Five Years a Writer

I watch the nightly news  in the vain hope  it won’t be all bad.  It is.  Bombs there. Murder here. Pain and suffering everywhere.  And, also, talk of freedom.  But I don’t want that freedom of more guns and  tighter borders and  lower taxes and  values so shallow they obliterate me.  I want the real thing.  Complex.  Challenging.  Alive with the tension of  difference and  nuance and  change, and seeded with love and respect and  community. I do not always understand this freedom  but I know with certainty it will hold me,  will take me into a future not yet spoken  but one that would speak for all.  A future built on the freedom  to be who we are,  to love whom we love,  to live in simple dignity.  Not one up or  one over the other, but  side by side. This freedom is  clean air to breathe,  pure water to drink,  real food to eat.  This freedom is  open borders,   open hearts,  open minds.  Vain hope?  I hope not.   I hope... ...........................................................

German pottery:  blue-grey, salt-glazed, heavy, and lovely; formerly Mum ’ s, now Jane ’ s   By the end, all that was left was one inherently unattractive flowerpot. I didn’t want it, and clearly nobody else did either. But that one pot represented an almost complete victory for me this past weekend — our city’s semi-annual curb-side give-away weekend. What had started out as a motley collection of miscellaneous household and gardening items with a few kitchen utensils thrown into the pile had been reduced to that one pot. I will next place in the back lane — our year-round ‘please take it off our hands’ give-away spot  —  hoping to never see it again. I’ve come a long way since my early childhood when my mother’s penchant for finding treasures at the curb filled me with shame. One time, Mum had been driving me somewhere in the little German village where we were living (my father’s work had taken us there) and 9-year-old me expected to get to that destination without incident, but Mum

Amanda wearing various hats: a toque in winter; my city hat for a January 2017 protest march; my pink pussyhat for a climate day action; and my cottage Tilley hat for outdoor chores. Cottage living is not country living but on our way to the cottage we pass through the country and, over the years, I have definitely adopted some country ways. I wave at every car I pass on the gravel road heading towards the cottage. I call HELLO loudly as I walk down a cottage driveway to alert the owners to my presence. I made friends with the most forthcoming of the various men who have managed the ‘transfer station’, aka, the dump, in our cottage development. And I have learned to wear a hat. It’s a particular hat, bought especially as my cottage hat. It’s a Tilley hat , broad brimmed, white canvas, indestructible. It doesn’t do much for my looks, but it does wonders for my sense of self as a cottage person. No matter what the outdoor chore or activity is, I reach first for my hat. Once donned, I am

When I was in my mid-20s, I moved from Alberta to Nova Scotia. A job was waiting for my partner, but I was heading into a void. I knew no one where we were going; it was old fashioned methods of connection that saved me from isolation and loneliness. I found that connection first through CBC Radio. I knew that the Peter Gzowski morning show that I was listening to in Bedford would soon be on in my mother’s kitchen in Edmonton, and later in our afternoons we would both have the pleasure and enjoyment of Vicky Gabereau’s wit and charm on air. Though I was thousands of miles away, I felt connected to my mother through the radio. The other connection came via a letter that a friend in Edmonton had sent to an acquaintance of hers in Bedford. We all three were involved in the abortion rights movement and that letter from Sheila in Edmonton to Kathy in Bedford opened the door for me to a vibrant community of feminist women in Halifax and Nova Scotia among whom I made many good friendships, so

Amanda and Val: many years ago and today.  Man, look how young we were. Sheesh. Thirty-one years and counting certainly shows. But who in their right mind would care about wrinkles or grey hair when it is a good and generous love that has propelled us through the years together.  Every good story is told through both summary and scenes. Val & Amanda’s story: The summary A generous love that has withstood the challenges of two bouts of cancer and multiple joint replacements, of job changes and career disappointments, of cats found and cats lost, of parents living and parents dying. Two women, together, building a good life. Amanda: Three scenes April 1997: Val and I are driving from Winnipeg  down through the Dakotas and Wyoming and Utah to Arizona, camping in a tent along the way and marvelling at what we can do together, still, after Val’s cancer diagnosis earlier that year. At a roadside cafe somewhere in Utah, a woman asks me if we are sisters. Without skipping a beat, I reply t

Posy bright and sweet Quiet presence hidden scent Pleasing memory The other day, a friend brought me a posy of sweet peas from her sister’s garden. The scent emanating from those small, beautiful flowers almost knocked me over: sweet, rich, unmistakable. I placed the posy in a small vase and put it on the kitchen windowsill. That evening, while I was making supper, that scent wafted its way to me and, for a moment, I felt pure pleasure at the beauty and the bounty of nature represented by that small posy. Pleasure. Smaller than happiness, bigger than fine, just right for this moment that came to me on the air.  The root of the word goes back to Middle English (plesir) and Old French (plaisir) meaning ‘please’ — as in, to please someone. Usually someone else, but sometimes ourself (in any way, in every way). The feeling of pleasure is maybe fleeting but the memory of that pleasure can linger long past the moment itself. May your days be marked by sweet, rich, unmistakable pleasure and