Looking back over this less-than-glorious year, with its various stages of lockdown, I feel lucky that I found myself engaged in a project where I'd not only learn so much, but where I'd have such a great time.
And now, on to the launch event, happening later this very day.
My uncle often used to lead a prayer when we sat down to eat. And I loved that he generally began, "We thank thee, blessed Father/Mother..." an opening that acknowledged a being beyond the boundaries of a single given gender.
On this day when we recognize one of the most intense complexities of mathematics, pi, it seems like a good time to grant a broader expansiveness to that most complex of all human constructs, the idea of God.
And, if we're the sort who sometimes offers thanks to such an entity, we need to be grateful for Their (rather than Her or His) generous ways.
Her accomplishments as an aviator would be enough to make her a worthy mentor, but I admire her as well for her courage, especially in the many ways she stood up for and spoke out for the rights of women.
Even though she was speaking about opportunities (or rather, the lack thereof) for women in the field of aviation, this statement of hers from 1934, sadly remains somewhat relevant today: "If and when you knock at the door, it might be well to bring an ax along; you may have to chop your way through." [from Susan Butler's excellent book, East to the Dawn]
The photo above is one of the monuments to her in Atchison, Kansas, the town where she was born. They like to celebrate their most famous citizen by having a festival in her honour every summer (every summer except 2020, of course; fingers crossed for this July).
This weekend's edition of the Globe and Mail offered an interesting idea for a way to celebrate Women's Day. The article made the suggestion to read a book by a woman author. While that doesn't sound too radical a thought, the article reminded me that men don't always read books by women writers.
This is something I've wondered about before, as women and girls certainly aren't afraid to read the works of men. Is this just another of those double-standards we continue to live with?
Tomorrow -- and by that, I don't mean only tomorrow, March 8th -- but all the tomorrows on into the years when things can only continue (we hope) to improve for women around the world. Onward!
In addition to being known for his writing, he and a partner started the famous City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, a shop I can vouch for as being an almost magical place. Apparently, a memorial for him was held in the laneway adjacent to the shop, a short street known as Jack Kerouac Alley.
Sadly, Ferlinghetti is not the only poet who's died during this long and lonesome winter.
The wonderful Ontario poet, Michael Dennis left us on the last day of 2020. Poking around on his blog, "Today's Book of Poetry" where he was constantly reviewing books, is sure to lead you to discovering someone new.
Earlier in the year, Vancouver lost d.n.simmers. If you click on the link for him, you'll see, in amongst photos of him, a shot that was taken at City Lights Bookstore -- the one with the 'Door' sign.
Lost to us, though at least we have their books. So yes, I suppose the beat does indeed go on.
This year, like just about everything else in our lives, that observance is different.
Yes, I'm in an event where I get to mention Freedom to Read Week, but the only challenged piece I'll be presenting is one of my own poems. It's one that a local environmental group posted on its website a few years ago, when a whole lot of poets banded together in efforts to save a forest from becoming yet another faceless development. Fortunately, this effort, the Han Shan Project succeeded, and that chunk of forest is now protected and available as a public park.
My poem, which was based on the Beatitudes found in the Bible, stirred the wrath of certain folks. They not only complained that my poem was blasphemous, they threatened the environmental group, demanding that they remove my poem (and even, for a while, wanted the environmental group's entire website taken down). I was fortunate in that the group who'd posted it held its ground and honoured my poem, and also that the complainers gradually went away.
This year, when it comes to censorship, freedom of expression, and access to information, my biggest concern is the repercussive wave that's swept the internet over Australia's decision to protect journalism in that country. The big guys, who seem to think they rule the world, don't want to have to pay for content.
It's going to take a while to sort out this mess, but it's a situation that deserves the attention of all of us who value responsible journalism and news that's true.
Oh, and if you're curious about the photo with its message to Read, it's a piece of origami book art I came across at my local indie bookstore -- a business I'm doing my best to support by shopping there. I hope you can find ways to shop local too.
The ones in the photo at the top are non-fiction, poetry, and even a magazine. Looking at them, I see an odd kind of interplay among their titles. Unintentional, I promise, but kind of a fun treat providing a bit of comic relief, as the two hardcover books are about disasters that occurred in Newfoundland.
The books in the photo below are novels I've read recently, and both come, as Vancouver reviewer Tom Sandborn might say, "highly recommended."
Speechless concerns the plight of a young woman accused of adultery. Punishment for 'her crime' (actually a rape) is to be a public stoning. There's a review of it (one I wrote) in the most recent edition
The latest novel from Helen Humphreys, Rabbit Foot Bill, came out last fall (and I bought it right away), but I saved it, as I admit to being a fan of hers. I knew I'd want to savour it, like a treat you save for some special occasion. Wherever she sets her books (this one, in Saskatchewan), her writing transports me there. And even though I didn't write a review of it, I'll admit there are quite a few orange stickies marking passages I want to go back to.
I hope you'll remember that today isn't the only day to Read Canadian. It's a pleasure -- at least for me -- any day of the year.
While that greeting may no longer be quite the right thing to say, the ideas behind the greetings at Lunar New Year remain. Those sentiments range through all sorts of good wishes -- for good health, prosperity, success in ventures undertaken (especially studies), and peace.
The lucky red packets traditionally hold money. The ones in the photo above contain chocolate in the shape of coins. As far as I'm concerned, not a terrible substitute.
Here in the Lower Mainland area of British Columbia, this day is generally observed with parades and fireworks and plenty of public celebrating. Naturally, with the pandemic in full bloom, those events have been cancelled, replaced with several virtual observances. Not the same, but at least safe.
The plan here is to have an array of dim sum treats for supper. Most of those are purchased, pre-made frozen treats that don't require much more than a ride in the steamer. But because this year is unique, we've taken extra steps and are preparing (actually, we started yesterday) special beef tendon and even chicken feet.
The Year of the Ox (the Metal Ox, no less) sounds, at least to my Western ears, much easier to welcome than last year's Year of the Rat (which, not too surprisingly, links in my mind to 'plague').
Do you know which animal rules the year you were born? Finding out might (or might not) help you learn just how lucky you will be this year.
It's been announced that the TransMountain Pipeline extension will require the removal of 1308 trees from several spots in the city of Burnaby.
Although I tried finding a local address that matched that number, 1310 was the closest I could find. Considering that the 1308 applies only to the biggest trees in this cull, the slightly higher number seems close enough.
The citizens of Burnaby elected people they believed would protect the environment to serve on their City Council. Those councillors in turn enacted bylaws that were meant to protect their city's trees.
So I'm a bit dumbfounded at the fact that the courts -- established, I'd always thought, to protect laws (and even bylaws) decreed that Burnaby's bylaws could be so blatantly put aside.
If you, like me, find this outcome to be more than 'not quite right' please write to Justin Trudeau -- quick, while the trees are still standing. There's a form on the 1308 Trees website which makes it very easy to do exactly that.
I couldn't resist taking a couple of photos, and must admit, I couldn't resist the temptation to steal one.
When I got home, I put it into a little vase and set it on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. I figured, with my pair of my brass swans standing guard, it could serve as a little reminder of hope.
But the little rose wasn't quite enough to bring the miracle I'd been hoping for.
My sister-in-law, a New Yorker for many years, was hospitalized with the virus on January 8th. Shortly thereafter she was put on a respirator and moved to the ICU where she was monitored.
She had no underlying conditions. Was never a smoker.
But yesterday we received word that her heart finally gave out.
If only the people who claim this disease is a hoax could be part of our story, they might be able to let the truth sink in.
This killer virus is real -- sadly, all too real for us.
There's something about the way the thick pieces click into place that is much more satisfying than the non-sound that comes from putting cardboard pieces together.
I suppose if I get desperate, I can open one of my precious Beatles' puzzles -- ones I've kept sealed in case they ever get valuable... this one, which is not only of my favourite of their films, but might well be what I'm asking for: Help!
Wednesday gave us an inauguration ceremony that was dignified and of and for the people. Respect. Diversity. Calm. Such guiding words.
Dana Bash, one of CNN's commentators said yesterday that it was clear that now there were suddenly "adults in the White House" for a change.
Even the tulips in the window box seem to be bathed in a rosy glow.
Truly, a time for going forward. Onward.
The Twitter Bird that holds court on all things Twitter, the platform that no longer allows Tweets from Donald Trump. That account's been closed, we hear permanently.
Strangely, the little bird in the photo, which to me at least looks a lot like his cousin on Twitter, no longer has a voice. The gizmo inside him that used to make a 'tweeting' sound when you moved him has worn itself out. Something like the way that president's voice has worn itself out.
Oh well, at least he got his wall. He must be disappointed that it's currently around the government buildings in Washington, D.C. and not quite the kind of wall he'd promised.
Three more days.
The virus continues to rage, and so do the terrible-sounding plans for rebellious events in the US. Frightening, and hard to say which seems worse.
Tonight's new moon is the first of this still mostly-new year, though its skinny fingernail of light will likely not be visible here. We're still experiencing more rain than usual, which makes for obscured skies. Still, that moon symbolizes another new beginning.
And obscured, hard-to-know-what-comes-next days are how things feel, especially in light of the many changes occurring on the political scene.
Really, all I figure I can really ask from our elected officials is honesty.
So, in that light, pale though the light of a new moon might be, I say to our premier, Mr. Horgan, please face up to the massive mistake that is Site C. Stop it now, so we can move towards actions to remediate the disaster the site has become -- quick, before it gets any worse.
The day started with a big breakfast, one that's lasted us long enough that we can wait 'til supper for a Christmas dinner.
Presents aren't a part of this celebration. In fact, tomorrow we'll be packing away any gifts still sitting under the tree (not an evergreen, a decorated hibiscus). That's when we'll also be taking down the lights and other decorations.
The amaryllis, now on its second branch of blossoms, can stay for a while. Its beauty helps dispel the mostly rainy days we've had of late and seems to offer the promise of spring.
The blank page of a new calendar always feels like it means the chance for a fresh start on things.
One of the matters we always settle up for the beginning of the year is our bills.
I've long called our method a marriage-saver, as it's meant we've never needed to argue about money.
When I buy something, I tear a small rip in the top of my receipt and put it into what we call 'the jar' (even though it's actually a drawer, and not a jar at all). When the guy buys, he puts his receipt into the same place, but because it's un-torn, we know he paid.
At the end of the year, we separate the chits and make our totals. We figure out the difference, divide it in half, and that's how much the person who spent less pays to the one who paid more.
Once we've got that figured out, we burn all those supermarket and produce store and home repair shop and pizza place receipts.
Because it's been raining so much, we had to wait for our annual bonfire. But yes, here it is -- a fresh start on 'the jar' and on a new year.
Here's hoping we're not the only ones heading into fresh territory, especially after the horrific events in the US today.
Today is also the birthday of two other men (one an author) that I love.
A day for reading about love, thinking about love -- not a bad way to spend a day.
Still, it's giving us memories we won't forget.
Think of the stories from the pandemic of 1918 -- the year my father was born. I can only imagine how worried my gramma must have been, hoping she wouldn't get sick while she was pregnant.
We'll all have our own stories, though I'm sure we'll be happier when they're well in the rear-view mirror.
Onward, towards the new year, but for now, let's celebrate Christmas.
Tomorrow (or, here on the West Coast of Canada, 2am tonight) brings another kind of coming back --- the one we are blessed with every year, the Solstice, when the days again start to grow longer and hope grows along with the daylight.
This year also brings a conjunction between Jupiter and Saturn that hasn't occurred for hundreds of years, maybe another sign that life on Earth is soon to improve. Because those 'conjoined' stars will be so bright, they've been dubbed this year's 'Christmas Star'.
Those iris sprouting in between the leaves outside my local library looked like a harbinger of spring not impossibly far off.
Good things on the horizon, getting nearer all the time.
I'm one of those oddballs who still likes to send (and receive!) Christmas cards.
Quite a few of the ones I send are homemade, often using bits of old cards, recycling them into new creations.
And yes, this one's going to a friend from long-ago, one I've been lucky enough to find and reconnect with. Something I treasure.
But I've also been rediscovering other kinds of friends -- the kind in the image at the top of this post -- like that darling girl, Anne with an E.
I think I might have started this kick earlier this fall when I went back to Philip Pullman's wonderful series, 'His Dark Materials' and reread the first in that trilogy, The Golden Compass. There's nothing quite like riding along with Lyra, hanging on to the fur of a very big polar bear.
Ah, so blessed am I -- even when I can't hang out with my usual, nearby friends, I can still pal about with those friends in the pages of well-loved books.
She brought us this lovely little wreath she had made. To match the "Peace to all who enter" flag by our door, she made it in the shape of a peace sign (hard to see, as it's now interwoven with the black metal knocker).
Besides getting me into a little bit of the spirit, the wreath has made me think about just what this year's Christmas will be like.
It doesn't look as though we'll be able to have friends or family over for any kind of celebrating (not even the traditional Solstice celebration), as with rising numbers, we all need to be vigilant towards keeping safe.
So instead, I plan to make up tiny gift packets for my neighbours. I'll leave them on doorsteps and pretend that Santa's responsible.
We can all only hope that this year's Christmas with its restrictions and worries is one we'll never have to observe the same way again.
