Bach's B Minor Mass and a swim in Lake Ontario

Big day in the news: Donald Trump has been indicted. Lock him up and throw away the key! And the Mass Casualty Commission report into the horrific mass shooting in Nova Scotia has been released. A dear friend was the editor. She, with two young colleagues, had only a few months to edit 3000 pages and barely moved for all that time. The story behind the story: the report is powerful because it says ground-breaking things about the flaws of the RCMP, but also because it has been beautifully edited and reads so well. Brava to all concerned.

The treat of the week: going to beautiful Koerner Hall to hear Bach's B Minor Mass, a two-hour work that took the great man twenty-five years to complete and wasn't performed until over a hundred years after his death. Sublime - the Mendelssohn Choir, over 70 voices with orchestra, and JSB's exalted faith and genius elevating us all on a Tuesday evening in downtown Toronto. That moment when the choir, seated, rises, and you know those Glorias and Kyries and Hosannas are going to ring out, one transcendent musical moment after another. I floated home. 

Later, reporting on the concert on FB, I wrote, "It was like hearing the voice of god." An acquaintance wrote to accuse me of disrespecting god by using the lower case. I responded that there are many gods, and most of them use lower case: the god Shiva, for example. If I'd written God, it would have clearly meant the Judeo-Christian god. I don't believe in any of them, so lower case it is. But, I wrote to her, in these days of rage, how welcome to have a reasoned argument. 

Even before the music, Koerner Hall is such a lovely warm room. In which to hear the voice of god. 

Last night, with zero energy, I watched Groundhog Day for the first time, believe it or not. Of course I knew all about this famous film and don't know why I'd never seen it. Mind you, there are lots of famous films I've not seen, including Titanic and Schindler's List. Enjoyed it thoroughly; what an important message about learning humility and generosity and compassion. 

Sam called, to tell me his day's adventure: every morning he takes Bandit to swim in Lake Ontario, but today, Bandit encountered some swans and went in hot pursuit. He swam further out, surrounded by angry swans and ignoring his dad's calls from the beach, Sam had to strip to his boxers, dive in - it was minus something this morning! - and swim out to grab his dog and pull him back to shore. He said at one point he wasn't sure he was going to make it, he was so cold. But he did, and at home, had a long hot shower, though during our talk he was still chilled. And Bandit is in a time out. From now on - a long leash during the swims.

I am going through the essay book manuscript again, honing, cutting, rearranging. I thought it was ready, but it's not. A writer's work is never done. C'est la vie. At least I'm not in Paris. Hooray! 

Good Luck to You, Leo Grande, and Mary-Ellen Mark in Ward 81

Yesterday, dark and wet all day. Today, what a difference — bright sun, and the snow is nearly gone. Friday, joyfully, I started gardening — pruning deadwood, anyway. Today I went out to check on snowdrops and croci buried under the snow and liberated them from the white piles weighing them down. Spring is nigh! I know, we have a way to go. But there's hope.

So much has been going on, it's hard to imagine I was not going to be here for two whole weeks. It's been confirmed I'll teach memoir at the week-long U of T Summer Writing School in July, and have spent two full days sending a submission to teach at the San Miguel Writers' Festival in Mexico next February. And Episode Eight of my podcast about memoir writing has just been posted under podcasts, here, and at anchor.fm. It's a good one, if I say so myself. 

Friday in the sun, I celebrated this battered city on my bike. Rode to the St. John's Bakery, which is both a yeasty bakery and a mission, for nearly $50 worth of bread and ginger cookies, plus a croissant and pain au chocolat — who needs Paris? — and hot cross buns for Easter. It's been a carb rich few days.

Then off the other way, to an Indigenous festival at Yonge/Dundas Square, expecting to see my daughter at work, but I was too early, and from there, a stone's throw to the Ryerson Image Centre, to see an exhibit by Mary-Ellen Mark. Photographing on the set of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, she became interested in the actual mental patients in the film, ended up spending a month with a collaborator living in Ward 81 of the Oregon State Hospital and photographing the inmates, a haunting series of photos, with film and audio. 

https://theimagecentre.ca/exhibition/mary-ellen-mark-ward-81/

Around the corner from the Centre is a safe injection site; some of the people gathered outside could have been on the walls of the exhibition, and I wondered — have we done vulnerable people with mental health problems a favour to release them from institutions and shove them onto the street? In a compassionate society, there'd be a safe middle ground. But then, our society is growing less compassionate by the minute.

The other night, I watched Good Luck to You, Leo Grande, which I enjoyed, a two-hander starring the incomparable Emma Thompson, whose final act of bravery — standing naked in front of a mirror, on camera, at sixty — is an intensely powerful moment of affirmation for all of us middle-aged and old women. Her co-star, the spectacularly handsome Daryl McCormack, is a soft-voiced, soft-faced, mixed race young Irishman with the body of a god. Pardon me while I fan myself. 

In an hour, off to walk to the theatre with Ruth, to see Cliff Cardinal's The Land Acknowledgement. Imagine, stuck in sad, boring old Paris, I'd have missed all this! 

The Mahabharata, Part One: thousands of years ago and today

I gather things are no better in Paris — protesters burning garbage still, and now, Lynn tells me, because the refineries are on strike, the possibility of no gasoline and a food shortage. I do regret that today I'm not in the Jardin du Luxembourg, the Musée d'Orsay, and my favourite shop, Monoprix, with my dear friend, but I don't regret avoiding subjecting myself to the anger of the French.

I've been gradually sorting out my life, unpacking, filling the empty fridge, indulging in my favourite Sunday night activity: instead of scrunched up on a jumbo jet trying to sleep, I was watching PBS by the fire. Call the Midwife provoked tears, as it always does, as did a second watching of the documentary Come From Away, about Newfoundlanders on 9/11, the power of human goodness, a marvellous, not-to-be-missed doc. Last night, an excellent doc about Arthur Miller, one of the greatest playwrights of the twentieth century, filmed by his daughter. 

Yesterday was the best day of the year so far, 12 degrees, melting the snow. I went with my other dear Lynn to Niagara-on-the-Lake to see an extraordinary production, the first half of the Mahabharata, a many thousand-years-old Indian story. A show full of music - musicians with tabla and sitar on stage - and dancing and so many gods! Characters sprung from the headlines: petty, destructive Trump-like men fixated on personal gain and revenge, good men struggling with their demons, women struggling against the terrible power of men. At the end of the first half, a senseless war provoked by resentment, aggression, and greed is about to erupt. Where have we seen this before? Thousands of years ago and now. 

Lovely to drive through the Ontario countryside, stop in the small town to buy Damson plum jam and have lunch at Lynn's sister's house, where, because NOTL is in its own eco-zone, there's no snow and the gardens are in early bloom: snowdrops, hellebores, croci, aconite, such welcome colour. We'll get there, Toronto.

Today, Carole's class, of course. As I was grunting my way through her gruelling regime, she said, with her usual beaming smile, "Isn't this better than Paris?" Oh yes. 

So — back to work. But first, joy: son and grandsons. 

With his best friend Vince

At the hotel on the drive home from Washington. Be still, my beating heart. It was when I saw French Lynn's children asleep that I decided I wanted kids of my own. Can you blame me? When they're asleep, they're angels. They do, however, wake up. 

Instead of Paris: family, theatre, "Four Thousand Weeks — Time Management for Mortals"

Please forgive the endless boasting in the last post. But the things people said were SO NICE.

So normally I'd be rushing around, cleaning, leaving last minute notes, last minute checks before heading off to the airport - well, over to Anna's first for a quick hello and goodbye, because she's driving back from Washington today - and then off to Paris. But no. And boy, am I glad not to be heading into the war zone. I was wrong, though, about the benefits of living in France; their university is not free but very cheap, they do pay for certain health benefits etc. But still, I don't think there's another western country with so many privileges, and the retirement age so low. 

Instead, I will have a relaxed visit with my family across town and fill my weeks here, have already booked a bunch of things — going with Toronto Lynn to see Part One of The Mahabharata at the Shaw Festival on Tuesday, a huge event about to begin a world tour; to the theatre with Ruth on Sunday, and the week after to hear Bach's B Minor Mass that I was sorry I was going to miss and now won't. Hooray.

As I said to Ruth on our morning walk today, I am schepping naches, a wonderful Yiddish expression that means bursting with parental pride. A Thai lunch yesterday with Ken and Sam to celebrate Sam's first year of sobriety (and Ken's sixteenth), what joy. Ken brought photos of the first time he met Sam, when our mutual friends Lynn and Denis were visiting from France, summer 1985. We took them to see "Cats" that Edgar was producing, and then to Ken's for dinner. Sam was 10 months old. 

Sam chewing on the playpen, Anna in red behind, Lynn and Denis with their kids Christopher, Sarah, Myriam, and Jessica; Elissa not conceived yet. L and D now have eight grandchildren. 

Sam posted on IG afterwards: 

Today our dear family friend, Ken, joined my mother and me for lunch in Cabbagetown.

1 year no booze deserves a ceviche.
He gave me a photo he had taken years ago.
I love it.
I’m not surprised by his thoughtfulness or that he would possess something so dear.
My Ma’s friends have helped me over the years, with bits of advice handed down over plates of food at dinners or lounging out back in the garden. Anna and I knew her friends were cool as hell from the get-go, as her house parties were better than ours.
Thank you, Ma, for the gift of your friends and of course for lunch today.
❤️

It's true, my friends are massively cool.

And Anna and her boys had a wonderful time with their dad in Washington; he sent me a series of photos of visiting the train museum, having a skating lesson from an Olympic champion, and more I'll hear about very soon. 

But also, I have just finished a superb life-changing book: Four Thousand Weeks: time management for mortals, by Oliver Burkeman. He is simply saying, if we live to be eighty, we have four thousand weeks on earth, how can we best use that time? He's urging us to forget out endless to-do lists and drive for achievement and "success," and now our helplessness before media distraction; to focus on the few things that are fulfilling and let ourselves be. One task: to go to an art gallery and spend three hours before one painting.

I'm a very impatient person, a trait that has caused me endless grief, always thinking I should be elsewhere, doing something more important — the opposite of the mindset Burkeman is advocating for. This is how the book ends:

You have to accept that there will always be too much to do, that you can't avoid tough choices, or make the world run at your preferred speed. That no experience, least of all close relationships with other human beings, can ever be guaranteed in advance to turn out painlessly and well, and that from a cosmic viewpoint, when it's all over, it won't have counted for very much anyway. 

 

And in exchange for accepting all that, you get to actually be here. You get to have some real purchase on life. You get to spend your finite time focused on a few things that matter to you in themselves, right now, in this moment. 

 

Because now is all you ever get. 

 

... Precisely because that's all you can do, it's also all that you ever have to do. If you can face the truth about time in this way, if you can step more fully into the condition of being a limited human, you will reach the greatest heights of productivity, accomplishment, service, and fulfillment that were ever in the cards for you to begin with. 

 

And the life you will see incrementally taking shape in the rear-view mirror will be one that needs the only definitive measure of what it means to have used your weeks well: not how many people you helped or how much you got done, but that working within the limits of your moment in history, and your finite time and talents, you actually got around to doing — and made life more luminous for the rest of us by doing — whatever magnificent task or weird little thing it was that you came here for. 

 

So, my friends, off we go, into doing all the weird little things we're here for. For me, this blog is one of them. Cheers!

In which, in the absence of anything else, she lauds herself

Okay, it was another gloomy wet day. Honestly, can't a girl who gave up Paris catch a break? I did go to my happy place, the Y, to see friends, do a class, and loll in the hot tub, aka paradise. Otherwise, am adjusting to my change of plans. And to cheer me up, I'm going to post nice things about myself. So just delete right now.

A woman I met recently wrote: I am still reading your memoir and must tell you how much I appreciate not only the lean, honest and unfettered immediacy of your prose but as well the maturity and deep feminism underlying the whole text. I gave a copy of "True to Life" to a younger artist friend who is grappling with a memoir. The "Scars not Wounds" chapter really resonated with her and has made a difference!

Thank you! Glad to hear it. 

The teacher feedback report came out for my advanced Life Stories class at U of T. Have to say, they're not usually this unanimous; this is the best ever. Glad it all worked so well. 

Not for sissies! Beth is is a gem! If you are not afraid to challenge yourself and listen to constructive criticism in a relaxed, safe environment, you will emerge a richer person.

Beth Kaplan has been very supportive in class as well as through written communication. She proved to be masterful at providing suggestions and corrections while remaining encouraging and supportive.

Another wonderful growth experience. I have the confidence to take the stories I have written so far and now work on turning it into a memoir. Thank you Beth!

What were some of the most positive aspects of this course?
Challenging, encouraging, stimulating, Insightful feedback from students and instructor. Beth Kaplan prods us to go deeply into darker areas of our lives and to mold and structure our pieces into o works of art.
Writing every week, and hearing the different perspectives from listeners on everyone's pieces
The feedback was on point and useful. I found myself utilizing it as I continued writing during the course. It helped me to improve my writing.
The teacher creates a positive, safe environment for receiving and sharing feedback.

And finally, as a woman who wears size 10 1/2 shoes, meaning a lifetime of not being able to find nice styles, this article really heartened me. Tiny Audrey Hepburn wore shoes the same size as mine! All these stars with big feet - who knew? If only my poor mother, with her size 13's, were around to see these lovely women with extreme extremities.

https://www.yournextshoes.com/celebrity-big-feet/

So, I'm cheerful. Imagine, coming up, two whole weeks with nothing planned, already starting to fill up. Whoever has time to travel?