Outdoor pantry

Sometimes I laugh about the depth of our pantry -- the one that's indoors, just a few steps off the kitchen. It's usually so well-stocked, I even call it 'the store'. If we're out of mustard, I stroll over to the store, and most of the time, I'll find what I'm looking for.

This summer, we've expanded the little kitchen garden from its usual crop of herbs. This year it's grown to include the 'salad bar' -- an assortment of greens that have been providing fresh salads for quite a few weeks now.

There are enough individual lettuce plants (and of interesting enough varieties) that there are plenty of outer leaves, and those are all I've needed to pinch to make our evening salads.

Best of all, the hanging baskets are perfect for confounding the slugs. Until those creatures learn to fly, our greens should be safe. The wagon in the photo above works much the same way, too high for the creepy crawlers to make their way up to our leafy paradise.

Maybe it's just the laziness of summer, but I like not having to drive -- or even walk more than a few steps -- to go to the store.

Meanings and meanderings

I've written before about daisies and their meanings, both what they mean to me, and what they mean in the world of floriology.

I'm thinking of daisies today, not only because they seem to be at their peak out in the garden, but because they make me think of two different men, one who's too young to have really started his life, the other who's much older, but who's played an oddly important role in mine.

Even though I'm sure it's nothing but a waste of time, I've written to Steve Harper again. But no, Steve's not one of the men I'm thinking about. The reason I've written to Steve is because of Omar Khadr. Earlier this week, another ruling came down. This one gives the government of Canada a week to do something on behalf of Khadr who, it must be remembered, has not been convicted of anything.

The daisy plays into this for several of its meanings, youth and childhood innocence. As for youth, Khadr's is gone, disappeared to his bad luck growing up with the father he did and further to the confines of Guantanamo, where he's been kept since he was 15.

One of the saddest associations with the daisy is from a Celtic legend, claiming daisies as the spirits of children who died at birth. Khadr didn't die at birth, though metaphorically, the association seems apt.

But on a much happier note, today is the day my once-upon-a-time heart-throb Ringo Starr turns 70. For once, I guess my mother must have been right: he was too old for me.

And the significance of daisies as they relate to Ringo? I imagine, especially where he has Barbara Bach as a life-partner, that the daisy will still be true when it tells me ‘he loves me not.’ Oh well.

The cycle of the seasons

I know. I repeat myself. I've mentioned berries before. Even featured a pic of the very same red wagon.

But that's the thing about the seasons. They come and go, and then they come back again.

Happily, the same is true for the raspberries. Another sign that it really is summer.

HST -- yes or no?

I'm still puzzled about what kind of effect B.C.'s new HST will have on purchases I make. Apparently, books won't be subject to the tax (fingers crossed, they're my biggest vice), but newspapers will. Groceries won't be, but restaurant food will. Clothing? Office supplies? I think so.

My question for today is, what about magazines? Did I just buy my last magazine with a tax of 5%? Will the next one be subject to 12%? Or, better yet, will I simply pay the cover cost?

I guess, if I buy a magazine tomorrow, I'll find out.

Islanders

Last night I went into Vancouver to attend a reading. The double-bill consisted of what seemed like an odd combination – Steve Noyes, a writer known mostly for his poetry, and Des Kennedy, known best for his varied writings about gardening. About all I could see as a point of commonality was the fact that both men live on islands.

Steve lives on Vancouver Island, in the city of Victoria where he works for the province’s Department of Health Services. Rising each day at 4:30 (a regimen he described in response to a question), he thinks and reads and writes before heading off to his job.

He read from his most recent book, Morbidity and Ornament. The poems he shared (and the voices he did them in – c’mon, Steve, get with the program and make that CD!) covered a range of topics and styles, yet all exhibited a deep respect for and understanding of the nuances of words. Because he also speaks a dialect of Chinese, the presentation was even bilingual. Talk about stretching the boundaries of language!

Steve’s first novel is scheduled to come out this fall, so he’s moving beyond past accomplishments and poems and into a whole brand-new genre. Considering the power of his previous work, I'm curious about this next phase of his career.

And the idea of more than one genre was also true for Des, who read a piece from his memoir, The Way of a Gardener and then read the opening section of his newest novel (his third), Climbing Patrick’s Mountain. Even though rose-breeding (the gardener strikes again) seems to be a key element in the novel, it’s clear that Kennedy’s capable of writing about much more than gardening. Apparently, both Ireland and ghosts feature prominently in this new book.

As Des described his life on Denman Island, it sounded much more idyllic than Steve’s. He rises at a more normal-sounding time, then spends the morning writing before heading out onto his 11-acre property to garden or do whatever else might be required in the afternoon (with roof repair sounding like part of his ongoing roster of duties).

Jill Margo, host of the long-running Robson Reading Series, conducted a stimulating Q & A with the authors after they’d read. Her questions did much to highlight the fact that two writers who might seem to write in such different directions can have such a lot in common. She asked about the differences between writing fiction and non-fiction, and even applied the query to Noyes and his poems, some of which seem to be grounded in fact, while others seem to be products of his imagination.

And those thoughts lead me even today to think about those differences -- what’s real and what’s made up? Especially when, as Kennedy pointed out, events in our lives are coloured by the cloud of long-term memory…

Just how much of what we present as real is made-up, and how much of what we think we're making up is based in some niche of ourselves?

Solstice, belated

Even though Solstice arrived here at 4:11am yesterday, the angel who usually announces it for me was late.

Okay, she's not really an angel (though who really knows what those creatures might be?), more an inspiration from a movie I loved when I was a kid. The story referred to a character named Arne Saknussemm, apparently a fictional alchemist. Since then, Saknussemm's apparently become a kind of cult figure, as now he seems to even have his own Facebook page.

Anyway, in the story of the film, he'd left a coded diary, one that revealed the route to the earth's core. The clue to discovering the passageway? Go to a particular volcano (luckily, one that was nicely cooled down) and watch for where the first beam of light falls on the summer solstice.

The idea isn't original. After all, it's what the design of Stonehenge is all about. That the dawn's light will shine in a certain spot on Solstice. A big calendar made of stone, one that never needs to have its page (or for that matter, batteries) changed.

My 'angel' is a lovely fluttery light that occurs when the first beams of sunlight come through a stained glass window in my living room. She usually lands smack dab in the centre of the door at just about 6:30 on Solstice.

This year, the morning was too overcast, but at seven -- and for only a few seconds -- she appeared. Thankfully, I guess that means we'll be getting a summer after all. Even if like my 'angel', it appears to be a bit late in arriving.

A Reading by the Salish Sea

Thursday night was the final event in the local Arts Council's series of readings.

Our guest, here from Saskatchewan to help us with our month-long celebration of National Aboriginal Day, was Louise B. Halfe.

Besides reading from her three collections of poetry (Bear Bones & Feathers, Blue Marrow, and The Crooked Good), she told stories. These ranged from her family's experiences in residential schools to the meaning behind her Cree name, Sky Dancer.

It seemed appropriate to have her with us this week, the same time Canada's Commission on Truth and Reconciliation is meeting in Winnipeg. The day was also auspicious for being the same day the residents of Haida Gwai officially 'returned' the old name for their home, 'Queen Charlotte Islands'. Even this posting today feels as if it offers some kind of closure, as today is the final day of the Truth and Reconciliation events, with Michaelle Jean in attendance.

It was evident from all she said and did that Louise is a firm believer in crossing barriers and continuing dialogue. To summarize her performance, I need to steal a line from her -- "the people were filled with mystery and magic." Yes, we were.

Burmese and Other Lessons

Last night saw a different sort of literary event. This public event saw two highly intelligent authors in conversation – Nancy Lee interviewing Karen Connelly. Lee is the current Writer-in-Residence at the Historic Joy Kogawa House and the questions she posed made for a lively exchange.

Connelly’s a writer whose life got shaken up at 17 when, thanks to a Rotary Club exchange program, she lived and went to school in Thailand for a year. Two books that resulted from that experience were The Small Words in My Body which won for its then-21-year-old author the Pat Lowther Award for Poetry and Touch the Dragon which also earned prizes, notably the Governor General's Award for Non-Fiction.

The focus last night was Connelly’s newest book, Burmese Lessons, but moved well beyond the words on the page. Lee guided the conversation so Connelly could also talk about The Lizard Cage, her novel about life in a Burmese prison. Both books were inspired by her experiences in Burma and by the many people she interviewed both in Burma and along the Thai-Burmese border.

Among comments she made, Connelly challenged writers (specifically Canadian ones, though I'm sure she'd include all artists) to "Be daring" and to follow the advice of June Callwood who said, "If you see injustice, act."

She reminded us that this Saturday, June 19th, will be the 65th birthday of Aung San Suu Kyi, the Burmese activist and Nobel Prize Laureate who remains under house arrest. Perhaps a good day to be daring, to act against injustice, even if that action might initially seem small.

Fake Lake Flake

Ah yes, here comes our very own prime ministerial Steve, defending the creation of Lake G8, Ontario’s most recent water feature. But for Pete’s sake, it’s not even worthy of being called a lake.

At only 10 centimetres (4 inches) deep, it’s more like the fifty-seven-thousand-dollar puddle.

Now, if someone would only toss in a packet of yellow dye, we’d be able to show the world another of the many ways our government keeps pissing away our tax dollars.

Creative escapes

Just before GWB started GW II, I wrote an essay that proposed it was time for peace. In it, I used the daisy as a symbol for peace. Unfortunately, even though the article was published, peace did not prevail.

But it was with the same sort of optimism that I took the photo above. You might not guess it, but those wildflowers are growing just outside the walls of Matsqui, a federal penitentiary here in western Canada.

Once again, I was part of a group of writers who dedicated Saturday and Sunday as a time to work on – and share – our writing. The writers included both 'insiders' (those who reside in the prison) and 'outsiders' (those who get to return to their families and homes once the retreat comes to an end).

It seemed ironic to learn that while I was ‘in prison’ this time, Afghanistan’s president Hamid Karzai, as follow-up to a "peace jirga" held in Kabul, announced a review “…of Taliban-linked prisoners and other militants and said [that] those held without grounds should be released.” And in contrast to this positive-sounding initiative, I consider Barack Obama’s pre-election promise to close Guantanamo. Yet sadly, a year and a half after his inauguration, that institution remains in operation.

This mishmash of thought was compounded today by an op-ed piece in this morning's Vancouver Sun. In the article, SFU criminologist Neil Boyd points out that our government’s current “get tough on crime” policies are continuing to get stricter, despite the body of logical evidence suggesting such actions as backward steps.

I hate the fact that when it comes to our policies on prisons and prisoners, we seem to be drawn only further and further into the vortex of the U.S., a country with the highest-per-capita rate of incarceration in the world, hardly a model to be admired.

Because cameras (aside from those of the surveillance variety) aren’t allowed inside the prison, I couldn't take photos of the workshops. If cameras had been permitted, I could have shown you a group of men and women reading their work aloud, asking questions, laughing, exchanging ideas. But instead, you get flowers.

If you look again at the photo, you’ll see that besides those daisies standing tall in the grass as a symbol of peace, there's a preponderance of springtime lupins. And I've learned that in the symbology of flowers, these are associated with imagination.

So as I come away from my weekend at the penitentiary, what better image could I offer? Today I am filled with thoughts that even those of us who live on the ‘outside’ may not truly be free. But those lupins remind me to turn to my writing, just as the ‘insiders’ do, as one sure way of really being free, through the creative powers of imagination.

By the Salish Sea

It's been a few months since the nearby ocean waters have been designated (or, some would claim, re-designated) as the Salish Sea. Our local Arts Council took that as a theme for an observance of National Aboriginal Day that will last for the entire month of June, By the Salish Sea: A Celebration of First Nations Arts.

Last night's opening of the Gallery show attracted over 100 people. The event included a blessing, led by Joanne Charles, chief of our local Semiahmoo band.

With lots of great food (especially the locally smoked salmon) and plenty of little kids running around, the event felt so inclusive, like family. The title of the piece at the top of this post said it well, "Be Reconciled". Standing beside the work is the artist who brought it to life, Quentin Harris.

Hungry?

How long has it been since you ate something?

Unless it was overnight while you slept, probably not more than a few hours.

I'm blessed enough that I've never had to go to a Food Bank, but too many Canadians have no other choice. I remember when Food Banks first opened, they were supposed to be a short-term emergency measure to get us through a blip in the economy. Funny how that wasn't quite the case. They've become an institution in pretty well every city and town.

Today is Hunger Awareness Day. Although I usually try not to show brand name items, today I am showing what too many people think of as a square meal for a Food Bank recipient.

But that's not the reason I've presented the image. Kraft Canada will match every donation made to a Food Bank between now and June 11th. If you've never donated to one before, this might be a good time to start.

Rockabye, Baby

Even though wikipedia cites some interesting theories about the origins of the well-known lullaby, something I discovered this morning gives me yet another slant. It’s not at all complicated, but very down-to-earth. Literally.

Under one of our cedar trees, I found an overstuffed nest, bedraggled from being out in last night’s rain. I suspect if I’d found it sooner, it would have been fluffy and dry, as it’s filled with everything from hair and insulation material to the seasonal down from cottonwood trees.

Looking up, I saw the birdhouse it likely fell from, one I’d thought was unoccupied, as I hadn’t spotted any tenants zipping in or out. I can only surmise the nest got too big or too heavy (or, too full of squirming babies, calling to be fed) and that the front panel got shoved open. Before next year, we’ll have to make some sort of latch so this doesn’t happen again. I don’t want to have to find another ‘cradle and all’.

Bowled over!

The weather's been too cool to want to go to the park to hit a tennis ball back and forth, so we decided to head to the local lanes for a different brand of exercise.

We have a tradition of posting pseudonyms when we bowl. One friend is often 'Dr. Doom'. Names from TV shows often come into play, especially 'Lucy' and 'Ethel'. But last night's cooler weather must have made us more original. Instead of our stand-by names, one of us took the generic 'Bowler' as a name. Another took 'Footloose' and silly me, I tempted fate by taking the presumptuous, 'Pinstrike'. Wouldn't you know, nary a strike all night.

I probably threw the worst score of my life, but still, it was plenty of fun.

And just to note, even though my feet are bigger than most, they're not as gigantic as they might seem compared to those balls in the photo at the top. After all, we were playing the usually quite forgiving five-pin.

Lucky

I don't know how he does it. One of my sons can bend over a sprawl of lawn and pick out a four-leaf clover faster than I'd be able to find a dime in the grass.

When he came over for supper tonight, he brought me this as a prize. It seemed like the perfect gift for the night the last mysteries of Lost should finally be found.

Complicity in action

Today is the day that Mark Emery heads south. He's going to prison in Washington state, part of a plea bargain over selling seeds.

There was a time when the Canadian government referred clients to him -- after all, patients who qualify to use marijuana for medical purposes have to get their seeds from somewhere, don't they? Yet, despite the government's willingness to recommend Emery as a supplier, they don't stand by him when the U.S. comes a-calling with extradition papers.

For now, Emery will be held until later in the summer when his case will come up and he'll be sentenced to time in an American prison.

Monopoly Rules

I’ve long been puzzled by the recorded announcement that rings out near the end of any trip on the B.C. Ferries: “Thank you for sailing B.C. Ferries.”

I mean, really, who else are we going to ‘sail’ with?

Similarly, because the B.C. Ferries are the only show on the water, I wonder why they spend money on advertising. It isn’t as if it’s a matter of swaying us to choose them over some other ferry service. Next time there’s a hockey game based in B.C. (okay, the Canucks have folded camp for the year – I’ve dried my tears), take a look at the boards and see the ads there. Emblazoned are the words, B.C. Ferries. (Not only does the monopoly held by the ferries run ads, so does the lottery corporation – who else you gonna buy lottery tix from?)

It was about ten days ago that I took a couple of ferry rides. On the last leg, I noticed how rusty the boat looked. It may be selective memory, but I don’t remember the ferries looking this bad before they became privatized.

I also don’t remember the scheduling being as tight-fistedly miserable as it seems now. I’d hoped to attend a meeting on Gabriola Island this weekend. Scheduled for 2 pm to 6 pm, I figured I could even have a glass of wine with friends afterward before heading off towards the ferries for home. But a close look at the schedules revealed that the last ferry left (not even Gabriola, but my transfer point on Vancouver Island, Nanaimo) at 5:45 p.m., before the actual meeting was even adjourned. Oddly, going through papers in my office, I ran across a schedule from 1994 (!). Saturdays saw sailings from Nanaimo to Tsawwassen every hour and a half from 5:30 a.m. to 11 p.m. So much for service improving over the years.

Even if I’d been able to stay overnight on the island, next morning’s ferries off the island are ‘unreservable’, so to ensure getting onto the first ship leaving Nanaimo at 10:15, I’d have needed to plan on being at the ferry dock by half past seven. All so I could get home before 1 p.m., in time to make birthday supper, for the family planning to arrive at three. Too frantic sounding, I gave up on being part of the meeting.

All it would have taken would have been at least one of the two evening ships, ferries that are in service every other night of the week. Any other night, I’d have had the option of an 8:15 or a 10:45. I can understand canceling one of the sailings if that’s the slowest night of the week, but really, both?

If schedule cutbacks, a visible lack of maintenance, and higher fares are the costs of privatizing a service that’s really a branch of our provincial highways, I say it looks like a mistake.

Their latest slogan? ‘Experience the difference’[TM] – I’ll say.

A new look at art

Last night, I went to an event for a new book about art. It considers the work of three artists whose work should be better known: Frank Molnar, Jack Hardman, and LeRoy Jensen.

The book is second in a series from Mother Tongue Publishing, The Unheralded Artists of B.C.

The presenters, authors Eve Lazarus and Claudia Cornwall, offered slides to complement the passages they read and fielded questions from the much-too-small audience. Maybe it was because it was a Monday night, maybe the weather was too nice -- whatever the reason, the small number in attendance was the only disappointing part of the evening.

A question of attitude

Yesterday, almost everywhere I went, people were wearing Canucks jerseys or T-shirts. Everyone was in a terrific mood, anticipating the game, hollering 'Go Canucks Go' at the slightest prompt.

And then the game happened.

And they lost. A whopping 7-4.

This morning's newspaper made it clear: Vancouver's fickle fans have given up. The front page teaser says it all, "Painful post-season: One more loss and it's game over for the Canucks."

Even the car in the photo above, which was there for a couple of weeks, has now disappeared (for a new paint job?).

So hey, I have to wonder, if the fans have already given up, why shouldn't the team?

***Afternote, Monday, the 10th:
After last night's win, the Canuckmobile is back!

Too many anniversaries

Yesterday marked 100 years since Canada's navy was created by the Naval Service Act. And now, in a bizarre twist of fate, 37-year-old Craig Blake has become the first member of Canada's navy to die in Afghanistan. He was a member of the Navy's bomb disposal units -- and no, I don't know why that truck was in my neighbourhood, other than so I could take its picture.

Yesterday was also the day to remember some other senseless deaths, the four who were killed by National Guardsmen at Kent State University in Ohio.

So much for "Peace Now", eh.

Oily wake-up call

Events in the Gulf of Mexico indicate it's time for us to end our dependency on oil.

I remember a time there was a fire in Nanaimo, a city it takes nearly half the day to get to because it's a highway drive, a wait in a line-up and then a ferry ride. Yet as the crow flies, it's barely 30 km (22 miles).

And I remember a day back when I used to live in a house with a view of the sea. I spotted a fiercely black cloud huffing our way. When it reached us, its fury broke: there was rain like I'd never experienced -- hard as if someone were emptying buckets from the sky -- and its smell was nothing like the sweet scent that rain is supposed to have. Later, we learned there'd been a fiery explosion of a fuel storage tank, so the explanation of the oily cloud became clear.

When I hear there is talk in the U.S. of burning off the slick, I fear for the sort of clouds that could be unleashed.

And I wonder too, draining all that oil out of those deep crevices in the earth -- could that have something to do with all the earthquakes we're experiencing? Could the removal of that much mass be triggering slippage of the tectonic plates?

Today is World Press Freedom Day. I feel very lucky to be able to say all these outrageous things, crazy as they may seem. How lucky to know the men in white (or blue, for that matter) won't be coming for me because of what I choose to type.

The scariest part about the oil spill off Louisiana? That our prime minister, Steve Harper, seems to think such an oil spill couldn't happen here.

Road Trip

Over the past few weeks, I've been on the road a lot, partly with my sister in North Carolina. Then, being part of the Powell River Writers' Conference meant I had another excuse to do some travelling.

The trip up Vancouver Island was spectacular, cruising on a nearly empty highway in a car that makes me happy -- and because I was alone, singing along to the tunes I had blasting.

The sun cooperated fully, shining into the forest, lighting up the many blooming dogwoods. Bounded by mountains still capped with snow, it couldn't have been any better. Heck, hollering out the window was never more fun.

Two Schools

This week I've visited two different schools. And different is clearly one of the words that applies.

The first, the White Rock Learning Centre, is a small, storefront-style building, with a population of about 150. Its students have chosen to attend an alternate school, one that does things differently from the mainstream ones. Students set their own goals and learn at their own pace. Teachers are there to help keep everyone on track, but the real push for learning comes from the students themselves.

So it was pleasing to me that a group of them decided the presentation I was making (for the BC Federation of Writers' Off the Page program) might be worth taking time out of their Wednesday morning for. We wrote some 'group-poems' and shared the results of our work. We talked about many things, including books we loved.

Then today I had another opportunity to visit another school -- this time about as different from the Learning Centre as I could imagine. Oceanview Middle School (aptly named, that's their view in the photo above) is a far cry from a storefront in a mini-mall. And rather than being a home for students of all ages (15 and up), the way the Learning Centre is, Oceanview caters to Grade Eights only. The visit made for an interesting contrast from Wednesday's session. Besides the age difference, I had a much larger group, as my audience consisted of the entire student body.

My challenge was to set a writing challenge that each student could work on. After all, I was part of their Literacy Day. Contrarian that I am, rather than giving a single assignment, I suggested a number of avenues for students to pursue. No doubt, this frustrated some; hopefully, it freed up a few.

But no matter how different each situation might have been, what remained was that both places made me feel welcome. And more importantly, both places strengthened my hopes for a positive future for life on this planet.

Written in stone

My mother was born on Christmas Day, and thus was named Carole. She was always proud of her birthday being that day, so it seemed disappointing when her burial site turned out to be a cold, rules-bidden mausoleum. It's a place that doesn't permit living flowers or plants. Its markers allow no indication of dates, only the years of birth and death.

My sister Lisa came to the rescue, and purchased a 'paver stone' that commemorates our mother's dates -- and, probably to our mother's liking, rectifies the fact that she was only a youthful-sounding 81 when she died, and not the ancient-sounding 82.

Today, Lisa and I, in company of many of Lisa's friends, attended a lovely ceremony at Hemlock Bluffs Nature Preserve where the memorial paver had been installed. The park was a place our mother had enjoyed visiting in life. Hopefully, her spirit now rests more peacefully among the trees and garden there.

Asheville, NC -- a great place to visit

My sister's been giving me the royal tour of her state. We've driven incredibly scenic highways (including the famous Blue Ridge Parkway) through the mountains where dogwoods nestled in the forest are in bloom.

We spent two days in Asheville, a city that clearly values its heritage buildings. We even found an old F.W.Woolworth store that's been converted to a kind of art emporium. Both upstairs and down serve as gallery space for painters, photographers, and assorted artisans. Best of all, they even preserved the old soda fountain, where my sister and I shared a chocolate soda.

We've eaten at some amazing restaurants -- my best meal to date was blackened catfish, served over grits with goat cheese -- an amazing combination where old Southern cooking meets new.

I can understand why Barack Obama would want to come here to take a holiday with his wife. It's a lovely spot that feels culturally rich while exuding a comfortably laid-back attitude. The touristical T-shirts said it well: "Asheville, where normal is weird."

Taking a rest for the Earth

The 40th Anniversary of Earth Day, and this year I'm far away from home. I'm travelling with my sister who lives in North Carolina. Once again, our angels were with us -- or in this case, our guide might have been Mother Earth. While driving, we decided it was time for a rest stop, and where did we land but at what must be the greenest rest stop ever.

The facility opened last fall and boasts a raft of energy-conserving devices (the news story contains a short video that tells more). A rain-conserving system provides most of the water for toilets and urinals, solar panels pre-heat water for washing up, even the high-up windows are designed to let in natural light so they don't have to burn electricity to light the place. At night, the inside lights are even set to go off if they don't detect motion for 15 minutes.

Even though I'm on the road, I like knowing what's going on in the news back home. So for Earth Day, I see that Environment Minister Jim Prentice is going to distribute free passes to students to encourage them to learn more about the beauty of nature. At first glance, this looked like a terrific initiative, but when I read the story and saw the park passes were going to Grade 8's, my cynical side kicked in. If he'd been serious about doing anything more than getting parents to take their families on holiday, he would have given the passes to Grade 12's -- for the most part, they can drive themselves and might actually get out on their own and see the world with new eyes.

Flying thoughts

Like the geese in one of my favourite children's books, Wild Geese Flying, I've flown south. My flight isn't a migration, but for a visit with my sister in North Carolina.

Yesterday was the annual Open House at the OWL refuge, a healing place for injured and orphaned birds. As you might guess from their name, many of the birds are owls. That's Sarah, the barn owl, smiling for the camera.

As part of the Open House celebrations, at 1 pm, they released an eagle they'd been nurturing. I wonder, what was his destination?

The pleasures of a rainy day

I like the quiet of a day like this. The rain's barely there, settling on everything, greening things up, making them grow.

No clatter of rain on the roof, just wet enough that everyone's staying inside. Nobody's outside making a racket: cutting their lawn, chainsawing some innocent shrubbery.

And not so much as a breath of wind.

The perfect day to move slowly, puttering.

New heights for poetry?

Marion Quednau and I read today at Grouse Mountain. Our event was part of National Poetry Month celebrations, sponsored by the League of Canadian Poets.

Marion read several sections from her prize-winning poem, "Paradise, Later Years". The piece was co-winner of the Malahat Review's Long Poem Contest in 2009.

The theme for this year's Poetry Month is 'Climate Changes' (which always reminds of the not-inappropriate 'Shit Happens'). If you visit the Poetry Month site, you'll find lists of events and even a blog of daily postings of poems.

Marion discovered that because mountains are such fragile ecosystems (and because everything in the atmosphere goes up), scientists have come up with a climate-change term for mountains, "islands of extinction."

Considering how little snow was on these mountains only two months ago (remember how they had to use trucks and helicopters to bring in snow for the Olympics?), it was amazing to see how much snow is now on Grouse. And with the snow (and sunshine, hurrah!) came the skiers and snowboarders. They were everywhere!

Still, we managed to attract a small, but attentive crowd. And maybe, just maybe, we'll go to the same location for next year's celebration. With luck, the grizzlies might even be visible in their enclosure.

How quickly we forget -- Steve Fonyo

Today's investiture of 43 persons into the Order of Canada reminded me of something I thought about during the recent Olympics -- the absence of Steve Fonyo as a participant in any of the ceremonies. Once upon a time, just like Terry Fox or Rick Hansen, he was good enough to be one of our heroes. But that was back when he was running across Canada on one leg and raising $13 million for cancer.

Only then, something happened. He screwed up. And more than once. But it seems to me he screwed up in some pretty human ways.

He fell for the lure of celebrity, got into bad drugs and too much booze, and got himself arrested more than once. He even did a bit of time. But, despite the superhuman feat he'd accomplished (running 7,924 km/4,924 miles across the country), his crimes were enough to have him divested of his Order of Canada.

As far as I can tell, only two other people have been stripped of this honour -- David Ahenakew and Alan Eagleson. Ahenekew lost his for making harshly anti-Semitic remarks, an action we've come to call hate crime. And anyone who watches hockey knows what Eagleson did to (and in the name of) the NHL.

The motto of the Order of Canada is 'They desire a better country.' As far as I can tell, Steve Fonyo hasn't done anything to indicate he doesn't still 'desire a better country.' He didn't try to get rich by stealing any of the millions he raised for cancer. He hasn’t insulted anyone for who they are. Fonyo hasn’t so much let his country down as Canada has let him down – by denying the value of what he did and reneging on the award he earned.

Freelancer Claude Adams has created an insightful radio documentary about Fonyo. Called "Journey to Normal", it was broadcast on CBC's 'The Current' on March 31st. If you click on this link, you can hear the whole show or just listen to the sections on Fonyo (part two and at the show's end).

Fonyo's story isn't a pretty one. But really -- if Terry Fox hadn't died of cancer, who's to say whether his life might not have had a few bumps too?

Playing around with Easter

It must be because a friend and I have started a game of Scrabble -- but whatever the cause, when I looked at the word 'Easter' I started seeing other words. Not all of them made sense, but I liked them anyway.

Breaking them apart helped, as with set era which made more sense than setera.

Anyway, just fooling around, I wrote a silly piece. And really, what else could I call it but "Easter Teaser".

Teresa
reset a
seat re
a steer (who, steady)
as tree
ate res (taurant)
re-eats.

A terse
ear set
rat, see
re teas
for the stumbling bunnies
fumbling amongst the eggs.

As you can see, it fell apart. But it was fun fiddling with anagrams. I even found some good ones for my name. My faves? Oh, Ice Ridge or Icier God, Eh. But best of all the almost haiku-like, He Go, I Cried.

Silly fun on a lazy day. What does your name anagram into?

A better-than-Good Friday

Sleeping in always makes the day easier. A holiday, and best of all, one with no expectations. Although maybe the 'no expectations' part isn't quite true.

This is a day on which I long-ago agreed to always meet a friend for a rendez-vous in a certain park. Good Friday, an easy enough day to remember. Between 12 and 3, a safe enough window of time. And yet again yesterday, he bugged me (okay, reminded me) that I've never once made it there.

Still, this is a day of few expectations. It's a holiday when nobody expects a present or a big fancy dinner. A day for doing nothing more than enjoying life and maybe colouring a few eggs.

After looking at our pile of farm-fresh free-range eggs, I worry about the chicken who laid that gigantic one. I can only think there must be one hen hopping about the yard, clucking ouch, ouch, ouch.

Poetry, in triple time

Even though it isn’t quite Poetry Month, it’s been a week filled with plenty of poems. So, quick, a bit of a recap before it’s time to shut down the power in observance of Earth Hour.

Wednesday saw me presenting poems and ideas to a welcoming group of women who are participating in a Third Age Learning Program. They were responsive and warm, full of questions that helped guide the direction of my reading. They even bought into a writing prompt I gave, creating three cooperatively-written poems.

On Thursday the spotlight moved onto Carmine Starnino, a fine poet whose most recent book, This Way Out, was a finalist for the 2009 Governor General’s Award for Poetry. Besides reading in the reading series sponsored by our local Arts Council, he also did a presentation for Aislinn Hunter’s creative writing class at Kwantlen.

I’m still getting feedback today on the way Carmine’s poems affected people – as witnessed by this, part of an email from a local writer, Vaughan: "Just wanted to say that both Joan and I, it seems, resonated all day with last night's reading. Thank you ... and if you have a chance, please let Carmine know that the reading went deep for at least two people in the audience."

Then today I was able to come full circle, this time attending a workshop presentation by singer/songwriter/composer Veda Hille. We were looking at lyrics, considering different ways to approach creating them.

One of the exercises she led us through had us using found phrases as a start-up to our writing. When asked whether rhyme needs to be a component in song lyrics, Veda replied by playing one of my favourite songs ever, “Frank Mills”, from the musical, Hair. I took that as a resounding No.

The video below is a snippet of Veda performing a powerfully discordant (dis-chord-ant?) piece based on the journals of painter, Emily Carr. In it, Hille was trying to capture Carr’s anger and frustration borne out in the line, “for fifteen years I did not paint!” And yes, it seemed appropriate this performance should have happened in an art gallery.

To your health!

Today is World Water Day. Designated by the U.N., this is a day to consider and celebrate the miracle of something most of us take for granted, fresh drinking water.

I'm lucky enough to live in a region that boasts maybe the best tap water anywhere. It's for this reason that Vancouver encourages visitors to use tap water. Some hotels are distributing reusable water bottles so it's easy for patrons to simply refill. If you scroll down on the previous link, you'll find a number of facts about bottled water -- for example, that it takes three litres of water to produce one litre of bottled water. Like really, where's the sense in that? If you want to know more about the debate between bottled and tap water, click here.

People who live in the Surrey area have a chance to see Irina Salina's documentary on water, Flow. It'll be shown at Kwantlen's Grassroots Caf on Saturday, March 27th at 1:30 in the afternoon. This film is just part of an ongoing series of documentary films shown in White Rock's Social Justice Film Series.

To mark or not to mark

The other night a friend posed an interesting question: Do you write in the books you’re reading? She didn’t present it as an accusation – more as a philosophical query. She seemed to really be asking not only, Do you write in books, but should you?

A colleague I never see any more always wrote in books, including ones he’d borrowed from the library. He’d sometimes come running up to me, open book in hand. I came to know this meant he’d found comments someone else had left in the margin of a book, as if to justify his own messy habit. I believe he’d usually jot something next to the remark, adding his comment to the ones he discovered left by some stranger. Kind of like being an early blogger, long before blogs existed.

As a person who often writes about books, I need to make some sorts of marks for myself when I’m reviewing. I usually rely on Post-It Notes, but have been known to dog-ear corners and even write on the sacred page, though I try to avoid this. I'll admit it, sometimes the urge to write on the page wins. This happens most often when I'm not enjoying a book, as in the poetry collection above with the note of frustration: me, me, me.

Yet even when I’m not reviewing, I often make note of pages I appreciate, and later transfer the passages to a notebook. Mostly, I restrict this to an inspiring line or phrase. But Philip Pullman’s Golden Compass series saw me scribing vast tracts.

I wonder, do other people do this sort of thing? And if you do write in books, do you boldly use pen (as I apparently used to) or pencil?

Springy

That's the word for yesterday. Not only because of the weather (cool and fresh), but because the forest floor, still holding its autumn mulch but with all that new life, felt positively springy. Boing!

The plan had been to take a stroll and find some mushrooms for our supper. And even though we found quite a few, the morels (the goal of our quest) weren't yet showing their heads. The only volunteers were ones we wouldn't want to eat.

Instead, diehard foragers that we are, we settled for picking (c a r e f u l l y) some tender-fresh nettles. Steamed, they lose their prickliness and are full of nutritious goodness. Best of all, they're positively yummy.

Bleak days for the arts -- and everybody else?

As more details emerge about all that was cached in last week's B.C. budget, it's apparent that there are bleak days ahead.

The arts have been cut even further than last year. Funding to environmental groups has disappeared completely. And even though the government claimed these cuts were necessary so funding to children's programs wouldn't suffer, there've also been cuts to monies for daycares and playgrounds.

Did the government think with all the warm fuzziness floating around from the Olympics that no one would notice these cuts?

It will be interesting to see just how many artists are involved in tomorrow's opening ceremonies for the Paralympics. Just as the government now seems to understand that funding athletes pays off in accomplishments, they don't seem able yet to apply that lesson to fostering the development of artists.

About the only good bit of arts news in the past 24 hours has been the announcement of finalists for the B.C. Book Prizes.

The image above is one I took on the Sunday morning I was leaving Denman Island. Despite its black-and-white appearance, it's actually a colour shot. Later that morning the fog burned off and the day blossomed into one that was lovely. Just as the arts now seem clouded into a black-and-white funk, I can only hope that enough of us will speak out and remind this government of just how important it is for them to restore funding. If we don't succeed, we might be stuck with a future that's confined to shades of grey.

The Oscars, home-style

As delighted as I am that Kathryn Bigelow managed to topple the gender barrier for directors at yesterday's Academy Awards (and yes, today is International Women's Day, which seems nicely appropriate), I remain unconvinced that Hurt Locker was the year's best film. I have a couple of gripes with it, one of which is major.

I found Ang Lee's Taking Woodstock (not even in the running) much more interesting filmically -- more treasures embedded in it -- truer to what the medium is supposed to do: reveal through a combination of visual images and dialogue.

And yes, I watched the Academy Awards show in its entirety. A little group of us get together every year to watch the Oscars. The only time I've missed for a while was in 2002 when G and I were living in Australia.

We do ballots (I always lose five bucks), wear chunky jewellery, the works, but the food is one of the best parts. This year's feast was bookended by Up in the Air snack dishes (and much better than the usual salty bits we get when we're 'up in the air' and tiny perfect hearts (in honour of Crazy Heart, of course). Best course of the evening? A Single Man-icotti. Yum!

Olympic Pride of a Different Sort

I’m part of a group that likes to observe Freedom to Read Week. Each year, we gather at some public venue and read from works that have been banned

This year saw several of us take our cue from the Olympics. One of the writers whose work was read was Brad Cran, Vancouver’s Poet Laureate. Cran decided not to take part in the games’ official cultural events because he didn’t agree with the conditions VANOC imposed on artists. Some of their restrictions meant that artists couldn’t be critical of the Olympics, nor of any of the corporate sponsors. That certainly sounds like censorship to me.

Cran did write two poems to coincide with the Vancouver Games, one a tribute to the women ski-jumpers (the ones who weren’t allowed to compete, even when they based their challenge on Canada’s Charter of Rights and Freedoms – apparently the IOC is a power higher than our country’s strongest guarantor of rights). The poem read at our event was his “2010 Handbook for Entering Canada”.

I took a more roundabout route in making my selections. I decided that because these Olympics were the first with a Pride House, the first games to recognize gay participants, it was important to read from books that had been challenged in the past for their gay content. Jane Rule’s The Young in One Another’s Arms was one of many books detained at the Canadian border for its lesbian content. Like so many of those ‘detained’ titles, it was destined for Little Sisters Bookstore. And that ‘detainment’ was just one of many instances that led that bravest of bookstores to challenge Canada Customs and its practices.

My other selection was Elspeth Cameron’s memoir, No Previous Experience.

Both books are wonderfully written and in no way prurient or lurid. It’s difficult to understand what the fuss might have been about.

But then, I remind myself that when Mark Tewksbury won a gold medal in Barcelona in 1992, he still had to be ‘in the closet’ about his sexuality. I’m grateful that this time out, U.S. skater Johnny Weir can not only be open, but can speak out against the commentators who made homophobic remarks about him.

And I’m glad as well that Tewksbury is still continuing to speak out. Lately he’s commented on the Conservative government’s decision to censor the newly-written guidelines for immigrants to Canada. Steve and the gang don’t want information about same-sex rights included in the guide. Considering that some countries still punish (and even execute) gays, you’d think the government might realize our freedoms are something to be proud about. Something maybe even to celebrate.