With odd and inordinately high temperatures here in Southern Ontario for mid March, my family and I spent most of the past weekend outdoors. It was delightful to be tromping through trees in our shirt-sleeves, but I could not shake the creepy feelings that tingled my beard as I reflected upon how topsy-turvy our world’s environment must be, when July humidity and highs of 25 Celsius descend upon a region four months earlier than expected.
My sister (who lives near farm-land only a short drive from me) spent the last two weeks helping her neighbours harvest Maple tree sap ~ boiling it down into deep, dark syrup ~ wading to their knees in mud while collecting buckets from each tapped tree ~ a task which is usually carried out with the help of horse drawn cutters through snow.
May God forbid July droughts from destroying summer crops ~ dampening people’s spirits and springy steps while devastating the fragile businesses of small family farms!
This weekend brought people out of their houses like well rested bears and it was a pleasure for me to meet some of my own neighbours who had been in hibernation these past few months. Directly to the left of my family and I are Jason and Sarah ~ delightful young folks studying at the local university.
We met as I was out on my back-deck with my daughters when Jason suddenly emerged from the tress beyond the trail that passes behind our houses. Shirtless and bearded, he came from the pines like a poetic pioneer, carrying a strange collection of wood scraps and discarded planters.
Just a day earlier, my daughter Maryam, my dear friend Imran and I had been hiking among the same trees and were saddened to come upon several clearings where people had discarded rubbish of all sorts ~ sofas, mattress springs, water bottles, tires etc. The effort needed to haul such large and random items to the middle of a forest surely could not have been less than simply hauling them to a local dump or putting them in a rubbish bin ~ but alas, sometimes humans do the strangest things.
“Perhaps we should spend a weekend cleaning up these woods.” I suggested to my fellow hikers, making a mental note to myself of the idea so I would not forget to schedule a weekend for the activity and take it beyond the realm of being just another ghostly “good intention”.
The next morning, there was Jason, back from his hunt, laden with loot ~ treasures to him and trash to others. Immediately he explained, through a sheepish smile, that he had found “some items to help him with a terrace garden” he was planning. “Wonderful!” I exclaimed, partially in an attempt to ease what I felt was a slight embarrassment on his part ~ but mostly to ease my own feeling of sadness that I had not been inspired with the same sense of creative initiative as my new neighbour!
Within seconds of shaking hands Jason inquired about my odd deck contraption and we launched into a brief discussion on composting. Seems, while I was constructing my terrace air-stack device these past few weeks, he was monitoring his own indoor compost using worms to break down table scraps.
Later during the weekend Jason and his buddies climbed a dead tree near the trail and knocked down a limb ~ which was soon being dragged back to his deck, sawed and fashioned into a table.
How exciting it is to realize I am not alone in my quest for some degree of suburban self-subsitance!
Here is a cute little story my mother-in-law sent me. Some of you may have already seen it floating around on the world-wide web, but perhaps a second read would still be useful. Enjoy!
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Checking out at the store, the young cashier suggested to the older woman that she should bring her own shopping bags because plastic bags weren’t good for the environment. The woman apologized and explained, “We didn’t have this green thing back in my earlier days.”
The cashier responded, “That’s our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment for future generations.”
She was right — our generation didn’t have the green thing in its day. Back then, we returned milk bottles, pop bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.
But we didn’t have the green thing back in our day.
We walked up stairs, because we didn’t have an escalator in every shop and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn’t climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks. But she was right.
We didn’t have the green thing in our day.
Back then, we washed the baby’s nappies because we didn’t have the throw-away kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts — wind and solar power really did dry our clothes back in our early days. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing. But that young lady is right.
We didn’t have the green thing back in our day.
Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house — not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the county of Yorkshire . In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn’t have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the post, we used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap. Back then, we didn’t fire up an engine and burn petrol just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn’t need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity. But she’s right.
We didn’t have the green thing back then.
We drank water from a fountain or a tap when we were thirsty instead of demanding a plastic bottle flown in from another country. We accepted that a lot of food was seasonal and didn’t expect that to be bucked by flying it thousands of air miles around the world. We actually cooked food that didn’t come out of a packet, tin or plastic wrap and we could even wash our own vegetables and chop our own salad.
But we didn’t have the green thing back then.
Pass Me The Potato Peels Please
Yesterday I celebrated the momentous completion of my back-deck, air-stack compost bin ~ a task which has taken me over a month of puttering out in the cold between extensive weekend travels.
When I signed the lease for this abode last November, it pleased me that the dwelling was as self contained as an apartment, yet still bright and opening out on ground-level into some degree of natural beauty. With no yard maintenance of any sort required, my family and I would be free to simply lock our door and head back to Pakistan at any time, without bothering anyone to monitor a garden, lawn or snow removal. However, it was equally pleasing that the kitchen had a large wooden deck beyond its sunny patio doors, with potential for potted plants, bird feeders and plenty of outdoor breakfasts. Of added value were the stairs down off the deck to a hiking trail through dense woods and along a creek running for miles ~ not only past a community garden, but onward to one of our city’s largest and most central parks. With one swish of a pen, all seemed too good to be true for a middle aged fellow making a sudden and precarious move back to the hometown he hadn’t lived in for a decade or more.
The only problem: composting.
Without a useable spot of earth for even a small household compost bin, what would my family and I do with our daily organic kitchen scraps? I had heard of “terrace composting” for city dwellings in apartments, but most of my research only yielded results on composting with worms to break down table scraps (which was not a direction I wanted to go), or trendy but expensive “spinning” compost devices ranging anywhere between $100.00 to $600.00.
Being a strong proponent of trying to zen my way toward simplicity, and not just “buy” it, my continuing research for an economical and practical solution lead me to the solid waste management website by the Toronto city council. Their suggestions for simple, small compost ideas included building directions for an “Air Stack” terrace device (easily fashioned from a rubbish bin or rain barrel), wire mesh and sticks, tickled my inspiration, imagination and motivation.
For approximately $65 I was able to secure a bin, a roll of wire mesh, three bricks and a galvanized steel tray (intended for a water heater, but the perfect size to catch drainage from my compost) from a local hardware store. In addition to the basic purchased materials, I acquired three pieces of scrap wood form my father’s garage, a handful of plastic fasteners from among my uncle’s old boxes of odds & bobs, some old news papers, twigs from alongside the foot-path behind my home, a bundle of sticks (average length 30 inches) from a recent hike and a piece of plastic mesh recycled form a recently consumed crate of Moroccan clementines. Lastly, I placed an old plastic sheet (that had once served as a mattress cover I believe) under the drainage tray so the wooden deck would not be damaged or discoloured in any way by the galvanized steel.
Perhaps things can indeed be bought on on-line which provide a certain degree of ease and maybe even a little happiness… but no price can be placed on the feeling of accomplishment one feels after using one’s own hands and determination to bring a vision into existence.
Since our little family of four relocated here to Ontario, our dedicated reducing, reusing and recycling of all bottles, cans, paper products and plastic materials has meant that we have only been averaging 3/4 of a garbage bag per week (ie. 3 bags per month). Now that we will, once again, be able to compost all organic matter from our kitchen, my hope is that we can decrease our monthly trash by at least 1.5 bags.
Next project: a Bird feeder made form the wood of the Moroccan clementine crates mentioned earlier. …Or for those who want further inspiration for those delightful wooden boxes, here’s a Facebook Page devoted to ideas (Can you believe somebody actually made a FB page for wooden clementine crate craft ideas? Can you believe I actually searched for one and found it?)
Pass me the potatoes peels please….oh yeah, and the husks from those peas and the grounds from those teas.
Dearest Friends,
Let me begin with the warmest of thanks to all of you who have expressed heartfelt concerns, thoughts and prayers for my mother who has been fighting these past many months with her health. The sensitive struggles persist, but our family’s hopes and spirits remain high. Please do keep my mother in your reflections over the next few weeks as daily hospital visits continue.
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As I sit now to write an update of my ongoing adventures, it stuns me to realize that two months have passed since my last post. It stuns me even more to count the number of new subscribers who have joined me here ~ in anticipation of fresh blog entries ~ during the many weeks of my absence. How grateful I am to everyone who has subscribed and graciously granted me such patience during the extended silent periods between my articles. Hopefully you will not be put-off by my sporadic writings and find more value in the sincere sentiments of my notes, than in the frequency of their delivery.
In defense of any muttered “blog delinquency” charges against me, I beseech ye jurors in this fickle court of social media to have mercy upon my position as a semi-reclusive but devoted family man and occasional traveling troubadour (required to be on the road for several months of each year) ~ who chooses to minimize his computer usage while at home and treks without a lap-top, iPhone, iPad or any other technological divide linking himself to the world wide web.
Backward as I may seem to many, the decisions to limit my time on-line at home and also travel lightly (as “unconnected as possible”) are part of a whole plan I have begun setting in place for myself since returning from Pakistan a few months ago. The initative is an effort to help me better maintain balance in my life with regards to my dependency on technology, my tendency toward absentminded wastefulness and my desire to avoid becoming a servant to materialism. It is not that I am “anti-technology” or against the benefits machinery can bring. Obviously I use a computer, a car, musical instruments, tools, cups, spoons and even braces to hold my pants up (or “suspenders” as my American friends call them) ~ all of which are forms of “technology” in varying degrees. What I am cautious of, however, is becoming too dependent on any form of technology or machinery ~ relying upon it to a degree where I am at a loss without it or a slave to it.
Living in Northern Pakistan easily lent itself to my experiments in simple living, since by its very nature, the infrastructure of my environment in the foothills of the Himalayas was less developed than here in North America. No garbage collection…informally crude recycling programs… and far less access to amenities, facilities and utilities in Northern Pakistan meant constantly being on my toes with creative ideas for how to reduce waste, manage time, run my businesses and tend to my home. For example, my family and I learned very quickly how to maximize our usage of internet access and electricity between lengthy load-shedding times each day ~ and happily did so without dependency on expensive UPS (battery operated Uninterrupted Power Supply) systems or gas run generators.
Arriving back here to Canada last October, and realizing my stay would be much more lengthy than initially anticipated, I began to worry about how I would personally maintain a balanced approach to living simply, in an environment where electricity, water and Wi-fi signals seem to run from endless wells through webs of wires, pipes and personal media devices. Because access to so much is only the flip of a switch, twist of a facet or trip to the mall away, I often fear falling into the sub-urban trap of “buying ease” and alternatively forgetting how strip away abundance to discover it!
“Ease” and “Simplicity” can often be very relative to the unique views of differing people. To some, a Blackberry, iPad or Android providing a constant link to emails or Facebook means “ease” in communication with others. To me, a man who requires a great deal of thinking/reflection time and struggles with the challenge of maintaining clear mental focus in new places or among new faces ~ the idea of having on-going conversations with others who are not directly sharing my air space is very disruptive no only to my “alone time” but also to the immediate and very “real” social environments I find myself in. Frequenting airports, for example, I observe people texting, tweeting, twittering, chatting and engaging with others via their hand-held devices…even while in public rest-rooms! Such overwhelming “connectedness” at all times to virtual social networks is simply not my cup of tea. My heart holds no desire for it, nor judgement toward it except, of course, when I spy said individuals lifting their eyes briefly from their devices to cast a rude scowl or comment toward another individual, proving that ~ for as socially skilled as they may be “virtually”, in reality they are sadly socially stunted and civicly-challenged.
As a man who has also struggled since primary school with difficulties in reading and writing, as well as with efficiently being able to organize my thoughts under pressure ~ a two sentence text message or email fired off by one individual in simple “ease”, is for me a grueling 45 minute endeavor of reflection, composition and editing. In short ~ emails, texts and Facebook posts take a hell of a lot out of me….hence I must limit my on-line correspondence with others to safeguard both my sanity and my time. One man’s “ease” is perhaps, another man’s agony. I believe it is important for us to define our own comfort levels in life, based not just on the swinging pendulum extremes of “social expectation” or “egocentric preference”, but rather, upon what our heart tells us is “the right thing to do” to avoid disrupting our own peace of mind, or the peace of others around us.
Thus, I spent a great amount of time in November and December of last year defining a list of limits for myself, “safeguards” if you will, which I hope may help me avoid living too extravagantly in a land where extravagance has become the norm and where many of us are often socially bullied to comply with specific standards for lifestyle, consumption and even communication that we may find personally uncomfortable. It has been my objective to simultaneously ensure that the prescriptions I have made for myself do not hinder or even shadow the freedoms of others around me, including even my closest friends and family members.
Over the next few weeks I will try to share aspects of my experimental “safeguards” in various posts. The list (which is constantly being amended, reassessed, re-evaluated) deals with self-imposed (or what I like to call “conscience imposed”) guidelines pertaining to many aspects of my life, including ~ clothing, possessions, purchases, time/electricity/water/gas usage, musical expression, social media (Facebook, emails, website etc), food consumption, economic justice, community contribution and more.
Posts will follow shortly…but for now, I must get back to the pressing task of completing my terrace compost bin. More on that soon!
(Notes for my terrace compost bin, currently under assembly. March 2012 – dw)
Pakistan to Canada, Canada to Israel…It’s A Wonderful Life.
Profound apologies to those of you have subscribed to this blog in recent weeks/months, only to have me go AWOL for so long without a post.
When I began this initiative last June, it was with the personally prescribed stipulations that: if I didn’t feel I had anything of value to say, or if writing began to infringed upon my family, focus, faith or freedom ~ I would refrain from posting.
These past few months have been a very incredible time in my life and have indeed required great focus on my family and faith. Had my unconventional life-style not been so “free” from the pressures of meeting demands often seen as “necessary” in our world today, I literally do not know how I would have made it through the past year to this new entry.
With an admitted weakness (that I may share with some of you joining me here) the struggles I often face in life sometimes mire me in self pity, pessimism, regret or even hopelessness. Looking to the lifestyles of others ~ their careers, incomes, possessions and perceived achievements ~ I often wonder why it is I dance like a jester on a soap-box of social justice, sing like a crow on street-corners for freedom of speech, pine for a garden plot while constantly pulling up my tent pegs and pray for peace on earth while I am 30,000 feet above it. Why not jump off the box, close my beak, secure a permanent dwelling and come down to earth?
These past many weeks, the answers to those questions have become vibrantly clear to me, and with them, an intense gratefulness for the life I live, a sign of relief for the choices I have made over the years, a deep sense of shyness for daring to desire the lifestyles of others from time to time, and most importantly ~ an overwhelming contentedness to replace the considerations of ever giving up on my ideals, giving in to pressures for a different lifestyle or just plumb getting out while the getting is good.
Here are the events that have brought me to where I am ~ on this first week of 2012: pleased and gratefully stepping into this new year…ready to embrace whatever challenges and blessings may come my way.
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Leaving Pakistan and arriving back in Canada last October, I was saddened to see how the health of my mother had declined since I had been with her in the spring. She had lost so much weight and was so weak that even stirring a few mouthfuls of porridge was difficult for her. A couple of days with my parents, which included one or two trips to the hospital for tests and consultations, were all I needed to confirm that a long term shift back to Canada was imperative.
The overwhelming infrastructural and cultural differences between semi-rural Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Pakistan and sub-urban South-Western Ontario Canada are quite obvious, as I am sure you can all imagine. However, as it has always been my effort to surround myself with nature and seek to be as self-sufficient as possible (especially in recent years), being back in my old home-town did not shock my system as greatly as I worried it might. Trees, wild-life, woodland creatures and the effect they have on our senses are similar the world-over, so just as I frequented the Abbottabad bazaar only when I needed specific food or household items, I found myself spending a great amount of time outdoors this past autumn in Canada, only venturing to the malls and stores when absolutely necessary. Keeping aloof from the consumer culture of North America has helped me remain focused on the logistics of resettling in Canada with hope that doing so will not interfere too greatly with my efforts at keeping true to living simply. “Simple Living” is (to me), after all, a philosophical approach to “how” I try and live my life, not necessarily “where” I try to live it.
While considering options for a new Canadian “home”: Living with my parents was not practical ~ given my mother’s need for rest and the sheer size of my parent’s modest house. Purchasing a house or country property was not an option ~ given my desire to avoid taking any sort of loan or bank assistance. Renting a house would mean seasonal outdoor upkeep ~ inevitably conflicting with my family’s freedom to travel for extended periods of time. Renting an apartment would mean a great compromise to the well-being of my family’s spirit which thrives so heavily on natural sun-light, quiet, open space and closeness to nature. Through conversations with my wife back in Pakistan, we decided that perhaps renting a modest condominium would best suite our needs.
Looking for a dwelling in my old stomping grounds was a daunting task though. I had been out of the “system” here in North America for so long that I really had to re-aquatint myself with the local methods of apartment hunting and all that goes alongside “moving”. Gone were the days of circling posts in the classified ads of a local news paper ~ as I had done in my twenties. It was strange for me to be scouting through Kijiji and Craig’s List for rental condos without my wife’s wisdom or help…especially considering that only weeks earlier we had been ready to buy a home in Pakistan with a whole different plan for our immediate future.
Suddenly I was driving streets I had grown up on, imagining what it would be like for my wife, daughters and I to be residence of this little city together. So much had changed in my absence. Altered streets were going in new directions, old land-marks were gone, new suburbs and malls had sprouted up like poppies ~ inviting and pretty but destined to drug and consume unsuspecting shoppers into addiction. I won’t lie and say that I was confident in the situation. In fact, my anxiety had me cancel a few bookings for various viewings ~ especially when the perspective landlords had shown reservation toward entertaining my interest in their abodes upon finding out I was a musician. “Oh, you play music? Really? That’s your full time job? Are you sure you will be able to afford my place? Do you make a lot of noise? You don’t play Heavy Metal or Punk do you?” The judgments and jokes were so frustrating that I didn’t even want further discussion, much less have to “defend” my livelihood.
After just a few days of calling around, worry grew in me that I would be unable to successfully find an affordable, clean and comfortable dwelling for my family that would also be close to my parent’s home. How would I seek out a place that would also provide us with the freedom to travel and maintain a positive degree of connectedness to the earth? My family’s ballooning excitement over trying to get “off the grid” in Pakistan was suddenly burst with the thoughts and thorns of having to quickly pay deposits to water, gas and hydro offices… set up a new local phone number and ensure my bank accounts would be ready for the increase in living expenses going way beyond the simple few thousand dollars annually I had been living on over the past few years in Pakistan.
Here I was returning to my our homeland after almost 10 years… back to the very streets I used to play, work and live on…feeling like a complete stranger or foreigner. No bank credit, no street credit, an outdated awareness of the social system and a unique view of life and culture caused by a decade of living in places like Cairo, Damascus and northern Pakistan!
Feeling a shell grow around myself I made one last attempt to search Kijiji for any new rental postings and found a listing ~ only 17 minutes old ~ for a brand new 3 bedroom condo, all new amenities and only 5 minutes drive from the home of my parents. I called the number and a very pleasant fellow answered who seemed eager to meet me for a viewing. As I sat in a spare car my father had granted me the freedom to use while back in Canada, I made a little prayer… one of those “George Bailey” types of supplications (for those of you who don’t know what I mean, here’s a link) asking for just some sort of sign that things would work out ok.
The condo had been built last summer. Brand new. In fact, the sod surrounding it was still in the process of being laid when I drove up for my viewing. Arriving about 10 minutes earlier than the landlord, I was greeted at the front door by the current occupants, Morris and Esther, who had been called and forewarned about my arrival. They welcomed me in warmly, offering to show me around themselves and told me their whole story as we ventured room to room.
The young couple and their daughter (who was the same age as my eldest girl) had moved to Canada from Israel last August with great hopes and expectations of starting a new life here. They took possession of the condo on a one year lease and began making it into a home ~ filling it with their love, time, family and plans for a permanent stay. Sadly, the struggles of residency applications, job security and distance from family gnawed away at their savings and sanity until they felt the best way to safeguard their family was to move home to Israel. The landlord was very understanding and open to dissolving their lease, but requested that they not leave their acquired furniture and belongings behind.
In turn, I explained to the lovely couple about my circumstance ~ how my wife and daughters would be joining me in a few weeks for a sudden move to Canada after we’d all lived for several years in Pakistan…how my mother had taken ill and how important it was to me to be near my parents at this sensitive time.
The viewing went well and though I truly felt for Morris and Esther’s unfortunate situation, I was very pleased with the condo itself. It was clean, bright, new and even backed onto a woodland view with passing railway tracks, a hiking trail, two playgrounds and a tobogganing hill all within walking distance of the large back deck. Being a condo, my wife and I would have no summer or winter maintenance (and could easily lock up to fly elsewhere for as long as desired), yet we would be close enough to my parent’s house to easily pop over and make them cups of tea, shovel their snow on winter days or tend their garden upon the arrival of summer weather.
The landlord arrived and was an easygoing and good natured gentleman. I immediately felt a good vibe about his character and graciousness. He interviewed me briefly and, in contrast to other homeowners I had spoken to, was interested in both my music and my time spent in Pakistan. Without even formally requesting me to fill out a rental application he called his wife to chat about our meeting and, by nightfall, they had decided to accept my family and I as tenants, effective December 1st, or as soon as Morris and Esther left for Israel.
Morris and Esther, eager to leave Canada as soon as possible, were pleased as punch that I was interested in purchasing whatever they had acquired for their home, as my wife and I had no plans of shifting all of our household items over from Pakistan. It was a win, win, win situation for all of us: Morris’ family, my family and our landlord.
A week passed and I received a call from Morris regarding my purchase of the household items. He and Esther had easily spent a good $6,000 to $8,000 on new bedroom suits, a sofa, tables and kitchen items ~ their receipts all still in hand as proof of the expenditures. Though they naturally didn’t want that full amount, I was still unable to pay the amount they suggested for the complete contents of their home. I apologetically offered whatever I could and simply asked them to grant us whatever they thought was fair, then sell the rest. The next morning Morris called me back again and said that they had booked their flight home… that they had passed along one of the two bedroom suits they had to a friend and that my family and I could have everything else for the amount I offered. I was completely floored.
“I want you to come over though to see the place one more time,” Morris told me. “We’ve cleaned and I want you to see what we are leaving you so you know we are being up front and honest with you.”
The morning of their flight out to Israel I arrived at the condo and spent time with the lovely couple who, once again, showed me through the place room by room and closet by closet.
Every nook and cranny had been thoroughly cleaned and polished. They had left a vacuum, iron, ironing board, shoe racks, hangers, furniture, towels, comforters, pillows, cleaning supplies, dishes, pots, pans….everything top of the line, brand new and, in many cases, with the original boxes all intact. “You are my brother,” Morris told me, “and I will pray for your mother. I want your family to be comfortable.”
Esther and Morris took me to the kitchen: New jars of spices, cupboards of unopened pasta, cans of tuna, sugar, flower, jams. They had even left a bowl of chocolates on the counter top telling me it was their cultural custom to leave sweets in a new house for the occupants so the home would always been “sweet”.
“We don’t eat pork,” Esther told me as she opened the freezer to show me how it was even stocked in kosher compliance with only chicken, fish and beef. “and we’ve never cooked pork in our pans.” She reassured me. Religious affiliation or dietary discussions had never come into any of our previous conversations, but somehow we all instinctively knew that we shared more in common than just the unique circumstance of being like two ships of families passing in the proverbial night.
My tears of gratefulness finally started to well up when Morris took me upstairs to what had been his 4 year old daughter’s room (and what would soon be the bedroom of my own daughters) and opened the closet to reveal shelves of toys, stuffed animals, colouring books and paints saying, “These are for your daughters…we can’t take them with us, there’s too much! So I hope these will make them happy. You are like my brother, just pray for us.”
So, here we are now, a month later. Morris and Esther have been back in Israel as long as my wife and daughters have been here with me in our new Canadian home. They have indeed been in our thoughts and prayers as we’ve spent time with my parents through the most emotional holiday season my family has ever had.
In my favourite film “It’s A Wonderful Life”, protagonist George Bailey, always desperate to get out of his hometown of Bedford Falls to “see the world”, received the chance to see what life would have been like if he’d never been born.
I received the chance to miraculously swap places with another family mirroring my own, so I may exchange the stresses of traveling the world with returning to the small-town of my upbringing ~ close to my parents at a crucial time in all our lives.
Even with all its hardships and pitfalls, it really is A Wonderful Life.
Follow The Poet…Following His Heart
The word “Responsibility” has always been one of my favourites.
It is rooted in the Latin words “re” ~ “to come back to” something, and “spondre” ~ “a promise”. Therefore, literally, it is the “ability to come back to a promise”.
We speak of someone as being a “person of their word”, meaning that, what they promise, they fulfill. We say, when agreeing to carry out a task or when making an oath, “I give you my word”, implying that verbal promises are synonymous with integrity and reputation, i.e. if our “word” is not aligned with our actions, our character will be publicly defamed.
The ability to return to a promise and then fulfill it, is a great honour and blessing. Many people make promises in their lives, sadly avoid or skirt any accompanying action, and then when they seek to rectify their neglect, they discover they are in a life circumstance which prohibits returning to the very promises they’ve made. I’m thinking of Paul Simon’s old song “Slip Sliding Away”,
“…And I know a father
Who had a son.
He longed to tell him all the reasons
For the things he’d done.
He came a long way
Just to explain
He kissed his boy as he lay sleeping
Then he turned around and headed home again.
He’s slip slidin’ away…”
If we’ve made a promise to ourselves or someone else, left that promise unfulfilled and yet, even with the passing of fragile time, find ourselves in a circumstance where we are still able to return to that promise and fulfill it, we have been granted a great gift in life ~ the gift of embracing responsibility over the bitter and long-lasting flavour of regret we might otherwise be obliged to taste.
Regret: another Latin word: “re” meaning “to come back to”, combined with the Old French (possibly dating back to Germanic origin) word “greter“, meaning “to weep”.
So either we exercise the ability of returning to our promises in life while we can, or we return to weeping if we find we’ve lost the chance to fulfill them.
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A few months ago my three year old and I went to visit my friend who has a daughter of the same age. The two girls went off to play and I watched them from afar. My friend’s daughter peeled a banana, carelessly threw the skin on the ground and then graciously handed my daughter the fruit. My little one’s face was horrified and she quickly turned away from the other little girl, put her nose in the air and refused to eat the gift. As time went on, my sweet but stubborn daughter would neither speak with, accompany or even entertain the friendly advances of my friend’s child. Having a feeling I knew what the problem was, as we got back into our jeep, I asked my daughter why she had been so cold and rude to the other little girl.
As I expected, my daughter who is quite a passionate little environmentalist, said with disgust, “She threw the banana peel on the ground! Yucky! I didn’t want to eat it or play with her.”
During our ride home I tried to teach my little one about “clean garbage” (biodegradable things) and “dirty garbage” ~ but more importantly, I tried to help her understand that kindness and goodness have different levels of importance. “If we keep the world clean, and are kind to animals, BUT we are rude to people or don’t try to teach others proper behaviour through our own good actions, we’ve made a big mistake!” I tried explaining to her that:
Number 1: We must care for people. All people ~ even the mean ones. Be kind to them, speak nicely to them and try to help them learn good things by showing them our own proper behaviour.
Number 2: We must care for animals. All animals ~ even the mean ones. Allow them to be free and safe, not abuse them and be gentle with them. If they help us we must be fair to them, kind and not over-burden them.
Number 4: We must care for the earth. All of the earth. We must work hard to keep it clean, replenish in it what we use from it and avoid wastefulness to the best of our ability.
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Now, those two concepts: “The Hierarchy of Caring” and “Returning To My Promises” have faced me head on ~ resulting in my having to make some very important decisions and take some very unforeseen action.
Though my life in Pakistan and experiments in self-subsistence have been a great source of joy and peace for me in recent years, my care for people must come before my desire to collect rain water and passions for planting seeds or petting goats. Though the slow paced life of a free-lance writer and music composer in the foot-hills of the Himalayas is a romantic adventure which inspires me daily, the promise of devotion my family which has been in me since childhood is one that I must return to before excuses and regret dare try to take its place.
One week ago, I quickly packed my guitar, my laptop, my toothbrush and a few shirts, kissed my wife and daughters good-bye and boarded a plane back to Canada. Some health concerns with my mother have arisen which have made it important for me to be near her at this time.
And so, I write now from the bedroom in my parent’s home where I grew up….looking out the window to the autumn leaves from within the blue walls that inspired the title of my first CD, “Blue Walls and The Big Sky”. I recall how badly I wanted to get out of those walls…travel, live, love, run, fly…. Over twenty faded years and hundreds of faded passport stamps later, it feels so good to be with my folks, where memories of my youth are as bright and vibrant as ever.
I feel 17 years old again being here, only, the white hair of my parents and those white strands within my own beard remind me that time has indeed moved on rapidly.
This old room seems so small now…so quiet… yet so warm and so safe. The yard out back (where the Swiss cottage tool shed my father and I built so long ago still sits amid collections of bird feeders) is like a doorway back in time… the location of my first garden plot and teenaged daydreams of where and when I’d find contentment one day.
In the end, perhaps sipping at simplicitea is not about where we are geographically. It is about where we are ideologically, philosophically and spiritually. It is not so much about the actions of planting seeds, drying herbs or beating water pumps into submission ~ it is about trying to achieve balance with community, nature and within our own selves.
Though I am not in Pakistan now ~ and have exchanged my chappals and shalwar khameez for wool socks, boots, corduroys and flannel ~ I will still make the best effort possible to post new entries here which detail my ongoing experiments in seeking simplicity. In fact, the test to stay simple will be even more of a challenge to me now in this environment, especially with my wife and daughters thousands of miles and a nine hour time difference away for the next several weeks. But, being near my parents at such a very important time in our lives, will make it all worth while.
Here, in my old blue bedroom, one of my mother’s many cross-stitch projects sits on the book shelf ~ reminding me when I wake and before I sleep of where I came from, where I am and where I hope to always be. It reads appropriately, “Simplify your life.”
The Pump Jinn Returns
A few mornings ago, after three loads of laundry, the water ran out again.
I ran downstairs to start the pump and send water up from our lower reservoir to our tank on the roof, and wouldn’t you know it… once again, the pump refused to cooperate.
Though I brought out my cross-stitch floss, some heavier thread, my wrenches and even an old rubber washer I had saved from some previous auto repairs (it fit the primer valve plug perfectly!), my efforts were all in vain. Regardless of my chanting, cussing and even my imitation of Fred Flintstone’s famous muttering (“Brickin, brackin, bricken, brackin…”) the grumpy jinn in the pump just couldn’t be exorcized.
Oh ~ how my pride hurt! My gut told me the problem was not with the primer valve ~ but with the stopper valve at the base of the pipe submerged in the reservoir itself. Upon moving in to our rental place almost 3 years ago, the valve spring had been rusted. As a result, water would not remain in the pipe when the pump was stopped and an air-bubble would then keep water from being sucked up when the pump was reactivated.
Enter into the scene my trusted friend Sarwardeen, a talented gardener, electrician, plumber and dashing poet. As a young man in his village, Sarwardeen apprenticed to learn is trades, giving him a wealth of practical knowledge that I was denied as a young man in North America ~ where young minds and hands are class-room confined and text-book tethered. So tragic to see youth bombarded with book facts, brainwashed to think exam scores equal mental capabilities and taught to shoot for the moon ~ with nobody really knowing what the hell to do with it it once they get there. Two years my junior however, behind his dark eyes and handsome features, Sarwardeen thinks ~ then acts ~ with the methodical wisdom of an old sage. After just a few moments, he had discerned what it had taken me several days to deduce: that the problem was with the stopper valve in the reservoir and not with the striped primer valve on the pump itself (which, it turns out, I had threaded quite substantially…pat to my own back.)
Together Sarwardeen and I broke the cement around the line from the pump to the water tank, retrieved the pipe from the reservoir, removed the stopper valve and immediately saw our “jinn“. A piece of string had found its way into the valve and was twisted around the internal spring ~ lodging it open and thus making the valve inactive.
Sarwardeen cleaned the valve, replaced the piping and I mixed up the cement to re-position and secure the pipes. My daughter drew her initials into the wet cement, Sarwardeen and I enjoyed some chai with cake and the water flowed once again. All was again at peace in the universe, just in time for another two loads of laundry.
A Jinn In The Pump
…Just finished a one hour boxing match with my water pump.
My ego was bruised, my patience was battered and I bit my lip bloody trying to keep the cussing under control while tossing my punches ~ but when all was said and done: I won the match and the water flowed.
A couple of smacks with a pipe wrench did nothing. Violence is never an answer ~ even in matters of plumbing. In the end, I had to out-smart the ancient pump with about eight inches of bright green cross-stitch floss, which I used to re-thread the stripped primer valve plug.
As mentioned in a previous post: each day (if load-shedding doesn’t interrupt the process) we get about fifteen minutes of fresh water piped through from a municipal tank to a small reservoir beneath our front drive way. That water is then pumped up, on an as-needs-basis, to a tank on our roof so gravity may then then pull it through our pipes ~ filling our hot water heaters and toilets ~ providing us with water for showering, cleaning and kitchen use.
Ever since we moved into our place two years ago, we’ve had reoccurring problems with the electric pump that brings the water from our lower reservoir up to the tank on our roof. For a good year or so, it has been functioning fine, but then a few weeks ago, it began grumbling and pumping very slowly.
This morning ~ during a brief window of opportunity where our electricity was actually working, I went out to turn on the pump. (This past week, load-shedding has provided us with only about five hours of power each day ~ illuminating sporadically at unscheduled times.) Though the motor was working, no water began pumping through the pipes. From past experience, I knew the pump’s primer had dried out and that the jinn inhabiting the device was thus, challenging me to fisticuffs.
The old Kingston Trio song “Desert Pete” came to mind ~ though I was singing other more “poetic” chants and rants while moistening, priming and trying to beat the pump into submission.
At long last, it was my cross-stitch floss that saved the day. And “Why,” you may ask, “does a man such as yourself keep bright green cross-stitch floss on hand?” No ~ I am not a cross-stitch hobbyist, but my mother back in Canada is. Many, many years ago I realized during one of my candle making escapades, that some of her borrowed cross-stitch floss made great wicks. Since then, I have always kept several balls of the brightly coloured string on hand for those special times of the year when I spend a few days melting old saved wax into new candles. Today, I realized the stuff also makes handy-dandy (and pretty!) pipe threading.
So with my pump primer valve freshly flossed, my roof tank full of fresh water and my ego stroked with another scenario of successful self-sufficiency….I am reminded by the extra cross-stitch floss in my pocket and the electricity that will, no doubt cut out for another four hours just after I post this entry ~ that it is time for me to make candles again this weekend.
