Rick's Turning Point

Willy Wonka Birthday

2012-01-12T22:23:00.000-08:00

Who can take a birthday, sprinkle it with dew
Cover it with chocolate and a miracle or two
The Candy Man can - cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good.

New family tradition - bi-annual birthday parties. Last year's parties were just so good, and so much work, that this year we took a break.

Last year G's 9th birthday was a lumberjack party. We sharpened the axe and 9 of his friends took turns swinging at a tree until we finally felled it. We tapped the maple trees, came in for a reading of Farmer Boy, then ate some of Almanzo's favourite foods - fried apple & onions, stacked pancakes, home-made apple cider. Every guest was given a pair of orange workgloves as the take-home present. "Best party ever" was heard.

Z's 7th birthday was a volcano theme. We made playdough volcanoes with a jar of baking soda & food dye in the middle, then dropped in vinegar to make it explode. Outside, they took turns digging dirt into a huge pile, then stuck a 2 litre diet Coke into it, added Menthos and watched it erupt high into the air. Then inside for a volcano-shaped cake and crazy story about a Tofino lava-surfer. "Best party ever" again uttered.

Cost of both parties - $40, and a huge huge amount of energy and stress and enjoyment and lifetime memories.

This year, birthdays are being celebrated with a family outing somewhere special, with one special friend. Galen took us to the Nutcracker ballet, which our family has long wanted to see anyways. Tonight Zekiah took us to the highschool production of Willy Wonka. Both boys feel well-celebrated.

It actually cost us alot more money, but ballet and the local high school are both good investments in our books. Preparation was little more than buying tickets online and calling a friend. No stress about who to invite or exclude, worry about who might not make it, what presents will be received, what kind of cake to bake for the myriad allergies and preferences. Just family celebrating the birth of our family together.

I love huge birthday theme parties and can't wait to create them again next year. But for this year, we found our own Peaceful magic and held our birthday boys close. For as Willy himself says, "We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams."

Perfect, A+ Holiday

2012-01-08T22:53:00.000-08:00

Just how 100% perfect was this holiday season? Or at least as perfect as a holiday that doesn't include a tropical beach? Well, let me brag about how we pretty much hit it:

Presents - Almost all home-made/grown, spent under $100 but still gave thoughtful, much-appreciated, very personal gifts. Like the 100-metre steak dinner I assembled for a friend - beef, potatoes, garlic, leeks, onions, rutabaga, and beets all from our farm. And received likewise - not too much, nothing plastic or batteried or Disneyed - givers obviously thought about our quirky likes and values and gave beautiful, simple gifts.

Family - A full week in Surrey just hunkering down at Mom's with out-of-town brother & partner, skating with cousins and playing music for great grandmas (my nana and her twin are both 98, though she'll get mad if I say she's a day over 95). Not a rush-in-rush-away duty call, but truly enough time to commune and familiate.

Tradition - Relived my childhood favourite Swedish Christmas Eve with the relatives, cheered and booed at the Christmas pantomime, sang every word of every carol, ate nanaimo bar, watched The Grinch, received a note from Santa and presents from famous people (this year, Stuart McLean and Julia Child both showered me with lavish presents), sang Auld Lang Syne with the traditional "what does this mean?" banter, and at long long last made a gingerbread house.

Old Friends - Had outings with ALL FOUR FAMILIES whom we promised to get together with over the holidays (that's twice the success rate of the entire summer vacation). Both kids had good playdates as well as many many days of many many neighbour kids on the land. Family dinner invites, a lovely 4-couple new year's feast that lasted until 1:30am, hikes, bikes...

New Friends - Joyously welcomed a new family across the street with twin boys in Galen's class. Also brought 3 sheep and a new rooster onto our land.

Cleaning and Clearing - Swept the house so clean that we swept the kids into their long-awaited own bedroom, and swept an entire wall-mounted kitchen cabinet into my workshop, which was then completely re-organized (actually, organized for the first time ever). Repainted the now-bare kitchen wall and shuffled/sorted everything to fit into remaining cabinets. Emptied the entire basement in preparation for the new bedroom I've promised will be built this month (to make up for the guest bedroom that's now the boys' abode). Hired a grade 8 boy to help me clear year-old piles of lumber, debris and gravel and clear the land to greet the new year. And all that at a truly enjoyable, natural pace.

Rest - Celebrated our first adult-only bedroom in 4 years by sleeping in until after 8 every morning while the boys quietly played in their own room. Despite all the crazy fun we still managed to have the boys in bed close to their usual bedtime almost every night. Winter is the season for extra sleep and rejuvenation, and we're finally able to honour that.

No work - I just completely unplugged. No work meetings, maybe 20 minutes a day to keep on top of emails, no volunteer gigs. No clever facebook entries, not even a blog entry since Dec.10. Just walked away, and now find myself coming back fresh.

Quiet family time - Somehow in the midst of all that we managed many hours a day with just the four of us, playing Settlers of Cataan and Trouble, practising piano and violin and singing in harmony, baking, playing street hockey, biking, hiking, skating, and doing all the above-listed activities together as a family.

Mexico really doesn't call me at Christmas. Family does. Friends do. Nanaimo bars do. Of course, if all those were on a hot beach, I wouldn't complain. But really we did what we do best, or would like to do when we're at our best - spent time together with the people and activities we cherish. We spent our holidays at that place where Holly meets holy and Jolly meets Joyous.

Picnic by the Waterfall

2011-12-10T06:40:00.000-08:00

Worchester Massachusetts is hard to spell but easy to get lost in. On a road trip 19 years ago from Akron Ohio to Hartford Connecticut, my friend and I decided to veer off the interstate in favour of a backroad on our map that went by a waterfall. One hour of city overwhelm later, we were back on the interstate and pulling over at the first rest-stop.

But this was 19 years ago and we were young and visionary and hopeful. We turned out backs to the endless 70 mph roar of trucks & RV's and pretended it was the steady reassuring roar of a waterfall. Turns out that they're remarkably similar sounds, and with that simple re-classification we enjoyed a tranquil, natural picnic in our self-created oasis.

Fast forward to last Sunday when we hosted over a dozen Friends for a Quaker meeting for worship. As host I was hyper-aware of the sounds of the fireplace expanding and contracting, the cat scratching at the door, the children whittling outside, the phone I forgot to unplug. But I remembered the "waterfall", remembered that Silence is a state of the mind and the soul, not some idyllic condition in the surrounding world. True "centering down", to use Quaker-speak, is finding a quiet space that embraces and integrates the world, not shuts it out.

Or fast-forward to any busy week in our lives. We hold onto a constant illusion that with just one free day we'll get caught up; when this one big project is done I can slow down; if only I hadn't got sick or my child didn't have a fundraiser I could have had time for myself. Time for the waterfall re-classification trick, only this time it's not a self-deception. Those little "if only" events are not keeping us from living - they are living. The juiciness of life is in the interruptions.

Twinkly Ten

2011-12-03T07:33:00.000-08:00

This time 10 years ago, I was biting my newborn baby and he was crying for the first time. A soft whimper of "What are you doing, Papa?" that was a precursor of many odd times to come together. No, I wasn't trying to replace the doctor's traditional spank of this country song:

Baby born in the middle of the night, local delivery room
Grab his feet, slap him till he cries, goes home the next afternoon

Our first-born splashed into the world at 3am in a metal Texan farm trough full of hot water under our indoor Christmas lights, and we spent the beautiful rest of the night sleeping in our bed together as a family. Next morning when we woke up, protective Papa wanted to pull the blankets up over baby without waking him. So instead of flailing my arms, I carefully used my teeth to grip and pull the covers. Not carefully enough, apparently.

An elusively short decade later I'm proud papa of a proud double-digit soccer-playing, whittling, joking, ivory ticklin' and fiddle pickin', origami obsessed, delightful boy who is positively sparkling with the Joy of life. More than any other time of his first decade, he is alive and confident and Happy and fun and funny, a charm to be around and an uninhibited spark of light.

The struggles he's faced socially in the past, these days he's facing head on. Still not the most popular kid in class, he is nevertheless eager to get to school, enthusiastically engaged on the playground and in the classroom, recklessly playing tag with boys he used to shy away from. He's truly comfortable in himself, in his unique dreamy goofy self, and that's all it takes to exude a positive energy that bounces back from those lucky enough to be around him.

This emergence of a valiant knight is what we've been dreaming of and working towards for a long time. While the majority of the credit has to go to him, to his bravery and persistence and refusal to let go of his own identity, some other kudos bear mentioning.

1. His teacher, arriving mid-year last year, has been a true savior to the class, to our family, and to each child in the class. He understood immediately the urgency to establish himself as the loving but strong authority in the class, the centre of gravity around which the levity of the children could revolve, and has done it with a grace and clarity that has let every child (and parent) breathe a deep outbreath of "I can relax, I am safe here, I can enjoy and grow and explore."

2. A community of adults who have Held him. In their prayers, in their loving words and looks, in hugs and gifts and time together. Fellow parents, work colleagues, grandparents and uncles, neighbours, Quaker elders, piano teacher, soccer coaches... the list is seemingly endless of people who have openly and unconditionally shown our boy that he is loved and respected and honoured for who he truly is. It takes a village.

3. Experiences of excellence. He has always found niches in which he excels, and that confidence spills over into other realms of his life. His breakthrough moment in kindergarten was teaching his classmates to make fancy paper airplanes. To this day, origami is a source of wonder and mastery for him. As is singing, piano and now violin. We enrolled him in soccer camp last summer and did a lot of playing/practicing together so that joining a team this fall was a major success that has also given him a place of respect on the playground (just look how he shines in this photo!) I watched his class play kickball, and when he went "to bat" his whole team said eagerly, "Get us a home run Galen!" As he comes to believe in his abilities, his constant "Aren't I good at that" calls for reassurance have given way to a shining confidence in many parts of his life.

4. A Papa letting go. With a lot of help from wife and friends, I finally let go of my own anxiety around my son's popularity and happiness and just starting loving and enjoying him the way I wanted the world to love and enjoy him. Let go of contriving playdates, using that time to just Be with him and let him blossom in the safe warm enduring love of home and parents and brother and constant neighbours. Stopped inquiring about conflicts and just asked about feelings. I do believe that he somehow perceived a different energy from me - "My papa believes in me; he's not worried, so I don't need to be worried either."

There are still soft moments of tenderness and vulnerability, but that's a part of childhood (and adulthood) that we learn to accept. In safe moments he shares that no-one sits with him on the field trip bus, or wonders why he never gets invited to birthday parties. Instead of jumping to a Mr. Fix It or an Angry Injustice mode, or try listing the names of children who do call him Friend, we just hold him and agree that it must be hard. Gord Neufeld asserts that one of our most important jobs as parents is to make it safe for them to be vulnerable, to help them to that place of tears, so that they don't build up a wall. Our ten-year-old is vibrantly happy and openly sad and deeply aware that he is loved and cherished and celebrated (and hopefully safe from being bitten).

Easy Lay

2011-12-02T15:02:00.000-08:00

They're outside my window now, just doing their thing. Scratch, peck, screw, scratch, it all looks so easy.

Canada, the rooster, efficiently scrapes back the leaves to look for bugs and seeds. Sometimes he gobbles them up, sometimes he exposes the food then backs away for a hen to get some. Sometimes he gets some, efficiently jumping on her with no forewarning or forethought or foreplay, biting onto her neck for leverage as he flaps his wings and does his fertilizing thing. Then he just as quickly hops back off and pecks at another bug, while the hen shakes her tailfeathers and gets back to her business.

While I hunt and peck on my keyboard, he humps and pecks. So easy, so natural, so unthinking. I don't really wish to be a chicken - not even a rooster with 21 hens at my disposal - but I do envy the uncluttered natural rhythm of their lives. I'll finish this posting then look at my dayplanner and things-to-do list and inbox to decide what comes next. He'll just look for the next juicy bug or hen and do his thing.

The Man Behind the Dad

2011-11-29T19:49:00.000-08:00

If I could always be as good a Man as I am a Dad…

Why is it that a ferry ride with my children is 90 minutes of fun, frolic and exploration, while a ferry ride alone is alone at the computer work station? With the boys I’m on the deck (whether they want to or not), looking for whales, leaning into the wind, racing bow to stern, tasting salt and sun. On my own it’s a blah video or Sports section from the recycle bin and a bag of Cheezies.

Why do I laugh so much more with my boys? Whoop, act silly, invent voices and songs, create, destroy, create some more. Snuggle, dream, cry, fight, flight, as alive and changing as the ocean. On my own I work, I converse, produce, consume, balance, as steady and secure as a pond.

Why do I have so much more discipline when I’m with my boys? Healthy food, ethical purchases, no screen time, exercise, leave the car in Park, go to the park instead of the movies, move instead of sitting, sit close instead of comfortable. On my own I stop by the bakery, watch part of the game, sneak into the peanut butter jar and hop into the car just because it’s raining.

Why does my body get younger when I’m with my young? Together we run, skip, wrestle, lift, squeeze, peek under and leap over, lift and build and break and fix. I can sleep in the most contorted, claustrophobic, sweaty positions pinned under my snoring snotty boys. On my own I sit more, lumber more than leap, and sleep deep and expanded and perfect, pillow fluffed, alone.

Someday I’ll be as good a Man as my children think I am. As good a Man as I am in front of, because of, and through them. I’ll be Me just for Me. Then their job of raising me will be done.

Professor Ricky

2011-11-27T21:09:00.000-08:00

I've been re-born this weekend as Teacher Extraordinaire. Or at least extra-ordinary in terms of scope.
Friday morning - grade one at Sunrise Waldorf
Friday afternoon - lecture about fundraising and campaigning to a non-profit management course at Vancouver Island University
Saturday morning - workshop about Dynamic Governance to a group of Vancouver Island and Lower Mainland co-op/co-housing folk at OUR Ecovillage and livestreaming online
Monday morning - lecture about sustainability to the Global Stewardship students at Capilano University

Beyond having to check my identity to remember what I'm supposed to be knowledgeable about for each group, it's a great reminder of how much I love teaching. Sharing what I've picked up along the way, being challenged by learners with different perspectives and experiences (the governance workshop became a true exploratory dialogue about the difference between consensus and consent), and being forced to consolidate my ideas into a tangible, usable product.

Feedback has ranged from "You are AWESOME and FUNNY and NICE and FUN" (grade 2 parent) to "Your presentation absolutely blew me away and was one of the best presentations I have heard in a very long time. You are so passionate about what you do and it was made extremely clear to all of us." (VIU student). It always feels good to be competent at something, and to believe that the effort of going all the way to North Vancouver and back tomorrow will actually make a difference for someone.

But mostly it's about connection. Being in a room of people who care about the narrow and sometimes odd topic I'm presenting. Let's face it, Governance is not the sexiest topic to most people, but to those 20 people on Saturday morning it was fascinating and we all enjoyed exploring and debating it. My "Can We Trust Africans" talk tomorrow might just ruffle some feathers at a party, but to a group of aspiring international development professionals it's a frontal assault on their belief systems that just might change how they shape their careers. Just like a Star Trek convention (where, by the way, the 7th floor is reserved for kinky sexual escapades by trekkies and aliens in full costume and green skin), facilitating a discussion with a group of people just as into leadership or governance or development as me is a huge turn-on.

One of several paths I'm contemplating these days is to go back into a doctoral program, with a research interest centred on sustainability (financial and operational) of international development projects. It would open the way to some international field research with my family, and to more of this teaching stuff. It's a new idea, but a return to an old passion for sharing knowledge and prompting insight. Rutabega Rick just might become Professor Rick one of these days. And for the grade one students who just couldn't get their mouths around "Mr. Juliusson", Mr. Rick.

Obama: Occupy the Whitehouse

2011-11-23T19:58:00.000-08:00

Obama, your people are here. In the streets, in the media, in loud strong voices of unity demanding change. We're out here occupying; where are you?

Where is the man who electrified the world with a promise of real, deep change? Not just doing things a bit better, but deep changes to a society in dire need of an overhaul. Over 69 million Americans voted for this vision, for this man of vision, this man we believed would do something different. The hopeful people at Nobel gave him a premature prize just for the promise that he represented.

But when the going got tough in Washington, he became a man of compromise. A man of incremental change. Yes he's better than Bush, but that's not the lowly target he promised us he'd shoot for. He seems more intent on pacifying the centrists and getting voted back in than in working for what he supposedly deeply believed in.

But now's his chance. The 99% are standing up demanding change. What if, instead of hiding from his people and ignoring the slow crack-down on their freedom and voice, what if instead he went down to Wall Street? Pitched a tent, listened and shared and imagined a new way together. Then went back and used that power to make it happen. These are the same people he promised the world to - now that we're demanding it, he's just slipped away.

Occupy, Obama. Occupy that White House we elected you to. Take that oval office and tilt it on its end and spin it like there's no tomorrow. Or rather, like there's a tomorrow that you're ready to stake your legacy on. No, you probably won't win another election this way, but you probably won't by taking the safe path either. At least this way you'll go down in history as a man who really did shake things up and went down swinging.

We gave you the power in 2008 to change the world. Now we're taking to the streets to back you up in exercising that power. We're not a threat; we're your support. We're your people. Take the energy of Occupy, the power of a people fed up with the status quo, and use that energy to finally become the President. Don't let the tea party or bankers or the economy stand in your way; just do it. Take a look at what Stephen Harper's managed to do with a minority government in Canada - you could have so much more power to do good, if you'd just take it.

Think of the swift and unequivocal support you gave to the people behind the Arab Spring. When the people there demanded justice and a responsive government, you backed them 100%. But when your own people stand up to demand the same, you turn away. Watch this video, Obama, and see your own hypocrisy. Your own fear to be the man we voted for. The President who truly represents the people and lives up to his promises.

Take back the office, Obama. Occupy your white house. Before it's too late.

Voting just because i Can

2011-11-19T19:48:00.001-08:00

I just voted. For whom isn't important (really, it isn't read on). The important thing is that I got in my car after kids' bedtime, drove through a cold winter-starry night and did my civic duty. For really no other reason than it's my civic duty.

We only had one candidate for our area director position (and luckily I like him). And we had 10 candidates vying for 9 school board positions (in a public school system my kids don't even attend). So very little was riding on my vote.

But we live in a country where we can vote, freely, safely, and sometimes even to some effect. And there's no more important way to protect that right than to exercise it. This is the first time I've ever voted without taking my children along, which I regret, but we still as a family cherish and honour that right and duty to vote. Even when it seems it doesn't matter.

Oh Friend, Where Art Thou?

2011-11-13T19:08:00.000-08:00

When it comes to friendships, it's quality that matters over quantity, right? Sometimes I'm not so sure. I've got plenty of both, and still sometimes wonder where all my friends are. And (to use a very clever turn of words), I don't think I'm alone in this feeling.

In terms of quality, I've got many people who appreciate and enjoy me, and a lovely group of people who know and appreciate Me at a deeper level. The latter are people whom I know I can turn to, who'll accept Me regardless of where I'm at or what I've done, who "get" how the sometimes disparate and random parts of me do somehow integrate into a cohesive Rick.

As for quantity, since moving to the valley I've found myself investing more of myself and my time into a smaller circle of friends. Perhaps it's from becoming more confident, or perhaps finally "getting it" myself, but I've truly understood that I can't, don't want to, and oughtn't to try to reach that deepest level of connection and intimacy with everyone in the world.

But there's another dimension of quantity that I've been puzzling over, and that's time. My friend's marital counselor says that married couples need 16 hours of time together each week to maintain and grow their relationship (yes, 16!). How much time does a friendship need?

This musing started as a lamentation over the fact that I've had basically zero private time with my closest friends since, oh, probably last spring. We agree to a walk or an after-drop-off cinnamon bun "soon", then it never happens. One dear friend emailed me 2 months ago, "I do not want for busy lives to mean that we do not take time to be with each other to catch up and stay connected." Since then we've tried to set even 20 minutes to sit together several times, but have yet to make it happen.

On bad days I take these personally; but really I do understand that it's not indicative of lack of love or intention, and that I'm just as guilty of over-programming as they are. But I do have to wonder, as my friend does above, what it does to our connection.

I see these friends all the time, mostly in the school parking lot where there's time for a good hug, a quick "how's life" exchange, maybe even an extra 5 minutes as the parent crowd disperses. That's enough to stay in each others' lives, but not enough to share truly deep joys and pains at any substantive level. I truly love the 8:30 and 3:00 exchanges, but also need to peel back other layers of me that would just get too chilly and exposed in the school parking lot.

So where does that level of sharing take place? In a world where all of us share this complaint and pressure, are any of us getting this need met outside of (hopefully) our marriages and blogs?

My dear wife gets even less daily interaction than I do. But she does get to be part of a few monthly circles that I'm not privy to. When she comes home she's radiant, having soaked up and spilled out a full month's worth of personal sharing and connection. Even though she never tells me what was talked about, I vicariously feel re-connected to our mutual friends, absorb some of the overflow and feel warm and somewhat satiated.

I don't, of course, actually get any closer to knowing what's going in my friends' lives and hearts and souls, not do they enter mine. And in a community where none of us seem to have time for one-on-one dates, where these circles serve as one of the only opportunities for such sharing, it does leave me on the outside trying to find some other meaningful social pattern.

In the absence of circle membership and daytime dates, where do I have ongoing healthy relationships? In the parking lot. With longer-term consulting clients. In committee meetings and volunteer gigs. While building a bedroom with my contractor. With the neighbourhood association. In a monthly potluck party. On the shared drive to yoga.

In other words, my social life and connection comes through Doing. And that is what I was told about this valley when we first moved here - people are much more likely to be together at a barn-raising than a sit-down dinner. And the irony is, that's more my style anyways.

I openly admit to coveting women's circles, but truth be told I wouldn't want to be in one every month. Friends in Austin couldn't drag me to a group that met every week to scream and cry and hug each other. And as much as I'm craving a one-on-one tea date, I wouldn't want to have to plan every Monday to open up some new deep inner wound, or Joy, as my main connection. I want to know what's going on inside my friends to and to share that in me, but in a way that freely flows while puffing up Mt. Tzouhalem or tossing pumpkins to the cows or leaning on a shopping cart.

So it turns out that this posting is a bit complaint but more acceptance. Complaint that I don't hear enough of the big and little things in my friends' lives. That while I may not be a second-tier friend, I am on a second-tier communication rung to which important bits don't always filter down. And that this gap does put an extra strain on maintaining connection.

But this is much more an acceptance, even a celebration. That social circle I uncovered a few paragraphs up is real, and rich, and varied, and full of beautiful people who are intrigued and amused by me, in love and loved by me. If I needed help or an ear I know exactly who would drop everything to be that for me in an instant, even if we haven't shared hot chocolate since last winter.

And it's a call to action. A call to myself to continually appreciate what and who I have in my life, and to make the most of that. To fully grasp that, like pretty much anyone, the greatest quantity and quality of my social web is in the day-to-day little things, not just the cathartic climaxes. 5 minutes in the parking lot is gold, and doesn't need to be compared to anything else. The quick personal check-in before a committee meeting is real and meaningful connection, and the committee business that is then discussed in an environment of respect and trust is just as personal as the brownies that close the meeting.

I will still play the dayplanner juggling game with friends to enjoy an occasional tea or hike together, but will not measure the quality nor the quantity of my friendships by these dates. I will continue to share more and more of myself in these short, daily-life exchanges not because it's all I can get, but because that's what makes us real.

Selective Remembrance Day

2011-11-11T09:00:00.000-08:00

I'm not wearing a poppy today. It's not that I don't want to remember and lament the needless loss of life of the fallen young soldiers. It's that in this national day of wearing poppies and simultaneously mourning/glorifying their deaths, we narrow the focus exclusively to the soldiers and forget the many more victims of war.

According to a 2001 study by the International Committee of the Red Cross, the civilian-to-soldier death ratio in wars fought since the mid-20th century has been 10:1, meaning ten civilian deaths for every soldier death.(1) So for every poppy I wear to mourn one soldier's death, I should wear another 10 flowers for the innocent lives lost.

And what flower should I wear for the innocent children who still pick up grenades hidden inside dolls? For the farmer who loses a leg to a mine in her own fields? For the women and girls who get raped and used as instruments of war? For the refugees who've lost their homes, their farms, everything they've ever built and relied upon to survive and fulfill their dreams?

And what plant would suffice as an emblem for the loss to society when so much money goes into the war machine instead of social services, destroying instead of building? For those children who grow educated in terror instead of in school? For the destroyed or never-developed infrastructure that the rural poor could have used to build a better life for their families?

But the poppy doesn't remember all this. According to "Help for Heroes," the poppy is "to show their support for the Armed Forces and their families." Even my beloved, progressive MP Jean Crowder has an online banner that spouts out the usual "Remembering the sacrifice and courage of veterans on November 11."

I guess Jean has to say that to stay in office, but I don't. As long as wearing a poppy is meant solely in honour of soldiers, I will not wear one. Instead, I'll wear a whole garden in remembrance of the loss to all of mankind through war, and weave a lifelong wreath of flowers that says Never Again.

# #

Last year I mused about remembering all soldiers, not just our country's - another facet of this selective memory.

(1) Sabrina Tavernise and Andrew W. Lehren, A Grim Portrait of Civilian Deaths in Iraq, New York Times 22-10-2010) Note that other sources show a lower proportion - World War II is estimated to have killed "only" 2 or 3 civilians for each combatant.

Sheep in the Shower

2011-11-06T21:18:00.001-08:00

There's nothing like a sheep to bust up a baby shower. Our celebration for our friend was abruptly ended when a neighbour reported that her dog had once again chased one of her sheep over the edge of a steep embankment down to the side of the river. The group response reminded me again that I aint in Vancouver no more.

Rather than surprise, or annoyance at the party ending a bit early, or grunts over wasted time, the group simply (and eagerly) rallied around what needed to be done. This would be much more fun than charades! One man went home for his kayak in case we ended up in the river. Another grabbed two 75-metre climbing ropes to hoist the sheep back up from above, while two others volunteered to be at the bottom end of the deal, pushing the sheep up. The host of the party just happened to have a sheep harness.

The last time this happened, the owner explained, she and one other friend pushed the sheep in and swam her upstream to a place where the bank was less steep. "It only took two hours, but the river's too high this time," she apologized.

Talk also revolved around what to do with that "stupid dog" who can't now be re-trained (my advice being to stop calling him stupid if you want to find a new home for him.) We've been thinking about getting a dog since our raccoon/mink episodes last spring, so I received lots of training tips, strong advice to get a puppy, and stronger advice (from the owner herself) not to take this dog.

As we rushed out to the rural excitement of rescuing a lost animal, we did manage to give a quick final hug to the mom-to-be, calling over our shoulders, "Try not to push that thing out before we get back with the sheep!"

I live in a community where neighbours have the know-how, time, equipment, and willingness to pull a sheep back up the river-bank at the end of a baby shower. In fact, as the only person who hasn't lived in this hamlet for at least the last 15 years, I think I was the only one laughing at the absurd beauty of the whole situation. Thank God I'm (becoming) a country boy.

Power Rick

2011-10-28T18:26:00.000-07:00

The problem with coming out of hibernation too soon is that it's hard to settle back in for the rest of the winter. You stumble around gnawing discontentedly on green berries, unsure whether to head back into the cave or just stomp around in the snow until you've made a path and can go forward.

I triumphantly stepped off the career path three and a half years ago. Walked away from a great Executive Director post, powerful connections, and literally a world of development job opportunities to instead fulfill a dream of being a stay-at-home dad, farmer and writer. But always in the back of my mind I believed that I could relatively easily pick up an overseas job when the time was right again.

Now the time is right (or atleast coming) and it isn't quite as easy as I'd imagined. Three days of intense networking with former colleagues in Vancouver and Ottawa has me excited and exhausted and hopeful and realistic. On the positive side:
- I am still not only remembered but respected for my work
- I do still have good connections who are happy to help
- I still believe in my skills and capacity to do good, important work. If anything, my capacity has grown through my local FreeRange Consulting work, and my compassion/comprehension has deepened through farming

On the "realistic" side:
- budget cuts are more real than ever
- I've been out of the scene for over 3 years and am not at the top of everyone's radar when opportunities do arise
- While my skills have not rusted, my awareness of the latest trends, people and terms need updating

I can start to imagine what it's like for a stay-at-home mom returning after 15 years out! For me, it's not a matter of starting over; it's a quandry about whether to re-start the old engine. Do I really want to get back into that scene? Do I really want to be That Rick: the one who does the networking scene, splashes himself on such a wider audience, who projects an image of effectiveness and powerful confidence among carefully chosen colleagues.

Here in our beautiful valley, I've been able to establish my consulting business in a smooth, integrated fashion. I can network with my children, hand out business cards at an Occupy rally, go to meetings with the smell of fresh garlic on my hands. Becoming known and linked here has not (except time) compromised the lifestyle and identity we moved here to establish. The Rick who is leading your fundraising seminar is the same person who raised your grass-fed beef and entertained you at the raucous Who Knew show. I change my hats because of whims and weather, not titles and neighbourhoods.

I do believe that a move back into international development could be done with the same integrity and consistency. I sold or gave thank-you garlic at every meeting and seminar I attended on this Ottawa/Toronto trip, and people understood the link. I am a sustainable livelihood expert who understand food security at the producers' end; a gender justice specialist who stays home to raise his kids; a housing sector analyist who builds his own house out of local clay and wood. There's a whole new layer of hands-on understanding, and this dirt under my fingernails will be celebrated, not hidden.

But while I can do this without changing Me, there's a time investment that can't be avoided. Most jobs I've ever held have come through connections, not the internet, and connections have to be nurtured. How often can I pop over to the CIDA offices in Ottawa and NGO headquarters in Toronto and Vancouver? How many hours per night can I devote to reading industry journals and Globe & Mail op eds?

During the same week that I spent back East, I missed a community-building volunteer preparation for our school's annual Pumpkin Path (though I did get to dress as a turnip and let children repeatedly pull me out of a hole in the ground for 2 hours). While I spend 15 hours this week following up on those meetings and leads, candidates for our local elections will be holding campaign meetings that I would like to become involved in. I'll be rewriting my resume tonight instead of writing the Great Canadian Novel. And just the possibility of landing a great overseas contract will once again hinder my dreams of coaching soccer or joining a team or buying too many new animals requiring care in our absence.

As I struggle to balance this re-awakening with the person I've worked hard to become since starting this blog 3 years ago, I need to keep in front of me first and foremost that I'm a dad, a partner, a land steward, a community member, a writer, a friend. Somehow the way may open up for more, but that's more variety and scope, not more quality or importance. And even if I can't have it all, I can give my all to whatever I choose to invest in. Here's to dreaming big while living in the moment.

The Right to Pee

2011-10-26T16:19:00.000-07:00

Downtown Vancouver, about to board the skytrain, no public toilet in sight. But behold, across the street is Trees Organic Coffee, where I enjoyed some good cheesecake and amazing apple pie back in the day. I slip right through to the back without meeting any eyes, but alas, one needs a key. As I sidle back up to the counter, the worker anticipates my request and points to the key on a hook.

Why is the key needed? To keep out unwanted people. Which means that country boy Rick, with purple pants and travellers backpack, is still on the Wanted list. Even though I haven't dropped a dime there in 4 years and have no intention of doing so today (though plenty of temptation.)

What would it feel like to be one of the people who are not welcome to use this bathroom? To have to find a quiet place behind a garbage bin in the alley and hope the police don't happen by, or walk all the way back to the East Side where a public facility exists? What would it feel like to be told that you're not human enough to be allowed to pee here?

This world is plenty welcoming and accommodating for an educated middle-class fairly-clean WASP like me. As I get on that train with no fears of making it to the end of the line comfortably, I'm thankful for my privileged position. And sad that a key has to exist at all; that the basic human right and dignity to relieve oneself is still considered a privilege.

Exciting is Exhausting (but not vice versa)

2011-10-24T23:19:00.000-07:00

First day of a 6-day, 3-province road trip, highlights the amazing and whirling life of a consultant. After a final breakfast and endearing good bye hugs, hopped the Greyhound for an hour of reviewing documents and some more shut-eye. Then started the real work:

- training proposal on grantwriting and RFP bids for a new potential client
- introductory letter to send tomorrow to delegates of the Coast Waste Management Association, inviting them to visit the Cowichan Energy Alternatives prototype kiosk for collecting waste residential vegetable oil that we'll then convert to biofuel
- meeting with the Western Canada representative for the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA) to explore my prospects for overseas consultancy work
- popped by Heritage Canada to thank them for 2 recent grants for our local "The Hub" community centre
- facilitated a final 3-hour fundraising training session with EMBERS, a non-profit client in Vancouver's downtown eastside
- facilitated a training-of-trainers for men who will be facilitating Dancing Star Birth prenatal men's workshops
- tea and Oreos with dear old friends (only one of whom reads my blog), on whose floor I'm about to crash for a few hours before their excited children find me in the morning

This is the stuff of consulting. Tonnes of variety, new interesting projects, an exhilarating list of new prospects - reminds me so much of my dating life in college. Sometimes I long for the stability and long-term commitment of a regular job, and sometimes I wonder how I'd ever thrive again without this stimulus. All I can really be sure about is that it's 11:27 and I'm one happy and tired traveller.

Boycot Santa (Occupy the North Pole)

2011-10-19T21:06:00.000-07:00

I like the way the Occupy Wall Street movement is evolving. Not just the way it's spreading, but the way it's slowly finding a direction. Now it's time to make a calendar together.

It started out to be reactionary, or what one of my readers coined "victimism." I wrote that we needed to take more responsibility for our society. That same reader summed it much more poetically: "The voices are implying that the 99% are hapless victims of evil overlords, but we have all sewn many stitches in our economic straitjackets."

In Shakespeare's Henry VI, two would-be revolutionaries propose to begin their societal purge by killing all the lawyers. The sign telling Wall Street businessmen to "Jump, Fuckers" is along that same angry, reactionary, Other-focused stream. An energy that most of us feel, trying vainly to believe that if we only could knock off that evil 1% controlling us, that all would be well. But it just doesn't work like that - true lasting change begins from within.

But now I feel a shift towards action, arising naturally out of the initial chaos, organic and grassroots as squash in the compost pile. November 5 has been declared "Bank Transfer Day", an absolutely brilliant first move. It hits the corporate world where it hurts, but more importantly it is a positive step towards investing our resources in ways that align with our beliefs. And it's a permanent move, not just a temporary boycott that They need to weather. If we protest outside Wallmart they'll just wait until we go away, or have us arrested. But if we all simply stop shopping there, they lose their power.

So while we 99% are on the same page, what else can we do? What comes after the banks? Let's get going on a list of changes that We can implement, individually and corporately, that will just have us creating and living the world we want, marginalizing the 1% and the system they represent. Things like:

- tear up that Costco membership and join a CSA. What if Nov.12 we all mailed in our Costco cards to their head office, and that same day went to a centralized website to find the nearest CSA or farmers market?

- learn to can and dehydrate and freeze stuff from our own garden. Nov.19 isn't too late for an international Apple Preservation Day, with community gleaning then workshops all over the land to make homemade apple sauce and vow not to buy Del Monte products ever again.

- get all of our investments out of the stock market (even out of most ethical investment funds which are just a Best-of-the-Worst) and into local investments that fully align with our values. Imagine 100,000 people doing that on Nov.26.

- we could devote all of December to boycotting commercial consumerist Christmas. Make a collective vow to only give presents from local artisans or our own loving hands. Not do any shopping during the end-of-year sales. Eat that homemade apple sauce and preserves instead of Chinese oranges. Bake your own fruitcake (no-one eats it anyways). Be Santa's helper, not his customer.

- build your next house out of mud. OK, that's a bit hard to all do on the same day, maybe not the best example.

That's just off the top of my head. What else can we do, ideally all on the same day to simultaneously send a powerful message and to support/celebrate each other, to "be the change we want to see in the world?"

Acceptable Teen Violence

2011-10-17T12:09:00.000-07:00

PARENTAL ADVISORY: West Side Story contains suggestive language and physical violence. Three killings are depicted, as well as an attempted sexual assault. A gun is fired. Parents might consider this production unsuitable for children under the age of 12.
- Vancouver Opera website

My eldest is only about to turn 10, but I still find it hard to believe that I'll want to expose him to 3 killings, a shooting and a sexual assault when he's 13. When I stay at hotels and do the obligatory channel surfing for a few hours (like any good simpleton with TV deprivation at home), my adult brain and soul are quickly disturbed by the vast proportion of shows centred on violence - particularly against women and children. Disturbed enough that I've easily stuck to my vow to not watch them (see below), not let them colour how I view the world.

What is our societal fascination with forensics, sex crimes, abductions and violence? And more to the point of this musing, why would we willingly indoctrinate our children into it? Note that the Vancouver Opera is even offering a family deal - just $25 for your child to not miss out on this important cultural learning.

Yes, West Side Story is fantastic, and a must-see for anyone interested in our Western culture. And yes, there will be a time when our children are emotionally and cognitively ready for such an experience, and ready to start processing the full range of societal experience, good and bad. I just find it mighty hard to believe that it'll be in 3 years.

Here's my own experience of horror movies, written a few years back:

Keep your eyes off The Girl Next Door

It’s 2:30 in the morning and I’ve given up on sleep. Horrible images from that movie won’t let me rest. Images I never should have seen.

Wrong Girl Next Door
I admit I was trying to watch an R-rated Risky Business kind of trash while my wife’s away, but instead of a voluptuous The Girl Next Door – “a sex-soaked teen comedy that actually has a heart” according to Rotten Tomatoes – I got assaulted by “Jack Ketchum’s The Girl Next Door.”

Don’t ever, ever watch this movie. It is nothing but a graphic portrayal of child abuse. I am now stuck with images that make me afraid to go back to bed, afraid of giving my brain enough space to dredge them back up again. Why oh why did any person write, produce, distribute or watch it?

Why do we love horror?
I won’t say anything more about that movie that should be burnt. But why do we ever watch other shows that, like this one, can be classified in genres like “crime”, “drama”, “horror”, and “thriller?” What’s with our fascination with crime shows like LA Law, kidnap movies like Ransom - heck let’s even throw in Rambo.

Some are well written and produced, but that still doesn’t answer the question of why we watch them. “Unforgiven” was a powerful masterpiece probably deserving of its Best Picture Academy Award, but it still subjected me to 2 hours of violence, despair, rape, abuse and vengeance. Those just aren’t topics I want or need to be reminded of in such a powerful way.

Dead bodies don’t make a great date
Take a recent CSI Miami as another example, in which Spoiler TV promises “A serial killer who hasn’t been heard from in eight years seems to be back in business.” A self-proclaimed “CSI fanatic” eagerly anticipates this “entertainment”, writing “This one looks extremely intense! In the spoiler clip, we see that the entire team gets called to the harbor for a dead body.”

Just what in that description makes people want to watch it? “Hey honey, let’s spend some quality time together watching a show about a serial killer – it starts with a dead body!”

If it’s the challenge of figuring out a mystery, read an Agatha Christie novel or join a Mensa club. If it’s the pure adrenaline rush of the Bourne trilogy (my own past fixation), maybe I should have gone jogging. Anything to discontinue the self-inflicted exposure to the dark side.

There are better ways to learn about the world
No, we don’t need to close our eyes to the negatives in our world. We desperately need to know more and do more about the ongoing travesties in the Congo and the injustices to the homeless in our own streets. But not by exploiting it for entertainment value. Let’s go to CBC or NPR, whatever news source we trust for this research, not Hollywood.

Saving Private Ryan did heighten my perception of what that war might have felt like for some, but I don’t pretend that it’s contrived storyline taught me anything about the causes of war, how to prevent it, or anything that is of importance beyond a “Never Again” conviction.

Let’s treat ourselves better than this.
Immersing ourselves in horror and crime and violence just for entertainment sake is at the very least unhealthy, often exploitative, and ultimately damaging. It numbs us. It brings up energy in an unnatural way. And it makes us think things are more common than they are – paints such a consistently negative picture of the world that we end up scared to let our kids play outside.

Yes I’m ranting. It’s 3:20am and I’m still scared to go back to bed. I should have just watched Dirty Dancing or The Muppets or anything that makes me smile, makes me believe in goodness in the world, makes me have sweet dreams. Now that’s entertainment.

Thanks for Nothing

2011-10-09T16:58:00.000-07:00

It’s Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada and I am thankful for Nothing. On a 3-day romantic get-away in a haunted hotel on Saltspring Island, and Nothing is right.

Nothing on the To-Do list. Three whole days with just me and Sarah and sweet sweet time. We spent the whole Saturday morning enjoying the “farmers” market (82 artisans, 22 baked goods, 5 farmers). Long hike with views over the ocean to the East and West. Two naps (so far). Delicious dinners out and local produce picnic lunches. Long long talks and dreams and financial visioning from rocks overlooking the ocean, fish&chips joint flooded with the sunset, 5-Rhythms Dance with our incomparable dance-diva friend Shawna, hotel queen-sized bed with the TV cabinet closed (except for that really bad chick-flick about the Playboy centre-fold who becomes a sorority house mom.)

The awareness of this sweet Nothingness became poignant in the final half-hour of preparing to leave the house. As we scrambled to pack, close up the house and leave instructions for my mom and kids to keep the farm going, we rushed past all the Work we would have otherwise been doing this long weekend. Stepped over the broken doorsill, passed by the piles of garlic to be processed, walked under the falling insulation that needs ceiling board, and through the open doorway that really needs that new door hung. Covered up the apples to be canned, piled up the laundry to be folded, put all that FreeRange Consulting work back on the shelf to finish later. Walked through the garden that’s ready to put to sleep for the winter, through the greenhouse of tomatoes that needs a final harvest pronto before the frost gets serious, and out to feed the cow and water buffalo in the tub that needs replacing with a real pallet hayfeeder. Then drove down the driveway alongside the cabin that will get interior plaster on Monday, out by the farm stand that needs to be replenished with garlic and apple butter, and up the road past the mailbox that we haven’t collected in a week.

In so many ways this is the worst timing to run away. Just when we’re exhausted from the spring/summer farming and think it’s rest time, October is our busiest month – final food preservation, winter gardening, and this reno that’s so temptingly close to Done. But these three days have let us clear our heads, reconnect with each other and ourselves, rest, get some perspective. We’re the star basketball player who hates being called off for a breather, but then goes back onto the court with renewed vigour. That huge list of time-sensitive Things-to-Do now looks not only do-able, but enjoyable again – stuff we Want to do. And the circles that Sarah and I have been running in are at least concentric again, joined and overlapping and coherent.

So thank you Grandma for the chance to sit back and take stock, to breathe deep with my wife – out with the overwhelm, in with the appetite. We return this afternoon ready for our children, our land, this ambitious life we choose and thrive in and for which we are truly Thankful.

Wall Street protest

2011-10-07T10:41:00.000-07:00

While my body (and romantic heart) are about to go on a 3-day Saltspring Island getaway with my beautiful wife, my activist brain and soul are down on Wall Street, marching in solidarity with a nation waking up and taking action against the ever-increasing corporate control of our society. At the G8/G20 protests last year we tried to engage or confront the governments, but it is perhaps speaking more to the base of power to go straight to the corporate sector.

What follows below is the first official, collective statement of the protesters in Zuccotti Park. While I agree with pretty much every statement and do believe they're identifying key pieces of the puzzle, I'm disturbed by the focus on "THEY." Corporations only have the power that WE give to them. Every time we shop, vote, select a media source, accept a job, hit a cash machine, sign up for flight miles on our corporate visa card, even choose an internet browser, we are not just giving THEM power; we are part of that energy. Let's first face up to where WE are in those THEY statements below, then let some solutions flow.

The protests are great and I truly wish I was there (instead of being "virtually there" through Avaaz), but the huge societal change that is needed will only really come when we are ready to invest all of our resources and energy, establish and meet all of our needs, and derive all of our Joy through ethical means. Which in my mind pretty much means local, organic, people you know and trust, small businesses who responsibly reinvest your money in your community: ie, not corporations.

Anyways, here's what our sisters and brothers down on Wall Street have come together to say (with my devil's advocate WE responsibility statements following in italics; "WE" meaning the majority of Canadian/American citizens, and, let's face it, a lot of us imperfect activists too - I went to Walmart yesterday):

As we gather together in solidarity to express a feeling of mass injustice, we must not lose sight of what brought us together. We write so that all people who feel wronged by the corporate forces of the world can know that we are your allies.

As one people, united, we acknowledge the reality: that the future of the human race requires the cooperation of its members; that our system must protect our rights, and upon corruption of that system, it is up to the individuals to protect their own rights, and those of their neighbors; that a democratic government derives its just power from the people, but corporations do not seek consent to extract wealth from the people and the Earth; and that no true democracy is attainable when the process is determined by economic power. We come to you at a time when corporations, which place profit over people, self-interest over justice, and oppression over equality, run our governments. We have peaceably assembled here, as is our right, to let these facts be known.

They have taken our houses through an illegal foreclosure process, despite not having the original mortgage.
WE chose to buy larger and larger houses, ignoring how it pushed us beyond our financial limits.

They have taken bailouts from taxpayers with impunity, and continue to give Executives exorbitant bonuses.
WE still shop and invest there.

They have perpetuated inequality and discrimination in the workplace based on age, the color of one's skin, sex, gender identity and sexual orientation.
WE still shop there.

They have poisoned the food supply through negligence, and undermined the farming system through monopolization.
WE still balk at the cost of organic food at the local farmers' market - "i'd eat local and organic, but it's too expensive."

They have profited off of the torture, confinement, and cruel treatment of countless animals, and actively hide these practices.
WE still wear make-up.

They have continuously sought to strip employees of the right to negotiate for better pay and safer working conditions.
WE still wear nike shoes.

They have held students hostage with tens of thousands of dollars of debt on education, which is itself a human right.
WE vote for governments who reduce funding to educational institutes, making them more dependent on corporations.

They have consistently outsourced labor and used that outsourcing as leverage to cut workers’ healthcare and pay.
WE still buy from them.

They have influenced the courts to achieve the same rights as people, with none of the culpability or responsibility.
All of these "they" statements are de-facto treating corporations as people, not recognizing the human beings behind them and our connection to them.

They have spent millions of dollars on legal teams that look for ways to get them out of contracts in regards to health insurance.
WE vote for governments with a "lower-taxes" platform, ignoring the cuts that it will necessitate.

They have sold our privacy as a commodity.
WE use credit cards and sign up for flight miles and hang out on facebook and google and willingly give away or sell our privacy.

They have used the military and police force to prevent freedom of the press.
WE still make CNN and Fox the most-watched news sources.

They have deliberately declined to recall faulty products endangering lives in pursuit of profit.
WE still buy products from those same companies.

They determine economic policy, despite the catastrophic failures their policies have produced and continue to produce.
WE just voted stephen harper back into power, and quite possibly will return george bush's party to power.

They have donated large sums of money to politicians, who are responsible for regulating them.
WE still vote for those politicians.

They continue to block alternate forms of energy to keep us dependent on oil.
WE still drive much larger vehicles than most places in the world, and still don't fork out the extra money for biodiesel or electric cars.
They continue to block generic forms of medicine that could save people’s lives or provide relief in order to protect investments that have already turned a substantial profit.
WE still rely on the conventional western medical system.

They have purposely covered up oil spills, accidents, faulty bookkeeping, and inactive ingredients in pursuit of profit.
BP still sells its products here.

They purposefully keep people misinformed and fearful through their control of the media.
WE choose not to adequately use alternative media sources to find the truth out for ourselves.

They have accepted private contracts to murder prisoners even when presented with serious doubts about their guilt.
WE just gave majority power to a prime minister who wants to increase penal institutions.

They have perpetuated colonialism at home and abroad.
WE buy non-fair-trade products.

They have participated in the torture and murder of innocent civilians overseas.
WE still support the military.

They continue to create weapons of mass destruction in order to receive government contracts.
We still support the military.

To the people of the world, We, the New York City General Assembly occupying Wall Street in Liberty Square, urge you to assert your power.

Exercise your right to peaceably assemble; occupy public space; create a process to address the problems we face, and generate solutions accessible to everyone.

To all communities that take action and form groups in the spirit of direct democracy, we offer support, documentation, and all of the resources at our disposal.

Join us and make your voices heard!

My skinhead kids

2011-10-05T20:22:00.000-07:00

"Dad, I want to shave my head and join the army." Well, that's not exactly what the boys said, but that's how it felt. And like anything that evokes a strong gut reaction, there were some unexpected lessons to be learned; shedding assumptions and biases takes longer than shaving a bit of cerebral growth.

We have a long relationship with long-haired boys in this family, so it took a lot of cajoling to break out the old buzz cut razor. The kids were trembling with excitement at this new follicular journey; I was trembling with the fear that my boys would be lost in the frenzy, their quirky sweet natures swept away with the golden locks on the kitchen floor.

They weren't, of course, lost, but definitely harder to find. For the first days and even months we still had trouble recognizing our boys. Our perhaps more precisely, trouble distinguishing them from the crowd. Our precious protected TV-less Waldorf Quaker pacifist organic-eating gnome-knitting children looked just like any other kid on the public park playground.

So the first thing I had to let go of was attachment to my children looking different; to associating their special unique natures with the way they dress and do their hair. The photo still shows G's goofy antics and Z's raw excitement at life - much too pure to be disguised by any hair or lack thereof.

I also had to face up to the judgement I carry about how other parents' children dress and look. To assume anything about a child just because of her hair or school or logo on his shirt is a disservice and dishonouring of that child, who's every bit as precious and unique and extra-ordinary in the eyes of her parent as my children are to me.

Finally, and perhaps most challenging, I have to accept that it's OK for our children to run with the pack a bit, to be "normal" or "mainstream" in some ways. They like hockey cards, skiing, Elvis Presley, bike jumps, soccer, and many other "normal" things (a lot like their papa). There are still elements of a child's "typical" upbringing that I continue to shelter my boys from - mainstream media and internet being the biggest - but a lot of what's common in this world is common because it's OK. We spend so much energy teaching our children that it's OK to be different, unique, special, that perhaps we forget to tell them or ourselves that it's also OK to be a normal kid.

In the end, what makes my children special isn't a unique look or ability or school or music repertoire. It's their souls irrepressibly shining through all of that. How we guide them and shelter or expose them (while we still can) is important, but the way we love and honour and support them in whatever new Way they're trying on is ultimately the greatest gift we can give them.

I still prefer my children with longer hair. I still prefer them singing Russian folksongs in 3-part harmony (tonight's musical adventure) to Lady Gaga, and watching their nimble fingers dance over a violin or a cross-stitch project rather than on a video game. But I honour that somewhere nearby, some other Papa maybe watched his buzz-cut boy do a fantastic dance imitation of Justin Bieber and loved him just as thoroughly as I did my boys tonight.

Love is the Buzz

2011-10-02T20:41:00.000-07:00

As I was almost falling out of an apple tree yesterday, watching half-drugged wasps lazily supping on some apples, I mused on what makes them do it. They're about to die, yet still trying to get just a little more sustenance for next year's brood. Their last dying acts, like their first, are to serve the group and their young.

Today as I stumbled through an exhausting day of construction, apple processing and the final lawn mowing of the year, I wondered if I'm so different. Life would certainly be easier and more comfortable with no kids. We'd have a smaller energy-efficient house, eat less, travel more, work less, and sleeeeeeeeep deeeeeeeep. So why have we chosen this difficult path, this extreme sacrifice for the sake of our progeny?

No doubt at some molecular level it's the same drive as my wasp friends (the ones in the apple tree, that is) - survival of the species. And of my genes in particular. I live alot longer than bees, but in the end it just ends unless my kids and grandkids are fruitful and multiply and come to dominate the earth. My old reptilian brain doesn't question, it just drives me to procreate.

But my over-evolved human neocortex isn't so sure. I am unwittingly part of this basic instinctual drive to spread my seed as if it's the only thing that matters, even though while picking apples I was wondering why I should care if the world continues after I'm gone. Really, why would it be a tragedy if this whole, brief experience of mankind just ended?

In the end, my limbic system and frontal lobe come to the rescue, over-riding all my instincts and reasoning. They flood me with the emotional experience of Love, and Joy, excitement, the pure ecstasy of being a parent. I chose to have children because I love children. I choose daily to devote the vast majority of my energy and focus on my children because I love my children. Sure it might just be some cognitive trick that our over-analyzing brains had to come up with to continue the species, but I buy it. I live it. Children are my drugs, the opiate of our masses.

As drop-dead tired as I was all day, it was worth it to cut that grass before the rains come so that the kids can enjoy playing soccer all winter on a field that isn't soaking with 3-inch grass blades catching water. Putting away enough apples and apple sauce to feed the whole valley is worth it to send our children to school with happy, healthy lunches all winter. I'll forgo world travel for a few decades in exchange for the vivid journey through our boys' childhood.

I still complain sometimes about not having enough time to Do Things because I'm so busy caring for the boys. But that is life, the life I've chosen and continually choose. The day doesn't start after they're dropped at school; the day was full and bursting with life during the 2 hours of being with them and getting them clean and fed and dressed and confident and loved and packed and there on time and hugged good bye. And while they're gone, I'm spending my day buzzin' happily, collecting nectar and making honey for when they come home to me.

In my sons' eyes I can see the future
A reflection of who I am and what shall be
And though they'll grow and someday leave
Maybe make a family
When I'm gone I hope you'll see how happy they've made me
I'll be there, in my sons' eyes
- one of our nighttime songs, adapted from a Martina McBride song

Small Town Business

2011-09-30T10:13:00.000-07:00

Doing business on an island is kinda like planting garlic - you take your time, mix in alot of manure, lean on the hoe and talk about planting methods and weather with your neighbour, and eventually something juicy and delicious comes up.

For 3 weeks I've been beating my head against the wall trying to find 50-grit silica sand for the finishing plaster of our bedroom extension. Ron at Victoria Clay Arts explained that they only carry potters grade sand, and spent an extra 15 minutes going over the various applications of silica, diverging into how the Zinc Oxide we're using as white pigment can also be for pottery, food-grade or other applications, where to get different types, etc etc. Happy to share his expertise whether I needed it or not. Gruff and real and friendly and scary, that's Ron.

I finally hooked up with Jeremy at Sleggs Lumber up in Nanaimo. He'll order it in by Monday, and offered to ship it down to Victoria in the pick-up of his manager. I asked if the manager could be bribed to stop in Duncan en route and drop it off for me, perhaps in exchange for some organic heritage WildSide garlic. Which of course launched us into a discussion about what garlic I grow, how I got the original planting bulbs from Steve and Gail just up the road, when and why we moved from Vancouver, etc, and ended up not only with his manager Mel agreeing to the drop-off, but his co-worker Ken also ordering 20 bulbs.

So thanks to Ron, Jeremy, Mel and Ken, I not only will have my plaster supplies brought to me by Monday, but I know a lot more about pottery and lumber supply chains and have a new garlic customer.

By the way, all 1200 of our garlic bulbs came up beautiful this year, so we are selling that garlic at $10 for 5 bulbs. Come on by our roadside stand, or Sarah can bring some into Vancouver next week. Just let us know - ramble@WildSideFarm.ca.

Seeing in the dark

2011-09-28T20:50:00.000-07:00

Since I seem to be on a roll with sizing up personalities in the last few posts, let me continue with another hypothesis - you can tell a lot about people by their quirks and special talents. Take my feet for example. No, not the permanent fungus and nail-bed damage from too much Africa and too small ski boots. The eyes on em.

Yup, I gots me some eyes on my toes. They see in the dark. It started at Casa Guatemala when I ran out of batteries for my cheap flashlight and couldn't be bothered to buy new ones. One of my jobs at the orphanage was to turn off the diesel generator about an hour after dark. I'd wander down the dirt path yelling out "Voy a pagar la luz" and every teacher in the compound would yell back, "No, not yet Richard" and I'd laugh and continue on behind the buildings to the generator shack. The best moment was just after turning off those noisy belching electricity-making beasts, hearing the wails of the half-made-up young teachers rise then slowly subside, and the whole world accepting that it was plunged into darkness and silence, the hidden sounds of the jungle finally emerging to take back their night domain. True true peace.

Then I'd remember that I had to get back with no light. So I learned to feel the path step by step with my bare feet, discerning the harder-tread path from the lighter dust on the side, gently sliding over tree roots, feeling for the slight sloping rise on the side of the path. Many a night I was aided by the frequent electrical storms in the sky, which would light up the whole jungle like a giant flash camera. I'd memorize the path in front of me, then run forward as far as I felt like I could remember, then stop and wait another minute or two or five for the next lightening flash to reveal the next 20 yards of path. The 2 minute walk sometimes took 20 to get back out, but there was no hurry in this jungle. Work was done, children were asleep, it was just me and my bare feet making love with the jungle track.

Four years later my house was down another lush tropical path just up from Lake Malawi in Tanzania. In finding a piece of land to build on, I'd started by walking at night as far as I could from the hospital compound until I could no longer hear their generator. The trade-off of silence for lack of electricity was more like a double-bonus - the nighttime ritual of entering my house slowly and feeling on the window ledge for the matches and lantern that would be my 4-foot sphere for the rest of the night was the instant slow-down we lack in our instant- and bright-lit world. My world was 4-feet round, keeping my focus right where I was and on what I was doing, and requiring a deliberate shifting of worlds to move to another activity or room. For fun I installed a light switch at the doorway, which fooled every visitor and even me after 3 years - a lighthearted reminder of the convenience and distraction we enjoy, suffer, and take for granted in Everything Everywhere North American life.

Once again, I had to walk down a long path to get home, this time lushly overgrown with tall grasses on both sides. I felt not only with my feet as before, but now also with my shins and thighs, gauging where the grass was bending in too much on one side. In the rainy season I'd be sloshing through the streams that formed in the well-worn path, feeling the direction and speed of the water as I navigated upstream then, upon feeling the inflow of my particular feeder stream, veering off the path toward my own home. In dry season, it was again the ruts and the slopes, the sudden feeling of roughness or vegetation to say I'd stepped too far out of line.

The common thread between Guatemala and Tanzania is more than just a Ricky too cheap to invest in a good flashlight and batteries. They were both times when I had/took time to enjoy the walk. Time to adjust, to get in-sync with nature and be part of it, let the natural world guide me. Trust in my senses other than just sight and thinking. Be open to the changing seasons - coming from a world where our roads are built to perform the same every minute of every season, living on a path that changed constantly and predictably was a fascinating learning experience.

I still love to do it, love to walk barefoot in the night and slow down enough to feel my way around. It's a reminder that I don't have to get the chickens put away in 2 minutes flat - as I feel my land under me I'm also seeing the sky above, the waving silhouettes of the giant trees that were here before me and will be here after. I'm hearing the screech owl and whooping cranes and how much louder the highway is at night, or rather how much quieter the world is that usually drowns those big trucks. I can't taste the air the way Zekiah can, but I am feeling the air on my face, in my throat, on my eyelids, sensing if there's rain on the way.

Sometimes the best way to see your path is to close your eyes.

Measurements

2011-09-28T09:35:00.000-07:00

Who needs to read palms? My new personality test is to read bicycle tires.

Sending the family to buy Sarah a new inner tube, I told her she needs 28 x 1 5/8 x 1 3/8. Reactions may tell a lot about our family:

Sarah - "What do those measurements mean? Do they have to be in that order? Why..."
Rick - "Just tell them that, you don't need to understand why."
Z (excited) - "I know, there's three of us going, so we can each memorize one. I'll remember 28. That'll be easy for, cause I'll just have to remember 20, and I'm turning 8 soon."
G - "I've forgotten mine already."

Bathroom calculations

2011-09-25T11:23:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not writing about how much money and carbon footprint we save with our re-usable toilet wipes. This is about our 7-year-old, sitting on the throne just down the hall from our dinner table, figuring out the world.

His mind finds patterns, permutations, solutions, reasons. He just loves to figure out systems, come up with innovative ideas, keep us on track with our plans. Halfway through that last sentence I heard him reminding Sarah that we still have to make the fruit leathers we talked about over breakfast. This morning he figured out a tracking system on our blackboard for our new pledge to each process 25 apples/day.

Last night as we finished dinner and he was already eliminating it, he overheard us talking about how Sarah made thicker-than-usual tortillas tonight. First we had to explain down the hall how she did it. Then he announced that we should always do it that way. They taste better. They're more filling, so we don't have to eat as many, and it doesn't take as long to finish a meal so we won't be so tired. And it will take less cooking time to cook fewer tortillas, thereby saving electricity, "so that's good too, right Mama?"

For any simple idea or challenge, he comes up with not only the main idea/solution but also 2 or 3 deeper layers. If we have the audacity to suggest that we just need to pack up and jump in the car, he'll quickly correct that we also need to zip the backpacks, put on our shoes and close the door. In arguing against finally re-hanging the inside front door, he complained that we'd then have to open and close two doors to get outside. Then in the winter, with having to close the door behind us each time, that would be 8 opening/closings just to go outside for a quick pee.

When he was three, we tasked him with sorting our wide-mouth and narrow-mouth canning jars and lids. Before I could even suggest a way of figuring out the different sizes, he quickly devised a system of holding a jar upside down on top of another jar to compare circumference, then appropriate boxes for each set of jars and lids after doing those measurements.

Our youngest has always been our organizer, our thinker (the older, if I must continue with sweeping generalizations, being the dreamer and visionary.) It's fascinating and at times scary to watch his cognitive capacity grow with age, experience, and the tools he acquires in school and daily life. If I show discipline in not trying to race ahead and predict his path in life, it's mostly because of the unfathomable range of possibilities a mind like that will have. And in a world that is expanding at a similarly exponential rate, he'll likely end up in some field that doesn't even exist today. All we need for now is to continue feeding that hunger - turning him on with tasks like sorting coins, coring apples and remembering the 11 things we have to do on our next trip to town - and enjoy tagging along whatever path his mind and soul will take him along.

RIP Coach Ricky

2011-09-18T20:01:00.001-07:00

We've all, hopefully, had good teachers, good coaches, good music teachers and club leaders and summer camp leaders who served as positive, motivating role models when we needed them. I can rattle off the names of my piano teacher, grades 3,4 and 6 school teachers, and my soccer coach as just some examples of adults who have deeply influenced who and how I am today.

So now that I have the chance to join their ranks - Galen's soccer league is crying out for volunteer coaches - why am I not jumping at the chance? I know and love soccer and kids. I'm even a certified coach. I have freedom around my work schedule and no travel. My number one job is supposed to be Stay at Home Dad, serving my kids in whatever way possible.

The sad answer is, I had a bad coaching experience that's scared me away. My second year of coaching Galen's team in Vancouver started out great, with an assistant coach who agreed to cover me when I would have to do a work trip to Africa. Unfortunately, post-election violence postponed that trip, and by the time I could travel the assistant's boy had decided soccer was not his calling. So I called the parents together and two of them agreed to carry the team until my return.

I arrived home not only to the utter breakdown of the team - no balls, no practices, no interim coaches - but also to shoulder all the blame. The fact that I'd made the volunteer commitment with the explicit understanding that I would have to travel, and then twice made necessary back-up arrangements, didn't matter. I was irresponsible. I alone had let the kids down. I should never have signed up in the first place (even though none of them had stepped up when the league was short volunteers, nor when the back-up coaches failed to deliver.)

There was even an intimation that I should not have popped off to Africa - that their 4-year-olds' soccer was more important than the schools and women's rights and health programs I was responsible for in Kenya. Sounds just a little like the local dance company who refused to reschedule one of their children's rehearsals to allow for a hugely popular community event (Canucks Stanley Cup finals screening).

That jet-lagged afternoon in my own living room with my mother and good friend lashing into me about Responsibility, and another dad calling on the phone with the same message, still hurts, and still feels unjust. I was a volunteer doing the best I could for all our children, and the collective group of parents failed to pick up the few weeks that I could not. And everyone was ignoring the bottom line: as far as I know the children loved me and were improving and were enjoying the game.

The trip was unavoidable, and the fact that the back-up parents didn't deliver was beyond my control. So the only way to avoid that disaster would have been to not volunteer, to throw that burden on some other volunteer's shoulders. Or to have the kids go without a coach. And I still don't look back and think that would have been the right decision. Leagues run on volunteers, and this league accepted me with my limitations because it was far better than the alternative of no coach.

But I'm ashamed to admit that each year since, I've made that wrong decision. I've let that hurt keep me from the true Joy of giving to children as a coach. I'll never be Mr. Samphire or Mr. McKay to a group of kids looking for leadership and fun and growth. And every year that I sign my kids up for sports I'll be hoping that some other good person does have more courage than I do and agrees to be that person in my child's life.

But I promise this. I will never judge a volunteer coach for trying his/her best. And when that volunteer needs help, instead of throwing blame I'll be throwing myself in to help. So hats off to all volunteer coaches and leaders - for the good of our children you have my deepest appreciation, a splash of envy, and when you need it, my support.

9/11 - Looking Back 10 Years

2011-09-11T08:46:00.000-07:00

It took a while to sink in. Hijacked planes, terrorism on home soil, fear, anger. An hour, then a day, now even years later figuring out what it meant, what it still means.

This morning 10 years ago Sarah and I were in a coffee shop on Congress Avenue in Austin Texas, signing papers for the purchase of a 4-cottage property that was to become our co-housing community. As the agent droned about legal stuff, I glanced up occasionally to see images of a plane crash. As we signed more and more papers for a million dollar, multi-family property, I found myself looking up more and more, slowly but still slightly understanding what was going on.

In the elevator to my office, my cell phone rang (yes, I had one then) and my boss told me to get home. "But that was in New York," I protested, "And I'm already here anyways." Her reply chilled and awoke me, "We are under terrorist attack. You are one block from the capital building of George Bush's home state. Get home."

A few weeks later I was almost beat up by the owner of a nightclub where we held a fundraiser. We stepped outside of the noisy bar so I could politely discuss the inflammatory potential of the mat at the base of the men's urinal - a picture of Osama Bin Laden with encouragement to piss on him. "HE KILLED THOUSANDS OF MY BROTHER AMERICANS!" he angrily defended. I calmly pointed out that the picture looked like Muslims who are our neighbours and fellow Americans. When he denied any link or threat to Peaceful Americans, I pointed out the attacks on Mosques in Austin and across America. But his anger and hatred were all-consuming, and if I hadn't brought 300 people into his bar he'd have beat the tar out of me right there in the alley. The anger and fear and Us-vs.-Them division in his eyes was the first taste I had of the real effects of this attack.

Like most of America and people around the world, we spent the full day of September 11 in shock, watching the same CNN reports and videotapes over and over, not understanding. It was a waste of time, we knew that, but there was nothing else to do, no way to escape this new reality.

And now 10 years later it seems still impossible to escape the new reality. The War on Terror is the new Cold War, the new justification for militarism and invasion of privacy at a frighteningly new and ever-increasing level. Fear is palpable and local, war and violence are right here in middle-class North America, not just "over there" and the other side of the tracks. That bar owner probably still wants to punch me.

That land deal never did work out. Just as well - as Bush/Cheney used 9/11 as justification for Middle East and Homeland Security agendas they'd been waiting decades to carry out, our energy for constant and futile protests and letters gave way to a deep understanding that the US wasn't the right place for us anymore. A land of decreasing love, freedom, privacy, and respect for all people and religions and countries was not the place we'd choose to raise our children, when had a much-better-by-comparison (especially pre-Harper) Canada as an option.

We left the United States not from fear of terrorism, but from the response by the American government, military, and majority of citizens. The true and terrifying outcome of 9/11 did not happen at the World Trade Towers; it happened in the hearts and actions of leaders and followers too afraid to look for a loving response. Let's hope that in the next 10 years we all find the courage to regain hope and stop this self-inflicted terrorism.

Stolen Lands, Stolen Berries

2011-09-05T06:41:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like a big juicy blackberry to bring out the inner Settler in us. At least, that seems to be my tipping point between justice and indulgence.

We had found The Best Blackberry Patch ever. Huge juicy berries by the handful, miles from any busy polluting highway. My Wwoofers and I eagerly started filling out buckets, and I carefully pruned away the thorny berry-less vines blocking full access to the sweet nirvana within.

"This is private land," a voice broke the reverie. A woman from Cowichan Tribes had walked by and was quietly but firmly letting me know that this land belongs to her mother, and she especially doesn't like people pruning her bushes.

My first response was good and honest. I apologized and we quickly packed up our things and headed back down the path. I truly did not know - we had been told by many sources that this was a great berry patch, the trail is an off-shoot of a public nature preserve pathway, and there are no signs or gates. An honest mistake, and an honest apology and withdrawal.

But then the thought of all those delicious unpicked berries clouded my virtuous mind. "There are way too many for her to pick alone. They'll just go bad on the vine. I was doing her a favour with my pruning."

Then a darker questioning of her integrity. "So many people, including the neighbouring sawmill, have said this is public land, maybe she's lying just to keep the berries to herself."

Then finally a good old-fashioned colonialist/settler "I WANT IT" attitude. "Who is she to hoard this resource to herself anyways? This should be public land."

On the sad walk out, with buckets half-full of black berries and head too full of dark thoughts, I poured out my misery to two other white couples walking the path. They both quickly sided with me - in fact, one said he'd been caught picking berries 5 years ago and now only comes at times he thinks they won't be around. There was absolute complicity in the view that these berries and this dog-walking path should be ours, for the sole reason that we happen to like these berries and their dog likes this path.

This country was founded by men like me taking what they wanted then begrudgingly leaving the worst land for the original inhabitants. Then if they later found some value in that land, they'd break the treaty and take it too. Now here I was, scraping for any justification to break yet another treaty just because the one marketable product on this beautiful but unfarmable floodplain are better than the berries on my own land.

I'm now 100% clear in my head that returning to that land, knowing what I now know about its ownership, would be 100% wrong. But there's still a part of my heart that wishes I didn't know so I could continue to steal their berries in blissful innocence. Or that I could some legal loophole or way to bypass their title and get back in there. And even while seeing (and sharing) this experience as part of my continuing self-discovery and growth, uncovering that privileged, entitled, disrespectful settler in me is leaving a bitter taste in those sweet berries.

United Nations visits the WildSide

2011-09-03T20:34:00.002-07:00

Ending the summer with 6 childless days (thanks Grandma!), we've just laid in bed all morning, strolled down to the river for an afternoon swim, pretzels at the bakery, dinner theatre and....

No, of course not. Not us. The first two days were an orgy of Work catch-up by day (FreeRange Consulting work, that is), and food preservation by night. The first night (see photo) we made: blackberry jam, canned blackberries, kombucha, frozen zucchini/squash, zucchini soup for canning, calendula oil, dehydrated kale, dehydrated garlic (to make our own garlic powder), yogurt, frozen cauliflower, and canned tomatoes. A delicious night in every sense of the word.

And for the rest of the week we've been joined by two British travelers here to help with the roof of the cabin bedroom (they found us through HelpX.net), one German Wwoofer in the garden, and a Wildside B&B guest from Taiwan who has to camp out in our tent in the front yard (paying for the privilege, no less). Tomorrow our children return to add to the merry mix of cultures, accents and appetites.

Sometimes I imagine us as people who could just do the strolls and late-morning chai, but mostly I revel in the whirling action of people and chores and Things Getting Done - today we finished the garden box on the roof, many many tasks in the garden, and most exciting of all, mended the cow fence and let baby Baryshnikov out into the pasture. He and his "brother" Snowstar (the cow) were delighted to finally be together, the elder teaching his little buffalo brother how to gallop and gavot; later they lay down side by side for a nap and to chew some cud; later still Snowstar (twice the size of Baryshnikov) tried several times to mount his little brother. Ah, the nature of things.

2011-09-03T20:34:00.001-07:00

Goodbye Summer

2011-09-01T19:31:00.001-07:00

Summer is slippery. It crashes onto the shore and sweeps us away in a wave of enthusiasm and ambitious plans, then slowly ebbs away and leaves us dry and thirsty. This summer I swam and played in the early surf, made sandcastles and explored tidepools in the low tide, but still somehow am left wondering about what didn't happen.

Every year I fool myself that summer will be a time of family outings with other families, lazy all-day get-togethers and impromptu "let's camp out tonight" phone calls. There certainly was some lovely time together with lovely people, but in general the first month was all about hunkering down with the kids and the land, and the second month was all about camping and reno's and No Time To Enjoy All This Time.

The tree-fort once again didn't happen - 3rd year in a row. Sleeping with the kids in a tent on our land didn't happen. Fishing with the brand new fishing gear and license was Day One of summer then never again except on camping trips. The kids' "School-Year-In-Review" book is still unwritten, and photo album still unmade. Even that roll of kite-paper I bought the boys as a summer project hasn't even been given to them.

That list of Misses could go on, but much better to focus on what did happen. Late-June & July were glorious months. Kids had a few multi-day trips with Grandma and Uncle Dave so Sarah and I could get organized, do some deep house cleaning/revisioning, and enjoy. In between, we had plenty of energy to spend long hours playing soccer, gardening together, just enjoying functioning as a family. If we didn't pick up the phone to invite folks over, or jump in the car to the next swimming hole, it was because we were getting what we needed right here; in fact, being right here together was exactly what we all needed.

No need to hurry. Slow mornings with breakfast when we felt like it, no lunches to pack, no dress codes to measure by. No social pressures either, just rolling with whomever or whatever rolled up the driveway. No plans often, just creating a day or a week as it unfolded. We still Did plenty, but rarely did it feel programmed or forced or Too Much.

August was the Cram-Too-Much-Summer-In month. Two amazing camping trips and a splendid week with the visiting inlaws meant that the in between times were intensive long-hour workdays on the cabin bedroom extension to keep it on schedule. Those lazy hazy crazy days of summer became just crazy. A hands-on natural building project that really should have been a full-time job was instead crammed between the fun summer stuff I'd promised myself and the boys. Professionally, I could only do what was needed to do a good job with my existing clients but nothing toward building up new clientele. Even the beloved, nourishing, life-giving garden was increasingly relinquished to Wwoofers.

And now it's Sept.1 and my kids are back with Grandma until Sunday, so I can only plan a fun Last Day of Summer outing on Monday then we're back to routine, to outside responsibilities, to other people's demands and needs. There will be blessings to that, of course, and the return to friends and familiarity and community will be a Joy, but for now I just need some time to shake my head at what didn't happen, and to celebrate what gloriously did.

Did I Love Jack Layton Enough?

2011-08-27T22:49:00.000-07:00

First off, kudos to Stephen Harper. I won't get to say that much, so let's give him a bit of credit for comprehending the significance of Jack Layton's passing and declaring and extra-ordinary state funeral. Whatever his motivation, he apparently has belatedly understood the profound impact and depth of character of the opposition leader.

I seem to share with Mr. Harper that belated understanding. When I blogged about strategic voting back in May, I was clever enough to foresee the surge in NDP popularity, but pretty much laughed at the idea of a Prime Minister Layton.

Now many of us are finally learning about the man and his convictions, and gaining a new-found respect for him. I still have trouble seeing him as Prime Minister, but with the rare exception of Barack Obama it's generally hard to see anyone as a leader until after the fact. It's why promoting from within is so difficult; it's why we have trouble trusting our kids to take on new responsibilities; it's why we keep electing the same people again and again to political office, to school committees, to host the Oscars. There was a time when Billy Crystal would have topped most of our Least-Likely-To lists, then an era when it seemed he was the only one who could. Just because one person gave him the chance.

So here's the recognizing prophets in our own lands. To believing in new bands and new candidates, embarking on new paths and new beginnings, building brave new worlds. If Jack Layton could inspire so many not only through his death but through his life, why not anyone else? Why not everyone else? What could my children, my friends, the boy bagging my groceries, even me - especially me - what could we achieve if we truly believed in the potential of each and every human being? Here's to healthy dose of Jack Layton commitment, drive and optimism.

My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world. --- Jack Layton

Good night, farm

2011-08-27T22:36:00.000-07:00

Left a beautiful fireside OUR Ecovillage sing-along to put the family to bed - the whole family. While Sarah prepped the boys, I tucked in the Buff Brahmah chickens in the garden coop, bottle-fed Baryshnikov the water buffalo, let the neighbour cats in for the night, fed the roaster (meat) chickens and closed up their coop, collected eggs and closed up the layer chicken coop, and then returned to the garden to crank on four timers to water the plants. Then inside just in time for a final snuggle with the boys before they and Sarah all drifted off to sleep.

Then onto the computer for just (hopefully) 15 minutes to check messages for the first time since lunch, check phone messages, prepare a things-to-do-before-mom-arrives-tomorrow list, and say this sleepy good night to you. Now to curl up on the purple couch with an earthen-plaster book to plan the finish for the bedroom extension, happy complete bedtime by 11. Good night new moon, good night farm.

Morning quickie

2011-08-24T08:48:00.001-07:00

When the visiting grandparents whisked the boys away for breakfast, Sarah and I took advantage of the alone time for a morning quickie.

While they drove down the highway, we snuck out to the garden to gather fresh kale, eggs and blueberries. As they were waiting for the short-order cook to fry up their vittles, we were whisking up a cheese omelet, green drink and blueberry granola (with a devilish sprinkling of chocolate-zucchini cake). As they wolfed down all-you-can-eat white flour pancakes in the noisy din of the hotel restaurant, we calmly enjoyed an organic local breakfast at a peaceful table overlooking the garden and Mt. Tzouhalem.

And while they reveled in the treat of a special breakfast with Grandma and Grandpa, we reveled in the treat of a special breakfast with each other. Guess in spite of all the surface differences, eating at Smitty's or at Wildside Farm ain't all that different. Thank you, Grandpa Bob and Grandma Sheri, for treating us all to a special breakfast this morning.

Signs of Aging

2011-08-22T21:04:00.000-07:00

The flu bug kept our children down for one night and one day. I spent that glorious night squished in between them, comforting, soothing, being a beautiful papa. The next day they both snuggled and slept much, didn't eat, we finished Lassie, and put them in bed in time to cook myself and our guests a chocolate-zucchini cake.

As I licked the beater I felt the fever come on, strong and sudden, and left our friends with 10 minutes on the timer to go once again squeeze in between the kids, this time to keep Sarah away from my bug and to use them as little heaters during my night-long fever.

My stomach is strong from a lifetime of ill-advised food choices, so one vomiting session was enough. But where it took the boys 8 hours to regain energy and vigor, it took old me 2 days. Two days of slowly getting stronger, taking naps, going slow, catching up on emails and videos. Stacking a wheel-barrow load of kindling wiped me out. Recovery takes longer for us old people.

My first hernia at age 22 (induced by a cross-country bicycle trek) took a month to get over. My second at age 42 took 3 months to even start the recovery process (leading to my first lamentation on getting old.)

And today, the doctor confirmed that i have the ultimate old-person ailment. No, not a broken hip, but TENNIS ELBOW. Doesn't that just sound like a topic for the senior games? (No offense, ma, I'm mighty proud of the gold medals you just brought home, just not ready to be there quite yet). And what macho act of bravery brought on this injury? Not riding across the country, but 4 hours of re-stacking my firewood shed on Fathers Day. And now of course exacerbated by mud plaster work.

Earlier in this building year I majorly threw out my back and had to go to a massage therapist - another thing my younger healthy body would have scorned. But she did reassure me that I have the healthy tissue of a 30-year-old, thanks (she said) to healthy living, drinking lotsa water, and no alcohol or coffee.

Oh, one final sign of aging - people are still telling me in a very complimentary way that my short hair makes me look younger. For my first 40 years I've always looked too young - good at the beach but not so good at the job interview. Now suddenly I've turned that corner (come over that hill?) and it's good to look younger than I really am.

I've got no deep moral lesson from all this, and will likely continue to act 20 years younger than I am or ought to act, and am alternately amused and bemused when occasionally my body refuses to act the same age as my mind thinks I am. We are getting older, friends, even if not old, and even if few of us believe that we're aging quite as quickly as our peers. I'll go to our next high school reunion and likely have the same honest reaction as I did at our 20th - "I must be in the wrong room - these people are so OLD!"

FreeRange Kids

2011-08-14T07:45:00.000-07:00

When you come to pick up your kids from a playdate here on WildSide Farm, I may not know where they are. "They were here a while ago," I'll muse, then probably break into the old Bob & Doug McKenzie call that's become our family locator (though it tends to attract middle-aged beer-bellied Canadian campers too).

I am somewhere around if they need me, usually outside in the garden or reno project, but not hovering. Just gently in the radar, keeping them on the edge of my awareness, ready to respond to a cry or an injustice they can't work out for themselves. Stepping in to redirect play into a healthier mode. Helping fix a flat tire or hoist a log into some new playground invention.

Every so often I stop hammering and wonder where they are. I listen in the direction of the forest, where they might be making a fairy grove or challenging the bike jump. I lean on the hoe and listen for delighted squeals as they feed Baryshnikov the baby water buffalo. I look up from the laptop to see if they're still on the Lego blanket under the tree outside, or inside playing dress-up or quietly reading National Geographic on the purple couch. It could be hockey in the neighbour's driveway, or soccer/volleyball/baseball/badminton down in the field, or ping-pong/foosball in the hayloft. The other day I finally found them down by my workshop industriously sawing bamboo into little cups and telescopes.

Often, just as I start wondering if I should check in on them, they have the same stirrings, the vague need to reconnect. They drift my way, showing off a painting or recounting some great adventure, then move off into a new activity. They feel me out there close enough for comfort, and that provides the security and safe boundary to freely play and explore. They are being held, even from across the yard.

What a blessing to have 5.2 acres of safety. No busy roads to cross, no ponds to sink under, and only friends coming up the drive. Sure they get hurt and sure there's potential for danger, but it's as controlled a jungle as any child could wish for. Our children are learning to trust themselves and each other, trust the natural world to be a stage for their great and small dramas, and trust me to still be there when needed.

Where are your kids? They're roaming free-range and romping Joyously on the WildSide.

How to find (and lose) a baby Water Buffalo

2011-08-13T08:03:00.000-07:00

3 pieces you should know about water buffalo (sounds a bit like the Gremlins trailer): they like to stay at home, they can be contained by a single strand of electric fence, and they don't jump. All lies.

When i surprised my vegetarian wife with two baby beef cows, that was all me. Two years later, this was HER impulse to buy a baby water buffalo. If there was ever any question how we've flourished for 12 years of marriage, Baryshnikov is the answer.

Her birthday B&B at Fairburn Farm, a nearby water-buffalo ranch with a beautiful old farmhouse was perfect in every way but one - no postcards or cow-in-snowflake-bubble gift-shop. So we came home with the only thing for sale - a baby water buffalo. Actually the owner just kinda casually mentioned that the baby needed a good home (they only keep the females for milk), and Sarah's eyes lit up with her characteristic "what if" look and i knew we had a new family member.

A new member who, like Rose and Blossom two years ago, needs to be bottle fed three times a day. A task that we all gloriously fight over, it's such a nourishing nurturing relationship-building task. This baby is getting all the loving he needs to feel free and at home here for the next 18-24 months.

Hopefully that loving will be enough to get over the major morning-after regrets. He wasn't there. He's defied the first two lies - he's run away, and walked right through a 3-strand electric fence (and then a low gap in the wire fence) to do so. We spent the entire morning entertaining the community by going door-to-door, accosting joggers, posting notices and calling the police with the apparently unusual question, "Have you seen a baby water buffalo?"

We never did find him; just suddenly reappeared in the field at lunchtime. It is possible that he'd been laying down in some tall grass the whole time, but we didn't care - we wrestled him into the cow pen, boarded it up, and fed him some milk. Problem solved.

Until he head-butted the plywood barrier down and started heading straight for that electric fence again. This time I boarded it much sturdier and walked away satisfied.

Two minutes later he was out again, exposing the third lie - he'd jumped over (hence the name Baryshnikov). So for the third time we wrestled a rather large 3-week-old baby across the field and put up even higher wood slats that he'll need Olympic training to overcome. Now we're giving him uber-attention and loving so he does become attached to us and the land before we let him out (and fixing that hole in the fence).

It all started with 10 chickens. Then more. Then 2 cows. Then meat birds. Now water buffalo. Where will this Extreme Animal Husbandry addiction lead us next?

Natural Building

2011-08-10T20:36:00.000-07:00

Playin' in the mud, that's what I'm a-doin' these days. And building a house in the process.

Our cute little 1-bedroom rental cabin, fashioned out of the old garage, is perfect for a bachelor but we just keep getting blessed by beautiful families who need a little more room to spread out. So we decided to add on a lil' office and big ol' bedroom in a way that would be attractive, functional, relatively cheap, and eco-friendly. Enter natural building.

We had already had some trees taken down to let more sunlight onto our house and garden, and to better steward the overcrowded forest, so the first natural choice was to have a portable sawmill brought in to cut beautiful, sustainably-harvested, zero-mile lumber. With that frame up, we then imported clay from the gravel pit 4 km up the road, stirred in wood shavings from the mill 10 km away, and voila - we have one-foot thick "chip & slip" walls that'll provide amazing insulation and thermal mass with zero off-gassing, transport, waste, etc.

This weekend we're applying a plaster coat of mud, sand and straw (imported from the mainland, unfortunately I learned too late that we could have used our own cow manure for fibre instead). Stop by anytime this Fri, Sat, Sun or Mon and enjoy getting muddy while learning a new craft.

The windows, sad to say, are vinyl (just couldn't afford the beautiful locally-made wooden ones) but they are made just down by Seattle and of course are energy-efficient, sold by a locally-owned business, and allow plenty of natural light.

The "living roof" is supported by our own massive 4'x12' fir beams, then our own 2x8 tongue-and-groove ceiling board, then some (sorry again) rigid insulation, then a layer of cardboard for more insulation, and finally some pond liner and a layer of dirt into which we'll plant flowers and grasses. We'll not put it on until after the plaster's had time to dry.

The drawbacks? Well, it's darn slow. I started in April and have worked as quickly as the process will allow, but the mud takes about 1 week per inch to dry, and won't be hurried no-how.

The 12-inch-thick walls mean a larger footprint and more roofing materials.

It's taken a huge amount of manual labour. Huge. I'd guess that we put in over 300 hours of people-time (thanks to so many volunteer friends) just to mix and pack mud, and probably another 300 for mud plaster. Plus a huge effort to collect all the materials, and of course do all the foundation, wall structure, roof, electric, etc. I've done as much as I can myself, and have a master builder from OUR Ecovillage working with me when necessary - he leaves me a list of tasks to do, then comes back the next week to correct all my mistakes and set us on course for the next week of homework, and incredibly patient man to work with me!

The benefits? A deep sense of place and right relationship to use our own timber and our own muscle and our own wits. A rich community-building to have friends pitch in and learn together. A drastically-reduced carbon footprint and a healthier living environment by using local, natural materials. New construction at less than $100/foot, compared with maybe $150/foot for conventional building. And a building so beautiful that we're already eying it as our future empty-nester home.

In a society where we've learned to hire out construction (and pretty much everything) to "professionals" and "experts", it is truly liberating to reclaim our historic rights and powers to build our own shelter. We can do it, and end up with - in the words of the amazing Elke Cole who helped with the design - "a house that loves us back."

See more step-by-step photos on my facebook page

Camping on the Wild Side

2011-08-07T21:57:00.000-07:00

I want a 4x4. Finally, after 3 years in the country, I want a truck. A big truck with high suspension, 4-wheel drive, power.

No I don't want to race (though we did stumble upon an intriguing hidden 4x4 race track outside Port Alberni). I don't want to spend my days burning fossil fuels while challenging tough terrain. I just want to go camping.

After decades of Provincial Park camping throughout Canada, we've finally discovered an abundance of free camping in BC. Free in all senses of the word - no pay, no neighbours, no noise, no rules. Just us and nature and a stocked fishing lake (starting to sound like a Brad Paisely song).

Last year we followed the Backroads book to Khartoum Lake outside Powell River. This year it was a water taxi from Toffino to Flores Island, being dropped off on a rock outcropping then hiking along the "WildSide Trail" and white sand shoreline through a myriad of secluded white sand beaches. Next year we'll seek even more remote hike-in or canoe-in sites, with the one limitation being the roads to reach the launch point.

Not to diss our truly beautiful provincial parks, but there's just nothing like being alone on a mountain top or shoreline with good friends and nothing else. Well, nothing except a wolf that visited our picnic site, seals and sea otters popping up for a visit, grey whales spouting off-shore, bear prints in the morning, bald eagles and ravens watching from above. Was this worth hoisting an impossibly heavy backpack on my ol' back and on my amazingly-low-complaining boys' backs? You betchya!

Are we slowly moving into Extreme Camping? Sarah did spend 2 days dehydrating everything from beef jerky to rice & beans to chocolate pudding and granola bars. We had to boil water from a tidal river that never quite lost its salt and never quite quenched our thirst. We had to limit ourselves to one S'more per night (is that an oxymoron, "one s'more"?) Even my guitar had to stay home.

But in the end we still managed to pack in way too much delicious food, enough blankets and tents to keep warm in the wet coast mists, and enough bathing suits (none) to enjoy the surf and river fun. Toys for the kids - none. They delighted in shells and sticks and sand, games of tag and whale spotting and fire building. For all the complex planning and packing required, it was in its final expression a true gesture of simplicity.

Leaving the Farm

2011-07-31T06:44:00.001-07:00

The only problem with summer vacation is that it happens during the summer. Here on the farm, summer's an awful busy time. Wonderfully busy, that is. Plants are finally growing and need constant watering and weeding. Harvesting has begun - scapes, garlic, berries, cherries, beans... Time to start prepping for winter vegetable planting.

Tomorrow we go away for 5 days of hike-in camping at Forbidden Plateau. Once we're there it will be paradise, but for now I question the wisdom of having to rush through and arrange so much just to leave this paradise. In addition to the usual packing and planning and finishing work stuff mayhem (including patching rat holes in the tent -the joys of storing things on a farm), here's some of the farm tasks we have to arrange these days:

- someone to do the chickens: 3 sets of chickens need food water and freedom each morning, and precisely at dusk to be locked back in safe for the night
- buy enough chicken feed
- someone to water the garden: turn on 3 timers each morning or night, and set up sprinklers in 4 different patches not yet set up with drip tape
- cut the grass paths throughout the garden so they don't overgrow the rows
- dehydrate 5 days of food (sarah started on beef jerky, beans, rice, granola, snack bars... two days ago)
- harvest and process fava beans
- harvest and hang to dry the final row of garlic (25 dozen)
- move the water trough and electric fence so the cows are on fresh grass so they don't try to escape to greener pastures
- set out a fresh batch of garlic at the roadside farm stand
- set up climbing trellises for the beans to grow up onto

At the same time, construction of the cabin bedroom extension has reached another critical point. Today we have to finish "chinking" - filling in all cracks and gaps in the clay/woodshaving walls so that they can dry while we're gone. And order straw, sand and burlap so that when we return we can start the first layer of mud plaster inside and out.

Plus a community soccer game. And oh ya, mom's coming for an overnight, so we gotta make the place look nice for grandma. (Mom, if you're reading this, it actually always looks perfect, not just when you come :) Luckily, that means that at least for a while today the boys will get some parenting instead of just frantic us trying to squeeze a final 2 weeks of Things-To-Do into 24 hours.

When our 10th anniversary came by in early August, we waited until November to have our romantic B&B getaway. Now 2 years later we have our systems and our support network arranged a bit tighter so we can squeeze in a bit o' fun, but at the same time the farm is running deeper in our blood. I am very much looking forward to this annual camping adventure with good friends, but at the same time there's something unsettling and Wrong about leaving the farm when there's work to be done (said in the voice of Almanzo's Pa).

I even love Macaulay Culkin

2011-07-27T21:02:00.000-07:00

Actually I don't. I think he's annoying, a lousy over-produced child-actor, and at least on-screen quite a snot. So why did I cry when his character died?

Short answer - because I'm a dad. My wife's posting tonight describes it better than I can. Both of us posted yesterday about how we stepped up to stop a drunk driver - which required leaving our kids to witness the scary scene alone - to which one Mothering Magazine reader commented:

“Yeah, you did have a choice. You could have called the police. Clearly you could have gotten security if they got there so quickly What on earth were you thinking? This was terrible modeling for your children! To me this is the anti-mama bear, you chose to act in a way that traumatized your children!"

Sarah has already, as always, posted a beautiful response about universal maternal love. Being her loving husband, I always have a bit more to say, so here it is:

1. I'm amused that no-one wrote the response to me. Is it societally OK for Dad to abandon the wee ones to play superhero, but not mom? Would she chastise Arnold for leaving his kindergarten class to go stop the bad guys in Kindergarten Cop?

2. The "call the police and stay out of it" response is a pretty normal cop out (forgive the pun). Kinda like Grandma telling me to move home from Africa, get a real job and send money to Peace Corps to go do that development stuff (um, grandma, Peace Corps are just college grads just like me - someone else's grandkids.) This was a rare opportunity where there was no doubt about the need for intervention, no significant danger to taking action, and direct and immediate action was the only option - by the time we'd spoken to the 911 operator that driver would have already been on the road and we would have all just been praying that the police would catch her in time.

Yes the police are thankfully there for our protection, and in a more dangerous situation perhaps would have been the only option. But we Canadians especially have become so dependent on the police, the government, the experts, care homes, even the non-profit community, that it's become too easy to abdicate our civic duties. We teach and model for our children to "do the right thing," and sometimes that means doing it ourselves, not calling in someone else's parents or grandkids to take care of it for us.

3. That care-for-the-world heart-expansion that comes with parenting, which Sarah paints so beautifully, isn't just for moms. I hated Home Alone, and especially that child brat star, every time I saw it (video selections are limited at the African pastor's house where I lived then). Then years later, while we were pregnant with our first child in Texas, I suffered through another horrible Macaulay Culkin waste-of-2-hours-movie - My Girl. But when he died at the end of the movie I started crying. A child had just died, and I was a parent (to be) of a child, and John Donne's bell tolled and GONG!!! I was a parent. Part of the universal community of moms and dads and grandparents and aunts and uncles who care for and about the children of our world, and that love and care is so powerful that it gushes over the feeble white-picket boundaries of our little nuclear families.

When we left our children "home alone" to watch us struggle with that drunk woman, we weren't abandoning them. We were directly and actively caring for them and for all children. Yes it was a trauma for them, yes I wish it hadn't happened, and yes I wish that the police or security or another onlooker could have been there and allowed at least one of us to stay with the children. But not for a moment, then nor now, have I doubted that we were right in taking action.

How to Stop a Drunk Driver

2011-07-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like being bitten and accused of assault to cap off a great day at FolkFest.

It's 10:30 pm, Alpha YaYa's music is still floating across the farm, and we and our tired children are with a group of folkfest leavers waiting for the shuttle. A very drunk, disoriented woman bumbles through us, muttering this and that, then leans against a car still talking to herself. Still we wait.

Then suddenly, somehow, the woman has keys and has managed to open the car door, is getting in, and the crowd all watches and wonders what to do. My brave wife knows - she defies the group bystander effect (the more people present, the less likely anyone will do anything to help) and leans against the door to keep it open as she asks the woman how much she's had to drink.

"Tourist bitch!" the woman shouts, trying to shut the door, trying to push my wife away. I put my sleepy child down on the long grass and move in to help. She's somehow managed to start the car, so I lean across to turn it off while Sarah tries to hold her down. CRUNCH, the woman's teeth bear down into Sarah's bare forearm.

Now I'm 3/4 into the car, holding her down by the shoulders and arms, careful not to get bitten or kicked, all with one arm while trying unsuccessfully to remove the car keys with the other. She's punching and trying to hurt me, swearing, then screaming that I'm assaulting her. I'm summoning my calmest, most compassionate energy to try to communicate that I'm just trying to get the keys to keep her safe, but her ears have drowned in the empty gin bottle on the passenger seat.

I do feel calm. I've done this before. Too many times, trying to get the keys from my dad. Borrowing the truck and not returning it until a binge is over. Convincing the doctor to have his license suspended. Letting the air out of all tires and putting a new steering wheel lock (which still didn't stop him). At least this time I don't have to maintain a relationship with this woman; don't have to weigh the relative importance of possibly damaging a father-son trust with possibly killing an innocent child.

For Sarah, that's the turning point, the motivation to step out of the paralyzed crowd and take action - innocent children. Our own children right with us; other children and families on those streets she was about to swerve onto. Mama Bear on board, and teeth or no teeth that woman isn't going to kill anyone's children on her watch.

At long last security arrives and we can attend to our own terrified, crying children. For days we'll be trying to explain the dangerous effects of alcohol, the importance of citizens stepping up to responsibility, the good fortune that we were never much in danger (unless she'd managed to get it into gear.)

They've just witnessed their first act of true violence - violence against their own parents and, from the drunk woman's perspective, perpetuated by their own parents. I hope it will be seared into their souls not as a moment of violence or fear, but as a necessary act of compassionate force, motivated and tempered by a love for children, for their grandfather, and for a sick woman who for at least one night was kept from harm.

PS - just to be really clear, I didn't show any bravery in supporting my wife and subduing a much-weaker person. It was my wife taking the risk by stepping out of the crowd to initiate the action. Here's what she wrote about it on her MamaRenew blog

Island Folk Fest

2011-07-23T08:15:00.000-07:00

Aint nothin' better in this world you know
Than lying in the sun with a radio

Except when that radio is live music on 5 stages, and there's hundreds of other folkie folk friends lazing around in that sun while children dance in front of the stage. And a friend on stage. And other friends selling drums and hats and wares at their booths.

Folk Fest for me is a little about the music, and alot about community. Jhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifust devoting a whole weekend to enjohttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifyment, creativity, food, people - it's alot like camping.

I'm talking about the REAL Folk Fest, by the way - Island Folk Fest, just 8 minutes down the road at the base of Mt. Tzouhalem on Providence Farm. Sure, the Vancouver version was big and fun, but this one is ours, has lotsa local talent as well as imported eye-poppers, lotsa friends, and just smaller and more intimate. Part of our moving to the island was a switch in allegiance, and the quality music and magical atmosphere made that easy.

We also get to host musicians - this year, Mojave, a lovely couple from Tofino. We'll be leaving in a few minutes to watch them perform, and in return for providing a bed we get free admission, lunches, a quiet space with snacks and drinks to get us through a long day.

OK, time to put on a flowery skirt and bare feet and summon my inner Janis Joplin (never too far beneath the surface.) See you there?

Boys of Summer

2011-07-21T20:30:00.001-07:00

How do a dad and two boys enjoy a summer afternoon on the farm? Throw a baseball around. Take apart the tractor and end up making it worse. Kick the soccer ball around. Dig up the dirt pile covering the future grey-water pit and use it to fill in the holes in the soccer pitch from when 7-year-old Galen learned to use the excavator 2 years ago. Dig some more dirt and build a bike jump in the forest. Take down the last storm window while the boys get their bikes and helmets. Finally buck up that log across the forest path while the boys do more and more daring jumps that'll make their Mama sweat. When the chainsaw gets stuck, use a long strong branch and a stump to make a lever that the boys sit on to raise the log back up.

Then inside for some quick liver burgers and fried potatoes, a long "childhood story" of various mishaps and almost-arrests on my first ever trip to France, a soft sing-along of Sweet Baby James, and a delightful falling asleep with Galen on my shoulder and Zekiah on my chest.

Four chores done, three games played, one impressive scratch each, and only one broken farm implement. We may be a long way from circus camps and roller coasters, but there's no shortage of summer thrills here on the WildSide.

YES!

2011-07-20T20:40:00.000-07:00

Today's blog is brought to you the word "Yes." What a great, under-used word. A word and a spirit I try to bring more into my life.

As a parent I try to meet my children with YES more often. "No" is the automatic parental reflex. An innocent "Can I..." and we're already thinking of a reason to deny them. NO to snacks, NO to a quick game of cards, NO to a family outing, NO to second helping of dessert. On my good days I let YES be the automatic response, the default, unless I then think of a compelling reason to say no. YES my boys, I'm here for you, YES we can enjoy life, YES i love you in this positive giving open way, YES.

I want to say YES to my friends' spoken and unspoken needs. YES to my tired wife wanting me to clean. YES to the school committee recruitment, YES to Quaker meeting involvement, YES to the community ready to embrace my involvement. (Of course, Sarah will be the first to tell you I'm a bit too good at this type of Yes; sometimes there's a healthy balance to No also.)

YES to being hopeful about the world, even a Harper-led government and Tea-Party-led US Congress and whoever it is running BC. YES to listening, to honest dialogue, to looking into the heart of those with different opinions and needs and priorities. YES to constructive engagement, YES to solutions.

YES to YES! Magazine, a positive inspiring look at how to make the world better, not at what's wrong with it. Yes to the Canadian Friends Service Committee, YES to Farm Folk City Folk, YES to any organization that brings out the good and builds connection and helps create a world we can all believe in.

YES to Pivot Legal Society, who just put out a YIMBY kit, counterbalancing NIMBY-ism("Not in my backyard") supporting people to say "YES in my back yard."

YES to Chantey Dayal and Chantell Foss and all the artists and poets and dancers who bring creative energy into a hungry world. YES to Dancing Star Birth, which responds to the over-medicalized birth industry not with criticism or judgement, but just with a quiet strength that brings pregnant couples to a place of believing in their own strength and the strength of their incoming baby.

And a big whopping incredulous YES to the founder of Dancing Star Birth, my beautiful wife Sarah, who was brave and crazy enough to say Yes to me 12 years ago and so so many improbable times since (she said Yes to a water buffalo yesterday, more on that soon.) YES to Meg Ryan's fake orgasm - I'll have what she's having. And YES to the country music industry which can unabashedly reduce all this happy drivel to a concise Brad Paisley tune:

She said YES! I said WOW!
She said When? I said How about right now?
Love can't wait, then I asked if she believed in fate
And she said YES.

Blame it on the Rain

2011-07-17T20:05:00.000-07:00

It's not the rain that's getting me down; it's the incessant complaining about the rain. The #1 greeting or Facebook status these days is lamenting the "lack of summer."

We celebrated yesterday's morning downpour with a family hottub in the garden, with children ecstatic about this good fishing weather. And how adorable they looked in their slickers and umbrellas heading off to the Duncan Daze parade. No worries about it raining on their parade - they had a great time. No-one got sunburnt or dehydrated, no-one wearied from the heat, no scrambling for that one shady spot along the parade route. Just warm wet happy puppies playing in the summer puddles.

If 2011 isn't the Best Summer Ever, would it really be the weather's fault? Sure there could be more sunbathing days, but my garden would also be thirstier, and I'd have constantly greasy hands from kids' sunblock. Our lemonade bills are down this year, and backyard baseball games last much longer on cloudy days with green grass to lie in.

This cultural obsession with the weather feels like just another externalization, a shedding of personal responsibility for our state of happiness. Our boss, our god, the economy, the government, that Things-To-Do list (like someone else wrote it), our achy back, that counter that needs scrubbing, and of course those damn clouds - all these things jump in our way to achieving true happiness, to doing what we really want to do. "If only X and Y and Z, then I'd have time, then I'd have no stress, then I'd do what I really want. Then I'd be happy."

I'm not looking for the silver lining behind the cloud. I'm looking at that cloud straight-on and appreciating the rain for my fields, the coolness for my house, the shade for my head, the astounding gradations of grey, the lack of crowds at the park, the beautiful eyes of non-sunglassed friends, the puffy aerial variety show. I've looked at clouds from both sides now, and still somehow refuse to allow something 10,000 feet above my head to disturb my Peace. It's mine to create or destroy, and I will not lean on an permeable accumulation of condensed water vapor as an excuse to not live fully.

My glass is half full, dammit, and if it's half-full of rainwater than it's that much sweeter to drink from.

Mr. Mentor

2011-07-16T07:44:00.001-07:00

Mentor. Role Model. Splendid signs of middle-age and new ways to give and explore.

I've had many mentors, many older folk I look to for guidance and inspiration. When I shadowed the Africa Area Director for Heifer International in 1997, it was the first time I saw a profession I wanted, and bluntly asked him for advice on how I could have his job in 10 years (it ended up taking 12, but I followed his advice to the letter - minimum 3 years overseas, a few more languages, and a Masters degree). Dan and Anne were only 5 years older during Habitat training, but to 26-year-old me they were the international-development-savvy professionals I hoped to become. Beth Scott quickly transitioned from ACCES boss to mentor for how I want to be with people. My beloved piano teacher, her activist husband, some of my beautiful friends here in the valley, even my boisterous pure children - so many people who show me new ways to the light.

As I get older and wiser, I love being increasingly on the giving end of this mentoring deal, though as always I learn just as much as the younger (usually) mentee. It's a challenge not to preach or fall into the illusion that my path should be their path, though entertaining and flattering when they do it themselves. But to offer my life and perspective and choices up as a reflecting wall for others to gain some new ideas or insights about their own path, that is a true gift for myself as well as (hopefully) for others.

As I see these young adults embarking on the exciting, life-defining phase of their lives, I feel surprisingly little envy. I LOVED being that open-to-life's-experiences youth, ready to embrace and challenge and feed on whatever the world could offer up, but feel no need to go back there myself. I'm equally in love with this more settled but still-growing phase, and can vicariously keep that younger experience alive through these connections with others at different points along the journey.

This musing is inspired by our current house-guest, a just-19-year-old college freshman from Sarah's undergrad college in Michigan. Each year we host one student for a 2-week life-work experience, and the past two years the guests have been extraordinarily open in their exploring and sharing. As we introduce her to the How and Who of us, we also get to question and relive the decisions we've made and continually make that bring us here, and see ourselves through pure open new eyes.

For example, her first blog posting depicts our idyllic marriage. Subsequent posts paint a beautiful picture of our work, children, land, etc. I read it and wish I could be those people, then remember that I am!

Of course if she stayed longer she'd also see dark and tired days, the uninspired and over-busy days, but just as I don't hide those in my writing, I hope I also don't hide those from her as they naturally occur in our cycle. If I'm truly setting myself up as a learning post, it needs to be an honest and complete picture of one possible reality.

So thank you, dear Charlotte, for being so thirsty and drinking from our oddly-shaped cup for a spell. Know that we receive just as much as we give and learn just as much as we teach, and hope that together we can continue to inspire the better and best in each other.

100-Metre Breakfast

2011-07-12T11:06:00.000-07:00

This morning celebrated Sarah's birthday, and also our visiting intern Charlotte's 19th birthday, with fresh strawberry shortcake, whipped cream with maple syrup, and carrot-plum-kale-apple juice. All from our garden (OK, the whipped cream from our cow share up the road and the flour from our grains CSA two farms over).

Breakfast yesterday: strawberries on granola, potato-egg pancakes, and strawberries, kale-spinach-crabapple yogurt smoothie. Again, every ingredient except the granola from our garden (or from the root cellar or canning shelves from last year's harvest). Backyard bounty.

Cheap, local, fresh, organic, healthy (eaten within an hour of picking), low carbon footprint, supports the local economy, and so so so satisfying. And oh ya, yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Trash in the Pantry

2011-07-11T07:56:00.000-07:00

Seven days without the kids and we've been Doin' It non-stop. But more like bees than rabbits.

Each day we walk into one room/space in the house and give ourselves 2 hours (often stretching to 4 or 8) to make it ours. Move furniture, scrub, re-paint, repair, re-vision. Room by room this house of 3 years is becoming ours. We've been here long enough to know our patterns and needs, and to suddenly be able to re-invent how the space can support us. I always know I'm in trouble when Sarah goes quiet for a minute, eyes rolling back and up for inspiration, then she slowly starts with, "What if..."

Yesterday, Sunday, the Lord's appointed day of rest, I looked behind the door at the top of the stairs at the perennial mess of bags, vacuum attachments, mop, apron etc and declared that to be my room of the day. What I really want to brag about isn't the clever design that now how us able to (a) keep bulk storage items handy and (b) open the door on a regular basis. It's the materials used.

That support beam is more of the McClean's toolshed I took down last summer (it's also featured in 2 chicken coops, the new bedroom extension, soccer goals, and many other new lives). The cross pieces are salvaged by my friend Eric from his painting jobs. The shelves are someone's old cedar fence in Abbotsford that also became the rental cabin's ceiling, shelves and trim. The top shelves are from the basement cupboard I removed last fall. And all the screws were salvaged from the cabin extension project.

Anne Murray was thinking of these shelves when she sang When Everything Old Is New Again (featured here with a classic 80's hairdo and kimono, and skateboarding Muppets).

The result of this labour of love isn't just a clever storage area. It's the release of energy that comes from de-cluttering. It's the time and energy savings from not having to constantly clean, push-back the mess, and search for things. It's the increased capacity to purchase staples in bulk, saving money and time and more easily supporting organic fair-trade producers. And it's the shared satisfaction of co-creating a vision then immediately bringing it into reality.

I suppose we could have used this week to sleep in late, enjoy chai in the garden, go to shows. But as I predicted in recent posting called Farmers Date, this Doing and Creating is truly who we are and what we share and what turns us on. Sarah officially knew she was in love with me the day we re-designed her Austin bedroom (3 days into our first in-person visit). So I'm officially coming out of the closet by saying that our idea of foreplay is cleaning the closet.

No Final Regrets

2011-07-08T06:35:00.000-07:00

My dad made one last surprise visit - in my dream last night - on the day that he was about to die. I walked beside him and put my hand on his unsteady back and he looked over, only a bit surprised and a lot happy, and said in a weak but familiar voice, "Hey, kiddo."

We sat on the pier and talked about not too much. Told him that my brother and I had good jobs (on a fishing boat), pointed out a spectacular white bird with red-tipped wings. He laughed and said we could return his new piece of carry-on luggage we'd stored in the barn (guess you really can't take it with you :)

Our real-life last visit was a lot like this. Weak, grey as a ghost, gaunt, but still strong-willed enough to take 90 minutes of bus-skytrain-bus then 5-block walk to visit his grandkids. I somehow knew enough to not just leave him with the boys and go to work. We sat in the living room enjoying 3 generations of Juliusson men, talking about the Willie Nelson concert he'd watched twice the night before, making him coffee and a cheese sandwich. As he started the long walk back to the bus stop in his grey sweats and blue t-shirt, I offered him a ride and he accepted - he was that weak.

I didn't officially know it was his last visit, but wouldn't change much even if I had. We just spent time together, loved the boys together, gave each other what we needed.

As I woke up from the dream I mused on how once again I didn't say in words what was being spoken just by being present together in those last moments:

I'm carrying forward the best of what you taught and showed me, the best of who you are. I'm a good, honest, hard-working man. I chop wood and take care of my family and am last to bed after turning out all the lights. I question authority and speak Truth to power. I play guitar and write Santa Claus poems and infuse Joy into the world.

And most importantly, out of all the dads in the world, I'd choose you every time.

If I play the "what if today is your last day" game, I wouldn't feel regrets about how I'm living, who I am, what I've done or haven't done. My only sadness would be not getting to see my boys grow up, see who they're going to become, and walk with them along that journey. Not growing old with my wife, smiling arm in arm as we watch our children and grandchildren blossoming into the world. And hearing in their smiles, their good lives, and maybe even in their voices that the best of me lives on through them, and that of all the dads in the world, they'd choose me every time.

10 Things I Learned from Being Silent

2011-07-06T12:59:00.000-07:00

20 hours of no talking (plus 36 of no eating) can teach you alot, especially since there's lots of time to listen. I did it to participate in the Day of Global Solidarity - recognizing the billions of people who have no voice and/or who go hungry every day - and to raise money for VIDEA - Victoria International Development Education Association. But of course in the end the most powerful experience was what I learned about myself.

1. I talk alot. All interesting and brilliant and funny, of course, but alot. Sometimes a wee filter or a 2-second delay like they have on some live TV shows might be a good thing.

2. I process verbally. It's why my parents feared to go to parent-teacher interviews. It's partly why I talk alot. It's why I love teaching and facilitating. It's why I write. Taking something in, churning it around in my brain, then spitting it back out again helps me digest and integrate (hmm, spit-out to digest, not the best-formed analogy ever...)

3. I express my feelings verbally. At the end of the lovely visit/interview with my friend Elke, I wanted so much to tell her how much I enjoyed being with her, respect her, respect that she let me stay silent, appreciate all she gives to the world, etc etc, and all I could do was smile and hug and hope it all shone through my eyes. And who knows, maybe it did even more than the words would have.

4. My wife likes to hear me talk. 12 years of marriage and we still have so much talk about. Thirty minutes into the verbal fast and she moaned, "I feel abandoned." This morning I burst out in a stream of things to share with her from yesterday - sharing it makes it that much more real.

5. I don't need to say it all. Others will eventually say it for me, or something that's better or more interesting. At the end if it hasn't been said, now's my chance to speak, or maybe by then it won't feel that important anymore.

6. People talk more when I don't. During this silent day I interviewed the fantastic Elke Cole for a magazine article. Instead of the usual back-and-forth Q&A, I just sat back and let her share. After an impressively short time to get over the awkwardness, she talked. Then instead of filling the silence with another leading question, I'd just wait and she'd go deeper, or in a direction I wouldn't have guessed, and that's where the richest stuff was revealed. Near the end, she said, "It's amazing when someone's just listening, how much I want to talk."

7. Silence is a great chick magnet. OK, maybe not so deep, but it's true. Women, and i suppose men too, were fascinated and impressed by me and my little sign. Stopped to read it, commented, smiled, sometimes mouthed words back thinking they had to be silent too. I wish I'd known this trick when I was young - so much easier than a cute puppy.

8. My voice has many modalities. I cut out blog, facebook, and email as well as voice, and tried to minimize writing notes and pantomime. Even my sign was a powerful communicator, literally stopping a few cars in the street. The goal wasn't to communicate without talking, it was to experience not being heard, not being able to share my needs and feelings and ideas, not being able to be actively part of the shaping and running of the world that runs me.

9. My voice is strong. With little effort I mobilized over $500 and a lot of publicity for VIDEA. Even while silent I supported a presentation at city council opposing "smart" meters, and a seed was planted that I could become an elected council member or some office. Instead of feeling solidarity with the billions of people who feel little or no power against the government, corporations, spouses, etc controlling their lives, I instead felt the full power of my voice.

10. I want to do this again. I want to more regularly explore different ways of communicating and being with the world. I want to remain conscious of my powers and limitations, and how they relate to others around me and around the world. I want to take time for some deep listening, inside and out, and take time to respond I want to continue to support groups like VIDEA and maintain my connection to that active international development world I once immersed myself in (and hope to again, soon, but that's another blog.)

Thank you to those who supported this experience with pledges, smiles, tolerance, good humour, interest. And thank you to all of you who mostly indulge and encourage my blatant lack of silence - may your ears always be as big as my voice.

Smart Meters are just plain Dumb

2011-07-04T12:12:00.001-07:00

Last year our family spent over $1000 to rid our house of all wireless signals and devices - cordless phones, wi-fi internet, cordless keyboards, etc, based mostly on a gut feeling that this vast uncontrolled experiment with massive doses of electro-magnetic radiation was somehow Wrong. I later outlined some of the research-based reasons to be wary of wireless. Now BC Hydro - the exclusive electricity distributor in BC - is forcing every house to have a "Smart Meter" that will emit 100 times the radiation level of a cell phone. Radiation through my children's growing bodies and brains, through the bees trying to pollinate my plants, through this airspace that I thought I had some control over.

If you're in the Cowichan Valley, please come to Duncan City Hall tonight (Mon, July 4) at 6:45 to support a presentation to council about this. And wherever you are, please check out the EMF Safety Network to get educated about the dangers of wireless in our world and what we can do about it.

The World Health Organization has listed wi-fi ("non-ionizing radiofrequency electromagnetic radiation") as possibly carcinogenic. That puts it right up there in their books with Chloroform.

Another article, rather big-brotherish but quite possibly true and scary, talks about the plan to have all household appliances with mandatory wireless transmitters.

Regardless of the extent of the harm, which we may not know for another generation, the fact is that electro-magnetic radiation is being imposed on us in higher and higher levels without truly knowing the health effects. And that's just wrong. It's been banned in many schools, particularly in Britain, and at the very least we should have some control over it in our own homes.

There's nothing "Smart" about a device that exposes us to something that hasn't been proven to be safe. And there's nothing Smart about a people who let this happen without speaking out. See you tonight, 6:45, at Duncan City Hall (and again tomorrow, Tuesday, at 3:00 at CVRD).

Mouth Wide Shut

2011-07-03T06:07:00.000-07:00

Wanna hear me shut up? Put your money where my mouth is.

This Tuesday I'm participating in a Day of Global Solidarity. For 24 hours I'll not eat a thing, to symbolically stand beside the millions of people who go hungry each day. And also hopefully to raise money to support the great work of VIDEA, our nearby international development agency.

AND, if enough of y'all sponsor me to total $500, I'll also go silent for that full day, to symbolically stand beside the millions of women, children, people disproportionately affected by climate change, global victims of our excessive Western consumerism and predatory trade practices, etc etc - the millions of people who do not have a voice.

I said "symbolically" twice because doing something (a) voluntarily, and (b) for a limited time, is nothing like having it forced on you with no end in sight. There have been times in my travelling days where I was genuinely hungry, unable to get enough food, and that was an entirely different feeling than choosing to fast. But even then, I always knew that I had money in the bank and a Canada to return to, so even though my body felt some of the fatigue and powerlessness that a hungry child goes to school or the fields with every day, my soul still felt hope, felt alive.

The same with my voice. While I do succumb to deep despair at what I've labelled the Fascist Harper Regime, as a white middle-class educated Canadian male I have one of the most powerful, effective voices in the world. There is no way I can ever truly walk beside the 15-year-old third wife my cook in rural Tanzania, but I can take this day to at least acknowledge my voice in relation to hers, and stay silent long enough to re-think how I use that power.

Please join me on Tuesday, or any day, in this creative way of recognizing our place in and impact on the world, and this symbolic and monetary support of our global sisters and brothers. And please do take a minute to pledge your support - I can personally vouch for the good work of VIDEA, and the only thing that will keep me from shouting it from the rooftops will be enough pledges to make me shut up.

Cow's destiny

2011-07-01T09:05:00.000-07:00

When I wrote the other day that our cows may derive "some inherent sahttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.giftisfaction of providing organic healthy nourishment for our family to fulfill their destiny," I had in mind a beautiful book called "The Faithful Gardener" by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, telling the story of a fir tree so happy that he can keep the old couple warm.

"Oh, I never knew I could burn with such brightness, that I could fill a room with such warmth. I love these old ones with all my heart." The fir tree and all the knots in its wood - and in its heart - burst with joy in the flame.

Night after night, the fir tree surrendered himself to this rendering. He was so completely glad to be useful and to be alive in this way, that he burned and burned until there was no more left of him, except for the ashes that lay in the bottom of the grate.

And as he was being brushed out of the grate by the old people, he thought he had never imagined more glory than his life had been till now, and that he could never again wish for more than had been his life up to this very moment.

I am very aware that in both cases (cows and trees) that we are looking at the worth of their life from the perspective of their worth to us humans, but still, wouldn't it be such great comfort to have a clear understanding of some single purpose of our lives? My deep meaning is to raise good kids and contribute to our human and full world, but that's still pretty self-serving and/or awfully vague and general.

How about, I am flower. I am here to create beauty for a short time, to gather the sun's warmth and earth's richness to nourish bumblebees and butterflies, then to send forth my seeds for the next generation of beauty and nourishment. Then return into the soil. Hmmm, maybe we're not so different from flowers (and cows, and fir trees) after all.

Taking the Bull By The ....

2011-06-29T21:59:00.000-07:00

Animal rights activists beware: Farmer Ricky not only kills animals, he emasculates them too. There's been alot of death and diminution around the WildSide Farm these days.

Death has been at the pesky hands and teeth of an overfed raccoon who apparently prefers our organic chickens to the no-name SuperStore fish-flavoured cat-food in the trap. I keep plugging more holes in the fence and coop and he keeps finding ways to diminish my stock, down to 30 as of yesterday from 56 a month ago. Every morning that I find a new pile of feathers I feel I've failed my flock. Know I've failed them.

So traps are out, and even though they are live traps there'll soon be a dead coon on my dinner table if I finally catch him. There's no cruelty in killing one animal that has killed 26 of my egg-laying chickens. It's survival.

The depriving of "manhood" has been at the hands of me and my friend Amy, courtesy of a tiny little elastic band much tighter than the pleasure-enhancing ones at the Adult shops. We fooled poor little 2-month-old SnowStar (and then Midnight, who didn't go so easily after seeing what happened to his brother) to tie them to a fencepost, then slipped the elastic over his impressive baggage and snapped it shut. Those future calf-making machines will slowly shut down from lack of fuel and work no more.

Again, no cruelty intended. This keeps our young bull - now a steer, technically - from getting too rangy and dangerous, and keeps all those yucky-tasting boy hormones out of the meat that'll eventually reach our table. If we're gonna raise cattle for beef, this is just a necessary part of the equation.

In my final defence, WildSide Farm is actually an orphanage, a cattle rescue shelter. If we hadn't picked up these calves to raise, they would have been slaughtered at birth - since they are a dairy breed, they're not as valued for their meat as pure meat-breeds, and therefore are of no commercial value to the "real" cattlemen. True I'm only giving them 18 months of life, and ball-less life at that, but they do have the run of our beautiful hayfield, the company of each other, and some daily loving from our family and visitors. A pretty decent life as Canadian cows go, and hopefully some inherent satisfaction of providing organic healthy nourishment for our family to fulfill their destiny at the end of it all.

Farmers' Date

2011-06-27T11:46:00.000-07:00

Happiness is: 2 nights with no kids, and all four of my power landscaping tools working (yes, 4: ride-em mower, push mower, handlebar weedwhacker, push weedwhacker). And oh ya, my beautiful wife here too. Where to start?

We started the night before by doing what we love best - making a list. Not just any list, but divided up by categories: farm, house reno's, inside clean-up/reorganizing, Friends, and just out of a sense of duty, a little column called "Fun." Fun has a dinner out, theatre tickets, and yoga. Period.

Fact is, it's that other stuff that we consider fun. The chance to finally get the septic field cleared, 13 more species of plants and trees in the ground, and multi-coloured spoons hung on the kitchen cabinet doors is our idea of foreplay.

We were so excited about the list that we started out by skipping yoga to come home (from Galen's delightful first piano recital) to the garden. Planted broccoli, corn, tomatoes, chard, fennel, a mulberry tree and an autumn-olive tree, finished setting up irrigation tubes in the greenhouse, and raked up grass clippings for the cows before a brief twilight respite in the hot tub. Then inside to sort laundry, re-organize the guest room, and an early bed-time too happily tired to even enjoy the fruits of our funky foreplay.

Our first ever date after moving here was to a Backyard Poultry Disease Prevention workshop at the Best Western Hotel, so I suppose this is all nothing new. In Vancouver we used to go out to restaurants alot just because we weren't sure what else to do on a date. No shortage of ways to enjoy each other these days...

Increasing the overlap of work and play, obligation and passion - that's what infuses happiness and fulfillment into this marriage, this life, this rambunctious walk on the WildSide.

Bipolar Fathers Day

2011-06-23T07:02:00.000-07:00

There's nothing more intimidating than a blank cheque question like "What do you want to do for Father's Day?" Like whatever I choose defines my priorities and identity, and I'd better like whatever I choose.

My two gut responses were equally strong and opposite. One was to want time alone - take the kids away, let me do some yardwork and nap. Let me take a break from the rewarding but exhausting and never-ending work of being a Father, being a responsible caregiver. The day before I spent the whole day caring for others - kids, chickens, clients, renters, plants, school committee... a day of not being responsible for anyone else would be delicious, but also rather ironic.

The other impulse was that I want to celebrate Fathers Day by doing what I love the most - being a father. Let's build a fort, play without agenda, fall asleep all together at the end of a giggle-fest day. Shed all other worldly worries and dastardly distractions and just be in the full-on Papa mode that feeds my soul and lets me shine.

In the end I did a lot of both. While Sarah took the boys to Quaker meeting I stayed home and did a fun task I'd been wanting for ages - re-stacked all the firewood in the woodshed. A task that's been too low on the priority list to get done, but that made me feel great. Fiddled on some of the rental cabin reno tasks and some other tasks with no pressure, just enjoying Doing. And also enjoyed plenty of playtime with the family, and let them Treat me to fantastic meals.

The highlight was the feverish 3 hour creativity session where the boys would not let me into the house. They sewed bean-bag juggling balls for me, and were just bursting with happiness to surprise their papa with something home-made. Guess that's the answer to this question of what I want for Fathers Day - it's not my day, it belongs to my children, gives them a chance to recognize and enjoy and reciprocate the love they receive from me.

I'm happy to say that Fathers Day is, for me, totally unnecessary. I always love the role, get enough breaks and variety, and the love and attention and appreciation feels reciprocated. But a day to officially focus on this abundant source of beauty in my life, and an excuse to demand homemade scones and whipped cream for breakfast, I'll take that as often as my beautiful family and Hallmark will dish it out.

Canuck riots - we were all there

2011-06-17T12:23:00.001-07:00

As we process the post-hockey violence in Vancouver, I feel called to share this piece I published a few years back. When it happened, I somehow thought that mob mentality was a "third-world" phenomenon, but we're all human and we all get swept away and we all have the frightening potential to lose our humanity. Even over a stupid hockey game.

Thirteen years later, I can still see him lying there on the sidewalk. Still smell the urine and sweat and anger, still taste my revulsion and fear and excitement. Justice swiftly served on the hot streets of Tanzania.

I had been walking down the streets of Dar Es Salaam – which means “Harbour of Peace” –when I noticed a crowd gathered on the sidewalk. Not the normal gang hanging around a gambling card game or street performer or moneychanger. This crowd was buzzing, pulsing, hungry. There was a smell of violence, of men strongly elated and horrified by what they had become.

The crowd readily parted to let me see the cause, or result, of the gathering. A man on his back, bloody, wet urine stain down the front and leg. At first I thought he was passed out drunk, but as a few stragglers kicked idly into his inert sides so as to not feel left out, it was obvious he was dead.

This wasn’t my first experience of street justice. When a hungry barefoot boy lifted my pocketknife in a crowded ferry landing in Zaire, the local men caught and beat him. The first thing I knew of it was the sound of knuckles rapping hard, repeatedly, on the boy’s skull, and the wails of a small wounded animal with no escape. Even when I realized that the beating was on my behalf – especially then – I wanted desperately for it to stop. It was only a knife; he was only a small hungry boy.

But when a young man reached into my friend’s money belt on a bus in Uganda, I was no pacifist – I was angry. He only got his hands on Evie’s leftover sandwich, but I wanted him to be Punished. Instead, he just got off the bus and laughed at us through the window, mocking my impotent rage. Where was the Clint Eastwood Man in me teaching him a lesson? Where were the protective locals hammering a message of justice in loud resonating cracks to his skull? I could have easily joined a mob and laid my boots to his side until pain smudged that cocky smile.

Perhaps he would have “learned his lesson” and not robbed anyone ever again. Perhaps he would have still been hungry and desperate, and a bit more dangerous. Or perhaps he too would have ended up on his back in the street, lying in a pool of his own blood, a few more random kicks to make sure the job was done.

I did not want to kill him. But I did want to hurt him, or see him hurt, to assuage my anger. And behind that anger was fear – fear that this crime could happen again, to me. That scared boy in me needed to believe in the simple societal answer that punishing him would protect me. And from that place of fear, punishment would have to be violent, somehow making him suffer – a beating in Africa, incarceration in Canada, capital punishment in Texas.

That violent rage and fear I experienced is the same energy that fed the mob in Dar Es Salaam. It blocked the humanity in them that could have felt compassion or connection with him as a human being – the part that could move beyond the need for Punishment and embrace something like Restorative Justice. It also blocked the rationality and restraint in them that could have stopped it in time. The result was death rather than justice.

As the anger drug wore off the “Harbour of Peace” mob, the self-appointed street judges believed – had to believe – that they’d done the right thing. That he deserved what he got, and that this would send a message to other would-be thieves. Having arrived too late to catch the mob mentality and not being the victim, I had the luxury of condemning the violence and the curse of fully absorbing the horror. And at that moment I had the hypocrisy to judge those men for feeling and doing exactly what I felt and might have done to a young man in Uganda, for the crime of almost stealing my friend’s leftover sandwich.

Confessions of an Embarrased Canuck Fan

2011-06-15T23:02:00.000-07:00

It's not that they lost - the Bruins are less talented but played better and deserved to win.

It's not this ridiculous post-game violence and burning cars that even in protest over real issues at the G20 didn't work for me - that's a minority of people that don't reflect on me.

It's the fact that I care. That I feel a bit deflated and sad tonight because a bunch of overpaid men didn't score, and that I would be giddy with teenage excitement if they had won. I really did want that group of imported hockey players to win - those men who are loyal to my old hometown because they're paid to be so.

It's the fact that I devoted a significant amount of time over the past 2 months watching highlights, bits of games, full games at the theatre, reading online commentary, listening to meaningless radio banter, wasting social time in the parking lot on such a meaningless topic. If I'd devoted that same time and energy and focus to the piano, Beethoven's second movement of the Moonlight Sonata would be mine by now.

I did enjoy the ride, and did enjoy the camaraderie of sharing that ride with the rest of BC. But the game 7 loss just reinforces the futile waste of energy and passion invested in professional sports. Why wasn't I playing ultimate frisbee with my own energy and my friends tonight, instead of sitting watching someone else win or lose?

Even if they'd won I'd likely be writing this, just a few days later - rather like that empty feeling after an ambitious one-night stand; good or bad, you wake up and wonder why you didn't just stick with your buddies at that bar.

Drowning

2011-06-13T10:26:00.000-07:00

I pulled a drowning kid out of the river at Bright Angel Park last year. 20 feet out from shore. Swam right past his parents, helped him in, walked back past his parents who just looked a little annoyed.

Was I wrong? Was he just a goofy 11-year-old playing around? I had ummed and ahhed for a few seconds - do I potentially make a fool out of myself if he's actually not in trouble, especially with his family right there? But this fantastic article made me glad that I decided to err on the side of caution:Drowning Doesn't Look Like Drowning.

The article helped me understand my own response when an older girl almost drowned me during a camping trip. In full view of my family and friends, she repeatedly dunked me (intending it to be fun). My brother was just 20 feet away and until today neither of us understood why I didn't call for help. I went into the precise "instinctive drowning response" they describe - unable to scream or wave for help, just trying to get enough breath each time she let me up to survive the next dunking, letting my body go limp to preserve energy and breath. A truly terrifying moment of my childhood.

As we finally head into summer (witness only 5 kids in line this morning when the bell rang to start the last week of school), please read that article and be clear on the real signs of drowning (not usually as active as my own experience).

"It is the number two cause of accidental death in children, age 15 and under (just behind vehicle accidents), Of the approximately 750 children who will drown next year, about 375 of them will do so within 25 yards of a parent or other adult. In ten percent of those drownings, the adult will actually watch them do it, having no idea it is happening."

Enjoyed my third swim of the year at the grade one beach day last week (the first swim being January, 1, second at Crescent Beach on Easter weekend), and look forward to many more beautiful and safe swims with my family this summer.

Who's the Boss

2011-06-10T21:25:00.000-07:00

In full 9-year-old mode, he whines defiantly to the teacher, "WHY do we have to wear shoes?!"

I wait for the teacher's patient response about safety, hot roads, liability waivers, etc. Instead, he turns to give his full attention to the boy and says, "Do you want to know Why? Look at me. Do you want to... look at me. Do you want to know why?"

Finally the boy looks him in the eye and more quietly says "Yes."

"Because... I ... said ... so." Slow, steady, strong. Not challenging, because there was never a challenge to this man's authority. He was and is the boss, the alpha male, and just needed to remind the boy.

The child's response? Not anger, not counterwill, and not deflation. Just relief. My universe is still safe because my teacher is still the boss. Relief, and release of anxiety. On went the shoes.

We don't have to ask for our children's compliance. We don't even have to demand it. Just expect it. We don't have to explain all our decisions - even the ones that are easy - just be confident in them. The more fully we are in the role of Adult, the more freedom they can have to enjoy and grow in their role of Child.

Let Them Cry it Out

2011-06-07T19:56:00.000-07:00

I just let my little boy cry himself to sleep, and it didn't hurt a bit. In fact, it felt really good.

No, I didn't slip out to indulge in fresh whipped cream and frozen cherries (that came after) - I was right there with him. Laying as close as possible while he buried himself under blankets and thrashed. Singing "If you take my hand my son, all will be well when the day is done" through and with his sobs. By the second chorus he let my hand rest on his belly, and in the final chorus he softly rested his hand on mine and started to entwine fingers, still sobbing.

Ten more minutes of gradually softening wails and rails against the injustice of his brother's tooth coming out before his, with me doing nothing to make him feel better, just feel held and safe, safe to be sad, safe to express it, safe to stay in it as long as he needed to. He may have been crying out many other hurts that had bottled up inside, I don't know and don't need to know. The important thing for him was that I wasn't trying to solve it or stop it, just hold him through it. "Hold onto your Kids," Gord Neufeld whispers.

At long last he rolled on his side toward me, nose to nose, and, stuffed his feet in between my thighs in a classic return-to-the womb, hold-me-head-to-toe pose that his brother in particular was addicted to. After some minutes in this fetal hold I opened my eyes and found him softly staring at me. I smiled and loved him back, releasing him to close his eyes and settle down into sleepy Peace.

Sleep well, my love. Your papa loves you, and is right here. Day is Done.

Burning Man

2011-06-05T19:36:00.000-07:00

Every second Friday I get the chance to be a Man. I take the garbage cans and recycling down to the street, and later pick up the empties and feel lighter, freer, Accomplished. My house once again has a clean slate, cleansed of the rhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifubbish build-up, relieved of that karmic burden. I am Man, i have provided and protected and cleared my abode.

Imagine how much more manly and satisfying a bonfire can be. In 4 hours of heavy labour this morning I reclaimed a portion of my yard as big as our old city back yard. Up in smoke went 16 months of brush, blackberry bramble, apple shooters, branches and fir needles. Over a year of wasted space, heavy energy calling me to start Takin' Care of Business.

Every year in the Black Rock Desert, thousands of pilgrims set fire to their past and reclaim their souls at Burning Man festival. I may not have helped plant the beans today, but i played the other side of Shiva and destroyed my way through to new growth.

The Waldorf Canucks

2011-06-04T20:53:00.000-07:00

Yes, i'm a Canucks fan. After a couple decades of really not caring about professional sports, pointedly not devoting precious life energy to it, i'm genuinely excited about the Canucks' imminent Stanley Cup victory.

I'm also letting my children get excited, even took them to a big-screen live showing of tonight's game at the Cowichan Theatre. It was actually their first big-screen anything ever, and way against the Waldorf and our personal no-screen-time motto.

But as our wise B&B guest said the other day, "Everything in moderation - even moderation." Their excitement about the Canucks is as pure and natural as their rapture over the first peonies blooming last week. I have to believe that this brief media blast and pop-culture bandwagon is not going to shut off their vibrant imaginative life or numb them to the natural wonders of our world. Tonight was as explosive and memorable and limited as last year's midnight meteor shower or the rye grains that G is sprouting in a jar on our kitchen windowsill. All are feeding their hungry souls and active minds, and one does not negate or overshadow the other.

As for me, I "wasted" about 15 minutes a week watching highlights during the Canucks' President's Trophy season, and up to an hour or two a week now watching highlights and some periods of playoff action. Like last year's World Cup soccer and Olympics, it's a brief connect-to-the-greater-world's-energy shower that will easily fade back into longer weeding and whittling hours. As long as i can laugh at myself for valuing these overpaid imported athletes in my former home city playing a winter sport as summer finally arrives, i can safely keep it in perspective and enjoy the ride.

Canucks in 5.

Haircut and a Real Job

2011-05-31T11:32:00.000-07:00

It's gone. Seven years of long and longer hair, long hair identity, freedom from regular haircuts, repetitive offers/requests of drugs in Vancouver (though not here, and none taken Mom), ponytails and pigtails and Cousin It imitations, all gone in a whim and an hour of careful pruning (for the cancer kids).

It started as a sudden random thought, in the garden missing my family - "Maybe i should cut my hair." It was the first time the idea had sprung from me at all, and the first time it made sense. Grandma's 97 and there won't be that many more Easters to give her this long-begged-for present. And unlike before, i couldn't drum up a single reason to stop that noble impulse.

For the past many years, anytime grandma tried to beg/threaten/bribe/reason me into cutting it off, there were good reasons not to. It felt good, i enjoyed it, it wasn't blocking my social or professional life. Cutting off a healthy part of Me just to please one ancestor just didn't sit right.

I was never trying to make a statement with long hair. Wasn't openly thumbing or bucking the system, wasn't aligning with any particular subculture, washttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifn't trying to directly annoy grandma. It just felt good, and i enjoyed the freedom of being at a place in my life where i could do it without consequence. So when it stopped feeling quite as good - or when the alternative felt just as appealing and more of an adventure - it was equally as natural a decision to cut it off.

That is to say, moving to short hair is equally as neutral a choice as growing it out. I'm not suddenly a Harper supporter, looking for a "proper job", blending in, or thinking it'll give me a leg-up for the Black Tie business award next year. I'm just good ol' me, with less hair (though still just as capable of frizzing it out, much to sarah's chagrin.)

I was a bit motivated to see if i'd become too attached to long hair. Had i confused that look with who i am? And had others done the same? Now over a month into it, i really don't see friends or strangers or business acquaintances responding any differently (beyond the initial shock, which ranged from outright shrieks in the grocery store, to my wife not recognizing me at the bus stop, to a young friend rolling down his mom's car window yesterday to tell me i looked better with long hair.) It's reassuring to know that it's a deeper core me that shines through shags or stubs.

Until that moment in the garden I hadn't been able to think of when I'd get it cut, what would impel me to do so. Turns out i didn't need a reason to cut it off, just an impulse to enjoy something different and to make a dear old woman happy. It's all good, it's all me.

Family Bedroom

2011-05-27T20:35:00.000-07:00

The family that sleeps together stays together.

While co-sleeping in the family bed is a standard in attachment parenting, staying with it becomes a challenge with one aggressive snuggler and one obsessive thrasher. Our family has always found creative ways to continue the spirit of night-time bonding while still managing some sleep, and it may be time for another version of Together.

First came the co-sleeper - a crib with one side open onto our bed, so that the baby lay right beside me but still in his own space. With each nighttime cry I could simply lean over and try to soothe him back to sleep, or hand him over to the Dairy Queen if necessary. I learned the nighttime rhythms of each boy through that intimate side-by-side sleeping.

In Vancouver the boys shared their own room, first on a queen-sized floor mattress then on bunk beds. We could still lie with them for blissful falling-asleep time, then have our own love-nest to return to. A love-nest that was wall-to-wall bed (queensized with a twin squeezed in beside it) to allow for morning snuggle time and special sleep-overs.

When we moved to the island, we put the boys on a queen-sized mattress on the floor in our bedroom and they've been there ever since. Plenty of room to lie in the middle as they both fall asleep scrunched up against or on me (on good nights I fall asleep with them for a while), and a full night of being right there when a scared nightmare cry or confused dream-talk breaks the silence. I love hearing their safe secure breathing, their secret morning whispers, monitoring the clock until a resounding "7:00 SNUGGLE TIME!"

I treasure this extended together time, subconsciously melding our energies and dreams - somnastic synergy. I deeply believe that it brings us closer together, strengthening a connection that will last a lifetime. But with the boys now at 7.5 and 9.5 years old, how much longer will it work for them (or us)?

Most people would probably argue that we've long passed the appropriate age for this form of attachment. I hear society accusing me of wanting to keep them as babies, asking why we can't just be "normal" with one room per kid. But I search deep and still see the pure intention to hold our children close in a healthy, nurturing way. I celebrate their growth and unfolding much more than I fear it, but they are still little boys and the night is a big dark scary world. As long as they derive security from sleeping with us, and as long as that's feeding a trusting loving attachment, I don't want to artificially sever that link just because "everyone else" has their own room or theory or rules.

I've always envisioned a time when there would be obvious signs or verbal expressions of a desire for their own space, but the random calls for "my own room" are about as infrequent and non-passionate as requests for a horse or a pick-up truck. It's just not a pressing concern for them.

So it falls on us to project the healthiest path for our family. Can we milk this beautiful nocturnal togetherness for another year or two, or do we look at an alternative that might yield other opportunities for growth and connection - one that they haven't had the space to envision for themselves? A place for the boys to call their own, decorate, keep their treasures, have sleepovers, whisper their fantasy life to each other unrestricted by sleeping parents, retreat into a book from a busy household - are they at an age where this would be even more beneficial than integrating their snores into our dreams each night?

Whenever the shift happens I will dearly miss the feeling of having our family so close each night, even as I anticipate a new cosy lovenest just for me and my beautiful lover (and nightmare kids and morning snuggle fests). But separate rooms does not mean separate lives or loss of intimacy. Perhaps it will mean more space to grow and blossom and all of that will shower back on us with renewed vigor and Joy. Distance couldn't possibly make our bursting hearts grow any fonder, but it just might allow a little more sunlight and air in to nurture new growth.

Classical Ricky

2011-05-21T07:13:00.000-07:00

Usually more classic than classy, the side of me most people don't know is Classical. At last year's "Who Knew" i surprised the community with Rachmaninov, and this afternoon i once again don the suit and tickle the ivories in a benefit concert.

Growing up as an extremely active, athletic boy, piano provided a balance and artistic expression i somehow knew i needed. While still in kindergarten my parents declared me too young for lessons, so i walked 3 blocks down to johnny hannah's teacher and asked her to teach me. "How are you going to pay me?" asked the stern Dutch woman. "I'll cut your lawn" answered the determined blond boy. And so began the piano career (she then called my parents and convinced them to relieve me from child labour).

I loved playing, singing along, and mastering. I loved performing and being part of the bi-weekly chamber music concerts - a group of older musicians and music-lovers who helped me grow up as a musician. I loved tug-o-wars with her crazy dog Flip - a necessary distraction for a boy who could rarely sit for more than 10 minutes.

Then one afternoon - i remember the exact moment - i started to love the music. After playing Chopin's Valse in G Flat, my beloved Mrs. Verkirk (who like most Dutch people I've met since, have a heart of pure gold under that gruff manner) had tears in her eyes and said I'd played it "with feeling." I didn't know i had - was just letting it flow - but from that moment i defined myself as a person who played with feeling, and learned to share my emotions freely.

Decades later, while courting Sarah by email from Africa, she casually asked what I was like as a lover. In an inspired and earnest line that pretty much sealed the marriage deal, I wrote, "Like my right ring finger lingering on F-sharp in La Sarabande by Gabriel Grovlez."

Piano's been useful for many things in addition to picking up wives. One high school ski trip I was excused from all dishwashing duties if I'd play during clean-up. I earned much of my college money playing in Vancouver restaurants and fashion shows, and regular meals at the Holiday Inn in Costa Rica. Stuck in Windsor Ontario after my first time (of many) being refused entry into the US, i played in the student lounge until a group of girls took me home for the night then smuggled me across the border the next morning.

But mostly it's been useful as an outlet, a connector, an explorer. I get deeply lost in music, freely floating between my fingers and soul, dancing through a new musical world and trusting my fingers to somehow follow. I love to look at a new piece and hear it singing in my head, then let it unfold as i learn the mechanics of playing it. Other times, especially in adolescence, a good pounding of Beethoven was the only way to let it all out, and a gentle stroking of Chopin the only voice of my awakening.

This afternoon i'll share Chopin's Valse in E Minor, long one of my favourites. From when i learned it at age 15 to when i finally mellowed ('matured') as a performer/man, i'd be literally shaking by the climax, and needed every one of those final ten "colando" bars to bring myself and the music back down to a resting place. I'm a bit less of a method actor these days, able to bring true emotion balanced by enough control to make the performance a bit less naked and more musical. But playing piano is still a unique and intimate exploration and expression of my Self, every bit as surprising to myself as to those who haven't met that part of me. So come on out to Duncan Reformed Church at 2:00 and share an afternoon with Classical Ricky.

If Tupperware Could Talk

2011-05-15T07:21:00.000-07:00

I've measured community before by the number of people on our land. Today, it's measured by the number of friends' Tupperware we have to return.

Genevieve's will be the first to go today, taking with it the tasty memory of dinner at her house while my family was away. She sent me home with enough leftover chili for 3 lunches, figurin' i needed more than easter eggs and Doritos to survive the long lonely month. Guess Adam figured the same, 'cause his container came with moose sausages from our friend Gus' last camping trip.

Chantey and Justin both sent me yogurt cultures when mine accidentally got all eaten (forgot to save a bit to make the next batch). And Marty's tupperware contained a "scobie" - a floating jelly-fish-like thingie that ferments black tea and sugar into a nutritious sweet non-alcoholic treat called kombucha.

Add in the sourdough culture that Maki shared with us last year (and has since been passed on to many other friends), and we can easily taste our friends' love throughout the day with yogurt, bread, kombucha and leftover carnivorous treats. Very last-supperish.

This morning the boys are helping carry on another fine tradition started by our friend Mamata in Vancouver. We had brought her a pot of soup after her second son was born, and a few weeks later she brought it back full of a delicious Indian dish. Never return an empty pot, she told us her tradition is. So dear friends, I have not been hording your precious tupperware idly; I've been waiting for the boys to invent one of their recipe-less muffin creations to return the giving spirit. Full bellies, hearts and tupperware - now that's community.

Maypole Mayhem

2011-05-09T22:06:00.000-07:00

That's my boy - the tall blond one, holding the red ribbon at the Sunrise Waldorf magical Mayfest. There he goes dancing, skipping, brilliantly keeping time and looking so free inside and out. Lost in the music, the beauty of the ancient pagan dance, embodying the freshness and fertility of the season. I'm one proud papa.

Look at how intricate their dance is! Grade 3 children weaving in and out of each other in a complex pattern, building a new design on the old maypole with their interlocking rhythms. How on earth could they keep track of all this? What teamwork! I'm proud of the whole class.

And now, Oh No!, there's my boy going the wrong way! His red string passing over the whole class, around and around he gaily skips, oblivious to the impending doom he's creating. My heart knots up, I w\ant to will him to stop, want to turn back time and tuck him back into the design, want to protect him from the pain he's about to feel. I'm a protective papa watching my child about to get hurt.

Then a classmate yells his name, and he realizes it's him. In the middle of his class, the middle of the whole Waldorf community, he holds his red ribbon of shame and wills a thousand tears not to erupt from his bulging eyes and red face. Hold it in, hold it in, be strong, I silently signal. This too shall pass. I'm the hurting-for-him Papa.

But hold it in he does. He bravely works with the teacher and his classmates to unwind the tangle, three full rounds and more ins and outs as the fiddle band continues to play and the parent community holds the sacred space with compassion and hope. An eternity later his ribbon suddenly emerges and the crowd cheers and my boy has saved the day. Not only has he survived, but he's somehow thrived, and the cheers are as much of admiration as condolence. Not just for my boy, but for the whole class that held it together and worked together. I'm back to the proud Papa - proud of my boy, his class, our school, our community that holds each other.

Our children are going to go through - have to go through - trials much worse than this to find their strength. And we're going to have to helpless watch them through it and hopefully hold them after. This day I've seen my boy's resilience, his composure, his faith, and I hold less fear about his adolescence and lifetime of challenges. He learned, or perhaps always knew and just showed me, that he can dance to his own drummer, skip gaily in the sunshine, then stand just as strong and free in the rain.

I'm not glad this happened, but I wouldn't take it back for the world.

Osama Bin Harper

2011-05-09T20:21:00.000-07:00

What do Osama Bin Laden and Stephen Harper have in common? Two men I don't like, even fear. Two men who, based on deeply-held faith and convictions, deliberately plot and implement destructive assaults on freedom and security. Last Monday one was murdered, the other given more power. Both present a challenge to treat with respect, love and fairness.

As a Quaker I seek to find and respond to the Light, to "that of God", in everyone. As a Peace activist I believe in finding common ground, believe that violence and anger just propagate a cycle of more violence and anger. As a parent and global optimist and lover of Broadway musicals, I deeply believe in Goodness and reject catastrophic pessimism - the sun will come out tomorrow.

Monday morning radio brought macho chants of "USA! USA!" as proud/relieved Americans figuratively stomped on the grave of the man they had just murdered. Part of me joined in that rejoicing of the removal of a man who had caused/fed such fear and hatred and suffering in the world. I pragmatically recognized the wisdom of the quick execution of an unarmed man in front of his wife rather than bringing him in for a prolonged judicial mire. Obama's troops had finally delivered the clean and instant psyche-salve they'd been wanting for 10 years.

Then a gentle sadness settled in like mist, making it hard to see anything clearly. This was murder, capital punishment. No-one's pretending that Al Queda is finished, or that Western-Muslim relations are any better today than they were yesterday. Stopping a person from causing harm is right and necessary, but it was still violence that doesn't take away the root cause of the historical conflict. How can I rejoice at the end of this one man's reign of terror while at the same time condemning the methods of his removal?

Before I could reconcile these conflicting reactions of relief and condemnation, the unfathomable news came that my fellow Canadians had rewarded Stephen Harper's contempt -- contempt of parliament, women, the global south, indigenous peoples, climate, free speech, the non-profit sector, democracy, public health care, workers rights, etc etc etc - rewarded this contempt with unfettered majority power. The long-term harm he caused as a minority leader was already impressive; what he can do now that 40% of voters and a ridiculous first-past-the-post electoral system have handed him a majority is truly frightening.

But just like Osama, or Obama for that matter, he's just one man. Yes he has great strength and political astuteness and drive, but he didn't invent all the fear that led so many to follow him. He didn't invent disregard for the environment. He's not the founder of the Church of Unlimited Economic Growth, just its latest pope who believes in his own infallibility. When he's done, others will rise in his place, and even if he'd stayed in the minority or lost to the NDP, the set of beliefs he represents would continue.

So just as I can't rejoice at Osama's end of power, I can't despair at Harper's increase in power. Both rejoicing and despair do nothing but increase their power. Instead, I have to try to understand what they believe, and operate from a place of compassion and respect for all. I don't pretend to be spiritually evolved enough to love either Obama or Harper, but I can and must respect that their extreme actions are motivated by a strong faith, love for their family, and vision for what the world should look like.

Happy Mother-of-my-Children Day

2011-05-08T07:37:00.000-07:00

As she lays sleeping in and the children fetch their cards and flower baskets out of their hiding spot in the chicken coop, I muse on how blessed the boys and I are to have a woman like Sarah. I'm a damn good dad, but she's a Mom in a way I could never aspire to.

She teaches all 3 of us compassion. She's the rich black humus of our soul garden, moist and nourishing and helping us to grow healthy and true. She shows us that a kitchen is more than a utilitarian feeding trough, that art can and should spring from and flow into all the little cracks in our routines, that music is 50% harmony and 49% creativity. She is the land that lies beyond efficiency and excitement, and makes getting there just half the journey.

And bless her heart, she lets me be the papa I love to be. That deep trust that we're in this together, and that she's got my back and all of our hearts, creates a freedom that brings true Joy and creativity to parenting. I too am released from just functioning. Together, we're not just managing a household and caring for our kids; we're co-creating childhood and family and a bright world for all four of us to blossom into.

Strategic Voting

2011-05-01T07:26:00.000-07:00

In tomorrow's national elections, I'm unabashedly and enthusiastically voting strategically. It's often bashed and often mis-used, but I believe it's the best way to go.

Strategy 1: Vote. It's the simplest strategy, yet only half of us do it.

Strategy 2: Encourage others to vote. Encourage young people, disenfranchised people, women, people with the most to lose if Harper gets back in.

Strategy 3: Vote with my kids. From the day my first boy was born, my children come with me to every election, from national to neighbourhood council. My boys will grow up treasuring their right and responsibility to vote.

Strategy 4: Vote for my kids. When analyzing platforms and wannabe leaders and parties, I'm not looking just at what they'll do for my pocketbook and inflated standard of living for the next 4 years. I'm looking at how they'll help build or continue destroying the world my children and grandchildren will inherit. The Council of Canadians has a great analysis of parties' stands on right to water, climate change, public health care, and respect for our democracy.

Strategy 5: Vote like it means something. It does. True, there are no Obama's among the party leaders, but a clear message needs to be sent that we will not tolerate Harper's fascist regime. Every vote that blocks his return to power matters.

Strategy 6: Make it mean something. This is the point of controversy, of course - do I vote for the person/party I believe in most even if they don't have a reasonable chance of winning? Normally I'd fall more in that camp, and in the long run press for electoral reform to scrap the first-past-the-post craziness and bring in a system that would respect the true will of the voters. But at this point in our country's decline, the prospect another Harper reign is so potentially disastrous that I do believe that people in tight ridings should vote for the candidate best poised to oust the Conservatives.

Interestingly, this year it appears that in many cases that means Liberals voting NDP, not the other whttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifay around. I don't know if Jack Layton will be the greatest Prime Minister in history, but I inherently don't trust Ignatieff, and apparently a growing number of Canadians believe the time has come to give the NDP a try.

So don't just vote tomorrow. Vote with your kids, for your kids, with your friends, and for whatever candidate/party can help put Canada back on the road to democracy, sustainability and freedom. Anyone but Harper's Conservatives.

____
PS. - Now reading this a few days after Jack Layton's death, I wonder if I couldn't have had more faith in his potential to make real change in our country. I've posted these updated musings at: http://ricksturningpoint.blogspot.com/2011/08/did-i-love-jack-layton-enough.html

An Armful of Me

2011-04-30T17:53:00.000-07:00

You can tell a lot what's on a man's mind by what's in his hands when you come a'calling. Sue just surprised me late on a sunny Saturday in the back yard with quite an armful:
- shovel covered in chicken poop - cleaning out the meat birds' pen and using it to get a new batch of compost cooking
- tennis racket and ball - from earlier game with the boys
- hammer and tape measure - finishing the subfloor for the rental cabin love-room extension
- tractor battery - hoping to mow for the first time while this sun lasts
- bucket full of dandelion flowers picked by the boys for making syrup tonight
- pieces of string and someone's shirt - the usual random picking up around the land

So instead of finishing any of those, we came in to print out the final draft of our $240,000 grant proposal for the community centre so she could sign it. And now some writing while this is fresh in my mind, albeit interrupted by helping G with piano practice and going with Z to collect eggs for the year's first fresh rhubarb pie.

Full arms, full happy life, and soon a full happy belly.

Black Tie Kinda Guy

2011-04-28T06:12:00.000-07:00

Did you know it takes an hour to get dressed? An adult, that is, not our kids.

When Sarah and I got all dolled-up for a fancy formal event, I had to do it all - shave, shower, shoe-shine (find and remember how to use), shimmy into the Get-A-Job suit my mom bought me when I returned from Africa 11 years ago (which meant finding and hanging out at a drycleaner's to remove the mud from the farm wedding 2 years ago), perfect ponytail in a black scrunchy, nails cut and cleaned. For Sarah it meant a long trip to the funky clothing store and tailors, even a girls' afternoon getting her hair done. And our dear Crystal helping both of us put on all the finishing touches.

What a stupid waste of resources and time! But then again, the results were charming. It really did feel good to be all dressed up like fancy business-people grown-ups, and I was over-the-top proud and wowed to be with the most beautiful woman at the ball. I spent the whole night suspending judgement about expenses and pretenses, just letting myself enjoy the red carpet, the exclusive pre-event reception, the marching band that accompanied us up onto the stage, the pomp. It's not a world I'd want to live in, and it still amazes me that some folk do this regularly, but for a night it was a fun space-travel.

The reason for being there was that FreeRange Consulting was recently honoured by the Chamber of Commerce as a finalist for the Black Tie Awards in the best home-based business category. Just over a year into this re-entry into professional life (albeit part-time so I can still be parent/farmer/writer), it truly was an honour to be recognized and validated by the community I've been working hard to serve. When I look at the wide range of clients and projects I've served thus far, it does feel like I'm making a difference, bringing a pretty unique experience and skill set to the community. Every time I'm with a client I'm not with my children or chickens, so it's important that I and the community feel like that's a worthwhile exchange.

Putting that last thought another way, the challenge from the beginning has been how to integrate this new consulting work into my existing commitments to stay-at-home parenting, farming and writing. Not just another ball to juggle, but a truly seamless integration. I didn't want to suddenly drop those other fundamental directions, for which we made this move to the valley. I likewise did not want to abandon the personal growth path I've been on through this new phase.

This concern arose from a Quaker conference I presented at during my last job. As I delivered a bang-on workshop about the 10 Keys to a Successful Development Project, those wise old Quakers started asking some difficult questions. I found myself answering each question twice - "As a Quaker, I agree that..., but as an Executive Director answerable to a board and donors, I must instead do..." As much as I still believe I did a good job with ACCES, there was a disconnect between my professional and spiritual path.

This time, I was willing to re-enter the world but only in a way that wouldn't require me to change hats or identities, that would let Rick shine through whether in the field or the boardroom or the school parking lot. After almost settling on the generic name "GoodWorks Consulting", FreeRange emerged. It's the natural, sustainable, trusting, unbounded way I strive to raise my kids, grow my crops, write, kiss, and serve the community. I don't answer the phone with a different professional voice, and freely confess to having just cleaned out the chicken coop before going to lead a fundraising training (yes mom, with a shower and clean clothes in between, though not usually your suit).

In the end, the name FreeRange has probably been the perfect filter: the types of clients who are the best fit for my style are the ones who not only understand but are attracted to the name and image. My clients see calloused hands from the renovation project, and I sell eggs at networking meetings. They see me being equally natural asking questions at an all-candidates meeting or entering a rutabaga in the county fair or at the swimming hole with a passel of kids. They might read my writing in my monthly Valley Voice column about non-profit issues or in a love poetry contest or in the Canadian Friend Quaker magazine.

Whether people in the community see me in a bright polar bear swim costume, ripped farmer jeans, or even in a fancy suit with a beautiful woman on my arm, it's Rick they're seeing. Bringing the same values and spark to whatever I'm doing, and doing those things that honour my values and nurture that spark.

Leapfrogging my Wife

2011-04-22T16:08:00.001-07:00

No, this isn't some rural hick sport, nor a funky new sexual position. It's a question about why I get more Stuff Done when my family's away. Are they an obstacle to be overcome? (Sarah, I think the answer's no, but we'll see what comes out.)

In almost four weeks alone, I've Accomplished much, in many realms. Garden much further along than the continued frost might warrant. 6 trees cut and bucked. New chicken brooder built, and 2 batches of chicks still alive and kicking, as well as 30 old ones and 3 cows all well-cared-for. Cowshed roofed, and re-built after mama cow pushed the main support beam over. Caught up on work, blogs posted, friends visited, concerts enjoyed, karaoke sung, bad movies watched, guitar lessons enjoyed and piano practised. And oh ya, bedroom extension on the rental cabin way way ahead of schedule.

So where did this miraculous energy and time come from, and why isn't it always there? Is it my family's fault? Let's look at what didn't happen:

I didn't cook. Friends took care of me sometimes, but I just went simple and cut alot of prep time. Fresh kale smoothies and a monster-batch of potato-spinach-carrot mixture that kept supplying morning hashbrowns every morning, Jesus-style. Eggs eggs eggs - didn't have to go shopping for that. Leftovers, skipping meals, I just took a lot of energy and time out of thinking about food, shopping, prep, clean-up, even eating, and sublimated that into other work.

I didn't take care of anyone. No kids to dress or entertain or break apart or play with or spend an hour a day taking to school. No wife to interrupt or enjoy or console or celebrate with. Apart from probably 20-30 minutes a day on Skype or phone, I was free to choose when to interact with others and when to stay focused.

I didn't clean. Swept part of the house once before a friend came over, and did dishes once a week - just used the same plate and utensils and glass for every meal, and the same frying pan or pot. Yes I made the bed and kinda picked up after myself, but there wasn't much to pick up - grown men just don't drop that many toys and origami creations on the floor.

I didn't negotiate. Didn't explain myself or get clearance with anyone else's schedule or vision. A B&B guest once commented about how much Sarah and I communicate about plans, who will do what and when. While that is a key to household and family management, it's a mental energy I didn't have to invest in. Just did what I thought best, when I was ready to do it.

So looking at that list, I see time and attention. Time saved from not having to care for family, and willingness to lower standards. Attention that is normally devoted to the social fabric of family now fully focused on me. Add to that a self-imposed obsessive drive to maximally use this window effectively, and it's a perfect storm - a man with the time, focus and passion to Do.

Lest this sound like a treatise against being Married-With-Children, know that part of the magic was that it was a vacation. The task list was an indulgence to dive into, but also a much-appreciated distraction from the loneliness at the edge. The best part of my day was Skyping the family, maintaining that connection that gives my everyday life its rich meaning and vibrancy.

Is my family an obstacle, a big heavy rock pulling me down and blocking the flow of my mighty river? No, it's more like a widening of the river into a broad beautiful babble, water learning to slow down and spread out, skip over stones and find deep swimming holes to plunge into. Together we move slower and less powerful, but also carve a wider, more varied and interactive swath through life. I've been thankful for this rare chance to dance solo down the rapids, and am now just as eager for my family to return and splash their loud interrupting chaos, muddy my clear strong waters with our spectacular swirl.

Lonely at the Top

2011-04-20T23:07:00.000-07:00

My first taste of being a Manager was so awful that I swore off it for the next 5 years. I retold the story today as part of some leadership mentoring I'm doing, and the lessons are just as vivid now as they were 21 years ago.

At the tender age of 23 I was a world traveller, hitch-hiking across the US, teaching English in Costa Rica, and somehow ending up on the banks of the Rio Dulce at Casa Guatemala orphanage. For the first month I taught English, dug ditches, became in charge of the boys, and was thoroughly in love with and loved by every beautiful child and international volunteer. After kids were asleep we'd spend long hours in the volunteer hut singing, combing lice, and swimming out to the raft under a bright starry sky. One of those volunteers is a life-long friend who introduced me to my wife a decade later.

That paradise was shattered the day I agreed to become volunteer coordinator. That same evening I felt cold-shouldered in the hut, wasn't invited for the swim, wasn't included in the jokes and stories. I was suddenly Management, separate.

I don't pretend I was a good leader. I had no training, no mentor, no idea how to motivate and reward and support well-meaning volunteers beyond just expecting them to work hard for the intrinsic motivation of helping kids. I look back now and see so much I could have done better. But the ostracizing occurred before I even had a chance to be a bad manager. It just came with the label.

The most hurtful moment came when I had spent a full week digging a trench with 3 other volunteers. There had been criticisms that I never really did any work, since I was always getting supplies and supporting other work teams, so I made a point of sticking with this hard, heavy job. When we finally finished, we felt jubilant and relieved. Then one of them handed me a camera and asked me to take a picture of Them, the team that had completed this job. I had the same blisters on my hands and aching body, had put in the same hours side-by-side, yet I was still on the outside.

Now two decades wiser I'm coaching two great people as they move into a leadership role in their non-profit organization. We talk about having more compassion and tact and respect than young Rick did. We talk about creating an organizational culture that accepts all team members in whatever role they're called to play, including leadership.

But we also talk about being willing to be the Bad Guy, and the need to support each other when things get rough. There will always be individuals who instinctively resent the boss or person in power, and as egalitarian as we hope to be, there will be times when these leaders have to use that power for the health of the organization. I ask them if they're willing to stand out and somewhat alone, particularly in this intentional community where unity is a foundation stone.

As Executive Director at ACCES, I made some real and lasting friendships with African staff, Canadian interns and board members. But there was still always an awareness of the power differential, regardless of how good and just and respectful a leader I may have been. I was willing to live in that grey area of friend/boss - a zone I did not experience as a young volunteer or intern - because the contribution I could make to the work of ACCES was more important than my being one of the gang.

I hope that I can bring some valuable resources to these emerging leaders, and that together we can forge new leadership styles and a positive environment for them to operate in. I hope that the Dynamic Governance principles we're applying are as effective as the book says. But in the end, I hope they truly understand what they're signing on for, and still believe in the cause enough to take on an often thankless and lonely task.

Cocksure Canada

2011-04-17T20:08:00.000-07:00

Does anybody know how to say, in rooster-talk, "Lighten up, Francis, I don't want your women"? Our rooster, Canada, is pretty darn certain that I'm missing my wife enough to go after his hens. When I open the door to their coop in the morning, he instantly jumps on the nearest hens for the obligatory 3 seconds, then proudly flaps his wings and shakes himself while giving me a cool "Them's mah bitches" look.

All day, whenever I'm near he finds a way to show his women that He Da Man. While I'm filling feeders he comes right up to my legs like he's ordering me to do it. When I pass by or walk away he follows for a while then turns back to make sure the hens see that he's chased me away.

Unlike his namesake's government, Canada is just benignly comical, not scary. Now our first rooster, Goldfeather, that was a different story. He was just plain mean. He'd follow us around, about as discreet as Peter Sellers' Inspector Clouseau, then full-on attack when we'd finally let down our guard. We had to make a rule to always have 2 people when out on the land, one just to watch Goldfeather and carry a big stick or shovel. Zekiah's bodyguard strayed a bit too far away one day and Goldfeather literally knocked him over and jumped on his chest. Fortunately our brave 5-year-old fought him off and didn't get his eyes pecked out, but it was enough that the rooster finally reverted to his first name - Roastie.

When the boys are here, I get regular reports on his sexual prowess. "Papa! Canada was really doing his job today! He jumped on a hen and pinned her down, with her wings spread all the way out! He's really doing his job!" When it comes time for The Talk with my adolescent boys, we won't be starting from scratch, just something like, "Son, we humans do it a little differently..."

I used to think "cocksure" was an allusion to a man's sexual confidence, or at least bravado, but it really is a farm term. When you look it up in the thesaurus, it says "marked by excessive confidence, as in "the less he knows the more positive he gets." And there's a picture of Canada to illustrate it.

Our rooster is bravado personified, striking all the right poses, impeccable timing without ever actually pecking anyone. If somehow Farmer Rick is boosting his status by feeding his brood and walking away when he tells me, well I guess I'm cocksure enough to handle that.

Vote 'NO' Fascism in Canada

2011-04-14T07:52:00.001-07:00

A vote for Stephen Harper's party is a vote for fascism. Mr. Harper has been found in contempt of Parliament and removed from office - the first time in the history of the Commonwealth - and he just shrugs it off as partisan "bickering" and comes back demanding a majority government so he doesn't have to deal with opposition. That was how he answered the question of how to work with other parties - give him a majority so he doesn't have to.

I've personally experienced his quashing of our freedoms as an international development professional, watching him remove funding from groups like Kairos who don't fit his ideology, and from groups like CCIC who dare to oppose his policies publicly. I've watched helplessly as people right beside me are beaten and abused by the police as we tried to peacefully express our views at the illegal G20 summit. I've signed petitions and sent letters and felt the national outrage at his withholding of information that members of a democratic society have the right to know, and need to know to ensure that our elected government is doing its job.

Just like when the police wall were moving forward beating their shields to intimidate us in Toronto, I've felt helpless much of the time in the face of this absolute power by a minority leader. Just imagine what he'll destroy with a majority rule. We have been given a chance to take back our power, to demand information and hold him accountable to his actions, not just his rhetoric. If we vote this man back into power now, he will have the mandate to further increase his stranglehold on us.

I'm not talking here about the Conservative Party, who have managed to rule democratically in the past - this is Mr. Harper, and any others who may share his approach or try to continue in his footsteps once we finally boot him out. I'm also not talking about his policies, with which I have plenty of disagreement. I am talking about one power-hungry, arrogant, disrespectful dictator. The type that people in the Middle East have fought and died to remove. We have the chance to do it in 3 weeks with a simple vote.

But to do that, we need information. He shrugged off direct accusations in the debates, whitewashing and greenwashing it all with rhetoric, manipulation of data, and outright lies. There is a petition to get specific information released before we make our electoral decision, about a leaked report alleging that the Harper Government illegally handed 50 million taxpayer dollars to a single Conservative riding – and then covered it up as G8 summit spending. If it's true, voters need to know it. If it's been found to be false, then we should know that too. Please take 30 seconds to sign this petition - it's by Avaaz, a trustworthy and effective organization.

I don't know if Ignatief or Layton or May will be better leaders. I just know that we cannot continue to endorse this man who has systematically eroded the democracy and freedom that make Canada special. We need to use our vote to send a message to all politicians, and to ourselves, that we will not accept anything less than true democracy and freedom. Vote on May 2, and vote for the Canada we want our children to inherit.

King of the Valley

2011-04-13T18:47:00.001-07:00

Hey Mom, I'm in the paper today, lookin' kinda cute holding some baby trees (now planted) and giving witty off-the-cuff answers to the newspaper's questions. Of course later, you always think of the answers you should have given.

Like, words to live by: This too shall pass. That got me through long hours waiting for a hitch-hiking ride, nights in Guatemalan bed-bug hostels, many mid-terms and a few girlfriends. It equally applies to the high times, the top-of-the-world moments that are too good to last and can only be fully lived if they're not suffocated by trying to hold onto them. Good or bad, high or low, we take it all in stride because there's more to come.

If you get a chance, go see: anything live in the Cowichan Valley. We are so blessed with talent and enthusiasm (and sometimes both), we really can't miss when we go out. Which I too rarely do, so contented are we with this farm and family and life. But even just knowing it's out there enriches my life. Much more and more deeply than the pirated movies that just entertain and fill time.

Most people don't know I: love farming at sunrise and sunset. Got that answer right, though it doesn't have to be a big secret. We're just now moving into the season where I can wake up as soon as it's light, sneak out on my sleeping family, and spend an hour or two communing with the rising sun, the settling dew, the slowly opening flowers and waking birds. Feel the world warm up and wake up and shake itself to life. Then head inside to cook breakfast and be a full-on Dad with the beauty of the world shining through me. Then again at night, we put the kids to bed then have the best married-time together weeding and sampling and watering side by side.

If I was appointed king of the valley I would: make local sourcing and community impact be a mandatory part of government purchasing. Turns out it is legal, even under NAFTA and whatever else Harper is trying to shove down our throats. Worded properly, our local government still miraculously has the right to award contracts and funding in ways that maximizes community benefit. Hiring local businesses and non-profits to serve the community keeps the resources right here, vested in people who care. Globalization and free trade may open up the world, but it closes down relationships and commitment to place, and we don't have to live that way.

Given that the photo and interview were at the end of an exciting but tiring Seedy Saturday on a busy sidewalk, I guess I did OK. What seems like a trite exercise in giving one-sentence quips to rather generic questions can turn out to share a lot about what matters to us. Community, farming, family, consulting, writing all bubbled to the top. That's me - valley people.

Devil in Yogi's Clothing

2011-04-08T21:04:00.000-07:00

This Superstore receipt tells it all. Even the fact that it's a Real Canadian Superstore receipt instead of the Duncan Garage says enough. But here's what's on it:
1/2 pound of bulk mini-chocolate eggs, two and a half pounds) of Doritos/Cheetos snack mix, tortillas, juice, 2 pounds of no-name-brand chocolate chips, and a dozen half-price hamburger buns.

Blame it on my yoga instructor. I was hungry, lonely, and totally wiped out from 90 minutes of doing things a body isn't really meant to anywhere, let alone in a very hot room. Then she not only offered me an easter egg, but told me where to get them in bulk. All noble thoughts of supporting our amazing local Community Farm Store were gone faster than you can say Cadbury Easter Cream Eggs.

What is it about my wife being away that makes these lapses in consciousness, integrity and basic good taste so tempting? I don't eat local and organic and fair trade to impress her - they really are my own rules. But somehow time alone equates to a glorious orgy of lack of accountability.

Unless I blog about it. Honestly, sharing this is more difficult and humiliating than my naked posts about bullying, sex, social insecurity, etc. I don't pretend to be perfect, and even deliberately publicize my chocolate addiction or bad movie choices just to make sure that no-one thinks I think I'm operating on a higher level. But late at night when I come to bed with cocoa-maplesyrup-yogurt-granola on my breath, I really hope Sarah doesn't notice. It's one thing to let myself down, but to betray our entire family's code is much bigger and harder to own up to.

Character is what you do when no-one's watching. Probably the scariest quote I ever saved, and one I do try to live up to. This first week on my own I've been incredibly disciplined, eating mostly healthy homemade food, balancing computer work with gardening bliss, enjoying just a few too many sitcom reruns but still getting through the ambitious task list that I deeply want to be done with. If this $22.60 investment in the Real Canadian Superstore is my one big flame-out, I reckon the world will keep turning.

Oh, the other thing I was too embarrassed to fess up to was the movie I watched last week. If you must know, it was Ten - put into my head by my numerology visitor, but once Bo Derek's cornrows (among other notable assets) are in a man's head they just have to be exorcised.

Enough about embarrassing myself by living down to my expectations. Tomorrow I'll return to Walden; tonight's all about me and a quarter pound of Frito's and Fight Club. Show starts in 10 minutes so come on over if you're bored - you know there's enough junk food to last the night.

When the cat's away, the mice don't cook

2011-04-06T21:52:00.000-07:00

I made it one week on my own without cooking or washing one dish. Wonderful invites from friends, birthday leftovers, and a healthy milking of the pity-the-poor-man-with-no-wife-to-cook-for-him had me bathing in chocolate cake, chile, even a few moose-dogs. Re-using the same plate for each re-heated leftover meal made life even easier.

It all started to unravel on Monday. The last of the leftovers, atleast one week old, had me eating falaffel on sourdough pancakes, with the last can of rootbeer, watching "Community" on netflix. A true Jim Belushi moment. But with a B&B guest/friend on his way, it was time for dishes and some shopping. Next night we co-created a pizza and salad, washed down with icecream and homemade fudge sauce and homemade whipped cream.

This morning started with 6am Bikram yoga, then home to take care of 2 batches of chicks, 2 chicken coops and the cows. Plucked some kale & spinach from the garden, added it to the yogurt I'd made the night before to wake up my stomach with a green smoothie, along with a fried egg still warm from the coop. Two hour work call, indulgent late-morning nap, left-over pizza for lunch. Continuing the indulgence theme, I closed the computer and followed the command of Brother Sun to be outside all afternoon in the garden. Made a fresh greens salad with sauteed mushroom to share with Crystal for dinner, quick appearance and speech at the neighbourhood association AGM, Gord Neufeld parenting video workshop at the school, then a brisk beautiful dark bike ride home with a newish moon and galaxy of stars my only light. Another round of animals, and now this brief inside time before a nightcap of icecream sundae and hottub.

My family's still in Chicago for another couple of weeks, so please feel free to save me from more falaffel and pancake horrors, and the missing my family that's always on the edge like the sour behind the sweet. But overall, rest assured that there are days like this when I still remember how to indulge and enjoy this rare taste of freedom (and sometimes the taste of my own cooking).

Attachment

2011-04-04T07:53:00.000-07:00

Attachment is a good thing. I'm deeply attached to this 5 acre piece of land, and it makes me a better steward of it. My attachment to my family lets me handle wet pajamas and snotty noses and snotty attitudes (mine and theirs). My attachment to my friends is what makes them trust me, and our mutual attachment creates this loving web we call community.

But I've also been exploring the drawbacks of attachment. It can make us clingy, dependent, resistant to change. The more deeply I become invested in this land, the harder it will be to ever leave it. Even the dream of living overseas for a year becomes harder (though still a plan) knowing that we have to leave all this behind. I've come to associate happiness with this particular land, routine, set of friends, way of life. They're all good, and they are all contributing to my happiness at this time. But surely there are other homes and people and professions that could bring a different but deep meaning to life.

All 3 Quaker meetings I've belonged to have owned a meeting house (church) for a long time, and all have questioned whether it would be best to move or renovate. In Austin, we had grown so much that people were literally sitting out in the hallway, up the stairs, and in the kitchen for a Sunday meeting, yet there was still a strong resistance to buying a bigger house. People had been raised there, married there, died there. It's so ironic that a religious movement founded on the rejection of idols and ritual and symbols would come to hold that particular set of concrete and wood as irreplaceable. The house had trumped the spirit.

Last month as I was balancing "out on a limb" to finish pruning the apple trees, I reflected that the day will come that i can no longer do that. That many of the tasks needed to make this farm function will be beyond my capabilities. Will I have become so entrenched that I'm unable to move on and let someone else steward and love this particular piece of earth?

I cherish my current set of friends and community, just as I had done in Texas and Zambia and Vancouver and high school. But each time I've had to take a deep breath when it was time to leave, trusting that some of those friendships would live on in an active form and some would be honoured with the occasional sweet memory smile or facebook update. And trust that new community would arise in the new home. And to let that new community take its new natural form, not try to carry what we had before and impose it on a new situation.

Come to think of it, this may be the secret to aging gracefully. Accepting that each age brings its own thrills and opportunities and challenges that must be lived and learned from with our whole being, then let go to make room for what the next stage has to offer. I loved being an active teen and exploring 20-year-old, a striving 30-something. Sometimes I long to still be that person, but now in my 40's I've got new doors opening (farm gates, it turns out). I'll resist labelling this decade for now, but do understand that to fully live this time in my life I have to relinquish attachment to earlier times.

Attachment, I reckon, needs to be deep and real and whole-hearted. We need to be fully devoted to the life and people and path we're currently on. But it also needs to be temporal and flexible, ready to let some pieces naturally fall away as we grow and move. I'm deeply invested and committed to my current friends, school, land, profession, Quaker meeting, community and way of life. But they are not happiness or the meaning of life; they are the means and the expression of it.

Morning-after regrets

2011-04-03T07:23:00.000-07:00

Dear NF: Last night was a mistake. I was tired and lonely and stupid. I didn't really want you, didn't really enjoy you. It's not your fault - you opened yourself up and gave me everything I said I wanted. But now I have to confess to my wife and my world my weakness, my betrayal, my wasted energy.

Last night I didn't write, play piano, practise guitar, learn to paint. Didn't read any of the gardening, spirituality, classic literature or current smut books on the shelves. Didn't bake some bread or create a baked alaska. Didn't create anything.

Last night I didn't knock off any of the work items that block up my headspace. Didn't deal with income tax or 124 inbox emails or any of the little niggling admin tasks I'm determined to clear off the list. Didn't build the new shelves or hang the fancy under-sink garbage cans or fix the rattling doorknob or any of the 20-minute DIY jobs that would make this place happier. Didn't do anything.

Last night I didn't call an old friend, a new friend, my wife. Didn't write a thank-you note to any of the dear people who have invited me over for dinner or dropped by to visit or made sure my birthday was beautiful. Didn't go to El Centro coffee shop or walk to a neighbour's or any of the places I could have found a friend. Didn't touch anyone.

Last night I watched a movie on NetFlix. Not even a good one. The whole time I knew I could be doing something that would nurture me or serve my family or connect with the world. Or enjoyed a hot tub under the stars, gone to bed at a reasonable hour and woken up fresh instead of with this self-incriminating Damn-my-lack-of-discipline hangover. This is why we got rid of our TV 5 years ago, and I hate this breach in our armour that lets it insiduously creep back in on my computer screen.

So dear NetFlix, please don't call tonight. Nothing personal (in fact, that's the problem.) Don't expect me to come back to you, cause today's all about me and my responsibilities and my community and my garden and my Joys. And none of that can be found in re-runs; it has to be created live.

Who invented Urban Homesteading (TM)?

2011-03-31T23:21:00.000-07:00

As I've said before, not everyone should (or can) move to the country in order to live a conscientious, sustainable life. Many city friends intensively garden, shop local, reduce their carbon footprint, share resources, carpool, barter, make preserves, raise bees and chickens... some even more than we do out here on WildSide Farm.

But whoops, I'm evidently not allowed to talk about it. If I have the gall to celebrate them as "urban homesteaders"(TM), this little blog might get shut down. Seems some family down in California thinks they invented the idea, and believe they can trademark the term. Like my grandpa or my friend Steve never thought of that kind of urban life before the Devreas thought it up in the 1980's.

Funny thing is, even if "Urban Homesteading" (TM)could belong to anyone, it wouldn't be that family. They didn't invent the concept, and didn't even invent the term. It was addressed in the 1976 Article on the Integral House and a 1980 article on Modern Homesteading by Mother Earth News.

But they've not only trademarked "Urban Homestead" (TM)and "Urban Homesteading" (TM), but evidently they beat Nelson Mandela and countless other inspirational folks with the idea of a "Path to Freedom" (TM). They are so brilliant that they invented the idea "Grow the Future" (TM), and have sparked their very own "Homegrown Revolution" (TM).

Until tonight I've facebook "liked" what they do and stand for. I thought they were fellow journeymen on this brilliant and brightly-varied path we're all trying to take. Now it turns out they own it.

Come on folks, there's enough room on this path for all of us. In fact, it's not only a lonely path but it's ultimately unsustainable unless we walk it as equals.

Going 44 in a School Zone

2011-03-31T21:13:00.000-07:00

Alone on my birthday. Kids and wife away in Chicago, bringing the double-whammy of not getting to hang out in the school parking lot - my main social fix of the day. But the universe is like a big Newfoundlander dog - it not only comes when you call, it knocks you over with abundant love and licks you all over with slobbery affection.

My family not only found multiple occasions to bake cakes and celebrate me before flying away, but made clever arrangements for a group of friends to sneak up through the back woods and surprise me with a joyous Happy Birthday this morning. Four other friends also drifted by during the day - I felt more hugged than Theodore Roosevelt's bedtime companion.

These days there's so many ways to not be isolated. Phone calls from family, inlaws, friends from African days and Vancouver days and many other days, and two wonderful voicemail songs that I so frustratingly can't identify (the caller nor the key). Facebook wall postings. Emails.

Then the good ol' fashioned food traditions. A good friend at one business meeting had baked cookies and chilly (chile? chillie?). Crystal made a fabulous vegan Asian meal and decidedly less-wholesome chocolate cake.

Beyond the different ways to connect, I celebrate the diversity of people who reached out today (and all days, but especially today when I'm allowed to Demand it). Fellow parents from my kids' lives. Neighbours. Friends from my work in Africa. Dear Vancouver landlord-friends. Professional colleagues. Wwoofers past and present. Mother, brother, inlaws. Children calling from Chicago multiple times. And of course dear magical wife who found a way to be with me even while 2,242 miles away.

Sometimes I fear becoming an aging Tarzan depending on a single vine for all my support. But now at the wise old age of 44 I find myself becoming Charlotte, weaving a rich variety of peoples into an intricate, beautiful web.

One family just wrote, "TE DESEAMOS UN AñO LLENO DE LUZ Y DE AMIGOS Y AMOR Y MUSICA Y...LO QUE MAS TE GUSTE A TI." Yes, dear amigos, I have absolute confidence that yet another year will be filled with light and friends and love and music. As for the things that most turn me on, if my choice of how to spend a birthday are any indication, they seem to include caring for my animals, supporting 4 non-profits through my consulting work, hugging an awful lot of good people, cleaning the house, gardening, letting a four-year-old crawl all over me, eating a third helping of chocolate cake, and writing to share this abundant Joy with all of you, my co-creators.

Oh ya, and skipping yoga to take my first outdoor shower of the year, in the late afternoon sun after planting 5 rows of parsnips. That was my present to myself. Cause gosh darnit, once a year on my special day I just deserve parsnips and ice-cold water.

Signs of Spring

2011-03-27T07:22:00.001-07:00

For 3 weeks I've been intending to write about the arrival of Spring, and it just keeps arriving. The first week-end of full-out gardening while the kids were with Grandma. Pulling a few inches of seaweed off the garlic bed to find 1200 green garlic shoots bravely pushing their way up. The first late dinner because we were building new raised beds until 7:00 twilight. And that glorious day last week when we worked in just a light sweatshirt, finally trading in the wool hat for the good ol' baseball cap.

Entering year 3 of this farmer thing, we're finally feeling confidence. Created a detailed map (using a fantastic online tool from Mother Earth magazine), taking into account crop rotation, companion planting, and our knowledge of which parts of the garden are sunniest, drain best, or have heavy soil. Mixed our own organic fertilizer and potting soil, got seedlings going in the small greenhouse on time. Pruned all the fruit trees and raspberry canes with an understanding of how to shape their growth and allow the sun to penetrate (thanks Uncle Dick for that lesson!)

We're once again expanding the growing area by about 50%, but with a solid belief that we'll stay on top of weeding and harvesting (finally registered with the wwoofer site to host willing farm volunteers). It will be manageable because we'll move with the efficiency and Joy of people who have it in their blood and their heads.

Because that's the true sign of spring. It's not the longer daylight that lets us be out there before breakfast and after kids' bedtime. It's not the robins starting their mating flights while we dig, nor the plum tree about to burst into flower. Spring has sprung in my soul, bursting with desire to be out there with the earth, to have bare hands so dirty that Z asks me to take my brown "gloves" off before hugging him.

As Leroy said in episode 3 of season 1 of Fame, this isn't just what i do anymore, it's who i am.

Whose farm is this anyways?

2011-03-22T22:17:00.000-07:00

Numerologically speaking, WildSide Farm is a five. Not in the half-of-Bo-Derek sense, but something like it's alive with people, comings and goings, life. At least, that's what visitor # 14 said today.

Take today, for example. A day with Absolutely Nothing in the dayplanner. No people, no appointments, no reason except school to leave the land. But then...

The phone rang and I was suddenly babysitting a 2 and 4-year-old for a gloriously fun and active hour in the afternoon, then a visit with their mom at pick-up. Amy and her four (4) children stopped by to take care of the cows. Zekiah's friend invited herself over after school to help rake up apple-branch prunings. Two grade-eight boys came by to help me move a pile of lumber into the barn to dry. The neighbour boy lurked around on his stilts, and his mom joined him to visit the calves. The school's enrollment coordinator and her son came to pick up the eighth-graders and stayed for a quick tour and visit. Valdelia brought Tristan home from preschool. A repeat visitor/friend came for an unexpected overnight in our WildSide B&B room. Crystal and her son Tristan joined us for dinner as usual.

In case you lost count, that's a transformation from a quiet 2-adult, 2-children family day to a joyous cacophony of 9 adults and 14 children. That, my friends, is what I love about living in community, and why our website exhorts you to "Come fall apart in my backyard." (It's also probably why I'm staying up on my own to write this and enjoy the silence.)

Of dead calves and deadbeat farmers

2011-03-17T20:36:00.001-07:00

Twice last week I proved I'm not yet a real farmer.

The exciting moment came when our neighbour boy excitedly announced that the baby calf had been born overnight. I had checked properly the night before (good farmer) and seen no sign of the mama about to birth (tail up, backside softening), but there was the little miracle laying down in the grass. On its side. Not moving.

We quickly called our partner-in-bovine Amy, grabbed the How to Raise Cattle book and ran back down. Following instructions, I stuck straw up the calf's nose to try to tickle it awake. Lifted the whole slimy body upside down to drain fluid. Felt for a heartbeat. Even prepared to give mouth-to-mouth, but it was obviously too late.

Sarah brought out her midwife scissors and cut the umbilical cord while mama cow ate the placenta, then I dragged the poor thing outside the fence and covered her with a tarp so mama cow wouldn't go too deep into mourning.

All that was good farmer (or, rather, rancher). I even thought to leave my slime-covered jeans and jacket unwashed incase we needed to spread that scent on an adopted calf to endear it to the mama. But then a busy work day beckoned, and the dead calf was left all day and overnight. Bad farmer, not taking care of the dead.

In the middle of the night I was awakened by neighbour Crystal saying that mama cow (Rosie) was mooing alot, was she OK? Good farmer again, I got dressed and went down to check her out. Aware that a cougar has been on our land alot lately, I brandished a shovel and bright spotlight to defend myself. It was a scary, exhilarating feeling to be out there knowing a cougar (aka panther, mountain lion) was likely watching, and likely lining up that baby calf for dinner. Mama was allright, so I re-covered the calf and hoisted a few tree limbs on top to keep the cougars and birds of prey at bay.

The next afternoon a friend and I dug a deep, below-the-water-table grave and took proper care of the poor calf. Good farmer. In the meantime, Amy secured two new baby calves. It turns out that basically all boy calves of dairy cattle are killed at birth since they'll never give milk and it's more cost-effective to raise proper meat-breed cattle for slaughter. So WildSide Farm has now become an orphange (for a year, anyways), rescuing atleast these two babies who had the misfortune to be born with the wrong equipment (which we've already "elastrated").

Amy started introducing them to mama. That means twice a day tying up Rosie so she'll stay still, hobbling her so she won't kick the babies, then helping the calves find and stay on the teats till they get the hang of it. She's definitely a good farmer.

One night she asked me to do it the next morning. But come morning, taking the boys to school then a yoga date with a friend was suddenly higher priority than taking care of these 1-week-old creatures. I did come home to do it, and do it surprisingly well, but a good two or three hours after they were ready for breakfast. Bad farmer.

I remember at a time when Rose and Blossom had started escaping, I threw them into the barn and went on a much-needed vacation. Joe's response - "I wouldn't be going right now." He was right, my automatic priority should be the living beings under my care. But twice this past week I still chose my needs over theirs.

I just went back and bolded all the judgment calls, and the "good farmers" have it over the "bads." So I guess I'm a decent and improving farmer, but still alot to learn about my animals, my stewardship, my place in the natural world.

Twenty Years Late

2011-03-13T20:15:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it takes 20 years to hear a woman say No.

For 20 years I’ve carried the sweet memory of a college romance. The details aren’t that important and are basically universal – back seat of a car, dorm room, dance floor, it’s a story that many of us have lived too many times. But a story that until today I’ve believed was a good one.

Today I find her on Facebook and send a friend request. But instead of the expected “Great to hear from you!” reply, I’m slapped in the face with a calm, confident, “I don’t have good memories of our time together” refusal.

This is not the starry-eyed girl in a long grey “Property of…” t-shirt of my memory. This is a strong, confident woman who has done her work and found her voice. A voice she evidently wished she’d had during our late nights together. A voice that would have told me to Stop in a way I would have heard and respected.

Because I didn’t know when to stop. At the end of our fun, even magical dates, I’d betray that connection with hungry, unlistening hands. She would consistently tell me to stop, consistently move my hands away, and I’d consistently try again.

I told myself it was OK because I never used force. I told myself it was OK because she kept allowing me to try again – this must be a game she enjoys if she invites me back night after night. And I told myself it was OK because twice she did say Yes. Neither time was nearly as magical as what we shared during the dates, but the fact that she eagerly and freely reciprocated two times was enough to justify the persistence and believe that she did “want it.” Enough to let me believe for 20 years that it was a healthy, fun adventure for both of us.

But today she holds up a mirror that makes me see –finally – that I should have stopped. That I should have listened. That what was a game and a challenge for young me was an act of violence for young her. I violated a young woman’s trust and need, never even questioning if it might be hurting her. I can’t truly be part of breaking the cycle of violence until fully accepting, as I must today, that I have been part of it.

This facebook refusal is a cold shock, but I instantly know it’s deserved. I see for the first time that I hurt her, and that my sharp insistence for her body destroyed what should have been a sweet sharing of our young souls. Violence, I am forced to see, is as simple as not listening, and as powerful as not stopping at – or even before – the first No.

Prodrigal Friend

2011-03-09T09:26:00.000-08:00

Don't need no fatted pig. Just one smile is all it takes.

Back from my second work trip in 3 weeks, I was just bursting at the seams to see my family. But of course Greyhound was late, leaving only a quick reconnect time before dinner. Then a sleepless night fretting and writing about insecurities and feelings of exclusion - basically a rehash of Men Need Not Apply and Measuring Friends, so I won't actually print last night's rave here. Then the planned calm morning of family snuggles usurped by the still-birth of a calf that had to be taken care of.

It all added up to arriving late at the school parking lot feeling alone and frazzled and lost. Breathless, breakfastless and unprepared for a full work day, I trudged head-down through the pouring rain to quickly take care of some week-old school business. And there she was, my angel of the morning.

She didn't know I was in a spiral. Didn't know I was needing a touch. She just saw I was back and quickly gave a warm welcoming smile that made me feel wanted and Seen. Just a simple, real, personal drive-by smile was enough to dispel all those clouds and send me back into the rain grinning like Gene Kelly.

Next morning there were no barnyard tragedies so we got there early enough for our usual social scene. There I found a parking lot full of friends all surprisingly aware that I've been away and wonderfully happy to see me back. I just hope I track peoples' lives and hold them half as well as I feel held today.

I feel so blessed to be in a community where connection is that easy to maintain, and needs so easy to express and have met. If we're feeling left out, all we have to do is show up and join in. The world is always there - it's up to us to be part of it.

Simply Cheap

2011-03-04T19:24:00.000-08:00

I'm sick of being poor. Went to Whole Foods today and froze, unable to spend anything after a full day of eating nothing but my boys' 3-day-old muffin creations. $3.75 for a slice of pizza - forget it! Delicious-smelling ginger-glazed tofu sold by the ounce - probably costs a fortune, and will have to go into a disposable container. $5 Rainforest crackers, imported Irish cheese on sale, "natural" but not organic sirloin at the tasting table... I just couldn't feel good about buying any of it, even as my mouth watered.

Dammit, I'm not poor. I own a 5-acre farm and two houses and a car. I have a $15,000 line of credit I didn't even ask for. If we cashed in all our chips today we'd probably be worth about half a million dollars. And yet I still can't buy a $3.50 chocolate lava cupcake.

When I freak out about a $400 ski day, that's ok. Questioning the ethics of a summer ice cream cone may feel extreme, but it's a values-based extremism. But to not buy decent organic food for a hungry stomach while on vacation is just plain cheap. I truly would have been happier and healthier if I'd just forked out a little for a fork-full of that macaroni salad, and the social justice world wouldn't have crumbled at my indiscretion.

I watched the well-groomed, monied people of Yorkville walking through the isles of Whole Foods in their designer organic clothing (from the store upstairs where i'd earlier balked at a half-price beautiful organic sweater for my beautiful organic wife), putting Good food in their baskets without a care, and in that one moment wished that for one moment I could be as free as them. Free to just buy what felt right, what I needed, even what I wanted. To fly to Mexico just because it's cold and wet. To go skiing because it really is family fun. To buy a basement door latch that works.

Our life is blessed because of our disciplined, conscious consumer choices - consistently saying no to unnecessary "treats" and trips and trends is what buys us the freedom to work less, live where we do, be who we are. When done right it's not a labour and not a restriction; it's a pure deep breath of freedom.

But many a mickle makes a muckle, says my grandma, and sometimes too much Simplicity is simply mad. As I stood in line between my fellow shoppers overflowing wicker shopping baskets, I looked at the single organic carrot in my hand and knew I'd crossed the line. But as they hobbled out the door with 10 pounds of groceries and $100 less on their credit lines, I had the last laugh - at myself, as the cashier blankly politely ignored my philosophical ponderings and calmly asked for "eighteen cents please." So deep is my Simplicity conditioning that my aha! moment of dreamy self-indulgence wasn't to think that maybe I should have bought that pizza after all; it was a thrilling, daring, almost naughty thought that I could have even afforded 2 carrots.

Pushing my kids

2011-02-27T19:30:00.000-08:00

When the Mama's away, the boys will Work. And cry, and get hurt, and complain and complain and complain. And hopefully learn.

Over the weekend we prepped the chicken coop for new chicks (25 meat birds coming Tues), cleaned out the barn to dry the lumber we've had milled on our land, built a cow shed for the pregnant heifer coming next week, rolled coins, cleaned the house, put away laundry. We also baked brownies, played cards, practised piano, read The Borrowers, and enjoyed the school Barn Dance. A productive and fun weekend - those two adjectives should more often go together.

Yesterday I had the boys carry a heavy 12-foot plank through the falling snow to the cow pasture. The first time they cried and said it was too heavy, my Dad's ethic and my own gentler voice came out of me and said, "I believe you can do it." The next time they gave up I suggested they figure out a different way, and gave a few suggestions. The third time they cried I said I was going in for lunch and sure hoped they figured it out soon so they could join me.

I could pretend that when they did come in a bit later that they had beaming "We Did It!" smiles and had learned a lesson about work ethic and their own strength. In reality they were still tired and sore and a bit annoyed. But they had done it, and that has to lodge somewhere in their self-understanding - that they are boys who can do a hard job and finish it.

The slab they carried today was a bit heavier, and the rain had turned the snowy hill into a slush slide. It only took about 10 seconds for G to drop it on his thigh and erupt in painful tears. I came over, put my hand on his shoulder and said, "Ya, that hurts doesn't it," the left them to continue. A bit further down the path it was Z's turn to have it drop in his foot. This time my comfort included a bit of helpful lesson, something wise about figuring out how to work Together or they'd keep getting hurt. Another lesson I hope lodges deep.

The "ah-ha!" moment for me was while G was screaming, "You're so mean! You're the meaning person in the world!" I suddenly could see him at 15 yelling or muttering, "My dad's such an asshole." The words will be different, but the feeling of frustration and painful growth being expressed will be the same. I hope I can be as steady and gently loving in the face of profanity as I was at being called Mean.

I remember so clearly hauling wood with my brother until my arms ached, not allowed to stop till dad had finished with the chainsaw. I never would have dared to call him names, but the injustice of having to help haul wood or set up camp while my friends got to play right away was acute. But I did learn something about working, about my own strength, about working together with my brother, and about having a valued role in the work life of my family. If through the tears and hurts my boys are slowly absorbing these lessons that will make them better men, then we moved more than a couple pieces of lumber today.

Our children aren't ready to know Tyeshia Jones

2011-02-18T08:29:00.001-08:00

Tonight I will join hundreds of fellow community members in honouring Tyeshia Jones. But my safe, sleeping children won't know about it.

I will not use the tragic death of this young woman to educate my children about the senseless dangers of the world. The sharpness of our community's pain will not pierce the bubble of their innocence.

At 7 and 9, they do not need to know the dark side. They need to know that they are safe to grow into themselves and the world. They need the strength of collective laughter and full-lung family renditions of Annie, not the constricted breath of sobbing and fear.

One of G's classmates learned of Tyeshia's murder and has been in bed with a fever since then - the only terror response her little soul could muster. She's too emotionally and intellectually immature to be able to understand such an act; not that any of us understand it, but we can at least hold it and process it in a broader perspective.

Yes we teach our children not to help strangers find their lost puppies. But the intensity and proximity of a young woman's body found in the forest within miles of our house is too real, too strong at this age. There will come a time when they do have to learn about abduction and peak oil and the DR Congo and the Tea Party and all the real world things that scare or motivate me; when that time comes, they will have been given the chance to develop the emotional and intellectual capacity to deal with it. And by then they will have a deep faith in the goodness and community that can overcome the challenges.

We've asked our community not to speak of this to or in front of our children. Not even her name, which has been on the school playground enough that their antennae are up. This is not to dishonour Tyeshia, but to live up to our collective job to protect our children. The same tears that will cleanse and heal us as adults could wash away the layers of innocence that protect our children.

We adults can and must speak her name amongst ourselves, rally together to share our strength. We must speak her name and keep her memory alive. I hope we can join together tonight at the candlelight vigil, or light your own candle and join us in your own way.

Tonight we adults will find strength and hope together in the candlelight. And our sleeping children will grow up in the warm glow of those candles without ever having to know it in their heads, just feeling deep in their souls that they are held by a community of love.

Creamy butter

2011-02-17T06:35:00.000-08:00

After 5 years of proudly making my own butter, I discover I've been doing it wrong. And yogurt too. How amusedly humbling.

It's so easy, I've been preaching. Just skim the cream off the top of your raw milk jar - or buy those lovely jars of organic Avalon whipping cream for you lucky Vancouverites - put it in the big mixer you got for your wedding and whirl away. Or have the kids shake it in jars. It slowly thickens, becomes whipped cream, then in 5-20 minutes it will suddenly, miraculously separates into thick clumps of butter and thin white splashes of buttermilk (usually all over the wall if you didn't turn down the mixer speed in time).

That's right, buttermilk is just the leftover white milk left over from making butter. Great in pancakes, muffins, all those recipes that call for that mysterious substance. Little things we've lost our traditional knowledge of.

Now suddenly I've learned from my multi-wonderful friend Justin that it's best to first turn the cream into yogurt. Fortunately that's a skill I think I've mastered over the past few years. So I heat the cream up to just below boiling, let it cool until a finger can be put in without scalding, then pour it back into a jar with a bit of old yogurt (starter) and put it in a huge canning pot filled 1/4 with hot water and a lid - that keeps it warm enough over night for the yogurt bacteria to do its work. In the morning it's yogurt, and into the mixer it goes.

But then super-Justin gently informs me that I've also been doing my yogurt wrong for the past two years also. Bringing it to an almost-boil is pasteurizing it, taking away many of the benefits that I've been buying raw milk for. Turns out it works just fine to just bring it to finger-hot temperature, skipping another whole step, reducing the frequency of milk boiling over onto the stove top and scalding the pot bottom, and increasing the health benefits.

Three years into our maple syrup making and we finally got one small batch that's the thick consistency of Aunt Jemima. Year three of raising organic free range chickens and we've now discovered soy-free feed that's even better for us and them.

Every time I think I've mastered something, I need to just look around to find out how it could be done better, or easier, or with less impact, or with more grace. Life is a fantastic learning curve leading to ever new and fresh vistas; death is (hopefully) when we no longer want to climb it.

The Price of Skiing

2011-02-13T06:17:00.000-08:00

Can I afford skiing? Can the world afford skiing?

Nine years into this family thing and we finally had our first ski vacation. A beautiful 3-day gala with 4 other beautiful families at a beautiful cabin on 5 metres (that's 195 inches!) of snow at the beautiful Mt Washington. Before I analyze it to death, let me be clear that we loved it. We had delicious family time, the kids enjoyed a sense of mastery with snow and gravity, I worked muscle memory from 14 years ago, and we bonded with old and new friends like only a ski chalet can allow.

BUT... it warn't cheap. Rentals, lift tickets and kids lessons cost over $300, for one day. Add in a 250 mile drive, 2-night cabin rental and a lot more store-bought food than normal and voila!, we've spent our entire profit from last year's garlic field. A couple hundred hours of hoeing, weeding, harvesting, processing and selling time translated into 6 hours of skiing.

Yes it would be cheaper with our own equipment and season pass, but when it comes to selecting what pastimes we're going to indulge in, why choose one that would require me to cultivate another couple acres of garlic, or work that many more days away from my family? My definition of simplicity isn't to never spend money, but it is a call to consider the life energy that money represents. Two hundred hours of garlic farming, or 30-hours of working a paid job, exchanged for 6 hours of family fun is not for me the best bang for my labour.

In addition to weighing the life energy input, I of course need to analyze the global impact of my choices. Environmentally, skiing ain't friendly - carbon footprint (mostly from the drive to get there and snow-making machines), soil erosion, watershed damage, construction, roads... And the money that just our five families spent for just one weekend could have paid for the entire 4-year college education of about 6 ACCES Kenyan students. I was riding that chair lift high above the natural world I was harming and out of sight of the majority of global citizens who pay the real price for my little bit of fun.

Wow, that was dramatic! Doesn't really make me sound like someone you want to sit with on the chairlift or even share an ice cream with. Ask my friends and family - I was having a blast out there, not carrying this all around like an albatross. We make our decisions then accept them, and I decided beforehand that this was going to be OK, and it was. I don't regret our ski vacation, don't apologize for it, and don't even swear it won't happen again. But I do want to think about what it was I was truly enjoying out there, and if there are ways of re-creating that experience with a lower impact.

The most fun aspects of the adventure were being together as a family, being together with the other families, and a fun outdoor activity. Sounds an awful lot like camping, or snowshoeing up to an alpine cabin, or a sleepover birthday bonfire party. There are many ways to create the fun, social and physical Joy we're seeking. As much fun as I had on that snowboard, the day hike and picnic with another family the week before was equally (and differently) satisfying and rich.

But what about the incredible rush of skiing? That rush that I was addicted to as a youth - going almost every weekend, subscribing to Ski magazine, dreaming of Vail and Swiss ski resorts? There is an undeniable thrill to the sport that a hike or group curling night can't match. How do I balance the true passion I once held for the sport with these other considerations of environment, social justice and life energy that now also guide my life?

My own answer - for myself (probably not even for my children, certainly not for anyone else) - is that I have the power to choose my thrills. And I choose pursuits that bring Joy and excitement and social bonding at a minimum cost to my life energy and global impact. Skiing, for me, is no longer important enough to me to justify the cost. Or perhaps more accurately, I am choosing not to value skiing that highly.

We deserve fun. We owe it to ourselves and our families to create daily Joy and memorable special outings. It's absolutely OK to spend some money on ourselves instead of sending it all to Africa. But it is never OK to use those resources without considering the greater impact we are having; to justify harm by simply saying "we deserve it." It's when we make our life choices in full honesty and consideration of all factors that we are living a life of integrity, and out of that integrity flows true Joy and meaning.

Can I and the world afford skiing? I guess there's no single answer to that question, just a call to be true to our values. Usually for me that will mean choosing to say no to skiing and scuba diving and Nascar races (oh darn!). And sometimes, like the ski weekend our family fully enjoyed, it will mean saying Yes to something surprising.

Let them believe

2011-02-03T20:43:00.000-08:00

Of course they're real. Santa, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, St.Nicholas, even the Hallowe'en Switch Witch in our household. They'll be real for as long as our family chooses to let them bring magic in.

No, the kids won't be bitter or betrayed when they learn the truth. Galen's already figuring it out, and enjoying playing with the line between belief and reality. He talks of MommieClaus and DaddyClaus, but still rushes with baited breath to see what the old man put in his stocking. When he's fully ready to let go of the kiddie role, we'll do what our friend did with her older child - bring him in on the conspiracy, let him help preserve the magic for his little brother.

His little brother, now 7, still loves to believe. Christmas Eve he was busy clearing the living room so the elves wouldn't trip, and made me solemly swear to put the fire out so Santa wouldn't get burnt. All this in the face of big brother talking about the reality side - doesn't phase him a bit.

What truly makes me write with such authority is that Zekiah continues this full-on belief despite me being busted twice. Christmas morning he said that he'd heard Santa during the night. I said "Ya, I thought I heard him in the living room." He matter-of-factly put me in my place saying, "No Papa, that was just you. I know because you usually stay and kiss me after putting me back to bed, but last night you went into the living room and pretended to be Santa. But I heard him later on the roof."

I helped him patch up his belief system by laughing and saying that I was trying to trick Mama. But the other day was harder to swallow. The tooth fairy printed up her note a little too late at night, and didn't notice that Sarah had put used paper in the printer. The boys burst into the room with Galen joyously shouting, "I KNEW it! I knew you were the tooth fairy!" We tried to cover up by extolling the tooth fairy's environmental consciousness to break into mama's office and re-use paper, but Galen could see right through that.

Then the big moment came in class the other day. Talk about the veracity of the tooth fairy surfaced, and Zekiah loudly announced that he knew exactly who the tooth fairy is. As the teacher listened anxiously, he explained, "I have seen her. She is about one inch tall..." and continued with a detailed and fully believable description of the fairy. The tooth fairy is definitely female, in case you ever wondered.

Our children want magic, and deserve to live in that beautiful enchanted land as long as they will let themselves. Reality will come soon enough - for now my job is to help them keep those imaginary castle walls high and strong, so they are free to wander inside and create worlds of their choosing.

There's Baby and Patrick and Mary, oh my!

2011-01-23T22:52:00.000-08:00

I cheated on my wife last night. Tucked her into bed, then snuck back out first to expose myself on internet, then finally curled up on the purple couch with a supple 16-year-old (and her roughneck boyfriend third-wheeling).

Yesterday's posting about juggling too much was all about me, and for me. I was feeling fractured, too divided to even sleep with my beautiful wife, and writing about it helped make it manageable. Somehow when things are in a list, and the dayplanner is open to a fairly open next week, the overwhelming gorilla gets reduced to bunch of bite-size body parts and extraneous hair that can be shaved off. At 11pm I hit "publish" then wrote a quick, prioritized things-to-do list that let me finally let go of worrying about it.

Then I indulged in my favourite feel-better pastime - watching Dirty Dancing. Nobody puts Baby in a corner, and nobody makes me feel better about the world than Baby. In 1985 I finished a workday as a social worker by dropping off a 10-year-old boy off at his basement door while listening to his mother screaming and throwing things upstairs, watching him shrug "this is normal, I'll deal." I drove straight to Macs to pick up Dirty Dancing and a pack of Twinkies, then lost myself in that incessant Patrick Swayze pelvis and the tender moment he called her Francis and let go of what I couldn't change for that real-life boy. It's been my go-to ever since.

Huge disclaimer - my one true love, even greater than Baby, is Mary. During grad school, every weeknight I'd study in my office till 11:30, play guitar with Ted and Mark till 1am, then go home and watch Mary Tyler Moore reruns till 1:30, and sometimes again till 2am if I really needed it. And still wake up at 7am sharp without an alarm to go swimming the next morning (our communal bathtub was so gross that I vowed to never use it - a vow I kept for the full 2 years). No matter what I'd experienced that day, she could certainly make it all seem worthwhile.

We all have comfort foods and soul strokers, and that's all just a long-winded way to give you a glimpse into some of my self-nurturing quirks you may not have guessed. And to let you know that the puzzle may never be finished, but the pieces are sorted and do seem like they'll add up to a coherent picture.

PS - Turns out the joke's on me. While I was cheating with Jennifer and Patrick, Sarah was dreaming that she'd become engaged to a gambling statistician who looked like our Texas real estate agent, and who gifted her with the incredible romantic book "How to buy swimming pools with your kids." Well my dear, that may have amused your hungry eyes, but in the meantime I had the time of my life.

Puzzled by too many pieces

2011-01-22T22:46:00.000-08:00

When do the long lazy nights of winter start? When will I finally get to read those books, sharpen those tools, watch those movies, talk to those long-distance friends? I've created wonderful diversity and, in a strange way, balance, but it sometimes adds up to too much of a good thing, or at least too many good things. In this past week I've been involved with:
- facilitated Cowichan Fundraisers Exchange, then typed and distributed minutes to over 80 non-profit members
- meetings with two new prospective non-profit clients
- started a year-long once/week job at OUR Ecovillage
- work sessions and follow-up with two ongoing clients - Glenora Farm and Biodeisel Coop
- two Bikram yoga sweats
- Social Health Committee meeting (agenda, facilitate, type and distribute notes)
- arranged caller and fiddler for spring Barn Dance
- worked with electrician to finish running wires to new rental cabin extension
- teleconference of new fundraising committee for Canadian Friends Service Committee
- finished boiling first batch of maple syrup, plus picked up 29 new collection bottles from friends and drilled more trees
- had a tree guy reduce a towering 100-year-old Douglas Fir into 20-foot lengths, and arranged for a portable mill to turn it into beams for the rental cabin reno
- attended a full-day school workshop on enrollment and fundraising
- family hike with another dear-friend family; other family here for dinner
- lotsa dealing with parents, faculty, self and son about bullying issues
- hot tub, final garden planning and seed order with sarah and crystal
- submit grant application for community centre development
- neighbourhood association meeting
- plan ski trip, writer's retreat, and March Toronto trip

Plus of course all the un-bulletable parts of housekeeping, cooking (including a fabulous upside-down apple-strawberry cake), parenting, firewood chopping, chicken-tending, writing, etc etc.

'Twas a good week to practice being fully present for each activity, but a challenge to then do the proper follow-through even while shifting to the next appointment or task. I wrote this time last year that I refuse to use the word "busy", and that's still not my complaint here. The entire list of things I did this week are worthy and I don't see any that I want to cut. Just need to keep on top of everything, tend to details, follow through, take time to absorb learnings and challenges, let the water carry the good stuff down to the roots before shooting off in another direction. And somehow find time to read a book and still get one of those blessed 12-hour winter slumbers.

Watching my Son be Bullied

2011-01-19T21:49:00.000-08:00

We are all victims of bullying. Amidst all the beautiful outpouring of support after my last blog post about my son being bullied, was an astonishing number of people talking about their own experience being bullied as children.

On one hand it's perhaps comforting to see how these young tormented children have grown up to be confident, loving adults and friends. Then again, it's a scary indication of our world that it's such a prevalent experience. It also makes me wonder how our own experience of it (or of anything, for that matter) colours how we deal with it when our children enter the same cycle.

Interestingly, no-one admitted to being a bully. I will, right here. Andre, Indra, David, Brian... I can name all the classmates I tormented from grades 7-10, and dearly wish I could apologize to them now, call them up and let them know that somehow I did eventually become more compassionate, as if that could relieve them of the pain I caused. Even having been in that role, I can't understand the bully's motives; can't pinpoint why I behaved that way, why I chose them particularly as targets, or even why I stopped. But it does at least propel me to try to find forgiveness and latent goodness in the children now causing the same pain in my son.

Sandwiching those cruel years were experiences of being bullied in grade 4 and then in grade 10 (the latter being one of my targets who suddenly grew and turned the tables - sweet karma). I've tasted that same salty fear that now stings my boy's eyes, and my inability to deal with it then certainly colours the support and reaction I give to Galen.

It's time to finally share a painful blog entry from two summers ago, when we were already dealing with these issues (with a different boy). It's more raw than constructive, and in that way perhaps more real. It helps me remember that I'm more than the helping adult in this situation - I'm a full-on player with my own history breathing into how I act and react. And lest I ever minimize my little boy's experience, it's powerful to remember that my own first experience of being bullied that's mentioned below - an experience I carry with me to this day - was when I was the exact same age as Galen is now.

August, 2009

"Punch him in the nose." That was my dad's advice when Danny Gay threatened to beat me up in grade 4. "Say to him, 'Danny, I don't like what you've been doing to me,' then punch him in the nose to make his eyes water, then beat him up."

It sounded so brutally simple and it terrified me, and I never did get over that fear of being hurt in a fight. I just walked around in a lot of fear and nightmares, and prayed that I'd make it to the age when fights don't happen anymore. So to now see my own son start to go through the same cycle is heartbreaking.

The school bully of grade two came for a playdate next door. We'd already had incidents with him last year of teasing, pushing, even kicking in the groin (yes, in grade one Waldorf). Today Galen came back to our yard bravely holding back tears to tell me that X kept running at him and pushing him down. When I suggested he stay out of the rough-housing games that all 8 kids were playing, he said that he was just sitting by the car but X wouldn't stop. Could I go talk to him?

I tried to explain that Daddy stepping in would just make things worse. We talked about a strategy to just ignore him, to not show fear and not react, so that X would just get bored from not getting a rise out of his victim.

But what I really wanted to say was, "PUNCH HIM IN THE NOSE!" I know it would just beget a cycle of violence, and that Galen's pacifist stand was much braver and ultimately more effective, but deep down I just wanted him to plaster that little punk. I wanted him to overcome the fear that I never did.

At the root of pacifist non-violence there needs to be a deep compassion and love for people and the world, and an unshakable belief that violence is not the answer. There will always be a doubt in my heart about whether I reached this Quaker non-violence stance from true conviction or from fear. So I desperately want my boys to find true inner power to guide them on a path of strong gentle love.

I joined in the children's play for a spell to diffuse the energy, then watched from a distance as X resumed a pattern of repeatedly wrestling with Galen and throwing him to the ground. I watched my little boy be beaten up, under the thin guise of play-wrestling. And I watched him bravely - so incredibly bravely - pretend to wrestle back each time, pretend to not be afraid, and refuse to leave the group play in defeat.

Although I confess to a dark desire for X to be expelled from the school and our lives, I do feel compassion for him also, knowing that he is acting out something hard for his 8-year-old soul. And I know that our deeper work and responsibility is to nurture a strength and Peace in Galen. Our son is a truly gentle, beautiful soul who does not enjoy the rough play of other boys. This will not be the last time he will have conflict with boys who play by different rules, and who connect on a more physical level. Our energy needs to be with Galen, not against X.

This parenting gig is difficult at the best of times, let alone times when our children are genuinely afraid or sad or hurt. The challenge is to support them with the best of our beliefs and inner strength and hope, while somehow avoiding unloading our own baggage on them. Any words of wisdom or support you can share would be much appreciated as we continue down this bumpy road.

I want my free little boy back

2011-01-17T19:24:00.000-08:00

I need help. My 9-year-old son is being bullied. Again.

I want advice, tools, tricks, books, magic words to build strength in my boy - social resilience is the key word. There's something in him that puts him repeatedly in this role, and it's my job to help him grow past it. The growing has to be from and by and through him, but I'm looking for ways to support him, guide him, mentor and teach and hold space and shine a light that will help him find the way.

I want a magic mirror that lets him see into the future. Lets him see the beautiful confident man he will grow to become, when these playground terrors are done with. Some of the same traits that make him a target now will make him free and unique and cherished when he's older. That may not make him less afraid to go to the morning line-up outside the classroom, but it strengthens me to have this confidence in that special light of his that will shine so bright later on, and maybe it can be something for him to hold onto when he's a bit older.

I want a best friend for him. Just one or a few peers who see the beauty and honour the odd in him, that he doesn't have to try so hard or wonder so much or long so hard to feel loved or even liked. Overall the children do like and appreciate him, but he's not the top of anyone's birthday invite list and he feels it.

I want him to like himself. Miraculously he still embraces his own different ways of being in the world, still is natural and free in who he is. But the unforgiving social mirror makes it hard to feel likeable sometimes, and when he jokingly calls himself a "dumbhead" there's a doubtful part that wonders if it's true.

I want his childhood to last as long as he deserves. He's still a little boy, imaginative, innocent, believing, wondering, a bit magical, a lot wide-eyed. It's too soon to have to put up guards, to be afraid, to learn to Deal with stuff. He needs to experience the world, not manage it or fear it or make the best of it.

I want school to feel safe for him. As a member of the Social Health Committee I'm respectful of the serious steps the school has taken, and we've mobilized the protocol to bring the whole community in on the solution. This includes meetings with the teacher, heart-felt communication with the other child's parent, and a faculty-wide report so that all eyes can be watchful and compassionate toward both boys. I don't believe that policing is the ultimate answer, and I don't believe that the one other boy is the whole problem, but an immediate sense of safety will open up space for the other work of strengthening our son's resilience.

For myself, I just want to be held. To be told that I'm right in believing in my son, that others see his special sun and how it shines and will continue to shine. I want to hear about other parents and children's struggles and successes, to know that there are many paths and that all have been walked before us. I want to hear that others are watching and holding Galen and our family, and reaching out as possible with invitations to play, or kind words, or kind and hopeful thoughts. To know that we're not as alone as Galen sometimes feels.

I want my summer break Galen back. The one who feels light and natural. The goofy, laughing, sensitive, inquisitive, self-challenging, exploring, treasure-finding child who only knows flowers and basketballs. We managed to not lose most of that when school started in the fall, but 2 weeks after a warm, centred family Christmas I can feel him slipping away. The hugs and snuggles are more insistent and searching, the calls for reassurance and connection more frequent and hungry.

This is more than rhetorical reflection or poetry. It's a genuine call for help and support. I know that loving my boy is the best I can do, and I'm trying to hold him in every way possible. But any of the above wants that you can help us find, any advice or ideas or telepathic hugs or or or..., send them this way. My boy needs me right now, and I'll leave no rock unturned to give him what he needs.