Our resident churchmouse gets lonesome in the evenings. Come join us for our first monthly coffeehouse... Winter poems, stories and...
We are gathering again at the Churchmouse Bookshop for another After Hours coffeehouse! Those of you who were able to come to the...
It’s interesting how the Wheel of history turns, and how knowledge or attitudes that were foundational at one time in history becomes...
We need your help! Our tongue-in-cheek name for our by-donation bookshop is 'Churchmouse' - but we don't really have a good idea of...
* In my imagination, a hidden bookshop is about as exciting to happen upon as a pirate’s lair or unmapped island or lost,...
Today we woke up to a revolution of snow—Billy Collins, “Snow Day” Welcome to our first Churchmouse After Hours afterword. In...
[PLEASE NOTE! Our next Churchmouse After Hours Coffeehouse is Wed, April 26. 'Endings and Beginnings'. See info below.] Of course...
Join us for another neighbourhood After Hours Coffeehouse! ‘Endings & New Beginnings’ Change, transformation, death, birth: all...
You guessed it! Back to our regular schedule of the second Wednesday of the month, the Churchmouse is opening the doors After Hours for...
I didn’t hit me until I began choosing things to read for April’s Churchmouse After Hours, “Beginnings and Endings,” just how often...
Yes, it’s time for the Summer edition of the Churchmouse After Hours! “Churchmouse blinking in the Sun” We’re into those long days...
“In the country where I now live, there is no word for home.” That’s the first line of Isabel Huggan’s 2003 memoir Belonging: Home Away...
Because we can, or because we must, humans and creatures of the wild have forever embarked on journeys into the great unknown....
. . . a matter of sense—the thousand-eyed, thousand-eared alertness of a flock. The strategies are given names— I don’t know them....
Ghosts, memories, regrets, half-forgotten dreams—what haunts us through the long, dark nights? Some poets, storytellers and songwriters...
Last month at Churchmouse After Hours we plodded through deserts, rode ships, dug tunnels and escaped tyranny. We followed T.S....
Toronto poet Gwendolyn MacEwen died in 1987. She was exactly the age I am now: 45. Circumstances aside, no one can really say why...
