Marion Agnew

I've mentioned UK writer Iain Robinson before ( here, in relation to notebooks ). I subscribe to his Substack, "This Party's Over," where he keeps a country diary far more extensive than the few observations I write in the morning. He's an activist and teacher besides being writing, and his posts are always thought provoking. It's interesting to see differences and similarities in nature-minded people writing nonfiction elsewhere in the world. Recently (meaning the past few months), of course, global relationships among countries are shifting. In his Country Diary #51, he laments being able to create big changes. Instead: “Going out into nature and responding to its truth feels like the only thing I can do in this troubled, broken age.” drifts Below is a version of the comment I left. I read this six weeks after he wrote it, right around the turn of the year, and I still feel this way. Sometimes I have to force myself to the page, but I need to write. It's...

I posted a shorter version of these thoughts on Instagram a couple of weeks ago and meant to post here, too, because I do like notebooks. Like these. New Notebook Season may be  my favourite season of all Well, yes, it feels mildly ridiculous to post about notebooks when—oh, you know—all this is happening everywhere. However, every Sunday evening I read what I wrote the previous week and I’m astounded at what happened—a forgotten horror here, a small (or even large) joy there. These notebooks bring me, joy, however varied their contents. The notebooks are from Paperblanks, ordered through our local bookstore, Entershine Bookshop. The planner is Hemlock & Oak. All Canadian companies. The one on the left, with robins, is a five-year notebook in which I'm recording nature observations. I got the idea to use a five-year journal from a UK writer I follow on Substack, Iain Robinson. I've been writing these observations for years, and I try to notice more than the temperature. The...

It's still 2026. Early February. Just in case anyone else wondered how many years long January was. Yep, it's hanging over the wire I've had occasion to learn a couple of things recently, and I'm sharing them in case they're also new to you. First. In Ontario at this moment in this Premier's administration, your license and health card expire on your birthday--not every year; every five years. Unless you're nearing 80 (this is not my personal learning, but adjacent learning), in which case, go to Service Ontario. Yes! They expire! And yet! You no longer receive mail or email reminders that your identification is expiring. Or at least you didn't in the autumn of 2025, which is when my IDs expired. I learned all this from a friendly (he really was) Ontario Provincial Police constable whose plate-reader told him that the owner of my car, which I was driving safely, (roughly) under the speed limit on snowy roads, was an unlicensed driver.  Anyway, the frien...

Already mid-January. It's been eventful, but not so much of the interesting kind. More of the workaday kind in my life (and horrific in the world), and talking about those types of events isn't especially helpful.  twisty snowy branches But one thing that I've understood in a different way, after experiencing of those events, is the need for a foundation. In a literal sense, like a foundation for your home, and a figurative one, like something you really need to make your life possible (or okay, that lets you live your life with the ease to which you have become accustomed).  Side note: here's a brief invisible-to-you pause while I searched a couple of things and got sidetracked learning about foundation garments. Sometimes it's interesting to be alive long enough to see times changing. (In the global sense, not so much, but we aren't talking about those events.) My point is that in rural northwestern Ontario, we need a car that does well in snow and icy conditi...

For  several months, I've been keeping track of five things  I'd like to remember from that month. Here's what came up in December.   One. Eat the heart of the lettuce first. My wise sister taught me this when she was here this summer. As a person living alone who loves to cook and eat, she often buys produce that has a shorter shelflife than her ability to eat it. So she has learned to take apart the lettuce head and eat the inner leaves, which are her favourites, first. If she ate her way into the centre, the inner leaves might be past their prime and unpleasant--and meanwhile, she’s spent days eating her less-favourite part before getting to the good stuff. It’s taking me time to think about this practice, but it’s fun.  Sometimes changing perspective is as easy as taking a photo from the upstairs window instead of the "usual" one downstairs  Two. Delay gratification. This thought seems the opposite of the previous one. It’s also something our parents insis...

Consilience, a UK literary journal (but also everywhere because it's online), has a tagline: "exploring the spaces where the sciences and the arts meet."   A frozen river winding through a forest?  It publishes art and poetry in themed issues. If you submit a poem to an issue, you also submit a science statement that explains the science behind your submission. The theme for Issue 23 was Tension , and I have a poem in it! That is correct: in spite of my greater comfort with prose, I wrote and submitted a poem, and it was accepted (after revisions).  You can read "Questions of Cohesion" here.  It's about my husband, me, marriage, holding us together, keeping things out.  Future themes include "infinity," "pollution," and "birds."  It's so interesting to see how people make connections to the themes. Scope out some of the previous issues (all free to read) at the website!.

In October I mentioned that sometimes I don’t have answers for some of the things I think about; I only have questions. It’s a failing of mine, especially when I write essays. (Or so I’m told.) I’m supposed to write an answer. But sometimes really all I have are questions. I feel so seen. In the context of writing an essay, I understand what the person means when I receive this feedback. I need to come to rest at some point late in the essay, even if it’s not a full stop or a final destination. It’s at least a pause, a “so far, here’s what I think“ moment. Basically, it’s an answer to the reader’s question, “So what?“ Not a “lesson” for them to learn. Just a breath. A “Thanks for spending time with me! See you later!“ In life (the part that isn’t writing, or perhaps writing for publication), I may always have questions. And I really want to ask (myself) the right questions. Good questions—useful to me, and therefore perhaps to others, though that’s not required. Meanwhile the writing a...