Elizabeth Adams's Blog

Dear Readers,

This is my final post on this platform, after more than 20 years. I've been unable to export the images along with the writing, though I have copies of all of them archived at home. The continuation of this blog will reside at a self-hosted site, in addition to Substack. If you have been coming here directly or using a feed reader, please sit tight: in a few days, the same URL (http://www.cassandrapages.com) will point to the new site.

If you wish to follow me on Substack, the exact same content will be posted there each time I write a post. Please click on the embedded link in the previous sentence, or use this URL: https://cassandrapages.substack.com/

I'm appreciative of this home for my blog over the years, although I think that Typepad has been irresponsible in the ways it has failed to support its users, and the very short notice it gave for the final demise of the platform. I have, for example, followed the procedures Typepad laid out for exporting images, and they haven't even acknowledged my request for a help ticket. Be that as it may, I am responsible for failing to move the blog earlier, when things started to become shaky around here.

I'm witnessing the impending disappearance of my many years of thoughtful, careful work here with sadness, but also realism: nothing lasts forever, and certainly not in the rapidly-changing digital world that we live in. It feels rather like watching an advancing wildfire bearing down on my studio. Even though I have copies of everything, and have been able to reconstruct the writing from this blog as well as all the posts from the past two years that have been published on Substack, it definitely feels like a loss because I am unlikely to reconstruct the entire blog online ever again. Many people look back through old posts, or arrive here using various searches, and all of those links will now be broken. I myself often use search my own blog, looking for a record of some event in my life, a particular photograph, or some remembered lines of text. Now, I'll probably be using AI on my own archive to do that -- a weird thought at best.

To my faithful readers over the years: I can't thank you enough. I hope you will follow me to the Cassandra Pages's new home or to Substack, and I promise you that I'll continue to try to post the same kind of content that has given this site its particular ambience and feeling over the years.

 

warmly,

Beth 

By using a different browser, I was finally able to export the entirety of The Cassandra Pages from Typepad and import it into a new Wordpress blog. That blog isn't live yet, and I will have considerable work to do to eliminate duplicate posts and clean things up, but the important fact is that the export and import actually worked. Please watch this space and I will give you the link shortly. You will have the choice of following me on Substack or on a Wordpress blog hosted on my own domain. The Substack blog won't have the complete archive; it's only been active since 2023. I will continue to duplicate all of the posts on both platforms.

So, readers who've followed this blog here, please stay tuned. Typepad has rolled back their termination date to September 30, 2025, so I will give you the information for re-linking well before that.

This is... a relief.

 

On September 25, 2025, Typepad will be discontinuing its service.

The Cassandra Pages has been on this platform since 2005. Twenty years. I appreciate every reader who has visited this blog over the years, and I hope if you have not already done so, that you will start following the blog on Substack, where it's been cross-posted for the past two years, and where I have every intention of continuing to write.

Please follow this link to the current home of my blog.

You can subscribe to my Substack posts and receive a notification by email whenever there's something new. 

Thank you again for your loyalty and your friendship over all these years. Fortunately, Jonathan was able to make a complete archive/backup of everything that I've published here. It matters to me, because what I've done here has been a major part of my life's work as well as functioning as a journal. While it won't be available online anymore, I will be reviewing and editing this material and, I hope, eventually publishing parts of that archive for posterity in printed form.

with love and best wishes to all of you --

Beth

 

 

The first is a series of three posts about areas of focus where we can make a difference.
 
[image error]


 








            Sunset over Montreal, from my studio window. Oil pastel on paper, approximately 5” x 7”.

I first encountered the term “radical hospitality” when I was writing my biography of Bishop Gene Robinson, the first openly-gay man to be elected a bishop in the Anglican Church. Gene used this phrase often in his sermons and speeches, explaining that it meant going beyond our normal notions of hospitality toward friends and family — people we consider part of our own group and are comfortable with — to include those that are considered “other”. At the time, twenty years ago, your sexual identity definitely put you into categories of “accepted” or “other”, not only in institutions like mainstream churches and in other workplaces, but also in many people’s own families. It was a hard-fought battle to gain legal rights that — up until recently — seemed secure. The persecution and attacks that leaders like Gene Robinson endured were vicious and relentless, just as the women who campaigned for equal rights were attacked, and likewise all who fought in the civil rights movement. Whenever Gene spoke, he recalled those earlier struggles, reminding us that we all stand on the shoulders of those who came before us.

What might this idea of radical hospitality look like today? Well, let me ask you, “Who are you comfortable having coffee with at work, talking to on the street, or inviting into your home? And who are you not comfortable doing that with?”

By now, most progressive people make no social distinctions on the basis of sexual identity. But do you have a colleague or neighbor who is trans? Have you extended yourself to that person?

How often do you talk with or socialize with people of different religions or ethnic groups, or even with those of a different skin color?

How do these questions make you feel? If the answer is “somewhat uncomfortable,” or you find yourself feeling defensive, you aren’t alone, but I’d like to encourage you to sit with those feelings for a little while. The reason we feel uncomfortable is that we are tribal people, whether we acknowledge it or not, and we instinctively like to hang out with people who are like us and don’t challenge our idea of who we ourselves are. And it’s not necessarily indifference, dislike, racism or any other -ism — we also fear rejection and avoid socially awkward situations. Even extroverted people can become shy at the thought of talking to people of different backgrounds or identities. Don’t worry, I’m not suggesting that you invite your MAGA neighbor over for a beer and a political discussion in the backyard. Rather, the notion of radical hospitality is that we look for those who are hurting, those who are being persecuted, those who may be feeling isolated and fearful, regardless of the group into which we may have slotted them, and gently extend ourselves as human beings.

I am well aware that this isn’t easy. You can start off with eye contact and a smile. I was in a public restroom in downtown Montreal the other day, and an older Muslim woman, about my own age, with full head covering and a long, conservative manteau over her clothes, was washing her hands at the next sink. She looked up and saw me looking over at her in the mirror. I smiled, her eyes lit up, and she gave me a big smile back; I could see in her eyes that this moment of mutual recognition meant something, and I hope she could see it in mine. I stop to talk to the oud player on the street. I smile at the young, covered Muslim women on the metro. I talk to young ethnic parents with their kids on the trains, dealing with the same stuff that young parents everywhere are dealing with. In these public settings, nobody is going to glom onto you or ask more of you than you can reasonably give. But do we all have to travel in our own isolated bubbles? Can’t we be more human with each other, at a time when so many are anxious about their future, anxious about their children, and anxious about our world?

 

Our diverse, urban, multi-ethnic congregation at Montreal’s Anglican cathedral provides many opportunities for us to leave our natural comfort zones and move into greater relationship. Many workplaces, organizations and institutions do this as well; what might we do if we took the idea of radical hospitality more seriously? What would our own lives look like, and what would our communities and our world be like if we did?

And now I want to flip the question around. When we’re members of a majority or dominant group, there’s always a tendency to play the gratuitous generosity card, and to pat ourselves on the back for our openness…because it doesn’t cost us much. (The white savior complex hides itself in very benign forms, not just high-profile photo ops of celebrities “doing good in Africa”.) So if you should decide to invite that colleague or neighbor for a cup of coffee, I’d like to suggest that you use it as an opportunity ask some questions, and then quietly listen, and learn something from that person’s reality and their experience of the world that you both inhabit.

To go further — what would it mean to you to realize that a person or a group that is not your own is extending radical hospitality to you? What happens when we ourselves are very much in the minority, as many members of minority groups are all the time? Are we willing to experience this?

[image error]


 

I have been in many situations like that. When you’re willing to learn, to confront your own deeply-held notions, and not be a cultural tourist, you see and hear how others see your own group, race, religion or country — and it’s often the opposite of comfortable. I’ve felt myself squirm and rebel inside; I’ve watched my instinctive reactions and had to work through feelings of anger, hurt, and a lot of defensiveness. But this is how we grow. Now, I can’t even begin to express how grateful I am for the hospitality I’ve received and for what these friends from other cultures, religions, sexual orientations and gender identities, and other ways of being have taught me.

My friend Bryce Tolpen, author of the Substack Political Devotions, wrote movingly in a post titled My Monstrous Innocence about his own movement away from the “safe” community that had formed his earlier identity to a much broader place where he was no longer recognized and affirmed in the same way, but welcomed and encouraged in the human growth he sought. In the former community, he was revered as a kind of “hero child”, so long as he accepted its beliefs, behaviors and values. This allowed and encouraged him to stay in a state of unquestioning innocence about certain moral, religious, and political matters — he mentions American racial history — by accepting the community’s authority. However, a different, internal authority — his own conscience — began to assert itself in his life, causing him to question these values. He credits the writings of philosopher and theologian Paul Tillich with helping him think through this dilemma. Tolpen writes:

One doesn't have to leave a community, of course, to move away from a rotting state of innocence. In fact, one may leave a community or join one precisely in order to maintain that innocence. Leaving and joining aside, the main concern in Tillich's essay is how one develops "the courage to be." To develop it, he says, one moves from what he calls moralisms, which allow us to base our identity on an external authority's notion of right and wrong, to morality, which is "the self-affirmation of our essential being."

Since this dark night of my conscience, my involvement in communities has become healthier. These communities have led me to new experiences that I wouldn't have allowed myself to choose because of my mistaken need for innocence. In my old age, I have finally sought out many new acquaintances who are not of my tribes. It's fun.

Most people have not moved, in Tillich's sense, from moralisms to morality. Many who haven't are minors, and their innocence is healthy. Many others who haven't are young adults, and their innocence is sometimes regrettable. Many others who haven't are older, and their innocence is often dangerous, as mine was.

How can innocence be dangerous? Innocence protects an identity that society has constructed for me. I cooperate with society—and with groups I join in our society—by submitting to moralisms. In other words, I behave. As long as my personal behavior is good, I can ignore my calling to public life, a calling that rejects moralisms but requires morality. 1

In his essay, Tolpen quotes James Baldwin’s letter to his young nephew about how to live in America:

You must accept [whites] and accept them with love. For these innocent people have no other hope. They are, in effect, still trapped in a history which they do not understand; and until they understand it, they cannot be released from it. They have had to believe for many years, and for innumerable reasons, that black men are inferior to white men. Many of them, indeed, know better, but, as you will discover, people find it very difficult to act on what they know. To act is to be committed, and to be committed is to be in danger. In this case, the danger, in the minds of most white Americans, is the loss of their identity. 2

Today, as we can see, Baldwin’s words are still true, and the dangers have not only changed but, for many of us, increased. Fundamental racism is alive and being acted upon every day as the administration tries to rewrite history, and dismantle decades of progress, education, and legislative protection. In addition to racism directed against Blacks, discrimination and persecution of essentially every other group that is not white, straight, and male has been added. Hate crimes as well as dententions and harassments are on the rise against Jews, Muslims, Sikhs, Latinos, South Asians, Asians, and every other visible minority; trans people and even pregnant women in conservative states are targeted. Just imagine what it is like for your colleagues and neighbors. Can’t we each extend ourselves a bit more?

It seems to me that one path forward for each of us is to examine our own innocence and the reasons and ways in which we shy away from being more inclusive, open, and generous. We can begin to take small steps toward an embrace of “radical hospitality” and to learn from those who are not like us. We should neither waste time mourning the loss of programs and protections, nor wait for the large systems to correct themselves; it is up to each one of us to do what we can to make a better world in the spaces closest to us, here and now.

1

Paul Tillich, Theology of Culture, pg. 136

2

Notes of a Native Son, in Collected Essays, by James Baldwin, The Library of America 98 (New York: Library of America, 1998), 128-29.

[image error]


 








Cornfield near Iberville, Quebec. Oil pastel on paper, 5” x 7”.

I had been up this morning for an hour already, and was off on my morning walk, listening to music, before I realized what day it was. August 22. It’s been three years today since my father died, and slightly more than one full year since we sold our family home and were last at the lake and in the rural area where I grew up.

How does one adjust to these things? Well, you just do. Losing a parent, especially at such an advanced age (for him and for me, actually) feels natural, unlike the loss of a partner or, worst of all, a child. What was strange about losing my father, and my husband’s father, both of whom lived to their late 90s, in fairly good health and mental capacity, and with large intact personalities, was that they had been vibrantly present in our lives for so long it seemed impossible that they wouldn’t always be.

Of course, my father is still with me. Every time I finish one of these long, vigorous morning walks, and return home sweaty and a bit achy, I say, “OK, Dad, I did it — I’m still moving.” My father lived according to a theology of exercise. Royal Canadian Air Force exercises every morning, jogging before anyone else was doing it, competitive table tennis until his mid-90s supported by obsessive daily practice at a table he had outfitted with an automatic ball return and an adjustable mechanism that served balls at him. I was never the athlete he was, but he instilled a belief that I needed to keep my body moving and active. I also inherited his arthritis, which isn’t as bad as what he suffered from, but I can vouch for the fact that moving makes it better. Dad had a high-mileage body that he used pretty hard. Two knee replacements and one hip later, he was grateful for modern medicine’s ability to keep him going, but his own determination and stubbornness about moving in spite of pain were even bigger factors.

By contrast, my father-in-law had a low-mileage body. He never exercised except for a series of facial exercises he insisted kept wrinkles at bay; at 88 he decided for the first time in his life to mow a lawn and, halfway through, felt chest pains that landed him in the ER and eventually led to bypass surgery. His philosophy of doing the most mental work and the least physical work proved to be just as effective for him, in terms of longevity, as my father’s opposite path. He was round; my father was extremely thin though they both liked to eat. My father-in-law never drank; dad had a cocktail every night of his life. My father-in-law was optimistic and cheerful, quite contented with his books and writing and an audience of students or parishioners; he wasn’t handy at all and rather mystified by those who were. My dad loved to fix things, was extroverted, competitive, and funny, and needed people around all the time, but he tended to be inwardly pessimistic and often negative; he rarely if ever read a book. Totally different metabolisms, totally different approaches to caring for their bodies and their spirits.

I think about them both as I too grow older. My father-in-law was much more philosophical about the process of aging, accepting the inevitable losses and diminishments with grace and humor, while my father fought against them tooth and nail. The former gave up his car almost ten years before he died at 99 because he felt he could no longer drive safely; my father insisted on driving until the last four months of his 97 years. Socially and physically, I’m more like my own father, but when I get negative or depressed about growing older, I try to remember how my father-in-law did it.

Both of them became outliers, living so long, and one secret to their longevity was that they both kept pushing themselves to learn, improve, and do creative things — just in very different areas of their lives. In his last decade, in addition to writing essays and books, my father-in-law started making elaborate collages from pictures in news magazines. These imaginative and highly creative images were often comments on political events, and he sometimes sent them along with the weekly letter he wrote to President Clinton. Even after retiring from teaching and the ministry, he kept accepting supply-preaching gigs in Unitarian Universalist churches in the area well into his 90s. My father was an excellent woodworker, and in his later years used some of those skills to become good at antique clock repair. He was a fine natural musician and enjoyed music all his life; he’d be amused and happy to know I’ve taken up the flute again, and when I do my daily practice I’m quite aware that my perseverance was learned from him, and that whatever natural talent I have was his gift too.

They both kept cultivating friendships that included younger people. In spite of his insistence, on finally moving into assisted living, that he was going to eat alone and keep to his room and his books, my father-in-law ended up with a number of friends at his residence, some of whom became very close with him, and he always enjoyed our weekly lunches together as well as family gatherings on holidays and anniversaries, often offering to cook something — sometimes a little too creatively — for the occasion.

My father, once he found a new partner two years after my mother’s death, moved from the lake to the nearby small city where she lived, and developed the social life I think he’d always wanted — playing golf and table tennis several times a week, going out to dinner with friends, having people over, and becoming integrated into his partner’s much-larger family of children and grandchildren.

We should all be so lucky — to live long lives, mostly free from debilitating illnesses or severe cognitive decline. But in reality, they both had physical problems, they were both pretty deaf, they both lost their wives first and yet managed to keep going for quite a long time.

Who knows what’s ahead? All we can count on is that there’s an end, and none of us can avoid it. But how we live until we get there, and with what attitude, is partially up to us. I’ve been glad just now that this anniversary gave me an opportunity to think not only about my own father, but my father-in-law, who I loved very much. They were an odd pair, opposite in so many ways, but more alike than I once thought in their insistence on living, continuing to develop themselves, and being present to each day.

 

(click lower right to watch full-screen)

This is the first piece of art I’ve done in several weeks - another quick oil pastel sketch of a scene from the Atlantic coast. I’m sure I chose it because staring out at the ocean and watching the waves is exactly what I’d like to do right now, both because of the heat, and because any break from the endless cycle of bad news is very welcome. I hope that the video gives you a few moments to breathe deeply too.

Artwork has been on a back burner for good reasons. I’ve been preoccupied with writing and activism to try to raise consciousness within the Anglican Church of Canada about the terrible situation in Gaza. As chair of the music committee at the cathedral, I’ve had transition events to plan to welcome our new music director, Tom Sheehan, who has come to us from the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. And we’ve been more social as the summer winds down - we had two very nice invitations to visit people in the Laurentians, and have had guests here as well. Mainly, though, I’ve been doing a lot of music: practicing my flute every day and working with my accompanist, playing for Taize services, and listening to a great deal of music and thinking about it with intention.

These activities are the personal foreground. The constant, extremely disturbing background has been watching the dismantling of democracy in my country of origin. The actions of the present government and high court, as horrendous as they are, distress me less than the capitulation of institutions, individuals, and particularly the mainstream media. It astounds me that things once thought unthinkable — like the takeover of the Washington D.C. police force and deployment of the National Guard in that city, under completely baseless pretenses — are announced one day, and then practically normalized in the media the next. That’s just a recent example among hundreds of others. If this is what we are going to be facing, the near future looks very dark indeed, and requires rethinking what resistance needs to look like — even from where I sit above the border.

Resistance, to me, means resisting normalization and acquiescence, and neither giving up, nor feeling helpless. However, the shape of that resistance has to change when one has so little power over the large picture. The elected opposition cannot do much until the midterms, and there will undoubtedly be efforts to tamper with those elections, if they are held at all. If the country descends fully into authoritarian rule, a majority of its citizens are going to have to make the extremely difficult emotional and mental switch from thinking this is a temporary nightmare to living under indefinite circumstances they could not have imagined possible.

I absolutely believe that this IS temporary, but I think it may go on far longer, with greater, longer-lasting domestic and global ramifications, than most of us want to believe. So what do people do?

Protest is still vital. It keeps hope alive, and it makes us feel solidarity with others. However, if protest is forcibly suppressed, or the risks become too great, I think the situation may come to resemble a captive population under the control of an occupier — for how long is unclear. And in that situation, people have to think more locally, take care of one another, find ways to maintain hope, health and spirit, and create joy and connection in spite of the external reality. There is also cognitive dissonance — which is happening already — because life is continuing mostly unchanged for many people (and capitalism will always try to ensure that this is so) while for others, there is fear, suffering, great loss, and anger at those who refuse to see what is happening to their neighbors.

Many populations in the world have had to exist under these circumstances, and not only in other parts of the globe. Slaves and oppressed blacks have done it, indigenous people have done it, 2SLGBTQ+ people have done it — on the same soil where many of us have lived out our privilege. Today, many ethnic and religious groups experience fear, separations, disappearances, and violent persecution and attacks while for many of us, life goes on practically as usual. How is it possible to turn our backs on this? Even here on the relatively calm streets of Montreal, a Hasidic man was seriously beaten last week in front of his young daughter in a completely unprovoked attack. Islamophobia, antisemitism, and attacks on people of non-conforming gender are all on the rise; one of the highest American cabinet officials has actually suggested that women — half of the entire population — should no longer be allowed to vote.

I think there are three areas where we can focus, in addition to doing whatever we can to work within the system and amplify our voices. One is “Radical Hospitality.” Another is “Art and Creativity.” And the third is “Belief and Practice,” by which I do not mean religious belief per se, but belief in something better and the willingness to embody that, hold onto it, and work toward it, both in our own hearts and in a larger sense. I will devote a post to each of these in the weeks to come, and look forward to hearing your thoughts.

[image error]

From a Memorable Weekend

[image error]


 

Rainbow banners in a cathedral. As Pride Week begins in Montreal, this is the scene in our cathedral. Once upon a time, rainbow banners and an open, inclusive LGBTQ+ community would have been unthinkable in most churches. I’m so proud of ours, and was proud to attend yesterday’s annual pride service, presided over by our bishop, where moving and beautiful music was provided by my friends, Mouse and Lukas, who I worked with on the recent Taizé service, our assistant organist Collin, and by two Montreal gay men’s choirs. My friend Vivian made the banners quite a long time ago. Our first pride service happened nearly 20 years ago, and it took many years before our rainbow flag, at the back, stayed up, intact, but now it is a fixture, proclaiming our values to everyone who enters.

[image error]


 

Ripening tomatoes from the rooting top of my tomato plant that snapped in two on the balcony during a high wind. I guess we’ll be eating them this week, while other bunches ripen on the thriving remains of the original plant. Nature is more resiliant sometimes than we expect.

[image error]


 

A day with dear friends at the cottage they’re renting in the Laurentians. It included a long walk in the forest (complete with mosquito nets for our heads), this lovely garden, a lunch of delicious homemade stuffed peppers while we watched hummingbirds and songbirds at the feeders, and not one but two swims in the pristine lake you can see at the end of the path, followed by coffee and blueberry lemon cake. Pretty much a perfect summer day in an area that’s dear to the Québécois, but not all that familiar to those who don’t grow up here. I’m grateful to these and other friends who’ve invited us over the years into their out-of-city worlds.

[image error]


 

Iga Świątek’s serve. We were given tickets to two quarterfinal matches last night at the Canadian Open tennis tournament. Each year the women’s and men’s matches alternate between Montreal and Toronto venues, so this year the women were in our city. These were great seats, near the service line at center court, so we could both see and hear the players and really have a sense of just how physical their effort is, and how strong they are. Swiatek, ranked 3rd in the world, is the 2025 Wimbledon champion, but she lost in an upset to Clara Tauson, who played incredibly well.

It was hazy even on the court — our air quality, from the prairie wildfires, has been abysmal this weekend and we probably shouldn’t have spent as much time outside as we did. I wonder if it was particularly hard on the players.

[image error]


 

Elina Svitolina, from Ukraine (above) defeated America’s Amanda Anisimova in another upset. Anisimova, who came second to Świątek at Wimbledon, is another extremely powerful player who was expected to win, but couldn’t prevail last night against Svitolina’s mental determination and attacks. I’ve always liked tennis but can’t claim to follow it closely anymore; it was a privilege to see all of these young women play.

[image error]


 

Manon at 18. Who would have thought that we’d still have this dear companion with us at such an advanced age? And yet, here she is, still pretty energetic and even more affectionate than ever, gracing each day with her presence and giving us a special being in our lives to love.

[image error]


 

And, last Friday, August 1, celebrating 44 years of marriage to the most wonderful man in the world.
In spite of all that’s distressing and wrong these days, there’s still a great deal to be grateful for, so let’s never forget to find those things, name them, and cherish them.

[image error]

 

The roots of the Taizé community, in the Burgundy region of France, began in 1940, when a young monk, Brother Roger, from the Protestant Reformed tradition, left his home in Switzerland. He settled in the village of Taizé, near the demarcation line that split France into unoccupied and Nazi territory. Roger had suffered from tuberculosis for a long time, and during a long healing process he had become convinced that he was called to bring people together into community. He also saw that his new location near that border would be ideal for sheltering refugees, including Jews, who were fleeing the war — similar work to what his grandmother had done during WWI. Helped by his sister, he did this work quietly until 1942, when they were forced to flee to Geneva. They returned to Taizé in 1944, and Brother Roger was eventually joined by seven other young men with whom he formed the original Taizé Community, committed to a life of celibacy and simplicity. Roger’s vision was one of ecumenism and reconciliation, and the community has continued to live that out. He was killed during a service at age 90 by a mentally-ill woman, and his funeral was attended by 10,000 people and presided over by leaders of many religious traditions.

[image error]


Brother Roger in 2003. (Wikipedia)

Today the Taizé Community includes eighty brothers from different traditions — Catholic, Anglican and Protestant — and thirty countries. Most live there, in France, but some live in temporary missions in various countries. Most notably, they welcome over one hundred thousand visitors every year, a majority of whom are young people, from all traditions and none, who come in search of peace and spiritual sustenance, and to participate in the unique mixture of silence, prayer, and contemplative chanting that has become known, worldwide, simply as “Taizé.”

[image error]

A typical chant from the official Taize songbook - words are given in many languages, which was part of Brother Roger’s ecumenical vision.

Here in Montreal, our cathedral Dean, who was originally from France and then from England, has a particular affinity for this type of worship. As we gradually returned to church after the pandemic, he encouraged the start of a weekly Taizé service, on Wednesdays at the close of the workday. I’ve always been attracted to this kind of simplicity and quiet, which reminds me of the Zen meditation that was transformative for me in my 30s and 40s, but with the addition of music. When I attended (sporadically I must admit) the services in previous years, I loved the combination of a quiet piano and a cello that accompanied our singing of simple chants. The cellist, unfortunately for us, has moved to Toronto.

Around the same time, I took up my flute again after, essentially, a 50-year hiatus. In the absence of our cellist, the Dean asked if any instrumentalists would like to play for the Taizé services. I hesitated for a long time, and then showed up one week, my flute case clutched nervously in one hand. My first attempt was pretty rocky, and convinced me that it was time to get serious about my playing and buy a better instrument. We had just sold my father’s house and, considering my dad’s love of music and support of my own musical life from a very early age, I thought an appropriate use of some of that money would be to buy a good flute. I did, and immediately it made a big difference. I practiced hard for some months and then tried again. It went much better, and the other Taizé participants encouraged me to keep on. I was helped the most by one of the two regular pianists, Mouse, and soon I asked if they would like to work on some sonatas with me. I practice at home every day, and haven’t found that onerous at all — I’ve always liked practicing. Mouse and I developed a routine of meeting on Wednesday afternoons at the cathedral, a couple of hours before the services, working first on Handel, Vivaldi and Bach flute sonatas, and more recently branching out to some Fauré and César Franck.

At first I was very nervous about playing in front of other people, especially after such a long time away from the instrument. Practicing in the cathedral and playing for the small Taizé group has been an ideal re-entry; the group is very kind and supportive, but at the same time, strangers are always coming into the cathedral off the street — some are tourists, some are homeless, some are local people seeking a few moments of quiet, others are parishioners who happen to be downtown. I was surprised when people began to sit down and listen to us, and some would nod or say thank you when they left. The flute, too, sounds especially wonderful in that resonant, acoustically-supportive space, so I was getting a lot of helpful sonic feedback.

Yesterday we took our first leap into a much more public performance. The cathedral’s organist and interim music director was away on vacation, so the Dean had asked if we would play for two Taizé Eucharists, one for the francophone congregation at 9:00 am, and one for the bilingual service at 10:30, where the Dean of the Toronto Anglican cathedral would be the guest preacher. These services would introduce the larger congregation to this style of worship and give them, perhaps, a welcome space of peacefulness and simplicity in the midst of all the world’s troubles. Everyone could participate in the chants. Mouse planned the music, and we were joined by Lukas, who acted as cantor, leading all the sung portions of the service. Mouse and I played instrumental preludes and postludes.

I was quite worried that I would be nervous, because I used to suffer from pretty bad stage fright when performing solo on flute or piano or voice. But I guess all these years of performing with the choir, sometimes in fairly high-stress situations, has taught me something — and I’m also just older and more able to manage myself. I felt very supported by my two colleagues, and reminded myself that I was there to give the best of myself, that I was well prepared, and to just trust in the moment and in the music. In any case, it went well. There were a few inevitable bobbles through the course of the morning, but nothing particularly obvious or serious. It was also a very hot day — 91 degrees — and the air conditioning was not working, so my hands kept getting sweaty; I’d had the foresight to bring both a cloth and a water bottle. But for a first attempt like this, I was happy, and delighted to be able to perform with the two excellent musicians who formed our little group. Afterward, a number of friends who didn’t even know I played came up, with surprised faces, to say thanks, and others said how much they had appreciated the meditative quality of the music. What I had hoped for was to help create an open, quiet ambience of solace and reflection, and I think we were able to do this. The music is simple and transparent, with beautiful melodies — but sometimes simplicity is the hardest thing to convey.

There is such a deep pleasure in being able to give music to others — I missed that so much during the pandemic when I was no longer able to sing. Mouse and I will be playing again in September at the annual Journées de la Culture, a citywide event where institutions open their doors to the public, and offer programs that showcase their strengths. That will probably be a short program of Handel and Fauré. And I’ll continue to play for the weekly Taizé services, which give me more than I give — I love that quiet, contemplative hour in the middle of the week, and it really helps me.

Lying in bed early this morning, I was thinking how life keeps giving us surprises, if we’re open to them. Returning with real intention to this instrument is not something I would have predicted. Yet it’s been one of the most satisfying musical things I’ve done, in a long lifetime filled with music as a serious avocation, and I plan to keep at it as long as I can.

[image error]


 

It’s been very quiet, and very steamy today. I went for a walk this afternoon, into the nearby Town of Mont Royal, a wealthy area within Montreal that is separate from the city, with its own government and municipal services. No barbecues, no flags on anyone’s porch, no signs of family gatherings. The only people I saw were hired garden service workers, trying to take a break from the humidity under a shady tree, and a few kids on the playground of the park where I stopped to sit on a bench, and took this picture of what I saw overhead. When I got home I was so overheated that I went downstairs and got in the pool.

[image error]


 





Also seen on my walk: a reminder that in Canada, the wilderness is never very far away.

Although I am trying to get plenty of exercise, my ulterior motive for the walk was to try to figure out what to write about here. I have a serious post in the works, but that one will need more time. It’s really hard to know what to say at a time when words feel too plentiful and too cheap. One of the newsletter authors I follow noted that his commenters say one of the things they’re most tired of is “punditry.” I share that fatigue, and have unsubscribed from a number of places, keeping only the ones that feel the most honest, direct, and helpful. I’m also reading less opinion in the newspapers. I don’t need someone else to tell me what’s happening and share their outrage; I can see it and feel it all too clearly.

But it’s more than that. I have a hard time with stupidity, but somehow it’s more understandable to me than cruelty and inhumanity. I don’t watch movies that have those qualities as the basis of their “entertainment”, and I don’t even read novels that immerse me in unrelenting awfulness, especially when it’s directed at women and children. Yet this is exactly what we see now, every single day, in the real world, perpetrated by elected governments and carried out by their henchmen. That’s so much worse. And it’s not just in wars, it’s in policies that are being voted upon by elected representatives, and ruled upon in the highest courts. It’s in the streets of cities and small towns. What is this constant witnessing doing to us? Many are simply looking away, and saying, well, it’s not going to touch me. Others refuse to look away, and therefore feel horrified anew every day. Many are trying to speak out, but it’s becoming more difficult and more frustrating. Others are… silenced. Removed.

And here, in Canada, on our national holiday, it’s quiet.

Most of the people in that wealthy enclave are privileged and white; the lawns are manicured, the gardens beautiful, the trees mature. But nearer to home, as I walked back to my apartment, are many blocks of low-income multi-family apartments where recent immigrants live. I wouldn’t call them tenements; they’re considerably better than that, while not being great places to live. There are parks where kids can play, basketball courts, wading pools, soccer fields, picnic tables, a community center where city employees offer resources and programming; we’ve gone there several times for Covid or flu shots. I’m often the only white person in that park. The parents watching their kids on the swings, the guys playing table tennis or shooting hoops, the older people walking alone or sitting on benches, the kids playing soccer, or the people working in the community gardens, all tend to be African, South Asian, Asian, Middle or Near-Eastern. From their dress, I’d guess that many are fairly recent immigrants.

My own building is more affluent, but it’s also a broad mix of ethnicities, religions, races, sexual orientations and languages. And frankly, that’s a big part of what I like about living here. When the political posters go up in Montreal for our brief municipal, provincial or federal election seasons, the names and faces of the people running for office reflect this reality. We have our share of detractors and racists, and plenty of people who prefer to live surrounded by people who are at least superficially similar, but this mosaic of cultures is seen as a strength by most Montrealers. The hateful remarks, lies, and equivocation by mainstream party members following the recent primary election in New York was really awful, but not surprising. That level of invective would, however, be shocking here, and I hope our society doesn’t ever degenerate to that degree.

[image error]


 





Sunset on a playing field at the University of Montreal, with the Oratoire St-Joseph at top left.

I think that is what I am quietly celebrating, and grateful for, this Canada Day. 2025 may be the year when Canadian pride — in more than our hockey teams — actually became a thing, thanks to the boost from our neighbor to the south. I’m not much for nationalism, myself, let alone patriotic fervor, but I am immensely grateful for the pockets of compassionate democracy that remain in our world, and want to strengthen them. I’m glad each of those newly-arrived Canadian kids can get health care, that rural hospitals aren’t going to be closed on a whim, and that we all pay into the system so that prescriptions can be affordable for everyone.

I’ll write more soon about what I’m doing to stay sane, and what I think we can all do to make the world a better place, regardless of where we are.

[image error]


 

Wildfire smoke over Montreal, looking north, June 8, 2025

Our weekend was graced with warmer weather, at last, but few could enjoy it. People were advised to stay inside their homes because of the high levels of particulate matter from the wildfires in Manitoba. The air quality index got as high as the 170s here. On Saturday the sunset was apocalyptic — a blurry orange sun burning in a grim, murky sky. This morning the air quality index is down to 97 and the severe alert has been cancelled, but looking out from my north-facing studio window, the low-lying smoke persists even though I can see faint patches of pale blue high above.

American friends in the Northeast also experienced some of this pollution, though not yet to the levels of last summer. I’m always taken aback when people say things to me like, “Yes, we had some of your smoke,” or even, “Thanks a lot, Canada.” Like casually tossed-off racist, anti-feminist, or anti-LGBTQ+ remarks, I experience these nationalistic comments as micro-aggressions. (I’m sure it would be far worse if I lived in Mexico.) Wildfires caused by climate change are happening everywhere, including the US and Europe, mainly originating in huge tracts of northern forest -- but no longer confined to those mostly-unpopulated areas, as we’ve seen recently in Los Angeles. This is not “Canadian smoke” - it is our smoke collectively, caused by global behavior and governments’ refusals to legislate fundamental change. Clearly there have to be major changes in forest management, but if you really think about the extent of the boreal and northern forests, you will quickly realize what a daunting task that is. Canada shares in that responsibility, and its own climate record is not good. But shall we start blaming the Arctic and Antarctic for the melting ice and rising sea levels? Shall we blame the south for the fact that ticks are moving north? In actuality, the fires are a symptom of an underlying disease, caused by all the industrialized nations. Massive car traffic isn’t occurring in the Yukon, but in Miami, Beijing, New York, Singapore. Fossil fuels are being burned by airplanes all over the planet; too many of us have a seemingly insatiable desire for comfort, convenience, variety and luxury in our diets and lifestyles, while too many others have no choice at all. We are all part of that web of interconnected systems and behavioral choices; it’s our responsibility to make the climate a primary issue when we vote, and to change our own behaviors.

I’ve come to see the smoky skies as a symbol of a much larger obscurity — the ongoing obscurity of the truth about just about everything, and the accompanying refusal to admit cause and effect. There’s a great desire right now to assign blame for all the ills of our world, and to shift it away from ourselves onto other groups — which conveniently often end up to be the victims themselves. The most egregious and tragic example of this has been the blaming of the Palestinians for the horrific genocide of their own people in Gaza — blame that goes all the way back to 1948 when their land was forcibly taken from them.

In the last few days, we’ve seen the government and the media putting a spin on the immigration protests in L.A., attempting to shift blame from the root cause — the terrifying and totally unacceptable military tactics being used to round up immigrants to meet new federal quotas — to the actions of the protesters, who, though angry, have remained largely peaceful. The rhetoric has been exaggerated even to the point of calling the protests “an insurrection,” with the immigrants themselves being labeled as terrorists and criminals, and the protesters as “radicals”. I made a point of watching footage and media coverage from a number of different international and national outlets, and the differences in the words used, and the videos shown, are blatant and deliberate.

Mexico and Canada are blamed already for America’s drug addiction; Muslims are blamed for domestic terrorism when much of it is caused by white supremacists, and the root causes are seldom discussed. I could give countless other examples, but most of the people reading here already know them.

[image error]


 

What can we do? We may not be directly responsible for wars, the climate crisis, the rise of fascism, the spinelessness and collusion of mainstream media. However, history shows us that passivity allows these terrible things to flourish. We can inform ourselves, and speak our truth to others; we can engage at least a little, instead of hiding in our own frustration, exhaustion, and helplessness. We need to do that quietly, firmly, and calmly, knowing how we feel and why, and being able to say it with integrity and conviction in a way that invites dialogue. That is always the first step: “I’m upset about the air quality too and I’m sorry it’s affecting you. But I see it differently — this isn’t just ‘Canada’s smoke’ — we’re all in this, we all own it. What do you think needs to be done?” Or, “I’m upset enough about what’s happening to go to a No Kings Day protest on June 14. Would you consider coming with me?”