Check back Monday for the answer
It's not Monday - I am behind. But it is Sir. Francis Drake, known to the Spaniards as El Draque.
Friday, November 4, 2011
History Mystery: Hero or Pirate?
Check back Monday for the answer
It's not Monday - I am behind. But it is Sir. Francis Drake, known to the Spaniards as El Draque.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
The Poetry Files
One of my little pet projects recently has been poetry. Reading poetry. Creating poetry. Noticing poetry in unusual places. Writing poetry down. It's one of those little lights I was talking about.
I can't remember a time when I didn't write poetry, but like so many things, it seems to be something that I did in waves. When I am particularly moved by something, a poem is likely the way I express it. It's what I did when my parents divorced the 80's, what I did to give voice to a romantic dream in my late teens, what I did when I was frustrated with a job that sent me spiralling downward, what I did to capture the small, perfect everyday moments of having babies and young children.
Not all poetry makes it to paper - often giving it expression in my head is enough. But some does. For a long time, haiku was my friend because it is short and time is scarce, and I still love the way haiku freezes an instant and lets me hold on to it.
I don't sit down specifically to write poems. They can't be caught that way, but rather materialize out of nowhere...a random line here, or a complete thought there. But when I do let the poetic muse overtake me, it doesn't take long. Poetry, when it hits, is easy. Oh the time spent on getting the right word choice, perfecting an image, the craft of moulding a poem...that all takes time. But getting in down, writing it out, is usually a pretty fast process for me.
I had a few floating around. So when I saw a local contest hosted by the library, I entered. When I won in October, it sparked something in me. It's what I wanted. To write poetry. More of it. Every day. Poetry should not be an occasional whim, but a way of life.
I decided to write poetry every day. Small, big, good, or bad. I was going to find something to write about - whether on paper or in my head - on a daily basis.
And so the poetry files began.
* You can read my winning poem here. It's actually just the first two sections of a longer poem, but I cut it down and combined them into one to make the line count maximum.
I can't remember a time when I didn't write poetry, but like so many things, it seems to be something that I did in waves. When I am particularly moved by something, a poem is likely the way I express it. It's what I did when my parents divorced the 80's, what I did to give voice to a romantic dream in my late teens, what I did when I was frustrated with a job that sent me spiralling downward, what I did to capture the small, perfect everyday moments of having babies and young children.
Not all poetry makes it to paper - often giving it expression in my head is enough. But some does. For a long time, haiku was my friend because it is short and time is scarce, and I still love the way haiku freezes an instant and lets me hold on to it.
I don't sit down specifically to write poems. They can't be caught that way, but rather materialize out of nowhere...a random line here, or a complete thought there. But when I do let the poetic muse overtake me, it doesn't take long. Poetry, when it hits, is easy. Oh the time spent on getting the right word choice, perfecting an image, the craft of moulding a poem...that all takes time. But getting in down, writing it out, is usually a pretty fast process for me.
I had a few floating around. So when I saw a local contest hosted by the library, I entered. When I won in October, it sparked something in me. It's what I wanted. To write poetry. More of it. Every day. Poetry should not be an occasional whim, but a way of life.
I decided to write poetry every day. Small, big, good, or bad. I was going to find something to write about - whether on paper or in my head - on a daily basis.
And so the poetry files began.
* You can read my winning poem here. It's actually just the first two sections of a longer poem, but I cut it down and combined them into one to make the line count maximum.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Wordless Wednesday: New Family Members
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| Meet Galadriel and Constace! Abandoned kittens that have now fallen ino the lap of luxury. |
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Tiny Lights
Stars shone brightly in the sky tonight as I drove Grace home from the Beaver meeting where she is honing her leadership skills as Colony Keo. I drove, listened to Grace chatter, and listened to the CBC -- an anecdote about York Dungeon where the actors are so tired of the smell that results from scared, sweaty visitors that the tourist attraction is handing out deodorant along with tickets.
Twenty minutes driving along a solitary country road is good for the soul.In my reflective mood, each of those stars represented an idea, a goal, a thought. They twinkled down at me, teasing me, hinting that I should follow them, catch them, harness their power. But so many of them...which one (or ones) should I follow?
It's an ongoing debate in my life as there seem to be so many things which I could do. It's good, having choices. Except sometimes, when I feel like it would be easier not to have them.
November is here. And though it's late and I am about to eat dip with my dearest husband while watching the last half of the movie we started last week, I set to blogging because, well, because I have decided to do NaBloPoMo again. An odd decision, particularly given that only a few days ago I had decided to stop blogging and focus on some of those other "stars" in my sky. But Finola talked me into it...and I think I'm glad she did (though I'm pretty sure she isn't even aware of having done so - surprise!).
Perhaps I'll use the month to blog about some of those other stars. Perhaps this is the start of the path of illumination.
Twenty minutes driving along a solitary country road is good for the soul.In my reflective mood, each of those stars represented an idea, a goal, a thought. They twinkled down at me, teasing me, hinting that I should follow them, catch them, harness their power. But so many of them...which one (or ones) should I follow?
It's an ongoing debate in my life as there seem to be so many things which I could do. It's good, having choices. Except sometimes, when I feel like it would be easier not to have them.
November is here. And though it's late and I am about to eat dip with my dearest husband while watching the last half of the movie we started last week, I set to blogging because, well, because I have decided to do NaBloPoMo again. An odd decision, particularly given that only a few days ago I had decided to stop blogging and focus on some of those other "stars" in my sky. But Finola talked me into it...and I think I'm glad she did (though I'm pretty sure she isn't even aware of having done so - surprise!).
Perhaps I'll use the month to blog about some of those other stars. Perhaps this is the start of the path of illumination.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
As Others See Us
A scouting colleague of Andrew's, whenever he has popped by, has found us playing host to the five thousand. He never comes to the house but we have 15 people, half of them kids, running around, we've usually just finished dinner and there is a table full of detritus and crumbs, a kitchen full of cups and dessert plates, and a multi-coloured throng of children racing in and out, slamming the screen door and laughing and shouting. There was even a couple of dueling fiddles last time he was here.
It's not usually this chaotic, I want to shout over the din. But it's not true. Not to him, anyway.
Another friend once said to me that our evenings must be so relaxed and peaceful. I think I'd mentioned how we all like to read, and in his mind's eye I am certain he saw us spending many long evenings curled up on the big comfy couches in the living room, the light subdued, the music playing, and the only sound that of a turning page, or a muffled chuckle.
Not quite. There are often people talking about their book, fighting over a book, discussing their book, reading from their book...and that's doesn't even cover the nights when reading time is five minutes squeezed in between karate and bedtime.
Last weekend, I was saying my house was cluttered (which, truly, it is) and that I'd like it to be organized and elegant. Another friend (obviously a good one) disagreed with me. She said she always thought of our home as cosy, warm, friendly, whereas elegant homes often seem distant, cool, as if nobody really lives there.
It seems all my acquaintances have their own ideas of what my life is like. I say I live on 50 acres in the country in an ancient farmhouse...and it conjurs up a picture that, depending on the person, seems idyllic or the very definition of insanity. I once mentioned the philosophical dinner parties we occassionally host and years later was told by a woman how she had been intimidated by what she assumed was our collective brilliance.
She knows me better now and is aware that any erudition is fleeting at best. But it's funny how others see us. Not always as we see ourselves, and perhaps not always the reality, but somewhere in the middle.
It's not usually this chaotic, I want to shout over the din. But it's not true. Not to him, anyway.
Another friend once said to me that our evenings must be so relaxed and peaceful. I think I'd mentioned how we all like to read, and in his mind's eye I am certain he saw us spending many long evenings curled up on the big comfy couches in the living room, the light subdued, the music playing, and the only sound that of a turning page, or a muffled chuckle.
Not quite. There are often people talking about their book, fighting over a book, discussing their book, reading from their book...and that's doesn't even cover the nights when reading time is five minutes squeezed in between karate and bedtime.
Last weekend, I was saying my house was cluttered (which, truly, it is) and that I'd like it to be organized and elegant. Another friend (obviously a good one) disagreed with me. She said she always thought of our home as cosy, warm, friendly, whereas elegant homes often seem distant, cool, as if nobody really lives there.
It seems all my acquaintances have their own ideas of what my life is like. I say I live on 50 acres in the country in an ancient farmhouse...and it conjurs up a picture that, depending on the person, seems idyllic or the very definition of insanity. I once mentioned the philosophical dinner parties we occassionally host and years later was told by a woman how she had been intimidated by what she assumed was our collective brilliance.
She knows me better now and is aware that any erudition is fleeting at best. But it's funny how others see us. Not always as we see ourselves, and perhaps not always the reality, but somewhere in the middle.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Flash
It's no secret that Fall is my favourite time of year. I drive home the long way just to travel the winding country roads in their mantle of vibrant oranges and dusky reds; I take the dog for long walks just to kick up the coppery leaves on the road; I rake the gold and crimson and brown into piles just to watch the kids dive into them and throw them up into the air again.
But today...ah, today...
I walked out the door at 7am this morning into a perfect world. The sky to the south was layered - dark clouds the colour of granite over silver clouds with peeks of bright blue beneath. To the east, the sun, low in the sky, beamed brightness over the corn fields, just tipping the golden sheaths in the fields and highlighting a broad swath of metallic colour across the fall forest.
It was like being hit by a flash of something so grand that words, pictures, even thoughts could not do it justice. I felt like I'd been consumed by the moment and all I could do - all I even wanted to do - was stand there and be part of it.
Just me...and the sublime.
It's happened before. Many times, but more often as a child. I used to call it the "flash" because that's how it seemed to me. A moment of intense beauty and the feeling that all's right with the world. It's there and gone in a heartbeat sometimes, and other times - like this morning - lingering, slowly fading away, but leaving me with an overwhelming sense of goodwill. Today, I might describe it like a veil being lifted to reveal a world more gorgeous, more breathtaking than I had previously imagined. If I were religious, I might call it divine. Certainly, Gerard Manley Hopkins - poet, Roman Catholic convert, and Jesuit priest - springs immediately to mind:
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
But today...ah, today...
I walked out the door at 7am this morning into a perfect world. The sky to the south was layered - dark clouds the colour of granite over silver clouds with peeks of bright blue beneath. To the east, the sun, low in the sky, beamed brightness over the corn fields, just tipping the golden sheaths in the fields and highlighting a broad swath of metallic colour across the fall forest.
It was like being hit by a flash of something so grand that words, pictures, even thoughts could not do it justice. I felt like I'd been consumed by the moment and all I could do - all I even wanted to do - was stand there and be part of it.
Just me...and the sublime.
It's happened before. Many times, but more often as a child. I used to call it the "flash" because that's how it seemed to me. A moment of intense beauty and the feeling that all's right with the world. It's there and gone in a heartbeat sometimes, and other times - like this morning - lingering, slowly fading away, but leaving me with an overwhelming sense of goodwill. Today, I might describe it like a veil being lifted to reveal a world more gorgeous, more breathtaking than I had previously imagined. If I were religious, I might call it divine. Certainly, Gerard Manley Hopkins - poet, Roman Catholic convert, and Jesuit priest - springs immediately to mind:
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Voter Undecided
I voted. Of course I did. But it was not easy. I am feeling jaded and cynical these days about politicians and voting and governement, and there were days leading up to this Ontario election when, frankly, I really felt I couldn't be bothered to vote. Apathy and futility raised their ugly heads.
I had the discussion with some of my critical thinking students way back at the start of the semester. One particularly bright student made an articulate and impassioned argument for not voting at all, and that got me thinking. I vote because I feel it's my duty, but really it's just my right. Just as it's my right to reject voting. For lots and lots of reasons I do vote, and I encourage my kids to follow election issues and discuss politics as well. I put on a good face. But underneath I am tired.
Tired of voting not for the person who inspires me, but for the person who least offends me. Tired of voting not for the party who represents the interests of my family best, but for the party who appears to have done the least damage recently. Tired of voting for all the wrong reasons.
I had the discussion with some of my critical thinking students way back at the start of the semester. One particularly bright student made an articulate and impassioned argument for not voting at all, and that got me thinking. I vote because I feel it's my duty, but really it's just my right. Just as it's my right to reject voting. For lots and lots of reasons I do vote, and I encourage my kids to follow election issues and discuss politics as well. I put on a good face. But underneath I am tired.
Tired of voting not for the person who inspires me, but for the person who least offends me. Tired of voting not for the party who represents the interests of my family best, but for the party who appears to have done the least damage recently. Tired of voting for all the wrong reasons.
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