An Anne Letter

Why an Anne letter? There are several reasons. First, it has occurred to me that when I meet people who read my blog, they really have no idea what my life consists of, which is okay; but when one writes for The Public, there seems to be some sort of understood need for transparency. Like, where do all those wise words come from. (Please, see the tongue in my cheek.) In consultation with a good friend, I came to understand that letting you all glimpse in the window of ordinary life would be a good thing. As someone who invests deeply in ideas, I can forget this.

Second, it’s an Anne letter because one of my favourite books of all time is L. M. Montgomery’s Anne of Windy Poplars which is an epistolary novel, meaning its a book of letters from Anne to her loved ones home in Avonlea.

It’s also an Anne letter, because somewhere in my twenties I picked up the habit of tagging Anne on to a friends’ name when I was playfully “scolding” them for some teasing or another. (Verity Anne! Bethanie Anne! Lois Anne!) So pretend that you are my good friend (I know you may actually be) and I am writing a newsy, not particularly profound letter to you in the tradition of circle letters.

What is a circle letter? My mother is part of one. It consists of a group of her cousins. She receives a large packet of letters in the mail containing a letter from each participant. She removes her old letter from the previous time and adds a new one before mailing it off to the next person in the circle. These letters usually contain the latest growth achievements of the children, business ventures, garden accomplishments and other deliciously ordinary things.

So, without any more extension of this already excessive explanation, your Anne letter.

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Dear Anne,

I hope you are well. I’ve been quite healthy and alive this summer, fueled by home-grown lettuce, sunshine, pulling weeds, and a more flexible schedule.

Yes, I’m still making music. I sang at a wedding in Maine in May. While we did spend a good day and a half practising, there was also opportunity to go to the coast and see the ocean. I stood out on lichen-crusted, saltwater-splashed boulders called Giants Stair and felt the wind carry my anxieties away. I saw my first wild seal, a little gray head bobbing among the waves for a few short minutes and then gone.

I sang at another wedding in July. Two of my friends got married locally. Did you know that the room behind a stage where the performers or ministers meet is called the “green room”? I didn’t until I was directed to a green room that was decidedly not green for warm up before the wedding.

I tried my hand at gardening this spring. I planted the first seeds in May. I didn’t realize the excessive amount of patience it takes to wait for the seeds to sprout and flourish. I had given up on the beets, nasturtiums, and sweet peas. Silly me. The beets are nearly as large as two fists put together now and the nasturtiums and sweet peas are riotously in bloom. Did you know that baby potatoes can be growing underground even if there’s no plant above? I was digging up weeds where I had hoped to see a potato plant, and lo and behold, baby potatoes. I don’t know why this happened. The other plants had come up.

I went to the Royal Botanical Gardens in Hamilton with my grandma and aunt. It rained, so we mostly had the gardens to ourselves. The photos were stunning. I’ll stick a couple with this letter so you can see I’m not exaggerating. We stopped at a thrift store on the way home and I found a darling wicker basket just the size for collecting the bits of garden things that ripen.

Isn’t it a lovely world? Dill grows here and green beans climb and willows whisper down by the creek.

Back to the music, I taught at Shenandoah Christian Music Camp again. I felt much more at home this year than last. There are quite a few Old Colony people that come from communities where there has been a desert of music. They are so thirsty for all we have to teach them, and I consider it a privilege to share what I have to offer.

I started working parttime with a committee for a new music curriculum for Christian Light. The hope is to make a curriculum that uses the Kodaly method, uses songs that conservative Anabaptist would sing, and uses recorded teaching tools to make it accessible to uneducated teachers and homeschool moms alike. This work brings me deep joy, even though it consists of day-long meetings on Zoom sometimes.

In July, Heart Cry Ensemble started rehearsing for our fall programs. We are doing so many lovely pieces: Lyle Stutzman’s “I Am the Lord” and Elaine Hagenberg’s “You Do Not Walk Alone” to name a couple. We have six programs officially booked. It took a lot of communication with churches to get to this point. You should come if you are getting to my corner of Ontario.

I write all this from Ontario Mennonite Music Camp. It’s Wednesday afternoon of the second week. The rain’s fallen all day but the campers have stayed busy with choir rehearsal, ensemble practice, and preparation for the musical. I led choir warmups and supervised the piano ensemble for a bit and helped the sopranos in vocal ensemble. All the campers and staff have matching emerald t-shirts. I’m particularly enjoying the evening tradition of campfire singing. (Excuse my while I tilt this notebook away from the curious camper pretending not to read over my shoulder from his stack of chairs above me.)

To be in a space labeled Mennonite that places such a heavy emphasis on inclusivity and social justice finds me weighing words and battling cognitive dissonance.

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Dear me, where was I? I got called off to help a group of campers act out a “Boy Who Cried Wolf” retelling. We had to tweak it in such a way as to bring out a new perspective or slant. In our version, the father of the boy is jealous of his own son, so he makes a deal with the wolf to eliminate the boy. Whenever the boy cried “Wolf!” the wolf would hide, and the townspeople didn’t see the danger until it was too late.

I expect Anne, that I don’t need to tell you of the times and places in which this has been a truer telling of the “Boy Who Cried Wolf.”

Today’s culture has a valid point in emphasizing that the story teller has the power to shape the story. No doubt, the story we’ve been told by history is skewed. Still, I think it would be rather arrogant of us to think we can tell a truer story of the past free from any personal bias.

On a lighter note, I have since returned home to a garden abounding with cosmos blooms, tomatoes, squash, and onions. There’s an abundance of mint, sage, and parsley. I wish I could send you some. (Notice I’m avoiding the topic of w–)

I have just one more story.

At camp, one of the campers who battles anxiety was struggling to sleep. I sat with her, listening to calming nature sounds on YouTube and massaging lotion into her hands. When she was almost ready for bed, I asked if I could pray for her. She was taken aback because she said, “No one’s ever prayed for me with me before.” Now, full disclosure, there was a part of me that felt really awkward offering: I almost didn’t. But when she said that, I was shocked. She’s a teen from a Mennonite home at a Mennonite camp. Something’s gone wrong here.

I could tell it meant a lot to her, because she mentioned it to me several times afterward. Here’s your encouragement to take the time to pray with someone, even if it feels awkward and new.

So long, farewell, Anne. May you feel God’s smile upon you.

Yolanda Marie

Ps. Do write back. How have you been? Do you like hearing these rambling anecdotes? Do tell.