Well, it’s a bit warmer and there’s sun, tho’ still cold out there. But green shoots are appearing. At this time of year I don’t want to talk to friends on the west coast, who are submerged in spring already. Sigh.

There’s a big protest on Saturday, No Kings in the States, and in my province, it’s to show our crooked destructive doofus of a premier how much we despise him and his minions. I will make a sign, something like DOUG THE THUG, or DOWN WITH MAGA NORTH or FIRE FORD. Any ideas welcome.

A treat on Saturday last — I went to see What You Won’t Do For Love, the autobiographical show Tara Cullis and David Suzuki wrote and act in with Why Not Theatre. I saw it a few years ago and I’ve seen the film of it, so was not going to go, but Tara said she’d love me to see it again because it had changed, and I was glad I did. First, as soon as I sat down, the young man next to me introduced himself with a big smile, and we didn’t stop talking until the lights went down. He and his boyfriend are both involved in green enterprises, idealistic, so very young. I’m going to have coffee with him next month. The couple are thinking of moving into a communal environment, and when he heard I’d lived communally several different ways, he wanted to hear all about it.

So — ancient Gandalf the wise will expound. “In my day, Grasshopper…”

And then the show — utterly delightful, funnier than before, and also deeply moving. David and Tara speak about their lifelong efforts to remind people our earth needs to be looked after; that without air and water, we die; that endless growth is not sustainable on a finite planet. One thing I appreciate about the show is that it gives credit, at last, to the phenomenal Tara, who has kept the phenomenal David going for decades, not to mention their extraordinary daughters, now their grandchildren too, and the Suzuki Foundation, and her own interests and work. Brava!

And Happy Birthday to vigorous, hale David, who just turned 90.

I finished two books last week, Boundaries: Where you end and I begin, which as someone who came from a family with no boundaries — hello, Mum, tell me again about your sex life with Dad and your lovers! — I needed to learn about. And When You Listen to This Song: on memory, loss, and writing, by Lola Lafon. She’s a French writer who goes to spend a night in the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam, in an attempt to reckon with the young writer’s legacy and with a tragedy in her own past. It’s beautiful, meditative, full of thought and power. I myself am always haunted by Anne Frank, who changed my life when she showed me, at thirteen, the power of writing your life and editing your prose. I honour her in every class I teach.

The book has been called Lafon’s “coming out” as Jewish; before, because of her own family’s Holocaust history, she didn’t want to acknowledge her Jewishness. She has said, “As a writer, when you realize there’s something you don’t talk about, that you don’t have the words for, you write. I believe in writing that costs you something.”

I’ll tack those words above my writing desk.

Now I’m reading The Correspondent, by Virginia Evans, an epistolary novel my friend Judy sent to me because she loved it so much herself. I’m loving it too, as well as the great story of Evans, with SEVEN unsuccessful novels before this one, a NYT bestseller. Well-deserved. Eighth time a winner!

A writer girl can dream.

Another treat, albeit cut short — I went to hear the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir with other choirs sing Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. When all those voices unite, it’s overpowering and glorious, the sound of heaven. But I left at intermission. I know how the story ends, and I just did not want to go through the crucifixion, even with my beloved Johann Sebastian. The first part was enough. I know — shocking. And also, I confess — I like going to events alone, because it’s so uncomplicated — sit where I want, come and go as I want. But I hate intermissions, standing around for twenty minutes or so while people jabber on all sides. So often, I cut out rather than staying. This is one of my many terrible flaws of character.

Today, Sam came over for a quick visit to help me with a few things. We watched Episode 3 of Heated R., the Scott and Kip one, again, fast forwarding through the sex but enjoying SO MUCH the humour, the love, the superb production. Can’t wait to show him 4, 5, and 6. To the cottage!

Tonight, there’s a documentary about Martha Graham and also a special by the talented Julio Torres from El Salvador, whose work is unlike anything else. Life is rich. And you notice, I have not mentioned the unmentionable, what’s going on in the world. Let’s try to forget it for now, okay? Let’s focus on those tiny green shoots bravely pushing through the frozen soil. There’s life. L’Chaim. A toast — to LIFE.

Below — life. Me some time ago in Italy, with wisteria. And an early Matisse. That man has talent. Give him a grant.