In the past few days we’ve had a heatwave, with temperatures going up to the mid thirties, hotter than it often is in Singapore. Our apartment, despite the lack of air conditioning and ceiling fan, is still relatively cool. At night we sleep with the window open, and with a huge black Honeywell floor fan rasping away. I sleep fairly well, but on the first night of the heatwave, I

I often begin my posts with a reflection on the natural world. Even after three years, the passing of the seasons is still new to me: it’s something that I associate with childhood and young adulthood, but which faded from my life in Florida and in the south of Taiwan and then vanished during those twenty-five years in Singapore. This cycle always seems to return as a ready metaphor for

We’ve reached the beginning of May. The weather’s warmer, and leaves have arrived on the trees: on the cherry trees first, green and brown ovals nestling in among pink blossoms just ready to fall, then on the horse chestnuts, tiny little tents of green that grow bigger, and unclench, like opening hands. The linden tree outside our balcony is always slower to turn green: as I write the leaves are unfolding, but are not much bigger than the size

In a week’s time I’ll have my last class meeting of the semester. I’ll be finished with required coursework, although I am registered for the Cross-cultural Counselling course that is offered over the summer, and still in two minds whether to take it. I still recall my first class in the MEd program, in September, 2019, before the world changed: our first counselling role plays in a room that is

Something’s shifted in the last month. The seasons, of course, as they always do in Vancouver. The days are growing even longer, and there are not quite so many rainy days. You start seeing a procession of flowers. First snowdrops under the trees, then crocuses. The first optimistic buds on the tips of bare branches. Ducks and geese begin to pair up, noisily. The park is like a marketplace, full

There’s a moment on any journey when you stop for a minute, and look back, and wonder why you chose this route. I’ve felt this at various times in my Counselling Psychology program, but never so acutely as now. In part, it’s perhaps the time of year we’ve reached. We had a week of sunshine, and then the winter rain has returned, seemingly heavier than ever. The days are growing

In the last month we’ve entered a quintessential Pacific North West winter. Rain that never seems to end, slate grey skies, gouts of leaf mould clogging the drains, and shallow ponds appearing throughout the West End where gardens used to be. On Nelson Street, outside our apartment, the soil in the flower beds has dissolved into a slurry that flows downhill across the sidewalk. The tiny gnomes and fairy doors

There’s a paradox in blogging about counselling. The heart of what I do must always remain hidden. I can write endlessly about those moments before I enter session. Those moments when I’m on UBC campus before I go into Clinic. The wind is cold on my face.  I walk to the top of the Rose Garden, under the tall flagpole with the Maple Leaf flag, look out over Burrard Inlet, and the

In the last month I’ve been seeing clients for the first time, in the supervised practicum that my UBC program calls Clinic. COVID restrictions mean that the counselling itself is via Zoom, with clients joining us from their own homes. Our small team of students and supervises assembles at UBC’s Neville Scarfe Building each Thursday morning. We mask up, enter through automatic doors controlled from the front desk, and run

We’re well into Fall now, with the last peaches and the first apples at the markets. In the West End and out on English Bay, rain, wind, and then sudden sunlight. Fallen leaves, beginning to drift into piles. I’m back in my UBC classes. In Clinic, the class in which we work with clients for the first time, we are still making preparations because of COVID-19 disruptions. We meet as