Growing Versions

The churches in our province are struggling to keep the doors open, the furnaces lit and to stay relevant. They used to be the glue in many of our rural and urban communities. They provided a place, which, at least theoretically, was meant to provide shelter, comfort and a meaningful structure to life. Our city is just about to open a outrageously gorgeous library which we are all eagerly awaiting entrance into.  We've been teased with the odd picture here and there of it's magnificence and I can only imagine that the real thing will be something to behold and be breathlessly proud of.  Finally, a public space right downtown in which we can seek shelter from the sideways rain of winter without having to buy anything in the process. The first few photos are stunning. The library even made the impressive list of  10 eye-popping new buildings you'll see in 2014 on CNN.com .  It is going to be fabulous. It is set to open on December 13th. I am itching to see...

I woke up remembering a dream of a place I knew well. A place that I thought I knew.  I inspected the empty parts of it that I hadn't noticed before. Those empty parts became what I knew of those places. I woke up on garbage day, ready to empty out the rooms I thought I knew. I was urged to molt, I guess.

Just a second... ...I'll be right there... ...in a minute...

We got cracking on a big house purge this weekend.  As I have stated several times before, our clutter is always threatening to take us down and muffle our screams.  One of my biggest struggles has been with having a space at home where I can, when I am not bone tired, pull out the paints and suggest a craft project or where I can sort out the mounting photos we have in our midst, without feeling slightly sick afterwards, and  worse still, determined never to do it again.  Most of all, all this stuff was really starting to create barriers between us.  Together we finally took a big bite out of all this, and slowly but surely over the weekend, some treasures were unearthed, tons of useless (to us) things were either given away or discarded and places to work and play and eat and sleep and put clothes away in and read books and wrestle became distinct entities again.

Cloud, 2012 (Materials: painted wall, hole in wall, stuffing from kid's bed stuffed into hole) I'm just coming off of a busy streak.  Well, a busy chunk of years actually. As a result, my domestic situation has gotten way way off track.  There are literally heaps of unsorted laundry, Christmas ornaments (ugh...Halloween ornaments) jumbled together, and piles everywhere.  The toilets are clean, the kitchen is cleanish and there are clean clothes they just aren't stored  particularly well, but otherwise, we're in a bit of mess actually.  I'm so done with all this chaos and the feelings of perpetual defeat that accompanies it. Yesterday, for the first time in what felt like years, I finally had time to be at home when others were not.  Instead of feeling mired in chore-filled angst, all I could see around me were beautiful canvases. Instead of making me swear under my breath and stomp around, these tiny canvases stopped me in my tracks. ...

I was experiencing a lot of stress late last week.  The kind of stress that churned up my stomach all day long and loaded a spring deep inside of me in preparation for some kind of an emergency that never came.  It was  a stress that  prevented me from processing thoughts properly.  It had been coming on for weeks and it hit fever pitch on Thursday.  On the suggestion of my husband, I went to talk to someone on Friday for guidance and reassurance on dealing with it.   The woman I met was lovely. She helped me re-arrange my perspective and pick up and re-organize the tracks I had so rigidly laid out.  I started to see clearly for the first time in weeks what my role was and what it was not in relation to the matter that was stressing me out.  She helped me gather up all the wisps of doubt and uncertainty and hold firmly onto what I know and be okay not knowing a LOT of things.  My breathing started to get back in order again. Right...

Approaching high school exams, I would set up camp at the kitchen table.  I would work with intense concentration that was not deterred but rather stoked by the comings and goings of my family members.  I liked working in the centre of the house. If I had to work in isolation, my mind would wander and I had a hard time sticking to my task.  Now, I see that when I do this, and the interruptions come from children and not orderly adults/semi-adults, it takes longer to get things done but I still prefer it over total isolation. Getting interrupted at work has a different impact on me.  Interruptions are harder for me to cope with and manage.  Why is that?  Perhaps its because email can intrude in incessant ways that my mom chatting about who she bumped into at the store can never be compared to. Is it because I can still maintain some fragile level of autonomy and privacy in the midst of chaos at home?  As I work, a part of me, however occupied wi...

According to Wikipedia, Shulie has 2 inhabitants that goes up to 8 in the summer.  My grandmother was a girl in Shulie.  There was a big shipyard there back then.  Then  they floated it down the coast and Shulie                        only in a dwindling few's memories and dreams. As a kid we went there                   we stumbled on in the woods                                                              made us think it was a clue                      A place where people called home and was                       Now, having                 be  and ...

For those of you who  have not read the book Room by Emma Donoghue , I will not spoil the ending.  But I am  not giving anything away when I tell you that it is about a woman and her son who are held captive in a tiny room for years.  The book, told in the voice of the four year old, did not make me cry, even though, it is heartbreaking (for reasons that surprised me) and horrifying.  The boy's voice is so true and full of wonder and curiosity that it is difficult not to see everything from and be compelled by his untroubled perspective. I think, my lack of emotion, was also because it reminded me so much of my own experience with young children at home in the country, with no car.  We lived in a house, but  the living room is where we spent the majority of our time.  Unlike the Room in the book, we had a big picture window looking onto trees and, of course, I could leave it whenever I wanted to.  Even though we had plenty to eat, we t...

Back in the summer, I returned to the neighbourhood where I spent a big part of my growing up years to discover that our neighbour's house was no longer there.  The foundation was there and the front door, complete with the numbers, and the front steps were still entact, but the rest of it was simply not there anymore. The chunk of front step evoked the essence of what had been and, as always happens when I come across an empty space where a structure once stood, I had that feeling of air sweeping through in a way that it hasn't for about 100 years.  The air circulated through that space in a certain pattern before the walls, for ages and ages, and then it did not and now it does again. I picture the fights that were had within those walls , the groceries that were put away, and then cooked and eaten and discarded , the floors that were scrubbed, and the roof that was fretted over. The tea that was sloshed onto a table, the phone calls that were missed, the mirrors...

My children spontaneously start little collections on a regular basis.   My daughter collects all manner of things in a bag or suitcase.  Her collections are usually associated with a project.  She is going to start a school upstairs or go on a trip somewhere.  My son assembles collections of teeny objects in little pots, boxes and containers. Chestnuts, cars and little figures get purposely selected to be contained together for a time to be observed, to be rearranged, to be touched and jangled as he walks from room to room, from house to car and back again for a day or two before he abandons it and picks up a new container and starts over.  Both kinds of collecting are done with great purpose and the process is enjoyed. The other day, my daughter, poising to fill a purse with carefully selected items, asked, "Mama, what do you carry in your purse?"  ---beyond a wallet and keys, I could not name one thing.  This is the case, even though it is overflo...

Recently, I heard a talk about Artifactual Communication. The idea, in a nutshell, is that the stuff on your desk,  or the way you decorate your locker or your home communicates information about you.  The word artifact makes sense to me because essentially I accumulate, covet and adore artifacts.  I've been carting around my Grandmother's collection of match books for ages.  She collected them on trips she took and at weddings she attended between the 1960s and the 1980s (I know because she wrote on the back of each one).  I often wonder what those artifacts say about me, and I guess I know that their presence means I have a hard time letting go of the past.  I like simple objects from the past that were often used and cast aside  without thought.  I like objects people touched and fiddled with everyday. Perhaps she sat in a church hall listening to the toast to the bride and she turned the match book over in her hands. For me, it is like h...