I will follow you ...

I love this song by Ricky Nelson.

Remember they re-did it on that movie "Sister Act". Something about the songs in the sixties - they had such rhythm.

I hope that you will follow me ... I am moving. I have a new bloghome - http://www.roxannefelix.com/ and I hope you will visit me. I intend to keep visiting all of you, but I have had to make the leap from anonymous blogger to platform of an author.

Apparently, this is what one does when they want to be a successful author. How would I know? I'm just playing it all by ear in hopes that it allows me to write full-time.

I'm hoping my life will settle down after all of these launches and events and I can write again some more and visit you more regularly. In the meantime, come visit my new bloghome to learn about my novella in the anthology: Women of the Apocalypse!

Mentors Re-Discovered

When you’re a young adult, I don’t think you really know who your mentors are. If you asked me at the age of nineteen, “who influences you the most?” I would have blithely replied “my friends”.

In my 3rd year of university, I started working part-time at the University as a Peer Health Educator. It was an innovative program at the time. University students taught other university students about important health issues: alcohol abuse, stress management, eating disorders and of course, being the mid-nineties – HIV and STDs (now known as STIs).

My supervisor, Judy, was – just that – my supervisor. She encouraged me to learn more, pushed my boundaries and trusted my judgement – but hell, don’t all supervisors do that?

Heh. No.

Today, I attended Judy’s retirement party. Over the years, I’ve come to realize what a mentor she was. But hearing other students (present and past) talk about her influence on their life, I realized just how MUCH Judy affected who I am today. And I considered myself lucky to be able to *tell* her that, too (most people wait until funerals).

I learned about holistic work from her – working in community services, you can’t just do your “job description” – Judy was the first one to model that.

At the time, Judy – who cared about people OUTSIDE of the workplace – might have been perceived as unprofessional or not knowing where to set her boundaries. Now, I consider her behaviour ground-breaking. Facilitating real communities and caring workplaces.

Judy was one of the first women I met who taught me – “not only is it ok to take care of yourself, it’s a priority”. What a concept. One that I still try to remember to this day.

She opened my eyes to diversity – cultural, familial, sexual orientation, religious -- in a way that I was priveleged to have so early in my career. She drilled into me, when teaching – to never assume anyone in your classroom is like you. Instead, assume that they are different. And always assume there is someone in that room who will know more than YOU know about that topic because they’ve lived it.

And, it was because of Peer Health, that instead of being a doctor, I pursued public health.

Mentors. Funny how it takes so long to recognize them. Lucky for me – I got to say thank you to my mentor today.

Happy Retirement Judy!

Beautiful Veggies

Aren't they beautiful? That's the only words for these fresh veggies.

Yesterday, after months of writing and editing, writing and editing ... I allowed myself some social time. A meal with some friends and then a visit with one of my dearest friends who was visiting from out of town. It felt wonderful. It was as if I was a desert, parched and cracked. I had written all the creativity out of me.

And then after some socialization - human, social contact! - all of the story ideas flooded back. It was great. One of my favorite stories has to do with this picture.

I dropped by the agency I used to work at to have lunch with some former co-workers and there were dozens of bags of veggies being loaded from a truck into the elevator.

What's this? I asked.

A pilot project, they answered. Refugee families get a bag of veggies (the picture is only one THIRD of the bag) delivered to the agency for only ten dollars. Wowwee. They were beautiful.

The Good Food Project offers a convenient way for families to buy local food. And, it's healthy!

It was a six-week project for the summer. If you're not low income, the price is more (obviously)but what a great idea. Just seeing the fresh veggies made me want to eat healthy forever (or close to it).

I'm off to eat them now ...

Summer Days, Driftin' Away

It was June 24, 2009.

Summertime was starting to roll in and I was excited.

I got on a plane and travelled Eastwards - I had a road trip planned for the breathtaking Maritime coast of Canada. I had successfully lost all of the weight I needed to for my own reality-show healthy living competition with my nine relatives, and I intended to enjoy all the lobster I could over the next 18 days. When was the last time I had a real holiday, I asked myself?

June 26, 2009 - I checked my blackberry.

My two friends, Eileen and Billie, emailed me. We collaborated on "Seven Deadly Sins" together, our anthology of flash fiction, and we had just pitched another project to our publisher, Brian. An anthology of four novellas around the theme of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. We asked another writer, Ryan, to join us in this venture and the plan was for each of us to write a novella.

"We are in." Eileen wrote.

Our publisher, Brian, not only wanted to publish the project, he wanted to publish it and launch it at the next World Fantasy Conference. Incredible exposure to publishers, editors, agents. October 31.

WHAT?

It meant the stories had be in perfect order by September 1 to be sent to the printers.

It meant I had to write the complete draft of the novella by August 1.

It meant that since I had written all of ZERO words, I had to start writing the moment I got that email.

But ... I was on holidays!

And I didn't have a laptop with me!

And I had never written a novella before. Ever.

... and hence this is why I have not posted an update in a very long time ...

Stay tuned to hear what happened ...

You're a what???

I was in Grade Eleven, hoping to become a medical doctor one day, when a news story broke about a man in Montreal who entered an engineering faculty, his former school, and went on a shooting rampage, deliberately killing fourteen women.

The story shook me. I had been inspired by stories of women who broke the boundaries of stereotyping and unfair restrictions to fully participate in society – whether it was voting, writing novels, sharp shooting, or being a doctor. Pioneers to their fullest. But, as a teenager, I thought the days of women having to overcome barriers were over. Until that news story.

It raised an awareness for me early in my life. I took courses on media and the portrayal of women. I studied gender roles in sociology. And, I joined a group at the University that commemorated the loss of those 14 lives every year on December 6. Strangely enough, it was my mother who was concerned about my involvement in this group. Despite the fact she was a pioneer herself – leaving her home town at the age of 22 to go work in a foreign country – she was worried about what this “extra-curricular” activity might portray on my resume.

I forgot about this time in my life until I recently watched the TED speech of Isabelle Allende. There was nothing new in the speech – she only repeated what Stephen Lewis has been saying for years … if you want to improve the well-being in lower-income countries, then raise the knowledge and education of the women in those countries. What surprised me were the comments left by individuals in response to her speech.

It reminded me of my university years, when I would tell people I was a feminist.

It was mostly women who objected to the label.

“No, you’re not,” they would say.

Once I picked my jaw off the floor, I replied, “Feminism has a certain set of ideals and I ascribe to those ideals.”

“You’re not like that.” Like what? I thought. They continued, “You’re not a feminist.”

The response infuriated me. Here I was, professing a fundamental belief -- that a woman has a right to define who she is and what she wants to become, unfettered by restrictions that might be put on her by her gender -- and my friends were telling me that I was not what I believed.

Where was the fear coming from, I wondered. More importantly, why were they not also calling themselves a feminist?

Over the years, instead of getting angry, I would reply (where it was applicable). “You’re also a feminist, you just don’t know it.” That didn’t exactly win them over to feminism. What ensued instead was an emotionally charged discussion, with a strange conclusion that *my* feminism, wasn’t in sync with the feminism *out there*. I didn’t understand that either, for wasn’t I part of society? Is there any kind of unified agreement on what a certain belief is, when the belief is held by a number of diverse individuals who bring meaning to that ideal, depending on who they are?

And then, one night, someone taught me a new way to discuss the issue. A group of my close friends were having a conversation over dinner, talking about how on first dates, it’s difficult to come out and describe yourself fully as you are.

I said, “how could I explain to someone that I’m a left-wing, Catholic, Filipina, Zen, feminist with strong family values? He would think I have an identiy crisis,” I lamented.

One of my male friends raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re a feminist?”

I bristled, but was used to the response to the word by now. “Yes,” I said. “Knowing who I am, how could you NOT know that?”

He tilted his head towards me. “Well, maybe I should ask how you define a feminist?”

I explained what I believed and he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You are a feminist. And by those terms, I guess I am too.”

I appreciated his openness to the debate. To the definition. To the dialogue. And it taught me, that the next time someone says “you’re a what?”, I need to ask more questions, not answer them. What do you think feminism is? Why don’t you think I am a feminist? What do you associate feminism with?

It’s the right questions that bring us closer to resolution. And an approach that works for any kind of discussion, I think.

At least, for any kind of discussion that really matters.

Inspired by Goethe

as of late, inspired by this poem by Goethe ... thought I would share

The Holy Longing
by Goethe

Tell a wise person, or else keep silent,
Because the massman will mock it right away.
I praise what is truly alive,
What longs to be burned to death.

In the calm water of love nights,
Where you were begotten, where you have begotten,
A strange feeling comes over you
When you see the silent candle burning.

Now you are no longer caught
In the obsession with darkness,
And a desire for higher lovemaking
Sweeps you forward.

Distance does not make you falter
Now, arriving in magic, flying
And finally insane for the light,
You are the butterfly, and you are gone.

And so long as you haven't experienced this:
To die, and so to grow,
You are only a troubled guest
On the dark earth.

Gratitude

I was going to post pictures of the fire, but decided against it. Instead, I am posting these pictures. Flowers fill me with gratitude and joy - so they get the spotlight. This one was given to me by my friend, Wendy, who moved to Laos. It didn't bloom for the first six months and then there were a couple of small blooms. I took the picture about six weeks ago.









The pictures above are my most recent additions. Hydrangeas are my most favorite flower ... and you can see how the african violets are now dripping with blossoms.

It had been a great Saturday: a heart-pumping kickboxing session, incredible progress on both my novella and next novel, topped off with a laughter-filled night out for drinks with one of my closest friends (and cousin). I went to bed feeling satisfied, looking forward to a full day of writing on Sunday.

But, something disturbed my sleep and I woke up in the middle of the night. Someone was yelling. Strange, my neighborhood is usually quiet. In my old apartment, I’d be subjected to the occasional drunken rant outside the window, but not here in my condominium. The yells continued. As I struggled to make out the words, I heard sirens. Lots of them.

And there was another sound in the background. A familiar rhythm of noises, but not something I would regularly hear. What was it now? In my foggy brain, the sound finally matched to the appropriate image – the crackling sounds of a fire burning.

Suddenly, I could make the words out, “Get out, everybody, get out of the building.” I jumped up, put on my glasses and opened my blinds.

I live on the main floor of my condominium apartment. My place is usually sheltered from noise, because it backs onto the yard of another condominium building. A condominium building that was now on fire. The bright orange flames hurt my eyes in the darkness, and I blinked rapidly. Was I really seeing what I was seeing? The sirens grew louder.

From my viewpoint, one apartment on the top floor was on fire, the flames completely engulfing its balcony. A trail of orange crept along the ceiling of the adjacent suite, also starting to be enveloped by its brightness.

It would be cold outside, I thought. Put on some pants and a sweater.

“Get out, get out, everyone out of the building!”

Had the flames jumped onto our building? Had the fire started in our building and jumped to their building? It hit me that this was real. Not a frozen pipe that had burst or a prank from some kids, like on other nights when we’ve been awoken from our beds. It was real … for where else came that eerie orange light that allowed me to discern shape from shadow? Real, as my heart began to pound. Very real.

What do I not want to burn down? I asked myself. What would I be devastated if I lost?

Think quickly, I thought. I don’t want to get caught in a burning building.

My writing. It was the only thing that came to mind. I couldn’t find my backup USB stick that had all of my writing. So, I pulled all the cords out of my laptop and dropped it into a bag. Wallet. Phone. That’s it. I decided to take the extra five seconds to lock my door. Or maybe it was longer, for my hands were shaking.

By the time I got outside, the flames had seemed to spread across the top floor of the building next door. The firetrucks had arrived, they hadn’t even started to spray water. We huddled in the parking lot, watching how quickly the fire spread. We held our breath as we anxiously followed the path of smoke and ash. Please, we thought. Please let it not spread to our building.

And the people. Were the people out of the other building? We weren’t sure. They were all seniors. We hoped they were safe. But, we also hoped that our residence would stay safe too. The smoke was black and it seemed to billow with intent and anger. Once in a while, parts of the building would collapse and you’d hear the wood groan and an ensuing gasp from everyone who had gathered. Look at all my neighbors, I thought. I didn’t know we had this many people in the neighborhood.

Two hours we watched it, before they let us back in … our feet were cold and we smelled like smoke. But, it was safe. And, apparently everyone was safe in the other building too.

When I shuffled back into my condo at around 5:30am, my place was smoky and the lights on my smoke alarms blinked red and green. And in the early morning light, while I ate my cereal watched the firefighters climb in and out of my backyard into the charred yard of my neighbors, I was grateful. Grateful for whomever invented the fire hydrant, grateful for taxes that pay these firefighters, grateful for the endless water supply that we accessed so quickly to put out the fire, grateful for all of it.

I was tired, to be sure. But not too tired to be filled – overflowing – with gratitude. For all of it.