World Food Day

It was my birthday last week. Considering last year's birthday was a let down between a hospitalized family member, underwhelming gifts, an especially difficult body day, no birthday cake, and the fact that a lot of the people I loved best forgot about it entirely, I knew I wanted something different out of this year. Once I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I remembered once hearing that if you want to feel better about your life you should help someone else. With that seed planted, I knew I wanted to mark the day with a gesture of kindness, but I was not coming up with any bright ideas.

A few days before the day, a couple of Facebook friends must have mis-read the date and wished me a happy day. Eureka! The fuzzy, unformulated idea quickly came into focus: I would pledge a dollar for every happy birthday I received on Facebook and donate the wishes to our local Food Bank and Learning Centre. I expected a little over a 100 wishes.

By the end of the day, I had 269 wishes, two friends who graciously agreed to match my donation, and another who made a donation directly to the Centre.

Today, October 16, is World Food Day. If you go to Food Banks Canada's Facebook page and share their post, Cargill will donate $5 (https://www.facebook.com/FoodBanksCanada).  This is significant. World Food Day allows us a chance to think and talk about food and food security. Each month nearly 1 million Canadians visit a food bank, over a third are children, and those numbers continue to grow. I don't feel that it matters who the visitors to the Food Banks are; I have a hard time thinking of anyone not knowing where their next meal is coming from, and an even harder time thinking about anyone being hungry and not having options, but if it helps you care, know that the people who need food and food security are people just like you. They include students, seniors, people with disabilities, working families, newcomers, and children.

Tracking all the wishes, receiving the news about the matches, and reading the messages from so many friends who loved the idea became the happiest part of my day.  I knew that giving can do so much good, but it took my Facebook birthday wishes to help me realize that giving also feels good. I want you to feel good too. Please consider giving, and while you are at it, give thanks for what you have.

More Pears

More Pears.

There were still 10 pounds of pears on my kitchen counter. The cobblers were such a hit, I decided to make more. However, when I took out the ingredients from my pantry, I realized my white flour was all but gone. Inevitable, given all the baking.

I adapted. People with disabilities have a genius for adapting, in case you were not aware. We must roll with the punches in big and small ways every single day; adapting is a necessary part of survival. Ah, but back to the cobblers. Here are the variations.

Using the same method from yesterday, I just replaced the white flour with whole wheat. I also replaced the white sugar with brown, and I added a cup of ground hazelnuts, an extra bit of baking powder, and all the warming spices. The result is nutty, with more bite. It's just as sweet and aromatic, and, because of the added nutrients and fiber from both the whole wheat and the nuts, a little healthier. Of course, if there are nut allergies to consider, it won't matter if they are not included. To prove this point further, I made another cobbler with a gluten free and vegan baking mix called "Many Cakes." It is more cake-like, but light and tasty. My goal is to make this method adaptable and accessible. Just as the world should be.

 A cobbler for everyone. Beautiful!

nom nom,
hk

Pear Cobbler

Hello Readers,

No need for a reminder; I am aware. It has been over a year. More about that another time.

For today, I want to write about the beauty of fall, harvest, bounty. And pears. Yellow, juicy pears.

Charmed by the folks at our community farmer's market, I bought 20 pounds a few days ago. On the weekend, I made a pear crisp with a hazelnut and gingerbread topping. It was so good I made 5 more. That took about 10 pounds. Today, I quickly searched up a cobbler recipe and to my dismay, I mostly found methods that used cake mixes. I don't have any cake mixes in my pantry and I thought I could do better than that anyway. So I made it up.

Don't let people try to tell you that baking is a precise science. Well, maybe for French pastry chefs it is. But for a passionate home cook like me, it is often an organic process. It starts with an appreciation for the ingredients I have in my kitchen, and being absolutely okay with it if things don't turn out. This is the essence of living a creative life. Find inspiration in what surrounds you and just take the first step - in my case, buying 20 pounds of fruit - and see what happens.

Back to pear cobbler. Here's how to do it.
Wash, core, and slice pears - about 7 or so, whatever you need to heapingly (yes, I just made that word up) the bottom of your greased 9x13 baking dish. No, I did not peel the pears as I feel it is a ridiculous waste of time.
Sprinkle with about 1/4 cup of sugar
In a bowl, mix:
1 cup of sugar
1 cup of flour
2 teaspoons of baking powder
1 tsp of salt
and some warming spices - I used about 1/2 tsp of each cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and ground ginger
Add 1 cup of milk
1/2 cup of melted butter
and a glug of the best vanilla you have
Mix it all together, pour over the pears and bake at 350 for 40-45 minutes.

Your house will smell like a cross between an orchard and a bakery and everyone will love you just a little bit more.

I'm back, beautiful people,
hk

Looking Up

Hello readers. I am marking 38 years of living with a spinal cord injury today. I like to acknowledge the day with a couple special things and this year I want to do that by doing my first video blog.  So this is the 38^th anniversary that I was in a motor vehicle accident, paralyzing me from my chest down. I have used a wheelchair ever since.  I was six years old. 

While my body changed drastically at the time of the accident, what changed more were the expectations, or rather the lack of expectations, that others had for me.   It was not expected that I would finish school, go to University, do any sports, get a job, find love, or raise a family.

My Dad had a bigger imagination than this though.  He would often tell me that I could do anything, and he tried to help me believe that that the possibilities in life were as vast and infinite as the big, open, prairie sky.  He was a sky watcher, my dad, who, from time to time, would call me from his farm to ask me if the sunset was as lovely here as it was there and if I had to name that colour, what would it be?  As a child, I often sat with him on our doorstep, watching the northern lights, lightning storms, or following the constellations.  Unlike the map of the stars, though, both my parents had no script on how to navigate me through this life.  They just believed in trying, and trusting that those possibilities were out there for me. 

My Dad died 4 years ago. I have tried to carry on this optimistic attitude and a few months after 

his passing, I had an opportunity to participate in a fundraiser called the Drop Zone that supports Camp Easter Seal and Easter Seal programs in Saskatchewan.

All I needed to do was rappel off of a high building (in Saskatoon that is the Carleton

Tower on 4^th avenue) with the support of some ropes and carabiners.

When I asked people for pledges and explained what I would be doing, that I would be wheeling off the roof and descending down Carelton Tower to raise money for Easter Seals, they would always ask (with alarm):  have you ever done anything like this before?!  And I would always answer,  “There has to be a first time.”  And besides, I thought, how hard could it be?

Meanwhile, I was given a lot of advice: Focus on something in front of you.  Close your eyes.  Don’t, whatever you do, don’t close your eyes.  Have a shot of scotch before you descend.  Have a shot of whisky when you hit the ground.  It’s okay if you throw up.  Don’t do it.  My friend Julian said, I will pledge you $70 to NOT do this.  And most of all, over and over, I heard, Don’t look down.  Don’t look down. 

The day of the Drop Zone, was exactly 4 months since Dad had left me, I parked any lingering anxiety I had and I got on my gear. I gave the DJ down on the ground my Paul Simon song to play and told him exactly what to say as I descended and that if he called me “special,” even just once, I would come over and punch him in the nose when I landed.

I took several deep breaths, and took the elevator to the 22^nd floor, then with help, climbed the flight of 16 steps to the roof.  And what I saw when I got there was the most spectacular view of my fair city. I looked my new friends on the climbing crew in the eye.  And I told them I trusted them.  And I did. They ushered me over to the edge.  Then they slowly, painstakingly, and very literally, pushed me over the edge.

At first, I was hanging on my side, with my head bumping against the building.  I needed to use my strength to right myself and start the descent.  After I did that, for just a second, I heard my advice givers:  Don’t look down.  Don’t look down.  Don’t look down.

  

So I didn’t look down. 

Instead, I looked…up. 

I looked up into that big bright blue sky and felt my Dad’s strength through my gloves that held the carabineer.  I looked up and felt the possibilities, saw the sun, and lived the moment, and listened (and sang out loud, if you must know) to my chosen song as I descended, the Obvious Child by Paul Simon. 

I chose the Obvious Child for obvious reasons.  (“Some people say the sky is just the sky and I say, Why deny the obvious child?”)  I chose it for the obvious children, and all persons with disabilities should NOT be denied the opportunities to live big, full, happy lives.

With the trust that he somehow was with me on my descent, I stopped singing sometimes and talked to my Dad as I rappelled down.  He never once denied me, his daughter, his child, the opportunities I deserved to live a big, full, happy life, and when I couldn’t believe this for myself, when I started to look down, he would help me look up again.

As the only completely wheelchair accessible camp facility in Saskatchewan, Camp Easter Seal is dedicated to providing a fun and barrier free experience to all campers. Campers go swimming and boating, horseback riding, and have cook-outs and picnics, all the same kinds of camp experiences that a lot of kids have…and that all kids should have the chance to have.

My friend, Colleen Courtney is going to rappel down McCallum Hill Tower II in downtown Regina on August 23 this year. Colleen has been a champion for people with disabilities for many years, she has built a career out of helping people with disabilities look up, plus she is a fine human being. If you have it in your heart to offer her a pledge you can go to her personal fundraising page at: http://my.e2rm.com/PersonalPage.aspx?registrationID=2183099&langPref=en-CA

If you did, it would mean a lot to me, but more importantly, it would mean a whole summer’s worth of memories for some kids. 

wishing you the beauty of looking up,

hk

Finding North

Finding North

North:  a cardinal point of the compass, lying in the plane of the meridian and

to the left of a person facing the rising sun.   (www.freedictionary.com)

If you know where North is, you can find your way in the world.

My Dad always knew where North was.  From his skills as a grain farmer where he could tell the time by the placement of the sun in the sky, to his talent as a hunter who could find his way in the bush, and by being a dyed-in-the-wool prairie boy who was gifted with an innate sense of direction, Dad always knew where he was in the world.  For this, and many other reasons, I always felt safe when I was with him, and certain that he always knew where he was going. 

On his 79^th birthday, however, I do not think he could have predicted that he would end up in the Emergency Room while experiencing cardiac arrest.  After that, he had a stroke.  Our family was called in; the priest gave Dad his last rites.  We all kept a vigil by his bedside that night, and wordlessly took turns holding his rough hands (he had, after all, hauled his own railway ties just a few days beforehand) and stroking his whiskered cheek.  He seemed unconscious, because his eyes were closed and he was not “responsive” to our voices or touch, and yet, he emitted an energy that I can only describe as warrior-like.  I had every confidence that he was, in fact, fighting for his life.

North is the fundamental direction used to define all other directions.

That night, my mom and I were wide awake and on guard for a sign, any sign, that could prove to us that time, in fact, had not stopped, and that Dad was still with us and that he was going to be all right.   Around 5 a.m., we caught a glimpse of the pink and orange streaked sunrise through the tiny window of the intensive care unit, and Mom mused aloud, “It’s Spring. The days are getting longer, the sun is up earlier.  I wonder which way North is?”  I took a guess.  Mom took her guess.  Then, to our amazement, my Dad lifted his hand and pointed, in a forceful and assertive manner that, although no words accompanied his gesture, was full of meaning: it is that way, you fools. 

He hung on for a week.  He won and lost many battles during that time.  As many families can attest, to watch this happen, all the while knowing but denying that there is an inevitable end is an intensely emotional and deeply painful experience, which, at the same time, deepens one’s respect for the wondrous miracle that is life.  Dad believed in this miracle.  This miracle, this magical mystery, was his North. 

If you do not know where North is, you are lost.

Unlike my Dad, I am not blessed with an internal GPS.  I cringe if someone gives me directions like “enter from the South side,” or “take 20^th Street East.”  I prefer instructions like, “go left,” or “turn right at the convenience store.”  Little wonder then, that I seemed to lose my own spiritual sense of direction when he died, and when I believed he left me.  In the weeks, and to be sure, months after his death, I became progressively more lost.  Well-meaning friends kept telling me that I would heal with time, but time’s passing did not seem to help. 

In fact, the more time passed, the more I felt held down by questions:  “What am I supposed to do without you?”  “How can it be that you are not going to walk through my front door wearing a toque and a beaten up but warm coat with candy in the pockets?”  “Are you gone?”  “Are you with me?”  “Are you in the stars, the sunrise?”  And mostly, “Where are you now?”  I felt strongly that if I could just answer that, if I just “knew” where he was, that I could move on and find my way in this world again. 

I was stuck.  Every day, sometimes several times a day, I could transport myself to his hospital room and to the moment when his breath changed and how my brother’s eyes locked with mine, and when my mom buried her face into the nape of Dad’s whiskered neck, and how we cried out that we loved him and that we were with him and where the gurgling noise in his chest abruptly stopped and he sharply drew in one long, long inhale. And died.  Time did not change this memory one bit.  Often, I thought, if only I had a map to guide me from here to there. If only I had a spiritual compass.

A compass needs to be set at North for navigation.

When I was in grade eight, my Dad accompanied my classmates and me on an excursion called Outdoor Education.  We were grouped together for the Orienteering session.  We had to go into the bush, and then use our compass to help us find our way out.  However, our compass did not work.  I was dismayed because we were supposed to have our progress evaluated later on by our teacher.  Instead, Dad placed his hand on my shoulder and told me not to worry.  He picked up a fallen branch and pushed it into the pine needle-covered ground.  “Look for the shadow,” he told me.  Then he marked the end of the shadow on the ground with a stone. “Be patient, and wait a little while,” he explained, “since the shadow moves a little.”  Then he marked the new spot of the shadow's end with another stone and drew a line in the ground between the two stones. Standing between them, the first on his left (West), and the other (East) on his right, he grinned, “You are now facing North.”

There are many ways to find North.

Since then, I have learned that there are several ways to find North when you do not have, or cannot rely on, a compass.  You can figure out which way is North by the way moss grows on a tree, by the placement of the Sun, by using an analog watch, or taking note of where spiders make their webs.  Even at night, when everything is dark, you can find your way by looking for the North Star.  Indeed, I well remember the many cloudless and inky black nights at our family’s farm where Dad would point out the constellations to me, including the North Star, reminding me that it is the last star at the end of the Little Dipper's handle and the one star in the night sky that does not move with the rotation of the Earth. 

“Try to see past it,” he would encourage, so grounded in his faith that the Universe was bigger and more wondrous and mysterious than he, or any of us, could ever imagine.  

I hope he knows that I try to see beyond the stars like he wished I would, and although I still do not know for certain where he is, my fallen branch is solidly in the ground and I am turned toward the sun.  I hope he knows that I am trying to be patient, to give it some time, and that although my faith moves around in my attempts to find North, I am a little less lost than I once was.  

wishing you the beauty of your own North,

hk

Paralympic Beauty

Tomorrow marks the opening ceremonies of the Winter Paralympic Games in Sochi, Russia. With 6 Winter sports - biathlon, snowboarding, curling, sledge hockey, alpine, and cross-country skiing - this is a beautiful thing.  Sir Ludwig Guttman is credited with starting the Paralympic movement because as a neurologist who founded the Stoke Mandeville Hospital in the United Kingdom to deal with injured World War 2 soldiers, he also believed in sport’s potential to build both physical strength and self-respect. He organized the first Stoke Mandeville Games in 1948, which eventually grew into the Paralympics that are currently held “parallel” to the Olympic Summer and Winter Games every two years.

Full disclosure: I am a former Paralympian and therefore have a vested interest in the games. As a person with a spinal cord injury who had no role models growing up and who lived without the expectations that I would ever live a quality life, I had no imagination that I would ever be involved in any kind of sport. My Dad, however, had a bigger imagination, and it was because of him that I one day found myself at a competition with other wheelchair athletes. One thing led to another and I made the national team when I was 17. Meeting my team members and the national coach, together with getting to know people from other countries who also had disabilities, completely and beautifully transformed me, how I saw my disability, and how I viewed all disabilities. Wheelchair sport then coloured everything in my life, from my education to the decision to become a parent. Simply put, I owe a lot to sport.

While human excellence is found in many other areas of this beautiful life, for the next two weeks I will be celebrating sport and the Paralympic Games. I will celebrate spirit, excellence, perseverance, strength, hard work, and hope.

I hope you will join me.

Wishing you beauty, 

hk

True Patriot Hockey Love

There are many lessons to be learned from sport: focus, determination, hard work, commitment, and striving for excellence to name a few.  The Olympics are full of stories with these themes.  Sometimes though, the lessons are bigger and more beautiful. And for Canadians, today is one of those days.  Today the lesson was not giving up and when things look dark, choosing to have faith.

Let's face it. Pulling a goalie with seconds left in a hockey game does not often work. It is an act of desperation, of pulling out all the stops, of grasping at straws. With seconds left in the game, our women's hockey team had many more reasons to give up than continue on, but here's the beautiful thing about sport, and heck, about life: you are always given a choice.  And even when it doesn't work out the way you want, it is always best to go with hope over resignation. This day will go down in our history of being one of those days to choose hope.

wishing you the beauty of true patriot love,
hk