...Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and just lay there, in bed smiling, because I'm so EXCITED to go to work.

Organic Lapsang Souchong Star. smells like dirty bbq rack. lovers of single-malt whisky and fine cigars, appreciate heavy aroma of pine wood fire. a man's tea. thats why i drink it. puts hair in your pits. swallow and throat feels thick with smoke. like deep inhale of tobacco leafs. fermented. rolled. ready for lips, for lungs. in. out. tuff as is sensual. testosterone, meat. Black. Fiery. Yang.
Quangzhou Milk oolong. velvety. smooth. like kissing butter. clouds. and ground flour. creamy orchid. safe yet sensual. e x p a n d i n g and contracting like breath to body. leaves unfold. e xp an d. expand. weaving in and through the boil. Full mouth-feel. Bursting Wuyi mountains. softly it came. moon fell in love with comet.comet passed by . as comets do. moon cried milky tears--chilling tea fields, withering leaves- a gentle creaminess left behind. Another tragic love story later- leaves expand. envelope. grow. space, cup, body. nourishing friend, delicate lover.

Fill me.

.war.god.

I'm a dreamer. Always have been. My dreams are consistently intense, detailed and emotionally charged. I forget very few. I think of them often. I sleep for them always.
I dream in colours, in feelings, in stories, but never before have I dreampt namely in concepts. This happened Thursday night. I woke up with information swirling through me, that was not my own. Concepts were laid out, as if wired to me. Perhaps it was a prophecy of caution, or perhaps it was just another of my subconscious' paranoid conspiracy plots. It was weird. and chilling, nonetheless.
I dreampt it was the future. I had grey hair. So perhaps 30 or so years from now?
The unadulterated roots of organic Christianity, was a threat to the state-- values of non-violence, simplicity, love, and selflessness, conflicted with the government's lust for war, consumerism, exploitation and greed. In a quest to build the wealthiest/advanced nation, Canada and the UnitedStates were in competition with one another, to expand their "Empires". Wars were ramped. Countries upon countries were once again under imperial rule, as Canada actively conquered previously independent lands- the colonialism of the 21st Century. Bodies raped. Earths stolen. Cities and villages across the world were exploited in order to financially honour and benefit the Home Empire-Canada. No land remained untouched. Resistance, conquer, bloodshed.
The government needed and depended on war and violence to sustain its own power. So militarism became the new nationalism--the new religion. To be patriotic and essentially non-american, to love God, to love your home, was to fight for it. (sound familiar?). Except this time, it was required to live.
Because it was the age of technology, books were more and more rare. Everything was digitalized, which meant original texts were more easily manipulated. Bibles in book form had stop publishing decades ago, and the State disposed of what was left. Instead, the "real", the "accurate" Bible was digitalized, just like any other book, and in doing so, the State ,in fear of having its people rebel, removed all the passages that spoke of love. If people followed love, war would not be possible. Love was striped from the Bible. and along with it Jesus and his teachings of non-violence and social justice. This Jesus, and these teachings were replaced with a war-mongering God filled with vengeance and Old Testament rage. This God invested himself in nations.
Because it was too risky to abolish religion all together, the state simply altered it, to further their political vision. They knew even people who didn't follow it regularly, would be offended by its removal. So, people of the future continued declaring themselves "religious" and "christians"-- and eventually all forgot what love was ever really about.
Soon Soldiers became the new Saviour. --The symbol to all, of the ultimate sacrifice. To know a soldier who was martyred for the empire, was to have access int heaven. Soon every man, woman and child, were and became soldiers in this fight. War was church. Guns worship. Death victory. and because of this Canada got richer. Got bigger. Got better. Perhaps Nitzche was right to call religion the opiate of the masses.

So, all of this context, was just in my head, before i even experienced the dream itself. It was really bizzare. The dream portion itself was a flashback. It was as if I was myself an elderly woman, recalling the sad state of the State, as fragments of violent memories flashed through me. The memory I saw was of myself, a bit younger, running through the darkened tank filled streets, to find sanction at next. Churches all around had been turned into military training camps. and Next too became a sacred place for training. I entered its doors, and on the walls where art of joy and celebration once hung, were banners draped. Banners with pro-war slogans; "God Bless the Fight", "One Empire; One God" . The room was empty, and I began ripping down these massive massive banners, throwing them to the floor and tearing them to shreds. All the while, screaming, and cursing and crying. Then five men came into the room-- decked in the military garb of the time period --- solid black. just like riot-cops. They pulled me away, elbowing me in the stomach as I stood. I fell to the floor again, and another one grabbed a fist full of my hair, and threw me against the wall. I kept screaming all the while, "Love your enemy". I kept screaming verses, that had since been deleted, that supported peace and called for active and selfless love. It was like I was diseased, the verses kept spewing out of me like froth at the mouth. They deemed me a crazy woman. Many were young, and had themselves never seen or knew the original document i quoted from. The State had killed off the "radicals", the Christians who refused to be coopted. the Christians who knew and lived for a Kingdom of the spirit, not the man. (Fellow nexters had all been murdered, years ago, for refusing to cooperate).
As i hovered against the wall screaming out in rage, Andrew entered the room and the men immediately threw him to the ground, each taking turns to kicking him in the gut. They kept demanding he stand up for himself, to show his power, to wzcersise the defense he had been taught, but instead he remained gentle and non-violent. Blood seept from his body, as more and more soldiers, cops, and government leaders encircled him, each taking turns beating him merciously. He represented all they hated. His refusal to forget jesus, was the threat to the nation. Instead of scream or retaliate, Andrew just simply told them, "My belief in Love, is stronger than all the violence you use, to beat it out of me".
And that was that.
The beating continued. And I ran around the outside of the circle, half naked, body bloddied, screaming, words I can't understand now, arms wailing, eyes popping.

He died that night. In that circle.
He died.

and I woke.

hello

The first time we met was at a bus station.

I had just come home after a long day of snowboarding. Your sister skied.

The man at the station referred to you as "our dad" because your face was hairy, and I was only 15.

"Your Dad is here to pick you up" the man said, pointing at you, in your mom's plum coloured mini-van.

I was cold and sleepy, so I crawled in the back seat without much of an introduction.

You were her big brother. Her old old old slightly dorky big brother, who quoted Lord of the Rings, and memorized the Bible.

Her old old old big brother, who wore the same oddly shaped navy blue sweater, with a terrible orange stripe across the chest.....everyday.

You were this. and I was a 10th grade, wanna-be-punk, with a hot-pink cat collar around my neck and metal studded goggles.

I sat, indifferently, in the backseat and you drove- making small talk like a Dad might, and every now and then I could see you smile awkwardly at me through the review mirror.

You dropt me off at home-- I forgot to close the van door behind me. You laughed a little. Awkwardly. I wandered inside, unfazed, and without much of a goodbye.

This was our beginning. The unromantic and anti-climatic hello that pre-empted 9 years of intimate friendship, six years of love, and 3 months of marriage.

Forest Child :

I grew up in the forest.
Far far away.

Like most children of the forest, I had the ability to talk to trees. and small woodland creatures. Like others, I could sense time without a clock and would never tire of playing in the woods. But unlike the children who grew up in my forest, I, as a forest child, possessed the unusual ability to talk to a mysterious and strange God. A God, that for many years, was created and re-created, as childhood shifted and transformed. A shape-shifter. A voice. A spirit. I knew it and felt it. And sometimes the memory of that connection, is the only thing that continues to connect me to it now.

I grew up among pagans and tired ex-catholics. (that's why im still 10% pagan, and 10% Catholic).
I grew up in a forest that had no church. We had a building--a tinylittle wee building, that once was alive with song and word, but had closed it's doors, like most things did, by the time I was three. It lived there, among the trees, dying. Its wood rotted. Its windows boarded. It, like the tiny boarded up one room train-"station", lumber mill, fire-hall, and eventually even school, became abandoned. My home, has now become a ghost-town.
So, as a forest child, the concept of "church" was quite foreign to me. Until puberty struck , I was fairly certain that churches only existed in America- in Big Cities and on Tv. It was a concept, almost as mythical to me as a mail man, or street-lights.
I grew up in a two-room school that had 30 kids, total, on a good year. I had a fairly unconventional education, to say the least. I also had a teacher who loved this guy named God. She spoke of him often and I was intrigued, so from very early on, I stayed after-class, on Tuesdays for Searchmont's equivalent of "bible club". This became my only "formal" introduction to this thing called Christianity. I latched on. Fiercely. While most forest children stayed primarily for the greasy chips on a napkin /purple Cool-Aid, and to watch the fat on our teacher's arm jiggle, as she did the actions for "Whose the King of the Jungle", I stayed because of mysticism. (though the chips and the arm fat, were defiantly a motivation as well).
I took the basic teachings of the Bible, and invented my own pseudo-religion (or denomination, to be fair). One with no authority. One based on feelings, rather than logic. One that saw God not as an elderly white man sitting in heaven, but rather one that understood God as love spirit. That floated and spiraled within and around all of life. Without a church, everything became church. Land, not buildings, became sacred spaces. The forest became infused with this love spirit. Prayer became a language, learned but not taught. It grew fluid, not because it was a rule or a compulsory, but because it grew out of desire. A desire to connect with this love spirit, I could feel inside of my tummy. I could sense in others. I could see in the earth around me. I wrote songs for it. I spent a good six years or more of my life,quietly singing myself to sleep every night. In those quiet moments, I felt like my entire body was in the presence of this thing called God. This thing that held me. That knew me. That loved me.
My "faith" was mine, though I was admiate about sharing it. The main recipients of my then evangelism, were my snails. I taught them all I knew. I decided, when I was seven, that this thing called heaven wouldn't be worth living in forever, if it didn't have snails. So, I baptized, ALL 200 or so, of my pet snails. A drop of "Holy" puddle water on each of their tiny little snail heads, and a prayer of love for each of them. It took about a day. But I was at ease from then on. I even had a mini silver statue of Mother Mary, for the snails to slime over, once they were "saved". (In case you were unaware, The Virgin Mary cries tears of joy, when mollusks accept her son into their hearts)
Because my parents were, at that time, "born-into-it, but don't-practice-it" Catholics, they felt it necessary that their daughter experience the catholic rituals of "First Communion" and Hail Mary chants . so, they drove me an hour into the "Big City", where I wore an over-the-top frilly white dress with matching white lace gloves, held a rosary, regurgitated some Catholic propaganda, and had my very first Holy bread wafer.
At this point, I did not know the world had Protestants and Catholics. But I rebelled anyway. From what I understood, the Jesus meal should be offered to anyone who feels/honours the love spirit. It shouldn't be limited to city boys/girls who dress up in fancy white, and call their priest Father. I declared myself officially NOT-catholic before I even hit third grade- and reverted back to my initial DIY ways.
Though I proclaimed Catholicism to be hypocritical and spiritually uncouth, at an early age, it's influence still informed my own practices/interests in weird ways. For a while, I really dug mini statues of saints. My teddy bear still wore a little rosary, and I still had a thing for holy water. But most importantly I was infatuated with nuns. When I wasn't pretending to be a teacher, or day-dreaming about being a sex-therapist, I was quite insistent on becoming a nun. In fact, the very first thing I EVER googled, once the Internet was invented, and in my home, was "nuns". I had a major crush on them, though the whole celibacy thing through me for a loop, since I was an unusually sex-obsessed/aware kid. (but that deserves its own blog-entry). Looking back now, nuns were the first "Christians", I ever read about, that seemed to be doing this whole God-thing right. Unlike most of the people around me, they were actually doing what Jesus said. They were radical. After Mother Theresa died, I use to ask God to pass along messages to her, when I prayed.
I use to have this reckless trust in God and in Love. I use to cry when I prayed because the feelings of their presence were so intense. I use to believe that the world wasn't broken yet-that with a little love, anyone could change. I use to have the unusual ability to talk to a strange and mysterious God. When I was a forest child.

Looking back now, I realize my version of spirituality hasn't changed all that much. and I'm sort of glad. I've gone through periods of denial and shame. I struggle often with burdensome amounts of doubt and skepticism. I go through intense droughts of anger and recluse. But at the end of the day, it's the memories/life of my childhood connection to the love spirit, that often pulls of through. It's that level of intimacy I yearn with all my heart to be able to experience and allow in myself again.
It hasn't been until recently, that I've realized my story/history with "God" is a bit off-beat/unusual. Unlike my "protestant" peers, I didn't grow up with little old church ladies, choirs, hymnals, sermons, camps, bible verse finding contests, organs and church etiquette. I'm unfamiliar with traditional "chuchie" language, rhetoric, songs and "worship". A lot of things my partner takes for granted having been born and raised in the church, feels really unnatural and at times even offensive to me. Somtimes it causes tension, because our stories so greatly inform how we experience and know God.
Im realizing now that growing up in the forest, and being unchurched has its definite pros and cons. I'm lucky I was able to avoid being burned by the church. I never felt forced or guilt-ed into connection. I don't feel overly brainwashed. Creativity was a big part of my understanding of the Spirit and Creator. I wasn't jaded/broken by other Christians. I held onto my innocent naive hope longer. I owned my beliefs and remain a fairly free/independent thinker. But on the other hand, I developed a really unbalanced attitude towards Christianity. I find it really hard to appreciate and respect the church. I have A LOT of issues with authority. I lack logic, and base most actions/beliefs on "feelings". Christian-eese makes me panic. If I start to talk like a Christian and use words like "Jesus Christ", "Salvation", "evangelize", "missioning", "The Second-Coming", "The Good Lord" and "secular" etc. etc. I get desperately ill inside and want to vomit. I have a reallly reallly tense relationship with my Bible. I harbour a lot of resentment towards other Christians. Corporate prayer still creeps me out. and I'm quite stubborn and critical.
It's a difficult process transforming a very private/individualistic faith into one that embraces and is subject to community. I'm glad that shift is happening, and that I've found Next, as a home to explore and experience these changes. I'm really thankful that's its become a "thin space" where I can be honest about my story- where i can struggle openly yet still experience love. A space where people, not walls, define church. Where I can slowly reclaim and re-learn this whole church thing, without sacrificing who I am. Where to be a "Christian" and to follow the teachings of Jesus is radical. Is subersive. is counter-cultural and revolutionary. Next for me, is a sacred place where God is once again mysterious and mystical. A place where I can encounter the traces of this love spirit, and hear the voice, I once felt and knew, as a young forest child.

there's always room for creativiTEA

My old bedroom has successfully transformed itself into a creativiTEA room-- a sacred space for art to be dreamt, felt and born. A sanctuary of sorts, for herbs to grow, for tools to hang, glitter stored. A place where wood is carved, poems bled, cards imagined and loose-leaf drunk.

And today I sat hunched over our new, yet old, vintage wooden desk, sunlight pouring through the shutters; nibbling on grilled eggplant drizzled with balsamic vinegar, and sipping away at a perfect Chai, with the perfect amount of maple syrope in it, Louis Armstrong's perfect voice dancing softly through my air, 2 bottles of brown glitter in hand, and desktop full of cardstock.

Suddenly all was right in the world again.