Olympics! I felt slightly smug after we crushed the Russians last night. But my smugness only came after the 7th goal; I couldn't watch the first period because my smugness was pre-empted by terror. So, yes, I was jumping upa nd down in my livingroom at the end of the game, looking around for someone to hug or at least to high-five, but the only other spectator was Henry and he was busy investigating his fluffy paws before he dozed off. Obviously not a hockey fan or even all that patriotic.
I felt my Canadian pride surge to the surface (though it may have been a menopause-moment) all evening when the bobsledders got gold and silver and we owned the podium left right and centre. But it was Clara Hughes who put a lump in my throat accompanied by a helping of tears in my eyes. A remarkable woman, without a doubt. I wish all young children from the age of 3 to 98 could have heard her say that she wants to be remembered not for her medals but for her "doing my very best and never giving up".
We grow up thinking we have to be the best at something to even bother showing up. The Olympics even supports that notion to some degree. We give up on many levels not because others judge us, but because we judge ourselves.
I saw the look on Clara Hughes' face when she crossed the finish line on the speed-skating track. She had sawn off a bunch of seconds off the record but the glory on her face said, "I gave it my all!"
I was moved. I brushed the crumbs off my chest and jumped into my desk chair and began scribbling notes of what I want to accomplish.
Drinking more water every day.
That was the top of my list. It may seem hardly medal-worthy but .... I can start small. Besides. I've already had one and a half cups of water and it's only 7 a.m. The day's looking good. Now back to my list.
ending world poverty (too big)
abolition of donuts (unreasonable)
Well, I'll have some more water and see what I can come up with.
written by W A Stewart, February 25, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
To Tell The Truth
I was wondering today about the truth. Truth is rarely writ in ink; it lives in nature, so says Martin H Fischer (I know, I didn't know who he was either). So, if we can't write truth, but were obligated to say the truth or say nothing at all ... then I wonder how silent the world might become. No small talk. No how are you, because who would have the time to listen. And certainly no, what do you think of my shoes?
If I could only speak the truth would I be able to tell my children they can be anything they want to be, because I'm not convinced being an astronaut is within their reach, despite my comments to the contrary.
The hairdresser who cuts your hair would have to fess up when holding the mirror behind your head. "There," she would have to say with a distinct grimace. "That does look like hell. I can't possibly take your money. You look just as bad as you did before. Guess it wasn't the haircut?"
When you buy socks and pay eight dollars a pair you could ask the salesclerk, "Is this a fair price for a bit of cotton and nylon" and the clerk would just bow her head in shame. On a bad day she might hurl out accusations such as, "You're shopping at The Bay, do you really think any of these prices are fair?" and her arm would sweep in a wide demonstrative arc. I'd concede with, "Sorry, stupid question."
When you go through the check-out and the friendly salesclerk asks, "Did you find everything you were looking for today?" you could counter with, "Do you really care?" and the conversation would halt and you wouldn't have to go into an explanation about why you forgot your resuable bags because today (though not every day) you don't really care about the environment. You want to care but today isn't the day for it.
And when you had an ultrasound on your breast after your breast was put through a mini torture test that would rival "the rack" of medieval times (You've Come A Long Way, Baby does not play in the mammagram room) the technician would be obligated to turn to you and say, "This isn't looking good," rather than that sorry smile when she tells me to have a good day and that my doctor will call. I didn't think she meant my doctor would call before I even got home. She should have said, "Just don't bother sleeping for the next two weeks." I think it is better to know upfront.
And of course, the obvious, "Do I look fat to you?" would become redundant.
I've been lied to a few times in my life that really counted and I've also heard the truth when I wasn't prepared. I'm not sure where the balance is. I know I fear a lie far more than I fear the truth. Though the truth may knock us down and put its heavy foot on our throat, it is not an evil adversary. They (and I have no idea who they are) don't say the truth shall set you free for nothin'.
Would truth eliminate the need for kindness and gentleness? Would we love all the people we say we love? And do we really hate all the things we think we hate? I'm positive that I hate winter, at least I think I'm positive.
I suppose all I can say is, "What does it all mean, Basil?"
submitted by W A Stewart February 17, 2010.
If I could only speak the truth would I be able to tell my children they can be anything they want to be, because I'm not convinced being an astronaut is within their reach, despite my comments to the contrary.
The hairdresser who cuts your hair would have to fess up when holding the mirror behind your head. "There," she would have to say with a distinct grimace. "That does look like hell. I can't possibly take your money. You look just as bad as you did before. Guess it wasn't the haircut?"
When you buy socks and pay eight dollars a pair you could ask the salesclerk, "Is this a fair price for a bit of cotton and nylon" and the clerk would just bow her head in shame. On a bad day she might hurl out accusations such as, "You're shopping at The Bay, do you really think any of these prices are fair?" and her arm would sweep in a wide demonstrative arc. I'd concede with, "Sorry, stupid question."
When you go through the check-out and the friendly salesclerk asks, "Did you find everything you were looking for today?" you could counter with, "Do you really care?" and the conversation would halt and you wouldn't have to go into an explanation about why you forgot your resuable bags because today (though not every day) you don't really care about the environment. You want to care but today isn't the day for it.
And when you had an ultrasound on your breast after your breast was put through a mini torture test that would rival "the rack" of medieval times (You've Come A Long Way, Baby does not play in the mammagram room) the technician would be obligated to turn to you and say, "This isn't looking good," rather than that sorry smile when she tells me to have a good day and that my doctor will call. I didn't think she meant my doctor would call before I even got home. She should have said, "Just don't bother sleeping for the next two weeks." I think it is better to know upfront.
And of course, the obvious, "Do I look fat to you?" would become redundant.
I've been lied to a few times in my life that really counted and I've also heard the truth when I wasn't prepared. I'm not sure where the balance is. I know I fear a lie far more than I fear the truth. Though the truth may knock us down and put its heavy foot on our throat, it is not an evil adversary. They (and I have no idea who they are) don't say the truth shall set you free for nothin'.
Would truth eliminate the need for kindness and gentleness? Would we love all the people we say we love? And do we really hate all the things we think we hate? I'm positive that I hate winter, at least I think I'm positive.
I suppose all I can say is, "What does it all mean, Basil?"
submitted by W A Stewart February 17, 2010.
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