The "Hunger" Games

This is the weekend of The Hunger Games! Thursday midnight (and in some places, also at 3 AM), it opened all over the country. Even in our little rural theatre. Went Friday evening ($14.00 for two tickets plus popcorn), every kid in town took in the midnight show. The movie was excellent, for a young adult crowd. Also for me. I've almost finished book one, and I'd say it is quite faithful to the novel.

What is so impressive to me is how Suzanne Collins has captured and explicated so many of today's current issues for young people. Among them, the expanding gap between the very wealthy and the very poor, the emphasis politically on social control and repression of "radical" ideas. The notion of sacrificing the young as a means of control and as a means of entertaining the populace also struck me. The prevalence and popularity of so-called "reality" TV is mirrored in the book. The adulation and pressure put on youthful sports heroes, even at the cost of their health and/or lives, struck a chord. "Hunger" was a literal theme in the book. It's clear that our young people express a number of "hungers" in their lives currently. How will they express those as we move into a less secure future? What steps will be taken to control and/or suppress those hungers? Take the Donald Sutherland character - Mr. Control and rule - and put his beard on Stephen Harper and you have, voila, our country as it stands today.

In these ways, and others as well, I think one could look at The Hunger Games as a parable, a message to today's young people. In the movie, anything that allows youth to "band together" - even love and affection - is deemed radical and threatening to the Establishment and is punished. My thoughts went immediately to the "Occupy…" movement. Lots of young people, protesting the extravagance and waste of the inordinately rich, the entitled, the "in-charge" people; these kids and their supporters were branded as dangerous radicals, those who threaten  the status quo, who had to be disbanded and arrested so they would be off the TV screens. I can't help but wonder if others will make these connections and push them as the books become more widely read, and the movies become cult hits.

As it stands, I'm almost done book one, and have two and three on my Kindle, waiting to be read, ASAP. I'm sure I'll think more on this, and have more to share.

Winter…kills

Wednesday last was the first day of spring - "the vernal equinox." It had been lovely for a few days…and then Thursday it snowed, overnight. Friday it snowed more. We suuddenly has a beautiful white covering of wet and heavy snow. Evening came, and slowly ice began to form under the snow, and we had…slick!

Quite a shock for the spring-hopers. For me, quiet, internal pleasure. I am really a winter person. The chill of a wind, the bite of the cold temperature, the crunch of snow under my feet; this is where I am most at home. My spoken rationale is that summer heat bothers me and it's much more difficult to escape. Well…air conditioning is a help, but only if the humidity is low. In winter, one van always keep the cold at bay with the correct gear - parka, mitts. long johns - and by moving, walking, shovelling. So I'm actually pleased with a fresh cover of snow. I even shovelled it, rather than hauling out the blower. That was a bit risky to do, given the state of my back, but it was exhilarating, and it keep me warm!

Today, the snow remains - it was -15 degrees Celsius last night - but there is lots of ice, making driving a whole different thing. There were many street accidents In Edmonton after the snow arrived. In just two days, everyone forgets how to drive in winter! It amazes me how the arrival of snow helps people disengage their brains before the dazzle and excitement of fresh powder. Sometimes this is annoying. At other times it can be fatal. The other night, five people were tooling around open fields on a snowmobile in the late afternoon or early evening - the light had faded and was poor. They had lost track of just where they were on the fields, so they were totally unprepared when their speeding toy shot off the top of a an embankment, six metres above the highway! That's over 19 feet above pavement. Three of the five were killed, the other two seriously injured. One couple of the deceased were planning a wedding in the near future, and the young woman was bearing her first child. Joy and inattention helped a toy to kill three people. The definite downside of winter, assisted by human folly. Just as the heat can kill in the summer if the conditions are right, and people aren't protected, so also winter can kill if one isn't prepared for it, or inattentive to its implications.

At various times during this winter, there have been stories of snowmobilers attempting to race up mountainsides in the soft powder, despite warnings of the avalanche dangers prevailing at that time. A number of men have been killed in this manner since last fall.

People who live in desert regions or near the equator, learn early the ways that a person can survive in the heat. I well remember my beloved friends Vincent, from Madras, India, always keeping his head covered in summer - even in Canada. So it surprises me when Canadians, who have lived with winter their whole lives and with the experience of generations gone by, "forget" or ignore the perils of the season.

All this aside, I still love the season. I have always felt that I was a child of winter. Perhaps that comes from being born in December, although I'm sure there are all sorts of "December babies" who long for summer as soon as the snow flies. But I'm not one of them.

Changing seasons, maybe

Twice a year we have solstices - summer and winter. Twice a year we have equinoxes - spring and fall. These are astronomical events having to do with the angle of the sun's light hitting earth, or the distance of the sun from our part of the globe. Brief, and non-scientific descriptions, but good enough for today.

Whether or not there is a scientific basis for this or not, I am virtually always affected by the equinox and the solstice - more by the former. Usually, I feel out of sorts for a day or two, sometimes I get quite depressed for no discernible reason. Most of the time I have to be reminded of the seasonal event afterwards, when I am trying to figure out what I've been going through. There is always a little inward "aha" that I experience when I 'get it.'

I wonder if any other people have this experience, or if it's completely idiosyncratic. It always puzzles me, but I am usually relieved to discover that there might be some "reason" for my brief dip in mood and feelings. Leading up to this most recent equinox - March 20, Tuesday last - I experienced a two day headache. This hasn't been an experience I've 'enjoyed' since my migraine days, over 25 years ago. Advil didn't help, but it wasn't debilitating. I just hurt, like there was something heavy on my mind. Of course, I was also suddenly depressed, and a little paranoid about some things. Weird. Does anyone else go through this? Is there any objective basis for this, or am I truly just…weird?

In any case, this morning - Thursday, March 22 - I feel much differently. Fine, even. Although I have, for inexplicable reasons, changed my morning habits! (You can't imagine how fixed and rigid my morning habits usually are!) No walk - "I'll go later, just before lunch, in the light." Really? Not first thing? Wow!

Now, those few of you who follow these ramblings will be sure that I am weird. Such a little thing, so firmly fixed, so "odd" to do. Like, who cares? Like, I usually do! So, I'm shrugging and saying to myself, "Oh well, even James can make a few little changes. Perhaps it simply evolution, working its wonders on even me, old and fixed as I am."

So to day, after I work out in the pool, and have a talk with my pastor, I will take the North trail for an hour, hopefully before the snow begins (Oh, yes, we're getting snow. Not spring yet, despite the equinox.) I will actually start looking to see if there is any basis in science for my current weirdness. It would be nice to gave some reason to be so…odd. Wouldn't you agree?

Sunday, bloody Sunday

This morning I conducted worship and preached at my spouse's church. Yes, she is a minister. Like me. Only quite different. The congregation that sponsored her when she went into ministry is having their 50th anniversary, and she wanted to attend. I offered to fill in for her so she could go. For me, it was a loving gift, and it had a cost.

I was very nervous about doing this, because I feel so ambivalent about her congregation. I have felt that since before we moved here. In the letter they sent her confirming the "call to their pulpit," They made it clear that they were calling her and not me. At one level I completely understood that statement. I had  profile in the Conference. Because of my teaching position in the Health Care system, I was somebody of some importance. They simply outlined the boundaries.

At another level, I felt quite distanced by that sentence, even rejected. I was hurt that they thought they had to even say such a thing. Did they not think I would be aware of that issue? So from the start, I felt apart from them. In the almost nine years we have been here, I have had very little to do with them. I attend worship from time to time, but I have worked enough that this has not been a regular thing. I did some "supply preaching" for them when Beatrix had her surgery a couple of years ago. They paid me, as they should. This weekend, i did it for her, and I don't expect them to compensate me. I'm sure they will not offer.

My ambivalence toward them has increased over the years. I feel they treat my spouse badly. She gets very little feedback from them, and almost no positive feedback. They rarely thank her for anything. They are also quick to criticize her work. It situations where she needs support, her Council rarely supports her. I easily become annoyed with them. So I was nervous this morning, not sure if I really wanted to be there, but sure that I wanted to support my spouse.

I'm actually relieved that so few people read this blog, because I use it - like today - for very personal musings. I actually don't want the world to know about me. Whoever reads this should be aware that I am quite raw when I write, and I hold you as special; you are my confidant. I have to trust you. This is not easy for me.

Although I can be very outgoing and seem quite extroverted, I am actually a very deep introvert. I share little of myself with people. I grind my gears privately, and put a good face on it. Perhaps some of you are like that. I hope so, because you might understand and appreciate what I have written.

There are times when I feel that someone who has reached my "advanced years" ought to have all this figured out and be ,ore at peace with it. Not me. I may be old, but I do not feel wise. Only experienced. And old. I will be glad when Beatrix comes home tomorrow. I miss her a lot when she is away. She is a huge part of my world. Enough already!

The best of movies

Saturday morning, dark and blustery. Windy with a hint of snow in the air. NOT spring yet. My spouse is away in another city at an anniversary, so I am holding down the work front until Monday morning. Empty house, but some surprises have made it just fine. I spent the day in Red Deer yesterday, getting some errands run, and brought home two really good bottles of scotch…also  inexpensive… a real find.

The high point of the weekend so far has been the quality acting I watched through two movies. The Descendants with George Clooney, and My Week With Marilyn revealing a surprisingly gifted Michelle Williams.

George Clooney is 'head' of a completely dysfunctional family, with a wife who is terminally injured and about to die. He discovers that's she has been on the brink of leaving him - has been conducting an affair - and he is under pressure to sell a huge chunk of family land that will make "everyone" rich. All against the backdrop of Hawaii. The various tensions in the movie swirl around Clooney, and he demonstrates the internal struggle superbly. The Hawaiian backdrop is disconcerting, as it should be. Really bad things happen to people, even in paradise. Watching Clooney at the top of his acting game was a treat. He was genuine and real in his portrayal. Grade A.

Michelle Williams was/is an unknown quantity for me. I never watched Dawson's Creek, so I had never seen her act.She does Marilyn Monroe with wonderful realism. The story is a true one, taken from Colin Clark's diaries. He was the junior director on the set of The Prince and the Showgirl, which Monroe made with Laurence Olivier. The Marilyn we have learned about through various biographies over the decades was all there; captivating and heart-meltingly gorgeous, terrified and insecure beyond belief, and desperately needing to believe that whichever man was in front of her loved her more than anything. She was in her third marriage at that point (Arthur Miller), but that was rapidly falling apart. Colin, the junior, became her fiend, and she skipped out on the production for a few days with him. They were buds at least, perhaps more. But she needed the total attention, and that "week" appeared to save the movie making afterward.

Williams portrayal was stunning, both visually and personally. She "did" Marilyn with great confidence, and reminded old geezers like me just what Marilyn did to men when she turned on the charm. We didn't know till later how damaged she was, how twisted was her sense of self. Williams showed us that beautifully.

I think I found these two experiences so satisfying because I've been watching movies that were less than well done, less than well acted - crap, in fact. These were genuine acting performances, against real backdrops, revealing genuine people. It was as if they grounded me for a time. I had, for example, the best sleep in weeks last night after watching them.

The whole thing reminds me how i miss the old Family Therapy days, the times doing therapy where helping to unravel a personal mystery wrapped in a family's life was so engaging and enjoyable. It took 30 years off my age! I guess that is what movies, at their best, are intended to do: engage one so that life changes, even for a time. It worked last night.

The way we were

One of the embarrassments I endure has to do with sht-term memory. Mine is very short. Three times in one day, I asked my spouse if she would be home that evening. Each time she reminded me that she had told me of commitment earlier. Blush, blush.

Long term memory is another matter. I suppose it is so with many who are reaching advanced years. (Hardly golden, but ancient.) Yesterday was a case in point. I decidednto get my hair cut at the Barber's. That is unusual, for Beatrix usually buzzes my head at home with our own clippers. I decided to have Andy the Barber trim me up. As soon as I stepped into the Babrber shop, memories began to flood my brain.

I ws back in Chester's Barbershop in Transcona, where we paper boys picked up our load of papers to deliver every day after four o'clock.The back room at Chester's was the Free Press Office. Stacks of newspapaers, boys thumbing through the stack, "one, two, three…seventeen…"Standing in a line waiting my turn, pushing and being pushed, boyish chatter swirling around in my head. I can remember none of their names, save one: Daryll Fierheller. Who could forget such a name? He was small, and red-headed, and the brunt of much teasing and joshing. He was wiry and tough - one of a number of  brothers, I think - and he handled himself quite well.

I remembered the load of 70 odd papers that I carried, in winter, slung across my shoulders and back. In summer, mercifully, in the big carrier on the front of my bike. I remember the family of eastern European immigrants, mostly girls. I always hope that the young one would answer the door when I came to collect for the paper. She had a roundish face, just slightly swarthy, and huge, deep eyes, and her name was Grace. I swallowed hard every time I saw her. She never said a word to me, ever. But I have never forgotten her.

There was old Mr. Sowden, the Secretary-Treasurer at the school. He was sour and mean, and frequently put me off payment - "no cash on hand,… come back tomorrow,… or next week." I sometimes had to carry him for a month or more. I often did not get my share of the money until old man Sowden paid up.

The newspapers came out to Transcona from Winnipeg on the Blue Ribbon Bus, our local transport company. We all waited on the corner in front of the bank for the bus to arrive, at around 4:30. There would be pushing and wrestling and paper bag fights. A fight with paper bags was harmless, but a wild thing to see. Paper bags were large canvas bags, the size to hold broadsheet newspapers. It had a flap which could put over the papers to keep rain and snow off them. They were made of sailcloth canvas, heavy and sturdy. A swung paper bag made a satisfying "whop" when it hit something…or someone. Swinging bags looked a bit like a pillow fight, although they created mayhem among passing bank customers!

When the bus arrived, the driver heaved the bundles of papers out onto the sidewalk, sometimes 8 or 10 of them, 80 newspapers each. They were heavy, so you didn't want to be in the when they came flying. However, you did want to be the first to the bundle, because if you lugged it back to the Barbershop, a half-block distant, you got your newspapers first and could be on your way. And that was a prize: first away would be first finished and home. In winter, that was a comfort greatly to be wished for.

I began recalling other customers besides the Grace and old Sowden. There were the people who always complained that I came so late, even if I was first out of the shop. Others were pleasant, and invited me into their hallways while they rummaged for the money they owed me. Some families had dogs that had to be tamed or negotiated if the paper was to be delivered at all. I made friends with more than a few.

I tried to remember at what age in my life all this happened. It had to be when I was twelve, because that was when we moved to the East End (In Transcona, that was a title: the tough part of town.) So I delivered papers from then until I was 15 or 16. Rich years, filled with memories, clear as yesterday's sky. As I write these words, I can hear in my mind the song "Mem'ries" from the movie The Way We Were being sung by Barbra Streisand. So much of life is about "the way we were" in the day. And all this from passing through the door of Andy's Barbershop!

God space

Something beautiful in my life this past weekend. The "official opening" of a new church building in a neighbouring town. Two years ago, the church was burned to the ground by an arsonist. It was a terrible trauma for the people of the congregation. It's  bit like one's home burning. People stand on the street weeping, watching helplessly as a "place" they've taken for granted and loved for decades turn to ashes and smoke.

For the last two and a half years, the folks of Wetaskiwin have mourned, planned, struggled and designed, in order to have a a house they call "God space." They also went through a process of restorative justice with the young man who committed the crime. That was unsuccessful, as he withdrew part way through. However, it helped a lot of people resolve their anger and grief as they went on with the planning.

I'd been in the new building before, on the Sunday they held their first worship service there. It wasn't complete, but usable. On Sunday, it was "finished." Just in time. It' a completely 'green' building, with great fire protection and exits marked. Everything is open and movable, and there are TV cameras everywhere, so that worship experiences can be complete. You can even watch the Children's time" when everyone sits on the floor at the front. They have a "Godly Play" room, where all the equipment for creative story telling is housed.

Worship was rich and contemporary. Two pianos (one a gorgeous full-sized grand) and an organ provided the music. Their choir is about twenty strong, most under 40 years old. Simple music, but powerfully done. The songs we sang were all rich and relatively contemporary, upbeat and singable. The scripture lessons were read by an elderly man, a twenty-year old student, and a ten year old boy. His reading of the gospel lesson was powerful, the "Word" coming to us in the voice of a child.

I so often reflect on the number of churches we build, each to its own denomination and congregation, with little sharing between church families. During the long period when First United was without a home, they worshipped in four different laces. First of all, in the Funeral Chapel - how appropriate! - then in the Seniors Centre, then in a Lutheran Church, which shared time and space with the United Church congregation, and then in the Seventh Day Adventist Church, who don't use their building on Sunday. The Churches of the community came together in a remarkable way to support this homeless family, in a manner that I have seldom seen.

It was interesting to observe how the congregation's theology developed and changed during the process of deciding how to build. From Sanctuary to God space; from closed space to open space; from denominational to communal. It was fascinating to see all the folk from the supporting congregations gather on Sunday to celebrate with the First united folk in their new home.

The minister of the congregation, Ruth Lumax, is a woman I have known since she was sixteen. She is a remarkable mixture of her father (voice and manner) and her mother (sensitivity and beautiful eyes). She has matured, deepened and broadened through this time, and has given them marvellous leadership through the whole process. I am proud to know her and to love her.

Many times, when I attend worship, I find the time slow and empty, devoid of passion or even the presence of the divine. Not so on Sunday. Early in the morning, I worshipped with an Anglican congregation locally, and through the ancient and dated liturgy, I found warmth and light. Then in the afternoon, the time in Wetaskiwin was filled with grace and with joy! The place was warm with love, everyone was welcomed and blessed. It was a remarkable experience. Although part of me thinks it is too bad that a congregation like first could not come together with another church to share a space permanently, I have to admit that the process of deciding and bringing into being s new home has been a time of growth and grace for these people. They know what it is to be homeless, and they are gracious in sharing their home.

My reading of O'Murchu's theology of pilgrimage home, has helped me understand evolution as God's way of working, and understanding patriarchy and hierarchy as the way of the past, as well as understanding that organized religion may be on the way out, having fulfilled it's purpose in the evolutionary process. Yet here is a church that is new, and while proud of their new home, are free of it in some new way that is hard to express.

It's been a good weekend to be a theologian, to have questions that are huge, to live with few answers, but to be content to be on the road with the divine, whatever you call divine.