The One Where I Drop the F-Bomb

Quietly Inside, 2013, Sarah Jean

February is the Wednesday of Winter. We're stuck in seemingly unending snowbanks, struggling to remember what the colour green looks like and waiting for the next weather alert to be issued.

The snow is certainly getting to me but the worst part of the past week has been my overall sense of not giving a fuck about anything.

I know. I just threw down an F-bomb (and it wasn't F for feminist).

KC  listened quietly as I cried over our coffees at Crema on Sunday. Oh yes, I cried publicly. Mostly about an endless feeling of falling behind, my stalled energy for community engagement and a sense of teeth-grating frustration over-riding my once abundant empathy and compassion. I felt tired, fatigued and hopeless.

The folks at the table next to us retreated across the room.

KC is an incredible listener and deeply insightful friend. She had many thoughtful questions, but two words in particular stood out: Compassion Fatigue.

According to Compassion Fatigue Solutions, Compassion Fatigue "refers to the profound emotional and physical erosion that takes place when helpers are unable to refuel and regenerate". The empathy and compassion required of people in supporting roles can become the emotional "cost of caring" when time and space are not sufficiently available to regain a sense of inner balance and energy.

From The Declassified Adoptee

That sounded familiar.

As an educator, particularly a social justice educator, people often honour me with their stories, trusting me as a safe space for disclosure. As an activist, even an activist focused on creating positive social change, I read, watch and analyze material on social injustices, trauma and oppression daily. In time, I start to loose my ability to see the balance of positive and negative in the world around me.

My skewed perspective seems to translate into a pattern of self-sacrifice. I start to work late, goading myself to get just one more thing done. I get up early, immediately thinking "Go! Go! Go!". I reject making time for fun, feeling guilty if I take a break from "caring". I put off doing the things that rejuvenate me. I keep saying Yes. I keep listening and supporting even when I feel overwhelmed. I keep going, unable to admit I need a break because I want to be a "good" person.

This is very embarrassing to write. I hear my honest emotional and physical erosion behind those words, but I also hear threads of self-importance. I can see my desire to offer support slipping into a form martyrdom, where I sacrifice myself on the alter of social change and community engagement, telling myself that I must do this work or it won't get done. It's like an internal version of Smokey the Bear pointing his paw at me, saying "Only YOU can stop homophobia, oppression, racism, sexism, gender violence, etc., etc., etc.".

The worst part is that I know Compassion Fatigue exists and I know listening to another person's pain can take a toll. I know that I will get tired and that I will need a break. I know this yet I don't put in place ways of supporting myself and I ignore self-care. It's here that martyrdom rears its slobbery head.

Martyrdom is an incredibly seductive mind trap. I feel so important when I'm running around "helping" and "caring". That quiet little assumption that everything rests upon ME makes it so easy to spin tales about how I MUST keep giving because SO MANY people depend upon me. It lets me believe that if I took a break the world would surely fall into a (worse) pit of despair. Despite the pressure these assumptions place on me, that feeling of self-importance is addictive.

Since coffee with KC I've taken some time to rest, paint and knit. The dishes have piled up a bit, there are dust bunnies in the corners and some phone calls have gone unanswered. A few days of breathing room have given me enough perspective to see that for me Compassion Fatigue quickly leads to martyrdom and martyrs aren't particularly useful. Deep, dark circles under my eyes and a cranky, tired Sarah Jean does not bring positive change to our world.

In fact, the many ages of successful humyn existence that have unfolded without my direct involvement suggests my assumption of self-importance may not be, ahem, accurate. This little reality check indicates that I could indeed safely take a break from changing the world without cataclysmic disaster. In fact, it appears that we all could take some time out to rest and rejuvenate.

I'm hoping this post can help me, and maybe us, keep this perspective in mind as I trudge through the remainder of the winter.

From Radical Self Care

 

Nice is Nice

"Nice is nice," was Sue's signature phrase. As a teenager I would groan a little and roll my eyes. I did not want to be nice, nor did I feel particularly nice. But because I respected her, I would smile and through my gritted teeth I would try to speak nicely.

Last month Pascal and I started teaching a new semester of our class on Homelessness at Ryerson University. I am nervous at the beginning of each new semester and with every new group, but this semester my anxiety was particularly high. I was nervous, scared and standing all alone in front of a room full of strangers.

In these moments of stress I have to admit that I'm tempted to be rather cranky. I don't want anyone to know how scared I feel. I don't want anyone to know that I feel like an imposter. I want to hide these paralyzing feelings behind a few sarcastic comments and a snarky tone. It is so tempting.

But, nice is nice.

It has taken me awhile to realize that Sue's words weren't a silly gimmick to convince crabby teenagers like myself to play nicely.  Our words have the power cut us down or build us up in a single moment. Neurological research is demonstrating that words, such as those slung in situations of emotional abuse or with the intention to hurt, impact how our brains develop and have lasting ramifications into adulthood. Hurtful words trigger the same pain response in the brain as physical hurt - we do feel the sting of words as "real" pain. How we speak to one another has a far greater impact on our brains and well-being than simply hurt feelings.

In the classroom 45 blank and bored faces were staring back at me, waiting for information or knowledge or something mildly entertaining. Sue's voice nudged me: nice is nice.


Sigh...

I took a deep breath, introduced myself and promptly said "I'm scared." I shared with them how afraid I was to be the teacher, to be in front of a group of strangers, wanting them to like me. I was honest and (gasp!) vulnerable.  I even told them that I was sharing all of this because a wise womyn told me that "nice is nice". I was terrified and I was nice.

And remarkably so were they. Sure there were a few eye rolls and perhaps a slight groan, but 45 blank, bored faced magically turned into 45 smiling faces. All it took was some nice.

It's taken me years but I think I finally get it. Sue knows how powerful our words are and she consciously uses her words to peace for peace. She builds peacefulness within herself and her community. And she has patiently waited for me to figure this out for myself.

Nice is nice.
Yes, it is.

Dreaming on Fridays

I think we all need a little time to dream while we are in the depths of winter. After writing about Nana and Bucko and all their making, I'm dreaming about all the jimmy-rigging I've done and all the jimmy-rigging I'd like to do.

Oh Pete. You're the best.

Some of my making...

Materials: Old t-shirt, Old dishcloth, Old tea towel.

Re-set yarn from an old sweater.

Some of the things I'm dreaming of making...

This summer I want to jimmy-rig some gutter gardens. 

Knitty Knotty: How hard could it be to make one of these?

Or one of these? (Skein winder)

Just Like Nana: DIY Laundry Powder

My Nana and Bucko could make anything. Nana and Bucko (the name I christened my Grandfather with when I was three...it's a long story) tended a huge kitchen garden, kept bees and were generally makers and fixers of a lot of stuff. They could "jimmy-rig" anything with skills they learned as children of WWII and the Great Depression. They grew up with the need to make. Unwittingly, they passed that need on to me.

Make It vs Buy It

I spent my formative years with Nana and Bucko, working around the farm, in the garden, in the kitchen, making, fixing and jimmy-rigging through the days.  I now live in Toronto, Canada's largest urban centre (I'm still slightly shocked by my location), but my need to make, fix and jimmy-rig continues. Thankfully, I've found a partner who shares these needs: Pascal is a skilled carpenter, home-renovator and repair person who works carefully and thoughtfully through each of his projects.

I've also discovered that I am far from alone in my desire to make. The vast online DIY resources and the growing field of Urban Homesteading suggests that many of us are beginning to reclaim and re-imagine our homes as spaces of production. Since the Industrialization Revolution our homes, (especially our urban homes), have steadily become spaces of almost exclusive consumption; we purchase items and consume them in our homes -- shampoo, laundry detergent, vegetables, clothes, bedding, make up, etc. Although many of these products do not require complicated ingredients or advanced skills, very rarely do we make those items in our home.

Annie Leonard suggests in the Story of Stuff that in addition to the environmental and social devastation caused by the globalized industrial material economy, participating in consumption over production also means we need a growing stream of financial income that we can trade for all of the items we are not making. In response, we quickly hop on the consumer treadmill, selling our time for money and becoming quite adept at consumption.




We could go on here, delving into a Marxist analysis of labour and the means of production, but I think the lives of my Nana and Bucko are just as persuasive. Rather than "whole hog" participation in consumption, they provided for many of their own needs by making, fixing, growing and yes, jimmy-rigging.  This meant less time "working out" (off the farm) and more time teaching me how to find the kittens in the hay mow, how to compost, how to pick blackberries, how to fix a lamp, how to approach a beehive, the list goes on. They spent much of their time with me and they had the time to spend because they often chose to make rather than buy.  

Because Pascal and I like to make sure we are wisely exchanging our work hours for money and are spending the proceeds carefully, we often chose to make over buy. Making something can mean practicing our skills, learning new ones and investing our income in ourselves. It also means we get to fill our creative drives to make.

Laundry Detergent: You Have to Start Somewhere

A few months ago I looked at the cleaning cupboard and saw a lot of expensive "green" labels starring back at me. Nana's cleaning cupboard contained a few large glass jars full of different powders, a couple of spray bottles and a lot of rags. Her house was clean, always smelled fresh and she wasn't buying expensive cleaning products. I wanted to simplify the cleaning products of Peace Flag House, making them safer, greener and economical. I didn't want to spend my income on pretty plastic bottles. I decided to start by making my own Laundry Detergent.

According to Make It: Radical Home Ec for a Post-Consumer World, I needed the following:
1. Borax
2. Ivory Soap
3. Baking Soda
4. Washing Soda

Washing soda had me stumped. I searched 4 grocery stores with no luck. Eventually I found it in Kensington Market at Essence of Life, but not before I discovered from Holly Homemaker that I could also DIY washing soda. To make washing soda one must simply bake baking soda. The world is an amazing place.

How To Make Washing Soda:

Spread a thin layer (approximately 1/4") of baking soda on a glass or tin baking dish and bake between 400 - 450C for approximately an hour.  Stir around a couple of times during that hour.  The water and carbon dioxide molecules will magically release into the air, thereby changing Sodium Bicarbonate (Baking Soda) into Sodium Carbonate (Washing Soda).

You'll know it's ready when you compare unbaked baking soda to the newly baked washing soda. Baking soda looks fluffy and a little shiny, whereas washing soda looks gritty and flat.

Note: I often make a batch of washing soda on the second rack of the oven while I'm baking something else. If the temperature is lower than 400C it will take somewhat longer than a hour, but not much in my experience.

Peace Flag House Laundry Powder

With washing soda now in abundance I made my first batch of Laundry Powder with great success. The recipe is below but don't feel confined to these ratios. This is a general guideline that should be tweaked to fit your needs and preferences. Feels good to know you'll never have to haul a case of 7th Generation home on the subway every again, eh?

Peace Flag House Laundry Powder

Serves: approximately 30-40 loads Prep Time: 15 min + hour to make washing soda Ingredients 2 parts Washing soda 1 part Borax 1 part Shredded Ivory Soap 1 part Baking soda Instructions 1:  Using a cheese grater, shred 1 part of Ivory Soap. 2: Combine washing soda, borax, baking soda and Ivory Soap in lidded container. Mix well. 3. Use approximately 1 tbsp. of mix per load. Adjust according to need. Notes These ingredient amounts are offered as guidelines and can be adjusted according to your needs and preferences. I have found that clothes washed with this laundry powder should not be left wet in the washing machine for a long period of time as it will produce an odor. However, this is true of wet clothes in general. I use this recipe in my High Efficiency, front-load washer.

Activism is just another way of singing along.

We lost Pete Seeger this week.  He had a few years on me and I admittedly wasn't even a twinkle in my mother's eye while he was tangling with Congress and being blacklisted from television performances. His life is somewhat historical to me, but not his music. The music remains vital and relevant.

Pascal and I keep a copy of Rise Up Singing in the car for long trips and good friends.  Pascal is a wonderful singer and l am not. We still manage to meet in the middle and sing ourselves into smiling. I think the joy of singing along is one of the best lessons Pete brought to us. He encouraged us to connect with our communities and neighbours, working with one another to build the world we want.  

He taught us that activism is just another way of singing along. 

I am a recovering Yarn Zombie

A little peek at the Peace Flag House stash.

I have an obsession with yarn.  I knit on the subway, on the beach, in class (I'm the teacher), in the car, on airplanes.  The last time I was in a movie theater I took my knitting.  Spinning wheels make me drool.  Looms are one of the most beautiful inventions of humynkind.  I adore sheep, alpacas, yak and any other animal growing a coat that could be made into a knittable, spinnable, weavable fiber.

When traveling I look for the fibers and textiles local to the area.  This summer I found linens in Belgium, cottons in Greece and wools in Iceland.  Last summer I found Gaspereau Valley Fibers in the Annapolis Valley,  Briggs and Little in New Brunswick and Green Mountain Spinnery in Vermont.
Returning home to Peace Flag House I started to wonder about our local fibers.  Shop after shop, I asked for yarns and fibers local to Ontario.  Time after time, shopkeepers told me they didn't carry any local fibers or yarns and what's more, they didn't know of any producers.

What?!
When did knitting become a Walmart-ized hobby?  Did I miss the memo?  Had fiber production joined the growing list of Ontario's extinct local economies?
 
Full of fear, this fall I started paying closer attention to Ontario's rural areas like Grey County, looking for signs of small-scale, local fiber production.  I visited farmer's markets, explored dirt roads and stopped at farm gates with homemade signs.  Thankfully, the more I asked around, the more I discovered not only local producers but local fiber mills, handmade knitting needles, angora goat herds, off-the grid organic farms and alpacas making therapy visits to senior's homes.  While knitting is certainly part of the fiber-industrial complex, Ontario seems to have a small contingent of local fiber producers raising diverse animals and making beautiful yarns and rovings.

Despite my dedication to shopping Main Street over Big Box, this urban fiber freak was woefully ignorant of the treasures in our backyard.  Why was I so unaware?  When it comes to food I am a mindful consumer, carefully purchasing the foods for Peace Flag House based on locality, quality and growing practices.  But when it comes to yarn...

I turn into a Yarn Zombie.  When I want to knit a sweater ethical purchasing slides off me like dead skin and I become a consumption-driven yarn zombie, snarling 'local-schmocal' as I tear into sale racks of pretty colours and soft textures.

Wow. That was embarrassing to admit.

I've gained some perspective this fall.  In fact, I am now a recovering Yarn Zombie.  The more I discovered and met farmers choosing to invest their time and energy in producing small-scale, quality fiber products that value the animals, the land and the art of production, the more I saw the disconnect between my values and my actions.  I felt the growing need to shift my fiber art practices away from the global-industrial model and into processes that value the local, the social and environmental.  I needed to practice some personal Craftivism.

This form of Craftivism, rather than making public yarn bombing statements, focuses on consciously investing in the development of our local communities and economies, in sustainable farming practices and in products meant to last rather than become trash. 

Some members of Peace Flag House (aka Pascal) have agreed to help me take on this Craftivism challenge.  In my recovery as a consumerist Yarn Zombie I will be consciously leaving behind the fiber-industrial complex and stepping into the living world of the small and local.  Peace Flag House will be bridging the gap between rural farmers and all of us urban artisans by sourcing yarns and fibers, visiting farms and finding local producers of all things fiber arts.  And we'll be sharing the adventure!

Over the coming months we'll be doing a 'yarn crawl' around rural Ontario, documenting discoveries and sharing connections with stories and photos from the farms, mills and artisans we visit.  We'll be bringing yarns and fibers back to the city, sharing local fiber treasures with everyone.  Most importantly, we'll be investing in our time, attention and money in local economies and sustainable communities.  The reign of the Yarn Zombie is over.

Perhaps we'll even create our own urban-style, handmade farm-gate sign.



 

That Takes Ovaries!

I was procrastinating on Facebook the other day when the phrase This Is What a Feminist Looks Like caught my eye.   A young womyn in the US had participated in her university's feminist action campaign by posting a photo of herself on Facebook holding a sign reading "this is what a feminist looks like".

Someone had stolen her photo and re-posted her picture as this:

When Facebook refused to take down the picture, stating that having her photo stolen did not violate her privacy rights, the womyn's response was this:

And this: We Are What Feminists Look Like  - a tumblr asking folks to submit their pictures showing the multiple faces of feminism.

Damn Right!

The consensus around the house is that this young womyn encompasses the meaning of courage.  Despite the meanness of the meme, she wasn't stopped or silenced.  In fact, the meanness made her voice of resistance even louder.  She didn't lash out, try to find the individual responsible for this piece of feminist and fat bashing and name them a bad person.  And she didn't take down her photo, hide her face and allow the meanness to limit her response.  Instead, she continued to "dare to be fat and feminist in public".  She was creative and clever.  She looked for the essence of the issue, misogynist fat bashing, and then she invited the rest of the world to join her in responding with "kick ass feminist activism".  Check out the tumblr...it's filling up.  I'm in awe.

I could say that this Wonder Womyn has balls, but that would be a disservice to her internal strength and power.  She's got ovaries.  Contrary to popular mythology, strength and power aren't demonstrated by "balls" (the two most sensitive pieces of body hanging between the two largest muscles).  Strength takes ovaries - an internal commitment to nurturing a better future, regardless of the meanness of today.  Power takes ovaries - the dedication to work for that better future despite the insults and threats of the external world.

So what does a feminist look like?
Like strength.
Like power.
Like her.

James, Feminist Extraordinaire.

Pascal, the Fabulous Feminist.

Sarah Jean,
 Feminist avec Spinning Wheel.

Neighbours United For Inclusion, Saturday's Community BBQ

Photos: Anne Zbitnew

Neighbours United for Inclusion 

Community BBQ

Saturday, September 14th

Runnymede Collegiate Institute

The politicians, the police and the media were all there in support.  The music was fun, the food was plentiful and the sun was shining.  But the most important people, our neighbours, friends and community, came out in droves to celebrate and stand for a neighbourhood based on inclusion, equality and love.

Overall, an incrediably successful Rainbow day...

Rainbow Chalk Art: Important Police Business.

Our niece flying her rainbow.

Rainbow Face

The Woodshed Orchestra

Stefonknee and her BBQ

All three levels of government and the LGBTQ Police Liason for the City of Toronto joined us in support.  (From left to right) Sarah Jean Harrison, Pascal Murphy, Sarah Doucette (City Councillor, Ward 13), PC Danielle Bottineau (LGBTQ Liason), Peggy Nash (MP), Cheri DiNovo (MPP), Heidi Hunter, Mike Hunter holding Emily Hunter.

Messages of Love from the Make Some Art Table

Peace Flag House basking in the glow of community love and support.