Five Years a Writer

I know many people who live for curling season and I now understand why: It's a game of supreme skill. I was on the edge of my seat watching some of the matches, especially the medal games.  It doesn’t seem right, really, but I enjoyed it all while still in my pyjamas; tea, then coffee, in hand, while winter athletes gave it their all, in uniforms suited for every sport. I watched, mesmerized as much by their power and endurance as their strategy (curling!) and their skill (every sport). Winners decided by milliseconds or millimetres Those taking big air Those making rocks curl Those doing laps on blades Lungs heaving Bodies straining Hearts pounding Amazing — them Amazed — me I don’t understand much (any) of it, but I can appreciate what I am seeing Years of training Oceans of sacrifice Country-big yearnings It was all on the line at the 2026 Olympics, the Milano Cortina Games in Italy My seat was front-row via my screen, the CBC commentary outstanding, explaining just enough for ...

Good things can come from cross-border shopping, but sometimes the sticker shock outweighs delight in the purchase made Buying sixteen notecards for almost $130 (Canadian) was not on my bingo card for February 2026, but I landed on that square nonetheless. I am not cheap: I don’t mind paying good money for good things, and I have a weakness for beautiful notecards, especially if they feature water-colour-painted cats by an independent artist. So it was that I found myself, via social media, on a website of just such an independent artist, based in the US, who does watercolours of, amongst other things, cats. I was in an enthusiastic mood, so I explored the website, put a couple of 8-card collections into my basket, then asked about shipping to Canada. No problem, can do, came the reply. Throwing caution and fiscal prudence out the window, I ordered two sets of cards for a total of 16 individual cards — reproductions of original art. Lovely. Then the invoice came through. Gulp. The (hor...

One day towards the end of my father’s life, while he was still at home but no longer the man of whom my mother had thought on first meeting him, 'If he were to ask me to go to India with him tonight , I would go' — one day, six-decades-plus later, my friend J was helping my mother with some banking. J asked Mum something about how she was doing given Dad’s state of health — and Mum replied, 'Well, the man I would have gone to India with, without even knowing his name, that man is long gone.'   By this point, Mum had been caregiver to Dad following a stroke about ten years prior and, though she never said a word to me or my siblings, she was obviously tired on many levels — fulfilling her duty, fine, but possibly no longer experiencing flutters of unfettered joy in the relationship.   I never talked to my mother about the toll my father’s illness took on her (she was intensely private about such matters) and now that she is dead, I cannot ever have that conversation wit...

It was silent in the yoga studio that early Sunday morning, as about a dozen of us sat in meditation. After a certain amount of time, that silence cracked open when one of the women broke into song. While I don’t remember her name or what she was singing, I do remember the impact of her voice raised in song in that setting. It honoured the group and invited the collective to move from silence to active connection. It was quite something — in the moment and, as my memory attests, it remains so in my mind and my heart all these decades later. I can't really hold a tune, myself, but I love music and song, and I have been reminded of the power of both by watching what has been happening in Minneapolis. People are resisting in many ways, including by singing, which lifts my heart and moves me to tears. A community organizer in Minneapolis was being interviewed by CNN’s Anderson Cooper about Singing Resistance , a group that organizes groups to sing together on the street and in public p...

My 'to be read' pile -- honest to goodness old-fashioned books, plus my Kindle (limited connection to the internet) I start my day with words. Well. With word games . On my phone. Wordle then Spelling Bee then Connections then Strands . All via the New York Times , in which I might scan the headlines and might sometimes read the full stories. But the word games are a daily ritual  —  a brain warm-up for the day ahead. I move through each puzzle at my own pace, sometimes jumping between them if I get stuck, and often listening to early-morning radio in the background. Sometimes, the words coming at me over the airwaves capture my attention and then my imagination and then I am diverted down a thinking road sparked by more words, other words, words that paint a picture of... something out there in the larger world.  And then I might get bored with that spoken-word-painted story and I return to the word game on the small screen of my phone. Throughout the day, I read many...

I am feeling very January-ish these days. Maybe not surprising, since we are just past the mid-point of this inevitable opening month to the new year...  A lot has happened (and is happening) on the geopolitical stage and, try as I might to make it not so, what world leaders do filters down into my daily life.  I refuse to look away.  In fact, I am doubling down by embracing the new-to-me social media experience of THREADS (part of Meta’s online empire that includes Facebook and Instagram).  I entered the Threads world cautiously, not really wanting to be there but, once there, became swept up in the remarkable real-time documentation of the day’s news by ordinary people (always check their profile, always verify their identity).  Which is how I found myself, via my phone screen, on the streets of Minneapolis seeing up-to-the-minute recordings of ICE agents doing a horrifyingly realistic job of acting like thugs against ordinary Minnesotans doing such outrageous...