Not quite on hiatus

Summer sees so many events 'on hiatus' status. Holidays can sometimes provide a similar break.

In a world as full of chaotic events as this summer is seeing -- Cairo, Syria -- and closer to home, trains exploding in Quebec, floods in Alberta and just tonight in Metro Toronto...it feels good to be able to stop and at least look at the flowers.

A little bit of calmness in a raging sea of altogether too much bad news.

Just dessert

As opposed to just deserts, meaning things that are deserved, whether reward or punishment. Weird, but I always thought those were 'just deSSerts' -- like, your reward for having eaten that pile of overcooked Brussels sprouts on your plate. Not though. In this case, it's just a single 's' though it's not pronounced like desert, as in Sahara. Really, what an impossible language. Enough to make you want some kind of reward just for figuring out one of its mysteries. 

This ice cream with fruit is just a dessert, not a 'just desert' just a treat. I could hardly believe it when I saw the carton of ice cream actually called ‘Canadian Vanilla, eh’. What an easy way to celebrate today, Canada Day.

Raspberries fresh-picked from the little garden out back are supposed to form the red bars either side of the maple leaf. A flag that looks good enough to eat. Here I go!

Salady days

Not the same thing as the 'salad days' referred to in Shakespeare, but these salady days are every bit as permeated with green.

Once the Solstice has passed, I want it to be full-on summer, and fresh salad greens from the backyard are part of that. Yes, this batch rides in a wagon. It can easily be moved for mowing (or, to get more sun). And by being that little bit raised off the ground, the lettuces are safe from slugs and the resident bunny.

Having our own daily salad bar is a treat. But seeing all the condominiums that have sprouted in our neighbourhood, I wonder how people can grow any of their own food. And when I see so many vacant lots (houses torn down, developers waiting for whatever it is they wait for), I wish some of those lots could be turned into community gardens, even if only temporarily.

Disappointingly, Surrey, the city where I live, has only four community gardens. Comparing this to Vancouver, with its 75 community gardens (with one of them occupying the grounds of the City Hall in the city's downtown), this seems just plain not good enough.

For now, about all I can do is be grateful for how lucky I am -- to have a bit of a yard where we can grow such a nice part of our daily food.

Private. Keep out.

As if. Still, that idea is probably the reason any kid builds a treefort, or finds a hole in a shrubbery somewhere she thinks she can call her own. Just a space for thinking, a spot for some privacy.

The hero of the day (the week, month, year?) has to be whistle-blower Edward Snowden. The Guardian ran an interview with him today (worth clicking on and reading).

Weird the way he has the same name as such an important character in Catch-22. Snowden was the bombardier who'd been shot and kept saying he was cold. He serves as the transformative force in the novel which shifts Yossarian's thinking.

Today's Snowden seems to be serving a similar purpose: shifting our thinking so we'll look harder at the matter of our privacy -- where it's gone, how can we retrieve any shreds of it.

They're watching. We know they are. Sifting among the raccoons and elks and bunnies or whatever we might choose to write about, hoping for weasel words to light up their scorecards.

I suppose I should throw in some weasel words tonight. 

How many might fit into one sentence? Hmmm... How about this. 

Stephen Harper’s speech bombed at the G8 Summit.  

That should get a whole raft of buzzer-bots zinging.

Coming to fruition

June restores my belief in renewal. If I could bottle the morning air, I'm sure it would sustain me through winter better than any vitamin concoction.

The strawberries are just about ready, but they're not the only new beginnings I've been privy to.

The past few days have been pretty hectic, as two friends have brand new books out, one of them a novel, the other her fifth book of poetry. I've been hosting one of them -- laughing and driving her here and there, being part of readings as we made our merry way through coastal B.C.

There've been readings in Vancouver, in Mill Bay on Vancouver Island, in Victoria and back again on the mainland in New Westminster.

Tiring? Yes. Worth it? Absolutely. Especially if I'll soon be able to reward myself with a feed of sweet (nothing better than) BC strawberries.

City of contrasts

A five-day visit to Ottawa has convinced me the silly polls are wrong. Our capital doesn’t deserve its recent designation as Canada’s most boring city. Boring wasn’t a term I could apply. There was so much to do, I ran out of time and couldn’t get around to everything I’d wanted to see or do.

It’s a city where old meets new, most obviously in its architecture. Turn of the century (that is, the 19^th to 20^th) houses stand in small clumps beneath office towers. Churches and government buildings lend an air of tradition, while glass buildings and construction cranes crowd the horizon.

The National Gallery, where I spent two afternoons, provides further contrast, with antiquities under the same roof as starkly modern abstractions. The two items that fascinated me the most were a video loop shown on the ceiling (mattresses on the floor to lie on, so you can look up) and a tiny carving of a beluga whale, marked as being 2,500 years old. Wow!

As in any cosmopolitan city, there's plenty of high-end shopping and fancy restaurants. Unfortunately, the same contrasts evident elsewhere -- the ones between rich and poor -- are here as well. 

The market area provided more reasonable food choices -- bakeries, ethnic restaurants, poutine stands, flowers for sale. 

But the biggest contrast of all was the new exhibit on at Canada’s War Museum – an exhibit on Peace. 

One of the coolest aspects of this is the fact that John Lennon and Yoko Ono came to Ottawa on June 3, 1969. It was the day after they'd finished the bed-in events they'd done in Amsterdam and Montreal. By fluke, I ran into a photo of their meeting with Pierre Elliott Trudeau during that historic visit.

Now, if only I could convince the powers-that-be to change the name of the memorial museum to the Museum of War and Peace. 

Dream a little dream

It seems that all of our travels in The Rattler have convinced us of the joys of getting away. Of course, it's possible that the construction of the GIANT house next door may have something to do with that too. 

Whatever the reason, this weekend saw us poking around south of the border, in an anomaly of a place called Point Roberts. According to Wikipedia, it's a pene-exclave of the U.S. -- something I'm pretty sure translates as part of the country that's not connected physically. It's a tiny place that, if you're travelling by land, is only accessible via Canada.

We had a wonderful time, strolling the beach at low tide and exploring a few of the properties for sale there. 

These ranged from low-end (more realistic to our budget) where the realtor's descriptions are always the most creative. Yes, the floors do indeed 'slope in a few directions.' You wouldn't want to try a game of marbles in there. 

We also indulged in some beyond-our-means dreams, like taking a look at this property on the bluff with its view of forever. 

Again, the description shows creativity. 'The cabin needs some work' translates as 'there's a rose bush growing through the foundation into the main room.' 

Oh well, it's always fun to dream. And washing it all down with lunch at a seaside pub wasn't a bad thing either. 

Pieces of pie aren't squared

Nor, for that matter, are they triangular.

Usually they’re wedge-shaped, though I have no idea what the correct term for wedge-shaped might be. Segment with arc?? Whatever. Pie-shaped.

But this isn’t about geometrical terms or determining the area of anything. 

It’s about seeing things in fresh, new ways.

Whoever it was that amended this sign needed only a single line to alter it completely.

I don’t think I will ever again be able to see a no-smoking symbol without considering the wonders of pie. 

The poem is mightier than the chainsaw

Saturday saw yet another event of celebration resulting from the Han Shan Poetry Project, the brainchild of poet Susan McCaslin. Only Saturday's event was more than poems.

Langley artist Susan J. Falk was inspired by the poems in the trees and created a series of paintings for a show she’s calling “Written in the Forest”. The paintings incorporate words into their design – just a key phrase from each poem – enough to firmly link the idea of visual image and poetic line.  

It isn’t very often that poets get the privilege of seeing their words incorporated into another form of art. This time, the privilege was doubled by being able to read our poems while standing in the midst of the paintings. In the photo above, Susan McCaslin (right) reads her poem while Susan Falk, almost a part of her glorious painting, looks on.

The works are currently on display at The Fort Gallery in Fort Langley. For the duration of the show, there’s an ongoing silent auction. Falk intends to donate proceeds of the auction to WOLF, the organization that first brought McLellan Forest to the attention of the public.

But the best part of all? Publicity garnered by the Han Shan Project has resulted in at least 60% of the endangered forestland now being protected as parkland. That’s good news for the future and a testament to the power of art. 

Beautiful, serene -- and even good for you!

Saturday was not just 'May the 4th be with you' day (and really, who started that one, George Lucas?). It was also World Labyrinth Day.

I'm quick to admit the only reason I knew the significance of the date was that I was part of an event marking the official opening of a new labyrinth at nearby Kwomais Point Park.

Nearly a year ago, I did a post on this labyrinth, which was then only a clearing in the woods. I called that post "A Place of Vision" as that's what the word 'Kwomais' means.

And what a lovely day we had to celebrate this 'place of vision'. The weather was perfect -- sunny and unseasonably warm for early May. Certainly no one complained, including the singing eagles who soared overhead.

Although the official ceremony was at 11, many of us stayed in the park to celebrate the 'Walk as One' at 1 pm which marked the world-wide observance.

I filled the time between events with a walk in the forest and discovered as I always do, that the natural paths provide their own kind of meditative labyrinth. I also discovered this treasure that someone had left behind in
the forest, their creation which I call an 'art tree'.

One o'clock was also when the 'unofficial' part of the ceremonies began. Local artist and writer Virginia Gillespie, one of the prime movers behind construction of the labyrinth, led us along the pathway while beating a drum and speaking beautiful words about labyrinths, their history and a number of beliefs and practices surrounding them. The one I found most intriguing was the practice of drawing labyrinth patterns on the bellies of pregnant women -- supposedly a track for the unborn infant to follow!

Even if you're not pregnant, walking a labyrinth is supposed to provide many health benefits, especially when it comes to stress-related ailments such as high blood pressure and chronic pain.

If you'd like to see this particular labyrinth a bit better, there's a link to a song (a bit long, but...) which praises the Eagles' Nest Labyrinth and which shows it as it looked earlier this year.

And in case you think you (or your group) would like to build your own labyrinth, here's a link to some instructions for doing just that.

The best 100

In 2014, Touchwood Editions plans to release a book about books – specifically, BC’s greatest 100 books.

Ever.

Since their criteria defining a BC book seemed pretty open-ended, I devised my own. 

My key consideration? Would the work be essentially different if the book’s BC-related elements happened someplace else?

Consider for example Douglas Coupland’s Girlfriend in a Coma.Weather (specifically, in North Vancouver and West Van) plays a huge role in the overall atmosphere of the book. It would be nowhere as haunting if it were set in a place where the sun doesn’t seem like such a rare commodity. Fog, soggy lawns, abundant winter greenery – all contribute to the novel, almost serve as one of the book’s characters in furthering the story.

I’ll admit, I’ve pushed the BC boundary with a few, but only with books too good to ignore. Besides, in these instances, the authors (LeonaGom and Howard O’Hagan) have each spent a considerable part of their life in British Columbia.

And in one case, I’ve included a book strictly on its one-of-a-kind-ness, coupled with the fact the author, Mark Harris, was a longtime BC resident who must not be forgotten. He knew more about cinema than any other British Columbian ever has, and likely ever will. 

Many of the books on my list have already been granted awards and honours. But I like to think there might be a few here that have flown under the radar by mistake or oversight. 

One such nominee, by local writer Margo Bates, is the funny and sad (and oh-so-real) P.S. Don’t Tell Your Mother.

And wouldn’t you know, there’s one that I can’t fix a title to. I’m remembering a small (and beautifully produced) book of essays that tracks the seasons of the year by using the device of 13 moons. Each month’s moon has a name (e.g. Hunter’s Moon, Harvest Moon) and the seasons reveal themselves through beautiful word sketches. I’ve poked around and even asked a few writers if they remember this book, but no one seems to. Who knows, maybe I dreamed it.

For what it’s worth, here, in no particular order, is my current list.

Joy Kogawa, Obasan

Howard O’Hagan, Tay John

Ethel Wilson, Swamp Angel

Douglas Coupland, Girlfriend in a Coma

Daniel Francis, ed. Encyclopedia of British Columbia

John Armstrong, Wages

Bill Gaston, The World

Emily Carr, Klee Wyck

George McWhirter, ed. A Verse Map of Vancouver

Brian Brett, Trauma Farm

Al Purdy, Cariboo Horses

Gurjinder Basran, Everything was Goodbye

Brian Fawcett, Virtual Clearcut

John Gould, Kilter: 55 Fictions

June Hutton, Underground

Grant Buday, Stranger on a Strange Island [or White Lung]

William Gibson, Neuromancer [the complete Cyberspace trilogy; failing that, this book]

Leona Gom, The Y Chromosome

Charlotte Gill, Eating Dirt

Paul St. Pierre, Breaking Smith’s Quarter Horse

Gary Geddes, ed. Skookum Wawa

Mark Harris, Pictures at a Revolution: Five Movies and the Birth of the New Hollywood

Susan Juby, Alice, I think

Maggie deVries, Missing Sarah

Evelyn Lau, Runaway

Anne Cameron, Daughters of Copper Woman

Margo Bates, P.S. Don’t Tell Your Mother

Alan Twigg, First Invaders: Literary Origins of British Columbia

Susan Musgrave, Origami Dove

Steven Price, Into that Darkness

George Ryga, The Ecstasy of Rita Joe

Stephen Hume, Bush Telegraph

Malcolm Lowry, October Ferry to Gabriola

Kate Braid, To this Cedar Fountain

Betty Lambert, Crossings

Audrey Thomas, Intertidal Life

Howard White, Writing in the Rain

Not up to 100 yet. Which books would you add?

A face for Earth Day

For a glimpse at some other faces appropriate to Earth Day, even if not as happy, click here. Or, better yet, get yourself outside today and put one foot in front of the other. Walk lightly on the Earth.

Not a trilogy...

…more of a hat trick.

I’ve been lucky enough to have work selected for three new anthologies. The tricky bit has been the fact that launch events for all of them have been over the course of the last week. Exhausting? Yes. Nonetheless, exciting, that’s for sure.

One of the books, Jack Layton: Art in Action, commemorates Jack Layton, the best prime minister Canada never got the chance to have. The other two – Force Field and Alive at the Center – are strictly poetry, a most appropriate way to observe National Poetry Month, a celebration that takes place throughout the month of April, not only here in Canada, but also in the U.S.

Even if you don’t consider yourself a poet, take some time to appreciate the beauty this month brings. In case some words of wonder whisper themselves in your ear, write ’em down. Who knows, you may find that they turn themselves into a poem. 

A courage of nettles

As with just about every plant and weather phenomenon, superstitions are part of the lore of nettles. Gathering nettles has become a spring ritual for us. When the nettles are ‘just right’ it’s a sure sign that winter is behind us. Although seeking courage wasn't part of our quest (nor was protection from lightning, though that sounds like a good thing), the word 'courage' seemed like a good collective noun for a bunch of them. 

We looked for nettles in early March, and though we found a few, they weren’t quite tall enough for picking. About 8 inches seems best – with plenty of leaf, but easy enough to cut without harming the plant.

Then, in early April, we decided to try again. And yes, they were the right height – and abundant.

Picking three bags (ordinary, shopping-type bags) left us with two bags once the leaves had all been stripped from the stems.

Then, eight pots of water later, eight little bags were lightly steamed and ready for the freezer. Best of all, once they’ve been blanched, their nasty sting (which Hans Christian Andersen's courageous princess endured) is gone.

I’ll use these throughout the year – sometimes in combination with spinach, sometimes on their own – in lasagnas, cannelloni or spanakopita. 

Iron-rich and flavourful, they’re a forager’s dream. 

Coconut dreams

If we weren't home from our holiday, this is where I’d be today – attending the Coconut Fest on the east end of Grand Bahama Island.

The palms on last week’s post are the same kind used to decorate the bandstand pictured here. And yes, they go all the way around.

Among treats we’ll be missing are coconut tarts. For the camera’s sake, a half of one survived long enough for this shot. And somewhat weirdly, this was exactly the shape of the moon in this morning's pre-dawn sky.

If there’s ever another time for the Bahamas, I’d like to try to make a point of being there for Easter Monday, as that’s the date for this annual festival that celebrates the bounty of the coconut. Coconut tarts, coconut buns, and something called a coconut 'jimmy' -- these sound like a doughy concoction with coconut between its layers.

Oh, and just in case you need a better look than the peek provided in the photo above, this is the beach. Crowded, eh…

Palmate

When I was growing up, one of the (few) days on the church calendar that made any sense to me was Palm Sunday – and maybe not so much that it made sense, as that it made me happy to be at church that day.

I suspect what I liked was the fact that Palm Sunday was the day we received a swath of palm leaf. Although only a small token, that dried bit of palm felt like a gift – the single day at church when, instead of just throwing coins into a basket, we got something back.

I came to associate the day with things changing, going forward. It may have been Palm Sunday when my parents decided to buy the house they’d been considering. I think I met one of my best boyfriends that day. Silliness perhaps, but a person seeking direction is alert to points that may be worth marking.

Yesterday was this year’s Palm Sunday, and though I can’t say I noticed any big shift going on in my life, I did discover some beautiful palms. I bet they’re the same variety that would have been blessed and distributed had I still been someone who believed in going to church.

As with so many religious observances, when it comes to Palm Sunday there’s some crossover in the events of origin. Jesus, who was a Jew (a fact that some Christians may find heretical) was riding a donkey into Jerusalem as he was preparing to celebrate Passover.
He was greeted by people laying palms along the ground. And today – at least in Canadian time zones – is the first day of Passover.

Even though I don’t follow any particular religion anymore, it’s clear that those early lessons were imprinted, as some of those early-learned stories appear now and then in one of my poems.

Whether this is the week when you observe rituals associated with Holy Week (pre-Easter) or Passover, or simply the changing of the seasons, may it be a time when you can hold your own palm open to whatever lies ahead.

Finding balance

Even though it's not quite officially spring, many of the flowers know better. Crazily, I had to go uptown to shoot this image, as the squirrels had efficiently eaten the budding heads off all the daffodils in our yard. As far as I can tell, they didn't leave a single one. I can only hope the pesky critters got their fill and will leave the rest of this spring's bulbs alone. 

Technically, the equinox doesn't happen until Wednesday, and for most of us, it'll be while we're sleeping. So unless you want to set an alarm, it probably won't be a year to do the egg-balancing experiment.

Still, there are plenty of other ways of seeking balance in our lives. The first that comes to mind is likely diet -- in the foods we choose to eat. The one I'm trying to pay more attention to this year is trickier (at least for me), the ongoing delicate balance between work and play. This week, Spring Break, the goal is play.

What the Robin Saw

Spring is when I usually get around to washing the windows. The accumulated grime of winter (compounded by the ongoing construction next door) gets to a point where I get out the vinegar and newspapers and clear them off. This year, I have (beyond the sawdust) a new sort of 'dirt'.

Yesterday I noticed what looked like a gazillion little scratches in the glass. Looking more closely, I realized the marks weren't scratches, but splashes of bird poop!

Last year, a pair of robins built a nest and raised a family in an outbuilding I call 'the boat house'. This year, though the old nesting spot exists, the robin seems to be looking elsewhere -- into the room where we watch tv.

I don't think it's that he wants to watch the nature channel. I suspect it's that he's interested in the hibiscus tree behind the window. The little tree is still inside for the winter (it goes outside in May, for Queen's birthday), but its blossoms are putting on quite a summery show.

This morning, despite the fact that the blind's been pulled so he doesn't have to gaze in at the tree's alluring form, he's still hanging around, as if hoping that little tropical-looking world might open its doors to welcome him.

I just hope his apparently desperate building urges don't mean we're in for a lollapalooza of a springtime storm. But then, maybe some heavy rains would help loosen at least that window's current grime.

Plying BC's watery highways

It seems I've been doing a lot of travelling lately -- especially on BC's watery highways. Last weekend's trip to Powell River meant four ferry rides, two each way. And this week saw just about as many, though these trips were to different destinations, and on different days.

There's been plenty of rumbling and grumbling since the ferries were privatized (or at least semi-privatized, depending who you talk to) a few years back. The biggest complaints have focused on the rate increases, especially as these have been coupled with cutbacks to service.

Among rumours flying recently has been one suggesting that the route between Comox (on Vancouver Island) and Powell River might be cut. This would see passengers from Powell River needing to take three ferries (and driving over 100 km along the Sunshine Coast), then driving another 100 km once they got to Vancouver Island (at Nanaimo) just so they could get across a relatively short span of water to Comox. The current ferry ride takes an hour and twenty minutes. The impossible-sounding 'new' route would take a full day.

This kind of thinking makes me crazy. And I'm sure the people of Powell River and Comox (and the rest of the upper Island) aren't nuts about the idea either.

There's apparently a survey of ferry services in the works, one we should be seeing a report on pretty soon. My best suggestion for raising more funds for our highways is to toll the folks who use the fabulously-expensive-to-build Sea to Sky Highway, the one that gets skiers from Vancouver to their mountain chalets. But I suppose that's another story -- and likely just another pocket we taxpayers get to keep filled.

I've complained in the past that the boats don't appear as well maintained as I remember them being while they were government-run (as the rest of our highways still sort of are). But rust aside (and yes, it's everywhere once you're out on the decks, away from the glitz of the lounges and shops), staff on the ferries remain friendly and welcoming.

In fact, on last week's return trip from Nanaimo, two of the crew members remembered me from when I'd gone over earlier in the day. And no, I didn't have purple feathers sticking out of my head. I was just me.

As with just about everything in this world, the bottom line can't always be money. The part that should matter more when decisions get made is what the effects will be on people. As Maude of Harold and Maude once said on the subject of people, "Well, they're my species." Mine too.

Weekend in Powellywood

Through a fortunate set of circumstances, we spent the weekend at a film festival in beautiful Powell River, B.C.

Best of all, we were guests at the festival, with everything from film passes and accommodation to food and even the cost of ferries included.

It’s clear that the Powell River Film Festival, established in 2002, is a community-based event, with oodles of volunteers working various aspects of the festival. A raft of sponsors were credited, most of them local businesses. It was good to know who these were, as it was that much easier to pull out the plastic and buy goods from them while we were in town.

The films were shown at the historic Patricia Theatre, claimed by many to be the oldest continuously operating theatre in Canada. 

While the range of films scheduled was excellent, with foreign films, documentaries and locally produced efforts being shown, my favourite was the indie film, Breakfast with Curtis. To my mind, it’s the 2012 equivalent of Harold and Maude. 

Not that it’s a romance; it isn’t. It’s more about community. And if the community portrayed is offbeat, there’s much to be said for the way a group of such different people can respect and enjoy each other. The film reminds how important it is to live fully. And really, I don’t think you can walk away from it without feeling better than you did going in.

But the Festival offered more than just an array of terrific films. A mosaic of arts was on display at Dwight Hall, another of the buildings in Powell River's Historic Townsite. There were quilts, live music, paintings and prints. Food and drink as well as cultural and information booths were also there. Several displays brought my attention to the importance of community in Powell River. This is definitely a town that’s moving in many positive directions.

One of the most encouraging aspects of the festival was its focus on youth. In addition to hosting a weekend film camp for young filmmakers, they sponsored a province-wide competition for 5-minute films. I attended the very classy awards ceremony on Saturday afternoon. Prizes included scholarships to the Gulf Islands Film School, swag from many businesses and organizations, including the NFB. These ‘Bests’ were given, much as the Oscars are, for editing, writing, sound design, camera work, animation, drama and documentary.

As for the supposed ‘real thing’ from Hollywood last night, with its tasteless jokes and whiff of fixing, I prefer my memories from the little festival that could.