Entries from March 2010 ↓

Vitamin D is making the rounds on the news reels. Even Oprah is talking about not getting enough of the stuff that helps bones and muscle tissue. And for some reason (obviously the fact that I’m living under a sock puppet or inside the heel part of it at least) I had no idea that Vitamin D was a big deal.

And I don’t eat dairy except for the occasional blob of cheese on a pizza at a buddy’s house or at my apartment when I have said buddies in.

And I largely work inside.

And heck, after work, I usually stay inside.

And all that inside “action” is in Canada. Which for some reason -Northerly climate?-counts.

So, these back “facts” lead me to tell you about The Almost Diagnosis.

Because I’m easy to scare and influence with even the mere suggestion of a horror movie having me fearing ghosts, vampires, zombies, small children and abandoned rural gas stations for weeks, I want to start this blog post off as reasonable, rational, equating my “Almost Diagnosis” to lacking Vitamin D, which is likely, but here’s the story:

I have a cousin who was diagnosed with cervical cancer very late and has gone through heck xs hell xs what’s worse than heck +hell? and back again. She’s pretty amazing and tougher than I could imagine myself being. She sent me a card, writing beseechingly, to go get a pap test. Now it goes without saying that these tests aren’t pleasant and although I’m more a rule follower than Dwight Shrute, I sometimes let 2 years slide between each test rather than one.  But on the day I read my cousin’s card, I picked up my cell phone- day time minutes be damned- and called for an appointment.

So, when I got a call just a few days ago to go over test results, I almost shat the bed. My cousin is only 29 and we’re in the same age box on most online surveys for which Twlight character you’d be. And it’s true, recently I have been feeling really tired. Just wiped from the smallest of tasks that a few months earlier would have been as easy as peeling the foil off a chocolate and popping it into my mouth. And my fingers really hurt, and one of my wrists and my knees are more stiff than a set of 20th century starched shirt collars. I hadn’t been paying much attention to these things though, chalking them up to typing too much, not enough sleep or a side effect of learning to run. But once I got the phone call to come in to go over some tests, these “facts/symptoms” started piling up and chanting “cancer, cancer” on a dark stage in my mind.  A whole chorus of “C” words.

I felt caught. Like a fish in a grate. Before the call I was swimming in a great big school of healthy free fish and then wait a second, I didn’t even know there was a grate, hey, why didn’t I see these bars before?  -pinch- uh-oh, I’m stuck. I started wondering about all the people on an unseeming Monday or Tuesday afternoon that find out they have cancer. Maybe their car just broke down or the bus has been overpacked and fare increases are being threatened. Maybe their boyfriend’s dumped them. Maybe they had the same short story turned away, again. It doesn’t matter to the disease the other stuff that may be crowding out the salad on your plate. It is just one of those things that is. And I really thought that about for longer than I usually think about it, which is probably about 5 minutes a year.

I thought about disease. And I started to really notice the magnolias blooming in my neighbourhood. And I thought, why haven’t I noticed those before?

I walked to the doctor’s office almost late, trying to keep denial wrapped around my shoulders and pretend I was running an errand I considered fun, like picking out Thank you cards and shampoo in the aisles of a Shopper’s Drug Mart. I didn’t look at the trees or flowers or at people’s faces when I passed them on the sidewalk. Upon entering the clinic a man who was homeless was begging for cash. He came in the door with me and stood in the foyer. I had no cash but a one-zone bus ticket. He said that was useless to him. I asked him to take it so I wouldn’t feel so bad. He sighed and took the ticket. I rolled my shoulders back, turned around and walked into my doctor’s office. See? Life wasn’t so bad, right? The waiting room was packed but two minutes after sitting down I got called in right away. I could feel the stares on my back from the people who had been reading the same magazine article for half hour plus. Then I thought, Oh, god, maybe I’m sick. And I wanted to trade places with them. I could read about Harper’s Government in Maclean’s and wait another hour, no problem.

My doctor  got to the point.

Turns out my pap test was absolutely 100% clear.  I felt like the grate I was stuck in went back to being invisible and I could swim free to the surface again, I inhaled deeply. But wait a second, I still feel pretty badly… and then the light glinting off the water’s surface goes momentarily under cloud cover…

‘There is something,’ my amazing doctor says. ‘Well, it could be something, it could be nothing.’

My vitamin D is low.

Well, alrightee, then, thank you very much, I’ll go get some supplements and lay naked in the sun, no biggie right? I started to gather my things. There was a time in my life when Iron and B12 were really low too, a few dietary changes and horsepill-er-multi-vitamins later and I was good to go.

‘But,’ she continued, ‘Rheumatoid Arthritis came back. It’s inconclusive.’

The aches in my fingers, wrists, hips, knees, the constant low level throb, the fatigue, feeling bad, can’t that just be vitamin D? A little soy milk with my rum, right?

Well, I’ll find out. We’ll test again in two months.

It’s pretty harrowing all the stats on arthritis. That’s why we’re fundraising for the Arthritis Society (hello, wouldn’t that be the biggest crappiest irony of 2010 that while fundraising on behalf of family members I get the damn thing myself, gone will be my You’re So Brave speeches and born will be my, Jesus Christ, get me a painkiller and someone change the next episode of the Office, Michael Scott is the only one who gets it. Remember the episode where he burns his foot on his George Foreman grill? Exactly).

But it’s not for certain. It could just be Vitamin D, I’m in a zone that wavers between having it and not having, a gray shade. I do ache but not all the time. And it’s not for certain. Not that anything is. Well one thing is for certain: those magnolias blooming on peoples’ front lawns sure are beautiful.

Something different happened too, yeah, I noticed magnolias but I also noticed how I hunch my shoulders forward when I walk as though that will increase my speed. I noticed that I spend so much of  my time walking around worrying about shit that doesn’t happen that when something real does come down the tube, I’m dumbstruck. At a loss to see how good I had it my entire life up to just moments before. But I don’t think that way on a daily basis as I’m swimming along with thousands of other fishes all grasping at finding something: happiness, money, a friend who finds the dismembered arm scene in Jurassic Park just as hilarious as I do.

I have 2 months to get my vitamin D back up and then we’ll test again for the arthritis. Maybe it’s “just” a vitamin D deficiency and a very generous warning to take better care of myself. Maybe it’s more.

What isn’t there to love about New Zealand?

Flight of the Conchords making us laugh, Marilyn Wearing making us smart, and Lord. Of. The. Rings. Did Frodo ever get to battle life’s demons in a more beautiful place? No way! But now he could have a little extra help getting back and forth to Mordor on his new YikeBike. Sam Gamgee too!

I love that a group of people sat down and said enough with the nonsense of modern living – using gas to commute, having to play tetris with your bicycle on public transit, traffic jams, pollution, stress… and took the idea of a unicycle and  made it rideable for the talentless.  (I have great respect for unicycles- not only is it eco-friendly, but an amazing trick too!)

The private New Zealand company responsible for this “urban freedom” transit tool, called it “yike”-bike after hearing peoples’ first reactions to it. And again, what’s not to love about that, being tongue in cheek about your own invention that you’ve invested everything in?

You can check out their commonly answered questions here.  And even better is the Yikebike’s founder Grant Ryan’s blog. Talk about putting your passion to the pedal.

I’m looking forward to a pedal-assist model so a little sweat can be added to the mix.

So, my question for the day:  is Vancouver too self-conscious to initially look weird wheeling around on one of these things? I bet the happy people unicycling wouldn’t think so.

We could call it the VikeBike, especially if it was pedal-assist.

On this week’s Mouth2Mouth broadcasting outta CJSF 90.1fm, Sarah Hyde and I talk pseudonyms.

Have you ever changed your name?

Sarah Hyde talks about what it was like to live a year as Molly Hopkins. Turns out Molly is a whole lotta fun! (So is Sarah- she picked up a thing or two from her name-changing alter ego).

We talk to Orene Askew, who really prefers to be called “O”; Maegan Conway on changing names during a pub crawl in Berlin, Nick Kempinksi on how a name change can make a big difference and Katie K on what it’s like to catch someone using a different name. And as the world funnily turns, that someone just happens to be the same someone Sarah Hyde and I know…by a different name. I know. I know. There’s a lot to a name.

Including some silly fun. Sarah and I rename each other for a day.  And I’m not sure what she thought of my name for her but I was pretty happy with what she came up with for me, especially when we shortened it to a nickname.

So, go ahead, pick up a Sharpie and fill in that blank “Hello, my name is” box. Write whatever you want. We found out it doesn’t hurt a thing.

Until someone finds out.

The Pseudonyms Show Part I

The Pseudonyms Show Part II

b-b-b-bam-bam b-b-b-bam-bam, I wanna be more organized.

Not sure the Ramones would have rolled a cigarette or took a shot of whiskey to that last one, but I think if I was more organized I wouldn’t want to be sedated.

I’ve got that 200-cigarettes feeling for our Arthritis Society fundraiser tomorrow. I feel like Martha Plimpton’s Monica- making cupcakes, sending out thinly veiled beseeching emails and texts to close friends to bring their friends and that guy they always wanted to talk to at the office and then maybe his brother and if his brother’s neighbour is out on the front stoop then convince him to come too.  Ahh, nerves or is that excitement?

When it comes to raising cash they’re the same thing.

Throwing a big public bash feels like first date jitters. It’s exciting to go out with someone you don’t know but it’s such a risk from the usual pyjama pants and The Office routine. You have to be hopeful and realistic, but even more hopeful. Of course, we’ll break even, we may even make a hundred bucks towards the cause! Maybe a thousand! Someone’s shirt will come off! Who knows?!

In less than 24 hours our very first big public fundraiser will be game on.

The good news is our fundraiser is a White Stripes documentary. That’s like having a really cool older brother let you sell your Girl Guide cookies at his all-weekend party. You might not sell anything but you know your life is gonna be changed. That’s the thing about rock n’roll.

So having Emmett Malloy’s film on the screen already gives us a rock up from me playing an off-version of Alouette on my grade school recorder while crying. Already it’s waaayy better than that.

Last ticket count from Zulu Records has us sold 42, we have sold 12 ourselves and there are 194 seats to fill with sweet sweet fundraising love.  We need to sell 80 to break even.

So…140 people isn’t too many to expect at the door…right?…right? Well, not if someone’s shirt comes off.

Join us tomorrow at Pacific Cinematheque at 1:30pm. Cupcakes, prizes, swirly candy and rock n roll. Tickets are $10.00 each but 20-bucks worth of fun.

Local Vancouver artist Myron Campbell has whipped up some furry magic with his monthy drawing parties: Draw by Night.

The theme for March?

Civil Monsters.

And you know what? There are quite a few polite and conscientious monsters out there.

Grover, Harry from Harry and the Henderson’s, Sulley from Monster’s Inc. er, after meeting Boo, of course. Civil monsters that will not only help a kid cross the street but teach the alphabet, make breakfast and heck even save your life.

So, I took a shot at drawing one of my favourite monsters growing up:

That is my friend Mr. Aloysius Snuffleupagus or as you, I and Big Bird know him: Snuffy.

The Vancouver Film School Cafe is already a pretty cool space to draw in but Myron Campbell has a way of transforming it to make it even more inclusive and fun. He showed the Hilarious House of Frightenstein, an 80’s-child Saturday morning classic. Featuring maybe my most favourite monster – The Wolfman- that disco dancing werewolf. (I would front load “funky” to the wolfman’s “civil” because he was only polite on the psychedelic dance floor, hooowl!)

But, back to the VFS Cafe, tables were pushed together and covered with long rolls of paper. There were clusters of drawing utensils from pens, pencils, markers to sharpie paint markers. You could draw by yourself or with your neighbour and even the person sitting across from you. Lots of people switched seats to draw too.

There were so many different takes on civil monsters that if you didn’t have fun drawing one yourself (as if!!) you had a lot of fun looking at everyone elses’.

Here’s a few shots.. let the monstrous civility begin…

The next Draw by Night is at the Diane Farris Gallery as a part of Twitter/Art + Social Media,”a juried exhibition of work by artists using social media for inspiration, production and presentation of their work.”

Heck yah to Myron Campbell and collaborators!

Check out Draw by Night’s page for details on how you can be part of it. There will be open spaces for drawers of all ilks, even those with wavy Aloysius Snuffleupagus’s up their sleeves.

2010’s International Women’s Day theme is equal rights, equal opportunities: and progress for all. That being said, I find it fitting that I stayed up way too late the night before International Women’s Day to finish a book I couldn’t put down: Marni Jackson’s The Mother Zone.

The thing is, I’m not a mother, not even close, but I’m starving to read about women’s real lived experiences.  (In this case, a middle class woman’s real lived experience). And Marni Jackson takes you there.  Her writing is so unflinchingly honest, concise and poetic I felt like she was a friend hanging out in my apartment being whimsical, funny and starkly realistic all while I brushed my teeth, threw on my pj’s and crawled into bed to read.

And like a friend, you can’t forget her voice. And sometimes you really really want to.

There is something that makes me want to cling to glossy ads and the ludicrous promises they offer, such as perfection and easy love.  There is something electric and shiny urging me to stay in my cult of individualization -or as the weird teacher on Glee once put it,  in my “cocoon of horror.”

That’s the luxury of being middle class: “the cocoon of horror.” You can choose to be isolated and hold onto the belief that self-alienation will somehow lead to peace. Rather than be forced to be isolated and understand all too well that we need people to survive. We need people period. You can’t raise a child in a vacuum so what makes us think we can raise ourselves that way?

Delusions abound in this middle world, which we’re uncovering steadily as the middle class disappears like bales of hay during harvest time. And those of us bottoming out? We’re the rats scurrying to stay hidden underneath.

Marni Jackson’s voice lifts the cover of hay faster than an industrial rake on speed. You see yourself for the scurrying rat that you are. Friendly, innovative and a kind rat, of course -but running around systems that don’t quite work and failing to change them at the same time; completely exhausted after a day of uncertainty and distracted worrying.

Following a linear, achievement-focused, middle way of seeing things is crazy.

And we need to treat rats better too.

The Mother Zone came out in 1992,  a year when The Blue Jays won the world series, the L.A. riots set ablaze our fears, calling attention to social injustice and the very white problem of racism, and Mary Fisher made us wake up with words so poignant our souls cried to hear them about the strict social silences surrounding AIDS.  The Mother Zone was reprinted again in 2002, a year that was painfully post 9-11,  Canada beat the USA to win the 2002 Olympic Men’s Hockey Gold in Salt Lake City , and Jam Master Jay of the trio known as Run-DMC was shot dead in a recording studio in Queens.  And guess what?  Nothing has changed within the pages of this book. Nothing. The “outside world” is still morphing and fumbling along while ‘the mother zone’ remains the bermuda triangle for women and men who decide/are forced to/find themselves staying at home. Every type-set word is as relevant today as it was nearly 20 years ago.

Not a single thing has changed.

Not even the hairdos.

Ok, well, maybe the hairdos.

But aside from the ubiquitous  short, spiky haircuts, there’s still no national daycare; in-the-womb wait lists for expensive private daycare; not great pay/recognition/benefits for day care/in-home workers; parents in the home are still working the majority of hidden hours, those parents are usually women, and while there is a growing number of stay at home dads (check out this column I love from a Salon writer), no matter who is in the home, the work just isn’t valued.

Why isn’t “the contents of the baby’s diapers or the adorable thing little Cullen did to the dog?” just as important as the GDP? Doesn’t ‘population growth’ directly affect the GDP? How does our government think population growth happens? Working elves and storks at the baby pole?

It’s interesting that I want to talk about mothering and caretaking as a part of a conversation about International Women’s Day (next up I’ll be talking about body issues, har har, long sigh) because there are some formidable strides women have been making in science, math, journalism, art, medicine,  environmentalism, and so on) but it concerns me, the lack of support or value for mothering specifically. (Full disclosure: my own mother was a homemaker who babysat other children in our home and I didn’t value it growing up, in fact I was embarrassed that she didn’t “work” like all the other moms on the street).

Yeah, I’m pretty embarrassed of that now.

Women still don’t get paid the same as men and according to statcan.gc.ca, in 2004, 550 000 families were being raised by single moms. 38% of which had incomes that didn’t make it past the poverty line.  It’s scary as a society that we don’t value something unless it has a price tag, that is very very scary. Enter commodification of water, trees, raising babies, life.

I remember changing my mind in my early 20’s, believing that women and men who stay at home and raise kids or look after aging parents should get a bi-weekly paycheque like everyone at the office.  Just to have that acknowledgment, that veneer of support, that nod, ‘yep, Mrs. Dawson, you, too, count in this world. Contrary to what the neighbours think, you play an important role.’

I don’t think anyone I know has worked harder than my mother. And after reading The Mother Zone, I have a feeling there’s a lot of people in Canada who could say the same thing about whichever parent was their primary caregiver or about both parents if they figured out how to share the work.

Marni’s struggle between writing and mothering is a universal struggle, against who were supposed to be/try to be/strive to be and who we find out we are. I want to hear all about Marni’s life experiences in this way, in a book she has written. How did she negotiate becoming a writer, moving out, having a life-long partner, traveling, dealing with ill parents, her own health, etc. Her voice is so honest and real and funny and wise, I was just drinking up the authenticity of it like water after a long run.

In the Mother Zone, Marni isn’t telling a story, she is telling it like it is, which just happens to be an incredible story.

I know I have paid too close attention to what “I’m supposed to be” doing/being/feeling/thinking/striving for that in a lot of ways I’ve lost the path our sisters and brothers started a hundred years ago with International Women’s Day and all the legal fights for recognition and equality that have followed.

Marni Jackson reminded me.

I seem to -mistakenly- think of history as a progression, that in 2010 we must be eons away in grace, -obvious humility- and social advancements from 1910, but on a lot of fronts that isn’t quite right. We got the vote. Union labourers died to get us more reasonable work weeks. But there remains an atrocious number of murdered and missing women across Canada, the feminization of poverty is real, racism continues to exist and other startling facts.

On a shallow note, I have also assumed that women in the past must have been more prude than me, but that also is not quite right. They may have worn higher collar on their shirts, but they’re mouths seemed to be more willing to tell the truth than I have so far.

Although, that’s changing, with this one little post at least.

I want to uproot the in-depth religion I have made out of advertising. Out of the way “things should be”. That would blow the roof off the whole facade of being an individual who needs to do things individually. I find the culture of individualism alienating and lonely on the bad days and on good days, it gives me some room to forget about everyone else and watch a movie. And it’s this silent/screaming line I have drawn somewhere inside myself that I must be measured upon. But time and life doesn’t work that way. One day I wake up and it’s 10 years later and some things have changed and others have resolutely (and thick headedly /stubbornly) stayed the same. I thought I was agnostic but really, I have believed in plastic.

I strive every day not for success or great hair or to avoid my third peanutbutter-oat cookie before 10am (which alright, I do strive for these things too) but what I strive for most is to be honest. If I can truly be honest then I find myself living less hunched over, less one foot out the door to the next thing, less distracted, less unwilling.  On International Women’s Day, I lit a candle for the women that have come before me, Nellie McClung, Bell Hooks, Dionne Brand, Alice Walker, Marni Jackson, even confusing strong women like Madonna or Oprah that are at once cultural saviours but at the same time embodying our culture in a way that can shackle us.  Here’s to the Marni Jackson’s that were/are willing to go against the constant stream of messages and say, nah, a woman’s truth especially around good ol’ “boring” motherhood is not like that. In fact, it’s worth a book and an audience and it’s own space and place. After all, it’s about finding our own voice, but even more than that, it’s about putting them together.

Raising money for Arthritis Research doesn’t get more fun than this!  M2M co-star, Sarah Hyde, picks up the pink bandanna and gets down.

But wait-before I post the video here’s a pop-up insider-tidbit for ya: I put the call out to all the community dancers to meet at a specific time at a specific place. As the date drew closer I got worried: it seemed like no one could make it.

Did I have enough guts to dance alone?

The morning of the big meet-up, I put on my sweats and carried my flourescent posters to the beach. I got some songs cued on my ipod and tried to psyche myself up.

I waited. 45 minutes went by.

I vacillated between worry and wonder, marveling at all the dogs and do-gooders jogging by and worrying about the task at hand. The potential-solo dance routine.  I contemplated asking a group of drunk beach-goers if they’d be interested in dancing in a video with me (it was the first summery-sunny day of the year, I don’t blame them one ounce for being tipsy and loud by noon) but figured that wouldn’t look good for The Arthritis Society if someone barfed during the running man or worse, fell over. When I was about to conclude that maybe dancing for change wasn’t the best fundraising tactic,  bike wheels flashed by and stopped to my right. A familiar voice, said, “hey, I’m here”.  Radio personality, volunteer extraordinaire, playwrite and regular karokee’r Sarah Hyde came in from Merritt. She was in her sweats and ready to rock. She had to leave in exactly one hour to lead a youth camp. She didn’t ask where everyone else was. She just danced.

We didn’t raise any money that day (I think we could have danced naked and people would have been too interested in chilling out with the sun, it was such a nice day) but I got a gift worth more than uranium in New Brunswick, I got a friend’s kindness.

(And also to see a funny little pug named Mason run free as a bird down the beach, snort-chortling, his little paws like wings).

In the elusive pursuit of the marathon conquest, Jordan and I are somewhere between ‘is-that-a-glimmer-of-light-on-the-dark-dark-horizon-or-is-that-a-drop-of-sweat-on-my-eye-glasses?’ and ‘we’re-doing-this-and-it’s-going-to-be-awesome.’

Jordan is closer to the latter sentiment and I’m kinda checking out my sweaty glasses.

But as of today, we are now running 12 minutes at time/walk 1 minute/4xs in a row. This is huge. Although, it doesn’t quite measure 10km on a roadway, (and yup, we’re signed up to run 42km continuously),  it measures miles upon miles of progress in our 8 months of heaving our butts of our butt-enticing couch, putting our books down and getting outside. There were times when I thought I was going to have an asthma attack after running 2 minutes. And I’m only being half-dramatic. I literally would cough & cough and feel my throat turn into the size of a cocktail straw and who the heck can drink out of those things anyway? I remember asking Jordan tersely, “time?” every 5 seconds, not having the breath or gusto to say out loud a full polite sentence such as: “Jordan, could you please tell me the time we have left on the stopwatch, thanks, baby!”

Nope!  He’d get an angry or breathless or tired or tense one word command: “time?” I thought that by willing the 2.5 minutes to be over, it would be.

It really doesn’t work that way.

And I’m so grateful to find that out.

I really really hoped training for a marathon would increase my lung capacity and help me drop a few pounds from my huggable hips but I had no idea I’d be growing some patience, and heck, even compassion for my annoying non-running running self. I now try to challenge myself not to ask Jordan what time is left on the stopwatch anymore, unless of course we’re going up hill, then I ask every 2 seconds-  I mean, I’m not superhuman.

The fact that we’re running 12 minutes at a time feels like a great accomplishment. One I wouldn’t think was possible 8 months ago. So, maybe other things are possible too, like completing 5 hours of running, even if it’s 12 minutes at a time.

And of course with committing to run 42km, we’ve also committed to raise $13 000 for the Arthritis Society. And we’re at 23% of our goal right now! Thanks largely to friends, family members and workplace families. (I can’t say how many times I feel like Michael Scott as I learn to run and fundraise) haha.  But we definitely need help raising the last 10-grand.

And holy crap, $10 000 seems like a HUGE number, (did someone say recession?) but so did the number 12 (did someone say never-been-able-to-run-in-my-life?) when it came to running it in minutes. And the number 12 is not that bad, then maybe the number 10 000 ain’t either especially if you’ve got some fun events planned.

And we do!

Thanks to the White Stripes and B-side entertainment!

Our first *big* fundraiser is on March 27th (1:30pm) at Pacific Cinematheque theatre on 1131 Howe Street in Vancouver… a screening of the White Stripes Under The Great White Northern Lights documentary. Expect 100% rock n roll with a good chance of a of scissor kick or two.

We’ve even got a PG rating from Consumer Protection BC ready to post, some swirly candy and tickets!  You can get a ticket or three for 10 bucks a pop at Zulu Records on West 4th Ave.

The event is set to rock.

All we need is you.

geezus jupiter jumpin’ pie.

There have been a lot of Olympic moments that have peeled back the concrete of the city to reveal the the feeling of these nonsensical words underneath.

A little shazam zoop de kawow.

It’s all so heartbreakingly beautiful, inspiring  and eye opening. How can one athlete’s moment of glory be another’s quick slippery fall? How can one event that celebrates unity and collectively reaching past our strangeness be a sword cutting a swift path to the periphery for those who find themselves already marginalized. What’s worse than not feeling a part of the Olympics especially when the Olympics are in your city?

Not feeling a part of life at all.

About five minutes after arriving in front of the Carnegie Community Centre for the Memorial March for Murdered and Missing Women I was handed a picture of a woman who has been missing for over 20 years. Her sister was being interviewed by various news people. The reporters formed a circle around her with their heads bent, making respectful notes. The sister of Gail Williams let tears roll down her cheeks as she spoke. I found it so brave for both the reporters and her to be asking and answering questions. Something that hasn’t been done enough for the over 60 missing women in Vancouver and 3000 across Canada.

I’ve had what I would call a few Olympic moments and they came from groups and events I would never expect them to come from. While crammed too close for comfort in front of the steps of the Carnegie Community Centre I had one of those moments. As women were drumming and chanting on the steps, setting a safe space for the families to come out and start the march, I saw two eagles soar and circle above where they sang. I heard gasps in the crowd and a woman held an eagle feather up to the sky and the drummers chanted with their whole eyes, whole beings tilted upwards. And a thought entered my chest like an envelope. I pulled back the sticky part and a word slipped out: peace. What if acknowledging what we have not acknowledged before can bring peace. Eagle wings cutting through hypocrisy and bureaucracy and systems that have been set in place long ago that have never quite worked. We need a separate public inquiry into the cases of these murdered and missing women outside these systems.

We need to have at least that.

I felt touched to stand in such a large crowd of people honouring the families’ ongoing grief and suffering as well as our nation’s.  To stand next to elders, drummers, journalists, college students, tourists, neighbours, parents, politicians, concerned citizens, teachers all listening to the names of these women who have gone nameless for too long. That’s all I did; I listened. I got my recorder out for some interviews and then I lost my nerve. I didn’t know what to ask. How have you coped? What do you want seen done? What can the average citizen do?  I think I know those answers. You have to. Carry on. Justice. No more murdered or missing women. No more murdered or missing anybody. Demand a separate inquiry.  Care. Call attention to this. Don’t be apathetic. Don’t get overwhelmed.

So, my second olympic moment (first one was seeing Shane Koyczan on my friend’s tv do spoken word during the opening ceremonies) was seeing two eagles soar high above us all with maybe a view point we don’t get to see too often. That on that day, Valentine’s, The Chinese New Year, The Memorial March for Murdered and Missing Women, that on that day we were all marching for peace.

This week on M2M at CJSF 90.1 fm Sarah Hyde and I go arty and bring you a soundscape of the Olympics with a few good-natured interview clips thrown in.

So, what would a day at the Olympics sound like if you showed up downtown Vancouver and walked around with the crowds?  If you stopped in at a friend’s house to talk about Wayne Gretzy and taking the bus? If you piled out of the place where you watched the Olympic Men’s Gold Hockey Game and high fived more people than you have in your entire life?

You’re going to find out.

Close your eyes and don’t worry about crossing the street. We’re going to take you from the Chinese New Year’s Day Parade to the Memorial March for the Murdered and Missing Women to Russia House -Sochi 2014- to the Circus to Granville Island performances to the Candahar to Northern House to the Torch Relay to Granville street crowd cheering morning, noon and night.