Happy Birthday, Canada House!
Canada is a great country: alike in the literal sense of vast extent from sea to sea and great in achievement and in promise, and it is right and necessary that its official representatives here should be housed in a manner worthy of the Dominion and adequate to the discharge of their ever-growing and important duties.”
— King George V
A hundred years ago today, King George V opened Canada House, also known as the High Commission of Canada in the United Kingdom, with these words. The building has a unique purpose in the relationship between Canada and the UK and a pretty cool address: Canada House, Trafalgar Square, London.
Completed in 1827, the building was purpose-built for a gentleman’s club known as the Union Club. Its architect was Sir Robert Smirke, designer of the British Museum and the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. The Greek Revival style was a departure from the Regency era, and the style was adopted by many of the neighbours of Canada House, including the National Gallery, South Africa House, and St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
Canada bought the building in 1923. After extensive renovations, the High Commission moved in and has resided there ever since. London is Canada’s oldest diplomatic mission and its second largest, with a complement of 300 today. (In 1923, it numbered five.)
The reason Canada House is a High Commission, not an embassy, is because when it was established way back in 1880, Canada was still under colonial rule. (Fun fact: Canadians were considered British subjects until 1947.) Our first prime minister, Sir John A Macdonald, had a representative in London who acted on his behalf and whom Sir John A. wanted to call a resident minister. Britain said no to that idea and suggested the title of high commissioner instead. That title and the position became the standard for all members of the Commonwealth and is why Commonwealth nations send high commissioners, rather than ambassadors, to each other’s capitals.
As the Canadian diplomatic mission in London grew, it expanded into a second location on Grosvenor Square called Macdonald House, which was in use from 1961 to 2014.
In 2013, Canada bought the building next door to Canada House. Former home of the Sunlife Assurance Company of Canada, it was built at the same time as Canada House and in the same Greek Revival style. (Another fun fact: this building served as the overseas headquarters of the Canadian Army during World War II.) Renovation work converted the two buildings into one, Macdonald House was sold, and the High Commission has resided in one building since 2014.
I became aware of its centennial when I saw the coverage of King Charles and Queen Camilla’s visit to Canada House back in May. They dropped by to draw attention to their upcoming visit to Canada. That visit would be Charles’s 20th, but his first as Sovereign. The purpose of his visit was to attend the opening of Canada’s parliament and deliver the Speech from the Throne.
Given current world events, this was a pretty big deal. Indulge me as I take a moment to explain why. Some of my readers, especially the non-Commonwealth ones, might not understand.
Although Canada is an independent nation, we are a member of the Commonwealth, and one of 14 realms where, in addition to the United Kingdom, the Sovereign is also the Head of State. This means Charles III is also King of Canada.
The Throne Speech outlines the government’s agenda for the next session of parliament and is usually read by the Governor General, who is the King’s representative in Canada. But on just three occasions, the Sovereign has travelled to Canada to read the speech: King Charles last month, and his mother, Queen Elizabeth II, in 1957 and 1977.
After being sworn in as prime minister in March, Mark Carney made a quick overseas trip to Paris and London, stopping off in Iqaluit on his way back to Ottawa. Many saw this trip as symbolic; during his swearing-in ceremony, Carney pointed out that Canada was founded by three peoples: French, English, and Indigenous. While in London, he met with King Charles and asked him to open the next session of the Canadian parliament, should the Liberals be successful in the next election. Which they were.
Fast forward to May 27. Having the King open the 45th Parliament of Canada and deliver the Speech from the Throne highlighted to the world that we are a constitutional monarchy, and our system of government is much different than that of the republic to our south. Charles and Camilla were in Ottawa less than 24 hours, but were given a warm welcome by thousands of Canadians. Even anti-monarchists were heard to remark on the significance of the occasion.
About those current world events. Some people think Canada becoming the 51st state is a joke, but Canadians aren’t laughing. The Speech from the Throne reiterated Canada’s sovereignty and the need to rebuild our relationships with both the United States and the rest of the world.
The Throne Speech is always written by the government, but the Sovereign (or the Governor General, as the case may be) are expected to add a personal touch at the beginning. Charles did so with these words:
Every time I come to Canada, a little more of Canada seeps into my bloodstream — and from there straight to my heart.”
It was a bit surreal to hear King Charles speak about Canadian domestic issues such as building affordable homes and strengthening our border, but when he read the following words, his tone was heartfelt:
As the anthem reminds us: the True North is indeed strong and free.”
The entire chamber broke out in applause.
The monarchy has to remain apolitical, but they have been known to use symbols to express themselves. Canadians noticed when Charles wore his Canadian military honours while on a visit to a Royal Navy ship in early March, a day after meeting with Prime Minister Trudeau in London. The visit of Charles and Camilla to Canada House a week before their visit to Canada was another symbol.
I got up close and personal with Canada House over two days in the fall of 2010. The above photo is actually of the side entrance, not the main one by which the Royals and other distinguished guests enter. But it’s the entrance I used. See, when you’re a Canadian in London who has had her passport stolen while travelling on a crowded Tube train, you need to visit Canada House.
The wallet was stolen on a Saturday night, and I had to wait until Monday morning to get into the High Commission. By then it had been a long and stressful two nights for me, but the consular official who helped me was calming and reassuring. She had me sorted out in no time. I returned the next morning to pick up my temporary passport and was then able to leave for Paris, only one day later than scheduled.
So for me, Canada House isn’t just a symbol. And while I’m sure the people who helped me thought they were just doing their job, I needed them to do those jobs to get me home.
In the same way, asking the King of Canada to open our Parliament is more than a symbol. It’s his job. And this year, in these times, we needed him to do his job. It might not make any difference to the man sitting in the White House, but it sure reminded Canadians that we are strong and, indeed, free.
Our Country, Our Game
You can’t take our country — and you can’t take our game.”
— Prime Minister Justin Trudeau
What a month. What a week. What a game.
I try to avoid discussing politics on this blog, but I have been known to write about hockey. And last night’s hockey game got political.
Of course it did.
Canada is being forced into a trade war with its neighbour to the south. Rumblings about tariffs since the US elections last November became reality on February 1. In response, our prime minister gave as rousing a nationalist speech as I’ve ever heard him give. That, along with the ridicule a certain American politician has expressed towards both him and our sovereignty, has united the country in a way it hasn’t been for quite some time. Grocery shopping has become an act of patriotism as Canadians resolve to buy only products made or grown in Canada.
And then last weekend, on February 15, we celebrated the 60th anniversary of our flag. All five living former prime ministers got together to issue a statement asking Canadians everywhere to fly the flag with pride. Mine came out of the drawer where it had been sitting since the Vancouver 2010 Olympics and is now hanging in my window. I think I’ll leave it there for a while.
In the meantime, a little hockey tournament took place this week. It was clear during last Saturday’s game between Canada and the US that emotions were running high. Players on both sides dropped their gloves three times in the first nine seconds. The Americans won, but I had faith that Team Canada would come through when it mattered. And they did.
Last night’s victory was oh so sweet. I can’t say it any better than Jon Cooper, coach for Team Canada:
I just hope Canada’s proud because every player in that room is proud to be a Canadian. And yeah, did we need a win? Not only our team, but Canada needed a win. And the players [bore] that on their shoulders. And they took it seriously. And, uh, this one was different. This wasn’t a win for themselves. This was a win for 40-plus million people, and the guys knew it and they delivered.”
I took the above photo during the Vancouver 2010 Olympics. Hockey at next year’s Olympics is gonna be lit.
Happy Birthday, Arthur Erickson!
Architecture, as I see it, is the art of composing spaces in response to existing environmental and urbanistic conditions to answer a client’s needs. In this way the building becomes the resolution between its inner being and the outer conditions imposed upon it. It is never solitary but is part of its setting and thus must blend in a timeless way with its surroundings yet show its own fresh presence.
— Arthur Erickson
Google “world’s top architects” and he doesn’t merit so much as a mention, but Arthur Erickson is arguably Canada’s best internationally known architect. He was born in Vancouver 100 years ago today.
After serving in the Canadian Army during and after World War II, Erickson had plans to become a diplomat, but his interests turned to architecture upon seeing the work of Frank Lloyd Wright. He completed his studies at UBC, went on to McGill, and also studied in the Middle East, Greece, Italy, and Japan. In 1962, after a decade spent teaching and designing, he opened his Vancouver-based architecture firm in partnership with Geoffrey Massey. After they won the competition to design Simon Fraser University, there was no stopping him.
Some say that Erickson’s architecture should be as well known as Margaret Atwood’s novels or Emily Carr’s paintings. Certainly his buildings have shaped the look of Vancouver. Erickson also shaped architects — many moved to Vancouver to work under his mentorship.
Centenary events are happening throughout Vancouver this summer. My own commemoration will consist of a series of blog posts about some of his most important Vancouver projects.
But, to begin, today I’m posting about the only building of his that I’ve photographed outside of Canada. That would be the Canadian Embassy in Washington, DC.
I don’t usually make a point of checking out Canadian embassies during my travels (unless required to, as happened during an unfortunate episode while in London on route to Paris — that’s a story I keep meaning to tell but haven’t gotten around to yet). However, I can attest that the Canadian Embassy in Washington is magnificent, and definitely worth a look-see.
If you’ve ever visited Washington, you know it’s a sea of Neoclassicist buildings. Erickson had to work under a series of restrictions so that the building he designed did not stand out too much from its surroundings.
As you approach the embassy, its façade is imposing, but not severely so. The Rotunda of the Provinces and Territories consists of 12 pillars, representing 10 provinces and two territories. (Nunavut was not yet in existence when the embassy was built.)
The waterfall that surrounds the rotunda is meant to represent Niagara Falls, the world-famous waterfall that straddles the Canada–US border.
In the courtyard, resting in a pool of water, is the bronze statue Spirit of Haida Gwaii, the Black Canoe by Bill Reid. (A second casting of the same sculpture, Spirit of Haida Gwaii, the Green Canoe, is in the International Terminal at YVR Airport.)
The embassy opened in 1989 and is located on Pennsylvania Avenue between the United States Capital and the White House.
Queen of Canada
To you, she was your Queen.
To us, she was the Queen.
— Emmanuel Macron, President of France
I don’t remember how old I was when I became aware that I shared my name with Queen Elizabeth. But you can bet I thought it was pretty special.
I mean, what little girl wouldn’t? (Even though, in truth, I am named after my grandmother.)
My first trip overseas — the one where I caught the travel bug — included a stop in London. It was 1977, the year of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. We were there in mid-August, long after the festivities were over, but while the Mall was still adorned in Union Jacks and silver beads. I remember those beads so vividly.
The Mall in 1977
My mother bought a tiny Silver Jubilee souvenir plate on that trip to London; somehow it ended up on my kitchen counter where it now holds my bottle of extra virgin olive oil (to keep the oil dribbles from ending up on my counter — as you do with jubilee souvenir plates).
On that trip, my first of many visits to London, I wallowed in all the pomp and ceremony that makes London unique among European capitals. I was dazzled by the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London, and I was mesmerized by the palace guards.
Last June, when I turned on my TV and watched the Trooping of the Colour and then, two days later, the Platinum Party at the Palace, I thought to myself, “Wow, I so prefer the under-stated British patriotism to the over-the-top American version.” I wondered what it must’ve been like for the Queen, grieving for her father while undertaking a massive job much earlier than she anticipated, and in a man’s world to boot. She was a young, working mother before society ever came up with the term (as if mothers are ever “non-working”). I marvelled at how the Queen found a way to make her mark so early on, surrounded by all those old men in suits.
I thought about how long seventy years is. Much has been made of the fact that Winston Churchill was her first prime minister, but I was shocked to realize she acceded the throne while Stalin was still ruling Russia. Twelve of Canada’s 23 prime ministers have served under Queen Elizabeth. She’s been our Queen for almost half of our existence as a country.
World War II and the Covid-19 pandemic bookend the second Elizabethan Age, which seems fitting. She made her first radio address in October 1940 to the children of the Commonwealth, many of them evacuees, while still a child herself. One of her last TV addresses (not counting her annual Christmas message) was in April 2020, where she referenced that 1940 radio broadcast and talked about the pain of separation from loved ones.
We’re told the Queen loved Canada. She visited us the first time as a princess, and then 22 times as Queen. I remember standing in front of Edmonton’s Government House for a chance to see her during one of those visits.
It was 1978, and the Queen, Prince Philip, Prince Andrew, and Prince Edward were in town for the Commonwealth Games. My dad rather spontaneously decided one evening that our entire family should go watch in person as the Royal Family arrived for a formal dinner. After a very long wait, we were ecstatic to see how close we were when the cars pulled up. Just feet away from us! Except, much to our disappointment, all we could see were the backs of the Royal Family as they turned away from us to be greeted by the premier and other dignitaries.
Those of us on the far side of the cars began hooting and hollering. We were noticed — the Queen and her family turned towards us and gave us that royal wave. And then — whoosh, they were swept indoors.
The crowd felt it was much too quick of a glimpse and we all began hollering again. “We want the Queen,” we yelled. And not long afterwards, the Royal Family obliged us and came out onto the balcony of Government House to give us another royal wave.
It wasn’t Buckingham Palace, but it was a balcony.
Like the rest of the country, I woke up on September 8 to news that the Queen was under medical supervision. I tried to work, but kept the live feeds of both BBC and CBC open on my computer, watching, listening, waiting. I was quite surprised at my reaction when the news came. Tears, yes, and shock. And I realized that I somewhat bizarrely thought she would live forever. How silly of me.
What hasn’t surprised me since is the outpouring of love and affection for her from all over the world. That people would queue overnight to see her lying-in-state? You only have to watch it online for a few minutes to realize what a moment that would be, walking past the Queen’s coffin in person.
Half-Mast Canadian Flags in English Bay
What has surprised me is all the ritual surrounding King Charles III’s accession. Who knew there would be so much ceremony, both in the United Kingdom and in the Commonwealth? It’s made me wonder about my monarchist tendencies for the first time ever. Yes, the rituals of accession go back thousands of years. Yes, tradition is important. But when you live in a time where change happens at lightning speed, it’s become commonplace, you might say traditional, not to hold on to traditions.
The notion of a hereditary head of state does seem pretty strange and out of date in today’s world. But when I look at countries like Japan, Norway, the Netherlands, … Canada … and then compare those democracies to republics with elected heads of state (especially the one to the south of us), well, I’m still all in when it comes to a constitutional monarchy. From where I’m standing, it looks like a stable and reasonably effective way to run a country.
I’ve always known that the Queen is Canada’s Queen, and Head of the Commonwealth, but it wasn’t until these past ten days that I clued in to what the realm is. That’s us — the fifteen countries that had Queen Elizabeth II as our Sovereign, and now have King Charles III.
I know there’s going to be a lot of rumbling about whether it’s time for Canada to become a republic, like Barbados did just over a year ago. Except for one little problem. When we patriated our constitution back in 1982 — that’s when the Queen made a special trip to Ottawa to sign what I always thought of as the divorce papers — we gave ourselves an impossible amending formula. Instead of having to go to the Parliament of the United Kingdom to amend our Constitution, we now have to sort it out ourselves. Dumping the monarch would require an amendment, and the chances of us ever coming to an agreement about how to do that are pretty much nil.
Canada is the largest realm, after the United Kingdom, and our delegation to the Queen’s funeral was also one of the largest. This morning’s procession from Westminster Abbey to Wellington Arch was led by four Royal Canadian Mounted Police on horses gifted by the RCMP to the Queen. In addition to the current and former prime ministers and the current and former governors general, the three main Indigenous leaders went along: the President of the Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, the National Chief of the Assembly of First Nations, and the President of the Métis National Council. Their attendance goes far beyond symbolism. It’s a recognition that there is still much work to be done in terms of reconciling Canada’s colonial past. There are calls for King Charles to make a public apology to the Indigenous peoples who live in Canada. I expect it will come, eventually, because all institutions, even the British Monarchy, must adapt and change to stay relevant.
Near the end of our 1977 trip to London, I remember my dad asking each of us kids what we thought of when we heard the word “London.” I said Parliament Square.
My family was surprised. They expected me to say the Crown Jewels or the Changing of the Guard, knowing how enamoured I was with both, but Dad understood my thinking. At Parliament Square, you can see both the Palace of Westminster and Westminster Abbey — the monarchy, the parliament, and the church — in one sweeping glance.
There’s a portrait of the Queen that was taken after her coronation. You know the one: she’s wearing the Imperial State Crown, and holding the orb and sceptre, all of which adorned her coffin this past week. Behind her is a backdrop showing the Henry VII Chapel of Westminster Abbey. That’s the chapel where fifteen kings and queens, including Elizabeth I, are buried. It takes your breath away when you stand inside it.
If Parliament Square is what I think of when I think of London, then that portrait of the newly crowned Queen Elizabeth II is what I think of when I think of the Queen.
Our Queen.
Tilting at Windmills
Destiny guides our fortunes more favorably than we could have expected. Look there, Sancho Panza, my friend, and see those thirty or so wild giants, with whom I intend to do battle and kill each and all of them ….”
“What giants?” asked Sancho Panza.
“The ones you can see over there,” answered his master, “with the huge arms, some of which are very nearly two leagues long.”
“Now look, your grace,” said Sancho, “what you see over there aren’t giants, but windmills, and what seems to be arms are just their sails, that go around in the wind and turn the millstone.”
“Obviously,” replied Don Quixote, “you don’t know much about adventures.”
― Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
One adventure I was keen to experience for myself on our two-week jaunt around central Spain were those very windmills that Don Quixote had confused for giants. A photograph of the mills somewhere sometime had caught my eye, and I promised myself I would one day see them for myself.
And so I did. Windmills are a big part of my heritage, so maybe my love of windmills is in my genes. Or maybe it’s just because windmills are so beautiful.
The windmills in Spain were modelled after the Dutch windmills, but the difference between them is the Dutch mills are mainly used to pump water, whereas the mills in Spain were built to grind grain, mostly wheat.
This first group of windmills are at Consuegra. Built in the sixteenth century, there were 13 mills originally, of which 12 have been reconstructed. They were in use up until the 1980s.
The next group of windmills we visited are the ones at Campo de Criptana. Here, there are ten mills altogether, situated at the edge of a village. It was very windy when we were here and we kept moving around the mills, trying to find a calm place in which to eat our picnic lunch, but to no avail.
The last group of windmills we stopped at were at Mota del Cuerro.
The landscape of this part of Castile La Mancha is flat, dry, dusty, and windy. Way off in the distance, there are mountains. It reminds me of parts of Alberta, actually, and that may be why I fell in love with this part of Spain.
My memories of our visit to Castilla La Mancha and Castile and León are dim and faded, but revisiting the region through these blog posts has brought it all back again. Which has been lovely. It’s a region of Spain that doesn’t get a lot of attention, but deserves far more.
Remembering John Keats
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love; — then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
— John Keats
Back when I was a child (no, really — I was still in my teens), I took a course on the English Romantic poets. The first semester was all about William Blake and the Lake Poets (Coleridge and Wordsworth, among others). The poets known as the Late Romantics— Byron, Shelley, and Keats — took up the second semester.
It was a challenging course; in her feedback to a paper I wrote on Keats, my professor gently suggested I was perhaps more inclined towards studying history than literature. (She was right.)
But those young poets never left me, in their way, and so, less than a year later, I found myself wandering through a Roman cemetery looking for John Keats’ headstone. He died of consumption — what we now know as tuberculosis — on February 23, 1821. Like so many ex-pats in Rome, he was buried in the Protestant Cemetery. Unlike most people, he insisted his headstone not bear his name, but rather “Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.”
On that same visit to Rome, I also visited the Keats–Shelley Memorial House beside the Spanish Steps. It’s the house on the far right in the next photo. It was sobering to see where Keats died, but also thrilling to see the incarnation of my entire Romantic poetry course in three rooms.
I stopped by the Keats House in Hampstead, in the north part of London, on my next trip overseas. Hampstead Heath, a marvelous open space of almost 800 acres that beckons when you are museumed out, lies just behind the house.
Since I keep bumping into Keats on my travels, I thought it only right that I acknowledge the 200th anniversary of his death.
But back to the Romantic poetry course that started it all for me. One morning, my prof began class by asking who among us had life insurance. Her point was how unusual it was for someone as young as Keats to be so aware of his own mortality.
Unusual, but understandable. Keats lost both parents before he was grown and then watched his younger brother die of tuberculosis. He had also trained as a doctor. By his early twenties, Keats had seen far more death and dying than most of us will see in a lifetime. His sense of how fleeting life is inspired him to write poems like the sonnet I started this post with, which he wrote a month after his brother died.
More death and dying than most of us will see in a lifetime — that, of course, refers to those of us who will live through this pandemic more or less unscathed. And those of us who do, have far more privilege than most.
The Hill We Climb
We will rebuild, reconcile and recover
and every known nook of our nation and
every corner called our country,
our people diverse and beautiful will emerge,
battered and beautiful.
When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid.
The new dawn blooms as we free it.
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.
— Amanda Gorman
Boats in a Storm
So. Here we are. The last day of the wildest, craziest year I’ve personally ever experienced.
You know what were the last words I wrote on this blog in 2019?
“May we all see more of the light in 2020.”
Ha. What a sweet, summer child I was a year ago.
So many strange words are part of our vernacular now. Physical distancing. Lockdown. Bend the curve. Quarantine. Bubble. Circuit breaker. Phase 2. Red zone. Tier 4.
One word I never want to hear again?
Unprecedented.
This is a travel blog, but, like everyone else, I’ve stayed still this year. But here’s something I’ve learned while bird-watching: it is only when you stay still that you really hear the bird song.
This assortment of boats on English Bay is my photo choice for my last post of 2020 because it illustrates something that British Columbia’s Provincial Health Officer, Dr. Bonnie Henry, said at a press conference a lifetime ago way back in May.
We’re in the same storm, but we’re not in the same boat. For some people, it’s been a luxury yacht, and for others we’re really an open skiff adrift without a working engine.”
Despite my naive wish a year ago that we put a miserable 2019 well behind us and all my hopes for a much better 2020, I will still, in faith and in hope, wish all of us a happy new year and all the best for 2021, whatever that may bring. May your seas remain calm, may your boat stay afloat, and may we all hear the bird song.
Happy Birthday, William Wordsworth!
I wasn’t planning on writing a post to celebrate the birthday of the English poet William Wordsworth, but somewhere on the Interwebs today, I came across the last verse of his most famous poem. That would be “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” — or, as many people call it, “that daffodil poem.”
Here’s the verse I’m talking about:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
What hit home for me about this particular verse today is the realization that the one-time Poet Laureate of England was doing exactly what we are all being asked to do right now: living a virtual life. Long after he wandered through those daffodil fields, Wordsworth wrote about the feelings he experienced as he did so, and how those memories sustained him.
As our memories are sustaining all of us during this pandemic.
Here then, as a nod to Mr. Wordsworth and on the happy occasion of his 250th birthday, is a photo taken back in the time of before, when we could walk side-by-side without a care along a seawall adorned with daffodils.
The Chanteur of Montreal
Some say that no one ever leaves Montreal, for that city, like Canada itself, is designed to preserve the past, a past that happened somewhere else.
— The Favourite Game, Leonard Cohen
I can’t leave Montreal behind without writing a word about Leonard Cohen. Because, even though the man spent much of his life living elsewhere, Leonard Cohen is Montreal.
You can’t avoid him when you are there. Stand on any street corner in the city centre and his face stares down at you. When the news broke of Leonard Cohen’s death in November 2016, an impromptu memorial sprang up on the doorstep of his Montreal home. Vigils took place in the square just opposite. Like a pilgrim, I visited both.
I also read The Favourite Game, his first novel, to prepare for my visit to Montreal last spring. The members of my book club were not happy — none of them enjoyed the thinly disguised autobiography. I thought it was laugh-out-loud hilarious.
I’m still making it up to them.
This was a rough year, on so many levels. Almost everyone I know is counting the hours until 2019 is over. All are hopeful that 2020 will be better. I myself had a pretty good year, more or less. But I find it tough to feel joy and gratitude when everyone around me is hurting and weary and sick. Some people call that empathy.
I call it exhausting.
And that’s before we even bring up the news cycle.
In times like these, some of us turn to prayer, some of us turn to poetry, and some of us turn to music. Leonard Cohen — poet, novelist, songwriter, chanteur — gives us all three.
To close out 2019 as well as my series of posts on Montreal, I’m going to finish with these words:
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
May we all see more of the light in 2020.
There and Back Again 