musings from Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington ... home of The Write Spot

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

being thankful...

Thanksgiving comes early in Canada, celebrated on the second Monday in October. But there can never be too many reminders to be thankful, especially now when good news seems hard to find.

I am thankful for my family, for friends I love and who love me. 

I'm thankful for quiet mornings with my cat, for the sometimes hectic busyness of life, and for the freedom to write and speak what I believe. 

I'm thankful for the struggles of life, past and present. They make me stronger. 

I'm thankful for the chance to understand in some small way the hopes and fears of other people, other cultures, and for those shining moments of connection that sometimes happen. 

I am thankful to have enough; thankful for opportunities to share; and thankful for so much more.

Poet e.e. cummings wrote, "i thank You God for most this amazing day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes"


Last but definitely not least, I am thankful for you. 

No matter when you celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving! Better still... celebrate thanksgiving, no matter when.

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

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Wednesday, November 16, 2016

five sisters, four seasons...

My window overlooks a park and junior school, meaning my quiet writing time is often punctuated by the sounds of children at play or by rowdy summer soccer games. I welcome those noisy moments, reminding me to get up, move around, breathe the fresh air! At quieter times, I often catch myself staring out the window, lost in thoughts about the little grove of trees across the park. Do trees have personalities? I'm sure these do. I've watched them through the changing seasons of more than a decade and have come to think of them as my friends, The Five Sisters.

Surprisingly, this photo is the sisters in springtime. The tips of their branches were swollen and ready to burst with new green life when this April snow shower passed through. To me, they seemed to shiver and huddle a bit closer.

The Five Sisters, April 2016

In summer, the sisters close ranks, holding branch-hands to form a dense green canopy. They seem to welcome visitors, both human and animal, to stop and rest for a while in their shade.

July, 2016

A golden glow surrounds the grove in autumn. This might be my favourite sister-watching time. They seem so joyously alive.

October, 2016

In mid-November, chill winds have blown away the last of the golden leaves. Soon, the sisters will be snug in a blanket of snow, asleep until spring. For now... they wait.

November 16, 2016

stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

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Thursday, November 10, 2016


As always in the lead-up to Remembrance Day, I find myself thinking about my Dad, about the brave and honourable man he was, about the sacrifices he made for Canada, and about the wonderful, loving father he became. I think, too, about my Mom, the separation and uncertainty she endured during the six long years of World War II, and the overwhelming relief and joy she must have felt when her soldier, the love of her life, came marching home.

At the end of 1939, Dad enlisted in the Irish Regiment of Canada. He trained at Camp Borden, north of Toronto, and was based there until his deployment to Europe in 1941. Here's a photo of Mom and Dad, taken on his last leave. Mom found his midnight pass with its poignant and hopeful "keep this for me" note, tucked into her pocket after they'd kissed goodbye.

Dad and The Irish served briefly as the Queen's Guard at Sandringham. Here he is, standing proudly at attention with the Queen and Princesses Elizabeth and Anne. If you follow stillpoint, you'll have seen this image before. It's one of my favourites. This was a proud moment for Dad, a bright spot in the darkness of war.

Dad's platoon was shelled while on a midnight reconnaissance mission in Italy and he was wounded by shrapnel. As a teenager, twenty years later, I began having nightmares about darkness, explosions, and pain. Only then did Dad share the story of that terrifying night. I can't explain it but we both believed I was somehow reliving his experience in that field in Italy. I described things he'd never shared, not even with Mom. After we talked it out, my nightmares stopped. I'd like to believe Dad's did, too. We never spoke of it again.

After a short stay in a field hospital, Dad returned to active duty and served in Italy until the end of the war. It was a snowy, mid-winter day in Toronto when the Irish Regiment came home. This was my grandparents' house on Norway Avenue, all decked out with flags and bunting. (You can't see it in the picture  and no other photo exists  but Dad was sporting a carefully cultivated strawberry blond handlebar mustache. Mom told him it would have to go if he ever wanted another kiss. Dad claims he'd never shaved so fast in his life!) 

Thank you Dad, for all you did and for all you were. And thanks to all the brave men and women who have served and sacrificed for Canada and for peace. 

On November 11th, remember them.

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

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Wednesday, November 02, 2016


I've staked out some writing space at a friend's house this week, a quiet bungalow on a quiet street in a small and mostly quiet town. It's a very different atmosphere from my urban apartment where scarcely an hour passes without the wail of distant (and sometimes not-so-distant) sirens, and where my day is punctuated by the shrieks of kids at play in the schoolyard next door. Here, the only sound is an occasional rumble from the elderly furnace in the basement.

I am alone, relishing the solitude and feasting on the silence. I have a table, a chair, and a cup of hot coffee. My laptop is open and a fresh white page awaits. But I am not writing. I'm gazing out the window, watching a busy squirrel. She stops for a moment as if aware she's being watched. Then, with a twitch of her bushy tail, she's gone.

Brown and yellow leaves spin and tumble through the air, skip across the grass, and settle in drifts on the lawn. 

Across the yard, rainwater drips like tears from the gunwales of a long-abandoned canoe. What adventures does it remember? What rivers it has known? Does it miss the call of loons across some misty northern lake? I wonder...

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington


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