When I was in grade school I had an autograph book — slightly garish now in my mind’s eye — but very beautiful from the perspective of a ten-year-old. It had a bright turquoise faux-leather cover trimmed with gold curlicues; the pages were a little girl’s heaven of pastel shades of pink, blue, green and yellow, like Laura Secord’s French Mints. The paper was heavy, matte finished, and the leaves were sewn together into the binding. The book smelled deliciously of paper. All my friends had signed the book, and occasionally I had even gathered my courage and asked a favourite teacher to sign. My music teacher wrote, “Never ‘b flat’, Never ‘b sharp’, Always ‘b natural’.” I thought that was pretty clever, and maybe it is; I still remember it!

One little wisdom saying that was repeated often in the pages of my autograph book treated the subject of friendship. “Make new friends, but keep the old…” Amazing how a few decades have proven the veracity of Parry’s homely little poem. The ebb and flow of friendship is a matter of the heart, an unpredictable, uncontrollable and sometimes painful mystery. Essential to healthy human functioning. Like hugs, one can never have too many. But it’s the old ones that are perhaps the most precious. The mellow patina of the older friendship carries more value in the heart than the glitter of the shiny new one.

When I was on play tour last year I made contact with Lindsay, a friend from university days. We’d met as art history students in Italy one spring. Lindsay was later to describe the six weeks in Venice and environs as ‘life-changing.’ But, catching up with Lindsay in Saskatoon last summer, it seemed to me she hadn’t changed. Not a bit. Still as brilliant and quirky and endearing as ever. As purposeful of movement and creative and warm-hearted as she’d always been. We sat over an extended lunch in a restaurant aptly called “Calories” and Lindsay, a natural born gastronome, enjoyed her food with vocalisations and sighs, just as she had over pasta and pastries in Venice many years ago.

Another friend of mine has said that old friends are important because they know our history. Perhaps that’s what made it so easy to remember the rhythm of our friendship, Lindsay’s and mine. Even though much of our conversation was about catching up on each other’s lives, it seemed no time had passed since we’d last spoken. As though we’d chatted on the phone yesterday or met for coffee last week, when really there had been a hiatus of many years. Such comfort, such delight in the sharing, the remembering, and the surprise twists our lives have taken. It amazes me that in spite of my neglect this friendship still thrives. Perhaps the early care and watering of the first five years sent such a thick tap root into our hearts that no amount of later neglect can destroy it.

Lindsay is an accomplished visual artist, primarily a print-maker, although she has fearlessly experimented with other media and collaborated with other artists to create a body of work that actually floored me when I realized its scope. After lunch we walked through the August heat to the little house she has shared for many years with her husband and cats — a house I’d never seen, but to which I’d mailed countless letters, back when I still wrote letters. A familiar address, though one unseen until this moment. It is an artist’s house with an attention to architectural detail and decorative features, and a wealth of artefacts, found objects, Lindsay’s pieces and pieces of other artists received in trade, all illuminated like rare treasures by angled streams of sunshine. Colour, light, texture, whimsy. I would love to have had several days, weeks even, to poke around, to examine and exclaim over all the treasures.

Lindsay has her own print studio in the basement, business-like presses and water baths and racks for drying the prints. Drawers of her work. Boxes of photos, letters and other paper items, all raw material for her art. She showed me letters that her father had written her, cards and letters from her mother lovingly protected in albums. These are specimens that she will someday incorporate into a print or other object. Her fascination with the written word is no less than mine, but is of a different quality. She sees the shapes, the lines, the rhythms of these individual examples of penmanship, I hear them in the words themselves. Her business card is simply her signature followed by the word “Artist.” Ideas abound with that girl. The quantity and quality of her production told me that I have some catching up to do to come into the fullness of my gifts, but her ongoing creativity and drive tell me that it’s not too late.

‘I have been a poor correspondent,’ I told her. She didn’t disagree. We exchanged email adresses, and Lindsay, the author of the longest letters in the most beautiful handwriting in the world, exclaimed ‘Now there’s no excuse!’ Somewhere in boxes I have kept the many long, detailed newsy letters that Lindsay has written me over the years. Closely written, the penmanship enviable, they are their own works of art. Perhaps I should send these paper artefacts, this paper trail of our friendship, back to Lindsay, to make something new out of something old. Perhaps I should send her my autograph book, to see what she can create out of the pastel pages, out of the inelegant penmanship and the exquisite wisdom of my ten-year-old friends.

Cherish friendship in your breast-
New is good, but old is best;
Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold.

.www.artistsincanada.com/embree/

A single drop of rain. Five drops. Fifteen. Fifty. A flash of lightning. A rumble of thunder.

From nothing to something, one to many, peacefulness to high drama in a matter of seconds. We’ve all experienced the collective impact of many small drops falling together. A rainfall is the perfect illustration of the strength to be found in numbers. Alone, what can one raindrop do? In their hundreds, thousands, millions they have the power to wash away the puny constructs of humanity.

So, too, one voice joined by another and another. Whether the voice is raised in song or in protest, there is strength and support and synergy in speaking, acting, singing together. I sang for some years in an a cappella choir much like Perpetuum Jazzile. The choir numbered anywhere from seventy to one hundred voices. Let me tell you: when we were all in tune, locking and ringing chords, producing overtones like angels’ voices, connected to the music and to one another, it would make me quake with joy. With the passion of that act of collective creation. I would literally feel a vibration in my head that said we were ‘there’; in that moment we were one. Does a raindrop feel that passion and unity when it joins its brethren in the journey from the skies?

And these people can sing! So many beautiful voices riding the wave of sound, supporting and sustaining each other. They remind me that we kid ourselves when we think we need complete autonomy to be happy. Freedom to do or be whatever we want. True, we need freedom to seek our destiny, follow our star, but oddly, the journey is enriched, and in fact, made possible only through connection with and dependence upon other human beings.

I like this metaphor of raindrops as people. I’m a seeker; I have an ongoing thirst to learn about myself, to learn about my place and purpose in the world. I am but a drop of water. I fall down to earth, and rise up to the heights in regular cycles. Each cycle brings with it added knowledge of myself, of others, of the unfolding of the universe.

I recently devoured Martha Beck’s two books on this subject: Finding Your Own North Star: Claiming the Life You Were Meant to Live, and Steering by Starlight: Finding Your Right Life, No Matter What! On her website Beck hopes that we will “find in them a reminder of something useful that’s already in your heart.” In the books she posits, with humour and humility, that we already know what our destiny, our right path, is. We have only to learn to listen to our bodies, our emotions, and our intuitions to interpret the surprisingly clear signals they give us, signals that are often all but drowned out by the clamouring of our fear: our fear of want and our fear of being endangered (physically or emotionally). And when we can learn to listen to and honour those sensations we will be following our true path, our bliss, as Joseph Campbell so aptly named it.

“I bless the rains down in Africa.” “I know that I must do what’s right/Sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti.” I like that in the lyrics of Africa, David Paich and Jeff Porcaro link elemental forces with the achievement of one’s destiny and one’s wholeness. “The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation.” The storyteller sees salvation reflected in the wings of the plane that is bringing his beloved, his destiny, to him. And, once together, there is no force on earth strong enough to separate him from her, from their entwined path. The rains, the stars, the mountains and deserts are unchanging aspects of our outer and our inner landscape that all guide us toward salvation, wholeness and achievement of what it is we’ve been sent here to do.

Then, of course, we have to take the lessons taught to us by these simple and unchanging realities, and make music with them. We find out who we are, and we join forces with others who are journeying on the path. We raise our voices together. We create overtones and resonances that ripple out through the world, like the first raindrop on a pond creates an ever-growing circle of influence, and is joined by another, and then another. Plop. Plop plop. Plop plop plop plop plop…

I’m an eclectic reader but have developed a fierce devotion to a few authors, a loyalty that has stood the test of time. While other writers, series, genres and passions have come and gone, these few still share coveted and hard-held shelf-space in the dog-eat-dog real estate climate of my bookcase.

When asked, I will ever call Scotswoman Dorothy Dunnett my favourite author of all time. I feel that way not just because of her gripping, convoluted plotlines (woven with the intricacy of Belgian lace through eleven books in two series) or her flare for the hilarious, or her poetic understanding of history, or her perfect grasp on the politics, religion, culture, and aesthetic of a world gone by. No, it’s because I’m in love with one of her characters: Francis Crawford of Lymond. Lymond of the cornflower blue eyes, the athlete’s grace, the scholar’s erudition, and the careless yet consummate love-making skills of the ultimate ladies’ man. And yet, he’s no romance novel hero; he’s intensely human, drawn with a master’s skill.

Is there anything Lymond can’t do? Well, no. Except perhaps control the excesses of behaviour brought on by a too-sensitive character trying to function in the harsh world of sixteenth century Europe. Lymond is brilliant, but Lymond is also his own worst enemy, unless the love of a good and sensible woman can reach the vulnerable, storm-battered vessel that is his soul and offer it safe harbour. I’d volunteer for the job, gargantuan as it is, because the pay-off would be looking into Lymond’s cornflower blue eyes for the rest of my life. One problem, though. Although he seems it to me, Francis Crawford isn’t real…

But perhaps such a paragon exists. or at least the possibility of such a paragon. Apparently, Dunnett modeled Lymond on her husband,  Sir Alastair Dunnett, editor of The Scotsman newspaper. All I can say is that Sir Alastair must have been a man of tremendous intelligence and accomplishment, to keep ahead of the sheer brilliance of his wife, and to keep her interested in him.

She was a renaissance woman; as well as turning out the eleven meticulously researched books of the Lymond and House of Niccolo series, and a mystery series, she was also a professional portrait painter, had a keen interest in opera, was a trustee of the National Library in Scotland, and was awarded an OBE for her services to literature. She must have been a livewire around the house. Imagine the dinner table talk! Not to mention the pillow talk!

One of my other favourite authors is Dick Francis. You couldn’t ask for a writing style, or an archetypal hero, to be any more the antithesis of Dunnett and Lymond than Francis, writer of forty-odd novels, and his unassuming, get-the-job-done-no-matter-what, modest everyman heroes. Francis rarely used the same characters twice. Yet, his heroes are iconic and, I suspect, very much a reflection of Dick Francis’ own character. Understated in that beautifully British way, this is a man who put his life on the line as a fighter pilot during World War II and later as a jockey in some of the premier racing events in the world, and who returned nightly to be devoted husband to his wife, Mary.

What speaks to me about this everyman? I’ve asked myself this question before, as I read and reread some of my favourite Francis novels. First of all, he has an unerring sense of right and wrong, a moral compass that informs his decisions, even if that means putting himself in the way of danger. Although sometimes he may be down on his luck, or an underachiever, his exposure to a wrong to be righted brings out his best instincts, his courage, and his unswerving loyalty to the innocents who he feels obliged to protect. He uses all his physical and intellectual capabilities to that end; although he is ever modest and understated, he is a man of prowess, skill and ingenuity.

And, like Lymond, vulnerable. Whether mourning a lost love, or coping with the obligations of a disabled spouse, a difficult parent, or the poverty that often accompanies the life of an artist, this guy has suffered. Like Lymond, he doesn’t say much about it. Yet, he doesn’t act out in the flamboyant, sometimes clownish and sometimes cruel ways that Lymond does. No, this guy’s suffering is quiet and internal. Again, pretty sure the love of a good woman would help him move past his pain. And quite often, he finds her.

There is an apocryphal attribution to Francis’ wife Mary, as the author of these books. Who knows? For my part, I don’t care. The author, whether Dick or Mary, has forged a bullet-proof connection between a man of quality and circumstances that allow (or force) him to the extremes of his ability, and ask for physical courage and stamina, as well as adherence to his ideals in the face of danger, that would fell a lesser man.

Interesting how, in spite of the two at-first seemingly disparate characters, there are common threads that speak to me. Is that guy, the synthesis of all that is Lymond and all that is Francis’ everyman, out there?

I’m going to say: yes. In a way, yes. Knowing that an ideal is just that and the reality will always ask for an adjustment of the image, yes. He’s out there. There are lots of them out there, quietly, or not so quietly, doing the right thing; upholding high ideals; physically, mentally and emotionally putting their all into the causes they care about; pushing themselves to protect the innocent and be the best they can be. And needing the support, love and understanding of a good woman.

“I am the luckiest.” Words so simple, yet rich with meaning. I have been listening to this song for several weeks and am moved afresh every time I hear the first note of the piano.

The piece, written and performed by Ben Folds, achieves an artistic unity that you seldom find in pop music. A simple declaration, in the plainest language. Images of rare simplicity.  A clear melodic line and unfussy arrangement that pluck at the heartstrings. A voice clear and uncomplicated, accurately pitched and tonally suited to the words and melody. Together they achieve a beautiful unity and the piece becomes greater than the sum of its parts. But let’s think about those parts one by one.

In a world where musicians scream, moan, improvise and generally turn themselves inside out to express or to vent, the simplicity of Folds’ vocal approach is like a window thrown open in a stuffy room. What more could you want than this committed and unschmaltzy performance? Folds is no stranger to cynical humour, but drops it here to offer a sincerity that rings with truth. Always a surefire way to set my pulse racing.

There can be no doubt of his mastery of the keyboard. The music is eased out of the ivories with a gentle touch, the cadences of his interpretation are delicate, almost melancholy and in perfect keeping with the diffidence of the speaker. The tempo is contemplative, yet there are moments of urgency, as the speaker tries, in his earnest yet inept way, to express the depth of his feeling for his beloved. A performance to make you cry. In the best of ways.

image courtesy Angel Strehlen

In a world where words proliferate and obfuscate, where meaning is lost, where feeling is frowned upon, the awkward yet sincere expression of the inexpressible comes across as something rare and precious. The simplicity of the words “I am the luckiest” bring to mind every boy or man who has ever had it bad for a girl. He may worship her from afar or have already won her, but the words to express the multitude of emotions cruising through his blood stream elude him, and he can fall back only on the simple: “She’s so beautiful.”  “I’m so lucky.”

In Colin McAdam’s penetrating novel “Fall”  Julius, the eighteen year old who is in love with Fall is almost incoherent in his attempt to explain what it is that captivates him. “You know Fall I say. Those eyes, right….I dream about her eyes I say.” He falls on the small detail to explain the whole.

So, the speaker in the song. What if I’d never met you? what if we’d been born at the right place but in the wrong time? I saw your eyes and I recognized you. This old man lived next door and when he died, his wife lived only two more days, then died of grief. We belong together. I know I’m saying it poorly. I don’t have the words. I have the feelings, but not the words.

I think we need to learn to listen for the feelings, and not to the words. Words are important and powerful, and those that have facility with them can use them to build beautiful possibilities. But many cannot. Don’t know how. So listen for the feelings, when you receive an awkward compliment. “You are so beautiful” means you light the world with your smile, the radiance of you is like pieces of light that penetrate me and shatter me, the purity of your heart is like a beacon in the darkness. “I am/ I am/ I am the luckiest.”

Let’s put the shoe on the other foot. What if we’re the speaker, the one with a universe of love to express, but no words to say it? Should that stop us?

Never. Never let it stop you. Say it. Just say it. No matter how inept. No matter how awkward or lame or cliche. If you have a thought or a feeling that is generated by love of whatever kind for anyone, just say it. The honesty of the feeling will be borne on the simplest of phrases. And the hearer just may understand.

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour.”

from “Auguries of Innocence” William Blake

After a typical Canadian winter, by late March I was starved for close contact with the outdoors. Read a succession of short connected posts as I walk towards spring.

March 22 I was out for a long walk today; it is 8 degrees and sunny. As I made my way along the shore of Lake Ontario I could see huge slabs of blue white ice piled up against the shore, the open water shimmering in the sunshine and the elegant silhouettes of the new windmills on Wolfe
Island, and I was reminded that we live in a very beautiful corner of the earth.

I had several encounters with couples walking enthusiastic dogs, ‘Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. Walk!’ they were saying with their big grins and wagging tails — if we could always live life with the simple exuberance of those four-legged creatures, we would be so much happier and the world would be a better place by far.

And that’s my sunny thought for the day.

March 29 I’m the luckiest girl in the world… or so I keep telling myself. This morning’s walk had a completely different feel than last week’s.

It was grey, neither cold nor warm, and very damp. Along the shore I noticed the slabs of ice were all but gone, and Wolfe Island was just a long grey smudge along the horizon. No happy couples with happy dogs, just a lone old man with his sedate orange and white Alsatian. We smiled at one another in a dignified manner, but the old man ignored me.

A block or two inland I was greeted by a chorale of song birds, the smell of wet earth, and the sound of water trickling into the gutters. This was more like it! A perky grey squirrel offered percussion from the branch of a pine tree. Then, the basso profundo of a dynamite explosion … wait a minute, how does dynamite fit into this idyll?

“People, could you please hold off on the dynamite fx? You’re at least sixteen bars early… yes, we’re just doing the bird and squirrel chorale now. Yup… I’ll give you the signal.”

And so, home.

Now, why am I lucky? you ask. Well, for one thing I found a penny on the cement just outside my apartment building. Lucky event number one. For another, shortly after I got into my apartment the continuing  barrage of dynamite sounds was suddenly accompanied by … hmmmm… lightning. Within minutes, the thunder and lightning coalesced into a deluge of rain. And I was warm and dry and invigorated on the right side of the window. Lucky moment number two. Finally, I am aware of an overarching sense of luckiness. I have the freedom and strength to walk where I will, to feel the wind on my face and allow nature to feed my soul.

April 6 The incentive was high today to get outside; after yesterday’s high winds, cold temperatures, and little white pellets passing themselves off as snow, today is still breezy but brilliantly sunny. Spring has been coquettish, a bit of a tease this year, and it seems wise to me to get what you can, when it’s offered!

I took a similar path to my previous walks, winding through Queen’s campus toward the lake. The air was clear; the windmills on Wolfe Island seemed so close I felt as though I could reach out and pluck one, like a child’s pinwheel. Taking her cue from spring, the lake today was flirtatious, flashing bits of white petticoat where the sun touched her. A mallard husband and wife paddled close to shore, their nerveless feet apparently not bothered by what must be numbingly cold water.

For the first time I noticed a bronze lion in the park, gazing steadfastly out toward the water. It was a bit nerve-wracking when I passed into his line of vision, but he never broke his pose, and I escaped  what might have been a dangerous encounter.

I turned away from the water and found signs of spring in abundance; as I passed by, a grey squirrel broke off from his excavation in the mud — something top-secret, I imagine —  and kept me under surveillance until I’d gone by.

There are now little lakes of blue scilla, some late snow drops, the daffodils are clumped like onion setts, and the tulip leaves curl bravely out of the earth. The Virginia creeper is creeping, the periwinkle winkling, and the euonymus … well, doing whatever euonymus does best, I suppose.

Since I seemed to have worked up an appetite I turned for home and the kitchen. This is not an abandonment, just a hiatus. I will be excited to see what might have changed by next week.

Promises, promises. A longer hiatus than expected. Several rounds of winter illness, plus ridiculous busyness with rehearsing a play and other obligations. On an intellectual level I subscribe to the precepts of the slow movement. (read In Praise of Slow by Carl Honoré www.carlhonore.com) but am so far unable to commit. I like to think I’m headed in the direction of slowness, of appreciation for something done mindfully and well. The unperturbed and stately pace of the changing season helps to remind me that slow can beautiful.

Photo courtesy Karen Bell

June 10 Magnolias have come and gone. Flowering fruit trees and lilacs have perfumed every breeze for weeks. But now, bridal wreath spirea has taken centre stage in my neighbourhood, reminding me of cancan dancers or showgirls in a kick line rather than any demure bride. Tulips have enjoyed an unusually long pre-eminence in the spring gardens this year, thanks to the continuing cool temperatures. They’re joined now by clumps of irises in the most complex, rich shades of purple, bronze, and gold. On my way through city park, I am drawn to examine the blossoms of a chestnut tree. What looks from a distance like an undefined cluster of pale pink or white, when seen close to is a tight bunch of shockingly exotic miniatures, with white frills and fruit-coloured throats in raspberry, grapefruit and lemon. They remind me of sugar-dusted English pastilles nestled in a tin, good enough to eat.

Behind the county courthouse that presides at the head of the park, a city police officer has just offloaded her mount, a handsome bay, from a horse trailer. While she checks the girth for tightness and adjusts the stirrups, the horse looks around with interest, ears pricked and nostrils flared to pick up scents. Sights, sounds, smells in abundance! And I think, imagine what we can experience when we come out of our box with senses awakened. We sure to find ourselves someplace completely different! For me, that’s the precious possibility that a walk, even in the cultivated tameness of a city park, can offer.

“This is my real self…if I have one.” With this line, the triumphantly middle-aged central character in the 1912 play “Rosalind” by JM Barrie reveals herself with a mixture of bravado and vulnerability. She has been caught out — by a much younger man –  playing a part, pretending to be something she is not. Her alter ego is Beatrice Page, an exquisite and much younger actress, celebrated for her portrayal of Rosalind in As You Like It. As Mrs. Page, she attempts to explain the charade to the bemused young man, and reveals her many masks, donning and discarding them with dizzying speed and facility.

Apparently Barrie was married to an actress, and knew what will-o’-the-wisps they can be. Like Barrie’s wife, I’m an actor.  I delight in playing different roles, whipping those masks on and off. As I immerse myself in my part I often find that there are points of connection between the character’s “real self” and mine. I have just finished playing Barrie’s delightful creation, Mrs. Page, on stage. As my connection with her grew through rehearsal and performance, I was struck, not only by the loveliness and whimsicality of Barrie’s dialogue (I put his writing amongst my other favourite playwrights — Tennessee Williams and William Shakespeare) but also by the deep truths Barrie expresses through Mrs Page. She says, “Never having been more than twenty-nine, not even in my sleep — for we have to keep it up, even in our sleep, you know — I began to wonder what it felt like to be middle-aged. I wanted to feel the sensation…hoping that here I might find the lady of whom I was in search…meaning, myself.” These lines struck a chord, or perhaps a series of chords. In many ways, my desire to know myself and — just as important — to be known by another, my desire to be able to lower the mask, and be my real self, is much like hers. I desire it, and yet I fear it.

Mrs. Page says, “…you should never, never ask an actress’ age.” The rule of thumb in theatre is that one can play ten years up or ten years down. To play in Rosalind, however, one must be able to pass for  twenty-nine as well as mid-forties. If it works, call it suspension of disbelief, or the magic of the stagelights, because I do not in my everyday life look anything like twenty-nine.

“But off the stage! I knew her off!” cries the young man in bewilderment. People often ask me my age, surprised to find I have adult children. Although I prefer to be mysterious on that subject, lately this question has started to unsettle me. Perhaps I should be flattered, but in fact I am old enough to have grown children. I was no child bride. I am who I am and I look how I look. Any wrinkles, crinkles or other marks of the passage of time, have been honestly come by, and I’m proud of them. The rest I can only put down to good genes. But these are issues of the external person. What about the internal?

Barrie, best known as the author of Peter Pan, was clearly fascinated with the idea of pretending, and of the notions of realness and authenticity. As humans, we all protect our vulnerabilities behind masks. As an actor, if I can put on and take off the masks of my character, perhaps I will give myself the courage to do so in real life. And, like me, Mrs. Page has layers of masks. She  continues to be a huge flirt, even in her guise as a middle-aged lady. Even after Charles, the young man, has accepted this middle-aged incarnation as her real self, she denies it. “Is it? I wonder…Even now I’m only playing a part.”

Beatrice both wants to be real, and yet wants to maintain an illusion. Her flights of imagination of what might have been are entrancing. She might have been “some happy unknown woman dancing along some sandy shore, with half a dozen little boys and girls hanging onto (her) skirts.” And yet, she is loathe to give up the illusion. She wants to be the coquette, wants to tantalize her admirers. And why not? What sacrifices do we make unnecessarily, thinking that a given behaviour is at odds with our state in life? I think, more power to you, Beatrice! I am who I am. I look how I look. I act how I act. This is the real me. At least, at this moment in time!

While, like Beatrice, I am a relentless self-examiner, I think I like the magic, the illusion, the mystery of being more than meets the eye. And maybe that’s why I am an actor.