Me vs. Vancouver

Vancouver has turned against me. Oh yes, last week it was all romance and sunshine, cherry blossoms and daffodils. But now, it seems that one or two among the vast array of plants I’ve been enjoying has sent little bits of itself to bind to the antibody on my mast cells, causing a histamine release. Yes, I am allergic to beautiful Vancouver.

I have discovered that when you live in a different place, allergies can have different symptoms. I didn’t realize my main symptom until two people in two days told me I looked tired. Argh. I hate hearing that. I wanted to protest, “But I’ve been getting a lot of sleep lately! And I don’t FEEL tired! My body is the temple of the Holy Spirit and I’m taking care of it, really I am!” Instead of saying that, I complained to Danice, who told me to disregard these people. The next day, after eight beautiful hours of sleep, I woke up, looked in the mirror, and I looked tired. “Danice, I look tired,” I said. She said the comments of others were going to my head. “No, really, I look tired.” She refused to comply. She’s not very perceptive.

This morning, my eyes were so puffy and red that I went out in the pouring rain to find a medi-clinic. After a morning of searching for a clinic that would take me, and waiting, I found out that no, it’s not pinkeye. It’s allergies. Even if my body has never reacted like that allergically before. Maybe my mast cells are maturing. I wonder which of you plants is the culprit…

I hope it’s not the big-white-flower trees. They excite me. I saw them blooming and I didn’t know what they were, but I told Danice in my seriousest botanical tone, “Those flowers are ancient, because they have many petals and many stamens.” She nodded quite seriously. She is learning a lot from me. I went home and did an internet search on “white flower fuzzy bud” (very serious terminology). Sure enough, they’re magnolias! Magnoliaceae is pretty much the second oldest extant eudicot plant family in the world. I was so right. Thank you, plant taxonomy 323. (I still like to call them big-white-flower trees.)

So Danice and I were thinking maybe if we live together in this house again next year, we might get a pet. We were thinking a pet of the reptilian variety. You see, our landlords don’t like pets, but they’ve allowed fish in the past. Fish are boring. But reptiles go in tanks, like fish. So maybe they’ll be ok with it…

We’ve done a lot of research online for this, looking up geckos and iguanas and chameleons and frogs and newts and anoles and skinks and even giant lizards that don’t fit in tanks. Anything to procrastinate from doing real work. We’ve learned that a lot of them eat insects, a lot of them need heat lamps, and a lot of them give you salmonella. The turtle seems to be our best bet for staying alive and not costing us very much.

The Wikipedia website at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pet was particularly helpful, telling us right off the bat that “A pet is an animal that is kept (mostly by humans) for companionship and enjoyment, as opposed to livestock, which are kept for economic reasons. The most popular are noted for their loyal or playful characteristics or their attractive appearance or song.” Ok, first of all, Wikipedia, did I read that correctly – “mostly by humans”? Mostly? I’m not sure about that. But Danice and I did agree on one thing… if our turtle isn’t loyal, playful, attractive or vocally extraordinary, we’re going to inform everyone who asks about our pet turtle that actually, it’s not a pet, it’s livestock, and we keep it in our home for economic reasons.

Last night I went to an insanely amazing concert by a guy called Trace Bundy. He doesn’t sing, which is good, because instead of learning to sing, he just taught himself to play acoustic guitar in ways previously unknown to humankind. He sounds like three guitar players at once. He abandoned the pick years ago because he found out his fingers were way cooler than a piece of plastic. Some of his songs are entirely hammer-ons and pull-offs. He has one song where he intentionally clutters up the fingerboard with five capos just to introduce obstacles that give him a sense of challenge, and another where he’s constantly pulling off and putting on capos in the middle. If you don’t know guitar, or what a capo is, or how to pronounce it, just know that this guy damaged the egos of every guitar player in that room. You can check him out yourself at www.tracebundy.com , or wait for me to get home and show you the DVD.

Which reminds me, as of tomorrow, I will officially be back in Saskatoon in one month. Crazy! I’m excited because Christine is coming to take me home, and we’ll get to ride on a plane together. And when I get home, my grandma will be there, and I haven’t seen her in five years! First, a couple papers to write, a lot of books to read, a few exams to knock off… and I’d better get over these allergies, because at this rate, you guys won’t even recognize me when I get home.

P.S. This is my fiftieth post! Hooray! In honour of that, here is an eagle in a tree (he's at the top left).

and this is the sun's birthday

It’s one of those days when you want to wear your sunglasses, even indoors, because it’s your way of supporting the cause of the sun, which seems to be doing so well. The sun was shining on Granville Street as I walked home from church this morning. I had just bought these gorgeous two-toned blue orchids for my roommate Bryanna (happy birthday!), when I heard someone singing. I thought it was a busker, so I crossed the street to see. It turns out it was an older gentleman who was walking down the street, singing in Italian at the top of his lungs. You could have heard him ten blocks away, head thrown back, hands in his pockets, the serious look on his face doing nothing to mask the sheer joy behind his voice. He was singing songs about love, I’m sure. Amore. I slowed my pace so I could walk beside him. I imagined that I was on a street somewhere in Italy, Venice perhaps, being serenaded. I imagined that he was much younger, that he was singing about the way the sun danced in my beautiful red hair. I started to feel as though the flowers in my arms were from my Italian lover.

Further along on my walk home, I was squinting because of the sun, and finally, the tune to that song that I’ve been trying to remember for weeks, Riley’s song “Sunray,” worked its way out of the recesses of my brain. The sun drew it out, I think. I started humming it to myself. What a great summery song. “Keep the day awake, I don’t want it to end…” The birds were singing in the cherry trees (as you can see, I can’t write a whole blog without mentioning birds!) I wanted to sing at the top of my lungs, like the Italian, but I think I have to grow up a bit more before I can be like him, willing to look like a fool for the sake of life and love. An unabashed fool for love. I’m not in love. But this afternoon, I really did feel like I was IN love. Just not with a guy. Certainly not with an Italian senior citizen. In love with a God who blesses me with sun that dances in my beautiful red hair, with cherry blossoms, with two-toned blue orchids, with Riley songs, and yes, with Italian senior citizens who remind me that “all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well”.

So it is apparent. Spring has sprung. The only regret I have is that it sprang without melting. There is no thaw here. There is nothing to melt. Melting is inseparable from spring in Saskatoon. (an aside - When you're away from where you grew up, you realize what is not universal, and therefore worth remembering and describing.) There’s the icicles dripping. The ice on the sidewalk with water underneath, so that when you step on it, it creaks and starts fissuring under your feet. There’s an aroma that goes along with it, I can’t quite explain. ee cummings says the air of spring smells of “never and forever”. The meltwater runs into the gutters, making miniature rivers, perfect for toothpick races. You kick blocks of ice down the street (these are the kind that hurt people when accidentally used in snowball fights, and end up getting snowball fights banned from recess). There’s a slushy sludge on the road, and everything is a bit muddy and dirty for a while, because so much gravel and sand has been spread on the roads through the winter to make things less icy. But nobody seems to mind. Everyone goes outside with T-shirts on, just because they can, even if it’s only a couple degrees above freezing. BBQ time.

Rachel reminded me today that I might not actually have to miss this, it may only be happening when I get home at the end of April. Yay! Two springs.

I have just eaten one of the most wonderful cheggels ever cooked (cheese + egg + bagel = cheggel), I am about to enjoy a piece of Bryanna’s peanut butter cheesecake, and tonight, I have just discovered, I’m going to an Arrogant Worms concert. Wow. I’m going to have to get out of this romantic mood into a sillier mood. But romantics are kind of silly anyway.

It seemed fitting to end with an ee cummings poem. He reminds me of the Italian. Unabashed. I found this one this morning. It is about love and seasons. Here also is a picture I'm really proud of, a picture I took of cherry blossoms in Jericho park by my house.

i love you much(most beautiful darling)

i love you much(most beautiful darling)

more than anyone on the earth and i
like you better than everything in the sky

-sunlight and singing welcome your coming

although winter may be everywhere
with such a silence and such a darkness
noone can quite begin to guess

(except my life)the true time of year-

and if what calls itself a world should have
the luck to hear such singing(or glimpse such
sunlight as will leap higher than high
through gayer than gayest someone's heart at your each

nearness)everyone certainly would(my
most beautiful darling)believe in nothing but love

Do you haiku?

Reading week is done.
The cherry trees are blooming.
It is too silent.

There is my attempt at haiku. I was inspired by the cherry trees, since they remind me of Japan, and haiku comes from Japan. I have never been to Japan, but in Grade 8 I had a substitute teacher who taught us Japanese for a week; it’s all he knew how to teach.

The Japanese word for cherry tree is “sakura”. Another Japanese word I like is "sudoku". Especially when bored in class.

Seriously, though, the cherry trees - they're beautiful. I saw one today and thought it was covered in snow, not blossoms. Whoops, I got Vancouver mixed up with Saskatoon. It's YOU who are all covered in snow. Fifteen more centimeters tonight. Make sure you do not forget to unplug your cars before you leave home, the cord may be covered in snow. Here, the cherry trees are blossoming. I'm not trying to rub it in, really.

I walked around Jericho pond today and it took me an hour, because the red-winged blackbirds were singing and I kept having flashbacks to leading groups of grade 2s around at ecology camp and telling them the song sounded like “conkereee”. My bird book says it’s “okaleee”. Neither does it justice. I saw a common snipe for the first time. He’s currently awaiting a name. (No, Alexa, there is not enough demand currently for a 12-step program for birdaholism.) Lately I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t just become a professional birdwatcher. I mean, a bird research and field work person. Theology sometimes excites me, but discovering a bird I’ve never seen before always makes my day.

Generally (all bird songs aside), it’s too silent, as my haiku says, because I gave up listening to music for Lent. Mostly in my room – I don’t want to force my roommates to stop listening to music. I had no idea how addicted I was to music in the background, music to get me out of bed, music to distract me from homework. I do a lot more singing to myself now. I feel like a monk. I feel like Brendon. But out of all the things I’ve given up for Lent, I think it’s the best reminder. As soon as I wake up to that awful beeping (as opposed to a well-chosen CD), I remember my sacrifice and His.

Reading week is done, and I have accomplished about as much as I accomplish in a normal week. Hooray. Miles to go. Wonderful miles. Here’s something I read today. Do you agree? “A modern emphasis on the benefits of Christ for us today has deflected interest in the specific character of Jesus’ historical life [and the historical accuracy of the Gospels]. For many Christians it would be sufficient if Jesus had been born of a virgin (at any time in human history, and perhaps from any race), lived a sinless life, died a sacrificial death, and risen again three days later.” These are pretty much the only parts of Jesus’ life that Paul focuses on – his death and resurrection. I had never noticed how little Paul refers to Jesus’ teaching or miracles. Interesting. Is the risen, spiritual Christ (with whom you have a living relationship) more important to you than the historical figure? “His existence is important for theology; what he actually did or said is not.”

A couple of pictures should round this off. Here’s one of Hannah and I. Hannah is my professor’s daughter who is British and wonderful. Rachel and I hung out with her one day at her house, and thought it would be quite fun to light one of those easy-light firelogs. We apparently didn’t follow the instructions well, because it looked demonic like that for quite a while. The other one is messianic Rachel, walking on the water. The last one I like to call “Heron City”. Martin posed quite nicely for me.

Sayonara.

P.S. Rachel and Daniel, best of luck in your One-Acts! Congratulations, Nick, on being un-deported (re-ported?) back into Canada! Congratulations, Emmanuel Baptist Gospel Choir, on an apparently smashing debut!

My name is Beth, and I'm a birdaholic.

Which means I am addicted to birdahol. Haha.

No theology in this one, guys. It’s reading week, and I’m on theological break. But thank you for helping me think through the last issue. Also, in case you were worried, still no sign of any of the late Melba’s possible relatives, and yes, I finished my paper, five minutes before the deadline. Yikes.

There are a lot of people in my neighborhood who run. Usually they are grouped in packs. They wear spandex pants, and lightweight gore-tex coats of the highest quality. They have tiny water bottles strapped to them. Most of them look like they’re in deep distress. Others try to talk to each other. Sometimes when I see them coming in my direction, I look behind them to figure out what they’re running from, so as to decide whether or not I should be joining them as they flee. Or I look ahead to see where they’re so anxious to run to. Mostly, I think that running is silly. You miss out on everything there is to see.

Such as harlequin ducks. I saw harlequin ducks from the Rock the other day, for the first time. They’re gorgeous. Here’s a picture I didn’t take. I call the ones at the Rock Brendon 1, 2, 3 and 4, thanks to a rumour I heard about a certain pastor who used to read harlequin romances. Also, two new bald eagles showed up, who Christine aptly named Lex (Luthor) and Sinead (O’Connor). Did you make the connection? And this morning, I met my first coot. The best thing about meeting a coot (yes, this is a duck-like creature) is that I knew it was a coot because of my ecology camp teaching last summer. I remembered that coots have lobed toes instead of webbed feet. I actually held up a rubber coot foot on several occasions to teach the children about coots, though I had yet to see one. And now I’ve seen it. My eco camp boss would be so proud of me! Christine (who is obviously my bird namer) has suggested "Ya old" as an appropriate name for this coot, in honor of her grandmother's use of the saying "ya old coot". Check out the lobed toes in this picture I took.


Today I realized that yes, I am, in fact, a bird geek. You may things such as those recorded in the last paragraph should have been enough to convince me, but we can be rather blind to ourselves sometimes. I only realized my own geekiness as I talked to another bird geek. She is an older British woman, and I drove with her to visit a Christian conservation center today. She said things like “blow me down if I didn’t spy a golden plover at the estuary last week” and spoke of the return of the snow geese as an “emotional, religious experience”. She convinced me to join the Vancouver Natural History Society (I thought they were about history, but apparently they’re about nature). I sent in my membership today. I think it will provide great geek catharsis – finally, I will meet more of my own kind.

Now that I’ve lost half of my blog readers due to boredom, I think it’s time to get reading. It is reading week, after all.


P.S. Tip to anyone who doesn’t have an oven, but still wants to enjoy muffins… they’re called muffin mix pancakes. Simply pour muffin mix in pancake-sized blobs in the frying pan. I remembered Andy Milton making them on a canoe trip once, and they’re to die for. Thank you, Andy.

P.P.S. Guess who?

Melba is Toast.

I give all credit for this witty title to my sister, Rachel, who is visiting me here in the Couv.

Yes, today we recognize the life and death of Melba, who turned out to be a svelte, black roof rat about the length of my fingertips to my elbow (including her long tail). Since I am always first to rise in the morning, I was first on the scene. Method of death was the good old mousetrap, which we've had set for a couple of months now. Melba just got a little too cocky, I suppose. Thought she was invincible. I decided to be brave and put her, with the trap, in a bag, and I was such a wimp - my hands were trembling. I've seen hundreds of dead rats in the lab, much uglier than she. But those rats' heads were not crushed. Anyway, it remains to be seen whether she had any friends in the walls.

I've had a wonderful week with Rach. I made her do grad school things with me, like coming to my classes, going to a Regent party, walking around Stanley Park, watching Dave Matthews and Jack Johnson DVDs, watching intelligent movies, hanging out with a prof's child, eating Ethiopian food and gelato, and ordering pizza. Also, we've had the mission to find her a one-of-a-kind Grade 12 grad dress, chocolate brown (for you Americans, in Canada, we don't have prom, we just have grad, but we still dress up.) Tomorrow we head to New West, to bridal avenue, to continue the quest. And then tomorrow night, she leaves. She leaves me to finish a paper and write a Hebrew test. I will most likely be up all night... I'm not good at writing papers efficiently.

One anecdote from our day... we were in the Stanley Park parking lot, and a car pulled up beside us and the guy inside said, "Do you know where we can get some bud?" I thought he might mean Budweiser beer, but I wasn't sure about the singular use of "bud". I said, "Huh?" He said, "Weed." I understand that slang. I said, "I don't know, man, but I suggest you kick the drugs and get hooked on the Holy Spirit." No, I didn't really say that. Actually, I said, "Sorry." So I have officially been asked for drugs in the Couv. Danice says it's a momentous occasion.

Thank you all for commenting about church unity. I will have to think of more issues to address on here. I agree with what you're all saying about diversity in worship - I would never want to have us all singing or responding to God in the same way, I'm all about flavors. I guess what I'm less sure about is diversity in doctrine, in theology. My prof told us yesterday that there are 200 000 Protestant denominations. Here's a rather provocative quote from Lesslie Newbigin's book, "Foolishness to the Greeks":

"It is the common observation of sociologists of religion that denominationalism is the religious aspect of secularization... The denomination provides a shelter for those who have made the same choice. It is thus in principle unable to confront the state and society as a whole with the claim with which Jesus confronted Pilate - the claim of the truth... It follows that neither a denomination separately nor all the denominations linked together in some kind of federal unity or "reconciled diversity" can be the agents of a missionary confrontation with our culture, for the simple reason that they are themselves the outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual surrender to the ideology of our culture. They cannot confront our culture with the witness of the truth since even for themselves they do not claim to be more than associations of individuals who share the same private opinions."

What do you think? Do denominations represent our culture's individualistic "shopping mall" approach? Keep the conversation going.

Rachel gives a shout out to Les-ball - she misses you lots. I give a shout out to CK. I love you, come soon.

Unite the right?

Well, now that I’ve discussed it with my family and best friend, I suppose I can tell all of you that I made a decision… I’m going to be back at Regent for the next two years, doing a Master of Christian Studies degree. It was a hard decision to make, mostly because I still miss home so much. I don’t know exactly where this will lead, I'm kind of taking it one step at a time. But I’ve been looking at different career ideas to do with the environment, theology, philosophy and science, and I haven’t ruled out being a pastor. The nice thing is that Regent keeps all of these options open for me, and actually helps me toward any and all of them. Mostly I just have this insatiable desire to learn. Don’t worry, though, I’ll be home this summer. Thank you to all of you who were praying for direction for me. (Don't stop).

Partly thanks to Christine’s creative encouragement, I’ve been taking a lot more pictures lately. I wanted to share some with you. I took these ones yesterday, when it was so windy down a the beach that I thought I was back on the prairies. But the prairies don’t get waves like this. Except maybe across the wheat fields.










These next ones require a story. I was walking to the bus stop, looking at the ground, and I noticed a bunch of pink rose petals littering the ground, all over. I said to myself, “Wow, something really romantic must have happened here last night. These Vancouverians must celebrate Valentine's Day a little early.”
Then for some reason I looked up, and I saw there was a rose tree in full bloom (tilt head to see tree). Not just a bush, but a tree. Ha. So much for my romantic musings. I guess these are the kind of things you have to grow to expect in Vancouver in February.

Switching topics completely...Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about something we’re talking about in my Christian Thought and Culture class: Christian unity. It’s a topic that comes up a lot in a transdenominational school. I realized that my concept of Christian unity is really based on my conflict avoidance, and my own ignorance. You see, I’ve never really investigated issues of doctrine. When I was looking for a church here in Vancouver, I mostly made my judgments by looking at style of worship and how “at home” I felt. I think this is how most people evaluate churches today. I didn’t question denominational beliefs, assuming that if I’m in the general Protestant category, it’s all good - we all believe in Jesus, right? But to tell you the truth, I have only a vague idea of what Anglicans believe, and I go to an Anglican church in the evening. Heck, I don’t even know what makes Baptists distinct, and I’ve been one my whole life.

One of my profs said that the continuing disunity in Christianity is sinful. I had never equated it with sin before. It got me thinking about what really divides us. I mean, maybe I feel united to my brothers and sisters in different denominations in some sort of mystical, inner, invisible church sense, but the fact remains that in the world’s eyes, we’re separate. I keep wanting to compare it to politics, which is weird, because I usually hate politics. But I was remembering the whole “unite the right” thing, when the Canadian Alliance and PC parties (who had similar, but not identical platforms) united to become the party now leading our country. I’ve been wondering… would it ever be possible in the Christian church for two denominations to unite? Is there a lofty mission that could cause us, like the right-wing political parties, to look past our differences and join together for greater unity and effectiveness? Like, say, announcing the Kingdom of God? Would this make a difference to the world?

But maybe our differences are too great to overlook. I’m not entirely sure. At any rate, I’m going to look into it. I’m going to start by reading a book about Baptists. I’m going to learn who I am and what separates or distinguishes my beliefs from those of other Christians. As I do, the words of Jesus’ prayer will ring in my ears: “I pray that they will all be one, Father, just as you and I are one – as you are in me, and I am in you. And may they be in us so that the world will believe you sent me… May they experience such perfect unity that the world will know that you sent me and that you love them as much as you love me…” (John 17:21-23).

I would love to hear some of your comments on this. Don’t be shy. Am I dreaming? How do you see it?

Rescue 9-1-1?

So Coldplay – incredible. If you want a good description, read Lisa’s blog. I learned a lot about concerts in general. One thing is that you’re sort of expected to stand for the whole thing, which actually wasn’t as hard as I thought. Another thing is that people sing along, out loud, and some can’t sing. Another thing is that people smoke marijuana around you to the point that you feel like you’re smoking it, too. Mostly, Chris Martin and the band are geniuses. My favorite part was the song “Yellow”, when huge yellow balloons fell from the ceiling, and showered people with golden sparkles whenever someone popped one. It was magical. Or maybe it was just the marijuana.

I have more interesting things to talk about. Possibly the best story since chili night. I’ll give you a hook, so you’ll keep reading. It involves calling 9-1-1, but there’s no deaths or serious injuries, so don’t worry.

Ready for the story? Ok. It starts Saturday night. My roommates and I had just finished watching a movie, and we were getting ready for bed. Suddenly I smelled something really funky. I thought maybe it was a match, or maybe my marijuana-infested clothes from the previous night. But it just kept getting stronger. Soon my roommates were also complaining. I was glad it wasn’t just me. After sniffing around everywhere, we concluded it must have been a skunk outside. I felt satisfied with this conclusion, and went to bed.

Fifteen minutes later, Danice burst into my room and said, “It’s gas. We have to get out of here.” I guess her and Bryanna had discovered online that propane can smell a lot like skunk, and after sniffing around more outside, they thought the smell was strongest coming from the vent to the upstairs part of the house. I quickly put my clothes on, thinking about whether I should take anything with me, like my guitar, or my wallet. I remembered from grade 1 that in a fire-related emergency, you’re not supposed to try to take anything with you. So, leaving everything behind, the three of us went outside, and across the street, fully expecting the house to ignite in flames.

As we stood there staring at the house, Bryanna pulled out her cell phone and called 9-1-1. As we waited for the emergency personnel, we discussed the fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear, despite her mom’s warnings that she should always have a clean pair on in case she died. Soon we saw the fire truck coming down the road. They pulled around the corner and just sort of stopped in the middle of the street. Wow, I thought to myself, this is so serious that they’re not even going to take the time to park! The guy sort of yelled at us: “I can smell it from here. It’s a skunk. You dumb girls!” Well, he didn’t say the last part but he might as well have said it. So they didn’t even check it out. Or shall I say, we didn’t even get to check them out? No, I shall not say that.

So we re-entered our skunksmell house. The night didn’t end there – the skunk incident was closely followed by a burglar incident. We heard creeping footsteps upstairs where our landlords live, and our landlords were in Palm Springs. We were so worked up at that point, convinced that somehow, by skunk, by gas, or by burglar, we were all going to die that night. We almost called 9-1-1 again. Luckily, I had the good sense to go outside and look through the upstairs window – it was just Eugenie. You know, the roommate who got married. False alarm number 2. So we are left with two near-exciting experiences. And good blogging material.

Really, there’s more real exciting experiences happening in Saskatoon. Real live emergencies, not pretend ones. Just ask my sister, who has shingles, or my brother, who got punched and kicked by masked hoodlums.

Wait a minute, one thing did happen. I learned how to make a list on my blog of links to other people’s blogs. And a site meter. (Thanks, Bryanna). So check em out.

I leave you with a beautiful picture of what happens when your landlords go to Palm Springs right after Halloween and none of the roommates want to take responsibility for disposing of their pumpkin. Enjoy!