OH CHRISTMAS TREE

“Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas unless…”
If my husband had to finish that sentence it would be: Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas unless we had a Christmas tree. So on December 9th, off we snow-shoed into the bush to find a beauty. It was another grey day and the crust on the snow made the trekking slow, but we had a song in our hearts and on our lips and were excited about our prospects.

Alan led me in one direction where he thought there was a stand, then I led him in another where I was hopeful of finding something perfect, but in the end all we could see were scraggly Charlie Brown trees. He’d rather have nothing at all than one of those, so we looped back home.
The next morning, he just wasn’t happy so asked if I would mind going to town with him to buy one. This normally sounds like such a small request, and in fact, normally he could have gone on his own. We, on the other hand, living 2 km past where the road ends, weren’t used to normal, and with achilles tendonitis in my right foot, a return trip to town was an effort for me. But with the chance to bring joy to my beloved, I strapped the snowshoes and a smile back on and hiked out the roller coaster trail to the car with him.

After first taking care of some errands and stopping for a slice, we went shopping for the tree. Most were perfect for what we normally looked for, but with the kids not visiting and the early snowfall, this year wasn’t normal either. After moving some of the big boys around, we found the ideal spruce in the very back against the wall. Not only was this tree symmetrical and sized to fit in our vehicle it was also possible to carry.

Back to the trail, on with the snowshoes, and off we went back home. Alan dragged the tree the first 500 metres over the frozen lake, and then the fun began. As an analyzer, I love to figure things out, so with Alan hanging on to the heavier trunk, I tried putting a rope around the top, but that was just too awkward. Then I had an image of two hunters walking, and between them was a dead animal hanging from a pole. So, I went off trail as soon as I found a long, sturdy, dead branch and convinced Alan we should try it. He was sceptical at first but then conceded it did help. Forty-five minutes later, and after taking a ceremonial picture of our prize, we had the tree standing up outside and relaxing into shape.

As darkness descended, Alan brought it in and started putting the lights on: a sacred, age-old tradition of his. Then with eggnog in hand, I finished it off with tinsel, candy canes and red bows.
I must admit, the whole atmosphere of our house had been transformed by the glorious presence of that glittering tree. Even though there were no gifts underneath, it had a majesty about it akin to all things nurtured and cherished. It was truly uplifting.

As I stood there admiring our creation, I felt refreshed! It was like something inside of me had been aroused from hibernation, and I realized what I loved about a Christmas tree was how sensuous it was. There was the prickliness of its needles, the clean spruce fragrance, the lights sparkling on the tinsel, the peppermint candy canes ripe for the picking, the feelings of belonging and continuity, and the remembered sounds of music and laughter.

Perhaps this was why Christmastime was so exhilarating for many; like the tree, our senses were lit up and life took on a whole new, vibrant dimension. It’s almost as if by exciting and uniting all the senses, the feelings of kindness and charity were activated. What a blissful way to live…all year long.

Which reminds me, if you were to ask me to finish that first sentence, it would be: Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas unless I wished that the joy of the season carried through and became the normal way of being all year long.
May all our dreams come true.

Happy Holidays everyone!

LINKING

Three years ago my step-son and his life-long buddies started a tradition at our place the first weekend of November: boys’ weekend. I started a tradition that weekend too: go somewhere else. This year I drove to the city and had a chance to catch up with some friends, see a play, and most importantly enrich my family bonds.

On Sunday morning, I met my mother, aunt, and five cousins at my sister’s house and after a time of catching up, we got to the business at hand: linking these three generations to those that came before us through the process of making cinnamon buns.

When my grandmother taught me how to make the buns twenty years ago, I was the sixth generation in the family to learn – well technically, the fifth because my mother and her cousins were never taught. Today I was going to connect the links and extend the chain by teaching not only my mother and aunt, but also by teaching my aunt’s two grand-daughters – the seventh generation.

The word religion is from the Latin, re ligio, meaning linking back: linking back through our ancestors, to the animals, to the earth, to the solar system, to the universe, and all the way back to the big bang and the Creator of life itself. And so in repeating this recipe in the manner it had always been prepared, we were about to perform an act of linking: a religious act.

Feeling this reverence, I circled the women and girls around the table and led a ceremony using candles, ritual and prayer. We then began by each putting a cup of flour into the pot, thus linking us all with our creation and with all creation involved in making this flour, and these baked goods, possible: the sun, the rain, the earth, the wheat, the farmers, the grain millers, the truck drivers, the grocers and everyone and everything else involved in helping this happen.

Salt, sugar, oil, butter, and sour cream were added and then Melanie, the youngest, cracked the eggs open, one by one, first into a bowl to make sure they were okay. My grandmother told me this was done because if an egg was bad, the other ingredients would be spoiled and the process would have to start all over again. Nanny Ray grew up with very little, so waste was to be avoided at all costs. Kari, a recent bride, then began mixing it all together – “one way,” my grandmother had said and I now found myself repeating, “stir only one way.” I hadn’t figured that one out until I disobeyed and ended up with flour flying everywhere.
The yeast was added, the dough kneaded, then the big mixing pot was put on the stove beside a small pot of simmering water. I then covered both with one of my grandmother’s tea towels, just as I was taught, and then passed on to the others that this was done to help the dough rise quicker.

I shortened the first rising so those who had to leave early could help cut the dough into buns. When this was completed, we put the pans back on the stove by the simmering water and went for a long lunch.

The best part of the process, the part the older ones remembered and were often allowed to help with, was adding the cinnamon. When the buns came out of the oven, they were broken apart and cinnamon sugar was sprinkled over the steamy dough. After a few minutes back in the oven for browning, and a moment to thank and remember Nanny Ray and Baba (my grandmother’s mother), we linked seven generations by nourishing our bodies and souls with those heavenly treats.
I don’t know if the others will carry on in the traditional way. We joked about the significance of the number seven and how it seemed to suggest something evolutionary. Mechanical kneading machines and other time-saving devices were mentioned but somehow they just didn’t seem right to me. I guess I’m a bit reluctant to let go of some of the old ways; I seem to be rooted in what’s natural - and that changes slowly. Simplicity, patience, and conservation are what worked for those who came before me, and now as I keep expanding in my knowledge and understanding, I try to ward off chaos by staying rooted in those ideals.

From the feedback I received, the day was a success. Linking back and linking together, the girls – and from what I hear, the boys too - had a most enriching experience.

Kindness & Generosity

I read an interview in the quarterly Parabola with a Kenyan woman, Wangari Maathai, who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2004. She talked about Mount Kenya and how the Kikuyu people around the mountain were overwhelmed by its beauty and power and thought that God must live there. So they protected and revered it.

But then the missionaries came, and her people were persuaded to believe that “God does not live in Mount Kenya. God lives in heaven.” And when that separation was internalized, it became easy for industrialists to cut down the forest and plough the land. The concept of having ‘dominion over’ was new to them, for they were taught to be stewards of the land. Soon “they found themselves literally at the mercy of the forces of those dominators.”

I found the interview to be quite telling and perhaps a clue as to why the world is filled with so much fear and anger these days. It’s like we’ve forgotten who we are. We’ve forgotten that kindness and harmony don’t come from somewhere up in heaven but are right here within each and every one of us. The spirit of a human being, our humaneness, is witnessed not in dominating over one another but in coming together in community for the common good of all.
Everywhere I look on the trail I see examples of compassion and interdependence. This makes me believe that kindness and harmony are in fact not only our true nature but the nature of life itself. Flowers are the source of life for bees and butterflies. Trees are the source of life for squirrels and birds. Streams are the source of life for fish and otters. If everything on this planet is a source of life for others, why would we human beings not understand that we are we are a source of life too? Goodness and kindness aren’t gifts from above; we were born with them in us to give freely in order to nurture and be stewards of each other. That’s the Way. And the more we offer these gifts, the more powerful the gift becomes and the more powerful the giver becomes. Those who are truly powerful are kind, not domineering.

I think some people are afraid and angry because they haven’t drawn on their own goodness or kindness enough and it leaves them with a tremendous feeling of emptiness. They try numerous ways, like food, alcohol and drugs, to numb or distract themselves but these addictions only amplify their despair. The persisting emptiness consequently becomes the perfect breeding ground for both fear and anger to incubate and grow into a sense of powerlessness and inadequacy. And when the inner voice is saying “lack, lack, lack,” deficiencies becomes visible everywhere: in the closet, in people around, and, most devastatingly, in ourselves.

I know a little about this because I was a bulimic and tried everything to fit in – everything but reaching out with kindness and generosity. Fortunately I have learned over the years to first be kind to myself. I am a work in progress and must have patience when I err. I have also learned that I have many teachers around to assist and inspire me. When I focus on wanting to see kindness, it appears all around and I let it motivate me to pass it on.

I’ve also learned that kindness is a form of currency, for what we want in life isn’t more money but more happiness. A note of appreciation, a box of homemade cookies or staying behind to help clean up after a party are just a few ways to assist with that. But those who don’t understand this, those who aren’t aware that they have kindness to give, end up having to pay for everything in cash.

Interesting how vulnerability brings out the best in people. My mother-in-law remembers the Depression as being the happiest of years. Life was simple, nobody had anything and everything was shared. Kindness and generosity were rampant. Perhaps if we felt the sacredness of life at all times, recognized our vulnerability within the great scheme of things everyday, we would draw more on our kindness to make the world a gentler place.

Funny how times change, not long ago people who revered the land were considered primitive and uncivilized and those who dominated over it were called cultured. Now I wonder who the sophisticates and who the savages are.

Jewel in the song, Hands, sings “In the end, only kindness matters. In the end, only kindness matters.” How true. Domination is not the way to happiness, stewardship is.
Anger is bred from fear and powerlessness and fear is bred from ignorance. Maybe our schools should be teaching the importance of reaching out with kindness and generosity - and not just generosity with money, but generosity with our smiles, generosity with giving people the benefit of the doubt, and perhaps most importantly, generosity with patience.

There’s so much anger and worry in the air these days it feels like it will lead to some kind of revolution. I propose this: REVOLT AGAINST FEAR! BE KIND. BE GENEROUS.

R.D. Lawrence

One of the ways I have involved myself in the community is by volunteering on the R.D. Lawrence Place project. Ron's wife, Sharon, donated his manuscripts and other artifacts to the community, and this summer the Sir Sanford Fleming College Sustainable Building students erected a building to house them.

R.D. Lawrence was a man respected by naturalists, conservationists and story lovers around the world. According to his biography, Ron, the youngest of five children, was born in 1921 to a Spanish mother and a British father during a storm aboard ship in the Bay of Biscay. He fought in both the Spanish Civil War and World War II then studied biology at Cambridge University and journalism at London Polytechnical Institute. He moved to Canada in 1954 and was a science reporter for the Winnipeg Tribune and a foreign correspondent for the Toronto Telegram. R.D. Lawrence was a disciplined man and penned more than thirty books, both fiction and non-fiction. He was published in twenty-six countries and translated into fifteen languages. He moved to the Haliburton Highlands in 1984 and remained here until his death in 2003.

After reading a few of his books, what struck me most was his sense of gentleness and how he treated all living things - including himself - with such patience and compassion. I hadn't read anything like it before and was quite touched. In his book about making maple syrup, he had to learn a few lesson the hard way, but he didn't get upset or belittle himself, he just made the adjustments and carried on.

Sharon said he learned this saying from his English tutor when he was a child:
Good, better, best.
Never let it rest.
Until your good is better
And your better is best.

I found myself agreeing with Ron's philosophies, and thinking we would have enjoyed chatting and meandering along the trail together. It's interesting how neither of us had teachers to show us how to observe nature, but we each came to a similar conclusion in our own ways. In my first column, Magnificent Creatures, I wrote how I learned to "stop thinking" and "quiet myself." In The Study of Life: A Naturalist's View, Ron wrote: "when asked to explain my technique for observing nature in action, I begin by emphasizing the need to be fully, totally, at peace. Developing an inward calm is the most important, if at times difficult, "trick" of wilderness watching."

He went on to talk about achieving a "neutral attitude" even when one was "consumed with eagerness" or "fearing to be attacked." This intrigued me because it sounded like an article on meditation I had just finished editing: "When starting a meditation practice and thoughts enter the mind, allow them to passively flow by…"

I guess it shouldn't be surprising that those who spend time in nature and those who spend time in meditation have similar neutral attitudes – they both understand the importance of developing an inner calm. Perhaps that's also why people come to cottage country: sitting quietly at the end of the dock or strolling casually down the trail neutralizes their tension and allows them to relax and slip into tranquility. It's like we all have this inner need, this hardwiring, to restore ourselves and re-connect with our true nature by sitting in stillness.
R.D. Lawrence Place is dedicated to the life and memory of Ronald Douglas Lawrence, but it shouldn't be overlooked how much his wife Sharon was a part of his work. When pet cougars or Arctic wolves were sent to their sanctuary, Sharon was just as involved as Ron in caring for them. When people knocked on the door hoping to have a moment with Ron, Sharon graciously escorted them in and fed them. For this project, she has donated her inheritance, stood before council to get approval and funding, talked before strangers to raise more funds, inspired the Sir Sanford Fleming students, baked treats for our meetings, and publicized the project around the world.

It has been a privilege to have gotten to know R.D. Lawrence through his books and Sharon Lawrence through our meetings. On September 28th at 2 pm, and through the weekend, the public is invited to see what a stunningly gorgeous building this couple has inspired.

BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS

Not all days start the same but none have ever begun like August 23 did this year.
My husband Alan was picked up at our dock at 7:30 a.m. by our neighbour Wayne and driven into town by his wife Linda where he was getting a house ready for his mom to move into. Next thing I knew, Wayne had rushed into our house and told me to call 911; Stu, another neighbour, had crashed his boat onto shore and was unconscious. I did as I was told then went down to help. On the way, I was in the state of shock not wanting to believe this. Stu was a good man and a very good friend, so I called upon Love to bring me back into focus. Calmed down, I took a quick survey of the scene, then hopped in the water and, with the help of two other neighbours, started CPR. Neither we, nor the paramedics, were successful in reviving him, and so I lost yet another wise, kind elder in my life.
Stewart Gillespie was like an uncle. We had some good laughs and most importantly, we looked out for each other. In fact I probably wouldn't be living on this boat-access lake without his companionship and guidance. We didn't need to speak everyday; it was just comforting knowing we each were there. It was especially comforting for my husband, for when he was away for work and I wasn't answering the phone, he'd call to check on me. "Hey Stu, do you see any lights on down there?"
Stu knew how to fix anything, and he used to joke about me taking a small engine repair course. I kept saying I was going to bring my old snowmobile up and have him show me how to fix it, but regrettably I didn't. He would have enjoyed teaching me as much as I would have enjoyed learning.
Stu, at 77 years-old, was from an era when men were as comfortable hunting and trapping as they were feeding the birds and caring for vegetable gardens. He showed me how to skin a beaver once and then teased me about practicing on squirrels.
He liked to laugh. Even more, he liked a good story. He could tell you about the horse trail and who was in at the various hunt camps on any given day. He knew where to take the metal detector and look for relics from old logging camps. He told me about the animal tracks and scat I found on the trail, and he always had a loving smile and story to tell about his grandchildren.
Stu could also be a little rough around the edges at times, but we always knew he'd give us the shirt off his back, and his pants too, if we ever needed them. Some of the sayings I learned from were: "The winds from the east are lazy winds. They don't go round ya, they go right through ya." "When the days get longer, the cold gets stronger." And my favourite was, and he liked to laugh at me when I forgot to follow it: "If you keep the top half of the gas tank full, you don't have to worry bout the bottom."
I have a lot of fond memories of Stu, but strangely no tears. My husband cried, and I began to think that I was an emotional cripple because I didn't. But then I came across a friend who reassured me that if I didn't think death was the end, then there was nothing to be sad about. One wasn't sad about a caterpillar that changed into a butterfly.
But I used this as a way to find fault with myself, and soon found lots of other things I wasn't good at either. Next thing I knew, I was withdrawing and blaming others for my state of being. Fortunately, the Swami's quote came back to mind: "Refuse to be seduced by what is past and over, and what cannot be changed. Remember, more important than what is behind you or what is ahead of you is what is in you." I realized I was worrying about what I wasn't instead of appreciating what I was. I'm not a lot of things, but I always am a source of love.
One sees what one chooses to see, and when I see Stewart Gillespie in my mind, I see happiness and love, and maybe that's why I haven't cried. All days may begin differently, but when the heart is open to loving whatever comes along, they all end with a smile.
I love you Stu. Take care. And I promise to feed your birds.

Further North

In grade school I was introduced to the vastness that is Northern Ontario through a series of National Film Board productions by Bill Mason, a canoeist and documentary filmmaker. I was inspired by the way he portrayed Lake Superior with its ruggedness, its voyageur history, and its wondrous beauty. There was an intangible as well that I couldn't comprehend at the time, and it crept into my bones where it patiently awaited the day my heart could understand it.
This summer, my husband and I packed up our car and headed off to see what the north was all about. Having heard Gordon Lightfoot's song about the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, I was expecting Lake Superior to be blustery, with whitecaps on swells two meters high. But when we arrived, gazing out at the vastness was as soothing as watching a sleeping baby breathe. With protruding cliffs, sandy bays, and jack pined islands, the scenery was stunning.
Next day we packed a lunch and hiked the Orphan Lake trail. This was a route the old trappers used, and it led us down to an isolated beach with rocks so old they had been tumbled into egg-shapes. With the sun warm and the lake inviting, we stripped down and jumped in. On the way back, we passed two hikers at a waterfall but didn't see anyone else until much later. It was astounding how few people were around even though this was peak tourist season.
Further east along Superior's northern coast was the village of Rossport. The folks there – innkeepers, boaters and tourists – knew how to enjoy life. We picked up on their cues and rented a kayak to explore the old volcanic islands. When the sun scorched down, we found harbour in a lagoon and relaxed over lunch.
Signs for the Terry Fox Courage Highway appeared further east, and we found it hard to believe anyone could run a marathon a day in a place where hills were more plentiful than vehicles. The cyclist, and even the lumber trucks, struggled with these steep grades, and we couldn't help but wonder how this young man got as far as he did.
Connected to the west of Superior, by a series of rivers and lakes, is Quetico Provincial Park. We canoed in and made a small island our home for four days. From there we explored the ranger station, sacred pictograms and old logging sites. What captured my imagination most was the elasticity of time. On the one hand, the intricately water-carved rocky shoreline emphasised the eons that had passed. On the other, with no signs or outhouses, and only a small section of the park logged, we felt close to the original voyageurs and their experiences.
Flowing into Superior from its northern most point is the town, river and lake named Nipigon. "They say Nipigin" the lad at the Rossport kayak shop told us. "If you say Nipigone, they'll know you're not from around here." We followed the Trans-Canada highway east from there and lost our connection to Superior near Longlac, where the rivers began flowing north to James Bay.
In Cochrane, we took the Polar Bear Express up to Moosonee and Moose Factory, which are at the mouth of the Moose River. The Hudson's Bay Company had recruited workers from the north of Scotland to settle this outpost, so it shouldn't have been surprising that some of the Cree played the fiddle and danced the Highland jig…but it was.
On our way home, we stopped in Cobalt, and even though the earth had been raped and left to rot by the silver prospectors, reclamation by nature and the townspeople had begun.
The resources in this province are plentiful, but as those dependent on them know, bounties come and go. However there was another asset that I noticed, and it was more precious, ubiquitous, and enduring than any substance the earth could produce. This asset was displayed many times and in many forms throughout the trip and was strong enough to resist the winds that shredded, the waters that carved, the sun that scorched, and the barons that exploited.
What the wilderness of Northern Ontario was trying to tell me, but I couldn't verbalize as a child, was, there's a power underneath it all that keeps driving us, a power that transcends landscape and culture, a power that dispenses with time and place, and a power that endures obstacle after obstacle. This power comes from the inherent knowing that goodness and justice, no matter what, will always find its way back. To me, this power, this strength of heart, is the greatest and most important resource we human beings have.
My child's imagination had sensed this, but it took an adult mind to truly comprehend it.

FLOWING

A lot has happened in the last month. I took an Express Arts course about sound and movement and went through a tremendous transformation which I am still reverberating from.
I learned that sound is vibration, energy is vibration, and thought is vibration, and when old negative thoughts get stuck in the body they form blockages that cause imbalance. But like Joshua blowing his trumpet and crumbling the walls of Jericho and operatic voices exploding glass, blockages in the body too can be shattered by sound. This is what I experienced, and after expressing the accompanying grief, I was lifted to a place of clarity where only beauty, joy and love exist. For days I had a smile on my face that couldn't be wiped off, and a poem I had written came to mind:
To soar above
All rules and expectations,
To soar above.
That's truly how I felt.
When the bliss wore off, my body felt like waves on the lake when two rocks were dropped in: joy and sadness were bashing and crashing inside me. One minute I was feeling one emotion and then with the quickness of a thought, I was feeling the opposite. I wasn't used to this experience and it was unsettling.
While this was going on, I was also writing until 3:30 in the morning and understanding things in a new way. It was like the pages in the Book of Wisdom opened up and I had access to it all. I just had to ask a question and the answer was there.
When that surge subsided, I was left feeling exhausted and fragile. An email arrived saying that Angaangaq, an Eskimo-Kalaallit Elder, would be speaking in Haliburton, so I went hoping to be calmed and re-centred. But he had a different agenda, and I was even more agitated. I didn't want to hear anymore about despair, I wanted to hear about courage because that was what I wanted to write about. I was witnessing so much fear, and what annoyed me most was that people only talked about courage with respect to fear: "Don't be afraid." "The only thing to fear is fear itself." "Act in spite of your fear." I couldn't think of one comment about courage.
On the way home, I thought about love being the opposite of fear because love was about the free flowing of energy and fear was about the damming of that flow. Then I realized if love is the opposite of fear and courage is the opposite of fear, then courage must be the same as love. And somehow that just felt right and my body totally relaxed.
Writing about courage was the same as writing about love, and as Angaangaq, or Uncle as he called himself, said, to do both we just need to "put one foot in front of the other" and carry on. We can't allow those dams to build up; we have to be like love itself and keep moving through it all. This didn't mean we ignored what we were going through. It just meant that when sadness, or any other feeling, hit, we felt it fully then kept going.
Uncle also said: the greatest ill in the world is that we put each other down. He said the way to melt the ice in the human heart is to begin using our vast knowledge wisely. And he also said, the stronger the heartbeat, the healthier humankind will be.
The spiritual journey is a very bumpy path meant to shake loose and crumble that which no longer serves. Letting my old stuff go now is as hard as letting go of the yellow blanket I had as a child. Interesting, seeing it with that reference, I understand I must once and for all drop the old fear-based ways so I can move on and stay in the next - the lyrical - stage of life.
It's not easy. In fact it's very trying. Thankfully, however, it is simple: love, love, flowingly love.