No one is going to accuse you of cultural appropriation if you lower yourself into the bowels of a canoe. Canoe culture is real and part of our historical threads in Canada, as trip enthusiast Kate Dotsikas writes for Voyageur Quest, the only place in this country that you really want to organize your next canoe trip.
The canoe is sleek and unfussy. You need only a paddle (and a cushy thing for your knees, if you’re my vintage).
My paddle’s keen and bright
flashing with sliver
Wildlife is rarely disturbed by a paddler if your dip is quiet.
Meditative for a solo paddler, canoes accommodate crowds too. Dumping is allowed…once.
If you want to know about someone, take them on a canoe trip. Lily dippers are the ones to look out for. They can get back into your good graces only if they join the trippers’ chorus on the lake. Knowing the harmony will win you an extra marshmallow come dusk.
In my side of the family, there isn’t anyone who missed a canoe lesson from our chief canoeist, Marion Langford, today celebrating her 85th birthday.
Over the decades, my mother has given paddling lessons (dockside and in the boat itself) to her five children and their spouses, and all her eleven grandchildren. Once a camp program director, always a camp program director.
The loons on the lake have surely come to recognize the hairstyle and sure stroke of my mother. Neither have changed much. She’s not a cliché either. Happy Birthday Mom. Dip, dip, and swing.
As for the rest of you, any virgin paddlers out there, find a lake. Glide awhile. No need for flag waving. It’s all here.
BARE NAKED NATION
Folklore demands the loon as our brand
a call every Canadian knows
a call to their mate a dip and a date
a smack to their snap turtle foes
We have no quibble with iconic dribble
though truth here be told is amiss
for the face of our coins should feature our loins
the skinny dip mister and miss
From Tofino to Truro a bare naked bureau
disrobing with absence of dread
diving white tushes scatter the fishes
velvety swims before bed
In light of the moon in lieu of the loon
we toast the innocent dip
for cottaging duty is baring your booty
bountiful modest or ripped
A chunky dunk splash a chubby dub blast
or Auntie Anne’s entry to date
Let’s honour and have it humdrum or havoc
CBC hear us debate
Grant us the order no bylaws no borders
we really don’t need to make signs
We just want the status even this wiseass
even the fools who make rhymes
Make us a symbol of national pride
give us our lake waters calm
Let us declare
twilight as bare
skinny dip Canucks are da bomb
Anne Langford © 2015 (written on the occasion of a wedding shower for my niece to introduce her partner to Canadian culture)
floating picnics…magic forest hikes…dreamy rowboats… gelato twilight…breezy backroads…ferry me away…what are you waiting for?
firstname.lastname@example.org or order your copy here
Age spots come with time, as do smarts. Being smart on the right day is a bonus of middle age. Being smart to soak it all up, it being this delicious brew of parental pride, and poignance for a life on the speed track. Being smart to pay attention to every detail of a glorious day and to thread together the beginnings…
And the benchmarks.
Paying attention is harder these days. Our eyeballs are begging for relief. I found them in the faces of graduates, paired off to be presented to the gowned academics smiling at each one with genuine encouragement.
We live in an age of terrible global truths; here there was nothing but hope. The graduates faced the audience for a few seconds before descending the steps. Each bore grins I’d like to string up on kites to sail high over the gorgeous University of Toronto campus. Some gave modest waves, no different than iterations a few decades earlier at the kindergarten door. Others bowed with grandiosity; a few sported swagger I’d like to borrow on one of my less than shiny days.
Earlier in the day, we were invited to an awards ceremony ahead of the convocation. Need some inspiration in your routine? Pop in to one of these events and douse yourself in a little wonder. Honours degrees with wide ranges of major and minor combinations: all weird and wonderful. Kinda like our newest grad. A devout curator of street fashion, new music and ideas, our eldest has wonky sleep patterns developed since reading late into the night as a skinny kid. Her paintings dot the walls here; her mess, as considerable as her kindness, dot the floors where she once practiced ballet, over and over, those slippers tracing patterns in a life sure to hold beauty. This year she will cross the globe to pursue a career in public health.
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself;
( I am large, I contain multitudes.)
-Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, Leaves of Grass
Thrilling for this writer was the thoughtful address given to the awards participants by Professor William Robins as he encouraged this group to engage in communities throughout their lives, especially local ones, and to be compassionate towards themselves.
You are here at this ceremony because you are extremely smart and keen individuals. Your families and your teachers expect, and have probably always expected, great things of you and no doubt you do too. I bet most of you have deeply internalized these expectations such as your own sense of identity cannot be easily separated from the marks of success that are recognizable by others. There is a lot of pressure to succeed and there will no doubt be disappointments and setbacks. These can often lead to feelings of inadequacy and doubting your own worth. At such moments, I encourage you to find compassion for yourselves, to take a moment and think about what it is like when you bash yourself, when you judge yourself and find yourself wanting. Think about what expectations lead you to be harsh on yourself. What would it be like if you could remove that judgemental criticism? So I encourage you to practice a generous kindness not only towards others, but towards yourselves. Because there will be times when you need it, and because you’re worth it.
Prof. William Robins, President and Vice-Chancellor of Victoria University, University of Toronto
Back at home, we drank sangria and, as is our way in these parts, toasted the long line that came before: Kate knows well enough hers is a family that values learning almost as much as chocolate.
All over the map in June right now appear dots now connected as one jump of joy at completion: WE DID IT, said the chorus of gowns.
But wait, doesn’t this mean leaving a posse behind? Yes, it does. Sort of. That cosy group will disband. Others will form. Be assured of the terrific possibility of newness again. And if your facility with goodbyes is poor, take a shot, as my fine young friend (and 2017 grad herself) Alison Chang did, to say goodbye to her university friends in song. Her ode to her USC university friends is one I’m going to borrow for my own cherished smartypants. It’s not goodbye. It’s just see you later.
June. We love you so far.
We’re in for a major dump of rain. Rain makes things grow. And it’s your excuse to…
Throw a party. Invite a new friend.
This guy, one of my kindred spirits, will get you started.
Get feverish about tulips.
Or go for drive to see all the spring blossoms around the city before all this rain brings them down.
Two thoughtful longreads:
Brad Pitt on becoming a better man, listening to Frank Ocean, and starting therapy in this month’s GQ. Favourite quote?
I wish I could just change my name
Photo credit: Ryan McGinley
Make yummy things
All things mango
Baked Maple French toast
Clean out your crib and donate it all.
Here’s one place to donate.
Dance to your spring jam
I grew up surrounded by classical music in this house. These days, unless I’m driving, I find classical music to be a balm when my soul is weary. Here’s a great list of summer concerts where you can drown in classical music.
Dream up some fun summer plans that require wearing a big hat.
What’s your rain plan? Hopefully it doesn’t involve a wet basement. Crossing my fingers for the residents of the Toronto Islands.
It was an April morning like any other in Toronto when my parents pledged to take care of one another in front of friends and family at a midtown church. Sixty years later, the front of the church stands yet; behind it, an enormous hole where construction has begun on new condos. Change is a constant in this city. To become attached to any one pile of stones is sure to bring heartbreak.
Attach instead skin to skin.
Today my dad reaches under the table for my mother’s hand at an intimate family lunch in their honour. Beside me, my mother giggles. For a second I allow myself to be her University of Toronto chum, pondering the merits of this very tall suitor, who courted her for more years than he would have liked before she said yes. He would have to promise first to have many children for this only child was resolute about wanting a brood. That we would be unwieldy and prone to spontaneous outbursts was likely not what she imagined. Yet here we are, doing that celebrating thing we can’t seem to give up, and here’s Dad at the head of the table once again, reeling out the first chapter.
“I was suggested by somebody that I should run as as a Member-at-Large in first year so I went to the meeting and there was this good looking blonde who got nominated as the woman head of the year. I went out to Charles Street on the first football game and here came the blonde with her friends and I said to myself, I better sit by her because we’re going to be on the executive together: this was the beginning.”
We’ve heard this one before. Indeed, we’re arrogant enough to think we know all the chapters, one spectacular constellation to guide us in the fog. Of course we don’t. It is theirs alone, inside every embrace.
But we do have the main, the heft, the long thread of this gorgeous narrative weaving through all of us.
Today, I had the immense honour to toast this couple and what I told them was this:
Your story is unending. It is in me when I wake up and when I close my eyes at night. It is the story of us, and lives within your five children and eleven grandchildren. It will be the story their children and all future generations know. It is the story of devotion and strength, of tremendous commitment and good humour. It inspires me and sustains me; my own marriage exists on the shoulders of yours.
“I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest — blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband’s life as fully as he is mine.”
― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Diamonds really are forever.
“Mother of all bombs” dropped this week. Did you shake where you stood as I did hearing the terrifying physics of this first-ever weapon deconstructed on a radio programme? I was in my kitchen, chopping carrots.
Far away is right here in 2017. There is no far away.
Be relentless about peace where you stand if you’re lucky enough to live in Canada.
To all my readers: Happy Easter.
More on Easter:
Three years ago:
Four years ago:
Millennial pink has reached the zenith of zeitgeist gushing. Didn’t know pink was a thing? Me neither. The Friendly Greek wore pink shirts decades ago; in my closet are several pink purses.
On at least two occasions, I wore a large pink hat.
None of this makes us anything remotely on trend. How can you be hip in a red blazer fit for a tour guide?
“No one really agrees on what shade millennial pink actually is. Nonetheless, we think we figured it out. Essentially, it’s a subtle, muted pink — not too bright, but also not too blush (blush is also the “new neutral,” have you heard?) How did this fad begin, you ask? It could have been when Apple released the “rose gold” iPhone in 2015, or when Pantone named rose quartz the “Color of the Year” in 2016. Either way, it’s a thing, and we’re here for it.”
“Gone is the girly-girl baggage; now it’s androgynous. It doesn’t hurt that the color happens to be both flattering and generally pleasing to the eye, but it also speaks to an era in which trans models walk the runway, gender-neutral clothing lines are the thing, and man-buns abound. It’s been reported that at least 50 percent of millennials believe that gender runs on a spectrum — this pink is their genderless mascot.”
“A color becomes popular because it’s symbolic of the age we’re living in. These are turbulent times. People are looking for calm.”
-Laurie Pressman, Pantone Colour Institute (more from Bloomberg here)
“I don’t like it but I can see why it’s popular. This is how I feel about a lot of things pitched to my demographic. Still, better than Boomer Pink, which locked Millennial Pink in the basement without a job and is inexplicably snide about it.”
Running out to purchase things in hot colours never works much for me (who has time?) but some manage to pull it off.
Around here, some pink is year round.
And other pinks show up when it’s their season to strut.
Easter brings out the shine in pink, and my mother’s gorgeous pink candles.
I’m not fussed if pink is out of fashion decades from now (or how about next week, thanks to the Trump green invasion), certain as I am of the longevity of Anne’s Seasonal Kitsch that keeps me from
losing my mind cued up and ready for the uncharted curves ahead.
Pink is not about the feminine or the frivolous. (art by Kate Dotsikas)
For me, it’s the pucker up* we long for…
…and in the eyelids of sleeping babes. I’m for those forever.
Come on now. Show me your hip side. Got any millennial pink in your collection? Share in the Have your Say section below.
*photo credit: Jane Langford
If today is a day for parades, and pubs with green beer (dumb-no such thing exists in Ireland), then let it too be a day to toast a country of my ancestors. What I took away from a 2011 family holiday to Ireland was a great affinity with mist and magic.
Another visit is surely ahead for us. Until then, I snuggle down into my Irish woolies (purchased on the Aran Islands, easily a favourite spot on that incredible trip) and let my mind drift into fairy realms. That’s my St. Patrick’s Day: convening with dead writers.*
Lovers on Aran
The timeless waves, bright, sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas
To possess Aran. Or did Aran rush
to throw wide arms of rock around a tide
That yielded with an ebb, with a soft crash?
Did sea define the land or land the sea?
Each drew new meaning from the waves’ collision.
Sea broke on land to full identity.
–Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)
Another good way to celebrate is making this.
We found versions of this date pudding with whiskey sauces across Ireland and I have loved it ever since. Want a recipe? There’s one waiting for you in my book. Hope you have your copy.
For more on our trip, catch our goofy side here.
* Irish fiction is flourishing. Read more on the writers of the new wave.
More fun for your weekend:
- So you think an English literature degree leads nowhere? Meet this Canadian CEO who might change your mind.
- Hanging with a girlfriend posse from a more innocent time is therapy for me (see you tonight, ladies!**) and I suspect many others. Faithful friends are among the best things in life, along with dark chocolate, spring mornings, and this song. That’s why I cried when I read this story of a friendship gone wrong.
- New York City women have a new hang out. The Wing is “your throne away from home; a sacred space where you can work, get to inbox zero, shower, get a blow-out, store your stuff, take a conference call, make a new friends, or even stage a small coup. All in one place”. Here’s how it started.
- Emma Watson, star of the new film Beauty and the Beast on whether Belle is trapped in an abusive relationship
- Elsewhere in the landscape of age-old folk tales: I’m going to see this ballet on Sunday and I can’t wait. Pinocchio is on through March 24th in Toronto.
**Bringing treats. Duh