What a kick-off!

Launch. Whoever dreamed up that term for welcoming a book to the world couldn't have had a better site in mind than SFU's Harbourside branch. What better place for a launch, than beside Burrard Inlet, looking out over the water.

On Wednesday evening, a new anthology, The Revolving City, was launched there.

That site was doubly appropriate as the anthology presents poems by writers who have participated in SFU's popular Lunch Poems series -- and the venue for those readings is barely outside the door where the celebratory launch was held.

As with any such collection, many people were involved in bringing the book to fruition. One of those is Kim Gilker, the photographer in the image above. She's taking a picture of George Bowering, as he's reading a wonderful poem from the book by the recently-deceased Jamie Reid.

The poem suits the image, as it's a powerful rant piece called "Prayer" with the following lines that repeat as part of the chorus.

LET THE SKY ESCAPE
   LET THE SKY ESCAPE
      LET THE SKY ESCAPE
         LET THE SKY ESCAPE AT LEAST
            AT LEAST LET THE SKY ESCAPE PLEASE AT LEAST
               LET THE SKY ESCAPE

And yes, the poem is all in caps, so is probably meant to be shouted across the universe.

The sky glowering in the background as sunset approaches seemed the just-right companion to Bowering's reading.

And this event was just the first in the four days of this year's Word Vancouver event. What a great start to it. If you're in range of Vancouver, maybe I'll see you Sunday at Library Square.

On retreat, an annual affair

One of my favourite weeks of the year is the one I get to spend on retreat with my writing group. We've been doing this every September for more years than I'm sure of -- at least five.

This year saw us in a different setting (we usually go to Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island), as one of our brainy members found us a house to rent in Whistler. I'll admit that I felt some trepidation, as I've never felt quite 'upscale' enough to be part of what I'd imagined as the Whistler scene.

The house we were in was comfortably nestled into a hillside of trees, so I felt at home right away.

The trail system was terrific, the village barely a kilometre from 'our' house. I even managed to get relaxed enough (thanks maybe to a fabulous massage I had at one of the local businesses) to enjoy poking my nose into some of the village shops.

And those trails led plenty of other places besides the village. The 'bouquet' above, placed on the 'vase' of a large rock outside our front door was comprised of bits of wildflowers, rose hips and pine cones gathered during foresty walks.

I'm pretty sure all of us accomplished the writing we'd aimed to get done. And best of all, I think we all came away refreshed and looking forward to a 'new year' of writing.

When the clouds made their way down the mountain on Saturday, each of us made our way down the Sea to Sky Highway, homeward, our heads filled with mountain air and memories, just about in time for the autumn Equinox.

Thoughts on a long weekend

The scents in the air have changed. Thankfully, there's no longer any hint of the smokiness we had during the worst of the forest fires. But it's more than just the clearing of the atmosphere now that we've finally had some rain.

It's a new scent, one that's sweet, something like apples slowly baking in the oven. But it's not a scent from the kitchen that I'm meaning -- it's a scent that fills the outdoors.

Yesterday we took a long walk through Campbell River Valley Park in Langley. Many branches and big limbs were still down from last weekend's storm, but staff had done an amazing job of clearing the trails.

Today saw our 'outside time' here at the house. Picking the ripened quince, pruning some of the bushes and trees, taking down the tent and packing it away for next year.

But just as during yesterday's stroll, being outdoors today has again been a time for thinking.

Probably more so than in January, this always seems like a time for beginnings, and is likely the reason Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, has always made such good sense to me. This year that isn't observed until next weekend, but where I had challah bread last weekend, I'm feeling a kind of symmetry, and thinking this weekend -- sandwiched between those two -- is 'my' new year.

There've been other years when this has been the weekend for writing (or trying to write) a Three-Day Novel, though that hasn't been on this year's agenda.

This year's thoughts are quieter and much less frantic. Listening to the birds, noticing the angle of the changing sunlight and, oh yes, just breathing in those sweet autumny smells.

Exhale

Well, this time the weather people were right about the rain. It started yesterday morning and came down pretty much all through the night. Hurrah!

With this end to the drought, it feels like I can exhale. There's something about waiting (and waiting) for rain that makes me feel like I have to hold my breath. I guess I must be acclimatized to where I live.

Along with the wet came a whole lot of wind, but we were among the lucky ones. None of our trees came down (huge ones at a friend's place did, crushing her deck), just a lot of small branches, spruce cones and cedar bits.

Our power was out for nearly 24 hours, but we're pretty well set to deal with those sorts of emergencies. Still, it was a good wake-up call -- enough of one that the generator has been tuned up and is set for the next round of whatever.

The garden sure looks happy though and the trees appear to be smiling again. Me too.

Canada Dry

And I don't mean the ginger ale.

When people learn where I live (not far from Vancouver), they often remark on the weather, and ask how I can bear all the rainfall.

But this year has been different. It seems as though it's hardly rained since April.

We've been visiting a friend on nearby Salt Spring Island where water supply in the summertime is often precarious.

As with the Lower Mainland, it's dry, dry, dry here. I can only hope this poor parched azalea (or is it a rhododendron?) will recover once the drought comes to end.

They keep predicting rain, but it hasn't been panning out. The skies will darken, and then the clouds will pass.

Hmm. Can you say 'climate change'?

Getting touristical

When out-of-town visitors come to stay, it's almost obligatory to tour them around to see a few sights. When they're from out of country, the stakes go higher.

When my sister visited recently, we started off by heading for Vancouver Island. Sure, we visited some of the usual mid-island spots -- Cathedral Grove, Englishman River Falls, Goats-on-the-Roof at Coombs.

But then she expressed a desire to visit some of the attractions mentioned in some of the brochures, and I'll admit it, I balked. The thought of greenhouse with butterflies in it did not leave me eager to drive further down the road. I'm an appreciator of nature, but this didn't really tempt me, especially after we'd been disappointed by two other similar-sounding places -- both of which were supposed to be wildlife rescue sites. The first of these looked too scary to go into; the second held more examples of taxidermy than live specimens.

Then, though the butterfly place didn't look all that tempting from the parking lot, we decided to take a chance and go in. Not only were there butterflies in profusion, they were surrounded by tropical plants filled with blossoms. Heck, there was even calming music. Butterfly World and Gardens. Worth it? For sure. Sometimes it pays to take a chance on being a touristy tourist.

Lego Surrey

Among current exhibits at the Surrey Museum is one assembled (literally) by a group of Lego enthusiasts. This image is one of many that envision Surrey's past, future -- or, as this one indicates, its present.

The club's creations go back to the Ice Age and forward into a future that's not altogether happy looking, despite supposed changes to what our energy sources will be.

Still, it's a thought-provoking batch of pieces (and yes, thousands and thousands of pieces of Lego), resulting from hundreds of hours of work. Worth taking in -- and the price is right: Free!

Poetic feet

Iambs? Dactyls? Not that kind of poetic feet. The feet with the beautiful blue toenails belong to poet Sandy Shreve.

She's just released a new book of poems, Waiting for the Albatross. The book, which she calls a collection of found poems, is based on words her father wrote in 1936 when he was 21, working as a deckhand on a freighter.

It becomes clear that 80 years ago, when Jack Shreve kept those journals, there was time to observe life more closely. He notes clouds, sea birds, a shark swimming belly-up. But maybe that was just who he was -- a careful observer. I can't help but wonder whether some of that might be because he didn't have television or all the other screens we devote so much of our attention to -- screens that so often seem to keep us from the real world, from things that matter.

But back to the book. It's enhanced by black-and-white photos. Many of them are of her father and his fellow labourers on the freighter where he worked during those days when he was keeping that diary which Sandy used as source material.

So what have her feet got to do with anything?

While she was sharing some of the poems with a group of us, the day was hot and she'd kicked off her shoes. While she sat straight in her chair, holding the book and reading to us, her feet were gesticulating to the words -- every bit as eloquently as hands might have been.

I suppose it would have been more fun to have a video of those expressive feet in action, but somehow it would have been too intrusive on the gathering. You'll just have to buy the book and imagine those feet in action, swinging to the sounds of Sandy's (and her dad's) poetry.

Revisiting the (almost) 100 foot diet

Back when I used to keep my supper blog, there was a night I did an experiment in eating food that had grown in our yard. I called it the 100-foot diet.

While that wasn't quite the case with last night's meal -- the bit of couscous was from the other night, as was the eggplant spread (though it was full of onions from the yard). The bread was a cheat as well, though from a bakery not so very far away.

Still, the beans (two kinds), little tomatoes and all of the berries (blackberries, raspberries and one humongous strawberry) were all just freshly picked in time for supper.

Ah, summertime!

The House that Birdie Built

We have a bird living with us this summer. Earlier, she tried building a nest on a ledge in the gazebo, but that one didn't work out. This time she's taken up lodging in behind a potted begonia.

Where the last posting here featured the front door of our house, it seems only fair to give the same treatment to the back door. And really, this nest (hidden) is not even a metre from where we go in and out to the back yard.

I can only surmise that Birdie must have been watching decorator shows on tv, as really, this spot seems more about looks than practicality. Not only does she have pink begonia blossoms, every now and then she has waterfall sound effects, as there's a shower just inside the bathroom (nearest) window.

The little mother seems to have grown used to us, though we do try to be quiet when we pass by her
home. And watering the plant has become an exercise in precision so as not to flood her home while keeping the plant alive.

Not exactly something that should show up on Dress My Nest, but Birdie has certainly made herself a a very pretty home.

The Painted Door, revisited

If you’ve never read the wonderful story, "The Painted Door" by Sinclair Ross, the next time you have 15 or 20 spare minutes, you might want to click on this link to it.

Or, if you’re more into video-watching, here’s a link to a short adaptation of the piece that gives you a very good interpretation of the story.

But really, this posting isn’t about a great short story; it’s just an account of one of those jobs we leave for the days of mid-summer.

This year our house is badly in need of paint – especially all the trim, so that means the doors too. 

Because we only have one ladder (great excuse, sez I), the Dear Man is the one doing all the sanding and painting of roof-edge trim. That leaves me with the job that at least requires no climbing – the doors.

As with just about any paint job, the masking took me longer than the actual painting. I not only taped the doorknob and lock, but the top and all the edges, as those are supposed to remain white. Only a bit of jumping up onto a chair for the tippy-top. Otherwise, all was on the level.

One problem that did crop up during the job was the fact that my ‘painting shoes’ decided to choose this afternoon to almost completely disintegrate. 

Good thing this paint job isn’t going to go on for very long!

How early is too early?

Not long ago, I noticed that the blackberries were starting to ripen. It was just an isolated few, but whoa -- that's no longer the case.

They're over a month early, but try telling that to them. They just keep ripening and ripening, so I just keep picking.

Today's berries were so plentiful, I decided I had to make some of them into jam.

One more batch of Christmas gifts, I guess, but this early feels almost scary.

No wonder even the pope is talking climate change.

O Canada (on Canada Day)

If you're not sure who Louis Riel was, click on his name for a one-minute history lesson. Sadly, a lot of those words -- especially the ones about government -- are just as true now as they were then.

Although I'm one who considers him a hero, not everyone does (nor obviously, considering his end, did).

For several years while I was attending Simon Fraser University, I was lucky enough to live in what was called the 'married residence' even though few of us were actually married. The other, more important name for that building was Louis Riel House.

Because the university didn't look after the building as well as it might have, conditions there have made the place uninhabitable. It will be closing at the end of August. What this means is yet another chapter of affordable housing closing.

Many of us who lived there were single parents, trying to raise our kids and complete a degree. We found the building a place that enabled us to fulfill both roles.

With closure of the Louis Riel House, education will become just that much more difficult for the students (and their families) who have been living there.

It's more than a little ironic to consider these words from the man himself, Louis Riel, about the battle being "...for homes and human rights."

He understood the importance of access to housing.

If only our politicians did.

The Way of the Raspberry (and other berries)

Picking raspberries allows one the time to do nothing more than look and move one's hand. Such simple, repetitive motions -- hand to berry, to bucket, to bush again -- allow time for contemplation, almost meditation.

The berries reveal themselves, each in their own way. To the picker, to the sun, to the bumblebee in search of flowers to visit. It's as if they understand the purpose of their existence -- that they were made to be eaten and enjoyed.

The darkest, deepest red of the berries let go of their branches at the slightest touch. Those paler or slightly orange cling tightly and won't allow themselves to be plucked, teaching perhaps that resistance is not, as the Borg would say, futile.

Some lie hidden, gathered in a clutch beneath a canopy of green leaves, as if in wait for the one who will seek them out, perhaps the one who will best appreciate them.

Still others push forward -- higher, higher on the branch -- standing tallest at the top of the spindliest part of the cane, maybe as if to be nearer the sun.

Already, so many berries have gone into my bucket this year. So many of those have in turn gone into bags now filling the freezer. Others have gone into jars of jam that will in turn become gifts at Christmastime.

The strawberries have come and been. Blueberries are next (tomorrow, first pick for me).

But wait a minute, what's that already ripening even though it's still June? Blackberries aren't supposed to ripen until August, are they?

Summer bed, summery dreams

It's official. As of last night, when we passed the mark of Solstice, it's summer.

For us, summer means we set up our tent and sleep in the little clearing in our yard. Home-camping, I suppose. All that fresh air makes for great sleeps and wonderful dreams, even if the birdsong does seem louder in the morning.

Around here, it's felt like summer for weeks -- strawberries have come and been, raspberries are ripe, even the blueberries will be ready soon.

Yesterday was also Canada's National Aboriginal Day. To celebrate, our Sunday dinner was a little out of the ordinary: venison, turkey, wild rice salad, corn and (as just about always), green salad from the garden. Served with plenty of gratitude and family in attendance, it felt like a great way to start the season.

Remembrances and coincidences

It's been one week since we attended a remarkable remembrance event for a dear friend. It's a matter I mostly want to keep private.

But another remembrance that came to my attention this week is one that I think deserves a more public commemoration.

It was an item that caught my eye mostly by accident. Though I often scan the obituary pages (usually on my way to the day's Sudoku), I noticed a name I hadn't seen nor heard mention of in years: Mary Steinhauser. The announcement was a remembrance item, commemorating her death forty years ago on June 11, 1975, when she was caught in crossfire (or as we may now identify it, by the hideous oxymoron, 'friendly fire') during a hostage-taking incident at the British Columbia Penitentiary in New Westminster.

The institution's been closed since 1980, mostly excavated and re-invented as a subdivision, though remnants of the old BC Pen linger.

The penitentiary was well known for its practice of holding inmates in its SCU (Special Corrections Unit), where prisoners were confined alone for over 23 hours a day, with only the rarest access to the outdoors. Because the SCU was on the top floor of one of the buildings, it became known as the Penthouse. Prison humour, always the darkest, is often enduring in its irony.

Steinhauser was a social worker -- or, to be more accurate, a classifications officer -- who worked at the prison. She was known as an advocate against the practice of solitary confinement and was viewed by some as being 'on side' with the men, a situation that may well have contributed to her death.

Although the full report stemming from the official inquiry into the incident does not cite the names of any of the hostages (it names only prisoners and those who were called in as negotiators), we know that the single resulting death was that of Steinhauser.

I'll admit to having had greater than average interest in the story, both because I admired Steinhauser (and Claire Culhane, a peace activist and another prisoners' advocate of the era) and because I knew someone who was a brother to one of the hostage-takers. All I can find to substantiate my memories of the event is the Wikipedia article on Steinhauser. It portrays her heroically, as being the only hostage who chose to stay in the room with the prisoners who'd taken charge, standing for what she believed to the end.

But now here's where the coincidences come into play. Reading this morning's paper, I found a hopeful article about rehabilitation activities in U.S. prisons. Instead of the continuously more punitive measures which are being undertaken in our overcrowded prisons, gardening is being encouraged as a way to give men meaning in their lives -- and to save money by providing a source of food for the prisons.

Only then, when I turned the page, an even bigger coincidence presented itself, this time on the too-familiar obituary page. Former prison guard, Albert Hollinger had died. It had supposedly been bullets from Hollinger's weapon that had killed Mary Steinhauser. And here, within a day of her death's anniversary, was his death.

Details of his obituary made it seem as though he'd suffered his own difficult times in life, alluding to PTSD.

Coincidences, remembrances. Lives intertwined. May all of them now rest, in peace.

Backyard solar power

This is our version of solar power. The sun dries the laundry, provides salad greens and illuminates a spot for reading and relaxing.

It seems that our prime minister has finally acknowledged (publicly, no less) the reality of climate change and agreed to a plan towards achieving decarbonization by the end of the century.

But what I want to know is, now that this has been stated as a goal (even though 2100 is way too far down the road), where are the grant programs for developing alternative energy sources? Think of all the start-ups that need to get rolling -- solar, thermal, tidal, and who-knows-what-else -- if we are to accomplish this goal.

Our house has what seems to be the perfectly angled spot on our mostly flat roof for installing a modest solar array. I'd like to know when the Feds will show up with some kind of encouragement for implementing a more serious solar plan for the homes and neighbourhoods of ordinary Canadians.

We can only hope this fall's election will see some major changes which will bring about real leadership as we move towards living in more planet-friendly ways.

Down by the river

Winnipeg. That's where I spent this past weekend. Aside from hurriedly changing planes at the Winnipeg airport, I'd never been there before. What a place, a city that reached into my soul.

In between meetings and sessions for The Writers' Union of Canada and the League of Canadian Poets, I made it to the Winnipeg Art Gallery, the Legislature Buildings and the Canadian Museum of Human Rights. All of these visits were well worthwhile, but even more important to me was the visit I paid to the banks of the Red River.

The reason for visiting the river was so I could place a 'memory rock' there.

The memory rock was a shiny stone I'd found, in of all places, on the floor of a downtown dollar store.

The store was crowded, mostly with First Nations people -- singles, women, families with beautiful kids. It was a messy shop, with more security guards than ordinary staff, and I suppose the security guys weren't into tidying the shelves.

It made me sad that the food choices there consisted of nothing but chemmy-flavoured junk. I could only hope that there was another grocery store in the neighbourhood, one with at least milk, bread and some kind of produce selection.

But then, at my feet, was the perfect shiny stone. I knew it didn't belong there and rescued it.

It was later that the idea came to mind: I knew I wanted to take it to the river and toss it into the water, my small way of remembering Tina Fontaine.

Yesterday, my last day in Winnipeg, was the day I made my way to the river. But the River Walk was closed, owing to the height of the water, almost in flood. I tried a couple of spots where I might access the river -- in a park, beside a playground -- and got close enough that I could have thrown it in. Even though I tossed in a few small stones (ones I picked from under trees on the bank), none of those spots felt like the right place to send out the special one.

Then, when I'd almost resigned myself to keeping the stone, I found the special place.

Here I'd spent the weekend with writers and what did I find but a park bench with a book on it -- a hardcover one at that.

The book's title confirmed that I'd found the right place and I said a kind of prayer/dedication and let the stone fly. For Tina.

Tomorrow the official Report on Truth and Reconciliation will be released -- the aftermath of the horror of the residential schools with their hideous agenda, to "..take the Indian out of the child."

I'm hoping that one of the steps our government will take towards true reconciliation will be initiating an official inquiry into the missing and murdered Aboriginal women. I hope the ripples of my special stone for Tina will radiate into something positive so we don't have any more women thrown into the river -- and not just in Winnipeg, but anywhere.

Reflections on Cascadia

It’s been nearly a month since the Cascadia Poetry Festival in Nanaimo on Vancouver Island. Even though the concept of Cascadia has been part of me since the mid-’80s, this particular gathering made it real for me in a way I hadn’t quite believed before.

It felt like a gathering of the tribes – a coming-together with shared purpose and goals – one that extended well beyond the bounds of poetry.

During the first few days at home, I was often on the verge of tears. That’s how stirred my emotions were.

And this wasn’t simply because I wasn’t sure when I would next (if ever) see some of the friends who’d been in attendance, though that could certainly have played a part in my reaction.

It was more that my soul had been stirred by ideas that had been presented. Because it was a poetry festival, many of the ideas on the table focused on language. But the depth of the ideas – how some of the presenters linked language into the very bedrock of our region – this digging down somehow reached into me.

If I could put this into words, I would. Even with this much time, I still can’t express all that I want to. Regardless of that, the knowledge remains in me – or maybe it’s only the idea of the knowledge that seems to reside inside. 

And maybe these thoughts will stay there, just out of reach – it feels a bit like trying to put salt on the tail of the bird in the garden.

For now, I can only say, I plan to keep following that bird.

Postscript: This past weekend, while visiting the beach and lighthouse at Point No Point in Washington with friends, a man saw my shirt and recognized it, shouting as greeting, “Cascadia!” 

So no, it’s not just me. The dream is real. 

Yesteryear

Yesterday marked 85 years for Nancy Drew books.

Since I still have a few of those old books from yesteryear (a term I’m pretty sure I first heard on The Lone Ranger) I decided to try reading one, The Hidden Staircase.

It turns out, not surprisingly, for a book published in 1930, to be full of words that have long gone out of use – and many beyond the predictable ‘roadster’ so often mentioned in Nancy Drew lore. Two easy examples are davenport and sofa. We know what they mean, but does anyone still use them?

Technology references nabbed my attention, as in this passage where she’s received a gift from a friend with a farm: “Nancy carried the chicken and the eggs to the kitchen and placed them in the electrical refrigerator.” Hard to think of a time less than a century ago when an icebox, complete with a block of the cold stuff delivered by the iceman was more the norm than an 'electrical refrigerator'.

Messages are sent via mail or the now-forgotten telegram. Entertainment consists of reading or conversation, or as Hannah Gruen (the Drews’ housekeeper) makes a special request, “Miss Nancy, if you don’t mind, I’ll go to a moving picture show…”  

Travel of any distance is by train. Not everyone has a phone in their home, say nothing of in their purse or pocket.

Less charming than these depictions of a seemingly more carefree life is that of the not-so-nice ‘negress’ who serves as the villain’s accomplice. Her speech is written out in a hideous dialect, supposedly a Southern accent and is riddled with poor grammar.

On the other hand, Nancy’s vocabulary – even descriptions of action involving her are bloated with inflated words: “So this was the home of Nathan Gombet, Nancy ruminated. She could not help but feel that the dark, uninviting aspect of the structure provided an abode singularly in keeping with the sinister character of its master.” Whew! And I read this when I was a kid?!

But even the ever-noble Nancy runs into trouble now and then – one might even call it prejudice, based on the fact that she’s female. When she tries to convince the sheriff that he must arrest the evil Gombet, he brushes her off, and only takes her seriously when she identifies herself as the daughter of attorney Carson Drew. That makes all the difference and sets him and his deputies into action. To her credit, Nancy’s reply to him is delivered “sarcastically.”

So, maybe there was more to those mysteries of hers than mere diversions for a rainy afternoon.

Yet even if she isn't always sneaking in feminist messages, it’s hard not be at least somewhat charmed by her, typified by this description: “Nancy Drew turned this question over in her mind as she sat propped up with pillows in a corner of the big davenport, the very picture of a pretty girl in a brown study over some knotty problem.” Oh, my, oh sigh. 

Labyrinthine

Aside from that word's most obvious meaning -- related to a labyrinth or maze -- it also means convoluted or confusing. While the labyrinth in the image above is another in the mode of the traditional Chartres pattern, it is nowhere near as confusing to follow it as it is to find where I'm going here in the city of Nanaimo, B.C.

Many of the streets here have a change-of-name for no apparent reason. Comox Road becomes Bowen Road. Terminal Avenue becomes the Island Highway. Bastion appears to become Fitzwilliam before it transforms into Third. I guess this constant changing of name is just something one has to get used to.

I'm visiting the city for the third convergence of the Cascadia Poetry Festival, a celebration of a bio-region, of poetry, and I guess, of a west coast way of thinking.

Much of the festival is based at Vancouver Island University, a campus that mostly leaves me confounded. Even the parking lots seem tortuously convoluted. Still, the setting is gorgeous, especially now that so many springtime blossoms fill the air with their potpourri of scents.

But the main reason for my posting the labyrinth image is that today is the seventh annual World Labyrinth Day. Because not everyone has access to taking an actual walk in an outdoor labyrinth, several other opportunities are available online -- a virtual labyrinth walk and even patterns for making your own finger labyrinth.

And speaking of finger labyrinths, the Bethlehem Retreat Centre (here in Nanaimo, BC) has recently opened a finger labyrinth museum, an exhibit that's bound to show up soon among Nanaimo's widely varied tourist attractions.

In the meantime, I plan to stick with the convolutions of mind offered by poetry.

Off the raiils

I'm afraid that's where I've been this month, especially in terms of this poor little blog -- off the rails. Off in too many directions, doing workshops, attending readings and art openings -- all good things, but lacking in focus.

Maybe that's what happened to the engineer pulling the train these cars were part of. It didn't look like a particularly dangerous section of track (though there is a switch some yards back) along the Fraser River in New Westminster.

Luckily, it doesn't appear that the car was carrying dangerous freight. Still, the sight is enough to make me think 'what if'' especially in terms of the often-hazardous materials being pulled through nearby White Rock and Crescent Beach every day.

Fingers crossed.

MagPo Road Trip

Because April is National Poetry Month, I'm going to do my best to feature some poems on the blog. For a start, this one, "Highway Love," grew out of an afternoon stop while we were on our Spring Break Road Trip along the Pacific coast.

Before we left, I'd bought myself a new set of Magnetic Poetry, this time with words about the famous Route 66. Even though I knew we weren't planning to get that far south, it seemed to be a good batch of words to try out on a road trip.

When I opened the kit and saw all those still-in-blocks words, I also discovered that I had a problem. I couldn't find a stretch of metal big enough to accommodate all of my potentially poetic words. The only spot inside that was magnet-friendly metal was an eensy niche on the side of the stove hood fan. Nearly every other surface in the RV was wood or some facsimile.

Even the metal sides of the vehicle must be mainly aluminum, as nothing wanted to stick.

But at last, I was saved by the shining expanse of the front bumper. I spread out the set of words across the entire front width of the truck and, using my little metal clipboard as a notepad, started to work.

The poem I came up with will probably ride around with us for the next while or so, or at least until I can come up with something better.  

One of the challenges you might want to take up this month is NaPoWriMo. As the abbreviated words suggest, the site is dedicated to April also being National Poetry Writing Month. Daily prompts will help nudge you toward the goal of a poem every day. What's to lose? Nothing but your writer's block.

Untangling the labyrinth

This labyrinth in the forest provided a wonderful place for untangling some thoughts about a group of poems I have been working on for too long.

But then, that's one of the purposes of walking a labyrinth -- it's a meditative experience where one may seek answers to questions. As the sign near the entry point of this labyrinth puts it, "The labyrinth is a metaphor for our journey through life."

This one, located in the Oregon forest at Bandon Dunes, was silent and empty, the perfect spot for clearing my mind and finding a focus for going forward. Patterned after the famous labyrinth at Chartres, walking its patterned arcs made me think of the convoluted lines of the brain.

The gift I left at its centre? Two pine cones
that looked as though they wanted to be friends.

Foresty yin and yang

Spring. The vernal equinox. Ostara. The death of winter, the beginnings of things that grow.

I suppose some will find the image on this post not to their liking. It certainly presented me with something I'd never seen before -- a slug waltzing past the still-fresh corpse of a bird, The odd pairing seemed fitting to the cycle of change this day represents.

And really, when could a slug ever hope to pass that near a bird? A reminder that it's time to reach for dreams.

Kreativ spelling

When I saw this sign, I had to think for a minute, as I didn't think a garden centre would have much to do with Seder, a practice that's observed as part of Judaism.

I'm pretty sure they meant that they had cedar trees for sale.

I almost wish I'd spotted this and taken the photo sooner, as I might have entered it in "Signs" a show currently on exhibit at one of our local community galleries. Not that the image would have made the cut, but it might have given the judges a laugh.

Pruning time

Yet again, it's time for the first of the haircuts I give to my blackberries. This round of pruning, first of the season, is always the most drastic. It's the one where I cut away all the frizzy brown clumps of dried-out berries and get rid of branches that have died. It's also where I get to chop out all the straggly bits that wouldn't produce much in the way of fruit anyway.

Strange, I suppose, that a job like this -- which involves avoiding some very nasty thorns -- could be one that brings me such pleasure. Even though this year's prune took three separate afternoons, I know that it was worth it. After all, who doesn't like blackberry pie or jam?

Yesterday (when I finished this job) was not only International Women's Day, but also the day we had to set our clocks for Daylight Saving Time, My son, liberated soul that he is, pointed out that once again, women were getting the short end of the stick -- that even the day dedicated to celebrating us had been pruned by an hour -- sort of the way our wages still don't measure up to those of men.

But, you might be wondering, what's with the chain? No symbolism around women and their roles, I promise. It's just there (along with what looks like a dancer's barre) to keep those prickly branches in line later in the season when their branches are weighted down with all that luscious fruit.

Poem bears

Turns out that yesterday was International Polar Bear Day. If it weren't for those video news blats the Internet providers love to insert, I'd never have even known it. And I somehow doubt that many others would have either.

My observation of the day ranges from the silly set-up photo above (who says it doesn't pay to not defrost in a timely manner?) to the poem below, expressing some of my concerns about this mysterious creature.

Last day of February, and no doubt things are beginning to melt everywhere.

Night of the Bears 

While we sleep this wintry night away, you’re saving bears

dreaming metal islands for an ocean with no ice:

floating metal platforms for polar bears to walk on

artificial stepping stones so they won’t have to drown.

I see water dense with bears, nose to tip to nose,

like pieces in some Escher tessellation

swarming in a sea gone soupy warm.

Their whitish fur, slicked back so smooth,

makes them look like fish, thick as schools of salmon

used to be, spawning in some woodland stream, dense

so we might walk, carefully, on tiptoe cross their backs. 

Free to read...for now

Today marks the beginning of Freedom to Read Week in Canada. It's a celebration I've been participating in for quite a few years. Being a writer, I also consider this a time to be grateful that we still have the freedom to write what we believe.

I'm somewhat concerned that may not remain the case. There's the matter of Bill C-51, currently on the Parliamentary agenda. While it's supposed to protect us, there are aspects of it that seem downright scary -- especially for those of us who may occasionally express contrarian positions.

When I was in my local bookstore today, I was glad to see that they have a display of books that have been challenged in the past. If you're interested in the range of materials that have been questioned, here's a list of thirty-three such titles.

A title I'm worried about is When Everything Feels Like the Movies. It's currently a finalist on this year's Canada Reads and it won the Governor General's Award last year. But now there's a contingent of frantics (my name for them) who are challenging the book's content, claiming it shouldn't have been allowed to win the GG and that the award should be rescinded.

All I can suggest is that you read it for yourself. Quick. While you still have the freedom to.

Fifty years and counting

The maple leaf. Hard to imagine us having anything else as a flag. Even when only half the design shows, it's totally recognizable.

But that maple leaf wasn't always on Canada's flag. Until fifty years ago today, we had several over the years including the Red Ensign which turned out to be just a little too British for some. Since then, that red maple leaf has proudly adorned backpacks, hats and even Olympic mitts.

Still, I worry now and then that the next fifty years may see this no longer be the case.

So many changes have taken place over the past decade, it's getting harder and harder to recognize our country. Peacekeeping is no longer a priority. Now we seem keen to be leading the pack into combat in Iraq. Safe haven is also no longer the case. Witness those seeking asylum who've been refused.

Exactly one month ago today, I jotted this in my notebook:

Today is the day I stopped feeling special for being Canadian.
Target closed.
Cuba opened.
We're done.
Amen. 

Nonetheless, it's far too beautiful a day to not get out into the Canadian landscape -- quick, while it's still something to call our own.

Endangered

No, it's not the roses I'm worried about. It's the postbox in front of our house.

You're wondering, am I worried about vandals? Not yet. Thieves have never seemed much interested in individual delivery boxes. All that walking, door-to-door is likely too much work for anyone looking for a fast buck -- or, as is more likely the case, an identity to steal.

It's the new 'community' group boxes that get all the action, witnessed in this news report from the weekend. [Warning: You have to put up with an ad before you get coverage about the extreme measures thieves are taking in breaking into the new boxes.]

Deepak Chopra (no, not that Deepak Chopra), the somewhat-ironically-named CEO of Canada Post, has determined -- almost single-handedly -- that the future of home delivery is doomed.

Supposedly a cost-saving measure, letter carriers will no longer walk their routes, but will drive from group box to group box, tucking whatever fits into the tiny cubicles. As someone who subscribes to a number of magazines, art ones included, this in itself presents a problem.

But that's the least of the problems. I certainly doubt Mr. Chopra's prediction that people will walk to their letterboxes. They'll drive, even if it's only a block, especially if the weather isn't perfect. What a way to encourage us to get out of our cars.

I can hardly wait for the parking mess that's just about sure to ensue in our neighbourhood.

Foolishness. Lack of foresight. Extreme lack of vision.

What else can I accuse him of?

Failing to see that his supposed 'cost-saving' measures will end up costing everyone a whole lot more.

And they call it the 'safe' way?

I've always wondered why they call our supermarket the Safeway. And for most of this winter, it's been even more puzzling.

For a couple of years, the store has supplied germ-killing wet-wipes near the entry to the store. I liked using these to wipe my hands -- but even more for the fact that I could wipe down the handle of my shopping cart. How many hands touch those each day? Yech.

But for the past few months, there haven't been any wipes at the door. Although I've spoken with both the manager and his assistant manager several times, each of them has always explained that they haven't received them despite their trying to order them.

When I've gone so far as to suggest one of them just go back into the store and bring an alternate supply to the front, they've replied that they couldn't do that. I've not really understood this, but the gentlemen in charge just shrugged and smiled and walked away, leaving me wondering. Could it really be that the store's discretionary budget can't deal with such an expense?

So today, because we're still in the midst of flu season (and experiencing a flu that this year's vaccine doesn't afford protection from), I decided to buy the poor grocery store a pack of cleansing wipes. After all, if their budget can't look after this, I can.

Gesundheit. And stay safe.

A blip?

When I saw that the price of gas had dipped below a dollar, I had to snap a photo. Quick. Before it went back over the loony line.

On Thursday I actually saw 98.9 in Vancouver, but I know these low prices won't last.

Last autumn, Steve Harper was touting the importance of oil to our country's economy, using that as an excuse to barge through the countryside with pipelines. This week, despite massive layoffs in the oil fields of Alberta (and, for that matter, across the country in all sorts of venues), he's changed his tune.

I'd like to consider believing him when he says our economy is based on much more than the extraction of fossil fuels. But it would sure be easier to do so if he'd set up some programs for ordinary people to access some of the interim methods we're going to have to explore as we wean ourselves off our addiction to oil. Rebates on electric cars? Subsidies on solar or geothermal installations?

And, while he's so busy giving tax breaks to the wealthy, might he consider giving a tax break to anyone who could prove that they'd voted? That might be a way to get out the vote -- and with luck -- see a change in government for Canada. Quick, while we've still got a country.

Flowers for Charlie

These are my small attempts at bringing spring into the house. Tulips which I bought for myself -- a small extravagance to offset the dark week that has just passed. Interesting, I think, that they get their name from the cloth used to wrap a turban. And pink ones are supposed to indicate 'caring'.

The paper-white narcissus companions have joined the tulips, though they're in their own vase. These are the ones that I forced early in December. They bloomed, but then started sagging under the weight of their blossoms. So I cut their stems and put them into water. Their sweet fragrance fills me with hope that spring is near, as do the bulbs poking up their tips in the garden.

Today, Charlie Hebdo has published a new edition, this time depicting an image of Muhammad under a banner of forgiveness. In the image, he is proclaiming (as we all have been saying), Je suis Charlie,

More than ever, the words that guided the French Revolution -- liberté, égalité, fraternité -- are echoing through the streets of Paris, and all around the world. It's time to erase our differences, or at least thoughts of fighting over them.