Authors in the Park, Sunday August 24th, 2025

  A writing prompt this week posed the question, "What would you do if you weren't afraid?" This was the encouragement I needed to contact the organizer of next Sunday's event and ask if I could set up a table. And bring my books. "Yes indeed," was Bill King's gracious reply. Hmm, being brave is a good thing.

Let me bring you some...

Today I'm picking flowers, arranging them in a porcelain vase, and shamelessly paraphrasing p. 62 of my book. 

When we moved to this house, Pam noticed a poorly-lit area that was bare, except for a few weeds that had the potential and network of roots to dominate. "Let me bring you some lily of the valley," she offered.

She did, and every spring I remember that kindness. And her.

Adding to the loss playlist

I'm rearranging the sidebars on the blog this morning; moving the loss playlist to a more prominent place to better reflect the mood given the recent passing, yup death, of my editor-encourager Blossom. There's nothing like a dog beside a desk to make sure there are frequent breaks and forest walks; to provide a necessary balance for all that time spent in one's head. With each significant loss in my life (usually people but sometimes pets), a song has arrived; sometimes on the radio while driving, or recommended by a friend, today the next selection for a choir. It's played on repeat and plants itself deep within the loss compartment that holds, well, everything hard. 

If you are a dog person, or are trying to understand the dog people you know, take a look at Dog Days in Mosaic Through East-Facing Glass. The essay entitled Stitching was written after that book was published; get in touch with me if you'd like to read it.

Demolition - Fall 2024

There used to be a church at the corner of Main St. West and Cline Ave. North in Hamilton. Watching it be, well, demolished, prompted a personal essay. A short version was published and is available online; a longer version is available to any who asks...
 

Books and Brews Book Club, 65 Hatt St., Dundas

 

In the Shade is the on the calendar at the Shed! The Dundas branch of the Hamilton Public library is hosting a discussion of my book on Monday October 7th, 1 p.m. - 2 p.m. Click here for more details.

July 21st at King West Books

Back in March 2020, I was scheduled to read from In the Shade at King West Books, Hamilton. Then, you know, lock down. But there's a new opportunity - same venue, same amazing book sellers! I'll be there to talk about Mosaic through East-Facing Glass, my new collection of personal essays. Don't be surprised if we talk about hiking too.

(It was a great afternoon! Check out @kingwestbooks on Instagram and scroll down to July 21...)

Another book, another blog...

 

If you enjoyed the 12 essays in the first book, take a look at the 40 essays in the second book! Published by FriesenPress (click here) and available now at independent bookstores in Dundas, Hamilton, and Burlington. Hop over to mosaicmarg.blogspot.com for regular updates. E-books available now from big tech. Yup, apple, google, and amazon. 

 

The finish line...

Some journeys have well-defined beginning and end points; The Bruce Trail, for example, with its cairn in Queenston and 885 km. later, this northern terminus in Tobermory. Other journeys like, oh let's just say, a global pandemic, do not. On the wire anchored between these extremes lie numerous events, like the impromptu concerts of children and multi-generation zoom calls, where a decision to say “over” is less clear-cut and requires discernment. Consider two television shows. Happy Days  had eleven seasons, including seven excruciating years after the episode in which the antics of The Fonz birthed the idiom “jump the shark." This is the moment when a series becomes increasingly outlandish in its attempt to maintain ratings. Schitt's Creek, in spite of a devoted audience, pulled together the story lines and wrapped up at the end of season 6 with elegance, warmth and clever wit. Our loss.

Blogs, and book promotion too, have a shelf life. In January 2020, when I was planning the book launch, I looked for advice from Friesen Press. Elevator pitches, cold-calling, and author events were new to me, but I was eager to learn, and spent the year helping the book find new readers; readers who, with chapped hands and masked-covered faces, took my book into their hearts and homes. 

And now? It's time. If you are new to the book and the blog, please scroll down to older posts and feel free to contact me at margheid@gmail.com. If you’ve been reading and cheering me on from the start, thank you.

As events and circumstances require it, I will update information in the column on the right.

Keep well. Stay safe.

New Year's Eve

Venn diagrams. I'm a huge fan. As an ESL instructor, I used them to prepare my students for midterm speaking exams. A hot-air popper, kernels, salt, butter and a bowl were unpacked in the classroom. A bag of Smartfood too. We made fresh popcorn before sampling its factory-made counterpart; then, the template with its overlapping circles helped us do a detailed comparison. The students proceeded to abstract, complex topics while I swept white reminders of the lesson off the floor.

In XII – Within, there’s a another one. "Sketch a Venn diagram (of Pam and me) and the mutual attributes would enlarge the overlapping circles until only slim crescents of divergence remained, but that divergence was formidable and impacted the way we walked on the earth before we walked together on the trail. Me? A hand-wringer. Pam? She pulled up her socks.”

Today as we get ready to say good-bye (good riddance, WTF...) to 2020, I’m once again drawn to, well, drawing a Venn diagram. Hand-wringing vs. pulling up socks. 2019 vs 2020. Pfizer vs Moderna. Citizens vs. finance ministers. There are countless options; enough to keep me pondering well into January, possibly beyond.

"Next comes a discussion of books, movies, and eventually podcasts, the contemporary disruption to traditional radio, both of which enamour me." p.8

This week? Radio and a podcast are very welcome as the Hammer enters lockdown grey. Jason Allen (The Environmental Urbanist) and I taped a zoom conversation about In the Shade; you can hear it live on 93.3 CFMU radio, Tuesday, December 22nd at 1 p.m. by clicking here. Or, later this week, click here for a podcast that will be available until the end of February 2021. There's a musical intro before the interview begins.

17 X 17 = 289 syllables, The Haiku Project

The haiku project began 4 months ago when it was lemonade, not hot chocolate, we were sipping. My wrist has healed, there's a vaccine on the horizon AND I've distilled In the Shade into 17 haikus; all cause for celebration. Similar to the excel spreadsheet that organized our zigzag hiking route into a tidy chart that starts at Queenston and ends at Tobermory, this post places the poems in an order consistent with the book. Hmm. I sort of prefer the mishmash. 

If you are new to the blog, or the book, and have time on your hands, click on the link beside each title to get some context. You'll learn a little more about me, and a little more about Friendship, Loss and the Bruce Trail.

Introduction (Aug. 20 post)

spreadsheets, a journal.

reflecting on hikes cleared space

to rest, grieve, and heal 

I - With (Sept. 22 post)

we flipped maps, made plans

as if good health, friendship were

permanent. cheeky 

II - Despite (Aug. 27 post)

inactivity

causes me to wilt. any

trophies? medals? Nope.

III - Along (Oct. 13 post)

me: here's one. then her:

another. pulled through the unknown

as if by magnets

IV - Inside (Nov. 2 post)

lumpy pockets stuffed

with cookies. oats, nuts, chocolate.

our fossil-free fuel

V - Underneath (Sept. 9 post)

frost-covered stone steps,

the obstacle course of grief.

both are treacherous

VI - Amidst (Nov. 26 post)

don't assume life starts

with bliss and ends in chaos.

lean in. they are linked.

VII - Without (Oct. 19 post)

her doctor once placed

ice on a friend's dry tongue too

advice? brace yourself

VIII - Between (Nov. 9 post)

offer those who grieve

uncut pies. stop eyeing the 

crust, the crumbs. listen

IX - Beyond (Oct. 26 post)

the dead persevere,

linger, love after what we

assumed was the end

X - In (the Shade) Nov. 17 post

come, rest in the shade

let ferns, hostas hold despair

‘til light, warmth return

XI - Among (Sept. 3 post)

each bloom, each petal

was distinctive, cherished, then

tenderly released

XII - Within (Sept. 16 post)

this wild ribbon

weaves through outer/inner terrain

upshot? resilience

Afterward: Friendship (Sept. 30 post)

initiate. build

a diverse scaffold

lean on and lift up

Afterward: Loss (Aug. 13 post)

grief shows up as drained,

unfocused, twitchy. did you

expect only sad?

Afterward: The Bruce Trail (Oct. 5 post)

take poles, map, layers

check that boots, like companions

are a proper fit

Acknowledgements (Aug. 6 post)

doubt, deprecation

were gagged, placed in a corner

by those listed here

VI - Amidst - Haiku #17

The infants I swaddled in ch. VI recently turned three. Cousins, not twins, they live blocks from each other and meet regularly for outdoor play. Long before public health endorsed it, my mantra was Take me outside, with No bad weather, just bad clothing coming a close second. Like the proverbial apples, my family shares this mindset, though the grandchildren are more apt to be climbing the tree than contemplating their legacy. Counting the candles for their cakes was a tender reminder that three years have passed since I tiptoed into the bedrooms of the newly born and soon to die. 

It's strange that I now picture Pam outside too. She’s sitting around a campfire with others loved and recently lost as if the requirement for small backyard visits has extended beyond the grave; they gather and comfort each other; nod, whisper, squeeze a shoulder or hand. We thought these connections were reserved for the living. Perhaps, like everything else in 2020, we were wrong.

don't assume life starts

with bliss and ends in chaos.

lean in. they are linked.

X - In (the Shade) - Haiku #16

Editors. I love them. A cut here, a clarification there, and a skilled editor lifts writing to an improved level. The manuscript evaluation from Friesen Press included advice to choose a different title or strengthen the connection between the book’s title and its contents. The concept of shade, while clear in my mind, was not at all evident in my words. Hmm. The result? The addition of chapter X. 

come, rest in the shade

let ferns, hostas hold despair

‘til light, warmth return

VIII - Between - Haiku #15

No, not the 3.14 kind, or the lemon meringue. This chapter considers the conversation pies we produced to divvy up air time  when it was living rooms and not covid testing centres that were crowded. An inclusive, often elusive, exchange of slices and wedges that created an equitable pie. There are exceptions; times, like death, when our narrative of similar loss is disrespectful and distracting. But it's a hard habit to break, and hard to believe that full attention to the grief of another contributes to our own healing. Until it does.

offer those who grieve

uncut pies. stop eyeing the 

crust, the crumbs. listen

IV - Inside - Haiku #14

Like most females born in the 50s, I learned how to bake. In the kitchen of my childhood, I held the electric mixer while my mother added eggs, sugar, flour, baking powder, hot water, salt and vanilla to the yellow stoneware mixing bowl to make Mildred Sauer's sponge cake. The bowl had ample room for doubling the ingredients, but a significant chip on the rim that had to be avoided when pouring the batter into pans. 

I still bake but, on occasion, take short cuts. As a teacher trainer, I built a lesson around Laura Numeroff's  If you give a mouse a cookie for which I baked dozens of cookies: one tube of President's Choice cookie dough, 1/2 package of Quaker dry cookie mix plus whatever sweet bits were hidden away in drawers for I-need-a-little-something days. 

lumpy pockets stuffed

with cookies: oats, nuts, chocolate.

our fossil-free fuel

IX - Beyond - Haiku #13

Like everything else in 2020, Hallowe'en will have a different shape. Treats and single-use decor have been on dollar store shelves for weeks, but no one is sure how they'll be distributed or displayed.  Will kids parade down streets but not knock on doors? Will bowls be placed on curbs rather than in doorways? In spite of much uncertainty, two things will happen on October 31st. First, I will eat all the mini-kitkats in the box. Second, I will remember the departed saints. Not the ones for whom cathedrals are named, but the ordinary saints, especially the most recent. St. Nancy, St. Linda, St. Bob; not yet accustomed to their new surroundings, and we to the staggering loss. Are they, like us, unable to rest; wringing their hands; watching, waiting to see what's next?

the dead persevere,
linger, love after what we
assumed was the end

VII - Without - Haiku #12

There's a hospice under construction across the street. Its name, like mine, includes Margaret. Kind of comforting, kind of creepy. In spite of its significant size, the building will accommodate just ten patients. Curious, and a bit confused, I track down the floor plan; the offices and mechanical rooms hold little interest but, should I ever be counted among the dying who live there, I'd value the chance to send someone to room 4.5 with my recycling. Old habits and all. The children's room is set a wise distance from the quiet area. Had they asked, I'd have placed the bereavement room closer to an exit for the times when it all becomes a bit much; placed grief closer to the stability and solace of the trees and the sky.

her doctor once placed
ice on a friend's dry tongue too.
advice? brace yourself

III - Along - Haiku #11

Turn left. Here. The Bruce Trail, all 885 kms of it, is delineated by blazes. The route itself is not straight, but the method for marking it is straight-forward. Other parts of life? Not so much. Consider the recent messaging about Thanksgiving gatherings which resulted in more confusion than clarity. Like the section in Beamsville where faintly painted shadows of a previous route misled us, last week's news conferences caused me to pause and scratch my head. 

The white rectangular blazes guided us to Tobermory safe and sound. Too bad the rest of life doesn't have similar markers to show the way. 

me: here's one. then her:

got it. pulled through the unkown

as if by magnets

Afterword (Bruce Trail) - Haiku #10

At last, last but not least, last a long time. Sure, those are familiar. But a last for making footwear - who knew? These are my boots, Lowa Renegades, purchased here for the final 100 km. of the trail. The previous pair were from a different store, a different manufacturer and were a major disappointment demonstrated by damp toes despite duct tape repairs. When I slide my feet into these, it's like unlocking the front door after an arduous journey. Home. Could be because they were made using a woman's last which, unlike a man's or generic one, more accurately matches my arch, my heel, and the spread of my toes. Could be because tying the laces, like Pavlov's bell, is a signal that I will soon be outside.

take poles, maps, layers 

check that boots, like companions, 

are a proper fit

Afterword (Friendship) - Haiku # 9

Remember when we could gather? Sit side by side to celebrate and mourn? The folks who cheered me on at this book launch were a mix of childhood pals, fellow dog walkers, teaching colleagues, cycling buddies, and more. Push beyond a BFF. We never know who will rescue us; who we, in return, will rescue. 

initiate. build
a diverse scaffold; friends to
lean on and lift up

I - With - Haiku #8

Instagram has announced a new Fastest Known Time for completing the Bruce Trail. John Pockler shaved four hours off the previous record and completed his end-to-end in 9 days, 17 hours, 2 minutes. Yikes!  But, the trail is gracious, and there are as many ways to approach it as there are places for picnics. Hike with people who share your preference for speed and distance. Pam and I devised a route that some would consider chaotic and prolonged; others, restrictive and grueling. It was, for us, like baby bear's chair, porridge, and bed. Just right.

we flipped maps, made plans
as if good health, friendship were
permanent. cheeky

XII - Within - Haiku #7

 

My desk is old-school with a hinged top, an inkwell and a carved trough to prevent pens from rolling onto the floor. Just like birds, my desk migrates. The route is modest; every spring to the screened-in porch, every fall back to the kitchen. This year I flipped up the lid and noted the dates of migration, as well as the persistence of the pandemic. 

As soon as the trees lay down their leaves and scatter walnuts to the restless squirrels below, I will be able to lean forward, look right, and see the escarpment. This ridge of dolomite, and my hikes along it, have shaped me in ways I'm only beginning to understand.

this wild ribbon weaves

through outer/inner terrain

upshot? resilience

V - Underneath - Haiku #6

Chapter V describes my cheeky assumption that I'd become skilled & adept at handling parts of the trail that others found challenging.  My comeuppance came later on a hike in Wiarton, and returned with a vengance this summer when I fell in my own backyard! 

Stairs. I'm being EXTRA careful right now. Both the cast and splint are gone, but the bones in my wrist are still healing. Mud, moisture, leaves... look out. If we hold onto railings when we walk, perhaps we should hold onto each other when we grieve.

frost-covered stone steps,

the obstacle course of grief.

both are treacherous

XI - Among - Haiku #5

In spite of my artistic daughter-in-law's ability to see beauty in flowers even as they decline, I'm not a fan. I prefer a generous, ample, jam-packed vase for the living. In the two years since the flower project was launched (read about it here), four more stems have been removed from my bouquet of friends: Myrna, Avril, Nancy. And now, Linda.

 

each bloom, each petal

was distinctive, cherished, then

tenderly released