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Category: memoir
Heart Throb
We are all children of the drum. Life begins and ends to that primal one-two heartbeat, and drums have always been the most powerful of the instruments. We don’t always know that, though, don’t always consciously recognise it, any more, i suppose, than we recognise our own heart beating most of the time. It comes…
Death Tango for Three: the Podcast
Last winter, Argentinian born poet and art historian Luciana Erregue-Sacchi invited two writers – myself and the fabulous Nermeen Youssef – to join her on a quest, to encounter, perform and respond to Paul Célan’s masterpiece, the Todesfuge/Death Tango. Over the course of an incredible night, we shared our hearts and minds, resonating like bells…
Ode to Allan R
Another perfect day. A great day for madcap rehearsals for the massive community theatre show. But was it the power or the water utility responsible? I don’t remember, and the people i’d ask are either dead or otherwise out of touch. Anyway, the town had no water. No water is no big deal as far…
Coming to Canada: A Gardener’s Meditation, Part 1
A garden is a long work. Yes, you can turn soil, plant seeds, harvest in that same fall. In that sense, to grow a garden is a simple task, unskilled labour; weed a little, watch the water, wait on the season, and done. Gardening, though, is more than this. It is the communion of human…
Being Here, Now, Part Two
So, I was saying I met Ram Dass? That is to say, in the library of the good people who invited me to live in their house (and made it seem I was doing them a favour by house-sitting), among the books was this dark purple one, called ‘Be Here Now.’ I’d never seen anything…
Being Here Now, Part One
Long ago, in Mexico, I lived by myself for the first time in my life. All alone, in a traditional Mexican house, which closes firmly to the street, but opens into a courtyard, which ends at a rough stone wall, shared by several neighbourhood houses. I’d lived in that town for about half a year,…
Worm Medicine
earthworm, indivisible one, you feed on smaller things what is dead, and what is rotting food of worms, no glory until above you, sky riots with beauty that feeds on your tiny work was it you? st. francis held in his hand, praying make me a channel of Your peace here, this reeking moment, break…
Shimmer
Who remembers, jingles with the buzz; if you hear 1981, do you see those small tables? jostled round by young sophisticates, and here, one northern bush kid, easy tan of metis (years before capital M and definitions that don’t matter in the shimmer of the music). This girl is 16, down in The City to visit her sister…
Spirit Mothering
I was 23 when I met my spirit mother. I’d buried my father and my older brother, gone to university, gotten put on probation, answered an ad that seemed the answer to my prayer for something meaningful to do with that year, some path that mattered. The path led to Mexico, to a teaching…
This Cracked Violin
Consider a heart as this cracked violin this instrument of various parts does it matter where it’s from? Not descended from noble European houses, it has not played in Marseilles no craftsman in Italian baroque leaned close and breathed genius into the grain. My fiddle is a metis fiddle but not Metis, not from Red River and…
On This Holy Night
When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy. – Matthew 2:10 Tonight, I am home in the quiet, Mom. This house is old-fashioned, with the kitchen at its heart, like a farm house. My living room walls are gold, like yours were. I keep a garden, Mom, and I bake bread. I…
