Category — Photography

So, it turns out I have way more postcards than I thought. I’m not sure from where I’ve accumulated them all, but there they are:

I’ve decided to send postcards to anyone that’s commented in the last two months, because I am simply enamoured with this project. The more postcards to type, the better!

If you’d like to receive a postcard (complete with a typewritten quote of my choosing) than simply say HI! below and I’ll follow-up to get your address. Know a friend who’d like a random postcard to show up at their door? Send them over…

Tippity-tap-clackity-clack, your resident of-all-trades-jack: Christina

Here in the Terminal City the Olympics have arrived, the sun is making a rare February appearance, and Vancouverites are uncharacteristically Canada-clad. It’s a lovely scene.

So far, thanks to my brother in Whistler, I’ve been able to attend the final dress rehearsal of the Opening Ceremonies which at times reminded me of Cirque du Soliel and left me similarly jaw-dropped. If you watched it, I’m referring to orcas taking breaths through the floor of BC Place. From our vantage point in the nose-bleeds, it was breathtaking. Nelly Furtado and Sarah MacLachlan weren’t too shabby either. 

I’ve been donning my cherry red Olympic mittens with pride as Madeleine and I galavant through Metro Vancouver, and my red Roots hoodie has been getting its share of wear. Oh Canada. 

I’ve only watched a bit of the actual Games because we live in a cable-free home. On my mom’s t.v. I saw Canada pummel Norway in hockey (sorry Hunny,) at our neighbourhood coffee shop I witnessed the Dutch kick-ass in speed skating, and while I got my haircut at a friend’s house yesterday morning, I took in some curling. What I’d really like to see is some big air. 

Last week I spent the better part of a morning with the Billy Graham Rapid Response Team, interviewing them for a piece for Decision. No, they weren’t called in in the wake of disaster (although the first few days of the Games had its share of it.) Instead they are in town to serve with the More than Gold, a Christian umbrella organization, as community chaplains and hospitality volunteers. You know, serving hot chocolate and all that. They were a great bunch, the oldest of which was a spry seventy years. I met them at the base of Canada Place (aka the International Media Centre,) steps away from the Olympic torch, which also happens to be my little sister’s place of work. So, her and I met up.   

Thursday is my big Olympic Day. I am going to bundle Madeleine up in her adorable blue and white sweater (the most Olympic-looking item in her ‘closet,’) comb through downtown and buy her a Quatchi bear. 

Vive les Jeux Olympiques!

His name is Remi, we are having a love affair, and my spouse knows about it. 

He is a Remington Portable. A archetypal typewriter manufactured in the mid-1930s. His ruddy grey body sits squarely in the centre of my coffee table, the focal point of our living room. And rightly so. As a writer married to a bibliophile, words are central in our home.  

And now more than ever. As new mother I have never been so keenly aware of language. Word by word I am naming my daughter’s world. Raffi songs are sung by heart, daily chores are narrated, and tastes, colours, sights and sounds are animated for her sheer delight.

My daughter teaches me each day that, when it comes to words, it is all about the delivery. For instance, plainly announcing “We are going for a walk” receives no more than a glance, while sing-songing the same line results in a mess of wild baby giggles.

Typewriters have a similar effect on me.

It doesn’t matter what words fall into Remi, he makes them beautiful. It’s this beauty, and the love of sending and receiving letters, that inspired my friend Marisa and I to co-found the Vancouver Letter Writing Party last fall. Each month a growing number of us gather for no other reason than to type. Letters are written, brimming with minutiae, and they are beautiful.

These words want to be read. They are climbing up, off of the paper, begging to be stamped, sealed and sent.  

When was the last time you wrote a letter — typewritten or otherwise?

::::

This post originally appeared on the After Hours blog. 

This past Saturday I spent the loveliest of afternoons in my hometown of New Westminster. Julia (the Chemist) hosted us in her home for our monthly letter writing party. 7 writers and 4 typewriters turned up at her charming apartment in the heritage neighbourhood of Queen’s Park. (View more pictures on the Letter Writing Party blog.)

While New Westminster has its sore spots, it is also a small city with immense charm. The Quay which once anchored the city is going through a complete renovation and will soon be reopened as the new River Market, nestled on the shores of the mighty Fraser. A handful of new condos have already sprung up in and around the downtown core, the construction of a new civic centre is underway, and the City recently purchased 10 acres of property which will soon become additional waterfront parkland. With all of this afoot, the River Market is simply the icing on top… but they need our help! 

If you live in or around New Westminster (or ever plan to visit) please sign your name to the campaign to secure an amazing local grocer at the soon-to-be-opened Market. Let’s call it the Granville Island of the east. ;)

Here’s their appeal:

“We are charging full steam ahead for grand re-opening this summer! We need you to get involved. We are in the final stage of discussion with a prospective anchor grocer. We can’t tell you who yet because of the ongoing negotiations. But, we can tell you it’s a local independent grocer dedicated to the freshest produce, organic foods, and specialty items. At affordable prices. They are super responsive to customer needs and make every effort to source your favourite products. Many of you named this grocer as a favourite during 30 Days of Quay Ideas last year. 

We’d like to show this grocer that there is much love and support for a vibrant food market in our community. To do so, in the next 30 days, we’d like to get 3000 signatures for a letter of support to be forwarded to the grocer. It’s also an opportunity for you to let the grocer know your requests and wishes.”

To add your name to the 3,000 signatures in 30 days campaign, click here. It takes two seconds, promise.

Paris, 2009

Cardus, my favourite Canadian think tank and publisher of Comment magazine, where I frequently contribute, has a new online venture called After Hours. It’s a daily blog interested in ‘issues that affect the architecture of North American public life, including economics, literature, religion, politics, social and scientific innovation (and sundry other things.)’

“Slow for Good,” my first post as a Contributing Editor, went live last Thursday. It’s a bit ‘manifesto-y,’ according to my husband. I get that way sometimes. 

Anyone is welcome to contribute to After Hours. Please, fire off an e-mail if you are interested.

There are poems that I fumble through and poems I receive. This one was the latter:

Expectancy

Me, at nine months. Photo credit: Avital Kline.

You, my child.

your hands, as webs,
reach out to touch my insides.
“mommy, i am here.”

you knit my womb and heart
together with strings.
your smile already my companion.

angel,
you speak to me through your rumblings,
coursing blood, water, tears
out from my fingertips.

:::  read the rest of the poem here. published last week in catapult magazine.

Christmas card, 2009 by Christina Crook

I’ve been wondering why I haven’t been writing on here a heckuvalot lately. For me, blogging happens in bursts. Sometimes I am spilling with things to say, and other times I’m not. I don’t want to fake it.

Plus, it has been busy. Christmas is around the corner. (Literally, I can see him peering, wiley, from behind our apartment-sized tree.)

This year’s Christmas baking included the tried-and-true: shortbread (with a red and green twist,) a newcomer: orange-laced date bars (I’ll post the recipe tomorrow,) and the kick-ass: the chewyist brownies you’ve ever laid your teeth into (I took the liberty of adding cranberries which, as Michael can attest, was a spectacular choice.)

I’ve also been back at the crafting. 2009 marked a new tradition — the inaugural year of homemade cards. Not cheesy scrap-booky-kinds but collage-y ones hacked out of magazines and pasted on beautiful cream papers from Granville Island’s Opus. I likey.

Here is one of my favourites:

Also, I made a ton of my little magnets. I love sorting through bins of paper and meticulously cutting circles… It’s a little bizarre considering the fact I normally hate this kind of monotony.

Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.

English countryside 2009

I’ve been thinking a lot in the middle of the night, in between the sheets of waking baby…

I have been thinking a great deal about life as story.

Each of our lives follows a narrative arc. Much of life can feel like one-offs. Like ‘why did THAT happen?’ But our lives are telling a story.

Take Jesus for example. Jesus was born as a baby. A little, fragile, pooping baby. He grew up in the family home, the family trade. He was a normal kid (except, of course, he was God.) He went to the temple in his teenage years and wowed the religious folk with his incredible knowledge of Scripture and inordinate wisdom. He did other stuff, but it probably all seemed random. He built a table with his dad, Joseph. He talked with his mom, Mary. He visited the neighbours. He went fishing. And then, when he was in his 30s, he started doing this crazy stuff like calling people to follow him. His ministry began. He healed people, cast out demons, taught a new kind of way — a way where all are equal under God, a way where compassion and love (not religiosity) win, a way where the weak are strong, the first last, the poor rich. And we all know the great ending…

Jesus’ life has an arc, a story line, and it still continues…

So will ours. 

I often look back at my life thus far and scratch my head. Why did that happen? Why did I date him? Why did that relationship end?  How come that career trajectory came to a sudden end?  Why’d I get involved in politics? Why’d I work for a Christian ministry? 

I look ahead and the question marks continue to lay like dominos. Where am I going? How will this all end up? Will I ever end up writing for audiences bigger than this blog, bigger than small periodicals? Will my voice matter? Will I have an impact on people’s lives, bigger than my immediate circle of family and friends?Will I be a good mother, wife, friend? Will I ever make something of myself in public life?

I am beginning to connect the dots, the positive dots. The good things that have happened. The steps I’ve taken. The path of rocks God has laid across the pond of my life. There is an arc to my story. There is a plan, there is a point, I am going somewhere.

Yes we are. We all are.

:::

To view more picture of our little munchkin, click here.

Morning breaks
with a gentle haze
lifting of fingers - giant -
combing over earth’s
warm touch,
spinning.

early risers take
their first stretch -
reaching out to loved one,
then, out to coffee,
shower, toast and shoelaces.

the day begins
again.

a marvel that
this green earth keeps
spinning all of these
millennia…
still turning.
as if someone willed
it. willed a new day.

then, surely, there must be
purpose in this new sun.
the dawning. the seasons?

how Fall quietly bows to
Winter’s jealous fingers.

- November 20, 2009 :: 5 a.m.