Creative escapes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the Salish Sea

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

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

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

Hungry?

How long has it been since you ate something?

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

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

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

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

Rockabye, Baby

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

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

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

Bowled over!

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

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

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

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

Lucky

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

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

Complicity in action

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

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

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

Monopoly Rules

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A new look at art

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

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

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

A question of attitude

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

And then the game happened.

And they lost. A whopping 7-4.

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

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

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

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

Too many anniversaries

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

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

So much for "Peace Now", eh.

Oily wake-up call

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Road Trip

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

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

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

Two Schools

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

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

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

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

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

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

Written in stone

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

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

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

Asheville, NC -- a great place to visit

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

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

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

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

Taking a rest for the Earth

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

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

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

Flying thoughts

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

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

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

The pleasures of a rainy day

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

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

And not so much as a breath of wind.

The perfect day to move slowly, puttering.

New heights for poetry?

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

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

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

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

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

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