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.