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.

Isn't today supposed to be a holiday?

The long-promised February holiday, at that.

For years, the people of BC have been lagging behind the rest of Canada, waiting for that long weekend break that would mark the almost-halfway point between Christmas and Easter.

When the holiday was first proposed, a lonnnng time ago, it was suggested that the day coincide with designating the Maple Leaf as the emblem for our flag. Since that was first made official on February 15, 1965, the date suggested was the third Monday in this, the shortest (even though it often feels the longest) month.

Although many Canadian provinces and territories now have a February holiday, nobody calls it Flag Day. While that's fine with me -- face it, it sounds way too patriotic -- it is a bit odd that there are so many different names for the February observance.

In Prince Edward Island it's called Islander Day. Straightforward and to the point, very PEI'ish.

Manitoba celebrates an important figure from its history by naming their holiday Louis Riel Day.

The Yukon does things its own way and not only has its own name for the day, but its own day. They celebrate on the last Friday of the month, so this year's Heritage Day turns out to be February 22nd. I'm thinking a Friday holiday sounds like more fun than a Monday one. After all, did you ever hear anyone say TGIM?

About the only consistent name for this holiday is Family Day, the term it's known by in Alberta, Saskatchewan and Ontario.

And this year we in BC get added to the list of those celebrating Family Day. But while the rest of the provinces get their holiday today, the third Monday in the month, we had ours all on our own last week. What the heck is that about?

We know that Christy Clark doesn't always see eye-to-eye with the other premiers, but really, does her personal 'drum' have to dictate its beat to the rest of us?

Or is this date to commemorate our expen$ive Olympics from 2010 which opened the second weekend in February? If that really is the case, you'd think -- especially with the financial woes her party keeps trying to explain away -- Clark would have quietly gone along with the rest of the country and chosen the third weekend too.

Happy Family Day today to most of Canada.

There's no iron in irony

And now there's no iron in the Monopoly set. The little metal token has been removed by a forum on that most faceless of juries, Facebook.

What has been lost seems more than just a piece of metal (or, as is likely in some of the newer sets, plastic). It's the loss of a piece that was in the illustrations for the game's official patent in 1935. Of course, as so often seems to be the case, a version of the game had already been around for several decades -- one that had been invented by a woman. Still, the game most of us know goes back to that one invented in the depths of the Great Depression and served as a pastime for dreamers, with visions of getting rich.

Although there are websites refuting the idea that the Monopoly tokens might have had any particular significance, I can't help but think they probably did. The thimble? Dressmakers and tailors. The cannon/artillery, the military. The hat? Since it's the same as the one on the head of Mr Monopoly, the character associated with the game, let's say that personifies the entrepreneur. The ship? Transportation. The shoe? This one's probably the trickiest. Athletes didn't yet get anything like today's big bucks, so that was hardly one of the main streams of employment. My guess is it might have been a good stand-in for those in sales. During the Depression, they must have gone through many a pair of shoes.

But back to the humble handiron. Surely, it stands for the realm of the domestic. The world of steady work that goes on in the home -- work for mostly no pay. Could that be why it's undervalued enough to now be voted out of the mix?

Yes, other tokens have changed over the years. There've been race cars, with and without driver inside. Rocking horse, rising horse (a la Roy Rogers' Trigger), lantern and purse. Oh yes, the little Scotty dog. Again, another connection to Mr Monopoly -- supposedly his dog.

And now, we get a cat. Hmm. I am stumped as to what significance this might bring. Don't get me wrong, I love kitties as much as anyone. I just don't see them as representative of any occupation. Hunters? Sleepers? Royalty? Perhaps. Or maybe the all-too-many who are under- or un-employed.

Maybe this is more than just a loss of trinket that served as token in a board game. Maybe it says something -- not about losing a sense of irony (that's supposedly been dead for years now) -- but about losing a sense of the meanings behind things, about losing a sense of symbol. And considering that symbol is the basis of art and even language, that's not a loss to take lightly.

PS The delightful fence of antiques in the photo has since been replaced by a boringly white picket one. And as far as I know, they didn't even take a poll on Facebook.

So, where do the pennies go now?

Will they go to heaven? After all, according to the song, that's supposedly where they came from.

But, what to do with the ones left in pockets, jars, the bottoms of old purses?

Word is that they'll be collected and melted down, but gosh, I'm trying to think of something more creative than just rolling them into tubes and taking them to the bank. Some kind of craZy coppery mosaic? Chunky necklaces or bracelets, an inset for a ring?? Experiments to get flattened on the railway tracks?

I can't help but be at least a little bit nostalgic. Playing cards with my Gramma for pennies. Collecting pennies in a quart-size glass milk bottle. All those phrases: penny for your thoughts, penny-ante, penny stocks, a bad penny. And what, if they still had them, would you put inside the flap of your penny loafers?

Oh, the sensory images they conjure...though I suppose if you never put a penny into your mouth, you might not understand. Really, could anything taste dirtier (or probably be ) dirtier than a penny? All those hands they'd have passed through. Even the sweaty smell of them conjures unpleasantness.

As of today, we're apparently not using them anymore. Strange, but when I ran my errands, the guy at the counter happily took the 4 cents portion of what I owed in pennies, didn't round it up and ask for a nickel instead.

And apparently nickels are next in line to go.

Who knows, maybe we'll all soon be stuck in the looney-only bin.

A not-so-nice surprise

When I looked out my office window yesterday afternoon, this was the sight that greeted me.

Where this chop-job now lies rotting stood three magnificent trees -- a Western hemlock, a Douglas fir and the tree considered sacred by many First Nations peoples, a Sitka spruce. There's a glimpse of their thick branches on a post from earlier this month, when the digger was creating the hole for the new home's foundation.

This happened Saturday afternoon, when both of us were away for an overnight in the city.

Clearly, there's nothing that can be done now.

I'd sure like to be able to fly over the fence to count the rings in that biggest stump. That's about the only honour I can think of that might bring some small honour to this mess.

Tonight's the night

... when the Township of Langley's Council will meet again to discuss the future of the McLellan Forest, also known as the Glen Valley parkland.

This is the forest that may still be sold to developers for proposed 'estate' homes, even though the provincial government has declared it to be of key ecological importance and defined it as an area that should be preserved.

The deal the Council offered Langley citizens earlier this fall was this: Raise $3 million in two months' time and we'll sell it to you so you can keep it as a park.

If you're scratching your head over how Council might be trying to sell public land to a group comprised of the public... you're not alone.

While the Council's goal is understandable -- they want to offset costs of a proposed rec centre -- they still don't seem to 'get' the fact that the plot of land in question is irreplaceable.

I'm hoping that the broad publicity garnered for this little tract of special forest has convinced Council members to find another parcel of land that could generate the income they're looking for.

Tonight, we shall see. Fingers crossed.

Snow day play time

Yesterday surprised me with the arrival of snow, something we've not seen much of this winter -- a situation I must admit is pretty much fine with me.

Still, because I didn't have to go out in it, I didn't. I stayed in and did more prep towards the workshop I'll be leading at month's end.

I like to use Magnetic Poetry as a start-up exercise. Its limited vocabulary usually stymies people just enough without making them crazy with frustration. Because I'd recently found some 'extra' pieces, I resolved to divide them up and add them to the various bags I've collected.

To be fair, this means dividing them so no one gets stuck with a bag limited to the, an and for. In other words, this mean I sort the sets into categories: articles, adjectives, prepositions, etc.

It gets tricky with words that can work as more than one part of speech. Free. Is that an adjective or a verb? Spell. Is that a noun or a verb? Fly. Adjective, verb, noun? So, the sorting can get pretty complicated.

Still, it's the sort of play (another of those words -- noun, verb??) I enjoy. Especially on a day when it feels sooo much better to stay inside, while a pot of soup cooks itself slowly on the stove. Almost as much fun as those endless coloured buttons I used to love sorting, the ones from my gramma's button jar.

Not quite Jurassic Park

Still, it kind of looks that way. A new house is going up next door, pretty much right outside the window of my office.

Those giant bite-dump machines always look like dinosaurs to me. And truly, the bumping and thumping (especially when the digger seemed to be head-butting the back end of a dump truck yesterday) sounds like a battle of the beasts.

At least I'm enjoying the light while it's still there. Three storeys, coming soon. Change. How resistant I can be to it!

Happy New Year!

Off to a glittery start!

A somewhat raggedy year end

So, what kind of year was 2012 for you? Google’s doodle for today provides a starting point for clicking on all kinds of events from the year. Without Google, who would have known that June 6^th was the 79^th anniversary of the first drive-in movie? They’ve even given us a review of theyear, complete with a spot for adding your resolution for 2013.

For us here at the home of the big limb, it was the Year of the Houseguest. We had people staying with us nearly every month this year. From Alberta, Ontario, even Australia. Luckily, our little house is good at expanding to meet whatever needs we might have.

Work-wise, almost enough progress was made. Guest spots at the Inaugural Cascadia Poetry Festival and at City Council in Surrey were some of the highlights.

Travel was focused on our part of the world, with ventures into Washington State and our own Gulf Islands. A personal highlight (and the most hopeful story of the year) was getting to see the progress made at the Elwha Dam site in Washington State. Imagine, un-building a dam to reinstate habitat for salmon!

So, why the photo of the raggedy Canadian flag?

On too many fronts it seems our country is in trouble – mainly as a result of actions taken by the increasingly frightening Harper regime, er, government.

What used to be known as the Navigable Waters Protection Act serves as just one example. Where waterways used to be protected, as of this fall, most no longer are. Even as the need grows more urgent, standards for safeguarding the environmental keep getting weaker. 

And while we get less protection for environment, we get more prisons, more prisoners, more offenses requiring minimum sentences.

And though there is apparently money for prisons, cultural and heritage institutions get cutbacks. The National Library and Archives, the CBC.

No more Gun Registry, despite recent events in the US which suggest that having such safeguards in place might be a very good idea. After all, the registry came about after our own mass shooting, the one at L’EcolePolytechnique on December 6, 1989. 

And the scariest part in all these scenarios is the fact that so much of it is being done without a shred of public debate. 

Luckily we have grassroots organizations such as Lead Now and Change.Org , Avaaz and Idle No More. Maybe through using tools such as these (and perhaps even donating to them), we can continue having some positive effects.  

So, not exactly a resolution, more of a wish. What I’d like most for 2013 would be finding some way to convince this government to remember who they are supposed to be here for – us. Because I can't imagine what shreds of sane governance might be left if we really have to wait for the next election in 2015. 

And to all a good night!

 

It looks a bit like Santa has landed in Hawaii -- all those orchids flirting with him. That's not quite the case. It's just that this year our Mos Craciun finds himself windowside, on our 'plants' table. By luck, all three orchids are in bloom. Even the African violet is still blossoming.

 

Tonight's supper will be the traditional (for our family, at least) Swedish meatballs, though no, we're not Swedish. They just taste good.

 

Whatever the holiday traditions at your house may be, I hope that you'll enjoy celebrating in the company of those you love and who love you.  

Envisioning

Face it. It's been a dark week. All those little coffins. Senseless.

 

But tonight, while most of us in this part of the world are sleeping, the solstice will occur. Once again, the sun will appear to turn that proverbial corner in the sky, bringing us a little more light each day as we move again towards summer.

 

Inspiring even more hope than moving towards the light and warmth that the changing seasons bring is the belief that we are moving towards social transformation. I'm envisioning 2013 as the year when we too will 'turn that proverbial corner' and begin to see the light about how each of us can help bring about the changes that need to be made. 

12 - 12 - 12

I've always loved 12 -- the number, that is. I even have a poem about it, explaining some of my reasons for admiring it the way I do. 

I also never understood how a number as beautifully elegant as 12 could, when multiplied by itself, result in a number known by such a disgusting term as ‘gross’. Who dreamed up that one?

But if today’s date isn’t beautiful enough in itself, I took the photo above earlier today – a lovely day expressing itself in an early display of spring, a hedge of bursting-into-blossom golden broom. 

The Han-Shan Project

Yesterday was yet another magical day in the forest. Thanks to poet Susan McCaslin, McLellan Park has been transformed into a gallery of poems.  

She took inspiration for her idea from Han-Shan, a 9^th century Chinese poet who lived as a hermit. 

I strolled through, snapping photos of selected works (and words) that were hanging from branches or gently tied around trunks. As I wandered amidst the quiet, I couldn’t help but think that even the trees must be pleased by the efforts that have been made to protect this special place.

The project – and its cause – to preserve the McLellan Park forest has been picked up by the press, including Canada's national newspaper, the Globe and Mail. Poems and notes of support continue to arrive in McCaslin’s inbox.

Among the many poems posted (about 200), the closing stanza in a piece from Australian poet Ilka Blue Nelson stands out as saying so much about what this cause represents.

A tree stands
In memory of a time
Before greed forested the world. 

Monday night will be the meeting at which the Township of Langley’s council decides the forest’s fate. To keep apprised of news about the forest, visit WOLF's blog. 

Salish Sea-change

Today is the day that new laws in Washington state come into effect.

 Last month, voters from that state took a stand on some (I believe) important issues -- same-sex marriage and marijuana laws.

The photo may be puzzling. I offer it only as a small indication of a different sort of attitude I've noticed down there. It's a picture I took on a ferry when we were travelling in Washington over the long weekend in November.

The run from Coupeville to Port Townsend isn't a long haul -- only about half-an-hour. Enough time to sort out a few pieces of a puzzle before heading back down to your car to drive off and go on your way.

The unfinished puzzle was just lying on the table and I couldn't resist. I couldn't walk past without matching up a couple of shapes. And then, like everyone else had before me, I left it for the next passerby to add to, or not.

And that's something I like. An atmosphere that allows me to do something if I want to.

The new marriage laws in Washington aren't telling me I have to marry someone of my own sex. Maybe that's why I love the approach in the wording of the proposal: Marriage for All.

Exactly. Why not be able to marry if you want to. 

And the new pot laws there don't force me to smoke up.

The thing that's so great is that if I want to do these things, I can. And, unlike in so many other places, I won't be arrested or sent to jail for having done so.

The art of the book

One of the nicest things that happened this week was the reading and chapbook launch at the public library in North Delta. More than just a reading, as you can see from the photo, it was a celebration.

The event was the culmination of a workshop I led this fall on the topic of making a chapbook. It helped, of course, that it was such a terrific group -- 6 women and 2 men -- each writer with their own distinctive voice and style.

Although most of the books contained poetry (one was fiction, four linked short stories), the range of poems was remarkable -- from rhyming poems for kids with the words based on High Frequency Sight Words, to thoughtful reflections on family, the mundanities of daily life, the mysteries of defining one's relationship with God. One was inspired by the poems of Walt Whitman, and included several multi-media experiments.

One book was laminated (since it's for kids, good idea!), most were hand-sewn, though one was bound by a tidy row of black machine-stitching. Nice intersection of technologies! I especially liked the choice of colours offered in Zero to Sixty. It was hard to decide which one to pick. I was tempted to buy one of each.

Even though this workshop won't be repeated until fall of 2013, I'm already looking forward to it and wondering what surprises will result then.  

Three score and ten

Seventy. If he hadn't died at 27, that's how old Jimi Hendrix would have been today.

The photos were taken at the shrine that is his gravesite, in Renton, Washington. Friends and I were taken there on a magical history tour last March, and when we left, all of us were buzzing, twanging our air guitars and singing Voodoo Chile (which my friend Paul likes to pronounce 'Voodoo Chili').

Paul then drove us further down the road, letting us know only that we were off to visit the graves of other luminaries. These sites turned out to be graves of the poet Denise Levertov and the memorable father-and-son, Bruce and Brandon Lee.

Then, while we were cruising the lanes of Lake View Cemetery on Seattle's Capitol Hill, what came on the radio, but Hendrix.

Here's a bit of a clip of what we heard that morning. Maybe not 'reverent' enough as cemetery music, but totally and completely appropriate.

Happy birthday, Jimi.

I love my shirt

I love this shirt. Out of a closet overly full of this-and-that, it’s what I’d wear every day if I could. Once upon a time, there was even a song celebrating just such a beloved piece of clothing.

But aside from long-ago pop songs, why is it that I love it so much?

It’s soft. It feels good against my skin. It makes no demands in terms of fashion sense. It lets me feel like my normalest self, no pretension about being something or someone I’m not.

When it came into my life, it was nicely pre-worn. Broken in and not all like a brand-new thing, too stiff to hold me close the way I want a shirt to do. And the price was just right: free.

It came from one of my very favourite shops, the free store on Denman Island (second only to in my list of faves to the free store on Denman’s next door neighbour, Hornby Island). And how long ago was that? Nearly a decade ago, I am sure.

Despite the fact that the collar is severely frayed – in danger of removing itself from the body of the shirt altogether – or that the elbows are starting to go through, this remains my best and happiest-making piece of clothing.

Time to go shopping for a new shirt? Not on your life. Especially not with tomorrow being Buy Nothing Day.

For now, I plan to keep wearing my best shirt – as long and as carefully as I can.

A day on the bay

Late afternoon, early evening -- already nearly dark, after a perfect pre-winter day in Vancouver.

When I woke up this morning, it was six-barely-something and still full-on dark. But since I felt rested I put on the coffee and a lamp and started reading.

It wasn't too long before this happened.

How beautiful the dawn is
its slow stretch awaking
grey-eyed and soft, as if trying to remember
all the colours in the world

then placing them, one by each

their own leaf,
bird,
sky. 

And maybe that's just what happens when you read Susan Musgrave too early in the day.

A cultural landmark

Earlier this month, I attended a Twisted Poets salon at Vancouver's Cafe Montmartre. Although it was a terrific event, featuring Diana Hayes and Taryn Hubbard, the evening was marred by the announcement that the venue would be closing by mid-month.

For years, this has been THE place for the arts -- book launches, open mic events, jazz performances, even painters in action. Readers and musicians from across the continent have performed here.

Only now, as with so many good things, it's coming to an end.

Tomorrow's Bohemian Caress looks to be the farewell event. All we can hope is that the owner Ali (who has done sooooo much for local artists, especially practitioners of the often-forgotten literary arts) will be able to recoup one of these days and open a new place that's as welcoming as the Cafe Montmartre has been.

Raise a glass and read a poem.

Forward

That's the direction we need to be moving in. But for a minute, I need to go back, to a memory that feels relevant.

Four years ago yesterday, I flew into Chicago --  for a final visit with my mother, who was dying.

She'd been mostly bedridden for a number of years and for the course of a couple of elections hadn't been given the opportunity to vote.

But 2008 was different. When my sweet sister the Libran discovered our mother's non-voting predicament, she pushed her sleeves up, got the paperwork going, then got on a plane and delivered the ballot in person.

Our mother not only got to vote, she lived long enough to see her candidate elected. And oh my, did her eyes shine as her man was met by the cheering throngs in Grant Park.

And oh dear, did my sister's and my eyes shine as well as our 83-year-old mother lifted her arm in a victory fist-punch.

Beauty and Bounty

I had a hard time deciding what to call this post. Although it's mostly about the bounty we always seem to discover in the forest, I can't ever manage to ignore its beauty.

We lucked into a gorgeous afternoon -- the first without rain in several days and drove out to one of our favourite forest spots. I'd packed a lunch, so it felt very festive, a celebration of the beauty in this lingering autumn we've had.

September and October (at least the first half) were too dry for mushrooms. Then, the second half of the month had seemed too harshly wet to go out. So today, the 'Goldilocks' day seemed just right.

We didn't find a big batch, but succeeded in finding enough chanterelles to have a beautiful meal and still have a few for drying, so no complaints on that front.

The best treat of the day was seeing the salmon still heading upstream to spawn. The video is short, but indicates how feisty these fish are, despite all the miles they've already had to travel.