tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42315200556337236812024-03-05T16:55:10.840-08:00Still, I Will Sing.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-78978914683379166992013-07-14T16:54:00.003-07:002013-07-14T16:54:53.392-07:00Clancy RobertThe more time that passes, the more daunted I become with picking up this blog thing again!<br />
I hear there are still some people out there who have not completely given up on me and my inconsistent ways (Hi, Nanny!).<br />
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Since the last time I wrote, our house has become alive with colour, babble-speak and drool..lots of drool. A little butterball boy has landed among us and, for the last 6.5 months, he's been stretching out our hearts and wearing down our public inhibitions. I will pretty much do anything for this kid.<br />
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Hopefully, I've given myself a little room to write more artfully about our Clancy Robert now that I've introduced this little person to you. Here's to hoping.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-87254541772282654152012-12-03T14:42:00.000-08:002012-12-03T14:42:59.799-08:00The Sacredness of Repetition<div>
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Here is a little something I wrote for the B.C. Catholic several weeks ago about the wisdom of repetition and the importance of Holy Leisure. If I could condense these thoughts neatly into one sentence, said sentence would make my gravestone (I'm sure a poet somewhere has me beat...). In any case, here it is:</div>
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<a href="http://bcc.rcav.org/opinion-and-editorial/2013-the-saints-profoundly-revered-repetition-as-a-path-to-god">http://bcc.rcav.org/opinion-and-editorial/2013-the-saints-profoundly-revered-repetition-as-a-path-to-god</a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little early this year, but here she be.<br />
(Thanks to Gladys and Stuart for winning this tree and sending it our way!)</td></tr>
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Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-17944333066083479832012-11-12T09:47:00.000-08:002012-11-12T09:47:29.741-08:00NaNoWriMo (And a few of my favourite things...)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birch Books in upstate NY</td></tr>
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Sometimes, I need a little extra push on Mondays. And there's nothing wrong with enlisting a little caffeine help, some brunch pampering and the help of our "favourite things" to get us back on the road to creativity. <br />
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As you can see from the logo on the right, I 'm participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Really, I've used it as an opportunity to formulate some kind of writing routine and to hold me accountable, creatively.<br />
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If all goes well, I should be touting a 50,000 word piece of work by the end of November. Though this barrel-ahead approach goes against my personal philosophies surrounding the creative process (in some ways), it forces me to sit down despite any dryness and put thoughts on the page.<br />
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Here are some recent occurrences that have greatly contributed to my devotion/ inspiration lately (in no particular order):<br />
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1. A recent visit to a massive used book store (<b>Birch books</b>) in upstate NY. There is nothing like shelves and shelves of someone's work to put the wind in my sails again. Each work on the shelf, after all, represents a conscious decision to pour energy into something wild and untamed; each artist threw their caution to the wind and dedicated themselves wholeheartedly to the birth of a work. They deemed said work worthy of their time and effort though it, quite possibly, may not have ever seen the light of day.<br />
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2. <b>Breakfast</b>. Don't underestimate the power of a good brunch (eggs, toast, coffee, fruit) served on beautiful platters. Don't short-change the power of the "first fuel" of the day. The day's early light and the freshness of the mind need to be relished and exploited for their creative worth. And as we should with every seemingly mundane task, why not infuse it with beauty? Add a Fall arrangement to the table, invite a friend, pull out un-matching teacups and china. Make your life beautiful! After all, LIFE is a special occasion.<br />
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3. <b>Prayer</b>. Writing, just like all things artistic, is mysterious. Creative energies often feel like they come from a place outside of us. This is partially true; they come from the source of Life, the Fount of Blessing, the Holy Spirit, Who dwells in our soul. The more we take the time to connect ourselves with the Creative Power of God, the more He can avail us to the Creative Action of the Holy Spirit. His choicest blessings (inspirations) are reserved for the pure of heart and the truly humble. I know the difference as a reader (inspired writing fosters inspiration in others) and as a writer, the flood gates of creativity are tangibly flung open when prayer is the cornerstone of a work.<br />
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4. <b>Music/ Art for the soul. </b>Much like fast food for our bodies, the most available art and music for our senses is full of empty calories and does nothing for the soul. If we want to be nourished through our senses, we have to be prepared to "fast" from "fast food"/ "pop culture" versions of arts and culture and dig for meaningful sources of beauty. Like fostering healthy diets, it takes commitment and perseverance to seek out meaningful artists and sources of inspiration. If our senses become accustomed to goodness, truth and beauty, our interior lives will benefit. As a priest at Madonna House once said in a homily, if one person feeds themselves on true Beauty, we are *all* made better for it. Propagate Beauty in all things that is: connect yourself to the Source; the Author of Beauty.<br />
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<br />Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-44006028121962668592012-10-24T08:06:00.003-07:002012-10-24T11:06:48.945-07:00A Poet for the Fall<br />
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This piece is long overdue. Sometimes, I am so inspired by a situation or by a person that I feel overwhelmed with the urge to write about them, as if I could somehow capture their spirit (or the spirit of the moment) in words. It can't be done, yet I still try.<br />
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Tim Turney is one such person- and meeting him was one such moment. In fact, he is one of the few people (<a href="http://servingcharity.com/" target="_blank">Abbas Jahangheri of Serving Charity is another</a>) whose first impression <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, 'Times New Roman', serif;">fades
in comparison to the rest of his life. Tim's character is so rich, so
textured, that not only can I not get a read on him, but his way of
life preoccupies my mind long after our parting.</span><br />
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Before I knew Tim, I knew his poems. He is, after all a bit of a folk legend throughout the Seaway Valley. One of the local newspapers, The Seaway News, features him in their storefront window display highlighting local authors.<br />
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Tim, for his part, writes about anything and everything though, most of his poems are focused on the local personalities he encounters, the kindness of others (especially of his neighbours), comedic everyday events or the beauty of the seasons. Tim is a romantic soul; he finds love and beauty in everything he sees and in everyone he meets. So, naturally, when my mother-in-law showed me his poetry over a cup of tea one day on a sunny winter morning, I knew that I had to meet him!<br />
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Then it happened! One day after Kevin and I had been married a few months, my mother -in-law called me and told me that Tim was visiting! I gathered my notebook and camera and I huffed it over there as fast as I could.<br />
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It was one of those cozy moments where your socks seem a little warmer than usual, the day seems a little bit brighter and your mood a little bit more hopeful and chipper. I listened contentedly as he told me about his deep love for meeting strangers wherever he went and about how his joy was doubled when inspiration descended and he could capture the encounter in verse.<br />
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He spoke of the mystery of poetry; about how it could lift you up and carry you away before you noticed its arrival; he spoke too, of its elusiveness. "I couldn't force a good poem if my life depended on it. If I'm not writing in the spirit, it's not worth writing!" Mind you, the Spirit seems to visit Tim a lot more than most writers and poets; in the last few years, he has pumped out several books of poetry that are passed from hand to hand within this small community where "Tim Turney" is quickly becoming a household name.<br />
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When happiness was doled out, Tim certainly got a few more portions than most of us. Throughout our visit, He could not stop thanking God for his wonderful life which included heavy manual labour as a carpenter ever since the time he was old enough to pound a nail. But, he says, this labour was always complemented by the composing of poetry. An interesting combination, to be sure.<br />
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Among many other things, Tim got me thinking about my perception of my own life. If gratitude were my daily bread, would I be starving? My conclusion was that I would be a lot less plump than I would care to admit. Tim encouraged me most of all, though, to do what I love and to love what I do. "So many people are unhappy. I say, if you can control it, make the changes to be happy! It's more of a decision than people realize." I sensed that there was some regret in his own life that he was only now addressing. So I asked him about it. "I wish I hadn't worked so much," he said. "I was away for much of our young marriage." Tim then went on to tell me that he lost the love of his life (his wife, Anna) when she was just a young woman to a freakishly swift illness. Tim was left with small children to raise all alone, the youngest of which was merely 4 years old. He still speaks of her as though he met her yesterday; "I can't believe she chose me," he said with a wistful smile, "I'm a nobody!". He still, quite obviously, lives in the bliss of the newlywed stage in his heart. Maybe this is the secret to his effervescent outlook on life: a heavy dose of heartbreak. When you glimpse beauty and then lose it, I suppose a part of you rejoices that you saw it in the first place and that you will see it again, it's only just. Our friendship has spanned just under a year now and I can't wait to glean more wisdom from this special soul throughout the years (please, God) to come.<br />
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I'm confident that Tim will be featured in many future posts ...Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-36675029249635289462012-10-19T14:03:00.002-07:002012-10-23T13:52:38.157-07:00High Risk, High Hopes! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">29 weeks with a new 'do and a newly-painted purple bedroom!</td></tr>
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I am so happy to announce to all my blogging friends that today, I was told that my IGF-1 levels are WELL-WITHIN normal range! Praise God!<br />
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The nurse gladly informed me today that my IGF-1 (insulin-like growth factor) tested at 218. Sounds GOOD TO ME! Especially considering that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reference_ranges_for_blood_tests#Other_hormones">normal range</a> is 110-420 ng/mL. This is actually kind of miraculous. I've been on meds for about 12 years (with a 2-year hiatus) and some of my best bloodwork didn't come close to this reading. I have not a single hormone blocker in my blood stream and I have a happy little babe growing my womb (kicking as I type, actually)!<br />
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<b>But, in case you need some background...</b><br />
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As you many of you know by now, I'm sure, I have a rare disease called Acromegaly. Acromegaly is caused by a growth-hormone secreting tumour on the pituitary gland (the "master" gland in the brain). After two only partially-successful surgeries (one in 1999 and one in 2000) I was left to take a hormone needle each month to keep my levels in normal range.<br />
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When I became pregnant, we were concerned that coming off of the drug would mean complications for my IGF-1 levels and ultimately my well-being. In pregnancy, my already stressed-out little gland would be operating at FULL swing, swelling to (I'm told) nearly 4 times its regular size. There is no room, therefore, for any tumour bulk in the tiny little cave within which that precarious little gland hangs! Thank GOD for modern medicine and for, of course, Mercy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So small, yet apparently, so significant!</td></tr>
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Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-58691569498348239192012-10-18T11:40:00.003-07:002012-10-18T11:40:38.521-07:00Think (Pray), Do and THEN structure.<br />
This for me, is the magic formula! Once an idea comes I need to think about it/ pray about it/ assess my feelings and then act upon it...the structure (habit-virtue) will follow after the "acting upon it". In order to turn good behaviour into habits and then hopefully into virtues, this is the formula for ME.<br />
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And where am I getting all of this? I learned this rubric today at a business lunch of all places! I learned that once we discover our own personal formula, it will almost always work in moving us forward in progress. Discouragement and disillusionment comes, I think, when we are working in ways that are more appealing to us BUT not necessarily efficient (in line with our personalities).<br />
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This idea to which I was subjected over lunch has really taken root in me! I now see it at play everywhere I look. No two saints in the Church attained sanctity in the same way, yet they all got there with the personalities (tendencies, weaknesses, strengths) that they had been naturally given.<br />
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So where do you fit in? How do you approach projects? There are three components to consider (obviously these are loose concepts and no two people are the same in the degree to which they adhere to certain formulas of action). But, here are the three components:<br />
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-<b>Perception </b>: our ideas, feelings, urges, inspirations, judgements<br />
-<b>Behaviour</b>: actually doing it! (Carrying out an action, project)<br />
-<b>Structure</b>: the lay-out of a project, the organization of our physical surroundings, scheduling, timing<br />
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The order in which I've listed the above is the order in which I approach things. I'm forever getting hung up on "<b>structure"</b> if I start with that one. I would never get anything done (believe me, I know!) But, conversely, if I start with an idea that brings me life- I take it and pray about it, think about it, examine my feelings, approve it in my spirit then I do it. The scheduling/ structure then flows naturally from that.<br />
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What about you? When you are faced with a problem do you dig right in and start moving things around (jump right in?) and then learn/ discern as you go? If so, that would mean that you put behaviour first. Or, do you schedule first and that puts things into motion for you? Put the three in YOUR order and try to stick to that order. It's a formula not necessarily for success everytime but it will certainly (I'm told AND I've experienced) keep discouragement and disillusionment at bay.<br />
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So, think about a concrete example in your life where you succeeded with a project/ relationship/ a task.<br />
Got one?<br />
Now think about the three components I've listed. What was the order in which you approached the task at hand which then led to success?<br />
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This was an interesting dose of reality for me today! I feel like I've unlocked a secret in myself and it will be seriously helpful in my relationship with my husband, with God and at the onset of new personal goals and projects.<br />
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WOW!<br />
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Example: each one of my blog posts begins with an idea. BUT my mistake has been trying to schedule time and the aesthetics of the blog first. Usually, when I do this, I put off writing! But, if I think about an idea and I harvest it until the point it gets bigger than my head can contain, it has no choice but to spill over onto the page (screen). Then, the schedule/ structure takes care of itself.<br />
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I've learned a lot over a bowl of butternut squash soup today. Each person is an island unto themselves! I've always celebrated that, but today I do so a little more intensely. Find your groove (not the one you wish you had) and let your life flow out of it.<br />
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<br />Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-84921641725771551172012-10-12T09:12:00.002-07:002012-10-14T15:57:52.490-07:00Marine Nurseries, Financial Planning and the Year of Faith<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIk5gMF1n_NhUoSjeNpIKxTu5EtuiSbVyR5HcpM6xnkLXPR9O7cg8_spVyxtkknpHhnstp92Brvy09DIfsl1_LDKEzY3cwP-7hQSJCPukbF6ZV9tHSPiJSPbf8LPdUy9eozuR9iq7qf3Y/s1600/IMG_0672.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIk5gMF1n_NhUoSjeNpIKxTu5EtuiSbVyR5HcpM6xnkLXPR9O7cg8_spVyxtkknpHhnstp92Brvy09DIfsl1_LDKEzY3cwP-7hQSJCPukbF6ZV9tHSPiJSPbf8LPdUy9eozuR9iq7qf3Y/s320/IMG_0672.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">@ 28 weeks</td></tr>
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A bit of a mixed kettle of fish this morning but it's a bit of a reflection of my mind, these days!<br />
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As of this past weekend, when Kevin and I walk down the hall headed toward our room, our heads automatically turn to the left to take in the nursery's new underwater-shade-of-marine or, as I was more hoping to capture, the deep enfolding blue of Our Lady of Guadalupe's mantle. It was my first time painting without "adult supervision" ( I still feel like that kid, feet dangling off of my dresser, watching my father meticulously roll some shade of pink or another flower pastel onto our childhood room walls). I can now say I've done it and I'm ready for the next painting challenge!<br />
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Here I am at <b>28-weeks</b> to tell you that not only is baby brain a real phenomenon (I've triple booked myself more times this week than I'd care to mention) but that pregnancy is such an immense blessing in my life. I know I'm making myself a cyber-bullying target by saying this but: I'm actually enjoying it! My mom said she never felt happier and/or more beautiful than when she was pregnant and I think I'm taking a page from her book.<br />
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I've been thinking about the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Privilege-Being-Woman-Alice-Hildebrand/dp/097061067X">Privilege of Being a Woman</a> and about how our sex was chosen out of the two to cradle and sustain life within our bodies and I can only summarize the immensity of emotion and awe with a pregnancy tear-welling session and, on a good day, maybe even with a chortle. Seriously, I can't look at a newborn as I did before at least not through un-crying eyes. I am sitting here, thinking about what to make for dinner and about the writing I've been putting off, meanwhile, <b>my body is making a baby.</b><br />
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All of this "making our house a home" business has me thinking seriously about stewardship, as well. I'm acutely aware of how blessed we are to have a warm home, food in our fridge and money in the bank. And with that, I've started to think about how we can manage our money in order to make it do the most good for the most people. Kevin has always been all about scrimping and saving (to a pretty radical degree, actually; it used to be a real access point for my teasing) but I see now that it frees him to give his money generously to those in need. When we decide to do without, we are allowing others to have things (comforts) they couldn't otherwise have. It is more of a reward for us, I'm sure, than it is for these people. I am so thankful to have the opportunity to give (thank you, <a href="http://www.wealthybarber.com/">The Wealthy Barber</a>, he he!) I know that this is what our parents did for us and I am so happy to be learning this lesson young.<br />
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Finally (for the purposes of this post), I've been struck by Pope Benedict's proclaiming this year as the <a href="http://www.annusfidei.va/content/novaevangelizatio/en.html">Year of Faith</a>. It perfectly coincides with the 50th anniversary of the massively influential <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Vatican_Council">Second Vatican Council</a> and its timing could not be better. We are at a real crossroads right now and though I am not part of the school that believes society has "never been worse off", I do believe that we are at a crucial time in the life of the Church where all of us are being asked to be sincere, clear and convicted in our beliefs. Such times have come and gone before now and such times will come again.We need to be so convinced of the Truths of our Faith that we are willing to be ridiculed and perhaps dismissed by popular thought. The clincher is this: waves of thought and intellectual fads have come and gone. But the Church, the Rock of Peter, has been here for over 2000 years. We're not going anywhere so, we can either give way to the popular opinion of the day and essentially join the empires that have inevitably fallen before us, or we can assert the Truths we have come to know and stand bravely in the face of change, unwavering in our Faith. I look forward to the gifts that are to come. The Holy Spirit is with us in every age and I'm not about to take this one laying down.<br />
<br />Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-75065110030423922592012-10-09T13:53:00.002-07:002012-10-09T13:54:10.764-07:00Spend it all.This is my new way of life: "spend it all". I am, of course, speaking figuratively. I am speaking in reference to writing (don't "save" ideas for a later writing session- it will never come), say those words of affirmation you are holding back, apologize now (don't save those, spend them) but, perhaps most emphatically, with prayer: spend it all. We only have enough grace for the moment not only do we not have more than we need, but we are also not given less than we need so, again, spend it all. All thoughts that lift our minds to God are gifts from the Holy Spirit waiting to be received and breathed, weaved, really, into our lives. It is only in spending that we will one day see what it is we are purchasing. Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-5575883364314111202012-09-27T17:41:00.002-07:002012-09-27T17:41:31.100-07:00Wandering where the lions areMaybe I take life too seriously but, for those who truly live, it can be exhausting! I don't really want to get into it (again) here but suffice it to say that in this life there is no shortage of opportunities where our integrity and commitment to intellectual honesty will be put to the test. If we have faith that what we believe is righteous and true, we should have no fear of dialogue, research and the earnest quest for knowledge and enlightenment (whether it be in the form of an ultrasound or otherwise). Those who have nothing to hide, hide nothing.<br />
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It's been a long day.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-12157062858413188162012-09-21T12:57:00.000-07:002012-09-23T16:33:49.326-07:00Give us this day our daily....emotions.Each day, we pray the Our Father asking God to "give us this day our daily bread". Yesterday, it hit me that we aren't asking "give us this day all the bread we need for the rest of our lives". No, we are saying "please, Lord, only give me enough for today." I was so struck by this because I realized that the term "bread" extends so much further than straight-forward nutrition (which, thank you Lord hasn't failed me yet). But, this part of the prayer also refers to our daily dose of compassion, emotions, worry...we are asking the Lord: please, restrict the influx of my to-do list. Don't let it hit me all at once. Or, Lord don't allow me to think about my own suffering more than I can bear today. Only my daily bread, please.<br />
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Coming from a family that is no stranger to emotional suffering in the form of anxiety and depression, this is an especially poignant thought. I am painfully aware of my own fragility and of God's great mercy. "Please allow enough pain only for one day, Lord. No more (and also no less) than you think I need". I think about how I wish I could "care more" about certain worldly events. Then I ask myself, why? Why do I desire to fill my head and heart to overflowing with concern and worry? Instead, I pray (now): Father, not my will, but Yours be done. You know what needs attending and what can be left for tomorrow. You know when my heart can't take worrying about that certain family member or that social issue anymore. Then comes the guilt that I'm not doing enough; I look around and everyone else is giving (apparently) much more generously than I. The Lord doles out gifts as He wills. We must be open to not letting the gifts stop at us; they must keep going. However, the gift has to be there in the first place. We cannot give what we do not have. Others might have it in abundance, we must give thanks when we see them with these gifts but our gaze must immediately shift back to the giver. We must not be tempted into an empty activism; an activism that is motivated more by our own desire to feel important than our genuine desire to be the person God has in mind. When we are busy being who we think we should be, we are missing out on the truth of who we are. +++Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-17815387695711115532012-09-20T12:41:00.002-07:002012-09-20T13:14:36.339-07:00But enough about me...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVW7uE-boCEpG52rX0HbWFQnYf9JaIJa6ekrL-eaFdL-bgWtao-WnRYZSYkTOQ7jZWVmSFjuWqMIBg4sx4cSsJEqEpbNk9KgAnt-nB7do90_ZQJ1V3B8TfEVg2HwS5tJMtfWlDgFUAzUE/s1600/IMG_0665.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Dem18XrsW8_pVm_WFqsmJ5BDHH4__KOepLB78ae1-Up9vaAvdYCrHr8vElyCd1GpKmB9LLVPySE3R3QoCYYrxbSzdX8pwV3W3Go5yiAx89ULahbeJV2K948NxHehFWhWUciVgSvAo58/s1600/IMG_0662.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Dem18XrsW8_pVm_WFqsmJ5BDHH4__KOepLB78ae1-Up9vaAvdYCrHr8vElyCd1GpKmB9LLVPySE3R3QoCYYrxbSzdX8pwV3W3Go5yiAx89ULahbeJV2K948NxHehFWhWUciVgSvAo58/s320/IMG_0662.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our last portrait of Baby M- circa 23 wks?</td></tr>
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Over-thinker that I can be, I've been, per usual, torn and tormented about "how much is too much" sharing on Facebook. While Kevin and I want to rejoice in this pregnancy, I feel that some things are too sacred to be paraded around in front of say, 743 "friends".<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVW7uE-boCEpG52rX0HbWFQnYf9JaIJa6ekrL-eaFdL-bgWtao-WnRYZSYkTOQ7jZWVmSFjuWqMIBg4sx4cSsJEqEpbNk9KgAnt-nB7do90_ZQJ1V3B8TfEVg2HwS5tJMtfWlDgFUAzUE/s1600/IMG_0665.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVW7uE-boCEpG52rX0HbWFQnYf9JaIJa6ekrL-eaFdL-bgWtao-WnRYZSYkTOQ7jZWVmSFjuWqMIBg4sx4cSsJEqEpbNk9KgAnt-nB7do90_ZQJ1V3B8TfEVg2HwS5tJMtfWlDgFUAzUE/s400/IMG_0665.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just under 27 weeks.</td></tr>
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So, for me, my blog represents a slightly less more personal outlet. I'll share a bit more here for the sake of any family or friends who care enough to sit through the musings and meditations of a pregnant lady. Sometimes it's the hormones talking, sometimes it's me, but I'll leave the deciphering up to you!<br />
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For those who are just tuning in, welcome! I may just be the only 6'5" pregnant lady you will ever know. Because of my rare medical condition, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acromegaly">Acromegaly</a>, I've been under close watch by a team of specialists. Come to find out I am faring exceptionally well. I've had no noticeable swelling in my hands, feet, facial features (these symptoms are usually a sure sign of elevated growth hormone) and baby M is growing at a perfect pace. I would say this is because of the prayer warriors we've got on our side. Thanks to all of you for praying and please keep it up! I've only started to think about labour throughout the past few weeks and I've been mildly frightened by some of the stories and books I've encountered. Only mildly! On the other hand, I truly believe that God allows exactly what we need. Plus, I'm a tough tall girl!<br />
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Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-38682878480489248292012-08-08T15:29:00.002-07:002012-08-08T15:29:59.855-07:00Tiny Table, Pho and Undercover BossI think I've been watching too many "Undercover Boss" episodes. I try to overlook the fact that successfully masking a CEO's identity wouldn't work every time, especially as the show becomes more popular. But, nevertheless, I think the show has some really solid values at its core and it gets me every time. By "gets me, I mean I am a sobbing, pre-natal mess. It is really something. So last night's "Choice Hotels" episode and the focus on immigrant workers and their awe-inspiring work ethic really got me thinking.<br />
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This morning, as I was leaving a pre-natal appointment with my dietician, I noticed a big group of picketers outside of the Eastern Ontario Health Unit. I asked a woman nearby what all of the fuss was about. She told me that these people were angry because the EOHU has a bilingual hiring policy and they think it is discriminatory. I didn't get into it right there and then, but I tend to agree that the policy is somewhat discriminatory. In fact, most high-level public sector jobs in Ontario are stacked against uni-ligual Ontarians. Whether or not I think it's picket-worthy is another thing altogether. I didn't mention to the lady that I actually happened to be one of those people who applied for a communications job there but was not considered because of my lack of fluency in French. I guess it's par for the Ontario course. No matter that I hold a Bachelor's degree from one of Canada's most prestigious schools, no matter that I've been writing (and published) since I was in high school or that I am comfortable on numerous multi-media platforms. It's all straw. My mama didn't raise parle-ing Francais (even though she is French through and through). One of the picketing signs said that only 4% of Ontario citizens were eligible for the jobs within the walls of the EOHU. If this is accurate, it really is unfortunate and I agree that the system does need some kind of overhaul. For example one person per staff (a linguist) responsible for translating while the other positions are based sheerly on ability and qualifications. Ah,well, c'est ca. In the meantime, what is the solution for exclusively-English-speaking go-getters who were not blessed enough to be born into a bilingual family? We need to work harder to secure work. We need to think about working minimum wage jobs (with hope for promotion) or look at entrepreneurial opportunities or, if all else fails, we need to hitch the next train out west. This is the Ontario work-force reality.<br />
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But, with that said, I've complained a little now it's time to move on.<br />
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I have a wonderful job! It's taking me a while to find my comfort level but I'm getting there. I made the big bad move into marketing and advertising. My new gig with the <a href="http://www.thelocalseeker.com/">Local Seeker</a> brings me everywhere and I meet some amazing people. So today, my work brought me to one of Cornwall's newest restaurant gems: "Tiny Table". For the good part of an hour, I got to sit with Obon, the owner, and feed off of her drive and all around passion for life.<br />
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Ubon, is the kind and vibrant wife in the husband-wife duo that has spearheaded this unique little resto. Being an immigrant from Thailand, she is used to EVERYTHING being stacked against her. She started at the very bottom here, worked several jobs simultaneously and polished her English (she speaks near-perfect English after 11 years here in Cornwall). She opened a highly-anticipated Thai restaurant and, after sinking her life's savings into the venture, had it prematurely fold as 4 other Thai restaurants simultaneously opened up in this too-small-to-be-a city city. So what did Ubon and her husband do? They picked up the pieces and saved up for another investment: a Vietnamese cuisine restaurant on 4th Street West in Cornwall. Their specialty? PHO! (You'll never look at soup the same way again).<br />
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I was so moved by her attention to detail, her resiliency and her optimism that I couldn't help to WILL myself to be more like her. When I commented on her amazing attitude, she turned to the Thai-inspired masks on the wall and said " I keep these masks here to remind me about the masks people wear." When I asked her to elaborate, she said that often times, people will treat you according to what you can do for them. She shared that being a visible minority and also a woman here gives her very little credibility here in Canada and people often write her off, assuming her to be unimportant. She said that once, she was showing an apartment on behalf of the landlord and the prospective tenants were incredibly disrespectful to her. They thought that since she couldn't possibly have the final word, so they could "take off their masks" with her and with that, she was "privileged" to witness their "mask-less" true colours. Little did they know of the level of decision-making power Obon had been given and just how deeply respected and trusted her perceptions were by the landlord. Masks. I told her it reminded me of a quotation I'd heard recently: "Our character is judged by the way we treat those who can do nothing for us." After quite a bit of talk along these lines, I asked her if she was familiar with Mother Teresa. Immediately, her eyes filled with tears. A light went on in my mind. Everything this woman had told me and demonstrated to me told me that she was a deeply spiritual person. Everything from the way she rose early to prepare the broth from scratch, "some businesses use Oxo cubes, but I don't want to feed my customers MSG or anything that is harmful to them- even if this way is harder", to the way she welcomed each new patron. She had mastered the "small things with great love" spirituality that was so perfectly embraced by Mother Teresa throughout her life.<br />
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We ended our meeting with a hug and the promise to connect again over a bowl of Pho. I made a friend today and I learned so much more about life than I should be able to learn on a Wednesday afternoon at work. Oh, and I think I sold some ad space.<br />
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<br />Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-45054622122035610522012-05-01T11:23:00.001-07:002012-05-01T11:23:11.517-07:00Are you running on fumes?<br />
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<i>*** As always, the following reflections have helped me "come back to life". I only speak of them because they are lessons I needed (need). I hope that they can help you find your own personalized path back to inspiration and awe. ***</i></div>
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The day began with a message from my brother-in-law and a visit to my downstairs bookshelf for inspiration.</div>
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The message from Ryan read: "What is something for which you are thankful, today?" To which I responded: "REAL people. These people give everyone permission to be real and I find that inspiring and refreshing". I love honesty and I love people who reflect and, in turn, get me reflecting.</div>
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This little exchange sent me into a privileged spiral of thought: what are the things that keep us ticking? The things that keep us "awake, inspired, grateful? I believe that these feelings drive the world forward and allow us to co-create with God, rooted in Faith, Hope and Love.</div>
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As human beings created in the image of God, a loving Father and the Author of Life, we are created for endless "inspiration", joy, love and gratitude. But, it takes effort to be happy in this life, we cannot coast our way into joy.</div>
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As a runner, my husband and I have found endless metaphors for life throughout our race training. If we want to run well, it requires discipline and DESIRE. I need to want my goal and I need to be willing to forsake my own comfort to get there. I can't wait for the perfect conditions because they will never come. Some runs leave me with blisters, some runs lead to pulled muscles, sometimes I eat too little before a run and I need to re-calibrate my distance. Sometimes I am dragging my butt and I just want to turn around. But, other runs leave me feeling invincible. Like I could run forever. These runs come at a high price and I would never experience them if I didn't put in the effort. The same goes for any life situation. Do you wish you felt more love for certain people in your life? Feed your love. Do you wish you had more Faith? Feed what little faith you have. Even just by doing one small thing, daily, with an open heart. One sentence spoken to God with "borrowed" Faith will do e.g. "I don't feel like you are close, but I know that You are near." Do you have certain project ideas that have been on hold since your youth because you are waiting for inspiration? Feed your inspiration. What would you say if I told you that you are not only post-poning your own happiness and joy but that the <b>inspiration and well-being of others depends upon your attitude, upon your desire to be happy.</b> No man is an island, we are all connected.</div>
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Many refer to the ideas I have just presented as "good energy". While this terminology (and philosophy) falls devastatingly flat, there is some element of truth to it. The Holy Spirit is given to those who ask for it. Throughout Scripture, those who wanted to be healed had to ask for it. If they were too weak to ask themselves, they got their friends to lower them through the roof to Jesus or they sent their family to ask for the healing. We might not need physical healing like these people but perhaps we need to "feel" something again. Perhaps our lives have become shadows of what they were. Perhaps we feel only half-alive. This, too is a type of illness needing healing. And that healing usually consists of feeding our Faith, Hope and Love because, for a long time, we've been running on fumes; approaching collapse. I think many times this collapse is referred to by the world as a "mental breakdown" or a "midlife crisis". Truth be told, I think many times it is simply the natural response to the Spirit's reserves running on empty.</div>
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I'm sad to say that many of us see it coming before it's too late but we neglect to give our Spirits the nourishment for which they beg. Are you thirsty for beauty? Seek it out like blood returns to the heart! Feed on it. Sit in an empty church, or if that takes too much time and effort initially, google beautiful images or photography that inspire awe! Awaken the awe in your heart. Ask God to return the awe of your childhood. Is it Faith that you lack? Listen to Mother Teresa give a talk as you wash the dishes. Read quotations that move you, write them on your desk post-its. It's not about empty activism, but instead, it's about caring for your spiritual health. "Doing", in and of itself, is meaningless. It is only when this "doing" is infused with love and flanked with prayer that it becomes holy and truly life-giving for others. This, I believe, is the true nature of work- it is not the doing that matters (or even the nature of the task), rather,<i> it is how much love we pour into our work. Let's ask to be renewed in love. </i>The world needs love and only "open" and "real" human beings can bring that to the world.</div>
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MAY 1- Feast of St. Joseph the Worker</div>
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Earlier in this post, I alluded to a book I recovered from our heavy-laden bookshelf early this morning. It was a book of life lessons from John Paul II and, because there are no coincidences and today is the Feast of St. Joseph the Worker, I opened to a page where JPII was reflecting on the meaning of work. He writes:</div>
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<i>" For man and woman thus created and commissioned by God, the ordinary working day has great and wonderful significance. People's ideas, activities and undertakings-however commonplace they may be- are used by the Creator to renew the world, to lead it to salvation, to make a more perfect instrument of divine glory. " -Encyclical on Human Work (Laboren exercens), 1981, John Paul II</i></div>
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He's always right on.</div>
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<br /></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-13081068652337866592012-04-23T12:27:00.000-07:002012-04-23T12:38:38.990-07:00Playing our hand wellI've always heard it said but it didn't really apply to me until today.<br />
"You cannot change the cards you are dealt but a lot rides on how you play the hand..."<br />
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I grew up never making allowances for weakness. I'm learning that I spent a lot of years being a slave-driver to myself. I think today's lesson applies to all of us. I confused "making excuses" with acknowledgement. In acknowledging our weaknesses, we are NOT "giving in" or "giving up" we are equipping ourselves to the be the best possible version of ourselves. When we know ourselves, we know how we operate best and how to obtain the highest level of personal success. I'm ready to stop glancing over at the next girl and instead start looking more closely at my hand. I'm not <i>(fill in your local super-woman's name here). </i>I'm me. And the sooner I get on board with me, the better.<br />
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Up until very recently, some of my goals have proven to be unreasonable for my personality, my state in life, my finances and most importantly (and most relevant to this post)<b> for my health.</b><br />
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By finally acknowledging that I have a disease that is, most likely, not going away (unless God decides otherwise, <b>again</b>) I am living in reality; and this up-until-now elusive reality has room for Jenna. I can make decisions that impact the course of my life for the better, I can surround the REAL Jenna by people of faith and hope. I can search out a work schedule that is healthy and fruitful. I can be gentle on myself and watch my body's outward signs carefully.<br />
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I began this new chapter by meeting a new friend, Julie, who also walks with the same disease as myself. We are, quite literally, 2 in nearly 2, 000, 000. We have a disease called Acromegaly and like Diabetes, it is an Endocrine disorder and its signs and symptoms must be monitored very closely. Unlike Diabetes, however, our disease was initially caused by a growth hormone- secreting tumour on the pituitary gland (brain tumour). I've had two surgeries and Julie has had one. I got the side-order of height with mine because I was pre-pubescent at the time of diagnosis while Julie was diagnosed later in her life (post-bone fusion). Our disease calls for vigilance because if left unchecked (without monthly injections) we face organ enlargement, bone changes, and a whole host of other ramifications ranging from digestive to dermal afflictions.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihK7MNnL3zBqo-rjtnb_8woaihB_qV7A6Sj1FLah_UDLY_SSJglsl1zDT_fRn_8uZH3RdHGxyTJLEYgPcPv3sCvKUNwFsRQCuJv4aBciR2uQR0bhSZT-pyrmVXxS82vp_cVv1Tg2hYjPI/s1600/GEDC0352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihK7MNnL3zBqo-rjtnb_8woaihB_qV7A6Sj1FLah_UDLY_SSJglsl1zDT_fRn_8uZH3RdHGxyTJLEYgPcPv3sCvKUNwFsRQCuJv4aBciR2uQR0bhSZT-pyrmVXxS82vp_cVv1Tg2hYjPI/s400/GEDC0352.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Julie and I with her children Devon and Sydney.</td></tr>
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Both of us live beautifully full lives despite the "hand we've been dealt". When I say "full" I don't mean living right up to the line of collapse, I mean <i>full for us</i>. I am newly married and my husband and I are training for my second half-marathon next month. Meanwhile, Julie is wife and also a mother (aka perma-marathoner) to two precious little ones and works three days a week in public health. St. Therese wrote about the different levels of sanctity and I think that carries over into our earthly lives as well. When it's all been said and done, <i>a life lived well will be full</i>. Whether it's a thimble-full, a barrel-full or a swimming pool-full. We will be filled to the brim.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">"After her mother's untimely death when Therese was only four, her father and older sisters took over her instruction. Therese had a deep love of God and her sisters were patient in explaining the mysteries of heaven. At one point, her eldest sister Pauline had Therese get her father's large glass and her own small thimble and fill them both with water. "She asked me which one was fuller. I told her each was as full as the other and that it was impossible to put in more water than they could contain. [She] helped me understand that in heaven God will grant His Elect as much glory as they can take, the last having nothing to envy in the first." -Story of a Soul</span></i></span><br />
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As I told my husband today, I feel like I've turned over a new leaf; I'm ready to face the music and to make music with the instrument I've been given (to mix up the metaphor a bit). Life is certainly full of gifts and surprises.<br />
<br />Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-35278045744467477252012-04-19T11:05:00.003-07:002012-04-19T11:14:01.129-07:00Becoming Human: My version**Jean Vanier wrote a book called "Becoming Human" which I highly recommend. This was the first title that came to mind for this post, so I couldn't help myself. I encourage anyone who hasn't read this book to do so. But for now, here is my story. I hope it helps someone out there to feel a little less alone.**<br /><br />The following is an excerpt from my (hopefully) up-and-coming novel.<br /><br />------<br /><br />I am a tall girl. Forever. The word tall is such an intimate part of my life that my eyes find it automatically in print. The words Tall ship, Tall tale, Tall Glass of water have much more dimension to me than to most members of the population. When I was in sixth grade, I had passed my mother in height, although this is generally the norm for girls, my growth picked up momentum while my friends tapered off at comfortable, adolescent-friendly heights. To this day, the idea of being so consistent -even if only physically- for so long fascinates me. Upon reflection, I cannot think of a better girl than myself to soar the uncommon heights of six feet at fourteen years old. <br /><br />To me, attending dances was like agreeing to wear underwear over my pants. Towering over the rest of my friends and dancing with boys who were shoulder-height (at best) was not exactly a preferred use of my time. <br /><br />At 12, I remember coming up with a way to appear shorter. I would lock one knee and extend my other leg while standing this pose caused to lose about three inches in height. Even in this ridiculous stance, I was still a good 4 inches taller than most girls (and boys, for that matter) and I still missed out on the conversations meriting whispers (whispers didn’t travel up to such great heights and, for the record, they still don’t. Needless to say, I’ve never been much for gossiping).<br /><br />“Jenna, I think you should suck it up. All of your friends go. What else would you do tonight?” With that I shrugged and rolled onto my stomach. It was a dead issue. I would go because I couldn’t think up a reason to do otherwise, one that my best friend Raggy would buy, anyways.<br /><br />I get stuck on things that I hear people say and I agonize myself with playing them over and over in my head. I once heard a little boy tell a waiter that he did not want ice cubes in his drink: ‘Do you know what lives in those iceboxes?’ he said with a shudder. He was 13. I was 21. Since that day, it has been an interior battle for me to consume an iced drink. I am so quick to trust others but I will rarely step out onto my own reasoning. I am not a compulsive person, but I am consumed by global problems and obsessively aware of wastefulness-to the point that it causes me anxiety when I am idling in a car, or watching water go down a drain untouched by my hands or a dish. <br /><br />“Your looks are changing," my father said one morning as I was pouring my cereal.<br /><br />“Oh?...How so?,” I asked, nervous to hear my own observations articulated.<br /><br />It had been a long time since I had felt pretty. I would spend time in the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror painstakingly analyzing which specific feature was responsible for the recent awkwardness. <br /><br />My family spent weeks of our summer in the woods. We had a tent trailer before we got a ‘real trailer'. My dad would toil tirelessly in the dark to set that thing up while being ripped apart by ravenous maritime mosquitoes. I remember having sore muscles for weeks from mountain biking, kayaking, swimming, and hiking. Getting up early for once in our young lives was a true joy, and before I learned that non-biodegradable soaps hurt the wildlife I could be found in the glittering morning lake lathering up for another day with no schedule. One morning, we left the camp site to attend my cousin’s baptism in a city about 2 hours away. We scrubbed ourselves clean the best we could (hoping the rest was a tan), and piled into the van. On the way to Halifax, my mom informed me that she had scheduled me for an appointment with the geneticist at the children’s hospital in Halifax. I remember feeling wounded. I was thinking: “Wow. I am a genuine cause for concern, alarms must be going off and she is scared of making me feel like a freak.” By this time, it was too late for that. <br /><br />After begrudgingly ordering blood work at my mother’s frantic request, the geneticist sheepishly called our home on a faultless blue-skied June morning:<br /><br />“Mrs. Murphy, you were right. Jenna’s growth hormone came back 50 times out of range. We need to do some tests to verify the suspected presence of a tumor on her pituitary gland,” then she said not with false humility; “Mrs. Murphy, I am so sorry we didn’t listen to you sooner”. <br /><br />For my mother, this was all she needed to enter into short-circuited nature that her life would inevitably assume. My mother went to bed only to lay awake; when sleep finally found her, so would dreams of illness. Her life was lived in a river of panic. I would be awakened early on Saturday morning to my mothers hasty fingers running along the lids of my (previously) closed eyes looking for puffiness. I'd open my eyes to see her own darting eyes, inches from mine, searching my face for "a coarsening of my features", attempting (unsuccessfully) to mask her concern with nearly- warm smile. For Mom, life was put on pause and she proceeded to live in purgatory. <br /><br />For my part, I found it easier to believe in my own created happy endings. We all have a choice in hardship: we can look it square it the face and feign indifference or we can really become indifferent. I fell into the latter category. I distanced myself from myself so as to become immune from the increasing stares of children at the supermarket. “Mommy, that lady is sooo tallllll...”. These comments would be met by flustered, embarrassed glances my way and dismissive shushing. “Yes, darling now come over here and choose a cereal.” As I grew into other realms, my mind also dwelt in the higher regions; I smothered any discomfort in books and dreams. I told people that I had tall cousins when they inquired about my height's origins; I didn't bat an eye when inquiring about the biggest size at the shoe store. This horror show was not my concern, these weren't my problems; I am indifferent, after all. My face grew puffier and my mind grew more free because I did not live in my body. Embarrassment and shame belonged to an unnamed girl I vaguely knew while I, on the other hand, had nothing to think about but beach blankets, novels and blue skies. At least for now. <br /><br /><br /><br />3<br /><br />There is a very fine line between the lofty love of the world and its art forms, and the quickening desire for a detached way of life. I would leave the house in a pair of clicking "kitten" heels (it was the best I could do) and a high-collared jacket to go to Mass and while there I would feel a pull to leave everything behind. My heart is inclined almost equally towards the adornment of the body and the adornment of the heart. Maybe these thoughts are completely common, but to me it seems that my heart will always be a battleground where genuine sanctity tries to find solace amid a restless recognition of gifts I am tempted to call my own.<br /><br />In my life, nothing has been constant. Maybe I have never felt comfortable and at home enough in my skin to set up camp. I feel that this is a major reason why I did not develop many hobbies besides the hobby of surviving. I always felt that because my physical appearance was exceptional, my life needed to be exceptional. If I wasn’t becoming better, more well-read, better acquainted with interesting people, I was wasting precious time. I still maintain some of these compulsive ideologies. I wanted to paint but I didn’t think I had the time to learn. I always felt like just around the corner, my life would be demanded of me so I needed to be ready to wrap things up at all times. Therefore, I had better not get too comfortable as a recluse knitter. Or maybe it’s not best to develop my love for writing too much. After all, learning to write well meant that one had to, well, write for long periods of time; and I thought that my time could be used doing other things. Moreover, how does one create art within art itself? At the thought of putting some of my experiences in writing, it almost felt like a cheapening. The people I encountered were art forms in and of themselves. By harnessing their beauty and trying to bottle it I didn’t feel like I was doing the world a service but, I had never allowed the world to take up anything more than a temporary residence within my heart. Up until this point, I had resorted to what Catholicism calls “the last things”. The things that, at the end of ones life, would still hold. I had no time for anything temporary. So with that, the only thing that has held my consistent attention over the years had been my faith in God. And if I were only concerned with this, I needed to read a few pages in His notebook.<br />I had somehow neglected the fact, however, that even God became human. He took the time to invest.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-19129060788740145952012-03-29T12:35:00.003-07:002012-03-29T12:47:44.652-07:00The Power of AloneI think I'd do ok with solitary confinement. I heard about the artist Bon Iver spending blocks of time on end in a cabin by himself in the woods of Wisconsin. He says it was crucial for the artistic process. I can see that. Lately, my life has lended itself to spending a lot of time on my own. Only now do I realize how far I had journeyed from the 15 year-old version of myself who would seek out solitude like blood returns to the heart. I felt as though I would suffocate without some time to aerate; some time to "spread it all out" before me, rearrange it, meditate upon it and then carefully place it all back on shelves in my heart. Certainly, that time spent "doing nothing" was hardly that, it was crucial to my development and to my sanity (see Joseph Pieper's essay "Leisure: The basis of culture")<br /><br />This is what led the 15-year-old me to climb the highest tree I could find at night. Only to find a moss-covered indication that someone had the same impulse at one time. There was a wooden plank nailed between two branches about three stories up in this gigantic tree. While there, I'd be still. I'd listen to the silence as if I were gleaning the first taste of sugar after Lent. <br /><br />Today, with a three-year sojourn through Toronto's urban desert behind me and about 8 nomadic dwellings in 10 years, I've rediscovered the power of alone. It opens spaces in me that have become overgrown. The soil is perfect here, so let's see what I can grow...Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-17240159919285317202011-07-04T15:24:00.000-07:002011-07-04T15:25:11.366-07:00Fireflies alight!I thought you might like to hear about the field of fireflies to which I was subjected over the weekend. If this moment were an indication of the things awaiting me in small town Ontario, I am one HAPPY girl, already! <br /><br />Enjoy, loves.<br /><br />Context: leaving a wine and cheese gathering on a balmy summer evening in Long Sault, Ontario. The air was heavy with lushness and promise; a wealth only July can afford. The neighbouring field was alight with fireflies...we couldn't resist a trespassing wander....<br /><br />+<br /><br />JM<br /><br /><br />---<br /><br />Fireflies, alight!<br /><br />Field of fireflies, alight!<br />They speak of promises unknown<br />To hearts except my own,<br />They know not their own language.<br /><br />They speak of futures bright with cadence<br />Of nights whose simple radiance<br />Provide for the blue of the next day's skies.<br /><br />Whose flights bumble and leap like laden hammocks,<br />Beholders freed of all mind's panic,<br />Rendering summer's burdens fair and light.<br /><br />Dreams cast forward with true purpose,<br />Life's desires, they now surface,<br />Amid the fireflies alight.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-53519250552617963212010-11-25T16:38:00.001-08:002010-11-25T16:39:13.970-08:00Toronto's Restaurant for the Poor: Over 1 million servedOne friar, one cook, one Queen Street West storefront, a dozen or so daily volunteers and 1, 000, 000 meals served: this is the math behind St. Francis’ Table in Toronto.<br /><br />It’s really as simple as that. The rest flows as naturally as stories from the heart of a Newfoundlander. And for our purposes, the Newfoundlander in question is Brother John Frampton.<br /><br />Brother John is an unexpected hero of the Parkdale neighborhood. Having moved to Toronto six years ago from Newfoundland to take over the post at St. Francis’ Table, Br. John is a friend to all. He has all the time in the world for stories, whether he is telling a colourful tale or lending a supportive ear. In his line of work, it tends to be the latter.<br /><br />“There’s a story waiting to be told in every face we see here,” Br. John told me during our visit yesterday at St. Francis Table. Our Salt + Light crew was too early for the millionth meal by 80 servings and 4 hours (the actual millionth meal was served at dinner that night) but decidedly, we knew the millionth meal would not change anything. It would be business as usual at St. Francis table; they would serve whoever came to them with cheerful hearts.<br /><br />Our team caught wind of the upcoming “commemoration” a few weeks ago and I happily took on the story. When I first called Br. John, I betrayed my distance from the cause within the first two minutes of our conversation: “We’d like to come film as you celebrate your one millionth meal,” I had said. “We don’t celebrate hunger,” came Br. John’s solemn reply, “I wish we didn’t have to mark such a milestone”. It was a sobering (and humbling) moment, as you can imagine.<br /><br />As I stood off to the side waiting for the doors to open for the lunch-time influx, I took a moment to examine the friar. After taking in his black and silver “skater” sneakers and the U2 earring dangling from his left ear, I arrived at the conclusion that without the conspicuous brown capuchin habit, he really was a regular guy; a regular guy doing God’s work.<br /><br />The people at St. Francis’ Table have been in operation since 1987. At that time, it was decided that the establishment would be a “restaurant for the poor”; not a soup kitchen. The difference? The patrons pay a loonie for their meal.<br /><br />“It’s all about dignity,” Br. John explains from behind his desk where he welcomes the incoming crowd each day, Br. Andre-style, “paying gives them the right to complain. Their waiters are volunteers and if there is something they don’t like, they tell us. It is rare that this happens, but they have the option.”<br /><br />The patrons at St. Francis Table are bursting at the seams with life and experience. At one table, I sat listening as the philosophy of democracy was being discussed in earnest, at another Christmas purchases for loved ones were being appraised. Among those present were world travelers, Ph.D. students, writers, laid-off business executives, single dads with their kids and a contingent of Tibetan immigrants practicing their English, to boot. All in a day’s work!<br /><br />As we were packing our equipment into the van on the street, a passerby approached Brother John as he was seeing us off. The man asked Br. John how he could make a contribution to his work. Brother went inside to get a brochure with donating information. While he was inside, the man told us about how one day not too long ago, the streets were gridlocked because a man was threatening to jump off of the overpass. He didn’t end up jumping. In the meantime, Brother John took it upon himself to go outside and help the police to direct traffic…in his Franciscan habit. “This is the kind of guy Br. John is,” the man said, remembering the scene with a smile “he shows us that helping people should just come naturally”.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-6305893013738438982010-11-05T18:12:00.000-07:002010-11-05T19:16:04.265-07:00"Write a book" she said to meand so I answered "yes".<br /><br />I am writing a book. Not so much a book as a chronicling of how a heart is formed. <br />I am writing about what my 26 short years on this earth has afforded me in the way of lessons so far. <br /><br />I'm not even sure if anyone reads this anymore because I've been so lax. I haven't given up, though. I plan on writing into a vacuum if such is my lot! <br /><br />Each one of us has to be faithful to the whispering voice we hear from the moment we rise until the sun sets. when we listen, the voice is no longer faint but instead it becomes integrated into our heart. The union of the Wills. So often, we already know what it is that we have to do.<br /><br />Listen to the messengers He sends to you. He loves you and He is trying to speak. In everything. Love Him by listening. You will do well to do this.<br /><br />Meanwhile, I am going to write what He tells me to write. And I will not be satisfied until it is finished- whatever it is.<br /><br />----<br />A sneak peek:<br />(I'm only several thousand words in):<br /><br /><br />5<br /><br /><br />I lived the life of a writer before I knew I was already slotted as a writer. I find myself thinking in novels and speaking in only single words. This makes for the loneliest of lives because one is able to dream up the most, romantic, intellectual, artistic relationships that have ever existed between two human persons but yet is incapable of building one such relationship, and thus, everything and everyone seems to fall short. I am continuously in utter stupor as I behold relationships that weave through time and eventually evolve into the very thing I have created in my mind but could not bring to flower in my life. I suspect that since there are many books in the world, there must be many equally lonely people. This is my attempt at vulnerability.<br /><br />But, on with the story.<br /><br />I had a roommate in university whom I align perpetually in my memory with lilacs. Emily spent her summers making soap with essential oils. And even though this might be completely inaccurate, I feel like she left a river of memory and smell wherever she went. It felt as though she was a girl “who was” and not “who is”. I remember a few such people crossing my path throughout the span of my life. It seemed as though she had given up on fully embracing life and was resigned to the fact that her dreams would not be realized. She seemed like an old soul, a memory. She had stopped setting goals, she had stopped seeing her own beauty and the mysticism of her story.<br /><br />At one time, I remember coming into her room in residence and sitting on her bed. She was perched there without any kind of occupation keeping her there. She had no book, she was not listening to music or watching TV. Her room was bare and spotless, a black cotton comforter was spread over her bed. The window was open and a sharp fall breeze was terrorizing her room. My eyes were drawn to the pictures neatly lining the edge of her bulletin board. I couldn’t picture her putting them there. It seemed too delicate a way for Emily to expend her energy. I couldn’t picture her gingerly affixing them, her mind brimming with nostalgia. As I knocked and entered, I realized that for the first time in my life, I had interrupted nothing. She was ready for me. She merely shifted her gaze to me as if she had been waiting all along. <br /><br />Maybe I should have been creeped out by Emily, but I wasn’t. The other people in our residence either didn’t get her or they were scared of her. Either way, I knew there had to be a reason because Emily was one of the most unique attractions in our building. She listened to the Smashing Pumpkins with her black finger nails and a rosary around her wrist.<br /><br />I found myself drawn into Emily’s world. <br /><br />“I’m scared my Dad is going to die,” I managed to stammer before breaking down. <br /><br />In moments of high intensity, I was never that gifted with keeping composure and maintaining a steady flow of words with appropriate explanations and pauses for well, breathing. In grade 12, I caught wind that an undesirable date for the prom was mustering up the courage to approach me. I knew that something had to be done because saying “no” was not a valid option. So, without skipping a beat I took my best friend at the time and corner a guy I had been crushing on since my childhood. The moment that ensued still makes me feel nauseous when I call it to mind as an adult. I literally cornered him with my best friend staring in disbelief and proceeded to blurt out-“will you go to the prom with me?” No preface. No conclusion. Unflanked inappropriateness. I can imagine his mother (whom I knew well) sitting him down and saying: “now dear, think of all that she’s been through over the past few years.” In hindsight, if I wasn’t sure then, I’m positive now that it was out of pity. I was the textbook charity case. Tall, awkward and diseased. And my father had cancer. Good ol’ terrified Carter ended up listening to his solidly formed Catholic conscience and saying yes after a few days’ consideration. <br /><br />But Emily, unlike Carter, was undaunted by my inarticulateness. I instantly saw warmth roll onto her face like a comforting fog and her features softened. She warmed the room. <br /><br />Our relationship sprang into existence with force in our first year of university and burrowed deeper from there. In our first conversation, Emily told me that her mom had died of cancer when she was a little girl. She never told me anything about her mom. All I remember is that she was artistic like Emily and that one time, her father bought her mom a pant-suit with a matching skirt. She put on all three pieces; the skirt over the pants. She didn’t see a problem. People would stare at her because she was an eccentric brand of beautiful. <br /><br />“Have you talked to your parents since moving here?” I asked her on the way out of the meal hall in an effort to make conversation with my newest friend.<br /><br />“My mom died of cancer when I was a little girl…” Emily said with not a little disappointment. I was never one for details, even those details that were more than details.<br /><br />The next time I saw Emily was a year after I had graduated, at my father’s funeral.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-17700400641253784802010-03-19T07:54:00.001-07:002010-03-19T07:54:51.498-07:00Good St. Joseph, pray for us!“Joseph. He is the man on the outskirts, standing in the shadows, silently waiting, there when wanted and always ready to help. He is the man in whose life God is constantly intervening with warning and visions. Without complaining he allows his own plans to be set aside. His life is a succession of prophecies and dream-messages, of packing up and moving on. He is the man who dreams of setting up a quiet household , simply leading a decent home life and going about his everyday affairs, attending to his business and worshiping God and who, instead, is condemned to a life of wandering. Beset with doubts, heavy-hearted and uneasy in his mind, his whole life disrupted, he has to take to the open road, to make his way through an unfriendly country , finding no shelter but a miserable stable for those he holds most dear. He is the man who sets aside all thought of self and shoulders his responsibilities bravely-and obeys.<br /> <br />His message is willing obedience. He is the man who serves. It never enters his head to question God’s commands; he makes all the necessary preparations and is ready when God’s call comes. Willing, unquestioning service is the secret of his life. It is his message for us and his judgment of us. How proud and presumptuous and self-sufficient we are. We have crabbed and confined God within the pitiable limits of our obstinacy, our complacency, our opportunism, our mania for “self-expression”. We have given God- and with Him everything that is noble and spiritual and holy- only the minimum of recognition, just as much as would serve to flatter our self-esteem and further our self-will. Just how wrong this is, life itself has showed us. As a consequence of our attitude, we have come to abject bondage dominated by ruthless states which force the individual to sink his identity in the common mass and give his service whether he wishes or not. The prayer of St. Paul – do with me what you will- the quiet and willing readiness to serve of the man Joseph, could lead us to a truer and more genuine freedom.”Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-76029220402663363152010-03-13T09:51:00.000-08:002010-03-13T09:52:32.177-08:00Another conversionI received my hearing and my sight back again. My healer is a wise man who recently told me that if I “took those damned things out of my ears” I would hear the best soundtrack the world has to offer.<br /><br />Since an early morning blood lab experience at St. Mike’s last month, my iPod has been laid to rest on my desk. And maybe it’ll be for good.<br /><br />“Hello there dear, what’s wrong with you?” asked a tall, disheveled woman with a Russian accent as she ambled over to me (strangely confident that I would answer).<br /><br />The one thing I really miss since moving to Toronto nearly two years ago from rural Nova Scotia are nosy (and unapologetic) inquiries into my personal life by strangers.<br /><br />Telling people what you are doing at any point in the day “down home” is to be expected. “Now what brings you to these parts?” if you are recognized as a stranger in an antique store by the beach. Or, “didn’t your Pops have a heart attack last week? How’s he faring?”<br /><br />Answers (and sometimes highly personal ones) are demanded of you constantly and they often tumble out of your mouth before you even notice the stage being set for such a transfer of information.<br /><br />I took out my ear buds and smiled up at her politely. “My specialist has ordered some tests for me,” I spewed out far too naturally, “she thinks I may have a recurrence of a disease from my past”. <br /><br />After telling her far too much (in true Maritime form), she smiled at me with sympathy, and then stared wordlessly for an inappropriate amount of time. Then, as if coming out of a trance, she shook her head and moved onto her next victim. “And you, what’s wrong with you?” I heard her ask the elderly man on my left. <br /><br />A slow smile crept onto my face as my shock synchronized with my memory and then ceased being shock. And all of this because my senses had been freed from their playlist-dictated bondage; I was letting life happen around me again and it felt like home. <br /><br />After almost 2 years in this city, I had come to believe that people were content on their independent daily trajectories and that no one really wanted to mingle with anyone else.<br /><br /> I learned that you shouldn’t say “good morning” to the person sitting next to you on the subway and that people don’t really need to know that you like their lapel pin. <br /><br />Or do they?<br /><br />After that morning at St. Mike’s, I felt a rebellion rising up within me. I wanted to be an unfiltered-brand-of-human to everyone with whom I came into contact. <br /><br />“But you’re a young lady,” my Portuguese landlady countered when I told her my plan, “you will get followed home. People are far too desperate in this city and if you show them any attention…”<br /><br />But all I heard was: people are far too desperate. Too desperate? Why are they desperate? Perhaps because these people see themselves becoming irrelevant at a disturbing speed because they see that people aren’t present when they are present. Maybe these “inappropriate” individuals as we deign to call them are longing for reality, grasping for some humanity, mourning normalcy. I can understand that.<br /><br />We’ve all prayed that the rancid-smelling old lady who plopped down beside us on the bus won’t turn to us with her disconnected ramblings. Maybe we move to another seat before she even gets the chance. Maybe we plug into iWorld where the rancid old lady population is negligible.<br /><br />I am realizing that strangers (even rambling ones) aren’t as scary as we’ve pegged them to be. Accept their candy, no, but their anecdotes? Their musings? Chances are their words aren’t poisoned.<br /><br />“Engage. Take in your surroundings. People have things to say to you and you need to hear them.” This wise man’s words had found a permanent home in my heart.<br /><br />So for me, this city has changed. It’s now been over a month without my iPod, its neon green body lifeless on my desk like a withered leaf from last season. <br /><br />When I was still new to Toronto, I would constantly grieve the beauty of the Maritime landscape that I had left behind, but I’ve since realized that Toronto boasts of a landscape of souls. There are unwritten memoirs on every corner, a startling, uncomfortable yet highly-welcome brand of beauty. Decidedly, this substitute might just be enough for me.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-3334824810506449772010-01-26T10:33:00.001-08:002010-01-26T10:34:00.445-08:00In order to acquire tranquility in action it is necessary to carefully consider what we are capable of accomplishing and never to undertake more than that. It is self-love, ever more anxious to do much rather than to do well and this self-love that wishes to undertake everything and accomplishes nothing!<br /><br />-- St. Francis DeSales (Patron of Writers, journalists and persistence in general)<br /><br /><br />*and from here I will re-commit to more frequent blogging.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-32226751787604765182010-01-26T10:31:00.001-08:002010-01-26T10:31:59.097-08:00Haiti- The Arcade FireHaïti, mon pays,<br />wounded mother I'll never see.<br />Ma famille set me free.<br />Throw my ashes into the sea.<br /><br />Mes cousins jamais nés<br />hantent les nuits de Duvalier.<br />Rien n'arrete nos esprits.<br />Guns can't kill what soldiers can't see.<br /><br />In the forest we lie hiding,<br />unmarked graves where flowers grow.<br />Hear the soldiers angry yelling,<br />in the river we will go.<br /><br />Tous les morts-nés forment une armée,<br />soon we will reclaim the earth.<br />All the tears and all the bodies<br />bring about our second birth.<br /><br />Haïti, never free,<br />n'aie pas peur de sonner l'alarme.<br />Tes enfants sont partis,<br />In those days their blood was still warmJennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-38734001897293134442009-10-14T08:38:00.000-07:002009-10-14T08:56:01.400-07:00Revelation of the DayWe hide crouching behind an image of who we think we want to be, often times squashing genuine genius and creativity to fit the mold we have built for ourselves. I just realized that it is meant to be even better than we could have ever imagined. How we imagine ourselves to be "fully realized" is but a meagre, watered-down version of who we will be in reality. <br /><br />Even in the best daydreams of dream jobs or utopian predicaments, so much 'creme' is missing; we see ourselves in the best possible outcome, true, but these images fall tragically flat. The stuff that truly inspires awe, that is, the wisdom accrued over years of suffering and painful lessons learned (the expansion of the heart, really), coupled with the manifestation of this wisdom is not present in our "when I grow up" fantasies. So there it is, folks, it really is better than you could ever imagine. The best possible version of you is still en route but it must be gently drawn out with the seasons.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4231520055633723681.post-74439802519279951522009-09-25T07:59:00.000-07:002009-09-25T08:06:47.254-07:00a little more "bewildered" than usualIt's been awhile but I still want to try and feign some degree of faithfulness to this blog. I must say, I watched the movie Julie&Julia and gained an inordinate amount of insight on the power of sticking things out for the sake of keeping one's spirit alive in an otherwise disappointing situation. <br />Yes, I said disappointing! I have a bad case of the September blahs! Does anyone else experience this phenomenon? The only remedy I can figure is higher doses of Taylor Swift and cello music to account for the decrease in vitamin D.<br />I have many little theories floating around my head with regards to my feelings about September..maybe someday I will commit them to paper. But for now I wanted to commit something to paper.<br /><br />Be blessed. If you are down, listen to some cello...I swear it helps!Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01518535640340740360noreply@blogger.com0