Category — Writing

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

A very goofy angel

It took parenthood to awaken me to the fragility of life. 

These days, as I make my way through the world, fearful thoughts dart through my mind: 

“What if that car, racing the red, hit me? I’d be brain-damaged, mangled. Would my daughter recognize me? When they wheeled me out of surgery would her face still crest like the sun at the sight of me? Or would she not know me at all?” 

I imagine her life without her mother and my eyes well with a flurry of tears.

In other moments, I think:

“What if something happened to my little girl? What if she had a life-threatening disease, her body shrunken to a mere few pounds as she fought for life? How would I cope with feeding tubes being laced down her throat? Would I crumble like paper or would I rise up, warring in the fight?”

I find my lips whispering prayers of thanks for life, every day. It’s a new posture for me. For most of my life I have taken life for granted. It was given. I am living it. But now, with a small life entrusted into my faulty hands, I tread lightly. I am mindful. I want to drive slower, look both ways, meander more, notice. 

It’s the way God sees, I think. He watches this spinning globe He made and hones in on a delightful little boy kicking soccer balls in Argentina. He smiles. Delights in this young child, destined for a profession in plumbing, fatherhood, public service. He sees the fullness of a life unfolding beneath dusty feet.

God is a God of love, the Bible tells us over and over. 

Psalm 33:18 reads: “The Lord watches over those who obey him, those who trust in his constant love.” 

How would our lives look differently if we believed it?

I’d be much less fearful, I think.

Griffin and Sabine postcard by Nick Bantock

Hi friends,

I’ve been blogging on this here ‘ol site for a good six years now. I started on xanga and made the switch to wordpress a while back. In xanga-land we had an awesome community feel, with comments reaching upwards of 10-20 per post. These days this blog is silent, save for comments from blog-reader-and-now-dear-friend Julia and my stepmom. (Thanks guys!) I think part of the reason is that I am uploading the site to facebook so a lot of you are commenting there instead of here.

I guess, what I am trying to say is: “I miss you!!” I miss your comments right here on “The Poetry of Life” — christinacrook.com.

I want to know my readers, ‘talk’ with you and interact with your feedback and comments. I want to know what parts of this site you love — confessions? poetry? words for thought? pictures? recipes? snapshots of life? Please share your thoughts… 

Here’s how I hope to get you to say “Hi!” –

Comment below (here, on the blog, not on facebook) and include your mailing address (if you prefer not to write it on the site, leave your e-mail address and I will send you a message to get it.)

Within the week I will mail you a postcard with a type-written quote! I have a vast collection of postcards — Griffin and Sabine, CBC Radio 3, vintage ones collected at garage sales… Request one, or wait and be surprised! I’ll feature the cards and quotes here in the weeks to come.

Hoping to hear from you…

xo Christina

Her fingers wrap around mine like a chord. Limbs darting up to tug at my linen, cotton billows, reaching out to declare: “You are mine.” Tenacious, yet layered with a heart like cream, Madeleine steals frames from faces in an instant. Translucent glass beads scattered about the floor save her from topples as she devours them with her finger folds. Snowy flesh. She is sitting better and better every day. At dawn each morning Daddy awakes to spend sleepy hours with her while I try and catch up from night waking. Enfolding one another in the day’s first light. This is our love.

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!

“When a writer writes, it’s as if she holds the sides of her chest apart, exposes her beating heart. And even though everything wants to heal, to close over and protect the heart, the writer must keep it bare, exposed. And in doing this, all of life is kept back, all the petty demands of the day-to-day. The heart is a river. The act of writing is the moving water that holds the banks apart, keeps the muscle of words flexing so that the reader can be carried along by this movement. To be given space and the chance to leave one’s earthly world. Is there any greater freedom than this?”

- Helen Humphreys, Lost Garden

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.

This afternoon, nestled on the calm shore of Burnaby’s Deer Lake, I begin my first poetry class. I am both nervous and excited, after all it’s my first day of ’school.’

I’ve missed this feeling.

Tonight my good friend Marisa and I took to the Regional Assembly of Text for a special letter writing night. The CBC was there filming a doc, so basically we were stars. Typing stars. 

Oh yeah, our monthly Letter Writing Party is taking place a week early this month so we can write our mushy, ooey gooey love letters in time for Valentine’s Day. E-mail me for the locale. Julia the Chemist (a famous commenter around these parts) is hosting it at a lovely Queen’s Park apartment. 

Clickity clack, that’s that.