It's 'Rikki,' but spelled like a girl.

No man is an island

2011-12-03T10:28:00.001-05:00

@rikkiratliff I left the North to find my own way

According to his Twitter bio he is a "working Native Nerd who is enjoying social media on his blackberry. Enjoys D&D, webcomics, sarcasm, and Failblog. Not helping stereotypes since 1999."

It seems the isolation in northern reserves is destroying many of Canada's First Nations. The cycle of poverty has nowhere to turn but inside the reservation. The government tap of funds continues to drip with no results to show for it.

This young man walked out of the isolation into his own lonely road, but it may have just been the thing that saved him.

And what a shame that the First has now become the last.

America the Beautiful

2011-10-09T19:34:00.006-04:00

It's been nearly a month since the 10th anniversary of 9/11. The World Trade Center memorial has been unveiled and the poignant speeches have all been spoken. By now, the survivors and families of victims have made the dizzying rounds on the media circuit, and with soundbites and sentiments packaged, the international networks and local news crews have packed up and left. What remains are fizzed out leftovers of American nationalism and the steady wave of NYC tourists curious about the gaping holes in the southern tip of that busy island.

I was tempted to indulge in my own mourning and remembrance of 9/11 in a sappy blog, but I didn't think I could add any more to the pundits already postulating on the significance of that day. I had some stuff to say, but I couldn't justify using 9/11 for a spike in blog readership if tagged properly.

And so 10 years and one month later, the timeliness of the news hook is delayed, but I still remember. And it still hurts. And I still can't figure out why physically being on American soil on the date of the anniversary mattered, but as it turns out, it mattered very much indeed.

I had just flown in for a quick visit home and was tickled happy to be sitting at the table surrounded by all of six of my siblings and their significant others. These moments are rare and I relished it, and my dad's perfectly grilled steak, with sweet satisfaction. When my dad said he had an announcement to make, all eyes moved towards the head of the table. Forks clinked loudly on emptying plates and I think I may have nervously joked, "who's pregnant now?"

Taking advantage of our presence on the eve of 9/11, Dad he said he wanted to take a vote about what to do with the American flag on our family's property. Do we do as the rest of the nation and lower it to half mast in symbolic mourning, or do we leave it up in defiance of proper protocol?

It was unanimous.

In honour of the nearly 3,000 victims, we voted to leave it raised, letting it fly proud and free.

On the morning of September 11th, I attended church with my family. I was restless, and sometimes, tradition brings comfort.

You couldn't deny the heaviness in the air and I wondered how my home pastor would tie in the anniversary of the attacks with a sermon. As much as I believe him to be a sincere man of God, I blanched at the thought of him trying to politicize such a day or manipulate our emotions for the purposes of "the Kingdom." He introduced the worship team for a special song and as they started into the old classic, "America the Beautiful," I started to bristle with my new-found Canadian cynicism.

In the end, my humanity won out and I could help but weep at the 200-year-old hymn, turned patriotic song. Singing in solidarity with my fellow Americans in my parents' church felt right and I couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Looking down the aisle, I saw ripe tears falling on several of my family members' faces. It was visceral and healing at the same time.

This September 11, 2011, Ground Zero found its way all across America. From the gutted out financial district of Manhattan, to the church pews of Oklahomans, who remember the violence of terror all too well themselves.

When we came to the line in the lyrics, "thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears," my voice caught in my throat and I wondered if the writer of that old poem knew how poignant her words would one day become. How prophetic even. Because even through my wet obscurity, America had never looked more beautiful.

The flag on my parents' property at sunset

Tippin' another sacred cow

2011-09-29T22:51:00.001-04:00

He's adored, revered, highly sought after, and one day I'm sure he'll be enshrined as Canada's first nationally televised hipster. I even find him quite likeable most days. But today, he's ass-backwards wrong.

I'm talking about Greek media god, George Stroumboulopoulos.

Today on CBC's website, he gave a touching eulogy on the gradual fase out of the classic Cuban car as Cuba has lifted the 50 year old ban on private car sales. Seriously. He's mourning the death of one of the symbols of Cuban communism, when the rest of freedom lovers are celebrating.

Newsflash classic car lovers (myself included) and Mr. Strombo: there is nothing nostalgic about communism. When Castro decides to let people decide for themselves what car they want to drive, we dance in the streets, not romanticize a dictatorship.

Cue the pitchforks as I dodge the angry village people of Strombo Land.

Prose for the mayor of Santo Stefano di Sessiano

2011-09-08T22:30:00.007-04:00

He asked me, in perfect Italian, to write a poem about his beloved village. I replied, in broken English and with wine on my lips, that I would. What lies beneath is the patchwork of words I started over a year and a half ago and finished tonight. I'll never be satisfied with it and I can only hope for an Italian translator to make the poem more romantic than I ever could.

Ancient Bella,
Your cracks reveal stories, not age
Seducing the stranger, demanding his fidelity

Though your bones ache from the weight of mortals past
Mother-duty shoulders in silence
Shrugging off shifting earth, the span of time

The mountains raise in buttress support
as salute to your beauty

The burghers hold your secrets,
and the watchtower waits

Curious passerby riveted by your idyllic mystery
journey through medieval maze,
morphing as they pass

Glances backward, scenes of shattered glass

Santo Stefano,
holy ground for the wandering heart,

you remain an aching memory.

Oklahoma

2011-08-20T21:22:00.000-04:00

Wide open spaces, friendly faces. Subtle twangs and simple things. Southern fried, dignified. Lovin' hard, lovin' long. Uncomplicated, syncopated like a good ole country song.

Some sacred cows are meant to be slain

2011-07-30T10:49:00.006-04:00

Sun Media recently published my column on "Cuba: A Pretend Paradise." After reading about the regime's most recent form of censorship, conducting a phone interview with someone connected to the underground in Cuba, and getting into a heated exchange with some of my own friends who believe me to be a naive embargoed American on the subject, I felt compelled to write. A certain righteous indignation led me. I felt I owed it to the 600,000 Canadians who travel there every year in blind ignorance that life is sunny on the beaches, and to the Cuban people, whose voice has been silenced.

I braced for the hate mail for having stepped on thousands of Canadians' toes. But a surprising thing (or not so surprising) happened. The comment section has been flooded with "gracias" from former Cubans who have fled, and some who still remain.

My contact who asked to be left nameless, sent me dozens of links to my article appearing on Cuban news, blogs and websites. It would appear the people of Cuba are grateful for those who can afford the freedom to speak out against status quo in their country.

And so Canada, I didn't write a snappy column for your reading pleasure on a Thursday afternoon.

Turns out, I didn't even write it to satisfy my own ambition.

This was for you, Cuba.

Below is a small collection of their responses:

Fred
As one of hundreds of thousands of us who managed to escape the Castro brothers totalitarian hell hole, i would like to give a wholehearted THANK YOU ! to the Toronto Sun for telling it like it actually is. It is really good to hear an honest and clear voice from Canada.

Cary Montero
Excellent articule and coments. Cuba is a prision where cubans are treated like slaves. I am glad finally a newspaper decide to express the reality of Cuba. Thank you.

Lori Diaz
Agradeciendo este excelente artículo donde el autor refleja la cruda realidad que padece el pueblo cubano.
En este mismo hemisferio hay un pueque padece padece una tiranía por 52 años a manos de un grupo de pandilleros que secuestraron el poder.

Miles de cubanos han arriesgado y perdido sus vidas tratando de escapar de la isla de donde antes de 1959 ninguno de sus ciudadanos quería emigrar.

Gracias por alertar a los ciudadanos canadienses, personas cultas y amantes de la libertad, para que no se hagan cómplices de este régimen. Todos los recursos económicos van a parar a los bolsillos de los represores del pueblo cubano.

Gracias nuevamente

English translation

Thanks for this excellent article where the author reflects the harsh reality endured by the Cuban people.

In this hemisphere there is a tyranny pueque have suffered for 52 years at the hands of a group of gangsters who kidnapped power.

Thousands of Cubans have risked and lost their lives trying to escape the island before 1959 where any of its citizens wanted to emigrate.

Please alert Canadians, educated people and lovers of liberty, not to become complicit in this regime. All financial resources goes to the pockets of the oppressors of the Cuban people.

Thanks again

CHPP
Thank you. You don't know what this kind of articles means for us.

Courtesy: www.fotoreflection.com

Journalism junkies unite

2011-07-16T10:55:00.004-04:00

For those friends and family who feel I'm ignoring them or can't understand why I'm not making co-ed ultimate frisbee games, Buck and Does, get togethers for great-grandmothers and other extracurricular fun a priority anymore, it doesn't mean I don't love you. It just means I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin' contest these days. It's hard to articulate what it takes to produce a one-hour daily talk show for a spankin' new national news network, with the added pressure to daily increase ratings and disprove critics' assertions you don't belong in the rat race that is media, but here's a brilliant snippet from a veteran that knows it very well:

These stories will appear on the 6 o’clock segment of the show. But that’s only part of it. I also have to prepare 30-second voice-overs for both these stories, for the 5 o’clock segment of the show.

I swallow hard, glance at the clock (it’s already 2:30pm—two and a half hours to airtime.) I’m hungry, and my bladder is sending out worrying signals. But I’ll eat and piss later. There’s work to do.

I take a quick look at the last item on my agenda ( the third story.) No big deal. It’s a story that will be fed in from CHEK-TV in Victoria by 5:15pm for a quick turnaround into our 5:30 show. It’s labeled “Hot Dog”, about a police dog left in an SUV for three hours. One of the “shocking treatment of animals” stories. It sounds straightforward. I have a 17-minute window to make sure the story is in our computer, and to write the intro for it, and to insert the proper "super" information. No problem. (I can hear you laughing. Haha. Maybe you know what’s coming.)

The next two hours are a blur. I work my way furiously through seven voice-overs while the other writers, editors, producers and reporters enjoy lunch and toilet breaks. By 5 o’clock, I stretch, take a much-needed visit to the urinal and congratulate myself. I tell myself I’ve done pretty well for the new kid on the block. Just need to wrap up one more voice-over, then tackle the “Hot Dog” story, and my workday will be done. Another $230 in the bank, and I’d proven something to myself.

So yeah. I'm doing well to take time to pee these days too. Friends and family, gimme your grace along the way. At the end of the day, but mostly on the weekends when I have a second to breathe, I still remember what matters most in life. It's Saturday, my work Blackberry keeps flashing more incoming, but I'm heading out to my deck with a good book on a great summer day.

Top 5 things you should know when takin' the GO

2011-06-26T22:06:00.002-04:00

1. The train's departure time is like God, no discriminator of persons.
It does not care how action-movie-like your car's slide into a parking spot was, or how fast you ran in three inch heels whilst whipping a 10-pound wheel bag behind you to the train platform, or how hard you bang on the cruel closing of the doors in your face. It will leave you in its on time departure dust.

2. It is acceptable to finish putting on your face in front of complete strangers.
Making the trek from Hamilton to Toronto forces you to leave your home to catch the train at an ungodly hour, so you're lucky enough to remember to put your underwear and deodorant on at pre-dawn hours, let alone finishing a proper make-up job. While my new position no longer has me in front of the camera these days, I refuse to give into the crazed over-worked producer look. I still like to look put together even if in the process I have a handful of bleary-eyed train travellers looking on with a bizarre mix of curiosity and disdain. Hey! At least I'm not applying mascara at the stop-light in my car. I like to think of those 15 minutes applying makeup as my very own unedited Extreme Makeover show, with the audience sitting in for the before and after look.

3. Your seat is not assigned and you are free to move about the train.
Especially when you find yourself seated in the vicinity of a morning-person with a voice that makes nails on a chalkboard sound like Pavarotti. My personal favourite is the seat change that comes with sitting across from the socially inept, loud cell phone talker who, wait for it, doesn't mind if the entire world overhears all the gritty details of their relationship woes. Those are the moments when you change coaches completely guilt free, for you have just saved yourself from a potential Primetime What Would You Do? moment.

4. Do not judge the open-mouthed, snoring, drooling train sleeper.
Because sooner or later, that WILL be you. Granted, I've fought the urge to doze off because I don't want to be one of them, but just three weeks into my daily commute, I know my time is coming. And when that time comes, look upon me with sympathy I beg of you.

5. Although air-conditioned, the train is not immune to funky smells.
The most pervasive of them all is the unsettling odor of hundreds of frantic folks running to catch the train in the heat and humidity of summer in Toronto. Lucky for you they make it just in the nick of time and plop down on all sides of you still huffing and emitting their funky fumes. It doesn't get better until a few train stops in. Just carry a scarf dipped in perfume to cover your face to get you through the commute. It'll be less conspicuous than your irritated face and scrunched up nose.

I'm sure the lessons will continue as time and experience allow.

To be continued and feel free to leave your own 'things you should know' for us newbies or those considering the GO train commute.

Courtesy GO Transit

Storyteller

2011-06-24T21:53:00.004-04:00

I was going through and removing old web bookmarks from my computer that I don't use or need anymore, and almost removed this lovely image in the process:

"Storyteller" courtesy www.PamelaMurphyStudio.com

I'm glad I didn't. This picture brings me back to who I really am and what I love to do. It gave cause for necessary pause and drew a knowing smile. And on the busiest of days or on the most arduous of climbs to get where I think it is I want to go, may I never forget that underneath it all, I'm just a girl who loves to tell a good story--even if all's I got are a few butterflies listening in.

A daughter's confession

2011-06-19T16:09:00.006-04:00

When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years. ~Mark Twain

Well I've never been a boy, but I can certainly appreciate the author's sentiment. At 31, I'm astonished at how much I still need my father. I thought I was supposed to be all grown up and stuff by now, but in times of big decision-making or crisis, I look upon the long-distance phone charges with fondness because most of them are "Dad calls."

I have many friends without fathers today and I'm keenly aware that could just as easily be me. I'm sure I would be lost without him and so while I've still got him, I hold him as tightly as I can from my long-distance perch here in Canada.

Today I ranted on Facebook and Twitter about our vapid shout-outs to our dads via social media platforms. I'm sure I insulted a few folks who don't know me well, but my point is this: if your father was good to you, worked his butt off to put a roof over your head, took second place on presents every Christmas and Father's Day, and invested in the person you are today, then I don't believe an updated Facebook status will cut it.

If I could be, I'd be with the rest of my siblings in southwestern Oklahoma today, hiking up the worn-out and modest mountain tops as my dad leads the way to our favourite spots growing up as kids--avoiding wild buffalos, cactus pricks and sunburns, because Mom will ask why we didn't put on sunscreen--all the while celebrating life with him and relishing the view at the top of the climb. We've done it dozens of times and know the trails by heart, but somehow it never gets old.

Dad, all my life you told me I could be anything I wanted to be, and I was naive enough to believe it. I think I'm well on my way to my own mediocre mountain climb, but I'm certain one of my greatest achievements is being cherished by you.

Me and dad at the back of Notre Dame in Paris, May 2011

Gimme that old time journalism

2011-06-18T20:43:00.007-04:00

I've gone from producing a weekly half-hour newsmagazine to producing a one-hour daily in a matter of a few days with my new hire as senior producer for The Source with Ezra Levant on Sun News Network. It's been a massive learning curve, but a thrill filled with new challenges at every sharp turn.

At the end of my first week, I tweeted that I somehow managed to survive without any major meltdowns. I didn't cry. I didn't yell. I didn't throw a fit. Sure, there were many times I wanted to pass out from sheer exhaustion, or throw up from the fear of failing, but it seems I was born to thrive in this sort of intense deadline-driven environment, and I was quite proud I made it through without a breakdown.

A new colleague and the Senior Associate Editor at The Toronto Sun, replied to my tweet and reassured me that meltdowns aren't a sign of weakness. Rather, from his thread below, you can see a sort of romanticized version of the newsroom tweak-out.

While I'm grateful for the new opportunities provided for women in media (The New York Times recently hired its first female editor), I have a feeling I work in less interesting times when it comes to my field.

What I wouldn't give to have a larger than life, movie-version experience of old-school journalism. The age of No. 2 pencils, typewriters and phonebooks, polyester pants and male chauvinism. Ahhh...

@sunlorrieLorrie Goldstein

@rikkiratliff @sunnewsnetwork Meltdowns are permitted if limited to 5 minutes and any flying objects avoid nearby heads. Always aim low.

@sunlorrieLorrie Goldstein

@rikkiratliff Actually, I missed the "Bono threatens to destroy his crashing computer with a chair" incident of the 1980s.

("Bono" is the senior editorial writer for Sun Media. He's been with them since the 70's and has a gaudy gold ring to prove it.)

@sunlorrieLorrie Goldstein

@rikkiratliff But I was there for the famous "Blatchford's flying stapler" episode that kicked off the new millenium.

("Blatchford" is one of Canada's greatest when it comes to print journalism. In fact, I consider her a hero in my field.)

@sunlorrieLorrie Goldstein

@rikkiratliff Then there was the time no one warned me in advance we were endorsing the Grits in the '87 Ontario election. I didn't aim low.

(Americans, the "Grits" are the Liberals in this country. So you can understand the gravity of the situation.)

@sunlorrieLorrie Goldstein

@rikkiratliff We had a city editor who jumped on his desk and shouted: "C'MON, YOU BASTARDS, WRITE!" at us. Gave him a whip when he retired.

'Nuff said.

I'm a workin' girl

2011-06-02T21:09:00.001-04:00

And here's me workin'.

It's a newsreel that demonstrates my experience in reporting, writing, field producing, promo producing, & studio hosting. And...my ability to laugh heartily at the superstition of NFL Hall of Famer, Jim Kelly.

Rescue of the Chilean miners was a mix of technology and a divine miracle, driller says

2011-05-22T16:45:00.000-04:00

He will go down in history as “the man with the plan” to find and rescue all 33 of the trapped Chilean miners last August. Greg Hall is the owner of a drilling manufacturing company with offices in Houston, northern Minnesota and Chile. And while he cannot deny he engineered the project that enabled the rescue watched around the world, the humble Catholic who serves as a deacon in his local church insists “it was God who drilled the hole.”

When the collapse of the gold mine in Copiapo happened on Aug. 5, 2010, the Chilean government immediately sent drill rigs that began a guessing game of poke work into the tough terrain. Poor geological mapping and insufficient equipment made the search effort chaotic. They knew the miners were buried somewhere 500 meters and 800 meters below the surface, but the local mineral exploration rigs could only reach as far as 450 meters.

Mr. Hall’s drill manufacturing company, Drillers Supply International, had the tools and the faith needed to find the men. By Day 12, he and his team were certain they were on a body recovery mission. On Day 17, the team heard a banging on his drill pipe, the first sign of life. Attached to his drill pipe, was a muddied note in red ink that read, “Estamos bien en el refugio los 33.” We are all right in the shelter, the 33 of us.

But Mr. Hall’s journey with the miners didn’t end there. The government, unsatisfied with other plans proposed to bring the men to the surface, called Greg’s company again to ask if he had a solution. His plan was called Plan B, the back up plan.

On assignment for Listen Up TV, I sat with the Texas giant — he is 6 feet 6 inches, 300 pounds — to gather the untold story of Plan B and to hear why he believes in the power of prayer, and calls the rescue “a miracle.”

Read more here:

The Retreat

2011-04-04T22:09:00.000-04:00

He races towards Risk.
Marching unflinchingly towards the Frontline.
"Ready for action, Sir!"
Reaching Love's Precipice, his boots halt.
"About-face!"
Forward-marching to a battle less costly, where wounds are rewarded and ordinary men become heroes.

rlr

Attention: Writers

2011-03-21T20:37:00.003-04:00

I've been there, done that, will never forget it or be the same writer I was before. This is not spam, rather my whole hearted endorsement for a writing adventure that will change your life. From the organizers:

Travelers, Writers, Readers, Adventurers~~

·         Imagine yourself high in a mountain burgh in Italy, finally getting time and solitude to get started on your memoirs.
·         Imagine yourself finding the inspiration to craft travel experiences into literature.
·         Imagine making pasta with the local Nona and then narrating every saucy bit for your readers.
·         Imagine visiting the very places the great Italian writer Ignazio Silone frequented in Abruzzo.

We have a couple of spots left for adventurous travelers

who want to experience 15^th century life for a week while getting the

motivation and stimulation from solid instruction that experienced and new writers need.

Italy, In Other Words

Literary Workshops in Abruzzo, Italy

June 12—18, 2011

The Heart of Memoir · Explore and practice first person writing in travel, memoir, food essays · Reflect on moments of change and reconnect to individual purpose in good company with thoughtful and diverse writers	Literary Abruzzo · Explore world-renown Abruzzo-born writer,Ignazio Silone, who witnessed Italy's 20th century social and political struggles · Connect to the challenges and rewards of Abruzzo mountain culture

Please visit www.ItalyinOtherWords.com for photos of Santo Stefano di

Sessanio, endorsements and enrollment information.

Among the Ethiopian ruins, faith and worship

2011-02-14T18:41:00.000-05:00

It was a mass of thousands, everyone dressed in holy white. I was one of the many who had gathered in Addis Ababa Stadium for the celebration of Epiphany, one of the most sacred holidays for Orthodox Christians in Ethiopia. The ancient ceremony, commemorating the baptism of Jesus Christ, brought the fourth largest city in Africa to a standstill. I couldn’t help but feel like a gawking heathen, gathering snapshots of a party I wasn’t invited to, but the high priest’s voice over the loud speakers assured me of my welcome.

“Let the ferenji (foreigners) gather close,” he said. “We all serve the same God.”

Children kicked around deflated soccer balls, hustlers created make-shift betting games in the dirt, and youth groups representing various Orthodox churches in the city drummed and danced in anticipation of the priests’ arrival with the Tabot, a replica of the famed Ark of the Covenant, believed to represent the manifestation of Jesus when he came to the Jordan River for baptism.

Gaiety momentarily masked the reality of hardship for many in the booming yet still struggling economy of Addis. Solemnity — as thousands simultaneously bowed and kissed the ground — revealed a reverence for the sacred not often displayed in public life in the West.

Post-Christmas reflections from an American expatriate

2010-12-27T00:10:00.003-05:00

Evidence of Christmas lingers here at home with stockings strung across the floor, stray bits of wrapping paper tucked here and there, and the pick, picking at left-overs from yesterday's feast.

What hasn't persisted is the nostalgia that expats tend to carry with them back to their hometowns. It was glorious while it lasted with our Kodak perfect smiles and inside family jokes that make you howl 'til your sides ache. Sentimentality is sweet and it's the thing that keeps you coming back, but it's only fleeting. Reality sets in after a while and you begin to be thankful that you booked your flight "return."

Don't get me wrong. Nothing beats mother's home-cooking or seeing your father's proud smile in person. And nothing compares with having six siblings who are duplicated and complex variations of yourself.

Just the other day my 16-year-old sister and myself were sitting quietly in the back seat of the car while the two up front were chatting away. The radio station that was on had been on a commercial break for what seemed like hours, and with eery synchronicity both me and my sister (who I may see two or three times a year since I've moved) anxiously asked for the channel to be turned to actual music. There was something quite comforting about it. Knowing I wasn't alone in my eccentricity and my shared disdain for obnoxious radio commercials, and that I shared that with my sister.

At home, you're among your people and for the first time in a long time you can just...breathe. You don't have to explain your dialect or justify eating grits or white gravy, or my all-time favorite--apologize for being American.

But with each visit, I come to the realization that as much as I belong, I have changed. I'm not better than my people, I've just outgrown them a little. Like your favorite pair of jeans that have been worn in with love and memories, but ya know ya need it's time to say 'goodbye' to.

I'll never say 'goodbye' to family. I love them. I need them. They are what defines me, keeps me, loves me unconditionally. But after the Christmas magic dust has settled, what you're often left with is unfinished business from the past. Hurt feelings, sibling rivalries, unspoken disappointments, and you remember why it is you hug nostalgia so tight. You can shake that snow globe as hard and as often as you want, but those little flecks of white always land resolutely at the bottom.

Going into 2011, I bring with it a new revelation that's taken over four and a half years to realize. I come home to Oklahoma to stay grounded. I live in Canada to fly.

On the eve of my 31st birthday

2010-12-13T22:16:00.005-05:00

I spent tonight like I did last year on the eve of my 30th. In the tub, soaking in lukewarm water and self-pity, staring at my toes and wishing my sorrows would swirl away down into the drain, and into the cold currents of Lake Ontario never to be seen again.

My parents produced an over-achiever who never believes she's accomplished enough with each passing year. They also produced a woman who quickly forgets that wisdom ought to be preferred over youth. This year, instead of stewing over what new age-defying face cream I needed to buy or how many more sports I'd have to play to prove that I still could, I knew I needed to get a grip. And then I remembered how I spent my birthday last year.

I spent it with my brother-in-law, Buck. He's been the subject of a few of my blogs in the past year. On December 14th of 2009, he was bed-ridden in his home with Hodgkin's lymphoma. Each day mattered, and with each day came the hope that his alternative cancer treatment would start to show results. He was probably the most optimistic of us all. Until that night.

I hadn't seen him so helpless to care for himself. I was determined to make the visit as cheerful as possible and brought over my left-over birthday cake from the office knowing what a sweet tooth he had. I cut a big slice for him and poured him a fresh drink pushing it to the edge of the coffee table. Close enough so that he wouldn't have to reach too far and yet far enough so that he would still feel he could do something for himself.

He swallowed it in Buck style. Swiftly and with gusto. Everyone tried to keep the conversation light, but he wasn't having it that night. For the first time since his diagnosis he used the phrase, "if I don't make it," and told us about one of his biggest concerns and wishes. His brother and sisters sat in sombre silence not knowing how to respond. He didn't want to be dismissed or told, "don't talk like that, of course you're gonna make it." He wanted to be heard. This time, the funny guy who couldn't ever get through a meal-time prayer without snickering, wanted to be serious. I knew it and I assured him that his wish would be honoured. A month later when he passed, we kept that promise.

And tonight, on the eve of my birthday, I've got my grip and my much-needed perspective. He didn't live to see his 28th and so I dedicate my 31st to him. I can't light up a room like he did but I'll try and make more fart jokes in his great honour.

Buck and me on my 27th birthday. As always, he stole the show.

A candid Q & A with Adrian MacNair on the Canadian mission in Afghanistan

2010-10-25T19:09:00.006-04:00

For as long as I've aspired to be a journalist, I've had a morbid desire to be embedded in a war zone. Perhaps I've over-romanticized the picture of the khaki-wearing foreign correspondent with wind-blown hair, a pencil propped behind her ear, and a notepad full of scribbled quotes and ideas. Even still, I want to be in that picture. Frayed edges and all. The adventure and the story calls me.

I was a young journalism student when 9/11 happened and the world began its "war on terror," but the story of Afghanistan had captured my curiosity long before 2001.

I was thirteen and stuck with the awful chore of cleaning out the garage with my dad. We were throwing out trash when I came upon a stack of old issues of National Geographic. The legendary 1985 cover of the Afghan refugee girl with green eyes never made it to the garbage. Struck by her story and her riveting gaze, the intrigue of the plight of the people of Afghanistan has never left me. Neither has the magazine. It currently sits on my library coffee table collecting dust.

A few months ago I learned that Adrian MacNair, a blogger and freelance opinion writer with The National Post, had been invited to go on a media tour in Afghanistan by the Department of National Defence. Of course I was a bit envious of his opportunity to go, but I was also truly quite happy for him. The mission in Afghanistan has been his informal beat for some time. His style of writing is unapologetic and packs the punch political writers need. And I knew the nerve he writes with would carry him through to his journey in the war zone. I resigned to be satisfied with living vicariously through his experience. For now.

Adrian graciously agreed to let me in on that mild adventure of his for the purposes of my blog and to quell a bit of my curiosity.

Freelance writer, Adrian MacNair, right, decked out in full body armour for trip to Kandahar City

Q: Why did the Department of National Defence invite you on this recent media tour of the Canadian mission in Afghanistan?
A: I was invited by the military because of my profile in the National Post and writing I've done on Afghanistan. But it wouldn't have happened if they hadn't invited Mark Collins from my blog first. He had just had an operation and couldn't go so he suggested me. DND also invited dozens of other journalists.

Q: What was your news angle going in?
A: I couldn't think of a unifying news angle, other than trying to ascertain the difference between what you hear in Canada and what I would see in Afghanistan. I wanted to find out how much they would sugar-coat the mission progress.

Q: How often did you get outside "the wire?"
A: Just once in Kandahar, and even then it was in armoured vehicles and entirely segregated from the Afghan populace. Although we were in danger of IEDs, I would say that I never felt in danger on the trip. We were in regular traffic in Kabul, but the capital isn't as dangerous as Kandahar City.

Q: What was it like leaving the surrounding protection of the base?
A: It would have been more compelling if we were driving in regular cars or walking. As we were in armoured vehicles with a .50 calibre mounted gunner, it didn't feel much like leaving the comfortable security of KAF at all. And truth be told, the food at the forward operating base in Kandahar City was better than KAF.

Q: Were you able to interact with any local Afghanis?
A: No, unfortunately. It was a huge disappointment and almost made going not worthwhile.

Q: What are the general attitudes of the military regarding our government's decision to cease the combat mission in July, 2011?

A: They're disappointed and uncertain because they like the mission. Most soldiers are having a great time in Afghanistan and they know the excitement is a limited-time opportunity. Every soldier I spoke with was proud of his or her accomplishments and believed in the mission. Having said that, no soldiers would speak ill of the mission. Part of being a soldier means believing in the mission unflinchingly.

Q: Why do you believe it's important for journalists to be embedded in Afghanistan?
A: It's impossible to get a sense of the mission from Toronto or Ottawa. You have to be there to really understand the pace and the timing and the reason for decisions. You can see how important it is for reporters to be in Afghanistan based on the detainee fiasco from 2007-2009. No self-respecting journalist who had spent any time in the country would waste any time on a non-story like that, and certainly not one as peripheral to the big picture of Afghanistan as that one was.

Q: Did you feel the military displayed a certain level of transparency or did they feed you the standard, fixed, media-friendly soundbites?
A: There was certainly transparency on certain issues, such as detainees, police training, military accomplishments and objectives, etc. Where they fell short was in giving an honest assessment of the progress of the mission. They were altogether too optimistic, and not honest enough in admitting the hard work that's left. They couldn't admit that Canada is leaving before the mission can be accomplished in Afghanistan. It was the elephant in the room for sure.

Q: What are some of the biggest misconceptions you believe Canada has of its military?
A: Many people think of the military as a kind of nebulous entity that is one big fighting force. But it's composed of all sorts of different elements: communications, air wing, national support element, infantry, mentoring, etc. Some soldiers were envious I went, "outside the wire," when many of them will never get outside the wire in their entire tour. Another misconception is the level of danger. It's not very dangerous in KAF, and the rocket attacks on the base are so haphazard that the insurgents almost never hit it.

Q: What are the stories of Afghanistan you believe the press has either ignored or missed?
A: The press has missed out on reporting the mentoring aspect of Canada's involvement. Many stories could be written about OMLT (operational mentoring and liaison team) and their work in the field. The shift in tactics is also really underreported. The kinetic operations (killing insurgents) has taken a back seat to counter-insurgency tactics involving gaining the confidence of the people by identifying the "human terrain." SOF (special forces) is handling the niggling details now.

Q: What surprised you the most about the experience?

A: I was surprised that the security situation is still so bad. If you need an armoured car to drive into Kandahar City without being murdered, you know the country is still in a very bad situation. It seems a decade away from stability.

Q: Tell us about one of the highlights of the trip for you.
A: The highlight was probably driving through Kabul. It's a completely different experience to see people in the third world, driving their livestock through the downtown capital, manuvering through traffic composed of vehicles that 99% would not pass a street worthy test. It was my only exposure to the Afghan human terrain, and it was far too brief. Even then we weren't allowed to open our windows, we had to wear ridiculous flak jackets, and our car was armour plated.

Q: What was one of the more sobering moments for you?
A: Driving in the armoured car to the FOB [Forward Operating Base] in Kandahar was sobering, because it came with the understanding that an IED would likely mean instant death and you would never know what hit you. You'd just be gone.

You can read more of Adrian's blog and see the photos from his trip to Afghanistan at www.unambig.com.

The elephant in Canada's waiting room is pregnant with ignorance

2010-10-09T12:09:00.009-04:00

Things keep getting more messy with the abortion question in Canada. In the latest news, a B.C. couple urged their surrogate to abort the fetus because doctors found it was likely to be born with Downs syndrome. Although the surrogate had initial qualms with terminating the pregnancy, she eventually went through with what was likely a second term abortion.

My personal views on abortion are complicated and can't be boxed into a cozy Christian soundbite. And I don't think I could ever run for political office because I couldn't please constituents on either the right or the left by defining my position. However, what isn't complicated is my tolerance for ignorance on issues like abortion that affect a society at large.

When I learned of recent poll findings that found 79% of Canadians were ignorant of their own abortion laws, I felt compelled to wade into the quagmire that is the abortion debate in this country, or rather, lack there of.

When forming opinions or legislation that defines a person or country's moral code, there's a necessary ingredient that cannot be left out of the mix. Truth. In an op-ed for The Holy Post, I write that the privilege of living in a democracy comes with the responsibility of pursuing truth.

Although the comments on the piece were modest in number, it ended up ranking as one of the most-read articles on The National Post website. I think it reaffirms my opinion that although Canadians seem to care and have opinions on the abortion issue, they don't care enough to really have an intelligent discussion about it.

I am convinced that truth is the irritant that prevents a squabbling young republic from becoming a reckless oligarchy. If we need to bicker a bit more about this subject then so be it. Better that than the chilling alternative.

My indignity for ignorance sparked an interview request from a local talk radio program based on some of the points in my op-ed. Should you care to listen, you can check it out here.

Scenes from Oklahoma via my Blackberry

2010-08-29T19:57:00.004-04:00

Rugged. Hardy. Open. Free. The land. The people. Me.

Canadian poetry set me free

2010-08-14T14:01:00.003-04:00

This is poetry alive and human and truly breathing. And adapting to survive our 21st ADD, show me, give me more, century.

Under the layers of my journalist ambition, lies a 12 year old poet, waiting to be set free. If you look carefully, you'll see she makes an appearance every now and then in a television voice-over that sounds more like prose than the news, or in a quiet metaphor set between a loud opinion piece, whispering, "let me out." Tanya Davis: that stringy-haired, spunky nerd of an adolescent would like to thank you. And so would her carefully coiffed, cropped hair, sometimes subdued spunky, nerd of a successor.

The dancin' man and me

2010-07-27T15:12:00.024-04:00

His clothes are as worn as his smile. He bears scuff marks on both his shoes and his face. I want to ask about the origin of his scrapes, but I restrain. For now. I hear a faint accent of something in his speech and feel that's a safer question to pose. He's from Serbia and appears to be in his 40's. This is a man who has seen conflict. I venture a safe and silent guess he immigrated to Canada to escape conflict, but by the looks of his hardened exterior, he hasn't made a complete getaway.

His name is Jed but I know him as "the dancin' guy," and so does half of my city for that matter. He's got his very own Facebook fan page over 6, 500 adoring and curious fans strong. I've seen him dozens of times gyrating down Main Street in Hamilton, Ontario, but only from my car. I'm giddy his dance steps have finally found their way onto my path and I'm grateful for this encounter as my first sighting of him over a year ago was so unforgettable it was worth noting:

I have somewhere to be and quickly. But my husband's brother has just been diagnosed with cancer. He is too young to have a staring contest with death. My husband knows this and I feel like I'm losing him to the fog that cancer brings to a family.

I'm losing focus, and driving distracted is never a good thing. In the midst of my own fog, I am jolted by a sight that only my city can bring.

I see a very thin man, dressed in very used clothes, his hands like props in his coat pockets. And I cannot believe this, but he is dancing down the street sidewalk. Alone! I can't see earphones to suggest he's listening to music, which makes the scene even more amusing. He looks like the type of fellow who might not make his rent this month, or who finds his second home at the local liquor store. But he has not a care in the world, and is skipping Fred Astaire style down the the sidewalk. I look to see if passerby will stop and stare. Instead, they just casually pass--him--by.

In the moment it takes my car to speed by, he's gone. But I laugh. Incredulously. And shake my head and continue to laugh. Later, I try to describe the scene to others, but the story falls flat and I'm convinced I was the only audience member for whom the movie was meant. For a moment, life is less blurry and a precious moment of clarity sweeps in.

In the end, my brother-in-law lost that 10-month staring contest with death. His beautiful baby blues shut forever, no match for the steely gaze of cancer.

Why does Jed dance? The answer for him is hard to unpack because it's so complex, but for me it's simple--because I need him to.

Too often we write off the dancin' guys in our life because they're a little too eccentric for our straightforward tastes. Their uneven strides don't jive with our careful two-step. But there are days when a polite joke or pleasant company just doesn't cut it for me. I need a guy like Jed to jar me from my senses, to remind me that a joy that lasts despite your circumstances, comes from something deeper and sometimes unrestrained.

I ask about blisters and he waves them off with his hand. Sure he gets them, but they're worth every smile he draws from a complete stranger. A stranger like me.

His vagabond attire seems just a ruse when he pulls out a business card set between the pages of a crusty Gideon's New Testament. I note aloud his unconventional card case and without shame he announces, "I'm a born-again Christian." He tells me that he was given a gift that must be shared and an old Bible memory verse slips through the cracks of my jaded belief: "to whom much is given, much is required."

Before I can ask about the music in his head, the dancin' guy is off again marching to the beat of his own joyful drum, leaving me behind in his sonorous trail to pause and to smile.

You can learn more about The Dancin' Guy and his story at www.dancinguy.com.

I am Anchorwoman, hear me read well from a teleprompter

2010-07-13T12:52:00.003-04:00

What good thing could come from the outskirts of Winnipeg? Turns out, the newly-announced anchor for Global TV, Dawna Friesen. She's an inspiration to female journalists on both sides of the border that humble beginnings and hard work can launch you into success. And she's more than just a pretty face. She's been in the trenches, has earned her story-telling stripes and her seat at the desk.

With CTV's Lisa LaFlamme also set to replace the veteran anchor, Lloyd Robertson, the face of television journalism is changing. Literally. And I'd say, she's never looked better.

Three cheers for women leading the field of journalism--where a sharp wit, a listening ear, and a little lipstick can go a long way.

Shhh...If you listen carefully, you can hear Ron Burgundy's tears falling into his smarmy glass of Scotch.

Distinguished Alumni Award 2009 - Dawna Friesen from Red River College on Vimeo.

I'm a wanderlust-er

2010-07-05T17:40:00.004-04:00

I just finished reading the Travelers' Tales 2010 edition, The Best Women's Travel Writing. It's a collection of women's personal travel essays from around the world. Their goal is to inspire other women with these true stories of journey and unbeaten paths to the heart.

Well, 27 essays and a trip to Italy later, I am inspired. It's now my goal to be published among the pages in one of their next editions. A year ago, I would have thought this notion too lofty, but after taking the writing course in magical mountain world and having some of my own personal essay writing critiqued, this is one dream that seems attainable. Sometimes, you can touch a cloud without it eluding your grasp.

I also discovered that I have a penchant for a bizarre German phrase called "wanderlust." Elisabeth Eaves, one of the writers featured in the book, describes wanderlust as "the irresistible impulse to travel," and often by yourself. And I get it, but many people don't. I can't tell you how many times I've seen eyebrows raised in both bewilderment and judgement when acquaintances, friends, and even family learned I made the journey to Italy alone.

Marisa Handler, another "crazy traveler" featured in the book, answers those that don't understand her wanderlust with a question:

How to explain the wanderlust that draws me, time and again, to the solo journey? That I'm forced by circumstance to be totally open? That there is no refuge from sheer experience? That every day is a new adventure, every chance meeting a wee blessing?

By traveling alone, I traveled without distraction. I met people I wouldn't otherwise meet, held meaningful conversations that would've never been spoken, and had experiences that were selfishly all mine to keep as my beautiful secret. And although I did spend a week in Abruzzo with nine other women, I made efforts to get away by myself, to see the world sharply through my solo lenses.

On one particular afternoon in Santo Stefano, I took a walk down our magic mountain to the base for lunch at a charming family-owned restaurant. Two of the women taking the same writing course invited me to join them for lunch at their table. I declined and dined alone, ordering my meal using only Italian for the first time that week. I was feeling accomplished and very worldly as I relished the home-made pasta while tapping away at my laptop with writing ideas. I sipped my vino bianco slowly and measured the room. The couple dining next to me didn't look local, but they did look interesting. Eventually, their British accents gave them away and gave me permission to slip from a wannabe Italian back to an American woman.

Their names were John and Shirley. They lived outside London, England most of their life and on a whim, decided they wanted to retire to the countryside in Italy. At 60-something years a piece, they bought over a 100 acres of land (or was it 10,000?) complete with an olive orchard. The land and the orchard demands much attention, and they spend most days and nights working it, just the two of them, exhausted, with not a bit of farming experience between them. Their fixer-upper house came without a kitchen and because this is Italy, it took over a year for it to be installed. The first kitchen they ordered was lost with not much concern from those responsible for its misplacement. If this is the retired life, I want nothing to do with it, but John and Shirley laugh and shrug it away. They can't afford to hire help and I ask how long they think they'll be able to keep this up. "Well, until we pop our clocks, I suppose," Shirley says without blinking. I have never heard this expression for dying used before and find it totally amusing and worth adding to the tap-tapping in my notes.

I will never forget those unassuming adventurers as long as I live, and I probably never would have met them had a traveling buddy demanded my attention and conversation. Thanks to Travelers' Tales and my otherworldly 12-day Italian experience, it will be tough to convince me to travel the world again through a buddy system, or to ever apologize again for having the experience of a lifetime, would you believe it, all by myself.

"To have imagination is to inevitably be dissatisfied with where you live...in our wanderlust we are lovers looking for consummation." ~Anatole Broyard

A letter from Santo Stefano di Sessiano

2010-06-19T07:36:00.015-04:00

Our reasons for arriving were as varied as our departure cities. Each plane ticket printed with its own set of hopes and expectations. Each journal empty, but ready and waiting for our conceding wills.

I gave myself one week to indulge in the thing that brings me the most joy in life―the simple act of putting one word after the other to string along coherent and creative thought. One week to learn to be better at it, to go deeper, to stir myself out of tepidity. One week to figure out where I fit in as a writer in the creative non-fiction genre. And if I'm really being honest, I made the quest to see if what I sporadically do on the side is even worth it.

No one knows self-doubt like writers do. We wallow in it, wrestle with it, and sometimes, if we're lucky, we triumph over it in a published piece that is usually met with only mild applause. But we write to breathe, to know we're alive, and to matter to the world we write for, and so we trudge onward. Our individual steps making medieval time-travel in stand-still Santo Stefano.

The first shared dinner of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Writing Pants was something spiritual. Curiously described by one of the lapsed Catholics as, “The Last Supper,” our conversations flowed as easy as the local wine splashed into our glasses, surprising ourselves with the hasty candour and camaraderie amongst strangers.

I watched for three hours as one of the dozens of hanging candles dangerously dripped over our instructor's head throughout the evening, but I hesitated to say anything. Doing so would break the magic spell. I loved that waxy timepiece keeping record of our languorous meal.

With each course of food, came another revelation that we were brought here for a greater purpose. Serendipity had whispered to each of us, 'follow me.' We smacked our lips at the authentic cuisine and conversation and I revelled in my cherry wine and the joy of being surrounded by such strong and strange women. For the first time in a long time, and in this ghost of a town, I finally felt not alone.

In an instant, these women left an impression on me that will be forever marked in the “Dear diary” of my soul.

Dayle, unforgettable, Dayle and her camouflage-carrying Tabasco sauce ways. Her zest for basking in her very own Sunshine has left evidence in the smiles lines that edge her countenance. A road map that bears the untidy trail marks of a real and deep love―and a dare―to trek further into my own misadventures in marriage.

Kathleen will always be remembered as the woman who turned my water into wine. Less of a miracle and more of an accident in her attempt at vino generosity. She, with her beautiful shock of white hair and ever-familiar face. In one smile and wave, I knew I wasn't alone in Rome. I wonder if she has the same affect for others back home. I have a feeling she just might.

Monique, the L.A. Girl making it happen in Holland. A polished ebony stone that is not so opaque, but open and revealing. Beautiful and ageless, courageous and courteous, it's no wonder she's adapted so well to the Dutch. I only hope I can carry the same longevity she has in my own foreign Dutch land.

As both the hero and the heroine in her own living memoir, Gina has inadvertently become the leading protagonist in mine. Although she has not yet learned to strike that delicate balance in love and life, she has mastered the art of abandoning herself dutifully into one thing―writing. I cannot imagine a better lover than the constant surety of story. Complex and quiet, I long to see the world through her Prada lenses.

Liz. The mystic Aussie, who I think, doesn't know how to complain. Though her body is temporarily broken, her spirit remains tightly in tact―reaching summits before most have even stepped foot at the base. She laughs curiously, silently, unexpectedly. She is a rugged sprite that is comfortable living in the mystery.

There isn't a person Tracy hasn't met. And there isn't a person who could forget her either. Blue eyes that dance and cry easily. This is isn't a vice, but a strength. And an invitation to others that says you can trust me with your story. If only, she will let their stories out, not as a betrayal to their hearts, but rather as a gift to the rest of the world that says, “it's not always about you.” Sometimes, it's about the woman in the refugee camp on the other side of your world.

Laura, who hasn't met a country and a man she doesn't like. She is probably one of the sexiest sexagenarians I have ever met. With her slow and deliberate ways, she coaxes you, and most Italian men for that matter, into her. With each traveler's tale she spins, a wondrous web evolves wrapping you in it. And the funny thing is, you don't seem to mind.

Helen seems as Free as her surname and her hair. She is both untamed and polite. A helpless romantic that doesn't believe in soul mates. I get her and I want to make her my Aunt. The only regret I have from meeting her is that I didn't make more time to indulge in the “decades” of her story. Layered, languishing and lovely, she holds a treasure―and sometimes, words have something to do with it.

Queen Kathryn. The Seer of the Story. It seems she always has a secret and a smile hiding behind her eyes. Eyes that don't miss a thing and bedevil. Outwardly distracted, inwardly focused. She sends you reeling with her humour that both catches you off guard and puts you at ease. She is a beautiful riddle. Delightfully unsolvable. Although I can out-run her, I will never quite catch up.

We are the women who did battle with the cobble-stone streets of Santo Stefano. Whose lungs duelled with the inclines and elevation. Whose bellies ached from the over-indulgence of food and laughter. Whose hearts struggled to reveal themselves, and whose minds warred with the fiercest enemy of all―ourselves.

We arrived, some of us, in trepidation, but we'll all leave in triumphant descent from this wild and rustic place having conquered pieces of our crumbling castles, where our hearts hide in towers that loosen with each life-rumbling quake.

We'll descend back into our own burghs, full of their own shadows and secrets. Back to old familiarity that is sometimes comforting and sometimes not. Back to the places where expectation often clashes angrily with reality.

But at least we'll have our memories―and our words―and our pens―and the patient pages that await this new overflow in our hearts.

Arrivederci,

Rikki, who lives to write and writes to live, and who also writes to support her shoe addiction.

Scenes from Santo Stefano

2010-06-19T07:23:00.005-04:00

The town hoot, Maria Antoinetta. Between my little to no Italian and mediocre French, I learned she was originally from France and moved here as a young girl. I gathered she is somewhere in her 80's. She has a contagious grin and just when you think she's got you wrapped around her wrinkly little fingers, she makes the "F-you" motion in Italiano, slapping her hand against her forearm. But she does it with a smile and you can't help but laugh. She'll be staying with her daughter in France for the summer and made me promise to send a postcard to her address. I look forward to her sweet, but curse-filled reply.

Remains from Rocca Calascio

Reaching the summit of a girlhood dream--being a princess in my very own castle

Italy, Day 1 &2: A bit of Roma and Santo Stefano

2010-06-13T10:38:00.010-04:00

I arrived mid-afternoon with just enough time to catch a local pasta dish and a bit of walking around the neighborhood where my B&B was located. I was literally just a few walking minutes away from the Roman Colosseum.

Not your average street backdrop, The Colosseum

With just a half-day in Rome, there wasn't enough time for a formal guided tour. I will try to do that next week when I return from Santa Stefano. The owner of the B&B I stayed in offered a scooter ride around the city by night, and I accepted. When in Rome...
Post-scooter, I am now of the firm opinion that Rome is more lovely by night than by day.

A dream come true

Sleepy Santo Stefano di Sessiano

Santo Stefano has about 70 full-time residents

My heart is already too full for words and I am only Day 2 in Italy. Giovanni, a Santo Stefano local and manager of the "hotel," described Santo Stefano as "not a place where you begin, but a place where you arrive." He believes the beauty and mystery of the medieval fortess village cannot be fully appreciated unless you arrive from the outside, in. He says it is only then you can see the mirror of its beauty. Otherwise, you grow up believing life here is simply normal when it most certainly is not.

Arrivederci Toronto

2010-06-11T20:36:00.015-04:00

The trip is off to a good start as my good friend and fellow writer wouldn't let me leave without a gift that only a fellow writer would think to give.

A beautiful journal, that is just big enough and small enough for 12-day voyage thoughts. The cover reveals words that are just inspiring enough to coax you into filling the empty pages.

The package wouldn't be complete without a pen that drips good, consistent ink. A good writing utensil is measured by its ability to keep pace with sporadic bursts of thought/creativity. I'm looking forward to some "gripping" conversations with Pen.

And on the back cover, a challenge...

A challenge, and a journey, that seems to have been tailor-made for me.

Italy, in other words

2010-06-05T22:26:00.011-04:00

Santo Stefano di Sessiano

Courtesy www.lifeinabruzzo.com

I am days away from experiencing life in the least inhabited region of Italy and I find it utterly surreal. Who is this woman saying "time-out" to life as I know it? I almost don't recognize her.

As I move to tie up loose ends at work and worry what to cram in the suitcase, I do wonder how I'll adjust to such a quiet zone. I mean, I did ask for this. One week to indulge myself in the thing that brings me the most joy in life--the simple act of putting one letter in front of the other to string along coherent and creative thought. One week to learn to be better at it, to go deeper, to stir myself out of tepidity. One week to figure out where the heck I fit in as a writer in the creative non-fiction genre. And if I'm really being honest with myself, I'm on a quest to see if what I sporadically do on this blog is even worth it.

No one knows self-doubt like writers do. We wallow in it, wrestle with it, and sometimes, if we're lucky, we triumph over it in a published piece that is usually met with only mild applause. You couldn't even begin to imagine what a few Facebook thumbs-up, a couple of comments, and a spike in blog traffic will do to our fragile egos. We write to breathe, to know we're alive, and to matter to the world we write for.

As the red flashing LED light on my beloved Crackberry goes dark for 10 days, I hope it does something good to me. Eliminating some of the technical clutter from my mind should free up some creative memory space, displaying a crisper panoramic view of this gorgeous world around me.

What started as the whimsy of a foolish girl has become a reality. That's the funny thing about creative non-fiction. It's not the stuff of imagination with conjured up characters and storybook scenes. It's real life, with real people, offering up a curious reflection that is often more interesting than we like to give ourselves credit for. While dreams carry us sometimes from the drudgery of our physical existence, they don't sustain the soul. They're lovely, but they're calorie-light, staving off the hunger only temporarily.

As my steps take me to the uneven cobblestone streets of old Europe, I will flourish. And when expectation meets the painful reality of blisters from the travel, I will smile, because that's where the growth happens. That's where the true story is made. Stranger than fiction, better than you could believe.

We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves. We travel to open our hearts and eyes and learn more about the world than our newspapers will accommodate. We travel to bring what little we can, in our ignorance and knowledge, to those parts of the globe whose riches are differently dispersed. And we travel, in essence, to become young fools again -- to slow time down and get taken in, and fall in love once more.

~Pico Iyer

The Return of Petty Officer 2nd Class Craig Blake

2010-05-06T19:19:00.008-04:00

My view of the procession of fallen Canadian soldier, Petty Officer 2nd Class Craig Blake, May 5th, 2010.

Although, there was nothing petty or 2nd class about him or his reason for return.

The Taliban fighter that planted the remote-detonated explosive device, took out what he believed to be the "enemy," and in doing so, also took out a community volunteer, husband, and father of two children.

Last April, I was assigned to cover a report on the Highway of Heroes. I stood on one of the most renowned overpasses on Hwy 401 and busily gathered interviews and footage of the unique display of support and patriotism. Almost too busy, because before I knew it, the police escorted procession carrying the 117th fallen soldier, had raced quickly under us and onto the remainder of that solemn stretch of road. I didn't have time to properly process what I had just witnessed. My feeble attempts at capturing the moment for both television and our blog can be found here, http://www.youtube.com/rikkicheri#p/f/2/5N4oZVLLJMg and here, http://rikkiratliff.blogspot.com/2009/04/o-canada-they-stand-on-guard-for-you.html.

Today, a year and 26 fallen soldiers after my report, I sat annoyed in the passenger seat because of traffic on North America's busiest stretch of highway. We had a full day in the field and I just wanted to be home. Like yesterday. Police on motorcycle blocked off one section of the highway, for what reason, I didn't know. Just chalked it up to yet another detour on our path home. As I looked up at the overpass ahead, I saw an ambulance flashing and Red, White and Maple Leaf blowing in the wind. My heart sank and I gasped out loud. I knew exactly what was happening. The Navy man that I had heard passed earlier this week, was making his final return home. The path had been cleared for him. His heroes song sung. At over 50 overpasses, by hundreds of Canadians, for nearly 100 miles. The only detour he would have is at the morgue in downtown Toronto.

I flew across the driver's seat and out the window to snap the above photo. The last time I saw such a sacred repatriation, it was my job to cover it and I missed my opportunity to give a citizen (or proud permanent resident) salute. I rode the rest of the ride home with perspective and thanks that I was doing it alive and in freedom. Largely because of a willing soldier's sacrifice.

I said it before and I'll say it again. This American has never seen Canada look so lovely.

Lessons from a banana-seat bicycle

2010-05-02T16:04:00.017-04:00

I just finished reading the May 3rd edition of Maclean's and was surprised to find myself more outraged with a "fluff" article in the lifestyle section of the magazine, than I was with the editorials or the typical Mark Steyn rants found near the back pages. Rebecca Eckler, self-proclaimed as "one of the most talked about bloggers of this century," headlines a new trend in parenting in, "Outsourcing how to ride a bike."

You read that correctly. Parents are coughing up hundreds of dollars for their little Johnny and Susie to go away to bike camp to learn what most of us did by trial and error on the streets of our suburban neighborhoods. Their reasons are many while their justifications are few.

Everything from the the overly busy, over worked parent who doesn't blink at the thought of being replaced, to the overly worried parent who just couldn't bear the thought of seeing their kid fall. I've got a newsflash for you, honey. If it hurts too much to see your kid suffer a few scratches from this thing called "life," you might not be cut out for this thing called "parenting." Because we will surely scrape our knees, cut our fingers, break our arms, and our hearts many times over before we're relinquished to the world.

I remember the day I learned to ride a bicycle quite vividly. There were no paid experts involved, a flashing "safety first!" helmet, or a cush landing pad of encouraging words. With four kids at the time and only my dad working, my parents could barely afford bikes let alone the extravagance of Bike Camp.

It was my brother's 7th birthday in the summer of '88. Freeze-pops, birthday cake, and a water sprinkler were enough to keep us and the neighborhood kids of Palmer Street content. My brother had opened up all of his presents from friends and extended family. Now it was time for the grande finale gift from Mom and Dad.

Out came Dad from the shadows of our garage, rolling the coveted BMX off-roading bike toward the birthday boy. While sheer delight flashed across his innocent face, envy and shame flamed across mine. I was eight years old! A whole year and a half older than him and I didn't have a bicycle. Just one more thing I'd have to borrow, but only if I asked really nicely...

In my lonely state of selfishness, I may have cried at the injustice. I can't remember because that tragic moment didn't last very long. Dad, knowing his first-born daughter all too well, discreetly pulled me over to the side of the house. My burning ears could still hear the squeal of the kids sharing in my brother's excitement, but the fire was quickly quelled, for leaning up against our modest brick house, was another bike--obviously second-hand, but obviously for me.

Similar to mine but missing the plastic basket out front, streamers, and wicked spoke beads.

With a beaut of a purple banana seat (albeit its colour faded from riding years gone by), and streamers catching in the lazy breath of summer, I felt special and loved and dignified again as I wouldn't have to learn to ride a bike after my younger brother had, and on a boy's bike none the less. This, a right of passage, deserved of every child in the modern world.

It took a few falls and some scraped elbows, but I earned my license to pedal that June afternoon on Palmer Street. I'll never forget my catch of breath and momentary sense of dread when I realized my dad had let go of the back of my bike seat. That flash of feeling forsaken was quickly followed by a new-found freedom and understanding that I could get to my best-friend's house at the end of the street faster than you could say, "Chuckie Cheese, please!"

My dad loved me by letting go. He watched me fall with the knowledge that I would be brave enough to get back up regardless of the scars that would remain as evidence that I wasn't superhuman after all. You can't outsource that kind of love. The kind of love that sees you through to your next milestone--from riding bikes to writing about bikes. It's a parent's privilege to give you that running start and the precarious push that follows. Don't cash it in. Treasure it, because maybe one day it'll survive those dusty years as a fond memory of when the training wheels came off and the growing up began.

MJ and Earth Day

2010-04-22T15:48:00.010-04:00

Michael Jackson made a strong political statement when this video was produced in 1995. He may have been ahead of his time when it comes to using media as a means to influence change (whether for the better or worse) for the environment. Al Gore and his Inconvenient Truth was certainly not the first attempt to tweak at our collective earth conscience, and I'm certain it won't be the last. But when it comes to messaging statements about the environment, I think I prefer it in the music format of Michael Jackson. It appears more tolerable and less sanctimonious.

I'm not signing up for Greenpeace anytime soon, making plans to cast a vote for the Green Party in Canada, or converting to environmentalism as my new religion, but I do love this planet we were given and all the beauty that she came with when we inherited her. For me, it's people before planet, although some would argue you can't have a viable people if you don't have a viable planet. And around and around we go...

I wonder if our forefathers (Both Canadian and American) could have ever predicted platforms for the environment seeping into our politics, or that it would even be "necessary." When it comes to making decisions for Mother Earth and for ourselves, let us hope that we can see the forest through the trees that are still left.

A nation that destroys its soils destroys itself. Forests are the lungs of our land, purifying the air and giving fresh strength to our people.— Franklin Roosevelt

p.s. In 1991, my fifth grade class bought a square acre of land in the Amazon rainforest. I wonder how that old patch of land is doing. It better still be there or I'll have to make a video of my own. God help us all because I surely can't sing like MJ.

I'm [not] every woman

2010-04-13T21:11:00.013-04:00

I am a woman who comes from the epi-centre of football country. I wear the tattoo of the OU Sooner fanclub on my heart. Crossing the border from Oklahoma territory to southern Ontario, hasn't decreased my zeal for all things Boomer Sooner. If anything, it's strengthened it. And speaking of my heart, its pressure is dangerously raised on Saturdays during the NCAA football season.

I am the daughter of a man who was interested in nearly every sport that involves a ball, and his interest was contagious. Although not every sport stuck with me over the years, I have played basketball, volleyball, tennis, soccer, and flag football. Throw in some neighbourhood baseball, track and field, and a few compound bow hunting lessons and you got yourself a regular tom-boy.

Growing up, I was told I could 'be whatever I wanna be' and to run faster, play harder, aim higher. I didn't always succeed at every sport or at every project thrown my way, but competition was bred in me at an early age and I have never been satisfied with settling or coming in second.

I am also the daughter of a typical Southern belle. My mother's decorated visage rose and set with the sun. Her barn was always painted, and painted well. She smelled pretty, polished her nails frequently, and crossed her legs properly. Growing up with her I was told, ''Rikki Lee, act like a lady,'' and "Close your legs. You're wearing a dress!'' Her interest in all things respectable was less contagious it seems.

Despite it all, I still 100% believed I was a princess. I loved lace and pink things and Barbie dolls. But I also loved 'kickin' a$$ and takin' names' as they say. I got into trouble both for arm-wrestling guys as a young woman, and for trying to shave my legs and wear make-up prematurely. I was and still am to this day, an uncanny mix of high heels and action.

Just the other day, my co-ed soccer team lost our play-off game in a bad way. My team cheerfully packed up their cleats and shin guards and remarked at how much fun they had. I, on the other hand, seethed a ''see you next week,'' and marched out with my backpack and over-sized spring-temps yellow leather purse on my shoulder.

As I continue to wrestle with this awkward balance of estrogen and a man-like fierceness, I do find some comfort in this blogger's words:

"It’s a complicated place for a woman who enjoys and celebrates being a woman to stand. I don’t want to be a man, but the desire for action, for heroism, for independent movement more than simply domestic often appears limited to masculine provinces."

I'm beginning to think I'm not alone after all. And that perhaps it'll be fun to watch 'nuture versus nature' battle it out a little while longer.

Give me one more smoke 'on the mountain'

2010-04-09T14:25:00.015-04:00

This is the"backyard" view from Hamilton's Henderson Hospital. Perched atop the escarpment, it provides patients, visitors, and staff a bit of respite from the sometimes dreariness that is life at a hospital.

This photo was taken in the afternoon on an unforgettable summer day in 2009. Brad and I went to visit Buck who was becoming stir crazy from his overnight stays in the hospital. He was the kind of guy who liked to be outside where the action was, where life was happening. Although still very sick from cancer and receiving heavy doses of chemo, he looked otherwise healthy and still had that zest for life. Enough to keep his sense of humour in tact and wrestle with that constant itch to just do something, anything to keep him sane.

On this particular day, a visit inside his room just wasn't gonna cut it. And I don't blame him. The walls were painted a pasty egg-shell white. His only decorations--a tacky, broken 1980's clock donated to the hospital, a few "get better soon" cards tacked to the wall, and couple of ailing plants that could've used some TLC. Constant reminders that he wasn't well and that he was "one of them." Those that reside on the 3rd floor of the hematology ward, who carry Death on their shoulder, and live with the worried whispers of loved ones around them. So on this day, we went outside for a smoke break.

He couldn't shake the habit. Or he probably could, but I suppose it was the one thing that gave him comfort when there was little comfort to be found. His doctors gave him grief for not giving himself a better fighting chance at health. But he looked like a cornered animal sometimes who's eyes betrayed his emotions, and I felt pity for him. Let the man have a smoke...

It was one of those unpredictable summer days in southern Ontario. In just a matter of minutes, the sky turned dark and the wind started whipping scattered cigarette butts across the floor of the outdoor balcony. Thunderhead clouds started rolling in and I could smell a good storm a brewin'. Buck stood on the picnic bench with his cigarette in hand and situated his ball cap firmly to his head. With the rain surely about to start pouring, this meant his visit outdoors would be cut short. I could tell he wanted to stretch his freedom to its limits. While other patients and hospital staff started shuffling indoors, we hung on until the drops snuffed out the butt of his cigarette light.

In that moment, smelling the storm and reveling in its wild activity, I felt alive. And I know he did too, seizing that summer shower moment for all that he could with his only brother and myself.

At that point in his disease, we were all optimistic that such a healthy guy, on top of the world, looking out at the city of Hamilton, would conquer such a curable form of cancer. But about six months after that afternoon, progressive Hodgkin's lymphoma held out longer than he could, and prematurely snuffed out his other flickering light.

As patterns of life resume to a new normal, I find it tough when my driving path forces me near the hospital. Just yesterday, an unexpected cry came out when I saw the backside of the hospital looming over the escarpment. As I continued on to my destination, I batted away tears and attempted to stifle the sobs that erupted from my core being. A friend told me that perhaps it means I still haven't let go of him and of his humanity. Perhaps I haven't, but in the three months since he's passed, the memories of him are still vivid. In my mind, it's still last summer. I'm standing on the balcony with Buck, trying to steer clear from his puffs of smoke, while at the same time wanting to be close enough to feel his presence, and close enough where he can feel mine. Saying "I love you" without actually saying it, giving my support without suffocating such a free spirit.

And while one piece of my heart believes he is now truly free, the other piece, still very broken, longs for just one more smoke on the mountain.

Thoughts provoked after watching "Julie and Julia"

2010-03-27T23:12:00.008-04:00

This movie portrayed an ambitious, pioneer of a woman (Julia) and a woman (Julie) trying to be ambitious and piggy-back on the career of the pioneer. Julia slaved for years for her big break while Julie got hers within a year. Don't get me wrong. Julie's character was endearing and inspiring in its own way, but the generational gap between the two women exposed the chasm of philosophies in how to forge a successful path in life.

The movie based on the real-life experiences of these women touched me poignantly. Mostly because of the juncture in my own career path. I relate all too well it seems. Enough to poke at something both insecure and hopeful in me. What lies beneath is a quiet frustration not often spoken but always realized.

Damn the Generation X'ers and those who taught us we could change the world with an undergrad degree and a noble career choice. Maybe you can leave your footprint on this earth in small, meaningful ways, but who's to say you're warranted to get paid for it?

I had my professional portrait taken today because I thought it was the right thing to do for my "career." I have never felt so vain in my life. Although the sun shined like Spring, the wind bit like late Fall making my smiles look forced and painful. The camera man's hand shook with shiver and his gracious assistant held the second flash high in the air, shot after shot with obvious discomfort. My leopard print stilettos that I thought gave me my 'signature look' sunk into the juicy earth and never even made into the photo frame. And with each snapshot I became more agonizingly aware of how pretentious I must've looked to observers. It wasn't long after I cut my little photo shoot short. I blamed it on the cold and invited them in for tea.

Some days you feel like you're a good headshot and a few clever words away from a dream. Other days, you just feel like everyone else trying to scrap a living in this world. No more or no less special.

Evidence of Spring

2010-03-16T16:33:00.012-04:00

You know spring has arrived when people wake up from their winter hibernation and start jogging, biking, walking and just generally getting outside and physically moving their body. This is especially true for Canadians who endure a good solid six months of legit-ly frigid temperatures.

They'll look for any excuse to be in the sunshine and prematurely wear shorts and tank tops. They'll have a drink on the patio or front porch at night and shiver all the way through it. But hey, it's not below zero, so time to crack one open and celebrate that fresh revelation.

It's especially to funny to watch those who have never greeted the mailman before and yet practically run out to the sidewalk to say "hi," and you guessed it-talk about the weather.

The neighbour kids start playing outside again. Playing and cackling and squealing until it's dark and mom starts calling them home. I know this because they.are.all.in.my.lawn. And so are their worn out, left-out-in-the-backyard-all-winter, chewed up toys.

Birds start chirping and chatting up a storm. It's glorious!

Birds start chirping and poo-ing up a storm. Just inches from my new Mac and my new hair-do. Less glorious.

(Note the round splash of evidence of Spring next to my keyboard)

Despite the close calls with nature and the run-ins with sometimes obnoxious small humans, I'm embracing this new season and all of the possibilities it seems to be affording...

Viva la Italy

2010-03-12T14:01:00.005-05:00

This blog and its author will be taking a journey to this place below in June. The summer writing workshop,
Italy, in Other Words, is hosting it and I have a feeling I won't return unchanged.

Because we didn't hit the jackpot, I have to look at this trip as an investment for future Writer Rikki. I want to be an improved woman of letters and more found woman in general when I touch back on Canadian soil. If you can't find inspiration in a place like this, then you must be dead on the inside. Either that or you got less into your writing and more into the bottom of an Italian bottle of wine upon your stay.

Happy Lent!

2010-03-11T09:43:00.008-05:00

What a wonderfully clever and irreverent way to ask ourselves why we do the nominally religious things we do. I wasn't raised in a traditional, mainline church and was never asked to give anything up for a season for a greater spiritual purpose. I was just asked to follow Jesus and I think I thought that would be enough.

I'm learning now there is beauty in symbolism and tradition if not followed blindly or ritualized emptily. Perhaps it helps to fill in the gaps where as humans we misstep in following in the dusty sandals of One so great. I'm on a slow journey to figure out if diving into Institution-induced customs is for me.

These cards are less to make fun of those of you who choose to worship in your own personal way during this Lent season, and more to challenge myself to really think before I say goodbye to primetime television, Reese's Puffs cereal, or something else completely life altering like that.

2010-03-09T17:48:00.010-05:00

Not quite sure how to articulate just yet why I was so taken by my first Eastern Orthodox worship experience, but I was thankful to have the opportunity to gain an inside look at the church, its ancient traditions, and its people.

Kissing Jesus

A beautiful procession

A gift from the priest as a reminder that with Death comes Life

You can see my televised look into this fascinating church in an upcoming Easter show for Listen Up TV that will air April 4, 2010.

Get outside of yourself...

2010-03-03T20:49:00.007-05:00

for six minutes and seventeen seconds and quietly journey with this young man as he hobbles for hope in Haiti.

Produced by Listen Up TV. Camera by Moussa Faddoul, my friend and colleague.

Canada, eh?

2010-02-26T11:47:00.008-05:00

As an American residing in Canada, I often get asked by Canadians and Americans alike, "how do you like living in Canada? Is it a huge culture shock?" and my most favorite, "how do you find the Canadian [people]?" And as the 2010 Vancouver Olympics draw to a close, and the sense of patriotism reigns high on both sides of our long and shared border, I find thoughts surrounding the nation-to-nation relations relevant and poignant.

Those same questions were posed to me again as frequently as last night by a friendly stranger looking to pass the time on the hour-long train ride from Toronto to Hamilton. You'd think I'd have the answers to the questions memorized and in bulletin point format in my head by now, but each time I'm asked I'm still a little taken aback and want to think carefully before I answer them. It's not that I'm so concerned about diplomacy, because tact has never come as natural to me as honesty has, but I do pause and for several reasons. Mainly because the answers to the questions are ever-changing as my time in Canada has lengthened and my friendships here have grown and been strengthened.

I also pause because when the Canadians ask what I think of them, I hear sincere curiosity mixed with a bit of timid wondering. Like a woman who loves her little black dress but is still unsure of its fit. The vulnerability posed to me triggers a sympathetic twinge in my heart. And so I smile, I take a breath and wonder how to best generalize a varied nation of people who deserve more than this American's sweeping assumptions based on only four living years of experience.

Below is my 2010 response to the Go-train stranger:

"I have found that Canadians are like a good spring just waiting to emerge from a long winter. All they need is a good thaw. Once you've scratched the surface of their sheltered little hearts, you will find some of the friendliest and most interesting people you will ever encounter. Canada has become a slow but beautiful reveal to me."

With that answer, the Go-train stranger laughed and went onto describe how much he loved living in the States for a time. Permission for him to glow on about the U.S. had been granted.

Tom Brokaw said it well in this moving and well-produced NBC piece for the Olympics. "Life in the Canadian North is only for the hardy."

Canadians are a strong and durable bunch who know the value of sticking in it long enough to see the results. It shows in their appreciation for when warmer temperatures do eventually arrive, in their economy that seemed to be built less on immediate satisfaction and more on long-term gains, and in their hope for their Olympic athletes, who may trail in the overall medal count, but still manage to light this big expanse of a nation on fire with each advance to the hockey finals and every time one of their own does make it to the podium to hear their anthem raised.

Oh, Canada, you really are a 'True North strong and free.'

I do the Zumba

2010-02-04T20:22:00.005-05:00

~I would believe only in a God that knows how to dance. ~Friedrich Nietzsche

I love to dance. I always have. When I was a child and young teenager it was expressed through ballet. It was considered an "appropriate" dance form for a young Christian girl. Although I could name all of the French positions and execute them with excellence and flair, I simply did not have the body for it. I was too short and too compact with flexibility in only half of all the right places. I was certain my hamstrings were held together by metal strands and not tendons like everyone else. All of the other pretty ballerinas could stretch their top halves so gracefully down past the floor scraping their bun-adorned heads, while I grunted in pain and eyes bulging from the effort. Hoping, always hoping that the tip of my longest finger would miraculously graze the floor. Needless to say, by 16 years old I had come to terms with the fact that I was not cut out for such a graceful dance form.

But what would I do with this leftover rhythm and a heart that burst every time I heard a good beat? Squash it? Quell it? Live cathartically through old re-runs of Dirty Dancing and Footloose? Sure, as I got older I found some release in the club and bar scene, but I'd always been told that dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire. I didn't really believe it though. Dancing didn't make me want to have illicit sex; it made me want--for nothing. Because in that moment I was free, in control, exuberant, passionate. Breathing, sweating, smiling and alive. If this is sin, then a life of piety is not for me.

When I would dip south of the American border I found new thrill in learning the salsa and meringue. The locals seemed to have a natural gift for dance, and I would pick up their steps quickly. For Latinos, dancing is so much a part of their culture, to take it away would be to remove their heart. Many of them live on meager portions, many in poverty, and yet they dance--confidently. Kings and queens of the Kingdom Dance Floor wrapped in wealth, impoverished no longer.

As of late, my soul has felt heavy and impoverished, hankering for a spiritual and physical release. I found a bit of relief for it in an odd place. Zumba. It's the latest North American fitness craze that combines Latin and international music with dancing and aerobics. I found classes that are pay as you go and wasted no time. I jumped in with both feet (pun intended) the very next night with hopeful expectation and only a bit of apprehension. I wouldn't know a soul there, but in a sense it gave me a bit of comfort to know I was going to be shaking it like a saltshaker in a room of strangers who probably wouldn't judge me.

As they shouldn't. The class was full of mostly middle-aged women with not two, but three left feet if that's possible, looking to get fit and feel young again. Eighty percent of the class looked ridiculous trying to follow the moves of our Latina instructor. I am certain that if a man had happened to drop in on the class, sex would have been the last thing on his mind. Very un-sexy things were happening in all that sweat and spandex. However, we women strangers were free.

For one hour, we were released from the restraints of work, relationships, life and all the inhibitions that come with it. Free from the memories, free from the sorrow. Free from tomorrow. Heart pounding and hips shaking I let go. I laughed at myself when I couldn't catch onto some of the steps and smiled to myself when I got them right. It was just the dancing therapy I've been craving for some time.

I've also come to terms with the fact that I probably won't ever be a back up dancer for Janet Jackson or wow the television audiences on ABC's Dancing With The Stars. For now, I'll stick with being satisfied at givin'er at wedding receptions and the hardwood floor of my living room. Here, I am the dancing queen. I will dance and jive having the time of my life. Unabashedly, without reproach, and alive. So alive...

An ode to a brother

2010-01-19T01:44:00.006-05:00

How can a light so shining be quenched so quickly and so darkly,

And in its fleeting course, still blaze across a legacy?

A brilliant flash forever etched in closed mind's eye;

Our Celestial-sent keepsake, flaming amidst black sky.

"Men and women who have lived wisely and well will shine brilliantly, like the cloudless, star-strewn night skies. And those who put others on the right path to life will glow like stars forever." Daniel 12:3

~The Message

And having done all, to stand

2010-01-07T17:46:00.006-05:00

Inspiration has temporarily left me as life has become a little too real for eloquent phrasing, funny anecdotes, and clever metaphors. But I have had time to appreciate the pauses in the tumultuous ride along the recent way. Pauses such as coming home to my family for Christmas for the first time since 2006. I'd like to say I coped just fine over the last few years without them for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but I am too much of a sucker for family traditions and my mother's cooking. Being home for a full week was just necessary this year. Here are just a few of my favorite moments spent home:

Laughing hysterically to my little brother's inappropriate jokes.

Letting go and letting my 15 1/2 year old sister with her learner's permit drive me to get ice cream with her and my baby sister.

Helping clean my sister Nicole's house as she prepped for a Christmas dinner for her in-laws. Felt like the old days when we used to join forces together to get things done.

Having my precious niece fall asleep in my arms while I kiss her chubby cheeks.

Looking at Christmas lights with my 92 year old Granny.

Playing late night card games with all of the women in my family.

Taking a drive into the country by myself.

Picking up where I left off almost four years ago with an old friend. Easily. Naturally.

Listening to my brother Michael wrestle out new chords on his guitar as he wrestles out other issues with life.

Receiving wisdom from my mother while we wiped away tears from both of our eyes.

And while it has been hard to watch Brad trudge through his own sadness lately for his brother, I got joy as I saw him find some moments of respite from the sorrow with my ridiculous and hysterical family.

For one week I felt normal again and not displaced. No longer an Okie outsider, but one of my own. Yes, with a little less accent and a little more tolerance for the cold, but whole and happy none the less.

I'll also never forget the words from my father in a car ride together through town. I told him my soul was weary and I was tired of pithy prayers and trite lines of sympathy from others. He said, "Rikki, when you think you've done all you can do, then all that's left to do is just stand." Some wise guy named Paul was the original author for those words, but I liked hearing it better from my dad.

These days I don't feel like I'm good for much. Creativity and initiative is all but lost for the time being. But I've got steel and stubborn bred in me, two legs that still work, and a community of prayerful love and support that helps to keep this old soul upright.

Notes on a boarding pass

2009-12-03T13:29:00.006-05:00

My trip to Kirksville, Missouri to visit my brother at Truman State with my family was refreshing. It made me feel my relationship with the family was normal again and not reduced to texts, quick emails, and long distance phone calls every now and again.

Don't get me wrong. There were those all-too-real annoying family moments where I wanted to be zapped back to Hamilton, Ontario in the land of less family drama. But there were also those moments I was reminded of why I love them in the indescribable way I do.

Thoughts of creativity came in bursts while on the trip, but had to be stored away for a less busy time, so I was reduced to sloppy scribbled notes on the back of my plane ticket. Three months later, life is still hectic at times and those once creative thoughts have become less coherent and vague yesterday memories. Memories that resemble the chaos written on the ticket. Regardless, here are my notes as follows:

The setting: Nowheresville, Midwest. Miles of rolling acres of farmland and Amish country. Lucky if you find a Taco Bell or a gas station with a clean restroom and toilet paper in it.

--Alone. He wears dirty coveralls. Farmer's cap. Thick, sensible glasses that could survive a nuclear fallout. At least 70 years old with tarnished farm boots. A man that knows labour. Took his time to finish his breakfast. Once finished, grabbed dishcloth and wiped his own table clean. Left a crumpled dollar bill as tip and left. Obviously a regular.

--Just saw Amish drars (southern dialect for "drawers" also known as underwear) hanging on the line. Smiled to myself at the irony of such a modest community.

--Me and my dad in a public restaurant with family. Laughed so hard we cried. Couldn't stop. Embarrassed the whole family. The story of the bacon bits.

--Father of first year football player sitting behind us. Bored the entire game as son won't even get a chance to play. Annoyed listening to the Ratliff family scream bloody murder for Truman State. His son comes on the field to play. Gasps 'oh, my god!' and is on the edge of his seat for the rest of the game.

Another pearl kept

2009-12-03T13:22:00.003-05:00

As originally published in The National Post/Holy Post division:

Grey Cup Sunday Special: God and Football

Posted: November 29, 2009, 4:13 PM by Matt Gurney

Holy Post, Listen Up TV, Rikki Ratliff

by Rikki Ratliff/Listen Up TV

Michael Lewis, author of The Blind Side: Evolution of a Game, was recently quoted in New York Magazine as saying that although he's not a Christian, "God and football seem to go together, for whatever reason." The screen adaptation of his book has become a box office hit in its opening weekend. The powerful true story of what happens when two very different lives intersect at the crossroads of faith and football, resonates with Christians and non-Christians alike. Athletes and non-athletes love to root for the underdog in the film, Michael Oher, as he goes from fatherless and homeless, to surrounded by family. The fact that the larger than life character of Oher, against all obstacles, went on to become the 2009 first round draft pick for the NFL's Baltimore Ravens is just the icing on a delicious and heart-warming cake.

Trophies in shades of Grey

For the first time in Grey Cup history, the Saskatchewan Roughriders and the Montreal Alouettes go tête-à-tête in the battle for the 2009 CFL championship. We'll probably see the latest dance moves in the end zone, a few short prayers, and maybe a few hands in the "number one" symbol raised to the heavens. You can also imagine the ousted teams in the league watching with pain and regret from the sidelines. None in more pain than the once mighty Toronto Argonauts, who finished dead last in the standings with a record of 3-15. However, it's the plays these guys are making off the field that will count when the trophies have lost their tarnish and the roar of the crowds fade into whispers from the past.

Plays like the Argos Foundation made this year with the introduction of the "Level the Playing Field" program. Four deserving Toronto-area highschools were selected to restore 20 and 30 year dormant football programs. Each highschool received a player ambassador from the Toronto Argonauts. Jordan Younger, CFL all-star corner back and ambassador to the C.W. Jefferys Saints, says he hopes to invest his time, energy, and knowledge of the game into the inexperienced but earnest team. I watched from the Saints' sidelines as animated Younger took over position as coach for the day. Down at half and in the centre of the huddle, he rallied with the words, "it's anybody's game!" Inspirational words for a team that needs to hear them--poignant thoughts for a school trying to make a comeback from its violent past.

On May 23rd, 2007, Jordan Manners, a student at C.W. Jefferys, was shot and killed by a fellow student in his school hallway. Over two years and a football program later, the school and its students are unrecognizable. "We noticed that we don't have a lot of students just wandering the hallways and just fooling around," teacher Eshan Jahangirvand says. "They're more dedicated and more focused on school."

The transformation has even reached once problem student, Jeffrey. "He has developed to become a captain on our team," Jahangirvand beams. "He's developed so much that other teachers have come up and said 'Oh, wow! This change is so exceptional that we don't understand what you have done to him.' Football is a big change in that."

Retired Toronto Argonaut, Chuck Winters, knows first hand the power of football to change lives. Growing up in the projects of Detroit, he lost two family members to violence. Winters says sports was his outlet that kept him safe, but it was his faith that kept him alive. "I wouldn't be here. Period. I wouldn't be walking this earth. Because there were times when I thought about taking my life because of the fact that it was just so difficult and that's all I had to lean on."

Now working in a youth correctional facility in Milton, Ontario, Winters hopes to make interceptions of another kind, hearts and minds. While he admits that most of the draw from the talent pool in football seems to come from the U.S., he believes there's a lot of untapped talent here in Canada. "So I try to get them to understand the value of what sports can do (for them) because I saw what it did for me."

Football is a game ripe with spiritual analogy

Born and raised in the buckle of the Bible belt (Oklahoma) and in the heart of college football country, I understand Lewis' puzzlement. All the prayers offered up to God in the hopes of a win have often turned up futile when the scoreboard reads a disappointing loss. Many of the prayers of protection seem to have gone unanswered as a player limps off with injury to the sidelines. I've watched as the men on the field take a knee in the end zone to thank God for a run scored or a pass caught. Where does God fit between the option play and the buttonhook? Many Christians believe God should be involved in all of the details. So why wouldn't He also be allowed in between the first and second down of a game that makes up so much of a part of their identity?

My brother, recruited to play quarterback for a Division II NCAA football team, once said that God and football are indivisible because of the extraordinary faith it takes to believe in both. "A person is lucky if he even has one person he can truly trust. On the football field, a player is expected to trust not one, two, or even three guys--but 10 guys to do their job in order to be successful."

In a pivotal turning point in The Blind Side, Leigh Anne Tuohy, played by actress Sandra Bullock, echoes my brother's thoughts. "This team is your family, Michael." Oher, slowly learning a new definition for "family" and what it means to protect those you love, applied that to his position at left tackle. Even the best highlight reel couldn't begin to cover how that moment would change his life forever.

What a game, what a life...At third and inches, it will take more than talent to get you through to that first down. You'll also need pure, driven heart and soul, a good O-line, and possibly, a little prayer.

A pearl gathered

2009-12-03T13:16:00.003-05:00

As originally published in The National Post/Holy Post division:

As Olympic flame burns, Canada's sex industry heats up

Posted: November 03, 2009, 2:00 PM by Matt Gurney

Holy Post, Listen Up TV, Rikki Ratliff

By Rikki Ratliff, Listen Up TV

Canada’s sex trade industry is a complicated mess. Any time you have humans being actively bought and sold for the purposes of sexual exploitation, things tend to get a little tangled, even scandalous. Especially when it’s happening in your own backyard. A 2008 report by the Criminal Intelligence Service Canada (CISC) states that “across the country, organized crime networks are actively trafficking Canadian-born women and underage girls inter and intra-provincially, and in some instances to the United States, destined for the sex trade.”

While the images of foreign women in faraway countries holed up in seedy brothels seem morally reprehensible, Canadians should be just as abhorred by images of their own women and children being trafficked within the borders of their True North Strong and Free.

Naomi Baker, from Canada Fights Human Trafficking, says that human trafficking is the fastest growing crime across the globe, with the bulk of the demand stemming from America and Canada. The North American Forum on Integration attributes this to “their more convenient and cheap location, as well as their lax legal and law enforcement systems.” Canada contributes to the demand when, according to the RCMP, 800 to 1,200 people are trafficked here every year, while there are activists placing the number as high as 15,000 annually. But don’t be too quick to place significance on numbers; organizers of the underground crime market make it their fulltime job to stay under the radar and away from traceable statistics. The fact that there is even one sexually trafficked victim within these borders is crime enough.

Challenges to Canada’s Charter on its current prostitution laws muddy the waters surrounding the sex trade further as they open up debate on how to best keep those in the sex trade safe, whether they are there voluntarily or forcibly. And voices crying “women’s rights!” seem to drown out the voices of those who are just … crying.

The conversations swirling around the debate seem less constructive as they pit women against women. But the sound-bite friendly lawyers and sexy dominatrix’s grabbing front page headlines perform an even darker deed. Distraction.

Trisha Baptie, a former prostitute from Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, says the argument for striking down the Charter’s provisions on prostitution laws is bogus because it doesn’t actually do anything to ensure women’s safety. She believes that by eliminating all the legal framework surrounding prostitution, we allow capitalism and the free market to be the determining factors of women’s equality. And to those who believe that in theory, legalizing brothels would create a safer environment for women to perform prostitution, Trisha is quick to remind us of the silent market buyers both indoors and out.

“It’s not the location that beat and raped us. It’s not the law that raped us. It’s the men,” says Baptie.

And it’s the men who will flock to Vancouver come the 2010 Olympics. The not-for-profit Christian sector is leading the charge on anti-trafficking campaigns aimed to raise awareness and combat the potential surge in the sex trade that can come with hosting an international sporting event. Campaigns like R.E.E.D.’s Buying Sex Is Not a Sport, and The Salvation Army’s The Truth Isn’t Sexy stem from a biblical conviction to care for the most vulnerable in society. Major Winn Blackman from the Salvation Army warns us against being fooled by the Olympic posturing, however. “We were here before and we’ll be here long after the Olympics are gone,” she says.

Although the Salvation Army recently received flak for controversial images in its campaign, they did succeed in getting Canada to begin talking about its ugly, private family matter. And with the House of Commons recently voting to pass Bill C-268, Canada is on the brink of a further discussion imposing mandatory minimum sentences for those convicted of human trafficking. In the past, there have been horror stories of traffickers convicted of selling teenage girls and getting off with a slap on the wrist. A girl’s loss of dignity and innocence reduced to one week in prison. The bill still awaits the Senate’s vote to pass the legislation.

If you’re still not convinced of Canada’s role as a major player in the exploitation market, just ask the brave men and women of the RCMP and regional police services across the country who have created task forces to rescue the victims in the sex trafficking industry.

“We absolutely do have human trafficking and people bought and sold in Canada,” says RCMP Constable Caroline Raymond. “It’s not in a cage like the Hollywood ads. They walk about fully sold, not free. Not sensationalized, just tragic.”

The bottom line is that we live in a culture that still believes you can measure the value of a woman when in fact she is priceless. She has become a menu item decided on over the internet and advertised on websites, next to trivial items like antique clocks and cheap concert tickets.

After the medals have been passed out and the Vancouver Olympics have come and gone, how will Canada rank in the treatment of its own? Who will carry the torch for those that cannot carry it themselves? Whose arms will weaken in caring for its unpopular cause? Whose voice will crack in the awkward silence?

Crawling into Fall

2009-10-10T15:52:00.010-04:00

I must admit, Hamilton's doing a heck of a job trying to infuse some new life into its historic downtown core. I get this feeling she's trying to thrust off the weight of her past sins and economic woes, and the stereotypes that hold her down. With each new weight cast off, she uncovers a little magic. Events like Hamilton's Supercrawl help to reveal that magic, despite the weather.

I was proud of the huddled masses yearning to be dry last night, but persisting anyway in the rain and in the cold. Umbrellas of all shapes and sizes and bent, bobbing up and down to the beats coming from the main stage. Some, without umbrellas, donned rainjackets and galoshes, splashing happily in the puddles embracing the wet autumn night.

I had to really focus to embrace the night because I do not embrace chilly temperatures well at all, and Ohbijou, an indie band from Toronto, helped me do just that.

At first, I stood on the outskirts looking on at the sea of umbrellas satisfied with my poor view of the stage. But then I heard the sad strains of an electric violin--one of my favorite musical instruments. My interest was peaked. And then an electric cello blended into the chorus, soon followed by a man on a mandelin. All of this beautiful music began to swell with the lead singers' girlishly pure voice piercing the rain, piercing the cold, piercing the crowd, piercing me. I was lost and caught up in the rapture of this motley crue of musicians. I found myself losing all umbrella etiquette and bumping my way closer to the stage. Finding my focus, the nasty elements no longer mattered. Nothing really did except for that moment.

Canada is beautiful in the fall and I am learning to love this season. The blustery autumn winds seem to scoot out the complacency of summer ushering in a resurgence of purpose and a persistence to make the best of the coming season.

Niagara Parkway, Ontario
Photo courtesy of Cosmo Condina / Getty Images

Where I was on 9/11

2009-09-10T12:57:00.004-04:00

It was the second week of September, 2001 and I was taking a creative writing course at the University of Central Oklahoma. Our poetry assignment was due the following week. One of the requirements was to write a poem in the form of haiku, the smallest literary form with ironically, the most rules attached to it.

Poetry had always come easy for me, and for those that knew me in my earlier writing years, I typically wrote double page-long epics. I was embarking on foreign territory here. How in the world was I going to write something profound using only 17 syllables, in three lines, in 5-7-5 sequence?

The free form-poet-hippy in me scoffed at the idea of caging creativity with such
restricted requirements! However, the over-achiever-competitor drove me to not only attempt, but to also achieve success with the highest marks.

I pondered my subject of haiku for about a day. Something light? Nature perhaps? Everyone loves nature. Robert Frost was a genius when writing on the subject of nature...

And then the morning of September 11, 2001 came. And it went. Although it never really passed like some bad days seem to eventually fade. No, it just took up residence in my soul and settled with an unwelcome thud.

September 12, 2001. I was working, but not really. No one really was or could for that matter. We were all plagued with thoughts of the jagged rip torn in America's once colorful canvas. It was now just all very, very grey.

Sitting at my desk distracted from my database entry duties, my haiku quietly erupted onto my Word document. My blinking cursor no longer blinking, just ferociously moving across the screen and then coming to an abrupt and final halt a few moments later.

"Dusty corpses tell
the story with muted lips;
Hunter is hunted."

It wasn't pretty, and it probably wasn't profound, but it was the truth. It was only one writer's feeble attempt to describe that unforgettable Tuesday.

About six years prior in April 1995, at the age of 15, this same writer had also made an attempt to describe the devastation that had occurred in Oklahoma City. Somehow, strangely, my teenage prose had ended on a hopeful and victorious note. I suppose that was the less jaded version of me writing at the time...

Needless to say, I got the "A" on my haiku assignment. Sitting there in it's fresh red ink, the "A" sighed a little I think. I expected to feel a sense of achievement for my work. Instead, my little haiku felt like a big, fat, "F." I guess the whole world flunked that day. Unfortunately, this time, there were no make-ups or room for extra credit.

Originally "published" on 9/11/06. Republished with permission from Rikki's old Myspace blog.

The feminine roar heard 'cross the country

2009-08-26T15:42:00.011-04:00

Last friday, just a day after the Afghanistan elections were held, I spent the lazy summer afternoon sprawled on my couch eating lunch and surfing my new HBO channels. I happened upon what looked like a made-for-television movie called, "Iron Jawed Angels." The guide's info listed Hilary Swank as the leading actress and the description mentioned something about the women's suffrage movement. I admire Ms. Swank's on-screen work and love a good historical period piece so I settled in with mild interest and a little skepticism as I had never heard of the film and there were no "stars" listed under the movie rating.

Two hours later, I was wiping away tears and processing a new found admiration for the women who led the way for the women's right to vote in the U.S. They endured years of scorn, jailings, and imprisonment under brutal conditions, so that almost 89 years later I could fax in my absentee ballot vote from Canada for the next president of the United States.

Myself, voting in the 2008 Presidential elections

I had vaguely remembered reading maybe a few paragraphs or a chapter on women's history in the U.S. in either highschool or college. Names like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony seemed familiar but were just names of women pioneers that other women should know. But somehow seeing Alice Paul and her cohorts' tenacity and courage displayed on-screen brought to life a privilege I had taken for granted since I had turned 18.

There's a scene in the movie where President Woodrow Wilson and his closest staff are confounded about why all these women were making such a fuss. It was 1917 and the U.S. was sludging it out in WWI. It seemed there were greater causes to fight for at the time than letting a woman mark her name on a ballot form. Besides, black men had already been given the right to vote, women were sure to follow in due time. But for Wilson's administration the time was not now.

Many of the picketeers had been hauled off to prison on the charges of "obstructing traffic." While in prison, the leader of the National Woman's Party, Alice Paul, went on a hunger strike declaring herself and her female compatriots "political prisoners" and the conditions inside the prison "inhumane." For her efforts, Alice was marked as suicidal and therefore labeled insane.

Alice Paul

The American patriot, Patrick Henry, was famously quoted as saying, 'give me liberty or give me death.' One could argue his cause was a higher cause worth fighting for and that Alice and other women like her were merely driven to crazy feminist obsessions. However, one of my favorite lines in the movie played by a male advocate for the suffrage movement sums it up and shuts it up best when he says, "In women, courage is often mistaken for insanity."

On August 26, 1920, Congress ratified the 19th amendment to the United States Consitution allowing women all across America their opportunity to explore liberty and democracy to its fullest and for themselves. I am thankful to that generation of women who would not take "no" or "later" for an answer, but rather said, "now."

Our definition of equality has always been restricted by the norms of the society and culture at the time. Thankfully, there are those, like Alice Paul, that have been willing to rock the boat and if need be, sink it, to help redefine the parameters of the highest notions of human equality.

Draining tears and snot into my paper towel, I watched the movie credits roll by and wondered what I have ever fought for that mattered? Would I have what it takes to be willing to lose my reputation or even my life for something I believed in? There are some women in Afghanistan who still do. Even with the barrage of violence and death threats from the Taliban, the women of Afghanistan persisted to the polls on August 20, 2009 covered in fierce determination and a burqua. Although technically "free" to cast their vote, many of them never made it, held back by hundreds of closed polling stations for women, cultural taboos, and perhaps a lingering sentiment in their own minds that women aren't truly equal.

Today, I salute the steps of the women that traveled before me to turn my privilege into a practiced right. I also salute the steps of the women who travel now in trembling towards their right to vote, but do it none the less in the hope that they are blazing an easier trail for their daughters to travel down.

A little catch up

2009-08-02T21:39:00.005-04:00

The struggle over transparency has left my blog neglected for the past little while. In this e-world of disseminating personal information I often ask, "how much is too much?" Which walls do I leave up? Which walls do I tear down? And which walls do I leave for decorating to please the public's eye?

This much I do know. My walls carry cracks. And what may be considered "quaint" for one, could be considered "odd" for another.

Despite my reservations, I still feel a duty to share bits of me. I owe it to myself and to this bubbling well inside me to spill over regardless of where it may fall...

My parents have now come and gone from their visit to Canada. What a role reversal it is to host the people who have "hosted" you for most of your growing life. The moment where I tsk-tsked my own mother for using the wrong handtowels I'll never forget. "Those are for pretty, Mom, not for actual use." Say what?! Or another favorite was when my mother apologized for not making up the bed in the guest room the morning they left for the airport. So bizarre coming from the person responsible for my clean room checks growing up. But I'd have to say my most favorite memory from their visit was that of me and my mother whipping up a cream cheese cookie baking and coleslaw cooking storm in the kitchen. Together. Side by side. Mother and daughter. It was a healing moment for me. And one that's been needed for over three years.

A beauty of a storm descended upon Hamilton the other day. To the west, sunshine. To the east, dark clouds. And my house seemed to be at the centre of it all. My pear tree bent ungracefully at the force of the winds sending me a small sense of danger and also a thrill. An affliction leftover from my Tornado Alley living days I'm afraid. But the storm left as quickly as it came, washing my sidewalks-and my spirit-clean.

I just finished watching "Becoming Jane." It's a semi-biographical movie on the author, Jane Austen. I'll not critique the acting or the script, but I have to comment on the element of unrequited love between Jane and Mr. Lefroy. It is heart-wrenching and unsatisfying to not see them have their happily ever after together, but I have to say there is something dark about me that loves a story that is not tied up in a pretty little bow. Life is just not that way. I must also say that if you have never felt the pain of unrequited love, then you have never lived. But if you have felt its deepest sorrow, it is like you have also died.

I think Jesus must have felt the anguish of unreturned love and known the sting of a scorned lover too. He would have made for a great hero in one of Austen's novels, but then again he did already play a great character in another Good Book....

August is here too soon. While I'm itchin' to get back to work at Listen Up TV this fall, I am still officially an unpublished writer. Usually I hold my goals, like pearls, preciously and privately. But the summer is ending and I am aware of how quickly my 30th birthday is approaching. Secretly, I feel the delicate strand has broken and quietly my pearls are slipping away.

And so in the battle for today's post, Transparency, I'm afraid has won out at the same time I have run out of plaster for my broken walls.

Unfamiliar Terra-tory

2009-07-17T12:15:00.008-04:00

I got into green earth

and green earth got into me

and on my clothes

and under my nails

and between my toes...

Under the watchful guidance of a helpful friend, I made my first attempt at gardening and landscaping. I figured after three years in the same house with the same man it was about time to make a move at some small form of domesticity. That and I wanted to make a good impression on my parents who are coming to visit soon. As if to say, "look at me permanently residing in Canada all hunkered down making a life," and like my young flowers, taking root. Tentatively at first, exploring the conditions and then resigning to settle.

Yes. I admit it. I quite like it here. I love my city with its history, its hodge podge of different cultures and all its eccentricities. Hamilton is the relative you love to make fun of but secretly adore for all their quirks and big fish stories. My city has some cracks and scuff marks, but that's what makes her interesting. And best of all, she took me in.

I put up a good fight at first pretending it wasn't my decision to move here. But being angry is exhausting and rips patches from the quilt that holds your soul together. I want to be happy. And warm.

And so I dig. I grunt and sweat at the effort, but I continue to dig.

Yes, my marigolds are a little lopsided, and some of my Black-eyed Susans look like they could use an ice pack and a Tylenol, but I put them there. With care, with expectation and with the hope that the sun will shine on them just the right way.

"At first, it's unfamiliar, then it strikes root."

--Fernando Pessoa

MJical

2009-07-08T13:40:00.004-04:00

We loved you though we never knew you.

We scorned you though you never hurt us.

We laughed at your brokenness, while we ignored our own.

You wore your insecurities on your face.

We tucked ours deep inside.

You were no god, but we worshipped you.

Your melodies, our hymns of praise.

But the record's stopped.

The chord is ripped.

The glove and the moon are buried.

The mirror is broken,

And the illusion is blurred

For the Celestial was merely a man.

July 4th remains alive for this American girl

2009-07-04T10:47:00.008-04:00

One of my most treasured Fourth of July memories is the July before I moved to Canada. That was a great summer for my sister Nicole and me. We ran a 5k together, cleaned out closets of my house (fun, I know...), shopped, sunbathed and shared. Like sisters do.

That particular summer our family was busy and split between locations for celebrations. Somehow, Nicole and I ended up at a vacant gas station parking lot sitting on the hood of her car. Or was it mine? Memories tend to shift over time...

Anyways, we watched the fireworks explode, but we did it in Corey Hart circa 1984 style. With our sunglasses on. I don't know. I guess the sky, the moment, our futures looked so bright.

I took a few pictures to capture the ridiculousness of us and our oversized shades from that night, but between a move and a laptop crash, the digitally captured memory is lost. Thankfully, I'm able to still retreive the personally captured one.

While the details surrounding our Independence Day adventure are a little out of focus, the feeling I get when I recall the love and adoration I had for my sister and the thankfulness for freedom in my country, remains perfectly intact. Neither time nor a PC failure can take that away.

I don't know if I'll have the opportunity to see our magical modern day metaphors for "red bombs bursting in air" from my view on this side of the border, but my heart is at home today. In between the chomps of fresh watermelon, the gulps of homemade sweet tea, and the devouring of mom's delicious American flag cake that is sure to be had, my heart and my belly is home.

On this 4th, I'll be at my husband's all-star baseball game. You can bet a Canadian and American dollar I'll be sporting red, white, and blue today though. You can also be certain that when opening ceremonies begin and hands go to hearts for the Canadian national anthem, I'll be singing to the tune of a different melody in my head, smiling all the while.

I leave you with some beautiful patriotic prose that could soften the heart of any red-blooded Canuck.

"My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
From every mountainside
Let freedom ring!
2
My native country, thee,
Land of the noble free,
Thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills,
Like that above.
3
Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet freedom's song;
Let mortal tongues awake;
Let all that breathe partake;
Let rocks their silence break,
The sound prolong.
4
Our father's God to Thee,
Author of liberty,
To Thee we sing.
Long may our land be bright,
With freedom's holy light,
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God our King."

"America," penned by Rev. Samuel Smith in 1832.

No map needed for this short trail....

2009-06-28T15:21:00.003-04:00

I love getting lost in a good song. In its music swells. In its lyrics. In the parallel world it creates for you to escape. A straight shot into your own Narnia. And sometimes, if the song touches you just so--if the melody penterates your senses just right--you can get so lost you become found.

"Just because I'm losing
Doesn't mean I'm lost
Doesn't mean I'll stop
Doesn't mean I'm in a cross

Just because I'm hurting
Doesn't mean I'm hurt
Doesn't mean I didn't get what I deserve
No better and no worse

I just got lost
Every river that I've tried to cross
And every door I ever tried was locked
Ooh-Oh, And I'm just waiting till the shine wears off..."

--Lyrics to song "Lost" by Coldplay

Here's another kindred take on the emotional warp and toll music can take on your soul.

An informal report on Iran from a patio in Hess Village

2009-06-23T10:09:00.010-04:00

I met a friend for a patio drink yesterday. The weather practically begged you to enjoy itself, and so while I was eager to let the late in the day sun's rays bathe me, I was not especially eager for our conversation.

We had some catching up to do, but more importantly, I had some apologizing to do. I have a gracious friend though, and he was ready to quickly forgive and forget my failure. He's also the kind of friend who likes to keep conversation light, so I wasn't prepared for the turn our conversation was about to take....

Me: So...what's new?

Friend: Oh, my cousin was nearly killed.

Me choking on my sip of Chardonnay: What? How? Where? (I nearly got out all 5 W's but restrained myself into better listening)

Friend: In Tehran.

Me: Oh.

And from that moment on, I did listen. Intently and on edge, with my body leaned inward against the table and my head feverishly nodding away.

You see, knowing my friend had immigrated from Iran about eight years ago, I've always thought there was a story there. For the past ten months, I've gently poked and prodded about his past life, but he had always remained tight lipped about it. And so my curiosity continued to grow and starve at the same time. I needed information. I needed the facts. I needed the story. I was going to wane away without them. It took an election gone awry and an emerging civil war to loosen his jaw, but I can't say I'm especially glad for it to happen under these circumstances.

I battled between being a good friend or a good journalist. I desperately wanted to take notes and catch quotes, but in the end, being a good friend won out. At the expense of good details, I'm afraid. What lies beneath are my mental notes from his second-hand report from Tehran and his first-hand experience from living there. Forgive my stream of conscious flow. I don't have time for editing or for flowery adjectives, but I always have time for telling a story that needs to be told...

He calls it a religious democracy and says, "but that's an oxymoron." You can't have a democracy ruled by religion. He explains that the election is a crock, but it was really just a matter of voting for the lesser evil. Regardless, there is no excuse for fixed elections and while he is not a political man himself, he understands his people's need for protest. An injustice has taken place and has for thirty years. He says there have been hiccups along the way with the Islamic Republic with other minor protests, but he has never seen anything like this and this hiccup is lasting longer and louder than he expected.

He doesn't want U.S. or Canadian sanctions. He doesn't want war. For him, this is a family matter. What he wants is Iranians to handle this from within with peaceful protesting, and for a leader to emerge and pull the fractured ranks together. Not in the form of a political party, but in a massive stand of solidarity that cannot be ignored.

His cousin and one of his good friends from back home were out on the street just the other day. Not to protest, but to just get out. In a matter of moments, a throng of thousands were rushing at them from the opposite direction. The throng had been protesting and were now running from the military. There was no time to run or to think. His cousin and friend were trampled and buried in the stampede. It took time and much effort for his cousin to pry himself out of the rubble of bloodied bodies. The air was thick with tear gas and smoke. He waned in and out of consciousness but remembers a hand grabbing him and pulling him into a house. When he awoke he was surrounded by twenty or thirty others like him hiding in the quiet dark of a room.

When it was safe he went outside to look for his friend. What remained of his friend was a shoe. In his innocence and poor timing for a walk, he was caught up in Tehran's reality.

My friend says the prisons and jails are full and that his friend was taken away with hundreds of others to a desert area. The people there are dumped and left with no food or water and probably never to be seen again. My friend has probably smoked through three or four cigarettes in the span of thirty minutes.

He tells of a time when he was a 10 year old kid wearing a long hanging t-shirt and vest walking down the street. He thought he looking stylish for the time and for Iran. It was his attempt at looking cool and Western. But it caught an officer the wrong way and he was kicked and shoved down a flight of stairs. His life was spared only because the officer got a call to be on the scene for an actual crime. He says, "I know this is tragic for you, Rikki, living your perfect life in North America, but for me this is just life." He continues, "me and my family actually laughed about it when I got home."

He laughs, I nearly cry. But this is his country's reality. At the flick of another cigarette he goes on. "There is no other species in the entire world more adaptable and capable of adjusting to their environment more than the human species."

While I agreed there was truth to his statement, I inwardly wondered how well his childhood friend was adapting to his new prison without walls in the desert. And then I took another sip of Chardonnay and finished my fish and chips with relish and thought, "what a spoiled, spoiled girl you are, Rikki."

It's in the details

2009-06-21T19:05:00.012-04:00

I recently attended the Write! Canada conference in Guelph, Ontario, where I had the opportunity to win my way in rather than paying the $400 conference fee. I didn't get to give an acceptance speech at the award's ceremony, but if I could, it would go a little something like this:

"I would like to thank the Great Igniter for sparking creativy in His creation and for thinking of me while He was at it. I would also like to thank my fellow humanity for "just being you" because you are the constant source of my inspiration. And last but not least, I owe a great deal of gratitude to my editor, Patricia Paddey, for making me look better than I really am. Thank you, Canada, for giving this American a chance."

You can just imagine the thunderous applause that would be sure to follow...

Below is my entry that took first prize:

They’re ordinary and uncelebrated. They’re old, young and in between. Some are nameless, but none are forgotten; leaving an imprint on my soul in ways that only subtlety can. They are my fellow human beings; each one, created in His image. And I believe they are God’s way of infusing colour into my life when shades of grey have tried to creep in.

Joy hasn’t come easily since my move to Canada. Sure being married to the nicest man this side of the U.S. border has cushioned the transitional blow, but we are creatures of comfort, and my “easy chair” didn’t make the move. It sits accumulating dust in my home state of Oklahoma. Just three years later, and my former life feels like a children’s story I once had memorized, but am now slowly starting to forget. I am changed. Changing. And I see people, regular people, in ways I never did before.

June, 2007.

I’m on a road trip to Ottawa with my husband. It’s the noon hour and I’m roaring hungry so we make a break at a travel stop. My hair’s disheveled and I’m groggy from napping in the rental car. McDonald’s is really our only option for food for miles. A part of me pretends to settle for fast-food, the other is secretly happy to gorge on a number three with no onions. There are about four lanes of McDonald’s traffic and I’ve already got my arms crossed in anticipation of the wait.

A chipper voice with an Eastern European accent in the far left "lane,” rouses me. It belongs to an elderly woman who has just placed her order. I’m not used to hearing happy voices in McDonald's. Impatient and curt ones, yes. I’m in unfamiliar fast-food territory here. She is with her husband and they look to be in their 70's at least, possibly in their 80's, and very much in love. That alone encourages me; the thought that they have probably been married for 50 years. I'll never forget what she says next in her thick, expressive accent, to the young female cashier wearing a pony tail and McDonald's uniform visor: "You have the most BEAUTIFUL smile! NEVER (pause) stop smiling. (Arthritic and gnarly hands thrust in the air) Smile for the rest of your life!"

Once finished with her compliment, which also sounds like a beautiful command, the little old lady turns and walks away with her order. A lump catches in my throat, a tear brims in my eye, and I smile—broadly—as if she has given the compliment to me. I want the old lady to be my grandma, to take my cheeks in her hands and lovingly pinch them. The cashier at the counter smiles too, and I wonder if she realizes the profound and simple beauty of this moment. I wonder if she will carry that sage wisdom with her "for the rest of her life."
“Thank you, Lord, for the unexpected ways you shine in your people.”

October, 2007.

I call her my Norman Rockwell girl. Partly because she’s got so much character like the artist’s paintings, and partly because I wish I could transplant her back into those quintessential scenes of life Americana Norman made famous on canvas. She has freckles and a mischievous way about her that no one can cure. I’m her mentor in an after school program.

They call her “at-risk” because she lives in North End Hamilton, and because her mother died recently, leaving her with overwhelmed grandparents who care for three young children in their retirement. Her reading skills are atrocious and I often wonder if she’ll even make it to grade 6. I haven’t seen her all summer and I’m worried she won’t remember me or even care that I returned to volunteer for another school semester. I haven’t heard from Immigration Canada, so I cannot legally seek paid employment. It hurts, but I suppose the career world of journalism can wait. For now, Elizabeth needs me. I hope.

I watch her come into the centre like a whirlwind. Backpack half slung off her shoulders, face flushed from the early October shiver, and as always, pestering the director with questions like, "What's today's snack?” “Who's my mentor?” “Can I be the games leader?" I wait with an amused look for her response, as an answer to at least one of her questions comes. Her eyes dart back and forth across the room searching for familiar faces. And finally, her surprised, but recognizing eyes meet my smiling, almost tear-glazed ones. Her backpack finishes its descent to the ground and she sails to my already open embrace.

As my Norman Rockwell girl squeezes me, tighter and longer than I expect, all my worries begin to ease. When she yells out through her contagious grin, "you came back!" all doubt is completely erased. Looking down at her, an inch taller, her face a little less chubby, and with freckles in new places I haven’t seen before, I know I am exactly where I should be.
“Thank you, Lord, for the reassurance that you do have a plan for me even though I can’t see it fully.”

Just the other day.

I have somewhere to be and quickly. I have a career on the go, errands to run, and a social life brewing. Finally. But my husband’s brother has just been diagnosed with cancer. He is too young to have a staring contest with Death. My husband knows this and I feel like I’m losing him to the fog that cancer brings to a family.
I find I’m losing focus, and driving distracted is never a good thing. In the midst of my own fog, I am jolted by a sight that only my city can bring.

I see a very tall man, dressed in very used clothes, with his hands placed like props in his coat pockets. And I cannot believe this, but he is dancing down the street sidewalk! Alone! I can’t see earphones to suggest he’s listening to music, which makes the scene even more amusing. He looks like the type of fellow who might not make his rent this month, or who finds his second home at the local liquor store. But he has not a care in the world, and is skipping Fred Astaire style down the sidewalk! I look to see if passersby will stop and stare. Instead, they just casually pass—him—by.

In the moment it takes my car to speed by, he’s gone. But I laugh. Incredulously. And shake my head and continue to laugh. Later, I try to describe the scene to others, but the story falls flat and I’m convinced I was the only audience member for whom the movie was meant. For a moment, life is less blurry and a precious moment of clarity sweeps in.
“Thank you, Lord, for the reminder that ALL are God’s children and that you came to this earth to notice the unnoticed.”

Tomorrow.

They may not seem like much to an outsider, but these ordinary people give room for extraordinary commentary on life. They are gifts to me that come in little drops of joy and winks from God that seem to say, “I see you. Now do you see me?”

When pigs fly, ratings soar

2009-05-03T16:10:00.005-04:00

A friend recently sent me a viral text that read, "It was once said that a black man would be president 'when pigs fly.' Indeed, 100+ days into Obama's presidency...Swine flu!"

Just days after this "pandemic" has been declared, people are already finding clever ways to make light of the subject and poke fun at the president. The things we do to ease the onslaught of bad headlines and voice our democratic discontent.

We debated at our last story meeting as to whether or not Listen Up should cover this story. I groaned inward and outward for a few reasons. The first being that I already have my own case of headline fatigue over the media coverage on swine flu. Or wait, could that possibly be one of the symptoms of the virus? Should I see a doctor? Should Lorna interview me?

The second reason is a little less selfish. My sister is due to get married in Cozumel, Mexico in just a few weeks. If Listen Up covers the story then I've just affirmed that in fact, there is something to this break out, and I should not take the risk to enjoy a sunny paradise and see my sister walk down a sandy beach aisle. I'm afraid a blue medical mask is not the accessory we were hoping to wear with our coral bridesmaids' dresses.

The third reason is a little more complicated. While Listen Up thrives on covering the headlines of the day, our job gets tricky in that unlike any other news organization, we look for God amidst the headlines. And so I have to ask, "where is God in this swine flu?" "How will this story change our world for the better and bring people to a closer understanding of who God is?"

I have no idea. What I do know though is that comparatively speaking, very few people have died as a result of this pandemic than those that have died and will die of HIV/AIDS, malaria, or starvation. In the time that it takes for CNN, CBC, ABC, and CTV to run their latest spin on the Flu to keep you tuned into the fear, hundreds of thousands, if not millions of lives will be taken from other causes not related to a pig.

But this story relates to us, right? Americans and Canadians could die. Forgive me for my insensitivity to this latest breaking story, but I can't help but wonder what other headlines are being canned in light of this outbreak. Perhaps, they're not "sexy" enough for primetime at this time. In other words, when pigs fly, ratings soar.

In the meantime, I'm gonna scan the backpages of our newspapers and listen for the stories buried within networks' busy broadcasts. Who knows--I just may find God there.

Reposted with permission from Listen Up TV.

2008-10-26T15:27:00.004-04:00

Soccer cleats and sensible pumps...with a makeup bag and purse thrown into the mix. There's also a very sensible but very unstylish backpack that's hard to see in the background that holds everything from snack bars to deoderant to a change of fresh underwear when life demands it. And believe me--life demands it.

This image struck me as funny from my perch on the bed. My I'm-still-recovering-from-a-weekend-of-sports-and-ibuprofen-ain't-doin-the-trick-perch. This is my life right now though. Haphazard at times with a curious blend of footwear and lifestyles. But I love it. The fast-paced world of tv journalism mixed with intense athletic sports that helps to maintain my sanity and my weight. I'm every woman. Definitely not a '78 Chaka Khan version, but more like a 21st century version of a woman who wants to look good and feel good.

Now granted, right now I don't feel so good because of the hits I've taken on the field this weekend, but by tomorrow I'll be up and running in my sensible heels trying to change the world one Listen Up TV show at a time. I guess in keeping with my "mixing" and "blending" analogies, I could also say that when it comes to my life in progress, I'm just "shaken and not stirred." Not that clever, but come on--you have to admit it's cute.

For those of you concerned about my dusty hardwood floors and even more worried about shoes not being put where they belong, not to worry. Sunday is my cleanup day for the week. I'll get to it....Sunday also happens to be my reflective day of the week. Hence these few paragraphs that turned a private smile about my clash of worlds into a now public one :)

---From Walt Whitman's "Song of the Open Road"

AFOOT and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road...

---And the final word goes to...Paul

"Hold firmly to the word of life; then, on the day of Christ’s return, I will be proud that I did not run the race in vain and that my work was not useless. "

Phillipians 2:16

rlr

More recollections en route to Florida...

2008-07-22T13:54:00.007-04:00

It had been some time since I had ridden a prop plane and I laughed as I saw the flight before me leaving in one. I thought to myself, "suckers." It takes enough faith to believe in the science of jet engines to keep you lifted in the air, but to subject yourself to the mercy of a few propellers just whirlin' away for all they got to get from point A to point B, to me it just tempting fate.

As they called for boarding to my Philly connection, I glanced out the window only to find that I too would be that "sucker" tempting fate. Buffalo to Philly in a prop plane seemed like quite the jaunt for such a wee machine, but I was seated across from a pilot in transit and felt mildy comforted by his presence. I gave him a weak smile and fastened my seat belt to a snugger than usual fit.

The flight lasted a little over an hour without much to write home about. However, I am sure that if planes could pant, ours did once it shuttered to the ground...

What was worth writing home about I guess, was my observation of the pilot-passenger, seated at the window. He was like a kid taking off from the jetway for the first time. His face was glued to the window pane and it remained there for much of the duration of the flight. His eyes constantly to the skies and ground made me quietly laugh at his boyish enthusiasm. This is a man who flies daily for a living! I began to admire this grown-up in his uniform with his pilot's cap resting in his lap, relishing those seemingly mundane moments that we frequent flyers often take for granted. I felt a stinging conviction to remember to live my life that way. A nose pressed against the glass kinda way...

Sometimes I like to think I'm too old when I'm not, and I choose Aisle over Window in life. But thankfully, my little toy plane arrived safely, which gives me another opportunity to make a seat arrangement for this flight and the next....

rlr

Florida '08 trip as I recall it...Part One

2008-07-16T14:01:00.003-04:00

Day One-7am. Sleepless in Buffalo. Bags in my hands, bags under my eyes. Not quite the romantic comedy one would hope for. Through my dreamlike haze I do remember being grateful for my pedicure as I revealed my stubby, shoe-less toes through security...I also remember being peeved just seconds later that there was now airport funk on the bottom of my previously clean feet. Gritty, brown, dirt-ay, funk.

Thanks to those terrorists, now I gotta stand one legged like a drunken flamingo in a public restroom as I wet a papertowel and remove the funk. About that time, I wouldn't have minded having the physical address to Abu Ghraib in my little Black-berry book, so I could conduct my own personal torture methods on the 9/11 suspects. It would go a little something like this...

"Sir, please remove nearly everything you have on--including your dignity. Also, do that in front of hundreds of strangers under flourescent lights at an ungodly hour of day."

"Now brace yourself as this retangular device will woosh a contained tornado at your body. Please note, reacting or moving as a result of the gale force winds searching out every crevice of your body, will only further delay your freedom."

We all know that terrorists, being from dry, arid desert regions wear sandals. So...

"Sir, please remove your sandals and place your bare feet on this deceptively clean, tiled surface."

The terrorist will then grimace in pain and utter dismay only to find that no! it is not a shiny floor of purity offering harbour to his naked foot soles, but instead is a surface of bacterial horror with its splattering of dirt and grit and North American imported funk clinging to his arches in dirty delight.

I will extract confessions from the terrorists and defeat their pockets of regime with my inhumane and non-UN approved methods of torture...

But for now, I've got a layover to catch and a stale airport bagel to eat that's supposed to hold me over 'til lunchtime.

rlr

Images

2008-05-24T16:13:00.002-04:00

Flawless creatures framed in black and white.

Untroubled faces with toothy grins that somehow aren't over the top...

But the sticker won't come off.

And now she's got a little buyer's remorse...

rlr

Some things never change...

2008-03-05T11:21:00.002-05:00

"It appears we have appointed our worst generals to command forces, and our most gifted and brilliant to edit newspapers. In fact, I discovered by reading newspapers that these editor/geniuses plainly saw all my strategic defects from the start, yet failed to inform me until it was too late. Accordingly, I am readily willing to yield my command to these obviously superior intellects, and I will, in turn, do my best for the Cause by writing editorials - after the fact." - Robert E. Lee, 1863

2008-02-24T15:26:00.004-05:00

I was recently asked by the place where I volunteer with kids to write an article for their newsletter. I happily obliged and then a few days later easily forgot. Their admin wrote me a few days after my initial deadline wondering where the heck my 300 words were. Oops! Would I be awful for deadline newspaper writing or what?? I scrambled home after my internship that day and threw together these words you see below. Although written in haste, I meant every word, and would have written more words that I meant if allowed more column space. But I don't mind...those days will come....

Fellow LAF volunteers and the infamous "Norman Rockwell Girl"

When I Googled “volunteerism in Hamilton” in October, 2006, I didn’t really know where I’d end up. One phone call led to another and soon I found myself in training for a program called LAF. I loved kids and I had spare time on my hands, so it seemed the perfect fit.

However, my anticipation began to turn to a bit of anxiety when I realized I hadn’t signed up for just a simple after school playtime with kids. These little souls needed more than just another recess in the day—they needed attention—they needed mentoring—they needed me. But would I be qualified enough? Would they like me or think I was too old or un-cool? Could I actually make a difference?

My first day volunteering happened to fall on Halloween and I was surrounded by fairy princesses, scary monsters, and various Disney characters. The mood was festive and some of my fears were soon laid to rest when their shy costumed faces began to smile back at mine. However, I knew it was important to gain their trust as we were just another new wave of strange volunteers sweeping into their lives—lives that were all too often familiar with inconsistency and unpredictability.

Over the last year I’ve had the honor to work with several children in the program. Many of whom I’ve worked with weekly on a one-on-one basis, and over time, built a connection and relationship with that I’ll never forget. No child has been alike, and each one presented a unique adventure along the way. Adventures that involved more than just listening to them read their class assignment, or telling them to please not take all 25 snack bars. The journey I got caught up in involved taking a real interest in who they were and hoping beyond all hope they succeed at the life they’ve been given despite the odds.

I’m still not technically qualified, the kids have told me many times that I’m pretty stinking old, and most days I feel fairly un-cool. But when you’ve witnessed a child grow both academically and emotionally, you can’t help but grow too—and that I am certain has made all the difference in the world.

rlr

2008-02-20T15:28:00.004-05:00

I had my in-studio screen test yesterday.... The television program where I hold my internship was gracious enough to allow me their expensive studio time to help build my news reel. And for those of you that were wondering--it's true--the camera does add ten pounds. Yeesh...And I hated the camera angle on the right side of my face and I wish my lips were fuller and my nose less lengthy...But what can ya do? On an intern's salary anyway ;)

I will say I'm grateful to the set of genes I inherited that makes my voice all low and newsy, because having a set of chords that rings like Snow White or Minny Mouse just doesn't fly in this industry.

It wasn't until 6 minutes into the screen test that I began to get minimally comfortable with the camera. Where was this big personality everyone claims that I have? I just couldn't make Personality come out...

Oh, she made her appearance in between takes with the "ahhh! I screwed up!" faces and the self-deprecating comments that made the studio crew laugh, but for the most part she hid. Afraid the camera wouldn't love her, afraid her accent would slip out, afraid that everything she's worked, hoped, dreamed for wasn't actually for her...

I lay in bed last night just seconds away from sleep. Loving that I had the whole bed to myself (Brad's away on business). Loving that I didn't have an ounce of guilt for relishing those three--or four?--chocolate chip cookies and milk before I turned off the tv. Loving that despite my insecurities, I thought the makeup artist did a rocking job and I wasn't going to wipe off her masterpiece for nothin'. And in the midst of all my lovin' and seconds away from new dreams, pure gratitude and the realization of what had happened that day swept over me and I began to cry. Suddenly Romans 8:28 became more than an overused, overquoted verse in times of trouble that we use to encourage other Christians with. These 2,000 year old words were real affirmation for a real woman living in real times.

"And we know that all things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose."

Wow. So this is what is happening. You're making good things happen because I love you and because I'm walking out your big plan for me. That's enough to make a grown woman cry...

I can't believe I'm inviting you into my 11 minutes of raw, unedited studio torture. Then again, I'm a sucker for torture and we live in voyeuristic days.

You can always say, "I knew Rikki when...she could barely get out the phrase 'teen mom' without her mouth looking like she ate super glue as a light snack before dinner."

Lunch time musings...

2008-02-08T11:16:00.000-05:00

A Canadian colleague of mine recently enlightened me at lunch that studies show the less educated a person is the more they tend to vote conservative. Upon first making this statement though, he of course assumed this was a global voting trend, and one that certainly found itself demonstrated on both sides of the North American border.

However, I found this correlation strangely fascinating. Just when I was beginning to think the two countries were more alike than different, he threw a monkey wrench at me! Not to worry, friends. It was a blow I quickly dodged with a thoughtful response, because everything I've experienced about the voting culture in America--I might know a little as I was actually raised there--indicated the polar opposite.

-Myself "Wow, (for the purposes of discretion we'll lovingly call him 'Bill') Bill, that's very interesting, because in the States it's the liberals in at least the last 20 years who've pandered the low-income and less-educated for their party platforms--the biggest draw being increased welfare."

-"Bill" "Oh. Well. Maybe that's just a Canadian phenomenon."

A phenomenon indeed. Just the very definition of the word implies something out of the ordinary or usual...But alas, these days I never take anyone at their word. That's the ignorant skeptic in me I guess.

However, I greatly respect and admire my colleague's sense of intelligence. I didn't want him walking around feeling like a silly goose for simply regurgitating the hogwash (a synonym for propaganda) that had been fed to him. I searched to confirm my friends statements by actually typing into the Google search engine the phrase, "less educated vote conservative." The results were quite frustrating as they gave me links and data that repeatedly displayed the inverse.

From The Bay Area Center for Voting Research:
"A survey of income and economic status indicates that poorer and less educated than average regions also tend to vote for liberal candidates at a higher rate than their conservative counterparts, indicating that liberal candidates may be ahead in capturing those with concerns about the state of government run social programs and poverty."

http://votingresearch.org/USAstudy.pdf

From The Pew Research Center for the People and the Press:
"Internet news sources, National Public Radio, news magazines, and Rush
Limbaugh's radio show have the best educated audiences, with each of these having at least 36% of their regular readers and listeners having graduated from college....Conservatives and Republicans are especially attracted to Limbaugh, while more Democrats are found among the audiences for the NewsHour, the comedy news shows, news magazines, and the websites of major newspapers."
http://people-press.org/reports/display.php3?ReportID=319
Granted, I understand many people tend to not hold a lot of stock in research and studies. However, I figured liberals tend to hold even less stock in the opinions of this writer, so in this case mere praticality won out. Also, in keeping my thoughts to a minimum, I wanted to be sure and not lose my less-educated audience's attention or ability to comprehend an excess of words on screen. I'm liberal that way...

How 'bout we let the Iraquis speak for themselves?

2008-02-05T23:41:00.000-05:00

'I prefer messy democracy to the stability of tyrants'
An interview with Iraq's ambassador to Canada
Theo Caldwell, National Post Published: Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Howar Ziad, the Iraqi ambassador to Canada, has seen the best and the worst of humanity in his homeland. The courage of the Iraqi people, and in particular the emergence of the Kurdistan region from decades of genocide and devastation, represents the highest aspirations of the human spirit. The brutality of the previous 35 years, meanwhile -- torture, mass killings, disappearances and chemical attacks -- is a legacy of man's inhumanity to man. Western politicians, journalists and intellectuals inveigh against the American campaign in Iraq but, having seen the changes in his country, ambassador Ziad shares none of their doubts.
In conversations with me last week, ambassador Ziad spoke of the progress Iraq is making, the yawning indifference this has aroused in the mainstream press and the gratitude of his people for the intervention of the United States and its allies.
When asked if, despite the absence of weapons of mass destruction, the persistence of the terrorist insurgency and the resulting death and instability, the campaign to topple Saddam Hussein was justified, Ziad's answer is categorical and emphatic: "Absolutely. To put this question to the average Iraqi is ridiculous and probably insulting. That regime enslaved people and caused genocide, wars and breached every single human right."
It is this history that makes the nascent success of a free Iraq so remarkable. "We have a democratically elected government," Ziad reports with pride. "We had three elections and, for the first time in the Islamic Middle East, we didn't know the result of the election beforehand."
With a federal budget of $48-billion, declining inflation rates and a newly merged currency that is steadily increasing in value, the economic picture of the new Iraq is brightening, too. Iraq's Kurdistan region, spared major terrorist attacks in recent years, is booming. Its annual development budget is a remarkable $5-billion, and in its capital of Erbil people are buying Western-style apartments in gated communities built around swimming pools. Tens of thousands of Iraqis have begun returning to their homes, thanks to the improved security situation.
Despite constant attempts by terrorists to disrupt production, Iraq's oil output is approaching three million barrels per day. With oil prices at historic highs, this upward trend is good news for Iraqi citizens. "In the past," Ziad points out, "oil revenue has gone to dictators like Saddam, with none of the benefit going to the people." As Christopher Hitchens noted during a trip to the region: "Everybody knows how to snigger when you mention Jeffersonian democracy and Iraq in the same breath; try sniggering when you meet someone who is trying to express these ideas in an atmosphere that only a few years ago was heavy with miasmic decay and the reek of poison gas."
To be sure, the terrorist threat within the country remains, although al-Qaeda haunts the nation as a ghost of its former self. Sectarian divides among Sunni, Shiite and Kurdish populations pose a challenge, but ambassador Ziad likes to point to Canada's example of devolved federalism to demonstrate how people of different cultures and regions can share a nation.
The analogy may seem far-fetched, since Canada's cultural fissures are nowhere near so recent and deadly as those in Iraq. Even so, Canadians can be grateful and proud that Iraqis see our system as an object of supreme aspiration.
Ambassador Ziad shares the belief held by many supporters of the Iraq campaign that, as the counterinsurgency strategy of U.S. General David Petraeus has yielded positive results, the elite news outlets that condemned the American invasion from the beginning have turned a blind eye. According to the Media Research Center, which has been tracking news coverage for over 20 years, the major American networks carried 178 news stories about the Iraq war in September, 2007. By November, by which time the situation had improved, that number had plummeted to 68. In a news culture where The New York Times put Abu Ghraib on its front page 32 days in a row, such a precipitous drop in concern for Iraq speaks volumes.
At times, reporters' obsession with finding bad news about Iraq can lead them beyond satire. Presumably with straight faces, the McClatchy news service lamented in October of 2007 that, "As violence falls in Iraq, cemetery workers feel the pinch."
But ambassador Ziad's ideals are higher than what one reads in the morning paper, and he knows that words are only that. "Regardless of what the media do," he says, "if we genuinely make progress, it really doesn't matter. We have faced many challenges: the terrorists, obviously, and many others who have vested interests -- they didn't want us to succeed. It's not easy to overcome the legacy of a genocidal, fascist regime, but so far we have made it. Economically, the average person is much better off than they used to be, and freedom has strength. It's not perfect. But step by step, we are moving forward, with the help of our friends, the United States."
Reflecting on the vicissitudes of Iraq's young liberty, he adds, "I prefer messy democracy to the stability of tyrants."
It is fashionable to dismiss the U.S.-led campaign in Iraq as a mistake, a failure or even a crime, and with such scorn comes easy agreement and approbation from sophisticates. But, for the people of Iraq, the unpopular truth is more compelling.
theojpcaldwell@yahoo.com
-Theo Caldwell is president of Caldwell Asset Management, Inc., and is an investment advisor in the United States and Canada

2008-02-04T22:02:00.000-05:00

She's 10 years old, over 1,200 miles away, and rarely sends emails. But when she does, it makes me cry.

"hi this is sophia if you didnt know i miss you alout"

2008-02-04T20:56:00.000-05:00

I'm ridiculous. I have a facebook account, a myspace account, and an abandoned xanga account that hasn't been touched in almost three years...
It's surreal reading the old me. Nearly don't recognize myself. Same song I guess, just a different station...

These days I'm consolidating my thoughts into a more streamlined format--but give me two years and I'm sure I'll be saying the same thing on another hipper, newer blog spot. What lies below is the sporadic historical account of the 2.04-2.05 version of ME. Stay tuned for further updates on the soft wear.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

2008-02-04T20:10:00.001-05:00

no. that picture is not of my boyfriend. he is my chubby bald friend that gets me free food at chili's all the time. you may ask how one comes upon such a rewarding arrangement. well i think the grin on his face tells all. just kiddddding. yay! school is out and the internship at channel 5 rules. here's a shocker for you. i'm having to unlearn half of what i learned in college at his place. helloooo. the real career world sucks. your parents are lying when they tell you college is preparation for a successful career. don't believe them. save your money, their money and run away to europe and marry a dark skinned non-english speaking person. i did and i've never looked back. just kiddddding. about most of that. i must be on crack because this is a weird post...

Monday, April 04, 2005

2008-02-04T20:04:00.000-05:00

well folks. it's a countdown until college graduation. 4 weeks and three days. i should probably start going to physics... i think there is more to life than this, however. guess i'm about to find out. i want to give a shout out to my little big bro as we call him, jon-luke. had a good time this weekend watching guy movies with you and talking about girls. did you get the egg mess cleaned up?? shout out to will-amena. for wearing my brother's clothes better than he does. for making onion messes and not cleaning them up and saying "thanks for everything" thinking it would make the situation better. almost worked, but not quite. shout out to jacob wells for making halloween orange colored jeans ALMOST cool and being naturally funny. shout out to my sister, erica, who is also about to graduate. the world is yours, girl. shout out to my dad for letting God give him a change of heart. thanks to him bob howard is short one less MR-2 Spyder in the lot....

Friday, January 21, 2005

2008-02-04T20:03:00.002-05:00

alright. so i've typed a new entry today. are you happy now? i didn't need to be updated near so much as erica rae who has had the same depressing entry up since christmas for crying out loud. i saw my friend's ultrasound the other day. i haven't seen a live baby kicking around on a black and white screen in a while. quite a miracle. she's having a girl. i had the honor of the mom actually choosing the middle name i picked out. fun fact that proves the miraculousness (yes, that's a word) of getting pregnant. out of around 30 days in a month did you know that a woman's ovum (egg) is only viable (able to live) for 24 hours? which means that in that 24 hours those gross squiggly things that come from the guy (sperm, yes sperm i said it) have to make sure that at least one (the chosen one), fertilizes that sucker in the small time frame that's given. for those of you whose parents said you were a dadblamed accident and you weren't planned and were just a result of one night of wild drunken sex. guess what? you are no accident. you were very planned. unbenownst to them, maybe, but Someone else had you already hand picked and specialized. love from ya sister who had fun in biology last semester. peace.

Friday, January 07, 2005

2008-02-04T20:03:00.001-05:00

please read this link and pray for the success story of this young woman. http://cnn.netscape.cnn.com/news/story.jsp?floc=FF-APO-PLS&idq=/ff/story/0001/20050107/1347688061.htm the following is an email i sent to the AP writer on the story... Dear SHIMALI SENANAYAKE, I'm a 25 year old journalism student from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA. I just read your story on the young girl who was raped by her rescuer in Sri Lanka. Your story moved me to tears and I felt compelled to contact someone on the story. I have taken a Victims in the Media course at school and have learned much about rape victims and how they are portrayed in the news media. I would like to applaud you for not shaming the victim and giving her an identity in your piece. Her brave little soul shone through your description and I immediately idenitfied with her when I read she wanted to be a journalist. She has dreams that reach beyond the bounds of her community that would try to hold her back. I know she would prefer to remain anonymous, but if you could please encourage her on my behalf to try and find the tools she needs to accomplish that dream that seems so far away. Let her know that another woman half way around the world has the same dream to be a journalist and that I am rooting for her with everything in me. She is a survivor and an inspiration and although her success story to become a journalist is unlikely, I anticipate to maybe someday celebrating her story anyway. Regards, Rikki Lee Ratliff Journalism student University of Central Oklahoma

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

2008-02-04T19:58:00.000-05:00

nothin beats nyc during the holidays... you step out onto broadway with times square looming ahead in all its glory. the streets are buzzing more than usual and anticipation for the new year is in the air. the rockefeller center tree stands proud and is the object of many a vistor's photographic affection. the sun shines and the air is just brisk enough for a sweater, scarf and gloves. perfection. the pizza's never tasted better and the worse than usual traffic doesn't really bother you. the trees in central park are bare, but the sunset cascading over the oasis transfixed in the city of chaos is inspiring. cheers to a new year, a new love, a new life...

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

2008-02-04T19:56:00.002-05:00

i think i finally found the Subject i was talking about in this poem that i wrote two years ago...no longer nameless, he may now take full ownership of these words...
His

boyish wiles

create my smiles

distracting me

caught off-guard, i falter

and recover in his arms

His

kisses snare me

but I don’t mind

i go willingly

into his tight embrace

with my head spinning

and my cares erased.

He…

caught my attention

caught my undivided attention

caught my very divided heart

good catch…

Monday, December 27, 2004

2008-02-04T19:56:00.001-05:00

i'm tired of being sick and sounding like a bullfrog when i talk. also, the green stuff in the mornings. not cool. must get better before nyc...i guess i'll break down and go see my young good looking doctor today if i have to... i'm at a crossroads. and after my trip to nyc this week i will either turn right or left. there's no more standing in the middle of the tracks with the potential of getting hit by the train...

Monday, December 20, 2004

2008-02-04T19:54:00.001-05:00

k. wanna hear how bad i suck? wanna see a bad movie scene unfold before your eyes? who frickin' asks a fat girl if she's pregnant in real life? i do. and she was my waitress. we were thanking God we already had our food on the table. i felt stoned anyway all afternoon after i had gotten my facial. the lady must have hit some "i'm gonna make you feel whacked out of your mind" pressure points in my face when she was massaging it, cause i was in a funk all afternoon and night. and evidently the filter for my mouth was switched "off" last night too. she looked pregnant, not fat. pregnant i tell ya. everyone else thought so too. i was just the only retard retarded enough to ask ever so sweetly, "are you gonna have a baby?" she froze while picking up plates, "uh, no."
"Oh, God," my head and every one else's sinks into their plate. our faces redden like the spaghetti sauce sitting on our plates. "I suck, kill me now." Does any of my four girlfriends try to help dig their dying sister out of the hole she's in? No. They leave me there in the seemingly endless misery. Seconds seem like hours in moments like these. So I falter, stutter, blush, have tears welling in the corners of my eyes and say to make things better of course, "but you're cute as a button." Holy hell. Did I really just say that? I'm converting to Catholicism so that I may pay for penance. I need to buy my way out of this situation as no amount of grace is good enough for this idiot. Believe me when i say the tip i left was definitely more than my meal. Sorry, Erica. There goes your Christmas present this year...

Thursday, December 16, 2004

2008-02-04T19:51:00.000-05:00

Memory Lane Without the Bumps It’s a goofy song that hit the airwaves back in the summer of ’88 I think--Don’t Worry Be Happy. It was a tune filled with mostly a bunch of “dooo’s” at varying lengths and pitches. There was also some whistling during the chorus that topped the song off and put your soul at ease. My family was having a garage sale and Grandma and Grandpa’s house. It was early summer in rural Luther, Oklahoma. At that time there were only four of us kids. Yes, I said only four. The two youngest girls (Nicole and Erica) were still toddlers and running around with only bottoms on, barefoot and happy. It was such a treat back then to be hanging out at Grandma and Grandpa’s. It was more fun than eating out on Friday nights, and almost as exciting as swimming in the public pool. My brother and I had setup a lemonade stand. Business was slow though and most of the lemonade was sitting in my stomach. As it goes with most lemonade businesses, our first profits came from Mom and Dad. They would sip on the lemonade and say it was the best lemonade they had ever tasted. Then, I believed them. Now I know that’s what every good parent has to say. Later that afternoon, Grandpa checked our report cards. We would get fifty cents for every “A.” I already knew how much money that would mean for me before I handed him the report card, but hearing his exclamations of what a smart girl I was made me grin inside. Listening to the clink-clink as he would drop those quarters in my hand was so rewarding. I was momentarily rich. More money to add to the lemonade bucket. I’m pretty sure it was an old Folger’s coffee can. Grandma and Grandpa loved their Folger’s… Sometime throughout that perfect summer day, I don’t remember when, the little radio we had set up outside started singing out, “Don’t worry be happy.” The song was catchy and bouncy. The whole family was whistling and singing to it. Even after the next song came on we were still singing that tune. It was fun to imitate the Jamaican accent and listen to my dad whistle the song in perfect tune. My dad is still the best whistler I know… I don’t remember exactly how the day ended and I think it’s better that way. It makes the memory seem surreal. Who would want an end to a perfect day like that? That beautiful summer afternoon, there were no worries and we were all happy. I was happy. I want a day like that again…

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

2008-02-04T19:48:00.001-05:00

halelujah! i suis finit avec Algebra! i hate that crap!
i woke up today (wasn't easy) and i was 25. how did this happen? i still feel like an awkward 15 year old girl with pimples and adolescent fat. oh wait--i do still have pimples and adolescent fat. i still feel like the only thing to live for is turning 16 and getting kissed by a cute boy. i still feel like my clothes are never cool enough and if i only trip three times during the day then it's a good day.
while my clothes might come from gap and express, my perfume is from hollister and reads, "for young girls." i like elton john but have a crush on little bow wow. i still like capri suns with the straws and prefer hanging with my sisters than most of my own friends.
i look in the mirror and i still see a teenager with insecurities and passions and dreams for the future that i am presently living out. somebody push back the hand of time and let me be a little girl again. let me be innocent and think that getting my driver's license and an 88 pontiac bonneville is still cool.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

2008-02-04T19:43:00.000-05:00

do i really have to go to school? do i really have to make a 75 on this last test in order to pass good for nothing algebra?! how long does stupid person have to study for this crap? i'm losing it. God help me tonight cause I know it won't be by my own power that I do well. He's listening, right?
one more semester, rikki. deep breaths. in and out.
you're gonna be okay. all this hard work is for something. it's more than a diploma, it's more than being in student loan debt, it's more than 6 years of stressing, it's more than never finding a parking spot, it's more than the tickets i rec'd for illegally parking, it's more than late nights and early mornings, it's more than even a 3.5 gpa.
it's a goal. achieved. surpassed. won by me.
it's release. it's freedom. it's wisdom gained and knowledge lost.
it's a step towards locating more of me and what i'm about. still not completely found, but arriving at the slighty cracked door of my soul and smiling because i can see a preview...and the opening credits look good...

Friday, November 26, 2004

2008-02-04T19:42:00.000-05:00

i need this venting site. i'm new at this so be patient.
coolest thing to happen for me today...
booking my flight to nyc to watch the ball drop in times square on new year's eve. you only live once on this earth and that is just something i gotta do before i die. even if it means freezing my arse off to do it.
random thought. it's the day after thanksgiving and i have no desire to eat turkey. am i alone on this?