Angels on my shoulder

Yesterday was one of the first times (in waaaay too long) that I've gone into Vancouver. Best of all, the occasion was for a workshop I was leading, in one of my favourite venues, the Carnegie Centre.

Name of the workshop was 'Voicing Resistance' and its point (beyond getting together with a terrific group of people, the FireWriters) was to get all of us thinking about ways to write meaningful work about troublesome issues. It was all about getting ready to join in on a public event on Saturday, May 7th -- one of the many parts in the upcoming DTES Writers Festival .

Before I left the house yesterday, I stopped by my little basket of 'angel cards' to see which special angels might help guide me through the session. When I looked these up to share what I mean by angel cards, I discovered an entire world of them, many of which were compared to Tarot or other cards for divination. Who knew? Not me. I hadn't known that there were books that could show you how to use them beyond the simple way I have always done: simply pulling three and keeping those three concepts in mind as small fortification for the day. 

No book of interpretations to guide me, but I was certainly pleased by the three angels I selected to 'accompany' me for the day. Happily, they all seemed to play a role in a delightful afternoon. 

N.B. For anyone living in or near Vancouver, the afternoon of May 7th (1 - 5 pm) has been called an 'Activism Afternoon' with workshops, slogan writing and an Open Mic reading (sign-up at the event) -- all taking place at Oppenheimer Park. 

Three stars will shine

I'm not pretending to know what happens to a person after they die, but it's hard not to think of the most recent of our losses as writers who deserve to each become a star in the heavens. 

The first of these, Brian Fawcett, died at the end of February. Considered by many as a Toronto writer, it always seemed his heart remained here in BC, specifically in Prince George where he was born and grew up. 

He said his goodbyes on Facebook, commenting in that wry way of his, that he knew the end was coming and that the words he'd posted would be his last on social media. I suppose it would have made him happy to know that he was right. 

Midway through March, it would be Ellen Jaffe who would 'leave this mortal coil.' Our paths first crossed in the early 1990s when we were co-judges for a poetry contest for the League of Canadian Poets. Soon after that, we found ourselves working as co-editors for another project for the League, and it wasn't long after that when we finally met up. Our friendship endured over the years; I ended up writing a blurb for one of her books of poetry. When one or the other of us travelled east or west, we'd invariably find the other and at least have a good long gab. 

She took the time to phone me ten days before she died. She wanted me to hear it from her that she was going into hospice. I knew she'd been doing cancer treatments for months and months, and that it had been a recent decision to stop taking them, as they were no longer offering effective treatment. So although I was sad, it wasn't a big surprise when only ten days later, she was gone. Her son was kind enough to phone me when her time came. 

But then yesterday, yet another death, and this one came with the blunt force of shock. I knew Steven some, and had once interviewed him for a literary magazine. But I knew him best by way of his writing. He was prolific, as the pile of books on his website will attest, and many of them earned him awards.

Because this is National Poetry Month, last week at our local Open Mic, participants all had to read a poem. It didn't have to be a poem they had written, they just had to give credit to whoever had done so. I read a poem, but not one of my own. Without knowing he was ill, I read a poem by Steven. It's piece that was included in the book of his that I'd read most recently, the one in the photo above, Reaching Mithymna. Oddly, it's the only poem included in the book, which is actually a memoir of his experience in 2015 when he was a volunteer in a refugee camp. If you scroll to the bottom of this obituary on CBC, you'll find the poem I read, "Christmas Work Detail, Samos." I'd chosen to read it because it seemed like the strongest poem I knew to deal with the daily crises facing refugees, so many of whom keep streaming out of Ukraine. It's a poem that's bound to stay with you, just as my memories of these three wonderful writers are bound to stay with me.  

Urban clearcut

Surrey, the city where I live, used to be known as the 'City of Parks' but somehow that must have not fit the 'vision' of our planners. The tagline is now 'The Future Lives Here.' Whatever that's supposed to mean, I'm not sure. 

Not only does the 'Parks' designation no longer exist, it appears that our forests must also disappear. 

It's taken me a while to write any words that might address the sight that greeted me two weeks ago when I had the misfortune of needing to drive along 24th Avenue. Seeing this devastation, I'll admit, I nearly threw up. 

I suppose I should take consolation in the fact that it appears the felled trees will perhaps be taken to a mill to be turned into lumber, rather than the practice I usually see, with trees chopped into rounds, which are all but useless for much of anything. 

And yes, I keep worrying about the forested areas currently awaiting action on development of the 'South Campbell Heights' development. What exactly will it take for us to protect those trees from the fate above. Perhaps it's time again for people to show that they give a damn. 

Broken Promises

There's a new show on at Surrey's Museum. Called "Broken Promises" it places the spotlight on events that occurred in 1942 when Canada placed the tag 'enemy alien' on people of Japanese descent. First generation or third, it made no difference. If you were in any way deemed to be Japanese, you and your family (yes, little children and all) were rounded up and sent away to camps. 

In addition, your possessions were seized, on the promise that they would be held for a later date and you'd get them back. That was just one of the many broken promises. 

Boats that belonged to fishers were gathered together and burned to the waterline where the sea at least had the mercy to douse the flames. 

Appropriately it seemed, the celebration marking the opening of this important exhibit started with a blessing and a song from Harley Chappell, elected chief of the Semiahmoo Nation. He has a rich singing voice which, accompanied by the drum he holds in his hand, certainly seemed to command respect from all who heard him. Chief Chappell, as well as the other speakers, had their words interpreted by two signers. You can see the hands of one of them in motion in the photo above. 

Considering all that's gone on this week, with the delegation of Indigenous people in Rome, it was hard not to think of the sign for this event as also possibly meaning "Token Promises" as so many of the promises made to Indigenous Peoples via treaties and other agreements have not been fulfilled. 

Despite the sad circumstances which this event was commemorating, the evening itself held new promise, including its recognition of the currently unfolding spring, as with the presentation done by a troupe of Japanese dancers -- in this case, celebrating the time of cherry blossoms. 

Across the world, seeking hope

This week is the long-awaited (and oft-postponed) trip to the Vatican for a delegation of Indigenous people. They're there to see the pope on what I feel is an excursion for hope. Hope for an apology from the pope on behalf of the Catholic Church, hope for meaningful settlements and the return of plundered artifacts, hope most of all, for healing. 

The group ranges from elders to youth, all of whom have been affected in some way by the trauma of residential schools, whether because they attended these 'schools' or whether they're among the many affected by the generational after-effects. 

I love the fact that music is one of the gifts being brought to the pope. Here's a link to a 45-second video of two young Métis who brought along their fiddles. 

Spring-ish

Although the official equinox was yesterday, it's today that I'm observing the first full day of spring here on the west coast. 

I'm also noting that today is World Poetry Day, an observance that I suppose most of the world manages to miss. 

This year, as part of that observance (it's hard to call much of anything a 'celebration' during these dark days), there's a YouTube channel that's featuring the work of quite a few poets who've been writing in support of the brave people of Ukraine. 

It's been a sad time here, with two darling friends dying last week -- one day after the other. Neither of them came as a big surprise, as both had major health issues which meant their time was running low, but sad nonetheless, as both are friends I will greatly miss. 

So maybe that's why my otherwise bright-eyed daffodil appears to be a little droopier than might be expected. 

I can only trust that brighter days are coming soon -- not only here, but also for the rest of the world. 

What's up?

Or, I guess I should say -- what's still up -- at least for now?

It's great to see these trees marked off as protected (I assume that's what they meant by 'procected'), though it's been my experience that even the protective 'orange gates' aren't always enough to keep a tree from being cut down. 

Last year a tree on our street which appeared to have been granted 'orange gate' status, was taken down. One day, the gate was magically gone and a crew of guys were taking the tree (mature and healthy-looking) down, no permit visible. All that remains of it now is a poem I wrote about it. Small comfort. 

You can bet that I'll be paying close attention to the presence of the orange gates in the picture above, and hoping that for once, they'll actually do the job of protecting or even 'procecting' the grove of mature trees still standing behind the barrier. 

Helpless

That's the word for what I've been feeling lately. Unable to do anything about all that's going on. 

The horrific bombing of civilians in Ukraine leaves me feeling empty, drained. My little vase with sunflowers and forsythia branches is all I have in the way of small hopes. The sunflower, with its face turning ever towards the warmth of the sun, is a symbol of Ukraine, the national flower. And the forsythia, with its fat little buds, will open soon with a promise for spring. 

Sadly, on a much smaller scale, is the peril I am feeling for the fate of my city, with its optimistic sounding slogan, The Future Lives Here. 

Considering the swaths of trees that have been disappeared along the King George Highway (oops, more rebranding, as it's now called King George Boulevard, aka KGB), it's not going to be a very green future. Somehow I've always had it in mind that the word 'boulevard' suggests an elegant, tree-lined route. Not any more, not here. This despite the many cautions about climate change heating up and the necessity to protect and plant as many trees as we can. 

Even as I am typing this, the City Council is, I believe, about to rubber-stamp approval for fourth and final reading on the fate of lands abutting the Tata'lu/Little Campbell River, the area that's been rebranded with the gentrified name, South Campbell Heights -- which sounds more like a suburb in a Nancy Drew book than a plan to pave an aquifer. 

Helpless as well in that I can't even manage to open the supposed live-stream access to the Council meeting. Not that I would have been able to do anything, but I believe it's important to bear witness when we can. 

Which, I suppose, is why I keep watching tv news -- to bear witness to the massacre and destruction in Ukraine. All I've been able to do towards helping has been to make a donation to the Canadian Red Cross, where I believe the federal government is still matching what we give. 

Hoping that all of us will find our own ways of honouring all that's going on during these times that feel more and more like the defeat of goodness, the triumph of evil, sometimes like maybe the end of the world. 

Days that will likely be cause for regret

And now, beyond disappointment. 

This has been a terrible week -- globally and even locally. 

On the world stage we are all aware of Putin's invasion of the Ukraine -- ironically, bare hours after Pink Shirt Day, the date we observe towards stopping bullies. If there's ever been a bully, the president of Russia has certainly shown the world how a bully behaves. 

I'm not a person who's big into any kind of formal praying, but I'm digging deep and doing my best to focus energies towards this horrid conflict ending, and without further losses. Dreaming, I suppose, but that's my small prayer of sorts. 

Yet Putin isn't the only bully who's asserted himself this week. We who live in the southern reaches of Surrey have had one of our most fragile environmental regions put on the chopping block with approval for commercial development being granted by the Metro Vancouver Board. 

Their decision was somewhat astonishing in light of their self-determined plans for the region (currently the vision for 2040, with a revised version for 2050 coming soon). If you click on either of those 'vision' links, especially the jazzed-up video with 2050 'plans' you'll see that nearly every goal they highlight there has been violated by passing the 'South Campbell Heights' (Surrey's gentrified name that hides the old 'Hazelmere Valley' name) proposal. 

And beyond Vancouver

This week involved a trip to Powell River, BC. Even though a plane ride there takes only about 25 minutes, it's a road trip that means at least six hours of driving and ferry rides. But aside from the trek from where we live to the Horseshoe Bay ferry, and the many curves in the road on the Sunshine Coast, it's a memorable tour. There's one leg of it in particular -- the ferry ride from Earls Cove to Saltery Bay where the scenery is as close as I will ever get to Norway, as it's mountainous fjords, complete with cascading waterfalls. 

The reason for going there? The historic Patricia Theatre was showing Harold and Maude for

Valentine's Day, and I was lucky enough to be invited to participate, and to read from my book, Glorious Birds. I not only got to introduce the film, audience members hung around for a Q&A session. Naturally, my brain didn't work as well as I might have liked, and I wasn't able to answer all of the questions very clearly. Nonetheless, it mostly felt like engaged conversation -- I actually felt I'd make a couple of connections with folks there. 

Even the weather cooperated, with blue skies and mild temps. Especially after all these months of isolation, what more could one ask of a getaway?!

To boldly go...

Well, it's not quite where no one has gone before, but for me, it's been over two years -- since I took public transit and went into the city of Vancouver. It seems strange to be less than an hour away, but there's been something preventing me from getting on the bus or SkyTrain. Hmmm. What could it be. 

Anyway, the other day, I drove to my local park'n'ride and got on the bus -- one of the newish double-decker ones, so up those stairs went I. Hardly anyone else was up there, so (especially with my mask on, still mandatory on transit) I felt safe as could be. Although I mostly read, I did look out over Boundary Bay as we passed, and lo -- there was that all-too-seldom seen light in the sky. 

I'm pretty sure this one little outing has given me the courage to do even more. Not quite ready (nor wealthy enough) to join one of Elon Musk's expeditions to space, but next stop will be further than Vancouver. 

Puzzling

Yesterday's meeting of the Vancouver Metro Board was supposedly the day for them to make a decision regarding the fate of the Hazelmere Valley and the area around the Little Campbell River. But one of the directors (a Surrey City Councillor) made a last-minute motion that would pause the matter. Despite some grumbling from others on the Board, the motion squeaked past by three votes. 

I'm not sure what to do next in terms of actions to continue advocating on behalf of protecting the area. 

So that's why I'm puzzled.

But I suppose that state is somewhat appropriate, as today--strange though it may seem--is National Puzzle Day! 

It sure seems as though there's a day for just about everything, and in light of today's observance, I'm declaring it Clear-Off-the-Table Day, so I can start working on a puzzle I've been delaying for too long. It will be a nice diversion from the research and reading I've been doing, as I try to learn all I can about aquifers and groundwater and protecting the last vestiges of natural, green environment. 

I take heart though, because even before I start dealing with organizing that tumbled pile of pieces on the table, I can see quite a few hopeful spots of green.  

Countdown...

...to decision time for the future of the Hazelmere Valley, an area the City of Surrey has casually renamed South Campbell Heights. 

Here I'd thought renaming was exclusively the domain of settlers who determined that English names were better than the names given to places by the Indigenous peoples who'd lived here for centuries. 

The current renaming practice is more a matter of hiding what's actually at stake -- in this case, a small forest, some farmland, a river, and an aquifer. 

If you haven't already seen it, here's a video that offers a few reasons for protecting the area, reasons that are only becoming more critical by the day as we move inexorably toward climate disaster.

Cheery thoughts for a Monday, eh. Friday morning will be the time of reckoning, when Metro Vancouver Regional Board determines whether they will move the Urban Containment Boundary, a protective element that is part of their Metro 2040 vision for the region. 

Here's hoping that sanity (and thoughts for the future) prevail. 

Travels missed, travels found

Today is just about the midpoint of what was supposed to be a holiday on the beach in Cuba. But no, that had to be cancelled, owing to the O-word.  

To console myself, I tried to pretend -- even went so far as to turn on a sunlamp to 'tan' my winter-white, dry-skin legs. 

Best consolation though was where I usually find it: in one of the books I'd planned to take along. 

The title, The Body on the Beach, sounds as though it might be a bit grisly as holiday reading, but no, that wasn't the case. For one thing, the beach in question was about as far from Varadero as one could get while still being on the Atlantic Ocean: Harbour Grace, Newfoundland. 

As it happens, that's a town I've visited more than once, as it played into the research I did for Flightpaths, my book about Amelia Earhart. But this 'visit' is during the 1920s, the era when Model T cars were still relatively new. 

It's hard to pigeon-hole this novel as any single genre, as it qualifies not only as detective story with questions that range at first from who was it that died, to a series of increasing challenges regarding the details of that death (how and why being foremost, though there's definitely a whodunnit aspect as well). 

But that isn't all it is, as it's also a love story -- about the love a man has for a woman from his past as well as a growing romance in his here-and-now. 

All of this is complicated (in a good way) by the many historical details author Patrick J. Collins has layered into the book. The biggest of these, and the one that causes the most tension is Prohibition. Being a port town, one that engages in shipping both to and from the US (remember, at this time, Newfoundland was not yet part of Canada, but its own independent dominion), Harbour Grace's location makes it convenient for would-be smugglers. 

Even though now and then I'd get a little lost in the crowd of so many characters, the book kept me engaged enough to not fret too much about a missed opportunity for travel. In fact, it allowed me some of the best travels of all, those travels we take via the mind. 

Merry Christmas, reboot

Today's the day that many people around the world celebrate Orthodox Christmas. We're among them, though we do so in a smaller way than on December 25th. 

It's easy enough to get in the mood, especially with so much of our local world looking like a Christmas card. The photo is one I took while we were out for a walk in our neighbourhood. 

Often, it turns out that the last week of December will be cold here. But this year, that cold spell has extended well into the new year, and managed to break a number of temperature (and snow depth) records along the way. 

I'm mostly grateful that today's Christmas celebration will be much lower key than that other one. No one's coming over to open gifts (there aren't any), and there won't be a turkey in the oven, not even a fresh batch of butter tarts. Though on second thought, I may have to rethink that last bit. 

Here's to a brighter year!

No parties for us this year. No decorations, no fire in the chiminea. Not even bottle rockets here. 

Some of the neighbours put on an exciting fireworks display, so at least there was a great excuse to holler and hoot a few times. 

As for us, it was mostly a matter of a few sparklers tucked into the snow pile. Nonetheless, a bright light to shine for a few precious minutes. Hoping that they point toward a much brighter year.  

One brave little soul

While my last post was partly about Glorious Birds, today's note concerns an altogether different but nonetheless glorious-in-its-own-way bird.

We're in the midst of a very cold spell, one that's very unusual for where we live. Last time I checked, the thermometer read minus ten. That's Celsius; in Fahrenheit it's 14. 

So when our brave little hummingbird came to the feeder, we worried the liquid would likely freeze. Sure enough, when we brought it in, ice crystals were already starting to form. But then the Dear Man came up with one of his brilliant ideas -- the lamp base from the lava light appeared to be just the right size to hold the feeder. So it, combined with a tiny pie tin (with a few holes punched into it), has turned into a warm spot for the hummer to spend an extended dinner visit. 

And wouldn't you know -- the way serendipity seems so often to play a role in my life -- right now I am finishing a novel that features a group some refer to as Hummers. They're nothing at all like the oversized motor car by that name, but I guess to find out more, you might just have to read the book yourself. 

A golden anniversary

Fifty years. Yikes. How does a charming little movie get to be 50 and still have any kind of presence. 

Endurance, I guess.

According to most sources, Harold and Maude was released on December 20, 1971, although apparently there was a kerfuffle on the 7th of this month when a number of sources claimed that as its anniversary. 

Rude of me, I suppose, but I'm stickin' with today as the date for the observance. After all, I wrote the book on it. Okay, not the only book (so I can't really call it 'the book'), but I did a lot of research in my attempts to be accurate. And my book, Glorious Birds came out earlier this year, closer to the Spring Equinox than to the Winter Solstice. 

I can't help but think the beginning of winter is an appropriate time for the film to have been released, as the plot of it certainly moves from darkness to light. But because I don't want to reveal any spoilers, I'll keep the rest of my comments to myself, at least for now. 

Wintry salad

No doubt you've heard of Urban Farming, where people plant vegies in their yard rather than keeping the mostly pointless notion of lawn -- you can't eat grass. There's even an offshoot of this movement -- called, not unexpectedly, Suburban Farming. 

We don't go as far as using either of these labels, and we haven't considered adding chickens or goats to the mix, but we do grow some of our own food when the weather agrees. 

Our most bountiful crops are blackberries and quince, along with beans and salady greens. But we also harvest raspberries and plums, and even took delight this year in 12 tree-grown peaches. Yum!

However, this December, my brilliant partner has taken the notion of home-grown one step further: you might have to call it Indoor Farming. Obviously, our little set-up isn't anything like the vertical farming models that are easy to find on the Internet, nor is it hydroponic, as our plants grow in soil. 

But truly, whether it's a few leafy greens added to a sandwich, or just a sample torn off as I walk by 'their' window, I take delight in being able to eat food that we've grown, often when it's only seconds 'off the vine', all the while looking outside on weather that's clearly December, and mighty wintry. 

Yep!

Snow happens. And I guess I was right about thinking that change was about to happen.

This eerily blue image is how the world looked from the front door just after 8 this morning -- in other words, only a few minutes after sunrise, which just keeps getting later and later. 

This is the time of year that makes me wonder whether the people who seem to want Daylight Saving Time to be in effect forever whether they've thought about what mornings will be like. Dark. The sun won't come up until 9. Ugh. Hibernation well become the next new norm. 

This also happens to be the day when many observe the Feast of St Nicholas. When I was a kid, and even brattier than I am now, I convinced our mother that we deserved candies and other small stocking-type treats on this date. I suspect the reason she relented was solely because the day was named after a saint. Those kinds of arguments worked more than once on my behalf. Yep. Bratty could have been my middle name. 

As for this morning's snow, it was very wet and heavy and dragged down part of the bamboo 'trees' that provide such nice privacy from our neighbour. Here's hoping that a 'splint' job will help it to stand tall again.