Cupboard Full of Hygge

I feel so much better
When I'm wearing my sweater (oh-oh-oh)
I won't sh-sh-sh shiver you'll see
So toasty, so cozy (oh-oh)
Put-put-put on a sweater
Put-put-put on a sweater*

The popular Scandinavian term hygge is all about cosiness, and nothing epitomises that feeling more for me than a warm, comfy and cuddly sweater.  And, as you can see, I have an entire cupboard stuffed full with them.  But hygge not why today is sweater day.

National Sweater Day is observed on 1st February each year to raise awareness about renewable energy, and to encourage Canadians to modify their attitudes and behaviours regarding energy consumption in Canada.  Simply put — if all Canadians lowered the setting on their thermostats by a mere two degrees (Celsius), we’d reduce greenhouse gas emissions by almost 4MT.  Four megatons is the equivalent of taking 700,000 cars off the road.  Just imagine!

Beginning in 2010, more than a million Canadians have turned down their thermostats on this day and worn their comfy-cosy sweaters to stay warm.

Here in beautiful Essex County today, our district school board will be participating in National Sweater Day by turning down the thermostats in schools and administrative buildings by 2 degrees.  Students and staff will be showing off their favourite sweaters to stay warm and comfortable.

Classroom by classroom, school by school, home by home, business by business – Canadians are choosing to be a part of the solution.  Won’t you please join us?  

I’m a Hygge enthusiast, I love all things cosy, most especially my beloved sweater collection, most of which have been hand knit - some even especially for me!  Hygge is the art of finding comfort, pleasure, and warmth in the simple, soothing things - like cosy sweaters. Go on!  I dare you!  Right now - walk over to your thermostat, turn it down by 2℃, choose your favourite woolie and, at least for today, let’s make a difference!

’Til next time, y’all…

*Reb Stevenson and William E. Reid, songwriters.

Fair warning:  This post is a blatant appeal to your kind hearts for your participation!
card pictures

Every year on 26th February, Canada observes “National Letter to an Elder Day”.  Everyone is encouraged to hand write, in large, clearly formed letters, a greeting card to the elderly who reside in long term care facilities to brighten their day.  So, at least on that one day, they feel neither forgotten nor alone.  So they feel loved and cherished.

Have you ever visited a long term care home?  It’s daunting and heartbreaking and wrong that so many folks are simply left (most by their own families) in those homes, alone, with few or no visitors.  Warehoused.  Waiting for God.  Their sadness and loneliness are palpable.  At the end of her life, my mum was a resident at The Golden Plough Nursing Home in Cobourg. As LTC facilities go, it was very nice, with pretty gardens, an interior courtyard, kind, friendly staff, plenty of activities and very good food.  Still, the fact remains that many of her fellow residents seldom had visitors, and felt uncherished.  Tell me there is anything more upsetting than that, if you can.  

A not-for-profit group called “Love For Our Elders” started National Letter to an Elder Day and they are committed to defeating loneliness with love.  In communities all across Canada, our help is being sought to send handwritten letters to seniors.  Here in Essex County, our library branches are encouraging their patrons to write friendly, hopeful, loving and positive letters, and then to simply drop them off at any of ECL’s locations before February 21. They will make sure the letters reach local seniors.

There are a lot of writers who read this blog, also a lot of kind, thoughtful souls.  Please, in the next three weeks, try to find a few minutes to choose or make a card, fill it with loving thoughts, and send it off.  If you’re spending time with your kiddos or grands, perhaps this might be a fun creative project one afternoon - having them design and write cards of their own.  True that, in your neighbourhood, this may require some research to discover where your cards might be dropped off but, PLEASE do not be discouraged by that task.  

Also, if you can find it in your heart, please spread the word, by mouth and on your socials.  This is definitely a more-the-merrier activity!

There are some guidelines (link): Love For Our Elders

I will be writing a card or two myself, and I hope you will do the same, please.  Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

’Til next time, y’all…

*Title, 1990s BBC television comedy.

Writing Worries V - Chasing the Poetic

Through four of my five years at Wexford CI, I was blessed to have Mrs. Nelson as my English teacher.  She was smart and funny and kind and made every book seem wonderful and special as we read and wrote about it.  English was always one of the best parts of my day.  It was Mrs. Nelson who fostered and nurtured my interest in and love of poetry.  Oh how I’d love to be able to thank her!

One of Mrs. Nelson’s favourite poets was Baudelaire and, in grade ten (my first year with her), she presented the above quote to us in a lesson about essay writing (apparently, our first efforts were all substantially less-than).  She taught us that M. Baudelaire meant that, in all writing (even essays!), we ought to strive for eloquence, that even our prose should be imbued with the elegance, rhythm and style that are typically associated with poetry.  Having had Mrs. N., four years running, I found that quote copied into four English notebooks.  It is a lofty goal that has long been seared onto my brain.  

The Agony and the Editing

[With apologies to Mr. Stone for bastardising his sublime title.]

My bridges book is finished! For now, at least.  I may update/amend/augment as the Gordie Howe progresses.  Shy, admittedly, of my initial 100 page goal, but finished.  Amen!!!  First drafts truly are The Agony and Ecstasy** of writing. This is where sparkling (I wish!) concepts flow through my fingertips, to the keyboard and onto my screen. First drafts are my creative happy place. They’re fun and satisfying.  But then…

Real writers have professional editors. Paid editors.  It’s the gold standard. I get it! For a manuscript that will never cross a publisher’s desk, an editor is simply not in my budget. Solo effort, then.  I need to be dispassionate (is that even possible, do you suppose?), fearless and ruthless.

Today I began to edit some of my bridge book pages and, as the venerable Mr. Hemingway so famously opined, The first draft of anything is shit.  Um, yup!  On my first read-through, the words on the pages rarely matched the clever expressiveness I imagined I’d written. Instead, it was a sloppy tangle of story and idea threads needing some tight organisation. And that’s the agony of editing first drafts - searching for some goodness, some quality, a nugget of excellence, amongst the dross.  Streamlining, chasing the poetic, and aiming for eloquence without falling into the trap of grandiloquence.  Easy-peasy, right?  Nope!  Not even close. 

Next up:  Taming the hodgepodge chaos I’ve created into a tight, focussed narrative.  This is my moment of truth in this writing odyssey.  My hope (fervent wish) is that, hidden in all this mess, are a few tidbits of brilliance that I can work with, some petits triomphes, that suggest there might be a poet, even in this prose.

’Til next time, y’all…

Writing Worries V - Chasing the Poetic 2

*Charles Pierre Baudelaire, poet, master of rhyme and rhythm, essayist.
**Irving Stone - title of his biographical novel about Michelangelo.

It hath a door, my pen, somewhere,
And what a throng is waiting there!

Bright thoughts are standing all about,
And quivering to be let out.

O could I find the golden key,
Open the door and set them free!”*

Golden Key

Here I am, in front of my computer screen, writing another blog post instead of writing for my book.  Again! My friend just wrote to me, I have just read your last 2 blogs. You write well about not writing. Why is it, do you suppose that, whilst I find it so easy to write about my writing experiences, I have so much trouble writing pages for my book?  

A friend who is a bona fide writer reached out to ask about the bridge book.  He specifically wanted to know if I’d written about The Brighton Road Swing Bridge yet. With a silly-huge amount of relief, I was able to respond in the affirmative.  He suggested that my core guide ought to be my experiences - remembering my bridge visits, remembering standing on or beneath the bridges and remembering how I felt in that moment.  I was grateful, and I knew that his advice was a Golden Key.

Another friend from our book club told me today that she considered me to be a person of great curiosity (did she mean I’m nosy, do you suppose?), and that I ought to embrace my curiosity.  Indeed, she believes, it should be the key driver in my writing.  Again, I was grateful, and I knew that her advice was another Golden Key.

One of my favourite reads each week is (link) Gleanings.  It is a compilation of writing that, in one way or another, appealed to Kerry’s (the curator’s) sensibilities.  What it is, though, is a virtual writing symposium. I’ve learned a lot from the many writers that have been featured over the years.  Sometimes the essays offer the polished style to which I'm aspiring, sometimes they rattle my conscious, sometimes they awaken me to a sensitive issue, sometimes they make me laugh, or cry and sometimes I even see a bit of myself in some of the words, thoughts and adventures described.  There were two particularly inspirational essays in this week's Gleanings and, for the third time today, I was grateful and I knew that I’d found a third and fourth Golden Key.

Writers helping writers, hey?  They sure know best! There’s a solidarity amongst these kindred spirits.  A support network of folks who know first hand the angst, obsession and frustration of writing.  This afternoon, and with much gratitude and optimism, I hope to use my newfound Golden Keys to open the door and set free my words.  Wish me luck! 

’Til next time, y’all…

*“The Pen” by Amos Russel Wells

Writing Worries III - CogitatioScreenshot

So far, no toboggan, no sliding!

Cogitation, from the Latin cogitatio (thinking/thought).

The Hardest Part of Writing is cogitation. Thinking.  Contemplating the message I want to convey and then converting those thoughts into words.  I’ve been told more than once that if you can think, you can write.  Here’s the thing; those who know me the most intimately will tell you that thinking is what gets me into trouble. Over and over again!

As suggested by the CBC creative writing team, I’ve been scheduling two hours each afternoon to sit quietly and work on my book.  I think it is working - my goal is 100 pages/100 bridges and I’ve completed 83.  I have 12 images ready to go and I’ve fleshed out their accompanying tales but I’ve had trouble actually writing them (which is why they remain unfinished).  I’m also dithering over which of my remaining bridges to use for the last five pages.  (Perhaps 100 was overly ambitious.)  

Writing is hard for me because, ‘though I usually have a sentiment in mind, the words - at least the right words are often elusive — they don’t come flying out of my fingers when I type.  I have such high expectations (hopes?) for my bridge book and those can be an enormous and paralysing burden.  

One of my fiercest champions is Dr. McEricher at A & L.  Complaining that, whenever I try to wrangle my thoughts int0 words and force them onto the page, disaster strikes, that venerable professor offered this advice: Just think about that one page/one bridge at a time.  Be mindful that you’re not writing a textbook, you’re spinning a yarn about your favourite bridges.  

His other pearl of wisdom was to name my “whys”:

• Why include this bridge?
• Why did you react to this bridge?
• Why did you like this bridge?
• Why did this bridge stand out for you?
• Why did you experience an emotional connection with this bridge?
• Why will your reader want to know more about this bridge?

His summation: Only when you have the answers to those questions can you begin to weave your narrative - whether it be serious and sensitive or fanciful and fun.

Sounds so easy when phrased like that, doesn’t it?

Cogitationis poenam nemo patitur.
[Nobody endures punishment for thought.]

It’s writing time.  I’m going to tackle one of the “problem bridges” using my newly minted name my whys strategy.  Today there will be a lot of thinking time but, as any good defence lawyer will tell you, mere thought is not punishable by law - cogitationis poenam nemo patitur.

’Til next time, y’all…

*Marie deNervaud 

Writing Worries II - LargoScreenshot

Every year for the past #idrathernotsayyears, I’ve submitted an original tale to the CBC Short Story Prize competition.  Without any success whatsoever but, they do send me (three times each week) their newsletter with writing tips.  Thursday’s tip:  Figure out a writing schedule.  Um…. That would suggest that, to a schedule, one might be able to sit down and begin writing - on command, as it were.  I know four published, well-recognised Canadian authors, two of them quite well, and I’m very sure each one of them could do just that.  Me?  Not so much.  Oftentimes when I open my files, spread out my research and prepare to write, my mind is like a blank page.  Like a field of snow with no footprints.  Like a blackboard wiped clean.  You know?  Now then, at two o’clock in the morning, when I’m wide awake and staring out the window at the woods, the ideas come fast and furious.  Or at least I think they do, perhaps they’re all useless ideas and most mornings I cannot remember what I’d thought was so very brilliant during the night.  

Back to the CBC’s advice.  Cam is hoping to watch a curling tournament (ooops, bonspiel) this week in the afternoons so, as suggested by the magi at CBC, I’ve scheduled those two-hour blocks of time for writing.  Nicely soundproofed with my earphones, I plan to work on my book.  Indeed I’m writing at this very moment - a blog post, ‘though, not book material.  See?  I’m hopeless!  Proven by today’s photo.

Largo, a very slow tempo, is my bridge book progress in a nutshell! But steady? I’m happy to record that yesterday afternoon I wrote ten new pages — I put my head down and wrote non-stop (no editing, no second-guessing, no deleting).  I’ve not looked at it since, indeed much of it may be utter crap, but some of it must be worth keeping, non?  

To no one’s great surprise, including my own, the CBC team knows what it’s about!  

’Til next time, y’all…

*Paul Thomas Mann, Nobel Laureate (Literature), author, essayist.

The end.

Writing Worriment

Or it could be the end.  Those thoughts of the magnificent George Orwell are precisely what I’ve been feeling this winter - exhausted, struggling mightily, and inflicted with the troubling illness of self-doubt.  

Ever since I was a wee tad (and yes, I know that’s hard to imagine), I’ve loved to write - mostly journal entries which have been at times copious, absurd, sometimes sappy, juvenile and daft.  Until Oprah, my notebooks were called diaries but now I’m so much more sophisticated (NOT!) - I have journals. Also, saved in various computer files, there is a goodly collection of short stories I've written.

I have written (and finished, and printed) two books, “Anatomy of a Barn” and “Wildflower Whimsy” - both mostly photo books with my own images.  Both books came together quickly, easily and enjoyably.  Encouraged by that success, I’ve begun a third book, about bridges this time.

“The road to hell is paved with works-in-progress.”**

I love bridges.  A lot.  Especially footbridges.  Indeed I have about 100k bridge images.  Last winter I began to curate my favourite photos/bridges and to write a book about them.  I got stuck.  This winter I started again. From scratch. Chief amongst my problems is organising the completed pages.  What order should the pictures/tales go in?  Does it matter?  Do I have enough pages?  Too many pages?  Am I obsessing?  URGH!  At first my friends would ask if I was still working on the bridge book, and they’d smile their encouragement. Nowadays, the smile is more of a sneer and the comments are some version of, Still writing that bridge book? I also hear, Well after all, you’re not a real writer, are you? And, as I’m unpublished, of course that is true, but still..  It does hurt, I’ll be honest.

I have signed up for (and completed) three writing courses and, ‘though the last one promised it was for both fiction and non-fiction writers, that bit was a lie - it was all about character development, plot twists, metaphors…. 

I am passionate about bridges and about my bridge book. I want anyone who reads it to understand my love of these artistically and structurally amazing fabrications which defy imagination and gravity.  I want them to feel and share my exuberance and joy, and to recognise the enchanted world of make-believe and let’s pretend of our bridges. My fear is that I’m writing tales that are vapid, trivial, and boring.  I’m worried that my words are failing to describe my emotion and rapture.

I don’t know what’s wrong - I can’t seem to get the text just right.  Too many words?  Not enough words?  Wrong words?  Arrrrrrrrrrgh!

Writing Bridges: Curves, Angles, Imagination has been a labour of love.  Both times.  When I started this project, I didn’t spare a thought for what my images and writing might become, I just knew I wanted to record as many details as I could about these beautiful structures. I may not have the gift of telling stories, I’m not even sure I have the skills to write sufficiently interesting and animated tales about bridges — I just knew that it felt right, that the time was right. My bridge tales come directly from my heart and my imagination.  I just hope I have the fortitude and competence to get this project across the finish line which, for me, would be taking it to the printer.

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”***

’Til next time, y’all…

Curves Angles Imagination

*George Orwell
**Philip Roth
***Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums.

Loneliness LONELINESS
[Mary Oliver]

I too have known loneliness.
I too have known what it is to feel
misunderstood,
rejected, and suddenly
not at all beautiful.
Oh, mother earth,
your comfort is great, your arms never
Withhold.
It has saved my life to know this.
Your rivers flowing, your roses opening in the
morning.
O, motions of tenderness!”*

Loneliness is my word for 2024 and it is my hope that I can learn to recognise it and then respond to it and engage with love and kindness.

Reading the newspapers and my social media feeds, looking into the eyes of my friends and acquaintances and listening to the meaning behind the comments they make, I realise that a crisis of loneliness -  not limited to any specific province, town or postal code - is upon us. It is very easy to blame COVID-19, but the causes and contributing factors are myriad and complex.  Sadly, and all too often, loneliness = differentness.  One group most affected is our seniors, an unfathomable number of whom are experiencing chronic loneliness which is adversely affecting their health (physical and mental).  Loneliness isn’t, you see, about being alone, more a feeling that you’re not whole, that something or someone is missing.  Alone is a situation, loneliness is a feeling.  That feeling doesn’t necessarily change when other people are nearby — many folks feel wretchedly lonely in a crowd of people. Only engagement can alleviate loneliness.

Grief

Indiana Jones: Brutal couple of years, huh, Charlie? First Dad, then Marcus.
Dean Stanforth: We seem to have reached the age where life stops giving us things and starts taking them away.**

Within my generation in our families, and my circle of friends, there is an unavoidable connection to and empathy with the dean’s comment.  There is nothing comparable to grief in experiencing wave after relentless wave of loneliness and sadly, I’ve a wealth of relatives and friends who have lost their beloved partners in the past five years.

I feel as if the world, and everyone in it, is galloping away from me and I feel powerless to either stop or join it. I know all about the five stages but trust me, there’s no denial, bargaining, depression or acceptance, my grief is all anger at being alone and feeling so damned lonely. Spoken by my dear friend “C” who, last summer, marked the five year anniversary of the death of her partner of 43 years, “S”.  The two met in 1975 through sorority pledging at UofT, immediately fell madly and deeply in love, and were inseparable until the day sweet S lost her battle with cancer.  The floor fell out of C’s world and she’s yet to regain her footing.  She speaks of having spent the ensuing lustrum stewing in her grief and loneliness.  She said, Isolated by my grief, I feel a desperate loneliness.  That confession fair broke my heart.

Another close friend, “G”, explained his grief like this:  When “H” died, my life’s rhythm abruptly ended, and I’ve spent my time ever since in a lonely, graceless place, full of insecurity, sadness and fear.  For the past year, I’ve not seen G in person, only whilst video chatting, but I’m aware of an unmistakeable aura of aloneness about him, a sadness that appears bone-deep.

True that grief affects each soul differently, but a strong commonality is the sense of being adrift — experiencing feelings of abandonment, anxiety, and aimlessness. Feeling lonely even when in the company of friends. Each, in his or her own way, is experiencing profound loneliness.

Differentness

Societal aversion and hostility towards differentness, and the resulting stereotyping and prejudice is the most prevalent (and growing) cause of loneliness.  Also, the most hurtful. Differentness can include race, ethnicity (biracialism in particular), gender, sexual orientation, skin colour, disabilities (both physical and intellectual), biculturalism, creed, clothing, language, body size/shape — each one an opportunity to be judged, harassed and alienated. 

Coping with, and overcoming the social stigma and discrimination inherent with one’s differentness is a lonely, challenging and entirely unfair ordeal. The costs associated with being a little different might be social, economic, physical or mental, but regardless, it is enormous and it is taxing. For example:

• If a business requires that all its employees be available to work all seven days, people whose faith requires that they do not work on Fridays, Saturdays or Sundays may be excluded from employment, even when they're the most qualified and experienced candidate.
• An employer with premises that is only accessible by stairs, or which has only standard toilet cubicles, excludes those with physical disabilities.
• An employer that relies solely (or heavily) on printed matter (instruction manuals, office memos, form completion, etc.) excludes two groups - those with impaired sight and those with some types of learning disabilities.

Each one of those exclusions is a form of isolation and isolation leads directly to loneliness.

Elder Loneliness

Elder loneliness has grown to catastrophic proportions and this is directly attributable to COVID-19.  Many volunteer programs were cancelled during the pandemic; some have never been resumed, others only on a limited basis, leaving these seniors without a regular visitor or contact. Regardless of whether these folks are living in their own homes or a retirement residence or a long-term care facility, their isolation is now extreme.  They are experiencing the saddest possible loneliness.  These seniors talk about feeling crushed by loneliness, and waiting (wanting, even) to die.  

No one, ever, should feel such hopeless despondency.  EVER!

People all around us are lonely.  No one is immune to that struggle. That is why my word for 2024 is loneliness and it is my hope that I can learn to recognise it and then respond to it and engage with love and kindness.  Now, having done my research, and unlike my attitude at the outset, my heart is now 100% engaged in this New Year’s word-to-live-by strategy. I hope you will please join me.  Can you think of someone who might be lonely?  We never truly know anyone else’s life — from our perspective it may look happy, complete and easy, yet on the inside, that person is feeling anxious, afraid, and lonely.  Responding and engaging won’t be easy.  It’s a big ask to take on the responsibility for someone else’s loneliness.  My best advice, Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.***

I too have known loneliness.
I too have known what it is to feel
misunderstood,
rejected, and suddenly
not at all beautiful.*

’Til next time, y’all…

*Mary Oliver, Loneliness, page 25 from her collection Devotions.
**David Koepp, George Lucas, Jeff Nathanson (screenwriters), “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull”.
***Credited, variously, to Plato and Ruskin, both philosophers, born more than two thousand years apart, one in ancient Greece and the other in Victorian England. At issue is not the provenance but the pertinence of the advice!

Happy Hogmanay! I hope you enjoyed a very sweet and peaceful Christmas celebration, one that left you feeling fortunate, grateful, and content. Hogmanay (New Years’ Eve celebrations in Scotland) cannot ever be complete without Rabbie’s poem and song.

Auld Lang Syne, first verse.  The familiar song reflects upon old friendships that have stood the test of time and I am blessed, for some reason unbeknownst to me, to have a wealth of loyal, kind, thoughtful, and devoted friends of long-standing and even more on-line through my blog.  I am grateful to you folks for your unwavering, gracious and indulgent support and your affinity and amity.

When year-end looms, typically we engage in some reflection, evaluation, and planning.  For me, reflection always triggers thoughts of how many good deeds I failed to perform or words of kindness and hope I failed to utter, that might have eased another’s burden.  In evaluating, 2023 was definitely a volatile year — one of both terrific and tragic events throughout the world. 

Some of the terrific:

• The hole in the ozone layer is shrinking; and
• 2023 was a year of significant global vaccine progress - both development and delivery - and not just for COVID & RSV; and
• According to the WHO, the pandemic ended 5th May 2023; and
• Global repatriation of treasures and artefacts.  Here in Canada, Scotland returned a stollen Totem to Nisga'a territory, BC.

Some of the tragic:

• Death and destruction caused by wildfires in Canada, Australia, Greece and Maui; and
• Turkey’s 7.8 Magnitude Earthquake; and
• October 7th; and
• The resulting extreme polarisation and world-wide protests that are taxing our first responders to their limits - and beyond.

In the face of rapidly multiplying discrimination, hatred, racism, religious persecution, and intolerance, our responsibility and our privilege is to intentionally love each other despite our myriad differences.  If you’re setting New Year’s resolutions or intentions, a good start might be to swear your commitment to a phrase from the modern hippocratic oath:   “I will abstain from all intentional wrong-doing and harm.”  

Part of such a commitment means adopting the Buddhist tenet of Right Speech.  More than a mere ethical and moral imperative, Right Speech is first and foremost understanding that all words have far-reaching, karmic consequences, and sequential results - a contagion effect, if you will.  Right Speech also means thinking very carefully about clicking “like” or “love” on social media, regardless of which friend or relative made the post. Right Speech requires thoughtful, cautious, tactfulness…. Diplomacy.

UN Flag

One of the hardest things about diplomacy is to put yourself into someone else's shoes without compromising your own principles.**

And isn’t that exactly what acceptance and inclusion demands of us?  That we step into someone else’s shoes?  Such dexterous diplomacy requires, first and foremost, courage, but also kindness, patience, geniality and a willingness to listen and learn.  To halt the ripple effect of hatred that is being felt the world over requires our politicians, our religious leaders, our social influencers, our authors, and our broadcast media, to adopt a new tactic:  Defusing anger.  Whilst in a blind rage, combatants will never be able to hear a different, peaceful message.

We are, each one of us who walks this planet, interconnected and codependent.  We are not isolated, we are neither self-reliant nor
self-sufficient, there is no us versus them — we are one.  That’s the message all leaders need to impart.

The world’s statesmen’s subtle eloquence, their knowledge tempered with tact, their imagination tempered with tact, and their determination tempered with tact will  contribute much to the successful calming of troubled waters and the soothing of frantic souls.

Even so, I’ll wager that societal peace will be achieved not by politicians, but by any and all community leaders - pastors, educators, physicians, club presidents, judges, coaches, police officers and parents - who consistently inspire, who espouse and fight for justice, who are gracious and honourable, who dedicate themselves to building new bridges rather than perpetuating old conflicts, who foster community and well-being for all.  The bullies of our world will not stand a chance against such an army of diplomats and peacemakers. 

Auld Lang Syne, last verse. The guid willie-waught bit is about rekindling the past with a handshake and a goodwill drink.  Perhaps Rabbie was onto something...

For 2024, let’s all swear to first do no harm, let’s resolve to use our voices and our words for good, let’s focus, not on all that is wrong with our world, but on how good we can make it, let’s take every opportunity to perform that good deed or whisper that encouraging word, let’s strive to heal our communities, and let’s all be beacons for hope. Let’s take Rabbie’s advice - extend that hand and share that drink (even if it’s a latte in a coffee bar). Who knows just how far-reaching the karmic consequences of our actions might be, how wide-spread the contagion effect might bloom. 

Wishing you a Happy New Year with love and peace in your heart.

’Til next time, y’all…

*R. (Rabbie) Burns, “Auld Lang Syne”, page 477, from Complete Works of Robert Burns.
**Condoleezza Rice, former US Secretary of State, from her autobiography, No Higher Honor: A Memoir of My Years in Washington

Alcyone "These Are The Halcyon Days"

The etymology of the word Halcyon is a tale in Greek mythology, about the bird, Alcyone (Halcyon), believed to be a Kingfisher.  The Halcyon bird was thought to have the power to calm the waves every December so she could nest. [Kingfishers excavate burrows in the bare, earthen banks of rivers, creeks, streams, ponds, lakes and oceans for their nests.]  Just like the water calmed by Alcyone, the modern Halcyon Days has come to mean a period of happiness, amity and peace.  It is, specifically, the 14 days around the winter solstice so we are, right now, enjoying the Halcyon Days.

"These Are The Halcyon Days"

I’m embarrassed and a little ashamed to admit that I seem to have spent many hours daydreaming this week month. Woolgathering, as Mum would have chided.  Drifting through my catalogue of favourite Christmas memories and remembering Mum and Dad’s beloved traditions — dear and old — with fond nostalgia.  Beginning in early December each year, the wee house on Joy Drive was always brimful with Christmas decorations and redolent with the tantalising, spicy aromas of Dad’s mince pies, fruitcake, plum puddings and shortbread.  It was also awash with love, hugs, and kisses.

I cherish each of those sweet memories because I’ve learned that the Halcyon Days are fleeting and must be savoured.  

Christmas traditions are sufficiently powerful to either enhance or spoil our holiday celebrations.  Many people shoulder the burden of their traditions much like a yoke resting on their shoulders, supporting the weight of the world.  Mental health balances oh-so-delicately atop its fulcrum; its equilibrium so precarious that the tiniest twitch or wobble can, without warning, cause its collapse.  For many folks, Christmas causes much more than a mere wobble…

That swirling mixture of memory and tradition is pure, heart-wrenching melancholia for some.  For entirely different reasons, two of my dearest friends are suffering this Christmas season and I’m beyond sad because there is nothing I can say, nothing I can do, to improve their lot in life and bring a smile back to their gentle faces.  They are definitely not feeling the peace of the Halcyon Days.  Their sad hearts are bruised and tender — they both speak of laughing and feeling happy one minute but later, sobbing their hearts out.

I started writing this post in a bit of a self-indulgent, sentimental, and wistful funk but as my week unfolded, I recognised this as selfish in the extreme.  I have close friends (and a relative or two) that are hurting and struggling with anything and everything Christmas.  Whilst I cannot fix their problems, I can be present for them, try my level best to understand their circumstance, and offer copious amounts of love and encouragement.  

“That by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don't quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, we are part of the divine power against evil—widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower.”*

These Halcyon Days sure do evoke the entire bandwidth of emotions.  Many of our family members and friends are struggling with this season’s baggage.  The very traditions that I love, and that make me happy, are the same customs that are causing sadness and stress for others. They’re sifting through and examining their own traditions, desiring what is perfectly good, even when they don't quite know what that is - or will be.

I beg of you, whether you’re meeting a friend for a latte at your favourite coffee shop, or sipping egg nog with your girls 'round the fire, or meeting with the family for your annual Secret Santa gift exchange, or even (especially!) when you’re gathered around your Christmas dinner table, please try to temper your expectations, please do not be impatient with someone’s lack of cheer, please speak with tender words, and please be unfailingly kind.  In short, please practice active love because, whilst the person sitting opposite you might be smiling, inside they could be sad, confused, depressed, angry or very unsettled. Or even, all of those.  Christmas is all and only about love and active love means widening the skirts of light - being gentle with each other, being undemanding of each other, showing grace and offering peace.  May that be the gift you give your friends and family during this year’s Halcyon Days.

’Til next time, y’all…

Mourning Dove "These Are The Halcyon Days"

*Mary Ann Evans, (pen name George Eliot), page 521, Chapter XXXIX, Middlemarch.

kaitiakitanga - Marsh Boardwalk

At long last, Israel and Hamas have committed to a cease-fire in Gaza, to last a minimum of four days, for the purpose of a human exchange - 50 hostages captured by Hamas for 150 Palestinian prisoners captured by Israel.  At this very moment, the initial exchange is taking place.  Also during this temporary cessation of hostilities, more much-needed food, clean water, medicine and fuel will be allowed into the Gaza Strip.  And thank God for that but on our Homefront, no such cease-fire exists.

The Gaza ceasefire is a welcome beacon of hope in the recent darkness of war, a war which is serving to highlight the multitude of fissures in Canadian society and the blocs of hatred, prejudice, phobias and racism that exist and are growing.  The leaders of each group stand up and loudly castigate the nameless, faceless, Other.  This propagates feelings of dissatisfaction, resentment and insecurity within their membership which then accelerates hate, anger and radicalisation.  Gone are tolerance, understanding and empathy.  

We see this progression every day on the evening news at the televised protests, rallies and demonstrations - coast to coast - at government buildings, at Jewish and Islamic schools, on university campuses and in front of foreign embassies and consulates. Each time hatred hits the news more and more groups bravely step forward, to recount their experiences with exclusionism, racism, hate speech and hate crimes — people of colour, Me Too victims, the LGBTQ2 community, Jews, Asians, Muslims, Sikhs, Indigenous and First Nations people, and recently, especially Palestinians.  Every night we see a growing sense of isolation, fear, and the steady deterioration of hope — right here in Canada — play out on our screens. 

During this increasingly bitter, impassioned and tempestuous period, it is more important than ever that all Canadians remember the values and principles upon which our Charter was conceived and written - that all Canadians are equal under law, and entitled to:

a) freedom of conscience and religion;
b) freedom of thought, belief, opinion and expression, including freedom of the press and other media of communication;
c) freedom of peaceful assembly; and
d) freedom of association.

We, each of us living in Canada today, are the guardians of The Charter and of its rights and ideals.  

kaitiakitanga
(Māori meaning guardianship.)

With guardianship comes enormous responsibility and each of us has choices in how we take on the safekeeping and preservation of our Charter’s terms — every day — in our conversations, our social media posts, in schools, neighbourhoods, workplaces, clubs, teams, institutions and in all towns and cities in every province and territory.

“What if we no longer see ourselves based on what we look like, what religion we practice, or where we live, but by what we value?  Humanity.  Kindness.  An innate sense of our connection to each other.  And a belief that we are guardians, not just of our home and our planet, but of each other.  We are borderless, but we can be connected.  We are inherently different, but we have more that we share.”*

My dad would have said, A cup of common sense is worth a bushel of learning, and common sense tells us we do indeed have more that we share:

• We all want to be treated with dignity and respect; and
• We all want to be either learning or earning; and
• We all want the freedom that comes with security of each person; and
• We all want access to good healthcare; and
• We all want our children to live happy, safe and carefree lives.

It is high time that Canadians of all stripes embrace the Māori concept of kaitiakitanga — guardianship — of every Canadian.  It is high time that we act, in every single instance, with all-embracing tolerance, patience, fairness and inclusivity.  It is high time that we make an effort to understand those whose views we cannot yet grasp.  It is high time we act with comprehensive kindness, without which it will be impossible to rediscover our shared values and to exert guardianship over our Charter.  

me te ngakau pono
(Māori meaning with sincerity.)

It is with the utmost sincerity that I am writing this blog post today. If you were to con your trusty Roget’s for sincerity synonyms, besides honesty you’d also find goodwill, impartiality, justice and honour.  Canada is a country of diversity — ethnic, religious, cultural — and sometimes those differences seem insurmountable.  We are inherently different, but we have more that we share.  Me te ngakau pono, and appealing to our better angels, please embrace kindness and collectivism for all Canadians. Please, with empathy and goodwill, uphold the values of impartiality, justice and honour for all Canadians.  Please embrace kaitiakitanga, guardianship, of all Canadians.  It’s not too late.  Not yet.

’Til next time, y’all…

*Rt. Hon. Dame Jacinda Ardern

poppins.001

“One step and then another,
And the longest walk is ended;”*

In February, at my annual physical, my family doctor advised me that my blood glucose (A1C) had risen well above the 6 threshold and into the zone where medication would be required.  ‘Though, ever since my radiation treatments I’ve always known this would be a possibility, it nonetheless came as a shock.  That was where my longest walk began. 

At first, reluctantly one step and then another.  Then, having seen some progress albeit minimal, determinedly one step and then another.  Then, after achieving a significant improvement, keenly one step and then another and, at long last, success!  I’ve had blood work done to check my progress in three-monthly intervals, my third was last week and — sweet success — my A1C was 5.9.  I am supremely relieved and oh-so-grateful. 

Today, Tuesday 14th November 2023, is World Diabetes Day.
World Diabetes Day - UN LOGO

It has been a stressful nine months, learning about food  and body chemistry and, without a doubt, I am one of the luckiest ones; not everyone, despite the best diet and eating habits, is able to lower their A1C this far.  Indeed, according to the Institute for Health Metrics and Evaluation, as at June 2023, more than half a billion people are living with diabetes worldwide, affecting men, women, and children of all ages in every country.  500,000,000+  It’s a staggering and frightening figure.

Diabetes is a major cause of blindness, kidney failure, heart attack, stroke and lower limb amputation.

In 2007 the UN General Assembly adopted resolution 61/225 designating 14 November as World Diabetes Day. The document recognised “the urgent need to pursue multilateral efforts to promote and improve human health, and provide access to treatment and health-care education.”

My Crusade

As with any battle, it all starts with and depends upon “the try”.  Sustaining that effort is the real crusade, as anyone who has faced enduring adversity of any type, will tell you.  I am now ten months into my war on blood sugar - trying and failing and then trying again and again and again.  These are some of my best efforts:

• Trying not to feel adrift after my diagnosis; striving to regain a firm footing.
• Trying to be thoughtful rather than resentful.
• Trying not to break beneath the weight of the very word diabetes, its import and possible extended health ramifications.
• Trying to hit the sweet spot - healthy menu selections that are enjoyable -  by finding, testing and adjusting new recipes.
• Trying, but consistently failing, to develop a liking for seeds and nuts which seem to be in every recipe I’m given.
• Trying, in a home where desserts have always been de rigueur, to reimagine treats, sweets and carbs.
• Trying to quiet the butterflies each time I’m sent for blood work, and trying not to obsess, overthink, or worry excessively (my go-to position).
• Trying not to feel resentful at even having to try.
• Trying to break the habits of a lifetime in order to create and embrace a new norm.
• Trying to use all the information and anecdotes shared to my advantage.
• Trying to make sense of all that information.
• Trying to dissect and extrapolate the facts and figures that are relevant to me without drowning in data.
• Trying to approach the challenge logically rather than emotionally.
• Trying to remain strong and maintain my commitment.
• And above all, trying to do my level best each and every day, at each and every meal.

This list represents neither valiance nor vanity, I promise - it's more an expression of solidarity, empathy and respect for everyone else who is making the diabetes try, one step and then another.

Success is so much more than the number on the lab report - it is, finally, feeling comfortable with the new diet, volumes of food, and times of eating. It is about changing the mental aspect as much as the physical.  For me that was the hardest adjustment and my success in that regard came as a complete surprise:  

This last three-month period included two feasts, Thanksgiving and Cam’s birthday celebration — two meals that typically involve necessitate rich foods that are high in carbs - think stuffing, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, and birthday cake.  But here’s the thing.  At Thanksgiving I balanced my plate according to the Canada Food guide and substituted dressing for the starch (no potatoes) and best, thoroughly enjoyed my meal.  For dessert I had the tiniest piece of pumpkin pie (about an inch wide) topped with a dollop of whipped cream, about the size of a cherry.  And it was enough!  I'd worried that it would trigger a craving for more.  But, happily, no.  Indeed, if you’d told me before Thanksgiving that just a taste would satisfy me, I’d never have believed you.  Surprise!  Then, a few weeks later at Cam’s birthday, I allowed myself a tiny piece of his very rich birthday cake - a cheesecake - and again. It was enough.  My wish to have “the same”, to not "miss out" was completely satisfied and I neither felt cheated nor as if I needed more.  

One step and then another…

In the words of one of my idols:

"Courage is more exhilarating than fear and in the long run it is easier.
We do not have to become heroes overnight. Just one step at a time, meeting each thing that comes up,
seeing it is not as dreadful as it appeared, discovering we have the strength to stare it down.”
[Eleanor Roosevelt]

To conclude, I’d like to very sincerely and lovingly thank all my family, friends (most especially Mike), and readers (most especially Kristi) who have been so whole-heartedly supportive and encouraging, but none more-so than Cam who has been my unwavering cheerleader.  I fear I’d have given up without all your comments, e-mails and steady encouragement and confidence in me. I’ve learned ever so much, about diabetes, blood sugar, nutrition and mostly, about me. 

’Til next time, y’all…

*Childrens’ poem, author unknown, full text below.  Our grade 2 class (Miss Hedley) at Gooderham had to memorise this sweet verse. 

One Step and Then Another

One step and then another,
And the longest walk is ended;
One stitch and then another,
And the largest rent is mended.

One brick upon another,
And the highest wall is made;
One flake upon another,
And the deepest snow is laid.

[Author unknown]

Building Bridges - blog post "Inglorious Behaviour" Wallace Point Rd. Bridge over the Otonabee River

The past week has been tortuous for our family.  Cam’s beloved older sister died suddenly, late last Thursday evening.  Still bruised by that immense sadness, the family is struggling to cope with a truly horrible and ever-worsening family quarrel with no clear path to resolution, forgiveness and peace.

Like the prettiest crazy quilt, stitched into every moment, every event, every encounter and every relationship in our lives, are many pairs of paradoxical swatches of experience —  good/bad, dismay/joy, like/dislike, loving/hating, effort/passivity and misdeed/forgiveness.  Misdeed and forgiveness are the pair that are under the microscope in our family.  

“Everybody, even the best of us, will sometimes behave ingloriously, and to think otherwise is to be hemmed in by vanity.”*

And I am not hemmed in by vanity.  Of course inglorious behaviour is at the root of this tumultuous fissure, indeed there have been many mistakes made — on both sides — during the past year.  But the proverbial straw was an utterly contemptible letter that caused our sister and our nephew unbearable hurt and stretched any thought of forgiveness to its very limit.  Perhaps beyond.  Resolution does not seem to be a priority on either side.  No remorse has been expressed.  All attention is on fault and assigning blame.  Both parties feel too injured, both feel too righteous, both are too focussed on winning to actually take steps towards resolving their conflict.

At issue —  are some behaviours so horrible, so hateful, so destructive as to be unforgivable?  Does there have to be an expression of remorse before forgiveness is extended, or are the two mutually exclusive?  Should they be?  And what does forgiveness even look like?  Does it mean merely feeling indifferent towards each other or does it require a return to amity?  Does forgiveness accord the inglorious behaviour an element of acceptance?  Does it excuse, or worse legitimise, the intensity of emotional pain caused and the resulting damage to the relationship?

The challenge:  Without forgiveness, there can be no reconciliation and it is entirely possible that our nephew has been too profoundly betrayed, too intensely hurt to forgive in order to find the common ground necessary for reconciliation.

Here’s what I know - family feuds are completely normal; I know no family that hasn’t had at least one (even if short-lived) in each generation.  But it’s not the conflict that’s important, it’s the repair or resolution.  It is remembering and finding the love once shared that is paramount if harmony is to be restored.

It is an enormous relief that Cam and I are not involved in this squabble and we intend to keep it that way!  It is also a relief that our nephew views Cam as an elder statesman, a confidant and a neutral third party.  Many’s the time, especially during the past month, that he has come to Cam to be his sounding board, for advice and for support.  And Cam is unfailingly kind, patient, helpful and tries - at each juncture - to offer sage and calming advice, to help ensure the flames aren’t further fanned.  He encourages our nephew to try his level best to stay calm and to set his emotions aside; to walk away if his anger is too volatile.  

Still, the crux of the matter remains that, without a calm but heartfelt conversation, without sincere apologies from both parties for things said and done, without according each other a full measure of respect, any thought of bridge-building, of restoring mutual trust, achieving family harmony and rediscovering that deep well of sibling love are in danger of permanently vanishing.  Such an outcome would decimate our family and worse, tarnish and dishonour Cam’s sister’s legacy for, to her, family was everything.

The real question, is it already too late?

Like that crazy quilt, life is a patchwork of emotional experiences, good and bad, sometimes experienced simultaneously.  Each one of us must decide how to process the feelings associated with those interactions. Some of those are misdeeds, wrongs, insults and abuses but they have the power to teach us amazing life lessons — not only about the character of those around us but more importantly, about our own character and our emotional and  moral limitations.  

This is a community of strong, intelligent, thoughtful and kind people; if you’ve any thoughts on forgiveness and its possible limitations or conditions, do please put them in the comments, I’d love to hear from you!  

’Til next time, y’all…

*Andrew Cooper, “The Debacle” at Tricycle Magazine.

ubuntu 1

Ubuntu, an ancient Bantu word, describes a system of values and beliefs that inform the lifestyles of the people of Africa. It translates, variously, I am because we are or I am because you are or humanity towards others.  It reminds us that each human being is only one part of a much bigger, interconnected world.

humanity towards others

This is the text (no words are spoken) in one of the current television “Blue Square” commercials being aired by #StandUpToJewishHate:

Israel is 5690 miles away from the US.
11 hours by plane.
Hate travels faster.
In a comment. In a post. In a second. 
Jewish hate is up 388% in the US.
Black hate, Muslim hate, and Asian hate are up too.
When one hate rises, they all do.

When one hate rises, they all do.  

Shamefully, Ontarians don’t have to look beyond our own province to find hatred brewing, spreading and swirling through our communities.  In the past three weeks, Ontario cities big and small have all seen pro and anti Israeli and pro and anti Palestinian protests that have been angry and violent enough that arrests had to be made.  Social media is a cesspool of hatred directed towards virtually all peoples of the Middle East, most comments posted anonymously by cowards.  Jewish hate is rampant on Canadian university campuses.  Islamophobia is almost as high as it was immediately post-911.  Hate fuels hate.  When one hate rises, they all do, and appallingly, a new generation of Canadian children are indoctrinated with their parents’ prejudices:  The cycle continues, unbroken.  

The “Blue Square” commercials encourage solidarity and support for the Jewish community.  The Jews are on the receiving end of 55% of all religious hate crimes. I’ve read many times that antisemitism is the litmus test, the canary in a coal mine, analysts use to gauge rising hate everywhere and amongst all groups. A current sampling:

Non-black people angry when Black people demonstrate against racism; and
Non-Indiginous or First Nations’ people angry because of Truth and Reconciliation and the reparation payments committed to their children; and
Non-Asian people angry because they blame the pandemic on anyone who looks Asian; and
Non-Muslims angry because they blame all terrorism on Muslims with the trite, tired and abhorrently false adage “Not all Muslims are terrorists but all terrorists are Muslim”; and
Straight people angry because they despise any visibility of the LGBTQ+ community; and 
On and on it goes.  When one hate rises, they all do. 

Now more than ever, living ubuntu challenges us to search for our similitudes, to find and preserve humanity -  that common thread that is woven into the fabric of each of our lives, connecting us.  It is that affinity that will guide us through the darkness of the hatred that is swirling all around. It is time for each of us to model the grace inherent in ubuntu.  The virtue of, when given a choice, acting or speaking with kindness, courtesy, consideration, fairness, understanding, decency and mercy.

“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”*

The phrase that always resonates most strongly with me is, It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.  Both lives enriched.  I want to be someone who who models the grace, mercy and understanding inherent in ubuntu.  Understanding means listening, learning, allowing The Other to be fully known and confirming that they are respected and valued.  It must be an understanding that eclipses and is oblivious to race, language, economics, religion and culture. But…

By listening, I’m referring to hearing honest expressions of fears and hopes and dreams, not to anything that has even a whiff of hate speech to it.  Such language is hurtful and damaging.  We must be rigidly intolerant of any language that seeks to insult, incite, frighten, or threaten —  even passively aggressive in the form of best intentions.

The more I listen to Ontarians from the Middle East who, with unflinching and unvarnished honesty, speak passionately and desperately about a life that was hard, frightening and astringent - but loved and treasured all the same - I’m struck by their enduring grace and fearless hearts.  It’s a much nobler grace than my own, steeped as it is in fidelity, humanity and a constant, heartfelt wish for peace and harmony in their homeland and beyond.

As my knowledge and understanding of their history, culture, religion, experiences, expectations and hopes increases, so too does my sense of kinship with them.  Each of us with our own flaws, but also with our own strengths and virtues.  Ubuntu!  As we recognise that kinship, that common thread woven into all our lives, slowly but surely, we’ll redefine and reshape acceptance and inclusion until, with perseverance, it comes naturally.  

With hope in my heart, ’til next time, y’all…

ubuntu 2

*William Shakespeare, Act IV Scene I, The Merchant of Venice, lines so famously delivered by Portia.

Mercy Pity Hope.001

Since 1948 when the State of Israel was established, there have been five wars between Hamas and Israel, too many horrific acts of terrorism to count, lawless guerrilla warfare, and never-ending conflict.  For most people living in Israel, Palestine and, very specifically, the Gaza Strip —  the most highly contested real estate on the planet — peace and security are elusive.  They have lived their entire lives, neither feeling entirely safe in their own homes, nor having ever lived through an extended period of peace.  Despite such a deadly, destructive and catastrophic history, this time feels different — drastically different.

A child dies every quarter of an hour in the Israeli/Hamas war.

Death has climbed in through our windows
and has entered our fortresses;
it has removed the children from the streets
and the young men from the public squares.”**
[Jeremiah]

Jeremiah was a Major Prophet who is studied, respected, and quoted by Jewish, Islamic and Christian clerics alike. I imagine that since 7th October, his words are being offered as a lamentation in mosques and synagogues throughout the Middle East. A somber commonality. 

Not being  Jewish or Palestinian, I cannot pretend to feel the same depth of emotion and fervour those folks feel - about their land, their language, their culture and — the crux of the matter — their religions.  Their saga has unfolded half a world away but, thanks to all media and to those Canadian immigrants who’ve kindly shared their stories, fears and sadness, the anguish and torment of the Middle East are palpable here in Ontario.

Watching one tiny body bag after another being carried from the annihilation in Israel and the Gaza Strip has cut me to the very marrow.  Every night watching the news I feel gutted. All life is precious and finite, but the massacre of children in their kibbutz homes and armageddon at the Al-Ahli Hospital are overwhelmingly soul-wrenching. Childhood innocence stolen by hatred. The promise embodied in those wee souls forever unfulfilled.  It’s so much worse than heart-breaking.  

Yet in the midst of this violent, inhuman battle, one that caused intense tribal polarisation, the most profoundly beautiful collaboration occurred. The “Prayer of Mothers for Life and Peace” was written by two Israeli women — Rabbi Tamar Elad-Appelbaum and Sheikha Ibtisam Mahamid:

For our children crying at nights,
For parents holding their children with despair and darkness in their hearts…

And with the tears of all women who deeply feel the pain of these difficult days,
I raise my hands to you, please God have mercy on us.*

Nothing justifies the killing, wounding or kidnapping of children.

Children are always the first to suffer in times of war.  The UN, international organisations that work to protect children’s rights, international aid workers, Red Cross/Red Crescent, UNICEF and many others are begging Hamas and Israel to remember that children are innocent victims upon whom the greatest pain and suffering has been inflicted.

Hundreds of thousands of children have already been impacted by the war in Gaza and urgently need care, protection and relief, especially food and clean drinking water.  A safe, consistent, humanitarian corridor is desperately needed but the safety and nourishment of children is notably missing from the comments of world leaders.

Deplorably, children are paying the heaviest price for this bloody war, many with their own lives.  The world needs to pay attention.  The children need mercy, pity and hope.

Hear our voice that we shall not despair 
That we shall see life in each other,
That we shall have mercy for each other, 
That we shall have pity on each other, 
That we shall hope for each other.*

’Til next time, y’all…

*Rabbi Tamar Elad-Appelbaum and Sheikha Ibtisam Mahamid - full text below.
**Book of Jeremiah, 9:21, Holy Bible (NIV), page 1100.

God of Life
Who heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds
May it be your will to hear the prayer of mothers
For you did not create us to kill each other
Nor to live in fear, anger or hatred in your world
But rather you have created us so we can grant permission to one another to sanctify 
Your name of Life, your name of Peace in this world.

For these things I weep, my eye, my eye runs down with water
For our children crying at nights,
For parents holding their children with despair and darkness in their hearts 
For a gate that is closing, and who will open it before the day has ended?

And with my tears and prayers which I pray
And with the tears of all women who deeply feel the pain of these difficult days 
I raise my hands to you please God have mercy on us

Hear our voice that we shall not despair 
That we shall see life in each other,
That we shall have mercy for each other, 
That we shall have pity on each other, 
That we shall hope for each other

And we shall write our lives in the book of Life 
For your sake God of Life
Let us choose Life.

For you are Peace, your world is Peace and all that is yours is Peace, 
And so shall be your will and let us say
Amen.

Autumn has Arrived 1

Autumn is my favourite season.  Many’s the time I’ve written a blog post celebrating its arrival and vibrant beauty.  This is not that!

In our home, since the middle of summer, our lives and thoughts have been consumed by health issues and loss - both of which have attuned our minds to the changing season of our lives.  We’re aware now more than ever that we're living the autumn of our lives.

“In the middle of life, death comes
to take your measurements. The visit
is forgotten and life goes on. But the suit
is being sewn on the sly.”*

In an especially sweet e-mail message, my friend wrote that when I describe our life in Kingsville, I sound comfortable and content.  She’s right.  And lulled by that ataraxia, I’ve drifted along, confident that everything would stay the same whilst knowing that is an impossibility - everything changes all the time.  The suit is being sewn on the sly.

Make no mistake - I’m not feeling at all morose.  The opposite.  Rather motivated and inspired.  Per Horace’ aphorism - I fully intend to seize the day. Every day.

I’ve been piddling about with this post for over a month now.  In that time I’ve had some thoroughly enjoyable discussions with some of my gal pals about aging and how it has affected us.  At their urging, I’ve persisted, my reluctance I think is to dwell…

It seems that we all began in our forties - perhaps a little hesitantly at first - talking about aging.  Those discussions seem to have multiplied with the passing of each successive decade… Some of us brood over the loss of our youth (grey hair and wrinkles were mentioned - a few times by the same person!!!), others bemoan age-related ailments (dwindling sight and hearing), others deplore their diminishing flexibility due to osteoarthritis, etc.  Some voiced regrets over all those things we thought we’d have accomplished “by now”.  Perhaps those lamentations are our subconscious awareness that death has already been to take our measurements.

Despite those grumbles, each of us - to a woman - admits that we love our lives exactly as they are in this very moment and more, that we like our aged selves so much more than our youthful selves.  That is me entirely.  At sixty-six, I am the most comfortable in my skin, with every aspect of my physical and mental self, than I’ve ever been. 

As women gather more years we become disinterested in trying to live a perfect life as defined by popular theories and philosophies.  Freed from those expectations and efforts, we’ve acquired a new freedom, a stronger self-confidence and greater contentment.  Instead, our passions are directed at nurturing and enjoying our relationships and friendships, at hobbies and sports and at activities - travel, theatre arts, volunteerism.  Our energies are focussed on living an intentional and thoughtful life.

Busyness in our autumn is very different.  In our thirties, forties and fifties, our busyness was a frenetic, sometimes ordered chaos which was largely beyond our control.  It was seldom of our choosing as we tried to accommodate work, family, community, spiritual, educational, and/or household responsibilities. It was a lot and there never seemed to be a break in the pace. As we settle into the autumn of our lives, yes, there is busyness - always - but it is a chosen schedule of industry that we are, for the most part, able to opt out of at any moment without the fear of letting anyone down but ourselves.  That makes our enterprise feel comfortable, exciting even.

Contrary to archetype, none of us has become a cynical, apathetic, bitter crone — we’ve all managed to retain our enthusiasm and passion.  We all eagerly anticipate the adventures and lessons life still has to offer and we enjoy each one as it is revealed to us.  To remain fully engaged with the allure and mystery of our world is a true gift, one, it seems, that we’ve all seized — perhaps because, subliminally, we’re aware that death has been to take our measurements and our suits are being sewn on the sly.

If I had one piece of advice I might share with forty year-old Pam it would be to not merely accept, but embrace wholeheartedly the season of life you find yourself in with grace, zest and joy.

*Nobelist Tomas Tranströmer, “Black Postcards” page 25, The Deleted World.

Autumn has Arrived 2

Z2 Intro
1st October - Mill Creek, Kingsville - glorious fall colours, non?

Earlier this summer, I committed to doing two more Joyspotting outings before the snow flies.  The first (tentatively scheduled for this week) was to be “Joyspotting Z2 - Autumn Colours”.  Hah! As if!  Our tree canopy remains (stubbornly) vibrantly green and lush.  There are a smattering of coloured leaves, but almost all of those are vines or Sumac - not trees.  

But...  Every walk is a good opportunity to use the Joyspotter’s Guide which prompts me to look all around and use all my senses to identify little gems of mother nature that bring me joy.  Having a “mission” helps me to be mindful and focussed on the entire landscape, rather than searching out all of my usual suspects.  For instance, I never pass a slow-moving creek, pond or watery marsh without looking for (and shooting) waders.  Indeed, I now have 10K+ images of Great Blue Herons and Great Egrets. After all, and to paraphrase Will, There are more things in heaven and earth, Pamela, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.*

Yesterday, trusty Joyspotter’s Guide in hand, with Miss Wheelie in tow (yes, still), and despite the autumnal colour being AWOL, I enjoyed a lovely long outing and returned home full of joy and pleasantly tired out.
 

#1 - Look Up
#1 Look Up
Wheatley Provincial Park
First glimpse of 2023 autumn colour in Essex County.

#2 - Look Down
#2 Look Down  Black Willow Beach, Point Pelee National Park
I had a lovely, though modest walk, bare toes in the waves, no walker in sight!
I glanced at the Joyspotter’s Guide as I was about the leave the beach and, prompted to “look down”, spotted this beauty!

#3 - Keep An Eye Out For Colour
#3 Colour
Fringed Blue Asters (Symphyotrichum ciliolatum) are - flamboyantly - everywhere just now.

#4 - Follow The Curve
#4 Curve  Point Pelee National Park
(Watching, and being watched by, a black squirrel.)

#5 - Go Where The Wild Things Are
#5 Wild things
Caldwell First Nations’ Boardwalk

#6 - Seek Out Symmetry
#6 Symmetry
Hillman United Church - 1897

#7 - Search For Signs of Abundance
#7 Abundance
Mersea Road D - Leamington, ON
‘Though our county is famous for its soft fruits and tomatoes,
there are many productive orchards that yield a diverse variety of apples each year.

#8 - Watch For Weirdness
#8 Weirdness
Caldwell First Nations’ Boardwalk
“Don’t know.  Don’t wanna know!”
(I was later reliably told it is Heron poo.)

#9 - Zoom In
#9 Zoom
Port of Wheatley
Teasels

#10 - Notice the Invisible
#10 Invisible  Marsh farm - Mersea Road East
Invisible:  Smell
With so much low-lying, moist, fertile land, Essex rivals Bradford (Holland Marsh) for vegetable production.
Beyond the shrubberies is a field of garlic and boy, was it ever pungent! 

#11 - Take the Scenic Route
#11 Scenic Route Point Pelee Drive - Leamington, ON

#12 - Use All Your Senses
#12 Senses  Sugar Creek, Wheatley Provincial Park
Sense: Hearing
Essex County is renown for its amazing birding opportunities.
We are a migratory stop-over hosting hundreds of species each spring and fall.  
Sitting on the observation deck yesterday, I counted at least twenty different bird calls but spotted only half of those.
Still, their chorus was delightfully entertaining whilst I ate brekkie. 

I hope the next time you’re off on a hike or a walk through your local park, or on a rural ramble, you remember to focus on the entire landscape and all of mother nature’s gems - you’ll be amazed at the things you’d otherwise have missed.

‘Till next time, y’all…

*William Shakespeare, Act I, Scene V, Hamlet.

Port of Wheatley

“He says, Hey brother Noah, I'll tell you what to do,
Build me a floating zoo, and take some of them
Green alligators and long-necked geese
Some humpty-back camels and some chimpanzees
Some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born
Don't you forget my unicorn.”*

40 Days and 40 Nights

On Tuesday, it had been forty days since my last outing, except for ride-alongs to collect our grocery order or trips to medical appointments (and I’ve had my fair share of those).  Since 10th August, I’d visited no park, no conservation area, no marsh or creek or pond.  I’ve not been in the woods, nor to the Portlands, nor along the lakeshore.  

Forty days and forty nights.  It’s a long time!  And now I know how Noah must have felt when he was trapped on his ark for for almost six weeks - with or without that Unicorn!

Shortly before my confinement I had a bad fall which resulted in excruciating hip pain.  At the urgent care clinic I was diagnosed with Bursitis and, as the best treatment is not compatible with my current meds, the best the doc could offer was anti-inflammatory drops to massage into my hip, and the advice to rest and ice my hip.  Rest - leg up, no weight on it.  Idle, in other words.  Afterwards, my decisions were all fear-based:   Fear of further damaging my hip.  Fear of venturing out and not being able to manage.  Fear that the pain would prove too much to bear.  Fear that I’d fall and no one would know where I was.  Fear that my body would fail me, etc., etc., etc.  You get the picture, non? 

And then…

Every now and again, each of us gets a piece of news that stops us in our tracks - the type of bad news that yanks at our heartstrings and of which our brains struggle to make any sort of sense.  My turn this month.  When the Bursitis pain didn’t go away - indeed, it didn’t even improve - and I began experiencing recurring but sporadic low-grade fevers, I was forced to return to my doctor who eventually voiced the opinion that my pain might be kidney-referred.  I heard nothing after that.

Almost tharn!**  Perhaps, for a couple of days, I did go tharn.

You can’t imagine how very overwhelming and paralysing was is my fear at simply hearing the K word again much less contemplating dysfunction and dialysis!  Fear that this beautiful life we’ve created might vanish into thin air (or into a nephrology unit). I felt the dismay and dread deep to the core of my being.  I experienced a full bandwidth of negative emotion — disbelief, anxiety, shock, sadness, concern and anger.  And almighty fear.  Fear that this might be happening again.  I shut down completely.  There was no thought of outings or nature or wildlife or wildflowers.  None.  Does the word “wallowing” come to mind?

Finding the courage to face the fear requires robust intentions, which lately I’ve been lacking — the vigour, the desire and the courage. But last Thursday, a wake-up call from an unlikely source — at an ultrasound appointment the technician, who was sweet and kind and thoughtful and encouraging, had this to say:  Fear and anxiety are essential for survivorship. And I am a survivor!  Or I want to be. 

Negative thinking breeds cynicism, despair and hopelessness.  I want to be none of those.  Time, then, as Cher so famously advised in “Moonstruck” to - Snap out of it!  And Tuesday was the day — to get out and see new things, see some wildlife, have a bit of a walk, enjoy the fresh air and whatever mother nature had to offer.  

The morning dawned a warm, big cloud, blue sky day and - if you’ve read some of my blog posts, you know those are my very favourites.  It was the best possible omen.

Point Pelee NP
Sanctuary Pond, Point Pelee National Park

It was eventually agreed that I’d take Miss Wheelie (my brand new walker) with me — a bit of a security blanket on my first solo outing. Nice and early Tuesday morning, Miss Wheelie in tow, I visited each of my five favourite new places:  Wheatley Provincial Park, The Port of Wheatley, Hillman Marsh, Point Pelee National Park and the Caldwell First Nations’ Boardwalk.  

The entire day was idyllic, peaceful, captivating and happy. I walked, I explored, I observed, I photographed and best — I talked to everybody I met.  It was perfect!  I loved every minute of my outing and came home feeling positively giddy.  Also refreshed, rejuvenated, and content.  

The human experience is a kaleidoscope of turbulence, surprise, elation, desperation, joy, sadness, failure and success.  Navigating that tempest with grace is a challenge, one that, after forty days and forty nights, I finally mastered.  Just not with the grace - I’ll have to work on that bit.  

’Til next time, y’all…

Caldwell Boarfdwalk
Caldwell First Nations' Boardwalk
 

*Songwriter Shel Silverstein, performed by The Irish Rovers.  There’s never a bad time for the Rovers so, if you can spare a couple, have a listen (link):  The Unicorn 
**“Tharn was a rabbit word meaning stupefied or paralysed with fear.”  Richard Adams, Introduction, page 17, Watership Down.  “Several were almost tharn — that is, in that state of staring, glazed paralysis that comes over terrified or exhausted rabbits.” Richard Adams, Chapter 5 “In the Woods”, page 53, Watership Down.

Today we lost our beloved friend Tom and for me, the world has lost some of its lustre at his passing.   

Tom was a Scot so there was no doubt I’d love him to bits and pieces.  He won Cam over at their first meeting.  Sitting at the dinner table, in front of my mum (and if you knew her, you’d understand the import of this next bit); without batting an eyelash, dear, sweet Tommy dropped the F bomb and we all giggled (except Mum of course).  That was it, the friendship between Cam and Tom was cemented for all time.  In truth, on that first meeting, Mum loved Tom as much as we did because he so obviously cherished Janie, and that’s all that mattered to Mum.  

Tom was smart and funny and honest (sometimes brutally so), and kind and thoughtful and generous and reliable and loyal and — towards me specifically — empathetic and supportive.  Look up “friend” in the dictionary and you’re sure to see Tom’s handsome face smiling back at you!  

Friendship is a such a powerful force and a valuable asset.  It doesn’t have to be perfect, or planned, or cultivated to be delightful and enriching.  All that’s needed is sincerity and Tommy was the epitome of genuineness.  My life was ever so much better after he came into it.  

Tom called me Princess on account of me very possibly, maybe likely, actually most definitely being spoiled — first by Mum and Dad and later by Cam.  We had many adventures in the Tom-mobile (his van) and at the beginning of one of those adventures, my name tag was awaiting my arrival on my seat:  

Princess Tom was a world-class garage-saler and on several of our outings, he taught me how to get the best deals.  So. Much. Fun.  Always!  He even helped us host one of our own, pre-moving, garage sales.  

Tom was an accomplished chef.  Over the years he made us many gourmet meals and introduced us to so many new foods — think Imperial Cheese and Baba Ganoush (but not together!).  One of our favourite traditions was Christmas Eve in Jane and Tom’s home where there were epicurean delights, friends, family, fun and so much love.  Tommy was a gracious and generous host — he made everyone feel, not only welcome, but as if each one of us was the guest of honour.  That’s a unique and lovely talent - definitely Tom’s superpower!   

Tom gave the best — bar none! — hugs.  

He had a smile that lit up every room he entered. 

He was generous with his time, volunteering with the fire department and Etobicoke Musical Productions.  

Tom was an accomplished Bridge player and competitor. 

My memories of Tom are sweet and special, viewed as they are, through the rose-coloured lens of enduring friendship.

I’m one of the luckiest ones ever because I’ve been honoured by Tom's help, kindness, hospitality, and many acts of friendship throughout our decades-long relationship.  I’m reminded today that none of us lives forever, and that our friendships on earth are but fleeting gifts to be cherished and treasured at all costs.

’Til next time, y’all…

GE #12 - one year anniversary

Obviously, there was no going back but there were choices to be made — to sink or to swim, to merely tolerate or or to thrive; we chose resilience.  Resiliency may not exactly be a choice, but it is certainly borne of intention.  Daily, repeated intention.  My fondness for wildflowers is well-documented (in this blog and beyond) and, just like my beloved, untended, wildflowers, we are thriving here in Essex County.  As with so much of our cherished old furniture, there is much of the mighty oak’s strength in us Perraults.  And so began our new life, complete with a massive “TO DO” list:

Internet connection.  ✅
Changes of address.  ✅  
Accounts to be set up at the Town of Kingsville and with the ELK Herd (Essex, Leamington, Kingsville Energy).  ✅     
Finding a new family doctor, pharmacist and dentist.  ✅
Familiarise ourselves with condo governance and meet our new neighbours.  ✅
Audition golf courses and secure a club membership (Cam).  ✅
Obtain passes for the local conservation authority and parks — one national/one provincial (me).  ✅
Plan renovations and engage contractors.  ✅
Explore our new town and county.  Ongoing.  

Water as a Bridge
Footbridge 1

We lived in beautiful Northumberland County for fifteen years and, from the first day, fell in love with it’s natural beauty.  It is a very hilly county with myriad twisting, curving and turning roads.  It is a water county to be sure - scenically framed by two lakes - Ontario to the south and Rice to the north with rivers, streams, creeks, ponds and marshes galore.  When we first considered moving away, I never imagined it would be possible to find another county as topographically and visually interesting and captivating.  But we did.

True that Essex - liberally dotted with majestic windmills - is as flat as a pancake but it, too, is framed by two lakes - Erie to the south and St. Clair to the north.  Here too, there is a plethora of rivers, creeks, streams, “drains” (local vernacular), marshes and ponds.  Water has proven to be the vital nexus between the two counties, a familiar link that helped me to quickly feel at home, settled.   

The Year of the Chainsaw
GE #12 - ice storm

At some point in our search for a new home and without us really noticing, weather became an important factor.  We definitely did not want to move into the snow belt!  Essex County, also known as Ontario’s Deep South, is renown for its mild winters and in this respect, it did not disappoint.  We seldom had snow and when we did, it always seemed to melt within twenty-four hours.  

This is not to say the weather here is benign.  We endured two catastrophic storms during our first year — an ice storm in February, which knocked out our power for four days and brought a tree down on our roof; and a straight-line tornado in July.  Both storms levelled countless huge old trees and knocked millions (no exaggeration, promise!) of smaller branches off trees of all sizes.  In the aftermath of both storms, power was out, roads were blocked by fallen trees, and everywhere one looked there was storm debris to be cleaned up.  All credit to our local works’ departments - the work began as soon as the storms had passed and continued apace until the job was done.  All through March and August, the chainsaw chorus has been ringing out across the county as crews work tirelessly to chop up fallen trees and limbs and to take down trees that were damaged by the ice and wind so that they do not eventually fall and become another problem.  

GE #12 - tornado Ontario - Yours to Discover

Whilst learning all about Essex County and chasing the things that excite me and bring me happiness, so many sweet discoveries happened:

In February I had my first close encounter with a Bald Eagle:
GE #12 - Bald EagleMr. Mike Edwards, AKA "Eddie The Eagle" Meet Mr. Michael Edwards, aka Eddie the Eagle.
This chap is pure grace and elegance in the air, but his landings usually go awry, hence his nickname. 

Discovering the Jack Miner Sanctuary and learning about Angel Wing:
GE #12 - Jack Miner

GE #12 - Angel Wing

Finding four new-to-me wildflowers:

Flower of an Hour
GE #12 - Flower of an Hour

Moth Mullein
GE #12 - Moth Mullein

Swamp Mallow
GE #12 Swamp Mallow

American Lotus
GE #12 - American Lotus

Visiting Caldwell First Nations’ Boardwalk:
GE #12 - boardwalk This lovely facility overlooks Sturgeon Creek and some marsh land.
Birds, reptiles, amphibians, waders and butterflies galore!

My best new experience, by far, was seeing my first Firefly up close.  The woods behind our home are a perfect habitat for these beetles (they like damp conditions with little or no artificial light).  Last fall, I saw two, but from a distance.  This summer, though, magic happened.  Every night, a few minutes after turning out our bedroom light, we could lie in bed, look out the window and door and see flashes of twinkling lights scattered throughout the woods.  We watched in awe as our world glowed with their enchanting illumination.  Two — named Sparkle and Flicker — even made regular evening visits to our balcony door.

This Great Expectations series of blog posts was born from my wish to record moments, snippets of information, discoveries, progress, successes and setbacks in our move from Northumberland County to Essex County — a distance less than five hundred kilometres but often feeling like a million.  Our new home here at Mill Creek is part of a quite special community, one that has welcomed us with open arms.  Still, I wondered how our shared moving worries would compare to the reality.  It was a marvellous feeling, discovering that our hopes and dreams had perfectly translated into our new daily lives.  We’re still the very same people we were in Northumberland, but now we’re looking forward to having many more new experiences and passing many more milestones here in Essex County.  Turns out, no matter how many miles we move, nor how much time passes, nothing changes, really.  And that’s a good thing!  On that note, this, dear readers, will be the last Great Expectations post.

’Til next time, y’all…

GE #12 - Lighthouse Cove Lighthouse Cove

“…and I thought
how the sun
blazes
for everyone just
so joyfully
as it rises”*

This is my first Joyspotting post on Zenfolio and, in case you’re new to this delightful concept, the premise of The Joyspotter’s Guide is “Joy is all around you.  You just need to look for it.”**. Using The Joyspotter’s Guide always ignites my imagination, sharpens my focus and brightens my adventure.  

#1 Look Up:

Most outings begin very early because Cam and his crew typically have first tee-times.  Friday was no different.  My first stop was Sugar Creek at Wheatley Provincial Park where I’ve taken to having my breakfast.  The sun hadn’t yet risen above the tree line so the creek was not illuminated, but when I looked up, this:

Z1 Look Up 1  

During my outings, whenever I’m driving I always have the four windows and sunroof open, better to hear and smell.  On Friday, whilst driving from the park to the Port of Wheatley I could hear a loud bird chorus overhead, I looked up, and this:

Z1 Look Up 2

#2 Look Down:

On my way from the port to Hillman Marsh Conservation Area, I cross a narrow bridge on Mersea Road 2.  On either side there are large ponds that are habitats for many species of wildlife so, every time I pass, I park, hop out and take stock of which species are showing off.  Looking down off the bridge on Friday was Joyspotting perfection — hundreds of Swallows were dipping and swooping and diving for the myriad insects hovering over the water.  Such a sweet interlude:

Z1 Look Down 3  

From the Caldwell First Nations’ elevated boardwalk, one can look down on Sturgeon Creek to see amphibians and reptiles and even, on Friday’s Joyspotting outing, a brilliant green Grasshopper:

Z1 Look Down 1  

Calling all Joyspotters - can you see four turtles?

Z1 Look Down 2

#3 Keep An Eye Out For Colour:

Here in Essex County, Mother Nature’s garden is a joyful blaze of yellows at this time of year - Goldenrod, Evening Primrose, Great Mullein, and Wild Parsnip.  Not to be overlooked, Common Dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) which symbolises a warm welcome:

Z1 Keep An Eye Out For Colour 2

Also Field Bindweed (Convolvulus arvensis) and a bee:

Z1 Keep An Eye Out For Colour 1  

Then, almost going unnoticed, a Monarch sunning herself in the long grass, Osiers and wildflowers:

Z1 Keep An Eye Out For Colour 3

#4 Follow The Curve:

Z1 Follow The Curve 1 Z1 Follow The Curve 2 Z1 Follow The Curve 3

#5 Go Where The Wild Things Are:

Whist I was having my brekkie at Sugar Creek, these two were fishing for theirs (see the juvenile duck watching them?):

Z1 Go Where The Wild Things Are 1

At the Port of Wheatley, an unusual sight (we usually see gulls and Cormorants and ducks and geese and waders):

Z1 Go Where The Wild Things Are 2

And, completely off the adorable scale, three besties napping together:

Z1 Go Where The Wild Things Are 3

#6 Seek Out Symmetry:

Beyond barns and silos, there isn’t anything more quintessentially agricultural than the five bar gate, used to complete livestock enclosures.  Some hang at wonky angles, some are painted interesting colours, some are padlocked but they all represent security and safety for the animals and that never fails to make me smile — as did the symmetry of this pair:

Z1 Seek Out Symmetry

#7 Search For Signs of Abundance:

Abundance in farm country is never a difficult find.  On Friday’s Joyspotting outing I passed this crop of lush, spectacularly healthy soy bean plants, grown from Pioneer Seed distributed by Corteva Agriscience in Chatham:

Z1 Search For Signs of Abundance 1 Next sign of abundance is the corn stalks which, in this area, have reached eight feet tall.  No exaggeration, promise!  I began with this shot, where I’m standing and shooting straight-on, but it lacks anything to give scale.  Then I took the second shot which perfectly illustrates the abundance of food grown in our county.

Z1 Search For Signs of Abundance 2

Z1 Search For Signs of Abundance 3

Not all abundance relates to food, though.  One of my new favourite wildflowers is the American Lotus - a pale yellow waterlily that grows tall out of the water.  The first time I encountered these was last summer when we moved to this beautiful county.  On Friday’s Joyspotting outing, the abundance of American Lotus blossoms at Hillman Marsh was a joy to behold:

Z1 Search For Signs of Abundance 4

#8 Watch for Weirdness:

Not much in nature strikes me as weird.  Interesting and surprising sometimes, but not often weird so for this exercise I always have to stretch.  This collection at the bank of Lebo Creek seemed slightly out of the ordinary:

Z1 Watch For Weirdness 1

Tent Caterpillars have always freaked me out a little and these I do, very definitely, consider weird.  Point Pelee National Park always plays host to a vast number of these critters, and that’s where I found this mass:

Z1 Watch For Weirdness 2  

#9 Zoom In:

A new venue for birders and nature enthusiasts this year is the Caldwell First Nations’ Boardwalk and it has fast become a favourite of mine.  There are wildflowers galore, snakes, frogs, turtles, waders, geese, ducks and a good number of bird species.

Cup-Plant (Silphium perfoliatum) is an herbaceous perennial of the Aster Family.  It produces pretty, yellow daisy-like blossoms that are favourites of bees and Monarchs alike (and Friday, a caterpillar):

Z1 Zoom In 1

This is Jebediah.  I’ve seen him sunning himself on this same rock three times now.  I’m sure-ish its the same chap each time because there is a vibrant green patch of ? on his left shoulder.  Jeb is an adult Painted who may indeed be a female:

Z1 Zoom In 2

#10 Notice The Invisible:

The call of the Bullfrog has been described as a hoarse croaking and a raspy chirping but believe-you-me, at Sanctuary Pond in Point Pelee National Park, their song sounds a lot like a foghorn.  It is loud enough to make unsuspecting tourists jump - I’ve seen that happen more than once.  Apparently the early European settlers thought the call of the American Bullfrog resembled the noises made by bulls during pre-rut which is how the word bull was added to its name.  Me?  I love the sound and, ‘though a couple of these fellows were very near to me, the marsh vegetation hid them effectively so I didn’t actually see one on Friday but still, there is definite joy in hearing their bugling blast

Z1 Notice The Invisible

#11 Take The Scenic Route:

No matter your favourite scenery, it is easy as pie to find a scenic route in beautiful Essex County:

Z1 Take The Scenic Route 1    Z1 Take The Scenic Route 2 Even (especially?) in a boat, it’s easy to take the scenic route:

Z1 Take The Scenic Route 3

#12 Use All Your Senses:

Smell:

The northernmost boundary of Point Pelee National Park is a very, very narrow road named Mersea Road East.  On the south side is the park (Sanctuary Pond, a marsh and a narrow canal that runs to Lake Erie).  On the north side are some farms and some residences.  The farmland is low and wet (very similar to Holland Marsh) - perfect for growing vegetables.  

Yesterday on Mersea Road East, whilst trying (in vain) to get a decent shot of this Cardinal, all I could smell was garlic from the marsh farms.  Even in the morning, that oh-so-tantalising aroma always makes my mouth water, my tummy rumble and the craving for a bowl of pasta gnaws at my brain.  Pathetic, non?  Still, in using all my senses yesterday, joy was definitely in the scent of the garlic.

Z1 Use All Your Senses 1

Hearing:

Black Willow is my favourite beach at Point Pelee NP because it is seldom used.  I am almost always alone when I spend time there, and this was true on Friday.  I enjoyed a nice walk along the edge of the water looking, as always, for sea glass, accompanied by the sound of the waves landing on the beach.  I love that sound - could listen to it all the day long.  Definitely Joyspotting!

Z1 Use All Your Senses 2

The moments captured on Friday during my Joyspotting adventure are joyful because neither then, nor now, do they seem fleeting.  My outing was pure joy, start to finish.  I hope that one day very soon, you’ll grant yourself time for a walk in nature, that you’ll take along a copy of The Joyspotter’s Guide (link below) and in using it, find yourself astonished and delighted and, wherever you walk or hike, do it joyfully!

’Til next time, y’all…

Joyspotting Z1

*Mary Oliver, “Sunrise”, page 74 from her anthology Dream Work.
**Ingrid Fetell Lee, website:  Aesthetics of Joy. Download your free copy here:  The Joyspotter’s Guide - a great companion to any short walk or long hike you take with your partner, your family or - and especially - all by yourself. 

Dad loved Bryant’s poetry and copied this quote into my sweet sixteenth birthday card.  Amid a chorus of the merriest birds that ever sang the stars out of the sky is exactly how Mum and Dad always made me feel on my birthdays.

Some days can be a bit bizarre holding, as they do, both the here and now and a very full cache of memories in the palms of their hands. Sometimes, sparked by the oddest of circumstances, there is a rendezvous between the past and the present that jogs a very sweet memory:  Barbie and her blindingly hot-pink world has exploded onto screens of all sizes, everywhere this summer, poignantly reminding me of my seventh birthday which was oh-so-special and one of my favourites.

My parents loved to celebrate all birthdays but especially mine, and on those occasions, no effort was spared to make the event as exciting and happy as possible.  Yes, I’ll be the first to admit, I was entirely spoiled!  Birthdays meant fun and cards and phone calls from over ‘ome, and some small presents, and a homemade cake Russe and, when Mum was in charge, balloons galore.  And did I mention - FUN!  So much fun.

The centrepiece of all birthday parties is the cake and mine was always a spectacular work of art.  When I was a tad, my Dad introduced me to the joys of the Charlotte Russe, one of his specialities, which became an instant favourite.  Charlottes are types of bread puddings, but the Russe is made with, what North Americans call ladyfingers, and the French call boudoirs aux oufs.  My dad made my boudoirs from scratch.  Finished with crystal sugar, they were a little crispy, nicely sweet and unmistakably flavoured with vanilla.

The side of the Russe pan (now known as springform) was lined with the boudoirs standing on their ends, with crumbled boudoirs sprinkled across the bottom to form the base.  The filling is Chantilly with fruit and mine was always made with raspberries which created a very pretty pink confection.  When the Russe was removed from the pan, Mum would encircle it with a piece of pink ribbon and tie it with a pretty bow.  Honestly, there’s no cake more girly or pretty than the Charlotte Russe and it always drew oohs and aahs from my young friends when the climax of all birthday parties arrived - the singing of Happy Birthday, the wish-making, candle blowing and cake cutting.

My mum believed that no celebration was complete without balloons and, bless her, she knew every game it was possible to play with them.  The night before any party, she’d be at the kitchen table inflating balloons.  Mum had a cardboard pump - a tube-inside-a-tube with metal ends.  One metal end had a small hole into which she’d poke the end of the balloon and then slide the two tubes back and forth drawing air into the balloon.  Ingenious!  Since those days I’ve often wished I’d had one of those!

By far, though, and way more than the balloons, Mum’s biggest contributions to my birthday celebrations were my party dresses - a new one each year - which she’d stay up ’til all hours working on with her trusty Singer at our dining room table.  So many hours spent sewing for me.  Gosh, I was the luckiest one, wasn’t I?

As to the small presents, to paraphrase “Verbal” Kint, the greatest trick Mum and Dad ever pulled was convincing me we weren’t hard up**, and never was that magic more apparent than on my seventh birthday — the year Barbies “arrived” in my circle of friends and cousins.  The big “ask” of Santa that year by all my friends was for the Barbie Dream Home.  Such an extravagance was never going to be possible for Mum and Dad so, for my (December) birthday pressie, my adorable parents designed, built and decorated a wooden “modular” dolls’ house for my Barbie.  Looking back on it, my Barbie home truly was a dream – a melding of creativity, design and engineering:

Dad cut eight, twelve-inch squares of thin plywood which he then painted, both sides, with a very pretty, but pale pink.  Mum cut fourteen, three-inch squares from a white chamois (leather) lining from an old winter coat to serve as hinges.  Four tiny nuts and bolts attached each of the squares to the plywood pieces - two in one half of the chamois on one square, two in the other side of the chamois into the next square.  And so on.  With all eight pieces joined together in this fashion, the squares would stand up and I could “fold” them in multiple directions to create as many rooms as I wanted. 

Construction finished, Mum carefully clipped pictures from a host of magazines to paste onto the wood — there were mirrors, pictures, clocks, dressers and a vanity for the bedroom, cabinetry for the kitchen, and so on.  My favourite configuration was a square indent, followed by a flat wall, followed by another indent, followed by another flat wall:

Barbie's House Storie Version Sincerest apologies for the rudimentary drawing.
Gosh, I wish I still had my Barbie home to show you how perfect it was!  

My “furnishings” were an eclectic blend of found items and some penny purchases from “attic treasures” at Zion’s bazaar.  To see "furniture" in my collection of whatnots would require a ton of imagination of which, happily, I’d cornered the market.  I used an old facecloth to make a bed, an old fingertip towel to make a couch, a tiny jewellery box was my coffee table and an upside-down Russian lacquer box (sans lid) was my dining room table.  I added to my assemblage of pseudo-furniture at every opportunity until my Barbie’s house really was a dream home in every respect.  The greatest trick Mum and Dad ever pulled — it never once occurred to me that my Barbie’s house was make-shift. Because it wasn’t.  It was perfect!    

Come October, Dad will have been gone forty years and Mum, last February, for seventeen years.  I miss them both terribly and there’s so much I’d love to tell and show them. Including how much I loved my birthdays, my dresses, my Russes, my Barbie house and mostly, how special Mum and Dad’s efforts made me feel – Amid a chorus of the merriest birds that ever sang the stars out of the sky. I imagine dear old Dad would cringe at the Barbie movie trailers and posters (Mum would be bemused), but I know they’d be pleased as punch knowing that I so lovingly remember the Barbie house they designed and created for me.

'Til next time, y'all...

*William Cullen Bryant, from his poem “The Twenty-Seventh of March” - page 430 in his anthology Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant.

**“The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.”  This line was spoken by the character Roger "Verbal" Kint in the movie “The Usual Suspects”, the screenplay for which was brilliantly written by Christopher McQuarrie.

Buy LocalScreenshot

Admittedly, I am late to the party where seasonal eating is concerned - indeed I was unaware of the term until very recently but I am already enthusiastically embracing the philosophy.  And having a bit of a giggle as I write:

If he were able to read it, this post would elicit either a gigantic eye-roll or a hearty chuckle from Cam’s dad!  When Lorne was a lad, growing up on his dad’s dairy farm in Valencia, ON, seasonal eating simply meant that he and his nine siblings were sent out to dig potatoes and gather whatever was ripe in the garden and take it inside to the kitchen table.  Aunt Peg told us many versions of that tale over the years, in enough detail that I can easily picture the Perrault kiddos out in the field doing their assigned chores.

Contemporarily, seasonal eating is intentionally choosing a diet rich in fresh, local fruits and vegetables, purchased and eaten at the time of year when they have naturally reached optimal ripeness and nutrition.  Seasonal eating typically encompasses the “buy local” credo — supporting local farmers whilst reducing our footprint by not shipping our food long distances.

Essex County is an intensely agricultural region.  On the same latitude as northern California and Tuscany, we have one of the longest growing seasons in Canada.  Whereas Northumberland County (where we lived for many years), also agricultural, primarily produced crops - corn, soy beans, canola - Essex produces an abundance of produce, both in the fields and in the greenhouses.  

There are acres upon acres of greenhouses here in Essex, hydroponically growing berries, vegetables, flowers and, in enormous quantities, tomatoes - every variety and size imaginable. Most of the greenhouses are huge corporate operations, growing produce that gets packed and shipped directly to grocery stores.  But, drift along any of our rural backroads and you’ll find a thriving community of family-owned farms, and many of those have farm gate, honour stands showcasing their freshly picked field produce, herbs, possibly some free range eggs and, if you’re really lucky, some homemade preserves, honey and baking.  Those are the very best places to shop.  Promise!  Stopping and shopping gives you access to the abundance of Ontario agriculture, and the opportunity to support the hardworking farm families that grew and harvested the food. There’s nothing tastier that farm-to-fork dining!

Be prepared to be surprised!  Early this spring, at one of our local stalls, I spotted a basket of green beans, which we love, and immediately made a bee-line for them.  Except, they weren’t beans at all but this intriguingly weird, long, curly, spiky vegetable I’d never seen before.  Turns out they were garlic scapes.  Delicious in salad, sautéed (with Swiss Chard!), and in pasta sauces.  It has a milder flavour than bulb garlic but the same delightful aroma.  Next time you’re at a farm gate stall and see something new and different, ask about it - farmers are only too happy to extol the virtues of their produce.  Keep an open mind and your taste buds will be rewarded.

Garlic ScapesScreenshot
Garlic Scapes

Also be prepared for the huge selection available. Besides all the usual suspects, there are heirloom vegetables and other, lesser-known species that aren’t carried by the big supermarket chains. These are a few of the fruits and vegetables we’ve had during the past week - all locally grown:

• garlic scapes
• flat (Romano) beans
• small white turnips
• Swiss chard
• lettuce(s)
• onions
• tomatoes
• field strawberries
• mini, tri-coloured, sweet peppers
• peaches - yes, already!

Also be prepared for the intensely happy, social aspect of farm gate shopping.  Very seldom will you be the only visitor.  The growers' stalls have become gathering places for  locals and tourists who are passionate about finding and eating a wide variety of top quality, fresh, healthy food. No one ever seems to be in a rush and conversations about food and recipes abound.  People seem to be more selective about where and how their food is gown and sourced so they enjoy making a connection with the farmers.

Next time you and your family are enjoying a rural ramble, take a crop tour or follow a farm gate trail.  Regardless of what you call your adventure, you’ll enjoy the pastoral landscape, and come home with an agricultural bounty - fruits and veggies, cider, honey and maple syrup, pickles, jams, eggs, fresh-cut flowers and maybe some baked goods. Bon appétit!

’Til next time, y’all… 

Quiet Steadiness

Every now and then, a friend makes an observation that touches my heart, and it is always very sweet and much-appreciated.  In those moments, my emotions are stirred because the words reflect that friend’s kindness or understanding, or love or astuteness.  I always feel happy to have been seen or heard or understood.  

A couple of months ago, a friend and mentor described the love shared by Cam and I as “quiet steadiness”:

One day...can you write a post about Pam and Cam and how you came to be?? I love the quiet steadiness of your love story and the life you've made. But I want to learn more!!!

Daft as it may be - it brought tears to my eyes because, not only is it very true, but her comment more perfectly defined our love and our life than I’d ever have been able to articulate myself.  She asked for more details, but I’ve struggled with this request - we didn’t exactly have a wildly romantic or epic courtship but…

Today marks our thirty-ninth anniversary and this post is for Cam with much love.  The quiet steadiness of your love makes all things possible.  This post is also for Kerry whom I adore to bits and pieces.

Here goes…

Switching programmes (from coop to mainstream) in one’s last year of uni is utter disaster!  I know.  That’s what I did.  I finished my final year, 1.5 credits shy of my degree.  There were other factors involved, but by May of 1978, I was completely spent, and finished - for the time being - with higher education and U of T.  My dear old dad was not going to have me loafing about the house so he quickly organised a job for me at his bank, in the then Personnel Department.  He thought a year of working nine to five might be all the encouragement I needed to go back to school.

In those days, on every floor in the bank’s head office at Commerce Court, there were coffee lounges, staffed by coffee ladies.  We’d buy a sheet of tickets at personnel banking (on the concourse level) and redeem one for each cuppa.  The cups were in two pieces, a rigid plastic ‘frame’ with a handle plus a disposable, conical, plastic cup ‘liner’ that held, to the brim, almost six ounces - don’t tarry, being the obvious message.  Still, break time was always fun time and I loved chatting with and getting to know the other folks on my floor.  

One day, at morning coffee, my sweet friend Vonnie (nine months pregnant at the time) was moaning about how she couldn’t get comfortable and how she was worried about the pain of birthing the “enormous whale” in her belly.  Out of nowhere came this rich, baritone voice, chiming in with “Oh, Vonnie, don’t worry, it’s just like having a big poop.”  Such was my first meeting with Cameron. I mean!  Wouldn’t you, too, have been immediately smitten?  

The thing is, I wasn’t.  But in the following weeks and months I got to know Cam much better; our break and lunch times were in sync, so we spent a lot of time together.  We both loved going out for a walk after our lunch, during which interludes we chatted non-stop.  I grew to respect, like and admire Cam very much and a lovely friendship began to bloom.  Also blossoming was a deep and abiding trust without which, I firmly believe, there could never have been love for each other.  The two go hand-in-hand.

In those days our Christmas celebrations were always big, noisy, happy affairs combining Mum’s two sisters’ families with ours.  That year, my first in the bank, Cam was to be alone on Christmas Day so, despite him knowing no one but Mum and Dad, I asked them if I could please invite him to our dinner (Auntie Jo’s turn that year).  Mum and Dad immediately said yes, conditionally - I had to get permission from Auntie Jo and Uncle Allen first.  Auntie Jo was a dear and, without hesitation, said yes, that Cam was absolutely welcome.  Uncle Allen, though…. 

Phew, that man was a world-class tease!  ‘Though I’d stipulated that Cam was merely a friend, that there was no romantic connection, Uncle Allen - spontaneously - came up with one “platonic” joke after another.  I’m sure my face was as red as Santa’s suit!  Joking aside, they promised to make Cam feel at home and they certainly did that.  

Eventually we had our first real date, a day-long road trip.  We drove first to Cam’s parents home in Grimsby to check things out as Cam had promised to do (they were wintering in Florida) and from there we continued to Niagara to see the frozen falls.   Ohmigosh was I ever nervous - if this romance didn’t work out, I was about to blow up a perfectly lovely friendship!  I think I babbled away the entire time.  It’s a miracle there was a second date.

But there was, and a third, and a fourth, and eventually a wedding - small, intimate and perfect (flower-child garb notwithstanding).  

My dad immediately liked Cam.  A lot.  The two had almost nothing in common and their two personalities couldn’t possibly have been more different.  Still, he quickly became very fond of Cam and happily gave his blessing to our relationship.  I was desolated that my Dad couldn’t walk me down the aisle but, knowing we had his heartfelt support made that lonely walk more bearable.  

Despite their differences, Dad and Cam bonded over a shared love of hockey which was also the biggest bone of contention between them.  Dad loved the Leafs, was a die-hard fan, and he hated the Canadiens.  Cam on the other hand…  Bringing a Habs fan into the fold was considered treason (mine) and as for the Montreal fan who hated the Leafs (Cam), Dad felt there was no hope for the lad.  All of this, of course, in good fun.  Sort of. 

Leaf games - attending and watching - were a huge part of our courtship.  Dad had a half share of a pair of season’s tickets (third row greens - does anyone remember Maple Leaf Gardens?).  When Cam came into our lives, Dad splurged on a second half pair of season’s tickets from a friend in our row of greens.  The second set was north blues, second row.  With some careful finagling and trading, each year we managed to closely sync both pairs so that the four of us could go to the games together. During the first intermission we’d all meet up for an ice cream sandwich and during the second intermission we’d often switch seats (the north seats offered a very different perspective on the game).  Many weeks, we’d be at both Wednesday and Saturday games making hockey an appreciable part of our social lives.  I’m so happy and grateful that we all shared this great enjoyment, and spent all this happy time together, before Daddy died. 

Steadiness is Cam in a nutshell.  Steady, patient, modest, hardworking, capable, and kind.  His steadiness has made me steadier.  He is a calm, grounding, secure presence with - at times - a protective fierceness. Whenever something goes wrong, whenever I’m sad or scared, or hurting, I turn to Cam, my solace. I instinctively curve my hand into his and instantly, I’m in my safe space.

Looking back, the rapport, affection, devotion and joy of our long friendship proved to be the perfect foundation for marriage, and enabled us to very easily manoeuvre from a platonic to a romantic relationship.  It is upon those pillars we’ve been able to build this comfortable and modest life imbued with happiness and contentment, for which I’m profoundly grateful.  

Cam - You were my first true love.  You are my last love.  Happy Anniversary!  

’Til next time, y’all…

*For all you N'umberlanders: Rev. Burn is the father of physio-therapist extraordinaire Kevin Burn at NHH, aka Captain Polar Dip.
 

Human KindScreenshot

June was Pride month.  One of the UK papers published an image of a young European woman (she looked to be 18-20), sitting on a curb, wrapped in the rainbow flag, her face bleeding from a projectile angrily thrown at her by an anti-pride protestor.  She was holding a sign that read “Human⚫️Kind Be both.”  The photo was heartbreakingly sad. I am blessed to have a multitude of friends in the LGBTQ2S community and I couldn’t even begin to imagine how distressing, frightening, enraging and disgusting they found that picture and the plethora of others just like it.  The worst is that these are not isolated incidents, there are thousands more, this year alone, many of those here in Canada.  Indeed, a charter member of Arts and Letters and his partner were assaulted at a Pride event last month - they had paint thrown on them and, ‘though not physically harmed, they were both very frightened during the altercation.

Polarity is on the rise; too many of us seem determined to slide to the far left or far right - moderates are a dwindling body.  The most contentious issues are either ethical or religious in nature and  Canadians are divided on many of those - politics, climate change, abortion, immigration and most recently, LGBTQ2S rights and freedoms.  Public discourse is getting ever louder, ever angrier.  This seems to have become an era when many of us need a gentle reminder to respect one another and to consciously extend kindness to everyone around us, regardless of our beliefs and preconceived judgments. Respect life.  Every life.  Everybody matters.  Or nobody matters.

This is not a commentary about those beliefs but about how we act upon them.  This is not a commentary about free speech, but about the words we choose.  This is a plea:  If you feel compelled to take a public stand, honour and respect the dignity of everyone on both sides of the issue.  If you engage in public debate, do so with courtesy and respect for all.

Every one of us ultimately wants the same things:  To be true to ourselves, to be safe, to belong, to be happy, and to be loved. And to matter.  Everybody matters.  Or nobody matters.

“The protection of life is a seamless garment.
You can’t protect some life and not others.”**

Seamless garment is a brilliant analogy.  When society fails to treat the LGBTQ2S or any other marginalised community with dignity, treating them instead with cruelty, disdain, violence and frenzied anger, we merely diminish people already short on respect.

Everyone needs to be safe, indeed that is one of the protections guaranteed in our Charter.  Everyone wants acceptance and to be treated fairly but even more than these, we all want respect for who we are.  That’s not a big ask, even amongst those with diametrically opposed beliefs.  According to Greek mythology, during the Trojan war there was an exchange between enemies -  Achilles (the greatest warrior in Greek mythology) and Priam (King of Troy at the time of the war):

Achilles: You're still my enemy in the morning. 
Priam: You're still my enemy tonight. But even enemies can show respect.

The idea that even an enemy can respect another enemy encompasses decency, honour and dignity.  That’s exactly what we need right now.  We need that seamless garment of protection for all.  Unfortunately, respect cannot be mandated but intentionally, it can be cultivated, encouraged and lauded.

“Therefore pay respect that you may be respected,
and know that to be esteemed you must show esteem.”***

Beyond respect, we all need to be treated kindly because we’re all facing struggles - some visible, some not. Think how kindness makes you feel and use that as your motivation to be kind to everyone else.  Being kind means using both our eyes and our hearts to really see.  Being kind means using both our ears and our hearts to really hear.  Being kind means using both our minds and our hearts to fully understand.  Being kind means using both our hands and our hearts to comfort.  Kindness comes only from the heart.  

This is a plea for kindness.  If you are going to be uncompromising about one thing, please let it be kindness.  Please let it be kindness to those living in the margins, those without power, those who are ignored, shunned and persecuted.  Your effort will not be in vain.  The fabulist Aesop, wrote:

“A kindness is never wasted.”****

The power and virtue in Aesop’s lesson is that many small acts of kindness build into a wave of kindness and its ripples will spread far and wide - further than you could ever imagine.  Don’t merely be someone who tries to avoid causing pain, be someone who, through small acts of kindness, alleviates that pain.  Little by little, acting together we can make the world a safer, inclusive and more ideal place for one person at a time, one kindness at a time until our world is a better place for all.  Everybody matters.  Or nobody matters.

Human⚫️kind -  let’s strive to be both!

’Til next time, y’all…

*Harry Bosch:  Detective Hieronymus "Harry" Bosch is a fictional character created by American author Michael Connelly.  He was brilliantly portrayed on TV by Titus B. Welliver.
**Eileen Egan (Catholic activist), from “Notre Dame News” 10th March 2022, University of Notre Dame:  “A biblical phrase referencing the seamless robe Jesus wore before his crucifixion, the term ‘seamless garment’ is attributed to Eileen Egan. 
***Baltasar Gracián, page 154, The Art of Worldly Wisdom.
****Aesop, moral of his fable “The Lion & the Mouse”.  ’Though Aesop is generally quoted as having written No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted, in my book, the quote is as above, A kindness is never wasted:

  AesopScreenshot

Point Pelee - park sign

“All places that the eye of Heaven visits
Are to the wise man ports and happy havens.”*

Since September of last year, I’ve been going to Point Pelee National Park several times each week - sometimes for a lengthy visit, sometimes for a very short and sweet interlude.  Pelee is a long peninsula that extends some seven kilometres into Lake Erie.  Less than a kilometre inside the main gate, on the east side of the headland, there is a seldom-used observation deck overlooking a wide, shallow pond.  Right from my first visit, I recognised that the view from this platform has an undeniable sanative quality. The fact that, on each of my visits, I have been the only one there only serves to bolster that initial impression.  Despite its proximity to the roadway (everything at Point Pelee is road-adjacent), it is a quiet, serene oasis, perfect for meditation, reflection and wildlife observation.

Sanctuary Pond - deck 1

In previous posts I’ve written that PPNP is my least favourite Essex venue - not because it isn’t spectacular (it is!) but because it is always so busy.  Yet, with its deck seeming to float above the water and its plenitude of wildlife, this pond has surprisingly become my sanctuary.  In this haven of tranquility, I have finally found a place where my mind and soul easily take refuge and where, upon entry, peace washes over me, just as it did at the lagoon at Presqu’ile.  Indeed there are many similarities between the two venues.  Life has a strange serendipity on occasion:  During my most recent visit to Point Pelee I chatted with a park employee who told me that “my pond” is actually named Sanctuary Pond; sanctuary, of course, referring to the wildlife but also, I’d like to think, for the human visitors.

Sanctuary Pond - calm Sanctuary Pond
Point Pelee National Park
Leamington, ON
Sanctuary Pond - mapScreenshot

Last week when I visited PPNP, Lake Erie was having a bit of a wild and noisy day due to the pre-storm wind.

spray

After the crashing of the waves, the still, green pond water welcomed me with its serenity.  Basking in the rustic integrity of Sanctuary Pond, free from all commotion, undisturbed, soothed, and enjoying the fresh air and natural smells, it becomes very easy to see the beautiful, appreciate the good in my life and feel unreserved joy.  For that gift I am very grateful.

Why have a sanctuary?  What is its merit?

Personal sanctuaries are paramount to healthy living and, whether we realise it or not, whether we classify it as such or not, we all have one.  These havens help us reduce stress, enable us to better cope with our problems, even recalibrate our priorities.

Fact:  Canadians spend 90% of every day indoors - more than any other time in our history.
Fact:  Canadians spend 69% of our waking hours on our duffs, sedentary.  

Studies**  have proven time and again that there is a direct correlation between the time we spend outdoors, connected to nature, and our mental and physical health and wellbeing. Beautiful outdoor spaces, free from excessive media consumption and over-stimulation, have the power to improve our mood, help us to relax, increase our sense of wonder and elevate our creativity.

We all need a sanctuary and if you don’t believe me, prove it to yourself:  Set aside a couple of hours.  Get up and walk away from your computer.  Set your phone to “do not disturb”.  Head out to a park, a conservation area, a beach or a woodland and go for a hike.  Not long into your walk, you’ll begin to feel the restorative pull of solitude - your anxiety will wane and you will feel more mellow.  Pleasure in the landscape, watching for wildlife, listening to the birds, savouring the unique aroma of nature will cause joy to bubble up, a delightful effervescence in your soul.

Sanctuary Pond - deck 2

“All places that the eye of Heaven visits
Are to the wise man ports and happy havens.”*

Any tranquil, outdoor space can become one’s sanctuary; a palace of limitless joy and a haven from life’s busyness and chaos.  In this delight, labels cease to exist -  every human can enjoy spending time outdoors equally. What does your sanctuary look like?  Is it an open water swim in a lake, or a trek through the woods to see a special tree, or an early morning fishing trip, or a favourite rock or log to perch on whilst drawing, or a game of golf, or lounging on a beach with a good mystery, or a hike in the mountains, or your own garden, or….  If you have time, please share your sanctuary in the comments - I’d love to hear from you.  

’Til next time, y’all…

*William Shakespeare, Act I, Scene III, Richard II.
**Healthy Parks Healthy People

Sanative: Conducive to improving spiritual and mental health and well-being. 

beach, Wheatley PP

This week, as I sat quietly on the beach at Wheatley, listening to the lake and the birds, I found myself acutely missing my dad.  He’d have loved that beach.  He would have spent hours upon hours walking back and forth collecting bits of driftwood to make his “famous” holiday table centrepieces. Any waterfront was his happy place but he’d have loved the beauty of Wheatley’s beach.  Hey Daddy:

“I Thought of You

I thought of you and how you love this beauty,
And walking up the long beach all alone
I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder
As you and I once heard their monotone

Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me
The cold and sparkling silver of the sea—
We two will pass through death and ages lengthen
Before you hear that sound again with me.”*

Daddy and me, Nana's garden

Just in case there is still a reader left who does not know, I am an only child and a Daddy’s girl, and now my closest friends are all giving me a gigantic eye-roll for that gross understatement.  Rather than being embarrassed or ashamed of that “revelation”, I am very proud of my deep and affectionate bond with my dear dad.  Don’t get me wrong - it wasn’t always clear sailing!  There were lots of ripples in our shared water, even a tsunami or two.  But beyond the turmoil, there was the greatest love and friendship between us.  

It is so hard to believe that, come October, he will have been gone 40 years already.  In my first birthday card after we lost my dad, my Auntie Pam wrote, Pamie, there was nothing your Dad loved more than being your daddy, and when Mum read it, she said it was very true.  That’s a tidbit I cling to, especially on dad days, when I most miss his happy presence in my life.  

For those of you who never had the honour and pleasure of knowing my Dad:

• His name was George Kilpatrick, but everyone called him “Chub” and my cousins called him “Uncle Chub” - it was affectionate, promise!
• He cheered very enthusiastically for his local teams - the Leafs, the Argos and the Jays - even when they were on colossal losing streaks which was most often in those days.  Loyal to the bitter end, was Dad.
• Food, foremost!  Feed everyone who comes into our home - all the time.   Food is welcoming, inclusive, security and comfort. Dad felt it was impossible to overstate the importance and value of gathering around the table, understanding that those gatherings were about togetherness and communion, not about the food. My dad, an über-talented pâtissier, knew all about the power of sharing food, mostly in a comfortable, casual setting (usually crammed around the table in our tiny kitchen). 
• Dad’s best and enduring advice to me was “Put your best foot forward.”  To dad, my grades, my successes, and my failures were never important.  What counted in his book was effort.  If I’d tried my very best, regardless the outcome, he was proud as punch!  No exceptions.   
• Dad believed that every problem can be solved over a cuppa.  When there's a dilemma, first plug in the kettle.
• Dad was a helper and always encouraged me to be quick to lend a hand.  He wanted me to pay attention to my family, friends and neighbours and if if I noticed a need, jump in.  Right quick!  In this regard, he led by tremendous example.  
• Dad was a loyal friend.  He encouraged me to nurture genuine, enduring friendships where there is no purpose but sharing, caring and togetherness.   
• He didn’t hold grudges, was quick to apologise if he was in the wrong and quick to forgive whenever someone wronged him. 
• Dad loved gardening and his indisputable forte was roses.  He built and expanded his rose garden to 350+ bushes - all different.  In full bloom, it was a spectacular display.  Part of the rose garden was beneath my bedroom window and ohmigosh, did the blossoms ever make my room smell beautiful!
• Nowhere was Dad happier than on or beside the water.  He shunned motorised boats, preferring the quietude of self-propelled.  He loved rowing.
• Dad was a profoundly religious man.  His faith carried and sustained him through WWII.  From his spirituality he drew solace in the bad times and expressed gratitude for the good times.  He wanted me to foster my own faith and spirituality, no matter what that was, knowing it would nourish my soul.

Hey, Daddy, I’m thinking of you…

On this Father’s Day, to my dad, my first hero, you made me feel cared for, content, secure, happy and very well-loved.  I love you and miss you always.  Happy Fathers’ Day!

’Til next time, y’all…

Gallery 

Dad surveying his roses
The little house on Joy Drive.
Dad surveying his roses.
Dad rowing
Dad's happy place.
Rowing on Lake Simcoe.

Daddy and me, Joy Drive
Daddy and me in the garden at Joy Drive.
Fess up,  you're jealous of this spiffy outfit aren't you?

Dad in uniform
Merchant seaman.
Best baker in the navy!

Dad, tea, garden
Dad in the garden at Joy Drive with a cuppa.
In the fine weather, early on Saturday and Sunday mornings, Dad would always start his day with tea in the garden.

*Sara Teasdale, “I Thought of You”, page 83, from her anthology Flame and Shadow.

Frith (Gaelic) means peace, sanctuary.

Build Bridges Not Walls

In March, our Prime Minister asked The Right Honourable Mr. David Johnston to take on the role of Special Rapporteur in the matter of foreign interference in Canadian Politics.  That gentleman accepted the assignment.  A scant three months later, after enduring an aculeate barrage of repeated, cruel and hurtful innuendos, insults and attempts at character assassination, Mr. Johnston resigned.  These are the very well-known facts.  

The Right Honourable Mr. Johnston fulfilled his role as GG impeccably, cordially, enthusiastically and with great dedication, a role he was chosen for by the then Prime Minister, The Right Honourable Stephen Harper, aka the conservatives’ Yoda.  One could be forgiven for assuming that Mr. Johnston’s connection to their Jedi master, would have guaranteed that at least the opposition conservative party would have given Mr. Johnston the benefit of the doubt.  That clearly did not happen and now, just like Julius Caesar, it appears we’re about to cross the Rubicon.

The government is relinquishing control:  Knowing full-well that there isn’t a single name the government can put forward that won’t be castigated and immediately rejected by the opposition parties, Intergovernmental Affairs Minister Dominic LeBlanc has charged the opposition parties with collaborating to nominate a distinguished Canadian to continue Mr. Johnston’s work.  But not just a name, they must establish the new commission’s mandate, its terms of reference and, very especially, the measures it must take to protect highly classified Canadian intelligence.  

The opposition parties have finally got what they’ve been agitating for these past three months, but at what cost?  To Mr. Johnston, of course, the cost has been formidable, and has most certainly left a bitter taste in his mouth that will endure.  But the bigger picture is what the cost will end up being to the process itself - anyone asked to take on such a role in the future will undoubtedly be reticent based upon this recent history.  Even the judge, whose name is recommended to the government, may feel strong apprehension about accepting.  I wonder if they considered the repercussions of their vitriol at the time they were mud-slinging with apparent glee, and cheering each other on in The House, as if they were at a sporting event.  

The opposition leaders have pledged their commitment and co-operation in naming a judge to head the commission that will conduct a public inquiry into Chinese interference.  A hamarchy, then.  An equipollent, straw-dog entente cordiale.  Can they succeed?  If they are to prevail, they shall need to build bridges instead of walls.  An enormous challenge if ever there was one! 

 The majority of Canadians - decent, truthful, fair, respectful and compassionate people all - are working hard to support their families and communities.  They’ve no time for the political oneupmanship, hubris and arrogant pride that is on display in Ottawa these days.  Regardless of which side of centre they find themselves politically, they’ve had enough of the nastiness, the bullying, and general bad behaviour they’re witnessing.  Canadians want their parliamentarians to fulfil their duty, treat everyone well and complete the job they’ve been elected, and paid to do.  We’re expecting Good Works, Concord, Patience and Humility (capital virtues).  

I, for one, will be watching closely.  You?  

’Til next time, y’all…

Felicificative Forest

When I was young we did not have a car - neither Mum nor Dad drove. We travelled everywhere on busses and subways.  But we had something so much better (and kinder) than a car.  We had my beloved Uncle Jimmy, one of the finest gents ever to walk this earth.  Almost every Sunday morning after church, together with Auntie Pam and Nana, he’d pack us up into his car and we’d head off to a park for an afternoon of nature and hiking and picnicking (even in the cold weather). There was always a Coleman stove in the trunk ready for brewing up and a bright red Coca Cola cooler filled with tasty treats.   ‘Though we went to many different parks, the one on our most frequent rotation was Presqu’ile for which I consider myself one of the luckiest ones.  Thinking back on those halcyon days, it’s really no wonder that Presqu’ile became my utopia.  You know, I thought it would always be a huge part of my life. It never once occurred to me that we’d move this far away.

Deer

Ever since those Sunday outings when I was a tad, romping with innocent abandon through Jobe’s Woods, and even more-so since retirement, I’ve felt a profound connection to woodland trails and all the creatures that reside within.  When I’m at home, I’m usually longing to be out in nature, exploring a trail, surrounded by, and witness to, all the life in those habitats.  Love of his new country, Canada, and love of nature, imbued my dad’s life with joy and with meaning and this was apparent in everything he did.  If my dad didn’t actually embed his love of nature’s beauty in my DNA, it’s definitely his legacy.

Ontario:  Yours to Discover

‘Though I miss Presqu’ile, terribly, I do not have to drive far here in Essex County to have fascinating outdoor adventures.  Within a half-hour’s drive from my home there is a national park, a provincial park, and four conservation areas - six beautiful properties that offer limitless exploration opportunities, natural beauty, wildlife, wildflowers and bags of history for me to enjoy.

Footbridge 1

My “new” provincial park is Wheatley, which is part of our incredible Carolinian Forest; its trees forming the framework of a beautiful, all-natural park, with the most interestingly varied characteristics - woods, creeks, ponds, serene wetlands and a natural, stygian beach.  ‘Though there is a smattering of evergreens, the woodland at Wheatley is primarily deciduous with Sweet Chestnuts, Shagbarks (Hickories), Oaks, Red Mulberries, Sassafras, Eastern Cottonwood and Black Gum trees - many of those “old growth”. The forest floor is decorated with a lovely variety of wildflowers creating glorious displays of colour.  It’s a spectacular sight, believe you me, but to describe Wheatley as merely lush would be an understatement.  This park’s beauty is in its unique topography and Lake Erie waterfront setting.  The views from every vantage point are delightful - woodlands and wetlands alike - and its dense Carolinian Forest canopy gives this property an air of bucolic majesty.

This is the essence of Wheatley PP:
Essence of Wheatley “Sometimes the forests were thick and dark,
sometimes like a beautiful garden gay with sunshine and flowers”*
Sunshine and Flowers

This tranquil forest, gleaming with young green leaves, has a welcoming, comforting, softness beneath its stately arch.  Nestled along the north-west shore of Lake Erie in Ontario’s Deep South, this lush, tranquil park is where pretty mornings dawn and brekkie (overnight steel cut oatmeal with peaches on this day) is served:

brekkie

And some live entertainment whilst eating:
entertainment at brekkie

Due to down time whilst recovering from some injuries, today was my first outing in a long while, and Wheatley welcomed me back with open arms.  Well, at least with wide-spread branches.  Today’s ramble began with the Footbridge:

Footbridge 2  

Last time I crossed, I noticed a Heron sitting on her nest in the shoreline Phragmites and I badly wanted to catch a glimpse (and shot or two) of her chicks.  No such luck, however, they’ve all fledged and the nest is abandoned.  Herons are noted for reusing their nests year after year so perhaps 2024 will be my year to shoot a Heron chick.  Fingers crossed! Even without the joy of baby birds, you can see how idyllic this spot is - always a sweet interlude.  The view looking north from the bridge is so pretty - two creeks feeding into the basin on their way to Lake Erie:

two creeks

Doing the very thing that nurtures and restores me, on this pretty day I enjoyed three walks, each of moderate length, before I reluctantly admitted defeat.  But, before getting into my car for the trip home, I inhaled one last, deep breath of woodsy musk, savouring its unique scent.  In that instant, I realised the fragrance of the forest is homely, whether it be in Presqu’ile, Wheatley or anywhere else. 

’Til next time, y’all…

Wildflowers of the Day:

Dandelion
Common Dandelion (Taraxacum officinale)
The perfect symmetry of this humble, wildflower is perfection.

horsetail
Field Horsetail (Equisetum arvense)

wood anemone
Wood Anemone (Anemone quinquefolia)

garlic mustard
Garlic Mustard (Alliaria petiolata)

forest phlox
Forest Phlox (Phlox divaricata)

honeysuckle
Bell’s Honeysuckle (Lonicera Bella).
Fancifully known as Showy Fly Honeysuckle

fleabane
Philadelphia Fleabane (Erigeron philadelphicus)
Closest to a daisy I could find.
'Though I've never stopped looking, I've yet to clap eyes on a wild Daisy here in Essex County.

*Hans Christian Andersen, Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales, from his story “Ole-Luk-Oie the Dream God”, page 190.
felicificative = to make happy

Tether

Power of Love

Love it is the precious loom,
Whose shuttle weaves each tangled thread,
And works flowers of exquisite bloom,
Shedding their perfume where we tread.*

Today I give thanks to and for my Mum who is in heaven and is, no doubt, celebrating “Mothering Sunday” with her own mum - cups of tea and petit fours aplenty!

About a month ago, I read about a new exhibition opening at The Thames Art Gallery (Chatham).  Titled “Tether”, the collection was curated from seven local artists - all women - whose work highlights mothers practicing art in diverse fields (painting, photography, filmmaking and sewing). Each artist’s  perspective has been formed by mothering their own children who are of a wide range of both ages and abilities.  The exhibit is simultaneously emotional, intriguing, humorous and poignant.  If you’re going to be in south-west Ontario, you have until Sunday, 4th June to take in the dynamic work of these seven accomplished Chatham-Kent artists: “Tether”

“Invisible threads are the strongest ties.”
[Friedrich Nietzsche]

It was the sewing element of “Tether” that initially caught my eye; it is a dominant theme in my life.  Virtuosos with a needle and thread -  proficient seamstresses and gifted embroidery artists - Nana and Mum wove a loving thread through our family’s life, mine in particular - a shared tether that will never break.  That thread has stitched their hearts onto my own forevermore.

Foremothers
Virtutem maiorum honoramus

Foremothers 1

My Nana

Like so many Canadians, I owe an enormous debt to my relatives who immigrated to this beautiful country after WWII in search of a better life.  Particularly my Nana, whose bravery, and certitude that her family’s future was in Canada, became the cornerstone for my future. I admire her indomitability which is responsible for my family’s current life of abundance, safety and happiness.

My Nana had three daughters -  Mum, Auntie Jo and Auntie Pam.  Being a very young girl in war-ravaged Manchester during WWII, Auntie Pam was evacuated to Canada where she lived, in the Kew Beach neighbourhood of Toronto, with my Nana’s brother, our great Uncle George.  By the time the war had ended, Auntie Pam was a thoroughly Canadian girl, firmly entrenched in her new Toronto life.  Encouraged by her brother, Nana packed up their few remaining possessions, left her home, her friends, her business and, with her three girls in tow, immigrated to Canada.  She bought a house - #191 Gledhill Avenue - a home where many of my most cherished memories were made.  

As a youngster, Nana’s story was just that, a story, and one so far beyond the parameters of my own life and experiences that it was nothing I truly understood, or thought much about.  As an adult, though, and more recently in the context of the war being waged on the Ukraine, I’m feeling deeper admiration and gratitude for the decision and sacrifice made by my grandmum. 

Mum

I was raised by a very strong, unfussy, fiercely proud woman of immense kindness.  Mum was a Breast Cancer survivor.

By constant example, she taught me to love generously.  She taught me patience (with moderate success at best).  She taught me to be kind.  Always.  She loved the lessons of the ten commandments, particularly the adjunct to the first, “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”**  Mum constantly modelled acceptance and inclusion because she wanted me to love my neighbour as much and in exactly the same way, as I loved myself.

From my juvenile perspective, the life Mum created for me on Joy Drive was idyllic.  For her, though, it wasn’t always easy.  Money was always tight and Mum, a practical woman, always found ways to make ends meet, to make sure I had lovely clothes for school, church and most especially - to young me - for birthday parties.  She’d spend hours unpicking garments passed down from Nana, Auntie Pam and Aunt Fran.  She’d carefully piece them back together to make the prettiest of dresses, skirts and coats for both me and her.  Watching my mum devoting her time, artistry, and sewing mastery to her dressmaking process, taught me to value both handiwork and economy (‘though Cam would strenuously argue that last one).

‘Though many outsiders may have chosen to see an overprotective mother, Mum taught me to think for myself and to learn by doing; she’d never chastise me for making mistakes, simply encourage me to do better the next time.  No judgement.  One of the most important acts of mothering is letting go.  Life’s lessons - just like taking one’s first steps - are best mastered trial and error styles. No matter how much they want to safeguard their kiddos, Mums have to let their toddlers wobble, fall down, get back up, and repeat until balance comes naturally.   ‘Though I was always well-protected, mum’s guidance and encouragement gave me confidence in my ability.  She gave me wings and urged me to spread them wide.  She never once held me back.

Foremothers 2

The golden thread that binds our family together, our tether, is spun from the love and lessons of my mum and nana. All I can tell you is that through Mum and Nana, everlasting love for my family has been securely stitched onto my heart and on this Mother’s Day I couldn’t be more grateful nor more appreciative. How ever you’re celebrating or with whom you’re celebrating, happy Mothers’ Day!

Here’s to you, Mum!

teatime.001

’Til next time, y’all…

*James McIntyre, from his volume Poems of James McIntyre, page 245. Mr. McIntyre was a Scottish poet who emigrated to Canada in 1851.
** Matthew 22:39 KJV
Virtutem maiorum honoramus = We honor the strength of our ancestors


 

poppins.001

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise"*

%22Blackbird%22

This post must begin with profound gratitude to Mike, a friend from our high school days at Wexford CI, who - after reading my first “Spoonful of Sugar” post - very kindly, thoughtfully and graciously reached out with a ton of helpful/useful information and words of encouragement and support.  Also with the promise to answer any questions I might have going forward.  His solicitude and consideration were a gift beyond measure, at a time when I was feeling utterly defeated.  Thank you Mike!  You, sir, are a Knight of the first order!  It was a relief to know I have someone like you in my corner.

Since that post, I’ve had six more weeks of learning about nutrition labels and carbohydrates - net carbohydrates and balancing carbohydrate totals at each meal - about how fibre and protein help the cause, and all the while documenting everything.  Surprisingly, I was feeling hopefully optimistic. I’d learned a lot, changed my diet and I felt confident I’d easily meet my target A1-C number - 6.

Last week I had my three-monthly blood draw taken. I walked into LifeLabs with a cocky bounce in my stride. Honestly, it was a complete disaster; the woman drawing could not find a viable vein and the result was a mere thimbleful of blood in the bottom of the vial. Pathetic (me, not her) considering I swallow blood thinners (Xarelto) everyday for the PEs.   She took it to a supervisor who said it would be enough, and I was sent on my way.  

Twenty-four hours of stewing, fretting, biting my finger nails, obsessing and chafing, until the results were posted. (Not so optimistic after all, hey?)

A1-C January:  6.4
A1-C Goal:  ⪳6
A1-C April: 6.2

Four days until I saw Dr. Iftimie to hear her take on the change, minimal though it was.  Four days of imagining the worst.  Four days of anxiety, disappointment and shame (could I have done more/better?).  Fired Up.  Frantic.  Freaked Out.  Frenzied.  But…

She was actually pleased with my ever-so-slightly lower score, does not want to introduce medication, commended our approach to dietary intervention (all praise to Cheryl!), and told me I am in excellent health - all things considered.  

Ohmigosh!  I could have hugged and kissed her.  I could have cartwheeled out of her office (and you’d have loved to have seen that spectacle wouldn’t you?).  This was a much-needed lift - I felt a renewed lightness of being, like I could almost fly.

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise”*

And I was, for the entirety of the past three months, only waiting for this moment to arise.  Back to Cheryl again now - Wednesday afternoon.  Of course there is more to be done, more to learn, more to experiment with; take these broken wings and learn to fly…

But I’m breathing easily, reposed and content, confidence fully restored. And I am resolved that I will not backslide but take control, and wrestle that A1-C down to six.  Control = safety.  Control = autonomy and, for me, there is trepidation about anything I cannot control - A1-C numbers being no exception.  As any good psychologist will preach, control is just an illusion but, if it is, control is my favourite illusion!   I always have it and never have it. 

“Take these sunken eyes and learn to see…
You were only waiting for this moment to be free”*

Perhaps my strategy ought to be balance, not control.  My dear old dad always told me that I must have balance in my life. With balance comes perspective.  Whenever I get too focussed on control, my myopia rears its ugly head and I lose sight of the big picture.  Take these sunken eyes and learn to see.  If I only remember to take that saving step back and refocus, reframe, I seem to find a way of interpreting the situation more accurately (read: less threateningly), which frees me from unnecessary anxiety.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night...

’Til next time, y’all…

*“Blackbird” by the Beatles.  Songwriters Sir Paul McCartney and John Lennon.  Full lyrics below.  Have a listen to this masterpiece, sung by Sir Paul, you’ll love it - promise! Link:  Blackbird

Blackbird.001

Jacob's Ladder, Baltimore, ON

Growing up with parents who were dedicated volunteers - at my school, at our church, at the studio where I studied ballet, fundraising for the Heart and Stroke/Canadian Cancer foundations, Dad cooking at the Fred Victor Mission, etc., etc., etc.  They were always pleased to be of assistance wherever and whenever needed, and through their service to others, they built very strong connections within our community.  They always spoke of feeling engaged, fulfilled, energised and inspired by those experiences.  I, of course, was always dragged along.  Dragged!  I mean, what ten year-old wants to bang on doors begging for money for Heart and Stroke when they could be riding their bike on the roller coaster** with the boys? Whenever I had the temerity to complain, to ask why I had to help, Dad would always say the same thing:

If not you, then who?

Throughout my adult life I have volunteered (without being dragged) in various capacities for various organisations, and retirement freed me up to take on even more unpaid roles.  Whilst we were living in Peterborough and Cobourg, the demands for my service and time were overwhelming, persistent, compelling and, most of all, infinite.  When I began volunteering at the park, the word “enough” seemed to have been eradicated from their lexicon.  Prove yourself - just once! - as being capable and reliable, and your name seems to come up every time a new project arises.  Too often to cope.  But how does one say no, particularly when the cause is worthy?

Surprisingly, talk of volunteering has cascaded through my e-mails, telephone conversations and media feeds this week, a bit as if the universe is trying to send me a message.  All week, and like it was a coordinated plan, a number of my Cobourg/Brighton/Carrying Place/Trenton friends and park buddies have been asking me where, with which organisations, which parks, etc., I have been volunteering.  The truth is, I’ve been here eight months now and I have not yet become a volunteer.  No one wants me.  I’ve applied to two parks, the conservation authority and ASK, but not one of them has responded.  I’m clearly superfluous to needs here in Essex County.  

Volunteering is deeply individualistic. Generosity, springing from a feeling of gratitude, often becomes personified in the form of volunteers, who complete small and large acts of kindness and helpfulness.  Folks volunteer their time for myriad reasons - as a means of networking (in search of future employment opportunities), to fill or pass time, to make new friends, to prove loyalty/dedication to a favourite cause, simply to help, because the cause is deeply personal, to assuage the anxiety and guilt inherent in abundance and - more often than not, because no one else did/would.

One of my favourite sites to visit is Pickle Me This, link: https://picklemethis.com/

On Monday, Kerry wrote passionately about a volunteer role she is currently fulfilling.  I’ve read her post, link:  “Harper Valley PTA” several times now and each time through, something new touches a nerve:

“And this is personal. I’ve spent the last few weeks overwhelmed by several things, not the least of which is a fundraiser for my child’s school that has ended up on my plate mostly because I was the only person who reluctantly failed to refuse it.”*

At its core, volunteerism responds to unmet needs within a community or organisation.  It is the countless, unpaid, unrecognised activities on which most not-for-profit organisations depend.  It is a task force that sometimes collects needed goods (think Christmas toy drives or food bank collections and distribution).  Volunteerism encompasses care of the ill, the infirm, seniors and very young kiddos. It is sometimes a human resource function (think hospital volunteers).  But the truth is that very often volunteerism is all about offering time, creativity and logistics in a fundraising effort.  Asking is no easy task, believe you me.  Every group has its hand out.  Every foundation finds its coffers depleted.  Every foundation has a lengthy list of necessary new acquisitions, and each one of those requires money.  And for the volunteers who take on the enormity of raising those funds, it is an intrinsic but frequently overwhelming endeavour.  One that always, ALWAYS requires much more time than originally predicted, often at the most inconvenient of hours.  So why do they do it?

If not you, then who?

Why volunteer?  For many folks, it is as simple as staving off loneliness and boredom.  Regardless of how each individual came to the volunteer community, the biggest “why” almost always ends up being the (sometimes unexpected) rewards, and it is those guerdons that keep folk coming back time and again.  In my experience, the benefits of volunteering are as infinite as were the demands on my time. Through my volunteer activities, I’ve grown, changed and become more enlightened than I’d ever have expected. I’ve made new, life-long friends, learned new skills, helped organisations accomplish many goals, and had a lot of fun along the way.

Volunteering is a noble calling.  By signing up, you’re enlisting in a veritable army of kindred spirits – a phalanx of hard-working managers, tradespeople, accountants, nurses, counsellors, artists, salespeople, cooks, retirees, truck drivers, musicians, bartenders, teachers, janitors, electricians – all united by a common desire to serve others and to do good works. Many of those you encounter will become your mentors, guiding you through the labyrinth of unspoken, unwritten rules, taboos and expectations. Eventually, you will become a mentor and guide to the next generation of volunteers.  

Volunteerism is a venerated tradition that, in joining, you implicitly agree to maintain and perpetuate, even if your participation involves the updating, refreshing and revamping of the organisation and its practices.  Noble?  For sure.  But even more, volunteering is a fundamental necessity and all volunteers are absolutely indispensable.  I’ll end with some sage advice from Kerry:

“This kind of labour is essential, so use it smartly, use it well. Value people’s time. Keep meetings within limits. Respect people’s boundaries. Appreciate people’s talents and skills. Don’t take any of this for granted. And if everyone does a little, that means no one has to do it all.”*

’Til next time, y’all…

*Kerry Clare, author, blogger, educator, activist, mum, daughter, wife, loyal friend to many and a veritable kick-ass feminist.
**The “Roller Coaster” was a switchback trail atop the berm that separated the train tracks from the houses on Murray Glen Drive.  It was a very rough trail that “donated” to my collection of stitches on at least three occasions that I can remember.  Also, for the record, I was forbidden to ride there, so now you know a little more about how much of a holy terror I was to my dear mum and dad.  

Kopegaron Woods
PP8_6803

“Say not, ‘I have found the truth’, but rather, ‘I have found a truth’.
Say not, ‘I have found the path of the soul’.
Say rather, ‘I have met the soul walking upon my path’.
For the soul walks upon all paths.”*

Loop Trail #1

Persephone has been fair-dancing here in Essex County for nearly three weeks now.  With her arrival there has been an uptick in trail traffic. I see folks walking along, scopes and notebooks in hand, necks craned to the treetops, searching for birds and, all too often, tripping over partially exposed tree roots or uneven ground.  I see my peeps, cameras in hand, gazing downward, searching for wildflowers, snakes, toads, mice, rabbits, foxes and missing entirely, the birds above.  I see young’uns power-walking, arms pumping, ear buds in, oblivious to the beautiful avian chorus and completely annoyed by the rest of us meandering along.  I see mums, pushing all-terrain strollers, heads bent together, talking oh-so-softly so as not to disturb their infants’ naps, not noticing anything at all around them.  And I wonder…

What is the relationship between nature and each of these walkers? Is there a melding of purpose and experience, a common recompense on some level? Have any of them met the soul walking upon the path? How aware is each walker, of just how interconnected they are to this woodland?  In the simplest of terms, the trees give off the oxygen we breathe in, and absorb the carbon dioxide we exhale - a true symbiotic partnership that has spanned centuries.

Loop Trail #4 Watching everyone negotiate the trail on this lively day in the forest, I realised that each of them is weighed down by their personal load of lived experiences.  Many are managing to move through life by keeping their focus on their circumstances to the exclusion of everything else, including this beautiful woodland. But perhaps, regardless of their preoccupation whilst walking, this path does connect with their hearts.

Today my walk was through a tract of our beloved Carolinian Forest at Kopegaron Woods.  Although this is an eighteen hectare property, the loop trail is only about 1.25km - an easy, fifteen minute stroll.  In this tiny space, people, animals, birds, trees, shrubs and wildflowers collide - all breathing the same air, all misshaped pieces in a metaphysical jigsaw puzzle.  Today, this path and these august woods are my partners in photography.  

PP8_6860

Last September, during my first visit, Kopegaron was a peaceful spot that gave off a spiritual vibe due to the majesty and magnificence of the huge, old trees.  During this, my second visit, and despite all the other visitors, I experienced the same serenity as I did the first time. The Carolinian Forest has trees that are centuries old - some of the Black Gum trees are even approaching 500 years old - and with that much history, it’s no wonder they possess such an undeniable aura. The giant, old growth trees, seem to be demanding that we pay attention to and protect this incredible legacy, temporarily in our keeping, so that it might continue to enrich the lives of generations of Canadians yet to come.

Kopegaron Woods
There is a remarkable symmetry in the development of a tree - above and below the ground; a tree simultaneously grows both upwards and downwards, neither progress limited by the other.  Above the ground it seems to reach for the sky with every ounce of its being - searching for sustaining sunlight and rain.  Below the ground, the roots stretch ever wider and deeper searching for mainstay and sustaining fountainhead. Now imagine, in an old growth tree, that ontogenesis occurring through multiple centuries!  There is natural beauty of form arising from such balanced proportions that inspires respect and reverence.  It teaches us a metaphysical lesson about the immensity and otherness of the natural world.

In the heart of Kopegaron, I have found a truth but, as anyone who studies nature quickly realises, any new tidbit of learning merely serves to illustrate how very much remains to be learned and observed and the spiritual patience required to reach that goal. The quest is infinite, but… Whilst on that trail, there are no demands on my time - no doctors’ appointments, no food charts, no chores - only serenity.  As William Bartram wrote, I “flee the seats of envy and strife, and seek the retired paths of peace.”

Walking through this woodland lifted my spirits and I was filled with wonder - a spiritual gift powerful enough to polish my tarnished winter soul.  My takeaway from today’s interlude:  My friends who are solidly attuned to nature - Randy, David, Larry and Annie - all negotiate their life paths with an exceptional and enviable assurance and steadiness - stability that I envy, but I know that today’s walk took me one step closer.  

So how did my trail accomplices fare today?  Back in the parking lot - dismantling and stowing my gear, I (very discretely, promise!) observed two of them:  The power walker, ear buds missing, was stretching beside her car (ohmigosh is she lithe).  Just before she got into her vehicle, she paused gazing into the woods, drew in a long breath and then the tiniest of smiles teased on her face.  One of the young mums was also in the parking area, stroller already in the trunk, toddler now wide awake and wobbling around on his adorably pudgy legs when he tipped over.  He was about to cry, but Mum quickly scooped him up and tickled him under his chin with a sprig of wildflowers that she’d obviously plucked on her hike.  Crisis averted, giggles all-round.  The forest’s guerdon is different for each of us, but no one leaves untouched by its atmosphere and magnificence.  The power walker and the Mum seem to have found a truth and met the soul along the loop trail today - at least I hope so!

’Til next time, y’all…

Wildflowers of the Day:

Snow Trillium
(Snow Trillium)

Springbeauty
(Springbeauty)

Trout Lily
(Trout Lily)

Wild Violet
(Wild Violet)

*Kahlil Gibran, Page 57, “On Self-Knowledge”, from The Prophet, his iconic collection of part poetry, part prose fables.  Full poem below.

The Festival of Persephone (Greek Goddess of Spring) is 3rd April and this year, here in Essex County, our temperature soared to 18℃ that day.

“Say not, ‘I have found the truth’, but rather, ‘I have found a truth’.
Say not, ‘I have found the path of the soul’.
Say rather, ‘I have met the soul walking upon my path’.
For the soul walks upon all paths.
The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.
The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.”*

Andrew CarnegieScreenshot

"The only thing that you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library.”*

Eight months in, and we are still happily discovering more and more in our new home town and county.  On Sunday morning we awoke to a very warm, sunny day and seized a perfect opportunity to head out exploring.  Destination:  Public libraries.  Three in particular, all funded by Andrew Carnegie, all over a century old, all located in small town, rural Ontario.  

Andrew Carnegie: From Pleonexia to Philanthropy
Carnegie 1

 "A library outranks any other one thing a community can do to benefit its people. 
It is a never failing spring in the desert.”
[Andrew Carnegie]  

The largess of Andrew Carnegie allowed for the construction of five libraries here in Essex County, and the one in Windsor was the first
Carnegie Public Library in Canada. Four conditions had to be met in order for a town to receive a grant. First, the community had to provide the land for the library.  Second, the community had to raise 10% of the endowment annually for the maintenance and upkeep of the library (including all repairs, paying staff salaries and acquiring new books). Third, the library must always be open to everyone, and fourth, it must always be free. 

Today, Andrew Carnegie is remembered by most folks as having been a generous philanthropist, but there’s no denying the man was badly flawed.  His largess was controversial because he amassed his fortune on the backs of the lower classes; he maximised his profits by paying his workers the lowest possible wages. My entire life I’ve struggled with the balance of guilt, atonement and forgiveness.  In Mr. Carnegie’s case, I’m doubtful that his subsequent endowments and good works were sufficient to vindicate him for perpetuating the impoverishment of his employees, but that’s just me.  

In 1889, Mr. Carnegie published his treatise, The Gospel of Wealth. In 1901 he sold his company to J.P. Morgan for a reported $480,000,000 and that is when work began in earnest to redistribute his obscenely large fortune. He described this endeavour as follows: After my book, "The Gospel of Wealth” was published, it was inevitable that I should live up to its teachings by ceasing to struggle for more wealth. I resolved to stop accumulating and begin the infinitely more serious and difficult task of wise distribution.

The first Carnegie library building in Canada was built in Windsor, Ontario. I’m still trying to find out where it is/was and if it is still standing.  Otherwise, there were four here in Essex County:  Amherstburg (the only one still in use as a library today), Essex (now in use as their historical society/archives office), Kingsville (now the town’s visitor information centre and home of the Arts Society of Kingsville), and Leamington (since demolished).  Sunday’s mission:  To visit the three, known, existing Carnegie library buildings here in Essex County.

Our tour began downtown at the original Kingsville library:
Carnegie 2  We left Kingsville heading west along the lakeshore to Amherstburg:
Carnegie 3 Finally, we drove north-east through farm country to Essex:
Carnegie 4

Although the three buildings were designed by three different architects, they’ve a definite similarity about them, don’t they? That’s because they’re all beautiful examples of Beaux-Arts design, featuring formal symmetry and grand staircases to the front doors.  Regardless of the current function of these buildings, it’s impossible to ignore their original purpose as the words "PUBLIC LIBRARY" are etched into the stonework of the pediments.

However you choose to view Mr. Carnegie - hero or villain - there’s no denying that his libraries were splendid and enduring acquisitions for each of these three rural communities.  Prior to the library endowments, there were no purpose-built libraries here in Essex County, they were, instead, housed in make-shift, “borrowed” rooms.  Andrew Carnegie’s largesse firmly established permanent, public, libraries here in the small towns of Essex County and, as he so aptly penned, a library outranks any other one thing a community can do to benefit its people. 

’Til next time, y’all…

*Albert Einstein

Notes:

Pleonexia = greed, avarice.
Amherstburg Public Library, designed by architect Charles Howard Crane, funds granted 1911, library opened 1913.
Essex Public Library, designed by architect James Carlisle Pennington, funds granted 1911, library opened 1914.
Kingsville Public Library, designed by architect William Austin Mahoney, funds granted 1911, library opened 1913.
Leamington Public Library, designed by architect Alexander Maycock, funds granted 1910, Library opened 1912. (Since demolished by the town.)
Windsor Public Library, designed by architect John Scott, funds granted 1901, library opened 1903. (We haven’t found this one yet, if indeed it is still standing.)

Gateway

“I'm nobody!  Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there 's a pair of us — don't tell!
They 'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!”*

I have a strong and abiding admiration for anyone who runs for public office, regardless of the party they represent.  In the estimation of far too many Canadians, people who were well-respected and admired in their professional and civilian lives are mistrusted, disliked - despised even - and debased when they enter the political arena.

Aristotle described governance as follows:

We have thus to regard the Ethics as dealing with one group of problems and the Politics with a second, both falling within the wide compass of Political Science.

There was a time when being a politician was a noble occupation.  Nowadays, mere mention of the word politics sparks division, discord and inflammatory, often hurtful rhetoric. Actually, politics encompasses the very broad spectrum of care for all citizens. Political Science is the profession of upholding The Charter and providing essential services that we, alone, cannot manage - armed forces, first responders, health care, education, infrastructure, social programmes, etc.  A wide and complex mandate and an enormous responsibility.

By adding their names to a ballot, the histories and private lives of politicos, their families, their business associates and their friends are exposed to an intense scrutiny.  The media - both domestic and foreign - and hackers dig into every nook and cranny, nastily and hopefully searching for even the slightest misstep, salivating over any perceived impropriety, any financial obligations that might be exploited, any almost-credible whiff of an alcohol or substance usage, etc., etc., etc.

When the dark web hackers and snoopers cannot find actual dirt, they cobble together some social media posts and photos that are real, and twist or embellish them to create a misleading story and then disseminate it via one fake news medium or another. No privacy - 24/7/365.

Why on earth would anyone voluntarily expose themselves to such a rigorous invasion of their privacy?  Politicians are well-aware of this constant encroachment and stand for office anyway!  That, alone, deserves our respect.

Being somebody comes at a very high cost.  I’m nobody, and that's a good thing!

Political strategies and attitudes have sparked an era of sneaky, underhanded political manoeuvring, much done by foreign governments and their agents.  Ohmigosh!  I would not want to be David Johnston right now.  Probable Chinese interference in Canadian elections is front of mind of every journalist, every politician, every NATO government, and many Canadians.  It won’t matter what the poor soul uncovers, or what his ultimate recommendation is, not everyone will be satisfied and the cacophony of criticism and complaint will be heard from sea to sea to sea. 

There are currently 18 registered political parties in Canada, but the four biggest, wielding the most power and influence, are The Bloc, Conservative, Liberal and New Democratic.  As soon as the mere possibility of Chinese interference was voiced, a 5 alarm reaction occurred amongst the members of all four.  In firefighting, a 5 alarm fire is the most dangerous - and that’s the firestorm in which Mr. Johnston currently finds himself well-entangled.  This is not an issue of one political party, nor indeed of just the Federal parties.  Future text books may well record this as a fulcrum moment in Canadian history. No pressure, Mr. Johnston!

And this is just one hot-button issue we Canadians are facing. Our political temperature is running high.

Rather than donning battle-sark and venting our spleen, let’s instead be resolved to take a deep breath before speaking or commenting on social media; will our words help the people embroiled in the situation, are we proposing a thoughtful, possible solution or will our contribution further foment the dissonance?

“Let me walk with my brother
In perfect harmony…

Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me!”

Our country has been angry for so long that some of us no longer remember how peaceful, polite and reasonable Canada once was, nor how truly special that was.  If there is to be a return to politeness and reason, we have to make it happen.  Let there be peace in Canada, and let it begin with me, a nobody.

’Til next time, y’all…

*Emily Dickinson, Page 10, Section #1 Life, Poem #1 unofficially titled “I’m nobody!”, from her anthology Poems.
**Jill Jackson-Miller and Sy Miller.  Written for and sung by the International Children's Choir in 1955.  There have been many subsequent recordings but the angelic voices of the kiddos simply cannot be bested.  Have a listen, link:  “Let There Be Peace On Earth”

Lately I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with the folly of assumption or, illogically presuming something is certain without supporting proof.  Assumption requires a certain amount of egoism or conceit — a quality we all have, to varying degrees. Recently, a very vain assumption got me into a spot of hot water and I’ve been wondering, how often do we, do I, make incorrect assumptions.  

Blogging can be a manifestation, to some extent, of vainglory, and mine is a perfect example. ‘Though my blog originally documented the life and times of a dialysis patient and was read  by many others in the throes of dialysis, it has long-since morphed into tales of my mostly prosaic, infrequently exciting, small town life and rural experiences.  I concede there is a certain conceit in believing anyone might be interested my trite exploits, yet I assumed my close friends were reading my every blog post.  Vanity run amok!

Back in 2017 (just six years ago, but feeling like an entire lifetime ago), at the 23rd Annual Lakefield Literary Festival, I attended a blogging workshop run by the brilliant author Kerry Clare (each title is a link):  the M Word and Mitzi Bytes and Waiting for a Star to Fall and — drum roll, please — coming on 5th September, Asking for a Friend (you can already pre-order Kerry’s new book - I have.).  One of the first, and best pieces of advice Kerry shared with us during that workshop was (and I’m definitely paraphrasing here):  Don’t write to please your family and friends, most of them won’t read your blog anyway.  Write about what you’re interested in, about what you love, and your people will find you.  Truer words were never spoken.  Since attending Kerry’s blogging workshop, my followers have increased, bit by bit, month by month and, as she predicted, less than 5% appear in my Contacts.  

For the past eighteen months or so, in many of my blog posts, I’ve been recording details of our house-hunting process, our ultimate purchase of this home, all the packing/moving/unpacking minutiae and our subsequent exploration of Essex County.  I assumed that my family and friends were reading all of my posts, were fully informed, and therein lies a self-delusion: That by sharing details of my life via my blog posts, I’m simultaneously communicating with my inner circle, that they’re all reading (and remembering) what I’ve written.  Unreasonable at best, but mostly asinine.  

Another incorrect assumption, often made about me, is that I spend a lot of time on social, reading and sharing posts, but in fact my Zenfolio posts are automatically uploaded to my socials and me? I sign into my accounts infrequently and spend very little time scrolling through my feeds (yet I was so sure everyone was reading mine). 

Lesson learned. People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.**

Living Room

Instead of social media, every single day I spend as much time as I can writing.  I write in our cosy living room with its pretty French doors looking out to the woods,  ravine and creek.  The fireplace is a mere ten feet away should I feel chilly (and I often do).  It is seldom quiet, but I’ve developed the facility of tuning out the ambient noise as my fingers fly across the keyboard.

Writing solely to please myself, each day I create a new Pages document and I begin typing — stream of consciousness styles — anything and everything that is on my mind and, always, the sweet happy of the day.  I record everything I don’t want to forget. I write about my new hometown - Kingsville, my new county - Essex, my new parks - Hillman, Point Pelee and Wheatley.  I write about my new life here at Mill Creek, about my photography and, of course, about all the critters I see and want to see.  Quite often, my daily subject is an issue that struck a chord - harmonic or discordant - most likely from one of the newspapers.  Writing is my way of exploring and making sense of what I'm feeling in my heart.  Once it’s all committed to words, I do a little editing and then post about one in ten to my blog.  It is a privilege, being able to freely publish, but it is an absolute honour receiving all the feedback, the sweet (and snarly) comments and especially all the words of support and encouragement.

Daffies

Today is Good Friday and I woke up feeling flat.  It’s spring already here in Essex County, the sun is shining, it is 12℃, a whole new crop of wild Daffodils are in bud - two are blooming - in the ravine behind my home, but still, I was feeling a wee bit blah.  I’ve been judging myself a lot lately and finding some of my thoughts and actions to be arrogant and devoid of kindness.  I was awake a lot last night and those were the thoughts, running on a loop, in my brain each time I awoke.  This morning I treated myself to the “snap out of it” lecture which, when I was already feeling less-than, was exactly what I needed.  Not. 

Since moving, way back in August, I’ve (temporarily?) abandoned my meditation practice.  Between unpacking, moving furniture around (many times), purchasing items we found ourselves newly needing, sorting out doctors and a dentist, their inaugural and follow-up appointments and tests, living through multiple renovations, Christmas, an horrific ice storm, and so much more, I’ve had no time (read: made no time) to sit on my cushion.  Last week I registered for guided meditation through one of my favourite Buddhist magazines and today’s session was almost prophetic:  Treat yourself with loving kindness, not judgement. After completing it, my melancholy passed, I felt at ease in my skin again, and I learned another important lesson about self-care.  

If you, too, are feeling a bit overwhelmed by the pressures of participating in social media, a wee bit of advice?  Treat yourself with loving kindness, not judgement.

Happy Easter!
Bunny

’Til next time, y’all…

*Abhijit Naskar, from his anthology Handcrafted Humanity: 100 Sonnets For A Blunderful World, page 51, full text below.  Enjoy!
**NOT a bible verse. This phrase does not appear - anywhere - in scripture.  Scholars generally accept that this is an adaptation of a proverb, written by Chaucer, in his Troilus and Criseyde circa 1385.

Sonnet 28

Worse than ignorance is denial of ignorance,
Acceptance of ignorance makes way for learning.
Worse than bigotry is denial of bigotry,
Acknowledgement of it facilitates mental cleansing.
We are all biased, that's not the problem,
Trouble begins when we let biases dictate action.
Brain thrives on assumptions, that ain't the
problem,
Trouble begins when all thought ends at
assumption.
There is no such thing as truth in the world,
It's all one big belief meant to aid life not wisdom.
Perception is almost entirely born of guess-work,
'Cause our brain doesn't care about ascension.
But the kernel of curiosity also lies dormant in our
brain.
Rise, roar and rebel my friend, rejecting all storm
and rain.

Presqu'ile PP #1

There’s a rhythm, a steady ebb and flow, to everything in life, even friendship.  So many friendships prove to be fleeting.  Some of my life’s greatest heartbreaks have been leaving my friends behind, because sometimes, in moving, a friendship is lost, or dropped. I always mourn those passings. To feel the pain of impermanence and loss can be a profoundly beautiful reminder of what it means to exist.

Belonging to several writing groups ensures that I am the regular beneficiary of writing prompts.  To be honest, most lie dormant in my files; I can barely keep up with my own ideas.  One of this week’s prompts was about friendship and, as I’ve written on this topic so many times, I nearly discarded it.  But I didn’t, and I don’t know why.

The highlight of my week was having the loveliest zoom visit with a dear friend from Port Hope, who I’ve not seen (in person) since COVID arrived.  Though we spent a happy time catching up on all our news, part of our conversation touched on the fact that she didn’t know we were even thinking of moving until she received our change of address notification and she couldn’t understand why here, why Kingsville.  In that instant I knew I’d neglected this friendship — that I value beyond measure — abominably, and that I’d hurt her through my thoughtless oversight. How often do I take for granted the love and kindness of my friends?

It was a powerful reckoning for this selfish old woman…

A niggling thought lingered, nudged; I couldn’t shake the feeling and finally, realising what it was, I reached for this week's writing prompt again:

“Doris thought life was like a high-speed train where you kept leaving friends and brothers and lovers at stations along
the route. Maybe when you died, you walked back down the tracks until you met each of the people you’d lost.”**

Most of our friends have lived their entire married lives in the same home.  A few have traded-up on one occasion, so they’ve lived in two.  Not us.  We’re living in our ninth home.  Eight moves.  Eight times leaving friends at stations along our route.  This move, however, was much different than the others because, like that high-speed train, we hurtled damn-near to the far west end of Highway 401, to the 23km marker.  Much farther away than ever before, from everyone we love, everything we knew and all that felt familiar and safe to us.  To feel the pain of impermanence and loss can be a profoundly beautiful reminder of what it means to exist.

Isn’t it delightful to fantasise that when you die, you’re able to walk back down the tracks until you meet each of the people you’ve lost? Or perhaps you are reunited with them all in a huge gymnasium, or a UofT pub, or at Presqu’ile, or gathered around a huge bonfire with s'mores galore, or…. Just imagine the conversations, the laughter (and tears), the hugs and the incredible amount of personal news that might be exchanged! It’s a notion I know I’ll be clinging to for a good long while. 

In his seminal work, The Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle describes friendship as a virtue.  He writes about the importance and necessity of friendship for happiness and contentment.  He is right, we all want to belong, to be known, to be accepted – to be and to have a friend.  We value our friendships for bringing into our lives support, encouragement, sharing and joy.  Joy in both the tiniest and the most magnificent degrees.  We value friendship for that certain je ne sais quoi that helps soften and ease the harshness and cruelty of the world around us.

I suppose that is why I’ve been feeling such a gnawing, desperate, yearning to make a new friend here in Kingsville. In a previous post, What Keeps You Awake At Night, I wrote: But this move is very different.  This is the first time we’ve moved in our bubble, and I’m not making friends. It is becoming ever more worrisome to me because, deep-down, I know that my resilience has always been dependent upon those strong communities I build and being able to lean on them during rough times.

Forging a new friendship here in Kingsville would be wonderful but, as we sang in Guides, Make new friends but keep the old, one is silver and the other gold. Which brings me back to my friend in Port Hope, a solid, 24K Gold friend, to whom a fulsome apology letter has been sent; it’s my fervent wish she can find it in her heart to forgive me. Our friendship was always as sweet as a daisy - can it be so again?  Or will I be  feeling the pain of impermanence and loss?

“Wishing to be friends is quick work,
but friendship is a slow ripening fruit.”
[Aristotle]

’Til next time, y’all…

Daisies for Selena

*Norman Fischer, “Lion’s Roar” magazine, June 2021.
**Sara Paretsky, from her novel, Fallout.

poppins.001

Before I even met my dietician on 8th February, I had a homework assignment - to set up and maintain a food diary, documenting everything that went into my mouth.  Even water.  When I met Cheryl for the first time - newly created food diary in hand - I was a bundle of nerves and very apprehensive.  To be fair, Cheryl is very friendly and knowledgeable and helpful and kind.  Still, with so much on the line, I was stressed and edgy, knowing I’d not like what she was most likely to advise.  Calmly and affably, she soon put me at ease.  We began (just like in grade two health class) with Canada’s Food Guide, and their plate image:

CFG PlateScreenshot Three times a day, regardless of the size of my plate or meal, my plate’s composition must always be, ½ vegetables and fruits (mostly veggies), ¼ grains and starches and ¼ protein.  Honestly, that’s seldom how my plate looked in the past - more likely 40% veggies, 40% grains/starches and 20% protein.  Truly, (except, of course, for having to abandon sweet desserts), changing the composition of my plate has been the biggest adjustment to my diet.  I need more protein and, so it turns out, I’m not a protein person. Besides explaining her philosophy - to create a diet and eating habits that I can adopt long term, five years initially - discussing my food diary and the food guide (and my diet's obvious shortcomings) was our entire meeting. I was given a handout, told to study it and implement its recommendations, continue with my food diary and we’d meet again in two weeks’ time.

It didn’t seem so bad.  I left quite optimistically (which was, I’m sure, Chery’s intent), thinking to myself, no problem, I’ve got this!

Silly fool!

At meeting number two, I was introduced to the Glycemic Index which, initially, seemed easy enough to follow:  Just like a stoplight, foods are divided into three groups - red, yellow and green.  

Green = Go: Low GI (55 or less), choose these foods most often.
Yellow = Caution: Medium GI (56 to 69),choose these less often.
Red = Stop and think: High GI (70 or more) choose least often!

Yup, there’s also a guide for this:  Glycemic Index Food Guide:

Glycemic IndexScreenshot After quickly scanning the guide, there were a few surprises:

Red zone surprises:
All-Bran Flakes
Special K
Carrots
Hot potatoes

Yellow zone surprises:
Stone Ground Whole Wheat Bread
Whole Grain Wheat Bread
Cream of Wheat
Oats, Large Flake (A staple, I’m afraid)
Basmati Rice (Also a staple.)
Brown Rice
Couscous
Wild Rice
Cherries (Noooooooooo!  Those are my favourites!)
Grapes & Raisins
Pineapple (Another favourite.)

Green zone surprises:
Rice - only converted or parboiled.
Frozen Yogurt (Yay!)

This was the easiest adjustment so far.  The guide is super-easy to con and to follow and so far I’ve had no problem staying in the green zone.  Onward!

The Learning Curve
(Or, Pam’s slow, arduous and fatiguing rate of learning how to count and read.)

My third meeting with Cheryl was the corker.  We discussed label reading (I learned about net carbs) plus counting and recording, carbohydrates, protein, fibre and sugars - in everything I eat. You guessed it, there’s another guide for this:

Nutrition Facts Table And just like that… 

My life became all about creating and maintaining spreadsheets and I’m spending way more time in front of the computer every day than I’d like!  I have to document everything:

By the week - one spreadsheet that is basically a menu, everything consumed (including snacks and beverages) the entire 24 hour period; and
By the day - one spreadsheet per day, documenting everything I eat and drink, broken down by time consumed and by the grams of volume, carbs, protein, fibre and sugar.

Not all the information I need is in one place so I’m constantly flipping back and forth between handouts and websites to fill in the forms.  URGH!  As if deprivation wasn’t enough!

At this meeting I learned a lot of chemistry, like how, for instance, fibre affects total carbs:  To get net carbs you subtract the fibre from the carbs.  Also how protein helps slow the absorption of sugar so a meal produces a slow, flat arc rather than a spike in blood sugar.  It was very interesting and provided perspective for so much that we'd discussed in our first two meetings.

Tomorrow is my fourth (and final?) appointment with Cheryl. I’ve to take my two “books” of figures with me and I’m sure I’ll get copious feedback and suggestions, which I’ll welcome.  Truly I will.  I’ve one more month to go before my next blood draw which, of course, will prove that diet adjustment is sufficient or, as we’re all assuming, that my diet has not much bearing on my blood sugar levels.  Pollyannaism, though - I’m being diligent and hoping with every fibre within me that this does make a difference.  

A quick note of thanks for all the messages and e-mails of support - it meant the world to me.  

’Til next time, y’all…

“I come into myself.
I leaf gigantically.”*
Lake Erie

I really love spring, and by this time each year, I always seem to have forgotten just how special springtime always feels. For a few weeks now, I’ve been joking with my friend about how psychotic Mother Nature has been in the run-up to spring here in Ontario’s deep south. Today provided a snapshot of her craziest behaviour; bright sunshine, extremely high winds, rain and thunderstorms, more bright sunshine… But, at a whopping 15℃ - all I can say is welcome, spring, it’s delightful to feel your warmth on my cheeks. 

Heartsome Hillman Today was my first solo outing of 2023 - Hillman Marsh Conservation Area, Port of Wheatley, Hillman again, and an interlude with the Angel Wing beauties at Jack Miner.  I definitely came into myself whilst exploring and I can’t tell you how wondrously exceptional today felt.  

Angel Winged Beauty This poor young lad is suffering from Angel Wing syndrome and it is incurable.  He cannot fly.

As soon as I feel reunited and realigned with nature, my soul feels light and expansive and I leaf gigantically. 

Poetry is my preferred reading.  Has been, since about the fifth grade.  In grade ten, at Wexford CI, I was one of the luckiest ones, I was assigned to Mrs. Nelson’s English class.  She remains to this day one of my very favourite teachers and mentors.  Mrs. Nelson was a local - we’d often bump into her whilst shopping at K-Mart and Steinberg’s at the Parkway Plaza - which made her feel like one of us.  She was always kind and friendly to my mum and dad, and patient, helpful and encouraging - often in a teasing manner - to me.  As to my fondness for poetry, Mrs. Nelson always said that my preference was twofold; because I was a lazy reader - I could quickly read a poem and get right onto analysing it for an assignment or essay, and because I loved music so much - the cadence of poetry dovetailed into that passion.

Wood Ducks One of my favourite poems is “It Is Difficult To Speak Of The Night” by American Poet Jack Gilbert. Written in handsome calligraphy, this beautiful poem was a gift to me, in my grade ten, third-term report card, from Mrs. Nelson.  Confession - at first I neither fully understood nor appreciated it’s wisdom and elegance - middle age seemed impossibly far off.

In his eighty-seven years, Mr. Gilbert wrote hundreds of poems, published five anthologies, and won many prizes, notably the Pulitzer (twice), the Guggenheim Fellowship, the American Poetry Review Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award.  Yet, despite his prolificacy and accolades, very few people know of or have read any of his work.  

It surprised me that “It Is Difficult To Speak Of The Night” was never published in any of Mr. Gilbert’s books of poetry.  According to The Library of Congress, it is an uncollected poem; it was not published in any of his poetry anthologies. The poem was first and only published in the January 1, 1965, issue of Poetry magazine (p. 252).

“I come into myself. I leaf
gigantically. An empire yields
unexpectedly: cities, summer forests,
satrapies, horses.
A solitude: an enormity.
Thank god.”*

Trumpeter Swans

Every year, as spring burgeons, I think of these creative and oracular words, phrases that express my vernal euphoria so much more completely and elegantly than I ever could!  I come into myself.  I leaf gigantically.

In the winter months I cocoon, lying torpid, snuggling into the warmth and cosiness of my home.  My small world becomes even smaller and tighter which is why I so eagerly anticipate spring’s arrival every year and why I can relate so strongly to the concept of leafing gigantically - spreading my wings, expanding my reach… 

At the start of spring, I always have boundless goals for my photography, copious plans for outings to marshes and creeks, parks and conservation areas, and too many dreams of wildlife sightings to be counted. I happily arrange my life to create time for the kind of sweet moments and simple joys that allow me to leaf gigantically.  Today was the beginning of my 2023 adventures and it couldn’t possibly have had a happier or more expansive start!

’Til next time, y’all…

Fishing Boat

*Jack Gilbert, from his poem “It Is Difficult To Speak Of The Night” which appeared in the January 1965 edition of Poetry magazine.  Full poem printed below.  Enjoy!

It Is Difficult To Speak Of The Night
    
It is the other time. Not
an absence of day.
But where there are no flowers
to turn away into.
There is only this dark
and the familiar place of my body.
And the voices calling out
of me for love.
This is not the night of the young:
their simple midnight of fear.
Nor the later place to employ.
This dark is a major nation.
I turn to it at forty
and find the night in flood.
Find the dark deployed in process.
Clotted in parts, in parts
flowing with lights.
The voices still keen of the divorce
we are born into.
But they are farther off,
and do not interest me.
I am forty, and it is different.
Suddenly in mid passage
I come into myself. I leaf
gigantically. An empire yields
unexpectedly: cities, summer forests,
satrapies, horses.
A solitude: an enormity.
Thank god.

Jack Gilbert

How can you tell that the fishermen feed the ducks?

poppins.001

A Disappointing Diagnosis

When I was treated for ovarian cancer (pre and post op), part of my regimen was radiation.  Back then (1970s), full abdominal radiation was the gold standard, to which we (Mum, Dad and I) all agreed.  But there were complications, a couple severe, whilst I was in the hospital.  One of those was, despite me not eating much of anything, I developed an elevated blood sugar count.  Subsequent to the completion of my radiation treatments, we were told that unavoidable damage had been done to my pancreas, liver and spleen.  The doctor made it clear that I would henceforth have high blood sugar levels and that, with age, it would worsen.  In the euphoria of having, unexpectedly, defeated ovarian cancer, those words of wisdom were all but forgotten.

During the past decade, following all blood work results, my family doctor made a point of telling me that, ‘though my blood sugar was still higher than normal, it was static, and still below the pre-diabetes level.  Nothing, she promised, to worry about.  Fast forward to my new doctor and my first complete physical in #IdRatherNotSayHowLong, my blood sugar has risen further - into the official "pre-diabetes range" and I have one, three-month opportunity (’til the next scheduled full blood panel), to get it in order or regular testing and insulin would almost assuredly be necessary. 

Not a surprise, right?  But it was.  A shock. I don’t feel any different.  How did this happen and why now?  What changed?  (I know, I know - age!)  I felt devastated, frustrated, betrayed and angry. And humiliated. And ashamed. Did my eating habits contribute to this?

I try to eat healthily, and my meals always are, but I have a seemingly interminable list of weaknesses, none of which were regularly indulged, but all of which are now taboo:

Shortbread fingers with afternoon tea; and
French toast or pancakes topped with maple syrup; and
Toasted Hot Cross buns.  With marmalade, not butter. Good marmalade, Scots marmalade, with lots of peel; and
Scrambled eggs for supper, with toast and jam for dessert; and
Peach cobbler; and
Blackberry cobbler; and
Apple crisp; and
Blueberry crisp; and
Pumpkin spice lattes; and…

“she had been too busy wishing things were different to find much time to enjoy things as they were”*

When the doctor gives you an unexpected diagnosis (or even confirms a suspected diagnosis), it can leave your mind at sixes and sevens. Having already had three whoppers in my lifetime, this is a perspective with which I am very familiar.  One minute the world is rosy and the next you are in utter turmoil and that’s the state I was in when I exited the doctor’s office - busy wishing things were different, and consumed by guilt and regret.

Cam is steadfastly by my side, and the minute he saw my face he knew something was very wrong.  I explained and, as always, he was quick to assure me that together, Team Perrault can handle anything, even this. I also confided in my closest, dearest friend, but that was it.  Although I always confide in our Women’s Solidarity Committee, paralysed by shame, this time I did not. I’ve always been an open book where my health is concerned but this diagnosis I guarded as if it were a state secret.

Arrangements were made for me to see a dietician (that’s an altogether different blog post!), and the plan was that, for the ensuing three month period, I’d follow her instructions and advice to the letter.  Provided I am dedicated and do not cheat, when the next blood draw results are in, we’ll know definitively whether the cause of my higher blood sugar is dietary or physiological .  Ohmigosh - in a very Pollyannaish-manner, I am holding on - admittedly by a thread - to the hope that my new diet is a good enough fix.  

“When you look for the bad, expecting it, you will get it.
When you know you will find the good—you will get that….”*

Back to the dietician (who is lovely).  At my second consultation, she enquired about my friends’ reactions and I sheepishly admitted that I’d only told two people.  Why haven’t you told anyone else, she asked me? She continued, The people who love you and know you best will want to help and sometimes that badly needed help comes in the most unexpected ways.  Social support has one of the biggest, positive, impacts on our health - all the way from diagnosis, through treatment, to recovery.  Serious health issues affect all aspects of your life; your friends and loved ones need and deserve to know what is going on.  Quite the lecture, non?  She stressed, over and over again, that high blood sugar is nothing to be ashamed of.  That I ought, very soon, to confide my diagnosis and this blog post is my first share.  My fingers, toes and lots of other bits are all crossed that no one judges.  

“And most generally there is something about everything that you can be glad about”*

Today, clinging to Pollyannaism, I am glad about you, dear readers, and glad about getting this secret out into the open.  

’Til next time, y’all…

* Eleanor Hodgman Porter, from Pollyanna: Pages 97, 276 and 79.

Columbine RedScreenshot

#IWD2023
(8th March 2023)

Historically, by comparison to men, women have not been accorded the same dignity, respect, civil rights, civil liberties and the freedom to independently make decisions about their health, bodies, sex life and orientation — a disparity that is often the root cause of physical and mental abuse.  In too many parts of the world, that remains true to this day, which is why #IWD is one of the most important dates on the calendar.  

As feminists in the 1970s, we were so sure we could change the world; achieve isonomy for all women, and end abuse of and violence against women.   I come from a long line of capable women who all taught me that I could do anything I put my mind to — and I believed them.  ‘Though much has changed, tragically, much remains the same.  Here in Ontario there are communities where women are still terribly mistreated — by police services, by the justice system and by the men in their lives. Too often, cases of reported abuse are relegated to the investigative back burner, “justified” by the idiom He said. She said.  In the case of reproductive rights, the religious right, misogynists, the Catholic Church and other religions are constantly trying to reverse abortion access for Ontario women. 

On this forty-eighth International Women’s Day, I thought a lot about Care, and about how many of the strong, powerful women in my life seem to have a built-in “caring compass”.  All the world over, millions of women are dedicated to caregiving.  Whether this is a kindness towards a family member, a volunteering choice or a professional responsibility - it is altruistic and largely unpaid/underpaid work.  So much so, that caring is the UN focus on #IWD23 - they’re asking women from around the world to share stories and opinions about the burden and sustainability of the care they are currently providing.

It has been estimated that the ratio of hours spent on unpaid caregiving, women compared to men, is 4:1.  A gross societal imbalance, based upon the unjust presumption that women are better at it, which only serves to perpetuate existing financial inequities. Society is long overdue in properly respecting, valuing and fairly compensating the work women have done and continue to do, in caring for the young, the elderly, the sick, the infirm, and the downtrodden.

On #IWD2023, I reached out to one of the most resilient, capable, dynamic and hard-working women I’ve ever known.  I've had the privilege of calling  her my friend for some eighteen years.  She is highly motivated and inspirational and constantly impels me to be better. At everything. 

The Warrior

Instead of the renown, this year I wanted to focus some attention on an ordinary but extraordinary woman whose might comes from deep within herself — not from her job or her wealth and especially not from her former spouse. She boasts none of the trappings typically associated with power but is, nonetheless, a force to be reckoned with.  She works tirelessly to improve the lives of other victims.  Most remarkable though, is her humanitarian tenability; the capacity and devotion needed  to sustain her industry and dedication over a prolonged period of time.  Meet my dear friend “Columbine”:

Legend has it that, when he arrived in America and noticed the dainty blue and red wildflowers in bloom, Columbus named them “Columbines” which means courage.  This story is about a woman with boundless courage which is why I’m calling her Columbine in the recounting of her story.  

One of the things I’ve missed the most during our COVID isolation is the kitchen conversations with my friends — each one of them kind, loving, loyal, inquisitive, adventurous, and smart as all get-out!  We’d gather around the island, plug in the kettle, warm the pot, grab the cups, milk, spoons and biccies and settle in for an afternoon of solving the world’s problems.  Or at least taking a stab at solving our own.

There’s nothing better than having three or four close girlfriends to whom you can tell your deepest secrets, wildest dreams, scariest fears, and happiest happenings.  One of the most shocking, worrisome and saddest exchanges involved the disclosure that one of our dear pals was in an abusive relationship, unbeknownst to us. Besides ensuring our unwavering support, that afternoon our Women’s Solidarity Committee planned her escape and the ensuing transformation of her life to one of safety and security.  That afternoon yielded our most positive outcome, and our darling “Columbine” walked away knowing that being hurt and frightened is not love.

Leaving her abuser, reestablishing her life in a different town (and province), and as a survivor whose reports and fears were ignored and neglected by the police and the justice system, Columbine told us she felt an enormous responsibility to pay her success forward.  She became a very powerful, vocal and hardworking advocate for and caregiver to, other abused women.  She brings an assiduous and compassionate attention to the details and responsibilities of helping other women escape their abusers. Their well-being and safety are her priority - protecting the women and their families, and providing whatever the women may need to endure their hardships and to be strong for their children.

“She neither hurries nor hesitates.
She knows exactly how carefully it must be done.”**
Columbine Blue

Volunteers know that people can make a difference in the lives of others and demonstrate that awareness with their service.  Besides coordinating the day-to-day essentials for the victims in her care, Columbine, neither hurrying nor hesitating, pragmatically supports their emotional, and social needs, recognising there is no prescribed timeline for adjustment.  Columbine, with empathy, compassion and always without judgement, acts as an important ally and advocate for the victims and their families during what is assuredly the most difficult time of their lives.

Columbine is now in big demand at fundraising events in support of not-for-profit organisations that help liberate and protect women.  She speaks — robustly, painfully honestly, and without embellishment or self-aggrandisement, about her own experience of abuse and survival — on behalf of downtrodden women who have been abused, who are living in poverty, and who are facing injustice.

In 2022 our darling Columbine was awarded her province’s Medal of Good Citizenship for her hard work and dedication.  We couldn’t be prouder to call her our friend.  To think, as she so often reminds us, that this all began with our Women’s Solidarity Committee, chatting over a cuppa.

Unfortunately with a big distance separating us, on #IWD2023 I enjoyed a lovely, long catch-up with my friend Columbine.  She does not consider herself to be either a warrior or a hero, yet she is definitely both.  And kind, loving, loyal, inquisitive, adventurous, and smart as all get-out!

Perhaps this tale of grit, effort and kindness might serve as a reminder that when seen, heard and valued, women — ordinary women  — can make a huge difference in this world.  Caring comes in equal measures of toughness and gentleness and at this time in history, our world and its women need both. On #IWD and every other day of the year, please, never underestimate the power of caring and service to others.

'Til next time, y'all... 

*Mary Oliver, from her poem “To Shiva”, page 46, Blue Horses

Ukraine Flag

It never occurred to me that Russia’s war on the Ukraine would last six months, much less a year.  At more than 375 days, and with Bakhmut seemingly about to fall, it is looking more and more as if, without NATO forces joining the battle, Ukraine will never become absolutely victorious as they so richly deserve.  Spearheaded by the USA, the EU and the UK, through rhetoric and donations of cash and weapons, NATO does seem to be edging in that direction.

NATO stands united.  Always.  It’s their strength.  When they engage, all countries participate, meaning troops, munitions, tanks, boats, planes, and drones - full battle support - from each one of:

Albania
Belgium
Bulgaria
Canada
Croatia
Czechia
Denmark
Estonia
France
Germany
Greece
Hungary
Iceland
Italy
Latvia
Lithuania
Luxembourg
Montenegro
Netherlands
North Macedonia
Norway
Poland
Portugal
Romania
Slovakia
Slovenia
Spain
Türkiye
United Kingdom
United States

Versus how many nations? Russia, for sure. China? North Korea? Iran? Iraq? How many more? That would most definitely be the onset of World War III.  Are we ready for that?  Can we afford to not be ready for that?  Without NATO support, how on earth does this war end?  Truly, it’s more than my wee brain can handle so I take counteractive measures by running away to the countryside. 

Xanadu

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan… So begins Mr. Coleridge’s legendary poem which, by his own admission, was imagined and composed while he was stoned, during and after an opium high he experienced.  Still, I love the result! Mr. Coleridge was reluctant to publish this work but, according to letters and journals, we’ve Lord Byron to thank for convincing his friend otherwise.  The full text is copied at the end of this post - enjoy!

The opening lines of the poem describe Kubla Khan's idyll (pleasure dome) built alongside a sacred river.  Exactly my experience in Chatham last Wednesday. Won’t you please join me at my very own Xanadu, down by the Thames River, where spring came long before its official arrival.

River
Here in the Northern Hemisphere, spring 2023 officially begins on Monday, 20th March but le joyeux printemps is already trickling north.  On Wednesday it felt, looked and smelled like early spring!  It was one of those all-too-rare March days when the sun blazes warmly and the breeze wafts gently, the type of day when I love to throw open all the doors and windows.  Definitely a lamb year!

More than is usual for me (and I always cherish its arrival), I don’t want to miss a moment of spring this year. Between purging, packing and house hunting - preparatory to our move to Kingsville - I can barely even remember last spring so this year I find myself very mindful of the change of seasons.

Here in Ontario, many’s a time when winter storms attack us well into April even, in 2021, into the first week of May, after the golf course had opened.  I mostly hibernate my winter months away, but come that first sunny, balmy day, I cannot resist the outdoors and the ecstasy of sudden, faux-spring.  Wednesday was exactly such a day and I found myself in Chatham, beside the Thames River.

On this glorious spring morning the air was sweetly fresh, golden-green new shoots were poking out of the ground, the river was as smooth as glass and, trapped in the shillets on its banks, hundreds of small pools left by the receding water. Even the lightest tread of my foot on the rivage drew water and mud, as high as my ankles.  Yes, I returned home a muddy, smelly mess but happily so because, as the divine Margaret Atwood wrote, In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. And I did!

Even though I could not see much wildlife, the Starlings have all returned and they were as noisy and busy as can be.  There were two ducks, thoroughly enjoying the serene water.

Ducks Ducks, Geese, Starlings, Crows, Blue Jays and Cardinals - all performers in the Thames River Pageant.  After I’d settled on a fallen tree for a bit, the avian cast reappeared and their chorus rose to a crescendo. The return of the birds is always one of the first signs that spring is about to emerge.  Life on the river bank calmly and majestically passes through one season after another, each one creating beautiful tableaux and on Wednesday the early spring scene that greeted me was spectacularly lovely.

Geese March 2023 arrived in Essex County like a gentle wee lamb.  Even so, we’re hoping like mad that the worst of the winter weather is behind us, and that the proverbial lion has taken a vacation this year. Wednesday was a perfect spring day - a prophecy, maybe?  I hope so!  Happily wandering aimlessly and undisturbed along the river, and with the sun shining warmly, the soft spring breeze teasing my hair, a bounce in my step and joy in my heart, the world's problems couldn't possibly have seemed further away.

Xanadu worked its magic on me!

’Til next time, y’all…

Shillet = shale. Shillets are flat stones made from the shale of the river bed, that have been washed onto the banks by the high water of the spring melt and runoff.

Kubla Khan
(Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.)

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
   Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
     The shadow of the dome of pleasure
     Floated midway on the waves;
     Where was heard the mingled measure
     From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

     A damsel with a dulcimer
     In a vision once I saw:
     It was an Abyssinian maid
     And on her dulcimer she played,
     Singing of Mount Abora.
     Could I revive within me
     Her symphony and song,
     To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Rabbit

“Thumper!  Yes, mama? What did your father tell you this morning?

If you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all.”*

In this case, Mrs. Rabbit and Mrs. Storie are perfectly interchangeable.  This was drilled into me, repeatedly and futilely, by my mum — honestly, ’til the day she died.  I have varying degrees of success with this advice

Our society, with the ease of on-line reviews and e-mail correspondence, has become quick and accomplished at voicing our dissatisfaction with both products and services.  Sadly, we’re not as quick to praise when praise is due.  I try my best to refrain from complaining and to be quick to extol great service.

When faced with writing a complaint, one of my tricks is to write that letter on my computer, edit it ready for sending, read it a few times and then delete it; If you can't say something nice… 

Our local Utility (towns of Essex, Leamington and Kingsville) is E.L.K. or, in the local vernacular “The Elk Herd”.  Last week, at the onset of the ice storm, we had a power outage that lasted 42+ hours.  Absent internet and radio, information was thin on the ground.  

Forty-two hours without a furnace was uncomfortable. ‘Though we have a gas fireplace, it was unable to keep the house above 15℃ - and that only in the living room, everywhere else it was much colder.  Over the course of those 42 hours, the charge on our cell phone and tablet batteries ran out, with no means of recharging them.  Our ELK bills recommend, in cases of power outages, to follow local media coverage.  Um, how?  By the end of the outage, we were worried about the condition of the food in our fridge and freezer.  Our supply of hot water was used up long before power was restored, meaning no hot water for hygiene or for washing dishes.  We both had medical appointments, proceeded by cold showers.  URGH! And for me, it meant two nights that we were unable to operate the oxygenator - two nights sleeping without oxygen.  By Thursday evening we could see lights all around us but our wee complex seemed to have been forgotten or overlooked.

Frustrated (and cold!) I wrote my letter.  I didn’t send it.  Close, but I resisted.  Not because of Thumper and if you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all, but because it was churlish and petty and indicative of someone who has grown entirely too used to the privilege of creature comforts, a truth brought home by watching the news on Friday evening, when our power was finally restored.

Éclaircissement

Our power went out on Wednesday evening and was restored late Friday afternoon.  We’d neither heard nor read any news in that time (a challenge for two news junkies), so we were cosily in front of the TV, eagerly awaiting the evening news.  Being reminded of the countless people enduring post-earthquake suffering in Turkey and Syria was a gut-check for us both (me especially).  Some 1.5M (Yes! Million!!!) ‘quake victims are homeless - some living rough on the streets some in tents - all struggling to withstand the freezing-cold temperatures.  Food and clean water are scarce as are medications and health care providers.  So we were a bit cold and uncomfortable — we had food in our bellies, we had a roof over our heads and it was not actually freezing in here, despite my protestations to the contrary.  

The scariest part of our short ordeal was that, under the weight of the ice, a tree fell on our house but, ‘though the icy branches crashed against our bedroom window, the glass did not break and the trunk did not collapse our roof.  The poor tree will have to be taken down, and some shingles will have to be replaced, but our home remained sound.  At no point were we without a roof over our heads.

Then came the Ukraine update.  One full year of Russian warfare and war crimes against the Ukraine.  A full year of bomb sirens, bomb explosions, terror, destruction, death, food shortages, health care challenges, medicine shortages, constantly defending themselves, constantly encouraging and praising each other for so many valiant efforts, thousands homeless or living in bomb-damaged buildings…  To think, I was frightened by a falling tree!

Truth?  We weren’t even the worst-off in this area.  Less than an hour’s drive away, just across the Windsor/Detroit border, many Michiganders were without power twice as long us us, four-plus days for some.  

Not once during those forty-two hours did I think of the people of Turkey, Syria or Ukraine.  Just me.  Just how I was cold.  Just how I couldn’t listen to the radio.  Just how I had to eat make-shift meals.  Just how I had to bathe in cold water.  Just how I might lose some food in my refrigerator.  Just how I couldn’t get on the internet.  Petty.  Spoiled.  Privileged.  Selfish. 

Empathy

“Empathy is seeing with the eyes of another,
listening with the ears of another,
and feeling with the heart of another.”**

Empathy is the powerful feeling of being aware of, understanding and sharing in, someone else’s feelings, thoughts and personal narratives - either through experience or vicariously (imaginatively).  It is the ability to know the emotional circumstances of another person’s life or, as Mary Lathrap so famously penned, to walk a mile in his moccasins.

Perhaps even more valuable than walking that proverbial mile, is knowing suffering, or hunger, or being cold, or being frightened yourself.  That experience may be the best way to develop our feelings of empathy and that is exactly what happened to us last week, although admittedly, only very briefly on the grand scale of things.  I might have changed over the years, but I don’t think my core values have:  I cherish loyalty, friendship, empathy, love and honesty above all. Sadly, this week I forgot to live those values, particularly empathy.  Fortunately, my capacity for empathy seems undamaged, and I am always trying to develop and enhance that ability.  I think, given the current world crises, we all ought to be developing empathy - this planet obviously needs it now more than ever before.

If we’re ever going to heal the rifts in our world, if we’re ever going to make this world safe for all, if we’re ever going to halt climate change, if we’re ever going to end world hunger, and if we’re ever going to understand and love everyone, we must steep ourselves in empathy, day and night, every day.  We must learn to feel with the heart of another.

’Til next time, y’all…

Tree on house

*Felix Salten, “Bambi” (1942).  Mrs. Rabbit voiced by Margaret Lee and young Thumper voiced by Peter Behn.
**Alfred Adler. Austrian MD and Psychotherapist.
Éclaircissement: Enlightenment or clarity.

Trust and Betrayal

Ours is a story of one child and four adults — her parents and grandparents — who completely vacated their responsibilities to the young girl they ought to have been protecting.

He is a lean, strong, wiry, hard-working man with a charming smile that gives him the mien of a gentle soul, a loving uncle or a friendly teacher. Over the years he’d earned our trust, we respected his work ethic and felt the same loyalty to him as to everyone born into our clan. Looking into his eyes, it is hard, if not downright impossible, to detect the deviant lurking within.  Certainly no one in our family did. Then came the unthinkable, the unimaginable - he violated his own daughter, a child at the time. The inherent power imbalance between a father and a daughter facilitated his sexual predation.  Everything that young girl knew about family, unconditional love, safety, protection, and trust, were shattered.  Forever.

Sexual assault occurs when the predator intentionally, sexually, touches another person without consent, or when the victim is incapable of giving informed consent, which includes child sexual abuse.  It is a crime.

The first I heard of this atrocity (ten years after it happened) was from the victim herself, during a very long, very teary telephone conversation.  All of her trauma, painful memories, anguish, anger, indignation, heartache, and misery came pouring out.  Mostly rage and bitterness, that now inform every aspect of her life.  I hung up shocked, stunned and in a state of disbelief.  This couldn’t possibly be true!  I immediately called her mum to let her know what her husband had been accused of - by their daughter.  All true - every single word, neither embellished nor exaggerated.  Exactly as was told to me.  

Apparently, some of the aunts, uncles and older cousins were aware of the facts for at least a decade before me - a closely guarded secret. The matriarch and patriarch of that family decided to soldier on, to avoid authorities, and determined, apparently, to never again speak the truth.

Worst of all.  There was impunity - despite the egregiousness of the wrongdoing, despite its illegality, there was no punishment.

So why dredge this up now?  At A&L, inspired by the #MeToo movement, and at the request of a member who was sexually assaulted herself, we have just finished reading Kate Walbert’s novel His Favorites.  A powerful tale, featuring a masterfully crafted female protagonist like Walbert’s “Jo” has the power to shatter me, to rattle and unsettle me to my very core.  Such was the case with His Favorites. It’s a short novel and I read it several times, allowing wave after wave of emotion to wash over me. It forced upon me a reckoning with both the crime and the family’s handling of it.  

This man’s cruelty and betrayal cost him my trust, faith, respect and loyalty. But truly, it’s not as simple as that. Far from it!

“The tears that scald the cheek,
Wrung from their eyelids by the shame
And guilt of those they shrink to name,
Whom once they loved with cheerful will,
And love, though fallen and branded, still.”*

That, exactly, has been my conflict, whom once I loved with cheerful will, and to my shame, love, though fallen and branded, still.  Still.  How can that be?  Why do I not feel only contempt?  What is wrong with me?

Oh, how ashamed and sad and disgusted and enraged and utterly lost I felt feel. Betrayal is not easy to handle. It was a mistake, I was told.  It didn’t happen again, I was told.  But I am haunted by the feeling that the real mistake was ours, for trusting him and for not protecting that beautiful, innocent and trusting young girl.  How could a family - built on love, decency and kindness - by our grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles - have responded in such an unsuitable manner?

Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than direct confrontation.  I hate conflict.  I avoid it like the plague.  Such evasion has caused a rift in my relationship with this family. A severance, actually. I have never since returned to their home, nor have I since invited them to ours (neither here nor in Cobourg). Communication is minimal.  Practically non-existent.  This is how I’ve handled the shame, regret and sorrow.  Badly.

By the time I learned about this chapter in our history, my mum and dad had both died.  I talked it over with a beloved aunt who was doubtful my mum knew the tale.  My mum had one of the strongest moral compasses of anyone I've ever known.  My aunty could not imagine that, had Mum known, holy hell wouldn’t have been unleashed on everyone involved.  My aunt patiently listened to my tale of shame, guilt and disgust, and then counselled me on some truths.  First and foremost, I had to accept that, with no precedent of abuse - sexual or otherwise, me not being a member of that immediate family, and living hundreds of miles away, there was absolutely nothing I could possibly have done to prevent the assault.  Even now, there is nothing I can ever say or do to diminish the damage done to that sweet, innocent young girl.  All we can do is love her.  My aunt simply encouraged me to remain focused on all the love in our family and in my life and to avoid - as much as possible - the feelings of misery, shame, anger and betrayal; in short, anything that does not come from the place of love.  Great advice.  Simple?  No!  Not so much.  

In my brain I know there is no shame in truth-telling.  I know I bear no guilt in either the abuse or the handling of it.  Yet though guiltless, I am full of shame, regret and anger.  This man’s character, integrity, and virtue evaporated. The unconditional trust once bestowed upon this man - whom once I loved with cheerful will - will not be easily restored, perhaps not even for the rest of my life.

’Til next time, y’all…

*W.C. Bryant, “The Living Lost”, from his anthology, Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant, page 315.

Percy Creek

“Creeking” is one of the most revealing and interesting ways to explore nature.  It is, by far, my favourite way to spend time outdoors - with or without my camera. 

Cold Creek Cold Creek

The term “biosphere” refers to any part of our planet where there is life of any kind.  As there is life in all three spheres (the air, the ground and the water), the biosphere encompasses all of those - forests, oceans, mountains, and everything between.

Baxter Creek Baxter Creek

Creek biospheres, with their aquatic, shore and nearshore habitats, are alive with a stunning number of plant and animal species.  Rindles and their glidders* are an enchanted world of wildflowers, dragonflies, bees, deer, foxes, frogs, snakes, fish, tadpoles, mink, otters, beavers, herons, ducks and turtles, all supported by an abundance of plant-based and animal-based food.  It is exactly this diversity of habitats that makes creeks so impressive and so much fun to explore.  

Jeanettes Creek Jeanettes Creek

Wearing a good pair of amphibians, one of the best ways to explore a creek is walking in its water, but it is very important to respect the ecosystem.  Try to avoid contact as much as possible with the plant life on the glidders - they are both homes and food to the creatures who live there.  Pick up and flip over stones as you go - you’ll never know what is hiding unless you do but please, just look - don’t touch. Or, if you’re in an idle mood, simply sit on a downed tree (maybe dangle your toes in the water) and, lulled by the water’s babbling and gurgling, enjoy one of Mother Nature’s quiet, still, restorative interludes.

Cedar Creek Cedar Creek

The never-ending search for wildlife typically takes me off the beaten track.  The best places to not only spot wildlife, but to be able to get up-close and have a more intimate experience, is in fully natural areas — beside ponds, marshes or creeks — where the water is shallower (waders) and slow-moving (turtles).  My experience has been - set up, sit quietly and, one by one, the critters will come out.  Initially they are in threat assessment mode, but then, I firmly believe, they are as curious about me as I am about them.

Squirrel Creek W Squirrel Creek

Here in Essex County there are 20+ creeks, each one begging me to explore, wade or cross on stepping stones.  One small problem:  There are no signposts showing the names of the creeks and I’ve been unable to find a map on-line that shows the names either.  I contacted the local conservation authorities, parks and each of the local towns, but I got absolutely no response. 

Wigle Creek Wigle Creek

Every now and then, someone special comes into your life and gifts you with a sweet happy and kindness.  That was my experience this week.  A lovely woman named Crystal, in the Legislative and Community Services Department, County of Essex, sent me an e-mail with two attachments - both maps of the creeks and their names, one also including the roads.  Brilliant!  But that’s not all; she offered to print them for me, in large format 11” x 17”, if that would help.  Oooooh, yes please!  When they were ready, she sent another e-mail and even offered to drop them off at our home.  I arranged to collect them at her office and when I arrived there were three maps, the two I knew of plus a third, the one with the street names, which she had ever so kindly, laminated for me.  She said that if I’m exploring creeks, it made sense to her that a plasticised copy would be invaluable.  She was too right!  

Cobourg Creek Cobourg Creek

Kindness is a choice, a decision. It’s a conscious intention towards thoughtfulness, amiability and goodwill. I was ready to give up on ever having a map of the creeks, but then a sweet moment of grace happened, the kind that caused gratitude to explode in my chest, and just like that, my world was - is - wonderfully rosy. 

Two Creeks Creek Two Creeks Creek

Creeking at this time of year, when the water is icy-cold, canorous, and deep is challenging but no less enjoyable.  The wildlife is thin on the ground, but it is a splendid opportunity to do some recon and plan my fair weather adventures.  As soon as my world begins to green, and the wildflowers bud, and the birds return, and the turtles end their hibernation, armed with my splendid new maps, I plan to visit and explore every single creek in Essex county.  

Sugar Creek Sugar Creek

My creekside exploits fill my soul with joy and peace.  

When you’re planning your summer getaways, car trips, outings and hikes, don’t forget to include creek banks in your explorations and adventures - you and your kiddos will all be captivated and fascinated.  Promise!  Everyday miracles abound, all we have to do is be observant.

’Til next time, y’all…

*Henry Williamson, from his novel, Tarka The Otter.  As far as I can tell, glidder (the bank of a creek) is a word coined by Mr. Williamson.  Dad read Tarka to me, many times, when I was young and, on our many Sunday explorations, we always referred to the banks of Wilket Creek as glidders. I didn’t really enjoy Tarka when I was young (‘though I hadn’t the heart to tell Dad because he clearly did), but in high school, a beloved English Teacher, Mrs. Nelson, referred to Tarka in a different context, I fished out my copy, reread it, and fell in love with creek life in North Devon.

Squirrel Creek S Squirrel Creek

CaduceusScreenshot

At their long-awaited meeting with Mr. Trudeau, today in Ottawa he is outlining his proposal for healthcare financing to all the provincial premiers with, of course, strings attached.

The state of health care in Ontario is constantly in the news.  Pick up any paper, any day of the week, and there’s sure to be an article, an opinion piece or a letter to the editor, bemoaning our constantly inadequate and ever deteriorating health care system. Some of the most common complaints include:

• The difficulty (nigh-on impossibility, in some communities) in finding a family physician; and
• Amongst Ontarians who do have a doctor, frustration in scheduling timely appointments; and
• Lengthy ER wait times; and
• Dilatory access to specialists; and
• Long wait times for surgeries, often followed by postponements or cancellations; and
• Protracted appointment dates for diagnostics; etc., etc., etc.

The family doctor has traditionally been the captain of the patient’s health care ship, a pillar bearing the tremendous load of patient trust and confidence. Family docs have always been the ones responsible for coordinating the patient’s care across multiple disciplines, following up on results - often explaining those diagnoses to the patient, and doling out the necessary prescriptions/renewals, encouragement, and advice. In short, the mainstay of our well-being. 

The paucity of family physicians in Ontario - at least those who are still accepting new patients - is rapidly approaching a crisis point (if, indeed, we’re not already there!).  This plight is province-wide, but nowhere more prevalent and urgent than in small towns where the search for a doctor can take years.  We have a friend who is now nine years and still waiting; absent a walk-in clinic in his community, his entire medical care during that time has occurred in an emergency department, conducted by an ever-lengthening chain of medical personnel - never the same doctor or nurse twice.  He has had no continuity of care for nearly a decade and his stress and anguish are palpable when he speaks of health care in Ontario.  Exactly as one would expect of someone who had endured such abasement.

Me?  I must have the hardest-working guardian angel watching over me. We arrived in Kingsville mid-August 2022 and by mid-September 2022 I had been accepted as a patient at Kingsville Family Health. I was assigned to a young, female doc, I had my meet-and-greet back in October and this week I had my first, “annual”, complete, in-the-office-face-to-face physical since COVID locked us in our bubble of two back in February 2020.  

My new doctor is well-trained and kind and thorough and gentle and helpful and encouraging and thoughtful and smart as a whip!  I’ve already been referred to two specialists - appointments booked for 8th and 16th this month (February)!!! - and I’ve had a diagnostic imaging referral which is a walk-in lab - no appointment necessary.  Really!  Pure amazingness, yes!?!  And neither of my issues are emergencies.   

Even though I seem to have the medical Midas touch, I am well aware that my story is diametrically opposed to those of thousands of Ontarians. Our health care is definitely sub-standard; far below the basic level of treatment we want and expect, but healthcare is a very expensive sector, there is no provincial surplus and we’re all already feeling over-taxed.  Hence the premiers conference in Ottawa and their plea (demand?), that the federal government bear a greater burden of the provincial health care costs.  

Lots of possible solutions have been floated, from myriad sources (suddenly, everyone is an expert), and many of those have already been discarded.  The one that refuses to go away and really scares me because Mr. Ford is so staunchly supportive, is the privatisation of medical care and minor surgical procedures. True that the four Premiers in favour of this course of action, maintain that those surgeries will be fully covered by their provinces’ health care plans, but...

That assertion applies only to the cost of the actual procedure.  Other administrative and ancillary expenses will all be billed directly to the patient.  Those fees are neither covered by provincial healthcare plans, nor regulated by any provincial governments.  Such patient costs may include (but are not be limited to):

1. Providing Doctor’s absentee notes for employers; and
2. Providing reports to the patient’s family physician; and
3. Protracted care.  For example, if the clinic deems the maximum post-surgical recovery period to be 4 hours and the patient requires 6 hours, the two hours of additional care will come at an extra cost - billable directly to the patient.

Those are three I’ve already heard about directly from patients who have received such care.  There may be more.

The really big problem with health care privatisation has nothing to do with patient fees.  Doctors nation-wide (including my beloved Dr. S.) are sounding the alarm that, should privatisation be approved by the provincial ministries, the very best physicians and surgeons will gradually defect to exclusive private practice, where their remuneration is expected be higher and their workdays are expected to be shorter.  This projected mass exodus will leave our hospitals staffed by those doctors with the lowest academic achievement and the least on-the-job experience.  The overall health of Ontarians is sure to decline.

If you’re either undecided about, or feeling supportive of healthcare privatisation, and even if you’re sufficiently affluent to absorb any related expenses, please, please consider the effect of this change on the majority of Ontarians who must rely on public healthcare and its coverage.  To ensure the hardihood of care in our beloved province, please do not support privatisation.

Here’s hoping that Mr. Trudeau comes through for all Canadians today!

’Til next time, y’all… 

he sheScreenshot

Last week, the jurors impaneled on the Chan Inquest released their findings and recommendations - twelve in all, eight of those aimed at the VPD.  To be clear, I laud the jurors, respect the work they’ve done and agree unreservedly with their recommendations.  

But this one, this one made my blood boil:

“ensure respectful workplace training is mandatory, rigorous,
in-person, and on a regular basis for all ranks of police officers”

I, for one, am absolutely disgusted that such a recommendation is even, or still, necessary, particularly, on a regular basis for all ranks - because we’re expecting what?  That they’ll backslide, but still keep their jobs?  That they’ll forget their training, but still keep their jobs?  That they’ll ignore their orders, but still keep their jobs?  Listening to the recommendations being read, one thought kept churning through my brain - how on earth did we get here?  One short phrase, four simple words, on repeat in my mind:   Boys will be boys.  

Growing up, I remember that phrase being used to excuse the harmless antics of mischievous young boys, Dennis-the-Menace-styles. In that context, it was benign, but when applied to older teenagers, and men (young or older) it is highly objectionable and it seems to me that this is where we now find ourselves.  All the good ol’ boys, excusing and justifying unacceptable behaviour with that toss-away remark, boys will be boys.  But please, no more.  Let’s wipe that expression from our vernacular forevermore. 

Systemic misogyny.  Old boy networks.

Inappropriate behaviour by young men has been in the news too many times to count during the past few years.  Notably, within various police services; and at Toronto’s most prestigious private school; and within Canada’s junior men’s hockey organisation; and coaches of all sports but especially gymnastics; and within the ranks of high-value, elite scholarship athletics and their universities, colleges and alumni organisations.  Etc., etc., etc.  

Tales of cover-ups abound, the old boy networks closing ranks to defend themselves and their proteges from reprimand and criticism in their best-case scenarios and from prosecution in their worst.  Boys will be boys.  They make herculean efforts to protect their dirty secrets and their perpetrators, and to stay firmly united against the outside world.  Until whistle-blowers make that stance untenable.  Even then, every story seems to have sub-plots of bribery and bullying - last-ditch efforts to keep the tales of their hateful, corrupt, malicious and abusive behaviour under wraps.  It. Is. Sickening.  

Many of the men accused of misogyny and abuse are the sons of the mums of my generation - we’ve raised these men. We’ve wholly failed, and failed them.

Yes!  To ensuring respectful workplace training is mandatory!

Yes!  To ensuring respectful workplace training is rigorous!

Yes!  To To ensuring respectful workplace training is in-person!

Yes!  To ensuring respectful workplace training is on a regular basis!

Yes!  To ensuring respectful workplace training is for all ranks of police officers!

Rest in peace, Constable Nicole Chan.

’Til next time, y’all…

19 self portrait

Has photography become a socially acceptable fiction?

“I remember seeing that picture and realising that photographs weren’t real. There’s no context, just the illusion that you’re showing a snapshot of a life, but life isn’t snapshots, it’s fluid. So photos are like fictions. I loved that about them. Everyone thinks photography is truth, but it’s just a very convincing lie.”*

If photography is fiction, then composition is the initial dishonesty. The lie begins to take shape the moment the photographer aims the camera, imposing his or her arbitrary, exclusionary, restrictive and preferential choices on anyone who later views the image.  Vantage point, punctum**, exposure, and focal length (zoom), all combine to determine what is or is not in the shot. 

The implicit lie is frame and focus.

But do I think composition is a lie?  No.  For amateur photographers and many professionals, composition is merely part of the creative process - it’s how we tell our stories. Where framing might become a work of fiction is in the field of photojournalism and documentary photography; situations where all the elements are essential to accurately portray the truth. In those circumstances, and depending on how the lens is placed and used, the truth might be skewed, giving the viewers a vision of things that is not wholly accurate.

The next level of deception is the trickery, also known as post-camera production.  Software and applications, most notably Photoshop, enable the photographer to manipulate and change the image to suit their aesthetic or to portray a situation in, perhaps, a more favourable light.  And this is something we’ve all done.  

The most egregious use of editing tools is in the field of style, as presented by glossy magazines. Fashion photographers are well-known master manipulators, their “retouching” skills extending to reshaping brows (even bodies), widening eyes, adding height, eliminating weight etc. all to please the editor and meet his/her aesthetic expectations.  Egregious, because this form of editing contributes hugely to false beauty standards and body-image issues in the eyes of many of their readers.  

Fictions include both removing and adding elements to the image: Unwanted people and items (pimples, branches, fences, power lines, etc.) can be deleted with the click of a mouse, a technique used, for example, to give viewers the illusion that the photographer and his wife were the only two souls at the Eiffel Tower, the day they visited.  Conversely, objects (clouds or stars in the sky) or people may be added to the image, like imposing a shot of the photographer and his wife, taken in their living room in Ontario, onto a shot of the Eiffel Tower, as if they were actually in Paris.  Definitely fiction!

Photo editing might also, in some instances, be a reflection of the photographer’s diplomacy and discretion - showing a more compassionate, sympathetic and flattering truth.

The line between truth and deception blurs, though, when special effects are added.  Personally, I don't believe these changes interfere with the truth of the photograph. Filters, desaturation (think the red coat in “Schindler's List”), vignetting, exaggeration of highlights and shadows to alter the mood and atmosphere of the shot, selective exposure (lightening the area around a subject’s eyes), are definitely key to the artistic process.  Necessary, even. Whilst retouching sometimes goes too far, the versatility offered by today’s software definitely enables photographers to improve and enhance their images in order to advance their vision.

Perspective or Prevarication? Whether you believe that photography yields the truth or a fancily embroidered fiction, in any photograph, the truth is merely the photographer’s, not the empirical truth. The computer, the camera and its settings, the lenses, and the art of composition, are all essential parts of the photographers storytelling toolkit. They’re how the photographer showcases his subjects in order to tell the best possible story. A fiction or a truth?  Your call…

’Til next time, y’all…

*Victoria Elizabeth (V.E.) Schwab, from her fantasy novel The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, chapter IV - “New York City March 18, 2014”, page 345.
**Punctum:  A small point, a moment or the essence.

As a young girl, I spent a lot of time thinking about family - actual and adopted - and about community - actual and adopted - most likely because I was an only child, struggling to find connection and belonging. When I was young, I was fascinated by “Petticoat Junction” and the Jos (Bobbie Jo, Billie Jo and Bettie Jo).  I loved all the scenarios they were embroiled in and their relationships.  Just imagine - three sisters!  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to live in a home with sisters? 

Mum and Dad, always worried that I’d be lonely, cultivated a large community for me - my cousins, our neighbours, school friends, church friends and dance school friends.  Our home had an open door policy, especially at supper time; Dad loved cooking for a crowd, so everyone was always welcome. The more the merrier was their philosophy and I loved it.

This goes a long way toward explaining why I enjoy gathering community around me to this day.  I thrive on getting to know my neighbours and making new friends whenever we move to a new neighbourhood. By a stroke of good luck, I've never yet had trouble finding kindred spirits and adding them to my crew.  But this move is very different.  This is the first time we’ve moved in our bubble, and I’m not making friends.

It is becoming ever more worrisome to me because, deep-down, I know that my resilience has always been dependent upon those strong communities I build and being able to lean on them during rough times.  The thing I know about friendships and community is that, almost more important than gathering people, you have to establish and prove yourself before even thinking of calling or leaning on them. Being bubbled, and yes, I know it is still essential for me, I am unable to connect with people like I’ve done in the past.  ‘Though I’ve been invited to sit on several committees, ‘though there seem to be a lot of lovely folks living here in our townhouse complex, and ‘though The Friends at my parks have reached out to me to get involved, not being able to gather in person, indoors, not being able to attend meetings, and not being able to go to restaurants or cafes, I remain disconnected.  

Truth?  I have not made a single new friend.  Not a real one, the sort on whom I might rely upon or call on in the middle of the night in an emergency.  This worries me greatly.  Now it’s even affecting my sleep, keeping me awake at nights and, ’til now, sleeping has always been my forte.   

Did you manage to make a new friend while you were in COVID isolation?  If so, please tell me how you did it.  Thank you.

’Til next time, y’all…

Scan copy 3

1 heartScreenshot

‘Though most of us were unaware at the time, the heart that united the world is a big, generous, kind, loyal, loving heart and it belongs to a young man named Damar Hamlin. Then it stopped beating and millions of people around the world held their breath.

One week ago today, following a punishing but not overtly violent tackle, Buffalo Bills’ football player Damar Hamlin went into cardiac arrest, very likely after suffering a commotio cordis. Human life is fragile - even on our best days - and can be severely impaired or even ended without warning. Such was the case last Monday night.  

Throughout the ten minutes Damar Hamlin lay prone on the field undergoing AED assisted CPR, and in the moments, hours and days afterwards, nothing, anywhere, was more important than the sanctity of life.

The NFL is a multi-billion dollar industry and is, to the networks that televise the games, the goose that laid the golden eggs. Watching the disaster on the field unfold, I was sure the almighty dollar would influence the decision-makers and that the game would continue.  Indeed, initially, the league gave the teams five minutes to warm up before the game would resume.  

But then, a visually powerful gesture occurred:  Sean McDermott and Zac Taylor met mid-field, a short conversation occurred and then, in perfect accord, both teams, and both coaching and training staffs all walked off the field into their respective locker rooms signalling, very clearly, that neither side had any intention of playing football that night.  

Their concord was hugely impactful, demonstrating a conscious awareness that their players’ mental health was at stake.  The wellbeing of their players was prioritised over the outcome of that game and the end-of-season playoff “seeding” it would surely determine.

Monday night, shortly after nine-thirty, there was real society in Paycor Stadium because there was only sanctity. 

Eventually, despite the “five minute warning”, the NFL released a statement that they had not even considered resuming the game.

“Society is society only if there is sanctity
The highest sanctity is abolition of differentiation.”*

[Abhijit Naskar]

‘Though the outpouring of love, prayers and well-wishes for Damar’s complete recovery began with the NFL community, very soon - more rapidly than I’ve ever witnessed - people from all corners of the globe joined in the chorus of tweets and social media messaging.  At first it was athletes from other sports, followed in short order by actors, world leaders, teachers, professors, artists, two dance companies, an orchestra, fans and — the most stirring to me — folks who had no interest in, nor knowledge of football, athletes or sports.  Abolition of differentiation.

We’re bombarded in the press and on social media sites with commentary about anything and everything that divides us, of polarisation, and of how wide the gap is growing between the left and right, but….  During this prime-time emergency, and in the moments and hours that followed, everyone who watched or read about Damar Hamlin’s collapse experienced a common despair, that resulted in a global outpouring of apprehension, compassion, hope and prayers. A unity forged through empathy. Abolition of differentiation.

The agglomeration of social media posts was essentially an on-line vigil for a young man, unknown to all but a very few, who was fighting for his life.  It’s truly not an exaggeration to say that the world came together for Damar Hamlin. Political stripes, social issues, economics and geography melted away, reminding us of the most important truth of life – loving one another. Pretty miraculous; it would be a miracle if we were able to maintain that affinity. Abolition of differentiation

This emotional week yielded three blessings - first, a young man appears to have recovered from his catastrophic injury; second, regardless of financial pressure, and how it affected their seasons, two teams made player health and welfare their first priority; and third, our poor, fractured society united in less time than it takes to make a bed. I don’t know if any of those things are truly miracles.  That Damar woke up with no neurological deficits is undoubtedly a miracle to his mum.  What I do know is that, stunned into contemplation, people the world-over paused to reclaim the sanctity and significance of human life above all else.  And that, I believe is a miracle.  Abolition of differentiation

Key takeaways:

1. Gratitude and praise for the competence and care of the stadium’s medical personnel, the first responders and the doctors and nurses at University of Cincinnati Medical Center who, together, saved young Damar’s life; and
2. Make sure that your place of sport or workout has a defibrillator; and
3. Make sure that your kiddos’ schools have defibrillators at sporting events; and
4. Learn CPR; and
5. Enrol your kiddos in a CPR class; and
6. If your finances permit, please donate (link):  Heart & Stroke Canada

2 heartScreenshot

’Til next time, y’all…

*Abhijit Naskar, from his book, Handcrafted Humanity: 100 Sonnets For A Blunderful World (pg. 81). Abhijit Naskar very kindly and generously gave me permission to use his “Sonnet 49”.  He is an advocate, poet, author and Neuroscientist. Below is the full text of “Sonnet 49” - I know you’ll enjoy it!

“Sonnet 49
All our life we live as imitation,
All our life we live as slaves to the past.
When will we live as original humans,
When will we walk as beings beyond class!
All sectarianism is a violation of human rights,
As such all divisions are uncivilization.
Society is society only if there is sanctity,
The highest sanctity is abolition of differentiation.
There is no high society or low society,
The divide is created by empty savages in suits.
When their inside is moronically hollow,
They seek comfort in the poison of sectarian fruits.
I say, enough with this gold-plated lifelessness!
Let us now live for real, rejecting all shallowness.”

Abhijit Naskar

“Out of the haar⊛, in flight,
in formation, in position, each eye
on the white rump in front, each aware
of the white bar on a face away to the side.
Direct, speedy – the flock is two waving lines”*

CG Out of the Haar The Canada Goose (Branta canadensis) is an august, large bird with a long, graceful neck, grand wingspan and instantly recognisable black/white/taupe plumage. Their black helmets and white chinstraps easily distinguish Canada Geese from other geese and large birds. In our country, they’re used on everything from currency (a Canada Goose in flight appears on the reverse of our $100 banknote) to that horribly elitist brand of clothing.

CG Elite Goose Due to the abundance of food (primarily grass and clover) and the lack of predators, “park geese” (neither an official species nor name) have adapted to urban areas and have established successful breeding colonies in town parks and green spaces. ‘Though they’re a native species, due to the copious amounts of poop they leave behind and their territorial nature (particularly whilst they’re nesting and their broods are young), many consider the Canada Goose an intrusive pest. Such a shame, really, as there’s so much wisdom to be gleaned from our iconic anserine “room-mates” and their ideology.

CG 1 On a recent walk at Hillman Marsh, and alerted by their honking and baying, I looked up to see a rag-tag harrow of our magnificent Canada Geese, mere silhouettes against the dull, grey sky, all seemingly searching for something familiar, another flock*. Safety in numbers. Take care! We’re here! Take care! We’re here!* The ultimate purpose of the goose community is to serve the common good - and what a wonderful world this would be if we, unitedly, emulated their commitment to such concord.

CG Favourite Geese Usually at the age of two, Canada geese choose a mate for life. The female lays as many as nine eggs and, 'though both the gander and the dame protect the nest while the eggs incubate, the female spends more time on her nest and the male more time on sentinel duty.

CG Nest Duty Lined with their own down, geese nests are built of plant material (often dried reeds) which provides natural camouflage, and they are typically sited in an elevated area, close to water. 

CG Nest Immediately after hatching, goslings know instinctively how to waddle, to swim and to forage for their own food. Within a week the babies are capable of diving more than five metres beneath the surface in search of food. It’s pretty miraculous, if you think about it - parents are, at hatching, primarily guardians.

CG Goslings 1 The Gander and Dame take their roles of chaperones and defenders very seriously. Whether swimming or waddling, one parent leads the family and the other brings up the rear. Goslings intuitively and impulsively love to follow, and that’s not limited to their parents. They will follow all moving creatures including humans, dogs, other birds, and ducks. While the babies are eating, one parent is always on high alert - the adults take turns feeding to be sure one of them has an eye on their brood.  

CG Gosling 2 Although geese parents can be aggressive towards unfamiliar geese, within their own community they merge several families of goslings forming sweetly named crèches, and the adults unite to protect the kiddos - to become a feathery conference of webs, wings, necks and beaks*. It then becomes the responsibility of the entire web-footed community to keep the goslings safe in a place with easily accessible food.

CG Goslings 3 Since that glorious day, when I “met” those precious goslings, we moved away and I haven’t seen them again. But that day, when I was not seen as a threat by the parents, privately and joyfully, beside the lagoon, I was allowed to enjoy a very intimate gosling encounter.

Hey lady, whatcha doin?

“Being part of a loyal community that looks out for one another is far more than a pipe dream.
It’s a privilege.  It’s a promise.  Standing together, we’re safer.  We’re stronger.
We’re more aware of our own frailty and less prone to navel-gazing.
Living entangled is such an obvious win.”**
[Shannan Martin] 

CG Flock 1 That loyal community, one that looks out for every single member, is what our geese constantly teach us by example. Despite their many urban habitats and the plethora of folks who illegally feed them, the Canada Goose remains one of the least tame and most distrustful of all native large birds. On land, they are nervous, careful, and can be very aggressive if any one of them feels threatened - either by one of us or by one of their natural predators, which include crows (seems odd, non?), owls, eagles, snapping turtles, raccoons, foxes, coyotes, wolves and bears. 

CG Flock 2 There is power in numbers, but united, in community, their strength lies in their common values and purpose. Unwavering loyalty to and care for every goose in the flock is the bedrock of their, indeed any, healthy community. Abiding support with the ultimate goal of a safe and healthy community, which includes protecting the sick and injured amongst them. “Living entangled is such an obvious win.”**

CG Injured Goose Jack Miner Sanctuary
I love her cute, wee, oh-so-white bum. 

The anserine generosity of offering outsiders sanctuary and inclusion, many incorporated into one, to become a feathery conference of webs, wings, necks and beaks* should be our sole objective - leaning on each other through all life throws at us. Take care! We’re here! Take care! We’re here!*

CG Take Care We're Here 1 ’Til next time, y’all…

*With permission, Robert Davidson from his poem “Canada Geese”. Full text below, reproduced by permission of Mr. Davidson.
**With permission, Shannan Martin from her book, the ministry of ordinary places, page 66.
⊛*Haar: In meteorology, a haar is fog over the sea and land on the east coast of Britain, primarily Scotland.

Canada Geese
Robert Davidson

Out of the haar⊛, in flight,
in formation, in position, each eye
on the white rump in front, each aware
of the white bar on a face away to the side.
Direct, speedy – the flock is two waving lines
passing between mountains, over salt water,
following the coast, a creamy shoreline
broadening on to marshes, tidal islands
until – ahead and below – something familiar,
another flock resting on a sand bar.
Down they go.

Down, level with the hills.
Down, level with the road.
Down, level with the shore.
Skimming over water the lead bird
working hardest, the wind from his wings lifting
the following bird, then the next until
they are all floating on air broken by the birds in front.

They lift to cross an island. Come down again
on the other side. Up ahead, white-barred heads
turn on long necks. Take care! Take care!
crying from the bar, and from the air the flight
calls back, We’re here! We’re here! The sky
between sand bar and flight filled with voice.
Take care! We’re here! Take care! We’re here!

Spreading their wings, turning them downwards,
they stretch out webbed feet. Everthing now,
every part of them, is catching the air,
slowing them, dropping them.
Take care! Take care!
In they come as though they must scatter
the geese on the sand like marbles, but now
their dropped wings lift them and bring them
down again, slower now, one after the other,
feet planing across the water, all together

hhhiiiiiiiisssssssshhhhhhhhhhh!!!

to sit down on it, glide along the surface and paddle out
onto the sand, to become a feathery conference
of webs, wings, necks and beaks, all crying together.
We’re here! We’re here!

CG Take Care We're Here 2

Nutcracker 1

Have you ever been to the theatre to watch a dance company perform a classical story ballet? If so, was your first, The Nutcracker? Mine was, at age three. My memory of that performance is understandably sketchy but I clearly remember being wowed. It was my first of many magical and fantastical ballet moments.

It’s the 2022 Nutcracker season, and all over the world young ballet newbies will be sitting in audiences, watching their first performances, all agog, and enjoying their own “wow” moments. Many of them will go to bed afterwards, dreaming of dancing the role of the Prince or the Sugar Plum Fairy themselves. I sure did.

From as early as I can remember, Mum and Dad took me to see the National Ballet of Canada’s Nutcracker every Christmas. In the earliest years (when I was 3 and 4), the performances were in the auditorium at Eatons, College Street Store. Then they moved to the O’Keefe Centre (which became the Hummingbird Centre, now the Meridian Centre) and, since 2006, at the purpose-built Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts.

The first few years, my Nutcracker experiences were all matinées but they became ever so much more exciting when I graduated to evening performances. The lights on the marquee at the O'Keefe Centre were pure magic to me in those early years. Walking beneath them into the theatre emphasised what a very special occasion it was. We’d check our coats and then sit in the upper lobby to watch the arrival of the patrons which, honestly, was a show unto itself. In those days, folks dressed to the nines to go to the theatre (and don't you miss that, just a little?). Mum, Dad and I were no different; Mum would lovingly deck me out in my Sunday-best (usually a velvet-trimmed wool tartan dress made by Nana), my shoes would be freshly polished (by Dad), my hair curled (tied with velvet ribbons matching my dress), and with my wee silver locket secured around my neck.

Then the lights would flash, signalling it was time to take our seats and that was always an oooooh moment. Dad loved (to the exclusion of all others) the mezzanine seats and our tickets were always for the front row, as close to the centre as he was able to obtain. Walking through the doors, onto the walkway between the mezzanine and balcony, the magnitude of that grand theatre never failed to amaze me (even years later as an adult).

Watching the orchestra warm up was always exciting and the various orchestra members playing snippets of Tchaikovsky’s beautiful music was the perfect pre-performance tease. Then the lights would dim and a single spot light would illuminate the conductor as he walked out, baton in hand, to take his place and we’d all applaud like mad.

At last! The curtain rises to reveal the drawing room with the magical Christmas tree. Of course the dancing is absolutely my favourite part of the performance, but watching the tree grow was always a tantalising indication that the dream and the wizardry had begun.

In any full-length ballet, but especially a story ballet, there is “room” for many different dancers. Besides the regular company, The Nutcracker features some retired and beloved dancers, plenty of young and very young dancers and, of course, some local celebrities - two different stars at each performance - who play the parts of the Petrouchka or Cannon Dolls, who fire their cannon into the audience.

The current version of the beloved ballet performed by The National Ballet was choreographed by the amazing James Kudelka, who has made some absolutely wonderful dances for the company. I love his version, it’s like watching my imagination come to life right before my very eyes. He’s brilliant! In the early years, though, we watched a version choreographed by Celia Franca, the key founder and first artistic director of the company.

And yes, while I’ve been writing, I’ve been humming the Waltz of the Flowers (aka John Bradshaw music), probably Mr. Tchaikovsky’s most well-known composition.

’Til next time, y’all…

Nutcracker 2 (Clara with her Nutcracker.)

 

Christmas Is Love

It is mid-December already and we’ve only just put up our tree and decorated our home for Christmas - late by many folks’ standards. This will be our first Kingsville Christmas so I’m feeling some pressure to make it special. Decorating is such an emotional trigger; I found myself thinking a lot about Christmas memories and traditions.

Our Christmas celebration is small, quiet and a sweet mix of old and new traditions.  There are fragments of our childhood Christmases which honour our heritage and some new, chosen practices. We are happy and content with our festivities, but I’ve grown accustomed to the looks of pity and compassion whenever I share our plans with outsiders. There may be just two of us, but our home is always filled with lots of laughter, favourite seasonal music (mine is The Partridge Family Christmas), delicious food and love. Lots of love. Christmas in our home is all about the love. But how did we get here?

My childhood Christmases were big, noisy, and happy family gatherings. We exchanged small gifts with each other, ate the traditional English Christmas feast, sang “Happy Birthday” to the baby Jesus while the plum pud was aflame, popped the crackers, wore the silly hats and sang carols - even at the dinner table (Nana’s rule). ’Til the age of ten, I was the youngest and as an only child, spending Christmas Day with my cousins was a very big deal - I loved every minute of those gatherings. Until I didn’t…

At the last of the big family Christmas celebrations, we numbered almost forty, and people were coming and going the entire time. It was busy, but not in the happy, fun sense of my childhood. Chaotic would be more accurate. Gift-giving had become an onerous and expensive responsibility not a privilege.

One December, late at night and feeling utterly exhausted, I remember sitting at our dining room table with piles of presents - some wrapped some still to be wrapped - gift bags, rolls of wrapping paper, tags, ribbons and bows scattered everywhere, and instead of feeling joyous, I felt nothing.

The pressure of trying to find the perfect gifts for everyone on the list, to wrap them beautifully, and to plan a Christmas week that was sure to please everyone, had left me feeling numb. No, it was worse than that, I felt utterly bleak, because in that moment I knew we’d made a bollocks out of our family’s traditional Christmas celebration. We’d completely lost the meaning of Christmas. Nana would be ashamed of us - of her three daughters and her five adult granddaughters - who’d each played a role in making a sham of the true spirit of Christmas. 

Nana treasured the togetherness of Christmas. For her, the spirit of Christmas was hope, peace, goodwill towards men and, above all, love. Not huge piles of trendy, fancy, expensive presents. Love and togetherness. 

The following summer, floating on noodles in our pool, Mum and I decided that we’d had enough, that we’d break with tradition. It was a very unpopular decision in the family and created a permanent rift between me and two of my cousins. Still, we knew in our hearts that this was the right decision for us. We found ourselves trying to come up with a new Christmas tradition, one that served our sensibilities and ours alone.  We knew it must be unfussy and cosy and grounded in love, not presents, not busyness, not muchness.  Simplicity, peace, joy and love.  

There were four of us in those days.  After chatting with Cam’s mum, the three of us decided to “explain to Cam” that we’d be having Christmas in Florida.  ‘Though we were only to be able to enjoy two Yuletides in the Sunshine State, they were lovely, and happy and peaceful. We bought a huge poinsettia each year in lieu of a tree, attended the nighttime Santa Claus parade (on boats decorated with fairy lights), stuffed stockings for each other, made Christmas Day dinner reservations as soon as we arrived and dined in some style at a lovely waterfront restaurant.  We attended the 7:00 candlelit family Christmas Eve service at The First Methodist United Church of St. Petersburg each year.  Those are some of the sweetest Christmas memories for Cam and I.  But then we were two…

Every year we are very warmly invited, indeed encouraged, to spend Christmas Day with friends.  ‘Though generous and sweet, and ‘though we are very grateful for the offer and to have such thoughtful friends, we find it is not a day we want to spend in the midst of another family, much preferring our own wee celebration.  And so it is.   

This evening, with the music playing, tree lights twinkling, and our favourite Christmas treasures filling every nook and cranny, the aura of peace, goodwill towards men is undeniable.

There may be just two of us, but here in Kingsville, our home is full of laughter and love.  Lots of love.  Christmas in our home is all about the love, and I hope the same is true for you.

’Til next time, y’all…

BD 2022 15

This is an embarrassing admission, but every year I awake on my birthday morning with a sense of cheerful anticipation and excitement.  Yesterday was no different.

By most standards, our birthday celebrations are pretty low-key, but they’re always happy festivities with loads of messages, phone calls, singing, cards, favourite foods and a cake with glowing candles. This year’s cake is Carrot from Fehr’s Heritage Bakery (a rural Mennonite bakery), made specially for me without nuts.  It. Is. Delish!

Early yesterday morning, we sat sipping our coffee, happily laying plans for the day. It was 0℃, with sunshine and no wind, perfect for the rural ramble we had in mind. It was to be a bright, sunny day in more ways than one!

Here in south-western Ontario, we’re still putting down roots, still exploring, still discovering friendly new communities, quaint towns and villages - our seeds of curiosity have sprouted and are flourishing. With the Winter Solstice fast-approaching, these December autumn days are ever shorter and colder.  The trees are bare, but there is no snow on the ground just yet and the pretty countryside stretches flat as far as you can see. All the lovely rural routes beckon. I definitely feel like the luckiest one to wake up every morning in this agricultural heartland!

On a trip to Habitat’s ReStore in Chatham last week, we saw these signs dotted along the roads and they were the inspiration for today’s outing:

BD 2022 14 - trail logo

This year’s birthday ramble began with a very sweet omen - as we drove out of our driveway, Louis was singing “What a Wonderful World”. We meandered in a north-easterly direction, through Valetta, Merlin, North Buxton, Chatham, Oungah and Turnerville, as far as Dresden - our planned destination.

BD 2022 2

We visited the Josiah Henson homestead and museum, site of the Dawn Settlement, which was the final stop on the underground railroad for many. One teeny-tiny problem - in typical Perrault fashion, neither of us thought to call to find out if the museum was open. Closed November through April. [Stop laughing!]

BD 2022 5 BD 2022 4 The grounds were open to visitors so we were able to wander around - we saw the two homesteads, the chapel and the sawmill but we’d have loved to go in the museum/interpretive centre to learn more about the Dawn Settlement. A treat for another day.  

BD 2022 6 BD 2022 7 BD 2022 8 BD 2022 9 BD 2022 10 BD 2022 11 BD 2022 12 BD 2022 13 Dresden, it turns out, is “Southern Ontario’s Christmas Town” and one quaint way they show off their Christmas pride is by stencilling, on every hydro pole, a poinsettia.  We drove through one charming rural parish after another, past countless farmyard gates, barns, silos and greenhouses, criss-crossing the Thames River several times. This land is arable, highly fertile and very moist, translation: Very few farmers keep livestock - the land is too valuable for growing crops. For us ramblers, this means there are very few fences to interrupt the sweeping vistas. 

We eventually stopped for lunch. My traditional birthday feast has been hamburgers for the past thirty-nine years. In 1983, after going to work, coming home and having dinner, my dad suddenly died. Mum and I (especially my poor mum) had a hard time after that and we spent many evenings wandering along the shore of Lake Ontario in the Kew Beach area, soothed by the lake my dad so-loved. That first year, Mum, Cam and I went to the original Licks for my birthday supper and the tradition was born.  This year was no exception and, ‘though there is no Licks in Chatham, we did have burgers before beginning our ride home. Our return trip turned out to be a very long, very circuitous route due to a massive road closure but, following the shore of Lake Erie for the most part, and driving through Blenheim, Dealtown, Port Crewe, Port Alma, Romney and Wheatley, it was definitely a scenic route.  Then, finally, home sweet home.

I couldn’t imagine a nicer birthday outing - thank you, Cam!

BD 2022 1

Til next time, y’all…

* Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, Chapter III, “The Wild Wood”, pg. 65.

For our beloved B, with all love and affection.

Christmas Magic 3

The flourish of fairy lights is in full swing. December - Hanukkah, Yuletide, Advent, Christmas - is a time of light and lights, of happily anticipated gatherings with family and friends, of festivities and feasts and of the joy and peace that come from observing favourite traditions and rituals.  

Families and loved ones cluster cosily ‘round the fire, sipping egg nog, mulled cider and hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream (or do you prefer marshmallows?). Carols are played. And sung. Stockings are hung, pressies purchased, wrapped and hidden away. It is a time of abundance, but therein lies the contradiction of this special season: Abundance encompasses every aspect of the holidays - the joy and the sadness, the happy expectancy and the dread, the peace and the discord, the bounty and the paucity, the busyness and the aimlessness. 

I want to share with you a lesson I learned the hard way. The excitement and anticipation are not for everyone. The paradox of this festival of light is the darkness so many amongst us are feeling - a darkness that blocks out all those twinkling fairy lights and the hope and magic they represent. This week I had a shocking and upsetting telephone conversation with a woman who Cam and I utterly adore. Despite her outward demeanour, her position of celebrated family matriarch and her family’s rich history and many happy traditions, she is suffering from Christmas dread in the worst way.  

Christmas Magic 1 “But it seems one mustn’t judge by th’ outside. This is a puzzlin’ world.”*

Poor health, grief, insecurity, solitude, fear and stress are all obvious causes of darkness and despair. But there are inconspicuous sources too, and I think you might be surprised at the number of folks you are close to, those who are healthy, successful and happy, who nonetheless feel some degree of Christmas dread. I sure was! This is a time of year when, often hidden from us, the darkness completely swallows some of our friends and loved ones.

Strangely enough, the love and plenitude inherent in, and on display lavishly during the holidays, felt and cherished by so many of us, merely engender feelings of misery, insufficiency and inadequacy in the hearts and minds of many of our loved ones and close friends.  Their brains and their hearts break under the pressure they feel.

The holiday season is rife with an anxiety born of muchness; trying to please everyone, making travel plans, entertaining, shopping, decorating, meal preparations, managing family dynamics.  This is a busyness on which many of us thrive, enjoy even, but that many of us find paralysingly difficult. As you look around your inner circle, perhaps allow your holiday rituals to change a wee bit, to morph into what is required by personal circumstance, to what fits the folk around your table.

Christmas Magic 2

The glory and wonders of Christmas may glow abundantly all around us, but grace is what seems to be in short supply and is exactly what’s needed. Grace for ourselves, to compromise, if needed, to do what is right for us - right for our bodies and souls. Grace for our loved ones and dear friends, to withdraw if needed, to shed a tear if needed.  Grace to shun the gay apparel and don the quiet, thoughtful apparel.  

This holiday season, please try to listen to what is actually being said, not to what you’re expecting to hear and if you do, the finest gift you may end up giving to someone you love and cherish, will be the understanding and kindness they so desperately need to emerge from their darkness. And what a sweet Christmas assignment it is, don’t you think, to brighten the darkness for one precious person.

’Til next time, y’all…

*Mary Ann Evans, writing as George Eliot, from The Mill on the Floss, Pg. 39, Chapter III: “Mr. Riley Gives His Advice Concerning a School for Tom”.  This is the line that gave rise to the popular adage “Don’t judge a book by its cover”. Full quote: “but they’ve all got the same covers, and I thought they were all o’ one sample, as you may say. But it seems one mustn’t judge by th’ outside. This is a puzzlin’ world.”

The photos in this post are of Christmas Magic 2021 in Victoria and Rotary Parks and, ‘though we didn’t know it at the time, it was to be our last Christmas in Cobourg.  

Christmas Magic 4

The scope of the job included demolition, plumbing, electrical, carpentry, cement work, tiling and grouting. As to the wrecking of the old, besides cutting the fibreglass shower stall in half and carting it away, demolition included removing the false ceiling over the shower stall, the two side walls that narrowed the space and the janky fluorescent light fixture that was simply “laying” atop the false ceiling:

Vince demo 1

Demolition complete:

DIY 4

Plumbing included moving the drain to the new centre of the shower stall floor, raising the outlet to the shower head to accommodate two people whose height exceeds 185cm, adding an outlet for the new sprayer, and some pipe art, necessitated by Moen. As do most folk, we purchased a kit that included a tap, shower head, sprayer, pressure valve and diverter. At Vince’s encouragement, we chose Moen which, apparently, has both the best reputation and the best warranty, except…

The diverter and the tap did not align. Both made by Moen but they did not align. The diverter was 1/2” farther back than the tap. Vince had a phone call with Moen. The rep suggested to him that the copper pipe be bent. Vince would have none of that! Cam had a live on-line chat with a Moen rep, with no success. Eventually, Cam devised the solution — make a series of 90° joins in the copper pipe, using slightly different lengths of pipe, to create the 0.5 inch adjustment. Vince executed the plan flawlessly. Veritable pipe art:

Vince Pipe Art 1

It looks a bit like a musical instrument, non?

Vince Pipe Art 2

This project also included construction. The exterior wall studs — a combination of metal and wood — needed shimming to level the wall. There was no pony wall so it had to be built from scratch. This was a complicated and interesting process. At the end of the pony wall, there has to be an anchoring post. It cannot move. Ever. To ensure its rigidity, Vince cut a hole in the floor, ran the post down through the floor to the basement where he attached it, with braces to the floor joists. Then it was rock-solid. Next, cement board which isn’t cement board after all but a new, high-tech version of waterproof wall board, and that completed construction.

With the shower stall space framed and prepped, the next job was the shower floor. First membrane, then cement:

Vince construction floor 1 Vince construction floor 2 Finally, time for the tiling which was a study in mathematics, geometry, artistry, accuracy, and comprehensive planning. It was both an education and a pleasure watching such an experienced and precise craftsman at work. Templates were made for everything. For instance, rather than patching around the bench, which would have been the quickest and easiest option, “slots” were cut in the tiles at both sides so the bench could be fitted into them before being affixed to the walls.

Vince tile cutting 1 Vince tile cutting 2 Everything was planned with an eye to the finished product. Nothing was left to chance. Never once “that’ll do”. Accurate measurements done over and over again, wall and floor tiles laid out on our living room floor — hours spent arranging and rearranging, long before the cement was mixed and the tiles set. Then more templates were made - for the floor area and for the cuts needed to those tiles. We’ve had tiling done before, indeed Cam himself has done some, but never with this degree of exactitude and mastery.

Vince tiling 1 Vince tiling 2

Between each of the tiles is a spacer, and slotted into each spacer is a wedge (an orange wedge in our case), that keeps the tiles level (even).  Vince tiling 3 Vince tiling 4 Vince tiling backsplash Vince tiling floor 1 Vince tiling floor 2

Vince tiling niche Vince is a true renaissance man! He is a master tiler, a plumber, a gardener, an inventor, and a musician. He’s a mathematician, which became obvious with all the complicated calculations and the creation of all the templates. Over the course of our renovation, Vince brought his harmonica to our home twice, his pan flute and his accordion once each. Ohmigosh, can he ever play! He kept us in leaf lettuce from his greenhouse, and pears from his neighbour’s tree and twice brought us his own prosciutto to eat with his wife’s homemade caraway seed bread for our lunch. He is funny and clever and creative, and kind and friendly and meticulous and a very hard worker. Cam and I are the luckiest two ever, to have found such a gem! Happily, I feel very sure we’ve made a friend for life in this sweet, generous and talented gentleman.

Vince My best advice to anyone planning a bathroom renovation — find yourself a Vince!

’Til next time, y’all…

Vince fin

A Lovely Bathroom

A funny thing happened on the way to the forum as Mr. Sondheim so famously penned. In composing this post, I seemed to write as much about our contractor as about our renovation so there are now two posts and I hope you enjoy reading them.

Five weeks ago today, demolition work began in our ensuite bathroom. Today, except for the installation of the glass, work is complete. We’ve still a month or so to wait for the glass, ‘though that won’t stop us from using our new shower - with the quick and easy addition of a temporary pressure rod and shower curtain. It is the bathroom of our dreams but, oh, what a journey it’s been.

It all began with a much too low shower head and a very tiny shower stall, further cramped by a built-in bench. We both dreaded showering in there. The shower curtain made it feel even more squished and much darker. Trust me, there’s no greater motivation to renovate a bathroom than a dysfunctional or uncomfortable shower. Ours was both. The catalyst:

Bathroom Reno 1 - The Catalyst

Another consideration was the vanity, complete with its 1990's mauve/dusty-rose/blue countertop and bone-coloured, janky sinks.  The soap dish (indentation) on both sinks was damaged and the two faucets were different. But the vanity itself, we love. We're oak people in this house and, 'though oak has fallen very far out of favour, we wanted to keep it if it was possible, with a  new top, new sinks and matching faucets.

Prior to demo day, there was a lot of unseen work to be done getting ourselves ready to live in makeshift accommodations through an estimated six weeks of construction. In our case, this included relocating the toilet into the living room - grunge décor? Jealous?

Bathroom Reno 4 - Grunge Décor

Planning a bathroom renovation is complex at best, frustrating at worst and is further complicated by any budgetary constraints. Getting the design right is vital. This is an intensely personal space that has to be functional and practical but also a wee bit posh. The term “spa-like retreat” is often bandied about during bathroom renovation discussions. For us, after so many years of making-do, we wanted to get this room exactly right for us.

There are myriad options to be considered and choices to be made. Rather than being inspiring, it can be overwhelming. For such a small space (ours is about 9 square metres), the number of decisions is quite remarkable.  We began with a list of must haves:

• A niche (no more fighting for space on those always-too-small corner shelves).
• A glass wall/door (no more fighting with curtains).
• A pony wall to strongly support a grab bar, in close proximity to the door, for if and when it is needed.
• A bench, for if and when it is needed.
• A really good shower head and a sprayer.
• Tiles everywhere (no more pre-formed or fibreglass, puhleeze!).
• A seamless counter and sinks (integrated) - doctor’s orders - to prevent as much bacterial collection as possible.
• A new tile floor. ‘Though it was in mint condition, that cushion floor was oh-so-slippery when wet. Ask me how I know this…

The biggest expense (other than Vince) was the tile purchase. This was also the hardest decision. We shopped around, examined everything (local) on offer and I decided that I really wanted Carrara marble. Really, really! Beautiful but, unfortunately, not on budget. I finally chose white tiles with grey veining (for 1/3 of the price). It felt a little like settling whilst we were in the shop viewing the Carrara and porcelain laid out side by each, but now they’re set, I’m 100% happy with the choice and the look. I knew I did NOT want subway tiles but, beyond that, I’d no idea what I did want in terms of shape/size. Guided by Vince, we chose 12” x 24” tiles, and chose the same colour/pattern/size, from the same company, for both the walls of the shower and the bathroom floor. The wall tiles are glossy but the floor tiles are matte (non-skid, remember?). Then we had to choose an accent tile for the niche and the shower floor and the vanity backsplash. ‘Though it is common to use three different tiles for those areas, I chose a hexagon tile for all three spaces. No regrets! We chose Dove Grey grout.

Our four key cost-savings measures (besides abandoning the Carrara): We kept the original light fixtures, mirror, faucets and the oak vanity, which we think is gorgeous. Although having dual mirrors and dual light sconces over the sinks is more on trend, we do not have a window in our bathroom and our huge mirror reflects so much light that keeping it was, in the end, an easy decision.

Phew! And that was the fun bit!

Vince, bless his little cotton socks, took the greatest care of our home beginning with laying down a cardboard runway from the front door all the way through the house to the bathroom:

Bathroom Reno 2 - Cardboard Runway

Bathroom Reno 3 - Cardboard Runway

At the end of every work day, Vince fastidiously cleaned and tidied up, but dust. So. Much. Dust. “For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.”* We’re there, Moses, no “return” necessary. Living in our home the past month has been like playing in a sandbox. Demolition dust, cement dust, drywall dust, porcelain dust.  It’s like very fine sand, or maybe talcum powder. I’ve spent my Saturdays cleaning up the construction dust — especially from our bedroom and living room — so we can have two “clean” days before work resumes on Monday mornings. This is not your basic, brainless, insensible, dust-bunny type dust. Renovation dust is smart, wily, conniving. It resists the Swiffer fibres and hides in the most unlikely places as well as all the obvious ones. It settles everywhere. Everywhere! It is procreative, seeming to double in volume every hour, on the hour. It travels. It adheres. We’ve no idea what may be lurking in those mounds of sleeping dust.

“Every moving thing lifted the dust into the air: a walking man lifted a thin layer as high as his waist,”**

Dust swirls as we walk through our home and we are, indeed, lifting a thin layer as high as our waists. Coping with the dust just may have been the most difficult frustrating part of the project. It has reached the point where little mountains of dust have grown in every corner and along the tops of the baseboards and quarter round. Next up, we will be tearing the house apart to clean - every nook and cranny, beneath and behind every piece of furniture, all the light fixtures, all the surfaces…. But oh, is it ever worth it!

Bathroom Reno 5 - Floor
Floor tiles set and grouted.

Bathroom Reno 6 - Plumbing
All new plumbing.

Bathroom Reno 7 - Bench Bench

Bathroom Reno 8 - Shower Stall Bathroom Reno 9

Bathroom Reno 10

‘Though I wrote that the work is finished, you’ve probably noticed from the pictures that there’s one job still to be done — painting. Our home is white. Everywhere - upstairs and down. Tiny problem: There are vaulted ceilings throughout. The peak is 18 feet high and runs through our living room and ensuite. Our Bedroom, den, dining room and the main bathroom all have 14+ foot ceilings. That’s much too high for Cam so we’ll have to engage a painter at some point. Before that happens, we want to make sure all the “projects” are complete so that we don’t need to get the painters back for touch-ups. We’ll be living with white walls for the time being (which simply gives me more time to pore over paint colour chips!).

’Til next time, y’all…

*Moses. Probably. Possibly. Genesis 3:19 (NIV).
**John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 1, Page 7.

Yellow Lotus (Nelumbo lutea)

"You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours.”*

Yes, I’m a loyal Aaron Sorkin fan, yes I use this quote a lot (possibly too often), and yes, I love the movie, despite its overt Americana. But these forty-one words are incredibly powerful and resonate with me every time I hear them spoken or read them on the page.

You want free speech?  Yes!  Unreservedly yes!

A&L, particularly the writing group, has always been a crucible of conflict and competition; there are a lot of clever minds, wildly different opinions, big personalities and loud voices. One meaning of crucible is a test that produces change.

Completely out of the blue, a philosophy prof in the writing group has taken a very strong dislike to me, to my writing, to my photographs and even, I think, to my membership in the group. His vitriol is more hurtful than words can possibly describe. This is puzzling to me because we’ve never met in person, have never had a one-on-one conversation, I have never criticized any of his writing, and we’ve never exchanged so much as a single cross word. A true conundrum.

After much thought, I offered my resignation but it was declined. Vehemently. Instead, a motion to revoke the membership of the gent in question was put to the group. A vote was taken. I was the sole dissenting vote. I want him to remain in the group. Not because I like the chap (indeed, after all that’s transpired, I’d find that a step too far), not because I like being publicly humiliated, and not because I believe in second chances (I dole those out very sparingly), but because of free speech. If I’m prepared to read and listen to praise, I ought to be equally willing to take on criticism.

No good deed goes unpunished: My nay vote earned me a writing assignment on the value of compassion in a world where routinely hurling insults and slurs at one another (especially on social media platforms) has become sport. Is tolerated, even. Abridged:

Compassion is a feeling. It embodies both awareness and understanding of the circumstance or plight of others, whether that be misfortune, persecution, sadness, fear, or health (physical or mental suffering) coupled with an aspirational will to alleviate that suffering or distress, regardless of whether the adversity is self-inflicted or caused by others. Awareness. Understanding. Will. All three are essential to experience true compassion.

Compassion is not, cannot be reserved for those you like, admire, love, respect and understand. It must also be expended - in equal measure - to those who insult, despise, challenge and disagree with you, which makes it uncomfortable. Damned uncomfortable. Cultivating that feeling for someone who has attacked me is hard work but that is the dynamism and power of genuine compassion.

Last week, the ballot that would determine B’s future with A&L arrived in my inbox: Vote yes to expel B from the group. Vote no to allow B’s membership to continue. Ohmigosh, did I ever want to click on ‘yes’. You’ve no idea how much I wanted to vent my spleen by voting to get rid of a gent who’d become a mean adversary. I didn’t like that impulse or, indeed, me for even considering that option for one minute. I eventually recognized this choice as a personal crucible.

How do I quell the internal struggle? How do I summon compassion in place of a very strong resentment? How do I replace my selfish nature with grace and compassion? You want free speech?  Those four words! It was so easy after that. It was more important to me that I stood my ground on the issue of free speech than seek revenge. It was important to take stock of the things I stand for: I stand for freedom of speech. I stand for forgiveness. I stand for a robust exchange of opinion and belief. I stand for compassion.

It is important that within A&L and beyond, we change our discourse from judgement and insult to a truth-telling moderated by understanding and acceptance. Passion is vital, opinions need to be shared if we’re all to learn and grow, but that exchange needs to be recalibrated using humility and consideration. Kindness. Compassion. Then everyone wins.    

I put it to the group that from now on, when posting critiques, we all try to be mindful of the impact our words will have on their subject. We cannot control what anyone else thinks or says or writes, but we can check ourselves.

On the very rarest of occasions, a truly special person comes into your life; someone who changes you - for the better - and enriches your life with each of the encounters with that person. That happened to me about ten years ago at the Lakefield Literary Festival where I met the amazingness that is Kerry Clare. She was hosting a two-hour seminar on blogging which was a great experience but the best bit is that we’re still in touch and that I’m still learning from her. 

Kerry is a brilliant author, one of the world’s original bloggers, and a witty essayist.  If you haven’t already, I suggest you check out her website, Pickle Me This, and read her work and her book reviews - you’ll instantly be hooked.

Whenever I write an essay or a blog post I always try hard to craft a good closing sentence. Try being the key word. In the midst of this highly unpleasant strife at A&L, I read an essay written by Kerry, words that helped me glean [Kerry’s smiling now] some much-needed perspective and, with her permission, her words are how I will be closing this post:

Through this experience — the unpleasantness of B’s words and the support I have received — I’ve learned “an essential lesson in sharing space with other people and how we can’t always (ever?) be in control of what other people do.”**

’Til next time, y’all…

*Aaron Sorkin, Writer, “The American President”, line spoken by President Andrew Shepherd (Michael Douglas).
**Kerry Clare from “Palmerston” https://picklemethis.com/2022/11/14/palmerston/ on her website Pickle Me This picklemethis.com 

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When was the last time you were truly amazed? Astonished? Thunderstruck?

Sometimes I fear that I am taking the parks, trails, waterfront, and marshes, all for granted and that worries me.  I’d feel truly ashamed of myself should I ever become pococurante about this rural paradise. Not this month, though…

rural paradise

Last week, at Wheatley Provincial Park, I witnessed my first murmuration.  It was directly overhead, very, very close to me.  It was bewitching.  The flock was dazzling, beautiful, powerful and graceful - their flight patterns breathtakingly intricate.  I was awed. I couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. I was stunned by this unexpected display of finely coordinated simultaneous movement of so many birds. It was blissfully wonderful to feel surprised and amazed.  Not blasé after all.

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The sensational flight of this gigantic flock was like an ominous dark cloud and the flapping and beating of all those tiny wings was like the thunderous prelude to a dramatic storm.  The exquisite choreography was every bit as complicated as Marius Petipa’s Swan Lake or Coppélia  -  with soft, slow swirls, rapid changes of direction and altitude, elegant curves, technically challenging swoops, all in perfect unison. I was enchanted!

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On 7th September I wrote a blog post titled Great Expectations #7 - Exploration Begins… where I wrote, My bird knowledge and my ability to quickly recognise species by either their appearance or song is minimal.  Since then my education has progressed, albeit very slowly but occasionally something happens to remind me just exactly how much I do not know!

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Watching the murmuration, I assumed they were Grackles but I was corrected by the resident naturalist: These birds were plump, had pink legs and toes, dark (black?) eyes and a yellowish tinge to their beaks.  He told me those features prove that these birds were European Starlings (Sturnus vulgaris).  And just like that, I am a fan of the balletic Starlings!  Isn’t it lovely to be amazed? Isn’t it lovely how such tiny and seemingly fragile creatures can knock us for six?  Isn’t it lovely that these plump, homely-looking birds become so incredibly elegant and beautiful, en masse, in the sky?

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On Friday afternoon I escaped the renovation chaos for a peaceful walk in the warm (24℃!!!) fresh air at Hillman Marsh.

Hillman

There's nothing like the peace of the countryside.  It’s exactly what I was hoping for, needing and expecting. Instead, the serenity was shattered by the strident, sometimes mechanical-sounding, babbling and whistling of the Starling Choir. Hundreds of them. Maybe even thousands, all joining in their hoarse, falsetto chorus.  ‘Though their social exchange sounded happy and energetic, it was noisy! There was no murmuration - wrong time of day - just a cacophony of whistling, chattering, warbling, and harsh trills.

I had a lovely, pensive walk and about half-way ‘round the trail loop I decided I needed to know more about Starlings.  This is what I’ve discovered so far:

• Starlings are perching birds (Passeriformes).
• Most birds “hop” but our balletic Starlings walk on their toes.
• Starlings are social birds that thrive in large communal roosts.
• Starlings are eco-friendly exterminators. The bulk of their diet is harmful insects. Ontario farmers historically blame Starlings for decimating their crops — particularly corn —  however:
• Research has proven time and again that the beloved Robin does more damage, consumes more corn, than the Starling population.
• Grasshoppers are a common pest that can devastate entire crops.  Starlings eat Grasshoppers.
• Summer is Japanese Beetle season.  Japanese Beetles devour trees, shrubs, fruits, vegetables, field crops and sod. Starlings eat Japanese Beetles.
• The pestilent white grub feeds on the roots of all types of vegetation, and is particularly harmful to vegetables.  Starlings eat grubs.
• Granary Weevils, the type we have here in southern Ontario, can obliterate whole fields of the grains that form their habitat — corn, oats, barley and even Sunflower seeds.  Starlings eat Weevils.

And, be prepared to swoon a little…

• The males build the nests and adorn them with flowers to attract females.
• To protect their hatchlings, males purify their nests with sprigs of fresh herbs to fend off pests and unwanted visitors (raiders).

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