*Quote sourced from a completely unscientific, and probably AI-generated, car website

It seems kind of logical, really, that people who are picky about the position of items on their office desk, and how many days in advance you must approach them about a meeting (it’s all about time management), and the state of their spice rack, might also be picky about all interior and exterior aspects of their car.

My question is, what if your car is messy, but you also feel guilty about it? What kind of a person are you then?

I’m only musing about this because we bought a new car this past Tuesday. By Friday, we’d gone through our first drive-thru. Not ready to “break it in” yet, my husband ate his onion rings at home. I was too hungry to wait, so I crunched them over the bag, and exactly three onion crumbles still managed to find the floor. I carefully picked all of it up, and then I wondered how long it would be before I stopped doing that? Before the car floor was a mixture of dirt and old French fries, stuck on the floor between the seat and the center console? ( I really hate that – you can see them, but it’s too narrow a spot even for the vacuum cleaner attachment.)

Speaking of personality, maybe some of you are tut-tutting me for eating in my car at all. Believe me, when I climb into the pristine interior with its bad-for-you new-plastic smell, I think I shouldn’t, also. But a car is all about convenience, and eating in the car is nothing if not convenient. It’s bound to happen, sooner or later.

After three years with no car payment, it feels like we signed our lives away. We bought another Honda CRV - brand new - and traded in our seven year old car, which had more than 220,000 km.

Who cares about new features?

The steering wheel vibrates in my hands if I stray from the centre of my lane (irritating, actually – we’ll see if there’s a way to turn that off). A light flashes on the side mirrors when there’s a car in my blind spot. And there’s some other button you can push when you’re on a steep incline that protects the brakes, don’t ask me how. Other than that, though, it’s pretty much the same as the 2019 version we just turned in.

It’s a good, solid, reliable, overall boring car. A bit like us.

And, it’s a bright silver, which in my estimation is an improvement on the previous colour, which was black. Seems like all cars are black or white in the parking lot these days. What’s up with the cheerless lack of colour? Perhaps it reflects the times we’re living in.

My husband and I are not really car people – you know, those types who are particular about the kind of car they drive. This may or may not be related to status. You might just like the feeling of power under your feet, so you want a V-8 engine instead of a putt-putt.

Or you like special features, like a heated steering wheel, leather interior, a sunroof. You’re willing to pay $10,000 or $15,000 more for a hybrid or EV, maybe because you think you’re saving the planet (I don’t think you are, but don’t get me started on the “greenness” of car batteries).

No, a plain old gas car, please. A few bells are nice, but no whistles are necessary. All that electronic stuff is the first to break, and it’s expensive.

I really only care about AC in the summer, and I do like that feature where the built-in monitor connects to your phone and shows you maps, and tells you where to go – so much easier that trying to open a paper map in the passenger seat and annoying the driver with bad navigation. Google Maps still got us lost in Montreal in its early iteration, but it’s quite a bit more sophisticated now.

These two features are just standard stuff now, so I’m fine. Given that I grew up in the days of cars with ashtrays and cigarette lighters, and AC was an extra you had to pay for, along with an automatic transmission, I figure I’m living the life of Riley*.

When my husband and I bought our first house, we chose to live 50 km away from where my husband worked because the homes in this tiny village were very cheap. He commuted for nine years. I’m telling you this because the brick, semi-detached house we bought was $30,000 - $10,000 cheaper than the car we just bought. Our mortgage payment was about $250 per month.

Of course, the house was considered very cheap even back in 1996 – but the price reflected the location where we chose to live for nine years.

No location could make the purchase of cars any cheaper.

Anyway, are there any guesses on how long it will take for our car to look like any other muddy, crispy, crumbly old vehicle on the road?

I’m guessing November.

*I’ve been told that I use old expressions in my writing that younger people don’t understand, so I feel I should explain that “Living the Life of Riley” means you are someone who is living a comfortable and prosperous life - just like Riley did, whoever and wherever he was.

After the pandemic, I wanted to bring my Mom to live with my husband and I. We had only one child left at home - our youngest son, who had just begun university. Our old house was unsuitable for my mom, who had mobility issues, and it was too complicated to renovate, so we sold the house for a profit, and moved to this humungous place (it isn’t actually humungous, but it feels that way to me, given that we raised three kids in a 1200 square foot, 60 year old box with 3 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, and a tiny room that we called a bedroom, even though it didn’t have a closet or heating).

By comparison, this brand-new house that is double the size of our previous home, feels like a palace.

However, we bought the place in February. The front porch had not even been attached yet when we went to see it for the first time. Piles of snow disguised the footprint of the property. When we took possession in late February, 2022, it didn’t occur to me what the yard might look like when spring came, or how much work it would require.

Think piles of dense, red clay that dries to boulders, and a gravel driveway, and a backyard that is a steep slope, all the way down to the drain between us and the houses on the street behind us. (It’s hard to walk upright. Seriously.)

This was living in the suburbs.

There were no sixty-year old oak and maple trees along the street, no lilacs and old apple trees and forsythias and broken-down fences lining everyone’s back yard. The neighbours had no encroaching Virginia Creeper to curse. Just backyards completely bare and open. It was a wind tunnel filled with barking dogs.

Where my husband saw a crapload of dreaded weekend work, I saw an English garden.

Ever since I visited Scotland in 1997, I’ve wanted one, and I couldn’t really develop such a garden at our old north-facing house on Burlington Avenue. Too many trees, too much shade, too much moss.

But I wanted a riot of climbing roses, and hollyhocks, and a privacy hedge, bordered with oak, and birch, and maple, and white pine trees, and a walking gravel path around the entire house, and arches with climbing vines, and a stone patio built out over the slope, and a pergola on the tall deck upon which to plant grapes, and so, so, so many more flowers.

I know, I’m crazy. It really has been a crapload of work, but now, in our fifth summer, there are some wonderful developments.

I often wonder what my neighbours think, and I worry about resale value. We will want to downsize in the next few years, and what will a potential buyer think? Will they love the garden, or will they keep driving because all they see is work?

If you ever visit my street, you will be able to pick our house out right away, because we’re the only one with trees and bushes and flower beds, a veggie garden, a viburnum hedge that turns bright red in the fall, garden arches, and so much more.

What does everyone else have? Grass.

They’re all boring people, I tells ya.

But maybe they find our yard manic by comparison? Maybe they just can’t look at it because it makes them nervous?

Oh, well. What does it matter? My loved ones often tell me that I worry too much about what others think. They say, “it’s your house, and if it pleases you, that’s what’s important.”

In for a penny, in for a pound, my mother used to say. Since we’re only half done, we must keep going.

I was so impatient with the hedge. We spent close to $3,000 on Cheyenne Privet back in 2022. It was supposed to grow to 12 feet, a tight tangle of branches that was easily trimmed and very forgiving. At the nursery, they assured me the bushes would grow 1 -1/2 to 2 feet per year, but it has not grown anywhere near that quickly, and the privacy I so desperately wanted is nowhere nearing fruition.

We did build the stone patio two years ago, but we’ve found that it’s not faring very well, and we figure we built it wrong. Since I don’t have $15,000 to hire a professional to fix it, we will have to dig out all that gravel and dirt and start over. Now that it’s July 9, we’re almost at the point of saying, “well, maybe it’s okay for this year…”

But in this fifth summer, other things are truly wonderful. Tonight, I picked a bouquet of cut flowers from my own garden to place on my table, and it made me a little teary. I am overwhelmed with gratitude at being able to do this. Shasta daisy and lupins and false sunflower and some other pointy purple flowers that I don’t remember and some elderberry and bee balm..or is it joe pye weed? Not sure.

We’ve spent way too much money in garden centres, and we’ve put in a lot of sweat equity, but people have also given me things that I treasure - plants that have outgrown their own gardens, and so I’ve begun to call my back yard my friendship garden.

There’s something powerful and fulfilling about receiving plants from others, and giving people things that have grown in your own yard – not just the grapes and the tomatoes, but also the decorative ones I watch change from year to year. There’s something calming about sticking your hands in the dirt, and pulling out weeds, and dressing the beds with cedar mulch. There’s something satisfying about watching the hummingbirds enjoy the honeysuckle, and the perennial sweet pea.

I feel like a builder. I feel like a steward of something bigger than me. I feel the joy of creativity surging through me.

So, today, I want to pause and be thankful for my cut flowers. Thankful for the cherry tree because I think this month, we’ll have enough cherries for a whole pie.

I’m thankful even though the work isn’t done, and it’s not perfect. I’m drinking in the warm days, even though the hedge hasn’t grown in, and the patio needs to be fixed, and there’s so much more to plant (ah…that’s why everyone else just has grass!), and I likely won’t get much more done this year.

There’s so much to enjoy. I am so fortunate.

February 14, 2026

I remember being stuck at home in the middle of a blizzard on previous Valentine’s Days, but today was sunny and warm, almost springlike.

So after hosting an online writing workshop led by the incomparable Sandra Phinney this morning, my husband and I enjoyed a delicious Vietnamese-style sandwich at Banh Mi Bready in Moncton, and then went for a quick jaunt out of town along Route 114, which, as part of the coastal Bay of Fundy drive, is my favourite place in the world.

We stopped at Wendy Johnston’s Fine Art Gallery in Hopewell Cape to have a look around, where she sells her own fine pottery and artwork, and a selection of excellent jewellery, pottery, art and other crafts from around Atlantic Canada. Those of you who know me personally—and you are likely the only people reading this blog—know that I am an incredible sucker for pottery.

I don’t need it, but I can’t get enough of it.

My house overflows with mugs, bowls, teapots.... Some people collect role playing figurines, souvenir spoons, or antique rolling pins, but I collect handcrafted pottery.

Today, the first thing I spotted was this beautiful, small blue, tree-carved vessel, with bare pottery feet and a lid featuring a gorgeous tree in relief. “A tree of life,” I whispered.

I have a thing for this image.

Being that Revelation Chapter 22 in the New Testament is the beautiful chapter of restoration, with the Tree of Life at the centre of the New Jerusalem, the City of God, this is meaningful to me. I have tried to paint Revelation 22 with limited success, meaning, it didn’t turn out like I imagined, but I still think about trying. I’m continually captivated by this hopeful image, and when I noticed this small, oval dish today, my husband saw the stars in my eyes and bought it for me as a gift.

I felt guilty about the cost, but Wendy explained that the Sackville potter who made it is named Margaret Ann Capper, who is apparently soon to retire. This made me feel better, because I figure that I just purchased a limited edition artistic item that will become a conversation piece over the years. When we brought it to the cash, I said, “I’m not sure what I want to do with it, but I love it.”

As Wendy wrapped it in bubble plastic, she said, a little shyly, “well, not to be morbid…but you could use it as an urn.”

I was dumbfounded. To keep someone’s ashes in? All the air bubbled out of my balloon. “I just liked the lid,” I replied, weakly. “I liked the tree on the top. Like the tree of life, you know.”

“Yeah—the tree of life,” she said, slowly, meaningfully.

Oh. Now I get it.

The lid.

Did the artisan intend it to be a vessel to store a loved one’s ashes in perpetuity? It’s quite small – for a pet, maybe?

When I looked up Margaret’s information online, I found some of her available products on the Handworks Gallery studio website from Sackville.

Yep - Chock full of different kinds of urns. Larger than the one I bought, but definitely…yeah. My husband bought me an urn for Valentine’s Day.

I’m gonna call it a sugar bowl.

There are a couple close to me that I really like, but my favourite spot downtown designed its interior for two different kinds of clientele: the talkers, and the workers. The hallway leading from the front door is in the centre of a partition. The talkers are on the cozy side of the partition, with round tables and benches, lots of cushions, and even a couple of swings (Yes, so you can be dizzy while you drink your coffee cocktail). On the other side of the partition is a brighter area with lots of bar seating and electrical outlets to be used by the laptop set. You can sit in the window and watch people walk by as you clack away.

Some people like to write in the absolute quiet, but I like the ambient noise of a café. The clattering of dishes, the whooshing sound of milk being steamed, and the chatter of strangers all around me provide a backdrop that somehow helps me focus. I’m less likely to procrastinate with social media reels for some weird reason. And, if I’m really lucky, the students sitting next to me will gossip more than they work, so I can copy down the conversation. Don’t worry - so far, I haven’t eavesdropped on any state secrets, but if I ever write a novel about breakups, terrible professors, snotty managers, or unscrupulous landlords, I have some great dialogue in my back pocket.

Here’s the issue, though, and I’m sure you’ll relate. These days, all of life in our fair country is unaffordable, and cafés are no exception. This morning, my husband and I played hookey from church (we were late - this is always my fault, no exceptions - and the parking lot at our busy church was full). So instead, we stopped for coffee and went for a little drive in the Sunday morning winter sunshine.

Lovely.

However, two coffees, a muffin and a croissant cost $26.

Whut?

Can’t do that every day. Can’t do that every weekend.

It’s especially concerning for me, because I’m a Gen Xer, and when I was a little kid, a famous takeout we all know was still broadcasting commercials with the tagline, “Feed a Family of Four for Four Dollars!”

I don’t eat garbage anymore, but you get the point. We all have to tighten our belts, and a $6 - $10 coffee seems luxurious, especially when during a writing session, I would most definitely buy more than one.

So if I need café noise, a sunny spot by the window and a hot beverage in order to make progress on this novel, what do I do?

I create a reasonable facsimile at home, that’s what.

My husband set me up with our aged patio bistro table and a comfy chair by our patio doors, which overlook a wintry deck.

He made me a coffee and put it in my favourite mug. He topped it with some whipped cream, and promised to bring me more as long as I don’t sexually harass him. (He likely wouldn’t mind that at all…oh wait, he was joking. Right. Funny.)

And on Spotify, he found some café sounds to play in the living room. I’m such a luddite that the availability of café noise surprised me.

The best part is that I don’t have to get anyone to watch my computer while I go to the bathroom.

So, now that I have this pleasant spot permanently set up for the winter, I don’t need to spend any more money on cafés...of course, you know I will from time to time, anyway.

I will have to stop writing blog posts, though, and get on with it.

Whatever projects you are working on through this chilly, snowy winter, I wish you much success.

There has never been a time in the history of the world when life was not uncertain in one way or another, but right now, especially in our own country, we seem to be poised on the edge of a knife. Economy, culture and foreign relations all seem particularly fraught. And like all the writers I know, I often escape into stories to give my brain and emotions a rest, and to make me experience the restorative power of creativity.

For me, one of those stories is the television show Fringe, which ran for five seasons, from 2008 to 2013 on Fox in the US. I watched the first four seasons for the first time on Netflix in 2012, just as the final season was launching, and when I went through those four seasons, I quickly bought season 5 on Apple TV because I couldn’t wait to find out what happened. Since then, I’ve probably watched the whole thing about ten -nope, eleven or twelve - times.

As an aside, rewatching (or re-reading) stories is perfectly reasonable to one of my great literary heroes, C.S. Lewis. I’ll quote him here, although in fairness, he thought the visual medium was “sickly” and so he might be affronted if he knew I was using a quote about books to support my case. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, I figure.

“The re-reader is looking not for actual surprises (which can come only once) but for a certain surprisingness. The point has often been misunderstood…We do not enjoy a story fully at the first reading. Not till the curiosity, the sheer narrative lust, has been given its sop and laid asleep, are we at leisure to savor the real beauties. Till then, it is like wasting great wine on a ravenous natural thirst which merely wants cold wetness. The children understand this well when they ask for the same story over and over again, and in the same words. They want to have again the ‘surprise’ of discovering that what seemed Little-Red-Riding-Hood’s grandmother is really the wolf. It is better when you know it is coming: free from the shock of actual surprise you can attend better to the intrinsic surprisingness of the *peripeteia.” C.S. Lewis, “On Stories,” Of Other Worlds [*plot structure]

So, let’s just call it the story, then, which starred Australian actors Anna Torv, who played FBI agent Olivia Dunham, and the brilliant John Noble as Walter Bishop, the central mad scientist character. Canadian-American actor Joshua Jackson played Walter’s estranged son, Peter. Lance Reddick (now passed away) played Olivia’s boss, Phillip Broyles, and Jasika Nicole played FBI agent Astrid Farnsworth, who became Walter’s defacto lab assistant throughout the series.

It was created by Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci (of Star Trek fame) along with J.J. Abrams, who I am convinced is a freaking genius. Classed as paranormal and science fiction, it didn’t gather a huge audience, but like the original Star Trek, developed a small and vocal cult following who kept it on the air. This cult following apparently spawned two six-part comic book series, an alternate reality game, and three novels. I had no idea these things existed until I read it in Wikipedia. Is Santa reading this, by any chance...?

With recurring appearances by Leonard Nimoy, whose character, William Bell, casts a long and ominous shadow over the storyline, the connection to Star Trek is complete.

Shot in Toronto, New York City and Vancouver, the story is set in Boston, and centers on an FBI section called “Fringe Division” which investigates strange phenomena.

If you haven’t seen it, and weird science-fictiony gore and mayhem are not your thing, I’ll warn you that most of the episodes are truly disgusting - no one in my family would ever watch it with me. At the 2012 San Diego Comic Con, Joshua Jackson said that he nearly “lost his lunch” a couple of times: once when staring at an eyeball that had been removed from a victim, and once when the design crew had created dummies of dead bodies on a beach, with six-foot genetically-modified nematodes emerging from their mouths.

The five season run covered crazy scenarios and ridiculous plotlines: shape shifters from an alternate universe who killed people and stole their appearance by sticking some strange contraption in their mouths; humans who were altered to experience various impossibilities including spontaneous combustion, harnessing electricity, influencing other people’s emotions and actions for nefarious purposes, emitting airborne viruses to kill everyone around them, ingesting worms that when consumed would grow in the body cavity and explode out of the poor, hapless soul’s stomach - I could go on, but I won’t, in case you’re eating.

For many of you who haven’t the least bit of interest in watching something like this, I’m sure you’re asking, “Umm...why? Why could this possibly be your favourite show of all time?”

Because like all good television, books and movies, the plotline is not really the story. The story is a throughline that keeps you watching, despite the silliness on the surface, which in this case never takes itself too seriously and supplies a lot of humour. The central question of Fringe is actually “What does it mean to be human?”

The answer of course, is love, which is both an action and state of being that is lost on the antagonists of the show. To be human is to pursue unconditional love (which of course, for me as a Christian, is a divine attribute). How far would a father go to save his son? Can he be forgiven for those actions if he went too far? Can love bring you back from the brink of insanity, or help you overcome hopelessness, or the isolation that comes from childhood trauma?

I so loved the central relationship between Walter and his son, Peter, played with such sensitivity, humour and vulnerability by John Noble and Joshua Jackson. The writing of these scenes is top-notch, and I still cry when I watch the last episode. Just before Walter does something heroic, he says to his son, “You’re my very favourite thing, Peter. My very favourite thing.”

I cry because that’s how I feel about my own children, and there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for them. Of course, Walter is a genius, and can do quite a bit more than I can, but still, I feel the same way. Like I could do the impossible too, if I had to, because I need to save my kids.

And that’s the thing about good stories. They fill you up. They energize you, and allow you to pour out that inspiration into everything else you do.

Dude, I wish I’d written that. I wish I could write that.

“But to speak of the craft itself, I would not know how to advise a man how to write. It is a matter of talent and interest. I believe he must be strongly moved if he is to become a writer. Writing is like a ‘lust,’ or like ‘scratching when you itch.’ Writing comes as a result of a very strong impulse, and when it does come, I for one must get it out.” C.S. Lewis, “Heaven, Earth and Outer Space,” Decision II, 1963

This past Sunday was a great day, and I wanted to tell you about it.

Normally my Sundays are filled with regularities, not spontaneity: early morning church, (followed or sometimes pre-empted by) the occasional work event, shopping and household chores, family visits, and other preparations for the work week ahead.

But yesterday, the whole day was spent on creativity with no timetable: writing and playing in watercolour paint. After a whole day and evening spent doing artistic things, I felt content, like I had spent the day in the best possible way.

In the morning, I slept in with a headache (the headache is not the good part). Thankfully, when I woke up later than usual, the pain had dissipated. After my morning ablutions, I grabbed a muffin and headed for a local café, where I spent a couple of hours writing my next work in progress, a prequel to The Widow & The Will (working title, The Widow’s Inn).

I like Café X, in downtown Moncton. One side of this particular café is reserved for readers, and other studious folk, who, with their laptops and their headphones, exist in their own worlds, listening to music and clacking away, with a hot drink beside them. The other side of the shop, divided by a wall, is reserved for the couples and groups who are here to socialize: chatting, sipping, eating and laughing.

I don’t need headphones to mask it all. I like the low hum of a public space, the bustle and background noise. The people-watching. There’s a time and place for everything, including the devoted nature of my quiet home office, but not today.

Anyway, this particular Sunday, I experienced that burst of contented energy that I often feel after a good writing session, improved because I happened to notice a nice review online of my previous book that I hadn’t seen before. This feeling of accomplishment assures me that I am really a writer.

I confess that I don’t often feel what C.S. Lewis felt in the quote leading off this post. I am daunted at the thought of starting a new novel, even though I want to do it. The first draft is such a long process – and being a full-time worker, there’s only so much time and energy to go around. The Widow & The Will took ten years to complete, with all the stops and starts and gaps and changes of direction along the way, and I don’t want my subsequent projects to take that long. I’d love to have a first draft by the end of 2026. Can I do it?

Goal-setters say, “of course you can. Just set up your life that way. Make it a priority.” But there are so many priorities…

Conversely, my husband is a great fan of Scott Adams (Dilbert fame) who writes about pursuing systems in your life instead of goals. Adams offers a simple and useful definition to explain these terms in his book How to Fail at Almost Everything and Still Win Big: “If you do something every day, it’s a system. If you’re waiting to achieve it someday in the future, it’s a goal.” In other words, focus on the journey, and let the destination look after itself.

Adams writes, “Goal-oriented people exist in a state of continuous pre success failure at best, and permanent failure at worst if things never work out. Systems people succeed every time they apply their systems, in the sense that they did what they intended to do. The goals people are fighting the feeling of discouragement at each turn. The systems people are feeling good every time they apply their system.”

I can relate to the nagging feeling of continuous pre-success-failure followed by permanent failure. It’s exhausting. I had wanted to complete The Widow & The Will in one or two years, not ten. Life gets in the way.

But creativity doesn’t blossom in exhaustion. It blossoms in enjoyment and contentment. Like yesterday, when after my writing session, I bought dinner for the family, rather than dithering about what to cook, while staring in the refrigerator.

Afterward, I spent the evening in front of the television, watching the Fringe series for the sixth time and painting Christmas cards.

I’m no professional artist, but making simple designs in watercolour is loads of fun.

I notice that I’m not nearly so hard on myself about painting than I am about writing. I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m not so worried about the outcome. I’m just enjoying the process.

Hey…maybe I’m on to something here.

Can I think the same way about writing? It’s harder, because I want to be known as a writer. I want to be a good writer, who writes books that people enjoy.

Painting is different. It’s just for fun. I don’t lose sleep over the professional quality of the watercolour card I gave you for Christmas. I made it because I enjoyed doing it, without worrying about the outcome. (Mind you, I didn’t give anyone the duds in the watercolour card pile. So I’m not completely judgement-free. Perhaps it’s just that I don’t mind that there is a dud pile.)

Perhaps my “system” should simply be to write regularly – no pressure about what I’m writing, but just doing it, enjoying the process – maybe not every day, but for at least an hour or two, a few days a week? Or could I at least commit to the weekends?

I’ll let you know how that goes. In the meantime, I wish you joy and peace and contentment during this Christmas season, and I wish you joy in your creativity, wherever it takes you.

For unto you is born this day in the City of David, a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord. Luke 2:11

You might think that as a couple, we’re stuck in the mud. Heavens, no. Well, maybe we are, but whatever. Simple, quiet pleasures only, please.

Most years, we go out for breakfast and take a walk on one of the numerous nature trails of the Maritimes, but we tend to gravitate towards familiar haunts – Fundy National Park, for example, where we spent many summers camping with our children. (We visited Dickson Falls today, bought a sticky bun at Kelly’s bake shop, and a delicious Buddha Bear coffee at the Holy Whale brewery.)

So this weekend while we celebrated 34 years of marriage (First of all, whut? Where did all those years go?) we took a drive to Elgin, in Albert County, which my husband loves. Whenever he’s there, he says he feels like he’s coming home. His maternal grandmother, Ella, grew up in Elgin (actually, in a farming area in the region called Meadow. Imagine, in the early 1900s, Ella’s family travelling to tiny Elgin by horse and buggy for supplies – they would have called it “going into town”).

We have travelled that way many times before, looking at land for sale, and talking about what our “third act” will entail, but for the first time noticed an eco-trail in Mapleton. “Wow, I didn’t know this was here,” my husband said. “Let’s walk through.”

Here was an opportunity to take a new walk in an old territory.

We headed in at the trailhead, and as we scrambled over roots and pushed branches out of the way, we could see that nature was beginning to encroach on the old 2.7 km path, which was obviously still in use by locals, but not as neatly manicured as provincial or federal parks. Along the way we saw a huge clearing filled with apple trees which was obviously the remnant of a farm orchard, and an old industrial stone wall from a manganese mine.

About halfway through, my husband stopped walking and pointed to a small clearing where the sunshine peeked through the canopy of trees, highlighting a circle of moss. His face took on a wistful expression. “I remember walking on my grandfather’s land, when I was a kid. I used to do that all the time, remember, I told you?” He looked at me for signs of agreement. I actually couldn’t remember if he told me that or not. I’ve forgotten so many details. But I smiled and nodded anyway.

“One time, I came upon a tiny clearing, just like that one,” he continued, “and it was beautiful, with a bright green moss carpet and a circle of trees around it. The sun was shining through at just the right way. And I thought, when I die and go to heaven, when everyone else asks God to live in a mansion, I would ask him if I could live someplace like this clearing.”

I turned to look at him and touched his hand. “That’s sweet,” I said. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me that story before.”

His eyebrows knitted together, thinking. “Hmm. I guess not. See, after 34 years, there’s still something new to tell you about me.”

We started walking again, and I made a face. “I’m sorry - I don’t have anything new to tell you. I’ve said everything already.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “S’okay. You can tell me again.”

Wilful Blindness, (third edition, Optimum Publishing International, 2024) which represents more than 10 years of research by the journalist Sam Cooper, has left me shocked, disheartened, and angry at my own country’s leaders, for not taking steps to protect our borders from invasion by China, which really add up to acts of war. They’ve been diligent and skillful in their creation of a complex business network of fentanyl production, drug money laundering through British Columbia casinos and the real estate market, using corrupt contacts within Canadian banks and their own underground financial systems. They have also continued to be involved in the “elite capture” of important politicians (which is in danger of becoming “state” capture), election interference, while Chinese players in this underground economy backed by Beijing make constant threats on Canadian citizens of Chinese descent.

After reading this book, I would say that China’s influence on our country is now a democratic crisis, and most of us are not even aware of it. Or we pooh-pooh the subject, like it was conspiracy theory, or even more maudlin - racism.

This is not an easy book to read. I bought it back in March, and I’ve been working through it slowly since then. It is now October, and with the last few pages left, I can say that it is extremely dense – thick, small type, deeply researched, and difficult to soak in. Cooper sets up the story from the first incursions into British Columbia in the 1980s and takes you all the way up to 2022… and Justin Trudeau’s office, among other politicians.

“Gently but forcefully, China’s donors foster bonds of obligation with members of sitting governments. They can elevate politicians through the ranks and ultimately dictate policy. If this happens with successive governments, democracy crumbles, silently.” (Page 280)

I already wrote a blog post in March about interviews given by Cooper, so I won’t reiterate it here, but I highly recommend that you read this book – not because it’s enjoyable, but because you care about what happens to Canada.

After I finished reading, I thought of remarks made by Bruce Pardy, professor of law at Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario, during a panel discussion for the MacDonald-Laurier Institute in July.

“We need to think about government differently. There’s a line from Adam Smith [Scottish moral philosopher and political economist (1723–1790)] that goes something like, ‘It is not from the generosity of the butcher and baker that we get our dinner, but from their regard for their self-interest.’

“We accept the concept that everybody acts in their own self-interest when they’re doing commercial things. But we forget that as soon as they’re in government, one of the reasons that foreign governments are succeeding in spreading influence is that our own people are acting in their own self-interest. But we are relying on their honour.

“That’s not the way it works. Everybody acts in their own self-interest. And for that reason, we should be suspicious of everyone who has power over us, because they are not acting for us, they are acting for themselves. I agree the government should be much more concerned about foreign interference, but they don’t seem to be. Why? Because they are benefitting from it – at least some of them are. That’s what the report said, and we don’t even know who they are.

“So if we can wrap our head around the idea that the people in power are going to act honorably and act in the best interest of the country – no, they don’t!

“We need a better system of government, so it’s not possible to dishonour the constitution. If it is possible to dishonour, it will be dishonoured.”

Therefore, my friends, I believe that the reality of corruption must be dragged into the light - and believed - as much as possible. It will require courage to face what has already happened, and what is currently happening. We must force our politicians to meet this issue head-on, and to change or add the laws that are necessary to kick the rats out of the kitchen.

To read more about Sam Cooper’s investigative journalism, check out The Bureau on Substack.

First published in May, 2017

I broke last night.

For the last seven months I have indulged myself a brief moment of tears every couple of days, but last night my whole body cracked into several pieces. I came as close to a panic attack as I ever have in my life. I was sure my heart would stop at any moment and I would cease to exist.

Since last November I have been the "fixer" for my parents’ life crisis. After a rush to the hospital last winter and 13 weeks of testing, my father received a diagnosis which required him to leave his home and enter a special care facility. His angry world spun out of control and my mother’s with him. Being the only sibling who lives close by, it fell to me to be:

their health advocate,

their spokesperson,

their medical translator and/or diplomat.

Their chauffeur (since his license was also taken),

their personal shopper,

their personal secretary,

their bookkeeper,

and their real estate agent.

If I have disliked this necessity, they have deplored it. To say this has been an unpleasant journey is an understatement. It has been a pilgrimage through the emotional wreckage of my parents’ lives. I know things I don’t want to know. I know things they don’t want me to know.

What has been even more unsettling is that I have recognized quite a few of those broken pieces scattered in the desert. They are also mine—I simply haven’t crash landed yet. As my father helpfully said in the hospital, “Someday this is going to be you, you know!”

The process of cataloguing and dispatching 50 years’ worth of stuff on behalf of emotionally-battered parents who can’t accept that it must be done in the first place (while you simultaneously try to muffle your own emotions) is difficult enough.

But no crisis descends in a vacuum. No one has the luxury of prior knowledge so that they may first clear their schedule. Nope, I was already journeying through the desert with my heavy backpack and my empty water bottle, when more cargo was dumped in my arms.

This was my middle kid’s graduation year, and I missed it. I was here, but I missed it. The ceremony is in two weeks and I will cry, not just because I am proud of her, but because I mourn the loss of time. I had no time to savour the last few precious months with my child in my house. No time to simply sit and be and prepare myself for the landmark changes to come.

Also, I’ve had no time to work over the past few months and my financial situation is dire. Finding a job will be the priority once my parents’ house closing is complete.

And last week, I received two more fiction rejections on the same day, which caused me to question my dogged determination to keep writing when I could be involved in more practical things—like paying bills. It feels like I’ve been pounding my head against a brick wall for more than a decade.

Maybe I don’t have the chops and I can’t face it? This typical reaction to the many rejections I have received was stronger because my father currently gazes into the abyss and right now is haunted by all the goals he never achieved. Some things were achievable and he simply chose not to. Some things were not and he let them go. Some things didn’t matter either way, but by God, he wishes he had time to do them all.

I am 48. There are likely fewer days ahead than there are behind. I have not achieved my most beloved goals, either. Are they achievable? Should I keep trying, or am I climbing a staircase to nowhere?

Such thoughts boggle the mind, but especially when one is so full of the worry and cares of others.

So last night, as I stood in the kitchen, something broke inside.

I cried on my husband’s shoulder while he stroked my hair and murmured words of comfort, but it wasn’t enough. I felt squeezed on the inside, nauseous and empty of breath. My legs were weak and I felt my physical heart crumble, dissolve, evaporate, and then disappear.

It’s too much. All at once, it’s too much. God help me.

And then something broke through my desolation, a process which continues to astound me. In my mind I heard two quiet words. `

Worship me.

What came next to mind, unbidden, were the words of an old hymn:

I hear the Saviour say Thy strength indeed is small Child of weakness watch and pray Find in me thine All in All. Jesus paid it all All to him I owe Sin had left a crimson stain He washed it white as snow.

I mouthed the words in a whisper and the tremulous melody issued in spurts between my sobs. And as the truth of it sunk in, I felt the weight on my chest lift.

I breathed.

I cried in relief, not in panic. And then I was peaceful enough to talk about it. Today, I chose to write about it.

All the problems I discussed before still exist. I’m still in the desert, and I’m not quite sure how things will work out. But I look down at my water bottle, and it is no longer empty.

Why do such words have the power to lift me out of a bereft place? How does the idea that Christ died on the cross eliminate my panic attack?

Because it proves to me that life is not hopeless and that there exists something—someone—far bigger than I who is in control and through whom everything will ultimately be made right. I don’t have to respond perfectly and I don’t have to have all the answers.

I am a child of weakness. When all the pieces of my life come apart and no human can repair it, He can put me back together. He has done it before and He will do it again.

I began writing this blog post while sprawled across my stateroom bed on the MSC Seashore, mesmerized by the turquoise water of the Bahamas (wow, it really is turquoise) through my balcony door. Our balcony room was placed on the starboard side of the ship, not port side, which was docked at the cruise line’s private island called Ocean Cay. But we could see a tugboat, anchored near the second, smaller island MSC cruise line is currently developing for its “Explorer” series of ships.

Kent, my husband, and I enjoyed the air conditioning in our stateroom and watched plenty of cruisers zoom by on jet skis, after a rather wonderful swim on one of several beaches at Ocean Cay. We managed to burn our shoulders and faces even though we were slathered with sunscreen.

Nothing but sun, sand, music and happy drinkers on the beaches, plus a good supply of giddy children.

This was a peaceful day, but it took a lot of stress to get us there. It’s roughly 2,509 kilometers (1,559 miles) from Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada, to Port Canaveral, Florida, where MSC Seashore received guests for embarkation.

Getting There

After we boarded, I felt like a lucky duck, especially since we were part of that unfortunate group of summer vacationers whose flights were cancelled by the recent Air Canada strike.

I am neither for nor against such things, except that it was frightening to consider being unable to take our non-refundable Caribbean cruise because the Air Canada flight attendants were pissed about their working conditions. It’s easier to care when you don’t have thousands of dollars on the line, thousands of dollars that took years to save, and would not be recouped.

Other than a group trip to Scotland in 1997, this would be our first “real” vacation in 33 years of marriage, as well as our very first cruise. We spent all our thrifty childrearing years together camping with the kids at Fundy National Park, or visiting friends and family in Quebec or Ontario.

So, we were scared our cruise vacation would be wasted.

The travel agent was apologetic that all she could offer was a $2400 alternative leaving from Halifax, or a $3400 alternative leaving from Fredericton. We said we’d make our own arrangements.

On the Thursday prior to the walk-off, we booked a flight with American Airlines leaving from Bangor, Maine, which is a four-and-a-half hour drive from Moncton. We crossed the border by car, parked it in long-term parking, and from there we made a connection in Washington, DC for Orlando, Florida. The shuttle from the airport to Port Canaveral was a 40-minute drive.

Air Canada offered us a credit.

Since we will not be travelling before the deadline of June 9 next year (the month and day of purchase), this is useless to us. We did apply to Air Canada for an” alternative travel” refund, so we’ll see if they return the money that we spent on American Airlines. If not, perhaps I can make an insurance claim, which would recoup 80% of our original Air Canada fares.

So far, I can say that we spent as much on airfare as we did on the cruise itself.

Yikes. Anyway, you want to know about the cruise, I’m sure.

All the great stuff about cruising!

There were 5011 passengers (697 Canadians) and 1800 crew on board MSC Seashore during our seven day August trip. The 170,000 tonne ship launched in 2021, which makes it quite new. But during our allotted dinnertime, a veteran cruiser seated next to me said that Seashore was “only a mid-size ship.”

Seemed enormous to me, and quite beautiful. Swarovski crystals stud the stairways of the main atrium at the centre of the ship, where many activities took place (including the sail-away party in the video above), and the interior design was patterned on the place names and locations of New York City. A 10-foot Statue of Liberty overlooked the casino. During the day, we played Scrabble in the Brooklyn Café, and in the evening, listened to an incredibly talented jazz quartet from Brazil. We had delicious specialty coffee (uh, yeah, every day…) and really wonderful gelato at Venchi, an Italian chocolatier.

Most of the passengers were Americans, and many of them Spanish speaking, but I did detect a smattering of Italian speakers (the cruise line is Italian, and has only been in North America since 2021) –some Koreans and Chinese, maybe a couple of Germans? There were young families with kids on board – they enjoyed the water park on deck 18. There were old people (some riding around on scooters!) who didn’t leave the ship much, and twenty-somethings who were just there to party on the beach. There were family reunion groups in matching t-shirts who all sat together in the buffet and talked about their day.

Excursions, shopping, musical theatre, trivia and Guess that Tune games, dance lessons – there were all kinds of things to do, announced daily over the loudspeaker by Neil Dixon, the energetic cruise director with the posh London accent (So different than what I remember of Julie McCoy, the cruise director on The Love Boat. Anyone of a certain age remember The Love Boat?)

After a particularly stressful year, I didn’t come aboard with the intention to stay constantly busy. We were both content to wander around the ship, work on writing projects, and enjoy our balcony, day and night. (The water was indigo blue, by the way, close to Mexico. At home, the North Atlantic is gray-green. I wonder what makes the difference?)

But one night, we sat listening to a trio playing 70s and 80s covers in one of the main lounges. We met Nancy and Mike, who asked to join our table. They were a retired couple, originally from Spokane, Washington, but had lived in Orlando for the past 22 years.

“We still don’t have many friends,” Nancy confided, with some sadness. “No one is really friendly in Orlando.” Then she asked me if Canadians hate Americans, given the current political climate.

I didn’t reply that yes, many of them do – especially lately.

But not me. “I don’t hate Americans.” I said, shrugging. “Politicians and governments come and go, but neighbours are forever. We’ll work it out.”

In preparation for this trip, I watched many cruise bloggers on YouTube, and one of them suggested we shouldn’t discuss politics or religion on a cruise ship, since everyone’s there to have a good time… but Nancy brought it up, so we had quite a good discussion.

Besides, G.K. Chesterton once wrote, “I never discuss anything else except politics and religion. There is nothing else to discuss.”

Are you hungry? There’s Food…Lots and Lots

The enormous buffet, which was open for meals more or less all day, was comprised of many stations serving different types of food and took up a good portion of deck 16. Our stateroom was on deck 10, so we did a fair amount of climbing stairs. There were plenty of elevators, but with more than 5,000 guests, it just didn’t seem efficient to wait. We found the buffet quite delicious and adequate for almost all our meals, even though we did take a couple of dinners at our assigned dining room at 9:00 pm. We only ate at one of the restaurants once – Butcher’s cut, which is a steakhouse – on the first night. It was extra money, and we wanted to watch our additional spending.

Speaking of dinner, I met another lady named Beata at our table who was originally from Poland, but had lived in Tampa for many years. I gave her a copy of The Widow and The Will (Merlin Star Press, 2024), the novel I published last year. She was travelling with a close friend and was full of energy.

Nice Meeting Y’all

Southern Americans, I’ve found, are unfailingly polite. “Where y’all from?” was a constant question. Once from a young man and his cousins at the brunch table, and once from another young man at the Brooklyn Café, both from Georgia. I didn’t get either of their names. We also met Laura and Reagan from Virginia. After about ten minutes of chatting about weather and other basic info, they all rise to their feet and say, “well, it was nice meeting y’all. Have a nice trip.”

(I think I often over-talk my welcome. I can’t help it. People are more interesting than activities.)

Appreciate the moment, why don’t you?

While sprawled on the bed that day in the Bahamas, I laughed when I remembered a quote from one of Jerry Seinfeld’s comedy acts, Nobody wants to be Anywhere. He says,

“After all the work you put into getting your ass where it is right now, you’re only halfway through this nightmare at this point. Wherever you are, really anywhere in life, at some point, you gotta get the hell outta there.

You’re at work, you wanna get home.

You’re home, you’re working all week, ‘I gotta get out.’

You’re out, it’s late, ‘I gotta get back.’

‘I gotta get up.’

‘I gotta get to the airport.’

‘When are we getting on the plane?’ The plane takes off.

‘When’s the plane gonna land?’ The plane lands.

‘Why don’t they open the door so we can get out?’

Nobody wants to be anywhere. Nobody likes anything. We’re cranky. We’re irritable, and we’re dealing with it by constantly changing locations. Now the good thing about being out is you don’t have to be out for long. Just long enough to get the next feeling, which you’re all gonna get. And that feeling is, ‘I gotta be gettin’ back!’

This is funny and profound, because it’s true.

We spent so much money planning the event, dreaming about it, then fretting over the possibility that it might not happen and all the extra money we had to spend, and by the second day of the seven-day cruise, I was already thinking about it being over. Thinking about saving for the next cruise – thinking about anything but being there, in the moment.

It really does take some discipline of the mind for me to enjoy a moment with no thought of the past or the future. We are creatures who move through time. Time herds us around like cattle.

I couldn’t write and post in the moment because of limited wifi, so I had to make notes for posting after I returned home. There’s some poetic justice in that. Perhaps the same God I believe in who gifted me with this trip also wanted me to enjoy it while it was happening.

Cooper is a Canadian investigative reporter, former journalist with the Vancouver Sun and the Vancouver Province, Global News, and founder of thebureau.news

Trump’s 51^st state comments have rattled me as much as any other Canadian, and I figured that the $1.3 billion promised by the federal government to tackle drug smuggling, along with the impressive quick action taken by some premiers, including Danielle Smith of Alberta, should have been enough to satisfy the president and alleviate his concerns.

But no.

Trump keeps hammering away at this idea of Canada being a fentanyl haven. After listening to Sam Cooper, it’s obvious why, but it isn’t obvious why this isn’t a huge part of our public discussion.

If true, this Canadian double-reality reminds me of the Neil Gaiman fantasy novel, Neverwhere, in which a whole other sort of London exists under the actual city of London, an underground full of monsters and murderers.

You and I are peacefully going about our business, raising our children, working at our jobs, saving for vacations, and paying our mortgages, but under our feet, organized crime is making our country unaffordable and unsafe.

And the question in my mind is, do our politicians and our institutions have the will – and the courage, and the integrity – to root out the sophisticated criminal network that enjoys a wide latitude in our country? Or are they enjoying too big a payoff to do so?

The rest of us, the normal people living on “the top world”  are spending our time fighting the wrong enemy, I think. Or at least, not the worst enemy.

“For ten years, I’ve been researching the thesis that Canada has become a node of essentially Chinese infiltration and organized crime activity, especially in Vancouver, and this was hard for people to believe. But Vancouver has become a production hub for China and a shipment hub for fentanyl precursors, to the point where it’s been established that Canada is a fentanyl exporter nation. And so, this gets to what Donald Trump is saying,” Sam Cooper said, in an interview with the Daniela Cambone podcast. “It’s hard for many people to believe that Canada could be put in the same category as Mexico in terms of endangering the U.S. with fentanyl, with illegal immigration, and human trafficking, but my research has shown that this is the fear and concern of US intelligence community and law enforcement, really, for decades.”

His premise is that Canada has weak enforcement against transnational crime, and weak controls of our borders. We have allowed, he says, international crime with linkages to hostile states, most specifically China, and there’s deep concern that China is using Canada in a sophisticated criminal way.

Sam began investigating this story ten years ago when he worked for the Vancouver Sun, and through his research showed that a massive inflow of funds, mysterious money, mostly from China and Hong Kong had about a 30% influence each year on Vancouver’s real estate market. Since China has communist capital controls, this was clearly illegitimate money at work in Vancouver homes, causing prices to skyrocket. He discovered that Canadian regulated casinos, first and foremost, currency shops and real estate development were being used at scale for Chinese money launderers.

He calls it “the Vancouver Model” of money laundering. As he unwound this story, it became front page news in 2017 (Vancouver Sun, September 29, 2017 – How BC casinos are used to launder millions in drug cash). Eventually, Cooper learned that Chinese state-sponsored military intelligence was directly involved with these criminal networks that were facilitating this money laundering tied into fentanyl, and cocaine.

Here’s how the process works, according to Cooper:

1. China ships the precursors of fentanyl (which are not illegal) to the west coast of Mexico and Vancouver (the US has a much stronger control on the American west coast).

2. Fentanyl is created from those materials at “superlabs,” and then shipped around the world.

3. The massive amount of money from drug sales is collected in Vancouver, and then ultra-wealthy Chinese communist officials – gangsters called “Whale Gamblers” fly into Vancouver, take the drug cash, walk into casinos where the money is laundered, and then returned to these factories. The process begins again with a new shipment of precursors.

Cooper names people in his book who have somehow cleared the process in Canada or made it easier for this sophisticated network to establish itself, including Dominic Barton, former Canadian Ambassador to China. He believes not only politicians in several Liberal governments but high-level Canadian industrialists, who push the government for more business dealings with China, are under the table supporting Chinese intelligence operations in Canada.

Do we agree that the only reason for a person in a free country to want to do that is straight up greed? Their corrupt pockets are being lined, and the consequences don’t affect them, because they’re wealthy.

And it doesn’t stop there. The process has evolved from casinos to mortgages. Last year, in an interview with Chek Media, Cooper talked about meeting with an HSBC Canada whistleblower, who presented proof that Canadian banks were allowing fake income mortgages by underground banking networks. The same people who were involved in older styles of money laundering had moved their methods to buying homes with fake incomes.

The whistleblower (a brave person in my opinion) was working at an HSBC Canada branch during the pandemic in Toronto and discovered massive loans given to people who were claiming remote work in China – completely fake jobs. Hundreds of billions of dollars in loans were being handed out based on fake incomes. They would call themselves “housewife,” or “student,” or “scientist,” or “CEO of real estate company,” etc.

The bottom line is that bankers and staffers were working in collusion and approving fraudulent loans on the basis of completely fake documents.

Trudeau recently extended his foreign buyers ban, but this is a useless move in Cooper’s estimation. “These revelations get right to the core of how our banks support Canada’s economy,” Cooper says, “and the level of fraud involved – systemic corruption – I believe will shock people.”

The whole point of Cooper’s revelatory story is that it doesn’t matter if you ban foreign buyers because the whole system has evolved. People in the diaspora are using their accounts in what is called a “money mule,” or a “straw buyer.” People in other countries own homes in Toronto, Vancouver and Montreal through people in Canada.

“You can’t stop foreign buying unless you do a full audit on our banking system – how they issue loans, look retrospectively at how many toxic loans on the books exist that have basically priced the young generation out of our cities. Money laundering is like wac-a-mole.”

He says that the policies of the Financial Transactions and Reports Analysis Centre of Canada (FINTRAC) should be updated every five years, and they aren’t in Canada. “The number one cause of Vancouver’s housing crisis is underground banking principally from China; hundreds of billions of dollars flowing to Vancouver and Toronto real estate.”

So, after all these revelations, my question is, are we willing to do what is necessary to survive as a country? I look at politicians now – any politician — and I want to believe in their sincerity, their honesty, and their integrity, but I simply don’t.

Perhaps I was naïve and idealistic, but I always believed that corruption was a problem for third world countries and dictatorships, not for Canada.

Canada the good,

Canada the honest,

Canada the polite,

the hardworking.

Yes, we are all those things, but there is an ugly underside to our country – another perverted city bustling under the sidewalk cracks, as it were – that we do not want to see, and it’s enabled by wealthy and influential people in business and government.

We’ve pointed our outrage at “the orange man,” and have promised retribution for his unjustified tariffs, but I’m not sure that he’s the real enemy–or at least, not the only enemy.

I’m deeply afraid that the enemy is within, and we don’t want to admit it.

If Sam Cooper is right (and his life has been threatened because of his breaking stories), then many of our officials are corrupt, our bureaucracy is bloated, and we are comfortable with allowing organized crime in our backyard, as long as it doesn’t affect us personally. The problem is, it is affecting us. Our kids can’t afford to buy a home, people are dying of overdose on the streets in incredible numbers, and our closest neighbour is threatening our very economic survival.

I’m not saying that Trump’s tariffs are justified (please don’t throw any rocks through my windows) only that we absolutely do have a mess to clean up, and for our politicians to make the weak argument that “we don’t let as much fentanyl go over the border as Mexico does” is simply disingenuous. They all know this is going on. They must. They know, and they’re not doing anything about it.

The U.S. is concerned with Justin Trudeau’s funding, making note of a huge China-linked donation to the Trudeau Foundation in 2023. “I don’t have the evidence of bags of money being passed to Trudeau in a back alley,” Cooper says, “but I do have evidence that he’s been funded by people who are connected to organized crime. That is an indisputable fact.”

When asked by the interviewer if he was hopeful that this situation in our country could be rectified, Cooper was reticent, saying, “not unless very forceful actions are taken that will anger a powerful minority.”

The post Something is rotten in the state of Canada appeared first on Rhonda Bulmer - Author.

I said to her, “Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look just like Julia Stiles?”

She rolled her eyes, and her mouth twisted. “Yes,” she grunted. “If I only had a dime.”  As I walked away from that exchange, I realized my friend didn’t take this comparison as a compliment, but I rejected her irritation. She was a dead ringer for Julia Stiles, I reasoned. To my mind, it was a huge compliment because Julia Stiles was really beautiful. Why would anyone be annoyed with that?

In my defence, I would like to point out that my friend and Julia Stiles are about the same age…please keep that in mind as you read the following—which you will likely construe as whiny and hypocritical. (No argument here.)

Let’s just say I can’t wait until the hit Netflix show, Virgin River, goes off the air. This soapy series is based on the set of romance books of the same name, written by American author Robyn Carr.

Several people in the last couple of years, most of them strangers have told me that I look like an actress on that show.

It’s irritating.

The first time it happened, I was hosting a writers’ retreat in Rothesay a couple of years ago. Two participants were whispering about my looks, although I didn’t realize it at the time. One evening I was standing alone in the dining room, making my coffee, and one of them approached me gingerly. “Have you ever watched the show Virgin River?”

As soon as she said it, I knew what was coming.

“[So and So] and I were talking, and we think you look just like an actress on there…I can’t remember her name…but the resemblance is really incredible. You know, she has long grey hair…?”

I scowled. “You mean Annette O’Toole.”

The woman stopped and considered for a moment. “[So and so] didn’t think I should tell you, but I don’t understand why. I mean, it’s a huge compliment, isn’t it? Why should we be shy about saying things like that?”

I screamed on the inside. Maybe because Annette O’Toole is 72?!

God bless Annette– she’s had a long, successful acting career. She was a redheaded beauty in her youth, but frankly, I didn’t see the resemblance, no matter how similar our hair.

When that weekend was over, I went home and railed about it to my family, who soothed me with murmurs of “no, that’s not true, Mom. You don’t look anything like her.”

But in the ensuing years, a couple of friends, and more than one grocery store clerk, like the checkout girl at Costco this very evening, have repeated that dreaded phrase, “have you ever seen Virgin River? You look just like this actress on that show,” over and over.

Now, I just nod dully and say, “Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

Other strangers stare at me in public but don’t say anything, and I’m convinced they must be Virgin River fans, too.

Why does this comparison upset me? Why can’t I just shrug and laugh it off? Who cares, anyway?

Because I’m shallow. I don’t want to look old. I don’t want to be old.

I’m only in my fifties, and I don’t want to be compared to someone who is 20 years older. The ironic thing is that I watched the first season when it came out a few years ago, and thought to myself (okay, I know this is mean) how wrinkly her skin looked. “Omigosh,” I thought, “that lady looks so old.”

What poetic justice, to be compared to the very person who offended my pride and vanity.

The problem is never people’s intentions, but the fact that they really do see something you wish they hadn’t. We all have personal tastes when it comes to beauty, and we know all the faces we would love to be compared to—and the ones we don’t. This might not be an issue for everyone, but I do think many women obsess about their looks, even if they never write blogs about it. We compare ourselves to others, and this compulsion doesn’t fade with age. Otherwise, the global beauty industry wouldn’t be valued at $646.2 billion, with the global anti-aging market expected to reach USD $111.9 billion by 2029.

It means a lot to us, to be thought of as young. If we can’t be young, we at least want to look young and feel young. Maybe youthful looks disguise our inevitable trek to the grave.

But until there’s a lighted path leading to the fountain of youth, our attempts will not be successful, ultimately. (Hmm…there might be a book, there…)

Better to make peace with our lives and be grateful for all the blessings we’ve enjoyed: health as long as it lasts, dear friends as long as we have them, and a great family life, which creates photo albums-full of wonderful memories.

…But I promise not to tell you who you look like. Just in case you’d hate it.

With mirth and laughter, let old wrinkles come—William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice.

Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the LORD shall be praised—Proverbs 31:30

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This two-year-old debate featured Douglas Murray (Author and columnist, The Spectator), Mike Taibbi (Author, Substack), Malcolm Gladwell (Author and columnist, The New Yorker) and Michelle Goldberg (New York Times, NBC) and I originally watched it when it appeared in my YouTube feed shortly after the live event. If you missed it, you can watch it here.

At the time, I would have wished for at least one more Canadian other than Gladwell to be featured as a debater, and I would have wished for more references to examples of Canadian media, but overall I was pleased to hear a proper public debate on this subject – and I’d love to hear more.

I’d like to make a point (and maybe a hypothesis) that I gleaned from some historical research I did a few years ago while researching a New Brunswick historical politician (and strong anti-confederate) named Sir Albert James Smith. My husband and I did an animation on his life in honour of Canada’s 150^th anniversary celebrations seven years ago. You can watch the 20-minute video here, if you like.

In the course of research, I read a thesis by a Canadian historian named P.B. Waite, who delved into media publications as well as the correspondence of politicians and British governors throughout all the provinces in the leadup to Confederation, to track the mood of the country at the time. The thesis is called THE LIFE AND TIMES OF CONFEDERATION 1864-1867 – Politics, Newspapers, and the Union of British North America, by P. B. WAITE, University of Toronto Press, 1962.

He noted that back then, newspapers were plentiful, and that the political patronage of newspapers in return for favourable reporting was absolutely the norm. “The relationship between newspapers and politics was often a matter of loyalty to friends, party, or principle: it was also, sometimes, a matter of dollars and cents. Newspapers had their principles, but newspapers, and principles, could be bought and sold. For this reason, if for no other, newspapers must be used with care. They were too often ready to trim to a fresh wind, or to alter their course, for due consideration, to a new bearing. And the aim of their editorials was persuasion.”

After that long introduction, my point: Given this beginning, when did journalism turn into a profession that was actually neutral and trustworthy, populated by journalists who wouldn’t take graft to publish a story that a politician or a company wanted them to tell? Was it sometime in the twentieth century? We could say that Waite’s quote was illustrating an industry that was in its infancy, and it gradually matured into what we all expect it to be – objective – the fourth estate, which questions everything on the public’s behalf, and holds public officials and institutions to account. When I was growing up, I think we more or less had that, even though I don’t think journalists or large media institutions can ever be totally neutral – they’re humans, after all. That is where reading widely comes in.

Public trust in the institution of media is now crumbling away, I suspect not without good reason (see Munk video).

My hypothesis is that with the rise of the Internet and social media, citizen journalism via YouTube channel, Substack, etc., we are returning to those early days when information is everywhere, and plentiful, and the aim is persuasion. This technological Wild West has completely blown up the media business model, too.

There is no way for a government – I’m looking at you, Liberals – to control the amount or kinds of information available (whatever they deem as misinformation or disinformation) as a government without becoming despotic.

If we want to live in a free society, the government must instead take their hands off the information taps. People must learn to separate truth from error on their own.

I’m not stupid, and I doubt you are, either. But I think our government thinks we are. They feel the need to intervene, for all kinds of good reasons, I’m sure. But this is a dangerous trend.

For the average citizen, this is not about stupidity – it’s about being lazy. In our 30-second Instagram Reel world, our attention span is dropping and our prickliness is rising.

I wonder how Albert Smith’s contemporaries handled the smorgasbord of information that was more or less (or not) true, or at least riddled with persuasion. Nevertheless, we survived 160 years since then, so the public must have seen through it somehow. We adapted.

And so, rather than scold you, dear reader, I will focus on myself and say that I am aware of the danger of focusing on talking points that support what I already think is true. We all carry ideologies, if we are the least bit political and/or religious (I am both). It’s impossible to live without biting down on some guiding principles. But I think that ideology needs to be supported by objective truth, which comes from reading widely.

I’m sure that among all the dross on the internet, the gold is out there. We just have to be willing to dig through the dross to find it.

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I’ve always loved landscaping. To me, it’s an extension of house design, and visual art. My favourite style is the quintessential English Garden (see below), and I always wanted to build one.

You know what I mean – no pesky grass. Just gravel or stone walkways, with plenty of overhanging trees and climbing vines tumbling over rocks and fences, rose bushes and hollyhocks and lots and lots of creeping flowers mixed with vegetables, all squashed up in organized chaos.

A place to dream or write or visit with friends. A place to breathe deep, listen to the birds, watch the bees flit over the roses, and the hummingbirds sip from the sweet pea.

I’ve never had the time, the money, or the right property to achieve it, but now, I’m the closest I’ve ever been. My family is now convinced that I am only capable of speaking about two things: writing and gardening.

It’s okay, right? If it’s an addiction, I think it’s a healthy one.

We bought our very first home in a small village when we were in our twenties, and we lived there for nine years. It was an old brick side by side, built in the fifties, so it had plenty of history in the small front yard. Big trees, old plants. Stuff to move, cut down, or prune. I built a small flower bed, but that’s it.

Our second home was in Moncton, in the Old West End, of a similar age. We lived there for 16 years. The lawn was deeply shaded by fences, tall oaks and maples, and because of the mature evergreens, the earth was acidic. Lots of moss. I tried very hard to grow colourful flowers, but there just wasn’t enough sunlight.

Now we are living in our third home, which we purchased two and a half years ago, directly from the builder. This large bungalow was the last house to be built on our street in a young development, as young as the families who live here.

No mature trees. No privacy. Few fences, or plants. Perfect lawns, mind you, but no flowers. I think they’re all too busy to care about it.

Each house has represented a season in our lives. Our first house in Dorchester saw us bringing three children into the world. We brought them to Moncton, and raised them all in our second home.

Now in our third home, the kids are grown and gone. We have only one boy left in university, who comes home in the summer.  Other than that, it’s just my husband and I, with my mom.

Other than looking after my mom’s needs, there are few demands on our time, unlike our neighbours. Our street is full of teens practicing their basketball layups at the end of their driveways, and the younger kids play soccer, and give us curious looks.

For the first time, we’re the oldies in the neighbourhood. It’s weird, but all you can do is embrace it.

I’m embracing it by planning my English Garden. Every year, we do a little more. It can be frustrating working with clay soil, because not all plants can survive in it. But the ones who can really thrive.

We moved in winter, which hid the state of the yard, but by spring the receding snow revealed a big mess. Our 0.1 acres was a pile of clay – and when I say clay, I mean you could make pottery with it– that had not yet been graded or seeded with grass. The whole backyard, we could now see, was a steep slope. What can you do with a hill?

The builder sent guys over to grade, spread topsoil and seed, as well as pave the driveway. (The topsoil turned out to be full of spiky weeds, and so when it sprang up together with the grass, we spent the better part of two weeks pulling them all out, and reseeding –thanks for nothing, builder. The pavers did a pretty good job, though.)

That very first April, we started by putting in a hedge of Cheyenne Privet. After two and a half years, it’s taking forever to grow. I was told it can grow one and a half to two feet per season.

That person lied.

More than two years later, the privet hedge is not growing fast enough to suit me—I can still see what my neighbours are doing, and worse, they can see me.

You’d be surprised how many plants and trees and bushes it takes to fill a tiny, 0.1-acre property. But there’s such satisfaction in planting things and seeing them grow.

Our immediate neighbours come from Iran, and they told me that living here has meant having to manage a lawn for the first time. They’d never seen grass before– who needs to mow in the desert? And I’m quite sure they wonder why I obsessively spend every evening digging in the garden –but just wait! Wait until the whole thing comes together.

What poetry will be written there!

In the meantime, I am learning to appreciate the process, and what things look like at every stage. I think it’s similar to the process of writing. The old quote attributed to Dorothy Parker is, “I hate writing, I love having written.”

This blank slate of a yard is intimidating. So is a blank page. But, oh, the possibilities.

*Henry Van Dyke

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And of course, it snowed like crazy, keeping several folks away. Big, thick flakes that turned into slushy gushes of snow on the roads.

The peevish spring squall continued into the weekend, when I hung out at Chapters to sign books with Maria from Merlin Star Press on Saturday afternoon.

Despite the inconvenient weather, so many of you turned out to support my launch, my book signing and my reading at the Moncton library, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It was so kind of you to come to these events. The response to my little story has been favourable, and I appreciate the support I’ve received.

I have forgotten how to be interviewed, though. I will be appearing at the Frye Festival (this Sunday, April 28, 10 am at the Thomas Williams House in Moncton – you can sign up for a ticket here) in a new initiative to feature local writers called “Flash Frye,” and for this reason, I was interviewed last week by Vanessa Vandervalk of CBC’s Shift – and completely failed to mention the name of my book, or the brand-new publisher who has brought it to the world. Here I was, describing my story, and never once mentioned the title.

Aye-yi-yi… Oh well. I didn’t mention the title when I spoke to Jonna Brewer of CBC Info Morning Moncton on April 17, either – but at least she did. Hopefully there will be more media opportunities in the future, and I will eventually sound like an old pro.

And this Sunday evening (April 28), after my 11 am appearance at Frye, I’ll be the featured reader at Saint John Voices, a monthly open mic event where writers can show up and sign up at 6 pm for a beginning at 6:30 pm – 8:30 pm. It offers 7 Minutes per reader, a Featured Published Reader (that’s me), a Musical Guest with original songs (songs need writing too!), Optional feedback from a panel of experts, and a Merch Table full of local authors. If it sounds good, why don’t you join us at WASTED DAY BREWERY, 36 Water Street, Saint John, NB?

For now, I’m gearing up for a busy summer tourist season of selling my book, particularly at gift shops and bookstores along the Fundy coast, since the story focuses on this wondrous area of the province. And I’m grateful for every opportunity to talk about writing, and all the things that make my home the best place in the world to live.

To purchase a copy of The Widow & The Will online, check out the publisher’s online store. They’ll mail it to you, wherever you are!

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My husband and I had formed a charitable group back in the nineties with several friends called Burning Bush Ministries (think Old Testament stories, folks, not porn). We formed a band, wrote contemporary gospel and skits, and performed them in churches, on the street and in tougher places, like prisons. Through a series of circumstances, our group purchased the historic home of Sir Albert James Smith (watch our animation about this nineteenth-century NB politician best known for being an anti-confederate) in Dorchester, NB, in 1994, and we set about renovating the building so that we could use it for charitable purposes in the community and beyond. These days, the home has become an event venue called Lady Smith Manor, owned by a couple from British Columbia who have been carefully—and beautifully—restoring it for the last four years.

It wasn’t so beautiful when we bought the place in 1994 for $5,000 from the provincial government. There was much work to be done, and we had hardly any money or know-how to accomplish the task. The dank rooms and cracked plaster lit some of our imaginations–but gave others the hives.

What I remember most about the manor was all the doors. A myriad of hallways lined with doors, room after room after room. On the second floor, there was a beautiful master bedroom with an adjoining room overlooking the Memramcook Valley, but across the hall was another creaky door, leading up to the room I loved the most – the attic.

Sadly, the attic was never renovated during our time there, and I’m sorry that I didn’t take a picture of what it looked like. But the door—It held Alice-in-Wonderland-type fascination for me during the day, and more than a little apprehension at night. The door opened on a narrow, dusty, musty staircase, leading up to a long hallway, a huge room with gabled windows full of broken glass, and a roof that leaked. 

And bats…plenty of bats.

When I wrote The Widow & The Will, I built on this memory of the attic door at the Smith Manor and combined it with other buildings I’ve seen. I’m sure an architect reading my story would likely say “that’s an impossible building. No one builds an attic like that…” but you won’t tell on me, will you?

And if you ever get a chance to attend an event at Lady Smith Manor in Dorchester, try to take a peek at the second floor attic door. Open it and see if it still creaks. Sniff the dusty air inside. And shut it quickly.

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I had no idea what a fabulous childhood I had been gifted.

There were lots of family-reunion weekends, including lobster boils, followed by hot blueberry dumpling. My cousin Lisa and I spent the summer in our bathing suits. We swam for hours, dug clams, gathered driftwood from along the shoreline by canoe, and made sculptures – mostly ashtrays – out of beach clay. As the day wore on, we burned the wood we gathered on the beach, and listened to music.

But Lisa, one year older, also liked to scare me with almost-nearly-true ghost stories. One late afternoon we were sitting in the tall grass, exchanging paranormal anecdotes about local ghostly women who were heard wailing as they wandered the back roads upon which they were accidentally killed. The stories grew more and more macabre, until we realized how dark it was, and felt the chill in the air. Both of us sprang to our feet and darted home across the field.

My mother and father were not there when I returned. I had to get ready for bed alone, in an empty cottage. My footsteps echoed –they sounded like two people. Was there someone behind me?

Anyway, I brushed my teeth, dove under the covers, and wriggled back against the wall, eyes round as saucers, waiting for my parents to get back from playing cards with Lisa’s parents. When she finally got home, I called out to her in a tremulous little voice. “Mom?”

She came in and frowned at the sight of my little huddled form in the top bunk. “Why aren’t you asleep? It’s midnight.”

I hated to admit that I was scared, because my mom was a strict, no-nonsense kind of parent, but my paranoia got the better of me. After I recounted the Lisa-enhanced family ghost stories I’d heard just a few hours before, she gave me a long look.

“Well,” she began, “there aren’t any ghosts here—so go to sleep.”

It was a curt answer, but oddly comforting, and I did go to sleep, safe in the knowledge that Mom knew what she was talking about. She would not lie about ghosts, considering her affinity for them.

My mom likes ghost stories. She’s convinced she’s seen them in a couple of homes she’s lived in over the years, places she was glad to leave. She comes from a superstitious family, folk that hear three knocks on the door before someone dies, and who see birds hitting the window as an omen of death. People who insist that the house they grew up in was haunted by the ghost of their own grandmother, with the sound of her rocking chair emanating from the kitchen at night, etc.

I have no such experiences, but as I got older it was always enjoyable listening to my mom’s tales at twilight. When I was in high school, I would bring home lots of books from the school library every week, and that’s when my mother realized that she liked to read. She read all the books I brought home, whether I read them or not, from Anna Karenina to East of Eden to The Edible Woman.

So in 2014, I was looking for a new novel project, and I decided to write a ghost story for my mother. She had been made the executor of her own mother’s will a few years before, and it was a difficult and complicated situation. It made me think that ghosts and wills go pretty well together.

Where was I going to put my ghost? I’m quite partial to Victorian inns, given that my husband and I used to own an 1840s-age manor here in New Brunswick with a group of people (never mind, it’s complicated) back in the nineties, and I always loved the walk-up attic. Our manor was beautiful, but it needed a lot of work, far more than our resources would allow.

And since my favourite place in the whole world is the Bay of Fundy, I figured this ghostly inn should be overlooking those famous crashing high tides. (The New Brunswick side of the Fundy, mind you. We don’t get enough attention over here.)

With such a bold setting, you need a character with a sad set of circumstances, so I decided that my smart-but-grieving main character should inherit an inn from her grandmother — a big shocking surprise! And then I filled it full of conflict, plus a love triangle.

I didn’t realize I’d written a gothic novel until I pitched the story to publishers in 2019, and that’s what someone on the panel called it – Atlantic Gothic. I didn’t know how to classify my story. I only knew the kinds of things I liked to read. But after doing a bit of sleuthing, I realize that this story indeed has many elements of a gothic novel: suspense and fear, foreshadowing, dreams, an atmospheric setting, the supernatural, romance, a villain, emotional distress, and nightmares.

I began the story in 2014, and finally, after ten years, it’s being published. Ten years seems like a long time, but I wasn’t working on it steadily. Life gets in the way. Nevertheless, it went through several iterations, and I gave up on it more than once. In the early days, I even envisioned it as a movie screenplay.

Launching April 4, I am grateful that this debut novel, The Widow & The Will is being published by Merlin Star Press. Based in Cocagne, Merlin Star is Southeast New Brunswick’s newest publisher. I am gratified that my book is their debut project, as well. I hope it’s the first of many successful books in their catalogue.

In the meantime, I’m starting a new project, and this time, I hope it won’t take me ten years to complete.

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I’m pleased to be a part of this series. The editors commented that Monsters is probably the darkest edition they’ve produced so far. If you like ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night, this anthology is for you.

Not all of pieces are about Hallowe’enish things, though. My story, Retrogenesis, interprets the theme rather loosely – it’s a fictionalized account of the stressful period during which my father was experiencing illness in his final years. For him and for us, dementia was certainly a Monster in the Fog.

Partridge Island Publishing is a non-profit organization, incorporated in 2019, and have been working hard ever since to grow their brand, promote the work of local authors and develop a community of writers that can build on their own success. My friend Allan Hudson recently wrote a story about them for his well-known South Branch Scribbler blog. You can read about it here.

The book launch for Monsters in the Fog took place yesterday at the Saint John Central Library, and there was a great turnout. Many of the contributors read, including me, and it was wonderful to be a part of it. More importantly, I think the organizers were pleased with the number of books they sold.

The experience has refueled my ambition to publish more and to have more confidence in the subjects that interest me. I hope you’ll take the time to read Monsters in the Fog.

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I have a nice office. Early in 2022, my husband and I moved from the home we spent 16 years raising our children in, to a much larger place. We did this to accommodate my mother, who I had brought to live with me. Now, I have a spacious room in which to work and write. In front of my desk is a large window, through which the sunlight streams in the afternoons. There are large bookcases behind me, filled with old and new book-friends, and I’m surrounded by shelves of my sentimental tchotchkes, family photographs and artwork.

I should be able to write my masterpiece in such an inspiring place, shouldn’t I?

Yes, theoretically. But with two jobs, elder care, and my youngest of three still in university, life is full of strict routine, by necessity. The days melt together into weeks, into months, into seasons, until I look up and wonder, “where did half the year go?”  

There’s a line from the Russell Crowe movie, Gladiator: “Sometimes I do what I want to do. The rest of the time, I do what I have to.”

With such a full plate, the opportunity to spend a weekend away from all responsibilities, and just do what I want to do sounds heavenly. I could choose a quiet, peaceful place with homey surroundings, perhaps a heritage building in which I would be assigned a simple room. Such a building might be full of nooks and crannies to discover—I could curl up and write wherever I liked. Or sleep. Play scrabble. Read a book.

Nestled on a large acreage, my retreat centre would be surrounded by groomed trails, inhabited by local deer who don’t seem to fear posing for a picture. All meals and snacks would be provided by the chef in the kitchen (it wouldn’t be me). When I was hungry, I would follow my nose to the dining room. And it wouldn’t be too pricey a weekend, either.

This is the appeal of a writers’ retreat weekend, just like the one the Writers’ Federation of NB (WFNB) enjoyed in September at Villa Madonna Retreat House in Rothesay, NB. A group of 15 writers, both members and non-members gathered to rest, rejuvenate, and most of all, to write. We call it Writing Together Alone.

This year, we were joined by a Writer-in-Residence, the poet and essayist, Margo Wheaton. She stayed for the weekend to meet with each writer, discuss their projects, and offer advice.

The more I take part in these events, the more convinced I am of a couple of things.

Group retreats are more fun and inspiring than going solo. Not that working alone doesn’t have its place. Perhaps it’s just the way I’ve done solo work in the past that’s not so enjoyable. For example, a few years ago, I had a pressing deadline, and I wanted to get away to finish the first draft of a short project. I was dropped off on a Thursday night at a tiny, one room cabin on the heavily forested grounds of a private New Brunswick retreat centre, used mostly for marriage counselling. I was picked up again on Sunday afternoon. The room fitted a twin bed, a writing desk with a lamp, and not much else, not even a bathroom. Instead, there was an eco-porta potty in the corner. It had a window over the desk overlooking a small front porch, featuring a small barbecue. It had electricity for my laptop, and space for my electric kettle for my Mr. Noodles. And no Internet. As I recall, what sounded like a very large animal sniffed and scratched at the walls every night. If it was a porcupine, it sounded ten feet tall.

A little too rustic, perhaps.

It was a cheap weekend, and my rationale at the time was that I didn’t want any opportunity for procrastination. It did force me to be productive, but I didn’t really enjoy it. Perhaps that’s why I sometimes associate writing with struggle and discomfort. Despite being an introvert, I found being completely alone was part of the harshness. I’m not as solitary a being as I think I am.

In contrast, our WFNB retreats are held in more comfortable surroundings and offer a lot of flexibility. The idea is to remove all obstacles to productivity—you don’t have to cook or clean your room–and you get to decide what the level of productivity is. The by-product of going with a group is that it facilitates a lot of interesting discussion at dinner time, with people you might not have met before. Networking opportunities can naturally arise out of those conversations. When dinner is over, you can scuttle back to your room.

There’s no fairy godmother of motivation. Eventually, you have to face the blank page. I found myself enjoying the stimulating conversations with other writers during the day but doing most of my writing in the middle of the night, after all those social times were over.

And speaking of removing all obstacles to productivity…

Lower your expectations. I’m the sort of person who’s always running behind, a little late. A related flaw is that I always wildly overestimate all the things I can accomplish in any given time period.

A weekend retreat isn’t very long. If you can get away for a week or two, so much the better, but two or three days is just enough time to take a breath of different air. Drop the bags, fall on the bed. Have a snooze. Come down for dinner and meet the folks, and then see how you feel.

The best outcome of a short retreat is to reacquaint yourself with the project languishing in a drawer, where it’s gathering dust. Plan what you want to achieve, cut it in half, and that’s probably about right. At this last retreat, I wanted to complete the first draft of a three-act dinner theatre. I already had the structure worked out, but I wanted to get the words down on paper. By Sunday, I only completed the first act, but now I have some momentum to complete the task in the coming weeks. That’s worth something.

Watch the connections that people make, and let it inspire you. I love watching people talk. I like to sit back and just listen to their responses, especially those who were strangers at the beginning of the weekend. New writers are sometimes timid, especially when they don’t network very much. It’s very rewarding to watch the light come on—when they see there’s a whole community of writers, just like them.

Unless you write with a partner on a regular basis, the process of writing is solitary. We benefit from asking questions, sharing our projects and our experiences with publishing, and gaining solace, encouragement, and inspiration from others who understand the writing life. And when I return home, it gives me a greater appreciation for my regular surroundings, that I somehow always take for granted.

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In my last blog I described a visceral dream I had 25 years ago, in which I had difficulty taking ownership of a position. An intimidating person sat in my office chair, and the more I yelled at him, the more intransigent he became.

Currently, I am seated in a chair that is not very comfy. It won’t be mine forever, but it’ll be mine for the time being. My Linked In feed is filled with successful, organized innovators who are leading the corporate world to new heights. These esteemed folk use gobbledegook phrases like Thought Leader, Competitive Intelligence, Strategic Foresight, Posture Assessment (Huh? Sounds like something a chiropractor would do). These words and phrases create a foreign language that I don’t speak.

Today, I want to speak to you in my own.

A few years ago, I read Susan Cain’s book, Quiet, The power of introverts in a world that can’t stop talking (Crown, 2012). It helped me recognize how introverted I really am, but this isn’t about introversion. There are times in our lives when we are faced with personal challenges that aren’t challenges for others. We’re all different. To compare yourself to those who accomplish via natural ability what you struggle to do, is paralyzing. Extroverts deal with this, too, even if it presents itself differently. It’s human.

Or someone might read to the end and say, “Oh, it’s simple. You have anxiety. Don’t you know that yet?”

I may cop to having anticipatory anxiety. It’s the worry that makes me hyper-vigilant around events, but I resist labels. Have we forgotten that we can be anxious at times simply because what we face is difficult? Maybe it’s my age, but I feel like we slap labels on ourselves way too quickly, and we use them as an excuse. And I suppose that’s what this blog is about.

To sit high in your chair, don’t make excuses.

Excuse # 1

You knew when you accepted the job it would be really hard. So? Quit.

Yes, you could quit. People quit every day, especially when they’re as unqualified as you are.

It’s a crucial time in the organization, though. Finding someone to replace you right now wouldn’t be impossible, but it would be damaging. Demoralizing, even. Irritating to those who depend on you.

But that’s not your problem, right?

Nope, not your problem.

But in the beginning, you said you wanted to leave the place better than you found it. Remember? Was that just something you say before the hard stuff begins? Do you still feel that now? Can you live with the knowledge that leaving right now has the potential to make everything worse?

I didn’t think so.

Excuse #2

Okay, so you’re not going to quit. But who cares about growing as a person? Overrated. Spend the time longing and dreaming for the day when it’s all over. You much prefer not growing.

Twelve months are behind you. You’ve got another 12 months in this position. And then another two years to support your replacement. Terrifying! When you dwell on that, your stomach lurches.

That’s three more years of responsibility for decisions. For event management, and fundraising, and strategic planning.

My God! How are you going to make it through until then? There’s no time for yourself. By the end of it, you’ll be three years older, and no closer to your personal goals.

Seems like it paralyzes you to think about the process too much. Your heart’s racing. You’re panicked and jittery.

Stop. Take a breath.

One Day at a Time is an axiom for good reason. One uncomfortable task at a time?

In the gospel of Matthew, Jesus said, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

Can you discipline yourself to be organized? Can you break each day down into tasks, and only think about that one task at a time? Can you take breaks from the constant what-if? litany in your brain?

Plan ahead, but don’t stare down the road until you’re overwhelmed.

Excuse #3

Okay, one step at a time, not the whole journey. But they need someone better than you. You don’t have the experience. And your mistakes! You’ve messed up, big time.

When someone asked you how the position was going the other week, you made the mistake of telling her how awful it was. “Hardest thing I’ve ever experienced so far in my life, and I can’t wait until it’s over,” you said. Her face changed, remember? She shut up and walked away. She was impressed and happy for you, until your vehemence shut down the whole conversation.

Making mistakes isn’t the problem. Wearing your unwillingness and distaste for the position on your sleeve is the problem. It engenders discomfort in the people who surround you.

Yes, but what if it really is the worst thing you’ve experienced? Panic attacks every day, and sleeplessness every night? Shouldn’t you tell people that you feel unqualified?

Only your counselor.

How you feel about yourself is no one else’s business. Leadership is not about wearing a mask to fool other people into thinking you’re confident. It’s about placing your faith in what you think is ultimately true, and acting on it.

In the Old Testament book of Isaiah, it says, “For the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel has said this, ‘In returning [to Me] and rest you shall be saved, in quietness and confident trust is your strength.’ But you were not willing…”

Lots of leadership articles highlight the importance of being an inspiration to others, but you know that’s just the cream in your coffee.

For you, leadership is about learning how to focus on your priorities, not your feelings. Your priority is not perfection. It’s to do as good a job as you are able, and to handle adversity well.

Do you remember that wise editor, who recently said to you, “it doesn’t pay to be too humble about your own work”? He was referring to selling books in the marketplace, but it’s applicable to almost everything in your life.

Why do you underestimate yourself, and overestimate everyone else? I think you should come to the table with the quiet and confident notion that you belong there, along with everyone else.

And just one more quote, because I can’t resist. C.S. Lewis, from his book Mere Christianity:

“Do not imagine that if you meet a really humble man he will be what most people call ‘humble’ nowadays: he will not be a sort of greasy, smarmy person, who is always telling you that, of course, he is nobody. Probably all you will think about him is that he seemed a cheerful, intelligent chap who took a real interest in what you said to him. If you do dislike him it will be because you feel a little envious of anyone who seems to enjoy life so easily. He will not be thinking about humility: he will not be thinking about himself at all.”

Excuse #4

What if people don’t like your decisions? Can you withstand their disapproval? What if they don’t like you anymore? How can you handle disparate personalities with tact and grace and diplomacy, when what you really what to do is go home, eat chocolate cake, and watch Back to the Future?

Other than accepting the responsibility in the first place, this is probably the hardest part. You’re beginning to realize that leadership is servanthood. And it’s pastoral, even though you never envisioned yourself as a pastor.

Sometimes people don’t like each other, and they find it hard to work together. You have to be the buffer between them, and you have to do it truthfully, with integrity, and humility. You can’t lie your way to respect.

Also, you can’t be a leader if you’re afraid to make decisions that people don’t like. When you ask for ideas and several are offered, it’s hard for you to choose one and implement it, not because you have difficulty figuring out which is the right one, but because you fear people’s reaction.

Your intuition is better than you think. But even if you learn to trust it more, you don’t want to lose that discomfiting, heightened sense of importance in the moment that makes you really sit up and pay attention. There’s no shortcut around the discomfort. You can only go through it.

None of these excuses have succeeded in you.

You haven’t perfected the solutions, either. But you’re doing it. You’ve wanted to slouch and slide under the table, and slink away unnoticed, but you haven’t yet. And you won’t. Do you know how I know? Because deep inside, you really are a leader, and you’ll spend the rest of your life learning how to do it better.

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