Five Years a Writer

our fridge, pulled out from its cubby hole, ready for the repair guy The other day the fridge sprang a leak; that’s bad luck for us. It’s still working; that’s good luck — and help is coming. We are several months within the 5-year limit on our extended warranty for the fridge; more good luck — that the leak happened now and not later in November when all costs would be ours. That’s great luck, isn’t it. I’ve been thinking about luck ever since I got drawn into a podcast ( SEA OF LIES ) about a masterful scoundrel who swindled people out of money in both Canada and England. The story includes a body brought up from the sea in a fishing net, a daughter who posed as a wife, and a bunch of police officers diligent and persistent in their pursuit of clues and connections. The story hinges, in several moments, on pure luck. I won’t give anything away, but will say that the meticulous police work would have led nowhere (or might have led elsewhere) without a fair amount of luck: The wrong do...

I hit the road last week; I didn't make it far out of town, but the drive landed me in a whole different dimension  — the Winnipeg Folk Festival . This year marks the fiftieth (50th!!) anniversary of Manitoba ’ s beloved "people and music" festival to which people come from near and far. I was keen to attend because Allison Russell was playing on the main stage on opening night and I had never seen her perform live before. She did not disappoint.  For many of us able to get out of town during the summer months, the call of a road trip  can be a powerful thing  — regardless of the destination .  I’m no Jack Kerouac and I’ve never been close to Route 66 , but I do love the open road. Not so much the getting ready for it, but the being on it. The turning of the wheels and the being on the way to somewhere. That, for me, is the allure of the road.  I’ve never traveled on the road in a VW camper , though that is a fantasy that would exist on my bucket lis...

The other day while driving around doing errands, I found myself yelling at the radio. The next guest was going to regale us lucky listeners with stories of his year-long travel to 52 countries around the world “and what he learned by stepping out of his comfort zone.” While I did listen to the segment (and enjoyed it) I first yelled at the radio: Stop telling me to get out of my comfort zone! I am quite happy in mine! There’s nothing wrong with my comfort zone! I’ve worked hard to reach this place! Since that moment of radio rage, I have wondered about my response to the suggestion that getting out of one’s comfort zone is a good thing. Was I protesting too much? Being defensive without sound reason? Hurling metaphorical sour grapes at the radio, the show’s host and the show’s guest? In the cold light of this morning, I don’t think so. One dictionary describes ‘comfort zone’ as “a place or situation where one feels safe or at ease and without stress”. Another says it is “a situation ...

Water feature with tomatoes in background My world is more “good enough” than it is airbrushed Instagram. While I love scrolling through endless photos and reels of perfect gardens , beautifully presented food , and well behaved canoe-riding cats , I live in unremarkable ordinariness, with just-in-time cooked meals and a cat who thinks nothing of waking me during the night for food that she then rejects in silent indignation. C'est la vie in my world.  I learned about ‘good enough’ from my father, whose middle name could have been ‘bodge up’. I can still hear him suggesting to my mother that whatever home repair he had just completed was surely good enough, followed by my mother’s long suffering sigh of acceptance — either of Dad’s quality of work or her need to do it better, do it right, herself.  Good enough is an art unto itself, interpreted by each practitioner in their own way. In my world, good enough is neither bodge up nor perfection; it is a finished and functional...

I had planned to write about my mother's death, but I ended up writing about my life. This is the mystery of the writing process. Or, maybe, it's no mystery at all. My mother dying brought me sharply into my own living -- living without her in this world.  The piece titled  "Where is the end?"  (below) is what I wrote for, and then performed at, the FROM PAGE TO STAGE event on May 8th, which I described in last week's post .  Should you wish to listen to the piece rather than read it,  I have recorded it  here . * Where is the end?   I was born into freedom —   an advantage I did not understand   until I met others who were born into not-freedom. For me, this freedom was   boundless nurture,   endless opportunity and   ever present love   My freedom came in the form of two parents, a mother and a father, who wanted me and loved me as a child should be: unconditionally   The sky the limit The ground secure The home saf...