Of God and... Something...

First, you have to at least listen to this song to understand the ramblings in my head right now:

Official music video is here: Something in the Water - Carrie Underwood
(it is beautifully shot, choreographed and danced)

First off, I've never been all that religious. I've looked at different religions, mostly derived from the Bible, and have never really found one that spoke to me. I believe that there's probably a higher power out there and I don't think whatever it is is inconsistent with the reality of science (as limited as my knowledge and understanding of it can be sometimes). Honestly, I have concerns about organized religion, not all of which I can voice, but some I just feel.

And I'm fine with that. I know church isn't for me. I know that that kind of worship is not congruent with my beliefs.

Which is why when I had a strong physical and emotional reaction to this video, I was shocked. As many people who know me will attest, it takes very little to make me tear up. However, there have been very few times in my life when I couldn't control a sobbing fit. When my Grandmother died, when I went through an extremely tough time with a friend of mine, and when one of my dreams didn't come true. Those are really the only times of my adult life that I remember not being able to control an emotional reaction. Now I can add this moment.

About 30 seconds into this song, I literally started to sob. It wasn't something I could control. It would be interesting to hear what a trained psychiatrist or psychologist would say, but my self diagnosis...?: The passionate belief and transformation portrayed in the song is something I have never experienced and fear that I never will. To find serenity and peace and power and acceptance at that level would be empowering and life changing. And to be honest, I only ever hear about this kind of experience from people who have had religion make a difference in their life.

I will never have that. I've explored religion and I didn't experience that. I think my reaction was one of selfishness and loss - If I couldn't find it in religion, then where can I find that, because I certainly haven't yet...

Just a random night of thoughts here at Chez Cait.

Remember...The War to End All Wars

This past Spring I made the journey to Ypres, Belgium to tour the many monuments and battlefields that stand in remembrance of the First World War. Known also as the Great War, an estimated 66,000 Canadians lost their lives fighting for the Allied Powers. Now, 100 years after the first official acts of war were conducted, many nations across this world are embroiled in their own battles. It’s the curse of history that those who forget it are doomed to repeat it. I understand the need, the desire, to draw comparisons between now and what occurred a hundred years ago – it’s human nature to try to find some sort of comfort in familiarity, even if it’s a horrible, deadly familiarity. But today, I don’t look at the comparisons to the conflicts in the Ukraine and Gaza. Today, I look solely at the Great War.

German War Cemetery of Langemark

There are three things that stand out to me about my trek to Ypres. Three moments of time that will forever be etched in my memory. The first is the German War Cemetery of Langemark. The first of many stops along the tour I was a part of, Langemark is a morbid and isolating look at the German side of the war. Germany was the aggressor, the enemy, and the people of Belgium, unsurprisingly, are less sympathetic to the German soldiers who died on Belgium soil. Even so, this little plot of land exists in West Flanders and provides a resting place for 44,000 German soldiers, including 3,000 university students who died during the First Battle of Ypres (also called “Kindermord” in German). It’s a beautiful place, surrounded by towering oak trees, but lacks the openness and, honestly, the warmth, one finds at the Commonwealth cemeteries in the same area. Walking along the grave markers, I note about 8 names per grave, some named, some not. A mass grave welcomes visitors, a grave that holds almost 25,000 soldiers.

Site of the Mass Grave at Langemark

 It’s sad. These too were men and boys, fathers and husbands, brothers and sons. Where most soldiers on the Allied side have their own graves in the Commonwealth cemeteries, these men must share a resting place with others. As I walk through the cemetery my heart aches and tears well in my eyes (much like they do right now as I remember). I have German ancestry – my father was born a German citizen just as the Second World War was ending. My heart reaches out to those buried here due to some, however vague, tie to my heritage. The sacrifice, not just by Allied soldiers, but by German soldiers is haunting.

Tyne Cot Cemetery

The second memory, of course, is of Tyne Cot Cemetery, the largest Commonwealth cemetery in the world.

Canadian graves are marked by a Maple Leaf

I think the magnificence of the site is particularly highlighted once one has visited Langemark. Perfect lines of white headstones. Beautifully manicured lawns. Countless bouquets of flowers, some left by visitors, some planted in the soil.

The Tyne Cot Memorial lists names of soldiers lost in the Great War. The Cross of Sacrifice stands on top of a German pill box, flanked by three others left over from the war as a reminder of what took place on the soil the visitors stand upon.

Much like I did at Langemark, I walk along the graves, now noting the graves of fallen Canadian soldiers and the vast number that are unnamed. My initial reaction to this is guilt. Why do I only look at the Canadian markers? Don’t those from other nations deserve my notice, my attention?

But I push that thought aside, rationalizing my actions as those of some kind of patriotism; others from all over the world visit their soldiers and remember them. I will remember the Canadians. And I do. I walk through the cemetery whispering under my breath, “I will remember you. I will remember you. I will remember you.” Even more tears come to my eyes and I am thankful for my sunglasses. 

My breath catches in my throat. 18 years old. 22 years old. 22 years old. 25 years old. 19 years old. These boys are my age and younger.  These would have been my classmates. My friends. My first loves. This beautiful, serene country side now hides its horrible, dark, painful past; even with the stones to remind me, it’s hard to imagine these men, these boys dying here.

Finally, I will always remember what the people of Ypres give back to those who fell to save their city. In 1927, the triumphal arch at Menin Gate was revealed as a memorial to British and Commonwealth soldiers who died in the Great War. It’s a towering reminder of the First World War.

Picture from Wikipedia

 Names of missing soldiers, whose remains were never found, are listed on its walls. To this day, remains are found in fields in Belgium and if these remains can be identified, the name of the soldier is removed from the Menin Gate and he is given proper burial in an appropriate cemetery. This arch in itself is enough to give you pause, but it’s the actions that occur under the arch that I will never forget.

Since July 2, 1928, the people of Ypres sound the “Last Post” every single evening as a reminder of what was lost during the First World War. The road is closed, buglers take their positions and wreaths are placed along the steps of the Gate. This memorial event takes place every night. Every single night. It only paused during the Second World War when the area was occupied by Germany.

The Buglers take their places.

A wall with Canadian names

Witnessing this event is, for lack of a better term, inspiring. I don’t know why that word is what comes to my mind, but it does. These people, one hundred years removed from this war, still take the time to thank the foreign soldiers who came to their aid. When Canada’s last known World War I veteran died in 2010, the Canadian government did little to mark his passing except issue a news release thanking him for his service. The people of Ypres take almost an hour, every single day, to honour our fallen soldiers.

Following the ceremony, my mother and I lay simple crosses and Canadian flags at the base of a wall with Canadian names etched in it. I bow my head. Even though my ties to God are fleeting, at best, I offer a little prayer for these men, asking Him to embrace them, thank them, and tell them, “I will remember you.”

One hundred years ago, the Allied Powers went to war with Germany. Millions of people died: 66,000 from Canada and Newfoundland, 13,000 from Belgium, 908,000 from the United Kingdom, 1.3 million from France and 1.7 million from the German Empire. All in all, estimates indicate that about 8.5 million people lost their lives during the Great War. But this number does not begin to tell the full story. During war, casualties include not just those who die, but those who are injured as well. All in all, there were an estimated 37.5 million casualties during World War I, almost 60% of the forces that were mobilized to fight. Those numbers are catastrophic. Those numbers are hard to comprehend in a world where we largely measure the dead by the tens, or in the worst cases, hundreds. (Statistics Source)

One hundred years following Germany’s violation of Belgium’s sovereignty, I sit, staring at a computer screen doing something, however little it may be, to mark this anniversary. 

To remember.

I Sport... Like a Girl

I sometimes wonder why I’m such a glutton for punishment. If experience has taught me anything, I should just stick clear of reading Margaret Wente’s opinion articles in the Globe and Mail. I rarely find myself agreeing with her and more often than not, I find myself enraged after digesting her superficial comments on the issue du jour. Case in point: This weekend, Ms. Wente wrote an article on watching men watching sports and her complete disconnect from the behaviour. 

A few of my favourite lines were:

"Women confirm their value by sharing the most intimate moments of their lives with other women. Men confirm their values by talking with other men about what happens on the field."

and

"And sure, female athletes should be honoured too. But we honour them not because they play like women but because they play like men. (Though not usually as well.)"

My first and most obvious reaction to the article was, "Are you f**cking serious?" As my friends and family can attest (both male and female) I can be ridiculously passionate about sports. I get fiercely defensive of the Edmonton Oilers, win or lose, and have extreme, unwavering opinions about booing the home team when they're playing less than stellar hockey (for the record, I'm against it). I’ve been known to stand on coffee tables screaming at the television set, believing they can hear me through it. I have watched only 5 minutes of the last hockey game Ryan Smyth will ever play (having PVR’ed it) because 5 minutes was enough to have me tearing up and hurting too much to continue.

This passion she describes of men watching sports, which she relegates to the realm of masculinity, is not owned or unique to the male population and assuming so simplifies the complex relationship individuals can have with sports.

But those were just my initial reactions. Having taken some time to think about it, I think I have a bigger problem with the argument.

A couple of weeks ago, Always released this #LikeAGirl commercial:

(Direct Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjJQBjWYDTs)

At some point, we start to associate doing something “like a girl” as being inferior. Relegating the love and passion for sports (whether as a spectator or participant) to the realm of masculinity and men does injustice to the countless women who dedicate their lives to the sport of their choice. And the comparison based solely on gender seems at best, out of date, and at worst, actually harmful to the drive for equality between human beings.

Women can be passionate about sports, but not as passionate as men. Women can play and succeed in hockey, but not like a man can. I struggle with this comparison of men to women and women to men because as individuals, we should be judged on our abilities to strive for and achieve greatness. Women can be passionate about sports. Period. Women can play and succeed in hockey. Period. No qualifier required.

In other arenas we’re trying to build women up – putting more women in leadership roles in Fortune 500 companies, telling girls that they are just as capable of being scientists and video game programmers as boys, indicating that following your dreams, whatever they may be, is not just a masculine or feminine endeavour. Yet some of the language around sport is arguably opposite.

So, until the next time I’m looking for a little punishment…

It's a Just Farm

Last week The Globe and Mail published an article by a woman named Doris Von Tettenborn (found here) in which she describes the experience of packing up her parents farm, auctioning off the machinery, and moving them away from the home they'd lived in since 1958. By nature, I'm attracted to these types of stories, of nostalgia and farm life, but reading her article, I found myself reflecting on my experience on my parents' farm.

Sometime in the next year or so, my parents will be selling their farm. I wouldn't say we've outgrown the farm, but we've grown out of it. My parents no longer have the ability to maintain a farm of its magnitude and my brother and I don't have the desire to take on the task. I often wonder whether my dad wishes one of his children had contracted the farming bug from him, but I know in my heart, he's happy with whatever makes us happy. It's not that any of us dislike the farm; it's just that it doesn't fit our lives anymore. It's a home that has provided us with so much love and it's only fair that we try to find it a family that can provide it with as much love as we did during our time there.

It's a home with many memories and while we haven't had it for nearly as long as Doris' parents have had their farm, a good chunk of my formative adolescence and young adulthood years were spent there. My parents designed and built that home from the ground up, taking into account what they wanted, needed, and desired. Understanding they had two younger kids still to grow-up around them. Understanding some the potential medical realities they were facing. Understanding that this was meant to be a home. We moved in when I was in Grade 7, coming from a temporary house in a small town that was just a transition place from our previous farm.

I experienced Y2K there, just one month after moving in. I made friends there, the first being with the girl basically kitty corner to us (about a mile or so away). Puberty hit me there. I got my driver's license and first car there. I raised cattle there. Had pets come and go there. One of my first boyfriends asked me out in the sun-room of that farm on a cold winter night.

My brother and I grew-up, squabbled, loved each other, and became the man and woman we are today in that house. He fell in love living in that house and now shares its basement with the woman he fell in love with. In one of the scariest moments of my young life, my mother broke her leg on that farm, a field away from us. I found my passion for writing and reading in that house, often staying up all night on the longest night of the year, curled up in front of the fire in the living room, reading until the sun came up, just to say I did.

I started university there and even when I moved to Edmonton for two years of my first degree, I did many an economics assignment in the basement of that house with my math whiz of a father. I used it as a home base when I moved to Toronto for my second degree, literally crying as the plane landed for my first trip home thinking, "I'm so happy to see my family and be at the farm for Christmas." When I moved back from Toronto, I moved home, to the farm, because it was the place to get my bearings from. Even now that I'm living on my own, 40 km from that old farm, I still think of it as home.

But times change. You can't hold on to everything forever and soon, that farm will provide a home to someone else. To another family who may or may not have kids, but are still looking for someplace to make a home out of. It makes me sad gives me a great deal of nostalgia to think about not being able to go out there and listen to the type of silence you can't get in the city - the silence that isn't silent, but is absent of vehicles, sirens, tires on the blacktop and full of wind in the grass and trees, birds, cows, and the odd tractor tilling the earth.

Times of transition are always hard. And while I struggle with the fact that I won’t have a farm to go home to, the fact is that it’s not my life that will be changing dramatically, it’s my parents’. Sure, they don’t spend a ton of time there anymore. Between the house on Vancouver Island, close to their one and only grandson and my sister, and the cottage on Lake Superior near where my mom grew up and where her family still resides, they barely qualify as residents at the farm. Dad is done with winters and I know would happily move to the island for the rest of his retirement. Mom isn’t as sold on island life as he is, but sees the draw, particularly when the ice solidifies on the ground here in Alberta.

But I think between the two of them, there’s a draw, a pull from the farm that is hard to ignore. Dad doesn’t want to sell all of the farm – considering compromises to keep his shop and a couple acres as future prospects. Mom isn’t ready to give up entirely on Alberta with her babies (my brother and I) and a large part of her social network still here. And I get it. It’s home. It’s comfortable, just as homes should be. There’s that piece in my heart that wants them to keep it forever. To keep a sanctuary from the city that we can all go to when we just want to… need to… to be.

But the heart doesn’t understand logic, reality, and rationality. And it doesn’t care. I know in the next year or so that farm will no longer be a piece of the family, but it will always be a piece of the past and of my heart. 

A Beginning

This is the beginning.

It isn’t easy for me to talk about my weight or how I look, or what my internal image of my body is. It’s something I generally keep pretty close to the heart. Which is probably why I’ve struggled. A few years ago, Weight Watchers helped me lose almost 40 pounds and it was awesome. But I was working towards hitting a specific date, and two specific milestones. I was graduating university for the first time (I’ve done it twice now, with a Bachelors and a Master’s degree) and I wanted to look great at the year-end shin-dig. And I did. I look at those pictures and I feel confident. I was also one of the leads in my community’s musical and I wanted to look fantastic on stage. And I did. I look at those pictures and I feel confident.

Then I didn’t have a target. I just had life. I was supposed to create good habits while losing all that weight and it turned out that I hadn't made any good habits at all. I was just working to meet a goal of weight loss. And that’s what it was. Work.

Then I went back to school. Across the country from family and friends. It was the first time I lived with people I didn’t know. It was really the first time I was on my own, and it showed in the choices I made about my health. I gained all the weight I had lost back. I think I hold it better now. Pictures of me before I graduated with my Bachelors look worse than pictures of me now, even though I’m about the same weight. But I notice it. And it’s got to change.

So I’m going to push my comfort limits and talk about it. Make it something people know about so that there’s some sort of accountability to my actions. Make it something that I can reflect on, and remind myself that this isn’t about a specific date, or about a specific event. It’s about living healthy, and being able to run around with my nephew when he comes to visit. Being able to play games with my kids when I have them. Feel confident in whatever room I walk into and feel confident in whatever clothing I step into. Be alive and healthy. 

Specific weight info I’m going to keep to myself. While a part of my goal is weight loss, this isn’t about that. It’s about feeling. It’s about confidence. It’s about health. Also, that’s a super personal thing that I’m just not ready to be completely open about.

So here goes. And don't worry. This blog isn't going to be entirely about this transformation (as you can see from my first two posts). There'll be plenty of random thoughts about random things, from politics, to feminism, to hockey (though most of those updates will be happening on a different blog), to inspiration, to community develop, to pop culture, to whatever!

Insert a "Your Mom" Joke Here

This blog isn't intended just to be a soap box for my thoughts on everyday sexism, it just turns out that my life is filled with it as of late.

Long story short, Peter Mackay sent out Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day messages to staff at the federal justice ministry. He thanked mothers for their work as care-givers, “chang[ing] diapers, pack[ing] lunches,… tak[ing] care of an aging loved one… and think[ing] about dinner.” He thanked fathers for being public servants and “dedicated fathers, shaping the minds and futures of the next generation of leaders.” Full text of the letters (where those quotes come from) can be found here. 

So much has been said on the topic. The CBC, the National Post, the Globe and Mail and other news sources have all written and done stories about it. Which is great. They’re talking to experts and representatives of women’s groups and mothers and fathers, but let me give you a little perspective from a single, childless woman.

My father did so much to mold who I am. He is a strong force in my life and always told me I could be who I wanted to be and do what I wanted to do. I could lead anyone and any project I wanted. He also used to drive me to school on occasion, make dinners and lunches, tuck me in, sing me to sleep and be a general caregiver.

But you know what? My mom did all of that too. As a strong woman in my life, my mother shaped who I am and did the same for my brother. She told me that I should never settle for anything less than what I wanted. She pushed me to take chances and follow my dreams. She also drove me to school on occasion, made dinners and lunches, tucked me in, sang me to sleep and was a general caregiver.

It’s an insult to both of my parents to suggest that they are just one thing and did not share in my upbringing and the shaping of my mind and my desire and drive to be a leader.

Beyond the insult thrust at my parents, here is what that note says to me as a young public servant: We aren’t looking for female leaders.

And you know what? I don’t think that’s true. I don’t think the department set out to send that message. I don’t even think Peter Mackay set out to or meant to send that message. I think they’re looking for leaders regardless of gender, cultural background, and age. But in a world where words mean everything and casual sexism is a plague on everybody’s house, I’m surprised no one saw this coming. It’s a lazy throw-back to cultural stereotypes of women and men and somebody should have said something before those messages were delivered.

Someday, life willing, I will be a mother. A proud mother. And regardless of who my husband/partner is and what he’s done with his life, I expect we will share the child-rearing, care-giving, leadership training, and decent-human-being developing roles in our child’s life. Women are leaders and everyday women shape leaders and I think anyone with a mother or a woman in their life can attest to that.

Angering Ads

The longer I look at the ad, the angrier I get.

I was flipping through the newspaper today when I saw this ad. At first, I just flipped on by, but something caught my attention and I flipped back to it. Normally and advertiser would think, "YES! That's exactly what I want people to do." In this case, it was the company's downfall in my eyes.

It's a simple ad. An older man shaving with a straight blade, not a razor, looking very seriously at the reader. Black and white. What's eye catching is the tagline (or whatever the 'catch phrase' is called in the advertising world). "Leaders don't flinch" in a background of faded yellow-gold.

 (found at ATB's website: http://www.atbsuperfan.com/atbhires/marketingvp/)

It's an effective line. It conveys exactly what leaders should be - strong, determined, ready to act. The description below the picture is also effective: "When the going gets tough, the tough stay put." It's an ad for ATB Corporate Financial Services. And it probably speaks to a great deal of people looking for corporate financial services.

The problem I have with it is that it's feeding into a stereotype of "leaders" that is rapidly changing to reflect a younger demographic, and, the whole point of this little rant, a stereotype that is finally recognizing women. Don’t get me wrong, I love the catch phrase. Leaders DON'T flinch, particularly when the buck is meant to stop at them. However, the picture doesn't represent what I see as a leader. ATB took the lazy way of getting the point across while alienating a huge demographic of female business owners looking to take the next step to success. There are so many unisex actions that could have been used to convey the "don't flinch" message. I don't even care if they had used the same man in the picture doing a different activity. Shaving with a straight blade is dripping in testosterone and masculinity. How about a picture of a hand holding a nail about to be hammered in? How about a picture of a hockey player about to take a shot to the gut as he or she blocks a shot? How about a soccer player head-butting a ball towards the goal? I mean, if we want to get all gender biased about the removal of hair, how about a woman with a wax strip about to be torn from her leg?

My point is that I flipped back to the ad for all the wrong reasons. I flipped back to criticize it. To find a growing anger about what leadership is being portrayed as because I know I am a leader and I am nowhere to be found in that ad.