See the Person
Poseidon’s Handmaiden
I want to tell you something about Greece. I’m here for two weeks, and this place has made an impression, taken hold. I will start with right now, this moment I’m in. I’m sitting outside in a bamboo chair on a white linen cushion, my feet rest on the cool
Magic Tokens
I‘m writing this in Toronto, sitting at a picnic table bench, on a patio behind a modern café. Two magic tokens are tucked somewhere in my bag. Last night, I stood on a stage in front of a room full of people and read from my essay “Navel-Gazing, a Revolution
Tractor Dust
I’m visiting a good friend, a fellow writer, on her farm. The visit serves many purposes, but the main one is to meet her newborn daughter, and to spend time writing in the tiny house on her property where I stay. The two of us walk together inside the fenced-in
Cottage Dispatches: On Making the Dock Whole
We’ve only owned a cottage since Covid, and after replacing the original sinking dock with a brand spanking new one, we’ve had to figure out how to manage the moving parts. The first winter, we were dismayed to find a part of our dock frozen close to the shore—not where
Curiosity Over Fear
What is it that your heart desires? I think about this question often. I check in with myself to see what are my goals and am I on track to reach those goals with how I’m living my life? I am convinced that saying what we want for ourselves out
Moving On
Come wintertime where we live, once the temperature drops and stays firmly in the minuses dads from the neighbourhood come together to build a skating rink in the park behind our house. Last winter, when Elyse was nine, we were skating as a family on that rink, and Elyse was
Snapshot of Grief
When your child is sick, nothing else matters. Literally, it’s as though the world stops. I don’t mean sick with a cold, though that presents its own challenges. I mean sick and you don’t know what’s wrong. Sick and you think you’ve cured the problem, but then you haven’t. Sick
What Did She Say?
WHAT did she say? I will preface these stories only by saying that Penelope is a six-year-old with doe eyes and a mop of curls. The other day, I notice Penelope’s on her way to the basement. “What are you doing?” I ask her, friendly-like. “You don’t need to know
