Win some, Lose Some

I just got over the stomach flu. Not the usual, restrained sort of stomach flu that I get as an adult, but the six-year-old, barf-o-rama, no-holds-barred stomach flu that involved “praying to the porcelain god” for hours and thinking that just when I was done, there it went again. Not to mention fever, chills, and all the other “fun” that goes with flu. (Yes, I also know that it isn’t really “flu”, it’s gastroenteritis, but I don’t feel like typing that out each time I mention it).

In my slow introduction to “regular food” (regular food being exciting stuff like toast and ..more toast), I feel a bit like Goldilocks. As in, “..and the three bears”. Everything tastes too hot, too sweet, too bland, or too..gross. Yesterday, I couldn’t even finish an entire banana. It just tasted..wrong. The texture tasted disgusting and it had a faintly bland and sweet taste that made me want to gag. Normally, I LOVE bananas.:(

Later, I tried the offending banana again, and this time, it tasted like a mouthful of candy. Far too sweet. Sigh.

Before anyone asks, I’m not pregnant. Aunty Flow is also here at the same time. Which is fine, she was expected, and given the fact that a strong Nor’easter can cause my cycles to go out of whack, I actually don’t mind AF showing up. The accompanying craziness and bloating I could do without, but, par for the course, I suppose.

Fever and chills also do not accompany morning sickness. Or at least they shouldn’t. I just find it interesting that anytime a woman of childbearing age is throwing up or mentions throwing up, people exchange knowing glances. Maybe I should pelt them with my brightly coloured “Compak” (They spell it that way ‘cuz it’s cute) tampons from my purse to get my point across.  Not. Pregnant. Will. Try. After. Wedding. Comprenez?

So that brings me to my point, which I didn’t realize I was making until I started writing this post (and sipping my first sip of coffee since my flu, which tastes like sheep dip. MMMM, sheep dip.). The very comments that illness brings out.

Some of these are mine, some from people I know. Almost all of us were joking, or speaking tongue in cheek, but I think there was a kernal of truth there, as there are in most jokes like this:

“One thing I love about having the flu, you lose five lbs in a few days!”
“The flu gets me closer to my ideal body weight”
“I look great after having the flu”
“At least I don’t want food/have an appetite!”

Ouch. What’s wrong with this picture?

I’m on a “weight loss journey” at the moment as the corny motivators like to say, or, as I like to say, I’m eating healthy and trying to drop a few pounds. I’m also moving away from my preoccupation with junk as a part of my Lenten practice and trying not to make that translate to vanity, as that would negate the whole point of my Lenten sacrifice (I gave up candy and lost weight and now look awesome! woohoo!). So far, it’s working well. It’s also given me some time to evaluate relationships with image.

It’s not a pretty sight.

I don’t have a lot of weight to lose, really, in the relative scheme of things. Ideally, I want to lose 20-30 lbs. when I mentioned that to my mom, she said, “Seriously? 20-30 lbs is a lot..you’re looking fine now.”. Bear in mind, my mom would tell me , in a nice way, if I needed to lose weight for my health.

I always weigh more than I look and told her so. She said she is the same way and advised me not to get too hung up on the scale.

I try, I really do, but I can’t help it. Those stupid numbers. Weight Watchers advises you get on the scale once a week. I won’t tell you how much I do it. Let’s just say that sometimes, it’s more than once a day. I get too tempted. Did I lose again? Gain?

A “gain” day can make me feel horrible. What did I do wrong? Was it that extra banana? That cookie? What if I stuck to what I was supposed to be eating? Should I be eating less?

A “lose” day makes me feel victorious. I did it! I lost! I must stick to what I am doing. Maybe if I do a little more..I can lose even more.

..and that’s when things get troublesome. Thankfully, to use one of my mom’s expressions, I know when to “put the spoke in the wheel” before things get out of control. I’m also just not that disciplined to LET things get out of control. It also bothers myself when I allow a number to dictate my day.

I think that, this Lent, this is what I should be concentrating on. Not just giving up junk food and fasting from that stuff..but looking closely at my attitude around weight, self-image and my relationship with food and the self. I don’t have an “eating disorder”, clinically, but I do have some distorted perceptions that fall short from how God sees me and how I’m supposed to see myself in Christ.

This Lent, maybe it’s time to move away from all that, or at least start to. It will not be easy, but I guess going in to the desert never is.
If you celebrate Lent, how is yours going?
If you don’t, what are some attitudes/things in your life you’d like to change?

Dances With Wolves

No, I'm not talking about the Kevin Costner/Graham Greene "epic" *film (But I will. Follow the asterisk if you're interested, or just really bored and/or curious). I was looking for a euphemism that accurately described dealing with psychiatric medications and the management of Bipolar Disorder on a regular basis, and this term immediately came to mind.

It feels exactly like you're dancing with wolves. I've kept them at bay for a very long time now. I've been, like Homer Simpson after his short stay in the insane asylum, stamped "SANE" on my hand, released from Unmanaged Bipolar Town,  sent into Regular Society,  and been coping well and balanced for a good stretch of time now. Longer than I have ever enjoyed in my lifetime, actually.  I've had little "blips" and "bleeps" a long the way, as due to being Bipolar, C-PTSD, with traits of Borderline, I will never be "normal", but I've been great, for the most part. I "graduated" from seeing my psychiatrist monthly to having him return to acting on a consult basis with my physician (..and I didn't even get a proper cap and gown. I guess my reward was NOT getting the little men in the white coats to come out..). Other than a minor medication adjustment (downward, rather than upward, which is a normally a very good sign), I've refilled my meds like a good little "beeper" with no incident, not even having to go to see my doctor. It's been refreshing.

Until recently.

The nice little dance I've been enjoying with the wolves, where they stay out of my way and I stay out of theirs, has not come to a screeching halt, but I can feel them circling, sniffing, waiting for something to change, so that possibly they might have an inroad and bite me on the ankle, or worse, causing me to fall at their mercy again.

You see, I've been experiencing very unfortunate (what I think are, anyway) side effects lately. Namely, feeling extremely tired. Not just regular person tired. TIRED. T-I-R-E-D. Exhausted. Imagine sleeping for a full 8-10 hours every night, then waking up in the morning feeling like someone is hitting you repeatedly with 20 pound flour sacks and like you got MAYBE two hours sleep the night before, and you don't "fully" wake up until mid-morning or noon. That's how I feel every day. I'm exhausted. I nap after work. I nap on the weekend. I sleep in. I get a good nights' sleep, whatever that means. My diet is the same. Everything is the same. But I'm feeling like I'm running a marathon every day with no end in sight, and I just don't get it.

One of my medications, Seroquel (Quetiapine..kwi-TY-a-peen, say it with me, boys and girls... I had to consult Wikipedia for that, as I always mispronounce the generic pronunciation and end up sounding like I'm asking for exotic fruit at the drugstore rather than an atypical anti psychotic, even after all this time. Thankfully, they know what I mean.), is notoriously sedating. One of my old acquaintances described it as "taking a two-by-four to the frontal lobes". (Of course, this same acquaintance also said a lot of bizarre things, so her credibility is a little bit questionable, but her way with words was usually pretty notorious, for better or for worse.). I'm a little strange when it comes to medication. I'm very sensitive to side effects, but I also am on doses that should tranq a rhino and am able to function. I'm tired, exhausted, yes, but upright and functioning. I know of a somewhat large man, for example, who is on a quarter of the doses I am on and they have been known, reportedly, to make him feel like a zombie. This individual heard the doses I was on and was shocked. I'm a mid-sized woman. I'm not taking whopper doses of the meds, but I'm not on tiny ones, either. There is room to adjust.

So, the next phase. Back to see my physician, which I am doing next week. Report the symptoms. Get the usual catechises of what I'm eating, am I exercising (no, but chicken and the egg here..I can't exercise as I'm too tired, and so on and and so on), then time to look at the medication. Down with the Kwi-TY- a-peen? Up with Topamax? Down with Dope, Up with Mania? That's always a risk, and I really, really hope not. I did go down 100 mg each in two (out of three ) of my Bipolar  medications recently without incident. I hope and pray that the "no incident" happens again...that is, with the exception of having normal-person energy.

I also have to remind myself that my life circumstances are largely different than when I was first on the large doses of meds: I was in an abusive relationship, not working (correction, couldn't work due to the scope of my illness at the time), involved in the occult, had little to no positive supports because I'd pushed them away and was attracted to poop like flies (Gross analogy, but first that came to mind.). Things are vastly different now. I have a small, but fantastic support network. I have a strong (OK, it wavers sometimes, as anyone's- I'm human- but it is rooted) faith. I have a beloved fiance who supports me no matter what. I have a good career that is not particularly stressful, other than the early mornings. (I'm not a farmer, so will never understand why things have to start in the early morning. I suppose they don't, but that would take time away from being with my fiance, which would stink, so I'll pick mornings over that!). A great relationship with my small network of,  but closely knit,  family members. It's a whole new life. I'm not saying to throw out the meds and "break free" (that would be just, well, insane, for lack of a better term, and classic mania. I will be on medication for the rest of my life, and am completely fine with that.), but I am saying that perhaps my brain chemistry has changed and that my support network is better, so adjustments will not hit me as hard as my recovery process has come a long way in two years. Make sense? I hope so.


A Bible verse came to mind as I was reflecting upon and writing this blog entry:

Matthew 10: 16 "I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves. "

It dawned on me that that is the main difference now, also. I'm not dancing with the wolves alone. There is One who dances for me. :) It's not up to the sheep, for I am not the Shepherd.

Shepherd me, Kind Jesus, through these ups and downs, and bring me rest that only You can give, for I know that you are my rock and my shield. Help me to always remember that this is not "my" battle, but Ours. In You alone do I have my hope, my rescue, my all.  Amen.

Shepherd me, O God beyond my wants,
beyond my fears, from death into life.

God is my shepherd, so nothing shall I want,
I rest in the meadows of faithfulness and love,
I walk by the quiet waters of peace.

Gently you raise me and heal my weary soul,
You lead me by pathways of righteousness and truth,
my spirit shall sing the music of your Name.

You have set me a banquet of love
in the face of hatred,
crowning me with love beyond my pow’r to hold.

Surely your kindness and mercy follow me
all the days of my life;
I will dwell in the house of my God forevermore.
-Marty Haugen (from Psalm 23)

We don't walk alone. That's what I leave you with today.















* While we're on the topic, though, of the movie Dances with Wolves...Whether or not it was an epic in terms of quality depends on your perspective, but it certainly was "epic" in terms of revenue and scope. I never saw it personally, so can't offer a personal critique, which I realize places me firmly under a rock according to many gap-jawed people who think that one "must see" every big name film that comes down the pike. I have nothing against big name films, which I enjoy just fine with popcorn (hold the butter), peanut m n'm's, and a Diet Pepsi, but I DO have something against Kevin Costner's acting, which is why I never saw the film, and don't intend to, either- I couldn't be bothered. I  have, however,  studied  many "pro" and "con" statements from First Nations people about the film. "Pro" in that it was portraying First Nations people in a positive light for the most part, "Con" in that it perpetuated old stereotypes. Despite having the Graham Greene imprimatur that Hollywood seems to think that, by simply having this fellow appear in the film it gives the "All Systems Go" as far as making it an "authentic" First Nations film, it did draw significant criticism.
 Being of Metis heritage and as someone who works with First Nations systems myself, that would normally place the film of interest to me and I'd slog through Costner's lackluster acting to see what all the brew ha ha had been about when the film was released. But..I just can't. Sorry Kevin, but you lost me after Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. (Don't even get me started on that piece of garbage, and how it shouldn't even be counted as a popcorn movie...more so, don't get my mother started on it (another anti-Costner) unless you want to hear the history of the Crusades and the known medieval legends of King Arthur and Robin in the literary realm in an angry tone, while she curses Costner, the Director, Bryan Adams, and anyone else involved in the making of the travesty of that movie, but I digress...).

There, and Back Again, a Blogger's Tale..

Hello, readers! (All two of you, or whoever actually follows this blog!). I am still maintaining my Tumblr account, but find that it is not that great for long, rambly, blogg-y posts as I tend to enjoy doing every once in a while, so I've decided to keep this blog for the time being AND keep the Tumblr account going, too. I can't promise that they will be updated regularly or with any sense of order, but, as they are mainly for my own purposes, it will work well as it is for now.

Things have been perking along well, which is why I have been quiet. Not that I don't think I should write in good times and in bad, but when your journal is primarily about the "slings and arrows" about being bipolar and things have been relatively quiet, there isn't much to write about! And THAT  is a huge victory all on its' own. Never in my life have I been on such an even keel. Oh, I have my moments, trust me..but after a lifetime of being on an internal roller-coaster that manifested externally in the same way, to say that things are going "just fine" and "okay" is a true miracle.

My medication has seen some minor adjustments since I last updated...Topamax has gone down by 100 mg in the morning, as it was making me too exhausted, and Seroquel by 100 mg as well. I have found that it assists with my unremitting tiredness and I have not found that it has affected my mood poorly by going down in strength, so that has been excellent. My psychiatrist also stated during our last visit, sometime in October, that I could now go back to our "shared care" agreement where he will be acting in the background on a consult basis with my family doctor only. What does this mean? A lot, actually. It means I have "graduated" from having to see the psychiatrist monthly and for any medication adjustments, that I am stable enough that my GP can now take care of my regular medical needs and only refer me back to the psych. if it becomes necessary.

The way I think of it, although this is not the term used in clinical circles, is that I have achieved "remission". Just as someone with an illness such as Cancer or HIV (and I am not comparing these to what I have, by far, these are just the only things I could thing of that were remotely analogous) can be treated and be in remission and/or lie dormant as the case may be, but one still can have the illness, that's how it is with Bipolar. I still am Bipolar, and will always be Bipolar. I will be on medication for the rest of my life. I will always deal with quirks in my system that are different from those that are not Bipolar. But the good news, the AMAZING news, is that I have healed to the point where I am now fully functional. I have bad days, sure, but when I compare myself NOW to where I was almost three years ago, it's like I was not even the same person.

The things I struggle with most these days are being overtired (combination of having to be up really early most mornings and my meds, although I have never been and never will be a morning person), "bottomless pit" hunger sometimes as a medication side effect (although, nowhere NEAR as bad as I was on a certain drug that shall remain nameless that I was on when I was first diagnosed. It's reasonable and I can deal with it.), becoming socially overwhelmed (I have to limit my social activity, as in out-of-the-house parties or get togethers, to once per week, if that, and then have to gear up for them, but this is easily achieved most of the time as my fiance and I are not exactly party animals.), and being too hard on myself.  These are peanuts compared to what I was dealing with before, which included a laundry list of mental health symptoms, then the side effects from drugs that didn't work to try and combat the symptoms (and sometimes made them worse), constant doctor's visits(including one specialist who was useless, although my other doctors were excellent, having to constantly see the doctor was like debriding a wound.) ,not to mention my social surroundings, which, three years ago, were basically in the toilet (living with an abusive, drug addicted partner and surrounded by "friends" that basically affirmed my mental health issues).

I've honestly got the kind of life I dreamed of having years ago but didn't think I would achieve. I know, I sound like Tony Robbins (who has some serious issues, and I'm not joking, but we're not going there right now), but I don't mean it in a presto-chango, get rich quick type of way. I'm not famous, rich, or problem/stress-free. I just have a quiet, simple life that is generally happy. Problems, of course, come my way, but I'm equipped to deal with them now. I have a wonderful fiance, and we're four months away from our wedding day. I have a strong faith that has honestly brought me through a valley of darkness. I have fewer friends now, sure, but the ones I have are supportive and caring. I have a rewarding and solid career, not just a job. I'm able to work full-time. I can honestly say that my mood is "even" most of the time, with the ups and downs that most people face, perhaps a little more amplified than most, but nowhere near where I was. I know my boundaries. I know myself.

Do I have more work to do? Absolutely! Am I "cured"?? No. I am still Bipolar. I still have Complex PTSD. I will never be "cured", unless the Lord would see fit to cure me. (and He has, in His Wisdom, cured some people totally of illnesses, but that is within His Decision to do so.). But, the Lord has brought me to such an amazing place in my life that He certainly has "cured" me in many ways.

Many people often say that I discredit myself too much. They say that I did a lot of work to get where I am and that it wasn't just the doctors, or the medication, or even God. Yes, I did put in a lot of work in my recovery. But, if God was not part of my life, if I had not let "God in" and would have continued to preach the Gospel of "Me, Myself, and I", I wouldn't have gotten nearly as far.

That was the problem when I was following the occult. It was all about ME. Yes, they preached a connection with divinity and I knew many nice people there. I'm not discounting that. But, they taught that YOU, yourself, are a god. You don't need a saviour. There is no sin. Reality is not real. It affirmed my mental health issues and I can honestly tell you, although it sounds bold, that 80-90% of people I knew that were involved with Wicca (as that was what I practiced) or paganism had some form of mental health issue. Most stayed the same or got worse- I honestly didn't know any that showed a great deal of improvement or got better or even stabilized.

King James Version (KJV)

<i> ¹⁵Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
 ¹⁶Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?
 ¹⁷Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit.
 ¹⁸A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.
 ¹⁹Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.
 ²⁰Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.</i>

I thank God every day that I am where I am today. I know that it is through Him that it was all possible.

Please follow me...

To my new blog space on Tumblr, at:

http://breakingofbread.tumblr.com/

I simply find it too challenging to monitor and write two blogs at once, with real life happenings and all. Please come on down to Tumblr!

I will leave this up for the next couple of weeks so you can go to the new link, before I close this blog.

Thanks and God Bless.

Hey...what's YOUR quantum?

 I am a person of mixed heritage. VERY mixed. My mother is Metis. She has a mixture of First Nations, French, Jewish, and a smidgen of British in her cultural milieu that we know of. Her religious upbringing and most of her ancestors were Roman Catholic. My father, (Who you normally will never hear mentioned here, as I have no relationship with him for many reasons), was of Scottish and British-English heritage. He was baptized as an Anglican. His religious heritage was mainly Anglican, I think, with some people being United Church in the mix.

Who am I? The child of these two. I am literally a card-carrying Metis, which doesn't entitle me to anything, really, contrary to popular belief (more about that in a later entry). My ethnic heritage is basically a gigantic, messy, bizarre Pupu Platter. It doesn't make life easy. I often feel like I'm not accepted by ANY group, or don't belong anywhere. I remember when I first heard Buffy Sainte-Marie's song "Universal Soldier" and she sang about being a "..Buddhist and a Baptist and a Jew.." I thought, that describes me perfectly! That person is everything! Then, I realized she was being ironic. And being everything, in the Zen sense, is also often synonymous with being nothing. Which is often how I was- and am- made to feel, all depending on the "audience".

I often feel like I'm on trial. Like I sit in front of a jury or panel that is judging my worth and investigating me for fraud, looking at me, looking THROUGH me suspiciously, asking questions and seeing if I answer each one correctly, HOW I answer each one (in what kind of voice and affect), my body language, and my realm of knowledge. The answers keep changing- it depends on the judge and jury of the day. I feel like I walk, not just between two binary worlds, but between several, floating through different microcosms of identity, never really touching on just one, never really accepted.

I once saw a Dave Chapelle Show sketch ( a show I normally think is despicable, and this particular sketch was no exception..) that both disgusted and fascinated me. He was having "racial drafts" where individuals of mixed cultural heritage would be "chosen" for a particular team and would be known as that race for then on in, using noted celebrities that are of mixed racial background. For example, if a celebrity was mixed with African and Caucasian heritage, and was "picked" for the African team, they'd be known as Black from then on in. No more mix. No more questions.

I half-jokingly said to the companion watching it with me at the time, "Gee, I wish we could have those for real! Then I could get picked for one, and find somewhere where I belong and people would stop asking all those questions!".

Half-joking, because part of me really does wish that. That I was one thing or the other. At least, if I was ALL Metis, then I would be that, and I would certainly look more visibly Metis. Or, if I was ALL First Nations, or at least, mainly First Nations or Treaty Status. Or ALL Caucasian. Or even ALL Gentile- I can't even claim that. I just don't feel like I belong anywhere, culturally,. I'm like the proverbial square peg.

I've honestly gotten the bum's rush from people in both First Nations and Non-First Nations groups. My first professional job was with a First Nations agency. I was eyed with suspicion. I was an outsider to the community, and with my very light olive skin, brown hair, brown eyes and "White" appearance (whatever that means) I got asked constantly where I was from. Who my parents were. Just how "Metis" I was. I had to remind myself constantly that Louis Riel, our own famed Metis hero, was only 1/8 Ojibwe. That the Anishinabe people (Aboriginal people) traditionally taught that if you had one drop of Anishinabe blood, you were considered Anishinabe. I understood the suspicion, on one level. I knew the history, of cultural genocide and how that led to a natural mistrust of those that were viewed as outsiders. But I felt like I was-and wasn't-an outsider all at once. Like how I would never be good enough because my skin was too light, I was not from a reserve,and I didn't have a treaty card.

I can assimilate very well into so called "white" society, too. Again, I look "white". I have an education. I have no discernible accent, other than a Canadian one. I speak English and am a grammar snob. But still, to excuse the pun, something isn't "quite white". ;). I still know that I am Metis. That that runs deeper and stronger than just a plastic card that the Metis Federation spat out of a laminating machine and that I had to run around and get a genealogy to "prove" who I was. It's in the stories that I heard, in the old pictures I found, in my blood. I may not have necessarily grown up with a lot of the elements of my culture (at least, not identified as such, although some were certainly there in the vestal sense.), but that is the case for many of our people. Our people? My people? Those people? That's the million dollar question.

When I speak about First Nations issues, or say that I'm Metis, often the following happens:

• People remark, "OH Wow! I didn't know that, that's so cool!" and start to ask me about what kinds of "freebies" I get as a Metis person. The answer is none. I get no health benefits, no tax exempt status, no school paid for. Nothing. I do have a membership with the Metis Federation which I am very proud of and which has assisted to "prove" my Metis status when needed, but that's about it. The "freebies" notion that Treaty people get is also grossly misunderstood, but more about that another day.
• "But you don't look..." No, I guess not. Or other people say, "Yeah, I could tell.". What does an Aboriginal person "look" like? I've seen full status people that had curly blonde hair and blue eyes. The notion that all Aboriginal people have dark skin and hair and similar features is a stereotype. 
• "Really, Both sides of your family?" My answer: "No".  Their answer: "Oh, then you're not really Metis". Well, actually, yes, I am. According to both the Metis people and the Government of Canada. And that's incredibly insulting to say.
• "How Aboriginal are you?" They're usually asking for blood quantum. I have no idea. My mother is mixed blood. Both her parents were mixed blood. So I don't know. CJ raised an excellent point when we were driving home today and discussing this issue. He stated that, when you mention that you are Irish, for example, no one says, "How Irish are you?". It only seems to be asked when it's related to a culture that people perceive as a benefit or a detriment.
• They expect me to be filled with some kind of mystery and wisdom and to say things that sound like poetry, or cheezy hack from old spaghetti westerns with "Cowboys and Indians".
• I'm normally viewed as different. Suddenly, I'm watched, to see if what I am doing is "Indian enough" or "Indian at all" depending on the group I'm with.

It's an odd thing. It feels like I'm standing with my feet in not just two worlds, but separate worlds. I'm not just Metis, I'm a few things. I know that most of us are cultural melting pots nowadays, but I get tired of being asked for my "Name, Rank, and Serial Number" once people here that I am Metis.

I wish, sometimes, that I didn't have to span worlds. That I didn't have to worry about who I am or acting like or what I'm being. As CJ puts it, we all originate from the same cell in Africa, anyway. We're all part of the human race. I love our diversity, that we're not all this one big glob known as "human" but have our own cultures and traditions. I just wish that we weren't all so divided, or ordered in terms of rank.


I really think that us Metis have been called "The forgotten people" for a good reason. We get treated, historically and presently in many cases, as either invisible or worse than if we were full Aboriginal or Non-Aboriginal. We Metis are often told to forget that we're Metis, to put it away, put it aside, that we don't have enough blood or culture or ties or that it all happened long ago and that we should just "move on". We're often not seen as "real Indians" or as "real white people". We're the vanishing people, the forgotten people, the ones without treaty rights or benefits, without names, ranks, or serial numbers in many cases.

But, we were and are also known as "The people who own themselves". The independent people. The hardy mix of European and Aboriginal, taking and blending the best from both worlds, weaving this together into the beautiful Sash that came to be one of our symbols. Louis Riel's grandmother, Marie-Anne Gaboury, wrote in her diary that she felt that this "new race" would represent Canada and be so great and strong. It saddens and fills me with pride to think of that, as I wonder if Marie-Anne would cry tears to see how the Metis people would be treated later on.

Yet, again, the Metis continue to forge ahead..and that continues those of us that might not have the strongest "blood", but still hear the distant fiddle in our every step and know that the songs of the ancestors sing in our very veins. And that's what is-and should be-important.

Where were you?

"It's early fall. There's a cloud in the New York skyline. Innocence..dragged across a yellow line.."
-"The Hands that Built America"

I was 23 in 2001. I was just starting a new term back at school, which at that time was the University of Winnipeg. I was going into my second year of Honours Women's Studies. My classes didn't start until the afternoon, so I was going to take my new cat Salem to the vet and go out for breakfast with a friend.

Not being a morning person, I was groggy and paying little attention to the TV that I had on in the background as "background noise" as I got ready.  My friend came in to pick me up for the vet appointment and subsequent breakfast, and said that she had heard something about a plane flying in to the World Trade Center. At that point, details were fuzzy. I thought it sounded bizarre and wondered, "Who would fly a plane into the World Trade Center? Was the pilot drunk?" I was, as I said, fuzzy on the details. I wasn't even sure if it had really happened.

The vet looking after my cat had English as a second language, and asked if we'd heard about "New York and the planes". We said we'd heard something but weren't sure what. When we went for breakfast, the restaurant was eerily quiet and subdued. We went back to my apartment before I went to school and turned on the TV. The live broadcast looked like a scene from a movie. I kept thinking that, it looked unreal, like a Hollywood scene. Clouds of smoke, people running, replays of a plane flying into the Tower and then another one hitting it a second time. I felt shock and disbelief, it didn't really seem to register. I remember my friend clapping her hand over her open mouth and her eyes filling with tears. I felt numb and didn't know what to think. They were saying that it was likely a terrorist but it was still speculation. Terrorism? In New York CITY? I mean, I wasn't naive, I knew such an attack was theoretically possible, but it seemed so unbelievable, like everything had "come home", too close to comfort.

When I got to the University, it was a cross between pandemonium and the same subdued air that was in the restaurant. Students were crowded around TV's. We didn't have formal lectures in my classes, but talked about the events instead. Someone asked an older lady in my class if it was like Vietnam all over again. She said no, that it was different..very different. Hot debates broke out about America and Americans and politics and terrorism and all the rest of it. The bottom line, though, is that innocent people were suffering and dying and had already died. The death count was mounting. Everything else seemed so trivial and silly in the wake of 9/11..how could we think about exams and papers and tests? That didn't matter now.

I worked for a banking call centre at the time, and we had an office that had been located at Ground Zero or very near to it. We also had offices in Montreal, which is very close to New York City. When I came into work that weekend (9/11 had happened on a Tuesday), my inbox was flooded with messages. How the office was doing. Who'd been evacuated. Updates. How to help. Financial contributions. It was very real and very scary.

I may not be American, but Americans have honestly always touched my lives and I've always had a love of the United States from the time I was very small. In the time-honored tradition of the city where I live, we would often take weekend vacations across the border (about a two hour trip) into North Dakota for shopping. I associated the United States with the friendly teenager that rang through my clothes at Target, the lady that checked us in at the Country Inn and Suites Hotel, the family that sat next to us in the deck chairs around the pool in the hotel we stayed in. Americans were just across the border and were our friends. Regardless of political differences or the way they pronounced words that sounded strange to my ears (and I know we sure sounded strange to them with our Canadian accents!), they were like our next-door neighbors that just had slightly different customs and perhaps different ideas, but that I always loved visiting and had many happy memories of vacationing with.

9/11 made me think that the people that died were like those that I remembered vacationing with; the ordinary people, the Dad that went to work in the morning in the Twin Towers, the children in the daycare, the women in their twenties like me perhaps looking forward to a cocktail after work. The numbers started to have names and faces as the days rolled on. I remember seeing tearful people on the news with their missing persons posters; hoping they'd be found, but also hoping they would not show up in the count of the dead.



I really wish that Canada would do more to commemorate 9/11, in our individual cities and towns. We should, yes, work for a better world and realize that terrorism and war touches our universal brothers and sisters, but a very common way of approaching activism is to look in our own backyard first. The United States is like our neighbors yard: we are just over the fence, and what happened that day I think had a profound effect even on those not "directly" affected because it occurred within our own domain and rocked our sense of security.


I had the privilege of visiting New York City(a lifelong dream) in January 2003. I got to visit Ground Zero when it was still very much "Ground Zero". Makeshift memorials were there. The feeling was palpable. You could sense tragedy, but also a great peace, like it was hallowed ground. I got to write a message on a wall that was filled with many, many other people that had done the same.

Today, at Mass, the priest celebrating talked about forgiveness. How forgiveness isn't about forgetting, but is about allowing God into situations and allowing Him to heal our hurt. I pray that God is with everyone today, especially those who were profoundly affected by 9/11, and that while we never forget, we also bring God's grace and peace into the situation through the example of Jesus Christ. Amen.

A wildly unpopular post

⁷ O LORD, You induced me, and I was persuaded;
      You are stronger than I, and have prevailed.
      I am in derision daily;
      Everyone mocks me.
       ⁸ For when I spoke, I cried out;
      I shouted, “Violence and plunder!”
      Because the word of the LORD was made to me
      A reproach and a derision daily.
       ⁹ Then I said, “I will not make mention of Him,
      Nor speak anymore in His name.”
      But His word was in my heart like a burning fire
      Shut up in my bones;
      I was weary of holding it back,
      And I could not. 

-Jeremiah 20:7-10

I was startled when this passage showed up in our Mass Readings this past Sunday. It was seriously just what I needed to hear.

Don't get me wrong. I haven't gone off my medication and think that I'm the prophet Jeremiah (wouldn't THAT be interesting..) or any kind of prophet, for that matter. I'm not even an exemplary Catholic. I'm just an ordinary woman, struggling to live my faith.

Ever since I re-dedicated (I don't like the term "reverted" as it sounds like I went backwards, when in all reality, I very much moved forwards!) myself to Christ and the Roman Catholic Church in late January 2011, my life has changed dramatically. For the better. I've experienced a period of mental stability such as I've never had before. I've got a great job, a wonderful fiance, good family and friends. Yes, there are hard times and my life isn't "perfect", but I have a renewed sense of purpose and meaning that I didn't have previously.

But here is the rub: I've lost a few friends.

Not to illness or disease, but because I have spoken out about my faith. I've also spoken out about my past with Wicca, and what I believe about Wicca, and how I think that it is a second coming of a very old Adversary. Because of that, some people have decided that they'd rather not have me around.  As a result, I found myself at times wondering if I should "temper" what I say. Hold back a little. Don't call spades a spade. But when I try, I get the same feeling that Jeremiah describes, a feeling like I'm yearning to share my faith and have to let it out. I'm not rude. I'm not nasty. But I will speak the Truth, and am not ashamed of that. I'm not ashamed of my faith and who I am. If people cannot accept that, then they are not true friends.

When the first winnowing was occurring, CJ gave me a quote to consider from a Pastor that he had heard on a Christian radio show; "If your friends don't like it when you talk about the Lord, then the Lord will find you some new friends!"

Another LiveJournal acquaintance pointed out that when God comes into your life, sometimes things have to be cleared out. The old makes way for the new. In mundane life, we tend to want to clear things out AFTER we have new things, but God sometimes works in the opposite direction.

..and you know what? The Lord has blessed me with amazing friends. Maybe they're a little fewer, but I have them. Friends I can share my faith and ideas with without censoring. Friends I can truly be my real, authentic self with, that care and are trustworthy.

The Lord has given me tremendous blessings. I just have to remember that God works in HIS time, not in ours. It can be frustrating sometimes, but it is His Will, not our own.

That's something I find blatantly wrong about Wiccan theology. I know, Wiccans reading this may get up in arms, but this is my thoughts on the matter; Wiccan practice is often about manifesting and changing and working WITH nature to obtain your desires..of course, with harm to none. Do what YOU will with harm to none. But YOU are the center. While many Wiccans may do healing spells for others etc, still, you are at the center of the inquiry. Spells are nothing like prayers. Prayers are lifting up your mind and heart to God and saying..not my will, but yours be done. YOU know what is best for me. God becomes an active participant in your life. You give your life over to Christ. Yes, you still make choices. God intervenes in a real way in your every day life: But you are in the passenger seat and He's at the wheel. It's not YOUR will but God's. I think that's important. We were meant to serve God, not the other way around. If it's the other way around, it sounds an awful lot like someone else.."Non serviam/I will not serve". We're not here solely of our own derision. We aren't the sole master of our lives. God is. To say otherwise is to set ourselves up as Gods, and that's just plain wrong.


Here are some things that I, as a Christian, have learned, and as a Wiccan, experienced and rejected even though I am no theologian:


1. There is a God. I'm not Him. In Wicca, we were constantly told "thou art God/dess". In one breath, we were told that the Goddess was part of all things. In the next,that we didn't have to believe in a God/dess's existence; that it could be symbolic. To quote Austin Powers, "I've just gone cross-eyed.". As someone coming from a faith that taught that there IS a God, a Creator, and God may dwell within our soul but we are definitely not Gods, that always kind of gave me the heebies.


2. Christianity has over 2,000 years of history, tradition, practice, and theology backing it up. Finer minds than mine have believed. Wicca was invented by a retired, British civil servant who may or may not have once belonged to a coven and heavily borrowed from many sources. NO, Christianity doesn't have a pretty history either, nor can I claim that it didn't borrow from other sources. But at least we know that Jesus existed and there are well-documented sources for His works and miracles. Diana, Apollo, Thor? Not so much. And sorry, Neo-Pagans etc...no one knows how the Pagans used to worship. It always amused me how Wiccans got so obsessed with "canon" and things being "Gardner-perfect" when the guy invented it himself.

3.Wicca attracts folks with mental health issues like a giant tractor beam. This will likely offend some people, but bear in mind; I'm counting myself in the mix. I was there, and I was wildly uncontrolled bipolar.Other religions have these people in their midst, too, but honestly? Out of all of the Wiccans/Pagans I met over the years, 80-85% had some form of mental health issue, and few that I met got any better. Most got worse or stayed the same. You are taught that you create your own reality and your own thoughtforms (which has a little nugget of truth in psychology) and to someone fighting rampant mental health issues..that's a dangerous notion.

4. A religion needs some sort of confirming hierarchy. Sorry, folks. But just like in "Animal Farm" by Orwell, a hierarchy will ALWAYS come about, and it may not be pleasant. Wicca and Paganism prides itself on needing no such thing. As a result, ask 10 Wiccans what they practice, and they could give you 10 different answers. While there are some basic tenets to what Wicca is..there's no one to say that that's how you should or shouldn't practice. As a result, I could, theoretically, publish a book tomorrow contrary to all these things, call it "Wicca', and while several people would be up in arms about it..they'd report me to..no one. That's right. Have an issue with your "clergy"? Who do you tell? No one. No one TO tell. And by the way, someone could technically hang out a shingle and call themselves clergy after reading one or two books. Most of the time, they won't be looked on too favourably, but no one can stop them. There's no governing body or central standards, even for covens.

5. The whole we don't worship Satan argument. Not technically. But let's look at this..The whole religion is based on the self. on the fact that self-=God. That you find God in nature and that you don't need to serve God, you work with your concept of God/s (which can be plural or singular, it's up to you, really.) to come into greater spiritual awareness. You don't even have to believe that there IS a God. The only rule is that you "Do what you will, with harm to none" and even that one is up for debate. What if harm to me is different than harm to you? What if my will runs contrary to yours? What's the ethical definition of "harm"? Ambiguous, much? Might I add that the original axiom was by Aleister Crowley (Don't get me started on that misogynist nutcase..) who said "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law". Gardner tacked on "..with harm to none ". Later. Because people might not understand it. (scratches head. ). Suure. I heard it interpreted as "following your highest will and ideal". What if you're Charlie Manson? I know that's an extreme example, but really. What would your highest ideal be? There are entire ethical committees that define "harm" and still come up short. Joe Blow the Solitary Pagan might have some trouble, even if they are a genius and spiritual as they come. Not to mention, Wiccans always add that SOME harm is necessary. "You can't heal without hexing". Are you boggled yet? Me, too. I think of how my religion teacher in Grade 10 mentioned how Pontius Pilate said, "What is truth?" to Jesus, honestly puzzled, because he believed "Truth" was relative. So does our world, for the most part.

Now,before I get a pile of nasty inbox letters and comments, bear in mind that these are my opinions and experiences. I feel that I have to share them, to speak boldly, because they are what I have experienced. There will be more to come. I feel that I simply need to share, and that there is a need to state these things. I find that in our society, all too often, people are horrified by the idea of their child attending a faith-based after school program, but have no problem with them starting up a book of shadows or reading a book on witchcraft. A nine year old can hear about dubious topics in school, but mention God or a prayer and you get the boot.  I. Don't. Get . It.  I'm not meaning to be self righteous; I've been there, back again, and telling the tale; and if I can reach ONE person through doing it, then I think that I am doing what I'm supposed to do.

God Bless.