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Howden’s Handy Home Delivery

Hold on to your hats and don’t forget to breathe, friends and neighbours, because I should tell you this exciting news. This site is set up so that you can automatically receive my posts, if you wish. AND if you have the appropriate software, which I understand is easy to get. (And at this point, a technological disclaimer which won’t surprise you: I have a slightly impaired understanding of this whole process. But don’t despair…)

There is a wee button on the lower right of this pane, underneath the quote box (“He Said/She Said”), called XML Feed. You can subscribe to the news feeds on my site if you have a news reader installed on your computer or browser. One friend reports: “I’d already added your site to my subscriptions on NetNewsReader (the application that I use for keeping up with my favourite blogs). I clicked on the XML feed; that took me straight to my sub in etNewsReader, which shows it’s easy as click to subscribe…”

To learn more about news reader applications, click here. For a list of the different ways and means to subscribe, you can easily (I’m told) follow this link. Then you can get your favourite on-line info-fixes — if, hypothetically, they happened to be mine — automatically. (On the other hand, I can completely understand if you prefer to do your daily wander through my dense forest of archival prose. Mark your trail so you can get out…)

Some of you have (gently) complained that this site doesn’t have a “Leave a Comment” section. That’s true, it’s not designed for that, but you can always push my “Write Me!button to comment, correct, question or advise. I’d love to hear from you. I have even been known to reply.

Tripping Over Gandhi

I must be reading (at least some of) the right things. I’ve stumbled over citations of Mohandas K. Gandhi three times in the last half hour. Three of them, in “He Said/She Said” just down there to your right, come from a passionate, funny and often gloriously written book called God Laughs and Plays by the American novellist, rough-edged mystic, fly-fishing environmentalist and anti-fundamentalist Christian David James Duncan. (I’ll post a review of the book when my site allows me; troubles continue.)

The other Gandhi Trap was in the back of the wonderful Cosmo Doogood’s Urban Almanac 2005, which I picked up just now in a spasm of brainlessness. Beneath a set of “Weather Facts” — fastest tornado winds: 286 mph, Wichita Falls, Texas, April 2, 1958 — was this delicious food for thinking:

Gandhi’s Seven Deadly Sins

Wealth without Work.

Pleasure without Conscience.

Science without Humanity.

Knowledge without Character.

Politics without Principle.

Commerce without Morality.

Worship without Sacrifice.

(Wonderful, yes? I don’t know its source. It is widely cited, in Stephen Covey’s Principle-Centered Leadership, for example.)

Sunday Morning Angels

Good things happen to men who do dishes and tidy up their rooms, especially if they listen to good radio stations. Here are a couple of highlights from a mere 90 minutes of radio (plus a little scrubbing, a little filing, a little man, look at this place!).

Hail to Jane.  How do we make cities work? Three radio guests offered their answers, their hopes and despair, about the state of cities in Canada, in everywhere. Reverend Bowtie (aka Michael Enright) was piloting The Sunday Edition, and navigating the airwaves with him were architect Brigitte Shim, a former Vancouver planner (was it Larry Beasley? Ah, the downside to writers doing dishes: poor note-taking), and Toronto’s William Thorsell, a former Globe and Mail editor and now head of the Royal Ontario Museum. They were talking cities, and responding to Enright’s how do they work questions. They decried city development that was piecemeal and commodified and developer-driven. They argued that density wasn’t a bad word, if it was combined with humanity and concern for the building of coherent and livable communities within a city. Shim, in particular, wondered how long it would be before we figured out that bulldozing prime farmland for sprawling one-family commuter suburbs might not be a sustainable practice. Thorsell, in particular, confessed his shame at being a Torontonian every time he visits Vancouver, a world model for urban sustainability. And Beasley – if I’ve actually got the right guy – was particularly humble in discussing what North American cities might be able to learn from what Vancouver is doing. (So why hail Jane? Because behind all this thinking and re-thinking about what can make cities the centre of art, culture, science, dynamic forms of human understanding, is the astoundingly clear and still-ringing voice of the late Jane Jacobs. The only reason I could even follow this morning’s conversation was because I finally read her brilliant book The Death and Life of Great American Cities last year. Few books have informed me like this one.)

Hail to Ingrid. Check this out. Not only is she a woman, not only is her name Ingrid, but she grew up as a devout Roman Catholic in Kitchener, Ontario. This seemingly ordinary constellation of facts becomes astonishing when you hear, as I did this morning for the first time, that Ingrid Mattson has been elected President of the Islamic Society of North America. (She had been a vice-president since 2001, and a good profile of her from that year can be found here.) She converted to Islam as a young woman, having rediscovered in Muslim practice the child-like wonder and reverence she had loved as a Christian child. She also found great scope and comfort for her brilliant mind, and she is now professor of Islamic studies at Hartford Seminary in Connecticut. What a calm and intelligent voice she has! And what a potent perspective she brings to Muslim communities around the world, and to those who wish to better understand Islam, as a woman of European/Christian heritage, Canadian upbringing and profound Muslim scholarship, a wife, mother, academic and Western convert to the Faith of Muhammad. I’m glad to know Ingrid is at work in the world.

Hail to Agnes. For a reason I didn’t entirely catch, there was a brief tribute to Agnes McPhail in my radio, too. In the first year that Canadian women had the right to vote — did you know it was 1921? — McPhail was elected to Canada’s House of Commons as the first – and for a long time, the only – woman Member of Parliament. She served nobly until 1940, and later spent five years as an Ontario M.P.P. I heard her voice for the first time this morning, a tape of a CBC interview from the late 1930s, I think. Here was another smart and serene (and quietly fierce) female voice. (It’s the same voice she used when, heckled by a fellow MP — “Hey Agnes, don’t you wish you were a man?!” — she fixed him with a cool stare and said “Why yes, don’t you?”) She had an eloquence we don’t often hear these days, and a flatness of tone that showed no evidence of media training or the search for the perfect sound-bite. Yet she was incisive, clear and almost unbelievably modern in her views, without the shrill extremes that often accompany contemporary quests for justice. Except perhaps for the diction, her discussion could only be dated by the laughably archaic worries of the male union leader she was quietly slaughtering in debate.

Hail to Wendy. The last thing I heard on The Sunday Edition was a repeat documentary, first aired last spring, on a fifth-grade teacher in an Ottawa Catholic elementary school. Her name is Wendy Alexis, and her voice was one of those reminders of the greatness of the good teacher. Our culture too seldom recognizes it, but the Wendys of the world are priceless gems. “Always keep a diamond in your mind…” This Tom Waits lyric rumbles through my thoughts in the voice of Solomon Burke, and today it refers to Ms. Alexis. Her classroom is one of those New Canada, New World places where the children come from 20 countries, speak 15 languages among them, and are often refugees from humanity’s greatest modern failures. So Wendy Alexis gets her kids to be quiet so they can listen, to clean up the floor, and to learn their times tables. Yes, and she has created a community that is a microcosm of a suffering but still-hopeful world, where children can tell and hear their stories and work for the betterment of a world that has done them harm. And these kids at St. Luke’s school have a small project. It’s called “One Angel at a Time” (oneangelatatime@hotmail.com), and it is a project of remembrance. They are collecting feathers, 800,000 feathers, one for each of the slaughtered in the Rwandan genocide of 1994. I’m not sure what they’re doing with them, and I don’t much care. They are becoming angels of mindfulness and compassion. They have about 50,000 so far. They are learning to read and think and love and trust. I’d like to send some feathers for these angels. And you?

Jane and Ingrid and Agnes and Wendy. Good morning!

Barnabus Quotidianus

BQ is a web log that I recently stumbled upon. (It’s written by a guy older than me, which I find encouraging and consoling.) If your grasp of Latin is even shakier than mine, I’ll tell you that it means something like “The Daily Barney”.

But no, worry not, there is no annoying soundtrack and zero appearances by purple cartoon dinosaurs. Barney is a British writer who comments on community and spiritual development, primarily – all the places where social concern, citizenship, faith and activism converge – but he also writes appealingly on a wide range of personal stories and interests. He’s a good read. He manages a fairly difficult thing with ease and style: he can write about matters of religion, for example, with refreshing plainness, sense and even fun.

It’s a personal log, so it doesn’t carry any official stamp, but Mr. Leith is a prominent member of the Bahá’í community of the United Kingdom. So, there is a fair sense of how they approach issues from gender equality to religious discrimination, along with the Barnabus take on technology, media, writing, family and a long list of other interests. It’s a pleasant cyberspace stroll that you might enjoy, as I do.

Don’t Forget About the Boys

I did a little cosmetic surgery on an essay I wrote called “Boys Will Be Men”. It argues that gender equality is not only a matter of increasing opportunities for and confidence among our girls and women. Guys need help, too, especially if we are to raise generations of males who not only don’t resent women’s strivings, but actively embrace the work for equality between the sexes. It’s in “On Second Thought”, among a pile of mid-life guitar meditations, the “Old Dog Year”.

May I Quote You On That?

He Said/She Said… Did you notice? It’s just down there. On your right.

I’m always looking for the right words. Some people look for the magic bullet – the easy lazy remedy, the simple common-sense answer. Some look for solace and conviction in chemical form, but for me it’s nearly always an incantation. If a problem can’t be solved with words, I’m often not interested in it. (Once upon a time, there was a jumpshot or a perfectly timed diving catch that would solve the problem. But what do I do now?)

I’ve collected quotes forever. Once upon a lucky break, I was suddenly being paid well to write with her Right Honourable Self, and she loved quotations, too. So I scavenged everywhere, tore from newspapers, scribbled in the margins of novels and other good reads, and I cheated: I went to Bartlett’s, to John Robert Columbo, to Cosmo Doogood’s Urban Almanac, to on-line sites like Empyrean. I love to find just the right words. Today, for instance, I laughed out loud in my doctor’s office, delighted at the righteousness of the following description. It’s not a very funny topic, actually. The environmentalist, unorthodox-Christian writer David James Duncan is speaking of reverence for nature and its critical importance, and calls to account those who welcome war and destruction because they think it hastens their own salvation: “The Armageddonist’s rejection of the world-as-gift is [mere human] projection: an obsession with the “End Days” is surrender not to God but to men with exaggerated reverence for their own fragmented understanding of holy writ.” Zing!

There be monsters in the quotable woods, though. I remember Mr. Hill’s comments on a high school essay that I had just larded with some of the best quotes ever. Problem: some of them I hadn’t fully understood, when removed from the context in which they were written, and “this is the evil of Bartlett’s”, quoth Mr. Hill. Who knew a treasure house of words could be evil? And then there was my recent discovery that one of my favourite quotes of Ralph Waldo Emerson – beginning “To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children…” and ending “This is to have succeeded” – is “almost certainly not his”, according to a scholarly website that I accidentally consulted. Yes, and “Desiderata” wasn’t found in Baltimore’s Old North Church in 1608, or when-and-wherever it was supposed to have been. Sigh. It was actually written by a guy called Max in the 1960s. (And, to my surprise upon re-reading it recently, I still like it. Good Max!)

All this to say that I have a wee quote box just down there to your right, underneath the “On Second Thought” section, and that YOU, careless reader, have probably never even bothered to look at!! (And a good thing, too, because I haven’t done a thing with the Will Rogers line that my tech guy put there as filler months ago. “Even if you’re on the right track,” it said, “you’ll get run over if you just sit there.” Nice choice, Artie!) But now I’ll be putting up quotes every Monday (or so) in the “He Said/She Said…” section, and you’re invited. Heck, I’m going to start with the phony Emerson, ‘cause I like it, too. I wish I knew who actually wrote it. (Something similar, though not as good, was the winning entry of one Bessie Stanley in a 1905 newspaper contest, according to my trusty website on Transcendentalist philosophers. Bessie’s version is below.)

“He has achieved success who has lived well, laughed often and loved much; who has gained the respect of intelligent men and the love of little children; who has filled his niche and accomplished his task; who has left the world better than he found it, whether by an improved poppy, a perfect poem, or a rescued soul; who has never lacked appreciation of earth’s beauty or failed to express it; who has always looked for the best in others and given them the best he had; whose life was an inspiration; whose memory a benediction.”  Not bad!

Sheldon Kennedy

I admit up front: this is product placement. It’s really just an attempt to point you toward the “It’s All About Sports!” section of this site. (It’s just over there to your right.) I wrote about Sheldon Kennedy’s new book and a radio interview I heard this week. It’s one of those athletics-related topics that’s really not all about sports. Kennedy’s quite heroic in a way we can’t seem to get enough of. (And in this case, I approve.) And don’t worry: the word “puck” does not even appear in my article.

And hey, have I told you (recently) about the exciting series of my ruminations on music and the perils of mid-life learning? It’s to the right and down below, in the “On Second Thought” section. Be the first on your block to read about ODY! The story began in August…

Holy Birthday to You (and me).

It was a fine day yesterday, hanging out with the Bahá’ís as the community and its friends celebrated one of the Faith’s holy days, the birth of its Founder, Bahá’u’lláh.* He was born in Tehran in 1817, and it occurs to me to imagine that the twelfth of November eleven years from now will be a big day in the Bahá’í universe. (And baby, better stand back when those crazy Bahá’ís start celebrating…!)

Okay, so there probably won’t be a need for riot police and pepper spray, but I like partying with the nine-pointed stars and their friends anyway. The courtesy never fails to refresh, the greetings are warm and the laughter comes easily. (In fact, I found the conversations so good that I forgot to elbow my way to the dessert table. Shocking omission, yes, but I’d warmed up with a neighbourly lunch before the afternoon bonanza.)

And it’s important fun, if that’s allowed. (Too often, there’s a nearly iron-bound divider between amusement — must be extreme, loud, trivial — and social betterment — must be stern, humourless and apocalyptic.Yesterday, it was. Solemn prayer beside the balloons. Learning along with every second conversational giggle. One aspect of community education is key: we’re understanding, steady by quick, how to not just tolerate but to venerate, to celebrate diversity while we stand together on the essentials. So a 15-year-old classical violinist shared the stage with a young white gospel singer, and exuberant African drumming and singing followed the plaintive strains of traditional Persian drumming, singing and the plucking of the tar. French, English, Arabic and Farsi were spoken. It was a smorgasbord. (Thank-you, Sweden, for that tasty word.)

(* Yes, faithful readers, give yourself a bonus point in the standings if you correctly identified Bahá’u’lláh as the “Persian exile” in the November 11 post. Give yourself two points if you hit the link either time.)

Remembering Iran

I  read a reference to James Baker today, that long-time American political operator who’s been well below my radar for years. (Admittedly, my American political radar runs on a Commodore 64.) Mr. Baker is in the news again because, along with Robert Gates, the replacement for Donald Rumsfeld as U.S. Defence Secretary, he is a member of the Senate’s “Iraq Study Group”, an apparently marginalized group which is suddenly relevant. What really piqued my interest was a suggestion that the Group might be leaning, in its efforts to advise the President on how to deal with the dreadful Iraq situation, toward rapprochement with Syria and Iran. Now there’s an idea which is shockingly logical: consult with the neighbours. I hope somebody listens.

But now hear this (the tragedy of speechwriting, exhibit A): many people can’t hear mention of Iran without the malignant mantra “axis of evil” echoing around in their skulls. (That the apparent author of the phrase, David Frum, is Canadian is not a cause for flag-waving chez nous.) That Iran is a troubled state with shaky governance is obvious. I am only too aware of some of the political and religious repression that goes on there, but I also appreciate Iran’s mighty contributions to world civilization. The Zoroastrian and Bahá’í Faiths were born there, and some of the fairest fruits of Islamic civilization grew in Persian soil (including the towering mind of Avicenna – Ibn-Sina – a “renaissance man” who pre-dated the Renaissance by hundreds of years). Cyrus and Darius, as we call them in Western histories – Suroosh and Daryoosh would be more nearly correct – are only the best-known kings of a Persian empire that was the greatest of its age. The poetry of Omar Khayyam and especially of Hafiz are landmarks of Iranian culture. In my small contemporary experience, I know some of the sweet expressions of Iranian cinema, music, cuisine and their perfection of the art of courtesy. I see beautiful faces, generosity and a deep pride in their rich and ancient culture. There is so much more to Iran than nukes and turbaned mullahs.

All of which is a long-winded introduction to a brief report. At the National Library and Archives this week, there was an intriguing chance to reflect on other aspects of Iran. (Thanks, once again, to the folks at the Ottawa Writers Festival.) Jean-Daniel Lafond – known in much of Canada mainly as the husband of our Governor General, Michaëlle Jean – is a prominent documentary film-maker, and he showed and spoke about his 2001 film Salám Iran: A Persian Letter. It follows the return of an Iranian Canadian, living in exile since the revolution, to his mother and his motherland after two decades away. Lafond collaborated in this film with the writer (Persian Postcards: Iran After Khomeini), translator and Iranophile Fred A. Reed, and in early 2004 the pair returned to Tehran. It was the eve of elections that would spell the end of the Khatami reform movement and instal the hardline conservative regime of President Ahmadinejad.

Lafond’s and Reed’s interactions with ordinary (and extraordinary) Iranians resulted in their newly published book Conversations in Tehran. I haven’t read it yet, but I was impressed by these two men. They are worldly, compassionate, scholarly and curious. I detected no particular axe to grind, although it was clear that they hope for more openness and less theocracy in Iran, greater understanding and appreciation of the country everywhere else. M. Lafond was slightly limited by the event taking place in English, but nevertheless spoke well. Mr. Reed, meanwhile, is an understated and moderate presenter but a marvellously articulate and, in his quiet way, an intensely passionate one. He loves Iran and Iranians with such intelligence and force as to silently rebuke anyone who would think of that as “consorting with the Enemy”.

And I know how he feels. I have much to be grateful to Iran for: some of my most deeply cherished friends and co-workers, for one thing, and for a Persian exile’s vision of peace and hope that keeps me sane, that helps me walk a faithful path with (fairly) intelligent feet. Salam, Iran, indeed. May it be so.

Hitting a Buck Sixty-Five

No, members of PETR (People for the Ethical Treatment of Rappers), I’m not talking about Nova Scotia’s baseball-lovin’ hip-hop poet. This is all about my stats, and I wouldn’t be publishing this number if it was my baseball batting average, which would be hitting so far below my weight as to make me cry. (Unless, maybe, it was for hitting against the Cardinals’ Chris Carpenter, in which case it wouldn’t be quite so hideous). But on this cool, world serious afternoon, I have just posted the 165th (generally overlong for web logs) entry on this cyberspace obsession in the past year. (And that doesn’t count all the backlogged ones written from May to July that, because of repeatedly being struck out by technical gremlins, I haven’t yet been able to post to the site.) So YAY, ME! I hope you’ll pardon my self-congratulation, but if not me, whom? If not now, whenever?

I also have a ferocious hitting streak going with my guitar, having banged on six strings for over 65 straight days. I’m well on my way to hitting three sixty-five, and you can tune in to this epic, this mid-life musical odyssey by going to my “On Second Thought” section. (You’ll be glad you did.) (I’m hopeful.)