Holiday Antics

I am purposely titling this specific blog "Holiday Antics" because of an unkind (yet poignant and thought provoking) gesture that was posted on my Facebook account a couple of days ago. Let me explain....I am a document-er. I like to record my world visually and the holiday season is a delightful reason to pull out the well-worn camera. So, slowly, through the days of the holiday I have been posting the different events that have been occurring in my and my son's little world on Facebook. The title of the album is "Christmas 2009" with a sub-title that reads, "and so it begins.....another holiday season". One of my so-called (but no longer) friends added the following small, yet profound, statement. He said, "It's called Christmas."

It's called Christmas.

First of all, this person obviously can't read, because if he had checked the bold title of the album, it does make a strong reference to Christmas, hence the title "Christmas 2009". But that three word statement is uncomfortably scary for me because if I swayed with that philosophy I would be excluding a whole hell of a lot of people from joining in on celebrating the holiday season with me. And I would be excluding a whole hell of a lot of celebration and joy during the holiday season as well. How can three words be so close minded? How can three words be so biased and exclusive? To me, that statement is full of assumptions that I should only be enjoying that specific day, Christmas day, with only like-minded individuals that believe in the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. Hey, all the power to him for having such a strong faith in his religion. I grew up in a religious home believing in that same ideal, but that doesn't mean that it's just about mangers, and sheep, and shepherds, and Mary and stars and frankincense. Because I'm not a religious person now, and Christmas still is a special day steeped in tradition and culture and family and friends and magic and beauty. The whole holiday is, with Christmas day being just one of those days and I want to enjoy that day with everyone, even with like minded Pagans like myself. (haha)

And talk about putting all of your eggs in one basket. If I had just focused solely on Christmas day, then I would have to dismiss all of the fun that Alexander and I had the other day, sliding down the Kinsmen beach hill with our buddies (even though there's not enough snow and we're picking pebbles off our butt from the experience). I would have to dismiss the concert that was put on at the school, where my son got on stage and sang a really cool song in the local Ojibway language. I would have to dismiss the late night gift wrapping and beer drinking fiascoes which made for some very creative wrapping designs. I would have to dismiss the funny jiggling Wal-mart Santa hats. I would have to dismiss snuggling in bed with my son and singing Christmas songs, both traditional and contemporary. I would have to dismiss the magic of Santa bringing a stocking on Christmas eve instead of Christmas day "just because he happened to be in the neighbourhood". I would have to dismiss my son singing carols to the senior citizens at Northwood's Lodge. I would have to dismiss eggnog. No, that's just not right. You simply cannot dismiss eggnog just because Mary didn't happen to lactate eggnog on December 25th how many thousands of years ago.

So I figure this guy needs to stop worrying that his Jesus is being taken out of his Christmas because of statements such as "the holiday season". As long as he believes that to be his Christmas, nobody can take that away from him because it's a truth and a thought and a belief in his own mind. It becomes scary when he thinks that he has the power to control my truth, and thoughts and beliefs.  If I believe that Santa and Jesus are kickin' it old school back in a hay-filled room at the North Pole, that is my prerogative and in no way should alter his beliefs of  Christmas day. I simply believe in enjoying every day, and encompassing all of the small, simply, joyful pleasures of life and putting them in an album on Facebook referring to the holiday season. Life's too short to get caught up in semantics.

And I hope that all of you are given enough rest and tranquility to have that in your world too. Merry Christmas to you, regardless of your personal interpretation of that. I wish you peace.

Christmas Tradition

Ah, Christmas is coming so quickly, and I am seeing a lot of haggard people desperately, frantically pulling out their wallets in the hopes that this year will be "the perfect Christmas". It certainly isn't my favourite season as everyone, including myself, gets swept up in the commercialism, and expectations, and expenses. Now I'm sure that you're probably thinking to yourself, "Oh, here comes righteous Rhonda to tell us that Christmas is about spirit, and giving, and loving and blah, blah, blah", so I don't have to bother you with drivel. I can cut right to the chase. Christmas equates to indulgence. Christmas sorts out the haves and the have nots, in the most horrible of ways. I would hate to be that "have not" kid that has to go back to school after the holidays and listen to one of the "have" kids talk about allllll of the stuff they got for Christmas. You know, growing up, we certainly weren't rich by any stretch of the imagination, but we still got gifts. Some are even very memorable....(Grade 4, my "satin steel" drum kit; I would put my Joan Jett "I Love Rock n' Roll" album on with my head phones plugged in, and whack away at those drums like a real rock star.) And at the time, I probably didn't think to NOT brag about getting that drum kit, and I don't recall my teacher saying anything to us about just keeping our newly acquired treats to ourselves, but in retrospect, we definitely should have had that discussion. Almost 30 years later, I am ashamed of my blatant disrespect for others with my innocent chatter of Christmas cheer.

Christmas time also makes me think about the child who lives in a separated home, as my child does. Some children actually have to make the decision on their own, as to whether they are going to have Christmas with their mom or their dad. Some times they have to actually leave their primary home and leave their friends for the holidays to go and see the other parent in a different town or province. I don't know about you, but I think if I was that kid, there might be a little bit of resentment that my parents couldn't get their shit together and help with that decision making. My own child is lucky in the sense that he has two separated parents that don't hate each other, and have an amicable set up for the holidays. It doesn't make it easy though. It really sucks that I don't get to wake my son up every Christmas morning and share that experience with him immediately. I have to wait my turn every second year. But I'm not pouting about it, because I think the alternative would be worse. It just makes me upset to think that parents can be excruciatingly selfish during the Christmas season instead of thinking about how much stress they could be putting onto their own child.

And then there is the gift stress.....are they going to like the gifts? (Yes, I purposely pluralized gifts, because we live in a one-isn't-enough-anymore society). Is this gift educational? Is this gift functional? Is this gift expressive of my feelings for this person, rendering it special and personal? Is this gift going to collect dust in their closet after I spent "x" amount of hours working on it, or "x" amount of dollars on it? It becomes a judgment call in the end, and that is excruciatingly painful and frustrating to have to do sometimes. Sometimes I think that I'm just going to stop buying gifts for everyone and instead, start buying sheep and chickens and cows for families around the world  in my friend's and family's' name, but (I'll admit it) I'm still buying in to the pressure of tradition. As I type this, there is a decorated Christmas tree to my left, and  blinky lights flashing to my right, mistletoe hanging in my dining area and glittery goop, et al adorning every nook and cranny of my house. I like the schmulk yet I'm torn between reveling in it and feeling guilty that not all can.

*Sigh* I guess that I have made some small changes though. I have started to tell friends that I'm just not doing the Christmas gift thing anymore and for the most part, they're OK with that. I don't send out Christmas cards anymore; instead I send out a Christmas email which I think is the same thing, it's just electronic. As a family, we have decided that next year we will draw names for gifts, which will alleviate a lot of stress as well. So perhaps with that extra money, next year, I can buy a couple herds of cows for a family somewhere. That would make me happy.

Yeesh. I sound pretty bitter. Really, Christmas isn't complete drudgery for me. I get to raid my mom's cold storage room and eat her yummy homemade perogies and cabbage rolls. My son and I sing Christmas carols together every night for a couple weeks before the big day, and now that Alexander can play the guitar it's an even more exciting adventure. We're rocking that Rudolph song. (Singing Christmas carols will always remind me of my childhood with my sister, sitting in our big flannel pajamas, singing together, for what seemed like hours some times.) And we always have a craft day, where we make something laden with glue and glitter. This year my adorable nephew joined in on the tradition. Cookies are always baked...(this year I'm going to try to make something with tofu). We check out the parade and get pretty excited when we see Santa (except if Alexander's friends are around because that would be "TOTALLY EMBARRASSING, MOM!!!!") We hang out with our dear friends and have sliding parties and eat goodies. Like I said, it's indulgent. But I hope it's indulgent in love, and sharing, family and friendship.

I hope that you too are privileged to enjoy that bit of indulgence, and remember those that aren't as fortunate to have those opportunities.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

The Gift of the Magi (as sung by the Squirrel Nut Zippers) 

My heart is sad, my soul is weary

Though Christmas day is fast appear'n.

I have no silver, I have no gold
To buy my wife a gift this year.
To see her sad on Christmas morning
Is a thing I cannot bear
I'll pawn the watch my father gave me
To buy a comb for her hair

Oh mother, mother what shall I do?
Though Christmas day is fast appear'n.
I have no silver, I have no gold
To buy my love a gift this year.
For I am poor and I'm a beggar
Not a cent have I, no dime I claim
I'll trade the golden hair that is our pleasure
'Buy for your watch a golden chain

Darling, darling today is christmas
What has become of your golden hair?
For I've traded our only treasure
These silver combs for you to wear.

Darling, darling we've lost our treasure
My gift to you is a golden chain.
Though we've pawned away our only pleasures,
These gifts we give are not in vain.

The wise men came on Christmas morning
Their gifts of love they came to bear
From that day on always remembered
Our own true love forever share"

Spider Babies

I have made an online, blogger friend through this site, and like to check out Chad's photos taken way over in Japan. He has a tendency to look up a lot (even though I have seen photos of his feet as well) and has taken incredible photos of the sky in different forms and trees in a plethora of hues. Today when I was looking at his sight, I let out a shudder that immediately sent me back to nine years ago, when I came upon his photo of a spider silhouette.

The story I am about to tell you is completely true and one of my favourite stories to tell my students to totally gross them out. This story has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas and won't drive you to the Kleenex box.

It was the early summer of 2000 and I was well into my second trimester of pregnancy. Thanks to my Polish and Ukrainian genetics, I was not one of those cute little basketball belly pregnancies that I see so many ladies fashionably and luckily carry. (Maternity clothes was made for these ladies....not me.)I was the full, spread hips, big ol' Mama-boobs pregnant lady and probably started retaining water hours after conception. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time in summer dresses and soaking my feet in a kiddie pool.

As you may know, I am also a gardener, and really prided myself on the lima bean shaped rock garden that I had created a couple of summers before. It was full of fresh green veggies that would soon create prolific amounts of yumminess. Because of my cumbersome belly, I had a tendency to walk through the aisles of my garden on my hands and knees, weeding along the way. I found out soon after that this was a big mistake. I was close to the rocks, and rocks (along with other dark, cool, moist places) are wonderful places for brown recluse spiders to hide. By the time I noticed I was bit by one, I had the typical round, red ring around the back of my calf. It is interesting to note, I did not feel the bite. It was not until probably that evening or the next day that it was noticed. So, I monitored it for a couple of days, and then the bite started to get a bit bigger and a little itchy. I figured I might want to go to the doctor.

You may be reading this right now saying, Jesus! I'd have been in that hospital immediately!!! But please note that I live in a small remote community that is pretty low on doctors, and so we tend to take our health into our own hands a lot. The doctors we do have are absolutely spent from working the incredible hours that they do, dealing with every facet of medicine and health. The overall mentality around here is, if it's not that bad, then let it be. Take an ibuprofen. Rest for a day. Check it out on the internet (or not). We have a bit of a survivalist mentality in this neck of the woods. But I was pregnant and a bit worried. I started thinking, what if there is spider poison in my leg? What if I'm poisoning my little baby? So, up I went to the doctor and he confirmed that I definitely had a spider bite. Now what? Well, because I was pregnant he really couldn't give me any heavy duty antibiotic (the bite had a weird bacteria on it called acinetobacter which is usually connected to hospital environments!!!) As if that wasn't creepy enough. When the doctor told me that, I demanded that he just cut the whole chunk out of my leg and be done with it. I was willing to do that, but he didn't feel the need to be so extreme. Sometimes I have been known to be a little extreme. Ahem.....

So I went back home and noticed that my bite was starting to protrude with a bump, and continued to do so for about a week. Things were getting freaky.  I went back to the doctor demanding to get this bite cut out of my leg again, and he continued to tell me to just "monitor" the bite. Monitor my ass, buddy. (Well, I never said that, but I sure wanted to.) So, I sat down in my bathroom, and did what any pregnant, slightly insane woman would do. I squeezed it. Yep, just like a big ol' pimple. I squeezed the bite, and out popped a small white pearl sized ball. Holy shit. What the hell is that? I took a pin to it and inside this ball/pod was what looked like thousands of tiny little white eggs. My freakin' leg was full of spider eggs.

I was not just pregnant with one; at this point in my life, I was pregnant with thousands.

After I had a complete wiggy and did the freaky coo-coo dance all over my bathroom and screamed bloody murder, I flushed the egg(s) and it's creepy little pod down the toilet and got on with my life. To this day, I still have a little divot in the back of my leg, and it's still sensitive to the touch. Every time I see a spider walking around carrying their sack of eggs on their back, I have a mixture of feelings. In a strange way, it takes me back to my days of being pregnant and regardless of how bulbous I was, it was still beautiful to have my little baby growing inside of me. And I feel for the poor spider mama who unknowingly lost her thousands of babies. How the hell those eggs got in there in the first place, I'll never know. It seems like a science fiction story. So, I don't squash spiders, even if I really despise them. And I feel nervous when I put on a pair of boots that have been in storage all winter (one of their favourite places to "sleep") and shake the crap out of them before I put them on. Oh, and don't bother buying me a pair of work or garden gloves. I won't wear them because they're practically spider houses.

As a side story, a few summers ago, my mother and son and I were driving down the 105 very early in the morning; around 6am. There had been a low fog in the area, and it was just starting to clear up. Along the side of the highway, I kept on seeing these strange white blobs in the bush. By the time we got to Ear Falls, I just had to get out of the truck and see what the heck all of these blobs were. They were everywhere. Know what they were? Spider webs. Thousands of spider webs. It made me realize how many I walk through when I'm tromping through the bushes. The webs were only visible because the moisture had attached to the delicate silky threads. So, take note. You can't escape spiders; you have to accept them. (Keep in mind that they are actually very good to have in your yard) and just try your best not to get bit.

To this day, I wonder if that spider bite had an effect on my son. When he had colic, I secretly thought perhaps it might have been because of the spider bite. And when he demands flies for supper, I get a bit weirded out, but comply so I don't get bit again..................haha

PS: Thank you Chad, for the inspiration!
Chad's blog
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Bad Eggs, Sick Beds and New Songs

I am seriously starting to think that there is a psychosomatic connection in my house between eating omelets for supper and getting sick in the middle of the night. This is the second time in the last two months that this has happened. Perhaps it's coincidental. Perhaps I have actually bought two batches of bad eggs. Perhaps we just caught the flu and I have a tendency to want to cook eggs when I am feeling under the weather. Perhaps it's all in my head, but regardless of those coincidences, Alexander and I are at home today, feeling very below the weather.

If you recall a blog I wrote in September called "Hallucinogenic Artistry" I discussed the connection between illness and creativity. Here I am writing, and my son is creating some kind of duct tape wizardry magic in his studio. We should be in bed, but we're compelled to do other things. (I think we're just both very defiant people and refuse to succumb to the illness wholeheartedly. We just take "breaks" and spontaneously nap or barf, then get back to as we were......)

But it made me think about the quintessential "sick bed". Do you remember where you used to be when you were sick as a child? I remember one woman telling me that she had chronic asthma as a young girl, and her mother used to keep her in bed for exorbitant amounts of time. Her mom would give her a shot of whiskey to keep her in a bit of a mind muddle, so that she remained idle and didn't want to be too active, triggering an asthmatic attack. She also said that she borrowed a whole set of encyclopedias from somebody, and read them all in her mildly drunken stupor. Amazing. To this day, the woman is an avid reader, and has managed to outgrow her asthma and drinking habits.

I was always allowed to crawl in to my parent's bed when I was sick. My dad would be gone to work, and my mom would be doing something or another around the house, and would pop in on me to see how I was doing. This made me feel exceptionally special. I always got sick around Valentine's Day, practically every year. Annually, my sister had to take my hand written Valentines to school to give to the teacher to give to my classmates, and at the end of the day, my sister would come home with my carefully, creatively decorated envelope (that was usually made in art class the week before Valentine's day....we have really come leaps and bounds with the art curriculum in school) stuffed full of Valentines. I missed out on the excitement of seeing the guy I had a crush on putting a Valentine in the envelope that was taped to my desk. One year I even missed out on being the lead character of a Valentine's Day play that my Grade 3 teacher had arranged. We were going to invite parents in to watch the play and share snacks with us afterward. Instead, I was at home coughing and barfing and someone else got the limelight. But I will always remember that my Dad would come home for lunch, and sneak into the room with a Valentine's card and a treat of some kind for me....chocolates or a cute little trinket. Being in the sick bed on Valentine's Day wasn't so bad after all.

And my son is in on a "sick bed tradition" now too. Usually I bring all of the blankets from the house to my bedroom and lay them out on the floor like a big mattress and we all sleep on the floor together; including Sandy the Wonder Dog, a ton of books and a bucket. I do this for a couple of reasons; 1) Alexander is closer to the bathroom in case he has to get up quickly and he won't fall out of a bed because he's at ground level, 2) I am right beside him so I can hear him if he does happen to get sick and 3) there's nothing better than knowing that you're surrounded by family and that someone is there to take genuine care of you when you're not feeling well. I truly think the extra TLC is what helps a person heal.

And I can't help but yet again think of artists, cooped up in their homes, fighting their own health demons, like Frida Kahlo, trapped in a broken body in bed. She asked her father for some art supplies which triggered a life long creative connection between art and health. She may have gone in a completely different direction had she not been "stuck" with her own thoughts for weeks and weeks and weeks at a time. She taped a mirror to the ceiling of her bed's canopy and painted portraits of herself. She too defied her health and in between illness, created beauty.

So maybe that's why today, my son and I sat down and finally wrote a song that we've been talking about for some time now. It's a song about being lucky, and I guess that's how I am feeling regardless of the nausea. I am grateful that I have a job that compensates for sick children in its sick day plan and allows me to stay at home and coddle my son. I am grateful that I don't have to pretend I'm feeling well in front of a group of teenagers that are sometimes not as understanding as I wish they could be (even though most times, they really are) and I'm lucky that my son was well enough to strum on his guitar while we came up with this little ditty.  Enjoy.


Feelin' Lucky

Feelin' lucky
All around
Go back in the bush
Blueberries on the ground

Can't wait to get home
Eat 'em fresh with cream
So delicious
Is this all a dream?

Feelin' lucky
Goin' down the 105
Long windin' road
So glad to be alive

Runs past Ear Falls
To Vermilion Bay
Dodgin' moose and skunks
A-long the way

Bears at the dump
Fish that jump
Lakeview pancakes
Ice roads on lakes
Soccer at the park
Fires at dark
Lucky to live here
Any time of year

Feelin' lucky
On my bike
Headin' down the hill
Get a treat I like

Lemon lime slushie
Sour, icy treat
So cool and tasty
It can't be beat

Feelin' lucky
Shooting star went by
Almost missed it
Flashed right through the sky

So full of stars
Miles and miles up high
Twinklin' in the deep blue
I'm such a lucky guy


Bears at the dump
Fish that jump
Lakeview pancakes
Ice roads on lakes
Soccer at the park
Fires at dark
Lucky to live here
Any time of year

Feelin' lucky
Slidin' down the slope
At Kinsmen Beach
No wipe outs I hope

'Cause that hill is huge
Slippery and steep
Children at the bottom
Piled in a heap

Feelin' lucky
Livin' where we do
Surrounded by trees
And furry critters too

We know our neighbours
Know 'em all by name
Lucky to live here
I hope you feel the same

Bears at the dump
Fish that jump
Lakeview pancakes
Ice roads on lakes
Soccer at the park
Fires at dark
Lucky to live here
Any time of year

By Alexander Laevens and Rhonda Bobinski

Me and My Girls

Whoever decided that burning the bra was a good idea, obviously never had to lug around double D's. Perhaps you're thinking that there can absolutely be no reason to not be happy with "puffy pillows" (ever read Stephen King's novel "Carrie" where the coo-coo mother refers to her daughter's breasts as "dirty pillows"...YEESH!), but with age, sometimes I feel like these girls are ticking time bombs. And they get in the way when I'm trying to run, or dance, or pull weeds in my garden, or lay on my tummy. Nowadays they even get in the way when I lay on my back. haha

But I have to admit, being well endowed in that department certainly came in handy last week. I had to go for a mammogram and ultrasound because my doctor felt a little bit concerned, which of course in turn, made me feel a little bit concerned. Ok, I'll readily admit that I was whole heartedly freaked right out. But we're supposed to walk around like "everything will be ok", that it's just routine and that it's probably nothing at all....we're just being safe instead of sorry. So I spent a month convincing myself that it was nothing, and then when they cancelled my appointment because their machine was on the fritz, I had another whole month to think about what nothing it was. But when my hoo-haws are flopping around incessantly, it's really hard to pretend they're not there and that they might be holding more than they should be.

And you've all heard the mammogram horror stories, of how your boobs gets squished so much in the machine that afterwards you have to roll them up like those leather fruit roll-ups that kids eat, and tuck them back into your bra. And I don't know about you, but I had this image of an old battle axe, telling me to toughen up, while she slapped my breasts around like Silly Putty being bounced off the walls. What am I... a squash ball? And I figured her hands would be really cold and dry and scratchy, and she'd grunt a lot, which would lead me to trying to interpret her Neanderthal language as "lump or no lump"? But it wasn't like that at all.

Obviously, these professionals know that women are walking in to this joint highly sensitized. I think I shed my first tear when I was putting on my gown in the change room, and they just kind of continued to roll spontaneously, quietly, throughout the course of each test. And as time passed, I felt more and more assured that not only had it been a good idea that I had these tests done, but that I would probably not be coming back for hopefully a good long time, if ever. Whew.

And I actually laughed. I laughed when I glanced down at my poor squished ta-ta and exclaimed that it looked like a boobie pancake. The technician said she sees about 20 boobie pancakes a day. That's ten women per day that go through the same process I went through, and we all know that ten women don't get the same results that I did, but I really wished that it was that way.

Because really, our breasts are such an incredibly important (and sometimes even powerful) part of our body. I found myself having boobie flashbacks...checking them out as a child in the bathtub and wondering what the heck they're for, or the first snap of the bra strap by the loser that sat behind me in grade seven...And what about those God awful training bras that we had to wear, which was basically a cropped off undershirt with an elastic band around it?! Talk about humiliating, especially when others noticed it underneath your clothing and teased you for actually growing. How weird is that to be teased about growth? I thought about those awkward moments as a teenager with my boyfriend. I thought about the power that breasts could hold over another person. I thought about the importance of nurturing and nourishing my beautiful new baby boy. I thought about the horrifically painful mastitis,and I thought about that stupid breast pump and those ridiculous breast pads. I thought about how my boobs exploded when I was getting my hair done and it took longer than usual and I needed to get home to feed my son....KA-POW! Man, breasts are loaded milk guns during lactation time. I thought about bathing suits; some better than others. I thought about the hilarious fitting experience with my best friend at a Victoria Secrets store in New York...it's amazing how many memories can actually be attached to mammaries.

So don't be afraid to have the tests done. Have the tests done, no matter how scared you are. It really didn't hurt at all, and I'm not just saying that to convince you to get it done. It felt the same way that it feels when you get your blood pressure tested on your arm. The technician says that most people think that it hurts simply because their prior knowledge from other women tells them so. She says that the women are just so freaked out by foreign machinery and by the prospects of what they might have, that they just can't stand anything touching them, and that causes a lot of stress. I think my "girth" (ahem) came in handy as well, because squished fat just doesn't feel the same as squished muscle. You should also keep in mind that pain goes away, as does the memory of it. Think of all the women out there that have had many, many children. And delivery hurt like a bitch, hands down...but we keep on doing it because it's important.

And you're important. Take care of yourself. If you're feeling unsure of what you're body is doing, go and get your girls checked out 'cause you still have jobs to do, Sista! (And they probably do to!)

Life is Like a Box of Chocolates….

As a teacher, I have learned some very important things about children. The biggest lesson I have learned is that children do not come with a manual, and they are practically impossible to figure out at the best of times. You never know what you’re going to get. Just when you thought you’ve developed a rapport with a student, they’ll turn around and egg your house. Just when you thought a student couldn’t possibly hate you more than they already do, they give you a box of chocolates at Christmas time and thank you for “putting up with them”. So, I’m certainly not an expert, and have yet to figure out “the teenage beast” as I’ve heard them being referred to in the past. I’m sure I never will. But I know one thing….I know that there are some kids out there that are raising themselves. And there are kids out there that feel they have absolutely nobody to talk to about their life. There are kids out there that would have been someone completely different than they are if they had been given a different path in life and didn’t have to meet so many daily struggles. From my personal perspective, from the experiences I have had with children, this is what I feel children need in their life:

1.       Parents that don’t assume that their children know they are loved. Children need to be told they are loved…daily. “I love you” never gets old to a child.

2.       Parents that do not choose their child’s religion for them. Just because a person has a specific faith doesn’t mean that their children should. Religion shouldn’t be a tradition; it should be an intrinsic, personal belief. If they feel their child should have a religious upbringing, perhaps they should share the religions of the world with them, and let them make their own choices with that breadth of knowledge when they’re good and ready. This will not only tap into their understanding of the world historically and geographically, but may even help to create a sense of empathy and tolerance for other perspectives and beliefs. Isn’t it incredible how much hatred is created in the name of religion?

3.       Parents that read books with their children, starting when they’re in the womb. I just heard a great documentary on CBC radio about how fetuses hear sounds/voices while in the womb and this actually influences the tonation of their cries. Babies cry differently in different areas of the world. So, they can hear you. Start reading to your belly button and your little bambino may come out reciting Chaucer. There is absolutely no reason why a child should go through life struggling with text. Reading opens the world to endless possibility and that opportunity is available to all children.

4.       Parents that let the dog kiss their face even though they lick their bum (er…the pet, that is!). This shows children that pets are an integral part of the family and deserve the same amount of love as everyone else.

5.       Parents that realize that just because they want it, doesn’t mean that their child should get it. Yearning and working for something isn’t such a bad thing. Sometimes that creates motivation.

6.       Parents that realize their child deserve breakfast every single day. Better yet, that their child deserves three healthy square meals a day that do not ooze out of plastic packaging. Better yet, these children deserve to eat this meal with at least one family member that wants to know how their day was and what they learned in school and if everything is alright in their world.

7.       Parents that don’t call their children derogatory names, even if they think they’re teasing. Children don’t have the same capabilities as adults to understand the nuances of ribbing someone. Those jokes are usually taken very seriously and lead to low self esteem. I don’t know anybody that thought being called “stupid” was funny and didn’t impact their life in some way.

8.       Parents that aren’t afraid to act goofy and stick cooked spaghetti up their nose and pretend they’re a swamp monster, or get their butt kicked in a wicked game of “Go Fish”.

9.       Parents that don't tell their child to choose a career path because “they’ll make good money”. They should let them choose a career path that is linked to their interests and passions. Happiness will follow, as will money, or something else of equal value.

10.   Parents that make their children lose some times. That’s life, and the sooner children figure that out, the easier it will be to accept that life is full of pockets of loss here and there. How we deal with loss can be life changing.

11.   Parents that nurture their children’s changing interests. One day they may want to be a hockey player, one day they may want to be a rock star. It doesn’t have to cost money to see if they are truly interested, especially when there are libraries around. Or imagination. It’s amazing what can happen when children are just given the liberty to use their imagination without feeling embarrassed or ashamed or humiliated.

12.   Parents that don’t judge their child’s appearance or anyone elses appearance for that matter.

13.   Parents that take their children on trips with them, even when it means packing extra food, extra supplies, extra everything. These parents also don’t mention the effort that they have gone to for this trip to happen so that their children don’t feel like a burden or forced to enjoy every modicum of this journey. Sometimes those trips end up just sucking, and it has nothing to do with the child.

14.   Parents that expose their children to variety; different settings, different music, different books, different people, different perspectives, without judgment. Can you imagine how unsettling it would feel to have an opinion about something, but you don’t feel comfortable saying your perspective because you’ve been bombarded with what you have been told to believe?

15.   Parents that laugh at their mistakes and make their children realize that they are human beings, and human beings make mistakes. What a wonderful lesson for children to realize that mistakes create growth and development if you look at it from a positive perspective.

So, those are just some of the things I think of when I think about my own experiences with children of varying age levels. Believe me; I am far from perfect…far, far, far. I have made mistakes with my own child and have regrets about some of my actions as a parent, a teacher and a human being in general. Being a parent/teacher/human being is an ever changing event, but it is through the seemingly innocent actions and words of my students that I have learned the importance of truth and compassion. Those kids are awesome, even with their manic moodiness and extravagant idiosyncrasies and if it can help me to be a better parent and teacher, I’ll take it. I’m thankful for every one of them.

www.kidshelpphone.ca

RAH! RAH! SIS-BOOM-BAH!

Have you ever had one of those days where suddenly you are transported back in time, like you're having an incredibly durable, time warping deja vu? That happened to me today at good ol' Red Lake District High School, as I was, along with about 300 other students, swept away on a wave of school spirit that hasn't been felt at that school for an incredibly long amount of time. *Flashback to grade 10, catching up to the opponent who is dribbling the ball down the court. I've almost got her as I go in for the pick, and I step on the back of her foot, twisting my ankle, and fall down swearing abominations in front of the whole school. I broke my leg. Nice.* But it was a different story today fortunately, as our school headed down to the gym to watch the senior girl RLDHS Rams basketball team take on the Nipigon Red Rock Lakers. As if a synapse exploded in a part of my brain, instantly I was painting warrior stripes on my face, adorning myself with any red and gold clothing I could find (I changed twice this morning....you should have seen what I originally had on...yikes!), hammering a wooden spoon on the side of a soup can, and blurting out HUSTLE, HUSTLE, USE YOUR MUSCLE, GO RAMS GO! Where the hell did all of this come from? I'm the art teacher for crying out loud! I'm stereotypically supposed to HATE sports, aren't I?

I'll admit, there is a part of me that definitely begrudges all of the extra attention that the sports community gets, especially as I'm in the process, along with a group of dedicated ladies, of getting an artists council up and running in our district. We had to cancel a workshop that we're offering this weekend because we only had 6 people in the whole community sign up. Six. All we were asking for was 10. When my art students did a drumming workshop last year and we hollered down the hallway for everyone in their classroom to come to the cafeteria to see our routine, only two classes out of the whole school came to see what was going on. And it was a really cool drumming routine. I was super proud of those kids. Artistically, our community is definitely lacking support where we need it the most; from our regular, every day community members.

Ironically, from the "talk on the streets", it's also what our community members say they crave the most. They want more music, more art workshops, more displays, more creative opportunities. Supposedly, some of our community members (and I use that term loosely) crave artistic culture so badly, that they have been given package deals from their employer to fly out to Winnipeg for only $99 (return fare) so that they can take in some of the creativity that Winnipeg has to offer. Well, how does that help our community? How does that bring us all together? Why isn't that money being used to bring artists and musicians into the community instead, and these lucky fellows that work for this establishment perhaps can get a discount ticket price from their employer? It's all being flown away instead.

So when I'm sitting in the middle of a wacky, frenetic basketball game with a herd of 300 cheering teenagers, I am amazed; not so much by the game and the players themselves (eventhough they were phenomenal and came back from a 3 or 4 basket loss to win the game by 2 points!) but by the incredible support and sense of community that is there in that room. What a sense of camaraderie! What a feeling that we can conquer anything if we all work together for a common cause! And perhaps you shudder, thinking, Right! Like a bunch of rah-rah-sis-boom-bah teenagers are going to make a difference in our community. Like anyone is going to make a difference in our community. But if you had been there, you would have seen the potential that was there. You would have seen the positive energy that radiated in that gym, and you would have seen the opportunity that our district has if we can capture the excitement of these youth and apply those sentiments to the actions of our community. It's there, rumbling, just below the surface.....

Thunder, thunder, thunderation
We're the Red Lake delegation
When we fight with determination
We create a sensation!

Couldn't that easily become a community mantra? This district isn't just a place to work; it's a place to live, and share, and support. Those kids get it; and I hope to hell that they stick around and bring that energy back into the district, where it belongs.

GO RAMS!

Pickled Religion

Imagine that you and I are are strangers. Perhaps I've opened the door for you at the post office once. Perhaps I saw you dancing at a social with a mutual friend. Perhaps we both reached for the same kind of apples at the grocery store, but that's about all we know about each other; we both like juicy, crunchy apples. Now, with that thought in mind, imagine that I unexpectedly knock on your door while you're still in your pajamas. I push past you and run to your bedroom, and snuggle under your sheets. Or I walk into your kitchen, open the fridge and take a pickle out of the pickle jar with my fingers. Or I go to the bathroom with the door open and ask if you can come and turn on the fan. Pretty intrusive, intimate and unexplainable, wouldn't you say?

Well, that's how I see it when people from specific religious sects come knocking on my door reading scriptures from the bible to me. A couple just came to my door. She first asked if she woke me up, but didn't really mind if she had. Her God obviously had a mission. Then she said, "Well, you know why I'm here and I'd like to read from the bible for you." My look of disdain must have triggered the next question; do you have a bible? When I said that I didn't, (It's on my to-do list...one day I'd like to read it) I was asked the next personal, intimate question through her shocked gasps, "DON'T YOU BELIEVE IN GOD? ARE YOU ATHIEST?!" *sigh* Would it have been a sin if I had said, "None of your "beep'n" business?" Or perhaps I could have said, "Would you like to hop into my bed and we can talk about this there since we're getting up close and personal? How about having a pickle first..."

I don't have issue with the fact that this woman has found a religion that keeps her comfortable, and gives her solice and reason. I think that is fantastic. My issue lies in the fact that I am judged and deemed unworthy because my philosophy in that regard does not coincide with hers, and therefore, I am of lower status, a heathen, a sinner, and doomed for all eternity. And I didn't bother to share my perspective with her or give her an argument. I simply said, "I prefer not to share my beliefs with others. It's my own perspective." She walked away with her partner shaking her head, most likely thinking, there's another one going nowhere but down into the firey pit of debauchery.

Little does this woman know how intimately I have been connected to organized religion. Little does this woman know how I was raised. Little does this woman know that I have taken a phenomenal amount of art history courses as well, which always delves into the world of religion. Little does this woman know where my studies took me when I was questioning my faith as a young adult. Little does this woman know what my opinion is today. Little does this woman know me.....

And that's the thing, I don't spend my time throwing my opinion in that regard at others. Who am I to tell others what they should or shouldn't believe in? A person's relationship with their concept of God is so individualized that absolutely nobody can possibly be "right". I once had a priest tell me that if I lived in Poland, and crossed myself with my left hand, (I'm left handed) they would have cut it off. I once had a woman tell me that I am a sinner because I have tattoos. My body is not pure. I didn't tell her that I think she's a sinner because she eats highly processed food or that she uses Saran Wrap. And yes, I can see the hypocrisy in the fact that I am writing a biased, opinionated blog that pushes my opinion on you, the reader. BUT I am not telling you that you are wrong, or bad, or unjust, et al if you do not agree with my opinion here. You simply pick apples from a different barrel, and that's your prerogative. I won't walk away from you shaking my head in disgust of your choices. That would be judgemental.

Isn't it ironic that the universal concept behind religion is to create a sense of peace and unity and acceptance in the world?

You Don't Know What You've Got ('Til) It's Gone

You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

We've all heard the adage before, and we've all said a resounding "Yup" to our own experiences with loss, but it still goes without say that for some mysterious reason, that simple yet extremely complex concept gets completely vanquished and decimated from our grey matter at times of importance (or when there is a full moon...or both...). And it's usually in those exhilirating yet tumultuous moments that there seems to be lack of consequences, or remorse. Think of your virginity. That should put this concept into perspective. I don't think I've met too many people (wait, let me rephrase that) I don't think I've met anybody that had mind blowing, highly orgasmic, sensual sex on "the big V" day. It's something that is reflected upon in adulthood and we say "Yeesh! What was I thinking?" You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

So let's get our mind out of the gutter now, and apply this concept to other areas of our life. I go through random acts of feng shui (which I am highly aware is an oxymoron) where I decide to cleanse my home of clutter and try to create a sense of balance and openness so that energy can positively flow through. That's a nice way of saying I get rid of shit that's cluttering up my house so I don't go bonkers. I am very conscious of what I get rid of and definitely consider where this "stuff" is going to go. I have stuff that needs to be returned to friends and family, stuff that needs to be sent away, stuff that needs to go to the second hand store, etc. If you know me by now, you know that I don't like throwing anything away that can still be of good use to somebody. But it never fails, ever, that as soon as I throw that little something or another away, I end up looking for it the next week. It is usually something that has been in an art supply pile in my studio since I was twelve. It's usually something completely ridiculous like purple feathers, or a deck of cards from Mount Rushmore, but suddenly my son is coming home saying, "Hey Mom! Do you happen to have a cool souvenir from the seventies that is somehow connected to famous, man-made, mountain sized, sculptures? 'Cause I need something like that for my Social Studies class. Oh yeah, and I thought I'd make you a craft out of purple feathers because I love you soooo much, Mom." Murphy's Law. As soon as you lose ten pounds, you wish you didn't give your friends all of the clothes that didn't fit you. As soon as you get rid of something, you wish you had it back.

You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

As humans, we easily dispose of other people as well, (emotionally that is!). Some by choice, and sometimes we are not given a choice. We go through cycles with friends and family members, and at times feel that we are making the right choice to "rid" ourselves of that person for our own good. But that too can come back to bite you in the ass. I didn't realize that I had so many questions to ask my grandmother until she was already gone and it was too late to learn about our family history from her perspective. I didn't realize how long I had gone without talking to one of my closest friends until she ended up in the hospital with debilitating health issues.  I didn't realize how much I would miss seeing my son every day until I had to look at his empty little snuggly bed in his star clustered little bedroom. I have been playing a big game of trial and error for the last 37 years, and it has definitely been difficult to deal with loss at times.

And then sometimes, when you realize what you've got, now that it's gone, all you can do is get down and funky and celebrate that loss. Those "Whew, that was close!" situations are also considerably important to reflect upon; those situations where you don't realize how dangerous or abusive or embarrassing a situation may have been until you removed yourself from it....a mundane job, a needy, one sided friendship, an unfulfilling relationship, a room full of crap, a horrible politician....haha Sometimes loss is good.

I guess it all comes down to appreciation and looking at different perspectives and taking the time to reflect before taking action in life situations. My goal is to get to the point where I don't have regrets; that I am solid in the choice(s) that I make and can reflect on them in years ahead and feel confident that my decisions were rational and thoroughly considered. I know that is highly unlikely because of factors such as the full moon, and my artistic temperment, and the wind, and the weather, but at least I can try.

I think I'm going to go and give my dog a good pet behind the ears and sneak a kiss to my son while he sleeps.

Ramona, The Housewife From Hell

Halloween has got to be one of the best days around for a person with an alter ego. So when I went to school today dressed as Ramona, and the junior students asked who I was, I was almost offended. Who is Ramona?! Are you kidding me?! Ramona has been such an integral part of my life for the last fifteen years that it seemed ridiculous to have to explain myself...er...herself. Ok, so I smiled and thought to myself, they're young and it's time they learned about alter egos. I said, "Do you want to hear the story of who Ramona is?" and they listened with looks of confusion and fascination as the woman in front of them, dressed in a purple polyester dress, with a white floral apron, and a feathered hat (with a birdie on top), slowly released what they most likely considered an insane story of a woman that went over the edge. Well, you can't say they didn't have anything to discuss with their family at the dinner table tonight. This is not exactly what I shared with them (because I do want to stay employed as a teacher for a while); I give you the extenda-version....

Ramona is a married, stay-at-home mom with a teenage son. For the longest time, she was extremely proud of her position as a "domestic engineer". Not a curtain was ruffled, not a dust ball could be found, not a crumb could be found on the counter. She had created a utopian kitchen and a fantastically obsessive compulsive domesticated routine. Ramona figured that if she was going to stay at home, she was going to do her job to the best of her abilities. But as is the case with most people when left to their own devices for too long without company (because 9 to 5 is actually a pretty substantial amount of time to be left alone on a daily basis) Ramona became a bit "quirky"...yeah, that's what we'll call it, because this was just the beginning.

She went out and bought herself a pair of silver slippers. You know, the ones with the heel and the fuzzy top that looks like a dead rodent just went through the dryer on a high temperature for 50 minutes? She bought them after her son muttered something under his breath about her being so "bleep"ing anal all the time, just before he slammed his bedroom door in her face. She didn't exactly know what he meant by that, but it didn't sound good and she figured it meant she needed to loosen up a bit. Perhaps her husband would notice her a little more if she wore those silver heels and painted her toe nails a hot, hot red. Who can resist hot red toe nails?

Then she started to fantasize. What if Julio Iglesias came to the house for shake-and-bake pork chops one night? And he sat right beside me and commented on my hot, red toe nails. And my husband became excruciatingly jealous and they arm wrestled right there at the table, pushing the jellied cranberry sauce and green bean casserole to the side? So any time the phone rang, Ramona made sure to answer the phone in less than three rings, because you never know. You just never know who it could be. And people always hang up after three rings. And if Tom Cruise can call people on the Oprah show, then who's to say that Julio wouldn't call Ramona? And these thoughts weren't hurting anyone, until that fateful day when there was a combination of spray starch, silver slippers and a ringing phone.

Have you ever used spray starch before? For those of you that haven't, it's actually an interesting scientific experiment on how to make a skating rink on linoleum or laminate flooring. Just a fine dusting of spray starch is all you need to turn your floor into a potential killer. Ramona was in her kitchen ironing her husband's underwear. They don't call them "tighty whiteys" for nothing....That's when it happened. The phone rang. This is it, she thought. This time it's Julio. Perhaps she was just having a passionate moment, holding that underwear, thinking of Julio, the steamy heat of the iron....it was all too much for Ramona's silver slippers to handle as she tried to run over the spray starched floor. KONK! She's lucky there aren't any scars from the iron hitting her on the side of the head as she went down. She lay on the floor, completely dazed, listening to the phone ring and ring, and ring, unable to move.

Things changed after that day. They were subtle changes that the rest of the family didn't notice for some time but Ramona noticed them within herself. They just started with altered thoughts; what would happen if I washed my feet half way through washing these dishes? Nobody would know. Absolutely nobody would know. I've always wanted to go downtown to that little lounge and sing, "Killing Me Softly" in that karaoke machine. Who gives a shit if I sit down for a couple minutes this afternoon and watch a little bit of wrestling on TV in my underwear? She was at the mercy of her mind, and allowed these new thoughts to consume her. But then her husband noticed that their room smelled funny…different…Ramona had stuffed her pillowcase full of marshmallows. She explained that they helped get rid of her migraines and that she was forever cured by the science of marshmallows. Her son found the red toe nail clippings all epoxied together into an odd, dome like sculpture under the bathroom cupboard. Dust bunnies floated by the dinner table while Ramona served up a mean batch of macaroni and cheese put into fried bologna bowls. Just like Dorothy once said, “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto!”

And that’s the Ramona that I like. The Ramona that is a bit rebellious to the monotony of domestication. She’ll still do it, but only if she wants to. She knows that there are jobs to do, but she’s going to make them a bit juicier, a bit spicier than they were before. That iron-laden konk to the pumpkin was exactly what Ramona needed to feel free and show a bit more of her true self. Ramona does things her own way.

And so today, Ramona decided to free herself of the stress and worries of life, and chose to dance to a “How to Disco” K-tel record for a half an hour in the art room. Some of the students got up and joined, “weird Ms. Bobinski” for a while before they sat down. Some just sat in their seats in awe, practically dying of embarrassment for me. But Ramona didn’t care. She just wanted to dance for a while before getting back to doing what she has to do.

Gotta love Ramona.

Passionate Path?

The topic of passionate employment has been on my mind for a couple of years now (yes...years). As I quickly zoom my way towards forty, I contemplate whether I am truly following my life's path as a high school Visual Arts teacher. There are so many derogatory comments that go along with being a Visual Arts teacher; something about if you can't make it in the art world, you become a teacher, or something like that. Comments like that make me consider my life path and how I got to be where I am today. If I had really tried to get my Masters degree instead of dragging my heels into the Education Faculty, what would I be doing today? If I had dropped out of the Education Faculty when I wanted to (oh so desperately wanted to....) what would I be doing instead? Would I be waitressing at the Lakeview? Would I be living in Paris and taking sketching classes at the Louvre? Would I be living on the West coast and harassing Nick Bantock on a daily basis? Would I be running my own art shop or studio? Would I be a city girl or a small town girl? Or would I still be exactly where I am today?

This made me reflect on my first job. I was twelve years old, and my best friend Tina and I decided we needed some extra cash. (What the heck we needed money for, God only knows... New jelly shoes? New lipgloss? It wasn't until much later that we had to support our smoking and coffee drinking habit.)
So we started asking all of the businesses around town if they were hiring. We were a team, and as such, we had to work together. This was mandatory. Well, The Red Dog Motel and Restaurant didn't discriminate, and we were both given employment. Our job? Picking garbage in the parking lot for $2.00 a garbage bag and a free meal in the restaurant. (It's pretty hard to pick a full bag of garbage when you're basically picking up cigarette butts, so we would resort to taking garbage from in and around the dumpster out back. Brilliant!) I remember once walking home with $7.00 in my pocket and a hamburger in my belly. I learned a lot from that experience. The first one was that both Tina and I had to grow our hair long, because our boss thought that we were boys, and I think even referred to us as brothers once. Yeesh, talk about a blow to a flat chested, straight hipped Grade 6 girl's ego. But the main lesson I learned was that this job sucked really bad, and I didn't want to spend the rest of my life picking up other people's cigarette butts for a living.

I also had a job at a sporting goods store that consisted of dusting trophies. I don't know why the magical transformation of a dull, fuzzy figurine of a lady in a frozen bowling stance into a gleam of gold didn't whet my willie. But it didn't, so again, I moved on to another job. I remember the boss saying, "That's too bad. I was about to show you how to etch names on plaques for trophies." Whoopie. (As a side note, I think everyone should experience at least one crappy job in their life. I like to say to my students, "Do you want to be the one taking a crap on the toilet, or do you want to be the one cleaning the crap off the toilet?" I know it's a gross analogy, but it hits home. Then I tell them to get to work. It helps to put their education in perspective.)



It wasn't until I started working at a local framing shop in town in my high school years that I really felt that I was working somewhere that interested me. I was being immersed in the visual art of the area, constantly looking at the collection of original Woodland art that was in our small gallery. I remember we had an oversized Norval Morrisseau painting up on the wall for a while and I was in shock that it was painted on meat wrapping paper. It made me realize that art could be created on anything if you need to create. You didn't have to wait for a canvas. If the urge was there, you use what you have, and that's what he had. I learned about how to use a camera every time the boss was out of town by taking photos with the cameras we had in stock. Many photographers came in to the store and talked about their art, their process, and their inspiration. To this day,  I still talk to some of these people about photography. I was forced to listen to CBC radio (which at the time made me secretly curse my boss's name, but am so thankful for now). I learned how to frame art work and became a really good matt cutter, making v-lined matts, keystone corners, triple matts, inlayed matts, the works. I was a matting fanatic and filled the walls of the store with my creations. It was great. I was given carte blanche to frame whatever I wanted. I even made a matt with bevelled edges that looked like the edges of a stamp. It took me all day. But that's the thing....you know you're in your niche, that you've found something that you're passionate about if you're willing to spend all day doing it.

When I went off to university, my boss hooked me up with a framing store in the city. It was a disaster. I went from being a creative framer in my own right to an assembly line worker. I was cleaning sheet after sheet of glass. I would spend six hours straight just cutting foam core. Nobody would talk to me. They didn't listen to CBC radio. The boss's son would sometimes just stand there and stare at me in a really uncomfortable creepy way. They would make me throw the garbage in the dumpster, but they wouldn't put anything in garbage bags so I had to get really close to the dumpster just in ensure that the garbage wouldn't scatter all over the alley. The business next door was a bakery and they used to dump their grease straight into the dumpster, so I always walked back in to the framing shop coated in old bakery grease. I remember the boss telling me that they were going to "put me on the floor" and have me start selling framing to customers, but I didn't "dress appropriately" to be up front. I had resorted to wearing my shabbiest clothes to work because they were all coated in oil by the time I went home. I quit that job and moved on.

Then I started waitressing in the summers instead of going back to the framing shop. The pay was much better and I was able to pay my tuition on tip money alone! I did that for four summers and loved it. I thoroughly enjoyed the social aspects of it. I loved having to be on my toes, thinking about six things at once. Waitressing is an amazingly choreographed dance. I smirk at city waitresses that are alloted 4 or 5 tables for their shift. They have no idea. Some times I was the only waitress on the coffee shop side of the restaurant and another waitress worked the dining room side, and it would be FULL of demanding tourists wondering if we used "American style cheese" and what the hell did you put gravy on my french fries for? And we weren't just taking orders and serving meals. We also cleaned the tables, set the tables, moved the dishes to the kitchen, ran the till...the whole nine yards. I learned about tolerance and stamina as a waitress.

But nothing prepared me for my job as a teacher; convincing students of the importance of the Visual Arts, convincing other teachers of the importance of the Visual Arts, trying to persuade students to come to school, trying to get students to stop swearing like banshees, dealing with tumultuous emotions, calling parents that don't really care to be called, marking for hours and hours and hours, perpetual meetings, assessment coming out of the ying yang, stacks of papers that don't really fit into any labelled file folder. WHY AM I DOING THIS AGAIN?

It comes down to this. When you push all of that crap to the side, what you're left with is people that are given a different perspective that they perhaps may not have thought of before. I revel in hearing statements like, "I can't believe I just created that! I didn't think I could do it." I really cherish seeing a student drag their friends in to the art room to show off what they created. And on top of it, they take the time to tell their friends how they the created their art. And I love the conversations that I get to have with students about art, and music and creation. Teenagers are much more knowledgeable then we sometimes give them credit for, and I am inspired on a daily basis by my students. (I think the trick is to listen to them instead of telling them what they should be saying and/or thinking all the time. Then they start to tell you what they are truly about.)

And with my job, I am still given opportunity and freedom to be my own artist and be involved with art in the community. I get harassed on a regular basis for getting "summer's off". MUST BE NICE, is one of the comments I hear on a regular basis, but I know a lot of people that get 10 weeks off on holidays per year. My holidays just happen to be condensed into one well needed long duration of time. After 10 months of teaching teenagers, you don't start gaining your sanity back until about three weeks into your holiday time.

But am I passionate about being a teacher? That's a question I still mull over. I think I'm finding balance as I get older and perhaps a bit wiser? Hmmmmm. I am learning that being a teacher is my job, not my life, yet, I am fortunate to be teaching a subject that I am truly passionate about. There is a good mixture of give and take where I am able to share my artistic experiences with my students and also learn from their perspective of the artistic world. I am thankful for a lot of them, for sure. One of my favourite experiences as a teacher was when I had students create musical instruments out of found objects. One student, Adam, created a stand up bass out of a wash tub and painted folk fest pictures around the base of it, (including a painting of my son as a baby at one of many festivals). Adam had a spare during my prep time, and used to do extra work on his art in the art department during that time. One day I was listening to Norah Jones and marking, and Adam just decided to play his washtub base to the tempo of her music. He's a phenomenal musician and I just felt completely lucky to have that opportunity unfold in front of me. It was a perfect balance between being an artist, being a teacher, and being appreciative of what a student has to offer me.

It feels good to not wake up in the morning groaning, wishing that I didn't have to leave my bed. I'm glad that after 12 years, my job is not that much of a cumbersome chore. Kudos to the person that is willing to dust trophies because there is something else in that job that they find fulfilling. Kudos to the person that can enthusiastically pick up cigarette butts without feeling resentment or animosity. That's what it's about....following that passion in whatever form it may be. Ask yourself whether you've found that balance, and if you haven't, maybe it's time to weigh your options and start looking for your passionate path.

Rhonda Bobinski's Visual Arts Page on Facebook