April 28, 2009

Less Apparent Miracles

I’ve always been a believer, in that all will be well, and things happen for a reason, and in the everyday miracles apparent all around us. Which is a kind of faith, if not the religious kind, and I’ve never had to to look far for awe and wonder.

But for a while now, I’ve been struggling with a less-apparent miracle. I’ve been unable to believe in things I can’t see, and though in some circles this might qualify me as sane, they’re not the ones I’ve been travelling in lately. Everyone else I know has found it easy to comprehend that for the last thirty-six weeks, a baby has been budding inside me.

A baby: the most extraordinary ordinary occurrence to happen to nearly everybody. Which is why no one else is even fazed, but I can’t believe it’s happened to me.

I was supposed to believe initially because a blood test told me so. The test results were even evidence enough, for a few hours, but then doubt crept in: how could I be having a baby, and it be Friday afternoon, and I felt ordinary, and my house, and the street, and world were just as usual? Shouldn’t the sky have looked different, the weather portentous, and wasn’t I supposed to be emitting a glow? A baby was impossible.

Which was ridiculous. Because I very much wanted a baby, had planned for a baby. My husband and I knew we were ready, and we’d been thrilled to have our wish come true. But it was so unbelievable, and too simple– to want so much, and then to get? Surely, there had to be a catch.

I felt like a fraud, arranging for a midwife, like I was just playing a part as I purchased a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. We told our close friends and family, who reacted with excitement, but moments when I’d let my excitement match theirs were few and far between.

I wasn’t supposed to be excited anyway. The first trimester, I’d been warned repeatedly, was fraught with risk. My “baby” was the size of an apple seed. I’d heard so many stories of women suffering miscarriages that actually managing to be born seemed like a long-shot. The survival of my baby was as improbable as its existence.

It was very unromantic. I wanted to be pregnant like the women on TV, surreptitiously gathering nursery items, smiling with a secret, the kind of woman to whom labels like “over the moon” are assigned. But I was “out of my mind” instead– conscious of every abdominal twinge, terrified of bleeding, adamant something was wrong if I ever woke up feeling good. And it was only when so convinced its wee life was imperiled that I could believe in the baby at all.

So I looked forward to my first ultrasound. Surely, I thought, the sight of the baby would make it real, though I was also nervous. Everyone I know who’s ever gone in for a scan has been terrified of what the technician might find there. An ulcer, a tumour, a cyst or a monster, or the awful fact of absolutely nothing,.

But absolutely there was something, however blurry and undefined. We saw its pulsing heartbeat, and the squirming sprouts of arms and legs. It even looked like a baby, if you held your head back and squinted. And the baby was real, actual, or at least as believable as anything ever projected on a screen. Which wasn’t so believable, once I’d thought about it. The baby on the screen was just as abstract as the one inside my head.

With the second trimester, however, things got better. Once my apple-seed baby had surpassed apple-size, and every week grew comparable to an even bigger piece of produce. Crossing the twelve week mark gave me permission to relax, and to imagine things might turn out all right. We could tell everybody we knew, and they were so convinced by the news, I felt silly not going along with it.

But still, it wasn’t real. Which I thought would change when my belly started to grow, and when nothing changed, I thought, when it grew a little bigger. Or at the 19 week ultrasound, where our baby was definitely a baby, and we saw its tiny toes, its hand tucked under its chin, and how its whole body bounced up and down when I laughed. But then how could that be inside me, I wondered, looking down at my still and quiet– albeit slightly burgeoning– belly.

It would have to be the kicks, I decided. Though I wasn’t sure– I’d been wrong before, far more than I’d been right. Already in my pregnancy, we’d determined that I had abysmal intuition, and was about as in tune with my body as a passing stranger. But still, the kicks– could anything be more definite?

Of course, they started off as flutters. Butterfly wings, breaths and whispers, so how could I be sure they weren’t just in my mind? What if I wanted to feel them so badly, I’d imagined them? How could anything so wonderful really be true?

But it was. Just like the ultrasound images, bigger and stronger every time. And the gorgeous galloping stampede of its heartbeat, and how our baby had persisted in growing and thriving all the while.

Because the flutters turned into thumps, then kicks, our own little miracle doing the fox-trot on my ribs. With boots on. Even other people could feel it. And soon it became impossible not to believe in the baby anymore, as well as obvious the baby didn’t care if we did. This baby, clearly, had plans of its own. Probably not believing in me either, or even the world, but determined to arrive here regardless.

April 28, 2009

Travel: The Poetry of Motion

I’ve really been enjoying Charlotte Ashley’s literary blog Inklings this past while, and had fun contributing to this month’s virtual book collection, themed Travel: The Poetry of Motion. And then winning first prize for my entry– how exciting. Go to her post to find out what all was assembled.

April 27, 2009

Tea for… Eight?

I hosted an afternoon tea today for my friend Jennie, who is getting married in July. It was the first time I’d ever made tea WITH sandwiches, which turned out not to be true at all as Stuart made all the sandwiches. They were delicious! We had smoked salmon, cucumber cream cheese, and cheddar and chutney. For sweets, we had banana cake, chocolate cupcakes and fresh fruit. And of course, scones with strawberry jam and devonshire cream. Tea options were hot and iced, and the whole thing was delicious. I am pleased, and grateful for a friend who lends the occasion of her wedding as an excuse to fulfill my own tea fixation. It was a very lovely afternoon.

April 26, 2009

Road Trip to Don Mills

I am going to be totally honest– I arrived with heightened expectations and they weren’t entirely met. I’d heard so many good things about McNally Robinson Booksellers out west that I couldn’t miss checking out their first Ontario location, way out in the Don Mills countryside. So we drove out there this morning, me and two bookish ladies, and my husband who couldn’t remember why he’d signed up for the adventure. We arrived at the shopping mall, which was strange and confusing, with people on segways zipping about, and other people on stilts. The sun was bright and the sky was blue, and I was comfortable wearing a tank top– a gorgeous day. We found the bookstore quickly, and hurried our way inside.

The space was great, the shop was crowded, I loved the light, and the trees, and two whole floors of books. It would have been nice, however, if staff hadn’t responded to every question with a shrug and, “We’ve just opened,” or if they’d had a copy of the book I’d come to buy, or if Stuart hadn’t been convinced he was actually in a Chapters. I’m not really sure what I was expecting, but dancing elephants might have been involved, and they weren’t there.

They did have Rebecca’s book, however, right beside the dirty avocado book, much to our delight. Lots of other books from small presses too, and the children’s section was wonderful, and we explored food books with great enthusiasm. I ended up getting The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Sean Greer, and Wheels on the Go for a friend of ours who’s turning two. And afterwards we went out for a suburban type meal at a chain restaurant, which was tremendous fun in the land of parking lots and fountains.

April 25, 2009

The Spare Room by Helen Garner

Oh, first person narrators, ever so cunning and manipulative. How luring are their points of view, and how they sway us from the very first sentence, because after all, they’re doing the telling. As Helen, the narrator of Helen Garner’s novel The Spare Room begins, “First, in my spare room, I swivelled the bed on to a north-south axis. Isn’t that supposed to align the sleeper with the planet’s positive energy flow, or something?” Stepping away, we can see that she’s taking great care to appear to take care, but she also has no idea what she’s doing.

Helen is preparing her spare room for her friend Nicola’s arrival. Nicola has been suffering from terminal cancer for a long time, flitting from one experimental treatment to another with no signs of improvement, and she’s arriving in Melbourne now to stay with Helen for three weeks whilst undergoing another round of treatment at a clinic there.

At first, Helen is happy to host her old friend, and while certainly shocked by her decline and appalled by the side-effects of the treatment she receives, she is willing to go out of her way to be helpful, to release her inner-nurse. She makes soups, changes the sheets, transports Nicola to and from the clinic. Behind Nicola’s back, however, she notes considerable frustrations, primarily with Nicola’s inability to accept her fate. Helen remembers her own sister’s death from cancer: “She accepted her death sentence quietly, without mutiny; perhaps, we thought in awe, she even welcomed it. She laid down her gun. She let us cherish her. We nursed her.”

What Nicola requires of those around her, however, will not be so easy. What she demands of Helen, in addition to the nursing and the hosting that she seems to take for granted, is that Helen believe she will eventually recover, that the treatment will start working and by the middle of next week, she’ll be rid of the cancer. Which Helen is unwilling to do or even just incapable of doing, the futility of Nicola’s struggle staring her straight down in the face.

As the days go by, Helen becomes more and more frustrated by Nicola’s forced insouciance, her smiles, her inability to face the truth. She is also exhausted by the effort of caring for her friend, and by the isolation of the caregiver role. She is soon unable to humour Nicola anymore, to accommodate her need for planetary alignment, and she breaks, forcing her friend to see the reality that this cancer is going to kill her.

It’s a complicated climax, this moment, when we’re relieved that Helen has finally out and said it, and yet it’s discomforting to be feel our sympathy is with Helen, who has just proven herself to be an utter bully, who is behaving in ways most of us wouldn’t like to admit we’re capable of. It’s disquieting to identify with a character acting in a way that is so unsympathetic, but she is the narrative voice, and she’s so blunt and honest. It’s perfectly understandable. You’ll find yourself wanting to wring poor Nicola’s neck.

This is a perfect novel. It’s also quite short, but I’ve written this much, and I could go on and on (but I won’t). Because there is substance, layers and layers of. At its root about friendship, which Garner refers to here as a “long conversation”. As well as family, and belonging, and imposition, understanding, and proprietorship of each other and ourselves. Garner’s narrator fascinating to consider, her motivations, what her words and actions reveal. This novel is quiet in its force, and enormous for the space it gives to ponder.

April 25, 2009

My fiction in Room

I am very happy to announce that my story “What Noise Can Carry” appears in issue 32.1 of Room Magazine, which is out now. Not sure if it’s in the shops yet, but my copy appeared in the post today. The issue is gorgeous, and I was excited to see that it also contains work by Lorna Crozier and Patricia Young, as well as a review of Jennica Harper’s What It Feels Like For a Girl. It is very nice to be a part of something so good.

April 24, 2009

Finite Time

I’ve written a post over at the Descant blog about reading with finite time. How does one choose what to fill that time with?

April 22, 2009

Further excitement

My new issue of The New Quarterly has finally arrived! Honestly, never has there ever been an issue of a lit. journal I’ve so wanted to devour– Elizabeth Hay interviewed, Rebecca Rosenblum on Sassy, even Kim Jernigan’s Editor’s Letter is delightful. And speaking of Rosenblums, this particular one has been nominated for a National Magazine Award for her story “Linh Lai” (published in TNQ). I was also excited to see my favourite poet Jennica Harper up for a poetry award. Further excitement: Margaret Atwood’s Adopt a Word to Create a Story story has been revealed. It’s called “Persiflage in the Library” and it’s very cute (read it here).

April 22, 2009

Short

Lately I’ve been short on bloggish thoughts, too busy, I suppose, shining light on and playing music to my lower abdomen, as well as lying face-down with my shoulders on the floor and my bottom in the air. And ever-seeking the next piece of cake, which is usually around the corner anyway. These things all take time. I’ve also been reading good books, finishing up a number of writing projects, sitting tall in straight-backed chairs, and taking far too many baths. With pleasure. There are good things going on though, as you can see by the “forthcoming” projects listed in my sidebar, and fun things will be occurring here in weeks to come (including a new interview, and coverage of a bookish road trip to take place this weekend). Now must go and run another bath. Thank you for your patience.

April 18, 2009

The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway

Certain novels might not immediately appeal to me, aren’t exactly “my kind of book”, but then upon hearing nothing about one but exemplary praise, I really can’t help but read it. Which was the case with Steven Galloway’s novel The Cellist of Sarajevo, nominated for the 2008 Scotiabank Giller Prize, finalist for the 2009 Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize, a Globe & Mail Best Book, and praised by many book lovers I hold in esteem.

This book could be classified as historical fiction, if you consider the early 1990s history. Though “historical fiction” also reads as a kind of slight, and one that is not intended here. The label is a slight, if only because so many works in the genre do the “fiction” part of the equation so very badly. History is the point, the facts are, and the reader comes away quite gratified, feeling as though they could pass an exam at school.

But facts are not the point of fiction, and in particularly not the point are lessons to be learned. If you want a lesson, read a textbook, but we turn to fiction for something more nuanced than that, more complex, and not to come away with certainty. Certainty, anyway, is some kind of illusion.

I didn’t come away from The Cellist of Sarajevo with an understanding of the conflict at its heart. I didn’t get a sense of the politics involved, the history even, of who was good and who was bad. These aren’t details I’d look for in a novel anyway, and Galloway has no desire to deal with them, or with with the perspective of the military commander who says, “I will tell you the reality of Sarajevo. There is us, and there is them. Everyone, and I mean everyone, falls into one of these two groups. I hope you know where you stand.”

But as readers we aren’t told where any of the characters stand, and that we can’t even tell makes clear Galloway’s point– that such distinctions are meaningless. People are people, and the reality of their lives in a war zone is remarkable for reasons beyond which side their affinities lie. The quotidian details are what we take away here, and they’re powerful in their general nature– that these are the kind of lives being lived each day in places all over the world. The struggle of a man to cross the city and fetch water for his family, another man who has sent his family to safety and is attempting to get to work, the task given to a sniper called Arrow. She is to protect the cellist who has been playing the same adagio every day in honour of the 22 people killed below his window, hit by shelling while standing in a lineup for bread.

The stories of these people, of these individual lives, are what fiction is made for. To quietly and without great sensation (for this is daily life after all) demonstrate what such days and lives are like, the implications of living under terror– to cross a street where you know that snipers are aimed, and whether or not you’re hit, they’ve got a hold on you. Even when nothing happens, characters are seized by the knowledge that an explosion is always imminent. Such details as that all the women have grey hair now, because no more do they have access to dye, or what it is to see an overweight person, what that means when resources are so limited for everyone.

This novel is also the story of the streets, the story of a city ravaged by war and rendered unrecognizable. How the characters reconstruct the city in their memories, these places they’ve always known. The devastation obliterates lives, but not the lives of those still living, and it becomes these citizens’ struggle to resist losing their humanity. Galloway shows the magnitude of this struggle, but also the power retained by those who succeed. That civilization is everywhere and forever always a work in progress.