You see, two years ago hockey was not important to me. Most of the time, when one knows nothing about a subject, that subject has no importance. The more you know the more important it is. For example, as a teenager I never knew that it was a good thing to donate blood. I'm not even sure if I knew that a person could do it. Then one day my high school had a blood drive. Since I was 18 years old and weighed over 110 pounds I was a candidate to give. We had a small school and I was one of the few who could. I felt responsible. I gave blood. I sat in the chilly blood mobile and filled out papers. Then I sat in a little room and answered personal questions to a nurse who rattled them off so fast I wasn't sure she actually heard my answers before she checked off all the "no" boxes, but it still felt serious because the questions were about truth and purity and the safety of another human being who would eventually receive my blood. They checked my blood pressure and I felt it tapping in my arm. That was good. They pricked my finger - that hurt- and let drops of my blood fall into a blue solution. This was the test. The one I could watch. Was my blood good enough? I watched the red-black blob linger for a moment at the top of the blue solution and then slowly descend to rest with the larger red-black blob at the bottom. That was good. I passed. I was ushered to a reclining chair. My heart was pounding. I was wondering if that would affect my ability to give. Was my heart beating so fast that it would send out-of-control torrents my precious life-blood into that yellowish plastic bag they were getting ready? Was is beating so violently that the little hole they were about to punch in my arm would send blood flying everywhere? My muscles were tense. Maybe I was too tight. Maybe if my skin and muscles were too tense no blood would come out at all. Maybe they would poke me and poke me and never find any blood. The needle was sliding in, thick and steely and I watched a warm red line move quickly down the tube and into the yellowish pouch resting on a scale below me. One pint. It could save two lives. Flowing through another tube into the arm of a stranger. Coursing through the veins of another human. Saving someone's life. This is important. I know about this. I will do this whenever I can. It feels good. This is my experience. This is my cause. An invaluable gift that even the poorest man can give. This is important. I know about this.
So, what in the great province of Alberta does this have to do with hockey? Maybe not very much. Maybe a little something. Maybe it just came to mind when I thought about things I care about, things like hockey. Because two years ago I didn't care much at all about Canada's game, but then I married Ivan, and it was one of the most important things in the world to him. I moved to Canada in November and until June we watched hockey in one form or another half the nights of every week. I asked questions. "Who is Roloson?" "Oh, he's the goalie that carried the Oilers to game 7 of the '07 final. He's feisty. Sometimes he throws the puck up and hits it with his stick like a baseball player." "Why don't you like the Kanucks?" "Because they're in our division. You never cheer for the teams in your division." "Who's our coach?" "Mac T." "Is he good?" "He's one of the best coaches in the NHL. He's smart and funny. 'It was a debacle of monumental proportions.'" "Why do some people cheer for the Flames?" "Because they won the Stanley Cup one time and then everyone wanted to cheer for them. They only have band-wagon fans. We've cheered for the Oilers through thick and thin. The competition between that team and our team is called the battle of Alberta." "Oh, Ok."
And now I'm a fan -- of hockey in general, of the Oilers in specific, and I hate the Flames, but I can't really tell you why. Maybe because I know Oilers. I'm elated if they win; I'm confused and depressed when they lose. I love Hemsky's tricks and Horcoff's crooked face and Sourey's power shots. I've embraced their color, their style, their coach, their players, their successes and their failures. I know about them. If Ivan had been a fan of the Flames instead of the Oilers I suppose I would have hated the Oilers with as deep a passion because I would have known another team. So maybe you would say that I've been indoctrinated, that I have a warped sense of right and wrong, but then so do you because if you're saying that you're probably cheering for Calgary.
Maybe it's like the Jehovah's Witnesses who refuse donated blood because they believe with all their hearts that its wrong because they have embraced a certain religion. They've been told it's wrong. Or maybe it's not connected at all, but maybe...

So who are you cheering for and what team do you hate? What do you think is important just because you've experienced it? What do you believe is right and wrong? Do you have true truth? Just thinking.

I would say that I have blood on my hands, but technically it's on my heart. I commissioned a murder today. I thought my heart was hard enough to handle it, but still I'm guilty. I felt that I was provoked enough to justify my conspiries. I considered it a case of capital punishment, and I am the president. Tonight I will dream of the little body flopping helplessly in death and I running from the scene and my hit man dumping the body ruthlessly in the dumpster in our back alley. No one will ever find out, unless my guilty lips cannot keep still. He wrapped it in a Superstore bag. No one will ever know. Really it was an insignificant victim. No one will ever care. He caused me so much loss and trouble. Anyone would agree that it was deserved. But maybe not Miss Potter. She might think I was unjust. She might label me as grouchy, bloodthirsty, un-empathic, narrow-minded, stingy, brutal... gardener. He was a very small bunny.

"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find All the barriers within yourself that you have built against it." --Rumi

What a blessing to have lived today. I woke up this morning. I heard rain falling off leaves outside our window. I knew Ivan was beside me. What a gift to know that I have a morning and then an evening and perhaps another night. God gave me today. And now the sun is going down. The flowers fold up their petals. It was a good day. Day. Day. Day. What a nice word, a soft word, full of light and lavender shadows and something else, maybe hope, maybe anticipation, maybe a smile. I think the word day is like a beckoning hand, inviting. If I take that fresh hand, it will be full of memories when I go to sleep at night. I think I will.