for the charming treasure hunt that is the beach studio tour…  Grab a friend, grab a map,  grab a latte and wander through the Beach neighbourhood to view, collect and be inspired by the beautiful artwork of local Beach Artists…  let us welcome you into our heARTS!

Press Pound to Skip by Nathalie Vachon

There are crocuses in my back yard, a clump of purple that keeps grabbing my attention, stopping me in my tracks.  There are flowers that shouldn’t bloom yet; the one I bought two years ago whose name I have forgotten is already showing pink buds.  There are leaves that need raking.  There are thoughts in my head that need to be put to rest.

There are worries; a basement of filing cabinets with sterile walls and florescent bulbs that hum in the background of my life.

There are shoulders that have a hard time falling, releasing, resolving.  There are messages on the answering machine that I have not answered.  Press 1 to listen.  Press 7 to erase.  Press pound to skip.  I skip over so much and there are emotions piling up.  Seems I can’t feel them fully, can’t face them straight on so I press pound to skip…

Father’s death, press pound.  Catch a glimpse of him, remember his drafting table, hear the ice cubes clinking around in his glass, try not to swallow the words he said or the fears that took him down.

Uncle’s death.  I don’t even remember that he has died sometimes.  I just think he is back in Quebec where I last saw him.  Try not to trip over the fragility of life.  Press 9 to save his smile in my memory.

My mother called the other day.  Her test results came back, the cancer is clear.  I don’t call her back.  I just press pound, skip past.  And her words echo back when I do the dishes or pull the covers up, arrange duvet and pillows in the morning.

I am so slow to process this life, all the words said.  There are a million memories in my heart.  So many words clinging off this pulsing organ.  How can one feel it all?  How can one let in each word, each harsh look or even each smile?  How can we process this fragility, this fleeting flicker of being?

All I seem to be able to do these days… is press pound.

Katari will explore the traditional and contemporary Japanese stories that were brought to Canada by the Black Current…  I am thrilled to be a part of this wonderful event yet again this year!  Join us, you won’t be disappointed!

Location: The Japan Foundation, Toronto
131 Bloor Street West, 2nd Floor

Audience: General

Admission: Free. Please RSVP at www.jftor.org/whatson/rsvp.php or Tel: 416-966-1600 ex.103
For more info on the Toronto Storytelling Festival:
www.torontostorytellingfestival.ca/site/

Saying Goodbye - by Nathalie Vachon

Ignore No Vision – by Sabrina, Catherine, Carol, Alice, Vanessa, Maryaleen and Nathalie

You are most warmly invited my 5th annual Holiday Open studio…come on by for a little holiday cheer and to kick-start the season!

Holiday Open Studio!
395 Scarborough Road
Saturday December 3rd
11am – 3pm

With lots of creative gift ideas and stocking stuffers… there will be paintings, prints, cards, magnets, a cd of stories
(including Emma May’s Christmas Day) and the new Cadence Holiday Album, Cool Yule (hot off the press!)
Stop in for a little eggnog and some treats to get your holiday shopping off to a good start…
Hope to see you then!

warm wishes for a healthy and happy holiday season,
Nathalie

To buy additional copies, you can contact the publisher. UCCA (email NAYANIKA KUMAR at ucca@shaw.ca) can provide some free copies to be distributed to agencies where they can be made available to children, such as children’s hospitals, libraries, community centres, and other children’s agencies, especially the ones for low income families.

Where is She Today – by Sabrina Dias

Where is she today?  Sometimes as she walks up her street of nine years, this thought pops into her head: “Does this feel like my home?” Or she asks herself “Have I really lived her this long? So why am I still asking myself if this feels like my home?”  She finds this very bizarre. She is happy, she is content; life is very good for her. Neither she nor her husband is jobless, nor are they suffering from any terrible illnesses. They have no children so life is relatively calm and uncomplicated. But where is home then?

She is brown; her husband is white.

She is a woman; most of her colleagues are men.

She is the daughter of immigrants, an Indian couple who came here from Karachi.

She speaks English, not Hindi, nor Urdu, nor Konkani, nor any other of the many languages of India.

She doesn’t wear a sari; she wears jeans, lululemons and capris.

She doesn’t know how to make a chapatti, nor a dosa, nor other fantastic Indian dishes very well, but she tries now.

She has only been one time to India.

In India, she is brown and her husband is white.

In India, she is the daughter of immigrants, an Indian couple who went to Canada from Karachi.

In India, she is brown-skinned woman amongst thousands of brown-skinned people in the street. And her husband is white.

In India, she speaks English, not Hindi.

So where is home?

Today she sits at a table with five women. All are writing, pen to paper. They are warm, and soft, and open. There is one language here, it seems. One colour.  One age. There is one common, shared goal here. Or rather, it is a shared feeling. There is an absence that she feels here though. Where is the pressure to find that specific element, to tug at it and identify its place in her self, or identify herself as she may be in this place?