The Unsung Tongue
In all the praises writ and sung,
where's homage paid to civil tongue?
To tongue that uses words like "please"
to put another soul at ease?
And where's the ode to kindly voice
who love bestows through phrases choice?
I've thought this through and must conclude
that tones are brusque and words are crude -
and more attention is required
before our tongues bear fruit inspired.
It seems we humans really ought
to spend more time immersed in thought,
where we for gentler utterance seek -
and more endearing way to speak.
Accomplish this and soon we'll see
odes lauding our verbosity -
but sadly, 'til we reach that day
none shall praise tongues or what they say.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 2012
"All of civility depends on being able to contain the rage of individuals."
-Joshua Lederberg
Yesterday was an angry day for me. After sleeping badly several nights in a row I was feeling thin skinned and ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. And naturally the opportunity to feel provoked presented itself. Containing my quick temper has always been a challenge - and frankly one that I'm seemingly unable to rise to consistently. Needless to say, it was not a day to have my own frustrations reinforced by watching politicians behave badly - I passed on the televised debate and took to the couch with a book. It was hard for me to get to sleep - I don't like giving in to anger. I can't find my cool very easily once I've lost it. I know this, yet somehow still find myself feeding my inner angry beast far too often. I wallow in hurt and irritation, expecting everyone around me to be lucid enough to understand how they're setting me off. Forgetting that they are dealing with their own rage-inducing issues.
That's the biggest problem, isn't it? We're all so attuned to our own sensitivities that we fail to notice how irritating we can be to those around us. And it's this kind of heightened awareness of our own struggles, combined with ignorant obliviousness of those experienced by others, that contributes to the incivility that seems so rampant in society right now.
We would find it easier to employ our tongues more civilly if we remembered the golden rule - we should try harder to treat others as we'd like them to treat us.
"Play fair. Don't hit people. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody."
-Robert Fulghum
It sounds so easy - and it should be. Robert Fulghum summed up the simple philosophy he wrote about in his book, All I Ever Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten in those three short sentences. But let's look at those three sentences more carefully:
"Play fair"doesn't just mean don't cheat at checkers. It means we don't cheat on our income tax or cheat on our spouse. It means we don't steal or lie or misrepresent ourselves. It means we demonstrate that we understand civil rules of conduct in every facet of life. It means that when we disagree with someone we try not to dredge up every offense we feel they've made against us in the last decade. It means we try not to lash out at them because we feel hurt by something they (maybe unwittingly) said.
As for hitting, it isn't just physical abuse that hurts. To quote Frank Herbert, "Words are (such) harsh machinery, so primitive and ambiguous." Words hit home in the most damaging way when we consistently aim below the belt, seeking to down a perceived opponent quickly and ruthlessly. When we are focused on nurturing civility we choose our words to edify, rather than knock down, those around us.
When somebody hurts us, an apology seems like such a little thing, but when we hurt someone else the simple utterance of "I'm sorry" can feel more difficult than giving an eloquent address to an audience of thousands. The admission that we behaved badly is a difficult trial for most of us. Pride can keep us from demonstrating a willingness to show civility by admitting that we were wrong, or mistaken. And ego can keep us from being agreeable when there is a difference of opinion.
"Civility also requires relearning how to disagree without being disagreeable. Surely you can question my policies without questioning my faith or for that matter, my citizenship."
-Barack Obama
It's okay to disagree with someone's political or religious views, but to attack a person's character simply because they have a different view point is unacceptable.
As Richard Dreyfuss said, "Civility is not not saying negative or harsh things. It is not the absence of critical analysis. It is the manner in which we are sharing this territorial freedom of political discussion. If our discourse is yelled and screamed and interrupted and patronized, that's uncivil."
A civil tongue recognizes the importance of tone and diplomacy. A civil listener doesn't take offense when another point of view is expressed. But sadly, too many of us have our sacred cows when it comes to matters of opinion. Recently, a friend of a friend on Facebook made the startling admission that she just didn't think she could be friends with anyone who didn't support the same political candidate as her!
Ralph Waldo Emerson put it this way:
"Almost every man we meet requires some civility - requires to be humored; he has some fame, some talent, some whim of religion or philanthropy in his head that is not to be questioned, and which spoils all conversation with him."
As small children we all get to the stage where whether Santa Clause exists is an ongoing debate. On any given day in the average kindergarten class, the Santa believers and non-believers will manage to play nicely together. There may be a moment of incredulity on the part of one child or the other when the issue first arises. They may even briefly retreat to their own corners when they realize their friend has lost faith in Santa and now can't be convinced he's real, but it won't last long. If only adults were as willing to see past their ideological differences!
Wouldn't the world be a happier place if we just didn't concern ourselves so much with who voted for which party or attended which church, or any church at all, for that matter? When we begin to really grasp the concept that that every person is allowed to think and live the way they wish, the world will be a much more peaceful and civilized place. Ideologies don't create goodness in an individual - behavior does. It is our own egotistical desire to convince other people that they need to see things our way that keeps our tongues from being civil. We can't seem to move past that initial moment of feeling incredulous over differences of opinion. We need to justify our own position and to prove that our way of seeing it is the right one! Our words become patronizing, and our voices get louder -
"Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder."
-Rumi
It's hard to be civil when we're so focused on being right. Its hard to be kind when we're more concerned with satisfying our own ego needs than we are with considering the way our arguments sound to the other person - the way our words are making that person feel. We'd all like to think that our greater knowledge and (often dubious) wisdom will seed beautiful flowers in the fertile soil of another person's brain, but for the most part they just don't see it that way. Their internal planters are all full, and ready to strew seeds elsewhere too. So unless you're certain that you're as open to their ideas as you'd like them to be to yours, you're better off finding something less controversial to discuss. If you never reach a consensus on certain subjects, it's okay - you can still appreciate the good qualities you see in each other.
Appreciation of others aids us in our efforts to be kind, and feeling kindly disposed towards others is a great step forward in the process of developing a more civil tongue, which will lead to a more civilized world.
"Kindness in thought leads to wisdom. Kindness in speech leads to eloquence. Kindness in action leads to love."
-Laozi
Perhaps the only way to control our uncivilized outbursts is to retrain our brains to think kinder thoughts. When we believe that most of humanity is essentially kind, we will find it easier to be kind. When we spend less time ascribing negative motives to those around us, we'll have more positive attitudes about the people we encounter each day. When we communicate kinder, gentler thoughts, we may not become eloquent in a "fluent or skillful" way, but Mr. Webster also throws the word persuasive into the definition, and that makes sense to me. When we use our tongues to promote civility by being considerate, mannerly and complimentary toward others, they are much more inclined to listen. And when our tongues become more fluent in the language of civility, our actions will soon follow suit.
"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around."
-Leo Buscaglia
If we want people to care what we say, we need to voice kind thoughts. If we want people to hang on our words, we need to show our sincerity through our actions. Everyone has a bad day occasionally, and until we ourselves can behave civilly at all times, we need to be able to show a little more empathy for the people who struggle around us. We can try to deflect thoughtlessness with kindness, or we can jump into the fray with anger and criticism of our own.
You can choose your own course of action, but I've decided that I need to try harder to contain the anger that bubbles over in me and too often contributes more incivility to a world that is already rife with it. I'm going to spend less time expressing every critical thought that passes through my brain, and more time utilizing my tongue to show love and appreciation. I'm going to try to be more mindfully loving - in thought, in speech, and in deed.
Civility does in fact begin as an individual pursuit, as the last stanza of one of my poems illustrates:
Thus it appears I can assume
that for improvement all have room
and I could boost civility
with small improvements made in me.
And with this thought I comprehend
some small behaviors I could mend
to be less guilty of the crimes
that typify these ruder times.
More often I will think to thank -
I'll fight the urge to be a crank.
When needs of others I respect
then changes I'll perhaps detect
as all that is improved in me
sends ripples through humanity.
(From Civility - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, undated.)
Wednesday, 28 September 2016
Thursday, 15 September 2016
Seeds of Thought - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Fading Glory
The fading glory of the autumn flowers
is evidence of end of summer hours.
The sun's heat wanes; September days grow chill -
yet of my garden I've not had my fill.
In spite of tattered leaves and blossoms bleached,
and pinnacles of beauty still not reached -
the barren stalks hold mem'ry of what's done -
of rampant blooms beneath an August sun
and promise of fresh growth when spring's begun.
I turn from fading blossoms with a sigh,
but know they'll bloom afresh - though by and by
Too soon they'll wear a blanket cold and white,
and when it melts they once more will delight.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (From the unfinished files - completed May 2016)
This has been a season of beginnings and endings for me, and as usual my experience within my garden has perfectly symbolized the bigger picture of my life of late.
Spring started with the usual gardening chores, but this time I trimmed the plantings in my old garden with a slightly more melancholy air, suspecting (and rightfully so) that it would be my last time doing those chores in that particular garden. As I cut back the old growth and raked out my garden beds I wondered who would be doing those care taking tasks next spring. I fretted that maybe the new owner wouldn't love my garden as much as I did. I hoped that it would remain intact, but without knowing that it would I went about my usual routines. It's important to do your best to leave every place a little nicer than you found it. Besides, I knew I had no control over what happened in my garden later, but I sure as heck was going to take care of it while I could!
Our home sold in July, and we closed at both ends in mid-August. It was a crazily busy three week turnaround, but three days before we moved out I took a break from the seemingly endless chore of packing boxes to spend a final hour or two pulling weeds in my garden. It was important to me to leave it in good shape, even if it was something the new owner decided to uproot.
And, as it turns out, she planned to do just that.
It was hard for me to cede control of my garden, and following some gut instinct I'd left a note for the new owners, asking them to please contact me if they ever decided to remove a section of the plantings we'd put in. I knew they were under no obligation to contact me whatever their intentions were, but I hoped that even if they didn't appreciate the beautiful garden we'd put in, they'd at least recognize that it mattered to me. A week after we'd moved into our new home we received an email - the one that confirmed that what matters to one person doesn't matter to another.
Ironically, the new owner is a gardener too, but she wanted to pull up all of the flowerbeds around my flagstone circle and put in a greenhouse and vegetables. Vegetables!! I understand that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" (and it really is), but to have all of my gorgeous garden beds ripped out and leveled for something as prosaic as vegetables is something I will never quite be able to wrap my head around. Nevertheless, I will give her credit for recognizing that those flowers, the ones her pragmatic soul probably saw as a decadent waste of time, mattered to me.
I could argue for hours about the value of food versus flowers in a first world nation. In the end, who is to definitively assess whether it's more important to grow sustenance for the belly or the soul? It's a moot argument anyway, because my house - and my garden - ceased to be mine the moment the keys changed hands. She could do what she wished with both. And she was, at least, kind enough to honour my request for the unwanted plants.
So I said good-bye to my old house once, and my old garden twice. The second good-bye should've been worse, because it was a sad looking mess when we'd dug out a truckload of plants, but really it wasn't so hard. Something had shifted in my thought process - the garden wasn't mine anymore - but the plants I had re-acquired were. I already had garden beds cleared for them at my new/old house. They'll never be anything like the extravagant show-stopping berths that I had loved in my old yard, but they'll be homey perennial beds that suit their location in the yard of a big old Victorian house in a little Ontario town.
Thus one ending played a part in a whole new beginning. Isn't that just the way life tends to go sometimes? I've learned that we don't always have a lot of control over the way things end, but that we almost always have some say in what happens next. I've seen several chapters of my life draw to a close over the last few years. I've gone through menopause. My children have grown up. My interests have changed. My beliefs have changed in a lot of different ways. Now I've moved - again. I'm okay with all of it. Change isn't as frightening as it used to be, and every ending ushers in a new beginning.
Today I planted bulbs in fresh (and refreshed) garden beds, and then spread a mountain of mulch over all the old plants, the re-planted plants, and the anticipated spring blooms that will (hopefully) emerge from those bulbs I buried. I transplanted some snap dragons from a container into the garden, and as I did I noted that a few of them are blooming again. Likewise, a patch of crocuses has suddenly appeared in full bloom beside my lily bed! Six days before the end of summer - and as I cover my new bulbs and tutt-tutt over my rudely hacked-down-so-that-they-could-be-transplanted lilies and cone flowers, I get to enjoy a few bonus spring blooms!
This year, as I watch the flowers wane and the leaves turn colour in my new town, I'll be thinking ahead to seasons yet to come. I'll be thinking about which bay window to put my Christmas tree in, and how to dress up my new/old house for the holidays. I'll be thinking about delivering Christmas cookies to a whole new batch of friends and neighbours, and maybe doing some entertaining in this grand new setting.
And as long winter days set in, I'll be thinking ahead to my tulips and narcissus and eagerly waiting to see them poke through the chilly ground. I'll be looking forward to my old/new plants growing back full and lush in their new location. I'll be making plans for new plantings and further rejuvenating the gardens that surround this old Victorian lady.
My new life here is all about restoring what's been lost, torn out or neglected in this fine old building. Endings and beginnings all seem to converge at this place. In bringing this house back to life, I suspect I'll find a new way of living too. Something has reawakened for me here - not unlike a garden in spring. Somehow I feel like those bulbs I put in this morning - I'm just waiting to blossom.
It is a happy thought.
The fading glory of the autumn flowers
is evidence of end of summer hours.
The sun's heat wanes; September days grow chill -
yet of my garden I've not had my fill.
In spite of tattered leaves and blossoms bleached,
and pinnacles of beauty still not reached -
the barren stalks hold mem'ry of what's done -
of rampant blooms beneath an August sun
and promise of fresh growth when spring's begun.
I turn from fading blossoms with a sigh,
but know they'll bloom afresh - though by and by
Too soon they'll wear a blanket cold and white,
and when it melts they once more will delight.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (From the unfinished files - completed May 2016)
This has been a season of beginnings and endings for me, and as usual my experience within my garden has perfectly symbolized the bigger picture of my life of late.
Spring started with the usual gardening chores, but this time I trimmed the plantings in my old garden with a slightly more melancholy air, suspecting (and rightfully so) that it would be my last time doing those chores in that particular garden. As I cut back the old growth and raked out my garden beds I wondered who would be doing those care taking tasks next spring. I fretted that maybe the new owner wouldn't love my garden as much as I did. I hoped that it would remain intact, but without knowing that it would I went about my usual routines. It's important to do your best to leave every place a little nicer than you found it. Besides, I knew I had no control over what happened in my garden later, but I sure as heck was going to take care of it while I could!
Our home sold in July, and we closed at both ends in mid-August. It was a crazily busy three week turnaround, but three days before we moved out I took a break from the seemingly endless chore of packing boxes to spend a final hour or two pulling weeds in my garden. It was important to me to leave it in good shape, even if it was something the new owner decided to uproot.
And, as it turns out, she planned to do just that.
It was hard for me to cede control of my garden, and following some gut instinct I'd left a note for the new owners, asking them to please contact me if they ever decided to remove a section of the plantings we'd put in. I knew they were under no obligation to contact me whatever their intentions were, but I hoped that even if they didn't appreciate the beautiful garden we'd put in, they'd at least recognize that it mattered to me. A week after we'd moved into our new home we received an email - the one that confirmed that what matters to one person doesn't matter to another.
Ironically, the new owner is a gardener too, but she wanted to pull up all of the flowerbeds around my flagstone circle and put in a greenhouse and vegetables. Vegetables!! I understand that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" (and it really is), but to have all of my gorgeous garden beds ripped out and leveled for something as prosaic as vegetables is something I will never quite be able to wrap my head around. Nevertheless, I will give her credit for recognizing that those flowers, the ones her pragmatic soul probably saw as a decadent waste of time, mattered to me.
I could argue for hours about the value of food versus flowers in a first world nation. In the end, who is to definitively assess whether it's more important to grow sustenance for the belly or the soul? It's a moot argument anyway, because my house - and my garden - ceased to be mine the moment the keys changed hands. She could do what she wished with both. And she was, at least, kind enough to honour my request for the unwanted plants.
So I said good-bye to my old house once, and my old garden twice. The second good-bye should've been worse, because it was a sad looking mess when we'd dug out a truckload of plants, but really it wasn't so hard. Something had shifted in my thought process - the garden wasn't mine anymore - but the plants I had re-acquired were. I already had garden beds cleared for them at my new/old house. They'll never be anything like the extravagant show-stopping berths that I had loved in my old yard, but they'll be homey perennial beds that suit their location in the yard of a big old Victorian house in a little Ontario town.
Thus one ending played a part in a whole new beginning. Isn't that just the way life tends to go sometimes? I've learned that we don't always have a lot of control over the way things end, but that we almost always have some say in what happens next. I've seen several chapters of my life draw to a close over the last few years. I've gone through menopause. My children have grown up. My interests have changed. My beliefs have changed in a lot of different ways. Now I've moved - again. I'm okay with all of it. Change isn't as frightening as it used to be, and every ending ushers in a new beginning.
Today I planted bulbs in fresh (and refreshed) garden beds, and then spread a mountain of mulch over all the old plants, the re-planted plants, and the anticipated spring blooms that will (hopefully) emerge from those bulbs I buried. I transplanted some snap dragons from a container into the garden, and as I did I noted that a few of them are blooming again. Likewise, a patch of crocuses has suddenly appeared in full bloom beside my lily bed! Six days before the end of summer - and as I cover my new bulbs and tutt-tutt over my rudely hacked-down-so-that-they-could-be-transplanted lilies and cone flowers, I get to enjoy a few bonus spring blooms!
This year, as I watch the flowers wane and the leaves turn colour in my new town, I'll be thinking ahead to seasons yet to come. I'll be thinking about which bay window to put my Christmas tree in, and how to dress up my new/old house for the holidays. I'll be thinking about delivering Christmas cookies to a whole new batch of friends and neighbours, and maybe doing some entertaining in this grand new setting.
And as long winter days set in, I'll be thinking ahead to my tulips and narcissus and eagerly waiting to see them poke through the chilly ground. I'll be looking forward to my old/new plants growing back full and lush in their new location. I'll be making plans for new plantings and further rejuvenating the gardens that surround this old Victorian lady.
My new life here is all about restoring what's been lost, torn out or neglected in this fine old building. Endings and beginnings all seem to converge at this place. In bringing this house back to life, I suspect I'll find a new way of living too. Something has reawakened for me here - not unlike a garden in spring. Somehow I feel like those bulbs I put in this morning - I'm just waiting to blossom.
It is a happy thought.
Wednesday, 31 August 2016
"Sam Town" - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Alexandria, Louisiana - 1985:
This is the part of town we hurry by -
past social engineering gone awry.
A neighbourhood that politicians built
in probable attempt to assuage guilt.
(As if the rows of houses all the same
could somehow undo decades built on shame.)
These little houses have morphed into shacks,
offset at times by shiny Cadillacs.
Where white paint covered sins of bygone time,
now weathered walls are grey with grit and grime.
These sagging hovels stretch for blocks and blocks,
and through these stagnant streets nobody walks.
Not here to comfort were concessions made -
no stately oaks are seen providing shade.
And hot behind the windows boarded up,
another generation sits to sup
while I, in air conditioned car, whizz past -
and say a prayer I don't run out of gas.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 5, 2010
Black lives matter. There - I've said it. And by saying it I have in no way implied that any other lives don't matter.
I have no special qualifications to be a spokesperson for this particular movement. I'm fair skinned, green-eyed and blonde. I am friends with only a handful of people who are black. But I'm writing this post because I came across this poem - a memory written in rhyme.
When I was almost 23, I spent 18 months living in Louisiana, Mississippi and Arkansas. Life in the south was culture shock for a girl born and raised in Northern Ontario. I had seen "Roots" and read several books about slavery and the Civil Rights Movement, but had somehow come to the conclusion that "all of that race division stuff" was far in the shameful past. I had even been warned before I left that the "racial issues" in the southern states would offend my finely honed sense of justice, but still I was unprepared for the blatant racism I witnessed.
I was living in Shreveport, LA when I saw my first "Projects" - cinder block buildings that seemed to go on for miles, and little wooden houses in appalling shape (for the most part), that likewise filled whole neighbourhoods. As a female voluntarily proselytizing for the church I belonged to, I was warned to steer clear of these areas.
So I did.
Later, while living in Alexandria, LA, the apartment I lived in was in a mostly black neighbourhood that bordered on "Sam Town". (Seriously - that's how it was marked on the map.) Curiosity finally made us drive through the area, and I was appalled by what I saw.
A lot of the houses had no glass in the windows, and a few had blankets hanging where doors should have been. I was shocked that people could live in such horrible conditions. I felt a whole range of conflicting emotions as we drove through the area that day - outrage that humans could live in such impoverished conditions, sadness that those native to the area accepted this as the norm, fear - what if we ran out of gas or got lost there?
Three words kept running through my mind:
This isn't right.
Twenty-five years later, while looking at a picture I'd snapped of project housing in Shreveport, I sat down and wrote this poem. Twenty-five years of additional experience had added to the racist experiences I'd had in the south. Now I had new emotions to add into the mix as I looked at that sad little hovel in a blurry picture - shame and despair. What gave me the right to live so much more comfortably than that? What was wrong with the world? How could parts of the world still live that way? How could parts of North America still live that way? Why hasn't more been done to equalize opportunities?
Six years have passed since I wrote the poem. I've watched video now of southern police officers, not too far from where I lived, shoot an unarmed black man in the back. I've read stories written by educated, gainfully employed black men who are being harassed, even here in Canada!
This isn't right!
All lives matter. If you're in possession of a conscience at all you know this. But right now we need to acknowledge that black lives matter. We need to stop living so comfortably in our pale skin, and start seeing that people around us are mistreated far too often just because they have darker complexions than we do. These people don't really expect us to understand what they go through. They're smart enough to know we can't. All they want is some acknowledgment. I've seen enough, read enough and heard enough to give it to them.
Black Lives Matter.
This is the part of town we hurry by -
past social engineering gone awry.
A neighbourhood that politicians built
in probable attempt to assuage guilt.
(As if the rows of houses all the same
could somehow undo decades built on shame.)
These little houses have morphed into shacks,
offset at times by shiny Cadillacs.
Where white paint covered sins of bygone time,
now weathered walls are grey with grit and grime.
These sagging hovels stretch for blocks and blocks,
and through these stagnant streets nobody walks.
Not here to comfort were concessions made -
no stately oaks are seen providing shade.
And hot behind the windows boarded up,
another generation sits to sup
while I, in air conditioned car, whizz past -
and say a prayer I don't run out of gas.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 5, 2010
Black lives matter. There - I've said it. And by saying it I have in no way implied that any other lives don't matter.
I have no special qualifications to be a spokesperson for this particular movement. I'm fair skinned, green-eyed and blonde. I am friends with only a handful of people who are black. But I'm writing this post because I came across this poem - a memory written in rhyme.
When I was almost 23, I spent 18 months living in Louisiana, Mississippi and Arkansas. Life in the south was culture shock for a girl born and raised in Northern Ontario. I had seen "Roots" and read several books about slavery and the Civil Rights Movement, but had somehow come to the conclusion that "all of that race division stuff" was far in the shameful past. I had even been warned before I left that the "racial issues" in the southern states would offend my finely honed sense of justice, but still I was unprepared for the blatant racism I witnessed.
I was living in Shreveport, LA when I saw my first "Projects" - cinder block buildings that seemed to go on for miles, and little wooden houses in appalling shape (for the most part), that likewise filled whole neighbourhoods. As a female voluntarily proselytizing for the church I belonged to, I was warned to steer clear of these areas.
So I did.
Later, while living in Alexandria, LA, the apartment I lived in was in a mostly black neighbourhood that bordered on "Sam Town". (Seriously - that's how it was marked on the map.) Curiosity finally made us drive through the area, and I was appalled by what I saw.
A lot of the houses had no glass in the windows, and a few had blankets hanging where doors should have been. I was shocked that people could live in such horrible conditions. I felt a whole range of conflicting emotions as we drove through the area that day - outrage that humans could live in such impoverished conditions, sadness that those native to the area accepted this as the norm, fear - what if we ran out of gas or got lost there?
Three words kept running through my mind:
This isn't right.
Twenty-five years later, while looking at a picture I'd snapped of project housing in Shreveport, I sat down and wrote this poem. Twenty-five years of additional experience had added to the racist experiences I'd had in the south. Now I had new emotions to add into the mix as I looked at that sad little hovel in a blurry picture - shame and despair. What gave me the right to live so much more comfortably than that? What was wrong with the world? How could parts of the world still live that way? How could parts of North America still live that way? Why hasn't more been done to equalize opportunities?
Six years have passed since I wrote the poem. I've watched video now of southern police officers, not too far from where I lived, shoot an unarmed black man in the back. I've read stories written by educated, gainfully employed black men who are being harassed, even here in Canada!
This isn't right!
All lives matter. If you're in possession of a conscience at all you know this. But right now we need to acknowledge that black lives matter. We need to stop living so comfortably in our pale skin, and start seeing that people around us are mistreated far too often just because they have darker complexions than we do. These people don't really expect us to understand what they go through. They're smart enough to know we can't. All they want is some acknowledgment. I've seen enough, read enough and heard enough to give it to them.
Black Lives Matter.
Wednesday, 17 August 2016
Home Again - Again. By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
An Ode to My New/Old Victorian Home:
I loved you when I saw you first
although I saw you at your worst.
I loved your turret and stained glass
and ornate woodwork - so much class!
I saw bay windows - transoms too -
but oh, how they'd neglected you!
Your faded carpets reeked of dust,
your filthy sinks adorned with rust,
bare light bulbs hung where fixtures were,
and lack of kitchen caused a stir.
In spite of flaws confronting me
I saw how you were meant to be -
I looked beyond the dirt and grime
to see how you looked in your prime.
I vow to shine you up, old friend,
so you will look that way again.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 17, 2016
Moving is hard.
We began seriously looking for our next home in early winter. We saw a huge variety of properties that could potentially offer us space for a home and a business. We looked at commercial properties, residential properties and institutional properties. We were quite taken with a church we found, but the location of the building (in a VERY small hamlet) worried us. We considered an old school - until we found out that a garbage dump was very likely going in across the street. We liked the look of the two buildings we looked at with storefronts, but the towns they were in seemed rather dismal. We saw an old hotel that was about to fall down, a commercial building that should've been condemned, and an intriguing (but small) funeral home. One house we viewed was on the most gorgeous plot of land, but it was also a bit small and sadly just couldn't easily be added on to.
One day we had two buildings to look at - a church in one town, and a huge old Victorian house (and former headquarters of an insurance company) in a smaller town just south of the first. My husband was quite taken with the church - but I just couldn't wait to see the next property. Always a bit of a real estate junky, I remembered the pictures of the building's interior that I'd seen online when the insurance company sold it a half dozen years ago. I knew it was filled with gorgeous woodwork and that it had huge rooms and bay windows. I knew my husband would see its potential immediately.
We pulled up front and our realtor led us through an echo chamber of a front entrance before opening a second door - and that's when the Wow! hit. The original woodwork was lovingly preserved, with the year the house was built burned neatly into the lintel above the pocket doors into the next room. Four wonderful stained glass windows lined what would've been the front room of the original house, and a lovely wooden staircase led the way upstairs.
We loved all of the period details of the house - the turret in one corner, the bay windows, the transoms over the doorways, but there were obvious drawbacks to the place too. The carpet had been in place since the earliest days of the insurance company, and was faded/dirty/ugly, and the entire building interior was coated in wallpaper circa 1980. A kitchen had been added in what had once been the boardroom by the people who last lived here. They had later pulled it out when their rent-to-own deal had gone south. Now the former kitchen had holes in the walls and a long strip of missing ceramic tiles where their torn out island had been. There was a water connection in the room, but no kitchen sink.* (Remember this part.) There were still hook-ups, but there were no appliances. The whole place smelled of dirt and neglect.
But we loved it. The next day we booked a second viewing. Within a week we made an offer, and after a little back and forth negotiating we'd bought a rambling Victorian. We went to our bank to arrange financing, and they balked at the lack of kitchen sink. "We'll have to send in an appraiser", they told us. Their appraiser, on hearing about the lack of sink, refused to step foot in the property. "If it has no kitchen sink it's uninhabitable and I can't recommend financing" he told our bank branch. The bank manager apologetically promised to send a second appraiser, who then called me and asked questions about the property. Guess what? He flat out refused to look at the house too! *The moral of this story is don't ever expect a bank to finance a place that has "everything but the kitchen sink"!
Heeding some good advice, we went to a credit union, explained our situation, and they had a reasonable appraiser look at the property. He quickly informed us that he saw the value in the house and recommended financing to the credit union. Victory at last!
We've lived here for almost three weeks now. It's been kind of like camping, but in a big old Victorian house where some rooms have air conditioning. I still don't have a proper kitchen sink, but our stove and fridge are both connected, and the plumber very obligingly moved the laundry tub into the kitchen so I wouldn't have to haul dirty dishes upstairs after every meal. He's also connected our washing machine, but the dryer doesn't get hooked up until tomorrow. Good thing the previous inhabitants saw fit to string clothesline all over the big empty room upstairs that has the ugly, but functioning shower in one corner! Seriously - just as I got my laundry washed the driest summer on record turned wet, and an indoor clothesline was a godsend. I don't quite have to use an outhouse either. The toilet, and urinal!, in one bathroom upstairs work, so I just climb the creaky back stairs across from the air conditioned main floor bedroom we've opted to sleep in for the time being. It isn't ideal, but I'm coping.
Yesterday we bought eight more light fixtures to cover the bare bulbs in the house, and tomorrow the electrician will start connecting them for us. We'll still have a few institutional fluorescent fixtures here and there, but eventually we'll replace them with pot lights. Once the disgusting carpet is gone, our Victorian manor will look downright homey!
In the meantime, if you visit us, keep your shoes on and focus on the many assets the old girl has to offer. Look up at the carved woodwork that surrounds her doors and windows. Admire her graceful curves - I'll take you up the steep attic stairs so you can see her turret. Sit and admire the green trees outside through one of her bay windows. There is a very peaceful feeling in this house - even when it's full of tradespeople fixing one thing or another.
Every time I step into the yard to pull a weed or two (or three - hundred!), neighbours stop to tell me how great it is to see this place getting attention again. They shake their heads as they tell me how the last people here didn't deserve this house. Over and over again I hear these words: "They didn't look after it." They offer helpful suggestions about who can help us fix what. Clearly they are grateful to see this old Victorian lady getting the attention she deserves.
I think the house is grateful too. She has welcomed us in. I feel it whenever I walk through her doors.
Yes, moving is hard, but I'm home again - again.
I loved you when I saw you first
although I saw you at your worst.
I loved your turret and stained glass
and ornate woodwork - so much class!
I saw bay windows - transoms too -
but oh, how they'd neglected you!
Your faded carpets reeked of dust,
your filthy sinks adorned with rust,
bare light bulbs hung where fixtures were,
and lack of kitchen caused a stir.
In spite of flaws confronting me
I saw how you were meant to be -
I looked beyond the dirt and grime
to see how you looked in your prime.
I vow to shine you up, old friend,
so you will look that way again.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 17, 2016
Moving is hard.
We began seriously looking for our next home in early winter. We saw a huge variety of properties that could potentially offer us space for a home and a business. We looked at commercial properties, residential properties and institutional properties. We were quite taken with a church we found, but the location of the building (in a VERY small hamlet) worried us. We considered an old school - until we found out that a garbage dump was very likely going in across the street. We liked the look of the two buildings we looked at with storefronts, but the towns they were in seemed rather dismal. We saw an old hotel that was about to fall down, a commercial building that should've been condemned, and an intriguing (but small) funeral home. One house we viewed was on the most gorgeous plot of land, but it was also a bit small and sadly just couldn't easily be added on to.
One day we had two buildings to look at - a church in one town, and a huge old Victorian house (and former headquarters of an insurance company) in a smaller town just south of the first. My husband was quite taken with the church - but I just couldn't wait to see the next property. Always a bit of a real estate junky, I remembered the pictures of the building's interior that I'd seen online when the insurance company sold it a half dozen years ago. I knew it was filled with gorgeous woodwork and that it had huge rooms and bay windows. I knew my husband would see its potential immediately.
We pulled up front and our realtor led us through an echo chamber of a front entrance before opening a second door - and that's when the Wow! hit. The original woodwork was lovingly preserved, with the year the house was built burned neatly into the lintel above the pocket doors into the next room. Four wonderful stained glass windows lined what would've been the front room of the original house, and a lovely wooden staircase led the way upstairs.
We loved all of the period details of the house - the turret in one corner, the bay windows, the transoms over the doorways, but there were obvious drawbacks to the place too. The carpet had been in place since the earliest days of the insurance company, and was faded/dirty/ugly, and the entire building interior was coated in wallpaper circa 1980. A kitchen had been added in what had once been the boardroom by the people who last lived here. They had later pulled it out when their rent-to-own deal had gone south. Now the former kitchen had holes in the walls and a long strip of missing ceramic tiles where their torn out island had been. There was a water connection in the room, but no kitchen sink.* (Remember this part.) There were still hook-ups, but there were no appliances. The whole place smelled of dirt and neglect.
But we loved it. The next day we booked a second viewing. Within a week we made an offer, and after a little back and forth negotiating we'd bought a rambling Victorian. We went to our bank to arrange financing, and they balked at the lack of kitchen sink. "We'll have to send in an appraiser", they told us. Their appraiser, on hearing about the lack of sink, refused to step foot in the property. "If it has no kitchen sink it's uninhabitable and I can't recommend financing" he told our bank branch. The bank manager apologetically promised to send a second appraiser, who then called me and asked questions about the property. Guess what? He flat out refused to look at the house too! *The moral of this story is don't ever expect a bank to finance a place that has "everything but the kitchen sink"!
Heeding some good advice, we went to a credit union, explained our situation, and they had a reasonable appraiser look at the property. He quickly informed us that he saw the value in the house and recommended financing to the credit union. Victory at last!
We've lived here for almost three weeks now. It's been kind of like camping, but in a big old Victorian house where some rooms have air conditioning. I still don't have a proper kitchen sink, but our stove and fridge are both connected, and the plumber very obligingly moved the laundry tub into the kitchen so I wouldn't have to haul dirty dishes upstairs after every meal. He's also connected our washing machine, but the dryer doesn't get hooked up until tomorrow. Good thing the previous inhabitants saw fit to string clothesline all over the big empty room upstairs that has the ugly, but functioning shower in one corner! Seriously - just as I got my laundry washed the driest summer on record turned wet, and an indoor clothesline was a godsend. I don't quite have to use an outhouse either. The toilet, and urinal!, in one bathroom upstairs work, so I just climb the creaky back stairs across from the air conditioned main floor bedroom we've opted to sleep in for the time being. It isn't ideal, but I'm coping.
Yesterday we bought eight more light fixtures to cover the bare bulbs in the house, and tomorrow the electrician will start connecting them for us. We'll still have a few institutional fluorescent fixtures here and there, but eventually we'll replace them with pot lights. Once the disgusting carpet is gone, our Victorian manor will look downright homey!
In the meantime, if you visit us, keep your shoes on and focus on the many assets the old girl has to offer. Look up at the carved woodwork that surrounds her doors and windows. Admire her graceful curves - I'll take you up the steep attic stairs so you can see her turret. Sit and admire the green trees outside through one of her bay windows. There is a very peaceful feeling in this house - even when it's full of tradespeople fixing one thing or another.
Every time I step into the yard to pull a weed or two (or three - hundred!), neighbours stop to tell me how great it is to see this place getting attention again. They shake their heads as they tell me how the last people here didn't deserve this house. Over and over again I hear these words: "They didn't look after it." They offer helpful suggestions about who can help us fix what. Clearly they are grateful to see this old Victorian lady getting the attention she deserves.
I think the house is grateful too. She has welcomed us in. I feel it whenever I walk through her doors.
Yes, moving is hard, but I'm home again - again.
Wednesday, 13 July 2016
Home and Garden - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I'm feeling a little sentimental as I sit to write my final post from my current home. I've lived in this house thirteen years - the only one I lived in longer was the one I grew up in. (If you want to know more about my memories of that house you can read them in an earlier post called Home Again.) To say I get a little attached to the houses I live in is a gross understatement.
Let me give you a little background on this house. After spending three miserable years in Quebec we moved here - just as our sons were about to begin high school. (Our younger son skipped a grade.) We were anxious to start a happy new chapter back in Ontario again, and were on our second trip to look at homes in Kitchener when we saw this house. We'd seen another place across town the day before that we were all quite taken with, but it stretched the budget a little tighter than my husband or I wanted. (It was one of those houses that, as my real estate agent put it, was "more done up.") Still, there was something about the bones of this house that I liked, in spite of its mostly horrific decor. I knew it would be a good fit for our family, and that with a few cosmetic changes and some elbow grease we'd make it nicer than the more expensive house. (And we did.)
An Ode to My 70's Split Level
More than a dozen years
I've spent within your walls
and it's with smiles and tears
my memory recalls
the first time we stepped in
on avocado tiles,
and now I have to grin -
they wooed me with their wiles.
You were Mike Brady's dream
in Laura Ingall's dress,
the mishmash made you seem
a schizophrenic mess!
'Twas not love at first sight,
but once shag rugs were gone
and hardwood floors shone bright,
the love affair was on.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg July 13, 2016
The one time in my life I turned a blind eye to something that was technically vandalism was the night before we took possession of this house. One of my sons was making note of the particularly odious embossed floral wallpaper that graced the walls of what was about to become his room, and noticed a loose edge that he began to pick at. "Give it a good tug" I thought, and when he read my mind and did just that I didn't reprimand. Over the coming days one of our top priorities was removing every trace of the horrible plasticized Holly Hobby-ish wallpaper that the former owner had put up to bring a 70's era house into the style fiasco known as "the 80's". I sincerely believe that the house began to smile once the shag carpeting (in shades of various bodily fluids) was torn out and the walls were stripped and painted.
I grew to love the bright daylight basement with its ten foot ceilings. I learned that the sun room is blistering hot during the heat of summer, but an incredible vantage point for spring thunder storms. I learned to love sleeping in our dark and peaceful basement bedroom while our sons ruled the top level of the house and kept their crazy teen aged hours. Somewhere along the way this house crept into my heart - and I'm certain it will always hold a corner there.
Our family has enjoyed a really good life within these walls. We've had both brilliant and totally inane conversations here. We've hosted parties here. We even held a memorial service here when my mother in law died. One son left this house one morning and came back into it a married man. We've celebrated twelve of every holiday that exists within these walls. We've also celebrated some milestones here - two graduations from high school, one graduation from university, the beginnings and endings of several jobs...this house has witnessed a lot of changes within our family. Now my sons are grown up. One is married and living elsewhere. The other is still living with us, and has decided to come along with us to our next home. My husband and I have changed too - I like to think that we've both grown a little wiser than we were the day we first moved in.
Thirteen years ago I had little experience with gardening or yard work. I hated bugs and worms and dirt, and had a phobia about birds pooping on me. (Okay, so I'm still afraid of birds, but the rest I can cope with now.) We had inherited a strip of flower garden along the back fence, and I gradually developed an interest in making it progressively nicer. Each year I added a few perennials and divided and moved around whatever had survived over the winter. It looked pretty nice for a while, but four or five years ago the cinch bugs ate up what few blades of grass were left after a particularly bad drought, and our backyard and garden both looked so dismal that we decided to landscape the entire yard as soon as possible.
I never thought I'd say this, but the garden my husband had put in for me was the best gift I've ever received in my life. Working outside has become a passion. Getting my hands dirty as I beatify one little corner of the world is now a huge source of satisfaction. Pulling weeds gives me time to muse on my life and the happenings in the world around me. Planting and caring for flowers makes me feel connected to the earth and the planet in a substantial way. I helped design the garden - (I gave the landscape designer a rough sketch that she greatly improved upon) - and knowing that I helped create, and have managed to sustain this thing of beauty has increased my self confidence and multiplied my desire to be creative. I never thought it was possible to get attached to a bunch of plants, but I have. Needless to say, the gardening bug has bitten and I look forward to making my next yard a little oasis too.
I wrote this poem one September day after spending an afternoon in the dirt. I'm not sure whether I began writing it one or two years back, but I found it in a file full of scribblings a few months ago and finished it up. You see, every autumn makes me feel a little nostalgic for the seasons just before - for the anticipation I feel each spring as green sprouts pop up, and for those long summer days I spend with my spade and my trusty old rusted watering can. This year the nostalgia will come a little earlier...
Fading Glory
The fading glory of
the autumn flowers
is evidence of end
of summer hours.
The sun's heat wanes,
September days grow chill -
but of my garden
I've not had my fill.
In spite of tattered leaves
and blossoms bleached,
and pinnacles of beauty
still unreached -
the barren stalks hold
mem'ry of what's done -
of rampant blooms beneath
an August sun,
and promise of fresh growth
when Spring's begun.
I turn from fading blossoms
with a sigh.
I know they'll bloom afresh -
though by and by.
They soon will wear a
blanket cold and white,
but when it melts they'll
once again delight.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April, 2016
When I finished off this poem I already knew that I wouldn't see my garden this September, let alone next spring. That chokes me up a bit, but I will toil on until the day we move, in hopes that it will become a place of sanctuary and inspiration to the next inhabitants of this house. Gardening has fueled my analogies for life now. I've learned that life, like a garden, gives back in proportion to the efforts we put in. I understand all about pests that eat at your leaves when you're minding your own business, and chipmunks that look darn cute until they dig up the roots of your flower pots. I know sometimes we plant things we never get to see through to fruition. Other times we reap what others sow. We pull a lot of weeds and watch a lot of plants wither under less than ideal conditions. And we always need to stop and admire whatever beauty nature graces us with.
I'm about to leave behind the garden where I grew flowers and nourished talents, hopes and dreams. I'm about to leave the home that grew four different people in four different ways. Leaving both will be hard, but sometimes you have to make a few changes to keep on moving forward.
I'm going to a new house where I can nourish a whole different set of dreams, and a plot of land that is over-run with weeds and mystery plants, but rife with possibilities. When I write my next blog post (in about three weeks time) I'll be at this same desk (probably) but I'll be in a room in a big old Victorian house in a small town, instead of a 70's split level in a medium sized city. Perhaps the new owners of this house will be relaxing here in my ten foot basement, or out weeding my garden as I type. I hope this home is a happy place for them, and that they grow, gain wisdom and make wonderful memories of their own within these walls.
As I say good-bye to everything that reminds me of the past thirteen years, I will temper the tears with reminders to myself. Sometimes you need to give up something you love to find something that you'll eventually love even more. I remind myself that the flowers I've planted will bloom here for someone else next year, and that flowers other hands planted will bloom for me. I remind myself that the best memories made within any walls always get to go with me.
New chapters cannot be written until old chapters end.
Stay tuned for the next chapter of my life.
Let me give you a little background on this house. After spending three miserable years in Quebec we moved here - just as our sons were about to begin high school. (Our younger son skipped a grade.) We were anxious to start a happy new chapter back in Ontario again, and were on our second trip to look at homes in Kitchener when we saw this house. We'd seen another place across town the day before that we were all quite taken with, but it stretched the budget a little tighter than my husband or I wanted. (It was one of those houses that, as my real estate agent put it, was "more done up.") Still, there was something about the bones of this house that I liked, in spite of its mostly horrific decor. I knew it would be a good fit for our family, and that with a few cosmetic changes and some elbow grease we'd make it nicer than the more expensive house. (And we did.)
An Ode to My 70's Split Level
More than a dozen years
I've spent within your walls
and it's with smiles and tears
my memory recalls
the first time we stepped in
on avocado tiles,
and now I have to grin -
they wooed me with their wiles.
You were Mike Brady's dream
in Laura Ingall's dress,
the mishmash made you seem
a schizophrenic mess!
'Twas not love at first sight,
but once shag rugs were gone
and hardwood floors shone bright,
the love affair was on.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg July 13, 2016
The one time in my life I turned a blind eye to something that was technically vandalism was the night before we took possession of this house. One of my sons was making note of the particularly odious embossed floral wallpaper that graced the walls of what was about to become his room, and noticed a loose edge that he began to pick at. "Give it a good tug" I thought, and when he read my mind and did just that I didn't reprimand. Over the coming days one of our top priorities was removing every trace of the horrible plasticized Holly Hobby-ish wallpaper that the former owner had put up to bring a 70's era house into the style fiasco known as "the 80's". I sincerely believe that the house began to smile once the shag carpeting (in shades of various bodily fluids) was torn out and the walls were stripped and painted.
I grew to love the bright daylight basement with its ten foot ceilings. I learned that the sun room is blistering hot during the heat of summer, but an incredible vantage point for spring thunder storms. I learned to love sleeping in our dark and peaceful basement bedroom while our sons ruled the top level of the house and kept their crazy teen aged hours. Somewhere along the way this house crept into my heart - and I'm certain it will always hold a corner there.
Our family has enjoyed a really good life within these walls. We've had both brilliant and totally inane conversations here. We've hosted parties here. We even held a memorial service here when my mother in law died. One son left this house one morning and came back into it a married man. We've celebrated twelve of every holiday that exists within these walls. We've also celebrated some milestones here - two graduations from high school, one graduation from university, the beginnings and endings of several jobs...this house has witnessed a lot of changes within our family. Now my sons are grown up. One is married and living elsewhere. The other is still living with us, and has decided to come along with us to our next home. My husband and I have changed too - I like to think that we've both grown a little wiser than we were the day we first moved in.
Thirteen years ago I had little experience with gardening or yard work. I hated bugs and worms and dirt, and had a phobia about birds pooping on me. (Okay, so I'm still afraid of birds, but the rest I can cope with now.) We had inherited a strip of flower garden along the back fence, and I gradually developed an interest in making it progressively nicer. Each year I added a few perennials and divided and moved around whatever had survived over the winter. It looked pretty nice for a while, but four or five years ago the cinch bugs ate up what few blades of grass were left after a particularly bad drought, and our backyard and garden both looked so dismal that we decided to landscape the entire yard as soon as possible.
I never thought I'd say this, but the garden my husband had put in for me was the best gift I've ever received in my life. Working outside has become a passion. Getting my hands dirty as I beatify one little corner of the world is now a huge source of satisfaction. Pulling weeds gives me time to muse on my life and the happenings in the world around me. Planting and caring for flowers makes me feel connected to the earth and the planet in a substantial way. I helped design the garden - (I gave the landscape designer a rough sketch that she greatly improved upon) - and knowing that I helped create, and have managed to sustain this thing of beauty has increased my self confidence and multiplied my desire to be creative. I never thought it was possible to get attached to a bunch of plants, but I have. Needless to say, the gardening bug has bitten and I look forward to making my next yard a little oasis too.
I wrote this poem one September day after spending an afternoon in the dirt. I'm not sure whether I began writing it one or two years back, but I found it in a file full of scribblings a few months ago and finished it up. You see, every autumn makes me feel a little nostalgic for the seasons just before - for the anticipation I feel each spring as green sprouts pop up, and for those long summer days I spend with my spade and my trusty old rusted watering can. This year the nostalgia will come a little earlier...
Fading Glory
The fading glory of
the autumn flowers
is evidence of end
of summer hours.
The sun's heat wanes,
September days grow chill -
but of my garden
I've not had my fill.
In spite of tattered leaves
and blossoms bleached,
and pinnacles of beauty
still unreached -
the barren stalks hold
mem'ry of what's done -
of rampant blooms beneath
an August sun,
and promise of fresh growth
when Spring's begun.
I turn from fading blossoms
with a sigh.
I know they'll bloom afresh -
though by and by.
They soon will wear a
blanket cold and white,
but when it melts they'll
once again delight.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April, 2016
When I finished off this poem I already knew that I wouldn't see my garden this September, let alone next spring. That chokes me up a bit, but I will toil on until the day we move, in hopes that it will become a place of sanctuary and inspiration to the next inhabitants of this house. Gardening has fueled my analogies for life now. I've learned that life, like a garden, gives back in proportion to the efforts we put in. I understand all about pests that eat at your leaves when you're minding your own business, and chipmunks that look darn cute until they dig up the roots of your flower pots. I know sometimes we plant things we never get to see through to fruition. Other times we reap what others sow. We pull a lot of weeds and watch a lot of plants wither under less than ideal conditions. And we always need to stop and admire whatever beauty nature graces us with.
I'm about to leave behind the garden where I grew flowers and nourished talents, hopes and dreams. I'm about to leave the home that grew four different people in four different ways. Leaving both will be hard, but sometimes you have to make a few changes to keep on moving forward.
I'm going to a new house where I can nourish a whole different set of dreams, and a plot of land that is over-run with weeds and mystery plants, but rife with possibilities. When I write my next blog post (in about three weeks time) I'll be at this same desk (probably) but I'll be in a room in a big old Victorian house in a small town, instead of a 70's split level in a medium sized city. Perhaps the new owners of this house will be relaxing here in my ten foot basement, or out weeding my garden as I type. I hope this home is a happy place for them, and that they grow, gain wisdom and make wonderful memories of their own within these walls.
As I say good-bye to everything that reminds me of the past thirteen years, I will temper the tears with reminders to myself. Sometimes you need to give up something you love to find something that you'll eventually love even more. I remind myself that the flowers I've planted will bloom here for someone else next year, and that flowers other hands planted will bloom for me. I remind myself that the best memories made within any walls always get to go with me.
New chapters cannot be written until old chapters end.
Stay tuned for the next chapter of my life.
Friday, 1 July 2016
Happy Birthday, Canada! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Canada!
I love my country - Canada!
I love it all the time.
To celebrate my country's birth
I'll write a little rhyme.
Ten provinces has Canada
and territories three -
Nunavut is the largest -
Prince Edward Island wee.
The climate varies greatly here
because our land is vast.
Our population's very small
compared to our land mass.
Most people think that Canada
is rather cold I know,
but some places in this land
see very little snow.
Some people think we're rustic folk
who cannot claim big cities.
But anyone so ignorant
a kind Canuck just pities.
We DO have electricity -
I've never seen an igloo.
We don't all say "eh" and "aboot"
or even own a ski doo!
We're rather unassuming and
few of us brag or boast,
but Canada - our chosen land
is land we love the most.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 1, 2016
I love Canada and often get frustrated by the misconceptions people in other countries hold about my country. So today I'd like to clear up a few things.
We Like it Here.
Canadians are not American wannabes. Yes, we find some comfort in being located next to a world superpower, but frankly it scares us silly sometimes. We like visiting our neighbours to the south, but we like coming home again too. Canadians aren't as overtly patriotic as Americans, but we have our own kind of national pride. We're peace-loving people who manage to stay that way without keeping a gun in every closet. We're non-confrontational. We're inclusive. And most of us are happy to be exactly where we are, even when the weather sucks.
It Gets Cold Here Sometimes.
It does get cold in most parts of Canada. We have the second largest land mass in the world (second only to Russia), and that means the climate here varies a lot. The coldest temperatures on record are in Yukon Territory, which is located next to Alaska. Our other two territories, Northwest Territories and Nunavut, are both located at the top end of the country and therefore pretty cold a lot of the time. However, Southern British Columbia is downright balmy with temperatures that seldom dip below freezing in the winter time. Where I live, in Southern Ontario, our winters are comparable to those in many American cities. Snow comes to stay in December or January, and is usually gone by the end of March. I don't fight my way through snow year round, and nobody I know owns a dogsled or rides a snowmobile to work.
There is No Quintessential "Canadian Accent".
Canada is a very big country where accents vary a lot. People in our Maritime provinces (New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, Newfoundland and Labrador) have a very different vocal intonations than people in Ontario or Alberta or the territories. We have no one "sound" that can be classified as "Canadian". An American from the south would be a bit confused if you decided to try to sound like them by imitating the accent of someone in Boston - they might not even understand you. The same is true here. Many in Quebec speak French as their first language, so their English might have a French accent. In Western provinces people speak a little slower - with a slight drawl, if you will. Here in Ontario I'm told we speak quickly. As a people we do tend to say "eh" (pronounced aye) instead of "huh" like Americans do, but we don't use it in every sentence. Likewise, this notion that we say "about" like "aboot" is goofy. We might not hold the "owww" (like the beginning of ouch) as long as speakers in some states do, but we don't omit the sound of the u altogether. Honestly!
We're a Progressive Country.
I lived in Mississippi and Louisiana for a period of time in my youth, and the most ignorant questions I was ever asked were:
1) Do you have electricity in Canada?
2) Do you have paved roads in Canada?
3) Do you live in an igloo?
My answers were yes, yes, and NO! Canada has big cities and it has big city problems like traffic congestion and pollution. Just like the USA we have rural areas with gravel roads, but pretty well everyone (unless they're old order Mennonite or a "back to the earth' off grid type) has electricity. We're all as dependent on high speed internet as the rest of the first world. We're at the top of the pack as far as education is concerned, and a whole lot of modern inventions can be accredited to Canadians.
We're Unassuming - but...
Canadians don't tend to run around bragging about how awesome we are. We generally keep our national pride under wraps until someone challenges us. We don't really like that people see as lacking in personality and devoid of culture. We're not bland and boring and we're not insular. We care about the world and pay attention to what happens on the international stage, even if we don't seem to be very involved. Remember - our military presence is small - as is our population.
I can't speak for the rest of Canada, but my biggest frustration as a Canadian is that so few people really know much about my country. We only have ten provinces and three territories, but how many non-Canadians could correctly label these thirteen areas on a map? How many Americans could name five Canadian cities? We grew up learning American history - but few Americans know anything about Canada, and I'm fairly certain many couldn't name the year we became a nation. That makes me sad.
As a nation Canada has a lot to offer. We're big, we're bright and we're beautiful. Our terrain is as diverse as the people who populate it. Visit us and you'll see how much there is to love here.
There's no place I'd rather live, and today I will proudly say it:
I love you, Canada! Happy Birthday to you : )
I love my country - Canada!
I love it all the time.
To celebrate my country's birth
I'll write a little rhyme.
Ten provinces has Canada
and territories three -
Nunavut is the largest -
Prince Edward Island wee.
The climate varies greatly here
because our land is vast.
Our population's very small
compared to our land mass.
Most people think that Canada
is rather cold I know,
but some places in this land
see very little snow.
Some people think we're rustic folk
who cannot claim big cities.
But anyone so ignorant
a kind Canuck just pities.
We DO have electricity -
I've never seen an igloo.
We don't all say "eh" and "aboot"
or even own a ski doo!
We're rather unassuming and
few of us brag or boast,
but Canada - our chosen land
is land we love the most.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 1, 2016
I love Canada and often get frustrated by the misconceptions people in other countries hold about my country. So today I'd like to clear up a few things.
We Like it Here.
Canadians are not American wannabes. Yes, we find some comfort in being located next to a world superpower, but frankly it scares us silly sometimes. We like visiting our neighbours to the south, but we like coming home again too. Canadians aren't as overtly patriotic as Americans, but we have our own kind of national pride. We're peace-loving people who manage to stay that way without keeping a gun in every closet. We're non-confrontational. We're inclusive. And most of us are happy to be exactly where we are, even when the weather sucks.
It Gets Cold Here Sometimes.
It does get cold in most parts of Canada. We have the second largest land mass in the world (second only to Russia), and that means the climate here varies a lot. The coldest temperatures on record are in Yukon Territory, which is located next to Alaska. Our other two territories, Northwest Territories and Nunavut, are both located at the top end of the country and therefore pretty cold a lot of the time. However, Southern British Columbia is downright balmy with temperatures that seldom dip below freezing in the winter time. Where I live, in Southern Ontario, our winters are comparable to those in many American cities. Snow comes to stay in December or January, and is usually gone by the end of March. I don't fight my way through snow year round, and nobody I know owns a dogsled or rides a snowmobile to work.
There is No Quintessential "Canadian Accent".
Canada is a very big country where accents vary a lot. People in our Maritime provinces (New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, Newfoundland and Labrador) have a very different vocal intonations than people in Ontario or Alberta or the territories. We have no one "sound" that can be classified as "Canadian". An American from the south would be a bit confused if you decided to try to sound like them by imitating the accent of someone in Boston - they might not even understand you. The same is true here. Many in Quebec speak French as their first language, so their English might have a French accent. In Western provinces people speak a little slower - with a slight drawl, if you will. Here in Ontario I'm told we speak quickly. As a people we do tend to say "eh" (pronounced aye) instead of "huh" like Americans do, but we don't use it in every sentence. Likewise, this notion that we say "about" like "aboot" is goofy. We might not hold the "owww" (like the beginning of ouch) as long as speakers in some states do, but we don't omit the sound of the u altogether. Honestly!
We're a Progressive Country.
I lived in Mississippi and Louisiana for a period of time in my youth, and the most ignorant questions I was ever asked were:
1) Do you have electricity in Canada?
2) Do you have paved roads in Canada?
3) Do you live in an igloo?
My answers were yes, yes, and NO! Canada has big cities and it has big city problems like traffic congestion and pollution. Just like the USA we have rural areas with gravel roads, but pretty well everyone (unless they're old order Mennonite or a "back to the earth' off grid type) has electricity. We're all as dependent on high speed internet as the rest of the first world. We're at the top of the pack as far as education is concerned, and a whole lot of modern inventions can be accredited to Canadians.
We're Unassuming - but...
Canadians don't tend to run around bragging about how awesome we are. We generally keep our national pride under wraps until someone challenges us. We don't really like that people see as lacking in personality and devoid of culture. We're not bland and boring and we're not insular. We care about the world and pay attention to what happens on the international stage, even if we don't seem to be very involved. Remember - our military presence is small - as is our population.
I can't speak for the rest of Canada, but my biggest frustration as a Canadian is that so few people really know much about my country. We only have ten provinces and three territories, but how many non-Canadians could correctly label these thirteen areas on a map? How many Americans could name five Canadian cities? We grew up learning American history - but few Americans know anything about Canada, and I'm fairly certain many couldn't name the year we became a nation. That makes me sad.
As a nation Canada has a lot to offer. We're big, we're bright and we're beautiful. Our terrain is as diverse as the people who populate it. Visit us and you'll see how much there is to love here.
There's no place I'd rather live, and today I will proudly say it:
I love you, Canada! Happy Birthday to you : )
Tuesday, 14 June 2016
On the Rock(s) - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
On the Rocks:
In my thoughts, I'm on the rocks
staring out across the bay
and nothing breaks the stillness
of a perfect summer day.
My heart is filled with turmoil -
there's a constant sense of dread,
and I can't shake the feeling
that there's turbulence ahead.
My feelings are conflicted,
I'm uncertain of my fate -
the answer's surely coming
but it's agony to wait.
With eyes closed I'll imagine
that I'm sitting in my spot -
the calm lake lies before me;
the sun shines bright and hot.
It's an odd coincidence
what memory unlocks
when winter winds have chilled me
and my heart is on the rocks.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 2007
Somewhere on the shores of Lake Superior, there's a moss covered rock that looks out on a shallow bay. It sits near a rocky promontory - a place where the weather has a tendency to suddenly change. It provides a panoramic view of an uninhabited island - a place that (to me) still signifies the unknown. Maple Island still shows up in my dreams - and it's always a place of possibilities.
This moss covered rock sits on a bed of flat slate. In our family we referred to this rocky formation as "the point". We played there as children, dubbing it "the hotel" and dividing its various levels into individual rooms, the largest and flattest being "the ballroom."
As a teenager, going to the point became a private pilgrimage. The moss covered rock became my personal sanctuary. It was a calming place to sit and think - or conversely to cleanse my rattled mind of excessive thoughts. I practiced my own personal rituals there, writing down wishes, and names of those I was thinking of - rock on rock - on the stones with a slate "pencil". Perhaps a few were hidden well enough that the name Trevor is still occasionally spotted, or a simple statement like, I WANT TO WRITE! is dislodged by the footfalls of someone on a pilgrimage of their own.
I don't know exactly why I did this, but locating a skinny rock to use as a pencil and writing messages on the slate that nature provided was a bit of family tradition that I'd simply modified. Somehow by writing down those dreams I was making them more real - more attainable - and by writing down the names of those who were in my thoughts I was inviting them into my private communion.
My life feels a bit chaotic and uncertain right now. Nothing is happening fast enough. I don't feel well and I'm mentally and physically exhausted.
My personal frustrations in no way compare to the news out of Orlando, Florida these past few days. Unspeakable horror, hatred and bigotry. Terrible and tragic losses to families. Senseless deaths - of people like Trevor. Conversations become arguments all over social media. What fueled the shooter's rage? Was it based on less than loving ideologies? Was it based on his hatred of the LBGT community? Did he have secret desires of his own that led him to manifest self-hatred by opening fire on the group he wanted to be part of? Who do we blame for creating this monster? Religion? Guns? Ignorance?
I have no answers.
Still, in the midst of all the debates circling 'round me, a few lines from a hymn have echoed in my head:
"No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging.
Since LOVE is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?"
My song at this point may not be joyous. It is, in fact, much more of a lamentation; a mournful melody. It is a funeral dirge for those cut down in youth by hatred of one sort or another. I'm tired of trying to definitively label exactly what sort of hate motivated this crime.
But somewhere in the midst of all the mourning I can still see my moss covered rock. It occurs to me, that sitting on a singular rock evokes one image - that of faith. Maybe it's faith in God, or a higher power. Maybe it's an abiding faith that goodness still exists in humanity, or in lofty ideals - truth, justice, liberty... Right now I'm choosing to believe that instead of flinging rocks of accusation around, we should be clinging to the rock in the hymn.
"Since LOVE is lord of heaven and earth..."
It's funny how the image changes when the word rock is pluralized. To be "on the rocks" is to be in peril. It is to be in danger of being bashed on stones and broken. I know from my forays to "the point" that it's easy to loose your footing when you're walking on stones. I know that rocks get slippery when they're wet. My fascination with lighthouses has given me a good understanding of rocks in water and the dangers they pose to ships.
None of us want to be "on the rocks", right?
Yet it occurs to me that while I sat on what I considered to be one rock - it was really rock on rock - like the messages I left on the slate. Fear and faith were always there - one atop the other. Does it really matter whether I sat on one rock or two? The important thing is that I found a place that felt safe, even though the winds could begin to whip around that point at any moment, signalling a swiftly gathering storm. I found serenity in a spot where nature was unpredictable. (Go figure!) I gave that rock meaning, and I gave those rocks meaning.
So I will give the rock, and rocks, meaning once again, as I round the point one more time. I will spell out my point clearly, in writing.
Love and faith are always there - even when misery and brutality seem to be getting the upper hand. In spite of the fact that hate invites monsters among us, love endures.
If I close my eyes for a moment it isn't because I'm in denial. The terrible realities in the world aren't so easily shut out . If my eyelids drop for a moment I'm just feeling a bit overwhelmed by harsh realities that are crashing to shore right now, roiling the sand and trying to erode the rock. The stones are continually shifting and I'm trying to keep my balance.
I will close my eyes and go back to my quiet place - where I am sitting on a moss covered rock, on top of a flat sheet of slate, and looking out over calm waters and islands of possibilities.
I will cling to the rock of love and still feel lulled by gentler waves.
In my thoughts, I'm on the rocks
staring out across the bay
and nothing breaks the stillness
of a perfect summer day.
My heart is filled with turmoil -
there's a constant sense of dread,
and I can't shake the feeling
that there's turbulence ahead.
My feelings are conflicted,
I'm uncertain of my fate -
the answer's surely coming
but it's agony to wait.
With eyes closed I'll imagine
that I'm sitting in my spot -
the calm lake lies before me;
the sun shines bright and hot.
It's an odd coincidence
what memory unlocks
when winter winds have chilled me
and my heart is on the rocks.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 2007
Somewhere on the shores of Lake Superior, there's a moss covered rock that looks out on a shallow bay. It sits near a rocky promontory - a place where the weather has a tendency to suddenly change. It provides a panoramic view of an uninhabited island - a place that (to me) still signifies the unknown. Maple Island still shows up in my dreams - and it's always a place of possibilities.
This moss covered rock sits on a bed of flat slate. In our family we referred to this rocky formation as "the point". We played there as children, dubbing it "the hotel" and dividing its various levels into individual rooms, the largest and flattest being "the ballroom."
As a teenager, going to the point became a private pilgrimage. The moss covered rock became my personal sanctuary. It was a calming place to sit and think - or conversely to cleanse my rattled mind of excessive thoughts. I practiced my own personal rituals there, writing down wishes, and names of those I was thinking of - rock on rock - on the stones with a slate "pencil". Perhaps a few were hidden well enough that the name Trevor is still occasionally spotted, or a simple statement like, I WANT TO WRITE! is dislodged by the footfalls of someone on a pilgrimage of their own.
I don't know exactly why I did this, but locating a skinny rock to use as a pencil and writing messages on the slate that nature provided was a bit of family tradition that I'd simply modified. Somehow by writing down those dreams I was making them more real - more attainable - and by writing down the names of those who were in my thoughts I was inviting them into my private communion.
My life feels a bit chaotic and uncertain right now. Nothing is happening fast enough. I don't feel well and I'm mentally and physically exhausted.
My personal frustrations in no way compare to the news out of Orlando, Florida these past few days. Unspeakable horror, hatred and bigotry. Terrible and tragic losses to families. Senseless deaths - of people like Trevor. Conversations become arguments all over social media. What fueled the shooter's rage? Was it based on less than loving ideologies? Was it based on his hatred of the LBGT community? Did he have secret desires of his own that led him to manifest self-hatred by opening fire on the group he wanted to be part of? Who do we blame for creating this monster? Religion? Guns? Ignorance?
I have no answers.
Still, in the midst of all the debates circling 'round me, a few lines from a hymn have echoed in my head:
"No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging.
Since LOVE is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?"
My song at this point may not be joyous. It is, in fact, much more of a lamentation; a mournful melody. It is a funeral dirge for those cut down in youth by hatred of one sort or another. I'm tired of trying to definitively label exactly what sort of hate motivated this crime.
But somewhere in the midst of all the mourning I can still see my moss covered rock. It occurs to me, that sitting on a singular rock evokes one image - that of faith. Maybe it's faith in God, or a higher power. Maybe it's an abiding faith that goodness still exists in humanity, or in lofty ideals - truth, justice, liberty... Right now I'm choosing to believe that instead of flinging rocks of accusation around, we should be clinging to the rock in the hymn.
"Since LOVE is lord of heaven and earth..."
It's funny how the image changes when the word rock is pluralized. To be "on the rocks" is to be in peril. It is to be in danger of being bashed on stones and broken. I know from my forays to "the point" that it's easy to loose your footing when you're walking on stones. I know that rocks get slippery when they're wet. My fascination with lighthouses has given me a good understanding of rocks in water and the dangers they pose to ships.
None of us want to be "on the rocks", right?
Yet it occurs to me that while I sat on what I considered to be one rock - it was really rock on rock - like the messages I left on the slate. Fear and faith were always there - one atop the other. Does it really matter whether I sat on one rock or two? The important thing is that I found a place that felt safe, even though the winds could begin to whip around that point at any moment, signalling a swiftly gathering storm. I found serenity in a spot where nature was unpredictable. (Go figure!) I gave that rock meaning, and I gave those rocks meaning.
So I will give the rock, and rocks, meaning once again, as I round the point one more time. I will spell out my point clearly, in writing.
Love and faith are always there - even when misery and brutality seem to be getting the upper hand. In spite of the fact that hate invites monsters among us, love endures.
If I close my eyes for a moment it isn't because I'm in denial. The terrible realities in the world aren't so easily shut out . If my eyelids drop for a moment I'm just feeling a bit overwhelmed by harsh realities that are crashing to shore right now, roiling the sand and trying to erode the rock. The stones are continually shifting and I'm trying to keep my balance.
I will close my eyes and go back to my quiet place - where I am sitting on a moss covered rock, on top of a flat sheet of slate, and looking out over calm waters and islands of possibilities.
I will cling to the rock of love and still feel lulled by gentler waves.
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