Oops, I've been forgetting to *engage* with the world.

Thoughts from the observation deck.

Photo by Mathias Reding

I have long held to the creed that it is the role of the artist to pay attention. It’s our job to be present to the world, to point to what calls to us, from the moss to the corruption to the beauty. To sit with our melancholy, disappointment, malaise, and find something tender about it. To stay on the lookout for glimpses of what is redeemable about this decaying world. To catch looks across the room, cats in windows, toddlers struggling to open a jar but so insistent to do it themselves, and know that it is good. To make a vocation out of studying the pace and cadence that strangers walk. To witness the in-between, not-much, almost-nothing all around us.

About a month ago, I started an unofficial side project on Instagram called Tell Me Something Good. A weekly-ish video where I share a few tender things around me from the week. I’m keeping a note in my phone entitled GOOD THINGS: a woman peeling an orange while biking home, a sporty couple on a tandem sporty road bike, a stranger helping another stranger change a flat tire at 1am. I’ve overheard cute banter in front of me while in line at the Portuguese bodega, eavesdropped on toddlers asking their adults questions, and of course, all the flowers in bloom in my neighbourhood, rustling skirts on trees, meandering bike trips to the water.

I realized quickly that I’ve mostly been taking note of the other-worlds of people around me rather than the goodness in my world directly. Maybe I come by that honestly: I’m in Full Noticing Mode when walking to and from places on my own, free to observe beyond what’s directly in front of me. I’m also spending more time alone than I think I ever have; working from home full time and no events in the calendar officially until September, I feel like I’m on an island with myself a lot of the time. I adjusted course and made sure to start including notes about kindness from friends (Matt made me dinner, Toussaint sent me a text with a cappuccino from a coffee shop that came with an encouraging note, a long phone call with my mom, a swirling crush floating me off to daydream land should I let myself go there). One might call this a gratitude practice.

I’m pretty dialed in to which houses in my neighbourhood often have cats in the window. Cat trees pushed close so indoor cats can examine the outside world. Some even have intricate shelves suction-cupped to the glass for easy basking. One apartment has a bird house attached to the window, presumably with a transparent wall on the side that faces into the house, which seems almost fun to get to see which little bird friends tuck in there for a little cozy shelter but probably is instigating a traumatic experience for them if the orange tabby that lives there treats it like a personal snack cam, scratching at the window divide like those videos we see of lions at the zoo who go nuts for babies posed safely on the human side of the glass, you know what I mean?

If I get my life together enough to get up for the 7:30am strength class at my gym, my commute coincides with the daily window ritual of the black and white cat in the Tudor brick house on Rusholme Ave (he’s finished his observation time by the next class at 9:15). The cat always looks like he wishes he was smoking a cigarette. Over it, you could surmise. A daily blank stare at the ginormous west-end squirrels and the old white dog whose owner is always yapping on speakerphone while they walk.

Because of the direction I walk, I didn’t notice at first that the owner of the cat’s house (and I suppose the cat’s owner as well) is often sitting on the front porch at the same time. Usually in a short sleeved floral house coat and slippers, I take note of her crinkled face and the serene smile, chin pointed up towards the morning breeze.

Last week, I passed her on my way home and smiled, and her face lit up into the warmest sun beam. She waved sweetly, and I waved back. I mentally added it to my GOOD THINGS list, a little too proud of this the-least-I-could-do gesture of human interaction. ‘I’ve started smiling and waving at my neighbour who owns the disgruntled black and white cat I love in my neighbourhood’ is a good start, but why wouldn’t I just say hi to this woman? Maybe even learn her name?

If I am going to report on goodness, softness, and redeemable moments around me, it might not be enough to simply be on the lookout. In what ways am I making sure to be the catalyst for good things? What would happen if I engage in the world around me? What would happen if I reach across the fake/invisible social barrier and make contact?

I’ve made it my work, literally, to talk to strangers all the time at events I run, but in my day to day life, I can be a bit of a hermit. The bubble of my internal world is cozy and full—so much rattling around at any given moment, half-written sentences and achy thoughts and pretend conversations I’d have if I were more brave.

My cousin Charlie was in Toronto this week with his sweet family, and we spent the day playing tourist, walking all over downtown and venturing up the CN Tower. It was a delight and a marvel to witness my charismatic cousin interact with—anyone. Everyone. There was Dee, who greeted us on the upper level and chatted with him about her retirement plan (and very cool socks). And Aliyah who oversaw the observation deck and had a personal hand-held fan (Charlie’s opening line: “So how long does that thing last?” Aliyah: “God willing, I can get three hours out of it!”).

We watched the swaths of tourists pass us, and I said, “This is the melting pot of everybody! Who are these people?! Who are we?! Look at us all convening here!” Charlie said, “Don’t you just want to know about everybody?” and I thought for a second before saying, “Maybe I forget that I can actually find out about everybody so I just spend my whole life wondering about everybody instead.”

I do want to know. And I’m committing to reaching for the people around me. Hi, this is me seeing you. This is me noticing your sweater. This is me inviting you to share a little moment while we’re both here. This is me wanting to hear more about your colourful hat.

I told myself that I’d strike up a conversation with the disgruntled cat’s owner the next time she was sitting on her porch, and wouldn’t you know it, the very next morning, there she was, swinging her leg softly, elbows propped on the arms of her plastic green deck chair. ‘How are you?!’ I said nervously and loudly (why so nervous?!), and she beamed back as she said, ‘Isn’t it nice to be summertime?!’ We talked about the humidity, the unrelenting sunshine, the brief season of hot frenzy that descends upon the city. I told her that I always look for her cat in the morning (‘He is very grumpy!’). She told me about her daughter’s husky. She had me move an impossibly heavy plastic suitcase to the curb for her (wouldn’t answer what was in it… that’s a mysterious plot point for a different short story).

Her name is Tina. She loves roses more than any flower.

---

Substack Live: In Conversation With Toussaint Morrison

Sunday, July 20th at 11am EST - 12pm EST

Join performer, musician, artist, activist, and all-around-good-guy Toussaint Morrison and I for an internet hang. We’ll talk about mobilizing in times of turmoil, creating out of chaos, and riff on whose accent is more fun: Minnesotan or Canadian? (Please weigh in).

Support Candace Kronen’s Anthology

We love art that makes a difference! Candace Kronen is a regular in the Gentle Company community, a brilliant writer, and a passionate advocate for women’s rights.

Together with editors Iva Markicevic Daley and Kristina Percy, If You Ever: Poems Inspired by Kim Addonizio is a collection of poems dedicated to the power of community. Each piece is a response to Kim Addonizio's original poem "To the Woman Crying Uncontrollably in the Next Stall" (which can be read in full here.)

All proceeds from this anthology and related merchandise will be donated to Keep Our Clinics, a campaign to support access to abortion care. The Keep Our Clinics campaign provides funding to independent reproductive health clinics to cover tangible expenses like increased security, building repairs, legal fees, and community education and advocacy.

You can pre-order If You Ever here.

David Gate’s book, A Rebellion Of Care, is out in the world!

My sweet friend David Gate is a brilliant poet, philosopher, and tender heart. His brilliant book, A Rebellion Of Care, was published this week! Go find it wherever books are sold (preferably your neighbourhood independent bookstore).

Save the date for August’s Poetry Club

Monday, August 11th - 7pm EST - 8:30pm EST on Zoom

Next month’s Poetry Club will be on August 11th! I’m working on my administrative skills and giving a bit more notice for dates of things in this Internet land.

Poetry Club is included in a monthly Substack Membership here ($5/month!) or you can purchase a drop-in ticket here.