Grief and Mental Health: Finding Strength in Loss

Close-up of a tattoo depicting a girl's profile surrounded by flowers, with the title 'One Strong Girl: Surviving the unimaginable, A mother's memoir' by S. Lesley Buxton.

Grief is not defined in the DSM V as a mental health issue, but I’m including it in my thematic series on mental health for two reasons: First, during several episodes of profound grief in my life, I was never quite in my right mind; and second, surviving grief calls on deep mental health reserves, without which one is at risk of diving into the bottomless pit of mental illness. 

Lesley Buxton has been visited by more grief than most—enough to know that to survive and continue finding joy in life, she must have deep reserves of mental wellness. Buxton’s book, One Strong Girl: Surviving the Unimaginable—A Mother’s Memoirtells the story of watching her only child die, over the course of years, of a rare neurological illness. Yet even amid her grief, she finds joy. 

One Strong Girl is a deeply personal and moving memoir of living with loss. It’s no wonder this heartbreaking yet inspiring book won the inaugural Pottersfield Prize for Creative Nonfiction. 

Book cover for 'A Cure for Heartache' by Mary Jane Grant featuring an open window with a view of a cityscape, a notebook and pencil, a cup of tea, and cookies on a table.

Mary Jane Grant is another person who has survived more episodes of grief than most. But when her husband suddenly left her after decades of marriage, something inside her demanded more attention. So, she went off to Europe and, in a tea shop one day, when taking in the fragrances of various blends, she started on the path that led to her book, A Cure for Heartache

This slim volume recounts how she worked through her grief by teaching herself to experience “life’s simple pleasures, one moment at a time.” After my marriage ended, given that I was the one who ended it, I was surprised at the depths of my grief. A big part of my path out of it was learning the practice of mindfulness through, among other things, a course in Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction, which teaches a secular approach to meditation whose effectiveness in mental and physical health is supported by decades of properly executive research. 

While Grant doesn’t write about attending any mindfulness programs or even use the word “mindfulness,” that is indeed what she describes. It is amazing to me that she learned to do this almost instinctively. That is mental health, and during Mental HEALTH Awareness Month, we need to be as mindful of using mental health to prevent mental illness as we are of specific mental illnesses like those discussed in last week’s post. 

Book cover of 'Heartbroken: Field Notes on a Constant Condition' by Laura Pratt, featuring a wilted rose with smoke rising from it, and a red 'Canadian' label.

Laura Pratt’s Heartbroken: Field Notes on a Constant Condition is another study in surviving the loss of a partner. After a passionate, six-year affair ends suddenly and without explanation, the author crawls through the rocky emotional terrain of her grief. What differentiates Heartbroken from many other books about grieving is the way the author has, in lyric prose, braided together the story of the love affair and her profound grief after it ends with psychological research and artistic depictions of love and loss. 

This is one of the most poetic grief memoirs I’ve ever read. It amazes me that Pratt didn’t win a bucket or two of awards for it. 

Dying for Attention: A Graphic Memoir of Nursing Home Care, by Susan MacLeod, is less about the grief of losing a mother than of trudging day by day through the process of watching a mother die, slowly, while trying to find a safe and loving place for her to spend her final days. I remember this part of my mother’s life so well—her decline, searching for a nursing home, pushing emotions away until a more appropriate time. 

Book cover for 'Dying for Attention: A Graphic Memoir of Nursing Home Care' by Susan MacLeod, featuring illustrations and quotes from notable figures.

After she died, it was as if each of those losses caught up with us one at a time; every time we thought we were finally adjusting to the permanence of her absence, another tidal wave of grief would wash over us. It was as if we were finally grieving each smaller loss in sequence over the year or two after her death. This is what I found myself reflecting on as I read MacLeod’s moving memoir, depicted in drawings that blended whimsical thoughts and self-deprecation with the pain of loss.

Walking the Camino: On Earth As It Is, by Maryanna Gabriel, is another story of losing a mother, about as different from the previous one as it could possibly be. The back cover reads: “For Maryanna Gabriel, the unexpected death of her artistic mother would change everything in her life. More than just overcoming this loss, she felt that she needed answer, not from other, but from within herself …. At times meditative yet punctuated with humour, the story takes place in a compelling European tableau where legends of saints and miracles abide.”

Book covers for 'One Strong Girl,' A Cure for Heartache,' 'Heartbroken,' 'Dying for Attention,' and 'Walking the Camino.'

Walking the Camino is not the first book I’ve read about this pilgrimage taken by thousands of people from across the globe every year. More than a decade ago, I edited a manuscript about an author’s years of long-distance hiking with his wife, part of which was completing the Camino walk in three stages over three consecutive years. I was compelled to want to do the same; I still haven’t done that, but Gabriel’s book is a welcome reminder that there are many ways to integrate life’s losses and move forward.

I’d also recommend: 

Still, I Cannot Save You: A Memoir of Sisterhood, Love, and Letting Go by Kelly S. Thompson. 

Many of us have sibling relationships that waver between love and tolerance (or worse) over the years. Most of us don’t have to face the tragic loss of a sibling far too young. Thompson’s memoir is a moving study in mental illness (her sister’s addiction) and mental wellness (integrating the loss of the same sister to cancer into her life). 

Essential Feminist Reads for International Women’s Month

March 8 was International Women’s Day, and the month of March is International Women’s Month. With a nod to both, with this post I acknowledge several books from the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction program that further the cause of justice and equality for women. 

Cover of the book 'Halal Sex: The Intimate Lives of Muslim Women in North America' by Sheima Benembarek, featuring ripe figs and a 'Staff Pick' label.

It’s hard to pick just a few books. The program is dominated by women, all of whom I’d describe as feminist, and many of their stories are about women’s lives, whether their own or others. But if I’m going to stick strictly to books with a decidedly feminist theme, I’d choose these five:

Halal Sex: The Intimate Lives of Muslim Women in North America by Sheima Benembarek. This book was eye-opening for me. It honestly never occurred to me that a blue-haired, niqab-wearing, orthodox Muslim woman might be polyamorous. It doesn’t surprise me that a child from a Muslim family might be just as likely as a child from any other family to be transgender. But I have to admit some surprise—the good kind—in reading about a same-sex couple, both comedians, one a Palestinian-born Muslim the other a Jew from Montreal who perform individually and as a pair who starred in a Crave comedy special called Marriage of Convenience. The title of the book, Halal Sex, comes from a term for sex practiced within a heterosexual Muslim marriage. But Benembarek put a decidedly feminist twist on it by redefining it as “all consensual sex between adults.” 

Book cover featuring the title 'Every Boy I Ever Kissed' by Nellwyn Lampert, with a graphic design showing a woman in a red dress and hands embracing her.

Every Boy I Ever Kissed: A Memoir by Nellwyn Lampert. I started calling myself a feminist at the age of 13. I was in way too much of a hurry to lose my virginity, which I did at 14. I had no idea of the connection between the two. But there is a connection, a pretty important one. And that connection is a major part of what Lampert wrestles with in this coming-of-age memoir. As the cover blurb says, “for Nellwyn Lampert, losing her virginity would turn out to be anything but simple. Her chosen partners struggled with porn-induced erectile dysfunction and other crises of masculinity. And in the bedroom, nothing went according to plan.” So, in that regard, our experiences were entirely different. But in terms of “the realities of sexual liberation, female empowerment, and masculinity,” the issues are not that different at all than the ones I was too young to realize I was doing with more than 50 years ago that sexual freedom and gender freedom are two very different concepts. 

Cover of the book 'Highway of Tears' by Jessica McDiarmid, featuring an illustrated mask and a striking orange background. The subtitle highlights themes of racism and justice for missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls.

Highway of Tears: A True Story of Racism, Indifference and the Pursuit of Justice for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls by Jessica McDiarmid. It’s a grim fact that Indigenous women make up only about 4% of the female population in Canada but accounted for 16% of all female homicides between 1980 and 2012. And a disturbing number of those women are abducted, raped, and murdered along a strip of highway in northern BC called the Highway of Tears. From the back cover: “Journalist Jessica McDiarmid investigates the devastating effect these tragedies have had on the families of the victims and their communities, and how systemic racism and indifference have created a climate where Indigenous women and girls are over-policed, yet under-protected.” As difficult as this book was to read, it was just as difficult to put down. I can’t imagine a better lens through which to examine the intersection of racism and misogyny than through the horrific impacts of colonization by patriarchal white, European culture on Indigenous women and girls. 

Book cover of 'F Bomb: Dispatches from the War on Feminism' by Lauren McKeon featuring bold black text and a pink graffiti-style accent.

F Bomb: Dispatches from the War on Feminism by Lauren McKeon. It’s always surprised me that when I say I’ve been calling myself a feminist since I was 13 but I haven’t always felt that feminism welcomed me, what many people seem to hear is that I don’t think feminism is necessary or relevant. In fact, I’m saying exactly the opposite—that feminism remains as relevant today as ever and that’s why it’s so important to ensure that ALL sorts of women feel a sense of belonging within the movement. That was my read on McKeon’s book. She recognizes that too many women have moved in the wrong direction instead of understanding that feminism is for every woman—that, indeed, until we are all free, none of us are free. Why has this happened? That, as McKeon points out, is a question for feminists to answer. And as women’s rights are being eroded daily, it’s becoming increasingly urgent that we answer it and ensure that all women feel that the arms of feminism welcome them. 

Book cover for 'Conspiracy of Hope' by Renée Pellerin, featuring stylized illustrations of a woman's chest with highlighted areas, and subtitle 'The Truth About Breast Cancer Screening'.

Conspiracy of Hope: The Truth About Breast Cancer Screening by Renée Pellerin. No woman in the western world isn’t familiar with the unique joy (she said sarcastically) of having her breasts pulled and twisted and squished between cold metal plates for their regular mammogram. In this book, Pellerin, an award-winning producer with the CBC, does a deep dive into the evidence supporting and opposing regular mammography screening. And her conclusion is that the evidence weighs strongly in favour of less screening. It’s supported by vested interests, false positives can lead to invasive overtreatment, false negatives can give women a false sense of security, its effectiveness differs significantly for different age groups, and regular exposure to radiation can, in a small number of cases, increase risk of cancer. It’s an eye-opening book that every woman should read and consider carefully before assuming that doctor’s orders should never be questioned. 

Happy International Women’s Month and enjoy the reading!

Walking the Camino: A Healing Journey

Several years ago, I coached a client through a few drafts of a memoir. About twenty years earlier, he and his wife, always up for travel and adventure, had tried long-distance hiking. It had been disastrous: they’d done no training, they were wearing new ill-fitting boots, and their six-year-old son was with them. They abandoned their hike about halfway through. 

Book cover of 'Walking the Camino: On Earth as It Is' by Maryanna Gabriel, featuring a path leading into the horizon with silhouettes of hikers.

A few years later, both approaching milestone birthdays, they were mulling over how to celebrate and decided to give hiking another try, this time doing lots of research and physical training, and leaving their children with family. It went so well and was so fulfilling that they made it an annual tradition. 

At first, they did a few hikes in England, a hiking-friendly country. Then they decided to tackle something bigger: El Camino de Santiago, a trail for religious pilgrims that starts in the French Pyrenees and makes its way across northern Spain and Portugal to its terminus in Galicia, on the Atlantic Coast. Around 800 kilometres long, it takes thirty to forty days to complete; they broke it into three segments, which they completed over three years.

I’ve been intrigued with the idea of hiking the Camino ever since. So, Maryanna Gabriel’s (class of 2022) book, Walking the Camino: On Earth as It Is (Pottersfield Press, 2023) immediately leapt out at me. A bit adrift after the unexpected death of her mother, Gabriel was seeking a way to deal with her grief and reconnect with her inner self. She attended a talk about walking the Camino, where a stranger with whom she exchanged a few brief words leaned in and said, “Walk the Camino. You’ll know why.” 

Her travel memoir, Walking the Camino, is exactly what the title promises: a chronicle of Gabriel’s experience, from that moment at the talk, through months of preparation, and from the beginning of the famed spiritual route in the Pyrenees Mountains to its end at the Atlantic Ocean. Just a few days into the hike, she writes about a moment when she’s resting with some fellow travellers, talking about the ineffable quality of the Camino.

I lifted my head at a pause. Something unusual was happening. I was trying to understand a rushing sensation from a great depth. I examined Bjørn intently.

“May I have your permission to pray,” he asked. His blue eyes twinkled.

It was getting late, customers had departed, and the owner had disappeared. We were alone. Kris and I glanced at each other and nodded.

Intonations of sound emerged. Rumbles that seemed ancient and long forgotten. Vowels tumbled, then halted, and gathered momentum. Bjørn tossed back his head and boomed in a crescendo of resounding benediction, a cascading river that encircled us then rolled upwards into the starlight. The sound was unlike any language I had ever heard, Latin but not Latin, Hebrew but not Hebrew, Spanish but not Spanish, but seemed to contain elements of these languages. The effect was musical and the intent benevolent. It uplifted the heart and I was filled with the wonder of it. Of babies, and cinnamon toast, dragonflies on mountain lakes, of angels blowing their horns, of kisses and custard and roses, a flower dappled in sunlight and pollen and dewdrops, the laughter of children, a first candy cane, of cookies and fire crackle, the crunch of snow, the crinkle of presents, of soft knitted socks, and the snuggle of Sunday mornings. A profound peace coursed through me, as though I had been enormously blessed. Was it from this world or beyond?

The reverberations slowly died away. Had Bjørn been speaking in tongues? I roused myself. I had to ask.

“Does this happen often?”

He mumbled and looked at me shyly from beneath shaggy brows. “Sometimes.”

Beautiful, visual, lyrical writing.

Anyone I’ve spoken to who’s done the Camino comes back with similar stories of wonder and awe and peace. The writer I spoke of earlier was at a complete loss to express his feelings as he and his wife drew close to and finally reached the end point, the finish line they’d been striving toward for three years. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever walk the Camino. It seems huge, daunting. But if the kind of experience Gabriel and my writing client describe awaits along the route or at the end, maybe, just maybe, I should do it. 

Walking the Camino: On Earth As It Is was the 2022 winner of the Pottersfield Prize for Creative Nonfiction. Other winners of this award from among the graduates of the MFA program include:

One Strong Girl: Surviving the Unimaginable—A Mother’s Memoir, by S. Leslie Buxton

The Tides of Time: A Nova Scotia Book of Seasons, by Suzanne Stewart

The Illogical Adventure: A Memoir of Love and Fate, by Andrew MacDuff and Mirriam Mweemba. Review coming soon.

Other books of inner exploration through travel:

How to Clean a Fish: and Other Adventures in Portugal, by Esmeralda Cabral

Louisburg or Bust: A Surfer’s Wild Ride Down Nova Scotia’s Drowned Coast, by RC Scott

World War II: Dimensions of the Holocaust You Didn’t Learn in School

Like many Baby Boomers, I grew up in the shadow of World War II. My father was a bomber pilot whose plane was shot down days after D-Day; he was MIA (missing in action) and a POW (prisoner of war) in a hospital in German-occupied France for three months, where the doctors did such a terrible job of setting his leg that they left him with a permanent disability. My mother was a nurse who, despite numerous traumatizing experiences, survived The Great Depression, graduated from nursing school, and worked in Vancouver’s Shaughnessy Hospital when it was a veterans’ hospital. That’s where they met, he in a hospital bed after surgeons rebroke and reset his leg, she a nurse on his ward over the months while his leg healed. I know this because my mother occasionally spoke of it; my father never did. 

Silence was the case for Marsha Faubert’s mother- and father-in-law, Wanda and Casey. It was as if their lives only began when they set foot in Canada—and maybe, in a way, they did. After they’d both died, while clearing out their house to sell it, Faubert (class of 2018) came across a tin of old photos and bits of memorabilia. She’d always been curious but never felt she should push them to talk, but now she began using those bits and pieces as starting points to explore and understand what happened to them.

The result is Wanda’s War: An Untold Story of Nazi Europe, Forced Labour, and a Canadian Immigration Scandal (Goose Lane Editions, 2023). This well-researched and compassionately written story describes aspects of World War II that I never learned about in school, including the cruelties inflicted by the Nazis against Polish people—and presumably other Slavs, a large ethnic and linguistic group that encompasses much of Eastern Europe, whom the Nazis considered subhuman. (Although their primary target was Jews, the Nazis persecuted and imprisoned millions more people: Roma, people with disabilities, LGBTQ+ people—anyone who didn’t fit their idea of a “master race.”) Like many other Poles, Wanda was taken from her home and deported to Germany, where she was forced into slave labour in factories. Others, like Casey, who lived in a part of Poland that was under Soviet control, were shipped off to gulags in Siberia, from which they were “liberated” two years later, only to be conscripted by the Soviets to fight the Nazis. 

Adding insult to injury, their introduction to Canada involved recruitment into two years of indentured servitude, living in restrictive conditions and working for minimum wage in factories (Wanda) and on farms (Casey). No doubt, conditions in Canada were better than under the Nazis or the Soviets, but as one Canadian official said (to deaf ears), these people, who had somehow survived six years of hell, went “From slave labour to slave labour” on government-sanctioned programs, as a condition of immigrating to Canada. By comparison, British men and women arriving in Canada at the same time with the intent of citizenship were not subjected to any such requirements. 

In a book this well researched and written, it’s nearly impossible to pick out a single passage to quote, and certainly not a short one. The paragraphs below describe a time long after the war when Wanda’s son George, the author’s husband, learned about a compensation fund for people who had been forced labourers in Nazi Germany:

George called Wanda to tell her about her right to make a claim for compensation. She was unenthusiastic. “What’s the point?” she said. “It was so long ago.” George prodded her. … To him, a busy arbitrator, accustomed to hearing labour grievances, it was simple: fill out the form, send it in, wait for the decision. It seems insensitive, in retrospect, that we didn’t consider that it might not have been simple to Wanda, digging up a memory that she preferred to leave undisturbed. …

The form asked for a description of what happened during her period of forced labour, including the conditions in which she was held. For the first and last time, she told George what had happened to her in Germany. He wrote it down for her:

We lived in a barracks behind barbed wire. Every morning the guards took us to work. We worked from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., I think. There were armed guards in the factory watching us while we worked. In the morning before we worked, they gave us one slice of bread and black coffee. For lunch we had kohlrabi soup and a slice of bread. For dinner, we had a slice of bread and black coffee. There was one Italian, two Russian, and four Polish barracks. There were 21 of us in a 25-foot by 12-foot room in three-high bunks. We were not ever allowed to go outside for any reason except to go to work. There were armed guards outside the barracks. We worked seven days a week. The guards would beat at us [sic] for no reason. The barracks were filthy and full of lice and bedbugs. When the Allies were bombing the area we were not allowed to leave the barracks and go to a bunker.

Wanda gave as little detail as possible. She didn’t tell George about the day she was taken and deported to Germany. They didn’t have a conversation about life during the Russian and German occupations or during her time in the camp. She didn’t talk about being hungry or afraid or how she felt about losing her home. She didn’t offer any of the details we later heard from Joe [George’s uncle]. The form didn’t require this information and she didn’t volunteer it.

I’ve wondered sometimes about my father’s silence about the war. I know he, like other military men, were told to forget their experiences and just live happy lives. I also know he suffered from PTSD, not clearly defined at the time, and went to therapy. But I wonder too, if, as Faubert concludes, “Silence was Wanda’s answer to the past and her protection in the present. Silence was her right. Who is to say that the burial of her memories, the simple life in a safe space, wasn’t justice for her?”

I’d never thought about it that way, but who indeed? 

Reviews of MFA alumni books on war and subsequent immigration:

How to Share an Egg: A True Story of Hunger, Love, and Plenty, by Bonny Reichert

Peace by Chocolate: The Hadhad Family’s Remarkable Journey from Syria to Canada, by Jon Tattrie

Understanding How Concussion Affects Women’s Lives

This week’s post is not about a book—well it is, sort of; and it’s not about a UKing’s grad, although it is about someone who attended the MFA in Creative Nonfiction program. 

Julia Nunes, who has cowritten two books on mental health with Scott Simmie, was in the class of 2016. We hit it off while we were in New York for the publishing residency. My book (which will be released in the spring) is about a concussion I suffered over twenty years ago now. She, too, was writing about concussion, focusing on her son, who was at that time lying in bed with, if memory serves, his second hockey concussion—crushing headaches, severe photophobia, disorienting dizziness, ongoing vomiting, the whole nine yards. 

The first night we were in New York, I was out to dinner with Deirdre Macdonald (a peer in the class of 2015 who’s just released her MFA book project, Her Hat in the Ring: Toronto Milliner El Jamon and Her Circle). As we got up to leave, I slipped on a piece of tomato on the floor and fell backward, striking the back of my head on the corner of a table in almost exactly the same spot I had struck in 2003, when I sustained the concussion I was writing about. 

I went by ambulance to the hospital (with Deirdre, bless her) and yes, I had another concussion. It nearly ruined my time in New York—headaches, dizziness, thankfully not vomiting—so I only attended a few of the lectures (couldn’t focus for long) and none of the social events (way too loud). By the last day, I was feeling a bit better, so Julia and I explored The Highline and walked around Strand Books.

I finished my degree that year; Julia didn’t get to finish the year because a short while later she fell and had a severe concussion. It took her months to recover. I think she’d hoped to return the following year, but then she suffered another concussion, and another (having one concussion increases the risk of having another). 

So, she never finished her degree (or, as far as I know, the book about the inadequate way children’s sports teams were dealing with concussion in players). However,  I recently read an excellent book called Impact: Women Writing After Concussion, edited by ED Morin and Jane Cawthorne (University of Alberta Press, 2021). Toward the end of this wonderful and vindicating anthology of essays is an essay by Julia Nunes called “The Next Hit.”

This excerpt hit home for me:

I attended a speech recently by a woman who lived first with post-concussion syndrome (PCS) and then with breast cancer. She shared a PowerPoint graph called “Sympathy by Casserole.” The comparison was stark: friends and family delivered more than sixty meals as she underwent chemotherapy versus zero meals post-concussion. Yet breast cancer, she said, was a breeze compared to PCS. The pain was less intense and the brain fog of chemotherapy had nothing on the confused, muddy state of the concussed mind.

I had something like this happen to me not long after my concussion. A friend who no longer lives on the Pacific Coast came into town with her husband for three months. In all that time, she found forty-five minutes for me but visited a friend who was dealing with breast cancer numerous times. When I expressed my hurt, she responded with something like, “Lynne, she has cancer. You bumped your head.” 

No one really understands concussion until and unless they live through it; no one understands that while seventy to eighty-five percent of concussions heal within days, weeks, or months, the other fifteen to thirty percent can continue causing symptoms for years, even lifetimes. 

Sadly, I know Julia understands—sadly because as much I’d like people to understand better, I wouldn’t wish a single concussion on anyone, much less multiple concussions. 

If you’ve never had a concussion and would like to understand it better, read Impact, starting with Julia Nunes’ excellent essay, “The Next Hit.”

And if you’ve had a concussion and would like to see your experiences reflected accurately on a page, read Impact, starting with Julia Nunes’ excellent essay, “The Next Hit.”

Here are other books from the prolific graduating class of 2016:

The Fruitful City: The Enduring Power of the Urban Food Forest, by Helena Moncrieff

The Tides of Time: A Nova Scotia Book of Seasons, by Suzanne Stewart

Overrun: Dispatches from the Asian Carp Crisis, by Andrew Reeves

One Strong Girl: Surviving the Unimaginable—A Mother’s Memoir, by S. Lesley Buxton

A Cure for Heartache: Life’s Simple Pleasures, One Moment at a Time, by MJ Grant. Review coming soon.

Winter in the City of Light: A Search for Self in Retirementby Sue Harper

Conspiracy of Hope: The Truth About Breast Cancer Screening, by Renée Pellerin 

Craigdarroch Castle in 21 Treasures, by Moira Dann

Press Enter to Continue: Scribes from Babylon to Silicon, by Joan Francuz

Sit Still and Prosper: How a Former Money Manager Discovered the Path to Investing with Greater Clarity, Calmness, and Confidence, by Stephanie Griffiths. Review coming soon.

A Distorted Revolution: How Eric’s Trip Changed Music, Moncton and Me, by Jason Murray. Review coming soon.

No Place to Go: How Public Toilets Fail Our Private Needs, by Lezlie Lowe

Highway of Tears: A True Story of Racism, Indifference, and the Pursuit of Justice for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, by Jessica McDiarmid

F-Bomb: Dispatches from the War on Feminism, by Lauren McKeon

The Beauty of the Seasons: A Review of The Tides of Time

In university, I took a fourth-year course on the Romantic Period in English literature. I love the prose and poems of that period; Blake is my favourite, where my professor at the time was pretty much obsessed with Coleridge’s “Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.” 

Book cover of 'The Tides of Time: A Nova Scotia Book of Seasons' by Suzanne Stewart, featuring a pastel background adorned with various leaves and flowers.

Suzanne Stewart (class of 2016) is a professor Romantic literature who teaches at St. Francis Xavier University. Sadly, she now reports that she hasn’t taught literature of that period for several years. I guess there’s not enough demand for it, which baffles me. That hasn’t stopped Stewart from bringing the words and mood of the Romantic writers to life in her book of lyric essays, The Tides of Time: A Nova Scotia Book of Seasons (Pottersfield Press, 2018).

In Tides of Time, Stewart goes through the year, month by month, looking at the labour of the people who produce the food we eat—real food, food from the earth, not from a factory. Starting in September (which is why I’m posting this on the first day of fall), she gets on her bike (or sometimes in her car) and cycles out to interview fishers, farmers, bakers, beekeepers, and cheesemakers, to name a few, around her home community of Antigonish about the work they do and why they love doing it. 

In keeping with the form of the lyric essay, she regularly quotes from writers of the Romantic Period, such as John Keats and William Wordsworth, Dorothy Wordsworth and Henry David Thoreau, and she occasionally throws in something from Aristotle or the Bible. But what’s most impressive about her writing is the vivid word pictures she paints of places and people and feelings. Here’s how she opens the chapter she calls Spring’s Overture:

Dawn comes suddenly now, with a beautiful blush. On March 1, the sky fills with muted amber and soft pink, as if wine had been poured into the air, tinging it with sweet fruitfulness. A burst of darker purple-pink appears like a cherry tree in blossom. Then the sky turns orange as the softest pink dissolves, which lightens to yellow as it spreads, like liquid from a lemon squeezed. 

A few thin grey clouds smudge the light. 

Feeling tired and distracted by the length of winter, I haven’t noticed beauty or looked this hard, for days, but this morning is different. Colour pours and blends and moves with the light. I’d like to slip into its heat. 

Now the colour is gone. Morning evolves. The day becomes dull: the sky plain and covered in clouds. 

In March, light stretches and retreats, still finding its comfort in the whiteness of winter. The days are longer but they haven’t lengthened all the way to spring. March’s fingers are still curled in the cold, unable to unfold, to reach that far.

But March is a month of music, probably more than of light. 

As I lie in bed, waiting for the first cracks of morning, I hear the birds. At this early hour, they sing more fully now. In spring, song precedes the light: invites it.

“The air is a velvet cushion against which I press my ear,” Henry David Thoreau said, as he listened for the sounds of the first robins and bluebirds and insects. 

“May my melody not be wanting to the season,” he added … “I go forth to make new demands on life.”

This month, Stewart will visit a sheep farm. She will go there in lambing season, when the ewes are birthing and then feeding their new babies. 

This is a beautiful book, evocatively, poetically, romantically written. It was also the second-place winner of the 2018 Pottersfield Prize for Creative Nonfiction. 

If you’re ever feeling down and you need something beautiful to lift you up, try this book. 

Other books with a lyrical quality:

Heartbroken: Field Notes on a Constant Condition, by Laura Pratt

I Don’t Do Disability: And Other Lies I’ve Told Myself, by Adelle Purdham

Other books about real food:

How to Clean a Fish: And Other Adventures in Portugal, by Esmeralda Cabral

The Fruitful City: The Enduring Power of the Urban Food Forest, by Helena Moncrieff

How to Share an Egg: A True Story of Hunger, Love, and Plenty, by Bonnie Reichert

Peace by Chocolate: The Hadhad Family’s Remarkable Journey from Syria to Canada, by Jon Tattrie

Must-Read Books from Recent Canadian Graduates: Part 2 of The List So Far

So many new authors on this list! (For comparison, see the first list here.) Congratulations to all the newly published authors (at least since the first list), to all the authors who were published long before I reviewed your books, I’m reading as fast as I can, and to all the authors who’ve been published that I still haven’t got to … I’m reading as fast as I can! And to anyone reading this, if I’ve missed anything, gotten any details wrong, or in some cases don’t know the year you graduated, please let me know. And the winners are:

(Edited to add: Apparently I missed quite a few books that should go on this list. I’ve added them at the top of the list so you won’t miss them. There have been several more deals but the books aren’t out yet and I’m unable to find complete information about them.)

Barone, Rina (class of 20??) Art Always Wins: The Chaotic World of Avant-garde Pioneer Al Hansen, (press and year?)

Jaffer, Taslim (class of 2022) with Omar Mouallem, Back Where I Came From: On Culture, Identity, and Home. Book*hug Press, 2024.

Kierans, Kim (class of 2025), Journalism for the Public Good: The Michener Awards at Fifty. Bighorn Books, 2024.

Kuzmyk, Emma (class of 2025) with Addy Strickland, This Wasn’t On the Syllabus: Stories from the Front Lines. Simon & Schuster, 2024.

McKay, Lori (class of 2020) Searching for Mayflowers: The True Story of Canada’s First QuintupletsNimbus Publishing, 2024.

Moore, Chris (2024) The Power of Guilt: Why We Feel It and Its Surprising Ability to Heal. HarperCollins (Canada), BenBella (US), August Books (UK), 2025.

Moscovitch, Philip (2019) Adventures in Bubbles and Brine: What I Learned from Nova Scotia’s Masters of Fermented Foods—Craft Beer, Cider, Cheese, Sauerkraut and More. Formac Publishing, 2019.

Simpson, Sharon J. (class of 2021) The Kelowna Story: An Okanagan History, 2nd Edition. Harbour Publishing, 2025.

John Larsen’s (Class of 2023 I think) book is not out yet–due in 2026 I think. 

Book cover of 'Black Cake, Turtle Soup, and Other Dilemmas' by Gloria Blizzard, featuring a colorful abstract background with wavy lines.
Book cover for 'Press Enter to Continue: Scribes from Babylon to Silicon' by Joan Francuz, featuring an image of ancient scribes on a laptop screen.
Book cover for 'The View from Coffin Ridge: A Childhood Exhumed' by Gwen Lamont featuring a black and white photograph of a corridor with scattered leaves.

Book cover design for 'The Fruitful City' by Helena Moncrieff, featuring colorful illustrations of leaves and flowers, with the subtitle 'The Enduring Power of the Urban Food Forest'.
Book cover for 'Overrun: Dispatches from the Asian Carp Crisis' by Andrew Reeves, featuring various species of fish against a light blue background.
Book cover of 'Peace by Chocolate' by Jon Tattrie, depicting the Hadhad family by the sea, highlighting their journey from Syria to Canada.

Press Enter to Continue: A Journey Through 6000 Years of Writing

I didn’t quite know what to expect when I opened Joan Francuz’s (class of 2016) book, Press Enter to Continue: Scribes from Babylon to Silicon (1920 House Press, 2018). It seemed like it might be a good choice to review for International Literacy Day, which is today, with this year’s theme being “promoting literacy in the digital era.” When I ordered it, I wondered if it might be a history of writers or maybe a history of writing tools. 

Book cover of 'Press Enter to Continue: Scribes from Babylon to Silicon' by Joan Francuz, featuring an image of ancient scribes on a laptop screen.

I was right and wrong on both counts. As the blurb on the back of the book says, “Trace the history of our digital age through the words of the people who described things—the scribes and technical writers of their time,” an appropriate description for what turns out to be “a work memoir of someone who survived the gig economy by working as a scribe.” 

Neither the title nor the blurb really do the book justice. It’s actually a short history of the world, at least since the first writing on stone tablets, through the lens of a person who spent most of her career as a technical writer—a career I considered 30 years ago when I was casting about for a writing gig that would be steadier and pay better than freelance journalism. (Because I’m technologically challenged, I turned to editing as a better option for me—still not great pay, but better.)

During the Master of Fine Arts program in Creative Nonfiction Writing, one thing we learned is that what you exclude from a book is just as important as what you include. This is important for me because I love research, and I try to include every bit of information I find. It doesn’t make for a great narrative arc

If I found it challenging to limit the amount of information I included in my book about concussion, a field in which research has exploded over the last two to three decades, I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Francuz to pick the pertinent bits out of 6,000 years of history to shape an arc in 155 pages. It’s mind boggling.

Not only has she succeeded, but she’s done so with dry wit:

In the hierarchy that runs up from data to information to knowledge and wisdom, data is something simple like “8”; information is the number of people invited to dinner; knowledge is making the dessert the day before the party; and wisdom is not discussing a spouse’s online shopping habits just before the guests arrive. 

While the ancients seemed to spend their time on the higher order questions of wisdom and knowledge, and sought answers to questions like what made for a good life, the scientists of the Enlightenment discovered knowledge and information about our physical world. In our modern age, we seem to have moved further down to the data and information end of the hierarchy. 

Think of a selfie that arrives on your device. Why is your friend standing in front of that building? Is this a reminder that you had plans for dinner—and you’re late? Is it a holiday photo? Are you meant to comment on their new hair or clothing? Was the photo sent to you by mistake? Is that really your friend in the photo? 

This is a modern example of data without information. 

This is an unexpected little gem of a book, full of fascinating facts gleaned from the books in a seven-page bibliography—enough to spawn a whole new version of Trivial Pursuit—with a 16-page chapter of Notes on Sources that reads like a mini-book of its own. Francuz’s story told with intelligence and humour by a woman of roughly my own age—born in the fifties, molded in the seventies, and seasoned by 40 years of working in the “gig economy” long before that term was coined.  

Even more importantly, the back-of-the-book blurb closes on a note I can truly relate to: “if you have a garden and a library, you have everything that you need.

Read my reviews of other books from the prolific class of 2016:

One Strong Girl: Surviving the Unimaginable—a Mother’s Memoirby S. Lesley Buxton.

Craigdarroch Castle in 21 Treasures, by Moira Dann.

A Cure for Heartache: Life’s Simple Pleasures, One Moment at a Time, by Mary Jane Grant. Review coming soon.

Sit Still and Prosper: How a Former Money Manager Discovered the Path to Investing with Greater Clarity, Calmness, and Confidence by Stephanie Griffiths. Review coming soon.

Winter in the City of Light: A Search for Self in Retirement, by Sue Harper.

Nowhere to Go: How Public Toilets Fail Our Private Needs, by Lezlie Lowe.

Highway of Tears: A True Story of Racism, Indifference and the Pursuit of Justice for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls, by Jessica McDiarmid.

F-Bomb: Dispatches from the War on Feminism, by Lauren McKeon.

The Fruitful City: Building Communities Around Nature’s Bounty, by Helena Moncrieff.

A Distorted Revolution: How Eric’s Trip Changed Music, Moncton and Me, by Jason Murray. Review coming soon.

Conspiracy of Hope: The Truth about Breast Cancer Screening, by Renee Pellerin.

Overrun: Dispatches from the Asian Carp Crisis, by Andrew Reeves.

The Tides of Time: A Nova Scotia Book of Seasons, by Suzanne Stewart.

Exploring Craigdarroch Castle: Victoria’s History Told Through 21 Objects

I’m pretty obsessive when I go into museums. I like to take my time, consider each object, read every placard, watch every video, listen to every audiotape. I don’t feel most museums are meant to be gone through in a single trip. There’s too much to take in and the brain tends to tire of all that information with no place created to file it yet. So, I’m quite happy to go back to museums time and again to see whatever I didn’t get to the last time. 

Book cover of 'Craigdarroch Castle in 21 Treasures' by Moira Dann, featuring a tag with the castle's name and a pencil, dated September 21st, 1897.

I know I’ve been to Craigdarroch Castle in Victoria, BC, which now houses a museum of the way wealthy white settlers lived in Victoria (and elsewhere) in the nineteenth century. I can’t recall exactly when I was there, but there’s no way I could have taken it all in in just one trip. Which is why it’s such a delight reading through Moira Dann’s (class of 2016) Craigdarroch Castle in 21 Treasures (Touchwood Editions, 2021). 

Like Richard Levangie’s Secrets of the Hotel Maisonneuve, this was not Dann’s project for the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction at University of King’s College in Halifax. (I’ll never understand why that book didn’t get picked up: it was about The Mothers of Confederation, the wives of all the men who are touted as The Fathers of Confederation, who most assuredly played a role.) And therein lies a hint about the author, who was in the class immediately after mine and became a friend: she loves history. And Craigdarroch Castle is nothing if not a walk through history. 

Built by coal baron and shipping entrepreneur Robert Dunsmuir, who’d immigrated from Scotland in 1851 with his wife and newborn daughter, theirs is a genuine rags-to-riches story. Dunsmuir started out as an independent coal miner, found a rich coal seam near Nanaimo, and “turned that into wealth, influence, and power.” So much so that by 1887, less than four decades later, he started construction on the castle he had (according to rumour) promised his wife, Joan, when they left Scotland. 

In an introductory chapter called “Why I Wrote This Book,” Dann explains why she chose to tell the castle’s story through a series of objects: a clock, some chairs, keyboards, stained glass, photographs, drawings, paintings, radiator brushes (to show what a servant’s life was like), dance cards (with pencils provided), and more.

Many of the stories in this book and elsewhere start with objects of the time, placed in a restored context. Objects are also the jumping-off point of the post-Dunsmuir stories this castle holds. 

Some might say it’s preposterous to think an overview of a massive story repository such as Craigdarroch Castle can be reduced to not even two dozen objects. 

“In the particular is contained the universal,” said James Joyce … and I agree. We can view the wide expanse of meaning just as well, if not better, through the lens of a microscope as we can through that of a telescope. …

But Craigdarroch Castle houses more than just the stories of the “fractious, fractured” Dunsmuir family, Dann writes. In 1909, after Joan Dunsmuir’s death (Robert had died before it was completed), it was sold and went through several incarnations. From 1919 to 1921, it was Craigdarroch Military Hospital, for veterans returning from the Great War. Later, it housed Victoria College (predecessor to the University of Victoria), the Victoria Conservatory of Music, and the offices of the Victoria school board. It was sold to the Craigdarroch Castle Historical Museum Society in 1979 and turned into the museum it is today.

The collection described in loving and impeccably researched detail in this book “allows us a peek into the lives of different people in a different time and provides us a bit of context for our lives in the twenty-first century …” Dann writes. “These objects can set our imaginations alight. Imagining an earlier time helps us create a better now and imagine a better future.”

And a better future is something we can all strive to imagine. 

August 4 is BC Day. Here are some other books about BC:

Chasing Smoke: A Wildfire Memoir, by Aaron Williams.

Highway of Tears: A True Story of Racism, Indifference and the Pursuit of Justice for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls, by Jessica McDiarmid.

Understanding Disability: A Journey Through Parenthood (and other essays)

The closest I can come to understanding what it’s like to have a child with a disability is that all three of my kids, when they were very young, were in and out of hospital with asthma, and felt like they stuck out at school because they were the only ones with food allergies, some of them life-threatening. 

Cover of the book 'I Don’t Do Disability And Other Lies I’ve Told Myself' by Adelle Purdham featuring a blue background with artistic illustrations of leaves, a bird, and a horse.

It doesn’t begin to compare to learning the child you’re carrying has Down Syndrome, or to waiting many extra months for your child to figure out a pincer grip. Where it does compare is the understanding that your child is your child and they are absolutely perfect the way they are (even though it doesn’t always feel like it when they’re in the middle of a raging tantrum).

In the series of essays that comprise I Don’t Do Disability and Other Lies I’ve Told Myself (Dundurn Press, 2024), author Adelle Purdham (class of 2022) walks us through the emotional wreckage of finding out that your unborn child has a disability, the prejudices we are likely to uncover within ourselves when that happens, and the fierce protective instincts that then compel that parent to become a disability activist, advocate, ally. 

But that’s not all she walks us through because these essays also cover the terrain of love and marriage, of being a mother/writer who feels guilty when she’s mothering about not writing and when she’s writing instead of mothering (boy, do I know that one well), and who tries in every moment of her life—okay, as many moments as possible—to be a good person. In a deeply touching and achingly honest essay called “A Thin Line,” she writes about an encounter with a homeless woman. 

I see her as I drive past, stumbling down the street, decrepit. Please, I think, I don’t want us to run into her. She is a mess. I’m Ronald from The Paper Bag Princess …

We are on our way to the cottage. The SUV is packed full. The girls have their cupholders folded down in anticipation the bottles of iced tea I will be buying them to go with their dinner. …

I park the car and notice the Freshii on the corner. “What about Freshii? You girls can get bowls.’

While these girls have not yet been exposed to the ways of the world, the underworld, they are well versed in the vernacular of a privileged life. They speak the dialect of healthy takeout well. As do I. … the girls and I can afford to cruise around until we find an open takeout place that suits our tastes. This idea of accessibility to food as an immense privilege will sit with me and my uneaten burrito, afterward, when I find I no longer have an appetite.

As we cross Hunter Street, directly in front of us is the woman, doubled over …

“Please, can you help me?”

She asks for money, and I immediately reach for my wallet and pull out a loonie, the only coin I have. Why have I not pulled out a bill? Is it because I believe she will use it on drugs or alcohol instead of food? Yes….

“I need help,” she repeats. “I’m scared.”

With the enunciation of her fear, that is it. The thin sheath between us slips away and the world stops for her and me. Our lines cross, her path and mine, like asteroids colliding, and intergalactic even. I feel the presence of the girls over my left shoulder, standing stone still, watching. If I turn my back on this woman and hurry the girls away, it will be like turning a shoulder on myself, on my daughter, on my daughter’s friend, on the very stardust I am made of.

“Do you need to go to a shelter?” I ask her. Clearly, I think she needs to go to a shelter. She can’t stay here … 

On my iPhone, I quickly google the number for the shelter. …

“It’s so good to see kids,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut, then opening them. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen any kids.” …

Springing into action is what privileged women like me know how to do. We ascertain the problem and create a plan. My plan is to call the shelter. Make sure this woman is safe. Show my kids that I care, that we should all care, that a person in need is a person in need. That we don’t turn our backs on a person in need, no matter how destitute, forgotten, and discarded they seem. Especially when that is the case. Why is that the case? And why do I need to remind myself of this?

I won’t spoil the outcome for you. I will just say that this is some of the best literary writing I’ve read in a while—clear, compelling, compassionate. Purdham’s voice pulls me in; I could be standing next to her, watching the scene in each essay unfold, whether it’s at the lake listening to the loons, in a rocking chair nursing an infant, or on a street trying to help an unhoused woman through a state of extreme distress.

July is Disability Pride Month. Add to your pride in knowing a bit more about disability tomorrow than you did yesterday by reading this book.

Here are some other books about disability:

Just Jen: Thriving Through Multiple Sclerosis, by Jen Powley.

One Strong Girl: Surviving the Unimaginable—A Mother’s Memoir, by S. Lesley Buxton.

Scream Therapy: A Punk Journey through Mental Health, by Jason Schreurs.