An evening of John Rutter’s Magnificat & a reflection on stained glass

I’m truly blessed to have talented friends. Two colleagues of mine, both amazing teachers, sing in the Sudbury Chamber Singers. Tonight, I went to hear them sing John Rutter’s Magnificat at The Church of the Epiphany on Larch Street. It’s a beautiful church. Burned down to the ground a while back, the parishioners rebuilt it and my favourite part is going to concerts there. Everything seems elevated. The light, the sacred space, the music. The accoustics are amazing and, if you close your eyes while choirs are singing, you feel you might be somewhere else….another dimension, perhaps.

If you haven’t heard it, you can check out Rutter’s Magnificat online….here’s a link to just one wonderful part of it. Imagine, while you listen to it, that you’re in a wonderful church with brilliant stained glass and that bright golden evening light streaming in, lighting up the faces of the singers in a rainbow of colours. Just close your eyes and let it wash over you, if you’re open and willing. A challenge, perhaps, to cast off the stresses of your day and lift up your heart and soul to the heavens!

Sitting there, watching my friends Brenda Thompson and Brittany Goldsborough sing, I thought, “Oh, my goodness….God works in mysterious ways!” Obviously, you start to wonder….Who wrote this? What inspired him? How did it feel, for him, to feel such great emotion and brilliance move through him in his composition? I often think the same thing when I see a brilliant piece of art, or literature, but listening to music, and especially vocal pieces, always seems to make me ‘shift spirit’. The work itself is in Latin, a dead language spoken by men and women who wore togas so long, long ago, and I did take two years of Latin at university, but all I can remember — honestly, now! — is how to say “hello,” which isn’t something that will come in handy in the year 2013. (The people I might have said hello to in Latin, well, they’re long gone….and my knowledge of the physical and geographical layout of Pompeii is rusty now, some twenty-five years after my highschool Latin class at Marymount College.)

Regardless of the difference in language, the barrier itself seems to melt away when I listen to music. It doesn’t matter what the words mean, or even if I have an English translation near at hand, but I often feel weepy when voices converge in a church, and when voices become orchestra in a most amazing way. Music sung in Latin, so often ‘churchy,’ also appeals to me. What a way to worship something divine and the source of all creativity but to sing? It reminded me, tonight, of why I love to sing. I don’t need people to hear me, or to have them tell me I have a half decent voice, but I love the way my voice ripples out of me and how sound transforms into emotion. Hearing others sing moves me even more.

I loved the Magnificat and, upon reading about Rutter himself as a composer, I found out that he composed “This is the Day” for Prince William’s wedding to Kate Middleton just over two years ago. That, too, was a piece that I thought was stellar. I’ll post the link here, again, for you to appreciate as much as I have tonight. I’ll also post a bit with Rutter himself as he speaks about how music works historically, especially in terms of Royal occasions.

The night was perfect. I saw three old friends: Marion Pitkethly, a friend I used to Irish ceili dance with back in the 1990s, Mrs. Soganich, a family friend who was also my Guidance counselor in high school, and Mrs. Murphy, who was one of my favourite History teachers at Marymount. Plus, to top it all off, I had a wonderful chat with a student who recently graduated, Margaret Huneault. I love seeing my past students. Their stories of where they’re headed, what they’re doing, and who they’re becoming, always seem to inspire me to be a better teacher and person.

How can music do this? Connect, reconnect, lift up spirit, re-engage, inspire, help us to envision and then re-envision ourselves anew? It’s powerful.

On a lighter, unrelated note, thank you to those of you who have recently followed my blog, especially those poetic types from around the world who have taken part in the Great Poetry Giveaway. I promise that I will announce the draw winner this Sunday evening. I’m swamped with marking Grade 12 English essays this week, and with decluttering my parents’ house as I get ready to move into my own place, so all is creative chaos right now. Have faith. I will post again, and more frequently.

peace,
k.

My dog is going bald….and I bought a house.

Well, normally I’d be all poetic, but I’ve been swept away by my own life this past week or so. There are no clever poetic links, just the awareness of a sea change in my life. (Ah, surely, Kim, there must be a sea change poem that will link nicely, you say in your quiet corner of the world, far away from Northern Ontario!)

First, my oldest dog, Sable, the wonder shih tzu, has been sporting bald patches on her back. The vet took skin and hair samples, charged me an astronomical amount, all to check for ringworm. This little dog has had a rough year; in the fall, she had a bout of pancreatitis that nearly killed her. I was a bit of a basket case. Now, she needs a thyroid test. It’s a bit of a worry. It may mean changing vets which, for me, is a big decision. I know…why I’m telling you this, on my poetry blog, stymies even me!

Second, speaking of big decisions, I bought a house last week. The closing is sometime in June, likely the 20th, and I am very excited. You see, the thing is that I don’t very easily make decisions. I ponder, re-ponder, question, debate the consequences of a decision over and over again, to the point of making myself nearly mad with worry. For no reason. Seriously. I’m famous for this. It’s not at all healthy, and I’m aware of that. It’s an area I have to work on. I rise, I spiral downward, and then I pull myself out. (Before, I wasn’t so good at pulling up and out, but now I can do so beautifully!)

So, the new house is lovely and small. I’m living, right now, in my parents’ house, the house I grew up in. It’s too big for just me and two shih tzus. My mum died in December 2008 and my dad died in December 2011. Talk about parallelism. Leave it to my parents to decide to vacate the planet, this plane of existence, at what is meant to be the most joyful time of the year. It’s been a bit tainted since 2008, as a result, but I’m hopeful that this year’s shift in physical spaces will herald (perhaps) some more happy events. In any case, the new house represents a place where I can hopefully write my first novel. That’s the plan, Stan. We’ll see. At least, in any case, it will gestate and likely give birth to the next book of poems. There are already quite a few gathered up….waiting to be unleashed on an unsuspecting reading public.

The thing is….well….the packing. It’s a bit overwhelming. There are things my parents collected that my sister and I must now go through together and sort out in terms of which pieces to keep, divide, sell, or give away. It’s been an ongoing process, over two and a half years now, of occasional spurts of clearing out. Now, given the mid-June move, the decluttering has taken on a new intensity. Well, better to pull off the BandAid quickly, bravely, than to doddle about it.

On the weekend, I found old love letters, a couple from a boy I had forgotten I once fancied while at university. I re-read them, but off they went. I haven’t seen him in twenty-five years, so I’m sure he’s not holding on to remnants of things I might have written to him. If I’m not mistaken, I will creatively conjure up a potential life for him: Married, 2.5 kids, living in the suburbs of Toronto, or maybe St. John’s. He was lovely….but he’s from the past. And now, well, the past is being jettisoned with increasing intensity.

I do think of sea changes these days and of how I am shifting my own sea, causing my own evolution, skipping pebbles in my own pond as it were. Some days, I hardly recognize myself, shaking my head when I realize all that I’m undertaking. It’s like I’m trying to make up for all the time I was a dutiful daughter, willing to subvert spirit for the good of others. I’m no longer a ‘pleaser,’ but am a more selfish (and much more outspoken) after such a long time of erasure.

I’m looking forward to seeing what I become this year….each day a new page turns, a new stanza is written, and a new poem begins to evolve.

This time, finally, after such a long time, it’s the poem that is me….

peace,
k.

The Big Poetry Giveaway (via Seattle and my friend, Susan Rich!)

My amazing poet friend from Seattle, Susan Rich, along with her friend Kelli Russell Agodon, are masterminding The Big Poetry Giveaway in honour of National Poetry Month (also known as April to those who are not poetic wanderers/wonderers). You can visit her blog to see the list of poets participating. Check out Susan’s blog, The Alchemist’s Kitchen.

Go to: http://thealchemistskitchen.blogspot.ca/2013/03/the-big-poetry-giveaway-2013-from-me-to.html

The idea here is that, if you leave me a comment on this post, I’ll put your name in a draw for a copy of my most recent book of poetry, The Narcoleptic Madonna (Penumbra Press), and I’ll also throw in a book of poems by one of my favourite poems. (To be honest, I’ve yet to decide what book I would send the winner of the draw….I have a few favourite poets, but be assured that you will receive two books of poetry!) I will mail the winner the books after I make the final draw at the end of April. If you like poetry, it’s a win-win situation, peeps!

Don’t be afraid to check out other poets’ blogs….courtesy of Susan’s blog page.

peace,
k.

“Battle of the Bards” at Harbourfront in Toronto

So, many of you have been asking how my reading at Harbourfront went on Wednesday night. It was divine, to be honest. I felt, listening to my fellow poets read, and reading my own work, that heaven must be a place where ten or more poets are gathered. I always feel energized when I’m around other poets; they are my people. It’s hard to explain, really, but if you’re a poet, and you’re reading this, you’ll understand exactly what I’m talking about….

Who else, but a poet, can write about road kill and make it sound alive with imagery? Not the best example, perhaps, but the wonder with which we hear poems read, when everyone around is silent, listening. . .somehow that same room is full of electricity and creativity, is shimmering with possibility. I know I’m in love with someone’s work when I forget that my hands are attached to my arms. I usually lace my fingers together, tilt my head and listen intently when someone else is reading. I’m one who, when struck by an idea or image that speaks to me, will make small humming noises of appreciation. (This also occurs in meetings, when I’m intrigued by an idea or comment….or when I’m in a night class with colleagues. It can be a problem, but I guess my brain is vocally admiring the move of someone else’s brainwaves. If a poem resonates with me, I feel it throughout my body. I sometimes find myself distracted by my interlaced fingers and think “oh, those belong to me?” For me, listening to good poetry being read by fellow poets is truly an out of body experience.

On the way down to Toronto on Wednesday morning, I spent time luxuriating in my friend Pippa Little’s newest collection of poems, Overwintering. It was as if the flight only took a few moments because I was so taken by her pieces. (Well, all right; I must admit, as always, that I feel the pull of my window seat to the view of Georgian Bay and the Canadian Shield from high above. There is nothing like a flight between Sudbury and Toronto because it proves the beauty of this northern landscape….and reminds you how small you actually are in the face of this great country.)

Arriving, I spent time with the three soul sisters I met when travelling in Ireland last summer. Maria, Angela and Laura are truly my kindred spirits. We have a riot every time we are together and I knew, from the first time I met them in Malahide, that we would get on famously. My sister also arrived to share the night with me, so now she’s met these wonderful friends, too. We had so much fun! I also saw Steve, an old writing friend from my days at Laurentian University. A friend’s daughter, Sara, also arrived to show her support, and my dear poet friend, Tanya, was also there. Then there was Judi, a woman I’ve met through my work at school…I haven’t known her for long, but always feel we’ve known each other for eons. It’s a nice feeling, to gather people from all walks of life, and feel that link of heart and soul. I value those friendships. They are steadfast.

The readings were wonderful. It was like a buffet of poetry! Nineteen poets read, for five minutes each, and let me tell you that the light was bright. I dislike not being able to see people in the audience when I read, for some reason. I want to feel a connection with my audience. I get that it’s important for the audience to see a reader clearly, and everyone looked wonderful up there, with spotlights creating angel auras and airbrushing flaws somehow, but I still missed the zing of seeing someone smile or nod when I read a certain poem or line. That makes it all worthwhile…to know the poems I’ve written have spoken to someone else just as strongly as they speak to me, in my head and heart.

One of the neatest things happened when a big, tall, white haired man came up to speak with me at intermission. He started speaking about Sudbury, and about Demorest Street in Gatchell. “Do you know Demorest Street? In the Gatch?” I grinned and said I did. “Did you know about the pit? Where it used to flood? We kids used to go up there all the time….” I didn’t know that, but now I’m planning a short trip to Gatchell to find that pit! It seems, even when people move away, they are drawn to Sudbury. It has a magnetic core, somehow. We live up here….and maybe our hearts never really leave.

I didn’t win the competition, or even place in the honourable mention category, but I feel as if I won so much more. Every time I hang out with poets, I feel more myself, more alive, more connected. It’s a bit of a high, to be honest. It’s also a night, surrounded by friends and my sister, Stacy, that I will remember for the rest of my life. My only regret is that my parents aren’t around anymore. My dad, in particular, would have loved to have seen me read at Harbourfront. I’d like to think, as Stacy said later that night, that he and Mum were there, beaming down proudly from heaven.

Back to reality, and work, this morning, but with a lighter heart and step. I’m a poet. No doubt about it.
Am thinking, now, about forming a commune for ancient poets….so that, eventually, I’m surrounded by fellow wordsmiths when I am wearing dentures and looking back nostalgically to recall this week’s Battle of the Bards. I cannot think of a nicer way to wind down a life, in forty years or so, I hope, than to be with other poets….speaking words and sharing sound.

peace,
k.

Shane Koyczan’s “To This Day” — More to do with beauty

You might be living under a rock if you haven’t yet had the experience of hearing Canadian performance poet Shane Koyczan’s piece, “To This Day.” It’s gone viral in recent weeks, for good reason. It speaks of what it feels like to be bullied, to have that pain follow you through the years, and how your own mental health can suffer from having had to deal with such bullying.

Take a peek at this amazing work of art and let it move through you, leaving behind something that resonates within your soul. Seriously. It’s that powerful.

When you teach kids, you hear stories of how they treat one another. It’s not always kindly, I’m sad to say. You remember how you encountered a bully while you were at school, either elementary or secondary. Those encounters can mark you years later. I still remember happenings, full conversations, of how “mean girls” treated me when I was in high school. It was not a kind time for me. I survived….and now, well, now I watch out for kids who are bullied in my classes…because I know how awful it can be and how it can haunt you for a very long time.

My favourite line is at the end, when he says “But our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act that has less to do with pain and more to do with beauty.” So true.

peace,
k.

Finding Creativity on the Rocks (or “There’s no place like home”)

I get tired of hearing the young people I teach saying that Sudbury lacks exciting things to do or thought provoking events to attend. One need only chat with other like-minded people to hear of artistic happenings in the Nickel City. At the end of a busy week at work, I had the pleasure of sitting with a friend, novelist Ric de Meulles, over a cup of coffee at the Little Buddha cafe. Ric published his novel, Ramasseur, with Scrivener Press a few years back. Now, having retired last year from the mine rescue sector, he’s transformed this new chapter of his life into being a full time writer. It’s pretty amazing, to see how someone can finally have the freedom to write full time. I can’t fathom it, even though I get glimpses of it during summer months. I’m impressed by Ric’s commitment to, and passion for, his newest novel. He has a vision, he can speak to the way in which he’s structured his novel, and he’s moving forward.

The night with writerly types continued, following dinner and good conversation with my friend, Lisa. A mutual friend, the uber talented local poet and teacher Shannon Duguay, has had two poems published in Sulphur, Laurentian University’s Literary Journal. Then, to top off the night, my friend Natalie Wilson, a poet from North Bay, was also down to Suds to read her work. This is the third issue of the journal and I’m impressed by its sleek, elegant stylings. I’m also really impressed by the young people, English students from L.U., who drive the project. Their enthusiasm for promoting literature, focusing on local authors as well as writers from places as far afield as Florida and Ireland, is contagious. One of my dearest friends, Mel Marttila, was also there tonight, so it gave us a chance to catch up and make plans to get together on Easter weekend; it’s been too long and I need my Mel fix because she’s my writerly soul sista.

It’s on nights like tonight when I think about how some of my Grade 12 students whine about how Sudbury has little to offer. It drives me a bit bonkers. I understand the need for young people to pull away, to rebel, to yearn for bigger cities and brighter lights. We’ve all been there. In fact, a number of us have gone away and then returned to make a life here, “on the rocks.” While I’ve lived in Sudbury almost all of my life, I always think about what it would be like to live somewhere else. Then, I get outside, root myself to the ground. I notice the way the sky and the horizon work together, how the smokestack slices cloud, how Ramsey Lake calls to me like a siren, in winter and in summer. There’s a real raw beauty here, but you have to be willing and able to see it. You need to soften your eyes, let them drift off until you see the aura of the land, feel the sacred spirit of the place.

Sudbury began as a logging town and then moved into mining in the 1800s. When I was growing up in the 1970s, I remember that a teacher asked my Grade 4 class how many kids had dads who were miners. The majority of us put up our hands. INCO and Falconbridge were the big two, in terms of mining. I knew kids back then whose dads died underground. It happened. It still does and, when it does, it hurts the heart of this community. But, this place is about so much more than mining. I tell this to my Grade 12s all the time. I suggest that students go on “artist’s dates” (as Julia Cameron calls them in The Artist’s Way). They should walk downtown, stroll on the Jim Gordon Boardwalk, listen to a live band, or visit an art gallery. They need to take time to get to know the amazing people who live here.

Nights like tonight feel magical, with stars high up in the cobalt blue sky, and the air crisp and bright. They make me fall in love with the people, and the place that is my home, all over again. When I least expect it, this place surprises and delights me.

peace,
k.

Pondering The Life of Pi. . .the power of metaphor & the examined life

So…most often I think in poetic and metaphorical ways. This does not mean, however, that I am not in love with good fiction and non-fiction, as well as poetry. Lately, I have been marinating in prose. I recently read Will Schwalbe’s memoir, The End of Your Life Book Club, which I thought was a wonderful tribute to the way in which books can link hearts and souls, in the best and worst of times (to borrow shamelessly from Dickens). Now, I am dipping into Robin Sharma’s parable, The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari. It’s a trip! Both books have made me think, yet again, of what life is about, in terms of the ‘big picture.’ As a poet, I suppose, one is always consciously engaging these bigger concepts on a daily basis. I am a true believer in the idea of finding elements of the extraordinary rooted and flourishing in what we supposedly consider ‘ordinary’ life events and rhythms. In terms of my poetry reading of late, I just last week picked up Mary Oliver’s recent collection, A Thousand Mornings. I always end up going to Oliver when I want to feel a part of things, more connected. She never fails me. Oliver is a master (like Robert Frost) in noticing the wondrous details of the natural world, in the way she points out the beauty to her reader. With Oliver, you can see the forest and the trees.

This afternoon, after work, I went to see Life of Pi at a tiny cinema in an old downtown mall. (Those of you who live in Sudbury know that this is the Rainbow Cinemas, with even smaller theatres than used to be there back in the 90s!) In any case, how can you not help to celebrate the coming March Break but to spend a whole $2 for an afternoon matinee? Plus, to be with two teaching friends, to sit with fellow philosophers and ‘faith speakers’, was uplifting in and of its own accord.

Here’s the thing about Yann Martel’s The Life of Pi. I haven’t read it fully. I know. It’s a confession filled with shame. Still, I had read excerpts and was fascinated by the concept of meeting God, in some way, shape or form that might be new to me. The beauty of the film swept me in. I won’t go into details, but it is a full fledged experience. I also love when a film speaks of Canadian place names, like Winnipeg and Montreal; there is a sense of naming and identity going on in these works, whether small or large. In speaking a place name, you conjure up the spirit and sense of a place.

I love Canadian films. My favourites, of all time, are The Hanging Garden, The Bay Boy (Gordon Pinsent, dontcha know!), Margaret’s Museum (Helena Bonham Carter at her best, with a Cape Breton accent and a sniffly nose!), Double Happiness (early, vintage Sandra Oh at her best, IMHO), Away with Her (Gordon Pinsent again!), Last Night (Sandra Oh and Don McKellar)and anything by Sarah Polley, who always astounds me with her storytelling. This list does not include Atom Egoyan, whom I consider a cinematic genius.

Okay, I digressed there, and I apologize profusely.

Back to The Life of Pi. It is a visual feast. More than that, though, it has left me thinking about the power of metaphor, as well as the power of the examined life. Here is the story of a boy who, crossing the ocean from India to Canada, ends up on a sinking ship. He is the sole survivor, along with a tiger. Imagine a life boat, with a boy and a Bengal tiger. The idea, Martel’s brilliance of creating such an unlikely pairing, strikes me as such a metaphor for so many things in life. Here is the human and the animal, the ancient and the young, the wise and the stubborn, the concepts of faith and doubt. There are echoes of God here, in the wonder of the tiger’s eyes, and in the rhythm of this parable. The anthropomorphism struck me. I am a believer in the idea of animals having souls, of being wise souls, so that whole aspect of the piece drew me in.

The idea that spins through my head, though, as I sit here thinking about it hours later, is the question of belief, not just in reference to faith, but also in regards to how we create stories, as writers and poets, and as humans who live our own narratives. We co-create our stories, in conjunction with those we love (and don’t love). The question of what the novel (and film) asks is what we believe in, what stories we might tell ourselves, and how we come to make meaning of things that are horrific and that challenge all we believe is good and right in the world.

Is the tiger actually an embodiment (in animal form) of Pi? Does the tiger represent God? Faith? Narrative? I don’t expect to even come to a conclusion, and that is part of what makes me so drawn to Martel’s narrative. Having dipped into excerpts, I now intend to read it fully over the Break. Yes, I have marking and planning, but to feel connected to story again, in a new way, feels good.

What I loved about the Pi film, I think, is the idea that we should all be open to living ‘examined lives’. What a sin, a shame, it seems to me, to live a life that is unexamined. Many do so—live unconsciously, without contemplation, without wonder–but I cannot imagine living in a world or dimension that did not allow me to ponder philosophy, music, poetry, faith and art. Being conscious of your world, of your place within it, can often be painful, but awareness is a gift too great to ignore. Besides, once you’re awake, there’s no going back to sleep, in a metaphorical sense….

peace,
k.