Today, I’m sitting down with Marc Typo, the writer behind the incredibly sincere publication Raising Myles. Marc writes weekly letters to his young son, and we readers are lucky observers playing a small part in the magic of that intimacy. It’s brave work, or what Marc calls heart work, because he opens himself up in a way that’s a model for fathers around the world.

So it goes without saying that our talk covers a lot of ground, but at the centre of this episode is Marc’s piece Barbers, Hairlines, and Balding.

I first encountered this letter last year, and it’s the perfect example of what makes Marc’s writing so special. So please read the letter and make sure to tune into the episode.

In our conversation, we also talk about another of Marc’s pieces, Just In Case God Pulls the Plug and Presses the Stop Button, so make sure to check that one out, too.

On a personal note, I came away from this conversation with a fresh perspective — especially with where I’m taking Season 2 of One Word. And I just wanted to thank Marc again for sitting down with me on Works.

- T

Barbers, Hairlines, and Balding

My Journey of Letting the Hair I Never Really Had Go

13 Weeks Old

Dear Myles,

I started balding years ago. Coupled with a receding hairline, that could have made me and Vegeta distant cousins – I should have let it all go way before I did, but my barbers and I held on for as long as we could.

I have had the same barber since middle school. When I went away to college, I had no choice but to let a friend cut my hair - he wasn't a barber, but I trusted him. When he was done, there was an instant pang of regret, and it only got worse from there. But finding a barber during my undergrad years in Buffalo, NY was tough. When I finally found someone who was great, he was unreliable - probably trying to juggle his coursework and this side hustle himself. I'd walk into the barbershop fully expecting him, only to see his chair empty. After a few of these disappointments, I settled for his colleague.

My first and last time at this particular barbershop was the day I settled for his colleague. He talked between every follicle of hair he cut, held a slice of pizza in one hand, and watched a football game all at the same time. I couldn't say anything to him – he was huge and held a razor under my jawline to shape me up. I just took it all on the chin, not the razor, though, just the experience. By the time I left him, you could probably draw the McDonald's logo along my hairline.

When I graduated college and moved to New Jersey, my barber and I reunited. Even though he was in Brooklyn, I took two buses and two trains to see him. He was cutting in his basement now. When he first saw me, he gave me that same look when someone finds out they've been cheated on. He laughed, asked what happened, and because this was business, he still continued to cut me, and did the best he could with the hairline I walked in with. That man was a magician. He masterfully blended my hair where my hairline used to be and left me feeling redeemed.

There's a feeling when a Black man gets his haircut; he grows two inches, his muscles fill with water like he just downed some creatine, and his walk makes Jesus walking on water look laughable. After he leaves his barber's chair, he is the most confident man on the planet. Take it from your father, who never even really had the genetics for a decent hairline - even I felt like Steve Urkel, but I came out feeling like Stephan when the barber showed me the mirror.

But two buses and two trains, and paying twenty-something dollars every two weeks got too damn hard, it was time to face the facts – it was time to let what was left of it all go. I went to my cousin's, who's an excellent barber in Jersey and ironically bald himself too. "I'm ready," I told him. He gave me that look that said, "Say no more." He cut everything off. Before I got a chance to look in the mirror, I ran my hand against my scalp. The barrier between the skin and my head was gone. I could never lie after that day, in fear I was so bald even my thoughts would be visible. 

I got home that day, two inches taller, muscles filled with water, freshly gliding like Jesus on water, but on concrete, excited to show Mommy what I'd done. When she first saw me, she looked at me just like the way a person reacts when they find out you cheated on them again - her jaw dropped, she put her hands on her chin, and turned her face. She couldn't believe it. She ran her hand across my scalp with such tenderness and mouthed some words like she was praying. I had to remind her that I didn't just go through a round of chemotherapy; I just cut all my hair off. Eventually, she got used to it; she had no choice. There was no going back.

It made no sense to keep going to a barber now. Taking too many modes of transportation and paying too many twenty-something dollars for someone to joyride with clippers around my scalp every week - I broke up with all my barbers. I invested in an Andis Trimmer T Liner because razors left the back of my neck looking like Martin Lawrence after he fought Tommy Hearns. I attempted to cut my hair using the T Liner myself, but my lack of hand coordination and the mirror reversal made it seem like I was giving Kanye West some competition - that's when Mommy took over.

You're never supposed to look your barber in the eyes while they are cutting your hair – it's a well-known taboo, something you just don't do. Such an action could have unspeakable consequences. I never dared to look my barber in the eyes until now.

I love it when Mommy is lining me up, and our eyes lock – an experience most men will never have. She's gentle and precise, leaving me feeling like the most confident man in the world – two inches taller, my muscles filled with water like I just downed some creatine, and a walk across our hardwood floors that makes Jesus walking on water look laughable.

Myles, don't worry. I won't repeat the same mistakes your grandparents made. I'll never prioritize our mortgage over your haircut or let a man with the last name Jean-Baptiste cut your hair. I pray that the genetics responsible for your hair growth come from your mother and not from me – let's just say, I'm still praying.

Love,

Papa

Thanks for listening to WORKS. Here are some of my other recent posts:

MOVING — I just completed a three-part One Word film on the concept of “moving.” Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

I started a VLOG — I’ve been having a lot of fun creating talking head-style videos for my paid members. This is a much smaller group, many of them artists themselves, and I talk about whatever interests us.

My latest episode, for example, was an introduction to Carl Jung. And on the August VLOG, I’ll rundown what video and audio equipment I use… and some stuff you should avoid.

I’m very excited to share the third and final instalment of my latest One Word, MOVING.

This film was a journey. It took roughly five months to make, and way back in March when the idea first percolated in my mind, I never imagined I’d have a 3-part, 48-minute film at the end of the road.

But “moving” as a concept grew and grew, until it became a promise to myself: I wanted, more than anything, to explore new ways of telling One Word stories.

Part 3 is dedicated to my daughter. Our baby is due next week, and I wanted to capture our lives together before all that change and blessing arrives at her doorstep.

Also, a quick note: I created each part as both a single story and a standalone experience, but if you’ve missed the previous chapters and want to get caught up, here they are:

All the music in MOVING is by Toronto-based ambient artist Daniel Field and his Kilometre Club project. You can find him on Spotify, Bandcamp, and Apple Music. I also made a playlist on Apple Music of all the songs featured in the film. Listen to it here.

As always, you can read the written version below, but I highly recommend you watch MOVING: Part III.

- T

P.S. Scroll to the bottom to find out what else you missed on One Word this month.

Part III | Moving Pictures

Time moves one second per second. Every moment of every day: one second per second. The weight of all these seconds has started to catch up with me.

It’s as if, for the first time, I looked out the window of a moving train and noticed the light and noise streaming by.

Out of fear and wonder both, I take out my camera and capture some of that light, like dipping a ladle into a moving river. The action doesn’t stop time. But it gives me something to hold onto. It gives me a way to assemble the moments, not unlike a puzzle, and find the meaning hidden in their passing.

Atlas, my first born. Cutsie, shmegie, my golden girl. This last part is for you.

I’m making this film in the final hours before your little sister’s birth, sitting in my office when I should be spending time with your mother. But she’s given me this time because she knows it’s important, too.

As I started assembling this video, I looked at all the images I’ve collected over the years, and it shocked me how much life before you felt so… empty.

I have hundreds of pictures from my previous life working in construction, before I quit and your mom took over the bills and let me stay home and take up writing.

In that old life, I drifted across a barren concrete landscape. I was lost and half-made among other half-made things. I had dreams then of buildings with exposed insides flashing like the teeth of some knowing Goliath — giant structures in the basin of the earth, and I was held in its bosom, waiting for the crews to lay the rebar and raise me towards the sky.

But when I collect the seconds now and assemble the pictures, I realize I was at the foundation of our family’s life, on my knees, among the holes in the raw concrete floors. Despite what I thought back then, my time wasn’t wasted.

Piece by piece, our family grew upward. We left the city and bought a house north of Toronto, in Caledon. During the pandemic, I found a job as a copywriter. Imagine that — your dad the construction worker now a copywriter.

I became obsessed with words. Every day, I learned one new word as if they were steps that lifted me further and further away from my old life surrounded by holes.

And when you arrived Atlas, my camera roll burst with beauty and light.

These moving pictures are a wonder.

Like magic, I can assemble the seconds and watch you crawl, walk, then run in seconds. Hair that once barely covered your head today sits on your shoulders.

My world. My daughter. My little bug. You’re becoming your own person in front of my eyes. You’re funny and caring and love kittens. You named this one Mango. This one is Figaro. This was Wolfgang, but you changed its name to… Atlas! Atlas! What’s it’s name now?

“Black Cat.”

You speak to me in sentences. Words that carry flashes of who you’ll grow into. Witnessing your life is changing me. I can’t say exactly how, but I feel it happening.

I feel older, too.

I’ll be 38 this year and I’m in my second year making videos. When I started this project, I thought they were documentaries. Now, I’m not so sure. I’ve noticed that moving pictures are a reflection not just of reality, but of the author, too.

What we’re making together mixes the real and the imaginary. I share my life with the man on the screen; he’s the artist and is like your dad, but parts of me are missing. The everyday parts, the boring parts; only you know who I really am, Atlas.

No matter how true this story feels, there are inconsistencies, retakes, and failed attempts. I am in conflict with moving pictures as much as I am in love.

In my first film, I said:

“They say video will rot our brains, but I’m not so sure. I’m part of the most educated generation on the history of earth, and we were raised on video. Some of us have recieved its supplemental light more than the sun itself.”

Having made half a dozen videos, I’m starting to see another side of this statement.

As an adult, I’ve got a few VHS tapes of my childhood and a box of pictures. I’m fortunate — many I know have less. You, on the other hand, will have a deluge of videos. Thousands of photos. I worry you could lose yourself in the seconds.

But remember this, Atlas: although I use some of the seconds in this project, it’s not real. What is real is the feeling you hold within you. The knowledge that you are loved and will always be loved by your mommy and daddy.

What you’re watching is a story, and my hope is that as you grow up, we tell this story together.

Like any good story, this one moves: It started at a for sale sign in a sleepy Ontario town and ends on the edges of space and time.

That’s what we’re doing here, kiddo: We’re moving.

Atlas, my first born, my golden girl, I just want you to know how much my time with you means to me. I started making moving pictures because I needed some proof that you really did arrive on Earth. My videos will always be for you, even if one day you are not in them.

It feels far away right now, a light in the nebulous distance, but one day your childhood will be a collection of seconds assembled alongside this moment. You’ll grow up and want your own life away from dad and his camera.

That’s not for us to worry about right now.

Right now, we’re moving at the speed of light and flying by the black holes on our way to a new world. We’re days away from landing on our mission to meet a small, delicate alien, loud and vulnerable and hungry for life — your baby sister.

Before we land, I want to tell you the one thing I’ve learned moving with you: I’ve seen 1.2 trillion seconds on this planet, but the 86 million as your father changed my life. It’s the only evidence I need to know it’s not the seconds that matter, but the love you experience within them.

Despite everywhere I’ve been and everything I’ve done, I’m most looking forward to what’s ahead of us, and we’re moving towards it, kiddo.

One second per second.

Every moment of every day.

Thanks for reading and watching my work.

In case you missed them, here are my other July posts:

On the Works Podcast, I interviewed from Poetry and Process. We talked about the creative process, of course, but also the power of failure. Listen to it here.

I started a VLOG. I’ve been having a lot of fun creating talking head-style videos for my paid members. This is a much smaller group, many of them artists themselves, and I talk about whatever interests us.

My latest episode, for example, was an introduction to Carl Jung. And on the August VLOG, I’ll rundown what video and audio equipment I use… and some stuff you should avoid.

Welcome to MOVING, Part II.

To recap, I’m releasing the first One Word of the season in three parts. In Part I: Moving House, I talked about selling our place in the suburbs and the black hole that may or may not be in the backyard. You can watch Part I here.

MOVING is all about where we’re going, what we take with us, and what we leave behind. It’s also about challenging myself to find new ways to tell this story. So for Part II, I forego the use of voice-over.

I love my voice-over work, but I often rely on VO to transition ideas or get me out of a corner in the editing room. Not this time. Because there is no voice-over, I have no written component this week. Instead, I wrote some thoughts on creating online. You’ll find them below.

I’m going to release Part III very soon. Baby #2 is imminent— it could be a few days or, at most, two weeks — and I’m pushing to get the last part out the door as soon as it’s ready.

As with Part I, all the music in MOVING is by Toronto-based ambient artist Daniel Field and his Kilometre Club project. You can find him on Spotify, Bandcamp, and Apple Music. Thanks again, Daniel.

One Word, Two Paths

Since I don’t have a written component today, I’m using this space to briefly talk about something on my mind as I’ve been working on MOVING.

Anything I’ve ever created that felt “successful” happened online. In the early days of Instagram, I used to take photos and write little stories in the captions. People liked them and so I thought I liked them, too. But about a year after I developed the style that people engaged with, I no longer enjoyed it. So I stopped.

I could talk at length about how I still feel Instagram forever changed the way I take photographs, changed what I considered “good” composition and texture, and that while my photography did improve, these qualities were mostly defined by likes and followers. You know, the metrics of creative achievement on the Internet.

But the important thing here is this: after I released Woodbine, when I wondered where I could go next with the One Word project, I felt that same sense of malaise, that same disinterest in my creative output.

As an artist, I feel there are two paths ahead of me. I could double down and continue to do whatever worked for One Word last season. That’s very easy to do, by the way. I have all the data. I know my most popular video and my least popular. I have engagement graphs and top-liked comments from all of you. But I’ve been down that path before. I know what happens: I stop caring.

Because when I’m focusing on engagement, I’m ignoring the invisible yet deeply nourishing world within my soul. And when I no longer draw inspiration from that place, I shrivel up and fade away.

But that’s only part of the story; there’s a second path.

When I think back, formative creative experiences reveal themselves, and they have nothing to do with the Internet. Such as the time I wrote an essay in those dreamy last days of high school, just a whatever assignment, and I opened up about how my mom was doing her best to hold the family together in the final stretch of my dad’s palliative care. I can still see the tears running down her face when she read it.

Or after dad passed, when I found one of my poems — the well-worn crease barely holding the paper together — tucked into his leather wallet.

So in Season 2, I’m doubling down on the path that’s not necessarily meant for the Internet or subscriber growth. The path where I create stories for my family and the enrichment of my inner world. If this doesn’t interest you, I understand.

But I feel like many of you truly vibe with what I’m trying to do here. And I want to make it clear, however obvious that it may be to you or me, that I’m searching for a way forward as an artist and a father in a world where both roles carry a shit ton of baggage. Where I go from here may not fit the traditional metrics of Internet success. Honestly, I pray that wherever we go in Season 2, it doesn’t look anything like where we’ve been.

Just before I released VIDEO, which was my first video, I had a dream. I was in the PATH system, and it was preternaturally empty. I held a camera in my hands and I was trying to figure out where to go. I noticed an old man sitting by a short flight of stairs. He waved me over and told me he couldn’t point me in a direction, but I should know that I received a rare gift: I get to explore filmmaking later in life. As a young man, I ventured down the artist’s path as a writer. It was messy and confusing and I made a lot of unintentional choices. Now as a 38-year-old father, I get to start from the beginning and choose my steps again.

This is me simply checking in on myself as I choose the next step.

- T

Welcome to Episode 3 of WORKS, the One Word podcast where I share a piece from an artist I admire, and then we sit down to talk about it.

Today, we’re sitting down with Brian Funke, the poet behind Poetry and Process. What strikes me about Brian’s work is that he’s so comfortable sharing the inner workings — the themes and reasons why a poem came about — to his audience.

This is no small thing. I am often terrified of doing this! It’s as if peaking in the oven would make the entire cake disappear.

Below, you’ll find an original poem by Brian, followed by his “Reflection” essay that dives into the process, layers, and meaning behind the poem.

Enjoy.

You said: A poem

Tonight,
as I pull
the lamp chain
I am moved
from the dark to
the light
surrounding
my aloneness
because
you
were there.

We walked
sunny January streets
with egos in hand,
and I saw
yours slip
from your grasp
when your hand moved
to loosen your
buttoned coat
and a confession,
Joy,
floated from
your now free chest
through unchoked throat,
climbed to your lips,
a hope
and a blessing
misting the air,
settling into
our pockets
and lungs.

Your word
was life,
a moment
inviting me
to toss
ego aside
without regard,
and reciprocate
with trust
who I am.

The heavy weight
of truths escaped
created no burden,
just a reminder
to unhurry our stride
and breathe
who we really are
deep into every
corner of our
body of friendship,
relationship made
through honest expression
and felt experience,
a simple exchange
of sound and breath,
the foundation
for creating
a life
of joy.

You said: A reflection

Whether through effort or flow, lived experience is the foundation for beautiful art. Even more important, living fully into our experience is the best foundation for life.

Process

Sometimes an artist sits down to create with an idea already percolating to the surface ready to be sipped. These are lovely events that can leave the artist full of inspiration and confidence. However, in my experience, the creation of art is more often a tenuous process, one of self-examination, self-doubt, wondering how to start, and believing that what we created in the past was a fluke.

This is why dedication to craft is critical, even when we are not sure where the keyboard or brushstroke will take us, and especially when we are struggling with doubt or frustration. Working during those moments and letting what will come arrive as it wants to allows the artist to not only create an expansive repertoire but could serve as inspiration for the next project, even if the project of today is not something that will ever leave them satisfied. The raw experience of creating with consistency will serve as fuel for moments of unbridled inspiration.

Living is a form of creation that we all participate in, whether it is in creating relationship, experience, or a product. How we walk through our life, even when we are not in the overt act of creation, influences the quality of what we create. Being open, mindful, and vulnerable in our day-to-day lives provides a detailed awareness that builds the ability to examine our recent lived experience in our art and is often the fuel for our most genuine creation. How close we are to those moments, whether the amount of time elapsed between an occurrence and sitting to work, or providing ourselves honesty about a situation, matters when it comes to portraying one moment in time in a truthful and beautiful way.

I wrote this poem in January of 2023 after an everyday walk with a close friend. It was a relatively warm late afternoon with no clouds and low sun casting long shadows. As it was shortly after the start of a new year, the conversation centered around the future and our desires for it. There was meaningful discussion about work, kids and marriage, and what we wanted to continue, improve or leave behind. The conversation went long enough that deeper themes were beginning to emerge but were not directly expressed, until my friend dove in and moved the conversation to an underlying current that what he was seeking was to touch joy frequently in the midst of an everyday life full of challenge, demands and struggle.

It was a very honest and vulnerable expression, and a brave step that opened my ability to be vulnerable in exchange. Up to this point, only two or three people knew I had started writing poetry, even though I had been writing for two years. To share this new hobby felt threatening for me as it was something raw that lacked polish, and I have always been one to want to only show the polished sides. My friend’s moment of honesty served as the catalyst for something in me to move, and to share not only that I had begun writing but to ask if I could share a few pieces with him, as a way to help him learn more about who I am.

This poem is the story of that walk and that conversation. The piece was written over four days, and I promptly sent it, along with another poem I had written the preceding summer, to my friend. His response was entirely made of encouragement and wonder. The result was I felt seen and we both walked away from this series of moments knowing each other better than we did before. Sustainable things grow slowly, whether it is a personal project, a relationship, or the ability to tap into joy in a moment’s notice. Whatever it is that we desire to grow, let’s take a small step of vulnerability to bring it into being today. Let what comes from it come, and tomorrow, take the next small step. Remain open and honest and watch as something beautiful emerges.

Themes

Tonight,
as I pull
the lamp chain
I am moved
from the dark to
the light
surrounding
my aloneness
because
you
were there.

The first stanza explores the experience of turning off a lamp as the evening winds down. We see someone who is lying down to sleep, and as they turn off their lamp, even though they are cast into a dark room, their being is moved into a bright place because of their experience with a friend earlier that day.

The poem could stop here as this meaning is too important to overlook. Our modern world is one where we are very connected through our work and technology, but growing counts of people report feeling isolated and alone. We fear deep connection. We have lost contact with local communities that we used to spend our entire lives in as our global mobility has increased. We do not know where to go to find a close friendship, and when one carries potential, we lack the patience to build a close relationship. Once formed, we lack the resilience to suffer through a hardship that will inevitably come in any long-standing relationship.

Among these challenges that appear more chronic than ever in our modern world, this stanza brings a message that one relational interaction in any day can move someone into a place that is illuminated. One moment can be a strong place to build a friendship from.

We walked
sunny January streets
with egos in hand,
and I saw
yours slip
from your grasp
when your hand moved
to loosen your
buttoned coat
and a confession,
Joy,
floated from
your now free chest
through unchoked throat,
climbed to your lips,
a hope
and a blessing
misting the air,
settling into
our pockets
and lungs.

Your word
was life,
a moment
inviting me
to toss
ego aside
without regard,
and reciprocate
with trust
who I am.

What is it that keeps us from connection? While there is not just one answer, when we package it together, we can name it Ego. Fearing a wound to our ego prevents us from speaking honestly, asking a big question, and offering our whole self to another. It is the limiting factor when it comes to our ability to connect with others.

Any loosening of our grip on the ego is a step toward a more relational life. There are many intentional practices that can help us let go, such as journaling, meditation, and walking in nature among others. Whatever our practices are, there are also times where we inadvertently set our ego down, or in this case, it may slip from your grasp. When these happen, some of the most beautiful moments of spontaneous revelation may follow. If it occurs in the company of others, deep connections are poised to form, with an invitation to continue the walk into this newfound place. We can cling to the connection with the other instead of some story about ourselves that we trap in our mind.

The act of setting the ego aside is a generous act in the giving of yourself and a gesture that invites a reciprocal opening from the other. When we hold a secret or feel closed off to the world and encounter someone who stands open, we are more inclined to let go of the weight of that secret. Vulnerability begets vulnerability begets vulnerability.

The heavy weight
of truths escaped
created no burden,
just a reminder
to unhurry our stride
and breathe
who we really are
deep into every
corner of our
body of friendship,
relationship made
through honest expression
and felt experience,
a simple exchange
of sound and breath,
the foundation
for creating
a life
of joy.

Maintaining a private life that was designed to be shared is a heavy burden. To not share life with others allows our mind to run away unchecked with worse case scenarios and rumination. What we see in the final stanza is that when spoken, what felt like heavy weight transforms in the air. Instead of burden, a posture of presence (unhurry) and lightness (breathe) exist.

From this, two pictures of relationship are drawn. We hear of a third body, which is the entity that is alive between the two individuals, something that has a being of its own. We explore a foundation, one that is deep as a strong foundation must be, but curiously not made of concrete or stone but of sound and breath, both things that are fleeting and cannot be held in our grasp. It is this third being, the foundation that is light and has a life of its own, that can be a source of the joy sought by my friend that initiated the intimate exchange.

In closing

I hope this poem provides encouragement to invest in the relationships you have and to take the brave step to form new ones as you walk through life. Wherever we are on the introvert/extrovert scale, none of us are meant to walk alone. The effort that goes into building friendships will be worth it. I am continuously amazed that when I spend time with people who are willing to open up, I never regret the time spent with them. Even when I considered cancelling a gathering because I was tired, stressed, or felt like doing one of a thousand other things, once I have settled into the time, the life it brings is astounding.

May you be surrounded by connections of joy.

-Brian

Thanks for listening to the WORKS podcast. Make sure to check out Brian’s publication — he has a very welcoming community there and it’s a great place to talk about poetry or just vibe to Brian’s poems.

See you on the next one,

-T

Welcome to the first episode of Season Two!

For anyone new here, One Word is a memoir documentary series inspired by everyday life. These films are a version of my family’s experiences, collected and distilled to better navigate the road ahead, and I’m humbled that you’ve taken the time out of your day to watch them.

I’m pushing myself in Season Two to experiment with new ways of telling stories. So for MOVING, I’m breaking the film into three parts, or chapters, and releasing them over the next few weeks.

I’m also excited to share that all the music in MOVING was provided by Toronto-based ambient artist Daniel Field, who goes by the moniker Kilometre Club. It’s a true honour to weave his sounds into the project. I’ve been a fan of his for years now. In fact, I interviewed Daniel in one of my earliest One Word essays, Futures.

I gathered most of the music in MOVING from two specific albums, An Alphabet of Distance and Nightwalker, so if you enjoy what you hear, go give the albums a listen.

As always, you can read the written version below, but I highly recommend you watch MOVING: Part One.

See you next week.

- T

MOVING

Time moves one second per second. Every moment of every day: one second per second. And yet, since my last film, Woodbine, it feels like time is moving faster and faster.

Everything is moving so fast; I have to finish this One Word now, because soon we won’t have any time.

Stace is eight months pregnant with our second child. In a matter of weeks, our lives will change forever, just as they did with the birth of Atlas.

Our lives have already changed so much, and I don’t think this feeling is going away anytime soon. Because not only are we expecting baby number two, but we sold our house in the suburbs and we’re moving back to Toronto.

Part I | Moving House

Why does moving feel so close to ruin?

Even a promising move, like this one, carries a destructive energy. I’m taking down the pieces and not sure how I’ll reassemble them on the other side.

We lived here for five years. The Covid years. Lockdowns and rapid tests and staycations. Quick and hazy years trapped in the fluorescent blue of the TV screen.

But this house also contained the first few years with Atlas. So despite its fleeting nature, I’ll miss this place. I’ll miss the red-drenched sunsets and how, on rainy Sunday afternoons, sequestered on the edge of nothing and shrouded from the highway by the milkweed and sumac, we felt like the only family on earth.

Moving. Packing boxes and choosing what to keep and what to throw away. I kept all my books but gave away the desk. It was my grandfather’s desk. I called my grandfather Skinny Papa. He bought the desk at Sears.

I started One Word sitting here, back when just a few friends read my words — before I thought about picking up a camera, before strangers across the world began following along.

On the eve of moving day, I drove the desk to my cousin’s house. It was uncomfortable and the surface was too small for all my stuff… but I’ll miss the link to my past.

When moving, the things I never liked are suddenly infused with emotion, such as Bolton’s downtown strip that never seemed to wake from its long, uneventful sleep.

I’ll even miss mowing the lawn. And I hated mowing the lawn.

I wanted to film one last interview here, so before I handed the real estate agent the keys to the house, my friend Sadiq came by. He builds and assembles things, just like me. He’s also the smartest person I know.

We set up a few cameras in the backyard and I asked him what I should do about the black hole I brought into the narrative at the end of Woodbine.

I had this idea where we’d pretend the hole was on the fence, and I would ask him if it would move house with us or something. Sadiq cut away all that artifice and dropped this on me instead:

“I think the physicality of the hole no longer matters. It's probably not relevant anymore, because one way or another it's now this thing that lives on in your film or even in your psyche. Maybe you're gonna pass this concept of a hole down a couple of generations.

“So I think the physical hole is no longer there but somehow it's already made it into your consciousness and you've made this connection. So I guess the question is: what place is it going to take?

“In your life — in your own internal universe — what does this thing now symbolize? Because before the point where you saw it, there was this thing that would float in your mind about black holes and death… it symbolized death to you.

“But now there's a physical instantiation of the thing in your life and also in your mind. You probably vividly remember the texture around the wood that rotted and had this hole in it. So there is now a physical instantiation of a black hole in your mind is kind of the way I look at it.

“It’s no longer there physically. The hole was open for a minute, you saw it, it entered your mind, and now it's gone.”

Sadiq is right. When I revealed the hole in Woodbine, whether I meant to or not, I made it a part of my family’s story. I don’t have to show it for it to exist. I don’t have to pretend. It’s here.

But why is it here? What does it want?

It’s been 9 months since I made Woodbine, and if I had another 9 months, I don’t know if I could give Sadiq an answer. It’s a puzzle I cannot solve. Maybe it’s not meant to be solved.

“I had this conversation with Mikal1,” said Sadiq, “about going and like finding some new weird podcast or book and then going and reading it and overanalyzing the thing or trying to intellectualize the content. I don't even need to do that. It's just intellectual masturbation.”

“Right,” I say. “It can be a pit.”

“Yeah, so like not getting caught. For instance, that book we were both reading. Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Reading it for what it was and leaving it alone and not going and changing course or getting too distracted by it. This was very, very important and I was very aware because when I was younger, stuff like that would really rattle me.”

Years ago when I first met Sadiq, I had a dream of him. It’s always been a defining characteristic of who he is to me. Today felt like the right time to share it with him.

“You and I are both in an auditorium,” I said. “Your family's there but it's not just your living family; it’s people that are long dead or maybe even people yet to be born. It was all these people and they were all really focused on your success.

“You're going up to talk and I was in one of the rows — you know three four rows back. I thought, ‘Man, if I'm going to hang around you, I can't waste your time.’ I've always kept that as a thing. Of course, you shouldn’t waste anybody's time, but in particular, I shouldn’t waste your time.”

“You know it's so funny,” Sadiq replied, “because I feel like I experience time differently. When I try to follow the world's timeline, that's when I feel the most stress because it's almost like when I have an idea the thing that's going to hold me back from doing the idea is that I want to carry people along at a pace that feels natural.”

As the sun was starting to set, our conversation led to what we were like as kids, and I was reminded of what we have most in common: the courage to take things apart and start again.

“Growing up,” said Sadiq, “and being this person that wants to be an inventor or wanted to be an inventor, I was like well this is just more of the same stuff that I did when I was a child because that mind is still kind of there. Where you just look at the things around you and you start playing with them until you're not scared of it. You interact with it and then the possibility in your mind gets applied to those things.

“So when I say, ‘Oh I’m gonna do X, Y and Z’ it's not because I pulled it out of my ass. It's really the things in front of me that I feel I can assemble to match what's in my mind. It's just what I’m going to do.

“I’m going do it in such a way that feels fun for me. That's why I end up blowing things up and starting over. Many times I’ll be like okay this seems too complicated, let's take it back down and start again.”

After I said goodbye to Sadiq, I walked through the property one last time. That’s what it is now: a property.

When we first moved in, I dreamt of honey dripping from the walls. It terrified me, but now I see that it was a good omen. So much sweetness, so much life moved through these rooms.

To be continued in Part II.

Read more

We survived the move back into the city. And you know what? We’re feeling good about where life is heading. I’ll talk about that and more in this week’s VLOG.

Also, don’t forget to answer the poll!

If you have a dream that’s been on your mind, tell me about it in the comments. You can also send it to me privately by replying to this email. I am not…

Read more

Welcome to episode 2 of Works.

Over the last few months, I’ve had some incredible conversations with artists for the Works podcast. And now (finally!) it’s time to start sharing their stories.

For the next few months, I’ll release a new Works episode biweekly. In the post, I’ll share a piece from the artist, and then sit down to talk about it in the podcast. The work is a grounding point, but you’ll love where our discussions lead.

Lynn Chen | Not So Perfect Pitch

Today, I’m excited and humbled to have on Works.

Lynn is an actress, writer, director, and activist. She’s had a multi-episode role on Grey’s Anatomy and acted in films selected for Sundance, TIFF, Tribeca and SXSW. As a director, her debut, I Will Make You Mine, was officially selected at SXSW 2020 and has a 100% Rotten Tomatoes score.

This is just some of Lynn’s credits. There’s so much more to her and her work. This brings us to Not So Perfect Pitch, the memoir documentary she’s sharing with us.

You can watch it at the top of this post.

In the podcast, we talk about the film, her childhood as a performer, the fleeting effects of fame, and more. I learned a lot in my time with Lynn and I think you will too. Listen to the episode by choosing one of the podcast platforms below:

Apple

Spotify

One other thing before I sign off.

Lynn mentioned something during our talk that I wanted to share with you. She said she was open to premiering Not So Perfect Pitch with subscribers of One Word because she believed you were an audience open to more personal, intimate work. I couldn’t agree more. Her words hit home for me, because I believe this space can grow into an alternative to YouTube or Instagram.

Thanks for watching, reading, listening. Just, you know… everything.

Till next time,

- T

Learn more about Lynn Chen:
Gen X Taste
The Yellow Pages
IMDB

Music for this episode of Works provided by

You’re getting this either because you’re a paying subscriber of One Word, a friend or collaborator, or due to your continued support over the last year-ish of the project, I’ve added you to the group.

Before I continue, watch the video!

Read more

Welcome to another One Word short.

For anyone new here, I write, shoot, and edit memoir documentaries based on a single word. Next month will mark one year of making One Word films, which feels like both a blip in time and a lot of time. My life has changed in a very real way because of this project. But that’s a story for another day.

We’re all so busy — even when we’re not. And maybe it’s me just getting older, but sometimes I crave emptiness like a man dying of thirst craves water. What a gift it is to appreciate a few minutes staring at an empty field…

I’ll stop there and let the film speak for me. After all, it’s the best version of myself. The part of me I know for certain is speaking truthfully.

Talk soon,

- T

NOTHING

In 2019, my wife and I were looking to buy a house with her sister. She wanted to live close to the city, and we wanted the country life. The perfect place seemed impossible. But on the first day of house hunting, we stepped through a door and walked to the back window and saw this field.

On that initial look, if someone asked me what’s out there, I would have said: nothing.

There is nothing in the field.

We saw lumps of piled stone, an abandoned mechanic shop, trees like a fading hairline, barely hiding the forest further beyond.

But this nothing that has bordered my home for five years is about to become something. In the spring, construction is set to begin on a new community, with a 10-floor condo, an orderly row of townhomes, and a strip mall.

And I feel this is a loss because I’ve come to admire the nothing. It is unique — I know no other field like it. Whereas the something that’s soon to replace it, I’ve seen everywhere.

These copy-paste communities always have a grey-washed tower of concrete and a parking lot where no one looks at each other in the eye. The chain restaurant will never be too busy, even on weekends. And at night, the LED streetlights only turn off if they are broken.

The last few weeks, when I wake up, instead of grabbing my phone, I’ve pushed the curtain back and stared at nothing.

At first, I thought myself foolish, that I was wasting my time. But unlike my phone screen, filled with so many things, this emptiness enriches me.

I let my thoughts pour out into the soil. In return, I am gifted moments of clarity and serenity. The more I practice making time for nothing, the more I am convinced it has a consciousness.

On the edges of the field at night I hear voices singing in the dark. Sometimes they are so loud that they wake us up, and in the morning my daughter loves to call back to them.

What is out there?

After weeks of making time for nothing, they introduced themselves. It was a mother and her pup. I watched her in a peaceful silence and when she was ready, she spoke to me.

She said she protects everything I have not seen or tasted or loved. Every time I replace nothing with something, she slips away. And I must find her again.

Hope your holidays are going well.

Dropping in to wish you all a restorative new year, hand you a short film, and provide a few updates.

FOLLOWER, a 4-Minute One Word

This short film project came as an unexpected boon.

After WOODBINE, I was tapped out and had no ambition to tackle another project. I resigned myself to playing Disco Elysium (great game, by the way) and waiting for the spark to re-ignite in 2024.

Then asked if I’d like to contribute to his visual Salon du Monde experience, and the challenge of cramming my style of filmmaking into a 4-minute block sounded appealing.

This small project gave me a chance to play around with some of the feelings I can’t seem to escape. Feelings that circle fatherhood, creativity and the internet, and how bittersweet it is shepherding my daughter into a modern world that is filled with both wonder and unease.

I hope you like the short.

What’s Around the Corner: WORKS Ep. 1

I’m wrapping up editing my first interview.

In early January, you’ll receive a 40-minute podcast along with an incredible written piece by my guest. This individual is a very talented writer, and I know you’re all going to love the work they’ve generously shared with us.

What’s Further Down the Bend

I’ve begun work on the next ~20-minute film. I’m not very good at predicting when these films are finished — looking back on past efforts, I’m always a few weeks off — but I think the next film should be done by the end of February or early March.

The upcoming One Word continues some of the ideas in FOLLOWER but dares to venture a lot further: into the nostalgia-tinged past, into our increasingly cyberpunk future, and, if I can pull it off, into the cold vacuum of outer space.

What’s Way Off in the Distance: “The Big One (Word)”

We’re on 2024’s doorstep, and I’m going to take a moment to reiterate that it hasn’t even been a year since I picked up my camera, pointed it at a miniature television I found in the discount bin at the local Toys-R-Us and said: “The unifying communication method of humans in the 21st century has to be video.”

Most days I feel like I’m moving too slowly. There is a near-endless amount of content out there, and consuming it often tricks me into thinking I need to keep up — produce more videos and send out more emails. It’s an insatiable urge.

In my life, nothing calms the urge more than my year-long project. When I bring up the project to my wife, I resort to calling it The Big One.

The Big One is strange. I feel this project more than I see it. I can’t describe it beat-for-beat. There’s no script. At the same time, it is a film project, with dates attached to deadlines and an underlining message and a call to action.

Another twist to The Big One is that I’ve asked a few very good friends (artists, all) to produce the film with me.

This last fact is yet another challenge The Big One imposes on my life. Every film I made in 2023 I made alone, and welcoming others into the process feels like pouring the contents of my head into a glass bowl.

Right now, we’re working on a list of potential interviewees and locations, plus drafting a proposal to the Canadian Arts Council. So, if anyone has tips for acquiring grant funds, please get in touch with me.

Okay, that’s it for now.

Enjoy FOLLOWER. Enjoy the New Year.

Oh, one more thing.

If you craft a few goals for 2024, eschew the practical. Dream up something daunting and scary, something that, as you write it down, makes your hand tremble. We’re moving into a year that will need every big idea us mortals can muster.

Be in touch soon.

- T

My brain is always churning out growth strategies and interpreting the mysterious platform algorithms like tea leaves in a cup. One Word began as my little cabin in the woods where I could write about anything I wanted and follow my thoughts freely, with zero consideration for the SERP or SEO or Metrics.

Last September, I had one goal: write One Word once a month for twelve months. Then, about five months into the project, I had another goal: tell my father’s story.

I accomplished both.

The strange thing about accomplishing goals is that, once they’re in the rear-view mirror, the path ahead can seem endless. Lately, I can’t help but think… what’s next?

I’m starting to see the goals ahead. Before I share them with you, some updates.

I was on a Podcast

A few weeks ago a friend of mine, Angie Theva, released an interview with me on her platform, The Honey Lemon Podcast.

We recorded the interview in August. At the time, I was in the early stages of writing Woodbine. I hadn’t filmed any of the footage yet, and even the concept for the documentary was just a few old VHS tapes and a feeling.

I cherish the interview and have had a lot of incredible feedback from close family and friends. I talk about what I hoped to achieve with Woodbine, my thoughts on creativity, and a lot more.

Angie captured a special moment and that’s a testament to her talents. She’s an intelligent and empathetic interviewer. I really hope you give it a listen:

Hot Docs + One Word

I’m entering Woodbine into one of the world’s top documentary festivals, Hot Docs. To appease admissions, I must take the film offline. So if you want to watch or share Woodbine, please do so by November 13th:

My original goal was to make a super cut of all the One Word films from 2023, but most film festivals have strict premiere rules for feature-length films. So I abandoned that idea.

I like this idea more. I’m very proud of Woodbine, and I’m interested to see if it’s something a festival jury would appreciate.

I won’t know if Hot Docs accepts Woodbine until early 2024. But once I know, I’ll let you know, too. Fingers crossed.

Introducing…

Formerly known as Off Season, Works will be my on and off again audio interview series where I showcase one work of art and talk to the artist behind it. We’ll explore the work itself, artistic process, and how my guests understand what they do in the larger context of their lives, community, and the Internet.

I have two goals with Works:

1. To share the work of other artists and offer them a space to talk about what they do.

2. To deepen my understanding of art and use that knowledge in an upcoming One Word documentary. More on this later.

I’ll release episodes of Works right here, so you don’t have to do anything to receive the latest episode.

If you write, draw, film, sing, sculpt or do anything else you consider art, get in touch. Don’t stress about timelines; I’m not going anywhere. We can find a date that works for you.

Email me here: 1wordnewsletter@gmail.com

Expect the first episode of Works sometime before the end of 2023.

One Word, Year 1 Recap

I can’t write a recap piece without mentioning where we’ve been. Here’s the full list of words from my first year and a short synopsis for each.

Stone: I begin the project by considering the mundane power of stones and how I grew to appreciate them as a teenager; I conjure my first images of dad.

Green: The strangest colour I know is the focus of this essay. I also review a favourite film of mine, The Green Knight.

Aliens: At the cross-section of ET: The Extra Terrestrial, my brother and my wife, I discover a potent truth that helps me move forward.

Chicken: I share a few stories on my love of cooking and how a dry chicken breast ushered in the last chapter of my father’s life.

Futures: An ode to a special cafe in Toronto, some thoughts about my life in the city after dad died, plus I attempt my first interview with the ambient music artist Kilometre Club.

Path: I get lost in Toronto’s PATH system and gather evidence for the enlightening idea that we are all on a spiral path leading to greater and greater knowledge - the evidence for this is all around me.

Video: My first film. I talk about the power of video, interview a video rental store owner, and visit an abandoned Blockbuster in Owen Sound.

Dada: I explore my daughter’s first word, meet with a bird expert, and consider what it means to me to be a father.

Home: I explore the etymological strings that make up the word Home, Toronto’s housing crisis, an antique dealer in Caledonia, and I end by bringing to dad’s ashes home.

Names: I interview my wife and my best friend while thinking about the names I go by and the names that remind me of where I’ve been, where I’m going.

Path, remastered: A video version of my written essay Path.

Woodbine: A 40-minute documentary on my father’s life and the effects of his death on his family. I discover a hole in the backyard and write him a letter saying goodbye.

So Now What? One Word, Year 2

In my first year, I learned a lot. Trying something new each word wasn’t just a fun thing to do — it was a rule. I will continue this practice in year two.

As I look back at the 12 words I made, I’m proud of myself. I accomplished more than I expected and discovered a new medium to illuminate my experiences. And by my 12th word, I made a film that I can point to and say: This is my craft, my art.

The goal of year one crystallized into exploring my relationship with grief and now in the position I had hoped to be but couldn’t imagine reaching: I can create a One Word film about anything I want.

I’m still adjusting to this new reality. I did not expect to feel unmoored, but I do. I feel the overwhelming crunch of possibility, and I’m very aware — I sense it like a smell — that it’s my responsibility to choose the path forward.

This is what I know so far:

I’m making a 90 minute feature documentary in 2024.

It’d be an incredible experience if the Hot Docs festival accepted Woodbine. The motivation I have to prep the film for Hot Docs has inspired me to work on a feature length film and submit it to festivals in autumn, 2024.

I also crave a new challenge. Woodbine was 40 minutes long and took me three months. What could I create with 90 minutes of time and eight months of work?

The project is still in its infancy, but my goal is to explore the meaning of Art and Content and the many ways creative people, including myself, feel caught between both.

Most film festivals require feature length documentaries to have never been screened online or in-person. If I pursue this goal, then a large part of my work next year won’t be published in this newsletter.

Which brings me to the next point:

One Word documentaries are no longer once a month.

If my goal in 2024 was more subscribers, followers, comments and likes, then I would publish more. When I make a film, I would focus on timely news and events and trending keywords.

But that’s not my goal. One Word is my cabin in the woods away from all that stuff.

My goal is to ensure the words I make impact my life, family, and community. What I make is for my daughter and her children and beyond that — into the unclear but spectacular light of what could happen if I succeed.

With One Word, I’m aiming towards a future I cannot see, but I can feel it. My limitation isn’t time or effort or talent; it’s my belief in the purpose of the project and my imagination to make it possible.

Somewhere in the few paragraphs above is my theme for the films to come. I haven’t been able to write it succinctly just yet. I pray the work I’m doing now will clarify the goal.

What I do know is this:

I have no schedule to give you. I will still be sitting at my desk every morning writing; my camera will never leave my side.

This newsletter is the space I share some my films, my conversations with other artists, my thoughts, and updates on upcoming projects. I imagine the cadence will still be once month, but I’m not holding myself to that schedule.

I also believe that sending my short docs to you inspired me to make the next one. What effected me the most were the emails and private messages from people who told me to keep going, keep pushing myself, because they loved what I made.

Next year, I don’t want to completely ignore that font of inspiration. I’ll still make a few short documentaries in 2024.

Next year may look something like this:

• 1x 90 minute film, sent to film festivals

• 3x 20 minute films, sent through the newsletter

• 10x Works interviews, sent through the newsletter

One Word is a lifetime project.

After my first year, I know one thing for certain: I’m making One Word films for the rest of my life.

I’m 37 years old. Behind me I can see the graveyard of dead ideas I once thought would be my thing. Perhaps digging so many graves has given me the fortitude to know that One Word is different.

With this project, I know every word matters. Each film brings me closer to the artist within. I channel emotion that could only be express through creativity. I deepen my appreciation for my life. I help the people closest to me. I change my reality.

In the end, One Word will be a gift to my children and family, a way for them to know me and my experiences better than I knew my father. It’s impossible to understand how powerful my words will be to them when I’m gone, but I have a sense it is so much more than I can ever imagine.

I pray this project lasts my lifetime. I pray that, as I continue to make films, I learn how to be a stronger storyteller each time, so that the final and most accomplished word I craft is the one just before my death.

Does this sound crazy? I think it does.

But I also believe in the idea with all my heart. I can’t imagine spending my time on anything else. I don’t know where this path will take me; I must be patient and do the work.

Most of all, I must have faith in the artist within to guide me. They know more than I will ever know. I’m just their advocate.

Thank you for all the support and time you have spent watching and reading my work. I hope you continue to join me along this journey.

- T

For anyone new to One Word, WOODBINE was originally published in September 2023.

I took Woodbine offline a few months after its release to submit it to a world-renowned film festival. The project didn’t get accepted and now I’m free to publish it again.

Despite not being accepted, I’m very proud of Woodbine. Not only is it the capstone to the first season of One Word, but it’s also my father’s life story and the culmination of my efforts as an artist.

Where I take One Word next season is directly affected by Woodbine. Like the vines featured throughout the film, this project will always cling to the home I am building for my family — a home of words and images and stories.

What follows is the original draft, including the introduction and special mentions.

Talk soon,

-T

This film requires some more introduction than usual.

First, I’m proud to mention that all of the music in Woodbine was composed by a musician I admire greatly: . We worked on this project for the last few months, and the fruit of our efforts can be found in my documentary and his latest track, titled Behind the Woodbine. The song was also released today, and you can listen to it here.

Second, I gave the talented cartoonist and writer of One Could Argue early access to Woodbine, and his latest piece, Daydreaming and Black Holes, includes his thoughts. He did an incredible job, and I think you’ll like what he has to say. Here’s an excerpt:

I haven’t previously given Taegan’s films the scrutiny needed to merit write-ups in One Could Argue but he was interested in some no-bullshit feedback on the newest piece. He came to the right shop; I respect him and his work too much to be anything but honest. And my honest view is that Woodbine is a deeply affecting and overall very well-made film, and often not in the ways that I expected.

Read the full article here.

This documentary means a lot to me. It’s the culmination of my work on One Word, and I couldn’t have made it without everyone’s support. Thank you so much for taking the time to watch my videos.

I hope you enjoy Woodbine.

WOODBINE

This is my dad, David Lionel MacLean. He went by Dave.

He had a gap-toothed smile and wore Royall aftershave. He drank rum and Diet Coke. He loved hockey and horses and his family.

He was born on December 5th, 1956. He died on August 17th, 2007. He was 50 years old. When I close my eyes, sometimes I can see him. Sometimes all I see is darkness.

Everything I have of his fits into this duffel bag, which was also his. Look inside and see the old licenses, hockey trophies, binoculars, and a necklace of St. Jude. I also have his ashes.

These are the essential facts and remnants of his life, but they feel insignificant compared to the person I remember. I want my daughter and my wife — I want everyone — to know more about my father.

To do this, I’ll need a conduit, a foundation, a word. For most of his life my dad worked in one place. It’s located just off the 427 highway on Rexdale Blvd. I haven’t stepped inside the grounds since he died. Today, I’m spending 24 hours there.

The official name is Woodbine Racetrack and Casino, but my dad called it Woodbine.

~*~

My day at Woodbine starts on the backstretch at 5 in the morning. Most of the horses that race at Woodbine live and train here. My dad was a horse trainer and, all my life, this is where he worked.

The backstretch is the name for the barns located south of the grandstand building. The last time I was here, I was nineteen. Today, I’m 36.

Entering the grounds, all those years collapse into seconds. I am a kid again, listening to the birds flitting between the barns, smelling the earthy manure waft from the steel bins. I felt the sunrise warm my face as the horses munched on their breakfast in the shed row behind me.

I am not alone this morning on the backstretch. Visitors require a chaperone, and my chaperone is a horse trainer named John. He offered to let me shadow him during training hours. I hadn’t seen John in a few years; I always liked him, but this is the first time I’ve met with him alone.

John has a handful of stalls near the training track. He has worked with the same team for nearly 27 years: two grooms, Cheryl and Sandy, and a hot walker named Leonard.

The track opens for training at 7am. I walked with John to watch his first horse of the morning train. It had rained the night before, and he worried on the condition of the surface.

“To be honest with you,” said John. “If you were getting ready to race today, the track would be perfect this afternoon because of the wind, and they'd run the harrows over it a few times. So tomorrow morning, if there's no rain, which isn't going to happen, this track would be perfect.”

“I think it's supposed to rain again,” I replied.

“Yeah, it’s absolutely supposed to rain.”

It’s peaceful here. I could almost believe we were in the country if, in the distance, I hadn’t spotted the trains ushering people to Pearson Airport.

As I shadowed John, the backstretch lulled me into its rhythm. It starts with the groom, knocking the dust off the horses and picking their feet. The trainer steps in as they tack up, checking for subtle hints of stress or pain, and then the rider appears, this horse just one of a dozen or more he or she will ride every morning.

The horse gallops. The trainer watches from a distance. And then it’s back to the barn for a warm bath, a brisk walk around the shed row, and a few long draughts of water. Horse after horse, the rhythm continues until the track closes before lunch.

The steps of this intricate dance centre around the track, which is an animal, too. It needs water and brushing and rest. Over at the main track, grounds crew hunch over like inspectors of fine marble, carefully repairing the turf.

And as I filmed John throughout his morning, I realized I had never spent time with another trainer. My whole life, I had met many trainers on the track, but the only trainer I knew was dad.

Dad in an interview on TSN in the 1990s: I think it's a real strong field. I can't remember the King Edward being just one field of horses like this and being so strong right from top to bottom. I think there's going to be some surprises in there. Cool Northerner seems to be in real good order. The race is going to be won from crossing the dirt home. Before that, I don't think it makes any difference what goes on. It'd be a real run for home, though.

Part of my father’s character was embedded in the labour and passion of a horse trainer. So, I began to observe the trainers on the backstretch, searching for similarities to my dad.

Race horse trainers are solitary people. I could easily spot them because they were alone with their thoughts near a rail or in their truck. What were they thinking about?

I often wondered what was on my dad’s mind. He needed his alone and would often be outside washing the car or sun bathing. I’d observe him from a distance, alone myself. One of the things we loved to do was watch movies. That was often our father-son time: alone together.

John asked if I wanted to head over to the starting gate, and I said yes. On the way, he told me how the gateway into his horse racing career was his father.

“I guess I was about seven, eight years old,” reflected John. “He started dragging me out to the racetrack. I was a little older, and I was fascinated. But the environment was different, because there was no gambling in our society.

“It was an activity, an outing for a family. You'd get 15,000 people at Woodbine every weekend. I was just fascinated by it. It was a sport. They had coverage in the paper. There were three newspapers in Toronto, and each of them had a racing writer, specifically for racing. So, you know, exposure was there. It was on TV all the time, and it didn't take me long to follow racing.

“I was fascinated by it. And it just grew from there, and as soon as I got kind of old enough, I got a summer job. So I worked two summers here. I was working for this trainer that I knew, because he trained for my dad. So I knew him for a few years.

“On the second day on the job, I was working in Fort Erie. I better like the job, I thought, because I'm 90 miles from home, and got nowhere to go. I'm living in a tack room!

“You know, I loved it. I loved it. I absorbed everything. So I started to clean the stalls, took horses to the paddock, and I'd been on the track a few weeks, and I was doing all that. I had two more years of high school, and then I came here instead of going to university.”

Hearing John explain how he loved the work made me realize how much I did not enjoy my childhood on the racetrack. I worked with my dad for years, and I haven’t retained any of his training knowledge.

Dad’s interview on TSN in the 1990s, continued: For this horse, crossing the dirt, I'd much rather have it at the end of the race like it is than at the beginning of the race. He's a horse that likes to lay close to the pace, three, four, five lengths off of it, and consequently, when he leaves the gate, he's on the bit. So when you cross the dirt and you're on the bit, your horse is struggling a little, and they have to change surfaces twice, whereas at the end of the race, most of them are under a drive anyway, so the changeover isn't quite so dramatic.

Dad knew a lot; he tried to teach me what he knew, and now, talking with John, I’m reminded that I don’t share the passions of a horse trainer. What gets loaded in my head today will escape in a month or a year.

Phil runs the gate crew: a group of horsemen that teach horses how to enter and exit the starting gate.

“This works better,” said Phil as he discussed a tool the crew uses to train horses at the gate. “Because a lot of times when the crew reach down, missing their hands, and it's like you're tickling the horse, so you put this on the top, and, see? It loops right down the horse.”

All morning, they work with the horses that race at Woodbine, and often retrain the animals that have had a rough experience in the past, like this young filly.

The last set train at 11am, then John preps the feed for dinner and he washes the tack; Sandy and Cheryl bandage the horses and the riders and gate crew rest, because they’ll be back in the afternoon for racing.

Before I left the backstretch to spend the afternoon alone at the Grandstands, John took me to see my dad’s old barn.

My dad’s barn burned down in 2005. So the one John showed me isn’t where dad worked. And yet, I feel like I could still run into dad. When I open a door or turn the corner in the shed row, I expect to hear his laugh, see his face.

There’s a timeless quality to the backstretch, but at the same time, everything has changed. I know I can’t touch or talk to him, but I hope I might, and the experience reminds me of another, much older, story.

~*~

A father named Osiris dies and his body is divided and spread across the kingdom, like seed. Years later, his son Horace wants to find the pieces of his father and try to put him back together. But he doesn’t know where to look. His mom, Isis, tells him that life flourishes where the pieces lay. So he spends years searching where green has sprouted from the earth.

I’ve always been drawn to the story, but I’m a terrible groundskeeper. In my backyard, the weeds squeeze between the concrete pavers and reach from under the stairs. The condo board has sent me letters complaining about the Virginia Creeper on my fence. The tiny heads of the vine slip through the boards and rot the wood.

I try to keep up with pulling the vines, but their roots run deep into the soil. I rip them out, and a few weeks later, they have returned.

I assumed better gardeners than I have come up with a solution, so I searched for remedies. In my research I discovered that the noisome vine in my backyard, Virginia Creeper, has another name: Woodbine.

~*~

I drive by Woodbine every Saturday. Each time I see the grandstands, I think about dad. I think about how he drove into that parking lot nearly every day. The last time he stepped on the grounds was a few days before he died.

The first time, he must’ve been my daughter’s age — just a few years old.

Woodbine’s pull on my family began before I was born. After the war, my grandfather worked as a tool and die maker on the Avro Arrow project. Canada was moving faster than the speed of sound. But in 1959, Prime Minister John Diefenbaker pulled the funding, and my grandfather, along with 25,000 skilled labourers, had to look for work.

Around the same time, Woodbine Racetrack opened for business. The original Toronto racetrack, Greenwood, was at Kingston and Queen, on the East end of the city near the lake. That track is gone now. All that remains is an off-track betting facility and movie theatre. The rest of the property is town homes and a green space known as Measurement Park.

Woodbine opened in Rexdale, a suburb of Toronto, in 1956. Grandpa got a job there maintaining the mechanical tote machines. The ones at the track today are all digital and you can bet on just about any race on any racetrack.

In the 1960s, my dad would take the bus from the family home on Burrard Road, across Rexdale Boulevard and visit grandpa. There was nothing around the racetrack then. He ventured across empty farm fields. At the end of his trip, he reached an oasis, with working class men and women in their finest slacks and dresses.

I sit in the grandstand and listen to it breathe; long, peaceful silences dappled with exclamations. A horse race lasts less than three minutes and post times are 30 minutes apart. So most of the day, the grandstands are impressively quiet, like Catholics whispering in anticipation for the second coming.

My brother and I came here ever since we were kids. If the backstretch was work, the grandstands was fun. We loved to buy fried chicken from the vendor and run up to the 5th floor.

The staff have closed the 5th floor seating. But my nostalgia had it’s grips on my heart and I snuck upstairs. It looks like the facility uses the top floor to host events. I sat in the stands and stared at the well-manicured grounds. The ponds twinkled, the grass so green I had to turn down the vibrancy while editing the footage.

I’ve always been in awe of the races and in awe of my dad.

His work often kept him away from home, but when he was with us, Kelly and I soaked up his love like sunlight.

He had this way of devoting attention, of being present, that made us feel special. Maybe it was the horse trainer in him, an attentiveness from making a living watching such a beautiful animal move.

There was nothing quite like watching him lace up skates or rollerblades. Like his horses, he moved through this world with astonishing grace.

Like his horses, his life seemed faster than ours. I wish I told him to slow down. Just for a moment dad, slow down.

Dad wore dirty jeans and old shirts on the backstretch. On race days, the days we’d go to the grandstands, he wore a suit and tie.

Many of the riders from the morning now button down the colourful silks of the stables they represent. The gate crew wake from their naps, slip on their red shirts and zip up their protective vests. They gently usher the horses into the gates. Most of the animals they know by name. The horses know them, too.

All the early mornings and hard work and sacrifice comes down to this moment at the gate. Some trainers say a prayer, others cross their fingers. Win or lose, every race starts with just a few simple words: And they’re off.

~*~

Woodbine stands as one of many of my attempts to make sense of my dad’s life. Even when he was alive, I wrote stories about him. I’ve taken photos and written poetry. Every attempt ends the same: me lost among my work; the vines adept at opening old wounds, but not strong enough to seal them.

It’s getting late and I’m tired. I’m tired of writing about dad and trying to make sense of his death. Like a thoroughbred after a race, I have nothing left to give.

As I watch the Woodbine outside, I wonder about Horace and the scattered pieces of his father. What if his mother was not telling him where to go, but rather, warning him what to avoid?

“Be careful my son,” she said to him out of the scribe’s earshot. “For where there is green, there is sorrow.”

~*~

I’ve never stepped foot in a casino until tonight.

Woodbine added slots in 2006, not long after dad got sick, and it seemed to our family a small addition, an afterthought. Now, Ontario Gaming is expanding the project into a full casino, with card tables and an accompanying hotel, an entertainment centre.

Walking among Woodbine’s construction reminded me of a sepulchre. The dark, peaceful skeletons of the buildings, hulking and green, elides the dance of man and animal, and the beauty of the grounds, for something more consistent and impenetrable.

I put 5 dollars into a machine with a picture of a woman that sort of resembled Isis. I pushed a button a few times, and then received a voucher for 60 cents.

My memories of dad are not unlike the slot machines. I’ve spent thousands of hours reliving my time with him. No matter where I start, how happy the scene, I’m left with the moment everything turned into nothing.

Around the time of this footage, dad had trouble eating. My mom noticed him take a big gulp of root beer to swallow a little food. He went for an ultrasound, and the tech found a tumour the size of a football sprouting from his pancreas.

Soon after, a specialist diagnosed him with Acinar Cell Carcinoma: a rare, terminal cancer. He was given six months to live. But he lived for almost three years. There were operations and treatments, a tube installed in his back to drain the fluid, and a brief remission.

My father died in this house on August 17th, 2007. I only one picture from that year: his trainer’s license. This is my dad the summer he passed away.

In his final moments, he was trapped inside himself, struggling to breathe, with his family around him. His lungs had filled with fluid, and the nurse told us when he was about to go.

And then he left.

There is an image that reminds me of his final moments: the first picture of a black hole. When I stare into this photo, the corona of blurry, wavering light and the endless darkness beyond it, I see dad just before he died and I see the years after his death, a black endlessness that stretches from that moment until now.

~*~

Hey Dad.

I went to Woodbine yesterday. Some parts of the track were just as you left them; other parts couldn’t be more different.

I keep revising the documentary about you. At first, I was going to use your licenses as transitions. My friend Kyle and I rented a studio. We shot a lot of footage. I spoke about you at a table with your things.

“It's the first time I've ever put all these licenses together like this,” I say in the unused footage. “I've had him in a box since he died. I forget how I got all of these. You know, after he died, it was just kind of a fog."

Then I wrote about how the vines in our backyard are also named Woodbine. I had artsy, black and white sequences. Last night, after returning home from Woodbine, I ripped the vines off the back fence.

This morning, I went outside onto the deck and discovered a hole where the vines used to be.

I don’t know how long this hole has been here. Maybe it appeared after my day at the track. Or maybe the hole has always been hiding under the Woodbine.

Now, I notice the vines everywhere: on the train into the city, during my walks with the dog, in the woods hugging the ravine. If I rip these vines off, would the hole be there, too?

Today, I played my first round of golf, ever, with Kelly.

He has your old golf bag. I told him about the afternoon you bought it.

“We were at a Subway,” I say sitting in the golf cart with Kelly. “We were just eating a sub. It was in Aiken when I was with him. Then he said, ‘I'll be right back.’ Next door, there was a golf store. I guess they had a sale on the bag and the clubs. He bought it.”

“That's hilarious,” laughs Kelly.

You had meant to take Kelly and I golfing, but your work at Woodbine got in the way. So instead teaching us, Kelly learned himself and now he’s teaching me. I see a lot of you in him: his joy of sports, his competitive focus.

Despite my lack of skill, I enjoy golfing. The wind off the ponds and the manicured turf reminded me of Woodbine.

Funny enough, the golf course paired us with a man named Greg. His dad worked as a mechanic at Woodbine for 40 years. What are the odds of that, eh dad?

Afterwards, on the drive back to the house, we talked about you. Kelly told me some of his memories.

“Yeah, a lot of my memories are of work,” said Kelly. “Which is crazy, right? Like it'd be at the farm, mucking stalls, building the track at the back of the farm. I remember doing that with Rejean and dad a lot, where we took all the shavings and the manure from the stalls. We made a track at the back 20 acre line and we just made a track. I remember doing that. That was a lot of fun.

“But yeah, to think of it, a lot of my memories are of work. And that makes me sad to think of. Because, yeah, he was a father there in those times.

“Maybe that was one of his only ways that he could show me how. But by showing me his love, the only way he could do it was through work and teaching me lessons. The other ways he showed his love was gifts and he was really good at that. My first snowboard was by dad, but dad never came snowboarding with me, never went skiing with me. And he could ski.”

He told me about a letter you wrote to him that, some years ago, he lost.

“It was definitely something I held onto and I remember losing it in Calgary. I moved and I think I left it in a book, in a glove box in the truck I was driving for work at the company I was at. But the letter pretty much just said: I'm proud of you. Really proud to see the man you're becoming.

“And there's one thing I do remember that I keep very close to me. He said, ‘Kelly, you always have that ambition to get up and do it again and you don't want anyone to tell you different.’ And he said, ‘Don't lose that.’

“His words brings me back to rollerblading because I would just keep falling and falling and falling. And he was trying to teach me and I said, ‘No, I got this. I got this.’ I just kept getting up. Same with snowboarding, right? I didn't take any lessons for snowboarding. And I think that was something that I never thought dad saw in me and was proud of: that tenacity to be able to get up and keep going.

“I was really happy to hear that he was proud of me. It touched my heart.”

I asked Kelly what he would say to you if he could see you one more time.

“I would just be able to give him a hug,” Kelly said, “because I was never there for his last moments. And tell him I'm sorry that I wasn't there. I’d tell him that everything was okay and everything's going to turn out okay. That he did a great job. He was an amazing father and I love him and I respect him.”

After I talked to Kelly, Mom came by and I asked her what I asked Kelly: what would she say to you if she could see you one more time.

“Obviously I miss him terribly,” she said.

“But also I feel like when he was really sick, all we ever did was just go to the hospital and do that kind of stuff, you know? And I wish we had spent more time maybe going out and doing things when he was feeling a bit better. Of course, he always wanted to be at the barn, so we did that together, which was good.

“But really that's all. I think we had a great marriage and we had a really good time together and we loved the same things. We had you two boys, right? I think, obviously after somebody passes, all of us — you, me and Kelly — we kind of dealt with it in our own ways.

“I have a little bit of regret about that. I tried to help. I helped you and helped Kelly a little bit, but not as much as I maybe wanted to. It was a shock, right? But yeah, we all miss him terribly and it changes the scope of your life when something like that happens. I think we really had a great time together and just wish that we could have more time together, but that's not going to happen.”

She also voiced a regret she had from the night you died: she blames herself for Kelly’s absence.

“Well, I feel that maybe I should have done more,” she said. “Maybe I should havemade him stay while your dad was passing. And that was his choice. But I could have made him stay and that's a big regret of mine: I could have made him stay instead of giving him a choice.”

I made a decision on the night you died, too.

My last words to your were: I promise to look after Kelly. But I didn’t look after my brother. I moved to the city, a few blocks blocks away from the old Greenwood Racetrack. I left Kelly and mom to navigate their grief alone.

This is the first time the three of us have talked about our regrets. I know each of us would make different choices if we had the chance. But that is not our story. Woodbine is our story.

In the myth of Osiris, the responsibility falls on his son, Horus, to put the pieces of his father back together. Since you left, I’ve been trying to tell your story because it’s meaningful to me, and if I can’t tell your story, how could I take up the responsibility of telling another?

I’ve collected all the pieces and put them together the best I can. The truth is, my life is bright and glorious and would not exist without your sacrifice.

So, thank you for your life and your death.

But Isis was right: where there is green there is sorrow. Under Woodbine, a black hole mourns. If I continue to throw my words into this void, I will never grow as an artist, a son, a friend, a husband, and a father.

I know you can’t choose to leave; it’s up to the living to say goodbye to the dead. It’s time for me to go now, dad. It won’t be forever. But it will be for awhile.

We all miss you very much.

Goodbye.

My next word this season, Woodbine, is more ambitious than anything I’ve done before. So, I’m giving myself another month to work on it. Expect the doc and essay to release at the beginning of September.

In the meantime, I have a special treat: a video version of Path.

Path was the last word I wrote before making the switch to video, and I always felt like it deserved to be explored visually.

I strive to make all my documentaries watchable as solo experiences, but that is especially true of Path. You don’t need to have read the original essay or watched any of my previous docs to jump into this episode.

I had a lot of fun making Path, and I think you’ll enjoy it, too. As always, you can read the essay below, but I highly recommend you watch the documentary.

Doors, ceilings, and escalators illuminated at all hours by miles of soft white phosphorescence.

Faint, eerie reflections — I catch glimpses of myself, watery and brief.

The smells down here, I can’t keep up with them. Just a second ago, I caught the whiff of grease traps bloated and yearning to be emptied; sweet flour hits my nostrils next, but it lasts just a few seconds, overtaken by coffee, that nectar of productive life, black and steaming and $6.99 a cup.

Welcome to the PATH.

Everyone down here has somewhere to be.

Well, most of us. The few that don’t seem out of place and easy to spot near a stairwell or digital ad.

At least once a trip, I’ll find a pair of security guards lingering suspiciously near a sallow-faced man or woman with a few too many bags and not enough motivation to move them.

The PATH system is a maze of well-polished travertine tile and fast-food locations. By the latest official tally, there are 3.7 million square feet of retail space divided into over 1,200 shops, restaurants, and beauty bars spread across 30 kilometres of Toronto’s downtown core.

The system didn’t begin so impressively. The original tunnel opened in 1900 and was located under the old Eaton’s department store. It reached a sister building across James Street. Shoppers would venture underground, avoiding the soot and the heat, to buy discount furs, last year’s radios, and pantyhose. What convenience!

Sprawling, inscrutable, labyrinthine — if you don’t know where you’re going, it’s not hard to get lost in the modern PATH system. There are no windows to the outside world. The sun never sets, and the maps speak only in terms PATH understands.

Want to go north? Follow the arrows toward Toronto Dominion Centre. West? Look for the signs that point to Metro Hall.

There’s an etiquette down here. No one looks my way too long or walks too closely. The pedestrians in a hurry gravitate towards the middle, so if I’m feeling leisurely, I hug the side. Either way, never forget to move with the flow, not too fast or too slow. Even the most rebellious seeming folks are helpless to conform.

If you’re travelling the PATH, here’s a tip: The buildings above influence the tunnels underneath, like trees pushing their roots through dark soil. I know when I’m under TD Waterhouse, for example, because tarnished siding hems in my vision and muddy brown marble covers the walls.

The tunnels under First Canadian Place feel like stepping into a ritzy snow globe. The window displays pop with light so clean my teeth hurt. Although that might just be me. Because nine years ago I worked in the concourse under First Can, as it was known to us tunnel-dwellers.

For 18 months, I was a bookseller at this Indigo Spirit, below the food court.

After my last year at University of Toronto, I had no money and no plan. I applied to dozens of jobs and Indigo was the only one to call me back. This was early in the takeover days. Chapters and Coles bookstores began to disappear, and the phoenix that rose from the drywall dust seemed bookish, sure, but also obsessed with Better Homes and Gardens.

I remember feeling very depressed at this point in my life. Two to five tall boys greeted me when I got home, and in my evening stupors I conjured plenty of ideas, but by the time I woke up, nothing manifested into a sense of purpose.

One morning on the bus I stared out the window and thought, “Is it possible to feel this awful forever?”

And a voice inside me responded, “Yes.”

Working retail in the PATH reminds me most of sea anemone. There was low tide in the morning, when the boredom was so thick I could feel it press against me like water. I’d will myself to not stare at the clock. Then at high tide, the PATH swelled with people on their lunch breaks, eager to purchase Babar books for their children and romance novels for the commute and pop psychology manifestos for their marriages.

Inertia is one of the heaviest burdens I’ve ever carried. Staying in one place for too long crippled my creativity, and I forgot that, to move forward, all someone needs is a nudge.

One day, a friend offered me a job that paid $19 an hour, a specialized construction trade, and I handed in my two weeks.

I’ll write about the construction days in an upcoming One Word, but it’s worth mentioning that I’d often return to the PATH. I’d park my work van in the loading dock off York Street, and carry in my equipment and conjure a whole lot of noise and concrete dust and sometimes a tendril or two of blood.

In this new role, I learned that PATH sprawls beyond the pedestrian hallways. There are hidden doorways and server rooms and trash compactors the size of three elephants side by side.

Underneath the retail concourses are less illuminated levels where the heating and cooling systems whine like toddlers craving attention. My favourite, by far, was the empty rooms, dotted throughout the PATH, forgotten or ignored, I could never figure out which, that offered me a few minutes of silence in a day filled with man-made thunder.

The construction years are also in my past. Now, I wake up at 6 am, and in just two hours, I’m 25 Kilometres away, on a GO train bound for Union Station. In the final leg of my trip, I take the PATH, walking past the Indigo Spirit, past the service doors and secret rooms, until I reach an elevator that lifts me to the 9th floor.

Although I sit at a desk, I work inside digital spaces, generating blocks of information, as weightless as clouds, and track the invisible eyes that feast on them.

I stay perched way up here until it’s time to go home, then I’m back in the PATH, in the pedestrian flow, with its endless smells, corridors, and reflections.

I admitted to my wife recently that I love walking the PATH. I think it’s because this place reminds me of my journey through life, which isn’t a straight line, with a beginning and an end.

Instead, my path resembles a circle.

Down in the illuminated hallways, I experience the circular nature of my life. I’m reminded that I was once stuck in a small corner of the ocean floor. Later, on my next trip around, I was never in one place for more than a few hours. And today, I’m soaring in the clouds and diving under the surface.

I love the PATH, and not only because it’s Toronto’s most underrated landmark, but because I can throw on my headphones, join the flow of foot traffic, and wonder: who will I be on my next trip ‘round the circle?

There’s something heartening in the idea. If I can summon the energy to believe in my path, I’ll know that this life is a culmination of not one linear experience with a beginning and an end, but lengths of a circle, well worn, and memorable and, yes, hard to predict, perhaps even inscrutable, yet also so damn beautiful and complete.

I highly recommend you watch this month’s word, but you can also read it below.

I have a story to tell about the building over there, beyond this washed-out parking lot, cradled by the blue sky and the heat and the rumbles of Pearson Airport. I’m almost ready, but not yet. Not until I explain how I ended up here.

So I start this One Word by rewinding to the door I opened at the end of Home.

I’m on a cliff edge with the lake spilling off the faint rim of the world. I wasn’t sure where to go from here. I was lost in that expanse, the churning of the water, the chill of the wind. With no way forward, I turned around and the first word I thought of was a name.

My wife’s name.

“Hi I'm Stacy. I’m Taegan's wife.”

Names of places, names of people, names of products - names flood my existence. I often forget how profound and ubiquitous a job it is being a name.

They can appear inconsequential, just a few short syllables stamped in the corner, and moments later, it can tower over me and elicit awe. Some people use their name to advertise a service and spend small fortunes to attach abbreviations to the front or the back, like an addition to a home.

There may be nothing more important than choosing a name. My wife and I spent months thinking of names for our daughter before we decided on Atlas.

“When I was pregnant with her,” Stace said, “and you mentioned Atlas for a girl's name, it was like something else decided, not me, and knowing how stubborn she is, she was immediately like ‘that's my name.’

“Then I started seeing Atlas everywhere. I realized actually there was an atmospheric song years ago that I just loved. I listened to it all the time. It wasn't until I was pregnant, and I was going through putting a soundtrack together for when I was going to give birth that the song was called Atlas Song. So I think it was always been there. I think it was always supposed to be her name.

“I know that for some people it's a polarizing name. They're like ‘it's a masculine name’ or ‘there's no really good nicknames for that name.’ But that’s why I kind of like it. The name is strong which is what I would wish for her to be: strong.”

No matter how well I know a person, I can’t help but think of their name when I interact with them, even someone I know as well as my wife.

Her name is Stacy, but she often goes by Stace. One letter separates the two names, and yet, to her, they are opposites.

“Do people take me less seriously because my name ends with an E sound? That's why I actually started to adopt Stace. Because it just kind of felt more like me and that made me more comfortable in my name. Now as I get older, I'm starting to just be okay with Stacy, and I've started again reintroducing myself as Stacy.”

Interviewing my wife for One Word made me realize it’s no small thing, asking someone to be on camera, knowing hundreds of people that will see it. By agreeing to the interview, my subject trusts me to respect their image and uphold their name.

Humans are given their first name and they inherit a last name. But, like all things, that can change, too. When we married, my wife, for example, accepted my last name, MacLean.

“MacLean is a nice name, I suppose,” she said. “It wasn't a very hard decision for me to make but there are times I miss Schmidt. It was a part of my identity and a connection to my family, but I wanted the same name as my kids.

“I wanted to be traditional in that way of giving them just one name. Tradition to me isn't always a bad thing. It has a time and a place. Tradition, lineage, history — they’re important. It's not like they're not going to know my maiden name.”

During our interview, we saw a few wedding photographers pressing moments of time into their lenses. A bride’s maid recital, at one point, interrupted our conversation.

Most words come and go; they’re a currency I spend to bring my thoughts into existence. My name, however, is the exception. I cannot escape my name.

Like my wife, I have two names. Taegan and, my nickname, Tug.

“We met online,” said Stace, “and at the end of our conversation, you signed off, ‘Taegan.’ I was more intrigued by you, because that was what I would know is a feminine name. I've only known females named Tegan.

“So I thought your name was pronounced Tegan. I pronounced it wrong on our first date. I was immediately a little embarrassed, but you definitely seems like you get that all the time.”

Stace has never called me Tug, but she has feelings about it.

“It felt like the name Tug was under lock and key,” she said. “I never felt like I should use it. The idea of calling you Tug was always in the shadows. I kept thinking: Do I know him well enough for that? It never felt natural.”

My given names push and pull, move me forward and drag me back. Everyone has an image in their mind when they hear a name. It's a challenge to see the person beyond the name. Thinking of them in this way, names remind me, most of all, of cars.

It’s my name, sure, but there’s no certainty I’m the one behind the wheel.

As a child, my family called me by my nickname: Tug. Taegan was reserved for serious moments, such as doctor’s visits and government identification cards.

My dad named me Tug, which was a moniker pilfered from Tug McGraw, the professional baseball relief pitcher and father of Tim McGraw, the country music singer.

My grandfather named me Taegan. The name dates back to the verdant, lyrical Gaelic, and it means poet, or little poet. He discovered the name in an old book. But it was also gaining some popularity in the 1980s because of a Doctor Who character.

The two names spawned two personalities or versions of myself that, to this day, I swap between.

Tug is funny and lighthearted; he loves watching movies and making up balderdash and playing video games. He’s selfish, awkward, goofy, but he’s got a big heart and a loud laugh.

Taegan is a poet, a serious writer and deep thinker that craves to be alone. He writes at his grandfather’s desk in an office festooned with William Blake prints. His name is equivalent to deep cleavage; it turns heads, cocks necks, and commands attention.

For example, , an author I chat with online, said that, if he had my name, he’d be famous by now.

Growing up, I preferred Tug. Taegan was a heavy burden. It was also hard to spell: the “ae” and “ea” confused most everyone, including me, and burdened me with mild dyslexia for vowel combinations.

In my teens, I felt like the name was in control — I was just along for the ride — and as I cruised along in the passenger seat, I often thought: Was I me from the start, or did the name beget the person?

This is Mike, my best friend. We met in grade 10 math class. I was still hanging on to Tug when I met Mike because Dad was two years away from his cancer diagnosis. I hadn’t yet put it aside.

I asked Mike about the name Tug, and he remembered hearing it, but it never occurred to him to call me by the nickname.

“I was in my kitchen preparing some food, and I was just thinking about how our families have different names for us.

“Where I heard that name is because early on you invited me up to the farm, and I heard your family call Tug. I didn't know — I thought they were calling a dog. I had no idea who they were trying to talk to! You had all these animals, right? It sounds like tugboat.

“But, you know, having that context, and I think we all do across cultures, where at home you just your parents will call you something else. So I didn't feel comfortable calling you by that name. That name was owned by the family.”

We met up on Father’s Day to go for a drive, tap into those old spirits, and just spend some time together.

So much of our relationship was this: Mike driving a car too fast, chatting about the sort of things that get tossed around on the road, random and meaningful both careening through the windshield.

I asked him about his son’s name, Asher, and why he chose it.

“I'm sure a lot of people give you parenting advice,” said Mike. “We got a lot of parenting advice. But the only one I've held on to is: they'll tell you who they are.

“You can offer them things, but they'll become who they are. I think about that a lot. With how I grew up, there are a lot of things my parents aren't that I am. One of them is being a reader. I read a lot, and they're just not like that.

“So, when it came to Asher, we just we wanted to meet him. We wanted to see who he was. One thing we noticed off the bat is he's just really happy. That's one of the meanings of the name.”

People can share names. For example, Mike’s name was sort of my name, too. In my twenties, I’d tell the barista at Starbucks or the server reserving my table at Kelsey’s that my name was Mike.

I didn’t want to get into the pronunciation, the tedious back and forth, the embarrassment of a butchered spelling. A stranger’s version of Taegan reminded me that I hardly knew the person behind the name, either.

I mentioned that in some situations, we shared a name, and he laughed.

We drove by our high school, Robert F. Hall, another name we share. Since we went here, we’ve grown in spirit and vitality.

Mike survived cancer, a feat I have never been able to adequately explain how proud I am, how courageous he was. And yes, since I left this place, my dad passed away and I set aside the nickname Tug.

To shake off the memories, Mike stepped on the gas. I held on, like the old days, as he careened into the foothills, a place he always felt most himself, and at speeds that, for a few moments, would outpace my grief.

Names can be given. Names can be shared. Names can be transformed.

In one of my life’s unforeseen twists, I live in Mike’s hometown, Bolton. Although I’m behind the wheel, I frequent his dad’s favourite grocery store, Garden Foods, and drive some of his favourite roads.

While the name on the welcome sign reads Bolton, it will always mean Mikal. My relationship with him transformed this sleepy little town. It’s special to me.

30 minutes north of Mike’s hometown is a farm my mom stays at in the summers. Atlas loves the barn and the horses. She’s yoked my mom to this place, so when she says Nana, she means grandma and horses.

One weekend, after visiting the barn, I showed Atlas my box of win photos. It’s my way of showing her that her grandpa was a racehorse trainer.

I read her names and we chuckle at the absurdity. Danish Pastry. Once a Sailor. Time for Becca. Each horse photo captures a moment of joy in a long, tumultuous career. When she and I look closely, we can spot my mom, my brother, Tug, and dad.

Stace fears Atlas will get the horse bug. My wife has been around my family long enough to understand how pervasive an itch, how unforgiving a passion. But, my love, I need you to know that these horses with silly, irrational monikers, the animals that fascinate Atlas, that my mom loves — a name lives among them: my father, Atlas’ grandfather, David Lionel MacLean, who went by Dave.

I can show Atlas old VHS footage or the urn I’ve recently brought home; I can talk about him while holding a win photo; but I cannot drop my daughter off to visit Grandpa Dave.

The names of the people I love may seem weightless, a few brief, recognizable sounds, but they are the heaviest, most profound things I carry. Death is helpless against a well-loved name spoken aloud.

It’s time I tell Atlas the story of her grandpa. There is a place that means Dave, a place south of Bolton, one that I haven’t dared to visit since I went by the name Tug.

I want my daughter to know that, when I say this word, I am talking about a place, yes, but I am also telling the story of Dave: a name I am ready to give, share, and transform.

Next month, we’re going to Woodbine.

In between One Word documentaries, I offer a supplement — a dose of news and bits that constellated during last month’s word.

This supplement follows the word “Home.” If you haven’t watched it yet, do so here.

Today, I’ve got a few special updates that I’m excited to share.

One Word Is a Substack 2023 Featured Publication!

Last month, the Substack team added Home to their weekly highlights post, and sent me a 2023 featured publication badge. To be honest, it was quite a surprise.

I posted a Note about how the One Word community was crucial for getting featured, and you can find it, along with all the supportive comments, here:

One Word Full-Length Documentary by End of 2023

Creating a full-length documentary feels, for the first time in my life, achievable. So that’s what we’re going to do: cut an approximately 60-minute version of Season 1 and send it to a few film festivals.

My first choice is one of the world’s biggest documentary film festivals, Hot Docs. Submissions run until December, so the timing, fingers-crossed, should be perfect.

I’m still very early in this process, but the big news here is that I’m now working on each Word as chapters in an unfolding narrative. So if you haven’t watched the previous three video episodes, now is a great time to catch up:

1. Video

2. Dada

3. Home

I’m still working out what I can and cannot do with the feature-length version — film festivals are particular about premieres — but I’m planning to host a private viewing of the One Word feature documentary on Substack.

I see this as an opportunity for feedback before we finalize the edit and send it off as a submission. To keep the experience contained within the rules set out by the film festivals, the viewing will be paywalled. Anyone with a paid subscription can watch and comment.

We’ll talk details of what this would look like in another supplement, but for now, just know that no matter how you’ve supported One Word, be it a single month of membership or a full year, you’ll get access to the video and have your name in the credits.

Get 20% off for 1 year

Anyways, this is all down the road — we’re six months away from the fruits of this project. More details to come at the end of Season 1.

Let’s look at a revised calendar for the year.

We have five more documentary videos on the way, with the finale releasing at the end of October. Then, November through January, I’ll be working on the feature-length cut and figuring out what I want to do in Season 2.

• June: One Word #8

• July: One Word #9

• August: One Word #10

• September: One Word #11

• October: One Word #12

• November: Off Season

• December: Off Season

• January: Off Season

As you may have noticed, we have a three-month gap without One Word videos. I’m calling this the One Word Off Season.

Open to Submissions for One Word’s Off Season

During the One Word break, I’m introducing a special kind of guest post. The idea was pitched to me a few weeks ago by , and I think it’s genius.

Each guest post will include the creator’s piece plus a 10-20 minute podcast where we chat about you, your piece, and how it connects to themes in One Word.

It doesn’t have to be an essay, either. I’m open to music, videos, illustrations, comics, recipes, stories - whatever. Just pitch me the concept and let me know how it connects to One Word.

We have plenty of time to plan Off Season, but I’m guessing competition for a spot is going to be tough, so I recommend putting some thought into your idea before sending it my way.

Email me your pitch at: 1wordnewsletter@gmail.com or let me know you’re interested in the comments.

Next Word Premieres Friday, June 30th

Whew. Lots of updates this month!

Thanks to everyone who has supported One Word. Whether you watch, comment, pay for a subscription, or share my work, you’re making a positive impact on the direction of this project.

I’m hard at work on the edit for the next word, so don’t forget to check your inbox Friday, June 30th.

Till then,

- T

Every month, I write and shoot a short documentary based on a single word. The One Word for this month is HOME.

I highly recommend you watch this month’s word, but you can also read it below.

It’s springtime in Toronto. The city has awakened from its icy sleep. Horns blast, bare limbs unfurl from puffy coats, and sometimes I see ghosts in the windows.

Everything is on the move.

I crave the sun and the outside, but no matter where I venture or what I’m doing, no matter the traffic — brutal and relentless and glacier — after a long day, I cannot wait to go home.

Old English - hām - House with land

I ended the last One Word, Dada, by promising my daughter I’ll always be there when she’s ready to return home. But what do I mean when I say home?

One of my most treasured possessions is a book, Origins by Eric Partridge. I start each One Word by following his journey back through the lineages and etymologies for a clue, a forgotten artifact of meaning. Home was no different.

Partridge discovered three distinct meanings for the word home, and the first is an Old English word, hām, which means house with land.

No goal in my life has been more pervasive and all-consuming than the quest for a house with land.

When my parents were my age, they succeeded in this quest. They bought an acre and a half in Aiken, South Carolina and built a home. This was my childhood, a Canadian living in the USA.

I remember crunchy beds of pine needles in the yard and that I rarely entered the house from the front door. Having moved from a small duplex in Toronto, the living room felt like a royal chamber.

We had a backyard with a pool, a deck, and a den above the garage. Our neighbours were friendly and forthcoming in that classical American way.

All of this exists for me now as memory spooled on videotape. The Aiken home left an impression, indelible, like a dimple thumbed into my cheek. It’s become the origin of my quest for a house with land.

But in Toronto, the cost of housing ballooned over the pandemic, and that once affordable dream feels out of reach.

At 36 years old, I cannot provide my daughter what my parents provided me, and I’ve had to accept the fact that what my parents had, I may never have.

To afford the modest town home we’re in now, my wife and I had to get a mortgage with her sister. I have friends with lucrative careers that struggle to pay their mortgages because of the rising interest rates.

Real estate in Canada confounds even the experts. The news cycle has dubbed this problem the housing crisis. No one knows how to fix the crisis. Some say we need more housing, and there do seem to be a lot of new builds.

I see city notices for condo construction projects across the city. Developers tear down old landmarks to erect glass towers, sometimes they leave the shell of what once was, like a Roman ruin.

Cranes entangle the cityscape like a spider’s web, cutting my dreams of ever escaping. Every day after work, I pass by a condo project on King Street designed by renowned Canadian architect Frank Gehry.

Condominiums are traditionally cheaper than homes, so I wanted to know how much an apartment costs here.

I phoned the number on the showroom door three times. No one answered. The phone just rang and rang endlessly. So I did some digging online, and I discovered a 600-square-foot apartment costs one million dollars.

Old Norse - heimr - world, village

But no matter if I own, rent, or live with my parents, the basic elements of a home stay the same: walls, floors, and ceilings that safeguard me from the world.

To make the space I live in feel more like home, I must leave the safety of inside and journey outside, into the world. This brings me to the second definition Partridge discovered for the word home: the Old Norse, heir, meaning world or village.

The Inglewood Antique Market contains countless items from my village. I’ve visited this store for years, sometimes with an idea of what I want, and at others, bringing nothing with me but a feeling, a desire with no name.

I love this store. The creaking of old wood joists underfoot. The chirping of spring hatchlings in the rafters. And Jon’s warm hello as I enter the front door.

“I'm Jon Medley, owner of Inglewood Antique Market.”

“How long have you had this store,” I asked.

“Well, I've been a dealer here since it opened. I was one of the first dealers here, like 30 years ago. But I took it over about five years ago now.

“There's kind of been a lack of interest in antiques for the last 10 to 15 years. Partially because the older generation that appreciated this stuff and had China cabinets filled with stuff, they're now downsizing, going to condos. They're getting rid of their stuff and the younger generation basically doesn't want China cabinets filled with stuff… They have a different eye.”

Jon is an alchemist specializing in the elements that make up a home: trinkets, tables, chairs. The pieces that arrive in his store are special because they come from other homes in my village. Nothing here is new; I will find no shrink-wrap or cardboard. I do not assemble. I discover, and in that discovery, learn something about myself.

“It's like digging for treasure, really,” Jon said. “That's why some shows, like Storage Wars, are so popular. Because they always go to commercial when they're about to open up a box and they go whoa look at that!

“I hear it when people come in now and they'll go wow look at that and something catches their eye and hearing their response is kind of cool. Even if you don't buy it, you might see something that your grandmother had and it just brings back a memory. You know? A nice memory of being in Grandma's house, or it just brings back feelings. Feelings of home.”

In 2020, I wanted to write the way Don DeLillo writes, and I learned that his technique relied on a typewriter. I found one at Jon’s antique market. I spent years writing slow and tedious drafts on the Smith Corona. Without discovering this typewriter and bringing it back home, One Word would not exist.

But oftentimes, when I’m looking for something, I don’t make the trip to Jon’s store. Instead, I order what I need from Ikea. I admitted this to Jon, and he thought for a few moments, and then said:

“It's because we have to work so hard to be able to afford our mortgages and both couples are working in most cases. You've got to pay for your mortgage; you've got to pay for your car; you have all these overheads.

“A lot of times when you get home, you just wanna relax. You don't want to go out because you're so stressed from that constant barrage of having to work and having to do things. You're a lot more careful with your free time. So if you can do it online in the comfort of your couch when you get home, it's the easy solution for a lot of people. But it's just a shame because a lot of small businesses are going away because of that”

And finally, sitting upstairs, listening to the birds above and the footsteps of shoppers below, he told me what comes to mind when he thinks of home.

“Home is like your safety net,” said Jon. “Home is where, if you get in trouble at school, you get home everything's okay. Mom's there — if you've got a nice home life for sure it makes a difference — but home is that safe ground.

“When you're home, you're comfortable. It's like you're in your mom's womb. That's why the connection to your mom is so strong. I think that that bond never leaves. I think there's an invisible umbilical cord there your entire life, and it's like for me. I kind of associate mom with home.”

Talking with Jon, I found myself imagining a world, not too far into the future, where the increase in the cost of living and ever-shortening of my time means nothing in my home reflects who I am. I have no personal connection to my paintings and desks and lights.

Suddenly, my village is gone. The walls surrounding me are the same walls I see everywhere and the rooms I enter could be anywhere.

Sanskrit - kayati - where he lies down

We’ve arrived at Partridge’s final definition for the word home: the Sanskrit, kayati, which means where he lies down.

I spent some time in a graveyard this month, staring at the headstones and the little gifts left behind for the dead.

Even though it’s where my body will exist the longest, I don’t enjoy thinking about my final resting place. It’s a bad omen, a morbid curiosity. I can’t help but think that talking about coffins and burials shortens my life span, not unlike smoking a cigarette.

But a lack of clarity means it would be up to my family, my wife or my daughter, to take care of the arrangements. Whatever they decided, there’d always be a lingering question: Is this what he would have wanted?

I know this from experience. Ever since my dad passed away, my Mom has held on to his ashes, and he’s followed us from home to home. Right now, he lies down under my mom’s Insignia television.

Until I was working on the word Home, I never thought about my Mom’s responsibility as keeper of Dad’s remains. It’s been over fifteen years, and in many ways, she’s moved on with her life.

We’ve never talked about where he should go, and if we don’t start thinking about it, one day both of my parents will be in bronze containers, and my brother and I will be left carrying them from room to room.

He has to go somewhere, and realizing that my Mom has had him ever since he died, I wondered if things would change if I took him with me. So on a recent visit to Orangeville, I asked her.

“I was wondering if I could take Dad's ashes home,” I said.

“Yeah that's okay,” she replied. “He'd like to go and visit the baby.”

“You've had him for this whole time, right? Sixteen years?”

“Pretty much yeah. You can take him home. I'm fine with that”

Mom and I talked about why we left South Carolina, and she said that it was partly because, even back then, more than a decade before Dad was diagnosed with cancer, he didn’t feel well.

“He was sick and I don't think he really knew how bad,” Mom said. “He just wasn't well, and I think he decided that he better come home. Because we had health insurance down there, but in the end, I think we would have gone through the 2 million deductible pretty fast.”

I spoke to my mom off camera afterwards, and she started to think about where she would want to be buried. I realized that holding onto his ashes means we’re carrying him with us; we haven’t left him behind.

When I returned home, I thought about where to put him. The urn is heavy, so an Ikea floating shelf wasn’t ideal. Dad had spent enough time under a television. But I remember he loved watching movies with his sons, so I decided on the table opposite the TV.

I promised my daughter I’ll always be there when she’s ready to return home. While making this One Word, I realized that’s something my dad promised me.

Reminiscing with Mom, the anger I once held on to those first few years after his death visited me. Couldn’t he have done more to stay alive? Couldn’t he have eaten healthier? Drank less? Seen a doctor sooner?

Sixteen years after his death, and he is here — in the birthday letters, the images, the urn. He kept his promise. By making these videos, I’m trying my best to keep mine.

I may never own a house with land. The small businesses that strengthen villages are dying. And graves are expensive. So I’m building a home for my daughter out of images and music and words. It’ll always be there for her — she can visit anytime she wants — all she has to do is open the door.

In between One Word documentaries, I offer a supplement — a dose of insights, ideas, and bits that constellated during last month’s word.

This supplement follows the word “Dada.” If you haven’t watched it yet, do so here.

Today, I’m introducing a paid tier and letting you know what to expect for the rest of One Word’s first season.

Paid Subscriptions and Going All In with Substack Video

At the end of April, I set up One Word’s paid tier. Pricing is in Canadian dollars (CAD) and is as follows:

• $7/Month

• $70/Year

• $150/Founding Membership

Although we now have a paid tier, nothing is going behind a paywall.

There are as many ways to offer paid subscriptions as there are shades of green, and for my purposes, I’d like to leave it up to all of you to decide if what I create is worth the subscription.

Substack is a platform that creators can shape to their purpose, and my goal with One Word is to offer ad-free, short memoir documentaries, championed and supported by the people who enjoy them.

Support One Word and get a discount at the same time with the button below.

Get 20% off for 1 year

Along with paid subscriptions, I’m going all-in with Substack video. It’s not the best video player — it lacks some key features of YouTube and Vimeo — but it’s our video player.

Starting with May’s word, for the first week you can only stream the new One Word on Substack. If you would prefer to watch on YouTube, you’ll have to wait until the 7th (ish) of the month.

I believe in the value of offering short, perhaps even meaningful, documentaries directly to a subscriber’s email. It’s not something I see very often, and I don’t want to sully its potential by giving priority to YouTube, a platform so devoted to third-party advertising I often feel exhausted before I watch anything.

Your support, whether it’s by liking or restacking, chatting with me in the comments, sharing the video with friends, or paying a few bucks, is so, so appreciated. I believe that as we grow together, we’ll discover more paths for us to explore.

So thank you.

Season One Ends September 2023

If I’m opening paid, I believe it’s important that I unravel the celluloid and let you know my plan.

The primary goal of One Word, since I published Stone last September, is to complete 12 words. We’re more than halfway through that goal. I’m calling the initial 12 words a “season.”

The next 5 words in this season will be videos; I know what the words will be, and the last of which I’ll publish in September. After I hit that milestone, I plan to take a few months off to celebrate, recoup, and consider my goal for season two.

I’m very excited for the rest of this season. We’ve got some incredible collaborations, twists and turns, and challenging words for me to explore. This brings me to my next topic…

(Re)Introducing My Recurring Guest

Recurring guest is my name for grief, for loss. It arrives at the strangest times, triggered by a smell or sound or laugh, and then it’s there, marching, lurching in the periphery, begging to be acknowledged.

Since I started this project, my dad’s death has been the recurring guest. I’m not sure there is a word I’ve written about that doesn’t mention him. And, if I’m honest, One Word is the first time in my life I’ve been able to successfully express how I feel about his death.

Talking with a few of you in the comments, I realize that I have an opportunity in season one to bring the feelings and memories of my dad to a new medium. I’ve written about him over and over again. I’ve tried poetry and journaling and song. But video, that’s a new frontier.

So, for the rest of this season, I’m allowing myself to make creative choices that lean into these feelings, rather than touch on them as I move from one idea to the next. When the recurring guest knocks, not only am I letting him enter, he’s going to center stage.

I know that including him in the documentaries won’t dispel how I feel. Grief is not a spell, it doesn’t vanish when I find the right sentence or trinket or drug. But grief can be better understood. When held in the crucible, it can transfigure.

So, if we start seeing more of my recurring guest in the docs… that’s why.

The Power of Engagement

The comment section of One Word has become very important to me. There’s an honesty to the conversations, and a consideration, that has provided moments of realization and growth. I did not expect this.

Here are some highlights from Dada’s comment section.

I talked with about my two major influences: How to with John Wilson and Anthony Bourdain. John Wilson in particular inspired my initial idea for One Word.

I was heartened by early on in the comments, asking people to take the time to watch the video. It was a simple request, but said with an honesty that made me tear up. It also made me realize how many people read the essay rather than watch the video.

chatted with me about her mother’s recent passing. She isn’t the only one. I’ve had emails from subscribers about their loss, and that inspired me to give my father’s passing more time. She also wrote a lovely piece on Mother’s Day about the first year without her mother that I found incredibly moving.

has been a real one in the comments. He's been doing deep dives into my older words, Stone, Path, and Chicken. In Dada, he brought up my dad and in the conversation that followed, I discovered that I need to be more intentional with my time in season one, that if I’ve given myself this space to work on the loss of my father, I shouldn’t waste it.

And last, d.w., who writes , stopped by the comments last week to mention a documentary filmmaker, Ross McElwee. I’ve since watched one of his films, Shermon’s March, and... wow. I'm grateful. There's a kinship to my work, and I believe I can learn a lot about the craft of "Memoir Documentary" through McElwee.

I bring these examples up to prove that comments in One Word provide nourishment — a place where ideas get churned and prepped. I didn’t expect this.

So any thoughts you have, please share them. Write whatever comes to your mind, and I promise that I’ll take the time to read, reply, and possibly, incorporate your sentiments into One Word.

April in Notes

Notes is a new way for creators on Substack to connect and share ideas, articles, and resources. Here are a few recent notes I think are worth your time.

Books on Writing, Suggested by Substack Writers

I asked writers in my network about their favourite books on the art of writing. I tried my best to include a review or blurb about each book in my reply.

Click on the note below to explore over 50 books on writing fiction and non-fiction.

Music for Writing, Suggested by Substack Writers

I’m a big fan of ambient music for writing, but sometimes I deplete my library. So I asked other Substack writers what they listen to, and the response was tremendous — hundreds of hours of music.

Click on the note below to find new music for your next creative session.

Thank you.

Next One Word releases May 31st.

See you then.

This is the story of my daughter’s first word.

It starts with a magazine on the kitchen table. The magazine arrived with a box of premium Canadian vinegars. And she would carry it around with her everywhere and look at the colourful, food-related images.

She opened it to one page in particular, over and over again, for months. The page contained a few drawings of pigeons. She pointed to them and said…

“Dada.”

And I thought she meant me. I was her first word. But I quickly learned that it had nothing to do with me. Dada meant bird.

Until that moment, I rarely thought about dadas. They were always there, obviously, part of the background, like a park ride or a maple tree.

The more my daughter said Dada, the more I notice how they’re around all the time, yet I must pay attention to see them. Walking home from work, I discovered that there are building facades dedicated to dadas. And when I stopped to take in the Spring sunlight, I found them mingling in the crooks of the streets and roosting on silken clothing. Dadas even help express the core value of some 21st-century businesses.

There’s an argument to be made that, without dadas, there would be no airplanes. I wouldn’t be able to sit in the steel belly of a winged giant and bask in the unfiltered glory of sun rays.

Dadas can show up when I least expect it. Watching some of the VHS tapes from my childhood, I discovered one where my mom hired a magician for my brother’s fourth birthday.

My backyard looks out onto a field where geese love to fly. Every time my daughter hears them calling overhead, she runs to the door and says, “dada.”

As the months went by, her obsession with dadas grew. Dada stickers. Dada story books. Dada toys. With every new addition, I thought about them more and more, too.

Until my daughter, I rarely took the time to watch birds. Their world sidles up to mine, but it’s discreet and hard to penetrate. So this month, I tried birding. I had bought myself a fancy camera and lens to shoot One Word, and I figured I could use it to capture some video of birds.

Birding is a quiet, meditative hobby. I can tune out the digital world, the constant buzz of high frequencies, and experience the unfettered lightness of feather and birdsong.

With my kit, however, the dadas often appeared distant.

The experience convinced me that, although dadas are everywhere, getting to know them isn’t easy. They are the protagonists in their own stories and don’t have much time for interlopers.

I began to feel as if I was forcing my way, more and more, into their domain.

And it’s not just me. Starting this summer, my township plans to build a massive residence complex in the field behind my house where the dadas love to fly.

Even more concerning, the Greater Toronto Area has recently experienced a wave of bird flu, and there are much fewer geese than there used to be. There are signs at the local ponds to stay away from the birds, because they might be sick.

It’s very hard to survive as a dada, and I fear for their safety. I also worry that my daughter will get sick from splashing in a contaminated puddle or picking up a rock off the ground.

I worry for her all the time. It’s this layer of my life that wasn’t there before. She’s so special it hurts. It’s a miracle that something this beautiful and resilient and loving can exist in a world that’s so often inhospitable.

She’s defies my understanding, and has forced me to rethink what is possible.

To better understand my daughter’s love of birds, I called up an expert, and he was kind enough to let me visit his home in Peterborough.

“My name is Ken Morrison, and I became interested in birds when I was five or six years of age.”

Ken has studied birds his whole life. He was a biologist for the Ministry of Natural Resources. He’s also an award-winning bird taxidermist and runs a business out of his home called Feathers Alive.

I was shocked at his reverence for birds, which is clearly shown in his collection. He has over 130 mounts in his home, and has worked on thousnds more. During his career, Ken also donated approximately 100 mounts to the Royal Ontario Museum.

Ontario has very strict laws around raptor taxidermy, which means the birds in Ken’s collection died naturally or accidentally. Every mount Ken showed me during my tour had a story.

“That was a falconer's bird,” he said pointing to the display case. “The falconer had flown it at his home property, and he was swinging the lure to attract the bird back to his fist. Instead of coming into the lure, like it had probably hundreds of times previously, it landed on a small building and started teetering and then dropped forward and hit the ground and died of a heart attack right then. I necropsied it later and the heart had ruptured.”

We walked to another display case, and Ken pointed to two hawks mounted together and said:

“There's a story behind these two that were accidentally killed by a landowner. He put poison out to kill a skunk or rat that was getting into his beehives. The raccoon wandered away from where he'd poisoned it and died. Both these hawks died from ingesting the poisoned meat. So I mounted them as a pair with the male presenting a spruce twig to the female to line the nest with in the spring.”

Talking to Ken, I learned that dadas have a tremendous power to inspire, shape, and give purpose to the world around me.

“I consider birds important part of my life actually. I was involved in the peregrine falcon reintroduction programs in the early 80s, which was a very successful and very enjoyable aspect of my career.”

His passion and admiration for birds inspired his family, too. His wife paints birds, and his son Kyle works as a biologist in wildlife policy at the Ministry of Natural Resources and Forestry.

His grandchildren also love birds, and paint birdhouses and other crafts on the weekends. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“That's the Passenger Pigeon. It used to be the most abundant bird in the world. Audubon estimated about five to seven billion at one time in the early 1800s. In 1914 the last one died in the Cleveland Zoo. It was a female named Martha.”

“Why did they go extinct,” I asked. 

“Because of human greed mainly, which is often the case. They were killed by the hundreds of thousands if not millions for the food market. They're salted down in barrels and sent back to New York and Philadelphia and so on. They were so abundant that they used to darken the sky for literally days. One flock flying by.”

Before we moved on, Ken said that the Passenger Pigeon was his third carving. I was stunned at the detail in his third attempt. It looked life-like.

“This is your third carving, ever?” I said.

“Yeah”

Visiting Ken’s home was an experience I’ll never forget. And at the middle of this multi-generational fascination is a father who loves birds.

And it got me thinking how there have been a few times when my daughter points and says dada and there is no bird, just a frumpy-looking bald man in a hat, and I wonder if she and I are figuring out dada together. Maybe dada means more than one thing.

Just as with birds, fatherhood was an idea in the background, a thought soaring overhead.

I’ve only had one experience with dadas, my father, and if you’ve watched or read One Word before, you probably know my dad died when I was 19. So dada for me has always been coloured a rheumy, tragic green.

Even today, my daughter is 18 months old, and I have a hard time seeing myself as a father. When I walk with her to the park or drive with her to the mall, how I feel is not how I imagined it would feel as a father. I’m just me, walking around with a little girl that I’m trying my hardest to protect.

Raising a daughter is not unlike raising a little bird. She lives in this nest I’ve created, with baby gates and extra cushions. And every day she gets a little more brave, testing the limitations of the world around her. She’s growing so fast. Some days I wake up and she looks completely different. And one day I know she’ll run to the door and fly away.

Fatherhood is absurd. I will spend countless hours raising my daughter and the goal of all this time and effort and heartache is that she must go out on her own, into this harsh, often cold and sick world.

My god, what did I get myself into?

Until I started exploring dadas, fatherhood bewildered me. But I remembered something Ken said after the tape stopped rolling. It was the concept of fledging. I called him up and asked him to explain it to me.

“When a bird is considered to fledge,” Ken explained, “is when they first leave the nest. I and several other people were involved in capturing Canada geese and bringing them to the Toronto Islands. We crated up the juveniles, the young of the year, before they could fly. The thinking is that where the birds learned to first fly, they'll come back to that general area to look for a nesting site when they're mature.”

It’s not easy teaching a little girl how to fly. Raising her takes everything, more than everything.

But as I raise her, she’s teaching me how to grow past the loss of my father, so I can be her dada. And I just want her to know, that where ever she soars, across oceans, through strange lands, down paths of knowledge, towards new friends and beyond, beyond anything I could even imagine from my place fettered to the earth, I’ll always be there when she’s ready to come home.