horror in the news

Heartbreaking. Our planet is in flames. The vicious and unnecessary provocation going on in Jerusalem right now is appalling, and the result, the anger of the Palestinians and the violence of the Israeli forces, devastating. Every day, you think that Trump cannot sink any lower, that he has gone as low as he can go. But he keeps surprising. 55 dead at last count, 2500 wounded so far, thanks to his incendiary decision. Not a single Israeli hurt.

My daughter told me she's ashamed of her 1/4 Jewish blood, and I had to remind her, it's not Jews who are the enemy here, it's the state of Israel, more specifically, Israel's far right leaders; plenty of Jews are as affronted as we are. Later, I Skyped with an old friend whose sister-in-law is Palestinian; her parents were exiled and lost their home in 1948 when the Israelis arrived in their village and threw them out. And yes, they hate, not Israelis, but Jews. My friend said recently she was visiting during a festive event, and children were letting balloons loose into the sky. She asked where the balloons were going. The children had fanciful answers, and then one small child said, They're flying to Israel, to kill Jews.

How fundamental that hatred is on both sides, how intractable. In what universe did they think in 1948 that throwing an entire people off their land was a good idea? That there would not be repercussions for decades if not forever? Now, as a result of Trump's embassy, there will be fresh waves of terrorism and violence. To tell you the truth, I feel violent myself. I'd throw rocks if I were there. And get shot.

And all this is going on while spring is blossoming in the most beautiful way, so glorious, the fresh greenness of it all, the scent of life opening up - it's hard to be gloomy with such beauty. And yet it's also hard to be cheerful when so much is going so very wrong all around us.

However, one sight always cheers me up:

They came to visit today and we went to the farm. They love spring too. We saw lambs, kids, even 3 baby turkeys. Or gobblegobbles, as Ben calls them.

May some semblance of sanity return, please God. May the electorate learn the facts and begin to make informed decisions. May my grandsons grow up in a world where there is at least a shred of hope for peace.

the superb "Sutra" - and mothers

My beautiful mum in early 1985, at 61: musical, generous, and soft, also manipulative, difficult, and demanding. Thank God for mothers, so writers always have something to write about.

Spent the day on the playground with my grandsons yesterday while their mother signed up her soccer team. Constant motion and activity, and with Ben, constant talking and questions. Glammglammaglammaglamma! He's obsessed with transit: busses, subways, trains, trucks, and best of all, streetcars. And also with his uncle Sam, who played foozball with his nephews at his restaurant last night, while we waited for a grand repast.

And then I dashed off, through the choked madness of downtown after a Blue Jays game, to see "Sutra," a dance event featuring 19 Buddhist monks flinging their bodies about on top of 16 huge rectangular boxes. Haunting images - the boxes like coffins, piled like Stonehenge, lined up like sentry boxes, stacked again like shelves for bodies, reminiscent of concentration camps - and the men, all phenomenal at kung fu as part of their religious practice, like Olympic gymnasts mixed with daring parcour kids, doing flips and leaps - amazing.

And now - happy day to all of you who are mothers and all who had mothers. The sun is shining. I'm going out for a bike ride.

Beth analyzes her one and only flaw

A grey drizzly sky this morning but lush green below, lilac tightly closed but getting ready, daffs and tulips nodding, birds rushing about with grass in their beaks - sat in my office yesterday watching sparrows nesting in my downspout. Anna has volunteered to be a soccer coach; today is "Meet the Coach" so I'm going across town to keep Ben busy while she meets her charges. We FaceTimed this morning, Eli telling me about Monopoly with his dad, Ben shouting Glamma glamma glamma! until he got his turn, to exclaim that his dad's cup fell down this morning and made a mess. Everything is exciting to Ben. We are spending the day together, and then all of them and I are going to Sam's restaurant for an early Mother's Day dinner. My celebration today, so Anna can enjoy her celebration tomorrow.

Yesterday, went to see my dear bank manager, who has just become a father at the age of 52, about how I'll pay for the renovation and my next year's salary-less sabbatical. He showed me how we'll manage and then showed me many pictures of his 3-month old daughter. He is very in love. I know how he feels.

So - I mentioned a few days ago that I'd tell you what the CNFC conference taught me about my own work. The irony is that as a writing teacher, I've been saying "Show don't tell" to my students for decades, yet not doing it well myself, at least, in this latest memoir. I already knew that:
- I'm an analytical person, most comfortable standing at a distance, commenting, teaching, expounding, pointing out, rather than plunging into vivid scenes.
- Scenes are hard to write, said Dinty Moore, no wonder we avoid them. And it's true. Scenes usually require dialogue, at which I am extremely bad. I try to listen hard and remember what people say, their rhythms and vocabulary, and forget. My attempts at dialogue, to me, feel clunky and inauthentic. So I avoid it.
- Sensory detail, said Dinty, pulls people into the scene. Something I say all the time to my students, and yet, again, am not good at writing in my own books.

But at the conference I realized - I myself have a poor sense of smell, and I don't have a particularly acute sense of taste either, at least, unless I force myself to concentrate on what's in my mouth. So I thought - no wonder my books don't have much sensory detail, when I don't have much myself.

But here's the key - I realized that my impatience, which has always been a flaw, gets in my way in both life and work. As a writer, I rush into the story and then don't take the time to slow down and unpack - that is, to go deeper, to ponder and explore, to bring the scenes, bit by bit, to life. And I don't do that much in life either. I've always wondered why I don't know the names of trees, why I often don't know the words of pop songs I love, don't even know which wines I really like and why - and I think it's because I'm in a hurry, not stopping to - yes - smell the roses, learn the names, focus on tastes, really listen.

I'm not beating myself up over this, it's just the way I've always been. People exclaim about how much I do, and it's because I'm always doing two or three things at once. I eat reading the newspaper, and taste is the last thing on my mind. I listen to music doing something else. I have a great deal to do running a complicated, busy life, and many things get done in an efficient manner. But there's a depth of experience missing.

Not bad for a writing conference, eh?

So somehow, at the age of 67, I need to learn to slow down, not just for my life but for my work. Slow down and go deep. To really taste and feel and see, to touch and listen and smell for the first time. I don't know how to do this, how to change a lifetime's speedy way of being. But at least I know what I need to change.

Thank you, Dinty Moore, for your wise and powerful words, and to the conference itself, for so much stimulation.

If one day soon you see a grey-haired writer looking like Ferdinand the peaceful bull, sitting in a field gazing at the flowers and sky, I hope that'll be me. If I'm trying to read a newspaper at the same time, please, take it away.

Confessions of a Lifelong Beatlemaniac May 24

My Macca has received another award from Her Majesty:

This is what 76 looks like when you live a good life. (Some of us are thrilled he's finally allowing his rich brown locks to go grey. Looks great on you, Paul. Onward.)

Loving daughter Stella tweeted:

Stella McCartney‏Verified account @StellaMcCartney May 4

Dad, a proud daughter on every level. What you have achieved as a creative soul on this earth has inspired so many millions and touches your baby girls heart with love and hope. Love is all you need and you got it from all your family today... x Stella

And what I have to say is this:

If you are in need of a major Beatles infusion in your life, and you KNOW you are, then please consider attending this event. A good time guaranteed!

Lee Maracle: walking everyone home

Sitting on the deck, sheltered from the late afternoon sun by the umbrella, thinking, This is why we have gardens, for days like today, when the growth, the vivid green, the sudden appearance of buds and flowers and shoots, is astounding. From grey-brown to bursting with verdant life overnight - miraculous.

Not perfection in the garden - renovation season has begun, and the people next door are doing something noisy to their walls (when they were drilling on our linked wall inside, one of my wine glasses fell off its holder and smashed - thus the reality of semi-detached houses). But still, the loudest noise, when the work next door stops, is birdsong. And the sound of nature waking up and stretching and beginning her work in earnest.

What's missing here? A non-smashed wine glass. Must go rectify that; it's 5 p.m.

The U of T class began today, the Ryerson one tomorrow; I'm back at work, have scraped my mind back from the conference to daily life, though it is still very much with me, in my bones, what was said and what happened. That conference was one of the richest experiences of my life, and you know I am not given to hyperbole. (LOL.) It was so much better than any of us expected.

Here are a few of the sentences I liked best, and next post, I'll tell you the vital truth that I learned about my own work.
"Writing the truth does more good than keeping secrets. Tell the hard truth. The reader always senses when you're holding back."
"In your first pages, what kind of world are you presenting to the reader, so they want to become your narrative voice and live in your shoes?"
"When the brain encounters action words, our vision system in the brain recreates the movement, and our motor system too. Our muscles respond to words. Using vivid description triggers something on the radar. Give them the experience, not just the language. Touch, smell, taste, hearing, sight - make their brains light up."
"Write as if you're talking to someone."
"Don't be kind."
"For your second draft, walk away and then come back and read as if you didn't write it."
Liz Renzetti: "Don't be ashamed of having a commercial impulse. Be practical. It's a job. Writers have to eat."

And so much more, that's just a taste.

But finally, I think the panel that affected us all the most was the conversation between Lee Maracle and Tanya Talaga, two wonderful indigenous writers, one an elder and one a younger reporter. Lee spoke about the horror of residential schools - "taking children from their families and from the land is an act of genocide." She said that because First Nations children were severed from their language, they were cut off from their bodies - that we native English-speakers have the use of our full bodies, but people who are separated from their native tongues, their first language, have their bodies cut in two. A powerful image. "The forever memory is in the body. You need to communicate with that body."

"When you write," she said, "you're talking to a tree. It took one small pine to make that page." And "When you write, you are looking backward and forward at the same time."

My favourite sentence of hers: "A grandmother's job is to walk everyone home. The more grandmothers you have, the more history you have. Then you can be whole."

"There are 167 nations living in this city," she said to us at the end. "You need to get over your British selves."

Will do my best with that, Lee. But in the meantime, this grandmother sure does want to help walk everyone home.