the cassandra pages

International Women's Day, Montreal

This morning, my husband and I participated in a demonstration outside the U.S. Consulate in Montreal in observance of International Women’s Day, and in protest against the assault on women’s rights taking place in the U.S. The leaders spoke, both in French and English, in solidarity with American women and the American people, while saying “We are strong, we will never surrender.” During ten minutes of silence we remembered women who have been victims of violence in both our countries, and particularly the young women who were killed in the anti-feminist Ecole Polytechnic Massacre in 1989 — an event that shocked and further galvanized the already-strong women’s movement here in Quebec.

I was very glad to be part of this event today, to feel the intensity and deep emotion of the crowd of thousands gathered in freezing weather, to read the signs they had brought, and more especially to see the emotion and determination in the faces of the people.

 

 

This great sign says, “Know Your Parasites! Prevent fascist-borne disease in Canada!” and under the photos: “Deer tick,” “dog tick,” “Lunatick” (under Trump). and “Psychotick,” (under Musk.) Photo © 2025 Jonathan Sa’adah.

It’s been a very difficult week. We are beginning to see how far this administration intends to go to stifle dissent and free speech, both inside and outside the government; to attack the economic security and sovereignty of nations including Canada; to steal from the people and destroy the very foundations of government. Staunch allies and defenders of democracy have been attacked and disrespected, as the administration sides with Putin and other right-wing dictators. They’re talking about pardoning the killer of George Floyd. Arts events featuring black and ethnic artists are being cancelled all over the country. The removal of 400 million dollars of federal grants and contracts from Columbia University, on charges of antisemitism for allowing pro-Palestinian demonstrations last year, bodes very badly for the right of universities to free speech, dissent, and autonomy — and may result in widespread purges of faculty and staff. This is McCarthyism. Worse yet, all of these accusations are based partly or fully on lies.

The majority of Americans, and the majority of the world, know this, but the Republican Congress, cowed by Musk’s threats to defeat any disloyal members by buying the next elections, is almost entirely acquiescent, ignoring their vow to uphold the Constitution. Institutions, fearing the loss of funding, are caving in prematurely. Most faith leaders have been disturbingly silent. The Democrats have yet to mount any kind of coherent, organized opposition, leaving this to elders like Bernie Sanders, who, in his 80s, is on a tour of town halls in the Midwest, taking directly to voters.

Racism, misogyny, and hatred of anyone who isn’t white, heterosexual and male lie at the bottom of this far-right doctrine. I read a good part of Project 2025 this week. It’s all in there, laid out clearly, and it is chilling. Take a look at the list of words the Trump administration is banning from government websites and using as grounds for withdrawing grant awards (this list was culled from search terms searched and flagged in National Science Foundation grants). Do you see anything referring to male, men, masculinity? Of course not. But the rest of us are in the crosshairs.

 

 

The signs read: “C’est mon corps” - “It’s my body”; “Femmes souveraines” - “Sovereign Women”; C”e ne sont pas le femmes qui sont fragiles, ce sont leur droits” - “It’s not women who are fragile, it’s their rights,” “Queers Against Trump, Nazis, Poilievre” (Pierre Poilievre is the conservative candidate for Prime Minister) and - my favorite - “You can’t erase the one who creates.” Photo © 2025 Jonathan Sa’adah.

In Canada, and in the media and on talk shows, some are still treating Trump’s anti-Canadian threats as a joke, but he’s absolutely serious. We have to act quickly and decisively to strengthen our bonds and our country and prepare for a rough near-future. In a published comment to The New York Times on the article linked in this paragraph, I wrote:

Cassandra | Montreal
@Stefan Bichis Thank you for stating the clear and present danger, and the lack of serious reporting, Stefan. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I'd lie awake at night thinking about real possibilities like these, while much of the media are still treating them as a joke. Have Americans considered how rapidly their government is making them far less safe from terrorism, through Trump's threats against Gaza and support for the annexation of the West Bank, for instance? My father fought alongside Canadians in WWII; now Trump trashes the sacrifices and trust of all of America's allies. When are people going to get real?

Make no mistake: we cannot count on our elected governments to do this for us — we, the people, have to make ourselves heard. That means you. I’ve been an activist all my life, so it’s not difficult for me, but I understand why it can be hard for those who’ve never gotten involved. If you need encouragement, write to me, and I’ll try to help! But please find something to do, and do it; don’t expect others to do the work of upholding your current way of life. That’s what protecting democracy means. It comes down to WE, the PEOPLE.

Put your feet on the ground during demonstrations at your state capitals, in your own city, at Tesla dealerships— numbers do matter, and you will feel better to be in company with like-minded people. Get off Facebook and X. Stop buying from Amazon and supporting the billionaires who are bankrolling the far-right. Sign up and write Postcards for Voters. Join Indivisible or MoveOn; donate to these and other progressive organizations such as the ACLU. Keep contacting your representatives. Canadians, join the Pledge for Canada. As much as possible, buy Canadian. Cancel your US travel.

 

There were a lot of kids whose parents had brought them, and a number of supportive men too. Photo © 2025 Jonathan Sa’adah.

On this important day, I want to say a final word to my fellow women: there are those who want to silence and erase us, but that will never be possible. Women’s solidarity is the most powerful counter-force in the world against violence, hatred and the destruction of human rights and human life, and it has always been so. Don’t ever forget it! Please use your one life and your one voice in support of what you know to be true, and never allow fear to stop you.

(I promise the next post will be about art, beauty, and self-preservation in the face of all the negativity we’re exposed to right now.)

A Letter from the Neighbors

 

Mural on Cierre de Circuito Cetram, Chapultepec, Mexico City

I’ve just returned to Canada after two weeks in Mexico City. Just when our return flight left the Gulf of Mexico and entered American air space, the pilot announced that we would be entering “a zone of moderate or severe turbulence.” He wasn’t being ironic. As it turned out, the turbulence we felt wasn’t too bad — but we were, after all, far up in the sky and the pilot was able to make adjustments...

During those two flights, which I’ve taken a number of times, I was never more aware of Canada and Mexico’s positions as neighbors of the United States, and, now, of the unenviable status we share. I traced our route on the in-flight map, thinking about familiar places in the U.S., my original home. But I have never been happier to fly over it without stopping, to spend my time and money in Mexico — a country and a people I love — and then go home to Canada.

 

A small portion of Mexico City, seen from the air not long before landing.

Being in Mexico City was both wonderful and clarifying. In that vast metropolis of 22 million people, a small percentage are wealthy but the majority are definitely not. In the streets and subways you are confronted with human suffering and afflictions one would rarely encounter on the streets of an American or Canadian city. Water flowed freely in our hotel and rented apartments, but up on the sides of the volcanic mountains ringing the city, many Mexicans have none, and are forced to walk long distances to carry water back to their homes, or rely on spotty water deliveries by truck. The level of security on homes in more affluent neighborhoods — heavy locked gates, wrought iron pickets, mortared broken glass on tops of walls, and even coils of razor wire — as well as guards armed with shotguns or even machine guns outside some businesses, showed that theft and violence are feared and even expected.

 

Itinerant vegetable stall, with artichokes and asparagus, in Coyoacan.

Yet, it was clear that no matter what, daily life goes on. In that society, where the family is strong and central, people take care of each other; give pesos to beggars; support their local economies by buying from street vendors, many of whom are indigenous; participate in churches and other organizations that help those in need. Are they happy or unhappy? Some are definitely suffering. But I saw much more joy, laughter, awareness of others, kindness and genuine helpfulness than I usually do in public places at home. I observed this in simple interactions over food or travel; I felt it particularly when I talked to people in more detail or found myself in groups where we were all sharing or enjoying something together — music, dance, gardens, walking in a park, buying juice from a street vender. People are simply more human with each other. When someone gets up to give you their seat on the subway, they smile at you and speak, and make sure to make eye contact again when one of you leaves the car. Standing around a group of musicians playing on the street, the crowd interacts, dancing and catching each other’s eyes to share in the pleasure — and these are mixed groups of strangers, from the well-dressed to the tattered, all bonded by this moment of discovery and sharing of something joyful that is being given for free.

 

Dancing in the Alameda Central - a park in the center of Mexico City — on a Saturday night.

It made me think a lot about the time I spend sitting at my computer, versus the time I am with others. The time I spend in my head thinking, anticipating, and worrying — as opposed to really being in the present moment, doing things with my hands, actually learning something, having conversations, playing my instruments, observing the real world. The time I spend agonizing about politics and governmental failures, when so much of the power to make others feel better, and to make life happier, lies with each of us — and will continue to do so, no matter what happens in the larger world.

I did a lot of drawing while we were there. I tried to do at least one page in my sketchbook every day, and ended up with a bit more than that — with lots of material I hope to add now that we’re back home. I’ll show you more in subsequent posts, and try to share more of the beauty and complexity that we were fortunate to be immersed in.

 

Mural depicting Emiliano Zapata (8 August 1879 – 10 April 1919), peasant leader of the Mexican Revolution, by the painter David Alfaro Siqueiros. Soumaya Museum, CDMX.

Most of all, I was grateful to fall in love again with this astonishing city I’ve visited many times before, but hadn’t seen for seven years. It’s big, it’s difficult, it’s very old and very new at the same time — amazing, and bottomless. In the Mexicans’ resilience, tenacity, and pride, I felt encouraged about humanity’s ability to rise above authoritarianism. I’m rooting for them, and you can be sure they are rooting for us up here in Canada.

What is Home?

 

The last week has been…horrific. I don’t mind admitting that I’ve had trouble sleeping and controlling my worst fears as I’ve watched a coup unfold in my country of birth, and heard the threats and completely unfair accusations against the country where I now live — the staunchest friend and ally America has ever had. Yesterday, in particular, was very difficult as we waited to see if tariffs would be levelled against Canada or not, starting a trade war that would be extremely damaging to both economies. At the last minute, they were averted for a month, but I don’t think we’ve seen the end of this.

Rough times teach us things. I’ve discovered that I truly love Canada, and feel grateful and protective of what we have here. By contrast to the U.S., we aren’t particularly nationalistic or patriotic (although Quebec has its own reasons for hanging together as a society), and have been pretty complacent about what we have here, but this period of time has shown that we will pull together strongly if threatened, and that we do appreciate and understand what makes us different.

 

I also love the U.S., where I was born and lived for the first 50 years of my life. Watching the rapidity of this attempt to tear apart the government and seize control for the executive branch; the power and access given to unelected oligarchs; the vicious attacks on some of the most vulnerable groups of people; the bullying of allies; and insistence on “respect” by a would-be dictator have appalled me. Even if we knew much of this was coming, seeing it unfold is terrible. As a dual citizen who knows history and understands the fragility of democracy, the pain I feel is tremendous.

In the past few days, though, I’ve also come to a clearer place in my head. For me, “home” isn’t a country, but the internal place where my heart resides; I carry this with me wherever I am. In terms of the public sphere, I know where right and wrong lie, and what needs to be protected — and I will put my heart and soul into doing that. But in the private sphere, I recognize what I need, and what many of us need: places of rest and beauty where we can restore ourselves, and friends of like minds with whom we can talk, mourn, and build strong community. For me, music, art, reading, and nature are essential, and I plan to delve into them every day. We need to eat well and get enough sleep. Exercise is also important; swimming has been especially good for me lately. This is self-preservation. We can’t help anyone else, or any larger cause, if we ourselves are a wreck. We need, first of all, to do this work of making an indestructible home inside ourselves.

 

Part of the great difficulty we all face is our perceived powerlessness in the face of the forces currently at work. And yet, we are never without the power that comes from a strong inner life and the conscious decisions that flow from it. While that power may not be able to stop injustice today, it gives us the strength to endure and to help the people around us, and be ready when opportunities arise.

Here are some concrete actions I’m taking:

1. Practicing the piano or my flute every day.

2. Keeping up my sketching and art practice, and making work to share with you.

3. Working on building supportive and committed community here in Montreal and within my online circles of friends.

4. I’m getting off Facebook permanently, and encouraging the organizations and groups I belong to to do likewise. (I’ve never been on X, and would find it unjustifiable.)

5. Limiting my intake of news, and reading only what is most reliable. I read The Guardian, The New York Times (in which I’ve been deeply disappointed for a long time, but it’s still important), Al Jazeera, and the CBC. ProPublica and various Substack authors (see my feed for recommendations) round out my main sources. Here, for instance, is Robert Hubbell’s Substack - a legal scholar/observer and self-described optimist who writes about politics “through a lens of hope.”

6. Becoming more involved in the Canadian electoral process to help ensure that we don’t elect a conservative government here.

7. Insisting that my Democratic representatives (I vote in Vermont as well as in Canada) do everything they can to block, obstruct, and resist the administration’s unconstitutional attempts to dismantle democracy, and to be far more visible and active opposition leaders than they have been up until now. (Bernie Sanders is an exception, and I’m proud he’s one of our senators.)

8. Asking you, the readers, how you’re doing, what you need, and what’s helping. Let’s talk to each other.

And the fight for rights continues...

It's a beautiful fall day here, and I went downtown with J., who had a dental appointment. Just as we exited the metro, we encountered this demonstration on St-Catherine Street. It was a counter-protest, in response to today’s anti-LGBTQ2S+ demonstrations by the far-right, taking place all across Canada. Hateful, strident, well-funded and well-organized far-right protests such as this are spreading across the US border and infiltrating Canada, and this makes me extremely sad and upset. So I was glad to be able to cheer the mostly-young people in the counter-protest from the sidewalk.

As the close friend of many people who do not identify as straight, and particularly having followed the journey of the trans son of a longtime friend, I am horrified for anyone whose life is being impacted negatively by the current wave of protest, legislation, and rhetoric ranging from misunderstanding to hatefulness. No one should have to live in this kind of fear, or have their basic human rights denied.

Today is also my 71st birthday, and I can't believe that not only are we still having to protest these issues, but in many cases society and governments are going backwards. Women's rights; LGBTQ2S+ rights; protection from discrimination because of one's race, ethnicity, or religion, or the language one speaks; the right of all people to have healthcare; the right to clean air and water; protection from police brutality and profiling; the freedom to read and teach the literature you want as a university professor...all are endangered, and I could go on and on.

Here in Canada we have been complacent, thinking that we generally have shared values, and that most rights such as these are enshrined and could never be repealed -- but we can't continue to think that way. I grew up with hope for a better world in the 1960s, and I don't want to live my remaining years watching as human rights are eroded rather than expanded, and the climate destroyed. We have to be vigilant, we have to speak out, we have to hold the institutions to which we belong accountable. But perhaps most important, we need to patiently and continually educate people who are afraid of difference that human beings are human beings. It seems to me that this is best done one-on-one or on a small scale, through the stories and examples of real people who we know and love as our children, brothers and sisters, friends and colleagues-- and it can create a lasting change of heart. That process has to happen alongside the legal struggle to gain human rights and equality. We have seen the fruits of this process, for example in society's greater acceptance and equality of gay and lesbian people over the past twenty years, and the rights and dignity that women have painfully won over the past fifty -- but the struggle is not even close to over, people's lives continue to be in danger, many rights have already been taken away, and we can never, ever sit back and think the work is done, even in countries like Canada and provinces such as Quebec.

The Brightness of Flowers, the Darkness of the Sky

I've been sewing for myself this week, for the first time since we moved here a year ago, and it felt like such a pleasure. The fabric is a rayon viscose twill -- a remnant I bought in Lisbon 3 1/2 years ago. And I self-drafted the pattern from a favorite v-neck top, which meant looking up some techniques online for adding and eliminating darts, and for drafting sleeves based on the circumference of the armhole. I had to adjust as I went, a little bit, but it was fine.

The fabric turned out to be quite slippery so it was necessary to stay-stitch all the edges, use twice as many pins as usual, baste some seams first, and then finish all the seams on the inside of the garment. I did a lot of hand-stitching too, on the neck binding and the hems, which I do enjoy, but it's fussy. The result pleased me, though, and I'm sure I'll wear it a lot.

Meanwhile, we're at the height of actual spring blooms. J. and I have been dieting but we treated ourselves to tiny gelato/hot chocolate sundaes at Leonidas the other day, and ate them in the Pierre Elliot Trudeau rose garden in the Town of Mont-Royal, which is an easy bike ride from our apartment. The roses are just starting but the irises and peonies were in full, magnificent bloom, and it did my heart good, after these days of wildfires to the north of us, to see such beauty and color.

Montreal was spared the worst of the smoke and smog, but it was dangerously awful to the south and west of us. We've had a lot of rain the past two days, so I hope that will help the fires to abate.

This was my view on the worst day we had -- bad, but nothing like it was for many of you.

I was horrified by the photographs and air quality readings from Toronto, Ottawa, Syracuse, NYC, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C. And before anyone blames Quebec, let's please remember that this can and will happen anywhere there are forests, as our climate comes under greater and greater pressure, with the fires contributing to the vicious cycle. Only the force of collective human determination will change the trend, and it is up to all of us, but particularly industry and government. Please do what you can as an individual, and let's apply as much pressure as we can to our elected officials, and support all of the progressive initiatives aimed at combating the greed, waste, and lack of will that have gotten us to this point.

Squalls

Squall line on autoroute 15, south of Montreal, Quebec.

Thursday, December 1: We had to cross the border into the U.S. this morning to do some errands. It was dry, windy, and quite cold when we left the city around 9:30 am, but no frazzle ice was yet to be seen on the St. Lawrence River. The sky looked like snow, though, and sure enough, as we got out into the flat countryside south of the city, we could see a definite squall line -- blue skies to the right, and a line of leaden snow-filled clouds to the left. Soon we were driving through pelting, blowing snow that was sometimes lighter than air and drifting fast across the already-white fields, and sometimes beating a staccato of tiny icy pellets against the windshield, which cautioned us to drive very carefully, because that kind of ice can act like ball bearings under the wheels. And then, suddenly, just before the border crossing at Champlain...nothing at all. Tan, bare fields with green hay still coming up in places; nonchalant geese pecking in dry cornfields, and no snow to be seen. 

Two hours later, on the way back, the day had turned to beautiful blue skies, and the roads were bare. Those of us who live in the north are quite familiar with this phenomenon of squalls: short-lived, intense bursts of rain or snow, often accompanied by gusting winds, that can feel like a blizzard when you're in the middle of them, but which -- unlike blizzards -- pass quickly, often bringing high-pressure and blue skies in their wake.

It made me think about how life has felt lately: unpredictable and buffeted. But then again, all the disturbances in my life have been mere squalls compared to the relentless and devastating storms of war, starvation, oppression, homelessness and displacement, illness, loss, and death that millions of people face. And yet -- no matter what, some of these remarkable people manage to adjust their attitude and still find joy in their daily existence. I try, but I still have much to learn.

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Angel-wing begonia with wooden angel. Fountain pen drawing in sketchbook, 6" x 9".

Friday: Late fall in the north: this is the stripped, dry, testing time at the end of the year. Short days, distant pale sun, bare trees, and an increasingly penetrating cold. Ironically, when there's more snow covering the ground, it often seems warmer, and easier to be outside: during these current weeks, though, the landscape feels like a bed without a blanket. We are all driven more and more into the interiors of our homes, and of ourselves. 

I swam, early this morning. Sleepy and not in the best of moods when I pushed myself into the elevator, into the locker room, on with the suit and cap and goggles and into the water, the rhythm quickly took over and after five laps I was already feeling better; after twenty-five I felt renewed, at home in my body in spite of its creaky and achy parts, ready to face the day.  A couple of afternoons ago, I rode down and walked back up the many flights of stairs to my apartment -- this is something I should, and could, do regularly. And while swimming does stretch and use most muscle groups, some yoga focused on balance and strength would be good this winter too.

For someone who tends to be pretty consumed with thoughts and words, I know that I can't live entirely in my head, or let myself become distracted and immobile for hours on end. I need to use my body to make music, make art, knit and sew, chop and cook, move from place to place. It helps to feel my lungs breathing and my heart pumping blood. I think that one of the problems of living in harsh winter climates, especially as we get older, is the feeling of enclosure and constriction which can lead to a lack of embodiment. I can't ski anymore, we no longer shovel snow, and I have to be careful not to have a bad fall on the ice; this is just being prudent. But being outside in winter has always been invigorating for me, and a joy, so I have crampons for my boots, and a ski pole for when the weather is really dicey, and we make a point of getting out. It requires effort and discipline to build movement into my schedule, but I know it's not optional. How do you deal with this, you who live in a place with definite seasons? And how is your mood these days?

Déménagement

J. and M. on our terrace in Montreal's Plateau Mont-Royal, in 2012.

We're moving. That little statement could mean all sorts of things. But the French word déménagement is so specific, and in this case it means we're moving house. To faire le menage is to do the housework; the word ménagement, without the "dé", means "care and attention". My dictionary tells me that to speak sans ménagement is "bluntly", to be asked to leave sans ménagement mean "forcibly evicted." I like the way the word déménagement reflects the accumulation of care and attention put into one's home over the years, that one doesn't simply pack objects and oneself and move, shift locations, but that when we leave our home, hopefully for another, we also wrap up our memories and our time spent in a place that was not simply an address, but a home.

Tonight is the last we'll spend in the condominium where we've lived ever since coming to Montreal. It is one apartment of ten in our building, which, as co-propriétaires, we all own and care for together. I've been one of the people responsible for the gardens, while J. has had a much larger role as treasurer and a member of the CA, or conseil d'administration, the executive committee that's in charge of maintenance, repairs, hiring and managing helpers, and assuring the smooth running of the building. It's been a great place to live for the past 18 years (how can it possibly be that long?) and we're sorry to be leaving this neighborhood, the park, and especially our neighbors who've become good friends. However, the pandemic showed us that this small apartment simply doesn't work for us as a place to live and work as well. When we were going to our studio every day, it was fine, but during COVID, and since cutting back on our professional work, we haven't been using the studio very much, while, at the same time, the rent there has been going up astronomically under new owners. We looked and looked in this part of the city but couldn't find any good or affordable solution for a larger, brighter, recently-built space that would serve as both living and work space, and also be an appropriate place for us as we grow older, with room for help if we ever need it, proximity to our medical providers, easy access to the international food shopping we enjoy, and some additional amenities. Neither of us wants to be responsible for an aging building at the same time as we, ourselves, age.

Tonight.

To our surprise, we found a recently-developed area close to some of the food shopping -- Middle Eastern, Asian, Greek -- that takes us across the city every couple of weeks. At first we couldn't imagine living there -- so little green space, none of the genteel French atmosphere of the area where we live now, but rather a mix of large, professionally-managed residential high-rises and industrial areas and gradually-developing retail infrastructure -- but when we actually visited the buildings and saw some apartments, which offered so much more for the price than in the more traditional neighborhoods of the city, we began to consider it. In the end, we bought a condominium on the 11th floor of a 12-storey building built in 2018. We've both always had it in the backs of our minds that we might like to live in a modern, light-filled urban space, high up -- I think this realization came after some of the apartments we stayed in in Mexico City and Athens. I'm still kind of shocked that we're actually doing it, but the papers have been signed, we have the keys, the boxes are packed and the bed-frame taken apart -- and tomorrow at 8 the movers arrive. We will close our studio when the lease runs out in the fall, or perhaps before then, since we've packed up or sold quite a lot of what was there. We've gotten rid of a lot of possessions, including books and clothes, in this second major downsizing of our adult lives, and that feels great. In our new space we'll each have a workroom/studio of our own, and I look forward to this very much, and to whatever comes out of the solitude and new inspiration of the big skies we'll see every day.

At the same time as we've been preparing for the move, I've been deeply concerned about my father, and, as I've written here, we made three lengthy trips to central New York to be with him under the rapidly-changing circumstances of his health; he was first with us, then in assisted-living, then hospitalized with pneumonia, then in a grim rehabilitation/nursing facility from which I've been desperately trying to extricate him. This week our application was accepted, and he has moved into one of the excellent New York State Veterans' Homes, where they are glad to begin to know him and care for him as a veteran of WWII. In spite of our personal changes and exciting new beginnings in Montreal, part of me is there, back at the lake, wanting to spend time with my father during this uncertain final part of his life -- so we will find ways to work that out.

A Brief Comment on the Truck Convoy

First of all, I would like my US and international readers to know that the news about the truck convoy protest, as reported in Canada, is quite different than what I have heard is being reported through some other media, notably Fox News.

Second, a large majority of Canadians are appalled by the protesters and the support they have received from outside Canada, particularly the US far right. Many Canadians are baffled as to why it has taken so long for the police to clear the blockades.

The right to protest is enshrined in Canada, and especially in Quebec, where I live. In Montreal, there are protests and demonstrations all the time, and the city and police know how to handle them fairly peacefully. I'm sure that the initial hope was that the truckers would leave peacefully on their own. However, we should all realize that if this were a protest by Indigenous or other minorities/people of color who blocked city streets, transportation routes, or the supply chain for goods, action against them -- including arrests -- would have been much faster. And it is clearly true that, as in the January 6 2021 Capitol insurrection in D.C., some members of the police and military sympathize and identify with these mostly-white, mostly working-class, mostly-male protesters, some of whom were armed and ready for violent confrontation.

We must not close our eyes to this glaring example of inequality and preferential treatment, which is now typical of most nations in the West. And as Canadians, it's crucial that we see it and speak up swiftly against it, as well as condemning hate speech, far-right ideology, and the influence of foreign money in our domestic affairs.

 

A New Year's Walk

Happy New Year! I hope I've learned and grown in 2021, even if what stands out more clearly right now are the struggles and worries. May 2022 be a gentler year for all of us, and may we remember to be grateful for what we have -- including each other.

So, in this picture, I'm waving to you from the banks of the St. Lawrence river, with the Biosphere in back of me. Yesterday we went for a long walk at Parc Jean-Drapeau, site of Montreal's Expo 67: this geodesic dome, designed by Buckminster Fuller, was the United States pavilion for Expo, and is now a museum dedicated to the environment. But yesterday we were pretty much the only people on the two islands in the middle of the river, and even though it was a grey day, it was just what I needed. Lots of wildlife tracks in the snow, many birds including a huge flock of robins (what are they thinking?), the St Lawrence roiling along in its winter mood, red rose hips against the snow, junipers loaded with blue berries, overgrown plantings, a greenhouse where large tropical plants were being overwintered, and many odd graphic images from the desolation of winter and the decay or remnants of structures built for Expo that have fallen into disuse. I hope you'll enjoy taking this walk with me, and I wish you all the best for the year to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lights on at 1 pm: Winter Solstice

The shortest day of the year was a sunny one in Montreal, at least for the brief daylight hours. I started this quick watercolor after lunch, and noticed that the park lights came on at 1 pm! It's 3:45 now, and the sun is going down - there are just some last rays on the tops of the trees, and white snow on the ground that looks as though it might stay. If I ever forget how far north we live, the solstice reminds me.

The day may have been sunny, but the mood in the city definitely is not, as we battle an Omicron surge that is frightening in its speed and intensity of transmission. Many restrictions have been put in place already by the province, including closing the schools, and our mairesse, Valerie Plante, has declared a state of emergency from her home, where she is isolating after testing positive herself. The hospital emergency rooms are already near capacity.

My Christmas wish to all of you is to that you won't disregard the threat of this variant. The behavior you've adopted that has kept you safe so far is probably not enough to avoid infection. Please get a booster if you're eligible; wear a high-quality or a double mask; keep your social contacts and your errands in public places to a minimum. The exponential rise in cases we are seeing here is astounding, and half or more of those admitted to hospital are now double-vaccinated people.  Booster roll-out has been slow in Canada; here in Quebec only the elderly have received third doses, and people above 65 have just recently become eligible to make appointments -- the virus is taking full advantage of that fact. (My own appointment is scheduled for December 27.) And while hospitalizations are about a third of the level they were with the first wave, and deaths are still fairly low, the danger is not just to the elderly or vulnerable, or the unvaccinated. A two-month old baby died of COVID in hospital here last week. Please, be very cautious, and if you live in a place where Omicron has not yet hit, think very carefully about your holiday plans, who you will be seeing, and what it means to love them, because with this variant, everything can change in a week or less. This is one year when the pressure or desire to visit one's family should take a back seat to protecting them. I say this particularly to my friends in the U.S., many of whom still seem oblivious to what we are going through up here -- and it's not even the worst of it yet -- or what people in Europe are going through.

So it will be a different Christmas, once again...we have a tree, and lights, and the smells of baking; there's snow outside and warmth inside, but the holiday will be a quiet one. I'm sure we'll check in with friends and family via zoom. My daily task is to keep my own spirits up, and to face the seemingly-interminable pandemic, and uncertainty about the future, with courage. It's not easy for me, and takes conscious intention. Today before I got up I thought quite a bit about gratitude. Later I baked a complicated cake, made some five-pointed origami stars, wrote letters, took a long vigorous walk in the park, and still, I felt the presence of discouragement and anxiety in the background. The predictability of the solstice is ancient and steady, though -- and I took comfort in that.