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volume 5 | issue 1
northern canada collective society for writers president Dawn Booth
contents 2
community report
Kiran Malik-Khan
3
editorial
Hope Moffatt
member at large Alisa Caswell
4
symmetry
Jessica Roy
public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan
6
delicious mirage
J Alfred Thomas
7
join in
Robin Elson
7
hypnos' end
Zachary Wood
8
the ties that bind
Kevin Thornton
This Issue: Volume 4, Number 6 Fall 2021
8
of where i wish we'd met
J Alfred Thomas
ISSN 1920-6313
9
a love letter to my favorite teacher
Sherry Lee Duncan
11
tuck me in momma
Robin Elson
11
yours, now
Hanna Fridhed
12
my stuffy is this toy
Robin Elson
12
virtual distancing
Dawn Booth
13
attachment
Lasha Barbosa
14
the breath
Chris Bowers
15
the park
Scott Meller
15
attachment
Kiran Malik-Khan
16
paper clips
Kiran Malik-Khan
16
sundays are still hard...
Kiran Malik-Khan
17
marginalia
Douglas Abel
20
contributors
21
mooring
secretary Hanna Fridhed treasurer Sundas Shamshad
e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com web www.northwordmagazine.com
cover Sherry Lee Duncan design & layout Rachel White-Murray issue editor Hope Moffatt managing editor Jane Jacques president emerita Jennifer Hemstock
Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W
Tineesha McKay
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
community report northword virtually launches Issue 24 with amalgamation into attachment Our Issue 24 was launched on September 26, 2021 virtu-
ally as attendees celebrated beautiful words, readings, and Alberta Culture Days with us. The magazine had a theme of “Amalgamation,” guest edited by Luay Elja-
mal, Program Manager for Arts Council Wood Buffalo.
He tasked the NorthWord Board to look for a cover artist, and well-known local resin artist, Ambreen Ehtisham
was selected. Her gorgeous piece “Beyond this World,” was the stunning cover.
Luay reflected on the editing process. “It’s been a long-standing dream of mine to lean into
the literary community in Wood Buffalo. In my youth, it was the literary arts that first exposed me to the arts world, and I’ve loved dipping back into that community
through NorthWord magazine. I’d highly recommend guest editing to anyone who’s thinking about doing it.”
Ambreen Ehtisham was honoured to be selected as the cover artist, she said.
by kiran malik-khan PR Director Jane Jacques, Managing Editor, NorthWord, commented, “I was delighted to see so many friends of NorthWord at our Issue 24 launch event. The virtual gathering included
contributors and supporters of the magazine, who all
enjoyed hearing the readings and seeing the stunning new cover by Ambreen Ehtisham. Luay Eljamal, the
guest editor for Issue 24, spoke eloquently about his experiences with NorthWord, and we heard about the upcoming theme of "Attachment" from Issue 25 guest editor Hope Moffatt. From beginning to end, the virtual
launch was a delightful afternoon celebrating the arts community.”
Free copies of NorthWord are available at Mitchell’s Café, Keyano College, Prestige Jewellers, MacIsland, Suncor Energy Centre for the Performing Arts at Holy Trin-
ity High School, the Redpoll Centre, Urban Market and Avenue Coffee.
For real time updates, visit our website at www. northwordmagazine.com, like us on Facebook: www.
facebook.com/northword and follow us on Twitter:
@NorthWordYMM.
“This was my first ever piece inspired by our region’s
natural beauty like the Athabasca River, the northern lights, and the sunrise. Even emotions and memories
play a role in it. The amalgamation here is the merging
of the abstract world with the real world; it was the key
factor for me in selecting this piece for NorthWord. It also reflects the beauty and resilience of our people in Fort McMurray,” explained Ambreen.
Guests enjoyed our standing segment, the discussion between the incoming and outgoing guest editors. Hope
Moffat, a local early childhood consultant, our current guest editor, who chose a theme of “Attachment,” for Issue 25.
“The theme jumped out at me immediately. I thought
about attachment with parents, a significant other, a
place, anything. I’m looking forward to seeing all the submissions,” Hope shared. 2
Issue #24: Amalgamation digital launch event.
volume 5 | issue 1
editorial According to my thesaurus, an attachment can be the noun meaning an addon, as in accessory, extra, part, addition, supplement. But I honestly didn’t think of
it in those terms. I was considering all the ways we think about attachment as some kind of
affection, as in connection, regard, friendship, liking, fondness, tenderness, warmth, love, bond, or its opposite—detachment.
Having spent most of my adult life as an early childhood educator with both young children and the adults who choose to teach and care for them, my initial thinking about attachment was of
that crucial bond between adult and child. I was considering the importance of babies bonding
with their essential adults in the early minutes, hours and days after birth, and even of the bond that happens between mothers and their unborn children while they are still in the womb. I was considering how babies’ task in the first year of life was to trust that the adults in their
lives would be there for them – physically, emotionally and spiritually. How the trust <> mistrust continuum set in their first year shapes their relationships throughout their lives.
My next thought was about our attachment to place, and how my own early life was filled
with the work on our dairy farm in the Ottawa valley, a farm that had been in my family for
generations, and how my parents always thought of themselves as being stewards of the land.
Despite being attached to the land of my ancestors, in my young adulthood I headed out across the country (hitchhiking) and found a new place to love—the Rocky Mountains and the towns
of Banff and later Canmore. New places for inspiration and creativity. My love of northern spaces came later in both Whitehorse and Fort McMurray as my love of the brilliant, vibrant northern night skies, and the forested paths and flowing rivers of my current home gave me a new
attachment to the land. It’s a combination of fascination, appreciation, and now groundedness. I am delighted with the responses we got from artists, authors and poets to the Attachment theme. Their submissions expanded my initial thoughts of attachment, widening and deepening my understanding of the topic, and giving me perspectives that I had not
yet considered. I hope that the scope of these submissions expands your thinking about Attachment too. Enjoy!
Hope Moffatt |
issue twenty - five editor
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
Usually the old trapper wasn’t bothered by the piercing cold. But lately he felt every one of his 80 winters. The freezing air crept into his bones and
symmetry jessica roy
settled. An unwanted guest.
Waking to another cold, pale dawn, the man decided he would collect his traps for the season. It was a week earlier than usual but due to the long cold winter, his energy was waning.
Wanting to get an early start, the trapper slung a burlap sack over one
shoulder and picking up his rifle, left the cabin to begin the 10km round-trip of his trap line. Despite the calendar’s date, the wind still wormed its icy fingers beneath the trapper’s clothing.
Hours later, the air thick with fog, the exhausted trapper finally approached the last beaver lodge. By the sheer size of it, the man knew it housed a sig-
nificant colony. More than likely a male and female, yearlings and kits. He had experienced success from this lodge on numerous occasions and was anxious to see today’s bounty and retrieve his final trap.
Thinking of the hot cup of coffee and warm fire that awaited him back at his tiny cabin, the old trapper quickly shuffled across the pond. Kneeling,
he broke through the thin skin of ice that had formed at the mouth of the
beaver run. His woolen gloves did not completely insulate him from the icy water and he hissed as the chill reached his fingertips. Grasping the chain that anchored the trap, the man tugged sharply. Feeling light resistance,
he thought he may have caught a kit. Too small to be worth much. Disappointed, the man yanked harder until the trap popped out of the jagged
hole. It took the man’s dulled mind a moment to understand what he was
seeing. Instead of the firm, plump body of a young beaver, he stared down
at a severed front paw. Ligaments and claws were still clutched in the angry, steel teeth of the trap. A grisly, dangling sacrifice. Catching his breath, the
trapper crouched to get a closer look in the fading light. The mangled joint
showed clearly where sharp teeth had gnawed through bone and gristle. It was then that the man noticed that the area around the hole was smeared with blood. Crimson against white. Peering into the water, the man imag-
ined a big male pulling himself into the deep reaches of the lodge to lick his wounds in the comfort of the colony.
Marveling at the immense mental and physical strength of the beaver, the trapper released the foot and placed it in the burlap bag. Before removing the trap, the man looked thoughtfully at the lodge, an internal struggle
taking place. As the sun slipped beneath the tree line, he impulsively reset
the trap. Turning his back on the lodge, the man began the slow trek back to the cabin.
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volume 5 | issue 1
A spring storm swept in overnight and the snow was
himself for the ordeal to come, the man collapsed onto
trail back to the lodge. Stumbling across the pond to the
lost his nerve, the trapper pressed the glowing edge of
wet and heavy as the trapper struggled to make a fresh opening of the beaver run, the man wearily pulled on
the chain and was relieved to feel that it was weighted down. With renewed energy, he grasped it with both hands and tugged firmly. The trapper was dismayed
when he saw that the jaws of the trap were not closed
around a beaver as he expected. Instead, the sharp teeth were sunken into a thick poplar branch. Irritated, the man released the branch, tossed it aside and quickly reset the trap.
Knowing he still had work ahead of him, the man took
one last lingering look at the lodge and retreated to the cabin.
The rising sun offered a watery light and the old
trapper’s head was wreathed in white steam as he
a chair and spread his injured fingers wide. Before he the knife against the bleeding stumps.
The man woke with his head on the table, sweat
staining the wood grain and the smell of burnt flesh lingering in the air. The knife had grown a dull grey.
Raising his hand, the trapper was relieved to see that the blood had slowed to a trickle. Forcing himself to
his feet, he lumbered to the water basin and rinsed his hand with melted snow. Eyes watering, mouth tight against the pain, the man bound his fingers tightly.
Instinctively seeking the comfort of his family, he abandoned the cabin to make the long, arduous drive to the
village. For a fleeting moment, he considered retrieving
the severed digits, but knew it was too late. They would have to be sacrificed.
completed his morning chores. The rhythmic swing of
The village nurse could do little except clean the
the air. Spring was loosening winter’s iron grip and he
pain killers. He was fussed over by his daughter, and his
the hatchet warmed him and he sensed a softness in knew he would have to catch the beaver soon before the pond thawed.
Distracted with thoughts of his prey, the man did not
wounds and provide the old man with antibiotics and grandchildren filled his days with chatter. Feeling at
peace in the presence of his family, the trapper’s hand started to heal.
at first register the sharp pain in his left hand. Looking
A week passed before the trapper was able to return to
had happened. The tips of two fingers, cut neatly at the
his fingers tips were gone. Small enough to be picked
down, his mind took a moment to comprehend what first knuckle, were resting on the chopping block. In
shock, the trapper raised his hand and watched blood
flowing freely, dripping onto the snow. Crimson against white. Clutching the injured hand to his chest, the man hurried to the cabin.
Kicking the cabin door closed behind him, the trapper
pulled out his skinning knife and approached the wood stove. Grimacing in pain, he paused to take a long pull
of rye whiskey from the bottle on the shelf above him. Gritting his teeth, he poured the remaining whiskey
over his injured fingers. Feeling the burn of the whiskey, the man opened the front door of the stove and, wrapping his right hand to insulate it from the heat, held
the blade over the flames until it glowed red. Bracing
the cabin. Glancing at the chopping block, he saw that
up by a raven or rodent. Impulsively, he walked around the to the back of the cabin and studied the beaver gut pile. The beaver foot was gone.
The man approached the lodge for what he knew
would be the final time that season and from several feet away, he could see movement near the opening
of the run. With a sense of urgency, he hurried across
the pond’s thinning ice. Nearing the lodge, the man felt an adrenalin surge when he discovered a large beaver
caught in the trap. The animal had been strong enough to drag the trap out of the hole onto the ice.
Sensing the shifting ice, the beaver stilled and turned
its head to stare directly at the old trapper. Intelligent
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
brown eyes dulled by pain met triumphant light blue.
wide enough to gently pull the damaged limb free.
The man raised his rifle. Looking down the barrel, he
beast remained heaving on the ice, eyes once again
With a shudder, the exhausted animal lowered its head. took two steps forward, finger on the trigger. It was
then that the man noticed the pink, healing stump of a front leg.
Lowering the rife, the man and inched cautiously
toward the animal. Wanting to calm the beaver, the
trapper draped the burlap sack over its head. Mindful
of his still tender, pink tipped fingers, the man pressed firmly on the trap’s release, straining until it opened
Carefully lifting the sack, the trapper backed away. The seeking those of the man’s.
Suddenly, with one last shudder and loud slap of a
broad tail on ice, the beaver slipped into the murky
water. The man took several heaving breaths and his
mind calmed as he studied the lodge. With a nod of his head, the trapper gathered the rifle and, putting the
trap into the bag, turned his back to retrace his steps to the cabin. He knew he would not return.
delicious mirage j alfred thomas
Where stand you, bitter landmark of beauty?
I thought I saw you while I stood in your palm
Now I only find you in glimpses, and am dazzled, as sunlight through birches
Your form taunts me, like the torn-off corner of a dream and perhaps I am lost in my search for you Yet I will seek you still in sighing grass, in dancing shadows, on starlit paths I wonder, can I catch you?
6
volume 5 | issue 1
join in robin elson
Stop and smell the flowers Take a great big sniff
Jump into the mud muddle C’mon take the risk.
Challenge yourself to simple things Do something you haven’t done
It’s sometimes in the little things
In which we find life’s so much fun. Find a pretty feather,
hypnos’ end zachary wood
Toss that nice round stone,
Do we have to say farewell?
I don’t want to do them alone.
Hark a new day calls to me
Join in my adventures
The great big world is new to me, It all seems such a lark
And when you’re right beside me It contains a bigger spark.
The horizons shine upon my hell But I just can't let you be
Adventures in the night my friend Without you I could not attend
You've been with me through the years With love, laughter and my tears There with me, could not sleep
Comforting when my heart grew deep Alas the bells do chime
My heart screams that it's a crime An end to your warm embrace Another day we all must face
Replacing you causes great distress
Goodbye my old and faithful mattress
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
the ties that bind kevin thornton
I didn’t want another brother. Especially one so new
He didn’t really know enough
About the world and all that stuff I taught him all I knew
I didn’t want a dog at all
They smell and bark and shed
She crawled and cuddled on my lap, Snored some as she took a nap. I cried when she was dead.
I didn’t need another child. I’d only wanted one
But when he opened big blue eyes
Smiled then burped, and to my surprise Grabbed my thumb. I was done.
of where i wish we’d met j alfred thomas
I’d have seen you in a pub
All wood and darkness-rubbed Or the best novel of any age
With your every self on every page Perhaps the lyrics of a song
In a chorus that never sung us wrong A Dr. Seuss line would suffice
Where rhyme we once, then rhyme we twice Nothing so romantic as an alley would do
We were built to know better, me and you Yet I see us, too, on ships of old
Under stars uncharted, in our naked souls
Enveloped by oceans and swallowed by sun You find me in sadness; I find you in fun It matters not, where both we met It hasn’t entirely happened yet So I’ll wish, I’ll wait
I’ll redefine this fate
And if we meet one day anew
I’ll give you me; you’ll give me you
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volume 5 | issue 1
a love letter to my favorite teacher sherry lee duncan
Dear Mrs. Corbeil, I don’t even know how to start this letter to you. Where do I even begin? Do I tell you how often I think of you over the years? Every time I am in a conversation that starts with “Who is your favorite teacher” I say your name. Mrs. Corbeil. I confess
that I may have said “My Mrs. Corbeil” because that is the way you made me feel. Like I
was the most important child you had ever met. I felt so loved and special—and smart! I knew in grade 3 that I wanted to be a teacher—just like you, my grade 3 teacher. You chose me to hand out papers. I was so proud. I erased chalkboards. You made me feel responsible. You hugged me. I tear up remembering those warm, soft safe hugs. You told me I was special. I don’t remember you ever raising your voice. I recall kindness and genuine interest.
Perhaps I should tell you a bit about me. I am one of hundreds of children who graced
your classroom. Sherry Boskill, grade 3, 1972-1973. St. Paul Elementary School. I know you will remember that my mom died in April of this year. (I think you also knew her from the Ladies Auxiliary). I was out of school for a week as we attended services, wake and a funeral. It was much more than my little 9-year-old self could comprehend. I was so relieved when I returned to school and there you were.
You were my person in that time of such deep loss and trauma. There is a saying “you may not remember what they taught you, but you will never
forget how they made you feel.” You were way ahead of your time, Mrs. Corbeil. You
intuitively knew back in 1973 that building relationships was at least as important as
the “3R’s”. I was never a really “good” student—but I was hard working. I have continued
my love for learning and now have completed seven years of post-secondary education. I have taken dozens of leadership courses, always striving to know more. In the spring of 1973, you had us memorize two poems for a local oratory contest. I can still recite a few lines from each (I digress). This was my very first public speaking event. We won
for our skills and I received a ribbon that remains pressed in my childhood jewelry box. One of my greatest treasures.
9
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
I want you to know, Mrs. Corbeil, that I have spent the
Post script: This is a true story. I wrote this letter and then
a hundred keynotes, small professional development
at that time that I found out my beloved Mrs. Corbeil
last 20 years of my career doing presentations. Over
sessions and presentations to other educators and professionals.
You instilled courage and confidence when I was just a 9-year-old child.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. Your reading out loud in class also had a profound effect on me. I remember the way you made the words in the
stories come to life. I am a published poet and have written articles for a variety of magazines and newspapers.
You inspired this in me. In turn, I have shared my love for
reading and writing with my own students and my own children and grandchild. Your influence has truly been multi-generational.
Well, Mrs. Corbeil, I hear my granddaughter calling. She
just turned 9 and so perhaps that is why you are on my mind. Perhaps it is because I have been teaching for 34
years and have crossed paths with thousands of teachers. And still you remain …my favorite.
I like to think that you might remember me. Please know this—you made me feel special. You have made a difference in my life. I think of you often. I am sorry it took be so long to write to you.
With deepest gratitude and love, Sherry Boskill
10
proceeded to try to find an address to mail it to. It was had died years before. Through social media, I found
her daughter and asked if she would like me to send it
to her. She graciously agreed to receive the letter on her
mom’s behalf. A few weeks later, this was the response I received;
“Sherry, I have tears pouring down my face. I have only read the first page and the first line of the second page
I read your name. I had just commented to my husband that I wondered if this was the same Sherry that mom always talked about…and then I saw your name. Mom
NEVER forgot about you. She talked of you ALL the time.
In fact, you gave mom a homemade card. My brother put it in mom’s memorial DVD for her funeral. You touched
her life greatly, more that you will ever know. She spoke
of you often and always hoped that you were doing well. She told us how you used to wear pretty blue ribbons in your hair when your mother was still alive. She spoke of you so much. We all know of you. I can’t help but smile
at how similarly you both have lived your lives. Uncanny really. I cannot thank you enough for this gift.”
volume 5 | issue 1
tuck me in momma robin elson
Tuck me in Momma,
It’s time for me to sleep
Don’t worry about the dishes
They can sit awhile in the sink. Tuck me in Momma
Make me warm as toast.
I love it when you snuggle in, And hold me nice and close. Tuck me in Momma,
Soon I will act like I don’t care
But I will hold these memories dearly
Because of all the love that we have shared. Tuck me in Momma,
I love our love more than you know, It means the world to me
That you always let it show.
yours, now hanna fridhed
There is mourning within birth
Unsung pasts and countless boats Departed and forgotten Fruits left untested
Their pits now growing trees For another life to savor
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
my stuffy is this toy robin elson
My stuffy is this toy
That’s so important to me
He provides me with a sense of love And security.
To you he may be ragged, Seem dirty and abused, But please,
Read this CAREFULLY, Do not get confused.
This toy is soft and warm,
Familiar and well-hugged.
He sleeps with me nightly,
He keeps me calm and snug. He offers me a peace of mind, And a sense of comfort too, My stuffy is my safety net,
It seems he’s much like you.
virtual distancing dawn booth
Take me out of the news feed and into the soul feed…
I want to connect, interact and collaborate; by comfort, kindness and physical contact. — Not by social applications.
Its software has made me dull,
unaware. Its touch screens, numb. I want to socially engage without statistics formulating my social engagement. Express love without the heart
emojis, the kissy face emoticons; — But, by holding tightly.
I want to unlock my own recovery
reset without any factory settings. Deactivate, unplug and shutdown; to
reboot my human experience and focus on distancing, virtually.
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volume 5 | issue 1
attachment by Lasha Barbosa Recently, my husband read an article which explored the possibilities of mining asteroids and planets for their valuable resources.
It made me stop and think, "what is our attachment to earth?"
Is earth more of a nostalgic feeling for us (a happy place we remember placing our hat)? Or, is it a part of us, in our very beings—our souls?
When earth's time comes, will we simply move on and reach out to other planets— using them as a bandages for our own?
Or will we make a change and save the planet we have now? 13
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
the breath chris bowers He breathes in. A sharp, quick breath, taking in whatever air he can
manage. He seems pleased with himself as if he had just managed to climb a mountain. But I know it
won’t last. I watch as he holds it for a moment, a small
struggle, and then he lets it go. The air escapes from his lungs, slowly, but surely. It sounds laboured. A slight
whistle. I look into his eyes, and he into mine. He seems
tired - so very tired. I gently rest my hand on his head as he takes another breath. Shorter again.
We were younger once. So full of energy. Our whole
lives were still ahead of us. I remember all those walks
through the park. We’d sit on the bench and watch the
people go by. So many people. I’d bring a ball, and we’d play catch for hours. You never wanted to stop! How I wish we could be there again. I smile. Memories. So many dinners with just the two of us.
We simply enjoyed each other’s company. We’d watch
TV, play games, or just sit in quiet silence. There was no expectation. No judgement. I never told you how much I loved that about you. And the nights - the restless,
sitting here while you lie there. A sudden cry. I shift in my seat.
“Shhh! It’s going be ok!” I whisper gently. He breathes out. I look at the doctor, and she shakes her head. I freeze for a moment. There’s no turning back, but I know what I
have to do. What I need to do. I give her a slight nod and look back down as she starts preparing.
His breaths are slowing down now. His eyes begin
to get heavy. I start humming a tune for him; I have
no idea which one, but I carry on with it anyway. He
makes eye contact again for a short second before his eyes finally close. His chest takes one last triumphant
breath, then slowly falls, coming to a peaceful rest. His tail, always so loud and lively, now sits quietly still. His paw, held in my other hand, gently curled as if to give one last shake. I give him one final hug. Silence. Tears run down my cheeks, and I smile again.
sleepless nights, you’d always cuddle up to me as if to
We have a bond that will last forever. An attachment
But having you there beside me was always a comfort. I
grow. You saw me through some of the best and worst
tell me it’s going to be ok. Your snoring drove me nuts! never complained. Why would I?
We’re not as young as we used to be, you and me. And now, I can’t help but notice how much older
you suddenly seem. How gray you’d gotten. It never bothered me. But when I look in the mirror, I realize
14
I haven’t changed much at all. How unfair that I’m
that cannot be easily explained. We helped each other
parts of my life. I will carry you for the rest of my days, the same way you carried me for yours. As long as I don’t forget, you’re never truly gone.
“You’re a good boy!” I whisper again. “Thank you for choosing me.”
volume 5 | issue 1
the park scott meller
This summer, workers from the municipality came to the
park across the street from my house and removed a copse of bushes and brush beneath a Manitoba Maple growing at the
periphery of the play area. Though many of the branches were
unproductive, there was still quite a bit of growth there. I really had become quite attached to them. Perhaps it was because
those bushes and I had grown here together. Both of us surviving changes of season, and neighbours, and much more! Now,
though, the autumn is here, and with those bushes gone I see a
stark beauty in the falling leaves in the grass, wind blowing them slowly across the path and up against the berm on the other side. Perhaps I was not as attached as I thought I was. Perhaps this
change, though unexpected, cleared away an unkempt tangle of brush that was too far gone to recover, and this new possibility
will be worthwhile and beautiful. I’ll try not to get too attached.
attachment kiran malik-khan Accidental or otherwise it takes detachment to appreciate— Attachment
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
paper clips kiran malik-khan
I hide all that was attached to the date you were gone as if a few paper clips
will help me forget that which was as if a few paper clips will be cathartic but they are—
even if for a few moments.
Now if only memories could be paper clipped!
sundays are still hard... kiran malik-khan Missing you terribly
our morning chai together
You made my favourite breakfast
Looking out the window—on our recliners
Talking about the future—sometimes silent just being with each other
All attachments to beautiful memories died with you
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volume 5 | issue 1
marginalia
Stuck on... me
A column by douglas abel
Attachment. A word with two distinct but related meanings, each one imply-
ing or generating the other. There is attachment as an observable fact, as a ‘thing’, or state, or situation: we have the fact that something--an atom, an
object, an emotion, a human, an event—is joined or connected to something
else. A is joined to B. Then there is attachment as action, the describable pro-
cess by which things become joined together, the act of connecting itself. A
is joining itself to B, or C is connecting A to B, or A and B are mutually coming together. There is the act of attachment, and there is the resultant—or causa-
tive—fact of attachment. Because things have been attached (process), they
are attached (situation). And from those two phenomena, the act and the fact, come “life, the universe, and everything.”1
We (think we) know now that the basis of the cosmos and everything in
it is the joining of sub-sub (-sub?) -atomic particles (or particle-like enti-
ties) through the action of four fundamental forces: gravity, the weak force, electromagnetism, and the strong force. The action of these forces on those particle-like entities causes infinite sequences of attaching and detaching—
bonding, splitting, attraction and repulsion, exploding (banging), collapsing, etc. Smaller particles are attached to become neutrons, protons and electrons;
neutrons, protons and electrons attach to form atoms; atoms form molecules; molecules form substances, substrates, proteins, plateaus, planets . . . and
people. In other words, attaching and detaching result in the structure of . . . everything. The entire universe, at any one instant, could be described as a
set of attachments. As the set changes, the universe changes. Attaching and
detaching are the processes by which all things, from microbes to galaxies, grow and change, live and die. The sequence of attaching and detaching is the sequence of time itself.
Does time somehow ‘cause’ the change of attachments, or does the change of
attachments cause or define time? Perhaps time is just a useful temporary (!)
observation point from which to examine the universal attachment structure. Attachment is, in fact, a state and a process at the same time. So attachment may be another version of Einstein’s space-time—or vice versa!
Ideas of time and of change point to a crucial feature of attachment, as act or
as fact. The process can usually be reversed; detaching can follow attaching, or precede it. Attachment is not necessarily or inevitably permanent. Joinings might last ‘forever’, or for a very long time. But there is nothing in either the
process or the relation that says they have to endure. In the human world, the Christian wedding service enjoins, “What God has joined together let no man
1 Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, 1979. There is no obvious or necessary connection between the idea of attachment and the number 42.
17
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
put asunder.” The implication is clear: even God-made
has gone, or even after the object that was once attached
ence is “for ever and ever.”
tional ones are much harder to sever. Lives are defined by
attachments can be broken. Nothing that we can experi-
What we, as humans, do experience is a life, through time,
has perished. Physical attachments can be broken; emothe fact that feeling-laden memories persist.
that is a linked sequence of changing attachments. In
It is so often true that “You don’t know what you’ve got till
been, what they are, and what they will be. They drive
and crave, and long fully, once the thing that you had has
so many ways we are our attachments: what they have us, change us, move us. Our story is a story of joining and separating.
I cling therefore I am. We come into the world physically attached to another
human being. Many would say that, throughout our lives, we are seeking ways to recreate the emotional and sensual effect of this first attachment. We want to be joined
to others. We long for relationships. Loneliness can be terrifying. Isolation is used as a form of torture.
Yet, at the same time, our growth and development do
and must involve detaching from people, situations and
events: leaving home, graduating from school, send-
ing children out into the world, switching jobs, retiring, losing loved ones to distance or death. Sometimes actively
divorcing. Always, inevitably, dying. We change the
links—to things, to people, to events, to emotions—that
define us, and thereby change the self we are defining. The milestones of our lives are those moments at which significant changes of attachment are taking place. We
gain things and we lose things, and our lives are thereby altered.
Is there a difference, in human terms, between ‘physi-
cal’ and ‘emotional’ attachments? Common sense would tell us that the former are somehow more ‘concrete’, and
therefore more durable than joinings based on ‘mere’ sensation. Yet our lived experience tells us the opposite; emotional attachments are much stronger than physical
ones. The attachment that is a memory, a persistent sen-
sation, or a regret can linger long after any physical link
it’s gone.”2 But it is even truer that you do know, and feel, vanished from your physical space.
But then again, it may be that all attachments, even ‘emo-
tional’ ones, are, in some sense, physical, because they
involve interactions of molecules and electro-chemical
interchanges. In this sense, a ‘feeling’ of love is just as much—or just as little—a physical event as the hanging of a picture on a wall.
Buddhism takes a novel and disturbing view of our human attachments. For Buddhists, our attachment to five factors—form, sensations, perceptions, thoughts and consciousness—generate desires and cravings that
can be never be satisfied. Those cravings cause suffering, and set in motion chains of action that lead to more
attachments, craving and suffering. Attachments are the
fuel that drives the wheel of karma and pain. To stop the wheel from turning, break the clinging that causes craving. Disconnect. Detach.
What a profound thought. And, for many Western minds, what a terrifying one.
For, if we are defined by our attachments, if we are the
sum of them, what is left when those attachments disappear? Is there any self after detachment?
Attachments make us suffer: discard them. Attachments make us grow, and change, and feel and love, and . . . live.
Do we dare to let them go? When everything you had is gone, do ‘you’ go with it?
2
18
Joni Mitchell, “Big Yellow Taxi,” 1970.
volume 5 | issue 1
Advertising Rates Why advertise in NorthWord? First initiative of its kind - NorthWord is Wood Buffalo's first literary magazine, privately funded by local residents comprising the social profit group, Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers (NCCSW) - this means we need your support today! • Market to promote education, literacy, and talented writers in the region and Northern Canada • Support the arts – foster the written word in our community. Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers – NorthWord RPO Clearwater P.O Box 30480 Fort McMurray, AB T9H 0B8 E-mail: northwordmagazine@gmail.com For more information, please call: Kiran Malik-Khan: PR Director - 780.880.7666 Digital File Specifications: • A press-ready PDF, TIFF, EPS, PSD (layers flattened) or A1 (text flattened) version is acceptable. • Files should be 300dpi and sent to: northwordmagazine@gmail.com
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
contributors
kiran malik-khan is the Communications Manager for the
douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, theatre histo-
journalist and loves telling community stories. As well, she
rian and voice and speech teacher. He often strives to be
is a strong advocate for inclusion, diversity, women’s rights,
detached—and very rarely succeeds. Karma.
and multiculturalism. She has two beautiful boys, She-
lasha barbosa writes, “I'm a self-taught artist residing in
Fort McMurray Public School Division. She is a freelance
heryar and Shahzaib.
Fort McMurray, Alberta; you can find my artwork in art gal-
Fort McMurray based since 2012, tineesha mckay is an
leries across North America. In my spare time, I battle brain
interdisciplinary visual, performing and literary artist. After
tumors and help run The PGCT & Mental Health Awareness
performing and teaching dance for most of her life, Tinee-
Campaign. To find out more visit: www.thebarbosacom-
sha originally found artistic inspiration through movement.
pany.com.”
The evolution of her work has been inspired by her diverse
dawn booth is an award-winning community journalist, communications expert, storyteller and poet. With 20 years of experience in the print media field, the Humber College
heritage and adverse life experiences. Through writing, photography, design, and dance, Tineesha uses art to connect with herself and others.
journalism graduate has worked as a newspaper and maga-
Originally from Drumheller, Alberta, scott meller has now
zine editor in the Wood Buffalo region for over a decade. As
called Fort McMurray home for more than 20 years. Scott
an ambassador for literature, Dawn is the President of the
is a proud Champion of the arts with his colleagues at
Northern Canada Collective Society of Writers and Literary
Arts Council Wood Buffalo, and an ever seeking student of
Arts Director for Arts Council Wood Buffalo. She resides in
new, interesting, and fulfilling artistic practice. When not
Fort McMurray, Alberta, with her husband of 10 years and
championing arts, or learning new expression, Scott can be
three children.
found spending time with his wife, Natasha, and daughters,
cj (chris) bowers s a writer and actor who is proud to have called Fort McMurray home for the last ten years. His pas-
Emelia and Evelyn, enjoying every nuance the world has to offer, and pursuing happiness.
sion for writing is fuelled by his experiences living in the
jessica roy writes, “Originally from Saskatchewan, I have
north, as well as the landscapes and people that surround
been a resident of Fort McMurray for 30 years. I have recently
him. You can read more of his work on his website, the
retired and am proud to say that I was a teacher and admin-
cjbuzz.com.
istrator of the Fort McMurray Public School Division for 29
sherry duncan is a passionate wife, mother, nana, teacher, artist, crafter and creative writer. She supports local theater
years. I have been married to my husband, Robin, for 31 years and we have one daughter, Lillian, who is 25 years old.”
volunteering, is a poet, presenter, advocate for children,
j alfred thomas grew up in a small BC town that became
summer loving, camp fire cooking, wine drinking, northern
big… so he moved to another small BC town. He builds, he
lights chasing lover of the north.
writes, he teaches. He is content.
robin elson has lived in Northern communities for most of
kevin thornton has over 25 short stories published in books,
her life and enjoys all that comes along with it. Along with
collections and magazines, as well as poems hither and yon.
a passion for her family and community, she enjoys reading,
He dislikes but abides by the practice of third person biogra-
writing and painting.
phy, and is a fan of brevity.
hanna fridhed is a Swedish theatre and literary artist who
zachary wood is Ontario born but has lived in Fort McMur-
is rediscovering her love for the written word.
ray for over a decade. He has been married for 2 and a half years and is the son of Dave Wood.
20
volume 5 | issue 1
mooring by Tineesha McKay
call for submissions NorthWord Volume 5, Issue 1 deadline April 30, 2022 theme Space northern canada
collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.
guest editor Alisa Caswell
We’re always looking for prose (3000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts from current projects, and visual art. please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors, northword@hushmail.com for advertising and business inquiries, contact: northwordmagazine@gmail.com
21
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