putting the recess in recession

So far, I've had very little to complain about.

Sure, I'm on a salary freeze but, then again, I still have a salary. I haven't yet put enough space between me and the eight-month unemployment phase of 2007/2008 (*shudder*) that I can't recall a balance preceded by "-" so I'm quite content with my salary, frozen as it is.

Andrew and I have been able to buy a house. Not just any house, but a newly gutted and renovated house in a nice neighbourhood, for $36,000 less than the asking price. Still in our late twenties and not yet married a year...yeah, we're doing OK.

Did I mention our mortgage rate? Maybe I shouldn't. Lusting is a sin.

Overspending is out of fashion, creative money-saving techniques are in. Since last week coworkers of mine ran an impromptu slide-to-Polaroid transfer workshop and Googled how to press flowers. Did I mention the flowers were left over from what we collected together, as an office, to help support CANFAR's "Spring For Life" campaign?

Stores are vying to host the best sales, brown-paper-bagging is hip, bartering is back, political parties are getting back to the basics, international cooperation trumps imperialism, and we're beginning to realize that money doesn't grow on trees, debt is not our friend, and short-term sacrifice can equal long-term gain.

"recession": ORIGIN mid 17th century: from Latin recessio(n-), from recess- ‘gone back’

"I feel like the only thing that will save us, is if something huge that we never thought could be taken away from us, is suddenly gone. I just think it's our time to struggle. This is what will save us from ourselves. Families will dig deeper to connect in ways we have forgotten. We will value work and money in important ways again. We will be quick to help others because we will have known what it means to struggle. We will put focus on our communities to keep them safe and look out for our neighbors that might be reaching their end. We will remember to save. In the end if things get bad enough and the struggle is long, we will take back our country from greed. We have to struggle long enough to get past the mindset that if we just keep spending money everything will be okay again."

- Pacing the Panic Room

animal farm

I was sent this link by my mom, via my brother. Does anyone remember Harry the Horse from Sesame Street? Does anyone else have vivid memories of their mother, doubled over with laughter, half-impersonating Harry trying to talk:

Harcophrophrollackarlophmopol...

I do. Twenty-five years later.

In keeping with the animal theme I must honour the oath I swore to my husband last night to post a conversation we had regarding pets. We've decided to get a puppy since we both love them and, yes, I'm sure it will prove to be baby-training-wheels for us newlyweds. I cringe at the predictability of it all: married, house, puppy... I (notice: not we) also want to get a kitten. I love dogs, but I adore cats.

Andrew: "We'll get a lab puppy, but not an expensive one."
Me: "And a kitten?"
Andrew: "Yes, and a kitten. That won't be expensive. We'll find one on the street or something. They're like...leaves."

Which, sadly, is true. I was on Kijiji the other day, scanning multiple postings for adorable labs going for $400-$900 each. Kittens? $20 O.B.O.

writer's block

There's an inspirational gauge, I'm convinced. I'm feeling pretty sure that every artist, musician, writer and performer can attest to it. At either extremity of this spectrum lies creativity's nemesis, mediocrity.

On one side, you have utterly convinced yourself that your art is far superior to anything else you've seen. Recently, anyway. This illusion is generally accompanied with phrases such as "these days". I myself have been lurking in this camp for a while, sagely droning, "Well, it's not as if writing is even the same these days. Text messaging? Kids don't even understand grammatical structure anymore..." If you can correctly pronounce nuclear, for example, you are elevated to an intellectual state above a national leader. Why, then, write when the audience at large is so simple, so dull, so below your intelligence?

The other end of the spectrum are the days weeks months seasons when all you are aware of is the brilliance of your fellow artists. Being caught up in a brilliant novel, reading a crystalline couplet of poetry, scrolling through a witty blog post, recognizing that even your sixteen year old brother is writing lines such as:

I've know a few roses that are guilty of hurting little children's innocent fingers. Now I've also know little children's fingers are guilty of taking an innocent cookie out of a jar without parents permission. But also, cookies are guilty of making innocent people a few pounds heavier than usual. When do we stop with the innocent chain? Probably never, seeing as we live in a fallen world.

Reading J.D. Salinger will do this to me. Why even attempt writing when there's Salinger?

I'm writing a book. Well, in theory. And that theory lies somewhere between assuming I'm better than everyone else and worrying I'm a lunatic for attempting publication. There. I said it.

irish girls

Sean, I'd say the best one came
from Tupelo, Mississippi
I'll tell you now that grown men cry
and Irish girls are pretty
- The Proclaimers, "Sean"

My maternal great-grandfather was Irish and this, along with many Canadian mutts, gives me the right to claim that I, too, am Irish. Grampa Sam and I shared a love of classic literature (he would read every volume that his nine children would bring home as part of their school curriculum) and wit. He passed away before I was born but I grew up in the Muskoka cottage he built from scratch and have visited the gravesite of his little sister, Ellen (or "Ellie" as she was affectionately dubbed; a name so affectionate, Sam had a habit of accidentally using it for my mother, Lois), in Donegal, Ireland.

Despite being pale, freckled, and predisposed to quarreling, my only personal tie to Ireland was a 10-day visit in 2000. For most of the trip my friends and I camped out at Laurie's house, who was a resident of Newtownards, a suburb ten miles from Belfast. My most vivid memories are of her kitchen and living room as we didn't leave the house for three days due to the infamous Orangemen Parade 'celebrations' that year. Several cars in the neighbourhood were missing when we ventured out of the house on the third day, replaced with blackened pavement and debris.

When nearby relatives of mine heard that I was in the area they offered a tour of Donegal and a meal. Although I forgot to ask them for distinguishable traits (colour of car, stature, age, or any other method of telling them apart from other Irish) I recognized the entire family at the bus depot by their round, snubbed noses. They looked like Uncle Foster's nose. They looked like grandma's nose. They looked like my mom's nose. They looked like my nose. A "ski jump", my father calls it.

Donegal stretches wide, long, windy and seaswept along Ireland's northeast coast, many of its thatched-roofed and whitewashed cottages are still intact. The grass really is greener and the sea, although sun-shiney, looked and felt chilled. Even on that cloudless, midsummer afternoon my cheeks and Irish nose flushed pink in the wind.

Ellie's grave lay in a quiet church plot, a simple stone plaque. Around it grew miniature daisies and sparse, very green Irish grass. I pressed a few daisies in my passport before I left the gravesite.

Since my mother secured her Irish citizenship a few months ago through her grandfather's line (her - real - Irish friends are unimpressed), the possibility of getting my own is one step closer. The only draw would be flaunting rights, a shorter waiting line at customs when I decide to visit again, and perhaps a drink on the house on St. Patrick's Day. I think Sam would wink his approval.

kutiman

I'm sure there's more to this than I musically understand, but I one of the reasons I keep watching these videos is their sense of community. Gender, age, race, class, situation, skill - none of them seem to matter. Kutiman makes a strong case for music being the universal language.

www.thru-you.com

please give us solid ground

I know we dont live here anymore
We bought an old house on the Danforth
She loves me and her body keeps me warm
I'm happy here
But this is where we used to live

- Barenaked Ladies, "Old Apartment"

Last week (my goodness, has it only been a week?), Tuesday, I lay snuggled under our verdant duvet in our deliciously soft queen-sized bed, beside my husband, and sighed.

"Do you remember moving in to this apartment?" I whisper.
"Mm-hm..."
"Remember how nervous we were - after we had mastered living with each other at a resort in Cuba for a week - to start all over again here? How awkward were we?"
Andrew chuckles.
"And now we're professionals."

That was the last night that we slept in our apartment on Annette Street. As my breathing deepened and my logic blended to dreams I could hear the clock in the bathroom marking the seconds as they passed. Tick-tick-tick-tick. I knew I would miss our apartment. It smelled like ours.

In a post I wrote about changes, I quoted Jonathan Eibeschutz: "All pleasures contain an element of sadness". In time, there will be many more posts about our new, butter-yellow house, renovations, paint swatches, interior decorating, celebrations, memories. I know it because it has already, in one week, begun to smell like ours.

And on the first night we slept there, I lay snuggled in our deliciously soft queen-sized bed, beside my husband, who had already put up the the clock in the bathroom. I drifted to sleep while it marked the seconds as they passed.

Tick-tick-tick-tick.

Sing to me a prayer of hope and strength
I will sing to you
As if my chest is glass

As we build, please give us solid ground

When the rain becomes a flood
I believe that we will find
Tree branches to climb
Far, far, far from here

Sing to me a prayer of hope and strength.
I will sing to you
As if my chest is glass.

When the weather settles down
We will search through this mess
Where I believe that we will find
Through things left behind
The place where we began

Sing to me, please sing to me
Always through these times
And we’ll begin again.

- Sleeping at Last, "Sing to Me"

linkalicious!

From previous posts you'll have recognized me as a 24-7 Prayer enthusiast. If anyone is still reading this blog from back in the day you'll even recall a pilgrimage I made to the land of its uprising, here, here, and here, visiting as many points of 24-7 Prayer as I could in a five-week stint. We even hosted a week of 24-7 prayer in Toronto, with a paltry blog to go along with it (soon to be revamped and reborn - stay tuned!).

And, now, I find myself sharing my insights, dreams and vision for 24-7 as part of a national base team (email me!) for Canada. Last week, we had our first national jamboree in Niagara where I met 24-7 crazies, like myself, from B.C., Regina, and Brantford.

Since the days of my wanderings around the U.K. I've discovered many more initiatives that 24-7 is doing worldwide, such as:

• film shorts
• campus ministries
• party town missions lead by flipping amazing people (he's Irish...he must be amazing)
  
• new books
• downtown Boiler Rooms
  

Here's a simple enough definition of the 24-7 Prayer movement from our very own 24-7 Prayer Canada website:

24-7 Prayer Canada is first the invitation to pray.
And out of this prayer comes community.
And out of community we pray.
And out of community and prayer will flow justice and mission.
We celebrate this profound mystery and welcome it with a unified "Amen".

Although, according to the last 24-7 international gathering, they toyed around with the idea of making their new motto:

Just pray.

Amen.