A candid Q & A with Adrian MacNair on the Canadian mission in Afghanistan

For as long as I've aspired to be a journalist, I've had a morbid desire to be embedded in a war zone. Perhaps I've over-romanticized the picture of the khaki-wearing foreign correspondent with wind-blown hair, a pencil propped behind her ear, and a notepad full of scribbled quotes and ideas. Even still, I want to be in that picture. Frayed edges and all. The adventure and the story calls me.

I was a young journalism student when 9/11 happened and the world began its "war on terror," but the story of Afghanistan had captured my curiosity long before 2001.

I was thirteen and stuck with the awful chore of cleaning out the garage with my dad. We were throwing out trash when I came upon a stack of old issues of National Geographic. The legendary 1985 cover of the Afghan refugee girl with green eyes never made it to the garbage. Struck by her story and her riveting gaze, the intrigue of the plight of the people of Afghanistan has never left me. Neither has the magazine. It currently sits on my library coffee table collecting dust.

A few months ago I learned thatAdrian MacNair, a blogger and freelance opinion writer with The National Post, had been invited to go on a media tour in Afghanistan by the Department of National Defence. Of course I was a bit envious of his opportunity to go, but I was also truly quite happy for him. The mission in Afghanistan has been his informal beat for some time. His style of writing is unapologetic and packs the punch political writers need. And I knew the nerve he writes with would carry him through to his journey in the war zone. I resigned to be satisfied with living vicariously through his experience. For now.

Adrian graciously agreed to let me in on that mild adventure of his for the purposes of my blog and to quell a bit of my curiosity.

Freelance writer, Adrian MacNair, right, decked out in full body armour for trip to Kandahar City

Q: Why did the Department of National Defence invite you on this recent media tour of the Canadian mission in Afghanistan?

A: I was invited by the military because of my profile in the National Post and writing I've done on Afghanistan. But it wouldn't have happened if they hadn't invited Mark Collins from my blog first. He had just had an operation and couldn't go so he suggested me. DND also invited dozens of other journalists.

Q: What was your news angle going in? 

A: I couldn't think of a unifying news angle, other than trying to ascertain the difference between what you hear in Canada and what I would see in Afghanistan. I wanted to find out how much they would sugar-coat the mission progress.

Q: How often did you get outside "the wire?" 

A: Just once in Kandahar, and even then it was in armoured vehicles and entirely segregated from the Afghan populace. Although we were in danger of IEDs, I would say that I never felt in danger on the trip. We were in regular traffic in Kabul, but the capital isn't as dangerous as Kandahar City.

Q: What was it like leaving the surrounding protection of the base? 

A: It would have been more compelling if we were driving in regular cars or walking. As we were in armoured vehicles with a .50 calibre mounted gunner, it didn't feel much like leaving the comfortable security of KAF at all. And truth be told, the food at the forward operating base in Kandahar City was better than KAF.

Q: Were you able to interact with any local Afghanis? 

A: No, unfortunately. It was a huge disappointment and almost made going not worthwhile.

Q: What are the general attitudes of the military regarding our government's decision to cease the combat mission in July, 2011?

A: They're disappointed and uncertain because they like the mission. Most soldiers are having a great time in Afghanistan and they know the excitement is a limited-time opportunity. Every soldier I spoke with was proud of his or her accomplishments and believed in the mission. Having said that, no soldiers would speak ill of the mission. Part of being a soldier means believing in the mission unflinchingly.

Q: Why do you believe it's important for journalists to be embedded in Afghanistan? 

A: It's impossible to get a sense of the mission from Toronto or Ottawa. You have to be there to really understand the pace and the timing and the reason for decisions. You can see how important it is for reporters to be in Afghanistan based on the detainee fiasco from 2007-2009. No self-respecting journalist who had spent any time in the country would waste any time on a non-story like that, and certainly not one as peripheral to the big picture of Afghanistan as that one was.

Q: Did you feel the military displayed a certain level of transparency or did they feed you the standard, fixed, media-friendly soundbites? 

A: There was certainly transparency on certain issues, such as detainees, police training, military accomplishments and objectives, etc. Where they fell short was in giving an honest assessment of the progress of the mission. They were altogether too optimistic, and not honest enough in admitting the hard work that's left. They couldn't admit that Canada is leaving before the mission can be accomplished in Afghanistan. It was the elephant in the room for sure.

Q: What are some of the biggest misconceptions you believe Canada has of its military? 

A: Many people think of the military as a kind of nebulous entity that is one big fighting force. But it's composed of all sorts of different elements: communications, air wing, national support element, infantry, mentoring, etc. Some soldiers were envious I went, "outside the wire," when many of them will never get outside the wire in their entire tour. Another misconception is the level of danger. It's not very dangerous in KAF, and the rocket attacks on the base are so haphazard that the insurgents almost never hit it.

Q: What are the stories of Afghanistan you believe the press has either ignored or missed? 

A: The press has missed out on reporting the mentoring aspect of Canada's involvement. Many stories could be written about OMLT (operational mentoring and liaison team) and their work in the field. The shift in tactics is also really underreported. The kinetic operations (killing insurgents) has taken a back seat to counter-insurgency tactics involving gaining the confidence of the people by identifying the "human terrain." SOF (special forces) is handling the niggling details now.

Q: What surprised you the most about the experience? 

A: I was surprised that the security situation is still so bad. If you need an armoured car to drive into Kandahar City without being murdered, you know the country is still in a very bad situation. It seems a decade away from stability.

Q: Tell us about one of the highlights of the trip for you. 

A: The highlight was probably driving through Kabul. It's a completely different experience to see people in the third world, driving their livestock through the downtown capital, manuvering through traffic composed of vehicles that 99% would not pass a street worthy test. It was my only exposure to the Afghan human terrain, and it was far too brief. Even then we weren't allowed to open our windows, we had to wear ridiculous flak jackets, and our car was armour plated.

Q: What was one of the more sobering moments for you? 

A: Driving in the armoured car to the FOB [Forward Operating Base] in Kandahar was sobering, because it came with the understanding that an IED would likely mean instant death and you would never know what hit you. You'd just be gone.

You can read more of Adrian's blog and see the photos from his trip to Afghanistan at www.unambig.com.

The elephant in Canada's waiting room is pregnant with ignorance

Things keep getting more messy with the abortion question in Canada. In the latest news, a B.C. couple urged their surrogate to abort the fetus because doctors found it was likely to be born with Downs syndrome. Although the surrogate had initial qualms with terminating the pregnancy, she eventually went through with what was likely a second term abortion. 

My personal views on abortion are complicated and can't be boxed into a cozy Christian soundbite. And I don't think I could ever run for political office because I couldn't please constituents on either the right or the left by defining my position. However, what isn't complicated is my tolerance for ignorance on issues like abortion that affect a society at large.

When I learned of recent poll findings that found 79% of Canadians were ignorant of their own abortion laws, I felt compelled to wade into the quagmire that is the abortion debate in this country, or rather, lack there of.

When forming opinions or legislation that defines a person or country's moral code, there's a necessary ingredient that cannot be left out of the mix. Truth. In an op-ed for The Holy Post, I write that the privilege of living in a democracy comes with the responsibility of pursuing truth.

Although the comments on the piece were modest in number, it ended up ranking as one of the most-read articles on The National Post website. I think it reaffirms my opinion that although Canadians seem to care and have opinions on the abortion issue, they don't care enough to really have an intelligent discussion about it.

I am convinced that truth is the irritant that prevents a squabbling young republic from becoming a reckless oligarchy. If we need to bicker a bit more about this subject then so be it. Better that than the chilling alternative.

My indignity for ignorance sparked an interview request from a local talk radio program based on some of the points in my op-ed. Should you care to listen, you can check it out here. 

Scenes from Oklahoma via my Blackberry

Rugged. Hardy. Open. Free. The land. The people. Me. 

The dancin' man and me

His clothes are as worn as his smile. He bears scuff marks on both his shoes and his face. I want to ask about the origin of his scrapes, but I restrain. For now. I hear a faint accent of something in his speech and feel that's a safer question to pose. He's from Serbia and appears to be in his 40's. This is a man who has seen conflict. I venture a safe and silent guess he immigrated to Canada to escape conflict, but by the looks of his hardened exterior, he hasn't made a complete getaway.

His name is Jed but I know him as "the dancin' guy," and so does half of my city for that matter. He's got his very own Facebook fan page over 6, 500 adoring and curious fans strong. I've seen him dozens of times gyrating down Main Street in Hamilton, Ontario, but only from my car. I'm giddy his dance steps have finally found their way onto my path and I'm grateful for this encounter as my first sighting of him over a year ago was so unforgettable it was worth noting: 

I have somewhere to be and quickly. But my husband's brother has just been diagnosed with cancer. He is too young to have a staring contest with death. My husband knows this and I feel like I'm losing him to the fog that cancer brings to a family.

I'm losing focus, and driving distracted is never a good thing. In the midst of my own fog, I am jolted by a sight that only my city can bring.

I see a very thin man, dressed in very used clothes, his hands like props in his coat pockets. And I cannot believe this, but he is dancing down the street sidewalk. Alone! I can't see earphones to suggest he's listening to music, which makes the scene even more amusing. He looks like the type of fellow who might not make his rent this month, or who finds his second home at the local liquor store. But he has not a care in the world, and is skipping Fred Astaire style down the the sidewalk. I look to see if passerby will stop and stare. Instead, they just casually pass--him--by.

In the moment it takes my car to speed by, he's gone. But I laugh. Incredulously. And shake my head and continue to laugh. Later, I try to describe the scene to others, but the story falls flat and I'm convinced I was the only audience member for whom the movie was meant. For a moment, life is less blurry and a precious moment of clarity sweeps in. 

In the end, my brother-in-law lost that 10-month staring contest with death. His beautiful baby blues shut forever, no match for the steely gaze of cancer. 

Why does Jed dance? The answer for him is hard to unpack because it's so complex, but for me it's simple--because I need him to.

Too often we write off the dancin' guys in our life because they're a little too eccentric for our straightforward tastes. Their uneven strides don't jive with our careful two-step. But there are days when a polite joke or pleasant company just doesn't cut it for me. I need a guy like Jed to jar me from my senses, to remind me that a joy that lasts despite your circumstances, comes from something deeper and sometimes unrestrained.

I ask about blisters and he waves them off with his hand. Sure he gets them, but they're worth every smile he draws from a complete stranger. A stranger like me.

His vagabond attire seems just a ruse when he pulls out a business card set between the pages of a crusty Gideon's New Testament. I note aloud his unconventional card case and without shame he announces, "I'm a born-again Christian." He tells me that he was given a gift that must be shared and an old Bible memory verse slips through the cracks of my jaded belief: "to whom much is given, much is required."

Before I can ask about the music in his head, the dancin' guy is off again marching to the beat of his own joyful drum, leaving me behind in his sonorous trail to pause and to smile.

You can learn more about The Dancin' Guy and his story at www.dancinguy.com.

I am Anchorwoman, hear me read well from a teleprompter

What good thing could come from the outskirts of Winnipeg? Turns out, the newly-announced anchor for Global TV, Dawna Friesen. She's an inspiration to female journalists on both sides of the border that humble beginnings and hard work can launch you into success. And she's more than just a pretty face. She's been in the trenches, has earned her story-telling stripes and her seat at the desk.

With CTV's Lisa LaFlamme also set to replace the veteran anchor, Lloyd Robertson, the face of television journalism is changing. Literally. And I'd say, she's never looked better.

Three cheers for women leading the field of journalism--where a sharp wit, a listening ear, and a little lipstick can go a long way.

Shhh...If you listen carefully, you can hear Ron Burgundy's tears falling into his smarmy glass of Scotch.


Distinguished Alumni Award 2009 - Dawna Friesen from Red River College on Vimeo.

I'm a wanderlust-er

I just finished reading the Travelers' Tales 2010 edition, The Best Women's Travel Writing. It's a collection of women's personal travel essays from around the world. Their goal is to inspire other women with these true stories of journey and unbeaten paths to the heart.

Well, 27 essays and a trip to Italy later, I am inspired. It's now my goal to be published among the pages in one of their next editions. A year ago, I would have thought this notion too lofty, but after taking the writing course in magical mountain world and having some of my own personal essay writing critiqued, this is one dream that seems attainable. Sometimes, you can touch a cloud without it eluding your grasp.

I also discovered that I have a penchant for a bizarre German phrase called "wanderlust." Elisabeth Eaves, one of the writers featured in the book, describes wanderlust as "the irresistible impulse to travel," and often by yourself. And I get it, but many people don't. I can't tell you how many times I've seen eyebrows raised in both bewilderment and judgement when acquaintances, friends, and even family learned I made the journey to Italy alone.

Marisa Handler, another "crazy traveler" featured in the book, answers those that don't understand her wanderlust with a question:

How to explain the wanderlust that draws me, time and again, to the solo journey? That I'm forced by circumstance to be totally open? That there is no refuge from sheer experience? That every day is a new adventure, every chance meeting a wee blessing? 

By traveling alone, I traveled without distraction. I met people I wouldn't otherwise meet, held meaningful conversations that would've never been spoken, and had experiences that were selfishly all mine to keep as my beautiful secret. And although I did spend a week in Abruzzo with nine other women, I made efforts to get away by myself, to see the world sharply through my solo lenses.

On one particular afternoon in Santo Stefano, I took a walk down our magic mountain to the base for lunch at a charming family-owned restaurant. Two of the women taking the same writing course invited me to join them for lunch at their table. I declined and dined alone, ordering my meal using only Italian for the first time that week. I was feeling accomplished and very worldly as I relished the home-made pasta while tapping away at my laptop with writing ideas. I sipped my vino bianco slowly and measured the room. The couple dining next to me didn't look local, but they did look interesting. Eventually, their British accents gave them away and gave me permission to slip from a wannabe Italian back to an American woman.

Their names were John and Shirley. They lived outside London, England most of their life and on a whim, decided they wanted to retire to the countryside in Italy. At 60-something years a piece, they bought over a 100 acres of land (or was it 10,000?) complete with an olive orchard. The land and the orchard demands much attention, and they spend most days and nights working it, just the two of them, exhausted, with not a bit of farming experience between them. Their fixer-upper house came without a kitchen and because this is Italy, it took over a year for it to be installed. The first kitchen they ordered was lost with not much concern from those responsible for its misplacement. If this is the retired life, I want nothing to do with it, but John and Shirley laugh and shrug it away. They can't afford to hire help and I ask how long they think they'll be able to keep this up. "Well, until we pop our clocks, I suppose," Shirley says without blinking. I have never heard this expression for dying used before and find it totally amusing and worth adding to the tap-tapping in my notes.

I will never forget those unassuming adventurers as long as I live, and I probably never would have met them had a traveling buddy demanded my attention and conversation. Thanks to Travelers' Tales and my otherworldly 12-day Italian experience, it will be tough to convince me to travel the world again through a buddy system, or to ever apologize again for having the experience of a lifetime, would you believe it, all by myself.

"To have imagination is to inevitably be dissatisfied with where you live...in our wanderlust we are lovers looking for consummation." ~Anatole Broyard

A letter from Santo Stefano di Sessiano

Our reasons for arriving were as varied as our departure cities. Each plane ticket printed with its own set of hopes and expectations. Each journal empty, but ready and waiting for our conceding wills.

I gave myself one week to indulge in the thing that brings me the most joy in life―the simple act of putting one word after the other to string along coherent and creative thought. One week to learn to be better at it, to go deeper, to stir myself out of tepidity. One week to figure out where I fit in as a writer in the creative non-fiction genre. And if I'm really being honest, I made the quest to see if what I sporadically do on the side is even worth it.

No one knows self-doubt like writers do. We wallow in it, wrestle with it, and sometimes, if we're lucky, we triumph over it in a published piece that is usually met with only mild applause. But we write to breathe, to know we're alive, and to matter to the world we write for, and so we trudge onward. Our individual steps making medieval time-travel in stand-still Santo Stefano.

The first shared dinner of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Writing Pants was something spiritual. Curiously described by one of the lapsed Catholics as, “The Last Supper,” our conversations flowed as easy as the local wine splashed into our glasses, surprising ourselves with the hasty candour and camaraderie amongst strangers.

I watched for three hours as one of the dozens of hanging candles dangerously dripped over our instructor's head throughout the evening, but I hesitated to say anything. Doing so would break the magic spell. I loved that waxy timepiece keeping record of our languorous meal.

With each course of food, came another revelation that we were brought here for a greater purpose. Serendipity had whispered to each of us, 'follow me.' We smacked our lips at the authentic cuisine and conversation and I revelled in my cherry wine and the joy of being surrounded by such strong and strange women. For the first time in a long time, and in this ghost of a town, I finally felt not alone.

In an instant, these women left an impression on me that will be forever marked in the “Dear diary” of my soul.

Dayle, unforgettable, Dayle and her camouflage-carrying Tabasco sauce ways. Her zest for basking in her very own Sunshine has left evidence in the smiles lines that edge her countenance. A road map that bears the untidy trail marks of a real and deep love―and a dare―to trek further into my own misadventures in marriage.

Kathleen will always be remembered as the woman who turned my water into wine. Less of a miracle and more of an accident in her attempt at vino generosity. She, with her beautiful shock of white hair and ever-familiar face. In one smile and wave, I knew I wasn't alone in Rome. I wonder if she has the same affect for others back home. I have a feeling she just might.

Monique, the L.A. Girl making it happen in Holland. A polished ebony stone that is not so opaque, but open and revealing. Beautiful and ageless, courageous and courteous, it's no wonder she's adapted so well to the Dutch. I only hope I can carry the same longevity she has in my own foreign Dutch land. 

As both the hero and the heroine in her own living memoir, Gina has inadvertently become the leading protagonist in mine. Although she has not yet learned to strike that delicate balance in love and life, she has mastered the art of abandoning herself dutifully into one thing―writing. I cannot imagine a better lover than the constant surety of story. Complex and quiet, I long to see the world through her Prada lenses.

Liz. The mystic Aussie, who I think, doesn't know how to complain. Though her body is temporarily broken, her spirit remains tightly in tact―reaching summits before most have even stepped foot at the base. She laughs curiously, silently, unexpectedly. She is a rugged sprite that is comfortable living in the mystery.

There isn't a person Tracy hasn't met. And there isn't a person who could forget her either. Blue eyes that dance and cry easily. This is isn't a vice, but a strength. And an invitation to others that says you can trust me with your story. If only, she will let their stories out, not as a betrayal to their hearts, but rather as a gift to the rest of the world that says, “it's not always about you.” Sometimes, it's about the woman in the refugee camp on the other side of your world. 

Laura, who hasn't met a country and a man she doesn't like. She is probably one of the sexiest sexagenarians I have ever met. With her slow and deliberate ways, she coaxes you, and most Italian men for that matter, into her. With each traveler's tale she spins, a wondrous web evolves wrapping you in it. And the funny thing is, you don't seem to mind. 

Helen seems as Free as her surname and her hair. She is both untamed and polite. A helpless romantic that doesn't believe in soul mates. I get her and I want to make her my Aunt. The only regret I have from meeting her is that I didn't make more time to indulge in the “decades” of her story. Layered, languishing and lovely, she holds a treasure―and sometimes, words have something to do with it.

Queen Kathryn. The Seer of the Story. It seems she always has a secret and a smile hiding behind her eyes. Eyes that don't miss a thing and bedevil. Outwardly distracted, inwardly focused. She sends you reeling with her humour that both catches you off guard and puts you at ease. She is a beautiful riddle. Delightfully unsolvable. Although I can out-run her, I will never quite catch up. 

We are the women who did battle with the cobble-stone streets of Santo Stefano. Whose lungs duelled with the inclines and elevation. Whose bellies ached from the over-indulgence of food and laughter. Whose hearts struggled to reveal themselves, and whose minds warred with the fiercest enemy of all―ourselves.

We arrived, some of us, in trepidation, but we'll all leave in triumphant descent from this wild and rustic place having conquered pieces of our crumbling castles, where our hearts hide in towers that loosen with each life-rumbling quake.

We'll descend back into our own burghs, full of their own shadows and secrets. Back to old familiarity that is sometimes comforting and sometimes not. Back to the places where expectation often clashes angrily with reality.

But at least we'll have our memories―and our words―and our pens―and the patient pages that await this new overflow in our hearts.

Arrivederci,

Rikki, who lives to write and writes to live, and who also writes to support her shoe addiction.

Scenes from Santo Stefano

The town hoot, Maria Antoinetta. Between my little to no Italian and mediocre French, I learned she was originally from France and moved here as a young girl. I gathered she is somewhere in her 80's. She has a contagious grin and just when you think she's got you wrapped around her wrinkly little fingers, she makes the "F-you" motion in Italiano, slapping her hand against her forearm. But she does it with a smile and you can't help but laugh. She'll be staying with her daughter in France for the summer and made me promise to send a postcard to her address. I look forward to her sweet, but curse-filled reply.

Remains from Rocca Calascio

Reaching the summit of a girlhood dream--being a princess in my very own castle

Italy, Day 1 &2: A bit of Roma and Santo Stefano

I arrived mid-afternoon with just enough time to catch a local pasta dish and a bit of walking around the neighborhood where my B&B was located. I was literally just a few walking minutes away from the Roman Colosseum.

Not your average street backdrop, The Colosseum

With just a half-day in Rome, there wasn't enough time for a formal guided tour. I will try to do that next week when I return from Santa Stefano. The owner of the B&B I stayed in offered a scooter ride around the city by night, and I accepted. When in Rome...
Post-scooter, I am now of the firm opinion that Rome is more lovely by night than by day.

A dream come true

Sleepy Santo Stefano di Sessiano

Santo Stefano has about 70 full-time residents

My heart is already too full for words and I am only Day 2 in Italy. Giovanni, a Santo Stefano local and manager of the "hotel," described Santo Stefano as "not a place where you begin, but a place where you arrive." He believes the beauty and mystery of the medieval fortess village cannot be fully appreciated unless you arrive from the outside, in. He says it is only then you can see the mirror of its beauty. Otherwise, you grow up believing life here is simply normal when it most certainly is not.

Arrivederci Toronto

The trip is off to a good start as my good friend and fellow writer wouldn't let me leave without a gift that only a fellow writer would think to give.

A beautiful journal, that is just big enough and small enough for 12-day voyage thoughts. The cover reveals words that are just inspiring enough to coax you into filling the empty pages.

The package wouldn't be complete without a pen that drips good, consistent ink. A good writing utensil is measured by its ability to keep pace with sporadic bursts of thought/creativity. I'm looking forward to some "gripping" conversations with Pen.

And on the back cover, a challenge...

A challenge, and a journey, that seems to have been tailor-made for me.

Italy, in other words

Santo Stefano di Sessiano

Courtesy www.lifeinabruzzo.com

I am days away from experiencing life in the least inhabited region of Italy and I find it utterly surreal. Who is this woman saying "time-out" to life as I know it? I almost don't recognize her.

As I move to tie up loose ends at work and worry what to cram in the suitcase, I do wonder how I'll adjust to such a quiet zone. I mean, I did ask for this. One week to indulge myself in the thing that brings me the most joy in life--the simple act of putting one letter in front of the other to string along coherent and creative thought. One week to learn to be better at it, to go deeper, to stir myself out of tepidity. One week to figure out where the heck I fit in as a writer in the creative non-fiction genre. And if I'm really being honest with myself, I'm on a quest to see if what I sporadically do on this blog is even worth it.

No one knows self-doubt like writers do. We wallow in it, wrestle with it, and sometimes, if we're lucky, we triumph over it in a published piece that is usually met with only mild applause. You couldn't even begin to imagine what a few Facebook thumbs-up, a couple of comments, and a spike in blog traffic will do to our fragile egos. We write to breathe, to know we're alive, and to matter to the world we write for.

As the red flashing LED light on my beloved Crackberry goes dark for 10 days, I hope it does something good to me. Eliminating some of the technical clutter from my mind should free up some creative memory space, displaying a crisper panoramic view of this gorgeous world around me.

What started as the whimsy of a foolish girl has become a reality. That's the funny thing about creative non-fiction. It's not the stuff of imagination with conjured up characters and storybook scenes. It's real life, with real people, offering up a curious reflection that is often more interesting than we like to give ourselves credit for. While dreams carry us sometimes from the drudgery of our physical existence, they don't sustain the soul. They're lovely, but they're calorie-light, staving off the hunger only temporarily.

As my steps take me to the uneven cobblestone streets of old Europe, I will flourish. And when expectation meets the painful reality of blisters from the travel, I will smile, because that's where the growth happens. That's where the true story is made. Stranger than fiction, better than you could believe.

We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves. We travel to open our hearts and eyes and learn more about the world than our newspapers will accommodate. We travel to bring what little we can, in our ignorance and knowledge, to those parts of the globe whose riches are differently dispersed. And we travel, in essence, to become young fools again -- to slow time down and get taken in, and fall in love once more.

~Pico Iyer

The Return of Petty Officer 2nd Class Craig Blake

My view of the procession of fallen Canadian soldier, Petty Officer 2nd Class Craig Blake, May 5th, 2010.

Although, there was nothing petty or 2nd class about him or his reason for return.

The Taliban fighter that planted the remote-detonated explosive device, took out what he believed to be the "enemy," and in doing so, also took out a community volunteer, husband, and father of two children.

Last April, I was assigned to cover a report on the Highway of Heroes. I stood on one of the most renowned overpasses on Hwy 401 and busily gathered interviews and footage of the unique display of support and patriotism. Almost too busy, because before I knew it, the police escorted procession carrying the 117th fallen soldier, had raced quickly under us and onto the remainder of that solemn stretch of road. I didn't have time to properly process what I had just witnessed. My feeble attempts at capturing the moment for both television and our blog can be found here, http://www.youtube.com/rikkicheri#p/f/2/5N4oZVLLJMg and here, http://rikkiratliff.blogspot.com/2009/04/o-canada-they-stand-on-guard-for-you.html.

Today, a year and 26 fallen soldiers after my report, I sat annoyed in the passenger seat because of traffic on North America's busiest stretch of highway. We had a full day in the field and I just wanted to be home. Like yesterday. Police on motorcycle blocked off one section of the highway, for what reason, I didn't know. Just chalked it up to yet another detour on our path home. As I looked up at the overpass ahead, I saw an ambulance flashing and Red, White and Maple Leaf blowing in the wind. My heart sank and I gasped out loud. I knew exactly what was happening. The Navy man that I had heard passed earlier this week, was making his final return home. The path had been cleared for him. His heroes song sung. At over 50 overpasses, by hundreds of Canadians, for nearly 100 miles. The only detour he would have is at the morgue in downtown Toronto.

I flew across the driver's seat and out the window to snap the above photo. The last time I saw such a sacred repatriation, it was my job to cover it and I missed my opportunity to give a citizen (or proud permanent resident) salute. I rode the rest of the ride home with perspective and thanks that I was doing it alive and in freedom. Largely because of a willing soldier's sacrifice.

I said it before and I'll say it again. This American has never seen Canada look so lovely.

Lessons from a banana-seat bicycle

I just finished reading the May 3rd edition of Maclean's and was surprised to find myself more outraged with a "fluff" article in the lifestyle section of the magazine, than I was with the editorials or the typical Mark Steyn rants found near the back pages. Rebecca Eckler, self-proclaimed as "one of the most talked about bloggers of this century," headlines a new trend in parenting in, "Outsourcing how to ride a bike."

You read that correctly. Parents are coughing up hundreds of dollars for their little Johnny and Susie to go away to bike camp to learn what most of us did by trial and error on the streets of our suburban neighborhoods. Their reasons are many while their justifications are few.

Everything from the overly worked parent who doesn't blink at the thought of being replaced, to the overly worried parent who just couldn't bear the thought of seeing their kid fall. I've got a newsflash for you, honey. If it hurts too much to see your kid suffer a few scratches from this thing called "life," you might not be cut out for this thing called "parenting." Because we will surely scrape our knees, cut our fingers, break our arms, and our hearts many times over before we're relinquished to the world.

I remember the day I learned to ride a bicycle vividly. There were no paid experts involved, a "safety first!" helmet, or a cush landing pad of encouraging words. With four kids at the time and only my dad working, my parents could barely afford bikes let alone the extravagance of Bike Camp.

It was my brother's 7th birthday in the summer of '88. Freeze-pops, birthday cake, and a water sprinkler were enough to keep us and the neighborhood kids of Palmer Street content. My brother had opened all of his presents from friends and extended family. Now it was time for the grande finale gift from Mom and Dad.

Out came Dad from the shadows of our garage, rolling the coveted BMX off-roading bike toward the birthday boy. While sheer delight flashed across his innocent face, envy flamed across mine. I was eight years old! A whole year and a half older than him and I didn't have a bicycle. Just one more thing I'd have to borrow, but only if I asked really nicely...

In my state of selfishness, I may have cried at the injustice. I can't remember because that tragic moment didn't last very long. Dad, knowing his first-born daughter all too well, discreetly pulled me over to the side of the house. My burning ears could still hear the squeal of the kids sharing in my brother's excitement, but the fire was quelled, for leaning up against our modest brick house, was another bike--second-hand, but for me.

Similar to mine but missing the plastic basket out front, streamers, and wicked spoke beads.

With a beaut of a purple banana seat (albeit its colour faded from riding years gone by), and streamers catching in the lazy breath of summer, I felt special and loved and dignified again as I wouldn't have to learn to ride a bike after my younger brother had, and on a boy's bike none the less. This, a right of passage, deserved of every child in the modern world.

It took a few falls and some scraped elbows, but I earned my license to pedal that June afternoon on Palmer Street. I'll never forget my catch of breath and momentary sense of dread when I realized my dad had let go of the back of my bike seat. That flash of feeling forsaken was quickly followed by a new-found freedom and understanding that I could get to my best-friend's house at the end of the street faster than you could say, "Chuckie Cheese, please!"

My dad loved me by letting go. He watched me fall with the knowledge that I would be brave enough to get back up regardless of the scars that might remain. You can't outsource that kind of love. The kind of love that sees you through to your next milestone--from riding bikes to writing about bikes. It's a parent's privilege to give you that running start and the precarious push that follows. Don't cash it in. Treasure it, because maybe one day it'll survive those dusty years as a fond memory of when the training wheels came off and the growing up began.

MJ and Earth Day

Michael Jackson made a strong political statement when this video was produced in 1995. He may have been ahead of his time when it comes to using media as a means to influence change (whether for the better or worse) for the environment. Al Gore and his Inconvenient Truth was certainly not the first attempt to tweak at our collective earth conscience, and I'm certain it won't be the last. But when it comes to messaging statements about the environment, I think I prefer it in the music format of Michael Jackson. It appears more tolerable and less sanctimonious.

I'm not signing up for Greenpeace anytime soon, making plans to cast a vote for the Green Party in Canada, or converting to environmentalism as my new religion, but I do love this planet we were given and all the beauty that she came with when we inherited her. For me, it's people before planet, although some would argue you can't have a viable people if you don't have a viable planet. And around and around we go...

I wonder if our forefathers (Both Canadian and American) could have ever predicted platforms for the environment seeping into our politics, or that it would even be "necessary." When it comes to making decisions for Mother Earth and for ourselves, let us hope that we can see the forest through the trees that are still left.

A nation that destroys its soils destroys itself. Forests are the lungs of our land, purifying the air and giving fresh strength to our people.— Franklin Roosevelt

p.s. In 1991, my fifth grade class bought a square acre of land in the Amazon rainforest. I wonder how that old patch of land is doing. It better still be there or I'll have to make a video of my own. God help us all because I surely can't sing like MJ.

I'm [not] every woman

I am a woman who comes from the epi-centre of football country. I wear the tattoo of the OU Sooner fanclub on my heart. Crossing the border from Oklahoma territory to southern Ontario, hasn't decreased my zeal for all things Boomer Sooner. If anything, it's strengthened it. And speaking of my heart, its pressure is dangerously raised on Saturdays during the NCAA football season.

I am the daughter of a man who was interested in nearly every sport that involves a ball, and his interest was contagious. Although not every sport stuck with me over the years, I have played basketball, volleyball, tennis, soccer, and flag football. Throw in some neighbourhood baseball, track and field, and a few compound bow hunting lessons and you got yourself a regular tom-boy.

Growing up, I was told I could 'be whatever I wanna be' and to run faster, play harder, aim higher. I didn't always succeed at every sport or at every project thrown my way, but competition was bred in me at an early age and I have never been satisfied with settling or coming in second.

I am also the daughter of a typical Southern belle. My mother's decorated visage rose and set with the sun. Her barn was always painted, and painted well. She smelled pretty, polished her nails frequently, and crossed her legs properly. Growing up with her I was told, ''Rikki Lee, act like a lady,'' and "Close your legs. You're wearing a dress!'' Her interest in all things respectable was less contagious it seems.

Despite it all, I still 100% believed I was a princess. I loved lace and pink things and Barbie dolls. But I also loved 'kickin' a$$ and takin' names' as they say. I got into trouble both for arm-wrestling guys as a young woman, and for trying to shave my legs and wear make-up prematurely. I was and still am to this day, an uncanny mix of high heels and action.

Just the other day, my co-ed soccer team lost our play-off game in a bad way. My team cheerfully packed up their cleats and shin guards and remarked at how much fun they had. I, on the other hand, seethed a ''see you next week,'' and marched out with my backpack and over-sized spring-temps yellow leather purse on my shoulder.

As I continue to wrestle with this awkward balance of estrogen and a man-like fierceness, I do find some comfort in this blogger's words:

"It’s a complicated place for a woman who enjoys and celebrates being a woman to stand. I don’t want to be a man, but the desire for action, for heroism, for independent movement more than simply domestic often appears limited to masculine provinces."

I'm beginning to think I'm not alone after all. And that perhaps it'll be fun to watch 'nuture versus nature' battle it out a little while longer.

Give me one more smoke 'on the mountain'

This is the"backyard" view from Hamilton's Henderson Hospital. Perched atop the escarpment, it provides patients, visitors, and staff a bit of respite from the sometimes dreariness that is life at a hospital.

This photo was taken in the afternoon on an unforgettable summer day in 2009. Brad and I went to visit Buck who was becoming stir crazy from his overnight stays in the hospital. He was the kind of guy who liked to be outside where the action was, where life was happening. Although still very sick from cancer and receiving heavy doses of chemo, he looked otherwise healthy and still had that zest for life. Enough to keep his sense of humour in tact and wrestle with that constant itch to just do something, anything to keep him sane.

On this particular day, a visit inside his room just wasn't gonna cut it. And I don't blame him. The walls were painted a pasty egg-shell white. His only decorations--a tacky, broken 1980's clock donated to the hospital, a few "get better soon" cards tacked to the wall, and couple of ailing plants that could've used some TLC. Constant reminders that he wasn't well and that he was "one of them." Those that reside on the 3rd floor of the hematology ward, who carry Death on their shoulder, and live with the worried whispers of loved ones around them. So on this day, we went outside for a smoke break.

He couldn't shake the habit. Or he probably could, but I suppose it was the one thing that gave him comfort when there was little comfort to be found. His doctors gave him grief for not giving himself a better fighting chance at health. But he looked like a cornered animal sometimes who's eyes betrayed his emotions, and I felt pity for him. Let the man have a smoke...

It was one of those unpredictable summer days in southern Ontario. In just a matter of minutes, the sky turned dark and the wind started whipping scattered cigarette butts across the floor of the outdoor balcony. Thunderhead clouds started rolling in and I could smell a good storm a brewin'. Buck stood on the picnic bench with his cigarette in hand and situated his ball cap firmly to his head. With the rain surely about to start pouring, this meant his visit outdoors would be cut short. I could tell he wanted to stretch his freedom to its limits. While other patients and hospital staff started shuffling indoors, we hung on until the drops snuffed out the butt of his cigarette light.

In that moment, smelling the storm and reveling in its wild activity, I felt alive. And I know he did too, seizing that summer shower moment for all that he could with his only brother and myself.

At that point in his disease, we were all optimistic that such a healthy guy, on top of the world, looking out at the city of Hamilton, would conquer such a curable form of cancer. But about six months after that afternoon, progressive Hodgkin's lymphoma held out longer than he could, and prematurely snuffed out his other flickering light.

As patterns of life resume to a new normal, I find it tough when my driving path forces me near the hospital. Just yesterday, an unexpected cry came out when I saw the backside of the hospital looming over the escarpment. As I continued on to my destination, I batted away tears and attempted to stifle the sobs that erupted from my core being. A friend told me that perhaps it means I still haven't let go of him and of his humanity. Perhaps I haven't, but in the three months since he's passed, the memories of him are still vivid. In my mind, it's still last summer. I'm standing on the balcony with Buck, trying to steer clear from his puffs of smoke, while at the same time wanting to be close enough to feel his presence, and close enough where he can feel mine. Saying "I love you" without actually saying it, giving my support without suffocating such a free spirit.

And while one piece of my heart believes he is now truly free, the other piece, still very broken, longs for just one more smoke on the mountain.

Thoughts provoked after watching "Julie and Julia"

This movie portrayed an ambitious, pioneer of a woman (Julia) and a woman (Julie) trying to be ambitious and piggy-back on the career of the pioneer. Julia slaved for years for her big break while Julie got hers within a year. Don't get me wrong. Julie's character was endearing and inspiring in its own way, but the generational gap between the two women exposed the chasm of philosophies in how to forge a successful path in life.

The movie based on the real-life experiences of these women touched me poignantly. Mostly because of the juncture in my own career path. I relate all too well it seems. Enough to poke at something both insecure and hopeful in me. What lies beneath is a quiet frustration not often spoken but always realized.

Damn the Generation X'ers and those who taught us we could change the world with an undergrad degree and a noble career choice. Maybe you can leave your footprint on this earth in small, meaningful ways, but who's to say you're warranted to get paid for it?

I had my professional portrait taken today because I thought it was the right thing to do for my "career." I have never felt so vain in my life. Although the sun shined like Spring, the wind bit like late Fall making my smiles look forced and painful. The camera man's hand shook with shiver and his gracious assistant held the second flash high in the air, shot after shot with obvious discomfort. My leopard print stilettos that I thought gave me my 'signature look' sunk into the juicy earth and never even made into the photo frame. And with each snapshot I became more agonizingly aware of how pretentious I must've looked to observers. It wasn't long after I cut my little photo shoot short. I blamed it on the cold and invited them in for tea.

Some days you feel like you're a good headshot and a few clever words away from a dream. Other days, you just feel like everyone else trying to scrap a living in this world. No more or no less special.

Evidence of Spring

You know spring has arrived when people wake up from their winter hibernation and start jogging, biking, walking and just generally getting outside and physically moving their body. This is especially true for Canadians who endure a good solid six months of legit-ly frigid temperatures.

They'll look for any excuse to be in the sunshine and prematurely wear shorts and tank tops. They'll have a drink on the patio or front porch at night and shiver all the way through it. But hey, it's not below zero, so time to crack one open and celebrate that fresh revelation.

It's especially to funny to watch those who have never greeted the mailman before and yet practically run out to the sidewalk to say "hi," and you guessed it-talk about the weather.

The neighbour kids start playing outside again. Playing and cackling and squealing until it's dark and mom starts calling them home. I know this because they.are.all.in.my.lawn. And so are their worn out, left-out-in-the-backyard-all-winter, chewed up toys.

Birds start chirping and chatting up a storm. It's glorious!

Birds start chirping and poo-ing up a storm. Just inches from my new Mac and my new hair-do. Less glorious.


(Note the round splash of evidence of Spring next to my keyboard)

Despite the close calls with nature and the run-ins with sometimes obnoxious small humans, I'm embracing this new season and all of the possibilities it seems to be affording...

Viva la Italy

This blog and its author will be taking a journey to this place below in June. The summer writing workshop,
Italy, in Other Words, is hosting it and I have a feeling I won't return unchanged.

Because we didn't hit the jackpot, I have to look at this trip as an investment for future Writer Rikki. I want to be an improved woman of letters and more found woman in general when I touch back on Canadian soil. If you can't find inspiration in a place like this, then you must be dead on the inside. Either that or you got less into your writing and more into the bottom of an Italian bottle of wine upon your stay.

Happy Lent!

What a wonderfully clever and irreverent way to ask ourselves why we do the nominally religious things we do. I wasn't raised in a traditional, mainline church and was never asked to give anything up for a season for a greater spiritual purpose. I was just asked to follow Jesus and I think I thought that would be enough.

I'm learning now there is beauty in symbolism and tradition if not followed blindly or ritualized emptily. Perhaps it helps to fill in the gaps where as humans we misstep in following in the dusty sandals of One so great. I'm on a slow journey to figure out if diving into Institution-induced customs is for me.

These cards are less to make fun of those of you who choose to worship in your own personal way during this Lent season, and more to challenge myself to really think before I say goodbye to primetime television, Reese's Puffs cereal, or something else completely life altering like that.