But today, the last Saturday in April, is a day for finding ways to support our local indie bookstores. As an incentive they've even organized a contest to encourage us to shop (though weirdly, my remaining local indie is not on the list of shops participating).
I'd write more, but I think it's probably time for me to grab my wallet and head out to the bookstore -- not just for books, but maybe even a couple more bookmarks.
Exactly what part of my wish is for my Restore the Peace dream. Putting the trees back -- or, to be more truthful, putting in new ones.
Thinking some more about reforestation, I'm wondering whether the brave souls at Fairy Creek will manage to save those old-growth giants, rather than having them gone, and having to start over again with tiny sprouts that will take hundreds of years to match the Grandfather and others in that grove.
But yes, it's Earth Day, with its theme of Restore Our Earth, and best news is probably that Joe Biden seems to have shamed Justin Trudeau into making a few more promises (which I sure hope he lives up to this time). Yes, we've heard his song-and-dance before, but maybe with the US holding his feet to the fire, he'll listen.
Clearly, this is not my happiest Earth Day, as it doesn't seem we're making much in the way of progress.
Good thing the ferns in the yard are doing the same good job they do every year of coming back into greenness, their own miraculous restoration.
Onward we go, hopefully towards truly Restoring Our Earth before it is too late.
Yes, I try to do my small part in looking after the planet. Drying linens on the line means I don't have to use electricity to power the dryer. Instead, it's what I like to think of as backyard wind power. And oh, but I do love the bonus scent of those sheets that have danced in the breeze on a sunny afternoon!
This year I am hoping for a bigger kind of restoration to begin, one I'm calling Restore the Peace.
I'm imagining crews of workers employed at what's still called 'Site C' -- only they're not building a mega-dam -- they've abandoned that folly and are working to restore the land as well as the currently-diverted Peace River.
They're planting trees to replace those that were removed and while they wait for those trees to grow, they've established a 'forest' of wind turbines.
If this sounds like a dream, yes it is. But it's a dream I believe we need to make come true.
While many of us believe that every day should be Earth Day, the official one is coming soon, so yes, I'm embarking on a countdown and hoping you'll join: Ten, nine, eight, seven...
As a constant reader, I tend to poke around in genres. And it seems, even when I'm putting my focus on poetry, more than one genre insists on being present. The three books above serve to illustrate this.
The one on the left, Scratching Initials, is a self-published homage to the author's sister. It's a blend of poems and black-and-white drawings, quite a lovely little book that contains a nice range of poetic forms -- prose poems, ghazals and haibun.
The one on the right, burninghouse, is a taut collection by a writer whose work feels firmly grounded in Atlantic Canada. Feminism is the guiding principle in these poems -- a book worth taking the time to find -- or at least that's my opinion.
The one in the middle, 100 Poems to Break Your Heart, does much more than the title suggests. Each of the 100 poems in this anthology is accompanied by a short essay that enriches anyone's reading of the poem. And it isn't so much that the author, noted poet Edward Hirsch, offers ongoing heartbreak; his words -- and the poems -- provide solace, something I suspect so many of us are now in need of.
And if you're ready to celebrate National Poetry Month with poems of your own, here's a link to a list of inspirations that might get you started. Or, for more detailed instructions (note: they change, day to day) here's a blog for NaPoWriMo (which has added 'Glo' to its name, indicating it's now National Global Poetry Writing Month) with amazing suggestions -- including one, for a 'deck' of word cards which seems actually to have been part of the method Linda Pearce used in Scratching Initials.
Once you've started writing poems, I hope you might work up enough courage to enter this year's 2-Day Poem Contest, an adventure that's always interesting (to put it mildly -- try it and you might see what I mean). Although the event takes place April 23rd to 25th, the deadline for registering is April 16 -- soon.
The choice of how to celebrate is yours, and no doubt there'll be more poetry-themed posts during this glorious month that celebrates this dear-to-my-heart art form.
One of the most reliable spokespersons for the trees -- for years now -- is a woman named Deb Jack. When she speaks, our know-it-all mayor offers his usual lip service and then votes in a way that shows he's yet again ignoring the things she says.
The photo above shows one of a batch of trees that bordered the edge of a property where a little old house was torn down, no doubt to be replaced by a giganto, absurdly big one.
I'd have thought that trees that close to the property line would not have had to be chopped, as there are some limits (too small, but they're officially there) as to how much clearance there needs to be between the building and the line. Besides, the next door 'neighbour' is an elementary school, so the 'natural fence' provided by trees would have meant shade, privacy, and a cushion from the noisy play outside of a school.
The "Tree City" designation requires a city to show a plan for evaluating specific trees, for having a policy that requires replacement of trees that have been removed -- and yes, Surrey has these, but they're plans as thin as the paper they're written on. They're often ignored, and as for replacements -- huh? How does a 3-foot cedar shrubbery replace a tree that's over 50 years old.
I'm not the only one who feels our Council's approval of trees falling everywhere is unacceptable, but with the current 'representatives' sitting, neither we nor the trees seem to stand a chance.
Surrey: good for making promises as hollow as a tree gone rotten with disease.
Sometimes it seems that there's a designated 'Day' for just about everything.
Today is another such observance. In 1999 the United Nations declared this date World Poetry Day. Some years, a specific theme is declared. In 2017 the theme was 'Freedom'.
This year, while there's no specific theme, the preservation of languages plays a role.
Since I don't write much in anything but English, the best I can offer for a poem today is a small piece particular to this challenging year we've been enduring.
Haiku in isolated times
sitting at the table
so many days together
we remain in love
Looking back over this less-than-glorious year, with its various stages of lockdown, I feel lucky that I found myself engaged in a project where I'd not only learn so much, but where I'd have such a great time.
And now, on to the launch event, happening later this very day.
My uncle often used to lead a prayer when we sat down to eat. And I loved that he generally began, "We thank thee, blessed Father/Mother..." an opening that acknowledged a being beyond the boundaries of a single given gender.
On this day when we recognize one of the most intense complexities of mathematics, pi, it seems like a good time to grant a broader expansiveness to that most complex of all human constructs, the idea of God.
And, if we're the sort who sometimes offers thanks to such an entity, we need to be grateful for Their (rather than Her or His) generous ways.
Her accomplishments as an aviator would be enough to make her a worthy mentor, but I admire her as well for her courage, especially in the many ways she stood up for and spoke out for the rights of women.
Even though she was speaking about opportunities (or rather, the lack thereof) for women in the field of aviation, this statement of hers from 1934, sadly remains somewhat relevant today: "If and when you knock at the door, it might be well to bring an ax along; you may have to chop your way through." [from Susan Butler's excellent book, East to the Dawn]
The photo above is one of the monuments to her in Atchison, Kansas, the town where she was born. They like to celebrate their most famous citizen by having a festival in her honour every summer (every summer except 2020, of course; fingers crossed for this July).
This weekend's edition of the Globe and Mail offered an interesting idea for a way to celebrate Women's Day. The article made the suggestion to read a book by a woman author. While that doesn't sound too radical a thought, the article reminded me that men don't always read books by women writers.
This is something I've wondered about before, as women and girls certainly aren't afraid to read the works of men. Is this just another of those double-standards we continue to live with?
Tomorrow -- and by that, I don't mean only tomorrow, March 8th -- but all the tomorrows on into the years when things can only continue (we hope) to improve for women around the world. Onward!
In addition to being known for his writing, he and a partner started the famous City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, a shop I can vouch for as being an almost magical place. Apparently, a memorial for him was held in the laneway adjacent to the shop, a short street known as Jack Kerouac Alley.
Sadly, Ferlinghetti is not the only poet who's died during this long and lonesome winter.
The wonderful Ontario poet, Michael Dennis left us on the last day of 2020. Poking around on his blog, "Today's Book of Poetry" where he was constantly reviewing books, is sure to lead you to discovering someone new.
Earlier in the year, Vancouver lost d.n.simmers. If you click on the link for him, you'll see, in amongst photos of him, a shot that was taken at City Lights Bookstore -- the one with the 'Door' sign.
Lost to us, though at least we have their books. So yes, I suppose the beat does indeed go on.
This year, like just about everything else in our lives, that observance is different.
Yes, I'm in an event where I get to mention Freedom to Read Week, but the only challenged piece I'll be presenting is one of my own poems. It's one that a local environmental group posted on its website a few years ago, when a whole lot of poets banded together in efforts to save a forest from becoming yet another faceless development. Fortunately, this effort, the Han Shan Project succeeded, and that chunk of forest is now protected and available as a public park.
My poem, which was based on the Beatitudes found in the Bible, stirred the wrath of certain folks. They not only complained that my poem was blasphemous, they threatened the environmental group, demanding that they remove my poem (and even, for a while, wanted the environmental group's entire website taken down). I was fortunate in that the group who'd posted it held its ground and honoured my poem, and also that the complainers gradually went away.
This year, when it comes to censorship, freedom of expression, and access to information, my biggest concern is the repercussive wave that's swept the internet over Australia's decision to protect journalism in that country. The big guys, who seem to think they rule the world, don't want to have to pay for content.
It's going to take a while to sort out this mess, but it's a situation that deserves the attention of all of us who value responsible journalism and news that's true.
Oh, and if you're curious about the photo with its message to Read, it's a piece of origami book art I came across at my local indie bookstore -- a business I'm doing my best to support by shopping there. I hope you can find ways to shop local too.
The ones in the photo at the top are non-fiction, poetry, and even a magazine. Looking at them, I see an odd kind of interplay among their titles. Unintentional, I promise, but kind of a fun treat providing a bit of comic relief, as the two hardcover books are about disasters that occurred in Newfoundland.
The books in the photo below are novels I've read recently, and both come, as Vancouver reviewer Tom Sandborn might say, "highly recommended."
Speechless concerns the plight of a young woman accused of adultery. Punishment for 'her crime' (actually a rape) is to be a public stoning. There's a review of it (one I wrote) in the most recent edition
The latest novel from Helen Humphreys, Rabbit Foot Bill, came out last fall (and I bought it right away), but I saved it, as I admit to being a fan of hers. I knew I'd want to savour it, like a treat you save for some special occasion. Wherever she sets her books (this one, in Saskatchewan), her writing transports me there. And even though I didn't write a review of it, I'll admit there are quite a few orange stickies marking passages I want to go back to.
I hope you'll remember that today isn't the only day to Read Canadian. It's a pleasure -- at least for me -- any day of the year.
While that greeting may no longer be quite the right thing to say, the ideas behind the greetings at Lunar New Year remain. Those sentiments range through all sorts of good wishes -- for good health, prosperity, success in ventures undertaken (especially studies), and peace.
The lucky red packets traditionally hold money. The ones in the photo above contain chocolate in the shape of coins. As far as I'm concerned, not a terrible substitute.
Here in the Lower Mainland area of British Columbia, this day is generally observed with parades and fireworks and plenty of public celebrating. Naturally, with the pandemic in full bloom, those events have been cancelled, replaced with several virtual observances. Not the same, but at least safe.
The plan here is to have an array of dim sum treats for supper. Most of those are purchased, pre-made frozen treats that don't require much more than a ride in the steamer. But because this year is unique, we've taken extra steps and are preparing (actually, we started yesterday) special beef tendon and even chicken feet.
The Year of the Ox (the Metal Ox, no less) sounds, at least to my Western ears, much easier to welcome than last year's Year of the Rat (which, not too surprisingly, links in my mind to 'plague').
Do you know which animal rules the year you were born? Finding out might (or might not) help you learn just how lucky you will be this year.
It's been announced that the TransMountain Pipeline extension will require the removal of 1308 trees from several spots in the city of Burnaby.
Although I tried finding a local address that matched that number, 1310 was the closest I could find. Considering that the 1308 applies only to the biggest trees in this cull, the slightly higher number seems close enough.
The citizens of Burnaby elected people they believed would protect the environment to serve on their City Council. Those councillors in turn enacted bylaws that were meant to protect their city's trees.
So I'm a bit dumbfounded at the fact that the courts -- established, I'd always thought, to protect laws (and even bylaws) decreed that Burnaby's bylaws could be so blatantly put aside.
If you, like me, find this outcome to be more than 'not quite right' please write to Justin Trudeau -- quick, while the trees are still standing. There's a form on the 1308 Trees website which makes it very easy to do exactly that.
I couldn't resist taking a couple of photos, and must admit, I couldn't resist the temptation to steal one.
When I got home, I put it into a little vase and set it on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. I figured, with my pair of my brass swans standing guard, it could serve as a little reminder of hope.
But the little rose wasn't quite enough to bring the miracle I'd been hoping for.
My sister-in-law, a New Yorker for many years, was hospitalized with the virus on January 8th. Shortly thereafter she was put on a respirator and moved to the ICU where she was monitored.
She had no underlying conditions. Was never a smoker.
But yesterday we received word that her heart finally gave out.
If only the people who claim this disease is a hoax could be part of our story, they might be able to let the truth sink in.
This killer virus is real -- sadly, all too real for us.
There's something about the way the thick pieces click into place that is much more satisfying than the non-sound that comes from putting cardboard pieces together.
I suppose if I get desperate, I can open one of my precious Beatles' puzzles -- ones I've kept sealed in case they ever get valuable... this one, which is not only of my favourite of their films, but might well be what I'm asking for: Help!
Wednesday gave us an inauguration ceremony that was dignified and of and for the people. Respect. Diversity. Calm. Such guiding words.
Dana Bash, one of CNN's commentators said yesterday that it was clear that now there were suddenly "adults in the White House" for a change.
Even the tulips in the window box seem to be bathed in a rosy glow.
Truly, a time for going forward. Onward.
The Twitter Bird that holds court on all things Twitter, the platform that no longer allows Tweets from Donald Trump. That account's been closed, we hear permanently.
Strangely, the little bird in the photo, which to me at least looks a lot like his cousin on Twitter, no longer has a voice. The gizmo inside him that used to make a 'tweeting' sound when you moved him has worn itself out. Something like the way that president's voice has worn itself out.
Oh well, at least he got his wall. He must be disappointed that it's currently around the government buildings in Washington, D.C. and not quite the kind of wall he'd promised.
Three more days.
The virus continues to rage, and so do the terrible-sounding plans for rebellious events in the US. Frightening, and hard to say which seems worse.
Tonight's new moon is the first of this still mostly-new year, though its skinny fingernail of light will likely not be visible here. We're still experiencing more rain than usual, which makes for obscured skies. Still, that moon symbolizes another new beginning.
And obscured, hard-to-know-what-comes-next days are how things feel, especially in light of the many changes occurring on the political scene.
Really, all I figure I can really ask from our elected officials is honesty.
So, in that light, pale though the light of a new moon might be, I say to our premier, Mr. Horgan, please face up to the massive mistake that is Site C. Stop it now, so we can move towards actions to remediate the disaster the site has become -- quick, before it gets any worse.
The day started with a big breakfast, one that's lasted us long enough that we can wait 'til supper for a Christmas dinner.
Presents aren't a part of this celebration. In fact, tomorrow we'll be packing away any gifts still sitting under the tree (not an evergreen, a decorated hibiscus). That's when we'll also be taking down the lights and other decorations.
The amaryllis, now on its second branch of blossoms, can stay for a while. Its beauty helps dispel the mostly rainy days we've had of late and seems to offer the promise of spring.
The blank page of a new calendar always feels like it means the chance for a fresh start on things.
One of the matters we always settle up for the beginning of the year is our bills.
I've long called our method a marriage-saver, as it's meant we've never needed to argue about money.
When I buy something, I tear a small rip in the top of my receipt and put it into what we call 'the jar' (even though it's actually a drawer, and not a jar at all). When the guy buys, he puts his receipt into the same place, but because it's un-torn, we know he paid.
At the end of the year, we separate the chits and make our totals. We figure out the difference, divide it in half, and that's how much the person who spent less pays to the one who paid more.
Once we've got that figured out, we burn all those supermarket and produce store and home repair shop and pizza place receipts.
Because it's been raining so much, we had to wait for our annual bonfire. But yes, here it is -- a fresh start on 'the jar' and on a new year.
Here's hoping we're not the only ones heading into fresh territory, especially after the horrific events in the US today.
Today is also the birthday of two other men (one an author) that I love.
A day for reading about love, thinking about love -- not a bad way to spend a day.
Still, it's giving us memories we won't forget.
Think of the stories from the pandemic of 1918 -- the year my father was born. I can only imagine how worried my gramma must have been, hoping she wouldn't get sick while she was pregnant.
We'll all have our own stories, though I'm sure we'll be happier when they're well in the rear-view mirror.
Onward, towards the new year, but for now, let's celebrate Christmas.
Tomorrow (or, here on the West Coast of Canada, 2am tonight) brings another kind of coming back --- the one we are blessed with every year, the Solstice, when the days again start to grow longer and hope grows along with the daylight.
This year also brings a conjunction between Jupiter and Saturn that hasn't occurred for hundreds of years, maybe another sign that life on Earth is soon to improve. Because those 'conjoined' stars will be so bright, they've been dubbed this year's 'Christmas Star'.
Those iris sprouting in between the leaves outside my local library looked like a harbinger of spring not impossibly far off.
Good things on the horizon, getting nearer all the time.
I'm one of those oddballs who still likes to send (and receive!) Christmas cards.
Quite a few of the ones I send are homemade, often using bits of old cards, recycling them into new creations.
And yes, this one's going to a friend from long-ago, one I've been lucky enough to find and reconnect with. Something I treasure.
But I've also been rediscovering other kinds of friends -- the kind in the image at the top of this post -- like that darling girl, Anne with an E.
I think I might have started this kick earlier this fall when I went back to Philip Pullman's wonderful series, 'His Dark Materials' and reread the first in that trilogy, The Golden Compass. There's nothing quite like riding along with Lyra, hanging on to the fur of a very big polar bear.
Ah, so blessed am I -- even when I can't hang out with my usual, nearby friends, I can still pal about with those friends in the pages of well-loved books.
She brought us this lovely little wreath she had made. To match the "Peace to all who enter" flag by our door, she made it in the shape of a peace sign (hard to see, as it's now interwoven with the black metal knocker).
Besides getting me into a little bit of the spirit, the wreath has made me think about just what this year's Christmas will be like.
It doesn't look as though we'll be able to have friends or family over for any kind of celebrating (not even the traditional Solstice celebration), as with rising numbers, we all need to be vigilant towards keeping safe.
So instead, I plan to make up tiny gift packets for my neighbours. I'll leave them on doorsteps and pretend that Santa's responsible.
We can all only hope that this year's Christmas with its restrictions and worries is one we'll never have to observe the same way again.
Last night, with a fire in the chiminea and no rain (for a welcome change), it seemed like a good night to have a picnic supper.
Nothing very fancy -- buns and sausages along with a pot of beans. Homemade quince cider in big metal mugs.
I suppose this is a post that should likely show up on the old "What's fer supper?" blog, but the celebratory feeling from eating outside by the fire made the meal feel like something better than just 'supper'.
These days, we keep seeking (and luckily, finding now and then) ways of bringing a bit of spice into the restricted lives we're all now leading, even if tonight that 'spice' was mostly raw onions on what some would dismiss as 'hot dogs'.
Every now and then, some silly idea comes along, delivering some joy to break up the dullness.
I heard part of an episode of Tapestry today, a CBC show that deals with matters that might be called spiritual. Author Richard Van Camp was doing what he does best: telling stories. I loved the one he told about heaven (being like the West Edmonton Mall). But even more, I liked his idea about a full moon practice -- giving things away, which is why I like the idea of regifting, especially of things we love.
It isn't full moon yet -- not until month's end. But what I'd like to give away today is the idea of forgiveness.
In truth, I don't think it's all that easy to hold a grudge, but some of us seem better than others at this.
I'm in the process of writing a letter to someone I love, and I'm hoping that his heart will soften enough that we can be close again.
But the person I'm sure my mother would most like to see in my life again is my youngest sister. The last time she spoke to me was at our mother's funeral. That seems like an awfully long time to lug around whatever transgression she believes I committed against her. And yes, it would help if I knew what it was, as it would make an apology so much easier..
But maybe that's the little miracle I can hope for today (or soon). In the meantime, the little angel stands guard over the tealight candle in the kitchen.
I love that even our buses help us remember, especially where this is a year when we can't have any gatherings to observe Remembrance Day.
We listened to the ceremony from Ottawa with its speeches and haunting bagpipes, and even managed to catch a glimpse of the old planes doing their flyover here.
And a new tradition (one that won't be repeated) is the fact that this is the day I send off my manuscript so review copies can be printed. It certainly feels right, being that the book is about Harold and Maude, a film with such strong anti-war sentiments.
But that's not all I plan to do today. Our local arts council has set up a number of online activities to help us observe the day. My favourite is an excellent demonstration of watercolour technique. I think I feel inspired enough to try painting my own.
And beyond the traditional poppy, I've started my annual amaryllis bulb, and hoping it will bloom in time for Christmas. And yes, that will be the day of Alex Trebek's truly final Jeopardy, so the bloom -- in addition to brightening up our home -- will serve as a kind of virtual gift to him, one of both remembrance and of gratitude.
The first reported was the much-loved host of Jeopardy!, Alex Trebek. Tributes and remembrances have been on every news outlet. My kind-hearted sister expressed concern over how sad I might be, as I'll admit to having been a fan of that show for years. In truth, I remember the first series with Art Fleming, as my gramma watched it, with me by her side, probably pitching as many answers (er, questions) as I could come up with.
Less notice or fanfare went to the passing of another Canadian, Howie Meeker -- not only a great hockey player, but a longtime feature on Hockey Night in Canada, a program that was a Saturday night tradition in so many households. Meeker had a unique style as a commentator, overly excitable, and with a high-register voice (brought to our attention by the satirists at SCTV). News reports reminded us not only of his many accomplishments, but (as was also the case with Trebek), his humanity. And really, it seemed all too appropriate in this morning's NYT crossword puzzle (one of my addictions) to have a clue, "Golly!" with its three-letter answer -- completing a phrase used often by Meeker -- "Gee".
Both men were recipients of our country's highest honour, the Order of Canada. Two of our greats, Adieu.
The other day I was down at the beach, mostly I suppose, seeking some kind of solace.
It was only for a moment, but I managed to catch a part of it -- beneath a sky filled with glowering dark clouds, a band of sunlight broke through.
It brought me the comfort of a small bit of hope. And now with this morning's news, I'm feeling that the whole world can finally exhale.
And here it now is already November, the day I was raised to believe in as "All Souls' Day" -- a day when we were told we could say a certain set of prayers, and a soul would be released from the agonies of purgatory -- sort of a 'get-out-of-jail-free' card is how it seemed.
The traditional Day of the Dead (Dia de Muertos) is the celebration in Mexico today, though it doesn't seem anywhere near as grim as the day of kneeling and praying I was supposed to observe.
And tomorrow, well who knows what that will bring. I can only hope it means a change for calm, respect and peace. Otherwise, it's hard to say what the rest of this long winter might bring.
As for me and my love of holidays, I can't help but wonder about Christmas -- probably not a long table full of friends and family sharing the traditional Swedish meatballs.
Still, we can only hope for the best, can't we.
Today, especially, I am needing a splash of colour, as I learned some devastating news. The Peace River diversion at the Site C dam site (damn site) occurred on October 3rd. Sure, BC Hydro put an announcement on their website, but how many of us monitor that corporate hype.
It was only by a small accident, communicating with someone not in government, that this tragedy came to my attention. Surely this will now provide the excuse that indeed we have passed the point of no return on this project.
Worst of it all is that it took place while we were in election mode in this province. And even though Sonia Furstenau, our wonderful Green Party leader, raised a question about Site C during that forum, she didn't receive much of an answer -- and the premier certainly didn't reveal that the diversion had occurred (which surely he knew).
Disappointed is too small a word for all that's going through my mind right now. I can't help but feel that the people of BC have been betrayed by a smarmy kind of avoidance I never expected from our public representatives.
Unlike some of the people mentioned in the article, we both knew about James Taylor. That somewhat-raggedy looking album cover in the photo is the first one I had by him, though more are stacked in the pile of LP's I still have.
Taylor was the surprise guest of the event, something I am pretty sure owed to the fact that he and Joni Mitchell were supposed to be an item at the time.
In the semi-darkness between performers, a tall lanky fellow came onto the stage and moved from amp to amp, apparently checking settings and such before he picked up a guitar, walked to the mic and said something like, Hey there, I'm James Taylor.
The Greenpeace button in the photo isn't (I don't think, anyway) the one that was sold the evening of the concert. Still, it's been around for nearly as long as that album.
I just wish the friend I'd gone to the concert with that night were also still around. Sadly, he's the one referred to in a not-too-long-ago post, the one about the empty shirt.
One of those numerical sequences I can't help but noticing.
Today, October 10, 2020 translates into 10102020, so how can I ignore something so elegant?
Next time such a pattern will occur is November 11, 2222 -- or, 11112222, a date I'm quite sure I won't be here to notice.
Oh, the goofy things that make me attention...
P.S. The next group of sequential numbers holding major significance will be happening soon: January 19-20, 21. Fingers crossed!
We spent a day wandering through forests, mainly on the lookout for edible mushrooms. As always, most of the ones we spotted were either not safe to eat, 'pre-chewed' by slugs or other forest residents, or sometimes just gone at the stem to some other mushroom-seeker who beat us to a particular patch.
Yum!
Yet, it isn't just mushrooms that get found in the forest. Walking almost silently (except of course for the intermittent tinkle of the bear bell I wear) over the deep carpet of moss makes me think I'm in the land of The Lord of the Rings or maybe on another planet, like in Avatar.
One of the most important 'foraged' items I bring home with me is an awareness of that quiet place within, maybe the spirit, that takes such comfort and solace there.
Temps are warm enough to not need a jacket or sweater, and the sky couldn't be bluer.
The quince are now getting ripe. In fact, I can smell the scent of them wafting through the house as the Dear Man is making a big pot of quince-ade, a delicious and refreshing drink that I associate with this time of year.
Yesterday was World Rivers Day this year dedicated to the salmon, our wonderfully important (and delicious) fish whose stocks have become so sadly depleted.
But today I am happily celebrating World Rivers Day again, albeit a bit belatedly, as it seems I'm no longer so alone-feeling when it comes to questioning the sense of going ahead with the Site C project. A letter from people who matter cites many of the reasons it's time for this project to stop. It seems that our beloved Peace may indeed soon get the respect (and the reprieve) it deserves. This is a cause I've been concerned about for quite a few years.
As part of my wanting to celebrate and to belatedly pay tribute to World Rivers Day, here's a short video with yes, the sound of a river, always such a comfort to me -- something to enjoy, a little piece of memorabilia from our recent camping trip, this time the sounds of the Similkameen.
Most of the time we were camping in Manning Park, a great place for hiking easy trails and just plain
One of my favourites was this 'abstract' one which may well have been an
accident, or might have even served as someone's painter's palette or drip-catcher. I'll never know.
Coming home serves as a change -- back to the nice, big queen-size bed and of course, electricity and water on demand (hot even!).
Tomorrow marks another change: the autumn equinox occurs early in the morning when I trust I'll still be sleeping. I doubt that the day will look much different, as leaves have been turning and temps have been cooling down for a while, but the new season will be official.
But oh -- an even bigger change is coming here in BC. We're having an election. And I think quite a few of us aren't sure it's a great idea.
One constant that we've been told will endure, even if our government is changing, will be the steadfast reporting of updates from our provincial health officer, Dr Bonnie Henry. One point of continuity will be her regular updates when she always includes her oh-so-quotable mantra, which even showed up on yet another example of rock art in the woods.
Among reasons for this season's mega-fires is, of course, climate change with its much drier summers. Another contributing factor may also be the fact that when we replant a forest after it's been logged, we generally plant a single species (a monoculture) to replace what was probably a more natural, mixed forest.
Earlier today, when the sun was directly overhead and shining through the skylights, it cast an almost orangey glow onto the wood floors.
About the only word that comes to mind for it? Eerie.
Because I used to work in schools, those first-day jitters still have an effect on me. And last night I had the dream of being back there -- only not in a way that was fun (seeing colleagues and students, happy to be back together). This was definitely a nightmare.
Similar to other anxiety dreams I sometimes have, it was all about not being prepared.
I was in the high school library where I spent my happiest school years, but I was teaching an English (or maybe Socials?) class, and I completely lost any sense of control. The kids were definitely the ones who were in charge, and the situation was complicated by a few senior students who'd decided that, since it was the library (open to all), they could sit in the midst of the other students and talk as if they were the only ones around.
When I woke up, I was relieved at it being a dream, but it made me think how much times have changed.
Students used to take pencils and notebooks to class. Now the 'notebook' is a laptop, and they're also packing hand sanitizer and packets of cleansing towelettes.
As for the calculator, if you look closely up top, there's a pencil box with a sharpener tucked into one end. Looking even more closely, you might see a sliding 'bar' along the ruler that tops the box. It served as a non-mechanical calculator of sorts, back in the dark ages when I was in Grade Three. You slid the bar along the ruler and could find answers to the times tables, numbers we eventually had to memorize.
Not quite a 'slide rule' (an object I never mastered), and certainly not something today's students would have on their list of school supplies to keep in their backpacks.
There but for the grace, etc. go I during these challenging days. And hallelujah, just about three o'clock -- time for the bell. Bless 'em all, and may they be safe.
