Across the world, seeking hope

This week is the long-awaited (and oft-postponed) trip to the Vatican for a delegation of Indigenous people. They're there to see the pope on what I feel is an excursion for hope. Hope for an apology from the pope on behalf of the Catholic Church, hope for meaningful settlements and the return of plundered artifacts, hope most of all, for healing. 

The group ranges from elders to youth, all of whom have been affected in some way by the trauma of residential schools, whether because they attended these 'schools' or whether they're among the many affected by the generational after-effects. 

I love the fact that music is one of the gifts being brought to the pope. Here's a link to a 45-second video of two young Métis who brought along their fiddles. 

Spring-ish

Although the official equinox was yesterday, it's today that I'm observing the first full day of spring here on the west coast. 

I'm also noting that today is World Poetry Day, an observance that I suppose most of the world manages to miss. 

This year, as part of that observance (it's hard to call much of anything a 'celebration' during these dark days), there's a YouTube channel that's featuring the work of quite a few poets who've been writing in support of the brave people of Ukraine. 

It's been a sad time here, with two darling friends dying last week -- one day after the other. Neither of them came as a big surprise, as both had major health issues which meant their time was running low, but sad nonetheless, as both are friends I will greatly miss. 

So maybe that's why my otherwise bright-eyed daffodil appears to be a little droopier than might be expected. 

I can only trust that brighter days are coming soon -- not only here, but also for the rest of the world. 

What's up?

Or, I guess I should say -- what's still up -- at least for now?

It's great to see these trees marked off as protected (I assume that's what they meant by 'procected'), though it's been my experience that even the protective 'orange gates' aren't always enough to keep a tree from being cut down. 

Last year a tree on our street which appeared to have been granted 'orange gate' status, was taken down. One day, the gate was magically gone and a crew of guys were taking the tree (mature and healthy-looking) down, no permit visible. All that remains of it now is a poem I wrote about it. Small comfort. 

You can bet that I'll be paying close attention to the presence of the orange gates in the picture above, and hoping that for once, they'll actually do the job of protecting or even 'procecting' the grove of mature trees still standing behind the barrier. 

Helpless

That's the word for what I've been feeling lately. Unable to do anything about all that's going on. 

The horrific bombing of civilians in Ukraine leaves me feeling empty, drained. My little vase with sunflowers and forsythia branches is all I have in the way of small hopes. The sunflower, with its face turning ever towards the warmth of the sun, is a symbol of Ukraine, the national flower. And the forsythia, with its fat little buds, will open soon with a promise for spring. 

Sadly, on a much smaller scale, is the peril I am feeling for the fate of my city, with its optimistic sounding slogan, The Future Lives Here. 

Considering the swaths of trees that have been disappeared along the King George Highway (oops, more rebranding, as it's now called King George Boulevard, aka KGB), it's not going to be a very green future. Somehow I've always had it in mind that the word 'boulevard' suggests an elegant, tree-lined route. Not any more, not here. This despite the many cautions about climate change heating up and the necessity to protect and plant as many trees as we can. 

Even as I am typing this, the City Council is, I believe, about to rubber-stamp approval for fourth and final reading on the fate of lands abutting the Tata'lu/Little Campbell River, the area that's been rebranded with the gentrified name, South Campbell Heights -- which sounds more like a suburb in a Nancy Drew book than a plan to pave an aquifer. 

Helpless as well in that I can't even manage to open the supposed live-stream access to the Council meeting. Not that I would have been able to do anything, but I believe it's important to bear witness when we can. 

Which, I suppose, is why I keep watching tv news -- to bear witness to the massacre and destruction in Ukraine. All I've been able to do towards helping has been to make a donation to the Canadian Red Cross, where I believe the federal government is still matching what we give. 

Hoping that all of us will find our own ways of honouring all that's going on during these times that feel more and more like the defeat of goodness, the triumph of evil, sometimes like maybe the end of the world. 

Days that will likely be cause for regret

And now, beyond disappointment. 

This has been a terrible week -- globally and even locally. 

On the world stage we are all aware of Putin's invasion of the Ukraine -- ironically, bare hours after Pink Shirt Day, the date we observe towards stopping bullies. If there's ever been a bully, the president of Russia has certainly shown the world how a bully behaves. 

I'm not a person who's big into any kind of formal praying, but I'm digging deep and doing my best to focus energies towards this horrid conflict ending, and without further losses. Dreaming, I suppose, but that's my small prayer of sorts. 

Yet Putin isn't the only bully who's asserted himself this week. We who live in the southern reaches of Surrey have had one of our most fragile environmental regions put on the chopping block with approval for commercial development being granted by the Metro Vancouver Board. 

Their decision was somewhat astonishing in light of their self-determined plans for the region (currently the vision for 2040, with a revised version for 2050 coming soon). If you click on either of those 'vision' links, especially the jazzed-up video with 2050 'plans' you'll see that nearly every goal they highlight there has been violated by passing the 'South Campbell Heights' (Surrey's gentrified name that hides the old 'Hazelmere Valley' name) proposal. 

And beyond Vancouver

This week involved a trip to Powell River, BC. Even though a plane ride there takes only about 25 minutes, it's a road trip that means at least six hours of driving and ferry rides. But aside from the trek from where we live to the Horseshoe Bay ferry, and the many curves in the road on the Sunshine Coast, it's a memorable tour. There's one leg of it in particular -- the ferry ride from Earls Cove to Saltery Bay where the scenery is as close as I will ever get to Norway, as it's mountainous fjords, complete with cascading waterfalls. 

The reason for going there? The historic Patricia Theatre was showing Harold and Maude for

Valentine's Day, and I was lucky enough to be invited to participate, and to read from my book, Glorious Birds. I not only got to introduce the film, audience members hung around for a Q&A session. Naturally, my brain didn't work as well as I might have liked, and I wasn't able to answer all of the questions very clearly. Nonetheless, it mostly felt like engaged conversation -- I actually felt I'd make a couple of connections with folks there. 

Even the weather cooperated, with blue skies and mild temps. Especially after all these months of isolation, what more could one ask of a getaway?!

To boldly go...

Well, it's not quite where no one has gone before, but for me, it's been over two years -- since I took public transit and went into the city of Vancouver. It seems strange to be less than an hour away, but there's been something preventing me from getting on the bus or SkyTrain. Hmmm. What could it be. 

Anyway, the other day, I drove to my local park'n'ride and got on the bus -- one of the newish double-decker ones, so up those stairs went I. Hardly anyone else was up there, so (especially with my mask on, still mandatory on transit) I felt safe as could be. Although I mostly read, I did look out over Boundary Bay as we passed, and lo -- there was that all-too-seldom seen light in the sky. 

I'm pretty sure this one little outing has given me the courage to do even more. Not quite ready (nor wealthy enough) to join one of Elon Musk's expeditions to space, but next stop will be further than Vancouver. 

Puzzling

Yesterday's meeting of the Vancouver Metro Board was supposedly the day for them to make a decision regarding the fate of the Hazelmere Valley and the area around the Little Campbell River. But one of the directors (a Surrey City Councillor) made a last-minute motion that would pause the matter. Despite some grumbling from others on the Board, the motion squeaked past by three votes. 

I'm not sure what to do next in terms of actions to continue advocating on behalf of protecting the area. 

So that's why I'm puzzled.

But I suppose that state is somewhat appropriate, as today--strange though it may seem--is National Puzzle Day! 

It sure seems as though there's a day for just about everything, and in light of today's observance, I'm declaring it Clear-Off-the-Table Day, so I can start working on a puzzle I've been delaying for too long. It will be a nice diversion from the research and reading I've been doing, as I try to learn all I can about aquifers and groundwater and protecting the last vestiges of natural, green environment. 

I take heart though, because even before I start dealing with organizing that tumbled pile of pieces on the table, I can see quite a few hopeful spots of green.  

Countdown...

...to decision time for the future of the Hazelmere Valley, an area the City of Surrey has casually renamed South Campbell Heights. 

Here I'd thought renaming was exclusively the domain of settlers who determined that English names were better than the names given to places by the Indigenous peoples who'd lived here for centuries. 

The current renaming practice is more a matter of hiding what's actually at stake -- in this case, a small forest, some farmland, a river, and an aquifer. 

If you haven't already seen it, here's a video that offers a few reasons for protecting the area, reasons that are only becoming more critical by the day as we move inexorably toward climate disaster.

Cheery thoughts for a Monday, eh. Friday morning will be the time of reckoning, when Metro Vancouver Regional Board determines whether they will move the Urban Containment Boundary, a protective element that is part of their Metro 2040 vision for the region. 

Here's hoping that sanity (and thoughts for the future) prevail. 

Travels missed, travels found

Today is just about the midpoint of what was supposed to be a holiday on the beach in Cuba. But no, that had to be cancelled, owing to the O-word.  

To console myself, I tried to pretend -- even went so far as to turn on a sunlamp to 'tan' my winter-white, dry-skin legs. 

Best consolation though was where I usually find it: in one of the books I'd planned to take along. 

The title, The Body on the Beach, sounds as though it might be a bit grisly as holiday reading, but no, that wasn't the case. For one thing, the beach in question was about as far from Varadero as one could get while still being on the Atlantic Ocean: Harbour Grace, Newfoundland. 

As it happens, that's a town I've visited more than once, as it played into the research I did for Flightpaths, my book about Amelia Earhart. But this 'visit' is during the 1920s, the era when Model T cars were still relatively new. 

It's hard to pigeon-hole this novel as any single genre, as it qualifies not only as detective story with questions that range at first from who was it that died, to a series of increasing challenges regarding the details of that death (how and why being foremost, though there's definitely a whodunnit aspect as well). 

But that isn't all it is, as it's also a love story -- about the love a man has for a woman from his past as well as a growing romance in his here-and-now. 

All of this is complicated (in a good way) by the many historical details author Patrick J. Collins has layered into the book. The biggest of these, and the one that causes the most tension is Prohibition. Being a port town, one that engages in shipping both to and from the US (remember, at this time, Newfoundland was not yet part of Canada, but its own independent dominion), Harbour Grace's location makes it convenient for would-be smugglers. 

Even though now and then I'd get a little lost in the crowd of so many characters, the book kept me engaged enough to not fret too much about a missed opportunity for travel. In fact, it allowed me some of the best travels of all, those travels we take via the mind. 

Merry Christmas, reboot

Today's the day that many people around the world celebrate Orthodox Christmas. We're among them, though we do so in a smaller way than on December 25th. 

It's easy enough to get in the mood, especially with so much of our local world looking like a Christmas card. The photo is one I took while we were out for a walk in our neighbourhood. 

Often, it turns out that the last week of December will be cold here. But this year, that cold spell has extended well into the new year, and managed to break a number of temperature (and snow depth) records along the way. 

I'm mostly grateful that today's Christmas celebration will be much lower key than that other one. No one's coming over to open gifts (there aren't any), and there won't be a turkey in the oven, not even a fresh batch of butter tarts. Though on second thought, I may have to rethink that last bit. 

Here's to a brighter year!

No parties for us this year. No decorations, no fire in the chiminea. Not even bottle rockets here. 

Some of the neighbours put on an exciting fireworks display, so at least there was a great excuse to holler and hoot a few times. 

As for us, it was mostly a matter of a few sparklers tucked into the snow pile. Nonetheless, a bright light to shine for a few precious minutes. Hoping that they point toward a much brighter year.  

One brave little soul

While my last post was partly about Glorious Birds, today's note concerns an altogether different but nonetheless glorious-in-its-own-way bird.

We're in the midst of a very cold spell, one that's very unusual for where we live. Last time I checked, the thermometer read minus ten. That's Celsius; in Fahrenheit it's 14. 

So when our brave little hummingbird came to the feeder, we worried the liquid would likely freeze. Sure enough, when we brought it in, ice crystals were already starting to form. But then the Dear Man came up with one of his brilliant ideas -- the lamp base from the lava light appeared to be just the right size to hold the feeder. So it, combined with a tiny pie tin (with a few holes punched into it), has turned into a warm spot for the hummer to spend an extended dinner visit. 

And wouldn't you know -- the way serendipity seems so often to play a role in my life -- right now I am finishing a novel that features a group some refer to as Hummers. They're nothing at all like the oversized motor car by that name, but I guess to find out more, you might just have to read the book yourself. 

A golden anniversary

Fifty years. Yikes. How does a charming little movie get to be 50 and still have any kind of presence. 

Endurance, I guess.

According to most sources, Harold and Maude was released on December 20, 1971, although apparently there was a kerfuffle on the 7th of this month when a number of sources claimed that as its anniversary. 

Rude of me, I suppose, but I'm stickin' with today as the date for the observance. After all, I wrote the book on it. Okay, not the only book (so I can't really call it 'the book'), but I did a lot of research in my attempts to be accurate. And my book, Glorious Birds came out earlier this year, closer to the Spring Equinox than to the Winter Solstice. 

I can't help but think the beginning of winter is an appropriate time for the film to have been released, as the plot of it certainly moves from darkness to light. But because I don't want to reveal any spoilers, I'll keep the rest of my comments to myself, at least for now. 

Wintry salad

No doubt you've heard of Urban Farming, where people plant vegies in their yard rather than keeping the mostly pointless notion of lawn -- you can't eat grass. There's even an offshoot of this movement -- called, not unexpectedly, Suburban Farming. 

We don't go as far as using either of these labels, and we haven't considered adding chickens or goats to the mix, but we do grow some of our own food when the weather agrees. 

Our most bountiful crops are blackberries and quince, along with beans and salady greens. But we also harvest raspberries and plums, and even took delight this year in 12 tree-grown peaches. Yum!

However, this December, my brilliant partner has taken the notion of home-grown one step further: you might have to call it Indoor Farming. Obviously, our little set-up isn't anything like the vertical farming models that are easy to find on the Internet, nor is it hydroponic, as our plants grow in soil. 

But truly, whether it's a few leafy greens added to a sandwich, or just a sample torn off as I walk by 'their' window, I take delight in being able to eat food that we've grown, often when it's only seconds 'off the vine', all the while looking outside on weather that's clearly December, and mighty wintry. 

Yep!

Snow happens. And I guess I was right about thinking that change was about to happen.

This eerily blue image is how the world looked from the front door just after 8 this morning -- in other words, only a few minutes after sunrise, which just keeps getting later and later. 

This is the time of year that makes me wonder whether the people who seem to want Daylight Saving Time to be in effect forever whether they've thought about what mornings will be like. Dark. The sun won't come up until 9. Ugh. Hibernation well become the next new norm. 

This also happens to be the day when many observe the Feast of St Nicholas. When I was a kid, and even brattier than I am now, I convinced our mother that we deserved candies and other small stocking-type treats on this date. I suspect the reason she relented was solely because the day was named after a saint. Those kinds of arguments worked more than once on my behalf. Yep. Bratty could have been my middle name. 

As for this morning's snow, it was very wet and heavy and dragged down part of the bamboo 'trees' that provide such nice privacy from our neighbour. Here's hoping that a 'splint' job will help it to stand tall again. 

The big shift

I'm in the habit of having a couple of fresh flowers on the ledge above the kitchen sink. Lately, this little wish of mine has become a little harder to fulfill, as nearly all of the flowers in the garden have come and been. About the only reliable blooms that remain are the little white four-stars (my name for them) that cling to the leggy ends of the arugula -- a hardy plant that's still making contributions to our salads. 

But yes, this morning there was one bedraggled nasturtium in the pot out front -- and where the temps are finally getting frosty, I figured I'd better snip it and enjoy it for the bright spot of colour it provides. 

The weather predictions include the possibility of some snow, which is likely better news for many than the streams of heavy rains we've been experiencing here in BC. Although I'm never thrilled to have a big dump of the white stuff, even someone as grumpy as I can be admits that the first bits of it can be awfully pretty. 

Whatever the next while may bring, it's clear that the big shift into winter is upon us. 

Looks like they're back

                 

...the elves, that is. 

My office has once again been taken over by a couple of crafty types who enjoy making Christmas cards (even though some of those greetings go out to people who don't celebrate that particular holiday). 

It's always kind of a crazy mess, with stamps and stickers and all kinds of assorted papers and pencil crayons and whew! But amazingly, quite a few lovely cards are the result, and all of those go to special friends and family members. 

We've been doing this for quite a few years now -- maybe more than a decade -- but those first few stabs at making something are always a challenge. 

And now it seems, just as I am once again getting the hang of being 'creative' tomorrow will be the day we pack it all up and put it away until next year. 

The power of words

The poppy has likely become the most recognizable symbol of Remembrance Day. And it's all because of a poem written by John McCrae, one so many of us can recite (at least partially) by heart, "In Flanders Fields". 

We don't always realize the power of our words, and I'm sure McCrae had no idea that I (and a lot of other people) would be wearing a red poppy on my lapel all these years after World War I, over a century on. 

McCrae is certainly not the only poet who's written about what was called the Great War. The most famous of these is probably Wilfred Owen, though there are others, including a woman, Vera Brittain, whose poetic contribution was a volume called Verses of V.A.D. She was better known for her prose writings, one of which, Testament of Youth, sounds as though it will be coming out as a film. 

Many others have written novels set during World War I. Two that come to mind are June Hutton's Underground, another is Deafening by Frances Itani. 

But Remembrance Day isn't only about remembering the First World War. It's a day for being grateful for all of those before us who fought for a way of life we too often take for granted. 

And one special remembrance I always keep on this day is the fact that it's the birthdate of Kurt Vonnegut, a writer who certainly solidified his reputation as being anti-war with his memoir-based novel, Slaughterhouse Five. 

Who will I be this time?

 

Part of making a jack-o-lantern is deciding what kind of face it needs. This little guy looks to me like he deserves a smile. But I'm not usually the carver in our house -- I'm usually more the seed-baker. As far as using the rest of the pumpkin, I'm not so good. Weird of me, I suppose, but almost the only food I don't like is pumpkin pie. 

But there's more to Halloween than the pumpkin. Sure, there's the matter of treats -- beware buying items with peanuts -- too many little ones have allergies. Same for paying attention to sugar, sugar, sugar. 

Because I long ago attended Catholic schools, we were lucky enough to get a day off on the day after Halloween, All Saints Day, no doubt giving our teachers a break from us, jumping up and down in our seats. 

Really though, the hardest thing about Halloween is trying to figure out a costume!

My best ones have probably been dreamt up at the last minute -- rat with my friend dressed as a bag of garbage. The main trouble he experienced was that party-goers kept tossing chocolate bar wrappers and other debris into the garbage bag he was wearing. 

The most fun costume I can remember was when I went as 'The Magnetic Poet' with a metal clipboard hanging around my neck where friends were encouraged to create contributions to a poem. The best part (or most fun maybe) was the 'hat' I wore which identified me -- a red metal colander with more magnetic words for 'helpers' to use in making poems on the fridge or wherever else they could find a workable metal surface. 

However you celebrate, be sure to have some fun (and be sure to have enough treats on hand to have leftovers for yourself)!