“Do you remember what Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing and appreciating it existed among the human race long before the power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the world was in its childhood.” — Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet
Long week here in Calgary and happy to be finally homeward bound. Starting with a quick flight over the mountains to Vancouver, train downtown, cab to Horseshoe Bay, followed by a ferry ride to Bowen and a quick ride home.
Nineteen years ago today I set off on a short walk on a beautiful Ottawa spring morning traveling about eight blocks from our apartment on Frank Street to my office on Cooper Street. For me it was the first day of work at the National Association of Friendship Centres and the first real salaried job I had since leaving university in August 1991. I remember the walk well, remember the warm morning, and the feeling that I was lucky to have landed a job with a great organization, especially after a winter of living on meager UI benefits. I knew …
Yesterday my childhood football team Tottenham Hotspur saw it’s magnificent 2010-2011 campaign begin a slow limp to a disappointing ending. This was an incredible year for the team, making the UEFA Champions League at the close of last season, narrowly qualifying for the group stage, going on an incredible run to finish top of the group and then knocking off AC Milan to get to the Quarter Final, one stage further than our fierce rivals, Arsenal. Along the way we have had some great victories and matches, including some incredible league derby games against Arsenal, and some scintillating attacking …
This afternoon sitting in the forest above my house in the warm sun. Insects are everywhere, flies landing on me to say hello, the moss and rocks on the cliff warm and dry. I am sitting with a mug of tea made from the first tender leaves of the season’s lemon balm. Listening to silence punctuated by a squirrel chattering in a rhythmic patterns of sevens “cheap a cheap cheap, cheap a cheap”. He is consistent enough that I can drum softly on the moss beside me in time with his voice and sing a little song about belonging. Making …