More or Less - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

More or Less

What can I offer, more or less -
within mid-winter bleak?
Perhaps less anger to distress;
more thought before I speak.
What can I offer to do more -
what habits can I nurse?
Perhaps more praise on friends I'll pour,
more kindness I'll disperse.
What can I try to do far less -
which flaws can I remove?
I'll do a tally and assess
the ways I should improve.
There's more that's good all ought to give;
more worse we ought not share -
far better ways for us to live
and of others take care.
This year I vow that - more or less -
I'll set my best self free;
I'll use the talents I possess
to build a better me.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Dec 18, 2018

Life is more or less an endless series of lessons to learn. No matter how much I might learn, or how much I grow in one area, I'm always certain to find some other aspect of myself that needs work.

This past year has been challenging in many ways. Always change-resistant, the universe seems intent on telling me that I need to embrace change. Always introspective, the universe keeps telling me to think less. Always thin-skinned, the universe seems to put me in positions where I'm apt to be rated, graded, and more often than not left feeling that I'm just not measuring up.

In short, the universe and I have been somewhat out of sync over the past several months.

I'm hoping we can reach a more amicable agreement in 2019. This seems like an attainable goal - as long as I'm willing to do my part to be more agreeable.

Yup - that's the issue - straight from the horse's mouth. Whenever it seems that the universe wants to teach me something, I dig in my heels. My reactions to change are automatic - I resist without stopping to consider whether the change might be good for me. I'm uncompromising in my ability to stubbornly hold fast to the status quo, even when life requires a good shake up. Perhaps this is the year I rid myself of that behavior.

Every year, between Christmas and New Year, I reassess my life. What am I doing right? What could I be doing better? Do I feel like my life is moving in the right direction? In some ways, I really do feel that I'm making progress - in spite of those times when I backslide and feel myself pulled back into the negativity that I'm always working to free myself from.

These past six months have felt like an enormous backslide. I'm tired, I'm cranky, I'm critical. Too often I've felt that I'm excelling at putting my worst foot forward. I offer the world too much of my worst, and too little of my best. I hang on to things I ought to throw away. I'm contrary.

One of the phrases I often hear is, "Let it go."

It's good advice, but not easy for someone like me; someone with a mind that needs an off switch. (Another phrase I hear a lot follows a similar vein - "You overthink things.'')

Today I participated in a "Fire communion". I wrote some words on a piece of flash paper and watched them catch flare as they were dropped into a fire pot. It felt cathartic to watch those words burn - a lovely sort of symbolism to usher in a new year. If only old habits could be released so easily.

Every person has their own list of "mores" - talents and skills that they should be intent on developing more fully and sharing more often. If you're like me, you may find yourself envying those who have obvious gifts - those who create beautiful art or music, or instinctively know how to make a delicious meal appear on the table. It can be easy to forget that kindness, inclusiveness, a sense of humour, hospitality, generosity...these are all gifts. Many of us have them in abundance - but we fail to utilize them regularly, and our skills grow rusty.

What would happen if we each reviewed our list of strengths and decided to give those parts of ourselves to the world more generously and more frequently?

Sadly, we all have another list - one that too many of us spend too much time examining. Our list of failings is ruthless; it tries hard to demand all of our attention. It constantly reminds us that we're flawed. It relentlessly tallies all of the ways we fail; we can't measure up to the expectations society places on us, and most importantly, we can't meet our own lofty standards.

This year I'm going to tear up that second list. I'm going to take those shreds of paper and burn them to ashes. That list has ruled my life for far too long. I'm going to spend more of my time looking at my other list - expanding it, and experiencing the satisfaction that comes when I've done my best with the meager gifts I have. I'm going to try harder to not succumb to envy or comparison. I'm going to accept a good backslide onto my backside from time to time. Progress is still progress, whether or not it comes in fits and starts. I'm going to quit questioning every step into the unknown and embrace the uncertainties that are part of living. I'm going to risk a few spectacular falls on my way to making a graceful leap - a leap from defeat to belief.

And I really do believe that this might be the year I learn to let it go.

'Tis the Season - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Show Me

Christ in the spotlight?
I doubt that he'd care
whether tableau is
placed here, or placed there.
Want Christ in Christmas?
Perhaps you might start
by showing his teachings
are deep in your heart.
People are hurting
this time of the year -
lonely and hungry,
and lacking in cheer.
Go - sing some carols
to make some hearts glad,
help out the weary
and comfort the sad.
Make a donation
To show that you care.
If Christ's in your Christmas
then prove He is there.

by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December 10, 2018

There's a large sign on our lawn that says "Season's Greetings" in large three foot green lighted letters. I'm just waiting for somebody to complain that it doesn't say "Merry Christmas" instead. Go ahead - I dare you.

First of all, if you know me, or if you've ever read even one of my Christmas posts, you'll know that I love Christmas and have no trouble whatsoever using the phrase "Merry Christmas." Most of the people I know celebrate Christmas, and so that's the phrase I use most of the time. A few times it has slipped out around Muslim, Jewish or Hindu acquaintances, and they simply smiled and said they hoped I enjoyed the holidays. No big deal. If a Jewish friend wanted to wish me "Happy Hanukkah", I wouldn't be upset in the slightest. Isn't life too short to waste time getting bent out of shape over such little things?

Sometimes, when there's any doubt in my mind I say, "Happy Holidays" - everybody seems to be celebrating something at this time of year, so why not? If by chance they aren't, it's still likely that they'll get a few days off work, so at the very least I'm showing goodwill by saying I hope they enjoy those days away from the grindstone. I hope they enjoy the days that I'll be celebrating my holiday - which is Christmas. I'm not being politically correct by saying "Happy Holidays" - just practical.

I am unabashedly non-religious these days, but I love the Christian themes in Christmas. It's a season of hope and joy - and Heaven knows we all need a bit more of those things in our lives. Every Christmas Eve, I try to make my way out to St. John's Elora to hear their beautiful choir sing. I listen to my husband's vast collection of honest to goodness Christmas carols in the car - no "Frosty" or "I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus" here. I love the carols that tell the story of Jesus' birth. I don't know if Jesus was actually born at this time of year, and I don't particularly care. Winter can be bleak, and a big birthday party - with gorgeous music and lots of bright Christmas lights and decorations - is a great way to add a little warmth to the coldest, shortest days of winter.

We can all get up on our high horse about how we can't display our Christian symbols anywhere we like, or worry about who greets who how - but what would Jesus say about His followers getting twisted out of shape over these trivialities when there are people in our midst with serious problems that we're ignoring while we make our petty complaints?

The way I see it, the problems in our society don't stem from "Godlessness" - but from a lack of morality. We are not kind enough. We don't show enough empathy toward others. Too many parents don't take time to really talk to their children; to teach them about compassion for others and the value of being honest, decent, and respectful. Too many fine Christians send their kids off to Sunday School once a week, and ignore their spiritual and moral development the other six days of the week. (Trust me on this - I taught Sunday School for a lot of years.)

Our problems didn't start when we stopped saying rote prayers in schools and other public spaces - they started when we stopped eating dinner together as families. They started when we - as the role models in our children's lives - started parking them in front of the television instead of talking to them and playing with them. Our problems started when we became so enamoured of our own devices that we gave them cell phones of their own to keep them out of our hair. Our problems were exacerbated by two income expectations - we, as parents got so caught up in giving them better things, that we failed to give them what they needed most - time, attention and limits.

It's handy to blame the influx of other faiths to our country as the root of our problems, and thereby assume - erroneously, I might add - that Christian morals are the only morals. I'm going to say something radical now: I've met a lot of Agnostics and Atheists who put Christians to shame when it comes to looking out for their fellow humans. I've seen amazing service rendered by non-churchgoers and non-believers. Religion, in my opinion, has most definitely not cornered the market on morality, goodness or decency.

I never cease to be amazed by the tribalism evidenced in today's society. Does it matter who goes to what church, or if the people who do their best to serve us - kindly and generously - go to any church at all? Is it our business how they choose to spend their Sundays? Would Jesus say we get to judge our neighbours based on whether they go to church? Would Jesus care how we greet each other in December? Or would he just be happy that we offered kindly greetings to each other at all?

It's easy to carp and complain about Christ not being part of Christmas. It's harder to conserve whatever scant energy we have, and then apply it to taking care of each others' needs. If you want to show that keeping Christ in Christmas matters to you, then demonstrate that you've incorporated his best teachings into your life. Be kind. Serve others. Give the benefit of a doubt to the Samaritans in your midst - they just might repay the favour.

Spend less time worrying about who believes what, and more time proving that you understand the concept of doing "unto others as you would have them do unto you." Take time for the people who matter most in your life, and for rendering kindness unto "the least of these."

And above all, don't judge your neighbour for putting "Season's Greetings" up in lights. I think Jesus would approve of the fact that I'm trying to include everyone in my celebration.

Peace on Earth - and good will toward all. Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays.

Snow Flake Windows and Starry Nights - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

I love Christmas - always have, and always will. In my childhood Christmas was a magical time. Our pleasures were simple. As siblings we often teamed up in order to buy nicer gifts for each other. I helped my mother bake all kinds of cookies and squares to bring out during the holidays. We put up a real Christmas tree and the house had a wonderful woodsy smell. For our family it was a time of fun and happiness, and the warmth of family was easily felt. For our friends it was a place of hospitality, where they would be welcomed with cookies and ginger ale.

When my sons were young I tried to recreate that kind of Christmas enchantment, in spite of the fact that our budget was often tight. Two different motifs show up in abundance in my holiday decorating - both "cheap and cheerful" - and I'll explain the significance of each.

Snowflakes and Stars

Snow to cleanse the frozen ground,
stars to pierce the night,
symbols that I spread around -
Christmas they invite.
Snowflakes on my windowpane -
cheap, and simply made -
and their presence I'll explain;
why they're thus displayed.
Each unique and cut by hand
they lend winter cheer -
a tradition that has spanned
from our poorest year.

Stars that grace the coldest night,
lighting earth below.
See them shining - oh, so bright! -
on the frozen snow.
When upon the sea he'd roam,
seeking haven dry,
stars could guide a sailor home
if he'd read the sky.
Stars upon my Christmas tree
sparkle to remind -
When home's light you wish to see,
love is what you find.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 28, 2018

Snowflakes

A lot of people in my small town comment on the snowflakes that I put on my door every Christmas, and here's the story of how that tradition was born.

One year, when the boys were about three and four, I decided I wanted to decorate the house for Christmas. I truly had no decorating budget, but I did have a stack of mostly usable white paper at my disposal. So I cut out some paper snowflakes and taped them to the long, tall window that flanked the front door of our townhouse. When the light outside the front door was turned on, those snowflakes cast beautiful shadows in our entrance. My sons loved those snowflakes so much that they insisted I leave them up as long as the "real snow" lasted, and they asked for more of them the following winter.

Every year since then I've covered my windows with hand cut paper snowflakes. As my sons got older I taught them how to cut proper (six-sided!) paper snowflakes, and they'd help me arrange them in windows. At the end of winter I'd take them down, discarding the ones that were too tattered, and put the others, tape side down, on long sheets of waxed paper to roll up and save for the next year.

Now I'm getting older and I feel the cold more than I used to, but I refuse to become one of those crotchety people who hates snow. I live in Canada (for goodness sake!) - where snow is a fact of life - and it seems to me that those who complain endlessly about it make winter miserable for themselves and everyone around them. I really like snow. It's fresh and pure and glittery. I think of it as a beautiful white blanket that covers all the roots in the earth. It sparkles in the sunlight, and it reflects starlight at night. Yes, it's cold - just bundle up warm and enjoy it!

Snowflakes amaze me. As a child I was told that every snowflake was unique. When I first saw a snowflake under a magnifying glass I was astounded by how beautiful and fragile it was - here one moment; gone the next. They are a perfect metaphor for our individual lives - each is different, and their duration depends on circumstances. One snowflake, on a warm hand, melts quickly. Another, falling on frosty ground lasts, and when joined by many others, creates a layer of snow.

Like snowflakes, we need others of our kind around us. We can survive alone, but we thrive in company with our own.

The paper snowflakes on my windows remind me of some basic life lessons we'd all do well to heed. Sometimes the simple, inexpensive things are the most beautiful and inspiring. (My windows have inspired a little "flakiness" in my community.) Some of the most fragile things - and people - can join forces and change the climate in ways both good and bad. Every individual is unique, and we need to surround ourselves with other unique beings to really shine. And finally, life is short - enjoy all the beauty you can while you're here.

Stars

Once upon a time I had a friend who confessed that his Christmas tree had no decorations. At the time I worked at a health food store, and often, on my break, I'd stretch my legs by going to the dollar store next door. (Okay - I'll admit that sometimes I'd buy chocolate. Don't judge me! Chocolate has therapeutic effects. But that's another post...) Anyhow, one day, after ruminating on the sadness that my friend's naked tree represented, I was in said dollar store - and a bag of sparkly, metallic pipe cleaners caught my eye and fueled my imagination.

Once back in my quiet, customer-less store, I took one out of the bag and began twisting it. What simple thing could I shape from this lovely bit of bendable bling ? I fiddled a while, and a star was born! So I made all the metallic pipe cleaners in the bag into stars for my friend's tree. I liked them so well that I bought another bag on the way home from work so that I could make some for my tree too.

Every year since then I've hung those stars on my tree. They are another creative and inexpensive decor innovation that morphed into a family tradition. (We also have a golden, pipe cleaner submarine, a tribute to the Beatles, that also gets a spot on the family Christmas tree every year.)

I love stars too, and have many fond memories of looking up into star-filled skies in northern Ontario where I was raised. Stars fascinate me - tiny pinpricks of light seen from earth are actually massive, flaming suns to other planets. Mind blown! I love knowing that stars create a map in the sky for sailors and explorers to navigate by. It thrills me to know that we can find our way home by following the stars.

One of my simple pleasures at this time of year is taking an evening walk to enjoy the Christmas lights my neighbours put up. There is something soul satisfying about walking in the crisp evening air - stars reflecting off the sparkling snow - and enjoying the coloured lights that are pretty and fun, but merely a cheap imitation of what the heavens offer us. Often these are solitary rambles. I walk alone, on these nights, but I'm not lonely.

The stars above will light my way home - to a snowflake covered door - and behind that door is love.

I Swear... By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

I swear.

I was always encouraged not to, and perhaps that's why I did - it became a small manifestation of the rebellion in my soul.

In my defense, I never swore because I thought it was a way of looking smart or cool. (Seriously - "cool" wasn't an attainable goal for me, and I was never afraid to use more impressive words to demonstrate that I knew my way around a dictionary.) Nope - those weren't my excuses. In fact, I never tried to excuse my bad habit at all.

I just tossed out a few nasty words here and there - mostly when I was alone - because it made me feel better. It eased my anxiety and provided much needed catharsis when I was angry or frustrated. Shutting my bedroom door and dropping a curse or two seemed like a safer option than hitting someone or exposing my rage to the household at large.

Research suggests that I might've been on to something. While I don't advocate a liberal sprinkling of profanity in our everyday conversation, I do think that there are times when a cuss or two make us feel a whole lot better. Studies have shown that using profanity might provide the following benefits:

Stress Relief!

This benefit seems like a no-brainer. I recently had a conversation with a seventeen year old, who reiterated what I've always felt.

"When you're really upset nothing feels better than swearing. You immediately begin to feel better."

I concur.

"Darn - I'm so annoyed!" will never provide the same degree of catharsis as letting a good expletive fly. Sometimes we're simply better able to cope with the stress of a situation by breaking the tension with a bit of well-placed profanity.

Pain Tolerance:

Recent studies have shown that swearing can reduce pain by as much as fifty percent. This explains why our first instinct, upon hitting a thumb with the hammer, is to swear profusely. Some speculate that swearing releases chemicals that dull our pain receptors. There's also evidence that swearing can make you perform better at the gym - so don't be too quick to pass judgement on that person cussing up a storm nearby.

It Signals Honesty:

People who occasionally swear in public are viewed as having more integrity than those who never swear. Their momentary lapse is seen as an indication that they are genuine, and not obsessed with appearing perfect all the time. Nobody's perfect - and the person who loses their cool, for a second or two - here and there - is more likely to acknowledge that they aren't. Swearing can also signify levels of trust between individuals, as well as demonstrate an understanding of boundaries and tolerance levels. Those prone to dropping the odd nasty word quickly learn to assess exactly how much swearing will be tolerated among different audiences.

I can't speak for the rest of you, but I've had worse experiences with hearing gossip and back-biting from people who'd never dare utter a "bad word" than I have from people who let loose occasionally, so I put some stock in this last theory especially. It seems logical (to me, at least) that the people who are occasionally shamed themselves by using profanity might be a bit less inclined to run around shaming others.

There are worse things you can do than swear a bit.

As parent, I tried to discourage swearing, but I sometimes swore in front of my sons, so I knew I had to excuse them if they followed suit from time to time. I didn't want to preach a "Do as I say, not as I do" sermon, and I also knew there were a lot bigger things to concern myself with than whether they used a bit of profanity.

When you host international students, the topic of profanity inevitably comes up. It's a necessary conversation; they need to understand what words are seen as "the worst" within our culture, and be certain that something that seems inoffensive in their country of origin - or their parent's home - isn't taboo in Canada or within the host family's home.

Oddly, right after our conversation, mention was made - on a television show we were watching - of a "swear jar". So I explained the concept.

"It could be a good way for me to save money", I quipped. "Especially at Christmastime!"

They laughed, having both heard the words I'm prone to utter when I drop things in the kitchen. And that, my friends, inspired this blog post and my latest poetic offering.

I swear - and while I'm not afraid to admit to it, I'd never go so far as to say I'm proud of it. It's just something I do sometimes, and as long as I (mostly) keep it behind my own closed doors I refuse to feel badly about it. (I don't really see it as a worse linguistic habit than using perpetually bad grammar - which hurts my ears every bit as much as the odd four letter word might hurt those with ears more sensitive to profanity.)

Yeah, I could start a "swear jar" - but I'll admit that for me it would likely be nothing but a way to bank spare change.

So without further ado, here's my @&%# poem:

Savings Plan

Here's how to save some money
a little at a time -
just start a swear jar, Honey;
add nickel, or a dime,
for each time you indulge in
the urge to be profane.
You will profit sin by sin,
with ev'ry cuss you'll gain.
Go on and curse - feel no guilt.
Go on - fill up that jar!
Tidy nest egg will be built;
rude tongue will take you far!
Do you want to take a trip
down to the sunny south?
Just go on - and let 'er rip,
and profit from that mouth!
Then, when you flash your bank roll,
some credence you'll accrue
for your tongue's lack of control
and every curse you spew!

by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 8, 2018.

Another Point of View - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Another Point of View

A road too seldom traveled -
because too few will dare -
where dogma is unraveled
by vista seen from there;
it's where our vision changes
so eyes can see anew
from high atop the ranges,
another point of view.

We need not climb a mountain
to come to such a place -
a drink from wisdom's fountain
can grant sufficient grace
to exercise some kindness
and empathy extend -
from both of these cure blindness
with better set of lens.

The lenses worn by others
are tried on by the brave.
They transform men to brothers;
relationships they save.
Miraculous the powers
exhibited by few
who, from compassion's towers,
see another point of view.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Oct 19, 2018

In our Toastmasters group, we sometimes participate in a speaking exercise called "Point/Counterpoint". A subject is chosen at random, and one member of the group stands up and presents one point of view on the topic, then the other speaker addresses the group with a contrary opinion. Imaginations are often stretched; the second speaker might actually be in full agreement with what was previously said, but spontaneous debate is the objective, and a second point of view must be offered. It's always interesting to watch the second speaker quickly come up with a (preferably) logical opposing argument.

Respectful debate is an art that's on the decline. Polarization is the new norm - everyone seems to be absolutely convinced that their approach to any given situation is the most correct, and their opinion is the only one that matters.

In younger days, many of us were encouraged to attempt to walk in the other guy's shoes. I always had trouble with this adage - how could I be expected to actually navigate the world in the same way as someone who had completely different experiences than I did? Logically, I knew that the "shoes" would never fit, and that my movement in the ill-fitting footwear would automatically make my journey even more difficult than that of the person who owned the shoes in question. None of us can navigate through new terrain in shoes that don't fit.

I like the concept of viewing the scenery through a different lens better. Remember being a child and trying on your friend's new glasses? The scenery around you suddenly distorted in bizarre ways, and it was hard to grasp the notion that those same glasses that made the world look crazy to you actually helped your friend see the world the same way your 20/20 vision allowed you to see it.

It can be hard to remember that our figurative "eyes" all see the world slightly differently. We might not ever be able to step into the "shoes" of another, but if we try to be empathetic, we can catch glimpses of the problems that others have to overcome.

A young man I know was always extremely bright, but "different" - awkward, overly stimulated by his own thoughts, and exhausted by the noise, confusion, and expectation to be socially "on" that high school placed on him. Knowing that he was brilliant, his parents fully expected him to go on to university. In Grade Twelve he told them that wasn't his plan - and for a time they were confused. The father was quite devastated - how could a boy who loved to learn be so adamant about not pursuing higher education? One day, in the course of picking up his son early from school, he walked through the same crowded and noisy halls that his son traversed daily. Suddenly he was granted a gift; for a brief moment he saw those halls through his son's eyes - and finally understood why his son felt as he did.

We seldom catch those "aha!" glimpses of what life can be like for those around us. In the case I just mentioned, the father truly wanted to understand why his son felt as he did. That was the precursor to the miracle of that moment of other-sighted-ness. Most of us, caught up in our own way of thinking, are far less invested in understanding the workings of the hearts and brains of our fellowmen. We can't relate to individuals who've been shaped by experiences so vastly different from our own, and often we simply don't care enough about them to try.

At other times, we've experienced things just similar enough to feel empathy. Our experience might pale beside greater trauma suffered, but it can provide us with a point of reference. Someone who was mugged on the street, and suffered a few minor injuries, can't equate their ordeal with that of the person who was raped, or had an attempt made on their life. However, they can remember that moment of fear when a stranger approached and lashed out at them. They can remember how they felt insecure about walking alone for a long time afterward. This enables them to reach out to the victim and say, "I think I might be able to imagine what that was like for you. I know how it feels to be afraid."

Sometimes we can't really empathize at all. We've simply never had an experience that compares in any way to what the other person has gone through. Their lives and experiences have shaped them very differently. They are clearly "other". Can we manage to care about "them"?

We may not ever desire to see a point of view that is in such direct opposition to our own, but we can still demonstrate kindness. We can attempt enough self-mastery to engage in civilized debate. We can admit - to ourselves and them - that we can't see through their lens. We can offer a hand to steer them when their vision falters, rather than push them into the path of that oncoming freight train that they can't see. Isn't that what we hope they would do for us?

What happens when our own vision is clouded, when our lenses are smudged with arrogance, anger, or bigotry? Are we happy to keep stumbling over obstacles that we'd avoid with clearer lenses? Do we deny how much we can't see to keep our pride intact? What do we do when tears fog our lenses? Do we take them off and give them a rub, or do we refuse the arm of the person willing to steer us for a while, and trip ourselves up while we wallow in unnecessary misery?

We are stubborn. Sometimes we want to pass on our filthy, clouded lenses to others, all the while insisting that they'll afford clearer vision. Other times we're offered corrective eye wear that we refuse to put on.

In my mid-forties, I suddenly required reading glasses. I spent months in denial - what were they thinking, suddenly making my crossword puzzle print so small? I mean, really - who could see that? As it turns out, almost everyone could except me! Oddly, while my physical self was protesting glasses, my mental and emotional selves were beginning to open themselves up to improved vision. My heart was becoming more open to the plights of others, and my mind was suddenly ready to entertain other points of view. My new glasses ushered in a whole new era of sighted-ness for me.

I won't tell you that I'm always open to seeing life from another person's perspective - there are still times when I'm as stubborn as my pre-glasses self. I know what point I want to make, and I don't want to hear the opposing argument - let alone play devil's advocate and imagine the arguments against my point of view.

I might squint and strain my eyes and insist that the print has shrunk rather than put on my specs. Life can be like those times when I head out to dine, having forgotten that I need those reading glasses at all. I know I have all kinds of options, but realize I can't quite manage even the large-print menu in dim light. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, my mother or a friend will hand me their glasses, and while the prescriptions vary enough that my vision isn't perfected, I can at least see well enough to order a meal. The need for guess work on my part is eliminated by a brief glimpse through another lens.

Maybe that's all it takes - an admission that our ignorance has blinded us, and our glasses got left at home - followed by the generous offer of a fellow diner:

"Can't see? Here - try my glasses!"

Dance to Your Own Drumbeat - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Drums

This drummer beats for me - and me alone -
and I dance to rhythm all my own.
I'll move in time with music 'til it's gone;
don't know all the steps, but I'll catch on.
You hear another tune; have your own groove,
and can't tell me how I ought to move.
I'll march with fervor, or I'll tread with grace -
when drum changes tempo, I'll keep pace.
If I am out of step, you'll never know.
Your drummer does a diff'rent beat bestow.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 10, 2018

What was meant to be a temporary re-arrangement of furniture in our front sunroom inspired this post. Steve - the furnace guy - was coming in early the next morning to re-route some venting in the attic and our son's bedroom, and because said son is a night owl, this entailed a different spot for him to sleep for a night. Knowing that he'd bunked a night or two in the sunroom, I went in there to pull out the futon he'd be sleeping on, only to find that the drum was in the way.

The drum in question used to belong to my mother-in-law. When she moved into a nursing home several years ago, my sons claimed it. Nobody here plays the drums, but it's one of those things that we just can't seem to part with. For me, it symbolized something - I just wasn't sure what until I moved it yesterday. Looking for a spot to stick it for 24 hours, I plopped it down in the corner of our front entryway. I walked past it several times, and decided it looked at home in that spot. In fact, I decided it could make an important statement about our family.

"I'm going to leave it here" I told my husband. "I'll put a sign over it that says, 'Dance to your own beat' or 'Follow your own drum'..."

"I like it!" he responded.

So there it sits - sans sign - for now. Having it in our entryway is symbolic. We are a family that values individuality. My husband, my sons and myself all see the world differently. We are four shades of ideology. We have four different views on religion; four different views on politics. We keep different hours and enjoy different pastimes.We have varied opinions on fashion, on budgeting, on art, on music...Name a subject and the chances are good that the four of us will each have our unique take on it. We are individuals.

Amazingly, we don't spend all of our time together arguing. Why bother? As parents, we just wanted to raise decent kids - not little clones of either of us. My sons always got along well, in spite of the fact that they had different temperaments, personalities and interests. We love each other, but what makes us a happy family is that we genuinely like each other.

I won't tell you we've never had heated discussions, or that we always respect each others opinions, but we accept this as fact - we're allowed to see things differently. It's good to be unique.

I love my husband's ability to keep a civil tongue and an even temper. I love how my older son has a very dry wit and can remember bizarre facts on a million topics. I love watching my younger son in action - when he explains AI theory I understand little - but I love how passionate he is about his interests. I love that all three of them keep talking to me, whether I know what they mean or not!

I appreciate that my husband cares about my opinions. Many of our conversations begin with the words, "what do you think about..." It matters that we still ask these questions, even though we know there's a good chance that our points of view won't be completely aligned.

We're tolerant of each other's foibles. As I've said before, I do not excel at multi-tasking. (As an example, on Tuesday I opened the microwave to find the peas I meant to serve at Thanksgiving dinner.) My husband and kids know this about me. They understand that I'm incapable of real conversation while I'm preparing a meal, and they know that disorder in the kitchen makes me crazy enough to drop a bad word or two. I know this was an annoyance to my younger son when he'd invite friends from church over, but - bless him - rather than chastising me for my nasty mouth, he'd stoically come into the kitchen and offer assistance. His brother would do the same when kitchen counters got heaped with tins and ingredients during my annual Christmas baking binges - just step in and help re-create order from chaos.

We don't always agree, but we "get" each other.

Yes - we roll our eyes sometimes, but we do it as we bite our tongues. None of us is perfect, but as a family, this much diplomacy we've mastered:

- We don't always have to waste our time trying to sway each others' opinions.
- We don't have to agree with each other to enjoy each other.
- We don't have to like the same things.
- We respect each other's strengths and try to compensate for each other's weaknesses.
- Criticism should always be gentle.
- A whole lot of things we might want to say are better left unsaid.

At the risk of sounding trite, love really is the answer. As I've contemplated the drum that now sits in my front entrance, I've decided that we're perhaps not just marching to a different beat, but perhaps all hearing different drummers. Some are pounding bongos, some are beating snare drums. Some are tapping away on steel drums. At times the desire to share the rhythms we choose to hear is almost overwhelming. We each hear through our custom headphones, and most of us (secretly, at least) believe our music is best. We are social creatures who want to share what we love, and we often invite others to join us in our dance - forgetting that they already have choreographed moves of their own. Sometimes an inner critic wants to tell them what they're doing is wrong; to us their tempo seems off, or their movements don't seem fluid. Love is knowing how to hush that impulse.

Love is a clumsy dance that transcends all the genres. It is ballet's elite twirling their way through a mosh pit of ravers. Love is embracing the concept of not just hearing different beats, but knowing there are different drums and drummers. It's accepting that every drum has its merits, and every drummer has her or his own style. Every beat has its place.

Love is an open invitation:

Come as the individual you are, and dance to your unique drum beat.

Forward Thinking - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Forward Thinking

I must confess to feeling stress -
the future is uncertain.
I might choose "door", but can't ignore
what hides behind the "curtain."
What e'er occurs, the present blurs
the days that lie before us;
succeed or fail, strength will prevail
if victory ignores us.
I've ascertained that nothing's gained
by never taking chances;
So eyes ahead - I've learned to dread
regretful backward glances.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, September 24, 2018

I've learned that the only thing harder than taking chances and exploring new territory myself is watching the people I love embrace chance.  I'll confess that as a younger mother I was relieved that my sons weren't particularly athletic and not "team joiners." I often joke that it would've been hard for me to cheer them on when watching sporting events usually bores me stiff, and I likely wouldn't have been particularly thrilled when their team won or upset if they lost. I would've hated having to encourage them through those periods of personal disappointment when they did their best, but still didn't win. That's because I see winning and losing a little differently than most.

I have trouble with the concepts of "winning" and "losing". I think that any effort we make toward positive change is victory - regardless of whether or not we achieve every last thing we set out to do. Any time we take a leap out of our comfort zone we're being brave, and knowing that we had the courage to try is a reward in itself.

Victories are often bittersweet, and losses don't equal failures. As long as we learn from the experience we gained from working toward a goal, we've won something that nobody can ever take away from us.

Recently I won my first trophy ever. I entered a speech contest at Toastmasters. I practiced for hours before the competition and memorized every word and gesture. When I sat down after making my audience laugh for six minutes I felt that I'd won - and I would have refused to stop feeling that I'd won regardless of whether my name had been engraved on the trophy. I did something that was hard for me, and I did it better than I'd ever done it before - victory!

You see, up until the last decade of my life, I was so afraid of failing that I refused to compete - at anything. The fact that I'm brave enough to blog about my thoughts and feelings still astounds me - and I've been doing this for ten years! The blogs that I wrote early on got very little traction, but I kept writing - another victory. After a lifetime of staying in the background, I was putting myself out there - into cyberspace - and hoping that somewhere along the line a few people would care what I had to say - and maybe even be able to relate to some of my posts. And from someone who subconsciously bought into the notion that if you couldn't be "best" at something you were better off never trying, that was something.

As a mother I tried not to encourage competition among my sons. I refused to believe that one was inherently better than the other, and as a result my two very different sons get along really well and enjoy each other when they're together. I don't think there's any kind of "Mom loves you better" dialogue between them. I never asked them if they were first in their class or consciously compared them to friends or classmates. I was happy if a C became a B, or a B grew into an A. The only person I need to compete with is me, and the only person you need to compete with is you.

Accolades aren't what matters in life. Sometimes we'll demonstrate mediocre ability and be praised to the hilt - and still be disappointed in ourselves because we know we didn't give our best. Other times we'll throw everything we have into an effort and get no recognition whatsoever, but still manage to walk away with head held high.

My husband and sons know how I feel about winning and losing. They know that I'm proud of every effort they make. One of my proudest moments as a mom was watching my younger son come onstage and utter less than three lines in a play that he'd written and directed. I didn't jump up and down and scream "That's my boy!" - but he knew I was there thinking it. If his play had received weak applause I would've been just as proud as I was during his standing ovation.

Win or lose, life goes on in this family. We love each other, we respect each other and we enjoy each other. Whether there are trophies, titles or awards in the offing, none of those things change.

We don't admit defeat, but carry on - in personal victory - heads held high.

Forward thinking is all about continuing to move ahead, regardless of whether your attempt was deemed a victory, or a defeat.

Getting Down and Dirty - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Doing the Dirty Work:

Almost all will volunteer
to sit on a committee -
happy that they can appear
where they will look most pretty.
But, sad truth I have beheld -
which I find quite appalling -
is that most must be compelled
to do the work that's galling.
No one wants to chip a nail
or sweat to do the hard stuff.
Best laid plans can often fail
'cause follow-up is too tough.
Most line up to sit on boards
where chairs are soft and cushy -
but if to work you urge these lords
they'll say you're being pushy!
All show up to take their bow
once everything is cleaned up,
'cept the one who manned the plow
before the field was greened up.
See them wearing haute couture
prepared to meet the presses -
but not the one clad in manure
who cleaned up all the messes!

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, September 10, 2018

Volunteerism is a funny thing - everybody likes the idea of it, but diving in and doing the hard work entailed to make things happen doesn't hold quite the same appeal. The sad truth is that far too many of us want our volunteer efforts to be - well, effortless.

Years ago I supervised a church group for girls twelve to eighteen years of age. Part of the mandate of the program was to encourage the girls to do "service projects" - which usually entailed doing some child tending for young parents in the congregation or fetching/carrying/clearing dirty dishes for one church activity or another. (Trust me - I tried to encourage them to think of more creative ways to serve, but never with any success.) Every few months we'd have planning meetings, and as long as we were focused on fun activities everyone was cooperative, but the second the words "service project" came up the girls shut down. Volunteerism didn't even enter the picture for most of them. They were told they were supposed to help out from time to time, so they did - under duress.

We can write off this experience as invalid, because I was working with teenagers. Still, in my experience, adults often aren't much better. Once, in a women's organization I was part of in that same congregation, a suggestion was made that we prepare meals at a soup kitchen downtown. Nobody signed up. A while earlier, when it was suggested that some ladies could get together to prepare meals for expectant mothers in the congregation, the response had been much better. Why was one opportunity for service embraced while the other was rejected? I've given this a lot of thought over the years and come to a few conclusions:

First of all, people are reluctant to help those they don't know - especially when it involves working with strangers to serve those on what they consider on the "fringes" - the homeless, the abused and the mentally or physically challenged. I don't want to sound too judgemental - I didn't sign up that day either. While my reason for not signing up was valid (I was out of town on the dates in question),  I can't deny that I was relieved to have a good excuse to not volunteer - and for the very reasons I just listed.

Secondly - it's harder to get motivated to help others under your own steam (signing up for a work shift on your own, and when you have to work for and with people you don't know, doing unfamiliar tasks in a new environment) than it is to commit to gathering in a group of familiar people to do things you know how to do, for people you're familiar with.

In other words, service is a whole lot easier when we're dealing with a whole lot of familiar components, and it's a lot more pleasant when we can combine it with an opportunity to socialize.

I think that's why there's such a marked divide between the planners and committee sitters and the "roll up yer sleeves and get 'er done" types - the drones of volunteerism. It usually takes a room full of people to collaborate in the planning stages, and this is usually done in a pleasant, sociable environment. Once you get down to the business of carrying out various chores, it might mean solitary drudgery that leaves you looking disheveled and smelling like the dirty laundry you're now wearing.

There's the simple fact that a lot of people really do want their volunteerism to be neat and clean; to go and sit and talk to the other "ideas people", and then emerge from all the planning looking fresh as a daisy. These are the people who are "movers and shakers". They'll raise the money, plan the event, choose the venue - and delegate. I'm not going to say that any of this is bad at all - planning is a vital part of serving.

The problem is, if everybody is planning, and nobody shows up to actually do the heavy lifting, then not much ever gets accomplished.

A few days ago my husband and I were having a conversation with a few friends about being proactive in the community. Most of us find plenty to complain about, but seldom make genuine efforts to solve the problems that we see.

I'll be blunt - I still feel frustrated that my weeding initiative rapidly evolved into a work party of one. It was pointed out to me that when one party is passionate about doing something it becomes altogether too easy for others to stand back and let them take care of the problem on their own. Once the worst of the weeds were gone, I could handle it myself, right?

Well, I could - but I'd rather not. While I don't have a full time job, and I really care about keeping the weeds down in my community, I'd rather not do it alone. It's a lot of work for one person and my middle-aged back gets sore. Besides, I have a whole raft of projects to engage my solitary hours at home, and they get put aside too often, even when I'm not doing anything elsewhere. Like any chore, weeding was more enjoyable when I had helpers to talk with; the work went faster and we could accomplish a whole lot more in the same amount of time! (Thank you so much to those ladies who helped me in the first few weeks. If there hadn't been such a push in the beginning, even I might have given up!)

"Offer beer", our friend suggested, "and they'll come out in droves."

I laughed at the suggestion, and replied that what I'd envisioned was perhaps stopping at noon and doing lunch together at the local diner. And no - not on my dime. (I don't have a job, remember?) Shouldn't the company of friends while working, and celebrating a job well done afterwards, be enough motivation? Sheesh -  no one should require bribery with free lunch to get out and work for an hour or two!

The same friend went on to say that he'd rather not head up committees and be in charge of this or that, just tell him where he's needed and he'll show up and do what needs doing.

"Wow!', I thought - "I've finally met another person happy to be a drone!"

Fact is, I can deliver a mighty motivational speech - until I actually need to motivate other people to get out and help me. I'm clearly a worker bee, so people are happy to assume I'll go ahead and do whatever I want done, which is absolutely true when it comes to improving my own turf. However, my town is common turf, and its appearance would be vastly improved with a little spit and polish. I complained about weeds along the main drag for two solid years before I got off my duff and started pulling them. While I was working one morning, a town employee came out and told me that the municipality simply doesn't have the personnel to pull up weeds. They'll come out and whack them down periodically - but they aren't allowed to spray them and don't have time to pull them. Extrapolate - a good rainfall means a huge healthy weed with a deep root will grow incredibly tall overnight.

Takeaway message - if we want things to consistently look relatively weed-free, we need to be willing to yank out some weeds. We already know I'll pull some, but I can't do it all alone.

Every day, we look around our towns and cities and see things that need improving. We complain to our spouses and friends about them, and if they bother us enough we call our councilman or fire off a letter to our MP. Sometimes that just isn't enough, and what we really need to do to see a difference is stop griping about the problems and start doing - get off your bottom, pull on your work gloves (or work boots) and get down to work! Get dirty! Clean up the garbage! Weed the cracks! Add a coat of paint to a few neglected surfaces! When a few people work together to improve their corner of the world, they can make a huge difference.

Maybe by next year, I'll miraculously have acquired the power to motivate a few others to take activism to a crab-grassroots level. I'll keep going to Toastmasters to improve my motivational speaking skills. If that doesn't work, I'll make friends with some committee-sitter who knows how to send other drones to my aid.

Either way I'm prepared to keep getting down and dirty. Are you?

Be Kind to Yourself - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Be Kind to Yourself

Make peace with yourself -
who you are; who you were -
think of the hardships
you've had to endure.
You might have regrets
about things that you did,
and choices you made
that you hoped would stay hid -
we've all made mistakes
that we'd like to undo -
be kind to yourself
and forgive the old you.

You've turned out quite well;
your opinion is sought.
Your wisdom increasing -
it was quite dearly bought.
You've earned some respect
since you've started to be
a person who cares,
and who lives decently.
Be kind to yourself
and just live as you should.
You've shed who you were
and become someone good.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 30, 2018

A friend recently recently talked about how much he enjoys adopting the persona of a character he once portrayed in a play. It got me thinking about the different roles we take on in life - the roles we're forced into and the ones we willingly take on. I think that most of us embody different personas along the way as different aspects of our personality come to the forefront under different circumstances.

To state that I lacked confidence as a youth would be putting it mildly. I never saw myself as pretty enough, smart enough or good enough. I had a few good friends, but never considered myself overly popular. In my own eyes, I always fell short of what I thought I should be.

It often felt like I was harbouring a couple of different people inside. What I considered "real me" was somewhere between the person who manifested herself at school, and the person my family knew. My closest friends caught occasional glimpses of that fun, wacky person, but "she" didn't emerge as often as she should have - I was far too worried that if I cut loose, people would ridicule me. A lot of the time I would've been happy to be just about anyone but me.

When I got married (at 26) I was beginning to come into my own, but motherhood set me back a bit. Having two sons in rapid succession left me tired, cranky and impatient far too often. Once again I seemed to spend too many days disliking the person who I seemed to be at the time. Money was perpetually tight in those days, and my husband was still in Grad school until our younger son was a year old. My parents lived three hours away, so I didn't have a lot of family support. We scrimped and saved to pay for a babysitter every few weekends so that we could get out without the boys, and I could escape needy toddlers for a few hours.

At the time it felt like a lot of my friends were acing motherhood - doing it so much better than I was. Now that I look back with my increased life experience, it's dawned on me that I've always been more open about my struggles than many. In retrospect, I can also see how one friend had less financial stress, and another had a mom nearby who took her kids fairly often, and others simply had the ability to appear confident - even when they may have been as uncertain as I was. It took me a lot of years to see that I did pretty well most of the time.

Hindsight has taught me that forgiving the flaws of your past self finally comes once you've fully acknowledged everything you were up against in those worst moments.

It took me a long time to realize that I was critical of myself - and others - because I'd been raised around too much criticism. I aimed for perfection, and felt that I couldn't allow myself to be happy about making incremental improvements in myself. For most of my life, I was far too judgmental. In my mid-forties, not liking the way my "inner critic" was taking over my internal monologue (and far too often my external dialogue as well), I began to rethink the way I lived and the things I professed to believe. Oddly, the things I really believed at my core never came into question. I knew that I'd always had a deep sense of morality - I knew good from bad, and had a huge capacity for kindness. I'd just never figured out how to be kind to myself.

I began to actively search for the positives in my life - not just taking time to enjoy great moments in the present, but to rethink my past in a kinder light. I searched for the best parts of myself - aspects that had consistently been part of me - even throughout the less than stellar parts of my life - and I found them.

It's easy to look back at who we used to be and chastise that person with all kinds of advice about what we shoulda/woulda/coulda done differently, but I've come to the conclusion that those types of recriminations aren't fair or kind. Most of us tried to do the best we could, and when we erred we paid the price. The mistakes we've already made are behind us, and craning our necks to keep looking at them only bends us out of shape.

Now in my fifties, I've finally managed to (mostly) forgive the less than flattering aspects of my old selves. By making peace with "them", I've became a lot more comfortable with the person I am now. I can throw myself into a role when I'm participating in a murder mystery or telling a tall tale at Toastmasters - and have a great time doing it - but I don't want to be anyone other than who I am. I can claim ownership of the creativity that temporarily brings these characters to life - and that's enough for me.

I love knowing that I can still play and create. I can cut loose without worrying that anyone (or at least anyone who matters) will ever think less of me for letting out my inner goofball. Yesterday, I posted video of myself telling my prize-winning "Tall Tale." The second I saw myself onscreen I started to think negative thoughts about how physically unflattering the video is - I look fat, I should have fixed my hair, put on more makeup... I almost didn't post it. Then I caught myself and posted it - with only one small disclaimer about not being quite as fat as I look. (Hey - it's progress!) I think it's a funny video - who cares if anyone criticizes the way I look? It's not an audition tape for a beauty pageant, just a spur of the moment recording I did to make people laugh. A lot of people have watched it now, and I'm not going to feel badly about the fact that I don't look awesome in it. I've finally figured out that I have other ways of shining. 

It is hugely satisfying to know that I'm making progress - and that I'll have opportunities to learn and grow for as long as I live. At last I can say that I like who I'm becoming. So here is my advice to you:

Be kind to yourself - you' re still evolving too.

One Stone - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

One Stone

One stone gently tossed
into a stream is lost.
Many, heaved with force,
can make a stream change course.
One voice barely heard -
wind swallows every word.
But when voices blend,
the silent air we rend.

I think I'm alone -
one solitary stone.
One small, timid voice
with no cause to rejoice.
But I am so wrong -
full choirs sing my song!
And a stream is stopped
when many stones are dropped.

by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 19, 2018

I wrote this poem in February for a friend who was planning to stage a protest. I couldn't physically be with him to support a cause we both believe in, but I could send him a poem. He read it to some who had gathered with him, and so, although not present myself, I played a small part in his efforts.

Now - while that same friend stages a hunger strike - I've been waging a war on the weeds in downtown Atwood.

My husband has been meeting a lot of people since he decided to run for municipal office. One of the people he met noted that Todd was married to "an activist", mentioning my "Weeding Wednesdays".

At this point I need to mention that in spite of this post containing a poem about stones and discussing weeds, it isn't a commentary on the legalization of the other kind of weed. (Frankly, that isn't my thing at all. My imagination needs no assistance, and I get the munchies far too often already!)

My frustration with the weeds along my town's main drag started as soon as we'd moved here. As I recall, I'd spent a morning pulling gargantuan thistles out of my lawn and garden beds, and decided to take a break by running to the post office to see if our mail had caught up with us yet. And on my short walk, I noted towering weeds on Main St - a.k.a the highway that runs straight through town - and I thought, "Why doesn't somebody pull these weeds?"

When we'd lived here for almost a year, our town did its big Canada 150 celebration. The worst of the weeds got whacked - but they grew back taller than ever. This year, the Canada Day parade went past a few mighty impressive specimens, and on the way to view said parade with a friend, I said, "I swear one day I'm going to come out here and dig up these weeds!"

And so I did. I'd been itching to pull those weeds for almost two years, but I'd been afraid to. Then my husband decided to run for mayor, and I figured that if he was brave enough to run for office - in spite of critics and naysayers - then I could be brave enough to not care if people thought I looked like a nutter pulling weeds along the main drag!

I put out a call for helpers on Facebook, and a few ladies got out to help me pull weeds. Nobody laughed at us - in fact, a whole lot of people complimented us for taking the time to do something for the town. The next week was more of the same. The third week my previous helpers were all tied up helping elsewhere, and so I went out and finished the first (and worst) block on my own. I could've allowed myself to feel really discouraged, but I didn't. "Weeding Wednesday" never took off to the extent that I'd hoped; I'd envisioned a team of volunteers working efficiently for an hour and then maybe doing lunch at the diner...and instead had two helpers both times, and worked three hours... However, a few really encouraging things had happened along the way:

1) People were encouraging and appreciative. They thanked us for our efforts. One woman came and brought us cold water bottles.
2) The town heard what we were up to and came out with a weed whacker to cut down the worst of the weeds. A few of the property owners got out and sprayed their weeds. We had initiated a movement of sorts!
3) I learned that I really would rather be pulling the weeds than walking by them and complaining about them. I have time to pull them, and it feels good to be actively doing something to beautify a wonderful community that could use a little spiffing up.

Am I an "activist"? That's a tough question. According to the dictionary, an activist is "a person who campaigns to bring about political or social change." I didn't really campaign, and I've yet to see if any change - political or social - has occurred as a result of my efforts. All I know is that (weather permitting) I'll be the somebody who continues to pull weeds downtown on Wednesday mornings, and I'll keep holding out hope that a few others will join me in the effort. It isn't much, but it's a contribution I can make.

Consider rocks and streams for a moment. When my boys were young, they loved nothing more than tossing rocks into bodies of water. They might have loved that satisfying thunk, or maybe it was a simple way of asserting power over the world around them - "You - rock - shall now dwell in this pond!" When they got older, they tried to skip stones in the lake when we visited the family cottage. (Grandma had to coach them - I can't skip stones to save my soul.) But like my sons, I like the sound of a stone hitting the water. I like seeing the ripples one stone makes as it sinks into the depths.

When I was young, there was a stream at the edge of the lot that our cabin sat on. That stream was the bane of my father's existence - and every spring he hauled stones to divert its course so that it wouldn't erode our much coveted stretch of sandy beach. As a result, the stream was a minor inconvenience to us. If it was too wide to step over, we'd merely plunk in a few strategically placed large stones and cross without getting our feet wet.

My husband is dropping the big rocks to ford a stream. My friend (the protester) is hauling stones to divert a stream. I'm not situated to do either of those things - and activist seems like too much of a stretch to describe what I'm attempting.

For now, I'll settle for making ripples.

At Sea - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

At Sea

I was a sailor
in need of a sea -
hoping to set sail;
go searching for me.
Here in this small town
new port I have found -
and now I'm happy
to stay on the ground.
On terra firma
I'm learning a lot.
I'm finding much more than
the me that I sought.
Observing the goodness
in those around me
has helped me to lose
inhibitions - be free!
Not battling the waves
I feel suddenly strong;
No longer at sea -
I am found - I belong.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 18, 2018

It's been almost two years since we made our big move to a small town. We didn't know what to expect here, so we held our noses and belly-flopped into unknown waters. Our early days often felt more like sink than swim. We were thrust back into small town life after thirteen years of being city folk, and we were trying to figure things out - like how to renovate a huge old house, stay financially afloat, acclimatize ourselves to a new environment, and make new friends. It was daunting, but the kindness of strangers helped us through all the changes and challenges.

I came here with a whole lot of emotional baggage that I thought the people who befriended me could never understand, but as people listened kindly and shared their own stories I was reminded that I don't have a monopoly on disillusionment, disappointment or confusion. 

When I came here, I was going through an identity crisis - trying to figure out what I wanted from this new chapter of my life, and desperately hoping I could begin to feel a sense of belonging here. (Trust me - there were times when I felt that I couldn't have looked any odder if I'd been a crazy cat lady running around town advocating wearing metal helmets to keep space aliens from reading brainwaves.) There don't seem to be a lot of rhyming poet/bloggers in these parts...just how much of an oddball was I?

Gradually we became involved in a few things. My husband and I joined a Toastmasters group a few miles down the road, and discovered an amazing group of friendly, supportive people. We've found wonderful friends among this varied group, and enough confidence to speak our minds. A few small victories came my way while finding my voice as a speaker, and I've learned that sometimes I can surprise myself. (If I can play a half-way convincing Madam in front of an audience of a hundred, or don a tin-foil hat and pet a ceramic cat while addressing a room full of people - what more can I do?) Toastmasters has certainly helped me reconnect with my inner imp!

Last fall I joined the book club at our local library branch, and got to know some really lovely ladies. I might be the naysayer in the group - the outlier who loved the one book the rest hated and criticized the book they all loved - but they put up with me. Through our friendly discussions over tea and snacks, we've all discovered commonalities.

In the last year and a half my husband and I have gone to more funerals and visitations than we did in the previous decade. (I can deny that it helps that the funeral home is in sight from most of our windows.) We've experienced so much kindness and generosity here that we want our neighbours to know that we're thinking of them, and want to do what we can during difficult times.

Most of the people I've met here are kind, generous and hard-working. How many other places can you put out a call for someone to remove twenty bags of lawn waste and get three different offers in the space of a few hours? People are committed to being neighbourly here - they'll help you move furniture on a moment's notice, tell you where to find bargains, and recommend people for jobs you need done.

One day at the hardware store, my husband asked about how to fix something, only to have the store manager say he had one of those he never used - and the next day there it was at our back door!

When you are the recipient of that kind of generosity and kindness, you want to give back in whatever way you can.

Helping here isn't always as easy as making a casserole on your own time and dropping it at the door. It might mean giving hours of your time and going home with sore muscles. I've seen mountains moved here - mountains of yard waste, garbage and recycling - all moved by people who care enough to dig in and help each other. I've seen people literally pull together - bags full of weeds from an elderly neighbour's lawn - working tirelessly to get the job done.

I've learned that you start belonging the day you're asked to help out.

The people in my neighbourhood consistently set good examples of being service-oriented, and they make me want to be a more helpful person too. They're helping me find my best self. I might not ever be a "typical" small town housewife, but I've come to the conclusion that most people here are okay with my peculiarities. There's room here for a weirdo like me, a religion-less refugee from big city anonymity. As I try to repay kindness with plates of baking and return favours, I find myself less confused about what I have to offer, and ever more optimistic about the state of humanity.

Kindness begets kindness and acceptance begets acceptance. I can belong just because I want to.

In her book, The Gifts of Imperfection, Brene Brown writes, "True belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self acceptance."

The mysteries of my life are unraveling as I continue to find ways to knit myself into this community. I feel better about the direction I'm moving in than ever before. There are still conundrums to work out, but they don't seem to occupy as much of my head space now that I'm more engaged with good causes and great people.

Do I belong here because I've been accepted, or have I found my port because I've finally begun to accept myself?

All I know for certain is that I'm no longer at sea.

Heat! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Heat

Beneath the sun's relentless rays
my thoughts are turning foggy -
this torrid heat's gone on for days
and even nights are soggy.
Steam rises from the city streets
that are almost deserted;
the shortest walk my strength defeats -
I'm overly exerted.
I'm swimming in humidity -
my body saturated -
while heat zaps my lucidity
and leaves me agitated.
I've never felt such gratitude
for air-conditioned shelter;
no comfort even for the nude -
outdoors it's like a smelter.
I feel no urge to cook or bake,
my appetite is waning,
but as I strive my thirst to slake
such water weight I'm gaining!
The grass threatens to blow away,
the flowers wilt, dejected.
I hope this heat's not here to stay -
this needs to be corrected.
I know some love this summer heat
and baking in the hot sun,
but my baked brain admits defeat
and wants the heat to be done!

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 2006

Yikes! It's been hot out there! Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, or to burn your knee on the surface of a flatbed truck. (Which happened to a friend on Sunday.) Yup - there's no denying that it's been hot.

I guess last time I felt bothered enough by the heat to write about it was in the summer of 2006. I was working in a very tiny (but blessedly air-conditioned) health food store a fifteen minute walk from my where I lived. Those walks to and from work seemed crazily long, and I'd arrive at work, or back at home, feeling like a badly wrung out (and nasty smelling!) dish cloth. The store was located in one of those little neighbourhood plazas that rely heavily on foot traffic, and those hot summer days were eerily quiet. I spent a lot of time trying to write poems - which were often less than stellar. (This one was pretty bad, so I edited extensively.) My mind doesn't function well in heat, and when you add a liberal dose of menopause into the mix of that era, you can imagine how my poor brain felt like it was being boiled in the sweat of my misery.

Some people love heat. They bask in it like lizards sunning on rocks. I marvel that they don't actually melt into gelatinous goo.

"Is it still nice out?" asked a server in the sub shop a few days back. We'd gone in to grab a few sandwiches rather than warming up the kitchen by turning on the oven to cook. I tried to think back to the last day I'd considered "nice." Was it last Tuesday or Wednesday? My heat addled memory was uncertain. For at least a week I've been giving my plants extra water, staying indoors most of the day, and taking walks in the evening when the sun isn't quite as hot. You know it's bad when you step outside at 8:00 pm and still feel like you're walking into a convection oven.

Every morning I check the weather to see extreme heat warnings. When will it end? If this isn't global warming, what is?

Some people try to trivialize the heat in their area.

"It's a dry heat", folks in Arizona will tell you. "So much easier to bear than where it's humid!"

I'm sorry, but when you start talking about extremely hot weather it's terrible whether it's dry or humid. Whether I get boiled or fried, I'll still get cooked!

I get no sympathy when I gripe about the heat.

"It's better than the cold!" people tell me emphatically.

I disagree. In the winter I can add layers of clothing, but in summer there's only so much I'm willing to take off.

I've never loved heat. As a child growing up in Northern Ontario it wasn't that much of an issue, thankfully. Our house wasn't air-conditioned, and I slept upstairs. On those nights when it was uncomfortable in our room, my sister and I would relocate to a folding bed in the basement rec room. It was rustic, but bearable. On the hottest days, my father might pull out the sprinkler and let us run through it. A few times it seemed oppressively warm at our cottage too - which is where we'd go to try to escape the heat in the Soo. I acquired sunburns on the shores of Lake Superior on days when the sand burned our feet as we danced across it to the water's edge. Luckily the lake could always be counted on to cool us off! Where is that darned lake when I need it?

The problem with days like this is that you can't avoid the heat entirely. You still need to do a few things outside. Miraculously, weeds don't stop growing no matter how bad the drought. Every day this week I've gone out in the morning to water plant pots and weed a section of my flowerbeds. I come in dripping sweat and thinking that surely between the perspiring I do and the scant amount I ingest on these hot days I'll shed a few pounds, but it hasn't happened yet. Part of the problem is that I'm too sedentary when I'm housebound. Apparently sweeping and vacuuming aren't enough exercise. I might need to start running laps in this big old house - down the main floor hallway, up the steps, through the upper hall, down the back stairs - and repeat...

The worst of it is the brain rot that sets in when I'm housebound. Sheesh - even though I really like my house I've barely been out of it in more than a week. Sunday at our community's Canada Day celebrations I tried to socialize, but every time I opened my mouth nothing but gibberish escaped.

As I type this post I see clouds gathering outside my window. Oh - bring on a summer storm to wet my parched grass and provide a break from this heat...but the clouds roll on by, mocking me as they pass.

"Save me, Save me!!" screams my heat scrambled brain.

I haven't melted yet - but I think I hear sloshing between my ears.

Choose Your D-Word - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Choose Your D-Word

Dammit, stoppit -
staunch the flow,
hold it fast so
it won't go.

Darn it - mend it,
learn to sew.
Weave up holes
before they grow.

Diff'rent meanings
clearly shown -
do you want it
stopped or sewn?

One is not the
other's clone -
choose before the
word has flown.

Only one word
can apply.
Choose your d-word,
let it fly.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg - (an undated verse from the unfinished file)

I was raised to not cuss. Sure, my parents both dropped the occasional sh*t or d*mn in moments of extreme frustration, but we didn't hear such words bandied about in polite conversation.

Being a temperamental child, I became adept at substituting other words when I was angry. (Most of the time. I was still apt to drop a few genuine profanities when I was fairly certain nobody was around to hear them. Nobody's perfect.)

"Darn it" was a perfectly acceptable phrase to utter when things went wrong, and so I spent my childhood constantly darning things.

One day in my thirties I sat down and made some notes about the way the two words differed. Somewhere along the line it had occurred to me that the two words that I'd considered synonymous really weren't. To darn something is to fix it, but damning (by LDS - Mormon definition) is stopping, or blocking, like the Hoover Dam. By typical Christian definition, it means "condemning" - either way, HUGE difference.

Darning is a dying, if not dead, art. (Does anybody darn holes anymore?) We're such a commercially-geared, disposable society that we toss out our socks when our toes break free of their confines.

Unlike sewing, darning doesn't bring the two sides of the hole together - instead it fills the hole with a criss-crossed weave of threads that is often stronger than the original knitting. But on the downside, like a garment with a sewn on patch, something darned will never look new. Even with a good colour match a darn will always be obvious - it will look different, and feel different from the rest of the item concerned.

I suspect that darning fell out of favour because we don't like to advertise our thriftiness, or put our imperfections on display. Appearances are too important to most of us; we want to look nice - and (usually) want our clothing to be in good repair - to look "like new." In a society too often inclined towards disposing of anything that seems worn, it's no surprise that we don't see a lot of darned sweaters or socks.

Figurative "darning" certainly has its applications, but still isn't utilized as often as it ought to be. Two things immediately come to mind when I consider what is worth my darning efforts.

First of all, I'm worth a darn. I've got a few holes that need more than a stitch or two. There's not a whole lot in this world that I get to determine, but I can decide how to improve myself. Some of those fixes won't be pretty, but I'm not going to worry about how perfect I appear at this point. I have a few flaws that could stand a good fix - a bit of darning wouldn't be amiss, and perhaps where the holes once were I'll build something that really matters - something that strengthens my character or sustains my spirit.  I might find important causes to involve myself in, or develop new talents. I can try to be open to new experiences and the knowledge they offer me. I can concentrate on being more kind, or compassionate, or on working toward becoming more patient and peaceful.

Self-improvement is kind of like cleaning out your closet - you need to be the one to make choices - decide what you'll keep, what you'll mend, and what you're willing to sacrifice. Nobody else gets to participate in your sacred ritual of closet-cleaning, so why should anyone else be welcome to point out all of your flaws, or consign your soul to some cosmic scrap heap?

I might be a "fixer-upper", but I don't deserve to be condemned.

Once you've made some progress on your self-renovation, you can turn your attention to strengthening the second most important part of your life - your relationships.

Relationships are often filled with holes that might seem too gaping to mend. When you try to sew up that big old hole you'll always see a pucker, right? So don't sew it - darn it. The fix will be obvious, but it will create something stronger than you had before. That "hole" can be replaced by a bridge between two different points of view, an outward testament to the fact that you were willing to shift your priorities from having relationships that "look good" to ones more honest and open - with the strength to endure whatever changes and challenges they might face.

People, especially those who've touched our lives, aren't a disposable commodity. Most "things" don't matter that much - we can donate our old clothes to Goodwill without ever giving them another thought. We can change opinions and cede long-cherished beliefs without feeling a huge, permanent void in our lives. However, if we can walk away from a family member or a longtime friendship without a backward glance - then there's something missing from our own soul. There's no comparison between the person you barely knew and blocked online, and refusing to engage with "realtime" friends and family members. The people who've mattered to me, the ones with whom I share memories, history and genes, will always be worth a darn.

I suppose it's no great surprise that "darn it!" was the commonest exclamation of my youth. We were required to fix things endlessly, that was the generational expectation of our parents, who were raised during the Depression. "Make do, or do without" was their mantra. It was a cultural expectation in the faith I was raised in too. Darn up your holes in order to be holy. If you can't believe it, the fault lies with you - so you'd better do some fixing. Ideologies - political and religious, can get darned until there's nothing of the original fabric left... Sometimes they'd be better discarded - stopped, instead of "fixed". In my opinion, we'd be better off putting more stock in the people in our lives than worrying about who agrees with us. Why do we expend so much time and energy maintaining the outward appearance of agreement - "making nice" - when we could be focusing on being kinder, more accepting, and more tolerant of other's differences? Maybe instead of damning with the faintest praise we could darn up some holes with renewed compassion, with fond remembrance, genuine compliments - and most especially - with love.

I've walked away from a few ideologies throughout my life; stopped believing, chosen to discard them and made a darned decent effort to not publicly condemn them. I'm doing my darnedest to hold onto relationships with all of the people I care about - no matter how often we disagree. You are still my sister, my brother, my friend, my neighbour. I intend to keep my darning needle handy.

I can substitute one word for another - even when the meanings are changed. I can - I have, and I will - change my mind plenty of times before I depart this mortal coil.  I haven't got my life sewn up yet, it's an ever evolving work in progress. There will be things I'll darn, and things I'll - well, stop doing - or even condemn. But I'll not be damned - stopped, or condemned - for trying to continue caring, or for believing in the power of love.

Love is the best darned thing around.

Strange Armour - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Strange Armour

A sandwich board of mattresses
she felt she had to wear;
each day so full of battle stress
emotions were laid bare.
Was there a sign upon her back
inviting kicks and blows;
inciting others to attack
and multiply her woes?
Thus every day she'd bear the weight
of strange armour she chose,
and though attacks did not abate
she felt numb to the blows.

But at the end of every day,
with arms and shoulders sore,
her tortured muscles had to pay
for all the weight she bore.
Until at length she came to see
the armour she preferred
restricted all her movements free
and pain simply deferred.
At last she stood with armour shed -
and yes, the world was rough -
she would get hurt, and sometimes bled,
but would, at last, grow tough.

Unpadded she was light and quick,
her range of movement free;
at times she could avoid a kick
with some agility.
Still other times she seemed to sense
attacks before they came,
and fled before blows could commence -
and for this felt no shame.
Her padding she no longer missed,
in fact, it seemed to be
that many conflicts did desist
once she was armour-free.

Strange armour many of us choose
in effort to protect
from battles we fear we might lose
and dangers we detect.
But strangely, sometimes armour acts
as something to incite
those who desire to grind an axe
or prove themselves "more right."
Be brave, my friend, and fight without
the padding that you choose -
You will get hurt, without a doubt,
but burden you will lose.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 2018

I was upset by an online exchange I had with a complete stranger.

"What do you have to do to survive these days? Sometimes I feel like I need to go through life wearing a sandwich board made of mattresses!" I said to my husband.

"Good imagery!" he replied. "I sense a poem in the making!"

That brief exchange got me thinking about the weight of many of the types of armour that we choose to put on. The ways we attempt to self-protect are often only a temporary fix - a way to numb the immediate, but lesser pain that we initially experience. But like the sandwich board made of mattresses in the poem, a lot of our protective armour does us more harm than the attacks it's trying to protect us from.

I spent a lot of years of my life trying desperately to protect myself with all kinds of ineffective armour. I tried on anger and sarcasm. In my insecure youth there were times I wished fervently for the protection of an invisibility cloak. As an adult I hid behind beliefs that often didn't sit right with me, tenaciously hanging on for years, even after I realized that the afterlife promised to me (a woman with an "unbeliever" for a husband) really sucked. But, doggone it - I'd been taught that this was the only way to live, and that leaving would make me a sinner, so I hung on - for decades.

I hung on by my fingernails even when people told me I should leave my husband and find someone "more righteous." I hung on when I was made to feel small; made to feel like I had to live small - all scrunched up inside myself among people who were ready to condemn on a whim. I hung on when I began to see that I'd been fed a false narrative. I hung on while every hymn began to sound like a funeral dirge that was sucking the life out of me. Yup - I excelled as a hanger-on.

Through it all, I donned one kind of strange armour after another. I put on a helmet of denial. I tried on protective eyewear that kept me (for a time) from seeing that I wasn't happy - but it also prevented me from seeing most of the good in life. I suited up every day in the kind of full-on body armour that kept me safe from "outside influences" and from the slings and arrows tossed by what I thought of as "my tribe". I continued to think of them as mine even when it became painfully apparent that I was't really one of them.

And when I took off that armour at night I ached. I hurt everywhere - misery to the bone and the soul. I tossed and turned at night and then suited up again in the morning.

One day I looked around and realized that "my tribe" didn't seem that happy either. I couldn't do anything about what I perceived as their misery and apathy, but I could do something about mine. It was difficult for me to trade false certainty for certain vulnerability, but that's what I did.

Eventually I began to remove the protective layers - one at a time. My anger arrived first, and I'm pretty sure it'll be the last piece I'll divest myself of. But let me tell you, I feel less burdened - in spite of the twenty pounds of stress weight I gained as I learned that I could still be me - and maybe even a better and kinder me - without padding. I don't need to "belong" in any particular group to be accepted. I can accept myself - warts and all - as a contributing member in the larger and more diverse group called humanity. I'm allowed to love the flawed, because I am the flawed. I'm allowed to be ignorant, but happy.

I can doubt all I want, and stop bailing when the boat takes on water. I can take a nosedive into the depths of uncertainty and explore. I'm no longer being dragged under by the weight of all my armour.

Every day might not be a fairy tale filled with unicorns, but at least I can see rainbows after rain and dance without worrying about falling off my pedestal.

I am free - and light. Someday I'll fly.

My Mother's Hands - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

My Mother's Hands

Love was in those seamlines,
this I've come to know -
through her daily actions,
My mom's love would show.
Hands stirred pots at mealtimes,
fed her hungry brood;
extra bodies didn't
put her in bad mood.
Friends were always welcomed,
guests we'd often see -
truly Mom embodied
hospitality.
Her hands, strong and able,
made the clothes we wore,
swiftly peeled potatoes;
mopped the kitchen floor.
They kept campfires burning,
stoked the wood stove's flames,
dealt cards in the evening;
beat us at board games!
They flipped perfect pancakes
in cast iron pan;
banged upon the outhouse
so the critters ran!
With her hands she showed love;
teaching something true:
While words are important,
love's in what you do.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 12, 2018

One of my early memories of my mother is watching her stir cake batter in a bowl. I was amazed by how quickly she could beat that batter by hand, and for years tried to emulate her without much success. I was probably thirty by the time I'd mastered "the Power Stir" and I suspect hauling around an infant and a toddler had something to do with acquiring the necessary biceps to do so. This feat invoked the same kind of awe in my young sons as I'd once experienced. Isn't that one of the joys of motherhood? When they're little our children are so sweet and easy to impress!

My mother was never verbally effusive when I was young. She didn't gush over any of us or brag about us to friends, but she showed her love through service. She was a gifted seamstress who made a lot of the clothing my sisters and I wore, sometimes sewing long into the night so that we'd have a new dress for a special occasion. She was a good cook and baker, and she made us hearty and plentiful meals. My parents both had a very open door attitude - everyone's friends were welcome. It wasn't a big deal to ask my mom if a friend could stay for supper - in fact it was really just a formality. I don't remember her ever saying no. In fact, if she realized there was an extra body in the house she'd usually issue the invite herself.

Mom's inner child emerged most often when we were at camp. (That means at our cottage on Lake Superior, for those unfamiliar with Northern Ontario terminology.) She could skip rocks like a pro and taught us all how to row a boat. She loved playing cards and board games in the evenings - by the light of our trusty Coleman lantern. (We didn't get electricity in the cabin until my late teens.) I don't remember her complaining about cooking meals on the wood stove or having no running water out there. She was pretty stoic about boiling cooking water hauled from the lake and accompanying us to the outhouse when somebody reported seeing a snake on the commode. What I do remember is her teaching me how to make hats out of woven leaves, and taking long walks with her up the camp road. Often these walks were motivated by her desire to scout for wild raspberries, and while none of us ever itched to do the picking, we could usually be motivated to fill a bucket or two by the promise of fresh raspberry pie!

Piecrust is still one of my mother's specialties - a home-baked pie from my mother's kitchen is an offer few can refuse - love in a pie plate! My siblings who live further afield will tell you that no visit to see my mother is complete without pie. She was taught at the hands of the best. My grandmother Gardiner was a superb baker, and thinking of visits to her house as a child makes my mouth water. One of the proudest moments of my life was when a sibling tasted a pie I'd baked and proclaimed it "as good as Mom's."

Making holidays special for us was important to my mother. Every birthday she'd ask us how many friends we wanted to invite, what meal we wanted served, and what kind of cake she should make. She didn't gripe if we invited ten kids over and she needed to make an extra cake. She baked like a fiend at Christmastime, not only so that we'd enjoy the seasonal offerings, but so that she'd have plenty to share. Every year she'd share her famous "Swedish Tea Ring" with lucky friends from her church and square dance club.  To this day, when she visits me at Christmastime, she'll arrive with a circular foil wrapped bundle under one arm, and I'm sure my siblings can say the same.

My mother is getting older, but she still loves to entertain, and visit friends and family. She still beats me routinely at Rummikub. She's mellowed a bit in some ways, and is maybe more stubborn than ever in others. Still, we seem to laugh together more often than we used to.

Last week I spent a night at her apartment and realized at bedtime that I'd forgotten my toothbrush. She said she probably had one laying around and proceeded to dig - and came up with two options. One was an unused denture brush - HUGE - (esp. for one who's mouth has been likened to "a large barn with a small door"), and the other was passed on, sans package, by  a friend of hers. I rejected them both in favour of baking soda and my own finger. She thought I was being ridiculously fussy and told me so.

"When did you become such a pain in the butt?" she asked.

"I've always been, Mom", I assured her. "Thanks for just noticing now!"

"Well," she sighed in a resigned tone, "I still love you, even though you're a pain!"

"Same here!" I replied cheekily.

"Don't be a wise guy!" she laughed. Then we gave each other a kiss good-night and went off to our beds.

I don't know how many more years I'll have my mom. Hopefully we can keep on giving each other the gears for a while, but I know time can't be guaranteed. I hope she knows how much I appreciate all of the things her hands have done to make my life easier, and hope she knows that she taught me the importance of showing love through service.

When we were young she'd sometimes get impatient with us, her children, for lazing about when there were things to be done.

"Be a self-starter", she'd say, "Don't wait for someone to tell you to do something. Just pay attention and do whatever you think needs to be done!"

There have been times when I felt like I was channeling her - and those words echoed in my brain. Sometimes I was the frustrated parent thinking, "Why aren't they helping me?" Other times I was the person standing on the sidelines, feeling guilty for not doing enough, or wondering what needed to be done - then taking a deep breath and just doing something.

My mom taught me that love is a verb. So, in honour of busy maternal hands everywhere, lets strive to be "verb-al" in our appreciation for the women whose hands worked hard to raise us.

Happy Mother's Day to all of us - especially my mom, who tried to teach me well. I love you, Mom!