To Be Adored

I lack nothing, but I miss much; when so much is lost, so much is given. I still marvel at how the tangible can be replaced with that which is impalpable: peace, joy, comfort, love, hope.

I had forgotten until this weekend who I was, who I am, and who I am created to be. I fell asleep last fall knowing where I was, who I was, and where I was going; I woke up and everything had changed. All that I had known and planned for was irrevocably altered. I think back to that moment, when a hand was on my forehead and my emptiness was filled with comfort.

I still grieve. I will continue to grieve as I go from strength to strength. I grieve the love we shared and the plans we had. Most recently, I grieve because I am not alone. The emotions flood back, but this time, I feel the sadness through the wisdom and joy that I have had added unto me over almost a year now. My sense of "normal" is fluid: it ebbs and flows, and I am faced with a "new normal" again.

As I have tried in my own strength to rebuild all that I had lost, I have (by the grace of God) come a long way. The lessons learned are invaluable and I cannot take credit for what God has done inspite of me. So far, I have made it through birthdays, holidays, an anniversary, travelling alone, living alone, legal battles (two more to go...), and more losses. The healing process is constant but not predictable. I have another anniversary coming up.... Please pray for myself and Dave's family especially this month and September.

Since Dave's death, I have known God as more than Friend, Father, and King; I have known Him to be a Husband. For where I was once so adored by Dave, I am now acutely aware of how He has moved in so softly and so completely to adore me in Dave's place for which only He could be worthy.

"I set my face as flint before you now,

My life I recommit here as I bow,

I love it when you gently kiss my brow,

And whisper, 'it's all right'."

Like You - Rita Springer

I remember now. I have stopped running. I am waiting. Listening. I am learning every day what it is like to be adored. May I prove myself to be worthy.

El vino / Wine by Pablo Neruda

Esta es mi copa, ¿ves

brillar la sangre

detrás del filo del cristal?

Esta es mi copa, brindo

por la unidad

del vino,

por la luz desgranada,

por mi destino y por otros

destinos,

por lo que tuve y por lo que no

tuve,

y por la espada de color de sangre

que canta con la copa transparente.

Pablo Neruda, "Las manos del día"

This is my glass, you see

the blood

shinning behind the sharp edges of

the crystal?

This is my glass, I toast

for the unity

of the wine, for the dispersed light,

for my destiny and for other

destinies,

for what I had and for what I didn't

have,

and for the red-colored sword

that sings together with the

transparent glass.
(Translation by Jorge W Suazo)

Like a Bull in a China Shop

The events of this past week and a half begs the allegation: if it ain't broke, Karen hasn't touched it yet. Let me explain: It all started with a brand new jar of Heinz chili sauce; not even out of the grocery bag (thank goodness!). I guess I had set the bag down with a little less care than I should.

It may have been a day or two later when I opened my microwave door and a glass vitamin bottle that was perched atop somewhat precariously tumbled and shattered on the floor. Glass and vitamins everywhere.

I can't exactly be sure of the time that had passed until I was washing my dishes. I mean this to be from the time the last vitreous object fell victim to my blunderous hands; not necassarily the last time that the dishes were washed. One of my drinking glasses broke-- in my hands. In case you are concerned, my hands were just fine.

Lastly, (and I hope it is the last for while) I came home late Friday night and as I fumbled for the light switch, another explosion of glass fell at my feet. Sleepily, I may have said a word or two about one of my favourite martini glasses and then left it for morning.

With all of the glass that has been befallen my floor, it is no wonder that although I have swept and vacuumed (several times over), I am still getting little cuts on my feet when I don't wear my slippers!

Cute Hat

Cute Hat (May 11,2007 - July 16, 2007)

On July 16 during a race pace at a dragon boating practice,

Cute Hat met its untimely end into the trenchant waters of the

Fraser River. In its short time as Karen's possession, it travelled to Maui,

Stave Lake, Diez Vistas, Kent, WA., and kept Karen's hair out of her face

at numerous dragon boating practices, her first regatta, and convertibles.

It will be sadly missed by Karen and everyone else who

thought that it lived up to its name perched atop Karen's head.

Khaki and pink in colour, it will be succeeded but never

fully replaced.

You Know What They Say About Good Intentions...

So I was reading my book tonight. One of them. I have several on the go at the moment. It's called "Why I Hate Canadians" by Will Ferguson which is a tongue and cheek look at one devoutly patriotic man's disillusionment of our beloved country's reputation. He likens the title to naming the book "Why I Hate Bambi's Mother". Don't get me wrong, here. I love our country and I am sure that Bambi's mother was a good and kind doe. Anyways. I read this little paragraph and laughed out loud. Without further ado:

"....And we are brimming with potential energy....Potential energy exists in springs compressed, in rocks poised at the edge of a cliff, and even in someone slouched in front of a television set who intends to get up and do something. They all contain potential energy. Whether anything comes from it is another thing entirely.
"Being described as having "potential" is the booby prize of compliments. It's like being told you're a lousy poet but you have good penmanship. It doesn't stir the blood. Dreams deferred to a later date never do.
"What an impotent battle cry: Rah Rah Canada! We could probably do a lot more if we really tried!
"....At times it seems Canada has the potential energy not of a spring, nor a body at rest, but of a boulder at the edge of a cliff. And the best we can hope for is that the ledge doesn't crumble too quickly."

*chuckle here*

The book only gets better. If you like wit and want to hear a different perspective on being Canadian, then I would recommend it. There are also many other good books that I have half read that I could recommend. I even finished one that was so good that I couldn't set it down. I was also confined to an armchair for two months, so it was much easier to sit still long enough to finish it. What else was I going to do? Crochet? That was around the same time that I tried to teach myself to crochet. Again. I made my sister a "scarf" for Christmas. I gave it to her in a gift bag and said, "OK, now give it back. It's not done yet." To which she replies, "So, this is the gift that I will never see again?" I think it is tucked away in my closet. In that same gift bag.

This brings me to the two big flat boxes lying on my living room floor. (How does she DO it?! From a book on "hating" Canadians to boxes on the floor?!) A couple of weeks ago, I spent a Friday night doing what most 'normal' single people do. I went for wine and dinner at Ikea with a friend. I was on a mission for some storage solutions for my little home. Wouldn't you know it? The 'As-Is' section came through for me again! The headboard which I have been ogling was 57% off! We wrestled and wrangled the awkward boxes into the back of his brand-spanking-new Mazda Speed-- and I could just see the sweat forming on his brow as he considered how we were going to tie the hatch closed!

We brought them to my place, cleared a spot on my living room floor, and laid them to rest. They are very flat and very heavy. I intend to take a whole day sometime 'soon' to assemble this brilliant solution for my bedroom, but it must be the WHOLE. DAY. Otherwise, I fear that I will have a semi-assembled headboard in my living room, and that would not be as easy to walk around as it is to simply walk on and over the boxes.

I wonder if I can attribute my squirrel-like attention span to an adult-like ADD? Maybe I watched too much TV as a kid. Maybe I have some potential energy like a wound up Jack Russell that needs to be released from its kennel after hours of watching other dogs running and playing in a large park near a sausage factory. I digress, and conclude....

.....They stay in the box.

Karen's Book List:

Red, White, and Drunk All Over by Natalie McLean (Finished)
Bacchus and Me by Jay McInnerney (2nd chapter)
Blue Like Jazz (Intro)
Night by Elie Wiesel (Finished)
Why I Hate Canadians (2nd or 3rd chapter)

A Tale of Two Regattas

Just me, and my paaaa-ddle,

Strolling down the avenue;

Just me, and my paaa-ddle,

Not a soul to tell our troubles to-oo;

And when it's 12 o'clock, we climb the stair,

We never knock, 'cuz nobody's there...

Just me, and my paaaa-dle,

All alone and feeling blue!

I just got my first paddle and had it cut to suit my proportionately short arms. Just in time for the Kent regatta. Oh, it is beautiful. Sleek, smooth, short, and sexy. I almost slept with it that night, but I forgot it in my car. Side note: I don't usually leave my objects of affection in the car.

My first regatta (July 14) was a thrilling experience-- all 12 minutes of paddling! My day started at 4 am and we drove for two hours and thirty five minutes down to Kent, Washington. This is noteable as the mapquest instructions said that it would take us a whopping two hours and thirty EIGHT minutes. We made good time. Our first heat (race, that is) was at 9:10 and we came in second. The second was considerably later and we came in 2nd, again. The third (and consequently, our final) heat finished very close. Although it appeared that we came in 2nd, we actually came in 4th. We paddled hard, and we were all heart.

If you have ever been to a regatta, you would know that there is a lot of waiting and standing around for a 3 minute race but the day was gorgeous and hot and we were all in good spirits. Someone brought some water guns and we had a great time soaking each other.

In a stark contrast to that first regatta, this past saturday was my second regatta at Harrison. This was a day of confusion. The weather was about as confounding as the organization of this event. The day started off drizzley, and by the time we arrived, the sun started peaking through the clouds. By our first race, the sun shone gloriously and we were basking in the warmth and excitement of the day. However, this is when things started to get unzipped. Our first race finished, we were panting, sweating, patting each other on the backs, and thirsting for our water back at the tent. We were met at the dock by an official who announced that the race would have to be redone. The timer malfunctioned, or just didn't function at all. Reluctantly, we gave it our best a second time in less than 20 minutes. We are thankful that during our practices Cheryl inflicts on us two race pieces in 10 minutes. Time: 2 mins and 34 seconds. Place: 3

The second race resulted in our best time. Time: 2 mins and 25 seconds. Place: 2 Now, I should mention that coming in second was 3/10ths of a second away from coming in first! By the third race we were getting frustrated by all of the waiting. This waiting was exceptional. We were already 2 hours behind schedule now. Another race was redone for the same reason as ours and grumblings were heard over some race times that were clearly errant. So we paddle out to the starting line. We hold hard. The wind picks up and moves each boat into the wrong lane. We realign. The wind starts to move us again. After realigning the second time, the horn is blown and we pretty much have to do a running start. Half way through the race, the horn is blown again. We stop. We have to start again. A drum fell off of one of the boats. Time: 2 minutes and 45 seconds. Place: 4.

The sun disappeared and it started to rain. It rained HARD. We waited and waited for our 4th and final race. We were told that we were placed in the top of the "C" division and we would be competing for a consolidation ribbon. We stood in Marshalling in the rain for a total of two hours. In those two hours, we were told that we were bumped up to the "B" division and would be completing for a medal. And then we were told that we were in fact going to stay in the "C" division race. Our last race finally arrived and we paddled hard in the torrential rain. (Good thing I had that Stave Lake experience to which I could compare this, and it really wasn't THAT bad) Time: TBA Place: 2!

http://www.dragonboatwest.net/ will definately have something to say about this-- and it has!

Momma told me there'd be days like these...

Subtitle: Ramblings and cryptic disclosures

Back in college, my favourite teacher was Mr. Heaney. Not because he made me feel good about myself, but because he didn't. In fact, I think we all left his classroom with our heads hung in shame over our fallen nature. One of the more poignant lessons was about "blocked lousy goals". Let me explain: With every situation, we have an expectation of how it should turn out. Since so often, our scripted outcome fails to make the final cut, we get angry, sad, and pass out blame. The goal we had was blocked. We didn't get what we wanted. Who knew Mick Jagger was that insightful? So, if our goal was to satisfy our desires and if that goal was intended to give us "life", then our goal was lousy. Blocked. Lousy. Goal.

This brings me to a conversation I had today about expectations. It was pointed out that we need to learn how to manage our expectations. Manage? What about killing them? They are lousy and no good and seldom does anything positive come out of them. Expectations, as I was taught, put a responsibility on things and people beyond our control to bring us our idea of happiness. I have thought about this, and I have not yet come up with any concrete way to manage them. What a pointless blog, so far. I hope you weren't expecting something good.

I will say this: I am glad that today I can pound the water as we practice our race pace. I am also glad that needlepoint isn't a full contact sport. When the concrete starts to set, hopefully some good habits and coping skills are embedded in the mix. I shouldn't even try to compare losses when one isn't personal, it is final, and has left me with joy. The other wasn't, isn't, and hasn't. Oh yes, and voo-doo dolls as gestalt therapy might not be such a bad idea.

Bailing and Flailing in Fort Langley

Probably the saddest thing you'll ever see is a mosquito sucking on a mummy. Forget it, little friend.
-Jack Handy

People who claim they don't let little things bother them have never slept in a room with a mosquito.
-Anonymous

The flood has been averted and the time of rejoicing has passed. Was it only a month ago when I went down to the swelling river at lunch and stood somberly with concerned and nail biting town folk? We stared at the path that was no longer fit for walking and stood in silence. Even though no one was speaking, it seemed eerily quieter still with the water so near our feet. A block away from the river the stores, post office, and sidewalks were buzzing with speculation over, "how high do you think the water will actually get?", "are you prepared?", and "I heard that we will be evacuated in less than a week!".

The current was strong. It wasn't "safe" to leave the dragon boats in the water, so we portaged the voyageur canoes to and from the boat house twice a week. But we still paddled. I managed to get some of my finer belongings over to my storage locker, and every day I stared out my window at the green field and imagined it submersed in murky, silty, water.

I took pictures of the river on the day it reached its highest level. Since then, it has been slowly receding leaving a patterned baldness where the banks fell victim to erosion and a dirty trail of silt marking the water level which once made us tremble. How soon we forget when another nuisance comes along.

Vancouver might be resting under a cloud of smog during this (dare I say) heatwave, but here in Fort Langley we have a cloud of mosquitoes much like T.S. Eliot's "...yellow [black] fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes...Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains...Curled once about the house, and fell asleep." But I don't believe they DO sleep. I have been sleeping with one eye open and my hand on the fly swatter lately. In fact, there is nothing romantic about this. Checking each other for ticks is likely more fanciful than slapping each other because "you had a mosquito there."

Today at the grocery store, post office, and on the side walk the talk was a-buzz about the bloody-thirsty pests that have invaded our sleepy town: "How about these mosquitoes!", "I heard that it is only going to get worse as the water recedes", "Did you know that vitamin B1 and apple cider vinegar will keep them from biting you?", and "Sorry. Mosquito".

Being the object of one's desire is the finest flattery, and with this warm summer weather some of us are searching for a hot summer romance to sweep us off of our feet. However, being followed by this particular entourage who are trying to get into my pants and suck on my neck was not what I had in mind.

For now, I wonder what will soon (I am really hoping it will be soon) replace this nuisance so that it too is also forgotten?