Bay of Fundy whale sighting

Centuries ago, the Mi'kmaq believed the high tides of the Bay of Fundy were created by Whale. After Glooscap commanded Beaver to dam the bay so he could take a bath, he realized he had stolen water from Whale. Wishing to set things right, he asked Beaver to remove the dam, but it was Whale who broke the barrier with the mighty force of his great, powerful tail, causing a giant tide to begin sloshing back and forth in the bay.

It seems the Mi'kmaq knew, even then, what we know now - that the Bay of Fundy is a favoured marine environment for a number of species of whale. They mainly congregate in the Grand Manan area, south of here, where the bay widens into the Gulf of Maine. But this past weekend, a pod of 12-15 Atlantic pilot whales surprised a tour of kayakers with Baymount Outdoor Adventures, at the Hopewell Rocks. In the 13 year history of the company, this was the first such occurrence. One of the guides on the tour sent the link to this video, shot by one of the clients.



Traditionally, we've had very few reports of whales following schools of fish this far up the bay, as at low tide, the water is quite shallow. Just south of the Hopewell Rocks, the bay splits into two tidal rivers, so in this area, fresh water mingles with salt. (see map)

In the 1930's, before a causeway at Moncton blocked the river, about 20 pilot whales were stranded, most perishing, on the mudflats at low tide near Salisbury. Porpoises are common here, and a school of dolphins were also stranded on the mudflats a few years ago, but in the past few years, the odd whale has found its way further inland.

These tourists and guides were very fortunate to have played with this pod.

What if sorrow makes room for joy?

I'm struggling. I feel heavy, lumbering, awkward. When I try to write smaller...when I try to tame the bramble of my own thoughts...to narrow and sort through the tangle of emotion that drifts through my quiet times, I feel I'm just plucking at shadows.

It's a struggle to even write this blog. My handwritten journal these days is wooden, grasping, repetitious.

Absently, I find myself listing loved ones and friends lost in recent days and years, recording their names carefully and reverently on my journal page. Then I continue with those who are slowly fading from view, somewhat surprised by the length of my list...and ashamed how the dead and dying become lost or forgotten in the midst of our life and living.


No wonder I feel empty. As though I, too, am reshaping, transitioning.

I'm being taught.

I wonder...if you can meet life without understanding death, can you then meet death without understanding life?

"It never occurred to me that feeling empty might actually be the route to something deeper and richer within."
Tony Schwartz


"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain." Kahlil Gibran

Shadow and Light

Spring’s initial burst of bloom has faded now, the confetti paths of apple blossoms and bilberry petals are past, blown free for another season, lilacs hang limp, wilting in the sun, the chokecherry and pincherry blooms are spent; the tiny ovaries that remain ripening to fruit.


The forest floor is a matted, rumpled carpet of violets, Canada mayflower, pure white starflower, butter-colored bunchberry.


Sasparilla turns from burnished burgundy to green, tangles of fiddleheads long ago unfurled to feathery plumes and new spires of cattails have eclipsed the old. The landscape is settling into summer.
This glorious season has passed so quickly, the transition lost in our own family losses – one tiny grandchild, taken before he had a chance to sigh and breathe; the other, my regal mom-in-law, at the completion of a courageous life, well-lived and loved.


After a time in the flat lands and straight lines of Manitoba, where we flew to comfort my stepdaughter in her tears, then back to NB to attend my mother-in-law's funeral, it was comforting to come home to the hills again...where you cannot always see what lies ahead.


We hiked a coastal trail in Fundy National Park on the weekend…we needed the respite, to grieve for our own losses and to dip our fractured hearts in the serenity of a living forest. We needed the slow, quiet, meditative meandering on curving pathways, sheltered by stately trees that have also seen their share of death and loss and change, yet grow richer and stronger for it.

For we know the dying is a necessary part of the living, as shadow is a necessary part of light. So we surround ourselves with that which brings us peace and we accept change and pain with assurance that all revolves, like the seasons; that death holds hands with life and pain hollows out room for joy.
And tears, like summer, will always come.

A spring visit to the coast

Cape Jourimain marks the point where the graceful curve of the Confederation Bridge leaves New Brunswick shores to cross Northumberland Strait to Prince Edward Island. The bridge, at 12.9 km, is the longest bridge over ice-covered water in the world and it replaced the ferry crossing that was as much a part of my childhood PEI vacations as Anne of Green Gables, all-you-can-eat-lobster and wading ankle-deep through mud, toes searching for quahogs.

Winter travellers of long ago crossed the 18km strait in small "iceboats" that were dragged, sailed and paddled. Those with money could remain in the boats, while those without, paid their way by helping manoeuver the boats through ice and water. I wonder what they might say now, to see this great span of a bridge that brings such convenience and speed.


Before crossing to PEI, the Cape Jourimain Nature Centre asks us to pause a while to enjoy New Brunswick. Located within a protected National Wildlife Area of 675 hectares, it was designated for conservation because of the diversity of migratory waterfowl and shorebirds using area's marshes and shores. The Jourimain area, sitting at the edge of flat, scenic farmland, has a network of beautiful walking trails and observation points.

It's popular for viewing gannets, great blue herons, willets, and osprey. Even an odd mammal or two...or three...may be spotted...

This shaggy moose is part of a trio created several years ago along the shore by local artist, Peter Manchester. These quirky driftwood creatures have survived several rough winters, and while their coats were a little shabby when we visited last spring, they were still upright and sturdy.

Apropos, indeed, as our own mighty moose have withstood their share of nasty winters lately and no doubt moved into spring with a rib or two showing as well.

What is holding you back?

Today, I allow myself to let nothing get in the way of expressing my creativity.

Today, I allow myself to trust in my own light, my own purpose, my own heart.

Today, I allow myself to lean on others when I need their support.

Today, I acknowledge that deep and graceful beauty emerges from loss, but only if we work through our struggles, lift them up and allow them to create a new shape in us...if we allow them to create in us, a new hope.



What is holding you back, today?

On Golden Pond

I’ve fallen to a habit of walking to the duck pond as dusk approaches. As I make my way there, the forest is hushed, pausing to breathe perhaps, after a busy day gathering, nesting, growing. The crackle of leftover leaves and branches underfoot are the only sounds, save the distant chatter of a pair of crows.

But as I near the pond, the silence floats upwards and disappears. The ducks – blacks, mallards, shovelers - have gathered for a community feast. They are gabbing, grabbing, dipping, diving, fluttering, flying, preening and paddling.

The cacophony of babble builds. Hidden in last year’s dry reeds at shore’s edge, the frogs raise their voices, as if determined to be heard. The pond vibrates with sound and colour and energy. On the periphery, a few vigilant geese float, watching the flocks. They take their guardianship seriously, immediately notifying the group of my presence. They seem to be watching out for others, not just their own.

As the sun sets, the water shifts and glows, rippling with orange, pink and blue. Birches, cast in gold, line the bank. On cue, the chatter quiets, as if in awe of heaven’s beauty. A watery kiss and feathery forms float away, 'Vs' trailing behind. The water smooths and softens, like tie-died silk.

For a moment, I am Pisces, as real as the gurgles and cackles and croaks, as elemental as the mud and reeds and setting sun.


For a moment, I can walk on it.

For a moment, I am floating.

And then, for the barest of whispers, I am water…smooth and fluid, cool, vital...


...resourceful, inquisitive, reflective, essential, supportive.

This is why I walk here as dusk settles its weightlessness on me.

The Firsts of April

First Buds: The Pussywillow


First Flower: Coltsfoot


First Road Trip: to the new Kent Hills Windfarm...whishhhh, whishhhh....


First 28°C day: April 28 - oh joy!

First Coast Crawl: the Fundy Coast


First Rain: heard through an open window

Without the 6 feet of gathered snow this winter, would spring bring such bliss and utter joy as this?