Little Old Lady … in Waiting

Tag: reading

  • In Conversation with Dr. Alison Luke

    Alison Luke is a witty, artsy intellectual who I had the great good fortune to meet in the schoolyard when our first-born darlings entered kindergarten together. A founding member of the “Coffee Mommies” collective, the setting for so many rich and sumptuous mornings of coffee and conversation, and the genesis of a great many stimulating and enduring friendships, Alison was always that triple threat friend: maker of tasty baked goods, a scintillating conversationalist and a formidable academic, well versed in a wide spectrum of subjects, always happy to engage on topics ranging from literature and art to philosophy and politics.  Her eyes shine brightest when she gets her teeth into questions of class, culture and power. 

    Perhaps the best way to describe Alison is like a character in a Woody Allen film, one of the better ones, maybe Manhattan Murder Mystery …think urban, cultured, a perfect dinner party guest.  Curious, thoughtful and ethically grounded, Alison is verbally agile, vivacious, and delightfully funny, especially when existentially alarmed.  In short, she is most excellent company and an exceptional friend to call one’s own.

    Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, Alison’s father, a British South African engineer was in the UK doing graduate work when he met and married a small-town girl from Lincolnshire, England.  A poverty activist and social worker, Alison’s mother was instrumental in establishing the first homeless shelter for men in Fredericton, NB, calling them her ‘angels.’  Growing up in Fredericton where her father taught at the University of New Brunswick, Alison developed an early and lifelong interest in politics, excelling in debate and model parliament.  Today, she is a proud card-carrying member of the NDP, an ideologue, who votes her conscience in a well-established two-party system, and remains deeply left of center on the political spectrum when much of her cohort has crept quietly to the midlands.

    Originally planning on becoming a country doctor, but confounded by the multiple-choice format exams, Alison finished her first degree in English Literature with a drama option in theatre, and completed a PHD in Sociology in 2010, remotely from the Maritimes while raising a family. No small accomplishment. I asked her how she landed on Sociology. “Sociology is the study of society, trying to understand why we do the things we do but rooted in social structures. Marxism, Feminism, Critical Race Theory…all that comes out of Sociology.  My PhD looked at how our attitudes change over time around things like religious identities and sexual/gender identities…not as much of a political bent to it as I might have liked but at the PhD level you learn very quickly that you need to do something you can finish…and that was something I could finish,” she laughs.

    Today Alison works as Associate Research Director at the Center for Research and Integrated Care at UNB, which focuses on models of care designed to improve health care delivery. “We are working on making health care less fragmented and more integrated, so we do assessments and implement pilot projects like patient navigation or case management and then evaluate to see how it’s working. My work is all about health service delivery, and everything we do is patient oriented which means we always have patient partners or care givers or more broadly people with lived experience who sit on our research team and inform everything we do.”

    Timely work indeed.  I asked Alison if she feels her team is making any real progress within the maelstrom of the current health care crisis. “Frankly one thing that drives me nuts, working with the government who use the language of efficiency and cost-cutting, is that they always want more for less. I’m often the person in the meeting…at 58 I don’t care so much about optics now…I speak up and say maybe the answer might actually be that we need to invest more in primary care, because we don’t invest as much in primary care as say the UK.  If you’re worried about the ER overflowing with people and long wait times, and people lying in hospital beds and worried about whether they should be there, then invest more in primary care.”

    In the last few years, Alison recently took up the tuba and the euphonium or ‘little tuba’, lovingly described as “the cello of the concert band” and plays in Saint Mary’s Band as well as a lovely local ensemble called The Second Chance Band, an orchestra of enthusiastic, eclectic and quirky amateur musicians whom she affectionately likens to the “land of misfit toys.” “I have band practice three nights a week and have reclaimed a lot of joy in having music in my life again. A band is a beautiful thing.”

    Tell me your life story in seven sentences or less? 

    I grew up with a strong sense of community and a love for helping others and a strong belief that everyone should be treated with dignity and respect.  My mother was an extremely strong influence…maybe not the most nurturing person in the world, but she showed me how to be strong and passionate and to care about the world around me. My dad taught me a love of learning, to be interested and curious about the world…wanting to know about everything and I like to think I embody those qualities.  I have always been interested in debate and public speaking and politics and even theatre which I think is a way of showcasing passion. I love the whole performance aspect. I was always involved in music and theatre; it was a big part of my formative years. Later I got to travel a bit around Canada.  I think I got a pretty good education, I had two amazing children, and eventually settled in Saint John…and the rest as they say is history.

    What is the best thing about getting older?

    I think it’s not giving a fuck. I’ve heard that before, I’ve read it, but it really resonates with me. I do think there is some freedom in getting older and I don’t care so much about most things these days.  Now with that, there is the whole other thing about being a woman getting older. Invisibility, which can be freeing, is also wrapped up in all this ageism stuff. We become little old ladies and people maybe start to treat you a little differently, and that can be a bit demeaning. But overall, the freedom I think on the whole is good.

    What is the worst thing about getting older?

    It’s kind of two sides of the same coin.  I work with a lot of people who are under 40, so a lot of young people, and you do hear a lot of little jokes about the fact that maybe Alison can’t hear very well, which I can laugh about, but it is interesting to me.  Somebody at work once referred to a pair of shoes suggesting they must belong to Alison because they look like old lady shoes, so I promptly called him out.   I do find ageism very interesting.  I saw it with my mother when she became sick, people talking over her or making an assumption that she couldn’t answer for herself. And so even though I’m not yet 60, you start to see this creep in of ageism and it kind of pisses me off.  The worse part of it is imagining someday being seen as having no value at all.

    What would you title this chapter of your life?

    Autumn. The Fall is my favourite season. There is a sense of comfort and plenty in the Fall season. You’re not trying to fit into bikinis, it’s the season of comfy sweaters and layering. Back to school is my favourite time of year and it reminds me of this season of my life.

     If you could retain or retrieve one quality from your youth, what would it be?

    Sometimes I wish I was more easy-going. As we age, we maybe worry a bit more about certain things.  I wish I could just have people over and not worry so much about what my house looks like, I don’t know when that happened.  I never used to care quite so much about those things.  Maybe we become our parents a bit more as we age.  I think of us now as the accumulation of all the things we were when we were young and I don’t think those things are gone.  But as we mature, maybe we soften, and maybe some of our younger insecurities are gone now, but new worries take hold, like worrying about not being around for your kids someday.

    What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned so far?

    To focus on what’s in front of you and to live your life in the moment.  I think we spend so much time thinking about regrets or worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet, and I think it’s enough to just focus on what’s in front of you today.  And that may be a problem to solve or maybe something really awful that’s happening in the moment.  I’m not some Pollyanna saying “Don’t worry, be happy in the moment” but I’ve learned to focus on what’s right in front of me and let that be enough for now.

    Do you have a favourite quote?

    Yes, it’s a quote by Anton Chekhov.  It’s a line in the Cherry Orchard about a character being teased for being a perpetual student. It’s not a fancy quote, it’s more the idea.  “He moved through the world as a perpetual student, more interested in understanding life, than in ever mastering it.” For me it’s about having a lifelong interest in learning and staying curious.

    Do you have a favourite word?

    Melancholy. I love the word melancholy.  It’s a great sounding word.  I love it because it’s kind of that interesting place where you’re not euphoric but you’re not sad … but you’re not quite content either.  It’s this sweet place, like a Fall day, it feels kind of cloudy, or windy, maybe late in Fall, and you’re bundling up to go outside, or settling down to a good book.  I think we reflect when we’re melancholy. I think of the Romantic poets, and this idea of being in the depths of despair, like Anne Shirley in Anne of Green Gables…I guess I like getting caught up in the idea of being tragically cast sometimes.

    Describe your perfect day.

    My perfect day would be sleeping in a little bit for a start.  I don’t like to get up really early.  Working full time, I long for days when I can work from home and push the snooze till about 8 am.  After that, I would love to have a really good cup of coffee, probably two.  Then I’d like to do my New York Times puzzles. And on a perfect day with no housework or anything like that, I would want to go for a really great hike in the Fundy area with ocean views. After that, I would like to go to a pub for a nice craft beer and come home for a good dinner, listen to some music, talk politics, put the news on, maybe watch a show and I would be sure to carve out a good hour or so to read in bed, a favourite pastime.

    If you could have tea with anyone, real or fictional, dead, or alive, who would it be and what would you talk about?

    Well, if I really think about someone I’ve always wanted to sit down to tea with, it would be Karl Marx.   He believed that if people can suddenly wake up from their sleep, we can realize that our numbers mean we can change the world. Our numbers are our power and there is hope in that.  I see Marx as very hopeful, and I would just love to pick his brain. I’d love to hear his take on what’s going on now around the world. We would talk about politics, of course. I want to sit with him in some smoky old pub, drink a beer and smoke a cigarette and talk to Karl Marx about the state of the world.

    Tell me three things that bring you joy.

    Hard to narrow it down to three.  I mean there is the obvious, my children, and my children do bring me huge joy but if I was to think of just me, it would be reading.  Reading brings me great joy. Also camping in my little camper.  It was a pandemic purchase that has brought so much joy.  Our favourite place to camp and hike is Fundy National Park. We have a little heater and a functional bathroom…I love it so much, I love the Maritimes; I love everything about where we live and with the camper, we can explore it all. A third joy would be spending time with family.  My dad visits every weekend and time with family and friends means everything to me.

    Name a guilty pleasure.

    I don’t feel guilty about any pleasure.  I love wine and I love chocolate. I love to eat…I love good food… I love butter. But I try very hard to not to think of them as guilty pleasures, they’re just pleasures, they’re my pleasures. One of my favourite ways to spend an evening is to go out for a good meal or make a nice meal at home…some nibblies and wine and maybe trying a new recipe.

    Do you believe in life after death? What does it look like?

    Well, I’ve thought a lot about this one, and though I was raised going to church, I’ve never believed in the whole idea of this place called Heaven. In all of my various sociology of religion courses, I was always a big fan of the eastern traditions, like Buddhism and even Hinduism, and I’m very drawn to the idea that energy is neither created or destroyed. But also, there is a side of me as well, the existentialist, who hates the idea of living for something better after death. That sort of thinking can work to oppress people and keep people poor, ‘Oh don’t worry, at least you’ll go to heaven.’   I think people need to make the best of the life they have right now…act now, and make this life a good one.  But at the same time, I pair that with an idea that once we go, I think we’re in the trees and the birds and we may even be reincarnated.   That would be more where my thoughts might go to as a belief system, if there is anything.  My practical brain says I become good compost, and that’s also great.   I’d be eaten by worms or be food for a tree, and then become the tree or the birds. Bury me in the ground, I want a compost burial.  I hope that kind of thing is available as an option around here.

    What would you like your eulogy to say?

    I’ve thought a lot about this one as well. There is what you think you’d like people to say, what people will say, and then you’ve got the self-deprecating person who might wonder if anyone will say anything nice at all.  ‘Maybe nobody will come to my party,’ Alison laughs.  But what I’d like my eulogy to say is that I was passionate, that I cared about people, that I had a love for life and that I was compassionate.

     

     

  • In Conversation with Nicola Carter

    If I ever write a novel, my heroine would look and speak and live a life a lot like Nicola Carter. Think Gwyneth Paltrow in Wes Anderson’s The Royal Tannenbaums, some undisclosed number of years later. Closing in on 70, Nicola remains an uncommon beauty, with a brilliant mind, and an elegance or manner that sets her apart from her peers. She has an air of mystery…she intrigues me.  It’s not that she doesn’t dive in to the deep end and discuss deeply meaningful, life altering experiences, it’s simply that you are left with the impression that she holds something in reserve, like a secret locked away, encrypted in her backstory. I must confess to a LOLIW girl crush.

    During our interview Nicola serves me a cup of hibiscus tea, her current favourite, and a plate of halva, a dense, sweet middle eastern treat, both firsts for me.  A tea ball in the character of a mouse, hangs precariously from the side of my hand painted cup.  I am enchanted. In the home she shares with her husband, Jeff, the walls have been hollowed out to hold and frame hundreds of books, the remaining wall space is covered in an interesting, esoteric art collection gathered on her travels or inherited from ancestral homes. One small impressionist landscape in bright yellow draws my eye, a shock of sunshine from the back deck spills into the living room, and transfers my attention to a well-appointed outdoor space that transports you to a private, wooded, Narnia-like oasis, all within the city limits. Every part of her home has been utilized with intelligent design.  I feel at home immediately, welcomed by the princely Leo, a well-trained and well-loved retriever, easily the greatest treasure in Nicola’s collection.

    Born in Saint John, Nicola spent her early childhood in Fairvale (Rothesay).  Her mother was a concert pianist and her father a well-known corporate lawyer, described as “The Giant Slayer” after fighting and winning a case in the Supreme Court against a prominent NB family empire. Her father passed away when Nicola was just 15 and her family moved from Toronto to New York where she and her brother were both accepted into the prestigious Dalton School, where many prominent and powerful U.S. leaders are educated.

    While English Literature was her first love, Nicola completed an honours degree in Computer Science receiving the program medal, graduating at the top of her class in a male dominated field of study.  She started a family around the same time she started her IT career with the Newfoundland Telephone Company, later working for McGill University where she was involved in building the internet in the mid 1980s, when only research institutes and the military had access to the platform. She was instrumental in building the Quebec network (RISQ). and later ran the province’s operations network for them.  She describes the experience as “good fun…we we’re inventing things.”  She eventually returned to New Brunswick, where she soon began work at UNB, tasked with building the internet in NB. “NBTel very quickly saw a way that they could monetize it, by installing modem banks…where people would buy email addresses and then NBTel would manage it.  At this point the network was still dial up and they put me in operations where people were hands on with the Internet and where they needed the most support and experience.”

    “In time I made a lateral move into engineering where I was tasked with maintaining the infrastructure and eventually moved into management.  Every new technology came with problems and I enjoyed being part of the teams that solved those problems.  Engineering was also where I met my husband, Jeff.”  The information highway was a brave new world and Nicola was well placed with the credentials and the knowledge to take on the challenge of an exponentially accelerating and expanding field. “When it took off it took off,” she remembers.

    Today, retired for more than ten years, Nicola maintains an active lifestyle, as an avid outdoorswoman, a passionate chef, a cryptic crossword aficionado, an art lover, a grandmother and more recently a great grandmother. She is well travelled and well-read and enjoys what I would describe as an aristocratic lifestyle. Her days are her own, she maps her own course, and although she has known great loss in her life , she found her way out of the dark, a herculean task, her intellectual curiosity intact, and her joy of learning enhanced and thriving.

    Tell me your life story in seven sentences or less?

    I was born in Saint John, and went to school in N.B., Toronto and New York, always a bookish introvert with a passion for reading, animals, music and asking questions…annoying questions.

    After graduating, I had some false starts, bailing from a pre-med program at Western, bussing tables in Vancouver, driving across the U.S. in winter in a $200 ‘62 Ford Fairlane, later landing in Newfoundland with a revised study plan at Memorial: a degree in English Literature, then a sharp turn to an Honours degree in Computer Science, acquired to gain immediate employment (I was pregnant with my first child at that point).

    Over 37 years, I enjoyed a varied, challenging career in technology-based roles, beginning at Newfoundland Telephone, then McGill (early heady days of building the Internet), UNB (more technology builds as the Internet evolved including some teaching consulting and development in other areas such as multi-media), and finally at NBTel in Engineering and Operations technical and management roles until retirement in 2015.  My favourite roles? Solving complex technical problems.

    Since 1979, I have enjoyed parenting my sons Ben and David, born in Newfoundland, and since 1994, step-parenting Jennifer and Jessica, daughters of my husband, Jeff.  The challenges were many, and the rewards, great.

    What is the best thing about getting older?

    Self-knowledge of my physical and mental strengths and weaknesses. This helps me better understand what I need to do to thrive in my body and my mind.  I confess to not always acting on this knowledge but it keeps me from trying unnecessarily hard.  I can generally relax and accept more than I used to.

    What is the worst thing about getting older?

    Loosing people I love.

    What would you title this chapter of your life?

    I have a different one every day but I’ve settled on “Riding the Waves: Aging Gracefully and Gratefully”

    Describe Your Perfect Day

    A day which starts as a blank slate with no appointments holds the promise of a perfect day.

    The day would flow with a balance of exercise, reading, music, time with a friend, learning something new (probably from CBC, overnight radio, or a podcast), a long dog walk and, if it’s not winter, kayaking, swimming, dock-sitting, and ending with a really good meal.

    If you could retain or retrieve one quality from your youth, what would it be?

    I don’t think I have lost many qualities of my youth, except perhaps overwhelming anxiety which I’m glad to have tossed, mostly.  I am glad to have retained an abiding sense of wonder, hope, and optimism, a walking “Maggie Muggins” inside. I retain my childhood thirst for knowledge and ceaseless curiosity.  Lucky me.

    What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned so far?

    Hmmm…I have really experienced and learned a lot.  The most important lesson I have learned is that control is an illusion. I humbly accept how little control we mortals have over much on our lives. This is profoundly freeing.  The seeds of this knowledge were planted early, with the unexpected suicide of my father when I was 15. Untimely deaths have been a recurring tragedy in my life.  In 1994, my youngest brother, Erskine, succumbed to a long-term illness, aged 24.  In 2023, my oldest son, Ben, died unexpectedly in Egypt, where he had lived and taught for 10 years.  That same year, my dear younger brother/best friend, Cyrus, died, aged 65 in Istanbul, where he made his home as a teacher for over 30 years. I am still reeling from these last two losses but will say that the profound knowledge that I can control so little, and that I should not try, brings me some peace. Maybe we can only really start letting go when things have gone.

    The lesson is not all bound to negative outcomes. I have had some surprising experiences which have happened around me, circumstances not in my control, that have reinforced the lesson in a positive way. Back in 1984, my partner and our two sons were in Montreal during the Labour Day Central station bomb blast.  We were actually at the station when the bomb erupted with noise and smoke and screams.  It’s a crazy story …we made our way out of the carnage and by some strange circumstance ended up chatting with a man who reassured us that the bomb had not been on my brother’s departing train.  That evening the man’s photo appeared on the TV.  He was the perpetrator.  We then became involved in the subsequent inquest and trial. 

    Another time I was able to rescue two little boys from drowning at a local lake, just by sheer luck…I spotted something.  I was just in the right place at the right time.

    Finally, and perhaps most extraordinarily, I brought Jeff (husband) back from near death…also by sheer luck, when I found him unresponsive and not breathing in time to bring him back to life. How fortunate I was in time.

    In short, I placidly accept my relative insignificance, and do what I can do to deal with situations…good, bad, or frightening, and accept the surprise of unexpected adventures.

    Do you have a favourite quote?

    A quote that frequently comes to mind is “Would it help?” This came from the film, A Bridge of Spies, when a spy is about to be sent to his probable death in East Berlin.  His captor notes that he seem svery calm and asks if he is afraid, to which he responds, “Would it help?” I think of these words when faced with situations which could drive anxiety, or fear or anger. It gives me space to temper my reaction.

    Can I have another? In a recent interview, Bob Rae mentioned that he read aloud Shakespeare Sonnet # 25 as he migrated from one political role to another. The quote contrasts temporary “proud titles” with the enduring joy found in true love I think that sentiment brings a valuable humbling perspective to some of the trappings we might boast That resonates with me.

    The two quotes Rae highlighted from the Sonnet were:

    “The painful warrior famoused for fight, / After a thousand victories once foiled, is from the book of honour razed quite, / And all the rest forget for which he toiled;”

    “Then happy I, that love and am beloved, / Where I may not remove nor be removed.”

    Do you have a favourite word?

    My favourite word is an acronym, F.A.E. (fundamental attribution error) I use the word often at home as I did at work, to remind myself and others that we should not ascribe someone’s behavior to our ill- formed impression of their character, when the bad behavior could result instead from circumstances of which we are not aware. We should not immediately presume to know what’s going on in another’s head.  We should take a breath and seek to understand.  FAE has a been a good tool in de-escalating conflict.  I can cry out, ‘Hey, FAE!’ at home and we all pause to reset.

    If you could have tea with anyone, real or fictional, dead or alive, who would ir be and what would you talk about?

    My brother, Cyrus, whom I would call my longest, precious friend.  We never judged each other, shared so many interests, were both avid readers, and curious learners. I want to pick up where we left off in 2023, when he was still well, share some tears and many hearty laughs.  Sublime and the ridiculous.  My internal conversations with him still go on.

    Tell me three things that bring you joy.

    Witnessing the next generation evolving.  I have loved watching my sons and step-daughters making their way.  Now I enjoy seeing my grandchildren, who are all different and special in their own ways, growing.  Grandparenting is such a rich role.  A great grandchild was born into our clan last year. Another person to witness in their evolution.

    Walking in nature or just walking – especially with my dog.

    In summer sitting on the verandah at the camp looking out at the lake and listening, and often reading. Doing nothing is not really doing nothing.

    Name a guilty pleasure.

    So many pleasures and so little guilt.  Is that wrong? I assume that guilt might arise if one felt judged for these pursuits.  I happily admit to seeking solace in true crime podcasts, and doing word puzzles pretty much every day.

    Do you believe in life after death?

    If there were life after death, I don’t believe it involves a corporeal existence nor anything we currently understand.  Perhaps we live on in the memories kept by friends and family and our energy is drawn back into the universe.

    What would you like you r eulogy to say?

    I’ll come to this answer indirectly. At my son’s celebration of life ceremony, five of us spoke: myself, Ben’s father, Arthur; Ben’s brother, David; Ben’s lifelong friend, Matt; and Ben’s close friend in Cairo, Jim. We did not discuss in advance what we planned to say.  What emerged organically was a remarkable and moving tribute, with little overlap between the 5 speeches, each one recalling different aspects of Ben.  It was clear that we all had different relationships with Ben, largely dependent upon our roles.  In total, we together painted the complete picture of Ben and learned how he had touched each one of us.

    I would like to be remembered similarly, in eulogy or privately, by those I have loved or touched, for what we have shared and what they have valued about our relationship.  Actually, I’d like to know these things before I die.

  • Reading Room – Issue 6

    “The only thing that you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library” – Albert Einstein

    Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid was my book club’s January pick, chosen by a voracious reader who consistently delivers solid books. I’m happy to report she did not break with that tradition in 2026. Atmosphere is the story of Joan Goodwin, a self contained professor of physics and astronomy selected as one of the first female astronauts for the NASA space shuttle program in the 1980’s. Joan eventually finds her way to the stars, and at the same time, navigates a beautiful star-crossed love story here at home on planet Earth. Jenkins’ book is an insightful meditation on the nature of God and the observable universe, and also an intimate portrayal of forbidden love. The story is based on the ill fated 1984 NASA space mission that ends in tragedy, one every little old lady in waiting will remember watching on tv with our families. The book’s ending was a source of vigorous debate within our club, half our number admitting to sobbing uncontrollably, and others deeply disapointed and disdainful of Jenkin’s denouement… I’ll leave you to guess which category I fell into. 7/10

    Merry Christmas to me. Reading the Thursday Murder Club series is like carving away at a velvety cake, each slice more delightful than the last. I read this last instalment, Book 5 in the series, in one sitting. Osman’s characters are as dear to me as any friend and I cannot recommend these books highly enough. The small screen Netflix adaptation, despite its excellent cast, was, shockingly, a huge dissapointment in contrast, so I would caution readers to stick to the books. I’m not sure how Helen Mirren and Pierce Brosnan, Ben Kingsley and Celia Imrie, all favourites, could fall so far short of the charmingly crafted books but my guess is that the author was not involved in the screenplay adaptation, which stays close to the plot action and ruthlessly red-pens the incomparable interior narration of the four geriatic sleuths who solve murders like so many crosswords, all while portraying the ups and downs of ageing out. Elizabeth, a former spy was originally my favourite character but I must confess that Joyce, the Columboesque nurse and her dog Alan, captured center stage for me a few books back now. The therapist and the revolutionary who round out the quartet of central characters make excellent copy as well. Osman has a lot to say between the action sequences, and one can only hope that any further small screen cinema captures the depth of the books’ philosphical architecture and the charm of the characters often inarticulated interior narration. 9/10

    Wartime Britain during the Blitz, a bookstore, and a young innovative woman discovering the joy of reading is yet another Christmas pudding of a book. Martin’s story is laced with historical anecdotes and details that lend her story authenticty, set in a romantic landscape the book is a beautiful portrait of love and loss, where bomb shelters are transformed into makeshift reading rooms, and where strangers find comfort in the classics and sanctuary from their chaotic and often tragic wartime lives. Grace Bennett begins with The Count of Monte Cristo before moving on to the Austens and Dickens as she comes of age and finds her voice in a dusty bookshop on Primrose Hill, in the heart of London during the Blitz. Martin’s book is a testament to the power of story, and the sanctuary of literature in the darkest days of war. Pretty much porn for a LOLIW who loves to read. 7/10

    The Snow Child has been in my TBR pile for an over a year, a gift from a friend at work. It is not my usual fare, magical realism. But when the book title showed up on a Winter’s fare reading list, I decided to pull it from my library and sample this lauded fable/fairy tale. Set in inhospitable Alaska in 1920, two aging, childless homesteaders build a snow girl who seemingly comes to life the next day… a miracle, a mirage, an answer to their prayers, a comfort to assuage all their troubles. Reminiscent of a Russian fairy tale read to her in her youth, Mabel, the would be mother, convinces herself that the girl is their child, conceived in snow. While Jack, the father fugure, is convinced the Faina, their snow daughter has a more orthodox lineage, the daughter of a dead trapper. Ivey’s book was a finalist for the Pulitzer prize in 2013 but I found it slow moving and lacking in the kind of magic I hoped it would hold. While the setting was beautiful and harsh and a near perfect place for some wisdom born of isolation and yearning, for me the book failed to crystalize the promise of the fairy tale and reveals real life as a story more unbelivable and fantastical than any tale told to children. 6/10

    Richard Rohr’s The Tears of Things aims at cultivating global empathy, “the opposite of judgment”, calling for an end to the polarization of opinion that divides us, and the collective greed currently fueling suffering around the world. Rohr asks us to embrace a deep clarifying sadness as a kind of salvation or doorway to true understanding. He advises us to consider our cultural contradictions: that killing is morally wrong but necessary in war, that greed is evil, but capitalism is lauded. He calls on us to adopt a “view from the bottom” where societies most vulnerable survive, and to act accordingly.

    The Tears of Things is an academic work with extensive biblical references detailing the Prophetic way to pass through disorder to a new and evolved consciousness. Rohr’s thesis is intended as a cultural change agent. The Prophets, he tells us, are realists and truth tellers, alchemists taking on contrary agents and conjuring a spiritual transformation towards wholeness, individually and collectively. Rohr is calling us to adopt a state of forgiveness and grace.”You must listen and listen again, and not understand, see and see again, but not perceive….until you understand with your heart.”(Isaiah)

    Rohr’s book is a timely and powerful reminder to examine and ultimately abandon our “us verses them” assumptions, and relinquish our cult of innocence to become “the light of the world.” 7/10

    This hugely popular page turner is a bullet train that delivers. The plot is unique enough to capture your interest immediately and McFadden keeps you on a hotseat of nervous tension chapter after chapter. No small feet in a genre that has exploded and saturated the market in the last decade. McFadden maintains pace throughout and more importantly she creates characters you want to explore, to discover more of their back story and ultimately, to understand their motivation. The story has already been made into a blockbuster film and though I havent seen it on the big screen, I am tempted to sample the cinema version if only to see how the story is cast, particularly the devastatingly handsome husband. While the reader is well aware of where the real danger lies in the story, we are unable to look away as the protagonist finds her way through the subtefuge and reveals her own dark history. The book sets the reader up for a sequel and I understand that there are, in fact, three books in the series now available in print. I will no doubt throw them in my TBR pile and pull the next one out when I’m in the mood for a tight rope narrative very late and very alone at home with a character who intrigues and shocks and has you enraptured in the darker side of the fairer sex. 7/10

    I picked this mystery up at a book sale last summer having no idea it was part of a larger series. I grabbed the first in the series thank goodness. Sheridan has created a delectable detective in Mirabelle Bevin, ex British intelligence in post WW2 England, a time of Nazi hunting, before the full horror or extent of war crimes are revealed at the Nuremberg trials. Bevin is everything a good detective need be, bright, with a half revealed history that lends her an air of mystery, and of course an essential flaw of some kind, in this case a broken heart and a dead, married, war-hero lover. Set in Brighton, Sheridan’s characters eat fish paste sandwiches and stare out to sea, and put the kettle on and break out tinned biscuits mid afternoon. Sheridan’s book captures an underlooked time in history just after the war’s end when women who were involved in Intelligence work for the war effort were dispursed and forced to find new ways to cultivate a life of the mind in a patriarchal age. The story is peopled with interesting 5th business characters, a patronizing police detective who I suspect wiill develop into a romantic interest and a novice sleuth gal-pal, a black woman in 1950’s Brighton who I hope to see more of in subsequent books. This series promises to deliver a succession of perfect Sunday afternoons. 8/10

    This book is an absolute gem I picked up in New York last week at a charming book store called Three Lives and Company, rumored to be the bookstore that inspired The Shop Around the Corner from the film,You’ve Got Mail starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks and written by Nora Ephron. It was the loveliest little book store I have ever been inside. It felt like each book housed there was hand picked after serious vetting as space was at a premium. I could have stood there all day and listened to the lively conversation and book talk within those walls … a short story all its own.

    Grytten’s book is the narrative of Nils Vik, an aged ferryman on a Nordic fjord who wakes one morning aware that it’s the last day of his life and sets off on his boat, a day like so many others, to travel his ferry route where he meets people from his past, the dead, including his beloved long dead companionable dog. The book is a tender and beautiful tribite to all the little ways we help our neighbours and friends and how intimately we touch each other’s lives, often unknowingly. The Ferryman and his Wife is a charming tale written in the liminal space that separates this world and the next, a time when our dead will be revealed and we, each of us, have an assignment, an assignment to remember. 8/10

  • Embracing the Crone

    “The crone must become pregnant with herself, at last she must bear herself, her third self, her old age, with travail and alone. Not many will help her with that birth.” (No Time to Spare – Ursula K. Le Guin)

    “When howling gale is rattling doors, or call of lonely wolf is heard, or cry of raven on the wing, or crack of frost upon the ground, tis she, tis she, tis she. (Calleach – Siobhan Mac Mahon)

    Less than a week before Christmas, when family matriarchs are customarily exiled to Santa’s sweatshops, wrapping gifts like Edward Scissorhands, and frosting shortbreads until our collective glycemic index reads “critical,” I decided to take a night off from the Christmas chain gang. I ventured out on a dark and stormy night, in the company of a close friend of comparable vintage, to attend a workshop that promised to introduce, depict, and interpret the power and majesty of the Crone, a feminine archetype, traditionally the last in a triad, after maiden and mother.  The Crone, often portrayed in our culture as a warty hag, complete with kerchief and shawl, is cast as the most powerful as well.   A sage, a witch, a guardian, a memory keeper, a storyteller…these are just a few of the crone synonyms we might try on for fit, as we move into this last, magical, and mysterious phase of feminine folklore.

    The workshop was led by a woman who called herself a ceremonialist, a Cailleach, or “veiled one” in Gaelic mythology, who helps people transition through significant life events.  Like so many formative moments in a woman’s life,  it began with a fairy tale and the promise of a little-old-lady felted doll of our own making by night’s end, so we charged our tenuous social batteries, did battle with our homebody hearts, discussed whose eyesight was least perilous for an after dark adventure, packed a journal and a sacred object, as directed (Jesus …will there be sharing), and set off on our quest to Encounter the Crone.

    Sat close to the sea in a small conference room, the wind outside serenaded us like a siren call, a slow whistling sea shanty, and the doors rattled loudly, heralding the night’s import, like the ghost of Christmas past. We were offered tea and invited to sit around a makeshift altar decorated with bones and stones and candlelight.  We added our own holy relics: jewelry passed down from our mothers, artwork, a pinecone, a bird, a doll, the shell of a sea urchin, a heritage Christmas angel, and a witch stone, known for its magical protective properties. We were 12 women together, artists and academics, nurses, and teachers, travelling in the dark, a winter’s walk to honour our experiences, mine for meaning, and navigate together a transformation to feminine elderhood, a privileged freehold of wisdom and authenticity, sovereignty and self-possession. The magic in the room was a palpable thing…not enough to levitate… first time out mind, but strong enough to elevate us all.  I’m certain it surprised no one in the room when the lights went out and we were forced to close our circle prematurely, but not before we built something true and lasting together.

    The fairy tale recited so beautifully by our host was the story of Vasilisa the Beautiful, a kind of hybrid Cinderella and Hansel and Gretel.  Our heroine, Vasilisa, is gifted a tiny doll with magical properties from her dying mother, that protects her throughout a perilous journey to safety.  Spoiler alert she lives a full life and eventually returns to her origin story, living out her days as an elder in the forest.   The tale is simple but rich in imagery and metaphor.  We were asked to share the images that lingered in our mind’s eye.  The death scene between mother and daughter and the gift of legacy, chicken legged furniture, the impossible task of finding poppy seeds in dirt, a metaphor for discernment, and a fire torch crafted from a skull, the instrument that leads to the story’s denoument, all had honourable mention.

    For me, the lasting power of the story was not an image but an incantation.  Vasilisa called upon the power of the doll reciting, “Little doll, little doll, drink your milk my dear, and I will pour all my troubles in your ear, in your ear.” The notion of a talisman for the storms of life, a mother’s magic, an enchantment to conjure a place of safety in our darkest hour, when we’re not sure our own strength will hold; to call on the inherited love of our ancestors and open a portal of protection, or peace abiding….definately worth the price of admission. Were we leaving the workshop later that night with such a prize in our possession, a felted doll infused with magic, a protective cloak spun from our collective sacred offerings? What sorcery was this?  I started thinking maybe I should leave the house more often, even as a tempest raged outside, and Christmas at ours, still only half conjured.

    Properly incentivized we turned our attention to working with archetypes.  We chose a role from the alter at the center of our circle. Interestingly no one chose the same archetype.  There were so many wonderful choices.  I passed on Hag, and Old One, Elder and Witch.  Hearth Keeper and Herb Wife didn’t quite fit either.  We had a Weaver and a Word Witch, I remember. My friend, selected Sage.  A new grandmother, she is interested in legacy building and passing down family tradition and wisdom.  I picked Storyteller.  I’ve always been addicted to story.  It’s my preferred way to learn.  For me it’s high art, allowing us to live a thousand lives in one, a talisman against loneliness, a cure for myopia and polarization.

    After sharing our selections and thoughts around the archetype alter, we moved, some of us more tentatively than others, to worktables set up for needle felting, a dangerous, dexterous art, that comes with small sharp stabbing needles and raw wool to be shaped and prodded into small objets d’art, a felted little old lady…in waiting.  I wish I could tell you there was no blood lost but I’m sure I wasn’t the only hag there to stifle a silent scream that night as the needle pieced my presumably pre-loved stabbing pillow, and caught the delicate skin beneath my fingernail.  Maybe the bloodletting is part of the spell, maybe human sacrifice is the elixir that makes the doll magical.  All I know is that I stabbed my doll a thousand times or more before she came to life in my hands and the stabbing was oddly therapeutic (“psycho -killer…qu’est-ce que c’est”). I plan to continue my felt making education and have already created a companion for my doll, but maybe I’ve shared too much. Still, friends are important…even felted friends.

    The power went out when I was attempting to style my doll’s hair.  Every woman will understand the import of such a moment.  Our felting mentors came to the rescue and held cell phone flashlights for us to finish this crucial phase in the work. Suffice to say, I was never so happy to own such unruly, unkept tresses. It was the work of a moment to complete the effect and even in the dark I recognized the crone I held in my hands as my own, a story keeper and maker, a sovereign in the final decades of her reign, confidant in her unique gifts, generous in her attention to those she held dear, and determined to live intentionally, according to her values and passions until her last moments in this realm. 

    I was afraid the storm raging outside would prevent our eclectic circle from sharing our thoughts on the dolls we created. Insatiably curious, I had an almost visceral need to know how the others would answer the last question on the agenda for the  night, “If your inner doll could speak to you tonight, what would she say?”  One doll spoke of cultivating more trickster energy, to seek opportunities to laugh and have fun, another counselled that there was always something new to learn and explore, others said to ask for help and not to imagine we can do it all ourselves, that it’s ok to be messy, to rest, to be steadfast, to practice unconditional self-love, to keep moving, to offer guidance, to stand in the wind, to practice childlike wonder, and to embrace and celebrate all the beauty within.

    I know the doll is just a small, symbolic, hand-built ornament, but it feels so much bigger than that to me. I know we make our own magic, but I also know that there was a wisdom teaching waiting for us in the dark that wintry night, an introduction to “crone-ology,” a threshold for letting go of all that no longer serves us and a turning point in the pages of our story.  You may cackle, but I have plans to build my doll a small house with a door that opens with ease, so whenever I need to hold her close and feel my mother’s magic near, I’ll find her waiting for me there, her spell unbroken, a warm cloak of protection against the storms of life.

  • In Conversation with Michelle Hooton

    I met Michelle Hooton a little over 20 years ago when I accepted an invitation to attend a book club evening at the home of a mutual friend.  We’ve been meeting once a month ever since with a small, stimulating, always surprising set of eclectic readers, opening our homes and our cookbooks, hosting rigorous debate, developing literary discussion points, and reciting deeply meaningful or contentious passages with the power to engage, transform and elevate. Not a bad way to spend some 200 evenings together, sharing meals, and laughter, drinking wine, and exploring a lot more than plot twists, and prose.

    You can learn a great deal about a person after perusing their bookshelves, and far more still, in the way a person approaches a book, what they find meaning in, passages they deem beautiful or poignant, what moves them to tears, what makes them angry, what words they underline to read out loud again later.

    I can tell you that Michelle Hooton is an intelligent and discerning woman, a reflective and respectful reader, less prone to deconstruction, always in earnest, mining an authors’ artwork for the gold within.  She is an immersive reader, with an ear attuned to a well-crafted story, and is often drawn to quieter books, with characters who have earned their place in the narrative, settings that transport the reader, inform, and enhance our experience, and ideally leave us with something to take away, to hold dear.

    If Michelle was a book, she would be a well-researched one. The cover design would be expertly engineered eye candy. The prose would be succinct and distilled.  There would be multiple passages where the reader could pause and rest a while in serene, inspired settings.  The heroine would be original and authentic, a self-made woman who believed in hard work, and her own powerful magic, and the ending would never disappoint.

    Michelle has the kind of confidence that comes from many years of self-reliance and trusting her inner compass. She is charismatic, a polished conversationalist, a flawless hostess, a gifted gardener, a celebrated chef, and an accomplished and award-winning entrepreneur.  An astute businesswoman, she is also a creative, and excels at designing beautiful settings and spaces where her circle of friends and family, may repose in charmingly rendered rooms that inspire and delight, while being treated to her many gifts, not the least of which, is her mastery in the kitchen.  As I sit in her highly photographable home, decked out in her curated Christmas finery, I feel a deep sense of comfort and joy. She tells me it’s her love language. It’s how she expresses her gratitude for you giving her your time.

    Michelle describes herself as a “serial entrepreneur” launching her first business venture at age 17. “Growing up I never heard the words ‘You can’t do it’…it was … ‘How are you going to do it?’ Once I realized that I could steer my own course and succeed, that was it.  I have worked for other people, but I didn’t care for it.  Whoever I worked for, I felt like I gave them my best, but I always operated like I owned the business, and when it got to the point where we were conflicting about the work …that was it…it was time to go”

    In 1982, Michelle opened Body Electric, an aerobic exercise studio in uptown Saint John.  A year later she opened Body Electric Aerobics on Broadway, in NYC, and a year after that, was listed as one of the top studios in Manhattan by the New York Times.

    In 1992, now back in Saint John, she opened The Secret Garden, specializing in fresh and dried florals shipping throughout Canada and the United States. In 1999, Michelle opened Sisters Italian Foods, a small Italian deli and imported food shop located in the City Market. She ran both businesses concurrently, until selling Sisters in 2005 after being elected Deputy Mayor for the City Saint John, serving from 2004-2008.

    Thirty-eight years and five businesses later, Michelle fulfilled a lifelong dream, opening Italian by Night in 2016 with business partners, Elizabeth Rowe and Gord Hewitt. This premier Saint John dining experience has been featured on Open Table’s ‘Most Romantic’ list for Canada for seven consecutive years, Best Italian Restaurants in Canada in 2017 and Top 100 Most Beloved Restaurants in Canada in 2022, accolades based exclusively on guest ratings.

    “My lifelong dream was to create the best Italian restaurant in Atlantic Canada. I don’t believe geography limits one’s ability to produce a world-class product. Achieving this requires intense knowledge, focus, the ability to inspire those around you to share your dream, and the passion and spirit to believe you can do it.”

    Michelle won Entrepreneur of the Year at the Saint John Chambers Outstanding Business Awards in 2024 and her immensely popular food blog Bite by Michelle enjoys a worldwide audience, surpassing 4,500,000 views. Her recipes are hearty and time honoured and easy to follow for even the most recalcitrant cook. They are, each one, small works of art…Michelle’s secret ingredient is love.

    Tell me your life story in seven sentences or less? 

    At a really young age I had experienced great joy and great tragedy. At that young age I chose joy for the rest of my life.  I somehow always had the ability to follow my true north. I trusted my gut, but sometimes my gut feeling was wrong. When I made a mistake, I was never too proud to admit it, and then fix it.  So…on my second try I married the love of my life, raised the three most spectacular women I will ever know, and have built the life of my dreams. I’ve had the great fortune to have been able to turn every passion that I ever had into a way to make a living.  And that’s really the story of my life…that’s it.

    What is the best thing about getting older?

    Clarity.  You just get to that point where you don’t need to see the world as grey anymore because you’ve had so many life experiences. I think people are kidding themselves when they don’t know the difference …when they can’t see whether its’ black or white.  I think it’s safer to live in the grey…and I don’t have any interest in that.

    What is the worst thing about getting older?

    Running out of time. I’m in an industry right now where I am two and a half times older than the national average…and you know there is just so much more to learn, and figure out, and experience and time is not on my side anymore.

    What would you title this chapter of your life?

    Grace. I want to finish this chapter of my life with grace. The life Ralph and I built together has given me a gift—this time to live gracefully and with gratitude. I feel incredibly grateful, constantly. It’s like a prayer, like saying grace before a meal—giving thanks. For me, it’s an internal conversation, a continuous acknowledgment of how grateful I am. And I hope that gratitude shows to the world in a graceful way.

    If you could retain or retrieve one quality from your youth, what would it be?

    The belief in endless possibilities.  It didn’t matter if I made the wrong decision when I was young because I had time…I could fix it …I was always gonna have time until all of a sudden I don’t.

    What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned so far?

    There is no finish line. All my life there was always that imaginary…when I get there…when I do this…when I accomplish that… Once I realized there is no finish line, I was free. Life is wide open. You just keep going. Be open to the universe and whatever else is thrown at you. Just keep going, without that nagging feeling that you’re running towards something.

    Do you have a favourite quote?

    Definitely, and it’s the mantra of my life.  I cross stitched it and framed it and it hung beside the door in my house so the kids would see it every morning on their way to school.

    “Whatsover thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.” (Ecclesiastes 9:10)

    I’ve lived that way my whole life, in the way I work, and the way I love, the way I garden, the way I cook…everything that is a part of my life… that was just the way I approached it.

    Do you have a favourite word?

    Grammy. I adore my children, and I never thought I could love like that again. But I do—it’s remarkable. Being with my grandchildren is incredible. When I hear them say “Grammy,” my body experiences a molecular shift. No other word gives me that feeling.

    Describe your perfect day.

    I’ve had this day and I hope to have many more of them. Its summertime…I’m at the farm and all of my family are home.  I’m the first one up. I put on the coffee… and start to make breakfast. One by one they slowly start waking up. We have breakfast on the verandah. We drink slow coffee while the girls use ‘all their words’ …thats an expression the girls use when they they tell me everything that’s going on in their lives. We spend the day on the boat. We have a place further upriver where we like to swim…its magical. I take a picnic with Prosecco, some beer, and all sorts of treats. We’ll stay there until 5 or 6 o’clock and then it’s back to the farm. We get supper ready. My mom and dad will join us. We’ll dine on the veranda under  candle light. We graze until 10 or 11 o’clock at night.  We finish off by the fire table.  Yawns start and we all go to bed, and it is a perfect day.

    If you could have tea with anyone, real or fictional, dead, or alive, who would it be and what would you talk about?

    So, I took some political license here.  If I could do that, I would come back many decades from now and have tea with my elderly grandchildren and we would talk about their lives, and all the things I’ll miss.

    Tell me three things that bring you joy.

    The people I love.  Creating beauty.  And anticipating…anticipating Christmas, anticipating family coming home…anticipating what we’re going to do next… I love it.

    Name a guilty pleasure.

    Dairy Queen. The first time that I ever tasted it, it was like a taste explosion…I couldn’t believe something could taste that good. and I’ve never lost that love of it. You could put the most fabulous European dessert on the table and a peanut buster parfait, and I guarantee you I’m gonna take the peanut buster parfait every time. It’s a special little treat and I usually have it alone.

    Do you believe in life after death? What does it look like?

    I guess it depends on how you characterize life. I believe that we have an inextinguishable life force and I believe that life force carries on after our physical bodies expire.  I’d like to think that my life force will find its way into future generations of my family.

    What would you like your eulogy to say?

    Life was not a dress rehearsal for her.  She lived her life like it was the opening night of the greatest performance she had the honour of playing.

  • The Little Old Lady…in waiting sits down with Ottawa podcaster Trudy Chapman

    The Little Old Lady…in waiting sits down with Ottawa podcaster Trudy Chapman

    https://meanderings-with-trudy.simplecast.com/episodes/meander-with-sylvie-fitzgerald

  • A Curated Life

    “If you want a golden rule that will fit everything, this is it: Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” – William Morris

    “Those who commit to nothing are distracted by everything.” – Bhagavad Gita

    I’m twelve weeks into a “down to the studs” reno of my basement. We are getting there…almost ready for paint and wallpaper …yes…that’s right…I said wallpaper. I happen to like wallpaper…just not the 50 year old striped job that lined the stairwell leading from my kitchen to the lower level of our home. I’ve hated that patterned stairwell since we moved into the house almost fifteen years ago. That’s a long time to abide an abhorent passage in your home. So…ankle deep into quasi-retirement, and my baby moving out to a beautiful space of her own; it’s got me thinking about embracing a less lackadaisical, more curated life. I refer here not only to my immediate setting, and decor choices in my home, but also to a more bespoke aproach to everything I allow entry into my mental and physical space. How we spend our time and who we choose to spend it with are weighty considerations indeed, particularly as the sands of time accelerate through the LOLIW hourglass.

    I am a woman who has always known what she loves. I’m never at a loss for how to spend my time. My baseline is reading in bed, followed closely by reading upright in well lit rooms, rooms with doors to discourage the detritus of day to day discourse. Toss in a daily walk, a few writing hours, and few games of pickleball (a smattering …mind), and maybe a sprinkling of meaningful communication with friends and family and you have the basic components of my perfectly appointed life.

    It won’t surprise you to learn that with respect to decor I like to sit in spaces that smell and feel like 19th century reading rooms. Jane Austen meets functional, animal-friendly, old-world elegance and comfort, with Rembrandt lighting in the shade of expensive cognac and furniture made to last let us say, longer than me. I like plain lines…nothing busy…smalls piles of books in every conceivable nook, and walls overfilled with art that makes me think and feel.

    Approaching 60 it seems long past time to take charge of my decor and embrace a more curated lifestyle. With more time at home to play and ponder and be, its important to invest in our space and make it conform to our notion of how to live well. Out with the acquired furniture that found its way into every corner of the basement (granny’s telephone table, the uni trunks, the side tables the dogs used as chew toys, the wedding art, the chairs I reupholstered one time too many…gone). What would your space look like if you started from scratch… what gets to stay, what gets dumpstered in the night?

    To curate is to carefully gather sift, choose and organize so that everything is handpicked, assembled, and edited by you. This might mean the dedication of an old bedroom to a fly tying workshop or a yoga studio or a writing room. The downstairs grand room might be reworked as a cozy british bar, or a working library, or a music or pottery studio. Adult spaces like day nap chaise-lounges in light colours might be positioned near full window walls for stargazing with telescopes or simply to watch the dancing autumnal leaves or the spring rains pelting your garden seedlings to life, or the magical snow that falls on Christmas eve.

    Of course lighting is everything… my mother taught me that. She liked rose tinted bulbs for evening ambiance, strong enough to read by in the after dinner hours but not so bright you can see the skin wrinkles on your LOL hands as you turn the pages…its a delicate balance ladies. A comfortable seat by the fire built for you and yours is essential for the long Canadian winters, perhaps a dartboard, a drinks cabinet… you get the idea. It’s time to focus less on containment of mess and sticky fingered childrearing chaos, and more on zones of comfort and joy for the soft bellied adults who remain. Don’t forget a posh pillow for the geriatric dog.

    Take your time visioning how to create yout LOL space.. explore your options…think about what you want your home to provide now, and build it from the inside out. There are no design rules that can’t be broken except one, namely, abandoning your own ideas on beauty and functionality. This is your home we’re speaking of, you have only yourself to please so if you want to string eddison lights from the rafters, share space with too many plants or cats or books, create an industial feel by painting the piping black or steel coloured… do it. If you want to showcase some macabre collection of antique surgical instuments or early century pharmaceutical elixirs (weirdo), now is the time to make your space into a reflecting pool for all your darlings. An invitation to your home should always feel like an invitation to you.

    Outside your home it’s equally important to curate the spaces you decide to inhabit. In rertirement if you don’t decide how you’ll spend your time, others, well meaning friends and colleagues, will ensnare you in their version of a life well lived. The siren call of casual work, the escalating addictive properties of pickleball, best resticted to promote injury preention, the silent scream of the sour dough starter and its incessant demand to be fed. That little white bread baby isnt the boss of me.

    A few years ago I read a little book called “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck” which espoused a pretty basic but essential philosophy with respect to time management and boundaries. Summarily, the author suggests that in an age where we are inundated with information and competing demands on our attention, and very often incompacitated by overstimulation and endless options, its important to decide to live deliberately and in accordance with a few key individual values and interests and spend our time and ultimately, our lives, accordingly. The book advises adopting a maximum of 5 things to give a fuck about. Thats not a lot if family and healthy living are 1 and 2. If reading, writing and pickle ball are my 3,4,5 then maybe maybe pottery and painting, knitting and felting, are curated out of my daily living line up…at least this year. Every LOLIW must choose how best to spend their time. Maybe you’ll make your garden and greenhouse your second home from May to September, perhaps you’ll join a rug hooking guild or a choir or an arts collective during the long winter months. Let your interests drive your pursuits and don’t be cajoled, or convinced to spend your time in settings that don’t meet your individual criteria for comfort and joy.

    A quick comment on mental space. I live so much of my life in my mind it’s important for me to dine on a steady diet of images and words that resonate with meaning. I hold space for vetted novels and films and converations with new and old friends who know secret things. Stories and stimuli that bring comfort and joy and occasionally cast out to higher things. While I have just as much of an unseemly fascination with Ed Gein and his skin suit pursuits and niche decorating vibe, I’m not sure I need to absorb the 8 episode narritive of the man who was the inspiration for Psycho, The Chain Saw Massacre and Buffal Bill. I mean I guess he didnt eat anyone …so thats good…right? My point is that curating that series out of my mental space and protecting my inner sanctum and sleep hygiene is probably for the best. I don’t need a visit from Gein in my dreams at night. But if real crime horror is your LOL jam, maybe Ed Gein gets a pass.

    You are the gatekeeper of your mental and physical space. Guard your boundaries, with knitting needles if need be. Allow entry only to what you decide to give a fuck about. Design a space and a life dedicated to your passions… an art room…a dream kitchen…a library…a pocast studio… a music room. It’s waiting for you beneath the debris of a lifetime of collecting the residue of other people’s idea of how to live well. So if you’ve been neglecting your mental and physical space like I have, begin an inventory of everything that you find beauty and comfort in, then drag the rest to the curb and begin again, consulting no one but your own inner curator. I believe you’ll find her taste is unerring.

  • Reading Room – Series 4

    “So often, a visit to the bookstore has cheered me, and reminded me that there are good things in the world.”

    Vincent Van Gogh

    The Dictionary of Lost Words is the story of a young girl who grows up beneath the sorting table of a Scriptorium where words were collected and scrutinized and judged worthy or discarded by a small group of learned lexicographers who produced the first Oxford dictionary. Esme is indoctrinated into a culture that cares for and reveres the written word, that understands the import of language, and begins her own collection of discarded words, those deemed unworthy due to their pedestrian nature or obsolete status…words like bondmade and other words that coalesce around the language of women, words like suffragette and cunt. William’s work is an interesting exploration of the social history of the first half of the 20th Century, including women’s emancipation and the onset of the Great War. The novel is a love letter to anyone who loves language and saveurs words, and who understands the power of written script and the importance of preserving what may be so easily lost. I am a lover of words like my father before me, he collected them like they were something to treasure and hold dear. This book is a perfect read for a bookish woman who dreams of scholarly hours and endless days within the stacks of The Bodlean Library which has a starring role in the novel – 8/10

    This book was recommended by a friend after discussing The Thursday Murder Club books. Killers of a Certain Age, as the title implies, is the story of a group of four post-menopausal assassins on the precipace of retirement. Meet Helen, Mary Alice, Nathalie and Billy our engaging, intelligent first person narrator. They are embarked on a cruise that goes very wrong very quickly and they are forced to fall back on their killer instincts. While the book offers an interesting premise and is no doubt headed for a big or small screen adaptation, it did not read as well as the Thursday Murder Club books. I found it hard to distinguish between the title characters, with the exception of the narrator, Billy…the others weren’t drawn distinctly enough, and the murky nazi-hunting “museum”, the assassins employer, which may have been a source of endless fascination, seemed almost farcial in its presentation. While the lead character, Billy, was well written and sympathetic, as was the dexter-like work ethic the assassins used as a code for killing, erasing only the morally disposable, the book reads like its arrived a little late to dinner. Flashbacks to training days and themes like the invisibility of the older woman are definate high-points in the book, but we’ve read the aged gang of adventurers story before and the writing was better. – 6/10

    Blue Nights by Joan Didion is a heartbreaking remembrance of the life and death of her only daughter, Quintana Roo Dunne. Didion recounts blue nights, the gloaming moments, what the French call ‘l’heure blue, “the end of promise, the dwindling of days.” The book’s subject is very weighty – what greater grief can there be for mortals than to see their children dead. (Euripides). Didion’s narrative explores what it means to be without your child, what it means to let them go, and what it is to be tasked with “protecting the unprotectable.” It invokes the terrible pain of remembered parenting, “Brush your teeth, brush your hair, Shhhh, I’m working.” It is painful and poetic and hard to look away from. It is a meditation on the scourge of depression and anxiety, the imperfect art of medicine, and the horrifying realization that we can never deserve our darling children, that we may fail to keep them safe, and that in death we may begin to forget them. A haunting read. – 7/10

    The Novice is a departure from Hahn’s usual meditative prose. It is a short work of fiction that will resonate with anyone who has lived a life and experienced injustice or unwarranted judgment. It is based on the true story of Quan Am Thi Kinh, a tale that every Vietnamese countryman is told from earliest childhood. Kinh was a woman who masqueraded as a man in order to join a monastery and is revered for manifesting infinite forgiveness. A character accused unfairly of misdoing, she endures many hardships while cultivating a spiritual life, and aquiring the qualities of loving kindness, compassion, joy and equanimity. The book is a parable for our times, a simple powerful fable that counsels us to “go home to the island within ourselves,” While the book is not my favourite of Hahn’s, I am perhaps not evolved enough to feel transformed by his simple beautiful message, at least on this occasion, I recognize The Novice is an important read, one that will stay with you awhile. – 6/10

    Copeland’s Eleanor Rigby, as the book title suggests, is a swansong to the lonely. Liz Dunne is a frumpy , middle aged, over weight, friendless redhead and the story centers around her transformative relationship with her newly found son. Written in first person narrative, my favourite, Copeland’s story is sad and funny, sometimes both at once, and explores what it means to be lonely in the modern world. “Loneliness is my curse – our species’ curse – it’s the gun that shoots the bullets that makes us dance on a saloon floor and humiliate ourselves in front of strangers.” It is a salute to the invisible among us. At one point our narrator asks if she should finish up, “perhaps you might not wish me to go any further.” But as Copland wisely suggests a little later in the narrative, “nobody’s story is boring who is willing to tell the truth about himslf.” I liked Liz, a woman who knows she has lost many chances and opportunities for new experiences and is finally ready to embrace the gift of being alive. – 6/10

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    I picked this novel up on a recent trip to Prague with my daughter. I handed her The Unbearable Lightness of Being which I read when I was her age and then grabbed a copy of Immortality for my little old lady in waiting library. The story held great promise. Agnes a little old lady herself, living life in a tenured marriage on the mean streets of Paris, revisiting her childhood and coming of age including former love stories and complex family relationships…pour me cup of tea and lets get lost together I promised myself. Sadly the book did not deliver with its incessant back and forthing to a classic love affair between Goethe and Bettina. A running parallel story that I was, no doubt, not clever enough to enjoy. I wish Kundera could have contented himself with a simple contemplation of death in real time, less high theatre, metaphorical references, more…death is coming and do I want to spend eternity with the people I made a life with here, the interesting idea of the world as an ad agency, or how about “hypertrophy of the soul”, or maybe the changing nature of time, just a few of the loftier notions he introduces…aren’t those themes sufficient to build a novel on? Overly academic and ambitious Kundera…we know you’re smart, you dont have to reference every page…you told us so much and showed us so little, and left us with nothing to keep. Cardinal sin…you broke your contract with the reader. –2/10

    Love etc. is a dark ad twisty menage a trois between Gillian and husband number 1, steady, reliable Stuart, and husband number 2, witty, entertaining, out of work, Oliver. The story is told in the voices of the three principles, with a few fifth-business cameos inserted for respite care of the reader I imagine. The three stars of the novel tell their truth without interruption or the contamination of conversation. The book is a sequel to Barne’s eariier work, Talking it Over and reads a lot like a one man play, spoken in three distinct voices. Perhaps I might have enjoyed the work more if I had read its forerunner first, but I doubt it somehow. I found the characters very real and clever and charmless, and the narrative full of pithy one liners like “lets just fall into bed and not have sex.” Barnes talent is without doubt, he expertly conveys his weighty themes – the inexplicable sadness of things (“I want mommy to be more cheerful”), the advantage of age and the priviledge of not explaining everything (“you are very naive about us, the old people”), and the last gasps of a used up marriage (Do I still love Oliver? I think so, I suppose so. You could say I’m managing love”). I applaud Barnes mastery and his keen eyed take on the larger life questions and still I did not enjoy this work and cannot recommend it. – 5/10

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    Thurber’s book of essays and amusements is a collective look at the imperilled english language, disdained and disfigured in the mouths of users and abusers of the spoken word. The well known humorist invites readers to “urge up a footstool, loosen your stays, and saucer a scotch,” as he makes fun of our child centred culture, warning us to watch out for “the darlings at the top of the stairs.” Thurber’s work is a call to arms for phrases like “ya know” spreading like viruses, and his essays read like a fairwell speech to proper diction or the decline and fall of the King’s English. He accuses the nation of breeding a band of “tired teachers and apathetic students.” Other topics include the decline of comedy in our time, the poor standards of pronunciation (“mindless, meaningless mumbling”) and other verbal atrocities like the smokescreen of political jargon, and the overuse of idioms. You might have to be a bit of a language geek to get your money’s worth on this read, the comedy is niche, but pleasing if wordplay is your cup of tea. – 6/10

  • The Art of Happiness

    My mother, Mary Eileen (Bunny) Lewis caught in a moment of everyday happiness

    “I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve.” – Jane Austen

    “Letting go takes a lot of courage. But once you let go, happiness comes very quickly” – Thich Nhat Hahn

    Happiness is a slippery state of being, an elusive, inconstant companion. Like a feckless lover or an indifferent cat, it’s never near at hand when you need it most. It’s approach is often unheralded, it’s visit, never long enough, it resists all enticements to stay. It cannot be captured…it will not be held…we cannot keep it. It is as impermanent as an ice cream on a hot summer afternoon, as fleeting as a first kiss, or a glass of fine wine, it lingers briefly, and disappears into the realm of memory. The art of happiness sits haplessly in the space between our first world sense of entitlement, and our readiness to cultivate a sense of wonder, that magnifies the trace elements of happiness drawn from everyday dealings. Little things like the dog’s yawn, the carol of the wind in the trees, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, or the uncalled-for-kindness of a stranger can, with practice, conjure a sensation of peace, an ‘invisible cloak’ of contentment, protection against the certain storms of life. There are glimmers everywhere if we learn to spy them, and they can sustain us, even on our darkest days, if we apprentice in the art of happiness.

    First lesson – kill all expectation of happiness. It’s Buddhism 101, the first noble truth, ‘Life is suffering.’ Happiness is not our baseline or our birthright. We don’t deserve it, and we can’t earn it. We are not on some episode of Friends with a laugh track running every 30 seconds. Chandler Bing died of drug use disorder, and Rachel’s husband left her for Angelina Jolie. We’re in the ‘real’ people, and to quote the venerable Monty Python, ‘Life’s a piece of shit…just remember it.’ (It works better if you sing it). My kids would say that that’s a bit dark or defeatist, but I’m with Schopenhauer and the Pessimists, you need a sense of humour to get through the tragicomedy we call life, and ‘the safest way of not being very miserable is not to expect to be very happy.’

    Buddha’s second noble truth is that we’re the problem…we are the root of all our suffering…we build our own hell. The art of happiness is to desire less…stop trying to make the world conform to our preferred narrative…that way lies madness. Relax…we control nothing… and anyway, sometimes bad news is good news in disguise, if we wait long enough. It is a mighty thing to slay your expectations and lay yourself open to your share of frustrations, disappointments, and loss. My mother always told me that ‘acceptance is liberation.’ She was a very wise woman, a gift earned from enduring her measured cup of sorrows.

    William James wrote ‘We need to stop deciding how we want things to be and then getting ourselves upset when things don’t turn out that way.” Easier said than done Willie, especially when you discover the last piece of cake gone, or the poop your geriatric dog deposits on the dining room floor every night.  Still, I say give it a try next time you’re provoked by an uncapped toothpaste, a Sunday driver when you’re running late, a rainy day when you wanted it fine.  Start there and when you’re ready you can move on to little old lady sized stuff, like chronic pain, or learning about a friend’s new cancer diagnosis, or loosing someone you loved very deeply…someone you thought you could keep forever…a loss that feels like the sky’s gone out and taken all the stars away. It gets a little harder to wash down then, even with a good red.

    James would say, ‘If you believe feeling bad, or working long enough will change a past or future event, then you are living on a different planet, with a different reality system.’ He’s right of course. we can’t get so mired in the shitty pieces of our story that we miss the good bits…the glimmers.

    We can’t be ‘shiny, happy people’ all the time and I guess we shouldn’t even try. Don’t we need a certain measure of malcontent to get anything done? It’s only unhappiness, disappointment and disenchantment that puts our clay feet on the floor every morning, isn’t it, that fuels our pursuit of wisdom…some magic beans to make the daily grind a bit more palatable? If we were happy all the time, we’d stay at home all day and roll around in it, wouldn’t we, hedonists supping on donuts and Netflix until our brains and our bodies turned to mush.  That’s Hotel California my friends…’and you can never leave.” (Again, much better if you sing it with me)

    If we can’t capture happiness and keep it caged, as we might like best, then we can cultivate habits and practices that invite happiness in, offer her tea and something sweet to encourage a long and robust relationship.  Gratitude is the first and best invitation to happiness that I’ve discovered.  It is that great looking glass that magnifies all the beauty and riches around us, large enough for us to see all that we have been allowed to keep… legs that take us walking, minds that may still read and discuss, running water still clean enough to drink, maybe even a hand to hold.  I’ll add to this the extraordinary occasion for a fine cup o’ tea and in good company.  Vonnegut suggests we recite in such moments of clarity, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

    We must fall in love with the beauty that is all around us.  Cast our eye about ourselves each morning and count our blessings.  Oscar Wilde wrote that ‘most of us are living in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’  We need to look for the glimmers.  They’re everywhere once you start practicing: the dance of late summer leaves, the first line of a new book, or that feeling of being understood…an easy, effortless fellowship that lets us know we’re not alone.

    Friendship is the second essential pillar in my study of happiness.  Friends come in many shapes and sizes.  They can be fictional, or four-legged, they can be blood, and people we grew up with, or choose to grow old with, but more often than not you’ll find them out roving on some adventure.  They arrive unexpectedly, a happy surprise, and their company can feel like coming home after a long time away, or a gift you didn’t know to ask for, but have wanted your whole life. ‘The secret Alice, is to surround yourself with people who make your heart smile, it’s then, only then, that you’ll find wonderland.’

    If you’ve not yet landed in Wonderland, then I suggest you take a break from your own troubles and concerns and look around you for a way to help others with theirs.  Service is chapter 3 in the little old lady book of happiness.  My brother was in love with Emily Dickinson, she was a dear friend of his.  She wrote, “If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, I shall not die in vain.”  I say do harm to no man and never miss an opportunity to do a kindness. Be a light for others.  I love the old Indian proverb, ‘Blessed is he who plants a tree under whose shade he will never sit.’ To my mind there is no better way to cultivate your own happiness than to contribute to the happiness of others, unseen, unacknowledged and with great humility. If we’re all made of the same stuff in the great fabric of being, then watching out for a dropped stitch here and there only makes good sense…keeps us all from unravelling. 

    If we can stay with the knitting analogy for a minute, then I suggest that the fourth practice in this little old lady’s guide to a happiness, is to keep to your knitting every day.  The work we choose to do is key to practicing good happiness hygiene. If you love your work, then every day is a delight and you’ll be a success, no matter the weight of your wallet. That’s not to say you won’t have to find some job to keep you in beer and bread and a roof over your head.  But you must never let those necessary hours detract from your real work, the work you recognize as your own. And if you haven’t yet found this work then, to quote Ms. Dickenson once more, you must be ‘out with lanterns, looking for yourself.’ 

    John Muir the great naturalist counsels that ‘nothing dollerable is safe.’  That’s the way, he implies, to Thoreau’s ‘life of quiet desperation.’ I say be curious, go adventuring, stretch yourself beyond your imagined limits, investigate, take yourself away, let yourself go quiet.  Your work will find you…artist, teacher, carer, baker, candlestick maker…it matters not.  Trust only that which speaks to your soul, that engages you wholly, that causes you to lose time and that you can’t wait to get back to again each day on rising. ‘It’s foolish for people to want to be happy,’ wrote Georgia O’keeffe, ‘our interests are the most important thing in life.’ ‘Happiness,’ she said, ‘is only temporary, but our interests are continuous.’

    Lastly, and maybe most importantly, happiness lives principally in the present moment.  We need to slow down and stay grounded here in the now, and as the Stoics suggest, ‘do every act of our lives as though it was the very last act of our lives.’ All the greats say the same. To quote my favourite Buddhist, Thich Nhat Hahn, we must ‘drink our tea reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world revolves.’ ‘Eternal life’ wrote Wittgenstein, ‘belongs to those who live in the moment.’  But the poets say it best, To see a world in a blade of grass…heaven in a wildflower.’  It’s that moment when the musician understands that he is not only the strings of the instrument he plays on, but also the music that fills the room and touches the heart strings of everyone who hears.  There can be no higher experience of happiness to my mind then being fully present and awake to your surroundings.

    If you asked me the raw ingredients of my own happiness, I would quote Tolstoy, ‘Rest, nature, books, music, such is my idea of happiness.’ I also try to practice what my brother taught me… to live in a state of radical amazement.  E. B. White urged us to ‘always be on the lookout for wonder.’ So, I get up each morning and try to look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. The art of happiness lies in extracting it from commonplace things and as a little old lady in waiting, I’ll give the last word to that old sage, Socrates, ‘Let’s enjoy ourselves,’ now, ‘It’s later than we think.’

  • Reading Room 3

    Sally Rooney is a favourite writer, maybe more than a little old lady in waiting should admit. Her characters are brilliant, ruined twenty somethings who overthink their way into clinical depressions trying to outrun their Irish childhood trauma. Rooney’s writing is fresh and smart and made from the modern gestalt. The Observer in their review of her latest novel, suggests there is no better author at work today.

    Beautiful World, Where Are You is essentially a correspondence between Alice, a novelist, nestled in the Irish countryside, freshly arrived from a psych ward, and her best friend Alice, an underpaid intellectual living in Dublin. They write about their relationships, and their work, and the state of the world they live in, “standing in the last lighted room before the darkness, bearing witness to something.” The book earns a high rating from me for the sex scenes alone (I’m imagining you making note of the title now). I’d rate the story even higher, I believe, if Rooney was my contemporary, perfectly capturing the age my children are living in now in which “the easiest way to live is to do nothing, say nothing, and love no one.” Her characters are “untouched by vulgarity and ugliness” and looking for moments of “something concealed …the presence at all times, in all places, of a beautiful world.” 8/10

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    I picked this book up at a favourite design shop uptown last winter. I liked the title and her chapter headings had quotes from writers I admire like C.S. Lewis, Anne Lamott, Carl Jung and Pema Chodren. I believe the author is local, a Maritimer, which makes my less than glowing review a bit more uncomfortable. While I appreciated the author’s true to life anecdotes and the general premise of her book, that bad things lead to growth and a more evolved self, I hated her God-squad vernacular and her overly familiar tone. I liked the road she is taking, I just didn’t love her running commentary as she journals about her boundaries and her conversations with her God. I applaud her vulnerability, I abhor her candor. 2/10

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    I’ve read enough Kate Quinn to understand that she is a no fail formula story writer. She creates strong period pieces, in this case 1950’s Washington in the heart of the McCarthy trials, when the rights of women were predicated on their status as wives and mothers, where reputations were guarded, and romances were discreet, and every woman held a secret in her wasted heart.

    The Briar Club is the story of a supper club in a women’s boarding house that brings together and bonds a motley crew of women ranging from widows and war brides, to single moms, and civil servants, a mobster’s moll, an immigrant artist, and an injured baseball star, to name a few. Quinn captures unique, compelling narratives, drawn and crosshatched by a master story teller who showcases our social history, as seen through the eyes of women, our stories, lesser known and more delectable for their subtleties. 7/10

    Stella Maris by Cormac McCarthy is a unique story, intellectually challenging and structurally unorthodox, it is essentially the documented therapy sessions between a brillaint twenty year old mathmatician and her psychiatrist in 1972 when she voluntarily commits herself to a psych hospital as she processes the death of her brother, Bobby. With a history of paranoid schizophrenia and suicidal ideation, this is not her first visit to Stella Maris hospital, but her first conversations with a new therapist who engages her in a game of cat and mouse that makes a voyeur of the reader and keeps our attention despite the challenging sections that review the magic inherent in advanced math. The rewards are exponential as we meet her chimeras, the highly constructed hallucinations only she can see, and follow the “My Dinner With Andre” conversation that swings back and forth in the space between philosophy and quantum mechanics with cameos from Wittgenstein and Topos Theory that transport you to the edge of another universe. Stella Maris is a master work of intricate ideas and an absorbing examination of the “billion synaptic events clicking away in the dark like blind ladies at their knitting.” Warning – this is no beach book. Have wine at the ready for the deep thoughts aftershock . 8/10

    Doyle is a delight to read on any occasion but Life Without Children, a collection of Corona stories, is truly superb. His eye for the everyday detail distills something true and generalizable for every reader who anxiously sang the Happy Birthday song while washing their hands like surgeons, and danced the supermarket side step, or binged their way through the Netflix scandi-noir series, and social distanced themselves out of work and relationships.

    Doyle’s brilliant story collection looks at the masks we wore, discarded, like “underwear on the footpath“, and examines lives under lockdown, “that ripped away the padding“, with “no schedule, or job, no commute, nothing to save us.” His characters explore their smartphone addiction, and earworms, and engage in real conversations, “the tricky ones that stray from the usual.”

    Doyle’s book beautifully frames the silent, deadly days of our very recent past when Covid hemmed us in, he shows us our fragility, our interdependence and our essentialness, and will make you laugh until you cry. 8/10

    Pema Chodren is a Buddhist nun and meditation teacher who I have read for many years, including her meditation series which I highly recommend. Taking the Leap is a series of teachings designed to help you stay open to the many vexations of human life and build a space or pause within highly charged situations before reacting with our smaller selves, and further contributing to the deepening and seemingly entrenched polarization that governs so much discourse in today’s world that labels the ‘other’ as ‘bad’ or ‘wrong’. What she offers is a Buddhist prescription with the potential to reduce suffering.

    It starts with staying open and present and awake to whatever is going on no matter how uncomfortable or seemingly intolerable, no easy task when we are, most of us, pleasure seeking, or putting our heads in the sand.

    Pema is big on the pause and embracing impermanence and the underlying uneasiness that is an integral part of the human condition. Her book is a guide that coaches us to stay with the “tightening” when it comes, to break the habital chains and reactions that rule us unconsciously. Taking the Leap offers a formal teaching, a map to a more peaceful approach to living, but it is no easy journey. There is an undertow, a dopamine hangover that will distract and discourage your efforts…still its worth a read even if all you get is that there is a spiritual toolbox waiting for you when you’re ready to open it. 8/10

    Alexander McCall Smith, a professor of medical law at Edinburgh University, turned highly successful detective story writer, is a very popular and commercially successful storyteller. He understands that great detective fiction has more to do with setting and the personal charisma of the detective than any murder or plot device. Career mystery readers are rarely surprised by the denoument of the books they devour. We read mysteries because we love to be in the company of the detective, or immersed in the world that the writer places their heroes and the villains they sort out. The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency is McCall Smith’s first run at a winning detective series and it does not disappoint. Mma (Precious) Ramotswe is a keen and unusual gumshoe, “the only lady detective in Botswana,” with an unerring understanding of human nature and a love for her native Africa. “A good woman in a good country, one might say.”

    McCalls stories document unrecorded lives, the narratives of ordinary people who see beauty in simple things and find happiness with very little material wealth. Detective Ramotswe deals in absentee husbands, African gangsters, and witchdoctors, and a disinterested police presence, outsmarting her fellow characters, armed with nothing more than a detective manual and a small inheritance from her father. She is a unique sleuth with a Columbo like innocence, an interesting backstory, and a determination to succeed that will have you routing for her. Best ecapist read this summer. 7/10

    This book came to me via an interview I did for the blog that will be dropping later this month. It’s a life changer… the kind of book you buy in bulk and try to force on everyone you love. Published posthumously, it is a compilation of wisdom teachings presented by Anthony de Mello, a Jesuit priest and psychoanalyst, who describes a paradise on earth, waiting inside each of us, just beyond the reach of our conceptualized world and the limitations of language, out beyond the boundaries of our egos and all our charitable good works (a more refined ego construct).

    Awareness shows a way to wake up from the modern day miasma, an all consuming mass illusion that keeps us trapped in a hamster wheel of self absorption and unhappiness, derived from a short term self soothing dopamine cycle that breeds a disquiet we’ve acclimated to through a lifetime of conditioning.

    De Mello asks us to kill our expectations, to remain open, and to detach from our desires.

    Awareness leaves readers with a series of excellent prompts but the real work comes after the close of the book. De Mello’s message is a little like “trying to capture the feel of the ocean in a bucket of water.” Its a beginning. It starts in awareness. You cannot strive for the world he describes or, he cautions, it will elude you. It begins with a willingness to sit in the present and observe the majesty that is the reality hidden beneath the ego and its self serving thought stream, it glimmers only in the present, turning to dust in a mind that travels to the past or the future.

    He coaches the reader to watch everything within you and around you as if it were happening to someone else. He counsels that real happiness resides in you and no where else, in no thing, in no other person.

    De Mello’s book is a call to awaken from a world in which we are dying of spirtual thirst surrounded by a sea of fresh water, living in a world filled with joy and happiness and love, but brainwashed, hynotized and sirened to sleep, trained not to see what is all around us.

    Awareness is by far the most important, insightful and funny rendering of the truth of the universe that I have found in a decade of searching. I cannot recommend this book highly enough not only for how powerfully it could impact our lives individually but also what it might mean for an awakening world. 15/10