Borgen: the best

There was an abrupt change of plans, as often happens in my ex-husband's world, and he rushed back from Winnipeg to the States. So, perhaps we'll see him some more another time.

Sam's event on Sunday night was wonderful - how he manages to barbecue and greet and entertain many friends and keep an eye on his puppy... And then a rainstorm, and still, a success.

Today, another bombshell from the Jan. 6 committee. Evil will out; what a thrilling, historic truth-telling we're witnessing. One is tempted to sneer to the Republicans coming clean, "It took you long enough!" But better late than never. 

A great treat: the next season of Borgen; I've seen most of the past seasons of this fantastic show. All the actors have aged in real time; Birgitte's young son has grown up to be an eco-bandit. I've only watched one episode and can't wait for the rest: political women battling it out in work and life, our heroine suffering through hot flashes. Great stuff. 

Today, last class of the U of T term, and as always, I admire and respect them all. 

Am I getting my own work done? Absolutely not. Speaking yesterday with writer friend Judy in Vancouver, I expressed my discouragement about my lack of progress. She told me she heard a well-known writer say he keeps writing because occasionally, he writes one beautiful sentence. Today, one of my students told me how much my penpal essay moved her, especially the line "It made my breath hurt." Sometimes, one of our lines touches another. It's worth it. Yes, it is. 

The garden: the roses are fading, the dahlias, black-eyed Susans, and hydrangea are coming. The tomato plant on the deck is seven feet tall. 

Peonies at the market on Saturday. Peony envy!

Chris wrote, when he saw this, Who’s that crooked-smiling crippled woman he’s helping?

Sigh. Will someone please teach me to smile for the camera? I thought I WAS smiling! And it always looks like I'm grimacing in pain. 

So, that's it. Overseas, incalculable suffering. Here, a perfect summer night. Why are we so lucky? We just are.

Economist’s 2022 Global Liveability Index: The top 10

1. Vienna, Austria

2. Copenhagen, Denmark

3. Zurich, Switzerland

4. Calgary, Canada

5. Vancouver, Canada

6. Geneva, Switzerland

7. Frankfurt, Germany

8. Toronto, Canada

9. Amsterdam, Netherlands

10. Osaka, Japan and Melbourne, Australia (tie)

I wonder how long poor Toronto will be on this list.

For sheer "I told you so" pleasure, there's this: 

https://www.theguardian.com/music/2022/jun/26/paul-mccartney-glastonbury-show-hailed-as-phenomenal?CMP=share_btn_link

celebrating family

Today I'm going to boast about my family. Yes, things in the world are even more dire today than they were last week. The stunning hypocrisy of the religious right in the States is nauseating, enraging - forcing poor women to carry babies they often don't want and can't afford, while showing no interest at all in living children. Loathsome. When the marches start, I'll be there.

But it's summer and roses scent the world. So I'll try not to elevate my blood pressure by thinking of horrors. Instead, I'll think about triumphs.

Edgar didn't tell me, I found out from Anna, that he recently won a prestigious award. The Victor Shargai Leadership Award (VSLA) recognizes individuals, groups, or institutions whose outstanding service and creative leadership have strengthened the Washington, DC-area theatre community. 

Edgar Dobie serves as the Executive Producer at the Tony Award-winning non-profit Arena Stage, which he has led for over a decade. Edgar’s leadership has extended Arena’s reach beyond its stages and into the community, demonstrating collaborative leadership and consensus-building as a champion of theatre throughout the area. His effective advocacy, personal generosity, and commitment to theatre in the life of our community exemplify the spirit of this award.

Anna was one of the main workers with her group Dashmaawaan Bemaadzinjin last weekend, at a huge Indigenous festival at which they provided much of the food. She recruited her brother who spent two days helping cook vast quantities of chicken. 

The one with the tattoos is my boy.

The one with the biggest smile is my girl. 

One of her Indigenous friends wrote to her on FB:

Oh Anna.. my sweet, dear, non-practicing wyte. My Nish kwe by association. The greatest ally to every community except her own. Lmao. Chi gzaagin/I love you very much! Chi Miigwetch for everything you do for and with the community. You are so loved and so cherished and we are so, so lucky to have you in our corner. Your heart is just humungous and I'm soooooo blessed that creator allowed our paths to cross. You quickly became a bestie and for that and EVERYTHING else.. thank you.

Sam is over three months sober, figuring out what's next while coping with his energetic pup, who has a heart problem. He's producing a "gofundme" for himself and Bandit tomorrow, barbecuing at a friend's donated restaurant. His dad and I will be there. 

Anyone who wants to contribute is invited to write to samueljacobdobie@gmail.com. He'll be grateful. 

And finally, in the celebration category, I just finished two books by my new favourite writer, Helen Humphreys: Nocturne, about the too-early death of her concert pianist brother, and The Lost Garden, a novel set in Britain in 1941, both exquisite, haunting, beautifully written. I'm embarrassed I hadn't discovered them before now.

Out of the blue, I just started singing one of the loveliest songs from one of my favourite musicals, Chorus Line:

Gone
Love is never gone
As we travel on
Love's what we'll remember

Kiss today goodbye
And point me toward tomorrow
We did what we had to do
Won't forget, can't regret

What I did for

Love

the heart bursts

7.30 a.m., another hot day dawning; I'm on the deck, swimming in scent and colour: roses, honeysuckle, jasmine, lavender, basil, mint. I'm watching three baby raccoons climbing home to sleep high in my neighbour's giant tree, sparrows crowding the feeder, landing to sip water from the pots on the deck rail. The William Morris roses, though wounded, survived the umbrella attack; the entwined purple Jackmanii clematis has just bloomed to keep it company. So much is ready to bloom. 

Upstairs, in one of the greatest gifts of all, my dear ex-husband is asleep. He's here for the first time in three years to visit us; on Thursday he flies to Winnipeg to deliver the eulogy for his brother Dave, who died of a heart attack a few months ago. Ed arrived Monday, and we had a big family dinner here, utter chaos with three puppies bouncing about, one with four legs and two with two. Ben and Eli got out the wooden play food to play waiter, Ben handing us a written list of choices.

Menue

1. supe

2. pezzi

3. tost, egg, huney, chees

4. egg, scrambi, sunny up 

Delicious.

Last night Ed and I watched Jon Stewart win the Mark Twain award, another man, like Macca, whom I've never met and love deeply, a man who combines marvellous humour with gravitas, integrity, thoughtfulness. Those paying tribute, a stellar, hilarious assembly including Stephen Colbert, lauded his kindness. Few famous, successful men are well-known for their kindness. As we always did, Ed and I laughed in the same way at the same things. We've been divorced for over thirty years. 

Blessings.

This afternoon he and Sam are taking the boys either to the C.N. Tower or to the Aquarium, and tonight we're all meeting at one of Sam and Anna's favourite Parkdale restaurants for dinner. 

Getting old is in many ways not fun; the wrinkles and splotches and aches, for some the terrible afflictions of disease and disability. The knowledge that the days are limited, closing down. But nothing, nothing is better than the sense I'm flooded with right now of having climbed from many days of fear, confusion, and sometimes despair, to this place of utter gratefulness: the smell of roses, the long green stretch of healthy garden, one of the loves of my life about to come downstairs and I will make him a cup of coffee. 

What you won't do for love

A thrilling evening of theatre last night; I'm writing to urge those of you in Toronto and environs not to miss it, though it's only on tonight and tomorrow. 

What you won't do for love is a play David Suzuki and his wife Tara Cullis wrote with a young couple who are actors. It reminds me a bit of My Dinner with André, in that they mostly sit at a table, with scripts, talking. But what talking! It's a profoundly moving discussion of the fifty-year relationship between Tara and David, her founding of the Suzuki Foundation, their adventures together, including in Brazil helping to stop a dam that would have devastated the land of the Indigenous Kayapo tribe. 

There's a great deal of laughter and for me, of course, tears. The young people ask the older couple how they keep from being depressed about the state of the world and the environment. "We're depressed!" they exclaim, but Tara goes on to say they balance each other; when one is down, the other is there for support. Their message, over and over: everything on the planet is interconnected. Every living thing is our kin. We must love our mother, the earth, as we love each other. 

Tara spoke at length about the unpaid work of women which keeps the planet going - how Adam Smith, when he wrote his famous book The Wealth of Nations about the global economy, didn't once mention what women contribute though he was living at home being cared for by his mother. Tara talked about the work of housekeeping, exhausting and unappreciated, because the only way you know your work is worthwhile is if the house looks the same at the end of the day as it did at the beginning. "Environmentalism," she said, "is global housekeeping."

At the end, Tara tells us that though things look bad for us, she thinks we'll find the earth "is more forgiving than we deserve." David tells us that, as he dies, he'll be able to say to his grandchildren, "I did the best I could." 

The play is a call for us all to take heed and do more. 

Afterward, there was a small reception full of interesting people. David introduced me to his friend David MacDonald, whose name I remember from past politics - the one Tory cabinet minister who switched to the NDP. His wife Deborah Sinclair is a fierce feminist. The talk was scintillating. 

And then I hopped on my bicycle and nearly froze as I rode home. 

If you can get there, go. 

On Thursday I saw the Downton Abbey film with Ken. It's delightful fluff, really a documentary about gorgeous vintage fabrics and stunning interiors decorating an absurdly flimsy plot. Fun. 

It's suddenly chilly here. Yesterday the wind was so violent, it blew my deck umbrella right over; it damaged the rosebush, and I rushed out to tie up wounded branches. The weather everywhere is extreme. Our planet needs us. How grateful I am there are people who've devoted their lives to trying to save us all. They too are more forgiving than we deserve.

on writing and gardening

The Life of a Writer, Part 7642: I am waiting. In limbo. The manuscript of the essay collection is out at 8 or 9 publishers, none of whom has acknowledged receipt of it. I assume they have it and are so busy weeping with joy at its beauty that they forgot to get in touch with me.

There's a short-ish essay out at a competition and a long one out at three American magazines, two online. Last week, realizing Saturday is Paul McCartney's 80th birthday, and who should celebrate harder than I, I wrote a piece about him, his life, what he has meant to me and countless other fans. It's time-sensitive so I sent it immediately to two editors at the Globe, then to a bunch of editors at the Star, then to a program at the CBC. One of those editors, who has bought my work before, said not for his section and suggested someone else to send it to. Who like the others did not reply.

I'm not complaining. Well, I am, a bit. But mostly, I just wonder sometimes if the words mean anything, if anyone is out there, or if the pages are simply tossed into the void. HELLO! IS ANYONE THERE? 

On the other hand, as you know, there's the garden, which provides joyful satisfaction every day. This is the year I turned into a real gardener; I was loving but neglectful before. Now I go out every morning with my secateurs to inspect, prune, find the diseased leaves, the toppled raspberries, the tentative new blooms. 

Here's what's not working in the garden so far this season: the infuriating peonies, three healthy-looking plants that have never produced a single bloom. I have a severe case of peony envy as I see the gorgeous pouffy blooms all over the 'hood. And the spinach is spindly and weird, as it was last year. 

What vanished over the winter: the buddleia and a cranesbill geranium. 

What's working, not the plants that wintered over but newly planted on the deck: parsley, chives, dill, tomatoes, lettuce, lavender, basil, dahlias.

In the garden: astilbe, William Morris heritage roses, day lilies, phlox, Jackmani clematis, fall-blooming clematis, Annabelle hydrangeas, climbing hydrangeas, boxwood, lettuce, bleeding heart, ferns, rose of Sharon x 3, coreopsis, huge clumps of rudbekia, echinacea, Mexican sunflower, yarrow, pinks, cosmos, allium, anemone, wisteria, grasses, comfrey, spiderwort, goldenglow, spirea, honeysuckle, holly, hostas, climbing tea roses. 

In the garden cage: a few plants of peas, tomatoes, basil, onions, zucchini, cukes, beans, thyme, oregano, summer savory, sorrel.

At the back: raspberries. And the weeds, goutweed and Virginia creeper, going nuts, because it's too far from the house for me to tend.

No waiting here - every day work to do and beauty to relish. Here a quote from Rebecca Solnit.

"The American poet and devoted gardener Ross Gay told an interviewer, “There's probably been nothing else in my life that's trained me to go slow the way gardening has, that's compelled me to look very closely. Part of the delight of my garden is that you just get lost in it before you even start to do anything. I walk out to my backyard garden at certain times of the year and I can't get 30 feet without stopping for 20 minutes because the goumi’s need trimming. And then I watch the wasps and notice that the lavender and the thyme right next to it need weeding. I love how my garden is very productive outside of the logic of productivity. It makes a lot of stuff that's edible and nourishing and all that, but it's also productive in ways you wouldn't think necessarily to measure.” 

Productive outside of the logic of productivity! I feel now that even if my books mean little, I've created beauty on this earth, a small something that was not there before. I hope the garden is my gift to the planet; it is definitely the planet's gift to me.

Another gift: my third grandson and his dad, who visited yesterday.