Good morning everyone, and welcome to our guest Deborah Lampitt-McConnachie. Deborah joins us from Kelowna, British Columbia, where she awaits the new post-covid world order along with her husband, Muddy the Whoodle, and Four the Burmese cat.
Deborah’s longtime blog is how we first met, and then again through a hip poetry party she threw at SOPA Gallery, Kelowna, a few years back. Deborah is a writer, stylist, editor, and performance poet who spent several years in fashion television in the UK (Planet Fashion (world wide cable); The Fashion Show (L!VE TV, UK); A LA Mode (UK Living) and Looking Good (BBC2)). Currently she writes and puts together the college magazine for Centre for Arts and Technology.
So good to have you here with us today, Deborah. As you know we’ve been looking at three questions with each of our guests this month, so let’s move into your responses to those right now.
Lesley-Anne: We often say we wish we had more time for certain things. Are you spending your time differently in view of our current world challenges? If so, how?
Deborah:Guilty as charged – I am always saying that very thing. Unfortunately, I am as yet to get more time! I’m extremely lucky to have a job that has continued – albeit virtually – despite the Covid 19 crisis. I run several departments at the Centre for Arts and Technology here in Kelowna, and we have managed to shift our course delivery online for our new term which started this past week. This has meant completely reorganizing classes and instructors, implementing a new system from class delivery. learning the new system, and making sure our instructors learn the new system, etc. So the past three weeks have been no-holds-barred, all-hands-on-deck, getting things up and running.
But we are now there, and I am hoping that maintaining (work-wise) from home will now free up a little bit more time. After all, think of all the time I will save time in commuting, putting on makeup and getting dressed! ;-)
So… now that things are calming down, I hope to have some time and headspace to get stuck in to the 4-5 creative projects I have been trying to find time and headspace for – a combination of various poetry and visual arts projects that have been rolling around in my head for at least a couple of years.
The one thing I have manged to institute over the past weeks is a morning online transformative meditation. It’s a magical 45’ish minutes for me, and has been also great at helping keep anxiety at bay.
Lesley-Anne: Why is art important?
Deborah: Art asks us to look at things in a different way. Maybe a deeper way. Maybe a broader way. Maybe a completely upside down way. But art takes something and turns it into something else we can examine from a new perspective.
It makes us slow down and examine.
It (poetry especially I think) takes something small and personal and transforms it into something universal. And in doing so makes us feel less alone.
Art makes us think. Makes us feel. In – sometimes – whole new ways. The importance of this cannot be underestimated. Or undervalued.
Lesley-Anne: What is one surprising thing that happened today?
Deborah: A new poem is starting to niggle its way into existence. That always makes me happy.
Thanks so much for spending time with us here today, Deborah, and for the poem you are about to share. I look forward to seeing more of you and your poetry in the days to come.
Blessings and good health, Lesley-Anne
Photo Credit: Victor Poirier
Reverse Origami
Like the paper crane
I exist
Only
In intricate folds
My complexities
Layered
Hidden in the depths
Of wafer thin tissue
A heart of
Washi
Sculpted to steel
Through the
Moisture of tears.
Unfold me
Transform me
Mine my
Porcellanite seams
Unpleat
Untuck
Ungather
Me
Like reverse origami
Undo me
Make me
Into
Something new…
DH Lampitt | 2011
Nygel Metcalfe is someone I have come to know through collaboration and friendship grown in creative and faith communities of Kelowna, British Columbia. Nygel is as comfortable bringing his slam poetry to the stage in fierce competition, as sitting down for a glass of Okanagan wine and a chat about philosophy, or personality types, or tigers.
The poem Nygel is bringing today is a favourite of mine. I can attest Harvest is equally captivating when Nygel performs it live, and you are in for a treat as both written text and video performance are shared here today. My heart is gladdened by being in Nygel’s presence, and yours. Welcome.
Lesley-Anne: We often say we wish we had more time for certain things. Are you spending your time differently in view of our current world challenges? If so, how?
Nygel:I suppose I am just as guilty as the next person of wishing that I had more time, however I’m not a very disciplined individual, so even when I have hit the proverbial paydirt, a wealth of time on my hands, I don’t use it very well. I fritter it away on entertainments, partially out of selfishness, and partially as a defense mechanism, out of fear of the current unknowns and disruptions that we are facing on a global scale. So, I would estimate that [I am] two weeks behind everyone else.
If we’re thinking in terms of stages of grief, the first being denial, my denial phase lasted for two solid weeks. I buried myself in distractions in order to avoid having to face the monumental changes. This past week, however (largely in part to your invitation, Lesley-Anne) has been a beautiful process of thawing, awakening, and allowing myself to confront these new realities and process them to some degree. Anger was definitely present, as well – anger at myself, and the world – and I think depression was definitely rearing its head on Wednesday. Now, despite these things being recurring and cyclical, I do feel an increasing acceptance settling over me at the moment.
Lesley-Anne: Why is art important?
Nygel: Art, to me, is one of the most laudable human pursuits. Art is content creation and, subsequently, action, and embodiment, and forward motion, and dialogue, whether we speak of renaissance sculpture or a youtube channel. The content creators are those who we look to for answers, for language to describe our experiences, for stories to tell, and for emotional appeasement or reassurance. The consumer merely waits, and is fed, and follows directions.
For example: Tiger King is all the rage right now. Why? Because it’s the first thing you see when you sign into Netflix. Nobody “found” Tiger King, but everyone is talking about it and how “interesting” it is. I won’t watch it out of principle, because I feel like choosing a movie on my own terms is symbolic of my humanity – the exercising of my own preferences and judgement. The alternative is like some Orwellian nightmare – a trudging and mindless series of clicks and swipes. Let me read from an alphabetical list, and choose whatever jumps out at me! (It’s best not to think too deeply about the fact that virtually every choice I make has been pre-determined for me by environmental factors or the programming of corporate interests ). Just let me watch Seven Brides for Seven Brothers while I cling to the last vestiges of my illusory autonomy, damnit! But I digress…
I have heard many beautiful assertions over the years: Art is subversion, art is survival; art is a creative impulse which results from our own innate divinity as those made in the image of a Creator. Poetry is Bearing Witness. Poetry is a finger pointing at the moon. Poetry is “speaking your truth.” I appreciate all of these. Perhaps the definition that feels most true and most potent for me at this time is of poetry as liminal space: the place where language still ventures, but logic unravels; instinct, sound, and symbol intermingling.
Lesley-Anne: What is one surprising thing that happened today?
Nygel:For starters, I accidentally went on a full-tilt rant about Tiger King… Other than that, I found myself writing two very personal, emotional letters. One of them was a letter to my first love, to apologize for some things my younger self was ignorant of and to wish her health and happiness in her new marriage.The other was a letter to my future daughter, to capture some of the thoughts and feelings that have been occupying my heart and mind this year (my wife and I are not yet pregnant, but have been trying for several months and I feel that it is soon to be).
I am grateful, for poetry, and for green growing things, and for friends who reach out with invitation. May you discover, dear reader, in this season, the groundedness to face whatever feeling emerges within you and the strength for whatever task which you decide to undertake.
Nygel, this has been wonderful just hanging out and hearing from you. Thanks for honouring us today, and we will leave now, carried by these poetic lines…and if you scroll waaaaay down to the bottom of the page, your video awaits!
Peace and poetry, Lesley-Anne
HARVEST (OR, AN EXHORTATION TO OUTCASTS)
When it comes to speaking your mind from your mouth,
the sentiment spills into scenes,
and the saliva sprays are, in fact, a sacrament.
And sometimes Winter feels eternal,
these endless frozen months that grace the stage
and we have long been caught
in the rib cage of an ice age.
But we have not waited in vain; frozen,
yes, but ever thinking and ever dreaming, waiting
to be thawed out in a hundred years and and put on display
in the national museum, amongst the sarcophagi
and holy books and rosetta stones…
We will be historically significant when we awaken.
Each of us is a crucial part of the cacophony, active
and electric participants in the symphony: we are movements,
and we are being conducted together.
and I don’t believe that you are what you eat,
because despite the steady diet of notebook paper
and napkin scrawl that has been ingested
by my kinetic and unrelenting soul,
I have yet to become… stationary.
We are seasons. We are not becoming extinct,
only changing our clothing
accordingly to suit the weather. We adapt.
Call us earth-shakers, record breakers,
the brand new lawmakers.
The scientists, the activists, the strugglers
and haphazard courageous sleeping on street corners,
and in care homes and in spare bedrooms.
We are the little brothers, tag alongs,
the late-night fiction readers, the cheekbone shiners
and nose-bleeders.
We are the halloween ghouls,
the thanksgiving pilgrims, and the sleepy,
tea-time and lullaby-loving citizens
of the hometowns we all have in our back pockets.
We are the spirits who will visit you at midnight
on Christmas Eve. We are here to open our mouths
in order to unlock eyes and ears, our own notwithstanding.
We are cuban cigars and aged scotch on the rocks,
letting the fireplace warm our woollen socks,
getting up to answer the door every single time
opportunity knocks books open on our bedsides:
our Tolkiens, Tennysons, Nerudas, and chicken scratch
love songs to all of our various Prufrocks.
Still, there is more for us…
Step out from under the awning, this protection –
Walk past the skeletal branches and barren hillsides
of the things you used to believe in,
and come be my guest.
Warm your hearts at this hearth.
Feel the heat of kindness and truth
permeate your body, and let yourselves soften.
I long for us to learn how
to warm the wintry places inside each other,
Revive one another.
I know people love their cars and credit cards,
but pardon my disregard, sympathy for civilized society
is harder when part of me is still in the garden,
under the arbour. When winter scatters,
I’ll be searching the sky for patterns
and coming alive soon after,
when springtime gathers and summer lingers.
See, I have big, big plans for the harvest,
to fill up my larder, with wine and stories,
shared experiences, conversations,
Dancing hard, because the day is not done,
A tiny blue dot with the power to separate the moon from the sun,
Freddie mercury high notes, bird feathers
good round potatoes,
pieces of paper that I have dreamt upon,
sheet music i saved from the fire, beautifully charred
edges but not forever, shoes with worn out soles,
unable to take me any farther –
Why don’t you come over, and enjoy the warmer weather?
Sit, just sit. Be Still.
We can talk about how people are mountains,
worthy of our expeditions;
and how righteousness can look a lot like being wrong,
if we can no longer hear the beauty of someone else’s songs.
This is the promise – of the thawing out of hearts
who are locked up like lifetimes of sunshine in December
This is for the wanderers and farmers alike.
This is for Prodigals.
This is me throwing wide the cellar doors,
and letting the voices pour out, setting them free
without remorse. I can hear them every day,
calling to all of us, here, now, and forever. They’re saying…
May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the rain fall softly on the fields of you,
May you be restored to the beautiful bonds
of our interconnectedness,
and May your arms be strong
for the sowing and reaping that is to come.
Carmen Rempel is here with us today, from Kelowna, British Columbia.
Hi, Carmen, and welcome to Buddy Breathing. By the way, I’m enjoying your BLOG But I’m Brave so much. You have a way of tackling tough topics with authenticity and humour. I know you as a compelling public speaker, and I’m delighted to get to know you as a writer.
As you know we’ve been having a daily party for April – National Poetry Month, and I’m hosting a creative a day for a conversation based upon a handful of questions. And then most people share a poem, either one they wrote, or one that wrote them, or one that is meaningful to them. Let’s get started!
Lesley-Anne: We often say we wish we had more time for certain things. Are you spending your time differently in view of our current world challenges? If so, how?
Carmen:I’ve heard about this “more time” people have been talking about. I’m an adoptive mom of two teenage girls (one with an anxiety disorder and one with an intellectual disability) who are now doing school at home online, while I’m trying to work at home online, so I have less time than ever! I’ve been waking up earlier so that I have a few hours in the morning to read and write before the rest of the house gets up.
Lesley-Anne: What is the core factor that brings vitality and life to you?
Carmen:Nothing breathes life into me more than being totally alone in the backcountry. There is a tension of total peace, and constant anxiety as I hike alone with bear spray in hand, hours away from the next human being, with nothing but the Divine Presence and my own thoughts.
Lesley-Anne: What is one surprising thing that happened today?
Carmen:We got a roommate! A friend found herself needing someplace to stay because her roommate was exposed to Covid. We are so grateful to have her staying with us for the next two weeks!
You have a poem with a story for us today, and so I’ll just pass it over to you to introduce us and carry on. Thanks again for dropping by. It makes me long for the days when we will be back sitting across a table sharing a coffee, or a pint, and unpacking something light and frivilous, yeah, right!
Until then, may your words be unleashed and good health be sustained, Lesley-Anne
When Your Hands Were Little
Background of Poem:
We were going over her old report cards together, snuggled up on the couch, tea waiting to offer comfort sitting wisely beside us. She had never seen them before, and they were from the time well before I knew her, so there was discoveries to be had for both of us. We read about her teacher being proud of her for this and that. I praised her for being called a friendly and helpful kid in kindergarten. I didn’t read that part that said she was well below grade level. I skipped over the extra note written by the teacher asking the parent to make sure she came to school more often because they couldn’t assess her properly because she had missed so much school. I left out the note from the principal asking to meet. Instead I read the bit about how the teacher said she was learning to share well with others. But then she pointed to the box at the top of the page that said “34.5”, and asked what it meant.
Sigh.
“That’s how many absences you had in between March and June in grade 2.” I said.
“Oh.”
There was along pause and I watched the wave of understanding roll over her. Then I watched as the wave of painful memories came next. By the time the third wave, the wave of attached emotions, came crashing in, she shoved the papers aside and laid her head in my lap and began to cry quietly.
I took her hand into mine, and we waited out the waves together.
After a while she started playing with my hand, fiddling with my ring, feeling the sandpaper of my dry skin. She held her hand up, stretched out against mine. “Your hands are so small!” She giggled. Her 12 year old hands match her tall lanky body, and are significantly bigger than mine.
They always have been. In our entire relationship her hands have always been bigger than mine.
I brought my other hand up, capturing her one hand between two of mine, and said “They may be small, but they are capable of taking care of you.”
Her smile turned sad. “I know.” she said.
As an adoptive mom of an older kid I have this guilt companion with me all the time. I’m her mom. Its my job to care for and protect my kid. And she had been going through hell without me. I know its irrational, I know its misplaced, but in my heart I carry a deep regret that I didn’t get to her sooner. This feeling is what inspired the following poem. There is probably some therapist somewhere who would love to name this feeling I experience, but I haven’t met them yet. So this is what I have instead.
If you want to take a peek into the deepest parts of my heart; here you go.
Please handle with care.
When your hands were little
I'm sorry I wasn't there
I'm sorry that you were alone
I'm sorry I couldn't be there when your hands were little.
Littler than mine.
I'm sorry I didn't know you then.
I'm sorry that you were scared
I'm sorry I couldn't hold you when your hands were little
Littler than mine.
I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you
I'm sorry that you were hurt
I'm sorry I couldn't soothe you when your hands were little
Littler than mine
I'm sorry I wasn't there to feed you
I'm sorry that you were hungry
I'm sorry I couldn't pack your lunch when your hands were little
Littler than mine
I'm sorry that I missed so much
I'm sorry that you had a whole life before me
I'm sorry I couldn't get to you sooner, while your hands were still little
Littler than mine.
I think writers come to believe in an innate ability to catch our own errors, spit and polish our work to its very best form, and we do so each time we offer work for submission, contests, or print. This post is yet another chance for me to make editorial mistakes, I know, I know. (Sure, you can point them out to me if you like.)
Truth is, like many artists, poets are just scraping by financially. We cannot afford to hire editors, so we take risks, perhaps believing a little too strongly in our guts, our grammar, and our attentiveness. How hard can it be, we think. Well done, we say. It will be…fine, we whisper as we drift off to sleep having pressed “submit” again, with some hesitation and a little bit of angst.
Deep down we are not entirely sure, but we bravely do what we have to do, which can lead to embarrassing moments. Like the time I spelled the publisher’s surname incorrectly, or saw a clear lack of punctuation upon my 1st read, right after submission! My personal challenges often come in the form of it’s and its, and my deep and abiding love for the Oxford comma that ripples out, abundantly.
Or, most recently, after several months of design, planning, and (several) eyes on every comma, word, line break, title, font, layout, selection of hardware, paper, packaging, and marketing approach, I felt I was finally ready to put my poetry/art books together.
I painstakingly built one hundred copies of the book, tightened each Chicago screw, placed each stainless steel washer, organized flash card covers into fun and witty combinations, collated stacks of poetry on beautiful cream paper (professionally laid out and printed and drilled with holes for the screws), hand tinted each vintage illustration, and felt a sense of progress and fulfillment at the growing pile of books.
Then I went online to put the finishing touches on the announcement for my book launch. As I typed in the title of my poetry/art book, I felt a niggling. I spell checked a word, and it was correctly spelled…yea, me! But the niggling didn’t go away. And then it hit me…there, blatant, unchecked, WRONG…was a word. On every title page of every book that I just spent days putting together, was a spelling mistake!
POETRY PRIMER | a book of elementary principals
instead of what it should have said;
POETRY PRIMER | a book of elementary principles
ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!
First anger. Then blaming. Then another hissy fit because it was so OBVIOUSLY WRONG and I missed it…we all missed it… but I MISSED IT! And then the creative problem solving began…what if this, or what if that, in an attempt to save it somehow…but I could not. It was WRONG. It had to change. Then my gratitude to God that I saw the mistake before my book was sold!
Yes, indeed. Gratitude. Two hundred times I unscrewed those Chicago screws. One hundred times I removed the offending page and, after paying my printer a substantial amount of money for a one page reprint, one hundred times I replaced the page with the corrected title page. And then I tightly bound the book with the turn of two hundred more Chicago screws! Editor, I am obviously not. Life learner, yes I am. And my thumb and index finger were throbbing proof!
What would I do differently next time? I don’t know, I run a tight ship, so I still can’t afford an editor. Or, maybe I can? Maybe we could barter something? Or, maybe if I sell all of MY POETRY/ART BOOKS (limited edition, signed, numbered, unique, collectible, fun) I can afford an editor for my next project?
Have you got a copy of POETRY PRIMER yet? If you live in Kelowna, delivery is free!
Sharing what was both unexpected and personally enlightening. There is a sacred gift in the individual who knows how to ask good questions, and how to hold a safe place for timid souls to find answers.
Dear Geosi… thank you from the depths of my heart for helping me to know more about why I do what I do. Thank you that you do this for so many. May it be increasingly so.
Lesley-Anne Evans was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland. She graduated with a B.L.Arch. from University of Guelph, Ontario, Canada, in 1987, and practiced Landscape Architecture and theme park design in Toronto, Ontario, for several years. Lesley-Anne moved west to Kelowna, British Columbia, where she pursues creative contentment with her husband of 27 years, three young adult children, and rehabilitated hound. Lesley-Anne’s poetry has placed in contests, and is published by Leaf Press, and in The Antigonish Review, CV-2, Quills, Ascent, Sage-ing, Pantheos, UBCO’s Lake Journal, and others. Lesley-Anne is drawn to poetic activism and word sharing activities with her street level initiative Pop-Up-Poetry, and facilitates a poetry circle with writers who live on the streets. She sees artists and poets as culture makers, and art in all its varied forms as witness, influencer, advocate and healer.
I’m not usually one for Christmas lists, I seldom ask for specific gifts. Come Christmas morning I will feel quite uncomfortable with all eyes on me. I feel some pressure for an appropriate joyful, grateful response, and wanting my family to know how much they mean to me apart from what they give, but also how much I appreciate their efforts and love to me in their gifts. I’m not gifty. Perhaps I’m complicated content.
My grandmother used to say, “just a hanky,” when we asked her what she would like for her birthday or for Christmas. It seemed such a little thing, a hanky, yet I know how you reach a point (or maybe you were always there) where material things don’t mean much.
So, as I was thinking about what I’d really like for Christmas, it’s about the intangibles of relationships and social constructs that are most meaningful to me… the HOW we LIVE with one another. It comes down to the acceptance of who YOU are and who I am, and finding a way of doing life together that brings meaning and joy to both of us. I want for us to KNOW each other, to love each other all the more for knowing how imperfect yet wonderful we are.
So I am going to disclose some personal things to you with the real hope of acceptance and continued relationship. Forgive me if I’ve been less than forthcoming previously.
So here goes;
1. I believe in God, Jesus, and the Bible. I am a simple woman, simply trying to follow Jesus and infuse all areas of my life with God’s love. I celebrate Christmas because of what I believe. If you want to hear my story, I have one to share.
2. I live in a constant tension of faith mixed with doubt. I do not have many answers, and I’m becoming more comfortable with saying, “I don’t know.” It’s not about convincing, arguing, debating, although there are those who are very good at apologetics, I am not. I believe my life is becoming what it is because of God and me doing life together. It just is, and most days I believe it to be true.
3. I’m uncomfortable with organized Church. I regularly push myself to participate, serve, contribute to my local church, and for a time I feel real belonging, but I often also feel like a square peg in a round hole. I have been, and perhaps always will be, a dweller of margins.
4. I am imperfect. I say stupid things, forget birthdays, don’t return your calls or texts. I talk negative and overly-serious and deep when you want light and fun. I hide from people. I spend too much time on Facebook. I fight with my husband and my try to control my kids. I hate cleaning my house. I’d rather write or read. I’m unfriendly to some of my neighbours, and don’t speak to one. I’ve ignored you. I’ve broken promises. I am horrible at baking, but love getting praise for my cooking. I love getting praise for anything I do, but feel guilty for loving it too much. I want to do things for God, but feel I’m probably doing things for me a lot of the time. I run from conflict. I have strong opinions. I talk too much. There’s more.
5. I struggle with anxiety and depression. I have not been diagnosed with clinical depression, and I am sensitive to those who have been and how much worse they must feel compared to me. However I wonder sometimes if it would be best for everyone (my family especially) for me to spend a little time in a hospital and get myself somewhat re-tooled. If this is even possible. Often my depression lines up with SADD (several months of cloud and no sunshine in the Okanagan), menopause (sleeplessness, hot flashes, irritability etc.), and a predisposition towards introspection and time alone. I wonder how #1, #2, and #3 line up with this point. I have noticed that being more involved with projects around creative expression and things outside the world of being a stay-at-home manager of my family, helps my mental balance. I have noticed that happiness and joy are two different things.
6. I love to create, and I love to see others find their creative spirit and create. I believe passionately in how much better we all are when we find what we are meant to do, what we were created to do, and then go do it. I love to connect with others and encourage them to be their best. I love to see the ripple effects of love, joy, and healing go out from the heart of each creative spirit into the hearts of others.
7. I want to be part of a bigger picture of creative expression. I am keeping my eyes, ears and heart open to what is next for me as part of the greater creative collective. I am considering how I may pour myself into realizing a new dream around words, writing, giving and growing.
8. I intend to continue to sign “SDG ~ Soli Deo Gloria,” to my work, and attribute thanks to God for what he allows, facilitates and carries out through my one life. I continue to desire and ask for integrity in this.
Thank you for reading this. Thank you for your open heart. This has truly been a gift to me to be able to write to you, share things at Buddy Breathing for a long time now.
I look forward to what life holds for us in 2014 and hope you write and tell me what you are up to, what you are learning.
May you be blessed with a renewed spirit of deep joy and gratitude for who you are, and the gifts you have been so rightly given.
I think writers come to believe in an innate ability to catch our own errors, spit and polish our work to its very best form, and we do so each time we offer work for submission, contests, or print. This post is yet another chance for me to make editorial mistakes, I know, I know. (Sure, you can point them out to me if you like.)
BUDDY BREATHING 