#rebeccas-reading-room — Public Fediverse posts

Faust: Unravelling the Great Enigma – The Scholar with the Lamp

Faust: Unravelling the Great Enigma – Episode 12: The Scholar with the Lamp

The Earth Spirit has vanished, leaving Faust shaken and alone. He has reached toward the infinite, only to discover that he is not as great as he imagined.

And then Goethe does something wonderfully unexpected. The door opens and in walks Wagner, in his dressing gown and night-cap, carrying a lamp. Why Wagner? Why does Goethe bring this earnest scholar into Faust’s study at precisely this moment?

In The Scholar with the Lamp, we meet with a character who is easy to overlook. Wagner loves books, scholarship, and the pursuit of knowledge. Faust has devoted his life to those very things, yet he has begun to discover that knowledge alone cannot satisfy the deepest longings of the human soul.

Their conversation leads to one of the most beautiful challenges in Faust:

“But ne’er from heart to heart you’ll speak inspiring,
Save your own heart is eloquent.”

Wagner’s little lamp illuminates more than Faust’s darkened study. It asks us what it really means to learn, to understand, and finally, to make wisdom our own.

Join me for Episode 12 of Faust: Unravelling the Great Enigma as we meet The Scholar with the Lamp.

Rebecca

Excerpt from Faust, Part One by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, translated by Bayard Taylor.

https://open.spotify.com/episode/1pmvPdaVG4ByNj83scU545?si=3CZZIHIySoagjA9OVXMKtA&utm_source=copy-link

https://youtu.be/w7X9p1wACVk?si=VrSABSiN-4w5-o4F

Letters to Vincent: Where Words Meet the Canvas

Peach Trees in Blossom (1889) by Vincent Van Gogh

My dear Theo, I’m in a fury of work as the trees are in blossom and I wanted to do a Provence orchard of tremendous gaiety — writing to you in a calm frame of mind presents serious difficulties, yesterday I wrote some letters that I later destroyed. (Letter 592)

I have found, in my experience, that there are many ways to come to know Vincent van Gogh. I like to stand before his paintings and follow the movement of the brushstrokes. His colours, his landscapes, his portraits open his world to me. I see the places in which he lived and worked and come to know the people with whom he connected. And yet, it is through Vincent’s letters, where he pours out his dreams, his challenges and his loves, that I have come to a deeper understanding of his creative spirit. The more I read his letters, the more I realize that Vincent did not leave us only paintings. He left us words.

Vincent writes about what he is trying to accomplish, what disappoints him, what excites him, the books he is reading, the artists he admires, the changing seasons, friendship, loneliness, work and the extraordinary importance he placed upon continuing to create. Sometimes his words are exuberant. Sometimes they are troubled. Often they are both.

Vincent is known as an extraordinary artist. But when we read his letters, his words bring us closer to his inner world. As a writer, he profoundly enriched our understanding of his art. A painting shows us what remained on the canvas. A letter allows us to glimpse what was happening within the person who stood before it.

Peach Trees in Blossom (1889) offers a beautiful place to begin.

Vincent painted the orchard near Arles during a time of intense creative urgency, only a few months after the crisis that led to his mental breakdown and the well-known incident of his severed ear.

In Letter 592 to his brother Theo, written in April 1889, Vincent gives us an extraordinary glimpse into this moment: “I’m in a fury of work as the trees are in blossom and I wanted to do a Provence orchard of tremendous gaiety.”

Those few words change the way I look at the painting.

The flowering trees offered only a brief moment to be captured, and Vincent responded with energy and determination, working beneath the changing spring light. Yet in the very same letter, he admits that writing calmly is difficult. There is unrest in his words while there is joy in the painting.

Painting did not seem to quiet his thoughts entirely, but it may have offered something towards which he could direct his attention. The branches, blossoms, changing light and colours of the natural world gave him something immediate to observe and something tangible to create. Painting could become a way of remaining present even when his inner world was unsettled.

And this is where Vincent’s writing gives us something the painting alone cannot. Without Letter 592, I might simply have looked at Peach Trees in Blossom and seen spring in Provence. With the letter beside me, I see a man deliberately reaching towards joy at a time when joy could not have been easy. I see the urgency behind those blossoms. I hear the artist thinking while he works.

His letters do not explain away his paintings. They do something far more interesting.

They invite us closer.

And so, I step into the orchard with him…

Rebecca

https://open.spotify.com/episode/33NqwKaIpABmXi5dkOe7uF?si=XvIQoU1DQmqCUemA7l9xrg&utm_source=copy-link

https://youtu.be/bIkpfDA0vqM?si=r2p1-oAzHhYqTIRV

What Happens After Happily Ever After

What Happens After Happily Ever After? Why We Return to a Book Series.

When I was young, my mother read stories to me before bedtime. I knew the story was at an end when I heard those iconic words, “And they lived happily ever after.” I confess, I was never satisfied with those endings. Surely, there had to be something more. Now that the danger had passed, the difficulties had been overcome and everyone was safe, why couldn’t I know what happened next?

And what did happily ever after actually look like? I imagined the characters heading off into a new adventure and wished I could be there with them. Even now, when I come to the end of a very satisfying read, I find that I don’t want the story to end. And that is why I have always been drawn to a good book series.

Over the past couple of months, I have been involved in two very different series. Michelle Cox gives us Depression-era Chicago, Henrietta Von Harmon and Inspector Clive Howard series. Peter May’s Lewis Trilogy is an excellent counterpoint because his writing experiences are quite different. May takes us into the wind, peat, isolation and memory of the Outer Hebrides. Yet both of these series ask us to return.

What makes us say yes?

I think it begins with characters who are flawed enough to be believable and likeable enough that we care what happens to them. We don’t need them to make all the right choices. We would become bored if they did. We need them to hesitate, misunderstand, regret, hope and occasionally make a complete mess of things. Their flaws give the story somewhere to go.

This is something both Cox and May understand. Their characters arrive with histories. The past has already happened to them before we meet them, and it continues to influence the choices they make. They carry responsibilities, regrets, loyalties and losses. As readers, we gradually discover these things, just as we do when getting to know someone in life. And because the characters are allowed to change, the story can change with them.

To me, this is the great advantage of a series. The author does not have to return everyone to exactly where they were at the beginning. What happens in one book can matter in the next. Decisions have consequences. Relationships deepen or become complicated. A grief cannot simply be put aside because a new mystery has begun. The characters accumulate a life. And we accumulate a history with them.

By the second or third book, we know things about these people that a newcomer does not. We remember earlier versions of them. We understand why a seemingly small decision may carry enormous significance. We may even find ourselves thinking, Oh no, don’t do that, because we know enough about the character to sense what may be coming.

And here is where “chance” steps in to keep a series alive. Life is filled with chance encounters. We take one road rather than another. We meet someone we weren’t expecting to meet. A letter arrives. A telephone rings. Someone from the past suddenly reappears. An ordinary day takes a turn that could not have been anticipated when we woke that morning.

Stories need that possibility too. Chance opens the door to the next adventure. The skill of the author is making the unexpected feel possible rather than convenient. We need to believe that these characters, having survived one story, could reasonably find themselves caught up in another. The circumstances may be new, but the people entering them are already known to us.

That creates a wonderful balance between familiarity and uncertainty. We know who is coming with us. We don’t know what is waiting. That is where the thrill of a good series lies.

Peter May can lead us once again into the landscape of the Outer Hebrides, but we do not return to precisely the same island we left behind. Memory has changed it. Events have changed the people who inhabit it. And we have changed too, because we now arrive knowing what happened before.

Michelle Cox can invite Henrietta and Clive into another mystery, another danger, another unexpected encounter. But they are no longer the people we met at the beginning. Whatever comes next must be faced by the people they have become. That is what makes the invitation irresistible.

The author is effectively saying, You know these people now. Shall we see what happens to them next? And we turn the page.

That is the quiet magic of a series. First we enter. Then we care. Then we remember. And finally, we belong to the adventure.

Rebecca

Faust: Unraveling the Great Enigma S2E11 – Climbing the Mountain Slowly

Welcome to Faust: Unravelling the Great Enigma, a journey where we read slowly, question deeply, and discover why Goethe’s masterpiece still speaks to the human heart.

What happens when we stop trying to understand Faust and simply allow it to speak?

In this episode of Faust: Unravelling the Great Enigma, I am joined by my friend Eglund, a journalist and writer from Germany, whose lifelong familiarity with Faust offers a thoughtful and deeply personal perspective on one of literature’s greatest works.

Together, we explore the life of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the profound loss that shaped the writing of Faust, and why this remarkable work continues to speak to us in a world filled with uncertainty and change. As our conversation unfolds, Eglund reminds us that Faust is not a book to rush through, but a mountain to be climbed slowly, one insight at a time.

Whether you are opening Faust for the very first time or returning to it after many years, I invite you to settle in with us as we begin this journey of discovery.

We are still very near the foot of the mountain, and perhaps that is exactly where we should be. Faust is not a work to be hurried. It asks us to read slowly, to listen carefully, and to allow its questions to remain with us.

Thank you for joining Eglund and me on this journey through Faust.

Rebecca

https://open.spotify.com/episode/4dpOwg1lXE3ZoB9sRx7poj?si=5q9TNooNTamEA4BU1pwSdQ

https://youtu.be/K6jo80aV4hs?si=4jV8vhUzO-BjFfsb

Climbing the Mountain Slowly – Faust: Unraveling the Great Enigma

At the Lake – Reflections on Reading

Earlier this year I spent several days on retreat on Vancouver Island. One of my favourite places to walk is Beaver Lake, which is just a 20-minute drive north of downtown Victoria. The lake has a pristine beach with 15 km of scenic trails.

This morning, the water was still, the path unhurried, and the usual noise of daily life seemed to fall away. As I walked, thoughts about books and reading began to gather. Not reviews. Not recommendations. Simply reflections.

In a world where books are often summarized, ranked, promoted, and consumed at speed, I found myself thinking about another way of reading, one that invites us to slow down, return, linger, and allow a book to become part of our lives. Those reflections became this short podcast.

At the Lake: A Book Meditation is an invitation to step away from urgency for a few moments and enter a different rhythm. It is a reflection on books as companions, on the quiet act of rereading, and on the way reading can become a conversation between a book and the person we are becoming.

Perhaps it will remind you of a favourite book waiting patiently on a shelf. Perhaps it will encourage you to revisit a passage you once loved. Or perhaps it will simply offer a few minutes of stillness. Pull up a chair in Rebecca’s Reading Room.

Until next time we meet, the door remains open,

Rebecca

https://open.spotify.com/episode/35pT3HtvD9MfMQWUZW6iEo?si=zX92XzduTYKJC8Bpk53aeg&utm_source=copy-link

https://youtu.be/f9qwagTQPUg?si=TydaJ2SEiy17_eHM

The Stories we Tell Ourselves

“The gift of story is wisdom” Will Storr, The Science of Storytelling

The kettle had long since gone cold. I had promised myself I would listen to one more chapter before turning out the light. Instead, another hour slipped by. Somewhere along the way, The Science of Storytelling by Will Storr stopped being a book about writing and became a book about being human.

Imagine waking tomorrow morning with no story about yourself. No memory of who you are. No understanding of where you belong. No expectations of the people around you. No sense of what matters. It would be impossible to make sense of the day ahead. According to Will Storr, that is because the human mind is not simply a recorder of events. It is a storyteller. That single idea lies at the heart of The Science of Storytelling, and once it takes hold, it begins to change the way we look at literature, history, relationships, and even ourselves.

Most books about storytelling explain how writers construct believable characters, shape dialogue, or build compelling plots. Storr certainly explores these craft elements, but they are only part of a much larger picture. His real subject is the human mind.

We do not passively receive reality. We build models of it. We construct stories that help us answer life’s most fundamental questions: Who am I? Whom can I trust? What do I fear? Where do I belong? Those stories become the framework through which we understand the world. Seen from that perspective, storytelling is not merely an art form. It is one of humanity’s oldest survival tools.

This insight sheds new light on the stories we have loved for generations. Memorable characters are unforgettable because each carries a particular understanding of the world, and that understanding is eventually challenged.

Here lies one of the book’s most powerful ideas: the most important element of a story is not action. It is change. Every meaningful narrative asks a similar series of questions. What belief can no longer survive? What must this person endure? Will they resist change, embrace it, or be broken by it? Ultimately, every great story asks: Who will this person become?

“every story you’ll ever hear amounts to ‘something changed’. Change is endlessly fascinating to brains. ‘Almost all perception is based on the detection of change’ says the neuroscientist Professor Sophie Scott. ‘Our perceptual systems basically don’t work unless there are changes to detect.” Will Storr, The Science of Storytelling

Storr also explores why flawed characters remain with us long after perfect heroes fade from memory. Perfection leaves little room for movement, while flaws create the possibility of transformation. As Leonard Cohen wrote, ‘There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.’ Perhaps the same is true of stories.

Equally compelling is Storr’s discussion of metaphor, personality, cultural memory, and the way language creates vivid inner simulations. Readers do not simply process words on a page. They construct entire worlds in their imagination.

Storr observes that we inherit stories long before we become aware of them. Family traditions, cultural memory, history, and shared beliefs quietly shape our understanding of ourselves. Story becomes a safe place to explore competing visions and imagine what change might look like.

By the final pages, The Science of Storytelling has become something more than a book about writing. It is a book about human nature. Its greatest achievement is not teaching us how stories are constructed. It is reminding us why stories matter.

I highly recommend The Science of Storytelling to anyone who loves books, writes, teaches, or simply wonders why stories have accompanied humanity for thousands of years. This is not a manual on plot construction or a checklist for aspiring novelists. It is a thoughtful exploration of how stories shape the way we understand ourselves, one another, and the world we inhabit. Whether you are a lifelong reader or someone curious about the workings of the human mind, Will Storr offers ideas that will continue to unfold long after the book is finished. I know they have for me.

Until the next page turns,

Rebecca

Saturday Afternoon by Emily Dickinson

Saturday Afternoon by Emily Dickinson | A Memory in Bloom

There are certain places that remain forever linked with joy. For me, Park & Tilford Gardens is one of those places. On many Saturday afternoons, my mother Frances, my sister Sarah, and I would spend time there together among the flowers, pathways, and quiet beauty of the gardens. Looking back now, I understand that those simple hours were rich with something precious: togetherness, laughter, and the feeling that time had opened gently before us.

When I came across Emily Dickinson’s poem Saturday Afternoon, I felt that same spirit rise again. She writes of children leaping free from their weekly confinements, rushing into the world with exuberance and delight. In only a few lines, she captures the joy of being young and the sweetness of a cherished afternoon.

In this recording, I have paired Emily’s words with photographs taken at Park & Tilford Gardens in North Vancouver, a place woven into my own memories of Saturday happiness.

We cannot forget that we were once children. Somewhere within us still lives that sense of wonder, that delight in small freedoms, that happiness found in being together under an open sky. Emily Dickinson reminds us that joy is never truly lost. It waits quietly in memory, ready to bloom again.

Thank you for visiting my Reading Room today.

Until the next poem,

Rebecca

https://youtu.be/HQyQu9zGxIM?si=UiT4exUXTHBZQ2tH

https://open.spotify.com/episode/7sNp4VxVQUb0Or3Ggm86Nb?si=qsZnj7ukSw6lBJtJUYye2A&utm_source=copy-link

Lochinvar by Sir Walter Scott

When we hear Lochinvar by Sir Walter Scott, we are taken back into the legends of the past. We feel the speed of the horse, the danger of the moment, the boldness of love, and the thrill of lives lived with daring.

For a few minutes, we are no longer standing in our own century. We are there—in the hall, at the gate, on the road, in the rush of escape. That is one of the gifts of poetry. It allows us to step beyond ourselves and live new lives through story.

Today I am pleased to share a stirring recitation of Lochinvar by writer, poet, and dear friend Paul Andruss. His voice brings renewed energy to a tale that has stirred imaginations for generations.

I invite you to listen and let the old story ride again.

Rebecca

Lochinvar is found in Canto V of Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field.

https://open.spotify.com/episode/1kKqbU1jig3pWSEVHtNf6E?si=ZpAfa40RQdOVt_Js3PFACw&utm_source=copy-link

https://youtu.be/QyzG0wGUBII?si=uIgxKAIBWyKy1qYY

Lochinvar: A Ride Into Legend – Rebecca's Reading Room

Lochinvar
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT
O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,
Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

“I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper’d, “’twere better by far
To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

When History Disagrees with the Experts

In 1961, a group of distinguished literary experts looked at J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and concluded that it was not worthy of the Nobel Prize in Literature. History disagreed.

How could anyone read The Lord of the Rings and not recognize its significance? How could they fail to see the impact it would have on literature, film, mythology, language, gaming, popular culture, and generations of readers? But perhaps that is precisely the lesson.

The Nobel jurors were not foolish people. They were highly educated scholars, critics, and literary experts. They simply saw Tolkien through the lens of 1961 rather than through the lens of history.

At the time, fantasy was often regarded as a lesser form of literature. Realism dominated literary culture. Psychological novels, social commentary, and experimental forms were considered more serious. Tolkien’s work seemed to many critics like an elaborate fairy tale.

What they could not see was that Tolkien was creating something entirely new. They were evaluating a book. History was evaluating a world.

The Nobel Committee’s rejection reminds us to approach literary lists with humility. Awards matter. Reviews matter. Critical opinion matters. But none of them possesses the final word. Readers do. Time does.

A century from now, very few people will remember the Nobel deliberations of 1961. Yet millions of readers will still be walking with Frodo through Mordor, listening to the songs of the Elves, and returning to the Shire.

There is a wonderful irony here. The committee concluded that Tolkien had not achieved “storytelling of the highest quality.” Yet more than sixty years later, The Lord of the Rings has become the very standard against which much fantasy literature is measured.

Perhaps every reader eventually discovers this truth: A prize recognizes excellence. Time reveals greatness.

This reflection began when I came across an article in Open Culture discussing Tolkien’s rejection by the Nobel Prize Committee. The article sparked a larger question for me. Not about awards, but about the life of books themselves. And that may be why this story matters so much today. Not because the Nobel Committee was wrong. Not because Tolkien was right. But because it reminds us that literature is not a race and greatness is not determined in a single moment. Books live beyond reviews. Beyond prizes. Beyond bestseller lists.

They travel quietly from reader to reader, generation to generation, carrying ideas, dreams, and questions into lives the author will never see. How many books have we overlooked because they did not appear on a prestigious list? How many authors were dismissed in their own day? How many voices were told they did not matter, only to become indispensable later?

The story of J.R.R. Tolkien is not merely the story of a writer who was passed over. It is the story of reading itself. For every book begins in its own time. Only a few are fortunate enough to belong to all time.

So here are my takeaways: Great books are not always recognized immediately. Literary prizes offer guidance, but they do not determine a book’s ultimate value. Every generation reads through the lens of its own moment. Readers and time are often the final judges of a story’s significance. The books that endure are those that continue to speak to the human experience across generations.

Until the next page turns,

Rebecca

Looking Up: A Garden Meditation

Welcome to my Reading Room. Today’s reflection comes from a simple moment at Park & Tilford Gardens in North Vancouver. One that invited me to pause, to look up, and to be still for a while. There are times when the smallest shift in attention opens something unexpected. This was one of those moments.

And when the moment passes, perhaps something of it remains, quietly, gently, within us. With gratitude for the moments of life,

Rebecca

https://youtu.be/5C1d6W-q070?si=p1gtxWzy6wXA2lBd

Looking Up A Garden Meditation – Rebecca's Reading Room

On Reading the World: A Quiet Reflection on Technology and Distance

A few weeks ago, I came across an article by Blake Montgomery in The Guardian entitled, Divide between Silicon Valley and ordinary people grows ever larger, that prompted a deeper thought. It speaks of a widening divide between Silicon Valley and everyday life. There is a growing distance between those building the future and those living within the present.

The article centres on the rapid rise of artificial intelligence, particularly the development of AI “agents”, These are systems designed to carry out tasks on our behalf. At a recent conference, Nvidia’s CEO spoke of extraordinary growth ahead, predicting revenues that reach into the trillions, driven by the expansion of AI infrastructure. At the same time, major technology companies are reshaping themselves around this vision.

Meta, for example, is redirecting enormous resources toward artificial intelligence, investing in vast data centres while reducing its workforce and scaling back earlier ambitions such as the metaverse. The scale of this shift is striking. Billions of dollars moving away from human teams and toward machines, systems, and computational power. And yet, alongside this acceleration, the article offers a quieter counterpoint.

A significant number of people are not using AI at all in their daily work. Many remain uncertain, even skeptical. And public concern appears to be growing rather than diminishing. As I read, I found myself thinking not only about technology, but about distance. Not distance in miles, but in experience. There is a difference between forecasting trillion-dollar futures and living an ordinary day with care. There is a difference between building systems that act for us and choosing to act for ourselves.

The article draws on a line from William Gibson: “The future is already here. It’s just not evenly distributed.” And yet, as I sit with this, I find myself wondering if distribution is only part of the story. Perhaps the deeper question is not who has access to this future, but whether it reflects the lives people are actually living, or wish to live. There is something else unfolding, quietly, alongside this technological expansion. A different kind of movement. Not toward scale, but toward attention. In small gestures such a line written in a notebook, a moment noticed without urgency and a thought allowed to take its time

These are not acts of resistance. They are acts of presence. The reading rooms of the past were places where ideas were given time to breathe. They were not driven by speed or outcome, but by a shared understanding that thought unfolds slowly. Perhaps that is what I am seeking here. Not to turn away from the world, but to meet it differently. To read what is being written about our future and then to sit with it, quietly, long enough to ask: What does this mean for the way we live?

As I continue to reflect, I find myself standing just slightly to the side of this acceleration. Close enough to see it. Far enough to consider it. And perhaps, in this moment, that is where I am meant to be.

Until the next page turns…

Rebecca

Walking Toward What Must Be

A Reflection from the Garden of Auguste Rodin

There are works of art that ask nothing of us but to look. And there are others that quietly ask how we will live.

When I visited the Musée Rodin in Paris, I stood before The Burghers of Calais by Auguste Rodin. Six men, walking toward what they believed would be their final moments. I expected to feel sorrow. Instead, I felt something quieter. A deep acknowledgment of what must be.

This short video reflection emerged from that encounter not as an explanation, but as a meditation on how we meet the inevitable in our own lives. A diagnosis, a duty, an aging parent, a turning season in one’s life. We do not choose the circumstance, but we choose how we walk toward it. These men walk with dignity. They do not resist their fate with bitterness. They acknowledge it. And in that acknowledgment, they become timeless.

Wherever you are as you watch, I invite you simply to pause and walk for a moment beside them.

Rebecca

https://youtu.be/52zjyv8kJ2w?si=l7M4Sqdr0HuSxdWE

https://open.spotify.com/episode/1JN4yHOceVSCfDHK6q0pxi?si=8BfNHJhASAmndJTYEhKi2A

Our Lady of the Isles

Our Lady of the Isles – A Reflection from the Outer Hebrides

Several years ago I travelled to the Outer Hebrides, those remarkable islands that lie off the western edge of Scotland where sea, wind, and memory seem to share the same breath. On South Uist I came upon a tall white statue standing quietly on a grassy rise, facing the open Atlantic. The statue is known as Our Lady of the Isles. Rising high above the surrounding fields and hills, the figure looks outward over the land and sea as though watching the long horizon that has shaped island life for centuries.

The monument was erected in 1957 and created by the sculptor Hew Lorimer. From a distance it appears almost elemental, a tall slender form rising from the earth like a column of light against the ever changing Hebridean sky. As one draws closer the human figure emerges clearly. The Virgin Mary stands holding the Christ child, both looking outward toward the ocean.

It was built as a gesture of faith by the community of South Uist, many of whom had seen generations of island families leave their homeland in search of new lives elsewhere. The statue became a symbol of protection and remembrance, a way of anchoring hope and belonging to the land itself.

Standing there that day I felt something that travellers often discover in the Hebrides. The islands carry an older layer of story beneath their history. Long before Christianity reached these shores, people told stories of spirits who guarded the sea and the land.

Among the most enduring of these legends is that of the selkie, the mysterious seal people who were said to shed their skins and walk upon the shore in human form. In the folklore of the islands the selkies were watchers of the sea routes and quiet companions to fishermen who depended on the ocean for their survival.

When I stood beneath the statue and looked toward the horizon it felt as though these traditions lived together rather than apart. The figure of Our Lady of the Isles may represent the Virgin Mary, yet she also carries the feeling of something older, a guardian presence watching the ocean paths and the fragile communities that have lived here for generations. In places like the Hebrides legends rarely disappear. They simply find new ways to live within the stories people continue to tell.

What I remember most about that visit is the stillness. There were no crowds and no city sounds, only the wind moving through the grasses and the distant cries of seabirds circling above the fields. The statue stood motionless against the shifting sky while clouds passed slowly overhead. In that quiet moment the place felt larger than the monument itself. It felt like a meeting point between landscape, faith, and memory.

Travel sometimes brings us to places where history, legend, and geography weave together so naturally that they cannot be separated. Our Lady of the Isles is one of those places. Although the statue belongs to the twentieth century, it stands within a much older tradition of island guardians and watchful figures who look outward toward the sea. Perhaps that is why the monument feels so at home in this windswept landscape.

The islands keep their stories well. If we stand quietly long enough and listen to the wind moving across the grass, we may begin to hear them.

Rebecca

https://youtu.be/769Iu5hTKYk?si=-glKJE7Fum0sLqfo

A Heart Full of Headstones – Reflections on Ian Rankin’s Rebus

I recently finished A Heart Full of Headstones by Ian Rankin, the twenty‑fourth novel in the long‑running series featuring the Edinburgh detective John Rebus. I came to the book for a very simple reason. Years ago, I watched the television adaptation starring Ken Stott, and for me he will always remain the epitome of Rebus. Stott captured that mixture of intelligence, stubbornness, and quiet weariness that seems to define the character.

One of the most remarkable things Ian Rankin has done with his long‑running series is something many writers avoid. He has allowed John Rebus to grow older. In many detective stories the central character remains almost unchanged across decades, as though time itself pauses for them. Rebus is different. Across twenty‑five novels we have watched him move through the seasons of life, carrying the marks of experience, family, regret, and persistence. Rankin has allowed his detective to age alongside his readers, and that may be one of the reasons the character feels so real.

Rebus is no longer the relentless detective of earlier years. Time has left its marks. He now faces health issues. He has a daughter and a granddaughter. The world around him has changed, and so has he. Yet, the core of the character remains. He maintains a stubborn determination to pursue what is right, even when he himself is deeply flawed. That is part of what makes Rebus so compelling. He is not heroic in the traditional sense. He makes mistakes, but there remains within him an unshakeable instinct to confront injustice.

Another aspect I found fascinating is the way Rankin situates the story during the COVID‑19 pandemic. Rather than ignoring that moment in history, he weaves it naturally into the background of the narrative. The pandemic becomes part of the atmosphere of the book shaping how people interact, how investigations unfold, and how the characters navigate an unsettled world. For readers who have followed the series for years, this adds a layer of realism. Rebus does not exist in a timeless fictional bubble. He lives in the same changing world that we do.

Readers who have just finished A Heart Full of Headstones will also notice that the story of Rebus is not yet finished. Rankin has continued the journey in the next novel, Midnight and Blue, reminding us that even after many years the tenacious spirit of Rebus still has more roads to travel. Sometimes the most enduring figures in fiction are not the flawless heroes, but the stubborn souls who keep searching for justice long after the world has grown complicated.

Rebecca

When Fiction Walks Beside History: The Girl in the Green Dress by Mariah Fredericks

Every once in a while a book surprises me. The Girl in the Green Dress by Mariah Fredericks was one of those books. I have been enjoying a number of mysteries lately, but this one offered something more than an engaging puzzle. It opened a doorway into the lively world of the Jazz Age and into the fascinating personality of Zelda Fitzgerald. Before long I found myself wandering through that glittering era of music, literature, and restless creativity.

The novel centres around the enigmatic figure of Zelda Fitzgerald, one of the most fascinating personalities of the early twentieth century and the wife of the celebrated writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. Zelda has long lived in the shadow of literary myth. She has been portrayed as muse, rival, victim, genius, and scandal all at once. Because of this, choosing her as a central character in a mystery novel is no small act of courage. Everyone, it seems, has a theory about Zelda.

Mariah Fredericks approaches her not as a symbol but as a living woman. She is sharp, perceptive, complicated, and vividly alive. That alone makes the novel intriguing. This was not merely a mystery story set loosely in the past. The author clearly did her homework. The atmosphere of the Jazz Age rises from the pages that spoke of the music, the glamour, and the restless energy of a generation determined to break away from old conventions. I felt as though I had been transported into that era with the swirl of parties, the creative ferment, the ambition and the fragility of a world racing toward modernity.

At its heart, this is still a mystery and a story meant to keep the reader turning pages. I found myself enjoying the playful tension between fact and fiction. Historical figures move alongside invented characters, and the boundaries between documented history and imaginative storytelling blur in an engaging way.

I do not often expect a mystery to carry such a strong sense of historical atmosphere, but this novel reminded me that good storytelling transcends genre. When research, imagination, and narrative energy come together, a book can open a window into another time while still delivering the pleasure of a well‑told tale. In many ways, The Girl in the Green Dress feels like stepping into the smoky glow of a Jazz Age nightclub where literature, scandal, music, and modern life were all colliding at once.

The title itself adds another layer of meaning. The image of the green dress seems almost symbolic of the era. In the literature of the 1920s, green often carried associations of longing and possibility. In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel The Great Gatsby, the famous green light across the water becomes a symbol of dreams just beyond reach. That colour has come to represent something essential about the Jazz Age imagination with its ambition, glamour, and restless energy. Seen in that light, the girl in the green dress feels less like a single figure and more like a symbol of the generation itself.

What stayed with me after finishing the book was not simply the mystery itself, but the reminder that history is filled with vibrant personalities whose stories continue to echo through literature. Zelda Fitzgerald remains one of those figures, still mysterious, still compelling, and still impossible to fully define. The Jazz Age may belong to the past, but through novels like this we can still glimpse its excitement, its daring spirit, and its complicated human drama.

Rebecca

Postscript: About the Author

Mariah Fredericks is known for writing historical mysteries that blend careful research with imaginative storytelling. She first gained recognition for her Jane Prescott series (I have not read any of these books) set in New York’s Gilded Age, where she explored the social worlds of earlier eras through the eyes of women navigating them. In The Girl in the Green Dress, Fredericks turns to the vibrant and turbulent Jazz Age, weaving a mystery around the compelling presence of Zelda Fitzgerald and inviting readers to step briefly into one of the most fascinating cultural moments of the twentieth century.

Walking in Nature with Myra Viola Wilds

“Catch your thoughts and hold them tightly…”

A poem has a way of returning to us. Not always when we expect it, and never in quite the same way. Several years ago, I created a video around this poem by Myra Viola Wilds. Recently, I found myself revisiting it. The words had not changed, but my understanding of them had deepened. I remember walking along a forest path on Burnaby Mountain when these lines first settled into my thoughts. Walking has always been a form of meditation for me—a way of giving space to thinking that is often crowded out by the day.

But what I have come to understand more clearly over time is this: We are not simply observers of our thoughts. We are participants in them. To think with care, to choose thoughts that are generous, steady, and hopeful, is a creative act. It is something we build, moment by moment. And in doing so, we shape a life that opens toward possibility. This poem speaks directly to that quiet responsibility.

Thoughts

by Myra Viola Wilds

What kind of thoughts now, do you carry
In your travels day by day
Are they bright and lofty visions,
Or neglected, gone astray?
Matters not how great in fancy,
Or what deeds of skill you’ve wrought;
Man, though high may be his station,
Is no better than his thoughts.
Catch your thoughts and hold them tightly,
Let each one an honour be;
Purge them, scourge them, burnish brightly,
Then in love set each one free.

Myra Viola Wilds (1875–1935) was born in Kentucky and was an American poet whose work often appeared in newspapers and small publications of her time. She wrote in a style that was clear, direct, and meant to be carried into daily life rather than set apart from it. Her poetry reflects a tradition that was once very common. Verses written not only for literary circles, but for ordinary readers seeking guidance, encouragement, and reflection.

“Thoughts” belongs to this tradition. It is less a poem to be studied than a poem to be lived with. In an era shaped by rapid change and modern pressures, writers like Wilds offered something steady: a reminder that character, outlook, and inner life remain within our influence.

Wilds authored the collection Thoughts of Idle Hours (1915), published by the National Baptist Publishing Board. What makes this work especially remarkable is that she wrote it after losing her eyesight, the result of years of overwork as a dressmaker.

Her words suggest that she was not merely observing human nature, but encouraging a kind of quiet responsibility. It was an invitation to tend one’s thoughts with care.

When I read this now, I find myself pausing on a single idea: We choose our thoughts. And in choosing them, we create the conditions of our lives.

Rebecca

https://youtu.be/IknhlH08FWo?si=cR-6NwuAze3hqkWY

https://open.spotify.com/episode/4z25sd8bKuTO91tzQ08skH?si=Ht5GoBVsScKcf0o-3cBZ_w&pi=JnsUFhYsQuS3q&t=22

The World Is Quiet Here

Some time ago, I stood beside the Cheakamus River near Squamish, British Columbia. The water moved steadily. The trees stood in quiet companionship. There was no need to ask for stillness. It was already present. I recorded a short video that day. At the time, I thought of it as a simple meditation. But as I return to it now, I see something more. Not a moment captured, but a reminder.

A Gathering of Voices

Across time, voices have spoken of peace, not in a single language, nor from a single place, but from the shared human experience of longing, struggle, and understanding.

Some remind us that peace begins within, in the quiet work of bringing ourselves into harmony. Others gently insist that peace is not found by withdrawing from life, but by stepping into it with openness and courage. There are voices that call us to compassion, to meet hatred with love, to choose understanding over force, to release the thoughts that diminish us and hold fast to those that strengthen us.

And then there are those who speak in simpler tones, almost like a whisper carried on the wind: that peace is beautiful, that it is found in rest, in gratitude, in stillness, in the quiet recognition that, for a moment, the world can feel whole.

Together, these voices do not instruct us as much as accompany us. They remind us that peace is not a destination waiting somewhere ahead, but a presence we return to as we move through the fullness of our lives. What draws me now is how these ideas gather, like tributaries flowing into a single river.

https://youtu.be/qQ5uICScqYc?si=KSAihj1n4ffdA85s

Peace is not presented as escape, nor as silence, nor as something granted only when the world settles. It is something we participate in. Something we return to, again and again.

The Cheakamus River did not ask the world to change before it flowed. It simply moved, steady, present, alive within its own nature. And perhaps that is where peace begins. We often speak of peace at the beginning of a new year, as a wish, a hope, a resolution. But perhaps mid-year is where peace is truly tested.

When life has unfolded in ways we did not expect, when the rhythm of our days has become uneven, when the world feels louder than we would like, it is here, in the middle, that we are invited to return. Not to a perfect state, but to a chosen one.

As I watch that river again, I find myself returning to a simple thought: Peace is not something we wait for. It is something we practice. And so, whether at the beginning of a year or in the fullness of it, my wish remains the same: Peace.

Rebecca

Welcoming Marilyn, Reader in Residence

Marilyn’s Shelf Opens in Rebecca’s Reading Room

I will be on a brief holiday for the next three weeks, returning at the end of May, so you may notice that my scheduled posts will have comments closed during that time. But before I go, I wanted to share a new initiative for Rebecca’s Reading Room — Reader in Residence. One of the quiet joys of a reading room is that it is never shaped by one voice alone, but enriched by the thoughts, memories, and discoveries of others. I am excited!! I look forward to sharing more with you in the weeks and months ahead.

My friend Marilyn has been part of my life for close to fifty years. Though we have lived in different provinces, (I live in British Columbia and Marilyn lives in Alberta) distance has never lessened the presence of one another in our lives. She is an avid reader, one of those rare people who carries books not as decoration, but as companions. Libraries and bookshops are places she enters with delight. When she travels, there are always two or three books tucked into her bag, waiting their turn.

It is my pleasure to welcome Marilyn to Rebecca’s Reading Room as our Reader in Residence. Today I am delighted to share her first reflection in her own words.

From Marilyn’s Shelf: First Entry

When Rebecca first spoke to me about her ideas for Rebecca’s Reading Room, I was very intrigued.

Reading has always been such a key part of my life. I remember, as an early student, experiencing comfort, adventure and suspense by reading books and dreaming of what mystery I could perhaps solve. My country school used to subscribe to the Scholastic Book Club. I remember looking forward, with anticipation, to the day the flyer would arrive at school. I would briefly search through the flyer putting a star beside the books that piqued my interest. Later, when I got home from school, I would spend hours going through that flyer and reading the highlights of every book I had put a star beside. I knew that I would only be allowed to select a couple of books to purchase so I had to make sure that my choices were the exact ones I wanted until the next flyer arrived.

I look back now and understand that those books brought me such joy. Living in a small town those adventures through books made me feel confident that there were so many opportunities ahead of me.

Today when going into a library or book store I still feel that same sense of anticipation. I know that each book I read will draw me in to experience the joy, heart break, and desire to solve a mystery that I felt so many years ago.

Marilyn

Marilyn’s Shelf

Three Apples Fell from the Sky by Narine Abgaryan

And three apples fell from heaven:

one for the storyteller,

one for the listener,

and one for the eavesdropper.”

This traditional Armenian phrase appears at the end of many folktales. It is both a blessing and an invitation. It reminds us that stories belong not only to those who tell them, but also to those who listen and quietly carry them forward. It is also the perfect doorway into Narine Abgaryan’s novel Three Apples Fell from the Sky, a book that celebrates storytelling, mythology, community, and the quiet resilience of ordinary people.

The novel begins in a way few readers expect. On a Friday afternoon, after the sun has passed its highest point and begins its gentle descent across the valley, an elderly woman named Anatolia Sevoyants calmly prepares for her death.

Before lying down, she carefully completes the small duties of the household. She waters the kitchen garden. She scatters food for the chickens and leaves a little extra, just in case the neighbours do not discover her body immediately. She stores the remaining food in the cellar. She lays out her burial clothes and places an envelope of money on the table to cover funeral expenses.

Only then does she open the window wide so that her soul will not become trapped in the room after it leaves her body. Finally she lies down on her bed, folds her arms across her chest, and prepares to breathe her last. It is a scene that is solemn, practical, and deeply human. What struck me most when I first encountered this opening was not despair, but the quiet dignity with which life and death are woven into the daily rhythms of the village.

From this remarkable beginning, the novel slowly opens outward to reveal the people who inhabit this small Armenian mountain village. Their lives are shaped by shared memories, neighbourly disputes, long standing friendships, and the quiet understanding that survival often depends on community. Life has not been easy for them. Yet the villagers endure with humour, stubborn hope, and a deep sense of belonging to one another. In this way, the village itself becomes the heart of the story.

What stayed with me most when I read the book several years ago was the resilience of Anatolia and her neighbours, particularly the way the village responds to hardship and conflict.

The title of the novel comes from a centuries old Armenian storytelling tradition. At the end of many Armenian folktales, storytellers conclude with the blessing: “And three apples fell from heaven: one for the storyteller, one for the listener, and one for the one who overheard the tale.” The apples symbolize the shared nature of storytelling. A story does not belong only to the teller. It also belongs to those who listen and to those who carry the story forward.

Narine Abgaryan’s novel draws deeply from this tradition. Like a tale passed through generations, the story unfolds through many voices, each adding its own memory, humour, and sorrow to the larger tapestry of village life.

When I first read this novel, I became fascinated with the role of the translator, Lisa C. Hayden, and the translation itself. Stories such as this carry the rhythms of their homeland. They hold the humour, the proverbs, and the emotional cadences of a culture. Translating them into another language requires great care so that the spirit of the original story is not lost. Through translation, readers far beyond Armenia are invited into this mountain village and into the lives of the people who inhabit it. In many ways, translation becomes another act of storytelling. It allows a story rooted in one place to travel across cultures and generations.

My Takeaways

Stories have always been the thread that holds communities together. Long before modern media, storytelling preserved memory, wisdom, and identity. In Narine Abgaryan’s novel, every villager carries a fragment of the collective story, and together those fragments form the living memory of the village.

Resilience in this novel does not appear as grand heroism. Instead it is found in small acts of care, patience, and humour. The villagers endure hardship not through dramatic gestures, but through their quiet determination to continue living together.

Conflict also exists within the village, as it does in any community. Yet disagreement does not destroy the deeper bonds that connect the people who live there. The novel gently reminds us that belonging often grows stronger when people learn to navigate their differences.

Finally, the novel reveals the extraordinary power of translation. Through the careful work of translators, readers across the world are invited into a small Armenian village and into a cultural tradition that might otherwise remain unknown to them. Three Apples Fell from the Sky reminds us that stories, like the apples in the old Armenian saying, are meant to be shared.

Rebecca

How Authenticity Lives

We live in an era of extraordinary expression. Moments can be shared instantly. Conversations can travel across the world in seconds. We are able to witness one another’s lives in ways that were once unimaginable. And within all of this, authenticity continues to find its place.

Not as a statement, but as a way of being. In the way we listen without interruption. In the way we tell a story without polishing it into perfection. In the willingness to share something still unfolding, rather than something already resolved.

It moves through small, steady gestures. A photograph taken because something felt meaningful, not because it would be admired. A conversation shaped by curiosity, not performance. A moment allowed to exist fully before it is shared.

We recognize and celebrate authenticity. We feel it in conversations that leave room for silence. In ideas that are offered, not imposed. In movements that grow from care rather than urgency.

It does not require us to withdraw from the world we are living in. It asks something more of us. It asks us to remain present, to make choices, and to take part. Because authenticity is not something we construct once and set aside. It is something we build, moment by moment. Something we choose, again and again, in how we listen, how we speak, and how we show up.

And when we do, even in small ways, it changes the quality of everything around us.

Authenticity is not found. It is lived.

Rebecca

In April

April is National Poetry Month. It is a time set aside to read poetry, to hear it, and to speak it aloud. Not to analyze it too quickly, but to let it move as it was meant to move through voice, through rhythm, through the quiet spaces between words.

Spring brings with it a natural turning toward poetry. The light changes, the air softens, and language seems to follow. This April, I return to Rainer Maria Rilke and his poem, “In April”.

https://youtu.be/Lysu57MuRug?si=3qrRY_VNihv1lNtk

In April

by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Again the woods are odorous, the lark
Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray
That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark,
Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.

After long rainy afternoons an hour
Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings
Them at the windows in a radiant shower,
And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.

Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep
By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies;
And cradled in the branches, hidden deep
In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.

Kergord Woods in April

Amidst the wild and deeply indented coasts of the Shetland Islands, with their enclosed, steep hills and shifting skies, there stands a solitary forest. Kergord Woods is the only substantial woodland in the islands. Planted between 1909 and 1921, the trees have endured harsh winters and persistent winds, yet they thrive offering shelter to birds and a place of quiet gathering within an otherwise open landscape.

During my first visit to Shetland in 2018, I walked through these woods. There is something about Kergord that feels deeply aligned with Rilke’s poem. The air carries the scent of damp earth and awakening growth. Rain lingers, not as storm, but as presence soft against branches and leaves. Light arrives in brief, golden intervals, filtering through the trees before retreating again.

It is a place of transition. Not fully winter, not yet spring but held in that delicate in-between. And in that space, Rilke’s words seem not only descriptive, but present. The “odorous woods”, the rain against the panes, the hush that follows. All of it can be felt here.

Since that first walk, this poem returned to me each April, carried on the same quiet awakening that stirs in the trees. Poetry does not belong to a single moment. It returns. In seasons. In memory. In places that hold something we cannot quite name. We do not always go looking for it. Sometimes, it finds its way back to us as April returns, as the woods awaken, as a poem waits quietly to be spoken once more.

Until the next poem,

Rebecca

What Was on Reading Lists a Century Ago?

What Was on Reading Lists a Century Ago?

I have often wondered what people chose to read a hundred years ago. Not what they were assigned or instructed to read, but what they carried with them throughout 1926. The books tucked under an arm, slipped into a bag, opened again and again.

In 1926 books were companions. They were read on porches and verandas, in boarding houses by the sea, on park benches and in shaded libraries where the air barely moved. Reading was not hurried. A book was allowed to linger, to unfold slowly, to keep company with a reader over days or even weeks.

The world those readers inhabited was unsettled and newly alive. The Great War had ended less than a decade earlier. Its losses were still present, though no longer always spoken aloud. At the same time, life was accelerating. Jazz filled rooms, cities expanded, women stepped more fully into public life, and modernity announced itself with confidence. Reading reflected that tension, between longing and hope, disillusionment and beauty, escape and understanding.

One slender novel published in 1925 would eventually come to define that uneasy brightness: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Readers encountered its glittering parties and quiet heartbreak not yet knowing it would become iconic. It was simply a story of longing and illusion, perfectly suited to evenings when glamour and melancholy often share the same hour.

That same year, readers willing to turn inward found themselves absorbed by Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, a novel that unfolds over the course of a single June day yet opens into a vast interior world. It was not light reading, but it was deeply attuned to memory, grief, and consciousness, subjects many readers knew intimately, whether or not they named them.

Others gravitated toward larger, weightier narratives. An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser was widely read, its moral questions mirroring anxieties beneath the promise of success. Arrowsmith by Sinclair Lewis spoke to a society grappling with progress, science, and idealism, asking whether advancement always meant improvement.

Not all reading in 1926 sought reflection. Adventure and romance were equally welcome companions. Beau Geste by Percival Christopher Wren offered distant landscapes, loyalty, and courage, stories that transported readers far from their daily concerns. Romantic novels such as The Sheik by E.M. Hull still widely read years after publication, provided emotional intensity and imaginative escape, especially for women readers who recognized the power of private reading lives.

Mysteries, too, found their place in 1926. Agatha Christie’s reputation was growing, and novels like The Secret of Chimneys offered readers absorption without heaviness, stories that held attention without demanding too much of a warm afternoon.

Poetry, meanwhile, continued to speak quietly but profoundly. In 1926, The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes appeared, bringing rhythm, music, and lived experience into the literary conversation. Alongside poets such as Edna St. Vincent Millay, it reminded readers that poetry could be both modern and rooted, both intimate and expansive.

What lingers for me, looking back, is not simply what was popular, but why these books mattered. Reading a century ago was not frivolous. It was restorative. People turned to books to make sense of change, to sit with sorrow without being overwhelmed by it, and to find beauty where they could.

If I imagine myself stepping into that year, perhaps settling into a chair as the light shifts across the page, I know I would not have chosen just one kind of book. Poetry in the early hours. A novel in the heat of the day. A mystery as evening gathered. Not to finish them quickly, but to live alongside them for a while.

And I can’t help but wonder what someone, a hundred years from now, will make of our own reading lists. What will still be opened? What will be forgotten? What quiet book, scarcely noticed in its own time, will continue to speak?

Perhaps that, too, is part of the enduring comfort of reading. That is, the sense that when we open a book, we are never entirely alone in time.

Until the next page turns,

Rebecca

Walking Into Spring

Walking Into Spring

March is not a destination. It is a passage. And passages are alive with motion.

Long before our modern calendars, March marked the beginning of the year. Not because everything was finished or secure, but because life was ready to move again. Roads reopened. Fields softened. Work resumed. The world leaned forward. March began the year because momentum had returned. It was named for Mars, not as a god of chaos, but as a guardian of purposeful movement. Mars presided over readiness, over the moment when energy gathered enough strength to step outward again. His role was not to disturb, but to protect what was coming into motion. This is why March feels the way it does.

There is a sense of engagement now. We are no longer conserving energy. We are responding to it. The days stretch. Light stays. The air carries promise. We feel ourselves participating again, not cautiously, but with interest and anticipation. This is not arrival. But it is direction.

In nature, everything is stirring. Buds swell. Birds rehearse their return. The ground hums quietly beneath our feet. Nothing is rushed, yet nothing is static. The crossing is active, alive, and confident in its course. We feel this same vitality in ourselves. We make plans without forcing them. We look ahead with curiosity rather than pressure. We take pleasure in the sense that something is unfolding and that we are part of it. Winter has given us depth. Now movement gives us joy.

March does not ask us to wait. It asks us to walk with what is coming. This in-between space is not a gap or a delay. It is the very moment when becoming feels possible and participation feels natural. We are no longer preparing to begin. We are already underway. The invitation of March is simple and generous. Enjoy the momentum. Let yourself be carried forward by the season’s energy.

March does not rush us toward spring. It walks us there. And in doing so, this month reminds us of something quietly essential. That the crossing is often the most alive place of all.

Rebecca

A Garden Meditation in the Heart of Vancouver

In the midst of a busy city, there are places designed not for speed, but for stillness. One of those places is the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Garden in Vancouver. Tucked quietly within the city, the garden was created according to the principles of classical Chinese landscape design, where architecture, water, stone, and plants come together to create harmony and balance.

These gardens are not meant to be rushed through. They are meant to be experienced slowly. Each curved pathway, each reflection on the surface of the water, and each carefully placed stone invites the visitor to pause and observe. In classical Chinese philosophy, the garden becomes a small world in itself, a place where mountains, rivers, sky, and human imagination exist together in quiet conversation.

A few years ago, I filmed a short meditation in the garden. The intention was simple. That is, to capture a moment of calm and share it with others who might need a few minutes of quiet during their day. There is something remarkable about stepping into such a space. The sounds of the city soften. Attention returns to simple things. The movement of water, the texture of wood and stone, the rhythm of breathing.

As you watch or listen, there is nothing you need to do. Simply allow the garden to set the pace. Let the images and music carry you for a few minutes into a quieter rhythm.

Lao Tzu once wrote: “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”

Rebecca

https://open.spotify.com/episode/4eJHWxtQUCXLYL02ocq32t?si=U9hOilTcTrqHZbfQHLwAfg&t=0&pi=2R3FPzsZRiSHY

https://youtu.be/ReGNv0kw6X8?si=-RSXUdgq0LMRONPt

When Winter Hears Spring’s Call

When Winter Hears Spring’s Call

There comes a moment, usually in March, when we realize we’ve been holding ourselves very still for a long time. Not consciously. Not deliberately. Just carefully.

Winter asks this of us. It invites us inward, and if we listen well, it can be a generous season. We gather ourselves with books and tea, with blankets pulled close, with the comfort of the inside. We read. We rest. We stay warm. We allow the world to shrink to a manageable size. There is nothing wasted in this. Being cocooned is not the same as being stalled. It is how strength is restored. It is how attention deepens. It is how breath becomes quieter and more steady.

But by March, something begins to shift. The cocoon loosens. The stillness that once felt nourishing begins to feel a little tight. We notice it in the body first. A longer exhale. A shoulder dropping without being told. A restlessness that is not anxiety, but readiness.

In the natural world, this release is everywhere. Sap begins to move again. Soil softens enough to receive it. Light lingers, not boldly, but faithfully. Nothing rushes. Nothing announces itself. Life simply resumes its quiet circulation. We do this too.

After months of shelter, we begin to trust movement again. We step outside without quite so much preparation. We leave the blanket folded. We carry what warmed us through winter, but we do not stay wrapped in it. This is when something new can finally emerge. Not because we forced it. But because we allowed winter to do its work. March teaches us that emergence follows care. That movement is not a rejection of rest, but its continuation in another form.

If you feel a small sense of readiness these days, let it be enough. You do not need to rush it or explain it. You only need to respond. And it is already asking us to move.

Rebecca

The Practice of Steadiness

Wind, Rain, Weather, and the Practice of Steadiness

March is a month of wind. Not the dramatic wind of storms that announce themselves, but the persistent kind that unsettles hats, rattles windows, and changes direction without warning. One moment the air is soft. The next, sharp. We step outside prepared for one thing and encounter another. This, too, is part of March’s teaching.

I live in Vancouver, in a temperate rain forest, where March rarely arrives quietly dry. Rain is a steady companion here. It doesn’t rush in and leave. It settles. It lingers. It reshapes the days without asking permission.

After the courage to begin comes the practice of staying steady when conditions refuse to cooperate. March does not reward rigidity. It asks for balance instead. In nature, nothing braces against the weather. Trees bend. Early shoots stay low. Moss thickens patiently. Steadiness is not achieved by resisting movement, but by moving with it. We are learning this again now.

Plans made in January wobble. Expectations set too firmly begin to feel brittle. March reminds us that flexibility is not weakness. It is intelligence. There is a difference between being rooted and being rigid. To be rooted is to know what matters and to stay connected to it, even as circumstances shift. To be rigid is to insist that conditions remain unchanged so we can feel safe. March does not offer that kind of safety. Instead, it offers practice.

Here, the rain teaches it daily. We dress in layers. We carry umbrellas without resentment. We learn that discomfort does not mean danger, and that steadiness does not require dryness. This is steadiness in motion. It is the kind that allows us to remain ourselves even as the world rearranges around us. The kind that trusts we do not need perfect conditions to proceed, only enough awareness to respond.

Perhaps this is what March is asking of us now. Not certainty. Not control. Just presence. A willingness to stand, bend, and continue.

Rebecca

St. Philip Neri and the Courage of Joy

A reflection on humility, humour, and the wisdom that is lived

If the Venerable Bede taught us how to handle truth with care, and Meister Eckhart taught us how to loosen the grip of ego and performance, then St. Philip Neri completes the arc by reminding us of something essential: Wisdom must be carried with joy or it risks becoming a burden rather than a gift.

Philip Neri lived in 16th-century Rome, at a time when religious life had grown formal, hierarchical, and deeply concerned with appearances. He was a priest of great devotion and spiritual depth, yet he resisted solemnity whenever it threatened to eclipse humanity. His response was not rebellion, but joy. Philip became known for his playful acts of humility. On one occasion, he appeared at an important gathering with half his beard shaved off. At other times, he deliberately behaved in ways that disrupted admiration, choosing embarrassment over pride. These were not stunts. They were spiritual discipline.

Philip understood something many forget: ego thrives on seriousness. By laughing at himself, he loosened its grip. Unlike Bede or Eckhart, Philip Neri did not leave behind a major body of writing. What we know of him comes largely through the lives written by those who knew him including The Life of Saint Philip Neri, Apostle of Rome and Founder of the Congregation of the Oratory. These accounts preserve not arguments or doctrines, but gestures, habits, laughter, and daily choices. Philip’s legacy survives because it was lived in full view of others, and because that life made an impression worth remembering. This, too, is a form of authorship.

Philip trusted presence more than proclamation. He gathered people through warmth rather than authority, through friendship rather than fear. He listened, laughed, walked alongside others, and made room for affection in spiritual life. His joy was not exclusionary or performative. It was hospitable. The Roman Catholic Church would later name him the patron saint of humour and joy. It is a title that sounds almost whimsical, until one considers how radical it truly is. Joy, for Philip Neri, was not a distraction from holiness. It was protection against arrogance.

Where Bede insisted on truthfulness, and Eckhart insisted on inner freedom, Philip insisted on lightness of being.

He knew that devotion without joy becomes brittle. That sincerity without humour hardens into performance. That authority without humility forgets the human heart. In our own time, seriousness often masquerades as depth. We perform importance. We curate gravity. We forget that wisdom does not need to scowl in order to be taken seriously. Philip Neri offers a gentle corrective. Joy, he reminds us, is not frivolous. It is evidence that ego has loosened its hold. It is a sign that truth is being carried with care. Taken together, these three figures form a quiet lineage:

Bede teaches us to honour truth and name our sources.
Eckhart teaches us to release the self that seeks recognition.
Philip Neri teaches us to laugh — especially at ourselves.

Truth. Freedom. Joy. Perhaps these are not separate virtues, but companions. And perhaps this is the invitation that remains with us now: To write without false authority. To create without performance. To carry wisdom lightly, so others are not crushed beneath it. If our words are truthful, our intentions free, and our spirit joyful, then what we leave behind may not only endure. It may also invite others to live more fully. Not all wisdom arrives as text. Some of it arrives as presence. And sometimes, the truest teaching is the one that makes room for laughter.

Rebecca

The Courage to Begin Without Certainty

March: The Courage to Begin Without Certainty

March has never been a settled month. It arrives with movement rather than reassurance. One day bright, the next unsettled. The ground softening here, still frozen there. We feel the pull to begin, even as we know conditions are not yet ideal. This is not a flaw of the season. It is its nature.

Long ago, March was the first month of the year. It was named for Mars, not as a god of chaos or destruction, but as a guardian of movement and readiness, a force invoked to secure peace and protect what was beginning to grow. The year did not begin when everything was safe. It began when action became possible.

We still live this instinctively.

By March, something in us wants to move. Not dramatically. Just enough to feel forward motion again. We tidy a corner. Reach out to someone. Take a small risk. We begin before we are fully sure. This can feel uncomfortable. We like clarity. We prefer plans. But March does not wait for certainty. It asks for willingness instead.

Nature shows us this every day now. Buds swell before the air is warm. Birds return without knowing what storms may come. Nothing insists that conditions be perfect. Life moves because remaining still would cost more. There is a quiet courage in this kind of beginning. It is not loud or triumphant. It does not announce itself. It simply says yes to the next step, even when the path is only partly visible.

Perhaps this is what March offers us. Not confidence, but permission. Permission to begin gently. To move without mastery. To trust that readiness often follows action, not the other way around.

We are standing at the beginning. And that is enough for today.

Rebecca

Dear March -Come in by Emily Dickinson

Welcome to Rebecca’s Reading Room. This is a quiet place where poems are read slowly, not for answers, but for companionship. Here, we return to familiar voices not to explain them away, but to listen again, to notice what they say differently as we ourselves change. In this room, poems are not relics or assignments. They are guests. They arrive when they are ready, carrying something meant for us now.

Today, I invite you to sit with a poem by Emily Dickinson, a poem that opens a door rather than making a declaration, and welcomes a season as one might welcome a friend.

Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—

Emily Dickinson opens this poem not with observation, but with welcome. March is not a date on a calendar or a meteorological shift. It is a visitor at the door. Slightly breathless. Hat still on. Carrying news.

“Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—”

Spring, in Dickinson’s hands, does not arrive polished or triumphant. It arrives on foot. This is the season before certainty, before colour fully commits itself, before the world decides what it will become. March is effort, movement, intention, not yet ease. She asks after March as one would ask after a friend returning from a long journey:

“Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—”

There is tenderness here, and curiosity. Even Nature, Dickinson suggests, was not fully prepared.

“The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare—how Red their Faces grew—”

The image is quietly delightful: trees blushing, caught unaware. Colour arrives before announcement. Before readiness.

“There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—”

March has borrowed the colours we expect later. Spring, at this moment, is promise rather than fulfilment. Hints rather than declarations. Then, inevitably, another knock at the door.

“Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—”

How refreshing this refusal feels. April, so often celebrated, must wait. Dickinson is occupied with March, with conversation, with the delicate work of transition. This poem honours the in-between, the threshold season that asks nothing of us except attention. The closing lines deepen the poem’s quiet wisdom:

“That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—”

March brings balance. It strips judgement of its urgency. Once this guest has arrived, trifles fall away. What matters is presence, not verdict.

“Dear March—Come in—” reminds us that some moments should not be rushed or improved upon. Some seasons are meant to be welcomed, sat with, listened to. March is not yet bloom, not yet abundance, but it is essential. Without it, nothing else follows. March has come in. The door is closed to haste. And upstairs, there is still so much to tell.

Until the next page turns,

Rebecca

https://open.spotify.com/episode/445YeZZFMBZb4NDWD6usQO?si=mQUUU1fASku7GmrVG-aIeg&t=0&pi=z3Nn8Xy3SwKR2

https://youtu.be/KUsRgMuXJPk?si=AeVmOg3hv2iQGIrD

Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—

I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare – how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—

Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—

Dear March – Come In by Emily Dickinson – Rebecca's Reading Room

Meister Eckhart and the Freedom to Begin Again

A reflection on ego, creativity, and what it means to be true

After spending time with the Venerable Bede, with his care for sources, his honesty about limits, his refusal to claim authority he did not possess, I found myself drawn further along the same path. Not outward this time, toward memory and preservation, but inward, toward motive and meaning. That path leads naturally to Meister Eckhart.

Meister Eckhart was born around 1260 in what is now Germany and became a Dominican friar, theologian, and preacher at a time when religious thought was closely guarded by institutions and authority. He was highly educated, holding prestigious teaching positions in Paris and serving in senior roles within his order. Yet it was not his credentials that made him memorable. It was his language. Eckhart preached in the vernacular rather than Latin, speaking directly to ordinary people about inner freedom, detachment from ego, and the birth of truth within the soul. His ideas were considered radical for their time, and late in his life some of his teachings were investigated for heresy. What unsettled authorities was not rebellion, but his insistence that true transformation did not depend on external status or performance, but on an inner letting go. This was a freedom that could not be controlled. It is from this tension, between authority and authenticity, that Eckhart’s words still speak.

Much of what we know of Meister Eckhart today comes to us through later scholars who recognized the enduring power of these voices. One such guide is William Ralph Inge, whose collection Light, Life, and Love: Selections from the German Mystics of the Middle Ages brings Eckhart into conversation with other thinkers who shared his concern for inner freedom, humility, and truth beyond performance. Inge did not treat these mystics as relics, but as living companions and voices capable of unsettling complacency and opening space for renewal.

Eckhart lived in a world of sermons, scholarship, and public religious life, yet much of his teaching points in the opposite direction, away from performance, away from self-display, and toward inner freedom. Again and again, he warned against confusing activity with authenticity. “One must not always think so much about what one should do,” he wrote, “but rather what one should be. Our works do not ennoble us; but we must ennoble our works.”

What Eckhart understood and what feels especially relevant now, is that ego often disguises itself as purpose. We speak to be heard. We write to be seen. We create in order to secure our place, our identity, our relevance. Eckhart offers a quieter, braver alternative. In a culture that rewards certainty, Eckhart invites beginner’s mind. “Be willing to be a beginner every single morning,” he urges.

There is great freedom in this. To be a beginner is to release the burden of expertise as identity. It is to allow curiosity to return. To admit we are still learning. To trust that beginnings are not a weakness, but a renewal. “And suddenly you know,” Eckhart writes, “it’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.” Perhaps this is why one of Eckhart’s most beloved lines is also one of his simplest: “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” Gratitude leaves no room for performance. It quiets comparison. It grounds us in presence. It reminds us that creation is not something we manufacture to prove ourselves, but something we participate in with humility and care.

Bede taught us to handle truth responsibly.
Eckhart teaches us to receive it freely.

Together, they form a quiet ethic for our time — one that resists both noise and self-erasure. An ethic that asks not for perfection, but for honesty; not for visibility, but for sincerity. So perhaps the invitation here is simple. What might you begin again, not to be noticed, but to be true? What might you write, read, or remember if you no longer needed it to perform?

Past wisdom does not bind us. When tended with care, it becomes freedom. We don’t need to master this. We don’t need credentials. We don’t even need certainty. Just the willingness to begin.

Rebecca

Spring Begins Gently

Spring Begins Gently

By February, many of us feel the pull of what comes next. We begin to think ahead. To imagine longer days. To make quiet lists, sometimes without realizing we are doing it. There is a longing for movement, for colour, for something new to begin. But spring does not arrive with force. It does not burst through frozen ground by effort or insistence. It comes because conditions have been honoured. Because time has been allowed to do its work. Because what needed rest was given it.

Winter teaches us this, if we pay attention. Before anything appears above ground, there is a long season of preparation we never witness. Seeds soften. Roots loosen the soil. Life gathers itself slowly, patiently, without announcement. So much of our planning forgets this. We rush toward outcomes. We measure readiness by productivity. We tell ourselves that intention must look like action.

But spring begins elsewhere. It begins in curiosity rather than certainty. In noticing what draws our attention without demanding our obedience. In listening for what feels quietly alive beneath the frost of habit and expectation. This is not the season for resolutions. It is the season for attunement.

What are you drawn to lately, not because it is useful, but because it feels warm? What questions keep returning, even when you are not searching for answers? These are often the earliest signs of spring.

The earth does not plan spring. It prepares for it. It does not rush the thaw. It waits until the ground can receive what is ready to grow. Perhaps we are being asked to do the same. To make space without forcing shape. To allow longing without demanding outcome. To trust that when the moment comes, we will recognize it.Spring will arrive. It always does.But it begins gently, long before we see it.

Until next Sunday, may your mornings unfold in wonder and light.

Rebecca

Learning On Our Own Time

“It is not that we learn, and then live. We learn because we live.”

Mary Catherine Bateson

There’s a quiet shift happening all around us.  In living rooms and libraries, in the corners of cafés and the glow of laptop screens, people are finding their own ways to learn . And it is not for degrees or credentials, but for meaning. For connection! For joy!

At Rebecca’s Reading Room, I’ve long believed that reading is more than an escape. It’s a way of thinking, of seeing, of being present in the world. Lately, I’ve been noticing how many of us are building what might be called personal curriculums. Perhaps that phrase feels too formal for what it really is. Which is a return to curiosity, to learning in our own time.  

“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us forward.”

Anaïs Nin

In a world that moves quickly and often demands our attention in a hundred directions, this slower rhythm of learning feels almost radical. It invites us to pause and ask ourselves: what do I want to understand more deeply? What calls to me right now? What might I discover if I simply give myself permission to follow wonder wherever it leads?  

For me, this year isn’t about setting a syllabus or completing a list. It’s about dwelling with books, ideas, and conversations that awaken something within. Sometimes that means returning to a familiar poem or reading a passage aloud just to hear how it feels in the air. Sometimes it means opening a new book without knowing why, only that it found me at the right moment.  

As the Reading Room moves into 2026, I hope it continues to be a gathering place for those who feel that same profound impulse: to learn not to achieve, to grow not to accumulate, and most of all to understand the beauty of learning.

“I am still learning.”

Michelangelo, at age 87

We don’t need permission to learn deeply.  We don’t need a classroom to pursue beauty, truth, or clarity.  All we need is curiosity, presence, and the willingness to begin, again and again.  

Welcome to a new year of learning…

Rebecca

#2026 #Learning #MorningReflection #RebeccaSReadingRoom

At The Yard, Salisbury — A Morning with Penguins

HOW PENGUIN BOOKS GOT ITS NAME — AND STARTED A PUBLISHING REVOLUTION

It was a bright August morning when we wandered into The Yard, a tucked-away coffee shop in Salisbury that felt like a secret shared among friends. The scent of espresso mingled with freshly baked muffins, and the walls featured book covers — rows of orange, blue, and green Penguins, those timeless companions of readers everywhere.

As we sipped our coffee (and yes, the hot chocolate was extraordinary), I remembered a story that began nearly a century ago — one that changed how the world reads.

In 1935, Allen Lane, managing editor at The Bodley Head, stood on a train platform in Exeter after visiting Agatha Christie. Searching for a good-quality paperback for his journey back to London, he found only cheap, flimsy magazines. That moment sparked an idea that would transform publishing: books should be both affordable and beautifully made — quality literature priced like a daily newspaper.

Lane envisioned a series of paperbacks that would bring fine writing to everyone, sold not just in bookshops but in railway stations and corner stores. A young secretary, Joan Coles, suggested the name ‘Penguin,’ friendly and memorable. Lane sent 21-year-old artist Edward Young to the London Zoo to sketch the bird that would become one of the most beloved emblems in publishing history.

What many readers don’t realize is that the earliest Penguins were colour-coded — a design both simple and brilliant. Each colour represented a different genre: orange for fiction, dark blue for biography, red for drama, green for crime, black for serious non-fiction, purple for essays, and grey for world affairs. Together they formed a mosaic of modern reading — bright, confident, and accessible. When we looked at the colourful covers on The Yard’s walls, we were really looking at the visual history of how reading became democratic.

The literary establishment was scandalized. Serious literature, sold beside the morning paper? But readers had the final word. Hemingway, Christie, and Maurois found new homes in satchels and coat pockets across Britain. Within a year, millions of Penguins were in circulation — proof that good books belong to everyone.

As I looked at those covers in The Yard, I realized that the Penguin revolution wasn’t just about paperbacks. It was about trust — the belief that ordinary people deserved access to extraordinary ideas.

In a quiet corner of Salisbury, over coffee and conversation, I was reminded that revolutions don’t always begin with noise. Sometimes, they start with a small bird and a bold idea.

Until the next page,

Rebecca

#books #PenguinBooks #RebeccaSReadingRoom #Salisbury #TheBodleyHead

The Life of a Book — From Launch to Legacy

Every book begins with an idea — a spark born from the knowledge, memory, and imagination of an author. To me, that is a sacred undertaking. Before it becomes a physical object or a digital file, a book is first a gesture of trust: an author setting their private reflections into words, then offering them to strangers.

And then comes the launch.

The publishing world moves with astonishing energy. Months before release, advance copies are sent to reviewers, publicity machines start humming, and interviews are booked. On the day of publication, the book enters a marketplace filled with noise and expectation. Tables in bookstores, bright graphics online, glowing blurbs — all meant to draw the reader’s attention in those critical first weeks. It is a frenzy, one that can feel both exhilarating and overwhelming.

But what happens when the frenzy fades?

Here is where I believe the truest life of a book begins. A book may no longer be “new,” yet its ideas remain. Sometimes it waits on a shelf until the right reader finds it. Sometimes it lingers in memory — not just as words, but as the experience of where we were when we first opened it. A quiet afternoon in a sunlit garden. A long flight. A sleepless night. Books live on not only in their pages, but in the time, place, and circumstance that frame our encounter with them.

The afterlife of a book may take many forms. Rereading — discovering that the same story has changed because we have changed. Conversation — talking about a book with others, bringing its ideas back into circulation. And remembering — not just the story itself, but the personal moment we shared with it.

In Rebecca’s Reading Room, this afterlife is as important as the launch. I follow new trends with curiosity, but I resist being caught in their urgency. The true question is not “What is everyone reading now?” but “What continues to speak, long after the launch is over?”

Every book carries both a birth and an afterlife. And in that afterlife, we often find its deepest meaning.

Wherever words are gathered, there is a chance for sanctuary. This is my hope for Rebecca’s Reading Room — that it may be a place of quiet companionship with books, poetry, and ideas, a place where the afterlife of stories is honoured and their voices continue to be heard. Thank you for stepping inside the Reading Room with me. May we find, together, the joy of words that endure.

Until the next page…

Rebecca

#books #Legacy #MorningReflections #RebeccaSReadingRoom

Toasting the Professor

As in years past, January 3rd is a special evening. Don and I joined other J.R.R. Tolkien fans from around the world in raising a glass to toast the birthday of this much loved author, J.R.R. Tolkien, at precisely 21:00 (9:00pm) local time. I have chosen a special combination of cranberry juice and soda for the occasion.

The toast is simply “The Professor”.

J.R.R. Tolkien, author of the classical mythological world of The Hobbit, The Lord of The Rings, and The Silmarillion, created a collection of legends set in a fictional universe.  He once said that “War deepened and sobered my imagination and stimulated my love of fantasy.”  The months in the trenches of WWI made a lasting impression, which is reflected within his writings.  Even so, J.R.R. Tolkien did not yield to despondency.  His response was to embrace life as a remarkable adventure to be experienced abundantly and completely.

In today’s tumultuous world, Tolkien’s narratives offer an escape to fantastical realms where courage and hope prevail. His stories remind us of the strength found in friendship and the potential for personal growth. His writing reflects deep philosophical and moral questions, encouraging us to contemplate our values, choices, and the nature of power and its consequences.

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.
“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

#Birthdays #books #Fantasy #JRRTolkien #literature #RebeccaSReadingRoom #theHobbit #tolkien

An Unburnable Book

In 1953, a limited run of Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury’s iconic dystopian novel, was produced with an asbestos binding. The idea was to render the books unburnable, which responded to the novel’s central theme of censorship and the destruction of literature in a future where books are outlawed and actively burned.

200 Unburnable Books were published – signed by Ray Bradbury.

The irony of using a material associated with fire resistance to bind a book about the dangers of burning literature is striking and highlights the novel’s critique of society’s anti-intellectualism. (Remember that the dangers of asbestos was unknown in 1953.)

But the irony continues…

According to a July 31, 2018 article in Open Culture, col­lec­tors want these books and will pay upwards of $20,000 to possess an “Unburnable” book.

The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us.

Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

#bookReview #books #Dystopian #Fahrenheit451 #FictionSalon #RayBradbury #Reading #RebeccaSReadingRoom

“Simple Pleasures Haiku from the Place Just Right”

In “Simple Pleasures Haiku from the Place Just Right,” Elizabeth Gauffreau curates a profound collection of 53 haiku, each accompanied by a photograph memory. With a focus on nature and the serene landscapes of Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine, Liz invites us to embark on a sensory journey through her cherished places. The fusion of eloquent poetry and evocative imagery ensures that each haiku is a window into the intense beauty and tranquility of these natural settings. Reading Liz’s poetry is to revel in the pure joy found in the simple pleasures of nature.

“Simple Pleasures” resonated with me. Liz’s evocative words intertwined with my own experiences. She speaks to our longing to find the place “just right.”

https://vimeo.com/1004994076

The Beauty of Nature in Haiku.

‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free
’tis the gift to come down where you ought to be
And when we find ourselves in the place just right
‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

Traditional Shaker Song, Joseph Brackett

https://anchor.fm/s/4e4af350/podcast/rss

https://rebeccasreadingroom.ca/2024/09/02/s4-e12-simple-pleasures-by-elizabeth-gauffreau/

#ElizabethGauffreau #Episode12 #Haiku #Poetry #PoetrySalon #RebeccaSReadingRoom #Season4

Analyzing the Love in Wuthering Heights

When I was in university literature class many years ago, Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë was on the reading list, with instructions for students to write a paper on the complexity of love between Catherine and Heathcliff..

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

My paper did not receive the mark that I thought was appropriate. Why, you may ask? Because I believed that Catherine and Heathcliff’s love could be viewed as a positive force in their lives. I admit it was a compelling and risky angle to explore because I recognized I was challenging traditional interpretations of the characters’ tumultuous relationship. As anticipated, my analysis sparked a thought-provoking debate on alternative interpretations of the novel.

About three years ago, I decided to revisit Wuthering Heights to see if I shared the same thoughts as my younger self. I confess that, over the years, I had forgotten the specifics and nuances of the narrative. And there was the possibility that, when I was in that university literature class, I had been influenced by the 1970 film adaptation of Wuthering Heights, featuring Timothy Dalton as a more sympathetic Heathcliff. If I remember correctly the movie also included interpretations that differed from the original text.

Considering Community and External Forces in Wuthering Heights

Reading Wuthering Heights via my “older self” brought to light the significant impact of external forces and community values on the characters’ lives. It prompted a deeper understanding of how individuals are shaped by the society they inhabit, and how these influences can intersect with personal agency and decisions. Looking back over the years, I recognize that our lives are intricately intertwined with the beliefs and values of the communities to which we belong, inevitably affecting our perceptions and choices.

The novel’s portrayal of the relationship between Catherine and Heathcliff is undeniably influenced by the societal norms and expectations of the time. Their personal struggles and the trajectory of their love story are inextricably linked to the cultural environment in which they exist. Viewing their experiences through the lens of external forces sheds light on the complexities of their relationship and the limitations imposed by societal constructs.

The love between Catherine and Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights is often characterized by its tumultuous nature, marked by passion, conflict, and tragedy. Some readers interpret their love as a force that consumes and ultimately destroys them, while others perceive positive elements within their intense connection. The complexity of their relationship invites varied interpretations, and exploring different perspectives can lead to a deeper understanding of the characters and themes in the novel.

Embracing diverse perspectives enriches literary discourse and fosters a deeper appreciation for classic works such as Wuthering Heights. I believe that it is essential to explore unconventional viewpoints, as they often lead to insightful interpretations of literature.

Engaging with literature in this manner allows for a comprehensive understanding of the text and the characters within it. It encourages readers to consider different angles and invites a broader conversation about the themes and character dynamics present in Wuthering Heights.

Emily Brontë’s Insight into Human Psychology

Emily Brontë’s “Wurthering Heights” reflects a remarkable grasp of human psychology, capturing intricacies of human emotions and motivations with striking depth and sensitivity. Through her characters and narratives, Emily Brontë adeptly explores the complexities of the human experience, delving into themes of passion, resilience, and internal conflict. Her acute understanding of human nature allows readers to engage with her characters on a profound level, fostering empathy and introspection.

Emily Brontë’s profound insight into human psychology continues to engages audiences and solidify her legacy as a masterful storyteller.

“My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Healthcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

https://rebeccasreadingroom.ca/2024/07/16/reading-wuthering-heightsagain/

#Classics #EmilyBrontë #FictionSalon #RebeccaSReadingRoom #WutheringHeights

The Public Domain Review and the Internet Archive are both excellent resources for accessing a wide range of literary and historical works. Their collections provide valuable insights into diverse cultural topics and historical periods. Whether you’re interested in exploring classic literature, historical documents, or visual arts, these virtual reading rooms offer a wealth of material for enthusiasts of all kinds.

In a recent e-mail from The Public Domain Review, I was introduced to “The Language of Flowers: An Alphabet of Floral Emblems” which is a fascinating exploration into the symbolism associated with various flowers. Published in 1857 by T. Nelson and Sons, this timeless work delves into the meanings and messages conveyed through different floral emblems. The book serves as a valuable resource for understanding the cultural significance and symbolism of flowers, presenting an intriguing glimpse into the language of flowers during the Victorian era.

The book contains a dual-language dictionary of flowers and their meanings, listed alphabetically by floral name and the corresponding emotion or message. It also features a selection of poems by lesser-known poets such as C. A. Fillebrown, Miss J. A. Fletcher, and John Kenyon, which enhance the dictionary entries and highlight the intricate depth of floral symbolism.

Catchfly, Red

Youthful Love by Miss J. A. Fletcher

Never forget the holy love
It hath been ours to keep
Undimmed amid all cures and toils—
The true, the pure, the deep.
The trusting love of early youth,
Still fair in its own changeless truth.

Never forget— it hath been joy,
In suffering and in tears,
To know that thou wert still the same
As in our earlier years.
The cup of life were bitterer yet,
Could I but deem thou wouldst forget.

You can access the “The Language of Flowers” on The Public Domain Review and Internet Archive.

Victorians were fascinated with botany and had a keen interest in the “language of flowers”. During an era characterized by the repression of emotions, flowers emerged as a means of conveying sentiments that were otherwise difficult to express. Whether presented individually or as elaborate arrangements, flowers served as a medium for conveying unutterable emotions. This intertwining of botany and the symbolic language of flowers is a testament to the intricate ways in which Victorian society navigated the complexities of human expression and social norms

In today’s world, flowers continue to hold symbolic meanings, much like they did in Victorian times. While the elaborate system of flower symbolism popularized during the Victorian era may not be as widely recognized, the practice of using specific flowers to convey emotions and messages remains prevalent. Occasions such as weddings, funerals, and other significant events often involve the careful selection of flowers to express sentiments and meanings. Certain flowers still carry traditional symbolic associations that are acknowledged and incorporated into modern floral arrangements. While the explicit “language of flowers” may have evolved, the enduring significance of floral symbolism in human culture remains a fascinating aspect of contemporary society.

Roses are often associated with love and romance, with different colours of roses conveying varying emotions such as red for romantic love, pink for admiration, and yellow for friendship. Lilies are commonly linked to purity and virtue, making them a popular choice for funerals and symbolizing the innocence of the soul. Daisies represent innocence and gentleness, often used to convey sentiments of purity and new beginnings. Tulips are known for representing perfect love, with different colour variations symbolizing various emotions, such as red tulips symbolizing true love. Sunflowers symbolize adoration and loyalty and are often associated with feelings of warmth and positivity.

“The earth laughs in flowers.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

https://rebeccasreadingroom.ca/2024/06/15/the-language-of-flowers-an-alphabet-of-floral-emblems/

#Flowers #InternetArchive #RebeccaSReadingRoom #TheLanguageOfFlowersAnAlphabetOfFloralEmblems #ThePublicDomainReview #VictorianSociety

It is said that sometimes the universe works in mysterious ways, guiding us towards the things we need, including books. Whether it’s a recommendation from a friend, a book that seems to jump off the shelf, or a topic that keeps coming up in conversation, these serendipitous moments can lead us to meaningful reads.

Dead of Winter by Teagan Riordain Geneviene was one of those serendipitous moments.

“Dead of Winter” offers an intriguing blend of fantasy and societal conflict, with a compelling protagonist facing challenges due to her unique abilities. Emlyn’s journey alongside the Deae Matres – a society of intelligent women – promised a storyline filled with discovery and resilience. This combination of fantastical elements and societal themes was truly magical.

I read “Dead of Winter” on a winter visit to Ottawa. The timing and location was atmospheric. A huge snowstorm covered the city, matching the deepening winter encountered as the adventure evolved, journey by journey.

Safely ensconced in our hotel room, I revelled in sound of howling wind and relentless snowfall . Without question, the time and location enhanced my reading experience. It’s amazing how the surroundings can intertwine with the narrative of a compelling book.

My Takeaways from “Dead of Winter”

The loyalty of friends shines through as a source of strength for the protagonist, serving as a reminder of the power of genuine connections. Dead of Winter is a testament to the notion that challenges, however formidable, are instrumental in fostering resilience and fortitude. Teagan imparted the valuable message of holding onto hope, steadfastly believing in the arrival of a brighter future, and facing it with unwavering courage. These timeless themes form the bedrock of Emlyn’s journeys, which resonated with my experience and left a lasting impression on my heart and mind.

Embrace the opportunity and see where this adventure takes you!

Dead of Winter Link

https://rebeccasreadingroom.ca/2024/05/24/reading-dead-of-winter-in-the-dead-of-winter/

#DeadOfWinter #RebeccaSReadingRoom #Spring #TeaganRiordainGeneviene #Winter

“Down deep we all hug something. The great forest hugs its silence. The sea and the air hug the spilled cries of sea-birds. The forest hugs only silence; its birds and even its beasts are mute.

 Emily Carr, Klee Wyck

On the Ferry from Vancouver to Victoria, British Columbia

I am travelling via BC Ferries from Vancouver (Tsawwassen) to Victoria (Swartz Bay) on a cool day with overhead clouds and a stiff breeze. Being a passenger on BC Ferries is an adventure! From the moment I step on board, I am embarking on a journey filled with breathtaking views, fresh sea air, and the excitement of exploration. The diverse routes offered by BC Ferries provide travelers with a unique and unforgettable experience, connecting coastal communities and offering a glimpse of the stunning natural landscapes that British Columbia has to offer.

B.C. Ferries offers ferry services that connect the mainland of British Columbia to various coastal destinations, including Vancouver Island, the Gulf Islands, and the Sunshine Coast. Whether it’s a quick trip across the strait or a longer voyage to more remote destinations, each journey with BC Ferries holds the promise of adventure and discovery.

Advocates for the Coastal Environment and Communities

BC Ferries is not just a transportation provider; it is also an advocate for the coastal environment and the communities it serves. With 25 routes throughout the west coast of BC, BC Ferries plays a crucial role in supporting and connecting coastal communities. These routes provide essential transportation links for both passengers and vehicles, contributing to the connectivity and accessibility of the region.

In 1960, operations began with just two ferries servicing a single route. Since then, BC Ferries has expanded significantly, with 37 ferries now transporting over 22 million passengers and 8 million vehicles annually. This growth reflects the increasing demand for reliable marine transportation and the vital role BC Ferries plays in facilitating travel and connectivity along the coastal region.

Exploring Beacon Hill Park: A Tribute to Emily Carr

My visit to Victoria is to connect with the spirit of Emily Carr. Beacon Hill Park is the perfect setting to connect with the natural landscapes that inspired her art,

Beacon Hill Park, with its lush greenery, vibrant flora, and tranquil ponds, serves as a fitting setting to connect with the spirit of Emily Carr. This iconic park not only provides a delightful respite but also echoes the very essence of the natural landscapes that Emily Carr so passionately depicted in her artwork. From majestic totem poles to the captivating presence of local wildlife, Beacon Hill Park offers a glimpse into the essence of British Columbia’s natural wonders.

“I think that one’s art is a growth inside one. I do not think one can explain growth. It is silent and subtle. One does not keep digging up a plant to see how it grows.”

 Emily Carr

https://rebeccasreadingroom.ca/2024/05/01/on-the-ferry-to-victoria-british-columbia-to-meet-emily-carr/

#BCFerry #BeaconHillPark #BritishColumbia #EmilyCarr #GrowingPainsTheAutobiographyOfEmilyCarr #RebeccaSReadingRoom #Victoria

Welcome to my Reading Room!

Thank you for listening in. 

I am your host Rebecca Budd and I look forward to sharing this moment with you.

Dr. Reid hung on to a curl and a button long enough to to splash water on my hair ribbon and tell God I was Emily

Emily Carr, Growing Pains

Emily Carr (1871-1945) Growing Pains: Baptism

Emily was a Canadian artist and writer inspired by the Indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest Coast. Born in 1871, she was one of the first painters in Canada to adopt a Modernist and Post-Impressionist painting style. As a writer, Emily Carr was one of the earliest chroniclers of life in British Columbia. Along with the Group of Seven, she became a leading figure in Canadian modern art in the twentieth century. She spent the greater part of her life living and working in Victoria, where she struggled to receive critical acceptance.

In her biography, “Growing Pains” Emily Carr tells her life story growing up in British Columbia, of attending art schools in London, San Francisco, and Paris, and of her return home to Victoria British Columbia.

This podcast is the second in the series of readings from Growing Pains -The Autobiography of Emily Carr. Today, I will be reading Part One, Baptism.

https://rebeccasreadingroom.ca/2024/04/09/s4-e5-emily-carr-baptism-from-growing-pains/

#BritishColumbia #EmilyCarr #Episode5 #GrowingPainsTheAutobiographyOfEmilyCarr #RebeccaSReadingRoom #Season4 #Victoria

“The Scarlet Pimpernel” is a captivating and thrilling novel, which holds a prominent place in my reading “hall of fame”.

The story of Sir Percy Blakeney’s daring escapades during the Reign of Terror continues to capture the imaginations of readers around the world. The book’s blend of adventure, intrigue, and themes of heroism and sacrifice have made it a beloved classic, thanks to the creative writing of Baroness Emmuska Orczy, a renowned Hungarian novelist.

On this day in 1947, the world bid farewell to a remarkable author whose contributions continue to captivate readers to this day.

Baroness Emmuska Orczy will forever be remembered as the mastermind behind the beloved novel, The Scarlet Pimpernel. This thrilling tale of adventure and intrigue captured the imagination of countless readers and became one of the most successful novels of the 20th century. The story introduced the enigmatic hero, Sir Percy Blakeney, whose daring escapades to rescue French aristocrats during the Reign of Terror enthralled audiences worldwide.

The exact number of books published on “The Scarlet Pimpernel” is difficult to determine, as there have been various editions and adaptations over the years. However, the original novel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy, titled “The Scarlet Pimpernel,” was first published in 1905. It was followed by a series of sequels and spin-offs featuring the character Sir Percy Blakeney. In total, Orczy wrote over a dozen books in the Scarlet Pimpernel series, including novels and short stories. Additionally, there have been numerous adaptations, including plays, films, and television shows, based on the original novel. The enduring popularity of “The Scarlet Pimpernel” has undoubtedly inspired many authors to explore and expand the world of the enigmatic hero.

Beyond her literary achievements, Orczy embodied the essence of perseverance and creativity. Her writing reflected a deep understanding of the human spirit, often exploring themes of heroism, love, and sacrifice. Her characters resonated with readers, inspiring them to contemplate the significance of honour and the fight against injustice.

Baroness Emmuska Orczy

Photography by Alexander Bassano

While her passing marked the end of a remarkable literary career, Baroness Emmuska Orczy’s influence continues to shine brightly in the world of literature. Her works allow us to escape into a world filled with adventure, intrigue, and timeless lessons.

Alexander Bassano

The portrait of Baroness Emmuska Orczy was photographed by Alexander Bassano, a prominent British photographer of Italian descent. He was born in London in 1829 and established himself as a notable portrait photographer during the Victorian era. Bassano was known for his skill in capturing the likenesses of the British royal family, as well as notable figures from various fields such as politics, arts, and sciences.

Alexander Bassano’s photography studio, located in London, became a go-to destination for high society and influential individuals seeking to have their portraits taken. His photographs were characterized by their exquisite lighting, attention to detail, and elegant compositions. Bassano’s expertise in the art of portraiture earned him a reputation as one of the leading photographers of his time.

Throughout his career, Bassano photographed numerous notable personalities, including Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, Charles Dickens, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Florence Nightingale, among others. His photographs not only documented the faces of the era’s famous individuals but also conveyed a sense of their personalities and achievements.

Alexander Bassano passed away in 1913, leaving behind an extensive collection of portraits that continue to be appreciated for their artistic quality and historical significance. His work provides a valuable visual record of the people who shaped the Victorian period and remains a testament to his skill as a photographer.

https://rebeccasreadingroom.ca/2023/11/12/baroness-emmuska-orczy-a-legacy-remembered/

#AlexanderBassano #BaronessEmmuskaOrczy #Milestones #RebeccaSReadingRoom #TheScarletPimpernel

“I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.” Henry David Thoreau

#rebeccasreadingroom #Halloween #Thoreau

I launched the podcast, “Rebecca’s Reading Room” on September 1, 2021. It is a place where I publish short poetry recitations. I have found that when poetic words are given voice, I am energized by the nuances of rhythm, meter, and tone. I become fully immersed in the cadence and flow of the verse.

Oral expression brings words to life – compelling, engaging and memorable. Speaking the words aloud is a form of self-expression and catharsis, encouraging the speaker to connect with the emotions and experiences conveyed by the poet. Reciting poetry is a powerful tool to gain a deeper appreciation of poetry.

You are invited to share a poetic moment on Rebecca’s Reading Room podcast. Together, we can explore the power and depth of words and delight in the magic of poetry.

Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson

With “Autumn Fires,” Robert Louis Stevenson takes his readers on a journey through the changing seasons, utilizing descriptive language and evocative imagery to capture their imagination. The poem’s brevity allows for a focused exploration of the transient nature of life and the beauty found within it.

AUTUMN FIRESby Robert Louis StevensonIn the other gardensAnd all up the vale,From the autumn bonfiresSee the smoke trail!Pleasant summer overAnd all the summer flowers,The red fire blazes,The gray smoke towers.Sing a song of seasons!Something bright in all!Flowers in the summer,Fires in the fall!***“Autumn Fire” appears in Robert Louis Stevenson‘s 1885 collection A Child’s Garden of Verses.

The simplicity of language and syntax found in the short lines of “Autumn Fires” is characteristic of Stevenson’s poetry. This style is commonly seen in his poems, as he often crafted his verses with young audiences in mind. His ability to create concise and captivating poems that hold the reader’s attention is evident in this piece. Through his straightforward yet powerful use of language, he creates a poem that resonates with readers of all ages and reminds us of the importance of appreciating the fleeting beauty of existence.

A Child’s Garden of Verses: Exploring Childhood Through Poetry

My mother, Frances, introduced me to poetry with the poem, “The Swing” by Robert Louis Stevenson, which came from Robert Louis Stevenson’s poetry collection, “A Child’s Garden of Verses, published in 1885. I am honouring the memory of my first encounter with poetry, with a recitation of “Autumn Fires”!

Autumn Fires and The Swing are from “A Child’s Garden of Verses” collection.

A Child’s Garden of Verses includes 64 poems specifically crafted for children. This timeless collection has seen numerous reprints, often accompanied by beautiful illustrations, and is renowned as one of the most influential children’s works of the 19th century. The poems prompt readers to enter the imaginative world of childhood.

Through playful and thoughtful storytelling, Robert Louis Stevenson captures the essence of what it means to be a young and curious individual. He dedicated “A Child’s Garden of Verses” collection to his childhood nurse, Alison Cunningham. Stevenson demonstrates his deep gratitude and appreciation for the nurturing influence she had on his early years. This dedication adds a personal touch to the poems and underscores their emotional resonance.

TO ALISON CUNNINGHAMFROM HER BOYFor the long nights you lay awakeAnd watched for my unworthy sake:For your most comfortable handThat led me through the uneven land:For all the story-books you read:For all the pains you comforted:For all you pitied, all you bore,In sad and happy days of yore:—My second Mother, my first Wife,The angel of my infant life—From the sick child, now well and old,Take, nurse, the little book you hold![Pg viii]And grant it, Heaven, that all who readMay find as dear a nurse at need,And every child who lists my rhyme,In the bright, fireside, nursery clime,May hear it in as kind a voiceAs made my childish days rejoice!

https://ladybudd.com/2023/10/29/autumn-fires-by-robert-louis-stevenson/

#Autumn #AutumnFires #PoetryRecitation #RebeccaSReadingRoom #RobertLouisStevenson #SundayEveningReflection

Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson

With “Autumn Fires,” Robert Louis Stevenson takes his readers on a journey through the changing seasons, utilizing descriptive language and evocative imagery to capture their imagination. The poem’s brevity allows for a focused exploration of the transient nature of life and the beauty found within it.AUTUMN FIRES by Robert Louis Stevenson In the other gardens And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfires See the smoke trail! Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes, The gray smoke towers. Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all! Flowers in the summer, Fires in the fall!

“Autumn Fires” appears in Robert Louis Stevenson‘s 1885 collection A Child’s Garden of Verses.

The simplicity of language and syntax found in the short lines of “Autumn Fires” is characteristic of Stevenson’s poetry. This style is commonly seen in his poems, as he often crafted his verses with young audiences in mind. His ability to create concise and captivating poems that hold the reader’s attention is evident in this piece. Through his straightforward yet powerful use of language, he creates a poem that resonates with readers of all ages and reminds us of the importance of appreciating the fleeting beauty of existence.

A Child’s Garden of Verses: Exploring Childhood Through Poetry

My mother, Frances, introduced me to poetry with the poem, “The Swing” by Robert Louis Stevenson, which came from Robert Louis Stevenson’s poetry collection, “A Child’s Garden of Verses, published in 1885. I am honouring the memory of my first encounter with poetry, with a recitation of “Autumn Fires”!

Autumn Fires and The Swing are from “A Child’s Garden of Verses” collection.

A Child’s Garden of Verses includes 64 poems specifically crafted for children. This timeless collection has seen numerous reprints, often accompanied by beautiful illustrations, and is renowned as one of the most influential children’s works of the 19th century. The poems prompt readers to enter the imaginative world of childhood.

https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/rebeccas-reading-room/episodes/Autumn-Fires-by-Robert-Louis-Stevenson-e2b6mmp

Through playful and thoughtful storytelling, Robert Louis Stevenson captures the essence of what it means to be a young and curious individual. He dedicated “A Child’s Garden of Verses” collection to his childhood nurse, Alison Cunningham. Stevenson demonstrates his deep gratitude and appreciation for the nurturing influence she had on his early years. This dedication adds a personal touch to the poems and underscores their emotional resonance.

TO ALISON CUNNINGHAMFROM HER BOYFor the long nights you lay awakeAnd watched for my unworthy sake:For your most comfortable handThat led me through the uneven land:For all the story-books you read:For all the pains you comforted:For all you pitied, all you bore,In sad and happy days of yore:—My second Mother, my first Wife,The angel of my infant life—From the sick child, now well and old,Take, nurse, the little book you hold![Pg viii]And grant it, Heaven, that all who readMay find as dear a nurse at need,And every child who lists my rhyme,In the bright, fireside, nursery clime,May hear it in as kind a voiceAs made my childish days rejoice!

https://rebeccasreadingroom.ca/2023/10/29/s3-e11-autumn-with-robert-louis-stevenson/

#Autumn #AutumnFires #Episode11 #RebeccaSReadingRoom #RobertLouisStevenson #Season3

Walking along an autumn path, the air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of fallen leaves. The ground was covered in a carpet of yellow foliage, crunching beneath each step. The trees stood tall, their branches adorned with leaves in various stages of autumn’s transition. The sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting a golden glow on the path ahead. The sound of rustling leaves and chirping birds filled the air, creating a serene and peaceful atmosphere.

#sunday
#rebeccasreadingroom

“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.” Helen Keller, The Open Door

#courage #FridayReflection #rebeccasreadingroom

The green, gold and blue of an Autumn afternoon!

“Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.”- Emily Bronte.

#autumn #trees #rebeccasreadingroom

Autumn is a season of transition that invites me to contemplate the cycle of life. The leaves that once adorned the trees now lay scattered on the ground, a reminder of the evanescence of all things.

https://open.substack.com/pub/rebeccabudd/p/in-an-autumn-day?r=24re0d&utm_medium=ios&utm_campaign=post

#rebeccasreadingroom

I love this mural art by Sckaro

https://youtube.com/watch?v=gfumPtB5N-s&si=NJTybpsV4XLFmml4

#rebeccasreadingroom #muralart #SCKARO

"I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees." Henry David Thoreau

Good morning from Vancouver Canada!!

Have a wonderful day filled with joy and laughter.

#rebeccasreadingroom #zenmoment

Whenever I think of autumn poetry, I think of Robert Frost and his words, “We love the things we love for what they are.”

#rebeccasreadingroom

My first post on Mastodon is about Autumn. With its crisp air and vibrant colors, Autumn invites us to embrace the spirit of renewal and embark on new journeys. The leaves paint the world in shades of gold and red and the gentle breeze carries the earthy scent of fallen leaves, filling our senses with an invigorating fragrance. The crunch of leaves beneath our feet provides a soothing melody, creating a harmonious rhythm with each step we take.

#rebeccasreadingroom

https://vimeo.com/874251032

Sea Fever by John Masefield

Story-telling is the signature of humanity. 

And the very best stories of all come from our poets.  

John Edward Masefield was a consummate story-teller.  Born in Ledbury in Herefordshire, England on June 1, 1878, he lost his parents at an early age and endured an unhappy education at the King’s School in Warwick. He escaped to the sea on board the HMS Conway for two reasons, the first one being to train for a life at sea.   

His second reason was more unusual: to break his addiction to reading because his aunt thought it was a wasteful pastime.  Instead of curbing his appetite for reading, the lengthy time at sea gave him the occasion to read and write.  His love of story-telling was cultivated when he listened to shipmates speak of the lore of the sea.

https://youtu.be/f3X1XS0tYnE?si=GghFPXRDwRz1wPz2

John Masefield left the sea to become a writer.  It was not an easy road – he lived as a vagrant and accepted odd jobs, including an assistant to a bar keeper. Through a combination of hard work, dedication to his craft, and a deep connection to his roots, he honed his skills as a poet. His ability to articulate the human experience, coupled with a unique perspective on life, eventually led to his recognition as a poet.

John Masefield became Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1930 until his death in 1967.  He rests in the Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey.

Sea Fever is on my favourite list.  I especially identify with:  “And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover.”  In the end, it is our connections with friends and family that make life extraordinary.

Sea Fever
by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

#art #JohnMasefield #Norfolk #Poetry #PoetryInTheEvening #RebeccaSReadingRoom #SeaFever #UK #WellNextTheSea

https://rebeccasreadingroom.ca/2021/09/01/welcome-to-the-launch-of-my-reading-room/

#PoetryInTheEvening #RebeccaSReadingRoom