall return to a July garden in full bloom, to editing a couple of my books (another has been recommended for publication by its editors, so pending approval there'll be work to do on that) and spending some time with my children, before two of them head to new cities, one to university in the West and one to work in the Maritimes.

I'll post some pictures soon.

2008-05-24T17:08:00.000-07:00

I've been busy! A couple of weekends ago I went to Calgary with six of the students from our school, a colleague, and two of the students' parents. I have lots of pictures of that but I think most of you have probably seen a zebra and a giraffe...or at least a picture of one...and there is nothing like being very close to these gorgeous animals to offer a complete appreciation of God's creation. I should say, too, that I enjoyed seeing the baby elephant, but could not get a good picture of him or her...so the photos I am posting are more recent than those from the trip to Calgary Zoo, the Pumphouse Theatre (to see "Helen's Necklace"), the Rothney Observatory (where I heard a couple of very interesting talks on astronomy), and on our return, the Banff Hot Springs (brief, but relaxing). And it was also Happy Birthday to Kelvin, along with Mother's Day. A gala weekend.

For the long weekend, I journeyed to the Kootenays of British Columbia; in other words, the next mountain range over. This entailed driving south from here to Osoyoos, then east on the Number 3 highway, through some of the most spectacular scenery in Western Canada. My hostess, Kari, was driving ahead of me so we went quickly to her home in Grand Forks, and the next morning I arrived early at my destination, Castlegar, BC. Here, at Selkirk College, the Baha'is of the Kootenays (and a few other friends) gathered to study "the Majestic Process". I have posted a group photograph, above. I was delighted to attend sessions, of course, and to be the tourist, but mostly to see a few old friends and make some new ones. After the school was over, I had the opportunity to go with a friend to Nelson, BC, a place about which I had heard a long time ago from my colleague in Fort St. John, Daniel V., whose home town it is. It is indeed quite lovely, and Linda and I enjoyed dinner by the river before I returned to Castlegar for the night. Early the next morning I set off for Summerland again, but this time took lots of pictures along the way, including at a very lovely little town called Greenwood, where I also got lots of books at a "donations only" sidewalk sale. As I came into Osoyoos (there's a lot of climbing to heights and then going down-down-down into valleys on this trip) I took pictures and you will find one of these, above. No photo can do justice to the panorama, however, of descending into the Okanagan Valley from Boundary country, with the mountains in the distance (between us and Vancouver). If you have not toured these areas of Southern British Columbia, I can only echo every travel agent and encourage you to revel in the sheer beauty of the areas. It's truly breathtaking, and not entirely spoiled, at least not yet, by the tourism. I will miss the summer's roadside stands for the plentiful fresh vegetables and fruits of the area (although early asparagus is now available, apparently from the East Kootenays in Creston) and I am sure other delights are soon to follow (including, I am told, early cherries at the end of June). I get to enjoy the blossoms, and I have been bringing great bunches of lilacs into the apartment.

The next couple of weekends are quiet, before Bernie's arrival back here for his last visit before I start the drive east to home, where I will remain, for the time being, in Gatineau. In the meantime, I have classroom teaching to finish up, exams to administer, and some packing to do.

I am grateful, mostly, for the many opportunities that come to me to see new places, meet people, connect with family (I will visit, with my sister Andrea, our parents, while on the journey east), and generally enrich my life with spirit, beauty, and the company of dear and faithful loved ones.

2008-04-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

Happy Ridvan to the Baha'is around the world. I love this period of the year, and am taking pictures of my Ridvan roses, in full bloom in the dining room and bedroom, while waiting for the real spring to occur outside my window.

This morning, though, I want to refer you to another link for anyone who is really into movies (which is probably most of the known universe). My daughter has decided to write reviews...short and fun to read. Her other blog, already in my favourites at right, is also terrific reading. Enjoy.

2008-04-21T12:31:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, my cousin sent me a link to a talk. I followed, listened, and discovered a whole new world of exciting and inspiring presentations. The site is TED. I have listened to talks from scientists, educators, entrepreneurs, authors, and comedians (well, not quite, but a couple of the talks are quite funny). I warn you, going to this website can get addictive. I was immensely moved by Isabel Allende, inspired by Dave Eggers and Sir Ken Robinson, and awed by two or three of the science presentations. Do yourself a favour; take the time and have a look.

2008-04-14T14:11:00.000-07:00

Remarks by Stephen Lewis, Co-Director of AIDS-Free World, delivered at the
10th Annual V-Day Celebrations, New Orleans, LA 4:00 pm CDT, Saturday, April
12, 2008

Today is a day that has largely --- and rightly --- been given over to Dr.
Mukwege and his astonishing and heroic work in the Congo. Driving the work
is the endlessly grim and despairing litany of rape and sexual violence. All
of us assembled in the Superdome, talk of V-Day and the Vagina Monologues;
in the Congo there's a medical term of art called 'vaginal destruction.' I
need not elaborate; you've heard Dr. Mukwege.

But suffice to say that in the vast historical panorama of violence against
women, there is a level of demonic dementia plumbed in the Congo that has
seldom, if ever been reached before.

That's the peg on which I want to hang these remarks. I want to set out an
argument that essentially says that what's happening in the Congo is an act
of criminal international misogyny, sustained by the indifference of nation
states and by the delinquency of the United Nations.

Dr. Mukwege and others have said time and time again, the current saga of
the Congo has been going on for more than a decade. It's important to
remember that it's a direct result of the escape of thousands of mass
murderers who eluded capture after the Rwandan genocide , thanks to the
Governments of France and the United States, by fleeing into what was then
called Zaire, now the Democratic Republic of the Congo, The wars and the
horror that followed have been chronicled by journalists, by human rights
organizations, by senior representatives of the United Nations
Secretary-General, by agencies, by NGOs internationally and NGOs on the
ground, by the UN Office of Humanitarian Affairs, by the Security Council,
and in the process, accentuated and punctuated by the cries and the pain and
the carnage of over five million deaths.

The sordid saga ebbs and flows. But it was brought back into sudden, vivid
public notoriety by Eve Ensler's trip to the Congo in July/August of last
year, her visit to the Panzi Hospital, her interviews with the women
survivors of rape, and her visceral piece of writing in Glamour magazine
which began with the words "I have just returned from Hell".
Eve set off an extraordinary chain reaction: her visit was followed by a
fact-finding mission by the current UN Under-Secretary General for
Humanitarian Affairs who, upon his return, wrote an op-ed for the Los
Angeles Times in which he said that the Congo was the worst place in the
world for women. Those views were then echoed everywhere (including by the
EU Parliament), triggering front page stories in the New York Times, the
Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times and a lengthy segment on 60 Minutes
by Anderson Cooper of CNN.

Largely as a result of this growing clamour against the war on women in the
Congo, and the fact that Eve Ensler herself testified before the Security
Council, the United Nations resolution that renewed the mandate for the UN
Peacekeeping force in the Congo (MONUC as it's called) contained some of the
strongest language condemning rape and sexual violence ever to appear in a
Security Council resolution, and obliged MONUC, in no uncertain terms, to
protect the women of the Congo. The resolution was passed at the end of
December last year.

In January of this year, scarce one month later, there was an "Act of
Engagement" -- a so-called peace commitment signed amongst the warring
parties. I use 'so-called' advisedly because evidence of peace is hard to
find. But that's not the point: the point is much more revelatory and much
more damning.

The peace commitment is a fairly lengthy document. Unbelievably, from
beginning to end, the word 'rape' never appears. Unbelievably, from
beginning to end, the phrase 'sexual violence' never appears.
Unbelievably, "women" are mentioned but once, lumped in with children, the
elderly and the disabled. It's as if the organizers of the peace conference
had never heard of the Security Council resolution.

But it gets worse. The peace document actually grants amnesty --- I repeat,
amnesty --- to those who have participated in the fighting. To be sure, it
makes a deliberate legal distinction, stating that war crimes or crimes
against humanity will not be excused. But who's kidding whom? This arcane
legal dancing on the head of a pin is not likely to weigh heavily on the
troops in the field, who have now been given every reason to believe that
since the rapes they committed up to now have been officially forgiven and
forgotten, they can rape with impunity again. And indeed, as Dr. Mukwege
testified before Congress just last week, the raping and sexual violence
continues.

The war may stutter; the raping is unabated.

But the most absurd dimension of this whole discreditable process is the
fact that the peace talks were "facilitated" - they were effectively
orchestrated -- by MONUC, that is to say, by the United Nations. And perhaps
most unconscionable of all, despite the existence for seven years of another
Security Council resolution, number 1325, calling for women to be active
participants in all peace deliberations, there was no one at that peace
table directly representing the women, the more than two hundred thousand
women, whose lives and anatomies were torn to shreds by the very war that
the peace talks were meant to resolve.

Thus does the United Nations violate its own principles.

Now let me make something clear. In the nearly twenty-five years that I've
been involved in international work, I've been a ready apologist for the
United Nations. And I continue to be persuaded that the United Nations can
yet offer the best hope for humankind. But when the United Nations goes off
the rails, as is the case in the Congo -- as is invariably the case when
women are involved -- my colleagues and I, in our new organization called
AIDS-Free World, are not going to bite our tongues. There's too much at
stake.

What makes this all the more galling is that in many respects, the UN is the
answer. Those of you who intermittently despair of ending sexual violence
should know that if the UN brought the full power of its formidable agencies
to bear, tremendous progress would be made, despite the indifference of many
countries. But therein lie these cascading levels of hypocrisy.

You heard today about the collective UN campaign to end rape and sexual
violence in the Congo . twelve agencies united in this common purpose.
But with the exception of some magnificent UNICEF staff on the ground, about
whom Ann Veneman, Executive Director of UNICEF has every right to be proud,
the presence of the other UN agencies ranges from negligible to
non-existent. This is all largely an exercise in rhetoric. Even the UN
Population Fund, ostensibly the lead agency in the Congo, is pathetically
weak on the ground, and on its own website talks of the problems of funding.

It does induce a combination of rage and incredulity when the UN tries to
pawn itself off as the serious player in combating sexual violence when the
record is so appallingly bad. In fact it could be said --- indeed, it needs
to be said --- that the V-Day movement and Eve, relatively miniscule players
by comparison, have probably done more to ease the pain of violence in the
Congo than any one of eleven UN agencies. Who else, I ask you, is building a
City of Joy so that the women who have been raped can recover with some
sense of security and, become leaders in their communities?

Is there an answer to this collective abject failure of the international
community to protect the women of the Congo? There sure is, and the answer
sits right at the top, and the answer is the Secretary-General of the United
Nations.

I don't know who is advising the Secretary-General on these matters, but
he's being led down a garden path soon to be strewn with ghosts that will
haunt his entire stewardship, and leave an everlasting pejorative legacy. I
know how the UN works; I've been an Ambassador to the UN for my country, the
Deputy at UNICEF, an advisor on Africa to a former Secretary-General, and
most recently a quote/unquote 'Special Envoy'. In the incestuous hotbed of
the 38th floor of the United Nations secretariat, where sits the
Secretary-General, critics are scorned, derided and mocked. And exactly the
same will happen to me. But I want all of you to know here assembled that it
need not be.

If the Secretary-General were to exercise real leadership against sexual
violence, instead of falling back --- as his advisors have suggested --- on
statements and rhetoric and fatuous public relations campaigns, he could
turn things around. What in God's name is wrong with these people whose
lives consist of moving from inertia to paralysis?

The Secretary-General should summon the heads of the twelve UN agencies
allegedly involved in "UN Action" on violence against women and read the
riot act. He should explain to them that press releases do not prevent rape,
and he should demand a plan of action on the ground, with dollars and
deadlines. He should equally summon the heads of the ten agencies that
comprise UNAIDS and demand a plan of implementation for testing, treatment,
prevention and care for women who have been sexually assaulted, with
deadlines. I'm prepared to bet that UNAIDS has never convened such a
meeting, despite the fact that the violence of the sexual assaults in the
Congo creates easy avenues in the reproductive tract through which the AIDS
virus passes. Dr. Mukwege talks of increased numbers of HIV-positive women
turning up at Panzi.

The Secretary-General, taking a leaf from Eve Ensler, should insist on a
network of rape crisis centers, rape clinics in all hospitals, sexual
violence counsellors, and Cities of Joy right across the Eastern Congo .
indeed, across the entire country. The Secretary-General should demand a
roll-call, an accounting of which countries have contributed financially to
ending the violence, and in what amounts, plus those who have not, and then
publish the results for the world to see so that the recalcitrants can be
brought to the bar of public opinion (How's this for a juxtaposition by way
of example: over the course of over a decade, the UN Trust Fund to end
Violence Against Women has triumphantly reached $130 million. The United
States spends more than $3 billion/week on the war in Iraq).

But there's more. The Secretary-General should launch a personal crusade to
double the troop complement --- that is, MONUC --- in the Congo. The
protection provisions in the new so-called peace accord, for women, cannot
be implemented with the current troop numbers, large though they may seem.

And finally, the Secretary-General should pull out all the stops in getting
the United Nations to agree that the Congo is the best test case for the
principle of the "Responsibility to Protect". This principle was universally
endorsed by Heads of State at the United Nations in September of 2005. It's
the first major contemporary international challenge to the sanctity of
sovereignty. It simply asserts that where a government is unable or
unwilling to protect its own people from gross violations of human rights,
then the international community has the responsibility to intervene. That
responsibility can be diplomatic negotiation, or economic sanctions, or
political pressure or military intervention . whatever it takes to restore
justice to the oppressed.

Responsibility to Protect was originally drafted with Darfur in mind .
it's equally applicable to the Congo. We have to start somewhere.

The Secretary-General has a tremendous challenge. He has the opportunity,
and the wherewithal, and the influence, and the majesty to save thousands,
perhaps hundreds of thousands of women's lives, physically and psychologically.
And once the process began in earnest in the Congo, it would spread to all
dimensions of violence against women everywhere.

To whom else is such an opportunity given? The Secretary-General of the
United Nations has said that violence against women is one of the gravest
issues of our time. Well if that's the case, surely he can understand that
speeches aren't enough. And if he truly believes what he says, then let him
stake his tenure on it. I believe that the struggle for gender equality is
the most important struggle on the planet: Ban Ki-Moon should say to the 192
countries that make up the United Nations:

"Either you give me evidence that we're going to prevail in this struggle or
you find yourself another Secretary-General."

"Ah," people will say, "Lewis has finally lost it." I don't think so.
We're talking about more than fifty per cent of the world's population,
amongst whom are the most uprooted, disinherited and impoverished of the
earth. If you can't stand up for the women of the world, then you shouldn't
be Secretary-General.

Alas, I guess I know whether that will happen. We've already had signals.
Last fall, in an unprecedented initiative, a High-Level Panel on Reform of
the United Nations recommended the creation of a new international agency
for women. The recommendation was based on the finding that the record of
the UN on gender has been abysmal. If that agency comes into being, headed
by an Under-Secretary General, with funding that starts at $1 billion a year
(less than half of UNICEF's resources), and real capacity to run programmes
on the ground, issues like violence against women would suddenly be
confronted with indomitable determination.

The women activists on the ground, the women survivors on the ground, the
women activist-survivors on the ground would finally have resources and
support for the work that must be done.

But the creation of the new agency is bogged down in the UN General
Assembly, caught up in the crossfire between the developed and developing
countries. The Secretary-General could break that impasse if he pulled out
all the stops. He and the Deputy-Secretary General make speeches that give
the impression they support the women's agency, but in truth the language is
so carefully and artfully couched as to gut the agency of impact on the
ground, in-country, were it ever to come into being. Again, the advisors
read the tea leaves in a soiled and broken chalice.

This weekend has been filled with hope in the struggle to end violence
against women. Thoughtful, decent men have come to the fore on this very
platform, and women from so many countries have made the case for sanity in
words that are moving and compelling in equal measure. I have chosen to link
the Congo and the United Nations because as Eve said at the outset, the
Congo is the V-Day spotlight for the coming year, and the United Nations can
truly break the monolith of violence. We just have to apply unceasing
pressure so that the issue is joined rather than manipulated.

I don't have Eve's rhythm and cadence. But I cherish a touch of her spirit,
a lot of her anger and a microscopic morsel of her trusting love, commitment
and courage that will one day change this world.

2008-04-11T06:53:00.000-07:00

I think my body doesn't know what time zone it lives in any more; I keep waking up an hour or two before my alarm clock, then can't get back to sleep. So I am typing as the sun rises over the Okanagan, and it's quite lovely to watch the hills come alive, so to speak, with light wash over the muted greens and browns of pre-Spring Summerland. This morning, just as I was waking, about five, there was a siren on the highway, just a long stone's throw from the house. I can hear the Highway 97 traffic quite a bit, when I tune into it, and this morning it seemed like someone was being rushed, an ambulance in all probability, from one place to another, and I wondered at the cycle of life and death...not for the first time. I am so keenly aware, as I get older, of my own parents' health and well-being. They are in their late seventies. Dad is pretty well but my mother is physically not strong. There's a beautiful story in my forthcoming book from elders around the world, from a woman named Jeannette Coffey, about her parents, "The Hawk and the Butterfly", and when I read it (which you can when the book comes out), I think of my own parents and their connection of spirit. They have been married now for almost 53 years and sometimes, although they are very different, I find the connection between their souls almost like a visible spiritual line of light. One of my sisters is becoming more attuned to spirit at a number of levels, and is beginning to see auras...and although I have not had this experience, sometimes I just feel like the connection between my parents is auric. Can you say that? And as a Baha'i, I believe that the distance between this world and the next one is very, very short; it's all around us, just as the womb world to the world we live in. So I can't help but reflect on how much I enjoy having my parents still in this world with us, but know that when the time comes for one or another to pass, nothing can break that stream of light that flows between them. And I wonder if it will be like that for my husband and me, as we grow older. Our jokes are already old, and our habits; but maybe these next years are the ones for our spirits to become more and more attuned, as we gradually retire to our garden and greenhouse and solarium (there, a wish list sent out to the universe!) ...and maybe the distances between all of us are simply a state of mind. Maybe? No, surely.

Something about early spring mornings makes me glad to be alive, and glad to love and be loved. Today I shall seek out spring flowers.

2008-04-09T21:40:00.000-07:00

I haven't been posting often in the last while but in the last few days I've been sorting through photos and I like this one (my copyright, btw). When he was here visiting in February, my friend Fraser bought me a dozen roses. My favourites are white but he bought me a mix of colours and they lasted a long time. I got several lovely pictures. This one is one of the loveliest, I think....very Georgia O'Keeffe, of course, but I can't paint it. Wish I could.

Have I recommended my current best reading? I know that EWS pops in from time to time to check out recommendations, so here is one: Dr. Norman Doidge's The Brain That Changes Itself. I am delighted to find that many of the things I am learning about the soul and its connection with quantum physics also find confirmation in a lot of the things being learned about brain anatomy. There's a wonderful prayer in the Bahá'í teaching, the Short Healing Prayer, and I find that its first line forms almost a mantra in my mind and spirit: "Thy name is my healing, O my God." That's it, isn't it, in a nutshell: if we are connected, body, mind, spirit, to the Creator and healing, then the truth of another of Baha'u'llah's reassurances becomes plain to me: "Nothing but that which profiteth them can befall my loved ones." I think it's a very eastern concept being translated to the western mind, gradually, through meditation and through a deeper understanding that we are not isolated. If we view suffering and tests in life with a gratitude for the richness of experience which they offer, rather than bemoaning or bewailing our fate, and are grateful for the opportunity to grow, it brings a particular joy, almost a submission, which is quite unusual for those of us in an individualistic society which views winning, competition, and assertiveness as greater victories than giving our hearts to the collective spirit of unity that is all around us.

Some of these ideas have been percolating through various DVDs I've been watching, too, probably most particularly the biopic of Leonard Cohen, I'm Your Man, which includes some wonderful covers by several musicians previously unfamiliar to me. I promptly bought the soundtrack. My nephew, Tim, who is a complete groupie for both Cohen and Bob Dylan (the latter, btw, just won a Pulitzer Prize, yay), and who is a wonderful musician in his own right, would be proud of me...but there's something about the crack in the world letting through the light idea, in Cohen's song, that I find quite moving. Not to mention Alleluia. Oh Oh Oh. The cracks in the physical universe allow us to see through to light, to spirit...yes, Leonard, I think I get it. Thank you.

I also heard, for the first time today, Sarah McLachlan's song from the new version of the film of Charlotte's Web, I think called "Ordinary Miracles." I was looking for a spring song for my drama production for my grade 5/6 class...and started with Hayley Mills' version of the Pollyanna song, "I'm as happy as a little clam." Sometimes, actually, I am.

2008-04-04T10:34:00.001-07:00

I have received a lovely message from a woman in Ireland who has been reading here. Thank you!

I also want to suggest to some of you that you might find my poetry blog of interest. I keep it separate: it's www.heatherpoet.blogspot.com and is less about news and more about literary observations. Today I posted a poem, with permission, from a woman serving at the Baha'i World Center: the environment inspired her muse, and my goodness, what a muse it was!

My most recent reading deserves a plug, especially for any of you in education. I am reading a book I picked up at the airport on the way back to the Okanagan (which is supposed to be beginning its spring but it's still a little chilly. No snow though, unlike the Gatineau...) Anyway, the book is The Brain That Changes Itself by Dr. Norman Doidge. It's very, very good. He discusses the history of a variety of experiments in plasticity, and their implications for healing and for helping people in education with various learning challenges. I have decided to apply the ideas to my knees: pain, apparently, is a memory as much as it is a reality. I know that I have been 'favouring' my knees since I sprained them a decade ago, and it seems to me that if I could retrain my brain, I could use the knees more effectively. I need to require my brain to be able to move the knees properly, and without fear. I have been trying the downstairs motion, the one I fear the most, and the pain is less than I might have thought, but for sure the fear is a worse enemy than the knees themselves. I think. I'll keep you posted.

Serendipity often brings the right book at the right time, no?

More anon.

2008-03-25T10:21:00.001-07:00

I have been back in QC for just over a week, and already find the snowbanks more tiresome than astonishing. The daily melt is minimal but perceptible, measured against the lamp post in our front yard which was entirely covered and is now emerging. We can also see twice the amount of our neighbour's home up the hill.

All of this time off allows me to think (reflect, meditate) and catch up with others' blogs (as always, doberman pizza and Baha'i Views are well worth the meander through, both visually and conceptually). I have been reading (have I mentioned reading?) 'New Age' material and reflect upon the many gems of wisdom in Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose. I am captured by a story he relates of the great spiritual leader and thinker, Krishnamurti, who said, it appears, "I don't mind what happens." In other words, if you derive your responses internally, from within your spiritual core, your joys and sorrows are not tempered by the winds of external fates.

I don't know if I "aspire" to this state: like some people with whom I've discussed the idea, I am doubtful that an absence of emotion is something to be desired, since our emotions can cue us to deeper awareness of our spiritual state (although that could be just another sign of ego). But I can see the value in the emotional state not being dictated by external realities. I do not wish to be subject to the whims and fancies of a mercurial world. I have enough whimsical and fanciful going on within me, to be bothered by the external 'realities'. Or, as Fred Alan Wolf might say, "There is no 'out there' out there." I have known for some time that race, religious differences, culture, and most aspects of human perception are socio-culturally constructed (what we think we see is what we think we believe). But if you are freed from these (through the transformative power of spiritual attunement, however you define this) then you allow yourself to be visited with the greater connective tissue of the spirit of the worlds of God.

It's a language issue, a body issue, a how-I-see-my-mind issue; all are inevitably flawed, because there is always the running and unconscious undermining of the ego. I get that. So I am reflecting on the synthesis of gratitude, hopefulness, and joy, with selflessness, detachment, and connection to the "Universe". I think it's about wanting God, more than anything else or anyone else: about the desire for mystical connection. And this "thinking" is giving me a lot to meditate about, in the quiet of this winter world.

2008-03-23T10:47:00.000-07:00

Spring break: a euphemism in the Ottawa Valley, where I am spending mine on leave from my BC teaching job. The snow in front and in back of our house is taller than all of us, and my six foot plus son has to throw new snow high on the accumulated snow banks when he shovels out the driveway. Roads are like tunnels and for me, unwalkable, so I have been on the exercise bike again, watching "The History of God", a film adapted from Karen Armstrong's book, and a series, "Rome", which has way too much graphic sex for my taste but also some funny cameos amidst the putative history.

I continue to enjoy my daughter's blog, where she posts a variety of opinions and observations, and also to find Victor's blog on social issues quite dependable. It's always fun to tune it to Baha'i Views and to Dan Jones' blog...and several others I have listed in the sidebar. I don't have as much time as I used to, so my blog-checking slows down, and there are so many good blogs to choose from...I do start wondering a lot about copyright and ownership and publication...

Lately I have been doing a lot of research into New Age films and books. I have just finished both Deepak Chopra's How To Know God and Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose. Both are so aligned with my understandings as a Baha'i that I can heartily recommend them. The universe, such as it is, lines up to affirm Baha'u'llah's revelation in so many dimensions...if you are a reader who is attuned to the spirit, to the universe, to the power of positive thinking, to the letting go of ego, and to humanitarian service as the goal of your creation, these books and the Baha'i teachings will dovetail as a means by which your thoughts can indeed become your reality.

2008-02-06T13:06:00.000-08:00

Photo copyright Melodie Cardin

In memory: my aunt, used with permission.

The Blanket
By Hope (Babe) Halsted Hubbert
November 21, 1974

The Blanket of love, so warm and clean
Wipes away the past – which never should have been
Taking with it - the bitter hurts
Cleaning up - that pile of dirt
Brightening the future, so beautifully bare

By telling the past – it was never there
Shortening the memory, from day to day
So the Blanket of love, can have her way.
The Blanket of love, can have no pride
Not even one corner of self, to hide
It opens itself to everyone
Where the truth of tomorrow, has just begun.
The demon of self, lays, covered with dust
The Blanket of love, cleans off all that rust
Forgiving – what was yesterday
So the Blanket of love, can have her way.

Taking the hurts – yet to be born
Covering them up, so cosy and warm
It cannot remember – it always forgets
And kills the memory, of all our regrets.
This sin covering Blanket, has a wonderful art
It can put life together, or take it apart
Exquisitely sketching a pattern sublime
From out of the realm, of spaceless time

Like painting a picture, with an artful brush
And tossing the clouds, into a sunset’s blush
Inking the clouds, and deepening the night
Molding the future, by putting things right
Removing the pieces, that should have been better
And fading them out, forever and ever.

Such a warm lilting Blanket, giving new birth
Kissing with love, like nothing on earth
Humming a song, that is wholesomely plain
And chanting our thoughts, toward heaven again.

This Blanket of love, is holding the key
To smother the monster of self, within me
Wooing it gently, as never before
Disarming the heart, and unlocking the door
Soaring the spirit, as high as a kite
Capturing with love, and giving new sight
Like bursting the “Milkweed” that is ready to bloom
Tearing it open, to give it more room
Removing the miserable self, from the Pod
And leaving the heart full, of nothing but God.

2008-01-29T21:07:00.000-08:00

My friend Kurt sent me a link, and it's lovely, so I'll add it at the side. When I worked at the Maxwell International Baha'i School during the '90s, two of my colleagues were the Hastings. Their younger daughter was in my grade nine social studies class; their elder daughter I met occasionally. Have a look at the artistry at Erika Hastings' blog.

Ken Wilber - Love Until it Hurts

2008-01-27T22:59:00.001-08:00

Ken Wilber - Spirituality and the 3 Strands of Deep Science

2008-01-27T22:56:00.001-08:00

The Secret to You..A Gift From The Secret Scrolls.

2008-01-27T22:46:00.001-08:00

I have been meditating on "The Secret" and correlating it with what I understand of Baha'i teaching, especially 'Abdu'l-Baha who says that our thoughts become our reality.

The Secret: 1st 20 minutes

2008-01-27T22:42:00.001-08:00

2008-01-26T23:15:00.001-08:00

People have been asking me lately how often I publish on my blog. It has varied, and right now less often than before, which is simply an equation of less time. But today I thought I might direct your attention to several examples from YouTube, below. I have been teaching my students a Social Issues/Media Literacy unit in our English classes, and the students chose the YouTube that they most wanted to highlight. I have favourited some of these, and the ones below are amongst the ones chosen. The students are grades nine and ten.

I am also adding a new link. My daughter has begun her own blog. I like it a lot, and I think you will too. Check it out.

Jewel - Hands

2008-01-25T15:11:00.003-08:00

Blue - an introduction - child abuse

2008-01-25T15:11:00.001-08:00

Courage

2008-01-25T15:10:00.001-08:00

Make Poverty History - Bono

2008-01-25T15:09:00.001-08:00

2008-01-19T21:30:00.000-08:00

Time for a rant.

I'm tired of people writing off "chick flicks" and "chick lit". I think it's just another way of devaluing women and devaluing emotion. Granted, avoidance of sappy sentimentality is understandable, but I have recently finished teaching The Poisonwood Bible to Grade 12 boys. (Sorry, Barbara, but I love it and wanted them to too.) AARRRRGGGHHH. There is more to life than hockey, gentlemen!

Yes, yes, Nathan is seen through the eyes of the women and the Africans. That doesn't mean he isn't SEEN. His voice is present, as much by quotation as by absence. Everything doesn't have to be first person to be true.

It's so easy to be dismissive of what we don't understand or have time for (and so easy to generalize....) But really, is all that boys want to do is watch dick flicks? Is that all there is?

2008-01-12T21:44:00.000-08:00

My friend Elizabeth asks me about the book recommendations:

I recently read Anne Michaels' Fugitive Pieces. It's not for the faint of heart: it deals with the Holocaust, and is concept-rich rather than plot heavy. But there are some truly lovely pieces of writing, well worth looking for depth. I also read The Freedom Writers' Diary, which has apparently been made into a movie with Hilary Swank. I liked it, although some of it was very familiar (I work in education, after all). I also liked some of the non-fiction I read over the holidays; I had previously read Blink and Tipping Point, and enjoyed them; then read Freakonomics (easy reading, interesting conceptually). I am currently reading Francine Prose's Reading Like A Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want To Write Them. I'm enjoying it; I also enjoyed, in this genre, Alberto Manguel's works on writing and painting, and back in the day, May Sarton's journal. I also tend to read, slowly, the Massey lectures; last year was Margaret Somerville, an ethicist from Montreal, and I dip into her every so often to make my way through the transcript of the lectures. Better Living by Mark Kingwell is a good read; a better one, in my opinion, is John Fitzgerald Medina's Faith, Physics, and Psychology.

In fiction from the past, I like Jane Hamilton, and I like Gail Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees. I just taught David Guterson's Snow Falling on Cedars, and liked it a lot, and I've long been a Kingsolver fan, both for her essays and her novels, particularly The Poisonwood Bible. I am with the legions of people who count One Hundred Years of Solitude as incandescent. Like the rest of North America, I have read The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns, and yes, they deserve every good review. I think people should read Les Miserables, but unabridged, for redemption. A favourite is the white bone by Barbara Gowdy, and another one that is fun is Our Lady of the Lost and Found, by Diane Schomperlein. I'm not sure I'm spelling her name right. I have just ordered Atonement and A Complicated Kindness, one because I saw the movie and liked it, and the book is meant to be better, and the other because I have already read it and liked it, but don't have a personal copy. Anything by Margaret Laurence. I loved Sandra Birdsell's Agassiz Stories. If you like short stories, Alice Munro.

Poems: oh, oh, oh. You must read Tim Lilburn, especially Kill-Site. Also, anything by Lorna Crozier. Miklos Radnoti. Anna Akhmatova. I join the legions of people who liked Gary Snyder, but he doesn't send me the way Crozier does. Margaret Avison. I like Pamela Porter's work. I like Don McKay's work.

You see, some of the authors I am recommending are Canadian, and thus not necessarily read beyond our borders. Elizabeth, you are an American so you may not get to hear of some of these books otherwise, and I know that you are a deep and intelligent reader. So I am writing you this open letter, with my thanks for the question. Right now, with everything else I am reading including This is Your Brain on Music and Light at the Edge of the World and The Omnivore's Dilemma...I am reading D. H. Lawrence's poems.

Ask me tomorrow and I'll have a whole other list. Plus I have a wish list four pages long at Amazon.ca. So many books, so little time! I'm actually very glad that I read fast, but some things you have to read slowly...like chocolate, savoring, tasting, remembering.

And then, of course, Baha'u'llah gives us The Seven Valleys to dream on.

2008-01-11T18:57:00.001-08:00

A friend sent me Doris Lessing's Nobel acceptance speech: every word is precious. Read it below.

Nobel Lecture
December 7, 2007

On not winning the Nobel Prize

I am standing in a doorway looking through clouds of blowing dust to where I am told there is still uncut forest. Yesterday I drove through miles of stumps, and charred remains of fires where in '56 was the most wonderful forest I have ever seen, all destroyed. People have to eat. They have to get fuel for fires.

This is north west Zimbabwe early in the eighties, and I am visiting a friend who was a teacher in a school in London. He is here "to help Africa" as we put it. He is a gently idealistic soul and what he found here in this school shocked him into a depression, from which it was hard to recover. This school is like all the schools built after Independence. It consists of four large brick rooms side by side, put straight into the dust, one two three four, with a half room at one end, which is the library. In these classrooms are blackboards, but my friend keeps the chalks in his pocket, as otherwise they would be stolen. There is no atlas, or globe in the school, no textbooks, no exercise books, or biros, in the library are no books of the kind the pupils would like to read: they are tomes from American universities, hard even to lift, rejects from white libraries, detective stories, or with titles like 'Weekend in Paris' or 'Felicity Finds Love'.
There is a goat trying to find sustenance in some aged grass. The headmaster has embezzled the school funds and is suspended, arousing the question familiar to all of us but usually in more auguest contexts: How is it these people behave like this when they must know everyone is watching them?

My friend doesn't have any money because everyone, pupils and teachers, borrow from him when he is paid and will probably never pay it back. The pupils range from six to twenty-six, because some who did not get schooling earlier are here to make it up. Some pupils walk every morning many miles, rain or shine and across rivers. They cannot do homework because there is no electricity in the villages, and you can't study easily by the light of a burning log. The girls have to fetch water and cook when they get home from school and before they set off for school.

As I sit with my friend in his room, people drop shyly in, and all, everyone begs for books. "Please send us books when you get back to London". One man said, "They taught us to read but we have no books". Everybody I met, everyone, begged for books.

I was there some days. The dust blew past, water was short because the pumps had broken and the women were getting water from the river again.

Another idealistic teacher from England was rather ill after seeing what this "school" was like.
On the last day, it was end of term and they slaughtered the goat, and it was cut into mounds of bits and cooked in a great tin. This was the much looked forward to end of term feast, boiled goat and porridge. I drove away while it was going on, back through the charred remains and stumps of the forest.

I do not think many of the pupils of this school will get prizes.

Next day I am at a school in North London, a very good school, whose name we all know. It is a school for boys. Good buildings, and gardens.

These pupils have a visit from some well known person every week, and it is in the nature of things that these may be fathers, relatives, even mothers of the pupils. A visit from a celebrity is no big deal for them.

The school in the blowing dust of northwest Zimbabwe is in my mind, and I look at those mildly expectant faces and try to tell them about what I have seen in the last week. Classrooms without books, without text books, or an atlas, or even a map pinned up on a wall. A school where the teachers beg to be sent books to tell them how to teach, they being only eighteen or nineteen themselves, they beg for books. I tell these boys that everybody, everyone begs for books: "Please send us books". I am sure that everyone here, making a speech will know that moment when the faces you are looking at are blank. Your listeners cannot hear what you are saying: there are no images in their minds to match what you are telling them. In this case, of a school standing in dust clouds, where water is short, and where, at the end of term, a just killed goat cooked in a great pot is the end of term treat.

Is it really so impossible for them to imagine such bare poverty?

I do my best. They are polite.

I'm pretty sure of this lot there will be some who will win prizes.

Then, it is over, and I with the teachers, ask as always, how the library is, and if the pupils read. And here, in this privileged school, I hear what I always hear when I go to schools and even universities.

"You know how it is. A lot of the boys have never read at all, and the library is only half used."

"You know how it is." Yes, we indeed do know how it is. All of us.

We are in a fragmenting culture, where our certainties of even a few decades ago are questioned and where it is common for young men and women who have had years of education, to know nothing about the world, to have read nothing, knowing only some speciality or other, for instance, computers.

What has happened to us is an amazing invention, computers and the internet and TV, a revolution. This is not the first revolution we, the human race, has dealt with. The printing revolution, which did not take place in a matter of a few decades, but took much longer, changed our minds and ways of thinking. A foolhardy lot, we accepted it all, as we always do, never asked "What is going to happen to us now, with this invention of print?" And just as we never once stopped to ask, How are we, our minds, going to change with the new internet, which has seduced a whole generation into its inanities so that even quite reasonable people will confess that once they are hooked, it is hard to cut free, and they may find a whole day has passed in blogging and blugging etc.

Very recently, anyone even mildly educated would respect learning, education, and owe respect to our great store of literature. Of course we all know that when this happy state was with us, people would pretend to read, would pretend respect for learning, but it is on record that working men and women longed for books, and this is evidenced by the working men's libraries, institutes, colleges of the 18th and 19th centuries.

Reading, books, used to be part of a general education.

Older people, talking to young ones, must understand just how much of an education it was, reading, because the young ones know so much less. And if children cannot read, it is because they have not read.

But we all know this sad story.

But we do not know the end of it.

We think of the old adage, "Reading maketh a full man" – and forgetting about jokes to do with over-eating – reading makes a woman and a man full of information, of history, of all kinds of knowledge.

But we are not the only people in the world. Not long ago I was telephoned by a friend who said she had been in Zimbabwe, in a village where they had not eaten for three days, but they were talking about books and how to get them, about education.

I belong to a little organisation which started out with the intention of getting books into the villages. There was a group of people who in another connection had travelled Zimbabwe at its grass roots. They reported that the villages, unlike what people reported, are full of intelligent people, teachers retired, teachers on leave, children on holidays, old people. I myself paid for a little survey, of what people wanted to read, and found the results were the same as a Swedish survey, that I had not known about. People wanted to read what people in Europe want to read, if they read at all – novels of all kinds, science fiction, poetry, detective fiction, plays, Shakespeare, and the do-it-yourself books, like how to open a bank account, were low in the list. All of Shakespeare: they knew the name. A problem with finding books for villagers is that they don't know what is available, so a school set book, like the Mayor of Casterbridge, becomes popular because they know it is there. Animal Farm, for obvious reasons is the most popular of all novels.

Our little organisation got books from where we could, but remember that a good paperback from England cost a months wages: that was before Mugabe's reign of terror. Now with inflation, it would cost several years wages. But having taken a box of books out to a village – and remember there is a terrible shortage of petrol, the box will be greeted with tears. The library may be a plank under a tree on bricks. And within a week there will be literacy classes – people who can read teaching those who can't, citizenship class – and in one remote village, since there were no novels in Tonga, a couple of lads sat down to write novels in Tonga. There are six or so main languages in Zimbabwe and there are novels in all of them, violent, incestuous, full of crime and murder.

Our little organisation was supported from the very start by Norway, and then by Sweden. But without this kind of support our supplies of books would have dried up. Novels published in Zimbabwe, and, too, do-it-yourself books are sent out to people who thirst for them.
It is said that a people gets the government it deserves, but I do not think it is true of Zimbabwe. And we must remember that this respect and hunger for books comes, not from Mugabe's regime, but from the one before it, the whites. It is an astonishing phenomenon, this hunger for books, and it can be seen everywhere from Kenya down to the Cape of Good Hope.
This links up improbably with a fact: I was brought up in what was virtually a mud hut, thatched. This house has been built always, everywhere, where there are reeds or grass, suitable mud, poles for walls. Saxon England for example. The one I was brought up in had four rooms, one beside another, not one, and, the point is, it was full of books. Not only did my parents take books from England to Africa, but my mother ordered books from England for her children, books in great brown paper parcels which were the joy of my young life. A mud hut, but full of books.

And sometimes I get letters from people living in a village that might not have electricity or running water (just like our family in our elongated mud hut), "I shall be a writer too, because I've the same kind of house you were in."

But here is the difficulty. No.

Writing, writers, do not come out of houses without books.

There is the gap. There is the difficulty.

I have been looking at the speeches by some of your recent prizewinners. Take the magnificent Pamuk. He said his father had 1 500 books. His talent did not come out of the air, he was connected with the great tradition.

Take V.S. Naipaul. He mentions that the Indian Vedas were close behind the memory of his family. His father encouraged him to write. And when he got to England by right he used the British Library. So he was close to the great tradition.

Let us take John Coetzee. He was not only close to the great tradition, he was the tradition: he taught literature in Cape Town. And how sorry I am that I was never in one of his classes: taught by that wonderfully brave bold mind.

In order to write, in order to make literature, there must be a close connection with libraries, books, the Tradition.

I have a friend from Zimbabwe. A writer. Black – and that is to the point. He taught himself to read from the labels on jam jars, the labels on preserved fruit cans. He was brought up in an area I have driven through, an area for rural blacks. The earth is grit and gravel, there are low sparse bushes. The huts are poor, nothing like the good cared-for huts of the better off. A school – but like one I have described. He found a discarded children's encyclopaedia on a rubbish heap and learned from it.

On Independence in 1980 there was a group of good writers in Zimbabwe, truly a nest of singing birds. They were bred in old Southern Rhodesia, under the whites – the mission schools, the better schools. Writers are not made in Zimbabwe. Not easily, not under Mugabe.
All the writers had a difficult road to literacy, let alone being writers. I would say print on jam tins and discarded encyclopaedias were not uncommon. And we are talking about people hungering for standards of education they were a long way from. A hut or huts with many children – an overworked mother, a fight for food and clothing.

Yet despite these difficulties, writers came into being, and there is another thing we should remember. This was Zimbabwe, physically conquered less than a hundred years before. The grandfathers and grandmothers of these people might have been storytellers for their clan. The oral tradition. In one generation – two, the transition from stories remembered and passed on, to print, to books. What an achievement.

Books, literally wrested from rubbish heaps and the detritus of the white man's world. But you may have a sheaf of paper (not typescript – that is a book – but it has to find a publisher, who will then pay you, remain solvent, distribute the books. I have had several accounts sent to me of the publishing scene for Africa. Even in more privileged places like North Africa, with its different tradition, to talk of a publishing scene is a dream of possibilities.

Here I am talking about books never written, writers that could not make it because the publishers are not there. Voices unheard. It is not possible to estimate this great waste of talent, of potential. But even before that stage of a book's creation which demands a publisher, an advance, encouragement, there is something else lacking.

Writers are often asked, How do you write? With a processor? an electric typewriter? a quill? longhand? But the essential question is, "Have you found a space, that empty space, which should surround you when you write? Into that space, which is like a form of listening, of attention, will come the words, the words your characters will speak, ideas – inspiration.
If this writer cannot find this space, then poems and stories may be stillborn.

When writers talk to each other, what they ask each other is always to do with this space, this other time. "Have you found it? Are you holding it fast?"

Let us jump to an apparently very different scene. We are in London, one of the big cities. There is a new writer. We, cynically enquire, How are her boobs? Is she good-looking? If this is a man, Charismatic? Handsome? We joke but it is not a joke.

This new find is acclaimed, possibly given a lot of money. The buzzing of paparazzi begins in their poor ears. They are feted, lauded, whisked about the world. Us old ones, who have seen it all, are sorry for this neophyte, who has no idea of what is really happening.

He, she is flattered, pleased.

But ask in a year's time what he or she is thinking: I've heard them: "This is the worst thing that could have happened to me.

Some much publicised new writers haven't written again, or haven't written what they wanted to, meant to.

And we, the old ones, want to whisper into those innocent ears. "Have you still got your space? Your sole, your own and necessary place where your own voices may speak to you, you alone, where you may dream. Oh, hold onto it, don't let it go."

There must be some kind of education.

My mind is full of splendid memories of Africa which I can revive and look at when I want. How about those sunsets, gold and purple and orange, spreading across the sky at evening. How about butterflies and moths and bees on the aromatic bushes of the Kalahari? Or, sitting on the banks of the Zambesi, where it rolls between pale grassy banks, it being the dry season, dark-green and glossy, with all the birds of Africa around its banks. Yes, elephants, giraffes, lions and the rest, there were plenty of those, but how about the sky at night, still unpolluted, black and wonderful, full of restless stars.

But there are other memories. A young man, eighteen perhaps, is in tears, standing in his "library." A visiting American seeing a library without books, sent a crate, but this young man took each one out, reverently, and wrapped them in plastic. "But," we say, "these books were sent to be read, surely?" and he replied, "No, they will get dirty, and where will I get anymore?"

He wants us to send him books from England to teach him to teach. "I only did four years in the senior school" he begs, "But they never taught me to teach."

I have seen a Teacher in a school where there was no textbooks, not even a bit of chalk for the blackboard – it was stolen – teach his class of six to eighteen year olds by moving stones in the dust, chanting "Two times two is....." and so on. I have seen a girl, perhaps not more than twenty, similarly lacking textbooks, exercise books, biros – anything, teach the A, B, C in the dust with a stick, while the sun beat down and the dust swirled.

We are seeing here that great hunger for education in Africa, anywhere in the Third World, or whatever we call parts of the world where parents long to get an education for their children which will take them from poverty, to the advantage of an education.

Our education which is so threatened now.

I would like you to imagine yourselves, somewhere in Southern Africa, standing in an Indian store, in a poor area, in a time of bad drought. There is a line of people, mostly women, with every kind of container for water. This store gets a bowser of water every afternoon from the town and the people are waiting for this precious water.

The Indian is standing with the heels of his hands pressed down on the counter, and he is watching a black woman, who is bending over a wadge of paper that looks as if it has been torn out of a book. She is reading Anna Karenin.

She is reading slowly, mouthing the words. It looks a difficult book. This is a young woman with two little children clutching at her legs. She is pregnant. The Indian is distressed, because the young woman's headscarf, which should be white, is yellow with dust. Dust lies between her breasts and on her arms. This man is distressed because of the lines of people, all thirsty, but he doesn't have enough water for them. He is angry because he knows there are people dying out there, beyond the dust clouds. His brother, older, had been here holding the fort, but he had said he needed a break, had gone into town, really rather ill, because of the drought.
This man is curious. He says to the young woman. "What are you reading?"

"It is about Russia," says the girl.

"Do you know where Russia is?" He hardly knows himself.

The young woman looks straight at him, full of dignity though her eyes are red from dust, "I was best in the class. My teacher said, I was best."

The young woman resumes her reading: she wants to get to the end of the paragraph.

The Indian looks at the two little children and reaches for some Fanta, but the mother says "Fanta makes them thirsty."

The Indian knows he shouldn't do this but he reaches down to a great plastic container beside him, behind the counter and pours out two plastic mugs of water, which he hands to the children. He watches while the girl looks at her children drinking, her mouth moving. He gives her a mug of water. It hurts him to see her drinking it, so painfully thirsty is she.

Now she hands over to him a plastic water container, which he fills. The young woman and the children, watch him closely so that he doesn't spill any.

She is bending again over the book. She reads slowly but the paragraph fascinates her and she reads it again.

"Varenka, with her white kerchief over her black hair, surrounded by the children and gaily and good-humouredly busy with them, and at the same visibly excited at the possibility of an offer of marriage from a man she cared for, looked very attractive. Koznyshev walked by her side and kept casting admiring glances at her. Looking at her, he recalled all the delightful things he had heard from her lips, all the good he knew about her, and became more and more conscious that the feeling he had for her was something rare, something he had felt but once before, long, long ago, in his early youth. The joy of being near her increased step by step, and at last reached such a point that, as he put a huge birch mushroom with a slender stalk and up-curling top into her basket, he looked into her eyes and, noting the flush of glad and frightened agitation that suffused her face, he was confused himself, and in silence gave her a smile that said too much."

This lump of print is lying on the counter, together with some old copies of magazines, some pages of newspapers, girls in bikinis.

It is time for her to leave the haven of the Indian store, and set off back along the four miles to her village. It is time... outside the lines of waiting women clamour and complain. But still the Indian lingers. He knows what it will cost this girl – going back home, with the two clinging children. He would give her the piece of prose that so fascinates her, but he cannot really believe this splinter of a girl with her great belly can really understand it.

Why is perhaps a third of Anna Karenin stuck here on this counter in a remote Indian store? It is like this.

A certain high official, United Nations, as it happens, bought a copy of this novel in the bookshop when he set out on his journeys to cross several oceans and seas. On the plane, settled in his business class seat, he tore the book into three parts. He looks around at his fellow passengers as he does this, knowing he will see looks of shock, curiosity, but some of amusement. When he was settled, his seat belt tight, he said aloud to whoever could hear, "I always do this when I've a long trip. You don't want to have to hold up some heavy great book." The novel was a paperback, but, true, it is a long book. This man is well used to people listening when he spoke. "I always do this, travelling," he confided. "Travelling at all these days, is hard enough." And as soon as people were settling down, he opened his part of Anna Karenin, and read. When people looked his way, curiously or not, he confided in them. "No, it is really the only way to travel." He knew the novel, liked it, and this original mode of reading did add spice to what was after all a well known book.

When he reached the end of a section of the book, he called the airhostess, and sent it back to his secretary, travelling in the cheaper seats. This caused much interest, condemnation, certainly curiosity, every time a section of the great Russian novel arrived, mutilated, but readable, in the back part of the plane. Altogether, this clever way of reading Anna Karenin makes an impression, and probably no one there would forget it.

Meanwhile down in the Indian store, the young woman is holding onto the counter, her little children clinging to her skirts. She wears jeans, since she is a modern woman, but over them she had put on the heavy woollen skirt, part of traditional garb of her people: her children can easily cling onto it, the thick folds.

She sent a thankful look at the Indian, whom she knew liked her and was sorry for her, and she stepped out into the blowing clouds.

The children had gone past crying, and their throats were full of dust anyway.

This was hard, oh yes, it was hard, this stepping, one foot after another, through the dust that lay in soft deceiving mounds under her feet. Hard, hard – but she was used to hardship, was she not? Her mind was on the story she had been reading. She was thinking, "She is just like me, in her white headscarf, and she is looking after children, too. I could be her, that Russian girl. And the man there, he loves her and will ask her to marry him. (She had not finished more than that one paragraph) Yes, and a man will come for me, and take me away from all this, take me and the children, yes, he will love me and look after me."

She steps on. The can of water is heavy on her shoulders. On she goes. The children can hear the water slop in the can. Half way she stops, sets down the can. Her children are whimpering and touching the can. She thinks that she cannot open it, because dust would blow in. There is no way she can open the can until she gets home.

"Wait" she tells her children, "Wait"

She has to pull herself together and go on.

She thinks. My teacher said there was a library there, bigger than the supermarket, a big building and it is full of books. The young woman is smiling as she moves on, the dust blowing in her face. I am clever, she thinks. Teacher said I am clever. The cleverest in the school – she said I was. My children will be clever, like me. I will take them to the library, the place full of books, and they will go to school, and they will be teachers – my teacher told me I could be a teacher. They will be far from here, earning money. They will live near the big library and live a good life.

You may ask how that piece of the Russian novel ever ended up on that counter in the Indian store?

It would make a pretty story. Perhaps someone will tell it.

On goes that poor girl, held upright by thoughts of the water she would give her children once home, and drink a little herself. On she goes ... through the dreaded dusts of an African drought.

We are a jaded lot, we in our world – our threatened world. We are good for irony and even cynicism. Some words and ideas we hardly use, so worn out have they become. But we may want to restore some words that have lost their potency.

We have a treasure-house – a treasure – of literature, going back to the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Romans. It is all there, this wealth of literature, to be discovered again and again by whoever is lucky enough to come on it. A treasure. Suppose it did not exist. How impoverished, how empty we would be.

We own a legacy of languages, poems, histories, and it is not one that will ever be exhausted. It is there, always.

We have a bequest of stories, tales from the old storytellers, some of whose names we know, but some not. The storytellers go back and back, to a clearing in the forest where a great fire burns, and the old shamans dance and sing, for our heritage of stories began in fire, magic, the spirit world. And that is where it is held, today.

Ask any modern storyteller, and they will say there is always a moment when they are touched with fire, with what we like to call inspiration and this goes back and back to the beginning of our race, fire, ice and the great winds that shaped us and our world.

The storyteller is deep inside everyone of us. The story-maker is always with us. Let us suppose our world is attacked by war, by the horrors that we all of us easily imagine. Let us suppose floods wash through our cities, the seas rise ... but the storyteller will be there, for it is our imaginations which shape us, keep us, create us – for good and for ill. It is our stories, the storyteller, that will recreate us, when we are torn, hurt, even destroyed. It is the storyteller, the dream-maker, the myth-maker, that is our phoenix, what we are at our best, when we are our most creative.

That poor girl trudging through the dust, dreaming of an education for her children, do we think that we are better than she is – we, stuffed full of food, our cupboards full of clothes, stifling in our superfluities?

I think it is that girl and the women who were talking about books and an education when they had not eaten for three days, that may yet define us.

2008-01-10T20:10:00.000-08:00

My cousins tell me I'm not posting often enough so that they are not getting enough family news! So here is my first post of 2008, back in B.C. after three lovely but snowy weeks at home in Quebec with my family. No complaints at all about that holiday: I burned half a cord of wood in the fireplace, sipped tea, read about ten books (some more enjoyable than others) but I have a couple of recommendations for all who ask...and went out to dinner with my darling husband a few times, including for our 23rd anniversary. Niece Audrey had also given Bern a gift certificate for a high-end Aboriginal restaurant in the Byward Market area, called Sweetgrass, and we enjoyed our evening there: Bernie rhapsodized about the appetizer, a very lovely little quail (which he let me taste)...and I learned a little about cooking a green previously unfamiliar to me, escarole.

Some of you will laugh that I am telling about restaurant food...and cooking (New Year's Eve extravaganza at our place included cranberry cheesecake, butter pecan cheesecake, and lots of other treats). Memories are made of good company with something tasty to nosh, no?

But actually, one highlight of the holiday, in a bittersweet kind of way, was to attend a funeral. My aunt Hope, usually known as Babe or Babes to the family, passed away. My cousin Jack and I decided to do the drive to see our cousins and to say goodbye, and we were both very glad we did so. We stayed just one night, at our cousins' homes north of Toronto, and the weather was a bit mushy, but Auntie had a very lovely service to send her off, with a good turn out of family and of area Baha'i friends. The remembrances included stories of Auntie in her younger days, after the passing of Uncle Ray, as a widowed mother with six children and her intrepid spirit and courage in keeping all together. A loving message was read, coming from the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of Canada; Hope had been a stalwart member of the Baha'i community since about 1950. The prayers offered were lovely, and we sang her goodbye with "Allah'u'abha" at the gravesite. I remember her hearty laugh and her great cookies and her courage: so much courage. The pictures above are family: cousin Jack, cousin Ray (Hope's son), cousin Ray's wife and Ray's oldest sister (Hope's eldest daughter) Penny. It was a lovely reunion: I think Auntie was probably pretty happy to see it. So there you go, Kyla: I have some pictures of you, too, and I'll send them to your Auntie Penny so you can get them. Thanks for your comment.

Killing Us Softly 3: Advertising's Image of Women

2007-12-11T22:28:00.001-08:00

~ Heal The World ~

2007-12-11T22:22:00.001-08:00

U1TV - We Stand on the Shoulders of Giants - Women's Version

2007-12-11T22:21:00.001-08:00

Inspiring speeches of the 20th century

2007-12-11T22:20:00.001-08:00

2007-11-24T15:17:00.000-08:00

2007-11-13T22:05:00.001-08:00

2007-11-13T21:53:00.001-08:00

I haven't been posting as often but after the recent long weekend I thought I would share some of our journey. Bernie is here visiting, along with our eldest daughter, and it is she who took the new picture of me (buying local garlic in a small town in the Okanagan as we crossed through the Columbia mountains). Very gorgeous pictures, many of which she has gifted me to share with friends. The other photo is courtesy of our friend SE, who attended the family reunion in 2005, near North Battleford, Sk. and got some great shots of the paysage.

I will post a few more photos as I reflect on the beauties of being with friends: the Bellingham board walk, the stark greys and whites of the snow-covered Coquahalla Highway across from Hope to Merrit to the OK valley, BC. We went through a lot of weather; an almost legendary windstorm swept the Coast when we were in the Vancouver area, and knocked out electricity as far away as the valley here (leading to a spate of "I couldn't print my essay because there was no power" excuses from school...) It was weird to drive through Peachland and see the sign and nothing else. One of my students reported that "even the lights at WalMart were off." I cannot view this as particularly regrettable.

Next journey: Kamloops, and more friends. Life has its moments. And tomorrow we have new friends coming for dinner, so I have baked the first cheesecake in many months. No complaints.

2007-11-03T12:26:00.001-07:00

I hold to memory
not of sunsets or sunrises
nor moons nor orbits
nor flowers, animals, or
this natural world.

I hold to memory,
of stone and sea
of heat and moment
of journeys, destination
and you looking at me

smiling at you.

2007-10-31T17:44:00.000-07:00

I found this delightful: laugh out loud delightful. Enjoy!

2007-10-26T15:21:00.000-07:00

My sister has written a letter to the school where her children go. I think it is an excellent letter and have asked her for permission to share it publicly, which she has granted. I am sure you would be welcome, if you are a Baha'i trying to explain Christmas, to use it as appropriate in your own community.

Greetings! This letter is in response to having been asked for the second time in the three school years that our children have been attending W...School if they may participate in the Christmas concert. While we recognize and appreciate that this question arises from respect for individual families' belief systems, the fact that it keeps coming up tells us that there is probably a lot of confusion as to what exactly our family believes and fear of unknowingly stepping on our toes. We wish to make it clear that it would be very difficult to do that, and why.

As a brief introduction, the Baha'i Faith originated in Iran in the year 1863, when a Persian nobleman, whose title was "Baha'u'llah", an Arabic word meaning "The Glory of God" or "The Glory of the Father", declared Himself to be the Promised One of all the previous major religions. For most, probably all of you this means that He stated that He is the Return of Christ. In the words of Shoghi Effendi, Baha'u'llah's great-grandson and the Guardian of the Baha'i Faith,

"To Israel He was neither more nor less than the incarnation of the "Everlasting Father," the "Lord of Hosts" come down "with ten thousands of saints"; to Christendom Christ returned "in the glory of the Father," to Shí’ah Islám the return of the Imám Husayn; to Sunní Islám the descent of the "Spirit of God" (Jesus Christ); to the Zoroastrians the promised Sháh-Bahrám; to the Hindus the reincarnation of Krishna; to the Buddhists the fifth Buddha."

So to make it very clear, we DO believe in His Holiness Jesus Christ, with all the love and reverence that you feel for Him.

The purpose of this letter is not to prove that Baha'u'llah is the Return of Christ. If any of you are curious about that, we think we have made ourselves open enough that you can ask for information or literature, whenever you'd like. Also, we host bi-weekly Saturday dinners and devotional gatherings at our home for people of all faiths and beliefs to come and worship together. Our purpose in this letter is to explain how our beliefs cause us to respond to school events that are related to religion. Contrary to disapproving of religion-related activities in a public school, we enjoy religious diversity. We believe that there is truth to be found in the teachings of all the major religions, and an unbiased study of any of those Writings will reveal that. If the parents of the children in the school were primarily Hindu and those were the school's celebrations, we would encourage our children to participate in those celebrations. If the culture of the school were primarily Jewish, Buddhist or Muslim, as long as the observation of such Holy Days were not to cause our children physical or emotional harm, we would not only encourage our children's participation but be grateful that they have the opportunity to learn, first hand, another perspective. Our approach to religion in public school would not be to pick and choose whose beliefs should be allowed, or eliminate religion altogether, but to allow and encourage the sharing of all beliefs. Baha'u'llah taught that there is only one God, and that all religions are one religion, the religion of God. Not Christian, Baha'i, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu - these are labels they have been given because of the Names of the Messengers Who brought each religion, each time furthering God's Message to humanity according to the time in which the people were living. The spiritual teachings, as opposed to the outward form, of all of these religions are the same because they all came from the same Source.

We were advised that we were asked this time because the school play is about Santa, not Jesus. You've obviously heard we don't teach our children to believe in Santa Claus. This is a parenting decision, not a religious one. Some Baha'is from Christian backgrounds still celebrate Christmas and tell their children that Santa is coming. As Baha'is grow to understand the significance of Baha'u'llah's coming themselves, this will change. My parents became Baha'is in the 1950s, my father from a United Church background, my mother from a Baptist background. One of our Baha'i leaders, Shoghi Effendi, counselled the Baha'is to give up the traditions of the religions in which they were raised in order to establish that the Baha'i Faith is an independent religion, not an offshoot, sect or church of one of the existing ones, with Holy Days and celebrations of its own. This is not a law, but my parents were so excited to have found the long-awaited Return of Christ, that they wanted to do everything they could to establish the "Kingdom of God on earth." If that meant giving up Christmas trees and Santa, neither of which are based in the Bible anyway, it was a small sacrifice. My husband became a Baha'i from a Catholic background before he and I met, and feels similarly.

Also simply a parenting choice related to Santa: to us there is a fine line between encouraging children to believe in fantasies, albeit benign ones, and lying to them. We want our children to know that we will never lie to them, that they will always be able to trust us - hence our children know that the Tooth Fairy's name is Mom. This does not mean that we believe that a Christmas play about Santa is bad, or that searching for eggs left by the Easter Bunny is wrong. Our choices are not about judgment of others. It just means we make sure that our children know the difference between fantasy and reality, so that they can't accuse us of lying to them when they discover that these characters are just fairy tales.

We hope this letter clarifies any misconceptions you may have, and also alleviates any worries you may feel about the possibility of offending us with Christian celebrations. Christ's birth is most definitely something to celebrate! The only thing that could possibly get us to protest that we can think of would be if adults started telling our children that they are going to hell for what we believe. This has not happened at this school, of course, but one of our daughter's friends in a different location told her that her mom said that A. was not going to heaven because she wasn't a Christian. We would have a problem with that sort of judgment.

At the same time as we encourage our children to learn about all the Faiths, we appreciate that the school has allowed us to bring Baha'i celebrations in as well. However, given how threatened some of the adults felt last year, this February we would like to do it quietly, if the school will allow us to celebrate the Intercalary Days there again - perhaps make a meal for the school at lunch time like we did the first year we were here, to give us an opportunity to be of service to the school at our special time of gift-giving, hospitality and service. If any of the school parents do have concerns about the Baha'i influences in the school, please feel free to share this letter with them.

To end, we would like to offer another invitation. This year our family is hosting the Baha'i community's celebration of the birth of Baha'u'llah. How we celebrate varies from year to year and host to host, but we, the Vasquez family, generally think of birthday celebrations as parties, so if you would like to join us in the celebration of Baha'u'llah's birthday, (November 12th), Baha'i Holy Days start at sunset on the day before, and the party will start at 5 p.m. of Sunday, November 11th. Just call to let us know if you are coming.

A final word about religious celebrations: Baha'u'llah said, "Consort with the followers of all religions in a spirit of friendliness and fellowship." As most of you know by now, it is not unusual for our family to give gifts to the staff at Christmas time (please do not give us gifts in return, to try and exchange gifts with all the school families would be ridiculous), because it is a way that we can celebrate your special days with you. By the same token, we give gifts during our special time of gift giving, so we can celebrate our special days with you. Please know that this is only about a desire for mutual respect, and while it may seem strange to receive gifts at the end of February for no apparent reason, our children know that it is for a special reason, though it is not "the Baha'i Christmas." There is only one Christmas, and we will honour Jesus' life with you at that time.

With gratitude to all of you for your excellent instruction and care of our children, and blessings for the Christmas season and the New Year (yes, we have a different New Year too, but that's another story....)

(signed by my sister and her husband)

P.S. Apparently A. was asked whether we do Hallowe'en too. Well, Hallowe'en is silly, but where's the harm in silliness, other than a possible upset stomach or two from too much candy? Please, just know that our children can be involved in any and all school activities, and if there is anything we have difficulty with, we will let you know.

2007-10-14T14:30:00.001-07:00

a Sunday walk in the Okanagan

in the distance hills are full of grouse
whose comical hop when they come close
makes me giggle

and across the sand beach
right here beside me
more than a gaggle of green-tipped geese

waddle by water, and like me,
in this blue-sky lake, wade in on splayed
feet to glide, to slide a hundred strong

in the late fall sun.
i stop to smell still-blooming roses
to taste the last golden raspberries

and gather green tomatoes
beside orchards where birds feed
on remnants of apples

and different days, when other eyes
beheld them rising from the trees,
sated, before winter came.

red decorates bushes in a pre-
season frenzy, flames beside
colours i remember, harbingers

of the surprise of snow,
but i walk steadily, past mansions
or vintage, some Spanish clay,

think already of the blossoms
which will hold this valley in their
centres, yield again to fruit, and birds.

2007-10-09T18:25:00.000-07:00

A very special moment: I got home and found this link in my inbox. You should take the time to look at it. It might give you a happy moment or two. I loved it.

2007-10-05T16:27:00.000-07:00

Thank you to friends near and far who sent birthday greetings. My day was spent at work, where our staff was learning First Aid and CPR, then taking a test on it. I got 94% so now have a certificate that says that I would, in theory, know some basics if I had to help someone in a variety of types of trouble. Good.

My birthday opened with rainbows on a fresh fall morning. There was a lovely one north of me as I was driving towards Summerland, and when I got to the school, a full rainbow wetly shimmered in the east over the mountain. Now the sun is high in the sky over the eastern hills, and autumn is in full force.

2007-09-29T22:23:00.000-07:00

An important link:

http://www.house.gov/apps/list/speech/il10_kirk/Then_They_Came_for_the_Bahais.html

Check it out.

2007-09-26T16:23:00.001-07:00

I have been in Summerland for almost a month and as you can see, I am finally able to access my computer photos...these are taken driving between Kelowna and Summerland, and the flowers grow in profusion around the yard here on the lavender farm. Shortly I will walk out into the orchard and gather an apple or two for the coming days, and tonight go to the second of the Baha'i Feasts I will have attended in this small community. I found an old friend here; we had been at university together, and when Bernie was here last week we enjoyed having supper with Farideh, her husband Sia, son Mishkin, mother and a family friend. I must admit it's a welcoming thing to go to almost anywhere and be able to find an instant welcome from those who share faith. Religious community is so often seen as something palliative for people who believe naively in God, but I am in a place where the warmth of the welcome, and the diversity of the flowers of these gardens, remind me that anywhere on earth can be a place called home. Bernie and I had a great time exploring the Okanagan, and he will be back soon. In the meantime, I am enjoying the job and the places around me, and have much to be grateful for.

2007-09-14T13:34:00.000-07:00

I write from British Columbia, my new home in the Okanagan, my new work, and my new life. Much happens when you aren't really expecting it: be careful what you pray for!

When our family was in Israel, I prayed for the right opportunity. I came home and looked, half-heartedly, at the website I have watched, with varying degrees of success, for a few years. An advertisement caught my eye. I applied, was interviewed, and found myself on a plane on September 3, flying into Kelowna. Since, I have met my colleagues and students at The Glenfir School, in Summerland, BC, have met with Baha'i friends in nearby communities, have found a lovely apartment on a lavender farm. I have not taken one picture: it's as though I want to soak it in before I start to share it. It's also because even if I did take a picture, I would not be able to share it, since my computer is en route as I write. My dear husband is driving my car, my computer, a few precious artworks, and best of all, himself! out west and will hopefully arrive soon to spend a week before flying to my other home in the Gatineau Hills.

Culture shock? A little. The rocket launches, and lands beside a fine lake in the summertime, with the promise of an easy winter, and new friends to be made. I reflected that if I were to write a story about these events, the first line might be, "My first introduction to the Okanagan was picking golden raspberries by an apple orchard." Strictly speaking, it was not the first thing, but within a week of arrival I was chatting with my new landlady in her garden as she urged me to take all I wanted from the garden and orchards. We ate golden raspberries (slightly less tart than their red cousins) and watched the sun sink against the profile of Giant's Head Mountain. It is a small, quasi-desert here; the lake provides irrigation to offer some of the best fruit country in the country, although the wineries are now taking over (which impresses many tourists, it seems, but is no use to me!) But I am glad to be here, and will be more so when my family is able to join me for visits and ultimately, if all goes well, for Bernie to be here with me all the time.

In the meantime, I count blessings, and begin routines: I swam in Lake Okanagan last Sunday, a block from the beach at my new home, and joined the Summerland swimming pool this week and have had my first swim...each day, something new to find, and tomorrow, Saturday.

Be careful what you pray for!

2007-09-02T11:11:00.000-07:00

Our recent days have been very full with visits (old friend Mark, now living in Malawi, and new friend Sandra from Ontario.) Mark, Sandra, Bernie and I had lunch at Le Moulin de Provence in the Byward Market and then I wandered taking a few photographs and bought a lot of wonderful raspberries. During their visit, Bernie and Sandra had a grand adventure and went white-water rafting on the Ottawa River, and Mark and I had a lovely lunch in scenic nearby Wakefield, Québec. Good times!

Shortly after Mark and Sandra left I was offered a new job...so I will not be blogging for a while. When I am organized, I will resume, and share some photos of a place which, for now, I will let be a surprise when the time comes. Bernie and I are very pleased about this new development in our lives, but details will wait until my first "letter" home.

2007-08-24T12:23:00.001-07:00

I am taking pleasure in small things, as the summer winds down; on Monday we visited with friends near Montreal, and I thought this photo of their boys really illustrated the joys of youthfulness!

The house is decorated in flowers: yellow and orange-red gladiolas, not that I grew but which were very inexpensive ('tis the season) and the yellow wildflowers that proliferate against our side fence. They don't last long once you cut them but they bloom so vigorously, spreading every year, that I am happy to bring in a few to put in my special 'Saskatchewan' vase, collected two summers ago at a coffee shop at Manitou Lake, while travelling with a good friend.

It is also corn season, and fruits in abundance: peach, plum, watermelon and honeydew. But mostly there is the delight of going out to gather tomatoes. This year I do not have really big ones but we are enjoying the little Romas in our salads. Hot and sweet from the garden, they have been plenteous: my eldest daughter even used some for spaghetti sauce, rather than the usual canned variety, and how lovely it was to know that the richness was from the ground in the backyard. If ever Bernie and I are able to have a small acreage, I think my gardening skills will increase. I like being out there so much, unless the weeds get out of hand, and even then, I pull away at them with a certain energy.

The rain has refreshed us, it is still very warm, and it is the weekend. This does not mean much to me, since I work at home, but it means I will have more companions here, and we are expecting a good friend on Sunday, so I am again counting blessings.

2007-08-23T15:08:00.000-07:00

I haven't had a humdrum day in quite a while, but this one's got me down. Grey, end of August, leaves just hinting at turning, the garden almost finished. I like fall, but today is a day in no-one's land, not really summery, not really autumn, just...rain. It's also a day when I am thinking about the tests in people's lives: my sister, Andrea, just diagnosed with West Nile disease, another friend, Craig Farnsworth, coping, along with his wife Susanne Alexander, with cancer (and sharing the journey in a very public manner in his blog)...

We have lots to be thankful for, not the least of which visits from an old friend, Don Todd, and one coming up, Mark Visocky, home on leave from his posting in Malawi. My sister Laurel happily has a new job and is moving to the Vancouver region to take it up. My parents spent some time at Sylvan Lake Baha'i School (in Alberta, for those who don't know) this summer along with 15 grandchildren (well, technically 13 grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren) which Mom said was pretty delightful. Perhaps my sister Coral will soon send me some pictures of that event so that I may share them. Dad mentioned that the gathered friends asked for some stories, and that he and Mom were able to oblige on a couple of evenings with pioneer stories from their almost three decades in Belize.

Maybe it's just because this summer has been such a marvellous one, with great times with our kids, our pilgrimage, the release of my second book, and relaxing times at home. There's always a little reflection, for me, as the seasons change, but we live in a place in the world where the leaves become the annual Ottawa-Gatineau "Fall Rhapsody" and the winter can be relatively gentle.

Wishing you joy and lovely meditations as dusk falls here in the Valley.

2007-08-18T08:35:00.001-07:00

I have added a new link today, to the blog by Child-of-Africa. She had left me a comment and I thought I would take a look at her blogging...and discovered how much I enjoyed it. So I have added it to my list of favourites. I suspect there are just too many favourites for me (luckybeans, baha'i views being among them) but it's still worth tuning you in to some of the ones I enjoy reading the most.

2007-08-17T18:42:00.000-07:00

From time to time, a book comes your way that makes everything different. Today is a day like that for me. I had heard of Three Cups of Tea, and I ordered it, and read it. It's hard to read without weeping but if I did nothing else with my day, it would make it worthwhile to mention this book to you. You must read it. It's worth every minute and every word, for hopefulness, for inspiration, for celebration of what one person can do with a life, for gladness that such a difference can be made, in unity, with a spot on the earth. Baha'u'llah tells us that if a choice is to be made between educating a boy or a girl, we should prefer girls, and Three Cups of Tea, a book telling the story of schools for girls being built in Pakistan and Afghanistan, tells us why. Read it, weep, and wonder, and give generously from your hearts.

2007-08-14T08:44:00.001-07:00

My book arrived in the mail today.

There's not much better in life: marriage, birthing children, epiphanies, to be sure, but to hold a book in your hands that you have written, collected, worked over four years to produce...it's pretty great.
I like it a lot, and hope some of you will too. You can pick it up from George Ronald Publishers in the U.K.

2007-08-09T19:56:00.000-07:00

To finish up today's postings, I have added two new links. One is to the Canadian Baha'i News publication, which is now online and the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of Canada have invited Baha'i bloggers to link it. I am happy to do so.

The other link is to my cousin's blog. Jack McLean is my first cousin on my mother's side. He is a former teacher, a prolific author, and a fine writer and poet. Take some time to read his work, if you are interested in Baha'i theology and any number of other subjects...you'll be glad you did. He has another page, which for some reason I can't get to a permanent link, in which he has made available a lot of his scholarship, both previously published and some unpublished, and which makes for deep reading. Access it at http://mclean.titles.googlepages.com/home.

Accompanying this announcement is a glimpse of the Land Gate of the city of Akka, an historic portal which surrounds the ancient walls at the point of meeting the Mediterranean Sea. Jack and I both felt an affinity with Akka, somehow...both of us, despite being wordsmiths, have struggled to express the connection we felt with the Revelation, in this ancient city, but it is a site of transformative power, tremendous symbolism, and the heat of the sacred words of the past. I counted the waves at Akka, according to the Muslim hadith, or tradition...and still am praying, Insh'allah, for His mercy.

2007-08-09T11:53:00.001-07:00

Our pilgrim group at a house where Baha'u'llah was able to come to His beloved countryside and enjoy the gardens.

2007-08-09T11:51:00.001-07:00

My lovely daughters at the Terraces leading to the Shrine of the Bab,
Holy Land, Israel, July 2007

2007-08-09T11:45:00.001-07:00

In the continuing reflections from pilgrimage, I am borrowing a couple of my daughters' pictures. This was taken by our second daughter while walking on Ben Gurion Avenue. I like it.

It's been a good day. This morning's bike ride brought glimpses of bird life, including a tiny yellow one which likes my sunflowers, and a hummingbird! Then when I went for my swim, I was the only one in the pool for much of the time and was able to spend forty luxurious minutes just backstroke and crawl, backstroke and crawl to my heart's content. It's very meditative when done like that...

Now daughter-number-one wants to go and see a chick flick. Sometimes I wonder what will ever happen if I get a 'real' job. In the meantime, I have a new book available, and three more coming along nicely.

I am very thankful to my Lord.

2007-08-07T09:29:00.000-07:00

More on Pilgrimage: So many impressions remain, and will no doubt continue. Last night I was dreaming I was back there, and I half-woke to tell Bernie, "I was dreaming I was in the Holy Land." He murmured, "So was I."

Here, I am choosing to share pictures which anyone may see: a minaret in Akka, the posted doorplate outside the house of 'Abdu'l-Baha in almost-downtown Haifa, near Ben Gurion Avenue and the famous rise of the sculptured terraces to the Mountain of Carmel. In Akka, as we were listening to our guide one day, I heard, in the distance, through a window, the call to prayer, and our son was amazed to learn that Muslims are called to prayer five times daily...where Baha'is have Obligatory Prayer, our time for prayer is private. I liked being in a place where the call to prayer resounded; it was somehow reassuring to know that we were not alone as a band of pilgrims come on a journey of faith, and that many others from every religious tradition share this deep connection with prayer and land and the spiritual heart of the planet.

At the house of 'Abdu'l-Baha, we were blessed to spend some time in the room where He had passed to the next world, and also where his beloved grandson, Shoghi Effendi, had done so. I found myself lost in prayer, there, completely oblivious to the world, for a short period of time, alone in a room where spirit danced, I fancied, all about me as though my heart, for a short time, had become a bird. An overwhelming impression, everywhere, is of light and space, due to the architecture of soaring ceilings and arcs, not small rectangular boxes like the houses where we live. These homes reminded me of the Spanish architecture I like, of the Latin American countries and of the United States' Southwest, and I recalled a friend in San Diego, who had lived in Israel, telling me that I would be reminded of the area in its flora and fauna. I was, and another pilgrim, raised in India but now living in San Diego, said that the cacti, aloes and great branches almost like air-borne coral, reminded her of where she had grown up.

The very earth brings forth praise, and the seeds become mighty trees, and the olives will yield the fruit of peace, Insh'allah.

2007-08-05T10:54:00.001-07:00

One of the pleasures of our pilgrimage was to meet old friends. Here are Rocky, Bernie, and Rocky's wife Lynda, with their daughter Lua in the background. I first met Rocky when I was about 21 and he was 16 or 17, living in Asquith, Saskatchewan~and he and Lynda married when she was 17. They have lived in British Columbia for many years and we visited a few times when we were at Maxwell School. They also serve on a Local Spiritual Assembly along with my aunt, uncle, and cousin at Qualicum Beach. We were delighted to share pilgrimage with them (and one evening, a felafel at the Merkatz at the top of Hazionut Avenue with Rocky.)

2007-08-03T15:32:00.000-07:00

2007-08-03T14:45:00.001-07:00

Reflections on a Baha'i Pilgrimage

Here we are in front of the Shrine of the Bab in Haifa, lit like a beacon above the port city of Haifa, Israel, three believers and two loved ones coming along for company. Our vegetarian daughter is delighted to discover that meat/milk restaurants are split in Israel, so that the salads and cheeses in milk restaurants provide wonderful food: she eats Hallumi cheese salads often, in between all our stops at felafel stands. She and her sister go another day to the beach, despite jellyfish warnings, and have a delightful time. A small fish stings her below the knee but she has too much fun to really feel the pain.

All of us feel the heat: Haifa has a heat-wave which our server on Ben Gurion Avenue tells us is breaking records, even for Israel. I believe it, and toil up the hills of Mount Carmel with a willing spirit but knees and ankles which remind me that I'm a swimmer, not a runner. I am slow but steady, which has its advantages and disadvantages: it takes me longer to climb the mountain, and I need to drink more water than ever before in my life, but I have time to stop and literally smell the roses, and more importantly for me, the frangipani.

I am, as you know, a lover of gardens, and here it would be impossible to be anything but heaven-bound in the gardens of the Baha'i Holy Places. The terraces of the Shrine of the Bab are not simply places of Baha'i pilgrimage: they are also visited by tourists who revel in the green spaces, the beauteous spills of bougainvillea, the astonishing trees of bright red flame, the stone pathways, and the memorials to a figure they, and we, only dimly comprehend. The bright dome shines above the Divine gravesites in the light of hope.

I am astonished by the numbers of people who visit this site: I hear, from time to time, the numbers of you who drop in to read a line or two, to share in pictures. At this time, I am afraid that no expression is available to me but rhapsody. Despite the difficulty of heat, despite the almost 300 pilgrims, despite the hills, despite the sometimes-disinterest of my two youngest children, the opportunity to be Baha'i pilgrims is an event of magnitude in my life, and I find myself searching for superlatives. I do not believe it is possible to communicate belief, in any real way, and I do not know if it is possible to share the essentially private nature of a pilgrimage: why do we go as pilgrims, anyway?

Part of the reason, for me, stems from the words of 'Abdu'l-Baha, before Whose grave I kneel, on the Persian carpet, and in Whose spiritual presence I recite the words of the Tablet of Visitation, which He has written and which I know by memory so can close my eyes, not distracted by a text or any others in the small space. In my mind, I recite the words, "He is the All-Glorious! O God, lowly and tearful, I raise my suppliant hands to Thee..." and I think of how difficult it is for me to cry, yet I have done so at the grave of Shoghi Effendi in London, and I am able to weep beside the grave of Navvab, 'Abdu'l-Baha's saintly mother, and I am able to cry on the steps of the International Teaching Centre one morning, looking out over the magnificent Arc. It is good to be able to be tearful, to feel the emotions of these moments, to rekindle the passion of belief in the words of Baha'u'llah, Who said, in the 19th Century, to the historian E.G. Browne, that He had come for the good of mankind. It is good to be reminded, as I visit with Baha'is from all over the world, from Malaysia, the Phillipines, Australia, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, Togo, Honduras, the Czech Republic, Denmark, Germany, Belgium, Russia...that I am here in this spot because of the Divine hope for unity. I find myself humbled, wishing to listen, hoping for the gift of response to prayer.

In the deep mystery of Akka, the prison city, the old stones, the site of the incarceration of the Holy Family, there is something profound in being in a place so old, in touching the rock, in feeling the water's shimmer and counting the waves rolling in, in viewing the Land Gate where resides the needle's eye of Christian prophecy. The sound of a living city is all around, interspersed with the ultimate modernisms, Coke signs and advertisements, in Hebrew, for the latest Harry Potter movie. I smile at the sights and sounds of the city of Akka, old and new, imbibe history and the lap of water. The Mediterranean is beautiful, covered in a heat haze, and I watch through a room where 'Abdu'l-Baha lived and welcome Western pilgrims a century ago, and think, they are the same waves, and "We are the waves of one sea."

The joy is also alive as I share moments with my husband that we could not otherwise have known; he is full of laughter, an enthusiasm that sends him to seek the beauty of the terraces below and above the Shrine of the Bab, a joy of discovery which has him enjoying felafel and salads. He tells me, in some reflective times, of how he feels, coming into the Shrine of the Bab for the first time, that he has arrived home. Bernie became a Baha'i in Saskatoon in the early '80s, after reading the book, Release the Sun, by William Sears. He told Gordon Epp that he wanted to be a Babi, and accepted instantly that the Babis had become Baha'is, at the advent of "He Whom God shall make manifest." He fell in love with faith through the Bab, and now he falls in love with this land which holds the Bab's remains. Yet it is I, when we visit the Archives as a family, who find myself drawn to the Beauty of the Bab as conveyed in his portrait. He was so young, so pure, and so loved: a Christ-like figure in the middle of Persia, and His declaration that He is but a ring on the finger of Baha'u'llah strikes me with force. There is so much Grandeur here, and we human beings are no longer accustomed to such overwhelming Grandeur.

'Abdu'l-Baha tells us, “There can be conceived no greater manifestation of love and kindness in the existent world today than this, that one should call to mind a loved one at the Sacred Threshold of Bahá’u’lláh, occupy oneself with his remembrance, and offer prayers for his well-being. This is the greatest blessing and favour, the most perfect bounty and bestowal.”
‘Abdu’l-Bahá, excerpt from a tablet Jináb-i-Muhammad Ali. (provisional translation).

Here, I offer prayers for a litany of loved ones, and feel the blessings of doing this in the beauty and heat of Haifa in summertime. I leave my cynical self at the gate of this garden, and return to a sense of all that is holy.

2007-08-02T04:22:00.001-07:00

My daughter posted this picture and since I haven't downloaded mine I thought it was as good a place as any to start documenting these last two wonderful weeks. We had three days in London and nine on Baha'i pilgrimage in Haifa. I will write about this at length, soon, but sometimes the picture says a lot all by itself.

2007-07-12T12:11:00.001-07:00

Every so often something happens to remind you of the past. Today, our friend sent us some old photos. Here we are in 1984, a lot younger and a very lot skinnier, on our trip to Ottawa from Regina. We were coming to attend, if I remember correctly, the Association for Baha'i Studies Conference, and oh, incidentally, for me to meet Bernie's family and ask for consent to get married. He surely wouldn't try this trick anymore: I am still strong in my upper body but the strength in my knees is as historic as the photo. His spirit hasn't changed, though, with time; he is still irrepressible and full of fun, and our eldest daughter is almost as old as he was in the picture. He was 24, and I had just turned 28. They were good days.

2007-07-09T15:40:00.001-07:00

My son and his girlfriend before their graduation Prom; my daughter en route home from Rwanda, in Paris by the Seine, self-portrait.

2007-06-30T18:54:00.001-07:00

This afternoon, the last day of June, in my garden.

2007-06-29T18:10:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Dan Jones for this link. I like Josh Groban, and I like these beautiful places.