the cassandra pages

Cassandra at Twenty

Today this blog celebrates its twentieth anniversary. I almost forgot, because I was focused on it being the first day of spring: an event we're eagerly anticipating up here but about which there's been precious little evidence, other than the maple sap running, and brighter, longer days. However, I'll post these grape hyacinths in the hope that we'll be seeing real ones -- in about a month.

The craziness of living in, and enduring, such a northern climate may be matched by the craziness of having blogged here for twenty years. Or perhaps I'm just stubborn. Social media was supposed to be the death of blogging, and it did do-in most of the blogs that started when mine did. Other platforms were touted as the next best thing, but I think most bloggers just got fatigued. Keeping up a blog, trying not to repeat yourself, and finding something personal to say is hard enough over years and years, but when the readers and commenters start to go away, it's even harder to remember why you began it in the first place.

But I do remember: I was a journal writer and determined letter-writer, with a well-established practice, and blogging fit me to a T, not only because it satisfied those same urges, but because it also added the possibility of a visual component. The latter, of course, became the raison d'être for Instagram, and I have loved being part of a community of artists and photographers there. But for those who want to write regularly and seriously, nothing has really worked as well as blogs, and for someone like me who's a visual artist as well, and wants to own her own website rather than be data-harvested at every click of the mouse and keyboard, blogging has continued to be the best choice. I guess stubborn perseverance has just kept me at it, because first of all I write and make a record of my art for myself -- I'd do this anyway -- but how much better it is to share it with you, communicate with you, and get to know each other.

Jacaranda blooms in Mexico City, back in March, 2017.

The doubts I was having about blogging a few years ago have mostly disappeared. It's clear to me that this is where I belong, and that it works for me. Adding an art education component will satisfy another strong urge in me: to teach and encourage others who may have always wanted to draw or paint, or who want to do it better; or encourage those who loved making art when they were kids, only to get discouraged or distracted along the way.

A recent change is that I have begun mirroring this blog on Substack. The content will be exactly the same, but if people want to subscribe there and receive a notification via email when there's a new post, that's an easy way to get one. (I know some of you don't use feed readers, which is another possibility. While I do always post a link to new posts on Facebook, you may not be there either.) Substack posts also receive a link on my Twitter feed. Many Substack writers are trying to get people to subscribe for a monthly or yearly payment. I'm not going to do that; the content here has always been free, and I see no reason to change that. The only possible exception would be if I decide to offer formal online art courses, but that's a ways into the future and won't impact the blog at all.

Red bottle-brush tree bloom, from the same Mexico City trip.

Whether you have been reading my words and looking at my pictures for twenty years or have just found me recently, I want to say thank you. It's humbling to know that people come here repeatedly, looking for some solace or calmness in the difficult days we are all facing, and I'm glad that the writing and art which help sustain me also, sometimes, help to sustain you. After all, that's why we think deeply, why we create, and why we are here together. Thank you for visiting, and for encouraging me with your presence. If you've never left a comment, that's absolutely fine, but please don't be shy -- I try to respond personally to all comments, and will be really glad to hear from you. And for those of you who've become my friends over the years, whether virtually or in real life, and in so many corners of the globe -- how amazing it is that we found each other, and how everlastingly grateful I am for the ways in which we enrich each other's lives! 

In Praise of Women, and in Fear for Them

Sculpture by Jiménez Deredia, Mexico City 2016

On this International Women's Day I am grateful for the strong women of my family who raised me to be confident in myself and my intellect, and with high expectations of what I might accomplish. Without them, it's hard to imagine what would have become of me. And I'm grateful for growing up at a time when women's rights were at the forefront of American consciousness, because it meant that doors opened for me that weren't open previously, and I was able to benefit from the fight waged by women ten, twenty, thirty years older on so many fronts, from access to education and a broader range of career choices, to contraception and abortion, better pay (even if not equal), the option not to have children and stay (or become) single without stigma, and so many other areas of life. In the late 1960s and 1970s it felt like the world was finally opening for us, and that equal rights -- enshrined in a constitutional amendment --were certainly around the corner.

We can't dismiss how much has been accomplished, but I'm dismayed to reflect upon how wrong we were on the political side of things. Fifty years later, and there still hasn't been a woman president, while political leaders from Hilary Clinton to Nancy Pelosi have been mocked and vilified by the conservatives. Young women today have less control over their bodies than we did, less access to female health care, and even run the risk of being prosecuted in some states for their choices. The number of female victims of gun violence, domestic violence, rape, vicious attacks on social media, and death from opioid addiction, depression and suicide, are staggering. These statistics are not just shocking, they're despicable.

And the plight of many women of minority race, ethnicity, non-hetero identity, or who are simply poor, is far worse. This is true in every developed country, and of course even much more true in many other places in the world. How can we possibly begin to address the great injustices these women face when simply to be female continues to place one at a disadvantage from birth -- at best -- and in actuality means that our risk of everything from marginalization to oppression to physically harm is greater, just for the fact that we are female? And yet, that is exactly what we must do, now perhaps more than ever. Because the women who "won" some of the advantages back when I was young, and have been able to have better lives as a result, were more likely to be white and economically privileged, like me.

I'm thinking today of the courageous women I met in Mexico City on this day four years ago, demonstrating against the violent "disappearance" of so many Mexican women. I'm thinking of my friend Shirin and what she has told me about women today in Iran. I'm thinking about refugees I have met from Africa -- women who escaped terrible situations and survived journeys toward a hoped-for freedom; some of whom were able to gain asylum and some who were deported to an uncertain fate. I'm thinking of women in detention centers, or whose bones now lie in the desert near the US/Mexican border, or at the bottom of the sea.

And I am thinking about women in general: our strength, our resilience and resourcefulness, our endless ability to do what we have to do to care for those around us in spite of everything that life throws at us, our ability to form enduring and powerful friendships, and, most of all, our ability to love. What would the world be without us?

So for me it's a day of renewed commitment to help the women who are younger than I am in whatever ways I can. To try to help them find their way and their own strength in a world that has more opportunities than we had, but is harsh, hostile and frightening in ways we never had to experience when we were their age. How I hope that, in fifty more years, equality of all people will be much closer to a reality! But it will never come if we sit on our heels waiting, or ask meekly, or expect change without fighting for it, because this is a fight that will never be over, so long as the powers-that-be are in charge of the world.

Present Moments: Our Own, and Others'

Young woman on the metro, watercolor in sketchbook, 6" x 9".

Happy Thanksgiving. We celebrated last weekend with my sister-in-law and her husband, and since we're in Canada, it's an ordinary day today for most people. However I'll probably never feel that way - Thanksgiving was such an important holiday for my family, and a time when I almost always traveled home to be with them. When possible, we've also tried to celebrate it with friends; I love the feasting and gathering aspect of the day but most of all its meaning, as a time to be grateful.

Gratitude isn't so easy these days when it often feels like the whole world is falling apart at the seams. I think we all hoped that as the pandemic became more manageable and understandable, the world would somehow "come round right" but the exact opposite has happened. My coping practice, not just when it all becomes overwhelming, is to try to stay in the present moment, using all my senses to be mindful of what is going on, and all that is good in my life right now. The attention begins with the breath and moves out into the immediate environment, and I often recall the words of a Zen teacher: "When we manage to focus on the present moment, we usually find out that it is all right." Obviously, nobody can stay there for very long, but even a few minutes of mindful attention bring me back to my center and greater peacefulness, and then I'm more able to cope with whatever needs to be done. And, God knows, I have so much to be grateful for.

Robbie, a regular commenter on this blog, suggested that a little less seriousness and a bit more entertainment here might be something to consider. I don't know that this blog will ever fall into the category of "entertainment" but I agree with him that a lighter tone or perhaps more anecdotes might be good for me too. Like my father, Robbie makes a point of engaging the people he encounters and seeing if he can make them smile. What a lot of readers probably don't know about me is that I do this too, and always have; I found the taciturn and private nature of New Englanders a big challenge! Here, speaking a minority language can also create difficulties in making connections, as I found when I lived in a French-speaking area, but there are so many other ways to do it -- as children, pets, music, knitting, and urban sketching make clear! And frankly, it hasn't been a big problem for me. Montreal is a place where bilingualism and tri-lingualism are not only common but part of the city's fabric that we appreciate, and learning to communicate and make friends across those potential divides has been one of the things I've enjoyed most about living here. You have to plunge in, make mistakes, be human and friendly, and not get discouraged if some people don't return your friendliness; others will.

The neighborhood where I used to live, Plateau Mont-Royal, was predominantly French, rather entitled, and somewhat closed-in on itself. Our new neighborhood, Cote-des-Neiges/Notre-Dame-de-Grace, is the most ethnically- and linguistically-mixed in the city, with some 48 languages spoken regularly in homes. In the elevators of our 12-story modern condo building, we hear neighbors speaking French, English, Chinese, Spanish, Yiddish, Russian, Italian, Arabic, Filipino, various Indo-Iranian languages, and many others. English, rather than French, is the most common language people use to say good morning and wish each other a good day. There is a huge Asian grocery market across the street, a Romanian charcuterie and bakery, and an eastern European/Russian/Ukrainian market around the corner; nearby on Victoria Avenue is a big kosher bakery, and that street is lined with Indian, Vietnamese, and Jewish restaurants and shops -- to name just a few - while in other directions the concentration shifts to African and Caribbean, Iranian and Turkish, Portuguese, Greek and Middle Eastern, Mexican and Latin American. Not only is this mixture invigorating for all the senses, it encourages me to learn some words in more languages and try to connect with the Chinese butcher, the Ukrainian woman behind the prepared-food-counter, the Romanian couple who run the charcuterie, the Israeli pharmacist, the Lebanese dry-cleaner, the Muslim car mechanic, the Filipino cleaning woman whose schedule is the same as mine for the pool locker room, the Greek fishmonger. But even more than that, living this way is a daily reminder that the people of the world actually can co-exist, and help each other to thrive.

We Montrealers do pretty well with that, but the situation is far from perfect. Outside the city itself, Quebec is much less diverse. The conservative provincial government has passed new laws ostensibly to strengthen and protect the French language -- which I agree should be protected -- but they are written in a way that discriminates against minorities. And hate crimes, while rare, do occur. Last night, in fact, there was a hit-and-run incident in a nearby neighborhood, captured on a closed-circuit camera, where a car accelerated toward a Hasidic woman pushing a baby carriage across the street, struck the carriage and dragged it for some distance before speeding away. The baby inside was miraculously unhurt. People are shocked and upset that this happened and a search is on to identify the car and its driver.

Of course, I'm coming to all of this from a position of privilege, both through my whiteness and my economic security. But because of being in a long-term, ethnically-mixed marriage, I'm sensitive to the lack of awareness, micro-aggressions and constant pressure to hold one's tongue that come from living in primarily white, privileged, homogeneous North American communities, and the self-protectiveness, frustration, depression, and anger that can result. It's very hard to change anything when people stay only in their own comfort zone -- which is, itself, a privilege -- and do whatever they can to protect that. I've been in the minority a lot, and it changes everything about your view: my empathy has come to lie with those who are considered "other".

In the end, breaking barriers comes down to familiarity, being human with each other, and finding our common ground. Yesterday I had to go into the center of Cote-des-Neiges for a blood test at the local CLSC. The Centre de prélèvement (testing/sampling) is on the third floor of a nondescript building; in the elevator with me were a staff woman with a cart of plastic containers filled with disposed syringes; an elderly Eastern European woman in a headscarf and heavy coat who could barely walk, supported by her daughter; and two young friends, one of whom stopped and leaned her head, eyes shut, against the wall after she got out, before entering the testing area. Oh dear, I thought, she's so afraid of something, maybe needles. If she hadn't had a companion, I would have spoken to her and tried to help.

The testing center is staffed by people who are just as diverse as what I've been describing, and they switch seamlessly between French and English; the receptionist and I spoke both languages during our exchange and I don't think either of us really thought about which one we were using. I had the same nurse as the last time I was there, and she gestured to me to sit in the comfortable chair near her work area. We spoke about the weather and how soon it was getting dark in the afternoons, as she noted the instructions and got out the proper vials. "Are you OK with blood tests?" she asked, as she prepared to tie the rubber band above my elbow. "I love them," I said, smiling. She said, "You're my first!!" and we both started laughing. "I won't faint, if that's what you mean," I added. "OK," she said, "One-two-three..." It didn't hurt much, and was over very soon. "You're good," I said, "that was pretty easy." "Thanks," she replied, fastening the gauze with some adhesive tape and smiling at me as she held it for a few moments. I got up, put on my coat, and wished her a good day, hoping that the woman from the elevator had survived her own ordeal and that someone had been kind to her, too.

On the way home, on the metro, I couldn't help noticing the young woman across from me, lost in her music. We are all living our own present moments, I thought, but in this urban environment, there are so many times when those moments intersect: opportunities to be interested in each other, and grow in sensitivity to the multiplicity of ways in which we are human.

Unparallel Lives

My father died at 97, a month ago tomorrow. Queen Elizabeth II died at 96, two weeks ago. Charles and Diana were married three days before Jonathan and I were married, at the end of July, 1981. Their marriage ended unhappily, ours has endured for over 40 years, but I don't think it's because we made our own wedding cake, or because I sewed my own dress, but rather because we were free to follow our own hearts in ways that they were not. I would never have wanted to change places.

My father, too, was free after WWII to build his own life in ways that Queen Elizabeth could have never acted upon; her entire life was turned over to duty and service, constrained by rules and tradition that contemporary society has long ago discarded. How many jewels and Arabian horses and gilded coaches does it take to make up for that? For her sister, her uncle, or some of her own children and grandchildren, the tradeoff was clearly not worth it. Yet we watch this family drama, which is actually a tragedy, with fascination and even envy.

Just as our weddings were in stark contrast, so were the funerals. But given the traditional Anglican liturgy that formed the basis of both services, they shared a similar structure and many of the same words. I was grateful for that structure when I was planning dad's service, and the familiar words were a comfort to me. When I heard them again, during our cathedral's commemoration for the Queen last Sunday afternoon, and again during the televised services the next day, it was harder to keep myself together than it had been during my father's service. Out of the public eye, and without a eulogy to deliver, I was more able to grieve, and if I shed some tears, they were more for my father than for the Queen.

However, there was much to admire in Queen Elizabeth, even for this American who has never quite understood why Canada remained in the Commonwealth, and so devoted to the monarchy. She became queen in 1952, the year I was born, so in addition to being the same age as my father, she ruled for 70 years, which is the age I turned the day after her funeral. And, we share a name. Elizabeth I has been a constant presence of whom I was aware from the beginning. Regardless of what one thinks of the institution of the monarchy, and their immense wealth and privilege, it was always significant to me that there was a woman in that role, and that she held the respect of other world leaders with a quiet, dignified, and unquestioned authority. She may not have had real political power, but she led in other ways that people seemed to need, and to respect. The majority of people who watched her funeral, or tried to see her coffin lying in state, or left flowers in remembrance, were not doing so out of voyeurism or celebrity worship; something real was going on there, whether we agree with it and share it, or not.

And these were historical moments; for anyone who has studied history, religion, and ancient cultures, one has to notice the power of symbolism and ritual that, in all cultures, attempts to unite us to our ancient forebears, connect us to the earth and the heavens, and make sense of the greatest mystery of all. As I stood in a crowd of Canadians on Sunday, at the conclusion of the service, and the organ moved from the final hymn and blessing to the opening bars of "God Save the King", sung to those words for the first time in 70 years, I could feel the emotion around me. Likewise, who could remain completely unmoved by the final minutes of the Windsor committal service, when the crown and other symbols of Elizabeth's earthly and historical power were removed from the coffin before it sank beneath the floor?

Under the September sun, thirty friends and family members stood around my father's grave in the old village cemetery where I played as a young child. At the conclusion of the brief committal service, we placed the paper box containing his ashes into the same grave where my mother's remains had been buried sixteen years before. Then I took a shovel into my hands and put the first earth into the grave, passed the shovel to my husband, who did the same, and then, slowly, silently, nearly all of the people present took a turn, and we buried my father together and then strewed red roses on the grave.

People can despise the monarchy, but can't we find it interesting and significant that human beings have tried to find meaning in death, and mark this great transition with dignity and respect, since time immemorial? And in the aftermath of Elizabeth's death, can't we summon enough charity to hold our criticisms and judgements until she is at least buried? This was a woman who shouldered her unchosen and unwanted role with selflessness, and all these years later, seems to have grieved her partner's death and met her own with stoic, private courage. She was not blameless, but there is no way that all the crimes of colonialism and empire can be laid at her feet; these things go back very far indeed, and are shared by many other countries. If it is time now for some commonwealth nations to change their systems of government, so be it.

There's nothing like writing a eulogy to confront the sobering thought: what will someone have to say about me, someday? For, in fact, none of us are blameless, and I think we all hope that when our own time comes, people will be charitable,a nd remember us for our good qualities more than for our failings.

For death, I think, is the great leveler: it comes to us all, we all go down to the dust, and no one can take their earthly goods or power with them. When those deaths occur which stop us in our tracks and cause a shudder or even an earthquake in our own lives, it is a time to look in the mirror. What can we learn from the life of this person who is with us no longer? What lasts, what remains? What do we want to do with the unknowable balance of time that remains to us, and with the friends who surround us in those moments, surely far more precious than gold?

 

19 Years

Today marks nineteen years of continuous blogging here, and I find myself at a loss for words. Partly because it doesn't even make sense to me that I've done this for that long; partly because Cassandra -- like nearly everyone else -- failed to predict the tragedy unfolding in the Ukraine with its huge ramifications for the world's political future; and partly because -- also like nearly everyone else -- I am weary, and unable to package things up into any sort of comforting explanation or pretty picture, either for myself, or for public consumption.

But that's all right. There are times in all of our lives when we simply have to let go of and be still, finding consolation and strength in the simplest things: a raindrop hanging on a branch; a cat playing with a ribbon; the clouds traversing the sky; damp earth emerging from the snow.

Day by Day

Snow on the terrace. Fountain pen in sketchbook, 9" x 6". March 4, 2022.

A friend posted a cartoon the other day - you may have seen it - that was a variation of the little fish being eaten by successively bigger fishes. In this one, the earth was the little fish, the next bigger one, with its mouth open ready to grab the earth, was COVID, which in turn was about to be devoured by THE WAR, and then by the biggest one of all, CLIMATE CHANGE. It would be amusing if it weren't such a perfect illustration of all of our nightmares.

Coping, I freely admit, has been harder than ever as we watch the unfolding of a brutal war on our screens, and wonder, for the first time in many many years, about the possibility of a much larger conflict, and even nuclear war. I grew up during the Cold War, when the "Iron Curtain" was a reality in Eastern Europe, when Germany, and Berlin itself, were divided and people who tried to cross borders were shot, when the idea of speaking to a Russian or meeting a Russian in real life was something of fantasy. Even arts or sports exchanges were extremely rare. When the term "glasnost" became associated with Mikhail Gorbachev in the mid-1980s, I had already lived more than 30 years with an entirely different idea of what the Soviet Union represented than a 35-year-old person must have now. At that time, we were involved in a Vermont initiative called "Bridges for Peace" that helped facilitate some of the first citizen exchanges between the US and the USSR, and while we didn't travel to the Soviet Union ourselves, I remember the preparatory meetings, and the first gathering where we welcomed a group of heavily-chaperoned Soviet citizens, heard their impressions, and had a chance to ask questions. One person remarked on his astonishment at the size of our grocery stores and the amount and variety of food available. A few years later, there were visits by Russian musicians and choirs; each time, it seemed, they had a little more freedom, and acted more relaxed, so that eventually we could simply be people together sharing meals and an art form that we all loved.

The Iron Curtain fell, the Soviet Union broke apart, but the West has changed too. We take so much about our present lives for granted; we are so complacent.

Porcelain doll with broken hand. Fountain pen in sketchbook, 9" x 6". March 7, 2022.

I've felt heartbroken by current events, as well as frightened, and not just for the Ukrainian people. Even if it is contained, the ramifications of this war will be felt by all of us, and who knows where it will end: are we, in fact, going back to the Cold War years? Will all the diplomatic, economic, and collaborative progress of the last forty years be lost? What about nuclear containment? What kind of weapons will be unleashed? Will nuclear facilities be protected, or will there be another horrific event like Chernobyl? Will the conflict spread to Eastern and then Western Europe? It's unthinkable. The scale of the risk is so much greater and more complex than the well-meant but naive yellow-and-blue flags and sunflowers cropping up all over social media. If you send aid, please do it through established and reputable channels where it has a chance of getting through.

It is a very sober time: a time when I feel called to silent reflection, learning, and meditating on history and on the present, as we still deal with Covid and climate change and all the other pressing problems of our personal and shared lives that seem dwarfed by each day;s news. I haven't been able to write much, but I've tried to draw. I hope you are finding ways to cope, and would be glad to have you share your thoughts.

Manon, sleeping. Fountain pen in sketchbook, 9" x 6". February 24, 2022.

 

Ash Wednesday, in this Time of Perpetual Lent

Lent begins today: the Christian season of repentance, reflection, and renunciation. I went to the noontime services at the cathedral, and when the priest came down the aisle with the bowl of ashes, I rose -- but only reluctantly -- to receive them. It probably would have been more honest to stay in my seat.

After two years of a pandemic that has taken so many to an early grave, and convinced most of us of our mortality if we didn't accept it before, I felt resistance to this reminder, symbolized by the ashes and the accompanying words "Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return." In a time of aggression and horrific war, I do not need a reminder of the human lust for power and too many rulers' disregard for life. When we are told that we come from the dust of the earth, and will return to it, I already know all too well the intense pressure the earth is under because of human behavior, and what the future is likely to hold because of climate change.

Furthermore, all of these things are related. Like many of you, I've been reflecting on the failures of institutions and governments, as well as the behaviors of individuals, for two years now. I've felt helpless, and also tried to see where I could be of help, extending myself to others, and feeling immensely grateful for the people who have extended themselves to me. Many of us have tried to do this, and a lot of those efforts have been successful: building and nurturing supportive relationships and groups who have met and sustained each other in creative new ways.

What we do not need right now is guilt, and unfortunately Lent tends to go either in that direction, or toward the superficial, as if giving up chocolate is really going to melt human hardness of heart. Sincere reflection on how we can be more courageous, more loving, more open to each other, and more aware of the interconnection of all living things is always needed and welcome. But as I looked around the sanctuary today, the people I recognized in the pews were people who already do this, and try to live their lives responsibly and lovingly.  These are not people who think vaccines should be withheld from poor countries, or people who don't recycle and drive massive vehicles, or who support white supremacy, or think that despots who want to overthrow legitimate governments are admirable.

And yet these are precisely the problems we are facing, along with many others. What would make me feel some movement this Lent, instead of turning to individuals and saying "This is on you, admit your faults, repent," would be to hear our institutions and governments say, "We have been reflecting on how we have failed in our tasks and our mission to you. We have been self-serving, short-sighted and hypocritical, and we want to repent, to reform, to change, to do better."

You laugh, and you're right to laugh: it will be a cold day in hell before that happens. Our apparent powerlessness in the face of so much that we know is wrong has been one of the most sobering lessons of this time in history. Look at what is happening in Ukraine at this very moment.

And yet. Change seldom comes from above, unless we are fortunate enough to nurture and support truly visionary leaders. Most of the time, we must try to work outward and upward, starting with ourselves, then moving to small groups of like-minded people with passion for justice and change, and then banding together into new institutions, or working to shape and hold accountable those that already exist. Unless we do that, the status quo will prevail, because institutions and governments are not nimble and flexible, but heavy, ponderous, and stuck in their ways, and so they tend to focus on self-preservation rather than change.

If churches clearly stood for justice and "the dignity of every human being", as we proclaim in our baptismal covenant, and were seen to be working openly toward those goals, I think we would actually attract more people. In the case of my own church, we have had active ministries for the homeless, for social justice and the environment, for anti-racism, for the LGBTQ+ community and for young people. We have taken part in the Truth and Reconciliation process with Indigenous Canadians about the abuses they suffered, which, to this former American, was a remarkable example of humility, listening, admission of wrongs committed, and desire to change -- but we're not very good at letting the outside world know about any of this, and our inability to meet in person until recently hasn't helped.

In the public sphere, democracy is threatened everywhere, even here in Canada; all we have to do is look to our southern neighbor to see what could happen. The rest of the world, which once saw America as a bastion of democratic values, sees the hypocrisy, as do those Americans who have been marginalized: the pandemic has shown just how unequal that society is, and how dangerous a hyper-emphasis on personal freedom can be, over the shared good of all. Rather than truth-telling, I'm afraid what we see is perpetual myth-making about American exceptionalism.

But, in the end, change still has to start with me, as with each of us, and it needs to come from positive energy, love for others, and passion for shared goals, rather than guilt. My practice this Lent will be to try to meditate every morning, to discourage feelings of helplessness and despair, and reflect instead on what I am being called to do next -- which may simply be a continuation of what I am doing now; I don't know. I will also bring some of these thoughts to a small group of which I am a part as we reflect together. I think this process of discernment is perhaps the real purpose of Lent, as we seek positive movement in ourselves while the earth moves toward spring.

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.

 

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.

Christmas Fruit, and Breakthrough Color

I don't have many words to offer today, but I do have some color. This bowl of fruit was declared off limits for one evening, when I did the watercolor, and then was very quickly eaten over the next days. Pomegranates and clementines seem like the most festive of all.

In spite of the fact that Quebec has an extremely high vaccination rate, cases are surging here as they are almost everywhere, driven not by Omicron - yet - but by infections among young children at schools and daycares, who infect their parents, who then take the virus to the workplace. Fortunately, hospitalizations and deaths are still low, and more and more of the 5-11 year-olds are getting vaccinated. Omicron is still a very small percentage, but increasing fast: it will explode, and soon.

It's all really depressing. I won't be eligible for a booster until early January. More restrictions are likely to be imposed, and in my opinion, far too late. The federal government of Canada is requesting that all international trips be cancelled, and it sounds like border restrictions will be re-imposed soon. "Rethink your holiday parties," is both lame and ineffective, but people are desperate to be with their families, too. Sadly, we had already cancelled our plans to be with my father in upstate New York today for his 97th birthday, and obviously we won't be seeing our American family members for Christmas. I have to just try not to think about what that means. Meanwhile, in the U.S. and many other places, people seem to be doing whatever they feel like, and counting on their vaccinations to protect them from serious illness. I hope it works, and wish them well.

So, all I can say, from this interior space where I will be for most of the next few months: color helps. And reading. I've been working on a new print, which you'll see eventually: the carving was complicated and absorbing, and the repetitive process of printing is calming. I've been grateful for it.

I want to think not about breakthrough infections, but about breakthrough color: the way primary red and yellow, and gamboge and intense cobalt blue and viridian push aside everything else we're obsessing about, and make us stop and look, make us feel something emotional and positive.

How are things where you are? And what's helping you cope this holiday season?