What's up here?

...besides the patch of grass that's supposed to pass as a lawn.

Our neighbourhood is displaying a new phenomenon. It started a few years ago, with one or two yards here and there that looked like the one in the photo. Somehow the phenomenon has spread.

Now, nearly every block has one of these yards -- and not just on the houses with 'for sale' signs that have a 'sold' sticker. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but it almost makes me wish this was something the city would take a stand on.

I'm not confusing this uncut lawn with the 'wild' yard look -- one that's planted with vegies, or floral arrangements or even those that are the results of scattering wildflower seeds.

Those exude a folksy kind of charm, and often serve the purpose of feeding the people who live there.

The ones I'm talking about just look neglected. They make the house -- and in turn, the neighbourhood -- seem like nobody gives a damn.

The uncut lawn of straggly grass and weeds is not a look I am hoping will proliferate. Especially not with all the dandelions that are sure to come along with the practice. And really, if you can't manage to cut it yourself, hire someone -- it's good for the economy when humans have jobs.

Still pokin' along the trail...

Continuing the line of horses.

In the last post I mentioned a book, The Summer of the Horse. Since then, I keep finding horses of one sort or the other. Or maybe they are simply finding me, like the one on my 'special' cup.

The other photo is two different kinds of horses, both found in the yard.

The lovely white flower is horseradish, that yummy piquant complement to meats, especially beef. It's only the root that gets grated to make that, mixed perhaps with a bit of vinegar or water.

The other is horsetail, known for its healing properties as well as its wildly invasive skills. Considering how deep its roots can go (I have actually read 200 feet), no wonder it's a hard one to get rid of.

The horse I found yesterday was the film version of Richard Wagamese's memoir, Indian Horse. What a film! Using three separate actors to portray him at various stages of his life, it's a movie I think everyone (at least everyone in Canada) should be required to see. It's the story of a young man's life, but it's also the story of one of the most shameful parts of our history, the story of life in residential schools.

Near the end, there's a line about the 'horses of change' and how we must all learn to ride them. Doing my best...

An expen$ive parking spot

These days when I go into the city (depending where I'm headed, it's about 50 km), I generally use transit. Partly because in many ways it's easier (plus, I get to read while I travel), partly because fuel for the car is so pricey (nearly $1.60/litre) and partly because parking can cost plenty. After deciding to drive into town for a reading the other night, I had to scout a few neighbourhood streets to find a spot, but succeeded (or so I thought). When I parked, I had no idea just how big that cost might be.

The event had been a delight -- getting to spend a bit of time with a friend I'd not seen in several years, hearing her read from her terrific new book,.even getting to meet her new man. The weather was just right -- not too hot, not cold -- everyone wearing clothes pronouncing summer as nearly here.

But when I left and headed the few blocks down to where I'd parked my car, I was taken aback by not finding my car where I was pretty sure I had left it.

In case I'd remembered the street wrong, I walked circles in a few blocks surrounding the spot where I was sure I'd left my car. The more I circled, the more convinced I became that indeed this had been the place where I'd left my car. And then, the sinking feeling was truly sinking in, giving way to the realization that the car was well and truly gone.

Heading back to the bookstore where the event had been, I ran into my friend who let me use her phone (my mobile is immobile these days, long story) to call the tow company and sure enough, they (of the all-too-appropriate name, Buster's) had it in their lot.

So then, to the bus, with the driver offering sympathy, helping me be sure to get off at the right stop, I made my way through the now-darkening industrial area where errant vehicles are taken. Holding my bag tightly to my side, I'm sure I walked faster than my usual quick pace, as several slow-moving men were shuffling along the opposite side of the same back street. Whether they were junkies, or guys looking to each other for a quick lay, I couldn't say. Maybe they were just tired after a long day at work.

Finally, the lights of the tow lot appeared. Their brightly lit office was staffed by several workers safely behind protective grills. Employees at the tow company get a lot of grief, I am sure. But to their credit, though they were terse, they were polite. The building even had a half-decent washroom (better than many) that I was able to use before setting out on the long drive home.

Pricey? To be sure. With taxes and various fees, over a hundred bucks. And yes, you can bet that next time, I will take transit, even when I might find myself deterred by having to transfer a couple of times. A lesson learned, though I'll admit I am still scratching my head over what exactly it was I did that was wrong. Yet another lesson to be determined.

Blinded by the light

No, I'm not meaning the song with the lyrics that seem to always get misheard. The lights I'm referring to are ones that were installed some while ago at my local pool.

For years, I'd enjoyed deep water running as a year-round form of exercise. But when 'improvements' were made to the ceiling lights, I had to give it up. The reason? The new halogen system cast reflections on the surface of the water that gave me an almost instant migraine. Arggh.

The various paraphernalia above are some of the means I tried -- baseball hats and visors were also part of the mix -- but nothing worked. Until now.

My very best birthday gift was a new pair of goggles: super-dark, with mirrored lenses that are Polarized. With a hat and as many gazes into the distance as I can manage, I'm able to join the class again.

It seems I'm not the only one who's affected by the wrong kind of lights. My city is actually reconsidering a major purchase and installation of streetlights that can cause harm. Now, if I could just convince my next-door neighbour to stop shining a spotlight into the window of my office at night, I might even be able to go back to getting solid sleeps.

Let there be light, for sure -- but not all the time, and not so bright, please.

Free coffee!

That's the deal at a nearby coffee shop -- but only good during the month of April. To get your coffee, you need to 'pay' with a poem. A nice promo for National Poetry Month, and a great way to encourage customers who might not otherwise visit. The wall above shows some of the poems people have brought in as exchange for their hot drink.

I'm not sure what it is about poetry and coffee shops -- or, as they were once more commonly called, 'coffee houses' -- whatever their name, they come with a long history.

It seems they always appealed to a certain brand of people, often those with strong political views. Strong viewpoints, strong coffee. Who knows.

Then, in the middle of the 20th century, the term began to apply to a new kind of coffee house, one that was more of a celebratory event, often taking place in a church basement or other free or low-cost venue. These attracted musicians and writers, especially poets.

The coffee house as venue was strongly associated with Beatniks, themselves a kind of social phenomenon that grew out of the Beat Movement -- Kerouac, Ginsberg and company -- a movement that branched out into music (especially the lyrics) of groups like Jim Morrison and the Doors.  Today there's even a publishing house based on encouraging writers who work in coffee shops.

A simple cup of coffee. A poem on a page. Sometimes, a world opened.

A poetic Earth Day experience

Yesterday, Earth Day, I celebrated by taking the ferry to Victoria and participating with other writers who were reading poems for the planet. It felt nicely 'Earth Day ish' seeing the Recycling bins on the boat and watching to see how careful people were about looking, then thinking, before tossing their items into the appropriate bins. A small step, but an important one. Awareness.

The event was organized by Victoria's Poet Laureate, Yvonne Blomer, who's approaching the end of her four-year term.

Among her accomplishments is her legacy project, the anthology, Refugium: Poems for the Pacific.

The reading was held in the city's Centennial Square, where life-sized statues of Orcas hold court, so our poems about the ocean fit right in.

Each of the poets read and spoke to the situation facing us. There was even a scientist in our midst, a man doing research at U Vic's Department of Oceanography. He reminded us of Carl Sagan calling our planet "a pale blue dot" and called the image itself the most elaborate-ever selfie.

This time, the Orcas in the square were the only ones I saw, as I didn't see any whales on the ferry rides. But I did get slightly meditative (for lack of a better word) watching the gulls floating on the sea and feeding along the tideline. There was something about the way the surface of the water was constantly moving and shifting that made me consider the absurdity of us thinking we can lay claim to a patch of earth -- even if it (luckily) doesn't shift and move the way water does.

We can't own the planet. If there's any owning to be done, the planet owns us, and we owe -- not only our existence -- but our fealty and respect to it.

If you didn't get to see it, I hope you will track down the Google Doodle from yesterday -- Jane Goodall's life and lessons. She's gone beyond awareness and respect, by living her life in service to the planet, its animals and the environment. May we all learn from her, and act accordingly.

Celebrating the bright lights of poetry

This year's National Poetry Month is already more than half over, and oh, we better not be counting how many new poems have been churned out.

Some people observe this celebration by writing a poem every day. Though I'm not one of them, I've heard quite a few friends say they've signed on to NaPoWriMo, with the plan to write a poem every day for the whole month of April. You might want to follow that link in the sentence above, as it's a site that offers prompts, examples and lots of encouragement -- every day, all month long.

Like I said, I'm not that dedicated, especially as for me, poems mostly 'arrive' as words in the night, and then take more drafts than I might even want to admit.

There is, however, one organized poem-writing contest I always take part in -- the 2-Day Poetry Contest sponsored by CV2 Magazine. You get ten words on Friday night and have to use all of them in a poem by the always-too-soon deadline on Sunday night. And there's always at least one word in the list that's so obscure, pretty much no one has ever heard of it. This year's stumper was (for me, at least) roric. Somehow, I don't think it's going to catch on in any big way.

There's still time to find some way to celebrate this special month -- if you don't want to write a poem, you might at least read some poetry. Plenty of it is available online, with many sites offering suggestions, including the fun-sounding Poem in Your Pocket project.

Neon-bright and maybe even flashy, poetry really isn't the daunting subject your crabbiest English teacher managed to scare you with. Poke around and you might surprise yourself. Who knows, you might even write a poem.

Torn apart

That's a term I heard on this morning's news. Describing how the town of Humboldt, Saskatchewsn is reeling with grief  -- a feeling that is rippling across the country after a horrific bus crash. At this point, the count of the dead is 14. More than enough for two lines of players, plenty for a rousing match of shinny.

The term 'torn apart' may be resonating so deeply for me for two reasons. Primarily, because I know the town of Humboldt. I've spent time there, walked its streets, enjoyed the light of autumny days there. I understand the feeling of community and connectedness that resides in the people there.

The other reason is that I stayed up past midnight, needing to finish a book wouldn't let me go -- Timothy Taylor's The Rule of Stephens. One of its central ideas is that of being torn apart, whether physically, psychologically or emotionally.

So this morning when the news greeted me with this term, it connected on a deeper level than it might have yesterday, as that term -- with all of its levels of meaning -- keeps echoing.

There's a candle burning in the kitchen, but I am feeling helpless in this sadness.

As a sad update, yet another person has died -- this time the only woman on the bus, the team's athletic trainer, Dayna Brons. The total now has gone to 16.

A convergence of calendars

Two of my favourite calendars this year both have images of an odd-looking fish -- a creature I've learned is called a unicorn fish, for fairly obvious reasons.


But there's a more significant convergence today -- anniversaries of two people who made a big difference in speaking out for racial equality among the rest of us fish in the sea.

It's been fifty years since Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. He is still held in great esteem and is now commemorated with a national holiday in the US. Although much has improved, his work certainly isn't done. But this leads me to think about the other significant person associated with this day.

It would have been the 90th birthday of the multi-talented writer, Maya Angelou. Perhaps best known for her memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, she was commemorated today with a delightful Google doodle, that used animation, along with the voices of a range of writers and actors performing her poem, "Still I rise".

A link of somewhat-bizarre calendar images, a birth-and-death connection involving two people courageous enough to truly make a difference in the world. Magical as unicorns.

Getting ready for Easter

Once upon a time I would have spent too much of this afternoon on my knees, singing sad songs in a choir and overall, feeling guilty and shamed. Why? Because today is Good Friday.

I no longer hold to those traditions, although there are many who still commemorate those origins of the day, including some who take the observance to extremes, allowing themselves to be crucified. That's not for me. The breast-beating I did as a child managed to thump any such self-sacrificing notions out of my system.

Yet despite the baggage linked to this weekend (which I remember and probably still cart around), I've learned to make more positive traditions to mark the occasion.

I still colour eggs because I like how pretty they look (besides, who can say no to egg salad sandwiches or devilled eggs?). I hard-boiled a batch this morning and plan to dye them tonight. And I still enjoy finding ways of sharing them, along with chocolates and jelly beans.

One tradition that came as a surprise to me this year -- and for all I know this has been going on for decades -- was a line-up at a nearby mall where kids were getting their picture taken, sitting on the lap of the Easter Bunny. Was this like going to Santa, where children are expected to tell the list of goods they expect to receive on Christmas? I wasn't sure, and only ventured close enough to snap a photo of the creature (whom I found somewhat scary-looking -- "Bunny, please don't show me a mouthful of big teeth.").

Later, I learned that this same Bunny (or at least an underachieving colleague from Alberta wearing an identical suit) was shilling this same gig at at least one other other site, specifically, the famous West Edmonton Mall.

And no, I didn't line up to tell him (her?) what I wanted, as I've already got enough of a treat in store for that day. For the first time in over half a century, my birthday arrives (along with the Bunny?) on Easter. And no, I'm not foolin'.

Fleeting glimpses

Where the Vernal Equinox was yesterday, today is the first full day of spring -- and it feels like it. It's bright and sunny, and there's a light breeze that carries the sweet scent of blossoms. It's even quite warm outside (as long as you're in the sun).

But it's a day that brings a small chill along with it, as it marks one month since the death of a friend who lived in the neighbourhood.

She'd always seemed frail, but maybe in the way that thin, pretty blonde women can appear to me. She embodied that lovely fragility we once associated with old-fashioned china dolls.

There hasn't been a service -- not even an announcement -- so I suppose I have some unresolved feelings surrounding her death, especially as I was the one on the phone with the 9-1-1 person.

I probably won't forget what it was like to be standing in the road when the firetruck, lights flashing,  sirened its way to a stop in front of me. Nor will I forget the confusion of several conversations going on at once, as the struggle to get her to treatment went on.

There's more that I remember, but that's something I still need to hold in my heart, a heart that still gets a knot when I think of her. It feels something like that heart of knotty tree roots enclosing the batch of crocuses in the photo.

Someone too young, someone to remember.

Pi day

So here's a picture of part of a pie my friend made for me. Not the mathematical pi, I know. Still, it isn't every day you get blackberry pie with your initial on it. (Does it help to know that he's an engineer -- so he must be good at math?)

In one of those unusual quirks that I can never ignore, it must have been pretty close to being pi day when one of the greatest mathematical minds of our time, Stephen Hawking, departed the Earth. His prognosis certainly never made it seem that he would live to such an age.

So now, he is off to the Universe and the endlessly repeating miracle of pi. And -- if there's such a thing as Big Brain Heaven, he's having a good laugh with Albert Einstein, whose birthday it is today.

Hard to balance

It's a balancing act. Life, that is. Still, it bothers me that so many aspects of life can feel so out of balance.

While it shouldn't have come as a surprise, last week's tree-cutting in White Rock, came as a shock to many. Apparently, it had been part of the ever-shifting Official Community Plan, a document that too often has seemed to have been amended behind closed doors. This time, there was some sense to the act, as it was meant primarily to address the unsafe interlock-block sidewalk that had been shifting and rising over the years. Nonetheless, seeing stumps the breadth of these takes my breath away. I know, silly tree-hugger me. And if it weren't that the city has already cleared so many other tracts of trees, it might not seem as harsh as it does. Somehow, replacing a tree with a high-rise isn't an equation that seems very balanced to me.

But trees aren't the only out-of-balance item of late. Sunday's Academy Awards were certainly another indication of that. Among comments made by Frances McDormand (brave soul that she is) was the observation that, of Oscars presented, 33 went to men while only 6 went to women. That stat becomes even grimmer when you remove the two that could only be awarded to women (Best Actress and Supporting Role) and the two given only to men (Best Actor and Supporting Role). Then the imbalance becomes even clearer: 4 to 31.

And no, I'm not going to go into detail about the ongoing matter of wage inequity or lack of representation in board rooms (the glaring exception here is the status of volunteer-based organizations -- if there's no pay, women are given the jobs).

Today, International Women's Day, is a day for awareness, yes. But I wonder, just how many years is it going to take for equality to be a fact, and not a dream.

What's the difference between a saying and a proverb?

Or, for that matter, between tradition and folklore?

Of this new month, March, it's been said that if it comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb, a saying that has a number of possible origins (all of which may well be a kind of folklore all their own). 

And I suppose the converse might be considered true when it comes in the way this one has -- sweet and mild as our city-bred visions of what a lamb must be like (even though wobbly little lambs can be pretty feisty, ready to nip at fingers, hoping they might work the same way teats do).

So, does that mean our Easter weekend will be wild and blustery? Who knows. We've got the rest of the month to find out.

A little bit grumpy, a little bit seasonal

So, what's wrong with this picture? Besides the obvious -- that the focus is ridiculous and that the snowman's carrot-nose is sticking up from his head? For me, it's the fact that there's a snowman at all in a yard where a palm tree is growing. Bottom line is, I'm not used to the amount of snow we had this winter -- and definitely not this late in the season. Grumpy about that? You bet.

And I'm not the only one who thinks there's something funny about what's going on with the seasons.

The Christmas cactus has decided (because of all the snow?) that it's time to bloom again. Lovely, but the wrong flower for this time of year. I'm wanting all those brave little daffodils and tulips out front to put their heads back into the light and come into bloom.

Yesterday was better, waving goodbye to another Olympics. My only complaint there was that they didn't choose the athlete(s) who seemed the obvious choice as flag-bearers on the way out, Kaitlyn Lawes and John
Morris. After all, they not only won gold, but did so in a sport that was new to the Olympics, mixed doubles curling. Canada had a pair of athletes as flag-bearers for the Opening Ceremonies, so another duo for the Closing would have made nice bookends to that.

But enough grumpy opinions, today's looking good. This morning, the birds were singing their heads off -- LOUDLY, it seemed. As if to say they're ready for a change too and announcing the end of winter for all to hear and rejoice.

Ruled by the moon

So many people, so many different places on Earth, observe a calendar based on the moon. The Asian calendar, with its welcome this weekend to the Year of the Dog, is one of those.

We celebrated in our own small way by cooking up some delicious (store-bought, frozen) siu mai (shumai) to go with the rest of our decidedly western supper (spaghetti -- though, wait a minute, weren't noodles invented in China?). If you look carefully, you'll see that there's a traditional red envelope in view, though ours didn't contain money, but a couple of lottery tickets.

It wasn't long ago that I learned a bit about a First Nations tradition called Hoobiyee, a celebration that marks the new year according to the moon. It was also linked to the return of the oolichan to the river, an important event marked by the Nisga'a.

I wasn't able to see the moon last time it was 'new' (February 15th), but I'm hoping its shape was more of an upturned crescent than a downturned one. My reason goes back to one of the concepts I learned about Hoobiyee: the first new moon after the new year indicates what kind of harvests there will be. An upturned one (cup-like) indicates bounty, while a downturned one, the opposite. Especially where I've just pruned our berry bushes, I am already looking for a good harvest later this summer.

And after our yummy sampling last night, I suspect, before the week is out, I am going to want to go to a restaurant for a celebratory feast of more dim sum.

P.S. to the previous post

Yep, looks like spring is 'off' again.

Hoping this lacy white stuff only lasts through Valentine's Day.

On again off again spring

This past week has seen temps going up and down, from T-shirt afternoons to bundled-up as if ready for snow mornings.

The sun has meant I've managed to get myself outside more. I've pruned a friend's blackberries, trimmed some butterfly bushes and rhododendrons, and hacked the dead bits off of some of our roses too.

While the snowdrops are to be expected this time of year (and are out, in their usual proliferation), the daffs and tulips are up a good hand span, looking green and fresh -- a welcome sight. And the little treasure above (a cyclamen, something I generally overwater and kill) said hello to me from a friend's garden patch -- a friend who, unlike me, was a dedicated and skilled gardener.

Sadly, the meaning of the cyclamen is resignation and goodbye.

Even though that gardener friend has been gone a couple of years now, I don't suppose I'll ever be quite ready for a final goodbye -- especially when I see such lovely signs of life from her.

Superb Owl goes to the Super Bowl

...and takes an actual 'super bowl' along.

The bowl has quite a history. It started life as a prop in a play, but remains as an item in my kitchen. And yes, that's coloured tape on the side of it. The effect was supposed to make it look like Mexican pottery.

The bowl's theatrical background made it seem like the right container for treats brought back from Cuba, even if the geography's not exactly right. (There'll be more on that visit in coming posts, I am sure.)

The 'treats' are a range of junk foods, but ones that seem perfect for nibbling with beer at a Super Bowl party with friends. Garlic flavoured puffy balls, cheesy ones too. Another that I think is mostly potatoes.

Whatever, they should be a good conversation piece, even if they aren't the hit of the potluck table.

(Go, Eagles!)

Bluper moon?

By now most people probably know that the second full moon occurring in the same month gets called a blue moon.

This one was even more than that, as it was one of those occurrences when the moon is close enough to the earth to earn the title 'supermoon'.

And then, to make things even crazier, there was a lunar eclipse at 5:26 am, which led to last night's/this morning's moon to qualify as a super blue blood moon. Impressive titling, to be sure. Makes me think of British uppah-classes or worse, that hateful little rich boy in Monty. 

I was too lazy to get up at 5, so I didn't get to see the eclipse or the moon turning red. Still, I was pretty happy to get this shot of the just about perfectly full moon last night -- probably just before the clouds took over the sky.

A wee bit late

I suppose any die-hard traditionalist would find it terrible to be observing Robert Burns' birthday this late in the month. But it turns out this was just the first day we could manage.

Even as we bump along in our non-traditional ways, we try to keeping a few of the 'auld' rituals. One of these is celebrating with a homely version of the Burns Night Supper that isn't exactly what true Scots might be serving.

At least the centrepiece of the meal was the traditional haggis, a food that is apparently illegal in the US.

I admit to cheating, and to buying this haggis from our local butcher shop -- and I even admit to quite liking it, though I probably wouldn't want it all the time.

As for the accompaniments, they weren't exactly what they were supposed to be, but made up from ingredients that were in the fridge, the pantry, or the garden.

The pantry and fridge elements lent themselves to the "MacRoni" and cheese -- made with a nicely respectful Cheddar (aged) at that. And the other side dish wasn't exactly 'neeps and tatties' (turnips and potatoes), but a pretty good facsimile with freshly-dug Jerusalem artichoke, one of the items remaining in the kitchen garden.

Burns Night celebrates the life of a poet, so I probably need to cite a few lines of his that befit the occasion:

Some hae meat and canna eat And some would eat that want it. But we have meat, and we can eat. Sae let the Lord be thankit. 

To that, I can only add an after-dinner Amen.

Finders keepers

I'm pretty sure it was Stephen King who impressed me with his recommendation to read Dickens. He may have even said he often re-reads particular books by Dickens, including the tome of tomes, Bleak House. It isn't one I've ever tried.

Great Expectations was a novel we were expected to read in high school. Memorable in its own ways (at least parts of it linger in memory), it wasn't enough to push me into wanting to read the rest of the Dickens library.

But today (not rainy, hurrah!) might mean that I have to screw up my courage (and clear my calendar?) to take a run at this 1,000+ pages classic. As I entered a building where I had an appointment, there it was, standing near these mossy bricks, extending an invitation to me. For someone who's a believer in 'signs' it's hard to ignore this new addition to my bookshelves (especially where it takes up what seems like more than its fair share).

I'm not ready to start it yet, though I am sure over the course of the year, it will beckon me. When (if?) I manage it, I'll let you know.

Gosh though, if only the title wasn't so grimly discouraging.

A new leaf?

Yikes, we're already into the double digits of January in what I'm still thinking of as a new year. And what a new year it is turning out to be!

I'm still trying to get used to the sound of it: 2018 -- a number I am sure I once believed would mean flying cars. Too bad about those, especially when you consider the traffic congestion we contend with.

But not everything is as bad (or getting worse) as traffic congestion.

Anyone who doubts that some things aren't getting better didn't see Sunday night's Golden Globe Awards, where so many people spoke out on behalf of change. And oh my, there was Oprah, putting a president to shame with her eloquence.

A new leaf? Let's hope so. It's time.

Good intentions

It was a rainy night in Vancouver and maybe a time when city workers were on holiday. While it looked as though plenty of people did their best to put their trash where it belonged...somehow this was not exactly the way it was supposed to work. I guess it was a case of good intentions gone awry.

This is a time of year when most of us look back -- whether on what we've accomplished or what we've lost -- and it's also a time for looking ahead, usually with good intentions. Resolutions are often part of the plan, though they often fall aside before long too.

Looking back, it's hard to ignore the near-fiasco that was Canada 150. Well-intentioned, I am sure, but it's leaving very little beside still more debt in its wake. After Canada's Centennial, back in 1967, nearly every little town came away with a legacy, often in the form of a new sports complex. Our local example of this, White Rock's Centennial Arena, still attracts skaters of all ages, whether for hockey, figure skating, or plain old fun.

But what's to show after this year's extravaganza? I'm not sure. Certainly nothing I can cite locally, especially not something we'll be able to point at in another 50 years. Sure, there were gimmicky gizmos, flags and shirts and hats -- even coins that glow in the dark -- though the one of these I liked best doesn't have fireworks, only the glow of the beautiful Northern Lights.

Even the weather seemed to frown on the celebrations. Canada Day in Ottawa saw a downpour of rain. Year-end celebrations with the whopping expensive no-fun skating pond also fizzled, thanks to temperatures deemed too cold, complete with safety warnings. 

Best memento I came across was one that we had for dessert not so long ago. A delicious dark chocolate bar, that came in a box a few sizes too big for the bar. Yummy, yes. But kind of like the celebratory year itself: not quite up to expectations.

And I haven't even mentioned the elephant in the room: the fact that Canada is way more than 150 years old. People have lived here for eons.

I'm hoping for better from our government(s) in 2018, and hoping as well that I will be able to live up to some of my goals and not have them dribble off into the Land of Good Intentions. How about you?

The power of believing

Over the years, it's been a bit of a tradition for me to write about some of our family's traditions as we celebrate the return of the light at Solstice and, of course, the things we do to observe Christmas.

One of the oddest of these has to be our "Christmas Pig" -- the one in the photo above. It's hard to remember when he began taking up position, playing guard at the end of our walkway each December. But there he sits, year after year, on a complicated bicycle sculpture that's always illuminated by many coloured lights.

This year, he got an added topping of snow. As it melted, it turned to ice, giving him a decidedly punkish coif. Just as Charlotte wrote in her magical web, I have to agree: "SOME PIG!"

But believing in Christmas magic is what's been on my mind. Best of all was the experience I shared with my sister, when we looked out the window and saw (yes, we both swear to it -- and we were way too young to drink) the magical sleigh, flying through the sky, pulled along by that famous team of reindeer.

And even later, another Christmas miracle: this time when I was (still) an adult. One Christmas morning, my kids and I went out to the backyard and were amazed to find parallel marks gouged into the snow, surely the tracks of a sleigh.

Although the kids pestered me, accusing me of making the marks, I knew positively that I hadn't made then, nor could I have been as precise if I'd tried. Besides, no footprints accompanied the tracks.

A prank by a neighbour? I doubt it, as we had only lived in that particular house for about two months and really didn't know anyone who lived nearby. In fact, our next door 'neighbour' was a lumber yard -- an unlikely source for elfish tricks.

I attribute these sights to the power of belief. And if you're lucky enough to have someone in your life who is young enough (or young-at-heart enough) to have such strong beliefs in the Magic of the Season, you are truly blessed.

As for the rest of us, I can only suggest that we all try -- even for just a few minutes -- to believe. Because, if we do, who knows? Maybe tonight, even pigs will fly.

Sending Happy Christmas greetings to friends and family near and far, with hopes that you indeed find time to believe.

Thirteen bananas

...that didn't get eaten, somehow made their way to the freezer. This morning, when I saw that we were getting some snow, it looked like a good day to thaw those and put them to better use.

So, thirteen loaves of banana bread are cooling on the counter, waiting for plastic wrap and a bow. Edible gifts for friends.

Ho ho...

Two out of three -- not good enough

Thankfully, there were a few rays of good news this week. In the US, Democrats scored a victory -- both political and moral -- when voters in Alabama elected Doug Jones to represent them in the Senate, the first time in more than 20 years for such an occurrence. This marked a huge shift in thinking. Or, perhaps it meant simply the beginning of thinking: not choosing the 'same old, same old' candidate from the Old Boys' Network. Mind you, voters there had plenty of reasons to not vote for the incumbent, but that's another story or two.

Locally, voters in the riding where I live also made history by coming out to support the federal Liberal candidate. In doing so, they gave us our first Liberal Member of Parliament in 64 years. We've had nothing but conservatives of one stripe or other heading to Ottawa on our behalf for way too long. And even though I am not always fond of the federal Liberals, I'll admit that I was part of this sea change. For the only the second time in all my years of voting, someone I cast a ballot for has won a seat. I can only hope that with proportional representation becoming a stronger possibility -- at least at the provincial level -- my vote will count more often.

So, two good news stories, but counterbalanced by one very bad one: On Monday, the provincial government came down with its decision on the fate of the Peace River Valley -- in essence, damning it by going ahead with plans to dam it. This Site C decision is bound to have many negative repercussions for the provincial NDP, the party currently in control (by a hair) here. As for the other negative outcomes -- disregard for farmland, First Nations claims and heritage, and of course the overall environmental losses (forests, fish, birds and a slew of wildlife), those will echo far into the future. Although our premier's statement was thoughtful, it's hard for me to not be suspicious of political ties that may have weighed on him. But, that's only speculation, and not something that's going to change anything -- especially not for residents of BC, in particular, those who live in this region of the Peace, whose homes and land will be flooded.

So, two out of three reasons to celebrate; one to cry over.

It's interesting that the two positive outcomes were brought about through the voice of the people, while the Site C decision was made by a group of politicians sitting around a table. Had there been a referendum, with our province's citizens voting to decide, might the result been different?

All I can hope is that come Solstice, we'll start seeing more change for the better. 

No two the same

Hmm. Looks as though I must be on another of my kicks to keep Canada Post in business -- all on my own. That isn't really the reason I still send cards, mostly it's because I love making them.

Many of them are made from bits and pieces of cards that people have sent me. Some of them are more involved -- layers of stamps and stickers -- or my favourite: getting out the pencil crayons and colouring.

Luckily, my friend and I started early this year. We closed up our 'crafts shop' early in November. But now, here it is, almost mid-December, and I'm still deciding who gets what and sending them out.

Oh well, there'll be plenty of other things to do this month. But then, aren't there always?

Breaking the silence, breaking the cold

These past two weeks have been silent, I know.

Silent, blog-wise, but not silent here. The sounds in our home have been anything but pleasant: sneezing, nose-blowing, cough cough cough coughing. But today, that is finally changing, thanks to what I will have to call My Healing Tree.

Long ago, at a point when I was filled with a grief so harsh I felt completely lost, I took comfort in the arms of one of the cedars in our yard. Weaving my way through the fronds, almost to the centre -- the trunk -- of the tree, I pretty much collapsed into the branches. Without complaint, those branches cradled me, supporting me firmly enough that they kept me from falling to the ground. They held me and kept me safe while I wept myself dry, a turning point in healing from the sadness I'd been overfilled with.

And last night, this same tree offered help again.

Blustery. A Winnie-the-Pooh word for the sort of night it was. But when I woke in the night, I felt that I was being called. Opening the front door, the branches of the cedar seemed to be reaching out to me. This time the branches were whipping in frenetic bursts of wind, but it was a wind that was filling me with sharply scented air, offering what felt like a cleansing for my lungs.

I can only trust that the neighbours weren't watching as I stood outside on the deck, taking in huge gulps of air that seemed to be pulling phlegm and spew from me. I cast it out in spasms of coughing, projectile sputum hurtled into darkness. How long this went on, I'm not even sure.

But finally, once back inside, I managed to sleep. A deep sleep, one that was filled with dreams of summertime, swimming and light. And somehow buried in those dreams, I was handed a vial containing a precious essence. It was small, and in a container that reminded me of the slim darkened glass ampoules of royal jelly I used to buy from the Chinese store.

But this one, singular, held what I was told I needed: cedar oil.

So today I selected tips from the tree, the greenest and freshest ones. Snipped them into a pot and brewed a tea. Tenting myself over the pot, I breathed in the foresty steam, held it deep and long. Then took the smallest cup of it, sipping and taking in its vapours until it was gone.

Almost immediately, I could feel the clearing in my chest. What I had pictured as white fungus (like the white mould that might grow on the soil of a fouled houseplant) inside of me was now gone.

While this sounds as though I must still be well in the grip of fever dreams, I can only say that an Internet search for cedar oil has only suggested caution -- not to drink very much of it, so I am paying attention and doing that. But I also see that indeed cedar oil has, among a number of its other uses, the clearing of fungus.

So maybe the crossover between dream world and reality isn't as great as we may sometimes think, especially when there's a healing tree that serves as a messenger between those two worlds.

Reclaiming lands, reclaiming lives

Before the Site C dam project goes any further, we need to consider another option -- one that would protect all those hectares of farmland (equivalent to about eight Stanley Parks), one that would preserve the sacred burial sites, one that would see the land put to better use than as lake bottom in a lake that nobody needs.

A lot of work has already gone into the site, so abandoning the project will be costly. But re-purposing it could make sense. My vision sees it as a prison farm. 

The nearest correctional centre (a facility designated for offenders serving less than two years) is in Prince George, pretty much a five-hour drive away. The rest of BC's prison facilities are on Vancouver Island or in the Lower Mainland and are, for the most part, over capacity. In other words, there is cause for British Columbians to build another such institution.

Although Oakalla Prison in Burnaby had a dark history, it also had a more positive side, as it was the site of a productive farm. Kingston Ontario was also home to such a facility, but thanks to the Harper government, it was closed down. There are still groups who are working to have this policy rescinded. There is even a herd of cows ready to 'go to prison'. 

A small city already exists on the banks of the Peace. Why not stop building a dam that doesn't make sense and build something else? If mistakes have been made, so be it. That isn't a good reason to dig further into the mistake. 

A prison farm would make use of the threatened agricultural land (even BC Hydro's reports predicted the land could feed a million people) and would give meaningful employment -- not only to inmates, but to farmers from the Peace region who could be employed to manage the prison farm. 

Such a plan would also ensure that sacred sites and burial caches (many of them thousands of years old) of Indigenous peoples from the region would not be flooded, but would be protected. And who knows, a tourist industry might well arise; certainly an interpretive centre could provide work for members of local First Nations. This could be yet another step forward in our efforts at Reconciliation. 

And no prison runs without a large staff -- personnel who range from guards to social workers and medical experts. 

It isn't too late for us to find the courage to proceed along another path in this precious waterway, a path that would preserve the land and heritage while still creating jobs -- and maybe even rescuing some who might have become just another batch of lost souls in the world of gangs and crime.

PS For an easy way to get a call into your MLA, click on this link and fill out the form. They'll phone you right back, putting you through to her/his office. 

Icing on the cake?

Last night, past midnight but well before dawn, light crept into the bedroom, waking me. Outside I discovered the reason. No flash on the camera, just reflected light from the glow of the unexpected white stuff, thus the spooky glow.

I admit to not being a big fan of snow (okay, it can look pretty for a few minutes, especially if it's Christmastime). And even though today is a friend's birthday, the icing on the cake I'm talking about isn't exactly the bonus kind.

Last week broke temp records here.

On Tuesday I was still wearing sandals.

This morning I need to find the shovel and figure out something saucey for those little yellow dots still there shivering on the vine.

Or, I suppose I should just think of all this as icing on the tomatoes.

Eeeek!

Our neighbourhood has some pretty wild decorations. This is one of the tamer ones, though they seem to have all the bases covered -- witch, skeleton, ghost, spider with webs. But Halloween decorations aren't the scariest things hanging around these days...

Whales and ...

I don't usually write about books on this blog, especially not ones that have my work in them, but this book is somehow different.

Maybe it's just that so many things seem to be on the cusp of change -- politically, decisions are soon to be announced regarding both the Kinder Morgan pipeline proposal and plans for Site C. Anyone who knows or follows me understands that I don't support current plans for either of these going forward, and it tuns out I'm not alone in my thoughts about the Burnaby Mountain project. Today the City of Vancouver has put out a court challenge to review the approval process that took place. There are also several organized protests today, highlighting the dangers of the plan. It looks as though we'll have to wait a few more weeks to know any outcomes.

But back to the book, Refugium: it's an amazing collection of works that honour the Pacific Ocean. Edited by Yvonne Blomer, Victoria's Poet Laureate (that's her in the photo on the left), it brings together poems that celebrate, that praise, and that warn.

It seemed significant when I traveled to Victoria to be part of the launch on the island that, on both legs of my journey across the water the ferry's captain announced the presence of humpbacks nearby. On the trip over, though I dashed to a window, all I managed to see was the roiling water left by their deep dive. But when the same announcement was made on the way back, I got see part of a long, long body curling across the surface, and even got a glimpse of the tail, complete with its own distinctive white markings.

At last week's Vancouver launch one of the presenters, Stephen Collis, startled many of us by mentioning that humpback whales (that's the species pictured on the book's cover) have been known to come to the aid of other sea animals. He called them 'peacekeepers' -- that wonderful term that once, not so long ago, was applied to Canada and its military. And then, as if to back up that tidbit, the next morning's paper had a piece on the social awareness of whales.

With the crazed and crazy ways we (and some of our world's leaders) have been behaving, it's hard to be positive about outcomes for the future. So it's good to know that if we blow ourselves up, perhaps the whales, swimming deep in the oceans will remain. And even if those whales and dolphins don't have our opposable thumbs which have enabled us to create buildings and technologies, we'll be leaving the planet in 'good hands', probably better than the ones it's currently in.

Eat well, eat local

Today is the first day of an "Eat Local" challenge. It runs through early November, perfectly in tune with the final harvest of autumn. It's all about eating well, and cooking with locally-produced food.

All the foods in the photo are ones that were locally grown. This particular batch of eggs, a product I usually buy at my local Farmer's Market, were a gift from a friend who raises chickens (and other critters) at her farm. I love the range of their colours, a mix from the different varieties of chickens she keeps.

The rainbow of tomatoes and sprigs of basil (even in a photo, they want to be near each other, just the way they do in a salad or sauce) are the most locally grown of all, as they're among the last survivors in the back yard garden.

Besides having an excellent market every week, I'm lucky enough to be able to choose among several excellent nearby produce shops, where local food is always identified, making it easy to decide what to buy.

More and more people are choosing to pay closer attention to the food they eat -- all part of staying healthier, eating food that tastes better, and also about using the land better. A number of my friends now proclaim themselves to be urban farmers. A great way to start making this goal a reality for next year is to get a copy of Digging the City. No snobbery here; it proclaims itself as a "manifesto for omnivores" -- a group I'm still proudly a member of.

While I doubt that I can make it through to November without wanting an avocado or banana or orange or lemon or... (Oh dear, I am still too reliant on too many foods from 'away'), I have joined the challenge, as I like its awareness factor.

If you'd like to try the challenge too, follow this link and click on the 'join' button. And even if you don't join, here's to good eating!

Winter wonderin'?

No, it isn't snow edging up to the blackberries -- it's just the result of crazy weather -- hail from a thunder-and-lightning storm we had this morning.

When I first moved to the west coast we didn't seem to have thunderstorms. In fact, they were one thing I missed, and I always loved it when I went back east and got to experience one. While they haven't become exactly common here, they do occur now and then, though usually on a hot day in summer, not on a cool October morning.

Oddly (the way my world so often seems to go), I heard a piece this morning that mentioned the passenger pigeon, a bird whose numbers were so great, its flocks numbered possibly as many as five billion (yes, with a b, billion). Yet by 1914, they were extinct.

Something I hadn't realized was the effect these birds had on forests. The weight of their landing in trees would knock off leaves and even branches, in effect, opening the canopy so light could make its way to the forest floor. This meant the forest environment a century ago was much different than today's. I can't help thinking that maybe the passenger pigeons' disappearance could have something to do with the disastrous fire situations our woodlands -- and even neighbourhoods -- are experiencing.

And really, if flocks of them were so massive they could take hours -- sometimes even days -- to pass across the sky, maybe those clouds of birds were large enough to have an effect on the weather.

The white stuff has melted, but still I wonder, if we hadn't killed off all those passenger pigeons, might our weather be less crazy than it is today?

Gorgeous "grassitude"

As the weather starts to change, the winds announce themselves, reminding us that colder temps will soon be here.

But that chill also serves to bring us together, to bask in the warmth of friends and family in this time for giving thanks. One of the things to be grateful for is the fact that our holiday has shifted from the narrow definition its origins bore.

A big meal with plenty of leftovers, along with a walk through the now-changing colours -- when it comes to celebrating, that's plenty for me.

Nonetheless, I'm still left wondering, Who paints these gorgeous leaves when I'm not looking?