remind me who I am

remind me who I am

remind me who I am

without the edges

of my life

without the random encounters

bumped shoulders

banalities, apologies

face-to-face chance meetings

found in the city

surrounded by the buzz of human energy

remind me who I am

without the legroom

of nature

where the delicate flower

can heal the wounds

that isolation opened

expanded, left unprocessed

how do I feel without


anticipatory joy

the capacity to grieve

who am I

do I matter

in this moment

hour, day, year

of adjourned life

remind me who we are

behind the mask

the shuttered storefronts

hollow corridors

behind the automated, portentous doorways of hospitals

behind the windshields of trucks feeding a nation

behind the plexiglass

behind our fear

remind me who I am

use words plucked out of the air

for I can no longer


touch the page

inspired by Touch Me by Stanley Kunitz



there’s an eagle and a tree
on a card
on my desk
I keep it because
the eagle is strength
to say those words out loud
I keep it because
the tree is nature
with deep roots that
ground me
in those moments
I want to escape
from the candor
on the page
I keep it because
it came from a place
of embodied creativity
I want to capture the artist’s
dedication to her craft
bottle it and take a sip
each morning when I sit to write
or during the dark night
when the questions surface
why make the effort?
who hears the whispers in the wind?
I keep it because
it speaks to the loneliness
of putting words into
the hollow

thank you to Firefly Creative Writing for the prompt and Alana Hansen for the beautiful work of art adorning my desk

black cloud, 2020

black cloud, 2020

A couple weeks ago I submitted a poem to The Power Plant Contemporary Art Museum’s Power of the Poets contest. The idea was to write based on an artist’s work. I chose Black Cloud by Carlos Amorales and wrote from the duality of this view of his work and our current state of isolation.

Though not successful I was happy to throw my net for writing a bit wider.

black cloud, 2020

marked by distress

tinted by expectation

out there, life
altered, wounded, flaccid

in here, swarmed
shadows, panic, death

streaked with approximations

shaded with suspicion

out there, anticipating
next week, month, year

in here, trembling
dismay, agitation, loss

mixed with intrigue

mingled with reprieve

out, potential

in, subsistence

when this is over

when this is over

when this is over

I want to walk

city streets

maintain social distance

from steel and concrete

see the sun gleam

off skyscraper windows

seek shade

in graffitied alleys

I want to feel

the energy of people

coming from everywhere

going to somewhere

the man carrying

a briefcase

in a rush to return to the world

who, long ago

spent hours with his tailor

getting the cut of his suit

just right

when this is over

I want to buy lunch

at a food court

where people will

line up on

red circles for safety

I want to walk up

a broad avenue

past all the healing houses

see families clustered

at entrances

into those places

filled with people

who embraced all our fears

while living with

their own

when this is over

I want to pass by

the hot dog vendor’s cart

smell street meat

catch some banter

between purveyor

and customer

discussions of the particulars

of orders

when this is over

I want to sit under

a bamboo canopy

with my son and talk

about anything but

a virus that

shut down the world

when this is over

I want to walk along

a long street

and be grateful

when I stop

at a cafe for

some baked goods

and a yellow latte

full of warmth and


when this is over

I want to walk

through the park

to be in nature

the kind that you only

find in the city

I’ll hear a mom

tell her child

it’s okay, the swing

is safe

and I’ll send her strength


being a mom

will be fraught with more

than the usual fears

when this is over

I want to walk into

a favourite bookstore

browse the shelves

touching only

with my eyes

and I will leave

my digital signature

when I find a hardcover friend

to broaden my understanding

when this is over

I want to hear a child


and I’ll sing their song

all the way home

when this is over

I want to get on the train

and hear people

talking too loudly

on the upper levels

even though it’s

rush hour

and we’re all meant to

be quiet

no one will mind

we will all be grateful

when this is over

we all want

to hear people

smell nourishment

feel the energy

of the city

and be patient

as we embrace

the new ways

of life

it’s spring, so

it’s spring, so

thanks to Firefly Creative Writing for two weeks of bringing me to the page at their morning coffee sessions


it’s spring, so

I want to touch nature

I want to walk

on aged pathways

head through fields

earth untrodden

places I’ve never seen

high in the mountains

down in the meadows

it’s spring, so

I want to be

out venturing in

the world

standing below the

cherry trees

in Trinity Bellwoods

walking among the

people of the city

watching the pugs

in their t-shirts

greet one another

at each end of

their perfect


it’s spring, so

I want to be

taking off

the wooden eye covers

of the little house

in the woods

raking pine needles

I abandoned

in my October rush

to begin a 19-day

bedside vigil

it’s spring, so

I want to be airing

out rooms

wiping down cupboards

to be filled

with staples

I want to fold

fresh linens and

place them in neat piles

on the shelves

fill the wood box

that imperfectly

perfect structure

I made with D.K.

it’s spring, so

I want to pull on

my wetsuit over

my winterized body

take my paddleboard

onto the river

and pretend it’s


it’s spring, so

I want to go to

the fruit stand

and buy too many

pots of flowers

that will burn in

the late August sun

I want to walk in

a half-marathon

that torturous


that age has not

sidelined me yet

it’s spring, so

I want to sit

at a table just

inside the door of

my favourite café

get too hot

when the sun

streams in

I want to

turn my face

in the direction

of children discovering

a trail of ants

I want to hear

wonder and


laughter and gossip

it’s spring, so

I want to

see and touch and


all the things

that make me



the moments I have witnessed

the moments I have witnessed

This morning’s writing session from Firefly Creative Writing began with a reading of Eagle Poem by Joy Harjo. Chris, who led the writing session, read the poem and asked us to find a word, or a phrase, or something else that struck a chord with this and do some free writing.

For me, the line swept our hearts clean with sacred wings stood out and so I went with that.

the moments I have witnessed

the moment of life

I have witnessed

a moment where

life swept our hearts


the journey was complete

for a suspended moment

there was you

your beginnings

no sound

the suspension between

when you were there

and when you were


life swept our hearts


your presence central

in the chaos

breathe in

the moment of life

I have witnessed.


the moment of community

I have witnessed

a moment where

love swept our hearts


the emptiness was complete

for a suspended moment

there was only two

just a girl

and a boy

no sound

the suspension between

when you were hidden

and when you were


love swept our hearts


your presence embraced

the forest

breathe in

the moment of community

I have witnessed.


the moment of death

I have witnessed

a moment where

life swept our hearts


the emptiness was complete

for a suspended moment

there was nothing

no feeling

no sorrow

no sound

the suspension between

when you were here

and when you were


death swept our hearts


your presence evaporated

in the silence

breathe in

the moment of death

I have witnessed.

the kind of hugs

the kind of hugs

There’s the kind of hugs that a toddler gives, the little humans who barrel down the hall at the sound of the front door opening. The hugs that hit you full force, mid-leg; you cannot move or reciprocate but only take in all that day-long, pent-up love, because as quickly as it started the squeezer hug is over and the little human toddles away, satiated.

There’s the kind of hugs that happen at airports, the goodbye ones that you try not to fill with anxiety or sorrow, the ones you try to imprint with every ounce of your love, enough, at least, until ‘next time’. There’s the kind that are ‘hello’, ‘welcome home’, ‘my gosh I have missed you, don’t ever go away again’. There’s the ones where you share the vulnerability of being apart.

There’s the kind of hug that says ‘I do’ even when there’s no piece of paper from City Hall or a church or any witnesses, the kind that binds two hearts forever. There’s the kind that says, ‘I’m sorry, I thought we’d make it, I loved our time together, goodbye.’

There’s the kind of hug that says everything when words fail you. The ones that are offered to try to alleviate unbearable sadness, grief, loss. There’s the kind of hug you give someone, so they know they’re not alone in life, in struggles, in death.

There’s the hugs you squandered when you thought they came in an endless supply. The ones from someone who is now out of reach.

(thank you to Firefly Creative Writing for the morning coffee session prompts this week and Shari and Mike Photograph in Vancouver for the photo of a sibling pre-wedding hug)

These days I’m being carried by words

These days I’m being carried by words

These days I’m being carried by words. Words of those leading guided meditations, the words that remind me to breathe, and focus on the spaces in between. The words of instruction about how to squat and roll over and rest. Words of my favourite yoga instructor telling me to keep seeking comfort in movement and be gentle with myself. The words of young moms finding their way in this uncharted territory of pandemic and new motherhood. The words of parents trying to be all things to all people.

These days I’m being carried by words. Words of people suffering loss who cannot be with others to mitigate their grief. Words of front-line workers, the tentative ‘hello’ of a grocery clerk who has been berated and can relax when they see that we see them. Words of nurses who are carrying the burden of being the last person to touch and comfort too many people. Words of doctors begging people to stay home. Words of people full of sorrow and anger over losses contrasted against the ignorance of others who feel hard done by in a world of restrictions and believe their anger and resistance belongs on top of others’ lives.

These days I’m being carried by words. Words of my son who asks how are you doing, are you okay, do you need a hug, this casserole is amazing, thank you. Words of my husband wondering how my writing is going, do you want a salad/dinner/hug, how was your walk, what can I do, thank you for keeping us safe. Words of my daughter from the other side of the country, checking in, trying to make sense of things, sharing words of sunshine that she finds in each day.

These days I’m being carried by words. Words that make it on to the page. Words of my classmates who encouraged me. Words of my instructor who told me to keep going, that I got my words right. Words of writers putting their stories and their imaginations out into the world. Words that help to relieve the sorrow, to recognize the grief, to touch the part of people that distance has created. Words of hope, sadness, life.

These days I’m being carried by words. Words of health officials and scientists telling me how I can help, what effect I can have, and what they hope will be next. Words of politicians who have surprised me, sounding a little more leader, a little less divisive. Words of journalists questioning political truths which are false, numbers which are fixed, history which is fictionalized.

These days I’m being carried by words.

the world offers itself

the world offers itself

inspired by Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese


the world offers itself to your imagination

do not despair

do not question



look to the world

beyond your sorrows

find the beauty

alert your senses

to the wind

to the flowers

the geese, the owl


for it is


that calls to your heart

the snow on the bridge

the crackling ice below

be mindful


the world

offers your imagination


do not let the pull

of trauma

all that screwed up

senseless pain

distract you


the world offers itself

to your imagination

walk barefoot in

the park or

through the river

feel the sharp edges

of rocks

and know

you have the strength

to sink into the pain

take the next step


sing in the forest

tell your happiness

to the leaves and

the branches


tell the mama bird

thank you

for her patience

as she sat

waiting for her babies

give her a nightly

round of applause


remember to bend down

and touch the flower

feel the softness that

inspired that artist

to take up a brush

and show us the feeling

understand the edge

of the petal

learn the curve

of the leaf

know the perfection

of nature


the world offers itself

to your writer’s imagination

lay down in the sand

it provides solace

in its warmth

its roughness

reminds you that

you’re alive


close your eyes and

know the waves

they come from away

to make you think of

nothing and everything


the world offers you

a chance

to stop hiding in

your burlap bag

come forth

into the grass

and the trees

and the sand


the world offers itself to

your heart

to the child who needs healing

and the mother who failed

and the one who only

thought she did


the salve of a sunset

to soothe your wounds

embrace healing from sunshine

and water

and eagles


the world offers itself to

your imagination

what delights are held

in its caves

and narrow pathways

to somewhere

your ideas

are buried beneath

the concrete and steel

the oil rigs and railways

and if you find them

you will

also be found


the world offers itself

to your imagination

touch it

hear it

see it

smell it

taste it

what joy does it bring you

what fears does it remind

you to hide from

what moments in time

become unfrozen

when the sun touches

down on your heart

when the silence of the

morning is broken

and you

no longer run to somewhere

to do something




let the world

offer itself to you


Looking back

Looking back

Somehow today, I started to think about all the things.

It started with the idea that this is my final post of the year that I committed to writing at least one blog post each week.

I began January 19 and wrote at least once a week for all but four weeks for the remainder of the year.

One week in October, the first week Evelyn was hospitalized, I didn’t write. And the two weeks after she died, I didn’t write.

It all felt too raw. Losing her was one thing; watching her die, well, that was a whole lifetime of feeling packed into a few weeks, and especially her final few minutes.

Actually, I wrote a lot, but I couldn’t trust myself to post anything.

And now, I’m done with that weekly writing commitment. Partly because it felt performative. Yes, it got me writing, but it wasn’t the type of writing that I have learned to benefit from through my writing courses this year.

I write all the time – even when I’m not physically engaged in the act, I’m writing. I’m bombarded with ideas and fleshing them out. Seeing where they go.

But when I need to sit down at this space, I back away from the ideas and the feelings and the words I want to put down. I feel that it is not a place where I can be the writer I want to be, the writer I am now.

I write as me in the past.

And that’s where my brain went today.

To the things and the events and the people that have shaped me; the past (including the way, way past – the “before I was born” past), the present and the future.

And then I went to the place of thinking about those same factors – events, things, people – who continue to shape me because I let them and not because they should.

Writing has taught me to stop running, but to turn and face those things that haunt me, that anger me, that propel me forward while still looking back, while ignoring the present, and not living within it.

Writing has grounded me in something that meditation allowed me to glimpse: the present. This moment.

For at least ten minutes everyday for the past five plus years, I have meditated. And in those minutes, I am nowhere else, but simply here.

Nowhere else.

Writing, although often a distractive activity, allows me to leave on the paper all those things that have buzzed, like an angry swarm of bees, around my head for years, always threatening to sting if I didn’t keep moving, moving, afraid of what could be if I stopped and let myself feel the feelings.

Writing has allowed me to turn and see that it was only my fear buzzing, haunting me.

I’d long ago outrun the actual negative things. Now, I needed to name them and write them out of my head so that I can move. Forward. Sideways. Wherever I want to go.

Writing has also given me another gift: a way to tell the stories I’ve always been creating in my mind since I was seven. The stories of the things that go bump in the night, that went bump in my life.

Of love. Of laughter. Of sorrow. Of fear.

The stuff of life.

Writing for me is sometimes like finding a piece of wool on the floor. When I pick it up, it becomes apparent that it’s not just a piece. It is the end, or beginning, of something that begs me to follow it. I begin to shape it, to wind it into a ball. And as I gather the wool, winding it round and round, I am taken up and over furniture and round corners, and down stairs, and the world I am in is poorly lit. But the idea of letting go, of abandoning the adventure of seeing where the wool will lead me, never enters my mind.

And then I have gathered it all, so now I must knit all the pieces together. And sometimes I’ll have to go back, pull out some stitches because something’s not right. Or I have to check the pattern, make adjustments. 

Then after a long time, I have a sweater I think I like. Maybe.

And right there – the idea of a long time – is why the idea of writing a weekly blog post no longer appeals to me.

I can’t write well in a few minutes. I need time to do that.

And I also can’t put anything on my blog that I might want to submit for consideration for publishing down the road (because a blog is considered ‘previously published’ in the world of publishing).

So, if and when I come to this space going forward, it will be different.

I can’t say what that will be – perhaps book recommendations, or links to great articles, or, as always, rants about the government.

Or writing that is like that wool sweater – something I think I maybe like and want to know what you think.

So I’ll see y’all when I see ya.

Thanks for coming along for the year long ride.