tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806054131667073952024-03-13T23:58:41.918-07:00Under A Prairie Sky...Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.comBlogger214125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-69748462628923091062014-03-24T15:30:00.002-07:002014-03-24T15:30:46.774-07:00Confessions of a massage therapist:<br />
<br />
I have a client, a lovely lady. I have more than one client but I'm talking about this one today.<br />
<br />
She has this GREAT BIG HUGE ENORMOUS ANCIENT BLACKHEAD on her back. Every time I see it I'm driven almost frantic by the desire to extirpate it, by force or by instrument, whatever it takes. I fear that someday I'll lose all self-control and grab it by the throat and squeeze. <br />
<br />
It's been hours since she left and I'm still fraught. Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-81738373651064669802014-01-11T17:24:00.002-08:002014-01-11T17:24:24.769-08:00Good energy, intentions, vibes, prayers - anything you care to send my way. Please.Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-40420610653002160862013-12-22T16:30:00.000-08:002013-12-22T16:30:16.206-08:00And may I say, first of all, that I'm far from enchanted with Blogger's new publishing format. I rarely come here anymore. Maybe I have no right to complain, but for the love of the crows! Do I want to alert someone on Google so they'll notice me? I do not. Please don't ask me again.<br />
<br />
When people notice me these days it seems to be in the strangest ways. Yesterday afternoon I was in the line-up at the grocery till with my few party supplies on the way into the city. An older man, probably in his late seventies, early eighties, queued up behind me, took a look at my stuff and sneered.<br />
<br />
"You must be pretty goddamn lazy," he told me.<br />
<br />
I was astonished. Usually they wait until at least the second date, you know?<br />
<br />
"Pardon me?" You see how cutting I can be on the spur of the moment like that.<br />
<br />
"You can't be bothered to whip your own goddamn cream? You have to buy it in a can?"<br />
<br />
"I'm traveling to a party in the city!"<br />
<br />
"Oh. Oh, okay then." And he proceeded to show me what he was buying, and grilled me on Ukrainian Christmas festive cooking, which test I failed miserably. Not only goddamn lazy, but goddamn ignorant too.<br />
<br />
Just let me hide. Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-85761904460823431782013-10-24T17:50:00.000-07:002013-10-24T17:50:26.590-07:00The last few days I've been thinking often of Jim. He meant a lot to me. Maybe he hooked into my sense of archetype. I certainly never thought it while he was alive, that he meant more to me than just being a person I cared for, but now I often feel like he's there behind the curtain, pushing things out for my consideration. There are things I never guessed at.<br />
<br />
Even that I would think that he's there. How odd.<br />
<br />
I can feel November pushing in. I can feeling myself sinking into the underworld of myself. There's a lot of darkness to explore. Jim, hold my hand.<br />
<br />
He used to talk about his relationships, the freedom of it, the wildness. I didn't understand. I think I'm beginning to now. It's not all relentless summer, is it, sometimes it's gaping mouths and stolen breath and tears and blood on the ground. Obsession twisting through your guts. Sometimes you're driven to idiocy, and even while you watch yourself you're doing it <i>again</i>. Freak almighty.<br />
<br />
I've had this thought for years, that basically the universe works for the benefit of all. This fall I just don't know. Maybe it <i>is</i> about power and grasping. Thanatos is in the driver's seat, and Eros is just along for the ride, checking her lipstick in the passenger mirror.Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-8733956933253096852012-08-21T20:34:00.004-07:002012-08-21T20:47:02.957-07:00The Bigger PictureAs the kids got older, they resisted more and more having their pictures taken. And they certainly don't want them on a blog.<br /><br />But tonight I wish I could take a picture. I'm pretty proud.<br /><br />Mostly because they're my kids.<br /><br />But particularly tonight because now they're both working "real" jobs. With gusto. And that's a beautiful thing at 14 and 15. I guess we didn't screw them up irreparably.<br /><br />They're both doing manual labour, for different people. In both cases, because they'd been "checked out" while working at other jobs. I love these lessons. We've always told them that anything they're doing out and about gets noticed, but to have it come home like that is an excellent thing. They get it, for real.<br /><br />And tonight I'm pretty proud. It's so cool to see your kids growing up and being so independent. Not that we want rid of them, but it's good to see that they can make it without you if and when they need or want to.<br /><br />Did I mention that I'm feeling pretty proud?<br /><br /><br />Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-56713366872771626942012-08-04T08:32:00.002-07:002012-08-04T08:34:53.895-07:00DIY Washing SodaI've been wanting to make my own laundry soap, but all the recipes call for "washing soda", which is rarer than hens' teeth in my part of the world.<br /><br />But then, this! I found <a href="http://www.pennilessparenting.com/2011/01/homemade-washing-soda.html">this instruction</a> on how to make your own, and it couldn't be simpler. Hurrah!<br /><br />We'll see if laundry soap makes it onto my to-do list this very busy weekend.<br /><br />TTFN!Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-14545988282489931902012-08-03T06:24:00.003-07:002012-08-03T06:49:21.390-07:00Just Back Up The Truck<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHcqPnBfOOMYp4PxVW0Byl6dg_TsXeHOa-cUfHB6rIbsFJQ4AwJyovkao5AkshWICpXuKyJwxZePJ9kZ1NK8e2oC2I41sJYjF8jUkIT6LHzDTuocGV8FbvhAMuOwmQQGsdA33Y6R96mbO/s1600/open+door.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHcqPnBfOOMYp4PxVW0Byl6dg_TsXeHOa-cUfHB6rIbsFJQ4AwJyovkao5AkshWICpXuKyJwxZePJ9kZ1NK8e2oC2I41sJYjF8jUkIT6LHzDTuocGV8FbvhAMuOwmQQGsdA33Y6R96mbO/s320/open+door.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5772443505186887378" border="0" /></a><br />I've decided that what I really want in life is everything.<br /><br />I want to live in the country, and I want to be in the city. I want a practice that serves rural needs, and I want exposure to the wider demographic of urbania. I want to make money, and I want to spend serious time doing gratis work. I want chickens. I want art. I want room to be impulsive, and I want stability. I want to be a hands-on intellectual. I want to learn, hard, forever. I want sleep. I want clean windows. I want to love my little family, and run away from them on a regular basis too. I want to work with other people, and I want to work alone. I want to build my business. I want to spend time growing and cooking good food. I want friends. I want to stay home. I want to see more of the world. I want to know things in my gut. I want to fling myself willy-nilly into living.<br /><br />I'm not settling down. It's just not happening. Yes, I'm tired, but I'm more tired when I just stop. I want some of EVERYTHING. Forget choosing one or the other. I choose it all.<br /><br />There is a concept in Chinese medicine, and I can't pretend to really understand it much at all yet, of shaoyang, or a pivoting place. A door that opens and closes. Being able to transition from one thing to another smoothly. Well-oiled hinges. That's what I want. Smooth hinges. I want to go in, or out, and find pasture.<br /><br />If you're shaoyang, just <i>be</i> shaoyang. Everyone else should be what they are too. But I need to choose to be what I actually am.<br /><br />Whew. Glad I got that sorted around.Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-21149904842188032862012-07-25T05:33:00.004-07:002012-07-25T06:34:23.512-07:00Fear NOT!Ain't easy, bein' mortal.<br /><br />I've got several patients dealing with cancer right now, of various types in various stages. Lung, breast, prostate, bone... It's an education. I'm learning about standard western treatment protocols, and alternative treatment options. And I'm learning a lot about people and our capacity to deal with illness and the possibility of death in the real rather than the theoretical.<br /><br />There are those who just pick a path and go there. They accept the facts of where they're currently at, look it in the eye, and decide on how they're going to deal with it. Or not. But either way, it's face-on, and they're not playing games. One of my breast cancer ladies is like that. She's in the tamoxifen process right now, and will be for several more years. I'm sure she worries from time to time, but she decided how she wanted to deal with it, and continues her life as if she's alive. Which she is, and looks to be for at least another decade. At least. She feels relatively healthy to me.<br /><br />But another patient, choosing the same protocol, carries on her life of utter terror, always looking for doctors with authority to tell her that everything is going to be fine, that she's doing everything perfectly, that she's eliminated every possibility of recurrence. I have to bite my tongue constantly. She can't hear me, and I don't want to make things any worse for her. I can't imagine what it must be like to "live" in that cage.<br /><br />And then there's the man who's refused western treatment, and catches me up to date on the world of alternative treatment every time we meet, but somehow never has time to go out and <i>do</i> any of it. There's lots of time, right? Maybe next week, if he can finish painting his daughter's basement and make an appointment... I mean, after all, he feels fine. Yeah, I suppose he is. For now. Very robust, hale. But those bad old numbers keep climbing with every interval of bloodwork, and he keeps me appraised of those too.<br /><br />At the last appointment I did something I maybe shouldn't have done. I mildly lost it, and told him I wanted to still be treating him 20 years hence, and for god's sake, DO something! Something! If it's not going to be western treatment, then get on that alternative train NOW. He knows it's progressing, and is too young and strong to die without putting up a struggle, so I told him to take that vitality and use it like the resource it is before this creeping disease sucks it dry. <i>Get</i> those freaking supplements you keep talking about! See that herbalist! PLEASE!<br /><br />Which is my own issues talking, of course. My Inner Psychic Paramedic that sees the emergencies before they happen and wants to leap into kit and fire up the sirens. But dang if that Paramedic's paranoia doesn't keep my eyes and hands sharp for picking up the little signs of big problems.<br /><br />It's all about fear, and a dedication to reality I figure. I'm not a fan of the Bible at this point in my life, but those constant admonitions to "Fear not!" are good advice. An eleventh commandment if you will. Of course we experience fear, but it's no better advised to let it rule our roost than it is to let any other passion take unchecked control.<br /><br />I fear. I spent all this past week in a panic attack over something I <i>know</i> is craziness, but couldn't control the emotion that went along with it. But what I can do is talk to myself about the crazy, and not let it wear the pants. Keep going. Act on reality, not my phantasms.<br /><br />Having had cancer myself, I have some fear about that too. Some. But on the other hand, I've <i>done</i> that and came out the other side, so that's a known quantity and less scary because of it. I keep an eye on my internal weather and shift sail accordingly. I try to live proactively.<br /><br />I also have a person who denies he has cancer at every possible turn. Didn't tell me until <i>after</i> the fact that he was in radiation therapy, even though it was booked for two days after our first appointment. I wouldn't even know there was cancer at all if I hadn't looked at the history, clicked that something wasn't adding up, and called the referring doctor. This is so far advanced that I'm guessing pain control is the only applicable protocol left.<br /><br />That's very sad, to me. That such a short time is left in this leg of the journey, and not be able to use it fully because the denial and fear are so strong. <br /><br />It's going to be an interesting day. Eat your fresh garden greens and live happily and bravely, ladies and gentlemen!Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-87243180993114927282012-07-18T11:41:00.002-07:002012-07-18T11:44:48.010-07:00Micro Loans, Macro Impact<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67rMxa3waua2ouHp-5X2jvqBE7picUMwqtwfl47pm7VHD2pO8zBrnAclyi6pp00dX_GeWlW715_8Pl_HsM6GzMD5ZRQCNY0kZDCz7Kj2s0EkeEwjaJDfhLcZt8jXEig6xHO0sen3fWnyG/s1600/kiva.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 121px; height: 64px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67rMxa3waua2ouHp-5X2jvqBE7picUMwqtwfl47pm7VHD2pO8zBrnAclyi6pp00dX_GeWlW715_8Pl_HsM6GzMD5ZRQCNY0kZDCz7Kj2s0EkeEwjaJDfhLcZt8jXEig6xHO0sen3fWnyG/s320/kiva.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5766582190395898642" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">G'wan! Make a $25 loan with someone else's money!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.kiva.org/invitedby/fiona2664">KIVA</a><br /></div>Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-60635370623972641162012-07-16T06:29:00.007-07:002012-07-16T07:02:53.559-07:00Myth-Busting in the Garden<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWm0B1t8c8cTVB8zg79D9Ew7mlZuFmb4Vfl20R-ylXp5GbFXPPRwMmdHZu-Pgiyw2Xe1A_nBCfP-xcF2GEcO-zaZ8SMWw6c5F7z7T34Pf4hFiCrF8nZBl-1sxYN-jMtVhKo8eTGFArmtN/s1600/garage+summer+2012+019.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWm0B1t8c8cTVB8zg79D9Ew7mlZuFmb4Vfl20R-ylXp5GbFXPPRwMmdHZu-Pgiyw2Xe1A_nBCfP-xcF2GEcO-zaZ8SMWw6c5F7z7T34Pf4hFiCrF8nZBl-1sxYN-jMtVhKo8eTGFArmtN/s320/garage+summer+2012+019.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5765759256092910146" border="0" /></a><br />I grew up in an area up north with higher fertility than the one I presently live in. Half an hour to the west of us, things grow much more readily too, but right here it takes a bit more doing. This is taking a bit of getting used to.<br /><br />I'm still very much a novice gardener, so there's definitely a clueless factor as well. I'm learning as I go, and gardening isn't my #1 priority. It's up there, but it's not #1. Climbing the ranks, mind you.<br /><br />And then there is the Pioneer Gardening Myth. You know this one? The myth of the woman who had no time to tend her garden much, but just threw seeds at the ground, stepped into the soddie, had triplets unassisted, and when she stepped back out in late August the garden had laughed up a glorious crop. Or something along those lines. She then tied the babies to the legs of the table and rolled up her sleeves to can.<br /><br />This was in the back of my mind somewhere. It got uprooted when we took a visit to the local Ukrainian Pioneer Village and saw such a garden. Brothers and sisters, those pioneers weren't living on fresh vegetables. There's a reason everyone was wearing flour-sack clothing and eating perogies. Such gardens don't usually produce much.<br /><br />So, re-adjust. Keep reading.<br /><br />Plants need <span style="font-style: italic;">food</span>.<br />Plants need <span style="font-style: italic;">water</span>.<br />Lots of both.<br /><br />And in these parts, it's best to start your seedlings indoors. You see those lovely tomato and lettuce plants on the front right? Those came from seedlings started by a friend who spends 6 hours a day gardening, and begins her seedlings in greenhouses. She does amazing cauliflower and broccoli too, and has it timed so her plants are fruiting (vegetabling?) before the cabbage moths can set in to ravage.<br /><br />This year Chive put our compost heap in the middle of the garden. I'm still not entirely convinced this is the best spot for it. Off to the left is a stand of willow, and their roots invade the garden. The middle is one of the more-or-less fertile areas, so I'm loathe to use it for processing compost. I'd prefer to have the heap over to the left (west). Maybe next year.<br /><br />I'm also lining up containers for next year. We have a little deck off the front of the house, facing south. The front door is blocked off, and the deck itself is too uneven and hot for people-time, but I figure it would be great for tomatoes and such.<br /><br />Food. Water. Good soil.<br /><br />Bees are nice too. I'm advertising for someone to set up bee-boxes on our land so I can watch it happening and hopefully undertake my own hives some year. Fingers crossed!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQb9i8mHmXokutaNw4JgkGaYfLr5NTd-OvokW54gnEcRTqqYXDJ5OwzRIE6Yw3KrrbUUfm3IGvfXdBDjn-F3YKNOxFU-FNvUCoQCX_CKnlVRf8IrGeD9hIIHWFHp2-U4Ky8wyqq-WPPgjZ/s1600/canadian+vegetable+gardening.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQb9i8mHmXokutaNw4JgkGaYfLr5NTd-OvokW54gnEcRTqqYXDJ5OwzRIE6Yw3KrrbUUfm3IGvfXdBDjn-F3YKNOxFU-FNvUCoQCX_CKnlVRf8IrGeD9hIIHWFHp2-U4Ky8wyqq-WPPgjZ/s320/canadian+vegetable+gardening.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5765766360842190242" border="0" /></a>Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-8204325744855563672012-07-12T07:36:00.000-07:002012-07-12T07:41:00.570-07:00Pork Futures<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpGa5p3deAmI3Ha9faN203effS0wVfVjIB2E0A7yMu2cN4dpMHmLYyOvA5xcPmdrlu402WtLZk0y5fGcMry_ojbp31hyEvJPNDu-qsdoD8bJC39QwcAkJYcbmLuWltVzZgAhjfJDPdze0/s1600/I_Shall_Wear_Midnight_cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpGa5p3deAmI3Ha9faN203effS0wVfVjIB2E0A7yMu2cN4dpMHmLYyOvA5xcPmdrlu402WtLZk0y5fGcMry_ojbp31hyEvJPNDu-qsdoD8bJC39QwcAkJYcbmLuWltVzZgAhjfJDPdze0/s320/I_Shall_Wear_Midnight_cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5763198390920907442" border="0" /></a><br /><br />...Wizards mostly lived in universities down in the big cities and weren't allowed to get married, although the reason why not totally escaped Tifffany. Anyway, you hardly ever saw them around here.<br /><br />Witches were definitely women, but most of the older ones Tiffany knew hadn't got married either, mostly because Nanny Ogg had already used up all the eligible husbands, but also probably because they didn't have time. Of course, every now and then, a witch might marry a grand husband, like Magrat Garlick, as was, of Lancre had done, although by all accounts she only did herbs these days. But the only young witch Tiffany knew who had even had time for courting was her best friend from up in the mountains: Petulia - a witch who was now specializing in pig-magic, and was soon going to marry a nice young man who was shortly going to inherit his father's pig farm*, which meant he was practically an aristocrat.<br /><br />*Possibly Petulia's romantic ambitions had been helped by the mysterious way the young man's pigs were forever getting sick and required treatment for the scours, the blind heaves, brass neck, floating teeth, scribbling eyeball, grunge, the smarts, the twisting screws, swiveling and gone knees. This was a terrible misfortune, since more than half these ailments are normally never found in pigs, and one of them is a disease known only in freshwater fish. But the neighbours were impressed at the amount of work Petulia put in to relieve their stress. Her broom-stick was coming and going at all hours of the day and night. Being a witch, after all, was about dedication.Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-52911941640563039572012-07-11T07:44:00.002-07:002012-07-11T07:48:52.709-07:00"Benefits"So I picked up my messages off the phone last night, and there was one from an insurance agent in my Dear Relative's town, informing me that I need to "make a decision" concerning a policy that names me, my husband, and my son. Not my daughter. I suspect she's got a policy all to herself.<br /><br />I'd like this all to stop, but I suspect it'll go on as long as she lives. I must say, though, I'm getting better at detaching.<br /><br />There's no decision to be made that wasn't made years ago. Next!Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-32291725401814210222012-07-09T06:34:00.009-07:002012-07-09T07:52:12.177-07:00Holy Bees<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwJkrhIsKTL6XVNwHOumjcMhslu9VxDushMCzA9N5izMCDR1GO2HZQXTMa-H7hakJgz8QA56LzkbAvJr2OfNhPwQT993C5uzcrZo9W5Q80mlDtPpaJ-Qh3OPrD4BZHEo6Ni24Z453Ow3n/s1600/campground+%2526+teacozy+022.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwJkrhIsKTL6XVNwHOumjcMhslu9VxDushMCzA9N5izMCDR1GO2HZQXTMa-H7hakJgz8QA56LzkbAvJr2OfNhPwQT993C5uzcrZo9W5Q80mlDtPpaJ-Qh3OPrD4BZHEo6Ni24Z453Ow3n/s320/campground+%2526+teacozy+022.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5763164672264474066" border="0" /></a><br />Summer is usually my not-dreaming time. I have two theories about that. The first is that fall-winter-spring are much darker times here in the north, and create a quieter canvas for the mind to write its stories. The other is that summer is a bit of a dream in itself; the colours are intense, the growth is prolific. Birds and animals are constantly appearing and sounding. What the winter mind needs to create as images, the summer mind finds served up externally. Those are the current theories. Who knows? It could very well be that other people experience the opposite.<br /><br />This summer, even though I'm not dreaming much, I'm definitely very restless for image. I'm thinking a lot about art and meaning, and life-story, and how we talk to ourselves about ourselves and how deep a chasm lays between the story we tell ourselves and the story we actually live. I've always loved stories, and I could toss back books like a drunk on a weekend binge. But in the last year I find I'm reading a lot less, and looking for pictures a lot more. I'm noticing which images pull me hard. I'm trying to be awake to the what and the why and the when, and what story I'm telling myself about myself with the pictures and colours I surround myself with.<br /><br />Something I did with my "new eyes" was to go through my fabric stash. Of course. I mean, of <span style="font-style: italic;">course</span>, right? I'm not a draw-er or a painter. I'm a fabri-phile, and a sometimes-sewist. I rely on fabric-design artists to create my working palette for me, and then I can hack away and hopefully come up with something both useful and soul-bolstering.<br /><br />Last year (or was it two years ago?) I found this bee-fabric, and I had to have some. I <span style="font-style: italic;">needed</span> those bees. I got it, rolled around in it for a couple days, then folded it up and tucked it away. Every now and then I'd rediscover it in a rummage for something else, and I trace my fingers around a bee, and leave it again.<br /><br />This spring/summer, after jumping out of that shipwreck of an acupuncture program, I was feeling altogether bruised and contused. I needed to <span style="font-style: italic;">make</span> something. Particularly I needed to make something slowly, slowly enough that I could re-evaluate the project at every stage, and let it talk to me about what it wanted to be. I wanted to have a go at doing things just because they satisfied something in me. The tendency is to throw fabrics into a likely jumble, pick a few happy colours, and sew like a fiend until it's done. That's not a bad thing in itself, but it's more utilitarian than a balm for the soul, in terms of process. I tend to be more project oriented than process oriented. Thus the headlong rushing through every. single. moment. of my life. Yes, I get quite a lot done. But it's not a bad thing to intentionally delay every now and then. This was one of those now and then moments.<br /><br />I wanted my spirit-bees.<br /><br />I remember, and oh gosh this is from a loooong time ago, hearing about Sarah Ferguson's wedding dress being embroidered with bees, and that took my mind by storm for some reason. I would have been in my early teens, I suppose. (And typing that, what idea doesn't take your mind by storm when you're a teenager? It's like a 10-year multi-lobe hurricane.) That was before internet entered my life, so I tucked the information back into my head's filing cabinet somewhere, and from time to time I'd find something in a book, or hear something off-hand somewhere, and it would go into the same file.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Bees<br />Hive<br />Soul<br />Swarm<br />Honey<br />Sting<br />Death<br />Secret<br />Pattern<br />Knowing<br /></div><br />A little bee on the fabric is shorthand for all that and more in my personal iconography, which is informed and built on the iconography of bees through history. It's awesome, and I mean that as in "inspiring awe", that we humans can tap into a deep reservoir of collective dreaming and story-telling to find our images. Sometimes I get frustrated by the seeming need to reinvent the wheel on a personal level, but when I take a step back and look at things, more often than not it's just an old story re-telling itself. It's only new to <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>.<br /><br />I needed a new tea-cozy too. ForTOOOitus.<br /><br />I had the base fabric (a Fasset that I have to keep myself from sticking in my mouth, I love it so much), and the extra fan-blades from a quilt made last year. I also found the buttons in my stash, purchased back in the day when I was still able to lie to myself convincingly enough that I actually believed I was going to sew garments. Probably. I don't really remember buying them, but there they were. I wanted some embroidery on this one, and I didn't have any, so I bought a few skeins of that, and a stained (tea-stained, so it's been broken to the task) cotton doily from the thrift shop. The inside lining is cut from an old massage-sheet.<br /><br />It's done now. Every day I run my hands and eyes over it and get my fix of colour and texture and satisfaction at having made something that I find both beautiful and useful.<br /><br />I've made myself an icon.I don't know what I need these bees for, but I can feel the rightness of it, and how they're shaping something inside of me, and pulling at threads of consciousness.<br /><br />When it's not too hot, I light a beeswax candle in the morning while I drink my honeyed tea and contemplate those bees. If I was really motivated I'd go sit by the raspberry bushes with the whole kit and listen to the bees too. I can do without the stinging, mind you. That's a sensory experience I can remember clearly enough without having to re-enact it.Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-474796836156229742012-06-03T10:55:00.005-07:002012-06-03T12:13:29.878-07:00Quilt Story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEger0T5B7O32IcQkQsbmOYH2trEftabzmoz20YbHPdAO-nDRF7jGTmhy8R45796K-AMS6lA2fAvO3w1ZZ3VfxRK2mCEIZcQedt_I9dMjnyykijMt1zja7V0rG7o-DrSgTSrG48YwAz-ij1A/s1600/sarah+c.+quilt+009.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEger0T5B7O32IcQkQsbmOYH2trEftabzmoz20YbHPdAO-nDRF7jGTmhy8R45796K-AMS6lA2fAvO3w1ZZ3VfxRK2mCEIZcQedt_I9dMjnyykijMt1zja7V0rG7o-DrSgTSrG48YwAz-ij1A/s320/sarah+c.+quilt+009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5749871373344514226" border="0" /></a>It was near this time last year that I finished this quilt. Ages and ages and ages ago. I was in the midst of whatever I was in the midst of, thinking this was going to be the last baby quilt of the year because I was going to start school. It wasn't. I squeezed in another one that fall, a fan quilt. Electric fan. The colours were that bright, that intense.<br /><br />This quilt, the one up there, went to a baby born to a newly widowed mother. Her partner, also a friend, and client of mine, hung himself in their farmyard when he found out they were expecting again. He'd been unwell for a long, long time. Longer than I'd known him. Longer than she'd known him. Maybe always. I suspect this pregnancy coming so soon after the first baby was more than he could imagine coping with. He definitely took a turn for the worse after the first one arrived. She was only about six months old when he died.<br /><br />He killed himself in November. Her parents came to help their daughter deal with all the myriad details of death, and suicide, and property matters. An ex-girlfriend was stealing things out of the yard, and claiming the property for herself. His birth family, threatening to sue for custody of the grand-children, threatening to sue for the property, but not willing to travel back West for the funeral. It would be hard to imagine a worse scenario, and it was all for real. It was all worse than this, actually, and went on for a year, but there's no point in me telling it. Unbelievable. The sort of train-wreck you'd read about in the news.<br /><br />He'd stopped dealing with garbage in the months before he died. And what can anyone do in a situation like this, except bring food and boxes, hold babies, help clean? So that's what we did, those of us who could or would. I still had the elderly van at the time, so I took charge of the garbage situation. Thank the gods it was November and not July. Instead of taking things to the dump, he'd just stashed bags and bags of trash in all the little outbuildings scattered over the property. So I went searching, found what I could, skated it back to the van and took it to the dump.<br /><br />Her dad pointed out the shacks where he knew for sure there was garbage. He took me into the lean-to and showed me the footprints in the dust on the metal trash-can lid. "This is where he did it," he said, pointing at the rafters above us. "This is where she found him." Because she did find him, after hiding from him for two days because he was behaving so violently. She came back to the farm with her mother beside her, the baby in the back seat of the car, came to get her things and move out. She walked to the house, realized what she was seeing in the lean-to, turned around and walked back. She didn't go look. She didn't go look, because she knew what she was seeing and what was the point? She didn't look, and she's so glad that her professional mental-health training kept her from looking. Who needs that picture forever?<br /><br />My picture is those footprints in the dust, on the lid of the trashcan. I don't think of it too often. When I do, my imagination supplies too much information as it is.<br /><br />I didn't talk much about this at the time. I didn't realize when I first posted this picture that I needed to talk about it now.<br /><br />I saw him a couple weeks before he died. I invited them over for tea and a lunch, and they came with the baby and we visited around the table, and his eyes were wild. He talked about the red-road spirituality that he'd adopted as his own, about his experience at the lake when a spirit reached out of the water at his face and screamed at him. What did he see? "Not all spirits are good spirits," I said. This is true. I don't know what the spirits are, whether our own fractured selves manifest so clearly in moments of stress that they take on shape and form and personality, or whether these are otherlings, but that there is something, this I know. And not all spirits are good spirits. I talked a bit about power, and that in the end, kindness trumps most everything else. He listened, but I don't know if he heard.<br /><br />When he left I had nightmares for days. I went to my acupuncturist, told her what had happened, let the needles pull me back into myself. Yes I love acupuncture because it makes our bodies well, but I <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> acupuncture because it's a window into your own soul, too. It helped. I was able to clear out the noise and trash he'd left behind. I think that's the only time in my life when I felt so polluted by an interaction with another person.<br /><br />Then I got her phone call and gasped for days while arranging meals and running back and forth to the dump, tears raining down my cheeks behind the wheel.<br /><br />I dream sometimes. Three days later I dreamed that I was driving along a vast lakefront, and there was a house on fire, but very very slowly. More like a creeping cinder that was definitely consuming the building, but over the course of days rather than minutes. I stopped because I could see children running in and out of the front door. I went in, and there was a woman packing clothes and boxes. The house was utterly decrepit, broken windows, peeling lino, empty spaces in the cabinets where drawers had been. I asked her how it was going. She smiled wearily and said it was time to go anyway, that there was a better house waiting for her. I left and drove away, and watched a raven diving into the sea after fish.<br /><br />I told my friend about it later. She started to cry and told me his totem animal, the one he felt most connection to, was the raven. She felt that this was a sign that he's moved on. I hope so too.<br /><br />I still wonder if I should have said more when I realized there was something really wrong. But I can't imagine what that would be, or even that he would have listened, or that it would have made a difference. Sometimes things just have to unwind the way they're going to and all you can do is stand witness. Maybe, as brutal as it is, the kindest way is the way he chose after all.Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-92036855341331600022012-05-24T09:02:00.005-07:002012-05-24T09:44:15.892-07:00End of the Tunnel<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyw7r-qlqFIm8pPEy33GF6XuKl70M6_m0x8hkWLMlXJ0fb4NwYhC2SSPHk_g1DAKRPFJ93JPq2RvSoeY5mYeFMxUg_oG0sV-tHxtM2ecCyf8oQmoz32t4bRIsIWEAVMov_EXN5yxMNORG/s1600/spring+2012+013.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyw7r-qlqFIm8pPEy33GF6XuKl70M6_m0x8hkWLMlXJ0fb4NwYhC2SSPHk_g1DAKRPFJ93JPq2RvSoeY5mYeFMxUg_oG0sV-tHxtM2ecCyf8oQmoz32t4bRIsIWEAVMov_EXN5yxMNORG/s320/spring+2012+013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5746133976230016978" border="0" /></a><br />It's been quite a while.<br /><br />Since last April, I went to a private acupuncture college for eight months beginning in September. What a disaster. The school was a joke, a calamity, and a byword all rolled into one. So I quit a couple days ago, and have submitted my application for the acupuncture program at the local(ish) university. I'll go part-time, take this at a more leisurely pace.<br /><br />It's all learning. I learned a lot about Chinese medicine, but I learned a lot more about myself and my family. Yes, I can do it. No, I don't want to do it like that. There are things I wish I could expect, but can't. Just ain't gonna happen. No one's advice trumps my own misgivings. Ever, ever, ever. I'm not mentally deficient. I can keep up with the "big kids", rather nicely.<br /><br />That last one was a big one for me. One of the gifts of my upbringing was that I should never believe my own eyes or ears, that what I heard said, or saw done, never happened. Which leaves a person in a peculiar position. It's taken me a long time to learn to trust myself, and act on that trust. By the time I was in my teens I was convinced that I must be mentally handicapped, and that there was a conspiracy of kindness wrapped around me to keep me from having to realize it. Seriously. I thought all my teachers were just being "nice" to me, marking me up on assignments just to pass me through without having to deal with my disability. Yes, that was weird. And yes, on the other hand the facts just weren't measuring up. But it makes sense, when you know what was happening in the background, which I don't really want to go into.<br /><br />Anyway, here I am a looong time later, and I took the plunge. I jumped into post-secondary education, nearly puking with fear of failure and confirmation of the fact that I'm not up to snuff. And I Did Just Fine. Better than that, even.<br /><br />I recently sat in a classroom alongside an RN, and across from someone with a four-year university science program behind her, and when the instructor introduced the theory of Spontaneous Generation and asked each class member individually whether or not they thought it was true, no one knew. Nobody knew. No idea. Except me. This isn't a sign of genius, but I think it's definitely a sign that you can get through a lot of "higher education" and come out the other side without overly energetic reasoning skills.<br /><br />So here I am, with a suddenly-free summer ahead of me when I thought I'd be trapped in school, and looking at all the possibilities. I'm going to plant things. Sew things. Paint walls. Do an English correspondence course so I don't have to do it later when I'm busy with studying other things. And keeping up with the acupoints, so when I come back to them later it'll be like a hot knife through butter.<br /><br />And I'm very, very glad of it all. Today life looks beautiful.Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-85245674784208433002011-04-13T08:15:00.000-07:002011-04-13T09:07:55.474-07:00April Is Developmentally Delayed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMombAjCBpnRE_s2rtIsPVhL5qa4jwabuenR_wvR6ICfzdK63oS3HVfo7bVfkbmrKUnYJdIE_TBlQUoNlX5gqthS7w0otpwc43Y6SYZO6Snqnz2PklQ74zDNN-udmDNDumAU9zLRQFxuu/s1600/garden+spring+2011.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMombAjCBpnRE_s2rtIsPVhL5qa4jwabuenR_wvR6ICfzdK63oS3HVfo7bVfkbmrKUnYJdIE_TBlQUoNlX5gqthS7w0otpwc43Y6SYZO6Snqnz2PklQ74zDNN-udmDNDumAU9zLRQFxuu/s320/garden+spring+2011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595087440082437202" border="0" /></a><br />Mid-April, and this is what I see from my back door. Is it any wonder I'm not overcome with gardening inspiration? We had a few warmish days last week, enough to melt it back this far, but this week we're back to fence-sitting at 0C. Yesterday we had snow-flurries. Just a little, but that's all it takes to fling a person into climatic despair. Today the sun is shining, so I'll gird up my cerebral loins and believe that summer <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> come again.<br /><br />This year I'm going to try planting some trees again. The deer like them too, so I've got to get more serious about staking my claim. I'm thinking chicken-wire and burlap... I need another northern plum to pair up with the one I've got so they can cross-pollinate, and an apple and maybe an Evans cherry. I've got one saskatoon bush that's doing not too badly, so I'm going to dig a trench and put a bunch more of those in.<br /><br />The soil is awful here. On the west we have a big stand of golden willow that have taken the garden plot hostage with their roots, and most of the rest of the acreage was used as an impromptu parking lot by the previous owners. Chive's going to mow down the willows, and I'm going to ask around to find a truckload of manure. (Too bad I can't just back up to the local coffee-shop and download some of the B.S. that's thrown around there!)<br /><br />I'm going to have a fling with haybale gardening too, just on a very small scale to see how it works for me. You can look it up for more information, but the basic idea is to put down a few hay or strawbales, water them to start them rotting a bit, sprinkle them with dirt and fertilizer, and plant right into that. It's pretty arid here, so I don't know how they'll do in the moisture department, but I figure that it's worth a try as a soil-building experiment. If nothing else, it'll break down a bit and I'll have the start of a new garden plot.<br /><br />Other than that, the cats catch mice, the kids chase each other, and I study. I finished my second mid-term with the physiology a few days ago, which means I'm on the last lap now. And yesterday I submitted my official application to the university in the city, so next year I'll<span style="font-style: italic;"> really</span> be on my way to being an acupuncturist. Wootle-ee-doot!Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-5181915707041493672011-04-03T17:19:00.000-07:002011-04-03T17:19:32.651-07:00Gil Hedley: Fascia and stretching: The Fuzz Speech<iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/_FtSP-tkSug?fs=1" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" width="425"></iframe>Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-38020415639632256632011-04-01T08:12:00.000-07:002011-04-01T08:40:50.974-07:00On my bookshelf...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-xyPUjxqfMCN2zuKj42MarDwoqlT-uywjAv1bisn71ftbAfHsMvv5tQguHiCOSHNCFxhoxsEJgeXfMsxYglfpktC6AbTSEngZV1_UeXn-3XD63dhrdwQjEw1em_Dh0-O6VW8yd5X7MzE/s1600/carpe+jugulum.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-xyPUjxqfMCN2zuKj42MarDwoqlT-uywjAv1bisn71ftbAfHsMvv5tQguHiCOSHNCFxhoxsEJgeXfMsxYglfpktC6AbTSEngZV1_UeXn-3XD63dhrdwQjEw1em_Dh0-O6VW8yd5X7MzE/s320/carpe+jugulum.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590634062087181762" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Carpe-Jugulum-Terry-Pratchett/dp/0552146153/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1301670850&sr=8-1">Carpe Jugulum</a>, by Terry Pratchett.<br /></div><br />I lurrrvv Terry Pratchett! He's the one who takes me away, puts me in another world, where it's all silly and magic, and yet... more like the world I live in than the one I live in, y'know?<br /><br />I've only just begun this one, but here's a quote from near the start:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"The wording began:</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;"> '</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">You are cordially invited...</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">"</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">...and was in that posh runny writing that was hard to read but ever so official.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Nanny Ogg grinned and tucked the card back on the mantelpiece. She like the idea of 'cordially'. It had a rich, a thick, and above all, an </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">alcoholic</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> sound."</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO19akrOFZo25cAw96Is8fRwOKa7192qoZUbKzOTihEW9rLObEaH5tCWRux5wtAxPnW_StrokvQ3UQUQIx_2G1JApKcF0jmO7erN9vqpHudJnUs16A98GvO8CeYp8QTPDcGg_BgbEW1CRS/s1600/new+menopausal+years.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO19akrOFZo25cAw96Is8fRwOKa7192qoZUbKzOTihEW9rLObEaH5tCWRux5wtAxPnW_StrokvQ3UQUQIx_2G1JApKcF0jmO7erN9vqpHudJnUs16A98GvO8CeYp8QTPDcGg_BgbEW1CRS/s320/new+menopausal+years.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590636719566952242" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.ca/New-Menopausal-Years-Alternative-Approaches/dp/1888123036/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1301671496&sr=1-1">The New Menopausal Years, Alternative Approaches for Women 30-90</a>, by Susun Weed<br /></div><br />I finished my first go-round with this one last night. In some ways, Susun is a long way from where I'm at, and in others we synch. For myself, and for my clientele, I'm finding that the whole issue of womanhood after age 30 is pretty nebulous territory, disrespected by ourselves and others. Susun writes about shifting cycles, hormone changes and the physical signs that accompany them, herbal remedies using North American plants as well as Chinese Medicine, and spiritual issues surrounding aging. I'm going to try a few of her herbal recommendations and see how it goes. There was a lot to consider in this book. Thanks to <a href="http://contrarygoddess.blogspot.com/">CG</a> for recommending it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBtHomOwy_mf8xOzdwbBIRZin039MsJ1S3VUGdikA9Pz5zXOHJtSEDEDC4dy3aY500BzQpJ7gU1RsXvISHDJAIAAvmWHOy2eu44y8pYmCbS65rpTF6-f9xfb_gUd2f02WX8tMWYFv-nFsl/s1600/history+of+the+world.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBtHomOwy_mf8xOzdwbBIRZin039MsJ1S3VUGdikA9Pz5zXOHJtSEDEDC4dy3aY500BzQpJ7gU1RsXvISHDJAIAAvmWHOy2eu44y8pYmCbS65rpTF6-f9xfb_gUd2f02WX8tMWYFv-nFsl/s320/history+of+the+world.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590639276623934306" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.ca/History-World-100-Objects/dp/1846144132/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1301672094&sr=8-1">History of the World in 100 Objects</a>, by Neil MacGregor<br /></div><br />Usually this isn't "my kind" of book, but I loved it! It made the rounds of Chive's family, and finally found its way into our house. The author (Director of the British Museum) takes objects from around the world, relates their individual histories, and then weaves them into their place in a global history. Many of the objects are extremely beautiful, or curious, or plain, but his descriptions give them life beyond their material selves. Highly recommended!Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-50174436222707565532011-03-31T07:13:00.000-07:002011-03-31T07:40:37.256-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:";font-size:130%;" lang="en-US" >As people who have hearts that long for perfect love, we have to forgive one another for not being able to give or receive that perfect love in our everyday lives. Our many needs constantly interfere with our desire to be there for the other unconditionally. Our love is always limited by spoken or unspoken conditions. What needs to be forgiven? We need to forgive one another for not being God! - Henri Nouwen</span><br /><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11pt;" lang="en-US" ></span></div>Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-6627659547574924832011-03-30T07:52:00.000-07:002011-03-30T07:53:39.885-07:00Every Sperm is Sacred {Monty Python's Meaning of Life}<iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/U0kJHQpvgB8?fs=1" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" width="425"></iframe><br /><br />I have this vice, which I believe I've confessed to before, but it's this: I stalk Quiverfull Websites. I reckon it's akin to chasing ambulances for the thrill of seeing a car-wreck (though that's not my particular thrill, I'm just guessing that it's a similar thing).<br /><br />So these Quiverfull Families say they leave their fertility in God's hands - in other words, no birth regulation of any kind. If you're really hard-core, it's no regulation of any kind, even if Mama's life is endangered. Because God won't give you more than you can handle, eh?<br /><br />This morning I was reading through the comments on a post, and came across this theological humdinger:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"The way I see it, how can we push aside the blessings of God, which is what children are, and yet still expect God to bless us in other areas, such as a nice big house or a new car?" </span><br /> <br /> <div style="text-align: left;">A heckuva benefits package, don't you think? Nice to see God's Mysterious Ways explained so succinctly for the denser among us.<br /> </div> </div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-70378855220586191472011-03-27T07:08:00.000-07:002011-03-27T07:39:57.442-07:00ExaminationsRecently someone was telling me about the local elementary school system, and how there's a reading program in place. The children are filed into the library, given "age-appropriate" books, told to read them, and then are sat down at a computer to do a comprehension test on the book they just read.<br /><br />I was aghast. "Why?!" I asked.<br /><br />"Well, so we can make sure they understand what they read," answered my partner in conversation.<br /><br />"But why does it matter?"<br /><br />She looked at me very strangely. "So we can tell what reading level they're at."<br /><br />"But why does it matter what reading level they're at? Why does it matter if they understand what they're reading? Aren't they supposed to be reading for pleasure? What would you think if someone came and gave you a comprehension test on everything you read?" I was trying to be polite in the midst of my horror, but even the basic questions are considered rather vulgar, like you're questioning the good intentions of professional educators towards their charges. Which, of course, is <span style="font-style: italic;">exactly</span> what I'm doing. This sounds like a program right out of <span style="font-style: italic;">1984</span>.<br /><br />I couldn't stop. "If someone tested me on every book I read, you can believe it that I wouldn't pass their exam. When I'm reading for pleasure, it's just pleasure. I let the book wash over me, take two or three points of interest away with me, and I'm done with it. This program seems designed to cure kids of ever wanting to read again."<br /><br />"But how would we give them marks, if we don't have any way to test what they know?" She looked completely bewildered at this point. She works in a school - I don't suppose this sort of conversation is welcomed in the staff room.<br /><br />"Who needs their test results?" I asked in return. "We've got a whole society of people who don't know who they are without a piece of paper to rate their abilities and tell them what they're fit for. I hate testing kids. I think it's a lie."<br /><br />She looked off, and down. "Yeah, I hate testing too. But how do you get around it?"<br /><br />From there the discussion veered into homeschooling, unschooling, and the parents of schooled children refusing to participate in PATs. And eventually we found ourselves at:<br /><br />"But if you don't have a degree, how do you ever get ahead in life?"<br /><br />I smiled. "I guess that depends on what you mean by 'get ahead'," I answered.<br /><br />She laughed. "You never have a straight answer for anything, do you? It's always more questions!"<br /><br />Amen. Always more questions!<br /><br />If you want a degree so you can get ahead, you need to be asking yourself what 'get ahead' means, and whether that degree is really a means to get there. Or if, in fact, it's a huge debt to buy you some shaky academic credibility or a temporary ego boost. Or if you're just doing it because it's the thing to do, and you never questioned that assumption. But for goodness' sake, ask questions! Ask questions about everything! Question yourself and your motives, question your society and its motives, question everything! <span style="font-style: italic;">These</span> are the 'examinations' that matter.Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-13145352992087872052011-03-25T12:22:00.000-07:002011-03-25T12:28:59.696-07:00Pratchett on Friday<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeS0Gi3xxRJZnxjjafMBHaTr7YWHUUowaQhXoAs_mSTYU1Tvp5GAuJvTpXinSn2NjLlxll1tikz5z2XMmT7Nqv7Ahatxp5Ck3OCFBb6uWucuI-VYl_idgHkLqL8Qbn1kJEAeUrNmW8glKN/s1600/pratchett_rats.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeS0Gi3xxRJZnxjjafMBHaTr7YWHUUowaQhXoAs_mSTYU1Tvp5GAuJvTpXinSn2NjLlxll1tikz5z2XMmT7Nqv7Ahatxp5Ck3OCFBb6uWucuI-VYl_idgHkLqL8Qbn1kJEAeUrNmW8glKN/s320/pratchett_rats.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588100386868456514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">"The wind howled. Lightning stabbed at the earth erratically, like an inefficient assassin. Thunder rolled back and forth across the dark, rain-lashed hills....The storm was really giving it everything it had. This was its big chance. It had spent years hanging around the provinces, putting in some useful work as a squall, building up experience, making contacts, occasionally leaping out on unsuspecting shepherds or blasting quite small oak trees. Now an opening in the weather had given it an opportunity to strut its hour, and it was building up its role in the hope of being spotted by one of the big climates.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It was a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">good</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> storm. There was quite effective projection and passion there, and critics agreed that if it would only learn to control its thunder it would be, in years to come, a storm to watch."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">-Terry Pratchett, Wyrd Sisters</span><br /></div>Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-2225520673783742542011-03-20T10:45:00.000-07:002011-03-20T10:45:03.744-07:00The Real Dirt on Farmer John - Documentary 1/9<iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/D-WOThJsBCM?fs=1" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" width="425"></iframe>Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-17794996226366276762011-03-17T15:53:00.001-07:002011-03-17T16:07:11.648-07:00St. Patrick's Day 2011<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPBCWDgE0A78vFZ1h0giiZ7MMIgXWF2aleDR2bnQOoZqZzZyx8h9I1S3Nqantmic5pLu2JDp9saOkXV3ZmVW3HmgQubHROhYQ2q3valaKThQ9hes572E3aZMN01zzGMqQNhdA4NQyxnSC/s1600/March+17+2011+003.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPBCWDgE0A78vFZ1h0giiZ7MMIgXWF2aleDR2bnQOoZqZzZyx8h9I1S3Nqantmic5pLu2JDp9saOkXV3ZmVW3HmgQubHROhYQ2q3valaKThQ9hes572E3aZMN01zzGMqQNhdA4NQyxnSC/s320/March+17+2011+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585179190401548338" border="0" /></a>We're feeling that St. Patrick is perhaps <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> pulling his weight in the weather department. It's his Big Day, and we're barely inching up to 0C during the day, considerably colder than that at night. Here's Patch, tending the Lucky Shamrock Fire, with which we beseech the Blessed Green Man for some greenery. Even dandelion greens would do. Ahem.<br /><br />I have chlorophyll envy. I trawl the netblogs, drooling over other people's quackgrass. So sad.<br /><br /></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQz7wIe5tQmw4sTXeLDBBW8fDTEQnzwf3T_PQWdNYA9Dmq75u8TKJqF-2rORlayXqtcfRJFwJH-Fkl_cZRNH3rmqpbe1lBz_AFCzt_Sb0sHQst28UHRSgaJCAOLXWpxmhynqtxCs8ptz6-/s1600/March+17+2011+001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQz7wIe5tQmw4sTXeLDBBW8fDTEQnzwf3T_PQWdNYA9Dmq75u8TKJqF-2rORlayXqtcfRJFwJH-Fkl_cZRNH3rmqpbe1lBz_AFCzt_Sb0sHQst28UHRSgaJCAOLXWpxmhynqtxCs8ptz6-/s320/March+17+2011+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585178819001335698" border="0" /></a>On the home front... well, what's not on the home front? I work and study at home, as well as all the standard home-stuff. There are small things, you know? Like a nicely folded stack of tea-towels. I don't know why this does what it does for me, but I love to see them like that, folded RIGHT (not WRONG, like <span style="font-style: italic;">some</span> people fold them), especially when they're stacked on my pantry shelf waiting for me. In the midst of the general chaos of this place, it soothes my rumpled heart to see a small corner of order.<br /><br />The physiology continues apace. A slow pace. My clients keep asking me when I'll be an acupuncturist, and I keep telling them what a very long story this will be. It's a three-year, full-time program, so at the rate I'm going, we're looking at another four years, for sure. Maybe five. But every single clinic day I'm chomping at that bit. People need it! It helps to heal injuries new and old, lets people sleep at night, modulates blood sugar and hot flashes, and... and... and... So I keep referring them out, and wishing I could provide it myself. Someday.<br /><br />I'm terribly conflicted about where I'll set up my practice. Some days I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> I need to stay here, and some days I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> I need to be in the city. I like small communities, but I'm terribly lonely for opportunities to learn and be challenged. How do I meet both needs? I want it all!<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Pj4hvVhs2NX-a1P-z3GmtiKQ5JEO5wJNKsKOtUXw4V38-o3JUtrc_hWvQpOoSiPuFjew_Fkl3BBuDKaLvluQaegdFtrzTnrttyiytzEGPJbExzxDSuxkwvwkreyaQrsU3HvAfq2-8AAj/s1600/March+17+2011+005.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Pj4hvVhs2NX-a1P-z3GmtiKQ5JEO5wJNKsKOtUXw4V38-o3JUtrc_hWvQpOoSiPuFjew_Fkl3BBuDKaLvluQaegdFtrzTnrttyiytzEGPJbExzxDSuxkwvwkreyaQrsU3HvAfq2-8AAj/s320/March+17+2011+005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585178212025391858" border="0" /></a>Miss Mut (rhymes with "foot"). Puss. Pussle-sprouts. My totem cat. Torties have rather, erm, <span style="font-style: italic;">forceful</span> personalities, and the Dear Children are constantly pointing out the similarities. Oh those Dear Children. Why do I let them sleep indoors?<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5lBVYcbtVbDKAWhas_8cVrywEa6ABfYkIG8hpBhCe5Sj3OMhKtZ7up-z_c4WiAgLj0MgkoWWr1nUILQBW5DvHBMh_rJdpX2kTGqJJin35vARnNpiscilwCvq0jDLaBvu5x6loD2GI_zB/s1600/limes+002.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5lBVYcbtVbDKAWhas_8cVrywEa6ABfYkIG8hpBhCe5Sj3OMhKtZ7up-z_c4WiAgLj0MgkoWWr1nUILQBW5DvHBMh_rJdpX2kTGqJJin35vARnNpiscilwCvq0jDLaBvu5x6loD2GI_zB/s320/limes+002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585178020504386722" border="0" /></a>Limes. It's St. Patrick's Day, and I wanted to celebrate a bit, so I found some limes at the Co-Op, and a lime-pie recipe on the internet. Just in case anyone doesn't know, lime pie isn't green. At all. (I was hoping it would at least be greenish, but sadly it was not to be.) But the taste is - ooooooh! Very green! But not in an Irish-y sort of way. More a Carribean green, a lovely, tart, drooly, Carribean green.<br /><br />Forget supper - let's go straight for dessert!<br /><br /></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVLOIZ3ez53p64XNDLP7lZu1wJiQEol3cdX_ryxzhR_VTqXKbj3WBBLv8ZAk91Tmc_XzPQwYIEOTNhLUnqviuWWWMQe2EKW2ibfmNB6D9Di3gzspo963azRsGTH31mPTke3qa7zSAS8Qf1/s1600/March+17+2011+007.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVLOIZ3ez53p64XNDLP7lZu1wJiQEol3cdX_ryxzhR_VTqXKbj3WBBLv8ZAk91Tmc_XzPQwYIEOTNhLUnqviuWWWMQe2EKW2ibfmNB6D9Di3gzspo963azRsGTH31mPTke3qa7zSAS8Qf1/s320/March+17+2011+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585177707962293442" border="0" /></a>And sweet little Maggie, perturbed. "What?" she says, "Do I <span style="font-style: italic;">look</span> like blog-fodder?" Yup. Green eyes. Fair game today!</div>Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-380605413166707395.post-60848512656544198292011-02-26T16:49:00.000-08:002011-02-26T16:49:00.277-08:00How To Make Chip Dip<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoT01hvzHhRa5b6_t9VJgqOQ73zjeQpyOIdhYYtxaSLNtwwGP8lWDDRBj9r0lhVehTyh0JV2nBJ2BnmN2Q91vlyDnnXNxpHOpnduVMPWjY1bW3B9IxduMjsVwC0RYn6ykBLX3kZw-Oro1/s1600/chip+dip.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoT01hvzHhRa5b6_t9VJgqOQ73zjeQpyOIdhYYtxaSLNtwwGP8lWDDRBj9r0lhVehTyh0JV2nBJ2BnmN2Q91vlyDnnXNxpHOpnduVMPWjY1bW3B9IxduMjsVwC0RYn6ykBLX3kZw-Oro1/s320/chip+dip.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577794395712011138" border="0" /></a><br />Sometime in the past couple months, Chive was out visiting with someone, and they served chips and dip. Store dip. We don't buy the stuff ourselves - it's glutenous. I don't think he'd ever tried it before, and he was appalled at the taste.<br /><br />He mentioned it the next time he saw me making dip for chips and veggies here at home, and I remarked that not only the taste, but the price was ghastly too. For a teeny wee little 250ml container, most grocery stores charge about $3. He was shocked. I did a quick-n-dirty calculation, and reckoned that the bowl that I made, approximately 1 litre, was costing us about $4. And it tastes good. Too good. Too bad for the state of lushness in my hindquarters, but at least I'm not paying the lenten price while I'm eating it, too!<br /><br />Maybe it's foolish to post this, but I've been thinking a lot about making a recipe book for my kids, and one of the things I want to include is a dip recipe. I want them to have something on hand to refer to when they branch out and need a memory-jog on how to feed themselves gluten-freely, without paying someone else to put the food on their plates.<br /><br />So here it is, yer basic dip.<br /><br />(And here's a Helpful Hint, useful in general cookery - you can always add more, but you can't add less. Start conservative, and then became a thrashing liberal as the spirit moves you.)<br /><br />Sour cream, any amount you choose. This is the body of your dip, so whatever you scoop into your mixing bowl will be more or less the amount you'll get out of it in the end. Might as well use the whole litre, huh?<br /><br />Garlic, finely minced. I used 2 small cloves for my 1 litre of sour cream.<br /><br />Onions, either white onions, or red, or scallions. Finely minced. Maybe 1/4 of a sweet onion? Remember the Helpful Hint.<br /><br />Salt and pepper.<br /><br />Vinegar. I used 1 capful, or approximately 1 tbsp.<br /><br />Fresh lemon juice. I said FRESH. Put that bottle of RealLemon back on the shelf. 2 tsp.<br /><br />Grated cheese, if you want. Cheddar, mozza, parmesan. Real parmesan, SVP. You can use as much as you like, but if you use too much your dip gets so stiff it'll break the chips.<br /><br />Dill. I like dill, personally. If you don't like it, or don't like any of the above, feel free to omit. But I used about 1 tsp of dried dill.<br /><br />Any other herbs you feel compelled to add. Chive'll add basil to just about anything, so I have to watch him closely if I intend to eat his creations.<br /><br />Just mix it up. Let it sit in the fridge for an hour.<br /><br />Devour.Madcaphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07557763096456837657noreply@blogger.com2