A Bit of This and That on a Sunny Tuesday

 

First of all, thank you for your many kind thoughts and wishes regarding my last post. My voice is back and my throat healed. I'm still careful not to speak too much, but that's not too difficult when I'm home alone most days. Best of all, I'm sleeping through the night - isn't sleep such a wonderful gift? After a solid 6-8 hours I wake up with energy and a bright outlook on the day. 

On a grey and somewhat drizzly Sunday we took a walk. Curving pathways and overarching growth create an air of mystery and anticipation. Although the woods look dull and lifeless, a closer look reveals that much is happening. 

The yellow flowers of mahonia aquifolium (Oregon grape) are some of the first to add colour and cheer to the woods. In summer, dark blue berries form. The First Nations peoples used the roots, bark, and berries of the shrub for medicinal purposes. Although the berries are extremely tart, they make a delicious tasting jam. 

The plant is native to North America, and the botanist David Douglas took plants to Europe to use in English gardens as shady ground cover. Plants have certainly traveled around the world, sometimes for the good, other times not so much. 

Another early bloomer is the June Plum (oemleria cerasiformas), also called the Oso Berry. The leaves emerge from the stem tips and often stand at attention, while the blooms droop downwards in clusters of creamy white and green. Small fruits appear, but although edible, they are quite bitter. Like the mahonia, many parts of this plant are used by the First Nations for medicinal purposes. 

Our Iranian friends celebrated the Persian New Year (Nowruz) on the weekend, at the time of the Spring Equinox. They brought us a traditional decoration of a plate of sprouted greens, along with delicious candies and a bottle of rose water. In the weeks leading to the celebration, it's customary to do a "house shaking" - a thorough cleaning of all corners of the home. 

For Christmas, one of our granddaughters asked for bits and pieces of fabric, lace, and ribbon - "not big pieces, just small ones", she said - along with peg dolls. I had so much fun going through my stash to present a box of materials to give to her. Now during Spring Break, she created a Castle of Love and a set of characters to live there - King, Queen, Princess, and the Queen's twin sisters. Boxes, toilet paper and kitchen paper rolls, tissue paper, and a lot of imagination went into this creation. My daughter sent me the photos. 

Yesterday afternoon I was just about ready to pull on my wellies and do some gardening when the heavens opened and a very cold rain doused my enthusiasm. Later, I wandered around looking at the emerging plants and making all kinds of plans in my head. I stopped to admire these primroses, so perky in spite of the rain. 

Today I'll be baking a cake for a birthday later in the week, and doing a little shopping. Two grandchildren will be coming over for the next two days - although it's Spring Break for them, their parents need to work. I'm so looking forward to some concentrated time with them, something I haven't had since summer. I am weary of this pandemic and will be so very glad when we can gather together indoors as an extended family.

A Sunday in March

In the late afternoon light of a sunny day in March there is a bit of warmth to enjoy, particularly if the wind stays away. The potted daffodils on my outside table are fully in bloom, and the hyacinths are just opening. 

I just didn't want to stay indoors on this mostly sunny day, so after some texting and some face to face chatting after church, three-quarters of our family (the other quarter lives on the mainland) made a quick plan to have lunch together and go for a hike to Witty's Lagoon. 

It's not a long trail, but it heads down alongside a stream, then beside a waterfall, down some more, and levels out to follow a meandering shoreline that indents deeply in places. We cross plenty of squishy muddy spots, some with boards laid across, others without. In a couple of places bridges of various sizes span creeks. We wind in and out of the forest that smells so fresh, and notice the tiny green leaves sprouting everywhere. The children race ahead, then stop to examine something fascinating and we pass them, then they run to catch up and pass us again. 

Once through the trees, the forest opens onto a short walk across the foreshore with its tall brown grasses and a few deciduous trees, to arrive at the sandy beach where the sea beckons the grandchildren to play. Sticks of all sizes and shapes are scattered for the picking, good for prodding, digging, and trailing through the water. Miraculously, no one got wet.

In spite of the sunshine, the air was chilly enough that we were all glad for jackets, mittens, and hats.

While the children played, the adults stood around and chatted. Driftwood lies all along every beach on our shores, tossed up by the storms from the Pacific. I find it endlessly fascinating. Carved by time and water, driftwood comes in a myriad of sizes and shapes. 

Back into the forest for our return trip. Native arbutus trees stretch over the water to create a shadowed canopy.

Sitting Lady Waterfall is best seen from a distance, across the lagoon. Now in the spring there is plenty of water, but that trickles to very little in the dry summer. 

European settlers once farmed in the area, but the only remaining evidence of that are the old fruit trees that bloom beautifully in the spring, and rotting fence posts. The earliest farm, Bilston Farm, established in 1851, was left to grow wild for some time before being purchased and converted into a modern farm where lavender thrives.

And so we head back through the forest, up alongside the waterfall, and arrive at the parking lot. The drive home is a mellow one, and our minds and bodies are glad for the fresh air and exercise.

Now it's evening. Did you enjoy the longer lighter evening? I did. Roast chicken for dinner, and now a quiet evening of reading, and getting this blog post finished. How was your first Sunday of Daylight Savings Time? Or does your area not change time?

Five on Friday (or Saturday)

My goodness, have we had rain! The weather people have aptly called it an "atmospheric river." There have been occasional breaks in the river of rain during which I put on my boots and take a walk. 

This morning, Saturday, the wind blew the clouds away and the bluest of skies is brightening the day and my own heart. Along one of my walking routes, a naturalized lawn is filled with pale crocuses. Snowdrops bloom in clumps in many gardens. Spikes of daffodils, bluebells, tulips, and hyacinths jut upwards through the soggy ground: hopes of beauty to come. 

Last night I finished reading Isabel Tree's book "Wilding - the return of nature to a British farm." It left me with much to think about. What stands out to me is the amazing resiliency of nature and how quickly the agricultural landscape was converted. 

Ferns and moss are some of my favourite plants. I love the curl of ferns and the softness of moss when I brush it with my hand. In my garden a fern has begun, unbidden and most welcome. I've tried to move it to another site, without success. So I'll leave it where it wants to grow and plan my plantings around it. 

On the porch a pot of primroses cheer me up when I come and go. I finished writing report cards this week, and began a new semester. It's a wee bit lighter than last, and I'm off earlier each day. 

Rock flowers grow in the front garden. We saw them at a friend's house and Tim made each of our children and ourselves a set for Christmas. They add a bit of whimsy to the garden. 

Inside the house we've done some moving of furniture and rearranging. I love the more open dining room, and it will make it easier when we extend the table to its full length, which we do more often these days. It's so lovely when so many people I love are seated there. My mom made me the table runner for Christmas. It perfectly matches the blue vase, and the upholstery on the chairs, not visible here. Plants inside the house make me happy, although I'm not the best at caring for them. This fern has lasted quite awhile and it seems happy in its new location. I see that my Christmas cactus has quite a few buds on it, so perhaps it will bloom for Valentine's Day. 

I have a number of sewing projects on the go, and planned to finish at least one per month this year. Alas, it's the first of February and I missed January's goal. However, that's what I'm going to do next - finish a skirt that has been languishing for several months. I think I'll count it as a January project and work on another for February. 

The sun is slanting so gloriously through the living room window. This long post must end and I must move on. Best of the weekend to you, whether it's sunny or snowy or rainy. 

Paying Attention

Mary Oliver begins her poem "The Summer Day" with 
"Who made the world? 
Who made the swan, and the black bear? 
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean..." 

Notice how her focus changes from broad to narrow? On our boating trip to Princess Louisa (see previous post), I was, at first, a little put out about the smoke that hampered our views of this magnificent place. I could have groused and grouched about it. 

I gave myself a mental shake and decided to focus, as Oliver did, on the specifics. All of these photos were taken within view of the top photo, a wider view of Chatterbox Falls.

How delicate are the white blossoms, less than 1/2 inch long, that bloomed in the grass. I don't know their name, and they don't care about that. 

The curving symmetry of an unfurling fan. I stared at it for some time, and now, when I study the photo, I remember crouching down on the soft moss at the edge of a clearing, listening to the silence.

Green fans and white stars in the woods. Oliver goes on, in her poem to say, 
"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed..."

I think that paying attention is a form of prayer, in which I acknowledge the Creator's attention to detail and His care in forming these hidden delights. 

The colours were mostly shades of green and brown, but the occasional colourful flower popped like a staccato note in music. 

Tangles of moss dripped from trees in this damp, lush setting.

Isn't this fungus amazing? 
Oliver concludes her poem with these words,
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do 
with your one wild and precious life?"

Her question is one I ask myself from time to time. Am I paying attention? - not only to nature, but to people and to myself. Life is short, but it's an amazing gift. Too short to waste.

Transience

How to swallow a starfish? I wish we'd hung around to see how the seagull accomplished the feat, or if he gave up after awhile. I can't help but feel sorry for the starfish. 

Inspiration is low here this evening. Mother's Day was a bit of a mixed bag. I'm so thankful for my family and was happy to see or talk with all of my children, and my own dear mother and mother-in-law.

On Saturday morning, however, a friend left this life for heaven, at far too young an age, because of ovarian cancer. I've been reminded, again, of how fleeting this life is, and how important it is to live the gift of life to the full. My friend Sue certainly did. 

In English classes recently, I've been exposing my students to a bit of poetry. Today we studied Mary Oliver's "The Summer Day" which ends with the question "What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" Alas, it seems that few young teens appreciate poetry, and I was left feeling a little blank. Perhaps, though, in years to come, a few of them will develop an appreciation for the distillation of thought that is poetry. One can only hope. I've asked the students to bring in lyrics to a favourite song and hope that they will be able to see them in a new light, as poetry. 

Do you enjoy poetry? Have you a favourite poet or poem? 

   

At the Intersection of Nature and Industry

We humans have not done very well at taking care of our earth. I'm glad that we're more conscious of the effects of our industry and living habits, but we have such a long ways to go.

I'm always encouraged by creation's resilience, and how, left alone, will slowly and inexorably reclaim mankind's harsh bootprints. You have only to let a garden go for a year or two - for blackberries and weeds will encroach - to see this effect.

Tod Inlet is such a place. Once a busy industrial port that shipped Portland cement all over the world, it's now a peaceful, quiet parkland. Remnants of the past remain, and will be evident for a long time, but in less than one hundred years their mark is already fading. 

This photo, from the Butchart Garden archives, shows the area as it once was. The two tall chimney stacks, the wharf, houses for workers, and other buildings are mostly gone now. We enter Tod Inlet, by boat, from the top right of the photo and anchor on the left, out of view. It's quiet and protected, a beautiful and peaceful place.

The long cleared space in the middle of the photo is now the entrance road to the Gardens, and just to the top left of that space is where the Sunken Garden would be. 

This one chimney is left, visible from the gardens themselves, and from the Inlet. There are a few foundations of old homes still evident. There is an archaeological project going on at Tod Inlet these days, uncovering more evidence of the lives once lived there. 

These cement pilings remain, and I love to photograph them from all angles, from shore and from the water. When we anchor in Tod Inlet, I like to take the little dinghy out for a row and poke around along the shore, seeing what I can see.

When we were there a few weeks ago, I paddled fairly close to get this photo. The pilings are homes for mussels and perches for purple martin homes. 

 The narrow road that leads to the Inlet is now a walking path, frequented by many in search of Nature's peace. Canada Geese paddle by, ducks land with feet braced, moon jellyfish proliferate, and blue herons stalk the mud flats near the mouths of the two small streams that enter the inlet. Humans shape and use the earth for benefit, yet, when we leave, Nature has her way.

Paying Attention

"Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it."

These words from a poem by Mary Oliver came to mind as I looked at some of my recent photos. Tiny succulents sprawl on rocks. Ferns spring up from mossy soil, so happy now that the rains have come.

It is true that life is a mixed drink of joy and anguish. Paying attention to the beauty of God's creation is one way I fortify myself against some of the anguish. It doesn't change the pain, but it changes me as I come to grips with the tiny part I play in life on this earth. 

Here's paying attention of another kind - attention to detail. I'm pleased with the way my jacket turned out - it fits well, it's comfortable, and it's stylish. It's not perfect. 

As I pack up my school bag and head out the door, I wish you all a day that has moments of astonishment. Pay attention. Tell about it. I'd love to hear.

A Tea Cup Full of Autumn

If only I could distill autumn days like this - the arching blue sky, the sun's warmth on my back, the softening colours in the landscape - if only.

I'd bottle it up and seal it tightly, an elixir to be brought out on the darker, wetter days to come.
 

Instead, like a magpie, I collect a piece of arbutus bark, a few leaves, a soft feather, hawthorn berries (now that I know what they are), some acorns and pinecones and tumble them into a tea cup - a still life to enjoy now and later.

Are there collections from nature in your home? I like a bit in each room - a plant, a glass dish of shells, a vase of stones. What do you do with yours?

Listening to Nature

Yesterday afternoon, thunder rumbled a warning, "Hurry."

So I did. But I still arrived home from my walk drenched and in need of a change of clothing.
 

This morning, the clouds whispered, "Soon."

So I went into the garden and picked two bowls of tomatoes, 8 squash (butternut and delicata), a huge basket of basil, a few carrots, and a cup or so of raspberries. I tore vines from the ground to place in the compost bin, closed one side of the tomato house, and ate a few small blueberries.
 

"It's coming," drowsed the bees sleeping soundly in the dahlia. 
  

So I clipped a bouquet of cosmos, 

and one of dahlias. Ready or not, Autumn is coming soon. Are you ready?