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I’d heard about Elliston, Newfoundland before I came to this province, but it was mostly because of my love of puffins. I have had a mad love affair with puffins since I first saw them, in Witless Bay, back in the summer of 2006. I loved how they zipped around, flying high and then dipping down low into the water. They flap their little wings over 300 times in a minute. If they stopped, they would fall from the sky. When I was last here, thirteen years ago now, I bought a pair of puffin mitts. I’ve worn them religiously since then, over so many winters. I walk outside a lot, and, like every other Northerner, I shovel snow a lot, so I’ve worn holes in them over and over again. My friend Karen’s mum, Helen, has kindly darned them for me more than a few times, but my main goal when I came here this time was to get a new pair of puffin mitts. I have, but they aren’t the same. They feel different, in shape and size. And then, yesterday in Trinity, I came upon a different style of puffin mitt again. So. Yup. I’m coming home with two pairs of puffin mitts for myself. It doesn’t mean, though, that I’ll only come back to Newfoundland again only after they’ve worn out and through. I’m kind of crushing out on this place, especially when I think of places to come every year or so to take time to write.

This time around, I’m visiting Newfoundland for two and a half weeks. Last time, I didn’t spend much time in the province, and I couldn’t really get a sense of how it ‘felt.’ (I’m a bit of a ‘feeler’ when it comes to both landscapes and people….so….) This time around, I’ve been out here to launch These Wings, a book of poems I’ve published with Pedlar Press, based in St. John’s, and run by Beth Follett and Monica Kidd. I was honoured to read with St. John’s former poet laureate, Agnes Walsh (whose book Oderin is one I really, really love), and with Monica herself, who’s just published her latest book of poems, Chance Encounters with Wild Animals, at Broken Books. Then, the night after that, we were joined by another St. John’s author, Sara Tilley. We had a Pedlar Press Salon at Monica’s house and spent a couple of hours reading excerpts of our plays and discussing the differences in genres. I found it fascinating, to be with two really amazing writers, and to be able to listen to their experiences. It energizes me to no end.

You can listen to recordings of these two evenings at Monica’s website, Curiaudio: Songs for Curious Girls:

https://www.curiaudio.com/

While I’m in places, I try to read literature written by authors who live (or who have lived) in that area. This trip is no different, so I made sure to read Sara Tilley’s novel, Duke, which I loved for its stylistic innovation, as well as its sense of place and character. Elliston is mentioned a lot in that novel, because that is where Sara’s family is from. I like that she’s written about her family history, as I keep trying to do that in novel form. (Whether or not anyone else will want to read my novel…I’m not sure…) Coming up the Bonavista Peninsula on Friday, I passed Elliston, but I purposefully ended up there yesterday morning.

I was up a bit later than normal, having battled a middle-of-the-night migraine and my regular insomnia, so I wrote from about 8:30 until 11:30. The time disappeared on me yesterday morning, which is always a good sign. I’m working on a longer poetic sequence, something about self-discovery and the metaphor of sea change. Shocker. I won’t reveal the title because I’m hoping to submit it to a contest or two, so you never want to jinx such a thing with the revelation of a title.

Around noon yesterday, I set out to see Elliston. I went straight down to the sealers’ memorial. Back home, we have a miners’ memorial, which I think is really quite beautiful. I always walk down in Bell Park in the early mornings with my youngest dog, Gully, so he and I often end up there, in amidst the birches. What I love about that memorial is that it is beautiful and bittersweet, as well as tragic. The sealers’ memorial in Elliston is beautiful, too. There’s a single grey stone wall, with the names of the men who died, along with the men who survived. I’ll try to briefly tell you about that tragedy here, but I’m not an expert.

You walk out to the sealers’ memorial, and the sea–on a day such as yesterday–reminds you of how treacherous it can be. It was damp and cold, and very windy. As I stood looking at the names of the men who were lost on the ice, two older Newfoundland gentlemen were talking quietly to one another. Then one of them looked over at me. He smiled, saw I was pretty much holding myself together against the wind, with my hair all over the place, and said, “Pretty cold out here today, isn’t it, my girl?” We exchanged a bit of conversation about the weather, but then he saw me looking at the names. I was eavesdropping, to be honest. He and his friend were talking about a man who had died alongside his two sons. His name was Thomas Jordan, and he was 50. His two sons were Bernard and Henry, who were 18 and 22. His brother, Stephen, just 43 at the time of the disaster, though, managed to survived. They were talking about how hard that would have been, to have felt guilty for surviving.  As we stood there, the man started talking to me about the disaster and, as usual, I just started asking questions. (I’m pretty curious generally, so I always chat up people when I want to know something.)

The men from the SS Newfoundland went out on the ice in March 30, 1914 to hunt seals. Their ship soon became stuck in ice. The 132 men were on the ice for a couple of days, but were caught in a fierce blizzard and only 55 survived. Not far away, the SS Southern Cross was returning to Newfoundland from the Gulf of St. Lawrence, a ship full of seal pelts after a successful hunt. That ship sunk and all 173 men died.  One side of the memorial lists all of the crew of the sunken ship, the SS Southern Cross. The other side lists the victims and survivors of the SS Newfoundland tragedy. They share the memorial wall because both ships were caught up in that same fierce blizzard.

To be honest, this is a very good little National Film Board documentary that tells of the tragedy in animated form. It uses excerpts of interviews with some of the 55 survivors, and it’s much more effective than me just writing about it. Michael Crummey, the noted Newfoundland novelist, wrote this so you’ll know it’s good work. You can read his blog about why he chose to take on such a challenging task here, on the National Film Board site:

https://blog.nfb.ca/blog/2014/03/26/54-hours-crummey/

If you have about 15 minutes, now you can get yourself a cup of tea and watch 54 Hours. It’ll make you sad, so I’ll warn you of that…because the whole story made me sad yesterday in Elliston.

https://youtu.be/S-XAoGcWLNk

The monument gave me chills, and it wasn’t because of the weather. The names and ages of the men who died, and the communities they lived in, are all listed there. Their bodies were retrieved from the ice and they were all taken back to their home communities, and buried in various graveyards along the coast. I thought of that again today as I was driving down towards New Bonaventure, passing tiny graveyards, wondering which graves belonged to those lost men. On the list of survivors, the eldest man was 71, while the youngest, a boy of 14 who was a stowaway, was lucky enough to live. On the list of the dead, of the victims, the oldest man who perished was only 56, and the youngest boy who died was 15. They had names, and ages, and families. They had wives, mothers and fathers, and children of their own. A large number, though, were very young men, in their teens and early twenties.

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The statue that stands beyond the memorial wall is unbelievably sad, especially on a day when the weather was extremely windy and often cloudy, and while icebergs hovered in the background. Morgan MacDonald’s statue shows a father and son, Reuben and Albert John Crewe, who perished together on the ice in March 1914. The statue is based on the way the two were found, frozen to the ice, holding one another. To see it…well…it’s beyond moving.

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Afterwards, I went up to Home from the Sea, the John C. Crosbie Sealers Interpretation Centre. There’s a detailed and thorough exhibition up in the building on the hill that lets you know a lot about Newfoundland history, and sealing history in particular.

To be honest, and I have an undergraduate degree with a minor in History, I am well aware of the costs that the people of Newfoundland have paid over the years. Theirs is a history of trial, of survival, and of flourishing. Beaumont-Hamel and the Battle of the Somme in 1916 is something kids know about through the Grade 10 History class that’s mandatory in Ontario. I don’t remember the story of this particular disaster, though, and I felt angry about that yesterday. I don’t like only knowing parts of our country’s history. I want to know as much as I can, and I want to know the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’ parts, too. That’s what learning is about, if you ask me…

I know about Joey Smallwood and Confederation, and how can you not know about 1949 if you grew up here, in Canada? But there are so many gaps in curriculum, not the least of which is the First Nations, Metis, and Inuit peoples’ history. There’s a whole history of sealing with the Inuit that is fascinating and important, too. One of the most important documentaries I’ve seen in the last couple of years is one every Canadian should watch, and that’s the CBC documentary, Angry Inuk. It’s an important film to watch, too, when we speak about the history of sealing in what we now call ‘Canada.’

https://youtu.be/85Ns94DWAQ8

I thought about the harp seal mug I used to have when I was in my late teens. It was something I knew nothing about, the sealing industry. It had a picture of a cute harp seal on it and, on the back, there was a paragraph that basically said that sealing was a horrible thing. It was a Greenpeace mug, or something. I knew nothing of the historical context of the sealing industry, over time and centuries, in either Indigenous or Newfoundland history. I remember being here in 2006 and there were t-shirts that a local company had made that basically attacked Paul McCartney and Heather Mills’s stance on the seal trade and Newfoundland. They were best-sellers, those t-shirts. I remember that. I also remember buying one that said “Free Nfld.” Still have it. Love it dearly.

It’s funny how it took me forever to learn about the sealing industry, and most of it was due to my teaching a Grade 11 First Nations, Metis, and Inuit literature course a couple of years ago. As I tried to learn new information, and to gather resources to teach kids about the importance of the sealing industry and Inuit culture, I taught myself stuff I hadn’t been taught in elementary or secondary school. There are so many gaps in traditional curriculum, and so many voices that need to be listened to, and heard, and allowed to speak. The story of the Newfoundland sealing disaster of 1914 is just one of those (likely) thousands of fascinating stories.

Now, please don’t send me nasty emails about how I don’t understand sealing and how brutal it is. I want to say that I love Newfoundland, and that I love the tenacity of the Newfoundlanders, and how their history speaks to survival, and how they flourish, and are so welcoming to those who visit. I have never felt so welcomed as I have these last two weeks. I’m grateful for that. I know I’ll be back to write. For me, it’s a magic place.

But I understand now why you’ll often see the pink, white, and green flag of Newfoundland flying more often on people’s properties across the province than the Canadian flag. They may have joined Confederation in 1949, but this is a distinct culture, and a storied people.

I want to say that the people of Elliston are lovely. The man in the craft shop, when I bought a book by a Newfoundland author, said to me, after I paid, “Thank you for supporting our shop, and our town.” Then, he shook my hand. I also want to thank those people out here who take such good care of the sealing monument. It’s so beautifully done.

And…a note of thanks to those people who put up with solitary tourists from Ontario who might ask odd questions. You are all so kind to point out the way to the puffin site, and who have put up roadside signs that say “Follow the puffin!”, and who then follow that sign up a half kilometre later with another sign that shows a puffin waving at you and saying, so encouragingly,  “Almost there!”

But I do want to say that, if you’re headed out to Newfoundland, and if you don’t know Newfoundland history, then a visit to the sealers’ monument in Elliston is far and beyond what any teacher could teach in a classroom. Don’t stay stuck in St. John’s, but get out a bit. It’s a massive province, this one is, and I have a dream to do Gros Mourne someday soon…but not on my own. That would be too lonely, I think. I’ll see. It’s on my list…

peace,

k.

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the value of art and the creative process. I’ve entered into it completely this past year, so that it’s the thing I orbit around every day. It’s my centre now, whereas before it might’ve just always been something I sort of worked into my days and nights. Now, it’s my centre–my North Star and my touchstone. I suppose, when you immerse yourself in something so deeply, it shouldn’t shock you that art moves you even more deeply than you’d ever thought possible.

On Sunday night, I listened to the Windsor Symphony Orchestra play excerpts of pieces that summoned up images of spring, but also of birds. For me, birds are important symbols. My current book of poems is called These Wings, and my last one was called Some Other Sky. I’m drawn to trees, lakes, seas, birds, and the sky. My first full play was titled Sparrows Over Slag, and my current one — which debuts tomorrow night at PlaySmelter at the Sudbury Theatre Centre — is titled Letters to the Man in the Moon. Yeah. I’m aware of how it’s working, these images and metaphors, these symbols and motifs, these philosophical and heartfelt anchors of soul. There were thunderbirds tonight, too, in Sarah Gartshore’s play, Remains, and that had me swept up all over again.

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Playwrights Sarah Gartshore and Garrett Carr.

Tonight, I first listened to Garrett Carr’s debut play, Shots, which focused on how the Pulse Nightclub shootings in Florida affected people who live here in Sudbury. I’m not a fan of verbatim theatre, to be honest. I often find it choppy in its structure and it doesn’t seem to grab at my heart as deeply as I’d like it to. Carr’s play, though, was powerful in the way he’d crafted its structure. The choral section in the middle, a piece that reflected on the gun laws (or the lack thereof) in America, was absolutely crushing. The final part, where the music juxtaposed itself with the reading out of the names of victims, along with their ages, made me shiver. What that work did tonight, for me, was to remind me that–at the core of it all–we need to remember that it really is all about our humanity. It shouldn’t matter about gender, race, gender preference, or physical ability. It should matter that we are all human, that we are all someone’s daughters or sons, and that we can all play a role in making this world a better place. Shots makes me long to hear more from this new young Northern Ontario playwright. He’s created a play that is timely, and which speaks to questions of social activism. As the playwright character within the play says, and I am paraphrasing of course, what else is there to do when you are faced with such a tragic event, but to just do something. I was left thinking, at the end of Shots, that the very act of creating something — which is what we do as playwrights — is an act of resistance, of protest, of activism, and also of deep hope and compassion.

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Matt Heiti discusses Shots with local playwright, Garrett Carr.

Then, one of my closest friends took on a key role in acting in her newest play, Remains, alongside Matt Heiti.  Sarah Gartshore’s newest play is part of “Project Uncle,” which is an initiative of Shkagamik-Kwe Health Centre. At the root of it, there is the question of how First Nations men are crucial to the health and well-being of their own communities. The play follows the story of Dust and Bone, two brothers. Dust is the younger one, and Bone is the elder one, someone who often ventures away to bigger cities. Both have secrets, but when Dust discovers what hell Bone has been through as a child, he struggles with the implications of that long hidden (and lately revealed) secret.

The pacing of the play is artful, with the darker, heavier scenes and conversations between the two brothers being balanced with excerpts of live music, courtesy of Lisa Marie Naponse. (The music is meant to be symbolic of a radio playing in Bone’s car.) There are funny parts. There is great love, even in the darker bits. You get a real sense of community, of family connections, and of how love really does gather people together, even after pieces of families have broken apart.

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Sarah Gartshore & Matt Heiti as Dust and Bone in Gartshore’s play, Remains, alongside local musician Lisa Marie Naponse.

What struck me, sitting there, was that we can drift from certain people we once loved, but then find ourselves with others who seem to step in. We create new families. We are mindful that time passes. Someone grows up and marries, while another doesn’t. Still, the bonds between siblings, between brothers in this case, can push and pull at the same time. Nothing is simple, and everything is tenuous and elastic. To have conveyed all of this in a short play is, in my mind, nothing short of brilliant.

Now. I will admit that Sarah is the person I consider my dearest friend. I met her in Fall 2015, when we were in Matt Heiti’s Playwrights’ Junction program at the Sudbury Theatre Centre. I remember, when I first sat at the long table with her, alongside other people I didn’t know at all, that I thought she was too cool for me. She was smart, funny, kind, and so present in the room. I wasn’t a popular kid in high school, but she struck me as being a bright light. I thought “Oh, this person is an actor and a playwright. She’s so far beyond me.” But, you know, she never made me feel that, and I soon realized that was just my own weird head playing games with me. Instead, we became fast friends.

I don’t see a lot of people socially, because I’m often writing on my own, but she’s one I do see on a fairly regular basis. We seem to have a shorthand kind of communication when we sit together. And we can crack each other up, which is always a good thing in my mind. Beyond that, she’s become someone I can trust to read my plays. I don’t share my plays with many people. There are about three I can think of, sitting here right now, and they are mostly playwrights who will be able to give me feedback on structure and dialogue. (I never did an MFA in Creative Writing, so I’m sort of self-taught in the genre. I buy and read a lot of plays, mostly Canadian but not always…and mostly by women, but not always.) Anyway, she reads every one of my plays, and a lot of my other stuff as well. Mostly that’s because I trust her sense of style, and the fact that she and I share a sort of sensibility about what plays can do, in causing ripples beyond the stage.

So. I was all fine until the end of the play, which was really rough and heartbreaking. I started to get a bit weepy, but recovered. (I mostly cry at home or in my car, on my own, but I don’t cry in public. When I do, well, I rush off like Cinderella.) Mostly, if theatre or music affects me emotionally, I’ll lose track of my hands in my lap. I’ll forget my physical body. I’m sure, if someone were to really watch me during a play or concert, they might see my soul lift up out of my body. I know this because I can sort of feel it happening when I’m in the presence of something artistically beautiful. My heart still beats when this happens, but it’s almost like I need to wake myself from my heart outwards, to pull myself back into my body, so that I can walk through a theatre to get to the car outside and then drive home safely. Yeah. I know…it’s weird.

What got me, though, was the short film that played after the play itself. It showed a group of musicians gathering together to work out the lyrics of the song that Sarah had written. The words made me start to weep. The stories at the core of Remains are about what First Nations men have had to go through over the years. There are, as was said tonight, some ‘good uncles’ and some ‘not so good uncles.’ The thing that hit me, though, is that all of this pain is due to–and descended from–colonization. It’s about the residential schools that Christian churches used to inflict torture on children. What got me tonight, and it gets me every time I hear these truths, is that so much damage has been done to families who have had loved ones in residential schools. This is what it means to have intergenerational trauma.

As Angela Recollet, the Executive Director of Shkagamik-Kwe Health Centre, said so beautifully, and I’m paraphrasing again, “women forgot how to be warriors, and some men forgot how to be healthy men.” It made me think of how much damage has been done in this country, and how it doesn’t just affect the person who was forced to go to residential school. The damage ripples, is passed down through families, generations, and communities. It’s beginning to be healed, but Gartshore’s Remains asks us to consider ‘at what cost?’

It also made me think about how ‘toxic masculinity’ is so much a part of this western culture now, too, and how that is something that is worth weeping for, as well. The gender roles we grew up with–just from my point of view as someone who is in now in her late 40s–are so dysfunctional. That we seem to be more aware of this now, as adults, is good. It isn’t easy, though, to break down social expectations around gender.

Men have culturally and traditionally been encouraged not to cry or express themselves openly, and I have met at least one or two in the last few years who have actually said out loud that they cannot express themselves clearly in terms of emotion, and that they have purposefully stopped themselves from crying. The few men I have met who do cry, and who openly say they do, are rare indeed. That they do, though, is hopeful, and speaks to the notion of how the present might help to heal the future. This was underscored in Garrett Carr’s play tonight, too…that idea that we get caught up in social labels, homophobia, racism, sexism, and deep pain. I feel that pretty viscerally, I learned tonight.

What struck me, in watching the short film that Sarah put together after the play, was that she is pure magic in the way she can work alongside other artists, in the way she can pull together people from different groups in society. She walks between worlds, this friend of mine. She is able to encourage people around her to take creative and personal risks, to be brave and courageous, and she always makes it clear that she wants every person’s voice to be heard. Sarah, even when I worked with her when she was directing The Vagina Monologues in February, is so mindful of how others are feeling. As a close friend, one of the things that makes me both smile and get weepy is when I get a text on my phone from Sarah that reads, “D’ahling, how are you feeeeeeeeling?!?” She is the only friend in my life who regularly takes me out of my damned cerebral head and puts me fully into my body. When I get caught up in a decision or dilemma, she is the only one who has ever figured out that I need to be reminded to let my body tell me what I actually think, from the inside out. “How are you feeeeelllliingggg?” is something she says in person, and then it’s usually accompanied by a laugh and a big hug. She never asks me “What do you think?” mostly because she knows I tend to think too much, I imagine.

That she can transmute this gift–making a person feel valued–also reminds them that they are their own best truth teller. Then, she takes that magic of hers and uses it to create a creative community in this town. She creates theatrical work that makes people question their place in society, makes them cast off complacency, and take up the mantle of positive social activism. You know, this is such a rare talent…to write, to direct, to act, and to transform. This is likely what made me weep so much: the pain of men who have lost themselves, their identity, their families, their lives, and the notion that this strong female playwright friend of mine can help them to reclaim it in the work she’s written for the stage. Yes. I think that’s it. If you can shine a light on something sad, if you can ‘rumble’ with your own demons and past, facing things that are hard to face in the light of day, then maybe you can begin to heal.

One of Sarah’s characters speaks of an uncle who has recently died. The uncle used to say to Dust and Bone, the two brothers, “Share your burden.” Yes. Here is the thing. If we can only trust one another to share our burdens, I sort of think the world might be an easier place to be. Pulling in, staying in our heads and not in our hearts, is what will be damning for humans. If we’re honest and vulnerable with one another, with how we’re feeling, and with telling our truths and our own very personal stories, then I sort of think that we can change the world from the inside out. I know. I’m a poet and a playwright. I’m a star-watcher and a song-singer. These things are not always valued these days, in this space and place, but sometimes you don’t have a choice…but to be in your body, in your truth, and in your heart.

This, I guess, when I really sit and think about it, is why I so love writing plays. They take such a lot of heart, and head, and really hard, hard work, but when you see and hear them acted out on a stage, even in their simplest forms, they can cause you to feel things so deeply. You never stay the same after you’ve read a poem, or a story, or experienced a play on a stage. This…is why art is so important: it moves people to tears and then shifts hearts and minds. Such a ripple!

If you’re around tomorrow, well, there are still two more plays to go. My play, Letters to the Man in the Moon, is about a little girl who loses her dad in a mining accident. It’s about a lot more than that, but you’ll only see that if you come along to the Sudbury Theatre Centre at 6pm. Then, at 8pm, my friend Matt Heiti is debuting his new play, Aviatrix, which focuses on Amelia Earhart’s final, fated flight. Tickets are just $12 a play. Really, it’s a good Friday night out in Sudbury if you like theatre. You can check out the website for Pat the Dog Theatre Creation, and PlaySmelter New Work Theatre Festival, at http://www.playsmelter.ca

peace,

k.

 

I’ve been meaning to go and see these two exhibits for a couple of weeks, but life has been a bit hectic lately. This afternoon, though, I had the pleasure of seeing both Elizabeth Holmes: Thinking About Loss and Ron Langin: terrain. These are two very different exhibits, by two very well-established and respected Sudbury area artists. Both exhibits are on until Sunday, April 21st.

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As Gallery 1 was a bit busy, I headed up to see Ron Langin’s exhibit first. Langin has been exhibiting his work in Sudbury since 1992. There are four different terrains that you journey through in this exhibit, from the Red Rock Coulee Natural Area of Alberta, to the mountains, to the prairies, and finally to the impressive hoodoos of Alberta’s badlands.

As I walked through the exhibit, I was taken by the beautiful colours and the way in which Langin chose to document and creatively interpret his travels through Alberta and British Columbia in 2017. The mountain paintings are my favourite, mostly because I recall the first time I saw the Rockies when I went out to write at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity in April 2016. They were breathtaking. If ever you need to sort yourself out, in any way, the best thing you can do is head to an ocean (either west to British Columbia, or east to Nova Scotia or Newfoundland) or go into the Rockies. Sometimes, you just need to feel how big something else is, so that you realize you’re small. It puts everything in perspective. Standing in amidst Langin’s paintings, I kept thinking of what it had been like, the first time I’d come to them, to see the Rockies out the windshield of a car, on that highway from Calgary to Banff. It was, for me, life changing.

I loved Langin’s mountain paintings most because even the way they are framed reminded me of the view out the car window I was in when I first went to Banff. And, again last March, while reading out in Calgary at Pages Bookstore in Kensington, my poet friend Emily Ursuliak and I went up to Banff for a day. It was, as it had been two years before, just as beautiful. Walking along that wall of paintings this afternoon, it felt as if I could recall those two trips. It brought me back to a place in time where I met very dear writing friends whom I’ve stayed close with since 2016. The same can’t be said of other friends I’ve met from other retreats, but those Banff friends are dear to me in ways I can’t quite explain. They’ve stuck with me, while others haven’t as much. Maybe it’s Banff, or the magic of certain spaces, or just timing. Whatever it is, this afternoon’s visit to the gallery made me think of all of them, and made my heart glad.

Heading downstairs again, I spent time with Elizabeth Holmes’s Thinking About Loss. I love the notion of layering images, so to spend time looking through a gallery with a number of beautiful collages was lovely. My favourite pieces are the ones to the right of the main door, the ones that highlight the beauty of old, worn down and much loved books. One, a mended prayer book with its spine taped, with images of Jesus and Mary on opposite covers, especially drew me in. So much of it spoke to me of memories I have of my maternal grandmother. She used to have little prayer books like these, tucked into the top drawer of her bedside table in the old house on Wembley Drive. I kept thinking: Who used this prayer book? Who used it so often that it fell apart? What was their life like? What trials did they struggle with, the very things that led them to the comfort offered by the ritual of prayer? I can imagine them heading off to church, to say a rosary or light a candle, offering up prayers to God. It reminded me of my grandmother, that one.

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Walking around the gallery, so many layered pieces spoke to me. There were collages with bits of envelopes, tickets from concerts, pieces of handwritten letters and burnt paper, stamps, and even imprints of leaves. Holmes uses layers of gesso wash and thin papers applied over the surfaces of images, suggesting the passage of time. All things, Holmes seems to be saying to the viewer, decay. All things wear down. As humans, we age and fall prey to illness and frailty. The detritus of our societies, too, seems to speak to this. We leave fragments behind. There is a sort of patina there, too, though, and I kept thinking of a sort of layered ambering that seems to take place as we get older, as we gain more experiences in our lives. What Holmes does, in this exhibit, is suggest that our own individual lives are woven things. What seems solid and sure is not often so for very long. A decade can bring a number of changes to a person, to a relationship, to a life. She gathers together the fragments, searching out the bits and pieces that seem to document our lives, and then places them carefully and insightfully into tapestries of image that speak imaginatively to the way in which we live our lives. Her works are haunting. They nudge at you, ask you to imagine how loss works in your own life, and how you shed your skin as you grow and change over the years. To not evolve would be sad. To be aware of these evolutions of self, well, it brings mindfulness, of time past, of people and of love and loss, and of the value we place on one another as we journey.

Time passes, she seems to say to you through her work. To pretend it doesn’t is silly. To gather up bits and pieces of your own life, to catalogue it, to document your life, is a way to witness a life. I think I do this with my writing, and I can look back on earlier books of poems to see how I’ve evolved, and how the people I’ve loved have come and gone, for various reasons. There comes a place, I was thinking as I stood there quietly, where you recognize that time is fleeting, and that you need to be sure you are content, that you have a path, that you are able to be inside yourself as you go, mindful of others and creating.

Leaving the gallery, I wandered into the tiny gift shop. If you’re a member, you get a discount. I fell in love with this little Sudbury water tower pencil case made by local artist, Sydney Rose. I didn’t really need it, but it’s an iconic image of my hometown, so I bought it. One water tower has already been taken down, but the other still stands perched on the Lloyd Street hill. (It’s the famous one that’s made national news, with the “Skoden” tag, but I still always think of how pretty it seemed to me as a little girl, how it was painted light blue and how it seemed to almost bloom from the rocks. It felt, to me, as obvious and certain as the Super Stack or the slag dump, in terms of how I defined ‘home’ inside my own head and heart. It kind of still is, in a weird way.)

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Sydney Rose’s Sudbury water tower pencil case is available for purchase at the Art Gallery of Sudbury.

So. This is blog is, too, a way for me to say that there are a few copies of my new book of poems, These Wings, at the Art Gallery of Sudbury. You can purchase them there, for $20 each, but they’ll also be available at a couple of other places around town.

And…this blog entry is also a way for me to say that, if you’re around next Thursday night, April 25th, the Art Gallery is having its annual gala fundraising event. It’s dear to my heart, this art gallery of ours. I volunteered there as an undergraduate in my early 20s, when it was still directly affiliated with Laurentian University. I actually met my first boyfriend through an art history class at Laurentian, and I have fond memories of time spent with him in that gallery space, looking at art. Then, I worked there for a while in my late 20s, after I finished my graduate degree in Ottawa and came home to find work. It’s the place where I had an encounter with Mrs. Bell’s ghost (whether or not people believe me doesn’t matter…) and it’s embedded in my heart.

You can buy tickets to the big gala, Party Art Tres Chic, at the gallery. They’re $65 if you’re not a member, but $55 if you are a member. (One more reason to become a member, eh?) You can call the gallery at 705-675-4871 for more information. Who doesn’t want to spend a night at the mansion, though, if you’re in town? It’s a night to celebrate art, fashion, and culture. That, for me, is more of what Sudbury needs…

Just be sure, friends, to pop in to the Art Gallery of Sudbury before next week rolls around. Do yourself the favour of experiencing the Langin and Holmes exhibits. They’ll settle into your heart and shift your soul. They’ll make you believe that spring is almost here…and that time is to be cherished and honoured.

peace,

k.

 

The first time I met Monique Legault was at a Sudbury Arts Council meeting in October 2017. She had been commissioned to paint one of my poems, which, oddly, had been commissioned by the Arts Council for that past summer’s Mayor’s Celebration of the Arts awards. I had heard of this whole thing before, a sort of ekphrastic initiative whereby a painter is present at a concert, but never one who would paint as (and after!) I read my poem to the gathered Arts Council members. I was, to be honest, a wee bit nervous. I shouldn’t have been, though. When she turned the canvas around at the end of the meeting, I nearly wept. Her work was beautiful. Her eyes sparkled. We hugged. And we’ve been friends ever since.

Last year, while I was in Kingsville, Monique messaged me and asked if she could paint one of the photos that I post on a daily basis on Instagram. She had been moved by the one I’d taken in spring, in early April, while I was out hiking on Point Pelee, along the marsh boardwalks there. It had reeds and lily pads, and the light was beautiful. (On my dying day, I’ll remember that view, that beauty.) So I said yes.

When I was home in Sudbury for the staged reading of my play, Sparrows Over Slag, in May 2018, she and I met and talked about a collaborative project. She proposed that she would paint my photos, and then I got to thinking that I would also write poems to go with them. We would, we decided, create little triptychs. We started off small, with only about four in our heads, but as I got a bit better at taking photos while hiking, we shifted to seven. Through the fall, we batted ideas and notions back and forth via email and Facebook messenger. When I was home again in early November for Wordstock, our literary festival, she and I met again, sitting perched on chairs at the back of her beautiful little gallery and studio on Elgin Street.

The result of this new friendship (which just started as a collaboration, really) was our collaborative exhibition, “Tracing Our Wild Spaces: photos, poems, paintings,” which ran from January 23-March 8 at the Fromagerie on Elgin Street. Our launch date was amazing, and my friend Sean Barrette offered to sing a few songs, which added a bit of ambience. I read the poems while Monique highlighted the paintings. We never, ever expected to sell four of the seven triptychs on that opening evening. It was snowy–a snowstorm really–so it was amazing to see a packed house. Further, it was amazing that my friend Gisele, whom I’ve known for over twenty years, decided to buy the one of my boots on a Killarney ridge hike. That one is dear to me because my friend Brad Blackwell, who is the coordinator of the Sudbury Catholic District School Board’s outdoor education program, let me borrow those big rubber boots on a very muddy day when we were hiking with kids in October 2017.  It was Brad, and my friend Jen Geddes, who helped me to love being outdoors in the last few years. As I’ve lost weight and gotten healthier, stronger, those two have been like little angels, guiding me along, teaching me to trust myself, and knowing, somehow, that I’d bloom because of being out in nature. I can’t even begin to explain how hiking has changed the way I write and see things in my head…

The title of the exhibit, “Tracing Our Wild Spaces,” comes from something I read in one of Robert Macfarlane’s books, The Wild Places. Macfarlane’s work is important to me, and it reflects so much of what I believe in, in terms of how I create my work, from walking, hiking, and canoeing through natural landscapes. What he has done, in raising awareness of the environment, and in terms of encouraging people to preserve and maintain wild areas around the world, is so important. He’s a sort of ‘light worker,’ in my mind and heart. He is a bit of light, as a writer and thinker, and then he’s the stone that’s thrown into the pond, a catalyst that causes a ripple of change to move outwards. Too, though, the title speaks to how I see women in the world, and how we have creative and wild spaces within ourselves. I’ve found my wild spaces by being outside in nature, so it’s all woven, all interconnected, in my mind and heart. So many of the poems in my new book, These Wings (Pedlar Press), are about how I’m woven into landscape, and how it’s woven itself into me and transformed my world view.

So: the show is over at Fromo, but there are still three triptychs for sale at Monique’s gallery on Elgin Street. Her gallery and studio is long and narrow, and full of beautiful things that she’s made. The triptychs will find their homes there for now, so if you didn’t get to see them, or didn’t get to read the poems, then you can drop in to say hello to Monique and see them. They’re still for sale, too. They’re one-of-a-kind pieces, and whoever buys them will have unique pieces. (We’ll likely do another collaborative project…because we work well together…but for now, I’m just enjoying the wonder of having my photos shown in public for the first time, and I’m also proud of the poems I wrote to go along with them. Beyond that, though, I’m constantly amazed by the beauty of my friend’s paintings. She is truly gifted.)

All of this collaborative creative work…feels rich and diverse to me. It feeds me, fills me up, and makes me more creative inside. I can’t thank Monique enough for being open to working collaboratively with me. She’s a bright light, and someone who has begun to teach me how to learn to value my work, in terms of assigning it a monetary value. That’s new to me. She’s a good guide. More than that, though, I have a new friend whom I love…so I feel blessed.

Here are the images that are still up for sale, in case you’re curious, and in case you feel like you might want to think about buying one. 🙂

IMG_2971.jpgThe Colchester tree photo and poem is dear to me because I took this photo while I was lost down near Harrow. (Well, maybe ‘exploring’ is a better way to say it!) I was in love with the Victorian house that stood on the opposite side of the road, and had pulled over to just moon over its architectural beauty, but then I turned my head to look out the passenger window and saw this. It looked like something out of one of Tennyson’s poems. I love his Arthurian pieces, and “The Lady of Shalott” is one of my favourites, so I could imagine her in her boat, like the Waterhouse painting I love, and I took the photo. It was such a moody, eerie day in early spring. I wasn’t used to not having snow in March, so I was quite taken by it all, the romance of it.

IMG_2970.jpgThis photo was taken during that same fall hike in Killarney. I was standing off on my own, away from the crush of giggling students, just wanting to take in the beauty of the view. From here, you can look out over Collins Inlet and see the shape of Manitoulin Island in the distance. It feels ancient, especially if you let it into your bones, into your soul. I remember standing there, and the clouds were shifting in the sky above me, and the sun came out in a bright beam. It made me catch my breath. That’s really how beautiful it was, how brilliantly it pierced my heart. The reflection of the beam, in the puddle of last night’s rain…well…it was a poem before it wrote itself.

IMG_2972.jpgAnd…for a switch…and so you can see Monique’s beautiful work…here is her painting of my Point Pelee marsh photo. If you go to her studio/gallery, you can see the original photo and the accompanying poem. Dawn walks at Point Pelee are something I miss a lot these days. Thinking of it, writing this, makes me get emotional. I want to cry because there’s a smell to the earth there, to the marsh, and to the lake, that I love. It’s the one place where I feel absolutely myself. I hardly ever want to share those walks with anyone, and only two friends have walked with me there in the last three years, since the first time my friend Dawn took me in August 2016 when I was down writing in Kingsville. So…this Point Pelee triptych pulls at me…body, mind, and soul. (My heaven would have parts of County Clare, Newfoundland, Vancouver Island, Lumsden, Manitoulin Island, and Point Pelee. My heaven would be full of hiking trails and changing skies and bodies of water that reflect my heart’s weather. But that…well…as Hammy Hamster would say…that’s another story.)

I do need to thank Demetra Christakos from the Art Gallery of Sudbury, who let me know about OAC grants for framing of exhibition works. We were lucky to apply, and get a small grant, that covered the cost of framing the photo-poem pairings. I also want to thank Leslie Morgan and Jane Cameron from Sudbury Paint and Custom Framing on Elgin Street, as well. Jane and Leslie are old friends of mine, and I love them both dearly. Leslie is my “go to” framer for any original art that I buy when I travel. Then, when I walk by a piece of art that’s in my home, I can think of the trip I took, whether it was to Spanish Point, or to Newfoundland. I’m blessed to know such artistic and gifted women. They’re everywhere here in town…you just need to know where to find them!

Sudbury friends: do go and see Monique some day soon, and let her know that you read about the three remaining triptychs here on my blog. She’ll tell you her side of the collaborative story. I only know I’m glad we’re friends, and I’m glad she’s in my life, and I feel blessed that the Universe has conspired for us to meet. Kindreds, after all, are really hard to find…especially the creative ones.

peace, friends.

k.

 

I’ll be honest here. My worst subjects in high school were math, French, and science. In math, I tried so hard, but numbers never really settled into my head in the right way. In French, I tried to impress Sister Mildred, and she always smiled kindly, but I still only got low Cs. In science, God, to be even more honest…

In chemistry, I had a ‘mishap’ with a Bunsen burner and my lab partner’s hair caught on fire a bit when she leaned over to adjust the flame. I also recall holding a beaker with something and the stopper flying off across the teacher’s front desk and bouncing off the chalk board next to her. I can still see how she raised her eyebrow at me, as if I’d done it on purpose. Then, in biology, I remember that I started to cry when we had to dissect a frog. I didn’t like the smell of the formaldehyde, and I thought too much of what a frog’s life would be like on a daily basis. I figured it had parents, maybe some friends. I also really loved Kermit the Frog at that point in time, so I could only ever hear “it’s not easy being green” repeating in my head. Anyway, this is all just to say that I didn’t do well in science classes at Marymount when I was a student there. Not at all.

In Grade 13, in our World Issues class with Mr. Krys, we had to do a research project that focused on environmental issues. Most kids in my school, then, were really worried about acid rain. That was the big worry back when INCO didn’t really care about environmental emissions. Many days, back then, you could taste the sulphur on your tongue when you went outside in the morning, and you could see it mark the leaves of plants in the garden in silvery grey. You could also set your watches by the slag dump out over towards Gatchell. I used to watch that slag dump when I stayed over at my grandma’s house on Wembley, or at my great aunts’ house on Kingsmount. We would turn off the lights so that we could spot it through the window frame. I thought it was magic. It was, certainly, a very different time in Sudbury.

My uncle, Terry Ennis, was an entomologist. When I was little, I didn’t know what he did. He and my aunt, Rosalind, lived in the Sault, so we often visited one another. He was tall, very smart and funny, but quiet. When we visited them, he would take us, along with my cousins, David and Tara, to see the ‘Bug Lab.’ I remember being freaked out because I hated bees. In my mind’s eye, in my imagination, I pictured a building with corridors full of free flying bees. He laughed, reassured me, and then took us on a tour. Everything seemed very clean, and I recall there were bugs in vials, and posters of trees and bugs on the walls. I didn’t see any bees, for which I was truly thankful.

Terry helped me by sending me a whole bunch of research in the mail. He was studying the effects of the spruce budworm on the forestry industry. I just remember thinking that he had a very, very specific job and was one of the smartest adults I knew. I also knew that he was interested in trying to save trees and birds, and animal habitats, and that made me love him even more. He liked Dylan Thomas and poetry, and Irish history, so we had all of that in common. We also used to go fishing once in a while, so he loved the outdoors. (I particularly remember standing next to my two cousins, watching him as he gutted a silvery carp on an old wooden table on the edge of Lake Mindemoya one summer afternoon, after a day spent fishing in a boat. He insisted that it would be good fish, but its belly was full of garbage and it wasn’t flavourful, even though he’d seasoned it as best he could…)

I did well on my research paper that final year in high school. I didn’t like bugs, and I still don’t. (I prefer trees and birds, but I also love seeing butterflies in shadow boxes. The possibility for extended metaphor fascinates me to no end.) The other kids that year did their research projects on acid rain, and someone likely did water pollution, but I asked to do something on the spruce budworm infestation and I remember my teacher gave me an A. He was impressed that I had a scientist in the family. (Acid rain, back then, was overdone, anyway…)

Fast forward a lifetime or two, and I discovered the poetry of Alice Major in my mid-twenties. I was a young woman from Northern Ontario, going to annual general meetings for the League of Canadian Poets, and feeling really out of place. Everyone else seemed to be in their late forties or much older than that, and they all had reams of books published, while I had just published one very slim chapbook when I was 26. I was star struck by the Canadian poets I met at the AGM in Winnipeg, but that’s when I first met Alice. Then, at another AGM in Ottawa, years later, with Margaret Atwood as the guest speaker, I ran into Alice again. We’ve stayed in touch, somehow. She gave me the best advice I could imagine, in 2016, when I visited Edmonton after being at the Banff Centre working on my novel. As laureate, she said, I would need to guard my time, and I would need to learn to say ‘no.’ She had been the first Poet Laureate of Edmonton, so I knew she knew what she was talking about. I love her work dearly. I love that she writes about science and the natural world in a thought provoking and beautiful way. (I’m a fan girl when it comes to Alice’s work in Canadian poetry, but that would need to be another blog…for another day.)

I wonder what Terry would think of what I’m doing now, especially since I’m working on a collaboration that links poetry to science in a more concrete way. (I would still fail the tests and experiments if you put me in a high school lab again, but I do love astronomy, birds, butterflies, and I am especially keen on advocating for the health of Canada’s bodies of water, especially the Great Lakes.) I can also see how writing about the natural landscape links to scientific pursuits. For me, my love of science is linked to how we can protect the environment. And stars. Because I have always loved stars, and the stories of constellations and myths.

Dr. Thomas Merritt is the Canada Research Chair in Genomics and Bioinformatics at Laurentian University. For six years now, he’s organized the SciArt exhibit at Laurentian University and Science North. Artists are invited to create work that is linked to science. He’s had people submit projects that include dance, sculpture, and visual art in past years. Last year, he asked me to take part by bringing in poetry, but I was away writing, down in the Essex region. This year, though, I’m back in Sudbury and so I said ‘yes’ to his kind invitation.  Now, there’s poetry to add to the mix. I’m always interested in collaborative projects. For me, poetry can build bridges where people assume there aren’t places to even put bridges. I work with visual artists, even though I don’t think of myself as a one. Now, well, I’m working alongside a scientist. My uncle would think that was funny, I know, because he knew me very well. He would’ve found all of this very ironic.

So! The SciArt Poetry Contest runs until Friday, March 23/19. Poets are asked to email their three (3) best poems to Dr. Merritt at tmerritt@laurentian.ca. The names of poets should not be on the individual pages of poetry. Rather, we’d ask that poets include a cover letter that includes personal contact information (name, phone, email, address), a short 30-word biography, as well as the titles of the poems that they’re submitting. Poets are also asked to write a sentence or two that describe how their poems are scientifically-focused. That means you’ll have one document with contact info and another document with three pages, with one poem on each page. We’d ask that you use a fairly traditional font (Calibri, Times New Roman, Baskerville).

Poems can be up to a maxium of 30 lines. The categories for judging are as follows: Gr 1-6 (Elementary), Gr 7-12 (Intermediate/Senior), Post-Secondary Students, and Community Members. All poets must be residents of Greater Sudbury. Poets are encouraged to submit their work in the language they are most comfortable in.

The judges in this poetry contest include myself, as well as the current Poet Laureate, Chloe LaDuchesse, past laureate, Tom Leduc, and noted francophone poet, Thierry Bissonnette. Prizes will be awarded in all four categories. Winners will read their poems on the evening of Tuesday, April 2ndat Science North, as part of an event called “Verse in the Universe: SciArt & Poetry.” There will be free admission, and after the prize winners read, the four featured poets will each read work that links to the competition’s central thematic focus of ‘science.’

April is National Poetry Month across Canada, and we’re very honoured to have received funding from the League of Canadian Poets (LCP), to fund the featured poets’ readings. This year’s theme is “Nature,” so it all seems that a bit of serendipity is at play.

I’m hoping that people who live in Greater Sudbury will think about taking part in this new SciArt Poetry Contest. I’d very much like to see it grow and flourish in coming years. Really, when you think about it, scientists and poets aren’t too different after all. They look at tiny things that lead to bigger ideas, and they document the beauty in the world around them in unique and carefully specific ways.

I won’t be writing poems about the spruce budworm, but I’ll always write poems that speak to wanting to honour and protect our waterways and natural landscapes. For me, my place in the world is defined by natural beauty. My uncle Terry would get that, and he’d likely be glad to know that some other scientist could see the value of poetry and art, too. I think that Terry likely would’ve written a poem himself to submit, if he were still around…so I’ll dedicate my work in this project to his memory. He left us too soon.

Please write poems, friends! And, then, please come out on the evening of April 2ndand hear the poets read. The world is so beautifully interwoven—from the way the lake freezes in late fall, to the way the sun rises over Copper Cliff in the early spring—that we’d best document the way we weave our worlds together, with poetry, science, and wonder.

peace,

k.

 

I’ve only ever felt connected to my mother’s family, and not to my father’s. There are very specific reasons for this, and they are plentiful, and too many are deeply private and painful to even explain here, in writing. Still, I have wanted to learn more of my father’s family culture over the years, so I recently asked my second cousin Kevin’s wife, Annelinde, to teach me how to cook a traditional German meal. We had set a date to meet at her house and cook up a storm with another friend. What was decided, three weeks ago, when we talked on the phone, was that she would teach us how to make Ein Flaum Kuchen (Plum Cake) and a beef rouladen. On the side, there would be boiled baby potatoes, as well as a dish of red cabbage and apple as vegetables. And there is always wine, in the cooking, and around it.

What I learned today is that: there is a lot of chopping involved in German or Austrian recipes, and there is a reason why my paternal grandmother stuck to the old school sort of heavy farm supper while I was growing up in Minnow Lake. She had an English, Irish, and Scottish background and had learned that style of cooking because of growing up in the southwestern part of the province, where farming was the main occupation, and where food was fuel more than anything else. Dinners at my grandparents when I was a little girl were more than simple, and without a lot of flavour: boiled potatoes and carrots, with butter melting on both, and then some kind of roast beef that was awfully dried up and then covered up with a thick gravy. My grandmother excelled at making fresh bread, cakes, and sweets. I know it’s why I ended up being fat as a teenager. They lived next door to us, so the cakes and breads were a main staple for us as we were growing up. She used to ask us over on weekends for what my dad used to call ‘second breakfasts.’ (These would be fine if we had been working in the fields in southwestern Ontario…but we weren’t…and we were just kids…)

When I think of any sort of traditional or cultural food on my dad’s side of the family, I have memories of my grandfather making head cheese alongside my father in the tiny kitchen of the house that he had built on Bancroft Drive, in the Minnow Lake area of Sudbury. I never liked head cheese. It made me feel sick inside when my grandfather eventually told me what was in it. Mostly, I just remember the silvery colour of the meat grinder.

I also remember my father making traditional rumtopf in the early fall–taking over our kitchen counters with cutting boards full of plums, cherries, peaches, strawberries, and pears–and then covering the fruit with bottles and bottles of high proof rum. Then, the rumtopf crock would be placed in the fruit cellar, in the basement. Months later, at Christmas or Easter, Dad would lug it upstairs and dump it onto bowls of vanilla ice cream, if people came for supper. He thought it was fancy and impressive. I never liked it, either, because the fruit looked amber and was too soft for my liking. (That the rumtopf crock lived in what I knew was a haunted basement also didn’t impress me, as I was the one who was often sent to put the ceramic pot back downstairs after the fruit had been dished out for dessert. Funny, the things you remember…)

Today, Annelinde spoke of how she first learned to make the rouladen dish and the plum cake when she was seven. Her grandmother, Agnes, taught her. Annelinde was born at the tail end of the war, but was never really sure of her actual birth date.  Birth certificates were hidden, for reasons she may never know. She remembers people saluting Hitler and speaking highly of him as she grew up. A different world, and a different time, if you happened to grow up in Germany just after WWII. Annelinde has fond memories of how recipes and traditional foods are tied to her childhood. I can only think of how this wasn’t the case in mine. The only traditional thing I remember eating was my great-aunts’ St. Patrick’s Day supper of corned beef and cabbage, along with Irish coffee, which was an annual affair at the house on Kingsmount, the house my great-grandfather built back in the 1940s when he moved into town after his retirement from running the store and post office in Creighton Mine.

After about four hours of cooking prep and peppering Annelinde with questions about ‘why is it cut this way?’ or being told that if I put a piece of rye bread in my mouth while cutting onions that I wouldn’t cry (true!), I now know how to make a proper rouladen, which was an amazing thing to eat last night. The plum cake was lovely, and I’ve admired it for years whenever Annelinde has made it at dinners I’ve attended. Now I’ll be able to make a solid German dinner in the future, when I have a clutch of two or three friends over for supper once in a while.

I was thinking a lot yesterday of how I still can’t relate to the memory of my father’s parents. They were scary to me, when I was little. My grandfather was very tall, with wide shoulders. He very rarely smiled, except when he thought something was really funny. He ran the house and my grandmother cooked and cleaned, catering solely to him. I actually can’t recall him ever hugging me, except maybe just once before he died, when he was in hospital, and I don’t recall him ever really taking any sort of interest in how I was doing as I grew up. When we were very little girls, I think, my paternal grandparents found us delightful. They liked us as babies. Once we started to have our own voices and personalities, and were no longer made to wear matching outfits, we were, perhaps, less appealing.

My grandfather tried, though, in his own way, to express affection. What I remember more warmly is that he was the first one to ever take me out fishing on the West Arm of Lake Nipissing, in the boat he made by hand in his wood working shop. Some of my better memories of him were on that boat, out on that lake that I loved. He did also make a wooden crokinole board that I loved, and even the playing pieces had been hand made in his basement shop. He made me a four poster bed for my eleventh birthday. It’s beautiful, still. So, I guess, he expressed his love by making beautiful things from wood and giving them to us as we were growing up. But the gift giving didn’t match with his face, which really didn’t seem very animated to me. He never had to raise his voice to keep us quiet. He only had to use his eyes, his face, and his presence, to be intimidating.

When we slept over, if Mum and Dad were out of town, he would stand in the doorway of the room, an outline of a big man against the hall light, until he was sure we weren’t talking. He listened to our breathing. That, for me, is one of the most terrifying memories of my childhood…to have the image of a tall man standing in the doorway of a room where I slept, so that I learned how to regulate my breathing and make it seem as if I was asleep when I really wasn’t. Those were the longest days and nights, times of being aware of always being watched, being told to be quiet when I was mostly quiet anyway. (I think that those memories, and of not feeling safe when sleeping, have influenced my sleep patterns for most of my life. Odd, but true. Someday soon, I’ll write about a character and sleep. It’s been brewing.)

Once, a kid in elementary school called me a Nazi when I was ten because she had figured that “Fahner” was a Germanic name. It is that. It means “flag bearer,” something which seems typical of the nationalism that is such a key part of German history. I didn’t really know what a Nazi was when I was ten. The kid, I remember, mentioned Hitler afterwards, and that freaked me out. When I went home, I remember I asked my dad about it. He said that his family hadn’t even been in Europe during WWI or WWII. They had travelled to Canada to farm, just outside of London, in the 1800s. No matter. The damage had been done by that little classmate of mine. Words can be damaging when you’re kid, as they can be if you’re an adult, too.

In university, I had a friend whose father was one of a very few child survivors of the Holocaust. He had been in a Steven Spielberg documentary, and I remember that they only had one small, battered family photo on their dining room wall. When I said how lovely it was, his face turned sad. “It’s all I have left of my family. They were all killed.” Visiting their house, in St. Catharine’s, was difficult. My friend’s father knew I had a German name, and he was the one who told me the meaning behind it. He asked about the maternal Irish heritage I had, and then we spent hours comparing how Irish Catholic guilt was very much parallel to Jewish guilt. He also spoke about the oppression of the Irish. He felt better about me when I said that the relatives on my father’s side had come over from Germany in the 1800s.

So. I guess it has always made sense to me, my draw to one culture rather than the other. My paternal grandparents weren’t warm and friendly with us, as we grew up. My mother’s family, however, were. They pulled us in, told us stories, and gave us hugs freely. They raised us, alongside my parents. I’ll always be especially grateful to my maternal grandmother and my great-aunts, who showed me what women could be–as strong and spirited as they wanted to. I’m eternally glad of their having been there as role models. The best parts of me come from my maternal grandmother, who had a huge influence on me.

On Saturday night, I went out for dinner with two friends from Zumba. We dance together every week. They’ve watched me grow and change over the last few years, and they accept me as I am, never questioning how I’ve shape-shifted, mostly, I think, because they love me enough to know that it’s a bit of a head trip for me, too, to try and figure out who I’m becoming as I’ve changed and become a more confident woman. After supper, we went over to listen to some live Irish music. My friend Duncan was playing. Then, there was a quick ceili dance and I’d forgotten how much I love set dancing. The last time I danced was at a ceili a few years ago. I should have gone across to Detroit to dance while I was living in Kingsville last year, but the notion of driving into Detroit on your own, when you’re not familiar with the area, is a bit daunting, so I only ever went across when I had a friend in tow. Dancing on Saturday night made me think of my Irish ancestors, and I felt pulled into a culture that has welcomed me from the moment I was born, and which allows me to know and define myself as a woman who is so closely woven into the natural landscapes of water, earth, and sky.

Why even bother trying to learn a bit of German cooking, then? Well, I already have the Irish soda bread down pat. Best to expand and think about another culinary, ancestral pathway. Just because my familial relationships weren’t good on my father’s side of the family, it doesn’t mean that I can’t work to try and integrate some of the better bits. Besides, I’ve been thinking lately, having come north again, that you need to forgive people, even if you can’t forget what they may have done. They only do the best that they can do, our grandparents and parents. They pass down patterns that they don’t even know are embedded in their being. Just yesterday, I came upon a quotation online. Kazu Haga wrote: “If we carry intergenerational trauma (and we do), then we also carry intergenerational wisdom. It’s in our genes and in our DNA.” I have a scientist friend or two who might disagree, I’m sure…but I often think about things like genetic memory, and imprints from history, and echoes of things that come to us, echoes that we can’t always explain….except maybe (for me, anyway) through creating writing or visual art. Not sure. And that’s okay, too.

I can’t hold grudges anymore, which means I also don’t entertain them when they come at me from other places. I’ve never enjoyed drama. I’m often better on my own because of that fact. So, I forgive my paternal grandparents for not having been warm and loving. I can, on a cerebral level, understand that one of my first male role models was mostly cold, and that he influenced the way in which my father grew up and expressed emotion. It’s amazing to me that I’m as open hearted as I am…but I know I got that from the other side of the family tree. Am certain of that fact.

I think my dad would’ve liked to have seen me cooking traditional German recipes yesterday, but I don’t know that he was that invested in continuing his father’s legacy. His father wasn’t kind to him, either. My dad told me that when we sat together in the palliative care wing during the weeks before he died. The stories he told me made my heart break for him, if I’m honest. He was a man of 78 when he died, but he might just as easily have been a little boy, broken, telling me of his youth. I could only just try to gather him in before he died, fill him up with all the love I could offer him, and try to help him cross over with less fear and sadness in his heart. Sometimes, I know from what my father told me, and from what I’ve seen with teaching kids over the years, neglect is a far harder sort of parental abuse to deal with, especially when you are frail and elderly, at the end of your life. Then, well, coming to terms with things isn’t easy…

Families have cycles, and sometimes they aren’t good ones. I know that Dad would’ve liked the food, and the fun conversation, and he would have draped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in for a hug. So, yesterday, being with the two women who were cooking and baking alongside me felt really ancient, and rooted, and good. Regardless of culture, I thought, there is a culture of women that transcends all nationality. Six hundred years ago, someone might have peered in a front window and thought we were a coven of witches. More likely that we’d have been a coven of wise women, sharing stories, with kindness, with warmth, with intention. Still, I’m mindful of how blessed we are, as women, to now be able to be strong and vulnerable at the same time, even when it calls upon us to open our hearts and risk hurt. Sometimes, though, there is only love, and not hurt. And that, well, that makes for a good day…

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IMG_2410.jpgpeace,

k.

 

Until last year, I didn’t even know what ‘ghosting’ was about. I teach Grade 11s and 12s, though, so I heard them talking about how they had “erased” people on Instagram and Snapchat. We’d been having a discussion about social media, bullying, etiquette, safety, and all of that. It’s something typical that we talk about in secondary schools these days. Teachers need to teach kids about how to be in the world, and now teachers need to guide students in how to act with thought and maturity on the Internet. It took me a group of seventeen-year-olds to help me realize that someone, a man I thought was a friend, had ghosted me.

That’s embarrassing, I know, but I’m really not that worldly. I’m too trusting. I’m gullible and too naïve. I see the best in people. Then, when they show me other sides of themselves that they may have initially hidden from me, I’m usually pretty shocked. I turtle. I never know how to deal with them after that happens. How can you tell what is true to the person, and what is false? If they’re a good actor, then maybe they’re used to dealing with people in this sort of thoughtless way. I don’t know. I’d hope that wasn’t the case with this person, because I thought I was a good judge of character, but it might be. These days, it seems, any kind of poor behaviour on the Internet is acceptable. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, disappointed, or hurt. But I am. I’m soft hearted.

Sometimes, in real life, when you see a person often in your town, a friendship will end quickly, or, alternatively, after a period of drifting apart. A person might say something that is triggering for you. That has happened only once, rather dramatically, in my life. I was triggered, and I’m not even sure how. Sometimes, you just drift when it comes to growing apart from friends. You grow in different directions. Sometimes, the drift is too great, the space between too hard to mend. The silences grow slowly, stretch out, become spaced out Morse code dots and dashes that draw themselves out into nothingness. Humans are complex. When friendships end without my knowing why, I usually blame myself.

If anything, in these cases, I blame myself, for a very long time. I’m of Irish Catholic stock, so that means, when a friendship ends without closure, whether with a woman or with a man, I blame myself. I try to figure it out. It isn’t good. I feel ‘less than’ and then need to try to build myself up again. That I let other people make me feel this way is a worry I think about every day, actually. I need to be stronger, I think. I tell myself that I need to be less trusting, less compassionate, less caring. That is what happens, for me, when these connections seem to end suddenly and without reason. It’s likely because I take friendship seriously, and because I don’t have much of a family anymore. My friends are my family, so losses feel – to me – very painful. They linger in my mind and heart for too long.

The person I was when I was very ill a decade ago, the one who only wanted to please people, only wanted to listen to gossip and then share in its toxic buffet because it felt like something that included rather than excluded me, well, that person disappeared when I began to get healthier. There were, too, friends who disappeared from my life when I was very ill, taking care of my parents. I don’t blame them, either. They didn’t know how to help. I didn’t know how to reach out. I felt I was a bother, and having major depressive disorder makes you feel like you’re only ever a nuisance to others, that you aren’t worthy enough to be friends with others, so you pull in harder and faster. You turtle.

I still deal with that when I’ve felt friendships weakening, or even when friendships are new, the feeling of being a ‘bother,’ never knowing if I’m wanted, and it’s something I struggle with still, how to know if it’s your fault, or if you just don’t value yourself enough yet because no one ever taught you how to do that as a child. I don’t know that it’ll ever go away. That’s like the evolutionary leftover of a prehensile tail, or the wisdom teeth that we don’t really need anymore. I think I just need to admit it as a part of my character now, a leftover that proves I survived the tsunami of depression and anxiety that was inside my head and heart. For me, it’s a painful badge of honour. It’s a reminder, too, to always be mindful of my own mind and moods. I’m my own best guardian. I have to be. The ghost of mental health always hovers, makes you hope depression doesn’t come back to your front door. It’s hard, exhausting work, this staying healthy thing. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. And maybe they need to, to keep up their own scaffold of being, to convince themselves that they’ll be okay. And that’s okay, too. Whatever it takes us to survive.

What arises instead, after picking up a life in ruins, is a woman who knows herself in her newest, perhaps her truest form. She has been broken, has nearly erased herself with suicidal ideation, and has – against all odds – rebuilt herself in a new fashion. What I’ve noticed is that some people who’ve known me for longer than five years just don’t understand who I’ve become. Most days, I don’t know who I’ve become, either. The last three years have been transformative for me, physically, spiritually, and intellectually. You just need to expect that you will lose people you care about along the journey. They may not resonate with the new you, or maybe you will no longer resonate with them. That is, perhaps, a good thing. It means you’re growing, that you aren’t stagnant in your own evolution of self.

What a social media ghosting by a man does is different, though. It perhaps speaks to the role of men and women in a patriarchal society. Perhaps. Or, perhaps it speaks to the way in which women view men, or men view women. Perhaps. Or, perhaps, it just speaks to the way in which our society is cannibalising itself slowly, from the inside out, so that kindness and compassion—even what you think is a half-decent friendship—is to be feared and then destroyed quietly. Maybe it’s just that being friends with a single man, when you’re a single woman, is coloured, sometimes, by attraction. I’m not sure…still thinking that one through.

I have a feeling that younger women are more accepting of this ghosting and blocking practice. I’m on Twitter, so I’ll often see millennial women speaking of it in passing, as if it is to be expected. I don’t expect it, especially when you are only just friends and not even dating. I can’t accept it, I guess. I don’t know how to deal with it when it happens. So, in this one case, I just kept on, rose above it, didn’t want to think it was actually happening to me when I really couldn’t figure out what “I’d done wrong to offend him.”

After a while, though, if you stay connected on social media feeds, you almost feel as if you’re a voyeur, not a friend. Then, you have no choice but to unfollow and unfriend on social media. It’s too weird to see what is going on in their life when they don’t stay in touch in tangible ways. The man has forced your hand, made you feel even more ‘less than’ you did before, if that’s at all possible. He’s made it clear he wants nothing to do with you. It doesn’t feel good to be ghosted, and it doesn’t feel good to disconnect from someone you thought was a friend because it will always feel as if you have done something wrong. That, I think, is what is so toxic about men ghosting women on social media. It’s dismissive and cruel. It’s an erasure, and, to someone who nearly erased herself by way of suicide ten years ago, that can be quite horrible.

The other thing that happens is that you wonder what was even true: was the man you first met, who you were first impressed by, and who you felt very much drawn to, the ‘real’ version, or was it a fake one? I can’t tell anymore. It worries me. If it was that first person—who was funny, kind, extremely smart and witty, who had a good family and cared for them deeply, who was handsome but not full of himself—well, if that was the real person, then what is this person you see (or rather, after the erasure of ghosting happens, don’t see) now? Which is true? Is there one ‘true’ person, or are humans always constantly putting on masks for different people? Then I wonder, was he manipulative or deceptive? Does he do this regularly with women? Can he cut people out so easily, even ‘just’ as friends? Was I reading things wrong? Am I stupid?

Mostly, to be honest, I think it’s me being stupid. And then, even now, a long time after I’ve been ghosted and ignored, I blame myself for being stupid, for trusting someone and sharing things with them, and then realizing that I’m not worldly enough for some men. I get angry at myself, angry for feeling stupid, and for feeling too much. It seems to me, these days, men and women only ever play games and create drama, and it makes me wonder, too, if it’s even possible to have decent friendships with men. I don’t know anymore. This has all thrown me for a loop, made me question all of my friendships, and made me think it’s me. (My dad always said I was ‘too smart.’ That still bothers me, the phrasing of it. He worried that my intelligence and creativity, my sharp wit and weird, blurt-it-out-without-thinking-honesty even, would prevent me from knowing people, from trusting them, from not being fearful, and I think he wished I was less naïve.) Still, it’s probably what makes me have a sense of wonder when I go hiking and canoeing, this naivete and gullibility. I know it works into my poems and prose writing, this sense of being amazed by things that most people don’t even notice.

Worst of all, though….I just can’t stand that I would miss a person who has treated me poorly, but I do. I miss the person I thought I knew…and I know, because of being ghosted, that it isn’t a mutual ‘missing.’ He can’t miss me if he’s erased me, is what logic tells me. If you erase someone so completely from your life, then you must not miss them at all. You must not have ever cared a single stitch about them. And then I feel stupid again, for having trusted him. So I’ll just feel a bit sad about that, and try to sort it out in therapy, or just over drinks with a couple of close, trusted friends.

For a moment, just the other day, I thought of a theatre stage. Sometimes, you’ll see a line of actors on a stage, acting out their lines, written by someone else. You’ll see a character step forward, out of a line, or maybe another will step back, into shadows. What ghosting by a man on social media makes you do is take steps backwards, away from the pain of being treated as if you never existed. You take a step back, you take another step back, you hope the person will turn and extend a hand of kindness, but they don’t. So you take another step back, then another, until you disappear into shadow. You won’t even be the last person picked for the dodgeball team. (You might get a ball in the head as you leave, for good measure.) You’ll be exorcised to the open gym door, and then escorted out of the school and into the parking lot. You’ll walk home alone. You’ll take another step back, knowing the other person wants this more than anything else, to just erase you from his memory. So you’ll honour their wishes, but you’ll need to find yourself again afterwards. Somehow.

What I’ve learned, sadly, is that I need to be more careful in making friends. I’m too open and friendly. I’m too warm and generous. It leaves me open to being hurt. Some will say this gives the man in question too much power. I can see how someone would say that. As a feminist, I just berate myself some more. What it does do, though, is make me question my own judgement, of myself and of others. My sense of discernment and intuition must be off. It makes me pull my small circle of close friends closer still. It doesn’t make me love my friends any less. It makes me look to my few current men friends, whether they are single or in couples, and feel glad that I have them in my life.

I’ll hope that this has just been an anomaly, this particular ghosting. I’ll hope I’ve learned something, but, for now, I just feel sad because I’ve lost a friend I cared about. Obviously, that part was an illusion, wasn’t shared, and now I know that I’m too easily toyed with or manipulated by words. Despite that, I’ll only ever wish him well on his path. I forgive him, but I’m having a harder time forgiving myself for being too trusting and kind. And maybe we were never friends to begin with, and maybe I was stupid and naïve enough to believe we were, and maybe I was only a ‘friend’ while I was useful, or a strange curiosity. It makes me doubt myself, question my own internal barometer. That upsets me. I’m trying to find my sea legs again…

In a world where people swipe left and right as mindlessly as if they’re picking ripe avocados at the grocery store, and in a world where true connection seems fleeting, I just hope I can somehow fit in, that I can trust again. Right now, it doesn’t much feel like it. Right now, it feels like I can’t trust people, especially men, and, even worse, that I can’t trust myself and my own intuition and judgement. Sometimes, it seems, you can feel you don’t belong in the time period into which you were born, and this, for me, is one of those times. I never imagined that, with the rise of technology, there would also come a rise of cold erasure.

While this person once said that I was ‘too intense’ on social media, I’ll continue to use my various platforms to speak of issues that are of importance to me—like literacy, conservation of wild spaces, speaking out against violence against women, as well as speaking up for mental health awareness (especially for the kids in the far northern communities), and against stigma. I’ll write about poetry, and I’ll write about grief, and I’ll write about kindness. And, no matter what, I’ll always use social media to connect communities of friends, artists and writers in northern areas where geography can so easily distance us from one another, and I’ll hope—at the end of the day—that I’ve been helpful in some way. And I’ll hope, in some way, that the world will be lighter for me having been here on the planet. I don’t want to be worried that someone thinks I’ve liked too many of his posts on Instagram, or that I’ve made a comment under a posting someone’s made on Facebook or Twitter. That way is madness…and life is too hard  when I already feel like such a weird anomaly.

I’ll never apologize for the woman I’ve become, because there was a time, not too long ago, when this woman wouldn’t have made it past 2014. I’ve learned, in coming through the darkness of my own family’s life, that you should never make yourself less of yourself, or make yourself a paler, more conservative version of yourself for a man. You must only ever be yourself. As Dr. Seuss says, so wisely, “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”

The man who ghosted me won’t read this, and that doesn’t even really matter anymore. What matters is that maybe some other man will read it, and then will think twice of ghosting a woman. Or, some woman will read it and, as a result, not ghost a man. No person should just ghost another person on social media. If they can do it so easily, it’s terribly worrisome. If that is what social media has done to the world, to humans, values, truth, and connections, then we’re in a leaky boat, indeed. We need to get back to a world where people communicate—with their words—in writing with a pen and paper, and through speaking, one to another, face to face. Otherwise, we will just hand off a world that is technologically advanced but heartless and lacking in compassion. That, I think, is one of my greatest fears.

Be kind to one another, friends. Be yourself, in person and online. Be the same person. It really isn’t that hard, even if it makes you vulnerable and open. Maybe, just maybe, some of this pain will be worth it in the end. Right now, though, I’m not so sure….

peace,

k.