The Dream and the reality

I have travelled before.

It is certainly a desire of mine to be touched by the experiences offered by another country or community and its culture or people. I want to visit many places in this expansive world, both near and far, and I am sure I will. There is only the assurance of time for any one of us, and although the exact quantity of time remaining is ambiguous, it is our choice how we spend it.

When Ashley and I travel we tend to get a little carried away about our trips. We study guides and map out full programs along the most efficient routes, in order to fit it all in. We generally come home satisfied that we got to "see" all that we wanted to see, and more, but seeing is one thing, but what about "being"? Well I guess that is where "the dream" comes in.

I have been told a couple of things about "the dream". Not the dreams we have when we are asleep, but the things we would like to see happening in our experience of life. I have been told that everyone has to have a dream to keep them going - to keep them interested and motivated. A dream or ultimate goal enables us to plug away at the daily grind, endure hardship, and survive. Viktor Frankl discusses this at depth throughout his book Man in Search for Meaning..

Another perspective tells us that a dream is not something we should necessarily strive to achieve. Rather, it is something you simply hope to achieve, and by thinking about our dream often; imagining every detail; seeing ourselves 'there', basking in the moment of its full, untainted-by-reality, glory, the dream itself, rather than its achievement, gives life meaning.

According to these lines of thought, if we were to fulfill our dream, we might find that we no longer had anything to live for, or worse; the reality of the dream could be utterly disappointing, and we would have wasted our life on an unworthy dream - so says the 'crystal merchant/tea house owner' in Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist (another recommendation). Well find ANOTHER dream, geez!

So....my dream.

My dream was to live overseas for at least one year. OK, done. Life over. Just joking..... Yes that was a dream of mine. I know it isn't that exotic, people do it all the time. Although I haven't yet returned, so I guess I am still living out my dream. It was a worthy dream, because it wasn't exactly easy to pull off. It took some courage, and I have learnt much from the experience. But now that this dream has been attained, I do need to grab hold of the next rung and reach for something else along these monkey bars of life.

I think perhaps I have had two dreams... maybe more if I really think about it. The living overseas one, which possibly emerged as a teenager - I had a ridiculous number of overseas penfriends and I was simply fascinated to read about their lives.

The faint dream of one day becoming a writer is a secret I have long held under lock and key, and close to my heart. I have enjoyed writing for as long as I can remember; for me it is a release or (until recently) a private act of unburdening.

I started out writing limericks and short poems for Possum Pages (a kids creative purge in the local Sunday newspaper. Quantity rather than quality was the general mainstay of the Possum Pages I am afraid- it had to be said -not sure if it still exists though).

If published in Possum Pages, you were sent a certificate and sometimes a book prize. Some of my "work" was published, along with the lovely drawings my brother always seemed to produce. I can't actually remember any of my fine contributions, so I might provide an example (they were probably awful anyway).

In high school I wrote letters to friends, morbid private poetry full of teenage angst, and silly stories for English class.

As a young adult I continued the poetry, but the creative side got lost for a few years, while I wrestled my mind into the rigidity and discipline of "anything but creative", academia. I did write a thesis, I guess that is something.

Today I write this blog; I email friends; I have attempted to renew my passion for bad poetry writing; I have even entertained writing short stories, and children's books, but the dream of becoming a career writer remains as elusive as ever; and since all other career aspirations appear to have been blocked by a higher power to ensure I never take one step down that shaky and questionable road, I am more strongly noticing the writing theme in my life and am testing its importance to me.

Maybe I will never be a great writer. Perhaps I will never write anything worth publishing, bar my lonely thesis, which sits in some dank and uunfrequented corner of the university library; full of my now trade mark editing paux pas, oops. But it is a dream, a worthy dream, and a dream that keeps me going.

*This post was enter as a contribution to the Sunday Scribblings prompt - Dream journey. If you are interested in the contents of night dreams. I posted such an offering only a couple of days ago. If you are remotely interested, here is the link to Dreaming.

My small world

It is funny how one singular, mundane act or observation can spurn an ambush of thoughts. I liken the phenomenon to a darkened stage in which a single actor is spot-lit and then suddenly the red velvet curtains are flung back to a blaring brass band and flurry of colourful and overwhelming activity on a broadened stage.

Yesterday I took the kids to Richmond. There is a decent mall there. It was not that I was exactly awash with dosh, rather it was raining and we needed something to do, so we went mall walking and window shopping.

Inside the mall, Cathay, the airline, has donated a play gym, in the shape of an aeroplane. The kids love it.

I was observing the 8 or so kids playing.They were all playing rather rough, but in a good way. A girl in front of me, scrambled enthusiastically onto the wing of the plane and then something fell; a single pink button, which rolled under the aeroplane. I tried to get the girl's attention, but she was having too much fun to notice me on the fringe of activity, so I let it go.

Witnessing the unleashed button hurtling to the ground, set me thinking about the button's fate and what I would do with a single pink button, and then to my own hopeless sewing skills. For instance, the black jumper I made in home economics class in grade 8; the one with the holes in the arm pits; the jumper that my sewing skilled Mum was so affronted and appalled by, that she made me spend the entire following weekend making another jumper, under her guidance - a canary yellow version that I could wear to netball (canary yellow, then being among my least favourite colours; black on the other hand...). I think I have detested sewing ever since.

It is perhaps my single regret in life, that I can not sew. My attempts are truly, so amateur, that the word amateur is an insult to all sewing people who call themselves amateur...I am a plain old non-sewer. I can't even handle the task of a simple row of stitching to mend a tear, darn a sock or hitch a hem - let alone affix a button. I have considered buying a machine and then try teaching myself, but I have managed to fight the urge thus far.

Sigh, what a waste - to behold that single bright pink button, laying detached and purposeless upon a cloud covered carpet; destined for the tip when the cleaners come along at days end; its useful life over, and who knows from whence it had travelled and the experiences it had had along the way, only to be met by such an anti-climatic end....

My son brought me back from the tragedy of my collective thoughts concerning the pink button, presenting his palm with the gleaming pink button, resting in the centre. Smiling he said, "look what I found". Looking around, the girl and her family appeared to have left, so I told him to put it in his pocket. He asked me to look after it for him, and I gladly took it, thinking further about what I could do with the button, as I gazed upon its cheerful, candy-like hue.

Since I was clearly unqualified to sew it to anything, I changed my tact and considered craft ideas for the button -mmm scrap-booking. People use all kinds of stuff to pretty up their photo pages. Perhaps I could use it for some kind of craft project...yes. And so, I resigned to placing it in a box for a rainy day.

The girl, whose pants had previously been adorned with a pink button at the ankle, passed me by, just as I began considering the reality that the poor button would likely be found in a century or so, rattling around in some discarded, dusty old box covered with cob-webs.

I reached into my pocket and approached her, "I think this might be yours", I said presenting her with the button. She looked disappointed that the button has fallen off, but her mother (bless her), assured her that she could sew it back on. The girl and her mother thanked me and walked away; the button had been given a second chance to live out its purpose.

So there you have it- yesterday I was a button's hero :)

Friday's Feast - The first

This is the first time I have contributed to Friday's Feast. It sounded fun, so I thought I would give it a go.

Appetizer
What is your usual bedtime? Do you like that, or would you rather it be different?

I am a night owl. I confessed in a recent posting to not being a good sleeper. I tend to go to bed around midnight to 1am, sometimes later. It would probably assist my state of mind to retire to the bedroom a bit earlier than that, but I get no respite from the kids all day, and feel, once they go to bed, that this is my time; time I don't want to be spending asleep.

I get up at 7am with the kids - they are my alarm clocks.

Soup
When it comes to advice, do you give more or receive more?

Oh Man!
I tend to give it more. I am a trained social worker, who aspired to being a counsellor - what does that tell you? On top of that, I am an isolated Mother and an amateur numerologist; talk about an advice giving FREAK.

A friend of mine often concludes her advice to me with "I know you want do it, you've never been good at taking advice." I honestly don't think I am that pig headed. I do listen to advice, and I weigh the advice I am given. Sometimes I take advice, but I also know my own limitations. I don't really ask for advice that often, which sounds really arrogant, I know. I really DON'T have it all together that often.

Salad
Describe a memorable meal you've had.

I love salmon. If salmon is on the menu, I am ALMOST guaranteed to order it.
Once when Ashley and I were in Hobart, a city in Tasmania, Australia, we went to this lovely, kind of trendy restaurant. It was very new and had apparently been getting rave reviews, or so the manager at our lodgings told us, so we thought we would check it out.

I was delighted that salmon was on the menu, but somewhat at odds with description of the accompanying sauce - "squid ink". I ordered the salmon, all the same - how bad could it be, right? Well I don't mind telling you that it was bloody awful. The sauce truly was as black as ink - imagine nice black teeth and lips from the eating, mmm MMM! It tasted quite like accidentally sucking the ink from your pen, except with a strong fishiness about it.

The worst part, and perhaps the most ridiculous part about the whole squid ink saga, was that I really wanted to like it, and I didn't want to appear ignorant, in questioning the sanity of including squid ink in a meal. Mostly, I didn't want that, the most detestable of sauces, to spoil my salmon experience. So I questioned and dismissed my revolted senses, telling myself that it was "just different", "unusual"; anything before the truth. The truth did come. It came in the form of "Ok, I admit it. Squid ink is HORRIBLE and I shudder at the thought of another bite". Take this disgusting creation away dear waiter, and hand me a napkin so I can scrub this nasty taste off my tongue - QUIIIIIICK!

The experience was certainly one for the "upon reflection" humour file.... I do not recommend it.

Main Course
Name a work of fiction that affected the way you think about something.

The Celestine Prophesy. It made me hopeful that this experience we call life, actually might have a purpose; that there might be a reason for everything and everyone. That things, experiences, sensations should not be taken for granted and over looked.

This book prompted a spiritual awakening for me, and for a time I could not read enough about "the spiritual", and so I have been shaped from the knowledge gained from that book's initial prompting, and I have a stronger faith in the universe, as a result.

Dessert
What is your favorite type of fruit juice?

Cranberry. Cranberry juice is really expensive in Australia, but not so here in Canada, where the humble cranberry thrives.

I am also quite partial to pink grapefruit juice.

Poetry Thursday - Red

This weeks Poetry Thursday prompt was quite simply Red.

Coincidentally, I had written a "red" poem only two weeks ago, but didn't really connect with it. In fact it is still sitting in draft status somewhere on the Burnt Offerings back burner (pardon the pun). I guess my impromptu attempt was merely a practice.

The Red Walk

Spike-heeled stilettos

roam the streets in wait.

Red Light District,

in the dark corners of the night.

Shiny leather boots

march defiantly as one.

The world's Red Armies

Unite the Communist front.

Winter pale toes

stomp the season's first fruit.

A silky red wine

born from luscious juice.

Bare Indigenous feet

dance The Brolga with precision.

Dry red dirt

swirling with the movement.

Dorothy's famed shoes

click at the heels.

Ruby Red slippers

Just want to go home.

Swollen ankles - mine,

throb from standing.

Red woollen socks

With a hole in the toe.

© Strauss

6th March 2007

snow geese

Ashley left for Holland, Monday night. He will be away for about 10 days. This time, his trip includes a week in Nigeria, of all places.

Nevertheless, with the prospects of long lonely days with just me and the kids - and spring break next week - I thought it would help the sanity, of all, if we got out of the house as much as possible.

Miraculously, yesterday was a lovely day, so we headed for Westham Island for a picnic.

I have probably rattled on about Westham Island before, so I apologise for once again, blowing the trumpet, for this glorious spot.

Westham Island is a flat piece of land in Delta, British Columbia. Much of the island is farmland, with a few farmhouses dotted over its surface. A dike surrounds the island to save it from Fraser River flood waters.

At the northern tip of this very small island is the George Reifel Bird Migratory Sanctuary and Alaksen National Wildlife Area.

Alaksen incorporates the Sanctuary, but is primarily known as an environmental and wildlife research facility. You can visit there and walk the trails. We went there yesterday for the first time. The kids had a ball watching a barge drift along the Fraser, and traipsing through the dark woods, in search for the perfect walking stick. We also managed to hear a noisy woodpecker, though he remained visually elusive, despite three sets of eyes scanning the tree tops. It was fun, but I must take my hat off to the Bird Sanctuary, it is more inviting and visitor friendly, and the birds are definitely more abundant there.

We always love to feed the birds when we go. It is always a treat to scatter the first handful of golden seeds, and watch the birds swarm around us like bees. Most run over in their waddling way, some paddle furiously from the nearest pond and a few swoop down from...I don't know where - heaven, for all I know. Soon enough we are surrounded by a 100 or so ducks, all vying for their share of the seed spoil.

Anytime of the year is a good time to visit the Bird Sanctuary; spring is fun, because the baby birds are about, but the mothers are understandably protective and thus, can become rather aggressive. The ideal time to go is winter, the place is a winter migratory bird sanctuary after all.

The best and possibly most famous example of this winter phenomenon is the annual visit of Snow Geese. Thousands upon thousands of Snow Geese descend upon select spots along the North American west coast, from their nesting home, Wrangel Island; a Russian island located in the Arctic Ocean, north of Siberia.

Every time we have gone out to see the snow geese, their collective has merely been a lashing of white frosting in the distance, but yesterday, a roadside pasture was blanketed in white, like a foaming sea, moving, rising and falling, rushing in and ebbing away like the tide. Occasionally something would rile them and the entire flock would take to the sky; so many there were, that their swirling mass unit did something to my sense of balance, just as a fading tide might, when one stands in the shallows watching a broken wave rushing back into the ocean.

Their collective sound was of such volumes that I actually took pity on the residents of Westham Island, since living with that constant racket would surely give anyone a headache. If I could possibly describe their squawking, I would have to liken them to a panic among brokers on a crashing stock market floor, two minutes before closing time - take a look at the movie Trading Place, if you can't quite imagine it.

Every year the snow geese arrive to this neck of the woods - that amazes me. What draws them to this spot time and time again? Is it that few other places can be matched for the abundance of food and relative safety from predators? Do they realise that they are protected and even admired by the local people here, that their journey and calling upon our fair shores is so greatly anticipated that they think themselves to be kings and queens among us mere mortals and resident mallards? Or is it something else, something innate, as it is with Salmon heading up stream to spawn in the same sacred waters of their own births?

There is a silent genius about the universe's design, in that we must observe, study and take notice of things, in order to gain knowledge of our unanswered questions. Don't you think?

The Lake House

I just watched The Lake House starring Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock.

I am uncertain as to whether I love it or hate it...

I mean, without giving too much away, I loved the dialogue; the idea of a mysterious impossible communication; the reaching out to each other anyway they could; the crossed paths and chance meetings, and I really loved the ending.

But....

Did any, among those who have seen this move, ever wonder why she didn't just attempt to Google the guy or something; he was the son of a famous Architect....

And that SONG - bloody awful!

I am sooooOOOooooo unromantic.

Bloke Talk

I took the kids to gymnastics yesterday. I have noticed that Saturdays seem to be Dads turn to take kids to their activities, since sports halls and the like are teeming with them - its a good thing. Nevertheless, I got stuck sitting with a group of thirty-something guys, which I thought would be an interesting change, for me.

So what enlightening discussion did they choose to part take in? Why, technology of course, and the focus of this blokey deep and meaningful was none other than the fascinating world of high definition television, or "Hi-Def", for groovers, hip enough to give a toss.

Every aspect of Hi-Def was discussed, although I can't recall verbatim, since my eyes glazed over with sheer boredom after approximately two minutes. I am a total technology-ignoramus, but I don't lose any sleep over the fact.

My ears did flare open at one astonishing claim by the group's unofficial Hi-Def expert. He was cautioning a wannabe hi-deffer about his up-coming purchase of a hi-def TV, warning him, not all the channels are hi-def yet, and (apparently) once you have gotten used to the wonder that is the Hi-Def experience, you just won't want to go back.

Others in the group nodded knowingly, but the wannabe simply shrugged and said "Oh", clearly undeterred by this news; the Hi-Def telly still claiming poll position on his priority purchases e-list.

The Hi-Def expert, attempting to highlight the revolutionary nature of Hi-Def and make sure EVERYONE knew he was one of the haves of the Hi-Def technology world, then made the claim that he "will scan all the channels, preferring to watch a hi-def program" over the washed out inferior stuff that only the ignorant will persist with - otherwise known as "regular television". I almost piped up and said, "of all the excuses to watch Oprah and The Gilmore Girls. Now that has to take the cake", but another guy intervened to ask the resident expert whether hi-def was available in a wireless format. I don't know what his answer was, my eyes had already glazed over and my hearing had all but seized up.

I guess the blokey tech talk was slightly more sophisticated than my experience with a bunch of women discussing their bowel movements - perhaps I am moving up in the world of social interactions after all.