Lest We Forget

Whites Road, Highway Of Heroes.

No matter how you to look at it, people who make a living in uniform spend their careers preparing for events that we all hope will never happen. But bad things happen, and when it comes to the Military, I wonder if at various times in history we might have confused our feelings for the horrors of war with our feelings for the courageous Canadians who answered the call to arms. But I'm relieved to be part of a generation that has begun to reverse the trend of withholding pride.  I wish I'd never had to stand on the Whites Road overpass to pay my respects to fallen soldiers from Afghanistan, but I never want to forget the Canadians I met on those days; it turns out we are a fiercely proud lot, deeply moved by the plight of ordinary families in their darkest hour.

I was raised a Military Dependent, so respect for those who serve their country is something I learned firsthand.  My father chose his career path at an extremely young age, having to get written permission from both of his parents and his high school principal to join the Navy at just 17 years of age.  I remember as a preschooler - and a university graduate - seeing my Mom press my father's uniform shirts with such incredible care and detail that no dry cleaner anywhere could match her work.  I remember my father spit shining his shoes at night and taking the the adhesive lint picker to his perfectly creased uniform trousers after he got up from the breakfast table.  When he left the house every morning to go to work, he was impeccably put together to the letter of the dress regulations - without exception.  I thought this was the way the entire world worked back then.  When at the age of 11 we moved into a home that was not on a Canadian Forces Base, I was utterly confused to discover that other people's households did not include somebody in uniform.

Dad  receives a service commendation on the Bonnie, 1966.

If my Father's family is Canadian Armed Forces, my Mother's side is United States Army and Marine Corps. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws:  the uniform is everywhere in my family tree... and I couldn't be more proud.

So this morning I will attend Remembrance Day ceremonies and then make my way to my local Legion.  It's tradition, but perhaps also selfish.  I get to say thanks, which makes me feel good, and I get to hear veterans tell stories that rip my heart out or make me collapse in fits of laughter... or both.  There is an art to story telling, and I have yet to meet a veteran who hasn't mastered it.  Although on occasion rooted in the horrors of war, there is nonetheless always a light, a lesson, something to take away and use to make our own lives that much more meaningful.  I wouldn't miss it.

Today, please say thank you to anyone who has worn a uniform, be they military, police, fire, EMS, or any other branch of service.  Your gratitude will be warmly received, I assure you.

Three Hundred Forty-Three

     I’ve been thinking a lot about New York City lately, as has most of the connected world.  Why its residents are routinely made to show us what they’re made of escapes me but serves to restore my faith in humanity, and for that I offer a debt of gratitude.  Without faith (in something) we’d all be lost.  Faith in humanity is at times is a risky lot to invest in.  There are so many opportunities to lose faith in mankind, so to side step the crap is a lot of work some days.  But it’s the most honest work I do; having faith puts my heart and my head in perfect balance, allowing me to feel somewhat victorious against the odds... smug, almost.  But just 24 hours after Sandy kicked NYC and the Jersey Shore square in the teeth, and with the plight of its citizens firmly on my mind, I was reminded firsthand what it means to be touched personally by something that seems so much bigger than all of us.

     “What does this represent?” I asked, running my fingers over each of the numbers.

     “Three hundred forty-three… the number of firefighters lost in the World Trade Center on Nine Eleven.”

     I instantly took my hand off the graphic, feeling as though it was sacred and not to be disturbed.  The mood, for a few moments, shifted from carefree to reflective. Two things raced through my mind in a blur.

     The first was the memory of my fiercely proud American Mom and me standing at Ground Zero just a few months after the towers came down.  Mom and I are cut from the same cloth, and after spending hours reading heartbreaking hand written tributes to the fallen, we walked out onto the temporary viewing platform in stunned silence, tears running down our faces.  My Mom stood looking out at the site, which was still being excavated, and I remember walking up behind her, wrapping my arms tightly around her shoulders as though I might somehow lose her, nestling my chin against the back of her head and just staring at what was before us… desperately and silently willing the lives lost to somehow be returned to their rightful places.  It was devastating and so hopeless that it left an ache in me the intensity of which I’ll never forget.

     I carefully placed my hand back on the numbers, tracing them.  Three hundred and forty-three.  “I have a story to tell you about this sometime,” I said.  From within the second flash emerges that story.

     Just six weeks after 911, I was in Boston racing with the Argonaut Rowing Club crew in the women’s club eight event at the Head of The Charles Regatta.  Although we were long in the tooth for that race category (our average age was forty years, among crews full of collegiate-aged women), we arrived well prepared with great hull speed.  Seeded third among a huge field of crews, we knew we had a good starting position and were optimistic that we could convert that into a really good race. And race well we did, powering up the three mile section of the Charles River that makes up the race course with confidence, skill, and speed.  While we knew winning would be very unlikely given the quality of the field, we were hopeful for a top three finish and the medal that would accompany it.  So we were shocked to discover that we had in fact placed 16^th.  A closer examination of the results softened the blow when we saw that in what was one of the tightest races ever seen in that category, good numbers of boats crossed the line within a virtual heartbeat of one another… but we were not at the head of that very tight pack.  In rowing circles, finishing a mere 2.5% off the winning time in such a talented field would be considered a fantastic result.  But we expected more and left the race course pleased that we'd done everything we could but disappointed to place so far down the standings.

The 2001 HOCR Argonaut Rowing Club Women's Club 8+ Crew

     We went out for supper in Boston’s Back Bay that night and as things progressed and the wine flowed freely, we began to switch gears from disappointment to a real appreciation for how lucky we all were to be in the soup together; great friends and fabulous teammates, all nicely wrapped up in laughs, hugs, and a weekend in the never-anything-but awesome city of Boston.  Later that night we searched at length for a dance club that would take our group of nearly 20 life-loving, giggly rowers, as by this time we’d hooked up with our club’s men’s crew, who also felt they came up short on the race course that day.  After an hour of traipsing around the city, we gave up and poured ourselves into a small Irish pub on a back street just off Boston Common.  We took up residence at a few stools at and around the bar, and the manager cleared a couple of tables so that we had a place to dance, because frankly there was going to be dancing whether they supported it or not, and the staff recognized that creating a dance floor was better than having us dance wherever and whenever the mood struck. By then we were putting a bit of beer into our collective soul, and were dancing shamelessly to whatever came out of the jukebox.  It was so fun and so funny; we were enjoying a sense of freedom and gratitude at being able to suck up the sheer pleasures of life without a worry in the world.

     At some point in the midst of our revelry, I noticed a lone patron seated at the bar, playing with the glass in his hands and watching us with a look that I couldn't quite register   He appeared to be half amused and half tormented, so deferring to the possibility that he might be tormented, I smiled at him and shrugged my shoulders as I glanced at my posse, who by this time was dancing haphazardly to “Blister In The Sun”.  He cracked, like an egg rapped on the edge of an iron skillet... it was all over.  He smiled back and began to laugh.  I asked him if he wanted to move down a few stools and join us.  It was at that moment I saw on the bar beside him his uniform peak hat, with his gloves folded impeccably and resting on top of it.  I looked closer at him and was embarrassed that up until that moment I had failed to realize he was in full dress uniform with his tunic still buttoned, and his tie still tightened. As he distractedly played with the glass he cradled in his hands, I saw from his insignia that he was a firefighter with the Boston Fire Department.

     “Have you just arrived from somewhere?” I asked, fearful of his reply.

     “I've been here for a few hours,” he replied.   “I was in New York for a funeral today.”

     “Nine Eleven?” I queried, knowing that’s where he was but feeling that presumption would be somehow disrespectful.

     “Yes, he paused. “Not my first... and not my last,” he offered without looking up.

     I put my hand on his shoulder, which in hindsight was so incredibly forward that I’m blushing just thinking about it. But nonetheless, he looked up and I asked if he’d allow me and my friends to buy him a drink.  He quickly accepted and leaving his hat, gloves, and scotch on the bar, joined our group standing a few feet away.  He protested with great fanfare when I asked the bartender to put his drink on our tab, and further, he insisted on putting the pints I ordered for my pals on his tab.  A lengthy, animated discussion ensued about who was buying drinks for whom but in the end I won out and his drink went on our tab.

     For the next few hours we carried on just as the first, but now with all of us completely unaware of which drinks were going onto which tab.  From time to time I’d lean over the bar and ask the bartender if all the drinks were going on our tab and he just winked at me. So I winked back believing that the non-verbal conversation went exactly as I was hearing it in my head.  As for the rowers and newly minted hangers-on, we took turns chatting and laughing in small groups on bar stools or dancing on our now very popular dance floor.  It would appear that our spirit had ignited that of the other patrons, and several people were dancing.  Our uniformed friend had by now removed his tunic, and I noticed that his hat was perched atop the head of my friend Sue, whose long blond hair was flying all over the place as he whipped her around on the dance floor.  I smiled smugly, but on the outside.

     A few minutes later my friend Judy, who by now was wearing our friend’s tie, grabbed my arm and dragged me to the dance floor.  This?  This was not the essence of life, but rather the stuff that makes it so simplistically gratifying. I recall looking around the room at my friends in various stages of outright happiness thinking that we’d stumbled upon utopia…even if only for a few hours. I watched our adopted firefighter laughing as he spun Sue around the dance floor, and taking in everything that was happening around it knew that I’d just been schooled in the art of opening oneself up to being happy in the face of the gravest adversity. I was humbled.  I mean, admittedly I was also high on life, but no less humbled.

     When last call came, I once again leaned over the bar but this time asked the bartender for our bill.  He looked a bit pained, which perplexed me.  We stared at each other, and then he looked away and said very quietly, “It’s been looked after.”

     “What do you mean?” I said, knowing full well what he meant.

     “It’s been paid in full and please don’t ask me anything else about it.”

     “By whom?” I asked knowing full well by whom.

     “He insisted.”

     “I can’t let him do that.”

     “He really wants you to let him do this.”

     “I can’t.  Our bill must be several hundred dollars.”

     “He really wants to do this for you guys. I tried to talk him out of it but he insisted.”

     “Can I collect cash from everyone and leave it with you so that the next time he comes in he’s drawing against a credit?” I asked.

    “No,” he said firmly.

    At this point I didn't know what to do.  By now a few of our group had caught wind of what was going on.  They too joined in the chorus to allow us to reverse the tab.  Sensing our well-meaning but combative spirit, the bartender finally said, “Look. He needs to do this.  Please let him.”

     Well that’s different.

     And as our comrade in revelry put his tie back on, donned his tunic, picked his white gloves up off of the bar and placed his hat under his arm, we each hugged him with sincerity and warmth… not just for the life affirmation we’d shared with him that night, but for the gift of knowing that for a brief moment in time we were all bound by the ties of a small, closely knit family mourning the loss of one of its own.

Bonds form under the watchful eye of Sam Adams

     I have no idea which of the 343 fallen firefighters we’d had an impromptu wake for that night, but it was an honour to have been a part of it.  To this day a flicker of the life force I gleaned from that experience still lives in me.  It’s been over ten years since I’d reflected on that weekend in Boston, and that embarrasses me somewhat.  In hindsight I realize that the gesture not only of the firefighter but of the bartender who had his back was one of the more subtle but no less important life lessons I’d learned.  Had I not found myself exposed to the random but extraordinarily personal tribute of a firefighter (who like me had never met any of the 343) all these years later, I’d not have taken the time to reflect on that night and how much it shaped the person I became.  So to him I offer my heartfelt gratitude... for other than time itself there is no luxury greater than that of perspective.

Oh look, it's a shiny thing...

Sometimes I can become easily distracted.  It's not always obvious when this happens, but in undertaking the  very ordinary task of purging some old emails this past weekend, I came across a note that was too good not to share.  I won't publish the whole thing (my life isn't t h a t exciting) but here are the meat and potatoes of it that are fit for public consumption.

To set the stage, it would appear that I was taking a break from some yard work last fall when a case of the written runs hit me, thereby - of course - requiring me to share my thoughts with a long suffering friend via email.  Ergo, the following literary gem bounced off a satellite at some point and now exists in perpetuity:

"... my mind was wandering while taking a break from yard work, so I decided to grab a beer, my hockey, stick, and some tape, and retape my stick.  It's fairly shredded and that's disrespectful because I rely on my stick to give me the leverage I need to haul my ass up off the ice after it's been unceremoniously deposited there.  I digress.  Then I moved quickly to the notion that I really didn't have a clue if I was taping it properly, and from there I found myself immersed in how much I loves Ottmar Liebert (Nouveau Flamenco) since that's what was coming out of my iPod as I sat in my recliner on the deck drankin' my beer and pulling year-old tape off my stick.  I never used to incorrectly pluralize the word love but seem to be doing so now, and I wonder if I'm being terribly unoriginal.  And then I began mulling over how my iPod is such a train wreck and my taste in music should not be dictated by this train wreck, and before I know it I'm wondering how The Woody Allens chose their band name.  An incomplete thought since I immediately began giggling about a particularly good bit in Mia Farrow's autobiography, whereby she related how upon being told of Woody Allen's infidelity with her adopted daughter, Frank Sinatra called her up and offered to have his people break Woody Allen's kneecaps.  And bam, I flip to an interview I was reading this morning in which Rick Mercer, when asked to divulge his favorite stuff at home and abroad, said his favorite bar is Allen's (not to be confused with The Woody Allens or Woody Allen), which is my favorite watering hole and has been for years - fantastic food, the best patio in the Big Smoke, and the most wonderful, old school bar with smart people and awesome story tellers pouring drinks.  That brought me around to beer, which somehow tastes more refreshing than usual when consumed on a hot, sunny day on the back deck in mid October.  Oh yeah, I was taping my hockey stick, wasn't I?  I don't think I'm doing it right at all."

I suspect I might have had one coffee too many that morning...

The Essence of Ephron

Brilliant. Warm. Witty.

It’s not unusual for somebody to be described by these terms in death, but to be defined by them in life is.  Nora Ephon’s work, a conduit for her wondrously lived life, never left us guessing how she might one day be eulogized.

She was a genius; a successful journalist, essayist, playwright, screenwriter, novelist, producer, director, and blogger.  Any of us would do well to master one of those, and she mastered all of them simultaneously on the largest stages.

Her name is synonymous with critically acclaimed blockbuster movies that came to define romance for a generation. We all know these movies. Heartburn, When Harry Met Sally, You’ve Got Mail, Sleepless In Seattle, and Julie & Julia, to name a few. But here’s the thing:  This stuff isn’t what she was made of at her core.

Nora Ephron was comprised of so much more than what commonly defines her.  Her gift wasn’t how she wrote, it was how she lived.  Metaphorically, when faced with fourth and goal she ran the ball in herself.  T h i s was her gift.

The daughter of screen writer parents, she wrote for the weekly campus newspaper while majoring in political science at Wellesley College. Once graduated, she interned in JFK’s White House and then moved on to an entry level position at Newsweek.  During a strike by the International Typographic Union she rallied friends and cranked out a publication that parodied the New York Post. Dorothy Schiff, the publisher of New York Post, was paying attention and when the strike ended made quick work of hiring Ephron, giving her free rein to write about anything related to New York City. With that, she honed her skills writing more often than not about sex, food, and The Big Apple. While plying her trade for Newsweek, she began contributing essays to Esquire, New York, and The New York Times Magazine.

If there was any doubt as to the height of ethereal divinity achieved when her heart and head collaborated, consider the titles of her works of collected essays, each of which sucked us helpless and giggling into her stories: A Few Words About Breasts, Wallflower At The Orgy, Crazy Salad, Love, Loss And What I Wore, I Remember Nothing, and perhaps the most inspired title of all, I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Reflections On Being A Woman.  Nora knew… she knew how to speak to us.

But there was more. She was married to Washington Post reporter Carl Bernstein during the Watergate scandal. With him, she rewrote the script for All The President’s Men, and although it was not used it once again got her noticed and lead to her being hired to write her first screenplay. If that wasn’t enough, she maintained from the outset of her bitter separation from Bernstein that she not only knew that Deep Throat was FBI top dog Mark Felt, but that she would tell anyone who asked.  And she did tell anyone who asked but the media seemed wholly uninterested.  When it was confirmed in 2005 that Felt was indeed Deep Throat, Arianna Huffington invited her to blog about it.  Ephron accepted, and subsequently became a regular contributor to The Huffington Post.

I could not bring myself to utter, “Rest in peace” when she died.  I don’t want her to rest in peace.  I want her to walk up to Christopher Hitchens with a glass of wine in one had and a life well lived in the other, kick him in the shin, and demand to know just how funny he thinks women are now.

She was stopped in her tracks before she was done transcribing all of the things we needed and wanted to know about ourselves. Therefore her death should leave us not with a sense of loss but rather with a sense of purpose:  There will never be another Nora Ephron, but surely there is another woman, another deeply intelligent, driven, kind, brilliantly funny, dignified straight shooter who sees the world perhaps not the same way Ephron did, but through the same filters.

Rise up, my brilliant, warm, witty friends.  Rise up.

The Basketball Diaries

I believe writers refer to it as being ‘blocked’.

I’m blocked. 

I haven’t been able to write in weeks.  Now, this is not nearly as big a problem for me as it would be if my livelihood depended on my ability to write, but nonetheless I’ve always been able to write.  I can’t remember a time in my life when words didn’t come easily or (much to the chagrin of everyone around me) in abundance.  So being blocked is a whole new kettle of fish for me and I don’t mind telling you that I am not enamored. 

Lisa (my patient, unflappable, much-tortured editor )… if you are reading this I promise to have a column for you in the next day or two, but for now I think I’m about to, uhm, unblock.  Is that even a word?  (Please confirm). 

For reasons I won’t go into (but suffice it to say my pride is involved), on evenings not jammed up with a thousand other things that ‘need’ doing, I’ve found myself in a schoolyard near my home shooting hoops regularly for the first time in over twenty-five years.  Nothing fancy, just the same kind of shoot-around that I’d run through at the beginning of practice a hundred years ago when I played for real:  Set shots from each of the notches around the key, short jumpers, fade-away jumpers, and layups (but not many because my knees have filed a grievance), and if feeling particularly frisky, my hook shot.  Yep.  I’ve got one in my arsenal.

What seems like a few minutes of playing around always turns into an hour and a really good sweat.  I noticed almost right away that if I got frustrated with the bad bounces the ball was taking that I deferred to softening my touch on the ball… keeping my shoulders and shooting hand square to the work, changing the trajectory to get more arc on the ball, flicking my wrist as the ball rolled up and off my fingers as I released it, and holding my release position until the ball dropped.  If I got frustrated I involuntarily slowed down and applied the soft touch.  And just when I thought this was an anomalous observation, I realized it was in fact a regimental pattern.  If I felt wrong going up in the air I let the shot go anyhow, and sure enough when the ball careened off the rim and caused me to run for my life to catch up with it (which, yes, prompted a barrage of f-bombs), by the time my Sherpa and I arrived back at the key for another go I was mysteriously calm. For those who know me well, let me join you in a boisterous chorus of “what the HELL?”  Because we all know that when I get frustrated, I over think, overreact, overdo, and over(everything) in spades.  So nobody was more shocked than me to realize that for some reason, the pursuit of nothin’ but net was the o n e thing that actually forced my over-thinking head to slow down whether it wanted to or not.  I never want to slow down but lord knows I sure need to some days.  But that’s a whole other ball of wax. 

Usually I’m alone in the school yard but not this night; it was very busy.  There are two hoops mounted on the brick wall at the south side of the school, about 40 meters apart.  Ordinarily I have my pick of the two but I arrived and found both in use, which of course immediately caused my blood pressure to spike.  But I came to play and I was going to play.  At one net, there was a rather heated game of two-on-two in full flight, so I turned my attention to the other hoop, where I found two guys in their mid-twenties playing a very slow paced game of twenty-one.  I had my own ball, so asked if they would mind if I popped off a few shots in between theirs.  With barely an acknowledgement of my presence or my request, there was some general grunting of approval, so I took that to be an overwhelmingly enthusiastic and unanimous approval from the floor.  We toiled at the net together for a while, and when their game ended they left. 

I carried on with my shooting, and about twenty minutes later I noticed a man standing nearby with his young son.  In broken English he asked (as he gestured with his basketball toward the hoop) if they could play.  But of course, I indicated.  For a while we took turns shooting and to be honest, I wasn’t paying much mind to what was going on around me.  But sometimes situations just demand your attention and this was turning into one of them.   I retired to the side of the schoolyard and took a seat on my ball, opened a bottle of Gatorade and (finally) stopped to assess the lay of the land.

This flip flop-attired man?  N o t an experienced basketball player.  His son?  Not yet old enough to  properly hold or shoot the ball with one hand.  I watched them play for about 15 minutes, marveling at their sheer enjoyment of every shot, every miss, every run after the ball, and of course the hysterical high fives when the ball made a rare swoosh through the net… usually from beneath the rim!  I was starting to feel a bit guilty for enjoying their happiness to that degree… almost as though I was interrupting. 

Eventually Dad needed a breather (it was swelteringly hot that evening) and he too retreated to the sidelines.  We both watched silently as his son embraced the absence of elders, suddenly hoofing the ball in the general vicinity of basket.  And by hoofing, I mean, full-on, two-handed, rocket-powered, projectile-launched hoofing.  Each time he released the ball he squealed with delight no matter the outcome, and let me assure you, the point of this was no longer to actually get the ball through the hoop.  That brick wall took a thorough beating.

“Next time… maybe we do… small detail,” says Dad, shrugging his shoulders and grinning.  I giggled; this was pretty funny stuff after all.

But his son stopped.  He looked at the ball in his hands, looked up at the basket, looked at the ball again, slowly raised it as high as he could over his head, and lunging from the waist with feet firmly planted, positively whaled the ball toward the ground about three feet in front of him.  You’ve heard of the bounce pass?  This was the bounce shot.  I’m a bit of a kill joy so I’ll just tell you now that the ball did not go into the net.  It did however hit the backboard and ricochet off it to the inside edge of the left rim, where it caromed wildly to the inside edge of the right rim, bouncing three or four times on the metal before trailing off of the outside edge of the rim and dropping to the concrete below.  And there ensued the most unabashed happiness I can recall seeing in quite some time.  I couldn’t help but laugh (it was so awesome and so funny), and Dad was yelling something I couldn’t make out as his flip flops became a blue flash of light running off to get in on the high five.  Neither of them will likely remember that shot, that it was a miss, or even being at the schoolyard that night… but I was certain that the bonding they experienced in that shared moment would stick with them in some way, shape or form forever.

The clarity I found in identifying and cataloguing that analogy was really quite powerful.  I am reminded once again that life is simple… if we let it be.

Aaand poof:  unblocked.

From InsideToronto.com: Celebrity Musing - Lisa Marie Presley, A Question Of Motivation

Things have been a little bit busy lately.

Yesterday was one of those days that turns me into a cat with a Cheshire grin.  It had everything.  Rest. Good friends.  Good food.  Good wine.  Good laughs. And never to be underestimated in its relevance to good times:  s p e c t a c u l a r weather on a national holiday.  I woke up early and without a plan, kicked my feet over the side of the bed and never looked back after they hit the floor.  Took in Canada Day festivities, hit Ribfest at Whistler's, TTC'd to the Pride Parade (serioulsy... the happiest place on earth yesterday), got my first look at the wonderfully re-purposed Maple Leaf Gardens, walked (yep, walked) to Allen's for supper on the patio (try the Mike Weir 2009 Sauvignon Blanc with the goat cheese dip & garlic toasts if you're in the 'hood), and then against a perfect summer night's sky, watched the fireworks display at Stan Wadlow Park that was anything but "small community" (as it was billed) in scope. And finally, a night cap on the back deck preceded a brilliant, self induced exhaustion.  It's been a month of yesterdays... things have been crazy...

As I sit here today on the same back deck with a cup of coffee updating the blog, I can honestly say I have no clue where the month of June went.  A month ago I was in a totally different place in life than I'm in today, and for some reason, that very moment in time also feels like six months ago rather than just one; time flies.  Another reminder to just get out there and kick every day right in the pants, I figure.  Owing to this level of uhm over commitment, I have - it seems - been neglecting my blog.  So it's time to get cracking.

First up, my June effort for the Celebrity Musing column for Inside Toronto.  I've always been a bit intrigued by Lisa Marie Presley, and when I learned she had another studio album dropping in May, I thought it would be gratifying to poke around and find out what motivates her to continue pursuing a career as a singer and songwriter.  The link is here, but for you non mouse-clickers out there, here's the story.  Hope you enjoy it.

CELEBRITY MUSING: Lisa Marie Presley, A Question Of Motivation

I was recently asked what I'd do if I had the backing needed to pursue my great passion in life.

To be honest, I've been so busy living that I'd never really considered the possibilities. Nobody was more shocked than me when "write" shot out of me like a long-tensed projectile released from its anchor.

In hindsight, I've always loved words and taken great joy out of using the language. As a student I loathed Shakespeare being thrown down as an educational benchmark, so I sustained myself by savouring the sweet reward of the creative writing segments attached to the sometimes months-long study of the pretentious, literary clap trap of England's leading bard.

I digress.

Albeit late in life, I embraced my latent passion and began writing for an audience. No loitering in Venetian cafes sipping artesian wine while scribing literary masterpieces for this girl; I have a career I love that pays the bills, and in my spare time I write for pleasure. Sometimes my stuff is good, sometimes it's utterly deplorable, but for better or worse it's out there for the world to judge and that's just spooky.

Out of this came the realization I do have an audience, and if something I write makes even one person look at another in a softer light, then I have achieved something wonderful simply by risking my pride.

Enter Lisa Marie Presley.

Her third studio album 'Storm and Grace' dropped May 15.

It's impressive that in the shadow of her father she's maintained her determination to have a career in music, given that she launched her career after marrying musician Danny Keogh, raising two children, divorcing him, and marrying and divorcing Michael Jackson - all of which was done without any outward signs she might have musical aspirations of her own.

After releasing her debut album in 2003, she married and divorced Nicholas Cage, and around the same time she released her second album in 2006, she married for a fourth time, this time to musician Michael Lockwood.

In addition to two adult children, she is also the mother of three-year-old twin girls and has relocated to Kent, England. Appearing to have found peace, we arrive at 'Storm and Grace', her first album for the Universal Republic label, produced by 12-time Grammy winner T. Bone Burnett and meticulously packaged by her new manager Simon Fuller, the brain trust behind the 'Idol' franchise.

It's a safe bet nobody asked her what she'd do if she had all the money in the world. She has inherited enough money to do as she pleases and in addition to being a philanthropist and a tireless advocate for children's causes, she has chosen to make music.

Critics and the music buying public maintain their lukewarm reception of her offerings, but she persists caring more for her art than her image.

Celebrities whose agents talk them into cookie cutter careers as 'musicians' (the ultimate Hail Mary pass in celebrity pop culture) are a dime a dozen. But there's something different about Lisa Marie Presley. Perhaps because she makes no apologies, doesn't pretend to be somebody else's kid, blames only herself for her failings, embraces her lot in life and doesn't court the spotlight despite having made a few interesting choices that landed her in it anyway.

So what motivates the daughter of Elvis Presley to stand up and be counted among the musical talent out there, the vast majority of which many would say exceeds her own?

With a modicum of talent, no need for monetary gain and at the risk of humiliation for laying herself bare in an often harsh public eye, Presley offers this: "I'm compelled to do this because I'm a music lover...That's what drives me - pouring your heart and soul into something and hoping that it can change someone's life in some way."

Modest goals born out of manifested passion that might change one person's world for the better. You're OK, Lisa Marie. You're OK.

The Colour Of Money

The title of a rather well known movie starring Paul Newman and Tom Cruise, it is also a metaphor for many things.  The first cousin of the expression ’the colour of money’ is its more outspoken and controversial family member ‘the colour of my money’.  A metaphor for the reason gift giving sometimes gets weird?  Maybe so.

Why it is that gift giving can at times be so completely and utterly confusing?  Why is there no handbook for this kind of thing?  Frankly, I’m t h i s close to giving up on the whole spirit of giving shtick.  Of course I don’t really mean that, what with me deriving giddy pleasure from causing people’s faces to light up at my occasionally off the wall but always heartfelt thoughtfulness.  Giving is a drug, and in this realm I’m a junkie who can’t relinquish something that feels good. But gosh darn it, I’m cross.  That’s right – c r o s s.

We need rules around gifting, don’t we?  Good, clean, straight-up rules.  Like “How To Give,” for one, and perhaps a concurrent publication “How To Get”.  In my mind, that should fix everything, so should there be sufficient interest, I shall set about writing them but in the interim here are potential excerpts from both of the as yet unwritten masterpieces:

From The Code:  How To Give

Ø  A gift must come from the heart (if it comes from your foot, it loses its sentimental value very quickly).  The more perceptive among us will spot a gift given from the foot, so pick wisely.  Hint:  It needs to emanate from the gooiest, softest place that you have inside of you… that awesome place where no matter what else is going on in the world, it can all be perfect for one moment when heartfelt generosity is passed from you to somebody you care about.

Ø  A gift must be offered only when the joy of giving it exceeds the combined magnitude and power of all other emotions in the universe.  Period.  Simple.  Please don’t mess this up by thinking to yourself, “But… but…”, because “But… but…” is how all the great wars have started and we don’t need any more of those now, do we?

Ø  A gift must be given with no expectations attached.  As an example, surprising your partner with a new Lagostina Teflon frying pan on your anniversary is only a good idea if he or she gives a damn that your Sunday over easies, by his or her hand, routinely turn into a craptacular scramble that requires some sort of power tool to retract it from the pan.   As they say in business circles, know your market.  Caveat:  On a case by case basis, it might be forgivable to have certain expectations of personal happiness around the giving of a gift that you both - both! - have a vested interest in.  But that’s a whole other book (The Code:  Reasonable Expectations) which yes, I will write just as soon as I’m done crafting all my other literary masterpieces.  I’m v e r y busy (she laments, dabbing sweat off her brow in a manner that would make Blanche DuBois, well, blanch).

Ø  A gift must be given with no strings attached.  Once you give it, it is no longer yours.  Nor can you take it back, no matter how much you might want to.  I know this will put a lot of lawyers out of business and I feel badly about that (I have lawyer friends and they are good people), but I won’t budge on this one.  Once you give a gift, it’s gone.  But if you’ve done your homework you should be able to reap the benefits of the joy the receiver gets out of being in possession of your gift.  Do your homework, givers.  Don’t run amok giving gifts with a spirit that goes against code.  It throws the earth of its axis for those who give gifts with the purest of motives: the unabashed joy of both the giver and the getter. 

From The Code:  How To Get

Ø  A gift must be received with genuine grace and heartfelt gratitude (immediately).  If either of those two things are missing, or if the gift giver is noble in spirit but the acceptance of the gift is not, the gift must be refused… no matter how shiny and pretty it may be.

There.  Done and done.  As these excerpts clearly demonstrate, we will soon have structure around what was once a painfully ambiguous process.  I feel good about this.  I shall now sit on my duff and await my Nobel Peace Prize, which by the way is a gift – a gift that I shall refuse on the grounds that my reasons for accepting it would be against code.   Why?  Well because the clarification of protocol around giving stuff and getting stuff is not ground breaking erm, stuff.  We all know what constitutes grace, gratitude, and good judgment… but sometimes it’s just nice to have a little refresher.

Getting Grounded

It's my thinking that sometimes we all get just a little bit too wrapped up in our own stuff to recognize how we look to those who know us best.  By way of example, I do believe I've just been grounded.

I've been going a hundred miles an hour for a bit too long, and am delighted to report that that I have come plummeting back to earth.  You see, I'm no cook.  Not at all.  But I am getting a bit more courageous and find myself, on occasion, cooking without a safety net.  Recently I've been absorbed in trying to make the perfect beef stir fry.  Well... perfect to me.  I digress.  I tried a few prepackaged stir fry sauces and while very good, I thought it was high time I made some from scratch.  We're not just talking about any sauce here, but a Szechuan Pepper sauce. 

But the key to the Szechuan Pepper Sauce is this little ingredient called Szechuan peppercorns (go figure).  These are elusive little fellas.  I've been to three supermarkets with large ethnic food sections and got the same blank stare when I asked if they carried the spice. So being the resourceful woman I am, I googled the heck out of every variation on the name that I could and still came up empty.  I turned to facebook and got a few great suggestions today that I will follow up on tomorrow.  But in the interim I'm over at Akimbo Alogo's house for our now somewhat occasionally weekly installment of Blogatola Tuesday, and so as I was pontificating on all the things I tend pontificate on, I mentioned that I'm on the hunt for Szechuan peppercorns.  She looks up from her laptop, which she was furiously pounding away on (not blogging, I might add), and offers this beaut:

"Sorry, what?  Szechuan peppercorns?  Is that a band or something?"

From InsideToronto.com: Celebrity Musing - Liz and Dick and Lindsay and Rosie

I had a lot of fun writing the May installment of Celebrity Musing - and I guess it showed.  A discerning scribe or two caught onto the fact that I appeared to be enjoying myself and told me as much.  Perhaps you will enjoy it as well.  Well here's hoping, anyhow.  You can link directly to the InsideToronto.com article, or if you're a bit fatigued by all that clicking, here's the plain old text for ya:

Liz and Dick and Lindsay and Rosie

Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton (please forgive the inevitable cliche) were star-crossed lovers whose turbulent entanglement put them right up there with the top dog of tragic love stories: Romeo and Juliet.

Liz floated onto the set of the 1963 epic 'Cleopatra' while married to Eddie Fisher, and Dick swaggered in as the husband of actress Sybil Williams. Just as Antony and Cleopatra, the actors fell deeply in love. They each left and subsequently divorced their spouses, and married and divorced each other twice. In doing so they loved big and hurt bigger.

Although they didn't have the backing numbers of the quarrelling Montagues and Capulets, the Taylor-Burtons are said to have lived, loved and lost with such an enormous depth of passion for one another that there was no need - or room - for large supporting casts on either side.

While their ability to be healthy in their relationship spiked and plummeted over the years, the intensity of their connection never waned. The strength of their bond was so powerful that one could theorize that (ironically) it was the bond itself which prevented them from being compatible.

Their love needed to somehow be more anomalous than it was, but a marriage of two perfectly matched hearts and dispositions? They didn't stand a chance at the life they chose for themselves: a day to day ordinary existence as husband and wife.

Not only could the Taylor-Burtons not find their happily ever after, but unto herself, Elizabeth Taylor struggled mightily to find and retain happiness. In addition to the unyielding publicity that surrounded her career and her truculent personal life, she also faced a litany of life-threatening illnesses.

Yet despite it all, she never seemed to lose faith. In perpetuity and in her own good time, she took her lumps, picked herself up, dusted herself off and moved on as we all watched with mildly morbid fascination.

So, given all of this, why is Rosie O'Donnell so irked that Lindsay Lohan has been signed to portray Elizabeth Taylor in the upcoming Lifetime production of Liz and Dick? Well, O'Donnell says Lohan's personal life is a disaster and as a result she's not right for the job. Further, when suggested by fellow Today panelist Donny Deutch that Lindsay Lohan might be our generation's Elizabeth Taylor, O'Donnell responded by saying he was out of his mind. And as if to fortify her attack, she added the strong backing argument that Deutch "is a crackhead". Sigh...

Although wary of the ongoing coverage of Lohan's personal failings, my first reaction to hearing she will portray Elizabeth Taylor was actually, she rather looks like the screen icon and maybe she'll do a good job.

I'm no expert, but I'm intrigued by Lifetime's choice and don't mind saying I might even watch the movie. I guess I want to think Lindsay Lohan might be a clever, funny gal with some talent.  Perhaps I want to think that because this is all just an O'Donnell-Lohan publicity stunt, what with both of them in need of a career boost. But I digress.

Lohan is going to have to overcome some heady personal stuff to earn back the respect of her peers and her public, but that's not impossible.

Others have done it: Elizabeth Taylor for instance and more than once.

As for O'Donnell, she subsequently stated she went on the offensive about Lohan out of concern for the young star. In comparing her to the late Whitney Houston, O'Donnell's after-the-fact implied message is we need to do a better job of looking after each other.

I couldn't agree more, but if this is how O'Donnell looks after Lohan, I'm not sure she's right for the job.

From InsideToronto.com: Celebrity Musing - Whitney's Burden

I've been meaning to respost a few of my columns but hey, things have been a bit hectic lately.  In the spirit of better late than never I shall post the April Celebrity Musing offering, which asks the question of whether or not Whitney Houston was overwhelmed by the enormity of the vocal gift she was given.  Feel free to comment but please be gentle...  I'm a delicate flower.

If you feel so inclined, you can link to the InsideToronto.com column directly.  If not, here it is:

Was Whitney Houston predisposed to a burden too great to bear?

It's been conveyed to me that some people crash headlong into the world loaded down with more than any one person is meant to endure. Is it possible that some of us have to carry a load in excess of what one person can sustain, and if so, is the ensuing fall inevitable?

I have a friend who believes with every fibre of his being that his heart loves well in excess of the love that one heart is meant process. At first I scoffed at this, but through self examination realized this was a plausible affliction. To that end, when I heard the news of Whitney Houston's death, my initial reaction was to extrapolate the theory.

Was it was written in the stars before her birth she was going to have too much put upon her for one soul to manage effectively? The question loomed larger several weeks later as the results of the toxicology reports on her body were made public.

Her voice literally had to explode (albeit a beautiful, otherworldly explosion) in order for it to leave her body.  That voice - her voice - might have been too much for one person to handle. In that her soul could not bear up under the weight of an unprecedented gift, her heart tried to pick up the slack, but paid a huge price, and it would appear that eventually her body, spread too thin after years of coping, could not tolerate one last grievance and gave up.

This is not an attempt to gloss over what has been documented as a troubled existence, nor justify anyone's insatiable appetite for a destructive lifestyle.  It was her life to live and on the surface it would appear she lived it by her own design. But some people are inherently weak. Conversely, some are strong, but not strong enough when given too much to manage.

Houston, like many before her, appears to have been given too much to manage. Her musical legacy will be sterling in perpetuity despite recent falls from grace at the hands of a failing voice and erratic public behavior. But her personal legacy will now be given over to a sad, never-ending debate: Was she weak or was she reckless?

It no longer matters. It's fair to say that a voice so strong that it resonated on some level with virtually everyone hid the presumably weak will of a nice, exuberant kid who didn't stand a chance against the goodness she chose to defy in relentlessly pursuing her perhaps ill-conceived, bad-ass self-image.
As the shock of her death subsides, the media will continue to pay tribute to her musical legacy while speculating she died as a result of not being strong enough to beat down her demons. But are any of us that strong? A simple analysis reveals we're surviving, but is it because we're strong or because we aren't faced with intensely public-private legacies?

I wonder if any of us knows how resilient we truly are? Houston woke up every day of her adult life and faced relentless scrutiny related specifically to the size of her heart and the depth of her soul - and she handled it her way.

I don't own any Houston recordings, but I'm familiar enough with her music that when I hear it I can see a 25 year old with a huge smile, a youthful exuberance and an overburdened soul letting go of a load so huge that one person alone could not sustain it.

Rosie O'Donnell Reminds Us That We Need To Look After Each Other...

... by kicking the crap out of people (in absentia, no less) on network television.

I'm not qualified to say how we do a better job of looking after each other if in fact we're looking for scientific facts or medical precedent.  All I know is that at some point most of us are guilty of succumbing to the pressures of day to day life (most of which we heap on ourselves in self-mutilating fashion) and we then externalize our stress by lashing out when the load becomes too great.

But I really don't know what to make of Rosie O'Donnell's latest public joust.  Is it just me, or is she angry (about l o t s of stuff)?

In the aftermath of yet another outburst against a fellow celebrity, Rosie now insists that she trashed Lindsay Lohan personally and professionally on the Today Show last week because she's uh, well, worried about the young star.  Indeed, Rosie has capitulated and now says that Lindsay is a bit out of sorts and needs time away from the entertainment industry in order to recover properly before taking on any more acting roles.  She also states that as she watched Whitney Houston's funeral that she wondered why somebody didn't try to save the singer before it was too late, and in building on this thought is now concerned that Lohan will meet the same tragic fate as the singer.  I can't fault her for having this thought as I wondered the same thing in my April column for InsideToronto.com.  Of course I didn't paste anyone on a nationally syndicated morning show the day before I pondered whether or not Whitney could have been spared.  Just sayin.

Where I struggle with O'Donnell's current stance on all of this is that at no time in her appearance on the Today Show did anyone seem to think she was even remotely worried about Lindsay Lohan.  In angrily declaring that Lohan's life is "...still a disaster" and that ergo she is a terrible choice to play Elizabeth Taylor in the upcoming biopic on the screen legend and her tumultuous relationship with Richard Burton, I didn't really get that Rosie was worried about Lindsay... not at all actually.

But yes, Rosie, I agree wholeheartedly that we need to do a better job of looking after one another.  In this instance I'm just not sure that you're right for the job.

If you're going to dream, dream big baby...

I never met Randy Starkman, but when I first learned he’d passed away I felt as though I’d had the wind knocked out of me.  A Torontonian whose voice resonated vibrantly in print media for two decades, he passed away suddenly in early April.  His loss is being felt heavily among our nation’s athletes and their supporters alike. 

For the years of knowledge and in depth insight he provided to us in championing Canada’s amateur athletes, he is deserving of no less than the most sensitive, eloquent, and witty words that I can string together.    I shall do my best...

Let’s back up 40 years or so to a simpler time.  As my brother’s GI Joe went shirtless, wore cargo pants, plunged off of monkey bars into puddles, parachuted into backyards all over the neighborhood, then hopped into his all-terrain vehicle and drove up the front stairs into our house, I was somehow meant to be fulfilled picking out go-go boots to complete Barbie’s garden party ensemble, a garden party that she would no doubt attend with that starched ding-a-ling, Ken.

It’s no surprise then that I ran with a pack of boys in my early years, and soon discovered I could not only keep up but overtake them as we ran amok.  I became a stalwart goalie in our street hockey tilts, took swimming and skating lessons, eschewed tee ball for softball, and was determined to become a 200 average bowler.  I was six.  When I was seven I challenged my 15 year old brother to a foot race down our street.  I truly believed I could beat him; I would have bet my life on it.  Of course it was over quickly and I didn’t win, but I remember huffing, puffing, and stammering in a near delirious state that he’d be sorry when I was big.  My life path was defined that day -  after I recovered from my defeat, I was invigorated knowing that victory was already in me, and that all I needed to achieve it was to have a dream… even a somewhat crazy dream.

Although never competing at an elite level, sport permeated every facet of my life and formed the foundation for many of life’s lessons.  Over the years I have remained steadfast in my support of the amateur movement and its spirit; a spirit that infects everyone who pursues a life on that often dark stage. In Randy Starkman I found somebody - the only somebody - who brought the essence of the true amateur into our world every day. He lived among the amateurs when nobody else was even keeping an eye on them.  Having subsequently crossed paths with a few of Canada’s decorated Olympians I offer this:  He was perfectly equipped to communicate the stories of a nation of amateurs because deep down I suspect that in a way, he was one of them.  One can’t know that world or the people in it without first having deep connections to both, not only professionally but personally as well.  One can’t convey to the general public the nuances of the life of the amateur athlete without being a sensitive, eloquent, respectful, gifted writer, and one cannot be that kind of writer without being that kind of a human being. 

Prior to his passing, I knew nothing of Randy Starkman’s life outside of his published work.  But last week as news of his untimely passing spread and as he was eulogized so eloquently by many, most notably his 13-year old daughter Ella (who brought the house down), his personal biography unfolded in front of me.  As it played out, I realized that in fact I knew quite a lot about him.  As it turns out, his writing did not just speak to the athletes’ stories, but to his own.

He was a journalist of the highest integrity, but his journalism might merely have been the conduit by which he was able to share with all of us this often overlooked but startlingly simple wisdom:  no matter what your thing is, It all starts with a dream. 

A sailor's only daughter; a child of the water...

My nautical genealogy is hard core stuff:  Royal Canadian Navy.  Me personally?  My own nautical bio is a bit less auspicious but no less regal in its own way:  I am a rower.

This year marks the twentieth anniversary of the 1992 Summer Olympics in Barcelona, and while I have always been and shall always remain an Olympics junkie, this particular Olympic Games holds special meaning for me.  This is the twentieth anniversary of me being drawn into the fate of our Canadian Olympic rowers by virtue of the exposure of a horrific injury suffered by Silken Laumann just months before the games.

In as much as Silken's recovery and bronze medal performance were inspirational and somehow beyond belief, I was more mesmerized by the sight of our women's eight bombing down the 2,000m course en route to a gold medal.  I'd never seen anything as poetic and perfectly synchronous and beautiful as that race, not prior and not since.  I was hooked!  In a post race interview, Marnie McBean (a member of the Canadian Women's Eight) was asked how she got into rowing.  She replied that she wanted to learn how to row, and when she went to the phone book the first relevant entry she found was under the A.  Alas, the Argonaut Rowing Club became Marnie's home club.  I grabbed the phone book, found their number, and in the spring of 1993 I enrolled in a learn to row program at the very same Argonaut Rowing Club.

Fast forward a couple of decades and I'm as moved by the beauty of rowing now as I was on that day in 1992.  The only difference now is that I get to go out there every day and and feel the wonder of my boat's buoyancy as I push it along the surface of the water, usually as the sun rises just off my boat's bow or stern.

I have rowed with some wonderful people over the years, all of whom have become part of a lovely, tight circle of friends whose gatherings are nothing short of brilliant fun. Metaphorically if not literally, we will be joined at the hip in perpetuity... and Amen to that.  For the past three years I have rowed with a truly phenomenal group of women who represent The Toronto Sculling Club.  We have (twice, just sayin') won the Head of the Charles Regatta and have forged bonds both on and off the water that are as special as any I've known.  I'm truly blessed to be part of this crew.  One day I will write about the wonderful, full-circle connection between the 1992 Olympic Gold Medal winning women's eight from Barcelona and the Toronto Sculling Club women's eight from, um, The Humber River, but for now I offer this:

First row of the year tomorrow... always a magical thing. To mark this, I shall post a picture that I know the rowers among us will truly appreciate ;-)

Everybody Needs A(nother) Hobby

Everybody needs a hobby, and while I might be over quota in that category I appear to have added another one.  But this one is somehow different.  This one isn't a pursuit I set aside carefully scheduled time for.  It's not... calculated.  This one lands on me spontaneously with the weight of a ton of bricks.  I'll just be minding my own business when out of the blue it hits me in a most annoying, distracting way:  I need to write.

Through a series of circumstances that are quite unusual (oh... hmmm... I should write about that) I find myself penning a column for Inside Toronto.  It's a regular feature entitled Celebrity Musing and my first column, attached herewith, speaks to Rihanna and Chris Brown.

If you make it all the way through, I thank you for allowing me to beg your indulgence.  Honest.  In that I'm new to the realm of writing formally ~ for somebody other than myself ~ I welcome your feedback.  But be gentle... I'm a shrinking violet after all...

Tuesday Night Musing Club

Everyone should have one of these friendships.  It's one of those friendships that lasts and lasts but requires no maintenance, bears no expectations, and demands no more than any one party can give to it. But it there are unspoken rules to the union, primary among them being that a friend in need is a friend indeed. It is (sigh... young people please brace for this) comfortable.

Kim is my best friend and co-conspirator from my university days, and nearly three decades later we find ourselves living only a few blocks apart but somehow struggling to find the time to get together.  I think we both knew it was time to make time. For about a month now we've been setting aside one evening a week to work on our blogs. 

Our first blog night was a resounding success.  We drank a few tumblers of wine and spent most of the evening trying to remember what the password was for wireless access.  As the Mensa Society satellite group applied astute thinking to crack the code, it simultaneously entertained itself by retelling tales of typewriter corrector ribbon horrors and promised that it would never cuss out security surrounding Internet privacy. Luddites of the world, UNITE! Not a bad way to pass an evening, really...

Fast forward a month and here we are.  The evening started with a bit of story telling, which suits me just fine.  The art of story telling is lost on many, but not me.  I love hearing a good yarn as much as I love telling one, but tonight the floor was Kim's.  Her son came home from daycare with a new haircut, which he administered to himself.  Naturally the laughter had to be supported with pictures (good work, kiddo - that's one heck of a follicular mess) and a bit more laughing.  We then settled into our weekly purpose, but things are a bit more polished now that we're old hands at this.  Auto connection to the wireless source is certainly very helpful. The tumbler of wine has reappeared (this time paired wonderfully with pallet cleansing Mini Oreos), and in the background, Jimmy Fallon is interviewing January Jones on the subtleties of choosing pink highlights for blond hair.   Otherwise, all one can hear is fingers tapping on keyboards.

This gem of a picture is me and Kim in our dorm kitchen at Neill-Wycik in February of 1986 - first year university. We made banana bread and this my friends, was some kind of noteworthy accomplishment if you read the picture correctly.  I'm impressed we had all the ingredients (and a bread pan) to be honest with you.  Anyway, for those doing quick math, that was before either of us could afford to have our hair coloured, so thank goodness the blue eyeshadow is so distracting.  The 80's were unkind in a lot of ways, but they sure did spawn a few pretty great friendships.

The Cold War

Am I a feminist?  No clue why I'm grappling with this on a lazy Sunday afternoon, but it might have something to do with this sign, which has hung in my home for years. 

Am I?  With one voice I say yes, absolutely.  Yet with another voice, I say no because I really don't know what defines a feminist or for that matter, feminism. The line is drawn right down the middle for me on this one.  Both voices are strong, vibrant, determined, and holding firm to their beliefs - a cold war by the most rudimentary of definitions. So, what is feminism?  It depends on who you are and how you look at it.

A common held theory is that feminism developed in three distinct waves.  The first wave rolled through in the latter part of the 19th century, lasted until just after WWI, and involved the struggle to secure basic political rights for women.  Wave two emerged in the 1960's and lasted for about 20 years.  It focused on greater equality across the board in education, the workplace, and the home.  The third and current wave arrived on the heels of the second and puts more focus on the lack of parity among women due to race, ethnicity, class, nationality, and religion, and also places emphasis on identity as a source of gender struggle.  But some feminist scholars decry the "wave" theory, saying that it overshadows their belief that resisting male domination is definitively feminist, has been present throughout history, and transcends cultural barriers.

Since there is dissension in the ranks of women in defining what feminism is, I'm left with no choice but to fashion my own definition.  I think the best way to do that is to examine my quality of life and ask myself if I had to fight for any of the rights and freedoms I have. 

I received a formal education.  I vote.  I chose my post secondary institute and was required only to meet academic standards to be accepted into the faculty.  I got a degree.  I have been able to work and earn a living every day of my adult life.  I have a job I love that I'm well trained for.  I have access to health care. I have been able to openly welcome into my life the friends I choose and the friends who choose me.  I have a home and a car.  I can dress the way I wish, exercise whenever I like, and join activities and organizations. I can travel freely. I can compete for personal betterment in every facet of my life.  The list goes on and on.  The overwhelming sense I have as I write this is not what it means to be a feminist, but rather that I have unequivocal freedom...  And really, other than life itself is there any greater gift?

I can't say exactly what feminism is, and  I still don't know if I'm a feminist.  But I will say this.  I bow down to anyone who called themselves a feminist and worked with unyielding determination to push through barriers that needed to be pushed through in order for women to rise toward equal status. And what of the literal wars fought?  My freedom comes to me not only by virtue of battles waged by feminists, but by those who laid down their lives to ensure that freedom was protected for generations to come.  Me? I get to be strong simply by choosing to work hard as I travel down whatever path I'm on. I recognize that there are exceptions, but perhaps generally for my generation of Canadian women, courage is a relative term.

For me, there's no point in continuing to grapple with the question because there's not much to be gleaned from the answer. However, merely asking the question proved introspective, and from that introspection came an unexpected conclusion:  Rather than spending time trying to identify if I'm a feminist, I think I'll devote that time to seeing if I can make even the slightest difference in the lives of people who don't yet have the same freedom and opportunities that I have.

Until feminism can be definitively carved in stone, I'm with Rebecca West on this one.

The Art of Simplicity

Sometimes the giant engine that is my thought process finds inertia in the simplest things.  Yesterday, all it took to get the juices flowing was a reminder of how intrinsically simple life is... if you let it be simple. 

In the form of a wonderful little road trip, I was reminded that life is indeed simple if we don't make extra work out of complicating it. An eight year old Thoroughbred stood in front of me yesterday morning and in her own way, lectured me rather fervently on how I am adding complications to what should be a fairly simple life.  It was quite a dressing-down, let me tell you.

After an hour and a half of highway driving on a gorgeous, warm, clear day, my friend Linda and I landed in the town of Bright to check in on Linda's adopted Thoroughbred, Regal Diamond.  At only 8 years old, this horse has known the best and worst of good intentions at the hands of humans.  She has championship lineage and was the end result of a $20,000.00 stud fee.  She was bred to race, raced, won more than $110,000 in purses, and was retired to her second start as a pleasure horse.  But then something went terribly wrong.  Fast forward a few years, and we find her on a farm in Bright simply trying to survive a period of time where prior to Linda the noble beast nearly starved.  Literally.  Linda adopted her seven months ago and moved her to a stable where she could rest, gain weight, and slowly recover her health.

Thoroughbreds are high strung, high performance animals.  When you factor in an element of abuse in the form of neglect, well, I wasn't sure what to expect when I met RD for the first time yesterday.  What I discovered warmed my heart.  Calm.  Aware.  Smart.  Playful.  Mischievous.  Spirited.  And miraculously... trusting and loving.  She is still recovering from her ordeal and has a way to go yet, but was so overtly open to giving and receiving love that I couldn't be anything but humbled. 

She stood patiently (untethered) in an indoor ring as we curried her, scraped muck off her hooves, picked her frogs, soft brushed her, rubbed her down.... and played possum with her.  On occasion she'd walk away from us, only to turn around and walk with purpose straight at us, brushing her girth up against one of us as if to say, "I could knock you on your can right now, you know."  I swear I could see the smirk on her gorgeous face.  She pushed her nose up to the sky and let her bottom lip go slack as Linda scratched her withers for what seemed like an eternity.  Then she'd walk off again, this time go for a little canter around the ring, and then come back to us for more petting and brushing.  When her brethren in the stable whinnied, she spoke back to them.  When a flake of hay arrived in the ring, she nibbled peacefully while hands were run down her legs and around her underside, feeling out possible maladies.  And when it was all said and done, she walked off to the middle of the ring, found a good spot, thumped the ground with her right front hoof, and went for three or four really good rolls in the sand.  No doubt about it:  this is a happy girl.

And there you have it.  Regal Diamond has a life that could be complicated, should be complicated, has every right to be complicated, and yet somehow isn't.  The beautiful spirit of a proud creature emerged ahead of the little voice in her head that cautioned her that sometimes people can hurt you, whether intended or not.

Life is simple if we don't set about trying to complicate it.

On Living Legacies

I've been giving a lot of thought to legacies lately... what constitutes one, how you establish, maintain, and nurture one, and what it says about you if somebody measures you solely upon it.

My head then popped right off my neck. That is a c r a p l o a d of expectation to heap upon oneself, especially if oneself is still a bit soft around the edges from the previous evening of life-loving (editor's note: no need to panic, subsequent posts will address the art of life-loving). I'm pretty sure my blog ~ I'm not crazy about the word blog, by the way ~ won't be my solatary legacy. I'm not sure what if anything will be. I'm not the kind of person to pursue a legacy; I'm the kind of person whose legacy will be whatever people decide it will be.  In the interim I shall move forward living my life the very best way I know how: with a commitment to loving generously, praising loudly, and living fully.

But since you've invested the time to read this far and were likely hoping for something of greater substance, I have this to offer courtesy of a wall hanging given to me by Potala Gift Shop in the Beach (www.potalagiftshop.com):

"We are visitors on this planet. We are here for ninety or one hundred years at the very most. During that period, we must try to do something good, something useful, with our lives. If you contribute to other peoples' happiness, you will find the true goal, the true meaning of life."  H.H. The 14th Dalai Lama

So basically if you've made somebody smile today, you've found the meaning of life.  How cool is that?