Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Category: Kamloops Page 44 of 45

One Sip At A Time

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On August 6, 2013

In Kamloops

Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on Saturday, August 3, 2013.

 

My mom had a coffee pot, red with black drawings. Wide-bottomed and with a spout just perfect for pouring, it often spilled while she was making coffee because someone would take her attention away from it for a second. I now suspect that it added a certain something to the whole coffee ritual.

My parents had coffee inside when the weather was cold, rainy or windy, and outside on the old bench sheltered by the grapevine during the summer months.

I used to drink coffee with them until my third year of university or so when I thought coffee made my heart jump and thus I gave it up. Missed it though every time the smell of my mom’s coffee would slither its steamy way into my room when I was visiting my parents.

My dad would ask “Are you sure you don’t want any?” I did, but every time I said “Better not.” I don’t have many regrets but the one I have is having missed one too many coffee times with my parents. It became way too real when my mom was no more.

A couple of years ago I was in one of my friends’ sunny kitchen. She was making coffee and it reminded me of my mom’s coffee, of my parents’ slow-paced coffee breaks and I said yes please when she asked if I wanted some.

The summer sun made patterns on the white table cloth and coffee tasted right.

After that, still in Vancouver, I came to discover tiny coffee shops with walls covered in old wooden panels and tables that had stories polished in them by many. Rainy days were best. I would sit and write when alone, or sit and chat when others joined.

I wondered at life’s ways by writing or chatting, and have become that much more grateful for the luxury of being tucked away to work in a coffee shop where time sits around the table just like good loving people in your life.

Then we moved to Kamloops and with us came the love for coffee. My partner and I sat in many coffee shops and came to love some more than others, but appreciate them all and the people who smile at us from behind the counter.

I sometimes meet with people over coffee and no, you don’t just choose a coffee shop, but the coffee shop for the meeting. Work-related or that hour break we sometimes need with a dear friend, coffee meetings are a good thing; or tea, for those who do not fancy coffee.

Then there’s the coffee we make at home. Cowboy coffee that is. Black, no sugar. And the coffee we make when we camp. One of the best we’ve ever had was at the feet of Black Tusk, near Whistler. Early morning sun was dunking its rays in the coffee pot we were taking turn sipping coffee from.

A few years ago when my parents came over for a visit, my mom brought me a coffee pot like hers. Same size but yellow and with a beautiful drawing of my hometown on it.

It sat in the cupboard for a while, because I was still not a coffee drinker and I could not use it for tea or anything else. It was meant for coffee so it sulked its way into idleness until I started drinking coffee again.

Now we make coffee in it and weekend mornings after breakfast find us on the front porch. If it’s winter we wrap ourselves in blankets. Only heavy rains can chase us in. And not always. There’s a certain beauty in rain and coffee mixed together.

Coffee is, you see, those few special moments you share with someone or just by yourself. It’s also gratefulness for being present in a moment, and you could argue it is a rather simple joy. It is, one that extends way beyond the rim of a pot or mug.

I often meet my partner for coffee and every time has its own flavor. Sometimes we make it a work day and write, other times we celebrate togetherness and the profundity of simple silent moments.

I will continue to be grateful for the memories we weave over coffee around the city we’ve come to love: For its charming coffee shops, for the friends we have made, for the beautiful hills that seem empty but never are, and for all the lakes that jewel themselves like a most amazing pendant around the place we are now calling home.

Innocence Lost? There Is Still Time To Act…

By

On July 27, 2013

In Kamloops

(Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on July 27, 2013)

I read today that the UK has decided to block access to online pornography; unless people ask for it that is. Internet suppliers will install family-friendly filters and those who wants them off will have to ask for it, the UK Prime Minister David Cameron has decided.

Like a breath of fresh air, such radical decisions make sense. They are meant to protect children from exposure to something they don’t need to see, even more so, something that can alter their perceptions and create a new kind of addiction that is still new to us and, according to recent studies, not easy to get rid of.

Parents used to find magazines like Hustler and Playboy hidden in their teenagers’ drawers or tucked carefully under the mattress. It was one of those “Oh” moments, followed by a talk, a shrug or complete silence, depending on the level of openness. Life went on often with no serious damage. That was then.

Things are different nowadays. There is a world behind the screens that our children have access to, a world we cannot fully comprehend the size of, let alone set boundaries and control the information flux that increases every day and slowly eludes any kind of parental control.

Nowadays we put our trust in cyber nannies; they are supposed to be the impenetrable wall that protects our children from internet nudity and pornography. Right. Unless the kid goes to someone else’s house where the computers might or might not have cyber nannies, or, if the kids equipped with a gadget are able to pick up a wifi signal and… well, you get the idea.

To add insult to the injury, all questionable internet content used to be accessible only to 18-plus. Somewhat protected, you could say. That was then also. Nowadays, things are different in that department too. Typing the very words opens up a world that should not be easily available if at all…

Children are curious, that’s a fact. Come teenage years, curiosity crosses boundaries and we cannot prevent that, but we can guide our children on a better path. A safer one.

It is not prudishness that causes my outrage, but fear and sadness that our children are losing their innocence way too early. I don’t believe in hiding things that are the way they are or coming up with fake explanations; my boys know there is no question I will shy myself from answering.

We talk about everything and though I never thought I will one day have “the talk” with a straight face, well, I did. We did. And more will follow. They will always have the option of reading instead, but for now they prefer talking. Questions and honest answers deepen trust on both sides.

Wanting to play grownups, children see things should not. Way before learning what a loving respectful relationship is about, children have access to information that is erroneous and addictive in a way that has been compared to drug addiction.

What is a parent to do? Aside from bringing difficult topics to the table and setting a good example, trusting that our children will be able to resist temptation and peer pressure remains the sole mid-ocean bobbing barrel we can hold onto. But it may not be enough.

We cannot ask teenagers to be responsible for guarding themselves entirely. Temptation can get the best of them to lower the guard. It is high time we look for ways that can help protect young minds from unnecessary exposure that pushes them into unripen adulthood, stealing their innocence way too soon.

One can argue that such content is meant for adults and teenagers and children should not be privy to it. Therein lies the problem though: They are. Whether we want them or not, whether we are aware of it or not, children have access to online pornography and that’s that. The sooner we realize that, the sooner we can find a way to prevent it.

Also, let’s not forget or ignore, online pornography is often the result of sexual slavery, yet another black eye on the face of our world. Our acting on one end might bring enough awareness and courage for people on other ends to act towards stopping and preventing it, from victims to survivors to by-standers.

If all parents and educators ask for family-friendly internet filters because we realize the danger of easy access to online pornography, it will happen sooner than later. In all fairness, we are a couple of years late as it is, but there is still time to act.

Our children’s innocence is priceless, let’s allow them to keep it for as long as possible. From family to society level, we will all benefit from it.

Why I Go To The Farmer’s Market

By

On July 23, 2013

In Kamloops

(Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on July 20, 2013)

20130618_190401It is cloudy today and we’re having a late start. Lazy Saturday mornings happen to everyone. They’d better. Another edition Saturday pancakes and a talk about why judgment makes you doubt yourself, then we leave for the farmer’s market. Sometimes it is all of us, this time just me and my youngest.

We stop at the bank then run to the market, literally. It’s silly fun and the giggles my youngest leaves behind won’t last for long. Time is merciless that way, a good reason to make it happen often, laughing with your children that is…

Music greets us. It makes our feet dance and our faces smile. The air smells sweet and fresh. A good day indeed.

The wood spirits are our first stop. You must’ve seen them, the wooden faces and the castles Kelly carves out of cottonwood bark… He makes imagination fly high, almost a lost art in today’s rushed world where computer games abound and patience is underestimated. “You almost see the face in a piece of wood,” he tells us. I’ve heard people say that before. Art is fascinating.

Every face has a different expression and tells a different story. My youngest has one of these wood masks hanging next to his bed. He wants to learn to make them too. He often carves at home and this kind of exposure inspires him, like it should.

We talk about where to find cottonwood bark, how to age a sculpture, how to carve castles and why some of the ones Kelly sells have jasper eyes. How long does it take to carve that? My little guy is fascinated by the faces, by their long wooden beards, and by how tree bark becomes alive once more…

Market is almost closing… We go and buy eggs, strawberry and rhubarb pie. We buy a whole box of fragrant strawberries and talk about South America with the lady who sells them. We buy greens, a farm-raised chicken and honey. Herbs too.

Guilt-free coffee to from Anita, cookies for the boys and quick browsing of the potted plants; we look at colors and leaf shapes; we talk about ferns and how they’ve been around since dinosaur time. What’s the Earth going to look like in fifty years or so? How about five hundred?

Then it’s back to the wooden spirits. For just a tiny bit, my youngest says. I thought he might ask… It’s the end of the day and the magic wooden faces are carefully put away until next week wrapped in soft towels.

Next door to the wooden spirits is Meagan from Heffley Creek, she’s a soap and natural cosmetics maker. Another kind of beautiful magic that we often overlook in favor of commercially-made long-lingering fragrances. I delight in meeting a like-minded person and the old and oh so played “we speak the same language” is as real as it is needed. And we speak it, with the promise of future conversations.

We meet friends, neighbors and people we know from around town. We create routines that make our Saturday morning sunnier no matter how cloudy the sky. We pick knowledge, freshness and develop gratefulness for the place we’re in. Smiles, stories and wonders abound.

When I needed advice on how to deal with the wasp nest in the backyard fort, someone pointed to the bee guy; he knows, I was told without an ounce of doubt. He did. A conversation about the sad fate of bees ensued. People need to know more, we both agreed. Perhaps we can visit the beehives in Barnhartvale? Sure thing; it makes sense that one of my favorite road cycling routes is also a bee paradise.

I could say go to the market to get fresh food and support local farmers. That’s a big part of it. But there is something else you can get there. You get stories and smiles on any given market day. Everyone needs that, they add some more color and texture to your food. Appreciation in every bite.

The city comes alive here and so do seasons. We learn that in early spring chickens make small eggs, just as they shake the winter chills off. There’s baby lettuce, tender green onion and garlic, small bouquets of fragrant herbs and seedlings in the spring.

Berries and greens abound as summer bursts through the sky mid-June or so. Fall is when we first visited the market here in Kamloops for the first time. It’s a time of abundance and flavours. Every season is. Don’t miss it. I won’t either.

To Be Mindful. A Reminder

By

On July 13, 2013

In Kamloops

Two toddlers died a couple of weeks ago as a result of being forgotten in cars that got too hot in the sun. It is the kind of news that makes your insides roll in a tight ball, whether you are a parent or not, but more so if you are one.

The events are isolated, one could say, but not isolated enough. To say the issue is debatable is an understatement. That parents or caregivers forget babies or toddlers in cars, some experts say, it’s a brain glitch. But, others say, it is unconceivable. Sad reality: It happens.

No parent is without fault and parenting is one challenging journey, everyone agrees. We make mistakes, we stumble, often we think we’re doing a good job just to lose our footing shortly after and find ourselves at the bottom of the hill, ready for a new climb, ready to make it better the next day. Just like it should be.

But this goes beyond parenting mistakes. It allows no trying again to make it better next time. One cannot imagine the pain those parents experience, whether they are the ones who forgot the children or another caregiver.

While every case is different, courts often decide no further charges, since the consequence of the deed itself is the worst punishment; nothing can come close to the pain left by the disappearance of a child and under such gruesome circumstances.

To judge is not the answer and really, who wants to cast the first stone… The reason I have a hard time defining this as a brain glitch though is out of fear that when we accept such things as possible mistakes, then they will happen.

But here’s the big question is: How is it possible? Are we too busy, too overscheduled, too absent from the present moment? If we put a child in the car seat, how could we forget to take her out? If a child is in the car, are we not to acknowledge her presence like we would a grown-up’s?

What rush could cause us to leave the car without even taking a look back? What about the instinctual pull that keeps us connected to our children from the moment they are born, a must in keeping them safe?

Somehow this issue crosses the parenting realm boundaries though.

It is a stark reminder to be mindful. To be where we are when we are there. It’s becoming a thing of the past with each day that passes nowadays.

Stretched between various communication and entertainment devices, busy jobs, various appointments and social obligations, the mind does its best, but multitasking is a dangerous game to play when children’s well-being is at risk.

To be where we are with all that we are means to make the best of every passing moment. Whatever it is that you are doing at a particular moment, be honest with yourself and stay committed to being immersed in that moment, no exception.

When sharing a moment or few with another human being, our loved ones first of all, we owe it to them to be there. In early childhood our children are mindful. When they explore the world outside, they stare intently at all living creatures, they spend enough time to really see it.

When we read to them or tell them a story, they envelop us with attention, they keep track of words and story thread. They are there, listening, cuddled to us and living that moment. We should do the same.

Life is not kind at times. There’s deadlines, stern bosses and obligatory phone calls. We are tired and the mind wanders. Being mindful is often a challenge.

But we cannot afford to be anything less, and we cannot settle for mindlessness, the price is too high and it will ultimately rob of all moments to follow, or rather the capacity to enjoy them.

To be mindful has great rewards and while we cannot change the world or slow down its pace, we can adjust ours. Better yet, let’s make it a team effort to truly make it work. Let’s not allow anyone’s pain to become but a news item, and anyone’s memory to slip out of life with no proper heeding and learning from. We can all help prevent future mistakes of this kind.

Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on July 13, 2013

A Teepee to Sleep In and A Whole Lot Of Ice

By

On October 4, 2012

In Kamloops

It’s Friday, late afternoon, 4pm or so and we’ve been contemplating thoughts of camping all week. We’re so close to everything since we moved to Kamloops, it’s tempting. Deadlines, how to, how to… It drizzles softly and the boys play. What if.

I work out my schedule, grab the writing pad and promise to not stress about the deadline. Gotta have the stuff done by Monday. I will, I will.  Half an hour later, the car is packed and we’re off to Blue River. For a teepee night, you see…

“Is it a real one, mom?” It’s been Sasha’s dream to sleep in a teepee. Max says we have to make this happen for him. So we will.
Making our way to Blue River Campground we battle heavy rain, speedy trucks and listen to The Wiggles and Steve Irwin CD. How many times can one listen to it? I’d say once if you’re over six, countless times if you’re six and under. We listened to it many times.

We arrive to Uncle Ralphie’s campground around 8pm. He’s the jolliest campground host we’ve seen. Rides in the golf cart for the boys, an armful of dry wood and some charcoal to light the fire, stories of coming all the way from Newfoundland. He mentions bears and pine martens and the boys are charmed.Even more so when Uncle Ralphie drops candy bars and popcorn to keep ourselves occupied around the fire, he says.

The teepee is big and rugged. You crouch to get in and out. There are plants growing inside and dust follows you in the sleeping bag. The night stands clear and crisp outside the teepee with a skyfull of twinkling stars like eyes watching us. Sleep then.

“But mom, aren’t teepees supposed to be made of animal skin and have paintings on them?” Sasha’s standards are high when it comes to teepees, you see. It’s all the literature he’s been perusing over the last few months. Well, yeah, you can see that too in some places. Maybe we will one day. “And the flap on top mom…” Kids these days.That keeps the rain in, my dear stickler. But it’s not like in the drawings and photos he’s seen, he argues. True, but wouldn’t you say that Uncle Ralphie’s cheerfulness made it quite right? To be continued… Go pick some blueberries, the last ones of the season, instead of looking the gift horse in the mouth…

We make the decision to drive to Jasper. Passing through a rainbow that chased the rain away. Just like that. My second rainbow in less than a month. I’m slightly apprehensive of ski towns that look new and proper, you know. I like real places with houses that whisper and giggle at you as you pass by. But Jasper looks right. We walk and find a rock and fossil store. “Mom, there’s dinosaur poop for sale,” the boys call. Snicker away, you slipped poop in a sentence the whole store was privy to. Same as always.

Driving through Icefields Parkway towards Lake Louise is a silent celebration. Turquoise moats around giant beautiful mountains. Mountain goats perched on rocks edges make the boys hold their breath. “The baby, mom, will it fall?” No, they know how to. We’re silent. In awe. Slabs of Earth slanted sideways like domino pieces, slippery tongues of ice that might or might not be here in a few hundred years, maybe sooner. “But why?” ask the boys. Because we’re cooking the planet, that’s why.

Global warming sounds so played for us adults but not so for them. “Why do people do that?” It’s not by intention, you see, but we dig so deep in those pockets of goodness that the planet has a limited supply of… it’s the things we want. Oh, the shaky talk about wants and needs. How to raise children and satisfy their needs (with an occasional want) when the wants curl around their legs like stray cats purring and clinging. “People are mean,” they call out. It’s unfair, they scream. It’s all of us, I tell them, we are all guilty of the same. That curled want that you can’t let go of…

In the days of instant gratification and upgrading to the next thing that promises to be better, faster, smarter and more fun, how do we turn to these quiet white giants to listen. Listen to what? Their beauty, I tell the boys. We take it all in and I wonder if they’ll remember passing through these worlds of stone and ice.

It turns dark and we’re almost at the fork in the road to Lake Louise. We turn right towards Yoho Park and after we drive through what looks like a most charming little gem of a town – that’s Field – we camp at Kicking Horse Campground. Nighttime chill makes for fast tent pitching. We talk of enchanted woods and their animal inhabitants. The fire crackles and sticks its many orange tongues at us. Cheeky is le mot du jour. I make the silly discovery of how to create a fountain of sparkles. That primordial fascination with fire is still going strong. Marshmallows abound, but why do they have to be so sticky.

We’re lulled to sleep by gentle raindrops licking the tent. Drum away… Morning… The boys are rolled up in their sleeping bags, their sleepy faces hiding behind that wild camping trip hair. Round nose tips and quiet breathing. Make it last… Will they remember the sweet smell of the fire and the rained-on woods and the crisp mornings you almost hear crunch under your feet as you get out of the tent? Will they remember enough to care?

Because all we can do is take them places, let them breathe in the quietness and hope they will. Pray they will… So that it lasts. Ice giants and all.

Chocolate For Breakfast

By

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?

A House Mouse Named River

By

On February 16, 2012

In Kamloops

I have a gerbil running around the house the way others have cats and dogs. She’s a gerbil and she’s been ours since May of last year because her former owners grew tired of having her for a pet. A lonely misunderstood pet. Gerbil whisperer I am not but I admit to always jumping to save yet another creature in distress, big or tiny.

A caged gerbil seemed salvageable material. Now, to clarify, I never had a taste for imprisonment of animals – I would abolish zoos without a second thought, and I mean zoos, not national parks or rehabilitation shelters – but felt too sorry for the poor mini-rat to not adopt her. So I said yes and the boys rejoiced. I replaced the cage with a fish tank, got some nice bedding and decided to leave out the gerbil doughnuts forever. There is such a thing, I am not making this up and yes, I know how wrong it is, I thought the same when I was handed the bag by the previous owners. We also changed her name from Chopper to River hoping to curb her biting habits. One could hope, right?

The boys and I taught her how to dig tunnels in the new bedding and she happily did that for a while. Then she started digging with a vengeance hoping to get out of the cage. For hours that is. Like I said, never agreed to imprisonment of animals and felt guilty to be the one inflicting it.

I know, she’s a bit of a rat, a glorified rat as I affectionately call her but still, a teeny creature with a will to live and be free, although one could argue that she has no clue about what that is having lived her whole life in one cage or another.

So one day, a month ago or so, she won the gerbil lottery.

She was free to run around the house. Another option would have been to free her into the woods but we thought of her future as owl snack and shuddered. For an hour she was free to roam. It became a whole afternoon soon after and once I realized she’s fit for that kind of life and clean enough for the recovering germophobe me, the decision was made.

She chewed on a few things she was not supposed to including Sasha’s soft red ball which we painted with my acrylic colors but could not erase the sorry look. She hid so well and for long enough that we had to move furniture to make sure she’s still alive. Aside from that I cannot fault her much. Her new home is behind the fridge, she comes when I call and hand her food, she drinks water from a tiny bowl painted with Chinese characters and lets me pet her while she eats. Seeking company is not what I would call typical gerbil behavior but that’s what she does. All in all, a jolly apparition unless you have a small rodent-phobia.

There, you now know the truth. We have a tame gerbil who knows her name and likes waffles, banana bread and is a sucker for kiwi. Literally.

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