wild life

There is something amazing and beautiful in my bedroom. Visible only in sunlight, a minuscule spider has built a web in front of my window, long almost invisible silver threads coming down from the ceiling and continuing to the table below, and there, in the middle of a perfect little web, he or she waits. A dot. I have to be careful, every morning, not to disturb my companion, this tiny artist, hunter, homebuilder.

And yesterday, I was watering the veggies at the back when a male cardinal landed on the birdfeeder not two feet away and began cracking seeds with his beak, spitting out the shell and snapping up the seed inside. Cardinals are usually very cautious, but this guy has no fear, paid me no mind several times through the day, so I got to admire his extraordinary orange feathers with a brown tinge, the bold crest on his head, his black neck and face. How I love the fact that while we humans fuss and fume, the creatures around us go fiercely about their business. After "Endeavour" on Sunday night, (and what a great series it is) I watched the last half hour of a nature documentary about one day on earth, showcasing zebras, dragonflies, sharks, and other magnificent creatures from around the planet. At the end, they talked about urban wildlife and showed adorable raccoon babies knocking over watering cans - in Toronto. Our claim to fame.

Our other claim to fame - producing mini-Trumps whose goal is to tear the city apart, limb from limb. But let's not push up my blood pressure so early on this beautiful morning.

I woke early Sunday and spent most of the day finishing this draft of the memoir, sent it off late afternoon to the young editor I've hired to read it. She doesn't know me or my work, so can come to it fresh. I do have hope, I think it's much better, but we'll see.

Yesterday, got a bi-annual royalty cheque, $121.57 - whee, I'm off to the South Seas! Seriously, it's thrilling that my two latest books, published in 2014 with no marketing whatsoever, continue to sell, however slowly, especially the writing book. Just received a note from the wife of my high school crush, to whom I gave the writing book.
Enjoying your book and find it very helpful and thought-provoking. In fact, I was talking about it to a few people and sent them photos of the cover,  isbn number, the back cover, etc so they could order it. I believe a really great read is one that you have to stop - and put down - and digest - and really think about. That’s your book.

It's my birthday tomorrow; today is about cooking, as we're having the celebration tonight, a small gathering. I went to the butcher, St. Jamestown Steak and Chops, told Mark, the owner who's been a friend since we moved here in 1986, that it was my birthday, and he gave me a big packet of marinated spareribs as a birthday gift. "Sixty-eight," I told him, and he said, "That's how many people are coming to your party?!" LOL.

The sun is shining on the huge patch of towering yellow golden glow, the Rose of Sharon is hosting many happy pollen-coated bees as always, two perfect white gardenia blooms are scenting the air. My aunt will be released from hospital to an extended care facility next week, and then we'll continue the debate about where she will, as I said to her, celebrate her hundredth birthday in two years. My son is at the cottage of a family who are good friends of his, getting a week of much-deserved r and r. (He's on the left; on the right, in a pose I do not associate with him, is Matt, the father of the family and the computer genius who has saved my digital life.)

Anna, Thomas, and their boys will be here tonight, along with Wayson, my dear friend Ken, and my oldest friend Ron from Halifax days, who is one week younger than I. I will give thanks for the breath in my lungs, and that, despite the vile madness afoot in the world, despite the wilfully blind, lying lunatics, the racists, the fascist thugs doing their best to take over - how did it happen, that these loathsome creatures suddenly have so much power? I mean, Steve Bannon in Europe, really? - I will celebrate human goodness, the power of family, the growth of new young citizens of the planet.

I will take them up and show them the tiny dot in my window, another life, as important as ours.

Ottawa

Ye gods, it is a young person's game, the raising of children. I've just spent three days and nights with my grandsons, aged 3 and 6, and though they are a marvel and I adore them, they have drained every last bit of energy from my body. I'm in a daze, but at least now I get to sit in my silent house and recuperate. Their mother has to keep right on going. Good thing she's 30 years younger than I.

Our journey to Ottawa had its difficulties, largely juggling the needs of my 98-year old aunt in hospital with those of two very energetic little boys. Luckily, we had a vital secret weapon: their mother, my daughter Anna, who planned the journey within an inch of its life. They had their snacks packed in cases with freezer packs, little tubs filled with cucumber or squares of cheese, a playlist of travel songs we'd all enjoy and another specifically for Ben with his favourite songs, especially Old McDonald Had a Farm and Justin Beiber's Despacito, neither of which I ever want to hear again. On the way there, she located a fabulous playground in Kingston, more or less half way, and on the way back, an even better playground in Belleville. So we broke the journey to let the wild animals out of the back of the car; they ran and climbed and slid and swung and got soaked in the water park, and then we managed to strap them down and set off again.

Even so, the last hour, both ways, was excruciating, with one very small boy making sure we knew he was not enjoying his enforced imprisonment. And of course coming into Toronto there was gridlock, and screams from the back. By the end I was flinging stuff back there - candy, crackers, books, anything to buy a few more minutes of peace, while Anna maneuvered the car magnificently under pressure.

In Ottawa I'd rented a 3 bedroom airbnb house which was perfect, mostly because it was so plain, there was nothing in it to break - well, almost nothing - and a playground around the corner, which she took them to once and I, twice. They had a great visit with my brother in Quebec while I spent the day with my aunt, and then next day, after a morning in the terrific Museum of Nature, they all came with me to visit her. The boys had made paintings as gifts. It was a beautiful and moving encounter, 3, 6, and 98.

She and I had some tough work to do to figure out what's next for her, but finally, after consulting with her doctor, the occupational therapist and the social worker, and mostly, with her dear friends back at her apartment building whom I went to see one evening, the answer for me was clear: it's time for assisted living. She looks as if she's being condemned to death when she considers this, but I now have no doubt that once she's there, she will find much to enjoy. And she is beginning reluctantly to accept this.

We visited her again today on our way out of town. At the end, Anna took the boys to the hospital Tim Hortons to buy a box of Timbits each, guaranteeing peace for the start of our journey, and I stayed for a last farewell with my aunt. Next week, when I turn 68, it will be my first birthday since the age of three without a card from her. We had a tender hug - she is so frail, so tiny and bent - and she got her walker and came with me to the door of her room to say goodbye. As I walked down the hall, I kept turning and waving, as she stood waving. She made me cry. Such a trouper.

And then the paradise of an hour and a half in the car with two sleeping children stuffed with Timbits and my beautiful, calm, wise daughter. We of course had to moan about what the despicable Doug Ford is doing to the city of Toronto and many other political issues about which we are in complete agreement. At one point, at the end of the trip, when Ben was screaming, I wondered for a second if it's worth it to have children. And then I looked at my daughter.

Eli's painting for Auntie Do

 More art from the artists

The Museum of Nature - a terrific place with real dinosaurs

 Do receives her magnificent artworks

 Hanging around at the playground

One pushing down the tree, the other holding it up.

Home. In the garden, three huge cucumbers, tons of beans and tomatoes. I need to sort out my life. The adventure continues.

still crazy after all these years

First, thanks to all who wrote after the shooting on the nearby Danforth, to ask if I'm okay. We in Canada like to think those hideous events are the domain of countries full of unhinged lunatics like school shooters and Trump, not here. But sadly, we have our share of lunatics; we have Doug Ford, and we have gun violence.

Is there any flowering tree as indefatigable and glorious as the Rose of Sharon? Mine is bee heaven - swarming with them, as they zoom inside the fat flowers and splay themselves all over those generous white pistils, often two at a time, buzzing furiously. This is MY pistil, buzz off!

Today I went to see my shrink. My tenant Carol liked to go for therapeutic massages and acupuncture and other healing therapies. I have my shrink. It has been well over a year since I've talked to her, and today was the day. Only 50 minutes - had to talk fast! It's been nearly 30 years since I started with her, and there she is still, a little woman in a nice room, listening, listening, listening. Needed a tune up - feeling overwhelmed, under pressure, fallible. So lucky to have someone who knows me so well.

The renovation on Spruce Street is agony - day after day of drilling, sawing, hammering, huge loud machines. So much for my tranquil summer in the garden. I'm wondering now if it's a mistake to stay here. But surely it'll be over soon. And then my own reno will start.

Speaking of the tranquil garden, I've been getting nice notes about the workshop, will share a few with you:
Brad: I can't stress enough how re-invigorated I was by today's workshop. You work magic.

Jennifer: I can't thank you enough for your wonderful generosity in opening your home today for this gathering. I have never done anything like this in my life and it was an honour to be there. I have always had trouble getting out of my 'intellectual' brain and giving myself permission to write from the gut, and your encouragement (and the encouragement of nature) had a transformative effect. I will carry your garden with me everywhere I go now, and put myself into that space in order to 'pull down' the words that so often elude me at desks and in cafes. 

Marlane: I want to thank you for the wonderful day in your lovely home and garden. The writers and their stories were remarkable. You are a generous teacher and  hostess.  

Lynne: Sunday's workshop was truly special. You did a fabulous job of bringing a sense of calm and trust to the group, and wonderful ideas to get us writing! Thanks for all that, and the lovely hospitality in your home.

So - it works. Glad to hear it. And a bit of income in high summer doesn't hurt either. Especially with two little boys to buy ice cream for tomorrow, on our way to Ottawa. Happy summer to you all. Let's forget politics for awhile and concentrate on flowers and the ice cream running down some very small chins. 

Write in the Garden = A+

A happy exhaustion: the day-long writing in the garden workshop just ended. For the first time - I've been running these since 2011 - the day dawned wet and cold. Sudden shift, clearing rooms in the house for people to meet in the living room, not on the deck, and to write inside, not scattered through the garden.

But it went beautifully; after lunch the sun actually came out, I sponged off chairs and tables with a towel, and we spent the rest of the day, till 5.30, outside with the birds and the scent of lavender and gardenia. You would not believe how extremely good the stories we heard were, how powerful and moving and funny - and of course, true.

I love my job.

Some were recent students, some students from years ago, and one a neighbour who has never done any creative writing and read about the workshop in the Cabbagetown news. Everyone came through magnificently. And lunch, I have to say, was pretty good too - two different quiches and four salads: tabbouleh, pasta, cucumber, and kale, featuring my very own tomatoes, kale, cukes, and beans, as promised. Coffee, dessert, wine and cheese - and through it all, stories stories stories.

I love my job.

Now for a month, except for editing work for private students and compiling a playlist for the dance evening in September, the only work I have to do is keeping myself and the house and tenant and the upcoming renovation going, clearing out the excess here, and trying to finish my memoir. And getting to Ottawa and back with Anna and the boys in one piece, and celebrating my 68th birthday with family and friends. That's all.

That's enough.

I got this lovely email this morning from a stranger. An early birthday gift. Thank you.
Greetings from Africa. (I’m on my honeymoon). I just devoured “True to Life” in about two hours and found it to be compassionate, encouraging, clear, funny and very helpful.  

Music to my tired ears.

vegetating with the vegetables

Someone at the Y asked today, Seen any good movies lately? Not a one. Have I been anywhere except my kitchen and garden and the Y? It doesn't feel that way. Besides, oh yes, Ottawa.

On Tuesday I spent the afternoon celebrating Ben's third birthday with him and his family. We picked up his big brother from day camp; what joy to see them run to hug each other and set off hand in hand, one tiny for his age and one very tall. Sometimes they try to murder each other, and Ben will be one tough dude from a childhood fending off his teasing, mischievous brother. But more importantly, they adore one another. So they're set for life.

Wednesday night was a potluck dinner with the Word Sisters, a group of fascinating, accomplished women who work in publishing - editors, publicists, agents, and one lone writer and teacher lucky enough to be included. They casually toss out hallowed names to me - Knopf, Penguin, Louise (Dennys, legendary editor), Ellen (Seligman, ditto.) We sat outside in Rosemary's garden sheltered by her enormous trees and ate delicious offerings - "I didn't know when I assembled this group 8 years ago," said Marilyn, "that you were all such good cooks!" Dinah brought sangria stuffed with fruit she'd marinated in vodka for days: lethal. I brought gazpacho, made with my own cucumbers, mint, basil, and cherry tomatoes. Rosemary said it was like drinking the garden.

But mostly, this week, I have been ploughing through the rewrite of the memoir. It's funny how that goes - either I can't stand the thing and won't go near it for weeks, or I am addicted to it and can't get away. I've been so focused after supper, yesterday and today, I forgot both days to call my aunt, which makes me feel very guilty as I've been phoning her daily. A quiche I was making for my workshop on Sunday burned to a dark brown crisp. I have found another editor, someone who doesn't know me or the story, who can read the manuscript fresh, an objective pair of eyes I will need a lot when I'm done, as I have no idea if this new draft works or not. I think it's better, but is that wishful thinking? Is it good enough?

Today, across town to rent a car with Anna; she will have it for the weekend and then next week we go to Ottawa again. Road trip with two hyperactive young boys - hooray!

Every morning, I juggle the best and the worst. I read the newspaper and mourn the latest horrors going on in the world. And then I go into the garden to pick raspberries, cukes, tomatoes, and now beans, to water and smell and revel in the glory of it all.

And on Sunday, I get to share it all with ten writers who'll spend the day there and get to eat burned quiche. And a lot of tomatoes, cucumbers, and beans.