We are climbing up a mountain, and the landscape looks like Mars. Alternately rocky and sandy, the trail requires steady feet, but our shoes slip and slide over the red dust that coats everything. Other than the odd cactus dotting the steep slopes, this is a wasteland.
I am beginning to think that everyone in this world has an analogue somewhere on another continent. And that a great many of them live in Morocco.
I’m sure you know what I mean: that niggling feeling that someone reminds you of (or perhaps is) someone else. In fact, one of the very first people who greeted me in Casablanca has a vocal cadence much like one of my synchronized swimming buddies in Canada. So, in my head, I call her “Morocco Sharon.” In the confines of this small campus, I have also met Morocco Dave, Morocco Catharine, Morocco Sarah; Morocco Tania, Stephanie, Krystal, Vera, Crystal, Paul, and Darlene; and, most curiously, Morocco Snow White and Morocco Barbie.
“Hey, are these guys any good?” I asked, gesturing at the Peterborough Singers brochures on the counter. It was February, 2008, and I was hauling yet another load of mistreated school band instruments to B Flat Music for a little TLC.
“Oh, yes, very good!” declared Peg McCracken.
“You’ve heard them, then?” I asked skeptically.
“Heard them? I’ve sung with them for eighteen years!”
Undaunted, I pressed her further. “What kind of music do they sing?” I was not into the flaky schmaltz that so many community choirs seem to thrive on. I made that immediately and unapologetically clear.
“Well, we’re singing Bach’s St. Matthew Passion in our next concert. You should join us!”
Wait. A. Minute. Are you telling me that a place exists in Peterborough where I can go and sing exclusively Bach for two hours a week, every single week, until May? Pinch me hard; I must be dreaming.
“Start by coming to our concert this weekend. If you like it, we can set up an audition.”
I went. The moment the choir started singing, Continue reading
Who would have thought that moving to Morocco would arouse a sort of grief?
But it has – a strong and foolish grief that has me paralyzed with inactivity. I call it house grief. And I don’t mean that I’m feeling inconvenienced or annoyed (as in, “This broken zipper is causing me grief”); no, I’m embarrassed to say I am grieving over a carefully constructed pile of bricks.
I was fortunate today to attend an inspiring writer’s workshop with a pretty welcoming and inclusive crowd; my first such experience, however, was not quite so affirming. Here’s a brash little tale about a critic from my rather distant past.
She trundles into class on the first day and everyone acknowledges her with an affectionate respect. I wonder why.
The first thing is her posture. It plots with her rather unremarkable clothing to create a bag lady effect. I feel sorry for her. How brave of her to come. Continue reading
You may have noticed a funny little game going around on Facebook, whereby people nominate each other to share a few things for which they are thankful. The challenge is to “post three things you’re grateful for each day for seven days.”
I say, PSHAW. That’s no challenge at all. I’ve done that, week after week, year after year, since 2007, without repeating anything.*
It gets a little tricky to do that for seven years running, so I’ll modify the challenge for all of you novices out there: Can you muster up 365 consecutive days of gratitude, and post your list next Thanksgiving?
I did! So here, without further ado, is my (minimally censored) 2014 Gratitude List:
The sun came out and warmed me up
I got an extra hour outside
I made the soup yesterday
Gloria is okay
I made it to the end of this emotionally unsavoury day
And tomorrow will be different
My back yard at night, with stars and wisps of clouds. It gives me cause for deep breaths and solace.
Children who stay home to vomit… Continue reading
I had a Cheers moment last night. It was fantastic. I walked into a bar, and heard a joyful chorus of, “Hey, Norm!”
Well, to be precise, the exclamation sounded more like, “Hi Natasha!” and the bar was Syd Birrell’s back porch. But the sentiment was the same. Quiet little Natasha, who never speaks unless she must, still managed to find herself a roomful of friends.
Everyone was happy to see me. Everyone conversed with me. Everyone asked me questions, and was interested in my answers. I could barely sit down, I was so busy being everyone’s friend. Indeed, I was one of the last to leave. Me. Staying longer than necessary at a social event. Imagine!
What unprecedented alignment of stars and planets could make such a thing happen? What mysterious forces intervened to thrust me so effortlessly into everyone else’s collective orbit? Was it my birthday? My convocation? My wedding? My retirement?
I am angry with this thing called Cancer. Most of us are. We often hear it said that Cancer has “touched everyone’s lives” in some way. This is true. And it’s natural to hate the thing that causes loss.
But that’s not why I’m angry with Cancer. I’m angry with Cancer because I’m jealous of it. I have been for years. It’s infantile, I know, but I have wished it upon my family. “Cancer,” I have thought, “would be better than this.”
Let me tell you why.
I asked my dad two questions today, as I stood beside his grave.
I, who walk upon this earth that covers him, have before me an uncertain future (as do we all). I have decisions to make that will steer me upon this earth in any number of unspecified directions, in circles or meandering lines, with a maddeningly undetermined end point.
“What would you say, Dad, if you were still alive? What should I do? How should I choose? What would matter to you?”
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