Batty Brooks

"Are you going to write more stories about your crazy bird?" I was asked. Do you want to read more about a small bundle of feathers I had to ask in return. I thought I was done with the escapades of our batty bird. "Oh yeah, she's so funny!" Humourous she may be - for the most part after the fact.

Like the evening I came home to find the house quiet and her cage covered up with towels. Uh Oh! Now what? M shows me Brook's latest signature marks: this time on the back of his neck. One is a real doozy. Her best one to date. It looks sore and red.

If you like to live dangerously, walk into the room with a bunch of grapes in your hand when Brooks has full flight. "Honey," I say, my voice as even-toned as possible, "I've told you not to eat anything when Brooks is out her cage. She's not like a dog or a cat. She won't obediently sit and watch while you eat." Nope, not Brooks. She wants what you have and she'll come and get it. Ready or not.

At least she fights fair. Brooks is no stealth bomber. In attack mode, she whips across the room at fighter jet speed. She lets you know she's coming with intimidating high pitched screeches. You are warned: drop it, hide it, or suffer the consequences.

Kleenexes (tissues) are a personal pet hate of hers. She's game to chase one whenever she spies it in your hand. We use them to clean up after her when she's out her cage. It's become a game to see how much we can fool her and clean up without her seeing what we are doing. M and I pass the kleenexes between us as stealthily as any drug deal on the street. But Brooks is no bird brain. She's smart and often catches us out.

Recently, I cottoned on how to get Brooks to move off the window screen in our sunroom. The floor was still wet from M washing it and I didn't want to cross it. I pulled a scrunched up kleenex out of my pocket and called, "Brooks, look what I have." True to form, our green dynamo with blue racing stripes, left her perch and screeched across the room after the offending kleenex. Swiftly, I hid it again in my pocket. Mission accomplished: Brooks was on my head and off the window screen.

Game and set to Brenda!
Match?

The Craft

It's ready, sealed and waiting to be mailed. After many months of considering it, then doing a first write, followed by a rewrite and, finally, the final write, my application to be considered for a writing course is almost on its way.

This two year course will expose me to different styles and genres of writing with feedback from a published writer. It will help identify to which genre of writing I am best suited. But I think I already have an idea about that.

This past Tuesday evening I put the finishing touches to my monthly reporter piece for a local community paper (see Writer at Work January 2010). I find press release and reporter writing dry. I guess if I was to chase down exciting stories or write breaking news pieces, it may prove to be more gratifying. However, it is fun to see my name in print alongside my article whether it be about an upcoming fundraising dinner, a high shool reunion or the new official community plan.

And this Saturday, as dear M does another day of home renos, I'm at a writing workshop learning the craft of life writing. I'll be developing prose techniques such as 'free writing, sense memory, telling detail and scene design to craft vivid, emotionally engaging snapshots of my experiences', so the brochure says. And this I am looking forward to.

Which reminds me of Virginia Woolf's advice about our craft:
"If you publish, your freedom will be checked; you will be thinking of what people will say; you will write for others when you ought only to be writing for yourself."

I find her advice to be true when I weigh the joy it is to write my vignettes and the hard work I find it to write my published pieces.

A Cup of Tea and a Tim Tam

At least now I know how I handle disconcerting news; I make a strong cup of tea and I eat chocolate.

"Yes," the doctor said of the little blighter he took off my face, "it is skin cancer - a basal cell carcinoma." The good news is that he got it all as the edges of the excised tissue were clear. The not so good news is that it will reoccur. Hmmm, I didn't realise that blemish patrol was going to be part of my future, so that we can whip the blighter's cousins off before they grumble for too long and cause disfigurement.

The blighter in question made itself resident on my face last September. From the start I thought it was a little odd. I don't usually have a dry patch similar to eczema around my nose. And it's not as if I don't take care of my skin. But this little sucker, as Canadians would say, turned into a little bump that persisted, went away with a good treatment of Vitamin E oil and then would reappear.

After a few months of this erratic behaviour and a consultation with my esthetician, I made an appointment with my doctor. On the morning of my appointment, the little blighter went into hiding. There was nothing to show and I cancelled the appointment. A few weeks later it was back but by then we were crazy busy and packing for South Africa.

Mom advised I see my doctor and further encouraged me with a scary story from one of her cancer clinic friends, where a small sore on the bridge of her nose cost her an eye and then even more. Seeing my aunt in hospital after complications related to skin cancer surgery sealed it for me. I was at the doctor's the week after we got home and the excisional surgery was scheduled for the end of April, two weeks later. It's just too bad it takes so long for the results to come in.

Now to go shopping for a big floppy hat to shield my face when we picnic at the beach. Oh ... and good-bye Provence ... we won't be retiring there.

Consider This

Consider this:

In my reading this week I came across a quote from A.W. Tozer, Christian pastor, speaker and author: "It is doubtful that God can use any woman greatly until he has hurt her deeply."

Perhaps this helps to answer that old-age question in the journey of life: "Why?"

It certainly presents a different perspective of God from that of the safe grandfatherly persona sitting on a cloud in the sky.

And, of course, A.W. Tozer's statement applies equally well to men.

O Symphonic Canada!

Monday night's visit to the symphony ended as all musical pieces should - on a high note. Morrie and Em invited us to join them for the season finale of the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra (VSO).

It was a Russian evening of composers, Rimsky-Someone and Igor Somebody Else. I enjoy classical music but don't count me as a connoisseur. I was impressed with how Morrie and Em could discuss the ebb and flow of the music. They are further up the totem of music than I. My appreciation of music is like that of art. I don't know any of the finer details but I do know what I like.

Now Rimsky-Someone I enjoyed very much. It was everything a good classical piece should be: soothing, pleasant, rousing, dramatic and easy on the ear. Igor on the other hand was more along the lines of stupefying. No wonder this particular piece befuddled the 1913 patrons on its opening night and caused a riotous outcry. Too bad the order of the program wasn't the reverse I thought. I'd rather end the night on a good note than a befuddled one.

But the evening wasn't done. Considering that it is a Vancouver Canada Olympic year and the VSO recorded the Canadian national anthem played at our 14 gold medal ceremonies, Maestro Bramwell Tovey chose to end the evening and the season with 'O Canada!'

The Olympics has changed the face of Canada and its appreciation of its national anthem. Before the Olympics, I was often annoyed at the ambivalence many Canadians showed toward their national anthem. Canadians seemed uncomfortable with any display of national pride. Their attitude appeared to be a way they distanced themselves from their patriotic flag-waving hand-on-the-breast-singing neighbours to the south.

The Vancouver 2010 Olympics changed all that.

Vancouverites plunged themselves into its sheer joy and excitement. With each medal won, the excitement and pride compounded and increased exponentially. Canadians became proud of their athletes, their effort, their achievements and their national anthem. We outdid our neighbours to the south with our unbridled display of patriotism. We surprised ourselves, and the rest of the world, with our spontaneous singing of 'O Canada' on the streets of Vancouver.

And here we are at the Orpheum, four months later, keen to sing our national anthem once again. We stood as the VSO struck the chords of 'O Canada' and away we went, proud to be Canadian.

Canada gold, Russia silver and bronze.

Brooks, The Apprentice

Brooks does more than bite. She is M's left-hand apprentice and inspector of his handy-work.

Now that our balconies are enclosed, we are doing paint touch ups, having flooring installed and some other odd jobs. Brooks loves the activity and gets right up there with M. She's curious to know all that is going on. She finds the sound of the painter's tape being unwound a lot of fun. She runs up M's arm from his shoulder to make sure he's doing the job properly and flits on to the tape roll to get right up close to the action.

On Saturday she found the life of doing home repairs a little tiring and fell asleep on M's back while he painted. Last night M asked her to hold the torch so he could have more light while putting a base board heater back together. Seeing that she has her head right in there during the odd jobs she might as well earn her keep.

Gold Fever!

I stifle a yawn at 7:25 this morning: the opening ceremony hardly worth getting up for at 5:00, the first 25 minutes of the opening game reminding me why I'm not a big soccer fan. The ball goes this way, then that way, then back again. A histrionic display of injury here or there. I recall an old sports cry from my school days, "Action, action, we want action! A-C-T-I-O-N".

A quick nip into the shower will move the morning along and I'll probably not miss anything important. Quick it is and I give the screen a half interested glance as I move in and out of the living room getting my morning under way. I'm in the room when Mexico scores the off-side goal. Good! I feel the relief of the crowd.

I settle on the couch to give the game more of my attention. Just after 8:00, Tshabalala scores the first goal of the 2010 FIFA World Cup Soccer Tournament and South Africa is 1-0. I'm on my feet, shouting the praises of the fluid goal, the beautiful clean line of soccer at its best, the art of sport. My smile spreads wide and proud when Tshabalala and his team mates do their victory jig. The game is on!

I feel the excitement of the game. I reach for the 2010 soccer schedule noting the dates South Africa plays their next two games: June 16 and June 22. Yip! I'll be sure to work my schedule so that I can be home to cheer them on.

M smiles and shakes his head at my excitement and animation when Mexico scores the equalising goal. On my feet again, I am vuvuzela loud! I lambast the South African defence for setting their goalkeeper up: a cornered lithe young buck with three hungry hyena circling in for the kill.

In the final minutes of the game I groan with the rest of South Africa as a goal is missed. My hands fly to my head and cover my eyes in disbelief! My heart rate is up. My blood courses through my veins. This next month is going to be good!

Paris Alive!

It is already three years, this June, that M and I were in Paris celebrating my 40th birthday. How can that be?

The years move with ever increasing speed. The days spill over into weeks and months. And then we are almost half way through the year.

This is one of the reasons I am so grateful that I have eventually learnt to live in the present. For a large part of my life I have lived in the future. The purpose of today was to move me on to tomorrow.

Today I live knowing that what happens or does not happen today is going to follow me into tomorrow or the day after that or the one after that. What isn't resolved today will plague me tomorrow. What isn't faced head on now will hinder me and hold me back later.

The younger we are the less we realise this; we assume each day is independent of the next. We ignore problem issues or, worse still, don't even know they are there. We think they will all disappear with time. They don't and they won't. They just lie low and when you least expect it, like in your late thirties, they rise up and smack you straight in the face.

Now you can smack it right down again, wipe your bloodied nose and stay indoors until your black eye has healed. But you're guaranteed to get another black eye and bloodied nose. Smack it down often enough, out of retaliation, fear or ignorance, and you're guaranteed to spiral into a black hole of depression.

Now what has all this got to do with the Eiffel Tower, glitteringly beautiful in the dark? Nothing really. It's just where my thoughts went. Yet that trip three years ago, a loving gift from my husband, was a salve on a wound, a breath of life to new dreams and a call to engage the present.

Summer Longing

I stretch out in bed under my white covers and look at the rain streaking down the panes, the dark sky beyond. Didn't we say, "Let summer begin!" a month ago? A sigh settles somewhere in my soul.

I look at the book resting next to me on the bed, 'Fire and Rain The Wild-Hearted Faith of Elijah' by Ray Pritchard. We sure have the rain! Then, I feel a stirring in my soul. A small spark. A little flame. A tiny hint of trepidation.

This morning, I was quietly bemoaning that M and I won't make it to Cannon Beach this summer to hear Ray Pritchard speak as we did last year (see America August 2009). M can't get the time off work and nor can our finances stretch that far right now. Waking to a rain-filled West Coast morning fuels the longing for summer and the sun-filled memories of last year's trip to the Oregon coast.

I pick up the book and run my hand slowly over the cover. While I can't get to hear Ray Pritchard in person, reading this book I can hear his booming Southern voice, his 'Y'all' reference to the audience and his passion overflowing on each page. But it's not just that. This book has got my attention. The title flamed my curiosity back in August when I bought it at the conference. It's been on my bedside table since then, waiting its turn to be read. Now it is time.

I'm only three chapters into the twelve chapter book and already I am using two book marks. One to record my place as a steam read the book in my usual devouring fashion; the other to mark where I will resume my meditative method of pondering and praying through the text in my morning quiet time.

My lost sigh over summer evaporates. Yes, we won't get to sink our feet into the sand, take walks to Haystack Rock, browse through the quaint town, attend the conference. I look at the book again. What it promises to reveal is as exciting, wild and dangerous as the personality it will unlock - Elijah, the great prophet of the Old Testament and his walk with God.

I feel my soul stir.

This Bird Bites

Our Brooks has become a minor celebrity. Twice, out of the blue, I've been asked, "How's your bird?" from people I thought didn't even know we had a bird. But they've become acquainted with her from reading my blog.

One, my hairdresser, shook her head in commiseration. "You should've spoken to me first," she belatedly advised. "I inherited my mother's love bird and she was horrible. I had to change her water with rubber gloves on my hands. After six months I was too happy to pass her on to a friend of my mother's who asked for her."

Admittedly, Brooks doesn't bite me much anymore. She bites the most when she is on a shoulder and so I no longer put myself in that position. She's learnt that she does not have access to that pride of place. By reinforcing the behaviour, removing her when she gets there or tries to get there, she has learnt to be satisfied with sitting on my forearm. Now as I type, she preens and bobs up and down perched on my wrist.

Not that limiting Brook's access to my shoulder didn't come without her letting me know what she thought of this arrangement. One evening, a couple of weeks back, she flew to my shoulder from M's. My hands were in the sudsy water washing dishes. "Won't you take her off?" M obliged and placed her on top of her cage just on the other side of the counter from the sink.

Washing the dishes, I could see the 10 inches that is Brooks sizing me up. Her little head went first to one side and then the other as she did her calculations. My hair falls on to my shoulders and so takes up some of 'her' space and has mostly protected my neck from her pecks. Brooks, I've learnt, is a smart bird. She knows this.

As she sized me up, I thought, "she's coming straight back," expecting her to fly to my head. No, our smart begrudging bird had other ideas. In a dart, she flew to the front of my t-shirt, landed accurately on the hem of the shirt, and delivered two swift bites to the front of my unprotected neck. Hands still in the water, I calmly called for help, "she's biting me".

M turned from packing dishes in the cupboard but smart calculating Brooks took off. M wasn't letting up and nor was she. As he approached her perch on the lamp shade in the living room, she flew down towards his uplifted hand and delivered a hard bite to his finger. Painful bite or no, she was returned to her cage.

Not that she minded. Her deed done, the humans disciplined and communicated to in no uncertain terms, she was satisfied. She whistled softly to herself on her perch, exuding peace and contentment. She looked over her feathered shoulder at us: no hard feelings.

The Tracks of Life

Yesterday I was greatly inspired. I was inspired to live my life to make a difference: to be a woman of prayer and people. The source of the inspiration was the celebration of a woman in her 100th year who held sway over the flower filled venue from a closed casket.

It is an oxymoron to enjoy a funeral, but enjoy the funeral I did. Not that I knew the deceased very well. In fact, if I was to sit down next to her, she would have very directly asked me, "Who are you?" She was not known for tact or diplomacy. She wasn't known for fuzzy wuzzies or tender hearted embraces. She was known for her quick wit, a keen mind right up to 99, a competitive spirit and a deep love for the Lord and his bride, the church.

I was inspired on two levels: to love others and to finish well.

It was refreshing to hear the eulogy of a young woman in her twenties for a woman in her nineties. To hear of her deep love for some-one who was her grandmother in every sense except as defined in the Oxford dictionary. In our youth centred culture, we dismiss as unimportant and of lesser value those for whom the blush of youth has passed. And yet what value there is in building friendships and lasting relationships with those who are not our peers: to give and receive input and love across the generational divide.

I was reminded again to live my life so as to finish well. We do not know how long our track of life will be. Is it a short 23 years, a mid-length 47 years or a long haul to 99? Whatever it may be, we have one life to live, one opportunity to enrich the lives of others, and we live that life one day at a time.

May we, when our track in this world runs out, hear the words of our Master, "Well done, good and faithful servant!"

Oh, Where is Summer?

The rain falls softly and pools in little ponds on the roof next door. The marine clouds shroud the sky in anonymous grey. I long for a cerulean sky. I look at the calendar, seventeen days to the first day of summer. The sky does not hint at its arrival. The clouds withhold evening beach barbeques, fishing from the rocks, picnics, bike rides and summer sunsets.

"Do you realise," M interrupts my thoughts, "in three months it will be fall." "Oh, shhh," I reply, "I hate it when you do that."

No hint of summer and M's already rushing my thoughts along to red-gold leaves and brisk autumnal air. I bring my thoughts back to grey clouds, soft falling rain and my now to be wet walk with Vivienne.

I shift gears. I love the advice my friend Em once gave me, "It is what it is." Five words I use to work through emotional issues, frustration, unmet expectations, failure and grey skies. Now what am I going to do about it?

I'm going to savour the walk in the rain, feel the drops on my hands and face, splosh in a puddle and relish the friendships I have. Summer will come. In the mean time, I have today, this moment, right now.