Open to the irritation, grit forms a pearl it’s been said. Fish for mermaids, dive for pearls . . creativity@maryannmoore.ca
Let’s Make Some Poems!

Let’s Make Some Poems!

As we approach World Poetry Day on March 21st and Poetry Month in April, I have a few writing circles coming up with a focus on reading and writing poems. Maybe you’d like to join me on Zoom or in person in Nanaimo? (You’ll find info below about a one-day writing circle on March 21 in Nanaimo and half day women’s writing circles on March 6 on Zoom and April 2 in Nanaimo.)

I decided to go with “make” in the title of two of the writing circles as the word “poem” in English, going back to the sixteenth century, means “to designate a form of fabrication, a type of composition, a made thing.” Thank you to Edward Hirsch who wrote How to Read a Poem (And Fall in Love with Poetry). I like the notion of a poem being a “made thing.”

If you love poetry and would like to write your own, I’d be pleased if you could join me, and others, to make poems together. You may want to consider your poem making to be an exploration in beauty and form. We won’t be looking at poems to see what they “mean.” We’ll see what poems (by several poets) have to tell us, to let the language show us what’s possible, and to follow nudges for our own poem making which will appear, as if by magic, on the page.

If you’re nervous about poetry, these poem making opportunities are for you as well. A word or a prompt will help you get started and that simple beginning can turn into finding your voice. Experimenting and playing with form can open you to new ideas. Or, there can be no form at all! Let the words tumble onto the page, creating a form of their own as penned by you.

The upcoming writing circles are for those who write in journals, make notes on the corners of paper serviettes, love to read, appreciate being in a community of other writers.

Francis Weller, writer and soul activist, who describes the times we are in now as “the long dark,” says we need three medicines. The first medicine we require for these times is friendship and community. In a writing circle, we create connections to and with one another and become a community in which we are seen and heard.

The second medicine we need for the long dark is imagination

The third medicine we need for the long dark is to remember our deep time ancestral inheritance.

The writing circles offer these medicines, as suggested by Francis Weller, as well as poetry itself. Our ancestral inheritance could be the elders we are related to as well as those who have inspired us for years such as the writers and poets who bring us much wisdom and inspiration.

What is a writing circle like?

Several years ago, a woman called Ine in a writing circle in Guelph, Ontario said: “Mary Ann opens up unknown territories in our soul. Then, in her gentle way, tells us that we’re special and creative.” It’s still true. Perhaps those “unknown territories” were known in the past and haven’t been visited in awhile.

In a writing circle, we follow writing invitations which could be in the form of a question or a particular poem to inspire our own words. Sharing isn’t mandatory. The responses we give to someone reading aloud are to echo back something that resonated with us. Comments are meant to encourage rather than critique. All the writing is meant to have you be in touch with what matters to you. Along the way, there can be new discoveries, fresh insight, or simply an acknowledgement of the way things are.

The very act of making offers something new in the world. A “newness gets added to the universe in the process of the piece itself becoming” as Jan Phillips says in “The Artist’s Creed.”

Who am I?

In case you haven’t worked with me before, I’m Mary Ann Moore, a poet, writer and writing mentor who has been leading writing circles since 1997. I’ve also been writing for a long time: poetry, personal essays, writing guides, book reviews, a blog. My new chapbook of poetry, Modern Words for Beauty, will be published in April 2025.

Here are the dates and descriptions of the upcoming writing circles:

Writing for the Love of It, a one-day writing circle
open to everyone
at Bethlehem Centre, Nanaimo
on Friday, March 21, 2025 (World Poetry Day), 9 a.m. to 4 p.m.

“Writing for the Love of It” is an invitation to embody and create writing as your own spiritual practice. Together, we’ll create a sacred ceremony of writing, sharing and listening to yourself and others. On World Poetry Day, March 21st, you will be encouraged and enlightened by the gifts of poetry as solace, refuge and as a way to express grief, joy and all that is between. “Poetry gives us a way to inhabit our lives,” poet Marie Howe says. You will discover a variety of ways to share your own way of looking at things and embrace the fullness of the stories from your life. It has been said of Mary Ann Moore’s writing circles that they are places where unsuspecting poets are born.

You can register here: https://bethlehemcentre.com/program/3046/writing-for-the-love-of-it/

 Let’s Make Some Poems!
a women’s writing circle on Zoom wherever you are
on Thursday, March 6, 2025, 10: 30 a.m. to 1 p.m. Pacific time
Fee: $60 payable via e-transfer to creativity@maryannmoore.ca
or by cheque sent to Mary Ann Moore at 76 Colwell Road, Nanaimo, B.C. V9X 1E4

Poetry offers a doorway in and a welcome home. Let’s do some reading, listening, reflecting and the making of some poems together. Don’t worry if you’ve never written a poem: “This isn’t / a contest but the doorway / into thanks, a silence in which / another voice may speak.” (from “Prayer” by Mary Oliver.) That voice may be spirit or your own voice, neglected until now.

Please email me to let me know of your interest or if you have any questions.

Let’s Make Some Poems!
a women’s writing circle at Mary Ann’s home in Nanaimo
on Wednesday, April 2, 2025, 1 to 3:30 p.m.
Fee: $60 payable via e-transfer to creativity@maryannmoore.ca
or by cheque sent to Mary Ann Moore at 76 Colwell Road, Nanaimo, B.C. V9X 1E4

Poetry offers a doorway in and a welcome home. Let’s do some reading, listening, reflecting and the making of some poems together. Don’t worry if you’ve never written a poem: “This isn’t / a contest but the doorway / into thanks, a silence in which / another voice may speak.” (from “Prayer” by Mary Oliver.) That voice may be spirit or your own voice, neglected until now.

Please email me to let me know of your interest or if you have any questions.

The Sacred Heart Motel

The Sacred Heart Motel

The cover of The Sacred Heart Motel by Niki Hoi (Metonymy Press, 2024) is delightful. The drawings of domestic scenes appear to be done in oil pastel so have a softened effect with rounded edges.

The poems inside Grace Kwan’s (they/them) debut collection are edgier – whether in the kitchen or the areas particular to a motel – rodents die on sticky traps and kitchen knives are dangerous. In “Room 209,” “what’s a love / story without its ghosts – more than a few bullet / wounds in the floor.”

The contents page is a “directory” that includes “The Moonlight Suite,” “Kitchen: Back Exit,” “Next Door, A Bar,” “Room 209,” “Fire Escape,” and “Front Desk.”

One section, “Love, Honour, & Other Stories,” relates to “Dollar bills rescued / from the laundry, numbers kissed / onto napkins,” and other possible objects found in a motel.

Motels are often seedier than hotels and act as places of in between. In Kwan’s case, as a child, in Malaysia’s capital city, Kuala Lumpur, they accompanied their parents to their father’s acting jobs and the family would stay in motels or hotels.

As Kwan said in an interview: “It really always felt very temporary and kind of transient, and I found it hard to pinpoint where I really belonged or what I called home.”

Regarding motels, Kwan said: “I really like their grittiness and that kind of sleaziness – almost kind of dirty . . . It’s not a place that you book in advance; it’s something that you stumble upon in the middle of the night.”

Kwan was working as a server at a hotel restaurant when they started putting the collection of poems together. As they say on their website: “[I] became enamoured with the romance of temporary lodgings as sites where abstract ideas of placelessness, unbelonging, and memory could be situated in space.”

In “Glue Trap,” the domestic scene is a dangerous one – especially for mice. And the speaker’s heart “looks like the old yellow house where thin, mouse-bitten / walls separated our part of the basement from another / Chinese family.”

The poem ends:

. . . . And I can’t deny every time someone tells, confesses,
intimates that they love me, I feel a deep grief ripple
out from inside me – the dearths left by mice
with broken heads and songs unfinished.

In “Gender Studies,” the speaker says:

Beauty was once a country
I belonged to now I’m a migrant
placeless and still hovering
On the limn trying on wages
radium and high heels as a second language .

Kwan says of the poem: “I’m putting the experience of migration alongside the experience of queerness and desire and beauty – and experimenting with how they speak to one another.” While Kwan was writing the poem, they were “thinking of that feeling of transience and not belonging and how that translates into the experience of being queer, and the alienation and isolation that that can bring.”

A knife appears in “Yellow Light” as well as sex in the kitchen. The colours are also of a navel orange, blood, and bodies that are black and blue. You can see Heather O’Neil’s surrealism inspired Kwan’s poems such as this one. Novelist O’Neill is a favorite of Kwan’s who also influenced the title of the book.

In the poem, “The Sacred Heart,” the poet muses: “or maybe a heart’s / a mystery novel.” In the end is the heart:

in communion producing something
quantifiably and qualitatively more magic
than flesh and air.

The hopefulness of the “sacred heart” is at the centre of this splendid collection while the motel opens a door to Grace Kwan’s stunning expressions of longing, melancholy, and the precarious nature of displacement and alienation.

Grace Kwan is a Malaysian-born sociologist and writer based in “Vancouver, British Columbia,” the unceded territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh peoples. Find them at grckwn.com.

The Notebook

The Notebook

The Notebook: A History of Thinking on Paper by Roland Allen (Biblioasis, 2024) is a fascinating chronology from the zibaldoni kept by the people of Florence in the mid-fourteenth century to record poems in Tuscan, prayers, excerpts from books, songs recipes, lists to the many ways people have kept notebooks of their travels, recipes, and of the natural world.|

Authors’ notebooks are particularly fascinating as are the notebooks of artists like Leonardo da Vinci of which thirteen thousand pages survive.

I was drawn to the chapter “Express yourself” on journaling as self-care and the chapter on bullet journaling as created by Ryder Carroll called “Attention deficit.”

“In search of lost time” refers to journaling as a wellness practice I hadn’t heard of before. The chapter is about notebooks kept by nurses and family members of patients who are in a coma. When they awake, they learn something of what transpired around them and the practice has shown that the risk of PTSD is cut by over 60 percent.

I couldn’t help but make my own list of the many types of notebooks I’ve kept over the years. In some cases, the notebooks are made up of lists.

I have kept notebooks

  • on the garden;
  • about movies I’ve seen;
  • books I would like to read;
  • various wines and the occasions on which they were served;
  • drafts of book reviews;
  • notes made while watching ‘webinars;
  • passwords;
  • ideas for gifts and gifts given;
  • jottings for poems and poem excerpts;
  • a work journal (as suggested by Austin Kleon. This goes along with a scrapbook with images and collages);
  • a daily journal with (night) dreams, activities and musings;
  • a small handmade journal titled “What If”:
  • a small notebook of written exchanges between Sarah and me.

 

For many years (probably 50), I’ve kept notebooks with mini reviews of books I’ve read. Sometimes, they weren’t so mini. These are notebooks separate from the ones in which I draft reviews for publication. While I still have many of those notebooks with mini reviews, I’ve transferred many of the book titles to a computer document. That’s how I know what I read in 2024. Among the books listed below, I reviewed several for The British Columbia Review, Story Circle Book Reviews, and my blog.

Poetry

  • Tilling the Darkness by Susan Braley
  • A Brief and Endless Sea by Barbara Pelman
  • Hologram: An Homage to P.K. Page edited by Yvonne Blomer and DC Reid
  • 45 by Frieda Hughes
  • Water Forgets Its Own Name by Jude Neal with art by Nichola Jennings
  • Midway by Kayla Czaga
  • Hazard, Home by Christine Lowther
  • The Meaning of Leaving by Kate Rogers
  • Anatomy of the World by Celia Meade
  • Doom eager by Karl Meade
  • Berberitzen by Susan Alexander
  • If I Have Known Beauty: Elegies for Phyllis Webb by Lorraine Gane
  • The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal edited by James Crews
  • The Weight of Survival by Tina Biello
  • Cauterized by Laura Apol
  • Best Canadian Poetry 25 selected by Aislinn Hunter

Memoir

  • George: A Magpie Memoir by Frieda Hughes
  • Winter: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May
  • Permission to Land by Judy LeBlanc
  • Between Two Kingdoms: A Memoir of a Life Interrupted by Suleika Jaouad
  • Honeymoon in Purdah by Alison Wearing
  • Splinters: another kind of love story by Leslie Jamison
  • The Absent Moon: A Memoir of a Short Childhood and a Long Depression by Luiz Schwarcz
  • Dear Current Occupant by Chelene Knight
  • A Life in Pieces, essays by Jo-Ann Wallace
  • Oscar of Between: A Memoir of Identity by Betsy Warland
  • The Upstairs Delicatessen on Eating, Reading, Reading about Eating, & Eating while Reading by Dwight Garner
  • Writing on Empty by Natalie Goldberg
  • Ongoingness: The End of a Diary by Sarah Manguso
  • This and That by Emily Carr
  • Hunger: A memoir of (My) Body by Roxane Gay
  • The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year by Margaret Renkl
  • Travel Light, Move Fast by Alexandra Fuller

Mixed Genre

  • Absence of Wings by Arleen Pare

Fiction

  • The Librarianist by Patrick deWitt
  • Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk by Kathleen Rooney
  • The Wife by Meg Wolitzer
  • Writers & Lovers by Lily King
  • Father of the Rain by Lily King
  • Euphoria by Lily King
  • Five Tuesdays in Winter by Lily King
  • We Meant Well by Erum Shazia Hasan
  • This is Happiness by Niall Williams
  • When God Was a Rabbit by Sarah Winman
  • Little Fortified Stories by Barbara Black
  • The Innocents by Michael Crummey
  • The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams
  • Tell Me Everything by Elizabeth Strout
  • The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese
  • The Secret History by Donna Tartt (reread this from several years ago – so well done!)

Crime Fiction

  • Blood Test by Jonathan Kellerman
  • Bury the Lead by Kate Hilton & Elizabeth Renzetti
  • Past Lying: A Karen Pirie novel by Val McDermid
  • Resurrection Walk by Michael Connelly
  • Find You First by Linwood Barclay
  • A Minute to Midnight, an Atlee Pine thriller by David Baldacci
  • Invisible Dead by Sam Wiebe
  • What She Knew by Gilly Macmillan
  • The Ghost Orchid by Jonathan Kellerman
  • Disappeared by David Fraser
  • Death at the Sign of the Rook by Kate Atkinson

Non-Fiction

  • Held by the Land: A Guide to Indigenous Plants for Wellness by Leigh Joseph
  • How to Say Goodbye by Wendy MacNaughton
  • Writing by Heart: A Poetry Path to Healing and Self-Discovery by Meredith Heller
  • The Art of Flower Therapy by Dina Saalisi
  • You the Story by Ruta Sepetys
  • The Power of Fun by Catherine Price
  • Lytton by Peter Edwards and Kevin Loring
  • The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller
  • The Myth of Normal by Gabor Mate and Daniel Mate
  • Writing – the sacred art – Beyond the Page to Spiritual Practice by Rami Shapiro and Aaron Shapiro
  • Stories Sell by Matthew Dicks
  • Seven Secrets to the Perfect Personal Essay by Nancy Slonim Aronie

As well as astrological, tarot, palm, and tea leaf readings, much can be said about a person from the list of books they’ve read!

Happy reading in 2024.

The Widow’s Crayon Box

The Widow’s Crayon Box

After her husband Michael Groden (1947 – 2021) died, Molly Peacock cried for twenty-eight days straight she says in Best Canadian Poetry 2025 in which one of her poems, “Honey Crisp” from her new collection, The Widow’s Crayon Box (W. W. Norton, 2024) appears.

“On the twenty-ninth day, I woke without tears, picked up a blue mechanical pencil, and began to write the poems that would become The Widow’s Crayon Box. ‘Honey Crisp’ literally began when I walked to the refrigerator. There was my husband’s last apple – I couldn’t throw it out.”

Author Photo: Candice Ferreira 

“A mourning widow is still, gray and mauve / A mourning widow, umber, barely moves,” Molly writes in the title poem “The Widow’s Crayon Box.”

The eight child-colors of Crayola boxes
are far too basic and behaved – I feel
the one-fifty-two emotional shades:
a rose one fleurs before a peach one fades.
Scarlet, orchid, cerise umbrellas shield
me from my own tears.
                                          Then I yield.

(The colours not in italics are of past or present Crayola crayons.

Each section in the sixteen-part sonnet sequence, leads with a phrase or a complete line from the previous sonnet so that part 2 begins: “I yield to a turquoise sky.” It’s a very satisfying structure and helps to illustrate this widow’s ongoingness through the many colours of emotions, difficult as well as those that are surprising.

Some quirky humour emerges as the speaker remembers and misses her late husband, as well as with the poignancy of practicalities.

Getting rid of your clothes? Pure fantasy.
I pluck out thirty-eight pairs of socks and lay
them on the table – stripes and checks, a combo
of Crayola colors: “mango-tango,”
“radical red,” “purple heart,” and “shadow,”
once paired with Asics, now part of your myth.

The poem ends with:

raw magic below the cloud’s scrim (her/him)
casting a shadowlet of knowing
across a window: still, gray and mauve. Morning.

(The cross-out of “him” is intentional. Asics are a brand of running/walking shoes.)

The book is in four movements beginning with “After.” Part Two is “Before” with poems about hospitalization such as “Notes from Sick Rooms.” The poem takes its title from Julia Prinsep Stephen’s Notes from Sick Rooms, 1883. There are quotes from her daughter Virginia Woolf as well, particularly her work On Being Ill, 1930.

The speaker in the poem finds “love and illness mixed” to be an irritating challenge and remembers, besides caring for her husband, her sister “Born ill, a preemie after the War . . .
As her husband’s primary caregiver, the speaker says:

. . . and at 7pm I’d love-hate you most,
the exact time I had to deliver
dinner on your drug trial – timing those roast
fucking parsnips . . . that was the love-cleaver.
A caregiver really is a mother.

And at the beginning of the next section:

A caregiver really is a mother.
How exhausting it is to mix the roles up.
Couldn’t I ever just be a lover?

Molly is so honest in her poems about the resentment caregivers feel but rarely mention. In “A Tiny Mental Flash on a Red Footstool,” the resentment is reversed.

My energized posture has grown to annoy him.
Caregiving comes to this.

While masturbation is “the widow’s sex” as Molly writes in “The Widow’s Crayon Box,” in “Sex After Seventy,” there may be some literal closet cleaning going on as well as the metaphoric closet of memory. Here are the last three lines:

as a long surprise of a spring afternoon arrived
through the threshold of that closet
on a spare bed we’d been saving all our lives.

Part Three, “When” has poems such as “Deciding to End Your Life, You Thank Me” which is about MAID: Medical Assistance in Dying. Another poem, “The Next World is One of Ideas,” also references MAID. Here are the last lines:

Have you received thoughts
And wondered why they’ve not
Occurred to you before?

They could be his

In “My Next Husband is Solitude,” the speaker doesn’t plan on another husband following the death of her current one.

What if you let solitude be next for me,
your ghost on a bench overlooking
my blue austerity.

In Part Four, “Afterglow,” in a poem titled “The Afterglow,” the speaker says:

Now I live in the afterglow
Purple and peach streaks
Behind the near-night clouds.

The collection ends with “Honey Crisp” in which the speaker reflects on “that man hewed to his routines: / an apple for lunch every day” as she speaks to the apple “almost a year old” that becomes “a red angel.”
The poem begins “Hello wizenface” and ends:

Hello soft wrinkled
face in my palms.

Molly and Michael were married for twenty-eight years, beginning as high school sweethearts who broke up due to the distance between their two colleges. Two decades later, they reconnected, each having been married to other people – marrying them in the same year and divorcing them in the same year (as one another).

Michael became an internationally known James Joyce scholar and distinguished professor of English at Western University. “Over the years, his work inspired me to research and write two biographies as well as my poetry, and my creative life inspired him to write a memoir as well as pursue his scholarship. Together we were a team in every way, including sports – the badminton Fred and Ginger of our gym,” Molly wrote in an opinion piece for The Globe and Mail (November 16, 2024).

In the opinion piece, “The Virtues of Losing It,” Molly writes about “losing it” with anger at a neighbour who blew a fuse while vacuuming and at a bank manager’s instructions. Poor “bewildered” kid at the farmers’ market who couldn’t make change at whom Molly “outright yelled”!

She rarely loses it now, three-and-a half years into widowhood. Nowadays, she finds herself “very much connected to the 16-year-old who met my late husband.”

“And really, rather than losing it, I lost him – and to my surprise found a younger self that I’d abandoned.” Molly tends to have a crowded schedule that she “mostly” thrives on. And as she says of calmer moments, luxuriating “in bed with a morning tea, my weekly sonnet practice turned into a whole book of poetry.”

The Widow’s Crayon Box is a powerful and passionate expression of grief and the many aspects of it. Molly Peacock says she has found a “resting calm” she never thought she’d achieve on her own without her husband

Lytton (a town, a book, an art show)

Lytton (a town, a book, an art show)

The authors of Lytton: Climate Change, Colonialism and Life Before the Fire (Penguin Random House, 2024) have written a beautifully readable history of the town that holds many fond memories for them. There are probably many who didn’t know of British Columbia’s hot spot, where the Fraser and Thompson Rivers meet, until they heard of the devastating wildfire in June 2021 that burned Lytton to the ground.

Peter Edwards, organized-crime journalist and author of seventeen non-fiction books, spent his childhood in Lytton. Although only about 500 people lived in Lytton, Peter liked to joke “that he was the second best writer to come from his tiny hometown.” As he says: “We were unaware as children of the horrors that existed for other children who were starting their lives nearby. We almost never saw any kids from St. George’s Residential School, set on farmland just four kilometres from my home.”

Co-author Kevin Loring, a Nlaka’pamux from Lytton First Nation, grew up to be a Governor General’s Award-winning playwright. He comes from the Loring family from Botanie Valley and the Adams of Snake Flat. As he says, “Lytton is about the size of a city block. The rez at the end of town makes it feel a bit bigger, but not by much.”

“The story of this special place at the heart of the Nlaka’pamux Nation is many thousands of years old,” Kevin writes. His family comes from the early settlers who arrived during the gold rush and the Nlaka’pamux, “who have always called this place home.” His people called Lytton, ItKumcheen, “meaning, in essence, ‘where the rivers meet’ or, as I was told, ‘the place inside the heart where the blood mixes’.”

The name Lytton was chosen by Sir James Douglas out of respect for his boss Dr. Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton, Secretary of State for the Colonies. Bulwer-Lytton was the author of the infamous line: “It was a dark and stormy night.”

Newly arrived Americans during the gold rush which jeopardized the Nlaka’pamux salmon fishery, used the name “The Forks” among others rather than ItKumcheen.

“This place that had been the centre of the Nlaka’pamux universe for millennia was changing, much too quickly for the liking of Chief Cexpen’nthlEm.” He became Chief of the Nlaka’pamux in 1850 and was “at the peak of his influence in 1858.”

Peter Edwards / Photo by Denise Grant

Rather than strictly chronological, the book’s forty-one chapters focus on themes such as Gold Fever, Promise of Railway, Residential School Revelations, Battle for the Stein Valley, and Climate Change. Interspersed throughout are Peter Edwards’  and Kevin Loring’s memories of this special place.

While the book describes serious themes such as the environment, the legacy of colonialism and Indigenous rights, the authors want readers “to be moved to laugh and cry and appreciate a community worthy of your attention.” Indeed, the book lives up to their intentions.

In the chapter, “Promise of Railway,” the authors write that “Little Lytton soon had its own Chinatown.” First Nations people had guided Chinese prospectors to goldfields during the gold rush so bonds already existed between Chinese and First Nations people when rail workers arrived from China. “More than a thousand Chinese miners may have arrived between 1860 and 1863.”

Chicago engineer and contractor Andrew Onderdonk supervised the construction of 544 kilometres of the transcontinental railway and needed ten thousand men for the job. Two thousand Chinese workers sailed form Hong Kong to Victoria on crowded three-masted ships. Then 6,500 more Chinese workers were brought in and were paid less than half the rate of white workers. They were given the most dangerous jobs and “an estimated four Chinese workers died for each mile of track up the canyon.”

A cantilever bridge was completed in 1882, the first of its kind in North America, “one of the great wonders of the C.P. Railway.” Once construction of the railway was complete, the CPR laid off thousands of Chinese workers. Some moved into caves near neighbouring Spences Bridge and others went to Vancouver. “The 1891 census recorded only twelve Chinese names left in Lytton.”

James Alexander Teit, from the Shetland Islands of Scotland, became an “anthropologist friend” to the Nlaka’pamux and learned to talk with them in their own tongue. To earn a living, he acted as a guide for American and European big-game hunters. One of the expeditions he led was in September 1894 for wealthy Chicago engineer Homer E. Sargeant who began to fund Teit’s research and did so until Teit’s death in 1922.

Teit became involved with helping First Nations leaders protect their land and “distilled the intentions, grievances and concerns of the gathered Indigenous leaders into a document now known as the Laurier Memorial.” The leaders had gathered for two weeks at Spences Bridge and Teit delivered their message to Prime Minister Wilfrid Laurier at a campaign stop in Kamloops. An excerpt from the Laurier Memorial begins the chapter “Anthropologist Friend”: “We condemn the whole policy of the BC government towards the Indian tribes of this country as utterly unjust, shameful and blundering in every way.”

Kevin writes that Teit’s field notes about the Nlaka’pamux were instrumental in his journey to understanding his cultural practice and history. “Given the loss of traditional knowledge due to the residential schools, his richly detailed notes remain some of the most important insights to our past that we have. Years later, his work informs my community-based art practice.”

“No group that had arrived in the past century was having more impact than the New England Company,” the authors say in their chapter “Entering the Twentieth Century.” It was Anglican missionaries from the New England Company who set up the Lytton Indian Boys’ Industrial school which would later become known as St. George’s Indian Boys’ School.

Built in 1901, St. George’s became part of the cross-country residential school program “that took more than 150,000 First Nations, Métis and Inuit children from their families, beginning in the 1870s and continuing for more than a century, through to the 1990s.”

Reverend George Ditchman’s “reign of cruelty” ended in May 1911 and with Leonard Dawn installed as the school’s second principal, Indigenous boys still fled the school, the authors say in “Suffering Little Children.

Girls were transferred from All Hallows’ West in Yale to St. George’s which in 1920 had ninety-five students. The government in Ottawa had passed a residential school policy in 1920 which made attendance compulsory for First Nations children aged seven to fifteen. Reverend Louis Laronde was appointed principal. He would confess to “gross familiarity” with the girls but not for the paternity of a student’s child.

Reverend A. R. Lett arrived at the school in 1923 with his wife (Florence) and baby (Marjorie) “as well as high hopes of cleaning up the ongoing mess.” I have done some research into Adam Ralph Lett as he was my great uncle. In 1994, I visited the site of the former St. George’s Residential School in Lytton (the main building burned down in 1982) and did some research at the Anglican Archives in Kamloops. The book, Lytton, has told me much more about the conditions at the time when Reverend Lett found the students poorly fed and clothed and his wife worked in the school as a matron.

While Lett had some experience with farming and had high hopes for the school and its students, the dorms remained overcrowded with “a moral problem” according to Lett, defective heating and ventilation. A doctor in 1927 reported that “thirteen children had died at St. George’s from flu and mumps and there were numerous cases of tuberculosis.”

in the spring of 1933, Lett suffered a breakdown and continued to live “on nerve pills.” In the winter of 1936–37, 152 students suffered measles and whooping cough. Influenza killed thirteen students “while striking 170 more, as well as eleven staff members and four nurses.”

Lett was replaced in 1942. He lived until 1960 and while he may have had contact with his sister, my maternal grandmother who died in 1957, and perhaps his other sister Cecilia, I never met him. My mother, in 1994 when I planned to go to Lytton (we both lived in Toronto at the time), said she hoped Uncle Adam’s school was one of the “good ones.” There were no good ones.

As The Honourable Murray Sinclair, Chief Commissioner of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada said in his report that included St. George’s in Lytton: “The government used coercion to get the children into the school – and then failed to protect them from neglect, disease, overwork, and abuse. This was the residential school system in operation.”

In “Residential School Revelations,” the authors tell the horrific story of rape, beatings and torture at the hands of Derek Clarke, a dormitory supervisor, and Anthony William Harding, the principal of St. George’s Residential School. Clarke arrived at the school in November 1965. It was in 1987, that Terry Aleck of the Lytton area told his story of abuse to the local RCMP.

Clarke lived in a room off the dormitory. He inspected the boys after they bathed, had his favourite students come to his room, where he had an extensive record collection, and fondled children under their blankets in the main dormitory.

Clarke’s crimes were not investigated until 1987, fourteen years after he left St. George’s. “His initial conviction was for sexual assaults on seventeen different boys, aged between nine and eleven.” The trial judge concluded that Clarke had committed at least 140 illegal sexual encounters, “adding that the real number might be as high as 700.”

Derek Clarke was sentenced to twelve years in prison with two years added when a character witness reported that her son had been molested too. He went to prison in May 1989 at age fifty-two.
There were those who knew of the abuse and did nothing. One of them was Joe Chute who had been the principal of Lytton Elementary for thirty-five years and another fourteen years as mayor of Lytton. He had been a member of the local Anglican church and his friends included Reverend Harding, principal of St. George’s. He heard accounts directly from the boys who had been victims of abuse and didn’t call the police, the boys’ parents or arrange for any further investigation.

Terry Aleck, “the first of the seven former students who provided accounts of abuse at the hands of Clarke and Harding,” refused to settle out of court. He was “successful” in his pursuit of justice against his abusers, the Anglican Church and the federal government in Aleck et al. v. Clarke et al, 2001 B.C.S.C., 1177. He also wanted an apology “from the guy who runs this country.”

Prime Minister Stephen Harper apologized on behalf of Canada, in the House of Commons on June 11, 2008, for the atrocities committed at the residential schools against Indigenous children including those at St. George’s in Lytton.

Kevin Loring / Photo by Ian Redd

Kevin Loring’s play, Where the Blood Mixes, set in Lytton, deals with the intergenerational trauma from St. George’s Residential school. It premiered on the day of the prime minister’s apology. Terry Aleck has been a mentor to Kevin throughout his life. “His brave work helped open the door for other survivors to share their stories, which ultimately led to the establishment of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada.”

Terry Coyote Aleck is one of the elders honoured in a documentary film entitled s-yéwyáw / AWAKEN co-written and co-produced by my long-time friend Liz Marshall who was also executive producer, one of the cinematographers and directed the film. (You can livestream the film at Telus Originals or knowledge.ca.)

Ruby Dunstan escaped from St. George’s as a thirteen-year-old as she had been punished for speaking her Indigenous language. She went on to become a social worker and the first female chief of Lytton First Nation. Chief Dunstan successfully fought clear-cut logging in the sacred Stein Valley and “helped set up the band-operated Stein Valley Nlaka’pamux School, serving as school board president.”

The Stein Valley is a sacred place to the Lytton Nlaka’pamux and Mount Currie Lil’wat peoples, “a site of medicine and food gathering, vision seeking and cleansing.” As Chief Ruby Dunstan told the Wilderness Advisory Committee in 1985, “This valley is Indian land.”

“Ever since the gold rush, the Nlaka’pamux have been fighting for sovereignty over their lands, and against colonialism and erasure. When the environmentalists came into the community, they too began to talk as though they had authority over the land and could speak on behalf of the future.”

Whether well-intentioned or not, “Chief Ruby Dunstan made it clear that they were not going to be spoken over by shamas, (a derogatory term for white people).”

Lytton had already been known as “Canada’s hot spot” when it set a new world record on Wednesday, June 30, 2021 of 49.6 C as reported by Environment Canada. It was the highest temperature ever recorded above latitude 45 N.

Lost to the wildfire that had begun on June 17, 2021 with a fire reported seven kilometres south of Lytton, were 124 structures in the village of Lytton and 45 in the adjacent Lytton First Nation as well as 34 nearby rural properties. Ninety percent of the local buildings “had been ruined in a flash.” Jeanette and Michael Chapman who sought safety in a trench on their property, were two fatalities of the fire.

Many people sought refuge in Lytton through the years. As the book describes: “In modern times many outsiders would seek shelter there, often people who just didn’t fit anywhere else and were hoping for a little anonymity in the mountains.” Buddhists set up a temple just outside town as they shared the Nlkaka’pamux view of Lytton as “The Centre of the World.” A year following the devastating fire, the monks from the Lions Gate Buddhist Priory held a memorial for animals lost in the fire.

One of the structures destroyed was the Lytton Chinese History Museum which opened in 2017 by Lorna Fandrick when she discovered a Chinese joss house (temple) had occupied the lot in the past. (The original had been built in 1881.) She wanted to commemorate the work, sacrifices, and contributions made by thousands of Chinese labourers. Most of the 1600 artifacts in the museum were destroyed; a few pottery and ceramic pieces survived.

Fandrick hopes to rebuild the Chinese History Museum. A CBC report said: “She plans to focus the new museum around a digital concept, as she has kept a database of all of the items in the museum.”

Among the photos included in the book is one of Tricia Thorpe and Don Glasgow’s reconstructed house, during construction and at completion. “They’re optimistic that their community is worth rebuilding again.”

The smell of the seasons in the canyon, the wind, the
rivers, the mountains. The sound of the coyotes howling
on the west side on cold winter nights. The rhythm
of the trains rumbling by. The big trucks buzzing by on
the Trans-Canada Highway. I played here, learned here,
loved here. My history is here, on these streets, buried
in this ground.

Kevin Loring

An art exhibit entitled “Threadbare” opened on September 20 at the View Gallery at Vancouver Island University in Nanaimo. Connie Michele Morey is an artist who witnessed the ecological loss from the wildfire in Lytton. Her mixed media exhibit includes stitchwork, embroidery, sculpture, photography, stop-motion, and performance. According to a press release, “Threadbare explores the effects of colonial industries on interspecies displacement and ecological loss.”

Morey has been visiting Lytton since 2016 and started her project in a cabin north of town. After Lytton was devastated by wildfire in 2021, Morey returned and took photos that became a basis for her art exhibit.

“The exhibition … consists of 12 bodies of work that navigate the tension between perceptions of interspecies relations as exploitable resources and the longing for familial relations,” the artist said in a press release. “Threadbare” is on until November 1, 2024.

A Life in Pieces

A Life in Pieces

In one of her essays, “Virginia Woolf’s Commas” in the “Late” section of A Life in Pieces (Thistledown Press, 2024), Jo-Ann Wallace writes of typing Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway “from beginning to end.”

“There is something surprisingly intimate about entering text in this way,” Wallace says of her approach to preparing a scholarly edition of the 1925 novel for Broadview Press. While typing, Wallace learned “something about the minutiae of Woolf’s style, and in particular, her often eccentric use of commas, semi-colons, and other punctuation marks.” She calls herself a “fast and pretty accurate typist” and recalls choosing typing as an option when she was in high school in Montreal in the late 1960s.

Typing relies on muscle memory and as Stephen, her husband pointed out to Wallace: “Language is a kind of music and typing is a way of playing it.”

Jo-Ann Wallace was born in Montreal on June 19, 1953 and died in Victoria, B.C. on June 25, 2024. Her obituary in The Globe and Mail, written by her husband Stephen Slemon I expect, said about her typing out the entire text of Mrs. Dalloway that she “learned something about the interplay between literary imagination and memory . . . “

Wallace had retired as a professor of English and Film Studies at the University of Alberta. As her obituary states: “Her scholarship, always feminist in approach, focused on early British modernism, and especially on women whose lives and works did not fit easily into accepted literary critical moulds.”

Her dry humour comes through in her essays as well as being a master “of pointed understatement, of the perfect, capturing phrase.”

A Life in Pieces published on August 26, 2024 is made up of thirty short essays in which Wallace remembers fragments of her life, gains insight, asks questions, and contemplates and appreciates the dayliness at the end of her life.

A memoir by Hilary Montel prompts Wallace’s memory visit (and virtual Google walk) to 43 Leslie Gault in the Ahuntsic neighbourhood of Montreal where she lived as a child. While Mantel refers to “the person you might have been,” Wallace only imagines “my subsequent houses and my subsequent lives. I can only imagine the finality of me, all roads leading here,” she writes in “43 Leslie Gault” in the “Early” section of the book.

Wallace begins her essays in an inviting conversational way such as: “This morning as I emptied the dishwasher . . “ (“Her Bequest”) or “My younger sister Nancy and I shared a room until I was almost ten, which is when we moved to our four-bedroom, split-level house in the suburbs” (“White Swan, Black Swan”).

At times, she shares her writing process and challenges. In “The Light Princess,” named for the 1864 novella-length book by George MacDonald, she thinks of her Great Aunt Amy. (Wallace read the 1969 edition illustrated by Maurice Sendak.)

A child with no gravity and a great aunt who, as a child, “couldn’t stay on the ground.”

“I struggled to find a way to finish this piece about Great Aunt Amy,” she writes. She ends with: “But I like to think that the admirable and unconventional life [Great Aunt Amy] made for herself, floating away from all the expectations she must have felt as a woman of her time and class, gave her a certain buoyant lightness of being.”

Wallace hated high school and educated herself in the reading she chose. In the spring of 1972, she bought the preview issue of Ms. Magazine. She had already read Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex and Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch. She was also reading the early Margaret Drabble, Margaret Atwood, Marie-Claire Blais, and Sylvia Plath she says in her essay “North American Factors,” a company she worked for. (She had quit school after attending a semester at Vanier College.)

“Bit by bit I was putting a world together, a world that had people like me at the centre: young women feeling something, wanting something, just about bursting with something.”

In “Me and Not-Me,” she braids the U.S. Supreme Court 2022 overturning of its own 1973 Roe v. Wade decision with her own abortion. She had held “a series of low-paying jobs” when she dropped out of school. In “an act of unimaginable defiance against my parents” she flew to Labrador to see her boyfriend who had taken a job there. With the help of the internet, Wallace reconstructed her story of seeking out the Montreal Women’s Liberation Movement operating out of the Women’s Centre. The centre managed abortion referral services to Henry Morgentaler’s clinic that had opened the year before.

It was 1970 and Wallace didn’t want to go to “a home for unwed mothers.” She says: “I would not bear a child for someone else.”

Also woven into the story is Wallace’s reading of Happening by Annie Ernaux which is “a harrowing account of her, then illegal, 1963 abortion.” Ernaux was twenty-three when she had an abortion. Wallace wasn’t quite eighteen.

She felt she had been shaped by what Ernaux called the “clandestinity” of abortion and especially of an illegal abortion. “It is something one is alone with. Paradoxically, though, that aloneness also created in me what I now think of as a compulsion to confess.” She isn’t sure if the confessing to any new friend or boyfriend meant she was “motivated by pride in who I was and the decision I made, and not by a desire to be punished. But I don’t know.”

Photo of Jo-Ann Wallace by Stephen Slemon

The essays are so gorgeous in their honesty as well as in their woven themes.

In “Poetry,” one of her longer essays, Wallace tells of her friendship with Dana, a fiction writer, while as a Concordia University student, Wallace thought of herself as a poet. “It was “a good time in which to be an aspiring woman poet in Canada,” Wallace writes. Among the “fearless” Canadian women poets in the seventies, she names Margaret Atwood, Susan Musgrave, Gwendolyn MacEwen and Dorothy Livesay.

Ann Patchett’s Truth & Beauty: A Friendship is the memoir Wallace refers to in which Patchett, a fiction writer primarily, writes of her seventeen-year friendship with poet Lucy Grealy. Published in 2004, it didn’t catch Wallace’s attention at the time. When she did read the book, she found it “deeply unsettling.

With doubts about academic life during her first semester of graduate school, Wallace found her way to “a research program that for me, forged that crucial link between lived lives and the writing they produced.”

That meant that poetry which she considered “a thing of the blood” couldn’t be included. “It couldn’t simply be conjured; it had to tap into some kind of rhythmic insistence. Something about academic work, for me, blocked that force.”

A “lacuna” in Patchett’s and Grealy’s friendship lasted several weeks while for Wallace and Dana, it was almost twenty years. During that time Wallace found happiness in a new relationship “with a good man and a nice kid.”

When turning fifty, she went through photo albums and letters that had been stored in the basement. Photos from her first wedding went into the paper shredder. “Bzz bzz bzz.” When she read letters from Dana she realized she was “reading not only personal history but the social history of a generation of young women. So I typed them all up. I’m a fast typist, but it took up a lot of my spare time that summer.”

She found Dana and was able to make contact with her in Toronto; Dana also typed all the letters Wallace had sent to her. “And then it was as if the twenty years evaporated.” They again had a “largely epistolary friendship” although by email.

The essay “Melmac” gives the book its cover image: “Russel Wright residential Melmac cups.”

The “Melmac years” don’t refer to Wallace’s early life but to her life of about twenty years ago when she purchased “an already ancient Class C Motorhome. With its “retro” interior, Melmac seemed well suited to it and to travel and after spotting a couple of old Melmac mugs in a thrift shop, Wallace’s “Melmac obsession” began.

Not that the Melmac years were easy ones for Wallace. She was chairing “a large and complex university department with seventy full-time, tenured or tenure-track faculty members, a graduate program with some one hundred and forty students, and an untold number of contract instructors.” Much was accomplished but the workload was “crushing” and she was often sick during those years. She also confesses to buying small figurines from Occupied Japan. She wonders if it was childhood memories of buying a gift for her mother and “the five-and-dime store” or visiting great aunts who had fancy figurines on their coffee tables.

While Wallace questions herself about her obsessions, she determines it wasn’t an addiction. She’s glad she kept the turquoise Russel Wright dinnerware.

“Mrs. Dalloway has accompanied me through the greater part of my adult life, keeping step with me more than forty years,” Wallace says in “This Gaiety Would Have Been Mine.” The title of the essay is from an exchange between the Woolf characters Clarissa and Peter.

The novel “was the ostensible subject of my now very dated doctoral dissertation, which explored the novel through the lens of what we described then as the ‘new’ French feminist theories of the body.”

Wallace was reluctant to have a “full relationship” with Stephen who was a very good friend. She feared as Clarissa did from a relationship with Peter Walsh, “that she will lose the privacy of the soul, though she later wonders whether, in making the sensible decision, she has lost something else.”

“In words very unlike any that [Clarissa] would use, I came to a different conclusion. ‘Oh, fuck it,’ I thought. ‘Let’s just do it.’ “

Wallace and Stephen were married in the living room of their small bungalow. They talk to each other “all day long. We even text from room to room. This is gaiety, of a fashion. And it is mine.”

While she doesn’t want to think further about her “dusty, bound copy of my dissertation,” she says Mrs. Dalloway turned out to be a happy choice. “Over the years, I have taught it, reread it, researched it deeply, and repeatedly turned to it to find expression for something I am going through.”

After twenty-eight years in her office, her “academic home,” Wallace decided what to toss out and what to keep as she describes in “I Don’t Care About This Anymore.”

“My fat teaching file on Ezra Pound went straight into the recycling bin. There you go, you old fascist; I’ll never have to think about you again.” The poetry stayed and the Bloomsbury as well as literary biographies (except Ezra Pound’s), all of D. H. Lawrence (“even though he desperately wanted to have the heart of a fascist”), all of Doris Lessing and “my battered old copy of The Second Sex, of course.”

Here’s another example of her sense of humour: “I read an early version of this little essay to Stephen. The bastard quoted Ezra Pound to me: ‘What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross.’

Following “the usual battery of tests” with a new doctor, an MRI would reveal that Wallace had colorectal cancer. “Not curable but it was treatable, the treatment aimed at quality of life.”

She was twenty months into the “chemo-lite” or “maintenance chemo” when she wrote the essay entitled “Cancer in the Time of COVID (Summer 2022)”

“Cancer has made me realize that my ordinary, daily life is my bucket list.” She developed some mantras to help her: “Take one day at a time. Practice equanimity. Live neither in hope nor despair. Live as if I’m going to live, while accepting that I’m not. This means, among other things, planting bulbs in the fall. Cancer in the time of COVID has freed me to live my ordinary life, not heroically, not engaged in a courageous battle: just living. After all, I’m alive until I’m not.”

Her final essay is entitled “Mars,” about the Earth’s “little sister planet.” She has a deep yearning to go there. Her ponderings about Mars lead Wallace to realize that most of her life “I’ve harboured a kind of fantasy that when you die, the mysteries of the universe become clear. It’s not so much that the mysteries are revealed as that you just know . . . .I’m hardly alone in desiring this, but somehow the two fantasies – that the nature of the universe reveals itself, and that one’s dogs are there – seem compatible. It is, after all, a friendly, homely universe.”

We can celebrate Jo-Ann Wallace’s memoir along with those who knew her as she has done what her research led her to: forging a crucial link between the lived lives of women and the writing they produced. It seems to me, Wallace’s essays can also be described by what she thought of poetry: “a thing of the blood.”