A Room Of My Own

How we picture winter snow can be summed up in one word, quiet. The spring rain has ceased its patter, the summer birds are on holiday down south, and those rustling fall leaves are buried – all is reticent. When that blanket of snow covers the ground, the earth is tucked in for a long winters nap. Most of us live and work in busy cities or suburbs, our schedules rush us from one planned activity to another, and much of our day is spent plugged into some type of electronic or motorized device. Our working world is in a constant state of humming, the computer hums, and the phone rings and the television is on. For real peace of mind, you need to venture out and escape that noise. Snowfall is noiseless; the trees in their grandeur, heavily laden with snow stand still, regal and muted, even the cold crisp air is hushed. The sun bounces off of the stark white snow ready to lift your spirits. There is nothing controlling or interrupting your thoughts. Allow your mind to whisper to you....

'Claire Notes' Photo courtesy Claire McNeilly copyright 2009 From the outside in, the stage was set for the annual school Christmas Concert. The auditorium was a stir of proud parents, grandparents and friends dressed for the season, excited as they came in from the first very timely snowfall of the winter. As the snow continued to fall lightly outside, the stage inside was aglow with the classic Christmas setting and the busy swirl of activity that accompanies those last few moments before curtain call. And then the concert began. The night was a mix of Concert bands, Jazz bands, Dixie bands and multiple choirs celebrating with us their talents As I sat and watched my daughter standing in the front row of the choir on stage, I was at such peace. With a big, confident smile, I tapped my foot to the beat, I moved my hands with the conductor, and my body swayed naturally as it remembered holding my daughter when she was still a small child. My breathing and my heart r...

(This is being recalled from a very young mind...) When my father would begin telling a story from his childhood, he would begin with “When I was a little girl…” which would cause an uproar of high pitched objections from my sisters and myself. He would simply smile and continue on, as he now had our complete attention. I started this post at the beginning of November of this year when thoughts of my father return annually on the anniversary of his birthday. This story, however, is not about my father… When I was a little girl, I lived in a small house on Pine Street with my father, mother and three sisters. Ours was a busy, full house. Lisa was the oldest, very beautiful and very bossy. Pam was next, also very beautiful and we envied her fashion sense. I was the third in the line of my sisters, a middle child that cried a lot, made funny faces and was very comfortable at the centre of attention. My little sister, Joanne, enjoyed the status of being the baby in the family. She wa...

I started my run at lunch today a little slower than usual; it is getting colder out there. I told myself I needed a strategy to get moving. I searched through my IPOD for the selection of songs that have proven to make me run faster. Mentally, I knew I needed more. What to do? At the beginning of my run, I saw someone I have known since I was seventeen. I stopped to have a quick chat. It was really fun talking to her and she lifted my spirits; I ran a little faster after that. Ah ha! An idea…Normally when I run I acknowledge most everyone I pass. Today I was going to do more than that. I decided I would surprise people. I would go that little extra. “Beautiful day for a walk” I said to a small group of ladies. “Yes, it is” and they smiled. “Good to see you out on the trail.” I commented to the mayor and his friend. “Keep running.” He encouraged with a smile. “You win!” to those runners heading in the opposite direction – they laughed. I passed a group sitting at a picnic tab...

I am beginning to abhor his e-mail, and now the phone when the call is made in transit from one place to another – neither leading to me. His voice is often laboured from the walking and his attention is anything but undivided. This cheats me. Once during an awkward call our voices, our breath, just lingered on the phone. He had called me at work which he knew limited me in my reactions, prevented me from being open and honest, prevented me from telling him to go fuck himself. He could feel my impatience; he began speaking rapidly to fill the void, to fill the silence, to suppress the frustration in me. He described where he was – I did not care – it was not here. “I’m staring at a parking lot full of water” he said, which suggested to me that he must go now as he had arrived at his destination. I said nothing. After a brief pause, he attempted to fill the void again, he wanted to talk about anything, nothing - he just wanted to avoid the reality of this situation. “There is a puzzle p...

This post digresses back to the Writersfest which I attended in Kingston, Ontario in September of this year. Kim Echlin was an author there that caught my attention. It was during an On Stage event called ‘Women Without Borders’ where I heard Kim read from The Disappeared which was, at that time, long listed for the Giller. It was announced on October 6 of this year that Kim Echlin’s book made the shortlist for the 2009 Giller Prize . The Disappeared is the current book that graces the top of the pile beside my bed each night. It is a love story between a young Canadian girl, Anne, and her slightly older Cambodian lover, Serey set during the Cambodian genocide under The Pol Pot Regime. They met in a café in Old Montreal, had an immediate and intense love affair and moved in together. However, as soon as the Cambodian borders opened, Serey was compelled to seek out his family there. He returns to Cambodia promising to be in touch as soon as possible. Many years go by and many letters ...

"So we built a house, my wife and I our house at a backwater puddle of a lake near Ameliasburg, Ont." Al Purdy In Search of Owen Roblin Al Purdy is arguably one of the most important Canadian poets of our time. Al was born in Wooler, Ontario in 1918, raised in Trenton, and educated at Albert College in Belleville. At a young age, he headed west for B.C. and this was to be just the beginning of a lifetime of much travelling throughout Canada which is reflected in his writing. Many of his poems read like entries in a diary and the history that is told within is immeasurable. Al and wife Eurithe built the Purdy A-Frame house in Ameliasburgh, Ontario which would serve as a meeting place for hundreds of writers over many years. The whole edifice, Al observed, ‘ bent a little in the wind and dreamt of the trees it came from .’ The list of people who travelled to the A-frame includes Margaret Atwood, Earle Birney, George Bowering, Lynn Crosbie, Dennis Lee, Steven Heighton, Patrick L...