Under the Pearl Moon film project

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.

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 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.  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.  

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.  

A Three Berry Pie Day

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.

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.

 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.

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?”

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?”
“How will I balance my need to make a living with my soul's necessity of creating art?”
“How can I keep the friend I 'lost' inside me and around me?”
“What worries deplete my energy and what inspirations fill me up?”
“What is the small difficult-to-notice pleasure in my day?”
“What places in my home (chairs, windows, rooms) offer comfort? Stories old and new? An invitation?”
These will be my questions that lead me to curiousity and exploration... whether or not they lead to answer is of no consequence.

By the way, the recipe for my pie included:
1 cup of each type of berry
3/4 cup organic cane sugar
1 T. lemon juice
1 tsp. corn starch
 Butter pie crust
Crumbled gluten-free coconut cookies sprinkled on top with a bit of butter and flour.
Makes one pie.  Double up the recipe to make two pies.

A Month in Italy

My first evening in Florence.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 perhaps 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.

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.

A Day as Recorded by a Happenstance Traveler in Florence

Star Anise; Neapolitan Pastry & Lucia's Puppet Stage:

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 “Mostra Internazionale dell'Artigianato. 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.

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.

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 performer/puppeteer 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.

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. 

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.

Dreaming of Berries

Dreaming of Berries:

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 tea 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.

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....

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!

http://www.arcticjournal.ca/index.php/2012/09/a-season-of-cloudberries-with-reneltta-arluk/

Embroidery for a March Snow & an Unscheduled Life

Embroidery for a March Snow and an Unscheduled Life

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.)

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! 

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.

 

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.    

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.  

Cold Winter Days and Nights

It'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.

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....

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.