Back from a Break

Observant readers might have noticed that I have been absent from stillvoicing for that last number of weeks. Some of you who know more of my life than others may have suspected that this is because of my broken elbow. This is, in fact, correct. My writing has been restricted by a broken elbow incurred the Saturday before Palm Sunday. I had surgery on Easter Sunday (all quiet in the hospital that day). I was in a cast for two and a half weeks after that. The cast disabled my ability to type but it did not impend my opportunities to learn, and so I share with you three important lessons acquired while in a restricted modality of life.

First lesson: go slow. The first bit of advice from my orthopedic surgeon to me after my surgery was “Don’t fall!” He repeated that after the removal of my cast. It was a fall that broke my elbow. While on a run I hit a patch of ice and took the full weight of my body on my right elbow. I am right dominate so the learning of going slow was nicely foisted upon me. But the good physician and my accident have commended that as a way of living. Going slow means savouring moments, and being present in the places you find yourself.

Second lesson: do less. Those of you who have broken bones or sustained other injuries know well that tasks done without any ado become impossible to do. And so, I had to learn to do less. But I had to learn to do less in a rather busy time. This happened at the end of term when marking was due. I tend to provide quite a lot of feedback on papers, which was now impossible without the ability to write or type. Instead, I made use of the audio file option on our online marking system. But the file only allows a five minute long file, and so I had to be succinct and direct in my comments. I had to do less, a practice that demanded doing what I did well. This, too, is a good life lesson, I think.

Third lesson: ask for help. I was unable to drive, and so my good wife became my chauffeuse extraordinaire. But she helped me with so much more, tying my shoes, making my meals, etc. Of course, she wasn’t the only person to help me out. Neighbours and colleagues helped me out with rides and this and that. Something as simple as having doors opened for me helped me to see that being helped is a way to affirm our common humanity and build relationships. Students, my hairdresser, and others helped me with coats, carrying things, and more. It is a humbling but humanizing thing to ask for help. I need to do this more, and I suspect most of us do.

Go slow, do less, and ask for help. These are things that my broken elbow said to me, and still says to me even while I have begun the slow process of healing. These are life lessons. I suspect I have heard these maxims before, but they have a certain gravitas now that is grounded in the source of the voice commending them: my body.

A Switch in Time

Today is the last day of reading week at the university where I work. In the past I have sometimes said that it would be more appropriately called meeting week, but this year was different. Meetings that were scheduled for this week were moved to next, and we were encouraged us to take advantage of the downtime as we were able. I am glad for this and so feel a bit more refreshed for the second half of the winter semester. The winter semester sometimes feels like a bit of a slug – the turn around time after the fall semester is short, we live in a post-Christmas vacuum, and the weather can be hard. This year it was especially drab with plenty of grey days and rain in January: dreary and worrying, too, with atypical temperatures.

Over the last few years, we opted to go to Lake Joseph over the Family Day weekend that begins reading week. This year, with the weather, we demurred and finally decided against it. We enjoy Nordic skiing and a bit of snowshoeing at the resort we have visited but this year we doubted that there would be enough snow. We looked at travelling south for some time in the sun but were a bit late and so didn’t really find any deals that interested us. So, in a last-minute decision we decided to spend a couple of days at Niagara Falls. I know some might think that a bit schlocky, but I really love being at the crest where the water crashes down. It does something to me – it fortifies me in some ways.

Over the years I have most often been at Niagara Falls with retreats or meetings, often staying at the Mount Carmel Retreat centre. This is a marvellous place on so many levels. We didn’t stay there but instead booked a hotel room overlooking the Canadian falls. Our goal was to be still, relax, read, and watch the water. Of course, we walked down the falls as well – I made three trips. I usually tell myself that I won’t take any photographs but of course I do.

We came back from our days away a bit refreshed. For the rest of the week I had some work tasks that I quite enjoyed doing at a less frantic pace. I worked on a grant application, had a couple of meetings regarding some publishing projects, and generally whittled away at my list of emails to answer. Friday included a lunch and learn offered by the Office of Indigenous Initiatives. It was rich and rewarding.

Yesterday I managed some relaxing reading and a run, and today I will turn my thoughts back to the rest of the term ahead. We are halfway through now and in a blink it will all go by.

I am glad for some down days. I am reminded that in the Genesis narrative even God rests on the seventh day – perhaps indulging some divine play. Times like this remind me of the need to attend to the quiet. I hope each of you has some such reminder from time to time that time utterly slips away from us unless we waste a bit of it now and then.

Meaningful Travels

This last Wednesday, I travelled to Toronto to attend the book launch of Honouring Age by my friend Mona Tokarek LaFosse. Mona has been working on this book for some time, and so I was very happy to be able to join her and others to celebrate this labour of love. The completion of each of my publications has been a satisfying experience. But nothing quite compares to the experience of holding the first book with your name on it.

I opted to take the train to Toronto. I find train travel to be a bit of a balm, especially if the alternate involves driving the 401 at peak times. Another bonus was that the train got me into Toronto early enough to afford me the occasion to attend the Art Gallery of Ontario. I first became a regular there during my graduate days, when a student pass made possible a weekly visit for something like 40 dollars per year. It was an oasis. I kept up my membership after leaving Toronto although the loss of a student rate meant it was a bit more money. But still I ventured into TO a number of times per year, by rail, enjoying a day away with art. Covid destroyed that.

So I was happy to become reacquainted with the AGO, which now has a year-long pass for a mere $35 per year! I utterly enjoyed my time, wandering about aimlessly for a bit before visiting a Keith Haring exhibit on the fourth floor, whose work I saw at the AGO some years ago. It was fascinating and a little bit disorienting – in a good way. Afterwards I made my way down to the second floor, entering from the back of the building. I was soon utterly lost. I used to know the second floor like the back of my hand, but the AGO has re-walled the space, and mixed up the work on offer. They have thickened Indigenous representations and set these alongside of “old favourites” in a way that enriches the viewer’s experience.

I next walked north to Emmanuel College for the book launch, and along the way passed a street where some 22 years ago – in a restaurant whose name I can no longer recall – a festive dinner was held. The event celebrated the launch of a Festschrift that Pam McCarroll and I had shepherded to honour the career of my Doktorvater, Iain Nicol, now at peace in the womb of God’s love. It was a wistful moment when I paused my walk and looked down this avenue of memories.

The launch was successful and after a train ride home, I walked back to 185 Sheldon Ave. N., sated.

And then just yesterday I went for a walk on the Walter Bean Trail in Kitchener, following the steps that I had taken with two of my three amazing daughters just before Christmas. It felt a bit as if they were walking along with me, and as I looked up to see the geese honking and flying in various iterations of a “V,” I noted that one such flight pattern more closely approximated a check-mark, thereby giving me a fowl version of a thumbs-up, perhaps.

Travel is remarkable. Sometimes God saddles up alongside our pilgrimages to knead the memories of our bodies in a way that soothes our souls, and to arrange the detritus of our life into evocative collages. Sometimes a walk is just a ramble but when the stars, or geese, or art, or memories align the gamble that is life takes on a fleeting but breathtaking poignancy. And we step into the One stepping longside us.

This Ocean of Poetry

I saw the poem again, cloaked
under moonlight’s sheen,
its glorious tint revealing a hint
of leg here, there I see its beauty
slipping from its verses, its visage
eternal, yet not.

The poem saw me again, naked
under the shadow of its light
brightened by even my failed word,
in my failure to word where
poetry is crossed.

I saw the poem
yesterday
the poem saw me.
I know it will slip away
again but trust that
this seeing, this being seen, will
suffice to surface me in
this ocean of poetry.

Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting

Last night I got into a fight with
a poem, at home. It tried to
muscle me out of my comfort zone.
I refused its intrigues and struggled to
wrestle it to compliance.
But poems can be
tricky and this one troped me up,
catching me off balance. The
ground shifted under my
feet. But as it came up to meet my
eye, the verse reversed its animus
and tossed me a rhyme, just
in time. I quickly mined my mind for a
fitting riposte and found a metaphor
to carry me over the worst of it.

When I finally came to
embrace my discomfort, the
poem embraced me, and I it,
now my newfound fast-friend.

And this is that poem.

Speak to me, Poem

Speak to me, Poem. You
are intimate with the
Muse, and I not. What is
her story? Does she desire
to scratch my surface? Is she
tracking me, like I her? Or
does she roll over in the morning
and find satisfaction enough in
breeze, mountain, crevice?

I weary of my own rhyme and so pine
for her tongue since mine is tired.

Poem, talk to the Muse and
tell her I sit now in silence – my
pen aching to scratch her surface,
while I – well, I itch.

Your Hold on My Heart

Yesterday the sky wept, and
the branches of the trees
bled a bit of red. The earth
knows something that
I do not.

I want to read the earth.
I ache to converse with trees,
to listen to the stars, and
to feel the heartbeat of the soil,
but I am a soul too easily
sated with white noise,
with white… but at night
when my pen befriends me
and my guard goes down I
begin to hear, to see, to be differently,
Your hand on my shoulder, Your hold on my heart.

Conversing with Trees

Here I sit, empty.
No poem comes to me.
Stirred, I go in search
of a verse to pluck.

But on what kind of tree does
a poem grow? Our garden
offers plenty of possibilities:
pine and oak,
beech and maple
spruce and hemlock.
Each one of these spirited trees is
ripe with grace and
rife with peace.

I settle, conversing with trees.
And even if no poem should arrive,
I’ll be succored by the sight of leaves aloft,
and trunks holding up the sky, my eye now
soaking in the chlorophyll filtered light,
inciting wonder, if not a poem.

Staycation in Canvas and Verse

Today my wife and I were to return home after a week spent in Trinidad and Tobago building a home with Habitat for Humanity. It became apparent some time ago that this was not to happen, but I had a week of holidays to be completed before the end of April, so a staycation was in the offing.

The danger of staycation, especially after an extended period of working at home is figuring out a way not to work at home. I have to admit that I wasn’t altogether successful at this, but I did better than I thought I would. I was helped, largely, by two decisions I made. One was to buy a year’s subscription to Master Class, and the other was to work on a painting that has been kind of drifting about in my head for some weeks.

I was especially interested in Billy Collins’ class on poetry in Master Class. I delight in Collins’ poetry and so was not surprised to find his lessons entertaining, insightful and inspiring. He revealed much about himself and his process of creating poetry, all the while sharpening my tools for reading poetry as well as writing it. One of his great lines from the class was “the beauty of a poem can be measured by the degree of silence it creates when it is finished.” He read a few poems of his own and introduced me to others that gave me pause at their completion. Collins’ lectures, mostly in 10 minutes clips or so, allowed me to take in small bits, think about them for a time and return when I was ready for more. Undoubtedly, I will be revisiting these before the year is over. I have just started Margaret Atwood’s class, and it proves to be promising as well.

I would spend my morning doing a bit of reading, listening to a few Master Classes, and then think a bit about my painting for a half-hour to an hour. At noon or so I would go for a jog, eat some lunch with my working wife, and paint for a good part of the afternoon. Painting, when you are in the right space, is a timeless activity. A minute feels no weightier than an hour. Sometimes, I find my heart racing as an idea falls in place for dealing with some shape, or colour, or balance. Sometimes I tremble at the fear that I am going to wreck something that feels right as I move the painting forward. Painting, like running, are really spiritual experiences for me. I feel God powerfully in them, and they do not need to be successful to be successful.

I spent my evenings watching a movie, or another Masterclass, or reading some theology. I would end my evening with some yoga and a glass of red wine. I found good bits of silence in the course of my week, which makes me think that some of it was poetic, à la Collins. Luther famously said that the Holy Spirit is the best poet of all and so I suspect that divine fingerprints can be found here and there in this week of canvas and verse.

The Joy in Writing

Another year of writing this blog comes to an end. A colleague at work the other day commented on this practice, wondering whether I have found it to be a good discipline. I think that to be true. I don’t quite write something every week, although most weeks I do – generally alternating poetry and prose. I sort of wind my way through each week, looking for a muse in some form or the other to generate a thought, or spark an insight. It doesn’t always happen, and when that it is the case, I sit downstairs in the basement on a Saturday night and start pondering the first thing that comes to mind. Generally something comes together. Writing is funny that way: sometimes it just clicks and other times, not.

I mentioned this to another colleague the other day; we were talking about academic writing in this instance. She was asking me about a paper I gave at a conference, and I could tell her that the paper under discussion nearly wrote itself. An idea fell in my lap, and I did some research around it, but the basic form of the essay was in place and I researched to span gaps and to strengthen pillars. But at other times, I do copious research; reading and reading with a view to finding some idea to chase after. For such a paper, every paragraph is pure effort.

I think, to some degree, I have been well served by another colleague of mine, who speaks of the classroom as a workshop, inviting students to test out ideas and play around a bit – not being too anxious about piety, or fidelity, or orthodoxy in his space. They can take on those concerns when they leave his class, or not. In a way, I find this space to be something like that. Here, I sit down and write and refuse to worry about my writing passing the muster of an editor, or a publishing gate keeper of some sort. I just write for the joy in writing.

But this joy, like so many other joys, is fueled by facilities empowered by practice. I write more easily when I write often, I think. And so, when it is time to write an academic piece, I think that the time I have spent in this workshop, or gym, or studio called “stillvoicing” has prepared me to get to work. Or at least that’s what I’m imagining today. The freedom this space affords, allows me to stretch in new ways, and develop new skills that make their way into a different kind of public.

And so I write: sometimes prose and sometimes poetry. I remember hearing Leonard Cohen in a CBC interview some years ago, where he said that being a poet is a verdict not a decision, or self-declaration. I suppose that is true for writers of other genres as well. Many people write; but I’m not sure how many writers there are, or poets, or artists. But then again, I don’t know that this much matters. If writing brings some joy, or meaning, or relief, that is reason enough to write. And perhaps, from time to time, that reason translates into something worth reading.