Choosing to See Kindness

On By ednafroeseIn Choices, Christmas, Gratitude, Kindness2 Comments

The stores that sell Christmas, in whatever guise suits their products, would have you believe that you can buy your way to good feelings—however you define those. That is a seductive narrative. There are days when I am briefly lured into imagining that a lovelier tree top (ours was old a decade ago already) will be able to counteract the dread and anger created by daily news bulletin. But only briefly.

I hereby admit that I have always approached Christmas with ambivalence: a tincture of cynicism and a dollop of reality along with the hope. Expectations are always so high, if not in my mind then in the minds of people who greet me happily, and promptly ask if I’m ready for Christmas. They clearly expect plans for a gigantic family gathering and mountains of gifts and plenty of parties, and so on. Whether I am “ready” or not, I should at least be giddily suffused with the “Christmas spirit.”

If I have any lingering uncertainty about what the “spirit of Christmas” might be, every streaming service available has a multitude of “seasonal” movies that offer lashings of sentimentality. No matter the difficulty—loneliness, break-ups, estrangements, poverty, illness— within 90 minutes, the entire cast will be standing next to a fabulously decorated tree, singing Christmas carols, and wiping tears of happiness from their eyes.  

Yet experience and observation make it clear that problems are not so readily resolved. In real life, to use that tired phrase, life offers its measure of aching bones and aching hearts. Our family is surely not the only one with anniversaries of death in December and January, to name but one factor among many. Darkness is not only a matter of how early the sun sets and how very late it returns to view.

So, once again, I attempt to find words with meaning deeper than the sparkle of a glass ornament (which does give me delight). The year 2025 has been a tumultuous one, and the sheer amount of grievance and outrage online with its inevitable spillage into actual consequences is frightening.

Last year, in my Christmas posting, I stated my intention to make gratitude a specific discipline. I have indeed kept a gratitude journal for the entire year, finding time almost every day to write down at least one thing for which I was grateful. It became a genuine antidote to the news headlines, making me feel not quite as helpless. Even if all I could find to be grateful for was the glow of a candle and the shadows it threw on the kitchen wall, it was enough to make me remember that I had a kitchen, a decently stocked one, at that. I saw colors anew, I noticed the comfort of routine, I paid attention to the warmth of the bed in the early hours of the morning, I made a point of looking at people I met in the day for whose presence I was glad. I shall continue the practice of gratitude and pray that it eventually eliminates an old tendency to complain.

This year I suggest a different discipline, also one that has to do with seeing, but the seeing is more outward-directed and calls for more careful observation. In a world that is increasingly characterized by more rudeness, more tribalism, more naked self-interest, I want to see kindness where and when it occurs.

Just in the last week, I watched children perform a Christmas drama that cleverly turned the infamous innkeeper who sends Joseph and Mary to the stable to sleep—and have their baby!—into the same innkeeper who takes care of the wounded man that the passing Samaritan chooses to help. It was an interesting conflation of two famous stories that have not, in my recollection, been brought together before. It transformed the innkeeper into a kind and generous figure who does his best to meet whatever needs are there.  

No one said out loud, “Go and do likewise,” yet I suspect that many did indeed think harder about doing exactly that.  

Recently, I saw a young man standing patiently near the entrance to a public bathroom. He was waiting for his elderly grandmother, making sure that she would be alright and that when she emerged, she would immediately see a known and well-loved face. That is kindness, I thought. True, it was between two people who loved each other. Yet it was kindness.

It happens also between strangers: the clerk who took the time to make sure that I could actually manage the weight of my purchase before she moved on to the next customer. Had I not been able to carry the box, she would have carried it herself to my car. She was kind. Even if that was company policy (in other words, part of her job), it was still kind. I have no objection to seeing kindness as part of company policy. An excellent idea, in fact.

I anticipate that my intention to pay attention to kindness, to look for it, and to make a point of saying thank you when I am the recipient of that kindness, perhaps even say thank you on behalf of someone else will make me more aware of the abundant kindness that is everywhere present and always has been. And I hope that it will make me act more kindly. Yes, that is my hope.

“It’s all a matter of paying attention, being awake in the present moment, and not expecting a huge payoff. The magic in this world seems to work in whispers and small kindnesses.” (Charles de Lint)

The Grace of Little Libraries

On By ednafroeseIn books, Generosity, Grace, LibrariesLeave a comment
All photos are of little libraries.

            We consider ourselves lucky to live within walking distance of perhaps a dozen little libraries, including our own (pictured above).  Since we live on a relatively busy street, our library gets a lot of visitors, both walkers and drivers. We’ve watched drivers pull over to drop off park an entire bag of books to share with the neighbourhood. Walkers pause for a glance, some stay to browse. Often they leave with a book in hand and a smile on their face. If we happen to be working in our front garden, there’s a chance for conversation. Always we hear gratitude for the library, for the possibility of a serendipitous discovery of something new, something unexpected.

“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” (Cicero)

            I frequently function like an art curator, making weighty decisions: this book is too tattered – it’s destined for the recycle bin; this book has been here so long it’s obvious nobody wants it, so out it goes; this pamphlet is full of conspiracy nonsense – definitely out of here. To the occasional person who assumes that a little library is also a used clothing depot, I say, “we’ll schlepp your stuff to the nearest drop-off bin (a mere three blocks away) for you this time, but next time do it yourself!” I’m still puzzled by a huge sack of white towels that once appeared at the foot of the library. What on earth was that about?

            Many times, as we ourselves check out the neighbourhood offerings of free books, we return home empty-handed. Once again we’ve seen the same titles, the same genres we’re not interested in. Or we’re just not in the right frame of mind for what is there. Choosing books is an idiosyncratic act, guided by some will of the universe that wishes us well.  The very randomness of any given collection of roughly 20 books means that nothing may spark our interest or, equally, that something will suddenly demand to be read, a book we hadn’t known we needed, hadn’t ever thought of looking for. We too delight in serendipitous discoveries, whether from our library or someone else’s.

            We provide no small journal with a pencil so visitors can list the books they’re taking or returning. We make no effort at all to track books, except to notice if some stay there too long.  Passersby are free to take an armload of books or only one or two; likely those books will never come back to our library. They will end up in someone else’s little library or find a new home on someone’s living-room shelf where they now belong. Give and take. No obligation, no fee. One might call that grace.

            Certainly, graciousness and generosity is what I sense as I regularly straighten out the contents of our little library, making sure that all titles are visible. I don’t know for whom any particular book is intended. Perhaps this or that book has already given its all and is simply ready for retirement. So be it. I like to think about its history of passing through multiple hands, sharing its ideas with keen minds, as evidenced by multiple marginal notes.

            Sometimes I read personal inscriptions on the front pages. Clearly these books had been given as gifts, on some important occasion. They were carefully chosen and lovingly given. I imagine the pleasure of the recipient. These books mattered once upon a time. Now they’ve been set free to wander the world. That, too, is grace.

The Perfect Lunch Spot

On By ednafroeseIn family, food, Gratitude, hiking, memories, Mountains2 Comments
Author on the banks of Athabasca River near Jasper

            Never mind that I once hated packed lunches. Not surprising, given that school lunches meant eating at my classroom desk, mostly without friends and with the fear of teasing and taunting from other kids. That I once felt ashamed because of my homemade bread sandwiches with egg salad or left-over roast meat strikes me as rather stupid now, but back then white Wonder Bread with bologna was the sandwich to have. Neither of which was ever in our farmhouse.

 Lunches on the campus of the University of Saskatchewan were significantly better. Now I had complete control over what went into my rumpled paper bag. And I was usually not alone. My friends and I perched on the ledge of some window in the halls of the Arts Building, or secretly snuck bites in the library, back in the days when food was forbidden among the books. The excitement of learning and the thrill of having a boyfriend, besides the pleasure of good friends (roommates, classmates), meant that the lunch food itself was a minor matter, not worth fretting over.

 What truly changed my mind about packed lunches was the first hike I took with a good friend up in the mountain slopes of the Pyramid Bench area, just north of Jasper, Alberta. We were new summer employees, grateful to enjoy our surroundings on days off. And we had no idea what we were doing. We did have wit enough to take a bottle of water each and an awkward-to-hold paper bag with sandwiches of cheap bread spread with lemon cheese (all that we could manage in  “B&B” accommodations (bed and bathroom access – nothing else), store-bought dry cookies, and apples (the only real food in the bag).  Seated on a fallen log, high above the town of Jasper, we thought we were in heaven. Could life get any better than that? or lunch taste more delicious?

 Yes, to both those questions. In the subsequent 50+ years of hiking that my husband and I have enjoyed, we had many fantastic lunches, tucked into comfortable backpacks designed for hiking.

We have chosen lunch spots aplenty, some with amazing comfort (a flat rock next to a larger rock that served as back rest, or a ledge covered with deep moss), some with views that we had earned with work and determination (the top of Mt. Rundle in Banff, the top of Fairview Mt. overlooking Lake Louise, Nigel Pass, Sentinel Pass), some at the edge of lakes of unsurpassed beauty.   

            Our lunches have been varied. In early years when our bodies were young and resilient, a small bag of GORP (good old raisins and peanuts) with the addition of dried mango pieces, beef jerky, caramels, chocolate, cashews and almonds was good enough. Later on, we began making super sandwiches, with hearty bread (rye or pumpernickel), sliced ham, all the veggies I could stuff in (cucumber, sweet peppers, lettuce or sprouts); or, as our cooler got emptier, peanut butter and alfalfa sprouts. Always we packed fresh fruit and homemade granola bars or energy cookies. Always we packed out every little scrap of garbage. We were lucky enough to have been taught good hiking manners early in our adventures.  

            My memories of these lunches are rich with more than food. These perfect spots were shared by others, a sibling perhaps, then our own children, and now our grandchildren. We need bigger spots now, more than one good rock for sitting. (And I’ve been known to pack along a small cushion!) The edge of a lake is marvelous because children can play while adults appreciate the chance to rest. High ridges and the tops of peaks are now beyond our ability, but we still appreciate a good view.

            Along the way, I have learned some things about the context in which food is eaten. Those bygone school lunches were miserable, not because of the food itself or even the monotony of the menu, but because of the tension and uncertainty within me. I can also remember meals at a fine table set with abundant deliciousness, yet the food tasted of straw and stuck in the throat on the way down because the very air was thick with judgment and anger.

I remember all those marvellous lunch spots along all those many mountain trails, not so much for the food – good as it was – but for the deep inner peace I felt. The surroundings were beautiful, majestic. I had been expending physical energy without tension and was truly hungry. I was with people I loved and who loved me. Plain bread and cheap cheese would have provided gourmet pleasure.

That I still—all these decades later, all those many, many tasty and joyful lunches later—think of those awful school lunches baffles me. That is garbage that I should have left behind. But memories are a mystery and we do not always choose what surfaces and when.  I can, however, and shall choose to treat the memories with graciousness by noting that I was given healthy lunches to take to school. Indeed, I was given lunches. That in itself is reason for gratitude when I remember that far too many children in our cities come to school hungry and are lucky if they are fed there. And to think that I have had the privilege of hiking in some of the most beautiful places imaginable augments my gratitude many times over.  

Learning to Say Good-Bye

On By ednafroeseIn Good-byes, Love, memoriesLeave a comment
Fall scene of forest near the Saskatchewan river.

            The end of summer is itself a good-bye in the Canadian prairies where I live. As the weather cools, and leaves turn orange and yellow in terror of the nasty winds to come, it’s time for students and teachers to head off to school again—a collective good-bye to what had been the year before.

For elementary and high school students, this is a good-bye to the freedom of holidays, but not to their immediate families and homes, unless they’re off to boarding school, which is not common here. Some will face the excitement of entering a new school, never without at least a ripple of anxiety, but the good-byes that preceded this big step happened back in June when the previous school was left behind.

 A more momentous good-bye will be said by all those young people leaving home to begin college somewhere else, perhaps in the nearest city, perhaps halfway across Canada. This is the good-bye spoken over suitcases and boxes, often with the gut-felt knowledge that home will never again be home in the same way. For the parents and guardians of these young people, the good-byes are mixed with memories of their own launching forth into the world. The memories do not lessen the ache of now.

 Thoughts of such wrenching good-byes have preoccupied me in the last days, as we think of our first grandchild, now in college, living away from home. Such a big step this is. Never mind that there have been small steps toward independence since the little one took her first shaky steps all by herself across the living-room. All those many small steps (some of them bigger ones like going off to camp for a week) happened within the context of the familiar home and the immediate prospect of returning to that home. This move is different.

Bright red shrubs against a cloudless sky.

            I have begun to think that our whole lives are a process of learning to say good-bye. No doubt, my status as the youngest child (by 6 years (that’s forever for a child!)) introduced me to saying good-bye earlier in life than for many. Memory snapshots come to mind: my mother crying in an empty upstairs bedroom, because my oldest brother was away from home at Christmas, for the first time; siblings packing to go away for school, leaving me now essentially an only child; the Saskatoon airport lounge where I said good-bye so many times, sometimes knowing it would be years before I saw that sibling again. Always I was the one standing at the window, waving.

Of course, my parents were also swallowing tears, pretending to be strong, but I was then too young and consequently too self-centered to grasp what it must have been like for them. I always knew—well, hoped—that soon I would be the one with suitcase in hand. I would not always be the one left behind but would be able to do the leaving. I imagined that that would be easier. After all, I would then be in control of when good-byes happened.

 Well, we can imagine all we want. Some time, sooner or later, we will say good-byes that hurt far worse than we ever imagined possible. Because of my status as the youngest child of older parents, I was almost the first person in my peer group in our church community to say a forever good-bye to a parent. I had already attended funerals of grandparents and an aunt and uncle or two. Indeed, I had said good-bye to a high school classmate, not a close friend, killed in a motorcycle accident. The death of my father was different.

Six single red leaves on a grey stone.

            I am old enough now to have said forever good-byes to close friends, and siblings. We have given countless good-bye hugs to departing children and then grandchildren, as yet another, oh-so-welcome visit comes to an end. Whether it’s standing at a window waving at the car backing out of the driveway, or doing the driving away ourselves, those good-byes remind us of the fragility of love. No, I’m not saying that good-byes are a closure to love, never that.

It’s not possible to love without also hurting. I had not really known that until I fell in love (I didn’t actually—I grew into love, friendship shifting so gradually that I almost missed it). Saying good-bye, repeatedly, to siblings had hurt, of course, yet I never quite put that into the language of love. My family of origin didn’t readily speak of love. Not until I had finally learned how to say, aloud (imagine that!), “I love you,” did I truly begin to grasp that love makes us vulnerable, lets us get hurt.

Would I have it otherwise? No. Never.

 Do I imagine that life – and love – would be better if we all lived forever and never had to say good-bye? Absolutely not. The rhythms of our universe are built on birth, and life, and death. Beingness includes not-being. So be it.

Let me learn to say good-bye with love and gratefully accept the pain. That is better, much better, than not having learned to love.

A path leading into the background, framed by trees, some still green, some already yellow.

“There Has to Be Something Better”

On By ednafroeseIn evaluations, family, Humility, memoriesLeave a comment
Photo of a homemade pencil case, an old geometry set, and a package of 16 crayons on a red background.

            Those words were first uttered in my hearing by a small boy, shopping with his mother for school supplies. A tight budget meant that this was an annual ordeal. I wanted to provide what our children needed. I also didn’t want them to be mocked or disdained by other children for their failure to meet whatever standards were in place that first week of school before the usual breakages and losses evened out differences. I had myself once endured the scorn of classmates and of the bigger bullies from the higher grades.

“There has to be something better” struck a nerve deep down and made an already fraught task downright awful. As I recall, my patience was inadequate. I can only hope now that my frustration didn’t cause lasting emotional damage. What crayons or other tools of education we eventually bought, I don’t remember.

Photo of scattered crayons, an eraser, and a small ruler on a flat gray background.

            Why this particular small incident has stayed with me is puzzling. There were enough other conflicts along the way that my memory could have preserved, other heated exchanges, all the normal trials of parenting three small children. Was it that that one querulous sentence prodded me into some creative thinking about how to teach children to make decisions and then live with the consequences? That would have been a positive outcome. Or was it that our child had unwittingly named a flaw in my own character?

 If I didn’t recognize then how familiar that attitude was to me, I certainly have since. Making decisions has always been my Achilles heel. My childhood was rigidly controlled, and the only way that I could practice the art of choosing was by going against (most often in secret) what was already decided for me. Not until I earned my first paycheck, post high school, could I choose any of my clothing, with the result that for years every purchase was made only after endless dithering and intense anxiety. It was like learning to swim by being tossed into the pool’s deep end with no flotation device.

Recently, as that memory of “there has to be something better” surfaced yet again, I connected it with something besides the difficulty of making decisions. That problem I had more or less understood long ago and learned to manage, admittedly with the help of a more flexible budget. Were I put back into circumstances of financial distress, I daresay that shopping would once again become a horror instead of just an unavoidable nuisance chore.

            But that childish complaint was a signal of something more troubling, in the long run, than not wanting to make decisions. Our child was mimicking a character trait of mine that I had not seen for what it was until probably many years later. Perfectionism: that’s the underlying force that drives “there has to be something better.”

 I have neither the knowledge nor the will to explore fully the sources of perfectionism, certainly not here. However, memory provides me with snapshots of perfectionism in action. I remember watching my mother in the kitchen over many years, fussy about techniques, forever gathering more recipes, experimenting, re-doing old favorites. When I sorted through her store of recipes, as part of cleaning up my parents’ estate, I found multiple recipes for pancakes: always there had to be a better way of making them. I remember also her reluctance to serve guests, her repeated apologies for a meal that wasn’t absolutely perfect. And the meals were never perfect, in her view.  

Was it insecurity? Possibly. Was it that she had so often been judged herself and found wanting that she couldn’t avoid spilling the same displeasure over others? Very likely. It is not my place to play counselor/evaluator for my ancestors.

            What I have learned over the decades—yes, my age is making me reflective—is that what children absorb of the atmosphere in a home is longer-lasting than we might imagine, perhaps much more so than whatever conscious, verbal teaching is given. Without knowing it, without wanting to do so, I had unwittingly and unwillingly absorbed my mother’s perfectionism and doubtless, I let it spill over onto others, especially our children.

 Awareness of one’s attitudes matters, and behaviors can be changed, although it takes much work and persistence, not to mention some painful apologies and the disciplined practice of gratitude. If behaviors and attitudes couldn’t be changed, we would have little hope. Fortunately, we are all exposed, not only to our families of origin, but to many other influences, from friends, work places, books and education, and especially from our partners who cannot help but see our weaknesses and are close enough to help us change. I will be forever grateful to my husband (and his family) and to various friends along the way, who taught me that the mantra of “there has to be something better” needs to be managed with care and often dismissed altogether.

            On the other hand (isn’t there always that ‘other hand’?), I will declare that precision in our work and a desire to do well are assets, not a disadvantage. Conscientiousness doesn’t have to turn into perfectionism. Also important is the ability to recognize when it may, indeed, be time to say, “there has to be a better way to do this” (whatever “this” might be). In my mind, though, there is a difference between “something” and “a way.” That is a huge discussion on its own, which I will leave for another time.

Photo of pencils and a homemade pencil case on a red background.

            Meanwhile, my warmest thanks to the small son who held a mirror up to my face somewhere in the school supplies aisles. 

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

On By ednafroeseIn Choices, Generosity, Gratitude, reflectionLeave a comment
Photo of a bed, with books piled on the headboard.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

    I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

   I pray the Lord my soul to take.

                        Anonymous

            Back in December of 2024, in “A Gift for Christmas,” I wrote about my intention to begin a gratitude journal in 2025; I wanted to counter the daily news with something worthwhile and encouraging. Call it self-care, if you wish. So far, almost every day I have written down something for which I am grateful. The practice has made me pay attention all through the day, seeing things that I otherwise might not have noticed.

 From the beginning, I wasn’t looking for astonishing events that would change my life: no equivalents of lottery wins (for the record, I never buy tickets), no miraculous cures (although I believe that they do sometimes happen), no fabulous expensive vacations. I wanted to recognize astonishment in the midst of the ordinary.  

Some days that was easy: the smell of bread fresh from the oven; the taste of a simple meal lovingly prepared with healthy ingredients; the addition of a yoga pose to my regular routine that I had not been able to do for almost two years; an hour with a friend in a favourite local coffee shop; the texture of a scrap of satin found in the bottom of my sewing cupboard; the completion of a necessary yet unpleasant task; the unexpected joy of planting a garden with friends; the happy face of a purple pansy smiling into our kitchen window.

Photo to pots full of pansies, taken out of a kitchen window.

            There were also days when I stared mutinously at my little journal by the bedside. The sheer volume of grim news in the world and the persistence of emotional fatigue from sources I care not to name here opened the door to discouragement with despair close behind. Those forerunners of depression were all too familiar to me. Be grateful? Screw it, I thought, and stared longingly at my pillow, wanting only to seek oblivion.

 And then the obvious declared itself: the comfort and security of a good bed itself was a magnificent reason for unending gratitude. I had a good mattress, a warm duvet, and clean sheets, not to mention a new pillow. Surely it was not trivial to be grateful for that, not in light of the misery in the Middle East and Ukraine, and many other places on our earth (including our own city) where houseless people walk the streets looking for a place to lie down that might be warm enough and safe enough for them to stay alive until morning.  

I, on the other hand, can say the old prayer—“Now I lay me down to sleep . . . ”—with the reasonable assurance that I will indeed wake up again. In my neighbourhood, bombs do not go off, nor is it at all likely that gunfire will echo through the house. I’m also reasonably healthy. We’re far from forests or grasslands at risk of burning, and the South Saskatchewan River, should it flood, will not damage much of the city.

In the whole of my life I have spent exactly two nights trying to sleep in a car. Both occasions were the result of rain plus a tent malfunction. In other words, we were on vacation, a privilege in itself. And while our decision to spend our vacations camping was at first made because of a modest budget, it remained our choice long after other options became possible. In fact, we dismissed those other options in favour of getting a better tent and better sleeping bags! We had become lifelong campers.

Photo of a tent, a kitchen shelter, and a car in a campground near Jasper, Alberta.

            “Now I lay me down to sleep,” is, I now realize, a statement of privilege. It is a blessed state of mind to be able to recite it confidently, knowing that I do have a place to “lay me down.” A very comfortable place. That the child’s prayer also includes a reminder of mortality simply intensifies my gratitude.    

What shall I do with my gratitude? Can I turn it into some concrete actions for the sake of the people of my city who have no beds and no houses to put them in if they owned any beds?

 At the least, I could donate money or blankets or . . . . .  but my mind has shifted from beds to gratitude itself. Why should being thankful provoke any change whatsoever? Because gratitude is a tacit acknowledgement that I needed something and it was given to me by someone else or by some confluence of circumstances. Genuine gratitude is felt by those who know that they cannot control everything in their lives, who know that they need other people, and who know that they have done nothing to deserve all the goodness that has been given them.

 Gratitude is characteristic of a worldview that is not transactional, that does not see the Other as someone to be manipulated or used or destroyed. Being human is not a zero-sum game. Being human requires vulnerability and cooperation. That is the culture that grows thankfulness and thankfulness grows wholeness and joy.

 I should add to the “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayer. Something along the lines of “Thank you for my bed and my pillow and my life. / Thank you for all those others / wittingly and unwittingly / who have made me who I am.”

Eight Things I Want Politicians to Say – and Mean

On By ednafroeseIn Humility, politics, responsibility, Wisdom, WordsLeave a comment
A quiet scene in late fall when the leaves have fallen. A shallow lake with a mossy shore line.

            Writing blog posts has not been at the top of my agenda lately. It’s been difficult to see beauty around me, although I know that it is there – always. However, when worry about the implosion of democracy in our southern neighbour is so intense, I feel more like throwing stones than being quiet enough to listen to them. It does not help that we Canadians are in the midst of a federal election (more political speeches!).

So between the campaign here in our country, and constant news bulletins from elsewhere, I began focusing less on issues and more on language. What are they all saying? What am I hearing and what am I not hearing? It was the latter category that caught my attention. In the whirlwind of words designed to create an impression rather than inform, some vital things are not being said – by anyone.

            Herewith eight sentences that I would like to hear our leaders say out loud and honestly: the first four are my own wish-list, and begin as ideas or emotions that I tried to translate into specific sentences, and the second four are the simple sentences that Chief Inspector Gamache of Louise Penny’s justly famous murder mysteries offers to his new recruits.

    • Some deep awareness of, and even kinship with, the natural world. Gardening would count but even better is a willingness to spend time alone in the woods (without a cell phone). Maybe “I am nourished by other kinds of life on Planet Earth.”
    • A recognition of mortality and a willingness to admit that death will come, often after increasing vulnerability and physical limitations. Perhaps, “After my death, I want the good that I have done to matter.”
    • A capacity to experience genuine gratitude when a personal need has been met by someone else. “Thank you. I needed that.”
    • An awareness of a higher power, a spiritual dimension in human existence that shows itself in a free admission of human powerlessness. Perhaps “I am not in control.”

    And here are the four statements that Inspector Gamache insists will bring wisdom:

    • “I don’t know. “
    • “I need help.”
    • “I’m sorry.”
    • “I was wrong.”

    I cannot remember hearing a politician speak any of those second four statements. I would be deeply impressed if I did, because it would indicate that that individual could take responsibility for messes made and did not have grandiose ideas of his/her own importance. Furthermore, such utterances would demonstrate considerable courage, not to mention humility.

    I could vote for such an individual, and then pray often that she/he could survive the trials of holding office.

    A single wooden bench and a weathered sign post by a trail in the woods in fall.

             

    “There are four things that lead to wisdom. You ready for them?’
    She nodded, wondering when the police work would begin.
    “They are four sentences we learn to say, and mean.” Gamache held up his hand as a fist and raised a finger with each point. “I don’t know. I need help. I’m sorry. I was wrong’.” (Louise Penny in Still Life)

    Declaring Our Givens

    On By ednafroeseIn assumptions, Beauty, efficiency, politics, WordsLeave a comment
    Photo of large rock in foreground with the brown colors of autumn in the background.

                My Stones and flowers blog was never intended to be overtly political, although I should have known that the love of beauty is not separate from the rest of human life. Furthermore, the care of our earth has always been political, albeit not in the current sense of partisan warfare and competition for public approval. Politics in its basic meaning is “the art of managing the affairs of people who live in proximity and share resources”; or “the art and science of government.” In terms of such broad definitions, almost everything we do is political, since we do not live in isolation.

     That being said, I do think that the language of politics these days has become toxic enough that it is past time to examine carefully some of the assumptions that lie beneath our unquestioned positions. If we want to survive the coming weeks in North America with at least some integrity and sanity remaining, we could begin by declaring openly what we take for granted.  

                Assumption 1: government is bad, while business (of all sorts) is good, hence, the more government regulations we have, the worse off we’ll be.

    Those who subscribe to this belief that government is inherently bad often preface the word “government” with “intrusive.”  I live in a province where this belief is widespread; agricultural communities, with their typical stance of self-sufficiency and determined independence, often (sometimes for good reasons) deride government officials as interfering and annoying.

    There is much to admire in that rural pride and creative problem-solving, especially since farming communities can be astonishingly generous in their assistance of one another. Yet something bothers me about an automatic dismissal of government as bad.

    Since government is run by human beings and businesses are also run by human beings, there is no reason whatsoever to suppose that one is inevitably corrupt and the other trustworthy—whichever way you choose to apply those attributes. Government offices (at all levels) are often populated by good and decent people who strive to do what is best for as many people as possible; the same can be said of places of business. Both spheres can also inflict much suffering and injustice, and we don’t need to look far to find examples. To make a general statement about either is illogical and unrealistic.

    Besides, governments change; businesses change ownership. In a democracy, we have more direct influence in government changes but we can also influence some changes in businesses through our buying choices. Thus it is far better to pay attention to specific actions and consequences than to simply apply automatic labels. In fact, pay a great deal of attention and make sure that both governments and businesses are strictly regulated and independently monitored. Make it as hard as possible to get away with corruption of all sorts in both systems.

                Assumption 2: Because government is by nature always inefficient, private businesses should be contracted to meet as many human needs as absolutely possible. About the only institution that government should provide is military defence, and even that can (and should?) be privatized as much as possible.  

     Before I comment on this assumption, I want to point out that there’s yet another assumption underlying this one that really needs to be examined.

                Assumption 3: Efficiency is an ultimate good and should be sought after without question. Waste of time, waste of money, waste of resources—all criminal (metaphorically at least if not actually).

     Since the efficiency of any action or policy is measured in relation to the goals of actions and policies, we have to return to that second assumption and ask questions about the purpose of government and the purpose of business.

    Businesses, from massive corporations to small family farms and craft markets, can be made more efficient because their primary purpose is to make money. They have additional purposes, of course, such as meeting the needs of their immediate communities, developing and using the skills of the owners and workers, paying for the resources required by the creativity of owners and workers, taking care of the environment, etc. Add in what delightful goals you wish. Some profits will have to be made, though, in order to achieve those additional goals. Interestingly, too zealous a focus on money and/or efficiency is likely to sabotage those goals.

      The purpose of government, however, is entirely different. Its only goal should be to take care of its people, all of its people. If that sounds startling and ridiculously idealistic, let’s take a step back. The purpose of government is to create enough order and predictability to make it possible for people to take care of themselves, beginning with the basic needs of survival. Whatever form of government you imagine, from feudal landlords and monarchies to modern dictatorships, and including various forms of cooperation and/or democracy, the purpose of government is to establish and keep enough order to provide what people need to flourish.

    If that still sounds idealistic—we know very well that plenty of governments of all sorts have not taken and are not taking care of their people—it helps to remember that even the worst, most brutally selfish dictator or drug lord will be better off in the long run with satisfied, happily productive people than with angry, starving people, even if only in terms of personal security. At a very basic level, people want their governments to defend them from outside threats, establish predictable and dependable ownership of property, and make it possible for them to earn their living. As soon as the goal of government becomes making money, whether for an aristocratic class. or for a single individual, or for a clutch of oligarchs, it has become corrupt and no longer fulfills its only rightful purpose.

    Efficiency has nothing whatever to do with the act of caring for people. Anyone who has ever been a parent or looked after small children knows that being efficient is impossible. Anyone who has cared for elderly parents understands that beyond slight changes here and there, efficiency isn’t the point. In fact, a focus on being efficient puts some other goal in place of the compassion and patience required to give care.

    Is all of the above over-simplified? Yes, definitely. Both business and government are far more complex than what I’ve suggested here. However, we need to start somewhere in our thinking, if we choose not to just yell insults. Paying attention to assumptions is a place to start, both our own assumptions and the assumptions of all those others we have derided as fools for thinking differently than we do.

                A second step, which is related, is to pay attention to the words used to talk about those crucial assumptions. As George Orwell so astutely noted in his famous essay, “Politics and the English Language,” a misuse of language indicates either fuzzy thinking or nefarious intentions or, more likely, both. To take one egregious example: a “Department of Government Efficiency” is by its very title and supposed purpose revealed as illegitimate. Subsequent information about the performance of said new department indicates that efficiency was never actually the point, but merely a distraction, a mask. It’s worth asking just what the purpose was.

    It may feel like trying to nail porridge to the wall, but let’s keep asking questions about assumptions and keep insisting that words be clear and consistent.      

                  Language becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts. (George Orwell)

    close-up photo of a single coral rose

    The Weight of a Name

    On By ednafroeseIn Names, reflection, Respect, Silence, SolitudeLeave a comment
    close-up photo of mountain rocks and tiny alpine flowers, mostly moss campion.

                The language of stones is silence. Flowers likewise keep their own counsel. There are exceptions: dried flowers rustle in the wind; live flowers attract choruses of bees happy in their pursuit of nectar. Stones can raise a mighty ruckus if gravity moves them. No one who has watched a rock avalanche in the Rockies (as we have) can forget the almighty roar of stones tumbling down hundreds of feet in search of a level surface on which to take up a new habitation.

    A view of Mt. Edith Cavell in Jasper National Park, just as an avalanche is finishing.
    Mountain buttercups against a dark background.

     These days I’m lonely for both stones and flowers, the landscape where I live being covered in feet of snow—which is also silent, unless hurled forward by wind, in which case it is the wind we hear, not the snow, or unless the temperature is low enough that snow squeaks beneath our boots.  

                Public discourse, by definition never silent (exceptions there also, of course, for sign language and body language), has taken on an edge in the last years that makes me long for hours spent outdoors, in silence, never mind the weather (and as I write, the wind chill on the other side of the window is – 47 C). So much could be said about how the public square functions these days. To be briefly facetious here, it’s not really a public square anymore at all but private glowing rectangles on which the shouting happens. I am not qualified—as if that matters much these days—to weigh in on momentous policy decisions; I will leave that to those with a higher pay grade and preferably some expertise.

     All I want to draw attention to is one seemingly insignificant, yet dismayingly common, tactic of signifying disapproval of an opponent: the twisting of names. That phrasing is actually too kind a label for the practice of using names as weapons. The intent is not actually to signify disapproval but to humiliate and destroy. What is actually signalled is the self-claimed superiority of the one who renames.

    Nicknames, we used to call those miserable refusals to use a child’s given name. Who has not heard the horrible epithets created by playground bullies? Fatso, Lard Guts, Skinny, Rat Face, Four Eyes, Stinky. The insults are legion, almost always focused on what the hapless victim cannot change – race, appearance, disabilities. Memories of verbal bullying are hard to erase, as I can testify. 

     Nicknames can also be affectionate, within families, among close friends, between lovers. Pet names we call those tender labels. Which seems revealing on its own. There’s just a hint of ownership implied by “pet.” The act of naming is an act of power, a dynamic that becomes evident when the wearer of the nickname chooses to resist it. For a child who is growing up and wishes to leave the “pet name” behind, the continued usage of the name begins to feel like an insult. The line between affection and aggression can be thin.

                Human beings seem always to have known that naming is somewhat akin to magic. The Book of Genesis includes as part of the creation accounts the story of Adam naming all the animals, having been asked by God to do so. It seems a clear indication of greater intelligence in humans and thus also the responsibility of caretaking, a relationship that can be abused. Parents name their children, sensing at some level that they are conferring on this new little human an individuality, a personhood. That is most often a gracious naming, which in some cultures is also a powerful recognition of ancestors, a continuation of family traditions, even an accolade for some valuable characteristic.

     Colonialism was less gracious: over and over again, conquerors have renamed landscape features in an act of appropriation, declaring their ownership. Sometimes the original people, now without power, have also been renamed, sometimes to spare the conquerors the trouble of learning names in an unfamiliar language, sometimes as a deliberate effort to obliterate old traditions and familial ties. Brian Friel, an Irish playwright, in Translations, depicts the English practice of renaming and mapping Irish land as an act of dominance.  One of the characters eventually asks the obvious question: if all the place names are changed into another language, will the villagers still know where they are? Indeed, will they know who they are? Names matter.

     Given that long human history of naming as a weapon of power, we should probably not be surprised that the current political scene has been corrupted by childish nicknames. Whatever one may say about President Donald Trump (and I have little desire to begin a larger conversation), he has had frightening success in demeaning opponents through his bullying tactic of creating mean nicknames. I will spare my readers the pain of having to read a long list of such nicknames. If you follow the news at all, you will already know them. None of those names should live on, whether they were hurled at worthy men and women or at former “friends” of Trump’s as complicit in criminality as he is. I am particularly troubled by the seeming increase of a similar use of demeaning names in Canadian political conversations.

                From hereon, my voting decisions will be strongly influenced by political candidates’ use of names, and slogans, as a weapon. Never having held membership in any political party, I have made my choices primarily on the basis of individual candidates’ qualifications for office, with some consideration given to their party leaders. The character of the individual who will represent me in parliament matters as much as the policies advocated. If someone is willing to use demeaning labels against an opponent, I will interpret that as a serious character blemish, a disqualifying one. That is a failure to show respect to another human being.

     It is not a coincidence that the world’s main religions all call for respect to all human beings, and include some version of the Golden Rule, which asks us simply to offer all others the same dignity that we would wish to receive ourselves. One measure of that equalizing respect is to call each individual by his/her chosen name, or earned title. While such a courtesy would not, all by itself, undo extreme and unkind partisanship, it would be a step toward greater civility and hopefully also a movement toward more reasoned discussion of policy rather than a competition of personal attacks against opponents.

                I return to the stones and flowers that enrich my world. Their silence and their beauty soothe my spirit.

    Could we perhaps improve the governance of our various countries by making it an inflexible rule that all would-be leaders spend 4 weeks in some lonely, isolated place outdoors?

    Photo taken in Alberta Badlands, in Dinosaur Provincial Park.

    A desert would do, so would a backwoods spot in the mountains, even a northern forested island. No aides allowed, no party officials, no team of caterers, no cell phones or laptops, no more than one book, preferably a blank journal, no trappings of power. Just one Indigenous elder who knows the land well whose periodic visits would make sure that actual starvation or major illness didn’t occur. At the very least, such a measure would open up space for undisturbed contemplation of the responsibilities of the desired governmental position and would remind our would-be dictators that they are, in the larger scheme of things, actually quite small and dependent.

    Lone figure on a hill in Cyprus National Park, Saskatchewan
    Solitary figure on high rock silhouetted against the sky in the Canadian Rockies.

    Prolonged silence and solitude has a way of leading us inward. There is no name for that.

    A Gift for Christmas

    On By ednafroeseIn Beauty, Christmas, gifts, Gratitude, snow, winter2 Comments
    Photo of cross-country skiing park with hoar frost on the trees and evergreens.

    What gift shall I give my readers for Christmas this year? It hasn’t been an easy year, this 2024. Not for any one except the ultra rich perhaps, and then only if you calculate “ease” in terms of dollars or rubles or pesos or whatever currency you will. What with political tensions, economic uncertainties, and storms of all sorts with all sorts of consequences for those who got in the way, the year has been a challenge, indeed.

    I do not want to offer a wordy post. The world has heard more than enough words already, not many of which offered hope or even kindness.

    Photo of hoar frost on trees, with a little library in the foregrounds.

    What I want to offer is the gift of beauty. The kind of beauty that is free, if we have eyes to see. The city of Saskatoon, where I live, has been granted at least two good snow storms even before the official first day of winter. The world here is overlaid with white. In the last two days, weather conditions were perfect for the forming of hoar frost. All is white now, even the thinnest blade of grass and forgotten mitten in the backyard.

    Close-up photo of shrub with all branches covered in frost
    Close-up of evergreen branches heavy with snow and frost.

    If I may, I would also like to offer just a tiny bit of inspiration for the New Year. Resolutions have never been my schtick; I think good habits are formed slowly, with repetition and as a result of both careful thought and growing need, not at the behest of the calendar. However, this year I intend to begin a gratitude journal, a simple exercise of beginning the day (or the afternoon!) with a brief naming of something for which I am grateful. If it brings me all of a few minutes of gladness of heart, then that is already a gift.

    May your Christmas be beautiful. Thank you to all my readers.

    A tall elm tree with a huge canopy of branches, all white against a blue sky.