When Poetry Speaks What I Cannot Say                                               by Henry Regehr “And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill, But O for the touch of the vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still”. Alfred Lord Tennyson said it well. He understood the emptiness, the loneliness, the longing for Lillian’s voice and the touch that is gone. The cooking smells from the kitchen are missing, the bed feels cold and lonely, and the back seat of the Uber seems empty. There is no hand to hold, no warm embrace, no one to tell of the book I’m reading, or of the people we met…

Last Visit                                                                                    by Henry Regehr On Monday, just two days after the memorial service, our family arrived at “Whitepines of Northumberland Tree Farm”, the farm Lillian and I had owned for three decades. We had taken care of the land, nurtured the gardens, rebuilt the home, planted trees and groomed the trails.  We had welcomed family and friends for happy and intimate times together. Now we were warmly welcomed by the lovely new owners. At age ninety, this was likely my last visit to the place we had purchased decades ago, and that had become the mystical, longed-for home that had been the object of our search for the past…

Portraits of Lillian                                                                                                                      April 14, 2022 As photographer, I remember events and relationships in images of the mind. These stories, these reflections, are the still photos describing a long-lasting and loving romance. I now share this album of images with you, the reader. Henry Regehr February 1946 On starlit prairie evenings, riding Madge, thirteen-year-old Lillian lets the pony choose its way in the farm field. She lies back on the horse and gazes at the black sky, its shimmering stars and unknown galaxies, and she feels at peace. Her parents, refugees from communist Russia, arrived in Canada in 1929, with four children. After difficult years, including the death of infant…

The wise, wizened old Teacher sat in the shade of the towering jacaranda tree. His attentive, eager students sat on the fresh green grass and wanted to hear answers to questions over which they, and generations of questioners before them, had puzzled. The Teacher, instead of reciting lectures from his notes, turned the tables and asked his young acolytes to think through the issues with dialogue, argument, and debate. “What is the purpose of learning?” he asked. An hour of thoughtful, sometimes heated discussion followed. He carefully summed up their ideas by way of conclusion, added some of his own insights, and then left the students to continue their dialogue…

We were walking in thick Vancouver fog with our little daughter, age two-and-a-half. She was testing her wings in the park where we had gone for some family time. She ran ahead of us into the dense white cloud only to find that we had disappeared from her sight. There was an exuberant shriek, and she ran back into our view and our welcoming arms. It quickly became a game. Off she would run, again and again, each time with greater confidence, testing her ability to be out of sight, shout, and excitedly come running back to safety. It would be several years, in adolescence, where she would be ready…

When Poetry Speaks What I Cannot Say                                               by Henry Regehr “And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill, But O for the touch of the vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still”. Alfred Lord Tennyson said it well. He understood the emptiness, the loneliness, the longing for Lillian’s voice and the touch that is gone. The cooking smells from the kitchen are missing, the bed feels cold and lonely, and the back seat of the Uber seems empty. There is no hand to hold, no warm embrace, no one to tell of the book I’m reading, or of the people we met…

Last Visit                                                                                    by Henry Regehr On Monday, just two days after the memorial service, our family arrived at “Whitepines of Northumberland Tree Farm”, the farm Lillian and I had owned for three decades. We had taken care of the land, nurtured the gardens, rebuilt the home, planted trees and groomed the trails.  We had welcomed family and friends for happy and intimate times together. Now we were warmly welcomed by the lovely new owners. At age ninety, this was likely my last visit to the place we had purchased decades ago, and that had become the mystical, longed-for home that had been the object of our search for the past…

Portraits of Lillian                                                                                                                      April 14, 2022 As photographer, I remember events and relationships in images of the mind. These stories, these reflections, are the still photos describing a long-lasting and loving romance. I now share this album of images with you, the reader. Henry Regehr February 1946 On starlit prairie evenings, riding Madge, thirteen-year-old Lillian lets the pony choose its way in the farm field. She lies back on the horse and gazes at the black sky, its shimmering stars and unknown galaxies, and she feels at peace. Her parents, refugees from communist Russia, arrived in Canada in 1929, with four children. After difficult years, including the death of infant…

The wise, wizened old Teacher sat in the shade of the towering jacaranda tree. His attentive, eager students sat on the fresh green grass and wanted to hear answers to questions over which they, and generations of questioners before them, had puzzled. The Teacher, instead of reciting lectures from his notes, turned the tables and asked his young acolytes to think through the issues with dialogue, argument, and debate. “What is the purpose of learning?” he asked. An hour of thoughtful, sometimes heated discussion followed. He carefully summed up their ideas by way of conclusion, added some of his own insights, and then left the students to continue their dialogue…

We were walking in thick Vancouver fog with our little daughter, age two-and-a-half. She was testing her wings in the park where we had gone for some family time. She ran ahead of us into the dense white cloud only to find that we had disappeared from her sight. There was an exuberant shriek, and she ran back into our view and our welcoming arms. It quickly became a game. Off she would run, again and again, each time with greater confidence, testing her ability to be out of sight, shout, and excitedly come running back to safety. It would be several years, in adolescence, where she would be ready…

When Poetry Speaks What I Cannot Say                                               by Henry Regehr “And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill, But O for the touch of the vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still”. Alfred Lord Tennyson said it well. He understood the emptiness, the loneliness, the longing for Lillian’s voice and the touch that is gone. The cooking smells from the kitchen are missing, the bed feels cold and lonely, and the back seat of the Uber seems empty. There is no hand to hold, no warm embrace, no one to tell of the book I’m reading, or of the people we met…

Last Visit                                                                                    by Henry Regehr On Monday, just two days after the memorial service, our family arrived at “Whitepines of Northumberland Tree Farm”, the farm Lillian and I had owned for three decades. We had taken care of the land, nurtured the gardens, rebuilt the home, planted trees and groomed the trails.  We had welcomed family and friends for happy and intimate times together. Now we were warmly welcomed by the lovely new owners. At age ninety, this was likely my last visit to the place we had purchased decades ago, and that had become the mystical, longed-for home that had been the object of our search for the past…

Portraits of Lillian                                                                                                                      April 14, 2022 As photographer, I remember events and relationships in images of the mind. These stories, these reflections, are the still photos describing a long-lasting and loving romance. I now share this album of images with you, the reader. Henry Regehr February 1946 On starlit prairie evenings, riding Madge, thirteen-year-old Lillian lets the pony choose its way in the farm field. She lies back on the horse and gazes at the black sky, its shimmering stars and unknown galaxies, and she feels at peace. Her parents, refugees from communist Russia, arrived in Canada in 1929, with four children. After difficult years, including the death of infant…

The wise, wizened old Teacher sat in the shade of the towering jacaranda tree. His attentive, eager students sat on the fresh green grass and wanted to hear answers to questions over which they, and generations of questioners before them, had puzzled. The Teacher, instead of reciting lectures from his notes, turned the tables and asked his young acolytes to think through the issues with dialogue, argument, and debate. “What is the purpose of learning?” he asked. An hour of thoughtful, sometimes heated discussion followed. He carefully summed up their ideas by way of conclusion, added some of his own insights, and then left the students to continue their dialogue…

We were walking in thick Vancouver fog with our little daughter, age two-and-a-half. She was testing her wings in the park where we had gone for some family time. She ran ahead of us into the dense white cloud only to find that we had disappeared from her sight. There was an exuberant shriek, and she ran back into our view and our welcoming arms. It quickly became a game. Off she would run, again and again, each time with greater confidence, testing her ability to be out of sight, shout, and excitedly come running back to safety. It would be several years, in adolescence, where she would be ready…

When Poetry Speaks What I Cannot Say                                               by Henry Regehr “And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill, But O for the touch of the vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still”. Alfred Lord Tennyson said it well. He understood the emptiness, the loneliness, the longing for Lillian’s voice and the touch that is gone. The cooking smells from the kitchen are missing, the bed feels cold and lonely, and the back seat of the Uber seems empty. There is no hand to hold, no warm embrace, no one to tell of the book I’m reading, or of the people we met…

Last Visit                                                                                    by Henry Regehr On Monday, just two days after the memorial service, our family arrived at “Whitepines of Northumberland Tree Farm”, the farm Lillian and I had owned for three decades. We had taken care of the land, nurtured the gardens, rebuilt the home, planted trees and groomed the trails.  We had welcomed family and friends for happy and intimate times together. Now we were warmly welcomed by the lovely new owners. At age ninety, this was likely my last visit to the place we had purchased decades ago, and that had become the mystical, longed-for home that had been the object of our search for the past…

Portraits of Lillian                                                                                                                      April 14, 2022 As photographer, I remember events and relationships in images of the mind. These stories, these reflections, are the still photos describing a long-lasting and loving romance. I now share this album of images with you, the reader. Henry Regehr February 1946 On starlit prairie evenings, riding Madge, thirteen-year-old Lillian lets the pony choose its way in the farm field. She lies back on the horse and gazes at the black sky, its shimmering stars and unknown galaxies, and she feels at peace. Her parents, refugees from communist Russia, arrived in Canada in 1929, with four children. After difficult years, including the death of infant…

The wise, wizened old Teacher sat in the shade of the towering jacaranda tree. His attentive, eager students sat on the fresh green grass and wanted to hear answers to questions over which they, and generations of questioners before them, had puzzled. The Teacher, instead of reciting lectures from his notes, turned the tables and asked his young acolytes to think through the issues with dialogue, argument, and debate. “What is the purpose of learning?” he asked. An hour of thoughtful, sometimes heated discussion followed. He carefully summed up their ideas by way of conclusion, added some of his own insights, and then left the students to continue their dialogue…

We were walking in thick Vancouver fog with our little daughter, age two-and-a-half. She was testing her wings in the park where we had gone for some family time. She ran ahead of us into the dense white cloud only to find that we had disappeared from her sight. There was an exuberant shriek, and she ran back into our view and our welcoming arms. It quickly became a game. Off she would run, again and again, each time with greater confidence, testing her ability to be out of sight, shout, and excitedly come running back to safety. It would be several years, in adolescence, where she would be ready…

When Poetry Speaks What I Cannot Say                                               by Henry Regehr “And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill, But O for the touch of the vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still”. Alfred Lord Tennyson said it well. He understood the emptiness, the loneliness, the longing for Lillian’s voice and the touch that is gone. The cooking smells from the kitchen are missing, the bed feels cold and lonely, and the back seat of the Uber seems empty. There is no hand to hold, no warm embrace, no one to tell of the book I’m reading, or of the people we met…

Last Visit                                                                                    by Henry Regehr On Monday, just two days after the memorial service, our family arrived at “Whitepines of Northumberland Tree Farm”, the farm Lillian and I had owned for three decades. We had taken care of the land, nurtured the gardens, rebuilt the home, planted trees and groomed the trails.  We had welcomed family and friends for happy and intimate times together. Now we were warmly welcomed by the lovely new owners. At age ninety, this was likely my last visit to the place we had purchased decades ago, and that had become the mystical, longed-for home that had been the object of our search for the past…

Portraits of Lillian                                                                                                                      April 14, 2022 As photographer, I remember events and relationships in images of the mind. These stories, these reflections, are the still photos describing a long-lasting and loving romance. I now share this album of images with you, the reader. Henry Regehr February 1946 On starlit prairie evenings, riding Madge, thirteen-year-old Lillian lets the pony choose its way in the farm field. She lies back on the horse and gazes at the black sky, its shimmering stars and unknown galaxies, and she feels at peace. Her parents, refugees from communist Russia, arrived in Canada in 1929, with four children. After difficult years, including the death of infant…

The wise, wizened old Teacher sat in the shade of the towering jacaranda tree. His attentive, eager students sat on the fresh green grass and wanted to hear answers to questions over which they, and generations of questioners before them, had puzzled. The Teacher, instead of reciting lectures from his notes, turned the tables and asked his young acolytes to think through the issues with dialogue, argument, and debate. “What is the purpose of learning?” he asked. An hour of thoughtful, sometimes heated discussion followed. He carefully summed up their ideas by way of conclusion, added some of his own insights, and then left the students to continue their dialogue…

We were walking in thick Vancouver fog with our little daughter, age two-and-a-half. She was testing her wings in the park where we had gone for some family time. She ran ahead of us into the dense white cloud only to find that we had disappeared from her sight. There was an exuberant shriek, and she ran back into our view and our welcoming arms. It quickly became a game. Off she would run, again and again, each time with greater confidence, testing her ability to be out of sight, shout, and excitedly come running back to safety. It would be several years, in adolescence, where she would be ready…