Moving into Moving

Maybe what they say about childbirth is also true of moving house — you forget how hard it is so you can decide to do it all over again.
I have moved quite a few times over the years, sometimes just a few blocks within the same city, sometimes from city to city, or country to country — even across an ocean, and back. I have lived in Ontario since 1979, first Woodstock, then Hamilton since 2000 (though in a few different houses) — so that is fairly stable.
And even though I am looking forward to my coming move from Hamilton to Toronto (end of August), to live with my partner, I have mixed feelings about leaving my house, my garden, my neighbourhood, and living in Hamilton, where I have felt at home ever since coming here. I have lived in this house since 2005 — only 13 years, but yet a long time, especially because many of the things here, including books, manuscripts, and other papers, have been with me for much longer than that. Not to mention the things I brought from my mother’s house after her death, in Pennsylvania in 2009. I am finding childhood cards from and to my grandparents, photographs of people and places I’d almost forgotten, recipes, programs, souvenirs, writing by schoolkids I taught who are now at least 30 years old — and this is after months of recycling during the winter!! And of course, there have been many good visits and gatherings in this house, making it more of a home.
Moving is hard for anyone, but for a writer, there are special problems. We are like squirrels and magpies — we save things, and we love interesting, shiny things (or dull things which could be polished to rare beauty). All is grist for the miil, if not now, then in some indefinite future. Those old manuscripts (even ones written on typewriters (how long ago was that?) or saved on printer paper with punched holes, could be useful — a line here, a verse there. And the books and journals: my own (for which I’m grateful), those by good friends and acquired at readings, and all the books that I turn to for comfort, inspiration, curiosity, or just to reconnect with a good friend — a companion who makes me feel and think. “You have a lot of books, don’t you?” says every work-person who comes to the house — and then often has a story about their own writing, or their kids’.
And the stories, the memories, attach to so many everyday things: the patch of lily-of-the-valley where my cat lay down when he was dying; the painted barn-board my mother bought for her house in the country; the painting by my friend Rita-Anne who died last year, the blanket we took camping, my great-grandmother’s menorah? Keep — or let go? As Michele Landsberg once wrote about a missing family samovar, “There is always a story,” even if the object is gone. That’s also the theme of the beloved children’s book, “Something from Nothing” (written and illustrated by Phoebe Gilman, adapted from a Jewish folk tale.)
And who will move into the house? What will they tear down, or repair? This was the only house I’ve lived in where I made extensive changes — tearing down a wall, completely reshaping the bathroom, adding to the garden. There is more I could do… with money, time, inclination (and a healthier back). Maybe it is time for new people to come here and enjoy it, as I move on with my life somewhere else.
Even the house seems to know change is on the way — the aging washing-machine gave up its watery ghost, the garden looks like the end of summer rather than July (the iris have some strange ailment, too). And several houses on the street have been sold this month. Maybe, the way we do with children as they grow up and leave home (my son, for instance, now lives in Cape Dorset, Nunavit — and I moved from the U.S. to Canada as a young adult), I can love the house and still let it go. There’s always a story….

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Another Birthday: Getting Older, Getting Old

Beware the Ides of March — my birthday, so a day I look forward to, as well as be-waring. This year I turn 73– hard to believe, but there it is! I was born in 1945, shortly before the end of World War Two. Now kids make me feel old for asking if they use Skype rather than Face-Time. I do have many Pisces friends, and it’s interesting that Albert Einstein was born on March 14, Pi Day — and that Stephen Hawkings died on that day.

In Jewish mystic numerology, the number 18 (for the word “Chai,” life) and all multiples of 18 are considered lucky and blessed (for example, if you give a donation, it adds to the value to give $18.00 or a multiple). So 72, last year, would have been a good year (which it was, in many ways), but also it is the completion of a cycle. 73 seems to be beginning a new, and unexpected cycle — just as the 9th day, after the 8 days of Chanukah, can represent a new start, as I noted in my novel “Feast of Lights.” This year, I am planning a move from Hamilton, where I have lived for about 20 years and have found and helped create a wonderful community of friends, colleagues, activities, and connections. I expected to continue living there — but at the same time have been developing a close, intimate relationship with someone I care about in Toronto, and it seems time to live together there. He has just turned 73 (also a Pisces), and it seems important, vital, to enjoy the good times in our lives together, as well as take care of each other when the inevitable problems of aging arise. I have lost a few dear friends in recent years, and others have been quite ill, now recovering — and, as someone next to me on the streetcar said last night, “We only have one life, not two lifes, not three lifes, just one!” And, perhaps surprisingly at this age, a new chapter is starting. Changes do bring change — I will miss friends and community life in Hamilton; on the other hand, it is commuting distance from Toronto (easier for Hamilton people to know this than those in TO), and I will be back. And you can visit me here — you will be welcome for dinner and coffee, and there is lots to do.
We talk about “growing” older and even “growing old” — growth is an ongoing process, even if the tree is a little more bent in the wind, and it takes the leaves and flowers longer to bloom — the colours are still brilliant and the scent is sweet. I continue to write, and have noticed a change in my poetry — even though I am not sure where it is leading.
Be AWARE, and March Forth with grace, courage, and a sense of balance– don’t “beware” of life’s turnings. As another Pisces friend wrote me, on a postcard of a Degas drawing of a ballerina, KEEP DANCING!

Birthdays spring us forward,
into flowering, into light.
hear the birds sing.

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Solitude, Being Alone, Loneliness

The British government recently appointed a Minister to deal with the problem of loneliness. This, as well as several other things, has made me think about the differences between loneliness and being alone, or solitude — which can be a fertile, creative, refreshing, or calming experience. There are many activities people enjoy doing alone: a solitary walk in the woods or on the beach, or even through city streets; writing a poem, painting a picture, listening to and perhaps playing music; reading; gardening; woodworking; doing a science experiment; meditating; daydreaming; taking a bubble-bath; going to an art gallery; sometimes cooking; even cleaning out the cupboards. Sometimes, as Wordsworth said, “the world is too much with us,” and we just want a break — “the pause that refreshes,” to paraphrase an old ad. As a writer, I really value solitude — both for doing the actual writing/rewriting, and for the walks and other activities that let me “mull” ideas in my mind. Swimming laps in a pool or swimming in a calm lake often frees up a space for ideas to play around with each other and combine in new ways. I think the times we enjoy being alone are when we are really enjoying a relationship with ourselves, a kind of inner, silent dialogue and companionship. When we are lonely, on the other hand, we are missing someone (who has died, or just left – forever, or for a day), and feeling abandoned or rejected, or envious of other people’s connections and relationships. At these times, it is hard to do anything except “wallow” in the feeling; to quote Wordsworth again, “I wandered lonely as a cloud.” Or, as one of my writing students said, perhaps more aptly: “Lonely as the last pickle in the jar.” Sometimes we create groups to help us make connections: book clubs, yoga classes, drop-in centres. I recently heard on CBC-radio about the “Men’s Shed,” informal groups in cities around the world, where men who are alone in life can find non-judgemental companionship, talk, a cup of coffee.

I recently put together a booklet of poems that my mother wrote during her last two years of life, age 89-91, when she was living at an Assisted Living home. These were the first poems she wrote; she said she could understand her feelings better when she wrote them down. In her “frailing” years, she often felt lonelier at the home, surrounded by people, than she had in her own home for the sixteen years after my father died. She was good at being alone while she was well — though I’m sure she was also lonely, too. Here is one of her poems that really moves me, and expresses the difference between these two states of mind:

Tonight I Am Lonely
often alone, rarely lonely,
alone a state of being,
lonely a state of feeling
alone is not sad
lonely is heart-breaking.
(Viola A.Jaffe, 2008)

In life, we need nurturing time alone and we need well-spent time with others — family, friends, lovers, children, pets (who are good companions in solitude), and people we meet casually like the clerk in a store. All this provides a range of experience, and helps us learn to talk, to listen, to solve problems, and to discover just who we are. There will be times we are lonely — and maybe some growth can come out of that, too. As I wrote recently in a memoir: Physicist friends have told me about blue shift, blue waves of light we see when an object in space is coming closer, while red waves indicate that something is moving further away, red shift. In human terms, approaching, longing, loving, leaving, grieving. Life is a combination of both, as we come in and out of each other’s lives

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Another New Year

This year the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashonah, falls on September 21(sunset on September 20), coinciding with the Autumn Equinox. I had intended to write something on July 1, Canada’s 150th (official) birthday — but summer drifted away from me, and also I had mixed feelings about the 150th, as the Indigenous peoples have been in Canada so many more thousands of years longer than that. This past July was the 38th year since my immigration to Canada, and I continue to be glad and grateful for being here, to a country that has been warm and welcoming to me, as a person, a mother, a writer, and a Jew — and which has a sense of community (our Health Care system is a prime example), regard for the environment (trying to do better), and is working, now, at dealing with the racist and colonial elements in our past: the Residential schools, 60s scoop, and continuing poor treatment of Indigenous peoples; the Komagata-Maru incident (1914), the rejection of the ship St. Louis, with refugees from Germany (1939), and similar incidents with immigrants, before the open-hearted welcome of the Vietnamese “boat people” in the 1970s and the current welcoming of Syrian refugees.

The Komagata Maru incident, you ask? This happened in Vancouver in 1914, when a Japanese ship with 376 Sikh would-be immigrants was detained for two months in the harbour and ultimately sent back to India, after the people on board suffered from hunger, thirst, and denial of their rights to enter this country because of government policies to “keep Canada white” and fear of “the other.” (one of the campaign slogans for Trump’s election was, “put the white back in White House. It takes a long time for racist ideas to change.) No matter who the “other” is, we need to recognize their humanity, and take away the false labels.

The Komagata Maru Incident is is also the title of a play by Canadian playwright Sharon Pollock, now on stage at the Studio Theatre in Stratford, in a beautifully-staged production, bringing our history to life for a wider, modern audience. The play, which has one character on this ship singing in the Punjabi language, taught me about this incident and also includes references to Indigenous culture. And it made me think of the St. Louis a generation later — another instance in which people needing help were sent back to a dangerous “homeland”, under the kind of “none is too many” thinking which ultimately hurts and destroys a country.

Emil Fackenheim, the noted Jewish Rabbi, philosopher, and Holocaust scholar, who was Rabbi at Temple Anshe Sholom in Hamilton, 1943-48 (after he came to Canada as a refugee, fleeing Nazism), gave a radio address soon after the war, in which he urged people not to “quieten their consciences” because of the false but loud demands of power and influence (and greed), and to accept and take in refugees because of their human needs and problem, not because of what they can (or cannot) do for the richer, more powerful country they seek to enter.

I am writing this on a sunny, warm day in south-west Ontario. Golden leaves are on the trees and falling to the ground, purple and yellow wildflowers are blooming on the side of the road. In the midst of this, I am aware and mindful of all the devastation and destruction and suffering nature has caused in the past few weeks in “other” places — hurricanes in Texas, Florida, and throughout the Caribbean, earthquakes in Mexico, fires in British Columbia, and western U.S. And the devastation of wars and hostilities around the world. On this Rosh Hashanah morning, I wish my relatives, friends, and all the world a sweet, happy, healthy, peaceful, and loving New Year. There is a Jewish concept, “Tikkun Olam,” saving the world — and also the realization that we cannot do everything, but we can at least do something rather than nothing, in our own life, our own family, our own community. If each of us does what we can, in our own way, we help create the changes we want to see in the world. Shalom!

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Happy New Year

Here we are, on the second day of 2017, which like the first has dawned bright and sunny, at least in the Hamilton/Toronto area, and despite the bad news in other parts of the world. Let’s keep focused on Leonard Cohen’s lines, “Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything/that’s how the light gets in./ That’s how the light gets in.” Continue reading

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Holidays and New Year

Good news — my website, which was hacked earlier this year by unknown assailants, has now been fixed, updated, and given more security features by the excellent web-designer, Mark Bednarowski, who specializes in Word Press. You can contact him here
Thanks to my yoga friends Evelyn and Steve for recommending him.

While I am working on a new blog post to commemorate the holiday season and usher in the new year, I am offering the poem below. Written a while ago, it still feels true. We welcome the light, in a time when there is too much darkness in the world.
In addition, I have quite a few surplus copies of my book Writing Your Way: Creating a Personal Journal as it is now in that no-woman’s land between publishers. I am making a holiday offer of $5.00 for this book, which usually sells for $16.95 plus HST. It contains thoughts about writing on a variety of subjects, including trauma and recovery, as well as specific writing exercises. If you are interested, please use the CONTACT form on the contact page of this website.
And there is a new feature on the “Readings and Events” page — a story you can read at leisure.
I will be offering more texts and audio-recordings on this page in the future.

Enjoy your holiday season — or find the peace you need.


In this season
of the White Witch
Persephone underground
and frozen tears
the face of the moon
Remember the light
like roses in the arctic
a miracle

Ellen S. Jaffe
published in Water Children (Mini Mocho Press, Hamilton, 2002).

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Fifty Shades of Green

Green Abun- Dance

June again. Spring has sprung (despite its late arrival this year) and is rapidly springing into summer.   After the bleak greys and whites (yes, there probably are fifty words for snow) and long hours of darkness of an Ontario winter, what strikes me most about Spring is its abundance of colour —  sunny yellow daffodils and forsythia,  deep red tulips,flowering trees in all their delicate pinks, crimsons, light and dark purples. Above all, the many, many shades of green. Fifty shades of green to play on the title of a famous best-seller.  And there is a deeper connection here.  Gardens, meadows, and woodlands are the life-force of nature, Mother Nature’s erotica and birthing-room. Birds and bees and blossoming.   Continue reading

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Words and Images

Hi everyone —

A cold week in January in Hamilton — and over much of the east coast.

Please check out the beautiful and haunting images created for my poem “Water Children” by Steven McCabe, on his site,   This poem was published in 2002 in my book Water Children, and it is one of those poems where I knew there were images behind the words; Steve has now caught the watery, ghostly-yet-alive spirit of the poem in his artwork.  I have just begun to fathom the submerged images Steve saw in my words.

Also on his site are several other “poemimages” by this talented visual artist, who is also a poet in his own right (write).

Continue reading

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Reflections on Newtown, Connecticut


Like everyone who has heard this news, I am shocked (yet again), horrified, and deeply saddened by the murders of 20 children, 6 teachers, and the shooter’s mother — as well as his own suicide.  One wonders if he felt any remorse, or if this was just another aspect of the carnage, over-powering rage, and desperation.  We can empathize with everyone who lost a family member — especially the parents who lost their children in this random and cruel way — without even being there to comfort and hold the children as they died, but it is almost impossible to really imagine what that would be like.  I was touched by President Obama’s compassion, and by his determination to do “something” about these mass shootings, even if laws and safeguards cannot do “everything.”  We cannot keep our children entirely safe, as he said, but we can take necessary and sensible steps to keep them SAFER.  Better gun control. As someone said on CBC radio today, “I hope the people who love their guns love their children more.”  And better mental-health systems to diagnose and treat complex situations before they boil over.  (The young man clearly did not have a simple diagnosis of “this” or “that.” And we know that most people with mental-health issues are treatable, and do not become violent in this way).   The school itself seems to have been better prepared than many schools to face an emergency, with lock-down drills in place and teachers aware of what to do — but, sadly, this could not completely prevent the tragedy.  I am moved by the way the people in the community are supporting each other in their grief.
Continue reading

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Places — part two

st johns 2012 034

Pond outside St.John’s

Last month I wrote from Newfoundland and Labrador, and now I am in Vancouver, at the other end of the country.  Returning from St. John’s, my plane was delayed by fog and then by Hurricane Sandy — and now I am delayed by snow in Calgary (I am actually writing this on the floor of the Calgary airport, en route from Vancouver to Hamilton; I will probably arrive home around 4:00 a.m. instead of the projected midnight).   Still, despite logistical and weather problems, travelling has shown me yet again how vast this country is — and yet how beautiful, wherever you go, and how connected we all are, despite our different locations.  I loved flying into St. John’s, seeing the fingers of rock jutting into the sea — and then the flat fields, like a monochrome Mondrian painting, as we descended toward Calgary on my outward journey, last Saturday.  Vancouver actually had sunny weather for several days, and my friends and I walked in Lighthouse Park in West Van, seeing the old-growth forest (trees 500 and even 800 years old, cedar and fir) and rocks that are millions of years old — unlike the much younger rocks around most of the city.  The place was green, growing, filled with spirit and power. And yet, a sign told us how many species — plant and animals — were disappearing from this habitat in the past 30 years.  A few days later, I attended a lecture by Tzeporah Berman on her book This Crazy Time,  at the Vancouver Jewish Book Festival, and was heartsick to hear how so many old-growth trees and forests were clear-cut to make toilet paper, telephone books, and Victoria’s Secret catalogues!! There has to be a better way to treat the earth.  Now, Tzeporah told us, her attention has moved from logging to climate change, as global warming is affecting the pine-beetle’s life cycle: the winters are warmer, the beetles do not die in the cold, and so they continue to attack and destroy trees.  Individuals can do our part in recycling and cutting down our energy use — but we ALSO need to join together to influence our government (on all levels, starting with the Federal government) to first acknowledge that climate change is real and is happening “at the speed of darkness”, and then to use the technology already available (as other governments around the world are doing) to fight these changes on a large scale, and improve life on earth into the next generations.

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