It’s ok. Jesus will understand.

Santa has been naughty this year: he is not gracing Canada with snow on Christmas! And ohohooooo are the people complaining! My response? I smile and nod my head, reassure my friends that it’s ok, and remind them that snow is not what makes Christmas special…

You can imagine the rage I caused with my “positive attitude”. “Snow doesn’t make Christmas special? What are you talking about?!!?? Snow is what Christmas is ABOUT!!” Along with chocolate, gifts, candy canes and, well, secular “season’s greetings” cards. Yeah. I know.

Sitting on a comfortable sofa, in an average middle-class Canadian home, warming up next to a beautiful fireplace, I can’t help but wonder just when this ogre called “materialism” walked its slimy green feet into my living room, and into the lives of everybody that I know. We’ve been so busy trying to keep him well fed that we stopped noticing the world outside. Out there, somewhere far far away, certainly far away from our little pink bubble, live people who have not a bite to eat this season. They have no new clothes to wear, and they have to walk miles in the scorching heat for a small bucket of dirty “drinking” water. Those of them who are Christian still thank the Lord for His blessings this season. They rejoice in remembrance of the birth of Christ Jesus. They sing hymns although they can hardly quench their thirst.

Yet we complain…

We complain because there is no snow this Christmas, or because we could not take a long enough holiday break, or because this is the high season in travel and we have to lay down a bigger chunk of our salaries to pay for our vacations. We complain because there are only three gifts under the Christmas tree for each of us, and because we’re getting fat from the ridiculous amounts of Christmas cookies that we’ve been wolfing down. We complain, asking God what we have done to deserve this, reminding Him that we did, indeed, spend an entire hour decorating the Christmas tree to celebrate Jesus’ birthday… I mean, who else gets that many sparkly lights on their birthday, right?

We don’t go to Church, no.

Church? Please. We don’t have to do that.

It’s ok.

Jesus will understand.

Under the roof of my home, I witness the many gifts and blessings that decorate every corner and bring the lifeless to life. God has given me a family who is so very loving. He has kept away evil, and warded my home against any outside harms. He even got me to pass that university class I thought I was failing… and with fantastic results!

But who cares about all that? At Christmas time, we rejoice in the name of SANTA. After all,  he’s the one who gives the material gifts… you know, the ones that really matter! We celebrate Santa because we can measure the value of the things he gives to us in human Dollar terms, whether his gifts consist of a pack of pens or a supersized diamond. We cherish things that are worth no true value and we don’t appreciate the gifts that we receive in love because, perhaps, they aren’t expensive enough or aren’t quite what we wanted.

Then, when Santa doesn’t give us snow, we complain as though it was Santa’s blessing to give. We forget that it is God who gives. We forget that it is God who we must celebrate. We forget that, by forgetting God, we dried up all the snow. When we don’t appreciate His blessings, why must He keep giving them to us?

Before you complain, take a look around: we have taken “Christ” out of “Christmas”. How can we still expect gifts of love from the King of love, when we have forgotten how to love Him?

ohohohooo

But, it’s ok. Right?

 Jesus will understand.

MD, DEC 2011

Just Write.

I haven’t written for so long; I haven’t even scribbled down any poetry verses that popped in my mind onto a scrap piece of paper, mainly because no poetry has been leaping through my sub-conscious lately. I know that I need to write. Writing is what keeps me together–it keeps me whole. Is this beginning to sound like an intimate relationship between me and my pen?

Good. It’s supposed to.

I have been in a ridiculous rut; I’m lacking inspiration like never before. Ironically, I also have been happier than ever before. Perhaps that’s the problem: it’s easy to plunge into a white sheet of paper when your life is a chaotic mess–not so much when you are doing relatively well.

There is poetry in me, there always has been. The words are a faint whisper, spoken behind the locked doors of the darkroom of my creative mind, and there seems to be no way to force them out.

“Just write”, they say, “and things will begin to happen”.

Just write.

Just write.

Write about how you cannot write anymore.

Maybe something will click back into place. Maybe “just” writing will restore you. Maybe it will help you tap back into your passion. Maybe “just” writing, though it may be nonsensical, will save you.

I certainly need to be saved. I cannot imagine myself in any form more serene than that of a writer.

Just write.

Just write.

Meanwhile, experiment with new lifestyle choices like vegetarianism and blogging.

Perhaps something will click.

Perhaps, eventually.

MD 5/12/2011

I believe. (A Poem)

I believe

That before grandeur there must be ruin;

My soul must stray

Along broken pavements,

And must reach the top of the tallest

Skyscrapers,

And fall, like a pebble, or a feather,

Or a boulder

From the breadth of the strongest foundations

Before it can

Finally be whole.

 

I believe

That salvation is unattainable

Until I have plunged into the depths of my heart;

Yearned and loved,

Lost and grieved,

Left no corner undisturbed

In the prism of my mind;

Broken through it all,

Rebuilt it all,

And made a mess of the rhyme.

My mess is

My treasure.

 

I believe

That promises upon stars

Lack value until they are

Once broken,

And that the soil of the earth

Is death, and that life grows from death,

And that life and death are only brief

Moments in the human state of mind.

And lust, fear, envy, and hatred are, too,

States of mind.

But, not love.

Love is a state of

being.

 

I believe that children know better;

That their bright eyes pity adults for

Their blindness;

And of either adult,

Woman stands stronger,

Because in the battles of love and war,

Her heart is the anchor

Of life.

 

I believe

In chaos, and the lack

Of pattern,

And the raw beauty of art

For art’s sake,

Or for the artist’s sake,

Or for the sake of nothing.

Craft has no guidelines,

Passion is not built upon an outline;

And I believe this is why

My university education

Tends to silence mine.

 

I believe that faith is weak

When preached by men who

Uphold it only in word,

Not in doing;

And that it will only spark

The human heart once again

After it has been completely forgotten

And sought, and found again,

And perhaps forgotten

Once more.

 

MD JULY 2011

Vegetarianism… REALLY??? ME?

I was surfing through youtube last week, looking for something…

We are all constantly looking for something.

I’ve needed something for a very long time. I just couldn’t seem to figure out what it was.

Then, I came across one of those videos by a “raw-foodie” about the raw-food vegan lifestyle.

I must admit, for a moment, I mocked her in my mind; but, as I listened, something began making sense to me, though I couldn’t figure out what it was.

One video led to another and, before I knew it, I was watching the full version of “Earthlings”.

After squirming in my seat, holding my hand up to my mouth as I gagged whole-heartedly, and gasping for air between heaving tears, it dawned on me… I will become one of the tree hugging, forest protecting, green wearing, animal rights activists that are the highlight of meat-eaters’ jokes… and there is nothing I can do about it.

But, really?

ME?

I sat there for a good half hour contemplating the impact that such a decision could have on my life.

I have never been much of an extremist, so the idea of a raw-vegan diet was out of the question; but a vegetarian lifestyle seemed reasonable.

But, still… really?

This is all too sudden and strange.

The next morning, I went out and bought every kind of fruit imaginable. I intended on wolfing that down as I contemplated my next step… and that is exactly what I did.

It has been a week since I last ate meat… but I have eaten fish. I suppose that I will have to experiment a little before I decide what I really want to do. I grew up with the conviction that people who only ate fish could still legitimately refer to themselves as vegetarians–now, this doesn’t seem acceptable to me. I do not want to eat fish. They are too cute.

So, what’s the solution?

I have always prided myself on my reason. I can be a little over-emotional, and I may naturally be inclined to follow my instincts, but I am, at the end of the day, very reasonable with my decisions. Extreme choices never settled well in my stomach. What does a girl like me decide to do in a situation like this?

For now, I suppose I can temporarily be a pescetarian – one who eats fish but no other meat – until I’ve settled into this new lifestyle comfortably. It has been quite a strange experience so far, but it’s much more fun than I expected. I will have to wrap my mind around the idea of calling myself (ME???) a vegetarian in public before I can completely forego the fish. I suppose I am trying to use it as a cover-up, when I’m stuck in a social situation that does not permit for wonderfully rich green leafy veggies.

This is quite difficult.

I like it.

 

MD 15/10/2011

Thank Goodness

Traditionally, I did not grow up celebrating Thanksgiving. In my family, giving thanks was a matter of regular daily speech; every few phrases would be followed by a “thank goodness”. I was raised by parents who never failed to be grateful for their lives, even when they were stuck in a serious rut.

However, the warm cocoon that enfolded me at home was very different in essence to the vast world that I discovered outside the safety of my parents’ arms. Naturally, being much more spoiled and well-off than they were at my age, I gave thanks only a fraction of the times that they did. As I grew up, I learned to think more like they do, and to be grateful; yet, my faith is still not as firm as theirs. They continue to encourage me to see the world through a bright lens, and to believe in a God who I cannot see because He is, surely, there.  As you may imagine, my parents were delighted when they discovered Thanksgiving, and we have celebrated it every year since.

Today, like many of you, I was not with my family, who is halfway across the world. I worked during the day, and spent the evening skimming through dozens of pages in my textbook, preparing for my midterm exams. I sat alone, in an empty home, munching on plums and kiwis. This time last year, my house was roaring with the voices of my friends, many of whom I hardly ever see anymore. I am tempted to be hurt, knowing that the friendships I was grateful for a year ago deserted me within a few months. I am tempted to be upset that I couldn’t laugh at my parents tonight as they toiled over cooking a turkey. I could complain, as I often do, but I don’t have the heart to forget all the blessings in my life tonight.

Where there was loss, I have always been given something better. Where there was fear, I have been calmed. Where there was frustration and stress, I have always survived, sometimes even triumphantly. Although it was often difficult to understand why certain things changed when they weren’t supposed to, or why others didn’t change when they must have, all the knots were tied in the end. They always are. Thank goodness.

Happy Thanksgiving.

MD 10/10/2011

The Eyes of God…

“Let us rise up and be thankful; for if we didn’t learn a lot today, at least we learned a little; and if we didn’t learn a little, at least we didn’t get sick; and if we got sick, at least we didn’t die; so, let us all be thankful.” -Buddha

My mind races at an uncomfortable speed regularly, and I sometimes have to shake my head a little to rid myself of my frequent brain-cramps. Needless to say, excessive head-shaking may result in severe migraines, but is (naturally) ineffective at knocking the thoughts out of one’s mind. I was beginning to contemplate the fact that, perhaps, some head banging was in order, when I saw the face of a man and felt the thoughts in my mind come to a sudden shuddering halt. No, this isn’t going to be a lullaby-orchestrated, slow-motion, sickeningly sweet love story. This is a story about the eyes of God.

It was one of those excruciatingly long days, when the seconds tick by like hours and everyone incessantly nags about their work, their families, their personal financial problems, and the weather. I had spent the entire day at school and, by the time I finally got home, I felt the nerves in my neck pulsating with frustration. I took a few moments of rest before I decided to jump back into my car and make the half hour drive downtown in order to dine with my boyfriend. After honking my way through Montreal’s busy streets, yelling to myself about the suicidal driving habits of my fellow citizens, and cursing the taxi driver in front of me (for driving at 15 kmph on a 60 kmph road), I finally arrived at the agreed-upon location. The awful day gradually seemed a little bit better as I took my seat in the restaurant and waited to be fed. Meanwhile, I complained about my day, and my boyfriend complained about how busy the restaurant was. I complained about the rude manner of the waiter, and he complained about how ready he is to move forward with his career. A child nagged her mother, and was pushed away in frustration. The woman beside me complained to her husband about having ordered the wrong kind of soup.

It’s easy to complain.

After dinner, we made our way out of the restaurant, and walked back towards my car. Upon turning a final corner, we were approached by a man in his late 60s who gently extended his hand out to us in order to get our attention. Being engrossed in a conversation which I cannot remember (although it probably was rich with complaints), we would not have noticed him at all if he hadn’t stood in our way. “Do you know a place where I could sleep tonight?” he asked in soft, broken language that I could hardly decipher. Only then did I look away from the street that lay ahead of me in order to look into the man’s eyes. At that moment, all the rambling thoughts in my mind were abruptly silenced, and I felt the throb of my heart in my throat. I could no longer see the street, nor hear my boyfriend’s words as he responded to the old man’s question. I was lost in the sea of humble truth, raw desire for rest, and broken dignity that I found in those eyes… Those eyes, the eyes of God.

When I was a child, my Christian mother often recited this Biblical statement (by Jesus) to me:

‘For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited Me in; naked, and you clothed Me; I was sick, and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me. [...] Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.’ (Matthew 25:35-40) New American Standard Bible.

As the blood rushed back to my brain, I remembered those words. To the onlooker, I may have appeared to only glance at the old man for a long moment, but I felt as though I had stood there for an eternity. As I regained my senses, I heard my boyfriend calmly apologizing to the man, and explaining that he does not know how to help him. I felt the sorrow in the man’s eyes, and understood why he had approached us that night. The evening was getting darker, the weather was getting colder, and the streets were filling up with (probably drunken) young men who could bring harm to him if he asked them for help. We were the only couple walking hand in hand down the street; surely, we would try to find him a place to sleep. As my boyfriend tugged me away from the spot where we had been standing, I felt the man’s eyes piercing through mine and tugging at my soul. I have seen poverty before; as a matter of fact, I have witnessed war, segregation, and death first-hand. I have become hard. But the eyes of this particular man, the eyes of God, pierced through the hardness. I was humbled, and I was grieved. I had complained so much that day.

As we drove away, I fought to hold on to my tears. The thoughts were once again brewing and boiling through the cells of my brain as I told myself I had no right to cry. Christ had asked me for help that night, and I could not offer him anything, although I had eaten a ridiculously large and expensive meal only ten minutes earlier. The irony and, I daresay, the hypocrisy, of this predicament astounds me. During the half hour drive home, all I could do was speak to God, asking him to please, please, not allow the man to sleep on the streets tonight: “Give him a home, Lord, somehow… you who raise the dead. Surely, you could help where I could not. Surely, this man’s place in heaven is greater than whatever place you will grant me. Surely, you will bless those eyes.”

I woke up this morning and complained that I would have to go to work. I finished my work in the afternoon and complained about having to go to the university tomorrow at 8 am. I called my friend and complained about the fact that my Economics teacher doesn’t know her head from her behind. I complained out of habit, although the image of those eyes pierced through my mind every time I did so.

I have no right to complain. I have no right to cry. I have survived war, segregation, and death. I have fled poverty, hunger, and humiliation. I was given a bed to sleep in, and many hands to hold.

I am grateful… yet old habits die hard.

MD 03/10/2011