Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Change in Schedule for Children's Workshop
"What Are We Really?", our workshop for children interested in philosophy and the environment, has been moved to Thursday, July 23 from 10-11:30 am. Young thinkers ages 7-12 are welcome, and this is a free event. There will be discussions about critters of all shapes and sizes (including humans), fun activities, as well as take-home resources for parents. Space is limited. To reserve a spot, please contact POWER Halton Hills at info@powerhalton.ca, or at (905) 873-1820. If you'd like to know more about the workshop itself, feel free to contact Amy Leask at amy@enabletc.com, or at (905) 864-1858 x3. Hope to see you there!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Three Grandmothers, Two Decades and A Bunch of Ugly Scarves Later, I Get it.
They were incredibly patient with me. I was a geeky, awkward kid who just wanted to eat Oreos and watch cartoons, but they dutifully sat and instructed me. I dutifully poked the needles around in the wool, looped and stitched and pearled the raw materials into monstrosities that looked positively lopsided and moth-eaten. I clunked my way through two grandmothers, both of whom had the awe-inspiring ability to knit without even looking at their work, to churn out sweaters and blankets and pillows in record time. In the end, I waved the white flag, decided that I didn’t need to know how to do stuff like this. When I grew up and found my true love, I had to tell yet another doting and knit-talented grandmother that while I admired her work, I wasn’t interested in producing my own.
And so it went for about twenty years, with me reading Sartre and listening to jazz and watching art films. I fed my head twenty-four-seven, and my impatient, itchy little fingers only got to feel useful when I decided to bake a birthday cake or hem a pair of pants. I worried about all the things I hadn’t had time to do in the past, and all of the things I needed to do in the future, and occasionally, when I had a spare moment, I might enjoy the present.
About a year and a half ago, some very wise people introduced me to the idea of being “grounded”, of sticking my feet in the dirt and getting out of my head once in a while. There are all kinds of ways to do this, most of which are a challenge to a type-A cliché like me. Eventually, however, I found my way back to the needles, and in the process, I found a way to anchor myself to myself again.
It started with a book of patterns for amigurumi, little yarn dolls in all manner of shapes and sizes. The ones I had my eye on were zombies and sea monsters, not your average craft projects. The end products looked so cool and quirky that I resolved to get over my childhood aversion to traditional handicrafts. I might not be able to sew, or knit, or do needlepoint, but I knew that if I really tried, I could deal with a simple crochet pattern.
Somewhere between a three-inch-tall ninja, and a tennis ball-sized frog, I entered the zone. I was no longer buzzing about my next writing project, or unpaid invoices, or office politics. All I could think was “Chain stitch. Chain stitch. Chain stitch.” I was there, on the couch. All of me. No exceptions. The tranquility I sought, I found with an aluminum hook and a bucket of polyester yarn.
And so it went for about twenty years, with me reading Sartre and listening to jazz and watching art films. I fed my head twenty-four-seven, and my impatient, itchy little fingers only got to feel useful when I decided to bake a birthday cake or hem a pair of pants. I worried about all the things I hadn’t had time to do in the past, and all of the things I needed to do in the future, and occasionally, when I had a spare moment, I might enjoy the present.
About a year and a half ago, some very wise people introduced me to the idea of being “grounded”, of sticking my feet in the dirt and getting out of my head once in a while. There are all kinds of ways to do this, most of which are a challenge to a type-A cliché like me. Eventually, however, I found my way back to the needles, and in the process, I found a way to anchor myself to myself again.
It started with a book of patterns for amigurumi, little yarn dolls in all manner of shapes and sizes. The ones I had my eye on were zombies and sea monsters, not your average craft projects. The end products looked so cool and quirky that I resolved to get over my childhood aversion to traditional handicrafts. I might not be able to sew, or knit, or do needlepoint, but I knew that if I really tried, I could deal with a simple crochet pattern.
Somewhere between a three-inch-tall ninja, and a tennis ball-sized frog, I entered the zone. I was no longer buzzing about my next writing project, or unpaid invoices, or office politics. All I could think was “Chain stitch. Chain stitch. Chain stitch.” I was there, on the couch. All of me. No exceptions. The tranquility I sought, I found with an aluminum hook and a bucket of polyester yarn.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Coming Events!
- Diversity matters! Learn about the many species that share our planet, and discuss ways to keep them happy and healthy. Visit Amy and POWER at the Georgetown Market place on Friday, May 29 from 4-8 for demonstrations and information.
- Adults need philosophy too! Step into big ideas and discuss our place in the ecosystem at POWER Halton Hills on Thursday, June 25 from 7 to 9 pm. Email amy@enabletc.com or call (905) 864-1858 x3 for details.
- Kids care about the environment! Join us for a children's eco-philosophy workshop at POWER Halton Hills on July 16 from 10-11:30 am. Email amy@enabletc.com or call (905) 864-1858 x3 for more details.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
My New-Aged Ipod
When I bought my Ipod, it was with great chagrin. I was teaching at the time, and I competed with the little electronic beasts for my students’ attention on a daily basis. I did the “pull out your earphones” gesture about as often as I turned a page. I wanted one so that I could keep alert and relaxed while slogging my way through my very large pile of marking, and it worked. Within weeks, I was so smitten that I purchased a colourful sticker to disguise its bland, silver exterior, and I hungrily downloaded anything funky enough to capture my interest. It was cute as a button, and it seemed that whenever I needed a lift, the perfect song title would dance across its tiny screen.
It didn’t take long to notice that my new musical friend played favourites. Songs and artists tended to repeat themselves. One week, my Ipod had a thing for Blondie, and the next, it was preoccupied with George Clinton. I turned it over and over in my hand, wondering how musical taste could be built into something the size of a credit card. It occurred to me that my Ipod’s predilection for choosing certain songs could be put to good use. One day, when I was contemplating the mysteries of the universe, I set the little gadget to shuffle, took some cleansing breaths and asked a few key questions.
I wondered “What should I do about this manuscript I’ve been working on?” and hit play. Bob Marley reassured me with “Don’t let them change ya! Or even rearrange ya!” Interesting.
Then I inquired about another project that wasn’t getting the reception I had hoped for. The answer came from The Doors, who reassured me that “People are strange, when you’re a stranger.” Whoa.
When I asked how my friend in a different province was feeling, Neil Young responded with “I need you.” I called her later on that evening.
No, I didn’t start thinking that my Ipod was possessed, or that helpful little house elves were sending me messages through something I bought at a big box store. I like to think that the universe has better things to do than speak to me through my stereo equipment (that’s what grilled cheese sandwiches and sweat stained t-shirts are for). It wasn’t fool-proof either. I’m still trying to figure out what spiritual lessons can be learned from “The Macarena” or “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”.
The entire exercise did, however, demonstrate that in some bizarre, Jungian way, one can use the songs in a playlist to help clear one's head and get some much-needed perspective. Even a beginner model Ipod like mine can hold enough tunes to a keep person surprised. An eclectic music collection helps too, as wisdom and clarity often come in unexpected forms. If one listens with one’s right brain, “Baby Got Back” becomes a lesson in positive body image, and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” encourages one to lighten up a little. Songs like “Shiny Happy People” and “We Are the Champions” are fairly self-explanatory.
Music has always been used to “soothe the savage beast”. Apparently, with the help of a hand-held MP3 player, and a willingness to listen to just about anything, it can also serve the same function as a deck of tarot cards, or a magic 8 ball. Life, the universe, and everything are much easier to decipher while singing off-key and dancing around the living room.
It didn’t take long to notice that my new musical friend played favourites. Songs and artists tended to repeat themselves. One week, my Ipod had a thing for Blondie, and the next, it was preoccupied with George Clinton. I turned it over and over in my hand, wondering how musical taste could be built into something the size of a credit card. It occurred to me that my Ipod’s predilection for choosing certain songs could be put to good use. One day, when I was contemplating the mysteries of the universe, I set the little gadget to shuffle, took some cleansing breaths and asked a few key questions.
I wondered “What should I do about this manuscript I’ve been working on?” and hit play. Bob Marley reassured me with “Don’t let them change ya! Or even rearrange ya!” Interesting.
Then I inquired about another project that wasn’t getting the reception I had hoped for. The answer came from The Doors, who reassured me that “People are strange, when you’re a stranger.” Whoa.
When I asked how my friend in a different province was feeling, Neil Young responded with “I need you.” I called her later on that evening.
No, I didn’t start thinking that my Ipod was possessed, or that helpful little house elves were sending me messages through something I bought at a big box store. I like to think that the universe has better things to do than speak to me through my stereo equipment (that’s what grilled cheese sandwiches and sweat stained t-shirts are for). It wasn’t fool-proof either. I’m still trying to figure out what spiritual lessons can be learned from “The Macarena” or “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”.
The entire exercise did, however, demonstrate that in some bizarre, Jungian way, one can use the songs in a playlist to help clear one's head and get some much-needed perspective. Even a beginner model Ipod like mine can hold enough tunes to a keep person surprised. An eclectic music collection helps too, as wisdom and clarity often come in unexpected forms. If one listens with one’s right brain, “Baby Got Back” becomes a lesson in positive body image, and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” encourages one to lighten up a little. Songs like “Shiny Happy People” and “We Are the Champions” are fairly self-explanatory.
Music has always been used to “soothe the savage beast”. Apparently, with the help of a hand-held MP3 player, and a willingness to listen to just about anything, it can also serve the same function as a deck of tarot cards, or a magic 8 ball. Life, the universe, and everything are much easier to decipher while singing off-key and dancing around the living room.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Chivalry Isn't Dead. It just got shorter.
Reaffirmation of one's faith in humanity is found in strange places. Mine got a little kick start last week, at a technical competition in an enormous conference centre, surrounded by robots of various sizes and functions. The machines themselves were impressive (though they didn't resemble anything from The Jetsons or Terminator movies), but the young people designing and driving them were nothing short of admirable. It wasn't their technical skill or mechanical know-how either. I was surrounded by thousands of them, aged six through eighteen, and with almost no exception, they were...well, they were nice.
To begin with, they were actually excited to be there. Wifi didn't really work in the convention centre, and there were very few laptops without actual code on the screens. The lack of the usual brand of stimulus didn't seem to phase them. They made and distributed buttons with team logos, danced around in costumes, and high-fived other teams as they made their way into the arena. Even more shocking was their unrelenting politeness. I actually heard please and thank you, and when one team had a piece of broken machinery, another gladly gave them their spares. When one of the robots failed to ship, the teams nearby offered to help build a last-minute replacement.
I was a little confused. Where was the attitude, the abject nastiness this generation was supposed to dish out? Where were the sneers and the indifference? Why were they cheering each other on, jumping up and down in the stands and praising complete strangers? I asked one of the coaches to explain this bizarre phenomenon and his answer explained everything.
"Only the grown ups involved get grouchy and competitive."
To begin with, they were actually excited to be there. Wifi didn't really work in the convention centre, and there were very few laptops without actual code on the screens. The lack of the usual brand of stimulus didn't seem to phase them. They made and distributed buttons with team logos, danced around in costumes, and high-fived other teams as they made their way into the arena. Even more shocking was their unrelenting politeness. I actually heard please and thank you, and when one team had a piece of broken machinery, another gladly gave them their spares. When one of the robots failed to ship, the teams nearby offered to help build a last-minute replacement.
I was a little confused. Where was the attitude, the abject nastiness this generation was supposed to dish out? Where were the sneers and the indifference? Why were they cheering each other on, jumping up and down in the stands and praising complete strangers? I asked one of the coaches to explain this bizarre phenomenon and his answer explained everything.
"Only the grown ups involved get grouchy and competitive."
Monday, March 30, 2009
An “Adult” Relationship
It was a great anniversary, although a fairly no-frills one. We were on our way home from a business trip, and had the better part of the day free. We had a great lunch in a small, but charming bistro. We walked in the park, sat in the sun, and got caught up on each other’s lives. At one point, my sweetheart paused and remarked “You realize our relationship is old enough to vote.”
Yup, it’s now been eighteen years, really good years. Our first years together were spent flirting across the room during band practice. At university, when I’d been up all night studying, he’d wake me around noon with a sub sandwich and a cup of tea. We’ve been through four degrees, three houses, four continents, and a dog. We’ve crammed as much wonderful relationship stuff into eighteen years as two people can. Our relationship has definitely grown up.
It’s ironic that what’s got us here is our habit of being distinctly immature. Eighteen years has taught us that it’s okay to admit to being hooked on cartoons and cheesy talk shows. We’ve learned that bed heads and wrinkled pyjamas can be charming. We still hold hands and tell stupid jokes. We’ve found that an argument is officially over when one of us starts giggling. Our couplehood may have reached adulthood, but we as individuals have fought hard to remain the same dorky teenagers that we were when we hooked up.
A long time ago, we danced together for the first time. The song was “Forever Young” by Alphaville. Hmmmm…good advice.
Yup, it’s now been eighteen years, really good years. Our first years together were spent flirting across the room during band practice. At university, when I’d been up all night studying, he’d wake me around noon with a sub sandwich and a cup of tea. We’ve been through four degrees, three houses, four continents, and a dog. We’ve crammed as much wonderful relationship stuff into eighteen years as two people can. Our relationship has definitely grown up.
It’s ironic that what’s got us here is our habit of being distinctly immature. Eighteen years has taught us that it’s okay to admit to being hooked on cartoons and cheesy talk shows. We’ve learned that bed heads and wrinkled pyjamas can be charming. We still hold hands and tell stupid jokes. We’ve found that an argument is officially over when one of us starts giggling. Our couplehood may have reached adulthood, but we as individuals have fought hard to remain the same dorky teenagers that we were when we hooked up.
A long time ago, we danced together for the first time. The song was “Forever Young” by Alphaville. Hmmmm…good advice.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Putting Barbie in Her Place
I had to suppress my gag reflex as they raised a glass of cheer in honour of her 50th. Words like "style icon" and "beloved" were rolled around as I rolled my eyes. Thankfully, I ran across this article http://www.thestar.com/living/article/599343.
I'll admit, I had a collection of Barbies as a kid (feminists like me don't like to fess up to that). Despite my mother's best efforts, the little plastic terror snuck into the house, along with her pink sports car, her prized plastic poodle, and her crew of factory-extruded friends. My sister soon added her own horde to the collection. In time, an entire Barbie compound occupied a sizeable chunk of the basement.
Barbie's life in our house, however, was less than fabulous. In the commercials, she cruised the strip with Ken, bought stylish knee-high boots and giggled on the phone. Our crew waged hostile take overs, got into in fist fights, and routinely lost limbs. We put Barbie through Darwinesque dramas, not to mention some goulish haircuts. Even as children, we saw through the carefully-moulded perfection that came with her in the box. Just as we kicked over lego buildings and purposefully dried (and ate) play-doh, we deconstructed Barbie, found out what really made her tick. If the manufacturers didn't want us to know her head was empty, they shouldn't have made it so easy to remove. According to my husband, it was just the right size to fit into her patented pink dryer.
Happy Birthday, old girl! Here's to fifty more years of little girls who aren't afraid to kick some plastic toy ass.
I'll admit, I had a collection of Barbies as a kid (feminists like me don't like to fess up to that). Despite my mother's best efforts, the little plastic terror snuck into the house, along with her pink sports car, her prized plastic poodle, and her crew of factory-extruded friends. My sister soon added her own horde to the collection. In time, an entire Barbie compound occupied a sizeable chunk of the basement.
Barbie's life in our house, however, was less than fabulous. In the commercials, she cruised the strip with Ken, bought stylish knee-high boots and giggled on the phone. Our crew waged hostile take overs, got into in fist fights, and routinely lost limbs. We put Barbie through Darwinesque dramas, not to mention some goulish haircuts. Even as children, we saw through the carefully-moulded perfection that came with her in the box. Just as we kicked over lego buildings and purposefully dried (and ate) play-doh, we deconstructed Barbie, found out what really made her tick. If the manufacturers didn't want us to know her head was empty, they shouldn't have made it so easy to remove. According to my husband, it was just the right size to fit into her patented pink dryer.
Happy Birthday, old girl! Here's to fifty more years of little girls who aren't afraid to kick some plastic toy ass.
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