Religion is always a touchy subject, at least to me, because I don’t want to insult anyone who might be especially sensitive or defensive about what they believe. I’ve learned that people who can take a joke about their big ears aren’t always the same people that can take a joke about their god. Anyway, that said, I am not so sensitive, and as long as someone isn’t try to recruit me or convince me of something, then people can do their thing, and I’m good with my made up religion.
I went to Catholic school until high school gradation. It wasn’t a uniforms-and-nuns Catholic school, but in Elementary school we learned about Jesus stories (parables) and how to have mass, and got the sacraments as they came (Penance, Communion and Confirmation). In high school, our school would still incorporate Catholic practices and morals, celebrate mass and all, but the actual Bible teachings slowed down the older we got. A world religions course was offered too, making sure we had the chance to learn about what else was out there in terms of organized religion. I thought this was fair.
I don’t agree with many of the tenants of Catholicism, but I am really thankful to have been raised with a formal belief system. I am glad that I was taught ideas of heaven and hell, sin and moral responsibility. I am glad I was given the chance to question teachings freely and draw my own conclusions. I wouldn’t call myself a practicing Catholic today, but I still practice prayer and I like going to Church at Christmas and Easter, if not to worship Jesus than to at least reflect philosophically on the basis for the celebrations, like family, love, forgiveness and such.
I don’t believe that Jesus died on the cross and literally was raised from the dead, but that doesn’t make me sad. I still believe he was a guy that had some profound teachings and incredibly wise guidance that is still applicable today. To me, it doesn’t change things or matter if he literally walked on water or cut one fish and fed a hundred. I look at it as a way to tell a story, and the message is what’s important. I don’t believe in an Immaculate Conception, but that doesn’t change the way I think of Mary as the mother of all mothers, the sort of female talisman or figure I can worship. I don’t think a man-made religion like Catholicism is without flaws and logical holes, like how women cannot lead religious celebrations, or how priests cannot get married.
I like to think what I practice is a tailor-made religion that helps me to be morally accountable for what I do and say, and helps me to live a meaningful life with spiritual foundations and faith. It goes something like this:
I say prayers every night to thank God for all the wonderful blessings in my life. I also ask him to help me with anything I might be struggling with. Usually this goes something like, “I’m having trouble with this, please give me the strength and courage and/or wisdom to get through it.” I’m still responsible for my actions and outcomes, I’m just asking a higher being for some help, you know?
I pray for other people, if I think my prayers or good vibes might get to them and help them in some way, whether by actual “prayer power” or by my transmission of positive energy. I guess that sounds hippy-ish, but I definitely believe in good and bad energies.
I also think yoga, when practiced as a form of worship, totally brings me to a higher appreciation of God. It helps me see the beauty of a breath, a tree, the building blocks of the universe. It makes me look at things as incredible intricate and fascinating creations, and I worship the dude behind all that. I am not sheepish to say that while doing yoga, and focusing all my energy upon the higher power, I have definitely had out of body, euphoric experiences. That is the closest I’ve ever felt to God and I can’t deny that power.
I wanted to be married in a Church, because even though I have reservations about the Church as a political body, I absolutely wanted God to be a part of that union, of that declaration that we would be together forever. I am not so stubborn or set that I could not get over the bureaucratic aspects of the Catholic Church.
That is the difference, I think, between being inclusive and exclusive. I am not a practicing Catholic because I do not agree with a lot of the decisions church leaders have made. I don’t think there needs to be that kind of dividing line: If you believe in abortion, or sex outside of marriage, you can’t be a true Catholic. Well, maybe not to you, but I can still believe in God and practice religion, spirituality, right?
I am more than pleased to attend different Churches: Baptist, Lutheran, I am not against any Church. I would gladly worship God and the beauty of the universe at a synagogue, or in meditation like a Buddhist. I think there are so many ways to just be thankful, to appreciate the beauty of what God and the universe have put together here, and that a religious label doesn’t necessarily need to be stamped on top.
That said, I am all for those of us that do call themselves Christians, Catholics, because their lives are made better by their Church. That’s what it’s all about! Find what works for you and go for it. But if someone does something different than you, don’t be so quick to tell them they are wrong. Let them do them.

Labels: love, reflection, thought, yoga

I read Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer about two months ago, I think, and finished the book wondering if Chris McCandless was a brazen adventurer who met some bad luck or whether he was an arrogant tramper who could have saved himself with more careful planning. I decided that he had been well-intentioned but had gone too far in denying support, from communications systems, food rations and maps. After all, as the author pointed out, he could have made it over the river had he used a map showing a ranger station 2km down stream. Instead, we all know he turned around and made some more fatal errors living off the land, biding time until he could walk out on his own. The dream ended in gaunt tragedy in the wild.
I watched the movie last night and changed my mind. This is a case, I think, where the film is better than the novel. Is ay this because the film, being visual, is so much more convincing. The carefully filmed scenes of mountain chains back dropped by pink sunsets, of the Colorado River flanked by terracotta-coloured rock walls, add a whole new dimension to my understanding of McCandless. It was like, “Aha, so that’s what he was after.” The infinite beauty of untamed wild, of scenery, of scenes illuminated by sunlight and not by neon.
Part of the McCandless mystery, like that of Jeffrey Eugenides’ Virgin Suicides, is that we’ll never know whether or not young Chris made fatal errors or was too arrogant in his quest for the wild that he orchestrated his own demise. Maybe he never intended to make it out alive; we’ll never know. But watching the film adaptation and having the detailed research and analyses of the book certainly draws me in as a captive wonderer who’ll never know what happened, but who longs for more clues. After the visual argument of beautiful coastlines and barren arctic beauty, I’m now more convinced that the beauty was intoxicating, convincing the young ex-academic that all can and would be solved with surrender to the larger beauty and organization of nature.
I for one fully give myself to the comforts of civilization, knowing that solitude and self-sufficiency are not my fortes, at least in terms of basic survival, nourishment and shelter. Love is way better and love must be shared.

Labels: love, movies

The big drama at school this week on the playground was who’s going out with who. Now, going out seems to be a title. I mean, around here, I wouldn’t be surprised if a “couple” in grades 3 or 4 were up to no good after school hours when nobody’s watching them, but at school, being someone’s boyfriend or girlfriend seems to mean sitting beside each other at assemblies, and saving the last Gusher or piece of gum for them.
I laugh and remember my first boyfriends. I also laugh that between grades 5 and 7 I had more boyfriends than between grades 8 and 10.
My first was Kyle. He was a football player and I was a cheerleader, it was like a match made in after-school-special heaven. I’m sure this all freaked my parents right out. I mean, who expects their 10-year-old to start dating? They kept tight reins over what our dates were allowed to entail. We went on bike rides and one time he even came over to watch “Billy Madison.”
I don’t remember how things with him ended, but I do remember that I was ready to get right onto the next one. My grade 5 boyfriend was Brendan and man, we were like the Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski of Miss Buckle’s class. All I can remember is that when we made Valentine’s Day cards in art class we made some for each other, instead of making card for our parents, like the other kids. And at one point he gave me a blue and turquoise-coloured plastic jewelry box that I still have, actually. The part of our relationship I remember most, of course, is the breakup.
Our class had just begun the gymnastics unit in gym class, and I was stoked. All things bendy were where I excelled, being double-jointed. This phys ed. unit drove us a part. Brendan was a natural athlete who rolled in high grades in every gym unit; sports were a cake walk for him. But when final gymnastics performances were held and I scored higher, he could not take it. Brendan broke my grade 5 hear breaking up with me, all because I was better at doing the splits. To rub salt in the traumatic wound, he ran right into the arms of another Northern Getaway-clad classmate, Michelle.
After Brendan there was Blake and Steven and Michael and Dan and Matt. All were dramatic, and all ended, either me with my face in my pillow sobbing that the world was unfair and boys were stupid jerks, or me making an awkward telephone call to tell the poor dude he just wasn’t cutting it.
Then, as we all know, I struck the jackpot in Grade 10 and started dating the dude who is now the Mr to my Mrs.

Labels: childhood, love

It has all come down to this weekend: Here we are, just the two of us, left to our own devices. Isolated, no social entertainment outlets (because really, the town bar is not our scene), no video rental store even. We had always remarked how nice it would be when it was just the two of us in Ross River. “Oh, what time we’ll finally have for each other.” Friday when the work whistle blew, it was on. The moment had arrived. Could we indeed last an entire long weekend, just he and I, without driving each other crazy?
Things could have gone quite cranky. I mean, I had a list of long weekend to-do’s: Replace hallway light bulb, wash truck inside and out, bake a pumpkin chocolate cake and grill a beer chicken. He gets nervous when I make lists, because he knows if he doesn’t look busy, he’ll be assigned a task sooner or later. And then the “you nag me” “well you don’t do anything around the house” arguments begin.
They never did! Saturday we stayed in bed as long as we could, finally letting our growing puppy lie in bed between us. When we did rouse, we made a slow breakfast and decided it would be a nice day to take a drive and a picnic lunch. He was patient as I asked him repeatedly to stop driving and let me get out to take pictures. I cursed him out when he didn’t believe I saw mountain goats, but apologized when I realized he didn’t see them because- duh!- he was driving. We had an awesome picnic lunch by the shallow lake melt, and enjoyed doing something new together while holding hands and stuff.
He helped me clean up after baking my cake and he got supper started. We watched Hitch on TV and laughed together. When he became bored with the movie, he did his own thing and that was that. We laughed at each other for things you all probably would not find funny. But that’s exactly what makes it funny, and kind of special for us, it’s like our own language, our inside jokes that we know only the other will appreciate.
I washed the truck Sunday morning and he was quite firm in letting me know the day was a write-off for him: International hockey and NHL playoffs, of course. When that was over we went to the gym together and though this happens quite regularly, I enjoyed watching him workout. It was kind of like seeing him through different lenses. Noticing him.
We ate supper and he complimented my cooking and thanked me, saying, “That was really good food, I like it when everything tastes good.” As opposed to when it does not? I’ll take the underhanded compliment as it was meant, with kindness.
Even though we are spending the weekend doing things quite in the ordinary, it is just us, free to sleep in, enjoy all of each other, and I love that I can just get up walk over and snuggle into him anytime I want. Six months in and I know that the married life is definitely for me, I’m loving it.
He knows when to hug me and when to let me be.
He knows where to draw the line and he knows when to concede.
He knows how I like the bed made and to put away DVDs,
He knows why I love him and I’m happy he married me.

Labels: love, marriage

The sun is now above the mountainous horizon for 13 hours of the day. My Dad is visiting from home, and I’m only working two days this week.
I served an Easter dinner of ham, pineapples, scalloped potatoes, peas, garlic bread and two pies (bumbleberry and banana cream). It felt so good to make dinner that was actually prepared without major flaws. It was nice not to have to offer cautionary discretion,”sorry the potatoes are so rock-solid. I don’t know what happened!” The two cops and my Dad thanked me for a wonderful dinner and that felt so warm, making them happy with food, sitting around a table enjoying the epicurean delights spread around the corners. Tea to hit the spot and easy cleanup via the dishwasher made for an enjoyable Easter dinner.
Then again, last night, I had another gloriously happy moment. We sat across the living room couches: husband, Dad, kitten, puppy, me. Blankets across laps, plates of Chinese food balanced on knees. The sun setting on the other side of the French doors, pinks and oranges painted in wisps atop the dark mountains. And I thought to myself, “This is pretty wonderful.” It was a very happy moment.
It could be the visit from home, the extended sunlight, the wonderfully abundant food or the awesome hug from husband telling me he missed me on his day shift, but I just feel so full, like the cup that runneth over. I filleth and spilleth with happiness.

Labels: family, love

I don’t purport to know what it is to be in anyone’s shoes, only to use their circumstances and evaluate what I would do.
I know you’re supposed to stand by your man, and I resign myself to that. I’m fully prepared to be crazy and supportive of husband should he come up with hair-brained ideas or crises, like absolutely needing to pack up and RV across the country or something. I’m down for that. I can provide him logic and play devil’s advocate but really, I’m along for his life’s crazy adventures as well as my own.
I know he’ll count on me when he’s down and when working as a cop starts to take a toll on him, I am more than happy to be the hug he needs at the end of the day. I’ll stand by him if he finds himself on the bottom of a slippery hill, daunted and feeling hopeless. I’ll be there when he wants to crawl in a cave and die.
I’ll be there when he’s on top of the world, under pressure, confused and sick. It’s a partnership and I fully intend to hold up my end of the bargain.
But if he were to renegotiate the terms of that agreement, or violate them without my knowledge, I’m not sure what I’d do. If he were Elliot Spitzer this morning, telling the world he had paid for sex from a call-girl ring under investigation, I’m not sure I’d be beside the podium. Dude is a father of three and while I know being a politician makes him no less human than anyone else, I wonder not what he was thinking (the answer to that, my mother would say, is that he wasn’t) but rather what she is thinking.
What is she thinking standing beside him, following behind him?
Of course I don’t understand what she’s feeling or thinking, I have nothing close to which I can compare shared experiences. But I ask the question: Why is she not holed up with some Kleenex and sweats? Or arranging for their house’s locks to be changed? Or, if she’s going to compose herself and keep a stiff upper lip, why not use that for the good of her children instead of supporting the cheating husband? And not just cheating, but like high-priced prostitute in business trips?
Will she look back on this time and regret standing next to him?
Politics, and especially the life of a politician’s wife, is about keeping up appearances to earn the confidence of constituents. What does it say when she, a modern woman, stands beside her husband as he admits to the world he is rather scum baggy?
I am disappointed in that. Not in her, because I don’t know her. But disappointed that he still gets a wife by his side after doing all that, and that she would model unconditional devotedness to the world. At what cost? Only she will know.
While there are few limits to my own commitment to the husband, and I hope they are never tested, I hope that I can model self-assuredness, confidence and of course love should the situation so require it.
Today, I am glad that their news is a distant headline to my own life and experience. I will drive home after work and feel comfortable in my loving house and share a good hug with him. Understanding of course that a shared human experience dictates the world we live in, I do hope that family comes out of this healthy and happy, one day.

Labels: love, marriage, opinion

It sounds like a country song, at least in my head, but there’s just no place like my couch, under a blanket, with my baby. (It sounds more like a song when you draw out ‘baby’)
It’s the thing I look forward to most throughout my work day and what I cherish the most when thinking of how awesome my life is at night when I’m going to sleep. Sitting on the couch (the ugly one, not our nice suede one) that reclines with footrests, under the fuzzy polar bear blanket, snuggled up to my husband (that is still so weird to say!) watching a movie or a TV show. Even better when we’ve just finished our cups of tea and the dog and cat are on our laps sleeping, oblivious to each other’s presence.
When it’s cold outside (as it is now 100% of the time, it being winter), and the phone is too far away to grab (on purpose?) and I can see the soft kind of snow falling lazily outside the balcony window, being on the couch under a blanket with him is the best.
If I were in grade 7, I’d say it was the bomb. If I were in grade 10, I’d pretend I was too cool to care but really my insides are fluttering like butterflies. If I were two years old, I’d scream out really loud with a big smile on my face and my arms up in the air. Since I’m a twentysomething, I nestle in further and know to make it last as long as I can.

Labels: love, Whitehorse

Labels: love, marriage, wedding