Gratitude makes the journey better and so does kindness

Month: October 2011

Flying Gerbils and What You Can Learn From Them If You’re So Inclined

Ever seen a flying gerbil? Me neither. Except for that mouse I rescued from my cat’s mouth when I was five. Shortly upon rescuing it bit me and the pain made me send it flying, which action was interpreted as permission to gobble by the cat. So technically that was a flying mouse. Today our resident recently rescued gerbil decided to sink her little chomping devices into my right thumb. So lifting her high up in the air and sending her flying happened before rational thinking was reestablished.
“What was that, Mom?” Tony’s curiosity was genuine. He’s never seen a flying gerbil before.
Slight chance too if you own a meek one. Not this one. Her name River Sunlight. The second was Sasha’s suggestion and yes, it sounds new age but as we’re dedicated river rats we figured there’s nothing wrong with that. After hanging onto my thumb for dear life River flew across the living room and landed to a sweet quarter of an hour of gerbil freedom.
I felt bad and forgave her, pain and all because I have a long history of rescuing strays animals and birds and loving them all. It’s not pet-owning per se because these animals were their own masters, you see.
I once sheltered a fallen baby bird until she was old enough to learn to fly, which she did but as much as I hoped she’ll fly back to her world, she most likely did not make it past the resident cat with those wobbly flying skills. I had a dwarf rooster that died in my arms in my parents’ kitchen and was buried next to my hamster and later on my bunny rabbit who grew to be of gargantuan size and became the undisputed owner of my parents’ yard. Maybe that’s why the hedgehog moved on.
Now that you’re almost tempted to say you have an idea of the extent of our critter madness, I’d say don’t run ahead of yourself or you’ll never find out that I had a snail hatching party set up in my room when I was in elementary school. You’d never try escargots if you see how cute they start out in life.
But here’s the rest of the story, present day that is. Recently Sasha was gifted a fox fur by a close friend who knows about his love for wildlife. Fur, wildlife love, a bit of a strange and unorthodox mix, you’d say, but it’s there, the love for all living things. The fur is the closest he’ll come to wild animals for now and is just bridging the worlds. For now. He takes the fox to the beach and people stare. Don’t judge before you ask, I’d say. He sleeps with it and I can’t even frown because I was once allowing my cat to bring her whole litter of newborn kittens in my bed. They were cute and so tiny, what else can I say.
And there’s a growing list of critters we’d like and it goes like this:
– dog (we all agree it would be nice but I have the last word for now and I’m saying not just yet)
– cat (Tony’s request, pending Sasha’s dismissal of his severe cat-triggered asthma)
– gecko (this one eats live crickets and I cannot bend my head around setting the scene for murdering those beloved summer serenaders)
– snake (this particular one only eats dead animals, Sasha said. No, he was not being sarcastic about our flying gerbil nor was he hinting that I would be in charge of providing the meals).
– baby crocodile (this, I swear, I never said yes to, but somehow Sasha believes it’s a done deal)
– hedgehog (yes, that’s me. If I find a rescued one that needs a home you’ll hear about it).
So River has nothing to fear. She’s in good company. And while she’s here she’s teaching us about boundaries. There ain’t no crossing or else. And no pointing fingers (yeah, puns and all intended). Ever seen a flying gerbil? If not, look for one, you’re bound to learn something good.

Honeycombs in Granville Island and A Turquoise Ocean

It’s Friday, another pro-D day (professional development day) and since the boys are staying home I thought we should make it a good day. Coconut pancakes start the day, friends come over to play for a bit and then we head over to the Museum of Anthropology. It’s raining but there is absolutely nothing wrong with any of the rain drops. They fall exactly where they should and each weaves perfect strands of freshness with the crisp air.
There’s totem poles and dug-out canoes, bows, arrows and baskets made by the First Nations people. Pendants, figures. And then more from every corner of the world. We sail over continents summed up in pieces of clothing and jewelry. There’s drawers of artifacts, all covered with glass so Sasha thinks it’s all a big tease, but the wonder of discovering things as we open each drawer is as real as can be. When the boys had enough we head out and stroll through the dripping woods that surround the museum. Forests are most alive when it rains, we hear trees splash their leaves in puddles just like kids splash their feet in every decent puddle they see. There’s a celebration in every rain that embraces the earth and today is no exception.

We drive by the beach and the ocean is a dirty turquoise that stuns. The clouds on the other side of the bay have rolled all the way down the mountain and their mouths are hanging open in astonishment. It must be that turquoise shade.

We’re headed to Granville Island. It’s the day of the honeycomb. You see, Tony has been asking for one for quite a while and there really is no better moment to do such thing than now. The market is busy. As always, I’d say. We stop and ask about the honey place and the man who makes beautiful stencil cards tells us where. He’s jolly and friendly until Sasha wants to feel the cards.  “Oh no, little one, they can’t be touched.” Well, I dare you to be five and not touch a tiny black paper cat that glides up these tiny black steps into an orange house. 3D stencil cards are just not easy to deal with. The man seemed to have had the angles at which the cards are exposed figured out just so. I take the baby octopus and his brother away from temptation and we go and buy a perfectly round, wax-covered honeycomb. We taste some honey and my little insatiable octopus feels the jars. They’re tiny and shaped like honeycombs, the glass hexagons have to be touched. I find it fascinating to see how much children rely on touching to understand the world around. Hot coffee and green olive loaf are part of today’s spoils.  Dusk is licking the wet pavement we leave behind as we slide away from the busy peninsula. Pavarotti’s Nessun Dorma ushers us gently into listening silence. The olive bread is soft with bits of peppercorn in it. The rain has picked up again.

The Problem With Pink

The advertisement flyers did it. The pink cupcakes, the pink cookies, all highly processed made from refined flour and sugar, plus artificial colors, they had the well-known pink ribbon right next to them. Eat that to support breast cancer research? Really? And then the other flyers with cosmetics, pink seat covers and the rubber mats for cars. And plastic stuff, lots of products adorned with the pink ribbon. Well, I am slightly irked. OK, not slightly, but very much so. Some of the very things that have the pink appeal – no pun intended at all – should be avoided in the first place. Cosmetics companies that still use carcinogenic compounds, whether willingly disclosed or not, throw the pink ribbon on their forehead and walk proudly down the street. Plastics, research tells us, we should stay away from if we can help it, because some plastic compounds can affect the endocrine system and increase the risk of cancer. Remember bisphenol A (BPA), we’re still fighting to kick it out and it’s not easy. Buying plastic products to seemingly help fund cancer research is a bit of a cruel joke, I’d say. Test-driving cars and having money donated to breast cancer research for each ride when the very chemicals found in new cars have been shown to increase the risk of cancer, plus the exhaust gases adding insult to the injury, well, you do that math and please let me know if it looks better from your perspective. Because it sure looks gloomy from where I stand. If you think I’m a naysayer just look into how much of what you’re paying for a certain product that comes with a pink ribbon actually goes towards breast cancer research. After all, a good deed should be a good deed through and through not just on the surface. Because you see, if the seat covers are made using plasticizers or flame retardant chemicals which have been linked to cancer, then no pink ribbon in the world should be part of the selling advertisement. Yes, I agree that flame retardants in cars are a must, but removing the pink ribbon would only seem fair. The same goes for those $10 winter mittens, $1 of which will go towards breast cancer research. If cotton that was conventionally grown using pesticides that increase the risk of cancer was used to make the mittens, then part of the purpose is somewhat defeated I’d say. It’s time we care about all that we put out there and many companies do. It’s the air we breathe, the water we drink, the food we eat and all that long list of things that we use on a day to day basis. We can’t have it perfect, but we should strive for clean.

So, the ribbon. A good reminder by all means. Breast cancer is real. Globally, it affects more women than any other type of cancer and is the leading cause of cancer-related deaths among women. Hearing that is scary. Knowing what to do to decrease your risk and lending is a hand to finding a cure, well, that’s empowering. Awareness is crucial and so is the money to support research and spread the word. Should we kick the pink ribbon to the curb? No, not at all. There are walks and runs for breast cancer and there’s pink ribbons all over, there’s great ad campaigns about eating healthy and avoiding things that could increase the risk of cancer, including chemicals in the first place, and then there’s attaching the ribbon to something that makes a positive difference in the life of women. There’s so much you can do. Donate money, give a friend or family member who is dealing with cancer your time and energy, raise awareness in your own way, buy ribbon-adorned products if they are the true thing, but let pink be pink and not just a hue.  After all, October is Breast Cancer Awareness month! So make it real, make it count!

It’s Imitation Shark Fin But Still Not OK

We went to a birthday party yesterday and stopped for sushi on our way home. As much as I like novelty, for sushi I tend to stick to places I know and trust. Hungry kids can make one forget such rules though. A risky move. We’re on West Broadway and between pizza and sushi, the latter wins. In we go. The host asks “Do you want brown rice?”. Yes, we do. “That’s extra.” Healthy food choice vs. money. The taste leaves much to be desired but you never know until you try, right? Waiting for the boys to finish I peruse through the menu book. Farmed salmon on the menu is bad enough. But I almost fall off my chair as I read “Shark fin nigiri.” Oh, the horror. Shark fin? For those who feel like calling it a small issue, well, it’s not and here’s why.  Shark finning is cruel and all but the thing is, the fin belongs to a shark that’s no use to people here because shark meat is just not that tasty. Yes, some people in developing countries eat the whole shark and as long as that’s their source of protein I have no right to say anything against it. But here…A whole different matter. It’s wrong on all levels. And the real kicker is that life as we know it – human life included – really depends on sharks to stay put. You see, sharks are on top of the ocean food chain, as long as we stick to the shores that is. So when we don’t meddle with sharks, they maintain the health of our marine ecosystems and ultimately of our atmosphere by eating species that eat smaller species that feed on plankton. Because plankton absorb up to half of the carbon dioxide we produce by burning fossil fuel. So decimating sharks translates into hurting ourselves. And the future generations. Calling it selfish does barely address the issue. Irresponsible and immature would still not be enough.
“Are you really selling shark fin products?” I ask the hostess on our way out. She paused for a second. “It’s imitation shark fin.” Imitation gets people out of trouble I guess. But why bother? If it’s gelatin and/or starch, just try and make something yummy out of that and sell it as what it is. The imitation version of meat and shark fins is not going to improve anyone’s life. And that’s an entirely different issue but it all comes down to thinking that imitation means processed. The last thing we need. Come to think of it, that imitation shark fin adds to the spiky  issue of disappearing sharks – pun intended – and we got ourselves in a bind.
“Are we going to go there again, Mom?” No, of course not. Tony approves. Later in the evening over pumpkin pie and tea we chat about marine creatures and the wrongness of thinking we have the right to drive them into extinction. Yes, kids can have strong opinions about that and it’s good when they do. To paraphrase the Lorax, unless someone like our kids cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better, it’s not…

Of Purple Magicians, Giant Ice Cream Scoops And Porcelain Ladybugs

It’s Friday. District closure day. No school that is. Unhurried mornings, cuddles peppered with occasional screams for good measure, eating and actually chewing the food, gotta love them. We’re off to Granville Island where Sasha will attend a birthday party. We get there half an hour late and that’s perfect given that Sasha is quite terrified of the mesh-enclosed place with the twisted slide and ball swamp at the bottom. I can’t blame him; I am not a big fan of enclosed spaces like that. Funny how he never described the vast muddy river banks he explores with his brother (until they’re well out of sight) as scary. A matter of taste perhaps.
Tony and I head to the market place after we drop off the little person. “This is like the Diagon Alley from Harry Potter, isn’t it, Mom?” It sure is. Walking through the eclectic mix of food and art vendors is a brand-new experience every time. I’m getting coffee – Hemingway Peaberry is my choice of the day, and no, I am not a coffee connoisseur but fair-trade and organic are a must and after that I’ll take whatever sounds interesting. I am quite sure Hemingway never had this particular kind but I choose to believe otherwise. The purple wizard seems to have appeared from nowhere. How appropriate. Tony stops and his eyes grow big. We’ll be here a while then. “My name is Dave, what’s yours?” Oh, no, he can’t be Dave, he’s the Purple Wizard and that’s that. The tricks win Tony over. He throws me a quick glance and I’ve never seen a bigger question mark in those black eyes ever before. I am a bit too close to the Purple Wizard and I cannot help being an adult. I am looking for the answer to the “How does he do it?” and I soon find it. The red ball is squished in his palm and then with a swift move he puts it away. No one is wiser and voila! there’s only one red fluffy ball left although he clearly stuffed two in his closed hand just a few seconds ago. He’s good. We put money in the grey felt hat and keep on moving.
“But how did the balls disappear, Mom?” Part of me wants to give him the straightforward answer that explains that the balls can be compressed and hidden away in a blink but I choose not to. It’s good to believe in magic. I shrug. “I don’t know, magic!” We buy mango gelato for Tony, this must be the biggest scoop I’ve seen around here. A short and friendly chat later we find out that we can have three flavours in that giant scoop – you can’t find that anywhere – so I mark my Monday calendar to bring the boys back for a three-flavour scoop ice cream treat.
I chat with the Chinese guy who makes and sells cute leather wallets and I tell him about my very special leather bag I bought in Paris 14 years ago. Nope, it’s not a purse. Around the corner I stop and stare. The most beautiful porcelain bowls are perched on small carved wooden shelves and shyly presenting themselves to the passersby. No two ones are the same and the only common denominator is a teeny ladybug on each. The Taiwanese guy behind the counter is as talkative as his present visitors. His name is Joseph. He tells us about how he came upon the ladybug detail, he puts a few small bowls and vases under the light and I see countless more details. I don’t want to know the science behind it, I don’t want the straightforward answer to how does he do it question for now. This is my magic and I want it to last for a while. There is a white vase with black and grey shadows on it and when I hold it under the light I see elephants shuffling their thick legs and long trunks towards some imaginary water hole. Joseph chuckles when I ask him if those are elephants. “It’s what you see, you can see what you want” is his answer, and it is a perfect answer. After 27 years of playing magic with the porcelain he knows. We thank him and get ready to leave. He offers me one of his porcelain ladybug pins. “For good luck.” It’s good to believe in magic.
We stop by the sterling silver jewelry stand. Tony marvels at the gems and the lady and I talk about geodes and she tells me of some gargantuan ones she’s seen, we talk about the best lapis lazuli that is found in Afghanistan, she tells Tony about the big gem trade show in Tucson, and then we talk about skunks and hedgehogs. Her finger tips are black and cracked and I am thorougly fascinated by the jewelry she makes. She invites me to visit her studio in the West End so I can see her work. I will.
We collect Sasha from the party and then fool around in a toy shop. The shelves are overflowing with stuffed animals and I wonder who will buy them all. There’s a Yoda stuffie that must be the ugliest stuffie around. Poor guy.
Time to head home. The morning is scurrying away and we’re letting go of it happy that we enjoyed it to the last ounce of unhurried goodness. Nothing wrong with knowing where you go most days but every now and then it’s good to let things unfold and just enjoy the ride. Tony and I had planned for a chat over coffee and ice cream but somehow we’re both satisfied with having chatted with other folks. There’s always a next time for a chat.
On our way to the car we buy some green olive bread. Sliced.

As Much As A Medium Size Lego Set. A Life, That is

The child in the photo was tiny and she looked sick. Wrapped in cloth, tubes coming out of her nose, some dirty bandages on her right cheek and a thin hand reaching towards the face. The caption said that she may have arrived too late at the German-run hospital in Somalia. The photo was dated Sunday. Today is Monday. Is she still alive? I will never know. Just like I will never know about the other many like her who will not make it.
Life is like that, many say, unfair. Granted. It is. Yet this is something of a different nature. It’s just that we happen to be on the other side of the fence. Lucky draw by all means. We have our own hungry ones, and we have to help them, by all means, but the thought of a child walking with her parents or siblings for hours or days just to get to a camp where there’s maybe some food, well, it’s gut-wrenching and I’ve never used the word before in my writing. It ain’t right at all. Yet stopping just at shaking heads and gently closing our eyes in sorrow will do nothing.
It’s not my built-in guilt when I say gratefulness should fuel the need to help. It’s just that we have it good. Not all of us unfortunately, and I am aware of that, but many do. So doing something about it feels right and necessary. I am not holier than thou at the moment, at any moment, really, but it bugs me. You see, I kept on reading about Somalia and other countries where malnutrition is rampant. With other problems tailing along like hungry hyenas but for now I’ll stick with the first, so I will not the spread your understanding and patience too thin. I came across this site called Project Peanut Butter. One of many trying to help. But not just saying we’re trying, but literally doing it. Someone with a vision and willing to do what it takes to help. He mixed some food that is mostly grown right there on the premises, and made it into a paste that nutritious and can be fed to malnourished kids, bring them back from the steps of death and give them a good boost. And he did that for many kids, saw how they thrive and now can’t stop. For about 25 dollars a life is saved, the website states. Simple as that. 25! That’s the price of a medium-size Lego set. Did it make you shudder? Yeah, I know, I shuddered too. I think most kids here can forgo the above-mentioned set, wouldn’t you say? I am not arguing for taking the bread off our kids’ hands but rather making a difference. Seeing things for what they are. You’ll most likely never hear the “Thank you for saving my life,” but it’s there. You know what the irony is though? Kids or adults who do not have that much bread to begin with are often more likely to lend a hand. It’s been seen time and time again along history. It was Jack London that said “A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.” They say you can’t put a price on human life. Times are a-changin’ I guess… It’s sad that we can, it’s good that we can.

The peanut butter thing is but one of the projects. There’s a lot of remarkable people out there doing remarkable things. People who put their lives on the line, been doing it for years. Many, that is, and if you ask them they’ll say not enough. The life on the line bit is not just a figure of speech, it really isn’t. Dave and Audry Waines of Equip Liberia have saving lives for the last 25 years. Literally. They took food to people, they took drugs and vaccines to them, they dug wells, they showed them how washing hands properly makes a world of difference – you’d think that’s a given, but ask Audry and she’ll tell you otherwise – they took care of moms and babies and they are still not done. No, they don’t go there for visits, they live there and occasionally come for visits here. That’s courage. Stubborn courage all mixed up with strong beliefs for good measure.
There is always a need for money, and there is a need for people to put their heart and time and energy into these projects and of course the cynics among us will say “There is so much need though, it’s hard to know where to start and how can you help everybody anyway.” Well, you cannot, but mother Teresa said “If you cannot feed a hundred, feed one.” That’s a good start, I’d say. It’s like that with everything, you start with one thing and before you know it you’ve done a hundred.

And if giving money for charity is not your thing, a microloan system might be just the thing. You see, the world of the needy has something for every palate and rightfully so.
Throw “microloan” into your Google search engine and you’ll find your way towards helpers like Plan or Kiva.
It’s a big world out there. Beautiful as it is, it is also needy. And painfully quiet most times. Either that or the noise we’re making on this side makes it hard for us to hear. So let’s be quiet for a bit then. See, I told you it’s there…now for the “do it” part.

The Kind Of Snake I’d Like to Be When I’m Not a Mammoth

It’s after school. We’re driving to the big library downtown. In the back, the boys are reading (Tony) and munching on the rest of his lunch sandwich (Sasha). It is one of those picture perfect end-of-September afternoons. The air is still crisp yet at this hour one could say that it was softened into submission by the sun.

We park by the big round building with the appearance of a coliseum that has “Please come in” written all over it. If you haven’t seen this landmark building in Vancouver (and if of course you’re not on the other side of the planet at the moment, not that that would be necessarily be a hindrance, stranger things have happened) you have to make your way there. It’s a good place to be.

There is a piazza, you see, covered and abounding with coffee shops and eateries, and not the fast, pack-an-artery/have-a-sugar-crash-shortly type. People are reading, staring, eating, chillin’… We walk in and go straight to the kids’ section. Sasha’s interest these days revolves around reptiles and prehistoric life. Tony wanders and finds treasures to feed his newly discovered Harry Potter passion.

We then go on an escalator joyride (is where you go up and down just because and then you do it again, despite people staring at you). A by-passer throws me a “You know that can get you all nauseous?”. Nah, I shrug, thinking he should’ve seen the Budapest subway escalator plunging all the way to the centre of the Earth and back up again.

An armful of books later we wade through the river of people and drive back across the bridge to the laid-back life on the other side. Traffic wraps around us like caramel. The boys look through an oversized book of snakes they got from the library.
“If you were a snake what kind of snake would you be, Mom?” There’s not an ounce of jest in Sasha’s voice. He means it. Well, a yellow one, I say. “I’d be a black and red one,” he says. Tony picks black, red, yellow and blue. We talk about camouflage and poisonous snakes. They’re good with being poisonous as snakes. I settle for a mellow corn snake. I think of snakes driving a car and the idea slithers into my head for a future project, pun intended, of course.

“Can we stop at the beach?” Can’t pass by the beach without stopping, and today’s dry sand and sunny skies make it an obligation. We go to the beach. We eat dates and play Cro-Magnon. I’m a mammoth. Tony’s a saber-tooth tiger but he takes too long to succumb to the hands of Cro-Magnon Sasha and the little Cro-Magnon has a fit.

There’s fighting, laughing and crying hanging like little bats onto the boys, there’s tears and screaming, and then, there’s me. Just sitting in the golden-glowing sand of Jericho beach at dusk and thinking that hungry kids and Cro-Magnon games just don’t mix well. We head home to have dinner and bedtime finds us reading more about… well, Cro-Magnons. We look through the snake book because there is this black snake I am told I have to see. Tomorrow I’ll look for the yellow one.

Later on after bedtime hugs and kisses Tony whispers “You’re so precious, Mom.” I am ready to say “Oh, no, you see, I am not perfect…” but I bite my tongue. He did not say that I am perfect, he really did not mean it that way. The way I see it, perfect means fault-free. Well, I’m far from that.

Precious means real and it means loved. Faults and all. I hug him tight and then my teary eyes and I tippy toe out the door. The house is quiet and dark. It’s my quiet writing time, so I make tea and write and I can almost hear my heart sigh a sleepy happy sigh as it cuddles up with two sleepy boys. If I were to paint it using just one color, I would not use perfect but precious. Just like sunlight, the latter has the whole spectrum.

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