NorthWord-31-Catharsis

volume 6 | issue 2 | FREE

a literary journal of canada's north

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

fate by Hira Noor

dreamer's release by Curie Dhawan

cover artwork — catharsis: it's how the light breaks through by Barbara Madden

Leonard Cohen wrote, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” That idea was the seed of inspiration for the cover image, Catharsis: It’s How the Light Breaks Through.

I was trying to capture the emotional intensity of emerging from a catastrophic inner state: the raw blend of laughter and tears that arrives when you can finally see a way through. That inner light finding its way through the cracks and fissures we accumulate as we navigate life’s more difficult experiences.

If this image were part of a series, the next would be a Kintsugi-inspired repair of the cracks with gold or silver. Something to highlight the beauty and resilience that comes from imperfection, lived experience, and the discovery of inner strength.

Catharsis is a powerful theme. I love the promise it conjures. ii

volume 6 | issue 2

contents

northern canada collective society for writers

ii

fate

Hira Noor

ii

dreamer's release

Curie Dhawan

2

editorial

Greg Halinda

treasurer Sundas Shamshad

3

shale

Zach Wood

secretary Barbara Madden

3

for betty

Natalie Wilson

4

not broken, just done

Chris Bowers

5

dictionary release

Bea Price

communications coordinators Gwenna Cochrane Halinda and Anna Pottie

5

commute

Ana Manderson

e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com

6

grief, and the stillness after

Stacey Grant

web www.northwordmagazine.com

7

i met god in the gas station bathroom when i was 17

Charles "C" Masear

7

breathe

Zach Wood

7

storm

Zach Wood

This Issue: Volume 6, Number 2 Fall 2025

8

how the body remembers

Stacey Grant

Issue 32 Theme: Catharsis

8

family catharsis

Ashley Makey

9

hollow

Shaylean Gladu

ISSN 1920-6313

9

healing ink

Melinda Finlayson

10

faded

Zach Wood

design & layout Rachel White-Murray

10

the black meets the white

Jamal-e-Fatima Rafat

issue editor Greg Halinda

10

his ex

Kimerica S. Parr

managing editor Jane Jacques

11

sibol

Jeffer Louwie Salvante Peralta

12

and still, you bloom

Stacey Grant

president emerita Jennifer Hemstock

13

only you

Zach Wood

14

half canoe

Natalie Wilson

15

rottery

Shaylean Gladu

15

κάθαρση

Scott Meller

16

marginalia

Douglas Abel

18

contributors

21

faith

Anastasia Meicholas

21

creative catharsis

J. E. Schmitz

22

the ones who whisper back

Ruth Perry

president Dawn Booth

cover Barbara Madden

Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

editorial Screaming at the sky. Punching a pillow with all your might. Telling your boss how you really feel about them. These three actions jump to my mind when I think about how I’ve experienced catharsis. (I’ve only done two of these three, by the way!)

I’ve never thought of the act of writing a story or poem for publication as a form of catharsis. Then I read the more than 80 submissions to this issue of NorthWord. I had been expecting descriptions of sharp acts of short duration like those I just described…symbolic acts that neatly ended a person’s longsimmering frustration or pain, or that signalled their triumph over their own doubts and hesitations and temptations to quit on their path to victory. Like we see in the movies!

Not so here. In some of the pieces in this issue you will instead share the author’s experience of catharsis as self-realizations after a great loss. Or the healing comfort found in love at the end of a chaotic spell of unwellness. Or the admission of being insecure at a point in their life. Or the experience of becoming who they are.

Sorry for being vague, but I don’t want to spoil the endings! Some pieces describe the author’s catharsis as peaceful, some as painful, some as a great release of emotions, others as a determination to hold onto those emotions. Thank you to the writers and visual artists for your vulnerability in sharing these revealing works. It’s been a joy experiencing it!

Greg Halinda | issue thirty-two editor

keyano college nursing graduation

by Greg Halinda 2

volume 6 | issue 2

shale zach wood Where are you?

I’ve searched the cracks and shadows,

Trying to find the mind that once shone— Heart pure as mountain streams, Words soft as spring rain.

But the world carved into me, Drip by drip,

Erosion by the constant kiss of cruelty.

I hardened like shale under pressure, Brittle, cracking,

Each assault sharpening my edges.

Too much.

Too much.

A mirror shattered into a thousand shards.

Cullet—

Jagged, discarded, worthless.

But the fire came.

Intense heat softened brittle fragments, Turning sharp edges into fluid light.

Pain melted me down,

Poured me into something new.

From the ruins,

A stained glass window rose— Beauty born of brokenness, Fractured, yet whole.

Each crack holds the memory of fire,

Each shard, a lesson shaped by flame.

What was destroyed was not lost— It was remade.

In the light that filters through,

I see the strength hidden in fractures, The glow only pain could create.

Even broken things can shine.

for betty natalie wilson And then it is the end.

With no planning, no precision, no grand entrance— Death arrives.

Sometimes majestic, sometimes serene, She travels on soft feet,

tiny footfalls almost silent,

arriving in the quiet, between breaths.

She will hold your hand, if you choose.

Soothe you with supple fingers,

massage the fear from your joints, ease the terror in your grip.

Or, She will stand, quietly on guard,

wait for the signal that it is the moment you both have been waiting for.

Death offers no comfort to any of the living but only to you—

She brings gifts of release, remembrance, reckoning,

that no one else will dare touch.

Still, She waits,

as shadowed as your waning senses,

understanding that She will always know when it is her moment to act.

And when your breaths become uneven, when your heart slows

and your lungs close and your limbs ease into empty,

She swiftly wraps you in cool comfort,

releases your hurt, your hope, your despair, your destiny.

Ends your life, begins your peace.

Standing alongside you in the quiet, until leaving,

as soundlessly as She came.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

not broken, just done chris bowers

I found them in the back of my closet, buried beneath all the things I never wear anymore. Old coats, shirts that didn’t fit, and shoes that had outlived

their usefulness. But there they were, tucked away in the corner—my old, worn-out shoes. The ones I used to wear every day.

They were nothing special—just simple sneakers, the kind that had been

with me through everything. They had seen long walks, long nights, and

countless days of running from something I couldn’t name. The soles

were thin from use, the laces frayed from the miles they had covered.

They smelled of dust and quiet memories.

I picked them up, turning them over in my hands. The fabric was softer than I remembered, the soles worn almost thin. They sagged a little, like

they’d finally given up the work of holding me up. I had left them there, I suppose, because I didn’t know how to part with them. They had been

with me for so long; they felt like a part of me—like a comfort I couldn’t

explain. Even when they were no longer being worn, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.

But as I sat with them, something shifted. I could feel the weight of the

years they had carried with them, the weight of all the steps I had taken.

And I realized something: sometimes, you don’t have to keep holding something just because it’s familiar. The shoes had taken me as far as they could. They had done their job.

I set them down on the floor, just for a moment, and looked at them. They

weren’t broken—they were just done. And that was okay. Sometimes, things don’t have to be fixed to be let go.

I didn’t throw them away right away. Instead, I set them by the door, just

in case I needed to say goodbye. When the time came, I picked them up

one last time and slipped them into the trash. This time, I didn’t look back.

It was strange how light I felt after. As if carrying those shoes—those old, worn-out pieces of my days—had been holding me back. And for the first

time, I could see that walking forward was easier when I wasn’t dragging anything behind me.

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volume 6 | issue 2

dictionary release bea price

What is catharsis?

What does it mean?

If I look it up, what will I glean?

An experience evoking all of the feels,

leading to a release—crying that heals.

A cleansing of pent-up emotional tension, causing a feeling of lightness... ascension.

Finding a sense of spiritual renewal—

through engaging with art, it’s not unusual.

It brings awareness, insight, and grace— a way to process the traumas we face.

A therapeutic release of suffering and fear,

a primal scream that makes my heart clear.

commute ana manderson

You wait until the first left turn to scream.

Into your fist. Spitting out angry shrieks.

Because it’s a straight drive for five minutes.

It’s safe to shout until your face is red.

Until your eyes tear up, your voice is hoarse.

That is catharsis—

There’s a right turn and make sure to signal.

You're well on your way—an emotional whiz.

Up from your belly, forced through your lungs. Breath.

that’s what it is.

You cry and sob, white knuckles on the wheel.

Fill the vehicle with pained, wounded noise.

Anguish in all the small, little spaces.

Ten more minutes to your destination.

Silence now as you consciously untense.

Wiggling your fingers and cracking your neck.

Can you feel the emptying inside you?

A quiet hollowness.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

grief, and the stillness after stacey grant

I see glimmers of you in the quietest places,

each layer, a quiet remembering…

You walked this path with quiet resolve.

I whisper your name,

where sunbeams dance through the trees.

A flame against inky darkness,

each laboured step carrying the weight of battles unseen, stories unwritten.

The forest held its breath, as did I—

The air thick with pine and damp earth,

branches bowing their heads under winter’s frigid hush, while unseen threads wove beneath my feet: Binding what was breaking, holding what was fading.

They held out their mushrooms like small, cupped hands, growing in the hollowed spaces, climbing upon the fallen,

turning loss into life once again.

I sent words across the silence, wisps of breath on cold air,

hoping they would reach you somewhere—

Somewhere, in the space between worlds where they linger.

Did you hear them?

Did you know?

You wanted to grow a home of your own: A place where love would branch wide, like the canopy you danced beneath…

Where laughter would ring, long after sunset— With stories passed by loving hands

and gentle voices:

Never lost, never forgotten.

You should have had that.

You should have had more time.

I press my palm to a fallen log,

where turkey tail unfurls in rippled rings,

6

The forest does not forget.

cradling twin embers of anguish and acceptance, half expecting the wind to answer, yet half knowing it already has.

The wood is cold beneath my hand, but life stirs beneath the surface— Not of slow molder,

nor specter, nor shadow,

but the quiet pulse of life,

that carries your soul forward,

alchemizing your absence into seeds, into echoes.

I stand where the world remembers you.

volume 6 | issue 2

i met god in the gas station bathroom when i was bh charles "c" masear

i met god in the gas station bathroom when i was 17. he stood beneath the only fully-functioning fluorescent light, back pressed against the corner near

the sink, and i could feel his eyes transfixed on me as i mopped up more god-knows-what [vomit, piss, blood] and he took another drag of his cigarette that i tried my hardest to not notice. the blood rushed inside my skull as i bent myself over the puddle of shit and i watched the ground smudge and

mix, unknown partially-dried substance dissolving away in the same way you and i will [someday] beneath the stick, and my eyes felt like they would pop out of their sockets, and the hum of electric commercial this and that was louder than anything ever, and it was then that god asked me; “are you happy?” but my nose started to bleed so i responded truthfully with; “i don’t know.” and before it could all sink in he gave me a knowing smile that i caught in the corner of my vision and closed his eyes.

i met god in the gas station bathroom when i was 17.

breathe

storm

Like a gentle morning breeze

Feelings crash over me

zach wood

zach wood

Don't let your thoughts deceive

Like a storm that bends the trees

Let the negative emotions leave

A whirlwind fading to a breeze

You will not fail

Like a tsunami stirs the seas

Breathe Inhale

Exhale

You can prevail Breathe

The thought of you calms me Memories of you surge in me Love completely holds me

An anchor amidst the storm

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

how the body remembers stacey grant

He told me I was nothing: a vessel—

that pain would carve a shell from my bones,

but time has taught me to live within the aching, to press the jagged breath against my chest— Wings, never mistaken for a cage.

The body remembers every unkind season, but also, the thaw found in between,

forming staggered rings—time etched in grain, memories of drought, of lushness returned

beneath bark weathered by chaos and calm.

My story unfurled slowly, yes…

But not without ferocity.

I am here.

I am whole.

I am mine.

No miracle came—only morning,

and the quiet, defiant choosing to try again.

Healing did not pour from the sky

like daylight bursting through the night, but like lichen, in its stubborn fragility, weaving its way through the cracks.

The land has never questioned my worth.

It has held me when I could not rise,

sung back when I could only whisper.

What they called weakness— The silence, the waiting— Was always simply becoming.

8

family catharsis ashley makey

Panic. Disorder. Confusion.

Unfamiliar faces all around.

Heart racing. Misplacement.

Hoping for a familiar sound.

Sterility. White. Brightness.

Masked beings hover.

Crying out. Seeking.

Suffocating swell of emotion all over.

Calmness. Dark. Comfort.

A voice I've known since birth.

Vision fading. Tired.

The scent of home and hearth.

Solitude. Darkness. Silence.

Thoughts have gone away.

Distant echoes. Alone.

No sense of where I am today.

Crying. Choking. Fear.

Mother's face looms near.

Stressed cries. Reaching.

It's me she holds so dear.

Confusion. Displacement. Unmoving.

I cry out but no sound comes.

Alien faces. Pain.

A sudden breath can now move my lungs.

Freedom. Release. Energy!

The air fills me loud and full.

Parents near. Familiarity.

As the unfamiliar continues to pull.

Calmness. Warmth. Love.

Mother pulls me in to her breast.

Father smiles. Comfort.

I can finally relax and rest.

volume 6 | issue 2

hollow

shaylean gladu He digs the dirt around me

Forms a circle with his shovel

His sweat glows under the moonlight I look up at the sky

The stars show the past

The moon knows my secrets

The hole gets deeper and deeper I soon cannot see

Dirt has surrounded my visions I ask

"Where is the moon?

Where are the stars?

healing ink melinda finlayson

I sit in the darkness of the night,

A pen to paper and begin to write.

A voice no longer heard, a hug no longer felt,

Pen in hand, heart full of ache, each stroke a feeling dealt.

Why is there only darkness? "

In the darkness where grief prevails,

Alone with him

A heart so heavy, it begins to weep,

He stares at me

"Look at this hole I made for us

I worked so hard to get us here.

Aren't you grateful?

Aren't you happy?"

The empty earth is swallowing me I am detached from all I know

A paralyzing sadness is unveiled.

A flowing river ever so deep.

While struggling and drowning in the depths of despair, I panic and I fight for air.

The paper absorbs some tears I shed,

As I pour out whispers of things unsaid.

I forget the past

By putting ink on paper the river wanes,

I forget how high I could grow

Through my writing, the catharsis begins,

I forget the future

I dig my roots deeper

And he fills the space With his own hollow

While I pray that one day

The moon will meet my gaze again The stars will guide my way

In the act of writing, I find less pain.

As I honour the pain, the healing begins.

Writing is a refuge, a solace, a balm,

In the depths of sorrow, it helps me feel calm.

The grief I feel I will be happily carrying,

It means you were here, and to me you were everything.

And I will never have to be so low And I will never feel the rocks At the bottom of this pit Cutting into my feet As they are now

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

faded zach wood

A tear falls and then another

Thinking of how great a mother You would have been If only i had seen

The darkness that grew inside

Hardened heart that once did confide A second chance i may not find I wish i’d been more kind

To myself so i would know

That i was worth the love you'd show

the black meets the white jamal-e-fatima rafat Finally,

like a stifled cry

stuck in my chest for far too long I let it out

a wailing shriek

I let my word in ink

fall on the calmness of the blank sheet creating chaos its time,

the black meets the white.

his ex

kimerica s. parr We all stumble, we all fall, We are, indeed, sinners all

But when my life-long lover chose to love another Something inside me broke,

And something inside me awoke - a feeling like no other I felt determined, I felt renewed, I felt alive

No longer a couple, but one to stand alone, I could rely on myself, stand tall, be strong

For it is only in times of trial that we learn who we are

What we are capable of—what mettle of which we are made For this difficulty, I am gravely hurt, but also glad.

I now know—or remember—just who I am

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volume 6 | issue 2

sibol

jeffer louwie salvante peralta

The shadow of the smoke continues to haunt Fort McMurray even after all the years

it has been gone. When spring comes, snow melts and the river expands, the remembrance reappears just like a scar that pains as every season changes.

Martha stood behind her newly built home, where the fire had once roared like a wild

god. Below her, new houses rose like seedlings, and children laughed in backyards that

hadn’t existed years ago. The boreal forest had started to heal—sprigs of green bursting from blackened bark, nature’s quiet defiance.

Her camera hung around her neck. For months, she had been capturing the town’s return—not for news, not for profit, but to remind herself that survival wasn’t the end of the story. Healing was.

She walked down to the riverbank, where the community had gathered. People had come with candles, stories, and silence. Not everyone spoke. Some stared into the firepit at the center, where cedar branches crackled in remembrance.

She heard a voice saying, “We are not here to forget, we are here because we remember, and we choose to keep going.”

Martha stepped forward when invited, lifted her camera, and clicked once. The shutter echoed like a heartbeat.

Later that night, she uploaded the photo. A line of people, faces lit by flame, shadows of trees in the background—new ones, young and reaching for sky.

She titled it: “From the Ashes.”

And as she hit “share,” Martha felt it. That deep, chest-loosening exhale. Grief, love, memory—all pouring out at once. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it in.

Catharsis didn’t come in a single moment, she realized. It was in the rebuilding, the remembering, and the quiet choosing to live again.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

and still, you bloom stacey grant

You are goldenrod, blazing in the fading summer heat— Bold and unwavering, bending but never breaking,

standing tall even as the birds trilled omens of the coming rain.

We never knew it would come so fast, sweeping through your being

before we could trace the weight of four-and-a-half moons.

Oh, how time can fold in on itself…

Stretching and disappearing, all at once.

I wanted to be ready,

to hold your spirit with hands steady in prayer, a foundation, solid beneath you.

It was the knowing.

It broke the earth beneath me.

The excruciating pulsing of helplessness.

The flowing, inevitable surrender to something beyond us.

Despite this, you stood.

Chasing the wind when your body could no longer hold you, embracing your faith with a strength like no one I have ever known:

Choosing release when the war waged heavy.

When I cowered under the weight of your fear, when I thought I might drown in it,

I realized - you were already radiant.

Already unchained.

Already stepping behind the threshold.

At your funeral, they said your name meant “bringer of light,” but I had known that long before it was spoken.

I had seen it in your laughter,

in the way that joy seemed weightless in your hands,

even when the world piled a lifetime of winters upon your shoulders.

I tried to explain your ascent to my daughter,

her innocence yearning to understand pain I wish she would never have to feel.

Her silken head tilted, eyes brimming with certainty: “You lost your friend? I’ll help you find him, mama.”

I told her the truth the best I could: That we don’t have to.

That you are not lost.

That I feel you now more than ever.

You are eternal goldenrod, dancing in late summer’s song,

a panther slipping through the borderlands of my dreams, the warmth that was never bound

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volume 6 | issue 2

by the hours of dusk ‘til dawn.

The veil thins when I speak your name:

Your young soul walks with the old ones now, woven in the stars.

Still, your medicine grows in the fields.

Still, I gather it.

Still, you bloom with me.

only you zach wood Little did I know

How much my heart would grow.

Little did I see

How much you mean to me.

Little did I dream

How much you made me beam.

Your smile made me glow, A voice I couldn't forego, Eyes that lit a room,

A heart that cleared the gloom.

A wit that tore my mind asunder—

When you walked in the room, I'd blunder.

My heart is only yours,

Even when on distant shores.

Waves crashing against my mind,

In a darkened forest, I was so blind.

That ray of hope that helped me stay, My guiding star, my Milky Way.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

half canoe natalie wilson

The swaying rock of the water laps just below the steady of her voice,

telling me to dip the paddle, push the water back,

feel the power in my arms pull us forward.

She teaches, again and again, as I, watching from behind, do my best to paddle word into clumsy action.

And though we travel not in a straight line,

she cheers my practiced progress with

shouts into the early morning sunshine, celebrates the sloppy strokes I am learning, loving

my own attempts to steer

and steady this shared vessel

I have never chartered before.

As we continue,

again and again, she quietly says yes, you are right,

you are doing it right,

14

no impatience at my inaccuracy,

no frustration at the pained slowness of my paddle pace,

no sense of push for me to be faster, be better, bend a straighter

path through the deepening water.

To her, my mis-strokes,

my backward manoeuvres, my uncertain skims

on the top of the surface are all movement

in the right direction.

And when I am too uncertain, too flustered by my own

ability to not manipulate

the whirl of the rippling waves, she raises her arms, leans back,

beckons me to share the burden, to pass her the paddle

to right our tip in the chosen direction, all the while

celebrating my tiny trail along the rocky shore.

volume 6 | issue 2

rottery shaylean gladu

My older self corrects my younger self

I stare up into the ceiling

Again

Cascading into old feelings

Use manners

Sleep comes if I try it

Don't be so free

It will be okay

Be grateful

Right now there is quiet

That's the wrong word

If I keep my eyes shut

Do better

It's just a nightmare

You're wasting your youth

Holes in the walls

You're wasting it

Forget the fights

Take better care of yourself

You're going to regret this one day.

Let the kid just be a kid, Mom.

But my young self didn't know I was old beyond years

A lifetime in each breath

Beer in the sink

Money covered in blood.

Let the kid just be a kid, Mom. Now I feel it, the rotten wood Decaying too quickly

I'm not that old to feel this way

Small tragedies with the rise

An aged house

And fall of my chest

Falling apart

Pounding, knocking, beating

I didn't waste it

One step at a time

It was never mine.

One day at a time

I didn't waste my youth

One thing at a time

I carry myself up to bed.

And from an early age

"I'm tired,

Let the kid just be a kid, Mom.

Let the kid just be a kid, Mom

I began to lose sleep.

κάθαρση scott meller

And I want to sleep."

Aristotle knew.

Emotional constipation has no laxative.

The only way past it is through it, and that’s gonna hurt!

Without it, though, the humours are out of balance,

so hydrate, meditate, and evacuate!

Katharsis demands it.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

marginalia

Of course the Greeks had a word for it. Catharsis. Sounds a bit like a Pelo-

A column by douglas abel

In fact, catharsis was a technical/medical term. It meant “purgation,” expul-

Emotional Enema, Anyone?

ponnesian sneeze. “Catharsis!” Followed immediately by “Theós se eulogēto!”

Bless you!

sion from the body. Whether this purgation took the form of an emetic or an

enema was not specified by the word itself. The purpose, however, was to rid the body at one end or the other, of “bad stuff.”

Whatever it might have been in the minds and practice of Greek physicians, it became clear in the hands, or minds, of Plato and then Aristotle, what the

“bad stuff” was: emotion. Emotion was dangerous, even destructive. It was to

be eliminated from the body, or the soul, as completely as possible. And the most dangerous emotions were pity and fear.

As Plato saw it, a man under the influence of emotion, even under divine inspiration, like a poet, was quite literally out of his mind. Emotions like

pity and fear made men1 weak, and undermined their powers of rationality.

Citizens2 could not be impartial and just rulers, or brave soldiers, under the

influence of feeling. Pity interfered with justice, fear with fortitude and courage. Plato’s solution was banishment and suppression. Anything that tended to generate harmful emotions—poetry, drama, music not of a strictly martial

kind, was to be forbidden in the ideal state. Plato had seen what unbridled fear had done to his teacher, Socrates: Athenians frightened of his ideas had

put him to death. Plato was determined that in the ideal republic, emotions would simply not have such destructive power.

Aristotle’s thoughts were more moderate or, at least, more complex. He linked the question of emotion to the arts and, specifically, to drama—which, in its 1 In Classical Greek society, women did not come into the picture at all.

2 I.e., not foreigners, slaves or, again, women.

3 I have sometimes stated this idea as the fact that it is hard to fall out of a basement window.

tragic form, he described as the highest form of poetry. He found that poetry,

in itself, was not necessarily bad. Instead of banning such forms as tragedy, he gave them a noble and constructive purpose—a medical or curative function in the moral sphere. If well-written and well-performed, tragedy would summon up in an audience the dangerous emotions of pity and fear, but

would then generate a catharsis, the elimination of those emotions. Those

who had had the experience of tragedy would leave the theatre cleansed, ready to go about their family, civic or military duties without excessive fear, or excessive favour (pity).

For both Aristotle and Plato, however, the idea of art generating emotion simply for pleasure, or for its own sake, was not acceptable.

When Aristotle was “re-discovered” during the Renaissance, his theories of drama were taken as “gospel.” In fact, his descriptions of what tended to

work were transformed into the rigid “rules” of drama. Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century theorists focussed specifically on the two emotions Aristotle 16

volume 6 | issue 2

had examined: pity and fear. The philosopher had stated

that tragedy acted through pity and fear, leading to a

catharsis of these emotions. Scholars pondered whether the “and” in the statement was significant. Did tragedy

have to generate both emotions? Or could there be trag-

edy based solely on pity, or solely on fear? And, if the answer was that both emotions were necessary, did

these emotions always have to be generated together,

or at the same time? Could one, instead, have some pity, then some fear, then some more pity, etc.?

A great deal of ink was expended (wasted?) arguing these questions.

Then came the eighteenth century, and a whole new

way of looking at emotion, and art, and the cause-andeffect links between them.

For eighteenth-century philosophers, critics and artists/writers, emotion was not something to be feared; it

was something to be nurtured, encouraged and devel-

oped. Humans were basically good, and were in effect, defined, by their ability to feel emotions, particularly

sympathy and empathy for others. The stirring up of

such emotions was linked to the development of virtue.

Virtue was akin to fellow-feeling, and the more we were

who lost little when they fell, would not move us, and no catharsis would be possible.

From the eighteenth century until today, however, the opposite view of character has come to dominate writ-

ing and performance. If we are to empathize/sympathize with characters, we can do so most strongly with those

with whom we have most in common, those who are most like us. The fall of a great person, who is distant

from us in fortune and status, and even in life experience, may not move us in any positive way. That fall may not

even move us to cathartic pity and fear. Instead, the fall of a great one may generate a kind of smug satisfaction: he

thought he was so great, and look what happened. Serves him right!

So, for the generation of positive emotions through

drama—even pity and fear!—the characters who make us feel must be people like us, people we could meet, people

we might even know. Oedipus the King or Macbeth

becomes Willy Loman or Jimmy Porter. Clytaemnestra becomes Hedda Gabler. The tragedy of the fall of a king-

dom becomes, it is to be hoped, the equally moving, and

equally instructive, tragedy of the destruction of a family.

And that family might well be ours.

able to feel, the more virtuous we could be. If we saw, in

In this new dramatic world of “people like us,” where

would be moved positively toward those characters, and

plays and playing can take on a new dramatic function.

comedy or tragedy, the perils and sufferings of others, we

hence be impelled to acts of kindness in real life. Senti-

ment and tender feelings were the stuff and, indeed, the

purpose of art, certainly the purpose of drama. Far from

being a means of eliminating emotions, tragedy and

comedy became a means for practice in “tender” feeling.

Emotion, positively directed and refined with use, was more important than cold reason in human action.

With this change in the idea of emotion in drama came a change in the type of characters and situations pre-

drama presents a “slice of life” as we might experience it, Instead of catharsis, the purgation of emotions, the experi-

ence of drama gives us praxis—practice in feeling. We can

experience, vicariously, emotions in “tragic”situations— death, disease, romantic loss, reversal of fortune, physical

disaster—so that we become stronger, and better able

to deal with those situations if and as they occur in our own lives. In this sense, plays truly become play, as in

childhood: we have “safe” experiences which teach us to become more human, and better humans.

sented on stage—or page. Aristotle had asserted that

So drama might well have a dual function, generating the

“kings and princes,” as the Renaissance would have it.

positive ones. We become less afraid, stronger, and more

tragic characters must be of a certain social stature— If a fall was to generate pity and fear, it had to be a fall

from greatness. Characters who had nothing to lose, or 3

expulsion of negative emotions and the reinforcement of positively tied to our fellow humans.

Out with the bad, in with the good.

17

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

contributors douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, theatre histo-

rian and voice and speech teacher. Work on his novel

about Christopher Marlowe continues to continue.

Douglas thinks Plato was really a failed playwright who became bitter when his plays were rejected in Athens.

chris bowers is a writer and actor who is proud to have

called Fort McMurray home for the last fourteen years.

His passion for writing is fuelled by his experiences living in the north, as well as the landscapes and people

that surround him. You can read more of his work on his website, the cjbuzz.com.

melinda finlayson is a mother to two amazing girls, Madison and Mackenzie, and a wife to her supportive

husband, Trevor. Melinda is rediscovering her love of

the written word after a long hiatus. She is currently working on a series of children’s chapter books. Melinda encourages everyone to enjoy life and celebrate the tiniest victories at every opportunity.

shaylean gladu is a multifaceted First Nations artist of the Nehiyawak people, with a focus on self-expression

and healing. Shaylean's poem 'Drymeat' was placed 1st in the Wood Buffalo Regional Library's Words in Motion competition of 2025. "I have been told that my poems have an air of hope, amidst profound sadness, and being able to articulate poetry this way... I want my words

to find someone that needs to know that they are not

alone." Shaylean believes that everyone has something inside of them; a gift, a vision, and wisdom that is meant to be shared.

Born and raised in Nistawâyâw, stacey grant is a proud

Métis mother of two and a multidisciplinary artist focused on traditional beadwork, writing, and storytell-

ing. Through land-based teachings and cultural arts, her practice holds space for grief, love, memory, and quiet transformation.

barbara madden is on an expedition of sorts, explor-

ing the world through painting, illustration and modest 18

musings.

Inspiration is everywhere, usually a little

below the surface, each idea an excavation through layers and interconnected tunnels branching out into sparks and wonder.

ashley makey is a multifaceted artist residing in Fort McMurray who enjoys theatre arts, literature, as well as fine art crafts. She recently introduced her beautiful

daughter Saoirse to the world in 2024, whom she enjoys

spending time with alongside her wonderful husband, Eric. During her free time, you can typically find Ashley catching up on a new book, playing video games, working on a new craft, or snuggling up with her cat, Bilbo.

ana manderson once jumped out of an airplane, got married after 4 months of dating, ate 3 Big Macs in one go. Two are truths and one is a lie.

charlie 'c' masear is a high school student residing in Fort McMurray, Wood Buffalo. When he's not writing (or procrastinating), he's probably coding or running around with his friends. He doesn't have an official

portfolio (yet, at least—so keep an eye out in the near future), but if you wish to contact him you can email

charliemasear.0@gmail.com.

anastasia meicholas writes, “My name is Anastasia Meicholas, a queer visual artist. My exotic colour palette

and subjects are strongly influenced by my Bahamian

heritage where constant sunshine and the bright blue ocean was never far away. The miles of forests and the

wilderness of my home in Fort McMurray, Alberta, have

also had a strong influence on the direction of my work.

Art has always been my outlet to cope with the stress

and uncertainties of everyday life. At the same time, I use art to express some of my deepest joys. Art provides

me with a safe and comfortable place to express myself.

As I am constantly trying to interpret my world, exploring different ways of presenting my observations and

interpretations, I don’t limit myself to one medium, one style or a single process, I am constantly evolving. The

pieces I create are drawn from inspiration, experiences and lessons learned, sprinkled with influences from the land of my birth. If anyone takes the time to peruse my

volume 6 | issue 2

work and pauses long enough to be stirred in some way,

in Arts Awards, the Buffys, in the literary arts category

ceeded in my work.”

Lavender I Lost, was launched, partially funded by the

to wonder, to question, to simply feel… then I have suc-

scott meller (he/him) is a father, a multi-disciplinary artist, and Musical Instrument Repair Technician who

has called Wood Buffalo home for more than 25 years.

When not expanding his knowledge and exploring the

world with his family, he is championing the arts and working to keep artists expressing themselves.

hira noor is a local mixed media artist & illustrator. Her

immersive artwork blends acrylics, oil pastels, and textured mediums, drawing viewers into the emotions and experiences reflected in her tactile pieces.

kimerica s. parr is an author, poet, composer, singer, and

teacher. She teaches voice and pedagogy at the Univer-

sity of Alberta and is currently completing a Doctor of

Education in arts and leadership. Her creative and aca-

demic work explore the intersections of art, story, and expression. She currently resides in Alberta with her husband, and a little Maltese dog named Row-Z.

jeffer louwie salvante peralta writes, “Born under Philippine skies, I'm a nurse and journeyed to Canada with

a single dream, to honor my roots and make my family proud. When homesickness whispers, I turn to sketching

and writing, guided by the quiet strength and encouragement of my nephew, JM. All l am, I owe to those I

love: Mama Winda, my late Papa Luna, Ryan, Honey, Rushel, kuya Zeth, my love Macky and to my Pascual Family. I'm all about blending heart, art, and purpose in everything I do.”

ruth perry lives and practices her artwork in Treaty 8 Territory. She was asked to submit one of her recent works on Catharsis.

bea price needs us safe. First Creative submission. Now passion ignites

jamal-e-fatima rafat, a local poet based in Fort McMurray, AB, started compiling her poems while stuck at home

during the pandemic and produced a published copy by November 2020. She won the Wood Buffalo Excellence

in 2022. In November 2024, her second poetry book, The

Regional Municipality of Wood Buffalo grant. Her work

explores personal stories, her memories from childhood

and adolescence, and highlights her lived experience as a woman of colour in Canada. She describes her writings as a journey through healing.

j.e. schmitz writes, “I have always have enjoyed reading and writing all forms of written art. I am awkward and I am an aspiring author, with a TBR that I know I can never finish before I perish. I have a pet axolotl named Natsu named after an anime character.”

curie dhawan is a visual artist whose work merges surrealism with emotional depth, creating pieces that

invite viewers into dreamlike worlds of introspection.

Through her evocative use of color and symbolism, she

explores the complexities of the subconscious mind and the human experience. Her art has been featured in sev-

eral exhibitions, offering a space for dialogue between the viewer and the unseen layers of the psyche.

natalie wilson hails from North Bay in North-Eastern Ontario and has published short fiction and poetry in a

variety of print and online publications. She began her writing career by winning a short-story contest in a

local newspaper when she was 17, and has continued her creative journey ever since. A mother of four and grand-

mother of five, she is married and shares a busy home

with her partner Beth, her youngest daughter Vivian, and an assortment of furry friends.

zachary wood writes, “I have the privilege of working for FMPSD, where my passion for helping others

fuels every aspect of my work. I find deep fulfillment in making a positive impact, and it is through my role that I

am able to truly connect with and support those around me. Poetry, for me, is more than just an art form—it's the language of my soul. It allows my deepest emotions and inner thoughts to come alive in a way I cannot express

through any other medium, giving voice to the parts of me that yearn to be heard.”

19

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

call for submissions NorthWord Volume 6, Issue 3 deadline October 30, 2025 theme Plastic northern canada

collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.

guest editor Emma Carter We’re always looking for prose (3000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts from current projects, and visual art.

For future submission calls, visit www.northwordmagazine.com please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors, northword.magazine@gmail.com for advertising and business inquiries, contact: For future submission calls, visit www.northwordmagazine.com

Extended submission guidelines are on our website: www.northwordmagazine.com/about-2

Proud Partner of NorthWord Magazine 20

www.flyymm.com

faith

by Anastasia Meicholas

creative catharsis

by J. E.Schmitz

the ones who whisper back

by Ruth Perry