I just finished reading “The Correspondent” by Virginia Evans and felt immediately moved to write about it. It’s a favourite book of mine this year, a 5-star novel!
It touched me intimately, maybe because the main character, Sybil, is about my age. She assesses her life as she reveals and reviews it through hand-written letters to family, friends, and others.
Sybil’s character is so feisty, so intelligent, so honest (in the end), so strong. She tells us all, as she faces old age and coming blindness. We live her life with her—all her regrets, all her joys, all her foibles, all her strengths, all her doubts.
I cried near the end. Not through sentimental sadness, but because of deep honest pain that finally was revealed through her letters.
Her UNSENT letters, with the final words, hit deep. It swelled up inside me, in my heart, in my gut, a wholeness only intimate, honest truth is capable of unmasking.
I need time to assimilate this book within me and then I will read it again, this time to savour the story of a wise, honest woman who is just a woman trying to live her best life. As we all are.
Back in September 2022, I joined a local Memoir Writers’ Group (later changed to Writing Your Life Story) at the Evergreen Seniors Community Centre and, for the next 3½ years, I met weekly with a small number of like-minded seniors. Jennifer Blackie, our group leader and facilitator, wrote her life story during the COVID-19 isolation and felt that perhaps others would like to record their life journeys too. She felt led to offer her experience and guide that first group of twelve writers through the process. The initial focus was to record our life story as an autobiography written in chronological order.
We all had a desire to record our stories. I think the reasons for writing our life stories may have differed. Some wanted to write to leave memories for their family. Some wrote truly for themselves as an assessment of their own lives. We all want to know our lives matter. We want to know we left a mark. We value our memories as our legacy and want a record of them left behind. Perhaps our families are not the least bit interested in reading them at this time but, one never knows, there may come a day when they are glad to have the stories and the information and memories they contain. I know my own daughters didn’t value their old journals from school but as they aged and had children of their own, now they do. Some had bigger dreams and hoped that their stories would be of value and interest to a general public. Perhaps they may even be published someday.
I joined the group because I had a memoir-in-progress titled For the Love of Food: Family Edition. It was to be a memoir/cookbook that traced food as a language of love throughout five generations of my family from my grandparents, my parents, myself, my children, to my grandchildren and was to include food-related poems, stories, and recipes from my family history. I had been researching and writing alone for 1½ years and I wanted the company of other writers for encouragement and companionship.
In addition, in October 2022, I began a 12-week online course called Memoir Writers, Ink led by teacher Alison Wearing. I wanted to improve my writing and had a lot to learn. Both the weekly WYLS meeting and the online course activities were fun and informative and added to my writing skills. Both gave me a kick-in-the-butt to stick to a regular writing regime.
I love story! We all have them. We all think, “I have nothing of interest to others” but, in the end, we do. Sharing our simple memorable moments is a wonderful way to share our lives and identify with each other or learn new things. Even if we all visit Paris, we each will have a unique story to tell about it from our own perspective. There is value in that.
Week by week, we shared our stories and learned more and more about each other. Sharing our stories began to bond us together in trust and community. We realized we all have happy stories and we all have sad stories and there has been much laughter and some tears over the months and years. The members of the group have become good friends, almost like family. We have become very close and truly care about each other. This is not usual in a writer’s group. Over the years, I have been a member of several writer’s groups and I have never enjoyed any of them as much as I have this wonderful group of people.
I am grateful for the experience of knowing you all. I have never known such a group of fun-loving and heartfelt people. Thank you to all of you for your openness and respect. Thank you for sharing your lives and allowing me to get to know you so well.
Jennifer, thank you for creating this group, for working so hard to keep us all on track, for offering your encouragement and ideas, and for the extensive work on the anthologies which took hours of time and stacks of paper. Thank you for your generosity in sharing your home with us for some truly epic parties. I’ll never forget our Summer Beach Party complete with fresh mocktails, colourful leis, a patio barbecue, and outdoor games. What fun we had at our Christmas Party sharing gifts and talents after an amazing meal. And who can forget our Afternoon Tea Party, with scones and clotted cream, china tea pots, and fancy hats and fasteners.
I will miss you all but acknowledge that the time has come to move on to new projects. My book was published in December 2024 and I thank Jennifer and that early group of writers that gave me a platform to share my work and get feedback and encouragement. It was because of your friendship that I stayed on and kept writing for another 1½ years and made more new friends. I now have so many stories, enough to fill even more books. My Life Story isn’t over yet!
Now that I’m retired. Now that I live alone. Now that my time is my own. Now that I am almost 74 years old, my daily life has a regular slow pattern.
I wake up and begin my morning routine. I visit the washroom. I make my bed. I make a pot of coffee. I go to the computer and begin.
I read, I write, I learn, I think.
I read. I read it all. The good, the bad, the ugly. Although I can only take so much of the bad as it overwhelms me. Then I seek the good, flood my eyes and mind with wholesome, inspiring, beautiful messages to drown out the darkness. I read the news, I read human interest stories, nature stories, travel tales. I read poetry and prose and short stories, and read about fashion, writing, psychology, art, music, dance. I read about gardening and cooking, birds and children. When I’m done with the computer and the Internet messages, I curl up with my latest book in hand and disappear into another world of words.
I write. I write to friends, emails and Facebook entries. It’s important to stay connected and communicating. I let friends and family know they are important to me. I write ideas in my journal so I won’t forget them. Although I rarely reread them. Sometimes I am deeply inspired and I will create my own words, my own thoughts, like a waterfall pouring out on paper or on my computer screen. When that happens, I will work relentlessly, holding off on coffee or breakfast so that the Muse isn’t interrupted. I can tell when it’s finished its monologue and I can finally listen to my growling stomach or finally wet my dry mouth. Sometimes I have a goal, I am a very goal-oriented person, and I will work relentlessly on my project, until the idea is complete and on the page. Don’t interrupt me with a phone call when the writing is flowing.
I learn. I am aware that I learn best by listening or reading and then transferring my thoughts to paper through my own keyboard or pen. As if the repetition of the moving words imprint more deeply upon my brain cells, fire along the neuron pathways and embed their message into my body and soul, where they will last. Words are important to me but so are visuals. Beautiful photos. Art work. Colour, details, creative expressions, speak as powerfully as words to me. That’s why I love photography, my own as well as others. Photos are a way of stopping, examining, listening, seeing the world close-up and suspended in time. Some capture beauty. Some tell a story. Some pare the world down to its most important details. Some make me laugh. Some bring tears to my eyes. The best say Stop and look with me. Linger a while. Do you see it too?
I think. I fill myself up with ideas and information and then sit quietly and contemplate their meaning and place in my life. I dream, make connections, wander through memories, and make new links of knowledge in my brain.
Every day, I talk. One of my three daughters often calls me, Maegan on her long drive to her next client, Brittany during her solo walk to work along Toronto streets. Lara less often, but when she finds a quiet moment at home or in her car. Sometimes I will hear from Maegan more than once a day. I think I help her long drives to go a little faster. Harold phones me every night at 9:30 p.m. and we usually talk for at least ½ hour.
I socialize. Visits with my best friend Sandy, monthly lunches with my retired RR Alumni teacher friends, my Writing Your Life Story group, my Photo Club. I see Harold for three days of the week, either at his home in Orangeville, or mine in Guelph. I visit with my daughters and families whenever I can, at least once a month. That isn’t always easy as Brittany lives in Toronto, Maegan north of Barrie, and Lara in Orangeville. We always celebrate holidays with family, both mine and Harold’s.
During afternoons, I will continue with a new book or a new writing project if I have one on the go.Otherwise, I will do household chores, both inside or out. I grab my camera and take some photos. I go shopping. I plan meals. I love to cook, trying out new recipes or creating my own by checking “What’s in the Fridge or Pantry.”
Evening hours are spent in front of the TV which is purposely put in my rec’ room in the basement. I usually only watch evening programs; the news, game shows, American Idol, America’s Got Talent, The Voice, Dancing With the Stars, documentaries or movies. Oh, and Grey’s Anatomy. Can’t miss that. I love a good variety of movies, both old and new, comedies and romance, science fiction and action films.
By 11 p.m. I’m usually ready for bed.
I love being retired. I love having me time to do whatever I wish. I love having solitary, quiet time at home. To break my daily routine, I do enjoy gardening, camping, fishing, canoeing, volunteering at the annual Hillside Music Festival, road trips, and international travel.
Yesterday we celebrated “Family Day” in Ontario, Canada. Most of my family were able to get together. I made a “Flight” lunch for them with three different soups, and a variety of grilled cheese sandwiches.
Lunch started with an appetizer tray of bocconcini cheese balls served with spears of cherry tomatoes, small dill pickles, olives, and pickled garlic cloves, with an array of crackers.
Soups were Caribbean Mushroom Soup with Rice and Peas, Tortilla Soup, and a home-made Vegetable Soup. The grilled cheese sandwiches were made with three different cheeses: Cheddar, Mozzarella, and Boursin Scallions & Chives Cream Cheese, topped with bacon, ham, and/or fresh sliced tomatoes.
We ended the meal with a two-tier tray of sliced watermelon, canary melon, fresh grapes, and an assortment of cookies, brownies, chocolates, and candies.
After lunch we had a fun time at the local bowling alley. What better way to enjoy each other’s company than through a home-cooked meal and a family outing.
AI Overview
“In the food world, a flight is a curated selection of three or more small-portioned, themed food or beverage items served together for tasting and comparison.
“Flights are designed to spark curiosity, offer variety, and provide an interactive, experiential dining experience. They cater to “adventurous eaters” who want to try multiple items at once.”
This morning I am awakened out of a deep dreaming state by my daughter’s regular phone call. She calls me on her way to work as she walks the 15 minute distance. She tells me there is a pile of snow out there. I go and open my bedroom blind and, wow, she is right. It is the most snow in one fall that I have seen all winter. Oh no. A huge amount of snow shovelling to do. I’m supposed to go to my writing group meeting and my sister and I are to meet for dinner in the late afternoon out of town at the Hungarian Club, then she is to return to my home for an overnight visit. I don’t think that will happen.
I go to my computer to do my morning scroll and my friend from Australia had sent me some very vile and disheartening videos with American men degrading women and their place in leadership. All this to emphasize our discussion before I went to bed of Renee Good and her hideous murder. I went to bed with the words “Fucking bitch” in my head. Thank God, it didn’t transfer to my dreams. But here it is again this morning.
Snow, cancellations, war, Gaza, suffering. I haven’t even had coffee and I’m all shook up. Too much bad news and not enough good. Too many tears and not enough laughter.
I keep scrolling and soon enough I have my favourite sites coming up. The ones that make me laugh, the ones of beautiful photography, the ones with inspirational words and soothing music. More new recipes. More cute children. More words of wisdom. More positives.
I’m getting back on track. I finish my first cup of coffee and begin to review my Facebook Memories, a morning ritual where I review some of my postings from the past. What was I was saying and thinking on January 15, 2025, and then January 15, 2024, 2023, and so on? Positive after positive words of inspiration come up again and again. Oh, how I need that this morning.
January 15, 2025 – “We all have dreams, but do we have the courage to live those dreams?
I remember a friend telling me she was too fearful to ask for love in her life because she was so afraid that if she got it, it would be ripped out of her life like a tablecloth being ripped off a table pulling all the fancy china with it. She was so afraid of achieving her dream because she was already anticipating the pain of losing it.
I told her that maybe, just maybe, the dishes will remain solidly on the table. That’s what makes it “the magical tablecloth trick.” If we never take the gamble, we will never get to experience the joy of living our dreams.
It doesn’t matter what the dream is. Maybe you desire a fancy car but won’t get it because you’re afraid it will get scratched in the parking lot or stolen. Perhaps you desire a child but can’t stomach the thought of losing that child while they are still young. Or maybe you have a dream to travel but won’t because you’re afraid you’ll get pick-pocketed or catch some horrible disease if you do. Maybe you want a better job but you don’t believe you’re capable of handling it.
Just dream. And start stepping towards the fulfillment of that dream. Believing it will come true and all will be well takes courage as well as an acceptance that it might not. But how will I ever know unless I take those first steps and begin the journey? BH”
January 15, 2024 – “Misery might love company, but so does joy, and joy throws much better parties.” Quote, Bill Ivey
January 15, 2021 – “Do not be dismayed by the brokenness in the world. All things break. And all things can be mended. Not with time, as they say, but with intention. So go. Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally. The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.” Quote, L. R. Knost
January 15, 2020 – “Teach me how to trust my heart, my mind, my intuition, my inner knowing, the senses of my body, the blessings of my spirit. Teach me to trust these things so that I may enter my sacred space, and love beyond my fear and thus walk in balance with the passing of each glorious sun.” Quote, Lakota Prayer
I learn these lessons best through conscious dance — a free way of moving that drops me directly into my body, releases my mind to a stream-of-consciousness flow, and ignites my spirit. Conscious dance teaches me full embodiment so that the lessons I learn on the dance floor go with me into my daily life. Conscious dance helps me to be a better person.
January 15, 2018 – “Beauty is quietly woven through our ordinary days . . . Everywhere there is tenderness, care, and kindness, there is beauty. “ Quote, John Donahue
January 15, 2015 — The Storytellers by Barbara Heagy
Reading good books inspires me. We need to tell our stories, they connect us, as we share the tapestry of our lives.
In more ancient cultures the oral story-tellers were held in esteem as they were the reservoirs of life tales. They ensured the tales of long ago were passed on to future generations, and not just for entertainment. The stories were told so that we would never forget, so that one’s memory could live on through future generations. They were told so that we could learn from the past. Stories helped others understand who they were and where they came from.
The oral story-tellers in our modern day culture exist now in bars where tales are told over foaming pints of beer, around campfires, dinner tables, and steaming cups of latte in the local coffee shop. We have become a world of printed words and pictures. Electronic media connects us and these are the new ways our stories are passed on in busy lives. Readers sit behind worn paperback books, computer screens, glowing Kindles and Smartphones. Facebook, Hotmail, Youtube and Instagram ensure we continue to share our lives with each other. We still love our stories. We still need the stories. Now we need the writers, the photographers, and the film-makers to be the tellers of the tales and, with technology, we all have the potential to be the story-teller.
Past or present, we are all human, we are all the same – we live, we breathe, we smile, we wipe tears from our children’s faces. We share joy and suffering, the strong look after the weak, we bury our dead as we, too, will be buried someday. Stories satisfy our desire to stay connected, for when our stories end, we end. Stories are as important for us now as they were a way back then.”
May my stories continue to lift others up as their stories lift me. Thank you for the story tellers.
And now, now it’s time for brunch. I’m back on track!
Tom, my husband of only four years, a second marriage, passed away on December 11, 2010, lung cancer claiming his life. This piece of prose is written in his memory, fifteen years after his death.
Stone Cold by Barbara Heagy
The first snow of winter Has left the ground frozen and white. Your memory sits by the back door, Stone cold, In a small garden where a tiny purple crocus Comes up every spring without fail.
You wanted to be cremated, Your ashes spread in Little Cove, The pure waters of Georgian Bay Where you had spent many a beloved summer In God’s country, as you called it.
And so, in a summer after you passed I took those snowy ashes to your favourite shore. We made small paper origami boats, Filled them with a single white candle And a sprinkle of you And set them free into the bay.
I waded out toward the waves, The rest of those powdered ashes Were poured into the cold waters Where they sank to the bottom of the rocky bed.
One of those stones became your headstone With a simple one word epitaph TOM
And now your memory sits by the back door, Stone Cold, In a small garden where a tiny purple crocus Comes up every spring without fail, Brought back to life by spring suns and warm tears.
I finished my latest book ” Bee Time – Lessons From the Hive” by Mark L. Winston. It’s a fascinating read, written in lyrical prose, celebrating the many roles and gifts bees offer us through the eyes of a variety of disciplines: art, science, agriculture, environment, business, urban planning, nature, philosophy, religion and spiritual growth. Bees have many lessons to teach us.
I offer this poem and photo as a gift to Mark L Winston for his enlightening read and love of bees.
“Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt – marvelous error! — that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.”
I wake today in gloom. The cloudy skies are keeping the sun at bay and the rain is dripping from barren branches of autumn and soaking through the fallen leaves now covering my resting garden.
It’s been a difficult week and I have been away from my own bed and quiet home for almost two weeks now. I have been in and out, repacking my suitcase and rushing off to help family, fulfill obligations and responsibilities, doing for others, my focus outwards.
Today, I am home. But the events of the week still reside within me. We have faced death this week with a beloved family member. He wanted to live but was unable to continue. It was time to disconnect.
I feel a disconnection in my own life. Home is somewhere where I used to live. I need to spend more time here. To feel like I belong here. To remember its beauty. To savour the pockets of comfort where I used to reside. To linger. To connect once again with the beloved creations of who I used to be. To love it again.
And so, on this dreary day, I take my camera in hand, turn out the lights, and let the limited natural light of this cloudy day seep in through the windows and doorways.
I sit, quietly and consciously observing the interplay of light and shadow throughout the room. I recognize and connect to the darkness which co-exists with the light. It mirrors my emotions today. I too am dark, melancholy but want to recognize and remember light-filled days. The brightness is still there. I need to look for it.
I give time to remind myself of the joy I had in creating and arranging small areas filled with memories. Once again I search for the spaces of delight that once illuminated my life. They are still there. And today I have the time to appreciate and cherish them. I focus, I remember, and I snap a photo. I snap another one as I move from room to room.
I am taking an online course called Photography and Mindfulness, 10 lessons that arrive every Tuesday and Friday. I have completed five of them and they are teaching me to slow down, use my senses, change my perspective, observe with curiosity and not judgement. I am learning to accept these dark emotions, give them space. They don’t need to leave. Dark and light co-exist together. They complement each other. Yin and Yang. A balance. I am learning to allow the darkness to just be and let my own light gently illuminate it. And that perspective is reflected in my photos.
I shoot them in black and white, recognizing that the black is as important as the white. Shadows cannot exist without light. Light cannot exist without shadows. They are a duality. Their borders touch and interplay with each other. The bright dried hydrangeas from the garden, sit side-by-side with my Korean print in its muted tones, the blurred framed photo of my brothers and sister in the background. It’s slightly out-of-focus as is my memory of my deceased brother Ping. Light spills in from the front door, illuminating the hall, creating shadows along the edges of the angled walls and staircase. Texture and tones are accented on the carved vase, the feathered grasses, the struggling spider plant, and the carved wooden bird on my bedroom side table as light and dark play among them.
Sitting with these memories brings back the joys and the pains of my past. I have been in this house now for twenty years and there have been many light-filled days as well as the burdensome weight of dark days too. There has been life and death, celebrations and failures, hopes and disappointments. I have cursed them at times but I accept and am grateful for them. I reside with them all. They live within me.
We all know cooks who have a secret recipe that they will just not reveal to their doting fans. Kentucky Fried Chicken is perhaps the most famous for its secret “11 herbs and spice” recipe. Some recipes are kept secret for commercial reasons: professional chefs who have signature dishes, corporations who will not reveal all the ingredients in their marketed product, family recipes that want to be kept in the family as part of their traditions and legacy.
Whatever the reason, many cooks go to the grave with their secret recipe still unrevealed. Until now. Author Rosie Grant has released a new cookbook “To Die For — A Cookbook of Gravestone Recipes” with 40 recipes that have been carved into headstones after the passing of the loved one.
Naomi Odessa Miller-Dawson’s “Spritz Cookies”, Dr. Death’s “Ranch” dressing, Kinette Lee DeCota’s “Kim’s Carrot Cake” and “Cream Cheese Frosting” are some of the featured recipes along with stories and photos of their culinary creations, all made with love for their family and friends.
I know myself that my grandmothers died before revealing their recipes that often were not recorded but were passed down traditionally through oral stories, observation and practice. It was one of the reasons I wanted to write my own cookbook “For the Love of Food: Family Edition” so that our favourite dishes through five generations would continue to be passed down through the years. Food was and is a language of love in my family and there is much joy and celebration in the making and eating of our treasured creations. Now I am happy to say that, with my book, we do have a written record of recipes and meals to pass on through the family line.
Check out Rosie Grant’s newly released cookbook as well as my book “For the Love of Food: Family Edition.” They both are a tribute to those who use food as a language of love.
“One day you will look back and see that all along you were blooming.” ~Morgan Harper Nichols
I’m a little sad to see that fall is making its appearance with cooler temperatures and dying vegetation.
And yet, my garden still blooms.
My petunias have straggles of browned stems but colourful blooms still reach for the warm sun and declare, “We’re not over yet!”
The Morning Glory blossoms are not as prolific as they were, but some flower funnels still glow in brilliant colours, greeting the morning sun.
The Echinacea are no longer in their prime but they still bloom, not yet ready to give up completely.
How like my garden I am. We both are in the fall of our lives. Maybe not as beautiful as we once were, but still blooming, still growing. There is still time to enjoy the day’s gifts and make an offering.
