Keira McArthur

I’ve just read a paragraph in an alternative american news source I trust, in reference to an incident of ‘personal is political’ in Asheville, North Carolina: The misogynist (woman-hating) viewpoint is currently embodied in this thing we’re all just hearing about for the first time, called Red Pill culture. Simply put, this is a social […]

These days begin in darkness and wet. We live in multiple layers of clothing against the cold damp of constant seeping rain, walk under umbrellas, and peek out from under shelter until some blue sky appears. Then we breathe the blue and the coloured leaves, and roll in the damp ones underfoot.  We go to […]

I’m thinking about water. Water falls – either river or rain – speak a whole spectrum of the Language of Wet, from soft drip & trickle to pounding slam-hard powerful.  I’ve come to believe that all are profoundly healing in the long run – even Tsunami, Hurricane, Cyclone.  Sometimes tragically so, painfully so – but […]

Even the loud old fridge is drowned out by straight-down-rain.  Not sheets and thunder and driving – but a rain that will drench us for days, soaking the soil, swelling the creeks, rising the shoreline of Georgian Bay above the sad sorry rocks that appeared this spring, covering their nakedness once again.  It is 12 […]

The rain on our tin roof keeps me dreaming past the appointed 6 am, then 7am, and even the waking realization of this isn’t jarring.  Now coffee’d and downstairs beside the fire, I gaze out the window where the cat uncurls into a stretch.  It really should be snow, but the effect is the same:  […]

Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring, Sheep May Safely Graze, Air in G, all the Brandenbergs, Arioso – playing these pieces is like eating home-made split-pea soup on the third day of chilly rain, book in hand, and a woodfire toasting your damp toes. Bach is ‘home’ to so many of us – harmonious, reassuring, refined, […]

The cicadas sing their doppler song of midsummer. We are dry as long-dead bones pressed into rock and exposed to a thousand years of sun.  Grass is brown, frogs huddle under leaves in watered gardens to protect their skins from shriveling.  You can hear wood and metal expand in the 10 am heat.  The sky […]

…trees like green walls out every window, on every floor.  This happened suddenly, when the ash leaves opened – about 3 weeks ago.  Now the air tastes still and green and humid-heavy, builds in a dark blustering crash to thundering rain on our metal roof, then abates and burns with full sun again.  Even the […]

I get to plant trees with my parents. I can’t imagine being more content than this. pictures to come.