Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 2
June 3, 2025
Peonies at their Peak
(This post originally contained two short videos. To see them, please visit my mirror blog at Substack.)
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Tree peonies in the Japanese garden
I went to the Montreal Botanical Garden today, specifically to see the peonies. We were there a couple of weeks ago, when it was lilac time, and I made a mental note to try to come back about now. I’m glad I did because the two hours I spent there did me so much good — and I want to share some of this beauty and peacefulness with you.
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Azaleas, ferns, and cotoneaster horizontalis (the shrub in the foreground) in the Japanese garden.
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The last of the lilacs.
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There were some families, also out for a walk.
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And some couples, like these wood ducks, happily swimming in slime they seemed to find very yummy.
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And the obligatory Canada geese.
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A redwing blackbird, for M.K.
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Delicate yellow flag wild iris, on the bank of the marsh.
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Tender pink tamarack (larch) cones forming on a branch at the edge of the marsh.
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More peonies. This is an herbaceous variety aptly named “Clair de lune.”
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Glorious, huge tree peonies in the Chinese garden.
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This is the one that really knocked me out — a tree peony named “Nike.” I did a drawing of it, but the photograph captures what’s so special about it — that incredible salmon/peach color.
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We need beauty and nature so much right now. I hope you can find some in your life, and that this virtual walk gave you some moments to breathe freely today.
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May 31, 2025
Me-Made-May, under the wire!
Purple wool jersey tunic with organza trim, inspired by a Jason Wu design. Fabric from Mood Fabrics, NYC, self-drafted pattern.
It’s the last day of May, and so far I haven’t posted anything for the meme “Me-Made-May” in which lots of sewists and knitters have been showing their own clothing creations each day this month. I have been sewing and knitting, though, so here’s a catch-up post on the projects which have helped me stay sane during this winter and spring.
The recent boom in home sewing and knitting, spurred by online sharing among independent pattern designers, knitters, and home sewists, has been a great inspiration, and a huge help for finding good online resources for fabric, notions, and yarn. I’ve appreciated this especially because local fabric and yarn shops are a lot less numerous than they once were. These days I use some purchased patterns, and want to support these independent designers. I also self-draft some of the clothing I make. Most of my yarn comes from online sources, and the fabric from shops I visit when traveling, local stores, and online retailers. The captions on this post contain more information, and I’ll leave it at that - please ask me questions in the comments if you have any!
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“Simple Work Shirt” from the Nani Iro Sewing Studio book of Japanese clothing patterns.
This is an oversized shirt/tunic; the grey-and-white striped lightweight linen fabric is from The Linen Lab in South Korea. I changed the pattern slightly; it calls for a triangular tab at the bottom of the placket, and buttons and buttonholes, but I wanted it to be plainer. I plan to wear it with a decorative pin instead if a closure is needed. The shirt also looks good over a turtleneck or long-sleeve T-shirt, for cooler weather, and will be nice either with skinny jeans or with a long full skirt.
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Speaking of skirts, here’s a project from late winter. This piece of Italian wool bouclé, bought at Mood Fabrics in New York last fall, finally became a self-drafted, slim skirt. It has a short slit in the back for easier walking. It may look heavy, but it’s perfect with tall boots and a heavy sweater for our bitter cold winter.
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“Origami Bag” by Motif Studios.
I just made this two days ago! After seeing the pattern online I had to try making one. This is the small size; I’ll make a larger tote-bag-size model now that I understand the tricky way it goes together. You start with two long rectangles of cloth — the outer shell, and the lining fabric — sew them together, turn inside out, and then fold and stitch them in the most clever way to form the bag. The crunched handle cover is the only extra piece; it is slid onto one pointed handle before the two handles are sewn together, and then slid down to cover the join. I just used remnants from my stash for this one; the outer cloth is a pretty aqua sateen that doesn’t really show in these photos.
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And a pair of socks (they kinda match the bag, don’t they?), all done except for the final bit of the second toe. I hate knitting socks — these were started last winter and I still haven’t finished them! The fine wool/silk self-striping yarn is really nice but unfortunately I can’t remember where it’s from.
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Above and below: “Cara Hat,” by a German designer I follow on Instagram, paulastrickt. The yarn is sport weight Lang Cashmerino from Little Knits.
I’ve made several of this designer’s patterns and like them very much — simple, fairly easy designs, but all with something that makes them interesting or intriguing to knit. She also offers some crochet patterns for hats and bags.
These particular hats are knit in a tube with the rounded crown at both ends; one half gets slipped inside the other and the crowns stitched invisibly together, while the bottom edge is turned up to form a cuff, so the resulting hat is double and very warm. They’re very easy to knit and I’ve made three so far. (In the bottom photo, the folded hat in the cubbyhole at top left is a Scandinavian-patterned hat I made for Jonathan at least thirty years ago!)
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Overall, I’m noticing a lot of cool and neutral colors here - partly a personal preference, but also maybe a reflection of our cool, northern spring, which continues today. It’s definitely time for some bright colors and warmth! Can I encourage you to make something?
May 28, 2025
A Letter from Canada, at the end of May
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A walk in Parc Angrignon yesterday felt like a respite from the extremely difficult time in which we’re living. The world is screaming and yet so many are silenced, afraid of what will happen if they voice the truth or even simply say what they feel, as human beings. It’s a time when truth itself is under attack, as well as the institutions that teach people how to think critically, how to discern the truth for themselves, and express it in a coherent and rational way. A time when we are witnesses every single day to horrific violence perpetrated on the most innocent of victims, when sheer cruelty, corruption, utter disregard for the most vulnerable, and endless lies are becoming normalized. A time when being a journalist, a doctor, an aid worker, or a foreign student has never been more dangerous. A time when our own options for living with integrity seem smaller and smaller, and, as another Substack author writes, one longs for retreat from the madness:
Sometimes I fantasize about disappearing.
Not dying.
Just logging off.
Getting a job no one cares about.
Growing tomatoes.
Writing poems in the margins of a notebook no one reads.
Not as a failure.
But as a kind of freedom.
For those of us who do write, it becomes harder and harder to know what to say. My most immediate concerns are the welfare of those closest to me, wherever they live, and the necessity of protecting democracy and freedom here in Canada. In order to do that, I have to take care of myself first. I’ve been limiting my exposure to the news; I read it every day, but do not allow myself to get pulled into endless scrolling.
I had already cut my social media accounts in 2024, except for Instagram, where I have a community of artist friends, but now I check there once a day at most, and have been posting only rarely; I’m considering getting off completely. I no longer use Google as my browser, and all my email and messaging are on secure applications. My growing aversion is fueled partly by not wanting anything to do with the billionaire-owned companies that spy on us and use/sell our data both for commercial and government-related purposes, and partly because of fatigue with the endless, algorithm-based ads, but also because I get depressed seeing so much mindless material posted by other users. It’s discouraging to realize how many people are focused on trivialities, personal vanity, mass entertainment, and consumerism at a time like this — it’s an extension of the shock so many people felt at the results of the election, finally having to admit that a huge number of Americans had voted for the person they did. Now we realize that a great many have just tuned out: some are overwhelmed, but maybe really don’t seem to care, since the bad things aren’t happening (yet) to them or to people they know. Yet I also don’t want to be triggered into judgmental attitudes that only hurt me; everyone copes with life in their own ways, distraction is not only tempting but necessary at times, and it’s not easy right now for anyone.
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Feeling helpless, however, is not an option for me. I may not be able to affect world politics in any large way, but I can take small daily actions and decisions as part of a collective resistance. The other day, looking at berries in a supermarket cooler, I was alongside a French Canadian man who kept picking up boxes of strawberries and putting them back. Finally he turned to me and said, in English, “I forgot my glasses and I’m trying to see where they’re from.” He handed me the box. “Produit des Etats-Unis,” I told him. “Merci. They can keep their freakin’ strawberries,” he said, turning on his heel and walking away, while I put two boxes of Mexican raspberries in my own cart. I see and share this sorting behavior every time I go to the store, and wonder if Americans realize just how widely and deeply the feeling runs.
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On a spiritual level, I can still allow myself to mourn, to meditate, and to hope for wisdom and a better future for humanity. I can allow the sorrow of the world to enter into me, and breathe it out with intention; I can find places of peace and solitude, for renewal. I can learn from history and feel solidarity with other artists and intellectuals who lived through very difficult periods of time. I can always be a better friend, participate in my chosen and familial communities with my full heart, and bring all of myself to my work and to the arts that I know are vital. I can choose what kind of person to be inside; no one has the power to take that away from me.
Lately I’ve been doing more music, and have been working as chair of the cathedral’s search committee for a new director of music. I’ve been taking care of my health as I heal up from my dental surgery and move on to the final phase of that nearly-year-long process. Along with walking (and the swimming I hope to get back to) I’ve added an exercise regimen with light hand weights that’s making me feel stronger, and will help protect my back. Reading and language practice continue to be important parts of my days.
Spring has finally come to Montreal, and we’re looking forward to some genuine warmth— the plants are out on the balcony, the herbs are tall enough to offer a sprig or two for cutting, and my studio windows look out, at last, on green trees. Instead of artwork, I’ve wanted to do something more concrete, so I’ve been sewing - more on that in another post. The work of making something tangible and practical, whether it’s a piece of clothing, a pot of edible plants, or a home-cooked meal, feels grounding. I only wish I could do it for those who have lost almost everything, and are suffering far more.
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May 19, 2025
Experiments in Oil Pastel
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In May, so far, I’ve been doing some sketchbook drawings using oil pastel. I was thinking it would be a good exercise that would feed into my renewed practice of oil painting - a quick way of sketching ideas, experimenting with color, leaving detail aside because the thick sticks make it impossible to fuss over anything or make small marks. All of these drawings are in a fairly large (11” x 14”) Canson sketchbook, and they’re approximately 9 inches wide.
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I like:
the sketchiness
the irregular edges
the feel of the medium: the pigment is heavy-bodied, you can blend it with your fingers, and build it up in layers
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I don’t like:
the limited color selection - I have two sets of 24 colors each, but the selection they give you is all too close in value
the expense - Sennelier oil pastels cost CD$5.99/stick
feeling like the results don’t suit my style or show my abilities to best advantage
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This one, which appeared in a previous post, is perhaps the most successful, because it’s the simplest. It’s also hard to photograph these pages, for some reason - the photos lose a lot of luminosity and subtlety of the originals.
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These details are more accurate and you can see how oil-like the surface is.
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I’m not giving up, but not entirely convinced either. Oddly enough, I’ve always loved working in dry pastels, where I have a huge color selection and the pigments are easily blended and layered. There’s also more control — but I’m deliberately trying to give away some of that control here.
Maybe I’m pushing the medium to do landscapes like this, at this size. But the expense of the oil pastel sticks discourages me from working larger. Why not just use big brushes and oil paint on prepared board or gessoed card? Or even a mixed media approach?
What I’ve found is that each of us needs to find the media, the specific types of paper or canvas, and the tools that suit us and that we love using. It’s worth fighting with your tools sometimes — to shake up your technique, get out of a rut, push yourself to try new things and learn from them. But if it’s not satisfying, or doesn’t feel right after a while, then it’s better to use your time with the media and materials that feel natural and satisfying under your hands.
Jonathan's Revitalized Blog
My dear husband and partner, Jonathan Sa’adah, who has been a very fine professional photographer throughout his life, has recently revitalized his blog. I hope you will check it out and sign up for his mailing list to be notified of new posts. It’s not on Substack but on his own domain, and all content is free. He writes:
Here's the latest post from my blog. Right now I’m working on a series about Joseph Losey’s film M Klein, which I documented being made early in my career (1975-76). So far there’s an Intro post in the series, and then this one. I’m planning to follow up with profiles of people associated with the film along with aspects of the film making that I think others might find interesting, or should be preserved. One of the profiles will be about Margot Capelier, who was France’s first Casting Director and someone who doesn’t get much attention. I was lucky to know her and other people associated with the film. Subjects I plan - similar to this post - are about things like how a film studio worked, and about film editing. I hope you might find this interesting and comment, either on the blog or by email.
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Portrait of Joseph Losey, © Jonathan Sa’adah
And the blog is not all about film, by any means. Some of his previous posts explore subjects as varied as the early days of the Pilobolus Dance Theater, the Biblioteca Vasconceles in Mexico City, and eating camel in Damascus. I think readers of The Cassandra Pages will enjoy his combination of excellent photographs and lively text, so please take a look!
Blog Link > JonZphoto.com. Jonathan’s website also includes several portfolios of photographs, a bio, and information on his photobook, How Many Roads?, about America during the tumultuous years between 1968 and 1975.
May 11, 2025
What My Teeth Have Taught Me
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In bed with an ice pack, Thursday afternoon.
In my mother’s desk, she kept a small, round tin that had once held mints. Inside were all my baby teeth. I used to love to take it out and look inside at those tiny perfect teeth; I can remember the sound they made rattling against the side of the tin as I carefully placed them back in the drawer. Although her desk came to me after she died, it arrived empty. I found that tin inside a dresser when I was cleaning out my parents’ house last year. I looked inside once more, but didn’t keep it.
Little did I know that those shed teeth — which once lived inside my body — would be prophetic.
I grew up in a rural American town in the 50s and 60s, where there was a lot of poverty, not much higher education, and limited health care. My dentist was not the best, but he was a caring person who recommended to my parents that I get braces, because I had inherited a too-small mouth that gave rise to a lot of crowding, and crooked, overlapping teeth. But my parents didn’t have much money in those days, and I of course didn’t want to get braces, which would have meant frequent trips to a distant city — and put me, who already hated wearing glasses, in a very small minority. I only knew of one child in my class of 125 who had had orthodonture. That is not a decision to be left to the child. In my case, the adults should have prevailed and found the money, but… they didn’t. Several people in my family had lost their teeth and had dentures. It was common in our area to see people with missing teeth that were never replaced.
But that was not true in university, and in my subsequent life, first in university towns in New England, then in Montreal, and among our acquaintances in major cities. It is still the case in rural Quebec and many parts of America, as well as in many other countries with poorer populations and limited access to dentistry. But within a certain demographic, tooth loss carries stigma and judgement, and creates shame in the person who has it. Even when it is hidden, we don’t talk about it. In my case, I experience my lifelong dental saga as a chronic illness about which I rarely speak.
My dental problems started in my twenties. Ironically, I have few cavities and my teeth have always been strong. I’ve never even needed a root canal. The problems stemmed from the crowding, which gave rise to periodontal pockets. In spite of my diligent twice-daily brushing, flossing, water-picking, dental cleanings four times a year, and many gum surgeries — this eventually led to bone loss in my upper jaw, necessitating the incremental removal of most of my upper teeth and the placement of various restorations, from bridges to surgical implants. I’ve been going to periodontal specialists and oral surgeons as well as general dentists for 40 years, and although I’ve never totaled the money spent on my mouth, it has been huge.
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The surgical suite of my periodontist in Westmount, QC
The latest and most extensive of these surgeries happened last Thursday, when I received three titanium implant posts in my upper left jaw. A loose bridge, and two old implants that had been placed too close together and had become compromised, were all removed six months ago, when I also received bone grafts to help support their replacements, which will hold a fixed bridge spanning the space of five teeth, including a front one.
Fortunately, dental science, techniques and technology have advanced tremendously during my lifetime. Since moving to this city, I’ve been able to receive state-of-the-art care, and, thankfully, to afford it. The spaceship suite where I had this most recent surgery is equipped with lasers, CT-scanners, enormous viewing screens, and all the latest equipment, but the primary differences are the highly-trained and continually-learning professionals who plan the treatments and perform them. I’m working with a team - my general dentist, my periodontist, and a prosthodontist who is responsible for the restoration work and who has made me temporary fixtures to wear this year during the various stages of treatment and healing.
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I decided to write about this because I am tired of minimizing it, and because I know that many people deal with similar issues but are, like me, reluctant to speak of them. Unlike some chronic conditions like, say, asthma, certain others carry stigma in our society — mental illness, obesity, and physical disabilities are prime examples — where the sufferer tends to be judged and blamed. I would put serious, ongoing dental problems in a similar category. The affected person can feel isolated and shamed, particularly when there is disfigurement, even if it is mostly hidden. I will never forget opening my room door in a European hotel some years ago to the insistent knock of a maid. It was early morning, and I hadn’t yet placed a temporary tooth in the front of my mouth — I was in the middle of one of these long multi-stage implant procedures. The young woman literally recoiled when I opened my mouth to answer her question, so unexpected was my appearance. And there are other effects: what and how one can eat is affected; the possibility of new problems is always in the back of your mind; travel creates disruptions in the maintenance routine, so that you’re always worried about a flare-up. I always travel with antibiotics and a special kit of tooth-care tools, and investigate where I could get emergency care in foreign countries if it became necessary. It’s also very, very costly to go the higher-end route of bridges and implants, rather than partial or full dentures.
Many friends don’t know what to say, while some are very empathetic. It doesn’t help that I tend to downplay what I’m going through; I’m stoic and want to live normally, and people tend to expect that of me. I actually received several phone calls while I was still being stitched up on Thursday, which I later discovered were from a friend who I’d told about the anticipated procedure the previous evening. In subsequent messages they never mentioned my situation at all, in spite of the fact that I explained why I hadn’t answered their calls. Other friends sent me supportive messages before and afterwards, and have kept in touch, which of course I greatly appreciate.
On the other hand, I’ve learned to live with it. My husband also has some chronic conditions, including some dental ones, and he has helped me see how to gracefully manage my own. I tend to heal quickly, and am grateful for the advances in care which minimize pain, swelling, and discomfort during the treatments, and allow me to function, for the most part, normally.
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A former dental implant, now residing in my mother’s desk.
One result of my hundreds, if not thousands, of hours in dental chairs, is that I no longer feel fear. First of all, dentists do not want to hurt you, and modern dentistry shouldn’t hurt. My best advice is to communicate. If you are apprehensive, explain your feelings in detail to your dentist and they will do what they can to help. My American friends are surprised that we seldom have general anesthesia for major dental procedures here in Canada — maybe it’s a toughness legacy from all the teeth knocked out by hockey pucks! Some dental offices offer gas, but mine generally prescribe Ativan for those who are apprehensive. Local anesthesia injections, which can be the worst part of a treatment, are lessened by topical gels and acupressure applied by the dentist to the lips or gums - it’s over in a few seconds.
I always end up with good relationships with my practitioners, and that’s helped by my curiosity about what they’re doing and how they do it, and about who they are as people. This also lessens tension during the procedures, on both our parts. It’s good that we can laugh together, even if it’s sometimes black humor. Pain medications and steroids help a great deal afterwards, as well as knowing I can contact my practitioners easily.
Meditative techniques are the primary key I’ve found to surviving in the chair. Breathing deeply through your nose minimizes the chance of gagging, and helps to calm the entire body. I try to set up a rhythm and keep to it, breathing mindfully and taking my attention away from what is happening by focusing on something innocuous in my field of vision. Sometimes I “play” music in my head. If there is any hint of pain, I always ask for more anesthetic.
Over my life, I’ve also changed my relationship to time. Last Thursday’s surgery took three hours, using only local anesthetic, which was exactly what I had expected. I’ve learned that time is something quite relative. The traffic light will eventually change, you’ll get to the end of a queue, the bus will arrive — there’s no point getting upset about waiting. As in music, time spent waiting proceeds linearly, from a beginning to an end — but there will always be an end. Knowing this, I’m better able to put up with a short-term ordeal to get to a new point where we can, in the words of one of my former dental surgeons, “let the healing begin.”
May 1, 2025
Report: A Brief Cross-Border Excursion
For someone who’s made as many trips across the Canadian-US border as I have, it’s been strange to feel not only constrained, but apprehensive about the prospect. During the pandemic, we didn’t go to the US for more than a year because we couldn’t — the border was closed — but that felt totally different. More recently, in December and early January, we took trips to visit family and friends in the US. But after the inauguration, the threats against Canada, and the reports of people being hassled, intimidated or detained at the border, we have deliberately stayed put.
I received a document last week — a final piece of my father’s estate — that had to be notarized and returned to the US. I called the US Consulate here in Montreal to make an appointment to see a notary there, and was told that they no longer offered that service. My choices were to go to Ottawa, a two-hour trip each way, and pay something like $70 for the service at the US Embassy, or drive to the town clerk in Champlain, NY, where I’ve been before, and have the document notarized for free. Yesterday, that’s what I did.
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The reward was a beautiful drive on the day when the leaves were coming out. I enjoyed seeing the flat fields awaiting spring planting, some with their incredible, black earth just plowed, and the tender yellow-green and reddish haze of tree buds just beginning to burst.
I took my regular phone, thinking the chances of it being examined or seized were pretty small; I’d looked through it pretty carefully ahead of time.
At the border — this was the Champlain crossing — there were no cars. Literally. I saw one or two others coming behind me, but that’s unheard of — often the lines have stretched half a mile back from this major crossing into New York State. I pulled into the NEXUS lane, which has an automatic scanner, rolled down my window. The border agent, a woman, asked me where I lived and the reason for my visit; I said I was going to the town clerk’s office in Champlain. She said, “Thank you, have a nice day,” and that was that.
Of course, on her screen she can see that I’m a dual citizen, born in America, and have a record of hundreds of crossings with no red flags. But the main thing she sees and hears is an older white person with an Anglo name, speaking unaccented American English. I’m not proud of that privilege. I’ve always been aware of the profiling that happens at the border. Now it can be a matter of freedom or detention, imprisonment, disappearance, or even death.
At the town offices, the clerk used my American passport as ID, and when she’d finished she quietly asked, “How was the border?” “No problem,” I said, “but there were basically no cars there.” “Yes, “ she said, pursing her lips in concern. “They say the traffic is way down.”
Yesterday was also the day that Columbia University student Mohsen Mahdawi was freed on bail by a federal judge in Vermont. After mailing my document at the post office in Champlain, I almost drove across the bridge to Vermont, just to stand in my former home state for a moment or two. I hadn’t heard the good news about Mahdawi yet, but I’ve been proud of our congressional delegation and of the thousands of Vermonters who’ve been standing up strongly for democracy and free speech, and against the cruelty of these kidnappings and detentions. I turned around to head home straightaway instead, knowing I’d probably get hung up in Montreal’s rush hour traffic later on — which I did.
At the Canadian border, after our inital “bonjour-hi”, the agent asked me why I’d been in the US and for how long (“less than an hour”), and whether I’d bought anything (they are charging tariffs on everything purchased in the US now, including gas). I truthfully answered “no” — usually I’d have a full tank of gas and a bag of groceries, but all I had bought was a doughnut, which was long gone, and not worth mentioning. He asked me to roll down my back window, took a cursory look from his booth, and nodded an OK. Then he told me they had had reports of a car driving the wrong way on the highway ahead, and to please be careful. “Merci,” I answered, and went on my way.
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I didn’t even pull off to take any pictures, although the landscape was particularly beautiful. This morning, though, I pulled out some images from a year ago and did the quick oil pastel you see here, which captures some of the tremulous quality of yesterday’s early northern spring in the countryside. No wonder the student protests in Egypt some years ago were called “The Arab Spring”: that’s the hopeful energy you feel in nature right now. I wish we could harness it! Resistance is definitely growing, though, as more and more people wake up to reality and realize they need to do something. Opinion polls show negative approval now among a majority, regardless of party affiliation. The courts are holding firm in most decisions, as are more institutions. Still, the damage is rapid and massive, and the pushback agonizingly slow.
I’m relieved that everything went so easily on my short trip, though I don’t take it for granted; if we need or want to visit our American friends and relatives I’ll feel less apprehensive about it. The reticence remains, however. In the grocery store this morning, like everyone else, we read the labels and chose products from Canada, Mexico, and countries other than the US.. We’ll spend our vacation dollars elsewhere. How sad it is to feel slapped in the face by your best friend — and, in my case, by my own homeland! Let’s hope this state of affairs gradually resolves, though the sense of betrayal, loss of trust, and anxiety will linger, I’m afraid, for a long time.
April 28, 2025
A Walk in the Woods on Election Day
I wanted to get away from screens and the news today, so I left on the metro early this morning for Parc Angrignon, and took a long walk along the ponds and in the woods, with my sketchbook and watercolors. Didn’t end up doing much sketching, but the walk did me worlds of good. This is the first day we’ve had that’s well above 60 degrees F. On Sunday I walked through sleet to get to the metro. Montrealers are so ready for spring!
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There are no leaves out yet, on the trees, so there’s lots of light on the forest floor. This is a veritable carpet of dog’s tooth violets (or trout lilies, or adder’s tongues - depending on where you’re from).
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The same wildflower, up close.
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Dog’s tooth violets and red trillium (also known as “wake-robins”).
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We’re in Canada, after all.
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Sketching the bloodroot leaves.
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And a patch of bloodroot, seen from above.
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A brief encounter. (He/she didn’t want to move, and I didn’t want to disturb). Besides this fine painted turtle and several others of that species, I saw and heard many songbirds, a pair of ospreys, geese and ducks, and a grebe, and resolved that I will try to visit this park much more often than last year. It’s wild enough that you don’t feel like you’re in the city, and at an early hour, it’s just you and a few joggers and walkers, and the wildlife, trees, plants, water and wind.
I never want to forget that we live in a world like this, among creatures that know nothing of our human preoccupations. The paths were muddy and mucky, the sun warm on my face, the smell of wet earth and waking plants strong; nesting blackbirds scolded me from swaying reeds, and song sparrows and white-throated sparrows made music as beautiful as any I can imagine. I will miss going to the lake this year, so it’s important to me to find places and time closer to home where I can leave urban life behind for a while, rest, and recharge my senses and spirit. Meeting that turtle’s beady eye renewed my faith in nature, if not humanity, and that was enough for today!
Now I’m back home, awaiting the results of our Canadian election. Turnout has been heavy, and I feel confident that the result will be a strong, positive decision for the country.
April 24, 2025
Nature and Nurture
My cousin, on the left, holding the black rabbit, had a birthday recently and I sent her this photograph of the two of us. It’s a slide my father must have taken in the 1950s. We’re standing in front of my aunt and uncle’s house, on their dairy farm in Smyrna, New York. I loved animals, but because of my mother’s asthma I couldn’t have furry pets, so I liked visiting the farm animals. I remember various pet dogs and cats, the chicken house out back, occasional pigs, and the huge herd of Holsteins, but not these rabbits — the fluffy white one one I’m holding looks slightly demented. But my attention was caught by two other things in this photograph as well.
One is the pair of pants I’m wearing, with their design of palettes and brushes and paint. Did I choose them or did my mother or someone else in the family give them to me? Did someone find the fabric and sew them? I was born into a family of makers; my father and grandfather were excellent woodworkers, all the women knew how to sew, knit, crochet, embroider, cook, grow a garden, and some — my mother and aunt — painted pictures. On my father’s side, everyone was musical, and my school had an active music and drama program. I had an easel and art supplies from the time I was very young, and always liked to draw and paint — but would I have discovered this if I hadn’t been encouraged? Would I have asked for a musical instrument on my own, without those external factors? And would I have persisted, without watching the adults around me, observing their enjoyment and satisfaction, and how they dealt with errors, mistakes, or making a dress or a chair that was harder than anything they’d tried before? What if I hadn’t had good teachers? What if all the music and arts programs at school had been cut, as is the case now in so many places?
The other thing I notice in the picture is my calm, direct look into the camera, and a sense of the person behind her gaze. It’s uncanny, how much of myself I see in that little girl, already.
Why, I wonder, do some children seek to emulate certain adults in their families or close circles, while others are rebellious, wanting to do just the opposite? What about a sensitive creative child, like my husband, born into a family that was not artistic at all, didn’t know how to encourage it, and had a much narrower bandwidth about what constitutes a valuable use of one’s time? Nobody was dressing him in clothes with prints of cameras and film, though I can imagine those existing in the funky design world of the 1950 and 60s. He and I grew up in such different environments, and yet ended up in similar places, partly because of discovering our natural talents and desires, partly because of encouragement from older people — outside the family in his case, inside the family in mine — and partly because of innate determination, persistence, and a basic tendency toward non-conformity.
Somehow we get launched on our particular paths, through some combination of nature and nurture, but then we encounter obstacles that can hinder progress. These can range from lack of education, money, or opportunity, or running into a destructive teacher, to basic character traits like lack of the necessary drive, stubbornness about fixing problems, or inability to take criticism.
In my case, my biggest problem has always been impatience. In music, I never wanted to play scales and exercises, and my teachers didn’t insist. I didn’t learn music theory. When you have a basic natural facility, and good skills like sight-reading, and you aren’t in a highly competitive environment, you can coast along for a long time. The same is true in studying, in art, in writing, and even in relationships. I’ve become a much more patient person over the years, willing to step back and analyze a problem and figure out how to fix it — which may require a lot of work — but that kind of patience wasn’t natural to me. We’re born with certain character traits. I doubt that anyone could have trained me to be a patient child; I would have rebelled. As an adult, I’ve had to make up for those omissions later on, but sometimes my impatience still gets the better of me.
I’m working on a new oil painting now, and it’s reached the stage where the decisions are on the fine-tuning level. Lots of stepping back and looking, not too much brush-on-the-canvas. In the days leading up to yesterday, the process has gone well, and I’ve been pleased to be able to keep the brushwork loose, the forms somewhat abstract, the colors within a range I had decided upon earlier. It’s close to being finished.
But yesterday, as I looked at the painting and felt like I should work on it, I just didn’t really feel like it was going to go well. Sometimes, starting to work breaks through that kind of psychological barrier, whatever it is, and I find myself able to focus. I knew, instinctively, that it wasn’t one of those days, but nevertheless, I put on my apron, took up my brushes, and began. Sure enough, it went badly, but I kept going. I started watching myself, kind of standing outside and observing myself over my shoulder, as I made mistakes and poor decisions. It was almost amusing. Once in a while this happens when I’m sewing, knitting, or even practicing the piano. I’m just not concentrated, I know I should take more time, but I plunge ahead carelessly, impatiently, without measuring when I need to, without correcting the perspective, without mixing the colors carefully enough — there are a million ways things can go wrong and errors can be compounded. Inevitably, I make a mess that requires going back and correcting, taking out seams, ripping out rows of knitting, or having to rub out hours of brushwork with turpentine. It’s such a waste of time — and I know better!
Having basic facility come easily is actually a problem; getting to the next level requires a lot of patience and work. Fortunately my parents were able to recognize this tendency and help me through my frustrations as I learned difficult skills. My father was extremely impatient in nature, but also a perfectionist when it came to skills; he would practice a sports skill for years, fuss over a piece of woodworking until it was perfect, or spend weeks fixing an antique clock. My mother was very patient in nature, but never spent the time to figure out why a piece of knitting or sewing didn’t fit properly, or why a recipe had failed. She liked the process, but perfection didn’t matter to her. People did. She’d patiently hold wires for my father as he tried to repair something, or sit beside the piano night after night to help keep me at my practice.
The girl in the photograph above doesn’t look impatient; she looks calm, but I remember the conflict between my desire to do things well, and my impatience with how long it took. This isn’t a question of talent; it’s a question of mental and emotional self-recognition, learning to focus and analyze, and cultivating self-discipline. As an adult, there have been many stages in my life where I reached plateaus, and had to figure out what I wanted to do, what the problems and obstacles were, and how to go beyond them. I don’t think that process ever ends, if we’re honest with ourselves, and if we want to keep growing.
It was enlightening to me to watch that innate impatience take over yesterday. There’s no parent or teacher anymore who’s going to correct me; it’s entirely up to me to listen to my mood, realize what’s likely to happen, and master myself. Realize I’m too tired or distracted, take a step back and breathe, or put down the brushes and go for a walk. Then come back and, without touching a brush or a keyboard, figure out what’s causing the difficulty, and make a plan for dealing with it.
The girl with the paint-and-palette pants didn’t know where she was headed; she just knew she had some raw materials and some things she especially liked to do. I’ve been lucky to have had people throughout my life who encouraged me, and the strength of character to move beyond the ones who didn’t. Later, when most of our mentors and guides have left us, we have to find out how to continue on our own. It helps me to have internalized what these people lived: that the process is always more important than the end result, that pushing forward into new terrain is more satisfying than repeating yourself, and that patience with yourself and others is a virtue worth cultivating.
April 19, 2025
Paul Revere and Me
On the 18th of April in ‘75
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year
of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.
These words from Longfellow’s poem came back to me this morning, as I read the speech that Heather Cox Richardson gave last night at Old North Church in Boston, commemorating the 250th anniversary of Paul Revere’s ride and the start of the American Revolution. I didn’t have them quite right - the poem actually begins, “Listen my children and you shall hear/ of the midnight ride of Paul Revere” followed by the first three lines I remembered. That’s OK. What interested me most were the memories that flooded back as I thought about the poem.
My grandmother, Elizabeth, and her two sisters, Inez and Minerva, were all schoolteachers. They were all lovers of American history and proud of their early American heritage. I have Adamses on both sides of my family, maybe distant relatives of founding fathers John and Samuel Adams, or maybe not, but we do know that some of our ancestors were Revolutionary War soldiers.
My great aunt Inez never married, and taught American history in a high school in Endicott, New York, all her life. She loved words, music, and art, and could recite many poems and speeches by heart. Whenever she visited, I would sit with her in her favorite chair and she’d read to me, and tell me stories about the poems or prose and their writers. Sometimes we looked at art books, and often she’d set up her easel in her bedroom and work on a painting during an extended holiday stay with my grandparents and us; I was learning to play the piano and she’d often ask me to play for her as she read or painted.
When I was 9, Aunt Inez gave me a book of poems that she had written out, in her firm Palmer Method handwriting, or clipped from magazines. It was perhaps a peculiar gift for a nine-year-old, but she had seen me pretty clearly from the beginning. She’d be pleased to know that I’ve carried that book around with me ever since.
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This morning I opened the book to see if Paul Revere’s ride was in it. It wasn’t, but there were others by Longfellow, Tennyson, John Greenleaf Whittier, Emily Dickinson. I had followed her instructions and added to them: in the back, written or typed out by me, were adolescent favorites: Frost, Matthew Arnold, Shakespeare, e.e. cummings.
Today I stopped on the page where Whitman’s poem, “O Captain, My Captain!” was affixed, with ancient glue stains that looked like blood, and my great-aunt’s note at the bottom:
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“The ship is the union, the prize is victory”, she wrote, meaning that the prize was the preservation of the Union, at a very high cost.
My great-aunt also gave me a series of books about American history for young readers, adding to them each birthday and at Christmas. One was a biography of Paul Revere, and I remember being fascinated by the descriptions of his trade as a silversmith. There was a story in it about how he suffered a very bad burn on his hand when he was an apprentice: I seem to recall binding up my own hand in rags, wearing a makeshift three-cornered hat and pretending to be him… Of course the main focus of that book was Revere’s role in the uprising against the King, unfair taxation, and colonial rule, that eventually became the American Revolution.
So I grew up, steeped in this history, as a little patriot, and not many years later became a vocal dissenter when Nixon tried to subvert American democracy. Similarly, I became a critic of Christianity when it deviates from the central original teaching of the Gospels: “love your neighbor as you would love yourself” and the State, as it has always done, co-opts and twists Christianity to suit its own purposes and power.
I am glad that my great-aunt isn’t alive to see what’s happening today, but, like me, she would speak out.
Earlier, I wrote here that I always hope for some clarity during Holy Week. One insight that’s strongly coalesced is this: it is primarily the responsibility of straight white citizens like me to carry the current resistance forward. So many members of minority and marginalized groups are terrified right now — and why shouldn’t they be? Should my friends who are people of color, obvious ethnicity, or of non-binary gender be expected to risk everything by signing a petition or a letter, or being identified at a demonstration? Do Black women have to continue to be the staunchest supporters and workers for the Democratic Party, when people of color are being axed from one federal and military position after another? Can we expect Hispanic people or Muslims to speak out when ICE agents are breaking their car windows with hammers in order to arrest the wrong man? The answer is no. Those of us with more security and less risk have to take up this cross and carry it, for all those who cannot.
You may think, well, that’s easy for you to say, you’re in Canada. It’s true, I am a dual citizen and I live here now. I have many ties that make me want to be able to travel between the two countries freely again. But it’s more than that: I care. A lot. The current trashing of democratic and human values is horrifying, even if the racism, misogyny, hatred and cruelty they represent have been predictable and brewing for decades. The whole world is affected: a world that has seen American excesses, wrong decisions, and hypocrisy, but has also admired the brightest and best aspects of the country, and expected the US to continue to lead and to be their partner. When I think of my family’s history as American pioneers, through centuries that include my father’s survival at Normandy and service during WWII, I am filled with shame at the present travesties, and feel a great sense of responsibility. I’m also, for better or worse, an optimist. It’s an American trait.
I’m proud to live in Canada, which will have a much greater role now in championing democracy and freedom — values we must protect at all costs. But, encouraged by the pushback I’m starting to see, I don’t think it’s too late to fight, not just to preserve 250 years of American democracy, but hopefully for reform that results in a better and fairer system for all the people. Each one of us who can needs to do our part, and that will be enough.
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