From Far and Wide

..we see thee rise, the True North, strong and *free*

I grew up on these words. I mean I can’t even remember learning them; I’ve just always known them.

Canada has always been the country of dreams to me. In debates with friends from the USA I’ve never wavered in my devotion to my homeland.

When I lived in Africa as an child/adolescent/teenager I learned about racism, but I never for a second connected racism to my native land, Canada. It angered me when white people, most of whom were from the United States, were disparaging and superior. I took it personally and knew that their behaviours toward and superstitious about people of any colour but their own was stupid and horrible. It  felt like they were treating me that way. I realize now that I really did feel like I was at least somewhat black; my Malawian friends helped me feel that way, often telling me that I had a « black heart » which, to this day, is still one of the best compliments I have ever received. Racism was terrible. But at least Canadians weren’t racist.

Ten years later,  I now know that is absolutely not true. I’ve learned a lot about my country in the years since we moved back to Canada. In that time I officially quit going to school and set foot in the real world. . I became a teacher and was privileged to be able to introduce today’s children to Canada’s history -not only the history of white Canadians, but also the often unacknowledged history of the First Nations People. Unfortunately, I have witnessed racism and prejudice that had been ingrained in their brains since ? birth?

My family who, before living in Africa had been involved almost only with people similar to us, integrated into a Canadian community that involved more than people of our culture and race. Becos of this we have sometimes been held somewhat in contempt by others. I think every person in my family has been witness to unashamedly racist conversations or situations and let our anger take over in an explosive tirade of defence.

This is Canada today. A whole country of prejudice where racism not only exists but also racism against people who fight racism. How many tangled layers is there to the blanket of racism so many of us burrow our heads in ?

I love my country. I feel the freedom spoken about in our beautiful national anthem. But not everyone does. And not everyone has. I’m celebrating Canada Day this year in contemplation and not so much celebration.

Disclaimer. I do not know what racism feels like. I only know that I have witnessed it for years and I am so happy that Canadians are finally starting to acknowledge it.  I want to be part of the solution and not part of the problem.

Tortilla Making = Life Lessons

I supervised 2 small cooks yesterday, One of them my 9 year old brother-in-law, A, and the other our 7 year old niece, N. They are both great workers; A is an extraordinary baker and cook for his age and always begs to bake when he comes over.  N, on the other hand, had never made tortillas before but she does seem to know her way around the kitchen. 

These two are quite the pair.  They are best friends who spend a lot of time together and miss each other when apart. Also, they are enemies. Their unusual relationship dynamic of being the same age but one being the uncle, the other the niece maybe exacerbates their differences.. Every activity they do together is an immediate competition and each one always feels like the winner and the boss, convinced the other is slower/incompetent/a loser.

Making tortillas with them was like a marathon. Every step of the way was an argument about who was waiting on who, about who knew more about what, about what the other was doing wrong. But interestingly, and to their credit, this kept them driven. I didn’t have to stand over them saying « do this! You forgot that! » Their competition kept them on task and working well. They figured out how to take turns and get things done quickly but the insults and criticisms and arrogant boasting flew though between the two of them the whole time. 

I think there’s a word for this kind of relationship these days: toxic. 

In the manner of adults who aren’t parents to the children in their charge I tried to coerce them into slipping accidentally into kindness. I thought if they’d say one or two positive things they’d maybe forget their bitter competition. In the manner of adults who aren’t parents to the children their care I thot I could change them for a couple hours. Guess whether or not I succeeded. 

Last night while reflecting the events of the day in my tired Brain, I realized there were some similarities between their behaviours and some of mine. Of course their child brains don’t have the same filters and shame-settings as mine do so their actions and reactions are less tempered, but I think there are equivalents similar enough. 

Angry words do make things happen and, often, happen quickly. Honestly tho, every time, kindness would have been more effective. Another thing I observed: These kiddies were able to work well as a team while still fighting, arguing and feeling better than each other. In fact, controversy fueled their work ethic. Teamwork isn’t everything but Teamwork together with generosity are two important keys to working well together with people. ´I was wrong’ are 3 short words that can change relationships for me forever. Why are they so difficult for me to say? 

Then. The next day in our morning devotional time my husband and I read this verse which was totally along the same line as my thoughts:

“To speak evil of no man, to be no brawlers, but gentle, shewing all meekness unto all men.”

Words are so important. Tone of voice speaks volumes. Facial expressions trump all of these. Eyes are windows to the soul, don’t forget. This reminds me of a social expriment I enacted in the months before human interactions were deemed dangerous. And that is a story for another day. 

This version of My Day Making Tortillas with Kiddies and the Important Lessons on Cooperation and Communication will go up mostly unedited. Please forgive that becos it gives me an extra moment to linger under the waning midnight sunset

A Recipe

Occasionally I’ve thought of posting recipes on my blog but no food I’ve concocted (and believe me, there’s quite a bit of that) has ever jumped up and screamed ´post me!´ Til this spur of the moment pineapple salsa. Jk. It never screamed. But my taste buds might have. 

First of all. If you’re looking for gourmetness leave this page. Probably a side effect of living in the middle of nowhere, my best food often stems from less than ideal ingredients: a limp bunch of carrots leftover from last year’s harvest, something I stuck in my freezer 6 months ago and forgot about, sad lettuce rejuvenated by a dash of ice water, or the dregs of this or that spice bottle. Another result of this remote living is that my recipes tend to have to be simple or modified to use ingredients I have on hand. 

For example, this recipe has *only 2* ingredients and both of them were in less than ideal conditions when I accidentally created it. Now one more thing. before you read the recipe you need the back story. Also a disclaimer: I’m sure I’m not the first Or the last to come up with something like this but this is all my own Invention. One day I made pico to eat on our tacos and when  it was  to my tastebuds’ satisfaction I still hade a few tablespoons of chopped cilantro left on my cutting board. Becos I really didn't want it to go to waste (in late spring, pregarden, cilantro is still a precious commodity), I had to come up with a way to use it. As I wracked my brain for possible combinations I remembered my bag of frozen pineapple And then this salsa came into existence. When I served it to a crowd, several people asked for the recipe and, altho I felt a cheap telling themhow simple it was, that is the reason I decided to share it here. someone asking for a recipe that is one of the best compliments a home cook can ask for. 

Pineapple Salsa*

•2 cups pineapple (frozen or fresh is best. I don’t think canned would work well)

•3 TBSP cilantro

Chop the pineapple into bite sized pieces. I did mine fairly small which made it  ideal for sprinkling over a taco. Next, sliver the cilantro into small flakes. Mix the two together and voilà! Pineapple salsa! Sprinkle over chicken or fish tacos if you eat that sort of thing. I also recommend serving as an appetizer or party food with homemade tortilla chips. Or maybe just shoving it into your mouth plain and allowing the exotic flavours to make you imagine you’re in a tropical location instead of shivering your way through another Canadian summer. 

*I am open to name suggestions 

My Ordinary Life

An Ordinary Day

It’s a quiet day. There’s a few raindrops lingering on windows when we get up, later than usual. Cos it’s Sunday. No church for us this weekend. Our government has allowed our congregation to gather in larger numbers but we’re still not filling our building to capacity so our turn comes around only every couple Sunday’s. It’s nice that way. A morning of total solitude gives a different perspective to Worship. I wouldn’t say we were as stoic and reverent as we are at a church Worship service but sitting with husband in our cozy living room on a grey cool summer Sunday morning we can talk about the songs, spoken words and our feelings as we listen. And it’s kinda nice. 

BTT cooked a late breakfast/brunch for us today -his own concoction of eggs, cheeses, and (surprise ingredient!) pepperoni And then by the time others in the community were gathering around tables for delicious proper Sunday dinners we were on the road to pick up a friend-also-cousin who needed a lift partway to his New Job. An hour of driving later we met Cousin’s parents at Tim Hortons. The nostalgia one can feel about Tim Hortons after months of being apart from it is actually kind of disgusting. I loved the lockdown. But now I also love the freedoms seeping back into our lives little by little. Maybe the saying « absence makes the heart grow fonder » was invented for these everyday luxuries and their occasional lapses from our lives (ie broken appliances, car at the mechanic, out of cheese again, washer used all the hot water, fingerprints on your newly cleaned <insert word,> these sorts of things.)

After another hour of driving home BTT has a feel of our new (for us) MKX so we drop it at the shop to await some hopefully minor repairs and then, since two full hours in the vehicle wasn’t really enough and the weather isn’t pleasant enough for us to spend much time outside we drive around the community checking on local road construction and potholes and to see how the trees are growing and maybe dodge some deer if we’re lucky. 

We spend the evening playing with little brothers and nieces at BTT’s parents’ place. BTT manages to cajole the GPS on his dad’s sprayer to work. I feed and bathe the smallest niece, bathe the brother who can’t bathe himself, share my plate of nachos with whoever wants (becos my identical dish of nachos is def more delish than theirs). Chat. 

And then before going home we take another drive, this time into the mauve sunset. We pick up another brother who has  returned home from a trip via train. He is full of words and stories about his uneventful train ride. We drop him off and finally return home. We silently celebrate the fact that we could hang out all day and BTT’s phone only rang once when a little brother called to see what we were up to. No towing work all day on a Sunday is something to celebrate!  Like I said. A quiet day. An Ordinary Day in my Ordinary Life. 

Musings on Contrasts

On more than one long drive my mind got lost in the unchangingness of things that seem to go on forever (roads, power lines, forests, fence poles, road trips -becos in my rural world even trip to the grocery store feels a road trip). I spent a lot of time  contemplating the beauty in the contrasts of the human-made vs nature:

•Of the ununique lines stretching unbroken for hundreds of miles of undulating pavement made interesting by the ever-changing scenery lining it. 

•Of a razor-sharp string of power line looped effortlessly over unchanging  pole after unchanging pole after unchanging pole after unchanging pole after unchanging pole across every myriad landscape it meets up with.  

•Of a human-planted neat-and-tidy tree rows around an overgrown dilapidated abandoned farmstead. 

•Of one weedless verdant lawn of perfectly aligned mower stripes surrounded by acres of untamed dandelion meadows. 

•Of straight jet streams bisecting a messily clouded sky. 

•Of sturdy square symmetrical houses lending some stability to squalid prairie landscape. 

•Of neatly parked rows of vehicles on gravel strewn parking lots. 

•Of The carefully slotted seats on an airplane, bus, or subway filled with chaotic uninhibited messy human beings. 

•Of perfectly spaced rows of anxious shoppers lined up against the colourful backdrop of a grocery store’s eye catching displays.

•Of a closet- or cupboard-ful of myriad things, articulately organized (something that doesn’t happen in my house unless it happens to be a closet or cupboard without doors.) 

•Of The stolid shadows of a light pole keeping a stop sign company under a turbulent blanket of clouds. 

Small Mirrors

It’s midSeptember again. I’m learning to know a new group of children very different from the last class I had. They are young and readable and impressionable, so impressionable. And I’m learning, always learning; maybe even more than they are. I always feel this way in September, like I know so little of the world and of myself. 

Super Innocent eyes equates to guilty consciences. Reprimands are mostly met with an excuse, always beginning with “but: But he made me do it,” or “but you never told me..” And when I demand a dollar because a little child talks out loud, the child inevitably turns angry. That’s what I’ve learned. I’m not trained to read people, but I learn on the job. And what I see kinda scares me. I see me. 

Identify Theft

Life is one big thief, always scheming about how to steal my identity. I turn around for a minute, and, when I look back, Can’t find the person I was yesterday. I breathe a deep breath. When the carbon dioxide explodes out of me, Who I Am goes along with it. 3 words in as many seconds change me irrevocably. Today everything I touch falls apart beneath my fingers; yesterday I felt like a master at fixing what other people broke. The Past stole my ability to comfort. Now is making me the one who needs comfort. Thinking I’m happy and secure and have a lot of faith leaves me susceptible to the hailstorm of paranoia that appears out of nowhere. 

I don’t like not knowing who I am. I don’t like being unable to predict how the things that happen to me will change me. My Identity needs to remain molten, fluid becoz, When I let it solidify, like lava turning to rock when the volcano finally stops erupting, it’s hard to let go of or hold on to anything. I’m just me. And I’m not in any position to change and grow. I don’t like accepting things, especially things like change, like growing, like needing to be an extension cord. A malleable, moveable, user friendly extension cord. 

Maybe this is all a tug of war between me and reality. Life happens. And it’s meant to change me. I might have to give in and let it. 

At least the sunset is the same every day, even if I’m not.