Apprentice Classics

Most of the group at the 2015 Providence Bay Writers' Camp:
Mark, Wynn Anne, Gail, Dianne, Sonal, and Rosanna. Missing: Meg and Chantal 

Shortly after I retired in December 2013, I looked for ways to nurture my interest in writing fiction. At that time, Gail Anderson-Dargatz was offering novel mentorships -- something for which I was not ready (I'm still not). In February 2015, however, she announced a one-week writers' camp to take place in August on Manitoulin Island. This was right up my alley: immersion in writing and a great vacation all in one. I'll write about the vacation part in another post; for now, I'll tell you about the writing class.

And then what?

War Child | Source

When I worked at the Canadian International Development Agency (counterpart of USAID), I hired a freelance writer who was also working for the Aga Khan foundation. She was editing a book that featured illustrations by "war-affected children."

I had never heard the term before, but it has definitely found a home in my brain and my heart.

The recent Kony 2012 campaign has raised awareness of two aspects of children in war zones: 1) boys being coerced into being "soldiers," and 2) girls being raped or even held captive as sex slaves (I do not for one moment doubt that boys were raped as well).

These are horrors -- and they need to stop. The sooner the better. I would not say that they need to be stopped "at any cost," but I do hope that in Uganda and elsewhere the use of child soldiers and the sexual abuse of girls and women will come to an end. (Well, really, who doesn't hope for that?) I pray for that end.

The question that's been running through my mind all this week, however, is "And then what?" How do those (now) soldiers who have been made to perform gruesome crimes, who have perhaps become the rapists and kidnappers themselves -- how do they "go back home"?

The writer who worked for me showed me the book she was working on. She told me it was giving her nightmares, and I was not surprised. The book was filled with crude drawings of dismemberment, rapes, and bombings. Red was a predominant colour.

Somehow these children had to go on with their lives.

Later, when I met new arrivals to Canada from Somalia, who had once been refugees, I looked at them with different eyes. Here were children who had seen horrors, who were now in a country where they were impoverished and treated as unwanted people. So very much to deal with.

I don't have an answer to the question I ask. I just want it to be raised. So we stop Kony. Then what?

I saw a ghost.

Last night, I slipped out of my hotel room and walked a couple of blocks down to Tim Horton's. Rain was drizzling down, as it had been most of the day. It was cold out, not freezing, but that miserable, wet cold that you get when it rains.

The sidewalks were crowded with people heading out to dinner, out to shows, out to meet friends. And there were homeless people huddled by walls and curbs with their hats out, hoping for spare change.

I stayed out of the way of the revelers who seem to need more space per person than the rest of us, I dodged umbrellas, and I smiled  recognition at the homeless people, but kept walking without dropping any coins.

I reached the warm embrace of Tim Horton's and picked up a bowl of chili and a garlic roll, then stepped back into the rain.

Waiting to cross one intersection, I glanced at the panhandler huddled by the post. He was was sitting on his haunches, knees tucked under his jacket, teeth chattering, a hat upturned by his feet. The hat was sodden and flat and empty.

And, for a flash, less than a moment, I saw my son. I saw Peter shivering and cold and alone. I saw my son who has Asperger syndrome and sometimes finds himself needing help but unable to ask for it. I saw my son who is sometimes ostracized because he seems "odd."

I thought: I should give him money.

But I didn't want him to buy drugs or booze.

I thought, I could give him my chili.
I thought, I could take him back to Tim Horton's and let him choose a meal.
I thought, I could sit with him.

I froze at that last thought and it erased all the other good impulses I had had. Because I wasn't able to do the truly Christlike (or Ghandi-like or Mother Teresa-like) thing, I did nothing.

Nothing.

The light changed, I walked to my room and ate my dinner.

I am so sorry. I am ashamed that, even though I saw my son (my own son!), I still walked by, holding my bag of warm food. What would it take to reach me?

Don't forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it! ~ Hebrews 13:2

You are Worthy of Love and Belonging

According to researcher/storyteller Brené Brown, the message we need to give our children, and anyone we care about is not, "You are perfect," but rather, "You, [I, we] are worthy of love and belonging."

Donna Karlin, my once-upon-a-time shadow coach, shared this video, which I have seen before, but which does not lose its power to make me think. It's a 20-minute talk, so it'll take a while, but I encourage you to get a cup of tea or a glass of wine and sit down and watch. I kept wanting to stop the tape and take notes.

With great humour and, yes, vulnerability and openness, she tells us that she has learned that the people who are happiest, who live their lives the most wholeheartedly, are also the ones who embrace vulnerability, risk and uncertainty.

"To feel this vulnerable means I'm alive." ~ Brené Brown, Ph.D

Not an easy place to be, but absolutely worth the effort. Enjoy.