Day 5 - Wednesday

Editorial note: Meditation is not purposfully designed to be so brutal! I happened to sit in front of the teacher - who sits like a Grecian Urn and beside a fellow in a similar posture. At times I would feel unbelievably self conscious. The woman who sat behind me has this (loud) frequent swallowing thing - much like chinese water torure. So, at those times when I became wiggly, I'd try and hold it off as much as I could so not to irritate those around me. I am imagining that this is some form of cushion ettiquitte? In any event, sittings go any where from 20 min, 30 min to 1 hour with walking in between. Each morning there was an outdoor walk. Some of the leaders did not get that though...that it was walking meditation not a race to the finish...oi!

Noble silence all day. I've conneced with this practice in a way I never imagined. It affirms our socialness as much as it denies it. We fundamentally need to communicate to get things done. I am struck by this notion of simplicity which comes up time and again in Oryoki - and how simple small gestures can say what might ordinarily take 5 minutes to explain with the requisite social nicities. I have noticed that we become more initmate in silence - touching someone on the shoulder to gain attention.

Practice was alright this morning. I've discovered that they (the retreat organizers) stick in two blocks of one hour sittings. Those are brutal. Actually it's amazing that I can tell the time without a clock right there (I never wear a watch - yes I am one of those.) It's not always my brain that is doing this time keeping - my black seems to send out sirens and alarms - "Its past 20 minutes!" and then that alarm incessantly beeps "It's past 30 minutes!" Then I know I am in for the long haul. It's fascinating when you think of it. Usually I notice these when I am least worried about the time.

I had a couple of insights as I sat. Thinking is not a process limited to the brain. I've been experiencing thinking all over my body. My body just communicates that information differently. All these signals end up in the brain anyway...its all thinking...I am starting to see that I am more than a huge gynormous walking talking head.

It does start to help when I have a sore back to label it thinking. Its better than labelling it "Huge fucking aching pain in my bones!"

And then there are moments when I'd love to leave the room screaming.

The other insight is that it is just as easy NOT to focus on the hot anger/bs/mindstream...its just that we choose to stick with the neurotic stuff. I can choose to stick with my breath, or chase the anger. There is something so seductive about our stuff. I've discovered that I have been the most stuck around body issues (duh!) It never would have occured to me that this was so had I not decided to sit around and meditate all day long.

I tried to start my day off calmly today. It helped. Now how do I translate that to walking up with three busy boys?

Day 4 - Tuesday

Editorial note: Bear with my negativity folks. It begins to make sense as the week progresses...

Practice was rather blah today. I am trying to think why. I knew I had gatekeeper duty this morning. I woke up thinking I had the first shift. This means you call people in by blowing a conch 10 and 5 minutes prior to sitting. I noticed that someone else was blowing the conch - meaning someone else was performing that duty.

Here is a rundown of that duty:
There are 2 rooms I need to mention: This Shrine room and the Post-Meditation Hall (which is a rather foyerish area where we line up prior to entering the shrine room. Its a way of entering that space somewhat formally and without rushing in. The gatekeeper blows a conch to alert all those that practice that it will soon commence. For new initiates conch blowing is the least desireable duty. If you are rather new at the practice it sounds like a bad gastro-intestinal disorder. I am sure I kill braincells in the process by blowing too hard. I'd also poop my pants if I were not so constipatated.

In the Post Meditation hall, near the shrine room door, there is a rather auspicious looking gong. It meets all stereotypical images of Asian gongs. The gatekeeper sits beside it and counts 21 beads on a Mala (sort of like a rosary...and at this point I can say it is used for similar purposes...but I can be proven wrong!) The gong is struck and then silently the gatekeeper recites the Four Dharmas of Gampopa,

Grant your blessings so that my mind may be one with the Dharma
Grant your blessings so that Dharma may progress along the path
Grant your blessings so that the path may clarify confusion
Grant your blessings so that confusion may dawn as wisdom


and the gong is struck again and so forth 20 more times. When this is completed, there is some fancy gonging work - the Umdze opens the door (the Umdze is the chant leader, shrine opener, and meditation timer). The gatekeeper keeps a steady beat until everyone is seated and the umdze gives the official "nod" meaning - come on in.

So I thought this was my responsibility, then this other person is blowing the conch and then someone slipped me a note asking me to be gatekeeper...and with the noble silence and all I was so confused. As I was taking my seat by the gong, someone asked me if I was mistaken - which originally I was but now I wasn't...you get the picture -- utter discombobulation. That experience either influenced or became a metaphor for the rest of my day. I am not in a place to speak about causes.

Practice was pure torture. My back ached, and if it wasn't my back, it was my knees and if wasn't my knees, my feet were asleep and...always something. I was so stuck with it. In more than one sense - I was either wanting to keep the experience and unable to just let go or convinced that I could not let it go. I mean, this is pain you can deal with. It's not migraine or childbirth material here. I think sitting quietly just magnifies it. Being there on the cushion makes one so present to everything - whether you want to be or not. Thats the kicker with mediation folks. So far, I am not finding that I become reflective or insightful. Its more about just being there. That sounds kind of easy and idyllic - but when you have convinced yourself that you are in utter agony - it's tough to snap out of. Especially with pain. In our culture, we are given the impression that pain needs to be removed by outside sources. So, there I was sitting - knots in my back, hot burning achy sensations in my knees, and churning with utter frustration...wondering if now is the time to clear my mind or start to sort stuff out (intellectually) on the cushion. A mucky day.

Tomorrow Noble silence is extended through the entire day. Silence was relaxed somewhat today - there was no speaking in the morning, but Mindful speech was allowed throughout the remainder of the day. I know I could have polished up my mindful speaking practice - but my need to crack a joke became paramount.

Practice will not be so uncomfortable tomorrow. (I cannot remember the intention of this statement when I originally wrote it...I am not sure if was an affirmation, or if I decided thus would be so - or a sort of aspiration). Maybe if I try and mindfully start out my day - that will help. All that confusion this morning was not helping matters and somehow I allowed it to set some patterns (I changed my mind...I am going to project on causes!)

Anyway...I am concluding my writing for the night and I am going to snuggle up in my bed. Before you know it, I am going to be back on that cushion - which feels much like a cinderblock at times.

And then my brain will start buzzing around

THINKING

and then

oh my fucking back

THINKING

I think my back won that struggle today. Perhaps I should drop the idea that there is some competition between the aches and pains and the quiet mindfullness stuff. Perhaps tomorrow all will be quite empty of nature...oh yeah thats right...it already is...

Day 3 - Monday

Noble silence from dawn until after lunch.

As soon as I woke up, I looked out the window and exclaimed 'THE SUN!" It has been raining for 2 weeks straight. I am not all that surprised the words leaped from my lips, but I knew I blew the silent part of the day in the first 5 minutes.

I was wary of noble silence. After all we were not born with lips, tongue and voice box for nothing. I don't need a practice that isolates me even further. Motherhood has a tendency of doing that by itself. What I found delightful about noble silence is how social bonds are so affirmed. I was imagining a stoicism - you know, an expressionless countenance. Instead, a smile, a wink - people seemed to go out of their way to connect with each other.

My practice this morning was filled with backpain. Fear settled in soon after - fear of finding that hot sticky emotionally charged headspace.

Oryioki continues to unfold (har har..). My inner perfectionist seeks...well...perfection. There are moments when the logic of the practice is completely present. They way I lay down and then put away my utensils, naturally leads me to "what comes next". I saw that today. If only life were like that sometimes! Maybe, like meditation and Oryioki, if I stopped for a moment to look - that natural logic would arise. I haven't mentioned much about the noon meal. Unlike the simplicity of breakfast and supper, lunch -or dinner as my grandmother called it (since it was the largest meal of the day too) - is interspersed with chanting, offering to higher and lower beings. Folding napkins and chanting is up there with patting your head and rubbing your stomach simultaneously. Being that some of the chants are in Sanskrit...makes the process all the easier.

The interesting thing about this practice - well beyond the self cleaning and drinking the wash water, is that you stop worrying about what is being served. You have to keep some pace with the group - or at least be conscious of it - since there are moments when you have the sneaking suspicion that you are the only one eating - and after a quick scan realize that you are. And since you will be drinking the wash water - having large chunks in it is not all that desireable.

My sitting practice after lunch was less emotionally charged. I was offered some posture advice and how to shush my inner nag. I felt more present to each moment rather than plodding through each sitting - in pure survival mode. I don't feel so worn out/down.

Day 2 Sunday

I don't feel like writing. Exausted - both mentally and physically. There was a 4 hour sitting this morning, 2 hours after lunch and an hour this evening. Up at 6am and now its 9pm. Meditation is strenuous activity! My back is sore and still aches. I have a headache. I had some fleeting moments of clarity in between the stenuous activity of sitting still...or trying to find that very precise position where my back felt good, my legs or butt didn't fall alsleep or my knees did not throb. A very delicate process.

We also had Oryoki training today. I arrived with the assumption that I would not enjoy this practice. I discovered quite the opposite. There is an elegance and choreography - imagine dancing with your hands as you eat. Suppose your entire meal is as intricately mapped out as Giselle. There is a preciseness and economy of movement I found refreshing. I suppose to our standards that sounds rather glum - but I rather liked not paying attention to other people eating and talking at the same time. I look forward to developing my skill. There is a formality I seem to be attracted to - bowing to the server, or rather bowing to anyone who gives you anything. And there is no "pass the salt" - the choreography plans for such contingencies. In fact there are very few contingincies.

The cleaning of the bowls, I find extremely funny. It crosses all our boundaries of civilitity and ettiquitte. Apart from a spoon and a set of chopsticks, the other tool the Oryoki set possesses is a setsu. In more modern sets, they are rubber scrappers - you know those things you use to efficiently scrape cake batter from the mixing bowl to the cake pan. This is the more modern looking setsu (its between the middle and left bowl). This is what a traditional setsu looks like. The tip is neatly wrapped in gauze. At the end of the meal, you scrape your bowl - its best if everything is consumed of course. You lick the setstu clean and continue scraping. There is a formal procedure of a server pouring a bit of hot water into the middle bowl. There is a process of washing and drying the bowl. The water is poured into the remaining dirty bowl and the clean one is put away (by nesting it in the largest bowl called "the Buddha bowl). The utensils are cleaned and dried (there is a process about doing this too). Anyway. At the end the remaining bowl is full of semi dirty water. Dirty in the sense that it has meal bits in it. There is a collective bow and then the water is drank. Yep. Did I mention the word economy before? Its the only drink you'll get in this meal. Its sort of like a weak soup that is flavored like the meal you just ate. I smiled thinking of the horror our western senses would regard this. Its not as horrible as it sounds. After having oatmeal with maple syrup, the washing water can taste rather delicious.

Tomorrow comes the practice of functional and noble silence. I wonder how I will manage with that. It may sound like an understatement to say I am a chatty sort.

One last thing - all participants are expected to complete an hour of chores in the afternoon (called Rota). This comes after lunch and before the afternoon sitting. Most of my Rota this week is in the garden. I admitted that I should rather be assigned a chore rather than something I will pursue with utter delight!

Note to self: teach kids how to accept a collect call!

Day 1 Saturday

(I am going to transcribe my journal from my meditation retreat in the following posts...)

Arrival at Dorje Denma Ling. Just in time for supper - curried carrot soup, fresh cucumber salad with dill, homemade brown bread. Nothing to disappoint. The program is small with 8 participants - thus more intimate - which is going to be weird since we will be spending time not talking to one another. I suppose that tension will come in handy.

Another small surprise is that I am staying in a private room in the residence - Gyatso Lodge. I was expecting to be in a tent, so the anticipation for some level of discomfort was pleasantly shattered with a room, a closet, a bed, a pillow and a bathroom just down the hall. Last year I slept in a tent - and with the cold and rainy weather I expected to be cold and damp tonight. I am quite cosy here as I write this by lamp light. The silence is positively deafening. I can hear my own ears ringing in the first time in months.

It's funny, but I come here with the craving to socialize, but the program encourages contemplation and the settling of the discursive mind. Everyone else seems to catch that drift. Its merely 9pm and not a soul stirs. Its like slowing down from 120km/hr to 20 in 5 seconds. What a shock. I haven't even shut my door yet. I am not sure whether I am trying to invite people in or prevent myself from being totally alone.

One last thing - I come here with some hesitation (some...). Spending a majority of my time with no one else but me and no other distractions - is daunting to me. I am not sitting here reading whatever I want, blogging or finding other absorbing distractions. And all of a sudden things seem lonely and empty. But oh how the stillness is precious!!!

Wow...turning a page in this journal echoes in here.

I am slightly scared of what I am going to confront this week. Its just me...but we all have our shit. And sitting in meditation seems to encourage the shit to hit the fan. I need a mental diaper.

And thus is my introduction to A Week of Pure Sitting

I'm Back!!

Shrine Room
Originally uploaded by samsara_mom.

Gee I leave for a week and all kinds of things happen. I've noticed a few more interested readers! Welcome everyone! I am still in my post-meditation haze. I'm feeling rather spacey and lovely in general. It was a demanding, painful, insightful, calming, rousing, penetrating and settling week. And more! I have a few pictures to share...

I kept a proxy blog while I was there (that would be one of those arcane things called a journal which you update with a pen...imagine that!!) So I will transcribe that when I find time.

The experience exceeded my expectations.

Oh, and one last thing (for now). On Saturday night there was a banquet, which included much wine and "offerings" from the staff and participants. An offering meant sharing some form of talent. I managed to get online briefly, print out a couple pages from my blog and I read the entry "Orange Pants". It seemed to amuse - those orange pants are gaining more and more notoriety. That's a scary thought!!

Anyway...more to come.

My kids are sleeping in and I've been up since 6:30...there is something amiss in the universe!!

And I'm outta here!

I'm off for one full week to a Buddhist meditation retreat centre. I'm participating in a "Weekthun" - which is a week long meditation experience. At the centre I will meditate ALOT (at least 6 yrs a day). There will also be functional silence (pass the salt) and noble silence (no talking at all). I will also be eating Orioki style...which I have never done before. It is highly ritualized eating, which I am sure I will feel like throwing my bowl across the room at some point in time. If you think this is going to be like a week at the spa...think again. Its going to require some work on my part. Just imagine sitting with your breath...I'm looking forward to the challenge. Needless to say, I will have no internet access - and no kids!

If you want to check out a little video of the centre, go here. Someone from Halifax documented a sojourn there recently.

Dorje Denma Ling Video clip

So, over and out!

And don't worry, I'll have much to discuss upon my return next Sunday!!

Diary of a Fridge

Diary of a Fridge
Originally uploaded by samsara_mom.

Question for you...what is the world population of Fridges? One Billion? Two?


Dear Diary

Sniff! I'm a bit under the weather these days. They took my temperature the other day and they said that I was a little warm. Then some guy in a uniform came over, took one look at me and said that I had to be taken in. I guess the extent of my problems is more complicated than first suspected. But how could this be happening? I am so young, brought into this house in the spring of '03.
I have a temp arriving on Friday. That's when I am going in for more tests and procedures. In the meantime they have started using the most primitive of devices in my absense...the cooler. At one time, I thought I was irreplaceable, that modern living was not possible without my kind. I was told, however, that there are people in this world who live without us. How can that be? They did not design me to ressemble 2001's Monolith for nothing. I am iconic. I don't take up all that space and electricity for nothing. And what's with all these accusations that we're punching holes in the ozone?

My recent demise has also affected how they shop. Instead of stocking up, they buy what they need for the day. Right now, I am unplugged, containing nothing but condiments. How many condiments does one actually need? Is there really a demand for THIS many pickles? I must be careful with my questions, or they may not accept me back.

In the meantime, please do not get angry at me for my condition. I am your friend. Your lifestyle totally depends on me. Are you going to continue purchasing ice? Where else are you going to post all the relevant family information? Who else will chill your beer?

Yours truly,

The Fridge.

P.S. Here is a snapshot of a few of my cousins. I am way to young to suffer the same fate.

My little freaky boy

My little freaky boy
Originally uploaded by samsara_mom.

I've discovered the defining moment of my parenting skills. Being a bleeing-heart liberal, my utopian mothering senses determined that my precious little boys would never play with toy guns.

I don't need to hear the arguements for the contrary - all the guys saying "I played with them when I was a kid and I turned out okay". We also said that about smoking in a car with the kids. Just because we are not all dying a horrible death, doesnt mean that we're still doing it.

Even living in Canada doesn't give a mother a fighting chance. Cable TV, Hollywood and Toys R' Us continue to perpetuate the myth that toy guns are cool and acceptible. If they are so exceptable, then I suggest we start manufacturing Prison Bitch Barbie, Gangsta Ken, an array of toy coffins, and a play heroin kit. After all its just pretend.


Pardon me, I am going to be free with my language. Who the HELL came up with the great idea that play and pretend had no bearing on reality? Who in the heck is telling us that play is not about learning, its about pretending. Who made that chasm? Aren't they the same? I hear some banter as if they are total opposites - cripes! I figured it was a marketing genuis who came up with that definition, since it has convinced whole generations that little girls playing with toy kitchens and little boys playing with guns have absolulely no bearing on how they are genderized and socialized.

At the moment I am working against some significant socio-cultural pressures. Yesterday Harry approached me with his defining question Our conversations went something like this:

Harry: Mom, Guns are cool, right?
Mom: No they aren't Harry. Guns kill
Harry: I want to kill Mommy, can I have a gun?
(mom is freaking out internally)
Mom: Do you know what it means to kill, Harry?
Harry: No. Can I have a gun?
Mom: Guns kill things. People. Animals. To kill means to make something dead.
Harry: Gun are cool, right? I want an I, Robot gun mom.
Mom: Guns Kill, Harry. They make things die. Do you know what it means to die?
Harry: No
Mom: Pappa died, where's Pappa? (my dad, who was not killed by a gun, but another popular killer, high fat foods and ciggarettes)
Harry: Pappa's gone.
Mom: Pappa is dead. Thats what guns do
Harry: Mom I want a gun. I just want to hold it.

Then, I just ignored him. It felt like chinese water torture. When he eventually got tired of being ignored he went on-line, typed Gun in Google, clicked on images, found a picture, then went to File and Print. Instant coloring page. You can see his creative endeavors for yourself.

So, if a mother were to handle this wisely, what should she do, other than shipping him off to Tierra Del Fuego until he is 21? Do I continue the moralizing banter? I am not buying toy guns. That is a given. This does not stop him from creating them on his own. In those given circumstances he isn't allowed to point those creations at any animate object. Part of me fears an Alex Keaton like rebellion. Instead of getting this hippy peace and love message from his political mother, he'll revoke his Canadian citizenship and become president of the NRA. Even worse...a Washington Lobbyist.

Ah, to be 5 and live an uncomplicated existence eh? Right now, potty-training Aidan seems more like a challenge I'd rather confront. A little pee on the floor is much easier to clean up.

Owen Camping

Owen Camping
Originally uploaded by samsara_mom.

This is just a test to see what I am doing. I didn't go on this camping trip - hubby took Owen and Harry. I wish that I did go, however, because there was much to photograph. Look at that lovely moss! Look at that cute kid in that silly pose!

On being a Soccermom

I must admit that I was bereft of the big white wedding fantasy when I was a girl. I was well on my way of becoming jaded and cynical. I wore a black arm-band when Andy Warhol died - although no one else bothered to ask why I was wearning it. I did have secret fantasies of marrying a guy with a British accent. Funny how I ended up marrying a Frenchman...Life is like that. I always imagined having a daughter. Her name was going to be K'i Lin, which was the chinese "unicorn" which visited the woman who would eventually birth Confucious.

Confucious say cheese is not just for pizza!

I sit and wonder at times whether I am sad about that...you know never having a daughter (with or without corney name...she'd eventually disown me for that one eh?). Someone said to me that all mothers deserve a daughter. I am not sure if that was said facetiously or not. I do wonder though. I have to admit that I am enough of a hormonal trainwreck for any family. That is probably a good thing. And then there is the related girl stuff I just can't stand. You know, Hilary Duff, Power Pull girls, all things pink, the need to be slutty by the time you are 12. I'm glad I am exempt from part of that, although I have to admit that I have been subject to both the PowerPuff girls and Strawberry Shortcake DVD's on a number of occasions. They were painful. I didn't let on though, since I thought it was a good thing that the boys were exploring their feminine side.

When I think about it hard enough, I think that I ought to feel sad about it....but I don't. I was slightly upset when I found out (during an Ultrasound where revealing the sex was okay) - but that was before I met Aidan. I'm quite content having three boys, and even more delighted that one asks incessant questions about the Exorcist and Resident Evil, and the other wants to listen to Marilyn Manson and Pop Will Eat Itself.



When I was young and foolish, I never imagined that I would have three boys. If I had boys they were going to be named Nicholas and Alexander. (Glad I matured.) Not that there is anything inherently wrong with those names...I am glad I opted for the slightly different. So, I am ruminating over the bizzare twists and turns of the universe as I sit in a folding lawn chair during Harry's first soccer practice. I have officially become one of those. (Although I will remain as liminal and marginal as possible). Seeing a bunch of 5 year olds play soccer is rather entertaining. Throw nine balls onto the field and you have utter bedlam. Owen's age group looks more authentically soccer-like. Owen is designed for track and field. He runs like is pants are on fire...hard yet almost gazelleque. We need to reinforce which net to aim for. His first soccer learning experience is that a goal scored in your own net does not quite count. I tried to play up the positive. Harry's goal is to ignore the team and kick the ball for all its worth. All drills involve kicking the crap out of the ball. I'm getting soccermomish about his lack of good sportsmanship.

And what is a soccer mom? I hated all sports as a kid. I played on not a single team. Now before offering me your sympathies, I would like to remind all of you that I could be found in the artroom and had great talents there. I would have made a decent dancer had lessons been available. (I lived in the sticks). I caught myself planning to bring a good book to read when I took the boys to soccer practice. Then I remembered that I am supposed to cheer supportively on the sidelines. A lawnchair and the great outdoors equals only one thing to me = reading. I need serious retraining. Hubby needs to attend said soccer games to cheer loudly and forcefully.

Is there a manual for being a soccer mom?

Shit. Did I say manual?

And if there was a manual, would I actually want to read it?

Sticking my head out from under a pile of clothes

Things are quite out of control here at the house with three boys. This time of year is particularily chaotic. Sping means the big clothing switcheroo. And for those of you who have no experience of this phenom...I may add that it can be clearly related to one of the eight levels of Buddhist Hell. That would be the too-many-clothing-to-deal-with-realm. In that hell you are condemned to sort through an endless pile of clothes, the pile continues to grow as you continue sorting (sounds much like my reality). First, I have three years times three boys worth of clothing stuck in Aidan's closet. Thats size newborn to 2, times three babies. Of course there was quite a bit of hand-me-downing, but there were also some new accumulations with each child and that is not accounting for the different seasons each boy was born into (winter-spring-fall respectively). That closet is somewhat reminiscent to the one that Carrie was forced to sit in by her mother, insane with christian love and fervour. I am sure each of those clothes are psychically trying to conjure fire and pigs blood, being crammed in there all that time and clearly being ignored.

So, I discovered Freecycle. Check it out in your area! I offered all my baby clothes, after tossing the idea in my head over and over again whether I should sort through them all AGAIN and have a yard sale. I've been at the clothing shuffle for three days and I came to the conclusion that I would rather have an anal probe than do that. So, I offered up my clothes and I have found a good home, I hope, to the older baby stuff and perhaps one for the little baby stuff. That means some sorting is involved. Oh well. Let's blame the local hospital's We don't reveal the sex of the baby during an ultrasound policy for that one.

Problem number one solved. That means all I need to do is go through Owen's stuff, store what will fit him again in the fall, hand the rest to Harry, then repeat for Harry, except its not as easy to directly hand-me-down from Harry to Aidan since there is quite a jump in sizes, so I have to guess what might fit Aidan in the fall, and what will later, and then go through Aidan's stuff and on it goes. I've been rather generous with the giveaway pile might I add. Anything in fall or dark colors goes directly in the giveaway pile since Aidan is a Spring and not a Fall like the other kids. Weird things I pay attention to. Incidentally, the Orange Pants are still kicking around. Harry is not over that yet.

At this very moment , he is watching the Life and Death of Peter Sellers, as per his insistant request.

Okay, I decided to take a break from the clothing shuffle. I did'nt mention that I need to do that to my own stuff. As with any clean up task, it gets worse before it gets better. I am currently at the height of the worst part - Hence why I am blogging. I also happen to have perfected the art of procrastination.

Back to the grind. Being a stay-at-home-mom is just peachy at times.

The Resident Evil Cake.

There was a grand total of 2 days of sunshine in May in these here parts. I kid ye not. Otherwise it was raining, going to rain or just about to rain. After a long and cold winter, after running outside to warm the van in -35C, after the 6 pairs of mits and boots, three hats, scarves, coats and snowpants - we demand our sunny warm spring weather. And I mean demand!

So the month of May was a total washout - even in the most literal of senses (local flooding to boot!) The folks in these parts claim there has never been a May like it in memory. "Great," I begin ruminating, "we now witnessing the effect of golbal warming - the winters get longer and colder and the sun never shines in the spring". When I think global warming, being that I am in Canada and all, I imagine palm trees, even deserts, complete with tumbleweeds and cactus. Global warming isnt such a bad thing when you spend 3/4 of your time ass high in snow. But I do not mean that seriously. This blog is not trying to promote Canada's non-participation in Kyoto.

The first week of June arrived, with little fanfare, and the desperate hope that the clouds would part, the birds would chirp serendipitously, and the sun would shine cheerfully. We would even notice that yes, there really is a smiley face on the sun. Harry was born at the beginning of June so I asked him what kind of cake he wanted for his birthday. He said, "I want a Resident Evil cake". That threw me for a loop. Resident Evil? He seems to think that every movie comes with its respective theme cake. Harry has been watching far too many trailers on the internet wouldnt you say? Do I need to mention that there will only be 5 candles on his Resident Evil cake? Can you imagine the look I'll get from the baker when I make such a request? I think it would be possible. Lots of black and blue frosting, and we could dress a barbie in black leather...what lengths a mothers love will take huh?

Incidentally. There was no Resident Evil cake. There was a Caramilk cake. And it was enjoyed by all. I also gave my first weapon as a gift...no matter how painful it was to me. He wanted a light sabre. I went birthday shopping with his older brother, and he chose it. Anyway, Harry has carried that Light-Sabre everywhere. He has even started sleeping with it. He took it camping this weekend. You know, it will come in handy for those stray Imperial troopers hiding in the woods. I had to rationalize that if learning is through play, I'd druther he learn the ways of the force, over being a cowboy or cop gone awry.

And despite everyone's pessimism, the sun did actually shine this week. In fact it hasnt stopped. And can you imagine that the thermometer has peaked past 30C for more than 2 days in a row What? You have no idea what the meaning of 30C means? You are still stuck in the stoneage of Fahrenheit? Let me help....convert now. With the onslaught of that funny thing called warm weather and sunshine - I've been spending all my days outside, in my garden (which was desperately stunted due to our cold and wet May). I've been watching my kids ride their bikes, stub their toes and climb trees. Who has time for blogging when there are lilacs in bloom to sniff? Who has time to blog when you realize that last years cleome's are now sprouting up everywhere...when you don't really want to plant cleome again. I think I'll stick with the State Fair Zinnias, but they succumb to powdery mildew alot. Anyway...I haven't been computer bound much. Yes yes. I am FULL of excuses these days, arent I?

Soon, I'll be able to blog in the great outdoors. I am getting a laptop!

In Memory of Jessie

(Previous post was deleted due t0 unnecessary marital strife)

Last night I was watching the 11 o'clock news when I heard that the remains were found of a girl that had been missing since last August. This sort of news is out of the ordinary in these parts. Pot-holes and flooding dominate local air time. I happen to appreciate being between 4 and 6 hours from the urban sprall. (Where I work is more like a small town gone awry).

Anyway. I almost hate rambling on account of what I am going to say next. The missing girl's name rang a bell. I went into my records and sure enough, she was a student of mine in 2002. She was a shy girl. I remember her blonde hair, the way her eyes squinted when she smiled and her dimples. Nothing else comes to mind. No conversation, incident, or little story to tell. Three times a week we were in each other company, and I still remember her smile.

I was reflecting how I assume that all my students are going to leave my course, go out in the world and grow old. In that particular class, we spent a couple of weeks talking about death. I remember this clearly, since it was not long after that my own father died. Students seem unnatturally attracted to this topic. Its a curious obsession, almost naive in a way. Did any of those students in that class stop to wonder that one of their own would not live to see her 21st birthday? Did any of us stop to wonder that someone would die at the hands of someone else? I I presume, with comforting assurance that life is somewhat stable and predictable. These moments remind us all how precious, fragile and auspicious our life is.

Om Mani Padme Hum!

Heather has left the Building

I am a full fledged convert in the cult of academia. My analytical gaze is not sequestered to peer reviewed material. - its seeped into my daily existence. I suppose many of you would see this as a positive thing. It certainly offers new twists on reality, once only accessible by the copious consumption of hot knives. But I digress. This is about an Elvis impersonator after all. I left that experience realizing how entrenched my WASPish background really is. My best friend invited me to a birthday party last weekend. (I also realized how my fun factor has seriously degenerated over the years.) The party was at a bar in a stripmall ...in the 'burbs. The featured talent - an Elvis impersonator. I was more interested in socializing and mingling - since being with my contemporaries is a rather auspicious event.

I need to back up here and mention that I have no context for Elvis. My parents were more into Queen and Donna Summer when I was a kid. I think the world in the mid-seventies was arbitrarily divided into two camps. Those who listened to Elvis. And those who did not. The only song I can admit to having any personal connection with is Blue Christmas. And the only reason being that my folks must have had a compliation Christmas album. I can, sing Bad Girl purely from memory, however.

Fast forward thirty years to a bar in a strip mall. The mobile sign announced "Elvis Live!" I arrived with my two WASPy companions and found a seat, near the front of the room. The room was dominated by two pool tables, (not in use) and a row of tables, with a narrow isle in- between. Elvis was settling up his sound equipment. There seemed to be an overabundance of wires and speakers for the size of the venue. (This was not Kiss afterall.) Elvis was frantically plugging in things all willynilly. I'm having casual conversation with my coworkers, with the looming awareness that Elvis would, at any time, interrupt my fun. There were a couple of unsuccessful soundchecks and a flustered and very embarassed Elvis admitted to not knowing the local equipement and decided to go home and get his own. There was cake and more lively chatter.

After more apologies, the lights were dimmed, and an Elvis circa 1965 began with an impressive rendition of Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea". Now let me admit that the only knowledge and appreciation I have for Bobby Darin comes from the Finding Nemo soundtrack. I realized that he was a Karaoke virtuoso. He could mimic any song of this era with such perfection that only a diehard fan could detect a forgery. I was quite impressed. He actually looked like Elvis, which I suppose helps when you are claiming to be an impersonator. He had the burns, the flipover bangs (which someone told me was a hair piece), pattened white loafers, a Dick Clark smile, and all the right pelvic shakes and twists.

Oh, there is one thing I forgot to mention. Elvis was interactive - Up close and personal. He jittered and twisted up and down the narrow aisle - going only as far as his mike leash would allow him. He wanted to flirt and sing to all the ladies in the audience. Did I mention there were at least 20 people in the audience, and that I was precariously near the front? Did I mention my WASPy background where personal space has rigid boundaries? I was told that Elvis would only pester me more until I gave him my attention. Oh no. No eye contact from this fish. And do you know what my trusted friends had the nerve to do? They found chairs behind the protective confines of the tables! There was going to be no Elvis shaking his "thang" for them! That meant there was even more empty space between me and the Elvis impersonator. (Mentally I was chanting - do not make eye contact...do not make eye contact...I I needed to make a run for it - I was in a cold sweat - there was no way that the fake Elvis was going to pretend flirt with me and gyrate in my general directon. I scanned the room...a few were dancing....I couldn't get up and leave...especially in the middle of his dreadfully long set. I could imagine tripping in the wires in the process of my getaway and the pelvic thrusting Elvis would have to help me back into my seat while seranading Jailhouse Rock...I was trapped. I faked engaging conversation. I ate stale peanuts and tried to look engrossed as I read a menu for a perogie as good as cod tongues and solomon grundy (I still haven't figured that one out).

This whole dance - Elvis's desperate cry for attention and my relentless defense of personal space - reminded me of the first time I was dragged to a male strip joint. I am not the screaming suburban housewife who relishes in suggestively inserting bills in his g-string. I decided that there are things that one needs to experience at least once in a lifetime. So I agreed to the experience, but I did not necessarily fit the role. So this almost naked dancer squeezed his very firm and toned glutes between me and a friend of mine. He was fishing for a lap dance. (I'd rather clean the grout in my shower). You know, I claim to be liberal minded and all, but I draw the line at men with nothing but a cheap square of polyester seperating our existence. Yes call me a prude. I don't judge the strippers. I don't find a moral high ground. Just leave me to my vacuous space. Elvis clearly needed to conqured this space.

So here I am, with Elvis so close, desperately trying not to attract any attention to my predicament. You know what the effect of this is don't you? It makes you stick out like a sore thumb. Oh the horror! Then Elvis announces that he is going to take a break and slip into his sequined jumpsuit and journey with us to the 70's - the fat drug addicted Elvis. As soon as he turned off his mike...thats right, you guessed it...I was outa there! I couldnt help but pity Elvis the impersonator, who I learned was a Youth Minister for a local Baptist church and came in 7th in an International Elvis competition. He had vocal talent. What made him want to whore himself out to Strip Mall bars in the burbs was beyond me. And having to deal with prudes such as myself must be so tough on the ego, don't you think?

My pathetic weekly update

Yep. Same old story folks. Workidy work.

I do have a juicy story to tell involving an Elvis impersonator...and I swear I am not making this up!

Can you hold out a couple more days? Please? Pretty please?

You don't want to see me beg. Its not pretty.

A Note to Potential Interlopers

Hey guys...yes it sure has been quiet around here. I come over and think.."The Big Picture needs some attention..." And as I am about to compose the next Pulitzer Prize winner...I straighten up and refocus and remember the pile of blogging and commenting I need to accomplish in the Blogiversity (heh heh).

For those who have been checking out how my course blog has been playing out a big THANK-YOU for your enthusiasm and encouragement. Some of the work is just too delicious not to comment on...I say leave your comments. It would be a really important thing for students to realize - that their writing has an audience and meaning outside of the classroom. What an important lesson that is! So, I suggest if you do leave a comment to a student - introduce yourself. Tell them who you are, and if you are comfortable, where you are. Leave a link to your personal blog. >>>grinning fiendishly<<<

So, I'm popping back into my hole of work and study!

You guys are just too cool

Hookie Again

Although my audience might be small - I appreciate everyone of you. And if that sounds corney, well deal. This insta-virtual-literary-community has thrown some juice into my creative flow...breathed some life into writing I long thought withered and crawled away to hide under a rock. This is sounding like a good-bye. Not really. My course has started. I have committed to blogging along with them - so I've bitten off more than I can chew - what have I done? In all seriousness, Health, Healing and Religions is an area which consumes my interest. It won't be seen as work - I'll just allow that interest to suck all my time.

Its only a month folks. Some visit me and the kids! Come ask them challenging questions! Maybe offer us some feedback on making blogging more useable

samsara_mom@yahoo.ca

h

Santiago El Grande

Imagine going to work every day and this being the first thing that you see.

This is none other than Salvador Dali's Santiago El Grande, and its home is the Beaverbrook Art Gallery. I worked there as a student one summer. I was feeling rather nostalgic yesterday. It came after I was reading Kato's post about the Assman, and it then I started transgressing into a thoughtpool of overly romanticised memories. That was my summer of '69, except there was no Woodstock and it was in the early 90's. Return to the Dali for a second. The image does this painting no justice. It would be impossible to remove this from the building framed. If you notice the figure standing in the right hand corner - most average sized people stand eye to eye with it. It is slighly smaller than life size - that figure in the corner.

That was a very cool job. It was a government make- work program. I didn't have anything real to do - I just created work for myself. I poured through art magazines and updated collections files. My office was also in the Vault. I had a little radio in there and I'd listen to This Mortal Coil, while sitting with every other painting not hung in the galleries. At any time I could hang out with a Joshua Reynolds, or an Alex Colville or a Lucien Freud. I also remember being bored stiff at times...and having a hard time staying awake in the morning. (I had a very active nightlife).

That was the summer just prior to the unleashing of the grunge movement. Let's keep in mind that we lived without the internet, cable TV and far far away from the closest urban centre (Which was either Montreal or Halifax depending on which scene you were into). We didnt have a car...and I remember pining frequently about going to the beach. If we wanted a music scene, it had to be created. That was the nice thing about it - so there were small punk concerts featuring Eric's Tripp, Skeleton X, The Exploding Meet...and my gang would mostly hang out and listen to Eno, Tom Waits, Sting, Peter Gabriel's Passion. We wore lots of black of course...this was before everyone went flannel and a long time before tatooing and peircing became mainstream. I also bought my first pair of Doc Marten boots...black 8 holes...from the money I made at the Art gallery...*sigh*.

I lived in this rambling ramshakle of a house that we called "The Casa Des Butthole". There was much illustration on this matter...mostly involving neon and blinking lights. Soon everyone in the neighbourhood knew the name. I can't even remember the address. I lived with a fellow named Dana. No relationship other than roomates. Our first conversation involved how he was getting his penis tatooed. I knew then I was in for the weirdest living arrangements ever. Incidentally, I never saw said tatoo. I think he had a bumblebee and a butterfly. He also was an antique knife dealer. Most of this information never went home to mom, she'd never believe that he was stable and mostly normal - and did the dishes and kept out attic kitchen neat and tidy.

Okay okay...enough nostalgia. Its fun to go back...I also remember being poor most of the time, and thinking that we had the most boring existence ever. We were Gen X-ers of course...nothing could have made us happy! Today I'm going to put on my kick-ass sandals and rue my Docs. They are somewhere in my basement...I havent been able to part with them yet. Maybe I'll get them bronzed and pass them on to the kids...you know a memento of when mom was cool. That ought to go over well when they are 16.

New Shoes

Kim has been wondering what I have been doing - since my ritualistic grading ordeal is over. I'm busily preparing for an intersession course on Health, Healing and Religions. This is the course where I am going to get all my students to blog. It could be very cool - or a fiasco. The nice thing is that intersession is only a month long, so if the blogging stuff sucks, we're all off the hook in 16 or so classes.

I've been writing much lately. I've been working on my course outline, and a "Short Treatise on Blogs" which, if you are interested, you can read here. Basically, I explain why I want to use them, and some general criteria. I generally try and avoid rules, but sometimes, and I hate to say this, students will try and get away with the least amount of work possible. I've been taken advantage of in classes before. Not all students are like this...but I have been burned. Actually, I'll put it this way: The rules are for my benefit. It reduces my penchant for nagging.

I've also been writing about Science, Magic and Religion. I am actually getting very into it. I am going to do the reading, writing (blogging) assignments with the class. I'm giving "teach by example" a whirl. It's part of my strategy to encourage students to really get into the material. I have been finding that within the framework of Health, Healing and Religions - there is this opportunity for dialogue between scientific and religious/spiritual paradigms. I find this all very fascinating - but I will save the conversation for my "other" blog. (Polyblogamy remember?)

I editted, reworked, rewrote, spell and grammar checked that treatise on blogs at least 5 times. Writing does not come naturally or easy for me - and I get to a point when I am so intimate with my own work that everything stops making sense. I focus very intensely on the particulars - is this a proper sentence? How are my tenses? Is there a subject? An Object? Are there split infinative...and am I commiting a horrific gramatical crime? At some point, grammar rules dissolve and I become disoriented. I think I have explained some of my love/hate relationship with writing. I think my worse offense, is using too many words - I usually write something in 12 words when only 6 will do. And I naturally tend to water down my oomph. Well that directly reflects my pansy-ass nature. Really, it does. I am a pansy. Chicken SHIT...bwaaaak! cluck cluck!

I caught a student cheating the other day. (I am about to demonstrate my pansy-assness.) So, I contact the Chair of my dept, report the incident, and he in turn reports to the Academic Vice President (which is like the Provost in U.S terms). Anyway, the Chair and I decide to take no further action - this student was going to flunk regardless of his cheating. I was hesitant in pursuing a full blown investigation - because the student he copied was not in cahoots. I am 99.99% sure. Anyway - I did not feel it was fair to put this other student in a stressful situation - when he did absolutely nothing wrong. So, today I was having coffee with a colleague of mine and recounted my tale of woe. She encouraged me to tell this student that I caught him - to not let him get away with it. I suppose, looking at the big picture (you know the one without the frame), he didn't. He just is under the illusion that he did. So, I sat down today and composed the coldest most formal letter I could muster. My stomache was in knots. I hope he shits his pants.

So I have been reflecting on my wimpiness lately. I decided the best way to remedy that situation was to buy a new pair of shoes. Seems like the right thing for a girl to do. I got shoes to kick ass. Maybe if I dress the part, my attitude will follow. There is always hope eh?

The Stills

Lets all breathe a collective sigh of relief, shall we? Grading is over! All that remains is submitting the results on-line. I like to put a couple days between finishing and submitting - just so any residule anger, disappointment, or euphoria will not challenge my original findings. But, this post is not about grading.

Robin mentioned something about unpaid advertising. I sensed it was almost a bad thing. Robin, if you held no judgement about it, I apologize. BUT, that bit of conflict had me thinking...

(Not a great segue...I've had better days)

The Internet has fundamentally changed the way I listen to music. Eric has some of the boytoys aquired prior to our meeting still hooked up. What a shame - I don't think he foresaw the dramatic electronic revolution on the horizon. The speakers serve as plant stands. The Sony 5 CD player rarely gets used. I usually make a Hallowe'en CD of spooky music and pipe it out to create the right mood for the trick-or-treaters. That is the last time I recall using it. We used to have a Sony dual tape deck, but we didn't even take it out of the box when we moved here almost 3 years ago. Kids and tapes are a real bad idea, incidentally. Think TP-ing but with your favorite recording all over the livingroom.

I suppose if you thought about my relationship to music based on this paragraph, you'd conclude that things came to a halt right about the last time I attended Lollapalooza in '94. It could very well have stopped there. I'd say my interest in music went on hiatus. Without Cable TV and alternative radio, I could be a thirty-year old housewife with a taste for retro. Actually, I think I'd live in a musical vacume. Most of my pre-mom and wife stuff has disappeared, and they might have been replaced with The Best of Barney and Disney's Greatest.

The internet has given me back that opportunity to self identify with music. It is so much easier folks! Now I don't have to slog through 90% of the music that radio stations think I ought to like. My method of discovery: I google "best albums 2004" and just surf out all the lists. I don't care whose list, any list will do. I find a band that has an interesting name, or choose one that happens to make more than one "Best of" list, check out their website, sample what they have to offer and then use my P2P program and see what I can come up with. With that being said, I think I owe some free publicity to those gracing my online playlist. For allowing me to regain my sense of musical adventure, I'll give all the free advertizing one would be willing to listen to.

One day last summer I found a Montreal based band "The Stills" on a couple best of 2003 lists. They had their entire first album on-line. Genius! I listened and I liked. This was at the same time my 4 year old developed a keen interest in music and the internet. Instead of letting him listen to the Best of Barney, I made him his own playlists - some fun stuff - Bob Marley, ELO, Cheap Trick, The Pixies...Harry grew very attached to The Stills, and figured out how to surf to their website and played the song Fevered over and over and over and over again. For a couple of months he would attend to this obsession while his mother gladly supported it, and even thought it was the coolest thing since he first learned how to google search.

Lets just back up here and insert a bit of tangential bragging. Keep in mind that Harry just turned 4 years old last summer. He mastered effective and basic oral communication the year before and quickly understood that learning your ABC's will allow you to search anything you want on Google. My husdand and I are often wide-eyed in astonishment when we inventory the skills he quickly mastered to use the computer. This clearly demonstrates that the Vygotskian Pedagogical theory trumps Piaget

So, one day this fall, Eric was away and I was spending a routine evening with the kids. Harry came and sat on my knee as I was idylly surfing the net. He asked me to see the Stills. I obliged. Then he said "I want to talk to the Stills mommy". Lightbulb moment. I surfed my way over the the "Contacts" link and told Harry we were going to talk to the Stills by sending them an E-mail. He was psyched.

Subject: 4 year old fan

Seriously!

I am Harry's mother, and since he can neither type nor spell I
offered to help. But, he loves the Stills and wanted to say

"Hi"

(mom: Whats your favorite song?)

Harry: Fevered. I like to say Hi to the Stills...
Mom: You just did. Want to say anything else?
Harry: Yeah
Mom: What do you want to say?
Harry: I love the Stills
Mom: Are you all done?
Harry: yup
Mom: Do you want to say bye?
Harry: Bye! See you in the song! Bye! And say I love you.

I don't know how else to convey that this was an authentic
conversation...

Thanks for your time

Heather, mom to Harry

And that was that. Harry and I had our fun, and some PR guy reading the fanmail would get a snigger that someone out there on glue had the nerve to pose as a 4 year old to get some attention.

Three days later, I see a message from "The Stills" in my inbox. For a minute I thought that it was one those automatic replies. You know, a "We love all the attention, but don't have time to attend to all the peasants in musicland". Oh no...it was better - much, much better:

Hey Heather,

That's really cool. Tell Harry that we are happy that he likes the
stills and when he is older we would love to meet him. Here is a
picture you can show him of me!

thanks for writing very cool and unusual e-mail!
cheers
oliver

How cool is that folks? Now there is a letter to tape into his baby book. And the picture, was one of the Stills basist Oliver Crowe. Harry was thrilled. Mom was more. Come on, this is a defining moment in motherhood...encouraging your child that much closer into the realm of cooldom.
Harry has moved on to other interests, such as pointing to a logo and asking "Is that a corporation?" (which really sounds like "is that a corponation"). But every so often he'll find www.stills.net and I will hear Fevered over and over and over again.

My Playlist

Who said Grading Had to be tedious? Well it is. So here is how I have been lightening the mood: On a recent episode of Definately Not the Opera on CBC radio, there was a documentary about how some celebrities have been publicizing their IPOD playlists. The host then asked the question that are these really their playlists? Did they not leave out some rather unpopular and maybe embarassing selections...like a hidden penchant for Milli Vanilli? Don't our playlists reveal deep seeded personal secrets?

So here is my playlist...uneditted. (Except for the italics and bold):

Music for films - Brian Eno
Into the Mystic - Van Morrison
Sultans of Swing - Dire Straits
Instant Karma - John Lennon
St. Dominics Preview - Van Morrison
Hell is Chrome - Wilco
Big Fish - PJ Harvey
Biko- Peter Gabriel
Loomer- My Bloody Valentine
Subterranean Homesick Blues- Bob Dylan
Under Stars - Brian Eno
Fevered - The Stills
Peking Saint - Cat Power
Animals and Insects - The Stills
Aragon - Brian Eno
Communique - Dire Straits
The Soul Cages - Sting
Spider and I - Brian Eno
Inaudible Memories - Jack Johnson
No One Recieving - Brian Eno
Taking Tiger Mountain By Strategy - Brian Eno
Everything Merges With the night - Brian Eno
Life During Wartime - Talking Heads
No Sense -Cat Power
Why Do I Lie? Luscious Jackson
The BellDog - Eno and Cluster
Sweet Thing - Van Morrison
Starman - David Bowie
Karma Payment Plan - Modest Mouse
Space Oddity - David Bowie
Angel Won't you Call Me? - The Decemberists
Built in Girls -The Wrens
Apology Song - The Decemberists
Hey Julie - Fountains of Wayne
Message in A Bottle - The Police
Maps - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Fortress Around your Heart - Sting
I fall up -Brian Eno
Cyprus Avenue - Van Morrison
Cocaine - Eric Clapton
Walk Alone - Jack Johnson
Space Oddity - David Bowie
Rain Dogs - Tom Waits
The City is Here for You to Use - the Futureheads
Space Between -Dave Matthews Band
Imaginary Love - Rufus Wainwright
Land of Anaka - Peter Gabriel and Brian Eno
Mantra- Tool
Fort Knox, King Solomon - Bob Mould
Astral Weeks - Van Morrison
Juju Space Jazz - Brian Eno
Thumbtack - Bob Mould
Synchronicity 1 - The Police
Sweet Mistakes - Ellis Paul
Its All Understood - jack Johnson
Over Fire Island - Brian Eno
Energy Fools the Magician - Brian Eno
Road to Nowhere - Talking Heads
Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell- Modest Mouse
The Roil, the Choke - Brian Eno
Where are You Going? - Dave Matthews Band

*************

And yes, I love Brian Eno. Thats nothing to be ashamed of.

I think I've found the soundtrack for my Blog! Check it out!
The Frames new Album "Burn the Maps"

Lost: Blog Somewhere on the Internet

• Lost: The Pilgrimmage of Litany. Last seen Yesterday making cheeky comments about her travelling companions. Spotted somewhere in the blogger vicinity. Wearing Grey and Burgundy stripes. Responds to the name of Lit...very friendly. Can be easily coaxed with Coffee and Star Wars Spoons...
  

Has anyone seen her? The link on my blog doesnt work, so I tried to link from Robin's. I link back to my Blogger dashboard. Huh?

Does anyone know that she is stuck in a virtual bubble? Who can help? This looks like the job for an intrepid internet superhero. She won't be wearing S+M inspired gear, pleather stillettos nor carry any exotic weapons (not even a lasso). I don't think she'd need to hide her super-hero tendencies to her colleagues at her run of the mill job either. Anyone know VirtualGrrrrl? She needs to free Litany from Webcaptivity - being held hostage by evil programmers. Perhaps a seedy trucker along the Dalton highway is involved.

Where are our modern day heros, I lament.

Sorry, I had to Again

Thanks to my fellow literary blogoddess Kim

And editted to add: I am a good cook and I don't need to hook-up - just in case you were curious

---

I am a hybrid of: Academic Girl Indie Girl Progressive Girl Click on the pictures below to read more: Take the 'What Kind of Girl Are You?' quiz at CookingToHookup.com

Sorry, I just had to

You Are a Snarky Blogger!

You've got a razor sharp wit that bloggers are secretly scared of. And that's why they read your posts as often as they can!

What kind of blogger are you?

Einstein's Genius

well, I let my tangential blabber power get the best of me. I didn't really get to the point of Einstein did I?

I told you it was a long story...

There is nothing more irritating to a doctor or psychologist than a mother who calls their diagnosis into question. I learned very quickly how to dance and skirt around the issue without offending the doctor's professional pride. In the end I think I prevailed. This label has been ostentiably dropped from the consciousness of those who work with him on a daily basis - his teachers, T.A's and Resource Teachers. Owen still has challenges regarding language - so I do not deny that he needs assistance in those areas. I may deny the "A" label, but I still see him as is a square peg in a round hole. As you can see, I consider Owen's "diagnosis" to be an empty label devoid of any inherent meaning and content.

At some point,( I think it was before he started school, ) I came to believe that Owen's brain architecture was different than most. That did not mean that he was "disordered", "diseased" or "disabled". Sometimes the educational system is quick to medicalize difference. Sadly, I think this is the only way they can justify getting assistance in the school system. At least, in the school district where Owen attends, they do not have the personal or financial resources to tailor their curriculum to every child. Owen happens to be on another curve. He also is highly adaptive.

Enter Einstein. Somewhere along the way, I found out that he did not learn how to speak until he was 4, and did not speak well until he was 8. There are many who would advocate that Eintein was a high functioning autistic. That interpretation did not matter to me as much as that one isolated factoid that he was a late speaker like Owen. And if Albert Einstein could develop the theory of relativity, while working in a Swiss Patent office, think of Owen's possibilites. Owen has as much chance to turn our understanding of matter, space, time and reality on its head. Who knows what all that gazing and studying geometric patterns will develop into? His oddness, I find completely exciting...not something to be feared, or worse "cured".

So Thanks Albert Einstein. You not only altered my understanding of subatomic phenomena, but you also radically reshaped the way I interpret my kid. That is your genuis my sir.

Einstein, The Golden Mean and Owen

Another diversion. I can tell its about time to start grading again...I am getting more and more distracted.

And Robin, I'd gladly take your exams. I am not all that sure you want my performance recorded on your official transcript, however.

Kim...thanks for visiting my 'Scholarly" blog...it was getting pretty echoey in there!

Side note: Ever hear of a ganglion cyst? I have one on my wrist. It acts up during marking season every year - since it comes from repetative strain from using the computer. Yup. Grading has workplace hazards. I wonder if I'll be able to squeeze workmans comp out of it? Well duh! Of course not...I don't even get health benefits for educating our future's intellectuals.

So, it seems that I am in Anniversary mode. last week was Terry Fox. I needed to do that...his story plays heavily into my Canadianness and weaves in some father/daugher sentimentality as well. I get terribly nostalgic about my father.

But not this week. Today Marks the 50th anniversary of Albert Einstein's death, and nears the 100th Anniversary of his Relativity Theory. I have a special fondness for Al. I mean, he must have been impossible to live with. Look at the hair. There were definately creatures contemplating quantum mechanics up there too. And who can forget that classic picture of him sticking his tongue out at the camera? What ever happened to nutty professors anyway? Suddenly the world seems way too serious these days.

Why Einstein. Well, he was a beacon of encouragement for me a couple of years ago. So, I am taking time out of my busy marking schedule to officially pay homage to Time Magazine's person of the century...to say "Thanks, Man".

When my 7 year old son Owen was 3, he was diagnosed with Austistic Spectrum Disorder. More specifically, he was labelled as having PDD-NOS - Pervasive Developmental Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. I spent a good majority of the following years researching this diagnosis, and a good amount of time, frustration and stress attempting to have this diagnosis removed. This is a huge narrative. Someday I'll find the time to get it all into writing. But for the time being, I am going to use grading as my excuse and provide you with the Readers Digest version for the time being. In a nutshell, PDD-NOS means "this case does not fit neatly in the criteria for autism or Aspergers in the DSM-IV". Owen just happened to be so liminal that it really depended on the way you looked at him. I worked very hard to get people not to look through the label. Why was he given this diagnosis? He was a late -talker, and all kinds of behavioural issues stemming from his lack of expressive and receptive language. He also had some queer kinds of habits. Spinning things. Fascination with 90 degree angles, and constructing things that were 90 angles and he could spin. I later came to appreciate that he was unknowingly fascinated with the Golden Mean. This sort of thing was easily dismissed as a classic symptom called "persevatating". I was keen on letting him study this abstract concepts quickly before he mucked his brain with language. Imagine being able to visualize and conceptualize geometry without needing to interpret it through language? Fascinating stuff to this geek mom.

But none of the psychologists would see it my way.

(to be continued...off to do some grading)

Just to remind you: I am still playing hookie. In fact, at this very moment, I am procrastinating. I just started grading my two courses...and the mountain of reading and evalutation seems like I am sitting in Kathmandu looking up at Everest...its such long way up...and will be painful getting there. And when I get there...I have to start all the work over again (and do course #2).

Our littlest one is extremely sick. He has a flu/Norwalk virus. For two days he vomitted and dryheaved, 2 days after he had a desperate cough and trouble breathing and after a trip to the ER, a double ear infection and swimmers ear. Poor guy. With his lack of appetite, he also had a bout of constipation. Oh, and he fell down and scraped his face too. He needs some better karma. So far, he's been parked on the couch and watching movies. You know a two year old is sick when they don't get off the couch. You know they are that sick when they won't even eat cookies. Its that bad. Poor feller.

Of course I am afraid that I will suffer the same demise - especially when I am under tight deadlines - I need to get my grading done this week, and then I only have next week to get my Intersession course together. Having the flu from hell would be just my luck...and throw a serious wrench into my schedule. Of course it could be much worse. Have you read what's happening in Angola with the Marburg Virus? Very scary. People are hiding their loved ones from medical aid workers (who want to quarantine them) - its not contained yet. These things freak me out. Heck with the four horsemen of the apocalypse...I fear the plagues. Locuses would not be fun either.

Okay...I am rambling. Nothing insightful or cheekie today folks. The papers are calling me...taunting me...teasing me...ugh. For all you folks bemoaning your examinations: the other side of is just as evil. You may spend three hours in an examination - I spend five times that with the same questions and the range of brilliant to desperate responses....

I'll take all the pity I can get

Remembering Terry

I have been cheating with another blog. But don't worry Big Picture....we're into polyblogamy, aren't we?

I've popped in for a reason.

Side note: I'll resume fulltime spewage once I get my course behind me.

Yesterday marked the 25th Anniversary of Terry Fox's start to his Marathon of Hope. I suppose its not like me to get all sentimental, but we all have our moments.

I was 10 years old when Terry started. Memories of that time very much include my father, who was instrumental in teaching me about Terry's awesome task. Maybe this moment is so wrapped up with thoughts of my dad that I am mourning for both their passing. Who knows, we're such complicated creatures. I don't have any specific memories of Terry Fox back when I was ten, except for a poster my dad gave me, which I proudly hung in my room. His moppish hair, his awkward, yet determined gait, his iron-on T-shirts, adidas shorts, running at dusk in the mist and that song (oh that cheesy song!) "Run Terry Run!! Run Terry Run!" are now iconic, representing hope, courage, determination, and bittersweet disappointment.

I can recall the day my mother telling me that Terry had to stop running. "But why? He is only half done!" Then she told me the cancer had come back and he had to stop. The cancer coming back was not part of our plans I think I feared that he would lose his other leg, and not be able to finish. Little did I know that it spread to far graver places - his lungs. I watched the CBC archives of Terry announcing that he had to stop because the cancer had spread. We all felt his utter disappointment. We all wanted him to continue soon. I was young enough to think he would.

Vague are my memories of his death. Yesterday I thought that his journey would have been hallowed by Canadians from Coast to Coast to Coast regardless of the outcome. Its somewhat satisfying to think that he would have recieved as many accolades for dipping his artificial leg in the Pacific. When I think of Terry Fox, I see him struggling in the rain, his rhythmic thump-thump-pull, those curls. Today I think he was just a kid. Just a kid. Just a kid with a dream.

I'm Distracted

Mad Scientist in the making: the IT guy installed B2Revolution on the University system. Pretty cool huh? I feel like pioneer and I am letting it all go to my head. I want to blog about my experience - so that I can share that to anyone who is interested as well.

So, I've been noodling around and find that I can commit myself to only one blog at a time. I am already framented as it is....mom/wife/prof/blogger/maid/cook/...to add another alter ego is too much for my fragile being.

If you're really interested...and I mean really really keen, e-mail me and I'll send you a link to my new stuff. And I'll slowly defrag my identities...

samsara_mom@yahoo.ca

Just don't e-mail the prez and tell him I cuss.

H

New territory here on Campus

The teaching term is coming quickly to an end. As I write this I am furiously planning my next course, starting May 1. On our particular campus, there are two divergent groups of faculty using technology. The hegemonic group use a courseware package called WebCT. I've dubbed it WebJail. It a web based interface which allows professors to create online tests, collate and submit grades, host discussion boards and chat. I am sure it has other bells and whistles. I never go there so I am recalling WebJail from my initial exploration in September. Why does WebJail irk me so ? Noone can access any of the information from a particular WebCT site unless they are enrolled, or teaching that class. I suppose some of you may find that sort of enclosed virtual space to be safe and comforting. I find it extremely frustrating. If I want to learn how another professor is using technology in the classroom, I'd have to ask her to explain it to me, rather than just e-mail me a link. I also think there is an inherent danger of having a hidden and secret messageboard. Sure it eliminates trolling, but there is no opportunity for other interested faculty and students to participate in a healthy academic discussion. If a student is thinking about taking a course from Professor X, why can't they check it out? So that is my WebJail rant. I don't lock my students up. I have them create simple websites using Mozilla and they post all their work on the web. I am part of the marginalized group of professors who are interested in redesigning and rethinking classroom boundaries.

I am not so sure I want my personal blog to officially coincide with the professional website. I am not all that concerned about what you may think of my "other" work, but I do not want my blog associated with the insitution I work for. Since my position at said university is often tenuous, I feel I don't need to add any more reasons to not hire me back each year. In addition, I like being able to say what I want on my personal blog . I have all kinds of student related issues that I'd love to ruminate over, but I am still undecided about the ethical implications of processing them here. Even though I don't name names, I feel that I am consciously being careful.
So, its official, I am dancing around a couple of issues.

Blogs about blogging and technology can be dry as toast. I officially reached nerd status yesterday. I spoke with the resident renegade at the IT dept at said insititution yesterday (who has access to everything, and weilds some power, albeit silently). I explained my interest in developing a blog for my course that I will start at the beginning of May. He was keen on helping me usurp the domination of WebJail. First, I had to decide on some Blogging softeware that he could establish on the University's system. Now that I am writing about this - I feel like I am "going where no academic has gone before" . Waaay cool.

So I narrowed my choice (inset link later) to Moveable Type and B2Evolution. Some of the choices were rather random. I don't need many bells and whistles. The simpler the better infact. I also felt that it was important to be able to create categories - which is something that Blogger does not do easily.

Thats the technical angle of blogging in the classroom. Tay tuned for the next phase - how am I going to make this course work?

chatter of joy

Might I remark that the daylight savings is EVIL. I used to be soft on that word, relegating it to Pop culture cynicism. Now EVIL is that feeling when your mind thinks its been up since 6:30am -- but your body knows it was 5:30.

I seem to spend more time complaining about my kids than I do praising them. I suppose if one were to try and understand my life though my blog you'd imagine me with three out of control kids. You would be partially right. When I am happy with my kids, I am with them. When my tolerance for fighting, whining, nagging , pooping, farting, mooning, swearing wears thinner than Donald Trump's comb over, I blog. The result is my incessant whining and/or complaining. And being that I am the only adult in the house (until tonight!!) - I need some touch of sanity...or at least a repository for my angst.

(Transition to tangentially related topic here...)Each of my children possess some sort of security item. Owen has a rainbow coloured cow we call Mr. Moo, Harry has a blankie, which also doubles as a cape, and Aidan has Ed, the toy horse. I went through a 10 minute tidy after supper and placed Ed on a shelf so I didnt sweep him with the inordinate number of crumbs that accumulate on my floor each day. A couple minutes ago, I heard Aidan chatter with joy. His speech is still very much in transition from late Neandertalish to a more modern form of Japanese. Still, a chatter of joy was a chatter of joy.

And now my house is back in ruins and I realize that bedtime has officially arrived.

I have officially run out of steam. My last day of classes is FRIDAY and I am not sure how I am going to make it intellectually until Tomorrow...

Chaos, my constant companion

Why the microscope on mistakes, imperfections and flaws? I've come up with a number of reasons for why they exist, and their none of their discoveries have come with any prepackaged solutions. At first, I came to understand that I had quote "low self esteem". There were things I tried to raise it - drugs being the most fun, And here I don't mean zoloft or prozac.

I don't publically recommend the high life, nor do I advocate it as "the" solution for low self-esteemism. However, "hot-knifes for breakfast" were on the menu for a good three or four years in my early twenties. And people, I ain't no heroin junkie, cokehead or crack addict. My overindulenge with marijuana was the limit to my big intellectual experiment. Now that I need to live a highly routinized existence, I no longer can fit it in, so I don't. So, I didnt quit because I had some great moral revelation, I just don't have the time to sit around and be high. ANYWAY. The drugs did help. Being introspective for much of my early twenties really allowed me to explore these issues, and I did manage to quit choosing men who were bad for me, so I call that an accomplishment.

That was a tangent if I ever did see one.

Lately, I have had some new insight into my baggage. Well, maybe if I better describe it so you know what I mean. I have a shit opinion about myself: " I'm not smart enough" and "I am lazy", are the two dominant themes to my self depricating tape loop. Frequently I notice, especially when driving, I remember past situations that make me wince. Usually these are memories involving me feeling stupid about myself. So I have tried many things to exorcise my demons: an archaeology of my childhood experiences, affirmations, cognitive retraining...
and I have never found a reasonable answer for why I feel the way I do, or how I came to be so. I came from a stable 2 parent home, who both doted on me. I think part of it may come from the fact that I am terribly dyslexic. I didn't discover that I until I was in university and I was reshelvling books the wrong way at the library where I worked part-time. Did THAT ever annoy my boss. I realized to my credit, that I accomplished much without ever knowing. I had the highest average in my graduating class, maintained a full 4 year scholarship, was on the deans list 3 of 4 years.... Obviously, this was no "disability" in the true sense of the word. I might add that nothing came easy. I think in that struggle, I convinced myself that I was stupid because it was consistently such a challenge.

I still haven't articulated that new insight that has recently come to me. I've realized I am a perfectionist. (DUH!) But in my perfectionism I easily become paralized at the thought of doing something, and not doing it "perfectly" that I end up avoiding it for as long as I can. I think perfectionism manifests so I can feel some control in my environment, since my dyslexia has a chaotic effect. My first response to new situations - new cities, computer code, lots of words on a page - is panic. My brain always wants to start somewhere else...

So maybe I have discovered some causation. In the end it doesn't really make the present any different. So, perhaps my rather depressing expose offers some explaination as to why Pema's stuff suddenly has taken on such meaning for me. I need to reteach my brain. Meditation has helped me catch my wayward thoughts, and instead of wincing, I try at least to note that those thoughts are "just thoughts" and part of my humanness.

I've been lustily tapping my fingertips together

Before I commence my daily banter, I want to extend a hearty thank-you to all respondees. Thou art Linked...or I am getting around to it.

Okay Class, turn to Chapter 3 in Pema's Wisdom of No Escape. You will recall that this is a series of lectures given at Gampo Abbey concerning Maitri, or loving-kindness. I decided to use this text to reflect on the many perils and complexities of parenting three precocious and oftentimes farcicle little boys. In addition, I vowed to be as respectfully irreverant as I can.

This particular chapter deserves to be read in its entirety. Its' chock full of gems. I've been lustily tapping my fingertips together waiting for that moment when I could scribe this online. Basically, its about our need to be perfect, the best. In conversation with her guru, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, he advices:

"I'm always suspicious of the ones who say that everything's going well. If you think that things are going well, then its usually some kind of arrogance. If its too easy for you, you just relax. You don't make a real effort and therefore you never find out what it is to be fully human"

I think not being "fully human" involves those tendencies to repress, ignore or try to change those "imperfect" aspects of ourselves. I have a couple suitcases full of them, don't you? Additionally, those imperfections are really just projections we impose on ourselves. They are mostly imaginary. To be fully human means not hiding the baggage. Yep, its me in the airport, with suitcase open wide and everyone looking at my size large underwear. We all have them, in all sizes and varieties, and we wish to conceal them by stuffing them somewhere between the socks and the travel alarm.

Pema continues by saying
"as long as you have these kinds of doubts your practice will be good". (p. 9)

In fact, she tells us, that our practice ought to in some ways feel like one giant fuck up - it's not a reason to get depressed over, but "its actually the motivation". So thats what that little voice inside my head is doing! All along I thought there was a wounded inner child that incessantly cried for attention. You mean the little voice is actually my inner cheer leader? Whooda Thunk?

Its refreshing really.

Meanwhile, back in the land of my Darwinian enigmas..I am watching an impressive display of dawdling and procrastination. I offered food treats if the boys picked up their toys. So far they have managed to cycle their efforts at least three times....pick up toys - take out toys -- play --watch DVD --demand treats ---remember to pick up -- and so on. For those who wonder about the value of my Pavlovian approach obviously have no children and really cannot comprehend the complexities involved in motivating two little boys to clean up after themselves. In such matters one uses whatever works. I am fully human. Here I sit in my messy livingroom...waiting for the pope to die (well I am...and I didnt say hoping)...and I think...

What the hell am I thinking?

Food treats before bed?

Oi...there is much motivation...scads and piles and reams and acres and furlongs and fathoms of it