NorthWord Literary Magazine - Volume 5, Issue 1

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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?

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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.

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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

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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?

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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

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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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