Dear gentle readers: I recently developed a pen-pal sort of relationship with someone – he’s been mentoring me as I perform my writer-in-residence role at the University of Calgary medical school. Now, this mentor is somewhat unusual. Is that the right adjective for a pen pal who has been deceased for the past … oh … twenty-four centuries? Nevertheless, my correspondent
Dear gentle readers: I’ve recently developed a sort of pen-pal relationship with someone who’s been mentoring me as I perform the role of writer-in-residence at the University of Calgary medical school. He is an unusual mentor. Is that the right adjective for an adviser who has been dead for twenty-four centuries? Nevertheless, the man is alive and well in the letters below. I recently shared these
“Where there is love for the man, there is also love for the art.” Hippocrates; On Precepts I am late for my first meeting as writer in residence for the Cumming Medical School. As I spiral through the TRW parkade on the Foothills campus, my windshield blanketed in condensation, I crank the heat, peering through the tiny crescent of clarity at the bottom of the windshield. The
I awaken in the den, loosely covered in an old baby blanket. The television watches over me, its Netflix screen, courteously dim, reminding me that episode 5 of season 2 of Grace and Frankie is ready for me. For a moment there is just the den, a morning, a dim screen. And then yesterday reminds the room of the quiet new way of the house. This, in our little world, is the new way.
A play about Syrian refugees – it’s right up my alley, I thought when I saw the notice online. It ties in nicely with my research. I should see this. I emailed my friend Pattie and told her about it. It’s called The Opposite, I said. The playwright is a Syrian now living in Calgary – Sleman Aldib. It gets you thinking about what
Gentle reader, I have a confession. It is Sunday morning (not quite afternoon) and I am sitting (okay lying) in my cozy bedroom in Canterbury, with the electric heater on full blast. I am on my second cup of tea, and have read only 14 pages of Iris Murdoch. I have read only 1.5 articles in The Globe & Mail. I began an in-home yoga session which
A trip to the weekly outdoor market. Not a big deal, right? Some produce, some clothes. Maybe the odd bargain. Nothing to get excited about. But at LM Village refugee camp, when the bus pulls up to take residents to the market, there is a mob of people shouting and pushing, sneaking tickets back and forth and arguing and getting in your face. This is kind of