What do you think?
Rate this book
Field Notes on Listening
When Kit Dobson’s daughter looked at the field of stars on the screen at the beginning of a new Star Wars movie in the theatre and remarked to her father, “Yeah, right. There’s not that many stars,” Dobson suddenly realized his daughter had never truly seen the night sky. From then on Dobson began to think seriously about how little we, as humans, interact with the natural world and how that has changed our place within it. Field Notes on Listening is a response to our lack of connection to the land we call home, the difficult history of how many of us came to be here and what we could discover if we listened deeply to the world around us. Written in brief, elegant sections, Field Notes on Listening starts at Dobson’s kitchen table, a family heirloom, and wends through time and space, looking at his family’s lost farm, the slow violence of climate change, loss of habitat, the tensions of living in late-stage capitalism and through careful listening strives to find a way through it all, returning, in the end, to home and the same table.
156 pages, Paperback
Published June 14, 2022
3 people are currently reading
131 people want to read
About the author
Kit Dobson
20 books6 followersKit Dobson is an associate professor of Canadian literature at Calgary’s Mount Royal University. He is the author of Transnational Canadas: Anglo-Canadian Literature and Globalization (WLU Press, 2009), and co-author, with Smaro Kamboureli, of Producing Canadian Literature: Authors Speak on the Literary Marketplace (WLU Press, 2012).
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
July 10, 2022
My thanks to Wolsak & Wynn and Independent Publishers Group for a review copy of this book via Edelweiss.
Field Notes on Listening is a reflection or rather, reflections on the connection we as a species have lost or perhaps broken, with the land, the environment around us, and even with each other, and on how we need to get back to listening (something that has to be cultivated, worked at), to reconnect and understand. Such listening may not mean the aural, the sound alone, but also the stories that things, people, have to tell, of connections to their (and our) pasts and to the land.
The author Kit Dobson, is a professor of English at the University of Calgary, though he has had other very different work experiences as well. This project on listening and indeed, thinking about listening was sparked off by his daughter’s comment when watching a Star Wars film with him that there weren’t quite as many stars in real life as were portrayed in the film (Something one can’t perhaps blame her for, since even where I currently live, a handful of stars is all I see, most days). With this jerking him into the loss of connection with the world around us, he approaches ideas of listening and connect through his various life experiences, and family background (specifically both sets of grandparents who farmed and thus had more of a direct link with the land)—his own visits to the farms, to his grandparents’ homes, travels, and the many stories and heirlooms of his family he has become the keeper of including the strong wooden dining table from the farm which has been added to, yet is the same, and now is part of his home and on which he writes the book we are reading—as well as through other writings, philosophy, and poetry. Through these he talks of ties and links, of the many contradictions in life, of the environment and climate change, of the damage that we are doing to the world around us, and of the many ways that present-day life impedes the forging of any meaningful connections
Listening, an ongoing, open-ended, and unfinished process, Dobson believes, has a role to play in our world, as we are at a point where its lack has ‘become a social and environmental problem’. Listening he feels enables him to take care of others and of the land, to reconnect with the place he (his family) comes from. But the world we live in is loud, taken over by sounds of traffic, machinery, and much more, blinded by artificial light, a world where we are slowly losing much, be it the forests or the night. Adding to this ‘sound’ and ‘light’ I think is the constant bombardment of information that we are under, a form of noise in itself, that prevents our minds from getting that silence we need to truly listen.
Dobson’s is the second of my recent reads that brings up the issue of time. While he isn’t looking at it necessarily through a globalization/capitalism lens, he does distinguish between ‘industrial’ time, which requires us to constantly be in high gear, running between meetings, striving to keep up with deadlines, and ‘listening’ time, one which works differently and can enable us to understand how things around us, the climate, the natural world really function. Since most of us are constantly bound by or struggling to keep up with industrial time, we are rarely able to really form those bonds with the natural world which moves at its pace. But when we do make an attempt, we need to do so with respect, with genuine interest, and with the time that nature would need to respond.
When Dobson talks of listening, he is speaking, as I already mentioned, not of sound alone; it can take place as well through reading, seeing or bearing witness, and extends also to the stories that the things around us, and people have to tell. I loved how he collects and tells (but respectfully only those that are his to tell), the stories of his own family, the places they came from in Europe, settling down in Canada to a farming life, and various incidents, even heirlooms. These too, are ultimately about connection, to our families, our pasts, and to place/s. This made me realise that perhaps I too need to know more than I do, about my own family, than I do, particularly things further back than I have looked into.
This was a book that had a lot of interesting and thought-provoking things to say, and I was very glad to read it. However, the book, structured as it was, in short sections (literally, ‘field notes’ which the author had to say expressly before I ‘got’ it), while all on listening, and some connected with each other, felt much like a ‘stream of consciousness’ narrative which I do usually struggle with even in fiction. So here, while I enjoyed the thoughts and ideas themselves, each time I set the book down and then returned to it, I felt that I was missing a thread I could catch back on to and continue, if that makes sense. Despite its short length (around 150 pages total), this wasn’t (and isn’t meant to be) a ‘quick’ read. Rather it too needs us to ‘listen’ to what it has to say.
Favourite fact: my favourite fact that I learned from this book was that the aurora borealis has sound, a rather interesting one, in fact, here on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zcef9... (also thanks to the YouTube detour, I also found out where the auroras come from: solar winds interacting with the earth’s magnetic field, in case you didn’t know)
p.s. And I certainly do find myself now trying to listen more carefully to the sounds around me when I am outside, let’s hope this does indeed help me connect with things better!
3.75 stars rounded off to 4
Field Notes on Listening is a reflection or rather, reflections on the connection we as a species have lost or perhaps broken, with the land, the environment around us, and even with each other, and on how we need to get back to listening (something that has to be cultivated, worked at), to reconnect and understand. Such listening may not mean the aural, the sound alone, but also the stories that things, people, have to tell, of connections to their (and our) pasts and to the land.
The author Kit Dobson, is a professor of English at the University of Calgary, though he has had other very different work experiences as well. This project on listening and indeed, thinking about listening was sparked off by his daughter’s comment when watching a Star Wars film with him that there weren’t quite as many stars in real life as were portrayed in the film (Something one can’t perhaps blame her for, since even where I currently live, a handful of stars is all I see, most days). With this jerking him into the loss of connection with the world around us, he approaches ideas of listening and connect through his various life experiences, and family background (specifically both sets of grandparents who farmed and thus had more of a direct link with the land)—his own visits to the farms, to his grandparents’ homes, travels, and the many stories and heirlooms of his family he has become the keeper of including the strong wooden dining table from the farm which has been added to, yet is the same, and now is part of his home and on which he writes the book we are reading—as well as through other writings, philosophy, and poetry. Through these he talks of ties and links, of the many contradictions in life, of the environment and climate change, of the damage that we are doing to the world around us, and of the many ways that present-day life impedes the forging of any meaningful connections
Listening, an ongoing, open-ended, and unfinished process, Dobson believes, has a role to play in our world, as we are at a point where its lack has ‘become a social and environmental problem’. Listening he feels enables him to take care of others and of the land, to reconnect with the place he (his family) comes from. But the world we live in is loud, taken over by sounds of traffic, machinery, and much more, blinded by artificial light, a world where we are slowly losing much, be it the forests or the night. Adding to this ‘sound’ and ‘light’ I think is the constant bombardment of information that we are under, a form of noise in itself, that prevents our minds from getting that silence we need to truly listen.
Dobson’s is the second of my recent reads that brings up the issue of time. While he isn’t looking at it necessarily through a globalization/capitalism lens, he does distinguish between ‘industrial’ time, which requires us to constantly be in high gear, running between meetings, striving to keep up with deadlines, and ‘listening’ time, one which works differently and can enable us to understand how things around us, the climate, the natural world really function. Since most of us are constantly bound by or struggling to keep up with industrial time, we are rarely able to really form those bonds with the natural world which moves at its pace. But when we do make an attempt, we need to do so with respect, with genuine interest, and with the time that nature would need to respond.
When Dobson talks of listening, he is speaking, as I already mentioned, not of sound alone; it can take place as well through reading, seeing or bearing witness, and extends also to the stories that the things around us, and people have to tell. I loved how he collects and tells (but respectfully only those that are his to tell), the stories of his own family, the places they came from in Europe, settling down in Canada to a farming life, and various incidents, even heirlooms. These too, are ultimately about connection, to our families, our pasts, and to place/s. This made me realise that perhaps I too need to know more than I do, about my own family, than I do, particularly things further back than I have looked into.
This was a book that had a lot of interesting and thought-provoking things to say, and I was very glad to read it. However, the book, structured as it was, in short sections (literally, ‘field notes’ which the author had to say expressly before I ‘got’ it), while all on listening, and some connected with each other, felt much like a ‘stream of consciousness’ narrative which I do usually struggle with even in fiction. So here, while I enjoyed the thoughts and ideas themselves, each time I set the book down and then returned to it, I felt that I was missing a thread I could catch back on to and continue, if that makes sense. Despite its short length (around 150 pages total), this wasn’t (and isn’t meant to be) a ‘quick’ read. Rather it too needs us to ‘listen’ to what it has to say.
Favourite fact: my favourite fact that I learned from this book was that the aurora borealis has sound, a rather interesting one, in fact, here on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zcef9... (also thanks to the YouTube detour, I also found out where the auroras come from: solar winds interacting with the earth’s magnetic field, in case you didn’t know)
p.s. And I certainly do find myself now trying to listen more carefully to the sounds around me when I am outside, let’s hope this does indeed help me connect with things better!
3.75 stars rounded off to 4
June 8, 2022
What does it mean to listen? From the start of my interest in feminism, in racial justice, in queer justice, in disability justice, in decolonization movements and in all the intersections between and beyond these, I’ve heard the admonition to listen. Listen to the most marginalized. Listen to people who are sharing their human experiences. Don’t dominate the conversation or try to make an argument—listen. In his Field Notes on Listening, Kit Dobson echoes this call to listening as an act of justice (climate justice especially) but also considers listening from a number of angles and how the practice of listening has many layers, with special attention to what it means to listen to the land and its stewards.
This book is a collection of personal reflections and experiences, a memoir with a theme, with its stories including childhood recollections and ancestral tales from rural farming grandparents, but also more modern vignettes often featuring the author’s children and a comparison between his experience and theirs. It has a distinctly local flavor, largely set in the Canadian province of so-called Alberta, and resonates deeply with a personal love of the natural environment and a grief in observing how that environment has changed over Dobson’s lifetime.
Though the book is a mosaic of often-short snippets of text that sometimes reads like an absent-minded professor’s journal—research mixed with stories and philosophical contemplations alongside onomatopoeic descriptions of the land and its inhabitants—don’t let the style fool you. Dobson’s writing feels both meandering and very intentional, its poetic rhythms echoing his subject. “Listening to the fruitful murmuration of the trees, speaking a soft thrum and whish of a world in turmoil,” he writes of one of my favorite subjects, the rhizomal underground networks that allow trees to communicate. Or: “When I write, I know where I am. (Ah ha! Writing is a map.)”
For a book ostensibly about sound, it’s also very much about place. Much of the book is set in northern Alberta, where Dobson’s two sets of grandparents both worked the land. Through the focus on his grandparents Dobson’s writing locates him both in space and in time, with the sense that both are shrinking. There’s a parallel between the progress of the author’s life and the land as he knows it, the difference between then and now made more drastic by direct comparisons between his own perspective and his children’s. He writes, for example, about how it’s hard to find places that are silent now, just as it’s hard to find places where one can see the stars.
I was reminded of a cold night on a hill many miles south of Dobson’s home on a vacation with a partner in rural Virginia. We trekked to the top of a hill late one night, bracing ourselves against bitter winds, hoping to get a view of the night sky that I had rarely seen having lived in cities most of my life. There were stars, yes, but they were faint and blurry, and we frowned as we looked out towards the nearest town, small but still contributing a soft yellow glow that interrupted the darkness. The wind was very loud that night so that I could just hear them tease, playful but also quite serious, about how my (European) people had even colonized the sky.
It’s hard to really capture the sadness of such things, but maybe that’s the point.
”Learning to listen is a profound, political act. Listening, when done with deliberate measure, is an act of defiance. What remains unheard remains unacknowledged.” Like me, Dobson is a white person living in North America, and he grapples with the importance of perspective both in writing about how his children see things differently and in engaging with First Nations perspectives on how we might listen to the land. He contrasts how we often listen to indigenous peoples with the intent to consume with what it might mean to listen with care, both to the elders’ wisdom and to the land itself.
It’s hard to talk about so-called Alberta, white settlers, First Nations, and the numbered treaty territories where Dobson’s grandparents farmed without talking about oil. Dobson’s own grandfather took seismic surveying jobs to supplement his income, allowing him to run an organic farm—an odd contradiction that maybe isn’t so odd in local context. While Dobson writes of environmental destruction and the impacts of settler colonialism, he also wrestles with the realities of his grandparents, and how even that surveying job required his grandfather to listen carefully to the land.
He writes that “[s]o many of the northern metaphors are metaphors of voices, sound, and space,” referencing the unique indigenous relationship to listening, but then questions what “north” even means, and notes his own positionality in describing these particular lands as such. When I was a child, I remember being very confused when told that we lived in the South, as it was very clearly named “North” Carolina. Some New Yorkers call the Hudson Valley “upstate.” Even the transition away from referring to “the West” from an implied European perspective of is frustratingly slow, and when we speak of seasons we often forget that a Southern Hemisphere even exists. “To listen well is also to listen for a long time and across many places. Historical listening, geographies of sound.” Even as the nature of the lands themselves shift, so does how we listen to them, and thus how we name them.
If Dobson proposes any solution, it is that we not only listen to the land, but engage it in conversation. I find myself wondering whether it’s even possible to speak to North American land in English, but I suppose it doesn’t hurt to try. Many of us aren’t really accustomed to listening, at least not if we can’t turn the settings to 1.5x speed. Listening to the land slows us down by necessity. Listening is bounded by time, Dobson points out. You can’t exactly glance at a sound.
An English professor by trade, Dobson sometimes goes on surprising little digressions, and one concerns Augustine and how a culture that was at one point almost entirely oral transformed into a literate one. This is another question of perspective. Literacy is a measure of development and progress, but what do we lose when we’re so used to reading? I found this a challenging question as someone with ADHD, who often has no patience for conversations and loves to gobble up books with my eyes. But it’s one worth considering. An oral tradition requires relationship by definition. Listening brings you into the present moment and slows you down, the same way that Dobson describes the quiet of snowfall narrowing focus to the present moment.
I may not be from a land of blizzards but I always loved a silent snowy morning, perhaps moreso for their rarity. In contrast to Dobson, in my adolescence I marked the progress of climate change not by too-warm winter days but rather by unexpected snowstorms that closed schools for a week. I loved the way snow blanketed our neighborhood in white, and I still remember the day when my father and I walked several miles to my mom’s house in the six-inch “blizzard” of ‘96. It was an unexpected gift to make our careful way along the main six-lane road through town in almost complete silence.
Referencing a Margaret Avison sonnet about the classic metaphor of the butterfly pinned on a board Dobson asks, ”Can we listen prior to pain? Or is it the pain of being affixed into language—let alone the pain of the world—that opens us up to a butterfly’s ears? Whatever answers one might come up with, the butterfly’s posture of fierce listening strikes me as the right one. It is an ethical choice, a silence that is anything but passive.”
I hope we can learn to listen fiercely, and with haste. Our planet depends on it.
(ARC provided through Edelweiss.)
This book is a collection of personal reflections and experiences, a memoir with a theme, with its stories including childhood recollections and ancestral tales from rural farming grandparents, but also more modern vignettes often featuring the author’s children and a comparison between his experience and theirs. It has a distinctly local flavor, largely set in the Canadian province of so-called Alberta, and resonates deeply with a personal love of the natural environment and a grief in observing how that environment has changed over Dobson’s lifetime.
Though the book is a mosaic of often-short snippets of text that sometimes reads like an absent-minded professor’s journal—research mixed with stories and philosophical contemplations alongside onomatopoeic descriptions of the land and its inhabitants—don’t let the style fool you. Dobson’s writing feels both meandering and very intentional, its poetic rhythms echoing his subject. “Listening to the fruitful murmuration of the trees, speaking a soft thrum and whish of a world in turmoil,” he writes of one of my favorite subjects, the rhizomal underground networks that allow trees to communicate. Or: “When I write, I know where I am. (Ah ha! Writing is a map.)”
For a book ostensibly about sound, it’s also very much about place. Much of the book is set in northern Alberta, where Dobson’s two sets of grandparents both worked the land. Through the focus on his grandparents Dobson’s writing locates him both in space and in time, with the sense that both are shrinking. There’s a parallel between the progress of the author’s life and the land as he knows it, the difference between then and now made more drastic by direct comparisons between his own perspective and his children’s. He writes, for example, about how it’s hard to find places that are silent now, just as it’s hard to find places where one can see the stars.
I was reminded of a cold night on a hill many miles south of Dobson’s home on a vacation with a partner in rural Virginia. We trekked to the top of a hill late one night, bracing ourselves against bitter winds, hoping to get a view of the night sky that I had rarely seen having lived in cities most of my life. There were stars, yes, but they were faint and blurry, and we frowned as we looked out towards the nearest town, small but still contributing a soft yellow glow that interrupted the darkness. The wind was very loud that night so that I could just hear them tease, playful but also quite serious, about how my (European) people had even colonized the sky.
It’s hard to really capture the sadness of such things, but maybe that’s the point.
”Learning to listen is a profound, political act. Listening, when done with deliberate measure, is an act of defiance. What remains unheard remains unacknowledged.” Like me, Dobson is a white person living in North America, and he grapples with the importance of perspective both in writing about how his children see things differently and in engaging with First Nations perspectives on how we might listen to the land. He contrasts how we often listen to indigenous peoples with the intent to consume with what it might mean to listen with care, both to the elders’ wisdom and to the land itself.
It’s hard to talk about so-called Alberta, white settlers, First Nations, and the numbered treaty territories where Dobson’s grandparents farmed without talking about oil. Dobson’s own grandfather took seismic surveying jobs to supplement his income, allowing him to run an organic farm—an odd contradiction that maybe isn’t so odd in local context. While Dobson writes of environmental destruction and the impacts of settler colonialism, he also wrestles with the realities of his grandparents, and how even that surveying job required his grandfather to listen carefully to the land.
He writes that “[s]o many of the northern metaphors are metaphors of voices, sound, and space,” referencing the unique indigenous relationship to listening, but then questions what “north” even means, and notes his own positionality in describing these particular lands as such. When I was a child, I remember being very confused when told that we lived in the South, as it was very clearly named “North” Carolina. Some New Yorkers call the Hudson Valley “upstate.” Even the transition away from referring to “the West” from an implied European perspective of is frustratingly slow, and when we speak of seasons we often forget that a Southern Hemisphere even exists. “To listen well is also to listen for a long time and across many places. Historical listening, geographies of sound.” Even as the nature of the lands themselves shift, so does how we listen to them, and thus how we name them.
If Dobson proposes any solution, it is that we not only listen to the land, but engage it in conversation. I find myself wondering whether it’s even possible to speak to North American land in English, but I suppose it doesn’t hurt to try. Many of us aren’t really accustomed to listening, at least not if we can’t turn the settings to 1.5x speed. Listening to the land slows us down by necessity. Listening is bounded by time, Dobson points out. You can’t exactly glance at a sound.
An English professor by trade, Dobson sometimes goes on surprising little digressions, and one concerns Augustine and how a culture that was at one point almost entirely oral transformed into a literate one. This is another question of perspective. Literacy is a measure of development and progress, but what do we lose when we’re so used to reading? I found this a challenging question as someone with ADHD, who often has no patience for conversations and loves to gobble up books with my eyes. But it’s one worth considering. An oral tradition requires relationship by definition. Listening brings you into the present moment and slows you down, the same way that Dobson describes the quiet of snowfall narrowing focus to the present moment.
I may not be from a land of blizzards but I always loved a silent snowy morning, perhaps moreso for their rarity. In contrast to Dobson, in my adolescence I marked the progress of climate change not by too-warm winter days but rather by unexpected snowstorms that closed schools for a week. I loved the way snow blanketed our neighborhood in white, and I still remember the day when my father and I walked several miles to my mom’s house in the six-inch “blizzard” of ‘96. It was an unexpected gift to make our careful way along the main six-lane road through town in almost complete silence.
Referencing a Margaret Avison sonnet about the classic metaphor of the butterfly pinned on a board Dobson asks, ”Can we listen prior to pain? Or is it the pain of being affixed into language—let alone the pain of the world—that opens us up to a butterfly’s ears? Whatever answers one might come up with, the butterfly’s posture of fierce listening strikes me as the right one. It is an ethical choice, a silence that is anything but passive.”
I hope we can learn to listen fiercely, and with haste. Our planet depends on it.
(ARC provided through Edelweiss.)
May 1, 2023
what began as a meditation on stopping, listening and embracing the environment around you in peace and quiet began to turn into the random musing of a man. It was okay, but there were more than enough times I felt there was a lot of mansplaining happening.
July 10, 2023
An interesting contemplation of climate change at the intersection of conservation, memoir and philosophy.
Like Kit, I am also the grandchild of Polish immigrants to Canada. While my grandparents didn't have a farm in Calgary, they had a massive garden and a connection to the land that continues to influence my views into adulthood.
Kit states that this project began as a response to the questions his children asked about how to live in this world, then tries to answer through the book. Kit's ultimate response is through listening to the land, and acknowledging that the act of listening is also an act of slowing down, of patience and of paying attention.
"It requires a commitment to developing a capacity for compassion and care. This listening call us to take care of others and of the land on which we stand. It demands time, and time is in short supply for many people for many reasons."
The parts of this book that resonated most were where conservation met philosophy. I liked reading about Kit's thoughts on how we interact with listening, time and the land. "Listening is bounded by time. Rather than an image or word that can be glimpsed at speed, listening proceeds as the moments unfold."
I liked the way Kit acknowledged the differences between indigenous approaches and settler approaches to conservation, and gives the reader many options for further reading and insight.
At times Kit leaned a little to hard into memoir, which didn't follow any structure in terms of time or place. We bounced from memory to memory, he's six, then twelve, then ten. He's with this set of grandparents, then the next, then back again. I fully acknowledge memoir is not my genre, so perhaps this will hit different for people who read it often.
This book is best read at a kitchen table that is made of old wood and filled with nicks and stains from generations of family meals and conversations. Position your chair so the sunlight is gently falling across the book and you can see the trees and wildlife out the window. Best if the window is left open so you can hear the sounds of nature.
Like Kit, I am also the grandchild of Polish immigrants to Canada. While my grandparents didn't have a farm in Calgary, they had a massive garden and a connection to the land that continues to influence my views into adulthood.
Kit states that this project began as a response to the questions his children asked about how to live in this world, then tries to answer through the book. Kit's ultimate response is through listening to the land, and acknowledging that the act of listening is also an act of slowing down, of patience and of paying attention.
"It requires a commitment to developing a capacity for compassion and care. This listening call us to take care of others and of the land on which we stand. It demands time, and time is in short supply for many people for many reasons."
The parts of this book that resonated most were where conservation met philosophy. I liked reading about Kit's thoughts on how we interact with listening, time and the land. "Listening is bounded by time. Rather than an image or word that can be glimpsed at speed, listening proceeds as the moments unfold."
I liked the way Kit acknowledged the differences between indigenous approaches and settler approaches to conservation, and gives the reader many options for further reading and insight.
At times Kit leaned a little to hard into memoir, which didn't follow any structure in terms of time or place. We bounced from memory to memory, he's six, then twelve, then ten. He's with this set of grandparents, then the next, then back again. I fully acknowledge memoir is not my genre, so perhaps this will hit different for people who read it often.
This book is best read at a kitchen table that is made of old wood and filled with nicks and stains from generations of family meals and conversations. Position your chair so the sunlight is gently falling across the book and you can see the trees and wildlife out the window. Best if the window is left open so you can hear the sounds of nature.
December 21, 2022
Through these teeny-tiny essays, my ear turns toward the fine art of listening. Several times in my reading, I just had to stop and account for the sounds in my environment: the soft hum of the furnace fan, the neighbour up the way scraping snow and the tinny twang of the shovel echoing in between the houses, a car grrrrrr-ing past, the soft click of the thermostat, over the fence the dog next door and his one lone bark to be let in. All of these sounds moved me toward a meditation of the present moment. Certainly, that is an act of recovery, and certainly is the impulse of a poet. Tuning in is what we do as poets. Wordsworth proclaimed, poetry is emotion reflected in tranquility. Attention to sound is an observance, and the act creates tranquility. Dobson’s book makes me think, what is the soundtrack of tranquility and recovery? What is the soundtrack of connectedness to family; to love; of the very land on which I dwell and will perish and will undoubtedly return to?
January 9, 2023
Meditations on the importance of listening .. whether it be to animals, the land, trees, water and the environment around you, or family history and lore. These short commentaries were inspired by and a response to the Covid pandemic and lockdown.
Although many are lyrical, a few fall flat and some are a bit repetitious. The rating has been rounded up to 4 stars from 3.5+ stars.
Although many are lyrical, a few fall flat and some are a bit repetitious. The rating has been rounded up to 4 stars from 3.5+ stars.
Read
June 16, 2022DNF
Read
July 17, 2022I still need some time to process this but overall I really enjoyed it.
December 31, 2023
All about the importance of rediscovering connections.
February 4, 2023
A beautiful ode to Northern-Alberta through childhood memories and by listening to what's around us.
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews