I have started a Substack, as it seems to me an easier way to keep in touch than this blog. Which is not to say that I’ll never write here … but if I don’t seem to be doing so, I would recommend visiting there instead to see what’s up.

Last summer I found out that there was a free weekly Qigong class happening on Saturdays in a little piece of forest in a local park. It began at 7:30 a.m., and I slept through it several times during the busyness of moving in the first half of summer break.

This Sunday 7 January, from 10:30-11:30, i, nemophile will be officially launched at the Sooke Library. Readings from the book (by both me and few writer friends), book sales, and author Q&A with questions by you. Join us if you can; I would love to see you there!

The first print run of my first book is now in my hands!

Contents format reveal: it’s the seasons!

(Are we surprised? Probably not!)

A month or two ago I decided that I wanted to publish a book of poems this summer. Or maybe this fall; I’m not in any particular hurry to get it finished, but due to my work schedule, summer is when I will have the most time to work on it.

I’ve been wondering why it is that dirt smells to me like home, like memory, even though I grew up in the suburbs of Vancouver and we didn’t really grow food. (Except for the prodigal plum tree by the swimming pool in the backyard.)

Last summer I drafted a song called ‘Widening’ during some of my first experiences with the Work That Reconnects. I have since completed a WTR facilitator training course, which was amazing, and I’m enjoying working with this rich material so much, both internally for myself and with others.

For my whole musical life I've felt like perhaps I'm 'too eclectic'. I'll play Debussy at a classical piano recital, listen to Yaima as I go about my day, accompany a choir rehearsal, and then perform a Joni Mitchell song on guitar at a folk open mic night.

And I’ve felt odd about it.

I’m here (after a rather lengthy absence) to write about something, and that thing is balance. I’m evidently not very good at balancing blogging or social media presence with the other areas of my life.

I am endlessly fascinated by the fact that all of us are made up of little bits of previously nonhuman things, and by how connected we are to the entire web of life and the planet.

I don’t always go to the forest, but when I do…

My parents exposed me to a great variety of music when I was young, from English and Welsh folk songs to Motown to Joni Mitchell to Pergolesi and beyond. I adored music and took to it like a fish to water, but certain sounds—including, for example, B.B. King singing (‘I don’t like that big voice!’) and the wolf theme from Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf suite—terrified me absolutely.

I’m more than happy to use it to refer to others, but I still have a little trouble using it about myself. Does writing a poem make one a poet? How about writing a hundred (the current approximate document count in my laptop’s ‘Poetry’ folder)? Does singing a song mean that one is a singer? Does being alive mean that one is living? Maybe I’m getting too philosophical.

I wrote my first ever journal entry when I was four years old, and this is it in full (I’ll spare you my ALL CAPS printing): “Today we went to the doctor. It is Monday November 6. I missed music school. I had a nap. We had lunch at Nana’s house. I threw up.” Not scintillating details or style, perhaps; but once I had started journalling, I never stopped for long.