When I did the Maud show this fall, she struck me with her ambition. At the turn of the twentieth century, when she yet had the right to vote, she became one of the most famous and beloved women in Canadian literature. Impressive. But it was never enough. She needed to climb, no matter how hard, how steep.
She wrote daily for two hours. Without fail. And as I begin to do the same, I can feel the first steps upon my Alpine Path. It is a secluded one, and my goal is not that honoured fame Maud so desperately reached for. My eyes are on the heights sublime. The heights of my own doubt, that my wandering has lead me so far away from.
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