This past week, at a non-partisan celebration in Quebec, staffers of the party currently in power in Canada hustled media from the room following the Prime Minister's speech and just as a leader from a popular opposition party was taking the stage.
Some people in Canada are celebrating this move as triumph for their party.
I have noticed that, regardless of the party in power, many voices express support for such "winner" moves, or bemoan these same moves as anti-democratic if the other party plays the "winning" hand.
I have to say, I can see why democracy failed the first time it was implemented (ancient Rome, if I am not mistaken). I can also see why our societies are bound and determined to fall into chaos if this type of attitude prevails. Are people truly this stupid?
These types of maneuvers, currently happening across the developed world, remind me of things that are commonplace in third world dictatorships and pseudo-democracies. Is this the future for our own children? Or do we insist on something better?
Democracy is only going to work if the wealthiest people pay a portion of the taxes, rather than amassing all of the wealth. Democracy will only work if the poorest of the poor learn to vote in their own interest. Democracy will only work if we have an open, free and unfettered media, not one owned by the wealthiest or those who follow a very strict dogma based upon economic theory alone.
March 6, 2011
March 5, 2011
Practice
What does practice mean?
I have been thinking a lot about practice this year, especially as last year I was involved in a choir and took private voice lessons. I gave it all up this past September because I wasn't putting in the practice time required to be prepared each week.
To be fair to myself, being the mom of three smallish children is work enough. Add to that a major renovation of half of our aged, in places literally crumbling, house; a critically ill parent; and a general penchant for disorder, and any time allotted to practice falls way, way down the priorities list.
To further hinder any possibility I would practice, I do not have a great track record for being disciplined. I was not encouraged to practice in any positive way in my formative years, by parents or teachers. To let them (only partway) off the hook, I'm pretty sure they had no idea of how to motivate a child to practice, or why, if said child (um, me) was not a natural worker bee.
When I was in plays, I was never prepared for rehearsals like others were, with my lines memorised or my character's traits flushed out. My piano teacher harangued me, week after week, with the same lament: "I could have taped myself talking to you last week and played it back to you this week. You haven't worked on a single thing." School teachers too bemoaned my wasted talents, for complete lack of my trying.
Well today I don't have the luxury of repeating the mistakes on my children that my parents did with me. I am better equipped with knowledge of the hows and the whys of practice. I will not tolerate my daughters' (and eventually my son's) reluctance to put in the time if they want to learn an instrument. And they do.
What I now know to be true is this: As painful as practicing something over and over and over again is, it brings a person a confidence I never knew as a youngster or young adult, an authenticity in the finished product. I know this from practicing (when I can or choose to) and from solid research I have invested into the subject.
The trick with children is how to motivate and teach them to practice in a way that brings meaning into the thing that they are learning. Whether it is studying or completing homework, which I believe is a form of practice, or learning an instrument, or manners for that matter, helping a person to develop meaningful practice habits is tricky. To be blunt, it requires a whole lot of time and discipline on the part of the adult or mentor. It also requires creativity. A whole lot of creativity ... oh, and patience -- oh my, the patience! And diligence. An ability to bite the tongue! A thick skin! And did I mention ... patience?!
Okay. I'm killing that one. Moving on.
What I also know about practice is this: All of life is about The Practice. Learn to practice something, anything, and life grows infinitely more livable. And enjoyable, with a huge emphasis on JOY.
But that, my friends, is a post for another day.
I have been thinking a lot about practice this year, especially as last year I was involved in a choir and took private voice lessons. I gave it all up this past September because I wasn't putting in the practice time required to be prepared each week.
To be fair to myself, being the mom of three smallish children is work enough. Add to that a major renovation of half of our aged, in places literally crumbling, house; a critically ill parent; and a general penchant for disorder, and any time allotted to practice falls way, way down the priorities list.
To further hinder any possibility I would practice, I do not have a great track record for being disciplined. I was not encouraged to practice in any positive way in my formative years, by parents or teachers. To let them (only partway) off the hook, I'm pretty sure they had no idea of how to motivate a child to practice, or why, if said child (um, me) was not a natural worker bee.
When I was in plays, I was never prepared for rehearsals like others were, with my lines memorised or my character's traits flushed out. My piano teacher harangued me, week after week, with the same lament: "I could have taped myself talking to you last week and played it back to you this week. You haven't worked on a single thing." School teachers too bemoaned my wasted talents, for complete lack of my trying.
Well today I don't have the luxury of repeating the mistakes on my children that my parents did with me. I am better equipped with knowledge of the hows and the whys of practice. I will not tolerate my daughters' (and eventually my son's) reluctance to put in the time if they want to learn an instrument. And they do.
What I now know to be true is this: As painful as practicing something over and over and over again is, it brings a person a confidence I never knew as a youngster or young adult, an authenticity in the finished product. I know this from practicing (when I can or choose to) and from solid research I have invested into the subject.
The trick with children is how to motivate and teach them to practice in a way that brings meaning into the thing that they are learning. Whether it is studying or completing homework, which I believe is a form of practice, or learning an instrument, or manners for that matter, helping a person to develop meaningful practice habits is tricky. To be blunt, it requires a whole lot of time and discipline on the part of the adult or mentor. It also requires creativity. A whole lot of creativity ... oh, and patience -- oh my, the patience! And diligence. An ability to bite the tongue! A thick skin! And did I mention ... patience?!
Okay. I'm killing that one. Moving on.
What I also know about practice is this: All of life is about The Practice. Learn to practice something, anything, and life grows infinitely more livable. And enjoyable, with a huge emphasis on JOY.
But that, my friends, is a post for another day.
February 28, 2011
Empathy ...
I have just read a terrific explanation of Empathy.
I know I am a reasonably empathetic individual. I had some troubles earlier in my life which gave me a good solid foundation. I come from a family that leans toward the arts, although the sciences are not ignored. And I read a lot. Okay, constantly.
The thing is, many of my less sensitive friends will say/ask me, they don't care/why should they care ... But I'm pretty sure they already do. And here is how I will explain it to them the next time they ask:
http://www.bandbacktogether.com/how-do-you-feel
Beauty, eh?!
I know I am a reasonably empathetic individual. I had some troubles earlier in my life which gave me a good solid foundation. I come from a family that leans toward the arts, although the sciences are not ignored. And I read a lot. Okay, constantly.
The thing is, many of my less sensitive friends will say/ask me, they don't care/why should they care ... But I'm pretty sure they already do. And here is how I will explain it to them the next time they ask:
http://www.bandbacktogether.com/how-do-you-feel
Beauty, eh?!
February 21, 2011
The Plan B
In my late teens and early 20s I worked very hard to change my life. I had been a pretty miserable kid, caught between warring parents, angry grandparents, teachers who were irritated by a bored and academically advanced kid and, later, a pissed off and turned off teen. I attracted the attention of the bullies, hung out on the fringes of the different cliques, and eventually made friends with a few beautiful misfits who needed a chubby, insecure side-kick with whom to go out on the town.
The few boyfriends I did manage to land didn't last long. I always ended things clumsily within weeks of accepting invitations to "go around". As soon as they became too familiar to me I became nauseous at the sight of each of them.
The only boy who I didn't reject of course, of course, rejected me. Regularly.
We were perfectly matched. He hated his father, and I mine. For very different reasons, I thought at the time, but as it turned out the reasons were pretty much the same. I just couldn't see it.
We never talked. Seriously. We could exchange smoldering looks from across a bar, and when we danced he made me weak in the knees. But I can count the conversations we had over the course of our relationship (years) on a single hand. He dumped me often and hard, and always the same way. By disappearing.
God, how I loved him.
After him, and in between him, I compared every man I met or dated with him. They had his lips, or spoke with his cadence. They bounced when they walked, just like he did.
Years later, and even after I'd ended things forever and married someone else, I confessed an ongoing problem to a friend: When things got rough with my husband, and at the time they were tenuous at best, I would imagine what it would be like to see this guy again.
I was pretty sure that we had known each other in past lives, and that he would be a carry over into my next. Kindred spirits of a sort that couldn't work things out and were doomed to forever enter each others' lives until we got it right.
When I thought about how things would be good, that we would be a perfect fit like an old pair of perfect Fluevogs, she laughed.
Oh, she said, Michael calls that your Plan B.
Her partner had this theory that everyone has a secret Plan B. Someone they had broken up with who would swoop in and make everything that wasn't okay better. Regardless of how they had behaved in the past, doomed relationship, the Plan B would be way better than the current beau. Way, way better.
Of course, reality is much less enticing. My Plan B had a pretty harsh drug habit. He always insinuated I might be cheating; that couldn't be further from the truth. The chances of him changing were ... slim. Okay ... none.
My friend and her boyfriend had a good point, and I abandoned my Plan B and concentrated on my good, solid Plan A. Imperfect, for certain. He was unsure about us, too. But he was the first man I dated that didn't remind me of Plan B and I was pretty sure we retained the potential to make a good life with each other, regardless of our struggles. I persevered all the way through his grad school year, with us apart and his living the college life. It included a semester overseas -- Paris in springtime of all places -- for which I joined him.
He persevered too, we talked a lot, and together we survived. Paris most definitely helped.
I FB emailed my no-longer-Plan-B last year, because he was out there and connected to so many of my friends and I hated the thought of being surprised.
He replied, Karen who?
To which I replied, Ah. That is so you, my love. And left it at that.
The few boyfriends I did manage to land didn't last long. I always ended things clumsily within weeks of accepting invitations to "go around". As soon as they became too familiar to me I became nauseous at the sight of each of them.
The only boy who I didn't reject of course, of course, rejected me. Regularly.
We were perfectly matched. He hated his father, and I mine. For very different reasons, I thought at the time, but as it turned out the reasons were pretty much the same. I just couldn't see it.
We never talked. Seriously. We could exchange smoldering looks from across a bar, and when we danced he made me weak in the knees. But I can count the conversations we had over the course of our relationship (years) on a single hand. He dumped me often and hard, and always the same way. By disappearing.
God, how I loved him.
After him, and in between him, I compared every man I met or dated with him. They had his lips, or spoke with his cadence. They bounced when they walked, just like he did.
Years later, and even after I'd ended things forever and married someone else, I confessed an ongoing problem to a friend: When things got rough with my husband, and at the time they were tenuous at best, I would imagine what it would be like to see this guy again.
I was pretty sure that we had known each other in past lives, and that he would be a carry over into my next. Kindred spirits of a sort that couldn't work things out and were doomed to forever enter each others' lives until we got it right.
When I thought about how things would be good, that we would be a perfect fit like an old pair of perfect Fluevogs, she laughed.
Oh, she said, Michael calls that your Plan B.
Her partner had this theory that everyone has a secret Plan B. Someone they had broken up with who would swoop in and make everything that wasn't okay better. Regardless of how they had behaved in the past, doomed relationship, the Plan B would be way better than the current beau. Way, way better.
Of course, reality is much less enticing. My Plan B had a pretty harsh drug habit. He always insinuated I might be cheating; that couldn't be further from the truth. The chances of him changing were ... slim. Okay ... none.
My friend and her boyfriend had a good point, and I abandoned my Plan B and concentrated on my good, solid Plan A. Imperfect, for certain. He was unsure about us, too. But he was the first man I dated that didn't remind me of Plan B and I was pretty sure we retained the potential to make a good life with each other, regardless of our struggles. I persevered all the way through his grad school year, with us apart and his living the college life. It included a semester overseas -- Paris in springtime of all places -- for which I joined him.
He persevered too, we talked a lot, and together we survived. Paris most definitely helped.
I FB emailed my no-longer-Plan-B last year, because he was out there and connected to so many of my friends and I hated the thought of being surprised.
He replied, Karen who?
To which I replied, Ah. That is so you, my love. And left it at that.
February 20, 2011
February 14, 2011
Of magical thinking ...
When I was in my teens, maybe 15 or 16, I don't remember, I knowingly taught myself to be bulimic. Not because I was overweight (I was, but I was somewhat reverse dysmorphic, er ... a term I'm officially coining to say that I didn't have an accurate view of my body and did not loathe it).
Nope.
I taught myself bulimia because every eating disordered character in every story I (obsessively) read wound up getting the attention they needed, talking to terrific counselors who listened and gave them comfort, having their parents pull together and stop acting like self-centred jerks. As an added bonus, the characters' boyfriends stopped acting like sex-crazed maniacs and more like, well, in retrospect, girlfriends.
Perfect! I thought with a brain that was obviously addled. That's my plan.
So after dinner, when the spirit moved me, I disappeared. Sometimes to my parents' en suite bathroom, with the transistor radio turned high. But more often out the back of our garden, behind the hedge of evergreens, to toss up whatever I could of my dinner.
From early on, this activity left me with mixed feelings. I was amused that the evidence was gone before morning, and totally weirded out that my dog was likely concealing it, if you know what I mean ...
I felt guilty, because, hello? It was kind of gross.
But moreover, I liked it. I didn't know why, but I did. It wasn't like it did much for my weight, that continued to yo-yo like crazy.
Was it control? I certainly didn't feel like I had that anywhere else in my life ... but bulimic behaviours soon became the norm, so any feeling that I controlled something was short lived.
There was something, though. I felt ... relieved. I felt momentarily unburdened of the angst, pressure and sadness that had always existed for me. And I was pretty sure I could eat ... well ... anything.
Nope.
I taught myself bulimia because every eating disordered character in every story I (obsessively) read wound up getting the attention they needed, talking to terrific counselors who listened and gave them comfort, having their parents pull together and stop acting like self-centred jerks. As an added bonus, the characters' boyfriends stopped acting like sex-crazed maniacs and more like, well, in retrospect, girlfriends.
Perfect! I thought with a brain that was obviously addled. That's my plan.
So after dinner, when the spirit moved me, I disappeared. Sometimes to my parents' en suite bathroom, with the transistor radio turned high. But more often out the back of our garden, behind the hedge of evergreens, to toss up whatever I could of my dinner.
From early on, this activity left me with mixed feelings. I was amused that the evidence was gone before morning, and totally weirded out that my dog was likely concealing it, if you know what I mean ...
I felt guilty, because, hello? It was kind of gross.
But moreover, I liked it. I didn't know why, but I did. It wasn't like it did much for my weight, that continued to yo-yo like crazy.
Was it control? I certainly didn't feel like I had that anywhere else in my life ... but bulimic behaviours soon became the norm, so any feeling that I controlled something was short lived.
There was something, though. I felt ... relieved. I felt momentarily unburdened of the angst, pressure and sadness that had always existed for me. And I was pretty sure I could eat ... well ... anything.
February 10, 2011
In other news ...
Just discovered that my freezer full of berries has been w/o electricity for a week ... ah, renos, how I love the chaos you bring an already chaotic existence.
Bright side: friend took my son for 2 hours so I could clean up without distraction. I might even manage a nap. Plugging in the fridge in the garage if anything is salvageable and planning marathon canning session this weekend ...
Other bright side: booked into hotel (Living Social deal I bought last fall) with family for Sunday and Monday nights. My guy has a meeting on Vancouver Island, so ferry costs also covered.
There are always bright sides. Somewhere on the earth, even under the clouds (which I love) the sun shines on. My crazy life continues to be pretty awesome. Could use some sleep, though.
Bright side: friend took my son for 2 hours so I could clean up without distraction. I might even manage a nap. Plugging in the fridge in the garage if anything is salvageable and planning marathon canning session this weekend ...
Other bright side: booked into hotel (Living Social deal I bought last fall) with family for Sunday and Monday nights. My guy has a meeting on Vancouver Island, so ferry costs also covered.
There are always bright sides. Somewhere on the earth, even under the clouds (which I love) the sun shines on. My crazy life continues to be pretty awesome. Could use some sleep, though.
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