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Voluncurling

I joined close to 200 volunteers in the first week of January for the Ontario Curling Championship held at Woolwich Memorial Centre in Elmira. It is an annual event held in different communities each year. The winners on the men’s side go on to represent Ontario at the Briers, a Canada wide competition and the women go on to Scotties, the equivalent on the women’s side. This is top drawer curling. As someone who has curled for many years, I can appreciate the skill, precision, and nerves of steel needed to excel at this sport, which looks deceptively simple but has, for a reason, been called chess on ice.

I volunteered for Player’s Services, which meant helping stock the players’ dressing rooms and such, as well as interacting with players, coaches and other volunteers. I was also able to watch some games while doing some of my duties and between shifts. Volunteers came from a variety of backgrounds and most spent 20 hours or more at the event.

Volunteering is a most interesting phenomenon. I suspect people volunteer for various reasons, and when I think about my own volunteering experiences, a variety of motivations come to mind – pending the event, where I am in life etc. It can span the range of a chance to interact with people, getting out and about, a sense of duty, the desire to make the world a better place, and more besides. But part of what makes volunteering volunteering is that I don’t have to do it. If I have to do something, it isn’t volunteering. It might be considered a manifestation of what the Danish philosopher Knut Løgstrup called the sovereign expressions of life.

That phrase points to the phenomenon of people engaging in things that promote life even while those actions may come at a cost to the actors. Human capacities like trust, love, joy, devotion, dedication, etc. are identified as sovereign expressions of life because life is being ex-pressed in them (“to express” comes from two Latin words meaning “to press out”). Life is manifest in these and in the power it gives people to keep on going in the midst of death, destruction, disappointment, and betrayal.

I have to say that a lot of my time volunteering involved doing nothing. But it was important for people to be there when something needed to be done, and it was fulfilling in a way that is hard to describe. The generous gift of time and energies by the volunteers who came together for a singular purpose stuck out to me in the face of the all too frequent greed, selfishness, and polarization on display these days.

Christian theologians talk about original sin to name the ways in which humans are inevitably taken in by nefarious forces, a reality we see in spades. But I think it worthwhile to think too, about original good, or virtue – that human capacity to reach out and give in the face of meaninglessness, or death, or despair. I have seen that too and it drips with grace. When life is given expression, hope is born and we find ourselves borne by the realization that there is in humanity a capacity to shine, and that we can be party to life.

It was a good thing to volunteer. I met some great people, saw some amazing curling, and had some great laughs. But most importantly, I was reminded that there is great joy in being alive.

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These Days

These days we look
at our screens with
breath bated, X-rated
news spews horrors
against hopes for a
better world. We
might wonder:
What’s the good of
a poem,
or a song,
or a painting
while bodies bleed? Yet
art is at the heart of justice and so
poets and choristers and sculptors and
writers can right the world because
peace is birthed in imaginations and
hands fashion freedom and
bodies dance joy and
relations are sung anew and
a poem is a cloud that lifts high our heads
to see now a frog, now a ship, and
now and then an
end to this madness.

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Epiphanies

For those in the Western Christian Church, this coming Tuesday is Epiphany, the celebration of the revelation of the divine Word to the world as evidenced in the visit of the Magi. Many churches celebrate this important festival on the Sunday immediately before January 6, as did our church. Originally, before Christmas was its own festival, epiphany celebrated a host of epiphanies of Jesus, which included the nativity, the visit of the magi, Jesus’ baptism, and the miracle of turning water to wine at Cana.

The word “epiphany” comes from two Greek words meaning “to” or “towards,” and “appearing.” And so in common parlance we will speak of an epiphany as something coming to us, or becoming apparent at last. We sometimes reserve the word for big learnings, or realizations – as per The Epiphany of our Lord – but it also gets used in a more quotidian way, as when for instance, someone says something like “I had an epiphany during my walk: I need to drink more milk.” Of course, this is a decidedly small “e” epiphany in comparison to The Epiphany. But still, every epiphany matters and so I share a few with you that have come to me in the last little while.

I have had the delight of doing a bit of cross country skiing this year given the massive amounts of early snow we have had this year, more than usual. I utterly enjoy it but still, I often have to push myself to load my gear, drive to a ski course and strap on my skis. But once I get going? Joy. It strikes me that sometimes what is meaningful and good necessarily asks us to say no to ourselves so that we can say yes.

While I was skiing yesterday, I found an incredibly good groove, the skis were slapping in a lovely cadence. I had the wax just so. I found a great pace with heartbeat, lung work, and leg motion all in synch. But I also found that when I had a down hill slope, I could ease up a little and take a breath that would be helpful for the uphill bit about to come. I realized that rest and activity are intimately wound around one another and to forfeit one is to cheapen the other.

After the ski, while putting away my gear, I realized I probably only have about two more months for skiing, if the weather stays cold. I started to think about my next opportunity to get out, and where I would go. Yesterday I skied at Rockway Golf Course, where the local Nordic Club sets trails. On Thursday last I skied in Schneider’s Woods – a protected area dedicated to skiing in the winter and hiking in the other seasons. I haven’t yet made it to Bechtel Park, a mixed-use area that is wonderful as well. And as I began to plan my next ski it became apparent to me that the future isn’t far off but slipping into my present in delicious although sometimes menacing ways.

Three little epiphanies on the edge of Epiphany, when those in the Christian church celebrate that the Word became flesh – saying no for the sake of yes, suffering the rest of death and rising to grace the world with restoration, and bringing the future with the promise of new starts to us even now, as near as our own words are to our lips. The Word became flesh so that the world might be fresh, as fresh as the powdered snow slipping under my skis and spraying over my soul.

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Poetic Justice

The other day, my hand erred in
reaching for wine, knocking it over
unceremoniously.
Some of it glided across
my coffee table thereby
wetting the lips of a
book of poetry. It might be an
instance of poetic justice, since
every poem, not to mention a
congregation of them, deserves
a little wine for the wondrous
work they do in healing hearts
in building bridges
in razing wars
in holding the world together.

It’s no wonder that tyrants tremble
before poems – Mary’s Magnificat comes
to mind – and if anyone ought to be lauded
now and then, it’s the
lowly, holy poem.

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Lefse Labours

One of the traditions that marks the season for me is an afternoon making lefse with my youngest, Corin, who is joining us from Glasgow this year. For those not in the know, lefse is a Norwegian flatbread – soft, made from potatoes, flour, butter and cream, and very yummy.

There are certain steps that are needed in order to successfully make lefse in the Jorgenson household. The first indispensable step is going for a ski, and so yesterday we made our way out to Schneider’s Woods. We were afraid it was going to be a bit of a bust because of some rain on Thursday. But the temperatures dropped back to normal Friday and we got enough snow overnight to have a lovely ski. Job one done.

The next essential step was lunch. It is very important to prepare yourself for the rigour of making lefse with some solid nourishment. I find that curried herring on dark bread is trustworthy – washed down with akvavit and beer, of course. Other open-faced sandwiches were added for the extra kick needed at the end of the session and so I had some with smoked trout pâté, roast pork, and a hard boiled egg. This was followed by a potato pancake (in order to move my palate in the direction of pommes de terre). The pancake was topped with Emmenthal cheese and maple syrup (very Canadian). I could have included some whipping cream but exercise some restraint.

The next step was a nap.

Then began the fun. Corin’s friend joined us and we listened to a Christmas playlist while we rolled and griddled the lefse. We had an excellent start when I tipped some flour all over the counter and onto the floor. It was a bit of a “break a leg” moment. The task went by amazingly well, and I think we broke a record for making lefse. It was, as hoped, excellent. So tasty!

Of course, no major project is done until all the flour is cleaned up using the Shop-Vac, and all the surfaces of the kitchen are scrubbed and shined with elbow grease. Tout fini!

I look forward to this every year. One of the sweet moments is seeing anew the recipe, written out in my mom’s memorable cursive writing. She has been gone some 12 years now, but this is one small way she shows up to make Christmas special. Of course, the other sweet moment is making memories with my daughter (and her friend this year!). Together those hang in the air, potent with meaning and blessing. And for that I am very grateful.

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They Sang

The snow and skies sang
and my skis hummed two
tunes – one of ballads
known to the snow
and one of tales
known in my bones,
wherein ancestors from
sea and fjord and mount
counted these skis as
wings – Hermes like – flying
across clouds settled on soil.
And my soul lit with
delight as I heard cheers from
the angels above and
our Mother below and
those passed but presently within
while my skis sang Soli Deo Gloria.

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At Snow’s Fall

It seems she has returned,
with her soft curves and
gentler light. As my
eyes caress trees draped
in diamond decked boughs
and rows of snow shovelled
just so, I find a certain
ease settling
in my soul.

Winter seasons life, with
quiet drifts and howling squalls both, with
promises of rest beneath blankets of white, with
extra layers, fewer flourishes worn.

Winter beckons and
reckons me
enough.

And I wonder if death
will be like this – my breath
taken away by the beauty
that this is rather than
not.

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FOMO Nixed

FOMO Nixed

The posting of this blog marks a significant shift in my life. Usually I do not publish a blog this weekend in November because I am at the American Academy of Religion – a mega meeting of folk geeking out over things theological and religious. I put in a proposal, which was not accepted. This is not unusual. My track record is probably about 50/50, or so, maybe a bit less. I decided if my proposal wasn’t accepted, I would take a pass and wave farewell to AAR. Next year I will have a significant Professional Development cost with a European conference, and so will need to miss next year, and the year after that I will be retired. Of course, there are other pressing issues that make a journey to Boston less attractive, and so I wasn’t altogether disappointed when I heard “no.”

I wondered if I would experience some FOMO. I quite enjoy AAR – especially the opportunity to meet old friends again make new acquaintances. Over the years, papers and presentations have become less important than relationships. However, this year a good number of Canadians are taking a pass, and so as I think about not going, my mind has turned to what I would have missed out here had I gone there.

On Friday, Inshallah – the global choir I belong to – sang at the Grand Valley Institution, which is Canada’s largest women’s prison. An Indigenous drum group made up of residents and volunteers sang with us. The sound of the drum had my body resonating with the music. Something mystical and transformative happened in our time together. I felt deeply honoured to have been a part of that event. Later Friday night, I curled, and our team was thoroughly trounced. But afterward, around a table with our opponents with drinks at hand, we got telling stories about crazy relatives and laughed so hard. We got home just in time to have a FB chat with our middlest (all of my daughters are superlative) daughter.

Saturday was idyllic, with a late morning rise, followed by a trip to the Kitchener Market. As I stepped from the crisp late autumn air into the warmth of the indoor market, replete with the smell of sausage, coffee, and vegetables, I smiled. I bought my favourite goose pâté and chicken rouladen, as well as 10 pounds of beets (for $4.00!). I came home and donned my jogging gear for a run to Victoria Park and back – 10 kms total. I live for fall runs, which was doubly blessed yesterday by the clipped canticles of Mallard ducks cheering me on. My run was followed by my traditional Danish lunch involving Akvavit, beer, and the just precured cured meats (and herring) on heavy thin sliced dark bread in an open-faced sandwich – all wrapped up in a post meal nap. The afternoon saw me doing this and that – all done rather leisurely – and included getting four new painting canvases on sale. A stop at the liquor store afforded me an audacious meeting with some former students – always a delightful occasion after getting through the awkward moment of trying to remember their names and finally fessing up to my finitude. Saturday evening involved a meal with some dear friends we have not seen since COVID and its chaotic complications. We laughed, cried, shared photos, and wondered why we have not bridged the gap earlier vowing to catch up sooner rather than later.

Sunday included my walk (done religiously) to and from church to celebrate the Reign of Christ. We sang some favoured hymns (I still like hymns with some theological rigour, which we regularly get at St. Matthews), and I got home in time to chat with our youngest daughter on What’s App just after pushing the “send” that brings you this missive.

Did I miss AAR? Yes. Did I gain joy? Yes. But then again, life is gains and misses both, as is death. Soli Deo Gloria.

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Even Now

I bit into an apple the
other day and looked in, to
see a drop of juice waving at me.
It bid me near to hear a tale of
the world’s birth and reminded
me that I, too, was there in
ways disparate from now – an
oxygen molecule here, some
hydrogen there and a carbon cluster afar.
He said God laughed in delight at what she
had made and he smiled just so – showing
me God’s beam. It was a sight I’d seen
when my mother held a wee me – or
was that the smile I saw on my
daughter’s face with her boy
embraced the other day? Or maybe
they are all one and the same,
and this is the earth’s birth,
even now.

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Autumn’s March

The other day I was chatting with someone in the change room at the curling rink, where I described November as autumn’s March. With notably less daylight every day, and after a week of gloomy rain, it reminds me of my least favourite month. I recalled the first year we moved to Ontario, being in the Kelly library at the University of Toronto, and looking outside mid-afternoon. It was a gloomy day, and suddenly the streetlights flicked on. We had moved that year from northern Alberta, where snow was typically in place mid-November and while cold, the sky was often clear and bright, even if the day was short. Southern Ontario winters – especially in Toronto – were more inclined to be dark and dreary. November is a month of the ebbing of fall’s colours and the demurral of winter’s delights.

Of course, not all is doom and gloom in November. This morning we woke to a yard draped in white, with evergreen boughs softened with snow – although it will soon be gone according to weather reports. And yesterday I had occasion to rake leaves to the curb, in preparation for the city coming by to pick them up. I so enjoy the rhythm of the rake and the satiation comes from a job done under the watchful gaze of a huge silver maple in the front yard and a young, and up and coming blaze maple in the back. Both have now dropped most of their leaves and as I raked away in the cool, fresh air I breathed a sigh of gratitude for these gentle giants that bring me much joy. I wondered what they thought of this homo sapiens busying himself with cleaning up their leaves – knowing that all around the world forests leave leaves at the base of trees.

Earlier in the day I had gone for a run and made my way through Victoria Park. In the summer it is awash with people picnicking or lounging as their children master their play. Some folk still made their way around the little pond but now do so bundled in scarves and tuques and mitts. The park shows a different beauty in the quiet that enfolds it now. In the large open field at the eastern edge of the park, workers have begun setting up the wooden sides of what will eventually become an ice rink when the weather drops below freezing. While fall ebbs away slowly, winter is labouring away to show its face.

There is, fortunately, a diamond in the rough in the month of November – involving the exchanging of rings. My wife and I were married on November 8th 39 years ago. It was snowing that day, in Dalum, Alberta. The service was delayed waiting for the soloist, who was disadvantaged by the bad weather. But the little Danish Lutheran church was warm with love and expectation. Gwenanne and I went out for Indian food to celebrate the day, both of us gobsmacked that it has been so many years – every day since precious and blessed by that day that hallows autumn’s March.