Saturday Morning ...
Sunlight streams in the windows. Clouds of mist swirl across the lake and reach up toward the heat. I think this will be a beautiful day despite the weatherman's dire predictions about rain this afternoon.
Last night I dreamed that Anne Marie and I fought off a ferocious beast. She looked as she had the first evening I met her at the tapas bar with Tammy and Carlos ... large, strong, confident ...
Her party was wonderful. I never will get the hang of holding a wine glass, a plate of hors d'oeuvres and a napkin in one hand so that the other is free to shake hands, I am afraid. Anne Marie told Tammy she finally got the manoeuvre perfected and then it was too late to practise it as she became too ill to attend cocktail parties. She, however, would have handled her ineptitude with greater aplomb and self deprecating humour than I can rally in large crowds of strangers.
I did meet (after three glasses of wine) a very nice couple from Lunenburg — Anne Marie's brother and his wife. Up till then, even Tammy, Carlos and I were having difficulty making conversation with each other, none of us comfortable at small talk gatherings. Anne Marie's brother is a musician, and I hope that Kerry, Maurice, Raphael and I can go to hear him perform in Halifax while I am there.
Marilyn Smith is having a show today. I may go if Marta doesn't want to have a bigger adventure.
Tomorrow I get to meet the pair of Shih Tzus that Kenya and I may be babysitting for two weeks in September. I hope they are little dogs with the confidence and ease of big dogs. Kenya is fine with small, quietly confident dogs, but dislikes the yappy aggressive ones. The last one of those we met bit Kenya on the nose. Most just bitch at her, and she bitches back, but her bitchiness sounds much more ferocious than theirs because of the size of her voice, teeth and body.
I am off with my Earl Grey tea to enjoy the sunshine .
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Sunday, 18 May 2008
Thursday, 15 May 2008
A Morning Fresh with Possibility
I feel good this mid-May morning!
Everywhere the trilliums are glistening with dew, the birds are making the woods a noisy busy place, and one of my plants has burst forth with a flower that is all seed pod. A Canada goose is almost drowning out the birdsong with his honking. My day's plan is to continue to transplant day lilies, and get my knees all muddy again. Calvin says that "if your knees aren't green by the end of the day, you ought to seriously re-examine your life."
Yesterday I had my car in for its spring tune-up. It cost $700 but Grant, the local mechanic, told me that it is a solid little car and I should get 300,000 kilometres out of it. It is 10 ½ years old and has just over half that kilometrage, so the Corolla, Kenya and I may all just make it to the end of my ten years here at the lake.
I got the names of qualified roofers from James up in Kaz and will call them today. While I was there I noticed that the baby finger on James' left hand looked just like mine. I asked him about it and discovered that he'd had his set two years ago at the Hull Hospital. I wonder if the orthopaedic surgeons at that hospital think baby fingers looks better that way!
Such terrible things have happened in Africa.
But some of the most heart rending and uplifting stories also originate there.
Yesterday Marie sent me a letter about a young girl, and asked if Layla's Gala money might be able to help her. Layla immediately responded and said that the $1500 raised at the Gala and whatever money is raised at Philemon's fashion show (likely another $400) may be used to help Linda.
I saw a girl today who I think some of the funds for Daisy might help. She is a student at Mukumu Girls High School. When she was in primary school she fell while carrying water and broke her Right lower leg. Her grandmother refused to take her to the hospital -saying she was just trying to get out of going toschool. When she finally did get treatment she had osteomylitis in the leg. She spent four years (yes 4) at Kakamega General Hospital because her family said she was dead and refused to consider taking her home. A Social Worker at the hospital finally helped her go to Daisy to complete her primary education.
She passed well and was taken at Mukumu. She has been taken today as a CHES student (they had extra money)but she has a very badly contracted leg and must use crutches to get around.
Because of the infection in the bone she has a huge open wound on her shin from knee to ankle which must hurt like hell.
Now comes the good part. She is number one in a class of 386. To top it off she is a cheerful smiling girl who helps others by encouraging them when they get down! I would like to send her to Kijabe Hospital near Nairobi - they are a mission hospital specializing in orthopedics and they might be able to help her. They have a staff of doctors from the USA and other countries who come for short periods. They are not that expensive but we have no source of money for this kind of thing. Do you think some of the Daisy money could go for this? I can't think of a more deserving person to spend it on.
Kakamega Hospital is a forbidding grey building with minimal facilities. Outside its gates the coffin makers line the road. It is a place in which to die - a terrible place for a young girl to spend 4 years.
The Daisy Centre is a cheerful boarding school for disabled children and AIDS orphans in Kakamega.
CHES is a Canadian organization which sends very bright poor girls to high school in a couple of places. They have an office in Kakamega and another in Tanzania. They provide all fees, boarding costs, school uniforms and books for the girls. It is not easy to get acceptance by CHES. They are deluged with requests at the beginning of each school year. Only the very best candidates can be accepted and provided with the four years of high school education. If they are successful they are then given ACCES scholarships to continue their education.
Everywhere the trilliums are glistening with dew, the birds are making the woods a noisy busy place, and one of my plants has burst forth with a flower that is all seed pod. A Canada goose is almost drowning out the birdsong with his honking. My day's plan is to continue to transplant day lilies, and get my knees all muddy again. Calvin says that "if your knees aren't green by the end of the day, you ought to seriously re-examine your life."
Yesterday I had my car in for its spring tune-up. It cost $700 but Grant, the local mechanic, told me that it is a solid little car and I should get 300,000 kilometres out of it. It is 10 ½ years old and has just over half that kilometrage, so the Corolla, Kenya and I may all just make it to the end of my ten years here at the lake.
I got the names of qualified roofers from James up in Kaz and will call them today. While I was there I noticed that the baby finger on James' left hand looked just like mine. I asked him about it and discovered that he'd had his set two years ago at the Hull Hospital. I wonder if the orthopaedic surgeons at that hospital think baby fingers looks better that way!
Last night I fell asleep listening to the rain on the tin roof and my bed became Avonlea. I was certainly glad that watching Anne of Green Gables had been a stronger influence than watching The Last King of Scotland. It was much calmer spending the night in Avonlea than it would have been in Idi Amin's Uganda. 300,000 people were slaughtered during his rule. The movie made clear that his political opposition was wiped out, but when I was in Uganda learning to whitewater kayak, my friend Tim told me that he got rid of anyone who was educated because he feared them. Tim lost his school teacher father during that period.
Such terrible things have happened in Africa.
But some of the most heart rending and uplifting stories also originate there.
Yesterday Marie sent me a letter about a young girl, and asked if Layla's Gala money might be able to help her. Layla immediately responded and said that the $1500 raised at the Gala and whatever money is raised at Philemon's fashion show (likely another $400) may be used to help Linda.
I found a Daisy photo of a girl called Linda. I wonder if she is the same Linda.
Here is Marie's letter, and Linda's story:
I saw a girl today who I think some of the funds for Daisy might help. She is a student at Mukumu Girls High School. When she was in primary school she fell while carrying water and broke her Right lower leg. Her grandmother refused to take her to the hospital -saying she was just trying to get out of going toschool. When she finally did get treatment she had osteomylitis in the leg. She spent four years (yes 4) at Kakamega General Hospital because her family said she was dead and refused to consider taking her home. A Social Worker at the hospital finally helped her go to Daisy to complete her primary education.
She passed well and was taken at Mukumu. She has been taken today as a CHES student (they had extra money)but she has a very badly contracted leg and must use crutches to get around.
Because of the infection in the bone she has a huge open wound on her shin from knee to ankle which must hurt like hell.
Now comes the good part. She is number one in a class of 386. To top it off she is a cheerful smiling girl who helps others by encouraging them when they get down! I would like to send her to Kijabe Hospital near Nairobi - they are a mission hospital specializing in orthopedics and they might be able to help her. They have a staff of doctors from the USA and other countries who come for short periods. They are not that expensive but we have no source of money for this kind of thing. Do you think some of the Daisy money could go for this? I can't think of a more deserving person to spend it on.
Just a small endnote:
Kakamega Hospital is a forbidding grey building with minimal facilities. Outside its gates the coffin makers line the road. It is a place in which to die - a terrible place for a young girl to spend 4 years.
The Daisy Centre is a cheerful boarding school for disabled children and AIDS orphans in Kakamega.
CHES is a Canadian organization which sends very bright poor girls to high school in a couple of places. They have an office in Kakamega and another in Tanzania. They provide all fees, boarding costs, school uniforms and books for the girls. It is not easy to get acceptance by CHES. They are deluged with requests at the beginning of each school year. Only the very best candidates can be accepted and provided with the four years of high school education. If they are successful they are then given ACCES scholarships to continue their education.
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Before writing the memoirs ...
Cocoa, Humility and 6 Words:
Last night I couldn't sleep. It was 2 a.m. I made cocoa. I dipped a homemade bun into it and drank it at my computer ... and then lay awake with a belly ache a while longer. When I finally fell asleep I dreamed till morning.
It was a humiliating dream. I was to ride in a dressage contest with children. They all knew what they were doing. I couldn't even find my pony. And what was I supposed to wear? And where were we to perform? And what were the parameters of the display? I caught glimpses of children performing intricate, well choreographed sequences, and felt despair. Even when I was riding every day, I never got that far in dressage. I decided to perform the sequence for the first dressage test I ever rode. Fortunately I woke up before I had to actually perform.
This morning Kerry asked me to write my life in 6 words. That is less than a word per decade. It is very easy to slip into the old habit of dwelling on the ugly childhood, the years before 11 especially. But if I were to use a word per decade or thereabouts, I would have only one word for that first 11 years. How to encapsulate all of that in one word? I will work on this and give you my life in 6 words later.
I will have to fit it in around the daily chores of vaccuuming up sand, scooping poop, walking dogs, and combing fur. And today I have to wash and vaccuum the car as well.
Last night I couldn't sleep. It was 2 a.m. I made cocoa. I dipped a homemade bun into it and drank it at my computer ... and then lay awake with a belly ache a while longer. When I finally fell asleep I dreamed till morning.
It was a humiliating dream. I was to ride in a dressage contest with children. They all knew what they were doing. I couldn't even find my pony. And what was I supposed to wear? And where were we to perform? And what were the parameters of the display? I caught glimpses of children performing intricate, well choreographed sequences, and felt despair. Even when I was riding every day, I never got that far in dressage. I decided to perform the sequence for the first dressage test I ever rode. Fortunately I woke up before I had to actually perform.
This morning Kerry asked me to write my life in 6 words. That is less than a word per decade. It is very easy to slip into the old habit of dwelling on the ugly childhood, the years before 11 especially. But if I were to use a word per decade or thereabouts, I would have only one word for that first 11 years. How to encapsulate all of that in one word? I will work on this and give you my life in 6 words later.
I will have to fit it in around the daily chores of vaccuuming up sand, scooping poop, walking dogs, and combing fur. And today I have to wash and vaccuum the car as well.
Monday, 14 April 2008
The Fragility of Dreams
Dreams are terribly fragile. They shatter easily and their fragments scatter and fly back to their source, making them impossible to gather.
Perhaps a better metaphor would be to imagine those tiny fragments of images and thoughts as fish. If a rock is thrown into their midst they disappear like quicksilver becoming invisible in the water.
There are only two ways to capture dreams on waking, I am finding. I have to write down whatever I remember when I can, preferably during the night when I first wake up from a dream in progress. That is often just too hard to do. The other way is to awaken slowly, letting the fragments find my stillness one by one. Only then can I gather the elusive fragments of the subconscious into the net of my conscious mind. I feel a bit like someone fishing with her hands in a tranquil place. I have to become as still as the water for the fish to trust me enough to swim into them.
This morning, I stretched luxuriously, eyes closed, waiting for the fragments to come to me. Then my left calf cramped sending me shrieking onto the floor. Kenya dashed back to her cushion to avoid being stepped on, any fragments of the dream scattered, and I hobbled to the slate floor of the bathroom to uncramp my leg.
Perhaps a better metaphor would be to imagine those tiny fragments of images and thoughts as fish. If a rock is thrown into their midst they disappear like quicksilver becoming invisible in the water.
There are only two ways to capture dreams on waking, I am finding. I have to write down whatever I remember when I can, preferably during the night when I first wake up from a dream in progress. That is often just too hard to do. The other way is to awaken slowly, letting the fragments find my stillness one by one. Only then can I gather the elusive fragments of the subconscious into the net of my conscious mind. I feel a bit like someone fishing with her hands in a tranquil place. I have to become as still as the water for the fish to trust me enough to swim into them.
This morning, I stretched luxuriously, eyes closed, waiting for the fragments to come to me. Then my left calf cramped sending me shrieking onto the floor. Kenya dashed back to her cushion to avoid being stepped on, any fragments of the dream scattered, and I hobbled to the slate floor of the bathroom to uncramp my leg.
Sunday, 13 April 2008
The Dream Stream Flows Again ...
I had a weird dream last night ... and remembered it with the help of notes that were almost indecipherable this morning.
We were discussing painting the children's rooms, making them more conducive to peaceful contemplation, and quiet pursuits away from the communal space. I felt we all needed quiet pleasant retreats.
We decided to go out for a walk with the dogs to discuss it. Kenya and Shea were two of the three dogs and they were off lead. The conversation moved from ideas about painting walls to creating really attractive getaways on all levels ... and then to his concern that we get good speakers for the stereo system because the ones we had were off balance.
We quickly left the sidewalks of the urban area and found ourselves in rough unfamiliar country. The dogs loved it and my companion/mate forged on ahead with them.
I got to a place where I was climbing what seemed to be a crumbling sand bank. Every time I would get a hand or toe hold, more sand would break away. I was beginning to feel a little frustrated ... not scared ... not defeated ... not resigned to falling down the mountain side ... just frustrated. And then I saw the ladder.
It was just an ordinary wooden ladder, the kind shaped like an upside down V. I managed to unfold it so that it was unhinged, and used it to climb to safety.
A second man appeared during this exercise, and simply watched and then joked with me once I was safely on the top of the hill.
The dream dictionary says that ladders represent trying to "get somewhere that is presently out of reach, difficult to attain, or perhaps involves risks and anxiety" ... and "might show feelings of achievement through effort and daring."
Freud also describes the ladder as a symbol of sexual intercourse, the rungs representing the physical movements of sex and the mounting orgasmic feeling represented by the climb.
Well ... I think the first explanation is the more likely. I was certainly not a sex symbol as I clambered, upside down and inside out, up the crumbling cliff and onto the ladder. I looked more like some scrabbling beached whale with fingers and toes.
The dictionary says that hills and mountains represent "difficulty, obstacles, something needing energy with which to deal with it," and that the struggle to climb means the dreamer is "facing problems and overcoming them with courage and skills."
Oh good. Maybe I am getting somewhere.
Walking " usually depicts personal effort, making your own way at your own pace .... The direction you are walking shows where you are aiming to go in your activities and hopes. The future is represented by where you are going."
That's me ... the hermit ... As for where I am heading ... well at my age you sure don't want to be heading down that mountain, do you?
The laughter afterward is exactly what it appears: " release of tension ... ridicule of self, taking things lightly ...".
So I am still dreaming about moving forward into other things, accomplishing something difficult through my own initiative ... and able to laugh at the situation and myself.
What a nice dream.
Maybe I will end up becoming a sardonic oracle/philosopher on a mountain top to whom cartoon characters bring their questions about life.
We were discussing painting the children's rooms, making them more conducive to peaceful contemplation, and quiet pursuits away from the communal space. I felt we all needed quiet pleasant retreats.
We decided to go out for a walk with the dogs to discuss it. Kenya and Shea were two of the three dogs and they were off lead. The conversation moved from ideas about painting walls to creating really attractive getaways on all levels ... and then to his concern that we get good speakers for the stereo system because the ones we had were off balance.
We quickly left the sidewalks of the urban area and found ourselves in rough unfamiliar country. The dogs loved it and my companion/mate forged on ahead with them.
I got to a place where I was climbing what seemed to be a crumbling sand bank. Every time I would get a hand or toe hold, more sand would break away. I was beginning to feel a little frustrated ... not scared ... not defeated ... not resigned to falling down the mountain side ... just frustrated. And then I saw the ladder.
It was just an ordinary wooden ladder, the kind shaped like an upside down V. I managed to unfold it so that it was unhinged, and used it to climb to safety.
A second man appeared during this exercise, and simply watched and then joked with me once I was safely on the top of the hill.
The dream dictionary says that ladders represent trying to "get somewhere that is presently out of reach, difficult to attain, or perhaps involves risks and anxiety" ... and "might show feelings of achievement through effort and daring."
Freud also describes the ladder as a symbol of sexual intercourse, the rungs representing the physical movements of sex and the mounting orgasmic feeling represented by the climb.
Well ... I think the first explanation is the more likely. I was certainly not a sex symbol as I clambered, upside down and inside out, up the crumbling cliff and onto the ladder. I looked more like some scrabbling beached whale with fingers and toes.
The dictionary says that hills and mountains represent "difficulty, obstacles, something needing energy with which to deal with it," and that the struggle to climb means the dreamer is "facing problems and overcoming them with courage and skills."
Oh good. Maybe I am getting somewhere.
Walking " usually depicts personal effort, making your own way at your own pace .... The direction you are walking shows where you are aiming to go in your activities and hopes. The future is represented by where you are going."
That's me ... the hermit ... As for where I am heading ... well at my age you sure don't want to be heading down that mountain, do you?
The laughter afterward is exactly what it appears: " release of tension ... ridicule of self, taking things lightly ...".
So I am still dreaming about moving forward into other things, accomplishing something difficult through my own initiative ... and able to laugh at the situation and myself.
What a nice dream.
Maybe I will end up becoming a sardonic oracle/philosopher on a mountain top to whom cartoon characters bring their questions about life.
Saturday, 29 March 2008
If Pigs Could Fly
Last night I dreamed about a pig.
This was a dream as weird and real as the one about my dying ... not as crisply imagined but almost as clear.
I had traveled by bicycle and small open car through the streets of a city, weaving in and out of traffic and flirting at intersections with male drivers, until I reached the pub where I was meeting a group of people. The only two I knew were OWS and Kerry.
The entertainment was a cruel dart game in which a trussed pig suspended by a rope against a wall was the target. People threw darts, hitting the pig in the eye, on the nose, piercing its chest.
One man kept interfering with the game and getting in the way, but I don't think he was concerned for the pig; he was simply obstreperous, likely drunk.
One of the darts severed the cord holding the pig aloft and he crashed to the floor.
Kerry uttered the first words of sympathy, concerned that he might have broken his back, but then ameliorated the comment by laughing at the scrapes on his face, comparing him to a kid getting scrapes and bruises playing outdoors.
What am I to make of such a dream??
Did it come to me because I had been defrauded of money and felt hurt like a wounded animal?
If the animal represents the self, do I feel as if I have been trussed and tortured?
Am I trying to kill my essential animal self, the one that is deep within me, stripped of all human restraints?
I felt like an observer in this dream. I felt sympathy for the pig, but I did not feel as if the cruelty were directed toward me.
I dunno, but this little piggy is likely going to have to go to court, and I will have to come to terms with my fear of confrontation and my fear of courtrooms ... both of which are rooted in my childhood. I could never confront my father, and I likely should have. At first I didn't because I feared I would lose his love and it was all I had to sustain me in a world of strangers. Later I couldn't because my father was old and frail. And even then he still held power ... the power of my birthright. My fear of courts came later. It was in a courtroom when I left my first husband that a self-righteous, Catholic, francophone male judge looked down at me from a very high pedestal and publicly denounced me for leaving my husband. I felt intimidated ... and very very small.
I felt then the way I do now ... oh if only pigs could fly ...
This was a dream as weird and real as the one about my dying ... not as crisply imagined but almost as clear.
I had traveled by bicycle and small open car through the streets of a city, weaving in and out of traffic and flirting at intersections with male drivers, until I reached the pub where I was meeting a group of people. The only two I knew were OWS and Kerry.
The entertainment was a cruel dart game in which a trussed pig suspended by a rope against a wall was the target. People threw darts, hitting the pig in the eye, on the nose, piercing its chest.
One man kept interfering with the game and getting in the way, but I don't think he was concerned for the pig; he was simply obstreperous, likely drunk.
One of the darts severed the cord holding the pig aloft and he crashed to the floor.
Kerry uttered the first words of sympathy, concerned that he might have broken his back, but then ameliorated the comment by laughing at the scrapes on his face, comparing him to a kid getting scrapes and bruises playing outdoors.
What am I to make of such a dream??
Did it come to me because I had been defrauded of money and felt hurt like a wounded animal?
If the animal represents the self, do I feel as if I have been trussed and tortured?
Am I trying to kill my essential animal self, the one that is deep within me, stripped of all human restraints?
I felt like an observer in this dream. I felt sympathy for the pig, but I did not feel as if the cruelty were directed toward me.
I dunno, but this little piggy is likely going to have to go to court, and I will have to come to terms with my fear of confrontation and my fear of courtrooms ... both of which are rooted in my childhood. I could never confront my father, and I likely should have. At first I didn't because I feared I would lose his love and it was all I had to sustain me in a world of strangers. Later I couldn't because my father was old and frail. And even then he still held power ... the power of my birthright. My fear of courts came later. It was in a courtroom when I left my first husband that a self-righteous, Catholic, francophone male judge looked down at me from a very high pedestal and publicly denounced me for leaving my husband. I felt intimidated ... and very very small.
I felt then the way I do now ... oh if only pigs could fly ...
Friday, 28 March 2008
Alarm Bells
My house requires adaptations of lifestyle that take some getting used to. Some also require that you live alone or with people you know very well.
For example, the holding tank has to be pumped when full at a cost of about $400 for a 1500 gallon tank. Each flush puts 1 1/2 gallons in the tank. That means you can flush the toilets 1000 times before you need to have it pumped. It costs about 40 cents a flush.
Because the OOPS truck can't get in here in winter, I had to get a second tank installed. When the first tank is 2/3 full, an alarm goes off, and then you flip a switch so that the contents of the first tank are pumped up to the second tank. That means that I can get 3000 gallons or 2000 flushes pumped for about $700. (That reduces the cost per flush to 35 cents a flush ... but the installation of the second tank cost $7000 so the net gain is really a net loss.
By flushing as little as humanly possible without resorting to using an outdoor privy I have managed to fill the first tank in just under seven months. The first time I filled the 1500 gallon tank in five months so I think this is pretty impressive.
For the past two months I have been waiting for the alarm to sound. It finally did so last night ... at 11:00 p.m. ... just as I was about to fall into bed.
I went downstairs, turned off the noise that was driving Kenya nuts, flipped the switch and waited for half an hour till the pump had done its job.
Then I went to bed with visions of alarm bells, holding tanks, dollar signs, and honey wagons in my head.
Thank heavens I didn't dream of them. Instead the dream fairy brought me these dreams about a birthday party and a return to the classroom.
The Centarian's Birthday ...
snoozing and snoring
snorting and sneezing
smooching and schmoozing
salivating and smacking lips
but mostly snoozing and snoring
Teaching Grade Six ...
"Grade 6 students need positive self images," Kerry pronounced.
I ended up trying to teach them their times tables by giving them teddy bears to help them remember as they drilled themselves and each other. My classroom's every surface, corner and secret hideaway spot was occupied by a teddy bear with a name tag on its foot. The kids went to these places alone or with a friend whenever they had a spare moment. There they memorized by rote, or did additions aloud, on paper, or in sand with the teddy bear as a mute encouraging mentor.
Certainly more pleasant than dreams of septic systems!
For example, the holding tank has to be pumped when full at a cost of about $400 for a 1500 gallon tank. Each flush puts 1 1/2 gallons in the tank. That means you can flush the toilets 1000 times before you need to have it pumped. It costs about 40 cents a flush.
Because the OOPS truck can't get in here in winter, I had to get a second tank installed. When the first tank is 2/3 full, an alarm goes off, and then you flip a switch so that the contents of the first tank are pumped up to the second tank. That means that I can get 3000 gallons or 2000 flushes pumped for about $700. (That reduces the cost per flush to 35 cents a flush ... but the installation of the second tank cost $7000 so the net gain is really a net loss.
By flushing as little as humanly possible without resorting to using an outdoor privy I have managed to fill the first tank in just under seven months. The first time I filled the 1500 gallon tank in five months so I think this is pretty impressive.
For the past two months I have been waiting for the alarm to sound. It finally did so last night ... at 11:00 p.m. ... just as I was about to fall into bed.
I went downstairs, turned off the noise that was driving Kenya nuts, flipped the switch and waited for half an hour till the pump had done its job.
Then I went to bed with visions of alarm bells, holding tanks, dollar signs, and honey wagons in my head.
Thank heavens I didn't dream of them. Instead the dream fairy brought me these dreams about a birthday party and a return to the classroom.
The Centarian's Birthday ...
snoozing and snoring
snorting and sneezing
smooching and schmoozing
salivating and smacking lips
but mostly snoozing and snoring
Teaching Grade Six ...
"Grade 6 students need positive self images," Kerry pronounced.
I ended up trying to teach them their times tables by giving them teddy bears to help them remember as they drilled themselves and each other. My classroom's every surface, corner and secret hideaway spot was occupied by a teddy bear with a name tag on its foot. The kids went to these places alone or with a friend whenever they had a spare moment. There they memorized by rote, or did additions aloud, on paper, or in sand with the teddy bear as a mute encouraging mentor.
Certainly more pleasant than dreams of septic systems!
Thursday, 27 March 2008
Dream a little dream of me ...
I keep on dreaming ... and remembering the dreams.
I am fascinated by this phenomenon because I have always been interested on a superficial level by Jung's and Northrop Frye's archetypes which emerge and recur in dreams and literature.
All my recent dreams, according to the dream interpreters seem to be about moving forward in life ... taking a new direction ... facing the future with optimism.
First there was the dream in which I died which signified I was getting ready for a radically new direction in life.
Then a couple of nights ago, I dreamed about traveling in Mongolia with people who had nothing in common with me and didn't approve of me ... and I moved without them through the rain toward my goal of finding Mongolians.
Travel is a common dream theme, the journey representing life. The interpreters suggest you look at your companions, your destinations, and the difficulties involved in reaching your goals metaphorically.
Just last night I dreamed that Sarah and Dan had had their baby. He was now a toddler who reminded me of Remi. He climbed up on my bed and then got into everything and had to be watched all the time so that he wouldn't hurt himself. He had a penchant for electrical plugs.
"Babies tend to link with new circumstances and new feelings. They symbolise some fresh new mood of optimism. They can represent a new project or opportunity. They may simply represent something that is 'new' in your life."
A boy baby is also linked to "birth or emergence of a new phase of self expression in terms of activity or achievement."
The fact that this baby was curious and a risk taker might also mean that I am still at that level of development ... rather nice if it is true ... but perhaps also a warning.
Rachel Carson wrote in The Sense of Wonder: "If I had the influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantment of later years, sterile preoccupations with things that are artificial, the alienation from the sources of our strength."
I think this gift may have come to me late, but better late than never at all.
I am fascinated by this phenomenon because I have always been interested on a superficial level by Jung's and Northrop Frye's archetypes which emerge and recur in dreams and literature.
All my recent dreams, according to the dream interpreters seem to be about moving forward in life ... taking a new direction ... facing the future with optimism.
First there was the dream in which I died which signified I was getting ready for a radically new direction in life.
Then a couple of nights ago, I dreamed about traveling in Mongolia with people who had nothing in common with me and didn't approve of me ... and I moved without them through the rain toward my goal of finding Mongolians.
Travel is a common dream theme, the journey representing life. The interpreters suggest you look at your companions, your destinations, and the difficulties involved in reaching your goals metaphorically.
Just last night I dreamed that Sarah and Dan had had their baby. He was now a toddler who reminded me of Remi. He climbed up on my bed and then got into everything and had to be watched all the time so that he wouldn't hurt himself. He had a penchant for electrical plugs.
"Babies tend to link with new circumstances and new feelings. They symbolise some fresh new mood of optimism. They can represent a new project or opportunity. They may simply represent something that is 'new' in your life."
A boy baby is also linked to "birth or emergence of a new phase of self expression in terms of activity or achievement."
The fact that this baby was curious and a risk taker might also mean that I am still at that level of development ... rather nice if it is true ... but perhaps also a warning.
Rachel Carson wrote in The Sense of Wonder: "If I had the influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantment of later years, sterile preoccupations with things that are artificial, the alienation from the sources of our strength."
I think this gift may have come to me late, but better late than never at all.
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
A Second Sign
I never remember my dreams, but before retiring last night, I pulled out my old dream journal (almost empty) and last night I remembered my dreams.
The first was the most memorable. It unfolded without fuss and with utter clarity until it woke me. I was dying in the calmest, most matter of fact, way imaginable. I was accompanied by a friend experienced in death and there was no fear whatsoever. I was simply moving from one state to the next and he reassured me as I moved through it.
This morning I looked up dream interpretation on-line and was told that dreams in which the dreamer dies signify important change in the dreamer's life.
"Death is a structural transformation of the being - during the Ego development process we often undergo successive symbolic deaths and re-births: something of us is dying and another thing is emerging. "
"These types of dreams can also symbolize confronting fear ..."
Today I will send the registered letter to try to recoup the money stolen from me. So perhaps part of the change in my life will be changing myself so that I can begin to face challenges instead of running away from them.
Our lives don't change until we do, and perhaps that is what this second sign is telling me.
The first was the most memorable. It unfolded without fuss and with utter clarity until it woke me. I was dying in the calmest, most matter of fact, way imaginable. I was accompanied by a friend experienced in death and there was no fear whatsoever. I was simply moving from one state to the next and he reassured me as I moved through it.
This morning I looked up dream interpretation on-line and was told that dreams in which the dreamer dies signify important change in the dreamer's life.
"Death is a structural transformation of the being - during the Ego development process we often undergo successive symbolic deaths and re-births: something of us is dying and another thing is emerging. "
"These types of dreams can also symbolize confronting fear ..."
Today I will send the registered letter to try to recoup the money stolen from me. So perhaps part of the change in my life will be changing myself so that I can begin to face challenges instead of running away from them.
Our lives don't change until we do, and perhaps that is what this second sign is telling me.
Sunday, 24 February 2008
A Dog's Breakfast
I was rudely awakened at 3 a.m. by Havoc.
Now Havoc is often rude. He gulps and slobbers. I usually feel as if I am feeding a machine gun not a dog. The food sprays rat-a-tat-tat a distance of three feet as he eats. He slurps as he performs his personal toilet or grooms Kenya. He drools and leaves gobs of thick snot-like mucous on Kenya's coat when they play. He is a beautiful dog, but he has one of those unfortunate loose-jowled mouths that drool incessantly.
But this rude noise was different.
The second he leapt off the bed and began to retch loudly, I was fully awake. "Not on the carpet." He went into the hall and sought the wood floor. Then he moved to the den and found the only surface in the house that is really easy to clean: the hard plastic pad on which my desk and chair rest.
The retching continued spasmodically until he deposited on the plastic, a lump as large as two of my fists. It was impressive. It was the tuggy toy he'd been playing with yesterday. It was Tom Strike's construction glove.
Kenya went downstairs during this drama and slept in her crate.
I stroked Havoc's back as I would have a vomiting child's, cleaned up the mess, washed my hands, and we went back to bed.
And then I fell into one of those wonderful deep sleeps for four hours. I even dreamed ... and remembered it.
The dream was about my ex husband who has been dead for several years now. It took place in the present but he was still the man in the past. He wanted to manipulate our son (now in his late thirties) into heterosexuality by renting a motel room for the summer on a dirt road, and hiring a fourteen year old girl to keep house for him. Our son's partner was not invited to be part of this bucolic idyll.
At their request, I went out to see the set-up. In the course of the visit, my ex pretended to search me for weapons (yes I know it doesn't make sense ... dreams don't) and he clawed me through my jeans from crotch to ankles. It was meant to hurt, and I was bruised, the way I am when Havoc uses his claws to make a point.
I remembered fear but no longer feared him.
When I woke up this morning I thought of the piece my friend, Linda, an artist, gave me a few years ago. It is a woman with her mouth opened wide roaring into the face of the bear that had terrorized her in recurring nightmares. She had finally become the stronger of the two.
Now Havoc is often rude. He gulps and slobbers. I usually feel as if I am feeding a machine gun not a dog. The food sprays rat-a-tat-tat a distance of three feet as he eats. He slurps as he performs his personal toilet or grooms Kenya. He drools and leaves gobs of thick snot-like mucous on Kenya's coat when they play. He is a beautiful dog, but he has one of those unfortunate loose-jowled mouths that drool incessantly.
But this rude noise was different.
The second he leapt off the bed and began to retch loudly, I was fully awake. "Not on the carpet." He went into the hall and sought the wood floor. Then he moved to the den and found the only surface in the house that is really easy to clean: the hard plastic pad on which my desk and chair rest.
The retching continued spasmodically until he deposited on the plastic, a lump as large as two of my fists. It was impressive. It was the tuggy toy he'd been playing with yesterday. It was Tom Strike's construction glove.
Kenya went downstairs during this drama and slept in her crate.
I stroked Havoc's back as I would have a vomiting child's, cleaned up the mess, washed my hands, and we went back to bed.
...............................
And then I fell into one of those wonderful deep sleeps for four hours. I even dreamed ... and remembered it.
..................................
The dream was about my ex husband who has been dead for several years now. It took place in the present but he was still the man in the past. He wanted to manipulate our son (now in his late thirties) into heterosexuality by renting a motel room for the summer on a dirt road, and hiring a fourteen year old girl to keep house for him. Our son's partner was not invited to be part of this bucolic idyll.
At their request, I went out to see the set-up. In the course of the visit, my ex pretended to search me for weapons (yes I know it doesn't make sense ... dreams don't) and he clawed me through my jeans from crotch to ankles. It was meant to hurt, and I was bruised, the way I am when Havoc uses his claws to make a point.
I remembered fear but no longer feared him.
When I woke up this morning I thought of the piece my friend, Linda, an artist, gave me a few years ago. It is a woman with her mouth opened wide roaring into the face of the bear that had terrorized her in recurring nightmares. She had finally become the stronger of the two.
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