She was the house
In the wake of Alice Munro’s departure, I was talking with some writer friends about her impact on us and our writing. I called up a…
There is a change ahead
The notice at the southern entrance to the Granville Street Bridge portends change ahead. “No Teardrops” the bulletin seems to instruct. I disregard the directive. My…
These are the song-lines I will walk
What kind of stories do we need right now?
Tightrope walking as if there were no net
Where is home?
Mind the gap
I attended a workshop once—no, twice—with writer and poet Betsy Warland. As one of the exercises, Betsy asked us to sketch a public place where we…
12 insights from the year just past
My word of the year for 2022 was a number: twelve. I didn’t choose it; it chose me. I didn’t know what to do with it…
Ashes of love
I own precious few family heirlooms. One I treasure is a worn black leather-bound pocket-sized ledger filled with poems. It first belonged to my great-aunt Nan,…
I used to be the sun
This mound was once a valley filled with bird song, footfall, the persistent running cascade of the river weir. I used to be the sun. Changes…
Proof of existence
I see hair as proof of existence, a souvenir. A mourned dog, a dreamlike state, a snippet of conversation. The line of light has held. You…
Looking up and looking out
Diane Schuller wrote a post for the new year made all the more beautiful by her amazing photos. Diane stated her wish that we would all…
Unburden yourself
Do you know something no one else knows? Practice it until you make it a song that sings you. Don’t pin your silence to a board.…
This is not a bell
This is not a cowbell. It is a story wrapped in a linen shirt and carried from the old world into the new. It is origin.…