Remembrance Day:
I hesitate to contemplate
atrocities of war -
it starts with hate that won't abate;
results in death and gore.
The truth I dread - boys fought and bled
in fights they didn't start.
They seldom fled but died instead
and broke their mothers' hearts.
Those who returned brought lessons learned
from places they had been.
Vict'ry was earned, but many yearned
to unsee all they'd seen.
They'd witnessed hell as comrades fell
and battle raged around.
They knew blood's smell and heard death's knell
as bodies hit the ground.
And when wars end men can't pretend
their memories don't haunt -
though bodies mend, nightmares don't end,
and fears will always taunt.
War's ugly toll - more than a knoll
of earth beneath a cross;
none can control cost to a soul
or mitigate the cost.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 11, 2014
My father was a veteran of the second World War. He didn't like to talk a lot about his experiences as a soldier. He didn't tattoo his arms as a reminder of his military service, and he didn't clutter our house with memorabilia and pictures. He was just another scared kid who signed up because he felt that it was his duty to do so. There was a war to be fought, and they needed able bodies to fight it.
I've always been grateful for those who were willing to fight for our country during that great and terrible war. When freedoms are threatened, it is good to know that there are those who will stand up and fight. As a child I attended a public school that was named after a war hero. William Merrifield was awarded the Victoria Cross for "courage above and beyond the call of duty", so Remembrance Day was a big deal at my school. Every year William's story would be recounted at an assembly. We'd lay wreaths and sing, "Oh God Our Help in Ages Past" and someone would recite "In Flanders Fields". It really mattered to me that we were given time to digest the horrors of war, to express gratitude for those who fought, and to remember.
We ought to take time to remember more often - to consider not only the wars that are over, but the ongoing battles being fought throughout the world. We should often pause and stand for a moment of respectful silence in appreciation for all of those who devote their time and energy to the protection of others. Then, we should put on our combat boots and offer assistance - or at the very least some kindness and compassion. We should say a silent prayer of gratitude each day that we are able to live in a land of freedom and abundance, and should add a few words of supplication for those who suffer under the reign of oppressive regimes and ideologies.
We should try to often consider the personal battles that those around us wage - homelessness, poverty, abuse, mental illness; discrimination - those are just a few. Every day we pass people on the street who are fighting in ways we can't comprehend.
My life has been one of ease. I was raised in a good, safe home - fed, sheltered and loved. I was raised in a country where women have rights. I can show my face in public and participate in society in any way I see fit. I can vote in elections and worship, or not, as I desire. Women here can be educated and pursue any career that they wish. I was raised in the right place, and at the right time, to enjoy liberty to an unprecedented extent.
A hundred years ago, life was different for women. Very few of them played active roles in politics or had careers. Educating a daughter wasn't a high priority. When my mother left high school after the tenth grade, she was told that there was no reason for a girl to get more education than that unless she intended to become a teacher or a nurse. Western society has come a long way since then - at least where recognizing the rights of women is concerned. The word "obey" is still included in some wedding vows, but most North American females aren't expected to stay in their marriages "no matter what". Thank goodness there were women who came before me and fought battles for gender equality. I will remember them.
Progress is being made on other fronts too. In Canada, we are raised to understand that nobody should face discrimination based on their race, faith, or sexual orientation. Kids are taught in school that bullying is wrong. We are all allowed, and even encouraged, to stand up against social injustices. Thank goodness there were Martin Luther Kings, Rosa Parks and Gloria Steinems who fought the necessary battles to enlighten our society and show us the evils of discrimination. Thank goodness there were Mother Teresas and Gandhis - whose lives demonstrated piety, unselfish service, tolerance and non-violence. I will remember them.
I'm grateful to have lived to see Terry Fox run a race against the ravages of a terrible disease. He fought a good fight that brought awareness to many, and taught us about courage and persistence. While battles against disease are far from over, I'm grateful for scientists who soldier on in their searches for treatments and cures. Thirty years ago, HIV was a death sentence. Today that diagnosis doesn't induce the same feelings of hopelessness. I'm grateful that knowledge of learning disabilities, autism spectrum disorders and mental illnesses have helped us all to understand how few children are just plain "weird","stupid" or "bad". I feel ashamed when I look back and recognize how negatively I labeled some of the kids I knew when I was young and ignorant. Now I better understand the kind of battles they fought - and in an era when there was little knowledge or understanding. I will remember their struggles.
Tomorrow, as I contemplate the sacrifices made by duty-bound young men like my dad, who fought for freedom, I'll also remember those who fought for civil rights, human rights and gender equality - freedoms that we too often take for granted in our part of the world. I'll take another minute to remember how many battles are still being fought - in other nations and by other individuals. When the poppy comes off, I'll try to replace it with empathy for those who fight battles I don't see and can't understand.
Every battle that goes unacknowledged comes with a cost. Some battles end in victory, and others end in tragedy and horror. Families can be shattered, lives can be destroyed when people lose battles with foes like addiction. Lives are ended abruptly by those whose struggles with depression and mental illness feel too overwhelming. There's a lot of suffering in the world - far more than most of us can see or would wish to acknowledge. We need to be vigilant in our efforts to spot these unsung soldiers and tend to their wounds. When we fail to remember that ruthless, unrelenting battles are being waged, both obvious and unseen, our own souls pay a price. Battles that are forgotten will be fought again...and again. History repeats itself when lessons aren't learned.
Remember.
Tuesday, 10 November 2015
Tuesday, 27 October 2015
Duality - Dark and Light/Wrong and Right by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Duality:
No soul's entirely bad or good -
I think by most that's understood.
No one, in total, mean or kind,
we aren't so easily defined.
In each and every noble heart
there is at least one darkish part -
a spot that 's hardened by ill will
or harbours long-passed grudges still;
some part that feeds on anger oft'
and toughens up the tissues soft.
Angel and imp, each dwell inside;
one we display, and one we hide.
We all don halos when we're nice,
but demon-like adhere to vice.
Dual voices clamour to be heard,
they waken thoughts, our hearts are stirred.
And when one voice assumes the lead
we make our choice - that's who we'll heed -
but though we choose the voice most clear,
the other still rings in the ear.
Angels and demons, dark and light -
we're not all wrong, we're not all right.
From inner darkness none are free,
however diligent we be.
To shine a light on what is dark
gives each of us a tiny spark
of courage and humility
to face the ugliness we see;
to tame our demons fierce and strong
and choose a path more right than wrong.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 2010 (revised October 2015)
We exist within a culture that puts far too much stock in image, and not nearly enough in substance. Everyone notices how we look, but few will ever know us for who we really are. The prominence we afford social media in our lives has made us direct our focus outwards - to pay more attention to pictures and type than to thoughts and ideas. Few of us like to delve deeply into the psyches of others - if we did I'd have a lot more readers. In fact, a whole lot of us don't want to dig around in our own minds too deeply for fear of seeing less flattering aspects of ourselves.
The best parts of us are easy to revisit. We relive our best moments over and over again, and re-post the best photographs of ourselves for the world to see. Digging a little deeper enables us to find hidden gems among the coal. Sifting through dross is worth the effort. It helps us to unearth the ore that can become gold through the hard work of refining.
I know first hand that it is disconcerting to face the darker aspects of oneself. I have pretty thoroughly mined the depths of my soul over the years, and it isn't usually a terribly pleasant exercise. I find a lot more coal than diamonds or gold. Still, I'm grateful that I'm learning to be less afraid of the unlit places inside.. I look at it this way - you can't easily find your way out of darkness without shining a light into the abyss to figure out what you're up against. We are meant to achieve balance in life - to learn to acknowledge both the positive and negative characteristics within. None of us should be defined by our best - or worst - moments. It is all of the seemingly insignificant "in between" times that determine who we are.
Call them what you like, but we all have them - imps, demons; dragons to slay. They dwell within those dark caverns in the soul that nobody really relishes exploring. I've come to the conclusion that we need to look each one straight in the eye. Twelve step programs tell us that the first thing we need to do to overcome a problem is acknowledge that there is one. Only by facing the negative aspects of ourselves can we begin to make positive strides toward betterment.
I assert that we should get to know our "beasts" - no one should try to do battle with an unknown enemy. Sadly, our demons aren't likely to make a graceful exit from our lives, but we should try to show them who's boss - tame them a bit - and hopefully mitigate the damage they do. The objective is to get close enough to slip a harness on them or coax them into a cage, but not so close that they try to eat us. We shouldn't become so intimate with them that they begin to appear more like pets than the beasts they really are.
We shouldn't be looking to fatten them up with a good feeding - they'll trick us and try to play on our sympathies as we attempt to cage them. Always remember - demons and dragons don't generally make very good friends - they're not trustworthy. They're only good at igniting fires - and if we really want to see growth in our lives we'll need to learn more about putting out fires than starting them.
The beasts inside are ugly. We don't like to acknowledge that we accommodate such nastiness within us, but we do. We cling to prejudices and labels that are unflattering. We give in to anger, pettiness, envy, fear and discouragement. We indulge in gossip, criticism and vanity. We are often cranky, petulant and mean-spirited. We become paralyzed by worry, fretfulness, anxiety and indecision. These are all horribly unattractive traits - little monsters that invite us to come and wallow in their putrid stench. The scariest part is that a good roll in their muck can be tempting at times. We need to be brave enough to look at them squarely, and not peep shyly at them through our fingers, or they'll smell our fear and lunge at us. We must be assertive, examine them boldly and tell them flat out that they're nasty, hideous and unacceptable.
Never underestimate the courage and humility required to do this. We will encounter naysayers who will tell us that it's best to ignore the beasts - that's what they do with theirs. They'll tell us that we shouldn't dwell on the negative, and imply that a liberal sprinkling of denial will cover up all the ugly wonderfully. Don't believe them. These people don't understand how sparkling this particular fairy dust is, or what a potent growth agent it is for dragons, demons and imps.
We can learn to focus on our positive attributes, and those of others, by coming to terms with our own faults and failings. By understanding what we lack, we come to a greater appreciation for what we have. By learning to be compassionate toward ourselves, we gain the ability to empathize with those around us - to note their struggles and view them through less critical eyes. Gratitude, empathy, kindness and compassion all have the ability to propel us forward in our efforts toward self improvement.
Striving for significant improvement without taking stock of both our good qualities and less desirable traits is about as efficient as going to the grocery store without looking into our cupboards. When we do, we quickly realize we have no focus, and easily become overwhelmed by the innumerable options on the shelves. We come away with a cart full of impulse buys, but will likely run out of meal options before many days have passed. We only frustrate ourselves in the process, and inevitably end up revisiting the beasts we were trying to distance ourselves from. These are hungry, needy creatures who don't appreciate being denied or ignored.
I guess some people can learn to be comfortable with role playing and disguises. Some people can convince themselves that their demons are safely out of sight and mind, and that what they can't see can't really harm them. Some people will deny their darkness altogether in a naïve attempt to convince themselves they spend all their days being brilliantly luminous.
But I'm not "some people" - I don't swim well enough to immerse myself in denial. I've no talent for acting and find costumes hot and bothersome. My demons give me a lot less trouble when I keep them well within sight and confined. I will not fear my darkness excessively, but I'll show it a generous dose of respect - the same respect one should always have for a worthy opponent. I'll always carry a flashlight with extra batteries, or a candle with extra matches, so I will never get lost in the abyss. I will arm myself with this bit of wisdom:
No soul's entirely bad or good -
I think by most that's understood.
No one, in total, mean or kind,
we aren't so easily defined.
In each and every noble heart
there is at least one darkish part -
a spot that 's hardened by ill will
or harbours long-passed grudges still;
some part that feeds on anger oft'
and toughens up the tissues soft.
Angel and imp, each dwell inside;
one we display, and one we hide.
We all don halos when we're nice,
but demon-like adhere to vice.
Dual voices clamour to be heard,
they waken thoughts, our hearts are stirred.
And when one voice assumes the lead
we make our choice - that's who we'll heed -
but though we choose the voice most clear,
the other still rings in the ear.
Angels and demons, dark and light -
we're not all wrong, we're not all right.
From inner darkness none are free,
however diligent we be.
To shine a light on what is dark
gives each of us a tiny spark
of courage and humility
to face the ugliness we see;
to tame our demons fierce and strong
and choose a path more right than wrong.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 2010 (revised October 2015)
"It's not what you have on the outside that glitters in the light, it's what you have on the inside that shines in the dark"
- Anthony LiccioneWe exist within a culture that puts far too much stock in image, and not nearly enough in substance. Everyone notices how we look, but few will ever know us for who we really are. The prominence we afford social media in our lives has made us direct our focus outwards - to pay more attention to pictures and type than to thoughts and ideas. Few of us like to delve deeply into the psyches of others - if we did I'd have a lot more readers. In fact, a whole lot of us don't want to dig around in our own minds too deeply for fear of seeing less flattering aspects of ourselves.
The best parts of us are easy to revisit. We relive our best moments over and over again, and re-post the best photographs of ourselves for the world to see. Digging a little deeper enables us to find hidden gems among the coal. Sifting through dross is worth the effort. It helps us to unearth the ore that can become gold through the hard work of refining.
I know first hand that it is disconcerting to face the darker aspects of oneself. I have pretty thoroughly mined the depths of my soul over the years, and it isn't usually a terribly pleasant exercise. I find a lot more coal than diamonds or gold. Still, I'm grateful that I'm learning to be less afraid of the unlit places inside.. I look at it this way - you can't easily find your way out of darkness without shining a light into the abyss to figure out what you're up against. We are meant to achieve balance in life - to learn to acknowledge both the positive and negative characteristics within. None of us should be defined by our best - or worst - moments. It is all of the seemingly insignificant "in between" times that determine who we are.
"Before you can see the light you need to deal with the darkness."
- Dan MillmanCall them what you like, but we all have them - imps, demons; dragons to slay. They dwell within those dark caverns in the soul that nobody really relishes exploring. I've come to the conclusion that we need to look each one straight in the eye. Twelve step programs tell us that the first thing we need to do to overcome a problem is acknowledge that there is one. Only by facing the negative aspects of ourselves can we begin to make positive strides toward betterment.
I assert that we should get to know our "beasts" - no one should try to do battle with an unknown enemy. Sadly, our demons aren't likely to make a graceful exit from our lives, but we should try to show them who's boss - tame them a bit - and hopefully mitigate the damage they do. The objective is to get close enough to slip a harness on them or coax them into a cage, but not so close that they try to eat us. We shouldn't become so intimate with them that they begin to appear more like pets than the beasts they really are.
We shouldn't be looking to fatten them up with a good feeding - they'll trick us and try to play on our sympathies as we attempt to cage them. Always remember - demons and dragons don't generally make very good friends - they're not trustworthy. They're only good at igniting fires - and if we really want to see growth in our lives we'll need to learn more about putting out fires than starting them.
"We have to confront ourselves. Do we like what we see in the mirror? And according to our light, according to our understanding, according to our courage, we will have to say yea or nay - and rise!"
- Maya AngelouThe beasts inside are ugly. We don't like to acknowledge that we accommodate such nastiness within us, but we do. We cling to prejudices and labels that are unflattering. We give in to anger, pettiness, envy, fear and discouragement. We indulge in gossip, criticism and vanity. We are often cranky, petulant and mean-spirited. We become paralyzed by worry, fretfulness, anxiety and indecision. These are all horribly unattractive traits - little monsters that invite us to come and wallow in their putrid stench. The scariest part is that a good roll in their muck can be tempting at times. We need to be brave enough to look at them squarely, and not peep shyly at them through our fingers, or they'll smell our fear and lunge at us. We must be assertive, examine them boldly and tell them flat out that they're nasty, hideous and unacceptable.
Never underestimate the courage and humility required to do this. We will encounter naysayers who will tell us that it's best to ignore the beasts - that's what they do with theirs. They'll tell us that we shouldn't dwell on the negative, and imply that a liberal sprinkling of denial will cover up all the ugly wonderfully. Don't believe them. These people don't understand how sparkling this particular fairy dust is, or what a potent growth agent it is for dragons, demons and imps.
"The more we deny we have a dark side, the more power it has over us."
- Sheryl LeeWe can learn to focus on our positive attributes, and those of others, by coming to terms with our own faults and failings. By understanding what we lack, we come to a greater appreciation for what we have. By learning to be compassionate toward ourselves, we gain the ability to empathize with those around us - to note their struggles and view them through less critical eyes. Gratitude, empathy, kindness and compassion all have the ability to propel us forward in our efforts toward self improvement.
Striving for significant improvement without taking stock of both our good qualities and less desirable traits is about as efficient as going to the grocery store without looking into our cupboards. When we do, we quickly realize we have no focus, and easily become overwhelmed by the innumerable options on the shelves. We come away with a cart full of impulse buys, but will likely run out of meal options before many days have passed. We only frustrate ourselves in the process, and inevitably end up revisiting the beasts we were trying to distance ourselves from. These are hungry, needy creatures who don't appreciate being denied or ignored.
I guess some people can learn to be comfortable with role playing and disguises. Some people can convince themselves that their demons are safely out of sight and mind, and that what they can't see can't really harm them. Some people will deny their darkness altogether in a naïve attempt to convince themselves they spend all their days being brilliantly luminous.
But I'm not "some people" - I don't swim well enough to immerse myself in denial. I've no talent for acting and find costumes hot and bothersome. My demons give me a lot less trouble when I keep them well within sight and confined. I will not fear my darkness excessively, but I'll show it a generous dose of respect - the same respect one should always have for a worthy opponent. I'll always carry a flashlight with extra batteries, or a candle with extra matches, so I will never get lost in the abyss. I will arm myself with this bit of wisdom:
"It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness."
-Eleanor RooseveltWednesday, 7 October 2015
Shelter Porn: One Addict's Story - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Shelter Porn:
I ogle bay windows and porches,
to gaze on such beauty unnerves;
My lust for her gingerbread scorches -
I love her Victorian curves.
My head can be turned by a Craftsman
with all of her angles and beams -
and oh - how I envy the draftsman
who mapped out the house of his dreams!
I might have to go into rehab;
another is now on my list.
She's more than your aver-age prefab -
her modules are hard to resist.
In youth I pursued a small castle -
thought nothing but turrets would do.
But cleaning a moat seemed a hassle -
now give me a cottage - or two!
While Tudors and mansions intrigue me
most bungalows seem quite a bore;
an earth-sheltered house I might dig me -
so ceiling can be the earth's floor.
And be it grand manor - or hovel -
potential will always be seen.
I'll swoon if it's weird or it's novel
(or even somewhere in between).
Too often I'm house plans devouring -
I know I'm addicted indeed.
And décor on Pinterest I'm scouring -
it seems an insatiable need.
Not just bricks and mortar - sheer romance!
Each residence needs to be eyed.
My heart is aflutter with each chance
to do some exploring inside.
In truth, my saliva is pooling
as I picture houses in head;
too much MLS leaves me drooling -
my fantasies never quite fed.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 4, 2015
I can't remember ever not being interested in houses. As a very small child I loved being allowed to play inside at friends' houses because it was so exciting to see where they lived. When I was eight or nine my father visited a new housing development in the area and brought home a book of house plans, which my sister brought up to our room. Being four years older and wiser than me, she explained the various symbols on the plans that denoted closets and windows and doors and stairways. After that I noticed that the newspaper featured a house plan each week, which I began to study carefully.
It gets weirder. I was always an avid reader, but as an adolescent I noticed myself gravitating toward fiction that had pictures of houses on the cover, or referred to a house in the title. I figured that even if the book was a dud I'd at least find out a bit about the house. My brother thought this was more than a little odd. (I wonder if he'd be shocked to know that I still gravitate toward novels where a house or building are prominently featured?) No matter what I'm reading, I always play close attention to the passages that describe dwellings. Tolkein absolutely thrilled me with hobbit holes and beaver dams and castles, and I've always felt that Lucy Maud Montgomery must have been a kindred soul because she painted such vivid pictures of the various houses inhabited by characters in her books. Somehow I always feel that I understand characters better if I have a firm grasp on where they reside.
At my high school, they had a program called Building Construction where a house was constructed inside the school every year or so. My friends and I used to sneak through the halls during lunch hour to peek in the windows of the construction area. They were mostly interested in seeing cute guys swing hammers, but I was always more enthralled by the fact that an actual house was being built, and that I could keep tabs on its progress. Had I been braver, I would have signed up for the course myself, but it seemed that the girls who did so were accused of just wanting to be in a "guy course", and I was afraid of what people would think.
My first visit to Chapters brought a new discovery - they had a whole slew of house plan books that you could buy and take home and study at leisure! Needless to say I've acquired a shelf of them over the years, as well as books about houses, home building, and historical houses. I read them through, and revisit the pictures time and time again. I used to think that my fixation on house plans was odd, but I know a few others who share this particular passion. I can't speak for them, but in my case the floor plans are fodder for my imagination. I try to envision the kind of people who would live in each house, and I consider how the rooms would be used if I lived there.
But there's more to confess - I don't just read about houses and study house plans. In my thirties, the internet introduced me to the magical world of MLS - where with a few strikes on a keyboard I can look at houses that are for sale anywhere! I found the last two houses we've owned online before asking our realtors to show them to us. I have no doubt that I'll find my next that way too. Likewise, MLS gave me a pretty good education when it came to selling our last house. Our realtor joked that he didn't feel particularly needed during negotiations:
"You call that a comp?" I challenged when an offer came in from a prospective buyer. "The neighbourhood isn't as nice as ours, the lots are smaller, the houses aren't solid brick, and that house has a much smaller footprint, no garage and an unfinished basement! Comparable my eye! Don't take me for a fool!"
Needless to say that buyer's lowball offer wasn't accepted.
At times I've wondered if I missed my calling in life. Was I meant to be an architect or a realtor? I started out taking interior design in college, but soon realized that I was more interested in houses themselves than in home décor. Okay - so I do watch too much HGTV - and yes, I will even admit that the incredibly good looking men that can be seen doing home improvements there are nice to look at, but the transformation of the houses is the really exciting part. Real estate programs elicit a mixed reaction in me; while I love seeing the houses these shoppers view, I never really get how so many of them can miss the potential of a home because they're too blindsided by bad wallpaper or the wrong colour of countertops. Sometimes I jeer out loud when they opt to spend another twenty thousand dollars (or more!) for a house that is "move in ready" because they are afraid to paint a wall or two or replace a couple of dated appliances. Who would want to move into a new place and not put their stamp on it? Don't these people have any imagination at all?
That's what houses are to me - fodder for the imagination. When I take walks, I examine the houses I walk past. When I go on drives, I look at the houses I pass. (I don't drive, so nobody can accuse me of not paying attention to the road.) I imagine who lives in each house I pass and what their lives might be like. I don't need to imagine who likes living where they do - a swift glance usually gives me a pretty good indication of whether a house is a much loved home or merely a dwelling.
I imagine how I would live in that house if it was mine - what changes I'd make to improve the place. I ask myself if I'd want to live in a house like that - or in a setting like that. What stories does the house have to tell? Could I live there and love it?
Houses say a lot about us. Years ago, the mother of one of my son's friends came to pick up her son. She oohed and aaahed over our modest home, commenting on the paint colours we'd chosen and the dining room table I'd refinished. We didn't have a lot of money, so all of our home improvements were made on a shoestring budget. Still, this woman was clearly amazed by the effort we'd taken to make the place our own. When my boys visited their house, they came home reporting that their place was chaotic - messy, unloved, and completely devoid of the personal touches that make a house a home. We probably weren't much better off financially than she was, but we clearly had more pride in our home, as well as sufficient imagination and motivation to make our home a reflection of who we were.
Houses all have history, and they all have memory. The first house we bought was quite austere, but as soon as I opened the front door I knew that it had housed generations of happy families. When I asked neighbours about the previous inhabitants, I was told that he was a crank, but she was a wonderful woman who everyone loved, and yes - they had been a very happy family. The house had good feeling. Walls really do talk, without ever making a sound.
Houses represent our hopes for the future, our efforts in the present, and our level of respect for the past. Not everyone sees a building with the same kind of vision that I do. Not everyone sees what a house was, or could be, with a little imagination and elbow grease.
Yes, I'm an unapologetic appreciator of abodes - a relisher of residences. I look at houses, I think about houses, and fairly often I dream about houses. I like houses of all shapes and sizes. I appreciate old houses and new houses - as long as they aren't typical "development" houses - all variations of the same theme and lined up on tiny lots. (Yuck - ghetto housing for the middle class!) I love to read about innovative housing ideas - factory built homes, homes converted from other buildings and houses that are ecologically sound and as green as possible. Home tours thrill me, and the process of buying a new home is sheer bliss. I read house plan books. HGTV is my favorite TV channel. I spend a shameful amount of time on MLS...
My name is Sharon, and I am addicted to shelter porn.
I ogle bay windows and porches,
to gaze on such beauty unnerves;
My lust for her gingerbread scorches -
I love her Victorian curves.
My head can be turned by a Craftsman
with all of her angles and beams -
and oh - how I envy the draftsman
who mapped out the house of his dreams!
I might have to go into rehab;
another is now on my list.
She's more than your aver-age prefab -
her modules are hard to resist.
In youth I pursued a small castle -
thought nothing but turrets would do.
But cleaning a moat seemed a hassle -
now give me a cottage - or two!
While Tudors and mansions intrigue me
most bungalows seem quite a bore;
an earth-sheltered house I might dig me -
so ceiling can be the earth's floor.
And be it grand manor - or hovel -
potential will always be seen.
I'll swoon if it's weird or it's novel
(or even somewhere in between).
Too often I'm house plans devouring -
I know I'm addicted indeed.
And décor on Pinterest I'm scouring -
it seems an insatiable need.
Not just bricks and mortar - sheer romance!
Each residence needs to be eyed.
My heart is aflutter with each chance
to do some exploring inside.
In truth, my saliva is pooling
as I picture houses in head;
too much MLS leaves me drooling -
my fantasies never quite fed.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 4, 2015
I can't remember ever not being interested in houses. As a very small child I loved being allowed to play inside at friends' houses because it was so exciting to see where they lived. When I was eight or nine my father visited a new housing development in the area and brought home a book of house plans, which my sister brought up to our room. Being four years older and wiser than me, she explained the various symbols on the plans that denoted closets and windows and doors and stairways. After that I noticed that the newspaper featured a house plan each week, which I began to study carefully.
It gets weirder. I was always an avid reader, but as an adolescent I noticed myself gravitating toward fiction that had pictures of houses on the cover, or referred to a house in the title. I figured that even if the book was a dud I'd at least find out a bit about the house. My brother thought this was more than a little odd. (I wonder if he'd be shocked to know that I still gravitate toward novels where a house or building are prominently featured?) No matter what I'm reading, I always play close attention to the passages that describe dwellings. Tolkein absolutely thrilled me with hobbit holes and beaver dams and castles, and I've always felt that Lucy Maud Montgomery must have been a kindred soul because she painted such vivid pictures of the various houses inhabited by characters in her books. Somehow I always feel that I understand characters better if I have a firm grasp on where they reside.
At my high school, they had a program called Building Construction where a house was constructed inside the school every year or so. My friends and I used to sneak through the halls during lunch hour to peek in the windows of the construction area. They were mostly interested in seeing cute guys swing hammers, but I was always more enthralled by the fact that an actual house was being built, and that I could keep tabs on its progress. Had I been braver, I would have signed up for the course myself, but it seemed that the girls who did so were accused of just wanting to be in a "guy course", and I was afraid of what people would think.
My first visit to Chapters brought a new discovery - they had a whole slew of house plan books that you could buy and take home and study at leisure! Needless to say I've acquired a shelf of them over the years, as well as books about houses, home building, and historical houses. I read them through, and revisit the pictures time and time again. I used to think that my fixation on house plans was odd, but I know a few others who share this particular passion. I can't speak for them, but in my case the floor plans are fodder for my imagination. I try to envision the kind of people who would live in each house, and I consider how the rooms would be used if I lived there.
But there's more to confess - I don't just read about houses and study house plans. In my thirties, the internet introduced me to the magical world of MLS - where with a few strikes on a keyboard I can look at houses that are for sale anywhere! I found the last two houses we've owned online before asking our realtors to show them to us. I have no doubt that I'll find my next that way too. Likewise, MLS gave me a pretty good education when it came to selling our last house. Our realtor joked that he didn't feel particularly needed during negotiations:
"You call that a comp?" I challenged when an offer came in from a prospective buyer. "The neighbourhood isn't as nice as ours, the lots are smaller, the houses aren't solid brick, and that house has a much smaller footprint, no garage and an unfinished basement! Comparable my eye! Don't take me for a fool!"
Needless to say that buyer's lowball offer wasn't accepted.
At times I've wondered if I missed my calling in life. Was I meant to be an architect or a realtor? I started out taking interior design in college, but soon realized that I was more interested in houses themselves than in home décor. Okay - so I do watch too much HGTV - and yes, I will even admit that the incredibly good looking men that can be seen doing home improvements there are nice to look at, but the transformation of the houses is the really exciting part. Real estate programs elicit a mixed reaction in me; while I love seeing the houses these shoppers view, I never really get how so many of them can miss the potential of a home because they're too blindsided by bad wallpaper or the wrong colour of countertops. Sometimes I jeer out loud when they opt to spend another twenty thousand dollars (or more!) for a house that is "move in ready" because they are afraid to paint a wall or two or replace a couple of dated appliances. Who would want to move into a new place and not put their stamp on it? Don't these people have any imagination at all?
That's what houses are to me - fodder for the imagination. When I take walks, I examine the houses I walk past. When I go on drives, I look at the houses I pass. (I don't drive, so nobody can accuse me of not paying attention to the road.) I imagine who lives in each house I pass and what their lives might be like. I don't need to imagine who likes living where they do - a swift glance usually gives me a pretty good indication of whether a house is a much loved home or merely a dwelling.
I imagine how I would live in that house if it was mine - what changes I'd make to improve the place. I ask myself if I'd want to live in a house like that - or in a setting like that. What stories does the house have to tell? Could I live there and love it?
Houses say a lot about us. Years ago, the mother of one of my son's friends came to pick up her son. She oohed and aaahed over our modest home, commenting on the paint colours we'd chosen and the dining room table I'd refinished. We didn't have a lot of money, so all of our home improvements were made on a shoestring budget. Still, this woman was clearly amazed by the effort we'd taken to make the place our own. When my boys visited their house, they came home reporting that their place was chaotic - messy, unloved, and completely devoid of the personal touches that make a house a home. We probably weren't much better off financially than she was, but we clearly had more pride in our home, as well as sufficient imagination and motivation to make our home a reflection of who we were.
Houses all have history, and they all have memory. The first house we bought was quite austere, but as soon as I opened the front door I knew that it had housed generations of happy families. When I asked neighbours about the previous inhabitants, I was told that he was a crank, but she was a wonderful woman who everyone loved, and yes - they had been a very happy family. The house had good feeling. Walls really do talk, without ever making a sound.
Houses represent our hopes for the future, our efforts in the present, and our level of respect for the past. Not everyone sees a building with the same kind of vision that I do. Not everyone sees what a house was, or could be, with a little imagination and elbow grease.
Yes, I'm an unapologetic appreciator of abodes - a relisher of residences. I look at houses, I think about houses, and fairly often I dream about houses. I like houses of all shapes and sizes. I appreciate old houses and new houses - as long as they aren't typical "development" houses - all variations of the same theme and lined up on tiny lots. (Yuck - ghetto housing for the middle class!) I love to read about innovative housing ideas - factory built homes, homes converted from other buildings and houses that are ecologically sound and as green as possible. Home tours thrill me, and the process of buying a new home is sheer bliss. I read house plan books. HGTV is my favorite TV channel. I spend a shameful amount of time on MLS...
My name is Sharon, and I am addicted to shelter porn.
Thursday, 17 September 2015
Chainlinks and Echos: Wisdom and Poetry - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Chainlink - Poetry and Wisdom
Truly there's little that I know -
no genius shall I impart;
part of me balks - this can't be so!
Sobering insights fuel my art!
Articulate, thus I relate
relationships 'twixt brain and ink;
inklings of truth in what I state -
statements profound on what I think.
Think you, perhaps, it can't be right -
writing much verse when I know not?
Nought is what spurs me on despite
spiteful disdain for knowledge taught.
Taught I have been in life's own school -
schooled in the ways of my own heart.
Heartless are those who think me fool -
foolishness is the poet's art.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 21, 2011
A hefty tome on my bookshelf introduced me to a form of poetry known as Chain Verse. In this type of poetry (also known as echoing), sounds are repeated in a pattern. In the poem I wrote, the sound at the end of each line is repeated at the beginning of the next line. It might sound simplistic, but writing a poem this way, or at least one that actually makes a bit of sense, requires considerable effort.
As I re-read this poem today something clicked. I thought about how much our lives are like chain verse, especially when written in the form I chose. All of our thoughts, reactions and decisions are (almost always) built upon something that came before. Those thoughts, reactions and decisions may vary, just as the echoing sounds in my poem were sometimes built upon. Art became articulate, ink became inklings, state became statements, and at least one fool gave way to foolishness. All proof that art imitates life imitating art.
Have I lost you yet?
This poem has a very circular nature - I begin and end by stating how much I don't know. In the first stanza I'm a bit incredulous - isn't my job (as a poet) is to share my wisdom? By the second stanza I'm amending my opinion about the link between poetry and wisdom. Poetic expression is now more about articulating my thoughts and ideas than dispersing wisdom to the masses. By stanza three I'm making the bold admission that it is actually ignorance that spurs me on - I know that much of what I've learned isn't vital to my ability to communicate. The final stanza sums up my feelings toward wisdom and poetry - I feel sorry for the soulless masses who shun experiential learning in favour of formal education and a dogmatic approach to learning. Foolishness wins the day as I conclude that I respect my own art form, even though I know many will see my efforts and opinions as "foolish".
There is so much circularity in life. We begin being dependent on our parents and end by needing love and support from our children. And from where we began to where we'll finish, we'll live and grow one thought, one idea, one choice at a time - links on a chain - all based on what we just observed, thought, said, heard, did, went or wanted.
Every step of the way we will be searching - looking for new ways to define ourselves and carve out new roles in society. Each of us will exist as merely a single tiny organism living and moving on another smallish organism that is orbiting something bigger and brighter. Considering our insignificance this way can be hard on the ego, and egos by nature like to be big. We'll often need to make size adjustments on each link of our chain. Never be afraid of self-examination. It's inevitable that we'll spend much of our lives battling with ourselves, fighting to make smaller aspects of ourselves big and bigger aspects small. We will struggle to contain ego and anger and frustration. We will struggle to increase our self-worth by proving that we're smart, desirable, talented or just plain good.
Some of us will achieve a level of validation when others acknowledge something we do well. Some of us will decide to validate our own existence by ceasing to worry about what everyone else thinks. I'm hoping that eventually I'll end up in that second group.
For now, there isn't much that I possess in terms of absolute truth or intelligence. My wisdom is of the earthy, common sense variety. No plaques hang on my wall to justify my spot among the educated, honoured, venerated or elite. I am in every sense a lowly poet - a keen observer of my fellow men and my corner of the universe. I'm not brilliant, not exceptional in any particular way. But one thing I can say in my own favour is that I'm no longer terrified to share what I think or to speak my mind. Losing that fear has added another important link to my chain - something that I feel certain I'll continue to forge strong links onto.
The school of life has taught me to embrace my ignorance and foolishness. I watch, I examine and I learn as I go - building upon my experiences with a hopeful sort of faith in myself and humanity. I hope that eventually my unique combination of faith and folly will help me to think better thoughts, make wiser decisions and react with dignity to whatever challenges I face while I traverse the path of trial and error that will lead to my life's conclusion.
Someday, when I am old and needy, I hope that my sons will see me as someone who forged a strong chain - someone who kept searching when answers weren't evident, someone who continued to think and question and express my own flawed opinions until the bitter end.. I hope they'll know that I wasn't afraid to toss out my tired old maps and journey down new roads; to scrap a few old recipes and cook "from scratch." I hope they'll have heart enough to accept my foolishness and to understand how liberating it can be to admit to intellectual defeat at times; to shrug your shoulders and admit that there's a whole lot that you just don't know. I hope that they'll have learned that the strongest hearts are often filled with fear and doubt, and that ignorance is both your best friend and your worst enemy. I hope they gain an intimate knowledge of the dual nature of their own areas of ignorance.
Just as I'm guided by echoing wisdom from those whose lives have had positive impact on mine, I hope that some of the wiser things I've said and done will echo in the ears of my posterity. (My ego even dares to hope a line or two of my verse will sometimes come to mind.)
It is hard to keep all the endings and beginnings in life echoing harmoniously. It's challenging to keep building on what we've started to figure out in a rational, sensible way. It might be silly to believe that anyone can find a kernel of wisdom in my poetic ramblings. I can live with a little bit of silly. It really doesn't matter whether I'm hailed as an intellect. My job, as poet - and as student of life - is to observe, think and communicate. My goal is to simply encourage thought in those who take the time to read my musings.
Observe, experience, think, react and choose. Repeat this process until your chain is completed, and you reach the place where you began - needy and vulnerable. You'll probably still be ignorant too, but perhaps a little less so.
Forge the strongest, most sensible chain you can. Remember that those who rely on others to validate their accomplishments are apt to become emotional invalids, and that the biggest fools are the ones who shun all foolishness. And remember how unwise it is to think yourself too wise.
Listen for the echo.
Truly there's little that I know -
no genius shall I impart;
part of me balks - this can't be so!
Sobering insights fuel my art!
Articulate, thus I relate
relationships 'twixt brain and ink;
inklings of truth in what I state -
statements profound on what I think.
Think you, perhaps, it can't be right -
writing much verse when I know not?
Nought is what spurs me on despite
spiteful disdain for knowledge taught.
Taught I have been in life's own school -
schooled in the ways of my own heart.
Heartless are those who think me fool -
foolishness is the poet's art.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 21, 2011
A hefty tome on my bookshelf introduced me to a form of poetry known as Chain Verse. In this type of poetry (also known as echoing), sounds are repeated in a pattern. In the poem I wrote, the sound at the end of each line is repeated at the beginning of the next line. It might sound simplistic, but writing a poem this way, or at least one that actually makes a bit of sense, requires considerable effort.
As I re-read this poem today something clicked. I thought about how much our lives are like chain verse, especially when written in the form I chose. All of our thoughts, reactions and decisions are (almost always) built upon something that came before. Those thoughts, reactions and decisions may vary, just as the echoing sounds in my poem were sometimes built upon. Art became articulate, ink became inklings, state became statements, and at least one fool gave way to foolishness. All proof that art imitates life imitating art.
Have I lost you yet?
This poem has a very circular nature - I begin and end by stating how much I don't know. In the first stanza I'm a bit incredulous - isn't my job (as a poet) is to share my wisdom? By the second stanza I'm amending my opinion about the link between poetry and wisdom. Poetic expression is now more about articulating my thoughts and ideas than dispersing wisdom to the masses. By stanza three I'm making the bold admission that it is actually ignorance that spurs me on - I know that much of what I've learned isn't vital to my ability to communicate. The final stanza sums up my feelings toward wisdom and poetry - I feel sorry for the soulless masses who shun experiential learning in favour of formal education and a dogmatic approach to learning. Foolishness wins the day as I conclude that I respect my own art form, even though I know many will see my efforts and opinions as "foolish".
There is so much circularity in life. We begin being dependent on our parents and end by needing love and support from our children. And from where we began to where we'll finish, we'll live and grow one thought, one idea, one choice at a time - links on a chain - all based on what we just observed, thought, said, heard, did, went or wanted.
Every step of the way we will be searching - looking for new ways to define ourselves and carve out new roles in society. Each of us will exist as merely a single tiny organism living and moving on another smallish organism that is orbiting something bigger and brighter. Considering our insignificance this way can be hard on the ego, and egos by nature like to be big. We'll often need to make size adjustments on each link of our chain. Never be afraid of self-examination. It's inevitable that we'll spend much of our lives battling with ourselves, fighting to make smaller aspects of ourselves big and bigger aspects small. We will struggle to contain ego and anger and frustration. We will struggle to increase our self-worth by proving that we're smart, desirable, talented or just plain good.
Some of us will achieve a level of validation when others acknowledge something we do well. Some of us will decide to validate our own existence by ceasing to worry about what everyone else thinks. I'm hoping that eventually I'll end up in that second group.
For now, there isn't much that I possess in terms of absolute truth or intelligence. My wisdom is of the earthy, common sense variety. No plaques hang on my wall to justify my spot among the educated, honoured, venerated or elite. I am in every sense a lowly poet - a keen observer of my fellow men and my corner of the universe. I'm not brilliant, not exceptional in any particular way. But one thing I can say in my own favour is that I'm no longer terrified to share what I think or to speak my mind. Losing that fear has added another important link to my chain - something that I feel certain I'll continue to forge strong links onto.
The school of life has taught me to embrace my ignorance and foolishness. I watch, I examine and I learn as I go - building upon my experiences with a hopeful sort of faith in myself and humanity. I hope that eventually my unique combination of faith and folly will help me to think better thoughts, make wiser decisions and react with dignity to whatever challenges I face while I traverse the path of trial and error that will lead to my life's conclusion.
Someday, when I am old and needy, I hope that my sons will see me as someone who forged a strong chain - someone who kept searching when answers weren't evident, someone who continued to think and question and express my own flawed opinions until the bitter end.. I hope they'll know that I wasn't afraid to toss out my tired old maps and journey down new roads; to scrap a few old recipes and cook "from scratch." I hope they'll have heart enough to accept my foolishness and to understand how liberating it can be to admit to intellectual defeat at times; to shrug your shoulders and admit that there's a whole lot that you just don't know. I hope that they'll have learned that the strongest hearts are often filled with fear and doubt, and that ignorance is both your best friend and your worst enemy. I hope they gain an intimate knowledge of the dual nature of their own areas of ignorance.
Just as I'm guided by echoing wisdom from those whose lives have had positive impact on mine, I hope that some of the wiser things I've said and done will echo in the ears of my posterity. (My ego even dares to hope a line or two of my verse will sometimes come to mind.)
It is hard to keep all the endings and beginnings in life echoing harmoniously. It's challenging to keep building on what we've started to figure out in a rational, sensible way. It might be silly to believe that anyone can find a kernel of wisdom in my poetic ramblings. I can live with a little bit of silly. It really doesn't matter whether I'm hailed as an intellect. My job, as poet - and as student of life - is to observe, think and communicate. My goal is to simply encourage thought in those who take the time to read my musings.
Observe, experience, think, react and choose. Repeat this process until your chain is completed, and you reach the place where you began - needy and vulnerable. You'll probably still be ignorant too, but perhaps a little less so.
Forge the strongest, most sensible chain you can. Remember that those who rely on others to validate their accomplishments are apt to become emotional invalids, and that the biggest fools are the ones who shun all foolishness. And remember how unwise it is to think yourself too wise.
Listen for the echo.
Thursday, 3 September 2015
Who What Where? (Most Don't Care) - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Who What Where?
(Most Don't Care)
Our hellos are guarded,
our nods terse when we meet.
Not much interaction
occurs here on this street.
I admire her flowers;
she smiles and looks away.
(If she's feeling chatty
she'll note the pleasant day.)
Talk is very tiny
here in my neighbourhood.
No one wants to visit.
No one thinks they should.
I don't know their stories
and none of them know mine.
What I find disturbing
is that they think that's fine.
Can't match names to faces,
and don't know who lives where.
I am bothered by this,
but most don't seem to care.
Don't know who has children
or owns a dog or cat -
and I am alone in
my worries about that.
Don't know who's seen sorrow,
or where a babe's been born -
this lack of connection
has given cause to mourn.
I mourn friendships not forged
and celebrations missed.
We are not connected.
We merely co-exist.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 20, 2015
At this point I'd probably settle for peaceful co-existence. It would at least be a step in the right direction. But somehow that seems like a very low standard to aim for. Surely a more community-like vibe is possible in neighbourhoods today - right?
Several weeks ago we had our old car towed away. We had to - someone had called in a bylaw complaint because it didn't have a current sticker on the plate. Apparently that's a big no no in this city, even if the car is in relatively good shape - which ours was. It was about a dozen years old, and not an eyesore. It wasn't hurting anyone, but we were told we had to park it in the garage (which is full) or get a sticker on it to leave it in the driveway. Since getting a sticker would entail making expensive repairs (so that it would pass a safety check), and since it's a tight squeeze to put a car in our garage even when it's empty (which ours certainly isn't!), we opted to have it towed. We had only hung onto it for the past few years because having a second, but unusable car gave us a financial break on our son's car insurance. Now that he's married and taking care of his own insurance costs, we would have gotten rid of the car anyway.
But darn - it really ticked us off that somebody was persnickety enough to see if the car had a current sticker and then call in a complaint.
The problem started as soon as we moved in. I had this feeling that I should push myself a bit and introduce myself to the neighbours, but I didn't. There was still this stubborn part of me that said that because I was "the new kid on the block" they should be the ones to extend themselves and make introductions. In my excitement over being new, I forgot how easily all of us miss what is a huge big event to someone down the street, and how quickly our lives can get busy enough that even the best of intentions get pushed aside. Needless to say we didn't make any friends in the neighbourhood.
We did learn the names of the fussy people over the fence. They introduced themselves the first summer we were here - mostly because they wanted someone to gripe at about another neighbour. When we failed to come up with adequate complaints to keep the conversations flowing, they started to gripe about us too. I heard him once, out in his yard, laughing with one of his paid minions (either the pool man or one of his landscaping crew) about how we must have "come into some money" to get our roof done and put in new sod and garden beds. While the landscaping was being done they had harassed our landscapers - he had complained about them parking in front of our house and "congesting traffic". She had complained to the landscapers about our tree shedding blossoms over her fence, wanting them to come into her yard and prune it free of charge. I'm sure they spent all kinds of time complaining about how bad our lawn was when the cinch bugs and drought pretty well destroyed it, but they didn't seem happy about the fact that we made improvements either. No great surprise there - I'd already realized that they were the kind of people whose only satisfaction in life comes from complaining about what others aren't "doing right".
So when our car got towed away, I could hazard a guess as to who'd made the complaint. They probably thought an older model car parked next door would bring down their property value. Or maybe making that complaint was their thrill for the week. Who knows what goes on in the minds of some people?
Earlier this spring I'd noticed that he never seemed to be around. Usually, as soon as the weather got nicer, he'd be out in his yard, talking loudly on the phone or barking orders at one of the people he employed to work in his yard. But this year, as I readied my garden there was silence over the fence. At first I didn't really notice - I was largely preoccupied with my own thoughts. My younger son was getting married in a few months and we were throwing a reception for the happy couple. But as I thought about Dan getting married, it occurred to me (and not for the first time) that there was something wrong with our neighbour situation...
I grew up in a working class neighbourhood in Sault Ste. Marie. Most of the people who lived on our street were Italian, and a whole lot of them were related to each other. They mostly associated with each other, but we all knew everyone else's names and we all knew when big events were happening within families on the street. We heard rumours about who was getting married or having a baby. We smiled when we saw Mrs So and So out pushing the new bundle in her baby carriage, and maybe stopped to admire the baby. When the neighbourhood had trouble with flooding we all helped bail out each other's basements. And when someone on the street died, a neighbour would go door to door taking up a collection for a floral arrangement "from the neighbours."
It really began to bother me that my son was graduating and getting married within an eight day span, and not one single neighbour knew or cared. It bothered me even more when I began to consciously make note of the grumbling that I wasn't hearing from over the fence. My conscience was terribly bothered by the fact that I didn't know if my neighbour was dead or alive. Sure - we'd never really hit it off, but that didn't mean I wished any ill on him or his family. I still felt that something was wrong with a scenario where there could be so much excitement and misery going completely unacknowledged by the neighbourhood as a whole.
That's when I finally acknowledged just how dysfunctional my neighbourhood is.
Oh, we acknowledge each other with nods and perfunctory hellos when we pass each other, but that's as far as it goes. We don't know each other's names, recognize each other's children or pets, or have any idea what happens behind each other's doors. I'm convinced that most of them are very comfortable with the way things are. And I think that's exactly what makes us dysfunctional.
Is it right to grow comfortable with apathy? Is it right to not want to care about your neighbours?
When did we become so desirous of privacy that we started barring the doors to our hearts?
When did society adopt such a scarcity mentality that we couldn't acknowledge any beauty on the other side of the fence?
What happened to the sense of community that I knew as a child?
We don't need to be best friends with our neighbours, but we should know who they are. We should know their names and recognize the people in their households. We should be able to manage being kind to our neighbours - or at the very least manage to refrain from being small-minded and unkind. We should care enough to discuss reasonable complaints face to face and in a mature, rational manner.
We shouldn't ever be in a position to wonder for months whether a neighbour is dead or alive. I got my answer finally when I read his obituary in the newspaper. Needless to say, nobody on the street took up a collection for flowers. Maybe I should have, but a part of me said the effort would've been too little, and far too late.
Next time we move, I'll follow my gut instinct and make more effort to introduce myself and get to know the neighbours. It might not ensure friendships, but it will make hostility more difficult.
And maybe, just maybe, it will help my next neighbourhood become a more functional and friendly community to live in.
(Most Don't Care)
Our hellos are guarded,
our nods terse when we meet.
Not much interaction
occurs here on this street.
I admire her flowers;
she smiles and looks away.
(If she's feeling chatty
she'll note the pleasant day.)
Talk is very tiny
here in my neighbourhood.
No one wants to visit.
No one thinks they should.
I don't know their stories
and none of them know mine.
What I find disturbing
is that they think that's fine.
Can't match names to faces,
and don't know who lives where.
I am bothered by this,
but most don't seem to care.
Don't know who has children
or owns a dog or cat -
and I am alone in
my worries about that.
Don't know who's seen sorrow,
or where a babe's been born -
this lack of connection
has given cause to mourn.
I mourn friendships not forged
and celebrations missed.
We are not connected.
We merely co-exist.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 20, 2015
At this point I'd probably settle for peaceful co-existence. It would at least be a step in the right direction. But somehow that seems like a very low standard to aim for. Surely a more community-like vibe is possible in neighbourhoods today - right?
Several weeks ago we had our old car towed away. We had to - someone had called in a bylaw complaint because it didn't have a current sticker on the plate. Apparently that's a big no no in this city, even if the car is in relatively good shape - which ours was. It was about a dozen years old, and not an eyesore. It wasn't hurting anyone, but we were told we had to park it in the garage (which is full) or get a sticker on it to leave it in the driveway. Since getting a sticker would entail making expensive repairs (so that it would pass a safety check), and since it's a tight squeeze to put a car in our garage even when it's empty (which ours certainly isn't!), we opted to have it towed. We had only hung onto it for the past few years because having a second, but unusable car gave us a financial break on our son's car insurance. Now that he's married and taking care of his own insurance costs, we would have gotten rid of the car anyway.
But darn - it really ticked us off that somebody was persnickety enough to see if the car had a current sticker and then call in a complaint.
The problem started as soon as we moved in. I had this feeling that I should push myself a bit and introduce myself to the neighbours, but I didn't. There was still this stubborn part of me that said that because I was "the new kid on the block" they should be the ones to extend themselves and make introductions. In my excitement over being new, I forgot how easily all of us miss what is a huge big event to someone down the street, and how quickly our lives can get busy enough that even the best of intentions get pushed aside. Needless to say we didn't make any friends in the neighbourhood.
We did learn the names of the fussy people over the fence. They introduced themselves the first summer we were here - mostly because they wanted someone to gripe at about another neighbour. When we failed to come up with adequate complaints to keep the conversations flowing, they started to gripe about us too. I heard him once, out in his yard, laughing with one of his paid minions (either the pool man or one of his landscaping crew) about how we must have "come into some money" to get our roof done and put in new sod and garden beds. While the landscaping was being done they had harassed our landscapers - he had complained about them parking in front of our house and "congesting traffic". She had complained to the landscapers about our tree shedding blossoms over her fence, wanting them to come into her yard and prune it free of charge. I'm sure they spent all kinds of time complaining about how bad our lawn was when the cinch bugs and drought pretty well destroyed it, but they didn't seem happy about the fact that we made improvements either. No great surprise there - I'd already realized that they were the kind of people whose only satisfaction in life comes from complaining about what others aren't "doing right".
So when our car got towed away, I could hazard a guess as to who'd made the complaint. They probably thought an older model car parked next door would bring down their property value. Or maybe making that complaint was their thrill for the week. Who knows what goes on in the minds of some people?
Earlier this spring I'd noticed that he never seemed to be around. Usually, as soon as the weather got nicer, he'd be out in his yard, talking loudly on the phone or barking orders at one of the people he employed to work in his yard. But this year, as I readied my garden there was silence over the fence. At first I didn't really notice - I was largely preoccupied with my own thoughts. My younger son was getting married in a few months and we were throwing a reception for the happy couple. But as I thought about Dan getting married, it occurred to me (and not for the first time) that there was something wrong with our neighbour situation...
I grew up in a working class neighbourhood in Sault Ste. Marie. Most of the people who lived on our street were Italian, and a whole lot of them were related to each other. They mostly associated with each other, but we all knew everyone else's names and we all knew when big events were happening within families on the street. We heard rumours about who was getting married or having a baby. We smiled when we saw Mrs So and So out pushing the new bundle in her baby carriage, and maybe stopped to admire the baby. When the neighbourhood had trouble with flooding we all helped bail out each other's basements. And when someone on the street died, a neighbour would go door to door taking up a collection for a floral arrangement "from the neighbours."
It really began to bother me that my son was graduating and getting married within an eight day span, and not one single neighbour knew or cared. It bothered me even more when I began to consciously make note of the grumbling that I wasn't hearing from over the fence. My conscience was terribly bothered by the fact that I didn't know if my neighbour was dead or alive. Sure - we'd never really hit it off, but that didn't mean I wished any ill on him or his family. I still felt that something was wrong with a scenario where there could be so much excitement and misery going completely unacknowledged by the neighbourhood as a whole.
That's when I finally acknowledged just how dysfunctional my neighbourhood is.
Oh, we acknowledge each other with nods and perfunctory hellos when we pass each other, but that's as far as it goes. We don't know each other's names, recognize each other's children or pets, or have any idea what happens behind each other's doors. I'm convinced that most of them are very comfortable with the way things are. And I think that's exactly what makes us dysfunctional.
Is it right to grow comfortable with apathy? Is it right to not want to care about your neighbours?
When did we become so desirous of privacy that we started barring the doors to our hearts?
When did society adopt such a scarcity mentality that we couldn't acknowledge any beauty on the other side of the fence?
What happened to the sense of community that I knew as a child?
We don't need to be best friends with our neighbours, but we should know who they are. We should know their names and recognize the people in their households. We should be able to manage being kind to our neighbours - or at the very least manage to refrain from being small-minded and unkind. We should care enough to discuss reasonable complaints face to face and in a mature, rational manner.
We shouldn't ever be in a position to wonder for months whether a neighbour is dead or alive. I got my answer finally when I read his obituary in the newspaper. Needless to say, nobody on the street took up a collection for flowers. Maybe I should have, but a part of me said the effort would've been too little, and far too late.
Next time we move, I'll follow my gut instinct and make more effort to introduce myself and get to know the neighbours. It might not ensure friendships, but it will make hostility more difficult.
And maybe, just maybe, it will help my next neighbourhood become a more functional and friendly community to live in.
Monday, 24 August 2015
Just Another Flower in the Garden - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
In the Garden:
Though aphids eat hibiscus leaves
its flowers will still bloom -
with blossoms big as dinner plates
on lofty stalks they'll loom.
Some lilies that we thought were pink
burst out in scarlet red,
and since I've seen them all abloom
I'd not choose pink instead.
I've other lilies also -
some yellow and some cream
that sport bright fuchsia centers
and blend with colour scheme.
Coneflowers are so healing,
and here they are profuse.
I ought to sit here daily
and put them to good use.
Oh garden you're not perfect,
I've noticed mildew spots,
seen weeds and damaged flowers
and work unfinished - lots.
The snails munched on my hostas -
their leaves are ragged now;
the pink hydrangeas - how they thirst!
Their heavy heads they bow.
Yet in this imperfection
is feast for hungry eye,
and languid scent of lavender
my nose cannot deny.
I close my eyes and feel it -
a breeze upon my face -
my senses all respond to
the magic of this place.
- By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 13th, 2014
My garden is a lot of work. I spend hours weeding it each week, and it still never looks perfect. When I inspect my efforts carefully there's always some weed that escaped my eye. I give it a good watering when the local bylaws tell me I can, and a splash of water from my trusty old tin watering can between times, but too often it looks dry. It struggles to be healthy - aphids and snails and powdery mildew constantly conspire against me and my plants. It can be extremely frustrating to put so much effort into something that never achieves the pristine perfection of gardens seen in magazines.
When that sort of frustration sets in I give myself a shake. That kind of airbrushed, colour enhanced glossiness is an unrealistic goal for my garden, which does the best it can with less than ideal soil, an inexperienced gardener, watering restrictions and weeds that can't be sprayed away. In spite of its many disadvantages, my garden grows and blooms and gives me pleasure.
Some of the things that I thought I didn't want in my garden - like the giant red lilies that we thought would bloom pink - have ended up being things that thrill me most. The twisty trees that I love so much were a last minute substitution for the landscaper's first choice, which was on backorder. She was hesitant about putting them in, but I can't imagine any other trees filling those spots so nicely.
In contrast, some of the things we were initially excited about haven't lived up to our expectations. The new trees we put in along the back fence are thirsty little guys - not at all well suited to an area that often battles summer droughts and has watering restrictions permanently in place. If I had unlimited resources I'd replace them with something heartier. But then again, if I had a ton of money to work with I'd have hired professionals to come and tend the garden for me, and I'd have sprinklers on timers to ensure that my plants and trees get every ounce of water that they're allotted.
I've come to see gardening as the perfect analogy for life. We don't always get what we think we planted - and sometimes that makes for wonderful surprises when we discover unexpected hidden abilities and rise to challenges that we could've never foreseen. We constantly re-arrange things to achieve maximum satisfaction and highlight the best and brightest aspects of our lives. We battle invasive weeds and pests and fight to build strong roots in what is often somewhat inhospitable soil. Life is a lot of work - and it's not always terribly gratifying.
The more time I spend in my garden, the more aware I become of the fact that I'm just another small plant in the vast garden of humanity. I'm just a single green shoot struggling to break through to the surface and enjoy some sunlight. I'm a tender young planting trying to get established in a patch of soil that has rocks that threaten to crush my roots and weeds that threaten to strangle them. I'm a fragile green shoot opening my leaves to the sun, sending out hesitant buds and hoping they'll bloom before the bunnies arrive to nip them off. I'm a lily in full flower, a hydrangea looking for water and the woody shoot of old growth patiently waiting for new buds to take hold on me and prove my worth.
Some flowers will thrive, while others barely survive. Some will wither and die without blooming. Some will be choked by weeds. Some will wither from the root. Some won't survive the weeds that overpower them. Some will suffer from too few nutrients, or too little water.
Every one of us, as flowers in this common garden will face multiple challenges. We'll expect ourselves to bloom longer than we will. We'll be impatient with the constraints placed on us - curse the bad soil we were planted in, the rain for not falling generously upon us, or the sun for not placing us in the spotlight. We may feel neglected by those we've counted on as caretakers. None of us want to be a host for aphids or sport black spot, but it happens. And in spite of these blights in our lives, most of us will manage some bloom time anyway.
Every flower wants to be the most perfect specimen in the garden. Every flower can't be the most perfect specimen in any garden. And that's because gardens are made up of all kinds of flowers, perfect and imperfect, straggling, struggling and staggeringly beautiful.
Real beauty, in any garden, comes from the contrasting shapes and sizes and colours of the plantings. A rose will always be bigger than a violet, but the larger size and flashier nature of one doesn't detract from the beauty of the other. A lush, gorgeous garden is full of differing flowers all blooming at different times, ceding their place of prominence to those who bloom later. Tulips don't compete with asters - they don't need to because each knows its place and season. The ornamental grasses have their place among the blossoms, and the bright foliage of some plants more than compensates for their lack of flowers. When all are sown together they can all be part of a glorious riot of colour and texture that could never be achieved if each was expected to stand alone.
The happiest flowers understand that they're all part of a garden - no more important than the plant next to them. They don't allow themselves to compare their fading glory to the fresh shoots that are just coming on. They just bloom as brightly as they can, for as long as they can.
Enjoy the sun, soak up the rain, and remember, fellow flowers - there is beauty in imperfection. Fading flowers have their place, and the blossoms that persist above the mildew deserve to be admired.
Bloom on.
Though aphids eat hibiscus leaves
its flowers will still bloom -
with blossoms big as dinner plates
on lofty stalks they'll loom.
Some lilies that we thought were pink
burst out in scarlet red,
and since I've seen them all abloom
I'd not choose pink instead.
I've other lilies also -
some yellow and some cream
that sport bright fuchsia centers
and blend with colour scheme.
Coneflowers are so healing,
and here they are profuse.
I ought to sit here daily
and put them to good use.
Oh garden you're not perfect,
I've noticed mildew spots,
seen weeds and damaged flowers
and work unfinished - lots.
The snails munched on my hostas -
their leaves are ragged now;
the pink hydrangeas - how they thirst!
Their heavy heads they bow.
Yet in this imperfection
is feast for hungry eye,
and languid scent of lavender
my nose cannot deny.
I close my eyes and feel it -
a breeze upon my face -
my senses all respond to
the magic of this place.
- By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 13th, 2014
My garden is a lot of work. I spend hours weeding it each week, and it still never looks perfect. When I inspect my efforts carefully there's always some weed that escaped my eye. I give it a good watering when the local bylaws tell me I can, and a splash of water from my trusty old tin watering can between times, but too often it looks dry. It struggles to be healthy - aphids and snails and powdery mildew constantly conspire against me and my plants. It can be extremely frustrating to put so much effort into something that never achieves the pristine perfection of gardens seen in magazines.
When that sort of frustration sets in I give myself a shake. That kind of airbrushed, colour enhanced glossiness is an unrealistic goal for my garden, which does the best it can with less than ideal soil, an inexperienced gardener, watering restrictions and weeds that can't be sprayed away. In spite of its many disadvantages, my garden grows and blooms and gives me pleasure.
Some of the things that I thought I didn't want in my garden - like the giant red lilies that we thought would bloom pink - have ended up being things that thrill me most. The twisty trees that I love so much were a last minute substitution for the landscaper's first choice, which was on backorder. She was hesitant about putting them in, but I can't imagine any other trees filling those spots so nicely.
In contrast, some of the things we were initially excited about haven't lived up to our expectations. The new trees we put in along the back fence are thirsty little guys - not at all well suited to an area that often battles summer droughts and has watering restrictions permanently in place. If I had unlimited resources I'd replace them with something heartier. But then again, if I had a ton of money to work with I'd have hired professionals to come and tend the garden for me, and I'd have sprinklers on timers to ensure that my plants and trees get every ounce of water that they're allotted.
I've come to see gardening as the perfect analogy for life. We don't always get what we think we planted - and sometimes that makes for wonderful surprises when we discover unexpected hidden abilities and rise to challenges that we could've never foreseen. We constantly re-arrange things to achieve maximum satisfaction and highlight the best and brightest aspects of our lives. We battle invasive weeds and pests and fight to build strong roots in what is often somewhat inhospitable soil. Life is a lot of work - and it's not always terribly gratifying.
The more time I spend in my garden, the more aware I become of the fact that I'm just another small plant in the vast garden of humanity. I'm just a single green shoot struggling to break through to the surface and enjoy some sunlight. I'm a tender young planting trying to get established in a patch of soil that has rocks that threaten to crush my roots and weeds that threaten to strangle them. I'm a fragile green shoot opening my leaves to the sun, sending out hesitant buds and hoping they'll bloom before the bunnies arrive to nip them off. I'm a lily in full flower, a hydrangea looking for water and the woody shoot of old growth patiently waiting for new buds to take hold on me and prove my worth.
Some flowers will thrive, while others barely survive. Some will wither and die without blooming. Some will be choked by weeds. Some will wither from the root. Some won't survive the weeds that overpower them. Some will suffer from too few nutrients, or too little water.
Every one of us, as flowers in this common garden will face multiple challenges. We'll expect ourselves to bloom longer than we will. We'll be impatient with the constraints placed on us - curse the bad soil we were planted in, the rain for not falling generously upon us, or the sun for not placing us in the spotlight. We may feel neglected by those we've counted on as caretakers. None of us want to be a host for aphids or sport black spot, but it happens. And in spite of these blights in our lives, most of us will manage some bloom time anyway.
Every flower wants to be the most perfect specimen in the garden. Every flower can't be the most perfect specimen in any garden. And that's because gardens are made up of all kinds of flowers, perfect and imperfect, straggling, struggling and staggeringly beautiful.
Real beauty, in any garden, comes from the contrasting shapes and sizes and colours of the plantings. A rose will always be bigger than a violet, but the larger size and flashier nature of one doesn't detract from the beauty of the other. A lush, gorgeous garden is full of differing flowers all blooming at different times, ceding their place of prominence to those who bloom later. Tulips don't compete with asters - they don't need to because each knows its place and season. The ornamental grasses have their place among the blossoms, and the bright foliage of some plants more than compensates for their lack of flowers. When all are sown together they can all be part of a glorious riot of colour and texture that could never be achieved if each was expected to stand alone.
The happiest flowers understand that they're all part of a garden - no more important than the plant next to them. They don't allow themselves to compare their fading glory to the fresh shoots that are just coming on. They just bloom as brightly as they can, for as long as they can.
Enjoy the sun, soak up the rain, and remember, fellow flowers - there is beauty in imperfection. Fading flowers have their place, and the blossoms that persist above the mildew deserve to be admired.
Bloom on.
Wednesday, 5 August 2015
Mine to Keep Covered, Thanks -by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Ontario - Yours to Uncover!
A girl from Guelph
left bra on shelf
deciding to bare all -
went on crusade
breasts on parade -
to modesty recall.
"A woman's right!"
she claimed her fight
for us to tops remove,
but most of us
despite her fuss
heartily disapprove.
Biology
is wired, you see
and shouldn't be denied.
Since proof attests
men look at breasts
mine will, in clothes reside.
Women who shout
their breasts to "out"
would be first to call foul
on any man's
chauvinist plans
to let his fingers prowl.
That's not to say,
in any way
that touching is excused.
Consent's required
for what's desired
and none should be abused.
Brushing an arm
does not alarm
nor a touch on the hand,
but touch a breast?
Now we're distressed!
Thus we should understand
that if a breast
is like the rest
of any of our parts
there's no excuse
to claim abuse
for touching when it starts.
But I'm hands off
for I'll not doff
nor bare for all to see.
With pride unfeigned
I'll have retained
a bit of mystery.
Since that parade
a case was made
so women could breasts show.
Nobody stops
girls without tops
here in Ontario.
Or no one would
(it's understood)
if any female dared.
It can be done,
so where's the fun?
A very few have bared.
And while her cause
did change our laws
it's obvious to me
that while some try,
we can't deny
breasts' sexuality.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August, 2007
Exactly eight years after I wrote this poem there was a topless rally in Uptown Waterloo. According to reports there were about five hundred supporters, but many kept their breasts covered. I've lived in this area for a dozen years, and I've only seen one topless woman the entire time. And that's fine with me. If I had my way men would have to keep their shirts on in public places too. In Panama, men can be arrested for going shirtless in public. If a man wants to take his shirt off he goes to a beach or a private pool, or stays in his yard. I have no objection to women being able to take their tops off in these same settings. But in public places I think society would be better served if we all kept our shirts on.
I think before we get in an uproar about who can do what where, we need to determine which "public places" lend themselves to going topless and which don't.
Would you want to be served in a restaurant by a topless waitress? Would you want to have your blood taken by a topless nurse? Would you want your court case tried by a topless lawyer?
I don't believe that taking our shirts off makes a huge statement about women's rights or rape culture.
I am not an apologist for rapists. Rape is never excusable. From a strictly logical point of view, most can see where an occasion might arise that makes stealing or killing necessary. Most of us would steal to feed ourselves or our families if we were starving. Most of us are capable of using violent force against those who threaten our lives, or the lives of those around us. There are circumstances that make these crimes justifiable, but rape can never be justified. I don't care what anyone is wearing or not wearing - to blame the victim for another person's complete lack of self control and morality is always absolutely wrong.
I am not a prude. I like sex, and because I do, I'm going to say something that a lot of those topless rally attendees will heartily disagree with.
I think breasts are sexual. Men often feel aroused when they look at breasts. I'd hazard a guess that men have had lustful thoughts triggered by the sight of breasts since the beginning of time. Taking off our shirts isn't going to make lust go away. Lust isn't the problem anyway, because rape isn't triggered by sexual desire, but by a desire to physically overpower another human being. While most men will look at breasts that are exposed, and they might feel a momentary pang of desire, the vast majority will never feel the urge to rape. But they will be distracted. I'm not saying that men are all pigs because I don't think that's the case at all. Women tend to be a whole lot less visual than men, but if men suddenly stopped wearing pants a whole lot of women would be distracted too.
I think breasts are sexual. Women's breasts experience sexual pleasure. (I said it! I know it's something we're not supposed to own up to these days, but I thought I'd stir the pot a bit by stating what is obvious to a lot of us.) I know that breasts serve a utilitarian purpose when we feed our young. I get that. I know that breast feeding is natural and best for infants, but I never felt a strong urge to bare my breasts while feeding my children. I don't regard my breasts as being just another body part - on par with a hand or a foot. I don't like strangers touching me anywhere, but if someone touches my hand I'm not too freaked out. If someone touches my foot, I'll think they're weird, but I'll get over it. But if someone touches my breast I will feel threatened. I'll probably even feel violated enough to press charges.
I think most women feel the same way.
I don't want biology to be denied. Why should it be? We live in a time when homosexuals are no longer allowed to be discriminated against. We understand and respect the fact that there are biological factors that contribute to people's sexual preferences. We are becoming more aware of biological factors that contribute to mental illness, and we're learning to be compassionate to those who suffer from its effects. Generally speaking we're becoming more aware of our "biology" in a myriad of ways, so it seems hypocritical to me that we've become so adamant about denying biology when it comes to breasts and their part in sexual arousal. Men feel desire when they look at them. Women like having them touched during consensual sexual encounters.
I think it would be a shame if seeing breasts became so commonplace that they didn't give any of us any sensual pleasure anymore. I don't like to think that there would ever be a time when a stranger could turn to me and casually remove a piece of lint off my breast without me batting an eye. I find it hard to believe that these same women who want to go shirtless would be comfortable having men brush up against their breasts in a crowd. And I think that most women would feel threatened by having another woman massage her breasts in front of their sexual partner. That's where I think the "scratch test" might be helpful in determining what is appropriate to show. If you can't scratch or rub that part in public without it appearing lewd, than you probably should keep it covered up.
One comment I've heard repeatedly since this issue came to the forefront again is that "we should be desensitizing people to the sight of bare breasts."
I see a problem with this too. If we raise our daughters to believe that their breasts aren't private, how many cases of child abuse may go unreported when the perverts of this world give the child the argument that if breasts were private they'd be covered like our other sexual parts are, so it doesn't matter if he touches them? I would argue that encouraging daughters to go shirtless could facilitate grooming in pedophiles, because half the battle is convincing the little girl that it's okay if her breasts are touched. Parents can try the "people can look but not touch" approach, but had things been presented that way to me as I child, I think I would've asked why looking was okay but not touching.
I am not advocating that we look upon breasts with shame. I like being a woman and I like having breasts. I'm not giving any man the green light to ogle or to make sexual comments, and I don't feel that I'm encouraging a rape culture by advising women to think twice before allowing their breasts into the public domain. I'm just saying that "look but don't touch" sends out a mixed message.
If they're private parts that others shouldn't be casually touching, then maybe we should cover them up. Deny your own biology all you want, but my breasts are sexual, and that makes them private.
I'll be keeping my shirt on, thanks.
A girl from Guelph
left bra on shelf
deciding to bare all -
went on crusade
breasts on parade -
to modesty recall.
"A woman's right!"
she claimed her fight
for us to tops remove,
but most of us
despite her fuss
heartily disapprove.
Biology
is wired, you see
and shouldn't be denied.
Since proof attests
men look at breasts
mine will, in clothes reside.
Women who shout
their breasts to "out"
would be first to call foul
on any man's
chauvinist plans
to let his fingers prowl.
That's not to say,
in any way
that touching is excused.
Consent's required
for what's desired
and none should be abused.
Brushing an arm
does not alarm
nor a touch on the hand,
but touch a breast?
Now we're distressed!
Thus we should understand
that if a breast
is like the rest
of any of our parts
there's no excuse
to claim abuse
for touching when it starts.
But I'm hands off
for I'll not doff
nor bare for all to see.
With pride unfeigned
I'll have retained
a bit of mystery.
Since that parade
a case was made
so women could breasts show.
Nobody stops
girls without tops
here in Ontario.
Or no one would
(it's understood)
if any female dared.
It can be done,
so where's the fun?
A very few have bared.
And while her cause
did change our laws
it's obvious to me
that while some try,
we can't deny
breasts' sexuality.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August, 2007
Exactly eight years after I wrote this poem there was a topless rally in Uptown Waterloo. According to reports there were about five hundred supporters, but many kept their breasts covered. I've lived in this area for a dozen years, and I've only seen one topless woman the entire time. And that's fine with me. If I had my way men would have to keep their shirts on in public places too. In Panama, men can be arrested for going shirtless in public. If a man wants to take his shirt off he goes to a beach or a private pool, or stays in his yard. I have no objection to women being able to take their tops off in these same settings. But in public places I think society would be better served if we all kept our shirts on.
I think before we get in an uproar about who can do what where, we need to determine which "public places" lend themselves to going topless and which don't.
Would you want to be served in a restaurant by a topless waitress? Would you want to have your blood taken by a topless nurse? Would you want your court case tried by a topless lawyer?
I don't believe that taking our shirts off makes a huge statement about women's rights or rape culture.
I am not an apologist for rapists. Rape is never excusable. From a strictly logical point of view, most can see where an occasion might arise that makes stealing or killing necessary. Most of us would steal to feed ourselves or our families if we were starving. Most of us are capable of using violent force against those who threaten our lives, or the lives of those around us. There are circumstances that make these crimes justifiable, but rape can never be justified. I don't care what anyone is wearing or not wearing - to blame the victim for another person's complete lack of self control and morality is always absolutely wrong.
I am not a prude. I like sex, and because I do, I'm going to say something that a lot of those topless rally attendees will heartily disagree with.
I think breasts are sexual. Men often feel aroused when they look at breasts. I'd hazard a guess that men have had lustful thoughts triggered by the sight of breasts since the beginning of time. Taking off our shirts isn't going to make lust go away. Lust isn't the problem anyway, because rape isn't triggered by sexual desire, but by a desire to physically overpower another human being. While most men will look at breasts that are exposed, and they might feel a momentary pang of desire, the vast majority will never feel the urge to rape. But they will be distracted. I'm not saying that men are all pigs because I don't think that's the case at all. Women tend to be a whole lot less visual than men, but if men suddenly stopped wearing pants a whole lot of women would be distracted too.
I think breasts are sexual. Women's breasts experience sexual pleasure. (I said it! I know it's something we're not supposed to own up to these days, but I thought I'd stir the pot a bit by stating what is obvious to a lot of us.) I know that breasts serve a utilitarian purpose when we feed our young. I get that. I know that breast feeding is natural and best for infants, but I never felt a strong urge to bare my breasts while feeding my children. I don't regard my breasts as being just another body part - on par with a hand or a foot. I don't like strangers touching me anywhere, but if someone touches my hand I'm not too freaked out. If someone touches my foot, I'll think they're weird, but I'll get over it. But if someone touches my breast I will feel threatened. I'll probably even feel violated enough to press charges.
I think most women feel the same way.
I don't want biology to be denied. Why should it be? We live in a time when homosexuals are no longer allowed to be discriminated against. We understand and respect the fact that there are biological factors that contribute to people's sexual preferences. We are becoming more aware of biological factors that contribute to mental illness, and we're learning to be compassionate to those who suffer from its effects. Generally speaking we're becoming more aware of our "biology" in a myriad of ways, so it seems hypocritical to me that we've become so adamant about denying biology when it comes to breasts and their part in sexual arousal. Men feel desire when they look at them. Women like having them touched during consensual sexual encounters.
I think it would be a shame if seeing breasts became so commonplace that they didn't give any of us any sensual pleasure anymore. I don't like to think that there would ever be a time when a stranger could turn to me and casually remove a piece of lint off my breast without me batting an eye. I find it hard to believe that these same women who want to go shirtless would be comfortable having men brush up against their breasts in a crowd. And I think that most women would feel threatened by having another woman massage her breasts in front of their sexual partner. That's where I think the "scratch test" might be helpful in determining what is appropriate to show. If you can't scratch or rub that part in public without it appearing lewd, than you probably should keep it covered up.
One comment I've heard repeatedly since this issue came to the forefront again is that "we should be desensitizing people to the sight of bare breasts."
I see a problem with this too. If we raise our daughters to believe that their breasts aren't private, how many cases of child abuse may go unreported when the perverts of this world give the child the argument that if breasts were private they'd be covered like our other sexual parts are, so it doesn't matter if he touches them? I would argue that encouraging daughters to go shirtless could facilitate grooming in pedophiles, because half the battle is convincing the little girl that it's okay if her breasts are touched. Parents can try the "people can look but not touch" approach, but had things been presented that way to me as I child, I think I would've asked why looking was okay but not touching.
I am not advocating that we look upon breasts with shame. I like being a woman and I like having breasts. I'm not giving any man the green light to ogle or to make sexual comments, and I don't feel that I'm encouraging a rape culture by advising women to think twice before allowing their breasts into the public domain. I'm just saying that "look but don't touch" sends out a mixed message.
If they're private parts that others shouldn't be casually touching, then maybe we should cover them up. Deny your own biology all you want, but my breasts are sexual, and that makes them private.
I'll be keeping my shirt on, thanks.
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