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“That’s How the Light Gets In”

Today I heard Leonard Cohen’s Anthem sung by the Bella Nove choir in Uxbridge, Ontario. Later, I looked up the lyrics so I could read them slowly and thoughtfully, and Google led me to this article in QUARTZ. The quote in the article’s title has been used often and in many circumstances, and I have always liked it. I found the words in the article that follows both interesting and moving, so I share them with you.


“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in: The story of Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem”

by Cassie Werber

Leonard Cohen, the legendary 82-year-old Canadian poet and singer who died yesterday, is well-known for a set of powerful lyrics from his song “Anthem,” off the 1992 album The Future. The message of hope in darkness is particularly striking for many in the wake of the US election:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

Continue reading ““That’s How the Light Gets In””

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Mowing / Mulching / Kindness

It is October 31 in southern Ontario, and I mowed the lawn today. Throughout October and into November, we use the lawn tractor every few days to mulch leaves, trying to stay ahead of the autumn deluge.

Every time I mow, no matter the season,  there is a particular place on the far side of the back lawn that conjures a memory as clear as a photograph. Whenever I make a turn in that spot, away from the woods, looking back toward the driveway, I smell dampness and feel a chill.

* * * * *

It’s early evening in the spring of 1998, and my young husband is one horrible year into a brain tumour journey. Our teenage children are away, and for reasons I no longer recall, I have decided to mow the lawn after supper. The grass is long, but the job could wait another day. Looking back, I suspect I need to be alone, and this is the only way I can do it. The day has been beautiful, but it’s turning chilly, so I take my husband outside in a wheelchair, bundled in a cozy comforter and wearing a winter touque on his head. I’m nearly finished with the hour and a half of mowing — having stopped periodically to check on him and move him close to where I’m working – when I make that turn. I’m freezing cold, and there, across the lawn, I see my tall, once-athletic husband, huddled beneath his blanket. He stares into the deepening dusk, seemingly oblivious, when I wave at him. When I get close, I notice that his teeth are chattering despite the puffy comforter.

That is where the memory ends, and perhaps I have selectively chosen not to recall the work that follows: putting the tractor away, getting him into the house and perhaps into a warm shower, then ready for bed, all while longing for my own steaming shower, and some comfortable PJs.

* * * * *

When I get to the front yard, a happier memory is waiting for me. Continue reading “Mowing / Mulching / Kindness”