Mhairi Forrest

A year ago, I began collecting sea glass whenever I travel to places with a beach. There’s something lovely about its soft colours and edges, the result of time being shaped by the lapidary of ocean, sand and rock. It’s really just trash, broken pieces from bottles, mirrors, windows, but as its sharpness is dulled and its transparency is clouded in the sea, the more desirable it becomes with the most valuable and rarest of all being beads, or pebbles of glass which have endured so much time in the often violent tumult, they’ve been abraded into small, translucent pearls.

I find it fascinating that unaltered, glass on the beach is dangerous and something to be avoided. Even a small sliver can cause harm when embedded in a foot. Yet, throw the same piece into the water, and in time, a hazard is transformed into an object which has lost its ability to inflict pain. I’ve held sea glass tightly in my palm and rubbed it between my fingers. It’s still glass, retaining all the physical and chemical properties of that substance, but is no longer a danger.

Every one of us has suffered some kind of brokeness in our lives. Like shards of glass, we carry our shattered dreams, promises, relationships, hearts, once so precious, now smashed by the choices of ourselves or others. The act of breaking is excruciating enough, but the pieces left behind, like small, deeply embedded bits of glass quickening our hearts in sharp, unexpected agony, can affect us for lifetimes. There they become distortive lenses between us and the world and weapons wielded against others’ souls.

There is an ocean in which to throw these shards so they lose the ability to hurt. Cushioned by the deep fathoms of God’s forgiveness, love, and grace, our brokeness is buffeted against the rocks and sand of his power. Just as this process of abrasion is traumatic, but crucial for the glass to be changed, so too for us as he grinds the sharp edges, making them safe for ourselves and others, etches the surfaces so we no longer see the world through them, and completely fashions each piece into something that is not only not dangerous, but actually beautiful. The memories will always be with us, part of who we are, but buffered in his unrelenting waves of grace something lovely is made of our devastation. By saying, “Take this God,” we yield each piece, as often as it takes for it to be completely worn down, to the one who promises to bind up the broken-hearted, proclaims freedom to the captive, comforts those who mourn, and provides for those who grieve, gives beauty for ashes, and joy for despair, who takes the shards of our lives and crafts them into pearls.

Several days ago, I went for a walk with my number three child, the serious one. She’s nine years old and tries to preserve her image at all costs. I’m not sure when the child who used to run around the house naked became so concerned about her dignity, but it certainly isn’t due to my influence and I refuse to take the blame.

On the way home, we passed my favourite hill. I call it the “Bomb Hill”, because it’s steep and grassy and you can roll down really fast. I got that glint in my eye and dared her to go with me. I know beneath her propriety is a naked little girl wanting to be free and it’s my job to instigate the jailbreak.

We went down several times, laughing all the way. She managed to stay tidy, while my hair was full of leaves and dead flowers. I know this, because she pointed it out. People walking by smiled and a couple of homeless guys stared like they thought we were crazy.

“You know, Mom, that’s just weird!” said #3.

“Oh,” I replied, “funny weird, or strange weird?”

“A bit of both.”

“Why’s it weird?” I asked her.

“Well, there aren’t many forty-four year old grownups who roll down hills. That’s why everyone was staring.”

Recognizing a teachable moment dangling in front of my face, I grabbed it. “I want you to promise me when you’re forty-four, you’ll roll down a hill and think of me.”

“Okay,” she said and I tasted the sweetness of victory over her decorum. “But I’ll have to take a video and bring it to Heaven to show you.”

Apparently, the child doesn’t plan on me living into my eighties.

I consider myself a hedonist (SEE: A Hedonist Manifesto), but not of the partying ilk, more in the mold of your average kindergartener. Little kids, before they become all self-conscious and proper, know how to have fun. They can take something as simple as mud and turn it into the best game ever. They don’t care if they get dirty, or look silly, they’re all about enjoying the moment. I want to be free like them and jump into life with the same abandon. I’m always on the lookout for opportunities to indulge that part of me.

So, the following night, I took #’s 2, 3 and 4 out for another walk. We went to the park first and I planned on ending the evening with more hill rolling. There were a lot of kids climbing on the jungle gym and swinging. I thought about having a go on those, but noticed off to the side, two little round-a-bouts. For those who don’t frequent children’s play equipment, these are small disks you sit or stand on and someone turns the handle and spins you.

Feeling pretty cocky about being such a free spirit, I sat on one while my youngest daughter twirled me. It stopped and then #2, my twelve year old son, asked if he could pitch in. Yeah, I mean, if it was fun with the seven year old turning it, how much MORE fun would it be with my son. I wrapped my arms and legs around the pole in the middle and held on. He pulled with both hands, running faster and faster. I threw my head back, laughing. It was a blast… and then it stopped.

“Ohhh!” I groaned. The kids wanted me off so they could have a turn. “I can’t.” More groaning. “I shouldn’t have eaten spaghetti before we came here.” I was afraid to move in case said dinner made a reappearance, but knowing I looked a right idiot sitting there, holding on for dear life, managed to get off and hobble over to a bench.

“I have to go home!” I cried.

“Great! Can we go roll the hill now?” asked my now overly exuberant darlings.

“Nooo, I need to go to bed! I feel old!” As I shuffled away, I looked back at my nemesis. “Next time,” I vowed, ” I’m coming back with an empty stomach.”

Are embryos people too? It’s a question I have to ask. Or, maybe the question I’m really asking is what are human embryos? Are they the beginning stages of human life and deserving of protection, or are they a mass of cells, which can be used at will?

One of President Obama’s first acts in office was to sign an order removing the restrictions on federal funding for embryonic stem cell research imposed by President Bush. The Bush administration allowed for government money to be used on stem cell lines created before August 2001, but research on new lines had to be privately funded. Obama lifted the ban stating, “our government has forced…a false choice between sound science and moral values…(Obama’s executive order) is about ensuring scientific data is never distorted or concealed to serve a political agenda – and that we make scientific decisions based on facts, not ideology.”

Bush limited funding because of, as he stated, “fundamental questions about the beginnings of life and the ends of science.” You can define this decision as ideology, or as reservations based on whether or not the government should support research that may be morally and ethically wrong.

President Obama has no problem identifying other scientific research as immoral. In the same speech he stated, “We will ensure that our government never opens the door to use of cloning for human reproduction. It is dangerous, profoundly wrong, and has no place in our society, or any society.” So, at least, in the case of reproductive cloning (not therapeutic cloning which he failed to mention), making decisions about science based on ideology is permissible, as long as its ideology with which you agree.

In stem cell research, surplus embryos donated from fertility clinics have their stem cells removed, resulting in the destruction of the embryos. These cells are unspecialized meaning they’re not muscle cells, etc., but can develop into specialized cells. Theoretically, these new cells can then be used as therapy for patients suffering from diseases like Parkinson’s.

There are several restrictions on obtaining the embryos. They must come from fertility clinic surplus; must be destined for destruction; cannot be created for experimentation; and the donors must give consent.

As Dr. Curt Civin, Founding Director, University of Maryland Center for Stem Cell Biology and Regenerative medicine stated, “This was life that was going to be destroyed. The choice is to throw them away or use them for research.”

Here’s where I return to my original question. If these embryos are life, human life, should they be available for scientific research at all? I doubt there’s anyone who would argue for experimentation on the terminally ill, elderly, or death row inmates, even though their lives are about to end. Any scientist proposing such a thing would be considered evil.

If embryos are not human life, then why are there any restrictions? If they’re simply a mass of cells, undeserving of protection, then we should be able to do anything we want with them, including tossing them in a blender with a banana and marketing it as a protein shake.

I could argue other sources of cells, such as adult cells and umbilical cords are promising, or that the ability to use cells grown from stem cells for cures is theoretical only; however, I believe these arguments miss the point. Even if this therapy lives up to all the potential and is the ONLY source of cells for use in treating these diseases, is it morally right for us as a society to pursue it? That question should be answered first. Historically, there has been experimentation done on humans who were also destined for destruction and not considered fully human by the scientists experimenting on them. All moral societies have condemned their research, even refusing to use the possibly beneficial results.

We should also be asking whether or not so many embryos should be produced in the first place. I understand the rationale. the more embryos created, the better the chance of a successful pregnancy and healthy baby. But is that enough reason to be making life only to destroy it?

Each embryo, if implanted in a womb, could develp into a unique human being, never seen before and never to exist again. These questions are too important to ignore and too crucial to denigrate as mere ideology.

I’m really good at falling; in fact, I’m so good at it, I’ve embraced it as my own particular form of dance. I wear my abundance of bruises as sanguineous (ooh. I’m SO showing off) badges of something approaching nostalgia… Oh, yeah, this beaut’s from the time I flipped the shopping cart I was riding… I realized a long time ago, that for me, tripping over things (like air), usually in front of an audience, is inevitable, so I’d better learn to get up gracefully with my sense of humour intact. So, falling is my art form and I am an artiste.

Athletes understand this idea of falling with style. The really remarkable ones have made their careers by biting the dust over and over again. They have to be willing to fall, willing to fail, in order to achieve greatness. I love watching Olympic hurdlers warm up. You can see them looking down the track, imagining themselves soaring over the hurdles. Preparing for this race, they’ve flown over hundreds and probably crashed into just as many. They’re not looking at the ten in their way as obstacles, but as opportunities to show millions of people what they can do. They’ve trained for this day, using every failure as an occasion to learn how to get over the next hurdle cleaner. The interesting thing is, they always race with the possibility of crashing. Crashing means they won’t win, they might even sustain injuries, and remember, the whole world is watching, so if they fall, it’ll be spectacular. But achieving the glory waiting 400m in the distance makes it worth it.

Its easy to view anything in the way to the finish line as an obstacle, an insurmountable brick wall even. I’ve stood in the starting block and stared down barriers, only to remember past failures and that was enough to send me packing. I wasn’t going to enter the stadium again, let alone get on the track. I might fail and that fear of failing was sufficient to keep me out of the race. Fear is a really interesting phenomenon. For the most part, it’s just our imaginations working, but it can have an actual impact in our lives. It’s like the soundtrack to a horror movie. If you watch a scary film with the sound off, or as I prefer, with your thumbs in your ears (and the rest of your fingers covering your eyes), you’ll find it a whole lot less terrifying. Fear of falling, of failing, of all the what-ifs, can be like the violins in Psycho.

Shutting off the music, learning to push past fear, is difficult, but not impossible. It takes existing in the present and being thankful for whatever good things are in our lives. It means dreaming big dreams and taking on the first hurdle on the track towards them, even if we bite the dust, because giving in to fear is the only 100 percent money-back guaranteed way not to succeed.

For me, it was losing a hundred pounds. I was determined to get over that first hurdle, no matter how many times I’d failed before. When I did, I realized the next one was looking much nearer the ground. Within a fifteen month period, I lost the weight; was a finalist in a Good Housekeeping Magazine writing contest (the first I’d ever entered); began and finished the first draft of my first novel; pursued literary agents and publishers; left a very broken relationship; and began traveling again. Each time, I learned, and used my momentum to carry me over the next one. I’m still racing and still crashing, but now when I fall, I fall with panache, because I know I’m getting closer to the dream waiting across the finish line and nothing’s going to stop me.