Monday, November 26, 2012

The Littlest Angel

Dear friends, a close friend of mine named Irene, who has been a great source of support over this past year, has a Very Special Request: A little girl by the name of Ziarah, who is 3-1/2,will be going into Children's Hospital in Vancouver on December 5th. She needs surgery to remove as much cancer as possible from her mouth and lip. They can't get it all, because she would bleed to death. Please spare a moment on December 5th to pray for Ziarah and her family.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Addendum

If I may, I would like to share this story. Perhaps some of you are already familiar with it: The Folded Napkin ... A Truckers Story I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react to Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome. I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade. The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truck stop germ" the pairs of white-shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks. I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot. After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met. Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck stop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Downs Syndrome often have heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months. A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery, and doing fine. Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news. Bell Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table. Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look. He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked. "We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay." "I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?" Frannie quickly told Bell Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed: "Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK," she said. "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is." Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do. After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand and a funny look on her face. "What's up?" I asked. "I didn't get that table where Bell Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup." She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed "Something For Stevie. Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply: "truckers." That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work. I then met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back. Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting. "Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!" I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems.”Happy Thanksgiving," Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well. But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table. Best worker I ever hired. Plant a seed and watch it grow. At this point, you can bury this inspirational message or forward it fulfilling the need! If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a compassionate person. Well... Don't just sit there! Share this story!

Advent

Have you noticed how the world around us seems to be moving faster and faster these days? It feels as if we are caught in a vortex, spinning in ever-tightening circles, towards a single point. Our current cycle of time is winding down, according to the Mayan calendar, which will end on December 21st of this year. This also means that we are preparing for something new, and this too, one can almost feel, certainly intuitively, if not yet physically. For my family, this is certainly the case. My daughter, who last year suffered a complete nervous breakdown, to the point where she could barely even leave the house for months, will be presenting me with my first grandchild next spring. For myself, I am exploring a new profession, medical office assistant, as a tentative first step into the healing arts ("mommy doctor" not withstanding). We have learned that working in a medical office, one must keep one's distance from the patients - i.e., not get personally involved. This is generally because most people go to a doctor because they need something: a prescription, a lab test, surgical procedure, etc. You can't give in to your own feelings, or else they will walk all over you in order to get what they need. I know this sounds pretty cold, but just look at the way people behave at a sale in a department store, for example. On the other hand, as a volunteer with the Red Cross at a local equipment loan depot, I can show all the compassion and empathy I wish. I can try to make every person who walks through our door feel special and attended to as completely as possible. These are people who also come because they need something: either they, a spouse or a parent, a neighbour, sometimes even a child, are in need of equipment to help them recover from surgery. A separate program can help people who need equipment long-term who are low-income. There are also those who come in, trying to help a loved one who is palliative. It is my privilege to extend help to everyone to the best of my ability. Our friends in the States have just finished celebrating their Thanksgiving, and perhaps it is appropriate that for them the two celebrations of Thanksgiving and Christmas are so closely linked, especially after the terrible weather they have had this year: widespread drought and flood. So let's give thanks, count our blessings and find ways over Advent to not only prepare our hearts, but find meaningful ways of expressing, our joy and gratitude, especially to those in need.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

A Creative Writing Story Stumbled on Upon Contemplation of Several Pieces of Weavery at Camphill Cascadia

During the Living Gold 2012 Conference this past summer one of many workshops offered was a creative writing class and was much enjoyed by many who attended. Now recently Reverend Susan Locey has begun a Bible study group on the Gospel of the week where we talk about meanings in the words of scripture and then we shift gears and take a theme from the subject matter discussed and begin our own creative writings. I attended the first one but for different reasons was not able to make it to the next two. However I had a sudden insight into an idea of my own which I will explain shortly. Quite a few years ago my Grandfather on my Father's side sent me a cassette tape with a meditation story on it. The point of it was to relax and to equate goals in one's life with objects or places in the story in order to focus and find ways to achieve these goals. The story I am posting today is in a similar vein although here the point is mostly relaxation by becoming immersed in the description of a particular landscape, hopefully enjoyable to the intended reader. The scenes are mostly actual places I have been to here in British Columbia but I have drawn them all together to within a few kilometers of each other to create a new but not entirely implausible place. A few weeks ago during my lunch break I was looking at some weavery which had just been brought over to the new location for the weaving workshop in the downstairs of Sophia House. There where seven pieces visible and later the lady running the workshop told me there are five more behind the seven to correspond to the twelve months of the year. On the seven pieces I could see the three primary colours red, yellow and blue and the three colours I have always thought of as in between, namely orange, purple and green. The seventh was a shade of blue between blue and purple. I had the sudden thought "What could that mean, an extra shade of blue?"
Well, this was the result:


                                     Many Shades of Blue and Green along a Western Shore

It is late summer and you are in a sailboat at the very end of a narrow inlet somewhere up the coast of British Columbia in western Canada. Your life partner has stayed back for a few days in a coast town along the more open ocean visiting friends. It is quiet except for the occasional lapping of tide water on the smallish round stones and sea kelps along the shore. It is a somewhat cloudy day but every once in a while the sun comes out for half an hour or more. This seems a little intimidating here at the end of the ocean and what with the silence but wait a second: "Isn't this just the thing many people wish for; to be removed from the noise and worrying minutiae of city life?" you think. You lean back against a railing, put your feet up, hands behind your head and close your eyes. "Ah yes, this is just the thing." Now you realize there are other sounds: a gull mewing far off down the inlet, a very distant fog horn, tiny groans from your vessel as the slight swells of the ocean shift you around and a faint rushing, maybe a set of rapids or a waterfall in the stream which enters this small bay. Also there are smells too: the salt and sea plants all around, and the almost new finish on your boat deck whenever the sun begins to warm it. Slowly you re-open your eyes and take in the sights anew. Peering over the edge of your sailing craft and looking more carefully into the almost calm water you see the ocean plant life is an absolute riot of reds, greens and yellows. In fact, this whole biosphere, the whole valley surrounding this seemingly unnamed? inlet is a wild blend of blues in the sky and the waters, greens in the tall trees, bushes below and mosses on overhanging bluffs on either side. As if in answer to your question you hear an eagle and a raven communicating their differences of opinion, the one briefly screams and the other responds with a deeper, guttural sound. You understand what sounds like "Aaahe, Wahk!" You think: "I will name this place Ah, Walk Inlet. What a good idea, time for a walk..."

You head below deck and quickly make a lettuce, tomato and corned beef sandwich, a PB&J and grab a liter of sun brewed tea you made back in Vancouver a few weeks ago and stuff it all into a day pack. You put on your yellow knee high gumboots with the drawstring at the top for wading in shallows, chuck the anchor into a jumble of rocks likely looking good enough to hold the sailboat, flip the small inflatable boat overboard and head to shore. Once the inflatable is tied to a branch on a large driftwood log you make your way up the rest of the beach, over a bit of fairly level grass at the top edge and along what looks like an old deer path near the stream which heads into the forest, tending leftwards at a bit of an angle but gently curving in places too. Several hundred yards in you see what you heard before, there is a small waterfall, probably big enough to shower under if the weather was hotter. The water is somewhat tinted like a weak tea from the presence of Cedar trees in the area. Dogwood trees are leaning over pools in the stream which is narrower but deeper here than at the ocean's edge. The leaves of the Dogwoods are turning red in spots and falling off while still somewhat green. Some of the leaves float away slowly, others stick to stones and the roots of ferns along the banks. It is very peaceful here and the air has an extremely clean but pleasant aroma to it, many different forest scents mingle in this area of low ground. Patches of blue sky and white clouds reflect off the pool surfaces as you make your way over large, dark coloured boulders while avoiding the slippery, algae covered spots. The valley narrows gradually and the path you pick through the woods slowly heads up to higher ground. After a time you can occasionally see larger patches of exquisite blue sky. After a couple of hours of hiking, enough to make you sweat but still a very enjoyable walk, you reach a sort of ridge shaded over with Big Leaf Maples and tall Cedars. The deer trails just beyond criss-cross each other on a small plateau with ferns, salal and mounds of moss all around; you choose one of the more distinct trails and head inland further still. After several more minutes of hiking the forest canopy gradually lightens and then suddenly is open.

You are at the western edge of a very wide and shallow valley. Looking at the distant hills and mountains beyond you can observe the sea fogs turned into clouds pushed up against them and hovering just below their peaks. Here before you, in the lee of the weather system, behind the tall Cedars and several hillocks which you had made your way around and through you can see it is pleasantly sunny. The stream you had been following is now a marsh off to you right, dotted with bright yellow skunk cabbages, many reeds of various species and several dead trees standing in the dark shallows. The water is relatively clear but looks dark from a low angle because of the thick mat of rotted vegetation a couple of feet down. Following a relatively bare bank under more widely spaced, shorter coniferous trees and the odd fallen trunk you make your way into the valley. About another half an hour later there are larger clearings and even meadows slightly uphill from the bank you have been walking along. Stopping in one of the meadows you stand perfectly still and simply absorb what is around you. Something about the vegetation is a little different here. Walking closer to the rough circle of shrubs and trees around you notice a few species which you have not seen before anywhere along the coast. Some seem to be flowers and bushes of more domesticated varieties. The Ravens here speak in a different tone and utter 'new words' to your ears. There is simply a unique feel to this spot. Several yards back of the clearing is a slightly smaller stream than the one down hill nearer to the sea. There is a relatively dry log nearby where you sit down and eat the lunch you brought along. You sigh and are at utter peace with everything here and with all in your life. Even if a bear were to show up at the forest edge you would not care, after all you know they are usually only a threat if they are very hungry, irritated by human provocation or if you are too close to a mother's cub. Behind the log is an area of dry leaves and fern fronds. You lie down and take a nap. Waking a few times only briefly enough to realize the warm air and to hear a few buzzing insects, you dream of other amazing places you have been to in years gone by. One is a beach you were at as a toddler with your parents on the west coast of Vancouver Island. At the time the view along the dry sand and over the light green bushes with the bright hot sun behind looked practically tropical. Several years later you could not help wondering "How the heck did I know about the tropics when I was a very young child?" Could it be a feeling related to a possible past life experience? Suddenly you wake and see the sun has advanced a fair bit across the sky, a couple of hours worth at least. Getting up you brush a few leaves away, gather your things and make your way back to the lower edge of the meadow. You turn around and carefully look over this amazing haven in the midst of nature once more.

Beyond the ridge, on the way back down the stream by the pools you wonder if this place where you lunched and slept may have been a Native settlement in times gone by. "How far back?" you muse. "A few years, decades or even centuries?" Back at the rubber raft and on the way over to the sailing boat you realize what a very magical place this whole valley is. You intend to come back sometime again. As a matter of fact, you decide to stay the night on board the boat and to do some more exploring tomorrow. Who knows, maybe there are some petroglyphs on the bluffs, a totem pole somewhere in the trees along this beach or an artifact of some kind which Natives of a previous settlement may have left lying amongst the deep, dark mosses...