Spring Will Return

The New Year has always been an odd celebration, for me. I’m not much into resolutions or retrospectives, I’m allergic to the sulphites in champagne and my husband and I never developed a tradition of New Year’s parties, as he was a musician and usually had a gig, until we had kids and stayed home with them, instead.

For me, the new year begins either in September (the school year), or in early spring (with the first hints of green). I suppose that really begins now, as the days begin to grow longer. But I forget, in the depth of winter, what’s inevitably coming. So I’ve put a photo of sunlight-sparkling-on-dew-covered-leaves on my desktop, as relief from the winter whiteness, I’m looking forward to browsing a seed catalogue, pondering my order, and I’m thinking about new plants to try in the garden. I feed the birds, so I can listen to them sing. I’ll buy a pot of crocuses, with tips just emerging, and watch them grow. And I’ll buy fresh produce for salads, all to remind myself that spring will return.

Maureen

The Christmas holidays come to a crashing end

and now, after a great deal of fun, back to work.

Maureen

Fairy Tales and Monsters

Yesterday we toured through Glenbow Museum’s current show, Fairy Tales, Monsters and the Genetic Imagination. I’d heard wonderful things about it, and as a writer for children, I was excited to see it. I found myself seriously disappointed

It was more an adult analytical examination than immersive feeling-based, with little connection to how children experience the world. To me, that misses the whole point of monsters. They emerge from our dreams and imaginations, and they should feel real.

Much of the art in this show felt like nothing at all to me, and seemed, from the write-ups, to be conceptualized rather than created. There were some exceptions, all of which were better without the analytical explanation.

My favorite was a boy with an old man-sea cucumber creature. They were both asleep, the creature’s head in the boy’s lap, the boy drooped over the creature. The looks on their faces said everything – they were both smiling, both clearly adoring each other.

I find literary discussions frustrating when they shift to the analytical, too. It seems to be considered the higher form of thought, but I find it a step away from reality, from being in the situation. As stories should be immersive, why would we want to step back? We should be stepping into them.

Maureen