Spring Walk

Here we are 9 days past the vernal equinox. Today I went in search of spring. When we woke up this morning, the clouds had descended and as we set out for the gym, there was snow falling. By noon, the sun was peaking out. Later it was drizzling. These are definitely all signs of spring, the unpredictability and varied weather systems blowing in and out.

This afternoon, I walked around the block and saw two people. One woman was running down the street with a toque, and mittens. Mittens??? On a runner? The other was shovelling snow in her backyard. The good news was that it wasn't on her walkway. My assessment was that she was moving the snow from one big pile and scattering it about so it would melt faster.

My back lawn as you can see has one leg in winter and one in spring...



Here is the sky to the north, the mighty force of winter not easily receding. I suspect there are some snow flurries in there.



I continued my stroll, and found some new life!



This week, the snow retreated enough that I got to see the garden for the first time in 5 months. As more and more of the back yard is revealed, there is a pulling to go outside and clean up. There are reminders of winter everywhere. Near my patio, there is a coating of seed shells from birds that visited my upstairs neighbour. The compost is bursting. There are two empty bags of Safe-T-Salt, on the ground, 2 of 6 that I sprinkled on the walkway and stairs. If I had not, it would have been treacherous. The fence that was leaning in the fall is now officially useless, having been weighed down by mounds of snow.

Spring is moving in slowly, it appears. The temperature seems to have little effect on the birds, who are very vocal in their appreciation. The cat, who is very keen on birds, is very active these days as she flits from window sill to window sill to see the action. I am grateful each day as we see more and more of the sun. Soon, the sun will enter my living and kitchen room windows, and each day I will rejoice in that specialness. For now, I no longer have to inch my way down the hill to work to avoid sliding, and I wear one less layer of clothing. It is all a good sign.

Seeking signs of Spring - Connecting with nature

This afternoon Patricia and I met (via telephone) for writing practice, but I ducked out, cried off, couldn't bring myself to settle to work, why? The sun was shining. The first gloriously sunny day of the year, cherry blossom in full bloom, people cutting grass, everyone outdoors, I felt compelled to get out of my concrete bunker too and get some vitamin D on my parched white skin. So we agreed, (Patricia and I) to go out and write about connecting with nature, and seek out signs of spring. This I thought would surely inspire some romantic Tennyson-like poetical piece of writing, oh how wrong can you be....

Yesterday a low grey cold dropped rain on our heads from dawn til dusk and then today hallelujah we are bathed in sunshine and warmth, on a Sunday too. The whole world is out strolling on the coastal path, pushchairs, dogs, grandparents, joggers, cyclists, skateboarders, power walkers, all weaving along this thin strip of land between the beach and the affluent suburb of James Bay.





We are all of us here to look out on the sun-dappled sea, admire the snow-capped mountains of the Olympic Peninsula, feel the sunshine on cold pale flesh, and in our own way make some connection with the natural landscape. Except we all seem to be getting in each other's way. There's no space for connection due to the inordinate amount of jostling going on, each of us interrupted from our reverie by tripping over dog leashes and small children.

I spy a bleached white log balanced on rocks beneath the steep orange cliffs at the end of the beach. I climb swiftly to secure my place in the sun overlooking the cove, the satisfying crunch of surf on pebbles running beneath my perch. My pen is poised, my paper pinioned by my left hand. I wait for inspiration. Much to my disgust the first thing I note is a man in a black sleeveless T-shirt, dirty jeans and a drunken gait, who is unzipping his flies and proceeds to pee on a gorse- bush. On his way back to his pile of clothes, he tries to bum a cigarette from a bald man who is passing. He gets turned down, "Good" I think. Then I notice that the bald man is the owner of a large wildly out of control Doberman that is terrorising toddlers. Both the bald man and the Doberman appear to be skillfully circumventing all of the NO DOGS ON BEACH signs.

The truth is I try to like people but there are just too many of them, like ants or snakes, or flies, they are interesting individually, but pestilent en masse. Within five minutes I have been passed by a least a dozen crag-hoppers of the human kind. I glare at a hooded teenager who is skulking in my direction, he jumps a few rocks and finds a different way down to the beach. He is followed by a woman with a coat and handbag in one hand and a Tim Hortons paper cup in the other. I look down and try to focus on my page. Then the suffocating smell of cheap perfume clouds out the scent of salt and seaweed, followed by two pairs of skinny legs in jeans and faux ballet slippers. Now a Thrifty's plastic bag containing a packet of shortcakes brushes against my knee. I glance up at the offender and get a strange stare from a lonely man in a baseball cap. I seem to have located myself on some major thoroughfare masquerading as coastal wilderness and the world and his aunt are trooping past. What do you have to do for Christ sakes in order to 'Wander Lonely as a Cloud.'


I shift position on my piece of driftwood to survey the ocean instead. Only the yacht sailing across the horizon seems to be able to breathe, it's white sails billowing in the breeze. For several months last summer I dreamed of owning a yacht, but eventually my husband pointed out that my vehement dislike of windy weather ran contrary to the fundamental basis of sailing. It's always windy in Victoria. It would be nicknamed the Windy City if that title wasn't already held by Chicago. On a high summer day the breeze necessitates a fleece, coat and hat in order to prevent excruciating earache and on a winter day the wind is like a bullying older brother, always pushing and shoving until in complete exasperation you shout "Oh go to hell!" and slam back into the house.





So Patrica, I'm relying on you to find the the Shelley and Coleridge in it all. My angry blue biro has been put away for the day. The battle for SPACE continues, the biggest enemy as usual is myself.

Where is the hottest place you've ever been?

1979.

I watched Mum pack. She held up each pastel strappy t-shirt and floral sundress in turn, all carefully ironed and deftly folded before being packed in the large family size suitcase. I loved my new clothes. I asked "Why don't we live somewhere hot all the time?"
Mum sighed, "Because we live here."

The timeshare was in the hills above the Costa del Sol, a rectangular block of concrete apartments with green balconies. The grown-ups had long conversations about whether timeshares were a good idea. I saw the big blue swimming pool and just knew they were a good idea. All day my brother and I played in the bright blue pool, only reluctantly succumbing to calls to "Put on more suntan lotion!" "Sit in the shade for five minutes!", "Wait until your lunch has gone down!"
In the intervals when I wasn't submerged I would scuff out of the complex and along a dusty street, holding my flip flops on with toes curled. There was no sign to distinguish the whitewashed house from any other in the street, except for a faded brown door that was always propped open and a boxes of melons stacked in the shade against the wall. Condensation rolled down the paper on the ice lollies I held up for the shop assistant to see. With the other hand I held out the silver pesetas that in my mind I often confused with the word potatoes. Pleased with my ability to perform essential transactions in Spanish I whispered "Gracia's" and dashed out into sunshine. My lips turned cherry red sucking the syrup out of crystallised ice, my brother's lollipop rapidly melting in my left hand.
In the evenings, with hair wet from the shower and dressed in one of my new sundresses and hand-knitted cardigan, we would drive down to Fuengirola for dinner, a choice of french fries and ice-cream every night. After dinner there was the promenade. The pleasure of swinging between my parent's hands as Dad searched for another bar. All around were groups of loud gregarious, vibrant, bronzed, dark-eyed, dark-haired Spaniards their smiling teeth lit up by the neon of the crowded shops, bars and restaurants. Behind them in the moonlight the white surf lapped on a dark beach. I prayed that we could stay on holiday forever. I liked being brown.

A few years later we returned to the timeshare, with another family, friends from our street. It was a holiday of minor disasters. The second day by the pool I noticed a trail of red footprints following me. It was only after they pulled the shard of glass out of my foot that I burst into tears, suddenly very sorry for myself because Mum was tutting about the barmen not sweeping up properly. I felt the need to limp for at least 5 metres before running to catch up with the game of volleyball in the pool.
That evening Tanya didn't appear for dinner. Tanya was older than me, a teenager, with long legs, pale skin and pale blond hair carefully dried back from her face in 'Farrah Fawcett' waves. By the end of two days of continual sunbathing to achieve the perfect tan, she had turned the colour of a lobster, with a swollen face and a slow scarecrow walk. She spent the rest of the week in her bedroom with heavy curtains pulled shut, we tiptoed past the door. "Sorry you're not feeling well" we chorused from the doorway before happily rushing out into the sunshine.

Then the bug struck. My brother and I fell first, one moment fine, the next vomiting into the sink. We were made to endure the injection. The humiliation of it. At home, injections were always in the arm, later when telling my school friends about my holiday, the most important thing to relay was that "In Spain they give you an injection in the bum."
My abiding image of that holiday remains the sight of Mum leaning sideways in bed and Avril running to her, holding out a large beach towel in which to catch the vomit. I asked "Will she be better soon?" Outside on the balcony the 'Dads" immunised themselves with cigarettes and alcohol. Murmured conversations of "The kids all ate the ice-cream." and "Did Trish eat the scampi?", a concerned investigation that ended with a question mark over ice and a rule about only buying bottled drinks from the bar.

The last time we visited the timeshare, it was just Dad and I, the divorce had already gone through. Our rental car was the only vehicle in the outside car park. Our footsteps echoed on the concrete walkways, all the timeshare people had deserted for the Balearic's and the Canaries. We were visiting a couple who had bought their apartment. I used to envy them, "They can stay all year round!" Now sat in one of their armchairs I noticed for the first time that their apartment was decorated in a quintessentially English style. To protect the furniture and framed photographs from fading, heavy drapes were drawn against the intense white sunshine. Dad talked loudly, deliberately cheerful, cracking jokes about 'the old days'. Their voices in reply sounded muted, resigned, tinged with defensiveness.
Wondering how long we would have to stay I stepped past the brown fabric onto the balcony. In the gardens below the bar was shuttered and the barmen with their starched shirts and white smiling teeth had gone. The pool, in which I had swum like a fish, was bright green with algae, brown leaves piled up on surrounding tiles. Clear blue sky, bright sunshine, picturesque whitewashed houses encircling the grey concrete walls within which the apartment complex was sighing. I stepped back inside where the grown-ups were pouring out generous glasses of gin and tonic despite the breakfast bowls on the table. They acquiesced to my request to drink the same. I was old enough now.

What is the hottest I have ever been?

Here is the next writing prompt from Natalie Goldberg.

Ryan and I arrived in Palenque around dinner time on a day like all others during tourist season. Shop keepers have no days off and everything is open late.

On the bus ride, my son and I pored over the town map featured in our Lonely Planet guide. We knew we didn’t have to go far to find a room. We had traveled the day bus from Merida, first class with air con, so when we got off, we were floored by the heat and humidity. The beginning of the rainy season. The book had warned us.

The cobbled sidewalk was narrow, as we turned right towards the town centre, single file. Our suitcase wheels clicked behind us.

I stood with the luggage on the street while Ryan checked out our Lonely Planet pre-selected hotels. After visits to three places and describing to me what he had observed, he picked the place where the proprietor spoke the best English. We got a front-facing room that would not be ready until 8:30, when the current tenants departed for the bus. Lots of events, it seemed, were scheduled around bus terminal arrivals and departures. The hotelkeeper offered to hold our luggage in his lockup.

We walked one block up to the main street. The shops were full of merchandise, spilling into the streets. Women and young children wandered the streets, thrusting their wares at us. A young girl had small zippered bags embroidered with Chiapas on the front. Made in China. She convinced Ryan. I bought a kerchief, having remembered an old trick of wetting it and winding it on the neck to keep cool. Carts of hot food beckoned us closer. The sidewalks were full of people. Again we walked single file as did the line of people coming towards us. We walked slowly in the heat.

The sun was setting when we found a restaurant suggested by the Lonely Planet. As Ryan contemplated an outdoor seat, I looked at the ceiling fans and the empty tables below them. Being outside in Palenque, even when the sun went down, was not a cool experience. He agreed. We sat inside. I sat very still in my chair, minimizing any heat I was generating. I ordered a pina colada, having already envisioned the ice. We waited an intolerable amount of time for our food. As we waited and made plans for the next day, many women and children with wares piled high approached us. Ryan bought two braided bracelets from a young girl. By the time the meal arrived, I was ready to find an ocean, a lake, a dugout, a muddy pond. Anything to cool off. I ate quickly so we could leave.

Back on the street, the air was marginally cooler. When we finally got our room, I headed straight for the shower. The towels were very small. I contemplated asking for one larger. Shortly after getting out of the shower, I realized that a bigger towel would not be any more helpful. Within minutes, my body was wet again from the humidity.

I was exhausted. I had tried all my regular cool-down techniques, but nothing worked. I decided that sleep was the best solution. As I lay in my bed, sleep was impossible. I shuffled the suitcases and slid my bed directly beneath the ceiling fan and next to the open window facing the front street. The glow from the streetlights offered enough light to read, and it was party time in Palenque. Party time in Palenque was on the streets. Perhaps this was the locals’ solution to the rainy season. I went back to the shower, this time not even attempting to dry myself off. Under the fan, I felt sweet relief for several minutes. I thought of the mountains in the close distance and remembered how, at home, our mountains released their coolness at night. This was my fantasy as I waited for sleep.

But it didn't come. I decided to do something other than think about being hot in Palenque. I sat in the beam of the streetlight, listening to the sounds on the street, and picked up my journal, began to draw and watched the sky lighten in the distance.

In the morning, Ryan and I were ready to expose our gringo-ness and decided to give up our second floor walk-up in favour of a room with air con, though it would cost 50 pesos more a night. Our proprietor was perplexed. “This isn’t hot. It isn’t even the rainy season yet.” Indeed.

After settling into our new room, Ryan and I found the taxi collective that offered fares to the ruins. It was when we arrived at the front gates, that we found out that it was vacation season for Mexicans. We lined up for one hour to pay our entrance fee; some of it, thankfully, was under a tree. With kerchief and water bottles in hand, we entered the site. Through the trees, we saw the structures in the open plaza. We relinquished the sweet coolness from the ceiba trees – The Tree of Life and ventured into the sun. I remembered a statement from a tour guide we met at Chichen Itza eleven years before who said that the Maya believed that, “Happiness is a shady tree.”

We walked across the plaza, and over the foot bridge. The path circled under a grove of trees, and up to the next level. At the top of the stairs was another open plaza flanked by the Cross Group of three temples, massive structures, each with a set of stairs leading to a room at the top. We climbed. Later, in photos, I saw the glisten on my skin.

I descended the temple stairs, and went immediately to join others sitting on a stone wall in the shade of another temple. I was learning to appreciate the subtle degrees of hot. The difference between hot and wilting. The relief of a drink of water. Growing accustomed to always sweating. And learning how to pace myself.

When we visited the tour guide, I wondered if I stayed in Palenque how long it would take me to adapt to the heat, to be like him, wearing pants, a long-sleeved shirt and closed-toed shoes.

What I no longer have

This post was written out on the back of a 16 page patient information sheet from my doctor. This seems to be the new trend, your doctor searches for a website, prints it out and voila, no need for time-consuming discussions or clinical diagnosis, just read what's wrong with you, and choose the drug or surgical procedure from the list of "Treatments" starting on page 4.

I look first at the "Causes" section. It's a short single paragraph which starts "Although the exact cause is unknown, their growth seems to be related to..." I hate this kind of language from scientists, the same scientists who tell us that everything is black and white and analytical and well, scientific. For them to fall back on wishy washy phrases like "seems to be" or "it is not clear actually.." is the height of hypocrisy. Especially when you then are expected to skip lightly over the scanty "Causes" section to the long definitive stricture of "Treatments". I look at my choices, a lot of cutting, slicing, gouging out of malfunctioning flesh and a smorgasbord of painkillers and drugs that carry a long list of nasty side-effects and nothing that addresses a cause.

My doctor knows I want to find the cause, treat the cause and get better. She tells me that it is "the fickle finger of fate" or that's what she means; when what she actually says is "Genetics can sometimes be a factor." I pick up that mantle of family guilt anyway for no other reason than she seems to be saying that it's mine.

So this week I am angry with my doctor, a friendly understanding supportive woman, who doesn't have any answers. She has disappointed a universal expectation in omnipotent science and my own personal expectation that I will visit, be tested and then be cured. So I'm disappointed, my self-pity is just pitiful. My doctor invites me back for a chat in a months time to see how I'm going on. That would be a kindness from a friend but it is just plain annoying in a doctor. A friend would give me more than a mandatory 10 minutes, a friend would acknowledge the big invisible elephant in the room, would sit with me and my frustration and help me grapple with the human condition of not-knowing.

Through my twenties I saw no reason for doctors, didn't understand the need to arrange for my medical records to follow me around the world. When I finally got a symptom and went through the circus of getting on a doctor's list I had in mind one consultation maybe two at the most. Chronic illness was to me some kind of mythical creature, a rare and unlikely possibility. That was before I discovered the so-called 'gaps' in medical knowledge, less like gaps more like The Grand Canyon. It was a shock. The first time I got the medical practitioner's slow nod, sympathetic smile and shrug with a kind smile it was like death walking into the room. The physicality of life and death had gone largely unnoticed by me whilst everything in my body was working OK. And then, the first cracked tooth, the first time I noticed my receding gums in the mirror, the first time I stood up and one leg didn't seem to want to work, the first time I couldn't read the bottom lines on the sight test, the first time I sat in a movie theatre of laughing people and had to whisper "What did he say?". The first time I realised that all of this stuff and more is irreversible - Frightening, frightening, frightening. But there it is. Fear dissipates, and with it comes the realisation that this is also the first time to engage with the mystery that the scientists tell us doesn't exist.. the mystery of life, of aging, of crossing over and what's beyond.

I forget to make my next appointment. I don't need a doctor. I need a guru, a priest, a spiritual adviser, counselling for those who are quietly losing their immortality and finding it, all at the same time.

What I No Longer Have

Natalie Goldberg's latest book, Old Friend From Far Away is full of practices for writing memoir. Katherine and I have each checked it from our local libraries for several times each, as it is full of great writing prompts - to get the pen moving.

Katherine and I have continued our practice of writing together weekly, despite the miles now between us. At a pre-arranged time, we phone each other, and decide on our writing practice. We set the timer and then call each other to read what we have written.

This week we chose a prompt for a blog posting that each of us promised to write. The question was... What do you no longer have? Here's mine...

As I sit here, the gas fireplace ignites. I think of the wood-burning fireplace when we lived on Garrity Creek Road. I no longer have to pull myself from my comfortable chair, slip on Sorels and jacket and slump my way to the wood pile. I no longer have to haul out the axe and chop the wood into pieces that fit inside the fireplace, or make a backup of kindling. I no longer have to spend my time off cleaning up wood chips that are strewn through the living room. I no longer have to have to slide out of my warm bed and scamper to the stove, crumple paper, build a tent of kindling and strike a match.

I no longer have to make arrangements with loggers who take advantage of my naiveté and sell me wet wood, and then charge exorbitant amounts to split and deliver it. I no longer have to adjust my clothing while I wait for the room to warm up and then when it gets hot.

And yet... I no longer smell the burning wood wafting through the air when I come back from a walk. I remember the smell of the wood when I reached into the pile under the tarp laden with snow.

The fire brought a warmth on a cold winter's night that hugged the entire room. And I remember the feeling of warm clothes from the dryer, put in for a few minutes to take off the sting of the cold.

There is a feeling of well-being and release after spending an hour with an axe and chopping block.

There is a satisfaction years later as I remember how we had a power outage for 6 hours on Christmas Day 1996 and we were warm all day. Thanks to propane, our dinner wasn't delayed.

There is a delight, too, in knowing that my daughter recalls these times as her favourite.

Looking for Signs - March 9th

The 9th does not belong to the other days in March because it marks a birthday. I took the day off work because I couldn't bear the thought of meaningless office duties crowding out the hours, crowding out my thoughts.

At 8:00am I pulled the blanket down from the window. The streets outside were filled with grey cloud, thick heavy snowflakes tumbling down, spiralling up and occasionally throwing themselves recklessly against the glass.

I'd imagined a day of quiet reflection; Instead of strolling by the sea in a meditative fashion, we were able to take only sidelong glances at the grey shrouded seashore, whilst pushing forward into a blizzard of swiping, vindictive snow.

At Ogden Point cafe we thawed out, sipping ginger tea and munching on homemade chocolate cookies. Then we reviewed the photographs we'd taken en-route, the stillness of the images belying the rough buffeting of the wind, the clever flowers sheltering in low, quiet corners. Resilient purple, bowed yellow, graceful pink.

As we sat in silence at the cafe and watched the falling snow, in the distance a circle of sunlight appeared on the ocean. Then the ray of sunshine shifted and just for a few brief minutes our table was bathed in a watery luminence whilst, outside the window, snow continued to fall.

Una Bella Tazza Di Caffe

It seems not that long ago that we sat across each other at this table and I poured tea from my beautiful teapot from Pier One. We drank out of the small cups that came with the pot, and refilled them frequently. We had treats as well, though they were not cake. What brought us together was the love of words. What we shared was an unfolding of our lives through writing practice.

I wished I would have met your Mum, and at long last when I saw her photo, I felt I should know her for the stories you shared and the gifted daughter she brought into the world. And I wished I would have had that opportunity to sit over a table sharing coffee with her.

In that loss, I think of change. I am remembering of those deep connections I made so many years ago. From my soul-filling visits with friends over coffee, for that is what we drank then. Edwards coffee out of the can. I kept it in the freezer to keep the coffee fresh. We would drink coffee late at night, our sleep not affected by that amazing act. Then, I began picking up Tim Horton's on my way into work. And my visits with friends shifted more often to tea.

I discovered then the incredible flavour of coffee with an espresso grind. And eventually found coffee that was roasted locally. And then I went to Seattle, and had a cup of una bella tazza di caffe at Vivace. The people who work here are called Preparation Specialists! They take their coffees seriously.

Sadly, I can't drink coffee anymore... though I do hold out hope... one day... (*longing face*)

What has not changed over the years is the wondrous sharing that I have with my friends. I am looking forward to this space being a place of sharing, exploring, and appreciation for the finest things in life.

Why Tea and Cake?

There's a song by Anne Murray called Another Pot o' Tea.

Put on another pot of tea
Because I'm in love with the Irish accent of your stories
And I need someone to help me.

Well, they say that now you don't talk straight,
And as of late it's been my lot to be afraid,
To remember you by anything,
But memories I already keep.

So put on another pot of tea,
Because I'm in love with the Irish accent of your stories,
And I need some sympathy.

It's harder when it takes so long to leave,
The table where we all learned to laugh, learned to grieve,
Over the pain that came so close to you
And it comes so close to me today.

So put on another pot of tea...

I'm showing by British roots to talk of tea and cake. Tea is drink, food, medicine and so much more for the British. For me tea and cake has always been synonymous with a gathering of kin and kindred spirits. From the time when as a child I would lay out plastic cups on a blanket for my stuffed toys, I learnt the joy of invitation and began my training in sharing and empathy.

Drinking a cup of tea (or coffee) in company, is a prelude to conversation, a settling down, a ritualised opening to listening and sharing. Even the act of laying a table with cups and saucers, the warming of the pot, is like a warming of the heart, it brings over me a sense of inclusion and belonging. I think of the economy of movement of my Grandmother's hands as she placed cups on saucers and arranged custard cream biscuits on a plate. How we groaned about it when we were trying to diet! How later we chided ourselves for moaning, because we understood the connectiveness between her offering of food, drink, and the offering of love.

I think of the miles I would drive with Mum to find the best cafe, the best piece of cake, the best brew of coffee. Even when money was short, which it nearly always was, we could not deprive ourselves of this tradition. In fact in hard times it became even more essential. "We'll treat ourselves" we said and what we meant was I will treat you, you deserve happiness and simultaneously you were saying the same to me. And in each other's company we found the comfort and humour that made the rest of the struggle ok.

I write this piece whilst sat alone in a busy cafe and I am overwhelmed again, as I am every day, by the inconsolable grief of losing my Mum, my best friend, my confidante, my companion, the person who loved me longest and loved me best. How inadequate words are to describe this love that gathered me in, listened, counselled, and gave me solace and healing when I was broken open. How to explain now the emptiness that extends to all edges of my world?

My Mum and my grandmothers taught me that love is simple. First you listen, then you understand and then the love flows.

A blog is an acknowledgment of the new reality of physical separation. Despite that, "Tea and Cake" is intended to be an expression of the willingness to listen, understand and love, even when we are too far from each other to sit down at the table together.

To quote another Anne Murray song:
There's a wren in a willow wood,
Flies so high and sings so good,
And he brings to you,
What he sings to you.