Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 208
May 4, 2015
Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver
Cannot stop adding bits, today, to this chronicle of my little life. Early this morning, I opened the curtains to see a flock of geese in their V, heading north, and thought, I have seen that sight all my life, as have all Canadians. I felt my place in the family of things.
And I thought about my Eli, yesterday, stopping with an exclamation to pick dandelions - so many, so pretty, he wanted them all, and gave their picked heads to all of us. It has been many years since I exclaimed over dandelions. But now I see them with fresh eyes.
A woman who has always seen the world with fresh eyes is the poet Mary Oliver. Here's one of her best-known, haunting poems:
WILD GEESEYou do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
And I thought about my Eli, yesterday, stopping with an exclamation to pick dandelions - so many, so pretty, he wanted them all, and gave their picked heads to all of us. It has been many years since I exclaimed over dandelions. But now I see them with fresh eyes.
A woman who has always seen the world with fresh eyes is the poet Mary Oliver. Here's one of her best-known, haunting poems:
WILD GEESEYou do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
in olden days ...
An old friend just sent a photograph I've never seen, of Edgar and me in 1984 or 85. I was 34 (as our daughter Anna is now), the mother of a 3-year old and a newborn (as Anna will be in a few months), had moved not long before from Vancouver to Ottawa. Now we were about to move again to Toronto, as my young husband's meteoric rise in his career continued. I think the fierce frown is a joke, the way Sam's frowns (below) are a joke. I hope so.
I barely know who those two young people are. I have no memory of ever hanging onto a man, even if he was my husband. But you can see where our son gets his beautiful smile.
Thirty years ago.
Yesterday. Edgar said Sam should only have paid half-price for his haircut since the barber only cut half his hair.
I barely know who those two young people are. I have no memory of ever hanging onto a man, even if he was my husband. But you can see where our son gets his beautiful smile.
Thirty years ago.
Yesterday. Edgar said Sam should only have paid half-price for his haircut since the barber only cut half his hair.
information on Beth's writing classes this week
Hello new students, I look forward to meeting you soon - Tuesday evening at U of T and Wednesday at Ryerson.
Special information for my Ryerson students - I posted that the class would be in the VIC building, as it has for years, but this term, they've changed it to the Ted Rogers building. The room may be changed next week, but this week, that's where we'll be.
Wednesday at 6.30, the Ted Rogers School of Management; the building's entrance is on the south side of Dundas, between Yonge and Bay. There's an elevator to the third floor; I took the escalator and then turned left and then right to Room 3112. I'll be waiting for you.
The U of T class is in University College, Room 255.
The first class is to get to know each other and me, and to discuss the process of writing and the scope of the course. Next week - we write. See you soon.
Special information for my Ryerson students - I posted that the class would be in the VIC building, as it has for years, but this term, they've changed it to the Ted Rogers building. The room may be changed next week, but this week, that's where we'll be.
Wednesday at 6.30, the Ted Rogers School of Management; the building's entrance is on the south side of Dundas, between Yonge and Bay. There's an elevator to the third floor; I took the escalator and then turned left and then right to Room 3112. I'll be waiting for you.
The U of T class is in University College, Room 255.
The first class is to get to know each other and me, and to discuss the process of writing and the scope of the course. Next week - we write. See you soon.
a fan
My dear uncle in Washington D.C., whose birthday is today, just forwarded this email from a friend of his. What pleasure to think of a reader laughing out loud. My day is made.
On one of our snowy weeks I read Beth's "All My Loving." It was fabulous! I haven't laughed out loud like that while reading a book in years. Thanks again for sending it to me. I'm starting on her memoir book this week as I'm taking a memoir writing workshop at the end of the month with two of the big names in non-fiction/personal essay/memoir writing.
On one of our snowy weeks I read Beth's "All My Loving." It was fabulous! I haven't laughed out loud like that while reading a book in years. Thanks again for sending it to me. I'm starting on her memoir book this week as I'm taking a memoir writing workshop at the end of the month with two of the big names in non-fiction/personal essay/memoir writing.
we are family
Greta Lee gets a flower face.
Spiderman.
Exhausted Spiderman.
Edgar used to be the tall one in the family.Sunday was the Forsythia Festival in Cabbagetown, games, music and face painting for kids, a celebration of spring. It was also Anna's birthday, and her dad and his wife Tracey and their daughter Greta Lee drove up from Washington, D.C., to be here. We spent all day Sunday together, in my garden, at the festival, having dinner. My ex-husband is a dear friend, a good man, a very successful theatre producer, trusted and respected. His wife has a great sense of humour and takes very good care of Greta and Ed and even of his family in Vernon, sending gifts to his once-powerful mother Connie who now has Alzheimer's. They are coming back in July to meet Anna's baby. Can't wait.
May 2, 2015
Seymour: an introduction
Just back from a profoundly beautiful and moving documentary, "Seymour: an introduction," (love the reference to Salinger) directed by Ethan Hawke, about the New York pianist and teacher Seymour Bernstein. A film about the universal language of the soul that is music - including, in a section on the ecstasy produced by music, footage of the very young Beatles and their audience. But the film is also about the power of an empathetic and wise teacher who has helped many pianists achieve their goals.
Seymour tells about realizing, at a very young age, that when his practicing was going well, his life was as well, and that the reverse was also true. "The real essence of who we are," he concludes, "resides in our talent."
"Most artists," he says about stage fright, "are not nervous enough."
"Struggle is what makes the art form," he says in a discussion on craft. He's a serene man who gives only one hint of pain and struggle, when he tells us that his father used to say he had three daughters and a pianist. "He couldn't say he had a son," Seymour says; his father had no understanding of who that son was. Seymour reports that he constructed a "translucent dome" around himself; outside were ravens pecking, trying to get in, but they could not harm him. One of the birds was his father.
He's a joyful, solitary man who entrances us as well as his students. As I left, my heart broke a little for my own young self. Both my parents and three of my grandparents were musical, and there's no question my brother and I are as well. I took piano as a kid, came second at the age of 11 in a provincial music competition with a Bach piece, and then, at 13, quit. The piano was my mother's domain, and classical music belonged to my parents; just too fraught for me. And now, at the age of 64, I am returning to music on the piano of my childhood. So far behind, playing the same Bach pieces I did in 1962.
Though I was envious of the kids in the film, so accomplished, such brilliance at their fingertips - no point regretting a life without an instrument. I celebrate that I'm able to come back now; to rediscover this language I am so very eager to learn.
PS Just turned on the radio to hear Randy Bachman - welcome home! He's playing a Red Hot Chili Pepper's song called "Music is my airplane."
Seymour Bernstein started playing the piano as a little boy, and by the time he turned 15 he was teaching it to others. He enjoyed a long and illustrious career as a performer before he gave it up to devote himself to helping others develop their own gifts. While Ethan Hawke's gentle, meditative study is a warm and lucid portrait of Bernstein and his exceptional life and work, it's also a love letter to the study of music itself, and a film about the patience, concentration, and devotion that are fundamental to the practice of art. Seymour: An Introduction allows us to spend time with a generous human being who has found balance and harmony through his love of music.
Seymour tells about realizing, at a very young age, that when his practicing was going well, his life was as well, and that the reverse was also true. "The real essence of who we are," he concludes, "resides in our talent."
"Most artists," he says about stage fright, "are not nervous enough."
"Struggle is what makes the art form," he says in a discussion on craft. He's a serene man who gives only one hint of pain and struggle, when he tells us that his father used to say he had three daughters and a pianist. "He couldn't say he had a son," Seymour says; his father had no understanding of who that son was. Seymour reports that he constructed a "translucent dome" around himself; outside were ravens pecking, trying to get in, but they could not harm him. One of the birds was his father.
He's a joyful, solitary man who entrances us as well as his students. As I left, my heart broke a little for my own young self. Both my parents and three of my grandparents were musical, and there's no question my brother and I are as well. I took piano as a kid, came second at the age of 11 in a provincial music competition with a Bach piece, and then, at 13, quit. The piano was my mother's domain, and classical music belonged to my parents; just too fraught for me. And now, at the age of 64, I am returning to music on the piano of my childhood. So far behind, playing the same Bach pieces I did in 1962.
Though I was envious of the kids in the film, so accomplished, such brilliance at their fingertips - no point regretting a life without an instrument. I celebrate that I'm able to come back now; to rediscover this language I am so very eager to learn.
PS Just turned on the radio to hear Randy Bachman - welcome home! He's playing a Red Hot Chili Pepper's song called "Music is my airplane."
Seymour Bernstein started playing the piano as a little boy, and by the time he turned 15 he was teaching it to others. He enjoyed a long and illustrious career as a performer before he gave it up to devote himself to helping others develop their own gifts. While Ethan Hawke's gentle, meditative study is a warm and lucid portrait of Bernstein and his exceptional life and work, it's also a love letter to the study of music itself, and a film about the patience, concentration, and devotion that are fundamental to the practice of art. Seymour: An Introduction allows us to spend time with a generous human being who has found balance and harmony through his love of music.
good times
Supreme bliss: the garden on a quiet, sunny afternoon. Cardinals, blue jays and a pair of robins at the feeder as well as the usual flocks of finches and sparrows. Daffodils pushing through. The delicate plants - the oleander, bougainvillea, mandevilla, geraniums et al - that wintered in my bedroom are exploring the outside once again, though they still come in at night. My timing could not have been better - spring has arrived full blast and the whole city is opening wide to the warmth. I hear - a distant siren and airplane; much twittering; my neighbour sanding something. I smell - leaves, grass, spring. A breeze on my face. I see green.
Rode my bike to the market this morning - hot bagels and smoked salmon, apples, sausages, for tomorrow's brunch. My ex is in town with his family, and tomorrow is our pregnant daughter's 34th birthday. So much to celebrate. Anna's Dad Edgar, his wife Tracy and daughter Greta Lee, her brother Sam and his new girlfriend CJ and various others - Anna's best friend Holly, perhaps Thomas, Eli's father - are coming here for brunch. It's the local Forsythia Festival five minutes away in Wellesley Park, ideal for a 4 year old and nearly 3 year old. So we will be hanging out all day in Cabbagetown.
I could not be more grateful for the haven of my garden and home, for this city not prone to earthquakes, for this country which, though it's been going in 100% the wrong direction of late, is still relatively decent, stable and peace-loving. I am grateful to know what's in my fridge, to know what I'm going to do today and tomorrow and next week. Ran into a friend at the market who, when she found out I was just back from Europe, said, "I bet you didn't want to come home!" and I looked at her as if she was insane.
Jet lag is finally leaving - have been waking at 5.30 and 6 a.m. since my return, getting woozy after supper - and I'm getting out summer clothes, sandals, putting away the heavy sweaters, buying new perennials, opening windows that have been sealed since November. Let the sunshine in, as they sang in Hair. The suuun shine in.
I also spent time yesterday reading the draft of the memoir I wrote in Paris - and I'm happy to say that living in the cold drizzle without the internet or friends or family or a garden or any of my countless distractions was worthwhile. It's a solid second draft. Much much more is needed, but I did good work.
I think.
RIP Ben E. King.
Rode my bike to the market this morning - hot bagels and smoked salmon, apples, sausages, for tomorrow's brunch. My ex is in town with his family, and tomorrow is our pregnant daughter's 34th birthday. So much to celebrate. Anna's Dad Edgar, his wife Tracy and daughter Greta Lee, her brother Sam and his new girlfriend CJ and various others - Anna's best friend Holly, perhaps Thomas, Eli's father - are coming here for brunch. It's the local Forsythia Festival five minutes away in Wellesley Park, ideal for a 4 year old and nearly 3 year old. So we will be hanging out all day in Cabbagetown.
I could not be more grateful for the haven of my garden and home, for this city not prone to earthquakes, for this country which, though it's been going in 100% the wrong direction of late, is still relatively decent, stable and peace-loving. I am grateful to know what's in my fridge, to know what I'm going to do today and tomorrow and next week. Ran into a friend at the market who, when she found out I was just back from Europe, said, "I bet you didn't want to come home!" and I looked at her as if she was insane.
Jet lag is finally leaving - have been waking at 5.30 and 6 a.m. since my return, getting woozy after supper - and I'm getting out summer clothes, sandals, putting away the heavy sweaters, buying new perennials, opening windows that have been sealed since November. Let the sunshine in, as they sang in Hair. The suuun shine in.
I also spent time yesterday reading the draft of the memoir I wrote in Paris - and I'm happy to say that living in the cold drizzle without the internet or friends or family or a garden or any of my countless distractions was worthwhile. It's a solid second draft. Much much more is needed, but I did good work.
I think.
RIP Ben E. King.
April 30, 2015
Writing classes start next week
For those of you who are interested in more than my love of cheese - my classes start next week.
At the University of Toronto, starting Tuesday May 5, from 6.30 to 9 at University College:
http://learn.utoronto.ca/interactive-course-search#/profile/2281
At Ryerson, starting Wednesday May 6, from 6.30 to 9.15 on Victoria Street next to the Chang School:
CWWR 336 — True to Life: Writing Your Own StoryPlease get in touch if you have any questions. I'd love to meet you and hear your stories.
At the University of Toronto, starting Tuesday May 5, from 6.30 to 9 at University College:
http://learn.utoronto.ca/interactive-course-search#/profile/2281
At Ryerson, starting Wednesday May 6, from 6.30 to 9.15 on Victoria Street next to the Chang School:
CWWR 336 — True to Life: Writing Your Own StoryPlease get in touch if you have any questions. I'd love to meet you and hear your stories.
April 29, 2015
the issue of truth in memoir
A terrific, very entertaining cartoon exploration of the issue of truth and fictionalizing in creative non-fiction.
http://billanddavescocktailhour.com/everything-you-ever-wanted-to-know-about-truth-in-nonfiction-but-were-afraid-to-ask-a-bad-advice-cartoon-essay/
http://billanddavescocktailhour.com/everything-you-ever-wanted-to-know-about-truth-in-nonfiction-but-were-afraid-to-ask-a-bad-advice-cartoon-essay/
opening doors
First, most importantly, word from Kathmandu: Denis has written to us all to say that though his daughter Sarah and her kids did not lose their home, they are sleeping outside along with everyone else, for fear of more aftershocks. Sarah is an extraordinarily strong and accomplished woman, director, as I've said, of Handicap International for the whole region of Nepal, so she will have an enormous amount of work in the months ahead. As well, she is the newly single mother of three small children. If anyone can triumph under such difficult circumstances, it's Sarah. Here's a link to a Paris Match article with a photo of her and one of her twin boys:
Comment s'organise l'aide humanitaire - Paris Match
Thinking about that devastating chaos makes being at home seem even more safe and tranquil. I relish every moment: opening the fridge door, my clothes closet door, the front and back doors. Bill the toothless neighbourhood helper came twice; he raked and I pruned and we cleared away all the dead leaves - 5 huge bags worth. The garden is tidy if brown and bare, though I ache to see the ivy, which for the nearly 30 years I've lived here has flourished on my south wall, shrivelled and brown. Much work to be done. But the birds are at the feeder and I see a few daffodils struggling to open to the light. Soon we'll be complaining about the heat. In fact, yesterday it was hot, heavenly hot - this whole week will be.
In praise of screen doors and windows - there seem to be none in France. Denis said it's because there are no mosquitoes. But there are many other bugs, with which their house in Gordes is filled - beetles, huge grasshoppers, even scorpions - not this trip, but on others. I praise the inventor of screens.
And though there is, as I always notice on my return, so little beauty in and on the streets of this city, still, it's a vital, vibrant place to live - so much theatre, music, dance, art. My piano teacher has written to say I must see the film "Seymour, an introduction," about a classical pianist, so I will. The Hot Docs festival is on, every day a flood of fantastic documentaries. The neighbourhood festivals are beginning - next Sunday one of my faves, the Forsythia Festival right outside my door. I love it here.
And here's another reason - an article on the fast pace of social change in North America. Home.
http://www.bloomberg.com/graphics/2015-pace-of-social-change/?cmpid=BBD042715
Comment s'organise l'aide humanitaire - Paris Match
Thinking about that devastating chaos makes being at home seem even more safe and tranquil. I relish every moment: opening the fridge door, my clothes closet door, the front and back doors. Bill the toothless neighbourhood helper came twice; he raked and I pruned and we cleared away all the dead leaves - 5 huge bags worth. The garden is tidy if brown and bare, though I ache to see the ivy, which for the nearly 30 years I've lived here has flourished on my south wall, shrivelled and brown. Much work to be done. But the birds are at the feeder and I see a few daffodils struggling to open to the light. Soon we'll be complaining about the heat. In fact, yesterday it was hot, heavenly hot - this whole week will be.
In praise of screen doors and windows - there seem to be none in France. Denis said it's because there are no mosquitoes. But there are many other bugs, with which their house in Gordes is filled - beetles, huge grasshoppers, even scorpions - not this trip, but on others. I praise the inventor of screens.
And though there is, as I always notice on my return, so little beauty in and on the streets of this city, still, it's a vital, vibrant place to live - so much theatre, music, dance, art. My piano teacher has written to say I must see the film "Seymour, an introduction," about a classical pianist, so I will. The Hot Docs festival is on, every day a flood of fantastic documentaries. The neighbourhood festivals are beginning - next Sunday one of my faves, the Forsythia Festival right outside my door. I love it here.
And here's another reason - an article on the fast pace of social change in North America. Home.
http://www.bloomberg.com/graphics/2015-pace-of-social-change/?cmpid=BBD042715
