Looking Up

Hello readers. I am marking 38 years of living with a spinal cord injury today. I like to acknowledge the day with a couple special things and this year I want to do that by doing my first video blog.  So this is the 38^th anniversary that I was in a motor vehicle accident, paralyzing me from my chest down. I have used a wheelchair ever since.  I was six years old. 

While my body changed drastically at the time of the accident, what changed more were the expectations, or rather the lack of expectations, that others had for me.   It was not expected that I would finish school, go to University, do any sports, get a job, find love, or raise a family.

My Dad had a bigger imagination than this though.  He would often tell me that I could do anything, and he tried to help me believe that that the possibilities in life were as vast and infinite as the big, open, prairie sky.  He was a sky watcher, my dad, who, from time to time, would call me from his farm to ask me if the sunset was as lovely here as it was there and if I had to name that colour, what would it be?  As a child, I often sat with him on our doorstep, watching the northern lights, lightning storms, or following the constellations.  Unlike the map of the stars, though, both my parents had no script on how to navigate me through this life.  They just believed in trying, and trusting that those possibilities were out there for me. 

My Dad died 4 years ago. I have tried to carry on this optimistic attitude and a few months after 

his passing, I had an opportunity to participate in a fundraiser called the Drop Zone that supports Camp Easter Seal and Easter Seal programs in Saskatchewan.

All I needed to do was rappel off of a high building (in Saskatoon that is the Carleton

Tower on 4^th avenue) with the support of some ropes and carabiners.

When I asked people for pledges and explained what I would be doing, that I would be wheeling off the roof and descending down Carelton Tower to raise money for Easter Seals, they would always ask (with alarm):  have you ever done anything like this before?!  And I would always answer,  “There has to be a first time.”  And besides, I thought, how hard could it be?

Meanwhile, I was given a lot of advice: Focus on something in front of you.  Close your eyes.  Don’t, whatever you do, don’t close your eyes.  Have a shot of scotch before you descend.  Have a shot of whisky when you hit the ground.  It’s okay if you throw up.  Don’t do it.  My friend Julian said, I will pledge you $70 to NOT do this.  And most of all, over and over, I heard, Don’t look down.  Don’t look down. 

The day of the Drop Zone, was exactly 4 months since Dad had left me, I parked any lingering anxiety I had and I got on my gear. I gave the DJ down on the ground my Paul Simon song to play and told him exactly what to say as I descended and that if he called me “special,” even just once, I would come over and punch him in the nose when I landed.

I took several deep breaths, and took the elevator to the 22^nd floor, then with help, climbed the flight of 16 steps to the roof.  And what I saw when I got there was the most spectacular view of my fair city. I looked my new friends on the climbing crew in the eye.  And I told them I trusted them.  And I did. They ushered me over to the edge.  Then they slowly, painstakingly, and very literally, pushed me over the edge.

At first, I was hanging on my side, with my head bumping against the building.  I needed to use my strength to right myself and start the descent.  After I did that, for just a second, I heard my advice givers:  Don’t look down.  Don’t look down.  Don’t look down.

  

So I didn’t look down. 

Instead, I looked…up. 

I looked up into that big bright blue sky and felt my Dad’s strength through my gloves that held the carabineer.  I looked up and felt the possibilities, saw the sun, and lived the moment, and listened (and sang out loud, if you must know) to my chosen song as I descended, the Obvious Child by Paul Simon. 

I chose the Obvious Child for obvious reasons.  (“Some people say the sky is just the sky and I say, Why deny the obvious child?”)  I chose it for the obvious children, and all persons with disabilities should NOT be denied the opportunities to live big, full, happy lives.

With the trust that he somehow was with me on my descent, I stopped singing sometimes and talked to my Dad as I rappelled down.  He never once denied me, his daughter, his child, the opportunities I deserved to live a big, full, happy life, and when I couldn’t believe this for myself, when I started to look down, he would help me look up again.

As the only completely wheelchair accessible camp facility in Saskatchewan, Camp Easter Seal is dedicated to providing a fun and barrier free experience to all campers. Campers go swimming and boating, horseback riding, and have cook-outs and picnics, all the same kinds of camp experiences that a lot of kids have…and that all kids should have the chance to have.

My friend, Colleen Courtney is going to rappel down McCallum Hill Tower II in downtown Regina on August 23 this year. Colleen has been a champion for people with disabilities for many years, she has built a career out of helping people with disabilities look up, plus she is a fine human being. If you have it in your heart to offer her a pledge you can go to her personal fundraising page at: http://my.e2rm.com/PersonalPage.aspx?registrationID=2183099&langPref=en-CA

If you did, it would mean a lot to me, but more importantly, it would mean a whole summer’s worth of memories for some kids. 

wishing you the beauty of looking up,

hk

Finding North

Finding North

North:  a cardinal point of the compass, lying in the plane of the meridian and

to the left of a person facing the rising sun.   (www.freedictionary.com)

If you know where North is, you can find your way in the world.

My Dad always knew where North was.  From his skills as a grain farmer where he could tell the time by the placement of the sun in the sky, to his talent as a hunter who could find his way in the bush, and by being a dyed-in-the-wool prairie boy who was gifted with an innate sense of direction, Dad always knew where he was in the world.  For this, and many other reasons, I always felt safe when I was with him, and certain that he always knew where he was going. 

On his 79^th birthday, however, I do not think he could have predicted that he would end up in the Emergency Room while experiencing cardiac arrest.  After that, he had a stroke.  Our family was called in; the priest gave Dad his last rites.  We all kept a vigil by his bedside that night, and wordlessly took turns holding his rough hands (he had, after all, hauled his own railway ties just a few days beforehand) and stroking his whiskered cheek.  He seemed unconscious, because his eyes were closed and he was not “responsive” to our voices or touch, and yet, he emitted an energy that I can only describe as warrior-like.  I had every confidence that he was, in fact, fighting for his life.

North is the fundamental direction used to define all other directions.

That night, my mom and I were wide awake and on guard for a sign, any sign, that could prove to us that time, in fact, had not stopped, and that Dad was still with us and that he was going to be all right.   Around 5 a.m., we caught a glimpse of the pink and orange streaked sunrise through the tiny window of the intensive care unit, and Mom mused aloud, “It’s Spring. The days are getting longer, the sun is up earlier.  I wonder which way North is?”  I took a guess.  Mom took her guess.  Then, to our amazement, my Dad lifted his hand and pointed, in a forceful and assertive manner that, although no words accompanied his gesture, was full of meaning: it is that way, you fools. 

He hung on for a week.  He won and lost many battles during that time.  As many families can attest, to watch this happen, all the while knowing but denying that there is an inevitable end is an intensely emotional and deeply painful experience, which, at the same time, deepens one’s respect for the wondrous miracle that is life.  Dad believed in this miracle.  This miracle, this magical mystery, was his North. 

If you do not know where North is, you are lost.

Unlike my Dad, I am not blessed with an internal GPS.  I cringe if someone gives me directions like “enter from the South side,” or “take 20^th Street East.”  I prefer instructions like, “go left,” or “turn right at the convenience store.”  Little wonder then, that I seemed to lose my own spiritual sense of direction when he died, and when I believed he left me.  In the weeks, and to be sure, months after his death, I became progressively more lost.  Well-meaning friends kept telling me that I would heal with time, but time’s passing did not seem to help. 

In fact, the more time passed, the more I felt held down by questions:  “What am I supposed to do without you?”  “How can it be that you are not going to walk through my front door wearing a toque and a beaten up but warm coat with candy in the pockets?”  “Are you gone?”  “Are you with me?”  “Are you in the stars, the sunrise?”  And mostly, “Where are you now?”  I felt strongly that if I could just answer that, if I just “knew” where he was, that I could move on and find my way in this world again. 

I was stuck.  Every day, sometimes several times a day, I could transport myself to his hospital room and to the moment when his breath changed and how my brother’s eyes locked with mine, and when my mom buried her face into the nape of Dad’s whiskered neck, and how we cried out that we loved him and that we were with him and where the gurgling noise in his chest abruptly stopped and he sharply drew in one long, long inhale. And died.  Time did not change this memory one bit.  Often, I thought, if only I had a map to guide me from here to there. If only I had a spiritual compass.

A compass needs to be set at North for navigation.

When I was in grade eight, my Dad accompanied my classmates and me on an excursion called Outdoor Education.  We were grouped together for the Orienteering session.  We had to go into the bush, and then use our compass to help us find our way out.  However, our compass did not work.  I was dismayed because we were supposed to have our progress evaluated later on by our teacher.  Instead, Dad placed his hand on my shoulder and told me not to worry.  He picked up a fallen branch and pushed it into the pine needle-covered ground.  “Look for the shadow,” he told me.  Then he marked the end of the shadow on the ground with a stone. “Be patient, and wait a little while,” he explained, “since the shadow moves a little.”  Then he marked the new spot of the shadow's end with another stone and drew a line in the ground between the two stones. Standing between them, the first on his left (West), and the other (East) on his right, he grinned, “You are now facing North.”

There are many ways to find North.

Since then, I have learned that there are several ways to find North when you do not have, or cannot rely on, a compass.  You can figure out which way is North by the way moss grows on a tree, by the placement of the Sun, by using an analog watch, or taking note of where spiders make their webs.  Even at night, when everything is dark, you can find your way by looking for the North Star.  Indeed, I well remember the many cloudless and inky black nights at our family’s farm where Dad would point out the constellations to me, including the North Star, reminding me that it is the last star at the end of the Little Dipper's handle and the one star in the night sky that does not move with the rotation of the Earth. 

“Try to see past it,” he would encourage, so grounded in his faith that the Universe was bigger and more wondrous and mysterious than he, or any of us, could ever imagine.  

I hope he knows that I try to see beyond the stars like he wished I would, and although I still do not know for certain where he is, my fallen branch is solidly in the ground and I am turned toward the sun.  I hope he knows that I am trying to be patient, to give it some time, and that although my faith moves around in my attempts to find North, I am a little less lost than I once was.  

wishing you the beauty of your own North,

hk

Paralympic Beauty

Tomorrow marks the opening ceremonies of the Winter Paralympic Games in Sochi, Russia. With 6 Winter sports - biathlon, snowboarding, curling, sledge hockey, alpine, and cross-country skiing - this is a beautiful thing.  Sir Ludwig Guttman is credited with starting the Paralympic movement because as a neurologist who founded the Stoke Mandeville Hospital in the United Kingdom to deal with injured World War 2 soldiers, he also believed in sport’s potential to build both physical strength and self-respect. He organized the first Stoke Mandeville Games in 1948, which eventually grew into the Paralympics that are currently held “parallel” to the Olympic Summer and Winter Games every two years.

Full disclosure: I am a former Paralympian and therefore have a vested interest in the games. As a person with a spinal cord injury who had no role models growing up and who lived without the expectations that I would ever live a quality life, I had no imagination that I would ever be involved in any kind of sport. My Dad, however, had a bigger imagination, and it was because of him that I one day found myself at a competition with other wheelchair athletes. One thing led to another and I made the national team when I was 17. Meeting my team members and the national coach, together with getting to know people from other countries who also had disabilities, completely and beautifully transformed me, how I saw my disability, and how I viewed all disabilities. Wheelchair sport then coloured everything in my life, from my education to the decision to become a parent. Simply put, I owe a lot to sport.

While human excellence is found in many other areas of this beautiful life, for the next two weeks I will be celebrating sport and the Paralympic Games. I will celebrate spirit, excellence, perseverance, strength, hard work, and hope.

I hope you will join me.

Wishing you beauty, 

hk

True Patriot Hockey Love

There are many lessons to be learned from sport: focus, determination, hard work, commitment, and striving for excellence to name a few.  The Olympics are full of stories with these themes.  Sometimes though, the lessons are bigger and more beautiful. And for Canadians, today is one of those days.  Today the lesson was not giving up and when things look dark, choosing to have faith.

Let's face it. Pulling a goalie with seconds left in a hockey game does not often work. It is an act of desperation, of pulling out all the stops, of grasping at straws. With seconds left in the game, our women's hockey team had many more reasons to give up than continue on, but here's the beautiful thing about sport, and heck, about life: you are always given a choice.  And even when it doesn't work out the way you want, it is always best to go with hope over resignation. This day will go down in our history of being one of those days to choose hope.

wishing you the beauty of true patriot love,
hk

Beautiful Olympics

I  think the Olympics are a beautiful thing.

Admittedly, I have a vested interest.  I've been to 2 Paralympic Games, I have 3 Paralympic medals, and I acted as an athlete mentor to an Olympian at the 2012 Summer Games in London.

The Olympic haters out there would love to argue with me about the Olympic's beauty, and I understand their perspective. The Olympics cost too much and often create astounding debt. There are other problems like corruption and politics and I agree that there is much more that the IOC and the Olympic Games could do better at, and that they could make better decisions about many important issues.

At the same time, I still want to believe the Olympics are also about the very best of what it means to be a human being.  Based on the values of equality, fairness, and respect, the Olympics are one time when the whole world unites and celebrates human achievement and excellence.  I am an advocate for sport at all levels, and it is an incredible achievement to make it just as a participant of the Olympic Games, no matter where you rank.  The Olympics remind us of what depths the human spirit is capable of, and so the Olympics are about hope. And that is a beautiful thing, no matter who you are and where you are from.

wishing that you find at least one story from the Olympics that you find beautiful,
hk

It's more than soup

It's a beautiful thing.  It's soup!

Have you ever come in from a frigid day, a day when your fingers ache from the cold, only to be soothed by a comforting bowl of soup?  If you are from this country, chances are you have.  Remember how it made you feel?  Taken-care-of?  Loved?  Maybe even hopeful that although it is cold today that tomorrow is one step closer to spring?

I am happy to announce that Soup Sisters is launching in Saskatoon at SIAST this week in support of Interval House, a shelter for women and children who have experienced domestic abuse. SIAST Chefs and Guest Chef from Truffles Bistro, along with the inaugural soup sisters will create 200 servings of soup for children and their moms.

Women, children, and youth are the focus of Soup Sister's organization.  It is their belief that when your life has been plagued by violence, a simple and nutritious meal made with love is much more than just soup. It can mean hope, support, encouragement, and care. 

Who wouldn't want to be a part of that?  Here's a little more information:

Soup Sisters are a unique organization in that the volunteers that come to the event pay a $55 fee.  However, there are many good reasons why.  The fee covers the cost of the soup's ingredients, venue, equipment, and a Chef or professional facilitator.  The events are well suited to clubs and teams as they provide lively conversation and camaraderie that finish in a simple, sit-down supper of soup, salad, bread, and wine for the participants.  Each event produces from 150-250 servings of soup that sustains the Interval House for a month.  

The Soup Sisters organization does not profit from the $55 participation fee as ninety-five percent of the $55 participation fee goes to the culinary partner.

Soup Sisters and Broth Brothers was founded in 2009 by Calgarian Sharon Hapton, who began with the simple but powerful belief that soup can make a difference.   The message is catching on - soup is now being delivered regularly to over 25 residential shelters across the country.

For more information, please visit saskatoon@soupsisters.org

wishing you beautiful things,
hk

Beautiful Family Dinner

Families come in all sizes and configurations.  Some immediate families are huge; my aunt and uncle had 11 children if you can imagine. Some families do not have children at all.  Some families are made up of a single person and a dog, the "fur-child." From same-sex parents to blended families to clusters of friends who do not need shared blood to bind them, family matters. 

Connecting with that family also matters. For some of us, it is our number one priority. Which brings me to Family Dinner. It can solve a host of issues. Do you want a way to spend meaningful time with your children during a busy day? Solution: Family dinner. Are you wishing for a moment of peace to connect with your spouse? Family dinner. Do you want to live healthier and feel more in control of your life?  Family dinner.

The Norman Rockwell picture of what this looks like does not exist for most of us because the way families look and function varies from home to home. In our house at least, family dinner is not always peaceful, happy, and calm. We have spirited conversations, or the dogs bark too much, or someone is tired or had a bad day and buttons are pushed, and although it does not happen often, someone might even leave the table. That's real. And that's okay because family life is often disruptive and difficult.  But a family is also full of unconditional love and acceptance so the next night we will try again. And the next night dinner might not see a lot of conversation but rather a listen to Pink Floyd's "The Wall."  And it might include our son's girlfriend, family from out of town, or some little kids who were over to play and thought the food smelled so good that they begged to stay. Sometimes being part of a family means letting go of the image of how you thought it is "supposed" to be and making space for something different. It's the effort that matters.  It's the effort that makes it beautiful.

Last night my husband looked at dinner and said, "Take a picture of that.  That is beautiful food."  So I did. Here it is. It's sesame orange chicken on top of fried rice with bok choy, cabbage, and spinach and it came together in a haphazard, creative way. In fact, the plan I had for dinner was originally some kind of chicken sandwiches and a salad but obviously it turned into something completely different and just as good. Maybe better. Dinner and family is like that. 

wishing you the beauty of a warm dinner shared with someone you love,
hk

Family Literacy Day

Pain and an infection have kept me from sleeping well for several days, so I am a bit fuzzy and bleary-eyed lately, but I can't blame that for last night's lack of shut eye. No, I have to 'fess up.  It was a book that would not allow me to close my eyes until 2 a.m. 

Fitting then, to learn that today is Family Literacy Day.  According to ABC Life Literacy Canada's website, Family Literacy Day is a national awareness initiative created to raise awareness of the importance of reading and engaging in other literacy-related activities as a family.  To mark the day, we are encouraged to engage in some kind of literacy activity with people we love today, whether that is learning something new together, playing a game, or simply reading time.

Reading our respective books has provided beautiful quiet time together in our home over the years, but reading aloud has been provided some of our best family moments:  tears in my eyes and choking out the words while reading the battle of Molly Weasley and Bellatrix Lestrange; not being able to get through the passage where Beth dies; the look on my son's face when we learned the meaning of Ender's final battle scene; feeling compelled to stop and re-read parts of alarming beauty between Atticus, Scout, and Jem. 

To mark Family Literacy Day, I offer my top 10 list of beautiful books to read out loud:

1. To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
2. Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling
3. Silverwing by Kenneth Oppel
4. The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis
5. Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery
6. Charlotte's Web by E.B. White
7. The Magic Tree House books by Mary Pope Osbourne
8. Junie B. Jones series by Barbara Park
9. Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren
10. Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume

This list, of course, could be a lot longer.  What are your favourites?

wishing you a beautiful day of celebrating literacy in your own way,
hk

How are you?

Everyone in the part of the world I live in asks it: "How are you?"

This question is so much a part of our culture that most of us ask this several times a day without even thinking. Around here, even the faceless voice taking my coffee order in the drive-through asks it. And we don't normally answer honestly. We say something like, "Fine. You?"  

This essay is not going to delve into the origins of "How are you?" nor will it offer a cultural explanation for why this question is such a systemic part of our language, but I have to say that of all the things that could and should bug me, "How are you?" nears the top of my list. Perhaps this is because most days, due to the reality that I live with a complicated body which then tends to complicate my life, I can't answer in an honest way. No one really wants to know, or so I tend to believe, how I *really* am. Certainly not the person taking my coffee order. I realize that we don't intend to be insincere.  We don't mean to be superficial.  Of course we don't. People are generally beautiful beings, after all.

My pragmatic husband would say that we do not have room in our day for every single conversation and expression to be deep and meaningful. He's probably right. We're busy. There is always a lot going on. Furthermore, I am not saying that we should stop saying it. What I am suggesting is that we pay more attention to these words that so easily roll off our tongues, that we ask with genuine concern more often, and that when we do, we lean in and listen. That's when I believe something beautiful might just happen.

wishing you the beauty of meaningful interaction...at least some of the time,
hk

The Beauty of Slowing Down

 Time is the coin of your life.  

It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent.  

~ Carl Sandberg

If you are a regular reader of this blog (and I thank you if you are), then you might have noticed that I have not written in a few weeks. The reason is not writer's block or depression or that I have given up on finding beauty every day. It is, very simply, that I have been busy. There was Christmas, a notable anniversary in my family, projects with strict deadlines to finish, health concerns that needed my attention, and kid's activities. You know, busy stuff.

At first I was anxious when I realized so much time was passing where I was not writing any blog posts, but I also realized that feeling anxious about it did not serve me well at all and I then decided to just give myself a break.  After all, I wrote 80 + essays last year.

Those 80+ essays have reached so many people and helped me remember why I love the Internet. I love having readers from every continent and I enjoy Facebook for keeping the relationships I would otherwise have difficulty maintaining. Sometimes though, the Internet moves too fast for me. I have yet to "get" Twitter - the play by play action makes me weary. It just seems to yell at me to hurry up! catch up! go faster!

I think many people with mobility disabilities have issues with time and the "normal" pace of life.  It takes us longer to get things done and we use more energy in the extra time to get those things done.  It is often tough for us to hurry up, catch up, and go faster in many daily activities, from getting in and out of a vehicle to using the bathroom.

It is probably no coincidence then, how I tend to appreciate show things.  Like bread that takes the better part of a day to properly rise twice and braised ribs that require hours to become fall apart tender.  Like writing and receiving a hand written letter instead of a text to the time it takes to think about a response to a question instead of answering right away. Like sitting around a table with friends and sharing a leisurely meal and listening to an entire LP - an actual concept album that tells a story.

Thank you for being patient with me while I took a little time out.

wishing you the discovery of finding beauty while slowing down,
hk