cover art: resilience by Lasha Barbosa Artist’s statement for cover artwork by Lasha Barbosa
"Resilience," the featured artwork for NorthWord Magazine's Issue 29, embodies the enduring strength and wisdom of an elderly woman. Crafted with archival ink, the piece narrates her resilience against life's tribulations, symbolized by horsetail weeds emerging from her palm. Amidst the looming darkness, she stands unwavering, accompanied by a furry moth, embodying growth, change, and transformative wisdom.
by Elisabeth Matte
resilience
president
secretary Barbara Madden
members at
Tineesha McKay and Gwendy Harrington
public
e-mail
web
cover Lasha Barbosa
design &
issue
Rachel White-Murray
Tineesha McKay
managing editor Jane Jacques
president emerita Jennifer Hemstock
according to the oxford dictionary, resilience is first defined as “the capacity to withstand or to recover quickly from difficulties.” This formal definition may seem simple and satisfactory, but when I personally think of the word, it’s so much more. My first thoughts draw to significant people and experiences.
In a world that is endlessly bombarded by chaos and challenges, resilience emerges as the beam of light that guides us through the darkest and hardest of times. Choosing resilience as the theme for this issue was rooted in and inspired by my deep appreciation for those who get back up and keep going, despite life’s adversities.
As you will witness in this issue, resilience acts as the relentless and brave spirit within individuals and communities that not only withstands adversity, but transforms it into a catalyst for strength and growth.
When my daughter spent a month in the Stollery Children’s Hospital, this theme was magnified in my own life. While living in fear and unpredictability, as the days wore on—witnessing her inner fighter, knowing she needed my strength (and having a wonderful medical team)—I was motivated to rise up against the fear and focus on gratitude instead.
During this time, I used writing and drawing to cope, which I, hesitantly, later submitted to a couple of publications. To my surprise, fortunately, two were chosen for another issue and contest. Knowing my words and experience resonated with another person brought me comfort and empowerment. Now having read the submissions as the guest editor, I feel those things even more deeply.
I believe the strength and heart of resilience lies in its ability to connect and transform adversity into opportunity: opportunity for better, lasting change. Resilience pushes individuals to think creatively, adapt, and cultivate a mindset that views challenge with courage instead of fear.
As you explore Issue 29, I guarantee you will find a rich tapestry of narratives that will not only entertain but also enlighten and empower your view of resilience. Each piece contributed to a collective narrative of strength, courage, and the remarkable human capacity to rise above setbacks.
A heartfelt thank you goes out to all of the contributors of Issue 29. It was an honor and privilege to be asked to be the guest editor, and to read all the submissions. Although I had to choose a select number, I want it to be known that I cherished each one. Through your creativity and courage, you not only enriched these pages and my appreciation for the theme, but also contributed to a broader conversation about the strength that binds us together as human.
Let this issue be a testament to the strength we find within ourselves and as a collective. May these pieces inspire you to face life’s challenges with renewed vigor and courage to embrace the resilience that resides within us all.
With gratitude and admiration, Tineesha McKay | issue twenty-nine editor
community report
issue 28 launched with well-timed “humour”
Thank you everyone for attending our Issue 28 launch event filled with “Humour,” and celebrating Alberta Culture Days with us. We had another full house on September 24, 2023. Thank you to Natasha Beech of Mini Green Havens for hosting. We love the new downtown venue, which is fast becoming an arts haven.
Our guest editor, Will Collins enjoyed the event, and reflected on the editing process. He was also the one who invited local artist Ron VK to design the unique Betty White cover.
“It was my first experience as a guest editor, and I really had no idea what to expect. I was pleasantly surprised, however, by the number of submissions and the quality of work. I was even more surprised at the launch event at Mini Green Havens, when I finally got to attach names and faces to the submissions. The selection process was tough. It was even tougher selecting which pieces wouldn’t be included in the publication, and getting the right mix of prose, poetry, and visual art.”
Jane Jacques, Managing Editor, Northern Canada Collective Society, shared:
“We were delighted that Natasha Beech agreed to hold the launch of NorthWord Issue 28 at Mini Green Havens, her lovely plant and gift shop in the heart of downtown Fort McMurray. It was inspiring to be surrounded by the beauty of her curated collections. We were also pleased by the turnout of so many contributors and friends of NorthWord. The afternoon was a joy from start to finish: perfect for the theme of ‘Humour,’ since it left us all in the best humour possible.”
Dawn Booth, our President, echoed similar sentiments.
“I extend my heartfelt gratitude to all who attended our launch event. Special thanks to Natasha Beech of Mini Green Havens for her invaluable support, without which this event would not have been possible.
by kiran malik-khan PR Director
In other news, we are pleased to announce NorthWord’s next guest editor for Issue #30 is our very own treasurer of the Northern Canada Collective Society, Sundas Shamshad.
She has chosen “Metamorphosis” as the theme for our milestone issue.
“This theme invites writers to explore the concept of transformation in all its forms, whether it be personal, physical, emotional, or societal. It encourages the exploration of how characters, places, and ideas evolve and adapt, and how these changes can shape and redefine the world around them. Contributors can delve into themes of growth, change, and the profound impact of transformation on individuals and societies,” explains Sundas.
Short stories or excerpts from current projects, fiction, or non-fiction (3000 words maximum), verse of no more than 50 lines, along with anything original and inventive can be submitted to the editors at northword@hushmail.com by midnight April 30, 2024.
Free copies of NorthWord are available at Mitchell’s Café, Keyano College, Prestige Jewellers, Suncor Energy Centre for the Performing Arts at Holy Trinity High School, the Redpoll Centre, Avenue Coffee, and the Fort McMurray International Airport.
For real time updates:
Like us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/NorthWord
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Visit our website: www.northwordmagazine.com
L-R: Dawn Booth, President, Jane Jacques, Managing Editor/emcee and Sundas Shamshad, Treasurer. Will Collins, our guest editor with Ron VK, cover artist
unbroken
cj bowers
In the heart of an ancient forest, there stood a tree, gnarled and weathered by the passage of countless seasons. Its bark bore the scars of storms, and its branches had seen the weight of snow and the caress of gentle breezes.
Through the years, this tree has witnessed the changing world around it. It had seen the rise and fall of civilizations, the ebb and flow of life, and the ever-turning wheel of time. Yet, it remained steadfast, firmly rooted in the earth, a living chronicle of nature's endurance.
During harsh winters, when other trees shed their leaves and bowed beneath the weight of ice and snow, this tree stood tall, its branches gracefully arcing upwards, sheltering the creatures seeking refuge within its boughs. It was a haven for birds, squirrels, and insects, a living sanctuary amidst the icy desolation.
In the scorching heat of summer, it never complained. Its leaves rustled in the hot breeze, casting cooling shadows on the forest floor. It provided respite for travellers and weary animals, its roots delving deep into the earth, unyielding to drought.
And when fierce storms raged through the forest, this tree swayed and danced with the tempest, its branches bending and snapping back into place. It had learned the art of flexibility, knowing that rigidity only led to breakage.
But perhaps its greatest lesson came when the forest faced the wrath of fire. The flames roared through the woods, consuming all in their path, and it seemed that this ancient sentinel would succumb to the inferno. But the tree, with its thick, fire-resistant bark, held firm. It charred and blackened, but it did not yield. When the flames finally passed, it remained standing, a testament to the triumph of life over destruction.
Through all these trials, the tree never lost its resolve. It continued to grow, its roots delving deeper, its branches reaching ever higher. It whispered stories to the wind, tales of perseverance and the unyielding spirit of the natural world.
In the end, the tree stood as a guardian of the forest, a symbol of hope, endurance, and resilience. It was a living reminder that in the face of adversity, one could stand tall, adapt, and weather the storms of life.
There is much we can learn from the simple tree for those brave enough to venture deep into the forest and hear its song.
Listen closely.
loneliness
amanda hall
If I never get a chance to talk about things I'm passionate about I'll explode
If I never get a chance to have a conversation beyond small talk I'll explode
If I'm not able to connect in meaningful ways with other humans I'll explode
If I keep telling her these things and she doesn’t hear me I disappear.
Loneliness is a fire that burns straight into the saddest, most pitiful parts of me.
Why do I need attention? Where does using my voice and energy get me these days?
I'm stuck in some kind of cycle that I can't figure out if it's me or the world that's the problem.
It's probably me.
I'll slowly make myself disappear. I have too many needs, too many passions and not enough people who want to hear them.
I'm fading out of existence.
I'm going to explode.
tested not broken by Barbara Madden
painful rising
janine kruse
Stand up. Be seen
Speak up. Be heard
Brighter
Louder
Dark nights
Quiet days
Filled with invisible battles holding whispered scars
Or many silenced victories celebrated under a galaxy of stars
A proverbial middle finger denouncing a room filled with doubt
Holding your head up high, you’re down but you’re not out
Overcoming and becoming, ripped apart at the seams
Stitched back together just enough to chase someone else’s dreams
Falling down
Getting up
Failing
Succeeding
Tell me, why does it still hurt, even after the wounds have stopped bleeding?
the violin
marty rempel
The violin transcends, soars, reinvents the emotional core, weaving thoughts to music, soothes, heals, a balm that recreates imagination with simple strings and complex motion
girlhood
gwenna cochrane halinda
In six months, I will no longer be a teenage girl
The years most romanticized
Most longed for Most stigmatized
Washed away
I wonder what is left of my girlhood
Unsure of my body because it could never be “perfect” Terrified of being good enough because if I was I’d be a threat Where was the threat?
What invisible hand moved the queen in front of the king
The most powerful figure taking a blow to save a man’s inadequacy
We had a real girlhood
Streets and buses like petting zoos
The male gaze groping our chests, thighs, backside
Shouts, whistles, smirks
When will I be free? she’d ask Hiding behind my leg
My little colt
Girlhood is public property
A blindfold, a gag, a knife
Held by those you thought you could trust
Bruises, both there and untouchable
All in the name of love, belonging
We are a map of scars
Traces where men have stepped
Lines tracing my friends’ bodies
Lines guided by men
The men that say, Stop, if only for me
Everything is for you
My girlhood was never mine
It squished me into the cupboard that was your insecurities, your violent fantasies
I grieve the girlhood that was mine
Butterflies and sticky hands
Lips stained blue from popsicles
Proudly worn skin, undeveloped chest
I grieve what she was made for An unsexualized existence
Not a slur hidden in the rolls of my body
Girlhood is a dungeon painted in gold
Leaving it is becoming
I’d rather be seen as worthless than desirable
Maybe then I could be listened to,
If only by those who understand Extraordinary things grow in the shadows
Our girlhood grieves softly in the darkness
unbroken
jarrid lee
If you ask me what Truth & Reconciliation Day means to me, I’ve got a simple answer for you:
I wouldn’t be here.
Simple as that. If my mom didn’t survive residential school, I wouldn’t be here. So that’s what it means to me.
Imagine going to school. It’s your first day of school, you’re excited. You got your brand new shoes on, new clothes, new threads, new backpack, new shirt. Nice bright orange shirt. And when you get to school, you’re so excited to see your friends. You go say hi to your friends.
But when you get into the doors of the school, you feel this energy shift. You feel this change, this eeriness that sort of comes over you. And they strip you down to your underwear.
They take your nice bright orange shirt. They rip it up, burn it, throw it in the garbage, or discard it. Imagine that happening to a kid.
The last school closed in about 1996. That’s in our lifetime.
My mom was a residential school survivor. Her sisters were. Brothers were. And some of the stories that I’ve heard are, to say the least, atrocious.
There’s so much about what happened that we’re going to hear the stories after the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) gathered all the survivor stories and decided to release them.
You take a group of people and you try to get rid of them. What do you call that? Genocide.
That’s what happened. So on a day like September 30th, what that means to me is that I’m still here. My mom survived. Her brothers and sisters survived. Not only did they survive, but they fought back.
Beginning in the 70’s, my grandparents thought,
“If these priests and our nuns are abusing our children, we need to do something. We need to take some sort of action to take our fate and our children’s fate back into our own hands.”
So they decided to take over the school.
Now, there are two ways you can take something. You can do it with violence or you can sit and do it in peace. My grandparents and the elders from surrounding communities decided to do it in a peaceful way.
So around ‘71, ‘72, they sat in at this residential school and they took it over. And in order for the government to approve that it’s being run by Indigenous
people, they would have to turn it into a high school.
So they did.
They turned it into a high school and they started teaching. There were still priests and nuns lurking around, but at least my people were running it.
Then the government said there were too many high schools in the district. Something about the number of them within a certain radius. They told our community, “You’re going to have to turn it into a college.“
So they did.
They turned it into one of the first native-run schools in all of Canada, Blue Quills First Nation College.
You want to talk about resilience? About having faith and being strong? Let me tell you this story about my mom’s mom, my kôkom! I never knew this story until recently when my aunties and my mom told me. So in order for this college to go forward, my kôkom! had to meet with the prime minister of Canada. In order for her to get to Ottawa, she had to pawn off her wedding ring to afford the plane ticket.
That’s how much she believed in what she was doing. She was willing to give up her own wedding ring, for future generations.
Now we have doctors in our family. We’ve got lawyers. You may know of Dr. Leona Makokis. Dr. Pat Makokis. Janice Makokis. Dr. James Makokis, who won the Amazing Race with his husband, Anthony, a few years ago; he’s my first cousin. So imagine all the great things that came out of that, including me.
That’s where we got our start. That’s why I’m here today. That’s why September 30th means the world to me and the music that I make.
It’s supposed to be for that day. So what doesn’t that day mean to me? It’s almost offensive to me if you don’t acknowledge it or won’t have something to do with it. It’s not meant to make anybody feel bad. It’s supposed to be a learning lesson for people that we can learn from our
mistakes. And Indigenous people, much like the grass you walk on, are very forgiving.
You can walk on us until we’re flat. You can walk on us until there’s nothing left. But we’ll always come back. We’re like the grass that grows. We’re very, very forgiving people. And we just want people to learn to hear our stories. That’s what that day means to me.
I’ve been asked, “You represented our country, and yet our country has never tried to represent you or your people, and yet there you are proud to wear your team’s jersey. How do you do it?”
And here’s my answer: with a grain of salt, my friend. With a grain of salt.
I’ll share one last story. There was this priest that was trying to discourage my grandparents from taking over the school. At the time my grandpa was just a janitor, cleaning toilets, changing light bulbs, fixing the heat, that kind of stuff.
And one of the priests came up to my grandpa and he went, “So you think you Indians are going to take over the school, hey? What’s your highest level of education? What the hell do you know? You’re just a janitor.”
My grandpa smiled, and said, “You may be right. I am just a janitor. I only have a grade two education. I can barely read and I can barely write. But I’ll tell you what. When we take over the school, my kids will be doctors, my kids will be lawyers, their kids will be doctors, their kids will be lawyers. So I may just be a janitor, but that doesn’t mean my kids or grandkids will be.”
To me, it’s the same thing with Canada. We’ve had so many broken promises in the last 150 years. Where do you even begin to reconcile?
That’s not up to us. It’s not always up to the Indigenous people to be steering somebody else’s ship. We see it in economics, we see it in the way the country is being run, we see it with our resources being extracted and not being shared properly.
Imagine this: we had political systems already in place
prior to colonization, prior to our ‘visitors.’ We had free healthcare. We didn’t have a welfare system because we shared everything. There was no homelessness because people didn’t go without it. We learned how to live in harmony with the land, with each other, with other tribes.
There’s misinformation about that statement. It’s like a virus to people, spreading lies and using half truths saying before any settlers got here, we were killing each other off for thousands of years, which is a lie.
Yes, we did have our fights and our disagreements. It was mostly over things like land or hunting, small things we would fight over. But we would never, ever try to get rid of another tribe entirely. That’s inhumane.
There were millions of Indigenous people in North America prior to anybody showing up here. What happened here in North America, in Canada, those are crimes against humanity.
Who’s responsible for that? How do we learn from that?
So when I put on a jersey, if it has a Canadian flag on it, or if I have to represent my country, I think of my grandpas, the codetalkers who used their own language to win the war they fought. That language that won wars, is like me: unbroken.
That’s how I’m able to put on that Canadian jersey: because underneath, I’m still here.
janine kruse
Life may bring you pain but you carry on boldly with love in your wake grit
persevere
scott meller
You can’t You won’t I’m here - surviving I can I will
I’m alive - thriving
one thing i know about healing duplex (after jericho brown)
juleus ghunta
What do we really know about healing? –asks the author of The Cryptic Parables.
Memories are like cryptic parables I told a friend from another country.
Though I escaped to another country my mother still invaded my sleep.
For years my mother invaded my sleep like the beetles in Carter’s Dark Time My Love.
Bedtime was a dark time in my life, season of sorrow, each night a journey.
The climb out of sorrow is a long journey; the body’s a vessel for moments lived through.
Distance may not ease misery lived through is one thing I know about healing.
‘Season of sorrow’ comes from This is the Dark Time My Love by Martin Carter. ‘Moments lived through’ comes from Citizen: An American Lyric by Claudia Rankine.
not all at once
dawn booth
It’s dark.
It’s beautiful.
It’s everything — but not all at once.
It’s snippets of here and there, sometimes everywhere, scattered in pieces; often leaving me as the collector, to gather, put it back together, nice and orderly or not.
It’s pain.
It’s pleasure.
It’s everything — but not all at once.
It’s collateral for my internal bank; a place where lessons are stored to one day be organized accordingly, utilized for strength, if only time gifts me with capacity.
It’s trauma.
It’s healing.
It’s everything — but not all at once.
It’s life.
rowing
marty rempel
What are we really, a sum total of our memories, or our things? Are we mind or are we matter and material possessions? What defines us, or maybe a little of both, a lot of one some of the other? Just trying to figure it out as I sit on my rowing machine, in my garage, looking at some of my stuff which also brings back a whole bunch of memories.
I see a pile of squash racquets, a wonderful sport I played with passion, reaching heights of mediocrity in my play, and one now I can no longer play because my heart and body no longer co-operate with my will.
I look at most sports’ equipment in that same sad and longing way, the skis standing in the corner of the garage with the rusted edges. I put them on last a year ago in Banff as my skills and my knee betrayed me and I realized that was my last day.
My snorkeling equipment from days living in the Bahamas still stored in a bag, I am reluctant to get rid of because I have the lingering vague hope of using them in some far-off post pandemic tropical vacation.
I gaze too at my golf clubs and think of my arthritic wrist, but still hold out hope that playing this game, however poorly, will be my last connection to athletics of any kind other than walking and this rowing machine I now find myself on.
What am I these things or these memories?
The shelves are packed with our camping gear, equipment we did not use this year, but we did last summer and perhaps again in the future. Many memories there, of both making and breaking camp, camp fires and forest and beach walks.
On another shelf a tape recorder/radio I used to record messages to my daughter when she was a child and we lived thousands of miles apart.
The tools and garden equipment remind me of a host of projects that I joked kept me out of trouble and out of the gangs.
I row on surrounded by my stuff and my memories.
the soft goodbye
will collins
We drove there together, But it would be Our last trip. Only Your blanket would come home.
You see, the suffering Had become Too much. It was time For the soft goodbye.
The sky was grey and weeping, As if it knew.
Windshield wipers
Brushed away the tears.
But as we got closer…
The sky opened up.
Tiny clouds specked the horizon
Like dust bunnies
Of your fur
In the corners
And under the bed.
When it was over, I took a deep breath. And went outside to cry.
The sky had become clear and blue
And the sun
Shone warm and bright.
Your cloudy tumbleweeds Had blown away.
Now they lay hidden
At the bottom of my heart.
~ for Darth Molly
a martyr of a different kind zach wood
The pain in my heart was so great
Too much to bear I ran away
On foot with little to name
With friends I went
They found their way
But for me, I could not stay
To their cabin I round my way
Their uncle gave me directions
To find my dad and a connection
Only matches to keep me warm
Follow the tracks as my guide
Hope to make it before the storm
Would anyone care if I died?
Alas, my journey came to an end
On my back staring at the sky
No one near to hear me cry
Nature my bitter friend
His name was Chanie Wenjack
This poem is to give back
To immortalise his life
To remember all his peoples’ strife
A story that could be told tenfold
A story that all should behold
Never forget the struggle
Nor the unwitting sacrifice
Of a boy who walked so brave
Six hundred kilometres
Right into his grave
tiny triumphs
ajay bradley mause
I’ve had a passion to scribble
Since the days when I dribbled
But now I have one of my own
so precious and little
We’ve been through ups and downs
Faces holding many a frown
But not even cancer
Could keep my young soldier down
Only 2 years old when we got the news
Covid can wait we’ve got our own issues
But it’s always what you can’t control
That’ll knock you when you’re feeling 6 feet tall
And through a jungle of problems we crawled
Cancer, Covid, Captivity,
All caught in the fall
But she barely broke a stride
Dried every tear shed from her young eyes
Might not feel it at times but we’re the lucky guys
Because witnessing such strength from something so small
Is enough to think of man flu as not an issue at all
And I cannot wait for the day cancer leaves overall
And me and her can go to the park with a ball
No doctors, nurses or hospital stalls
Just a resilient young child who told cancer it was a miscall
marginalia
Bounce Back or Back Off?
A column by douglas abel
One of the great pleasures of writing this regular column for NorthWord is the opportunity I am given to “play with words.” By that I don’t really mean engaging in “wordplay:” puns, double entendres, figures of speech. I mean singling out a word and taking it out for a romp: running and wrestling with it, teasing out layers of meaning, hidden implications and contradictions. In doing so, I often find that the word I am playing with has teased out hidden assumptions, implications and contradictions in my own thought.
‘Resilience’ is one of these words that seem to expand when played with, and to delight in generating questions. The first question that arose when I sat down to write this article was “Before I sat down to write this article, when was the last time I actually used the word, either speaking it or writing it?” Certainly I have seen the word hundreds if not thousands of times.
An hour before I began writing this piece, I read an article in The Globe and Mail about Gen Z whose lead caption was “Young Canadians are fearful about the future. But underneath their existential angst lies an unexpected resilience” (Sat. Oct. 28, 2023, pp. A12-13). The word then appeared five more times in the article itself.
In the last several years I have also heard the word ‘resilience’ used at least hundreds of times—although not in everyday or personal conversations. Rather, I heard it on the radio or on TV, in newscasts and political commentaries, debates or nature documentaries. In some ways it is a formal or literary word, familiar or, at least easily recognizable, but not an everyday word. There is no real cause to use it, most of the time.
It was when I came to determine when I had last used the word, or used the word at all, that I was surprised and a bit disconcerted. I could not recall a single instance when I had said it or written it. “I must have,” I thought. The word seems to have been everywhere, used in almost every situation in the last five years; it has described individuals (specific survivors of disasters), groups (health care providers, service workers), communities (Lytton, Kelowna), economies, countries, and the natural world, great or small, in their responses to natural disasters and pandemics, mass shootings, terrorism, war, climate change and generally destructive human endeavour. Had I really not been in a situation where resilience was what I wanted to speak of? Or, in that situation, did I use a different word, similar, but less ‘refined’?
In my romping wrestle with resilience, one point to the word!
My linguistic relationship with resilience points out the complexity of the process of language acquisition, growth and retention over time. I know what the word, resilience, means (fairly accurately), I recognize it when I see or hear it, I could use it if I needed to. But it seems that I don’t need to. It
is an item in my passive or, at best, semi-active vocabulary, a set of words that is so much bigger than the set I use actively from day to day. Education and growth may consist of slowly but surely enlarging that active word group, but they consist much more of expanding and retaining the items in the passive group. Much of the time, most of the words in the larger group are simply not necessary for effective, even colorful, everyday communication. And people who use too many words from the larger group to demonstrate their erudition (large group) can come across as ostentatious (large group), or plain phoney (definitely group 1)!
All that having been said, what exactly is this thing called resilience?
Resilience seems to describe both a quality, and the process by which that quality is revealed. And there are two related but slightly distinct meanings, one strictly physical or mechanical, one more ‘human’. Mechanically, resilience can be “the action or an act of rebounding or springing back,” or the act of “recoiling” (OED). An object is resilient if it has the ability “to return to its usual shape after being bent, stretched, or pressed” (Cambridge Dictionary). Interesting that a physical act of resilience can involve either springing back (elasticity), or springing away (recoil)— coming back, or backing off!
The second definition of resilience complicates matters by seeming to add an ethical or moral quality to the process. In the human world, resilience is “the capacity to withstand, to recover quickly from or resist being affected by difficulties, a setback, illness, etc.” (OED). It involves the positive qualities of toughness, courage, hardiness, endurance, adaptability, mental and psychological flexibility. It is the act of refusal to give in, or give up. As such, resilience is almost synonymous with strength of character. It is the noble quality which Tennyson’s Ulysses invokes:
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
But is resilience always ‘a good thing’? Drug-resistant ‘superbugs’ or swiftly adaptive viruses (COVID 19) are, by definition, resilient. So are cockroaches. We don’t consider their ability to recover from our attempts to eradicate them something admirable. Their resilience makes them pests, and threats. Even in the strictly human world, there may be a fine line between virtuous resilience and ignorant stubbornness. Consider the Black Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, who keeps having pieces of himself chopped off by King Arthur, but “bounces back” to demand that Arthur come back and fight. Is the Knight being resilient? Or should he have quit while he was ahead—or before he became one? The same question can be asked of the Lord who builds and rebuilds his castle four times, after it sinks into the swamp, or burns and sinks into the swamp. Is he being virtuous in his determination to build back? Or is this simple pig-headedness? Would not the wise or virtuous choice be to choose another location?
Our very resilience, then, may sometimes be a problem for us rather than a virtue. Resilience is a reactive process, a response to misfortune or disaster. If we rely on it to “get us out of trouble,” we may become short-sighted or lackadaisical. Dependence on our resilience may be a substitute for, or even an impediment to, wisdom, foresight and long-term planning. We “take the hit” when we could have ducked. If we bet that we can “build back better” after we “bounce back” from disaster, we can become complacent. “I will survive” is sometimes a poor substitute for “I can avoid.” Resilience loses its virtue if we have caused, or could have prevented, the disasters we are springing back from.
A final, interesting point that comes from my romp with resilience. Did you know that there is a verb, “to resile?”
contributors
douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, theatre historian and voice and speech teacher. His novel about Christopher Marlowe is progressing. He thinks he may have resiled, once.
As an Ink & Graphite Fine Artist residing in Fort McMurray, AB, Canada, lasha barbosa's journey embodies the unwavering resilience of the human spirit. "From enduring neglect and health struggles at a tender age, I realized early on the intensity of life's challenges. Life, I learned, can be unforgiving - it kicks you when you're down, and just when you summon the strength to stand again, it kicks harder. But I refuse to succumb to defeat. I've been knocked down, kicked, and trampled upon, yet I've always found the courage to rise once more. It's in these moments of adversity that I discovered the true essence of life's intensity and the unwavering willpower it demands. Despite the pain and hardships, I've learned to harness this intensity as motivation to persevere. Marrying young to escape a toxic environment, I defied the odds by pursuing education fervently, earning my GED ahead of schedule and working tirelessly to carve a path towards becoming a lawyer. Even when confronted with the stark reality of a life-threatening illness, I summoned the strength within me to seek treatment beyond borders, rallying my community in Fort McMurray for support. Now, as I navigate the complexities of life post-operation, battling chronic pain and grappling with newfound silence, my spirit remains unbroken. My art serves not only as a reflection of my resilience but also as a conduit of hope and inspiration for others facing their own trials. Through my unique blend of art, American Sign Language (ASL), and accessibility, I strive to transcend barriers and connect deeply with others, showcasing the transformative power of creativity and the indomitable will to never give up. My journey is a testament to the enduring human spirit, a beacon of light amidst life's darkest moments."
With an extensive background in journalism, dawn booth has written various articles and poetry throughout her career, some of which have earned her recognition, including the 2018 Wood Buffalo Excellence
in Arts Awards from Arts Council Wood Buffalo (ACWB). Dawn's expertise extends beyond her own writing, as she has served as a judge for numerous poetry competitions throughout the province of Alberta. Dawn is the President of the Northern Canada Collective Society of Writers and a board member for ACWB. She lives happily in Fort McMurray with her loving husband and three cherished children.
cj bowers is a writer and actor who is proud to have called Fort McMurray home for the last twelve years. His passion for writing is fueled by his experiences living in the north, as well as the landscapes and people that surround him. You can read more of his work on his website, the cjbuzz.com.
will collins has been flourishing as an artist in Fort McMurray since 2006. Originally from “the Big Smoke” in Ontario, Will is a practicing writer and multi-instrumentalist (drums, guitar and vocals). Will is also an advocate for mental health, he’s a lover of animals of all kinds (except spiders), and he likes long walks on the beach… especially in countries that don’t speak English very well.
juleus ghunta is a Jamaican poet, Chevening Scholar and children’s writer. He is pursuing a diploma in social work at Keyano College. His poems have appeared in The Missing Slate, Moko, Wasafiri, Anomaly, Chiron Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and other journals. Ghunta won the Catherine James Poetry Prize in 2017 and was shortlisted for the Wasafiri New Writing Prize in 2022 and the Small Axe Poetry Prize in 2015 and 2016. He is the co-editor of two issues of Interviewing the Caribbean (UWI Press). His picture book Rohan Bullkin and the Shadows was published by CaribbeanReads in 2021.
gwenna cochrane halinda is a student and artist from Fort McMurray. Currently studying at Keyano College, Gwenna hopes to grow as a writer while learning more about queer and feminist advocacy. She hopes to plant roots of accurate and diverse representation in media—and also encourage conversation on creating compassion and understanding in cis-het dominated spaces. Aside from writing, Gwenna enjoys painting, illustration, sewing, photography, baking, and watching ‘Survivor.’
amanda hall is a local artist who usually uses her creative energy to paint her feelings. She has also been known to write a poem or two when needed. Instagram @deepfriedrainbow
janine kruse writes, “I'm grateful to be able to call nistawâyâw, ełídli˛ kué˛, Fort McMurray home for over 15 years now. Since moving here, I've had the honour of working with rural and Indigenous communities throughout the region as a part of my role with the Regional Municipality of Wood Buffalo. In my spare time, I love reading, writing, cheering on the Oilers, and hanging out with my fur-son Jasper (Roo) the Pug.”
Immerse yourself in the soul-stirring world of jarrid lee, a rising country-rock sensation hailed for his unique blend of authentic narratives and compelling melodies. The Plains Cree musician, based in Saskatoon, is a multiple SCMA and SaskMusic nominee, cementing his place as a genuine voice in the country music scene. Jarrid Lee isn't just an artist; he's a cultural ambassador echoing the calls for social change, showcased in his stirring guest blogs and philanthropic efforts. Hit 'Follow' and explore Jarrid Lee's music—a harmonious blend of country-rock that speaks to the soul and ignites the spirit.
barbara madden is on an expedition of sorts, exploring the world through painting, illustration and modest musings. Inspiration is everywhere, usually a little below the surface, each idea an excavation through layers and interconnected tunnels branching out into sparks and wonder.
elisabeth matte writes, “I was born in Ontario, though I have lived in Fort McMurray since 1980. I have a passion for art, having sketched and used water color paints, and at the present time, choose acrylic paints as my medium. I enjoy painting God's creation, and am a member of the Arts Council Wood Buffalo Market Place.”
ajay bradley maune is a 22 year old from Ireland. When life feels like a maze of uncertainty, language and words can provide the much needed light. Forever trying to be a bright spark in a world heading towards darkness.
anastasia meicholas writes, “My exotic color palette and subjects are strongly influenced by my Bahamian heritage where constant sunshine and the bright blue ocean was never far away. Art has always been my outlet to cope with the stress and uncertainties of everyday life and at the same time, I use art to express some of my deepest joys. Art provides me with a safe and comfortable place to express myself and as I am constantly trying to interpret my world, exploring different ways of presenting my observations and interpretations without limiting myself to one medium, one style or a single process, I am constantly evolving. The pieces I create are drawn from inspiration and experiences and lessons learned, sprinkled with influences from the land of my birth an if anyone takes the time to peruse my work and pauses long enough to be stirred in some way, to wonder, to question, to simply feel... then I have succeeded in my work.”
scott meller (he/him) is a father, a multi-disciplinary artist, and Musical Instrument Repair Technician who has called Wood Buffalo home for more than 25 years. When not expanding his knowledge and exploring the world with his family, he is championing the arts and working to keep artists expressing themselves.
marty rempel is a former resident of both Fort McMurray and Fort Chipewyan for a total of 22 years, where he worked as a teacher and raised his family. Today he lives in Waterloo and serves as a principal in Markham, Ontario. He has many wonderful memories of his time spent in Alberta. He enjoys writing as a distraction especially poetry, and essays. He and his wife spend their time gardening and travelling and seeking more story ideas.
zach wood is Ontario born but has lived in Fort McMurray for over a decade. He has been married for 4 and a half years and is the son of Dave Wood.
northern canada
collective society for writers statement of purpose:
To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.
call for submissions NorthWord Volume 5, Issue 6 deadline April 30, 2024 theme Metamorphosis
guest editor Sundas Shamshad
We’re always looking for prose (3000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts from current projects, and visual art.
please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors, northword@hushmail.com for advertising and business inquiries, contact: northwordmagazine@gmail.com
Artist’s statement for Awake by
Anastasia Meicholas
My father was an abusive alcoholic and my mother’s love for him and her Catholic beliefs went hand in hand. Some people looking at this painting might have a word such as ‘evil’ come to mind, or other negative associations and emotions. But this is far from the painting’s story for me. The painting is called “Awake” because it took me having children of my own, years of struggle to finally forgive my father and try to begin to understand that he was only doing what he could to survive. He had his own demons that he was fighting with.
“Awake” is about being a woman and doing what you believe is right. Women give life, hence the tree of life, symbolic of growth, personal development and strength. The fetus is symbolic of new life, growth and love. The fire and skull are used because of their paradoxical meanings. Fire is destructive, representing hell in some religious beliefs, but it also warms, illuminates and is symbolic of rebirth and purification. The skull is symbolic of death but also represents rebirth, transformation and even strength and protection in some cultures.
The skeleton’s hand coming out of the water represents life. Water is associated with birth, fertility, and in Christian beliefs, water symbolizes a purification of the soul and an admission of faith. In essence, for me, “Awake” is about forgiveness, compassion, vulnerability and resilience.
