What if?

It's Moving Day....

2011-03-04T21:34:00.001-04:00

It's been a busy few weeks, but while my blog has been silent and gathering dust, I haven't been idle. I've been creating a new one with Wordpress. I hope you like it...and I hope you will follow me over to http:///www.natureofwords.com.

Who Inspires You?

2011-02-18T11:10:00.002-04:00

Atlantic Canada's BloomingWriter, Jodi Delong, published a wonderful review of my book, Sanctuary: The Story of Naturalist Mary Majka, on her blog this morning. (Thank you, Jodi!)

It's difficult to express the joy (and fear) of throwing your carefully crafted words out there in the public domain, then hearing how they touched a chord for those who read them. I've been very moved by the response to Sanctuary so far - by the emails and letters from people who were deeply inspired by the story of Mary's life.

And, this morning, I've particularly loved reading how those who are commenting on Jodi's blog have reached back into their memories to share the stories of the people who inspire them. It brings to the light how each one of us might elevate others to their own greatness without even realizing it.

It brings to mind a quote from the book made by a man who was encouraged by Mary when he was a teen. He went on to craft a life-long career as a naturalist and talks about one particular job banding birds on Grand Manan Island:

“During that ten-year period, I worked with about twenty-five hundred children. I always made sure everyone had a chance to see and touch the birds. I think I imagined myself as Mary Majka. I wanted to pass on the love of nature that she encouraged in me. It may not take root in all of them, but maybe one in a thousand will turn out to be exceptionally gifted. So I treat everyone the same and hope her influence will spread far and wide. Like ripples.”

So, hop right on over to Jodi's BloomingWriter blog to leave a comment about who inspires you and perhaps you'll win a copy of Sanctuary!

Today and everyday...share the love

2011-02-14T10:17:00.001-04:00

"Love is never lost.
If not reciprocated,
it will flow back and soften and
purify the heart."

Washington Irving

How is it with your Soul?

2011-02-02T19:00:00.005-04:00

"The soul is like a wild animal - tough, resilient, savvy, self-sufficient. It knows how to survive in hard places. But it is also shy. Just like a wild animal, it seeks safety in the dense underbrush. If we want to see a wild animal, we know that the last thing we should do is go crashing through the woods yelling for it to come out. But if we will walk quietly into the woods, sit patiently by the base of the tree, and fade into our surroundings, the wild animal we seek might just put in an appearance."
Parker J. Palmer, A Hidden Wholeness

Once the echoes of Christmas faded, I made a commitment to my soul. I promised to set aside the first hours of my day...every morning for 40 days. During that time, I would wait patiently, listening for its voice. It's been 28 days now and I am just learning to quiet my mind, relax in the silence and listen. I'm getting comfortable with myself. And waiting.

Two weeks ago, we noticed deer tracks along our snowshoe trail. "That's the big buck traveling alone," noted my husband. He had seen the tracks periodically over the past two years...tracks noteworthy for their size. We'd never glimpsed him though. He was elusive and shy. We found the oval pocket, where he slept, just beyond the treeline. He was lingering just out of sight.

As the snow deepened, we worried. We tramped our trail well, so he would have a solid path to travel. We put out feed to supplement his meagre diet of saplings. We cut partially fallen trees, so he could access the lichen on the upper branches.

Sometimes, on our return trek home, we found where he had been on the trail, just after our passing. Like he waited for us to disappear. He was crafty, that one. Then last Saturday, I caught a quick glimpse. Just a rump and a tail, disappearing. We set up feeding stations. He found them.

I knew if we tended to him carefully, gave him sanctuary, took care of his needs, he would honour us with his presence. Today, my wild animal made an appearance.

It was worth the wait.

How is it with your soul?

What do you really want?

2011-01-21T21:46:00.007-04:00

It was just before Christmas when Diane posted the question on her Facebook page.

"What do you want this year?"

I knew she didn't mean a new lens for my camera or my favourite indulgence soap...

or even some sweet, small trinket.

Diane thinks deeper than that. The question gave me pause.

What did I want? The truth was, I didn't know. And if I didn't know, who did?

After Christmas, I settled in to read my new book, Sacred Rhythms. It's about spiritual transformation. About listening and seeking. Solitude and questioning. The first chapter asked me to name my truest desire. "How bad do you want it?", the author asked. There it was again.

Can I share something? I'm surrounded by people who regularly ask themselves this question; people who themselves are surrounded by vision boards pasted with pink Cadillacs, beach umbrellas, bestsellers, designer houses and Monopoly money. People who practice the power of intention or visualization. I see most of this as surface stuff....the stuff of distraction.

But, I can count on one knuckle the number of times anyone has looked me straight in the eye and asked me, "What do you really want?" What is the need below the surface?

True Desire is an elusive thing. It's not some pretty bauble-du-jour.

So, I sat with my question in the aloneness of the morning - morning after morning, actually - watching the sunlight slide from the tops of the trees, prodding beneath my answers, sifting through them, like the chickadees sorting through the seeds at the feeder. Looking for the hidden nugget of truth.

And when the answer didn't come, I walked with the question. Through new fallen snow, along snowshoe tracks, past smooth fields and bristled trees, beneath bruised and smudged skies, the question followed me like my shadow.

Oh, it is easy to say, "I want to be a successful speaker and author." But then the question arises...what must you say and where will you send your words? How do you define 'success'?

"I want to spend more time with friends and family." Really? That's a choice, not a desire.

Or "I want my health." If I gave you health, what would you do with it? Neglect it? Use it? Who would it serve?

Or "I want my grandson close by." But it's not enough, just to have him here. If he was, what difference could you make in his life? Is it for him, or is it for you?

This Desire...it's not an easy thing to name. It's the need beneath all the questions.

To be seen. To have a voice. To be understood. To live freely and feel joy. To love and be loved.
To know, really know, God.
To make some small or great difference.

Once I know this honest, true Desire, then I know in what direction I must turn my face.
Where to place my next step. It really must be the root of it all, you know.

What do you want? Truly.

Bear Play

2011-01-13T18:26:00.000-04:00

A whopping 30cm fell overnight.

What to do with all that snow...

Pleasures newly found are sweet

when they lie about our feet.

William Wordsworth

Shadow and Light...

2011-01-05T11:26:00.000-04:00

Two nights ago, I stood beneath the stars...beneath a sky both cold and blazing, empty and grandiose, mysterious and mesmerizing. Beneath a brilliance of glittering light, emblazoned on shadows as deep as the universe is vast. Beneath meteors on flaming paths that disappeared before I could be certain they even existed.

I stood, feeling every inch of cold flaming my skin, every breath chilling my lungs, feeling vividly alive, larger than life, yet infinitesimally small and insignificant. The paradox of living. Where each of us is vitally important within our own realm, yet as tiny as a mote of dust or single snowflake within God's realm.

The crystalline clarity of the night brought home what I love about winter.

Winter is a time for reflection, a signal for me to hibernate,
to sink deep within the cozy comfort of home and family.

For me to look out and see clearly to the horizons...

across fields, the curves and hummocks laid bare and white, all life sleeping underground.

Through the forest with its trees stripped of leaves, devoid of colour...

I see the bones of them, with their crooked trunks and twisted limbs, unadorned, as they truly are.

Bare shadows and light.

It is time, also for me to look inward...to see myself,
without the window dressing of my interactions with others,
or the faces I turn to the world.

To look deeply within and to examine my own hidden landscape,
the interplay of my own shadows and light and how one serves the other,
the mystery of who I am and who I might be.

The bones of my own true nature.

"Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace."

Frederick Beuchner, Now & Then: A Memoir of Vocation

Christmas morn...

2010-12-26T21:58:00.001-04:00

The decorations are hung...

on the tree with such care...

in hopes that Saint Nicholas...

soon will be there...

the snowmen are ready...

the tree is all lit...

Miss Patience sits pretty

Folks arrive...this is it!

The presents are devoured..

When it's over, this girl's beat...

Thank goodness for webcams....

Christmas now is complete!

I never claimed to be a poet...
Hoping everyone has a wonderful, quiet in-between time this week...

Season for Gifts

2010-12-24T11:48:00.004-04:00

"Make something of every gift you are given. Use it, but use it wisely and well.

Imagine, when you awake each morning, what you will make of the new day, which is the greatest of all gifts.

Listen closely when the gift is music. Return it abundantly when the gift is love.

Touch it gently when the gift is fragile. Protect it fiercely when the gift is vulnerable.

Laugh aloud when the gift is joyous. Share it, when the gift is truth.

Use it bravely, when the gift is freedom. When the gift is money, give it away.

Above all, do not pretend to understand why you have been chosen to receive these gifts.

This is the mystery of life."

(Adapted from Moral Ground: Ethical Action for a Planet in Peril, eds. Kathleen Dean Moore and Michael P. Nelson, Trinity University Press, 2010. Copyright © 2010, Kathleen Dean Moore and Michael Nelson.)

May peace and joy and encouragement be the gifts you hold in your heart throughout this season and the coming year. And may these also be the gifts you share with others as you walk this path of life.

Deborah

Sudden Sisters

2010-12-19T19:29:00.048-04:00

We didn't dance in puddles (they were frozen). But we outran the snow flurries...clambered up embankments, stepped gingerly through debris washed in by a storm, faced the wind, wallowed in mud...does all that count? And we talked. The words bubbled up between us like two antacids in a glass...so much that...

DebOne and DebToo (me) at Mary's Point

...neither of us noticed it at first...this resemblance between DebOne and DebToo. As we toured my home ground - the beaches and bluffs - it felt like we were playing catchup on 40+ years of separation. How does that happen with someone you've never met before?

I guess, though, when you find a blog that draws you back, time and time again, you can rest fairly certain that you will get along fine with the author of that blog. And certainly, I had enjoyed Deb's blog often. Her thoughtful words, astute observations, poetic phrases, stunning photos....(for Deb's photos taken this day - and the amazing sunset sundog, see her blog.)

Then, when someone asked if we were sisters, we took a closer look. Do ya' think?

But then, even before Deb arrived, I knew that we would have no problem making conversation or getting along with one another. These are things you just know.

It's that knowing that convinces me that we are all part of a previously designed story, each woven in with the other in an intricate way...and that someday, when we flip to the other side, we will see a pattern beyond our wildest dreams and imagination.

I do not wish to treat friendships daintily,

but with the roughest courage.

When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work,

but the solidest thing we know.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Everyone needs a little play time

2010-12-14T09:08:00.002-04:00

As everyone is rushing about, attending to Christmas, this spirited little elk has a lesson to teach...when the opportunity presents itself, always take time to play. I know there have been times when I wanted nothing more than to dance in the puddles...

I'm also taking time to play these days...and very excited (somewhat awed, if I can be truly honest) that fellow blogger, Deb from Talk at the Table is coming for some woman play time!

She contacted me several months ago, telling me she had ordered my book...this led to a series of back and forth emails until she learned her husband was coming to NB this month on business. She decided to come too, so we'll be spending Thursday together, touring 'Mary World', and she can see for herself the landscape upon which the book rests.

It's quite extraordinary, really...this decision of hers to hop on a plane and head down here on a whim to New Brunswick to meet some woman she doesn't even know...but then blogging has the power to build widespread connections, doesn't it? People who would otherwise never known each other connect when words cross the miles to resonate with others.

What can be more spontaneous, spirited and energizing than that?

(It's been raining here for two days...maybe we can even find some puddles begging for a dance...)

Second Wind

2010-12-07T14:53:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time, I thought the hard part about writing a book would be writing the book. I know now that this is just the beginning.

One must also be able to edit on a dime, negotiate, compromise, speak publicly, plan and write speeches, conduct interviews, sound coherent at all times of the day or night, travel, think of creative things to write at the front of books, manage time and finances, and promote, promote, promote.

This is simply not what the typical writer likes to do. We like writing because it is a quiet activity that we do in solitude.

I've been on an intensive learning curve and trying to maintain energy as I squeeze interviews, appearances, speaking engagements and book signings into my work and life schedule. It's all quite heady...While I feel energized when meeting people and attending events, I must admit the aftermath quite knocks the wind from me.

I'm used to being the interviewer. Now, I've had to adjust to being the interviewee. I know it will get easier, but right now it's nerve-wracking, hoping I can answer without rambling, stumbling or going blank. Or saying something totally stupid (as I have a tendency to do...)

I've posted links to a number of the interviews on my Facebook site, but here is one recording of a recent radio interview - with Information Morning Nova Scotia talk host, Don Connolly. It was the only one done with 87-year-old Mary and I think it will give you a sense of her.

CBC Information Morning, NS Interview

Mary and I signing books.

The warm and genuine responses from people who have already read Sanctuary have both humbled and slightly dazed me. It's as if they are speaking of someone else's creation and it seems quite impossible that it actually is mine...

Perhaps it is all just the newness of the experience, but I feel a disconnect between me and the book itself, as if I am simply the front man (woman) for the true creator.

And, truth be told, this is how I feel about my best writing...as if it is birthed elsewhere and simply flows through me, picking up bits of my voice, life experiences and emotions as it moves, like flowing water nudges bits of the shoreline into its current and carries it away. Often, I look at things I have written and wonder where the words came from.

I have to say, this has all been very foreign, and challenging. I've not had time to reflect on the whole experience, or the many ways it has changed me. But events are winding down now. I have some breathing room. Time to step back and gain perspective. Time to rest and revive my spirit. Regain some solitude. Thanks for listening.

November 17th: Catch me if you can...

2010-11-17T08:21:00.001-04:00

Hi Friends - if you are in the Maritime Provinces, catch me tonight on CTV Atlantic's Live at 5 news show. I'm headed to Halifax for the Nova Scotia launch of Sanctuary this morning and will be interviewed sometime between 5:00 and 6:00pm tonight. Later, at 7:30pm, Mary Majka and I will be at the Museum of Natural History for a presentation on Mary's life and the book, followed by Q&A and book signings. Then tomorrow, we will be interviewed on Information Morning radio for airing on Friday.

Wish me luck and clarity of thought. I hope you can tune in!

152

2010-11-11T21:54:00.002-04:00

Canadians gone too soon.

Afghanistan 2002-2010

   1. Allard, Matthieu
   2. Anderson, Jordan
   3. Arnal, James Hayward
   4. Arndt, Raymond
   5. Arnold, Glen
   6. Audet, Patrice
   7. Baker, Joshua Caleb
   8. Bartsch, Cole D.
   9. Bason, Colin
10. Beauchamp, Nicolas Raymond
11. Beerenfenger, Robbie Christopher
12. Blais, Karine
13. Blake, Craig
14. Bobbitt, Christian
15. Boneca, Anthony
16. Bouthillier, Jack
17. Bouzane, Stephen Frederick
18. Boyes, Jason
19. Boyes, Justin
20. Braun, David
21. Brown, Denis Raymond
22. Bulger, Nicholas
23. Byers, David
24. Caswell, Darryl
25. Chidley, Garrett William
26. Collier, Brian
27. Costall, Robert
28. Courcy, Sébastien
29. Couturier, Jonathan
30. Crooks, Tyler
31. Curwin, John Michael Roy
32. Cushley, William Jonathan James
33. Dallaire, Kevin
34. Davis, Paul
35. Dawe, Matthew Johnathan
36. Diab, Marc
37. Dinning, Matthew James
38. Dion, Jonathan
39. Diplaros, Demetrios
40. Downey, Brendan Anthony
41. Doyle, Erin
42. Drouin, Jean-Francois
43. Dubé, Martin
44. Duchesne, Christian
45. Dyer, Ainsworth
46. Eades, Shawn
47. Eykelenboom, Andrew James
48. Faught, John Wayne
49. Fitzpatrick, Darren James
50. Fortin, Dany Olivier
51. Francis, Jefferson Clifford
52. Freeman, Michael
53. Giesebrecht, Kristal
54. Gillam, Craig Paul
55. Girouard, Robert
56. Goddard, Nichola
57. Gomez, Francisco
58. Gonthier, Étienne
59. Good, Brian Richard
60. Goudreault, Martin
61. Graham, Mark Anthony
62. Green, Richard A.
63. Greenfield, Sean
64. Greenslade, David Robert
65. Grenon, Andrew
66. Hamilton, Thomas James
67. Hayakaze, Michael Yuki
68. Hayes, Corey
69. Horn, Chadwick
70. Hornburg, Nathan
71. Ingram, Vaughn
72. Joannette, Martin
73. Jones, Justin Peter
74. Karigiannis, Christos
75. Keating, Shane
76. Keller, Bryce
77. Kennedy, Kevin Vincent
78. Klukie, Josh
79. Klumpenhower, Anthony
80. Kruse, Greg John
81. Labbé, Éric
82. Leary, Richard Steven
83. Leger, Marc D.
84. Levesque, Michel
85. Longtin, Simon
86. Lormand, Patrick
87. Lucas, Donald
88. Macneil, James Patrick
89. Mansell, Myles
90. Massouh, Hani
91. Marshall, Steven
92. McCormack, Zachery
93. McCully, Matthew
94. McKay, Kevin
95. McLaren, Robert Mark
96. Megeney, Kevin
97. Mellish, Frank Robert
98. Mendes, Michelle
99. Mercier, Mario
100. Miller, Andrew
101. Miok, George
102. Michaud, Charles-Philippe
103. Mitchell, Robert
104. Morley, Keith
105. Murphy, Jamie
106. Nolan, Richard Francis
107. Nuttall, Andrew
108. O'Quinn, Kenneth Chad
109. Ouellet, Jérémie
110. Parker, Geoff
111. Payne, Randy
112. Péloquin, Alexandre
113. Pepin, Yannick
114. Pentland, Patrick James
115. Pinksen, Brian
116. Poland, Brent Donald
117. Priede, Darrell Jason
118. Reid, Christopher
119. Renaud, Richard
120. Roberge, Gaétan
121. Roberts, Joshua Brian
122. Ruckpaul, Raymond
123. Rudd, Larry
124. Seggie, Michael
125. Shipway, Scott
126. Short, Robert
127. Smith, Nathan
128. Snyder, Jonathan Sutherland
129. Stachnik, Shane
130. Stannix, Christopher Paul
131. Starker, Michael
132. Stewart, Allan
133. Stock, Stephan John
134. Storm, Albert
135. Street, Terry John
136. Taylor, Kirk
137. Tedford, Darcy Scott
138. Todd, Tyler William
139. Turner, William
140. Vernelli, Scott Francis
141. Walsh, Jeffrey
142. Warren, Jason Patrick
143. Wasden, Dustin Roy Robert Joseph
144. Watkins, Lane
145. Wiebe, Joel Vincent
146. Williams, Aaron Edward
147. Williamson, Blake Neil
148. Wilmot, Colin William
149. Wilson, Mark Andrew
150. Wilson, Robert John
151. Wilson, Timothy
152. Woodfield, Braun Scott

Remembrance...

2010-11-10T21:49:00.003-04:00

Remember the many...too many to count...

Menin Gate, Ypres, Belgium

Remember the young...too young to die...

Tyne Cot Cemetery, Belgium

And when the many becomes to big to comprehend, remember the one.

James Peter Robertson's resting place

Name: ROBERTSON, JAMES PETER
Nationality: Canadian
Rank: Private
Regiment/Service: Canadian Infantry (Manitoba Regiment)

Unit Text: 27th Bn.
Age: 35
Date of Death: 06/11/1917
Service No: 552665
Awards: Victoria Cross

While in Tyne Cot Cemetery, Belgium, I chanced upon the resting place of this young Canadian. An engine driver, born in Pictou County, NS, J. P. Robertson was known to his buddies as "Singing Pete".

He was the son of Alexander and Janet Robertson.

He died for his comrades. For Freedom.

Last year, the town of Stellarton, Nova Scotia officially opened The James Peter Robertson Memorial Park to commemorate his sacrifice.

An extract from "The London Gazette" No. 30471, dated 8th Jan., 1918, records the following:

"For most conspicuous bravery and outstanding devotion to duty in attack. When his platoon was held up by uncut wire and a machine gun causing many casualties, Pte. Robertson dashed to an opening on the flank, rushed the machine gun and, after a desperate struggle with the crew, killed four and then turned the gun on the remainder, who, overcome by the fierceness of his onslaught, were running towards their own lines.

His gallant work enabled the platoon to advance. He inflicted many more casualties among the enemy, and then carrying the captured machine gun, he led his platoon to the final objective. He there selected an excellent position and got the gun into action, firing on the retreating enemy who by this time were quite demoralised by the fire brought to bear on them. During the consolidation Pte. Robertson's most determined use of the machine gun kept down the fire of the enemy snipers; his courage and his coolness cheered his comrades and inspired them to the finest efforts.

Later, when two of our snipers were badly wounded in front of our trench, he went out and carried one of them in under very severe fire. He was killed just as he returned with the second man."

Rest in Peace Singing Pete.

Women...wonderful women...

2010-11-05T15:23:00.003-03:00

After Amy's ingenious celebration of Debi over at Emma Tree, I've spent the past few evenings meeting and visiting with all the wonderful, talented, divine women who took part...women who whisper wisdom from warm hearts, true and genuine women, compassionate, women who love and cherish and play and cry, who speak with honesty, share pain and laughter, uplift and hold each other...

...women who have a voice...who are the voices of this land...who preserve the hope and the future of our world, who keep creativity alive, who lift up the power of love and family and sharing. Women who give me such great and wondrous trust that all is not lost, that all is not twisting down, but spiraling up, growing and evolving and gaining strength...strength for something absolutely too wondrous to imagine...here are all these women...and they are just a sample...there are so many more...are you one of them?

Beth
Deb
Elaine
Graciel
Jaime
Jeannine
Kelly
Liz
Lola
Marilyn
Pixie Dust
Paula
Raine
Relyn
Sally
Skye
Teri
Tricia
Wendy

Debi Really Rocks

2010-11-01T06:00:00.012-03:00

So, having been a month away from blogging - and my blogging friends - the thing that brought me back to the computer, back to my creative spirit, was a note from a friend of Debi's, over at Emma Tree.

Apparently, the ever-so-talented Debi is being featured in the November issue of Artful Blogging and I really wanted to add my congratulations to her - because she is, most certainly, a beautiful soul and an artful blogger.

She has also just published a trio of articles on celebrating place in Somerset Life, and since our connection to place is a topic near to my heart, I thought it appropriate to express my pride in her with the image above.

The Hopewell Rocks on the Bay of Fundy is one of my favourite places...a place that brings me peace when I'm troubled, a place that connects me to my history and a place that reminds me of the steady, comforting rhythm of natures cycles. I go there to walk, to think, to sit, to dream, to give thanks.

To honour Debi and her penchant for turquoise - and to show that I think Debi Really Rocks - I've tinted this photo of the Rocks in her favourite shade. :-)

Giving Thanks....

2010-10-31T17:32:00.003-03:00

Nana's boy...Sweet Baby Colin (3 months)

September was one of those once in a lifetime sort of months. Turning 50, getting ready to launch my book, seeing my book for the first time, preparing for the visit of our grandson, Sweet Colin (isn't he just downright gorgeous?), celebrating our 22 anniversary and planning a grand event to mark all these special occasions.

I'm not sure where to start. My gratitude swells.

Most people told me that when I first laid eyes on my book, there would not be another moment like it. I have to say, it was less a thrill and more a very quiet, very sweet, soft sort of pride...like warm pulled taffy. (Laying eyes on Baby Colin was somewhat the same..but more on him later!)

Pride because it had been such a long and twisted path to get here. Pride because I somehow found a way to enter Mary's story and let it flow through me to the page. Pride because it wasn't just about publishing a book, but gathering wisdom from a remarkable life and growth from my own experiences writing the story. Pride for seeing it through to the end, when I really felt like running away. Pride because it did take me seven years...that I did not compromise and try to force the story before I was ready...and that I plodded on until it was done.

These may seem like silly things, but right from the beginning, I had to make sure my head was in the right place. I had to be sure that I wasn't writing the book to be a published author, or to gain recognition, and most certainly not for money (good thing!), but for the simple desire to share a remarkable story with a wider audience.

Because, you see, I believe that it is never about me. It always has to be about something or someone else. It always has to be about a bigger picture than what I can see or imagine. I've passed the place in my life where I am only concerned with my own gain. This no longer suits who I am...

And so the story also had to be about something much larger than a single life story...as large as that life may have been.

So, when I picked up the box of books from the post office, I took it to a special spot overlooking the Bay of Fundy - the bay that held such magic for both Mary and me. There, my husband and I sat together and ate lunch...sneaking glances at the box, but leaving it until the time was right...allowing anticipation to build, like storm clouds piling high on the horizon. Then lunch finished, he handed me his knife and I cut through the packing tape.

When I first held the book in my hand, salt breeze on my face, marsh and bay at my back, I thought about the beautiful cover shot and the day I took the picture. It was a day when I really grasped that there is far more to life than what lies on the surface. That there are underlying threads supporting our lives, weaving them together; into a pattern we cannot possibly understand or even envision.

Marys Point, NB

I thought about the people who contributed to the book, the friends who supported me, the publisher who believed in me, and the editors who raised it higher than I could have on my own. I thought about the people who would read the book now and in the future. And how, years from now, the book would still be out there, sharing Mary's legacy...passed around, perhaps purchased, maybe reprinted, shared, talked about. I wondered whether people would like it or not. Would some people mark the passages they liked? Would they read it more than once? How Mary would feel, reading her life on the page?

Mary signing books in "The Bridge",
the sunroom where our interviews took place

I admit to undercurrents of worry and apprehension...that maybe I had not done a good enough job. That I would publicly fall flat on my face.

Then the first person phoned me. Dear remarkable Joyce, a tiny octogenarian who rappels at Cape Enrage every year on her birthday. "I can't put it down," she told me. "When you describe Mary, I can see her sitting right there, clicking her feet together." After Joyce's call, came an email, and a card, and more phone calls. "I know it took you seven years to write it, but I read it in two days," someone wrote, apologetically.

I'm very thankful it didn't take her as long to read, as it took me to write.

Oh, how I appreciated all these people who took time to contact me. I can now enjoy the ride.

Then, in October, when I stood in front of a full house at the Harvey Community Hall, an historic structure restored by Mary, I told them this:

"This is a book for anyone who has questioned the value of their own life...any man or woman who has looked within and thought, 'I know there is more to me than what I show'.

"It is for anyone who has seen something they wanted to change, then walked away from it, doing nothing.

"It is for anyone who has held a tiny creature in their hand and felt the transition as its struggles subsided and trust entered its bones.

"And it is for anyone who has walked in nature and felt the pull and power of a force beyond their own understanding."

It is my hope that the people who read this book - whether they know of Mary or not - can gain just a small piece of the inspiration that the writing of it gave me.

That they will see some small possibility for their own lives on the pages.

Then, Mary's legacy truly pays it forward....

Needing a break....

2010-10-04T19:33:00.000-03:00

Must apologize for my absence. The past two weeks have been spent getting to know my new grandson, writing speeches, launching a book, speaking in public, attending a party and a luncheon, conducting various media interviews, signing books...feeling a little overwhelmed with all the fanfare and attention.

How can I thank everyone for your touching words of encouragement and care? I'm left without words to write...they've all been considered, absorbed, spoken, spent, taken to heart...

I have much to say when my words return. For now...heartbeats....gratitude...joy.

Just sit there and look pretty...

2010-09-22T15:49:00.002-03:00

Debi at Emma Tree challenged her blogger friends to come up with their interpretation of ‘Just sit there and look pretty’…

So....here are my first thoughts: Little girls, hair ribbons, clean frilly dresses, white anklets and black patent leather shoes.

The perfect little girl..she is feminine, docile, quiet and polite. Demure. Shhhh…children should be seen and not heard….

But, wait. I never wanted to be demure. Demure doesn’t look like fun. I wanted to climb trees, pick up caterpillars, play in the mud. Make people laugh.

“Pretty is as pretty does,” I remember my grandmother saying, reminding me that behaviour speaks louder than appearance.

In remembrance of Nana (who, as a young mum, climbed an apple tree to rescue a bear cub), I’d rather have fun.

Second thoughts: Let's just sit there and look pretty…pretty damn satisfied.

There, that’s better…me and my new book, hot off the press. Now grinny face is better than demure any day of the week.

The Back Story - Part II

2010-09-16T14:43:00.001-03:00

When I first asked Mary Majka if I could write her story, I thought I’d be telling the fascinating tale of a strong and dynamic woman filled with a noble sense of purpose and a plan. And, quite truthfully, I also hoped to find a wise mentor; a mentor who might, perhaps, influence or direct my own path.

A Polish immigrant, Mary arrived in Canada with many other Displaced Persons following World War II. She was anxious to leave behind her painful memories of loss and sorrow and embark on a new beginning. She and her husband, Mike, settled first in Ontario, then moved to rural New Brunswick in 1961. Nature had always offered solace to her, and so was something she cherished. Within a few short years, she had found her footing and was becoming known as an environmental pioneer and advocate. In addition to her television show, she taught outdoor education, founded naturalist groups, started the first nature centre for children in a national park, created interpretive programs, gave presentations, led nature tours and field trips.

Since then, she has also been a tourism ambassador and a protector of our past, undertaking various heritage restoration projects that did much to instill a sense of community pride, while providing employment and enjoyment for many. She’s been written about in newspapers, magazines and books; appeared in several documentaries. She’s known as an eloquent speaker, a writer, a hostess extraordinaire.

Old Bank Museum, Riverside-Albert (relocated and restored)

And she provided sanctuary for all manner of wildlife, welcoming the injured and helpless into her home and into her life. But lesser known is her heart for people. She’s provided guidance, refuge, encouragement and support to many young people…many who have gone on to great achievements of their own. This, perhaps, is her greatest, most lingering legacy.

Mary and an orphaned baby squirrel

“Mary lifted people up to her level. She not only inspired people to reach their potential, but she enabled them to pass it on to others. She gave a gift that keeps on giving.”
Brian Dalzell (one of the young people she inspired)

During the months and years as I collected interviews and research, I discovered a woman who really came into her own power in the middle of her life. This resonated with me in a profound way. I also discovered a woman of surprising motivations, contrasts and contradictions - a woman shaped by the experiences of her life.The resulting story was even more complicated and complex than I imagined. There was so much more to her than what I knew or expected. And none of it was purposefully planned. It just happened.

Mary is what she is and she bends to none. She accepts her strengths and her weaknesses without apology, understanding that they are opposite sides of the same coin. But it’s the flaws and tragedies that give our lives tension, richness, colour. They lead us to unknown places. They create friction; with friction, comes energy.

Mary Majka

“What is it that makes me the way I am?” she asked herself as a teenager. She finally decided it just happens. “When you pick a bouquet of flowers, they are all uniform, but there will be one a little taller, or a different colour, or some small difference. Perhaps this is who I am.”

As I immersed myself in her story, it became increasingly clear to me that we have to learn to accept our shadows, our weaknesses, as the necessary backside of our light. When we allow our own authentic nature to shine and purposely allow space in our life for the things that are dear in our hearts, this is when we truly discover our own power and raison d'être.

Sanctuary is her story. But I’m beginning to think it can also be mine. Or yours. And what if the real power of our stories is not in what each of us might achieve as individuals, but in the many collective ways we inspire each other to shine? Doesn't that make more sense?

Goodbye Forties

2010-09-10T23:58:00.003-03:00

Less than an hour left...I'm spending it with my Forties.

We're reliving the great moments, along with the tearful goodbyes, the full-to-bursting moments, the gaping bottomless holes. Grief. Laughter. Deep sighs. Groping blindly. The vistas and landscapes imprinted in my heart, the growings and shrinkings, striving and letting go, the serenity and jittering upheavals. I don't even know how to write about it all, the scenes fly through my mind like flickering silent film, but through it all, I know I've been moving forward, somehow stepping into nothing, but finding solid ground, pushing through dense fog and finding sunlight, swimming upward, straining, lungs bursting, thinking I can't go any further, but suddenly breaking free and gulping the wind in the leaves, sometimes tossing back and forth, clinging to branches, scared and helpless in the storm, yet still finding the strength to hang on, to look forward, to trust. Always to trust.

Oh, what a tumultuous, tremendous decade you have been, Forty. I can honestly say,you have been the best of my life and yet, I know (somehow) that there are fireworks to come. That I am just beginning to wade into the depths that will define my life. So many thoughts and threads that are weaving into something...I know not what...yet. But I trust in my worth, my value, my destiny. Goodbye Forties. Hello Fifty. We're gonna rock together...you and I. We're just getting warmed up.

The Back Story - Part I

2010-09-08T22:37:00.002-03:00

With the launch of my book fast approaching, people have been asking me how it all started...what prompted me to undertake this lengthy project. As a writer, I'm always interested in the back story and as I began thinking through the history behind this book, I realized it had its true beginnings back in 1960s New Brunswick...back when milk arrived in bottles on the front step, televisions had rabbit ears and no one had yet heard of the environmental movement.

You see, the first time I met Mary Majka, I was a reedy and awkward seven year old, lying flat on my belly on front of the television, palms bracing my chin, skinny legs bent at the band aids and wobbling somewhere behind my head.

Mary on a field trip with students (photo David Christie)

As the hostess of a locally produced weekly television show called, “Have you Seen?”, Mary introduced me and a whole generation of children around the Maritime Provinces to the back stories of the natural world. She showed that people and nature should live companionably, that magic really exists, and that the world speaks softly, should we choose to listen.

I began bringing home stray dogs and cats, injured birds. Not that Mary created compassion in me - I think that was always there - but, through her program, she did show me that compassion expected action. She showed me that it was not wrong to give aid to the injured or to pick up bird feathers or to let a caterpillar crawl, inch by fuzzy inch, up my arm. She taught me that I had a responsibility to the creatures with whom I shared this earth.

White-marked Tussock Moth (I believe)

My mother told me Mary lived in nearby Albert County, which is where my roots lie (and where I now live). Although her facial features would be considered more earthy than glamourous, I thought of her as a movie star. And for awhile, I believed if a movie star could come from Albert County, anything was possible for me.

Mary remained in the forefront of the evolving environmental movement, most often in the news for her fervent and vocal defense of habitat or heritage or the wild creatures that share our world. The press loved her…her Polishness, her passion, her panache.

Mary at our 1988 wedding

Twenty years later, I met Mary Majka again, this time in person. Her presence still commanded attention. While she had aged, the strength of character in the prominent, hooked nose, slate blue eyes, ready smile and suntanned face remained unchanged. When I mentioned having seen her on TV as a child, she raised her brows. “Ah!” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “That was so long ago!” But she smiled, obviously pleased.

Shortly thereafter, I returned to my roots in Albert County and for a time, my husband and I lived on Caledonia Mountain, a largely unsettled mountain near the Bay of Fundy coast. As I explored the forests and marshes surrounding the mountain, the enjoyment of the natural world that had been shuffled to the background during my teens and twenties reemerged. It wouldn't be until much later that I discovered that Caledonia had also been the location of Mary’s first home after moving to New Brunswick.

In the years that followed, our relationship deepened as we shared occasional afternoons in the home she restored at Mary’s Point, nearby. It was a pleasure to visit. Her home always had a menagerie of recovering creatures in residence...a purple gallinule, a pair of mourning doves, the occasional owls, squirrels, a beaver...an albino raven. Gradually, she offered the stories of her varied projects in wildlife rehabilitation, habitat protection and heritage preservation in tantalizing bits and pieces and I began to appreciate all that she had accomplished.

Mary had sparked a yearning in me, although I didn’t recognize it as such at the time. As I approached my 40s, I began tackling those feelings of discontent and initiated the changes in my life that led me into the writing career I now enjoy. I was finally giving voice to the real me, my inborn nature was rising to the surface. Little did I know that I was about to immerse myself in a life that was - at its essence - a vibrant example of that very thing.

Songs of Seals

2010-09-02T15:43:00.002-03:00

What’s next for you? My friend had asked an innocent question, but her words echoed through my mind during the past month. What was next? The sun was setting on this phase in my life, a new day fast approaching.

I had claimed the month of August for me. It was my interlude month, a break between the effort that went into the production of my book and the next phase of promoting it.

August was my gift to myself, a reward for accomplishing what I had set out to do. It was also a pause, a chance to dream and play and to give myself over to spontaneity. I did not make plans, but took opportunities that came my way.

And by clearing that space, opportunities had room to surface…almost daily. My heart had been secretly missing water...and my month turned out to be rich with beach walks and swims, escapes to a secluded lake, birdwatching, a week at the seashore, re-connections with friends, a spontaneous day tour along the Fundy coast with a friend who operates a tour company. I must admit, I've had a whale of a grand time...

Anna-Marie, of Roads to Sea Guided Tours, in action at the Hopewell Rocks.

Then this week, a friend mentioned she was taking her boys on an overnight camp-out by the sea and asked if I might like to join them. A deserted beach, backed by dunes, warmed by an uncharacteristic heat wave…why would I refuse?

We pitched our tents in the twilight and gathered firewood before dark. We spied a colony of grey seals bobbing in the swells a dozen yards offshore, their heads turned in our direction, watching…were they curious? I admit feeling thrilled that these large creatures of the sea deemed us worthy of their attention.

Then, as daylight disappeared, and we gathered around the campfire to tell stories, we heard them singing, their soulful voices haunting, yet beautiful…floating across the surface of the sea. We talked about what they might be saying to each other in their seal words.

The lonely notes of their song echoed of eternity, of mystery and of community. I marvelled to myself that this creature could be so ungainly and raucous when on land, but sing so clearly and carry such grace and poise when in its water element.

As I lay alone in my tent that night, waiting for the moon rise and listening to the waves and soothing, ethereal quality of their voices, I thought about my own sense of eternity, the mystery of tomorrow and my community of family and friends.

I thought of how they have gently supported me - how their encouraging words have been music to my soul - as I have come into my own element…the place - and the age - where I feel most poised and graceful.

What is next for me? I really don’t know yet, but I'm not worried. I know I am on the brink of a new day, one bringing a marvelous opportunity that will be perfectly suited for me and my abilities. I just have to create the time and space for it to emerge.

For now, I wait. Quietly. Openly. Anticipating. Grateful.

What if I'm a real author?

2010-08-26T20:47:00.004-03:00

Last night a friend told me I had to 'step into' my author role. "Just visualize it and step right into it!" she said with enthusiasm. (I have wonderful friends. They are so supportive.)

Sigh. It sounds so simple, but quite frankly, the whole author thing is still too stiff and new. So, here, in public, I am going to try to stretch it out a bit. You know...soften the leather. Work it, baby, work it.

I'm an author. Yes, it's true.

Anyone who read my Three Pounds, Seven Ounces column knows I delivered my first manuscript to my publisher in January. Since then, I've worked through photo permissions, substantive, style and copy edits and proofreading. But, all that is behind me now. 'The Book' will be delivered to me - in my hand - in mid-September.

Here are the specs:
Title: Sanctuary: The Story of Naturalist Mary Majka
Genre: Non-Fiction
Trade Paperback: 260 pages
Publisher: Goose Lane Editions (Sep 24 2010)
Language: English
List price: $19.95
ISBN-10: 0864926243
ISBN-13: 978-0864926241

I'm an author. Amazon.ca says so.

And now, in spite of my concerns about social media, I have an author Facebook site (want to join?). I'm redesigning my website.

Part of me thinks...it's just a label. What does it matter? I'm still just me. No different.

But I am different. Writing this book changed me...but more about that later...

For now...I'm an author.

And September is Celebration Month. Besides having my first book published, I'll be turning 50 and will celebrate my 22nd wedding anniversary. And our three-month-old grandson will be coming for his first visit out east. Shake me.

It's a hard thing to wrap my head around. On the surface, nothing has changed. Yet inside, nothing is the same. Just like the emotional upheaval of becoming a grandmother. You just gotta live and love the moment right?

I'm an author. Stretch.

Lords of the Dance

2010-08-20T19:51:00.011-03:00

August would not be August without a visit to Marys Point to watch the shorebirds dance.

Each year, as the summer sun wanes, 75-90% of the world's population of shorebirds pause in the upper reaches of the Bay of Fundy - in particular Marys Point - while on migration from Arctic breeding grounds to the southern tip of South America. Their arrival begins in July; first the female flocks, then the males, followed by the juveniles in early August.

Thousands of bird lovers, nature enthusiasts and the curious come to watch. They sit quietly on the shore, respectfully well back, watching and waiting. For the Dance.

The birds rest at high tide, blending in like so many buff-coloured pebbles on the beach. Their quiet murmurs and mutterings have given them the nickname 'peeps'. But for this subtle undercurrent of sound, the inexperienced may not even know they are there.

But when disturbed or startled, the birds take to the air, their white underbellies flickering in the light. The air is filled with the wash of their wings, like surf on the shore. Their flight is utter poetry and as they sway back and forth above the surface of the waves, I wonder if they hear a melody on the wind that we cannot.

No one sees these lords of the dance without being moved.

I remember my first shorebird experience. I was kayaking at the Hopewell Rocks
(an experience in itself).

I had left the group and headed back to shore alone when I was overtaken by a large flock of the birds - tens of thousands. I heard them coming, their wings like wind in the birches.

Mesmerized, I floated motionless in my kayak. Like a mirage, the flock turned toward me, skimming the glassy surface of the bay. As their sheer numbers washed over and past me, like water around a stone, I felt the brush of wings on my upturned cheek….but perhaps it was only the breath of their passing.

Then, just as suddenly, they were gone…and I drifted alone.

These, then, are the shorebirds of Fundy.

Have I piqued your curiosity? Want to know more?

Shorebirds of Fundy
Hopewell Rocks - Shorebirds

River Reflections

2010-08-10T19:40:00.000-03:00

"I want to see through the moment to the landscape as it is, unobstructed, undimmed, each edge sharp, each surface brightly coloured, each detail defined, separate, certain, fixed in time and place. These are visions to cherish, like gemstones. But also, every once in a while, to see a landscape with ancient clarity: to see a river fluttering, gleaming with light that moves through time and space, filtered through my own mind, connected to my life and to what came before and to what will come next, infused with meaning, living luminous, dangerous, lighted from within."

Kathleen Dean More, Riverwalking

Lake Moods & Memories

2010-08-06T08:06:00.006-03:00

Just a few days of respite at a friend's secluded camp. That's all it took. No electricity, technology, noise, people, agendas, chores. Just being. And coming to know the lake, its textures and sounds, its creatures and moods. I am contentedly human again.

We sat, quietly, my husband and I...allowing our minds to rest. Conversation was scarce and words seemed almost an intrusion as we wrapped ourselves in the comfortable silence that comes from years of intimacy.

Even Callie-dog, after her initial exuberance and joy of being here subsided, was content to lie quietly and become acquainted with the smells that drifted her way.

Sometimes I swam to the raft with my notebook and let my thoughts float onto the page. Sometimes I dozed, lulled by lake rhythms, my mind light, empty and hollow.

Glorious leisure and silence. I realized how much I had craved this space, this pause in the intense busyness that has become my life. Silence is a gift we rarely give ourselves, something we wish for, yet somehow never find time to pursue.

Sometimes a curtain was lifted, allowing us briefly to see the life and drama that ebbs and flows here, whether we bear witness to it or not.

The large and small of it...

As each day passed, a steady sun arched over the lake, from east to west, and we swam when the mood struck: in the languorous silk of early morning, in the high heat of noon, in the long shadows of eve. We floated, splashed, dove, paddled without purpose, just responding to the nudging of desire.

One afternoon, we watched in awe as a line of great billowing clouds moved across the sky. We waited for the lightning in the distance, silently counting the seconds until the crack of thunder.

And then the storm was upon us with great fervor and noise and urgency, sending blankets of rain rippling and blowing across the surface of the lake like drifts of snow over a frozen surface...and just as suddenly as it came, it moved on...

...leaving a special gift in the quiet aftermath...our own private rainbow.

And with the approach of a glorious clear evening, the stillness enveloped us again.

And we sat, watching the moon rise and the colours shift and slide, merge and mellow, then sink into the cool mauves of evening...and the landscape spoke and the night became a living thing with the hum of insects, the perpetual warble of persistent frogs, the melodies of robins and calls of the waxwings, each one trying to out-sing the other.

Reluctantly, we drifted off to bed, sorry to see the end of day, but comforted in the certainty that morning would bring more light and swellings of the heart, more gemstones to treasure.

And I wondered, in years to come, what I would remember best about these days...how the magic would touch me and coax me, perhaps, to a different choice...or how the memory might sustain me, perhaps through loss or sorrow...or how I might revisit the joy and silence and closeness, again and again.

Kinda Busy...(grin)

2010-07-25T16:42:00.010-03:00

Being grandparents...

You know the routine... Practicing baby language... (we talk, he listens)

The feedings...(he cries, we feed)

Being the entertainer...(he fusses, we get silly)

Sleep walking...(he sleeps, we walk)

Ain't it grand?

The work day of a freelance writer - Part II

2010-07-16T08:37:00.005-03:00

The morning continues...

7:45 AM. Back from my marsh walk, but I have a quick gardening chore to do before it gets too hot.

I'm replanting beans and peas to replace those devoured by a slugfest and other hungry garden pests. See my pathetic little garden? It has struggled to survive this year. Others are picking their first beans and peas. I figure I'll be harvesting in October...

Done in a jiffy, I shower off the salt and change into work clothes.

8:30AM. Perk coffee and settle into a bowl of strawberries for breakfast.

Time to head to the office. I'm thinking this beats chattering co-workers, hovering supervisors, florescent lights and drab walls.

Laptop. Check. Coffee. Check. Thesaurus. Check. Dictionary. Check. Binocs and Bird Book. Ch-Check. Shades. Check. Telephone. Check.

9:00 AM. Right on time. Settle in, get comfy and creative. View is pretty fine from here...floral scents by Linda Campbell and Charles de Mille, soothing background melodies by Goldfinch and Mourning Dove, air conditioning by the Bay of Fundy...I love my job.

A perfect start to a perfect day.

Oops.

The work day of a freelance writer - Pt I

2010-07-14T21:25:00.005-03:00

Inspired my my colleague Allison's photo of her sun and sand office on her Facebook page, I thought I might share an average summer day in the life of a freelance writer ... i.e., me.

Roll out at 6AM. Wash face, brush teeth, don shorts and tank, hunt for sneakers.

Head to the marsh before it gets too hot.

Stop to smell the misted roses...too pretty to pass by...

..marvel at the way the sunlight slants through stands of fireweed...(take 25 photos hoping one will capture the precise light and shadow)

...see how each spider weaves with its own unique artistry...

When the breeze touches a web do you suppose it sings a song we cannot hear as it drops its string of jewels...one by one? Might each have a special voice all its own?

This is where I live...where I walk...where I dream dreams into words. How can I help but be inspired?

7:30AM. Reluctantly, I see it's time to head for home...work calls. Muskrat bids me adieu (he actually looked up at me).

Can you wait for Part II?

Remembering Nanas

2010-07-07T22:10:00.008-03:00

These two ladies are my Nanas. Nana Bessie, on the right, would have been 107 today, July 7th. Nana Martha, on the left would be 107 on July 24th. I never knew my grandfathers as both died young...one before I was born, the other shortly afterward, so my two Nanas were an essential link to the values of my past. I feel so blessed and so very fortunate that I was able to enjoy them both through-out my life. Family get-togethers always included The Nanas.

We usually gave them similar gifts on their birthdays and Christmas because they'd compare. (In the later years, at Christmas they compared ear and bowel problems at the dinner table.)

On this day - their 90th birthday celebration - you can see they have identical cakes and corsages. And they received identical ruby and pearl rings. See how they even dressed alike? (It wasn't planned.)

They may look alike, but they were very, very different women. They didn't always see things the same way, but they made it work. They chose to be friends.

And that was so very important to me. Through their actions, they taught me the importance of family, of connections, of acceptance, of loving each other in spite of differences in opinions and attitudes. Of loving and forgiving even at times when love and forgiveness might not be deserved. Could there be a more valuable lesson?

Now I look backward and inward, peering and squinting, trying to see what parts of me came from them...faith, frugality and a love of writing from Nana Martha; fortitude, frankness and a sense of style from Nana Bessie (oh, how she loved her clothes!). Knowing them both helps me know and understand myself.

Today, I'm so very grateful for the spirit of each that lives on in me.

Introducing...

2010-07-05T21:25:00.010-03:00

My heart is too full for words.

So may I simply introduce my grandson, Colin Devin Denis? Born June 28 in Winnipeg, he was named for his infant brother, Devin - our first grandchild -who was born a tiny perfect person, yet without breath or heartbeat, one short year ago - June 6th. His brief appearance sliced our hearts in two. His presence lingers, always.

It was so hard to wait for Colin's arrival. On the surface, cheery, optimistic, hopeful. But underneath, our joy, our anticipation was tainted with worry. Worry for him; for my stepdaughter's health. But suddenly, nine months passed and there he was.

And here we are now. Grandparents. Who will I be? Grammie? Nan? Someone else?

I'm floored. Scared. Awed. Oh I know...there are hordes, stacks, piles and miles of grandparents before me, but I feel like the first. My world changed in an instant.

I'm quite taken with this little man - can't stop looking at photos. My attention wanders from work. I awake in the night thinking of him. His Winnipeg family has held him, smelled him, snuggled him...they know him already, have looked into his eyes...yet we know him only through pictures as we anxiously count days until our trip out west.

The waiting is Unbearable.

Red & White

2010-07-01T13:07:00.008-03:00

Proudly Canadian today. Can you tell?

Overlooked and Undervalued

2010-06-27T14:12:00.015-03:00

"When some portion of the biosphere is rather unpopular with the human race - a crocodile, a dandelion, a stony valley, a snowstorm, an odd-shaped flint - there are three sorts of human being who are particularly likely still to see a point in it and befriend it. They are poets, scientists and children. Inside each of us, I suggest, representatives of these groups may be found."

Mary Midgley,
Animals and Why They Matter; A Journey Around the Species Barrier

My experience in the dinosaur museum...the reality of the scenes that transported me to place where I began to imagine myself as prey instead of predator...has me pausing to consider differently the many small worlds with which I share my space. Not so much as a curious observer, but with an empathetic heart.

A prehistoric-looking spider, painstakingly maneuvering her egg case across our driveway.

A soldier fly - Odontomia cincta - primping and preening.

Even a slug can exhibit beautiful patterns when closely observed.

Did you know that in Italy their slime is used to treat dermatitis, warts, inflammations, calluses, acne and wounds? An old folk remedy. In my garden, they also support a healthy population of toads.

Each living creature has a purpose...who is to say that mine should be more important than theirs?

Against fear

2010-06-25T08:05:00.002-03:00

We were touring the Royal Tyrell Museum in Drumheller, while on a trip out west to visit family. The museum houses the world's largest display of dinosaurs. Most are depicted in lifelike dioramas designed to transport the viewer back in time.

The first impression that swallowed me was the sheer size and fearsome ferocity of these prehistoric creatures. (The second was the work that went into creating such lifelike displays.)

Our family group of 12 split up, each following his own path through the museum, each lingering in moments of awe, gathering his or her own impressions, thoughts. As I stood under the skeleton of a T-Rex, mine continued along one common vein. What would it be like, to live in a land of giant predators? Living each day in mortal fear. When, in given moment, one might be snatched up the jaws of such a fearsome creature - part of the prehistoric food chain?

I thought of how these huge creatures had been annihilated by weather patterns, shifts in their environment. These incredibly complex intimidating animals had not been able to withstand these factors and adapt, while other, smaller creatures found the path to survival in evolution and migration.

Walking through this recreated world left me feeling small and insignificant. It also made me wonder what smaller creatures in my world might feel in my presence.

Do I invoke fear in bird, ant or little caterpillar hearts as they go about their day to day quest for survival? Or do they sense I mean them no harm? And will they stand a better chance for survival in our changing environment than me?

The Spirit of a Place

2010-06-10T08:26:00.020-03:00

I had looked forward to seeing the Canadian Badlands while on a family vacation, having been so taken with similar landscapes in Arizona and New Mexico. While not quite as spectacular as its wild southern counterparts, there was unmistakable subtle beauty in the wide sweeping plateaus of grassland and carved valleys and coulees, bounded with the multi-coloured and layered strata of the earth's history. It felt like I was cradled in a pocket of time. This is truly where once dinosaurs roamed...and died.

But during the five days we spent here, I began to wonder how much the history and story of a landscape can impact the spirit of a place. In this arena of subtle evolution and mass extinction, I sensed this struggle remained. Aboriginal cultures are sensitive to the voices and wisdom of the land. They say some places speak to men, others to women. Our culture pays little heed to such things, but if we listened to the wisdom - the voices of the land - what would they advise?

In the midst of the badlands is Drumheller, a small city, located in the valley of the Red Deer River and known for the rich fossil beds of prehistoric bones. Perhaps it was only the weather, or the season, but a sense of unease was almost palatable. Amongst a few new hotels, grocery stores and restaurants, a multitude of dinosaur statues in Crayola colours seemed like forced humour, at odds with the sand-coloured homes huddled side by side.

Despite the beauty of the surroundings and open friendliness of its people, I perceived few feelings of pride here; many homes looked dejected and uncared for, yards small and overgrown. There was an air of neglect...of wistfulness.

People still talk about the great flood of 2005 when the waters of the Red Deer River rose to their highest levels in 200 years. I spoke to a lady whose business had been destroyed. She tried to push the government for compensation, she told me. But no one would join their voice to hers. She fought alone for a time, then discouraged, she moved away. She's back again, now five years later - it's my home, she told me -but her eyes are sad.

This is a man's town. Coal mining first grew the town, then oil sustained it, now a penitentiary provides employment and the bone beds of ancient creatures bring fame...but not fortune.

Perhaps it is presumptuous of me, having been there such a short time, but everything about these streets seemed contrived. As if at the heart of it, this town knows it does not belong here, in this sacred cemetery - this valley of death - but it struggles onward with a human spirit unwilling to give up.

But it all made me wonder. What if some places are just not meant to be settled? What if some places are simply meant to be wild?

Hide and Seek

2010-05-19T13:30:00.000-03:00

Martin Head...a pebble and sand beach on the bay of giant tides, secluded and tranquil on this day. Worth the rugged journey over rough graveled logging roads and desolate clearcuts.

Fog crawls up the cliffs and drifts just offshore, playing hide and seek with the nub of land - almost, but not quite an island - that gave the beach its name.

A lighthouse once played sentinel on the Head, guiding ships and barges up the Bay of Fundy, signaling the wharf that served a small settlement at this crack in a craggy coast - a settlement where workers chiseled copper and gypsum from the cliffs until there was nothing left. The rounded pebbles at my feet hold hints of these memories, but little else remains to remind of this era. Nature is forgiving and has a way of playing hide and seek with the destruction we cause.

Martin Head is still a busy place...but only in season. On summer weekends, crowds of partygoers run roughshod in ATVs, dirt bikes and Jeeps. People who take of the beauty, then leave their tracks and refuse behind.

Today, in solitude, with only crows and each other for comfort, we explored different parts of the beach - Pat where the cliff meets the sand, me where the sand meets the sea ~

I stood, wondering how we became so disconnected from the world at our feet, the life that breathes in our face. I stood facing the sea, my heart split wide open, turning my back on the ache of last year's tattered tarps, beer cans and box toilets. I stood, reaching for something I could not quite grasp, wishing to leave a piece of myself here...a piece that belonged, that I could come back to.

Bowing my head, a single stone at my feet rocked in the surf.

I was reminded of the words of David Weale, from his book Chasing the Shore. He speaks of finding stones in the sand.

"As I stooped again and again it struck me that there was a stone on that beach to match my every thought and feeling and far from being mute, each was calling out in its own way for communion with the ancient parts of me..."

Gathering no more than enough

2010-05-13T10:53:00.010-03:00

We went fiddlehead picking last week at our favourite creek bed. I've written about our fiddlehead excursions before. A couple of times. Gathering one's food from the wild - whether roots or greens or berries or sap - carries with it feelings of authenticity. It is almost as if by plucking what is good and wise and elemental and wild from the earth, that I can assimilate these attributes. My strength comes from the ground beneath my feet in so many ways.

Surrounded by the forest and clear tea-coloured streams, by the songs of birds and rustle of bare branches, we worked with a steady, relaxed rhythm...feeling for the telltale mound of unfurled crowns beneath a careless foot, carefully sifting through the alders and dykes of broken trunks and limbs washed downstream in the high water of spring freshets. Fiddleheads grow best in the sandy side lines of freshwater rivers and creeks.

Most of the ferns we found were small, with heads the size of marbles, a result of years of careless overpicking. We passed them by; I wondered how long before the plant could survive.

When we did find families of unfurled ferns the size of dollar coins, it felt like a bonanza. I found it hard not to pick all that was there. Because they were there for the picking. I silenced a voice from the past that said, "Well if I don't take them, someone else will."

But to take more than I need would deprive another. Would weaken the plant. So I was careful to leave the uppermost heads to unfurl into ferns that would feed the plant through the summer.

We do this so much in life. We take much more than we need. We accumulate more than is necessary. And we become burdened with the weight of it. I'm as guilty of this as the next. Recently a colleague, talking about growing her business, said, "There is so much money in the world, just waiting to be spent so why not go out and get it? It's there for the taking."

What if it were there for the giving? What if we lived with only what we need, then used the rest for a greater good? What would our world look like then?

What I cannot tell my mother...

2010-05-04T22:03:00.000-03:00

My mother has always loved dolls. Baby dolls. She kept all my childhood dolls. Her house has dainty little dolls scattered here and there. At Toys R Us, she looks for the ones with the prettiest eyes.

She just plain loves babies. We were at a baby shower together, a month ago and I saw how she smiled and pivoted, looking around, seeking all the little ones...nudging me...'oh, look at that little fellow...' 'oh, that one...isn't she cute...those curls.'

It broke my heart.

All my mother wanted was to become a mother...and then after that, to become a grandmother. I have cheated her out of this...not that I wanted to, it just happened. Or didn't happen.

Actually, I had thought I'd dealt with this many tears and years ago, when we gave up trying. I fashioned a brave face for those times when, over and over again, I was asked when we'd be starting a family or if I had children. How I hated those questions. Callie-dog became my escape to the garden...."I have a golden"... small smile.

I became flippant. I eventually convinced myself that we were better off. Less responsibility, more freedom. It sounded good.

But that's just what you do...you harden the tender spots to keep them from damage, to let them heal. But masks do not last forever. The empty place has opened up again in recent years. Menopause, I think, has made it real and painfully irreversible.

I haven't gone to a Mother's Day service at our church for three years. After a while, I simply could not bear all the mothers standing, while I remain seated. Sadness slaps me suddenly and swiftly, without warning. The other night, I was struck mute by a movie scene where a mom sat in bed reading a story to her children. I couldn't even put the pain into words. I can hardly breathe during these sudden tsunamis.

But recently, I've come to realize it isn't just my loss, but my parents' as well. I dreamed one night that my mother was giving birth and when someone took the baby away from her, she wailed with grief, reaching out across the bed...just wailing. It was a dream so real...so excruciatingly real that it still haunts me.

I can't even tell her that I know how empty and weightless her arms feel. I cannot say the words. I don't know how to say them. I can't even acknowledge to myself out loud, that my heart feels so heavy.

Sometimes there are no words.

Going Flat Out?

2010-04-28T21:20:00.000-03:00

Work for a writer certainly has an ebb and flow. Most times it's either a dry sea bed or a tidal wave. A colleague told me a story about how busy she had been recently. How every time she talked to this person or that person, she had moaned, "I'm going flat out."

Over and over again, this is what she said.

Then she got a flat tire. Never had one before.

"Right then, I stopped talking about deadlines," she said, straight-faced.

Frankly, so did I. I'm a believer.

I haven't used the 'D' word since.

There is power in a word.

This from Dr. Christiane Northrup:

"Remember: Words are powerful. They matter. The words we choose shape our experience. They create the story we tell ourselves. And the story we tell ourselves becomes our biology. Quite literally, our cells believe the stories we tell ourselves and they respond accordingly. So please. Learn how to monitor your thoughts and words."

What if this week's word was "Relax"?

Mayflowers for Perley

2010-04-17T09:02:00.021-03:00

All it took was a phone call from L. "We're going to pick mayflowers for Perley. Want to come?" It had been weeks since I had done anything utterly spontaneous, so I leaped at the chance for an outing with friends.

I had never picked them before, but when the pussy willows come out, my mother always thinks of mayflowers. As a girl, she picked them from the patch beside her old one-room schoolhouse. They were the first scent of spring.

Tiny bits of beauty buried deep in last year's debris, mayflowers bring remembrance. For you don't find mayflowers, just by chance or accident. You must know where to look. And if you know where to look, someone must have shown you.

L's first mayflower foray was with Perley, when she was just a young girl. So on this chilled and overcast spring day, we searched for mayflowers in remembrance of him.

Perley was the neighbourhood pharmacist in my growing up years. While I didn't know him well enough to be part of his mayflower hunting, I do remember his bald head and smiling face peering over the high pharmacists' counter. When I was sick, my mother would say, "I must ask Perley what he recommends."

Each spring, even into his eighties, Perley picked mayflowers for the 'seniors'. So, it seems appropriate that he would go to meet his Creator in mayflower season. If we found a patch of these tiny bits of fragrance today, they would adorn the reception table at his funeral and remind those who love him of his special gift.

Mayflowers prefer boggy, damp environments...not places one would normally travel for pleasure. To find a mayflower patch, takes intention and purpose. Patience and rubber boots.

On this day, L. took us to a spot that had few positive attributes. We parked the car alongside a busy highway in an industrial area, slopped through a soggy ditch and followed a power line a short distance, looking for the right mix of vegetation. Then, we waded into the woods, eyes raking the ground.

It is hard work, this foray for mayflowers, pushing through underbrush, kneeling in the damp leaves to sift for hidden flowers. But there is rhythm to the process...and finding a patch brings such pleasure.

With senses and awareness heightened, sometimes there are other treasures to find...

As we searched, L. shared what Perley taught her about mayflowers.

Mayflowers (also known as trailing arbutus) grow on runners. Buried deep in the moist detritus of last year's leaves, usually at the base of a tree, the only telltale sign is a small, innocuous, burgundy-tinged leathery leaf, about an inch or so long, poking through the mat. Carefully clear the dead leaves away and you may find a cluster of tiny star-shaped flowers, miraculously blooming in this hidden dark, safe place. Snip them off the runner, to preserve the patch for future.

I couldn't help but think people are often like mayflowers. Sometimes they hide their most beautiful parts, deep within debris of the past. It takes time and intention, to gently stir that debris, to reach down and carefully coax the beauty to the surface. I wonder if this is why Perley so loved the ritual of mayflower hunting.

Mayflowers remind us that sometimes, what is most treasured - most precious - is found just below the surface of things. Such a delicate and tiny thing, this mayflower, yet hold a cluster to your nose and the fragrance is every bit as intense as that of sweet peas.

April Mayflowers.
Beyond the surprise of scent and beauty is the joy of the ritual
and the sweet remembrance it brings.

"Do this in remembrance of me"

Your original face

2010-04-12T07:46:00.000-03:00

A friend of mine always wanted to be a pilot, high in the sky, looking down. She worked hard, went to flying school, earned her license. Soon, she worked her way up the ranks to Captain of a major airline. She felt a source of pride in becoming Captain Diane in what had typically been a man's domain.

Then she lost her job. When her first unemployment cheque arrived in the mail, she looked at the name on the cheque. Just plain Diane. No captain in front of it. "Who am I now?" she asked herself.

Zen asks, 'What was your original face? Before you were born?'.

This thought has been on my mind in the past weeks, as I've been immersed in structural edits of my biographical book. It's a tremendous challenge to order a life that has many facets - many faces - in a manner that creates resonance with the reader.

So I've been thinking about faces. The face we are born with, the faces we grow into, the faces we hide behind, the faces we show to the world. How can just one of them define us?

I led a journal writing workshop a couple weeks ago. At the beginning of the day, I talked about how we all have an inner need to know essentially who we are at the core. Certainly self-analysis, self-improvement, self-awareness has become a national pastime.

But it cannot stop there or we become obsessed with 'self'. Because once we find that original face...the one we had before we were born...then we must understand what that face was designed to give to the world. We each have an inherent gift or gifts, and it is this gift that gives our life meaning. But a gift is not a gift, unless it is given away.

I think I understand my original face now...but it has taken a long time to get here. This is one that says, this is who I am, regardless whether you like me or not.

Of course, understanding is only the first step...I may understand it, but I also admit it still remains tucked away most days.

However, I do seem to be airing it out more often.

Cute as a mouse's ear

2010-04-05T08:35:00.006-03:00

Last night, I was telling an Easter gathering of friends and family a story about finding little Miss Mouse in our barbeque the night before. She had built a warm, soft, little nest out of Callie-dog fur, chewed bits of birch bark and paper. The fur had been expertly teased into useful shape, like a spinner preparing wool for the wheel, and the bits of bark woven in for support.

(I know there are hundreds of wonderful photographer friends who could have made this
nest look like a work of art, but I'm not one of them!)

I talked glowingly about her endearing big mouse ears, black eyes, twitching nose and long wiskers (sorry, she wouldn't stay still for a photo). I felt terrible evicting her...she had taken such time to prepare her home, was probably now on the lookout for a mate and ready to start a family. I hoped she wasn't pregnant already.

Even after I removed the nest and placed it in a sheltered spot close by, thinking she might drag it somewhere else or at least use the building materials for another, she seemed reluctant to leave. I saw this as another sign that she was female. I gently prodded her and eventually she made her escape. Suffice to say, I was feeling rather like the wicked witch of the north.

At this point in the story, one of the guests looked at me with a small smile. "What does it take to learn mouse psychology?" he teased.

I stopped and thought a moment. "Surprisingly," I said, "it isn't that big a leap."

I think Words have led me into mouse psychology...When I began writing, I became more aware of the nature of my surroundings. The reason for things. I take in details, make connections, look for the obscure. This has been the greatest gift my writing has brought me. It allowed me to resurrect my childhood curiousity. To look outward, seek patterns and threads, then to use my imagination to weave the details into stories.

I'm not nearly as far along as I want to be - I'm certainly not always right (maybe she was a he), but every day brings new sights and sounds and smells...and new ways to express them.

:-)

Resurrection

2010-04-04T13:54:00.013-03:00

As I sat in church this Easter morning, I was thinking about the theme of Death, Burial, Resurrection and how this is such an apt metaphor for life.

The seasons, certainly, follow this theme. After autumn's death, we are then buried beneath snow, hibernating in our homes for three long months. Then, daylight. sunshine. Warmth. I saw coltsfoot - our first flower of spring - blooming in the ditch yesterday. Resurrection. Following this, growth.

I see the pattern, again, in the way I handle stress. The past 6 months have been a difficult season in my life. I've soldiered through as much s possible - and thought I was doing a bang-up job - but there came a point when, as much as I tried to reason and jolly my way through it, I crashed. It was literally like running into a brick wall and afterwards, I buried myself in the house, grieving, trying to find a way through tears of disappointment, disillusionment and worry to the other side. Curiously, it took about three days.

Suddenly, I felt strong again. I found new hope and a strengthened, revived spirit. I began to see a glimmer of light through the shadows.

Now I'm seeing this pattern in my book...it has been through editing... yes, most remains intact, but other parts have been cut, reordered, buried, reborn. But I can trust the process.

I'm realizing that try as I might, I cannot avoid or ignore or grin my way through all such times. I have to allow these three to go hand in hand. And trust that they do go hand in hand...that one will follow the other. It allows me to walk through the valleys of shadow, knowing I will come out on the other side of light...wiser, stronger, filled with hope..

Happy Easter.
I'm glad I am not alone.

Off on Sick Leave

2010-03-30T20:59:00.003-03:00

Immersed in book editing and trying to sleep through strep throat.

Hoping for better days to come.

Men Working in Trees

2010-03-17T20:18:00.026-03:00

Sub-zero nights, sunshine days...here in southern New Brunswick, the maple sap is flowing like the Bay of Fundy. Spring is here.

Time for the sugar bush. A rite of spring here in the north. The work started weeks ago as the trees were tapped, lines strung and cans hung.

Now, curls of steam and smoke rise above the maple groves like signal fires. Some sugar shacks are new...like this one. See how straight it looks?

Inside, a shiny new evaporator boils the water from the sweet tree nectar. The sap works its way through compartments in the boiling pan, gradually becoming thicker and thicker as the water turns to steam, leaving the golden syrup behind.

The outside temperatures have been perfect and the sap has been running so fast that evaporators have been boiling all through the night for the past week, just to keep up.

This is a spile, drilled into the tree. The sap drips out into the bucket....drip...drip...drip...

In a small sugar bush, the sap cans are emptied by hand. On a larger property on a slope, it's much easier to have lines running from tree to tree down the hill, carrying the sap directly to the sugar shack.

This is one of my favourite sugar camps...big on character, light on square angles. I'd lean a bit too if I'd seen as many springs as it has....There's no better place to be, on a fine sunny, warm day.

Inside, the firebox is stoked full to the brim, heating the evaporator.

The evaporator cannot be left unmonitored. If it threatens to boil over, someone has to be there to drop in a pat of butter to stop the foam.

This evaporator is well over 60 years old. Come to think of it, so are the two guys watching the boil.

This is the fine part...after the hard work is done...the sap cans have been emptied into the storage barrel, the firebox is filled and sap is set to heat in the boiling pan. Now the guys can sit back and watch.

This is when you hear the very best stories. This is when the laughter starts.

Of course, then...there is supper at the sugar bush....ladling warm syrup right from the pan...but that's another story.

No wonder we look forward to spring.

This is Heaven.

Blessed be the Sun

2010-03-06T19:00:00.012-04:00

Hallelujah. This was a snow-falling-from-spruce kinda day. We haven't seen the sunshine for weeks...and weeks...and weeks. I know this has affected my mood. How blessed it is when light finally appears.

We hit the trail early with snowshoes, dodging the sudden snow-dumps and silently stalking deer-feeding-on-lichen. Then in mid-afternoon, I donned the cross-country skis, and took to the golf course...creeks running wild, sun in my face, gloveless...and praise be....hot - really hot - in my fleece sweater. My face was salty when I got done. I love that gritty feeling. It's better than a facial.

Even Callie had that extra glint-in-her-eye.

Wiggling, rolling, squirming, prancing, chewing sticks...her body language saying....

Don't get me wrong...I'm pure Canadian. I love winter - I revel in snowshoeing and skiing. I look forward to a good book and chai tea while storms bluster and rage...

...but that first warm day of spring when the sun grins and snuggles close...that first warm day, when the trees drip and sneeze, shrugging off their burden of snow...that first warm day, when my freckles march forth from pale hiding places...that is a deep-in-the-gut-glorious-sense-of-joy-and-love-of-life kinda day.

On days like this, I can sense the earth move. I can hear the trees shudder and sigh themselves awake. I can taste tomorrow. On days like this, I breathe deep and give thanks...for even though I know it is only a tease, a promise...that it will not last and there will be more blustery chai tea days before the crocuses poke through...today is to be lived with a great sigh of pure bliss.

Gone Fishing

2010-03-02T19:40:00.009-04:00

Recently, I've been wading through some turbulent times (see last week's post), finding myself in a position where I've been advantage of and treated poorly. I allowed it to happen because...well, I hate making waves. Inevitably, I swamped.

I ranted in anger, tossed and turned at night, had countless conversations with myself (in which I am righteously eloquent and effective), and wrote pages and pages and pages in my journal. (Damn it, even my tranquil woodland trail has been overrun with coyotes lately and I don't feel safe there. I'm thinking they've been drawn in by my angry energy.)

I've just been miserable. But I figured it was better to let it out, than to keep it inside.

It worked. I'm exorcised. Empty.

Now I can look for the fish. I no longer see turbulent water, but valuable feeding grounds. Now I can see what an opportunity this was for me.

I learned some valuable lessons through my turmoil. I learned to clearly define what I believe. Out loud. Put it to words. ( I believe...) That's the easy part. The hard part is pairing action with belief. If my actions do not uphold that belief, then I diminish it. It loses its value.

I recognized that in defense of my belief, I might have to take a terrible loss right now, but doing so for the right reasons would bring me long term gain far beyond what I can see from here. And I reached a place where I felt the risk was worth it.

My fish has a name. It's name is self-worth.

Turbulence

2010-02-23T21:41:00.014-04:00

When we were in Portugal a few years ago, I cringed whenever I spotted the many crazy fishermen, perched at the edge of the tallest cliffs, their great long fishing rods, bent and drooping to the crashing waves far below. They seemed quite comfortable there, on the edge of danger, but seeing them made my stomach flutter.

"Why do they do that?" I asked.

"It's where the best fish are," I was told. The turbulent, churning water at the base of the cliffs makes for prime feeding ground. So, these fishermen teeter at the edge, risking all for the best fish.

"Do they ever fall?" I asked.

"Sometimes."

I've found in recent weeks that there is some life wisdom in this. If we can manage the fear, the most tense, turbulent parts of our lives are where we find the best opportunities for growth.

But they are also the places where we encounter the highest risk.

So, it's up to us to decide...is the risk worth the gain?

Show me, don't tell me

2010-02-17T19:59:00.011-04:00

A couple years ago, we realized my baby girl was becoming deaf. It started with a sensitivity to loud noises like thunder and chain saws, then we began to realize she was losing her hearing. We were very grateful that we'd taught her hand signals in addition to vocal commands when she was a puppy.

We rely on this now. But, of course, she has to be looking at us to 'hear'.

She is now a 12 year old golden with the spirit and energy of a puppy, but she hears nothing. She sleeps alot. And soundly.

What I've noticed is that we've begun to treat her differently. We ensure we wake her with a gentle touch, so we don't startle her. We show our love (or dismay) through action and facial expression, rather than words. I'm sure she can read my lips. Sometimes she stares at me endlessly, looking for what? Acknowledgement, contact, recognition?

In short, we are more demonstrative. We use body language, facial expression and touch.

And, curiously enough, our concern for her has made us more aware of each other. It has become more important to show than to tell. I began to see how far away from this we had grown in our complacency. And how much I had missed it without even realizing it.

Caring for an Other's needs makes us less self-absorbed and more outwardly aware.

What worries me, is this. With so much attention and focus and obsession with texting and social networking...with the bulk of our interaction taking place with an iPod or Blackberry, will our society begin to lose its ability to read body language? Facial expression? Are we going to become touch-deficit?

What if the coming generation loses the intuitive recognition of the Other's feelings or needs? What then?

A Matter of Pride

2010-02-13T10:09:00.012-04:00

As I watched the amazing opening ceremonies of the Olympics last night, I felt an incredible swelling of pride in my country and its people. It is truly a blessed thing to be a Canadian.

Last night's show was a mesmerizing flowing narrative of Canada's history with Cirque-du-Soleil-like illusions, lighting and special effects. Throughout, I was very moved that the organizers chose to celebrate the heritage of our First Nations peoples with such beauty and grace and respect. It is their strength and endurance that this country was built upon...they who came first.

Of course, my blurry photos taken of the TV (NOT a big screen..) are bare hints of what it was really like. Spirit Bear above.

Then, today, in an e-conversation with BluAmaryllis, I was reminded of a trip to Belgium in 2003 when I ran a marathon for the Arthritis Society.

I had gone there feeling untethered. I was disillusioned with my national heritage and the politics of the day; as an English Canadian, I felt I had no real claim to a vibrant cultural community. I knew quite a bit about my family history, but it gave me no sense of past struggle or achievement that I could cling to as a legacy. In short, I had no firm identity.

A few days before the marathon, we did a tour of Flanders Fields, commonwealth cemeteries museums and memorial sites. This real life education made real my country's involvement in World War I. Although my easy life of freedom left me without the resources comprehend the enormity of the death and destruction, a realization of the echos created from sacrifice crept in. As our team sang O Canada at the Menin Gate, and laid wreaths for those who died defending another country's right to freedom, I wept openly. I still do, when I think of it all.

But, on the night before the marathon, as our entire team moved down an oceanside promenade in Oostende, Belgium in our Canadian jackets, carrying our Canadian flag, a number of older gentlemen stopped their evening stroll to stand at attention, saluting us as we passed. More than 85 years had passed and yet, they remembered and honoured the Canadians' contribution.

I was moved beyond words by this show of respect and recognition.

Recognition.

Sometimes you have to see yourself in the eyes of another to know who you are. I was born in this country - have never known anything else - but it wasn't until that very moment, that I truly became Canadian in my soul.

This then, is the residual value of the honour and courage of those who died so many years ago. And those who are dying today for the people of Afghanistan. The respect for their sacrifice has given me strength and conviction. It has given me pride and a reason to stand tall for what I believe in. Because I am Canadian.

A matter of place

2010-02-07T12:24:00.012-04:00

Just before Christmas, I saw an old friend from my childhood neighbourhood. She was in town for her mother's funeral. The last time we had connected, we were wrinkle- and worry-free teenagers. It seemed a lifetime had slipped by. As we shared highlights of the passing years, I mentioned how nice it would be to get together in a happier time. When would she be coming home again?

Her face fell. She didn't think she had a reason to come back, now that she had no family remaining here. She felt a little adrift, she said. Like she no longer had a home.

Her comments stirred a chord with me as I am an only child.

What will I be feeling when my parents are gone? Will this still be home? Or will a thread be broken? Will an unravelling begin?

I think the reason I enjoyed a The Good Earth so much is that it spoke to the part of me that has been exploring the idea of our connection to landscapes. Perhaps there is a part of me instinctively striving to find a firmer foundation, knowing that as the years pass, my family ties become more fragile and tenuous.

I am comfortable in my world beside the Bay of Fundy, like it whispers in a familiar voice from some time before my living memory and experience. I walk the forests unafraid, trace the coastline with curiosity, and feel a strange sense of pride - almost like ownership -when I discover something new and wondrous. I feel protective.

In the biographical book I just finished writing, a young Mary found herself alone, separated from family, home and possessions during the war. She survived, finding strength, solace and continuity in the natural world. So perhaps my interest is no coincidence...Perhaps her story is teaching me to do the same.

The Good Earth

2010-02-03T11:52:00.009-04:00

My book club has been reading 'The Good Earth' - a timeless classic written by Pearl S. Buck in 1931. It is one of those books that calls you to read sections over and over and then once more aloud for the lyrical beauty of the words.

It is a book about the life of Chinese peasants...about man's fundamental connection to place, to the earth -

"Wang Lung sat smoking, thinking of the silver as it had lain upon the table. It had come out of the earth, this silver, out of his earth that he ploughed and turned and spent himself upon. He took his life from this earth; drop by drop by his sweat he wrung food from it and from the food, silver."

I found myself quite literally wrapped into the story; Buck's simple descriptions bringing the grit of earth to my fingers and scent of it to my nose. It is a stunning book - not only by the simplicity and poetry of her writing, but the fact it was only her second novel (of dozens to come). I love how she pulled me along through images, the pace increasing until she said what she really wanted to say.

"Day by day, beneath the opulence of this city, Wang Lung lived in the foundations of poverty upon which it was laid. With the food spilling out of the markets, with the streets of the silk shops flying brilliant banners of black and red and orange silk to announce their wares, with rich men clothed in satin and in velvet, soft-fleshed rich men with their skin covered with garments of silk and their hands like flowers for softness and perfume and the beauty of idleness, with all of these for the regal beauty of the city, in that part where Wang Lung lived there was not food enough to feed savage hunger and no clothes enough to cover bones."

As I read, I marveled at the author's style and her skill in creating characters that evoked emotion. And how, with every turn, I found myself shaking my head...'no, don't go there Wang Lung...open your eyes....' And through it all, she showed how even very good people have a dark side - and that it is as much a part of who we are as the goodness.

As a writer, I think it is important to read such books, to dwell in them and to read them aloud so my ears can hear the music and rhythm of another's creativity.

Hidden Agendas

2010-01-27T19:27:00.014-04:00

My dad, who knows little about the Writer Life (other than the fact his daughter is always working) and who stopped inquiring 'how is the book coming?' about two years ago, finally asked, "So how much money are you going to make on this biography?"

"Dad, I couldn't tell you. I'll probably never be paid enough for the time and tears I've put into it."

He shook his head, having some small idea what the book has cost me. "I bet you won't do that again," he opined. He can't understand why someone would give up so much for so little.

Sometimes, neither can I, to be honest. I could have made an easier choice for my first book. There were some days (actually today is one of them!) when I thought there could not be a task more emotionally challenging than writing a biography on a living person. I was making a decent living as a freelance writer before I took last year off to write. It will take me many months to get my footing and find work again, so my personal and financial sacrifice to make this book a reality is significant.

No, it certainly wasn't illusions of grandeur or fame or wealth that spurred me on or even prompted me to tackle this project. So what was my agenda?

I have to say, this was one of the heart-projects. One of those things you know that you have to do, even though you don't know why or how you're going to do it or what will come of it.

Such is the power of story.

Some stories just have to be told. Mary Majka's is one of them.

Over a three year period, I had what I called, 'Thursdays with Mary', as we worked our way through the days of her 80 year old life. It was often painful for both of us. Many times I had to confront and reaffirm my reasons for continuing. Some days I ran away to sit by the shore and cry. But what I learned through the process is profound. I know the ripples (and aftershocks) created during these interviews will continue through my own life and lives of those who read the book.

It's hard not to measure our success by whether or not we reach our destination. But what about those little ripples we make as we journey along? Many ripples make a wave; waves travel long distances.

Who knows what shores they will reach? What people they will touch?

Grace for Haiti

2010-01-23T12:21:00.003-04:00

I cannot get the Haiti images and stories out of my mind.

A woman my age, pulled from the rubble after 7 days of entombment, singing praises and saying she had no doubt she would live. A 15-year-old teen, also encased for a week, listening to the cries of people dying below her, saying she wasn’t afraid. A mother, digging for three days for her baby...with her bare hands.

Such displays of faith and hope and strength humble me. I bow to these people and how they are teaching the world what it means to be alive. They do not sit by the sidelines, helplessly waiting for help to arrive. They are digging with their bare hands, caring for each other, sharing food, water and shelter, swallowing their tears to bury their dead.

Haiti's tragedy has brought the world together in the name of compassion to bear witness and respond to their loss. They have so little, yet they still live in a state of grace. How powerful is that?

Three Pounds, Seven Ounces

2010-01-18T19:17:00.025-04:00

The day started out like every other. I peeled back the covers, touched my feet to the floor and did a couple yoga stretches to loosen my back and un-kink my neck. I was halfway to the bathroom when Callie-dog reminded me today was B-day.

I was delivering my Book manuscript to the publisher.

The Book.

Seven years ago, I first began the research. Last year, I took a sabbatical from work to complete the actual writing. The past three months, I fought panic on a daily basis. Nighttime brought sweats and silly nightmares about forgotten interviews. I agonized over a single word for hours. I became a cliché.

Then, suddenly, it was finished. Final weight on delivery: 3 lbs. 7 oz. It seemed rather small, considering the time and tears it cost to build it.

P, Callie-dog and I drove two hours to the publisher in Fredericton. It seemed surreal. Just another road trip. We stopped at a café and had breakfast just like normal people. Bacon. Hashbrowns. A bucket of coffee. Nothing healthy.

G. met us and accompanied us to the publisher's office, as she should, considering the boatloads of moral support, Kleenex and editorial advice she contributed through the passage of years. She knows the story as well as I do. P. snapped my photo before I went in...don't I look grinny-faced? I already feel more than 3 lbs. 7 oz. lighter.

The receptionist looked at me queerly when I asked if there were balloons or a band or fireworks.

"First time author", I said in explanation. She forced a very teeny smile. "Sorry," she said, offering none of the above.

What? Even the vet gives out a rub behind the ear and a couple dog cookies.

I set my little bundle gently on her desk. "Three pounds, seven ounces." I said, suddenly feeling separation anxiety, knowing a team would now been involved in my baby's development. "I looked up at her, "What happens now?"

"Oh, I just date stamp it and stick it on the editor's desk," she said, turning her attention back to her mail.

Rather anti-climatic for seven year's work and half a head of grey hair, don't you think? I thought at least I'd get a handshake or a slap on the back...

I sighed and shuffled off, shoulders slumped, chin to the floor.

Ah well...disappointment didn't last long. We stopped for a lunch celebration at Isaac's Way in Fredericton, where I giggled and wiggled and downed a frosty mug of Rickard's White in spite of the cold outside.

For a little bit of time, it felt like the world had just become the sunniest, biggest place.

For a little bit of time, I felt as light as a feather. Now the editing begins...

I'm still alive...

2009-11-15T19:47:00.008-04:00

I'm in the final stages of my book, so have been wrapped entirely in last minute research, interviews, words and editing. I'm spending so many hours on it that I have little left over at the end of the day. My mind works on only one track. It's been quite a year and now is winding to a close. I wobble between excitement and fear, but it's not over yet.

I spoke to a teen journal writing class a few nights ago and talked about how, when Callie-dog was a pup, I held her in my hands, marveling at the tiny scrunched face, soulful eyes, velvet fur. I couldn't imagine how she would look as an adult dog. I wondered how her character would develop. Part of me was anxious to see what she would grow into, but the other part wanted to keep her small and cuddly.

When I started this book, it was much the same thing. I could see its potential - I could envision the faint outline, like a shape in the fog. I knew there was an amazing story to be told...but I was afraid to start because it wasn't entirely clear. I wasn't sure how it would grow and develop. How would I pull the story together? Would it turn out as I imagined? Or would it take on a life of its own?

It has shape-shifted on me...

...but I have shape-shifted, too.

Sharing the Nature of Words

2009-08-15T16:43:00.009-03:00

Last year, I held my first Write from the Soul workshop on the shores of the Bay of Fundy as a trial. I chose the beautiful and tranquil Artists Garden for the location, where artist, Karin Bach allows nature's own creativity and beauty to influence her art and life. It was magical. There, in Karin's peaceful oasis, we discovered how deeply a connection to nature can influence our own art and soul.

The workshop - which paired creative writing practice with yoga techniques - went so incredibly well, that it spurred an avalanche of ideas. I'm now working on a Nature of Words series of creative writing workshops that will lead participants outside the walls of the typical classroom and into creative spaces. Whenever possible, we'll explore the heart of nature where creativity lives and breathes.

Here are the first two in the series!

I believe each of us has a storehouse of creative gifts and the secret to a happy, purposeful life is found in unlocking that storehouse. And I also believe that learning is most effective in an environment that encourages creativity and calmness.

When we find something that makes our heart pound, isn't our first instinct to share it?

Finding Space ...

2009-08-14T16:52:00.009-03:00

"For words, like nature, half reveal, and half conceal the soul within."

Alfred Lord Tennyson

I've met so many people who say they wish they could write. When I suggest that they give it a try, they just look at me and shake their heads...'But I wouldn't know how to start.' Defeat. I can't sail a boat either, but then again, I've never really tried.

I've written about this in a previous posting. Writing isn't just about being published. It's about believing the stories that live inside you are of value. Whether its through words or art or music, our souls need expression...our stories need a voice.

When I first began writing a decade ago, I didn't know how to start either. But, I finally found the courage to let myself dream of being a writer. And when I made a commitment to take concrete steps toward that dream, somehow, the path opened in front of me.

But I had to take the first steps. I had to show I believed in myself.

Today, I look back on that time of my life and marvel at how, when I gave it the chance, serendipity stepped in and guided me down the most wonderful trail I can imagine. Writing has taken me to places I never would have explored and to people I never would have met. It's led me to a deeper understanding myself and life, allowed me to express and develop my thoughts, given me courage and confidence, helped me notice the exquisite detail of my world.

I believe everyone has a creative side. We need to provide a nurturing space to see what emerges. Do you think a flower can imagine all it will become, while it's still just a seed?

So, this summer, in addition to agonizing over my own book writing project (OK - this is the alter side of creativity!), I've put together a series of creative writing workshops with something for beginners and for seasoned writers.

And where else to hold them than where creation lives and breathes and blooms?

"Nature is the art of God."

Thomas Browne

Metamorphosis

2009-08-12T00:55:00.000-03:00

It seems inconceivable that I'm more than half way through the year I've allotted to write my book. I've been so focused on organizing, compiling, interviewing, gathering for this biography - this exploration...this observing and imaginal living of another's life...that sometimes the lines blur between her life and mine.

I've spent literally years dissecting the moments large and small in this life, and now I’m putting it back together again. And after spending so many hours trapped in the fullness and breath of a life tremendously lived, when I do pull away enough to touch myself again, I feel insignificant and insubstantial, like the empty shell left behind when the fledgling flies.

And meanwhile, my own everyday life surrounds my book life, like the white surrounds the yolk, protecting it, feeding it, as it grows into its intended shape and form. Sometimes I wonder, will there be anything of me left at the end of this?

At best, I contemplate with wonder the many ways I've grown and deepened. How my writing and thoughts have stretched. How my interests and views have metamorphosed. I marvel at how I've learned to accept daydreams and mindful meanderings as work.

At worst, I stave off leaden voices of defeat and wonder if I was truly in my right mind to chase a biography for my first foray into book writing. I berate myself for losing focus. I look at what I've written and wonder what imbecile took over my fingers when I wasn't looking.

It's become a tug of war between me and myself. But I'm determined to win.

Bird play

2009-07-20T20:22:00.002-03:00

My favourite songs of summer are the clear fluted trill of the hermit thrush and the peabody-peabody-peabody melody of the white-throated sparrow.

I wish I had a musical soul.

The thrush's call echoes each evening through the dusky forest, floating on a breath of green rain and moss, luring me to a game of hide n' seek. Sometimes I comply.

I wander about, ear tuned upward and trying to track this ethereal call...does it come from the right? From the left? The thrush eludes me...like a mischievous sprite...he flies deeper into the forest...but not too deep. I thrash through ferns knee-deep, swatting mosquitoes. Then he calls again..."Here I am..." Eventually, I give up.

And the white-throated sparrow..well his song just makes me smile. Except I'd never actually seen one.

Until the other day, when a resounding thud on my office window snapped my attention from my work (any excuse gratefully accepted).

A single feather remained stuck to the glass. I rushed outside, expecting to find a casualty. A shaken sparrow crouched below the window, feathers fluffed and fat. Upright, but eyes closed, unmoving.

After a while, when he still didn't move, I gathered him carefully in a towel and placed him under the covered porch, safe from cats and hawks. With my bird book in hand, I soon realized this was the little songster I so loved.

Mahogany rich, the auburn brushstroke of his feathers...cross-hatch as fine as fishbone...
Tiny beaded eyes...buttoned up snug as a scallop shell. Leftovers on his bill.

He shuddered steadily. I thought he might die...I breathed prayers....I wished....and sent energy his way...and then...right when I thought he would give up his little spunky spirit...

...his little brown eye suddenly, popped open and looked directly into mine. Directly. Into mine. He saw into me. Through me.

For that space in time, there was only him and me. Why does it tingle so, to be recognized...seen...by a wild creature? Why does it feel like such a miracle? Like I've been noticed by God?

Endure

2009-07-05T20:32:00.014-03:00

“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.”

Rachel Carson

This place quiets me with its voice,
Its soft and wild beauty,
This place that pulses in rhythm with
the most magnificent tides on the planet.

I am but one solitary witness.
I see and feel and listen,
but how can I find words to speak of it all?

Bay of Fundy whale sighting

2009-07-03T08:30:00.007-03:00

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?

2009-06-29T19:47:00.008-03:00

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

2009-06-15T21:50:00.012-03:00

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

2009-05-23T20:34:00.010-03:00

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?

2009-05-11T09:57:00.006-03:00

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

2009-05-04T20:46:00.019-03:00

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

2009-04-28T19:46:00.013-03:00

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?

What if we paid heed to childhood desires?

2009-04-27T16:54:00.006-03:00

A respectable number of people showed up for Reveille! an open mic event my writing association hosted last Wednesday as part of the Frye Literary Festival here in Moncton. It was pleasantly noisy, but not intimidating, with an appreciative crowd prone to good-natured heckling and howls.

We’d gathered to hear writers and others read from the words of their youth. It was meant to be an ‘awakening’ – hence the name, Reveille - a light-hearted, fun and liberating evening for writers and wannabe writers to give voice to their childhood self.

It was all those things and more.

As one writer after another rose to read diary entries, poems, short stories and letters they’d written as children, you could actually hear in the words, hints of the adults they became.

My own revelation came when I stood to recite, “I Want to be Free”, a morose epistle I penned at 16 yrs of age, while I was wallowing in the despair of a social life cut off at the knees. I’d been grounded and in an act of defiance, had skipped school and driven my mother’s car to the beach for the afternoon. There, I pulled out a school notebook and drained my frustration on the page.

Like seagulls against the sky so blue
Like waves upon the beach
I want to be free, oh yes I do,
But freedom’s beyond my reach.

Oh, the trees can whisper their secrets,
The grass can tell its tales,
But to everyone, I own a debt,
My reach for freedom fails…

I want to touch the cool, green trees,
I want to smell the flowers,
I want to forget about all my needs,
Or just while away the hours.

It goes on (and on....), but you get the drift... The audience howled appreciatively (assuaging my fears that they might not think it was funny…) and seemed very happy when I finished and sat down.

But in the midst of the silly words of my teenage melodrama, it hit me. Here I am, some 30 years later, professionally writing about nature.

My writing life has come full circle. I’m still captivated by trees, birds, landforms, ocean. I still seek out natural settings, beaches and beautiful places when I’m in need of comfort and inspiration.

I think of all the wasted years when I was not writing.

What if I’d had more faith in my childhood desires? What if I'd had more faith in myself?

MonctonWriters host Reveille! for the Frye Festival

2009-04-19T21:33:00.008-03:00

My writing association (MonctonWriters.ca) is hosting a very special open mic event in conjunction with Moncton's premiere international literary event - the Frye Festival). Here is the info...if you live in the Moncton area, we'd love to have you come down and share in the fun...Reveille! promises to be a hoot! Read on...

Are you a writer or wannabe writer (in the Moncton, NB area) who has saved everything you've ever put on paper? Then Reveille! is for you!

Reveille! Is an open mic event where anyone can share their childhood ‘writings’ with the audience.

Have you saved embarrassing diary entries from your youth?
Letters you wrote to your grandmother?
Short stories you crafted in junior high school?
Angst-filled poetry penned after your high school boyfriend/girlfriend dumped you?

Then come along and Reveille!

We want to hear what you wrote when the inner 'writer' in you first awakened. (hence: "Reveille – to awaken").

What you need to do: Bring your original work and be willing to stand up in front of the microphone and read it... with a straight face. The more cringe-worthy, the better!

When: Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Time: 7 to 9 p.m. (pre-registration at 7:00, readings start at 7:30)
Where: Moncton Press Club (160 Assomption Blvd)

Hosted by: Moncton Chapter of the Professional Writers Association of Canada (PWAC)

Special guests will be Author Sheree Fitch and CBC Information Morning host, Dave MacDonald (among others!)

Your Emcees for the evening will be PWAC members (and Times & Transcript columnists) Brian Cormier and Brett Anningson.

For more information, visit www.monctonwriters.ca (or leave a comment here!)

Traveling uncertain ground

2009-04-13T09:29:00.011-03:00

It was just an impromptu afternoon excursion with friends, a hike into the waterfalls on Memel Creek.

It would be hard walking; although fields were bare, forests were still thick with grainy cornmeal snow…in some places hip deep. In fact, I hadn’t been on a trail for weeks as my carefully groomed path no longer supported me, and the snow was too heavy and wet for snowshoes. But the forecast warned of two days of snow over Easter (and it was right!), so I wanted to take advantage of an outing before the fresh snowfall.

Armed with gators and trekking poles, we hiked partway, following a groomed snowmobile trail that provided good firm footing. But, once we stepped off the trail to cut through the woods and follow the creek, the snow was uncertain, sometimes holding our weight, other times giving way.

We lumbered along, stepping carefully and consciously; often what appeared firm collapsed or boots caught in covered underbrush and tangled in hidden bent saplings. However, we navigated to the swollen creek and falls without incident.

The noise and power of the spring runoff, surging around granite outcroppings and thundering off the precipice somehow quieted our group and each of us wandered alone for a bit to enjoy the surroundings.

The guys, of course, had typical guy fun.

Later, we heated water for hot chocolate and munched on sandwiches, fruit and cookies, appreciating the cold, clear tumble of water, the musky smell of damp earth, the joys of a first spring outing and easy friendships. A broken birch branch dripped sap slowly...but with steady rhythm...the heartbeat of trees.

We agreed that a life without nature would be empty, like a sky without stars.

The excursion reminded me that too often we are inclined to stick with what we know...the well-traveled paths created by others...easy known routes that are laid flat and firm.

But when we allow a sense of adventure to lead us off the easy route...to make our own path... as uncertain as the terrain may be, we are often courted by the unexpected, challenged by the unanticipated and graced by the uncommon.

And making that journey with friends brings closer ties and even greater reward.

Lifeblood of Trees

2009-04-05T19:22:00.015-03:00

Frosty nights, tepid days, snowbanks retreating from tree roots, dissolving into drifting mist…this is what coaxes the lifeblood from trees…

The freezing nights lift water from the roots of the drowsy sugar maple - like a sharp intake of breath caused by the cold. There the water mixes with stored sugars in the tree. A warm day expels the sweetened sap like a sigh…

All through the maple woods, thin spiles drip sap into metal cans and friends gather to help collect the clear liquid that fire will turn to gold.

Spring is simply not spring without a trip to the maple sugar camp, where wood smoke mingles with sweet sugary steam, drawing people....condensing community. As sap bubbles and evaporates into syrup, the solitude of winter bubbles and evaporates into the sweetness of laughter and camaraderie.

Like the tree, we also store our sugar...last year's gold...dispensing it throughout summer, fall, winter with care, trying to make it last. Then...one day...we tip the bottle upside down and the last drop is gone.

But spring arrives and we dare to dream of decadence again...glistening maple cream and warm maple syrup...then, finally...FINALLY...we welcome, with a deep, deep sigh, the first taste of spring.

Flip-Flop

2009-03-30T19:36:00.004-03:00

Yesterday, there I was... sitting on my deck, in a cotton t-shirt, capri pants and bare feet, reading a good book and watching the birds play hard to get....just humming a great little song, soaking up the sun and growing fresh freckles.

Today...well...that's a different story...

Even Callie is sulking....

Happy Earth Hour

2009-03-28T22:07:00.005-03:00

Here we are, celebrating Earth Hour.

Actually, I honoured our Earth all afternoon, it being a balmy 12 degrees and sunny...I could have spent the day doing housework, but then I would have missed this day...and it will never happen quite like this again.

So instead, I parked myself in a snowbank for an hour, just enjoying the sun and birdsong...(I heard the first white-throated sparrow of the year!), then when my backside got too cold I moved to a deck chair on the veranda.

Not much electricity used today.

What if fear was our guide?

2009-03-28T12:20:00.012-03:00

I just finished reading A Year by the Sea by Joan Anderson for the book club I belong to. It's the story of an 'unfinished woman', taking a sabbatical from her marriage by spending a year alone at her Cape Cod cottage.

In the book, after several weeks of hibernating, the author spontaneously hitches a boat ride to a small off-shore island, where she spends the day alone, swimming with seals.

Within our little group of women, this brought us to the topic of fear and how we cheat ourselves out of life's joyful abandon by allowing fear to dominate our choices.

It seemed serendipitous as earlier in the week, I'd had a conversation with someone I love about just that subject.

Most people think fearless people are courageous, but I think the antithesis of fear is surrender. I'm certainly not a brave person, but I've learned to combat fear by giving my apprehension over to the universe, surrendering the outcome to chance. And every time I do, I gain a little more confidence, a little more self-respect, a little more courage. If I want to defeat fear, there is no other way...I have to dive into it.

In Year by the Sea, just before she plunges into the unknown and swims with the seals, the author wonders if her need to control outcome has brought about her fear. "Why am I more cautious as I age instead of the other way around," she asks herself. "I wonder if it's all tied in to failure. I tend to forget my gains and remember only the losses. The failures have piled up, wreaking havoc with my confidence until, as an adult, I've become afraid to take chances."

But by trying to always control outcome, don't we cheat ourselves out of wondrous unknown possibility? Fear is a tool of the dark side...the negativity in our head that tries to keep us from becoming the whole person we are created to be. Each time fear creeps in, confidence and self-esteem seeps out. So, rather than equating fear with Avoidance, what if we equated it with Advantage?

What if we used fear as our guide? What if we used our fear to alert us to the areas of our life that we may most need to explore? What might we gain?

The Gathering

2009-03-22T18:00:00.008-03:00

Some of us had worked together for almost two decades. During that time, we’d spent a third of almost all our days together – from 8 to 4 – laughing, teasing, complaining, supporting, achieving, listening, sharing, eating, collaborating, raging, advising…sometimes even crying together.

We matured, gained and lost weight, swapped recipes, sprouted grey hairs. We married husbands, raised children and buried parents.

Now, a decade later, we gathered again to see if there was still a spark of our old relationships smouldering in the passage of time. Would it be the same? Or had we all changed and grown too far apart in our separate lives?

We hugged and laughed and caught up with each other for a full eight hours…just like the old work days.

It was like hearing an old familiar song...and discovering you still know the words.

We dusted off our memories and resurrected the achievements, surprises, stories, habits…we howled with laughter because one still didn’t finish her sentences and another was still delightfully scandalous and irreverent. We learned that the children who we'd watched grow up were now married with children of their own.

I found comfort in how little we’d changed through the years we’d been apart. Familiar facial expressions, gestures, patterns of speech…we recalled old nicknames, pranks and the laughter of the past.

We celebrated the relationships that had taken years to build, and I realized I’d probably spent more hours with these girls than I’d spent with my dearest friends. I know the colour of each woman’s eyes. I know that one hates pasta and peaches, another hates to hug. One tells all, another tells nothing.

It's taken me years to appreciate this.

Oh, the pleasure that comes from knowing, accepting and understanding a person…how she will respond or what will make her laugh, or how her eyes will tear when she does. We all agreed that we’d shared a very special time – one that will never come again because the world has since changed. That special synergy we created at that time of our lives cannot be duplicated.

And, we are all richer and wiser for the knowing.

What if we just have to listen?

2009-03-10T21:40:00.015-03:00

I am exploring this idea of place, and how it speaks and textures my writing. When in the presence of beauty, it's as if my heart opens and my words spring forward in flight. Other times, I turn inward and write slowly...deeply. I think I need both.

Landscape has such power to move ... consider how you choose an unmarked route through a forest...how the curves and hollows call and draw you forward...how obstacles cause you to pause and re-consider.

How it awakens our curiosity...we just have to know what lies around the next valley, or over the next rise, or beyond the next hilltop...

Consider how a mighty tree makes you look way, way up…dizzy...

...how a soft moss bed begs us for rest, and a tiny garden of mushrooms can pull us to our knees...

While, an open field causes us to feel joy...breathe deep and run with giddy laughter.

Boulders beg us to climb and warm ourselves on their shoulders…

...and then see how we are drawn to the horizon of a cliff, how the tickle in our belly delights us as we peer over the edge. We have to see what’s below.

We walk the edge of land and sea; we cannot refuse, it bathes our soul.

Landscape calls us out from our walls and freely gives us wisdom and emotion.

What if we just have to listen?

A gift of Uncommon Grace...

2009-03-02T18:25:00.007-04:00

When my friend told me the story of her daughter's pregnancy last year, my heart nearly broke in half. I could not conceive of her pain.

All had seemed normal with the pregnancy until an ultrasound showed that Myah was carrying a child with anencephaly, a disorder that causes the brain to not fully form.

In the days and months to come, Myah stood her ground against the advice of an army of doctors and specialists, who told her repeatedly she was carrying a child who could not see, feel, think or hear. She finally resorted to legal advice, fearing her daughter would not receive the compassion and care she deserved upon delivery.

Myah carried little Faith Hope to full term...celebrating the joys of her pregnancy the entire time, cherishing every moment of her daughter's growth. She saw her daughter (this child who 'could not think, feel or hear') sucking her thumb on the ultrasound, felt the baby kick and respond to music and her mother's touch.

Her blog tells the story of this tiny bit of a miracle child who, while she may not live long, is nonetheless living long enough to profoundly change lives. Daily, she shares her personality, spirit and joy with those who know her. I want you all to meet her, too...to feel the power of Faith.

This is a story of uncommon grace, strength, maturity and love. Myah's words are filled with hope and light and humour - there is no anger here, no sorrow. The maturity and wisdom of this young woman staggers me. Termination was never an option for Myah, who has an unshakable faith in God and his love. She trusts in His plan. Now her story is touching thousands of people across the web.

This is the story of Faith...

Thoughts of a winter past...

2009-02-27T18:37:00.011-04:00

So much for my snowshoe trail...it looks like Atlantic Canada is in for rain tomorrow...then more snow...we could get up to 50 cm in the coming 4 days. Seems like we are in for some nasty weather...not one big dump, but several days of 'flurries'.

All this snow talk sent me looking through some old photos for this image.

This was my parent's home on February 22, 2003. The snowfall, combined with high winds created this drift. The photo above appeared on the front page of our newspaper.

It took my husband awhile to shovel out the front door.

But eventually, he chopped his way through. He worked for about 8 hours that day.

When he finished, it looked like an igloo. Mom's tulips are under there somewhere...and her peonies, hostas, azaleas...all sleeping soundly...

The next day, they decided it would be best to get the weight off the roof, so my cousin came to help with snow removal. That's him on the roof. All day long, cars cruised by slowly, and people stopped to take pictures. They felt like a winter tourist attraction.

My husband commented that everyone brought a camera, but no one brought a shovel...

Only three weeks earlier, February4-5, 2003, we'd had a monster ice storm that destroyed thousands of hectares of trees, knocking out power for days...

So...now...what's a mere 50 cm? Certainly nothing to whine about....yet....

No Thoughts of Spring...

2009-02-26T01:42:00.000-04:00

Following every heavy snowfall, we do 'trail maintenance' behind our house, so a couple days ago, being a pleasant +2 Celsius, I set out to tramp our snowshoe trail through the woods and around a nearby duck pond.

While most of my friends have the new, lightweight aluminum snowshoes, I prefer my good ole "beaver tail" for navigating through deep snow.
After a couple of passes, the trail is 'set' (at least until the next snowfall!). It's hard work, tramping through the deep snow, but worthwhile...this will give us a firm foundation for walking later on in the spring. By April, we should be able to continue walking on the snow path without sinking. (I love the long, lean shadows of winter...)

It also makes the going much easier for Callie-dog, who is light enough to run freely in the tracks without sinking.

Of course, she does like to be the leader...and it's very hard to convince her to stay behind while I break the trail...

The snow is so deep now, that nothing heavier than a rabbit is moving through the forest....other than us, I mean...We had a feeder for the deer out back, but the snow's too deep for them now...They have moved into the village, where they can travel on roads and sleep in backyards, away from the coyotes. There are actually four in this photo. Two on the right, one lying down in the centre and the big one on the left. Thankfully, people do feed them.

Yes, the temperatures have been wonderful; there is warmth in the air, but spring is still a long way off. For now, I'm just enjoying every bit of winter.

My Dear Valentine

2009-02-13T14:49:00.005-04:00

A year ago, I wrote a series of articles on spousal abuse for Crossroads for Women. The following is one of them; it appeared in the Times & Transcript on February 11th. I'm not sure how long it will stay online...

My Dear Valentine:

This Valentine's Day, please don't tell me you love me with flowers and chocolates, or even a sappy card, just so you can brag to your friends that you earned brownie points. I'd rather have your undivided attention, just for an evening. It will cost you nothing but your time.

And don't bother buying me that last-minute guilt present or making empty promises you cannot keep. I'm smarter than that and my heart needs to be warmed more than once or twice a year.

Instead, love me in small ways; love me in the everyday things you do and with the words you say. Love me with a look, a touch, a gesture, a squeeze of my hand.

Love me today, like there may not be tomorrow.

Love me by encouraging me to be the best I can be, by understanding my need to be valued by you.

Love me by treating me as an equal, not a subordinate, or even a possession.

Love me by being pleased with my successes, not threatened. Love me by consciously choosing to speak a compliment, rather than voice an insult....

To read the rest, click here. Happy Valentines Day to all.

A Hillsborough history lesson

2009-02-07T11:20:00.010-04:00

I've had to laugh when I've visited other blogs lately and seen comments about spring and warm weather. Sometimes it's easy to forget in this global blog world, we don't all live in the same climate zone. Here, in Atlantic Canada...we just enjoyed a wonderful winter snowstorm that dumped about 20 cm in our yards. Spring is a long way off.

After a particularly bitter cold snap, I'm just beginning to enjoy winter! A week ago, following an ice storm that lay down a solid sheen of glass, the marsh surrounding my village gleamed like calm water. Small dips and lines of brush caught drifts of snow, rolling them like waves on the beach. I'm always amazed how nature finds ways to mimic itself...

During my walks on the marsh, I often dwell on what life must have been like for those who came before. I happen to live in one of the first villages settled by Acadian pioneers back in the early 1700's. Upon arriving on the Atlantic Coast in the early 1600's, the Acadians settled in the Annapolis Royal area of Nova Scotia, then gradually moved up the Bay of Fundy.

Three families - Thibodeau, Blanchard and Gaudet - seeking land for themselves and their descendants, sailed a small boat further up the bay to the areas now called Riverside-Albert,Hillsborough, and Memramcook. They were drawn to this place by the wide,grassy,salt marshes,similar to those of their homeland in France. Hillsborough was originally called Blanchard's Village for the family who settled here.

Twice a day, the tide covered these marshes, leaving behind algae and nutrients to enrich the soil. Like they did in Nova Scotia, as well, the Acadians of Blanchard's Village built a series of dykes along the edges of the marsh to keep out the tide, making the land suitable for crops and animals. They lived quietly here, until the Acadian Expulsion of 1755 when the British, fearful of rebellion, packed them on ships and sent them back to France or down the eastern seaboard to Louisiana.

When my German ancestors arrived a decade later, they rebuilt the dykes that today, I walk upon. The wide ridges curve in serpentine fashion, separating the high water of the Petitcodiac tidal river from the flat farmland now used for grazing cattle and growing fodder crops.

Their lives were so much harder than mine...I wonder if they ever paused to idly walk upon these same dykes...just for the sheer joy of it all.

Somehow, I am sure they did.

What a Wonderful World...

2009-02-04T19:25:00.001-04:00

I just had to post this video...

What if all that life asked of us was to be true to our nature?

2009-02-01T15:03:00.012-04:00

“To be what we are, and to become what we are capable of becoming, is the only end to life.”

Robert Louis Stevenson

A tree tries to be nothing, but a tree. All its energy goes into being a tree. A tree that stands alone, in the place where it belongs, grows straight and true.

But, in the web of life, a tree is more than a tree...
it gives of itself...sanctuary, shade, sustenance, splendour.

It is essential.

Through the years, I have spent much time and energy searching for my life's purpose, but I've come to believe it's been right here all along...tucked away, deep in my soul, patiently waiting to be recognized. Our Creator, who made us in His image, bestowed each one of us with our very own unique creative nature.

Our purpose is simply to use it.

But how often is this incredible gift - this Unique Secret Self - buried in a tangle of lies and emotion and denial? I'm not creative. I'm no one special. I can't do anything right. I'm not this, not that...

When we clear the path to our true nature - the essence of who we are - we open a channel to the supernatural....we connect with the nature of God. When we remove the clutter and distraction that threatens to choke out our creativity - the wellspring of who we were created to be - then the magical and mysterious happens.

Energy flows.

We stop pretending. We stretch.
We stand tall and firm...just as we were designed.

What if all that life asked of us was to simply be true to our nature?

The Music of Marsh

2009-01-18T19:11:00.012-04:00

“The least strain of music lifts me up above all the dust and mire of the universe. I soar or hover with clean skirts over the field of my life...”

“...It is ever life within life, in concentric spheres. The field wherein I toil or rust at any time is at the same time the field for such different kinds of life.”

Henry David Thoreau

I'm slowly finding familiarity with the music of the marsh...if not the orchestrated life it sustains. Here, predator and prey, crossing paths, sharing space, separated by time. How often do we also cross the path of another, out of sync...missed by a single beat?

Such an assortment of tunnels and tracks...what rich community life hides beneath the skirt of snow?

And above? A trio of turkey vultures...so awkward and hulking on land, they glide with silent grace in their element. One spied me...circled ever closer...coasting overhead for a curious glance.

Even in silence, there is harmony.

What if there is a place we belong?

2009-01-09T10:34:00.007-04:00

I met a woman at a writing workshop in Taos, NM last year. Long, grey hair, plaited in two braids, rested on the shawl draped on her shoulders. A muslin caftan hung to her hips over the burnt orange Indian cotton skirt that fell to her ankles. Pale, unpainted toes wrapped in brown leather thong sandals. In the 70’s, we used to call them Jesus-sandals. She wore no makeup.

“Are you from here?” I asked.

“No, Chicago.”

I paused, surprised and confused at the mixed messages. “You don’t look like you’re from Chicago.”

She looked at me oddly and cocked her head. “Funny you should say that…I don’t feel like I’m from Chicago.” We spoke for several more minutes, then parted company.

“I hope you find the place where you do belong,” I said. She smiled and laid a hand on her chest, “In the meantime, I carry it here with me.”

I believe I have found where my heart belongs: This little corner of New Brunswick with its gentle rolling hills, mixed forest, soft ponds, and sweeping marshlands juxtaposed against the mighty rhythmic tides of the Bay of Fundy. What more could I ask?

Right now, my home is cloistered…surrounded by trees…and I find great serenity walking amongst them, under the protection of their canopy, my eyes searching, searching; my ears listening, listening; my fingers reaching out to touch.

I also find myself in a season of introspection…sometimes almost in a dreamlike state. Once, I sought thought; now, I often stand still and let thought come to me…

This year will be a very different one for me. I have begun writing a book about a rather large life…a woman who finally found the place she belonged, then devoted her life to sharing the joys and gifts that place brought her. I have been gathering material for this book for several years…now is the time to settle in and let her story emerge on the page.

It's very intimidating - and humbling - to write about the life of another. But oh, so enlightening. In discovering her, I also discover myself. In discovering her world, I am discovering my own.

The Really Deep Christmas Questions

2008-12-27T11:47:00.019-04:00

The Week Before Christmas

The First Question: Hmm...what am I going to get my people for Christmas?

Christmas Eve

Wrapping Paper? Oh. I thought you said Scrapping Paper....

OK...so now, if I work really hard, can I get everything put together before tomorrow?

Sigh. How come I always cut off more than I can chew?

Why is Christmas so exhausting?

Christmas Morning

Did I get everything done? Am I really ready for Christmas?
Whew...Looks pretty good...I'm feeling quite proud of myself...

Who said giving was better than receiving?

Is that all? No more shredding?

So is this is Christmas?

Who's gonna clean up this mess?

What if people defined place?

2008-12-22T20:02:00.010-04:00

The great nature writer, Wallace Stegner wrote...

“A place is not a place until people have been born in it, have grown up in it, lived in it, known it, and died in it – have experienced and shaped it, as individuals, families, neighbourhoods, and communities, over more than one generation.”

In this merriest of seasons, take some quiet time to consider your own connections to place…the memories and thoughts that bring you comfort, the imprints you or others have left on your community or neighbourhood. What feels like hallowed ground to you? What echoes will you pass on to your children and grandchildren? How will your life affect theirs?

We need to realize we do not simply exist in the space occupied by our bodies. We are part of the cycles and rhythms of nature and life; the ripples of our passage here move ever outward. Christmas is a good time to consider how deeply our lives intersect with the people and the world around us.

Each of us leaves an indelible mark. Each of us helps define a place.

We are but one layer of many. Celebrate.

Christmas..Memory, Stone and Song...

2008-12-19T14:03:00.016-04:00

We attended a lovely carol sing at the Irving Memorial Chapel in the little seaside town of Bouctouche last evening with some friends. The small chapel, crafted of New Brunswick stone with a slate roof and interior beams of magnificent Douglas fir, was designed in tribute to the Irving family’s Scottish roots. (these photos were taken this fall).

It is a small chapel, but quite beautiful…located on a large tree plantation and garden overlooking Bouctouche Bay and surrounded by an amazing stone wall, each piece perfectly placed...crafted without mortar by Welsh and Scottish wallers.

We've always trusted stone to carry our stories forward, haven't we...to places beyond our limited horizons.

It could not have been a more perfect winter’s evening…a clear sky filled to the brim with stars…trees sparkling with white lights…fresh snow…chapel windows softly lit, echoes of piano and organ music…drifting...

There is something so essential and profound about the beauty of a small, intimate church at Christmas. As sweet voices floated upward in song, it struck me that the words were all right there...mortared in my heart…like the occasional old hymn or scripture verse that lifts to my mind unbidden...

How often have I rested on these old carols…time after time…year after year…they remind me that somewhere deep beneath the tasks of every day, lays a firm foundation set in place by my own ancestors.

I looked around at those present…many of us strangers … yet here together on this night, shoulder to shoulder…united by perhaps an unspoken desire for something solid...something beyond gifts and glitz...something worth clinging to.

As harmony lifted familiar words, I felt gratitude for roots…for foundations. For tradition. For trees and stone and the strength of my parents, grandparents...great-grandparents...and the beliefs they cherished and passed on.

And for the power and grace of a Christ-mas that still gives us a song to sing...a reason to celebrate...and remembrance.