Garden Time

Do you find that the days tend to blend together with little to differentiate one from the other? In spite of the fact that I am teaching from home and thus "working" five days per week, the days run into each other like boxes on the calendar. On Sundays we tune in to online church, but other than that, every day seems much like the one before. 

Time feels suspended as we wait for the end of this isolation and distancing, yet in real time life continues on as it always does. In my garden I can see the season unfold; first the snowdrops, then the muscari and daffodils, then hyacinths, and now tulips. Many of my bulbs were snatched by squirrels, I think, but the ones that survived stand with pride in the sun-filled days we are enjoying. 

Many years ago a friend gave me this book Time Began in a Garden. Emilie Barnes writes, "Garden time is time that involves itself in the moment, that passes each moment fully alive, that focuses on the soaring stateliness of trees and the minute scale of the tiniest blossom and insect. Garden time requires daily attention, but does not require that everything be done in a day."

In my garden, or walking outdoors, I rediscover that kind of time. A fat peony promises the soon revelation of ruffled flowers and sweet scent.

Bees were busy about the rosemary bush this morning. I watched a dotted red ladybug clambering about in the grass. Snap peas are up and I thinned the radishes. Strawberry plants are in bloom and we'll enjoy a good supply of berries if the slugs don't get them first. Our apple trees are just beginning to blossom. Life is bursting out. 

 Do you watch the Great British Bake Off? In Canada there is a spin-off - the Great Canadian Baking Show. It's very similar, with a baking tent, 10 contestants, judges, technical bakes and showstoppers. It's so lovely. Each baker does their best, but it's not cutthroat the way so many shows tend to be. Indeed, bakers help each other and cheer each other on. I've been re-watching the shows and was inspired to try one of the technical challenges - a Battenberg Cake. It was a fair bit of work, but enjoyable (except for spreading the jam on those cake pieces) and resulted in a not-bad cake. Not Star Baker quality, but delicious. A couple of hours puttering in the kitchen was a lovely reprieve from real life. Kitchen time is very similar to Garden time. 

In one garden bed, violets spread themselves green and purple under the roses. They are so pretty, and for now, they have remained in one spot, so I'll let them be. Their little faces are so pretty and I think them the dearest things. 

How are you feeling about time these days? Too much, too little? Does garden time seem like a good thing to you? Stay well, my friends.

Rambling Thoughts on the Second Day after Christmas

A thin layer of ice lies along the far shore of Tod Inlet. Dull skies cast a monotone light over everything. Bits of snow remain in the woods and the path is icy with compact snow. Our boots crunch.

Early morning on Boxing Day (December 26). I awake around 8 am and my mind feels curiously blank. No mental list of tasks to accomplish. Nothing on the schedule. My head feels physically lighter, somehow, as if there is room inside my skull, and my brain can rattle around freely. 

The woods are infinite shades of green and brown. Tangles of moss creep along branches.

No lessons to plan. No student management issues to think about. No marking to do. (I worked very hard the last week before Christmas to get all the papers marked and back to students.)

Abandoned dock pilings, each with their scarf of emerald and cap of white, stand stoic in the cold. A family of placid ducks swims in and around the pilings. 

No meals to plan - there are plenty of leftovers in the fridge. In the morning I drank my tea and visited with our daughter and son-in-law (who foraged for their own breakfasts). I did make my bed. 

In a clearing, one small tree holds a few ornaments, placed there by an unnamed someone who likes to delight the passersby. A silver angel blows his horn announcing the good news of Christmas to all. 

We dropped off our daughter and son-in-law at his parents' place around noon, then stopped for a walk along Tod Inlet. 

The woods are quiet. Not silent. Quiet with soft plops of snow, delicate rustles of birds, and one loud crack of twigs that startle me.

I realize that it's been too long since I didn't have something demanding my attention. One of my classes has been extremely challenging to teach this semester. I look forward to the switch over, and new classes at the end of January. 

My camera doesn't want to focus on this single rose hip. Tim puts his gloved hand behind it, focus happens, he moves his hand and I snap the photo. Teamwork. 

We return home and I continue to do nothing. I read a little, write a blog post, drink tea, nibble on cookies. Not much conversation.

Moss against snow. How lovely it all is growing greenly. The world is awash with beauty. 

Today is Wednesday. Tim is back at work. There's still nothing in my brain. It feels delightful. I have a hankering for beef stew, so I'll go for a walk to the grocery store. There's a library book to return, too. That will make the walk a little longer. That's okay. I have time. 

Increments of Time

Early last week, wild wind and rain splattered hard against cars and houses, whipping leaves off trees and flinging them against windows and windshields.  

Calm arrived a couple of mornings later, along with frost that soon melted. I captured the above photo from a bedroom window that looks towards the Olympic Mountains, seen here in hazy blue. 

The wind tore branches from trees in the neighbourhood and during a couple of evening walks, I picked up a few to fill the plant pots on the porch. I was happy to see, in the daylight, that several branches included pine cones. I'll add some cedar and holly to gussy the pots up for Christmas. 

Intense color streaked this afternoon's sky as we began our walk around the bog. 

During the summer the bog drains dry. I don't know where the ducks go, but once the rains begin and the water rises, the wildlife returns. Although the light faded quickly, I captured a few placid ducks paddling quietly.

Wind. Rain. Calm. Weather, like life, is changeable.  

Christmas preparations are beginning slowly around here. I'm becoming more efficient in using bits of time to accomplish small tasks. And I'm discovering once again that a little bit done in small increments can add up to accomplishing what I'd like to see done.

As my American friends prepare for Thanksgiving this week, I wish you all a wonderful celebration with loved ones and family. 

Where Time Stands Still

Imagine a small island in a very big sea. Rocky cliffs on the south are carved by waves beating against the shore. Gnarled trees stand as witness to the prevailing winds.

A different world exists on the northern exposure. Sheltered by a larger island a mere canoe ride away, the land slopes into gentle bays where shellfish cling to rocks. Ducks and gulls paddle and dive for food. 
 

 Just steps from the water, a family once lived in a white wooden house with green shutters, and planted an apple orchard and a large strawberry garden. Years passed. The family drifted off the island and the land became a park.

The house drowses now in the sunshine, shut up tightly against the winter rains, waiting to open in summer when descendants of the original owners come to stay and provide information for boaters who stop by.

I stand in the long green grass and listen to hundreds of bees in the blossoms, busy about their work, unmindful of time and its effects. I think of all the bees that have buzzed over millenia and of the women who have stood, listening, while the warmth of the spring sun caresses hair and head. We hold that in common, those women and I: the desire to be in the moment, to take note of the change of seasons, of the aching beauty of our planet that is so often at odds with the horrors mankind inflicts upon it and upon each other.

A chorus line of daisies smiles up at me from the grass, innocent and cheerful regardless of any acknowledgement or scorn.
 

Grape hyacinths stand tall under an apple tree. Who planted them, I wonder? Did a child collect short stems in chubby hands and bring them as a gift to her mother?

 
Clumps of bluebells sway gently. In the cold morning a sleeping bee loses his grip and falls off his perch. He'll sleep until the sun's warmth awakens him and then he'll be about his work.

Flowering red currant is a spring time sight, beautiful bits of color among the forest's greens. We talk, we laugh, we explore. The past is very present. Time is suspended as we wander in wonder.



Russell Island is equally as beautiful in the spring as it is in the fall, featured here.

How to Fill a Day

This is a rather longer post - a reflection on a day spent away from normal life.

We awake to the sound of water gently slapping the hull. Another boater is passing by, up earlier than we are. Sunlight glares from the window above us since we left the curtain partially open to watch the night stars as we fell asleep.

morning in Annette Inlet

 In the morning the day stretches ahead of us, long, lovely hours. How we will fill them? There's no list of things to do, no errands to run, no schedule to keep. Will we be bored by day's end?

I stretch, dress, and make my way to the cockpit where open sides let me lean over the boat edge. I stare into the water below. It's a moving highway of life. As the tide ebbs, bits and pieces from our snug inlet anchorage drift out into the channel. Tiny translucent moon jellyfish, scarcely an inch in diameter, contract and push to get wherever they need to go. Suspended filaments twist gracefully in the current. What are they? I toy with taking a course or two in marine biology.

Shadows in the water - see how the dead head and its shadow form an arrow? Perhaps it points to secret treasure.

In the compact galley I prepare breakfast - bacon, pancakes, and fresh pineapple. A pot of tea. Maple syrup and butter. We eat in the cockpit with the fresh air blowing across our small table. We talk of this and that and nothing much, the desultory talk of two people long accustomed to breakfasting together. 

I heat water to wash dishes. He dries. "What shall we do?" one or the other says. I decide to go out in the dinghy, exploring. He chooses to stay on the boat and putter. Man plus boat equals intense puttering.

Life above and below the water

Life vest on, I clamber into the dinghy and begin to row away from the boat. He waves. 

Last night when we arrived, the tide was very low, exposing large rocks. The tide is high now, barely ebbing and the rocks are mostly covered. I row over to check them out. Balancing the oars on the dinghy sides, I drift along the barnacled and shell-encrusted rocks. Crabs scurry to safety when my shadow covers them. Schools of tiny fish dart in unison. Long ribbons of kelp and sea lettuce wave gracefully. 

Continuing along the shoreline I startle half a dozen robins from their low hanging branch. They fly off in a hurry and alight not too far away. Deadfalls lean into the water, creating shadows where larger fish hide. If I am still I see them there, waiting. 

After an hour of paddling and watching, I return to the boat. I see that Tim has hung the Canadian flag and it flaps brightly in the wind.

Solitude anchored in James Bay off Prevost Island

We decide to weigh anchor and find a hiking trail. On the same island is a small park. We anchor the boat again, take the dinghy ashore and begin hiking to Peile Point. Our guidebook warns that this is a sheep trail and so we find it. Sheep appear to be more agile than we are, clambering up and down steep rocky inclines. We know that it's a sheep trail for they've left clumps of creamy, soft wool behind. Trail markers, perhaps?

Tim sitting on the rocks below the lighthouse at Peile Point

Hot and sweaty we arrive at the lighthouse point. We sit on the rocks eating apples, nuts and dried fruit and wishing we'd brought our lunch. A seal swims by just to take a look. Reassured, he soon returns to his rocky sunbathing some distance off. A bald eagle soars overhead and alights in a tall tree. White sails dot the ocean. A tidal pool holds a small reddish purple crab, several tiny fish, barnacles and pebbles. On the water-covered rocks below we see starfish, purple and orange, and rows of purple mussels.

Peile Point lighthouse from the water

We return to the boat. Three hours have passed. We're hungry and break out the salami, cheese, bread and crudités. We decide to go to Montague Harbour for the night. Half an hour to cross Trincomali Channel, another half hour to decide where to anchor. I read a book. He reads a magazine. Often the reading material falls to our laps as we gaze out at the world around us. He takes a nap, then decides to go exploring in the dinghy. I stay aboard to finish my book.

Light filtering through spring green maple leaves

We cook dinner late. He grills a marinated pork tenderloin on the barbecue mounted on the back rail of the boat. I cook asparagus and re-heat some vegetables I'd roasted at home. Coleslaw with a peanut dressing. Red wine. Before the sun sinks away we take the dinghy ashore and walk up the road for 20 minutes or so. Once aboard again I make two mugs of hot chocolate. He eats a couple of cookies and I have a square (or two) of dark chocolate. We talk and watch the light fade. We see the glow from other anchored boats - a neighbourly sight although we know no one. 

Just after 10 pm we crawl into bed. The waves have died down and the boat is still, barely turning on her anchor as we fall asleep. Just one day left.

As the light fades - Annette Inlet

 
 How will we fill the hours that stretch ahead?

Let Summer Linger

 Each summer is different, but this one particularly so. There's been a sense of waiting, of longing for resolution, of putting in the days like dull beads on a string. It's not been a gloomy summer, but one fraught with small dramas that make up extended family life. Those dramas can wear away at the soul, rubbing the shine off bright mornings and lingering light-filled evenings.
 

Last night I wandered through my garden and noticed the hydrangea continues to produce new blooms. Summer is not over yet and there are shining days ahead in which to feel the sun wrapping me in warmth, flowers in which to bury my nose, and walks along the water where the light glints in brilliant shards. 
 

The roses bloom again, smaller than in that first heady rush of June flowering, but sweetly scented still and lovely in the twilight that falls sooner than it did. There are blackberries to pick, dark condensations of honeyed sweetness, ripe red tomatoes to eat warm from the vine, and oval plums to let fall into a basket like purple jewels. I'm planning to let summer linger long. 

Enjoying Late Winter

The wind rose around 4 am this morning with a gust that rattled the window and clanked the blinds. I got up to close the window (we always sleep with the window open at least a crack). After crawling back into my warm bed, I didn't go back to sleep right away, but listened to the gathering storm. Soon, rain hurled against the window, sounding like pebbles thrown in a fit of temper. 

The official start of spring is still more than three weeks away. Yet so many of us are impatient for sunny days, for an end to winter. Winter's lingering presence can create impatience which wears on a person until one feels ragged, much like those cattails in the photo. 

It occurred to me in the night that wishing away these late winter days denies the value of time, of the gift of each day. Rather than merely putting in the time until spring, I have decided to embrace, as well as I can, the last of winter. Here are some things I wrote down this morning: 

* Observe the slow tilt of the earth leaning towards the sun and revel in the fact that each 24-hour cycle adds a sliver of light to the lengthening days.
* Choose a couple of good novels for evening reading.
* Add fresh flavour to soups and stews with lots of fresh herbs, chopped and sprinkled on top. Garden shops are selling pots of herbs - set them on a windowsill and clip away.
* Open the windows (or a window) for a few minutes each day to let the clean, crisp air blow away mental cobwebs.
* Wear something bright. My winter wardrobe is mostly grey, black and cream. A soft, or bright, pink scarf makes me feel just a little bit perkier.
* Rearrange something, tidy a closet, or organize drawers.
* Make certain to use the frozen fruit and vegetables in my deep freeze. Blackberry cobbler, blueberry smoothies, rhubarb compote on pancakes - now is the time to enjoy the work of last summer.
* Go outdoors even in inclement weather. Bundle up well, turn my face into the wind and pretend I'm a Bronte character striding the moors. Then come in and enjoy a hot cup of tea or chocolate.
* Start a new project, or finish an old one. Both bring satisfaction.
* Indulge in fistfuls of tulips and daffodils purchased from the market.

What are you doing to add pleasure to late winter days? I'd love to know.