A Room Of My Own

When a fallen soldier returns home... After spending more than a decade living away from Ontario, living in BC, I decided to move my family back home - home for me anyways. We settled in the Quinte area and I slowly re-familiarized myself with the culture here. Soon after the move we planned a trip to Toronto. We headed West on the 401, and just after passing Trenton, we came to a bridge draped in a Canadian flag. It was not Canada day. The bridge was full of people wearing red. There was a fire truck there with lights swirling, cars were honking, people were waving and I was confused and proud at the same time. The next bridge and every bridge thereafter was the same; police cars, emergency vehicles, more fire trucks at every bridge and overpass. More honking- more people- more pride. It was quite moving. It was only afterwards that I learned I had been following a repatriation motorcade. The year was 2002. Repatriation ceremonies are a part of the culture here that is not witnes

This summer, as the well known local poet Al Purdy would encourage, head to the country north of Belleville. In particular, head to the village of Stirling. As you travel through the main street, enjoy the local creamery, the quaint shops and the family run restaurants. This village has the familiar and comfortable feel of a small, busy well preserved town. At the heart of this lovely little village is a gem, a local source of pride, a must to visit, the Stirling Festival Theatre. As you approach you will notice the old façade of the theatre which is a reminder of times past. This historic edifice built in 1927 hums with history, a rich history, a varied history. The list of prior tenants includes a movie theatre, a police station, the public works office and even a jail! Nowadays it houses comparable characters – actors (the dressing rooms are the old jail cells), directors, volunteers and the like; a charming transition. The stone entrance has the traditional theatre face, the Fren

Dear Emily, A mishmash of The Smiths and Eminem; I find you sexy, cheeky, a quirky little thing. Of the writers in attendance, you appear to be the youngest (I think), sitting at an honourable table amidst Lorna Crozier, Gil Anderson, Kim Echlin, Jeanette Lynes…to name a few – there you sit sporting a freakin' crazy ass tattoo on your right arm – your favourite lines of a Patrick Lane poem – ensconced in your sacred skin – swaddled about your forearm…my mind swirls about thinking of Lorna there - the star - there - Patrick, not there, but present...thanks to you. You emerge from the crowd of well endorsed writers to read about 'things to do in heaven if you're bored' because Heaven Is Small  – over and over we are pounded with the abused Harlequin known word “whilst”…and whilst, and whilst again… Lorna pictured enjoying Emily, as much as the rest of us did... http://www.theglobeandmail.com/books/article986294.ece As observed by myself, Well done, Janet Jarrell

Silence A directed stillness Simple experience Read in intervals of silent reflection Intensely there Silence With equal intensity not there Reflections from Meditations on Silence by Sister Wendy Beckett

Without Further Ado I present H.D. Amaranth       I Am I blind alas, am I blind I too have followed her path, I too have bent at her feet, I too have wakened to pluck amaranth in the straight shaft, amaranth purple in the cup, scorched at the edge to white. Am I blind? am I the less ready for her sacrifice? am I less eager to give what she asks, she the shameless and radiant? Am I quite lost, I towering above you and her glance, walking with swifter pace, with clearer sight, with intensity beside which you two are as spent ash? Nay I give back to my goddess the gift she tendered me in a moment of great bounty. I return it. I lay it again on the white slab of her house, the beauty she cast out one moment, careless. Nor do I cry out: "why did I stoop? why did I turn aside one moment from the rocks marking the sea path? Andromeda, shameless and radiant, have pity, turn, answer us." Ah no - though I stumble toward her altar-step,