Somewhere To Put Them

An unorganized, positive space to hold thoughts, adventure plans, revelations and stories based on real life observations 

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Because I Said So

My brother drew my attention to a stage of human development that I was fully aware of yet had a narrow understanding. “Think about it, since the age of 2, we’ve been programmed as humans to resist and defy power, to push the boundaries. It’s only human nature to say ‘no’ and do the opposite of what you are told”. An insight about the mess that represents the struggle inherent in the employer-employee relations. Do what you’re told employee because my title says I’m better than you. I’ve never grown out of the “terrible twos” and I loathe authority. The thought of oppression makes my blood boil; filling my body with a rancid smelling steam that pushes me up against a wall so high that I become dizzy with rage. Notice how I associate authority with oppression? I don’t need control. Absolutely not. What infuriates me is the insatiable need that others have for control. The ego. The need to be right. Everything is a fight, a struggle. A game. Except not for the oppressed. They’re the ones that lose. Who holds those in authority accountable? Can someone please answer that question? In all of her wisdom, Audre Lourde observes that “you can’t dismantle the master’s house with the master’s tools.” Those who are in power create systems that maintain their status, prestige and unwarranted incomes. “You just have to apply yourself; If you only had this certification; Sorry but you are over-qualified; We don’t take people with a criminal record; Sorry, you need a reference to volunteer; I can’t give you what you’re asking for, that would be unfair.” The slogans of the privileged are many. The irony hits me in the back of the head like a solid wooden bat. I taste blood and like an animal, turn to face my assailant. I’m talking about the politicians, the employers, the bankers, the health care providers, the mortgage brokers, the assholes who treat housing like a free market, the landlords, the 1%ers and basically anyone who would agree with any of those slogans. The worst is when these people are not who you would expect. The inner circle of the oppressed critiquing those around them who are experiencing if not the exact same conditions, something pretty damn close. The ability for people to internalize external messages is astonishing. Discrimination becomes stigma and the journey to self-actualization is now treacherous.

 “Whore! You fucking slut.” I have no idea how many times these insults had been hurled before I realised they were directed at me while I was on my way to the washroom. I was wearing a spaghetti string tank top. A glorious neon yellow. I could go on about romanticizing the tank top but the reality is; I like wearing fucking tank tops because I’m comfortable in them. School policy dictated that girls were not allowed to wear tank tops that had straps thinner than 3 fingers. A basically non-existent piece of clothing in 2003. So there I was, now labelled a slut whose sexual desire was obviously so strong that I had to defy school policy so that I could attract male attention. These comments confused me because at that time I did not have the capacity to pull apart the sociopolitical structures and inherent gender discrimination that led to my bullying. There were of course no dress policies that impacted the boys at the school. These comments did not miss their mark. I stared at my reflection in the girls washroom. Was I a slut? Was this what whores wore? I understood these terms to be gendered and felt shamed. I was paralyzed and unable to leave the washroom in case someone else should see me in the halls. They too would find out who I really was and my reputation would be ruined. By the time I made it back to class, my teacher was pissed enough to call me to his desk and ask why I was so late. Accused of skipping a lecture with a bullshit bathroom break I sunk back to my desk realizing that I was now on his “close watch” list. I put on my hoodie.

 Authority assumes you’re breaking the rules or at least that you intend to. There is always an ulterior motive when he is involved. If authority actually had something important to say he could just trust that people would show up, be engaged and come back next time. Half of my time engaged with authority is spent listening to why I have to listen to him. The other half is spent tuning him out. He promises safety and risk-free living lures; his main lures that pull in unsuspecting victims. “Tell me your secrets” he says; “I’m here to take care of you”. You sign the dotted line. Like an abusive relationship, you convince yourself you’re delusional (he’s not that bad; I’m over-reacting) before admitting that you were foolish enough to trust him in the first place. Its this reluctance, no, ignorance that destroys you. Your instinct is to rebel but the terrible twos have been repressed for years and you don’t remember how; or at least in a way that gets results. I’m still ignorant. Change may not be possible with the tools I have been given. For, I reside in the masters house.

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The Landlord

Come in, come in. I’ve been so busy and I have another viewing this afternoon. High ceilings, fresh paint, hydro is included and best of all, its clean. Do you work? Whats your social insurance number? I need a copy of your paystub, bank statements, credit check, references and last thousand places you have lived, your parent’s birth certificates, a list of medications, your credentials, an estimate of how often you shit and plan to have sex. I don’t like too much noise. Do you plan on having kids? Oh, and no pets. Lets not doddle now, time is money. Getting a feel for the place is never part of the deal. You either want it or you don’t.

Ah housing. The market? Incomprehensible. Prices depend on the goodwill of your landlord and so much for a smoke free Ontario. The lease? A replica of any other government document. Full of false security that favours the keyholder. Eviction is a constant reality. Its their word against yours. The renter gets fucked.

I’m fully clothed because its winter in Canada and yet I feel naked, exposed with nowhere to hide under the gaze of the landlord. I’d rather be getting a pap smear. At least my doctor apologizes for the discomfort.

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Tiny Jungle

A tiny jungle pushing through a concrete floor. A result of the natural will to survive, to fill one’s purpose. The environment is rigid yet provides enough flexibility for life to thrive. Sunlight, water supply and cracks between the concrete where dirt can accumulate and provide nutrients reminds me of the unique relationship between a person and their environment required for resilience.

What is resilience? Within the domain of psychology, Its been described as a personality trait; suggesting that someone either has it or they don’t. Its been studied as an outcome; unique to the specific setting, the person and the task at hand. The dynamic nature of resilience, it’s sometimes inconsistent presence within a single person that is context dependent supports resilience as the result of a process that occurs between a person and their environment within the context of specific task demands.

Resilience is not a tool for institutions/authorities to claim that a lack of thriving is due to a lack of a personality trait or quality. This absolves the responsibility that the environment has in contributing to the process of resilience. A person’s ability to experience resilience is not dependent on Western notions of success. If someone does not get that promotion to CEO or make the team, it does not signify an absence of resilience. 

The concept of resilience was first labelled as an area for study when researchers were studying the lives of children whose parent’s had severe and persistent schizophrenia. Researchers had hypothesized (or should I say stigmatized?) that these youth would be at a developmental disadvantage due to inadequate parenting; as if having a mental illness is equivalent to having a chaotic parenting style lacking compassion. These research studies showed that the children in these studies not only developed “typically” but often scored higher in some domains of cognitive, psychological and social functioning than children who did not have parents with schizophrenia. However, because the only marker of parenting ability that was measured was the absence or presence of a mental illness, these studies were not able to account for other (environmental) factors in these children’s lives that could have accounted for the differences.

Outside of the ironically stigmatizing origin of resilience; ironic because its seemed as such a desirable state, there has been more research done since these originating studies. Their main focus has been on making the distinction between personality trait or outcome and then examining factors that support or negate its development. Although there is no clear cut answer; mainly because resilience is  a combination of different factors that varies based on context, it is clear that the process of resilience involves an exposure to an adverse situation. There is a requirement for some sort of struggle, a period of strain that calls on the resources of the person and their environment that lead to positive adaptation and growth. I often wonder what this conclusion says for our risk averse society. By ensuring that someone is safe or that risks are removed are we actually putting them at further risk of not engaging in the process of resilience? On the other hand, if resilience is not a personality trait and is context dependent then what role would risk exposure play anyway given that resilience is not a transferable trait? What is the line between protecting the ones we love and/or serve and being paternalistic and over-bearing? Is this even up to anyone to determine outside of the individual experiencing the process?

Like the little jungle, the environment may seem restricting or even unnatural however the specific needs of the jungle are met when the environment is supportive without being rigid; present without taking over. If only we could all could contribute to and be the centre of an environment that supports without suffocating and is present without being controlling.

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Travel

I want to keep exploring.

I’m drawn to difference, to change, to experience.

I don’t need structure, just time to reflect.

I’m not well understood. An independent female.

Labels. Expectations. “I need to contribute”

I value individuals. I strive to understand.

Humanity is more than assets.

Connection is the answer.

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Relief=2 shits/day

Steph Z

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At Least It Ain’t Winter

There is a heat wave. Suffocating humidity, 40 degrees Celsius, outrageous UVs, blaring A/Cs.

Everything is extended. Longer hours at the public pool, times of day without a sweater, number of ice cream days, amount of thanks for shade.

Splash pads are not just for kids. This heat extends their benefits to adults and like a delighted child I run through the industrial sized sprinkler.

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The Waiting Room

After what seems like days, myself, my aunt and my grandparent’s find the sterile holding place for all walks of life known as ‘the waiting room’. Square and grey, the room is arranged so that there is nowhere to sit without being forced to stare directly into the face of a fellow waiter. Most choose silence however the few that speak make sure everyone around them are privy to their conversation and I wonder, is it nerves that puts someone on the spot and makes them feel like everything they have to say is a confession? Or is the quiet solitude, a sort of refuge and a time for thought that is offered by the waiting room too much space for those accustomed to the chaos of productive, city living? It’s been nearly 2 hours since our scheduled appointment time and the waiting room remains our home. My Grandpa glances at his coated silver Quartz brand wristwatch; “I’m missing my afternoon coffee time; do you think we’ll have time to go to the bank?” he asks as he pats a cheque in his front shirt pocket that he was clearly hoping to deposit.”I’m not sure Grandpa but I could put your cheque in my bank for you if you want?” A smile breaks across his face, he loves a good banter. ”What do you take in your coffee?” the stranger sitting next to him asks “I’ll get you one.” Twenty minutes later she re-appeared with 5 coffees in her hand, her strawberry blonde hair and red pants adding some needed colour to the room. She had bought one for each of us (my aunt, myself, and my grandparents) and brought a little baggie full of cream and sugar.While this action is seemingly rare, and is indeed part of the phenomenon that is “the kindness of strangers”; I’m not surprised as my Grandpa seems to attract free things. He always has a story about getting free coffee at his local Petro Canada or Tim Hortons or how some person at some store gave him a free bag of sour patch kids or hes pawning off some discarded merchandise he picked up next to a dumpster (not so much given but some finds none the less) .... “So Grandpa, what’d you pick up this week??” Was it pure boredom? The opportunity to turn a waiting room into an afternoon visit? The ever present neighbourly attitude that is part of the big town feel of Winnipeg? The fact that my Grandpa is a senior? I’ll never know what motivated that woman to buy us all coffee and its these small things that make me feel nostalgic for home.

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Spring is ripe :) (at Victoria Park Hamilton)

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Grief and Gain

Grief, loss and bereavement can lead to feeling lonely, empty, less than what was before, hopeless, lost, despair, desperate and a host of other emotions. The above emotions and the experience that led to them may evoke sympathy, pity, compassion or empathy from others while at the other end of the continuum exists an inability to comprehend or respect the experience of another human being as valid.

I’m not going to argue which end of the continuum is “right”. I believe that those who react to or support a person who is grieving will often choose their response so that their own needs are also fulfilled. The struggle becomes for the person who has experienced loss to sort through the reactions of others and pull out those meaningful chunks; to take what one needs and leave the rest behind.

Of course, to have someone say the right thing in the right moment can be validating and even uplifting however to have the expectation that others are capable of that may be unfair and even increase the impact of an unhelpful message.

I am learning to look at grief and loss as change. A shift. I attribute any anguish to the noticeable decrease of comfort that once was with the familiar. My ideals of “how I do” or “how things are” are knocked and as a rational human I am catapulted into piecing together a cracked or shattered lens. As I piece the glass back together it becomes easy to be frustrated when they don’t fit perfectly or a small part has gone missing. The inability to mould the pieces into what it was before leads to anxiety, fear, uncertainty and a ceaseless barrage of questions from within.

A quick google search of the term “grief and gain” brought up stages of grief or websites about how to manage weight gain as a result of grief eating. Self-help books on how to manage grief and move through the stages fill bookstore shelves. Without having read most (well let’s be honest, any) of these sources I reflect on university learning about grief and loss in healthcare and am encouraged. Memories are of learning how to finding the positive, the meaning in one’s experience. Understanding how a terminal diagnosis can set a person free from obligations and expectations and live life on their own terms. A weight lifts from my shoulders and I think of this and I start to focus on understanding how can I live full and rounded now?

And so as I piece back my lens I am comforted by thinking about what has always been there but was consumed with depression, chronic pain and intense feelings of failure. Comfort is found in family, friends, time, education, life experience and most of all, the appreciation that I have the ability to piece back my lens in they way that I feel fit.

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Ode to an Earthworm

Squirmy soft and moist, a little earthworm covered in dirt wrapped itself around my index finger like a snake while I was pulling weeds from the garden. It hung there for just a moment before falling; traversing the few centimeters on its way to the ground. I watched it fall, wondering what a seemingly small distance must have felt like to a tiny worm.

As it turns out, I have never, not once in my life held a worm before. I would avoid squishing them when the rains would bring them out in droves on the concrete but the thought of picking one up made me feel like squirming. I’m still amazed at how gardening made me feel connected to the earth and instead of recoiling in fear, remained still and reveled in the experience of worm to human contact.

Lost again in the black mud of the garden, the worm had drifted off and I wished it nothing but prosperity in its life of mud, plants and bugs. I looked at my nails, caked in dirt and felt a sense of understanding; it must move on.

By immersing myself in the worm’s environment, a sense of connection and appreciation replaced fear and disgust. I was propelled to learn more and was surprised to find that earthworms are thought to have been made extinct by glaciers and all Canadian earthworms have at some point bee re-introduced into our ecosystem. Supported by the Government of Ontario as natural fertilizers and indicators of healthy soil, the Canadian Wildlife Federation touts them as being a habitat destroyer. Therefore, without a concrete answer I have decided to apply my earthworm experience to daily life in hopes of fostering positive connections and understanding by immersing myself in the environment and culture of those around me.

To learn more about earthworms in Ontario, check out the following links: http://www.omafra.gov.on.ca/english/crops/facts/livingsoil4.htm http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/earthworm/            http://cwf-fcf.org/en/discover-wildlife/gardening/gardening101/green-gardening/soil-care/earthworms-as-habitat.html

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The nature of “Should”

This photo stood out to me for no reason at all. In fact, I struggled to understand how, for whatever reason, my brain decided for me that this photo represented the nature of “should”.

An empty old barn on a hike with my parents in the Oakanagan Valley. The lack of greenery and the empty grape vines, nearly excluded on the right, pay homage to the transition between winter and spring. Too consistently warm for a jacket yet the intermittent wind off the mountains cuts through you; just enough to cause discomfort.

I sit here and stare at the sunken roof, faded finish and dark yet, inviting open doorways; who knows what childhood adventures lie inside.

Where does “should” come from?

Fueled by expectations, unattainable ‘norms’, false promises, misunderstandings and internal desires; a misalignment between an ideal state and the experienced phenomenon. 

While ostensibly negative in the present moment, the history of the “should” is born from dreams, ideals, goals, and a desire to achieve. A deep burning for equality, a need for acceptance and the ability to find purpose and meaning in my day to day.

Once the “should” emerges, past dreams of the future shift to present reality and often carry pain and regret. Although fleeting, I still feel a sting and like the build up of poison, too many “shoulds” can cloud the reflection and self-compassion that is characteristic of the wiser, present self.

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Without challenges there would be no hope, resilience, collective achievements or self-actualization. And whats a world without all those things.

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Well... The Positive Thing Is...

I’ve recently been diagnosed with an anterior (front) spondylislothesis (one vertebrae slipping forward on the other in addition to a fracture of some of the small side sticky out bones that help hold the vertebrae in place...). So the picture looks a lot worse than it is (well I haven’t seen my own spine but that HAS to be an exaggeration) and by Josephine my last flare up was painful and it resulted in me having to change a lot in terms of what activities I am able to do and also my daily routine (which translates into a kind of identity crisis). I mean getting out of bed brought me to tears and I needed help to put my pants on.

For anyone who experiences chronic pain, or a sudden and unplanned event that triggers much needed behaviour change; I get it. However, I was afforded the luxury of 6 weeks of mind-numbing, debilitating pain that steals your life away. Six weeks. That is all. Not only did my fear of having to change forever dissipate but among other things I learned that:

1) I CAN change. I have the ability to engage in self-compassionate and respect my personal boundaries.

2) I have an increased understanding of the suffering of others which as an allied health professional can only make me better at my job.

3) It is not wise to take your my health for granted. Even if you think you don’t, re-evaluate.

4) I want to expand my interests and balance is not something just to be touted.

5) The medical system blows hard ass. I was aware of this but until you experience it, you don’t realize how important it is to give the person in your office the time they deserve. I sincerely pay homage to those health care professionals that respect the people that seek help.

Without this injury I would still be on the almighty path of productivity that begs the promise of happiness and success and because of it I am one step closer to understanding who I am.

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There Are No Titles

I think about her constantly. The thought of her smooth black curves and the firm solid feel of her body when I grip her tight puts me in a euphoric state. I’m hungry for the next adventure. Although we’ve had our share of ups and downs, I never hesitate to take her places she’s never been before and in return I know I can depend on her.

On these days where the sun is shining and the weather is warm I can’t get her off my mind. I hurry home and she is waiting to greet me at the door. As I check her over I start to tremble with excitement and then it begins. Heart is pounding, I’m breathing hard. A smile graces my face as I look up and push on into the warm summer evening. Every ride is the best one ever.

Put some fun between your legs. Get on a bicycle :)

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When Worlds Collide

“Does anyone have a blank piece of paper??? I just need a blank piece of paper to write something on. Anyone?!”

“What has this world come to? I mean more cameras than people! More cameras than people maaaan”

“Ok folks, if we can all just respect each other, I know its full and were almost there so just a little respect because if I gotta stop then the whole line stops. We all gotta respect each other”

A man in front of me starts to stream a punk rock music video. He doesn’t have headphones and the volume is jacked.

“Can you turn that off? You’re not the only person here.”

“Fuck you!”

“Does anyone have a blank piece of paper?!?!”

“Remember folks its all about respect, we’re almost there if you can hold on a little longer. Can you please turn your music off. Respect please”

A young man passes a blank piece of paper over to the woman who has been frantically searching the small crevices at the front of the street car for something to write a small message on.

“Thanks man! Here you go dude, that’s what I was talking about. Check it out”

“I mean like I love you sooo much let me buy you a beer. Oh my gaaawwddd like this is sooo coool I can’t even believe it” Coming from the ‘too many cameras’ man in reference to today’s post-secondary students.

Were passing through China town and when the bus stops a large number of passengers depart. Still packed, I slink past the backpacks and people clinging to the metal hand grabs to make my way to the back. I never understand why people avoid the back when there is always more room....

“I don’t even think I feel like going out tonight anymore. Oh gaawwwd I’m so tired. Oh shit! ‘insert name’ liked my post. I totally took that picture last time we were at ‘insert popular public gathering place’, remember?”

I look to my left and a young artist is screening through some abstract photography.

“Oh is that right? They just switch it over when the music starts?” responds an older male to his younger female companion (I’m thinking father-daughter/uncle-niece type relationship) regarding a new place a family member or friend has opened up.

A man on my left is hunched over, staring at his feet with his fingers in his ears. Hands well worked with fading tattooed letters on his fingers.

And then.... I take a deep breath and smile because in my heart I hope that no matter where were from, we all get to where we need to go

**disclaimer: names are not actual names, I have no way of actually knowing that information. Also, I understand and respect that this is my perspective and one version of a street car experience

**photo cred: http://swizzlestudio.com/2015/08/building-a-bizarre-streetcar/

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Cold and lonely. Empty and waiting. A history of newsworthy notices gone without a trace

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Not all who wander are lost

JRR Tolken