Dear B,
Yesterday we went for a long walk together through your neighbourhood, admiring the panoramic view of the city below, moving swiftly to keep warm and talking even faster – we had nine months of news to catch up on.
And then you told me a secret.
All these months of hibernation and contemplation had germinated a seed within you. A whole world took shape in your imagination. At first, you didn’t know what it was or what to do with this flickering flame of an idea. You had imagined a world wherein an epic series of stories unfolded in layers that would roll out over many years. I listened quietly, envious of that giddy feeling one gets when the muse visits and ideas are fresh, unblemished by editing or writer’s block, nebulous and not yet fully formed, like a tightly furled dandelion, something pure, unadulterated by doubt, despair or the unsolicited opinions of others; not yet a threat to your energy, your soul or your relationships. Ah, the sweetness of a new idea!
I wanted to share with you right then and there everything I’ve learned in almost ten years of writing, but our bodies were freezing and darkness was descending. So, in case we don’t have the chance to walk again anytime soon, here’s everything I know about writing so far, in a top ten list my friend Cat and I compiled last winter for a speech we gave to the Niagara-on-the-Lake Writer’s Circle. I hope it gives you a bit of encouragement for the adventure ahead.
Read MoreIn the late 1930’s, the Dutch government built Camp Westerbork to house thousands of German Jews fleeing National Socialism in Germany. When the Nazis occupied Holland in May 1940, they took over the camp, enlisting Dutch police servicemen as guards. Rients Dijkstra was one of such police officers, and when he reported for duty, he couldn’t do what the Nazis demanded. He lasted one day and never returned to Westerbork. Like thousands of other Dutch citizens, he went underground, hiding in the chicken coop of his girlfriend’s parents’ home, where for a time he was safe. However, as supplies dwindled, it became difficult for citizens to feed the thousands of onderduikers, those who had gone underground. Meanwhile, the Germans paid informants fifty guilders to track down runaways. Rients’ luck ran out when someone took the money. Though the house was searched, they skipped the chicken coop. Frustrated, the Germans grabbed Rients’ girlfriend’s father instead.
Read MoreThe first Mother’s Day I didn’t hug my mom was May 1998, when I lived abroad in Mexico and went for almost an entire year without seeing my parents. I was seventeen. Mexican women, other mothers, raised me that year. My mom might have disapproved of my choice of strappy heels (she totally did), but she was 3,000 miles away. Over the years I’m guessing we’ve been apart more than we’ve been together on the second Sunday in May. There are plenty of reasons we’re not often with her to celebrate Mother’s Day (distance, work, in-laws), but the truth is that she’s just not the kind of mom that expects me to show up because Hallmark deems it so. Not only did I draw “unfussy mom” in the life lottery, but I also got a mom who has encouraged me to seek wisdom from other women and cultivate relationships far and wide. I’m sorry she was on her own today, but she’s a gardener; she knows that when you throw seeds in the air, sometimes you have to watch flowers grow from a distance.
As a kid, I spent a lot of time with my mom’s close girlfriends and my dad’s sisters. I thought everyone grew up sharing a bed with their aunties, spending special weekends in the city or travelling across the country in creaky hatchbacks without a plan.
Read MoreA few months ago, I looked at the calendar and realized this year school was letting out a little earlier and Labour Day was later. “What a long summer this will be,” February Me thought. “We should take a road trip!” Out came the maps. Could we drive through the Finger Lakes and then head north and see the entire Gaspé Peninsula? What are the secondary highways in Maine like? When would the lupins be flowering? That was then. Summer, like Winter and Spring, got a lot longer for everyone as we headed into March Break, or, as I have come to think of it now, the beginning of a new season we can just call the era of “fresh baked carbs.” The weird thing is, while I really was going to try “going Keto” (someday!), I may have secretly wished for a time warp like this. As J.T (our bearded Prime Minister) would say, “Let me be clear”… I did not wish for, nor would I ever wish for a pandemic, but I have caught myself many times in the last year thinking, “I would love to stop time.” Well, here we are…
Read MoreMany years ago, at a sleepover, I picked up an adult’s diary and began to read. I got as far as the first sentence before slamming it shut and carefully replacing it on the shelf. The person who penned those opening lines couldn’t possibly be the same person who’d earlier bought me an ice-cream cone! I knew the adage “you can’t judge a book by its cover” but surely if someone smiled all the time, they couldn’t simultaneously endure such inner turmoil, could they? Fast forward to the present moment. If you were to reach onto my (secret, hidden) bookshelf and pull down any one of my leather journals, the first words you would read would be: BURN ME. Mine is a life of adversary, jealousy and mountains of insecurity… at least according to the crazy diatribe that is my diary. Like millions of others, I’m not alone trying to make sense of the world and my place in it by pushing words onto a page. But, loathe to offer up my unedited ramblings for general consumption, allow me instead to direct you to some brave souls who aren’t afraid to open their hearts and minds and offer some worthy reflections in the midst of this dark mid-winter.
Read MoreThere’s an old song from the thirties I’ve always loved, maybe because I love origin stories. It begins, “I was born under a silvery moon, with a pirate’s heart.” Written by Agustin Lara, a troubadour who played piano in nightclubs when he was only twelve years old, it’s an ode to Veracruz, a city on the Gulf of Mexico where Hernan Cortés’ Spanish flotilla first collided with Huastec, Otomí, Totonac and Olmec civilization. Five hundred years later, Veracruzanos are dark-skinned, fair-skinned, freckled, tall, short. They may have black almond eyes or large green eyes, hooked noses or aquiline profiles… “Jarochos”, as people from the port city are affectionately called, are fond of nicknaming their friends and neighbours by their most obvious physical trait. Chubby? You’re “gordo”. Skinny? They’ll call you “flaco”. No tan? Güero. It’s the end of July, and I’m sitting by the water in my hometown, calling my “other” home, Veracruz, to wish Martha –my Mexican mama– a “Happy Birthday”, humming the old familiar tune until she picks up.
“Hola Güerita,” she answers, in her sing song accent.
“I found tickets to come see you in December!” I tell her excitedly, never imagining a few days later the cost of our reunion will break my heart.
“Excellente, mi hija,” she replies. Now tell me how you’ve been…
Read MoreToday’s the day the Toronto Star publishes my story, “North of Us”, in the Insight section. You can also read it here or listen to it by clicking on the link below.
Read MoreYesterday morning I woke up wishing I had been born a Buddhist. I practiced yoga (release!) and went for a run in the woods, trying to let go of a desire that was occupying way too much space in my mind. A week or so earlier, I’d been packing up at work, when my cellphone rang. The students wanted to answer it.
“It’s just the dentist,” I said. (Who else calls during the day?)
“Let us say hi,” they chirped.
Hmmm. That would be kind of funny, but no, I was there so they would get an education! No phones in the classroom! I checked the message later that afternoon, only to start shaking.
“Hello, Lena. This is the Toronto Star calling. You’ve placed in the top three finalists for the Short Story Contest.”
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