Beyond Words in Beautiful B.C.

Mile after mile, acres and acres, as far as the eye can see -  such clichés are pitifully weak for the grandness of this western landscape.  Millions of spiky fir trees cover valleys and swarm up mountain slopes, cloaking a vast Canadian wilderness.

It is autumn. Here and there the grey-green forested slopes are lightened by buttery yellow patches of aspen or tamarack, holding onto summer’s sunshine until winter arrives.

Jagged snowy peaks, true skyscrapers, dwarf man-made cement towers, even those named CN or Trump. Each row of these granite giants is backed by other innumerable crags. Mere humans gasp at such magnitude. Our eyes and minds strain to cope with the views, and our spirits soar with joy.

Thousands of narrow waterfalls plunge down impossibly steep mountainsides into rivers that twist their way through narrow gorges. These streams rush and race toward icy lakes and on to the oceans west and north. Here is its source, faithful quencher and cleanser, the watery miracle that keeps us alive.

Seen close up, the rivers’ turquoise waters ripple over sculpted rocky beds; scarlet salmon idle in the current. 

Why turquoise? Why scarlet? Glorious art.

Away from the exhilarating sound of running water, there is different music. In this remote wonderland, small birds chirp, tweet or screech: midnight-blue western Jays, black and white Magpies in their formalwear, tiny round Chickadees all singing. Quails, wearing white clerical collars above their brown tweed vests, coo and cluck, a one-feathered “fascinator” springing hilariously from each head.

Human giggles add to the birdsong.

 And the animals: taupe mountain goats graze in groups, white-tailed deer nervously raise their furry oval ears, casual coyotes trot by in the dusk, and elk loudly clack their antlers, male to male. None of these is tamed; any might be dangerous. Oh, their beauty, their wild life.

Beyond words there is deepest, reverent gratitude.

Shouting Out Truth

On a chilly November day I stood with a large crowd in front of a stage near Toronto City Hall, listening to speeches about the wilful failings of our current mayor. 

He admits to having bought illegal drugs. He sometimes shows up drunk at his workplace and in public places.  He casually flings slurs and swearwords at various groups of people and refuses to consider any opinions that do not mesh with his own. Despite urgings by his municipal colleagues and  his friends, he denies that he needs to take time off for addiction treatment and stubbornly refuses to step aside from his position of city leadership. He cannot see that he is hurting the very community he claims to love.

As we heard such truth spoken at the downtown rally, we applauded, cheered, booed, and cried out “Shame!” Drummers added to the noisy protest. When the speeches ended, as one body we spontaneously turned away from the stage and slowly walked toward the front doors of City Hall where dutiful police waited for us behind metal barriers. Contrary to one media report, we did not “storm” City Hall. I know. I was there. It’s a good reminder that what the media report is not always exactly accurate. ;-o 

At this protest there were no violent infiltrators so we law-abiding (unlike our mayor) but frustrated Torontonians stood as close to the government building as allowed, yelling at the top of our lungs. We wanted Rob Ford to give up his position as mayor of our city. Subsequently the huge majority of City Council passed an official recommendation that the mayor step down from his office. Neither they nor we have any power to force Mr. Ford to leave. And he still refuses. So what's the point?

Many scoff at all such protests. If you can’t force change, why waste your energy parading and shouting? Many look down their noses at the “Occupy Movement” and “Take Back the Night’s” annual march, seeing such public displays as utterly useless. What good does it do? What effect do such brief demonstrations have?

It occurred to me that many would say the same about church services and other worship gatherings. What good does it do getting together to listen to yet another sermon telling us that there is a transcendant and loving Someone beyond human kind; that we are called to love our enemies; that Jesus welcomed the broken and lost, saving his criticism for show-offs? What good does it do to sing and pray words like “Your will be done on earth” or “Oh God, our help in ages past, our hope in years to come”? 

Like our attendance at church gatherings, joining such non-violent protests first of all reminds us about our personal values and our goals in life. 

Secondly it provides a chance to publicly express our refusal to conform. We reject our culture's priorities of greed, coercion, and selfishness. When I am part of a crowd shouting, “Hey Mister, Mister, get your hands off my sister!” or “Whose streets? Our streets!” or “Rob Ford has got to go!”, I am calling aloud what I believe to be truth. 

Thirdly, when we join others who are like-minded, we see that we are companions on the slow journey to peace and justice. 

Instead of muttering alone at home, by participating, I am helping to fight feelings of despair and powerlessness in myself and in others. When the gathering ends, I leave feeling stronger and more hopeful about taking my next small, practical step for change, instead of giving up. Maybe spectators, as well, will find new motivation for positive action.

Dear Reader, I invite you to join me. In one way or another, shout it out!

Remembering

Remembrance Day used to delight me as a child, with its pageantry and solemn rituals. I especially liked the dramatic moment of silence, and if it was followed by a trumpet’s lament, even better. 

Even in shopping malls, at 11:00, on 11/11, shoppers stopped in their tracks as a reverent hush fell over the crowd. 

When I was young there were still many WWII veterans we could hear tell about the monumental battles to keep Germany from taking over all of Europe. We listened to Jewish survivors of the holocaust and trembled at the horrors. 

Slowly those generations began to disappear and by the late1960’s Vietnam’s mess turned the idea of heroic battles on its head. In the decades since, I, like you, have seen TV reports of war, after war, after bloody war, until a sense of futility has usurped any drama or glory.

Millions now live amid dangerous conflicts, whether tribal in Sudan, religious in India, or political in Syria. Here in Canada, I find it hard to even respect the military, let alone glorify it on Remembrance Day. In fact, whereas uniforms used to impress me, now, having encountered riot police during the G20 in Toronto, those insignia make me shudder. 

I used to hear stories about Canadian soldiers putting themselves between warring factions and felt so lucky to be born into a country whose army brought peace instead of war.  Now guns are appearing in my own city and our politicians think that more police with guns and taser weapons will solve the problem. 

Surely we must each do our part to turn this tide.
Let us make Remembrance Day a day to honour peacemakers. 

Let us remember that wars sprout from a lustful greed for power. 

Let us remember that violent opposition should be only a desperate last resort when all other options have been tried. 

Let us remember Christ’s radical alternative to war: “Love your enemy and do good to those who hate you.” (Luke 6)

How different life would be if we chose this way, instead of posting nasty comments on blogs, cursing anyone who gets in our way, despising those who disagree with us, taking revenge when we’re cheated, or caring about only our own.

Let us remember Ephesians 2:

Jesus has abolished [religious] law with its commandments, so that he might create in himself a new humanity in place of [warring factions],

thus making peace, 

and so that he might reconcile [all] groups to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death hostility through it. 

So Jesus came 
and proclaimed peace to those who were far off 

and peace to those who were near, 

for through him we all have access in one Spirit to God the Father/Mother. 

Let us remember God’s promise to humanity: Micah 4 

In days to come…many peoples shall say,

“Come, let us go…to the house of the [one] God;

that God may teach us God’s ways and that we may walk in God’s paths.” 

God shall judge between the nations,

and shall arbitrate for many peoples;

they shall beat their swords into plowshares,

and their spears into pruning hooks;

nation shall not lift up sword against nation,

neither shall they learn war any more. 

Come, let us walk in the light of God!

May it be so.

Topless

Who’d think that going topless could be a spiritual epiphany and a holy metaphor?

In early October, five women were at a lakeside retreat centre, some of us friends, others strangers. We luxuriated in the sprawling modern building filled with comfy furniture, attractive art pieces and golden autumn light from dozens of windows. The outdoor setting was golden too, as sunshine backlit yellow trees and warmed forest carpets of caramel oak leaves and pine-needle straw. Placid blue water was visible from the screened porch and our hosts served up the best of home cooking. Instead of a chockfull agenda, the retreat leader left us hours of empty space between sessions to loll on our beds, read or hike.

For two days we learned and practiced the theatre art of improvisation as it relates to spirituality. The goal was story telling, not Second City wisecracks. As a professional performer and spiritual director, our leader explained a structure of safety and acceptance, gradually easing any performance anxiety. She urged us to say “anything” and to be “dull” and “ordinary” as we played along with improv exercises. How those boring words freed us into wild creativity!

 We laughed ourselves silly when we pretended to move invisible canoes and to open imaginary boxes. One evening, without instructions or words, we found ourselves playing every recess game we could remember, even without skipping ropes or hopscotch chalk.

As we used some of the techniques to act out bible stories and give spontaneous homilies there was more laughter alongside deep truths. Picture one person simultaneously playing Lazarus’ corpse and Jesus arriving at the graveside! Her antics made us giggle but when two of us, as Martha and Mary, lamented loudly over our dead brother, tears sprang to my eyes. Where was Jesus when we needed him!

There were breathtaking worship times when we stood in a tight circle taking turns to speak one word each as we created a communal prayer or hymn. Dancing and running broke out. The familiarity and freedom of creative play moved us quickly into intimacy.

On our last morning, again without discussion, we cooperatively drew a strange picture on a white board. Each person took turns sketching one line in mindful randomness. We ended up with a peculiar water creature and a woman with huge bare breasts, a bow in her curly hair, and only one foot. We finished by jointly making up the story of the picture, “Once upon a time…”

 The retreat was ending and after lunch we would leave. During our last solitary reflection time I sat on a log looking at the water and remembered our funny drawing. I imagined taking my top off to become the bare-breasted woman by the lake, but of course decided not to shock passers-by. I am, after all, 64 years old and very round. Still, the idea percolated.

 At the buffet lunch where we five were the only guests, I caught the eye of the inn’s talented chef and signaled to her. In a private corner I told her that I was going to take my top off if she could warn the two male hosts to disappear for a minute. 

Just out of sight of my new playmates, I took off sweatshirt and bra, and then stepped into sight wearing only my jeans and shoes, calmly opening my arms to display my full, drooping breasts and bulging belly. The women screamed and bent over with laughter. Each one hugged me before I scurried to recover my clothes.

 What on earth? Never in all my years have I done such a thing! I felt fine…and then a little self-conscious. But it was good. Since then my moment of madness/wholeness is morphing into some spiritual insights.

What if we all felt so accepted and free that we could bare ourselves, even the imperfect parts? Our improv retreat leader 
(http://monica-romig-green.com) 
had functioned as pastor, therapist, and coach in teaching us the boundaries and urging us to “be brave”. Gently and wisely she had eased us into mutual trust.

 What if there were so much playing in Parliaments and churches and classrooms that even strangers laughed themselves into friendship? The improv games we played built community fast.

 Another improvisation principle is that mistakes are expected. Whoever made the mistake takes a second to acknowledge their error but carries on as other players rally to redeem it. How could we not think of Christ's great redemption story?

 I like the improv ideas of “offering” and “accepting offers” so that the group’s story or game can continue. For example, if you offer another player an imaginary hat, she might accept your offer by pretending to put it on and saying it was her favourite colour. You could then tell her that when you had seen it at the store you’d thought of her. You offered; she accepted; you "endowed". In improv the concept of “endowment” doesn’t imply that you need a bigger bra but means adding to someone else’s offer so that the story is enriched.

 In God’s endless story we’re all invited to play a part and our daily lives are filled with offers both appealing and scary. We can resist life’s offers or say, “Yes! I’ll go along with that” and see how even the worst surprise can be accepted and endowed.

Without quite realizing it, in my topless moment I had manifested another improv feature, “reincorporation”, by impersonating the main character in our group’s drawing and subsequent story. As the bible says, “Remember, remember.” This was one adventure with God I'm sure I'll never forget.

Despite the Hair in My Hummus

Our wedding anniversary plan for June 6 had been rained out, so on one sunny September day we  headed for the Toronto Islands. I was pleased to see the bronze memorial sculpture for Jack Layton near the ferry docks, and especially touched when I watched two people reach out toward it, one fondly stroking Jack’s arm, the second patting his shoulder.

On the boat packed with excited tourists, I noticed a young Japanese woman. Her t-shirt read, “Hug Me”. Old women like me can get away with just about anything, and I asked her, “So should I hug you?” She looked confused and was apparently not a native English speaker. I pointed to her shirt. She looked down, read the words on her shirt and grinned at me. I spread my arms out. She giggled and reached toward me. It was a heart-warming hug between generations and cultures.

While we were still crossing the harbour, a student from a large group wearing back-packs and matching tees,  approached and asked me to go to a club with him that night. Before I could do anything more than grin he said, “You don’t have to come, I just have to invite you.” He was a foreign student attending the U. de Quebec in Montreal. He and his fellow students were part of an unofficial “Amazing Race”  that would take them to Niagara Falls and Chicago as well as Toronto. 

As we talked, his friend filmed the evidence so that they could check off another task on their list. We chatted about their home countries and which Toronto club they were going to that evening. 

Although I knew he had just been playing and wasn't sincerely inviting me to appear at their evening party, it took me until later to understand that the prescribed task had  been a disrespectful poke at old age. It was meant to embarrass the students as they ridiculously pretended to invite some unattractive, doddery oldster on a date to a dance club.
Grrr. 

Nevertheless, their sweet, polite approach and my willing participation produced another moment of friendly connection. 
And by “participation” I don’t mean that I showed up that night at "Cube". But I might have.

After the ferry ride we ate lunch on the treed patio of The Rectory, just off the boardwalk on Ward’s Island. The server was not only efficient but playful, telling us that we had chosen the “ghost table”. Somehow the table where we sat keeps sending orders and bills to the cash register computer program. We laughed with her and ordered a luxurious meal, celebrating our 40 odd (and I do mean odd) years of marriage. 

Imagine the Maitre D’s chagrin when I motioned her over to show her the black hair I’d found in my hummus. She gasped with apologies, snatching away my plate and asking if I’d like a replacement. Since I’d already eaten about as much of the appetizer as I wanted, I thanked her but refused. Our server came to ask if I’d like some apple-squash soup instead. Oh well, now… YUM. As we lingered in the lake's breeze, my husband with his beer and I with my thrifty one glass of House white, the Maitre D’ arrived with a bottle to refill my wine. Bonus.

After lunch we wandered around the leafy lanes between charming cottages until the ferry arrived to take us back to the city.

It was one of those days when all you can do is sigh with delight, smile blissfully, and whisper “Thankyou!” 

Billy Bishop and Me

Toronto City Council is deciding whether to allow Porter Airlines to expand Billy Bishop Airport for the use of bigger jet planes. Bishop is a small airport at one end of a cherished island park and a charming community near downtown Toronto. Our huge Pearson International Airport is on the city’s outskirts.

For those of you who don’t know Toronto, the city fronts on the shore of magnificent Lake Ontario at the place where two great rivers empty, the Don and the Humber. 

Just across from the downtown lakefront is an arc of treed islands accessible by ferry. Many decades ago a small airport was built on these islands amidst much controversy. Now Porter is fighting to make a yet bigger intrusion into this idyllic  lakeside space.

Needless to say, there is opposition from those who care more about environmental improvement and human wellbeing than about travel speed and increasing wealth.

I filled in the City’s survey here http://cityoftoronto.fluidsurveys.com/s/BBTCA/

Please consider doing the same.

When I read the survey’s page about possible health effects of the airport expansion it struck me that while there was mention of increased noise, air pollution and traffic injuries, nothing was said about an even deeper impact.

Our current definition of health includes what we call “wholeness” or, in spiritual language, “holiness”, an encompassing state of well-being. We want political decisions that will encourage healthy bodies, healthy minds and healthy relationships with both our human kin and with the natural world on which our lives depend.

As I have commented on the survey, the downtown airport's noise already interrupts and taints our refreshing enjoyment of Toronto's lakeshore parks. Whether we're on the islands or using any of the boardwalks and parks near the water, it is impossible to ignore the roar of landings and takeoffs. The air traffic imposes mental distraction and adds stress, aside from its pollution of air and water.

Many of us would be willing to pay more taxes and/or reduce our consumerist demands in order that our governments not be tempted to prioritize economic growth and excessive accumulation of corporate wealth.

We who are glad to have learned that there are more important things in life than increasing our possessions need to speak out. Let us encourage our civil servants to grow the contentment quotient in our neighbourhoods instead of just the tax base.

In a time of violent confrontations and many suicides, maybe city planners and political advisors should ask citizens “What could be done to increase peace and joy for you and your family?”

Music Video Awards and a Weird Word.

One simple word can raise a flurry of thoughts and emotions. Recently I happily referred to myself as “old” and a friend reacted strongly. She is a physical trainer in her 70’s and often hears clients moan that they’re too old to …   From experience she knows that our bodies are capable of more than we think, if, barring illness, we keep active even into old age and stop thinking of ourselves as past our prime.

I understand her negative response, but because my focus is not on physical fitness, the word “old” has different connotations for me. Now that I’m an elder, I think of the phrase, “wise old owl”, and fight against our culture’s fixation on youth. Same word, different connotations.

I write this post after watching news about the pornographic performances at the 2013 Music Video Awards and reading this rhetorical question from Psalm 119:9,

“How can a young person stay on the path of purity?” 

Now there’s a problematic word: “purity”. 

Where does your mind go when you hear it? Imagine the reactions if we asked  the MVA audience how they try to “stay on the path of purity”. Ours is a culture where even opera advertisers use come-ons like “lies, murders, lust and betrayal!” assuming that such language will draw audiences, not turn them away.

Can you imagine a politician during a campaign saying that they try to live purely? Purity used to be an admirable goal; now it’s an archaic value.

At the rare times we hear the word, it’s usually in discussion of sexual abstinence outside of marriage.  Such a limited meaning for purity truncates a magnificent ideal.  What if we expand the word’s meaning to suggest these characteristics: integrated, authentic, consistent, and uncontaminated? What if we think of “pure gold” or “pure drinking water”? 

It was disappointing to hear a Christian minister base a sermon on a vulgar, crude musical (her words) that she had seen. Even as she joked about the congregation not telling their friends that their minister had said they should buy tickets, it was clear that she had no regret or shame about enjoying the performance. She valued the strengths of the production despite its impurity. True, sometimes we have no choice but to search through life's garbage for meaning, but why choose it for entertainment?  It sounded as if she were dismissing the wise biblical advice to fill our minds with excellence, beauty, joy, kindness and goodness 

(ex. Galatians 5 and Philippians 4). Long before modern psychology, spiritual teachers were recommending cognitive behavioural therapy: change your thoughts and you will change your feelings and behaviours.

Maybe the preacher, like others, was over-reacting to Puritanism, that uptight, “holier than thou” rigidity that looks down its nose at others. They assume that a steady commitment to high values always breeds snobbish disapproval of anyone who doesn’t measure up to those values. To the contrary, Jesus himself criticized such pharisaic attitudes. He befriended swindlers and adulterers, calling them to God’s love.  He would definitely have befriended all of the performers at the MVA’s.

However, he clearly did not chuckle at people’s self-destructive sin or follow their example. He urged them (us) to change direction toward the path of wholeness or purity. A desire for Christ-like integrity  (what the bible calls “righteousness”) need not imply an unhealthy wish to be better than other people. 

The question we started with above was written centuries before Jesus, part of the Jewish tradition he followed. 

How can a person stay on the path of purity, the path of humility, confidence, service and courage, the path where one aligns with humanity’s best and trusts God to do what we cannot? The poet’s own answer to his rhetorical question is that, young or old, we “stay on the path of purity by living according to God’s word”.  We listen for God’s wisdom in sacred books, in human experience, in Nature’s wonders and within us. 

Pure brilliance.