For the past few months Thelma and I have been taking a Taoist Tai Chi class for beginners. The beginner's course is over now and, while Thelma has opted to continue on to the next course, I have decided not to carry on with tai chi. The simple answer to why I'm quitting is that I took the beginner's course to see what it was about, gave it a fair shake and decided that I'm not enthusiastic enough to keep on with it.

The more complicated answer is steeped in conflicting feelings that the classes stirred in me. Our instructor set out to teach us 108 moves over 3 months, which meant the classes progressed at a fast rate. In one sense that was a good thing, because it meant we were never bored by too much repetition on the same move. On the other hand, it was difficult to keep the order of the moves clear in my head and if, at any point, I was not facing someone who knew what they were doing, I was utterly lost. By no means was I the only one with this issue and our instructor always made it clear that it took her two years of practice to remember the moves.

Therein lies part of the problem for me. Outside of the class I never made an effort to practice the moves. The reasons or excuses aren't important, I just didn't do it. What I decided to try was to not actually think about the moves in class, but follow the instructor in the hopes of somehow learning them by rote. That worked to a small degree, but, more often than not, what I discovered was a sense of vulnerability I had not expected. That's not such a bad thing, but I suppose my ego rebelled to such a point that there were times the whole thing seemed like punishment more than exercise. Whatever meditative benefits I was supposed to be reaping tended to be offset by my ego's derision for not being able to get it right. I suppose that's why I never worked on it at home, and if I'm not disciplined enough to work on it at home, perhaps it's better not to carry on with it at all.   

I realize how defeatist all this sounds. Who knows, maybe I'll miss tai chi at some point. Maybe I'll even decide to try it again. For the moment, though, my ego has staked out its turf and it ain't giving up an inch. Don't judge it too harshly. It has enough to deal with in fending off rejection letters, first draft disappointments and the general insecurities of the writing life. I like to think that whatever spurt of spiritual growth tai chi may have taught me hasn't been totally wasted. Even my ego knows that progress is spiral-shaped. What might look like a step backward can sometimes be used to propel us ahead.  

That reference to a terrific T-Rex song is a dead giveaway of my age as well as my feelings about new year's as a time of renewal. I move slower now, so my time of renewal definitely needs a couple of months prep time. For me the new year never really gets started until March (partially due to the fact that my birthday is in the last week of February).

As for making resolutions, well... I keep making the same ones over and over with fair to middling results. Basically they have become my life resolutions, which are (in no particular order): try to get some kind of exercise, preferably something with good aerobic benefits; write every day, preferably something of a literary nature, as opposed to blogging or emails; read every day, again preferably something of a literary nature (fiction, non-fiction, poetry, etc) and eat better (less junk, more fibre, etc). The last actual new year's resolution I was able to keep (more or less) was to drink a cup of green tea every day. That was last year and, despite its many health benefits, I still can't stand the stuff.

So this year, no resolutions, except to keep trying to improve on the old ones. My success rate varies at certain times of the year. Being in a low-energy phase (or hibernation mode) these days, I try to be patient with myself. Come the spring the lethargy will start to thaw (like the iced-over river cracking) and hopefully productivity will improve. I'm sure there are many people out there (some who might even be reading this post) who go through this kind of thing. May 2011 be a creative and fruitful year for you all.

"Have an easy fast" is the typical remark one says at Yom Kippur, a wish that one will easily get through the next 24 hours without food, entertainment and other "luxuries."  I expected this past Yom Kippur, being the first one I have observed with a fast in the last thirty years, to be somewhat difficult.  In fact, it was relatively easy.  It started at sunset on a Friday and the hunger pangs didn't start until around 4 the next afternoon.  What I struggled with most was not being able to check my email and do my usual on line routine (Facebook, news, crosswords, etc).

I decided that this would be more of a cultural observation,rather than a religious one.  I don't consider myself to be at all religious.  It's a bit of a stretch to think of myself as spiritual, although I could probably make the argument for it.  I like the cliché that says we are not humans on a spiritual journey, but instead we are spirits on a human journey.  Like most clichés there is a nugget of truth there. A spiritual journey sounds as if it would be fraught with a need for perfection. A human journey seems to allow for a lot of stumbling and mistakes. 

Although Thelma didn't fast, and I wouldn't have expected her to, she was respectful of my observance by not having the radio on and listened to it on her iPod with headphones. And so my 24 hour period of atonement had a somewhat monastic feel as the house was mostly silent. Ideally, I was supposed to spend my time meditating on my sins.  There was very little of that. I went for long walks, as I do most days. On my walks I tend to let anything and everything pop into my head.  Part of the Yom Kippur rule is that we are not supposed to work, but I did think about the play that I have yet to start and came up with some interesting ideas about how the story might unfold.  If there is anything spiritual about me it is connected to being a storyteller, so I'm hoping it all evens out somehow.  

When I wasn't going for walks I sat in my office and read a wonderful collection called Great Jewish Short Stories. That is the cultural part of the observance.  My favorite were a couple of stories by Sholom Aleichem, who is best known as the source of the musical Fiddler On The Roof. In fact, one of the stories I read, Hodel, is about one of Tevye's daughters and makes up part of the musical's plot.  There was a story from the Apocrypha and one by the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, so I did get a something of a lesson in Jewish history.  If nothing else, Judaism is best defined in its stories.

As I said earlier, by the time 4 p.m. came my stomach was starting to rumble and the hours seemed to drag.  24 hours goes by slowly when all you do is read and go for walks, but the slowness of a fast always provides food for thought.  My fast ended with a takeout turkey dinner that my mother-in-law brought from a Presbyterian church supper.  Blintzes would have been nice, but I always like a meal that's rich in irony.

Yom Kippur  begins this Friday at sundown. The last time I fasted was roughly thirty years ago. I have decided to observe this Friday's Day of Atonement by not eating, watching TV, listening to the radio or opening my lap top. I will spend the twenty-four hours (the waking ones at least) either sitting in my office or walking through our surrounding woods. I will also, no doubt, go for a walk or two on my usual route along the Rafferty Road and the Canadian Road. Theoretically, I will be spending all this time contemplating my sins. I may actually start out doing that, but, knowing my wandering monkey mind, I expect to wander down numerous mental side routes and maybe even some spiritual back roads.

Aside from thinking, we are also allowed to read, preferably from the bible or some other spiritually edifying material. I am currently reading A Million Little Pieces  by James Frey. Although it is, to some degree, about self-examination, I don't think it is particularly relevant literature for such a solemn observance. I have decided to allow myself to read from Great Jewish Short Stories, a collection edited by Saul Bellow which contains stories by Isaac Babel, Sholom Aleichem, Bernard Malamud, Isaac Bashevis Singer and others. 

The question is why have I decided to observe the holiest of Jewish holidays now? Am I looking for spiritual clarification? Do I really believe I can find it by abstaining from food and work? Am I just getting soft in my old age? On all three accounts I could probably argue yes and no.  I think I am mostly interested in the ritual and the symbolism that goes along with it. I do believe that writing stories, poems, plays and whatever gives me, along with the usual frustration and obsessiveness, a connection to something spiritual, even - dare I say it? -  divine. In a way, exploring daily rituals, often of the most banal nature, and the commonplace symbols that most people overlook, are a part of my trade as a writer.  I'd like to believe that I'm searching out the extraordinary in daily ordinariness. 

In the end, the short answer as to why I am observing Yom Kippur this year is that I'm doing it just to do it.  As a writer and as a Jew (and I suppose as a Jewish writer) that is the best reason of all.

It was a long day beginning at 7:30 in the morning and ending after 10:00 at night, but our anniversary celebration on September 11th couldn't have been more perfect.  The weather gods decided to test us with cloudy skies, wind and intermittent showers, then teased us with a few rays of sunshine only to cloud over again and blow more wind than a politician at election time.  Nevertheless, we motored into Charlottetown and had a delicious breakfast at Casa Mia Cafe. Their pan-tossed potato with caramelized onions really hit the spot. Thelma had a few shopping errands on her list and, with an unwavering focus, we managed to carry them out with military precision.  By that time we were a mite peckish (what else is new?), and so we dropped by the Farmer's Market .

I had hoped that we could take a walk on the beach or possibly on the boardwalk in North Rustico, but the weather was not on our side. So we passed by the Empire Cinemas to see if there was anything worth seeing. Much to our surprise they were showing a live BBC broadcast of the Last Night of the Proms from the Royal Albert Hall. The Proms is a series of summer concerts and the last one is always a huge event.  This movie theatre often shows live broadcasts of opera and these are usually well-attended. Apparently they didn't publicize this Last Night broadcast very well because there were only three other people in the theatre.

When I found out it was a three and a half hour show (including a twenty minute intermission) I was prepared for a long sit, but it went by faster than I expected.  The BBC camera work was excellent with some incredible aerial shots on the inside of the formidable Royal Albert Hall and some brilliant close-ups of the orchestra, choir and soloists, who included American soprano Renee Fleming, and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa. There were corresponding outdoor concerts in Hyde Park, Wales, Ireland and Scotland.  At one point, through the miracle of technology, audiences at all the concerts sang together in a rousing rendition of the Rodgers and Hammerstein classic, You'll Never Walk Alone. In all, it was a great way for Thelma and I to spend our anniversary. But that was not the end of it.

For supper we drove to Rustico and ate at the cozy Pearl Cafe. I had already eaten there in August with members of the Seawords Workshop, but this was Thelma's first time.  We were not disappointed. Thelma started off with a roasted tomato soup with an arugula emulsion. It had a beautiful flavor.  I had the chicken confit terrine with warm brioche and a rhubarb preserve.  For our main courses Thelma chose a tea-rubbed chicken breast and I went with the pan-fried scallops with potato rosti. If Rustico is the oyster then this comfortable and unassuming little cafe is definitely The Pearl.  As mentioned earlier, we got home a little after 10:00 pm, tired and satisfied by our day's celebration.  I'm already thinking about what we might do next year.

It was our first year in PEI. Thelma and I had moved here on May 1, 2001 with a car full of stuff packed around a cage with two crying cats in it. All our other stuff came by moving van. We were living in the bucolic splendor of Foxley River in a log cabin (with green siding that has now been stripped off). Our 2nd anniversary was coming up in September. We met on September 11, 1999 at a mutual friend's birthday dinner at an excellent Italian restaurant in Toronto called Grappa. Our anniversary celebration that first year in PEI was going to be quite simple. We were going to go out for an Island treat called fries with the works (a plate of french fries covered in gravy, peas and chopped up hamburger meat!). Needless to say world events had different plans for us.  We were glued to our TV and radio all day and night in our leafy little corner, feeling both isolated from yet very much a part of the world.

There are so many things about September 11th that make me angry.  That so many people had to lose their lives.  That a few radical extremists were able to grab the world's attention with such a heinous act.  That  governments around the world were able to use fear to manipulate the people under the guise of protecting them. That the current racism against Muslims is still justified by this fear. Even today there is an ignorant reverend in Florida who believes he is justified in burning another religion's holy book as a message to a radical minority. I am angry that radical minorities get all the media attention while the majority of sensible, law-abiding people are cast in the shadows.

When I asked Thelma to marry me on our anniversary, September 11th, 2005, I specifically requested that we get married in exactly one year so that our official anniversary would be September 11th. It was important to me to have this date be about something other than violence, fear, madness and mourning. I needed to remember that life is worth living. I needed to find a way (as Bruce Cockburn so eloquently put it) to kick at the darkness till it bled daylight.  We live in the shadow of September 11th every day of our lives. I'm glad to say that I also live in a ray of hope with my darling Thelma here in our little corner of the world. Every day of our lives.

Today marks a new moon. According to my horoscope, the new moon is in my opposite sign of Virgo and the accent will be on the relationships in my life.  Yes, I read my horoscope.  And while I am open to the concept that our lives might be somewhat influenced by the movements of heavenly bodies, I have become more skeptical that any so-called astrologer can accurately predict how, when or why they influence us.  Of course, that won't stop me from reading my horoscope.  I look at it as a blatant bit of egotism, like checking one's reflection in a store window. On a good day I can treat the actual predictions as general suggestions about how to conduct my life ("Let your nearest and dearest know how much you love them..." etc, etc). On a bad day I just shake my head in bewilderment and wonder why I even bother.

The influence of stars and planets soar over my head, so to speak, but the moon brings it all much closer to home.  Living out here in the country has clarified my connection to the lunar phases.  When the moon is full the night sky is so bright I could stand outside and count the blades of grass.  It shines through my bedroom window like an insomniac's halo and I have to burrow into the basement to watch late-night chat shows and Law and Order reruns until fatigue mercifully overcomes me.  One would hope that this would be a perfect opportunity to get some writing done, but there always seems to be some kind of mental static that makes any kind of concentration all but impossible.  I never have the urge to grow hair and howl, but it always feels like there is some kind of inner werewolf on the prowl.   

There are other times when the full moon has the opposite effect and I am hopelessly lethargic.  All I want to do is sleep for days.  I can't begin to imagine what is in my chemical make-up that makes me so susceptible to Io's unpredictable whims. It is no secret that the full moon has this pull over most of the human and animal population. It is the other phases that interest me. A few days ago I saw a beautifully lit crescent moon that looked like a phosphorescent fingernail paring. I think this is the most aesthetically pleasing of all the phases, so much so it inspired a simple lyric a few years ago.

Thumbnail Moon

Old thumbnail moon,
crescent and thin,
scratched out
from the night like a grin.
Bloodless and bone white
it sheds its meager light
on a heart that’s filled with gloom
whose last hope
hangs on an old thumbnail moon.

Money and love,
losses and gains,
funny how luck
waxes and wanes.
Bowed but unbroken
I vowed to start again,
cradling my pride’s frail wound
in the curve
of that old thumbnail moon

As for this new moon... only time will tell what strings it is going to be pulling down here on earth.  No matter what changes it may bring, globally or personally,  the only constant is - to paraphrase a song by The Style Council - I'll always be caught up in the whirlwind of my ever changing moons. 

Of the five members in my immediate family,  only my sister and I are alive.  She lives in England and I on PEI.  Those passed on also lived and are now buried in different areas. My mother in Montreal (before her death she and I lived for a short time in Scotland and were supposed to eventually settle in London), my father in North Carolina (where my step-sister lives, although he last lived in Florida) and my brother in New Jersey (although he spent the last years of his life in Las Vegas).  Recently I have come to feel that this geographically scattered family history, more than anything else, connects me to my Jewish identity -- something I never gave much thought to before I moved to PEI in May 2001.

I suppose it began when Thelma and I first moved to the Island.  We were in Charlottetown looking around inside a store (can't remember the name) that had various home items and quaint bric-a-brac.  There Thelma found a rather handsome menorah and purchased it.  I had not lit Hannukkah candles for many years, but we started a tradition of doing so that December.  Thelma, who is not Jewish, quickly added such Jewish fare as latkes, rugelah and kasha varnishkes to her already considerable culinary repertoire.  Later on, when we visited Royal Glass Design in Stratford, PEI, which creates a lovely collection of Judaica, we purchased a beautiful glass mezuzah to affix to our door post as a wedding present to ourselves. On a visit to Montreal I purchased the requisite parchment, which must be inserted in the mezuzah in order to give it the power to keep out evil spirits.

But what I think really forced me to think about my Jewish identity was the fact that PEI has no synagogue (the nearest temple of worship being in Moncton).  I hadn't set foot in a shul since my bar mitzvah, roughly 30 years earlier, and had never shown any inclination to during the whole time I lived in Montreal and Toronto.  Add to that the difficulty of purchasing Hannukkah candles and even a decent box of matzo on PEI, despite the diverse ethnic products to be found in the Atlantic Superstores.  Thankfully, one can purchase Montreal bagels at Brighton Clover Farm in Charlottetown.  

I eventually did discover that there is a good-sized Jewish community across the Island, whose members take turns celebrating the Jewish holidays at each other's houses.  Although I have received invitations to join these celebrations, I have never done so.  Interestingly, when I attended the Jewish Literary Festival in Hamilton, Ontario last year, I did go to a shabbos service in a shul, and felt a strong sense of community there.  That seemed to disappear soon after I left Hamilton, so my Jewishness seems to have a mind of its own and makes its presence felt whenever it pleases.  

The real paradox about living in PEI is that my status as being "from away" is what makes me feel at home here.  A sense of belonging and not belonging at the same time.  In the depths of my convoluted imagination I can imagine PEI as being my very own Promised Land.  Maybe I connect the Island's "redness" to the literary tradition of portraying Jews as having red hair (watch out Anne Shirley!).  I expect this concept will find its way into my fiction sooner or later.  As for my own private Diaspora, my sister's final resting place will no doubt be somewhere in England. And mine... well, I have my eye on a few places.  I like to think there's still plenty of time to make a decision.

Thanks for coming to give my new online home a once over. We've ripped off the old wallpaper, pulled up the shag carpeting and have added some new drapes and paint. Over time we will be adding and refining - pictures on the wall, books on the shelves, music on the Hi-Fi - so check back soon to see what we've been up to.

We've built this site using a great program called RapidWeaver, which lets ordinary folks create pretty websites without having to know very much about the behind-the-scenes magic . But it's only for Macs - sorry PC.