Spring forward, fall back.

The expression helps us remember to turn our clocks ahead in spring and back in autumn. Port Arthur, Ontario, was the first Canadian city to turn clocks ahead an hour. I did not find mention whether twin city, Fort William, also turned their clocks ahead. (By the way, Port Arthur and Fort William amalgamated in 1970 to become Thunder Bay, my home for 10+ years.)

Generally, though, clock-turning wasn’t implemented in Canada until 1916. Even now in 2023, not all cities or counties change their clocks. In Canada, we used to fall back on the last Sunday in October. Then in 2008, we aligned with the US for the first Sunday in November.

All this, simply to say…I’ve been thinking a lot about time!

I am acutely aware of changing colours highlighting the change in time as we prepare the garden and pond for winter, store the deck furniture, and just generally begin to slow down.

In qi gong philosophy, this is a time for grieving. And for letting go. Releasing what no longer serves you — habits, emotional baggage, relationships, even old books. Also known as refinement, this period allows us to figuratively thin the weeds to provide more space and energy to grow what we truly want in our lives. It’s a time to refine our focus.

Where in your life might you let go? What no longer serves you? What’s holding you back? If you had more time/space, where might you place or increase your focus?

Take your time to ponder these questions over autumn and winter. Soon enough, it will be spring and time for new beginnings.

This weekend, my husband and I made pasta from scratch. Simple ingredients of egg, water, salt and flour – Red Fife being our current favourite. Rather than a rolling pin like his mother used, we had a stainless steel, hand-crank pasta machine that I borrowed from my sister years ago.

After mixing the ingredients, I had a small clump of dough that seemed barely enough to feed the two of us and I wondered how my mother-in-law managed to make homemade pasta for eight children, seven of whom were boys with hearty appetites. I kneaded briefly, then let the dough rest for thirty minutes.

This resting is an important step. It allows the flour to fully absorb the water and egg, which fuses the flavours. Resting also allows the gluten to do its thing – either relaxing the gluten so it doesn’t spring back like bread or strengthening so the dough stretches easily – depending on which explanation one finds online. Either way, the rest is necessary.

While the dough rested, hubby and I got creative and improvised some drying racks – a curtain rod between upper kitchen cabinets, with several plastic hangars strung across the pole.

After the rest period, I separated the dough ball into four smaller pieces and fed them, one at a time, through the pasta machine’s rollers. Using the dial, one is able to manually adjust the thickness of the pasta, the first setting being for the thickest noodles. With each successive pressing, the dial is turned to another setting, reducing the thickness between the rollers and, thus, the thickness of the pasta.

After the first press, I had lasagna-like noodles, which I carefully laid onto parchment paper. Adjusting the dial, each noodle was fed through a second time. The noodles were getting thinner, wider and longer, but also stronger. I needed another sheet of parchment paper, then another, as the pasta quadrupled and I began to understand how mia suocera could feed a large family from such humble beginnings.

Another turn of the crank. Roll the dough. Turn, roll and press. The repetitiveness was calming, almost meditative.

Handmade pasta cannot be hurried!

The first time I tried to make pasta, I thought I could skip all the settings and proceed directly to the thinnest level. Instead of dough that rolled out flat and smooth, it broke apart. Without the passage of time, without being subjected to the kneading and pressure from successive pressings, the dough lacked strength and integrity. It was weak and, literally, full of holes.

Writing a book, like handmade pasta, is a process that can’t be hurried. A story starts with simple ingredients – an idea, a character or two, maybe a theme or some hint of conflict. 

Then, let it rest.

This is where I am – at the resting stage – with my next novel. While the ideas are resting – some might say percolating, but that would be mixing metaphors – I research. For this story, that means World War I, conscription, home children, and all things circa 1918 – medicine, the city of London, Ontario, women’s issues, Spanish flu, clothing, politics.

As I research, the characters start to develop. I hear their voices. They visit my dreams. I feel their emotions fusing into a plot.

Next, I will press pen to paper, fingertips to laptop keys, to roll out the beginnings of a story outline. Perhaps some character development sheets with aims, motivations, backgrounds.

Press again, and the setting unfolds. Street names, a timeline of historical events.

With each pressing, words multiply into scenes, into dialogue, into chapters. Edit. Re‑write. Repeat. Each step is necessary to the final result. Without revision after revision, the story, like hurried pasta, would be weak, lack integrity, and be full of plot holes.

Some time in the future, I will enjoy the repast of a finished manuscript. For now, my plate is filled with homemade tagliatelli, covered with pine nuts, parmesan, and garden-fresh pesto – slow, healthy food brimming with quality and flavour.

Buon appetito!

Photo by Jorge Zapata on Unsplash

 “If you sit at a computer all day,” a wise instructor once told me, “you are telling your body you want a shape to fit a chair…bent and crooked.”

Our bodies are designed for movement, but when we remain still and seated for most of our day, we are instructing our bodies to hold that shape and our body happily complies. Yet when our backs are stiff upon rising, we complain as if it wasn’t our own direction to the body that created the aches and pains.

Margaret Atwood, in her “Top 5 Writing Tips” on YouTube, advises writers “to pay attention to posture because writing/keyboarding is hard on the neck and back.” She suggests doing back stretches, getting enough exercise, and walking around. Frequent breaks, she says, are good for the back and other muscles – and can also help with writer’s block – so get up, take a walk, do some stretches.

As someone who practiced several modalities in holistic health prior to focusing on writing, I would like to expand on Atwood’s suggestions. Here are some ideas.

• Books (I’m a writer. You knew there was going to be books, right?)

Natural Posture for Pain-Free Living: The Practice of Mindful Alignment, Kathleen Porter

8 Steps to a Pain-Free Back, Esther Gokhale

Both are excellent resources on how to sit, bend, stand and sleep for a healthy back. Also, when you read, prop up the book so you are not bending your neck forward.

• Franklin Method

Last summer at the Sage Hill Writing School, I had the pleasure of trying the Franklin Method® which combines anatomical imagery with physical movements to create changes in the body and mind. This method is taught around the world, including at schools such as Julliard. It stimulates brain creativity by waking up the body and nervous system through the use of simple movements such as tapping, brushing, sponging, shearing, and shaking. Here are a couple to try:

Neck sponging (Hint: In addition to writing and keyboarding, two causes of head-forward posture are cell phone use and a need for corrective lenses.)

Eye refreshing

• Tai Chi

Tai Chi is a low-impact exercise with slow, graceful movements that provide many benefits – muscle strength, flexibility, balance, cardiovascular health, and improved mood and cognition. There are long, medium, and short forms of Tai Chi, as well as different styles. While it takes time to learn, The Beijing 24 is a simplified form that can be done in 10 minutes – perfect for a writing break, especially on winter days when you may not want to go outside for a walk. There are several Tai Chi academies in London and the city also offers classes through its recreational programs. Once you learn the 24 moves, it is simple to do Tai Chi anywhere.

• Qigong

Somewhat similar to Tai Chi, active Qigong (versus passive qigong) includes movements – sometimes meditative, sometimes energizing – which are repeated while standing in one spot. Try this favourite for a short break. Or this one describing the basic qigong moves.

In addition to incorporating stretches into your writer breaks, consider adding regular maintenance such as chiropractic treatments, cranial sacral massage, or Bowen therapy (aka Bowtech, Bowenwork.) Full disclosure – I practised Bowen for many years. I’m now retired from practice, but regular Bowen sessions are integral to maintenance of health.

Bowen is a gentle therapy originating in Australia and practiced around the world. It uses small moves on the fascia. Bowen addresses many health issues in addition to back pain. Movements to complement back procedures might include TMJ, pelvic, rhomboids, and psoas (the muscle becomes tight/shortened through sitting.) There is a handful of Bowen practitioners throughout London and surrounding areas.

So there you have it…some resources for writers who want to maintain a healthy neck and back. But don’t just read about it – put it into practice. Add an alarm to your cellphone or laptop, perhaps mid morning and mid afternoon, or whatever fits best into your writing schedule. And don’t ignore the alarm, even if you’re deep in the writing zone. Instead, jot down a few words and begin your break. You will remember the ideas when you return and, who knows, you may even tap into more ideas as you exercise, maybe because you are exercising.

 

Photo credit: julien Tromeur, Unsplash.

Early in May, award-winning author Terry Fallis spoke here in London, Ontario, at an event organized by the London Writers’ Society, my local writing group. In his book, No Relation, Terry writes about people who share a name similar to someone famous. Earnest Hemingway (versus Ernest Hemingway), James Moriarty, Mario Andretti, Marie Antoinette. What would it be like to share a famous moniker? (I suggest you read Fallis’ book for a humorous tale.)

But it got me thinking about my own name which is the opposite of famous…both my first and last names as common as cheddar cheese. My married surname – Costa – means from the coast in Mediterranean cultures. It’s the equivalent of Smith or Brown in North America.

There are actually three Donna Costas in my family and we all married into the family. (There are also two Linas, two Rosas, three Franks, three Tonys. What can I say…that’s Italian?) 

When I married into my husband’s Italian family almost 46 years ago, I became the second Donna Costa in the family, the other being the wife of my husband’s first cousin. (Hi, Donna!) Then my brother-in-law married – you guessed it – a Donna, different middle name. (Hi, Donna!)

From time to time, I would joke about reverting to my maiden name, but that was usurped after my cousin Wayne married. Forever more, the name meant someone else at family reunions, not me. In The Malahat Review, issue 222, “My Name: A Timeline,” Paul Dhillon writes, “I […] start to think about how a name can both connect us to a community and sever us from our ancestors.” Yeah, I get it.

I recall a time after high school when I worked as a legal secretary, having been hired in part because of a reference given from my friend, Donna – different last name – who worked at the law firm. She insisted she was Donna the first, while I was Donna the second. My suggestion of Donna Old and Donna New was met with stony silence, except for some snickers from Marg Bell aka Dinger. (We were a playful bunch!)

There’ve been times when bank tellers have pulled up records for a Donna Costa at an address unknown to me. Ditto medical records, although that seldom happens anymore with health cards. Imagine discovering someone with the same name, no relation, living on your street. (That happened to my spouse.)

There are enough of us named Donna Costa to start a club. If you know one, ask her to drop me a line. I’d love to hear where she’s from. And whether she’s family or no relation.

Photo by Waldemar on Unsplash

Springtime.

Yellow daffodils, pink hyacinths. Kids riding bikes.

Mother’s Day.

It’s gotten me thinking a lot about cycles – tricycles and bicycles, sleep cycles, seasonal cycles. And the cycle of life and death.

This will be the first Mother’s Day without my mom. I like to say that Mom watches over me from above – literally – because her picture sits on top of my fridge. I catch her eye when I grab a glass of milk. Sometimes she winks back.

This weekend I will put flowers on the ancestors’ graves. For some, visiting the cemetery is morbid. Or creepy. But it was Mom’s and my spring ritual for years. Together, we would take the 90-minute drive to the graves of her parents, brother, grandparents. I’d weed and plant flowers, while she told me their stories.

Sometimes Mom didn’t remember much, especially about her brother, Donny. She was twelve when he died. He liked Al Jolson and he raised pigeons, she’d say, and grandfather was a circus performer. Donny is buried alongside his grandfather and others near the large pine tree, while my grandparents are together up the path under the maples.

Afterwards, Mom and I would go out to eat. Mom’s preference – a Harvey’s burger.

This year, I’ll visit the cemetery by myself, unless I can convince my daughter to pick up the tradition. (Doubtful.) Or maybe hubby will be my pity-companion. Even if I’m by myself, I won’t be alone – I’ll have their stories and my mother’s voice to keep me company.

And afterwards, a fat juicy burger with hot peppers.

Photo credit: Eilis Garvey on Unsplash

***

For years, I kept a grade one scribbler filled with my earliest attempts at printing. Solid blue lines marked the upper and lower limits for capital letters, while a dotted red line indicated the correct height for lowercase. Even back then, I loved putting marks onto the page, feeling letters form, letting words and thoughts come into being as the pencil slid across the paper. Sometimes a piece of grit in the lead would challenge my chubby 6-year-old fingers to keep the marks steady and true. That writing booklet was dragged through several adult moves, only to be lost somewhere in the stuff of my present abode.

Another item of my memorabilia is a book of poetry – a collection of poems (not my own) for a school project, probably grade 5 or so. There’s a poem about our country, a poem without rhyming words, a religious poem and a humorous one. “The Lost Lagoon”  by E. Pauline Johnson represented a poem by a Canadian poet. Enamoured of Robert Service, several of his lengthy poems fill my project.

Still I persisted. While it would have been prudent to select the shortest poems for the assignment, I insisted on using the poems I loved, regardless of word count.

Many authors say that they kept a writing journal all their lives. This was not so for me, although I do remember once having a diary with a tiny key. I’d written about a crush on a boy, then decided to throw it in the trash bin and burn it. Burning trash was a common occurrence on the farm. Regrettably, two older brothers fished the partially burned diary from the flames and read my secrets. Humiliated and angry, I wouldn’t write in a journal again for another thirty years.

Even now, my journaling is sporadic. I tell myself I should write, then wander off to dig in the garden or muck out the fish pond. Some days, it seems, not even the guilt of not‑writing can erase my hesitancy to put innermost thoughts on the page.

Why do I feel a need to write about this? Why do I remember it? Why now?

On April 17, the winner of gritLit’s Writing Contest will be announced. My story “Mercy Mercy Me” was longlisted two weeks ago, then shortlisted last week. I am incredibly proud of this accomplishment. Yet as I await the announcement, I feel trepidation. My words, my secret thoughts being judged. My stomach flip flips. Excitement. Apprehension.

Through the writing process, I have identified lingering emotions from childhood and am able to soften, to relax more into the not knowing. To let go of being judged and, instead, remember the act of printing words on the page to reconnect to the purity of creation and the joy of writing.