*The Known Universe

I watched this with intellectual interest, until about the midpoint, when it hit somewhere deeper and stranger.

The end of the known universe is the beginning. The light that has travelled from there has travelled so long that we are seeing it come from the very start of things. The light of the big bang. End and beginning are one and the strangeness of seeing that was scary. I was glad as the view retreated smaller and smaller to something comprehensible: a mountain.

Afterward I thought: that was a glimpse of God.

In English “fear of God,” is how the Hebrew word Irah is translated. It also means awe. I thought it was a mistranslation. But it isn’t really. Only a certain crudeness of language in describing the shades of emotion. And I wonder if fear of difference could not, then, be translated into awe for variety, for God refracted through the prism of materiality into a million billion trillion colours.

Every baby enters this world with a cry at the wonder and fear and awe of it, and so every fourth of a second God is born again in human form, pure love. That is the beginning and end of the known universe.

*Beauty of Winter

Lie still, lie still while the stiff bone-tiredness spends itself in sleep,
while the snow floats by, the solstice passes and new a space opens,
slippy sugar frosting
over a muffled, breathy hole in time.
Drop down, drop down and dream towards the coming year.

by Jean Morris, Photos and text here.

*Love in Uganda

In Uganda the most important part of the marriage ceremony occurs before the wedding, as the girl introduces the boy to her parents. After that, the couple is considered family. It is a traditional ceremony, older than the church or mosque service, a joyful rollicking revered and long remembered party.

Astonishingly, a gay couple came out to their parents and had an introduction ceremony in Uganda. It is astonishing because this is a country so homophobic that there is currently a bill in parliament, likely to be passed, which makes any homosexual activity a criminal offense, subject to things like life imprisonment. Even knowing that someone is gay, without reporting it to the police, brings with it a few years in jail.

Yet two people who loved each other, and their parents, had the audacity, the courage, the love, the fearlessness despite the fear they must have felt, to secretly invite friends to a compound guarded by hired police, have food and drink, laughter, jokes, music, and then the boy came out to introduce the boy he loved to his parents.

Nobody knew what was coming. The guests were invited to the ceremony, many of them gay, assuming it was the usual thing. In Uganda gay men marry women as they did here fifty years ago. They have to cover up who they are.

For the first time ever, the guests witnessed two men complete an introduction ceremony. They are considered family. Their parents supported them. Then the crowds came, pressing against the fence and walls, rumours flying, police unable to keep them back. Guests snuck out and fled.

The loving couple, for now, are fine. They must have done this, not only for themselves, but for others. Someone took a step, despite the law, despite the fear all around them.

Love is bigger than that.

Full story here.

*Monday Dec 21/09

Harfang des neiges / Snowy owl, originally uploaded by RichardDumoulin.

There is something about owls, and snowy owls, that just hits the spot for me. This photo was taken when it was -30C (which is about the same F). That is tenacity.

*Never Too Late

After six decades of very private painting, Ms. [Carmen] Herrera sold her first artwork five years ago, at 89. Now, at a small ceremony in her honor, she was basking in the realization that her career had finally, undeniably, taken off.

Since that first sale in 2004, collectors have avidly pursued Ms. Herrera, and her radiantly ascetic paintings have entered the permanent collections of institutions like the Museum of Modern Art, the Hirshhorn Museum and the Tate Modern.

Her husband believed in her and supported her for 61 years. He died at the age of 98 a few years before she achieved her outward success. I bet he’s somewhere, looking on, pleased as punch.

You can read the whole story here. It’s delightful.

*Sewing Machine Adventures

Remember the 1950’s ad for a Singer, here? The next part of the story was supposed to be this:

Singer 185J (click on pic to see larger)

As featured in the ad, now in my living room. Well, not. As it turned out, the thing kept jamming. I cleaned it, I oiled it, put in a new needle, joined a vintage Singers list serve to no avail. Fortunately the guy I bought it from on Craigslist took it back and we agreed on a fair refund. He restored my faith in humanity just in time for the shortest day of the year, after which the days will get longer and sun return.

Yes I know the sun doesn’t go anywhere, not factually, or at least not without its solar system following along as the universe expands. Even so, I think that the sun goes away in these dark days, to nestle with its other spouse, the Southern hemisphere.

Today I went back to my gruff guy in the sewing machine repair shop, which he is closing at the end of January. He is neither Russian nor Ukrainin, but Bulgarian in origin, and today I learned that the Cyrillic alphabet used in Russia was invented in Bulgaria, where there is a letter for every sound and all words are spelled phonetically. We also had a long conversation about Stalin (mostly on his side; I listened).

I was there today to get a power cord repaired, which he skilfully did, after which we had a conversation about history and the present state of things. (He said that in the middle East one side of fanatics and another side of fanatics are fighting and spending money on it, which they could be using to support a 3 day work week and living well. I totally agree. He also had some views on the end of days, of which I reserve any opinion.)

The power cord belongs to the second sewing machine I bought from him. You remember my Toyota (same link as above). She sews well and daintily, with some coaxing over denim seams. I wanted to get an old straight sew, something I could use for sewing leather or canvas or quilts or bags, that kind of things. A hearty eater.

Meet the Kenmore:

Kenmore 148.12030 (click to see larger)

This is a 1968 straight-sew and zigzag machine that keeps saying: More layers! I want more! Yum yum, chomp chomp. I folded a scrap of denim over 2, 4, 6, 8 times! Yum, gobble gobble, stitch, stitch. What will I feed it next?

*How I Learned to Skate

It was our first day at the outdoor skating rink in Christie Pits on Saturday, a perfect day for skating. Just below freezing, a blue winter sky so clear I could see the red tail of the jet high above. There was a woman on the ice even smaller than me (I mistook her for a boy until I saw her face) learning to skate. She went around the rink doggedly lifting each foot, shifting her weight, back bent, cheeks rosy. We smiled at each other. I told her she was doing great. My kids, now 8 and 11, played games and raced each other down the centre of the rink, forward and backward.

Christie Pits skating 1909

And so this reminded me of a post I wrote when I had just started this blog a year and a month ago. Here it is, re-posted:

My older daughter dragged me. That is the simple fact of it. She was six and had been nagging me to take her skating for about a year. I wasn’t too sure of my ability to stay vertical and hold her up too, but I finally hauled my 20 year old skates out of the back of my closet.

Toronto Skating 1910

I’d skated as a kid, occasionally, on lumpy outdoor rinks, bashfully, embarrassed because everyone else seemed to zoom around and I was far from zooming. I had worn those 20 year old skates once and once only after I bought them.

The skates were made of moulded plastic and a size too small. Need I describe the discomfort and pain that I tried to hide from my excited daughter who had unlimited confidence in me? Fortunately they were figure skates and the extended blade kept me from falling over. I shuffled, holding my daughter up somehow. She was determined to learn to skate and did her own shuffling and falling, lots of cheerful falling. I asked everyone I met at the rink whether skates should hurt your feet.

Old Orchard Speed Skaters early 1920's

Everyone assured me that they do until your feet get used to them. I am here to tell you it ain’t so.

The next fall I bought CCM recreational skates that were the right size and wide enough for my duck-ish feet. Heaven! I signed up for adult skating lessons. That was a good thing because the new skates were on hockey blades, which do not allow for shuffling in a kind of ice-walk. I didn’t know how to move my feet and the first day of lessons, had to pull myself along the boards to the adult class, waving at my daughter, who was excitedly joining the kids’ class. It turned out that my instructor had learned to skate as an adult, too. So I wasn’t the only one! By the end of the lesson, I knew how to move my feet, and to my surprise, by the end of the session, I could skate.

Since then, skating has become a family passion. We go skating at the arena every Sunday and we skate outdoors in winter when weather permits, too.

Women's Hockey Toronto 1912

I love to see the variety of people skating: the woman in her eighties (yes 80’s!) who is still wearing the same skates she used in high school; the middle aged man with a pot belly who still skates with grace from his hockey playing days; new immigrants taking up our winter pastime with determination–their bravery awesome; people like I was not long ago, just learning how to really skate as adults; kids toddling around on the ice; zoomers like my daughters who fly. There is a sense of welcome and shared pleasure on the ice for people of all levels of skill. This is how life should be: offering space to learn and space to enjoy for newbies and experts of all ages, together in joy. And whenever I see another adult shuffling along on skates, I stop to tell them about the adult lessons at the arena and how I learned to skate.

*Monday Dec 14/09

Chicago from a Chopper, originally uploaded by Stuck in Customs.

Chicago. At around draft 3, half of The Singing Fire took place there, during the world’s fair and then the Pullman strike. The research was fun and I visited Chicago, gawking at fin de siecle skyscrapers and Marshall Fields (department store), the tiffany ceiling in the public library, thinking of architects and the settlement slums and Jane Addams. It all ended up cut. I invented a new story line and arc for the Chicago character in the west end of London, to fit better with the east end London story. It was hard to do, but it worked. I still miss my Chicago piece. Maybe someday I’ll use it or maybe not…

*Scrumptious Muffins

I don’t usually post recipes, but these muffins are irresistible. Or maybe it’s just cold and I crave carbs. If you do, too, these are pretty healthy and delicious.

1/2 cup white flour
1/2 + cup whole wheat flour (I use a bit more than 1/2)
1/2 – cup quick cooking oats (I used a little less than 1/2 made up by the whole wheat above)

total 1 1/2 cups of flour-ish stuff

pinch of salt

1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 – cup oil (I put in a little less than 1/2 cup of canola oil)

1/2 cup sugar (kids loved it, but next time I’ll try a bit less sugar; we use organic sugar, which has a nice texture as well as being healthier)

2 eggs (it would probably work with 1 egg too)

2/3 cup milk (I used 2% because that’s what lactose free organic milk comes in)

4 rounded (heapish) tablespoons of blueberry jam (the kind that is double fruit)

Okay, first mix the flour-ish stuff, salt and baking powder

In another bowl stirr in oil and sugar. it makes a nice slurry mix. Then mix in one egg at a time. After that add in millk slowly and stir.

Make a well in the dry stuff and pour in wet mixture. Stir. Add blueberry jam.

Makes 12 nice size muffins. Bake at 350 for 30ish minutes.

I started out with 25 minutes, they weren’t done. So I added another five minutes, then another three. I’m guessing that if I wasn’t opening and closing the oven, 30 minutes or so would do.

*I Think I Can’t

The little engine that could attitude is great for writing novels, but it sucks for quitting smoking.

Indeed, optimism is beneficial in many situations. Many behaviors, such as writing a novel or starting a new business, have a low probability of success (and thus require positive illusions). Yet a recent paper by Loran Nordgren and colleagues (2009) shows that optimism can sometimes lead to failure.

The problem is self-restraint bias. Most people overestimate their self-control and ability to resist temptation. Hence optimistic smokers, attempting to quit, can waltz into situations where they are more likely to smoke, believing that they can rely on their will-power. And so are more likely to smoke. Oops!

When I quit smoking twenty-some years ago it was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I suppose the reason I never started again is that I remember it well and firmly believe I would have no ability to resist if I lit up one cigarette.

Optimism may make the little engine more likely to succeed at a given task, but it also makes the engine more likely to choose a task that is insuperable.

Oh don’t I know it! I do that with every novel. But somehow it’s gotten written and published every time. So far. Keep your fingers crossed for me this time!

(Full story on optimism here.)

h/t The Situationist

*This Made Me Laugh

However in 1957, it wasn’t a piece of crap–it lasted! Our clothes drier just died. Plastic here we come.

*Meet My Friend

I had no intention of getting a sewing machine yet. After all the calling around and searching, I came to the conclusion that it would be a long process to find the right one, and would involve much filtering of lies and semi-truths spoken by sales people in their diligent effort to make sales. It was frustrating when all I wanted was someone to be honest with me. I knew what I was looking for, and I was willing to pay a fair price for it, within my means. And if it wasn’t within my means, I was willing to wait and save or splurge when I next sold a book.

So there I was on a P.A. day, my older daughter with my husband up at the university, walking along Queen Street with my younger daughter. We stopped in at a fabric shop, peeked in the window of a sewing co-op and workshop that was closed till later in the day, went into another shop where the owner tried to convince me that nobody else on the street sold sewing machines but him, and they were all good, cheap and good, made with aluminum and prime plastic.

And then I saw the shop, small and dusty, with ancient machines in the window and the sign above: repairs. The owner was a grumpy, cigarette smoking slavic man (Russian or Ukrainian; I didn’t ask because if I guessed wrong he’d likely have been insulted). He was not friendly. He didn’t especially wish to sell me anything. The world had come down a few pegs in his day. The garment district has diminished to nearly nothing. Sewing machines were crap, bolts no longer made to bolt. He warmed up a bit as I insisted on looking at a couple of sewing machines in detail. He showed me how to thread and how to wind the bobbin. This was the better one, he said. The rotary mechanism was superior.

But it’s a Toyota! I said. I never even knew they made sewing machines.

The name doesn’t matter. It’s what’s inside. It’s all metal. It’s a good machine, he said.

I liked him. He was grumpy. I thought he was honest. So I didn’t haggle, but paid him what he asked for, and took it home on the streetcar and bus, with my little daughter’s help. I got her a donut with sprinkles on top at Tim Horton’s to tide her till we got home. I promised her the portable Brother I bought and never used for her own.

This is my friend:

Toyota 2460

My first try at using the sewing machine was a simple repair to the beloved crib blanket of one of my children, which still has a place of honour in her bed. Note the stitching at the bottom of the blue dinosaur’s feet–that’s where it was torn and the stuffing starting to come out. Also his back.

Crib Blanket

Today my first creation out of whole cloth. I’m going to decorate it, maybe paint it. Or embroider it. I’ll let you know:

And for your viewing pleasure:

There is a story to this too, but that will wait for another day.