My province recently announced the inauguration of the long-awaited Phase 3 of its reopening plan, after 16 months of pandemic restrictions that stripped us of so many basic human needs: needs for safety, companionship, and freedom of movement; needs for familiarity and novelty, frivolity and meaning; needs for physical contact and emotional connection. These unpopular restrictions have been essential to the ongoing eradication of the cause of all this loss, and therefore had my full support. The threat has not passed; ongoing vigilance is necessary, and will be for some time. But I and those I care about have recently achieved “fully vaccinated” status, just when the powers that be have opened doors that have long been bolted fast.
And so it was that after a lonely year of disconnection and discontent, I found my way back to humanity, in the form of a modest road trip to see people and places from my Pre-Pandemic Past.
Cosmic Prose
Natasha Regehr
Tag: Peterborough (page 1 of 2)
A year and a half ago, with my sights set on Morocco, I trotted to the Peterborough Public Library and went berserk. First, I gave away about fifteen boxes of books, and then, I set about replacing them.
I signed out an armload of language and travel resources, fiction, and DVDs about North Africa, and devoured them all, in between spastic packing fits. But my most precious acquisition was a tiny, one-dollar purchase from the library basement: a slim, winsome copy of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Le Petit Prince – en français, of course, because I fancied the idea of becoming fluent in French during my two years abroad.
Ha! Well, I exported myself from one continent to the other, and soon discovered that “learning French” is a bigger endeavour than I had expected – and that Le Petit Prince is not so little after all. Continue reading
I am thankful for the big things: the people who make my world beautiful every day, both here in Morocco and in my other happy home in Canada; for the many places in between that I’ve been able to visit this year (twelve airports, if I’ve counted correctly!); for the rich cultures and histories that intersect my days; for meaningful work; and for the provisions that allow me to keep on living this colourful, promising life.
But every Thanksgiving, I take a few hours to collect all the smaller thanksgivings I’ve recorded throughout the year as well – those things that, at the end of each day, remind me that there is always, always a little goodness to be found, or to create, with a small turn of the mind.
Here, then, is my 2016 Gratitude List, beginning with last year’s Thanksgiving trip to an all-inclusive resort in Southern Morocco, and ending with yesterday’s roast chicken at home. I invite you to walk through my year of thankfulness with me: Continue reading
O, Canada! How do I love you? Let me count the ways.
I love the way your cars travel in placidly parallel lanes, staying obediently between the dotted lines, graciously allowing each and every vehicle its own personal space. I love how I can always tell with reasonable certainty whether it’s safe to enter your blessedly perpendicular intersections; I love how I can see your traffic lights no matter where I am, and people wave at me to say, “Please, you go first. I’d rather wait.” I love it that I have been here for thirteen days now and I haven’t heard a single honking horn or shrieking whistle. I love how your cyclists get their very own lanes, your signs tell everyone to share the road, and people are happy to take turns. O, Canada, I love your pretty roads. Continue reading
My dear Canadian friends have had to wait a full six weeks longer than usual to read my annual Gratitude List. Sorry, guys. I was in the desert while you were being thankful, so I’ve jumped on the American bandwagon and given thanks today instead.
For those of you who are new to this quirky tradition of mine, here’s the scoop: Every night before I go to sleep, I write down a few causes for gratitude. I try not to repeat myself (keeps the thankfulness muscles limber!) but I’m certain you’ll notice an emerging theme or two. Each Thanksgiving, I post the list for the world to ponder and puzzle over. For me, it’s a grounding practice of putting days and years in perspective. For you, it’s either funny, or inspiring, or TMI. Whatever. It’s not about you.
I suspect that no one but my mom actually reads the list from start to finish, but should you wish to try, godspeed!
Beginning in October, 2014, here is my year, chronicled in thanks!
A hearth, a family, a sharing of lives
A new form of freedom
Eschatological laughter
Acceptance and openness
What I have is enough
Decisions made = settledness. There is security in having chosen.
Fiction fabulousness Continue reading
This is what it’s like to audition for a choir in Casablanca.
First, you email the director, in impeccable French (or, should I say, infantile French that has been nicely elevated by your conveniently bilingual pal back in pleasantly predictable Canada). The director emails you back –eventually– in a casual French that lacks the standards of punctuation and capitalization to which you have grown accustomed in such exchanges. No matter. She is a native speaker. You will allow her this linguistic license.
The content of her message is, essentially, “call me, maybe.”
The second step in auditioning for a choir in Casablanca is a brief moment of panic. Continue reading
My practically perfect house is more than perfect. It is flawless. I am sitting in my beautifully staged living room, enjoying the clean, airy feeling of a place that is ready to “show.” And it will be shown, tomorrow, I hope, before my strategically placed flowers begin to wilt.
For those of you who have been kindly offering advice and making inquiries on my behalf, here’s the deal (or lack thereof…), when it comes to my house:
“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
Sometimes life strikes me as a continual circuit of hopes and disappointments, with a minor victory thrown in from time to time, just to keep the optimism from completely expiring.
Is this a morose perspective? I suppose so. On my better days, that sentence might read, “Life is an ongoing adventure of hopes and challenges, ever prodding us on to new forms of optimism.” Victory has nothing to do with it, from this viewpoint. It’s all about the effort.
But perpetual effort can be tiring, don’t you think? Without little victories, the circuit can wear us down, no matter how resilient we may be. We become caught in this flux of energies, which we constantly misplace and rediscover, in varying proportions. Does anyone else ever feel this way?
I have a lovely little h
ouse. It is, as my childhood idol would say, “practically perfect in every way.” And I am learning, in increments, to let it go.
Part of moving to Morocco, you see, is selecting someone else to inhabit my treasured domicile while I’m away. So far, that has been an emotional process. It requires trust — both in the potential tenant, and in providence, to provide that tenant when the time is right. Strengthening one’s “trust muscles” can be a gruelling task, especially when one feels interminably caught in Fortuna’s spinning wheel.
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