Christmas Shoe Boxes

M and I almost didn't pack our own shoe boxes this year. So busy were we this season with receiving and putting almost 2,500 shoe boxes into cartons that shopping for our own shoe boxes almost slipped right off the radar.

But last Tuesday we sneaked in our annual shoe box shopping night. We chose pens and pencils, just the right size note book, bars of soap, toothbrushes, a T-shirt, socks, a bouncing ball, a wind-up flashlight, and some other treats to fill a shoe box each for boys, aged between ten and fourteen.

Our annual tradition of packing shoe boxes brings us much joy and satisfaction. But it is coming to know the heartwarming stories behind some of the shoe boxes that is the most rewarding aspect of our participation in this ministry.

Twice this season we went to pick up shoe boxes from women who, for different reasons, were not able to deliver them personally.

The first was an older woman of modest means who had to start over when she lost all her possessions, including her car, in an apartment fire earlier this year. Yet, in a few short months, as finances allowed, she purchased items to make up shoe boxes for underprivileged children. M and I were humbled by this woman's selflessness in difficult circumstances when we picked up the fifteen colourfully wrapped shoe boxes she had prepared.

We received a call from a woman at a long-term care facility requesting a shoe box pick-up. Amazingly, this quadriplegic woman had packed a shoe box. She chose what she wanted to go in her shoe box and arranged for someone to make the purchases for her. Although she was not able to actually put the items in the box herself, this was still very much her shoe box. Once again, we were humbled.

A young woman in her late teens heard about this ministry from a friend and read about it in the local newspaper. She got on board, challenging her friends on Facebook, putting up flyers in her neighbourhood and getting her younger sister's sports team involved. Ten days later she delivered thirty beautifully wrapped shoe boxes to us.

More than anything this ministry highlights the selflessness of others who want to make a small difference in the life of someone else.

Our shoe box season is not yet finished. Next week, Mr. and Mrs. Shoe Box head to Calgary to participate in the next leg of the shoe box journey.

Mrs. Magoo

Allow me to introduce our cat, K2 Mrs. Magoo. Beautiful she is. More trusting she has become.

Five and a half years ago she was bequeathed to us by a friend who died of lung cancer. Her reputation was such at the time that she was the cat nobody wanted.

When Rod first asked us to adopt K2, we declined. At the time, we didn't see how a pet would fit into our lifestyle and, being mean and unfriendly, Mrs. Magoo certainly hadn't endeared herself to us.

Rod did try to find another home for her but there were no other takers or no-one to whom he wanted to leave his most prized possession. He sincerely wanted us to take care of his treasure knowing that she would go to a good home. We could not say no again. Two days after Rod died, early in May 2004, K2 came to live with us.

It was not an easy adjustment for any of us. K2 came with trust issues and we came with sharing issues; our freedom of movement had been curtailed. This was compounded by two humans whose love language is touch and a cat who didn't like anyone and didn't want to be touched. The adjustment wasn't just between cat and humans but also between M and me. I thought a cat should be raised this way; he thought a cat should be raised that way.

M and I don't make commitments lightly. This meant K2 was staying and we would all have to push through and make it work. In my 2004 Christmas newsletter, I referred to K2 as a single-minded monster. But by then our affection for her had already started to grow. Although she would've denied it, she had become more than just a little fond of us too.

Being a beautiful Himalayan, visitors to our home would be drawn to K2 and want to stroke her. We always warned them of her unfriendliness and to touch her at their own risk. One of M's first encounters with K2 saw her lash out at him with her claws because a third stroke was two too many.

Our greatest reward has been K2's trust of us and the change in her personality. We no longer have to warn visitors to watch out for her swipe. She is more responsive to affection and, although still not great with too much attention from strangers, she has learnt to walk away from the situation and not to attack.

Morrie has often commented that he can't believe that she is the same cat. Over the past five years she has become increasingly trusting, responsive and affectionate. She has brought us much joy and companionship.

Sadly, today, K2 Mrs. Magoo died.

Why I Write

I came across a John Lubbock (British politician d. 1913) quote this weekend that sums up why I write:

"To do something, however small,
to make others happier and better,
is the highest, the most elevating hope,
which can inspire a human being."

Most of us will only be part of history; we won't make history. Yet that doesn't mean that our lives don't count. It doesn't mean that we can't "do something, however small, to make others happier and better".

I have learnt to live in the present and to look for the gems of life right where I am. I have learnt not to look over the garden fence and covet those flowers in my neighbour's garden that are absent in my garden. Instead, I have learnt to nurture that which already grows in my garden.

The heartache and tough times of life, guaranteed to all of us, becomes the compost which nourishes the soil, if we allow it to mature to all its stinking ripeness. For a beautiful and easy-to-tend garden, I now know to grow indigenous plants and flowers that are best suited to a garden's soil type and sun location. Some bulbs and plants are not going to grow in your garden, no matter how hard you try. Accept it. And weed regularly. All gardens need weeding - that is life. Pests will attack your garden; find the healthiest way to look out for them and to deal with them before they do too much damage.

I write with the hope that this expression of myself would, in a small way, encourage you to be more yourself and to grow your own most beautiful garden. And remember - stop coveting another's garden; you have not watered it with the same tears she has.

The Red Gate

The iron of the gate was cold in my hand. I hadn't packed in gloves for the journey. I knew I wasn't fully prepared. Nor would I be. I plunged my hand back into the warmth and comfort of my coat pocket.

The forest was still and the grey clouds were banding together for another lashing of rain. My feet slurped in the muddy path and wet leaves stuck to my shoes. I peered over the gate. The path on the other side wasn't any better. There was nothing to entice me through the gate. No promise of relief from the cold, shelter from the rain or protection from the wind.

This side of the gate, the expanse of a tree with dense leaves, had offered some protection from the rain. It had kept me dry from light rains. However, the rains had become frequent and more persistent. The storms were gathering with intensity.

I peered over the gate again. There would be no shelter from rain if I passed through. That was the certainty of opening the red gate. There would be no expanse of leaves to offer even partial respite. I felt the indecision rise in me and catch in my throat. I swallowed hard.

Do I weather the storms I know this side of the gate or do I choose the path of untamed downpours?

It was a choice I alone could make.

I lifted the latch from the gate. The gate opened quietly - no unoiled hinge to announce my decision to the hush of trees. I shut the gate and replaced the latch.

Tears caught in my throat and spilled on to my cheeks. I gasped for air and tried to still my internal storm. This side of the red gate a blizzard of winter would follow the drench of autumn. I had chosen this now over eternal autumn.

When the assault of winter would happen I did not know. But come it would. I had chosen the way of the barbarian (The Barbarian Way, Erwin McManus, http://www.erwinmcmanus.com/). I would walk this path and, by the grace of God, push through when difficulty, fear, confusion, and pain would cause me to recoil and want to pull back.

After winter comes spring. After death comes life.

Who's Afraid of Writing?

Who is afraid of writing? I am. Yet I press on, riding this rollercoaster of doubt. Eager to learn, I journey with my writing group to Westminster Abbey for a weekend retreat of writing, reflection and instruction from a master writer, Virginia Woolf.

Home for two days is a modest room of my own. The simplicity of the room reduces the fluff of life to the basics of the craft: a desk, a chair, paper and a pencil.

Simplicity epitomises the weekend: the swishing quietness of the monks' black robes, the down to earth meals and Virginia Woolf's overriding advice - just write.

At the abbey, I learn, I write, I read and I write some more.

I learn that the reward and joy of writing is the writing itself, not the accolades of strangers. I write want I want to write: my vignettes. I read a Virginia Woolf biography and start to read 'Mrs. Dalloway'. I write some more.

I chuckle when I realise that I am following in Virginia Woolf's footsteps by self-publishing my work.

Writing is creating art. I use my camera to capture scenes to illustrate the vignettes. And some scenes tell me of a vignette waiting to be written. I am creating art - my way.

I'm finding my way as a writer.

Walk to Write

Take a walk says Virginia Woolf. Get out and ramble, in the quiet of the country or the bustling streets of the city. Let it feed you, rest you and satisfy you. Give yourself time to think, to muse, to rejuvenate, and to spread out the mind. So says Virginia Woolf.

I don't get to walk for the sake of walking anymore. When I tramp up Lonsdale, as many as eighteen blocks, or down six blocks, it's to perform a duty: go to the bank, grab some groceries, stop in at the post office, pick up fresh fruit and vegetables. Seldom do I do it anymore on my own, just for myself, for no other reason than to walk.

It is soul restoring bliss to walk the grounds of Westminster Abbey in Mission: to take in the last of the autumn colours and the stark branches against the grey sky. To feel the cold on my hands and wish I had a warm scarf. I have precious time to breathe and for rest to find room in my soul. The wet leaves squelch under my feet and the ground is so wet that, at times, I'm concerned I may step into sinking mud.

I read the plaques of the Benedictine monks who have passed on to glory. I absorb the serenity of Mary Lake and discover a bench secluded in the trees. I walk and I talk, to myself. There is freedom in giving voice to my thoughts - to speak freely with myself.

I recall as a teenager the times I would have the urge to walk. I would walk out the front door and feel the freedom and rest begin to flood my soul even as I crossed the grass of our front yard to the road. I would walk my suburb and feel the expanse of being alone, company to myself with time to breathe, process my thoughts and be rejuvenated. I never thought of it in these terms at the time. It was instinctive for me to deal with the teenage years by taking a walk.

I have rediscovered the joy of walking. I have learnt how necessary walking is to free up the mind, to let the images rush in and to write. So says Virginia Woolf.

I am a writer and an eager lone walker.

Apricot Jam

I have foresworn commercial jam. Call me a jam snob (and, while you are at it, an up and coming chocolate snob). I like my mother's jam. She makes good apricot jam, as well as the best milk tart and lemon meringue pie.

I find commercial jams too sweet - including marmalade. How can marmalade be too sweet? That's what I ask. The joy of marmalade is in its tartness. That's why it is marmalade. Not so?

Case in point, I now put honey on my toast.

So when Anna asked me if I wanted apricot jam for my toast, I declined. My ears picked up when Father P, our Benedictine host, extolled the virtues of the monks' homemade jam, "and the apricots are picked in Lillooet. They are the real things with flavour."

My eyes zeroed in on the jam. I changed my mind. I would have apricot jam on my toast after all.

My teeth hadn't finished biting off a piece of the toast and I was already headed for apricot heaven. Apricot jam, fig jam and marmalade are my favourite jams. And this had to be the very best apricot jam I have ever tasted (sorry, Mom). It really is true. When cooking or baking, start with fresh quality ingredients. It makes all the difference.

I reached for a second piece of toast. I salivated while I buttered my toast. With reverence, I spread the apricot jam covering every bit of my toast.

Don't even talk to me; I want to savour the flavour in every bite.

A Morning Indulgence

Anna was right, I wouldn't miss the bells. They tolled loudly and extensively at 6am (or so I thought). They shocked me awake: and kept right on ringing so that I was not tempted to drowse off back to sleep. The Benedictine monks have their morning prayers at 5am and so the bells don't ring for them. Perhaps it is to wake guests, visiting the Abbey, in time for Mass at 6:30.

Attending morning Mass isn't obligatory. Hence I open the curtains to greet the still dark morning, turn on the lamp, prop myself up in bed and reach for my Bible. I read from II Timothy.

Turning off the lamp, I cuddle under the white coverlet and enjoy my private view of the cathedral's illuminated stained glass windows. It is refreshingly quiet. I pray, think and dream. The flush of my neighbour's toilet interrupts my reverie and the stillness of the moment. Life intrudes. And I should step along.

Balneotherapy is as effective under a hot shower as a good soak in the tub. I enjoy the morning indulgence and the liberty to soak a good long while under the stream of water. Bliss: no complaint from the other side of the curtain that I am steaming up hubby's mirror. The water massages my back and I take time for some stretches.

While treating my legs to the indulgence of a lathering of night cream, Anna knocks on my door. My writing group is heading down to breakfast.

It's already 7 o' clock? When did that happen?

My indulgent start to the morning is over. I throw on clothes, comb my wet hair and leave the room in disarray. Life intrudes yet again.

Remember Me

Today, a year ago, a bugle called my name. It called me to remember those who no longer hear the call of their name. It called me to Victoria Park, just two blocks from my home, for the Remembrance Day ceremony. Last year I was close enough to hear the bagpipes and the bugle calling us to remember the dead. This year, I pinned a red poppy to my black coat and fell into step alongside others on their way to the park.

I was moved by the number of Canadians who had come to remember. I was surprised (and pleased) by the religiosity of the ceremony. I remembered a friend's comment when we were at university together. Having served in the South African Defence Force and having come under fire, Rory testified that there was no such thing as an atheist in a fox hole; when under attack, every soldier prayed and called out to God.

I was inspired by the march-past and the flight formations of the aircraft. I teared up with the singing of the anthem and the saying of the Lord's Prayer. I thought of the nameless dead who gave their lives for the freedom of others. And I remembered two victims of war, a young woman and a boy who no longer hear the call of their name.

The failure of Operation Market Garden to liberate Holland in September 1944 had tragic consequences for Laura Smit and Jan Keizer.

In retribution for the strike of Dutch railway workers in support of this Allied invasion, the German occupiers forbade food transportation and Holland endured a harsh winter, the Hungerwinter. In Amsterdam, 11 year-old Jan Keizer died of starvation. One of thousands, he is easily forgotten. His brother, now a 90 year-old man, passed the memory of little Jantje on to me.

Across that small country, in February 1945, 20 year-old Laura Smit and her young cousin, Anton, were killed. A V-1 flying bomb, launched by the Germans in Holland to attack England, malfunctioned, landing on the house in Tilburg in which M's aunt was living with her father's family. Separated from her own family, it was not until after liberation in May 1945 that M's grandparents learnt of the death of their daughter.

"Remember me," they call from the grave. Remember "we (too) lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved" (In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae).

I remember Laura and Jantje so as to remember the harshness of war. I remember two young people I will never meet so that I may appreciate the security and peace I know. I remember how short their lives were so that I may not take for granted the length of days I am given.

I remember, so that their lives may count. I remember, because my life is not my own.

Française Encore

We've progressed from salutations, counting to ten and the days of the week to place settings. In order to learn that the utensils are un couteau, une fourchette and une cuillère, never mind a plate, salt and pepper set, glass and serviette, M and I set up a permanent place setting on the diningroom table. Every time we pass by we reinforce the words in French.

We're now better able to politely order our meal in a restaurant, name colours in French, as well as some of our body parts, and recite the months of the year. We can count to 69, follow rudimentary directions and talk about the weather.

This week we're hammering verbs into our heads and some prepositions. Or should I say, M is. His learning curve is not as steep as the first two weeks and he's starting to have some 'aha' moments. This evening, practising our new words, he clued-in how the French word 'sous' is used in English to refer to a sous-chef (the under-chef or trainee chef). And the French interrogative 'pourquoi' (why) was a snap for him as I have used it in our conversations for years. As with 'n'est-ce-pas' (isn't it).

The statements M practises the most are the ones he feels he will use the most often, "Repetez, s'il vous plaît. Parlez plus lentement, s'il vous plaît. Je ne comprends pas." (Please repeat. Please speak more slowly. I don't understand).

And he stoically perseveres.

Divas Night Out

As one gets older it is important to have friends who are older than you are. Not just because they still think that you are a young 'un but because you get to see that the passage of life is not that frightening after all. I remember when I thought that 35 was old, let alone 50 and anyone over 60 was living on borrowed time. Now that I'm on the better side of 40 I have moved the post of old age to 80. Then again, I think of my neighbour Ginny, vital at 81, and so I shift it again to 85.

Friday night, nine mid-life girls got together to celebrate life and the turning of a page. One of us turned 50 and we celebrated in style.

First, we dressed to the nines. Something we don't get to do much anymore. I have one outfit that qualifies as a nine. It's a charcoal-grey silk pantsuit made in Italy. Now, don't think too hoity-toity of me. A wealthy woman somewhere passed it on and somehow it ended up with my friend, Jett, who passed it on to me, a grateful heiress.

Next we met on a blustery and wet night at Kay's place for appies and wine. There's something special about being all dressed up, sipping wine and nibbling appetizers, knowing that you actually have somewhere to go. Our birthday girl was crowned with a tiara and sash. She was queen for the night and so, very suitably, a limousine arrived at 7pm to drive us royally to Granville Island Theatre.

My first limousine ride, alive with nine women laughing and talking and drinking champagne, was the highlight of the evening for me. It's way more conversational to sit in a U formation in a stretch limo bantering and taking pictures than to sit facing forward and craning your neck to talk to those behind you. I wasn't in the limo 5 minutes when I knew I wanted to celebrate like this with my girlfriends. Now to find a good reason - my 50th is too far away!

Finally, we swanned into the theatre glamorously overdressed considering that West Coast patrons casually wear blue jeans to the theatre and the symphony. The queen of our entourage gamely, unabashedly and stylishly sported her tiara and sash. She wore her crown of 50 years with pride and poise.

Some of the jewels in my crown of life are my girlfriends. I am blessed with friendships and connections with a number of women. Whether they be 50, 105, 93 or 35, I value the richness and depth they bring to my life. We pass life lessons on to each other, share tears, heartaches, dreams and triumphs. I wouldn't want to walk through life without any of them.

My gorgeously glamorous girlfriend has shown me how to be comfortable in my skin, to wear my age with enthusiasm and openness, to do life with my girlfriends and that wearing a sparkling crown is for all of us, if we are game.