A little over a year ago I began this blog. And now that a year has passed I do believe that this will be the last post. What I wrote formed a kind of almanac of sorts--a collection of reflections on my environment, on the changing of the seasons, on books I had read, and on news items that concerned me. As winter is beginning to abate and the coming of spring seems like a very real possibility, so it is time to bring this to a close.
In February I wrote of the winter, of its fierce cold: "I suspect I'm not the only wondering, Can I stand it much longer?" The answer, for all of us, is, of course, yes, we stood it. We faced it. And here we are, on the verge of spring once more. In Norway House there is still a lot of snow on the ground and the river is still frozen solid, but the other day I saw a crow by my house--and that's a sign of spring in this part of the world. Soon, too, the eagles will return.
And so we end with a return: of crows, eagles, spring, new life.
Tuesday 24 March 2015
Tuesday 10 February 2015
Re. Munro's Dear Life
I just recently finished reading Alice Munro's most recent short fiction collection, Dear Life. I enjoyed it tremendously. And it is easy to enjoy Alice Munro's fiction--though serious, she is never grim. In many of her stories there is a spirit that finds life (in all its complications, disappointments, confusions) nevertheless fascinating and even enchanting.
Now a Nobel laureate, Munro enjoys an international reputation, one that's likely secure for generations to come. But I hope we never lose sight of our Alice Munro, because she is one of Canada's most important regional writers. Her region is southwestern Ontario during the mid-twentieth century decades, back when there were no wineries and no cappuccinos. Back when southwestern Ontario was a smaller place, a more constricting place.
When I read Alice Munro, I see my family with greater clarity. For my mother and mother-in-law both came from that time, that place. And through her stories I see the context of their lives. In turn, I can see the context of my own life, too.
In May 2014 I wrote about Farley Mowat shortly after his death; I wrote of how he reminded me of home. I can say the same about Alice Munro. And I believe that is one of the greatest compliments I can give to a writer: your writing reminds me of home, your writing made me think about where I came from. Your writing put home into focus for me.
Now a Nobel laureate, Munro enjoys an international reputation, one that's likely secure for generations to come. But I hope we never lose sight of our Alice Munro, because she is one of Canada's most important regional writers. Her region is southwestern Ontario during the mid-twentieth century decades, back when there were no wineries and no cappuccinos. Back when southwestern Ontario was a smaller place, a more constricting place.
When I read Alice Munro, I see my family with greater clarity. For my mother and mother-in-law both came from that time, that place. And through her stories I see the context of their lives. In turn, I can see the context of my own life, too.
In May 2014 I wrote about Farley Mowat shortly after his death; I wrote of how he reminded me of home. I can say the same about Alice Munro. And I believe that is one of the greatest compliments I can give to a writer: your writing reminds me of home, your writing made me think about where I came from. Your writing put home into focus for me.
Wednesday 4 February 2015
The heart of winter
Once again we are in a deep freeze with temperatures below the minus thirty mark. Fingers are cold, toes are cold. The toque doesn't seem to work and the parka doesn't keep out the wind. The car won't start. When I walk into the woods in Norway House - braving the fierce chill - the only other signs of life are the Ravens and occasional Grey Jays. There are few tracks in the snow.
This is the heart of winter. December is past, January is part, the rest of February waits. And I suspect I'm not the only one wondering, Can I stand it much longer? Will February bring a respite from the cold? Will March? This is the point at which we feel stretched, taxed, tired from the cold. And even though I do love winter, even I am feeling the burden of the the harsh days, harsh nights.
One hopeful sign: the daylight hours are increasing. And at least the days aren't grey, for in northern Manitoba the sun does shine for much of the winter--and that's always a welcome boost. But today I was outside for only small stretches at a time - five minutes here, twenty minutes there - and my face feels burned. My skin feels hot, sore, leathery. The way skin feels when you spend a summer's day out on the water. I have acquired a kind of freezer burn, I suppose.
*
There are few tracks in the snow. But the tracks that I do see when I head out onto the trails on Fort Island (the island on which I live in Norway House): Wolf tracks. Yes, indeed. Even the Conservation Officers have confirmed that there is one Wolf on Fort Island, perhaps two. Often when I'm on the trails, the Wolf's tracks are the only other set of prints beside my own. Though it's difficult to explain why, I take great satisfaction in this.
This is the heart of winter. December is past, January is part, the rest of February waits. And I suspect I'm not the only one wondering, Can I stand it much longer? Will February bring a respite from the cold? Will March? This is the point at which we feel stretched, taxed, tired from the cold. And even though I do love winter, even I am feeling the burden of the the harsh days, harsh nights.
One hopeful sign: the daylight hours are increasing. And at least the days aren't grey, for in northern Manitoba the sun does shine for much of the winter--and that's always a welcome boost. But today I was outside for only small stretches at a time - five minutes here, twenty minutes there - and my face feels burned. My skin feels hot, sore, leathery. The way skin feels when you spend a summer's day out on the water. I have acquired a kind of freezer burn, I suppose.
*
There are few tracks in the snow. But the tracks that I do see when I head out onto the trails on Fort Island (the island on which I live in Norway House): Wolf tracks. Yes, indeed. Even the Conservation Officers have confirmed that there is one Wolf on Fort Island, perhaps two. Often when I'm on the trails, the Wolf's tracks are the only other set of prints beside my own. Though it's difficult to explain why, I take great satisfaction in this.
Thursday 15 January 2015
But what if it's not really about freedom of expression?
Most of the discussion circulating in the media and social networking tended to frame last week's Charlie Hebdo killings as a freedom of expression issue. Radical Muslims, angered at the cartoons featured in CH, attacked the magazine's offices, killing 12 people in hopes of silencing the publication for once and for all. In response to this, people from across the world stated their support and solidarity for the magazine, or, more generally, for the value of freedom of expression in western society. The hashtag #jesuischarlie arose as a rallying cry.
But what if it's not really a freedom of expression issue after all? In an earlier post on this blog (see below), I treated it as such. I must admit, though, I had my doubts. The reason for my doubts: it's far too easy to echo #jesuischarlie and to restate the value of free speech--and yet that doesn't address the real concerns, the real problems.
Certainly the killers wanted to silence the magazine; certainly they were not in favour of free expression. But affirming that we are in favour of it doesn't address the pressing issues: why did the killers become killers? Why did they arm themselves and seek out an opportunity to commit murder at a magazine office? What forces - social, economic, religious - played upon them so that what they did was, in their minds, the best option?
Repeating #jesuischarlie again and again does not in any way begin to discuss those issues. It only affirms something that we can assume has already been affirmed. A value that was never really questioned by most westerners (it's safe to assume most of us already value free expression). We have built our societies on this value--though how well our societies live up to this value is another matter.
In short, instead of making affirmations, we need to be asking questions.
*
Joe Sacco's provocative cartoon titled "On Satire" asks some difficult questions. And in turn Chris Hedges article "A Message from the Dispossessed" provides a few uneasy answers.
Borrowing from Sacco's "On Satire," published in The Guardian last week, it seems to me that we do indeed need to sort out "how we fit in each other's world."
#CharlieHebdo
But what if it's not really a freedom of expression issue after all? In an earlier post on this blog (see below), I treated it as such. I must admit, though, I had my doubts. The reason for my doubts: it's far too easy to echo #jesuischarlie and to restate the value of free speech--and yet that doesn't address the real concerns, the real problems.
Certainly the killers wanted to silence the magazine; certainly they were not in favour of free expression. But affirming that we are in favour of it doesn't address the pressing issues: why did the killers become killers? Why did they arm themselves and seek out an opportunity to commit murder at a magazine office? What forces - social, economic, religious - played upon them so that what they did was, in their minds, the best option?
Repeating #jesuischarlie again and again does not in any way begin to discuss those issues. It only affirms something that we can assume has already been affirmed. A value that was never really questioned by most westerners (it's safe to assume most of us already value free expression). We have built our societies on this value--though how well our societies live up to this value is another matter.
In short, instead of making affirmations, we need to be asking questions.
*
Joe Sacco's provocative cartoon titled "On Satire" asks some difficult questions. And in turn Chris Hedges article "A Message from the Dispossessed" provides a few uneasy answers.
Borrowing from Sacco's "On Satire," published in The Guardian last week, it seems to me that we do indeed need to sort out "how we fit in each other's world."
#CharlieHebdo
Monday 12 January 2015
Hashtags are not actions
Two events from last week struck at the heart. They struck at the heart of anyone who believes in the need for free expression. The events: the killing spree at the offices of Charlie Hebdo, a French satirical magazine, by radical Muslims (for more info. see here); the flogging of Saudi Arabian blogger Raif Badawi, who received 50 lashes for creating a "Free Saudi Liberals" website (for more info. see here). Over the next few months, Mr. Badawi will receive 950 more lashes.
Social media was a-fire with these stories, especially the Charlie Hebdo killing. The hashtag #jesuischarlie quickly emerged as people posted messages of support and solidarity, indicating that they value freedom of expression and resist the fear that the killers sought to create.
But what does it mean to say "I am Charlie"? As for myself, I'm hesitant to make that statement. The images that I've seen of Charlie Hebdo's now infamous cartoons don't inspire me. They seem to be puerile, juvenile, repellent. The images would understandably offend any Muslim--moreover, they would offend any sensitive person in 2015. If I say, "Je suis Charlie," what kind of a discourse am I inviting, supporting, nurturing?
And there's the rub. If we value freedom of expression - as words, as music, as imagery - then we can't pick and choose. We have to accept it all. Freedom of expression can't solely protect those opinions that harmonize with our own. The true test of our dedication to that freedom is the willingness to be offended. So the choice is clear: though I'm holding my nose as I say this, "Oui, je suis Charlie."
*
But that's not enough. For all those who Tweeted their support for Charlie Hebdo, who Tweeted and Facebooked photos of themselves holding pens: it's not enough. You need to take it a step further. A hashtag is not a political action, a selfie of a pen-in-hand won't make a difference. To show true solidarity, please considering joining PEN, please consider joining Amnesty International and please use your freedom to aid a writer in need: Raif Badawi.
In the wake of #jesuischarlie, another hastag has emerged: #jesuisraif. And I wish I could echo those words and say "I am Raif Badawi" as a measure of support on my Twitter and Facebook accounts. But the literal meaning of those words paralyzes me. Because I know that I am not Raif Badawi. Because I don't believe that I would have had the courage to do what he did, to risk what he risked. Because I don't believe that I would have the courage to face what he must face every Friday until all 1,000 lashes have made their mark across his back--simply for doing what I'm doing right now, blogging about something that feels important.
But what I have done - what I hope that you'll do, too - is write a letter or email protesting his treatment. If #jesuischarlie, then you know what to do next.
Amnesty International's Badawi campaign
PEN Canada's Badawi campaign
#CharlieHebdo
Social media was a-fire with these stories, especially the Charlie Hebdo killing. The hashtag #jesuischarlie quickly emerged as people posted messages of support and solidarity, indicating that they value freedom of expression and resist the fear that the killers sought to create.
But what does it mean to say "I am Charlie"? As for myself, I'm hesitant to make that statement. The images that I've seen of Charlie Hebdo's now infamous cartoons don't inspire me. They seem to be puerile, juvenile, repellent. The images would understandably offend any Muslim--moreover, they would offend any sensitive person in 2015. If I say, "Je suis Charlie," what kind of a discourse am I inviting, supporting, nurturing?
And there's the rub. If we value freedom of expression - as words, as music, as imagery - then we can't pick and choose. We have to accept it all. Freedom of expression can't solely protect those opinions that harmonize with our own. The true test of our dedication to that freedom is the willingness to be offended. So the choice is clear: though I'm holding my nose as I say this, "Oui, je suis Charlie."
*
But that's not enough. For all those who Tweeted their support for Charlie Hebdo, who Tweeted and Facebooked photos of themselves holding pens: it's not enough. You need to take it a step further. A hashtag is not a political action, a selfie of a pen-in-hand won't make a difference. To show true solidarity, please considering joining PEN, please consider joining Amnesty International and please use your freedom to aid a writer in need: Raif Badawi.
In the wake of #jesuischarlie, another hastag has emerged: #jesuisraif. And I wish I could echo those words and say "I am Raif Badawi" as a measure of support on my Twitter and Facebook accounts. But the literal meaning of those words paralyzes me. Because I know that I am not Raif Badawi. Because I don't believe that I would have had the courage to do what he did, to risk what he risked. Because I don't believe that I would have the courage to face what he must face every Friday until all 1,000 lashes have made their mark across his back--simply for doing what I'm doing right now, blogging about something that feels important.
But what I have done - what I hope that you'll do, too - is write a letter or email protesting his treatment. If #jesuischarlie, then you know what to do next.
Amnesty International's Badawi campaign
PEN Canada's Badawi campaign
#CharlieHebdo
Tuesday 16 December 2014
Re. Robert Bly and F. Scott Fitzgerald: their snow
At a time of human-caused global warming, the connection between Christmas and snow is based largely on nostalgia. But unless you live south of the equator, Christmas is a winter holiday and winter gestures towards snow, even though many places in the northern hemisphere will not receive snow at Christmas. In fact, in many of these places, if snow falls at all during winter it's freakish, city-stopping occurrence. Yet there remains a strong desire to see snow at this time of year. And not just any snow either: not the snow that you must shovel from your driveway, not the snow that makes your feet feel wet and cold, not the snow that turns to brown slush at the curbside--but a pastoral, picturesque snow, the kind of snow that, say, blankets a meadow in some not-too-distant countryside. The snows of yesteryear, to borrow a phrase from Villon (albeit via translation).
*
The other day I was leafing through a poetry anthology and came across Robert Bly's 1967 poem "Looking at New-Fallen Snow from a Train." I hadn't read it before and it made a strong impression on me. The poem's title sets the scene and in the opening lines the poet expands on the scene:
Snow has covered the next line of tracks,
And filled the empty cupboards in the milkweed pods;
It has stretched out on the branches of weeds,
And softened the frost-hills, and the barbed-wire rolls
Left leaning against a fencepost---
It has drifted onto the window ledges high in the peaks of barns.
The poem is somewhat pastoral, albeit a compromised pastoral: the train itself and the barbed- wire are signs of industrialization. And then the poem jumps the track, so to speak, as suddenly Bly imagines a man who "throws back his head, gasps/ And dies," and "A salesman [who] falls, striking his head on the edge of the counter." I must admit that I can't account for the sudden switch from one set of images to the other, except to say that this might be a kind of "Deep Image" tactic to rattle our expectations.
In the poem's third section we return again to the scenes flashing by in the train's window. We see the snow as peaks on rotten fence posts, as sloping down towards the slough, as lining the steps of a ladder leaning against a building. This is a return to the pastoral, until we reach the final line of the section: an image of the snow resting "on transformer boxes held from the ground forever in the center of cornfields." And on that note, the poem changes direction once more:
A man lies down to sleep.
Hawks and crows gather around his bed.
Grass shoots up between the hawks' toes.
Each blade of grass is a voice.
The sword by his side breaks into flame.
Although I can't explain what's going in the poem's final lines, I can at least say that they remind me of an old Christmas carol - not sung very often - sometimes called "The Corpus Christi Carol," sometimes called "Down in Yon Forest." There are several versions of the song, as is often the case with true folk songs. Here are the lyrics from the version recorded by Bruce Cockburn on his wonderful album, simply titled Christmas. The lyrics, which are traditional, can be found on the all-things-Cockburn website http://cockburnproject.net/:
Down in yon forest be a hall
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Tis coverleted over with purple and pall
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, in that hall is a pallet-bed
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Tis stained with blood like cardinal-red
Sing all good men for the new born baby
And at that pallet is a stone
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
On which the virgin did atone
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Under that hall is a gushing flood
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
- From Christ's own side, 'tis water and blood
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Beside that bed a shrub-tree grows
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
Since he was born it blooms and blows
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, on that bed a young squire sleeps
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
His wounds are sick and sick, he weeps
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, hail yon hall where none can sin
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Cause it's gold outside and silver within
Sing all good men for the new born baby
*
Although the go-to novelist at this time of year is, of course, Charles Dickens, I like to turn to the end of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby to reread the portion where Nick Carraway remembers travelling back home by train to the American Mid-west at Christmastime. The passage is rich with nostalgia, with the sense of home-going, and rich with snow. FSF writes:
"When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again."
*
The other day I was leafing through a poetry anthology and came across Robert Bly's 1967 poem "Looking at New-Fallen Snow from a Train." I hadn't read it before and it made a strong impression on me. The poem's title sets the scene and in the opening lines the poet expands on the scene:
Snow has covered the next line of tracks,
And filled the empty cupboards in the milkweed pods;
It has stretched out on the branches of weeds,
And softened the frost-hills, and the barbed-wire rolls
Left leaning against a fencepost---
It has drifted onto the window ledges high in the peaks of barns.
The poem is somewhat pastoral, albeit a compromised pastoral: the train itself and the barbed- wire are signs of industrialization. And then the poem jumps the track, so to speak, as suddenly Bly imagines a man who "throws back his head, gasps/ And dies," and "A salesman [who] falls, striking his head on the edge of the counter." I must admit that I can't account for the sudden switch from one set of images to the other, except to say that this might be a kind of "Deep Image" tactic to rattle our expectations.
In the poem's third section we return again to the scenes flashing by in the train's window. We see the snow as peaks on rotten fence posts, as sloping down towards the slough, as lining the steps of a ladder leaning against a building. This is a return to the pastoral, until we reach the final line of the section: an image of the snow resting "on transformer boxes held from the ground forever in the center of cornfields." And on that note, the poem changes direction once more:
A man lies down to sleep.
Hawks and crows gather around his bed.
Grass shoots up between the hawks' toes.
Each blade of grass is a voice.
The sword by his side breaks into flame.
Although I can't explain what's going in the poem's final lines, I can at least say that they remind me of an old Christmas carol - not sung very often - sometimes called "The Corpus Christi Carol," sometimes called "Down in Yon Forest." There are several versions of the song, as is often the case with true folk songs. Here are the lyrics from the version recorded by Bruce Cockburn on his wonderful album, simply titled Christmas. The lyrics, which are traditional, can be found on the all-things-Cockburn website http://cockburnproject.net/:
Down in yon forest be a hall
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Tis coverleted over with purple and pall
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, in that hall is a pallet-bed
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Tis stained with blood like cardinal-red
Sing all good men for the new born baby
And at that pallet is a stone
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
On which the virgin did atone
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Under that hall is a gushing flood
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
- From Christ's own side, 'tis water and blood
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Beside that bed a shrub-tree grows
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
Since he was born it blooms and blows
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, on that bed a young squire sleeps
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
His wounds are sick and sick, he weeps
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, hail yon hall where none can sin
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Cause it's gold outside and silver within
Sing all good men for the new born baby
*
Although the go-to novelist at this time of year is, of course, Charles Dickens, I like to turn to the end of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby to reread the portion where Nick Carraway remembers travelling back home by train to the American Mid-west at Christmastime. The passage is rich with nostalgia, with the sense of home-going, and rich with snow. FSF writes:
"When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again."
Monday 1 December 2014
My parka, my friend
The weather has been quite wintry lately. The temperatures have been in the double digits below zero for at least a couple weeks now. For northern Manitoba, however, that's not surprising. Now that we're stepping into December, it will simply continue to be cold and stay cold. And so I once again to reacquaint myself with an old friend--my parka.
My parka is nothing fancy. It's not one of those grand Canada Goose jackets. It's just a serviceable number that I picked up at an Eddie Bauer store in Saskatoon one February (thus getting it at a sale price). It's black and it still looks new-ish, though it's seen me through roughly seven winters now. And though the zippers are starting to go (they're becoming rather temperamental about zipping and unzipping), I think it will see me through another winter.
But my parka is more than just a coat: from November til April, it becomes my home base. Like Tom Baker's coat in the Dr. Who series from the 1970s, my parka is full of pockets with a seemingly unending amount of storage space. And I put all sorts of good, useful things in those pockets: naturally my wallet and keys, but also a pen or two, a notebook, matches, a handkerchief or two, a Swiss army knife, a small flashlight, binoculars - maybe even a bird guidebook - and a slender thermos-bottle. When I'm travelling my passport slides into a pocket effortlessly, as does a spare set of glasses or sunglasses. I can tuck a sandwich or granola bar easily away into one of my pockets. And when I'm not wearing my toque or gloves, they can be shoved down into the pockets as well. My world seems to revolve around my parka and the things I put into it.
I take my parka all over the place, too. All across northern Manitoba and down to Winnipeg. I bring it with me when I'm snow-shoeing or taking a quick run to pick up some groceries at the Northern Store. It's been with me in Saskatchewan. It's been with me in Labrador. It's been with me in Ontario. I wear it at Christmas. I wear it at New Year's. I wear it (often) at Easter, too. It has been a kind of faithful and constant companion--like a good old-fashioned side-kick, like a good old-fashioned dog.
My parka is nothing fancy. It's not one of those grand Canada Goose jackets. It's just a serviceable number that I picked up at an Eddie Bauer store in Saskatoon one February (thus getting it at a sale price). It's black and it still looks new-ish, though it's seen me through roughly seven winters now. And though the zippers are starting to go (they're becoming rather temperamental about zipping and unzipping), I think it will see me through another winter.
But my parka is more than just a coat: from November til April, it becomes my home base. Like Tom Baker's coat in the Dr. Who series from the 1970s, my parka is full of pockets with a seemingly unending amount of storage space. And I put all sorts of good, useful things in those pockets: naturally my wallet and keys, but also a pen or two, a notebook, matches, a handkerchief or two, a Swiss army knife, a small flashlight, binoculars - maybe even a bird guidebook - and a slender thermos-bottle. When I'm travelling my passport slides into a pocket effortlessly, as does a spare set of glasses or sunglasses. I can tuck a sandwich or granola bar easily away into one of my pockets. And when I'm not wearing my toque or gloves, they can be shoved down into the pockets as well. My world seems to revolve around my parka and the things I put into it.
I take my parka all over the place, too. All across northern Manitoba and down to Winnipeg. I bring it with me when I'm snow-shoeing or taking a quick run to pick up some groceries at the Northern Store. It's been with me in Saskatchewan. It's been with me in Labrador. It's been with me in Ontario. I wear it at Christmas. I wear it at New Year's. I wear it (often) at Easter, too. It has been a kind of faithful and constant companion--like a good old-fashioned side-kick, like a good old-fashioned dog.
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