Getting Down and Dirty - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Doing the Dirty Work:

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

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, September 10, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be Kind to Yourself - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Be Kind to Yourself

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

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

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 30, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Stone - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

One Stone

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

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

by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 19, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For now, I'll settle for making ripples.

At Sea - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

At Sea

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

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 18, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Heat

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

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 2006

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

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

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

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

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

Some people try to trivialize the heat in their area.

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

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

I get no sympathy when I gripe about the heat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choose Your D-Word - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Choose Your D-Word

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love is the best darned thing around.

Strange Armour - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Strange Armour

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

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

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

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

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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