The Season of the Child
You thought you'd aged - but oh, forsooth,
you never had to cede your youth
or live your life wound up so tight
that you could seldom feel delight.
So as the days grow dark and drear
just lighten up - be of good cheer!
Light up your face - put on a smile.
Lighten your load; relax a while.
Go take a walk, admire the lights
and count the stars on moonlit nights.
Enlighten self and be less blind,
and see you never left behind
that impish, awe-filled inner child,
and for this season she'll run wild.
She'll help you bake, and decorate!
(And no - her taste is not sedate.)
Pipe cleaner stars adorn the tree,
bright coloured lights glow merrily
and hand cut snowflakes windows grace -
there's cheerful chaos everyplace.
You thought you'd aged? Well - no, not quite.
Your inner child showed you the light
and from her laughing mouth came sound
of words that turned your Yuletide 'round
when in poetic, childish verse
she helped your darkening thoughts disperse.
"Just lighten up!" you heard her scold,
"It's Christmastime - don't act so old!
Come play with me", she said, and smiled.
"Embrace the season of the child."
by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December 14th, 2015
In last year's Christmas post you met my former alter ego. "Holiday Dreams Sharon" was a bit hard to contend with at times. She was moody and intense and a bit obsessive about "Making Christmas Happen". (And that's exactly the way she saw that phrase in her head - a capitalized edict - the first subtitle in extensive inner tome - the one entitled "How Christmas NEEDS to Be.") I don't want to slam her, because "Holiday Dreams Sharon" did a pretty good job of making a nice Christmas. She just didn't always succeed in her efforts to have a nice Christmas. She was too concerned with the details to see the entire picture clearly, and I'm glad to report that my efforts to re-brand that particular doll have been largely successful.
This year, as the holidays got underway, we were knee deep in a kitchen renovation, so for the sake of my sanity I avoided any marathon baking efforts, and made a few less items. Because my days were less harried and my evenings were more free I had time to join my son on evening walks. Enjoying Christmas lights is something we've always had in common. When my boys were toddlers, I'd bundle them onto a toboggan and pull them around the neighbourhood to enjoy the lights. When they got older, we'd walk together in the evenings. But sometime before we moved to the big city of Kitchener the walks stopped. They were older and preferred to spend time with friends, and after being repeatedly warned off walking alone I ceased taking evening walks - and I missed them. I missed the hush and stillness of walks in moonlight - especially at Christmastime.
And so, this year I began joining my now grown son on his evening ambles. He'd preface these outings by stating that it was more about the two of us getting some exercise - especially on the wet, gray, dreary days that kept us inside too often through a bleak December. However, the facts disputed that claim:
- We'd both offer commentary on virtually every light display we saw;
- We'd stop to watch the projectors shift their patterns on residential canvasses; and
- We couldn't pass by any of those colour-changing lights without stopping to watch them run through their entire repertoire before moving on.
(We probably made a few neighbours nervously worry about strangers who appeared to be "casing the joint" - we're sorry about that.)
One night I turned to him and thanked him for hanging onto some of the same bits of "inner child" that I had; I told him how nice it is to walk with someone else who smiles every time they see a chipmunk (or bunny) and who, like me, gets a kick out of Christmas lights. We agreed that too many people don't take enough time to walk, let alone observe what they walk past, and lamented the little things they rush past and miss.
He helped me cover our windows in home-made snowflakes (a family tradition) - real six-sided ones as opposed to the pretty, but inaccurate paper doilies that people call snowflakes and stick in their windows. (Okay - so I'm still a little anal retentive about a few things, and in my defense I've given more than one "How to Make a Snowflake" tutorial in my time.) My husband and mother helped the two of us get our Christmas trees up and trimmed. Christmas baking got done, and an abbreviated list of cards sent out - late. The world didn't end.
About a week before Christmas I began shopping, and it was finished, including stocking stuffers, in three quick trips. Christmas Eve found me reading a book while husband and son frantically wrapped their gifts. (Well, not that frantically - since we don't buy all that much and reuse the same gift bags and tags year after year.) I will candidly admit to feeling a bit smug about being well finished with all of my wrapping by that point. I'd never experienced such a peaceful Christmas Eve, and I relished that quiet time.
By ten thirty, I was toddling off to bed, book in hand, and I decided that I may as well save a bit on the energy bill and unplug all the Christmas lights. After all, I'd be the first one up and could plug them all in again before the others woke. (Background information: family tradition states that the lights can be left on, all night, on one night alone - Christmas Eve.) But not ten minutes later, my oldest son came down the stairs from his lair, and the Christmas tree lights got plugged in again. Then I heard the front door open and saw the exterior lights came back on before he fled to his sanctuary once more.
Snickering to myself I went into the bedroom and told my husband what had transpired - and the next day relished telling the tale to younger son and his wife when we Skyped. Yes, we all had a chuckle at older son's dogmatic attitude toward maintaining a time-honoured tradition - and I called him on his previous attempts to downplay his love of Christmas lights. Now in his mid-twenties, he's been "outed" as a light lover. Much teasing ensued...
But since then I've decided that my son was onto something when he plugged in those lights again. He was honouring his inner child by upholding family tradition. Without saying a word, his actions clearly said, "For this one night, let there be light!" (And to heck with the hydro bill!) And the more I think about it, the more onboard I am with that train of thought.
The older we get, the more staid we're apt to become. That goofy kid inside most of us shows up less and less often. In our quest to be mature and responsible we unplug our "lights" too often. We're more concerned with the energy that a good frolic might expend, and we play less. We joke less; smile less. We stress about every nickel and dime problem that comes along, and we miss taking time to admire what I'll call "The Great Light Show of Humanity" - the truly "Greatest Show on Earth!" - let alone perform in it. We are often far too miserly with all types of light and leavening.
This year I lightened up considerably. My husband remarked that he'd never seen me exhibit less "holiday stress", and I enjoyed watching Christmas Day unfold, meandering where it would without my constant direction. I'm lighter, but still on my way toward genuine enlightenment. I'm thinking it's likely that I'll see consistent improvement from here on in. Inner child's impishness is making her presence felt more often these days, and as a result my world is a brighter place.
My advice to you as the holiday season ends is simple - lighten up! If your imp made an appearance over Christmas, don't be too quick to pack it up with the Christmas ornaments. Go into the new year with a lighter step and a lighter load...
And just lighten up!
Sunday 27 December 2015
Tuesday 8 December 2015
The Elf, and Me, and My Memory Tree - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Green Elf
A tattered little green elf
hangs from my Christmas tree
and invokes my childhood self
and Tom - at two or three.
While shopping with our mother,
some task called her away -
"Stay with your little brother
for just a sec, okay?
I think perhaps we could use
an ornament or two,
so first let your brother choose
and then pick one for you."
She rushed off to do her chore,
and Tom's hand I did take
lest some trinket in the store
his little hands should break.
All the baubles on the shelf
we studiously eyed;
Tom chose the little green elf,
but I could not decide.
At last I chose a reindeer
just as our mom returned -
on her face it was clear
that her trust I had earned.
She must've known I'd be fine,
and would do as she asked,
thus I learned at eight or nine
I could rise to the task.
She had so seldom left me
to watch Tom on my own -
I did my duty bravely
by tending him alone.
On that day, so long ago
I held my brother's hand,
but it took me years to know
and really understand
how caring for another
enables us to grow;
when we tend to each other,
great happiness we know.
So though Green Elf's in tatters
he still hangs on my tree,
reminding me what matters
is love - and family.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May '08
The story is true. It was Christmastime, and my mother had taken my younger brother and I to Stedman's Department Store so she could make some holiday purchases. It all unfolded more or less as I told the story in the poem, though I can't clearly remember her exact words, and I'm betting they didn't rhyme. She didn't go far, in fact, as I recall she was within sight of us the whole time. (I wanted to clarify that, just in case anyone out there tried to accuse my mom of negligence.) She was probably gone less than five minutes too, but to a child who was so wary of strangers that I once started crying because my mother wandered four feet from me in a store, and as a result I tugged on some strange lady's coat instead of hers, it was a big deal to be separated from her. Those few minutes seemed like a long time.
The fact that I was left with my brother made me feel brave - or maybe it just brought out my always pragmatic nature. I mean, who wants to deal with a crying little brother when you're stressed out yourself? The right course of action seemed obvious - do as I was asked, keep Tom amused, and trust that my mother wasn't about to abandon us in Stedman's.
Well, it turns out Mom loved us enough to claim us again, and I learned that she trusted me enough to know I'd follow her instructions. Plus, we got a cool green elf and an odd little plastic reindeer to hang on the Christmas tree!
Fast forward a few decades...
I'm married now, and we've got a little four foot Christmas tree that we usually set up on a table. But we didn't bother with it the year before because my oldest son was a toddler, and with a newborn in the house I just didn't have time to keep him away from a tree. It's just a cheap little tree I bought at Canadian Tire when I was single - sparse of branches, and with more than a passing resemblance to Charlie Brown's famous tree, but I like it, and missed seeing it the year before. This year my sons are two and one, and I dig it out and decorate it with two toddlers in tow. They are fascinated with the shiny balls and lights, and dance around the living room yelling, "Pretty! Pretty!!"
I'm getting irritated the first time they knock it over, and I'm ready to pack it all up again when they upend it a second time. My husband comes home to crying kids and a frustrated wife sweeping up broken ornaments, and packing up the ones that survived. Through my own sniffles I tell him we'll have to wait another year or two to put up a tree, but (ever a problem solver) he comes up with a better plan.
We leave one small strand of lights wound tightly around the tree, and we sternly tell the boys that if they touch it again we'll take the lights away. Todd buys a few unbreakable ornaments and I find some candy canes, cut some circular pictures out of old Christmas cards and make a tinfoil star for the top of the tree.The Christmas tree is saved, the boys are happy, and I'm grateful that we brainstormed a solution - and pretty thrilled every time I see the boys standing in awe beside the lit tree.
Years pass. My sons love the tree, and we continue to use many of those unbreakable ornaments, although I gradually add more fragile items into the mix too. The tinfoil star is finally replaced with an exact replica, because it reminds me that love finds a way - even when everything seems to be crashing down around me.
Fast forward another eight or nine years. My father died the year before, and my mother decides to sell our family home. Her first year in an apartment, she opts to put up a small tree rather than bother with the six footer that her and Dad had bought after I left home. (I think she also feels a little sorry for us - we continue to put up that four foot tree, and she figures that left to our own devices our boys will be forever deprived of a larger one.) Anyhow, she gives us her six foot tree and a big bag full of decorations that my family used when I was young...
...and there he is - Green Elf! I get a bit teary when I see him, and tell my husband and sons about the day my brother adopted him.
The green elf has been a big part of our Christmases since then. We usually hang him from the cheap dollar store star that adorns the big tree. The boys have an affectionate nickname for him that I won't share, since it's a bit rude. He's usually one of the first things we put on our tree. The plastic reindeer goes on the tree every year too. Some might think it's tacky, but it also reminds me of the day I first looked out for my brother in the wider world. The reindeer also serves as a reminder that we're all a bit like a timid deer at some points in life - little Bambi's who look for a friend to help us cope with whatever tragedies and trials befall us.
Whenever my younger brother visits us at Christmastime he looks for Green Elf. He doesn't remember the day he chose it at Stedman's - I had to tell him the story the first year he visited our house and saw it on Mom and Dad's old tree. I asked him once if he wanted the elf, since he chose it, but he told me to keep it. So I will. (But I might bequeath it to him in my will - if my sons don't lay claim to it first!)
The elf reminds me of all my stories of Christmases past - of years of plenty and years of financial hardship. He reminds me of my childhood home and the smell of turkey cooking when we woke up on Christmas morning. He reminds me of Christmas Eve variety shows with my brothers and sisters, of Christmas Day parties at our house, of baking with my mom and sisters and listening to my parents' favorite Perry Como Christmas album. He reminds me of the mittens and slippers my grandmother knit us every year as gifts. He reminds me of all the love, laughter, friends and family activities that were always a part of my childhood Christmases.
He also reminds me of all the Christmases he's now shared with a second generation; of me getting up before my boys to turn on the Christmas tree lights, of the boys excitedly peeking into their stockings and eagerly anticipating cinnamon buns for breakfast, and later unwrapping their gifts. When I look at that raggedy little green guy swinging from a star, I know that Christmas is a time of wonder, awe and love - whether you're the parent or the child.
Someday, when both my sons have left home, I'll remember how, as tall teenagers, my sons would take turns reaching up to hang Green Elf from that star, where he could watch over all of us -
And all my Christmas memories will come rushing back.
A tattered little green elf
hangs from my Christmas tree
and invokes my childhood self
and Tom - at two or three.
While shopping with our mother,
some task called her away -
"Stay with your little brother
for just a sec, okay?
I think perhaps we could use
an ornament or two,
so first let your brother choose
and then pick one for you."
She rushed off to do her chore,
and Tom's hand I did take
lest some trinket in the store
his little hands should break.
All the baubles on the shelf
we studiously eyed;
Tom chose the little green elf,
but I could not decide.
At last I chose a reindeer
just as our mom returned -
on her face it was clear
that her trust I had earned.
She must've known I'd be fine,
and would do as she asked,
thus I learned at eight or nine
I could rise to the task.
She had so seldom left me
to watch Tom on my own -
I did my duty bravely
by tending him alone.
On that day, so long ago
I held my brother's hand,
but it took me years to know
and really understand
how caring for another
enables us to grow;
when we tend to each other,
great happiness we know.
So though Green Elf's in tatters
he still hangs on my tree,
reminding me what matters
is love - and family.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May '08
The story is true. It was Christmastime, and my mother had taken my younger brother and I to Stedman's Department Store so she could make some holiday purchases. It all unfolded more or less as I told the story in the poem, though I can't clearly remember her exact words, and I'm betting they didn't rhyme. She didn't go far, in fact, as I recall she was within sight of us the whole time. (I wanted to clarify that, just in case anyone out there tried to accuse my mom of negligence.) She was probably gone less than five minutes too, but to a child who was so wary of strangers that I once started crying because my mother wandered four feet from me in a store, and as a result I tugged on some strange lady's coat instead of hers, it was a big deal to be separated from her. Those few minutes seemed like a long time.
The fact that I was left with my brother made me feel brave - or maybe it just brought out my always pragmatic nature. I mean, who wants to deal with a crying little brother when you're stressed out yourself? The right course of action seemed obvious - do as I was asked, keep Tom amused, and trust that my mother wasn't about to abandon us in Stedman's.
Well, it turns out Mom loved us enough to claim us again, and I learned that she trusted me enough to know I'd follow her instructions. Plus, we got a cool green elf and an odd little plastic reindeer to hang on the Christmas tree!
Fast forward a few decades...
I'm married now, and we've got a little four foot Christmas tree that we usually set up on a table. But we didn't bother with it the year before because my oldest son was a toddler, and with a newborn in the house I just didn't have time to keep him away from a tree. It's just a cheap little tree I bought at Canadian Tire when I was single - sparse of branches, and with more than a passing resemblance to Charlie Brown's famous tree, but I like it, and missed seeing it the year before. This year my sons are two and one, and I dig it out and decorate it with two toddlers in tow. They are fascinated with the shiny balls and lights, and dance around the living room yelling, "Pretty! Pretty!!"
I'm getting irritated the first time they knock it over, and I'm ready to pack it all up again when they upend it a second time. My husband comes home to crying kids and a frustrated wife sweeping up broken ornaments, and packing up the ones that survived. Through my own sniffles I tell him we'll have to wait another year or two to put up a tree, but (ever a problem solver) he comes up with a better plan.
We leave one small strand of lights wound tightly around the tree, and we sternly tell the boys that if they touch it again we'll take the lights away. Todd buys a few unbreakable ornaments and I find some candy canes, cut some circular pictures out of old Christmas cards and make a tinfoil star for the top of the tree.The Christmas tree is saved, the boys are happy, and I'm grateful that we brainstormed a solution - and pretty thrilled every time I see the boys standing in awe beside the lit tree.
Years pass. My sons love the tree, and we continue to use many of those unbreakable ornaments, although I gradually add more fragile items into the mix too. The tinfoil star is finally replaced with an exact replica, because it reminds me that love finds a way - even when everything seems to be crashing down around me.
Fast forward another eight or nine years. My father died the year before, and my mother decides to sell our family home. Her first year in an apartment, she opts to put up a small tree rather than bother with the six footer that her and Dad had bought after I left home. (I think she also feels a little sorry for us - we continue to put up that four foot tree, and she figures that left to our own devices our boys will be forever deprived of a larger one.) Anyhow, she gives us her six foot tree and a big bag full of decorations that my family used when I was young...
...and there he is - Green Elf! I get a bit teary when I see him, and tell my husband and sons about the day my brother adopted him.
The green elf has been a big part of our Christmases since then. We usually hang him from the cheap dollar store star that adorns the big tree. The boys have an affectionate nickname for him that I won't share, since it's a bit rude. He's usually one of the first things we put on our tree. The plastic reindeer goes on the tree every year too. Some might think it's tacky, but it also reminds me of the day I first looked out for my brother in the wider world. The reindeer also serves as a reminder that we're all a bit like a timid deer at some points in life - little Bambi's who look for a friend to help us cope with whatever tragedies and trials befall us.
Whenever my younger brother visits us at Christmastime he looks for Green Elf. He doesn't remember the day he chose it at Stedman's - I had to tell him the story the first year he visited our house and saw it on Mom and Dad's old tree. I asked him once if he wanted the elf, since he chose it, but he told me to keep it. So I will. (But I might bequeath it to him in my will - if my sons don't lay claim to it first!)
The elf reminds me of all my stories of Christmases past - of years of plenty and years of financial hardship. He reminds me of my childhood home and the smell of turkey cooking when we woke up on Christmas morning. He reminds me of Christmas Eve variety shows with my brothers and sisters, of Christmas Day parties at our house, of baking with my mom and sisters and listening to my parents' favorite Perry Como Christmas album. He reminds me of the mittens and slippers my grandmother knit us every year as gifts. He reminds me of all the love, laughter, friends and family activities that were always a part of my childhood Christmases.
He also reminds me of all the Christmases he's now shared with a second generation; of me getting up before my boys to turn on the Christmas tree lights, of the boys excitedly peeking into their stockings and eagerly anticipating cinnamon buns for breakfast, and later unwrapping their gifts. When I look at that raggedy little green guy swinging from a star, I know that Christmas is a time of wonder, awe and love - whether you're the parent or the child.
Someday, when both my sons have left home, I'll remember how, as tall teenagers, my sons would take turns reaching up to hang Green Elf from that star, where he could watch over all of us -
And all my Christmas memories will come rushing back.
Thursday 26 November 2015
In Praise of Bigger Ponds: An Ode to Inclusiveness - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Beyond the Pond:
A small fish in a shallow pool
in safety with her own -
a little neon, in a school
who'd never swim alone.
Her colour didn't quite delight
as much as she perceived,
and she was never quite as bright
as she herself believed.
It's easy to believe you shine
when basking in the glow
of other fishes of your kind
who mirror what you show,
but in her little fishy head
she couldn't comprehend
the fish who swam alone instead
because they didn't blend.
Plain golden fish she had to shun -
they simply didn't gleam!
Although their scales shone like the sun
they held not her esteem.
And to the mollies, black as ink,
she'd never give a glance -
but swish on by without a blink -
with her they stood no chance.
We must excuse the fishys small
whose eyes are very blind,
and haven't tolerance at all
for those not of their kind.
But humans, blessed with heart and mind,
in greater depths should swim -
and when we do we're sure to find
our own light grows less dim.
A little light illuminates
what others have to give -
a ray of hope and fear abates
and optimism lives.
Why would we want the world to be
one single, smallish pond -
when there's so much diversity
in all the depths beyond?
Those who choose friends with faces fair,
ignoring all the rest,
may swim the shallows with great flair -
but won't swim with the best.
They'll stay within their school elite
and with their own sort glide -
but swimming in their shallows sweet,
ignore the ocean wide.
by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, 2013
We hear a lot about tolerance and inclusiveness these days, as many in North America express concern over the influx of refugees who will soon emigrate to this continent. There's nothing wrong with being concerned and wanting to know that our newest citizens are decent people - and that there aren't dangerous pretenders hiding within their ranks. I get that fear - why should we be casual about allowing anyone to come and enjoy our freedoms without making sure that they're who they claim to be? We can hope that they're truly grateful to come here, and willing to demonstrate that by abiding by our laws and living productive lives that will repay our hospitality. I think that everyone who wants shelter here, from any part of the globe and of any ethnicity, should want it badly enough to undergo a bit of screening. I think that makes me more of a pragmatist than a bigot.
We hear a lot about bullying in schools. My kids went through a period where they were bullied at school. It's not easy to be the new kids at a cliquish school - especially when you arrive on the scene with a built in best friend (in the form of a brother) and the other kids see that as a reason to ignore you. And once they've gotten used to ignoring you, it becomes that much easier to say nothing, and do nothing, when a few of your number become unkind - maybe even aggressively so. In fact, even relatively nice kids can join in the nastiness when several of their peers demonstrate negative behaviors.
Adults are not really any better than their children. It's far too easy to stay within a comfortable group of old friends who have a similar world view as you - so they vote the way you do and worship the way you do. You can avoid pesky arguments that might cause discomfort (or hard feelings) because you so often see things the same way. When a new person comes into your peripheral vision it can be a lot easier to turn your head slightly than to smile and invite them into your group. It can be hard to be welcoming and inclusive in a small pond where your school of fish all have stripes in the same places. The new fish might not look the same or swim at the same pace. He, or she, might not fit into the group dynamic. They just might not be "your kind of fish". You can even tell yourself that you'll both be better off if you save yourself the effort - friendship between you probably just isn't in the cards.
We often hear about women and homosexuals and people of different races, religions and nationalities being shunned and ignored, or even hassled, by those who lack tolerance. A lot of intolerance stems from ignorance - these people have never met a woman who worked your job before; never had a homosexual couple move in next door. They might've never met anybody else who came from your native country. I was about six when I first laid eyes on anyone with skin darker than the Ojibway peoples who lived in the area surrounding my home town. I'm embarrassed now when I remember how I stared out the window at a neighbourhood woman's two foster children. It wasn't a hateful glare at all - I was just a child amazed by the sight of children in a brand new shade - and I was having my eyes opened to the fact that the world was populated with a whole variety of humanity that I'd never grasped before.
Sometimes ignorance takes an uglier turn and some will think it's funny to harass, or to bully, a person who feels vulnerable - as any woman who's ever walked past a construction site alone probably knows. What woman alone doesn't feel a bit threatened by catcalls at dusk from a group of burly men? Nobody enjoys being singled out because they're a woman, among a group of moronic men. Nobody ever likes to be seen as the odd man out - the "different" one in a group of people who have become far too comfortably entrenched in their sense of sameness.
Sometimes we are a little like the fishy in my poem - we're very content in our smallish pond with other fish just like us. We surround ourselves with people who have more or less the same colour of skin, the same religious or political ideologies, and more or less the same socio-economic standing. We hang with our own pack, our own "class of people" - our own kind. And we miss out on a lot.
Sometimes our little ponds seem so safe that we forget about those who are floundering in the deep. We could help them if we were willing to swim a little farther, but that seems awfully scary, so we're content to let other people do the rescuing. Other times we delude ourselves with the idea that nobody else could live in a pond as nice as the one we're in. We might think our pool is too nice for the likes of "them". The pool they came from wasn't nearly as nice as ours - why should we share? We're mistaken, of course, because no matter how nice our little pond is, there's always more "out there" in the great beyond that is amazing. And we're missing it.
Life in the ocean is scarier than life in the shallows. When you swim deeper you need to learn how to breathe all over again. You need to learn to trust your instincts and make informed decisions, (or at least educated guesses) about who's your friend and who isn't. You need to have a well developed sense of direction so you don't get lost in all that space. There are sharks in those waters just waiting to chew you up. The are octopi down there waiting to squeeze the life out of you. It's threatening enough to make your average fish stay safely in the shallow pool - until it begins to acknowledge that the pond had danger zones too. It night even come to the realization that it was a bit dull to swim the same way, and with the same fish for so long.
Suddenly the realization hits - there are so many kinds of weird and wonderful fishes in the ocean! There are beautiful coral reefs and sea anemones and starfish down there! Every day can bring fresh adventure and increased knowledge when you learn to appreciate the vast array of ocean life around you, and you become willing to open your eyes and really see how much there is to appreciate, admire and explore.
Enough of the ocean analogies - we all know where I'm going with this. Life is too short, and too precious, to spend your days the same way, and with the same people all the time. I'm not saying we should abandon our families and best friends and trek into the Himalayas alone - I'm afraid of heights and no journey would be as fun without the people I love most beside me. But I'm ready to open my heart to a few new friends. I'm ready to acknowledge that some of the best people I've met have been very different from me - they've believed different things and lived different lifestyles than me. Some have been wealthier than me, and some have been poorer. Most of these very different but amazing people I met by happenstance - chance meetings that occurred somewhere between our two comfort zones. These people are proof of how lives are enriched when we swim a little deeper.
I'm ready to stop worrying about who lives where or with who, or believes what, before I befriend people. I'm ready embark on exploratory journeys; to see different sights, to go new places and shine a light into unfamiliar depths. I know that there will be "old school" friends who will think I'm off my rocker to move beyond the pond, but I hope they'll love me anyway. I hope that someday a whole lot more people in this world will see that we can open a door to new friends, new beliefs and new experiences without closing the door on familiarity and old friends and shared history. I hope that more of humanity will understand that hearts have an infinite capacity for expansion and individuals have endless potential for growth.
We are all more than we believe we are. We are all capable of great kindness. We can move beyond any given pond and swim a little deeper. We can plunge into oceans of understanding, and explore the depths of tolerance and of love.
A small fish in a shallow pool
in safety with her own -
a little neon, in a school
who'd never swim alone.
Her colour didn't quite delight
as much as she perceived,
and she was never quite as bright
as she herself believed.
It's easy to believe you shine
when basking in the glow
of other fishes of your kind
who mirror what you show,
but in her little fishy head
she couldn't comprehend
the fish who swam alone instead
because they didn't blend.
Plain golden fish she had to shun -
they simply didn't gleam!
Although their scales shone like the sun
they held not her esteem.
And to the mollies, black as ink,
she'd never give a glance -
but swish on by without a blink -
with her they stood no chance.
We must excuse the fishys small
whose eyes are very blind,
and haven't tolerance at all
for those not of their kind.
But humans, blessed with heart and mind,
in greater depths should swim -
and when we do we're sure to find
our own light grows less dim.
A little light illuminates
what others have to give -
a ray of hope and fear abates
and optimism lives.
Why would we want the world to be
one single, smallish pond -
when there's so much diversity
in all the depths beyond?
Those who choose friends with faces fair,
ignoring all the rest,
may swim the shallows with great flair -
but won't swim with the best.
They'll stay within their school elite
and with their own sort glide -
but swimming in their shallows sweet,
ignore the ocean wide.
by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, 2013
We hear a lot about tolerance and inclusiveness these days, as many in North America express concern over the influx of refugees who will soon emigrate to this continent. There's nothing wrong with being concerned and wanting to know that our newest citizens are decent people - and that there aren't dangerous pretenders hiding within their ranks. I get that fear - why should we be casual about allowing anyone to come and enjoy our freedoms without making sure that they're who they claim to be? We can hope that they're truly grateful to come here, and willing to demonstrate that by abiding by our laws and living productive lives that will repay our hospitality. I think that everyone who wants shelter here, from any part of the globe and of any ethnicity, should want it badly enough to undergo a bit of screening. I think that makes me more of a pragmatist than a bigot.
We hear a lot about bullying in schools. My kids went through a period where they were bullied at school. It's not easy to be the new kids at a cliquish school - especially when you arrive on the scene with a built in best friend (in the form of a brother) and the other kids see that as a reason to ignore you. And once they've gotten used to ignoring you, it becomes that much easier to say nothing, and do nothing, when a few of your number become unkind - maybe even aggressively so. In fact, even relatively nice kids can join in the nastiness when several of their peers demonstrate negative behaviors.
Adults are not really any better than their children. It's far too easy to stay within a comfortable group of old friends who have a similar world view as you - so they vote the way you do and worship the way you do. You can avoid pesky arguments that might cause discomfort (or hard feelings) because you so often see things the same way. When a new person comes into your peripheral vision it can be a lot easier to turn your head slightly than to smile and invite them into your group. It can be hard to be welcoming and inclusive in a small pond where your school of fish all have stripes in the same places. The new fish might not look the same or swim at the same pace. He, or she, might not fit into the group dynamic. They just might not be "your kind of fish". You can even tell yourself that you'll both be better off if you save yourself the effort - friendship between you probably just isn't in the cards.
We often hear about women and homosexuals and people of different races, religions and nationalities being shunned and ignored, or even hassled, by those who lack tolerance. A lot of intolerance stems from ignorance - these people have never met a woman who worked your job before; never had a homosexual couple move in next door. They might've never met anybody else who came from your native country. I was about six when I first laid eyes on anyone with skin darker than the Ojibway peoples who lived in the area surrounding my home town. I'm embarrassed now when I remember how I stared out the window at a neighbourhood woman's two foster children. It wasn't a hateful glare at all - I was just a child amazed by the sight of children in a brand new shade - and I was having my eyes opened to the fact that the world was populated with a whole variety of humanity that I'd never grasped before.
Sometimes ignorance takes an uglier turn and some will think it's funny to harass, or to bully, a person who feels vulnerable - as any woman who's ever walked past a construction site alone probably knows. What woman alone doesn't feel a bit threatened by catcalls at dusk from a group of burly men? Nobody enjoys being singled out because they're a woman, among a group of moronic men. Nobody ever likes to be seen as the odd man out - the "different" one in a group of people who have become far too comfortably entrenched in their sense of sameness.
Sometimes we are a little like the fishy in my poem - we're very content in our smallish pond with other fish just like us. We surround ourselves with people who have more or less the same colour of skin, the same religious or political ideologies, and more or less the same socio-economic standing. We hang with our own pack, our own "class of people" - our own kind. And we miss out on a lot.
Sometimes our little ponds seem so safe that we forget about those who are floundering in the deep. We could help them if we were willing to swim a little farther, but that seems awfully scary, so we're content to let other people do the rescuing. Other times we delude ourselves with the idea that nobody else could live in a pond as nice as the one we're in. We might think our pool is too nice for the likes of "them". The pool they came from wasn't nearly as nice as ours - why should we share? We're mistaken, of course, because no matter how nice our little pond is, there's always more "out there" in the great beyond that is amazing. And we're missing it.
Life in the ocean is scarier than life in the shallows. When you swim deeper you need to learn how to breathe all over again. You need to learn to trust your instincts and make informed decisions, (or at least educated guesses) about who's your friend and who isn't. You need to have a well developed sense of direction so you don't get lost in all that space. There are sharks in those waters just waiting to chew you up. The are octopi down there waiting to squeeze the life out of you. It's threatening enough to make your average fish stay safely in the shallow pool - until it begins to acknowledge that the pond had danger zones too. It night even come to the realization that it was a bit dull to swim the same way, and with the same fish for so long.
Suddenly the realization hits - there are so many kinds of weird and wonderful fishes in the ocean! There are beautiful coral reefs and sea anemones and starfish down there! Every day can bring fresh adventure and increased knowledge when you learn to appreciate the vast array of ocean life around you, and you become willing to open your eyes and really see how much there is to appreciate, admire and explore.
Enough of the ocean analogies - we all know where I'm going with this. Life is too short, and too precious, to spend your days the same way, and with the same people all the time. I'm not saying we should abandon our families and best friends and trek into the Himalayas alone - I'm afraid of heights and no journey would be as fun without the people I love most beside me. But I'm ready to open my heart to a few new friends. I'm ready to acknowledge that some of the best people I've met have been very different from me - they've believed different things and lived different lifestyles than me. Some have been wealthier than me, and some have been poorer. Most of these very different but amazing people I met by happenstance - chance meetings that occurred somewhere between our two comfort zones. These people are proof of how lives are enriched when we swim a little deeper.
I'm ready to stop worrying about who lives where or with who, or believes what, before I befriend people. I'm ready embark on exploratory journeys; to see different sights, to go new places and shine a light into unfamiliar depths. I know that there will be "old school" friends who will think I'm off my rocker to move beyond the pond, but I hope they'll love me anyway. I hope that someday a whole lot more people in this world will see that we can open a door to new friends, new beliefs and new experiences without closing the door on familiarity and old friends and shared history. I hope that more of humanity will understand that hearts have an infinite capacity for expansion and individuals have endless potential for growth.
We are all more than we believe we are. We are all capable of great kindness. We can move beyond any given pond and swim a little deeper. We can plunge into oceans of understanding, and explore the depths of tolerance and of love.
Tuesday 10 November 2015
Remember! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Remembrance Day:
I hesitate to contemplate
atrocities of war -
it starts with hate that won't abate;
results in death and gore.
The truth I dread - boys fought and bled
in fights they didn't start.
They seldom fled but died instead
and broke their mothers' hearts.
Those who returned brought lessons learned
from places they had been.
Vict'ry was earned, but many yearned
to unsee all they'd seen.
They'd witnessed hell as comrades fell
and battle raged around.
They knew blood's smell and heard death's knell
as bodies hit the ground.
And when wars end men can't pretend
their memories don't haunt -
though bodies mend, nightmares don't end,
and fears will always taunt.
War's ugly toll - more than a knoll
of earth beneath a cross;
none can control cost to a soul
or mitigate the cost.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 11, 2014
My father was a veteran of the second World War. He didn't like to talk a lot about his experiences as a soldier. He didn't tattoo his arms as a reminder of his military service, and he didn't clutter our house with memorabilia and pictures. He was just another scared kid who signed up because he felt that it was his duty to do so. There was a war to be fought, and they needed able bodies to fight it.
I've always been grateful for those who were willing to fight for our country during that great and terrible war. When freedoms are threatened, it is good to know that there are those who will stand up and fight. As a child I attended a public school that was named after a war hero. William Merrifield was awarded the Victoria Cross for "courage above and beyond the call of duty", so Remembrance Day was a big deal at my school. Every year William's story would be recounted at an assembly. We'd lay wreaths and sing, "Oh God Our Help in Ages Past" and someone would recite "In Flanders Fields". It really mattered to me that we were given time to digest the horrors of war, to express gratitude for those who fought, and to remember.
We ought to take time to remember more often - to consider not only the wars that are over, but the ongoing battles being fought throughout the world. We should often pause and stand for a moment of respectful silence in appreciation for all of those who devote their time and energy to the protection of others. Then, we should put on our combat boots and offer assistance - or at the very least some kindness and compassion. We should say a silent prayer of gratitude each day that we are able to live in a land of freedom and abundance, and should add a few words of supplication for those who suffer under the reign of oppressive regimes and ideologies.
We should try to often consider the personal battles that those around us wage - homelessness, poverty, abuse, mental illness; discrimination - those are just a few. Every day we pass people on the street who are fighting in ways we can't comprehend.
My life has been one of ease. I was raised in a good, safe home - fed, sheltered and loved. I was raised in a country where women have rights. I can show my face in public and participate in society in any way I see fit. I can vote in elections and worship, or not, as I desire. Women here can be educated and pursue any career that they wish. I was raised in the right place, and at the right time, to enjoy liberty to an unprecedented extent.
A hundred years ago, life was different for women. Very few of them played active roles in politics or had careers. Educating a daughter wasn't a high priority. When my mother left high school after the tenth grade, she was told that there was no reason for a girl to get more education than that unless she intended to become a teacher or a nurse. Western society has come a long way since then - at least where recognizing the rights of women is concerned. The word "obey" is still included in some wedding vows, but most North American females aren't expected to stay in their marriages "no matter what". Thank goodness there were women who came before me and fought battles for gender equality. I will remember them.
Progress is being made on other fronts too. In Canada, we are raised to understand that nobody should face discrimination based on their race, faith, or sexual orientation. Kids are taught in school that bullying is wrong. We are all allowed, and even encouraged, to stand up against social injustices. Thank goodness there were Martin Luther Kings, Rosa Parks and Gloria Steinems who fought the necessary battles to enlighten our society and show us the evils of discrimination. Thank goodness there were Mother Teresas and Gandhis - whose lives demonstrated piety, unselfish service, tolerance and non-violence. I will remember them.
I'm grateful to have lived to see Terry Fox run a race against the ravages of a terrible disease. He fought a good fight that brought awareness to many, and taught us about courage and persistence. While battles against disease are far from over, I'm grateful for scientists who soldier on in their searches for treatments and cures. Thirty years ago, HIV was a death sentence. Today that diagnosis doesn't induce the same feelings of hopelessness. I'm grateful that knowledge of learning disabilities, autism spectrum disorders and mental illnesses have helped us all to understand how few children are just plain "weird","stupid" or "bad". I feel ashamed when I look back and recognize how negatively I labeled some of the kids I knew when I was young and ignorant. Now I better understand the kind of battles they fought - and in an era when there was little knowledge or understanding. I will remember their struggles.
Tomorrow, as I contemplate the sacrifices made by duty-bound young men like my dad, who fought for freedom, I'll also remember those who fought for civil rights, human rights and gender equality - freedoms that we too often take for granted in our part of the world. I'll take another minute to remember how many battles are still being fought - in other nations and by other individuals. When the poppy comes off, I'll try to replace it with empathy for those who fight battles I don't see and can't understand.
Every battle that goes unacknowledged comes with a cost. Some battles end in victory, and others end in tragedy and horror. Families can be shattered, lives can be destroyed when people lose battles with foes like addiction. Lives are ended abruptly by those whose struggles with depression and mental illness feel too overwhelming. There's a lot of suffering in the world - far more than most of us can see or would wish to acknowledge. We need to be vigilant in our efforts to spot these unsung soldiers and tend to their wounds. When we fail to remember that ruthless, unrelenting battles are being waged, both obvious and unseen, our own souls pay a price. Battles that are forgotten will be fought again...and again. History repeats itself when lessons aren't learned.
Remember.
I hesitate to contemplate
atrocities of war -
it starts with hate that won't abate;
results in death and gore.
The truth I dread - boys fought and bled
in fights they didn't start.
They seldom fled but died instead
and broke their mothers' hearts.
Those who returned brought lessons learned
from places they had been.
Vict'ry was earned, but many yearned
to unsee all they'd seen.
They'd witnessed hell as comrades fell
and battle raged around.
They knew blood's smell and heard death's knell
as bodies hit the ground.
And when wars end men can't pretend
their memories don't haunt -
though bodies mend, nightmares don't end,
and fears will always taunt.
War's ugly toll - more than a knoll
of earth beneath a cross;
none can control cost to a soul
or mitigate the cost.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 11, 2014
My father was a veteran of the second World War. He didn't like to talk a lot about his experiences as a soldier. He didn't tattoo his arms as a reminder of his military service, and he didn't clutter our house with memorabilia and pictures. He was just another scared kid who signed up because he felt that it was his duty to do so. There was a war to be fought, and they needed able bodies to fight it.
I've always been grateful for those who were willing to fight for our country during that great and terrible war. When freedoms are threatened, it is good to know that there are those who will stand up and fight. As a child I attended a public school that was named after a war hero. William Merrifield was awarded the Victoria Cross for "courage above and beyond the call of duty", so Remembrance Day was a big deal at my school. Every year William's story would be recounted at an assembly. We'd lay wreaths and sing, "Oh God Our Help in Ages Past" and someone would recite "In Flanders Fields". It really mattered to me that we were given time to digest the horrors of war, to express gratitude for those who fought, and to remember.
We ought to take time to remember more often - to consider not only the wars that are over, but the ongoing battles being fought throughout the world. We should often pause and stand for a moment of respectful silence in appreciation for all of those who devote their time and energy to the protection of others. Then, we should put on our combat boots and offer assistance - or at the very least some kindness and compassion. We should say a silent prayer of gratitude each day that we are able to live in a land of freedom and abundance, and should add a few words of supplication for those who suffer under the reign of oppressive regimes and ideologies.
We should try to often consider the personal battles that those around us wage - homelessness, poverty, abuse, mental illness; discrimination - those are just a few. Every day we pass people on the street who are fighting in ways we can't comprehend.
My life has been one of ease. I was raised in a good, safe home - fed, sheltered and loved. I was raised in a country where women have rights. I can show my face in public and participate in society in any way I see fit. I can vote in elections and worship, or not, as I desire. Women here can be educated and pursue any career that they wish. I was raised in the right place, and at the right time, to enjoy liberty to an unprecedented extent.
A hundred years ago, life was different for women. Very few of them played active roles in politics or had careers. Educating a daughter wasn't a high priority. When my mother left high school after the tenth grade, she was told that there was no reason for a girl to get more education than that unless she intended to become a teacher or a nurse. Western society has come a long way since then - at least where recognizing the rights of women is concerned. The word "obey" is still included in some wedding vows, but most North American females aren't expected to stay in their marriages "no matter what". Thank goodness there were women who came before me and fought battles for gender equality. I will remember them.
Progress is being made on other fronts too. In Canada, we are raised to understand that nobody should face discrimination based on their race, faith, or sexual orientation. Kids are taught in school that bullying is wrong. We are all allowed, and even encouraged, to stand up against social injustices. Thank goodness there were Martin Luther Kings, Rosa Parks and Gloria Steinems who fought the necessary battles to enlighten our society and show us the evils of discrimination. Thank goodness there were Mother Teresas and Gandhis - whose lives demonstrated piety, unselfish service, tolerance and non-violence. I will remember them.
I'm grateful to have lived to see Terry Fox run a race against the ravages of a terrible disease. He fought a good fight that brought awareness to many, and taught us about courage and persistence. While battles against disease are far from over, I'm grateful for scientists who soldier on in their searches for treatments and cures. Thirty years ago, HIV was a death sentence. Today that diagnosis doesn't induce the same feelings of hopelessness. I'm grateful that knowledge of learning disabilities, autism spectrum disorders and mental illnesses have helped us all to understand how few children are just plain "weird","stupid" or "bad". I feel ashamed when I look back and recognize how negatively I labeled some of the kids I knew when I was young and ignorant. Now I better understand the kind of battles they fought - and in an era when there was little knowledge or understanding. I will remember their struggles.
Tomorrow, as I contemplate the sacrifices made by duty-bound young men like my dad, who fought for freedom, I'll also remember those who fought for civil rights, human rights and gender equality - freedoms that we too often take for granted in our part of the world. I'll take another minute to remember how many battles are still being fought - in other nations and by other individuals. When the poppy comes off, I'll try to replace it with empathy for those who fight battles I don't see and can't understand.
Every battle that goes unacknowledged comes with a cost. Some battles end in victory, and others end in tragedy and horror. Families can be shattered, lives can be destroyed when people lose battles with foes like addiction. Lives are ended abruptly by those whose struggles with depression and mental illness feel too overwhelming. There's a lot of suffering in the world - far more than most of us can see or would wish to acknowledge. We need to be vigilant in our efforts to spot these unsung soldiers and tend to their wounds. When we fail to remember that ruthless, unrelenting battles are being waged, both obvious and unseen, our own souls pay a price. Battles that are forgotten will be fought again...and again. History repeats itself when lessons aren't learned.
Remember.
Tuesday 27 October 2015
Duality - Dark and Light/Wrong and Right by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Duality:
No soul's entirely bad or good -
I think by most that's understood.
No one, in total, mean or kind,
we aren't so easily defined.
In each and every noble heart
there is at least one darkish part -
a spot that 's hardened by ill will
or harbours long-passed grudges still;
some part that feeds on anger oft'
and toughens up the tissues soft.
Angel and imp, each dwell inside;
one we display, and one we hide.
We all don halos when we're nice,
but demon-like adhere to vice.
Dual voices clamour to be heard,
they waken thoughts, our hearts are stirred.
And when one voice assumes the lead
we make our choice - that's who we'll heed -
but though we choose the voice most clear,
the other still rings in the ear.
Angels and demons, dark and light -
we're not all wrong, we're not all right.
From inner darkness none are free,
however diligent we be.
To shine a light on what is dark
gives each of us a tiny spark
of courage and humility
to face the ugliness we see;
to tame our demons fierce and strong
and choose a path more right than wrong.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 2010 (revised October 2015)
We exist within a culture that puts far too much stock in image, and not nearly enough in substance. Everyone notices how we look, but few will ever know us for who we really are. The prominence we afford social media in our lives has made us direct our focus outwards - to pay more attention to pictures and type than to thoughts and ideas. Few of us like to delve deeply into the psyches of others - if we did I'd have a lot more readers. In fact, a whole lot of us don't want to dig around in our own minds too deeply for fear of seeing less flattering aspects of ourselves.
The best parts of us are easy to revisit. We relive our best moments over and over again, and re-post the best photographs of ourselves for the world to see. Digging a little deeper enables us to find hidden gems among the coal. Sifting through dross is worth the effort. It helps us to unearth the ore that can become gold through the hard work of refining.
I know first hand that it is disconcerting to face the darker aspects of oneself. I have pretty thoroughly mined the depths of my soul over the years, and it isn't usually a terribly pleasant exercise. I find a lot more coal than diamonds or gold. Still, I'm grateful that I'm learning to be less afraid of the unlit places inside.. I look at it this way - you can't easily find your way out of darkness without shining a light into the abyss to figure out what you're up against. We are meant to achieve balance in life - to learn to acknowledge both the positive and negative characteristics within. None of us should be defined by our best - or worst - moments. It is all of the seemingly insignificant "in between" times that determine who we are.
Call them what you like, but we all have them - imps, demons; dragons to slay. They dwell within those dark caverns in the soul that nobody really relishes exploring. I've come to the conclusion that we need to look each one straight in the eye. Twelve step programs tell us that the first thing we need to do to overcome a problem is acknowledge that there is one. Only by facing the negative aspects of ourselves can we begin to make positive strides toward betterment.
I assert that we should get to know our "beasts" - no one should try to do battle with an unknown enemy. Sadly, our demons aren't likely to make a graceful exit from our lives, but we should try to show them who's boss - tame them a bit - and hopefully mitigate the damage they do. The objective is to get close enough to slip a harness on them or coax them into a cage, but not so close that they try to eat us. We shouldn't become so intimate with them that they begin to appear more like pets than the beasts they really are.
We shouldn't be looking to fatten them up with a good feeding - they'll trick us and try to play on our sympathies as we attempt to cage them. Always remember - demons and dragons don't generally make very good friends - they're not trustworthy. They're only good at igniting fires - and if we really want to see growth in our lives we'll need to learn more about putting out fires than starting them.
The beasts inside are ugly. We don't like to acknowledge that we accommodate such nastiness within us, but we do. We cling to prejudices and labels that are unflattering. We give in to anger, pettiness, envy, fear and discouragement. We indulge in gossip, criticism and vanity. We are often cranky, petulant and mean-spirited. We become paralyzed by worry, fretfulness, anxiety and indecision. These are all horribly unattractive traits - little monsters that invite us to come and wallow in their putrid stench. The scariest part is that a good roll in their muck can be tempting at times. We need to be brave enough to look at them squarely, and not peep shyly at them through our fingers, or they'll smell our fear and lunge at us. We must be assertive, examine them boldly and tell them flat out that they're nasty, hideous and unacceptable.
Never underestimate the courage and humility required to do this. We will encounter naysayers who will tell us that it's best to ignore the beasts - that's what they do with theirs. They'll tell us that we shouldn't dwell on the negative, and imply that a liberal sprinkling of denial will cover up all the ugly wonderfully. Don't believe them. These people don't understand how sparkling this particular fairy dust is, or what a potent growth agent it is for dragons, demons and imps.
We can learn to focus on our positive attributes, and those of others, by coming to terms with our own faults and failings. By understanding what we lack, we come to a greater appreciation for what we have. By learning to be compassionate toward ourselves, we gain the ability to empathize with those around us - to note their struggles and view them through less critical eyes. Gratitude, empathy, kindness and compassion all have the ability to propel us forward in our efforts toward self improvement.
Striving for significant improvement without taking stock of both our good qualities and less desirable traits is about as efficient as going to the grocery store without looking into our cupboards. When we do, we quickly realize we have no focus, and easily become overwhelmed by the innumerable options on the shelves. We come away with a cart full of impulse buys, but will likely run out of meal options before many days have passed. We only frustrate ourselves in the process, and inevitably end up revisiting the beasts we were trying to distance ourselves from. These are hungry, needy creatures who don't appreciate being denied or ignored.
I guess some people can learn to be comfortable with role playing and disguises. Some people can convince themselves that their demons are safely out of sight and mind, and that what they can't see can't really harm them. Some people will deny their darkness altogether in a naïve attempt to convince themselves they spend all their days being brilliantly luminous.
But I'm not "some people" - I don't swim well enough to immerse myself in denial. I've no talent for acting and find costumes hot and bothersome. My demons give me a lot less trouble when I keep them well within sight and confined. I will not fear my darkness excessively, but I'll show it a generous dose of respect - the same respect one should always have for a worthy opponent. I'll always carry a flashlight with extra batteries, or a candle with extra matches, so I will never get lost in the abyss. I will arm myself with this bit of wisdom:
No soul's entirely bad or good -
I think by most that's understood.
No one, in total, mean or kind,
we aren't so easily defined.
In each and every noble heart
there is at least one darkish part -
a spot that 's hardened by ill will
or harbours long-passed grudges still;
some part that feeds on anger oft'
and toughens up the tissues soft.
Angel and imp, each dwell inside;
one we display, and one we hide.
We all don halos when we're nice,
but demon-like adhere to vice.
Dual voices clamour to be heard,
they waken thoughts, our hearts are stirred.
And when one voice assumes the lead
we make our choice - that's who we'll heed -
but though we choose the voice most clear,
the other still rings in the ear.
Angels and demons, dark and light -
we're not all wrong, we're not all right.
From inner darkness none are free,
however diligent we be.
To shine a light on what is dark
gives each of us a tiny spark
of courage and humility
to face the ugliness we see;
to tame our demons fierce and strong
and choose a path more right than wrong.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 2010 (revised October 2015)
"It's not what you have on the outside that glitters in the light, it's what you have on the inside that shines in the dark"
- Anthony LiccioneWe exist within a culture that puts far too much stock in image, and not nearly enough in substance. Everyone notices how we look, but few will ever know us for who we really are. The prominence we afford social media in our lives has made us direct our focus outwards - to pay more attention to pictures and type than to thoughts and ideas. Few of us like to delve deeply into the psyches of others - if we did I'd have a lot more readers. In fact, a whole lot of us don't want to dig around in our own minds too deeply for fear of seeing less flattering aspects of ourselves.
The best parts of us are easy to revisit. We relive our best moments over and over again, and re-post the best photographs of ourselves for the world to see. Digging a little deeper enables us to find hidden gems among the coal. Sifting through dross is worth the effort. It helps us to unearth the ore that can become gold through the hard work of refining.
I know first hand that it is disconcerting to face the darker aspects of oneself. I have pretty thoroughly mined the depths of my soul over the years, and it isn't usually a terribly pleasant exercise. I find a lot more coal than diamonds or gold. Still, I'm grateful that I'm learning to be less afraid of the unlit places inside.. I look at it this way - you can't easily find your way out of darkness without shining a light into the abyss to figure out what you're up against. We are meant to achieve balance in life - to learn to acknowledge both the positive and negative characteristics within. None of us should be defined by our best - or worst - moments. It is all of the seemingly insignificant "in between" times that determine who we are.
"Before you can see the light you need to deal with the darkness."
- Dan MillmanCall them what you like, but we all have them - imps, demons; dragons to slay. They dwell within those dark caverns in the soul that nobody really relishes exploring. I've come to the conclusion that we need to look each one straight in the eye. Twelve step programs tell us that the first thing we need to do to overcome a problem is acknowledge that there is one. Only by facing the negative aspects of ourselves can we begin to make positive strides toward betterment.
I assert that we should get to know our "beasts" - no one should try to do battle with an unknown enemy. Sadly, our demons aren't likely to make a graceful exit from our lives, but we should try to show them who's boss - tame them a bit - and hopefully mitigate the damage they do. The objective is to get close enough to slip a harness on them or coax them into a cage, but not so close that they try to eat us. We shouldn't become so intimate with them that they begin to appear more like pets than the beasts they really are.
We shouldn't be looking to fatten them up with a good feeding - they'll trick us and try to play on our sympathies as we attempt to cage them. Always remember - demons and dragons don't generally make very good friends - they're not trustworthy. They're only good at igniting fires - and if we really want to see growth in our lives we'll need to learn more about putting out fires than starting them.
"We have to confront ourselves. Do we like what we see in the mirror? And according to our light, according to our understanding, according to our courage, we will have to say yea or nay - and rise!"
- Maya AngelouThe beasts inside are ugly. We don't like to acknowledge that we accommodate such nastiness within us, but we do. We cling to prejudices and labels that are unflattering. We give in to anger, pettiness, envy, fear and discouragement. We indulge in gossip, criticism and vanity. We are often cranky, petulant and mean-spirited. We become paralyzed by worry, fretfulness, anxiety and indecision. These are all horribly unattractive traits - little monsters that invite us to come and wallow in their putrid stench. The scariest part is that a good roll in their muck can be tempting at times. We need to be brave enough to look at them squarely, and not peep shyly at them through our fingers, or they'll smell our fear and lunge at us. We must be assertive, examine them boldly and tell them flat out that they're nasty, hideous and unacceptable.
Never underestimate the courage and humility required to do this. We will encounter naysayers who will tell us that it's best to ignore the beasts - that's what they do with theirs. They'll tell us that we shouldn't dwell on the negative, and imply that a liberal sprinkling of denial will cover up all the ugly wonderfully. Don't believe them. These people don't understand how sparkling this particular fairy dust is, or what a potent growth agent it is for dragons, demons and imps.
"The more we deny we have a dark side, the more power it has over us."
- Sheryl LeeWe can learn to focus on our positive attributes, and those of others, by coming to terms with our own faults and failings. By understanding what we lack, we come to a greater appreciation for what we have. By learning to be compassionate toward ourselves, we gain the ability to empathize with those around us - to note their struggles and view them through less critical eyes. Gratitude, empathy, kindness and compassion all have the ability to propel us forward in our efforts toward self improvement.
Striving for significant improvement without taking stock of both our good qualities and less desirable traits is about as efficient as going to the grocery store without looking into our cupboards. When we do, we quickly realize we have no focus, and easily become overwhelmed by the innumerable options on the shelves. We come away with a cart full of impulse buys, but will likely run out of meal options before many days have passed. We only frustrate ourselves in the process, and inevitably end up revisiting the beasts we were trying to distance ourselves from. These are hungry, needy creatures who don't appreciate being denied or ignored.
I guess some people can learn to be comfortable with role playing and disguises. Some people can convince themselves that their demons are safely out of sight and mind, and that what they can't see can't really harm them. Some people will deny their darkness altogether in a naïve attempt to convince themselves they spend all their days being brilliantly luminous.
But I'm not "some people" - I don't swim well enough to immerse myself in denial. I've no talent for acting and find costumes hot and bothersome. My demons give me a lot less trouble when I keep them well within sight and confined. I will not fear my darkness excessively, but I'll show it a generous dose of respect - the same respect one should always have for a worthy opponent. I'll always carry a flashlight with extra batteries, or a candle with extra matches, so I will never get lost in the abyss. I will arm myself with this bit of wisdom:
"It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness."
-Eleanor RooseveltWednesday 7 October 2015
Shelter Porn: One Addict's Story - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Shelter Porn:
I ogle bay windows and porches,
to gaze on such beauty unnerves;
My lust for her gingerbread scorches -
I love her Victorian curves.
My head can be turned by a Craftsman
with all of her angles and beams -
and oh - how I envy the draftsman
who mapped out the house of his dreams!
I might have to go into rehab;
another is now on my list.
She's more than your aver-age prefab -
her modules are hard to resist.
In youth I pursued a small castle -
thought nothing but turrets would do.
But cleaning a moat seemed a hassle -
now give me a cottage - or two!
While Tudors and mansions intrigue me
most bungalows seem quite a bore;
an earth-sheltered house I might dig me -
so ceiling can be the earth's floor.
And be it grand manor - or hovel -
potential will always be seen.
I'll swoon if it's weird or it's novel
(or even somewhere in between).
Too often I'm house plans devouring -
I know I'm addicted indeed.
And décor on Pinterest I'm scouring -
it seems an insatiable need.
Not just bricks and mortar - sheer romance!
Each residence needs to be eyed.
My heart is aflutter with each chance
to do some exploring inside.
In truth, my saliva is pooling
as I picture houses in head;
too much MLS leaves me drooling -
my fantasies never quite fed.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 4, 2015
I can't remember ever not being interested in houses. As a very small child I loved being allowed to play inside at friends' houses because it was so exciting to see where they lived. When I was eight or nine my father visited a new housing development in the area and brought home a book of house plans, which my sister brought up to our room. Being four years older and wiser than me, she explained the various symbols on the plans that denoted closets and windows and doors and stairways. After that I noticed that the newspaper featured a house plan each week, which I began to study carefully.
It gets weirder. I was always an avid reader, but as an adolescent I noticed myself gravitating toward fiction that had pictures of houses on the cover, or referred to a house in the title. I figured that even if the book was a dud I'd at least find out a bit about the house. My brother thought this was more than a little odd. (I wonder if he'd be shocked to know that I still gravitate toward novels where a house or building are prominently featured?) No matter what I'm reading, I always play close attention to the passages that describe dwellings. Tolkein absolutely thrilled me with hobbit holes and beaver dams and castles, and I've always felt that Lucy Maud Montgomery must have been a kindred soul because she painted such vivid pictures of the various houses inhabited by characters in her books. Somehow I always feel that I understand characters better if I have a firm grasp on where they reside.
At my high school, they had a program called Building Construction where a house was constructed inside the school every year or so. My friends and I used to sneak through the halls during lunch hour to peek in the windows of the construction area. They were mostly interested in seeing cute guys swing hammers, but I was always more enthralled by the fact that an actual house was being built, and that I could keep tabs on its progress. Had I been braver, I would have signed up for the course myself, but it seemed that the girls who did so were accused of just wanting to be in a "guy course", and I was afraid of what people would think.
My first visit to Chapters brought a new discovery - they had a whole slew of house plan books that you could buy and take home and study at leisure! Needless to say I've acquired a shelf of them over the years, as well as books about houses, home building, and historical houses. I read them through, and revisit the pictures time and time again. I used to think that my fixation on house plans was odd, but I know a few others who share this particular passion. I can't speak for them, but in my case the floor plans are fodder for my imagination. I try to envision the kind of people who would live in each house, and I consider how the rooms would be used if I lived there.
But there's more to confess - I don't just read about houses and study house plans. In my thirties, the internet introduced me to the magical world of MLS - where with a few strikes on a keyboard I can look at houses that are for sale anywhere! I found the last two houses we've owned online before asking our realtors to show them to us. I have no doubt that I'll find my next that way too. Likewise, MLS gave me a pretty good education when it came to selling our last house. Our realtor joked that he didn't feel particularly needed during negotiations:
"You call that a comp?" I challenged when an offer came in from a prospective buyer. "The neighbourhood isn't as nice as ours, the lots are smaller, the houses aren't solid brick, and that house has a much smaller footprint, no garage and an unfinished basement! Comparable my eye! Don't take me for a fool!"
Needless to say that buyer's lowball offer wasn't accepted.
At times I've wondered if I missed my calling in life. Was I meant to be an architect or a realtor? I started out taking interior design in college, but soon realized that I was more interested in houses themselves than in home décor. Okay - so I do watch too much HGTV - and yes, I will even admit that the incredibly good looking men that can be seen doing home improvements there are nice to look at, but the transformation of the houses is the really exciting part. Real estate programs elicit a mixed reaction in me; while I love seeing the houses these shoppers view, I never really get how so many of them can miss the potential of a home because they're too blindsided by bad wallpaper or the wrong colour of countertops. Sometimes I jeer out loud when they opt to spend another twenty thousand dollars (or more!) for a house that is "move in ready" because they are afraid to paint a wall or two or replace a couple of dated appliances. Who would want to move into a new place and not put their stamp on it? Don't these people have any imagination at all?
That's what houses are to me - fodder for the imagination. When I take walks, I examine the houses I walk past. When I go on drives, I look at the houses I pass. (I don't drive, so nobody can accuse me of not paying attention to the road.) I imagine who lives in each house I pass and what their lives might be like. I don't need to imagine who likes living where they do - a swift glance usually gives me a pretty good indication of whether a house is a much loved home or merely a dwelling.
I imagine how I would live in that house if it was mine - what changes I'd make to improve the place. I ask myself if I'd want to live in a house like that - or in a setting like that. What stories does the house have to tell? Could I live there and love it?
Houses say a lot about us. Years ago, the mother of one of my son's friends came to pick up her son. She oohed and aaahed over our modest home, commenting on the paint colours we'd chosen and the dining room table I'd refinished. We didn't have a lot of money, so all of our home improvements were made on a shoestring budget. Still, this woman was clearly amazed by the effort we'd taken to make the place our own. When my boys visited their house, they came home reporting that their place was chaotic - messy, unloved, and completely devoid of the personal touches that make a house a home. We probably weren't much better off financially than she was, but we clearly had more pride in our home, as well as sufficient imagination and motivation to make our home a reflection of who we were.
Houses all have history, and they all have memory. The first house we bought was quite austere, but as soon as I opened the front door I knew that it had housed generations of happy families. When I asked neighbours about the previous inhabitants, I was told that he was a crank, but she was a wonderful woman who everyone loved, and yes - they had been a very happy family. The house had good feeling. Walls really do talk, without ever making a sound.
Houses represent our hopes for the future, our efforts in the present, and our level of respect for the past. Not everyone sees a building with the same kind of vision that I do. Not everyone sees what a house was, or could be, with a little imagination and elbow grease.
Yes, I'm an unapologetic appreciator of abodes - a relisher of residences. I look at houses, I think about houses, and fairly often I dream about houses. I like houses of all shapes and sizes. I appreciate old houses and new houses - as long as they aren't typical "development" houses - all variations of the same theme and lined up on tiny lots. (Yuck - ghetto housing for the middle class!) I love to read about innovative housing ideas - factory built homes, homes converted from other buildings and houses that are ecologically sound and as green as possible. Home tours thrill me, and the process of buying a new home is sheer bliss. I read house plan books. HGTV is my favorite TV channel. I spend a shameful amount of time on MLS...
My name is Sharon, and I am addicted to shelter porn.
I ogle bay windows and porches,
to gaze on such beauty unnerves;
My lust for her gingerbread scorches -
I love her Victorian curves.
My head can be turned by a Craftsman
with all of her angles and beams -
and oh - how I envy the draftsman
who mapped out the house of his dreams!
I might have to go into rehab;
another is now on my list.
She's more than your aver-age prefab -
her modules are hard to resist.
In youth I pursued a small castle -
thought nothing but turrets would do.
But cleaning a moat seemed a hassle -
now give me a cottage - or two!
While Tudors and mansions intrigue me
most bungalows seem quite a bore;
an earth-sheltered house I might dig me -
so ceiling can be the earth's floor.
And be it grand manor - or hovel -
potential will always be seen.
I'll swoon if it's weird or it's novel
(or even somewhere in between).
Too often I'm house plans devouring -
I know I'm addicted indeed.
And décor on Pinterest I'm scouring -
it seems an insatiable need.
Not just bricks and mortar - sheer romance!
Each residence needs to be eyed.
My heart is aflutter with each chance
to do some exploring inside.
In truth, my saliva is pooling
as I picture houses in head;
too much MLS leaves me drooling -
my fantasies never quite fed.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 4, 2015
I can't remember ever not being interested in houses. As a very small child I loved being allowed to play inside at friends' houses because it was so exciting to see where they lived. When I was eight or nine my father visited a new housing development in the area and brought home a book of house plans, which my sister brought up to our room. Being four years older and wiser than me, she explained the various symbols on the plans that denoted closets and windows and doors and stairways. After that I noticed that the newspaper featured a house plan each week, which I began to study carefully.
It gets weirder. I was always an avid reader, but as an adolescent I noticed myself gravitating toward fiction that had pictures of houses on the cover, or referred to a house in the title. I figured that even if the book was a dud I'd at least find out a bit about the house. My brother thought this was more than a little odd. (I wonder if he'd be shocked to know that I still gravitate toward novels where a house or building are prominently featured?) No matter what I'm reading, I always play close attention to the passages that describe dwellings. Tolkein absolutely thrilled me with hobbit holes and beaver dams and castles, and I've always felt that Lucy Maud Montgomery must have been a kindred soul because she painted such vivid pictures of the various houses inhabited by characters in her books. Somehow I always feel that I understand characters better if I have a firm grasp on where they reside.
At my high school, they had a program called Building Construction where a house was constructed inside the school every year or so. My friends and I used to sneak through the halls during lunch hour to peek in the windows of the construction area. They were mostly interested in seeing cute guys swing hammers, but I was always more enthralled by the fact that an actual house was being built, and that I could keep tabs on its progress. Had I been braver, I would have signed up for the course myself, but it seemed that the girls who did so were accused of just wanting to be in a "guy course", and I was afraid of what people would think.
My first visit to Chapters brought a new discovery - they had a whole slew of house plan books that you could buy and take home and study at leisure! Needless to say I've acquired a shelf of them over the years, as well as books about houses, home building, and historical houses. I read them through, and revisit the pictures time and time again. I used to think that my fixation on house plans was odd, but I know a few others who share this particular passion. I can't speak for them, but in my case the floor plans are fodder for my imagination. I try to envision the kind of people who would live in each house, and I consider how the rooms would be used if I lived there.
But there's more to confess - I don't just read about houses and study house plans. In my thirties, the internet introduced me to the magical world of MLS - where with a few strikes on a keyboard I can look at houses that are for sale anywhere! I found the last two houses we've owned online before asking our realtors to show them to us. I have no doubt that I'll find my next that way too. Likewise, MLS gave me a pretty good education when it came to selling our last house. Our realtor joked that he didn't feel particularly needed during negotiations:
"You call that a comp?" I challenged when an offer came in from a prospective buyer. "The neighbourhood isn't as nice as ours, the lots are smaller, the houses aren't solid brick, and that house has a much smaller footprint, no garage and an unfinished basement! Comparable my eye! Don't take me for a fool!"
Needless to say that buyer's lowball offer wasn't accepted.
At times I've wondered if I missed my calling in life. Was I meant to be an architect or a realtor? I started out taking interior design in college, but soon realized that I was more interested in houses themselves than in home décor. Okay - so I do watch too much HGTV - and yes, I will even admit that the incredibly good looking men that can be seen doing home improvements there are nice to look at, but the transformation of the houses is the really exciting part. Real estate programs elicit a mixed reaction in me; while I love seeing the houses these shoppers view, I never really get how so many of them can miss the potential of a home because they're too blindsided by bad wallpaper or the wrong colour of countertops. Sometimes I jeer out loud when they opt to spend another twenty thousand dollars (or more!) for a house that is "move in ready" because they are afraid to paint a wall or two or replace a couple of dated appliances. Who would want to move into a new place and not put their stamp on it? Don't these people have any imagination at all?
That's what houses are to me - fodder for the imagination. When I take walks, I examine the houses I walk past. When I go on drives, I look at the houses I pass. (I don't drive, so nobody can accuse me of not paying attention to the road.) I imagine who lives in each house I pass and what their lives might be like. I don't need to imagine who likes living where they do - a swift glance usually gives me a pretty good indication of whether a house is a much loved home or merely a dwelling.
I imagine how I would live in that house if it was mine - what changes I'd make to improve the place. I ask myself if I'd want to live in a house like that - or in a setting like that. What stories does the house have to tell? Could I live there and love it?
Houses say a lot about us. Years ago, the mother of one of my son's friends came to pick up her son. She oohed and aaahed over our modest home, commenting on the paint colours we'd chosen and the dining room table I'd refinished. We didn't have a lot of money, so all of our home improvements were made on a shoestring budget. Still, this woman was clearly amazed by the effort we'd taken to make the place our own. When my boys visited their house, they came home reporting that their place was chaotic - messy, unloved, and completely devoid of the personal touches that make a house a home. We probably weren't much better off financially than she was, but we clearly had more pride in our home, as well as sufficient imagination and motivation to make our home a reflection of who we were.
Houses all have history, and they all have memory. The first house we bought was quite austere, but as soon as I opened the front door I knew that it had housed generations of happy families. When I asked neighbours about the previous inhabitants, I was told that he was a crank, but she was a wonderful woman who everyone loved, and yes - they had been a very happy family. The house had good feeling. Walls really do talk, without ever making a sound.
Houses represent our hopes for the future, our efforts in the present, and our level of respect for the past. Not everyone sees a building with the same kind of vision that I do. Not everyone sees what a house was, or could be, with a little imagination and elbow grease.
Yes, I'm an unapologetic appreciator of abodes - a relisher of residences. I look at houses, I think about houses, and fairly often I dream about houses. I like houses of all shapes and sizes. I appreciate old houses and new houses - as long as they aren't typical "development" houses - all variations of the same theme and lined up on tiny lots. (Yuck - ghetto housing for the middle class!) I love to read about innovative housing ideas - factory built homes, homes converted from other buildings and houses that are ecologically sound and as green as possible. Home tours thrill me, and the process of buying a new home is sheer bliss. I read house plan books. HGTV is my favorite TV channel. I spend a shameful amount of time on MLS...
My name is Sharon, and I am addicted to shelter porn.
Thursday 17 September 2015
Chainlinks and Echos: Wisdom and Poetry - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Chainlink - Poetry and Wisdom
Truly there's little that I know -
no genius shall I impart;
part of me balks - this can't be so!
Sobering insights fuel my art!
Articulate, thus I relate
relationships 'twixt brain and ink;
inklings of truth in what I state -
statements profound on what I think.
Think you, perhaps, it can't be right -
writing much verse when I know not?
Nought is what spurs me on despite
spiteful disdain for knowledge taught.
Taught I have been in life's own school -
schooled in the ways of my own heart.
Heartless are those who think me fool -
foolishness is the poet's art.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 21, 2011
A hefty tome on my bookshelf introduced me to a form of poetry known as Chain Verse. In this type of poetry (also known as echoing), sounds are repeated in a pattern. In the poem I wrote, the sound at the end of each line is repeated at the beginning of the next line. It might sound simplistic, but writing a poem this way, or at least one that actually makes a bit of sense, requires considerable effort.
As I re-read this poem today something clicked. I thought about how much our lives are like chain verse, especially when written in the form I chose. All of our thoughts, reactions and decisions are (almost always) built upon something that came before. Those thoughts, reactions and decisions may vary, just as the echoing sounds in my poem were sometimes built upon. Art became articulate, ink became inklings, state became statements, and at least one fool gave way to foolishness. All proof that art imitates life imitating art.
Have I lost you yet?
This poem has a very circular nature - I begin and end by stating how much I don't know. In the first stanza I'm a bit incredulous - isn't my job (as a poet) is to share my wisdom? By the second stanza I'm amending my opinion about the link between poetry and wisdom. Poetic expression is now more about articulating my thoughts and ideas than dispersing wisdom to the masses. By stanza three I'm making the bold admission that it is actually ignorance that spurs me on - I know that much of what I've learned isn't vital to my ability to communicate. The final stanza sums up my feelings toward wisdom and poetry - I feel sorry for the soulless masses who shun experiential learning in favour of formal education and a dogmatic approach to learning. Foolishness wins the day as I conclude that I respect my own art form, even though I know many will see my efforts and opinions as "foolish".
There is so much circularity in life. We begin being dependent on our parents and end by needing love and support from our children. And from where we began to where we'll finish, we'll live and grow one thought, one idea, one choice at a time - links on a chain - all based on what we just observed, thought, said, heard, did, went or wanted.
Every step of the way we will be searching - looking for new ways to define ourselves and carve out new roles in society. Each of us will exist as merely a single tiny organism living and moving on another smallish organism that is orbiting something bigger and brighter. Considering our insignificance this way can be hard on the ego, and egos by nature like to be big. We'll often need to make size adjustments on each link of our chain. Never be afraid of self-examination. It's inevitable that we'll spend much of our lives battling with ourselves, fighting to make smaller aspects of ourselves big and bigger aspects small. We will struggle to contain ego and anger and frustration. We will struggle to increase our self-worth by proving that we're smart, desirable, talented or just plain good.
Some of us will achieve a level of validation when others acknowledge something we do well. Some of us will decide to validate our own existence by ceasing to worry about what everyone else thinks. I'm hoping that eventually I'll end up in that second group.
For now, there isn't much that I possess in terms of absolute truth or intelligence. My wisdom is of the earthy, common sense variety. No plaques hang on my wall to justify my spot among the educated, honoured, venerated or elite. I am in every sense a lowly poet - a keen observer of my fellow men and my corner of the universe. I'm not brilliant, not exceptional in any particular way. But one thing I can say in my own favour is that I'm no longer terrified to share what I think or to speak my mind. Losing that fear has added another important link to my chain - something that I feel certain I'll continue to forge strong links onto.
The school of life has taught me to embrace my ignorance and foolishness. I watch, I examine and I learn as I go - building upon my experiences with a hopeful sort of faith in myself and humanity. I hope that eventually my unique combination of faith and folly will help me to think better thoughts, make wiser decisions and react with dignity to whatever challenges I face while I traverse the path of trial and error that will lead to my life's conclusion.
Someday, when I am old and needy, I hope that my sons will see me as someone who forged a strong chain - someone who kept searching when answers weren't evident, someone who continued to think and question and express my own flawed opinions until the bitter end.. I hope they'll know that I wasn't afraid to toss out my tired old maps and journey down new roads; to scrap a few old recipes and cook "from scratch." I hope they'll have heart enough to accept my foolishness and to understand how liberating it can be to admit to intellectual defeat at times; to shrug your shoulders and admit that there's a whole lot that you just don't know. I hope that they'll have learned that the strongest hearts are often filled with fear and doubt, and that ignorance is both your best friend and your worst enemy. I hope they gain an intimate knowledge of the dual nature of their own areas of ignorance.
Just as I'm guided by echoing wisdom from those whose lives have had positive impact on mine, I hope that some of the wiser things I've said and done will echo in the ears of my posterity. (My ego even dares to hope a line or two of my verse will sometimes come to mind.)
It is hard to keep all the endings and beginnings in life echoing harmoniously. It's challenging to keep building on what we've started to figure out in a rational, sensible way. It might be silly to believe that anyone can find a kernel of wisdom in my poetic ramblings. I can live with a little bit of silly. It really doesn't matter whether I'm hailed as an intellect. My job, as poet - and as student of life - is to observe, think and communicate. My goal is to simply encourage thought in those who take the time to read my musings.
Observe, experience, think, react and choose. Repeat this process until your chain is completed, and you reach the place where you began - needy and vulnerable. You'll probably still be ignorant too, but perhaps a little less so.
Forge the strongest, most sensible chain you can. Remember that those who rely on others to validate their accomplishments are apt to become emotional invalids, and that the biggest fools are the ones who shun all foolishness. And remember how unwise it is to think yourself too wise.
Listen for the echo.
Truly there's little that I know -
no genius shall I impart;
part of me balks - this can't be so!
Sobering insights fuel my art!
Articulate, thus I relate
relationships 'twixt brain and ink;
inklings of truth in what I state -
statements profound on what I think.
Think you, perhaps, it can't be right -
writing much verse when I know not?
Nought is what spurs me on despite
spiteful disdain for knowledge taught.
Taught I have been in life's own school -
schooled in the ways of my own heart.
Heartless are those who think me fool -
foolishness is the poet's art.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 21, 2011
A hefty tome on my bookshelf introduced me to a form of poetry known as Chain Verse. In this type of poetry (also known as echoing), sounds are repeated in a pattern. In the poem I wrote, the sound at the end of each line is repeated at the beginning of the next line. It might sound simplistic, but writing a poem this way, or at least one that actually makes a bit of sense, requires considerable effort.
As I re-read this poem today something clicked. I thought about how much our lives are like chain verse, especially when written in the form I chose. All of our thoughts, reactions and decisions are (almost always) built upon something that came before. Those thoughts, reactions and decisions may vary, just as the echoing sounds in my poem were sometimes built upon. Art became articulate, ink became inklings, state became statements, and at least one fool gave way to foolishness. All proof that art imitates life imitating art.
Have I lost you yet?
This poem has a very circular nature - I begin and end by stating how much I don't know. In the first stanza I'm a bit incredulous - isn't my job (as a poet) is to share my wisdom? By the second stanza I'm amending my opinion about the link between poetry and wisdom. Poetic expression is now more about articulating my thoughts and ideas than dispersing wisdom to the masses. By stanza three I'm making the bold admission that it is actually ignorance that spurs me on - I know that much of what I've learned isn't vital to my ability to communicate. The final stanza sums up my feelings toward wisdom and poetry - I feel sorry for the soulless masses who shun experiential learning in favour of formal education and a dogmatic approach to learning. Foolishness wins the day as I conclude that I respect my own art form, even though I know many will see my efforts and opinions as "foolish".
There is so much circularity in life. We begin being dependent on our parents and end by needing love and support from our children. And from where we began to where we'll finish, we'll live and grow one thought, one idea, one choice at a time - links on a chain - all based on what we just observed, thought, said, heard, did, went or wanted.
Every step of the way we will be searching - looking for new ways to define ourselves and carve out new roles in society. Each of us will exist as merely a single tiny organism living and moving on another smallish organism that is orbiting something bigger and brighter. Considering our insignificance this way can be hard on the ego, and egos by nature like to be big. We'll often need to make size adjustments on each link of our chain. Never be afraid of self-examination. It's inevitable that we'll spend much of our lives battling with ourselves, fighting to make smaller aspects of ourselves big and bigger aspects small. We will struggle to contain ego and anger and frustration. We will struggle to increase our self-worth by proving that we're smart, desirable, talented or just plain good.
Some of us will achieve a level of validation when others acknowledge something we do well. Some of us will decide to validate our own existence by ceasing to worry about what everyone else thinks. I'm hoping that eventually I'll end up in that second group.
For now, there isn't much that I possess in terms of absolute truth or intelligence. My wisdom is of the earthy, common sense variety. No plaques hang on my wall to justify my spot among the educated, honoured, venerated or elite. I am in every sense a lowly poet - a keen observer of my fellow men and my corner of the universe. I'm not brilliant, not exceptional in any particular way. But one thing I can say in my own favour is that I'm no longer terrified to share what I think or to speak my mind. Losing that fear has added another important link to my chain - something that I feel certain I'll continue to forge strong links onto.
The school of life has taught me to embrace my ignorance and foolishness. I watch, I examine and I learn as I go - building upon my experiences with a hopeful sort of faith in myself and humanity. I hope that eventually my unique combination of faith and folly will help me to think better thoughts, make wiser decisions and react with dignity to whatever challenges I face while I traverse the path of trial and error that will lead to my life's conclusion.
Someday, when I am old and needy, I hope that my sons will see me as someone who forged a strong chain - someone who kept searching when answers weren't evident, someone who continued to think and question and express my own flawed opinions until the bitter end.. I hope they'll know that I wasn't afraid to toss out my tired old maps and journey down new roads; to scrap a few old recipes and cook "from scratch." I hope they'll have heart enough to accept my foolishness and to understand how liberating it can be to admit to intellectual defeat at times; to shrug your shoulders and admit that there's a whole lot that you just don't know. I hope that they'll have learned that the strongest hearts are often filled with fear and doubt, and that ignorance is both your best friend and your worst enemy. I hope they gain an intimate knowledge of the dual nature of their own areas of ignorance.
Just as I'm guided by echoing wisdom from those whose lives have had positive impact on mine, I hope that some of the wiser things I've said and done will echo in the ears of my posterity. (My ego even dares to hope a line or two of my verse will sometimes come to mind.)
It is hard to keep all the endings and beginnings in life echoing harmoniously. It's challenging to keep building on what we've started to figure out in a rational, sensible way. It might be silly to believe that anyone can find a kernel of wisdom in my poetic ramblings. I can live with a little bit of silly. It really doesn't matter whether I'm hailed as an intellect. My job, as poet - and as student of life - is to observe, think and communicate. My goal is to simply encourage thought in those who take the time to read my musings.
Observe, experience, think, react and choose. Repeat this process until your chain is completed, and you reach the place where you began - needy and vulnerable. You'll probably still be ignorant too, but perhaps a little less so.
Forge the strongest, most sensible chain you can. Remember that those who rely on others to validate their accomplishments are apt to become emotional invalids, and that the biggest fools are the ones who shun all foolishness. And remember how unwise it is to think yourself too wise.
Listen for the echo.
Thursday 3 September 2015
Who What Where? (Most Don't Care) - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Who What Where?
(Most Don't Care)
Our hellos are guarded,
our nods terse when we meet.
Not much interaction
occurs here on this street.
I admire her flowers;
she smiles and looks away.
(If she's feeling chatty
she'll note the pleasant day.)
Talk is very tiny
here in my neighbourhood.
No one wants to visit.
No one thinks they should.
I don't know their stories
and none of them know mine.
What I find disturbing
is that they think that's fine.
Can't match names to faces,
and don't know who lives where.
I am bothered by this,
but most don't seem to care.
Don't know who has children
or owns a dog or cat -
and I am alone in
my worries about that.
Don't know who's seen sorrow,
or where a babe's been born -
this lack of connection
has given cause to mourn.
I mourn friendships not forged
and celebrations missed.
We are not connected.
We merely co-exist.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 20, 2015
At this point I'd probably settle for peaceful co-existence. It would at least be a step in the right direction. But somehow that seems like a very low standard to aim for. Surely a more community-like vibe is possible in neighbourhoods today - right?
Several weeks ago we had our old car towed away. We had to - someone had called in a bylaw complaint because it didn't have a current sticker on the plate. Apparently that's a big no no in this city, even if the car is in relatively good shape - which ours was. It was about a dozen years old, and not an eyesore. It wasn't hurting anyone, but we were told we had to park it in the garage (which is full) or get a sticker on it to leave it in the driveway. Since getting a sticker would entail making expensive repairs (so that it would pass a safety check), and since it's a tight squeeze to put a car in our garage even when it's empty (which ours certainly isn't!), we opted to have it towed. We had only hung onto it for the past few years because having a second, but unusable car gave us a financial break on our son's car insurance. Now that he's married and taking care of his own insurance costs, we would have gotten rid of the car anyway.
But darn - it really ticked us off that somebody was persnickety enough to see if the car had a current sticker and then call in a complaint.
The problem started as soon as we moved in. I had this feeling that I should push myself a bit and introduce myself to the neighbours, but I didn't. There was still this stubborn part of me that said that because I was "the new kid on the block" they should be the ones to extend themselves and make introductions. In my excitement over being new, I forgot how easily all of us miss what is a huge big event to someone down the street, and how quickly our lives can get busy enough that even the best of intentions get pushed aside. Needless to say we didn't make any friends in the neighbourhood.
We did learn the names of the fussy people over the fence. They introduced themselves the first summer we were here - mostly because they wanted someone to gripe at about another neighbour. When we failed to come up with adequate complaints to keep the conversations flowing, they started to gripe about us too. I heard him once, out in his yard, laughing with one of his paid minions (either the pool man or one of his landscaping crew) about how we must have "come into some money" to get our roof done and put in new sod and garden beds. While the landscaping was being done they had harassed our landscapers - he had complained about them parking in front of our house and "congesting traffic". She had complained to the landscapers about our tree shedding blossoms over her fence, wanting them to come into her yard and prune it free of charge. I'm sure they spent all kinds of time complaining about how bad our lawn was when the cinch bugs and drought pretty well destroyed it, but they didn't seem happy about the fact that we made improvements either. No great surprise there - I'd already realized that they were the kind of people whose only satisfaction in life comes from complaining about what others aren't "doing right".
So when our car got towed away, I could hazard a guess as to who'd made the complaint. They probably thought an older model car parked next door would bring down their property value. Or maybe making that complaint was their thrill for the week. Who knows what goes on in the minds of some people?
Earlier this spring I'd noticed that he never seemed to be around. Usually, as soon as the weather got nicer, he'd be out in his yard, talking loudly on the phone or barking orders at one of the people he employed to work in his yard. But this year, as I readied my garden there was silence over the fence. At first I didn't really notice - I was largely preoccupied with my own thoughts. My younger son was getting married in a few months and we were throwing a reception for the happy couple. But as I thought about Dan getting married, it occurred to me (and not for the first time) that there was something wrong with our neighbour situation...
I grew up in a working class neighbourhood in Sault Ste. Marie. Most of the people who lived on our street were Italian, and a whole lot of them were related to each other. They mostly associated with each other, but we all knew everyone else's names and we all knew when big events were happening within families on the street. We heard rumours about who was getting married or having a baby. We smiled when we saw Mrs So and So out pushing the new bundle in her baby carriage, and maybe stopped to admire the baby. When the neighbourhood had trouble with flooding we all helped bail out each other's basements. And when someone on the street died, a neighbour would go door to door taking up a collection for a floral arrangement "from the neighbours."
It really began to bother me that my son was graduating and getting married within an eight day span, and not one single neighbour knew or cared. It bothered me even more when I began to consciously make note of the grumbling that I wasn't hearing from over the fence. My conscience was terribly bothered by the fact that I didn't know if my neighbour was dead or alive. Sure - we'd never really hit it off, but that didn't mean I wished any ill on him or his family. I still felt that something was wrong with a scenario where there could be so much excitement and misery going completely unacknowledged by the neighbourhood as a whole.
That's when I finally acknowledged just how dysfunctional my neighbourhood is.
Oh, we acknowledge each other with nods and perfunctory hellos when we pass each other, but that's as far as it goes. We don't know each other's names, recognize each other's children or pets, or have any idea what happens behind each other's doors. I'm convinced that most of them are very comfortable with the way things are. And I think that's exactly what makes us dysfunctional.
Is it right to grow comfortable with apathy? Is it right to not want to care about your neighbours?
When did we become so desirous of privacy that we started barring the doors to our hearts?
When did society adopt such a scarcity mentality that we couldn't acknowledge any beauty on the other side of the fence?
What happened to the sense of community that I knew as a child?
We don't need to be best friends with our neighbours, but we should know who they are. We should know their names and recognize the people in their households. We should be able to manage being kind to our neighbours - or at the very least manage to refrain from being small-minded and unkind. We should care enough to discuss reasonable complaints face to face and in a mature, rational manner.
We shouldn't ever be in a position to wonder for months whether a neighbour is dead or alive. I got my answer finally when I read his obituary in the newspaper. Needless to say, nobody on the street took up a collection for flowers. Maybe I should have, but a part of me said the effort would've been too little, and far too late.
Next time we move, I'll follow my gut instinct and make more effort to introduce myself and get to know the neighbours. It might not ensure friendships, but it will make hostility more difficult.
And maybe, just maybe, it will help my next neighbourhood become a more functional and friendly community to live in.
(Most Don't Care)
Our hellos are guarded,
our nods terse when we meet.
Not much interaction
occurs here on this street.
I admire her flowers;
she smiles and looks away.
(If she's feeling chatty
she'll note the pleasant day.)
Talk is very tiny
here in my neighbourhood.
No one wants to visit.
No one thinks they should.
I don't know their stories
and none of them know mine.
What I find disturbing
is that they think that's fine.
Can't match names to faces,
and don't know who lives where.
I am bothered by this,
but most don't seem to care.
Don't know who has children
or owns a dog or cat -
and I am alone in
my worries about that.
Don't know who's seen sorrow,
or where a babe's been born -
this lack of connection
has given cause to mourn.
I mourn friendships not forged
and celebrations missed.
We are not connected.
We merely co-exist.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 20, 2015
At this point I'd probably settle for peaceful co-existence. It would at least be a step in the right direction. But somehow that seems like a very low standard to aim for. Surely a more community-like vibe is possible in neighbourhoods today - right?
Several weeks ago we had our old car towed away. We had to - someone had called in a bylaw complaint because it didn't have a current sticker on the plate. Apparently that's a big no no in this city, even if the car is in relatively good shape - which ours was. It was about a dozen years old, and not an eyesore. It wasn't hurting anyone, but we were told we had to park it in the garage (which is full) or get a sticker on it to leave it in the driveway. Since getting a sticker would entail making expensive repairs (so that it would pass a safety check), and since it's a tight squeeze to put a car in our garage even when it's empty (which ours certainly isn't!), we opted to have it towed. We had only hung onto it for the past few years because having a second, but unusable car gave us a financial break on our son's car insurance. Now that he's married and taking care of his own insurance costs, we would have gotten rid of the car anyway.
But darn - it really ticked us off that somebody was persnickety enough to see if the car had a current sticker and then call in a complaint.
The problem started as soon as we moved in. I had this feeling that I should push myself a bit and introduce myself to the neighbours, but I didn't. There was still this stubborn part of me that said that because I was "the new kid on the block" they should be the ones to extend themselves and make introductions. In my excitement over being new, I forgot how easily all of us miss what is a huge big event to someone down the street, and how quickly our lives can get busy enough that even the best of intentions get pushed aside. Needless to say we didn't make any friends in the neighbourhood.
We did learn the names of the fussy people over the fence. They introduced themselves the first summer we were here - mostly because they wanted someone to gripe at about another neighbour. When we failed to come up with adequate complaints to keep the conversations flowing, they started to gripe about us too. I heard him once, out in his yard, laughing with one of his paid minions (either the pool man or one of his landscaping crew) about how we must have "come into some money" to get our roof done and put in new sod and garden beds. While the landscaping was being done they had harassed our landscapers - he had complained about them parking in front of our house and "congesting traffic". She had complained to the landscapers about our tree shedding blossoms over her fence, wanting them to come into her yard and prune it free of charge. I'm sure they spent all kinds of time complaining about how bad our lawn was when the cinch bugs and drought pretty well destroyed it, but they didn't seem happy about the fact that we made improvements either. No great surprise there - I'd already realized that they were the kind of people whose only satisfaction in life comes from complaining about what others aren't "doing right".
So when our car got towed away, I could hazard a guess as to who'd made the complaint. They probably thought an older model car parked next door would bring down their property value. Or maybe making that complaint was their thrill for the week. Who knows what goes on in the minds of some people?
Earlier this spring I'd noticed that he never seemed to be around. Usually, as soon as the weather got nicer, he'd be out in his yard, talking loudly on the phone or barking orders at one of the people he employed to work in his yard. But this year, as I readied my garden there was silence over the fence. At first I didn't really notice - I was largely preoccupied with my own thoughts. My younger son was getting married in a few months and we were throwing a reception for the happy couple. But as I thought about Dan getting married, it occurred to me (and not for the first time) that there was something wrong with our neighbour situation...
I grew up in a working class neighbourhood in Sault Ste. Marie. Most of the people who lived on our street were Italian, and a whole lot of them were related to each other. They mostly associated with each other, but we all knew everyone else's names and we all knew when big events were happening within families on the street. We heard rumours about who was getting married or having a baby. We smiled when we saw Mrs So and So out pushing the new bundle in her baby carriage, and maybe stopped to admire the baby. When the neighbourhood had trouble with flooding we all helped bail out each other's basements. And when someone on the street died, a neighbour would go door to door taking up a collection for a floral arrangement "from the neighbours."
It really began to bother me that my son was graduating and getting married within an eight day span, and not one single neighbour knew or cared. It bothered me even more when I began to consciously make note of the grumbling that I wasn't hearing from over the fence. My conscience was terribly bothered by the fact that I didn't know if my neighbour was dead or alive. Sure - we'd never really hit it off, but that didn't mean I wished any ill on him or his family. I still felt that something was wrong with a scenario where there could be so much excitement and misery going completely unacknowledged by the neighbourhood as a whole.
That's when I finally acknowledged just how dysfunctional my neighbourhood is.
Oh, we acknowledge each other with nods and perfunctory hellos when we pass each other, but that's as far as it goes. We don't know each other's names, recognize each other's children or pets, or have any idea what happens behind each other's doors. I'm convinced that most of them are very comfortable with the way things are. And I think that's exactly what makes us dysfunctional.
Is it right to grow comfortable with apathy? Is it right to not want to care about your neighbours?
When did we become so desirous of privacy that we started barring the doors to our hearts?
When did society adopt such a scarcity mentality that we couldn't acknowledge any beauty on the other side of the fence?
What happened to the sense of community that I knew as a child?
We don't need to be best friends with our neighbours, but we should know who they are. We should know their names and recognize the people in their households. We should be able to manage being kind to our neighbours - or at the very least manage to refrain from being small-minded and unkind. We should care enough to discuss reasonable complaints face to face and in a mature, rational manner.
We shouldn't ever be in a position to wonder for months whether a neighbour is dead or alive. I got my answer finally when I read his obituary in the newspaper. Needless to say, nobody on the street took up a collection for flowers. Maybe I should have, but a part of me said the effort would've been too little, and far too late.
Next time we move, I'll follow my gut instinct and make more effort to introduce myself and get to know the neighbours. It might not ensure friendships, but it will make hostility more difficult.
And maybe, just maybe, it will help my next neighbourhood become a more functional and friendly community to live in.
Monday 24 August 2015
Just Another Flower in the Garden - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
In the Garden:
Though aphids eat hibiscus leaves
its flowers will still bloom -
with blossoms big as dinner plates
on lofty stalks they'll loom.
Some lilies that we thought were pink
burst out in scarlet red,
and since I've seen them all abloom
I'd not choose pink instead.
I've other lilies also -
some yellow and some cream
that sport bright fuchsia centers
and blend with colour scheme.
Coneflowers are so healing,
and here they are profuse.
I ought to sit here daily
and put them to good use.
Oh garden you're not perfect,
I've noticed mildew spots,
seen weeds and damaged flowers
and work unfinished - lots.
The snails munched on my hostas -
their leaves are ragged now;
the pink hydrangeas - how they thirst!
Their heavy heads they bow.
Yet in this imperfection
is feast for hungry eye,
and languid scent of lavender
my nose cannot deny.
I close my eyes and feel it -
a breeze upon my face -
my senses all respond to
the magic of this place.
- By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 13th, 2014
My garden is a lot of work. I spend hours weeding it each week, and it still never looks perfect. When I inspect my efforts carefully there's always some weed that escaped my eye. I give it a good watering when the local bylaws tell me I can, and a splash of water from my trusty old tin watering can between times, but too often it looks dry. It struggles to be healthy - aphids and snails and powdery mildew constantly conspire against me and my plants. It can be extremely frustrating to put so much effort into something that never achieves the pristine perfection of gardens seen in magazines.
When that sort of frustration sets in I give myself a shake. That kind of airbrushed, colour enhanced glossiness is an unrealistic goal for my garden, which does the best it can with less than ideal soil, an inexperienced gardener, watering restrictions and weeds that can't be sprayed away. In spite of its many disadvantages, my garden grows and blooms and gives me pleasure.
Some of the things that I thought I didn't want in my garden - like the giant red lilies that we thought would bloom pink - have ended up being things that thrill me most. The twisty trees that I love so much were a last minute substitution for the landscaper's first choice, which was on backorder. She was hesitant about putting them in, but I can't imagine any other trees filling those spots so nicely.
In contrast, some of the things we were initially excited about haven't lived up to our expectations. The new trees we put in along the back fence are thirsty little guys - not at all well suited to an area that often battles summer droughts and has watering restrictions permanently in place. If I had unlimited resources I'd replace them with something heartier. But then again, if I had a ton of money to work with I'd have hired professionals to come and tend the garden for me, and I'd have sprinklers on timers to ensure that my plants and trees get every ounce of water that they're allotted.
I've come to see gardening as the perfect analogy for life. We don't always get what we think we planted - and sometimes that makes for wonderful surprises when we discover unexpected hidden abilities and rise to challenges that we could've never foreseen. We constantly re-arrange things to achieve maximum satisfaction and highlight the best and brightest aspects of our lives. We battle invasive weeds and pests and fight to build strong roots in what is often somewhat inhospitable soil. Life is a lot of work - and it's not always terribly gratifying.
The more time I spend in my garden, the more aware I become of the fact that I'm just another small plant in the vast garden of humanity. I'm just a single green shoot struggling to break through to the surface and enjoy some sunlight. I'm a tender young planting trying to get established in a patch of soil that has rocks that threaten to crush my roots and weeds that threaten to strangle them. I'm a fragile green shoot opening my leaves to the sun, sending out hesitant buds and hoping they'll bloom before the bunnies arrive to nip them off. I'm a lily in full flower, a hydrangea looking for water and the woody shoot of old growth patiently waiting for new buds to take hold on me and prove my worth.
Some flowers will thrive, while others barely survive. Some will wither and die without blooming. Some will be choked by weeds. Some will wither from the root. Some won't survive the weeds that overpower them. Some will suffer from too few nutrients, or too little water.
Every one of us, as flowers in this common garden will face multiple challenges. We'll expect ourselves to bloom longer than we will. We'll be impatient with the constraints placed on us - curse the bad soil we were planted in, the rain for not falling generously upon us, or the sun for not placing us in the spotlight. We may feel neglected by those we've counted on as caretakers. None of us want to be a host for aphids or sport black spot, but it happens. And in spite of these blights in our lives, most of us will manage some bloom time anyway.
Every flower wants to be the most perfect specimen in the garden. Every flower can't be the most perfect specimen in any garden. And that's because gardens are made up of all kinds of flowers, perfect and imperfect, straggling, struggling and staggeringly beautiful.
Real beauty, in any garden, comes from the contrasting shapes and sizes and colours of the plantings. A rose will always be bigger than a violet, but the larger size and flashier nature of one doesn't detract from the beauty of the other. A lush, gorgeous garden is full of differing flowers all blooming at different times, ceding their place of prominence to those who bloom later. Tulips don't compete with asters - they don't need to because each knows its place and season. The ornamental grasses have their place among the blossoms, and the bright foliage of some plants more than compensates for their lack of flowers. When all are sown together they can all be part of a glorious riot of colour and texture that could never be achieved if each was expected to stand alone.
The happiest flowers understand that they're all part of a garden - no more important than the plant next to them. They don't allow themselves to compare their fading glory to the fresh shoots that are just coming on. They just bloom as brightly as they can, for as long as they can.
Enjoy the sun, soak up the rain, and remember, fellow flowers - there is beauty in imperfection. Fading flowers have their place, and the blossoms that persist above the mildew deserve to be admired.
Bloom on.
Though aphids eat hibiscus leaves
its flowers will still bloom -
with blossoms big as dinner plates
on lofty stalks they'll loom.
Some lilies that we thought were pink
burst out in scarlet red,
and since I've seen them all abloom
I'd not choose pink instead.
I've other lilies also -
some yellow and some cream
that sport bright fuchsia centers
and blend with colour scheme.
Coneflowers are so healing,
and here they are profuse.
I ought to sit here daily
and put them to good use.
Oh garden you're not perfect,
I've noticed mildew spots,
seen weeds and damaged flowers
and work unfinished - lots.
The snails munched on my hostas -
their leaves are ragged now;
the pink hydrangeas - how they thirst!
Their heavy heads they bow.
Yet in this imperfection
is feast for hungry eye,
and languid scent of lavender
my nose cannot deny.
I close my eyes and feel it -
a breeze upon my face -
my senses all respond to
the magic of this place.
- By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 13th, 2014
My garden is a lot of work. I spend hours weeding it each week, and it still never looks perfect. When I inspect my efforts carefully there's always some weed that escaped my eye. I give it a good watering when the local bylaws tell me I can, and a splash of water from my trusty old tin watering can between times, but too often it looks dry. It struggles to be healthy - aphids and snails and powdery mildew constantly conspire against me and my plants. It can be extremely frustrating to put so much effort into something that never achieves the pristine perfection of gardens seen in magazines.
When that sort of frustration sets in I give myself a shake. That kind of airbrushed, colour enhanced glossiness is an unrealistic goal for my garden, which does the best it can with less than ideal soil, an inexperienced gardener, watering restrictions and weeds that can't be sprayed away. In spite of its many disadvantages, my garden grows and blooms and gives me pleasure.
Some of the things that I thought I didn't want in my garden - like the giant red lilies that we thought would bloom pink - have ended up being things that thrill me most. The twisty trees that I love so much were a last minute substitution for the landscaper's first choice, which was on backorder. She was hesitant about putting them in, but I can't imagine any other trees filling those spots so nicely.
In contrast, some of the things we were initially excited about haven't lived up to our expectations. The new trees we put in along the back fence are thirsty little guys - not at all well suited to an area that often battles summer droughts and has watering restrictions permanently in place. If I had unlimited resources I'd replace them with something heartier. But then again, if I had a ton of money to work with I'd have hired professionals to come and tend the garden for me, and I'd have sprinklers on timers to ensure that my plants and trees get every ounce of water that they're allotted.
I've come to see gardening as the perfect analogy for life. We don't always get what we think we planted - and sometimes that makes for wonderful surprises when we discover unexpected hidden abilities and rise to challenges that we could've never foreseen. We constantly re-arrange things to achieve maximum satisfaction and highlight the best and brightest aspects of our lives. We battle invasive weeds and pests and fight to build strong roots in what is often somewhat inhospitable soil. Life is a lot of work - and it's not always terribly gratifying.
The more time I spend in my garden, the more aware I become of the fact that I'm just another small plant in the vast garden of humanity. I'm just a single green shoot struggling to break through to the surface and enjoy some sunlight. I'm a tender young planting trying to get established in a patch of soil that has rocks that threaten to crush my roots and weeds that threaten to strangle them. I'm a fragile green shoot opening my leaves to the sun, sending out hesitant buds and hoping they'll bloom before the bunnies arrive to nip them off. I'm a lily in full flower, a hydrangea looking for water and the woody shoot of old growth patiently waiting for new buds to take hold on me and prove my worth.
Some flowers will thrive, while others barely survive. Some will wither and die without blooming. Some will be choked by weeds. Some will wither from the root. Some won't survive the weeds that overpower them. Some will suffer from too few nutrients, or too little water.
Every one of us, as flowers in this common garden will face multiple challenges. We'll expect ourselves to bloom longer than we will. We'll be impatient with the constraints placed on us - curse the bad soil we were planted in, the rain for not falling generously upon us, or the sun for not placing us in the spotlight. We may feel neglected by those we've counted on as caretakers. None of us want to be a host for aphids or sport black spot, but it happens. And in spite of these blights in our lives, most of us will manage some bloom time anyway.
Every flower wants to be the most perfect specimen in the garden. Every flower can't be the most perfect specimen in any garden. And that's because gardens are made up of all kinds of flowers, perfect and imperfect, straggling, struggling and staggeringly beautiful.
Real beauty, in any garden, comes from the contrasting shapes and sizes and colours of the plantings. A rose will always be bigger than a violet, but the larger size and flashier nature of one doesn't detract from the beauty of the other. A lush, gorgeous garden is full of differing flowers all blooming at different times, ceding their place of prominence to those who bloom later. Tulips don't compete with asters - they don't need to because each knows its place and season. The ornamental grasses have their place among the blossoms, and the bright foliage of some plants more than compensates for their lack of flowers. When all are sown together they can all be part of a glorious riot of colour and texture that could never be achieved if each was expected to stand alone.
The happiest flowers understand that they're all part of a garden - no more important than the plant next to them. They don't allow themselves to compare their fading glory to the fresh shoots that are just coming on. They just bloom as brightly as they can, for as long as they can.
Enjoy the sun, soak up the rain, and remember, fellow flowers - there is beauty in imperfection. Fading flowers have their place, and the blossoms that persist above the mildew deserve to be admired.
Bloom on.
Wednesday 5 August 2015
Mine to Keep Covered, Thanks -by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Ontario - Yours to Uncover!
A girl from Guelph
left bra on shelf
deciding to bare all -
went on crusade
breasts on parade -
to modesty recall.
"A woman's right!"
she claimed her fight
for us to tops remove,
but most of us
despite her fuss
heartily disapprove.
Biology
is wired, you see
and shouldn't be denied.
Since proof attests
men look at breasts
mine will, in clothes reside.
Women who shout
their breasts to "out"
would be first to call foul
on any man's
chauvinist plans
to let his fingers prowl.
That's not to say,
in any way
that touching is excused.
Consent's required
for what's desired
and none should be abused.
Brushing an arm
does not alarm
nor a touch on the hand,
but touch a breast?
Now we're distressed!
Thus we should understand
that if a breast
is like the rest
of any of our parts
there's no excuse
to claim abuse
for touching when it starts.
But I'm hands off
for I'll not doff
nor bare for all to see.
With pride unfeigned
I'll have retained
a bit of mystery.
Since that parade
a case was made
so women could breasts show.
Nobody stops
girls without tops
here in Ontario.
Or no one would
(it's understood)
if any female dared.
It can be done,
so where's the fun?
A very few have bared.
And while her cause
did change our laws
it's obvious to me
that while some try,
we can't deny
breasts' sexuality.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August, 2007
Exactly eight years after I wrote this poem there was a topless rally in Uptown Waterloo. According to reports there were about five hundred supporters, but many kept their breasts covered. I've lived in this area for a dozen years, and I've only seen one topless woman the entire time. And that's fine with me. If I had my way men would have to keep their shirts on in public places too. In Panama, men can be arrested for going shirtless in public. If a man wants to take his shirt off he goes to a beach or a private pool, or stays in his yard. I have no objection to women being able to take their tops off in these same settings. But in public places I think society would be better served if we all kept our shirts on.
I think before we get in an uproar about who can do what where, we need to determine which "public places" lend themselves to going topless and which don't.
Would you want to be served in a restaurant by a topless waitress? Would you want to have your blood taken by a topless nurse? Would you want your court case tried by a topless lawyer?
I don't believe that taking our shirts off makes a huge statement about women's rights or rape culture.
I am not an apologist for rapists. Rape is never excusable. From a strictly logical point of view, most can see where an occasion might arise that makes stealing or killing necessary. Most of us would steal to feed ourselves or our families if we were starving. Most of us are capable of using violent force against those who threaten our lives, or the lives of those around us. There are circumstances that make these crimes justifiable, but rape can never be justified. I don't care what anyone is wearing or not wearing - to blame the victim for another person's complete lack of self control and morality is always absolutely wrong.
I am not a prude. I like sex, and because I do, I'm going to say something that a lot of those topless rally attendees will heartily disagree with.
I think breasts are sexual. Men often feel aroused when they look at breasts. I'd hazard a guess that men have had lustful thoughts triggered by the sight of breasts since the beginning of time. Taking off our shirts isn't going to make lust go away. Lust isn't the problem anyway, because rape isn't triggered by sexual desire, but by a desire to physically overpower another human being. While most men will look at breasts that are exposed, and they might feel a momentary pang of desire, the vast majority will never feel the urge to rape. But they will be distracted. I'm not saying that men are all pigs because I don't think that's the case at all. Women tend to be a whole lot less visual than men, but if men suddenly stopped wearing pants a whole lot of women would be distracted too.
I think breasts are sexual. Women's breasts experience sexual pleasure. (I said it! I know it's something we're not supposed to own up to these days, but I thought I'd stir the pot a bit by stating what is obvious to a lot of us.) I know that breasts serve a utilitarian purpose when we feed our young. I get that. I know that breast feeding is natural and best for infants, but I never felt a strong urge to bare my breasts while feeding my children. I don't regard my breasts as being just another body part - on par with a hand or a foot. I don't like strangers touching me anywhere, but if someone touches my hand I'm not too freaked out. If someone touches my foot, I'll think they're weird, but I'll get over it. But if someone touches my breast I will feel threatened. I'll probably even feel violated enough to press charges.
I think most women feel the same way.
I don't want biology to be denied. Why should it be? We live in a time when homosexuals are no longer allowed to be discriminated against. We understand and respect the fact that there are biological factors that contribute to people's sexual preferences. We are becoming more aware of biological factors that contribute to mental illness, and we're learning to be compassionate to those who suffer from its effects. Generally speaking we're becoming more aware of our "biology" in a myriad of ways, so it seems hypocritical to me that we've become so adamant about denying biology when it comes to breasts and their part in sexual arousal. Men feel desire when they look at them. Women like having them touched during consensual sexual encounters.
I think it would be a shame if seeing breasts became so commonplace that they didn't give any of us any sensual pleasure anymore. I don't like to think that there would ever be a time when a stranger could turn to me and casually remove a piece of lint off my breast without me batting an eye. I find it hard to believe that these same women who want to go shirtless would be comfortable having men brush up against their breasts in a crowd. And I think that most women would feel threatened by having another woman massage her breasts in front of their sexual partner. That's where I think the "scratch test" might be helpful in determining what is appropriate to show. If you can't scratch or rub that part in public without it appearing lewd, than you probably should keep it covered up.
One comment I've heard repeatedly since this issue came to the forefront again is that "we should be desensitizing people to the sight of bare breasts."
I see a problem with this too. If we raise our daughters to believe that their breasts aren't private, how many cases of child abuse may go unreported when the perverts of this world give the child the argument that if breasts were private they'd be covered like our other sexual parts are, so it doesn't matter if he touches them? I would argue that encouraging daughters to go shirtless could facilitate grooming in pedophiles, because half the battle is convincing the little girl that it's okay if her breasts are touched. Parents can try the "people can look but not touch" approach, but had things been presented that way to me as I child, I think I would've asked why looking was okay but not touching.
I am not advocating that we look upon breasts with shame. I like being a woman and I like having breasts. I'm not giving any man the green light to ogle or to make sexual comments, and I don't feel that I'm encouraging a rape culture by advising women to think twice before allowing their breasts into the public domain. I'm just saying that "look but don't touch" sends out a mixed message.
If they're private parts that others shouldn't be casually touching, then maybe we should cover them up. Deny your own biology all you want, but my breasts are sexual, and that makes them private.
I'll be keeping my shirt on, thanks.
A girl from Guelph
left bra on shelf
deciding to bare all -
went on crusade
breasts on parade -
to modesty recall.
"A woman's right!"
she claimed her fight
for us to tops remove,
but most of us
despite her fuss
heartily disapprove.
Biology
is wired, you see
and shouldn't be denied.
Since proof attests
men look at breasts
mine will, in clothes reside.
Women who shout
their breasts to "out"
would be first to call foul
on any man's
chauvinist plans
to let his fingers prowl.
That's not to say,
in any way
that touching is excused.
Consent's required
for what's desired
and none should be abused.
Brushing an arm
does not alarm
nor a touch on the hand,
but touch a breast?
Now we're distressed!
Thus we should understand
that if a breast
is like the rest
of any of our parts
there's no excuse
to claim abuse
for touching when it starts.
But I'm hands off
for I'll not doff
nor bare for all to see.
With pride unfeigned
I'll have retained
a bit of mystery.
Since that parade
a case was made
so women could breasts show.
Nobody stops
girls without tops
here in Ontario.
Or no one would
(it's understood)
if any female dared.
It can be done,
so where's the fun?
A very few have bared.
And while her cause
did change our laws
it's obvious to me
that while some try,
we can't deny
breasts' sexuality.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August, 2007
Exactly eight years after I wrote this poem there was a topless rally in Uptown Waterloo. According to reports there were about five hundred supporters, but many kept their breasts covered. I've lived in this area for a dozen years, and I've only seen one topless woman the entire time. And that's fine with me. If I had my way men would have to keep their shirts on in public places too. In Panama, men can be arrested for going shirtless in public. If a man wants to take his shirt off he goes to a beach or a private pool, or stays in his yard. I have no objection to women being able to take their tops off in these same settings. But in public places I think society would be better served if we all kept our shirts on.
I think before we get in an uproar about who can do what where, we need to determine which "public places" lend themselves to going topless and which don't.
Would you want to be served in a restaurant by a topless waitress? Would you want to have your blood taken by a topless nurse? Would you want your court case tried by a topless lawyer?
I don't believe that taking our shirts off makes a huge statement about women's rights or rape culture.
I am not an apologist for rapists. Rape is never excusable. From a strictly logical point of view, most can see where an occasion might arise that makes stealing or killing necessary. Most of us would steal to feed ourselves or our families if we were starving. Most of us are capable of using violent force against those who threaten our lives, or the lives of those around us. There are circumstances that make these crimes justifiable, but rape can never be justified. I don't care what anyone is wearing or not wearing - to blame the victim for another person's complete lack of self control and morality is always absolutely wrong.
I am not a prude. I like sex, and because I do, I'm going to say something that a lot of those topless rally attendees will heartily disagree with.
I think breasts are sexual. Men often feel aroused when they look at breasts. I'd hazard a guess that men have had lustful thoughts triggered by the sight of breasts since the beginning of time. Taking off our shirts isn't going to make lust go away. Lust isn't the problem anyway, because rape isn't triggered by sexual desire, but by a desire to physically overpower another human being. While most men will look at breasts that are exposed, and they might feel a momentary pang of desire, the vast majority will never feel the urge to rape. But they will be distracted. I'm not saying that men are all pigs because I don't think that's the case at all. Women tend to be a whole lot less visual than men, but if men suddenly stopped wearing pants a whole lot of women would be distracted too.
I think breasts are sexual. Women's breasts experience sexual pleasure. (I said it! I know it's something we're not supposed to own up to these days, but I thought I'd stir the pot a bit by stating what is obvious to a lot of us.) I know that breasts serve a utilitarian purpose when we feed our young. I get that. I know that breast feeding is natural and best for infants, but I never felt a strong urge to bare my breasts while feeding my children. I don't regard my breasts as being just another body part - on par with a hand or a foot. I don't like strangers touching me anywhere, but if someone touches my hand I'm not too freaked out. If someone touches my foot, I'll think they're weird, but I'll get over it. But if someone touches my breast I will feel threatened. I'll probably even feel violated enough to press charges.
I think most women feel the same way.
I don't want biology to be denied. Why should it be? We live in a time when homosexuals are no longer allowed to be discriminated against. We understand and respect the fact that there are biological factors that contribute to people's sexual preferences. We are becoming more aware of biological factors that contribute to mental illness, and we're learning to be compassionate to those who suffer from its effects. Generally speaking we're becoming more aware of our "biology" in a myriad of ways, so it seems hypocritical to me that we've become so adamant about denying biology when it comes to breasts and their part in sexual arousal. Men feel desire when they look at them. Women like having them touched during consensual sexual encounters.
I think it would be a shame if seeing breasts became so commonplace that they didn't give any of us any sensual pleasure anymore. I don't like to think that there would ever be a time when a stranger could turn to me and casually remove a piece of lint off my breast without me batting an eye. I find it hard to believe that these same women who want to go shirtless would be comfortable having men brush up against their breasts in a crowd. And I think that most women would feel threatened by having another woman massage her breasts in front of their sexual partner. That's where I think the "scratch test" might be helpful in determining what is appropriate to show. If you can't scratch or rub that part in public without it appearing lewd, than you probably should keep it covered up.
One comment I've heard repeatedly since this issue came to the forefront again is that "we should be desensitizing people to the sight of bare breasts."
I see a problem with this too. If we raise our daughters to believe that their breasts aren't private, how many cases of child abuse may go unreported when the perverts of this world give the child the argument that if breasts were private they'd be covered like our other sexual parts are, so it doesn't matter if he touches them? I would argue that encouraging daughters to go shirtless could facilitate grooming in pedophiles, because half the battle is convincing the little girl that it's okay if her breasts are touched. Parents can try the "people can look but not touch" approach, but had things been presented that way to me as I child, I think I would've asked why looking was okay but not touching.
I am not advocating that we look upon breasts with shame. I like being a woman and I like having breasts. I'm not giving any man the green light to ogle or to make sexual comments, and I don't feel that I'm encouraging a rape culture by advising women to think twice before allowing their breasts into the public domain. I'm just saying that "look but don't touch" sends out a mixed message.
If they're private parts that others shouldn't be casually touching, then maybe we should cover them up. Deny your own biology all you want, but my breasts are sexual, and that makes them private.
I'll be keeping my shirt on, thanks.
Friday 17 July 2015
An Ode to Work - (Or Why Work Shouldn't be Odious!) By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
An Ode To Work:
Why is it the mere thought of work
goes so against the grain?
Those efforts that we make to shirk
and ailments that we feign
are unbecoming - that's for sure -
we really ought to see
how all the labours we endure
enrich humanity.
Those menial tasks we undertake
(the ones we think demean)
are often done for others' sake,
unnoticed and unseen.
Scrubbed toilets will go unadmired
by those who on them sit,
though sanitation is desired
more than a little bit.
Plants thank not when you intercede
by plucking from below
the roots of an invading weed
to give theirs' room to grow.
Few people stop to think about
the clean plates that they use.
We take for granted, without doubt,
the work we'd never choose.
Yet someone's bound to do the chore
I didn't want to do -
the messes that I might ignore
will be cleaned up by you!
The things you notice not at all
I simply must put right -
I might tend tasks that seemed so small
they never caught your sight.
It seems to me most volunteer
for tasks they tolerate,
while others that they think too drear
they'll try to delegate.
But in the end all have to cede
to work that must be done;
to pitch in when they see the need
for help from everyone.
Thus we'll move mountains, stone by stone,
if that's what is required,
and feel exhausted muscles groan
and brow become perspired.
And when the thankless task's complete
it cannot be denied
that fewer things are quite as sweet
as feeling satisfied.
So heed the moral of this verse -
there's more to life than fun.
Hard work is really not a curse
or something we should shun.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 2013
When I was a child I was given chores to do. I had to clean my room and help do dishes and laundry and vacuuming. My mother sometimes asked me to help prepare meals or dust the house or tidy the basement. My grandmother sometimes asked me to walk with her to the bank or the grocery store. And I'm ashamed to say that far too often I considered these tasks to be a hardship in my life. It took me a while to understand the value of work.
When I moved away from home, my attitude toward many tasks began to change. Once I had my own apartment I developed a sense of pride in keeping it neat and tidy. Maturity began to kick in, and I learned to be grateful for being raised in a home where everyone was expected to pitch in and help. Sometimes I feel badly about how reluctant I often was to help in my youth.
When I was in my early twenties I accepted a job cleaning houses for a residential cleaning agency. I learned to really enjoy working alone, without anyone standing over me. The pay was better than any of the fast food or retail jobs I'd had before, and I found the work oddly satisfying. I arrived to a house that was messy (and sometimes pretty dirty!), but when I left everything was clean and orderly. My clients were seldom home, and when they were, they were mostly pleasant and grateful for the service I provided them. I had a few clients who were physically impaired, and a few who were senior citizens, and these people were friendly with me, and seemed especially grateful that I could attend to their homes in ways that they no longer could. Those jobs were particularly gratifying.
Once while I was thus employed I met a young man who seemed quite appalled when I told him what I did for a living. I was surprised by his attitude - I felt that my work was gratifying. It was lucrative, and it was honourable to be able to help those who needed help keeping their homes clean. I liked knowing that I could provide some of my neediest clients with clean homes and a few hours of friendly companionship while I got their place into shape. Not only was I was proud of the fact that I wasn't afraid of a bit of hard work - I actually began to feel sorry for those who thought that I was working at a "demeaning" job.
I can't tell you that I always love working, but I can tell you that I get bored pretty quickly when there isn't much work to be done. I've morphed into one of those people who can't sit and watch television or read a book all day. Too much inactivity is painful to me. I try to sit in my garden and enjoy the sun, but it gets stale really fast. I think I actually enjoy pulling weeds and trimming plants. (But please don't call me to do it for you. Don't deny yourself the character building exercise of taking care of your own patch of earth.)
Too much chaos and clutter and mess around me, especially in my own home, makes me feel irritable. Pulling the covers over my head won't just make it all disappear. I need to get off my butt and make the house clean and tidy. If you catch me when it's messy, don't implore me to leave it alone. I'm not cleaning for you - I just can't enjoy a visit without being distracted by my mess. Let me dash around for five minutes and straighten it up, okay? Oddly, if the mess is at your house it will bother me a lot less.
Watching others, who refuse my assistance, is a highly frustrating exercise for me. Let me help. If I really objected to helping you I wouldn't have made the offer. (I'm not that polite!) Likewise, I've learned the importance of accepting offers of help, even when it's a bit embarrassing. (Like when you overhear me saying bad words in the kitchen when supper preparations get out of hand. I'm not a fabulous multi-tasker, and another hand stirring a pot can really sweeten my mood.)
I've learned that some jobs will always feel like chores. I don't like cooking much, but it's my job to put supper on the table and complaining won't make it any easier or more pleasant. And because it's not my favorite task I feel especially gratified, and satisfied, when I manage to make a really nice meal. If you express appreciation for that meal, you've made my day.
Work is noble. Everyone has to eat, and I'm grateful that there are those who earn their bread working at jobs that I would find yucky. Scraping plaque off people's teeth seems disgusting to me, but I'm glad there are people who don't mind doing it. I'm glad there are people who scrub public restrooms and repair sewers and dig ditches. (For the record, I'd rather scrub toilets than be a proctologist, which proves that there are a lot of high paying and prestigious jobs that I wouldn't ever want to do.)
I admire people who take on the work of helping those in need, whether it's building houses for Habitat for Humanity or taking care of the ailing, mentally ill, or elderly. I admire the farmers who sacrifice sleep to make their living and provide food for my table. I admire professionals who worked their brains for years acquiring knowledge, and blue collar workers who work their fingers to the bone - both make my life easier through their efforts.
Work is necessary. It builds character and gives us a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. It allows us opportunities to contribute to society. Work exercises body and soul and exorcises our demons too. (Angry, annoyed, frustrated? Work it out!) Work gives us purpose.
If you're still lamenting the fact that you have to work I have one suggestion for you:
Work on that.
Why is it the mere thought of work
goes so against the grain?
Those efforts that we make to shirk
and ailments that we feign
are unbecoming - that's for sure -
we really ought to see
how all the labours we endure
enrich humanity.
Those menial tasks we undertake
(the ones we think demean)
are often done for others' sake,
unnoticed and unseen.
Scrubbed toilets will go unadmired
by those who on them sit,
though sanitation is desired
more than a little bit.
Plants thank not when you intercede
by plucking from below
the roots of an invading weed
to give theirs' room to grow.
Few people stop to think about
the clean plates that they use.
We take for granted, without doubt,
the work we'd never choose.
Yet someone's bound to do the chore
I didn't want to do -
the messes that I might ignore
will be cleaned up by you!
The things you notice not at all
I simply must put right -
I might tend tasks that seemed so small
they never caught your sight.
It seems to me most volunteer
for tasks they tolerate,
while others that they think too drear
they'll try to delegate.
But in the end all have to cede
to work that must be done;
to pitch in when they see the need
for help from everyone.
Thus we'll move mountains, stone by stone,
if that's what is required,
and feel exhausted muscles groan
and brow become perspired.
And when the thankless task's complete
it cannot be denied
that fewer things are quite as sweet
as feeling satisfied.
So heed the moral of this verse -
there's more to life than fun.
Hard work is really not a curse
or something we should shun.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 2013
When I was a child I was given chores to do. I had to clean my room and help do dishes and laundry and vacuuming. My mother sometimes asked me to help prepare meals or dust the house or tidy the basement. My grandmother sometimes asked me to walk with her to the bank or the grocery store. And I'm ashamed to say that far too often I considered these tasks to be a hardship in my life. It took me a while to understand the value of work.
When I moved away from home, my attitude toward many tasks began to change. Once I had my own apartment I developed a sense of pride in keeping it neat and tidy. Maturity began to kick in, and I learned to be grateful for being raised in a home where everyone was expected to pitch in and help. Sometimes I feel badly about how reluctant I often was to help in my youth.
When I was in my early twenties I accepted a job cleaning houses for a residential cleaning agency. I learned to really enjoy working alone, without anyone standing over me. The pay was better than any of the fast food or retail jobs I'd had before, and I found the work oddly satisfying. I arrived to a house that was messy (and sometimes pretty dirty!), but when I left everything was clean and orderly. My clients were seldom home, and when they were, they were mostly pleasant and grateful for the service I provided them. I had a few clients who were physically impaired, and a few who were senior citizens, and these people were friendly with me, and seemed especially grateful that I could attend to their homes in ways that they no longer could. Those jobs were particularly gratifying.
Once while I was thus employed I met a young man who seemed quite appalled when I told him what I did for a living. I was surprised by his attitude - I felt that my work was gratifying. It was lucrative, and it was honourable to be able to help those who needed help keeping their homes clean. I liked knowing that I could provide some of my neediest clients with clean homes and a few hours of friendly companionship while I got their place into shape. Not only was I was proud of the fact that I wasn't afraid of a bit of hard work - I actually began to feel sorry for those who thought that I was working at a "demeaning" job.
I can't tell you that I always love working, but I can tell you that I get bored pretty quickly when there isn't much work to be done. I've morphed into one of those people who can't sit and watch television or read a book all day. Too much inactivity is painful to me. I try to sit in my garden and enjoy the sun, but it gets stale really fast. I think I actually enjoy pulling weeds and trimming plants. (But please don't call me to do it for you. Don't deny yourself the character building exercise of taking care of your own patch of earth.)
Too much chaos and clutter and mess around me, especially in my own home, makes me feel irritable. Pulling the covers over my head won't just make it all disappear. I need to get off my butt and make the house clean and tidy. If you catch me when it's messy, don't implore me to leave it alone. I'm not cleaning for you - I just can't enjoy a visit without being distracted by my mess. Let me dash around for five minutes and straighten it up, okay? Oddly, if the mess is at your house it will bother me a lot less.
Watching others, who refuse my assistance, is a highly frustrating exercise for me. Let me help. If I really objected to helping you I wouldn't have made the offer. (I'm not that polite!) Likewise, I've learned the importance of accepting offers of help, even when it's a bit embarrassing. (Like when you overhear me saying bad words in the kitchen when supper preparations get out of hand. I'm not a fabulous multi-tasker, and another hand stirring a pot can really sweeten my mood.)
I've learned that some jobs will always feel like chores. I don't like cooking much, but it's my job to put supper on the table and complaining won't make it any easier or more pleasant. And because it's not my favorite task I feel especially gratified, and satisfied, when I manage to make a really nice meal. If you express appreciation for that meal, you've made my day.
Work is noble. Everyone has to eat, and I'm grateful that there are those who earn their bread working at jobs that I would find yucky. Scraping plaque off people's teeth seems disgusting to me, but I'm glad there are people who don't mind doing it. I'm glad there are people who scrub public restrooms and repair sewers and dig ditches. (For the record, I'd rather scrub toilets than be a proctologist, which proves that there are a lot of high paying and prestigious jobs that I wouldn't ever want to do.)
I admire people who take on the work of helping those in need, whether it's building houses for Habitat for Humanity or taking care of the ailing, mentally ill, or elderly. I admire the farmers who sacrifice sleep to make their living and provide food for my table. I admire professionals who worked their brains for years acquiring knowledge, and blue collar workers who work their fingers to the bone - both make my life easier through their efforts.
Work is necessary. It builds character and gives us a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. It allows us opportunities to contribute to society. Work exercises body and soul and exorcises our demons too. (Angry, annoyed, frustrated? Work it out!) Work gives us purpose.
If you're still lamenting the fact that you have to work I have one suggestion for you:
Work on that.
Tuesday 7 July 2015
Respectfully, I Disagree! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I'm disagreeable - we all are at times. Every one of us should be capable of respectfully disagreeing with the views of those around us. The only alternative would be downright frightening. I can't imagine how horrible it would be to go through life like a modified bobble-head doll that is only able to nod in assent. That's not for me - I like being able to assert my own opinions and to express disagreement with those held by others on occasion.
There is a huge difference between expressing an opposing point of view and being disrespectful. Every contrary opinion that's expressed shouldn't be seen as an attack on views that you hold or beliefs that you value. I have enough faith in humanity to dismiss the notion that most people devote their time to expressing ideas or re-posting quotes with the intention of irritating me or anyone else. Having said that, I will point out that sometimes on social media, people can simply feel bombarded by the sheer volume of disagreeable posts circulated by friends, and retaliate by letting the online world know that they feel differently.
I got fed up at one point because a few "friends" on my list had issues with the same bees buzzing endlessly in their bonnets, and I removed them from my friends list. None of these people were particularly close to me, and since I had no meaningful interaction with them and got sick of their endless tyrannical preaching, it seemed the wisest course of action. Most of us soon tire of people who seemingly have only one topic of discussion. This is especially true when our views on that subject are in strong opposition to theirs, and when those people adopt an attitude that reeks of such a superiority complex that their every comment drips with insinuation that anyone who sees the matter differently is an idiot - period.
Often we're too emotionally affected by a subject, or too closed-minded, to discuss our differences rationally - and that's when we should refrain from engaging in debate. In the instance I mentioned, the people involved were entirely disinterested in hearing opposing opinions. They were looking for converts to their cause, not honest discussion. They asked for alternate opinions so that they could belittle those who thought differently. Their like-minded friends bullied those who expressed other viewpoints. There was name-calling and unkindness in every chain. Ad hominem attacks abounded. I knew it was useless to engage on any subject with people who were so unprepared to listen respectfully, and so I did myself a favour and deleted them before I became too tempted to sink to their level. Their behaviors too often demonstrated a willingness to cross boundaries of civility that I had no intention of becoming comfortable crossing.
Boundaries:
My domain is limited -
the space I see as mine;
long ago I staked a claim
and drew a borderline.
I cannot grant free access
to everything I feel.
Some deep wounds must be covered
before they start to heal.
Some thoughts I have are private
and so I keep them fenced -
enclosed and safely locked up
when other views are sensed.
Opinions are like tourists,
their visits should be brief.
And they shouldn't emigrate
unless they seek relief.
My silence should speak volumes,
I simply don't agree.
None of your "greater wisdom"
will change the world I see.
Don't trespass on my feelings;
respect what I believe.
Don't climb upon my fences
or you'll be asked to leave.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (May 2010)
Deleting friends on social media over ideological differences isn't something I recommend doing in most circumstances. If there is any level of real friendship, mutual respect or common and fond history between you then you should be able to ignore disagreeable posts or disagree agreeably. The much easier solution to seeing less that you object to is to control your news feed. There's a little grey inverted V that appears in the top right corner next to every status update on Facebook. Click on it, and you can hide the offending post or even discontinue seeing all future posts from that individual or source. (My Facebook feed has become so much more pleasant since I've started systematically eliminating all evangelical sources of religious rah rah and network marketing from my sight : )) You don't even have to see every source of annoyance out there, let alone comment on it.
When you feel that you must register your disagreement, do your best to be kind and show respect toward those who obviously see things differently. Respectful disagreement might involve sharing what you perceive as factual evidence to the contrary, but bear in mind that not everyone will see your sources of information as valid. (Consider the questionable validity of a certain television doctor who is too quick to push unproven therapies on uneducated masses. His fans, who tune in daily, will accept whatever he tells them, but the rest of us are more skeptical.) Does your "expert" have an axe to grind, or is he/she truly sharing the results of unbiased research? If the facts shared are matters of public record - well documented dates or historical accounts that are not easily falsified - most should see them as reliable. Still, you need to accept that if they challenge a cherished belief in any way, they are apt to be discredited. The humility to accept that an error in judgement has been made can be a very hard pill to swallow.
No matter how reliable your facts are, people are often biased by their feelings, and in those instances, no amount of debate, respectful or otherwise, will ever change their opinions. Remember that others may be too invested (monetarily or otherwise) to consider another point of view. (You can present all kinds of reliable evidence that a particular dietary supplement might not be everything it's cracked up to be, but if the person you're trying to tell this to has just invested a thousand dollars and a hundred hours so that they can sell this product, they won't be very inclined to listen to you.) We all have biases, and before we engage in sharing contrary opinions we need to consider whether this person is willing to listen respectfully to what we have to say. If not, we should save our sanity and move on.
Don't make the mistake of expecting others to be swayed by whatever argument you give them, and don't ever expect people to understand what you think, what you mean, or what you feel. Feelings are especially problematic. Who can explain feelings logically? All are driven by emotions and their associated experiences. Logic is great - until someone presents it to us in such a way that we feel an expectation to exchange our soft, squishy feelings for cold hard facts.
For example, I might feel really good about giving to a particular charity. Don't expect me to tell you why I feel this way - my feelings might be influenced by something I've never consciously taken note of. Maybe my grandma said she thought that charity was noble waaay back when I was three and her comment just subconsciously lodged in the back of my head. So now when I send off a cheque to these folks I feel good. You might feel differently, and you might even have evidence that my pet charity doesn't make the wisest use of its funds. You can share it with me - it might prompt me to choose another group to contribute to. But if I have had numerous occasions when I felt good contributing my time or money to further the causes of this charity, then I might not be willing to change my donation habits. I might even think you're being mean-spirited for criticizing something that I've always had good experiences with.
There's no denying that we can all get our knickers knotted because somebody sees something differently and says so. We might be secretly upset with ourselves because we can feel our comfortable world view being challenged. We might feel a bit annoyed because there was an implication that we'd know more if we studied up a bit. We might bristle at a carelessly worded thought or become downright testy if unkindness reared its ugly head in the course of our disagreement. We're allowed to feel insulted if a personal attack was made on our standards, actions, intellect or choices during an exchange of differing opinions. These are risks we all take when we share our opinions. I think it's a risk worth taking in the name of freedom of expression. There is beauty in diversity, and it really is okay to share the planet with those who have differing perspectives.
We can't really expect anyone else to understand what we do, what causes we support, or what matters to us, let alone hold out hope that we'll influence them to change their point of view. It's unrealistic. (Some might say it's even a bit masochistic.) One day, in frustration, I wrote the following lines as a Facebook status update:
The paths we tread may go unseen by the unaided eye -
and difficulty of terrain we often can't deny.
You may not know the reasons for the path that I select.
My route is not yours to approve, but only to respect.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December 2013
Any time you post anything in a public forum, there's a decent chance that someone will have an adverse reaction to it. For the most part, adequate civility exists to enable our blissful ignorance of how thoughtlessly irritating we can truly be.
You may think you're sharing impeccable wisdom with your friends. You may think you're offering an opportunity that they perceive as nothing but an annoyance. You may be trying to sell something that few want to buy. You may see a post or a quote as a profound "truth" - and others may vehemently object. What you might find uplifting, others will sneer at. You might respond with a resounding "Amen" to something that will only motivate me to think, or even say,
"Respectfully, I disagree."
There is a huge difference between expressing an opposing point of view and being disrespectful. Every contrary opinion that's expressed shouldn't be seen as an attack on views that you hold or beliefs that you value. I have enough faith in humanity to dismiss the notion that most people devote their time to expressing ideas or re-posting quotes with the intention of irritating me or anyone else. Having said that, I will point out that sometimes on social media, people can simply feel bombarded by the sheer volume of disagreeable posts circulated by friends, and retaliate by letting the online world know that they feel differently.
I got fed up at one point because a few "friends" on my list had issues with the same bees buzzing endlessly in their bonnets, and I removed them from my friends list. None of these people were particularly close to me, and since I had no meaningful interaction with them and got sick of their endless tyrannical preaching, it seemed the wisest course of action. Most of us soon tire of people who seemingly have only one topic of discussion. This is especially true when our views on that subject are in strong opposition to theirs, and when those people adopt an attitude that reeks of such a superiority complex that their every comment drips with insinuation that anyone who sees the matter differently is an idiot - period.
Often we're too emotionally affected by a subject, or too closed-minded, to discuss our differences rationally - and that's when we should refrain from engaging in debate. In the instance I mentioned, the people involved were entirely disinterested in hearing opposing opinions. They were looking for converts to their cause, not honest discussion. They asked for alternate opinions so that they could belittle those who thought differently. Their like-minded friends bullied those who expressed other viewpoints. There was name-calling and unkindness in every chain. Ad hominem attacks abounded. I knew it was useless to engage on any subject with people who were so unprepared to listen respectfully, and so I did myself a favour and deleted them before I became too tempted to sink to their level. Their behaviors too often demonstrated a willingness to cross boundaries of civility that I had no intention of becoming comfortable crossing.
Boundaries:
My domain is limited -
the space I see as mine;
long ago I staked a claim
and drew a borderline.
I cannot grant free access
to everything I feel.
Some deep wounds must be covered
before they start to heal.
Some thoughts I have are private
and so I keep them fenced -
enclosed and safely locked up
when other views are sensed.
Opinions are like tourists,
their visits should be brief.
And they shouldn't emigrate
unless they seek relief.
My silence should speak volumes,
I simply don't agree.
None of your "greater wisdom"
will change the world I see.
Don't trespass on my feelings;
respect what I believe.
Don't climb upon my fences
or you'll be asked to leave.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (May 2010)
Deleting friends on social media over ideological differences isn't something I recommend doing in most circumstances. If there is any level of real friendship, mutual respect or common and fond history between you then you should be able to ignore disagreeable posts or disagree agreeably. The much easier solution to seeing less that you object to is to control your news feed. There's a little grey inverted V that appears in the top right corner next to every status update on Facebook. Click on it, and you can hide the offending post or even discontinue seeing all future posts from that individual or source. (My Facebook feed has become so much more pleasant since I've started systematically eliminating all evangelical sources of religious rah rah and network marketing from my sight : )) You don't even have to see every source of annoyance out there, let alone comment on it.
When you feel that you must register your disagreement, do your best to be kind and show respect toward those who obviously see things differently. Respectful disagreement might involve sharing what you perceive as factual evidence to the contrary, but bear in mind that not everyone will see your sources of information as valid. (Consider the questionable validity of a certain television doctor who is too quick to push unproven therapies on uneducated masses. His fans, who tune in daily, will accept whatever he tells them, but the rest of us are more skeptical.) Does your "expert" have an axe to grind, or is he/she truly sharing the results of unbiased research? If the facts shared are matters of public record - well documented dates or historical accounts that are not easily falsified - most should see them as reliable. Still, you need to accept that if they challenge a cherished belief in any way, they are apt to be discredited. The humility to accept that an error in judgement has been made can be a very hard pill to swallow.
No matter how reliable your facts are, people are often biased by their feelings, and in those instances, no amount of debate, respectful or otherwise, will ever change their opinions. Remember that others may be too invested (monetarily or otherwise) to consider another point of view. (You can present all kinds of reliable evidence that a particular dietary supplement might not be everything it's cracked up to be, but if the person you're trying to tell this to has just invested a thousand dollars and a hundred hours so that they can sell this product, they won't be very inclined to listen to you.) We all have biases, and before we engage in sharing contrary opinions we need to consider whether this person is willing to listen respectfully to what we have to say. If not, we should save our sanity and move on.
Don't make the mistake of expecting others to be swayed by whatever argument you give them, and don't ever expect people to understand what you think, what you mean, or what you feel. Feelings are especially problematic. Who can explain feelings logically? All are driven by emotions and their associated experiences. Logic is great - until someone presents it to us in such a way that we feel an expectation to exchange our soft, squishy feelings for cold hard facts.
For example, I might feel really good about giving to a particular charity. Don't expect me to tell you why I feel this way - my feelings might be influenced by something I've never consciously taken note of. Maybe my grandma said she thought that charity was noble waaay back when I was three and her comment just subconsciously lodged in the back of my head. So now when I send off a cheque to these folks I feel good. You might feel differently, and you might even have evidence that my pet charity doesn't make the wisest use of its funds. You can share it with me - it might prompt me to choose another group to contribute to. But if I have had numerous occasions when I felt good contributing my time or money to further the causes of this charity, then I might not be willing to change my donation habits. I might even think you're being mean-spirited for criticizing something that I've always had good experiences with.
There's no denying that we can all get our knickers knotted because somebody sees something differently and says so. We might be secretly upset with ourselves because we can feel our comfortable world view being challenged. We might feel a bit annoyed because there was an implication that we'd know more if we studied up a bit. We might bristle at a carelessly worded thought or become downright testy if unkindness reared its ugly head in the course of our disagreement. We're allowed to feel insulted if a personal attack was made on our standards, actions, intellect or choices during an exchange of differing opinions. These are risks we all take when we share our opinions. I think it's a risk worth taking in the name of freedom of expression. There is beauty in diversity, and it really is okay to share the planet with those who have differing perspectives.
We can't really expect anyone else to understand what we do, what causes we support, or what matters to us, let alone hold out hope that we'll influence them to change their point of view. It's unrealistic. (Some might say it's even a bit masochistic.) One day, in frustration, I wrote the following lines as a Facebook status update:
The paths we tread may go unseen by the unaided eye -
and difficulty of terrain we often can't deny.
You may not know the reasons for the path that I select.
My route is not yours to approve, but only to respect.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December 2013
Any time you post anything in a public forum, there's a decent chance that someone will have an adverse reaction to it. For the most part, adequate civility exists to enable our blissful ignorance of how thoughtlessly irritating we can truly be.
You may think you're sharing impeccable wisdom with your friends. You may think you're offering an opportunity that they perceive as nothing but an annoyance. You may be trying to sell something that few want to buy. You may see a post or a quote as a profound "truth" - and others may vehemently object. What you might find uplifting, others will sneer at. You might respond with a resounding "Amen" to something that will only motivate me to think, or even say,
"Respectfully, I disagree."
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