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[cowgirlontheloose]

Between Worlds

The Horse

I have just bought a horse with mud-encrusted ribs for $200. from a dealer on the Ontario side of the Ottawa River. The mare is dispirited and so are the flies that buzz about her. The dealer lies through his brown teeth between spits of tobacco juice. 

“This mare’ll clean up in the show ring, you bet!” 

I don’t care about showing her but I buy her anyway for questionable reasons: a) she has dappled haunches; b) my friend Craig found the dealer and the mare and I don’t want to disappoint him; c) I feel sorry for her; d) I like to pretend I know what I’m doing.

The Quyon Ferry

The dealer yanks my horse from his truck down a wobbly ramp that forces her to slide, hop and snort, then he rattles away along the empty rural road and out of sight, taking his clouds of flies with him. 

Here we wait, horse and I, for the little ferry to take us across to the Quebec shore where Craig awaits us.  He is not my boyfriend, though he would like to be. Occasionally I have allowed some smooching and pawing at night under the Champlain bridge with cars thunk-ka-thunking overhead. But I’m only passing time and he knows it. I pray the six-car ferry will not be full, and so far, there are no cars waiting. I tug burrs from the mare’s straggly mane. She sighs. 

Bells chime from across the river. I see the Quyon church steeple, a few pale houses and the ferry slanting its way in our direction, determined as a beetle.  The ferry docks and two half-ton trucks unload and speed away into the autumn afternoon. The mare makes no objection to the thump of ramp and chain-clanking or growly engine noises. I lead her on board praying she won’t object, but she only cocks one ear at the clop of her unshod hooves on the ferry’s steel deck. We are the only passengers.

I breathe deeply and lean into the tangy autumn breeze.  We gurgle and swish away from Ontario. The captain and ferry boy barely glance in our direction. If they had, they would have seen my eyes suddenly leap like …stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Look’d at each other with a wild surmise — Silent upon a peak in Darien.

The Warrior Princess

The Quyon ferry crossing takes only 10 minutes, yet once launched the young woman is inexplicably transformed into a Warrior Princess, cape and all. The mare too, senses something; lifts her head and flares her nostrils like Sleipnir, the eight-legged steed of Norse god, Odin. Clearly the pair are being spirited away from the land of muddled existence and propelled towards their true destinies. The creaking clipper ship plunges on. The blue-eyed Warrior’s scarlet cape snaps like flames. She braces her legs against the ship’s dancing motion, and exchanges a glance with her steed. Finally! They are bound for a land of freedom and clarity. 

The ferry’s horn blasts my enchanted reverie. I blink. The church steeple glints, grows nearer. Small blobs on shore become a family with fishing rods, and now I see cars waiting for the ferry to dock.

The ferry boy rattles chains and slides back the exit gate. The greasy scent of french fries wafts from a chip truck in the parking lot. 

The Pay Off:

Craig awaits us with his horse trailer to drive us to the stable where I will board the mare. She loads without objection, one clop at a time. As we drive away, I pull an apple from my bag and twiddle the radio dial for CKOY.  I think awhile about the ferry ride, wondering and wishing, but for what I don’t know. 

After some time,  Craig slows, then pulls onto a narrow side road and cuts the engine. From the sudden silence a bluejay calls. He smirks.

“What’s up?” I say.

“It’s payback time,” he says, still smirking. “One good turn deserves another.” I stop chewing my apple. I am never sure when he’s kidding, so I laugh. The bluejay swoops and screams again.

He’s not kidding. I grow cold. My ears ring with the punch of his words as he recites all the ways I owe him. Meanwhile, the ferry is already buzzing back towards the Quebec shore, taking the Warrior Princess, her steed and goodly kingdoms with it. Craig lays out his points calmly as a judge. Occasionally he glances in his sideview mirror. He does not look at me. I am a commodity. Something to be bartered for like a truck load of ripe fruit. 

I only recall how I felt in those moments and not the words. An echo-y hollow feeling in my head. Something pressing on my chest. My guts twisting. I refuse to cooperate, but my voice is quaking and coming from far away. He never even touches me, yet poisonous gasses of self-hate infiltrate my pores. 

It’s all my fault. My fault for being me, for being female, for being pretty, for sometimes liking to smooch. For buying a horse. For wanting something I can’t find. But most of all for being alive.

A lone cricket skreeks from the ditch. We drive on.

[cowgirlontheloose]

Getting It Right

I’m not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens

— Woody Allen 

It delights me that Buddhists talk about death a lot. At my first retreat nearly two decades ago (10 days silent and solo — what was I thinking?) my teacher said on the first morning, “Let’s face it, we learn to meditate in order to prepare for death.” I blinked.

I sat cross-legged in front of her, wishing I had worn my sweater. The basement meditation room was damp and chill with B.C. coast rain. Hints of incense and mould intermingled. Sunshine glared behind Teacher, rendering her a silhouette like someone in a witness protection TV interview. I had hoped to hear something more along the lines of meditation guaranteeing tranquility and bliss. Still, I felt heartened. That rogue elephant in the room trumpeting its truths that we all try to ignore was finally being addressed. I adjusted my rosewood mala beads and straightened my spine. I was in for the long haul.

                                                  * * * * * 

When it comes to disposing of my carcass, I would choose a sky burial. This Tibetan Buddhist tradition is considered an act of compassion towards hungry fellow creatures. Friends and family could haul my wrinkles and folds to a high point somewhere; maybe Foley Mountain near Westport or Champlain Lookout in Gatineau Park. There I would be hacked into pieces and left for critters to devour.

With luck, turkey vultures would arrive. (I simply must tell you here that a group of these birds flying is called a “kettle”. If they are sitting in trees they are a “committee”, but clustered around my corpse they would become a “wake.” Perfect.) 

For decades cremation was my plan. I wouldn’t be taking up land and my ashes could be sprinkled somewhere bucolic. But then I read mortician Caitlin Doughty’s hilarious and thoughtful memoir, Smoke Gets In Your Eyes and Other Lessons From the Crematory. I learned that after flooding a corpse with formaldehyde and rubbing alcohol, a single cremation requires enough fuel for an 800 km. car journey, and releases about 400 kg. of CO2 into the atmosphere along with vaporized mercury from teeth, toxins from prosthetics, bone cement from common surgeries, sulfur dioxide, volatile organic compounds (VOC) and more. A U.S. study states we have 219 toxins in our bodies. One of them, BPA, causes reproductive and neurological damage, and is found in 93 per cent of humans aged six and up. 

If you don’t like acknowledging elephant’s in your house, don’t read Doughty’s book. 

Meanwhile, in another favourite book, Vulture: the private life of an unloved bird, Katie Fallon tells us that the birds play an important role in the health of an ecosystem. Vultures are peaceable, harmless and helpful.

“They are perfectly adapted to cleanse, purify and renew,” says Fallon. Kind of like the Buddha’s teachings when I think of it. 

                                                  * * * * *

Anyway, I’ve rethought the sky burial scene. Even if I could convince my family to carry me furtively to a hilltop by the misted light of a half moon, they would probably balk at hacking me up and would have to hire someone in a dark alley and at great expense. Not good.

Buddhist teachings also remind me to do no harm to any beings, including creepy-crawlies. So surely I need to consider them in my carcass disposal plan. My ancient form is already full of mercury and lead (I have the medical print outs to prove it) along with prednisone, Cipralex and 2 kinds of glaucoma eye drops which I imagine could cause gut-wrenching indigestion or death to fellow scavengers — at least if the pharmaceutical handouts of symptoms and toxicity are to be believed. 

Perhaps we humans are kidding ourselves that natural burials are eco-friendly. Have any studies been done on the effects of toxic human corpses on teeny decomposers and worms? We all know what happens to coyotes that eat poisoned bait. In order to prevent unwitting bacteria, fungi and microbial decomposers from meeting a ghastly end, maybe the right thing after all is to be entombed in a bullet-proof casket.

                                                     * * * * *

The closest “green” cemetery is a three-hour drive away from me. I browse the website wistfully, sighing at the thought of my remains swaddled in a hand-woven linen shroud beneath a meadow waving with buttercups; shimmering with the flit of swallow-tailed butterflies and nary a gravestone spoiling the view. 

Still, I must consider my family and friends. They’ll surely think twice about a six-hour round trip to sit in a meadow slapping mosquitoes to remember me fondly and weep.

I haven’t yet come up with a disposal solution that will not harm others. However, I do have a promising lead on a burial suit infused with non-GMO mushroom spores. Apparently it will eat my corpse and leave behind 100 per cent pollutant-free compost. There’s even a Ted Talk about it. Still, It seems a shame I must nix a sky burial. According to author Fallon, the stomach acid and gut flora of vultures can neutralize dangerous pathogens such as anthrax, botulism, cholera and salmonella. So a bit of mercury, lead and medications would be a cakewalk for them. 

                                                         * * * * *

My beloved Buddhist teacher, Cecilie, went to unusual lengths to wake me up. She threw her false teeth at me, sat on me, or stuck a finger up my nose. 

“You’re doing it again” she would say, tilting a glass of water over my cringing form, her blue eyes piercing mine. If I whined, she let me have it.

She was trying to alert me to one of my blind spots:  my control freak nature.

“Stop it! Stop trying to get everything right!”

“But….”

“Take your hands off the dial — stop twiddling with it!”

“But I just…”

“You’re doing it now — trying to come up with the correct response!”

I shut my mouth.

Cecilie died several years ago. I miss her like crazy. A few precious teaspoons of her cremated body rest in a pouch on my altar. A photo of her smiling right at me with those eyes hangs beside me when I meditate; when I breath and breathe and try to let things go, like the right way to discard my terrestrial scraps. When I try to stop figuring things out.

[cowgirlontheloose]

The Man Who Cried At Railway Stations

1.  You grew up in the country, so diversions for you and your brothers were mostly outside. Trees to climb, bushes to hide in and a weedy ditch where you collected tadpoles or sailed sticks and leaves. Best of all though, were the CPR locomotives billowing smoke and glory past your home that brought you running always. 

Your ribcage vibrated to 17 tons of thunder and steel huffing by. The engineer with his red neckerchief and one elbow leaning from the window, waved and pulled the cord to ding-dong the brass bell of enchantment. You were close enough to see his moustache and easy smile.

You don’t recall how many trains passed daily, but certainly a couple and at least one night flyer at 11 p.m. heading for Hull, Ottawa and Montreal. You know that for sure. As a kid you lay awake for lonely hours fretting about school which you despised; wondering if you could play sick again. Maybe a stomach ache this time. Finally, thankfully, you heard the first distant chuff of the train. By the time it wailed past the house, your bed had transformed into a magic carpet drifting off to dreamland, the train labouring far below, streaming smoke and sparks into the night. 

Decades later you read accounts by others online who had the same experience. You also find an endless trail of sites offering statistics, studies, commentary, facts, fantasies and minutiae about trains. You find photos and videos, such as an 8-hour train sound track on a site called Virtual Dreamer (”We design sleep sounds for insomnia, tinnitus and noise masking.”) You note that over three million people have visited the site. One fan comments: “I almost cried when I saw this. I thought I was the ONLY ONE who had to hear the sound of a train horn in order to have a peaceful sleep. God bless you.

There are medical studies too. Some indicate that trains passing at night can raise heart rates and lead to cardio-vascular issues. Others enthuse about the calming and reassuring effects of the same. You also discover that people of all ages on the autism spectrum are fascinated by trains. Dr. Amanda Bennett of Philadelphia encourages parents to use this as motivation to reward desired behaviour in kids by “taking the train,” either with a model train or through Youtube videos. 

2.  Your son, now a parent of teenagers, may have genetically inherited his train love from you. The unpretentious depression-era brick farm house where he grew up was far enough from town that only the faintest sounds of passing trains (now diesel) could be heard if the wind was blowing from the south-east. But more likely, it was your partners influence that did it. This man, who spent six years in your lives, brought with him, besides a wicked sense of humour, an abiding affection for all things train.

He constructed, with your blessings, a waist high model train platform ostensibly for your son. It took up half the living room. Together and separately, son and partner tinkered, repaired, upgraded, dusted and ran that railroad like highly paid pros. Yes, they wore engineer hats. You have the photos to prove it. 

One evening as you lie aching in bed with a fever, you begged your man to fill a water bottle with near scalding water from the kitchen kettle. He disappeared downstairs. You waited. And waited. You moaned loudly, hinting. Then from the living room you heard the murmur of voices and yes, the clicking-clack of the model train rocketing across vast plains and through tunnels. You had been sidelined by an obsession. 

3.  At a writing course in creative non-fiction at the University of Minnesota, you meet a delightful couple. Greg and Jean are both in their early 80s. They are feisty and frail, full of curiosity and ideas drawn from long lives of exploring and risking in whatever situations they found themselves in. They became the dominant force in the group in a most charming way. Jean walked heavily with a cane and wore her white hair in one pigtail. At first you wondered if Greg had dementia, or whether he even knew where he was, but you soon discovered otherwise. Although quiet for long periods where he seemed to doze, he would suddenly open his very blue eyes and offer a thought with clarity, insight and humour. 

You all grappled that week to understand what creative non-fiction is or isn’t. You never do get clear about it, but really, who cares. The best explanation is written by Laura Wexler in an excerpt from “Saying Goodbye to ‘Once Upon A Time.’” She says:  “People tell stories to serve their political and psychic needs. Most of the stories aren’t the basis of their truth. Postmodernism allows us to see that even the most unreachable stories -- the stories in which truth seems to purposely hide in the shadows -- can be written as nonfiction by focusing as much on interpretation as event.

So you all write and read aloud some of your own shadowy truths. Several times readers pause when tears well up. It’s hard to explain that sort of thing, but it’s gorgeous when it happens. You yourself choke up reading aloud about your first cookbook and again over a day spent with three biologists and hundreds of rare snakes on a tiny island in Manitoba. Your tears are neither nostalgic nor sad. You are grateful to say them aloud and have them acknowledged with such tender respect.

When Greg reads you are blown away. His very short piece is titled “This Man Cries At Railroad Stations.” He describes how as a small boy, he and his brother spent every weekend without fail riding the transit system around the city. They did this to escape their scary parents. The brothers invented their own transportation system and wove names like Forty Fort, Wounded Knee, Fiery Siding, Temperance River, Steamboat Spring and Thunder Bay into fancied railroad schedules, rejoicing in the evocative, liberating names. It saved them from the hell at home.

As an old man, Greg said he still cries at railroad stations.

You never forget them. You tear up now as you write about them. Somewhere you still have a wee yellow ticket Greg gave you. It says “Good For One Fare Between Minnehaha, Minnesota and All Points West. 

[cowgirlontheloose]

Cocoon

(A Flash Essay) 

My elegant mother in her old beige parka is yodelling with the loons across our April bay. 

Dad cuts the outboard; lets us drift and lap, sway and slurp. A cold sun wobbles towards night. The air is sharp. I snuggle close to Mum as shadows creep. Her parka has red wool lining and a floppy hood. It smells of our dogs; of wind and camp stove fuel. usually it hangs on a peg by the door, a patient cocoon. 

The cradle-boat rocks and swings. My mother’s glittering cries echo from the woodsmoke shore. I shiver. Where has this vibrating spirit come from with her fierce, knowing howls? 

[cowgirlontheloose]

Hello Central, Give Me Heaven

Hello Central, give me Heaven

For I know my mother’s there…

And you’ll find her with the angels

Over on the golden stair...

How did Bluegrass get a hold on a clan of middle class Scottish Presbyterians in rural Quebec during the 1950s? I’ve long wondered why my brothers and I, my son, a sprinkling of nephews and now my two granddaughters — the eldest who is aiming for a science degree at university — fell under its high lonesome spell.

I can’t speak for my brothers, but Bluegrass has been a godsend for this repressed black sheep girl-child growing up in the miasma of “Father Knows Best” and “I Love Lucy”.  Where else could I safely wallow in lyrics such as  …Get that dust off the Bible and redeem your poor, poor soul. Plus Bluegrass brings death to the conversation with every breath, something that White Anglo Saxon Protestants prefer to ignore until far too late. I’ve always admired those who address elephants in the room. Go tell that ball room lady/ All dressed in worldly pride/ That death’s dark train is coming/ Prepare to take a ride.

Before the Hamilton clan met Bluegrass, however, came the rock n’ roll revolution. My hormones exploded. Hello Bill Hayley, Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis! In a tossing sea of ponytails and tinkling charm bracelets I shrieked at Elvis during “Jailhouse Rock" in Ottawa’s jam-packed Capitol Theatre. Goodbye to music charts topped by crooners Perry Como and Doris Day. Farewell to Dad’s stack of blues and jazz records:  Billie Holiday, Cab Calloway and Woody Herman.

My girlfriend Joanie and I jived in our living room caroling:  …we’re gonna rock, rock, rock till ba-rod daylight…  Mum observed, her face a blank. Our two hounds rose from their snooze and left the room. Upstairs my older brother, Ian, a Johnny Cash wannabe, whaled on his guitar, moaning “…his earthly race is over and the curtains round him fall, We’ll carry him home to Dixie on the Wabash Cannonball.” Then there was Dad, quite likely downstairs soaking up a chunky stack of 78 rpms. I can see him now, a long leg cocked over one arm of his favourite chair, rustling through the newspaper to Glenn Miller’s  “Tuxedo Junction”:  Feelin’ low, rockin’ slow, I want to go right back where I belong…

My father had a 4-string Silver Belle banjo which he never played. He was sheepish about it; said he’d only played when he was courting Mum. He wore a straw boater then and a bow-tie too. “Well, it worked” he said, waggling his hands like some vaudeville gigolo.

My younger brother, Derek, showed no musical leanings whatever until the day he vanished into his room with the Silver Belle and a Pete Seeger record on learning the banjo. He taped  “Do Not Enter” to his door and was incommunicado for six months. My friend Jane still remembers listening to him struggle through “Darling Cory” played to a dangling phone receiver. 

“No wait — I gotta start again. Wait! Listen to this!” 

But one day he emerged, purchased a 5-string long necked banjo and wowed us all with his Scruggs 3-finger picking style. 

Our friends were soaking up Bob Dylan, Joan Baez or The Brothers Four, but we fell like miserable sinners, my brothers and I, to the down-home delivery and heartache harmonies of Bluegrass. We gloried in graves in the valley, Memphis trains, bootleg likker, burdens and lonesome souls. We worshipped like hungry hounds at the feet of Bill Munroe, The Greenbriar Boys and Flat and Scruggs. We need a whole lot more a’ Jesus and a lot less rock n’ roll.

My mother, whose middle name was Cultured, did her best to steer us right. Had she been a Bluegrass lover, she would have played Vince Gill singing Come to Jesus today, let him show you the way/ You’re drifting too far from the shore…   Instead she put Beethoven or Mozart on our stereo player, then served up bacon and eggs to my brothers and I at our glossy dining room table. Morning sun spattered rainbows from glass prisms in a girandole on the sideboard while we sat like lumps, barely awake. We rolled our eyes.

My Presbyterian ancestors I suspect viewed all emotions with narrowed eyes. The notion of long-gone generations of Elizabeths and Johns stomping along to “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” or “Rollin’ In My Sweet Baby’s Arms” seems a stretch. Yet according to many sources, including Bluegrass aficionado Pastor Fred Martie of Missouri’s KJAB 88.3 Christian Radio, that soulful Bluegrass energy lurks in my DNA. The Irish and Scots who came to America in the 1600s brought the roots of Bluegrass with them. So did the African American slaves. Over centuries the two traditions entwined, evolved, but it took Kentuckian Bill Munroe’s musical genius to braid those tangled roots into Bluegrass. In 1939, he swerved away from traditional country music with his group The Bluegrass Boys. They sang hard-driven harmonies accompanied by mandolin, banjo, fiddle, guitar and bass. When Earl Scruggs joined the band in 1945 with his innovative banjo-picking, classic Bluegrass was born.

I am now pushing 80 and Bluegrass still rambles round my soul.  I’m a long-gone Christian, lapsed dabbler in Hinduism, a Buddhist groupie and a traveller in Western mysteries plus friend to Tarot archetypes (call me The Fool) along with a heavenly host of gods, goddesses and deities. 

Like Walt Whitman, I am large; I contain multitudes. 

I’ve had epiphanies and train wrecks with all of it. Yet running like a mountain echo throughout has been Bluegrass, especially the gospel tunes. There’s nothing like it to soothe this wandering soul:  …Sometimes it’s dark, sometimes you’ll swear you’re blind/ But I believe that we'll be all right/ As long as you keep on/ Lookin’ for the light.

Or as some Bluegrass tenor named Slim or maybe Doc nailed it:  I’m just a pilgrim on this road, boy,/ This ain’t never been my home.

[cowgirlontheloose]

Sip, Swallow, Smile

     I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror while my dad endures a marathon of coughs in the bedroom. It sounds like his lungs and all his innards are coming up. He has emphysema. I squint hard at a blackhead on my nose as the hacking explodes on and on.  My lungs feel radioactive, my stomach is a bombed out crater of fear.

     “Please don’t die” I whisper to the mirror.  And then, “Please die” and I feel something crushing my entire body like the greasy blackhead I am.  Please God take my dad out of his misery.  My misery. 

     My dad is back in hospital during the worst heat wave ever.  The sun blares grimly through smog creeping its way up the Eastern U.S. seaboard into Ontario and Quebec.  I yearn to gasp and clutch my throat like a strangling heroine, my bosom heaving.  It would feel so good and right to fall to my knees and pound my forehead to the red kitchen linoleum until I see stars.  

     MummyMummyI’mscared!

     Instead, I follow my mother’s example and butter my toast, dunk my teabag up and down; sip, swallow, smile.  Even the robin chirping from a lilac bush outside sounds fake.  Fake it till you make it.  Sip, swallow, smile. 

     Mum leaves for the hospital.  Her makeup is understated, her paisley dress crisp, her eyes bright.  She’s off to see her darling in a shimmer of Joy Eau de Parfum, a special gift from my dad.  I will get groceries, run errands and join them later.  I watch her leave, slipping the clutch as usual and gunning the Honda out of the driveway in a spurt of gravel.

       As a teenager and without my mums permission, I would dab Joy on my collarbones before a date.  In 1929 at the time of The Great Depression. Joy was billed as “the world’s most expensive perfume.” Sometimes I just held the bottle, sniffing its mystery. I loved its classy Art Deco lines, and the golden thread around its neck was a clue to something that eludes me still.

     Day after day, a nasty wind gusts this way and that.  It offers no comfort from humidity or heat.  It stirs the dread oozing through my limbs.  I feel its corrosive flow down my legs, at the soles of my feet, along the clench of my throat.   Air conditioning in the grocery store raises goose bumps on my arms and wraps bony fingers around my neck.  I put whole grain bread, 2 per cent milk and broccoli into the grocery cart.  Sip, swallow, smile.  I try to reason with myself.  Shouldn’t I feel sad?  Where are my tears?  But reason has gone like Greyhound.  My maggoty skin crawls.  Back home, curtains throughout the house flap and flail.  Evil this way comes.

     The hospital has no air conditioning.  I have to glide down the hall rather than walk because of the two inch cork soles on my trendy sandals.  My tomato red dress blares with yellow sunflowers and is so short I must move gingerly with a ramrod back, especially when sitting.  I am a puppet, wooden and wide-eyed.  Someone else is twitching my limbs, opening my mouth.  My parents’ dear faces turn towards me like pale melons in a dark landscape.  There is too much here to bear.  I blink my Howdy-Doody puppet smile.  “Hi Dad!” 

     Night after night is a swamp hell of damp bed sheets and no sleep.  Crazed killer Charles Manson is in our basement.  I know this for a fact.  Every cell in my body feels it.  I can’t avoid his bogeyman face leering from the daily paper and every newsstand.  The infernal wind masks the sound of him creeping up the stairs with psycho eyes glittering.  The hounds of hell bay in my head as I curl into a ball and clamp my hands on my ears.   HELTER SKELTER!  DEATH TO PIGS!   The media headlines follow me to bed.  I cannot stop this waking nightmare.  Manson is on the first floor now, standing in the hall, feeling for the stairs. 

         Back to the hospital with its shiny brown linoleum I go.  I feed my father soup and we are both shy.  I feel an urge to punch myself in the face.  Instead I offer the spoon to Dad’s trembling tongue.  My brothers stand at the end of his bed one day when Mum and I are not there.  “I wish I could throw in the towel boys,”  he says. Man to man.  

     My husband back home writes me a letter.  He signs is “I.L.Y.” and draws a tiny stick figure of a man with a hard on.  I try to feel pleased but something not nice prickles along my spine.  Is this the best he can come up with? Howdy Doody jerks his head and sneers “Now isn’t that romantic folks!” 

     The bottle of Joy still sits on my mum’s mahogany dresser.  When she isn’t around I hold it in my hands and breath in its blessing.  Sip, swallow, smile.   But my parents door is shut tightly and I am six years old again standing in the dark hall, afraid to knock. 

[cowgirlontheloose]

Searching for God

In the beginning

     One late winter day when a melting sun spread like butter across the snowy field behind our house, my Mum, my little brother and I had a picnic lunch on the back veranda.  Our cat, Queenie, came too, twitching her plume of a tail, her eyes ablaze with stirrings of spring.

     We sat on a tartan blanket spread on the wooden deck. Dad had shovelled the veranda all winter and the green canvas awning would not be put up till May, so on that early March day, it was a sunny haven. 

     Mum lay back on her elbows and tilted her movie star sunglasses to the sky and sighed and said “I feel like a new woman!”  Although I was only six I knew what she meant.  It had been a long winter of dark days, of Dad away in Montreal or Chicago or Vancouver, of flu, colds and chicken pox and frequent visits from Dr. Church — Mum hovering in the background — with his stethoscope and big belly.

     I still remember a bath infused with something to soothe my painful pox, and how tenderly Mum wrapped me in a towel afterwards. Years later when I saw an image of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, I felt again the sensation of rising naked, streaming and itch-free from the water as my mother’s towelled arms reached for me. I don’t know why Botticelli took me back to that bath, or which one of us was Venus.  It wasn’t till I had decades more of life under my belt that I understood we both were. 

     But on that sunny winter day we nibbled ham sandwiches on white Wonder Bread and drank hot cocoa from a thermos. Icicles dripped and splatted from the eaves. We unbuttoned our wooly coats and listened to the happiness of chickadees and crows.

   �� Suddenly and with great conviction, I took my little brother’s face in my hands and said “Why Doodle-bug, you look just like God!”  From my mother’s reaction I knew I had said something noteworthy, but I didn’t know what and could not explain myself further. My small freckled brother only squinted into the sun with half a sandwich drooping from his mitt. 

In the middle

     For most of my 40s I volunteered for three, four-hour shifts a month at the Ottawa City Distress Centre.  People called for all sorts of reasons beyond depression or suicide.  I loved waiting for the phone to ring while I sipped tea and peered from the centre’s fifth story window at the beings striding or shuffling along below.  Perhaps I had talked on this very phone with one of them.  Or so I liked to think.

     I was good on the phones. For the first time ever, I found I could truly connect with people.  For one thing, I had to sincerely listen instead of, in my usual manner, wait for a chance to cut in and flap my gums.  There were no visual cues to cloud my judgement.  No clothes, accessories, hairdos or mannerisms to make me jump to unhelpful conclusions.  All I had to go on was a voice and a mysterious conduit that ran between us through wires, various switches, terminals and space.

     A woman named Alice called several times a week.  Her warm voice gurgled like brook water into my ear. In our many talks I never discovered much about her situation. I imagined she was in care somewhere, either with relatives or in a home.

     When Alice called, I could relax.  Sometimes I put my feet up on the desk and tilted back the chair, settling in for something sweet.  Depending on the day and who knows what else in Alice’s rich life, she claimed she was either pregnant with, or had recently given birth to, the baby Jesus.  Although this was 100 per cent unlikely, I rejoiced with her at this thrilling news.  She certainly never sounded distressed which made me happy for her.  Perhaps she called because her family or caregivers were tired of hearing about Baby Jesus. 

     My most unforgettable call was not from Alice, however, but from a manic depressive man who planned to kill himself.  He was not suicidal at the time, so there was no point in tracking his call and keeping him talking until police banged at his door.  Nonetheless, he had a plan and was committed to it.  His voice was reasoned, intelligent and also conveyed what I can only describe as certainty. 

     His family had stood by him through years of hell.  When he wasn’t weeping, he was on spending sprees:  once a race horse named Galveston Gal, although he knew nothing about the racing world; another time a stone mansion on 20 acres with tennis courts, a pool and three car garage.

         “I know they love me,” he said.  “I know they will cry a lot.  But time will take care of all that.  My wife will remarry and my kids will grow up in a sane home.” By then I was listening so hard that my forehead was on the desk and my eyes shut so nothing could get in the way.

     I said very little.  I think he was grateful for that.  I hope I said I love you, but I can’t be sure I did.  It was a long time ago.

Belonging

     On a Buddhist retreat a few years ago, our teacher told us to spend as much time outdoors as possible.  Each of us carried a magnifying glass and, besides being silent for the two week duration, we were instructed to examine everything. 

     “Feel your deep belongingness with all life,” he said.  “We are family.  We are woven on the looms of each other’s lives.”  So out we all went, dispersing into the 300 acres of leafy woods, eager to be at one with the universe.  Mostly I was relieved I didn’t have to endure endless sits in the meditation hall, waiting for the gong to sound and feeling like a failed Buddhist.  Roaming forests, fields and waters, especially on my own, was my favourite thing to do.

     I peered at moss, sand, fungi, petals, pine cones, webs, galls and gelatinous bird poops. The underside of leaves often held specks of mystery — possibly eggs or some minute creature perhaps waiting for an insect’s version of Godot. 

     Our teacher had set up an old Nikon microscope at the back of the hall. It was impressively heavy, and sat under a plastic cape, within a wooden box.  This we could use for “deeper looks” as he put it, waggling his eyebrows encouragingly.

     I had never used a microscope and my first zoom in on the carcass of a house fly caused me to holler “Holy Fuck!” which alarmed several steadfast meditators.  The fly was on its back and had a hole in its desiccated stomach.  I felt I was gazing into an echoing cavern beyond space and time.  Where the hell was I exactly?  Then I realized that a weensie spider — certainly invisible to the naked eye — was living in that cavern. There it lurked with minuscule glittering eyes in its dead fly home, doing whatever it had to do to keep itself alive and the world turning. I sat back with one hand clamped over my mouth.  This was too much. 

     For the rest of the retreat, I was glued to that Nikon. I continued to see worlds within worlds within universes. In my one-on-one sessions with our teacher I babbled on about my discoveries. The way he listened, looked at me, made me want to weep and sometimes I did. I knew he was used to it. One day I was raving about looking at the yellow centre of some daisy-like wildflower and discovering it was made up of tubes. Then I saw that tiny white creatures lived inside the tubes. They bustled in and out from tube to tube obviously with much on their tiny minds. My teacher’s smiled and said “…and if we could look even deeper, no doubt we’d find smaller creatures living in or on those creatures — and so on and so on.”

     For years as a journalist, I had been writing about the importance of biodiversity and how everything is interconnected. But really, what the hell did I know? It took a microscope and a dead fly for me to begin to understand what our teacher kept patiently pointing us towards. In his words:  “Looking deeply into our current situation, we can see that this place and this time are actually vast mysteries of creative collaboration that ultimately involve all places and times.”

[cowgirlontheloose]

Meet My Slapping Hand

I confess. I want to slap some, okay -- many people that I meet. I want to bellow at them to Wake Up! This is not helpful, I know that. Still, I cannot deny the irritation and fury roaring down my right arm to my hand. My slapping hand, which is wrinkled, veined and speckled with age spots. No point in trying to deny my slapping urges. No point in forcing my mind towards wise thoughts -- you know the kind. Everyone is doing the best they can. Everyone is on their own journey. Who am I to judge?

Well, I am judging. Most of all I judge myself. Why didn’t I do more to save the planet when I was young and had more energy? Now I am ancient and severely limited in the energy department. 

Am I wiser? Well at least sometimes I now know not to believe, nor follow up on, my misguided thoughts and urges. Slapping for instance. So that’s a start.

I’ve had a lifetime of feeling guilty that I was born into a culture and family dripping with advantages. Taxi Driver, an early ‘70s Martin Scorcese film, made me want to flee my WASP existence and move to New York City to be a 12-year old prostitute just like Jody Foster so I could atone for all of my good fortune. Sounds crazy, right?

These days I spend hours looking at photos of people from other realities than mine. I never want to forget images of anyone who is not like me. At least, in ethnicity and geographical reality. The basics remain the same -- the fact that we are all human, that’s the good part, and I do get that. 

People photos haunt me like warm ghosts. They walk around on my feet, digest my food, cry my tears. Sometimes I crawl into their skin, sometimes they claim me first. The young hairdresser with multi-coloured dreadlocks snipping away in a ratty salon in Bilbao, Spain; the transvestite in a cabaret in Thailand; a venomous snake handler in a Pentecostal church in Tennessee; a Zulu couple nattily dressed for the 10-mile walk from their kraal to market; a Nuba wrestler in Sudan; a child goat herder in Afghanistan, snotty nosed, shy. 

Our lives are different. They are exactly the same. We laugh and cry and behave like creeps and angels for the same reasons. I need to remember that, remember them, recognize me. 

The beloved Vietnamese activist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, says in one of his poems: Please call me by my true names, so I can wake up, and so the door of my heart can be left open, the door of compassion. 

Photographs help me open my heart, but damn, it’s a full time job. Like I said, my slapping hand is still itching. 

 Some years ago, my first Buddhist teacher came up behind me in the cool, red-tiled lobby of a Guatemalan hotel where I was checking emails. I quickly tried to pretend I was just hanging out, but too late. 

Think about what you are doing, he said. I said nothing but was on instant alert. His eyebrows were ferocious. 

You’re running out of time, he said. So what’s it going to be, he said. Reading emails or waking up? I wanted to defend myself. Surely I was innocent. What’s wrong with checking emails? I felt anxious because I knew that emails weren’t the point. I knew what he meant and he was right. 

I still send emails. Now I am the one wanting to shout Wake Up! But I’m nobody’s teacher and maybe they don’t want to wake up. I am still trying to do so myself, but, damn! It’s a full time job as I said. You would think I have enough waking up to do on my own plate without worrying about others.

Are we not of interest to each other? asks the poet Elizabeth Alexander. Good question. If we really were of interest to each other, and not busy, like me, trying to manipulate those we love and hate, we’d all be awake and this world wouldn’t be in a mess. 

Poetry is like photography. It speaks to parts of me that aren’t logical - those mysterious channels that circumnavigate intellectual rationale. Alexander continues: Poetry (and now my voice is rising) is not all love, love, love and I’m sorry the dog died. Poetry (here I hear myself loudest) is the human voice, and are we not of interest to each other? 

One would hope so, but I have serious doubts and my slapping hand still itches. Does that mean I care about others, or just myself?

Sometimes there are too many people crawling around in my skin. Sometimes I have to go lie in a field of goldenrod and asters, like Mary Oliver, to get away from them all. Except I can’t do that anymore where I live because Lyme-carrying ticks are now rampant thanks to climate change which we have brought about because we are fast asleep. We are often, in fact, the walking dead, like it or not. 

So instead I lie on a park bench and look at trees and clouds. Then my slapping hand takes a nap. I feel blissed out and very woo-woo. 

Thich Nhat Hanh says in his poem “Call Me By My True Names”: I am the twelve-year-old girl refugee on a small boat, who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea pirate, and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving. Please call me by my true names, so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once, so that I can see that my joy and pain are one. 

Yeah, call me by my true names so I can cradle my loving heart and slapping hand together, so that I can see that my love and hate are one. 

[cowgirlontheloose]

The Shaman and the Swift Fox

Some time in the early 1990s, I had a dream. A female form appeared to me. Maybe a goddess, shaman or fairy creature? She didn’t explain herself. She told me I had to help wildlife. I can’t recall her exact words. But I understood I had to take some sort of action. Then she faded gently from the scene just like in the story books. Poof! 

The morning of my dream, I nibbled my toast and thought hard. Mug of tea in hand, I went to my computer and wrote three similar emails:  one to the Swift Fox recovery team in Alberta and Saskatchewan; one to Burrowing Owl recovery on the prairies, and one to threatened Black-tailed Prairie Dogs in Saskatchewan’s Grassland National Park. I volunteered my services for three months. “Use me however you want,” I wrote. “I’ll scrub cages, count poop, run errands, type, do paperwork or answer phones.” I provided a bio, some glowing references and hit send. 

I was free-lancing in those days — writing for various magazines and organizations. I worked from home, where I could glance from my computer screen out the window to my wild, overgrown 80 acres. Now and then, creatures would plod, scurry, bound or fly by:  turtles, fox, deer, raccoons, skunks, wild turkeys, blue heron and a host of tinier beings that I couldn’t see. But I knew they were there.

Most of my research and writing concerned endangered species. I adored learning about their biology; how they all play a role in keeping our world turning. It thrilled me to discover that the lives of Barn Owls, Kangaroo Rats or Flying Squirrels actually had an impact on my life and the planet. Not directly maybe. But through a chain of influences, weather systems, tiny and significant world events — each one influencing something else and something else and something else — I finally understood how dependent we all are on forces we are mostly clueless about.

One example (and there are millions more) let’s take sea otters, sea urchins and kelp forests to see how we are all connected. By the way, there are no exceptions to this rule. None.

Kelp forests provide homes for a vast number of creatures. Just like any land forest, kelp removes C02 through photosynthesis and turns it into energy it needs to flourish. Along come hungry sea urchins — small, spiky critters that eat kelp. Generally, there are plenty of sea otters around to eat some of the urchins so that everything is balanced tickity-boo and everyone has enough to eat. So far, so good, including all the teeming smaller species also living in the watery forest. But humans have been working overtime dumping toxins and garbage into the sea. Exacerbate this horror with oil spills, over fishing, coastal development and soon otters vanish, leaving the hardier urchins to multiply and literally eat the kelp forest to death along with everyone else living within. 

This particular chain reaction doesn’t stop there of course. It goes on from one thing to another, interacting with other chain reactions all over the planet. Eventually, you and I, our kids and grandkids are affected. It’s a glacial process, so most people don’t notice until it’s far too late, until we wake up to something like the horrors of climate change.

And now, back to my fateful dream and the send button.

A few months later, I found myself in Edmonton at the office of Dr. Lu Carbyn, a Canadian Wildlife Service scientist and chairman of the Swift Fox (Vulpes velox) Recovery Team. The task he set me was to locate myself somewhere near Medicine Hat, Alberta. There I would give talks to schools and community groups about this little fox, why it’s recovery was vital, and how we could all help by not shooting, trapping, poisoning, paving over or digging up their grasslands home. 

I was also expected to have informal visits with some of the major ranch owners. It was these large spreads on which the fox depended after all. And it’s a well known fact in conservation efforts that some Canadian land owners — and no doubt, the world over — do not ever want it known that a vulnerable species was spotted on their property because it could lead to restrictions for the rancher. Their unofficial motto if this should happen is “shoot, shovel and shut up.” I’m not suggesting that any of our prairie ranchers fall into this category. I’m just reporting what I heard again and again in the field.

All this talking in front of groups was a scary stretch for a shy sort. And the thought of me — clueless female Easterner — presuming to educate Western ranchers who possessed more know-how and grass-roots intelligence than I could blink at, made me want to turn tail.

But a deal was a deal.

Lu rounded up a vehicle for me, a cranky, rusting station wagon with balding tires which frankly, was not reliable (I wasn’t about to complain, believe me), and off I went to Elkwater, pop. 80-ish. Here I boarded with the gung-ho and endlessly inventive Lyall family:  Noreen, Don, Richard, 6, and Alec, 4. (Our adventures together will have to wait for another time, alas.) Their home was a few miles from Elkwater on the rolling prairie I love so much. Highway 41 stretched by our door, north to the Trans-Canada and south to Wildhorse, Montana, one of the loneliest border crossings I have seen. 

Before settling in Elkwater, howerver, Lu and I trucked south-east to Val Marie, Saskatchewan (800 km) with several Vulpes velox in cages. Some had been wild trapped in the U.S., and others raised in captivity at the Cochrane Ecological Institute in Alberta. We would be releasing them in Grasslands National Park in hopes of establishing a sustainable presence there.

Forget Banff, Jasper and the Rocky Mountains. Grasslands is possibly Canada’s most gorgeous natural treasure. Established in 1981, this 907 sq. kms. protects one of our country’s remaining un-meddled-with, mixed-grass/short-grass prairie. The park is home to several species in various states of peril:  Bison, Burrowing Owls, Black Footed Ferrets, Greater Short-horned Lizards and Black-tailed Prairie Dogs.

The night before the release, Lu and I camped in this magical place bathed by the misty light of stars and full moon. As his tent was hidden over the brow of a hill and I was located below on a flat expanse, I seemed to have the entire planet to myself. I woke several times and crawled out to pinch myself in disbelief. Coyotes wailed and shooting stars fell. And beneath my bare feet the prairie sighed.

Next day’s release was, in some ways, anti-climactic. So many years and resources, so much funding, will and people power, had brought us to this moment, yet it was just the start of an unfolding mystery. Would this little fox survive long enough to become an integrated part of Canada’s living tapestry again?

We opened the eight cages and stood well back. Some bolted, some crept from captivity to the glory of big sky and vast grasslands. My eyes shimmered. Those sleek, camouflaged coats blended flawlessly into the prairie hues. I blinked. Like wraiths they melted away one by one.

Once settled in Elkwater, I set up appointments with every school and group  I could find. I’ve long forgotten how many there were, or how far afield I roamed. I fondly remember a lively one-room school in Buffalo, Alberta, somewhere between Bindloss and Jenner. Although it was in the middle of nowhere (at least to this Easterner) and clearly a fading hamlet, the school was full of life and energy. Online now, I see that Buffalo is listed as a ghost town, although the minuscule post office and store were operating as of 2015. No sign of the school.

Oh so many schools! The elementary kids had lots of question and comments, always a forest of hands waving at me. The high school crowd was generally stoney-faced — too cool to reveal themselves in any way. I left those presentations feeling like a boring idiot, but hey — I tried. The most interactive and fun schools were Hutterite colonies — Spring Creek, Cypress, Box Elder, Elkwater. Here I was warmly included and herded on chatty tours of the colony by pink-cheeked, giggling youngsters. Once, my son Adam, was visiting me on his way back to University in New Zealand, and came with me (I probably forced him) to one of these colonies. I know he answered a barrage of questions about what New Zealand was like. I hope he remembers that time. This is the kid whose only apparent childhood memory is of me chasing him upstairs whacking at his legs with a wooden spoon. 

I covered thousands of lonely miles. One night on my way to Consul, Sask. (1.5 hours drive — was I nuts?) a full moon poured a fantastical light onto the prairie. I pulled over, got out and lay down in the middle of straight-and-flat-as-an-arrow Highway 13. I don’t know why I did it, but the prairie sang to me in four-part harmony that night.

I surely recall heading south an hour one cold night to Manyberries. Up and over the high bench of the Cypress Hills I drove, straining my eyes for elk and moose. Then down to the long flat stretch to Montana. 

I passed the sign that said something like Warning — No Gas Or Services For The Next 100 Kms. and tried not to add a sub-text which urged Better Say Your Prayers, Sister. 

The road was bare and I hummed happily. Suddenly snow — an instant, blinding white-out and the road vanished. I crept to a standstill. Yes, I knew possibly only a few kilometres from me, lights glowed from a warm ranch house at the end of a long laneway. But I had no hope of finding that. I waited, my heart rattling in my throat. 

Fifteen minutes later, headlights glowed behind me and a transport truck swirled past. How could he possibly see? But now I had quickly fading tracks to follow, which I did. There was no way I was going to risk turning around and hitting the ditch. Ten minutes later, the white-out stopped dead. Bare highway appeared and the transport’s light drew away from me. On I went to Manyberries, trailing clouds of dumb luck and good fortune.

Did I make any difference to the Swift Fox effort? Who knows. My time volunteering was precious beyond measure and enriched my life and understanding of how the world turns. And what of Vulpes velox (also called the Kit Fox) today in 2018? Once common from the Canadian prairies south to Texas, No thanks to humans, it was extirpated from Canada in 1930. Between 1983 and 1997, conservationists introduced more than 900 of these house cat-sized animals to the Canadian grasslands. It is estimated that 600 are living and reproducing in our country today.

The Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife in Canada (COSEWIC) designated the Swift Fox as extirpated in 1978. It was uplisted to Endangered in 1998, and since 2009 was further uplisted to Threatened.

Wildlife Preservation Canada says the Swift Fox recovery is considered “…one of the most successful endangered species translocation programmes in the world.

[cowgirlontheloose]

Of Archetypes and Prairie Space:  The Ranch Chronicles, Chapter 1

December, 1966. I was leaving the ranch early the next morning, heading East for ten days over Christmas. Audrey would drive me to the Greyhound whistlestop in Walsh - a gas station and greasy spoon on the Trans-Canada, half an hour from the ranch. From there it was nearly four hours to Calgary where I’d get my flight home.

I was ready for a break. Since the fall roundup and cattle sales I had less time working outside - riding, fencing, haying - and more time inside cooking and cleaning, or chauffeuring Audrey to Medicine Hat where she could stock up on sewing supplies, groceries and booze and hang out with her drinking buddy, Bettina, in Crescent Heights while I played Crazy Eights with Bettina’s kids or watched dumb reruns on their fuzzy black and white TV.

Anyway, back at the ranch that December night, I had just cleared off the table from supper. Millie and I were putting leftovers in bowls and listening to CBC radio when a half-ton truck pulled up outside the kitchen window. Thick snow sifted in the headlight beams and I thought to myself, “Oh hell, I hope I don’t get stranded in Calgary.” Big Basil got up from the table and rumbled, “Here’s the new hand.”

“New hand?” said I.

“Hired hand filling in for Earl,” said Basil. Earl was heading home for Christmas too, south to Manyberries.

A knock, then a cowboy blew into the kitchen in a swirl of snow and stomped his Tony Lamas. Cool as can be I kept on wiping the table but was all eyes and ears. He was about my age, early 20s. He carried his saddle on one hip and a duffel bag in the other hand. He was lean in an undermourished kind of way. His jeans were faded to the best kind of blue; his sheepskin lined jacket had seen more than its share of cattle drives. I perked up. 

This was the most interesting event at the Diamond T Ranch since Millie’s estranged husband of three months, Ray, threatened to call the Mounties if she didn’t stop pestering him.  Millie, a local lass, shapeless and simple - also harmless and sweet - still had grim hopes of luring him back. To that end, she wrote him weekly letters, which I was asked to help her with. Dear Ray in case you Forget we got Maried for Bettr or Wirs. My dad is rele mad at you... and so on. With these, Millie enclosed yet another copy of their only wedding photo, a tilted snapshot of Ray looking furtive and Millie vague.

Tucking in my shirt I asked, “Would you like some supper? There’s lots left over.”

Basil boomed, “I’ll take you down to the bunkhouse after you fill up.”

“Thanks. I’m hungry,” said the cowboy, putting his saddle and duffel down and easing out of his coat. His voice was smokey. “It smells good in here.”

Wayne was his name. He’d just driven twelve hours straight from High Prairie. In those days that was all I needed to get stars in my eyes:  half-ton truck, half-ways handsome and from some long-gone lonesome place with a Zane Grey kinda name.

But we were ships that passed in the night and probably just as well. Nowadays I cringe to imagine what might have ensued if I weren’t leaving the next morning. I was yearning for some male attention that wasn’t string bean Earl. Lord knows what the cowboy was itching for. No, it didn’t bear thinking about. Still, I did what I could with what little time I had, sashaying from oven to table doing my Sparkle Plenty number. He watched me from under his eyelashes while shovelling in roast beef, mashed spuds and Millie’s lumpy gravy which I apologized for when Millie was in the pantry.

In some ways, both the High Prairie cowboy and Millie were minor characters in my time at the ranch. But in my heart they still loom large. Dumpling Millie with her smudgy glasses and sweet mulish ways. All those nights we did dishes together in the big, warm kitchen, soap suds dripping from her rubber gloves and me stacking plates, anxious to get to the cribbage game starting at the table. I hope her life was happy. 

The cowboy? He was an archetype - I see that now - a free agent, a lone rider through big space and limitless horizons. “Saddle up and follow me” he seemed to say. “I know the way.” I hope his life is happy too. 

At the time I thought it was all about girl meets boy, and sure, on one level it was. The other deeper, richer levels of cowboys and space, ranching and horses and big skies were far more intriguing. But I had many miles and years to go before I began to understand that. 

[cowgirlontheloose]

He Was A Lane Shifter

He was a frequent lane shifter, one freckled arm leaning half out the window, the other hand free to steer or shift. 

I see him from the back seat. We’re in a king-cab truck and my bare thighs are stuck to the fake leather seat. It is hot. I’m in denim cut-offs and there’s no air conditioning. Or maybe the driver doesn’t want to shut the window and turn it on. 

I don’t know who he is but guess that he is in his mid-to-late 20s, his hair spiked and sandy coloured. I’m not sure how old I am -- maybe in my teens? For some reason, I suspect he is a rodeo rider. For one thing, we’re hauling a horse trailer. For another, I know this type of guy all too well. Plus there’s a tangle of harness on the seat beside me. A red rope halter, a bridle with some leather embossing on it, well oiled and supple. 

I see billowy clouds roaming the sky and a rolling prairie landscape. We pass a turn-off sign I strain to see as we barrel on by. Maple Creek 2 km pointing to the left, so I know we’re in Saskatchewan almost at the Alberta border. I would like to know what year it is -- hell I’d settle for what decade. The odd half ton truck passes us heading East, but you can never tell in ranching country. Most farms have a truck that’s at least 15 to 20 years old, dented and bashed with no hubcaps but still serviceable for heavy duty chores. 

The young man? I don’t know him either and I’m not about to draw attention to myself until I figure a few things out. We must be in Alberta now. The truck wheels right onto a gravel road past a cluster of faded clapboard houses and a small false-front general store that looks like something out of one of the spaghetti Westerns from the late 60s. It says Dry Goods Hardware Groceries in black paint above the door. 

We pass an auction barn and some empty corrals. A gritty dust cloud roils behind us. My teeth rattle from the washboard vibrations. I see Hereford cattle at a slew, a slumping grain bin, a windmill. The driver is focussed and I think may be angry. I hope that has nothing to do with me, but like I say, I’m keeping a low profile, even though I get the feeling he may not know I’m in the back seat. Or else I am a phantom of some sort and he wouldn’t see me even if he looked. I feel like a phantom.

We pass a crossroad and a wooden sign pointing back towards the Saskatchewan border. It says Big Bend Hutterite Colony, but we keep going. The dust cloud catches up to us as we head North, and enfolds the jouncing truck. It sifts in the windows and settles on everything -- the seat, my thighs and the fine hairs of my arms. My teeth crunch in my head. I taste dust. The driver pays no attention; does not close the window.

[cowgirlontheloose]

The Psychic and the Shorebird

As a card-carrying country bumpkin with hermetic tendencies, I did not want to go to Toronto. Nonetheless, one recent Tuesday morning found me parking my car at the Smiths Falls train station. There I tried unsuccessfully for many minutes to pay for three days of parking through an automated machine. I finally gave up with a curse as the VIA train pulled in, and left my car to its fate.

I was on my way to a photography exhibit which I was part of, at a gallery on Dundas St. W. I had missed the opening party, and would gladly have missed the whole thing -- not the show, just the city. But I had promised to help woman the gallery and, with my friend Bonnie, dismantle all the images and get them back to Ottawa at the end of the show.

I rocked along gently in the train’s speeding cradle, feeling glad I was on my way. No turning back now. We sped along past the diaphanous green of unfolding buds. Clickity-clack, lullaby rock. Zombies around me stared at their devices, ignoring spring. Together we swayed along, the tracks a bridge between realities:  small town and Hog Town; quiet and loud; easy going and in-your-face. Cities are way too frenetic for me. And yet, they can also be a tonic now and then. A good dose of medicine to remind me there are many other perfectly fine ways of existing in this world. 

The gallery was mostly quiet and spring was doing her best, in spite of the racket out on Dundas West. So I sat on a bench in front of the gallery, watching a legless man in a wheelchair argue with an acquaintance outside the bar next door. Friend? Foe? I strained to eavesdrop but the whizz and bellow of traffic took precedence. 

Wheelchair man was there the next day too, with three other barflies, all waving hands, smoking cigarettes and posturing. When traffic and sun got too much, I retreated to the teeny courtyard at the back of the gallery. Here a peony and honeysuckle vine reassured me that all was not lost. The clink of glasses and mens voices floated over the high fence between gallery and bar. 

About two blocks away, a psychic’s parlour was offering a $10. special to read palms. It also advertised “Open 7 days a week, 9 am to 9 pm.” Even better, in two languages besides English, the fortune teller promised results “within 24 hours and with 95% accuracy”. Wyniki w 24 godziny. 95% de precisao. But best of all, she claimed to “remove evil, black magic, which Kraft, Bad luck.” I confess it was the which Kraft that finally won me over. 

While Bonnie watched the gallery, I bee-lined to the fortune teller. In her parlour, I sat in a fake Louis XV chair of fake red velvet trimmed in gold-fake. However, the dark-haired woman across from me -- surely of Roma descent --was clearly the real deal. Anyone who has delivered advice on Life’s distressing concerns for 45 years for seven days a week has got to have a heart the size of, well, Toronto. Maybe she doesn’t always hit the nail on the fortune-telling head -- (remember that elusive 5%.) Still, she believes in what she does, and must be successful at it. Otherwise she would have switched to a career in retail or computers by now. How many of us can say the same? And she gets to work from home and deduct things like hydro and decor from her taxes.

Later a dear friend lectured me on the stupidity of wasting my cash on charlatans. But he’d missed the point. I was smitten by her earnest parlour and all that she stands for: hope, intention, reaching out to the mysterious; an oracle to rely on when Life is a mess. I so yearned to photograph her and her surroundings from every possible angle that I nearly slid from my social-climbing chair. Ever since I was a tadpole, I’ve been wanting to slip into the skins of elephant handlers, wing-walkers, extreme ocean surfers, explorers of any kind, and Mumbai slum-dwellers. Not permanently -- just for a few days, maybe a week. Like Thich Nhat Hanh says in his poem, This Body Is Not Me:  We meet each other in all forms of Life.

                                                          * * * *

Thursday morning we dismantled the show, stacked 30-plus images into a rented SUV and blew town. I was glad to have come, yet thrilled to leave as the eastern suburbs fled behind us and green fields scrolled into view. As time passed, my short time in Toronto morphed into a kaleidoscope of memories. At the heart of it all; the recollection that kept appearing from the jumble of noisy and colourful events (along with the psychic and an outstanding black sesame taro ice cream cone I slurped eagerly one evening) was the killdeer that Bonnie and I encountered whilst walking near a railroad track not far from Dundas West. The little shorebird, surely a parent, was shrieking in distress. We stopped to peer in her direction. A high chain link fence separated us. The bird continued her anguished calls without ceasing, standing on gravel by the tracks. My best guess is that she had laid her eggs, beautifully camouflaged, amongst the stones, and now a predator was approaching. A snake? A rat? We couldn’t help her, and sadly walked on. But her cries ring in my head still whenever I review my Big City Adventure. It seems important to remember these things for all sorts of reasons I need not spell out here. 

As for the psychic, I upgraded from a $10. palm reading to a $30. Tarot card spread. I will live to 100, die of natural causes, and receive an offer that will lead to creative success and pots of dough before the year is out. (She stressed that I must not turn down this offer) Half of the reading clearly applied to Bonnie’s life, not mine. But hey -- who’s keeping score. We’re all the same person anyway -- it’s just that we are under the misguided belief that we are unique individuals. 

So here I will end, abruptly perhaps, (mostly because I have pretty well exhausted this subject) with a quote from Kurt Vonnegut:  Enjoy the little things in life. For one day you’ll look back and realize they were big things.

[cowgirlontheloose]

Che Guevara, Buddha and the #MeToo Revolution

The fantabulous and long overdue #MeToo Revolution needs a leader, another Che Guevara in our midst. Then we could sell bumper stickers with that great Che quote: The True Revolutionary Is Guided By Feelings of Love. (NOTE: I’ve already ordered mine online, $11.99 CDN, no shipping costs.) It will remind me regularly of my strong inclinations to be judgemental and righteous when I and others bungle big-time.

Love and compassion are missing in action too.

Not just in #MeToo but in our culture of shaming, blaming, and ostracizing. I am no paragon of virtue here. Judgemental and Righteous are my middle names. But I am (oh-so-slowly) learning that this is not a helpful position. Not for me and certainly not in this loveless revolution.

Yeah, I know. The words love and compassion can be icky and annoying thanks to overuse and lack of understanding. In fact many folks who consider themselves caring sorts,  only extend those qualities to people they personally approve of. Stricken from the approved list are pedophiles, wife-abusers, drunk drivers, kitten stranglers and fill-in-the-blankers.

At a recent Buddhist retreat, our teacher (who, it so happens is also a gung-ho social justice activist) told us an experience he had with his teacher decades ago. As an angry young activist and asshole to boot — his words, not mine — he was put off by the word compassion. His teacher had given him a meditation to do on extending compassionate thoughts to himself and others.

“I don’t do compassion,” the young hot-head replied. “Hmm”, said Teacher. “What about warm and friendly? Can you do that?” “Yes,” the young student said.

Now more than 40 years later and a teacher himself, he still practices being friendly and instructs slow learners like me how to do it too. That’s why I hang out with him. I need his help to rescue me from myself. It was in his home where I spied the Che Guevara bumper sticker that got me thinking about #MeToo. It was at a recent retreat that he emphasized, as he does at every opportunity, that compassion is like a muscle. “We need to work on it regularly to make it strong.” And not long after the retreat, a Dharma friend said to me, “Can’t you see? They are doing the very best they can.” At the time I was ranting upon my self-righteous high horse about friends who were not behaving the way I thought they should. I had heard the everyone-is-doing-their-best philosophy a skrillion times. But it took that skrillionth-and-one time before it seriously registered. It made me deeply contemplate what an idiot I can be. But I saw it with kindness for a change, and not as another excuse to trash myself or anyone else.

This week Patrick Brown, leader of the Conservative Party of Ontario, quit following sexual misconduct accusations from two anonymous women. Five of his key rats, er, staff, followed suit and paddled quickly away from the sinking ship, their whiskers twitching. Not one soul stood with him when he faced the media and spoke in a stricken voice. Yeah, yeah, I know politics is a dirty game but something is wrong here. Why are his accusers anonymous, at least so far? It makes me suspect this was a political setup to bring him down.

When #MeToo first rolled out of the station, I understood very well why accusers had been silent for centuries or anonymous when they finally dared to speak up. But there’s no excuse for that anymore. Everyone has accused everyone of pretty well everything, ad infinitum. So speak up all anonymous ladies. Please speak up. If you don’t, you are undermining this Revolution and we’re back to square one and yet another stomach-turning episode of Mad Men. (I couldn’t even finish the first season because it was too creepily accurate, too close to what I had lived through in my working days.)

Whether Mr. Brown is guilty or innocent, whether the nameless women are lying or honest is not my point. Wherever the truth lies, I hope Mr. Brown and his accusers have people around to say, “Too bad you messed up, buddy. Let’s see how you can find a better way to operate in the world. Don”t feel you’re the only one — we’ve all shot ourselves in the foot more than once.” Yes, I know some of the guilty will not want to change but that’s their choice. We have choices too. Blame or support? Kick in the scrotum or offer a hand up?”

I know which I would prefer if and when I am caught (yet again) with my pants down, my hand in the till, my fingerprints on the pistol, or faced with slander and other misdeeds too numerous to mention.

What about you?

[cowgirlontheloose]

Writing Zen and Now

The following is a guest blog by a Dharma friend, Andy Rogers. Andy is a freelance copywriter and produces material for Clear Sky Meditation Centre in B.C., Canada. He has served on the Clear Sky board of directors as treasurer and, more recently, is part of the business development team. This article was originally written for Clear Sky in the spring of 2016. www.clearskycenter.org  

Spiritual teachings entered my life in 1997 when I moved to Tokyo, Japan, to teach English. Rather than from a Japanese source, Buddhism appeared through a childhood friend who had become a monk in Thailand.

    After visiting Bangkok several times, staying at his temple there, I began meditating at home. Two years later, I met an awakened Canadian teacher, Doug Duncan, then living in Kyoto. I spent as much time as I could with him until 2009, when I moved to Clear Sky, the meditation centre that he founded in Canada. Seven years later, I’m still here. It seems a long time ago now, but as the eye-rolling joke goes; that was Zen and this is now.

    Pleased though I am to use that pun, this story really begins in Japan after meeting my current teacher. At the time, I was spending most of my week struggling with lack of energy. Sometimes I had to start work early across town, so I skipped my morning meditation and often felt too tired to sit at night. My newly found passion for meditation became confined to a few irregular hours a week. How could I make it more of a priority without cutting back on my working hours? I needed that paycheque more than ever now in order to visit Kyoto regularly, travel with my teacher, and do retreats.

    Then the way found me.

    My second job — writing comprehension passages and questions for the national English examinations in Japan — was one reason I was so busy. A Dharma friend pointed out that this job gave me an opportunity to share with others the spiritual teachings that I was benefiting from.

    This idea didn't immediately grab me. In fact, the examinations avoided spiritual topics, along with any other potentially controversial ones. But thinking on it some more, I could change how I wrote; the vibration of what I was putting out there. I realized that because I wasn't including this job as part of the spiritual practice now so important to me, I was increasingly disconnected and dissatisfied at work.  

    I tried a new approach and began to write with a different motivation. Suddenly the work was no longer work. Because my intention was different, my mind didn't get caught up so much in the daily frustrations of finding new topics or choosing the right information to use. My focus now was finding, in anything I was writing, the most enlightened view. I was no longer working on autopilot, but consciously keeping in mind principles such as compassion and joy, and putting them back out into the world whenever I could. The topics I wrote about were already fairly wholesome. The test company wanted positive stories such as recent inventions or discoveries, or well-balanced arguments on interesting topics. But now, whenever I could, I subtly focused the stories on how people learned compassion and wisdom, or how they became clear in a situation of doubt or fear, or how they recognized their thoughtless behaviours and did something to change them. It made my writing simpler, clearer, and I worked more quickly because I had a template in my head.

    By shifting the focus to something bigger than myself or my role, I'd found a way to make this work a practical meditation tool. I was practising patience and discernment, being more mindful about every word, and ending up in a better space at the end of the day. I didn't know it at the time, but I'd turned this job into Karma Yoga (mindful service).  

    At Clear Sky where I now live and work, we begin our morning meetings by choosing a contemplation for the day. It sets up an intention to watch the mind during our Karma Yoga time. Anyone can do this. Here’s how I do it on days when I’m not at the morning group meeting and I feel like I need a focus for my day.

    Instead of going through my day as I normally would, I dedicate the day to looking at a particular question. For instance: How can I bring more joy into my day? (This is a big focus for me as I am on the serious side.) How can I be more compassionate at work? Or one of these: Who do I avoid talking to? What do I tend to put off? Where do I tend to overreact or get defensive?

    Then I carry this question into my day, as a background to whatever I’m doing. Yes, even when sorting recycling or changing the toilet roll!  Sometimes I set a timer to remind myself to check in on the question, or perhaps recall it every time I do a certain action such as opening a door or getting up from my chair.

    How does that change things? I don’t know about you but I sometimes torture myself by reviewing conversations I should have had; going over things that went wrong; what I didn't get done, or obsessing over something that my partner, friend or boss said or did. This is where the benefits of making my day into a spiritual exploration can really show. The review can look a lot different when I’ve focused energy on the contemplation, instead of just the same old stuff.

    I give myself a few minutes to write down anything that came up in the day related to my question. I look for patterns and avoid getting sidetracked into any particular story's details. Then I go deeper with my notes and ask 'why' questions. I question my assumptions and look for views that aren't really working for me. For instance, the other day in my review I considered how I’d reacted to an email. In my reply I saw a pattern of trying to protect or save someone and how that enabled others to avoid taking responsibility, and how this does not serve me — or them — well.  

    The day’s review reminds me that my spiritual work benefits everyone. It opens me to feelings of kindness even to those that may have been a challenge. Most importantly, it’s a reminder that this isn't all about ‘me'. Then, silently or out loud, I share the merit of these efforts and insights with everyone I had contact with that day, or simply all beings. And then I let it all go.

    Whether my day went smoothly or roughly, or whether I had some insights or completely forgot about the question, I feel I’ve changed something. The question I chose will keep simmering away in the depths. Meanwhile, I introduced a little space and freedom somewhere by simply asking the question. And surely that’s a good thing.

[cowgirlontheloose]

‘Twas In the Bleak Midwinter

    The only light in the room spread softly from the Christmas tree. I was in my boyfriend Roy’s livingroom. His parents were already in bed — big Joe snoring drunkenly beside his small dumpling of a wife, her grey curls held in a hairnet. It was the 1950s. The era of hairnets, bobbypins, girdles and other instruments of containment for females.

    I hoped her sleep was sound. Even at 19, in all my shallow ignorance, I knew her life was one patient Hail Mary after another catering to Joe and their three hulking sons. She told me once that when the boys were born, no-one accompanied her to the hospital. No-one they knew owned a car, and Joe was working in the bush in those days. Not that he would have gone with her in any case. Babies and hospitals were women’s domain. End of story. Instead, when her labour pains came, Josephine heaved herself up the steps of a Hull bus and took herself off the the hospital.

    But back to those Christmas lights bathing the room so tenderly. My friend Teddy sat in the dark brown overstuffed armchair, a quart of Molsons in one hand. I stood in the middle of the room. Where was Roy? Perhaps at the stable checking on a pregnant mare — but in that case, wouldn’t Ted and I have been with him? No matter. Memories are reconstructed and tinkered with over the years until they bear little resemblance to the original event. All I have to go on is what I recall. I give no guarantees of accuracy. Nor does it matter how correctly I record these scenes from more than five decades past. Today the entity I think of as “me” sees it this way.

    So there I am. Slim, dark-haired and gorgeous as only youth can be, and already exhibiting the signs of a deeply repressed and tortured pilgrim searching for something, I knew not what.

    I am wearing a dress — unusual for me — which my best friend, Jane, once said made me look like an argyle sock. I ask Teddy if I can bum a cigarette. The word bum makes me feel I am in control of my life. So does smoking. He reaches for my wrist and pulls me towards him. I don’t resist. Why would I? Ted is an older man, 38, and wise in the ways of the world that I yearn to understand. He is also a binge drunkard, which I find exotic, and a wise-cracking, affable Lothario. He sells cars for a living and has a wife named Marion who no-one ever meets. She lurks in an ordinary brown fake brick bungalow on a rural Québec road that Ted goes home to occasionally. No kids, no pets. I saw her once as a shadow behind a screen door.

    Fred’s lips are wet, his tongue slippery in my mouth in a creepy way. Still, I don’t pull away. It’s Christmas after all and I am feeling the dark cavern of whatever is missing more acutely than usual. So I kiss him back, awkwardly side-seated on the bloated arm of the chair. Slowly I slide to his lap and give it all I’ve got which doesn’t include desire, maturity or love. To be sure, there is affection. And gratefulness too for all those bummed cigarettes and all those rides through summer evenings with the top down, Ted at the wheel, his girlfriend, Nancy, beside him with her smoochy lips and luscious curves and always Revlon’s Crimson Crush smeared on her very white front teeth. Roy and I are in the back seat smoking Export A’s, still reeling from our innocent make-out session in the stable’s tack room earlier that evening. Even today the scent of Pears saddle soap and horse sweat makes me weak with uncertainty and guilt.

    The Christmas tree lights continue to spread their red-blue-green-yellow  fingers of compassion to dark corners of the room. The presents already under the tree fill me with despair as Teddy clamps one hand on my left breast. I don’t resist, nor does he pursue this line of action in spite of the lump I can feel in his pants, warm against my right thigh. In some muddled way we both know this is pointless. We pull apart. I stand up, smoothing my dress and swallowing a tide of melancholy. Teddy cackles and says “Merry Christmas kiddo!” and swigs at his beer.

    Of all the Christmas memories that could have floated up from my depths, why was this one so insistent? I did try to turn my thoughts to turkey and the spicy whiff of the tree, the flickering fireplace in our family room. Or what about my Dad’s 78 rpm record set of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol, read by some fabulous Shakespearean actor of the day. How we all loved it, even when my brothers and I were too young to understand what it was all about.

    Instead, up came Roy Gravelle’s livingroom, bathed in hope and no sign of Roy anywhere. Just Ted McDonald and his racy dumb jokes, his hyena laugh. And me, trying to feel Christmassy, whatever that was.

[cowgirlontheloose]

Goodbye Grizzly Bear Spirit, Hello Big Boy Park!

SCENE 1: In my car, Nov. 2, 2017

I am driving to my small town friendly Metro one sunny morning, tuned to CBC’s This Is That, one of my radio faves. It’s a satirical current affairs show “…that just doesn’t talk about the issues, it fabricates them.” (Or does it?)

I pull into the parking lot and grab my grocery bags. But then, although I am in a bit of a hurry, I decide I must listen to the first segment. It has already begun, and it’s too funny to miss. (Or is it?)

I turn up the volume. Texas billionaire Randall Walton-Yates plans to buy Mt. Everest so he can develop it and “make it more profitable.” The entrepreneur feels the iconic mountain is “sadly under-utilized.” I am already chuckling. This is going to be good. He plans to make it a family-friendly destination, complete with an airport, kids rides and hotels “so everyone can enjoy the view, snap a few photos, take grandpa to the top of Mt. Everest.” I bust out laughing. I can imagine Randall’s pot belly and cigar; his ignorant, affability.

When the interviewer posits that perhaps not everyone would welcome this, Mr. Walton-Bates says we only need to look at history. “What about Niagara Falls?” he says. “Before the infrastructure was there — nobody cared about it. Thanks to the casinos, souvenir shops, restaurants and hotels, look at it now! Same with Vegas and Florida.” The billionaire feels it is his duty to make the most of these iconic locations. By now I am hooting loudly and people walking by are staring to see if I am OK.

The Texas tycoon also plans a hyper loop vacuum tube system to whisk tourists to the top of Everest in mere minutes. I can hardly contain my merriment as I grab a grocery cart and head into Metro. Really! This Is That is truly brilliant. How do they come up with these nutty scenarios!

SCENE 2: The next morning.

As I munch toast and sip tea, I read the lead Globe and Mail story: Top court deals blow to Indigenous people. CAUTION:  If you are prone to blood pressure or heart issues, best not to read on. I, however, the proverbial moth to a flame, am compelled to continue.

The Supreme Court of Canada has given its blessing to private developers to build a honking huge ski resort in British Columbia on top of a sacred Indigenous site in the breathtaking Purcell Mountains — 6,000 hectares, including four glaciers, 5,500 tourist beds, 750 staff beds and 20 lifts. If this resort goes ahead, not only will the Ktunaxa Nation lose something deeply sacred to them, so will all Canadians, whether we are aware of it or not. We will have lost another sorry battle against greed and exploitation in spite of herculean efforts to preserve bears, beetles, birds, mountains, glaciers, old growth forest, biodiversity, silence, and yes, a place to worship our version of the Divine. How does that make you feel as a human?

The Ktunaxa Nation has spent more than 20 years arguing alongside other concerned Canadians against this lame-brain plan. Amongst many precious attributes, the development will destroy vital grizzly bear habitat, which means no more refuge for Grizzly Bear Spirit (Qat’ muk to the Ktunaxa peoples.) The Supreme Court — our Supreme Court — has upheld the developers right to get rich so that privileged people with big bucks can wile away their time on 6,000 hectares of once, wild, mysterious and spiritually blessed terrain.

I count myself as one of these privileged Canadians. I have money. I like to have fun. Probably our Supreme Court did not have me in mind when they said “tough shit” (I’m paraphrasing here) to the Ktunaxa Nation. But in case they did, I strenuously object. If I care to, I can go to Banff, Aspen, Whistler and endless other resorts. I do not need another trendy tourist destination, honest. Believe me, Your Honours, I am doing just fine.

Our Indigenous brothers and sisters are not, however, in case you haven’t noticed. Wouldn’t saying no way! to yet more bloated plutocrat developers (oops, that just slipped out) and billionaire playgrounds be a good thing for Truth and Reconciliation? Perhaps I am missing something here. But I think not.

I don’t have the brains that our big cheese judges do. But I do have some sense. Clearly the top court judges missed the pivotal course on how sacred wild spaces provide priceless advantages for every Canadian, whether we ever set foot on them or not. By accident they must have taken the fake lesson on how Canadians like me are yearning for yet another gazillion dollar whoop-de-do bucket list experience. These folks also clearly flunked the myriad lessons on how biodiversity works for the good of all, and how deeply connected that Indigenous peoples are to our land, its creatures and spirits. As Joni Mitchell once wisely warbled, by paving over paradise with a parking lot, we are severing their connection to the Divine and weakening the biodiversity web that keeps our planet turning. How does that make you feel about being Canadian?

Seven of the nine judges voted against granting special protection for religious freedom for Aboriginal peoples. Yup, you heard me. They ruled instead that a ski resort be planted on a site that is sacred to an Indigenous community.

Here’s another irony. The proposed project is called Jumbo Glacier Resort, named after one of the mountains and glaciers to be desecrated, er, developed. Meanwhile, our Texas billionaire pal, Randall Walton-Yates is still mulling over what he might name his Everest abomination. One idea that he is “partial to” is Big Boy Park. “This is the biggest mountain on earth and this is where the Big Boys come to have their fun,” he chortles. Amen.

Jumbo Glacier Resort is far from fait accompli, however. All is not lost, according to Wildsight, a Canadian charity protecting humans, wildlife and wilderness in the Columbia and Rocky Mountain regions. On their Jumbo Wild website, they state “We stand with the Ktunaxa in their continued fight to defend their sacred territory. This group, along with other strong partners, have been working to keep the wild in wilderness for more than 25 years. I’ve donated — maybe you will too? Check them out at www.keepitwild.ca 

For more details about the Ktunaxa Nation, go to www.designingnations.com

For more on the fight to preserve Jumbo Wild, check out Patagonia’s documentary trailer here: 

[cowgirlontheloose]

Tales My Mother Never Told Me or Invasion of the Body Snatchers

My mother never told me that my body belonged to me.

She never explained that I had a right —a moral obligation on behalf of all sisters, aunts, girlfriends and mothers — to scream like a stuck pig when a boy or a man fondled my bum, slapped my ass, grabbed my crotch, suggested a game of strip poker, told me to pull my pants down, spread my legs, showed me dirty pictures or waved his dick at me. Unless I wanted him to. Which mostly I didn’t, especially before I reached puberty.

My dear Mum forgot to mention that these events would start early in my life. That they would happen often, and would include men my father’s age in tailored business attire or uniforms, and/or boys and men in dungarees, pyjamas, and, once, a kilt.

Mum did teach me to be polite, to only wear suede shoes with evening wear, and to flutter the hem of my taffeta skirt just a bit at dances to reveal the pretty crinolines beneath. How was she to know that my first ‘inappropriate’ and thoroughly unwanted demand-sortie-advance-raid upon my very own sweet and holy body would happen around my eighth birthday. In my own home.

Because she couldn’t imagine my future, my dear Mum couldn’t assure me that I would get off lightly as far as these unhappy events go. The perp was not related to me, by blood or marriage. And at 8, I was actually a bit of a late starter compared to many, for this sort of ‘nonsense.’ (I imagine that is the word she might have used if she had thought to warn me on this matter.)

She would have been right. In all my icky encounters and considering all the excuses from others (he was in his cups; wasn’t himself; men/boys will be men/boys; just stay away from him) I thank my lucky stars I was never raped, beaten, or had to disassociate myself from my soul, i.e., cut off-bury-obliterate memories of incest like some of my friends did. Nor did I have to fear being fired or having my reputation besmirched — that is as long as I played the Don’t Rock The Boat game.

It would have been helpful if she had explained that these events happen everywhere — in slums, bungalows and mansions, as well as places of education and worship, and probably on desert islands too, and in space shuttles. The sky, in this case, is not the limit.

I blundered lonely as a cloud through the 1940s and 50s, where denial and wildly mixed messages about sex flourished like goutweed; where even slim teens like me were encouraged to wear panty girdles (no jiggling of flesh - I remember one pimply swain who tried to get a grip on my backside and, startled, asked me if I was wearing armour) and Maidenform bras pointy enough to stab your date with. (Remember those ads? I dreamed I was made over in my Maidenform Bra! I dreamed I was cut out for fun in my Maidenform Bra!) To whit, one gorgeous friend of mine was having lunch with her father in an upscale Boston restaurant in the early 60s. A man at another table had the waiter hand her a note which said: ‘I dreamed I took you to lunch in your Maidenform Bra.’ His card was included. Both she and her father regarded this as a compliment. So did I when she told me. I secretly felt like a loser because nothing that classy ever happened to me.

The thing is, this nonsense (thank you Mum) hasn’t stopped.

Now it’s 2017. Even though we are more aware. And women actually have rights. Mind you, a lot of those awarenesses and rights had to be legislated, but I guess we had to start somewhere.

A close friend’s dear 12-year-old daughter recently had her first encounter on a busy sidewalk in broad daylight. No, she was not wearing anything low cut-too short-tight-provocative-flashy-tempting-unsuitable-alluring, not that that should matter and I hate that it does. Her parents are now looking into martial arts training. Fabulous. (Too bad the perp isn’t sent off to Effective Human training, but that’s not about to happen.) Still, not every family can afford self-defense classes. So, at the very least, I urge all parents to tell their daughters and sons to never hesitate to overreact/make a scene/get kicked out of class/ruin an elite fundraising event/wedding reception/rock the boat/get fired or be branded unreasonable whenever this happens.

If the youngster is by herself or the perp seems deranged/on drugs/might be armed? I don’t know what I would tell my child. Run? Fight? Bargain? Submit? Possibly this is where martial arts can save the day. If that’s not an option, I guess it’s a case by case scenario. When two hoodlums in a deserted parking lot sprang out at someone I knew decades ago, she pretended she was keen for hot sex. Confounded, the perps knocked her down in a greasy puddle and left in a cloud of curses.

I know there are parents and educators out there who do pass on useful advice on this matter. An old boyfriend told me a tale from his rural Alberta high school days. In a crowded hallway between classes, the shop teacher spotted him patting a girl’s ass. The man yanked my friend off his size 12 feet, slammed his nose against his and told him never to do such a thing again. My friend never forgot it, he said. Neither did I. Nowadays educators aren’t allowed to touch students for fear of sexual harassment charges. I know it’s necessary for the teachers’ protection, but oh, how sad.

I am not blaming my Mum. Or my Dad. I know their hearts would break to read this. They were well trained by their parents and cultures back to the dawn of time. Nor do I blame the pathetic perps. They too have been groomed and enabled by our confused, repressed, sex mad culture.

No use blaming anyone. Nor do I have any solutions, really. I can’t force others to do the right thing, whatever I think that might be. I can examine myself, though, and ponder the tale of a sparrow lying upside down on a forest pathway. A traveller asked the bird what on earth he was doing there. “I heard the heavens are going to fall today” said the bird. “You’re kidding!” responded the traveller. “You think your spindly little legs are going to prevent this disaster?” “Well,” said the bird, “one does what one can.”

Here’s to all those boys and men who called me frigid-prude-cock tease-no fun-party pooper, and who suggested that what I needed was a good screwing to loosen me up. Here’s to all the girls and women, who, along with me, kept quiet/blamed ourselves/played victim/didn’t rock the boat. And let’s not forget the legions of enablers who turned a blind eye or claimed they couldn’t change anything. Which role have you assumed in the past or present? If I look really closely, I can see at times I have played all three.

So bless Mums everywhere who are able to teach their children well on this subject. Most of all, bless those who can’t or won’t or those who tried and failed. For who knows what Body Snatcher Tales shaped them.