baptism by waterfall

If you move to Canada,
you may want to jog early each morning
(early before the sticky tourists violate the beauty and try to steal it with their fancy lenses)
and you will get to Table Rock
where you can look at the water and try to comprehend its allure:
As if you are a droplet
fumbling into the unknown
helpless.
It may assuage any feelings of importance you may have
it may stroke your ego with a soothing peace
it may force you to a place of humility and smallness
it may cause you to wonder how often humans have stolen beauty in the name of safety...
Then one time you might go there
and you might peer over the edge to collect this daily reminder
and the wind will shift
and you will be shrouded by the cloud of heavy mist
and you might laugh
(and passersby may think you silly or insane)
and you will feel refreshed
after being baptized by the water that should go down but has risen up to embrace you...
and as you finally turn around to leave
to enter your life post-baptism
you will see a rainbow
and you will laugh again
and maybe cry
and wonder what change has taken over.

Happy 4th of July to the US!

From what I've learned so far, this is marvelously magnanimous of me. Most Canadians don't seem to like the people that inhabit the US, or the Country itself. Rooted like most hatreds, I'm guessing, in jealously. The "US" is filled (so they seem to think here) with a bunch of selfish, gas-guzzling, fat, land-hogging, arrogant older brothers and sisters who disdain them.

But I am not through with my inculcation, so I am still distrusted and not considered a member of the tribes here just yet. Apparently, my probationary period involves some torture: a family reunion that promises to be hot and painful, a survival test of the humidity, a driving test (though I can't see this being too hard since apparently NO ONE here knows yet how to drive. Example: On the freeways they have large signs that say things like "Use caution and check your blindspot before changing lanes" and "Stay alert, stay alive." As if people on the road have never driven before. What? I must check lanes AND stay alert? WTF? Whoever heard of that?)

So I am once again in a liminal space. Not yet a member here, but cut off from my comfort zone. And oh how I miss it at times.

In my cultural education, I am learning:

-how to snip the corner of my milk bags, not too small, not too large--like finding the balance between a scream and a whisper...
-how to resist the temptation to chat on my phone while driving...
-how to make my vowels a bit more taut--they waste no excess in overpronouncing their vowels here. As if every jump between consonants needs to be as tight as Nik Wallenda's rope over Niagara Falls: Say that instead of thaaat, say long instead of loooong...
-how to enunciate my t's; this particular consonant gets barely any attention in the states, yet here, it is much loved and even often used in place of d's, as in good, which sounds like goot. Also in words like that, yet, a bit (common), and cute. It's so cute...
-how to lift my inflection at the end of every sentence, as if I'm always asking a question: As in, "We are looking for a home to buy?; We have two boys?; We just moved here from Denver?..." statements I've made of late ad nauseum...
-that recycling is complex: there are THREE bins we have in the kitchen that we use to sort all of our waste. Organics (anything that you might be tempted to throw down your garbage disposal), Plastics, and Paper. Oh, and you only get one black trash bag per household per week. You have more? You must purchase extra garbage tags at the city building.

Perhaps soon we'll have a ceremony where I will be let in the fold, as for now, I am existing in this trial period, waiting patiently for the unknown day when I will belong here. I suspect it may take a while.

We celebrated Canada Day on July 1 at this location above (My favorite place on earth, the reason I agreed to move to Canada, and where you'll find me every summer from here on out). This holiday is strangely familiar to your 4th: Lots of flags, general merriment, fireworks, hamburgers, bad jokes, and beer. But this country is only 145 years old. And my family watched the fireworks in the cradle of a boat in the middle of the lake. We were rocked by the waters while we peered up into the Canadian night sky, listening for echoes, watching for our favorite patterns of explosions.

For a permanent home? We discovered a lovely little peninsula called Port Dalhousie (pronounced da-lose-ie) in St. Catharines. We have a tradition that we never turn down an invitation for coffee or a drink if we have nothing better to do and the people seem mildly interesting... After our first Church experiment, we were invited for coffee to an old Dutch couple's home. Turns out they were trying to sell their home which happens to be on this lovely little peninsula... Yes, we'll be moving in early August.

8 year olds, The Trinity, and cross-dressers

This past Sunday I took my 8 year old to Church with me. He went to Sunday School for the first chunk of the service. I chose a seat about five seats deep in a lonely aisle. A 60-ish year old woman sat next to me. And by "next" I mean immediately beside me. Which was a bit strange since there were several seats to spare. But whatever. We "greeted" in the normal, sometimes painful, obligatory meet-and-greet way that Church services often force. She was kind. She wore a pink sweater, and we giggled that we matched down to the shade. I complimented her jewelry: how it delightfully livened her colors. She smirked in the humble way that women do to let other women know that they know. She wore a mini-skirt, heels, and had a cute grayish bob. She sat with her legs crossed. And had a purse. She introduced herself as Jessica. Jessica, however, had failed to adequately shave the thick scruff on her chin. Lots of it. She was clearly not a she. 

And I spent the next 45 minutes wondering why. And terrified what Myles would say when he joined us in the service.

Trying to take notes during the sermon, I struggled with a dead-beat marker. Jessica scrambled in her purse to find me a worthy pen. She may have peaked at my notes. I did my best to disguise them so she wouldn't know they were about her. Kind of.

The Trinitarian topic prompted my first scribble: Church relations with one another are to reflect the relations of the Trinity.

The second jot: A quote by Miroslav Volf, "The Spirit present in all Christians 'opens' each of them to all others. It starts them on the way to creative mutual giving and receiving, in which each grows in his or her own unique way and all have joy in one another."

To all others? Really? All? Even the ones who are seemingly misguided and crazy? (Yet, I, myself am certainly misguided and crazy...I think I have learned, however, how to disguise it better.)

Creative mutual giving? What must I give to this man who has chosen to badly disguise himself as a woman? I struggled with my temptation to give him/her my disgust. Surely my censure and visible displeasure at her choice would create a change that we all could live with, right? I caught myself quickly, realizing that this must be the normal response of many, one that she is likely painfully used to. I also thought maybe Jessica trusted me not to do this in her choice to sit next to me. 

I suspect that we all wear a disguise to some degree. Trying to convince people we are someone we are not, but only aspire to be. Most of the people I associate with wear disguises that are generally approved by the masses: The executive, the supermom, the compassionate servant, etc. Jessica does not. My visceral response to this man-woman was one of judgment and fear. And shake-your-head oh dear. My judgment of her was rooted in an expectation of how most people I know implicitly agree to wear their disguises.

When Myles joined us in the service, he didn't flinch. When she asked, Myles showed Jessica the drawings he had done in Sunday School. He sat cozy with us in our too-close-together-seats. He answered her questions politely. He even took her advice about how to draw better tails on wolves. 

We ended up sitting together again at the Church BBQ that followed the service. I learned that Jessica lost her wife of 39 years to breast cancer last year. I also learned that Jessica is a successful engineer. And. That she just came out as a She a short while ago. She read my expressions well as I tried desperately to force away any judgment. But. I unmasked my confusion. She explained that after coming out as a she, she was finally able to feel like herself, to feel that this is who she really is. And in spite of the torturous reactions of many, she feels like she is being true to who she was designed to be: A woman.

In the folds of the weirdness of the story, there were some truths: A longing that we all have--to find our true selves, and be content. To find that one disguise that doesn't feel like a disguise. That one that feels like home, that it was meant just for us. An identity that reveals who we are, not who we are not.

And why am I tempted to judge someone who finds themselves in a socially unacceptable disguise, to judge that just because it's not one that I choose, it is wrong? My discomfort reveals more about me than it does about her. She was confident. And happy. And eager to share her story. I am so worried about what people think of me most of the time that I return things that people make fun of. I practically still live in middle school with some of my girlfriends. I am forced to listen to their desires for bigger boobs and Botox, and then look in the mirror and want the same.

In the end, I realized that it is not my job to judge or condemn. I am only called to love. And Jessica did indeed give something to me. I hope I gave her something too.

Things that happen when you plan to move to Canada...

Oh, the madness.
Clearly impeding my ability to write much. Or at all.
I'm busy lamenting the impending changes I must endure: finding new doctors, new schools, a new house, new stylist, new dry cleaner, new phone company, new Church, new friends, new stuff to do with the boys all summer.... (If we weren't moving, I'd have them already enrolled in at least three different summer camps! WHAT am I going to do?!?) So, yes, enjoying my last few weeks of respite work.
And. I'm grieving the loss of Denver's many treasures: My twin baby nephews, my friends from way back, my Sunday rituals, the hiking, the liquor stores (open all the time!), the many houses I can drop in to visit without notice, and Nordstrom....
And praying that our new neighbors aren't stupid, messy, creepy, or too loud past 10 p.m. Or before 6 a.m.
These are little things. Inconsequential in the big picture of it all. Granted. Yet. I still think about them, worry about them, and pray about them.
Truly, I am trying to imagine the best--a bright future filled with wonderful people, great opportunities, and memories that will help ease the pain of the ones I'm losing now.
But people really are stupid. I've heard the most ridiculous things of late.
First of all, everyone that hears we're moving has a relative that has visited Canada. That they must tell me about. This smacks about as asinine as someone telling me about their recent bowel movement. I really don't care.
Better yet are the people who like to name drop. "You're moving to Canada? Ohhhhh! I LOVE William Shatner!"
Or, "Sara McLachlin is my favorite singer. I listen to her all the time."
Yes, undoubtedly I will be in book clubs or go to Church with both of them. I am seriously questioning the ability of the American school systems. It is as if none of these humans I've recently encountered have ever seen a map.
True story: Crying about losing my easy access to Nordstrom, one of the sales clerks said, "Oh, don't worry, you can just drive down to Seattle."
Ya, that'll only take me about four days.
I know. You are likely debating which is more pathetic: Me crying over no more Nordstrom versus the idiot who failed geography.
A bit bitter here perhaps. But trying to be honest. I'm not going to pretend to be all perky about this monumental shift in my life. That would be a lie. Yes, I'm looking forward to it, but also yes, I'm sad. Really sad sometimes.
I spoke to our new mortgage lender on the phone yesterday. He said, "So, you're move is getting really close, eh?" And I did. I giggled.

worthy logic

After a recent Kindergarten school field trip, my five-year old came home delighted.

"How was it bud?"
"Good."
"Were you tired on the way home?"
"No."
"Did you fall asleep on the bus on the way home?"
"No."
"Then what is this a picture of?"
--Teacher had texted me a pic of him snoozing on the bus--
"That's me."
"What are you doing in the picture?"
"Not sleeping."

So. By that logic, I will say that currently, in the wake of the big move:

I am not grieving.
I am not scared.
And.
I am not excited, as well.

Who can resist the logic of a Chinese cutie in a Fedora?

Who, btw, wrote this recently:

Is it just me, or does this say, "I play soccer, wtf, my bruises"

?

To be worthy, not respectable

The fourth line for the fourth month.

I like the first part of this line, but the latter scares me as much as the latter part of my own body does--the implications and truths are getting too big to handle.

I am ready to take my first step toward worthiness. I am finally going to admit who I truly am. I am so sick of hiding it--the time it takes, the societal pressure to conform, the longing to fit in, the desire to continue to live in denial... These naggers have all kept me from being who I was designed to be.

Here it is folks. I confess:

I am grey.

And. I've decided to let out my roots (which are 99.9% grey) and start a college fund for my boys with all the money I'll save on my colorist. I don't mind the look of it. Yet. The reactions I get from people are fascinating. Many react as if I've decided to get fat.

They won't admit judgment, but the disapproval and fear that registers on their faces is as unmistakable as a naked person running through a restaurant.

But. Grey is sometimes a sign of worthiness. My father always claimed that his white hair was "a crown of glory" as it says in Proverbs 16:31, or beautiful, also from Proverbs: "the beauty of old men is their grey hair" but wait, that seems to apply to men. Damn double standard again.

I do like this verse though: "Even to your greying years I will bear you; I have done it, and I will carry you; and I will bear you and I will deliver you" Isaiah 46:4.

Perhaps I can buy some wisdom by not dying my hair any longer. Perhaps people will think, "wow, that old woman must know some stuff" or "Damn, that hot grey-haired old lady must have some tough kids," another thing my father often blamed his white head on.

As if I can earn respectability by an appearance that defies the common.

Yet. No doubt I will lose the throng of 20-something-year-old boys that hit on me while I'm at the bar. Wait. That only happens about once a year when I actually attend a bar, which rarely occurs by choice. And it happens only when I'm out with other women my age and mistaken for a cougar. So I think I'll survive. Even though, honestly, it is a bit flattering.

And let me be completely honest: I've been overcompensating for my flaw-filled skin with my long mane. And allowing it to cover up my back acne (thank you, genes!) so that I could once again wear strapless dresses. The hair draws attention. And, I'm not going to lie: Sometimes I love said attention. That clearly does not make me worthy, it only makes me enviable, if only to women that have no hair... but it also makes me a ridiculous, narcissistic ego-maniac. And I don't want to be that. Or even remotely resemble it.

Picture: Month ONE. I know, you can barely notice the grey roots peaking around my temples. And my hairstylist's answer for a slightly less drastic transition period: make me even blonder. So yes, folks, you can witness right here: me going from blond to white in the next year. I promise to post a pic each month and tell you about the transition and new reality. I even promise to post the forthcoming comments. That is, if I can hack it.

Truly, this decision is in line with many other decisions I've made of late: To allow the natural be revealed, to be who I was designed to be, to cut the extras and the excess that all too often inhibit my true spiritual growth, to stop hiding behind a mask... Yet, to do all of this in a very real physical sense is as challenging as the unseen ways. In some ways more.

So. My new blog titles might even be chosen from the following:

Kimberly The White

Kim The Grey of Canada

Canada's Kimberly the White

The Chronicles of Kimberly The White of Canada

Any other suggestions?

Refine This.

Post-Spring-Break Blues.

I decided to do what every self-respecting English teacher does during the holidays: Bring home several files of essays to grade and then let them sit in the corner collecting dust, peanut butter, and a few Avengers stickers.

Instead of grading, I played 50 games of Settlers of Catan, did lots of cooking and lots of dishes, went hiking and hurt my back, cleaned rooms while wishing I had a servant in the house, and then traveled 100 miles away only to do the same thing but with a different view--the windows there revealed lots of trees instead of lots of neighbors. Which would have been boring (because I actually like most of my neighbors) except we had invited the two of our friends that are stupid enough to vacation with us. They have a 9-month old. Watching them tackle all the naps and feedings and 5 a.m. wake-up calls and diaper changes was kind of like doing a victory lap. And refraining from "naa naa na naa naaaaa" while listening to them recall the near disasters that have attacked their young family was a huge test of my patience and maturity, the things I pretend to have when we have friends around who are stupid enough to vacation with us.

The ugly tales: the ones every parent knows by heart. Those of misunderstandings that happen on 0-3 hours of sleep, the lists of obligations and responsibilities that get doled out (or not) and resented, the realizations that the guilt- and obligation-free personal time you once had is gone for at least 18 years, the digestion that your body is not your own, and the admission that parenting really sucks sometimes. And. How these beautiful tiny humans make marriage extra hard. Like trying to run a marathon, only without your legs. The only encouragement we could offer was that we somehow still have two living children. And we are still married. And we offered our friends lots of alcohol.

Parenting cannot be refined. Or shortened. Or rushed through. It must be endured. And at its best it is delightful, like when those cherub faces smile and snuggle in that special crook of the shoulder and tell us they love us, or every night when they fall asleep. And. Parenting at its worst tests of our very character, like when we discover that ounce of kindness to our spouse even after getting vomited on all night long, or when we cheer on our child's assist even though two hours ago he screamed that he hates us.

Parenting refines us. A marriage that can withstand it (and grow through it) will certainly be refined as well. Either that or it will kill us.