Calgary Paskapoo Slopes – 1986

Brian Mulroney, Calgary circa 1986 I think, he came to kick off the Calgary '88 Olympics with various federal support announcements and related construction projects, this was a Paskapoo Hill which became called Calgary Olympic Park (COP).

#Calgary #history #YYC #BlastFromThePast

Reading Trask (Penguin Guide to Puctuation) on a flight today, I found myself disagreeing with him. Substantially.

Not because he's careless with it. Quite the opposite. His punctuation is disciplined, systematic, almost instructional. He treats it as a framework through which thought is organised and communicated.

I realised that I approach it differently. For me, punctuation has never felt like a set of rules imposed upon language. It feels more like part of the act of expression itself. A comma is not a traffic sign. A dash is not a regulation. A full stop is not an instruction.

They are closer to the traces left by a thought in motion.

When I write, punctuation feels less like the Highway Code and more like the controls of a motorcycle. Not because it governs the journey, but because it becomes part of the journey. Rider and machine gradually disappear into a single act of movement. The controls cease to be separate things. They become extensions of perception.

The same is true of a painter's brush. The brushstroke is not there to organize the painting. It is evidence of the painting being made. And then, because I have spent so much time recently thinking about my next series of articles on music, it occurred to me that the distinction might be even clearer there.

A score is not music.

A score is an extraordinary achievement. It captures relationships, structures, timings, possibilities. But it does not contain music any more than a map contains a landscape.

Music happens when a performer inhabits those symbols.

Two musicians can play identical notes from the same score and produce entirely different experiences. What changes is not the notation but the performance. Perhaps writing contains a similar tension. Grammar, punctuation, and style guides are forms of notation. They help us record, preserve, and share expression. But they are not the expression itself.

The mistake comes when we confuse one for the other.

The score matters: The performance matters more.

[Trask, I suspect, would disapproved of the colon there, and most defitely of my use of this:– ] (square bracket).

Perhaps that is why I sometimes find myself resisting systems that seek to make writing simpler by turning it into rules. Simplicity can emerge in another way through practice. Not the practise of grammar rules, but the practise of the expression of ones own thought. Not through codification, but through feel.

A motorcyclist does not become graceful by memorising the Highway Code. A musician does not become expressive by memorising notation. A writer does not become eloquent by memorising punctuation rules. Those things matter. But they belong to a different realm.

They are the score: The living thing begins when someone starts to play.

David Marshall Montory

Afterthought: Punctuation, at a minimum, is guidance on cadence.

I stumbled onto a surprisingly good discovery feed called Scour. I’ve been browsing through it and found some genuinely solid blog posts. Just wanted to share.

#BlogDiscovery

At my house, the roads and fields are fringed with bushes of wild raspberries which with their red fruit look like from a fairy tale against the green of the bushes and greenery surrounding them.

I will pick these raspberries and bake a pie.

There are often white larvae inside these berries, maybe one day they will become butterflies, i don’t know.

I will when baking this pie, pretend that no such larvae exist.

Such is the power of imagination.

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.

My old friend,

I'm writing this in the final hours of your time here in Dust Meridian. This letter began a year ago, but time and tide have stood against it's execution. It stands to send tonight, Monday April 7, 2025.

Let me begin by saying how deeply I will miss you both.

Words fall short of capturing your presence in this place—a land not without beauty, but with a dearth of polished gems. You were rare among the common stones—shining not only to me, personally but to us as a couple, and unmistakably, to your fellowship.

I have cherished your clarity of spirit—your candor, creativity, and steady delight in spiritual things. That spark will be missed here in Dust, and far beyond.

I can only speak for myself, but you made me feel worthy in a way few others ever have in my time here. The work has been… costly. I love the people here and the men with whom I serve, but none of them have ever truly understood the weight I carry the way you did. I remember, during a visit last spring, you saw I was unraveling, and you said—

“I want you to know that our visits here are something we very much look forward too. And, you need to understand something— that is because of you. Everyone here is great, and we love them. But, we feel a specialness in you that we very much appreciate. Really... You... thank you.”

Your kindness helped me feel seen and loved in a way few others have since we arrived.

You probably don't recall it, but I will never forget it.

I’ve long counted on the understanding of others—and when that didn’t come, though I believe they were doing their best—I hitched up, said a prayer, and kept moving. But like a mule who only knows forward, even I have a breaking point. And I’ve reached it.

I’m not fine right now, but I will be—in time. Burnout set in last year, and it’s been deep, consuming. When I finally asked for help, what came was so inadequate it bordered on absurd—except it taught me something vital: when a man says he’s at his limit, believe him.

For now, I’m holding on. Just a body, waiting for the Spirit to mend what’s frayed. Trusting patience, His love, and His power to bring me back.

I wish I'd written sooner. Maybe I wouldn't have reached this place. Perhaps it's made darker by the loss of so many dear ones these past few months. The weight of my sister—and of my parents circumstance—certainly hasn't helped. Maybe if I’d taken the time to reflect on your kindness, to write it out, I might have sidestepped the pit of despair.

One thing is certain: your warmth, enthusiasm and patience made an insurmountable situation seem less daunting. Thoughts of the two of you kept me going many times. And, will do so in the future.

You've both had your own losses, challenges and setbacks. Yet you continue to move forward, bearing scars and the weight of it all, but still reflecting the glory of our God. I think that's beautiful.

At the funeral in February, you said something that struck me deeply. You looked at me and said:

“This is hard to bear—probably harder because you worry about her.” You were absolutely right. That was a bullseye.

All the success and privilege I’ve enjoyed—I only ever hoped it helped my partner feel supported and worthy. But I’m learning that no amount of effort or good intention can shield someone from life. No matter how hard I try to be a good husband (and I fall so short), she will still suffer.

That woman lost the only two people she truly trusts in this world. And there is nothing I can do about that.

While most people offered condolences for my loss, you were the only one who seemed to see the real grief I carried: not mine, but hers. You understood that what I truly lost was a part of her peace and happiness.

Husbands are replaceable. Little sisters—and the lifetime of comfort and care they carry with them—are not. We may be one flesh, but those girls were of one mind.

Your words helped me understand why the weight of all this has been so crushing. Thank you.

I’ve become an expired element here. The time to move on passed long ago—I just hadn’t caught up to it. Whatever change I hoped to effect has likely already played out. The needle has barely moved.

There’s an entrenched spirit here—tribalism, perhaps. The kind that circles wagons and draws lines rather than building bridges. The men on our body are not unkind, but they are not close. We are friendly, but not friends. That’s a dynamic I’ve never been able to crack.

Maybe, in time, with tenacity and a new generation trained to close ranks as brothers first and serve as older men second, that will change. I believe it can.

I’ve grown weary of the abundance of words that say little and mean even less—and of personalities content to sit back while others carry the weight of decision-making. They avoid commitment because it might require the sacrifice of their own time. It’s easier to sacrifice someone else’s.

Lately, I’ve come to see just how powerful a loving shepherd can be. I’ve spoken with men in positions of responsibility whose kindness and warmth honestly surprised me. There’s a new effort to train men to care in a way that makes people feel truly seen, valued, and worthwhile—in a world that constantly tells you otherwise.

You, my dear friend, have that same gift. That’s why I say you make me feel seen. And loved.

We are not problems to deal with, but people to be loved.

I will always remember standing on your deck in the rain and drinking icy tequila from that red bottle and I will never forget learning about bees from you. Both are treasured memories for me.

We will miss you. Even though we didn’t see each other often, just knowing you were close by was a comfort and an inspiration. It brought us real joy to know that those around you were benefiting from your care and attention. That’s not something easily replaced.

I wish we could have served together more closely—maybe one day we will. Until then, hold fast to your integrity. Never slow your service to, or love for, the Creator. But always, always make time to keep your foundations strong.

I’m sorry if this feels scattered... sometimes I write like a song, sometimes like a shotgun blast. I hope that two themes come through: Love and understanding.

Whatever comes next, and wherever you both go, know that a part of you stays with us both. We carry our dear ones in our hearts always. Some are stored in quiet corners, but souls like yours live in the lofty places of our love.

With deep respect and gratitude, Your friend.

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#essay #letters #100DaysToOffload #Writing

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2025-04-08 11:52:55