My Poem (a poem for children) by Leanne Dyck

Why share? What do you lose? What do you win?

 

photo by ldyck

Made by my neighbour Jason—a talented and skilled carver

Reading My Poem

This is my poem

Mine, mine, mine

Mine and mine alone.

It's a poem all about me.

No one else's poem just--

Hey, what are you doing here?

Yeah, you.

Who told you you could read my poem?

It's mine, not yours.

Not y--

Hey, what are you doing?

That looks like fun.

Can I play?

Later, we can have fun reading my poem.

You'll like it.

It's all about me.

On this blog in JuLY

Sunday, July 12

Between and Underneath (children's story)

An unnamed narrator is playing hide-and-seek with their big brother. The narrator believes they have found the perfect hiding spot—between and underneath—until...

Between and Underneath, for children 4 to 8 years of age, examines the themes of directional concepts and childhood anxiety.

Sunday, July 19

All of Me (poem)

This mindfulness poem is about self-compassion.

Sunday, July 26

Claudia

This short story was inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

In My Aunty's Kitchen by Leanne Dyck (short memoir)

Sometimes you need a special place to hide out for a while. Where are your special places? This is a tribute to one of mine.

photo by ldyck

In My Aunty's Kitchen

I climb three stairs to my aunty's sunshine-yellow kitchen. It's my sanctuary in troubled times. Before school, I sit on the floor between the door and the fridge. There is a table. There are chairs. But, in the morning, I always sit on the floor.

I watch my aunty swirl around in her kitchen, puttering here, puttering there. But she's not too busy, never too busy for me. She doesn't talk about idle things—not my aunty Lil. "Leanne, do you believe in heaven?"

Of course, I do. I go to church every Sunday. She knows this. Her question isn't really a question. It's more like an invitation to a discussion. 

"Who gets to go to heaven?"

I answer immediately. "Everyone."

"Everyone?"

"Yes, there's good in everyone. So everyone gets to go."

"It must be rather crowded up there, Leanne. How does everyone fit?"

This question isn't as easy to answer. "They just do. Our bodies don't go. Only our spirit. Spirits don't take up much room."

Aunty Lil doesn't pick easy questions. It's like my brain is a tool she's sharpening.

I'd rather stay sitting on that floor, answering all of Aunty Lil's challenging questions than go to school, but I can't. I have to face being ostracized, being bullied by my classmates. I have to be judged by my teachers. I learn to survive by keeping quiet and learning to be invisible.

I return to the sunshine-yellow kitchen at noon to eat my lunch—on a chair, at the table.

Seven people live in this house—Aunty Lil, Uncle Hazen, and my cousins. Sometimes a cousin pops in and out, but mostly it's just me and Aunty Lil.

"I have never seen anyone eat so fast," Aunty Lil says. It's an observation. She's simply commenting on my eating habits.

At home, her sister, my mom, would say, "Slow down. Don't eat so fast."

But I never hear that here. Is that the difference between a mother and an aunt? An aunt can only comment, not direct. 

An apple. A sandwich. I eat fast because I'm always running late. School is only a hop, skip, and jump away. A few houses down, on the same street. But somehow, I'm always running late. Maybe it would make more sense to eat lunch at school, but—. Where would I sit? All the other kids have been eating together for years. They know who sits where. I'd have to figure that out by myself. No one would help me. And I'm not good at figuring that stuff out. If I made a mistake, they wouldn't be kind. And what if someone stole my lunch? I'd starve. No one learns well on an empty stomach. Learning is hard enough for me without hunger pains.

On the wall, above the table, two ceramic smiling sunflowers oversee my meal. Each has a message. The first: Swap a smile. Trade some cheer. The second: Let's be happy while we're here.

Here, at this table, is where I belong. So I have to wolf down my meal.

After school, I venture further into my aunt's home and flick on the TV set. I turn the channel to my favourite show—Hogan's Heroes. I use the Christmas present I got a few months ago, a tape recorder, to record this episode—like all the others. I only have one cassette, so I record over it—over and over again.

Voices drift in from the kitchen. Aunty Lil is talking to... My dad? He must have gotten off early from work.

"Leanne, it's time to go," my dad calls.

"I'm tapping," I reply, but I know he won't wait, and I don't want to ask him to; that would be rude, and I can't make a scene. I don't want to make him look bad—or me. And I don't want to have to walk all the way home. It's still kind of cold out, and it might snow or rain. It doesn't look like it, but it could. So I heave a heavy sigh and switch off my tape recorder and the TV.

In the car, Dad asks, "Do your cousins watch that show with you?"

"I think they have hockey practice."

"Your Uncle Hazen saw active duty in World War Two. The war wasn't and isn't a joke to him."

I know where he's heading, and I try to cut him off. "They don't mind. And besides, Uncle Hazen doesn't come home from work until later."

"From now on, you walk straight home from school."

"Why? They told me I could watch whatever I want."

"Leanne, straight home." By his tone, I know this isn't a discussion. He's giving me direction.

So I'm forced to break my addiction cold turkey. No more Hogan's Heroes. Just like that.

The next morning, I sit on the floor between the door and the fridge in my aunty's sunshine-yellow kitchen. It's my sanctuary in troubled times. It's my oasis from the direction I receive at home and the ostracization and bullying and judgments I receive at school.

Written in May 2026

On this blog in JuLY

Sunday, July 5

My Poem (a poem for children)

Why share? What do you lose? What do you win?

Sunday, July 12

Between and Underneath (children's story)

An unnamed narrator is playing hide-and-seek with their big brother. The narrator believes they have found the perfect hiding spot—between and underneath—until...

Between and Underneath, for children 4 to 8 years of age, examines the themes of directional concepts and childhood anxiety.

Sunday, July 19

All of Me (poem)

This mindfulness poem is about self-compassion.

Sunday, July 26

Claudia

This short story was inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

Book Review: Sharing the Light by Monique Gray Smith

Sharing the Light by Monique Gray Smith can be used as a journal writing prompt or as a guide for a discussion group.

(add photo)

Sharing the Light: Stories and Reflections
by Monique Gray Smith

Published by Ambrosia

an imprint of House of Anansi

2026

Book Jacket by Alysis Shewschuck

Jacke Artwork by Dragonfly by Betty Albert

Buy this book

Collected under the themes of gratitude, love, joy, happiness, and hope, Sharing the Light inspires a positive life. It teaches the reader how to create positive energy for themselves and those who share their life. I especially enjoyed reading "Letter from Love." Simply reading it filled my heart with light. I hope it does the same for you. What will be your favourite part of this book?

What will you read third?

I'm all for 

reading Canadian authors first

and second,

for that matter.

But after that?

What are you going to read then?

What are you going to read third, eh?

Well, in my humble opinion...

Read Douglas Adams.

Why?

Well, because Douglas Adams is funny.

And who couldn't do with a little more laughter?

No one.

That's who.

He's so funny,

in fact,

that he could have been Canadian.

He wasn't.

But he could have been.

What am I planning to read third?

This...

(Mostly Harmless by Douglas Adams)

photo by ldyck

On this blog in June

Sunday, June 28

"My Aunt's Kitchen" (short memoir)

New content is published

each Sunday

at approximately 4:40 PM PT.

Spelling Bee (short memoir) by Leanne Dyck

Some children like the challenge of spelling bees. Some children enjoy testing their abilities against others. Some children enjoy spelling bees. Me?

photo by ldyck

Spelling Bee

"Class," my teacher says, "line up in front of the blackboard. We are going to have a spelling bee."

I find my spot at the end of the line. I stand there with my head down. Trying to disappear. 

"Tom, spell..."

Tom easily spells the word.

The teacher smiles.

Tom stands taller.

"Sally spell..."

Student after student is tested and remains standing.

"Leanne, spell..."

My heart pounds in my chest. But I hear the word. The problem isn't with my hearing. My challenge is identifying the letters in the word and putting them in the correct order.

I'm the first...to sit down.

My classmates snicker.

My teacher frowns.

Isn't that fun?

photo by ldyck

On this blog in June

Sunday, June 21

Sharing the Light by Monique Gray Smith (book review)

Sunday, June 28

"My Aunt's Kitchen" (short memoir)

New content is published

each Sunday

at approximately 4:40 PM PT.

Flare for writing (short story) by Leanne Dyck

What did your parent think about your plans to become a writer?

photo by ldyck

 Flare for writing

A fashion magazine lay on our kitchen table. I reached for Flare, and something fell out.

"What's that?" Mom asked.

I kept my eyes on the magazine, on the dresses, and on other distractions. "I don't know."

"It's a career planner," Mom told me. "Occupations for the women of today, along with the education you require to obtain them."

What I was going to do after grade school weighed heavy in my seventeen-year-old brain. It crushed me.

"This is what you should do." She spread the pamphlet out in front of me.

"Writer? I can't be a writer."

"I would believe you if I didn't know that you write all the time."

"What publisher is going to want a writer who can't spell and doesn't know the rules about grammar or punctuation or—"

"Well, something in the publishing industry then."

"Yeah, I could be an editor and teach everyone how to spell the dyslexic way—backward and upside down."

Mom didn't laugh. She didn't even argue. She was stuck in my fantastical future.

But I knew better. I knew that some dreams, no matter how alluring, will never come true.

photo by ldyck

On this blog in June

Sunday, June 14

"Spelling Bee" (short memoir)

Sunday, June 21

Sharing the Light by Monique Gray Smith (book review)

Sunday, June 28

"My Aunt's Kitchen" (short memoir)

New content is published

each Sunday

at approximately 4:40 PM PT.

Don't Worry (memoir) by Leanne Dyck

In my mid-twenties, I was a hopeless romantic, hopelessly lost in dreams. Luckily, I had a friend that assured me that my hopes and dreams could become reality. Fortunately, I still have that friend today; "Don't Worry" was written with appreciation for that friend.

photo by ldyck

My husband Byron and our dog Abby on a recent visit to Vancouver Island.

 Don't Worry

Come with me for a sec, and we'll travel to the past—1989. Yes, we're walking through the University of Winnipeg campus. Our destination is that three-story building just across the street. There's a day care centre on the main floor. Follow me up the stairs.

Yes, this is the classroom. Looks familiar, huh? The rows of steel-framed desks? The large window at the back of the room? The teacher's desk? The blackboard? Yes, you've—we've been here before. 

Oh, you noticed them too, eh? Don't worry. They can't see us. We're safe behind the one-way glass of time. 

Words flow easily between the two women. They chat about assignments, classes, professors, children, and... The brunette produces a photo of her two-year-old son. 

"He's adorable!" The blonde coos. "You're so lucky. You have everything."

"Well, I don't know if I have—"

"Everything. A husband. A son. I don't even have a boyfriend. I don't think I'll ever have—" 

"Sure you will."

"I hope so."

"Don't worry. It'll happen."

"How do you know?"

"I'm lucky, and I share my luck with my friends. So..."

"So?"

"So, don't waste time worrying. Have fun. It'll happen. Trust."

She sounded so sure that the blonde had no choice but to believe. And you know what? The brunette was right. It did happen. The blonde fell in love, she got married, and she lived happily ever after. And it was all because the brunette helped her belief. 

written in February, 2026

photo by ldyck

On this blog in June

Sunday, June 7

"Flare for Writing" (short memoir)

Sunday, June 14

"Spelling Bee" (short memoir)

Sunday, June 21

Sharing the Light by Monique Gray Smith (book review)

Sunday, June 28

"My Aunt's Kitchen" (short memoir)

New content is published

each Sunday

at approximately 4:40 PM PT.

CGIT by Leanne Dyck (memoir)

Groups have shaped many aspects of my life. I had a fourteen-year career as an Early Childhood Educator caring for groups of children. In my twenties, I became a Katimavik participant and volunteered in three eastern Canadian provinces. And when I was twelve, I joined CGIT. What's CGIT? Well...

photo by ldyck

CGIT

Linda, Colleen, Susan, and...and... How many of us were there? Maybe eight or nine or maybe even ten. We met at our leader Donna's house each week—she lived in "town", very close to the school. She and her co-leader, Bobbie, always had something fun for us to do.

As a Canadian girl in training

under the leadership of Jesus

It is my purpose to

Cherish health

Seek truth

Know God

and serve others

And thus with His help

Become the girl God would have me be.

We began each meeting by reciting our motto, and it was as religious as we got. Or maybe there was a short prayer that followed. We were mostly Protestants, but I think there may have been some Catholics. CGIT is a non-denominational Christian organization.

After the reciting... After the prayer... What exactly did we do?

I remember once Donna or maybe Bobbie presented us with this moral dilemma. We were to imagine that we were stuck on a deserted island and only had enough rations for half the group. We were all assigned roles—some of us were to play senior citizens. Others... Well, the castaways were a diverse group. But I choose, or maybe I was assigned, to play a twenty-something guy. Individually, we were to present our case for why we should be allowed to live. Few got into their roles as much as I did. I used all my creative energy to craft his character. He spoke to me so clearly. It was like he was alive.

"Without me, all the rest of you would die," he told that group of girls—through me.

It was the 70s. The time of women's liberation. So they thought they didn't need him. I can't remember the verdict, but I do remember how hard I defended him. 

I remember Donna got this letter from the head office in Toronto. In the letter the CGIT higher-ups explained that we were supposed to buy this uniform—they called it a middy. We all pooh-poohed that idea immediately. A dress? That dress? No! We were modern gals. We put our heads together and designed our own uniform—jeans and a sky blue scoop-neck tee with black felt letters—CGIT—across the front. 

"What do the letters stand for?" some asked.

"Cutest Girls In Town," we said.

As a group we went to the CGIT conference in Winnipeg. All the other groups were in middies. They stared at our jeans and tees. We thought we could read their minds. They judged us to be hicks from the sticks. 

One of the girls broke away from her group and came over to talk to us. "Your uniforms are so cool," she told us. "Everyone wishes that they thought of it. Instead of having to wear these stupid dresses."

Oh, yeah, and I almost forgot. We also drove to a lodge somewhere close to Eriksdale to camp. I made breakfast but, unfortunately, burnt the French toast. And my friend Susan and I went to CGIT camp in Lake Brereton. It took hours and hours to get there. It was the first time I was away from home. And I wasn't homesick. Well, not much. We had a talent night. My cabin acted out the words to the folk song The Harlem Goat. You know, the song about the goat who ate three red shirts and flagged a train. And-- And-- So much more. But that's enough for now. Except to say that when I had my eighteenth birthday and aged out of the group, Donna asked me to welcome the new girls by reciting our motto. I can still remember standing at the front of the church, behind the pulpit, and leaning into the microphone...

As a Canadian girl in training

under the leadership of Jesus

It is my purpose to

Cherish health

Seek truth

Know God

and serve others

And thus with His help

Become the girl God would have me be.

written in 2025

On this blog in May

Sunday, May 24

"Don't Worry"

Written with much thanks to a friend who helped me believe in "happy ever after" endings.

Like Him (memoir) by Leanne Dyck

As a dyslexic student in the 1960s, school definitely had its challenges. Some were academic. Others were interpersonal.

photo by ldyck

Like Him

He is a mountain of a boy. His catcher's mitt hands are calloused from farm work. His body is a solid mass of muscles. The government informed his father that he needed to be in school. So in school is where he is, but he refuses to learn. Teacher after teacher failed the challenge. Now he is in class with me. I don't know who I'm more afraid of, him or the young teacher, fresh out of university, who thinks she can make him learn. Wielding a yardstick, she storms up the aisle. The rest of us freeze—too scared to breathe. He disentangles himself from the desk and towers over her. She swings. He meets wood with fists.

Someone is going to get hurt.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

His cornea is scratched. Her hair is pulled; her nose bleeds. He stops when he realizes what he has done. What has he done? He squares his shoulders and marches out of school—free.

He'll be back. The months have taught me that, but little else. My classmates continue to learn regardless.

"Leanne?" the teacher calls on me to supply an answer.

I rack my brain in my desperate attempt to find the correct answer. All I can think is how much she must hate me. In her eyes, I'm like that mountain of a boy—a black smudge on her career. When will she whack me with that yardstick?

I have a new favourite film.

Please watch What Is Dyslexia

On this blog in May

Sunday, May 24

"CGIT"

Groups have shaped many aspects of my life. I had a fourteen-year career as an Early Childhood Educator caring for groups of children. In my twenties, I became a Katimavik participant and volunteered in three eastern Canadian provinces. And when I was twelve, I joined CGIT. What's CGIT? Well...

Sunday, May 24

"Don't Worry"

Written with much thanks to a friend who helped me believe in "happy ever after" endings.

Pregnant (short story) by Leanne Dyck

This story was inspired by imagining what it was like when my 35-year-old mother told my 42-year-old father she suspected she was pregnant. 

photo by a nurse (I'm guessing)

'Dad, Mom and me (I'm five days old)'

Pregnant

Before he left for work, she gave him his customary two kisses along with "I'm late" and "Next month, I turn thirty-four. It could be the change or..." Pregnant passed between them in a smile. He'd left with that smile, and it remained with him for most of the day—like lyrics from a favourite song.

His youngest son was seven. His oldest twelve. He thought the months of diaper changes and early morning feedings were behind him. Still, he filled out forms, sorted mail, sold stamps with an extra supply of glee. He whistled while he worked.

"You're happy today, Jim." His assistant Lorna caught herself in time to add. "Not that you're usually grumpy." She chuckled. "Oh, you know what I mean."

He wanted so badly to tell her, to share the joy, but it was too early. They didn't know yet. It could be the change. But what if she was pregnant and there was something wrong with the baby? What if...? 34? The older the mother, the higher the risk. That had begun the spring blizzard of worry. That's why he had decided to take the long way home. He couldn't bring the worry home to Ollie. So he was driving through the back roads of Eriksdale looking for early signs of spring. His car's tires crunched melting snow, dug up the slush, and showered it into the ditch. The melting snow, the slush cheered him, but the worry didn't release him. It countered with four kids on your salary. Four mouths to feed. Four bodies to dress.

We'll manage. Ollie's calm, clear voice. We'll manage. It was like she was in the car with him.

And he knew she was right. Together they could conquer the world. He pointed the nose of the car towards home. 

written on February 16, 2026

Have you seen the film

What Is Dyslexia?

I highly recommend it!

On this blog in May

Sunday, May 17

"Like Him" (memoir)

As a dyslexic student in the 1960s, school definitely had its challenges. Some were academic. Others were interpersonal.

Sunday, May 24

"CGIT"

Groups have shaped many aspects of my life. I had a fourteen-year career as an Early Childhood Educator caring for groups of children. In my twenties, I became a Katimavik participant and volunteered in three eastern Canadian provinces. And when I was twelve, I joined CGIT. What's CGIT? Well...

Sunday, May 24

"Don't Worry"

Written with much thanks to a friend who helped me believe in "happy ever after" endings.

Playmates (memoir) by Leanne Dyck

I was blessed to have fun male cousins to entertain me as I grew. 

This short memoir is a tribute to them. 

My photo of the street where I live

inspired me to share this link to one of my favourite songs.

The Street Where You Live sung by Dean Martin

Playmates

My playtime was enriched by three male cousins. One was a parkour enthusiast before parkour became a thing (in the 1990s). He would scale high heights and dangle precariously. Another, a sorcerer's apprentice, swallowed a piece of thread. He pulled one end of the thread out of his mouth and the other out of a nostril. As I watched, amazed, the thread see-sawed between mouth and nostril. The eldest of the three was the author of our playtime adventures. He instructed us to haul an old door to the slough. The door became a raft, and we sailed the seven seas.

On a different day, we were playing inside, and he told me, "We're cowboys, and we're going to ride off on our horses. But you stay here," he told me. "Scream when the bad guys come. We'll rescue you."

I waited, as directed. Judging it was time, I let loose a mighty scream.

My aunt raced in just before the boys did. "Are you okay, Leanne?" she asked.

"We're just playing," I assured her.

She frowned at me and my party of would-be rescuers. "Go play outside," and she added, "Play quieter."

So we ran outside to play superheroes. I was no longer a damsel in distress. Instead, I put my fists on my hips and shouted, "Wonder Woman!" Then I leapt into action—throwing my lasso of truth and deflecting bullets with my gold bracelets. Our invisible foes didn't stand a chance.

written in 2025

On this blog in May

Sunday, May 10

"Pregnant" (memoir)

Inspired by imagining how my dad reacted to my mom suspecting she may be pregnant with their fourth child—me.

Sunday, May 17

"Like Him" (memoir)

As a dyslexic student in the 1960s, school definitely had its challenges. Some were academic. Others were interpersonal.

Sunday, May 24

"CGIT"

Groups have shaped many aspects of my life. I had a fourteen-year career as an Early Childhood Educator caring for groups of children. In my twenties, I became a Katimavik participant and volunteered in three eastern Canadian provinces. And when I was twelve, I joined CGIT. What's CGIT? Well...

Sunday, May 24

"Don't Worry"

Written with much thanks to a friend who helped me believe in "happy ever after" endings.