March

March, by Geraldine Brooks, ©2005, Viking

It seems appropriate to have read March during February—Black History Month. This novel is set during the American Civil War, as people raged against each other in the name of black emancipation. While a work of fiction, it touches on some of the many historical events of the day, many of them heartbreaking. More interesting for me though, was the fact that this book is an imagined perspective from Mr March, the absent father from Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. And while I don't usually go in for fan fiction, this novel is a worthy read in its own right (won the 2006 Pulitzer Prize for fiction).

Brooks readily notes that she takes license with some of the time periods, but she did her homework before writing this book. She started with Little Women, but dug deeper into Alcott's own personal history, where Little Women was born. In fact, Alcott's father became the model for Mr March. Some of the supporting characters who appear throughout Brooks' book are taken directly from historical letters shared between Bronson Alcott and Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson, neighbours of the Alcott family. Mr March's strict vegetarian lifestyle and support of racial equality were also point of fact from Alcott's life. One must remember though, that this is a work of historical fiction.

I must admit, I did not always like the character of Mr March. He strove to control his wife's hot temper too frequently for my sensibilities. That would have been common for the day, but that was what attracted him to her in the first place. And would his beloved Marmee really have been so outspoken during such a tumultuous time? Perhaps, but it seems unlikely. Again though, a work of fiction derived from another classic piece of English literature.

Mr March was a stalwart in his fight for what he believed was right though, and however misguided he sometimes was, one must applaud the courage he took to stand in the face of the popular belief of the day and the rampant abuses that were slavery in the 1800s. Seeing snippets of the Underground Railroad, the bloody battles, the horrific medical practices, and the people who lived through those turbulent times was interesting though. So many heroes, even while they strived to be human at best. For perhaps to give a genuine care to our fellow humans, is the most heroic of deed of all.

"I simply ask you to see that there is only one thing to do when we fall, and that is to get up, and go on with the life that is set in front of us, and try to do the good of which our hands are capable for the people who come in our way."
~ Grace Clement; quote from March by Geraldine Brooks

A Gentleman in Moscow

A Gentleman in Moscow; by Amor Towles, © 2016, Viking

As most anyone knows, Russia has had a tough history. There have been wars, civic upheaval, glittering triumphs, and questionably dark events. This novel is set in the midst of some of them.

In 1922, Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov is arrested by the Bolsheviks. His crime—being too Aristocratic. And it is true. Having lived a privileged life, Rostov moved in elite circles, rubbing elbows with the Upper Class of Russia and the world,  all while appreciating the finer things in life. But that all ended with a poem that sent him back to the Metropol Hotel under house arrest, never to leave again. Effectively, he became a non-person.

This is where this sweeping novel begins, and, despite never truly leaving the confines of the hotel, where we get to reflect on the events transpiring outside the Metropol's doors. As despite the fact that Rostov can never leave the hotel, the world still walks through its elegant lobby.

So while Rostov readjusts to life in a cramped attic room, a far cry from the generous suites he was previously used to, life still happens. And while the story is slow to unfold, one cannot help but be swept up in Rostov's reflections on it. There are touching scenes of love, friendship, fealty, honesty, and deviousness that are hard to resist. My favourite scene being when Rostov is led into the cellar to view the vast wine collection, only to find not a label in sight. I too was aghast at the travesty of it and couldn't put the book down from there.

While the book is a work of fiction, Towles adds plenty of historical events to set his stage. For fans of Russian literature, I'm not sure if this novel would hit the mark, but I found it worth the read and look forward to discussing it further with my book club when we meet. 

illusion

I scribe illusion

from the truths inside of me

who would believe them

...

* inspired from a prompt from Colleen's Weekly Tanka Tuesday

I used synonyms for #write and #myth

The Clay Girl

Heather sent a care package for my book club

She wanted to be here in person, but we figured out the next best thing...

Last night, my book club reconvened for the year. We take the summer off, as most people are busy and all over the place. In June, we plan out some of the books we plan to read over the course of the year, then take the summer to tackle a few of the TBR pile. By September, we are ready to get back into it.

It is hard to believe that my little book club is into year 9 already. Where does the time go? We have grown into a pretty vibrant group of women though, and I wouldn't trade my ladies in for anything. As I hosted this month, I decided to start our year with a little pizzazz. First, let me tell you how I came to pick up The Clay Girl though.

The Clay Girl 

by Heather Tucker

A table set with wine and Clay Girl treats

Back in the spring, a girlfriend of mine recommended The Clay Girl, by Heather Tucker. From the first page, she loved the prose and the story. As I respect her literary opinion, I too picked up the book. I am always looking for a new book to read, plus I needed a recommendation for my book club. As soon as I started to read Ari's story, I was sold too.

With the power of social media, Corrie's praise attracted the attention of Heather. She commented on Corrie's Facebook thread and I chimed in too, telling Heather that I would be recommending the book to my book club. One thing lead to another and Heather agreed to join us virtually when we met up in September. Yippee!

Jasper love - bookmarks, book stickers,
cards & recommendations

So come this week, Heather and I sat down to figure out Skype. A few hiccups later and all I had to do was set out food, wine, and wait for my ladies to show up. By 8pm, we were ready to call Heather. It was time to discuss the book.

The Clay Girl opens with Ari, an 8-year-old girl, alone and on her way to an unknown aunt's house in Cape Breton. While some of the women in my book club were challenged with the early pages of the book, the story is written from Ari's perspective, and she is a confused young lady just come from a very traumatic experience. It makes sense that the tale is slightly harder to follow, as Ari herself doesn't know what to expect and what is going on. As Ari grows though, her voice and story matures. Before you know it, you are hooked.

We were lucky to have Heather share insights into the book
and her writing of it via a Skype chat

I should share that this story resonated with many of the members of my book club. We are made up of women, mothers, teachers, social workers, lawyers, and people concerned about the world—many of the very people who should have been and were there for Ari. While Ari's world is a dismal one—a drug-addicted mother, an abusive stepfather, a father who commits suicide in front of Ari's sisters, to name a few challenges—she also has a wonderful support system behind her helping her to navigate an extremely challenging childhood. In our discussion with Heather, we learned more about her take on those supportive people and how they influenced Ari's world.

Really though, this book is about resiliency. Yes, Ari has people in her world who help to catch her so she doesn't fall too far, but it is truly herself who fords her path. She leans on people around her, but the strength is all hers. I love how she might have come from a compilation of different people in Heather's life, but Ari was her own force to be reckoned with. The beautiful poster that Heather sent along with book marks and book stickers sums up Ari's inspiring outlook on life.

Dream BIG, be grateful, give, share, hope... You will find the way, if you only believe. Thank you Heather and thank you Ari. Pick up this book and be inspired.

Hug Me, Please!

Hug Me, Please! by Przemysław Wechterowicz, Illustrated by Emilia Dziubak, ©2017, words & pictures (a division of Quarto Knows)


Receiving a book in the mail is always a special treat in my world. When a children's book appears, it is even more exciting, especially for my kids. And even though Hug Me, Please! is geared for children aged 3-5 years, my ten-year old immediately grabbed the picture book from my hands and instantly sat down to read this delightful book.

The skillfully illustrated book warms the heart
of anyone who appreciates the power of a hug

Hugging is a favourite pastime of mine, so it is no wonder I was enchanted by this sweet book. Little Bear and Daddy Bear wake up one day and decide that today would make a perfect day to spread some joy in the forest. Their goal—to deliver as many hugs as they can.

"It felt strange but nice." 

Everyone they meet gets a hug. Mr. Beaver is a bit uncertain, but that doesn't stop him from enjoying the experience. An Old Elk is surprised, but delighted by his hug. A visiting anaconda receives a hug with pleasure. From old to young, small to large, strangers to the forest, and even characters you might not always think to hug, everyone is included.

This simple story reminds us that we could all use a hug some days. They make us feel good, regardless of who we are or what others may think of us. Thank you for giving me the chance to flip the pages of this colourful book Quarto Group! From feel-good story to beautiful illustrations, I loved Hug Me, Please! And now I feel like I need to pass on a few hugs of my own...

Hugs!

Dance of the Jakaranda

Dance of the Jakaranda by Peter Kimani, © 2017, Akashic Books

What better time than the holidays for travel. That is exactly what I got when I picked up Dance of the Jakaranda by Peter Kimani over the holidays. I was whisked off to Africa for a look at Kenya during the years of British colonization and its subsequent independence.

Dance of the Jakaranda opens in the Great Rift Valley in 1901. The first train chugs along the newly built railway linking Nakuru and Mombasa with Reverend Turnbull and Master on board. In second and third class, the rest of the people who broke their backs building the rail line are on board—blacks and browns alike. Class might separate them on the train, but their lives are intertwined and a collision course is inevitable.

Kimani looks at the peoples who shaped a nation in his newest novel. The story follows Babu Salim, an Indian technician, Ian McDonald, the colonial administrator sent to oversee the building of the railway, and Richard Turnbull, a preacher intent on leaving his mark on the African people. The novel delves into the tumultuous race relations between the many people who shaped it. Broken dreams leave their mark and change the shape of history for not only themselves, but the many people who come after, including Babu's grandson Rajan.

We all have faults, but some leave a bigger impact than others. Should the British have tried to enforce their will in shaping a nation, regardless of how many lives were lost and cultures corroded? Can we condemn people for self-serving behaviours, despite the good that invariably comes along with it? Is it ever that easy when the backlash can be as heavy-handed as the original infractions? I think not, as Kimani steps into the minds and hearts of all his characters, regardless of the colour of their skin and decisions they have made, be they good or ill.

Thank you to Akashic books for another book that has me thinking long after the last page is turned. May we all learn the lessons that come from the mistakes we make. 

Soar

Death and dying. I sense a theme. Is it the age I am at? Really? Early forties?! A mite young for contemporaries, but we are exposed to death at any age.

At age of 5, my father died. A few years later, his mother died from grief—god speed Gaga.

The years passed and family friends faded away; some old, many young. Cancer, you fiend, you were often the cause.

Lest you be a stranger, cancer came knocking again. After a seeming lull, you knocked on my door to announce your presence in my husband's life; his leg. You took your pound of flesh, then within a scant few years came calling for the rest.

Thirties—that's what Brad was. Too young, but you don't play with numbers. I have seen children touched by your mark. You are ruthless in your indeterminate arc.

I thought I had made peace with you. After fearing the C-word for most of my life, I saw the other side. Some fought the good fight and won. They looked you in the eyes and met you—survived. They were given a reprieve; the gift of rebirth. Oh, I know it means you lurk forever in the wings taunting with what-ifs, but when given the second chance to cherish every day once more, it is worth the gamble.

But today, you snuck in from the wings. Bert hadn't even seen 60. She lived a good life; rarely drank, drove the speed limit, took care of her mother... No matter. It was enough for you. It seems unjust! She lived for her cats, to do a good job at work, and to make sure her mother was well cared for. Now what? She complained, but not early enough. Surgeons opened her up to find you everywhere. Your chaos was more than anyone could battle. Within a month poor Bertie was gone.

And I found out too late.

No funeral, no mass, no fanfare. It was her way, but leaves me hollow. How does one say goodbye when the guilt of days passed stands in the way of goodbye? I should have called. I could have visited. No more.

I'm sorry Betha. I wish you had been given a fairer shake in this thing called life. More moments, Bigger joy, in depth love to make a heart swoon. It was not to be.

Perhaps this is my reminder to reach for those moments myself. Just this week I noted my lack of joy, the infrequent pangs of love, and the crazy busy life I lead, which, while hectic, doesn't fulfil my heart's desire. Is someone trying to tell me something? Live life before the unknown number of allotted days are gone...

Oh Bert. I am so sorry for your quick departure. I hope you find your way to the next life and discover more joy in it. Blessings to you my friend.


RIP BK. Soar...

tissue paper hands

If I squeeze too tight

tissue paper hands will tear

my dying vigil

your forehead's stress lines

passed to survivors

In memory of my grandmother, Margaret McLeod
RIP

Measure

Daily updates
from my phone
no change...
no change...
never any change;
but the worst is in store.

Three, the number of 
weeks one can live without food...
You have been going on eight months.
No solids have passed your lips.
No voluntary movements towards fork or spoon.
How does a body survive on memory alone?

Three, the number of 
days one can live without water...
You stopped drinking two months ago.
Occasionally thirst will get the better of you
and a dixie cup can be coaxed between lips;
that third day must be the charm.

The number of spilled tears
counted in family;
children, grandchildren, great grandchildren.
The amount of sweat equity 
counted in people;
nurses, doctors, support staff.

This is what a life comes down to
at the end of a day;
measuring tears, sips and breathes
until they all run dry,
but today's update:
about the same...

Missing Steps

Missing Steps by Paul Cavanagh, © 2015, Not That London, Publisher

Dean Lajeunesse has a chip on his shoulder. He was only 10 when his father first started showing signs of early-onset Alzheimer's. Back then, no one knew that the erratic behaviour, memory lapses, and withdrawal from normal everyday activities were signs of a disease. They were embarrassing at best, and stress-inducing every step of the way for everyone touched by his father's illness.

Dean's mother coped the best she could; she worked several jobs, leaned on the neighbours when they needed to borrow their vehicle to track down Dean's Dad after he had wandered off, and tried to stay stoic in the face of his worsening condition.

Dean's brother Perry lost himself in sports, extracurricular activities, and his school studies. Any closeness that had existed between brothers was lost in the confusion surrounding their father's illness.

And Dean? He was left to figure out his Dad's dementia on his own. His response was to draw away from everything and everyone. And even after his father was hospitalized, institutionalized, and then died, Dean still refused to step out of his own shell.

Flash forward several decades and not much has changed for Dean. He is still loathe to let people in to his life and blames others for his lack of intimacy and overall success. But when his boss pulls him into his office to discuss his recent questionable behaviours and erratic performance at work, Dean can't help but fear that perhaps his father's Alzheimer's has struck him. Before he can think too much about it though, he is summoned to his mother's bedside and discovers not only that she is dying, but that his big brother Perry, who was always the successful and popular one, has been diagnosed with the dreaded Alzheimer's disease. And the years of animosity, standoffishness, and enforced separation come tumbling down when their truths are laid bare.

Paul Cavanagh doesn't aim to have you like his characters, but as his stories unfold, you learn to understand them and perhaps get a little insight as to why they act the way they do. We are all formed from the experiences we live, but we don't have to be stuck in their shadows. With a little honesty and insight, we can learn or perhaps unlearn a lifetime's worth of lessons. Sometimes we just have to give life a chance to show us the way and accept help when it is offered.

All Waiting is Long

All Waiting is Long by Barbara J. Taylor, © 2016, Akashic Books

The generous folks at Akashic Books often send me emails regarding books they are publishing. When I heard that Barbara J Taylor had a sequel out to Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night, I jumped at the chance to read it. And it didn't take long to get through.

As the book opens, sisters Violet and Lily Morgan arrive at the back door of the Good Shepherd Infant Asylum. The front door is only for doctors, adoptive families, benefactors and the clergy; and the girls are none of these things. Lily has gotten herself pregnant at age 16 and her older sister Violet has agreed to accompany her to the asylum as a cover story so no one will guess her real predicament—her illegitimate pregnancy. The problem is that when Lily delivers the baby, Violet struggles to abandon the girl to strangers.

As the years pass, the girls clash and struggle from the decisions made years before. Taylor deftly weaves a tale that quickly pulls you in wondering what will become of them and the lies they've propped up around themselves to make it all work. Will their relationship survive? And if the truth were to come out, what would their husbands, family and the townsfolk think?

I won't spoil the novel any more than that, but suffice to say, if you enjoyed 'Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night', you won't be disappointed with Taylor's newest novel.

Thanks again to Akashic Books for offering me the chance to read an advance copy of 'All Waiting is Long'! Another great read from the Kaylie Jones Books line.

bloom

on this spring day
the flowers bloom
birds return
and life renews

the hollow space
inside my heart
tears a little bit
gets blown apart

so many days
dark winter knew
silent as the grave
left feeling blue

shall i own them now
or cast pall aside
blossoms burst to life
time for joy's stride

violet blush

sweet blush of my cheeks

hope blossoms eternally

our renewal sings

~

My Journey

I began blogging in 2009. I have written the story of how I came to blogging before, but am still grateful to Gord for pointing the way to what has become a lifestyle and career for me. It has been a journey which has taken many twists and turns, but the words have led me through. 

Those words have shown up in many places. This blog was my first, but certainly not the only place where I've written. Few know of the small blog I started to work out a little more of my grief journey. It was short-lived and didn't have many entries, but some of them were rather insightful. 

For whatever reason today, I found myself perusing that old blog. I suppose I can guess what drew me there. It's April; the month in which I was married, bought the house I live in now, and on April 1st, 2007 Brad was hospitalized with what looked like a stroke, but which ended up being a bleed in his brain. The cause; his cancer had spread and was now inoperable and fatal. 

April was an awful month for years. In 2008 I found myself retreating back into a worse state, not realizing it was a grief wave set in motion due to anniversary stress. By 2009, I knew to expect the awful choking memories and residual grief surges which flared during this difficult time period. In the years that followed, the waves were less difficult to maneuver, but still there none the less.

Today, I still feel the effects from a time period that smashed the world as I knew it. April 1st was the anniversary of the beginning of the end of my life with Brad. He will be gone nine years this summer. It is hard to believe sometimes, but I cannot imagine my life any other way now. Much has come and gone since then, but it's still hard not to feel his presence in April. And I guess that's alright.

So today I thought I would share an old post from a time long ago. I feel it held hope, which makes me glad for that woman who was days away from the 4th anniversary of impending loss. And those words offered pretty sage advice, if I do say so myself.

~~~

MY JOURNEY

March 25th, 2011;

Listen

When those that walk the earth take flight

we cry and tear our hair so tight,

but listen quiet and you'll hear

their footsteps follow always near.

When we have known someone, they leave an imprint on our soul. That cannot be erased. A loved one's voice will always be there to comfort and guide the way, if you but just listen...

winter moss

breathing  in  the  moment
I walk purposeful with soul
world encompassing

late winter sparkles

hints of green life

here I stand

touched by a gift

for my eyes

~

frost touches

I'm
waiting
for the day
when the frost melts
and sweet life unfurls,
bursts magically forth
from my cold, tight
embrace.

I'm waiting...
to embrace magic
frost touches
furled life
melted
love
cold

wait
today is
life, sweet
blooming buds
melting heart
Magic...

Steps

A New Year
a new day...
More of the same, like days gone by?
~ hoping for more I pray.

Prayers are good and fine,
but actions beget more.
It's time to take life in mine own hands
and create a path to explore.

Idle steps lead nowhere fast;
if I want to find life and pep
the route to this door, this trail
starts today in my chosen step

So walk along, I wander;
my route mine to choose.
This year, a year of purpose
peace and happiness—the goal, to not abuse

What path have you set yourself on in 2016?

sky

dreaming of the sky

just a few rungs higher up

my infinity

Foreshadow

wind blows snows follow

wan November furlough

winter foreshadow

~

Remember Them

Children's voices 

raised in song.

No words uttered

to interrupt the psalm.

Poppies placed

row upon row.

Honour, respect;

all remembered by those.

The men and women

who gave their lives,

a fight for freedom

with battle cries.

My children's voices

I proudly hear,

today remember

and hold your memories dear.

We thank you all

who have served in courage

without sacrifices bold

our world discouraged.

Today 

our children 

solemn sing

to you a gift

their offering.

Thank you

We Remember

~

Ghost Boy

Ghost Boy by Martin Pistorius, ©2013, Thomas Nelson Publishers

Every parent's worst fear is to have their child fall ill. When you cannot diagnose the illness, it is that much more frustrating. When that illness leaves your child without the ability to walk, freely move their limbs, or even talk, it reaches nightmare proportions. That was the reality for Martin Pistorius' parents.

Martin had a normal childhood. He liked legos, loved riding his bike and was a quiet, but conscientious boy. At the age of 12 though, he fell mysteriously ill. Doctors ran test upon test, but came up with no conclusive diagnosis for a little boy who was rapidly fading away from his family and life. They advised his parents to prepare for the worst and to move him into a medical center, so they would not have to be burdened with his care. With that, they washed their hands of him, telling his distraught parents there was nothing more they could do.

Miraculously, Martin woke up. Unfortunately for him, no one recognized that he was conscious behind the shell of a body that drooled, spasmodically moved and remained silent. Slowly, Martin became aware of his world again, but without the ability to communicate, wished that he hadn't. He still couldn't speak, had no control over his limbs, and even less control over what the people around him did to him. And some of the things done to him were atrocious.

Ghost Boy recounts the true story of Martin Pistorius' reawakening and the struggle he went through to regain his life. He chronicles the abuse he suffered, the pain at his lack of communication, and the frustration he struggled with at feeling removed from the world. When one caring woman recognizes there is more to Martin than a vacant body and mind, his life is transformed, but the struggle to find the words to fit in are harder than he could ever imagine. For it is communication which opens the door to enter the world which he craved for so long. Having been denied the words and the power to even think of himself as a man, walking through that door is a learning curve. Faith and determination are the crutches that get him there and beyond.

Can you imagine living in a world where people look through you, make all your decisions for you, and regulate every moment of your day? That was Martin's world. And it should make quite the topic of conversation for the ladies in my book club when we meet later this week. Ghost Boy is a quick read, but intensively powerful. And it will make you appreciate your life just a little bit more.