Ode to Jian Ghomeshi by Katherine Fawcett

30 Oct

Trying to think of a sonnet. I’m on it.
A limerick. Perhaps a Haiku.
Some clever-ish prose, that thoughtfully shows
The feelings I have for Q.

You know it ain’t easy.
The task makes me queasy.
I’ve never been much of a poet.
But Jian Ghomeshi, is here in the fleshy
Let’s hope that I’m not gonna blow it.

“Well, hi there”, he says, as I’m driving to work.
“Happy Tuesday,” and yes, it will be one.
This guy has the awesomest job in the world
I don’t care if it’s even a re-run.

We speak about theatre, music and books.
About art and the freedom to make it.
We debate what is true, what is timeless and good,
And whether it’s okay to fake it.

You’re the Book Clubber’s hero, The writer’s groups’ crush.
You’re quick with the perfect-est question.
And then, when they answer, oh, my heart, be still –
a rarity now: you Listen!!

Oh, you put that Billy Bob right in his place
And you really had Michael Moore going.
From Mandy Patinka to Massive Attack.
The wit and the wisdom keep flowing.

You’ve interviewed rich, influential and smart.
The legend, the great-up-and-coming.
The brash and the censored, the funny, the shy,
Your theme song I’m constantly humming.

One day when my books get awards and gold stickers
And your people call mine to approve us
We’ll sit in that funky Q studio there,
And I’ll ask you about Moxy Fruvous.

A Nudge from a Stranger by Stella Harvey

22 Oct

Gratitude is the sign of noble souls. Aesop

I’m exhausted and teary-eyed. It’s over. A year’s worth of planning, organizing, begging, cajoling, worrying and praying is done. Well, it’s not truly done until the paperwork and numbers are submitted. Did we accomplish what we initially said we would? Yes, we did. I had the proof, long before launch date, in spreadsheets full of numbers analysed on different parameters. In addition to a spreadsheet analysis, I will write reports and incorporate participant feedback. I will record these tangible measures of success and forward this to our funding sources, but I’m not sure they will tell the whole story. Some lessons are difficult to capture in a report.

For the past twelve years I’ve organized a writers festival in Whistler. It’s something I started in my living room, a way to connect writers to each other and to their audience. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I like bringing people together, I like the stimulation of good conversation, and I love books.

The thing is, this little festival has grown so much bigger than one person can manage. It’s not that people haven’t offered to help. They have in droves, which I appreciate more than I can ever express in such inadequate words like, thank you.

When things go wrong or I’m overwhelmed by all that has to be done, I complain, refer to the festival as the festival from hell. And believe me this is not a term of endearment or affection. I question my abilities, my sanity, and most importantly myself. I feel as though I’m running headlong into a disaster I can’t see, but know is there. It seems too much for me to cope with and I lose sight of why I do it.

It’s at these times I escape into my garden to get some perspective. There’s nothing like hacking at weeds to help deal with frustration. On one of these forays, as I stood on top of my rock wall, stretching out to slash at a particularly stubborn weed, a car stopped on the road just in front of me. I looked up and lost my balance.

I regained it quickly, narrowly missing a tumble.

The woman smiled. I’m sure I responded with a scowl.  What did this stranger want? Doesn’t she know I’m busy? Doesn’t she know I’ve got lots on my mind?

“I just want you to know,” the woman began, “that I stop here every morning on my way to work.” She brimmed. “To admire your garden. It’s so beautiful.”

The garden, my garden, the one I call, the garden from hell, gives pleasure to this stranger. I never thought about that before. How nice is that?

Yes, I could and do complain about how big the garden is, how much work it is, how I take my life into my own hands every time I balance on one of those slippery rock walls, but what does she care about any of this. She enjoys the garden. What kind of person would I be if I took that away from her?

I felt the anger drain from me. I said, “thank you. You are so kind. You made my day. Thank you so much for stopping, for telling me how you feel about the garden.”

The lesson learned in the garden that day is the same one I re-learn during each and every festival. I’m a slow learner. But I need to remember not to let the work and the frustrations cloud and diminish my gratefulness.

And I am grateful. Grateful for those who offer a helping hand or send lovely notes of support. I’m grateful for the connections made, the friendships developed. And I’m grateful that I can do this, this organizing, this bringing people together. It is rewarding work that leaves me replenished and exhausted, content and teary, and completely committed to what I do.

It’s this kind of lesson learned that is difficult to capture in a final report.

Aesop was right. Gratitude is a sign of a noble soul. I have a long way to go on that front. Still, I’m grateful for the little reminders of strangers.

This year marked the twelfth anniversary of the Whistler Readers and Writers festival. And what an incredible event it was. Wrapping up this past weekend, the festival hosted thirty guest authors, and close to 1200 participants to an array of literary offerings including readings and panel discussions for the public and developmental workshops for emerging and experienced writers. Participants and guest authors alike commented on the organization of the festival, the beautiful surroundings, the range of topics offered, and all noted they’d be back. And so will we. Looking forward to welcoming everyone again October 17-19, 2014. 

And Now for a Story from One of Our Local Scribes…

17 Oct

The Helm of Mythos by Daniel de Lacroix

This story is an anecdote, or recounting of the events, surrounding what the media called at the time, ‘The mystery of Joe Common’. What is about to follow is a summary based upon the notes from Joe Common’s black journal and other pieces of writing that he kept during his lifetime and especially details about his recent life up until the moment of his disappearance.

Mr. Joe Henry Common was as banal as his name. Worked as a dock worker in Vancouver, kept to himself and played a little bit of guitar in his spare time. Joe was the last person anybody would think that anything interesting would happen to. But somehow, as if destiny walked right up to him one day, the most unusual thing occurred to this most commonplace person.

It was a normal Monday complete with everyone’s indifferent attitude to the beginning of the work week. Mr. Common was busy unloading some cargo at the dockyard when he was approached by some representatives of the estate of the late Sir Arthur Schliemann. Mr. Schliemann was a renowned historian and archaeologist who had recently passed away and had no children of his own nor any close relatives alive except for Joe Common.

Now Joe had only heard of his name a few times growing up, and did not have any relations with Arthur. Actually, they never met, and he had no relationship with any of Arthur’s relatives who had also come to their deaths rather early in life. So, as it came to pass, the inheritance fell to him. Not only did he receive a considerable sum of money, but the late Mr. Schliemann also had a small estate in Greece that came as part of the inheritance.

As anyone would expect, Joe quit his job and packed his bags for Greece. The estate was located a few miles outside of the village of Paranesti in Northeastern Greece. When he arrived, he found the manor to be quaint, with a subtle beauty and serene quality emphasized by the way it was nestled between a rushing stream and the rugged mountains.

Inside the house, he found antique furniture and all other comforts of home. The late Mr. Schliemann kept a large and comprehensive library, with many old fossils that any book dealer would salivate at the mouth for. There were also lots of stacked boxes around the house with various articles that he would enjoy and find lots of time to investigate.

He decided to take a look down in the basement. This place was like a museum. Many of the items were part of Arthur’s most prized and personal collections. He had several armour stands that were decorated in various types of ancient regalia inside a large glass case. One of the sets of armour attracted his eye the most. In particular there was a very old helmet in surprisingly good condition, with only a few spots of weathering.

The label beside the armour read: Greek Thracian Bronze Helmet approx. 500-400 BC. There was a slight metal plume that ran along the middle of the helmet. It had flaps that went down to protect the sides of the face and ears, as well as a billed peak much like a baseball cap. The most distinctive feature was that it had a pair of golden wings on the sides of the helmet. A rare and wondrous item indeed.

As Joe described in his journal, his curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn’t help but pick up the bronze helmet to take a better look at it. He found the helm to be fairly heavy, and when he turned it over to look inside he found a strange note tied to a string. The note read as follows: Careful with the Helmet!

Joe, at first, thought it strange that Arthur would write a note to others to take extra care of the helmet. He even proceeded to inspect the other pieces of armour on all the stands, but no note was found inside any of them.

Perhaps that particular helmet was more valuable than the other pieces, and he should put it back right away on the armour stand, but for some reason he just couldn’t put it away yet. The feeling of the weathered bronze as it rolled along his gentle fingers seemed to give him a sense of familiarity, a sense of another place.

Whether it was natural temptation or amusement is not clear, but what is known is that Joe placed the helmet upon his head and looked into to the glass casing to see his reflection. He smiled and laughed in spite of himself, throwing up his arms as though he was some triumphant hero or great nobleman of antiquity.

He began to feel a sensation over his whole body that was warm and tingling.  A minute later he began to feel dizzy and nauseous. He attempted to take off the helmet, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t remove it. The room began to spin around him and he felt his pulse rising and his body go completely numb. Like a whirlwind, and with a flash, he disappeared into thin air.

Now, this next part of the story may seem strange, oddly mysterious or just completely unbelievable, but according to his journal, Mr. Joe Common said that when he came back to consciousness he found himself in the middle of a field, and, after further travels, he discovered he was still in Northern Greece, but in a different time.

He continued to travel, meeting people along the way. Joe wrote of his observations and that at first he was obviously a bit scared and everything felt very strange and foreign to him, yet he didn’t seem to stand out in an odd way to the ancient Greeks. Everything he did appeared to be normal and the most curious thing of all was that he could understand their language and speak it back to them in the same accent. Speaking with various people, he found out that he was in the region of Thrace, which is the northeastern most area of Greece.

Mr. Common went on to say that he began travelling south to the city of Athens where he met a man by the name of Thucydides, an Athenian general who also wrote history. He apparently got into a discussion with the general, who went on to tell Joe about his views on politics throughout the lands of Greece. Thucydides believed that the relations between nations were based upon might rather than right. Joe agreed and, remembering for a moment the future, he thought to himself, not much has changed.

Thucydides continued saying he had an interest in developing an understanding of human nature to explain behaviour in times of crises such as plague, massacres and civil war. Though Joe didn’t agree with the general that man should depend solely on leadership to run the government, they both felt that often people will turn on one another during a crises due to the self-interest that permeates throughout society.

A short time later after meeting Thucydides, Joe returned to a room he had rented at a local inn. He sat on the bed and decided to take off his helmet. When he did so he began to experience the same nauseous feelings he had before in the basement of the Schliemann estate. The next thing he knew,he was once again in the present day, except that he was not inside the manor but knee deep in water in the large stream near the homestead.

It was later that he wrote in his black journal everything that happened to him and that he would never tell another soul because he knew no one would believe him. However, something urged him to keep a diary of all that had transpired.

The dilemma for him now was if he should put the helmet back on or not. Who knew where he would end up next? Would it be the same time and place as before? Or should he put the helmet back on the armour stand and forget anything ever happened.

But something made him feel homesick for ancient Greece. He felt alive there. He couldn’t help but feel a strong urge to plunge back into that strange world that felt more raw and real than the modern world into which he was born. So without another moment’s hesitation, he placed the bronze helmet upon his head and disappeared like smoke in the wind.

Mr. Common wrote that he ended back in ancient Greece, but this time it was several decades before his first teleportation, or at least that is what he called it. He arrived just outside the gates of Athens and, after a while of walking the streets, he came upon a pottery workshop owned by a man named Brygos. Joe said that he was ecstatic when he saw the painting work that Brygos had done on the vases in the shop. Not only did he paint vases, but he also made and painted many fine drinking cups and bowls.

The high quality and realistic depictions of the figures were so expressive and precise. Brygos had developed a name for himself as he was the only one at the time to create red-figures as opposed to the traditional black-figures of his day.

Soon after, Mr. Common wrote that he was so inspired by the vase painter and his work that he decided to purchase a lyre and learn how to play. He began to form a friendship with Brygos and other fellow artisans that hung around the shop, and people began calling him by the name of Orpheus. He went on to say that his skill with music improved considerably and soon developed a reputation throughout Athens and other Greek city-states as a great singer and musician.

Joe (or Orpheus) went on to say that the helmet didn’t always send him back and forth through time when he took it off or put it on, since it was somehow dependent upon his mood or desire to teleport. He could control it through his ‘will’, he said.

Mr. Common apparently returned to the present time to record these events and his thoughts. And these were the last entries in his black journal, which was left in the top drawer of his office desk. He also left a cryptic note on top of the desk that read: “I am off to join the Argonauts. They will need my inspiration for the adventure. I am going now and shall never return. Goodbye.” He even signed it with the name Orpheus.

After some time when it was obvious that Joe had stopped paying his bills or contacting his friends and surviving relatives, authorities went to the estate to find this peculiar note as well as his black journal. The authorities searched the estate and then greater Greece, but they couldn’t find any evidence of his whereabouts. It was as if he had just disappeared into thin air. Also, quite curiously, the authorities never found any writing from the late Arthur Schliemann regarding the helmet or how he acquired the object.

Everyone, not surprisingly, thought Mr. Common had gone completely crazy and perhaps was still out in the world somewhere. Or that something bad had happened to him and his body hadn’t been found yet.

However unlikely it is that these events occurred (and it is very possible Joe Common went insane), relatives, colleagues and members of the public couldn’t help but feel that maybe it was possible that some ancient artifact did possess the ability to teleport someone through time. And that maybe there was still much that the human mind could not comprehend or had yet to discover in this world.

About the Whistler Readers and Writers Festival:

The Whistler Readers and Writers Festival started in 2001. Each year the three-day event brings world-renowned authors to Whistler for workshops, panel discussions and readings. The intimacy of this festival with its focus on events for both readers and writers makes it unique. For more information visit: whistlerreadersandwritersfestival.com

Buried in the Sky by Susan Oakey-Baker

13 Oct

Buried In The Sky (authors Peter Zuckerman and Amanda Padoan)

Review by Susan Oakey-Baker (author of Finding Jim)

I have a connection to K2, the second highest and most dangerous mountain in the world, even though I have not climbed it. My late husband, guide and respected mountaineer Jim Haberl, was the first Canadian to reach the summit in 1993.

The risk of climbing big mountains, such as K2 and Everest, has changed over the years. More and more people attempt the summits, and they are not all seasoned mountaineers. They reach their goal on the backs of guides and porters.

In 2008, when 11 people were killed on K2, CBC asked me what I thought of the tragedy. Was the risk worth it? My answer: the risk is part of the game.

But what is the risk?

Buried In the Sky by Peter Zuckerman and his cousin Amanda Padoan, is a compelling recreation of the 2008 K2 disaster, based on two years of research, seven trips to Nepal and hundreds of interviews with Sherpas and foreigners. There are the usual mountain characters; ambition, conquest and survival but the story is rich and compelling due to the exhaustive research and because it centers on the real heroes, the Sherpas.

Zuckerman and Padoan explain that the Sherpas guide the mountain because the pay is more than triple what they can make otherwise and success leads to a bonus. They want to feed and clothe their families and send their kids to school. They climb the mountain twice; first to set fixed lines and camps and second when they go back down to fetch the clients.

Guided clients seek the summit out of ambition and the push to reach the top is palpable. The system is overloaded. Expectations are high.

When the fixed ropes are swept away by an avalanche, leaving the clients and guides stranded on descent, some people respond with courage and grace while others seek to save themselves. Traditionally, mountaineers are expected to be self-sufficient in the Death Zone, above 8,000 meters but the game has changed now that people are being guided.

Four Sherpas and Pakistanis and seven foreigners were killed in 2008 on K2. For the 4 year-old son of one of the Pakistani porter who was killed, the risk was not worth it.

As Buried In They Sky illustrates, the risk of climbing K2 is failure, injury and death. And compromising one’s humanity.

Susan Oakey-Baker is an author, guide, painter and teacher who lives in Whistler with her husband and son. Her new memoir, Finding Jim, will be officially launched at the Whistler Readers and Writers Festival on Friday Oct 18 from 6:30-7:30 at Millennium Place. All welcome. On Friday Oct 18 from 4-6pm, Susan will join other authors and publishers in a panel discussion to answer the question: You have a manuscript, now what? On Sunday Oct 20 from 11-1pm, Susan will join 5 other authors in conversation with Jian Ghomeshi over brunch.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do by Brigitte Mah

9 Oct

A few weeks ago I broke up with my job. Like all relationships that end, I knew it had to happen, but it was the hardest thing I’ve done in a while. It wasn’t that I was letting down all the kids I’d promised to teach Grade 12 to, or the kids I’d promised to help out every lunch hour, or the parents I’d promised to email extra homework assignments to, or even my parents who wanted me to have a solid pension and great benefits.

It was that for 13 years I defined myself as a teacher. I introduced myself as a teacher, I wrote from the point of view of a teacher, and friends seated me at weddings with other teachers.

And when that was taken away I was left wondering who I was.

I had been struggling as a teacher. I’d reached the point where I had anxiety about going to work and was calling in sick. Frequently. The worst part is that I wasn’t stressing because I had terrible students who were out of control and throwing objects at each other, nor was I stressing because parents were complaining about me; I was stressing because my students and their parents loved me. Too much. Kids would skip class to come to mine, and even if I joked that they would have to do the work, they did it anyway. My classes were always full – jammed, in fact. Kids who failed with me requested me again the next year. A record, the school counselors said. Parents would wait twenty to thirty minutes at Meet The Teacher Night to talk to me, and tell me I had saved their kids from being drop-outs. They gave me gifts, cards, and praise.

And I was a nervous wreck.

Who can live up to perfection? Being the favourite teacher ate away at me, a rodent gnawing at my insecurity. I struggled to sleep, to push myself to be better – to be better than myself! All the while I put on a brave face at work and poured myself into my students. Whatever they needed, I gave.

And last year, I knew it couldn’t go on.

I’d spent 13 years encouraging kids to believe in themselves, to push themselves towards their dreams – but I was ignoring my own.

What kind of role model lies to those around?

I told the kids one last lie. I told them I was going on leave for a few months. Just a few. They started a Ms. Mah Fan Club email account and emailed me regularly, begging me to come back. It tore at my heart, but I knew.

I knew that to go forward, I had to take a few steps back.

And so I broke up with my job. On the phone. Not in person, not with a letter, but on the phone. And I cried. But like all break-ups, there is relief in knowing the future is full of possibilities.

One day, I will go back. I have to collect my box of things that are mine and either move them to another class, or stay.

But until then, I write.

And feel renewed.

Brigitte Mah is a freelance writer and climber living in Squamish. Occasionally she likes to teach those around her, but mostly she just loves to learn.

About the Whistler Readers and Writers Festival:

The Whistler Readers and Writers Festival started in 2001. Each year the three-day event brings world-renowned authors to Whistler for workshops, panel discussions and readings. The intimacy of this festival with its focus on events for both readers and writers makes it unique. For more information visit: whistlerreadersandwritersfestival.com

Reading and Reflecting: Richard Wagamese’s Indian Horse by Rebecca Wood Barrett

29 Sep

Great literature both entertains and reveals essential truths about the human condition. Once in a while a fictional work opens a window of startling insight into our own lives too. Richard Wagamese’s Indian Horse is a novel that is not only a terrific read—and was voted the Canada Reads People’s Choice—it has brought deeper meaning to events in my own life.

In Wagamese’s story, Saul Indian Horse is torn from his land and family and forced into a residential school where he experiences horrific abuse. While at the school he discovers the pure joy of playing hockey, and this saves him for a while. Eventually, the complete destruction of his childhood catches up to him, and he abandons hockey and turns to drink. A lifetime of racism, combined with cultural and familial obliteration, has shrunk him to almost nothing. He decides to visit all of the key places of his life, and ends up back in the town, and with the family that once adopted him after residential school. Here he begins to recover and think about returning to his great love, hockey, as a coach.

I grew up without witnessing racism until I was eleven, when our family moved from white-bread Victoria to North Saanich, where we lived within ten kilometres of three Indian bands. Some of my new friends were scared of the Indians, and made jokes about them. It was ugly and unfair and I didn’t understand the reason for it. What had the Indians, our neighbours, done to us?

In middle school I made an Indian friend named Lolita. She was a lively, cheerful girl with round cheeks and a wonderfully gentle voice. One day when I was thirteen Lolita stepped off the school bus and threatened another friend of mine, who was white. I intervened. Lolita grabbed me by my collar. She shook me, ripped my collar. I was frightened and confused. She had been my friend. I didn’t understand what had happened to turn her from a happy girl into an angry, unknowable teen. When I entered high school a few months later, I was terrified she would beat me up. But Lolita didn’t make it to grade nine. She had dropped out, and I was secretly relieved. But later, once I’d gained some confidence in high school, I felt deeply saddened. I knew that her world had gotten smaller. Almost every opportunity that lay ahead of me and my peers had, for her, ended.

After reading Wagamese’s Indian Horse I’m thinking about Lolita again. I wonder if her family lost a generation to the residential schools. Were her parents’ souls shredded by abuse? I’m a mother now, and I try to imagine what it would be like to have my son shipped off without my consent. It would be torture. I imagine you would never recover. You might go on. But there would always be an open hole in you. The parents and grandparents suffered. The children suffered doubly. When a generation is disrupted so profoundly, the ripples of pain and displacement reverberate and recovery doesn’t happen in one generation. Erasing racism doesn’t happen overnight either. That’s the other part of the legacy that needs to be rewritten, and to heal. That’s the part we’re all responsible for, in what we say, and what we do. We are, after all, neighbours.

Wagamese will be reading at the Whistler Readers and Writers Festival. If you haven’t read Indian Horse yet, go to our exceptional local bookseller, Dan at Armchair Books, and buy a copy for yourself. See you at the Festival!

Rebecca Wood Barrett is a freelance writer, teacher and producer. She’ll be moderating a panel of publishers and authors at the Whistler Readers and Writers Festival, called “You Have a Manuscript, Now What?” (October 18th, 4 – 6pm at the Fairmont Chateau Whistler).

About the Whistler Readers and Writers Festival:

The Whistler Readers and Writers Festival started in 2001. Each year the three-day event brings world-renowned authors to Whistler for workshops, panel discussions and readings. The intimacy of this festival with its focus on events for both readers and writers makes it unique. For more information visit: whistlerreadersandwritersfestival.com

Recharge Your Battery by Mary MacDonald

22 Sep

On the last day of work before summer holidays began, I started beeping. Do you know what I mean? I was all fuzzy and giddy with expectation. But bone tired. My eyes glazed over as the green icon drained into bright red. Recharge. Nothing much left in the reserve tank, except name, address, and serial number. That’s about it. Recharge battery.

As I said good-bye to my last client of the day,  “It’s good to have time off,” she said. “And good to re-charge your batteries.”

There was that word again. Recharge. Everything I own has a battery. My iphone. My ipad. My ipod. iMac. What about MaryMac? That’s a question with a harder answer. Every battery has a certain life span. How do I even know when my own battery is low? How do I recharge? I had to look beyond the obvious.

As the last juice was being sucked out of me, I felt myself slowing down, and unable to keep walking. This was a harrowing experience and I was terrified. I knew I had to do something – real or imagined. I asked a friend to read W. S. Merwin’s poem Place to me. I was sitting in a corner of the back yard and I had my eyes closed.

‘On the last day of the world I would want to plant a tree,’ he read. Then something happened. I began to imagine the scene. This was no ordinary poem. ‘I want the tree that stands in the earth for the first time.’ Something powerful was happening. Like a current running through me. Like bottled lightening. ‘And the water touching its roots.’ A few beats later my friend called out my name and I responded. ‘One by one over it’s leaves,’ I said aloud, and stood up and walked, feeling the gritty earth under my toes.

Later that night, I was laying in bed staring at the silvery moonlight, and feeling a little reckless, I hauled out my Seamus Heaney Collected Poems and read the poem Fostering. “Like the tree-clock of tin cans / The tinkers made. So long for air to brighten, / Time to be dazzled and the heart to lighten.”  It was like time began running forward, and I left my room. Seamus Heaney was driving an enormous truck and I was at his side, following a bumpy track, out of Dublin and into gold hills, and beyond.

Then I read more poetry: Yeats and Plath. Mark Doty and Sharon Olds. The effect on me was startling. Everything was becoming insanely effortless. I was travelling across continents. Making endless journeys through both humorous and dark landscapes.

The following week I opened my moleskin and started making notes. There was a young child in a striped t-shirt walking towards me. Pigeon-toed. All alone and empty handed. Everything I saw was the beginning of a poem. Every sound a musical note. Every note became a beat. Every beat a rhythm. Every poem I began grew a story. Every story had legs. Everywhere I went I was in the green zone. Refreshed. Revived. Renewed. Recharged.

Now it is autumn. At this year’s Whistler’s Readers and Writers Festival there is going to be poetry. Live and intelligent. Comes A Time. Michael Crummey, Evelyn Lau, Rhona Shaffran, and Elizabeth Bachinsky will assemble to talk about poetry and time. The content may be real or imagined. Because the kingdom of poetry is no ordinary time. By the time they’re finished, rivers of juice will have flown back into us. We’ll all be lively-ed up. Revived and restored. Recharged. See you there.

Mary MacDonald is a poet, writer, and child psychologist, living a sometimes wildly incompatible life, in Whistler and Vancouver, B.C. You can catch her session, ‘Comes A Time’ October 19th at 2:15 pm at the Whistler Readers and Writers Festival: Poetry reading and panel discussion with Michael Crummey, Evelyn Lau, Rona Shaffran and Elizabeth Bachinsky. 


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