tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89423257366571217182024-02-22T01:34:42.812-08:00Everyday CreativityEveryday CreativityEleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-23446584767331356622020-08-13T11:50:00.015-07:002020-08-13T11:57:34.967-07:00Writing Fiction from Oral History<p> <span style="font-family: arial;">Writing Fiction from Oral History</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJqmc1MnXYrgpemG3X_AmBnxtnqkng6lxe5Rp8OeD08SkxHatDMcGSG0F9CQEKTubA6xCKvhtPWV8DbnDDmo-VwBCn1zWAnz8Zisk89Q1ZxNjr7szog3iP-sH-TA6pvyY5A_FY31ARVg/s1354/Book+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="1354" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJqmc1MnXYrgpemG3X_AmBnxtnqkng6lxe5Rp8OeD08SkxHatDMcGSG0F9CQEKTubA6xCKvhtPWV8DbnDDmo-VwBCn1zWAnz8Zisk89Q1ZxNjr7szog3iP-sH-TA6pvyY5A_FY31ARVg/w410-h298/Book+Cover.jpg" width="410" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My mother had never visited the cemetery where her
grandmother, Mary Mohan, was buried. My mother knew some things about Mary—that
she had come to the United States from Ireland on board a coffin ship and was
the only surviving member of her family. All died of typhus and all were buried
at sea. My mother also knew that Mary had died while giving birth and that her
husband had a drinking problem. But other than these few details, she knew
little else. A decade ago, my sister who lives in Winnipeg, offered to drive my
mother to Ardoch, North Dakota where Mary had raised her family. The two of
them set off on their day-trip adventure, hoping to locate Mary Mohan’s resting
place. The cemetery was a set in a cozy grove, with trees and headstones and
rambling pathways typical of small-town America. Mary Jane’s headstone was
found with little effort. What surprised my sister and mother wasn’t the
epitaph or the fact that the tombstone indicated that she had died in
childbirth—rather, <a name="_Hlk47450068">i</a>t was the date that left them
astonished. There they were, staring at the tombstone exactly one hundred years
from the day that she had passed away. It was a significant moment, not only
for my mother but also for me when I heard tell of it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I grew up with dozens of visitors gathered around my
grandmother’s kitchen table, drinking coffee from the ceramic blackened
percolator, or some of us dipping into the case of beer tucked beside the
fridge. There was always plenty of storytelling and “good humour” but no one
ever touched on the life of Mary. It was too far in the past—it belonged to
another time and place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After hearing of
the 100-day coincidence, however, I found myself intrigued. Could I bring her
story to life? Could I conjure up the details, the hardship, and what it meant
to be a mother long before my time? These questions compelled me to give Mary Mohan
a voice, even though I had only a few crumbs to go on. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so, I began to write her story in the first
person. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Through my pen, both Mary and her dear friend Fiorella
shared their version of events. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPbRDeVXN3B2ocnaqvdArWBPO3xFyNi4iFHeVyIPJ-6PWTbanzJK7BsEJn5LOS6Suw7uoLnMkVIVfwU4cW1RuPWa1aOj248Khl_bAZakzItqXo61_Rd8V25DvuewVkD_gYadLYbefUA/s2048/111-SC-28631_-_NARA_-_55216716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1391" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPbRDeVXN3B2ocnaqvdArWBPO3xFyNi4iFHeVyIPJ-6PWTbanzJK7BsEJn5LOS6Suw7uoLnMkVIVfwU4cW1RuPWa1aOj248Khl_bAZakzItqXo61_Rd8V25DvuewVkD_gYadLYbefUA/s640/111-SC-28631_-_NARA_-_55216716.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I found myself jumping almost two decades to
WW1 France, with my grandfather—Mary’s son—taking over the narration. Following
that, his wife, Primrose from northern Ontario, spoke. And on it went, with one
narrator after the other, eager to share their part in the storytelling. Though
the first draft was completed, I knew that in order to do the story justice, I
had years of research ahead of me. I had strung the warp but now needed to
weave in the yarn. I had never felt the slightest interest in military history;
yet suddenly I was diving into it with obsessive interest. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">I also unearthed
papers from a variety of academics that had explored midwifery and herbology in
a historical context, as well as folk remedies and practices from old-world
southern Italy where my paternal grandparents came from.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo3SR43CmzNtyACAxUdyZL5EE7SV2Tq-IldZ3HPfR4dBg-hdLOqfcZv6X69W7quFo8dZ5nqeP873xCW1iVH0FMmrHwG6ZloGVyd3pnB7lkoGAlTKgbnC80OKtldsr0vYqPuezZgojn5w/s2048/%2527%2527Fortunata+on+train+tracks.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo3SR43CmzNtyACAxUdyZL5EE7SV2Tq-IldZ3HPfR4dBg-hdLOqfcZv6X69W7quFo8dZ5nqeP873xCW1iVH0FMmrHwG6ZloGVyd3pnB7lkoGAlTKgbnC80OKtldsr0vYqPuezZgojn5w/s640/%2527%2527Fortunata+on+train+tracks.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The novel moves through the generations, and with the
passage of time, the history became more accessible to me. I found myself
interviewing all my living aunts and uncles to see what gems I could unearth. I’m
not sure if it was the home-grown vegetables or the severity of surviving a
northern climate with nothing but a wood stove to keep them warm, but either
way, my aunts and uncles seemed to live longer than most. After many drafts,
many cuts, I felt the novel was ready to share with a publisher. What stays
with me most about this process is the understanding I now have about the
creative process. With an emotional and familial connection to the characters,
there was a well from which to draw; but without the rich layers of historical
fact and oral storytelling, there would have been no story.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-3807948245080564472014-06-21T17:50:00.000-07:002014-06-24T19:23:45.363-07:00The Pearl Moon of Zagreb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtuokrAfTAVz5e7i0YQql96Yq7h7vQMaJUkVUGS75JvnfNEt-RkNH3WU36vuWzlngkJnaLvmI9rcZr8zxz4K3VoUPbFlmObd3RejQNkyGi8Z8nVEElReaIbEGWohbC00g8A_09jJ0Ng/s1600/Room+with+a+View2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtuokrAfTAVz5e7i0YQql96Yq7h7vQMaJUkVUGS75JvnfNEt-RkNH3WU36vuWzlngkJnaLvmI9rcZr8zxz4K3VoUPbFlmObd3RejQNkyGi8Z8nVEElReaIbEGWohbC00g8A_09jJ0Ng/s1600/Room+with+a+View2.jpg" height="501" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main square in Zagreb just outside 'Europe House'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I felt like a passenger
pigeon, delivering our little package to Zagreb. It was, as always,
a mad dash getting all the last minute details in order before flying
overseas. The sound recordist and editor were tweaking the sound
while we scrambled to find out how to burn a DVD in European format.
Thanks to many hands including Confederation College, it all happened
on time. Tucked in my carry-on, I had with me a blue-ray and DVD
copy of “<a href="http://www.vimeo.com/user26992074">Under the Pearl Moon</a>.” I was taking with me, not just
the film, but all of the talent and energy so many had given to our project (Sonja Obljubek and myself and other's, of course.)</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Photo: Zagreb" src="https://scontent-a-ord.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xpa1/t1.0-9/p526x296/10365951_10152403538530395_6446940727494702246_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When a person travels,
it's important to let go of expectations. But sometimes, expectations are hidden from view; tucked away in a corner of our
brains and we don't even know they are there. When my daughter <a href="http://rightfulowner.blogspot.ca/">Caitlin</a> and I
arrived in Croatia, I noticed how the people seemed reserved and being that we did not know one word of the language, at times I felt uncomfortable. And, maybe it was just my imagination, but there was a sense of the effects of post-war in the air. I also saw many
senior citizens collecting plastic and glass to redeem for a bit of
extra cash. People seemed less prosperous (although, we too have our problems of poverty in Canada), but also less swept up in
materialism. This was definitely a different country. How lucky we were. We had each other, a great adventure and Alanna to give us a home away from home.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgACviyyLuHH1FsXOOp7HuOwvAWaEfxY6LA5xqwHrusRS1BlV3I0CDObUzeJkxzbd8D_1k1Vf7vx40ldRGVaOkV1m6zbhmvkRJPpfJkuu5-n8_7_L5PY2PVzzCe8nU1ZtT3n9qF6eZeKQ/s1600/Caitlin+and+I+Debrovnik.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgACviyyLuHH1FsXOOp7HuOwvAWaEfxY6LA5xqwHrusRS1BlV3I0CDObUzeJkxzbd8D_1k1Vf7vx40ldRGVaOkV1m6zbhmvkRJPpfJkuu5-n8_7_L5PY2PVzzCe8nU1ZtT3n9qF6eZeKQ/s1600/Caitlin+and+I+Debrovnik.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and daughter getting to know Croatia.</td></tr>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The longer I found myself living in Croatia, the more the
people and the culture grew on me. And the more I understood what it
was that Jennifer Garrett, our “Aunt Birdie”, had fallen in love
with there. Though the young people wear ear buds and trendy clothes
like North Americans, they are very considerate of older people.
They stop to open doors and give up their seats on the tram. They smile and say
“Dobar dan” (good day) to each other. I learned a few simple
greetings and became a 'regular' at the market downtown. Each day, I
stopped for the best tasting coffee I've ever had. Each day I made
my rounds at the market buying fresh cheese, fresh greens and fruit
as well as corn bread. I got to know the vendors and even though I
didn't know Croatian, they were always helpful and kind. Music was
everywhere. In the streets, there are buskers, choirs, church bells
tolling and the sounds of children singing. Everyone, it seems,
sings in a choir or plays an instrument. In fact, every single
university department has a choir with a professional choir director.
There's a philosophy choir and a history choir and a veterinary
choir and so on. One night I went out to an event to hear each of
the university choirs and I was moved to tears that evening, more
than once.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I had traveled to
Zagreb for the purpose of sharing the film “<a href="https://vimeo.com/92096349">Under the Pearl Moon</a>”
first and foremost with Jennifer's circle of friends and
acquaintances. It seemed fitting that this needed to be the first
sharing. And, fortunately for me, Alanna, Jennifer's daughter was
with me every step of the way. Europe House was our host and a
fitting one, since Jennifer had given concerts there as well as
exhibited her paintings. The windows opened up into the main square,
the exact spot I meandered through each day on my way to the market.
The room seated about a hundred people or more. It was perfect.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the spirit of
Jennifer, we brought fresh food and a table with unique art items for sale. We hung Jennifer's art on
the walls and invited her long-time musical friend Vladimir and his
band to play. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDl0mlOysC6tjKmcSyZiQD8H7HODUMgRZZi6yMwYwt8rj50QntTLH59pA21IxzFWrllIGM3m2DZPGb9ALZc2-NoUWxv6K6T1Nu56X7qGm002whqp4nMti8Ruzlkrc43kUU_B1eUbp6vQ/s1600/Zagreb+Picnic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDl0mlOysC6tjKmcSyZiQD8H7HODUMgRZZi6yMwYwt8rj50QntTLH59pA21IxzFWrllIGM3m2DZPGb9ALZc2-NoUWxv6K6T1Nu56X7qGm002whqp4nMti8Ruzlkrc43kUU_B1eUbp6vQ/s1600/Zagreb+Picnic.jpg" height="241" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69hQbpSQRSdDhHLPvBO55s58syL4SNbDH8ZbAfn44tOi5LJtKD_ltMHmF7Q5dmZcxWNhWNiccxGYzC6g_Ct9ikUBfJiFiwzQ0pVIRnTGChI-y4m5CllEjKHQAucABYjB1_I03roJKoQ/s1600/Craft+Table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69hQbpSQRSdDhHLPvBO55s58syL4SNbDH8ZbAfn44tOi5LJtKD_ltMHmF7Q5dmZcxWNhWNiccxGYzC6g_Ct9ikUBfJiFiwzQ0pVIRnTGChI-y4m5CllEjKHQAucABYjB1_I03roJKoQ/s1600/Craft+Table.jpg" height="231" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As we were setting up, there was a rock band in the
square below giving a sound check and let me tell you, it was loud!
Alanna and I exchanged knowing glances. If they decided to play
during our film screening, the audience would near nothing but the
rock band. Oh well! There was cheese to be sliced and fruit to be
washed and projectors to be tested. And of course, everything went
wonderfully well. The rock band held off until later in the evening.
There was a translator who kindly translated our opening talks into
Croatian. The room was filled with love and laughter, just as
Jennifer would have wanted it. In fact, I felt as if she had
orchestrated the entire event. I felt her smiling from wherever she
is; reminding us of what is truly important in life: friendships,
song, art, love.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2MOyC4Ngx-qBsXOS1daoD6nmvTK3vBfKesjBQRMaCTHxsT8Svexdc5OxkwgpxjgsVYvYpX4KoswE1kVEOmdWpAqBqvzTAobIlUDmY3Fnm9N9qZv1VSywRX2iUu677cglvVHjiSIwyw/s1600/Room+with+a+View3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2MOyC4Ngx-qBsXOS1daoD6nmvTK3vBfKesjBQRMaCTHxsT8Svexdc5OxkwgpxjgsVYvYpX4KoswE1kVEOmdWpAqBqvzTAobIlUDmY3Fnm9N9qZv1VSywRX2iUu677cglvVHjiSIwyw/s1600/Room+with+a+View3.jpg" height="640" width="486" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Europe House: A Room with a View</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidanIg53Rtzzrjl1UCSZJpXYWxwRTmHmDXVn2m_YOLtjN-OidJ9UCBF5YCYJTnx94ZCXUjVBK2gwxk8LGmu8ySq5BY3td-tZhvys9f7no0lBL9reBK6qnSF1V_IHMf2MBcR8efEI64pg/s1600/Europe+House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidanIg53Rtzzrjl1UCSZJpXYWxwRTmHmDXVn2m_YOLtjN-OidJ9UCBF5YCYJTnx94ZCXUjVBK2gwxk8LGmu8ySq5BY3td-tZhvys9f7no0lBL9reBK6qnSF1V_IHMf2MBcR8efEI64pg/s1600/Europe+House.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just before the guests arrive.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxL6lgSlnkybzes4NIy2PzzeWL_pI4EU8CnAGFRUxBlUFYY1qW559B3OvAVbNCxKF6FI0k0gCdzxuSO0OWE-4V16bJ19iDlH0c4_ENmYBCPEhsA83dg6beQkMs_Ogb9ZfGuVmJgj7hQA/s1600/Renata.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxL6lgSlnkybzes4NIy2PzzeWL_pI4EU8CnAGFRUxBlUFYY1qW559B3OvAVbNCxKF6FI0k0gCdzxuSO0OWE-4V16bJ19iDlH0c4_ENmYBCPEhsA83dg6beQkMs_Ogb9ZfGuVmJgj7hQA/s1600/Renata.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Alanna and our host Renata at Europe House</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6a8MuM8uftTjWeHTfKsRLEH-LSljs7u26Hx4wrjI-NgVBCFoAIi1a9E3MVfXn5-mp-U6fDsR3Tssp1AxTGcbY-ltltag2KMYwkDrpeEzGeOffpOE8CC4zWX-rsk7cqg3jiip6IHC2w/s1600/Jennifer's+Work.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6a8MuM8uftTjWeHTfKsRLEH-LSljs7u26Hx4wrjI-NgVBCFoAIi1a9E3MVfXn5-mp-U6fDsR3Tssp1AxTGcbY-ltltag2KMYwkDrpeEzGeOffpOE8CC4zWX-rsk7cqg3jiip6IHC2w/s1600/Jennifer's+Work.jpg" height="466" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jennifer Garrett's paintings</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgOw72i527sgPNMdnYnMyzZeE35QVpfmAg2KjiqBj3NAGAVSm-94H-i61CiR1rLp8hIZddC9c3CnYOqei6NZbcX7suJ19mDVwJqq3U3r0CZAly3w3on9deA86iXoETWr0RcPnwWf4aow/s1600/The+party2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgOw72i527sgPNMdnYnMyzZeE35QVpfmAg2KjiqBj3NAGAVSm-94H-i61CiR1rLp8hIZddC9c3CnYOqei6NZbcX7suJ19mDVwJqq3U3r0CZAly3w3on9deA86iXoETWr0RcPnwWf4aow/s1600/The+party2.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alanna and I at the event</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLcuM8ct71xv54soWylbocm7FXaio1qjCqaEtbCcDQMeAWK88ozLw_bcN8Ix5kNu1QHx_EGOQ4LwH9FQ385oalfayM_dgwi_mc1CFzmKUqQsCmWnSjl7tkA6KAyEQISASxlbey263aQ/s1600/The+crowd2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLcuM8ct71xv54soWylbocm7FXaio1qjCqaEtbCcDQMeAWK88ozLw_bcN8Ix5kNu1QHx_EGOQ4LwH9FQ385oalfayM_dgwi_mc1CFzmKUqQsCmWnSjl7tkA6KAyEQISASxlbey263aQ/s1600/The+crowd2.jpg" height="293" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy guests</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWVSvr7SZ6je6vgLEpFGmWGPGpDsgL7rOmpzrCOBPSILm63QZKm6kB89i-t7VQni8Qn_WbIWx7UJAYHwek63R1sOaX7QBZIGasA6xE2EetTb_nj2YadYltQLV8FVTMtKcvehDv5X6e4Q/s1600/The+Crowd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWVSvr7SZ6je6vgLEpFGmWGPGpDsgL7rOmpzrCOBPSILm63QZKm6kB89i-t7VQni8Qn_WbIWx7UJAYHwek63R1sOaX7QBZIGasA6xE2EetTb_nj2YadYltQLV8FVTMtKcvehDv5X6e4Q/s1600/The+Crowd.jpg" height="291" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More happy guests.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLHyp0eUmlRHxPTn1FktP6Hn8LFUhbBjI5LE8kBqygY8eUpeRy85S1ZS60o0uW1yzIbDqK5F5UP0obupSYaeC8JRtdhINHm67tNn3Cg2V0JvXBcGDosLcjXlsSA698eYMjiA1utqF-w/s1600/The+party3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLHyp0eUmlRHxPTn1FktP6Hn8LFUhbBjI5LE8kBqygY8eUpeRy85S1ZS60o0uW1yzIbDqK5F5UP0obupSYaeC8JRtdhINHm67tNn3Cg2V0JvXBcGDosLcjXlsSA698eYMjiA1utqF-w/s1600/The+party3.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Posters, anyone?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgH29uOqrEHtcs_GsAqFzIKjqJ_tHZjDHgNEPowTg7-JQvHFBbtdFjnxees5aR0eiKw9KVqptWtBiD9Inrs-sz3ZCtvp-W8U_eMfARB-QOBjNv86h7aKFhuQ2isJ9uFPSNhaOqRKjMA/s1600/DSCF4808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgH29uOqrEHtcs_GsAqFzIKjqJ_tHZjDHgNEPowTg7-JQvHFBbtdFjnxees5aR0eiKw9KVqptWtBiD9Inrs-sz3ZCtvp-W8U_eMfARB-QOBjNv86h7aKFhuQ2isJ9uFPSNhaOqRKjMA/s1600/DSCF4808.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picking up the paintings in a thunder storm</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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On my last night in
Zagreb, one of Alanna's dear friends popped in to offer me a jar of
honey from her parents bee farm. As she stepped inside Alanna's
apartment, we noticed she had something tucked inside her arms. Her
face was lit up with joy. What was it? She revealed an orphan raven
that she had, only moments before, rescued. The
raven clutched onto Anna's sweater, determined to not let go of its
new mother. As the sky darkened and we gazed out the windows onto
the cityscape, we saw the moon make its appearance in the sky. It
was one night away from the full moon, which meant that I would
arrive back home on the full moon! What a lovely coincidence. In
the storyline of the film, Pearl herself is finally reunited with her
mother on the night of the full moon. And she, like me, was away
from home for four weeks: from one full moon to the next.
</div>
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As I drifted off to
sleep that night, I thought of the many ways I felt like little Pearl
on my trip to Croatia. I started out feeling culture shock and
homesickness, just like her. I couldn't mange to get internet access
in the cafes because I didn't know how to ask for the wifi password,
just as she couldn't manage to get a cell phone signal. There were
other parallels too but the icing on the cake was Anna's orphan
raven. When you do see “Under the Pearl Moon,” perhaps you'll
enjoy hearing Aunt Birdie say “Did you know that I once had an
orphan raven? Beautiful blue-black wings. We were great friends.”</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsaHgR4rVGvQX2M5q2GF0PSBDHv7-LymKh4Angqv8k51GrBftCqJZOuwe0zXBw688jAaz1UMzCwychAN_55aPnRioFASySzltbpy4s4Aq1N5zNvARM1Vnnq_AbzDIb2eQC6xUTjW6K4Q/s1600/Orphan+Raven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsaHgR4rVGvQX2M5q2GF0PSBDHv7-LymKh4Angqv8k51GrBftCqJZOuwe0zXBw688jAaz1UMzCwychAN_55aPnRioFASySzltbpy4s4Aq1N5zNvARM1Vnnq_AbzDIb2eQC6xUTjW6K4Q/s1600/Orphan+Raven.jpg" height="640" width="457" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anna's orphan raven</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV0M6JdD4posFH3SQKXV9hbDzuQgAzR1tAkmFyFcpOSPp_O8d8ywhCL5WSL4v4QQNVpuCZBMBhF9tbJEYSpKZV5RWf50qlGntVDyCytSenz0UqD7iMXBM85AROTXnFBh1JLLsi5_Szqw/s1600/Near+Full+Moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV0M6JdD4posFH3SQKXV9hbDzuQgAzR1tAkmFyFcpOSPp_O8d8ywhCL5WSL4v4QQNVpuCZBMBhF9tbJEYSpKZV5RWf50qlGntVDyCytSenz0UqD7iMXBM85AROTXnFBh1JLLsi5_Szqw/s1600/Near+Full+Moon.jpg" height="469" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pearl Moon of Zagreb.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-1448456868240231532014-03-30T20:25:00.000-07:002014-03-30T20:25:25.896-07:00Art Pin Factory<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today, we gathered to
create “art lapel pins,” an idea inspired by my friend Marianne
Brown. The initial purpose was to hand stitch lapel pins and the proceeds
would help our fundraising efforts for the film <i>Under the Pearl
Moon</i>. And yes, in that sense, the afternoon did help to bring
us closer to our goal. But it did something more, as well. There
are certain things we don't often do together as women, like
hand-stitching. Yes, it seems very old fashioned but I have the
sense when I stitch with my daughter or my women friends (like today), that something else is going on: something under the surface. </div>
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Throughout the
afternoon, there were times of quiet as all of us focused on our
work. Other times there was laughter and story-telling. As we
worked, I felt that were not only stitching cloth and beads and silk threads but we
were also stitching our conversations and our thoughts and our
creativity. I am reminded of the Finnish women and their “sewing
circles” at the turn of the century. As these women sewed, they
also organized themselves as an integral part of the labour movement.
Though our sewing circle today may have had a less urgent purpose,
it still carried with it that weight of women gathering for the greater good of the community. And this has left an impression of richness in my life today.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQfsEH9JZX6XQTgGpe8iPxTf-hyaxAMxnVfs8UDT-zTRPUDcj9z-0FNpzCPF0y98THIcmv11qN63uT1ZdsaSR4raV4lL1mRXGqdfjD0wqTfMBCesmP366buj9F8mcZDHNU8msUDuO-Q/s1600/Lapel+Pins1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQfsEH9JZX6XQTgGpe8iPxTf-hyaxAMxnVfs8UDT-zTRPUDcj9z-0FNpzCPF0y98THIcmv11qN63uT1ZdsaSR4raV4lL1mRXGqdfjD0wqTfMBCesmP366buj9F8mcZDHNU8msUDuO-Q/s1600/Lapel+Pins1.jpg" height="223" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring colours</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUEVdcZbRJeiSHVvIeMTXjXXd1fpJfxlmcOrEBbYbGpF9aaSzxqtU81GRpKLWEpVQBjQ00VNmrdHD9V0gY6l2EjU10ahyC5mrvsV_W4-Q5GvAzLIIP4ZnOdL-qjcgtWMtx4QICyctZZQ/s1600/Lapel+Pins2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUEVdcZbRJeiSHVvIeMTXjXXd1fpJfxlmcOrEBbYbGpF9aaSzxqtU81GRpKLWEpVQBjQ00VNmrdHD9V0gY6l2EjU10ahyC5mrvsV_W4-Q5GvAzLIIP4ZnOdL-qjcgtWMtx4QICyctZZQ/s1600/Lapel+Pins2.jpg" height="329" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yellow tulips and a long table of buttons, beads and silk string.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt6tHMxpweqAZXIGNqXIqkT8o9HKWGCnLKkO3GiiY4HM6zLB5GptQPGQMof6rK9tDjBkJQ0i4j6q2xro_lZ5I6lUA87mPGrs-0U1mmX2hlKvLtAsD-GcbQXVg1kMu-ky5ClBtobIbcDA/s1600/Lapel+Pins3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt6tHMxpweqAZXIGNqXIqkT8o9HKWGCnLKkO3GiiY4HM6zLB5GptQPGQMof6rK9tDjBkJQ0i4j6q2xro_lZ5I6lUA87mPGrs-0U1mmX2hlKvLtAsD-GcbQXVg1kMu-ky5ClBtobIbcDA/s1600/Lapel+Pins3.jpg" height="640" width="358" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful selection of beads and pearls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5laTcuZDNmX7h_IyTbH4d4mAyQcFRxTzcoBLVi7pAnRXzTOsrF8UqYYZXlvgMOpFs-eSLuv-PSyO7VnANDAx5dy34n9J34ndx_D3gRU3-gaphHqKjhKtEGJROE6vxDfrhXb3tUYWYw/s1600/Lapel+Pins4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5laTcuZDNmX7h_IyTbH4d4mAyQcFRxTzcoBLVi7pAnRXzTOsrF8UqYYZXlvgMOpFs-eSLuv-PSyO7VnANDAx5dy34n9J34ndx_D3gRU3-gaphHqKjhKtEGJROE6vxDfrhXb3tUYWYw/s1600/Lapel+Pins4.jpg" height="355" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Threading those needles!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLduCeaO3Lm9VluqDR8POuxksFc20Cdr8O1cg4ggeFHGhYSkqphTYLouULlTbqwsVA4zT-Pf_Y3s2VdzsDCFoelzNdqdRw_lhyphenhyphen63zR7KZnAqBbKH1Hni3LJVCHAF9WLtB7FRAWsUXFg/s1600/Lapel+Pins6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLduCeaO3Lm9VluqDR8POuxksFc20Cdr8O1cg4ggeFHGhYSkqphTYLouULlTbqwsVA4zT-Pf_Y3s2VdzsDCFoelzNdqdRw_lhyphenhyphen63zR7KZnAqBbKH1Hni3LJVCHAF9WLtB7FRAWsUXFg/s1600/Lapel+Pins6.jpg" height="320" width="286" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A completed lapel pin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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(These photograpsh were taken by Marianne Brown throughout our afternoon together.)</div>
Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-45995329662612533982014-01-18T09:48:00.003-08:002014-01-18T12:08:23.827-08:00A Car Collision and the Impulse to Sing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfW_Zbn8Vx-HIvvvqPIT0HN8occSxgUK58XFOP845pRiQqWJiDooocs9sEa8xfakefDgWQ3RK6tWXf0LdDEhLH9xt6wNLmWLehZSvAneKZ1BPN4q8VDNrIdAEYlmYN43oJrRNRw9_cdg/s1600/Chickadee+Vase3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfW_Zbn8Vx-HIvvvqPIT0HN8occSxgUK58XFOP845pRiQqWJiDooocs9sEa8xfakefDgWQ3RK6tWXf0LdDEhLH9xt6wNLmWLehZSvAneKZ1BPN4q8VDNrIdAEYlmYN43oJrRNRw9_cdg/s1600/Chickadee+Vase3.jpg" height="440" width="350" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZUn2_M_W-gjlgatra2Dx7WVeB_x3lHKP_QvYXBjfNat10TMH6-0J2mrSqNx7H_SPBTeGweFSgFhj_bj82-41G2U5bzSVnaRLPgE9rYmayL2tRv2GihSS5Nd4iIH2DNtThaHrQtsBFJQ/s1600/Vases+in+the+Window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZUn2_M_W-gjlgatra2Dx7WVeB_x3lHKP_QvYXBjfNat10TMH6-0J2mrSqNx7H_SPBTeGweFSgFhj_bj82-41G2U5bzSVnaRLPgE9rYmayL2tRv2GihSS5Nd4iIH2DNtThaHrQtsBFJQ/s1600/Vases+in+the+Window.jpg" height="300" width="380" /></a></div>
<br />
I was in a car accident the other day. It was a head-on collision (thankfully, in the city and not on the highway) and both vehicles were “totaled.” There was a moment before the ambulance came, that all four of us (my son and I and the driver and passenger from the other vehicle), were out in the minus thirty-something weather, comforting each other. I can't say exactly what the others were thinking in that moment of shock but I know I was feeling amazed that we were all relatively okay. It seemed to me to be nothing short of a miracle. Not long after, two cars passing by stopped and invited us into their vehicles to stay warm until the first response people came. My hat and mitts were back in my car and yet I did not feel the cold at all. It could have been a spring day as my body was not registering the fact that it was extremely cold. Initially, I didn't want to step inside the young woman's vehicle. I wanted to be out in the wide open sky where I could breath. The woman, in her own gentle way, coaxed my son and I until eventually we did and when I closed the door behind me, I immediately felt her kindness. (The warmth of her personality alone would have kept us from frostbite.) A few minutes later, she put a CD on with soft, soothing music, another act of kindness. Which brings me to the impulse to sing part of my musing.<br />
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Occasionally, I will hear someone humming quietly to him or herself but it is indeed rare. In our culture, we're shy to sing. We think that unless we have 'beautiful' voices, we should not impose our wobbly notes on the world. Most of us don't sing in community, other than perhaps in church if we happen to be churchgoers. Or some of us join choirs. For the most part, unless we feel total confidence about our singing voices, we remain silent. A number of years ago, my spent time volunteering in a hospital in India and she noticed how both the patients and the residents sang on a regular basis. One day, they asked her to sing a song, much to her discomfort. No songs came to mind and so she found herself singing our anthem “O Canada.” Since that time, I've often asked my students that if they were in a foreign country and were asked to sing, what song would they choose? Most respond the same; O Canada or Happy Birthday! If I ask them to dig deeper, they sometimes will come up with a nursery rhyme from their childhood. This lack of repertoire seems commonplace among us Canadians, at least Canadians in my neck of the woods. Of course, not everyone falls under the umbrella. A friend of mine, who recently passed away, sang constantly. She sang when she woke up in the morning and she sang while she cooked and she often encouraged others to sing. Whenever she visited my home, she sat at the piano and invited me to sit beside her. I loved singing with her. It lifted my heart; it put my priorities in the right order for the day. But it didn't 'catch'. When she left my house, my voice again fell silent.<br />
<br />
Recently that's all changed. I often find myself singing. I sing while I drive in the car; I sing while I meditate or while I'm out walking; I sing while I cook or sew. I don't know how it is that I suddenly have an entire repertoire of songs. They seem to be emerging from my childhood and if I don't know the words, I just make up my own or hum the tune. I find myself singing snipits of melodies from classical music or opera, thanks to my father who played classical and opera music continually when I was a child. And now, it strangely feels very natural. It makes a subtle difference in my day. I have no intention of becoming a 'singer.' It's just that singing seems to take the air around me and the thoughts within me and shape them into something clearer and kinder. Like everyone, many of my thoughts don't even crest the wave of my conscious mind; rather they're undertows of desires and fears. When I sing, it's as if a simpler part of myself emerges; less complicated, less competitive; less forced; more genuine.<br />
<br />
After the car accident, sitting at home, gazing out my front window, I had a sense that everything had changed. I noticed the objects that I had placed earlier in the day. There were two vases, clear glass, that I had photographed. And hanging above the vases dangled my stained glass chickadee. They looked different. I reflected on the fact that I had spent an hour singing earlier that day. And those songs were somehow still resonating inside of me, helping me get through an evening of shock. A voice expressed does something for us. And perhaps, in the end, it does something for others too.Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-81929841444057519332013-12-10T15:21:00.000-08:002013-12-10T15:39:31.815-08:00Cold December Nights and Tips on Playwriting<br />
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It has been cold.
We're into the minus 20's and most of us aren't quite ready for it.
But ready or not, we're in for the ride. With these temperatures,
everything takes more time: more time to dress, more time for
shoveling, more time for the car to warm-up. When it's this cold,
the car seat in my car won't move forward so I spend the first 20
minutes of the drive with pillows piled up behind my back so that I
can see out the windshield. And yet, I find myself enjoying winter.
It's a perfect time of year to stay home and write or sew or bake or
read. And as long as I avoid the commercial rush of Christmas,
December can be a truly enriching time of year. The snow makes
everything so beautiful. Though the cold air stings our faces, the
landscape is soft and soothing. Though we may miss our loved ones
during this time of year (as I often have in past years), we can
imagine them with us; in the stark, still winter skies when the stars
seems brighter than other times of the year and in those not-so-early
mornings when the sun slowly draws its brush of colour across the
sky.</div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Last night, I
facilitated a workshop on playwriting titled "From the Page to the Stage" (sponsored by<a href="http://www.10by10.org/"> 10by10</a> and <a href="http://nowwwriters.org/">NOWW</a>) and given the weather, we
weren't sure what the turn-out would be. But the room was full. We
all braved the cold; each of us making at least one comment about the
cold upon entering the warm building. And, as the evening
progressed, we created our own environment in the room; an
environment of exploration, questioning and sharing. The group,
though mostly strangers to each other, shared their sources of
inspiration. What struck me was how much we have in common. And how
storytelling is a basic human need, whether or not we are writers by
trade. We look to story to make meaning, to probe, to reminisce, to
inquire, to laugh, to ignite, to disturb, to comfort, to inspire and
a thousand other reasons.
</div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some of use may need
the world to first give us permission to tell our stories. Some jump
in and if the world happens to respond in kind, that's wonderful.
But if the larger world fails to respond to our story (in whatever
form we chose to tell it), we may choose to remain undaunted.
Because, perhaps in the end, it is the act of telling the story that
matters most. We're better off for forming that story in our hearts
and minds; our winter skies may seem clearer and brighter because of
it.
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And for the playwrights
and writers who happen to be reading this blog entry, here are some
tips on playwriting that I've comprised. I would be remiss if I did
not mention the many wonderful directors and dramaturges who, over
the years, have shared their knowledge with me (Jan Henderson, David
S. Craig and Thomas Morgan Jones to name a few). I cannot say that
I've invented most of these ideas. I've just gradually made them my
own over the years. They may or may not be valuable for you but here
they are:
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<ol>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Whatever your
initial impulse is for your story, do not lose track of it. (And I
am not the first writer to say this.) Your script may go through
eight or nine drafts, but the essence needs to remain true. This is
a difficult thing to describe but when you've compromised that
initial impulse, you'll likely feel less connected to the story. It
usually carries the seed of why this is important to you; why you
need to write about it. I remember being in a playwriting workshop
and an actor was emphatic about a change he wanted to make in a
character he was playing. He wanted the character to become
physically and verbally abusive, upon discovering his wife's alleged
affair. However, it was very important to me that the affair (which
later is revealed as an affair of the heart), was not spurred by an
abusive husband but by her own circumstances of poverty and her own
unmet needs. For me, if the husband had become abusive, it would
have changed the essence of the play and I therefore could not make
the change. In that same workshop, I made all kinds of other
changes, some of them quite significant, but those changes did not
shift the essence of the story.</div>
</li>
</ol>
<ol>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This is an obvious
point but writing is very time-consuming. It means carving out
time, whether or not I feel inspired; whether or not I'm in the
mood. Sometimes, I'm full steam ahead and other times, I need
prompts to get me started. There are many excellent books that
provide ideas for prompts. One of my favourite prompts is to take a
deck of archetypal cards and draw one from the deck. I then write a
quick monologue from that point of view. If you don't have a deck,
you can simply make your own list of archetypes: the fool, the
mother, the innocent child, the kind/queen, the warrior, and so on.
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pay attention to
how people talk. Listen for the rhythm in the way people speak. Then
find the rhythm in your own characters. Read aloud your script.
Notice when the words don't sound natural to your ears.
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ask pertinent
questions about your work. A good dramaturg will formulate a number
of perfect questions to urge you towards that next draft. Here are
a few samples: “Who is the story about? What are the themes?
What visual images are in the work?”
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What challenges do
your characters face? Through challenges, characters make decisions
for better or for worse, and this will give your play a forward
thrust.
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ask yourself with
each line of dialogue “Is the character hiding or revealing?”
In other words, what is the sub-text. What are the characters
<i><b>really</b></i> saying?</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some writers begin
their story by exploring character and some begin by developing a
plot. (I've tried both and vacillate back and forth between the
two.) I find that when I begin with a character, the process is
slower but it is also very enriching and tends to access intuition.
When I've drawn out a map of the plot in advance, I can expect the
plot to shift as the characters develop.</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It is helpful for
me to know what my threads are. By threads, I mean a significant
object or the themes behind the play or a plot thread. I like to
map out my threads. It's important for me to notice when I've
dropped a thread and equally important to notice when I've picked it
back up again.
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Many playwriting
workshops have put forth the question: “What does the
character(s) want and how far is he/she willing to go to get it?”
A dramaturge friend of mine, Thomas Morgan Jones, once asked me,
“What is the character most afraid of?” And what is their
greatest wish?” Both of these questions, though similar, will give
the writing greater depth. Another useful tip from Thomas was to
read the first and last line from each scene and than ask myself,
“has anything changed?”</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What are you, as a
playwright, trying to say with your story? Whatever it is, it
shouldn't be obvious. It should be carefully concealed in the work.
Most often, a playwright is trying to say something; if only “take
a closer look at this issue” or “take a look at these characters
and see what they're struggling with.” Be wary of writing a play
that falls under the category of “Sledgehammer Theatre.”
Audiences do not want to feel preached to.
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Invite actors to
sit around a table and read a draft. It is amazing what can be
revealed just by this process.
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I write many
drafts. By drafts, I mean that I make significant changes (without
losing the initial impulse for the work). I may experiment with
time period, I may introduce or remove one of the characters, I may
change the plot, I may introduce a new challenge. I often say to
myself, while I'm rewriting a draft “If I don't like it, I'll just
go back to the old draft.” But funnily, I've never returned to an
old draft. I get attached to the new one and that becomes my new
reality.
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are certain
things that have become helpful for me, in terms of re-visiting the
work. Sometimes, I focus on one character only and re-work the piece
with that one character in mind. I follow all of their lines
through the play and it also helps me to see what their journey is.
Then I switch to another character and go through the process again.
The other thing I've done is create a visual map of the entire
story. It's a bit like creating a storyboard, I suppose. However,
rather than focusing on the camera angles, I focus only on the
journeys of the characters.
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It can be helpful
to go through the draft and mark the motivational beats. This is a
tool that actors use while deconstructing a script. It involves
going through a scene and marking the places where a character's
motivation shifts.
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A short play has
the same components that a full-length play has. It just happens to
be shorter and more concentrated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
</li>
</ol>
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Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-60737434248936186012013-11-19T12:36:00.001-08:002013-11-19T17:44:51.095-08:00The Stark Beauty of November and Transformative Leadership<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fGtNaA0cvQe4vEPKObLN0soHZ9-WvaR6XiH0an-5Lk1VN9H3apT1HsSl0QmD9o6fPfOo3cT0xRBdCwAIf9jy13OHYytn0kihTTaL1vN4S9BLHZ9b64XH8lq-MUKACCAA4IzC0_wHdQ/s1600/November+Sky.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fGtNaA0cvQe4vEPKObLN0soHZ9-WvaR6XiH0an-5Lk1VN9H3apT1HsSl0QmD9o6fPfOo3cT0xRBdCwAIf9jy13OHYytn0kihTTaL1vN4S9BLHZ9b64XH8lq-MUKACCAA4IzC0_wHdQ/s400/November+Sky.jpg" /></a>
November is here. November the remembrance month; November the just-before-December month; November the month my father and his twin brother were born 89 years ago. There are many things I love about this month but the thing I'm thinking about today is how under-appreciated the month of November is. Perhaps because it stands in the shadow of bright and glittery December, it claims so little fame. Yet it has a full moon like every other month, each day brings its surprises in weather (in the countryside, the snow now clings determinedly to the ground), it has more or less the same number of days that the other months have. So why do we relegate it to a place of so little importance?
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I just returned from Vancouver where it was less stark than my own Northern terrain (as seen in these photographs). There, it rained for three days yet leaves still clung to the trees. I saw a bush with tiny purple-beaded berries. I walked in the district of Strathcona and enjoyed the colours of the clapboard houses. I found a<a href="http://www.urbantea.com/"> tea shop </a>where a lovely young woman explained the various teas and treated me like I was royalty. I attended a wonderful conference titled “<a href="https://www.facebook.com/TransformativeLeadershipTPC">Transformative Leadership</a>” led by two friends. Throughout the three days, the facilitators asked us to reflect on our own learning, but somehow I found that a challenge. I was still so immersed in the experience and it was too early for me to say. But now that I'm home, I have a better idea of my learning. True learning, as we all know, happens outside of the classroom, outside of the conference, outside of what we normally associate with learning. However, if the classroom or the conference room successfully engages us, we will then take the ideas that cling to our minds and our hearts and move towards planting those seeds. And yes, this conference most definitely did that for me. It filled me with ideas for communication and helped me connect with my own values.
From what I could observe, the experience was equally enriching for the others as well. And what a wonderful group of “others”, I must say. This was a group of genuine-hearted people who are looking to lead from a place of service and kindness. Wow! This could change the world, could it not? Imagine if all of our politicians, all of our teachers and lawyers and spiritual leaders and so on, led from a position of kind service? This is no small thing. This is taking our world and seeing it through a kaleidoscope, where broken pieces become patterns of beauty. Yes, seen in this light, leadership is of the utmost importance.<br />
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True be told, there's a tension in me around the word “leadership.” I want to be able to share my passion for creativity with others and so I find myself in leadership roles. But not because I crave it. If anything, I crave time alone; to reflect and daydream. If anything, I would rather not feel responsible for others (unless those 'others' happen to be my own family.) But this discomfort with leadership may be that I've narrowly defined the word “leadership.” And this is my new true learning from the conference: that we are all leaders, after all. Do we not have someone in our lives— a child, a parent, a friend, someone who is interested in what we have to say? Interested in our actions? Interested in our stories? If there is one single person aware of our words or our actions, then we are a leader. My sister once said, “Everything you do is a statement.” And I would add “the things we do not do are also a statement.”
November is a perfect month for dancing with such thoughts and ideas. The sky is grey, making colours of thought or feeling seem all the brighter. <br />
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<br />Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-77009227849724301502013-10-21T12:50:00.003-07:002013-11-22T14:34:07.791-08:00The Advantage of Moods & The Mother Who Gives up her Eyes<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It just so happens I am an emotional creature because I am a human creature. Period. That's the story of being alive for all of us. Sometimes we feel this and sometimes we feel that. Naturally, I'm interested in the things that make me feel good but I also must not overly invest in those things because most are 99% out of my control. So why not enjoy this emotional roller-coaster journey? Why not be keenly interested in the world around me as well as the emotional world within me? And if I approach my emotions with curiousity rather than judgment, often that curiousity translates into fuel for my creative life. The trick is to be curious without drawing too many conclusions.... “I am depressed because..." or “I am sad because...” As soon as I draw conclusions, I've lost my curiousity. It's a done deal. It lacks energy. The fuel is gone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Art-making and entering into an art piece created by someone else are cathartic in a way that defy the intellect. My artist friend <a href="http://www.verypinkfineart.com/paintings_posters.html">Alanna</a> and I were having a conversation and I was telling her that when I read a story by <a href="http://hca.gilead.org.il/sandhill.html">Hans Christian Anderson</a>, illustrated by <a href="http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/08/27/kay-nielsen-east-of-the-sun-and-west-of-the-moon/">Kay Nielsen</a>, I find myself transported into an understanding of loss and love; an understanding that I could never get from reading a thousand self-help books or even books on spirituality. Why? Because Hans Christian Anderson does not try to give me an answer for my grief. He does not say “If you just take this step or that action, all will be well.” Alanna brought me to see that the author drew me into a world of beauty; a world where characters experience what I experience. And as I read, I feel as if I am the woman who gives up her eyes to the lake to become pearls in return for the lake transporting her to the other side where she believes her child is. I feel as if I am the one who has chosen to trade my hair for the old woman's greying hair. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The story is something I experience directly. I am at the lake with the woman. My hair has gone grey. My eyes are at the bottom of the lake as pearls. I enter the story from my heart and not from my head. My head is far to cluttered at the best of times to receive a direct experience of truth.
This is what I look for, I suppose, in art. And the thing that I look for in art, I also look for in life. That is: a beauty, a ringing truth, a journey into a place of magic that reminds me that this earth is also a place of magic. Things are too layered with emotions to be answered simply with words. We need our stories, our illustrations, our films, our music, our loved ones, our memories, our emotions, we need it all.
And when I emerge from the story, I notice the world around me looks a bit more wondrous; a smidgen of magic enters the place. Below is one such magical place. My </span><a href="http://rightfulowner.blogspot.ca/" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">daughter</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> stands in the distance. And I stand watching.</span><br />
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Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-46040565552964360132013-10-02T16:28:00.002-07:002013-10-15T18:05:59.179-07:00Under the Pearl Moon film project<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's taken a village to make this film and I can't
express enough my gratitude to everyone who so generously
contributed to bring the project to this point.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Firstly, I
want to share with you that the wonderful, dynamic, generous-hearted,
talented Jennifer Garrett, who played the role of Aunt Birdie, passed
away unexpectedly this summer in Croatia. The way she lived
her life was, in fact, the impetus for the story behind Under the
Pearl Moon. She was fiercely committed to the environment and her
love of the natural world could be seen in her beautiful and vibrant
works of art. For Jennifer, the expression of her creativity knew no bounds. She was a singer-songwriter, theatre artist, visual artist, jeweler, healer and the list goes on. Jennifer demonstrated by example that as long as we
are alive, we <span style="color: black;">can
contribute to the world through art-making and through opening up the
creative possibilities in ourselves and each other, as she did so
effectively and powerfully. </span>We
were so blessed and fortunate to work with Jennifer Garrett last
summer on the film. She left us with beautifully performed footage
of her role of Aunt Birdie as well as audio recordings of her songs. I cannot express enough how grateful
I am for what she gave this project and how excited we are to share
the film with the world. In fact, without her, there would be no Aunt Birdie and there would be no film. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When this
spring we hosted a “Vintage Tea Party” fundraiser, Jennifer wasn't there in person but she sent me a lovely angel painting which we raffled at the art raffle. We also had art works from Alanna Marohnic, Marianne Brown and Linda Brown. And, of course, we had tea in the garden and tea in the house. I felt Jennnifer's support, even though she was across the ocean at the time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As well as teas and deserts, we offered tea-leaf readings, a vintage clothing
and collectables sale. Thanks to all of the
helpers, it went off very smoothly and by the end of the day, we had
raised our goal. (We will plan one other fundraiser prior to the
launch to help raise funds for the sound recordings.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">The
film has now been edited and is thirty minutes in length. We have
entered into partnership with the Thunder Bay Symphony Orchestra and
in December, we hope to spend a day recording live chamber orchestra
music for the film. The sound track has been composed by Lise
Vaugeois. To include a live orchestral recording for the film is
something we could only have dreamed of. the recording, we
will need to add the music as well as final sound edits and “colour
correction.” And then, in March of 2014, voila!, we will have a
film to present to our community and well beyond. Our plan is to
send it out worldwide to environmental film festivals as well as
festivals for family audiences. </span>
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black;">We
have also completed a series of lesson plans for teachers to use in
the classroom in tandem with the film. These are experiential
arts-engaged lessons that allow students to explore the themes in the
film in a deeper way. Once the film in launched, we will take the
next step of planning a series of workshops in the schools.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I would like to close with this beautiful photograph of Jennifer taken by Paula Thiessen. Jennifer is wearing one of the Aunt Birdie costumes and gazing into the just-before-dusk sky. "Under the Pearl Moon" will be offered in tribute to Jenn.</span> </div>
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Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-87017596212764893182013-08-31T20:26:00.001-07:002013-10-15T18:38:13.714-07:00A Three Berry Pie Day<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">These were the very first berries I picked in the season. Since then, my garden has offered me gooseberries, raspberries and red currents. The 3-berry pie I made used raspberries from my garden, wild blueberries and wild saskatoons.</span><br />
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As the summer comes to a close, I can't help but feel how summer has been a turbulent blend of joyful family visits, lots and lots of rain, a new garden I started in my mother's back yard, writing in the early mornings, the loss of a dear friend, visits with my sisters, a back yard bursting with peppermint, bergamot (to make my own Earl Grey Tea blend), and oregano. All of this adding up to a very intense summer. And before the tail end of the season sweeps away, I've gone out picking blueberries, saskatoons and raspberries to make a Three-Berry pie. I invite extended family over and we eat the pie in the early evening.
I've thought about so many things this summer. There were three deaths in my circle of family and friends and much loss to deal with. The summer has left me with more questions than answers. Answers are so definitive but questions open up a myriad of possibilities.<br />
<br />
When my youngest child was home-schooled, I couldn't believe his endless list of questions he barraged me with on a daily basis. At first, I tried to guide him to pay attention to the task at hand. But later I realized that the questions were the task at hand. And so I began to shape his education around his questions. For the most part, I did not know that answers to his questions. We had to explore or discuss or search for a book or find someone who was experienced in that field. This is years before Google or Wikipedia. Searching for answers was always an adventure.<br />
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I'm wondering why we often relegate the world of questioning to children. Children are naturally curious but so are we, if only we would step aside from thinking we always need to provide answers. Why do we think that if we don't know something, it makes us weak or vulnerable? Children don't worry about these things. They take a chance. They ask questions. I, for one, am going to begin to embrace questions this end of summer. When I picked the three types of berries this week, I asked myself, “What can I make to share that would keep the distinctive flavour of all three berries?”<br />
<br />
And now, here on this end-of-August-night, I'm going to invent new questions to take into my month.
Questions like “How is a September moon different from an August moon?”<br />
“How will I balance my need to make a living with my soul's necessity of creating art?”<br />
“How can I keep the friend I 'lost' inside me and around me?”<br />
“What worries deplete my energy and what inspirations fill me up?”<br />
“What is the small difficult-to-notice pleasure in my day?”<br />
“What places in my home (chairs, windows, rooms) offer comfort? Stories old and new? An invitation?”<br />
These will be my questions that lead me to curiousity and exploration... whether or not they lead to answer is of no consequence.<br />
<br />
By the way, the recipe for my pie included:<br />
1 cup of each type of berry<br />
3/4 cup organic cane sugar<br />
1 T. lemon juice<br />
1 tsp. corn starch<br />
Butter pie crust<br />
Crumbled gluten-free coconut cookies sprinkled on top with a bit of butter and flour. <br />
Makes one pie. Double up the recipe to make two pies.<br />
<br />
<br />Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-86382608053485521402013-05-20T16:10:00.002-07:002013-05-20T20:16:49.551-07:00A Month in Italy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>My first evening in Florence</i>.</div>
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<br />
My son said something
to me the other evening, shortly following my return home from a
month in Italy. He said “Travelling doesn't really change people.
It's a good experience to be able to travel but we're still who we
are when we come home.” Since then, I have thought about what he
said. When I travel, I'm open to new experiences; open to meeting
strangers, open to trusting the world (otherwise, I would not be
plunking myself down in a new country where I don't speak the
language all on my own, would I?) Travel is a bit like putting
myself in an altered state. The trick is to somehow, some way, keep
the spirit of that altered state upon arrival home; to sustain the
expansive feelings that come with travel. Sadly, the tendency is to
come home and immediately pick up all the old habits of worrying and
fretting.
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Perhaps if I back track
into the adventures of my travel in Italy, I will know what exactly
it is that I want to preserve. I spent three weeks in a rented
apartment in Florence. I didn't know a soul so I prompted myself to
speak with strangers (usually people who were travellers though I also
spoke to the locals whenever possible.) I met travellers who were
open-minded, generous people and I also met travellers who were
entitled and demanding. That was a surprise to me. I always had
this idea that people who do a lot of travelling are somehow more
enlightened that the rest of us poor souls slugging it out on home
soil. Not so. However, I must say that the entitled and demanding sorts were definitely in the minority.
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I took an Italian
language course for two weeks, which prepared me for small exchanges
with Italian people. I was thrilled when Italians responded by
chattering away with me in Italian, perhaps knowing that I was
catching their meaning only partially, but still allowing me that
immersion experience. Once, while choosing produce at an outdoor
market (ah, the glorious outdoors markets), an elderly woman
enthusiastically began telling me something about the zucchini. I
thought perhaps she was giving me lessons on how to cook the zucchini
flowers but in time, I realized that she was warning me that the
zucchini flowers were full of ants. Perhaps this was a good thing or
perhaps this was a bad thing. I had no way of knowing. Either way,
the conversation ended in a huge hug for reasons unknown to me.
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For the entire time I
lived in my apartment, I got to know my neighbourhood; the woman who
practised opera arias every evening at the end of my street, the
vegetarian restaurant that had an “organic” sign outside the door
and just below the sign an ashtray full of cigarette butts, the bar
in the Santa Spirito Piazza that had a salad to die for and a
Calabrese owner who assumed that because I'm short and his manager
was also short, we were destined to be together. (The fact that I'm
happily married did not seem to phase his thinking on this matter.)
The piazza was populated with the exact ingredients that every piazza
should be populated with: the lovers who are smooching at the
fountain, the Nonnas who are gossiping with their neighbours, the
children who are chasing pigeons, the men who are whistling, the
tourists who fill the seats of the outdoor patios and eat pizza, the
lone Roma (gypsy) who hangs out at the church steps rattling a cup
bothering no one, the church bells that toll every hour, the artist
that sits on the grass sketching or painting. It's a place where
everything changes but nothing changes.
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Following my three
weeks of living in the apartment, my daughter joined me and off we
went on our travels. Perhaps in a different blog entry, I will write
of our adventures in Rome, Pisa, Cinque Terre and Florence. (Finally,
I became a tourist, visiting the sites and staying in guest houses
and hostels.) My overall sense, from wearing the tourist hat for
eight days is that the Italian people are <i>perhaps</i> less
organized than Canadians. But whatever they lack in administrative
ability, they far make up for it in sincerity. The Italians were
friendly and helpful beyond the call of duty. Once, when my daughter
and I were catching a train, she crouched down at the side of the
train platform, trying to soak up the sun. An elderly man kept
looking at her and walking back and forth. Finally, seeing that I
was her mother, he approached me and told me in broken English that
he was worried she was too close to the tracks and that it was
dangerous. The same man also helped us haul our luggage onto the
train. It was very sweet and I will always hold the memory of his
protectiveness towards us.</div>
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While I was in Italy,
there was beauty everywhere: Madonna shrines on every corner often
with a jar of fresh flowers, buildings in pastel pinks and blues and
yellows, churches that are designed to leave a person awestruck, wild
poppies in bloom, art, art and more art. There was enough
inspiration to last me a lifetime. This is what I want to
preserve: a sense of beauty in the everyday. But the question is:
will I be able to preserve that inspiration? bring it out of the
closet on a grey day? draw from that well when I'm struggling to pay
the bills? Will I be inspired to create art, without doubting or
fretting? Will I be able to say that my travels altered me in some
way? Or will I be the same person I was before I left? Only time
will tell. But one thing is for certain, my month in Italy has left
an impression; and hopefully a deep and lasting impression.</div>
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Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-59984923162795682632013-04-27T10:29:00.004-07:002013-05-21T19:12:43.139-07:00 A Day as Recorded by a Happenstance Traveler in Florence<b><i>Star Anise; Neapolitan Pastry & Lucia's Puppet Stage:</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
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Today, like most days since my arrival
in this wonderful country of Italy, has been a mixture of wonder,
surprise, anticipation and the occasional smidgen of discomfort. I
spent my day at the aptly-named “<a href="http://www.mostraartigianato.it/en/">Mostra Internazionale dell'Artigianato</a>. Simply put, it was a massive market; booths upon
booths upon booths of artisan's wares, food, clothing, inventions,
you name it and it was there. I managed to show restraint while passing by the tables of linens and tablecloths and wool
scarves and summer cotton dresses and leather purses priced to sell.
But when I found myself on the third floor where the food was, all my
restraint evaporated in one quick pasty puff. The truth is, no human
person alive could have resisted the smells and sights of cheeses,
breads, chocolates, spices and cured meats. I wish I could have
filled a steamer trunk and sent it home to all my friends and family.
But alas, I had to settle for chocolates and star anise. Yes, I
came across a spice and tea table that took my breath away. Even
though I have a healthy supply of star anise at home (as I often add it to tea or to a pot of cooking rice), I ordered a small bag
of it and slid it into my purse. The aroma coming from that little bag I purchased actually floated around me. My next stop was to a pasty table where I purchased
'strogliatella Neapolitan.” The pastry is made with many delicately
thinned layers and filled with a sweet soft cheese and orange peel
fillings. I normally shy away from eating anything made with wheat as wheat doesn't agree with me but when I saw that pastry, it was as if I fell into a trance. The trance also led me over to a cafe where I
completed the perfection with a cup of cappuccino.<br />
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After all the excitement of the pastry,
my energy was waning but I heard an announcement (in Italian) that
caught my attention. It was something about a theatrical performance
for children. Being that I write theatre for children, this was of
interest to me but I couldn't understand the particulars. And the
location of the event is so vast with so many buildings nearby, I
knew I could easily miss it (whatever 'it' was). In my pathetic
Italian, I approached a young woman and asked her what the
announcement was saying. She abruptly answered in English “I don't
know what you're saying. I can't help you.” I suddenly felt
embarrassment, not only for that moment but for all the other moments in
my week where I clearly botched my attempts to communicate in Italian,
confusing “indirizzo” (address) with “adesso” (now) and
“insieme” (together) with “sempre” (always). Most Italians
I've met have been so lovely and kind even though I'm probably making
no sense to them at all, they smile and are ever so helpful. After my sting of embarrassment, I thought “well,
time to call it a day”. When I stepped outside and saw that it was
raining, I changed my mind and sat under an awning to watch the rain.
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And then “it” happened; the special
thing in the day that cannot be planned; the happenstance moment. A
woman about my age proceeded to adjust a wooden cart so that it would
stay dry, near an entrance to the main building. Her wooden cart was
a delightful combination of little doors and drawers and knobs as well as red velvet
curtains. It was, in fact, a puppet theatre complete with an
accordion and an old man puppet who sat on a miniature stool looking
kindly out into the crowd. The <a href="http://www.lacasadeglignomi.it/">performer/puppeteer</a> was dressed in a black
bowler hat, black baggy pants and a button up jacket with
multi-coloured buttons down the front of it. The portable theatre
hearkened back to hundreds of years ago when entertainers traveled
from town to town. I was instantly charmed.
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When the play ended, I offered my
congratulations (again, in my broken Italian). She had a friend with
her who translated and we chatted for a bit about life in the
theatre. Before long, she was inviting me to a one-day theatre gathering/festival that I may
want to take part in. </div>
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And now, I am back at the apartment where I am staying, enjoying my
cup of star anise tea and musing on the many gifts of the day.</div>
Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-22629348695650252482013-04-05T13:20:00.002-07:002013-04-05T13:20:37.210-07:00Dreaming of BerriesDreaming of Berries:<br />
<br />
It's not Spring yet, at least not where I live. Snow stubbornly hugs to the sides of fences and the back yards. Soon though, I will be thinking about my garden. This year, I would like a garden full of berries: gooseberries, saskatoon berries, red currents, raspberries and strawberries. Never mind vegetables. I'll pick up fresh veggies at the market. It's berries I crave. It's also how I manage to get through our long winters: jam and tea, tea and jam. This year I had the pleasure of tasting berry<a href="http://www.deliceboreal.com/en/herbal-teas/"> tea</a> and berry jams from the Arctic and Labrador. Cloud berry and crow berry are my two favourites. Considering how these berry bushes manage to survive in such harsh conditions, perhaps this is what makes them all the sweeter. <br />
<br />
I'm all out of jams; both my own jam and jams from far away. In the meantime, I look at my bunch of dried berries hanging from my window and remind myself that it won't be long now before spring....<br />
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<br />
Last year, I wrote a story about my theatre friend Reneltta Arluk. Her theatre company's name is Akpik Theatre, which translates into Cloudberry Theatre. If you'd like to read the story I wrote about her, just click below and enjoy. But make sure you make yourself a nice hot cup of tea first!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.arcticjournal.ca/index.php/2012/09/a-season-of-cloudberries-with-reneltta-arluk/">http://www.arcticjournal.ca/index.php/2012/09/a-season-of-cloudberries-with-reneltta-arluk/</a>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-60260693576886690182013-03-10T13:45:00.000-07:002013-03-10T13:45:16.561-07:00Embroidery for a March Snow & an Unscheduled Life<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Embroidery for a March Snow and an Unscheduled Life</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The bliss of having a
few unscheduled days; the calm that comes with a clock ticking away
with no observance on my part; the switch from swarming in the hive
along with my fellow drones to stepping back and tasting the honey.
It's good for the artist soul. (And somewhere inside, I believe we
all have an artist soul.)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWJy-X641fW5uGinJIe8REEZMiCYbRdzTxPY09f6laTwemJb0pRWfGG0GSn9HHD446a4LJEIP9CkMXO4aJjKKTdJt-6omkbfqMEGm-Br2x_BMEcJ-6e-oFJTqhpMthq4uUs33n2puZg/s1600/RedCloth+In+Hand2012-10-14+21.58.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWJy-X641fW5uGinJIe8REEZMiCYbRdzTxPY09f6laTwemJb0pRWfGG0GSn9HHD446a4LJEIP9CkMXO4aJjKKTdJt-6omkbfqMEGm-Br2x_BMEcJ-6e-oFJTqhpMthq4uUs33n2puZg/s320/RedCloth+In+Hand2012-10-14+21.58.29.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I just spent spent three days in the big city where I
visited friends and my daughter and coffee shops and a quaint bar on
Dundas, with no preconceptions about how each day should unfold. One day I lost my precious (to me) necklace at a Starbuck's and didn't realize it until late that night. I counted twelve places in total where the necklace might be, retracing my bohemian steps that day. It was coming on close to midnight so I climbed into bed with a sinking feeling that I might not see my necklace again. The next morning, I made my calls and to my amazement, the server at the Starbucks had retrieved it and put it into a little envelope in the event that I returned looking for it. There are indeed good people in the world! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One day, my daughter and I opened up a book on embroidery stitches
and on an scrap of red velvet, I began to embroider. Throughout the remainder of the trip, I added a new stitch or embellishment onto the scrap of
cloth. The cloth kept me company throughout the trip, wherever I went. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And on the way home on the plane, I sat beside a woman who had never flown before. She
was quite anxious and we shared a few things about our lives, as
strangers in passing. After the initial chit-chat typical of strangers, we both sunk into our own quiet worlds. I then pulled out my stitched cloth out from my purse to work on it. (I'm not entirely
sure if needle work is acceptable on a plane but I assumed if it
was an issue, the stewardess would have told me.) Once I began stitching, it just seemed to open up a door
between myself and the woman beside me. She told me that she runs
programming in beading and traditional Aboriginal crafts in her
community and that she herself did needlework. From there, we shared
stories about our children and our lives. She felt lonely and out of sorts as she had
attended a conference and had been separated from her five children,
including her two little ones. We went from two strangers having a polite conversation to two women who found common ground. The shift towards the personal, undoubtedly, came from the embroidery floss and
needle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Upon my return home from the trip, my northern city has been transformed into an enchanted winter wonderland. When I took a walk today in the snow, I "saw" French knots in the dried flowers, and chain stitches in the tall grasses and feather stitches in the landscape. </span><br />
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Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-44459581649872338252013-02-01T19:16:00.000-08:002013-02-01T19:16:18.718-08:00Cold Winter Days and NightsIt's been a long, cold month. At first, I was brave. I bought a used fur coat from Salvation Army, turned it inside out so that the fur became the lining and the lining became the fur. I layered with down vests and woollens under my slacks and a scarf under my coat and a scarf over my coat. You get the idea. I wanted to take on winter with a positive attitude; like a warrior with a purpose. My purpose was to not let the cold stop me from living my life. Week one, I did very well. Week two, I began to weaken. Week three, and I've given in. What does this mean? This means that I'm walking less and reading more; I'm going out to events less and baking cookies more. And it's not so bad; this slowing down and moving inward. It's perhaps winter's greatest gift.
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Eek! Wake up to minus 30. Car won't start. The battery is dead...need a new one. Phone rings... appointments cancelled because of the cold...Yes!...an unscheduled day. I can do whatever I want, bake cookies, sew, write a book, research theatres, visit my Mom but first.... I'll relax for 5 minutes....z.z.z.zZZZZZZZ... 90 minutes later....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So glad it's too cold to do anything except reading.... making risotto.... walking around the block (brrrrrr) ...hand stitch a pillow....Che adventura!.... study Italian words...what a wonderful day off.</span>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-59680066685741026262012-12-28T19:18:00.003-08:002012-12-30T20:20:53.251-08:00The Year Everything Broke But My Heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiruLHk4d1c1aoXLWENM_GDFGLulk9pCVr7xmzcoJiv1lSCYQybD1Qrytm1pxoxD6iFLrrDrJSiE7Ou9p-wO8XvaRJvAVydLWsFjdIwPiOwC4hENJFMUocKRdfY2ZebvtT5kTbFUNrv9Q/s1600/My+New+Stove2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiruLHk4d1c1aoXLWENM_GDFGLulk9pCVr7xmzcoJiv1lSCYQybD1Qrytm1pxoxD6iFLrrDrJSiE7Ou9p-wO8XvaRJvAVydLWsFjdIwPiOwC4hENJFMUocKRdfY2ZebvtT5kTbFUNrv9Q/s320/My+New+Stove2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The
Year Everything Broke But My Heart:</span></div>
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Many things
break our hearts in life and if we're wise, we'll heed Leonard
Cohen's lyrics from his song Anthem, “There's a crack in
everything, that's how the light gets in.” So when things in my
life started to break throughout the summer of 2012, I tried to
appreciate that these were all just broken <i>things</i>. It began
with the dishwasher. <i>Well, no big deal,</i> my husband and I said
to each other, <i>we'll just wash dishes by hand.</i> Then the taps
on the main floor began spouting water everywhere. They needed to be
replaced. Then the taps on the tub. Same thing. When my husband
cut the pipe and brought it into the plumbing shop, the guy said “<i>I
myself have never seen a pipe like this, but my boss has</i>.”
Apparently, the pipe was as old as the house, which is 105 years old,
and it was no simple task to match it up. To make a long story short,
we had to order in special parts and for two weeks, we weren't able
to shower or bathe in our home. I found an old wash basin in the
basement, hauled it upstairs and began sponge bathing.
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When my kids
called, I proudly bragged about the sponge-bathing and how we used to
sponge bath when I grew up and how we were only allowed to take a
bath once a week and even then, we were only allowed four inches of
water in the tub. Oh yes, wasn't I proud of myself for adapting and
simplifying and not complaining about the fact that we had to wait
for the plumbing parts to arrive. However, on about day seven, I
noticed that I was phoning the plumbing shop daily to see if the
parts had arrived yet. By day ten, I was now visiting my mother's
house on a regular basis in order to shower as I had come to despise
sponge bathing. By day fourteen, the parts had arrived. Out came the
blow torch, out came the tools and my husband went to work on that
miserable job. Twelve hours later, we had a functioning bath and
shower.</div>
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I thought my
streak of breakage was winding down. I was sadly mistaken. Next
went the vacuum cleaner. Then the car broke down.... to the tune of
$750. When we brought the car in to be fixed, we left it overnight at
the shop and during the night, it got “keyed”. Before this
incident, I did not know what it meant to be “keyed”. Now I
know. Someone takes a key and scratches a deep groove into the car,
from front to back. The car repairman felt badly for us and spray
painted the groove with a colour that sort of matches the car. <i>Okay,
so now surely we've reached our quota for broken things</i>, I
thought. <i>There can't be more, can there? </i>
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The next
thing to go was the oven. Now you have to know that I love my 20-inch
wide gas stove. It's cooked thousands of meals since my firstborn
child was a toddler. It's got us through good winters and bad. It's
filled the house with the rich smells of rice puddings and baked
chickens and roasted vegetables. I wasn't ready to give up on my
stove, so we bought a small confection oven and I continued to use
the top of the stove, which was still functioning. Then one day the
stove began to leak gas. I called in the gasman and he broke it to
me as gently as possible but the sad truth was he had to condemn the
stove. Yes, it's true, stoves can be condemned, even stoves that
have served their masters faithfully for close to thirty years
without complaint.
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But I'm
still not through my list. One week, it rained and rained and
rained. We have an old back porch and the wooden posts of that old
back porch, we discovered, weren't driven deep into the ground.
After all that rain, stepping out onto that back porch was a bit
like land surfing. The porch had literally moved ten inches away
from the back door. This is not exactly a safe thing when you have a
90-year-old aunt and an 88-year old uncle who both visit on a regular
basis. So guess what? We needed to dismantle our porch and down
went the clothesline along with the porch. Being that we don't have
a dryer, this added another annoying inconvenience to our lives.</div>
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So how many
broken things am I up to now? The dishwasher, the upstairs taps, the
downstairs taps, the car, the stove, the vacuum cleaner, the back
porch, the clothesline and did I mention the cassette player? (I
know it's pathetic that we still play cassettes but all of our best
music is on cassettes.) There were a few other things that may or may
not quite classify as broken, such as the birds living in our attic,
happily flying in and out from the holes in the old wooden boards
under the eaves. That was lots of fun but I think I'll save that
story for my next episode.
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For months,
I've wanted to write about these broken things as a kind of cathartic
experience for myself, but I couldn't and guess why I couldn't....
because I had <i><b>broken </b></i>my wrist and couldn't write! But
I'm proud to report that my cast is off and I'm cresting a new year.
Let me complete my little story by saying that my mantra throughout
all these annoyances has been, “Things may be breaking around me
but I am grateful that it's not my heart that's broken.” Hence,
the title of my little story!
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<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Happy 2013.
I wish for you all happy hearts with just enough cracking for the
light to find its way in! </div>
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Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-26373580550079052172012-09-14T19:43:00.001-07:002012-09-21T08:45:13.646-07:00It's a Wrap!<br />
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Just before our film
shoot of '<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VW0dw0TrQSc">Under the Pearl Moon</a>' began, a friend of mine said, “Enjoy
the shoot. There's nothing like it in the whole world”. And now,
a week after the fact, I couldn't agree more. We lived in each
others pockets, twelve to fourteen creative people all focused on one
story; one goal; one imagining. Not to say there weren't stumbling
blocks along the way: the power suddenly shutting down, a thunder
storm that came upon us out of the blue; the injury on the last day
and though it wasn't serious, our fearless Sonja still needed to be
brought to emergency, just to be absolutely sure.
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And now that things
have returned to normal, I marvel at all the things that could have
gone wrong, but didn't. Our two eleven-year-old children had amazing
stamina. And though we were shooting in the bush of Northern Ontario
for most of the week, not once did a bear appear (though there was a
bear on the site, the week previous), the bugs were minimal and the
weather was good to us. We worked from dawn to dusk and the
generosity of the cast and crew was amazing. We were stuck in a
rustic cabin with no running water and yet in the entire week, I
don't think there was one complaint from any of us about the setting.
It was all embraced with true northern spirit!
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Here are some pictures
to be enjoyed. These were taken by artist/set dresser Marianne Brown. I also intend to add additional photos by photographer Paula Thiessen.... coming soon!</div>
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Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-56783741076079914222012-06-17T18:56:00.000-07:002012-06-17T18:57:09.459-07:00A Night of Sleep in a Sewing Room<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCwoOnAsIwonHJ18MTinZ3Dg7VPV8d_ihc8aOPTKiaQQ-q8306uSodE26aRv4A3p88hr1r9NU9NgOm_j8SZXClmo5pbqmEQCMtjRZlaqEf1D_Qi0YuwGePMy4SapTnzeY9MBLbfcrO8w/s1600/CostumeRack2012+032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCwoOnAsIwonHJ18MTinZ3Dg7VPV8d_ihc8aOPTKiaQQ-q8306uSodE26aRv4A3p88hr1r9NU9NgOm_j8SZXClmo5pbqmEQCMtjRZlaqEf1D_Qi0YuwGePMy4SapTnzeY9MBLbfcrO8w/s320/CostumeRack2012+032.jpg" width="300" /></a>
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I know I've mused on this theme before but allow me to visit it again; the theme of being swept into the idea that comfort (and all of the things associated with that word 'comfort'), somehow equals happiness. Here's the thing; we all need comfort; both emotional and physical. We need a warm home to shield us from our bitter cold winters and we need loving arms to embrace us each and every day. But do we really and truly need pillows on our beds with three times the puffiness of when I grew up? Or sheets with a minimum of 600 thread count (whatever that means)? I remember once baking with my grandmother and I accidentally dropped an egg on the floor. She calmly opened a cupboard where hundreds of 6-inch cotton squares were neatly piled. She had cut them up from threadbare cotton sheets. I don't think paper towel ever darkened her door because she used and reused rags until they simply disintegrated into thin air. <br />
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I would say that I am fortunate and that I have very little to complain about and yet still I get swept into wanting the finest tea or the softest cotton. And then something comes along to throw me into a short stint of discomfort. And suddenly I see the world differently. Not at first of course. At first, I'm annoyed. But once I relax, the gifts of the situation begin to unravel.<br />
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The other week, I was visiting my <a href="https://vimeo.com/43982104">daughter</a> and two of her friends arrived also on the same night. She lives in a small apartment so I offered to find a hotel. She suggested that instead, I sleep in her tiny sewing room (which is actually a sun porch). So we got it all set up with a camping roll-out mattress and a blanket and there I slept. Initially when I curled up under the coveres, I had trouble sleeping. The floor underneath felt hard and because the room is full of windows, the sounds of traffic were heavy in my ears. I turned on the light and read a chapter of Nicholas Nickelby and suddenly my thoughts shifted. I began to look around the room and see all of my daughter's treasures and sewing projects.
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It hearkened me back to when she was a little girl and she dressed herself in the most ecclectic and inspired ways. And then I began to think of my own mother and how she could let in or take out any pair of jeans; she could sew the neatest zipper I've ever seen; she once made all her own clothes (prior to the birth of her seven children) and to this day, I take my mending over to her. As I muse on all of this, each item in the sewing room become like tiny treasures.
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And then, in the morning, I wake up feeling as if I had slept inside a huge, lusciously green tree. All this because I didn't take a hotel room. All this because I had experienced an hour or two of discomfort, which quickly reverted to a delightful night in a sewing room.
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</div>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-77926917914422146062012-05-13T13:29:00.000-07:002012-05-13T13:29:42.448-07:00Full Moon Lessons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">The moon was incredibly bright last week, the brightest it's been in years, or so they said on the weather channel. Whether it's true or not, the full moon always manages to entrance me. Perhaps because it is our closest celestial neighbour. Or perhaps because it shines in the darkness, always seeming to guide my way when I'm not so sure where my path is leading me. For a few moments the other night, while I stood watching that brilliant moon, all my disappointments melted away and I only felt gratitude; what an incredible gift life is. What a gift that the natural world, even with all our technology, still provides us with a sense of magic and wonder. What a gift that my life has brought me into so many diverse circles of people from all walks of life. This week I attended a gathering of Aboriginal artists and something one of the presenters said really stuck a chord with me. He was speaking on the role of art and he spoke of art as a "magic moment maker." He went on to say that "If I want to be a magic moment maker, I have to move any barriers that prevent me; anything that stands in the way of transforming". As I heard him speak, I thought "yes". And often those barriers are internal as well as external. Sometimes those internal barriers are less obvious to the eye and so more dangerous. Disappointment, if left to fester, leads to discouragement and discouragement, if left unattended, leads to depression, and so on. After hearing this artist's talk, I am reminded that I need to recognize and root out my own internal (and external) barriers. Life is too short. We all need to shine. And the moon certainly set a fine example for us last week.</span>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-83491178397948992052012-04-14T12:35:00.008-07:002012-04-15T08:00:43.264-07:00Lessons From a 92-year-old Neighbour<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIA5H85BQfVgxjKM38Hs1O683xH_U7k_UNMF7ylLfgsdNkK2kTjvq6Xat7bY8BlaxycdBmu7JHM6AmygRqqvs3Ptn9kuyVTpyZO8CsYTaWuztGtB1UXkcBXGFMM_O_yBantA-Ysl_JXg/s1600/Lunch+with+Satimio+001.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 480px; height: 328px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIA5H85BQfVgxjKM38Hs1O683xH_U7k_UNMF7ylLfgsdNkK2kTjvq6Xat7bY8BlaxycdBmu7JHM6AmygRqqvs3Ptn9kuyVTpyZO8CsYTaWuztGtB1UXkcBXGFMM_O_yBantA-Ysl_JXg/s400/Lunch+with+Satimio+001.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731419023488473746" /></a><br /><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">He gave up riding his bicycle a few years ago and now he walks everywhere. Seeing him from a distance, he looks like a fit 70-year old. But he's not 70. He's 92 and going strong. He exudes all the elements a person needs to live a fulfilled life; and apparently also a long life. He, like many Italian immigrants, makes a great neighbour; always on the lookout for what someone may need. (And he is as opinionated as he is generous). My mother and I live only a block from each other, so Satimio is a neighbour to us both. Last summer, while my husband and I were away on holidays, he noticed the wild rose bushes encroaching onto my mother's walkway. Rather than drastically snip back the bushes, he drove three mental stakes into the ground and pulled the rose stems away from the walkway. I must say, it gives me great piece of mind that my 82-year old mother has a 92-year old neighbour who keeps an eye on her. </span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">The other night, I called Satimio on the phone to tell him that I was planning to drop off a jar of soup in his porch. The next morning, I received a call from him, inviting myself, my husband and my mother over for lunch. When we arrived, my soup was certainly not needed as he has made us home made spaghetti. Also on the table, he had set out salami, cheese, bread, wine and ginger ale. Wonderful. Simply wonderful... not just the food but also the conversation. We covered everything from war to politics to the gap between the rich and the poor. Satimio is a passionate </span>pacifist<span style="font-size: 100%;">. He takes great pride in the fact that, while fighting as an Italian solder against the Russians, he harmed no one. While he was there, he thought it an insane task that he should be asked to take the life of a young man, a man as young as himself. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Though we talk about serious issues, Satimio sometimes has a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He tells us that he had planned to live to a hundred. But his friend informed him that at one hundred, he would receive a letter from the Queen and the Pope. Well that settled it. Now he's decided he'd rather die at 99. </span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; ">When I return home from lunch, I begin to think of the life lessons Satimio has taught me over the years.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">1. Be engaged and active about world issues</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">2. Cook for your friends.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">3. Keep a garden. (He has already begun to sprout seeds in his front porch.)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">4. Speak your mind.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">5. Keep walking. Never stop walking, if you are fortunate enough to be able to walk.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">6. Keep a sense of humour.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">7. Be generous.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">8. Consume only what you need.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">9. Give sincere hugs and affection.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">10. Fill a corner of your house with pictures of family.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Before I left Satimio's he pressed a small piece of amethyst into the palm of my hand. I've placed it beside my work station to remind myself of what's important in life. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQCVwTcMXZ6bDiy2aqweXIcI7v4u5nTcQugyrT9FXnZ-pE2H2e6eUlKGL0qIPrhkkkMxcci8Fq1zBVMJle9nNeuP8eRboqI4ABl1yNTMXHmLpy10hiDXbGeR_56N3tf4HykAcOCe4Dw/s1600/Ottawa+Easter2012+024.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQCVwTcMXZ6bDiy2aqweXIcI7v4u5nTcQugyrT9FXnZ-pE2H2e6eUlKGL0qIPrhkkkMxcci8Fq1zBVMJle9nNeuP8eRboqI4ABl1yNTMXHmLpy10hiDXbGeR_56N3tf4HykAcOCe4Dw/s320/Ottawa+Easter2012+024.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731419748633273538" /></a> I hope Satimio is right and that he will live to 99. But whatever age he lives to, I know he will always have his seeds sprouting in his window, ready to plant his next garden.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-13798399512549520772012-03-17T20:38:00.010-07:002012-03-18T17:09:11.582-07:00Empty Nest and Tea Blends<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKrue2QPXQ3IXYeU4ezDbsR8rpt32cphj-Dm5d3NtiazGxdwwyOG-fl9bYeH5xbvBI37oEOz_Pxxu7Fz-BJB65BcJDhHaP0UvVDg1rfJHdofkSsCerp3joMUr7Is-mU2EP44aJvM_72A/s1600/birds+nest+003.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKrue2QPXQ3IXYeU4ezDbsR8rpt32cphj-Dm5d3NtiazGxdwwyOG-fl9bYeH5xbvBI37oEOz_Pxxu7Fz-BJB65BcJDhHaP0UvVDg1rfJHdofkSsCerp3joMUr7Is-mU2EP44aJvM_72A/s400/birds+nest+003.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721077307290661986" /></a><br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in">All winter, I was thinking about making home made tea blends to give as gifts, but it took me until spring to actually complete the task. They were meant to be my cozy winter gifts but now they are, I suppose, my welcome spring gifts. And since I've been packaging them up, it seems I've become all the more aware of the gifts of spring itself. </p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">No matter what mood I may be in, I do hope to be enchanted by one thing on this planet, each and every day. This doesn't necessarily happen naturally. You'd think that daily practice would eventually make this habit. But no, each day when I wake up, I need to remind myself to open my eyes; to open my heart; to expect a surprise. If I don't remind myself quickly enough and the day of obligation unfolds, worry or anxiety or both tend to work their way into a tangled mess. And then it becomes all the more challenging to unravel my thoughts.</span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGNXEEOABH5OI3xrEPLK1Lf85OMCTL8McgGnhQSy7IVgXwNi8lCudWqlKiXtRav2X9g9AeDxs91SQd35TpGTtWPNy1ADU0oSi_Dp_M-c1d_9heDBFJUHJWeo0CVqqeaYwk8UWglLwDg/s1600/blog+301.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGNXEEOABH5OI3xrEPLK1Lf85OMCTL8McgGnhQSy7IVgXwNi8lCudWqlKiXtRav2X9g9AeDxs91SQd35TpGTtWPNy1ADU0oSi_Dp_M-c1d_9heDBFJUHJWeo0CVqqeaYwk8UWglLwDg/s400/blog+301.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721082291358073858" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6GYaJGlfuzfrIRNdQCnMEhC9Lj5QYO-ENpbrZ3sNh7s8b3nD_Zj-b-jW2z7UEJwZczGQ55cBUpDg7Y-q2mIMMANl98Fyy5kF2G27tmXkiGXSAdH8vCF5O9EYMM2RxoK0Ii2sopu7QqA/s1600/blog+303.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6GYaJGlfuzfrIRNdQCnMEhC9Lj5QYO-ENpbrZ3sNh7s8b3nD_Zj-b-jW2z7UEJwZczGQ55cBUpDg7Y-q2mIMMANl98Fyy5kF2G27tmXkiGXSAdH8vCF5O9EYMM2RxoK0Ii2sopu7QqA/s400/blog+303.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721081619626393634" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMh_XLoNj-_Cn0uPeBBBfIwai6A_bDMZGwez5ddUSVBfwY-rcwx5H2O2dvyeSKXNwLHbEwAUXfALihcCCcm6V3QzgDWGKm0sj2EGknFnGGYRqoxAImZB2lakpIxgiTLGAu3KMSvYrP7A/s1600/Tea4.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMh_XLoNj-_Cn0uPeBBBfIwai6A_bDMZGwez5ddUSVBfwY-rcwx5H2O2dvyeSKXNwLHbEwAUXfALihcCCcm6V3QzgDWGKm0sj2EGknFnGGYRqoxAImZB2lakpIxgiTLGAu3KMSvYrP7A/s400/Tea4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721080707303909922" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYB55B9Fh_8GzrJBgXgP2m5j6tjOYD6fRT_cDukhSZVEQ8fO-MlRP4P2V3VuSYICiRIGt2wpq-rDwuWn2T4VaT1bO-ttqsfouO737F_YyWXsYJajA_wL9ygh9ogxAu6wBzL_CE5zveLg/s1600/Tea6.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 550px; height: 455px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYB55B9Fh_8GzrJBgXgP2m5j6tjOYD6fRT_cDukhSZVEQ8fO-MlRP4P2V3VuSYICiRIGt2wpq-rDwuWn2T4VaT1bO-ttqsfouO737F_YyWXsYJajA_wL9ygh9ogxAu6wBzL_CE5zveLg/s400/Tea6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721078766385598130" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjgJpnebOQ8PO0Lu3rzMOfjmfgV70qEfGM6jlRb8fjRbjB4NhupajF_kVXS7cyz7fx4R8odNVGU0WwaveWoOmh5iKzCj6qoh_cT8M6UbEXaJozb8qHlfQk5LCbwMNvVuH8qPLB26eWZQ/s1600/Tea7.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjgJpnebOQ8PO0Lu3rzMOfjmfgV70qEfGM6jlRb8fjRbjB4NhupajF_kVXS7cyz7fx4R8odNVGU0WwaveWoOmh5iKzCj6qoh_cT8M6UbEXaJozb8qHlfQk5LCbwMNvVuH8qPLB26eWZQ/s400/Tea7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721232390416020962" /></a><br /><br />I have a little story. Earlier this week, while out walking with a friend, I took note of two tell tale signs of spring. We have a wonderful custom in our city that if you discover a lost hat or mitt or glove on the ground, you put it up high in a tree branch where it can be easily spotted by the person who has lost it. In spring, people tend to lose their hats and mitts more often, probably because the weather is so changeable and we're constantly putting on or taking off our wintry layers.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQTPj45A-My4Y4FOGYyy-V6uTIH6bx08gnanLOtG3KQ9pLrZBS_9PybjYBVYjJTQepNkBWitCfCUAnU9cWWAA4NLkBYZcvUc8D0oz0bkGZ-_uvlapPYIKfCrNChi1d3SJLymdtKVmPKA/s1600/Mitt+on+Tree.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQTPj45A-My4Y4FOGYyy-V6uTIH6bx08gnanLOtG3KQ9pLrZBS_9PybjYBVYjJTQepNkBWitCfCUAnU9cWWAA4NLkBYZcvUc8D0oz0bkGZ-_uvlapPYIKfCrNChi1d3SJLymdtKVmPKA/s400/Mitt+on+Tree.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721078125381613154" /></a><br /><br /><br />First I spotted a blue mitt in a tree. Moments later, we came across a tiny little nest, at eye level, in a hedge. The hedge, of course, had no leaves and so the two-inch round nest was quite exposed. There were no eggs in it, so we supposed that the mother bird had moved on to build a new nest in hopefully a safer, less visible location.</span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The next day I found myself thinking about the nest and so entranced was I that I decided on my way to work, to pop by and see if the nest was still there. And this time, I brought my camera. First, I took a picture of the mitt in the tree, but when I went to snap a picture of the nest, my batteries died. Not having time to rush home to get new batteries, I instead headed off to work. That was on Wednesday. All day I thought about the nest and that evening, I went back to take a picture of it. But by then, the nest had disappeared. Gone. Nowhere to be found nearby. Today, which just happens to be a Saturday, I once again headed down the same street, only this time with a different friend. As we walked, we occasionally kept our eyes to the ground to avoid puddles of melting snow. I suddenly found myself pointing to the ground, saying “There's my nest!” It was, unquestionably, the same nest. Without a moment's hesitation my friend picked it up and offered it to me. I opened my purse and pulled out a little cloth bag and we placed the nest in the bag. All this fuss over an abandoned nest!</span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Of course later on in the day, it all became clear to me. This is, after all, the first spring without any of my children home. They've all flown away. I continue to make little nests here and there in the form of tea blends and hand-written letters. They're not practical nests and they never really amount to much. But it makes me feel good to make them all the same. And I was able to photograph the little nest, after all!</span></p>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-47273429935279245442012-03-01T19:48:00.012-08:002012-03-21T10:21:26.439-07:00Arctic shadows, snow and sky<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEHqgi3-H7ih8VjlraqEGRMgg9VKNadPsgg_yQ8XgO6QZFd4Vqm-jsvke-GvK71FqLg0gM1GW1JcvlHdhTBaL1D0R2I2r8mZ0tZ26uBSSx9HOyoP9GHmT5pIYcXFMYWgszA6Nj_1PUFQ/s1600/The+Fog.jpg" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 373px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEHqgi3-H7ih8VjlraqEGRMgg9VKNadPsgg_yQ8XgO6QZFd4Vqm-jsvke-GvK71FqLg0gM1GW1JcvlHdhTBaL1D0R2I2r8mZ0tZ26uBSSx9HOyoP9GHmT5pIYcXFMYWgszA6Nj_1PUFQ/s400/The+Fog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715501708396290130" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQvN4hxC0jM7RRTV4TZL0vpvwtc04YNCHmdFkAwGSU52nGV3Wcmmh_XWp4B_z77bOSeZQPjkMESKpA81ubpMOi7ojVwUBxHAvDUm8jqWQB-iz9HvqQLjm7sq68Q9P_f7pJL2qTZCf-5Q/s1600/Iqaluit+088.JPG" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQvN4hxC0jM7RRTV4TZL0vpvwtc04YNCHmdFkAwGSU52nGV3Wcmmh_XWp4B_z77bOSeZQPjkMESKpA81ubpMOi7ojVwUBxHAvDUm8jqWQB-iz9HvqQLjm7sq68Q9P_f7pJL2qTZCf-5Q/s400/Iqaluit+088.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715400395300594850" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; ">Arctic Snow, Shadow and Sky</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyFHyYh2HB7DZOrU5EU93HX5rCTR7nBj9bWr1ocysGmzsm2g5ReaydRNch7_hr3cdWiwWhYj8u6tgd5i5CJtpwLsPfB5OHxsVExhNVBFa2B8KnIpNFR-rMR37EwNT1hxcg3LGSfNgDRw/s1600/Iqaluit+022School+Yard.jpg" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyFHyYh2HB7DZOrU5EU93HX5rCTR7nBj9bWr1ocysGmzsm2g5ReaydRNch7_hr3cdWiwWhYj8u6tgd5i5CJtpwLsPfB5OHxsVExhNVBFa2B8KnIpNFR-rMR37EwNT1hxcg3LGSfNgDRw/s400/Iqaluit+022School+Yard.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715142929641902130" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span>As I take my evening walks in the mild winter snows of Thunder Bay, it’s hard to believe that only a few weeks ago, I was up in the Arctic. When I was little, I would close my eyes and try to imagine myself flying over the lake, across the waters, meeting up with the horizon and continuing on until I was flying over the snows of the Arctic. I don’t know why in my imagination I never flew south; always north. Now, as an adult, I still experience some of the thrill of flying to the edge of the world; that world of shadows and light. </span><span> </span><p></p> <p lang="en" class="western" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.14in; line-height: 115%; "> <span><span><span style="font-size: 11pt">While I was in Iqaluit, I attended the Pilriqatigiinniq Teachers Conference. It was an exciting week that included a talk from David Suzuki one night and a craft show on the following night. I was absolutely stunned at the level of excitement and energy that went into the craft show (and, of course, David Suzuki's talk). There was no shortage of vendors displaying everything from seal skin mitts to spices for Arctic char to beautifully embroidered and beaded wool hangings. It was the first time in my life that I’d seen people arrive an hour early to an arts and crafts fair. People were literally packed into the hall like sardines. I asked some of the city residents about this later and was informed that crowds always come out in droves for arts & crafts shows. So I can only conclude that hand-crafts are highly valued in this part of the world. </span></span> </span></p> <p lang="en" class="western" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.14in; line-height: 115%; "> <span><span style="font-size: 11pt; "><span>I love to make things with my hands. It always brings me relief from a technologically obsessed world to be able to pick up a needle and thread and hand stitch a quilt or sew on a button. To be in a space where the general community also celebrates handiwork, this was marvelous to me.</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijVaOYfB0T03e9xiDN2YGXHZZ31TRdbFFhkNqZiGYkarJBhy8lzeM5xUgZ5ON129eayCB4gPdz7nEaXQ1GCH6QziD302x5k6oHnJnBgbK0_4Djlo4bRN_3TqPxGmpQNHZavqdloRPVRg/s1600/The+Fog+with+Masks.jpg" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 450px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijVaOYfB0T03e9xiDN2YGXHZZ31TRdbFFhkNqZiGYkarJBhy8lzeM5xUgZ5ON129eayCB4gPdz7nEaXQ1GCH6QziD302x5k6oHnJnBgbK0_4Djlo4bRN_3TqPxGmpQNHZavqdloRPVRg/s400/The+Fog+with+Masks.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715501225943832658" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVcYEHnIPzYYYx0-C9bPEiv4Gx72pwxaQFEXACufQwjYQ0Y9B67_6ekrdMg1EutNO9awHDCtQfpSU_xKXDDCQEJUI6BCBkZGVsBPFp1nTfP0q4yP5fYJ2dWN2w1DVwP8ZVRDllTPyHw/s1600/Iqaluit+047.JPG" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVcYEHnIPzYYYx0-C9bPEiv4Gx72pwxaQFEXACufQwjYQ0Y9B67_6ekrdMg1EutNO9awHDCtQfpSU_xKXDDCQEJUI6BCBkZGVsBPFp1nTfP0q4yP5fYJ2dWN2w1DVwP8ZVRDllTPyHw/s400/Iqaluit+047.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715144481479005458" /></a><br /><br /><span>In our workshop, my co-presenter and I gave a workshop where we also created something with our hands and our imaginations; making shadow puppets one day and masks the next. We had brought in stories to adapt into simple tableau and shadow plays, but in the end, we invited the participants to share their own stories; in their own language. I felt truly honoured to hear the stories shared in Inuktitut. Even without the translations, I had a sense of what the storytellers were sharing, through their gestures and through their voices. </span></span></span><span> </span></p> <p lang="en" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; "> <span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">When I visited one of the shops later in the evening to look at the regional books, I </span></span><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; ">wasn't</span></span><span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; "><span> surprised to see that many of the stories were illustrated in shadow or near-shadow images. Without trees to impede the view of the sky, there really are only a few noticeable elements to the landscape; shadow, shades of the many colours of snow, and sky.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvhI0Z7CP0kALWr60ori23i2YAnyYjf5yZkal4Pnd-oxVCRLSoTZY9_XUExPX4RY_PqkSlZXF0zflKEjHeODlat2WnYEjg_ba2vA4tpASpJimNjia1AN18GJZ03In6SIZNHjYQURqyA/s1600/Iqaluit+017Shadow+2.jpg" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvhI0Z7CP0kALWr60ori23i2YAnyYjf5yZkal4Pnd-oxVCRLSoTZY9_XUExPX4RY_PqkSlZXF0zflKEjHeODlat2WnYEjg_ba2vA4tpASpJimNjia1AN18GJZ03In6SIZNHjYQURqyA/s400/Iqaluit+017Shadow+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715143173418723778" /></a></span></span></span></span></p>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-59552684092112288282012-02-20T12:36:00.000-08:002012-02-20T12:55:12.631-08:00The 'Places' of Creativity<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><br /><span>My grandmother 'Fortunata' standing by her home.</span><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqbYQ1LBqcnTkjXqL42zE_CxlEZv05d54yv1q5W-cR25zjum-fYonB-6_oLJv0KF3zn0tM3FCoCn7YBrvEfRXYjGe55atWLGC9Y1py9NXGyGanlgTC9MFBRjRiiD-UCI2uKDBOgxNJDA/s1600/Fortunata+001.jpg" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; "><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 338px; height: 460px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqbYQ1LBqcnTkjXqL42zE_CxlEZv05d54yv1q5W-cR25zjum-fYonB-6_oLJv0KF3zn0tM3FCoCn7YBrvEfRXYjGe55atWLGC9Y1py9NXGyGanlgTC9MFBRjRiiD-UCI2uKDBOgxNJDA/s400/Fortunata+001.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711320453279028706" /></a><br /><p class="western" style="font-size: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; ">Though most people think of <b><i>place</i></b> as a geographical location (and certainly geography has a huge impact on our lives), for me the definition is much broader. Recently, I have undertaken a project to make sense of dozens of little notes I wrote to myself following visits with my grandmother. (She passed away a number of years ago, at the age of 101.) How is it, that while patching together her stories, I feel an intense sense of ownership, as though I myself have lived through her realities? How is it that when I am reminded of her stories<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; ">—</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "> the </span>custom-made wooden yoke her father made for her to haul water; and how at fourteen years of age, she was sent to work full time at Woolworth's for ten cents an hour following her father's serious work accident; and how she resourcefully unpicked sugar bags to make shirts and collected the worn woolen rollers from the mill to make blankets<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; ">—</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "> how is it that these stories resonate for me? And how I feel a powerful surge of </span><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i>belonging</i></span><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "> to those places she describes, w</span>hen in actual fact, I have never known such places? I can only answer that place is not only an external reality, but also includes the internal geography of the mind and heart. And for every human being, that composite is something very unique.</p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; "><br /></p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; ">For me, 'place' is where internal geography meets external geography. And I experience the external geography (my home; Northern Ontario and all its wonders), through the visceral experiences of ordinary day-to-day life. Today, 'place' is the frozen blanket I pull from the clothesline on a crisp January day; it is a cake recipe I follow that has been nibbled at the corners by mice; it is the sound of our 100-year old piano as I stumble through a new song. For me, 'place' is the combination of every place I have ever lived, every experience I have ever had, and every meaningful connection that I have ever shared. As a practicing artist, 'place' influences every work that is conceived and created. Without it, I would be left working in a vacuum. It is, I believe, what gives shape and meaning to all creative endeavors.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglyYqwA6Uwz8s4ZJ5GufW5luAtLYVRnI07OZEk5zQUBwLvHBUutj5k8TAAvRjztWL-5jsY46d23aLXNlTVTHiRRE-ZkXdC6yWKY7bBesIFTXoVGwtmHQ8qvnsEHxyh_ta8hf4maDqGjw/s1600/Quilt009.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 450px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglyYqwA6Uwz8s4ZJ5GufW5luAtLYVRnI07OZEk5zQUBwLvHBUutj5k8TAAvRjztWL-5jsY46d23aLXNlTVTHiRRE-ZkXdC6yWKY7bBesIFTXoVGwtmHQ8qvnsEHxyh_ta8hf4maDqGjw/s400/Quilt009.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711321381874274994" /></a><br /><br />I would like to close this reflection on 'place' with one of my grandmother's stories I found on a scrap of paper. There is a tenuous moment here where a child is caught between one person's sense of place and another person's sense of place. In Fortunata's words<span style="font-weight: normal; ">—</span> “<span style="font-weight: normal; ">I'll always remember Sister Gevita. Us girls liked her, but one day she shocked me. You see, my mother got a call from a neighbour whose baby was sick. 'Can you send your daughter over to interpret when the doctor gets here?' The neighbours were always calling on me to translate for them because I was fluent in Italian and English. Well, my mother would never turn anyone down so she kept me out of school for the day. The next day, Sister Gevita called me out into the hall and asked me where I'd been. After I told her, she said 'Your mother was wrong to keep you from school.' That shocked me, her saying that about my mother. I never did tell my mother about it. She probably would've pulled me from school permanently. I mean, doing charity, that </span><span style="font-weight: normal; "><i>was</i></span><span style="font-weight: normal; "> my education, as far as my mother was concerned.” </span> </p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; "><br /></p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; "><br /></p>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-14729114078686652402011-12-28T18:03:00.000-08:002011-12-28T18:19:23.458-08:00New Year's Goals and an Imperfect Mary<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoLD2o8fXxNaVm9ceMwMyL52gpWpo8kXWdK0vwoAk5tswm2D9o8bum6Z-NH0sZik5l1kzRsckj_AVwMPGn4EQclR36_CijtGzNXtQ47bhzUjPKXNGbvoSPwLqK3os9RZOptkGIeTPfow/s1600/026.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoLD2o8fXxNaVm9ceMwMyL52gpWpo8kXWdK0vwoAk5tswm2D9o8bum6Z-NH0sZik5l1kzRsckj_AVwMPGn4EQclR36_CijtGzNXtQ47bhzUjPKXNGbvoSPwLqK3os9RZOptkGIeTPfow/s400/026.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691368872174842994" /></a><br /><br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in"><i><b>New Year's Goals and an Imperfect Mary</b></i></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in">When I was a girl, we had a crib with all the Christmas story figurines. One of the shepherds had a lamb propped over his neck, like a woolen scarf. Two angels were propped up on top of the crib and a large silver star hung at the peak of the open creche. My father used to 'hide' the baby Jesus up high in the cabinet and surreptitiously place it in the manger before we got out of bed on Christmas morning. Over the years, with seven children playing with the ceramic figurines, they naturally got chipped and broken and lost. Some of the figures were so damaged with chunks of plaster gone so that we could see the wires at the centre of the figure. Eventually, the entire set dwindled down to only one sheep, one shepherd, one cow, two of the three wise men, one angel and of course Joseph, Mary and Jesus. But one year, we could not find Mary. I suppose she just couldn't sustain the wear and tear of our household. Baby Jesus still arrived on cue but it just wasn't the same without Mary.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in">The following Christmas, the creche was set up again but this time my mother had found a 'spare Mary' to complete the Christmas scene. However, because Mary had been scrounged from elsewhere and was not an original member of the set, she was quite a bit larger than the other figurines. In fact, Mary on her knees still managed to tower over Joseph who happened to be in a standing position. At the time, we were simply glad to have Mary back and it made no difference to us that she didn't 'match' the set.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in">Now, in retrospect, I am so grateful to have grown up in a family where things didn't match, where china was often chipped or cracked, where stairs creaked and windows rattled and where the gooseberry bushes overran the garden. I think our generation is obsessed with perfection. We want the best of everything. Few of us would glue up a broken figurine or replace a broken clasp on a bra or take apart a toaster to attempt to fix it. When we paint a room, we want things to match. There's even a name for these small items we place in the newly painted room: <i>accents</i>. When did 'accents' become something that everyday people had to worry themselves about? Personally, I love beautiful things. I am an artist, after all and aesthetics mean a lot to me. But do I love perfection too much? Is there some wisdom in the way I was raised? Where perfection was an ideal only to aspire to only in terms of developing character traits such as kindness and 'doing the right thing'.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mpLqLkVp631AUQDTEa7uNm8VyZjMg1ykF49Dc_CIHp5zliQIniduw-dE5_vM9ZLGNRKJtZehRhP5pPZkxGBDEIjQEGq3V70phJslFEwPA1i_pHoiDsxv-tyErzSLZgjUnP8A-f7EdA/s1600/013.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mpLqLkVp631AUQDTEa7uNm8VyZjMg1ykF49Dc_CIHp5zliQIniduw-dE5_vM9ZLGNRKJtZehRhP5pPZkxGBDEIjQEGq3V70phJslFEwPA1i_pHoiDsxv-tyErzSLZgjUnP8A-f7EdA/s400/013.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691367493076810354" /></a><br />This new year, I am going to sit down and write out my goals, as I always do. It's fun to think about what this next year might bring. But I am also going to include something different in my goals. That is, I'm going to include a “make-do” attitude. In certain areas in my life, I am going to be okay with imperfection. Not only am I going to be okay with it, I'm going to celebrate it. Why not? It's going to be a 'yes' kind of year: yes to hope, yes to kindness and yes to living in this imperfect world. </p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-61166947135080889282011-12-20T15:20:00.000-08:002011-12-20T15:26:49.000-08:00Salvation Army Kettle Drive and the Snow That Came to Stay<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOKy1Ao6pnHpPQ9eae1lQe2b6GW3S2-tFFG2u0-LCsim9BYMjEEX5-Dw9bC5Z55UYjPsJu75NRRYa2pmNOSCxBuewQPHKy-1PwHQMwg3lnzh8tUvlmqhecTC8CltX8S1HcscrFfB7fg/s1600/163.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOKy1Ao6pnHpPQ9eae1lQe2b6GW3S2-tFFG2u0-LCsim9BYMjEEX5-Dw9bC5Z55UYjPsJu75NRRYa2pmNOSCxBuewQPHKy-1PwHQMwg3lnzh8tUvlmqhecTC8CltX8S1HcscrFfB7fg/s400/163.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688355022042389890" /></a><br />The Salvation Army Kettle Drive and the Snow That Came to Stay<br /><br />Each year it's the same thing. In November, I resist digging out my winter clothes. I delay and delay until it's been minus zero for over a week, and then finally I relent and I open up the dreaded 'box'. This year, as I unearth my winter things, I notice the slightly musty smell of the wool, the coolness of the attic and the snow gently falling. All of this releases that valve of memory from previous winters in Northern Ontario. And suddenly, I see myself at sixteen in January, wandering into the “Famous Shoe Repair”on Simpson Street.<br /><br />As teenagers, my best friend and I often promenaded along the sidewalks of Simpson Street frequenting 'The Ukrainian Book Store', 'The European Bakery' (with the most amazing poppy seed bread in the world), 'Cherry's Corner', 'Morrows' Pianos', 'The Venice Grill' and, of course 'The Famous Shoe Repair Shop'. I remember how Gerry, the shoemaker, hummed to himself while he worked and his fingers were permanently stained. I loved that Gerry named his shop “Famous” and that he took the time to chat with us. And even more wonderful that his shop doors remain open to this day, as does the European Bakery!<br /><br />As I reminisce, I slowly dawn my winter clothes. I am about to volunteer for the Salvation Army kettle drive and realize I may be stationed outside or near a drafty doorway. As I gently ring the bells throughout the afternoon, I remember a line from a play by John Books‒“The snow that came to stay, fell this night.” I wonder if 'this night' will be the snow that comes to stay. As I watch the snow, dozens of people stop to talk with me. One woman tells me the story of losing her brother in an industrial accident just following the war. “He survived the war, only to die back here in Canada.” A woman drops a twenty into the kettle saying, “Salvation Army saved my life so many times. Literally. I don't mind giving. I don't mind.” I have no explanation for this surge of conversation with strangers, other than the fact that the Salvation Army makes our communities kinder, gentler places. And it's snowing. Perhaps snow is our common thread. And as the months of winter fly by, I discover that this November day was indeed “the snow that came to stay.” <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkZax4fxKGmPnBBqucweMFXwFXqgh_HcZPwcNkSr1P3lthdnwjMnqN8Uf6XG9CJXWMrxlOI87vpyVGOylIwlTwm81x8fxetg7gAdrxJiaWIMAUVT7TAUBNs6AGpRdO6YWutAuC6p8zA/s1600/161.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkZax4fxKGmPnBBqucweMFXwFXqgh_HcZPwcNkSr1P3lthdnwjMnqN8Uf6XG9CJXWMrxlOI87vpyVGOylIwlTwm81x8fxetg7gAdrxJiaWIMAUVT7TAUBNs6AGpRdO6YWutAuC6p8zA/s400/161.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688355398912807042" /></a>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8942325736657121718.post-14117422523714424642011-10-27T09:37:00.000-07:002011-10-27T09:49:30.229-07:00Gratitude from the ashes of worry<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-o9Ih63IuTApwwxRNdtem0vub3vcK5VHXWqwucYfIUmlWHz_BVsNEJxWXlIv2bsPt2lLwcRP2vT_HIHb4T8tFXNKa-4YCKSF4XnzobNc3ghEX19zgV72z8nTXHg1aeNUrx9Ecuk-E2A/s1600/Angel+Postcard.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 349px; height: 450px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-o9Ih63IuTApwwxRNdtem0vub3vcK5VHXWqwucYfIUmlWHz_BVsNEJxWXlIv2bsPt2lLwcRP2vT_HIHb4T8tFXNKa-4YCKSF4XnzobNc3ghEX19zgV72z8nTXHg1aeNUrx9Ecuk-E2A/s400/Angel+Postcard.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668213444326296882" /></a><br /><br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in">Gratitude from the Ashes of Worry</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in">The older I get, the more fragile I come to realize that life is; and the more gratitude I feel. Granted, I sometimes am grateful that no great disaster has befallen me or my loved ones that day. But I am also grateful for the smaller, almost invisible blessings. Like the fact that I saw a red ship floating in the harbour mist yesterday morning, or that my mother is still well enough to live in her own home, or that the winter clothes I put into storage last April have not been eaten by moths. I have an idea of what cultivates gratitude but I don't always pay attention to what devours gratitude. And many things devour it. Worry, for example. I have had a lifelong relationship with worry. I know its many faces and its many voices. It calls me from my sleep and sings a siren's tune. Worry has a huge appetite and the more you feed it, the more its appetite grows... or so it seems.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in">Case in point: one day last week, I had two things happen within a time space of an hour. In the first incident, one of my co-workers was unhappy with me and had corrected me. In the second incident, a different co-worker sang my praises. My immediate response was to sink into a worried, depressed state over the co-worker who was unhappy with me. Would this affect my reputation at work? Would I come across as someone incapable? I went up into my room at home and literally shut the lights and slumped into a chair. I tried to snap myself out of it. What did it matter if one, single person was unhappy with me one afternoon out of the year? I can never arrange the world in such a way that everyone is always going to always be happy with me! Never! In fact, I can never arrange the world, period. And what about that other co-worker; the one who sang my praises? Why has her compliment been relegated to the back recesses of my mind? Why am I sitting in a dark room in a chair?</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in">When I was working in sculpture a number of years back, I created a worry chair. I asked people to write their worries onto the chair. Underneath it, I sewed a rug with an image of a woman and a window above her head; light streaming in from the window. (The artist part of me knows that it's better to open a window, rather than shut out the light.)</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in">Sometimes, I question the little tidbits of activity I do around the home to bring in the “light”. I call it 'little art' because it is art-in-transition; art that is here today and likely gone in a few days or weeks. This week, I filled a cream pitcher with mountain ash berries and also stems from a white berry bush (that the nursery has mistakenly sold me as a gooseberry bush).<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOQ2kCx8CzhwfyT85lbH5cBFfpvvUjCh6Y23M3cjxZujzSyRKUeBpx3zFEV7UNC_lFg8sNvM7DBb6cMesOCTOgFb90MP4X6RPAU8ZB8UqzKg_U-jIdSXbKYuN8fCAtVND1WYvNGzBNg/s1600/Thanksgiving.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOQ2kCx8CzhwfyT85lbH5cBFfpvvUjCh6Y23M3cjxZujzSyRKUeBpx3zFEV7UNC_lFg8sNvM7DBb6cMesOCTOgFb90MP4X6RPAU8ZB8UqzKg_U-jIdSXbKYuN8fCAtVND1WYvNGzBNg/s400/Thanksgiving.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668213279169611266" /></a> I also found an antique postcard of a little girl reaching up to touch an angel (from Italy) and I framed it in an old frame I had sitting in my attic. For a few weeks, each night I drank warm milk with freshly grated nutmeg and black pepper, crushed star anise and cinnamon sticks. It tasted heavenly. I don't always have time to invest into making a piece of art. But I can always continue puttering with these small, seemingly insignificant pastimes. And as I work at this or that, I seem to also burn off the residue of worry from the day, making room for gratitude. </p>Eleanor Albanesehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387683624249898226noreply@blogger.com4