Murals and Morale in the Inner City

Driving from Victoria to Parksville, BC, I see signs for the ‘World Famous Murals’ of Chemainus, practically begging me to visit. I do, but leave disappointed. The inner-city has spoiled me.

Driving the shadowy side-streets of cities like Vancouver, Portland or even Calgary, I’ll spot murals in vibrant contrast to urban decay and wonder, ‘Have I found this city's Alberta Avenue?’

I wonder if, where there are murals, there are people taking back their once neglected streets? 

Along Alberta Avenue you’ll find art everywhere. A power box painted like a pack of crayons. Park benches etched with community-sourced designs. Nine of Jill Thomson’s paintings climbing alley walls near The Carrot Coffeehouse.

Perhaps we are trying to convince ourselves that our inner-city neighbourhood is just like an idyllic small town. Just like Chemainus. Or maybe it works the other way. Maybe, murals aren’t the cause, but the effect. Maybe when a community comes together, murals become our collective voice.

Mural map illustration by We Are Not At The Mall - http://wearenotatthemall.tumblr.com/

Kris Andreychuk has heard that voice. He spent years with the Neighbourhood Empowerment Team (NET) on Alberta Avenue, working with Arts On The Ave, the police, and others for creative solutions to neighbourhood issues. Here, Kris learned the power of the arts to transform communities.

Inside The Carrot, I try and get to the bottom of all these murals with Kris Andreychuk. Do murals really lower crime? Can paintings really save a neighbourhood?

Murals work, Kris says, with a caveat. The art has to involve the community as part of a larger strategy. There has to be ownership. Top down, enforced public art may bring something the neighbourhood is not proud of. 

I think of the giant baseball bat down the road. 

Murals can work wonders, Kris assures me, when the community is involved. It is for good reason that Edmonton offers matching grants up to $2000 for the creation of public murals.

Most obviously, murals curb graffiti, but their effect goes much deeper. 

In 2011, Kris was part of Eyes On The Alley, where residents made their 82nd street alley cleaner and safer by installing giant photographs of their own eyes on dumpsters. The images were striking. Crime dropped.

Kris remembers a local crack dealer lamenting how she couldn’t deal drugs in that alley any more. She said it was like her grandfather was looking at her. 

Eyes On The Alley drew positive attention. These residents moved beyond security cameras and neighbourhood patrols, and felt more than protected. They felt proud. 

I feel proud, too.

Riding along the LRT tracks towards downtown, I slow to see Kris Friesen’s rich underwater world, painted on the back of a fitness store. Walking north up 95th street from 107th ave, I catch Grace Law’s stylized characters traversing brightly coloured stripes. Blocks later, a giant Lois Hole by Ian Mulder tends her sunflowers.

This is my neighbourhood. This open air gallery is a testament to transformation. These murals are both the cause, and the effect, of a community awake, alive and beginning to grin with pride.

---

This article first appeared in the premiere issue of Arts & Culture XL, and is reprinted here with permission. The second issue of Arts & Culture XL launches this week. Discover more at artsandculturexl.tumblr.com

Arts Potluck Goes Online for #ArtsTalkTuesday

Perhaps you missed our Arts Potluck on Friday, September 5. Perhaps you were there, and want help remembering what you saw and who you met. Perhaps you have no idea what on earth an Arts Potluck is? 

Look no further, friend. Here is a recap, with links and images, from this past Friday's event. If you have any questions, ask them below. If you want to share your own work and take part 'virtually', provide us a link in the comments below. If I forgot something (if?!), make up for my forgetfullness by adding to the comment stream.

A Whole Lotta Sharin' Goin' On

Our first Arts Potluck of the season is a hit, with over 20 folks in my living room to share snacks and art. Some bring kids. Some come just to watch and listen. I think it's safe to say that all have a good time.

7 PM to almost 8 PM we eat and reconnect. Or connect for the first time. There are many new faces. There are many tasty snacks. Around 8, we move into the living room. I am happy to finally see my new couch make room for five grown adults!

I give a bit of the history of the Arts Potluck–how it began with Jeffery Overstreet's Thomas Parker Society at the Glen Workshop two years ago. Then the sharing begn.

Sebastian Barrera

To keep things simple, we order by birthday. That meant that newcomer Sebastian, with a September birthday, kicks things off. Sebastian's smooth, Portuguese-influenced vocal and guitar are a beautiful way to begin. We sit mesmerized as he shows off not only his mastery of music, but his ability to play, sing, smile and care for his young daughter all at the same time. I am impressed.

Sebastian teaches free music lessons every Saturday at the Parkdale-Comdale Community League. Through his initiative, Creart, he has been able to give free arts instruction and musical instruments to kids in need.  Creart is looking for additional instructors – artists who want to make a difference in community through their gifting. 

Cheryl Muth

Cheryl Muth shares her vivid oil paintings next. One depicts a violinist in Barcelona. The other is a landscape. The two paintings represent a broad spectrum of style, which leads us into a conversation about the work we make for pleasure, and the work we make for pay. How does one make their art profitable, anyways?

There are, of course, no definitive answers. But there is feedback and encouragement. There are ideas. There is the wisdom of experience in a room full of artists.

More of Cheryl's paintings can be found at cherylmuth.com

Aaron Vanimere

Aaron waits his turn, far left.

Aaron is with us fresh from a Vancouver trip. While there, he saw a concert, in a small venue, that left a mark. He shares his story of meeting the artist and it's obvious this meeting has impacted Aaron. But before the meeting, the album, Heal, was working it's magic.

Aaron leaves us with a fitting bit of homework. Listen to the new album, Heal, by Strand Of Oaks.

You can find Strand Of Oaks on BandCamp at  http://strandofoaks.bandcamp.com/track/goshen-97

Marcie Rohr

Marcie is up next with art that comes from a deep and personal place. She's just returned from an intense conference on justice, faith and land. She's developed a new perspective on our interconnectedness with the land, and she's still processing this relationship and its implications. This processing can be seen in her work, still unfinished. We offer feedback, perhaps more than Marcie is even after. The dance of feedback can be a difficult one to learn, but Marcie is gracious and so are the critiques and suggestions.

We are all interested where this new exploration will lead Marcie and her work.

You can discover more of Marcie's paintings on Saatchi Art at http://www.saatchiart.com/marcierohr

Julie Drew

Next up is new work from Julie Drew. Julie is no stranger to the art and faith scene in Edmonton, but this work is different from previous showings in many ways. First, this is acrylic, not watercolour. Second, the subject matter is not a beautiful landscape, but rather a garbage heap. And finally, there is actual garbage attached to the piece, and bursting out of the frame, which is used as an element of the composition, rather than a firm boundary. 

Julie reads an essay to us on redemption. This piece is tied to the idea of redemption, as displayed by the vine, growing up from the refuse in the piece.

Now comes time for feedback. Julie is interested in our thoughts, as this is a new direction. A lot of us like this exploration. It is fun, bold, risky territory. We like watching Julie play at the margins like this. But we do have our critiques. Because I have known Julie for a while, I muster my courage and offer some feedback that is hopefully constructive, and not entirely positive. 

I still wonder how far to push in moments like this. Arts Potlucks are really not for intense critique. The concept here is more of a free-form grown up show and tell. A time to share some beauty. But Julie has asked for feedback and I feel honesty is most helpful here. So I offer some thoughts. I hope they are given and received in love. I still struggle with these moments.

In the end, there is conflicting feedback. Most of us agree that the vine is not needed in the piece, and draws our attention away from the interesting and beautiful depiction of the trash heap that is at the centre of the piece. We disagree on other elements. 

It is up to Julie to take this feedback and do with it as she sees fit. This is her piece – her vision. She has opened herself to ideas, which is a brave thing to do. Now she must decide to use or discard them. 

Julie Drew leads spiritual art retreats twice a year. Find out more about Art: Vocabulary of the Soul retreats here. The next retreat is October 17-19, on Weakness and Failure.

Find Julie's work online at shedrewit.com

Adam Tenove

Adam Tenove is blazing new territory, too. Adam always seems to bring something new to the table. Literally. He arrives late because his crusted zucchini takes so long to cook. It is worth the wait.

Adam shows an intensely detailed pen drawing of intertwining figures. Incorporating feedback from a past event, Adam has added a deep red background. We are all draw in to the piece, which reveals more detail the closer you look. Adam points out the text that plays across the figures. Then he moves on do more experimental work.

Two pieces, mostly black, reveal the folding and unfolding of origami figures. The black is worn away along the folds, revealing a history in the material. This origami work immediately reminds of the of bronzed paper-folding sculptures of Kevin Box in Santa Fe. We all encourage Adam to follow this new direction and see where it leads. 

Finally, Adam shares a poem. It's great to see people moving beyond comfort to open up to the group in new ways. 

Adam writes on art, and shares his work, at http://ellipsisartcollective.com/

Julie Rohr

Next up is Julie Rohr, longtime friend of the Bleeding Heart Art Space, yet making her debut Arts Potluck appearance. Julie has been taking our Grow Your Art Challenge, and through that spurring on, has plunged headlong into an exciting photography project. 

Julie has been moved by the global devastation that is human trafficking. Her heart aches for these women, and she wants to do something about it. So she is. 

Julie has gathered professional photographers to take portraits, for a $50 donation each, of those wanting to support the fight against human trafficking. She shows us some samples, and in each we see the soul of the subject shine through. The photos are phenomenal - true works of art. The project is inspiring.   

Find out more or book your session at http://thewomen.ca/

Sam Drew

Sam Drew takes the piano bench next, and shares the second poem of the evening. I love listening to poetry. Sam's is strongly narrative, putting us within an interaction with a traveller in them theme-country of the night – Spain. 

Sam's poem is vivid and we follow his interaction with this man, towards a turn that leaves us thinking about the importance of the small interactions in our own daily lives. 

Thank you Sam.

Melissa Crayford

Melissa Crayford is a friend of Grace Law, one of our Bleeding Heart Leadership Team, but I've never met her before. She brings great insight to the night through our critiques, and some great snacks too. 

More than all that, Melissa brings some beautiful textile art. She shows us a piece with embroidery laid overtop of fabric printed with a black and white transfer. It's hard to describe, but fun to look and and touch. It is passed around the room as Melissa asks for our thoughts and reactions. We want to see more of this. I hope we will.

Hopefully Melissa finds more time to experiment between studies in the U of A Fine Arts Program.

Edward Van Vliet

Last but most definitely not least come three poems from Edward Van Vliet. All three pieces, Edward informs us, have been written since this summer's Glen Workshop. All three are fantastic, though quite different.

The first poem still stands out for me as I write this. Consider the lily, Edward invites us. And then he considers the lily, in realistic, often humorous and jarring portrayals.

I try and capture Edward's first pounding as he passionately proclaims his last poem, but the combination of fast movement and low light proves lethal to the clear image. 

Edward will be sharing these poems on his blog over at etechne.blogspot.com

And that's not all

There are others in attendance. Some are artists who didn't find the time to prepare things to share, like glass blower Keith Walker, and fashion designer Sabrina O'Donell, of Sabrina Butterfly. But they'll have their chance again, and so will you.

See you next time?

Twerking on God's Great Dancefloor: The Glen Day Seven

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This final day of the Glen Workshop, there are so many things I could say. I could document my early morning walk. My rising with the sun to traverse the Atilayah trail, distracted by beauty at every step. My sad realization of workshop time winding away. The beautiful songs our groups wrote and performed. The parting words of wisdom from Over the Rhine. 

I could recall that final trip to Santa Fe. The run to the souvenir shop. The installation art at Site Santa Fe. The feeling of youthful pride, being denied a beer when I forget my ID. Just-barely-making-it-back after missing the day's last bus.

I could reflect on Richard Rohr's final words, or the impartation of blessing during the anointing service. How each artist pulls meaning from the oil and the hands and the cross. How I wait my turn and watch Barry Moser in my periphery, knowing from his own story how he values this ritual.

I could gush at Over The Rhine's intimate parting performance or brag up my front row seats. I could sit in those final moonlit moments on the walking path back to my room, knowing that I could never say to these new friends all I want to say. Wondering if and when I may see them again.  

I don't want to spend this final Glen Workshop post on any of those happenings. I want to shine a light on the experience that outshines them all. The Saturday night dance party sits atop the rubble of my memory, more than a week later.

To tell you what it is like to dance with middle-aged artists–moving to music I don't let my kids hear–is not nearly enough. I took no pictures. So, I will leave the task to that most expansive of forms. I will end this series with a poem.

Wrestling With my Body

Top 40 guilty pleasures 
are the soundrack of this final 
sunset

Stars pale 
against mirrorball refractions
fire-tongues
upon the heads of holy poets
limb-loose and chainless

We are all learning
there is nothing but the dance

First the toe tap dip
into deep then dive
Wet and salted
We are
fish in the school of joy
Bodies flopping thirsty
scales opalescent in moonlight

One song fades 
to prayers
for another
rhythm
that comes
like a torrent of grace
Boom, boom, bop, boom

We sing past lyrics
Past pasts and futures
Here and now
Alive
to the beat of
brothers
sisters
selves

When poets chant pop
is there a room on earth smiling with more teeth?

I don't have 99 problems
I don't rob banks
I don't like big butts
and God knows
I am no wrecking ball
but there are truths beyond these lies

At these wild edges
I wrestle with my body and
the sight of
my sanctified sister
twerking on God's great dancefloor

Oh! Witness
what we make sacred by our love!

The Crash: The Glen Day Six

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You can only drink from a fire hose for so long before you start to drown.

It is Friday and I wake up tired, hoarse and homesick.

Until this morning I have felt invincible. I have strode victorious through each full day and each late night. I've known, somewhere in the sane recesses of my mind, that I would have to pay one day. I think that day might be today.

I sleep in. I dawdle late to breakfast. I race past the omelette station line towards the faster yogurt and granola. 

Today I am missing my wife. I am missing my kids. I am reminded of them everywhere. How they would love to see the koi pond. How they would like to meet these new friends.

But right now they are home and I am here. And my time is rapidly dwindling.

Our morning songwriting session is full of beautiful songs and insightful critique from Linford and Karin of Over the Rhine. In a standout moment – the type of moment that gives you chills for it's singular specialness – Jack Korbel sings us a song accapella. He breaks our hearts. Linford moves to the piano and asks Jack to sing it again while he plays some of the most mournful chords I've ever heard. Our hearts melt.

The song is about a mother leaving her husband and kids for a time. The husband puts on a brave face for his kids, but the low grey sky reveals the true condition of his aching heart.

My heart is aching, too.

Lunch comes and goes. I fall asleep and miss the afternoon session.

My weary body wins. I crash.

In the evening I finally catch a Santa Fe sunset. It is so magical that I miss the beginning of our worship time with Richard Rohr. This painted sky is a reminder, while I am here, to enjoy the gifts I cannot get at home. These people. These sunsets. I stay outside on the patio making repeated attempts to capture the magnificence of this sky. I fail.

I go to bed early tonight. At least early for The Glen Workshop.

I have just one more day here, and I want to live it well.

The More We Get Together: The Glen Day Five

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I spend my fifth day at the Glen Workshop in Santa Fe deep in relationship with fellow travelers. It is our day off. It is a day for fun, relaxation, and relationships. It is a day for margharitas.

Relationships and Work

Before I can head into town, I need to meet up with my songwriting group and hash out some lyrics. I need to write a new song with this assigned group, and we need to sing it on Saturday. In just two days. I've had bad experiences with 'group creativity' before. It's often led to a 'lowest common denominator' art by committee. Collective art can try so hard to respect the ideas and contributions of every member that it winds up a pale ghost of everyone's gifts.

By some miracle, we succeed. I have some thoughts as to why.

At our first meeting, we sit with a question. Why have we been brought together? What special benefit can we gain from this mash-up of four creative minds? What do we each bring to the table?

Some themes emerge. We are all good with wit, so we will write a song that has some comedy to it. I'm good with writing hooks and setting a groove. I can organize well. China knows music theory. She's scary-good at it hearing something and knowing all the directions that something can and cannot take. She has perfect pitch. Mark is hilarious, and good with words and rhyme. Claire doesn't play an instrument, but writes well, especially when it comes to narrative. She is also good and bringing disparate streams together. She will manage the story arc of our song.

Claire shares an idea for a poem that brings together the experience of a bar with the experience of a church. We decide to make our song about this fusion of two conflicting experiences. Our character is looking for salvation to slide across the counter of a western bar. This is his altar. He confesses to the bartender, while the old piano clanks out sing-along secular hymns. There is grace. There is bread and wine. There are stained windows. There is the radiant light of neon. There is leaning and kneeling.

By the end of the week we get a song we're all pretty darned proud of. I can still sing it.

"Pour me one more round of sweet salvation"

Next come the margharitas.

Relationships and Play

I leave the group to meet Edward next to the koi pond. We head down the road, towards the city of Santa Fe. We start down Canyon Road, a mile long street lined with over 100 art galleries. The work is vast as an ocean and strong as a fire hose. I can only drink so much. We meet Ed Larson at his folk-art base camp. The studio has no doors. Nothing is protected. Nothing is defended. Ed Larson's creativity is generous and contagious.

Outside, rough-hewn figures inch towards the parking lot. A giant fish hangs from the entry. Dozens, if not hundreds, of paintings in every shape, size and colour draw us into the space. This little gallery is a piece of installation art itself. It is like stepping inside the manic mind of the artist. There is an undeniable sense of play. Of fun. Ed Larson is inside, and we chat. In his sweet southern accent, he agrees to sell me a small painting for $40 when I return. But, he says, if I really need it I can just take it. He's heading out for lunch. He won't notice if it's gone when he gets back, he practically winks.

On his way out he opens up the chest compartment of a Billy the Kid carving. There is a tiny painting of Picasso inside. 'Every artist has a little Picasso inside' says Ed.

Play. Generosity. Unquenched creativity. Edward and I leave inspired.

I want to be on Canyon Road with Edward more than anyone else. Edward who has taught me how to see art. I want to view this vast collection with Edward's eyes. He turns out to be a good guide. He makes good choices. We see great art. We have fun.

We meet up with fellow-Canadian, Kim, and Elena. We wind our way through downtown, to the Railyard, towards Site Santa Fe. We never make it there. We get caught in the rain.

We duck into a bed and bath store where the owner shares her ideas of what a sexy man should smell like. We don't agree. I'm not at all sure why she tells us this, but it's a joyful bit of serendipity brought on by bad weather.

Finally, we make it to Maria's, the margharita-mecca of Santa Fe. They serve over 160 different varieties, not that any of us can tell the difference. One tastes like chocolate. One is blue. Beyond these clear signals, we are the lost tourists of Margharitaville.

The drinks are delicious, if a little strong. We aren't sure whether to blame Maria or the high altitude for this. Santa Fe is 7000 feet up, after all. The food is delicious, if indecipherable beneath a blanket of melted cheese.

We get a ride home with China and Claire and Kristin, full of good food and laughter.

Sometime on the way back I realize this is why I am here. To relax. To enjoy. To make friends. To bless and be blessed. To play. This are gifts I never knew to ask for.

But there is one more feast.

Relationships and Beauty

We make our way to the Thomas Parker Society, a not-so-secret, non-exclusive gathering cloaked in secrecy and exclusivity. Edward mistakenly calls this the Thomas Crowne Society. This annual, unofficial Glen Workshop event brings a couple dozen people together to read to one another. We share wine, and home brewed beer from Todd. The evening is all banquet and gift, and well worth sitting on the few free inches of kitchen linoleum.

This is the kind of night where you laugh one moment and cry the next, moved in every direction by the sheer power of language and fresh friendship.

For my part, I read selections from Skymall, the in-flight catalogue of junk you never knew you wanted. I get the laughs I hope for.

Even this late night gathering isn't enough for those hungry for connection, so we end the day where we began – down at the koi pond.

Now it is dark and quiet. We start our own Thomas Parker Jr. gathering. Those who didn't get a chance to read have their chance now. We all listen. We are all listened to.

In this listening, the light of Christ refracts through relationship. This listening – this hearing and being heard – is the work, the play and the beauty of relationship.

I am quite certain that these beautiful, broken relationships pave our confused and crowded road towards the Kingdom.

Scaffolding: The Glen Day Three

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This morning, Tuesday, begins with a second Over The Rhine session. First, we share what we caught in our butterfly nets. Words from Richard Rohr. A fluttering moth that could not fly. Captured conversations. Landscapes. I am learning, again, to see. To notice. Later tonight I will wander the campus, struck by the sudden sunset. I will try and capture it's colour and tone with my camera. I will fail. I will watch the moonlight gleam from select sidewalk blocks. Some shimmer while others are dull. I will pack the image into my net. I will glance up at the bell tower, silhouetted against the filling moon. I will lap it all up. I will see.

But first, the morning and the music.

Over The Rhine kicks things off with some of their songs. Old songs. New songs. Beautiful, heart-breaking songs. Their duets pierce the thin air with crystal-clear harmony. Listening blesses. This is a great way to start the day.

Soon enough, it comes time for us students to share. Most of us have brought something, and wonder if we brought the right something. Should I present my best work? My weakest? How much feedback do I give? Where do I hold back? Critique is always a rocky pass to navigate, but the summit is so rewarding. Our instructions are minimal, but clear. We play. We pass out lyrics. The group responds while we listen. We don't defend. When comments fade, we respond.

Andrew plays a song while we read lyrics. We listen hard. We piece together story. We puzzle at parts. We ask questions. Andrew takes it in with stoic grace. Then he responds.

This is a cowboy song. A desert rambler. A cactus wind is blowing dust. We all felt this. Yet, a couple of obscure words catch our ears. We ask about them. Andrew tells us this is really a story about Greek mythology. Hercules' weariness under the weight of the world. This is interesting texture, but not of us got it from the song alone. Perhaps Hercules was just scaffolding. Perhaps, the building complete, he needs to leave the room.

I start to recognize scaffolding in my creative process.

I think back to great ideas that have spawned my creative endeavors. Ideas I treasure too tightly. Precious beginnings that start the journey and then have no home. Ideas that no longer belong in the end. I think of how difficult it can be to let them go, and how sometimes I have not let them go, and how that has made my art weaker. Some ideas are scaffolding. They help us build the real work, but no one needs to see them after that. Scaffolding is a word that rose up from somewhere at our table. It is the right word. It is a helpful word, because scaffolding is still important, even if no one sees it later. Scaffolding is for the DVD extras, but not the film. It's OK to let things go, because creation is a constant openness. Hold that paintbrush loosely, friend.

I wonder how often we don't begin a project because we are afraid it might transform on us. If we are true to the story, it may lead us where we don't want to go. We may wind up in mysterious alleyways. But this adventure is how creativity keeps us fully alive. There is something beautiful beyond our control.

In the latest Image Journal, Greg Wolfe declares, 
"One might even say that the nature of faith is to be open every moment to the new ..."

Art. Faith. Mystery.

Even our grandest ideas my be mere scaffolding. Who knows what the building will become?

Always Carry a Butterfly Net: The Glen Day Two

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My first official Glen Workshop day stands in glorious contrast to my horrific and hectic day of travel. I meet Over The Rhine along with a dozen other songwriters. I learn the best kind of skill – both practical and life-changing. I even get a birthday party.

Our first songwriting workshop sets the tone of safety and trust. We share the stories that brought us here. These are not stories of our travel mishaps, but stories of our musical trajectory.

Songwriter Stories

Linford of Over The Rhine teaches us to search our stories for themes. Foreshadowing. Little happenings that give clues to bigger happenings. I think of my story this way and it takes a new shape. My own creative tensions become reflections of my parents' creativity and repression. My own desire for affirmation leads back toward my parents divorce. My broad but shallow gift for playing instruments may be the outcome of financial struggles to stick with lessons growing up. So often, conversations about art begin to feel like therapy.

Every story around the table has pain. Tension. Some of us write to survive. Most of us struggle to make sense of this writing life. We struggle to make it a living. Even Over The Rhine.

Linford and Karin begin the week confiding in us that they cannot repeat the past 25 years of their musical career. The music industry has changed. Their bodies cannot handle the road another 25 years. Their bank accounts can no longer depend on album sales. They need to forge a way forward and someone has burned all maps. The well worn paths have are covered over from storms of change. Somehow, hearing uncertainty and risk and hope from these veterans gives me life.

The Number One Tip for Songwriting

Before we leave our first three how session, Over The Rhine imparts to us the number one tip for songwriting. For writing in general even. It's a good one.

Pay attention. Capture what you notice.

Linford teaches us to carry a butterfly net.

When that special something flutters by, it is our job to notice and record it for future reference.

I am encouraged to live this week ahead with my antennae up. Receiving. Entries in Evernote. Sketches. A notebook. A simple word document of sighted images and overhead conversations.

A few months back my wife remarked "we've got to ease our way into the light". I captured that butterfly. I'm still not sure where she will live, but I'm certain she must survive.

When I am stuck with a verse down the road, I can pull out my file. I can rummage through my net for the right butterfly, and set it to flight within my melody. She can carry my sagging verse to new heights.

This is good advice. I am listening. Serendipity is the product of years of preparation. I am paying attention.

Here are some butterflies I capture today.

One. I share a birthday with Poet Tania Runyan and feel the family of new friends at an upscale chocolate shop. Tiny cups pack massive flavour. There is something about those tiny cups.

Two. I meet poet Luci Shaw over lunch. She is at the birthday party, too. She is full of colourful stories. Once her and her husband had to put a mouse out of its misery. An axe works better than a saw, she says. She has a tatoo. Luci Shaw is awesome in unexpected ways.

Three. The koi pond draws me in. I watch golden scales glide beneath the surface. Mouths too big for their bodies try and speak. Glub. Glub. Glub. This campus is beautiful. These butterflies can swim.

This entire week I will stuff my net with more than I can carry. More than I can use. It is only when I return home I will find the time to catalogue my treasures.

A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Glen Day One

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Sunday evening, Edward Van Vliet and I are prepare to land in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The flight attendant offers us free drinks. We bask in extra inches of leg room and softer seats. We are flying first class, but not by choice. 

This day of travel has had little to do with choice. We've felt powerless, at the whims of US Airways, hanging on to hope. 

Our journey to first class was rough.

It's 3:30 AM and I am awake, thanks to my alarm or my pre-flight jitters. At 4, I'm waiting at the front door for my father in law, packed and ready. Everything is on schedule. Last year, I never made it this far. Last year they cancelled my flight with a 3 AM phone call. This year, I'm on my way.

I arrive at the airport with plenty of time. Good. I immediately spot my travel companion, Edward. Good. My "hope this fits in carry on" duffel bag does indeed fit in carry on. I save twenty five dollars. Good. Check in flawless. Security is smooth. Lines are short. Starbucks is open. All good.

We board our first US Airways flight. The flight is not full, so we can switch seats and sit together, with a whole seat to spare. Great. We buckle up and wait for takeoff. This is happening. We are off to the Glen Workshop.

We wait. We wait more.

Then comes the announcement. The first in a long line of hiccups seems harmless enough. A latch on a panel needs repair. They are going to try a solution called "Speed Tape". Fixing an airplane using any kind of tape does not instill confidence. Especially tape marketed not for its hold, but its speed. No worries, because they don't have any speed tape anyways. We wait in our confused and stuffy cabin. 

US Airways are going to see if they can borrow a part from Air Canada. I'm not sure if Air Canada doesn't have the part, or if they are like "Really, US Airways? Again? Sorry, we've got to teach you how to fish this time". There is no part. 

After an hour they tell us to deplane. We gather our things. Those who bought duty free must return it. They cancel my flight. Again.

What do we do? Where do we go now? They cannot tell us yet, because they need to see if they can fix the plane. Once they know, they will tell us whether to book new flights. Until then, while new flights may leave and our layover window shrinks, we must wait. We do wait. Without information. Without confidence. They finally confirm our fears and send us off to rebook. Square one.

Edward waits at the luggage carousel for his checked bag while I head for the check-in counter to book our new flights. The line is short, but there is just one poor person working. One person for a hundred reschedules taking 10 minutes a piece. I doubt my chances of making sign-in at the Glen Workshop this afternoon. I doubt my chances of dinner. We start fending for ourselves, rebooking on cell phones. But I don't have a cell phone. I wait. 

Rumors start to come back about the passengers waiting for bags. They still haven't got them. Team baggage is waiting, not knowing what is going on with us, team carry-on. We have cell phones and iPads but nothing to communicate. "You heard anything yet? No? Me neither." Then I overhear chatter about our cancellation being cancelled. They confirm that we are going to get back on the same plane. Thanks to speed tape or the gods or gremlins, the latch has been fixed. Hallelujah. Except that Edward and team baggage don't have a clue about this. They are stuck on the other side of the airport. Their luggage was never removed from the plane, and no one is telling them. 

This is the worst customer communication I have ever experienced. 

I don't like going through customs and filling out declaration cards, but I really don't like doing it all twice. In an astounding move of beureaucratic t-crossing, we all have to do everything again. Sheesh.

Meanwhile, poor team baggage is told to go back the way they came and reboard the plane. Security stops them and sends them other way around. We, team carry-on, have no idea any of this is happening.

The flight itself is uneventful, and while we are hungry, it looks like we'll make our connection in Phoenix. Indeed we do, with a half hour to spare. Except that we are not on the flight anymore. Without telling Edward and I, US Airways gave our seats away, and there are no more seats. They put us instead on a 9:45 PM flight, thinking we'd missed our connection. But we didn't. In fact, Edward's luggage is about to fly to New Mexico without Edward. 

We push back on the 9:45 PM flight, as we'll miss our shuttle into Santa Fe, along with everything else happening tonight. At customer service, the first kind, helpful employee today puts us on the 3 PM flight to Albuquerque in the only seats available. First class. It's a mind-bending mystery to me why this was not the first solution to our problem. Why, had we not pushed back, would we be spending the night on an airport floor in New Mexico, waiting for our morning shuttle?

We'll still miss check-in and supper, but we'll arrive this evening, a few hours earlier than I arrived last year. It will still be light out. We have time for lunch now. We're starving. We'll take it.

I'm counting my blessings.

One. We share a leisurely lunch, preparing our hearts in conversation for the week ahead.

Two. We try a delicious new beer. Its five o'clock somewhere. 

Three. We experience the marginal privilege of first class.

Four. We reevaluate our willingness to book a US Airways flight again. Ever. 

Five. We find ample time to read and laugh through Sky Mall, the in-flight catalogue of goods you just cannot buy anywhere else. In a move I will appreciate more as the week rolls on, I take Sky Mall with me. 

Our shuttle drives us through New Mexico's moonscape as gratitude erases all wrongs. It's hard to stay angry in this strange and beautiful world. The sun shines down on a duotone palette of rust and turquoise. Red rock and sage brush. Cacti and blue sky.  

I watch Edward take this all in for the first time. I smile at the sharing of this special place. Our jagged journey leaves us weary, but full of hope.

Sometime ago, somewhere amidst the madness, Edward guesses our setbacks to be the devil's doing. The devil must not want us in Santa Fe. God must have something waiting for us. Given this is my second year of cancelled flights, it's hard to disagree with the assessment. But if we met devils on our journey, we were about to leave them in our dust. At St. John's college, at the Glen Workshop, we'd encounter only angels and saints.

For the week that was to come, I'd live this damned day a dozen times over. 

Ars Poetica (On Leaving the Glen Workshop)

I wrote this poem as last year's Glen Workshop in Santa Fe, New Mexico wound down. This year, I felt much the same. I share this as a promise of more reflections to come.

---

Ars Poetica (On Leaving)

Poetry

If your special magic is to pluck a single star

from the vast night sky of time

and pull that star apart into

a universe

then do

The clock wanes

and I will see only one more New Mexico moon

Stars are shy where I come from

I have to dig for them

beneath the rush and noise

of traffic

Twenty-four short hours from now

I board the airport shuttle

in broad daylight

the stars slipping

out of my naive net

Of course I cannot keep this

I am no astronaut

stepping in slow motion

on this moon rock

There is no gravity here, to hold me

No children

No wife

No friends with earth-bound histories

I would lose my tether and

pirouette into the galaxy

revolving endlessly round

a center of myself

Lost

to space madness

I almost forgot why I love Alberta Avenue. Then I went to this event.

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. - Marcel Proust

Last Saturday I discovered a great new neighbourhood. Again.

I took the kids on the six-block-walk to 118th Ave to experience the 'Rising Up’ Pop-Up Market. This annual event is a new initiative from the Alberta Avenue Business Association to drive customers to shop The Ave. 

I’ve spent a lot of time on The Ave, but along only a small section of it – from The Carrot at 94th street and the four blocks orbiting that spot. Oh, and Batista’s Calzones, of course, way down on 84th street. But between 84th and 90th, I haven’t ventured far. But between 84th and 80th was right where the action was on Saturday.

My experience Saturday reminds me what makes Alberta Avenue uniquely beautiful. It’s not the artists–but the intangible quality that draws the artists in. It is down-to-earth humility. It is unassuming authenticity. It is interesting, kaleidoscopic diversity. It is cheap rent.

And so you find mom-and-pop shops that may not be sustainable in other places. Doors to these shops are most often closed, and the timid are unlikely to investigate. The timid like myself. For those of us on the outside of ethnic communities or specialty niches, the front door is a thin barrier reinforced by fear. Assumptions. Perhaps stereotypes. Or the unknown. But on Saturday, those doors were flung open.

Business owners set up tables to hand out business cards, free gifts and food samples. Ethiopian flat bread. Cooked cabbage. Delicious cake. Papusas. Spices. Fried rice. All so good. All so interesting. 

This special day, shops are open for tours. The boxing club is nowhere near as scary–or dingy–as I imagined. I can almost picture myself wandering inside another day to watch two trainees sparring in the practice ring. 

I discover a tailor, and if I need a tailor, why not this local option? I look into the long, crowded corridor of the cobbler, who must have been in this space for decades. I have friendly conversations with the owners of the hip-hop clothing store, where I’m not likely to shop due to personal style choices. 

The kids feel welcome and safe. They have fun. There are balloon animals. My son gets an elaborate alien, propped on his shoulders in a permanent piggyback. There is free face painting. 

Then there is one standout moment.

Ahead of a line up of kids, two men, looking homeless, are getting their faces painted. Most adults would at least wait for the kids to go first, since this tent is clearly for kids. Most face painters would politely tell these men to wait their turn, or that there is no turn for them here. But not on The Ave. On The Ave, these men get their faces painted. Free. Just like everyone else. And they are having fun.

This festival is not flashy. It is not that impressive, except for the roving mariachi band and the young, long-haired busker tap dancing over a looped guitar riff. The kids and I have a great time. Likely the best time of any festival this summer so far. We feel comfortable. We feel home. 

The Avenue is not tidy. It is not commercialized. It is not big-boxed or hipsterized. It may be all of those things one day. But today, it is a place where a man can still fix shoes for a living. Today, on Alberta Avenue, you can share free pancakes with folks heading to the Hope Mission later on.  And then with a young couple who have just moved into the neighbourhood for the positive vibe.

Alberta Avenue is ragged, diverse and surprising. It is beautiful and inspiring. It is authentic and refreshing. It is aware of it’s brokenness and full of a real, hardy hope for healing. And that, I think, is why Jesus likes it here so much. It is a bit like the Kingdom coming.

Alberta Avenue is a place where, thanks to Saturday’s event, I’ll be doing more business.