That's Not My Brassiere

As I prematurely pulled the pile of ALL BLACK laundry from the drier (I like to time certain parts: jeans - 5 minutes; newer black shirts - about 7 to 10 minutes; old black stuff - all the way to 50 minutes) my hands grabbed onto something strange.

I tossed the other items aside and pulled out this new texture: a much-too-big-for-me bra. And for that split mini moment my imagination flashed through how different my life would be if that much-too-big-for-me bra really did belong to me because I had that much to mold and hold. Bobbi with big boobs: it as a nice ring to it, but would have likely set me on a different course of cleavage and God knows what else.

I'll stick with my simple physique, mostly because I have to, and leave that lovely piece of lingerie for whoever did laundry in our house this weekend.

Please, Take a Peek

My friend Leah, who lives in Vancouver, has started a beautiful art/photo/life blog with a buddy who is doing aid work in Burundi.

Get your virtual butt there.

Here's a sample of its dazzling work.

Mount Pleasant

I'm sure I post about the same things over and over, but I can't seem to help myself. Tonight . . . I'm thinking about my neighborhood.

I went out early yesterday morning to walk less than a block to vote at Grace Memorial United Church. It's so close that even I can almost throw something at it from my third floor bedroom window and hit it. Not that I would, but I almost could.

As I walked down the ramp into the fellowship hall I noticed that the door had been pushed back against someone's overnight squatting gear. There was an empty shampoo bottle, a jacket, and a yellow blanket. I was a bit surprised that the voting day volunteers hadn't moved it, but then again, this is Vancouver East and that sight is not uncommon.

This morning was another early morning as I raced out with the rising sun to make my way to a First Aid course. I drove down my street and saw a woman who had been out all night. She was dressed to impress, cheaply. She looked so tired, quite at home behind the laundromat, and numb to the cold. Though, I'm sure she wasn't. We all feel cold, right?

Tonight as I tried to walk a bit of my dinner and wine off I crossed paths with a police operation complete with three staked out cars, cops on foot, and a focused sniffer dog in search of someone in some dark hiding spot.

So what makes a pretty good girl like me feel quite at home in all of this mess? Mostly, I don't really know. I just know that the broken pieces I see around me look a bit like the broken pieces I name within me.

There is loneliness, curled up in a church's dark doorway.

There is desperation, selling herself on the busy Vancouver Street.

There is heartbreak, hiding in the bushes trying not to get caught.

There is life. And hovering over all of it, though most certainly not fully realized, is a deep and promised hope.

Giving Thanks, Cutting the Crap

For Thanksgiving I am making an "I want" list.

I want to buy less.
I want to wear things until they fray.
I want to clean out my closet and give stuff away.
I want to eat what is in season.
I want to meet more farmers.
I want to run and bike in the cold.
I want to be neighborly.
I want hospitality.
I want to share.
I want to write.
I want to listen.
I want to worry less.
I want to laugh more.
I want to breathe deeply.
I want to be silly.
I want to be good.
I want to pray.
I want to be generous.
I want to rest.

My Friend, Music

This week I've enjoyed some great live music. I finally saw Ron Sexsmith at the Chan Centre with my dear friend Nerida. I've been waiting years for this.

While taking in Ron's music I was reminded that I love a good songwriter who can sing other people's stories, as well as his own. It's that element of music that reaches into some of our broken places, cuddles up beside those painful bits, and soothes them with their presence. In this company one is a little less alone then she or he was before the song started 2 minutes before.

Here's one of Ron Sexsmith's songs that names the struggle and holds out hope that it will get brighter still. Be sure to listen for the little treat at the end.