When I sit down to watch a zombie movie in a dark theatre, I’m excited and nervous. I like these kind of movies — they are fun, thrilling. Halfway through – I am berating myself – swearing that I should have known better. What was I thinking? I *hate* zombie movies. I can barely breath and I can’t crouch down any further in my chair – and I am never going to do this again. Ever!

Then, the film ends, I breathe a sigh of relief and realize how much I had been holding my breath, waiting for the lights to come on. Waiting for it to be over.

Winters in Alberta are very similar.

November – I’m excited, waiting for Christmas – full of lofty goals of skating or using my skis more. I deceive myself into believe that I’m prepared. That I *like* winter.

Second week of January – it hits. The despair, the weariness of the cold. The monotony of the snow. I berate myself – why didn’t I book a holiday down south? Why didn’t I buy that clock that slowly lights up your room in the morning? Why didn’t I replace that cold window that makes my bedroom so cold? Every winter – I should have known better.

And then, it happened. We were driving home at 445 pm and there it was. The Sun. Bright. Above the Horizon. Not on its way down – not dusk – but sharp and real – giving so much light I actually had to shield my eyes.

When the sun comes out again like that in spring, you almost can’t believe the worst is over. That daylight will fill our days again and we aren’t stuck in eternal nights of cold.

Yes, even though I know winter will end – it never *feels* that way in January. But, it does end, thank god. And the sunlight is a small signal that spring is on its way.

They? The four out of five siblings that are left of my Dad’s family (all over the age of 75 years) and numerous cousins, nieces, nephews, great-nieces, great-nephews … all gathering for the funeral of my Auntie Ne. She was the oldest sibling in my dad’s family – originally eight in number.

What happens when a matriarch like that moves on? It does feel like the universe shifts  – when a person who holds such pull in a family no longer dwells with us. Gravitational forces change and in that void other loyalties, obligations, duties take priority. Things alter, orbits adjust and no matter how much we don’t want it to be so, things will be different.

Growing up, my Dad’s side of the family – the Felix side – was not as well-known to me. None of them lived in Canada. Connections to them were through letters and phone calls, except for our visits to San Francisco – where my Auntie Ne lived. One of his other siblings lived there too. So, it was close enough for an affordable and worthwhile road trip for my parents … trying to ensure they had enough money for their new life in Canada.

My Auntie Ne’s presence always thrilled and terrified me. Terrified because I was convinced that as the oldest sister, she must be a disciplinarian. And, my father was THE disciplinarian of all disciplinarians (it seemed, in the whole Edmonton Filipino community). Thrilled because as my father’s oldest sister – Auntie Ne also must have stories about my Dad’s childhood, and how he *must* have been naughty at the time (for why else would he be so strict?).

Auntie Ne held the key to understanding half of my family story – my history … even if it meant I had to be vigilant about my “please’s” and “thank you’s” and being extraordinarily helpful and obedient to my parents.

That was the Aunt of my childhood.

As an adult, it is funny how those larger-than-life influences in your childhood change with age … and friendship. Over the years, I visited my aunt – sometimes with my parents – sometimes alone (on business trips). We even traveled together (with other family members) for a wonderful trip to the Philippines. It’s not that her character shrunk in any way (although, physicially she seemed to – for when did I become taller in my five feet stature than my Auntie Ne?) …. but she grew more human, more vulnerable to me. I started to notice how much she liked to laugh – loud and long. And visit and chat, her sing-song voice always asking my about my plans and my ambitions.

But one thing remained the same – she had her opinions. And she shared them openly. About school, marriage, politics, church – you name it. No topic was too sensitive for my aunt. But instead of being scared of her words – they simply grew into words of wisdom.

When my aunt passed away last month, she was 91. She had lived on her own until she was 90. She lived in the same house that she had settled into in San Francisco – an area that was being fashionably re-developed … TV producers lived down the street.

But, her death to me felt like the passing of an era. I never really knew what that phrase meant until last month. But, with her death – my connection to the world of her life — of surviving the World War II occupation of the Philippines, of courtship and marriage being pursued through letters, of valuing respect for elders, and the prevalence of common sense — this world fades with her passing on.

For there will not be another woman like her … her stern but gentle guidance, her enjoyment of conversations, and her unconditional steadfast love. She was many things to many people — a wonderful aunt, Lola (grandmother), great-grandmother, wife, sister … but to me, she was the aunt whom I dared to share my dreams with, the aunt who watched Jane Austen films with me, the aunt who took the time to ask me to play a song on the piano, the aunt who wrote me letters, and the aunt who refreshingly equated gardening to praying to God … this is who my Aunt was to me. And I will miss her.

What’s left? To reminisce on what I would do if I *was* healthy. And it made me look at how I spend my time. Around this time of the year, we’re always saying “not enough time” … but why? How we spend our time is a choice. It isn’t written in destiny.

Hence – the question about facebook. Those who know me well can attest that I was pulled into the Facebook World, literally kicking and screaming. And it’s not that I don’t think Facebook as its advantages – but the question is, how do I “control” the disadvantages? (What disadvantages you ask, considering that I let you all know about this blog posting *on* Facebook?)

Disadvantages – (caveat here - the way that I use facebook, for not everyone uses it the same way) … It devours time. Hungrily. Some in useful ways (articles, pictures of friends) … some not so useful. I am becoming accustomed to short clips of information – impatient with longer, critical pieces. Is this good or bad? I’m not sure. I want to see people or, instead, connect with them on the phone. Half an hour reading posts could easily be replaced by a more meaningful conversation with real interaction. And, I don’t want to be subject to Facebook Culture. Don’t fool yourselves – there is a culture. Culture is “the way we do things around here” and there are strange understandings about what is ok or not ok, expected or not expected to put on facebook. My nieces – when they see something funny in our family interactions – immediately say, “let’s record this and put it on the internet”. Somehow, posting it on the internet is what make things real these days.

Advantages – Connections. Networks. Networks. Networks. I came onto facebook to help my career. Has it? Sure. Has it helped my writing? Increased my audience – but the only thing to help me write would be to kick procrastination in the butt and sit down in a chair. Commitment. Dedication. Ooops – supposed to be talking about advantages! Old friends. Nice way to touch base. Hearing about local events and about movements.

I have decided to change the way that I interact with facebook. How that looks, I’m not sure yet. Will be experimenting. Perhaps limiting how much I look at posts? Perhaps just looking on certain people’s pages when I think of them? I’d be interested in strategies, ideas. I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts – a *real* dialogue. Discussion. Arguments. Go for it. And let’s see if my writing actually increases in 2013 — for there are things that *do* matter, there *are* priorities – and some things have to be sacrificed in order for them to become a reality.

My mother has mastered the art of making ensaymada … but one doesn’t just make a dozen ensaymada for a snack. Oh no. If you take the time to make ensaymada, then you make at least one hundred of those sticky little buns and spend a full day in the kitchen. And everyone helps out.

The process was ingrained in our family. My mother prepared the dough the night before, covering it with tea towels, the sour smell of yeast in the kitchen. Early the next morning, she rose early to pound down the risen pillars of dough. Then, she grated the cheese, mixing it with melted butter in a saucepan until it reached the right level of sweetness.

Then, the rolling starts. Mom, still running the show, didn’t trust anyone else to get the right thickness of the dough or the right amount of cheese. Only her hands rolled the flattened rectangle into a long tube and twisted it into a bun. Sometimes, if she was in a real rush, she’d let Dad use the rolling pin, but no one else. No, the children were relegated to greasing the tin cups, the final resting place of each bun before it gets popped in the oven. And of course, we helped with post-baking. A crazy assembly line of putting each individual tin into the oven, buttering the cooked buns, cutting them out of the tins and then dusting the hot brown crusts with sugar.

(from web, not my mother’s)

This was the process from the time we were seven to seventeen on a regular basis. But, as the years passed, ensaymada-making got less and less common.

At our gathering with our friends, my sister lamented out loud that she had never learned to bake our favourite bread.

“I should really make the time,” she confided to one of her friends. “How else will I learn?” We knew cookbooks didn’t have the answers. It was something you needed to learn hands-on. And our parents were aging. One of our aunts passed on this summer. Another aunt at this party smiled at us, but admitted to forgetting our names.

“You don’t have time,” my mother cut in. “You’re too busy with the kids and work.”

“You had kids and work,” my sister replied. “You had time. I can make time.”

“No,” my mother laughed.

We had encountered it before – my mother’s resistance to teach us recipes. We were allowed to watch, but never partake. I moved away from the city for five years, and only then, I was granted the freedom to ask questions about how to make certain dishes. Now that I’m back in the city though, whenever I ask for Filipino recipes, more often than not, she brushes me off and offers to bring it over instead.

My sister insisted. “No, mom, I should really learn to make it. I’ll take a day off of work. I’ll come over and we can all make it together. I’ll bring the kids.” We didn’t request baking anymore from my mother. She had been sick for years and last year, successfully recovered from breast cancer. I understood my sister’s reasoning. We could learn and make it a family event at the same time.

Two days later, my mom calls. “Guess what?” she announces. “I made ensaymada. I’ll drop it off for you and Eddie tonight.”

“That’s great, mom. Thanks,” I reply.

I expected the next call would be from my sister. But, what would we do? It’s been her role in our lives for over 40 years – to feed us, cook for us, nurture us. I can’t really blame my mother, if she’s not quite ready to let go of it all.

I know her fears – that with the recipe in our hands, we might not need her. As if she was already gone.

But, my mother doesn’t know my fears … that when she is gone – for none of us are immortal – I will need her. And nothing would fill that gap. But with that recipe in my hand, it would be a little bit easier to bear, I think. Perhaps, I’m naïve. To think that a bite of ensaymada will transport me back to the times when all is safe, all is guaranteed to work out right – for that’s what my mother’s love does for me. But, I can hope that this bread might hold such power. It might. It’s my secret coping plan for what I know is inevitable.

But, I would never tell my mother that. No.

Next time, I see her, I’ll just smile and say, “That ensaymada was great, Mom. You’ll have to teach me next spring.”

And, I’ll have to hope that she does.

I, on the other hand, feel like I’m in my twenties. I like silly jokes (ask my husband). My favourite part of the library is teen fiction. (Apparently, according to the diagnostic guide to book readers, I am a “cross-under”). I get excited when they release a new flavour of cheerios.

My younger cousin, Vickie, who is in her mid-twenties knows this part of my personality. She and her twin sister, Vanessa, nurtured it. When I was twenty-one, I had to go see Toy Story because the twins wanted to see it – and I was their chaperone. I was forced to watch it, see. And I was also forced to go to the zoo. And forced to read comics. And read Tamara Pierce and J.K. Rowling books.

Recently, Vickie came back from a vacation to Hogwarts Theme Park in Florida. She dropped by my house, smiled slyly and in a sing-song voice said, “Look what I bought you!”. From her bag, she gently pulled out a red and yellow wool scarf. I caught my breath. A Gryffindor scarf with the logo emblazoned boldly on it.

I immediately put the scarf on. Winters in Canada last up to six months. In our northern city, scarves and hats are more than accessories. They are life and death. And also a fashion statement for half the year. 

My husband asked me, “Are you going to wear that? To work?”

I nodded, enthusiastically. Why not? I thought to myself. Tuck the crest into the jacket, let the red pop out … people will think it’s a soccer scarf. But, I was mistaken.

People are busy in our modern world. Private. And in Canada, exceedingly polite. But there is something about Hogwarts and Mr. Potter that pulls people out of their shell. I would go about my business, forgetting what I was wearing – buying christmas gifts, ordering tea, looking for shoes – when someone in their early twenties would stop in the middle of their stroll, their conversation, their job (seriously, one was putting away inventory) … and say to me in wonderment, “Is that what I think it is?”

I’d always pause and wonder what I had done wrong. Or if something was on my face. And, then I’d remember, ah … the scarf.

“Yes,” I’d say calmly. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

They would always nod in agreement. “Awesome.” 

Sometimes, the person would call over a friend or co-worker, maybe ask me where I bought it. They’d laugh and then quietly slip back into the role of what they were supposed to be doing – serving coffee, putting back shoeboxes, or getting onto the bus. But, then they would smile before turning away, acknowledging me as one of them. A Harry Potter fan.

And then, I’d remember, there’s no age limit on the love of magic.

My domain was downstairs in the basement where I did most of my “playing” – and where I grew up, so to speak. And on the basement wall – the dark panels of fake wood – my parents had hung a small decorative piece of stained glass. As I got older, I realized the orange, yellow and red blobs were not in fact just shapes – but formed letters. And as I learned how to form letters into words – I realized the words were “joy” “hope” and “faith”.

I grew up with those words on the wall every day. When I bashed the ping pong ball into the ceiling, when I cried because I wasn’t allowed to stay up late and finish watching “Love boat”, when I tried to sneak out of the house to meet my friends down the street … those words were on the wall.

Being Filipino, Catholicism is more than a religion – it’s a culture. In my house, faith was part of the house. Literally. In the décor. On top of the coffee table. On the walls. I didn’t realize until I was older that not everyone had three artistic versions of the Last Supper, nor crucifixes in every room, nor a statue of Jesus at toddler age – dressed in green Bermuda shorts and a tank top —  in their homes.

Now as an adult, my impression is that Canadian culture of my generation doesn’t really value demonstration of religion. It happens – but my impression is that it’s not sophisticated.

I have a girlfriend who is working for a year in Botswana. In her blog, (or maybe in an email?) she remarked how different it was to start the day with a prayer. She isn’t particularly religious – but hearing people’s concerns, hopes … areas in their life where they need support … it brought her a different perspective on her co-workers, on how she related to them and on her workplace.

I wonder – if instead of adorning workplace walls with mission statements and visions – we instead put up simple concepts like – hope, joy and faith? I simultaneously laugh and grow wistful at the thought.

Words like peace. Respect. Forgiveness. Ohhhh – I’d love to see that word on my wall.

Forgive me, please oh funder, that my report is late. And I’l forgive you, oh government, for cutting all the funding to my agency.

That’s when I would also need words like – visionary, effort, and yet again, back to hope.

What words would you like to see on your wall at work? And would that make work easier or harder?

We don’t just wait to plant … everything associated with summer waits until the long weekend. Putting out patio furniture, building that new shed, pulling out your garden hose … wait, wait, wait.

And with this in mind – knowing I had to wait coupled with my dislike of large crowds – I bought all my plants *before* the long weekend. A couple of petunias from Superstore. Some perennials from Home Depot. Begonias from Zocolo, near Little Italy. I wanted to avoid the consumer hungry crowds that descend upon any outdoor oriented store in Edmonton. Canadian Tire on May long weekend? No way. My introverted senses would not survive there for certain.

I had stockpiled everything I needed – new dirt, some sod, new garden gloves. I had even picked up a little Buddha statue from Winners. (You’d think I was doing a commercial with all this brand dropping, eh?) I even took a risk and started planting on a *weekday* before the weekend. I checked the forecasts daily, I was safe.

But, alas – my big project – to turn my high-maintenance pond into a rock garden – was to not come to fruition. I had underestimated the width of the pond. My little Buddha, and his perimeter of two irish moss plants, with a background of one ornamental grass, were dwarfed in the enormity of the blankness of the flower bed (what used to be the pond surface). The garden needed more. But what should I get? And when? Next weekend, I had a bridal shower, and the weekend after that – a wedding … no, planting had to happen now.

I needed to go in.

It was before noon, it wouldn’t be too busy at the store except for keeners. Perhaps I could avoid the shoppers that came for entertainment. You know – the group of six women that look for baskets and are visiting about their lives at the same time.

Unwilling to change out of my dusty pants and ballcap, I grabbed my wallet and zipped to Home Depot in my car. The parking lot was full. I parked on the far side of the temporary Garden Centre set up in the middle of the cars. I braced myself as I headed for the entrance. Carpet perennials, a couple of grasses – and yes, I was going to treat myself to that bamboo fountain. I knew what I wanted.

I stepped in through the doors – the humid, scented air caught me by surprise. I paused to take a deep breath in. Not as crowded … or maybe – not as frenetic as I thought. People moved slowly, heads tilted, pondering, wondering. I slowed my pace.

I picked up my fountain and moved towards the back of the greenhouse. A clerk smiled.

“You know what you want!” She exclaimed. I nodded and smiled back.

The line-up to get to the far end moved slowly. Only room for two shopping carts in one aisle. People squeezed through, but with no impatience. They peered and looked at each other’s purchases. I heard exclamations of – “Oh, where’d you get that one?” and “Those look lovely in late summer, they are my favourite.”

I let their enthusiasm wash over me. What was my rush? People moved slowly because they were deciding. Planning. Dreaming. Not of just their garden, but of hot August nights with iced teas, when they could sit back, and let the heat of the day keep them warm. After long nights of winter, trapped in our houses – oh, just the thought of sitting outside on a summer evening, as the sun hung low in the sky … it was enough to make one sing.

I paid for my plants and left. But I couldn’t help but cast a lingering glance through the metal bars of the garden centre. Should I get a couple more plants? How about some ivy? And that yellow – oh, wouldn’t that look nice? A woman on the other side, shopping, caught my wandering eye and smiled. She understood. Oh – the anticipation of summer.

*

In my 20′s and 30′s, I saved money for one purpose only – to take my next trip. Others saved for a car, a computer, their children’s education. I didn’t have children, I already had a car and my computer could always last another year. Travel. It’s what I lived for. (Before my mortgage, that is).

Through experience, I learned that one must purchase items on a trip that help sustain the magic of the trip long beyond after the plane lands in snowy Edmonton. My criteria: 1) the item must be used in every-day life (so as to always remind you there is a broader world) 2) the item must remind you of the scents, shades or sounds of the country visited and 3) most of all, it must be something that urges – no, compels – people to ask, “Where did you get that?”

Instead of answering “the Bay”, I would then share the origin of my latest adventure – Peru – Kenya – Thailand. Whatever.

So, when I entered the marketplace of Marrakesh, my shopping instinct flared alive. Here is where I’d find the magic item that represented Morocco.

It’s not an easy thing to identify – the magic item. Sometimes, one can get caught up too much in the pulse of the country, and the item can’t fit in completely back home. Examples of failed purchases include: a “sailor girl” dress from Mykonos (too girly for the Edmonton version of Roxanne); batik pajamas from southern Philippines (too cold for Edmonton nights); bright green capris from Costa Rica (too bright for Canadian fashion) and my black sundress with red flowers from Hawaii (more appropriate for pajamas).

But Morocco provided me with a scarf. A brilliantly colored green and turqoise blue scarf, laced with golden thread. Its length ran three times as long as most scarves, as it was the traditional length (i.e. it could be woven into a turban). It bordered on gaudy, as the colors were much brighter than I usually wore, but I took a chance.

And the interest I got was more than I expected. Strangers smiled at me in elevators, while crossing the street, after I got on the bus. Are they just smiling because I just looked happy? Delirious, maybe? But, no – it was the scarf. One time, I entered a restaurant and a table of women waved at me. I went over, expecting to see a familiar face as I got closer. But, I recognized none of them.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you mean to call me over? I don’t think I know you.”

One of the women smiled. There wer five of them, all in their early sixties. “No, we don’t know you. But we wanted to tell you how much we love your scarf.” They broke into laughter.

No one ever asked me where the scarf was from. But I got a greater gift. Such a little item – but it started conversations. Helped me find neighbours instead of strangers. And instead of setting me apart, the scarf from Morocco brought me closer to others.

I get that a lot. I’m not sure what it is – because I’m a woman? Because I’m Filipino? Because I look like I’d rather be reading Jane Austen? (which I also love).

I usually launch into an explanation of how I got hooked onto speculative fiction. I loved stories like Little House on the Prairie, Anne of Green Gables … but after I read them and tried to imagine *myself* in those settings – it didn’t work. I would have been working in the laundry, instead of picking wildflowers. Filipino girls didn’t live in the prairies back then. And if they did … well, it wouldn’t be a pretty life, I imagine. There were other books – Judy Blume, Nancy Drew, etc. – but there still were no characters like me.

So, I turned to science fiction and fantasy … they had different universes, different rules, different expectations. I could be Princess Leia. I could hold a sword. I could fight dragons. Me – exactly how I looked, exactly how I came into this world, exactly *me* – I could do all of those things. And so I read those books.

And, so when I started writing books – I was faced with the big question. Who would be the heroine? If I made her a short asian girl – would other readers relate? Would people want to read those books? I will not lie – for the first couple of years, I thought the answer was no. I mentioned her skin colour (“a warm brown”) – but I left it at that. I wanted my readers to identify with the protagonist. Because somewhere, along my journey as a writer and a person, I was led to believe that readers – people – were not interested in the experience of someone that is different.

That, my friends, is the real price we pay when racism exists.

The price isn’t someone making fun of what I brought for lunch or being told that I’m taking a *real* Canadian’s place in university classes. It isn’t being asked for five pieces of ID when I go into a bar, after the person in front of me strode in with only 1 piece of ID. (All of which have happened to me). The true cost of racism is revealed when a young writer – assumes – internalizes – that their experiences aren’t valued. Aren’t worth sharing. And then, the whole community loses out – on stories, on art, on experiences, on joy.

Thank goodness, I no longer feel this way. My characters are strongly different – and I am even writing (shocker!) non-genre fiction, with characters like me. Will Canadian readership be interested? Will it be considered a “prairie” story? No one knows unless I try it out.

An old friend asked me last week, “Can you name a female mentor that you’ve had, who is Asian or Filipino, that isn’t from your family?”

I paused. I’ve had wonderful mentors in my life – wonderful women who have taught me integrity, critical thinking, ethics, courage. But besides my mother and my aunts, only one from my professional life had been Asian. And I only met her five years ago. My friend had a similar experience. Last week, I asked that same question about mentors to some of my friends who are women and are racialized. When they thought about the answer – they all got a little sad.

I want more for the young women and men of today. I want them to be able to pick from an abundance of role models – female and male, all different nationalities, all different abilities. Limitless. Boundless. In all professions, with all kinds of dreams. We must have more.

March 21 is the International Day for the Elimination of Racism … and I hope 20 years from now, I can speak of a better world, a better future. One that Gene Roddenberry and Martin Luther King Jr. would both be proud of.

“I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality…. I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word. ” Martin Luther King Jr.

The plots of Those Who Save Us (Jenna Blum) and The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver) threaded my dreams long after I read them. But non-fiction books somehow don’t have that same impact. I’m not sure what it is. Even when the issue is compelling, I never find myself as moved … until I read I Live Here.

I Live Here is not really a book persay. It’s more of a compendium —  four graphic novellas that share the stories of refugees and displaced people. I was never able to read all four booklets at once. I’d take one out – and work my way through it – maybe taking a week to read what technically, could be read in half an hour. It wasn’t the topics that made it difficult to read. Poverty, injustice, prostitution, oppression – these were all things with which I was familiar. I wasn’t shocked to know they exist in our global society. In fact, I know my way of life in Canada is more the exception than the rule. It’s because of the presentation …  the stories have hand-drawn images, the vignettes lie on the page in hand-written text, the descriptions are shared in first person.
The presentation makes you realize these are not just stories. These stories are owned. They belong to someone. Someone living and breathing, with hopes and disappointed dreams. These are personalized accounts, not stories.

Last week, I pulled the I Live Here series out of my bookcase to lend it to a colleague. She wanted to know more about the Karen population in Burma. I read through a couple of pages and was surprised to find myself tearing up. At first, I chastised myself for being so emotional.

There’s a time and place for emotionality. Not in global politics.

Once when attending a documentary on Tibet, I had to leave the theatre before I hurt someone. There were several university students in the crowd crying – no – bawling – as the end credits rolled. I wanted to shake them for their privilege of being able to “sit there and cry” when they could easily forego their nightly lattes, philosophical midnight beer sessions and designer hiking books – and donate the money to a cause.

Tears have no place in the face of social injustice.

But, after working in a settlement agency – in the mental health field – where my job was to find money, resources, time, people – anything – to help support those who are most vulnerable – it tires you out.* Compassion fatigue they call it. I definitely had it during my last couple of months there. A colleague – who was an external evaluator – was describing to me how horrified she was to hear that one of our strongest programs was being shut down. What would happen to all these refugees we were helping? she asked.

I remember thinking in my head, “At least, that’s one less thing for me to take care of”. I was managing three programs at the time – all programs helped those who slipped through the cracks of the system, all programs relied on employees who were underpaid, overworked and suffering from secondary trauma themselves and all programs had funding that wasn’t guaranteed for more than five months. If I sound like I’m trying to justify myself … I am. I’m ashamed that I thought that way. And I was even ashamed while I was thinking it, because that was the turning point. I knew my response was wrong. But I didn’t feel that my response was wrong. And that dissonance signalled that I needed to leave the agency.

So, I did. I went into consulting. No frontline work at all. I worked for the government. Even less community work there. But, now – I am in the non-profit world again and when I pulled that series out of my bookcase six months into my new job … I shed a couple of tears … and I said a prayer of thanks.  I have returned to a less cynical perspective, a more hopeful approach.  To a belief that compassion is the first step to action.

*Not many people know this, but our federal service in charge of refugee settlement is legally restricted from funding mental health services. That makes sense doesn’t it? Rescue the most vulnerable – mothers, children, — from places of war and suffering – but ask them to adjust to Canada without any post-traumatic support??