What happened??

I'm wondering what happened to kindness. 

Not so long ago, we were banging pots at 7 pm, whole neighbourhoods making noise on behalf of health care workers. We were participating in a small collective action to show our appreciation of nurses and doctors and emergency vehicle workers, whose job it is to keep the rest of us safe. 

Today, I had occasion to drive past our local hospital, only to spot protesters lining the sidewalk, waving signs -- a continuation of the anti-vax contingency's insistence on fighting against protective measures that have been enacted. I wonder how many of them will think it's all a hoax, and a conspiracy against their rights if they get sick. 

It has to be discouraging for health care workers to be faced with dissenters who claim they know better than scientists, though what they are basing their 'facts' on is anybody's guess. Worst story to come out of recent protests in Vancouver was this, about an ambulance worker fearing that her patient would die while the rabble impeded the emergency vehicle's progress as they banged their sticks against it. 

What the heck is wrong with people, anyway. 

Weapons of Mass Protection

The cancellation of so many events has left me at loose ends. I'm accustomed to having a full-on schedule of events, whether those are ones I'm attending or participating in.

Today was supposed to be 'my' choir's Spring Concert. My head is still filled with many of the beautiful songs we worked on, though it isn't the same as standing with friends in the front of a church and singing them in harmony.

It feels downright weird to not have any sports on tv. Recent Sunday afternoons have been filled with curling. Otherwise, it's often golf that's being broadcast here.

The sun is shining, though it's cool out, but we did a bit of yard clean-up earlier -- the results of yesterday's windy gusts.

Not even having our usual family Sunday dinner, as at least two of the regulars are down for the count, luckily only with bad colds, not the dreaded virus.

I can only think we're at least all learning better habits with all this hand-washing and leaving space for each other, not hugging or shaking hands. There's bound to be some good that comes out of this, even it's only some concentrated spring cleaning -- of ourselves, and maybe with the enforced isolation, of our house (or at least my office).

Here's to the power of soap, still they say the best solution of all.

Breaking the silence, breaking the cold

These past two weeks have been silent, I know.

Silent, blog-wise, but not silent here. The sounds in our home have been anything but pleasant: sneezing, nose-blowing, cough cough cough coughing. But today, that is finally changing, thanks to what I will have to call My Healing Tree.

Long ago, at a point when I was filled with a grief so harsh I felt completely lost, I took comfort in the arms of one of the cedars in our yard. Weaving my way through the fronds, almost to the centre -- the trunk -- of the tree, I pretty much collapsed into the branches. Without complaint, those branches cradled me, supporting me firmly enough that they kept me from falling to the ground. They held me and kept me safe while I wept myself dry, a turning point in healing from the sadness I'd been overfilled with.

And last night, this same tree offered help again.

Blustery. A Winnie-the-Pooh word for the sort of night it was. But when I woke in the night, I felt that I was being called. Opening the front door, the branches of the cedar seemed to be reaching out to me. This time the branches were whipping in frenetic bursts of wind, but it was a wind that was filling me with sharply scented air, offering what felt like a cleansing for my lungs.

I can only trust that the neighbours weren't watching as I stood outside on the deck, taking in huge gulps of air that seemed to be pulling phlegm and spew from me. I cast it out in spasms of coughing, projectile sputum hurtled into darkness. How long this went on, I'm not even sure.

But finally, once back inside, I managed to sleep. A deep sleep, one that was filled with dreams of summertime, swimming and light. And somehow buried in those dreams, I was handed a vial containing a precious essence. It was small, and in a container that reminded me of the slim darkened glass ampoules of royal jelly I used to buy from the Chinese store.

But this one, singular, held what I was told I needed: cedar oil.

So today I selected tips from the tree, the greenest and freshest ones. Snipped them into a pot and brewed a tea. Tenting myself over the pot, I breathed in the foresty steam, held it deep and long. Then took the smallest cup of it, sipping and taking in its vapours until it was gone.

Almost immediately, I could feel the clearing in my chest. What I had pictured as white fungus (like the white mould that might grow on the soil of a fouled houseplant) inside of me was now gone.

While this sounds as though I must still be well in the grip of fever dreams, I can only say that an Internet search for cedar oil has only suggested caution -- not to drink very much of it, so I am paying attention and doing that. But I also see that indeed cedar oil has, among a number of its other uses, the clearing of fungus.

So maybe the crossover between dream world and reality isn't as great as we may sometimes think, especially when there's a healing tree that serves as a messenger between those two worlds.

A photo I forgot to take

So instead, you'll have to imagine it.

Five middle-aged people, a mix of men and women, gathered at a table in a coffee shop. Two of them are seated, the other three huddle around. All of them focus on an assortment of prescription-medicine containers containing pills. By turns, unprescribed, each of them takes a bottle, opens it, holds the container near their nose and inhales deeply, sniffing it.

And no, they're not crazy. They're trying to learn what vitamins their bodies might be lacking.

If that sounds like a strange way to find out what vitamins they need, well, if you'd asked me yesterday, I might have agreed. Only now that I've heard a presentation (and done the smell test myself), I can't really dispute it.

The presentation, by poet Diane Dawber, was part of a reading she did for our local Arts Council's literary series. She also read poems from her first book, Cankerville (Borealis) and from the forthcoming Driving, Braking and Getting Out to Walk: Landscape as the Poet's Future (Hidden Brook Press, 2009).

It's hard to believe that this vibrantly energetic woman was pretty well bedridden for close to a decade. But that vibrancy also makes it very hard not to carefully consider some of the methods she's used to recover -- not only from FM, but from a number of food allergies and chemical sensitivities. Anyway, I hope you 'got the picture'. Next time, I'll try to do better about not missing such a great shot.

Here's a snap of Diane, who's a bit of a blur. It's difficult to catch her still long enough to get a flashless pic. She's just starting her reading at the always-welcoming Pelican Rouge Coffee House.