Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Author: Daniela Ginta Page 80 of 99

My path is a winding one. I write, I raise my sons, I love and I live.
Waking up to a new adventure every day. I have all that I need at every moment.

A Reminder. Or What I Sound Like When Death Comes Too Close. Again.

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On April 17, 2012

Today’s post was supposed to be of a different flavor. But our house mouse died. Suddenly. I watched her die. Held her for a bit as I carried her to her paper fluff filled abode. The way she liked it. She died in there. It was sad, being so close to death even in gerbil size is terrifying. You forget that sharp sensation soon and move on, some will say, but it’s a sharp one. Watching death overcome life. Shiver. I know, death is part of life, I tell myself that too so often. I’ve been around death since I was six. You never get used to it. You hate it and stomp your feet in anger, squeeze your fists until the nails dig deep into your palms because you’re not allowed to cry – don’t ask, another story – then you give up hating it because what’s the point, there’s no coming back from where they went. As a kid, you simply hate death because it takes away grandparents you love so much. Then still a kid, you witness the toothless monster gobble up your pets too in a conspiracy to leave you exposed to emptiness. So you hate it again and then you move on.

I am not sure if I’ll ever make peace with death. I know I’m supposed to “get it” by now. The big circle of life, we could not have life if we didn’t have death, we’re all gonna end up there, blah blah blah. It scares me still. It saddens and angers me and when I grow up, if I ever do that, I will still love life infinitely much more and still sit on a mountain top up high and not let one death thought bother me.Not defeated, not mature about it either.

But as I’m thinking about my formerly alive mouse I can say that whether I grow up or not, the conclusion is but one. You know it as well as I do. And I stomp my feet in anger still. Will I ever “get it”?

PS: The reason I can’t look at River is not because I was too attached to that cute little mouse. I was, but that’s not it. It’s because of how death cruelly attached to me and my life lately through my mom’s passing and that is still an open wound.

 

My Mom Said So

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On April 12, 2012

My mom was right. She often told me the story of how I started to walk. It happened when I was ten months old. Eager to try the two leg locomotion thing, yet not willing to accept help. I kept at it and succeeded. As most bipeds, you’ll say. True. But my mom always ended the story with “If you put your mind to it you can do it, whatever it is.” A simple, shiny little piece of truth that’s bound to make one leap to the Moon if such is the task. The point is, that truth never left me. Pushed to the bottom of the drawer, yes, never lost though. And it works both ways. When stars are aligned so perfectly that everything is flowing and makes me wonder “How in the world?…”, I remember my mom’s words. When the going gets tough and I ask for a break, I remember my mom’s words. It’s that simple. The biggest asset of all is on top of my neck and in between my ears. If it’s still there I’m safe. I can, if I want. If I want it bad enough it’ll happen.

I want to see the sunshine even when grey clouds abound.

I want to be as good a mom as my mom was.

I want my boys to know that if they want it they can make it happen.

Short-term goal: I want to be done with the book proposal I am working at by the end of the summer the latest.

It’s almost six years since my mom passed away. Forever in my heart. Forever grateful to have been given so much.

 

 

How We Kill Food and Why We (Should Not) Die With It

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On April 6, 2012

I am mad. As in angry. I am also quite tired of running through my own head like a crazed mouse chasing angry thoughts. So I’ll put them here. Ranting as they say. The reason, you see, is because I am scared of what the world has come to when it’s about food. Happy and joyful I am – I was often (jokingly) scolded for being too happy, never mind then – but it’s getting to me. Why you ask? It’s the hogs that got me. Ha, I know, but I am not joking. It’s because of the hogs that have to be defended like this and I can only hope they win, it’s because companies like Monsanto violate all that’s good and decent in agriculture and many of us happily munch away at corn-on-the-cob that’s been genetically modified and intoxicated with chemicals, it’s because kids eat too many pesticides on any given piece of fruit, it’s because kids eat blue icing cakes and nitrate-laden cancer-causing hotdogs, it’s because kids get type II diabetes way too early in life and many never get to know what real food is and where it’s coming from. It’s because we’ve come to accept gigantic dinner portions that might or might not contain a three-pound steak from a cow that’s lived half of its miserable life in a puddle of its own excrement eating foods that are cheap but not intended by nature (corn instead of grass), it’s because people wait for food recalls to be reminded that the food they eat is a disaster waiting to happen. It’s because food should not pollute the planet it grows out of or on it, but most of ours does. That’s fundamentally wrong.

When and how have we broken away from real food? And most important, why? Why do we want it all at all times and why do we want surplus? Food should not be cheap but it is. Real food has a real price. I am not rich, I really am not. But I do believe that real food is worth the extra money. Lots of low quality conventionally grown food versus smaller amounts of real food. Which one do you choose? Real food that grows at its own pace is rich in nutrients. In other words, satisfying. Satiating. That it is unhealthy to eat until seams burst we already know. How to break the habit? Eat less, move more, breathe deeper and drink enough water. We throw away food even when it’s not spoiled because it’s cheap. there’s more where that bruised apple came from. We throw away because we are not aware of the work that goes into growing an apple or a tomato. We throw away food because we’re not aware of what it means to raise healthy animals. I am not exactly a meat eater but the thought of crowded sick animals or birds awaiting death so food stores can have mountains of ribs and drumsticks, well, it sickens me.

I get eggs from someone who has chickens in his back yard. They roam free and enjoy the good chicken life all chickens should have. People have to pay for the luxury of having chickens like that. Four per lot here in Vancouver they say. And there’s concerns about noise, smell, avian flu and such. I wish there would be health concerns about caged chickens sold in a regular food store for example. After all they were shown to come with arsenic and antibiotics. Arsenic is a carcinogenic compound. Yet there is no warning. Meat is but one chapter of the food story.

We cannot allow ourselves to disconnected from real food, it’s a mighty expensive habit. Eat less but eat clean. Cicero said “Thou shouldst eat to live; not live to eat” and one could almost be fooled into thinking that we are doing just that, living to eat. But in fact we are killing ourselves with food. It’s too much with too little of what we need to nourish ourselves. We’re giving ownership of our food to a handful of big corporations, being pork, cattle, corn or soy ones, and stepping away graciously too preoccupied with other things or sincerely satisfied with what they have for us. We forgive the recall mishaps as soon as they happen and continue to sign up for “all you can eat” menus. Somehow I wish for us all to pause and think.Think of how we still have the luxury to make choices.

Today the boys and I took our two piglets (guinea pigs) out in the sun for a yummy snack of dandelion leaves. There’s so many of them in the front yard. I like them too. Yes, I just said that. I like the slight bitterness of early spring dandelion leaves. Aside from the earthy taste, I know they are a good liver cleanser and I need that. We all need a bit of cleansing, you’d most likely agree, but these days we need more than ever. Because you see, that’s a big part of why I’m angry. I may strive to eat clean real food but I happen to live on the same planet as the big boys who play God with food from growing it to processing it into scary stuff like the Grapple (apple that smells like grapes, yes, the horror!) and hotdog-stuffed pizza crust (not kidding, it exists). And because I do, some of the bad stuff they use ends up in my food too, ends up in the air I breathe and ends up in the birthday cake my kids are being served at their friends’ parties. There seems to be no escape, but there is. Still. It starts with saying NO to what’s not real and clean. I say that when people eat with their brain rather than just mouths they are healthier. When we eat with a conscience and leave the table when half-full we’re lighter and closer to where we should be. Choose local clean food, choose humanely raised animals and buy less processed foods. Make it count. Your choice that is.

PS: If you wonder whether I avoided using the term “organic” the answer is yes. The very term has been abused and overused lately, hence I choose to go with “real”. I hope bruising will clear soon and I’ll get to use it again. More about this in a near future post.

Open Arms and Rocking Chairs

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On April 6, 2012

Walk through the woods with a friend I haven’t seen for a year or so but feeling as close as one can. The sun throws handfuls of warmth and brightness at us through tall trees. We take photos, share bits of life and laugh so hard our cheeks hurt. She tells me about the rocking chair. The way someone wise told her on that day of tough decisions when the sky seemed irreparably broken in a million pieces of darkness. “Many years from now you’ll be sitting in a rocking chair and memories will come sit on your lap like old pets. I want you to ask yourself which things you’ll regret the most, the ones that happened to you or the ones you did not let happen because you did not dare listen to that little voice inside?”… There’s withered dead leaves everywhere and then there’s new ferns growing on trees in shades of green bright and bold…

Open arms. You know when it happens. It’s like this: you take a deep breath and drop a bomb (life truths as you feel them) and the arms are there to hug you. No questions asked. Just arms, wide open and there. And you take two steps back and shake your head and think it cannot be, because you see, the life things you’re spilling out are not necessarily the ones that are most pleasant to chew on. For you or others. They come in challenging flavors, they are wrapped up in fear and uncertainty. They shake you and make you reconsider the things you had already accepted as comfortable politically/socially-correct universal herd truths, the ones that we generally accept because. But real life is a few steps away from that. Real life is the rain pounding on you from all directions, it is the umbrella that was supposed to keep you dry but the wind broke it in half and it is the hot sun that wraps around your head singing crazy beautiful songs until you fall flat on your back, you splash away and start laughing. That’s real, you say it as it is, you put yourself on the line and there are open arms to hug you. Don’t question them. I did, but no more.

It’s a gift. Open arms. They know who they are, the people with open arms in my life. The ones I could call at this late hour when I should be sleeping instead of writing and they’d pick up the phone and make sure they’d hold the phone between shoulder and ear so that the arms are free to hug me whether they are thousands of miles away or just down the street. And I do the same. I always did. Open arms and all. But here’s the catch. It is only recently that I’ve learned this great secret. It is as much a gift to offer the open arms as it is to receive it. It means trust on both sides. It means being vulnerable and still dancing, crying and laughing and peeking out from behind heavy curtains of fear. It means not being afraid of yourself, of who you are today and who you’re trying to be tomorrow. It means feeling grateful.

So I figured it’s time to thank the open arms in my life and the big hearts they grow from. Acknowledge yours too. And do know that syrupy posts like this come but once in a blue moon. Rite of passage. So there. The walk home took us through tunnels of cherry trees dusted with sunshine. At home I made coffee.

Chocolate For Breakfast

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On April 4, 2012

In Kamloops

Do you? Why? Why not? Bear with me then while I explain the scandalous headline and the riddle behind it (scandalous to those who know me and my intimidating-at-times healthy habits. They’re still there, I’m simply admitting yet again to being human.)

You know how sometimes you want to write about something and the idea is there but it is fuzzy and you can almost put your finger on it but not quite? This was one of those times. I knew I had the headline carved the way I meant to, I could almost build the blog post to dress it up, but something was not there yet. Until tonight when it just dawned on me and I have to say it, I can never have enough of that dawning feeling. It’s addictive. If I say physically and mentally addictive you’ll laugh but there must some endorphins released at such momentous occasions or else I cannot explain that good tickle inside. Persistent enough to be real.

But I digress. You see, I came to realize that I cannot create a niche for this blog and stick with it. I’ll never have just one theme and write about it until I exhaust it and then some. It’s intimidating and unnecessary. I simply can’t commit to that. There’s a lot of specialized blogs out there and kudos to them, I guess to each our own. I know, going against the grain a bit but since I don’t do that to prove a point I’d say I’m safe. A niche is not my thing. I will write about what inspires me, sometimes it’s writing and other times it’s pressing issues like modern slavery or living within our means, society-wise I mean, not just me and my close ones. I will write about my free running mouse and the hard walls I occasionally hit my head against, I will write about meeting people who know to hypnotize chickens (fact!) and I will write about the rain. I will write about what’s real to me then and there. It is real when passion brings it out. Writing with the purpose of sticking to a theme becomes akin to sticking paper flowers onto a bush once its own flowers are gone. People can tell, it’s simply not the same with the real thing.

I had chocolate for breakfast. If you knew me you’d think how can that be. I am a health freak, and boldly so. Fair-trade clean cocoa beans are a given because of ethical and sustainability concerns; it’s not fashionable but real and a must. With a side of guilt for good measure, a soon-to-be-dealt-with topic. Now, for the record, I am not saying I ate chocolate for breakfast to brag, shock or impress, I am simply sharing a fact. I never set to do so but I came to realize that it might happen that I will occasionally eat chocolate for breakfast just like it’ll happen that I’ll write about things that will seem to be pushing the boundaries of my blog. Things that won’t be related to just writing about writing. But as per my above mentioned awakening, there are no boundaries, writing ones or otherwise. Not here, in this virtual space nestled among clouds. The way I see feel it, I write about what fires my heart and my mind. I write about what’s real to me today and that I believe is the ultimate equivalent of a sustainable garden. You eat what grows when it grows. You go through waves of flavor and taste, texture and color. You go with what comes naturally. The trees in my writing garden will never bear paper fruit and the bushes will never wear odorless paper flowers.

Occasionally I’ll have chocolate for breakfast. You’re most welcome to have some with me. It won’t happen every day. In fact, that much I know: I don’t know when it’ll happen. But it will. Have you ever? Will you? Care to share?

My Car and I

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On March 27, 2012

I woke up to a carless driveway. Where was Waldo (car)? The give away were the recycling papers scattered all over the back lane and the garbage can knocked over in a way that spelled bloody murder. No raccoons and no wind last night made for a good riddle. What happened then? The car was driven out during the night by someone too impatient to remove the said items. Because it was stealing and driving, which calls for a quick getaway. So they did.

I called the police – I will philosophically declare that we’re all due a call like that sooner or later – then called the insurance company. Then waited. Wait is what you do. So I did. With some coffee and writing in a coffee shop between. I walked home. And then it happened: I bumped into my car in a back lane as I was walking. Straight from a Dr. Seuss book, one would say, my empty car – poor empty car with nobody inside it – and I stared at each other knowing there will be no touching until the police shows up to inspect it.
So I called them up and they said wait by the car. If the meanies showed up to drive away I was supposed to call 911 instead of engaging them. Ha. Like I would. Perhaps to tell them not to smoke while using my car, it really stinks. It’s bad, even for car thieves.

I sat on a cement fence for an hour and a half reading Hemingway’s “A moveable feast.” At some point the police called to let me know they’ll be there soon. Good enough. An elderly gentleman drove by me twice. The second time he rolled down the window “It must be a good book, never seen anyone sit for so long on our fence to read.” I said it is but I was also guarding my car and waiting for the police. Fair enough. It would be safe to assume he’s seen a few things during his lifetime.

When the policemen showed up they apologized profusely for the wait. I told them not to worry, this has been the only hour and a half I had in the last month or so to sit down and read without interruptions. Really. So they inspected the car, mildly scolded me for not believing in locking doors (I know, I know, I should not assume that a neighborhood is safe just because). Then we said our goodbyes and I drove home. Car in the driveway, meanies begone.

All is well when it ends well. Given that life is way more complicated at the moment than car or no car, I will say I wish everything was as simple as recovering or not recovering a car.

I’m almost half way into the book. It really is a good one.

 

When “Curriculum” Sounds Scary

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On March 17, 2012

I ceremoniously dedicated my blog to writing about writing and you’d have to believe that I meant it. And I will keep at it but such is life: Things happen and they take us off track for a bit. Intermittent is the word.  That is my disclaimer and I’ll ask to use it today and whenever the situation calls for it. Intermittent at writing and other things. Breaking out of the self-established blog boundaries for example, like I do now.
And here’s how I do it. It starts with my walking to the library. Aside from a book and some wicked movies for the boys, I picked up a magazine that contains one of my latest articles, always good to see that. I leaf through the magazine, almost bump into a parked car – you’d be less amused if you knew how often I do that because I read while walking, but that’s another story. On one of the pages an ad stops me in my tracks. Literally. It’s about a junior kindergarten institution, by now a network all over the Lower Mainland. Obviously a successful business. All good then. What stopped me and made me frown was the mentioning of an early learning program for infants and kids under 5. What’s wrong with that? Nothing, perhaps, but biased me gets her feathers ruffled. Biased because I don’t believe in preschools and I will tell you why. My boys are not preschool graduates. Tony was enrolled for a short time and when I could not escape the uneasy feeling inside anymore I pulled him out and he was happier that I could ever explain it in words. Sasha never made it close to a preschool.

Why ruffled feathers you ask? Because it gets me to see “early learning programs” and “”enriched curriculum” when it’s about kids 5 and younger. There’s a severe clash between the word “infant” and “curriculum” especially when the curriculum involves fine arts. No kidding. A special method is involved in teaching the kids. Special methods scare me. What’s wrong with letting children find their way through playing and asking questions when they feel like it? This particular program also “boasts” (don’t ask me if I resent the very word, I do) on-site chefs too. Not sure how to feel about chefs in kindergartens. Actually I do, I don’t think they should be there. I have yet to meet a child who expects chef-prepared meals. Or cares about that. Yet it is out there, it is popular enough to have become a network already and I suddenly feel alone in my refusal to give a program like this one more than my criticism. Who wants all of that, the superior education of infants and young children, chefs and fine arts and core subjects mixed into a concoction that is promised to go down young throats without any pain or resistance for that matter. Certainly not the kids themselves. I am sincerely scared of how we have lost touch with ourselves and we push children into doing the same. It’s playing they learn best with. They learn through playing more than we can possibly understand and definitely more than it can be fit into a “core subject curriculum”. I can’t even say that whole thing with a straight face because there are too many consonants and it hurts the inside of my mouth almost.

What if we let kids play, just play, no restrictions. I don’t mean dedicated playdate time (sometimes with kids they don’t even want to play with but have to because the moms get along or who knows what other reasons)   or set time for playing (here’s half-hour before your piano lessons), but simply “get out of bed in the morning and play until you can play no more or you’re too hungry” kind of play.

It gets me, I admit it. What are we teaching children through something like this? That life is a rat race and you’d better get ready to race because every day of mindless playing is a lost day? How can be possibly hope to raise free thinkers with inquisitive minds if we don’t allow for discovering the world at their own pace based on what makes them vibrate with curiosity and excitement? Why would a young child care about fine arts more than he would about playing in the mud no time restrictions whatsoever. Yes, I argue that wallowing in muck, among other things, is a great learning experience and if it so happens that the only chef on-site is the child handing you a muddy leaf speared by a mucky stick saying “Here Mom, I caught a piranha and cooked it for you” then there’s no finer dining or educational setting that that.

What are we afraid of? Kids not learning their colors and numbers by the time they’re potty trained? Who cares? Not learning to read by the time they’re six? Who came up with that and why? Kids learn because they’re curious, just like we do too. Or we should anyway. They resist learning when we impose it in a way that makes them feel inadequate and incapable. The ones that get it right away are the lucky ones. They might get stuck with other things but at least they know their colors and letters. Does that make them better prepared for what’s ahead? If we’re talking only academics then maybe, but maybe not. If they learn letters and numbers because they love it and it comes naturally to them then they will be just as well prepared for what’s ahead as the child who’s figured out how cars move before being able to read it in a book.

Being academically educated is one thing. Being resourceful, creative, curious, passionate, resilient and able to expand both mind and heart as they go through life, always ready for a challenge. That’s what I want for my boys and for all kids for that matter. Not sure where “educated” comes in but I am sure that if it’s all by itself it resembles a lonely tree in the middle of a barren land. Any wind, not even the strongest, can easily uproot it. And then what? I don’t know, do you? Well, yes, I am biased, I admit it, so please feel free to challenge me and I will do my best to oblige. No gauntlet will remain on the ground. I am after all, throwing mine and I should expect nothing less from you.

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