A beautiful speech...

Namaste,

Matt Vidler

Church League

The cacophony of children's voices and of plywood chairs scraping on linoleum echoes throughout the gymnasium. But this is no ordinary gym, this is a "Christian Education Centre" or C.E.C. for short. This is a church gymnasium. It looks like any other small gym that one might find in an elementary school; a stage at one end, a kitchen on one side, some rooms for daycare and Sunday School on the other. The floor tiles are laid in a pattern of a large green Celtic cross centred on a white background. The cross gives the floor a greater sense of importance, like we are sitting on a great foundation of tradition and fellowship.

We are here to celebrate another successful softball season. A church league. We are gathered under one roof like a congregation, but we are random in nature. There is much that connects us, but much that defines our difference. Our children have all played this team sport together, learning the rules, learning to work together, improving their athletic skills. There was great pressure during each game too, when the parents would almost hysterically call out instructions at the impulse of a new play: "Throw it to first!" "Run!" "Tag the runner! Tag the runner!" and our kids bewildered with confusion, not wanting to disappoint, looking to the sidelines to find the faces of their parents, hoping to see expressions of kindness and support, dreading any look of disapproval, and wondering if they could ever master the complexity of the rules. It is a sport that sees periods of inactivity punctuated by sudden rushes of action and split-second decision making. Eventually the parents relinquished their investments of pride and allowed the coach to teach their children, who directed them to learn a single play, such as fielding the ball and attempting to throw it to first base for the out. Inning after inning, game after game, this simple strategy eventually unlocked the full purpose of the game, and each child achieved awareness individually and then collectively.

And so the season of this little church league of four teams ends with a surprising surge of functionality and cohesion resulting in winning the championship. Tears fall on the faces of our adversary, our rivals who had bested my son's team all season long. The tears last only a few minutes as they comprehend the scale of this loss, measuring it against the other disappointments in their 10 years of life, and knowing that there are far worse things than coming second. Even the champions know that there will be more games next season, and this present exuberance and joy will diminish about the same time the last licks of celebratory ice-cream are finished. But for now they are proud and happy and eager to try again next year. As each child absent-mindedly plays with their medal, they sense that they are better than when they started, and that it is not where you stand, but in what direction you are going that is important.

And so all of the teams of all the age categories sponsored by our church are gathered to break bread together; to celebrate their accomplishments and fellowship in a sport that has built not only their skills, confidence, and teamwork, but to acknowledge that we have built a community. This is further revealed as parents whom may not have spoken more than polite conversations with each other all season, inquire more deeply about each other's lives. The children who demonstrate affinity with one another draw together the parents, as it is realized that our children are alike, because we too are alike. There is a subtle awkwardness as we talk, signalling to one another that if our paths would only cross more often, we might transcend acquaintance, we could even be good friends. But it is clear that we are unsure and trepidatious, each of us already have many friends, many acquaintances, and we secretly worry that we haven't time for any more, even as we exchange phone numbers and emails with the intention of arranging play dates for our kids. Despite the shadow of futility, paper notes are passed to one another with a quiet hope, a secret prayer asking for a cohesion of our own, a cohesion as effortless as that which we witness in our children.

I look around this chamber at the younger and older kids, smiling and laughing, sharing jokes, eating from plates piled high with salads and roasted chicken. It is a church picnic of days gone by, a proper banquet, there is an extra cupcake for dessert, a chocolate moustache on my son's smiling face, a deep satisfaction in my belly. We have shared communion, we have nourished our bodies, we have celebrated our commitment to this community and to the people who have volunteered to co-ordinate this league. We thank them with our collective applause and individually shake their hands and make sure they know how much we have appreciated their efforts.

It is not an easy thing, building a community. It does not happen without catalyst. It is something that is chosen. We reach out into the world and search for community. We cautiously ask "Will you be my friend?" and we hope for affirmation. We expose ourselves, our flaws, our vulnerabilities, and leap into unknown waters, jump into darkness. Even the atheist keeps a faith that he will land safely, splash into friendly waters, be caught by a multitude of arms each individually insufficient to bear our weight, but together strong enough to cushion us. Once we have gone out into the unknown and have been received with welcoming arms, we know that the world is a good place, full of good people, that we are safe, that we can trust, that we can love.

The banquet subsides in intensity as the hours pass. Bedtimes for little ones approach, and even a few yawns emerge from the parents as the weight of their feast digests. The humidity of the room forces a closure to the event, and there is a reluctance on my part to leave, although I am happy to avoid the chore of dishwashing. The conversations trickle into the parking lot as families that have connected more deeply during this dinner, exhibit a reticence to admit that they are not likely to see each other again until next season. As we drive home from our church, we reflect upon the fast friendships made during the season, the diversity of character in each unique player, and find comfort in the sharing of a much larger story than our own. The story of our church league.

Accidental Companions

A rainy day is aiding my procrastination. The back garden needs hoeing but it can't be done in muddy soil. Perhaps more accurately, it is that I don't want to do the hoeing in muddy soil. I suppose I'm a fair-weather gardener. However, the promise of those fresh fruits and vegetables neutralizes my complacency, motivating me to keep it up, to do the daily chores that promote a successful garden.


On average, I've eaten a half-pound of asparagus per day for the last four or five weeks straight. The asparagus patch in the garden has matured nicely, and a solid handful per day rises from the soil for my benefit, sometimes more. It is pure and sweet and tender and crisp. Unadulterated by chemicals of any kind with only natural compost to enrich the soil each fall, the asparagus tastes like the purity of nature. I put them in the pan, brushed with olive oil, sautéed for five minutes on medium to high heat, fresh ground sea salt and black pepper to finish them. Sometimes I add garlic and onion and home-made chili sauce, sometimes I eat them in an omelette. They taste heavenly on my palette, conveying their sweet, green, succulence, smelling like fresh dew on grass. I imagine the vitamins and minerals they have extracted from the earth, nourishing my blood and bones and muscle. The transfer of the energy from the sun's rays, photosynthesized into green matter, the plant's DNA determining it's cell structure, it's height and girth, the flowery spear-tip, is consumed and transferred to my own body, and I know that I am eating the sun and the earth and the moon together in each bite. It is a moment of union with the solar system, a cosmic feast, an infinite cycle where energy begets energy, life begets life.


I look into the asparagus patch and I see that some "ever-berrying" strawberry plants have survived the year or two of my neglect and have rooted amongst the emerald spears. The strawberry plants look healthy and robust, a few are tucked in along the lumber-constructed side wall of the nearby raised beds. The adjacent rhubarb leaves shade and obscure some of them, but their vines search out a new rooting in the sun, seeking to join with the strawberries already mingling with the asparagus. It is an accidental companion planting, this patch of garden: Horseradish root, rhubarb, asparagus, and now strawberries, all collaborating and competing for soil and space, a gentle yet wild equilibrium that might soon conflict, demanding my intervention. I will need to expand this patch, turn the sod and shake the rich soil free from the grassroots with my garden fork, mix in compost, and transplant the strawberries so that they can propagate freely, unhindered and unrestrained, becoming neighbours to the asparagus rather than invading colonizers. The evolutionary randomness of their inherently wild quest for survival has resulted nearly in orderliness, but the spin of the earth and the desperate reaching of their roots will soon embattle them, and then the hostility of the weeds will capitalize on the seemingly uninhabitable spaces in-between them, choking them, like sub-terranean Trojan horses, until they wither and retreat into dormancy.


It is an ancient routine, this deliberate propagation of species. Ever since humankind cultivated plants like the date-palm many millennia ago. The date it produced, a natural candy once dried in the sun, a gift of sugar from the tree, much like the gift of Mother's milk, invigorating and renewing the hope of survival within those early people, validating their efforts to settle and grow and prosper. And so my garden helps me settle and grow and prosper. It is a harvest of faith, of assurance, and of trust. The food rewards my body and balances my mind. I cultivate the plants but let the randomness inspire me, allowing the natural impulses of the plants to direct their destinies. I join them in their yearning to flourish, to put forth offspring, to carry forward their history in each future generation, their genetic knowledge gathered during their brief sojourn concocted into a seed of compressed truth, a vessel of experiential knowledge awaiting the opportunity to draw nourishment from the soil and water and air and sun, a repetitious dance informed by the past, shaped by the present, holding promise for the future.


It is an idiosyncratic routine within a great cosmic joke, the absurdity of our brief glimpse of consciousness, our feet reaching out into fertile soil prepared for us so that we might develop robust roots, the sun's warming rays synthesizing our hearts, the rain quenching our desperate thirst, the blowing winds and gentle breeze strengthening our growing stalks. We wither slightly but condition ourselves under the oppressive heat, rise up to meet the cooling rains, stand contentedly in the temperate air, flower in the spring's morning sun, bear fruit in autumnal grace, and disperse our seed with an acknowledgement that we are but a single plant in a vast garden.

Gentle Sparks

We finish dinner and head into the back yard to the fire pit. A rain shower has dampened the grass and the air, but the coals in the fire pit are still glowing and the wood easily combusts into bright orange and yellow flames. A pleasant, cleansing smoke drifts around us, keeping the mosquitos at bay, a sphere of warmth enveloping each of us from the glow of the fire. My son gathers some sticks for roasting marshmallows, a double header for his little friend, a single spearhead for himself. Despite the anticipation of the rush of sugar to soon course through his veins, he retains a composure and concentration that can only come from imminent gratification. He carefully roasts his marshmallow at first, then employs a technique of setting the mallow aflame and quickly extinguishing it with huffs of breath. He repeats this act until achieving a deep brown caramelized crust upon the surface of the treat. He allows it to cool slightly before grasping the crust and gently pulling it away, revealing the oozing core, semi-solid and steaming in the chill of the night air. His teeth crunch down on the sugary concoction, satisfaction and appetite competing for primacy. My own mouth waters for the confection and I decide to indulge my greedy want as my son finishes roasting another mallow, combining it with the supplied chocolate and graham cracker, and offers it to me. I put up a false protest, but quickly submit to desire as he insists I take the s'more. He possesses a self-control and constraint that I rarely exhibit. He's eaten his treat, and he's waiting to see if another would be approved by us or condoned by his appetite. I finish the s'more and elicit an audible approval of this indulgence. My son takes this as a sign to eat a s'more of his own. With his usual awareness of content, he eats half of it, offers the remainder to his mother and she allows herself the half-indulgence.


We sit and talk, the fire's ambience supplies enough light for the boys to safely play on the rope-swing suspended from a nearby tree-branch. Everyone is sated and happy when a pinpoint of light flashes in the dark corner of the yard. Then another blue-green flash, and then another. Blue-green and yellow-orange pulses flash and I note that there are fireflies, drawing my son's attention to their presence. "Can we catch them?" he asks, "And put them in a jar?" he further queries. I insist it's better to let them thrive in this environment, but get up to go and see them more closely. The fire has died down and now only glows softly in the bottom of the pit, the yard only lit by the moon, the stars, and the fireflies. We chase them and try to catch them but they are too clever, elusive despite their slow, floating, flight. Our host peers into the country meadow behind his back fence and calls to us. We approach his vantage and I hoist my son to my shoulders so that he can see above the meadow's tall grass. Hundreds of points of light quietly pulse, moving so slowly through the air, mingling and hovering, flashing and glowing, the grey-green stalks of grass with their seeded tips illuminated, the dark midnight blue silhouettes of trees made more obvious by the insect's bio-illuminescence. Hundreds of fireflies in an acre meadow dance and drift toward us. We witness the congregation and marvel at their abundance.


Our host returns from inside the house with a butterfly net, and quickly catches one. There are now dozens of the fireflies in the yard, their flotilla continuing to spill over the fence from the meadow behind. I watch with quiet pleasure as my son borrows the net and catches one after another. We prepare a jar for their conditional captivity, instructing the boys that the bugs should be released to their home after studying them. The excitement is contagious and I and my friend reach a new satisfaction as we watch our sons fulfilled by a simple pleasure. The bugs crawl and pulse and flutter their wings in the jar, their abdomens looking delicate. We turn off the lights and set the jar upon the kitchen table and crouch and gaze at the dozen or so insects, mesmerized by their complexity and beauty. We quietly acknowledge this gift of evolution, this demonstration of biological sophistication found in this tiny entity. Our faces are illuminated by their continued glowing and pulsing and the fireflies light our eyes with gentle sparks.


We transfer some of the fireflies into another container to bring home to the city, to release in our own back yard, with an optimism that they will reproduce and populate. My son is quiet on the ride home, the flashes continuing for the journey. The nagging tug of futility means little as we quietly open the gate to our yard and open the container. The fireflies beat their wings and burst out of the container before quickly landing on the raspberry stalks my father planted. They seem to ponder their new surroundings, continuing to pulse and flash, the ultimate purpose of which to attract a mate, before taking flight again and drifting aimlessly away. A gracious good-night is inaudibly mouthed and we turn from the yard, a backwards glance over the shoulder catching a final glimpse before we enter our home, retiring to our bedrooms, falling to sleep, and dreaming of beautiful things.

Imaginary Race

It was late at night and after chewing the fat with my best friend Dan, I hopped on my beloved Kona Lava Dome mountain bike circa 1991, turned on the rear LED flasher and the front LED headlight and started my cruise. It was 11:30 pm, the air temperature was comfortable and cool, and after an intensely sunny day the breeze that made the day's heat bearable had calmed, and the streets of my city of 75,000 inhabitants were quiet.

The ride started from the top of the canal swing bridge beginning a continuous descent with a few plateau's all the way to the bicycle trail built upon the old railroad bed through the middle of the city, less than one kilometre away. I passed by Al's Pizza/Yee's Chinese Food, considering a future order of his home-made pizza rolls. I breathed deeply, the night air replenishing and revitalizing. I pedalled hard and smooth, hovering over the saddle to hop the curbs and cracks and potholes, my feet held snugly in the toe-clips. The blood pumped through my legs and my heart beat strongly, an energy I once knew only in my youth returned to my body.

At the bottom of the hill I cut an arc south from the westbound curb-side onto to the trail and plunged into the darkness of the tree-canopied path. My headlight only cast 20 feet forward and I pushed the thoughts of colliding with unseen night walkers aside and continued the imaginary race.

The soft tangerine glow of the streetlights were a dull illumination, playing strange shadows everywhere. The lamps left the advantage of a diminished darkness with which one could still clearly see a car's approaching headlights, useful when at the trail's intersecting cross-streets as I barely slowed my speed. A quick left-right glance confirmed the absence of traffic, and I returned to my pedalling that now approached a fervour. The quiet houses stood guard, quietly watching me pass, their occupant's sleep undisturbed by the whispers of air eddying behind me.

I hammered my way down Bethune Street, swerving around the fissures in the asphalt as a car approached from a few hundred feet behind me. The car caught up to me at Albert's Scrap Yard and as it was about to pass I cut across a parking lot, hopped over the curb, signalled a left turn and continued south down another subdued residential street. Stop signs and intersections were merely markers meant for another time, another place, my swoops and turns and arcs slicing the pavement like a skater on ice, my tires gripping with surety, my confidence rising with every revolution, my spirit countering the gravity upon my flesh.

The asphalt and concrete, a curse and bane in the daytime, dominated by cars and trucks spewing poisonous gases, transformed this night, it became a magnificent gift. It was as if the city planners had designed this street-scape for exactly this reason, for exactly this purpose, for exactly this ride.

I breathed and pedalled and glided and cleared my mind. I was calm. There was no anger, no anxiety, no worry for safety, no ruminations of a car-free city. This was the car-free city. It was here for me all of this time. Waiting for me to join it. The city reached up to me and I connected with it's majesty. The city embraced me and provided a ride of abundant spirit.

I arrived home and put my bike away in the shed, but I feel eager to go out again and join with the city of the night.