The story-teller

I think there is great power in narrative. This must be because I am a product of a post-modern generation. As relativistic as narrative may be as a vehicle to transmit truth, I think there is something in all of our souls that resonates with a great story.
I love hearing good stories, and I think it was very encouraging me to hear of three good ones today, even though I had heard two of them previously. However, just as in childhood, there is great comfort in hearing good win and evil defeated in narrative, even if you hear them over and over again.
On the other hand, Jesus was into stories too, big time. He was a super story-teller as well, one of the best in history. Which adds another component - a guy named Glenn I met today fleshed out one of Jesus' best stories, and refreshed its beating heart for me. Journeying with him into the "far country" and back again was a great, though brief, adventure...

High School Confidential

Do you ever wonder if you're getting sucked into a high-school-esque scenario, complete with jocks, nerds and the cool crowd? I'm currently wondering that as well - it's kind of weird, kind of gives-me-the-heebee-jeebees kind of weird, kind of get-me-outta-here kind of weird... it's particularly weird, especially since I think I'm kind of like the goody-two-shoes-nerdy Sandy. And you know how that ends: she ends up compromising everything she used to be in order to vamp out and join the cool kids... now, to me, that's one of the most pathetic/tragic heroines in one of our modern myths... or, heaven forbid, if one should start off as Veronica, wanting to please the Heathers, and instead ends up going on a murderous rampage...

Goodbye, Ralph....

It struck me, watching a movie with a friend of mine the other evening, how odd the depiction is when women leave their husbands. For some reason, whenever in a movie a woman decides to leave, she never goes with anything more than a tiny little suitcase. You know the ones; those small little handbag-sized suitcases, big enough to hold two sweaters and a pair of shoes. She may also perhaps have her purse, and maybe a small dog, but that's it. Then, she usually has some parting words as she's heading out to the taxi, like, "Goodbye", or "I can't take this anymore, I'm leaving", or "I loved you once", or some such thing.
This strikes me as odd, as I was thinking, if I was going to leave, I believe I'd have a lot more than just two sweaters and a pair of shoes to take with me. Perhaps I'd need a U-Haul to take my stuff. Or perhaps I wouldn't need that much space at all - maybe my car trunk would do. However, this doesn't alter the fact that women have a lot of stuff - there's hardly enough room in those suitcases for adequate toothpaste/ shampoo/ toothbrush/ towel packing for just doing the basic hygiene things, once they get to their destinations in the taxicabs. So then I thought, perhaps in the movies, these women don't have to worry about those kinds of things. Or, perhaps the suitcases, in fact, don't hold two sweaters and a pair of shoes; maybe they just stuff them full of money, and then they leave.... I then also thought, "In the movies, do women who are planning on leaving their husbands specifically go out on a shopping excursion to find those kinds of suitcases?", for I imagined that it's not the usual household item to have; it's not a terribly useful sized suitcase for any other kind of travel, except for husband-leaving...
This of course, conversely, always strikes me in the movies that whenever this occurs, the husband usually stands there, relatively dumbstruck, and just watches her leave and get into the taxicab. How come they never say anything? I find movie archetypes very strange...

Practising what you preach (or, at least what is preached at you)...

I think sometimes, one of the most difficult things is applying something that you just learned. Sometimes, I find, there is, in fact, MORE opportunity to completely miss the point in some good teaching. What I mean to say is: Isn't it odd when you hear a particularly apt Word, and you think, gosh, that's good and important; I could see how that might apply to me, I should try to remember that for some vague time in the future, but not now, not for me in my current life, but then, WHAM! you find yourself tumbling into situations over and over again that challenge that notion, that forces you to actually take Word seriously, and wonder, wow, this is applicable now, and I totally cannot apply it with any real conviction, rightness or power... sigh...

As long as I don't have to play Pachebel's Canon...

So, after a very long hiatus, I picked up my viola to play again. And reminded myself quite quickly that I was never really the best player to begin with, and really, a viola needs a violin, or at least a cello, in order to 'fit' properly... I think it always was appropriate that I played viola - the supporting instrument, the undertone, the alto of the group - not the flashy violin, not the melodious cello, but really, backup and support...
However, now that it's re-emerged, I'm wondering how and where I could play it at my level, and strongly considering re-joining an orchestra again... hmmm, maybe that's just wishful thinking....

Needing a Daniel...

I remember a friend of mine once told me about a recurring dream that she had for many years that haunted her for nights on end. Eventually, when, after much prayer and thoughtful discussion, she realized what it signified and what it was meant for, the dream fled, and she has been free of it ever since.
Some have known of some sleep issues of late for me, but that's not the point. I've been having two recurring dreams of late, and I can't, for the life of me, figure out what they're meant for. The one, which prompted this writing, afflicted me this morning, and now, of course, I can't remember what it was about. The other has had a theme of baptism, of children, and of persecution. Once I remember the other one, I'll list that one too, but it'd be awfully handy to know what this is all about.

I think I've written about this before...

Let's be clear now: I don't hate mass emails. I just fail to see the point in them, most of the time. Or, perhaps more accurately, I really dislike how they are used inefficiently and ineffectively. We used to be able to function without letting everybody know absolutely everything about every little detail about said function/cause/email subject.
I don't mind getting a mass email, as long as it contains information that does, in fact, pertain to me. However, what doesn't make sense to me is the "reply to all" function, when the "reply" does not pertain "to all". There is, after all, a simple "reply" button. Otherwise, the mailbox gets even more cluttered with information that looks like it pertains to me, but, in fact, does not.
Case in point: If you're emailed about a party, or some such thing, does everyone really need to know if one person is wondering if they could bring an extra friend, or what they were planning on bringing to eat, or what shoes they were planning on wearing, or that they are going to be one hour late? NO. Emphatically, no.
That's common sense email etiquette: don't clutter the email box. No spam, no chain-mail, no cute video or flash presentation that you had forwarded that you think everybody in your address book needs to see (not unless it directly pertains to them), no powerpoint presentation with some esoteric puppies. In light of how, increasingly, individuals are literally drowning in their emails (I think it's sad when friends have to stay home in the evening, just to clean out their email boxes), I think it's a simple public service to retain email for useful information transmittal.
This also, of course, speaks to my bias against email as the main communication method between individuals. I faaaaarrrrr prefer speaking to someone in person, rather than maintain some email conversation (Exceptions, of course, are those people who live long distances away). Of course, that's obvious: If I like you, I will talk to you. A lot. The end. The much more efficient and enjoyable way to go, frankly.

"Strategic philanthropy"

So, on the way home today, I was listening to this discussion about the notion of strategic philanthropy, where, essentially, a marketing guy was talking about how corporations aligning themselves with various charitable issues causes a 'win-win' situation for everyone involved (gag, gag, oops, sorry, hard to control the reflex to throw up), such as CIBC aligning themselves with the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation, in order to help them sell as many useless pink appliances and housewares as possible, for what appears to be (for all intents and purposes) lots of marketing hype and money-making, but not much from the actual results point of view.
Several of the counterpoints, I thought, brought up some poignant issues, but were quickly glossed and brushed over. One brought up the issue that hawking product, absolutely unrelated to the charitable cause, was not, in fact, philanthropy at all (seriously; what does a KitchenAid mixer have to do with breast cancer? Furthermore, what does a pink hockeystick have to do with breast cancer?). It is simply 'doing good' to 'look good', and makes profit the ultimate motive.
Another brought up the point that, in corporations controlling who gets corporate exposure and support, individual citizens have very little to no idea who or what their money (funnelled through the corporation, of course) goes to, whether it's effective and whether real change occurs. If one buys a Red Motorola phone, or a Red American Express card, how does one really know that means some mother in Tanzania is going to get her anti-viral drugs? (Of course, one of the most famous blunders was by Radiohead in their pathetically crappy efforts to reduce their carbon footprint; they claimed that they had paid for groves and groves of mango trees to be planted in the vague area of "Africa" to carbon offset their last world tour, yet, when follow up was done by a journalist, very few to none of these trees had been planted, and of those that were indeed planted, most of them died and were not replaced. Radiohead then sent out a statement saying it wasn't their responsibility to ensure that their mango trees were planted, which then begs the question: Whose was it??).
Yet another brought up the point that "unsexy" charities (such as for homeless people vs. upper class overweight women with breast cancer, malaria vs. HIV and chronic care elderly/mentally challenged vs. those darn 'cute' children from Sick Kids') are forgotten and waylaid in order to make room for the trendier and sexier issues. This, of course, results in the weaker, the lowlier and the humbler issues, even though equally meritous, to be ignored and alienated further from the mainstream.
Bah. That really irked me today. It would be really pleasant for me if people would just think more about issues.

FFT

They call it a Home for the Aged, whenever
it's mentioned (and mentally file it away
under D.. for Decrepit. And Dreary. And Death.)
while they fight off their hidden reluctance to stay
for that duty-bound visit. "But really, it isn't
so bad, is it, dear?" with eyes tactful, averted
from half-emptied bedpan.
                                                   "Young Lisa has plans
to be married this spring..." (and the subject is skirted
of why Auntie Mae must be strapped to her chair,
for she wanders, you see. Can't be helped. Very sad.)

and they chatter, too quickly, avoiding those pauses
- so awkward - and leave, feeling inwardly glad.

And Grace, in Room 10, whispers low to her husband
some secret - laughs softly, caressing his face
with her words. Now he answer her; smiling, she nods -
she's along... for besides her lies nothing but space,
He's been dead 7 years, you see. She hasn't heard.
Or, at least, not a part of her anyone sees.
Bernadette, in the next bed, turns slightly away
and tried vainly to sleep, block it out... ill at ease,
for she knows. She can't walk now, or see that well
- slightly incontinent, too - but her mind is quite clear,
and for Grace she feels pity - or anger.
                        Or nothing.
               She wishes, at times, she could no longer hear.

In the hallway sits Jim, in his chair, grinning happily
(foolishly, some say). He raises an arm,
hand outstretched, tried to touch you - you shrink back with fear
that is nameless, instinctive - he meant you no harm.
The fingers have withered to claws, yellowed bones
and blue veins showing through the translucent, frail skin
               (is it for reassurance you glance at your own
youthful flesh?). You recover, returning his grin,
greet him gently, then leave him - untouched - as he was.

              You find yourself walking more quickly, because
              of that growing uneasiness buried within.
If only those buzzers would stop - and that smell
(undefined, only found in one ward) and the light
that keeps flashing above that man's room.
                                                                    But you know,
deep inside, that it's none of those things that you fight
every time you walk in here. It's something abstract,
yet more real.

                        Can it be that they all were once young?
- or did nature create separate species? That woman,
right there - she has eyes like your own...
                                                                   ...but you've flung
the thought from you, its message too strange. With a glance
at your watch, you move into the stairwell, then past
the reception desk into the bustling street,
thinking how you must hurry.
                                                                         The time goes so fast...

- Beverly Wilson