Home birth is SAFE!

A great article on the safety of homebirth published by the Vancouver Sun. Give it a read!
Home births can be as safe as hospital ones: Study

By Sharon Kirkey, Canwest News Service




Researchers who compared nearly 3,000 home births attended by regulated midwives in B.C. to midwife or doctor-assisted hospital births found that home births were associated with a “very low and comparable rate” of infant death, with less than one death per 1,000 births.
Photograph by: Maartje Blijdenstein, AFP/Getty Images

Giving birth at home with a registered midwife is as safe as delivering in a hospital, a large new study involving nearly 13,000 women in B.C. shows.

Researchers who compared planned home births attended by regulated midwives to hospital births attended by either midwives or doctors, found the risk of infant death in the home births was “very low” and didn’t differ significantly from hospital births.

Women who planned a home birth were significantly less likely to experience any of the obstetric interventions the researchers measured, including using drugs to stimulate or speed labour, narcotics for pain, electronic fetal monitoring and forceps deliveries. They were also less likely to experience a postpartum hemorrhage, and their babies were less likely to suffer a birth trauma, require resuscitation at birth or oxygen therapy.

The study appears in this week’s issue of the Canadian Medical Association Journal.

Few issues in mother-baby care are as controversial as the debate about the safety of home births, the researchers said.

Obstetricians’ groups in Australia and New Zealand are opposed to home births, and the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists is unequivocal. The group said complications can arise “with little or no warning even among women with low-risk pregnancies” and that childbirth shouldn’t be influenced “by what’s fashionable, trendy or the latest cause celebre.”

In contrast, the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists in the United Kingdom supports home births as a viable choice for women with uncomplicated pregnancies.

The study comes at a time when the leaders of Canada’s pregnancy specialists are urging doctors to “normalize” childbirth and lower the rates of C-sections and other interventions. Today, about 28 per cent of babies born in Canada are delivered via caesarean.

“We definitely understand that it’s a woman’s decision to choose where she wants to give birth, in a hospital or a home,” said Dr. Andre Lalonde, executive vice-president of the Society of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists of Canada. “We don’t have anything against (home births) for selected, low-risk women.”

It’s the second time the B.C. group has reported on the safety of home births. The team reported in 2002 on a smaller study involving 862 planned home births.

“This one allows us to say definitively what the rates of perinatal death are,” said lead author Patricia Janssen, an associate professor in the School of Population and Public Health at the University of B.C. “Our first study was really too small to look at that with confidence.”

The new study involved 2,889 women attended by a midwife who began labour with the intention of giving birth at home. They were compared to 4,752 planned hospital births attended by the same group of midwives, and 5,331 physician-attended hospital births.

All the women met the same eligibility requirements for a home birth, meaning they were equally low-risk women.

“In B.C, under the College of Midwives of B.C., it has to be one baby in the head down position, born at term, with no pre-existing medical conditions (in the mother) and no important or significant health conditions arising during pregnancy,” Janssen said.

The rates of perinatal deaths — defined as stillbirths after 20 weeks’ gestation, or death in the baby’s first seven days of life — was low in all three groups: it was 0.35 per 1,000 among the planned home births, 0.57 among the hospital births attended by a midwife and 0.64 among physician-attended hospital births.

Home-birth babies were more likely to be admitted to hospital, versus readmissions for babies who were planned hospital births.

“We think that’s because these babies were coming in to have treatment of jaundice,” Janssen said. Many newborns have jaundice. For babies born in hospital, the condition can be identified and treated before babies are discharged.

“In every other measure that we looked at that measures morbidity, there was no difference,” Janssen said. “When we looked at Apgar scores (a test to determine the physical condition of a newborn infant), and asphyxia, and trauma at birth and the need for resuscitation and oxygen therapy — all of those things were not different, or in some cases they were lower in the home-birth group.”

Janssen said studies suggest women in labour feel more in control in their own home.

“They feel more in command of the labour, they feel more confident in themselves.

“It may be that they’re moving around more, they’re more active. It may be that they can rest better. We don’t really know.”

“It may also be that the women who chose birth at home in the first place are particularly motivated to avoid interventions,” she said, or that there is something about them that makes them feel particularly safe to do a home birth.

“We’re not saying it’s better. We’re not trying to say that if you have a home birth you’re guaranteed to have fewer interventions. We’re just saying that the way it is being practised and regulated appears to be as safe as planned births in hospital.”

Erica Overbeek had both her babies at home with the help of midwives. Her youngest, Alice, was born 2 1/2 weeks ago.

“At no point was I ever lying down for any of it, the second time around especially,” said Overbeek, who lives in Muskoka, Ont. Both births were unmedicated, or drug-free.

“I was in my own bed, in my own clothes. I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I wasn’t hooked up to anything. I didn’t have anyone poking me or prodding me at any time,” Overbeek said. “I just sort of went naturally with the way my body felt. When it was time to push, then I did.”

“They (the midwives) prepare you for everything, even the fact that if I did progress really quickly, what would my husband do in case of an emergency, if the midwife couldn’t get there on time,” Overbeek said.

Janssen cautioned that the findings may not be applicable across the country. Midwifery is regulated on a province-by-province basis. The researchers said the findings “do not extend to settings where midwives do not have extensive academic and clinical training.”

The following comes from a list of suggested client supplies for home births, from the College of Midwives of British Columbia’s Home Birth Handbook for Midwifery Clients:

1 small bottle of Hibitane or other anti-bacterial skin cleanser

24 sterile gauze squares

2 rolls of paper towels

1 oral thermometer (preferably Celsius)

1 hot water bottle or heating pad

1 flashlight and extra batteries

2 gel-type cold packs (place in freezer)

1 plastic sheet (shower curtain, vinyl tablecloth or plastic mattress cover) to cover mattress

Ibuprofen or Tylenol (acetaminophen, not aspirin) for after pains

skirkey@canwest.com
© Copyright (c) Canwest News Service

Kings Of Leon - Use Somebody

Another song that I've been playing over and over again lately.

Have a listen.

Anthem -- Leonard Cohen

A song that means a lot to me lately...


"Anthem"

The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

We asked for signs
the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed
the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
of every government --
signs for all to see.

I can't run no more
with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
a thundercloud
and they're going to hear from me.

Ring the bells that still can ring ...

You can add up the parts
but you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march,
there is no drum
Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.

Whitehorse is cool...not just cold!

(picture of Whitehorse in Winter. I didn't take this photograph, some other person did)


Visiting Whitehorse has been great. It's not very big and does stay in an almost perpetual state of winter, but the people here seem genuinely kind and open and there is so much happening! Live music all the time, coffee shops everywhere, awesome little art shops and collectives (even a quilting store!!!!), book sellers, a library, a HUGE recreation centre, yoga studios, dance studios, recording studios, music stores, sushi (!), doulas, midwives, movie theatres...the "cool" list goes on! I didn't really expect that when I first arrived here. I figured it would be...boring. I was wrong. The prospect of moving up here and working hard to make money, pay off debt, and save is seeming more and more viable and perhaps even wise? I dunno.

What I do know is that the lady in HR at the hospital spoke with a Scottish accent, gave me her home email address on a post-it note and told me I could contact her any time...and the couple we met at dinner today got excited when i mentioned moving up here, saying it was the best place to live in Canada, and without even knowing me, that they would love to have me up here...

Nice people. Very nice people, that much I can say for this place. And the hospital needs experienced transcriptionists. Hmm...we shall see what comes next. :)

Trees at the Edge of the Tundra

Trees at the Edge of the Tundra

by: Amber

I have been silent for hours and hours, contentedly,

staring out the mud-speckled window of a fast, but cautiously moving car

at an immeasurable expanse of Yukon wilderness,

a peaceful monotony interrupted only by the violent bumps in the

weathered road that jolt me temporarily out of the peace I am enjoying.

There is so much space for me to project myself here.

I feel I could unzip my body and release my soul with a whisper

“go now, fly away, be happy”,

as if it was a wounded bird I have nursed back to health

ready to fend for itself and return to the place it belongs in the wild with just a little coaxing

and a willingness, on my part, to let go.

I am learning to breathe a deep kind of breath that reaches to parts

of my lungs never expanded before, going further still into that

freshly hollowed out place where all of the things I said goodbye to used to exist.

It fills up with the breath I choose to breathe, in and out, in and out,

the pain starts to diminish as I allow myself to heal.

Underneath this I hear my heart beating steadily and I follow the beats down

into the realm of my deepest self, realizing there is a wildness there,

a naturally ordered and perfect chaos,

like a thousand fallen trees decaying on the forest floor

encircling those that remain standing. A part of me is still standing,

still upright and deeply rooted, but also inextricably fallen down.

I am beginning to acknowledge desires much more terrible and beautiful

than those I allowed myself to manifest before.

It all began with the choice to walk away from a life that did not resemble me,

a young woman choosing to trust the sometimes unfamiliar company of myself,

willing to endure the loneliness, the ambiguity of change.

Like the last few defiant trees at the edge of the tundra,

I push as far as I can beyond the lines I have drawn for myself

and move courageously into formidable but significant territory,

hoping beyond all hope not only to survive, but to be extraordinarily transformed,

arriving finally at an undivided life, one that resembles me more authentically than ever before.

So I stand, defiant, just like those trees at the edge of the tundra,

in the place where change is certain.

Grief -- a narrative

I was a road alone, lost, walking in endless circles, when an old woman came to me and took my hand. She did not speak a word, but her eyes asked me to follow, and hesitantly, wearily, I did. She started leading me away from the light, away from the brokendown path that held me, towards a shadowland in the distance I had never dared approach. As we drew nearer and nearer to it, I pulled away from her grasp, afraid of the darkness, but her gentle grip stayed me, and her soft eyes persuaded me that I must trust her and continue to walk with her -- she knew the way, she could see through the darkness.

~

So we journeyed together, me following like a child as the path became darker and darker still. I started to stumble over boulders and snares hidden from view, all control taken away from me as my eyes finally failed to find any light at all. An unbearable blackness consumed me, but the old lady led me determinedly forward, not allowing me to give in to my fear or be overcome by the ache of my memories, memories that felt so much easier and safer.

~

When I stumbled and wept, she dried my tears, cleaned my wounds, and led me forward still. When I was angry, she let me rest for a while, and I would scream and cry sometimes. But she stroked my hair with her swollen, aged fingers, holding me close like a baby in her cold but comforting arms until I was calm again. She invited a deep and indescribable kind of peace when I was unable to.

~

Day after day she did not speak, she did not explain where she was leading me, but there was reassurance in her gentleness, a safety in her leading I could believe in. Soon I started to feel hope like an infant being birthed in my heart and I asked her if the place she was taking me was going to be beautiful, feeling deep within me as if I already had the answer. She paused for a moment then sweetly took both of my hands in her own, placed them over her soft, age-worn cheeks and let me feel her brilliant smile. My soul leaped and her unspoken answer resonated as loud as a thunderbolt in my ears. I felt a light, a heat, a warmth shining on me, something that could not be seen, only felt, melting the ice in my heart. A river was forming in my very being.

~

I knew then that the darkness would persists for a season, but a new kind of light was illuminating my path; that the pain and the fear would only lend themselves to significance and beauty if I refused to give up, if I trusted this journey. I determined then that I would continue to walk, continue to trust the old woman, my compass, leading me to a promised land of light and new life.

~

But before I journeyed further I had one more question to ask, one I had not thought of all this time, "what is your name?". She moved her lips to my ear and intimately steadied my face with her hand, "Grief", she said, "my name is Grief". I kissed her on the cheek and held on tight to her hand, this time deliberately, for she was no longer a stranger but a friend and I was no longer a frightened child but a woman at the ready, and we walked on in peaceful silence together.

River God by Nichole Nordeman

Sigh. This song. It has meant so much to me since the first time I played it. It is MY song to God, His song to me...our song.

Always wanting to be a little bit smoother in His hand. Always.

Amber

25 Random Things About Me!

I was asked to make a list fo 25 random things about me...and here it is!

1. I don't like using bookshelves. I find them to be overly structured space hogs. I prefer to stack all of my books in piles all around my house -- livingroom, office, bedroom, sometimes even the hallway -- which serves two purposes:a) makes book storage fun and interesting, b) makes me seem slightly stranger than I really am.
2. I think almost all human beings have an inherent strangeness. I like it when you get close enough to a person that their strangeness becomes familiar.
3. I haven't read all of the books in my piles of books, which sometimes makes me question whether or not I am in the beginning stages of a hoarding habit. I console myself by promising to read them all...one day.
4. I truly enjoy salt water taffy -- it's like toffee meets care bears. In fact, I would go as far as saying if anyone ever brought me salt water taffy, I would probably kiss them...on the lips.
5. I am romantically involved with the ocean. I devout more time than you would guess to studying its creatures, its patterns, its depths, and its many many mysteries. When Chris and I started dating, he noticed I had a book about scary deep sea creatures in my bedroom that was from the Kelowna Public Library...that was when he fell in love with me. I don't know when my obsession started, but it's alive and well. Sometimes I dream that I am a spirit swimming through the ocean exploring all of its wonders interminably. Those dreams are the best. If we get to live where we want in the great beyond, I'd like to live in Heaven's ocean...seriously.
6. I like to elaborate (see #5).
7. I dream of one day writing a book whilst living on the edge of a cliff in Newfoundland over a six-month period. I'm not sure what the book will be about...yet. I'm also not sure how Chris would feel about that. ;)
8. I am watching The Planet Earth series as I write this, which I feel contains many metaphors about human life. Right now they are featuring the calf of a muskox. It is very cute. It is being stalked by an arctic wolf that is hoping to eat it for dinner. To protect it, all of the adult muskoxes surround it in a circle so the wolf is intimidated and walks away. As it would apply to human beings, I think this is a good idea.
9. I once won a jellybean jar contest by guessing the EXACT number of jellybeans in the jar. My mom told me there were many instances in my childhood when I did things like that and she believes I have special psychic abilities.
10. I know what you're thinking right now.
11. Sometimes I tell lies (see #10).
12. I love my mom and my dad immensely and have no issues with my childhood.
13. I have a soft spot for old men and sometimes I cry when I see them struggle with their ever-weakening bodies. Last week there was an old Chinese man trying his darnedest to speed up in order to catch a bus I was on. A bunch of young people were running passed him while he struggled with his cane. He didn't make it and just stood meters from the bus stop looking defeated. I teared up (like, I actually had to wipe tears from my eyes). I'm sure it wasn't as traumatic for him as it was for me. Old people are usually tough as nails.
14. I am both sensitive and stoic simultaneously.
15. I hate the sensation of a retained sneeze.
16. I have art on my walls that I actually hate and I'm not sure why I haven't taken it down. Analyze that!
17. When I watch figure skating on television I get so involved in it that I have been found to move my body and make faces in response to what I'm seeing. It's unconscious and kind of embarrassing, to the point where I have chosen to only watch figure skating alone. I'm sure if I were to watch the 2010 Olympic figure skating session live from the crowd, I would end up on the evening news.
18. I don't like the sound of my singing voice very much, except when I'm in big acoustic tunnels or empty churches playing alone.
19. I hope to have twins one day. Fraternal. One boy, one girl.
20. My favorite colour is turquoise.
21. I want to ride a bike through a lavender field in Provence wearing an orange sun dress and a white silk scarf, with my camera and a notebook in tow. I picture doing this when I am in my 60s.
22. I look forward to growing old. All of the “old” people I know are extraordinary and seem to possess their lives in a way young people just don't.
23. I once jumped off a cliff into a rushing river. Once, being the keyword.
24. I have enjoyed this subjective exercise.
25. I don't usually complete lists, to be honest.

Gratitude...

"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos into order, confusion into clarity.... It turns problems into gifts, failures into success, the unexpected into perfect timing, and mistakes into important events. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow."

*Melodie Beattie

Summertime...and the livin' is easy

My friend Erin Morgan is a gifted singer, and when I say gifted I mean the "blow your socks off, and make you weep uncontrollably" kind .

She and I just took a weekend holiday together in the Okanagan. We rode bikes through orchards, swam in a beautiful lake, listened to a mid-summer thunderstorm on my dad's front porch while he played guitar...and we recorded some music.

I asked Erin to sing and record George Gershwin's song "Summertime" -- thought it was fitting. Have a listen to her vocal interpretation we recorded this weekend, it's quite amazing.

Thanks, dad, for being a great techie and producer!

"Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone’s soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd."

Rumi

miscellaneous bits of kitchen debris

Today I remember my childhood kitchen. Probably a Saturday, mid morning in Lynn Valley on a rainy day. There was a large picture window behind the dining room table that mom would always open, inviting the perfume of the West Coast rainforest inside, its deep green and melancholy serving as the backdrop for the potentially monotonous and thankless tasks of the day. A little bit of beauty for ashes. These were days of hard work for my mom, days when even her elbows would inevitably run out of grease. We were too young then to identify the look of sheer exhaustion on the face of our over-worked mother. Of course, now I wish I could go back in time to alleviate it somehow, maybe just give her a hug, tell her she is enough as a mother, as a woman...then clean the oven for her.

I remember getting kitchen gravel stuck to the bottom of my cold little feet, after which mom would promptly sweep the floor. There was the unforgetable scent of a mishmash of spices hanging in the air around the pantry. To this day I revel in spices, and when I smell curry or cinnamon, onion salt or bay leaves, I am standing once again, three feet tall in front of a large wood-panelled pantry door with its intriguing smells inviting me inside to investigate.

I remember my mom often had wrinkled and soft hands from washing too many piles of dishes. She and my dad fed a lot of mouths other than their children's - hungry mouths, neglected mouths, the mouths of strangers that needed to be welcomed into a family. We always had guests at our table, young and old. I consider the hospitality of my parents a rich inheritance.

I remember mom's distinctive washing style, the blue terry cloth dunked in soapy water, water that was always far too hot for my little girl hands. That toleration for hot water was a divinely imparted talent in my mind, a necessary one that God developed especially for moms. One cannot clean properly without hot water after all. I figured someday this talent would be bestowed on me as well, and it became a milestone to look forward to, not unlike enjoying the taste of wine or drinking black coffee with breakfast. I still can't handle hot water to this day, but wine and black coffee on the other hand have become more than tolerable, even enjoyable.

After mom did the dishes it was onto the counters. She moved gracefully and fastidiously along, once in a while being interrupted by my sister and I bickering and needing her to put on her town sheriff hat or my youngest sister moving in for a snuggle and asking for a snack. The best snack was a peeled and cut up apple. Mom would take a paring knife and move the apple round and round, the peel falling onto the cutting board, a spiralling work of art. She always took time to peel them for us. Always. There's something so incredibly loving about that.

I learned to clean from my mother. I watched her carefully, closely, something we often do without realizing when we are children - something children often do without us realizing when we are adults. For instance, there were the globs of dried up raspberry jam on the counter, and the miscellaneous bits of kitchen debris trapped in the crevasses of the scarred wooden cutting board. She would always pay careful attention to these, getting every last crumb, seed, flake, and offending morsel, rinsing them all down the sink or into a pot of soapy water.

Counters are a kind of unofficial record keeping device, a possibly embarrassing indicator of when you last cleaned your kitchen. For instance, today when I was cleaning mine there were little flecks of parsley stuck on the cloth, and that would take me back to last Saturday evening when I made a beautiful Tuscan pasta with a parsley garnish. Right, four days ago. Phewf! That's not so bad. I wonder how far our counters took mom back? Well, I hope she took it in stride.

I remember mom's music playing, Joni Mitchell I think, singing out her poetry about painted ponies and cloud illusions, or Chelsea mornings when "the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses". Mom would often put on one of many many 90's praise and worship tapes - you know the ones where all of the singers ound a bit too "victorious" for their own good? There was beauty in them, though, despite my current distaste for the cheeseball music style. They were songs for Jesus, songs about God's love and goodness, His forgiveness and friendship, the truth floating through the room and wrapping around us like royal purple silk. I remember her singing along, and that sometimes she would get tears in her eyes, brace herself on a counter or lean against the wall, and be still...but just for a moment.

I don't think she cried or stilled herself often enough. Sometimes I'm not sure I do either, although mom oftentimes reminds me that I should, knowing what happens to a woman when she continually neglects her heart...even just to get the cleaning done.

I am cleaning my own kitchen today, a simple act which has ushered me into this delicate and nostalgic moment, this memory of my kitchen origins. It's mysterious and beautiful when we become enfolded by memories such as these, as if God is saying "Look, listen, remember, and be grateful". I am so grateful for my mom, for her tireless acts of service toward her family. For teaching me how to thoroughly clean a kitchen...

Spray with a good cleanser, dunk cloth in hot soapy water, make sure you get into the corners, wash down the cupboards, spot clean the coffee splashes on the coffee maker, the sticky collection on the toaster buttons, the streaking of dried liquid on the glass of the oven, and don't forget about the miscellaneous bits of kitchen debris trapped in the crevasses of your scarred wooden cutting board.

Right, away they go down the sink.

Amber

P.s. - I'm listening to Chelsea Morning as we speak...

Bus En Route Entertainment - The Narcoleptic Plumber

I was on the 250 Horseshoe Bay today, which takes about an hour from Downtown Vancouver to final destination. It's a long ride, a lot of starts and stops, but good for clearing the head. On this particular trip, however, having absentmindedly left my iPod at home as well as the book I'm reading right now (I Love the Word Impossible by Anne Kiemel), I had little to entertain myself with, save a pen with no lid and the back of a receipt on which to write - so classy.

I was in a conundrum, yes, but decided to do some people watching to pass the time, avoiding direct eye contact, of course.

For a few minutes, sightings of interest were scarce, so I just allowed myself to eavesdrop on the musings of retirees in wigs and stockings on their daily shopping adventures. But then I saw him -- the narcoleptic plumber.

He was sitting up, tool belt safely secured to waist, long pipe in hand (about a meter from the ground up - not sure why he brought this on the bus), with his head slumped forward, mouth wide open, faaast asleep. I was first curious about the mouth drooping open, wondering if he was going to drool and if I should prepare myself to be grossed out. I decided to put that one on the backburner. I did, however, notice he was ever so slowly stooping further and further forward in slumber towards the pipe he was holding on to and that, come one more bump in the road or fast start, he was going to hit it bang on, and hard.

I then began to question if this situation was one which required some intervention, some level of social benevolence. I chuckled at the thoroughness of my conscience, and after considering all of my options, I concluded there was no comfortable or pithy way of communicating a message to the effect of, "WAKE UP Mr. Wrench, you're going to hit your head on your pipe".

Yeah, that's what I was thinking.

So, I decided to make the most of the situation by granting myself the permission (guilt free) to be entertained by the plumber's plight. (Wow, who knew alliteration would make it into this post?!)

I watched for five minutes, enthralled in a slightly puckish manner, as he inched closer and closer toward the pipe. Then finally, after a red light on 13th Street...

BANG!

Mr. Wrench woke up.

He was jolted out of slumber, confused at what had just transpired, horrified at the little dabble of drool at the side of his mouth, and in pain after hitting his head on an unidentified hard object - the one he happened to be holding on to. It took him a couple of moments to orient himself and put two and two together; I found the whole scenario altogether amusing.

It was over almost before it began, and worth ever second.

This is why I love public transit - it is the stuff of blogs.

Demetri Martin Visual Jokes

One of my absolute favorite comedians. He's just plain dry and bizarre.
"With grapes, you always get another chance..." - love it!

:)

Be kind to this stranger.

I have a friend that I love very much. I was praying for her and some words started spilling out onto a page in my journal that felt very healing, not just for her, but for me. It's funny how God works like that - we are constantly reflecting truth onto each other and back to ourselves.

The words that came were these:

"...Sometimes giving yourself permission to accept NOT knowing who you are enables you to see clearly, with new eyes, to learn about yourself, find out what is really inside you. A season of befriending yourself, leaving the judgement, the criticism
aside, leaving room for a new voice, still and small to be heard. It's a loss
of control and security that eventually leads to a richness of self discovery
and new kinds of joy. Joy you need. Self you need. Be kind to this stranger,
and she will begins to unfold her secrets..."

There is something very powerful about those words. They hit me in that place way, way at down at the bottom of my well.

Permission to accept that you don't know yourself entirely, a sobering sense of having only seen the tip of the iceberg, not allowing that to be a fearful or unsettling realization.

Leaving the judgment and the criticism aside so you can start to receive truth.

Listening to what God is whispering in your ear; being led down new and exhilarating corridors of yourself, seeing doors to rooms you never knew existed, rooms you now have the opportunity to enter.

Creating space for joy and excitement to exist inside you once again.

Being kind to this stranger, even tender, until she feels safe enough to reveal her secrets, to show you more than just your 'potential' and what you will be, but perhaps what you have been all along.

Coming to understand that you were formed, specifically, on purpose - we cannot build, we can only build upon.

Take a deep breath in, fill my lungs, and breathe out.

It feels so much better seeing through this lens.



Amber.

Like Totally Whatever - You Know? by Taylor Mali

The preamble:
My friend, Alec, who is the intern pastor at my church, read this poem on Sunday to coincide with what he was teaching.

I think it's probably one of the most poignant poems I've ever heard in that it articulates with both playfulness and solemnity a very serious problem in our culture - the inability to speak with conviction, to stand behind your own thoughts and ideas, to be A TRUE individual.

Give this a read - it's quite powerful.

Kudos to Taylor Mali for writing it and to Alec for sharing it with all of us.



Totally Like Whatever, You Know?
By Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com

In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences - so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not -
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally . . .
I mean absolutely . . . You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like . . .
whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness
is just a clever sort of . . . thing
to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since . . .
you know, a long, long time ago!

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.

I am listening now - a poem

This poem is a retrospective poem, I wrote it a couple of months ago reflective of this past year.

There is so much worth in slowing down, even breaking down, in order to hear God.

Here is the poem:



LISTENING NOW

My world is loud, so loud, in fact, I cannot hear my heart.
So many knots in my stomach, I want to unravel them.
All the callings, yearnings, questions from a place deep, a place hidden -
a place that got lost.
There must be bones buried there, bones of a creature I used to be,
a creature I'm meant to be.
I want to go through, walk in and sort it all out,
but I get to the door of trying and it’s just too hard.
I've posted a note to myself, it's so convincing, "ACCESS DENIED!".

Denied, my true longings, my true self, and in its place are so many tasks,
standards, to do's, to don'ts. Work, phone, e-mail and ipod, and I’m bowing every day to the clock.
A mechanical device, a merciless taskmaster, making sure I get on to the next thing, and the next, and the next after that. Striving to not fail, not let anyone down.
I am time impoverished.

Impoverished, I can't think, I can't rest, I can't even hear.
The still voice, the small voice, the one that knocks and waits for me to
answer. Always ready when I am. He navigates me through the storm toward Himself - the centre, the calm, a place He knows I will be able to hear Him, see Him. It's Eye contact.
Standing on top of a fearful ocean, calling me to step out and join him,
and I want to respond to this invitation.

This invitation, to stop, to Sabbath, to do as He does, receiveing His deep
covenant with me. He wants me to rest and be like a child,
to know, like Hagar alone by that spring in the desert,
"the God who sees me!". Building His Kingdom in my heart.
Feeling His kindness thick in the air even as He exposes me,
takes away my hiding places.
"Don't be afraid". I swallow these words like cold glacier water deep into my body, and I allow myself to be ushered into His courts.

His courts, this holy place, I cross the threshold, and I am altered.
Lucid, aware now that there is a profound freedom awaiting me,
a weightlessness that I thought belonged only to the angels, the clean ones. My heart begins again to feel that overflow, worship has returned.
“You are good! You are good! You are good! You are good!”.
I can smell his comforting scent all around me,
and I am reintroduced to joy as I slide down majestic hallways in my socks, landing in a pile of holy pillows.

Pillows, on which I rest all of my heaviness. Abiding. Full weight, body limp, eyes shut. I breathe, respirations in and out, a tide in my body.
I am quiet. "Like a weaned child is my soul within me".
The words echo in my heart, for I like King David have been fighting, seeking justification, offering excuses; now understanding that resistance is futile in light of the desperation in my heart, "I am that man!". I am that woman. Closer and closer, He is moving, and as the silence deepens, I can finally say in earnest, "I am listening now".


Listening, as He speaks so gently, His voice reaching the farthest horizon of all that I am. Slowly He begins to access that which I have denied.
Stinging tears on red cheeks, the shock and horror as I see the parts of
my conscious the hot iron has threatened to sear shut!
All of my secrets brought to light - grief, forgotten callings, unspoken prayers, shame, sin, and so many lies. Bars of iron, each one of these, built up all around me, and I didn't hear the clanking, the metal on metal,
because my world has been so loud.

And then with a weak voice I cry...

"YAWEH!"

Silence.

"YAWEH!"

Healing.

"YAWEH!"

Restoring.

YAWEH.

So loud, the cry of my heart for silence. So still and small, the voice that I need to hear. So free, the moment He speaks and I listen…

I am listening now.

Tibet Haiku

I ache for Tibet

Spiritual nomads live free

Why would you cage them?

War Dance a video Story of Truimph of Acholi Children

Saw this documentary on Sunday at Langara College.

It amazes me that children who have suffered so much can sing and dance and open their arms to joy. Just a testament of God, of the human spirit of survival.

These children are the most beautiful creations.

A

For the love of Crocs!!

Okay, for people who hate crocs and think they're ugly, I say...walk a mile in my shoes!!

Crocs are the best thing since sliced bread. They make our feet happy, which, in turn, makes us happier in general. You probably hate crocs because you wear uncomfortable shoes that look good but hurt your feet and make you sad and uncomfortable and homicidal. People who need a pair of crocs...hmmm, lets see: Emos, Kim Jong II, Alec Baldwin, Ebenezer Scrooge - just to name a few.

Its time for the liberation of feet! Take off those beautifully designed shoes that turn you into a hater and put on the ugly shoes that will make you a lover. I mean, just the fact that croc wearers wear crocs makes us nicer people. I have never met a mean croc wearer. Maybe wearing ugly shoes just makes us more humble - I don't know.

What I do know - if everyone wore crocs, the world would probably be a nicer place! Maybe not esthetically ('cause let's admit, crocs are clogs meet playdough') but comfortable feet make a more peaceful and happy wearer, and thus, a more peaceful and happy world!

Crocs are the answer. Wear crocs.