Five Years a Writer

The other day, a friend asked me "What has it been like not having the cottage in the background of your mind in this first winter without it?"  I sat with the question, pondering, reflecting, considering. I was glad to have been asked as it caused me to think deeply on this matter, and now I wonder how universal my response is to a wrenching decision that was, I know, also the right decision.  Here's what I wrote in response to my friend's question:  The cottage is in the back of my mind, always. I think of it with longing and love, and also with relief and regret. All the time, all those feelings. Two opposite things can be equally true. I love that place — Clifftop Cottage, on the cliff overlooking Lake Winnipeg. I regret that we no longer own the cottage, but the deeper river of regret that runs through the memories and the longing is that Val and I are no longer young, we are no longer those two young wilderness women able and wanting to take on everything it mea...

December 31, 2024: Slow down… Many, many years ago, a new friend asked me what I did, and I replied, I am a writer. She laughed, right to my face, and said, But you don’t write! After a second of stunned silence, I realized she was right. I did ‘do’ writing at my job but outside of work I didn’t do much of it. Today, that exchange remains vivid in my mind for both its sharpness of tone and clarity of vision — not mine, but my friend’s. Her blunt statement shattered my self-delusion and, while it set me back, it also gave me a defined moment in time against which to respond and from which to build a different narrative. It’s taken several decades, but I am solidly there now. I no longer doubt my identity as Writer. The other day, after creating a collage that captures my intentions (~ resolutions) for the new year (see above), I went back through all the many collages I have created over the past six or so years. Many of them include encouragement and admonitions to write. Then, in May ...

I used to make a big deal about my one cup of brewed coffee in the morning. Grind the beans. Heat the cup. Measure out the coffee. Prepare the one-cup drip machine. Set the timer so I wouldn’t miss the coffee at its just-brewed finest. Add cream. Enjoy the full rich deep flavour. Ahhhhhh — now, that’s a good start to the day. Then, after a routine physical checkup, I got my cholesterol numbers back and realized I had to cut back on full-fat eating pleasures, including the 10% cream in my daily coffee. Every little bit helps. Val had already cut back on the full-force caffeine of home-ground beans, exchanging them for a half-and-half mix of instant coffee and a coffee substitute. So I, too, gave up the ground-bean bespoke daily drink with cream for an instant version with a French vanilla flavoured oat-milk creamer. Not so bad. More a coffee beverage than a cup of purist coffee, but satisfactory nonetheless — a whole lot less faff and zero fat. In the days before Covid, my mother would...

Eight p.m. and the room was ready — as if set for a scene from a Hallmark movie. Every surface was decorated with little touches that reflected the season and its sense of magical wonder. The subtext — well, hardly “sub”text — was peace, love, and joy. Every year, she worked quietly, alone, gladly, with great confidence. This would be the year the evening matched the scene. On the mantle were arranged an even dozen beeswax candles, tapers, in her grandmother’s crystal holders. Their flickering light reflected in the shiny glass to amplify their warm glow. In the spot where once a fire would have been set sat a beautiful wicker basket filled with fresh-cut cedar boughs adorned with small ornaments — silver and gold, and just one red one to stand out for special note. On either side, on handsome brick stands, stood a large flourishing poinsettia — a mix of red and white leaves, some special hybrid variety her local garden centre had recommended as offering exceptional impact. But the fir...

Amanda, about 10 years of age, in her 'princess' skirt When I was a little girl, my imagination was vivid and I spent many a happy hour not just playing at but — in my mind — being a princess; being a successful business woman running an office; and being Audra, the lone daughter on the Barkley Ranch from  The Big Valley TV series . I sometimes played with friends, but I was comfortable playing on my own, too, comfortable playing with imaginary characters, talking to myself, and working out plots and escapades that suited my mood and, let’s be honest, my desire to control the scenario! My imagination ran free and I had loads of fun. Now, as a more tempered and considered adult, I still employ my imagination — not to be someone different, but, actually, to be fully myself. I think, at least in part, I see myself as Writer today because I nurtured the seed my imagination planted in my head and in my heart: You could be a Writer, Amanda. Be a Writer, Amanda! Sure, I have moment...

Amanda age about 8 or so: Tutus and foot positions no longer figure in my creative endeavours... Taylor Swift has left the building — and this country. She completed her ERAS tour with three shows in Vancouver, the last one on Sunday evening. I have followed, with some bewilderment, the news pieces on this pop-world phenomenon who draws crowds by the tens of thousands and whose show requires about 90 trucks to transport the staging, (sequinned) costumes and other equipment from venue to venue. Taylor is adored, inspiring fans of all ages, and I am genuinely happy for those who have been able to see their musician hero in concert. It is, indeed, a thrill to hear favourite songs performed live by a beloved artist, surrounded by others who feel as you do. That collective experience of a creative force is powerful and inspiring. I know that feeling. The impact of being in the audience that is feeding the artist’s energy and performance and witnessing the artist giving their all for that a...

The gift from my godmother was an anthology of children’s stories — a replica of one already on the family bookshelf, but I was happy to receive my very own copy for my own shelf. Which is exactly what my seven-year-old self said in the thank you note that I was laboriously composing at the kitchen table while my mother did the dishes. When Mum read my words, she suggested that I maybe didn’t need to include the bit about the family already having a copy, but I insisted. I likely thumped my fist on the table and maybe I stormed off in a huff at having my message edited; I can well imagine I might have. In the end, I believe the note was sent as I had written it; maybe not, I don’t remember. But what I do remember is the feeling of fraughtness associated with a gift given and the obligation to acknowledge it in a socially and personally acceptable way. In short, what I remember to this day  — and know from ongoing experience  —  is that gift giving and gift receiving is ha...