Music feeds my soul

It's a boring Wednesday. It's dark and wet outside, and somehow my mood has decided to reflect this.

I drank too much wine last night, I'm behind on all of my work, both for teacher's college and for the PhD program I start soon. I haven't touched any of my personal writing in weeks. There are plenty of other things I should be doing right now.

Instead, I'm writing about music. I don't own an iPod, I don't go to concerts. I don't buy CDs or upload music from iTunes very often. I sing along to the radio, steal music from my siblings and stumble across artists in an haphazard manner. In all, I'm no music guru. I am not known for my amazing taste, my amazing talent, or my amazing knowledge of music.

Yet, music shapes me. It moves me. It sends my heart soaring, my mood plunging, my feet taping; my voice gets exercised and my soul fed.

I am an emotional creature, and music feeds my need to rejoice or sob. It allows me to brood over my decisions, lament the lost opportunities of the heart, grin and remember beautiful kisses and cuddling, laugh and remember all the silly moments of my past....music is a sensory recall, it's a reminder of the greatest and lowest emotions we feel as humans. I've always been a daydreamer, and secretly a hopeless romantic, and I think the time I get to enjoy these two aspects of myself the most is when I'm enveloped in a song, in music. I express myself through the words I write, yet I would kill to be able to express myself through song and words as so many musicians do.

Instead I must settle for borrowing their emotions, their joys and sorrows. Some artists simply get me moving and stick their badly rhyming words into my skull unvinvited. Others, however, tell stories so deeply moving I could weep hearing their words. They shift every part of my being into their mood, sweeping me into the ballad of their past heartbreaks.

There are a couple of bands/artists that can do this to me at the snap of their fingers, and on a day like today, when the weather begs me to brood and reflect, to long for things I can't quite reach and find unnoticed tears on my cheeks, I turn to them for solice, for comfort, for understanding and connection with words and music that echo the strongest of our emotions as humans. Songs that touch the darkest and lightest parts of us, just by singing along.

Artists like Adele, Priscilla Ahn, The Damnwells and Schyler Fysk have been on my repeat list today.

Adele's Someone Like You drags old skeletons out of the closet, making me mourn a bit for the broken hearted teenager I once was. Feelings I can't quite talk about here.

Priscilla's Dream is a haunting song of life lived to the fullest, a melody I hope is played at my funeral. Living my dreams is a daunting ambition to me at times. I feel like Bambi on unsteady legs when I think of my future and my potential as a human being. This song is an encouragement to me, to my future, to my heart, to my dreams. It says, be this person, the person that reaches for the best in yourself, that pushes to leave this world with a full life lived.

The Damnwells have an amazing ability to get my mood elevated SUPER high, or crash me into a sea of mellow and reflection. Their song Soundtrack strikes me as a sad version of Hey Jude. It's directed at a man letting the opportunity of love slip through his fingers. This is no girl band bitchfest, this is a genuine cry from man to man to not walk away from someone who needs him, who wants him, someone who will make him a better man. I've felt like that woman a time or two in my life, and hearing these lyrics from such a different perspective, interacting with pain, the emotions of the situation, the uncertainty and fear of all involved sheds light on the utter helplessness we sometimes experience when it comes to love. Sometimes, it isn't about us, about what we are feeling, or aren't doing. Sometimes it's just total uncertainty and an unwillingness to get hurt on the other person's part, and learning that lesson is important. We need to know we are only in charge of our own feelings, and we should never apologize for them.

Finally, dear Schyler Fysk. Covering Joshua Radin's Paperweight, Fysk brings a secret smile to my face whenever a moment or two of her song plays in my head. The lyrics "Happy to be here, just happy to lay here, I'm happy to know you" infuse my heart. They remind me on a day like today, when sad heartache lyrics draw me close, that songs about these intimate moments we can share with the people around us exist. We can be happy to lay on our beds, staring at someone who makes us smile.

And that is why I love music, why music feeds my soul. It shows me the colour wheel of emotion I am capable of. It sends me into daydreams, it keeps me humming and dancing. Music inspires me to feel, even when the last thing I want is to acknowledge my emotion.

reviewing my academia: Literocracy for Girls: A Gender-Centred Narrative of Literacies

I was reflecting today on literacy, and thought about this paper I had written several months ago while doing my master's degree. It was for an awful class with a professor I detested (and still detest) but it was one of the most interesting and satisfying pieces of work I had come to write yet. So, I feel like I need a 'hey, look how awesome I am' moment. Enjoy!

Literacy Educator: what a terrifying title. The very idea that my master's degree is preparing me for a career-long role of literacy education is haunting. Last September, literacy was a very simple and straightforward concept to me: learning to read and write, and to comprehend the written word. I was a History/English double-major undergrad, loved to read and engage in debates and discussions around books, and so I thought I was completely prepared for the role of literacy educator. Then I was introduced to the terms functional literacy, which is the traditional definition of literacy (and the type I have described as my earlier understanding of the concept) and multiple literacies. Weeks (2002) would suggest that multiple literacies, made up of both the traditional literacy of reading, writing and understanding text, and new literacies, reading subtext in T.V. programs or interpreting dance movement, are pertinent in the lives of children and how we as parents and teachers prepare them for the future. With this plethora of literacies placed before me, I have come to realize how important it is that I as a 'literacy educator' understand my own literacies. I believe it is important to reflect on my own literacy journey and my experiences with texts in order to understand the journeys my students embark on in my classroom. Self-reflection is the first step in creating a classroom space that values and fosters students' "economies of expression" (Fisher, 2005, p.93).

Expression and reading expression are the building blocks of multiple literacies. Students who are given the freedom to express will hopefully in turn see the meaning behind the expressions of others, whether that be media, text, or voices. Fisher (2005) labels this brand of literacy learning as Literocracy. She once had a discussion with D.J. Cipher, a famous New York radio station D.J. about her role as a literacy educator. Cipher questioned the word 'literacy', and suggested it was stifling and confining. From this discussion, Literocracy was born: "Cipher offered the term "literocracy" instead, and together we re-imagined literacy to be inclusive of orality, music, and other creative expressions that engage young people" (Fisher, 2005, p.92). Greene (2000) suggests that a key component of education today should revolve around the life stories of all in the classroom, to allow diversity of voice to flow throughout the educational process. "No matter what our personal inclinations, teachers especially can no longer obliterate the diverse voices, unashamed of their distinctiveness, speaking life stories and cultural stories sometimes at odds with or contemptuous of the sacred writs of mainstream life." (p.171) I would suggest that the analysis of my passage in literacy so far is the first step of allowing these voices into my future classrooms, giving students the freedom to explore their own narratives in similar and totally new ways.

Literocracy wasn't enough of a concept to tackle, for me, when deciding to engage with my literacy narrative. I also desired to insert gender into the mix. Another concept my master's degree has forced me to re-examine is my view of the word "feminist". I hardly would have dared to call myself a feminist before this year. Reading the narrative of Megan Rivers-Moore in Turbo Chicks (2002) gave me an Aha! moment about my own views on feminism: "So many young women won't call themselves feminists because they are afraid. Afraid of being called "man-haters," afraid of being unattractive, afraid of speaking too loudly or taking up too much space" (p.60). I was raised with four brothers, and while that has provided me with many tools for self empowerment, I realize upon reflection that this has also caused me to be worried about what my siblings thought of me, what their friends thought of me. I always wanted to be 'one of the guys', to hang out and be included. Feminist ideas had no place in that space.

Literocracy for Girls: A Gender-Centred Narrative of Literacies, therefore, will examine areas of multiple literacies that promote spaces where literocracy can be fostered: physical literacy, traditional literacy, digital literacy, and poetic/performance literacy. As I examine my personal literacy experiences in each of these literacies, I will also examine how my gender has played its role in my literacy journey. While these reflections will certainly be drawn from past experience, it is my desire to examine them using a poststructuralist lens: "The hope that poststructural theory offers is that the story of who we take ourselves to be is never concluded. We are always changing and becoming, even as we read" (p.280 Cherland). I hope that through this paper, I will open myself up to further change, greater growth, as a literocracy educator. As Greene (2000) states: "I am convinced that through reflective and impassioned teaching we can do far more to excite and stimulate many sorts of young persons to reach beyond themselves, to create meanings, to look through wider and more informed perspectives at the actualities of their lived lives" (p.172)

My Daddy says girls can play ball too!

I will begin my journey with perhaps the least understood of my literacies: Physical literacy. The definition of physical literacy provided by the Canadian Sport Centre (Higgs, Balyi, Way, Cardinal, Norris, & Bluechardt, 2008) is: "...the development of fundamental movement skill and fundamental sport skills that permit a child to move confidently and with control, in a wide range of physical activity, rhythmic (dance) and sport situations. Physical literacy also includes the ability to 'read' what is going on around them in an activity setting and react appropriately to those events" (p. 5). My entire childhood revolved around sports. When I wasn't swimming, diving, figure skating, doing gymnastics, jazz dance, tap dance, ballet playing basket-ball, hockey, baseball or soccer, I was sitting on a bench or in the stands at all these sports plus football for one of my siblings' games. My father coached basketball, baseball and football, and the entire family usually went to games. Our mealtimes and my father's work schedule orbited around our sports schedules and game seasons. I spent hours learning the proper baseball stance to hit a ball, hours shooting hoops in the driveway, long days in the pool perfecting a butterfly stroke. I learned the physical literacy of all the sports I personally played, as well as those my siblings played. My most cherished evenings are those spent at the football field, watching my dad draw out plays, my brothers go for long catches down the field, boys spitting mouth guards out to sip from the giant water bottles I was responsible for filling. I loved football. However, football was too rough for me to play, my mother felt. Too rough? For a girl who spent hours trying to battle her way out of suitcases and locked closets thanks to torturous older brothers?

I soon learned that being a girl did affect my ability to play certain sports. After too many pitches to the body while playing hardball, my mom asked me to switch to softball. I was one of two girls in the entire hardball league for my age group, and I clearly was no longer welcomed in the space of my childhood. The softball league played at a different baseball park in the city, and I was heartbroken to have to leave the Legion, where I knew the diamonds, smelt the river close by, and was on good terms with the Tuck shop workers. It is interesting now to reflect on the loss I felt at this injustice, for when I mentioned it to my parents they hardly seem to remember it being a big issue. Despite the setbacks and small injustices from being female, sports and physical movement were empowering assets in my young adult years. Whitehead (2007) states that physical literacy is based upon a solid foundation where children and youth can develop the skills, knowledge and attitudes across a wide variety of activities so that they might engage with poise and confidence. The agency that physical literacy has provided me allows me to force my way into discussions about fantasy football leagues, the NHL draft, and the latest homerun record. I can engage in conversations with male colleagues and male students that most women cannot. Promoting sports/physical literacy among girls isn't something that is popular in schools. Sure we play, but are we immersed into the language like young men are? Who would ever imagine that teaching girls the fundamentals of language of a game like football could bring down gender stereotyped walls? It isn't enough to learn to play it; one must learn the literacy of it.

Jane, Charlotte and George Martin: Traditional Literacy

From sports to novels, I travel from unique new literacy to traditional literacy. I could write an entire academic paper on my relationship with the novel, but for the purpose of examination and expression, I will focus on three authors and their particular works that have allowed room for identity formation in me as a reader: Jane Austen (namely Pride and Prejudice) Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, and George R.R. Martin's series A Song of Ice and Fire. The first two novels are classics; I have studied them each at least twice in my academic career, read them a dozen times each, and own at minimum 3 copies of either book. I acted out monologues by Jane Eyre for a grade 12 literature course, daydreamed about being Mrs. Darcy, and aimed to one day write novels as fabulous as Brontë or Austen. Cherland (2009) suggests that "we share discourses with other people, which permits us to share ideas of how the world works" (p. 275). The words of these female authors, written almost 200 years before I was born, taught me ideas about love and relationships that have been hard to shake. Mr. Darcy is as real to me today as he was when I was thirteen.

I could list the numerous scholars who have discussed the character of Jane Eyre as a positive feminist example, but instead I will suggest that to the mind of a young girl, it felt like Jane was trapped by her love, crippled by insecurity and uncertainty just as badly as the physical deformities of her lover crippled him. Upon reading an article on the search throughout old folktales for stories of positive female role models, I reflected on whether or not I had been exposed to any positive female characters such as the ones they described: Concern over whether a strong female character existed in fairytales led a number of feminist scholars to search through old folktale anthologies to discover whether among the old tales there were not also stories that featured strong, resourceful, independent, and active females, females whose physical appearance is incidental, females who are quite capable of solving their own (and others') problems in the world. (Trousdale and McMillan, 2003 p.3)

The greatest example I could draw on came from a very unlikely source: Epic Fantasy. George R.R. Martin's series A Song of Ice and Fire is not at first glance a series one would tote as positive feminist discourse. In fact, some feminist scholars might have me burnt at the stake for suggesting otherwise. A series filled with oppressed women, women who have to use their bodies to get want they want, and the utter derision of female characters that play any role besides that of wife and mother, it gave me the opportunity to observe more women like those searched for in the old folktales than the novels given to me by my mother or librarian. Characters like Brienne, a young woman, unfortunate in looks, who is a swordswoman, fighting for a just cause, and attempting to rescue a missing young woman, taught me to hold my head high, even when not being ladylike. The Stark sisters, Arya and Sansa, are young girls completely different in thought and action, yet both facing the realities around them, determined to overcome whatever they face. For Sansa, it's losing the blindfold of chivalry and a beautiful court, to discover that her body and her father's title mean much more than anything she has to say or anything she feels. For Arya, the reality that the proper role of young lady her mother wishes she would embrace is too much, and she rebels continually, even getting permission from her father to be trained in sword-fighting. She murders, she steals, she lies, and she loses her entire identity, to keep from being turned into a hostage against her parents' good behaviour.

As I write this, I can think of at least 3 or 4 more female characters in this series that face more than Elizabeth Bennet could even dream in her worst nightmare, and I cherish the lessons in strength and expression I have learnt from these books.

Digital Who? Digital Me!

My literacy narrative would not be complete without a brief examination of the role of video games within it. I play videogames. Not simple word games or strategy games typical of most girl gamers (Gee, 2004; Jenson & de Catell, 2009), but hardcore, 'gamer' type games such as Knights of the Old Republic and DragonAge Origins. Yes, the infection of gaming seeped from the minds of my brothers into my unassumingly little head and drives me to this day to playing. Alberti (2008) notes the popular use of the phrase "to play videogames", prompting him to question the verb to play "While the verb "play" is used in reference to other art forms, it usually applies to the producers of artistic texts—musicians, actors—rather than their audiences, play video games" (Alberti, 2008). This brings into question the role of the person playing videogames. Alberti suggests that video gaming is a discursive situation where the processes of "creation" and "reception" mesh together (Alberti, 2008, p.262).

However, who takes part in the creation of this text? Are most women like me, or is my affinity for gaming simply a by product of my environment, the 'infectious' nature of belonging and togetherness I felt from participating with my brothers? Jenson and de Castell (2009) would suggest that my gender is still desperately underrepresented in this modern literacy, that "Girls and women...continue to be under-represented as players and are woefully few in the industry (latest figures from the International Game Developers Association (IGDA) put the number of women working in the commercial games industry at 11.5%"( p.2). The danger in this lack of gender discourse, the male oriented targeting of the industry, is apparent if one simply examines the games that sit at the top of the gaming ranks: Overtly sexual, often misogynistic. As primary targets of gaming industry, most games will cater to their interests, heroes, favourite sports, and overall social roles. Educators should be looking for ways to engage students, male and female, in a discourse that examines the day to day media and text they are ingesting. If boys are digesting texts that misrepresent both sexes in highly skewed and unrealistic fashion, and girls are completely cut off from most of the gaming world, we are failing to engage in critical literacy with young people.

I concluded my paper with an interesting interaction with poetry and my intense hatred for Bernie the prehistoric chauvenist (please ask me for details), but I feel like ending this post on a gamer note is more productive. More to come on my interaction with literacy, perhaps.

Found my Rhythm

If I blog about my disappointments and struggles, my moments of self disgust, I must too write about the moments of triumph I experience. Today was one of those days. A day where I choked up in class, not out of frustration, but out of emotion, out of connection with my students when two openly cry 'why? why did this happen?' A day where my biggest problem child sits quietly through my lecture, and is the first to put his hand up when I ask if there are questions. A day where when I assign homework, each child eagerly writes down the info they need to begin their research. A day when I felt like not only was I teaching my kids something important, but we were all learning from each other what it means to see suffering in others, and ask why it had to happen. Today I taught a lesson in each of my grade 7 classes (100 kids) on childhood and child soldiers in Sierra Leone. We watched an interview with Ishmael Beah on the Hour, and a documentary filmed a few months after the end of the war which interviews both child soldiers and child amputees. We had a long discussion about what it means to be a child soldier, and that they still exist today. Next class, we have decided to create an awareness campaign, and my students will be designing posters to inform their school about the issue of Child Soldiers. Through the sorrows of others my kids and I found our rhythm. Their outraged questions and discussions today showed me we need each other.

Lost

It's been a while. Sometimes I have no desire to write and share my feelings. Right now, I really wish I could talk to someone instead of write out what I'm thinking. However, I'm in Mexico on a student placement for school, and 2 weeks from talking with my normal 'talk things through' people. Skype keeps dying, so that option's out, and somehow discussing what I'm experiencing right now via msn just doesn't seem good enough. First, let me say that I am lost. How or why, I really cannot comprehend. I just am. I have walked in the door after a weekend that has left me turned around and wondering what I'm doing with myself. I went to a region of Mexico called Sierra Gorda. It's a huge biosphere nature reserve thousands of kilometres big. We drove 3 hours into the mountains on the scariest roads I have ever been on. For 20 kms in the middle of this mountain reserve, we decided to count the number of crosses/memorials to road victims. After 11 in 20 kms, I stopped. Saturday night was actually filled with my shooting awake in the midst of a nightmare which has me falling from a cliff. I don't think the nightmare is simply a manifestation of my experience driving on the craziest roads on earth (pictures and video to come). Falling off a cliff and the sensation of falling, ever falling with no clear bottom under me, no real ending, just seems to be a great analogy for my life. Where is this coming from? Did I not just spend two glorious days hiking, swimming in crystal clear waterfalls and gorgeous jungle with beautiful rivers filled with peace, calm and joy? Yes. Never have I felt more at peace as I do in the woods along side a rushing river, dancing over stones. I sat in El Puento de Dios (The Bridge of God) for 2 hours today, just drowning in the calm. However, this reserve is also home to some of the poorest people in the state of Queretaro, where I am. The beautiful log cabin which I slept in for the weekend shared a cliffside with some of the poorest shacks I have ever seen. Dirty children offered to guide us to our hiking destination for a hundred pesos. I asked one boy where he goes to school through my host's boyfriend, my spanish not being anywhere good enough to ask this. He mentioned a town 10km away from his home on the cliff. Driving through the countryside and mountains taught me just how UN normal my host city is. Queretaro is filled with the wealthy upper and unheard of mexican middle classes. It's full of modern stores and American SUVs. It seems wonderful, until you see what most other people are living like. I have felt a bit of uncertainty about my desire to come here, and my purpose as an educator in an american independent school full of well off children. I learned earlier this week that my students experience a different kind of neglect, and that my empathy for them shouldn't be diminished by their aparent status. That is now something I have to make a part of my time here, trying to get the most of the experience for me as an educator, and to give as much to them as I can. But I sit here thinking, I am teaching the wealthy, and going on fun excursions on weekends...where is the good in this? Where is the Kelsey that wants to fix things, and stand up for the good of others? Why didn't I pick a placement that forced me to get dirty, and truly serve others? Who am I serving here? Myself? Who am I helping? What am I doing? WHO IS THIS WOMAN? I was suppose to sit down tonight and write my statement of intent for my PhD. Except, every idea, every potential research issue I thought I wanted to explore flew out my car window this afternoon as I stewed. I cannot sit here and benefit from an amazing learning opportunity that is being given to me, and do nothing worth while with it. I will not accept this from myself. Researching video gaming culture when kids are living in the street? When children live in homes where two walls are made of plastic sheets? When young people are passed through classrooms and left to literacy class at 18 and barely able to write because no one wanted to deal with them? Who do I think I am? Why do I deserve to get paid to do a 4 year degree with NO purpose? No fixing, no serving of the young people I'm suppose to care about? I do not deserve one penny of scholarship money if I think for one minute I can do that. If I forget again what it means to serve and fight for the betterment of others, for young people who deserve so much more than some pretentious academics idea of what video games mean to their social interaction. Shame on me. Perhaps I'm being left alone in my own head a little too much here. Maybe I'm being harder on myself than I normally am. This weekend, however, showed me beauty beyond imagine, and I loved every moment of that experience. But it was a painful, hard weekend too. One that left me crying in the bathroom when we went to dinner, careful to hide my heart from people trying to show me a good time.

Art of Who?

A blog is naturally a pretty self-absorbed concept: I'm going to write about things I find interesting and post it on the inter-web.

So, as I've established that this blog is about me, and things I want to talk about, write about, interact with and/or rant, cry, laugh, sigh, and shout about, I see nothing wrong with writing a blog about what I contribute to the world around me.

Weird mood, Kelsey? Ya.

I sat in a guest speaker lecture this evening about what the earth would look like if humans were to suddenly disappear from the face of the planet. It was a disturbing look at how we are ravenously consuming our planet and our resources, and the speaker urged us to contemplate the idea of reducing our birth rates for a generation or two, as a global society, in order to bounce back. As disturbed and shocked as I was by the general topic and his solutions, I was enveloped in a major self-reflection. He forced us to recognize how much of what we have designed as humans, our infrastructure, our art, our highways and subways, our homes, our written language, everything we create will fade in that world without humans, eventually consumed by the thriving earth left behind to recover from syndrome human.

Selfishly, the only strong emotion I came away with from this lecture wasn't my new found recycling plan, or the desire to grow and make my own food, but rather despair, as I reflected on what I will leave behind. What am I contributing to the world around me in a meaningful way, that will impact those around me even after I return to the dirt?

I am a historian, and deal every day with the names of people who DID something, good or bad, to remain relevant to people hundreds, sometimes thousands of years later. I read the news at times and wonder, which of these stories, these people, will last further than this moment, or the next, into a collective history, contributors to the story of humankind?

What will I give? Who will I be to people 100 years from now? A headstone? A memorial plaque? At 24 years of age, the most permanent contribution I have given to the world thus far is a facebook page and a blog that I occasionally write on. I don't have diaries and shoe boxes filled with meaningful letters about wars and hardships. I haven't written a best selling novel, or deeply imperative non-fiction reflection on the state of young adults hitting their quarter-life crisis. I haven't begun a movement like Save the Children, nor solved a world crisis or cured a disease.

Will I? Can I? Will it be enough to change the lives of students in minuscule ways over a 30 year career teaching? Will my potential children stop and reflect at the person that was their mother and think, yes, she stood for something, she left her mark, she did great things for people?

We have dreams growing up, of who we will be, who we might marry, what awesome job we might have, the freedoms of travel and having fun, exploring life and the world. Some of us never make it to that part of life. We die young, in tragic car accidents, or desperate self injury.
Or, we do make it, and we build up debt going to universities for degrees that won't give us much other than a 9-5 we hate, a mortgage payment, spoilt kids, overpriced SUV, acid reflux and two marriages. We'll die at 83, in a home filled with others in same deteriorated state, uncertain of who we are, and what we've left behind worth doing.

Despair is a terrifying emotion; especially in one as lucky as I am. I've never been hungry two days in a row, or faced armed conflicts in my neighbourhood. I have so much to be happy and thankful for. Yet is it enough? Brutal and Honest: NO. It isn't enough for me. It can't be all there is to my life. I will not settle for mediocre, everyday living.
I will go to the ends of this earth and back, I will fight for social change, I will use the voice and privilege I have to be more, do more, fight more.

How? When? In what way? Who will I help? I don't know yet. I just feel it in the pit of my stomach, that there is much more I can be.

In other news...

Some of you may remember my awful slam poetry incident. You know, where I wrote that paper, and designed those lessons? For that class? From hell? Taught by the Fascist Dinosaur that repressed me and tried to smother my soul?

Ya. That assignment.

Well, somehow I got an A out of class I was suppose to be failing. I blame teenagers, pot, and George Bush. They all saved me. Or drove Bernie mad enough to give me an A.

Anywho. I had to talk with some folks about it today, whilst preparing for making another droll, life shattering lesson plan about, you guessed it, Slam Poetry.
I figured, I should blog a link to that beauty, just to make myself feel a little more important than I actually am. Note to the viewer: This was recorded in July. I have since cut my hair. some of you may not recognize this. I apologize for the trip.

Here she is, in all her glooooory!

One of those days

Ever have one of those days?

• A day where you lose your new Queen's coffee thermos thingy?
• A day where you are so tired you think you could just drop, right there in history curriculum class?
• A day where you got minimal sleep the night before because you put a ridiculous amount of effort into a pamphlet and a lesson plan?
• A day where you go to the mall (ew) to buy something to where out to impress no one that really matters so you can feel a smidgen of importance? And then NOT find a damn thing?
• A day where staring at the poop coloured walls of your dorm room seems like the most engaging thing you are capable of?

Ya. I'm having one of those days.

• One where every mirror I see makes me feel like a sumo wrestler
• One where I swear people are avoiding me
• One where I wish people were avoiding me
• One where all I had to do was watch Breakfast Club, eat Taco Bell and write a blog about absolutely nothing

Bully Lecture

I just wanted to write a quick blurb tonight about this fantastic speaker who came to Queen's and gave a lecture this evening on Bullying entitled: The Bully, The Bullied and the Bystander. Barbara Coloroso treated this subject with dignity, seriousness and a sprinkle of humour.

I learnt a lot as a future educator about my role in the school as a safe place for students and as someone who never tolerates the targeting of people, young and old, by a group of people. Ever.
It reaffirmed a great many of the lessons I learnt last year in Tim Stanley's Racism and Anti-racism course during my master's degree.

Most importantly, however, it allowed me the dignity of recognizing the moments I have been bullied. It gave me the freedom to say to myself, no it's not right to be treated in a way the dehumanizes me. When people think less of me or make rude comments because I'm curvier than the media created image of a perfect woman, it isn't MY fault. There is NOTHING wrong with me, but with them. These actions are malicious and are meant to harm.
Who would ever do such a thing, you might ask. Adults, teachers, figures of authority, random people on the street. People are capable of hate.
I had a fellow teacher candidate in my program call me a chubby weirdo in class last week. I was angry, I gave her a snappy come back, and turned around. Yet, the shame of the moment stuck with me all day. Made me want to cry my eyes out, actually. Tonight's talk gave me a little bit of my confidence back.

I think Barbara's lessons on raising kids to be caring, compassionate people who don't need a reward to be decent human beings are fantastic. Look her up, buy her book. You'll be glad you did.

In the beginning...Part 2

OK. So let us begin, in the beginning. Now, I'm not trained in theology, I'm not a pastor, deacon, youth leader or Sunday school supervisor. I'm just a person, with faults and flaws; so this isn't my attempt at spewing doctrine, or telling people what to do with their lives. This is me, interacting with God's word, in any way I know how: Humourous, sarcastic, serious, intellectual, confused, lost, and genuine. I'm not writing this to engage in debates with people, or have arguments. I'm writing this for my own sake, my own discovery, and if someone else finds a piece of themselves as a result, so be it. So with those emotions to guide us, please be considerate and non-judgemental should you choose to post comments. Thanks! GO!



Genesis chapter 1

Man, can't we start somewhere easy? Hmm...should I have tried to jump around a little more, instead of this 'chronological' order stuff? Because, creation is a heavy topic. It's usually peoples' go to section of the word to challenge whenever faith or bible or Christian come up in a conversation. This is like throwing yourself into the deep end when you can't swim, relying on cheap dollar store water wings to keep yourself afloat. Baby steps. First blog will be on just one chapter. But, here goes nothing...


Gen. 1:1

"In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters."

Sounds like a movie trailer for Avatar 2.

That was the first thought I had after reading this chapter. The second one was: Is this a simplified version of the moments of creation? Why water it down?

Chapter one goes through the first 6 days of creation. It is historically thought to be written by Moses (or so says a few scholars I consulted and my archaeological version of the NIV study bible). So, written thousands of years after the events in question, if you are interpreting exact dates of the Bible. This is a big contention for some people, and me. Do I believe that those are literal 6 days of creation? Or metaphoric? Did God let the earth grow into its new features before populating it? Did He create man after the animals got a bit boring? I'm getting ahead of myself. What is chapter 1? Well, it's a condensed account of creation, written by a man who wasn't there but called to write about it by God.

Each day, God shifts the land, water, sky into position, throws some lights up in the sky so the new platypus and zebras don't bump into trees, and creates asparagus and shrimp. Yum.

That might be flippant, but it's honest. Did God really take 6 days to create the earth? Did a 'God' really create the earth in the first place? Didn't we just evolve from the microbes sticking to the side of a giant meteor or something? Wait, no, it was a BANG thing, right?

Creation. Sigh. Here's my take on it: I once had to dissect an African Grasshopper, this giant black and yellow monster who looked like he wanted to suck out my brains. While squeamishly cutting into him, I realized how many tiny, delicate, perfect parts there were to this brain sucker. He was perfect, balanced, a piece of art. Did he just eventually make himself that, slowly through evolution, and decided, meh, who wants to be an advanced life form, Grasshopper is good enough? Many people think he did. I, however, see it a bit differently. I think someone designed him to be a perfect contributor to the world in which he exists, a member of a functioning world of nature, earth, sky, and rain; God created him. The Bible tells me this, but so does my appreciation for the art that is life. How could I not see it in the perfect movement of life around me? Now, man might be a fallen creature with sin and our perfection is a different thing all together. Let's save that for chapter 2, however.

So, if I look at the natural world around me, I can see God. I see His work, his art, his humour, his ingenuity, his perfect nature in a world meant to be perfectly in balance. But Kelsey, you might say, earth is far from perfect. Sure, circle of life and Simba put it into a decent perspective, but humans screw a lot up. We're pretty crappy stewards.

And I'd answer that with a resounding YA. Genesis makes me want to vote green in the next election. We ARE meant to be stewards of God's art, his creation. We're not doing a very good job.

Gen 1:26 "Then God said 'Let us make man in our image, in our likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.'"

Rule implies some sort of control, and some Christians interpret this as a right to dominate nature and creation. That is their interpretation, though it is not mine. My thought is that man was set above the creatures of the earth because of free will and moral thought. Nothing more, nothing less. The ultimate design, but not the most deserving or better than anything that came before. We are suppose to be a part of the natural world around us, not a destroyer of it. Now, don't all go out and go Vegan on me. God gives the earth to man for nourishment, (and let me take this moment to state that when I say man, I mean human. I know, it's male language and some of you have the particular fact that Christianity degrades women as your number one argument why I shouldn't be a Christian, but bear with me, please) and grants man dominion over the animals and trees and seeds, and slimy things under rocks. We need the nourishment of the animals of the fields and the fruit of trees to be active members of God's original design of the earth. The Fall of humans, however, ultimately interferes with the perfect idea that God had when He made man rulers over the beasts of the earth and seas. Again, we'll get to that.

Some of you might notice the fact that my blog is entitled: Art of Me. That was borrowed loosely from the title of a Jars of Clay song, See the Art in Me, which describes the art of the creation of humans, the art of the Lord in forming us in the wombs of our mothers, made to be just as we are. Keep that thought in mind for the next blog post, which hopefully will cover chapters 2,3 and 4. You are Art.

In the beginning...Part 1

Well.
It has clearly been some time since I have taken the energy and time to write a blog post.
I haven't blogged since the completion of my undergrad, as the monstrous beast that was my master's degree seemed to swallow much of my time, energy, personality, social life, and figure.

Now I find myself 3 weeks in to my third degree (oh Kelsey, you over-achiever you!), a Bachelor of Education degree, and with the occasional time on my hands. I thought to myself, Kelsey, what would be the most productive use of this time? Learn Spanish? OK. Try and continue writing that 'novel' I began last summer? Maybe. Then I came across a program on CBC Radio, one about a guy at odds with his Jewish background who decided he would read the Torah (the old testament) and write about his perspective on it as he proceeded. Listening to his excerpts, I found it clever and moving, an honest analysis of what Judaism and the Torah stood for in his life.

Now, I've had a rough academic year. I've also had a crazy spiritual one. I've dealt with some serious family issues, and had my faith rocked hard by people I admire very much, intelligent and caring people who strongly challenged my faith and God's word. It's hard to hear from people you admire in many ways that they think you are lost and clinging to ideas that imprison you.
God has been doing great works in my life; My niece Lily's birth and full recovery from a scary birth defect being one of a great many miracles I have been a witness to in the past few months. No matter how many times I turned my face from God, the truth of His greatness roared in my ears. I have been humbled and redirected. Blessed and uplifted.

But now what?

I read. A lot. I often just buy whole series of books, because I find after a year or two, I can revisit my favourite series and find new and amazing imagery or story lines I had missed the first time around. So, why can't I do this with God's word? I've certainly been reading my Bible, jumping from book to book, looking for a little direction in my morning fellowship with God, but it hasn't quite been meaningful enough to feed me.
However, thinking on that CBC Radio program, I realized I could do the same...explore God's word a few chapters at a time, from beginning to end, in a way that would allow me to discover new and amazing imagery or story lines, allow me to grow closer to my Father, and keep me accountable to delving into God's word. Then I got to thinking....why not blog about it? Posting a link to my blog on facebook allows my many friends to see this journey and reflective experience, and may speak to a few of you who really do see the world so differently than I do.

And so, I dedicate this exploration of God's word to my beautiful and wonderful non-Christian friends, who have kept me honest and loved me through good and bad times. I cherish you for the people you are, for the people you may some day come to be, and pray that you find answers of your own in my words.