Dec. 28, 2013
Imagination is essential to a fulfilling life. We are specks in the universe and it is our own stories that give us meaning. There are many external forces working against us from the moment we are born. They teach and shape our human selves. Through this process, we tend to forget that each of us is born with an internal force that has the power to eclipse anything that befalls us. Imagination transforms our worlds. It is true alchemy.
So many of us are walking around with stifled imaginations because we've accepted society's dictate that being taken seriously is much better than having a childlike view of the world. I'm realizing lately that society's values include a high percentage of bullshit (the kind that does nothing for plants). When the moments in our lives are infused with a healthy dollop of imagination, the tiniest things become meaningful and bring us joy. In a balanced environment, that joy transmits to others faster than anger, fear, and bullshit combined.
Mohandas Gandhi said, "The pure unadulterated love of one can nullify the hatred of millions." Little children are the best at expressing that love. We were all kids once and so have access to memories of that shining enthusiasm. Imagination is our ticket back to the time before we started hiding from the world and becoming obsessed with comfort and protection. It has been said that children adapt easier to changes in their environment. Maybe that's because they have curiosity going for them. Everything is a story just waiting to be discovered. These days, our fearful society is doing its best to wring that quality out of them. All it will take to overcome that trend is a kindling of our own childlike selves and a willingness to share the results. Happiness is extremely contagious.
Here is a small collection of photographic moments that sparked my imagination. I hope the year ahead is filled with your own wonderful moments, to which your imaginations can add the final sparkle. I am tired of wasting my imagination on worries. It's time to let it out and play together. All the best for 2014. Thanks for reading!
So many of us are walking around with stifled imaginations because we've accepted society's dictate that being taken seriously is much better than having a childlike view of the world. I'm realizing lately that society's values include a high percentage of bullshit (the kind that does nothing for plants). When the moments in our lives are infused with a healthy dollop of imagination, the tiniest things become meaningful and bring us joy. In a balanced environment, that joy transmits to others faster than anger, fear, and bullshit combined.
Mohandas Gandhi said, "The pure unadulterated love of one can nullify the hatred of millions." Little children are the best at expressing that love. We were all kids once and so have access to memories of that shining enthusiasm. Imagination is our ticket back to the time before we started hiding from the world and becoming obsessed with comfort and protection. It has been said that children adapt easier to changes in their environment. Maybe that's because they have curiosity going for them. Everything is a story just waiting to be discovered. These days, our fearful society is doing its best to wring that quality out of them. All it will take to overcome that trend is a kindling of our own childlike selves and a willingness to share the results. Happiness is extremely contagious.
Here is a small collection of photographic moments that sparked my imagination. I hope the year ahead is filled with your own wonderful moments, to which your imaginations can add the final sparkle. I am tired of wasting my imagination on worries. It's time to let it out and play together. All the best for 2014. Thanks for reading!
Dec. 11, 2013 Dog Days of Winter
Dec. 6, 2013
Dec. 5, 2013 First Snowfall
Dec. 3, 2013
Nov. 22, 2013
Here is our metasequoia, or dawn redwood, in its autumn glory. This photo was taken a couple of weeks ago, before it shed its needles for the winter. Last week, it was given a professional trimming, along with the other trees in our yard. This is still a young tree and we are shaping it toward its future as a tall, sturdy sentinel; a worthy counterpart of our giant yew. There is now just enough room to sit and read a book with my back resting against its trunk.
All of our trees are anonymous (with the exception of Juggernaut, our little Douglas fir). Even without names, I know them as individuals. Each brings a unique energy to our surroundings. I call them "our" trees as a way of indicating that they have our protection and care, not that we own them. When I take the time to stand or sit silently with them, they teach me new perspectives on life.
There are many ways to connect with a tree: placing a hand on bark or leaf, resting in the shade on a hot day, watering; climbing, or even putting up a swing and trusting the limb to hold. We recently took the swing down from our Garry oak so it can rest for the winter without having excess moisture trapped against its bark.
I think if people could understand the many ways that trees reach out to us in friendship, they would be more conscious of how they use them. I love wood products and I love trees. This does not have to be a contradiction. In Nature, there is a deep understanding of sacrifice. If there is a reason for a being to relinquish life, and its earthly form is used for a purpose, there is a type of harmony that results. That equilibrium is enhanced when the one who gained something from the sacrifice sends gratitude to the one who gave its life.
The honouring of individual life is lost with large-scale harvests of trees. The focus is on board-feet, not on the shelter and oxygen and soil-retention that the living tree once provided. There is no balance between what is lost and what is gained.
I once heard about a man who built wooden houses in Japan. He had to submit plans for the house and indicate how many trees he would need for this. He also had to say which specific trees he had selected and draw plans showing how he would make the required cuts of lumber from each tree. If this was approved, he could go cut down the trees and use them. There was no margin for error and there was very little waste.
Our giant yew tree grew on this land when it was still wild. More than thirty years ago, when the forest was cleared for the construction of a new neighbourhood, the logger in charge was a man who happened to love yew trees and dogwoods. He still prides himself on the fact he never cut any of them down. His principles preserved the spark of wildness in our yard. He gave me this gift long before we ever met. Somewhere there is a child who, years from now, will live here and love this land as much as I do. I hope the Garry oak, the redwood and the yew whisper stories to her about the time we spent together. Juggernaut will be far too lofty by then to chat.
All of our trees are anonymous (with the exception of Juggernaut, our little Douglas fir). Even without names, I know them as individuals. Each brings a unique energy to our surroundings. I call them "our" trees as a way of indicating that they have our protection and care, not that we own them. When I take the time to stand or sit silently with them, they teach me new perspectives on life.
There are many ways to connect with a tree: placing a hand on bark or leaf, resting in the shade on a hot day, watering; climbing, or even putting up a swing and trusting the limb to hold. We recently took the swing down from our Garry oak so it can rest for the winter without having excess moisture trapped against its bark.
I think if people could understand the many ways that trees reach out to us in friendship, they would be more conscious of how they use them. I love wood products and I love trees. This does not have to be a contradiction. In Nature, there is a deep understanding of sacrifice. If there is a reason for a being to relinquish life, and its earthly form is used for a purpose, there is a type of harmony that results. That equilibrium is enhanced when the one who gained something from the sacrifice sends gratitude to the one who gave its life.
The honouring of individual life is lost with large-scale harvests of trees. The focus is on board-feet, not on the shelter and oxygen and soil-retention that the living tree once provided. There is no balance between what is lost and what is gained.
I once heard about a man who built wooden houses in Japan. He had to submit plans for the house and indicate how many trees he would need for this. He also had to say which specific trees he had selected and draw plans showing how he would make the required cuts of lumber from each tree. If this was approved, he could go cut down the trees and use them. There was no margin for error and there was very little waste.
Our giant yew tree grew on this land when it was still wild. More than thirty years ago, when the forest was cleared for the construction of a new neighbourhood, the logger in charge was a man who happened to love yew trees and dogwoods. He still prides himself on the fact he never cut any of them down. His principles preserved the spark of wildness in our yard. He gave me this gift long before we ever met. Somewhere there is a child who, years from now, will live here and love this land as much as I do. I hope the Garry oak, the redwood and the yew whisper stories to her about the time we spent together. Juggernaut will be far too lofty by then to chat.
Nov. 18, 2013
Nov. 11, 2013
Oct. 21, 2013
Oct. 10, 2013
I hold my music inside. It builds. I listen to the world's song and await my entrance. Some passages are tangled and dissonant. I am afraid of them. I wait longer. Some lines are full of exquisite beauty. They flow around me, brilliant lights made into sound. I am mute with joy. My music reaches for those lines. Fear trails a sharp fingernail across my throat. It is accustomed to my full attention. "You don't want to cast your shadow," it says. "Keep your peace."
I am not peaceful, though. Music shakes my insides. (Wild creatures don't do well in cages.) Life's orchestra is patient. It plays an intro seamlessly, in one style after another. Days or years later, I open my mouth. With one shuddering breath, my song is free: a barely audible thread, drifting like spidersilk around the room. I open a window. My voice builds. Fear says, "Tsk, tsk." I appreciate the percussion. My music weaves into the world's song. I open a door.
Sept. 23, 2013
Sept. 7, 2013 Harvest
Sept. 4, 2013 Pumpkin Update
August 30, 2013
Happy Birthday to my lovely grandparents. You were extraordinary and creative people in this world. Some of the many titles that moved through your lives were: beekeepers, farmers, artists, humanitarians and wonderful partners. You built a strong foundation for our family. I am sure that your love has carried you into new adventures, wherever it was that your spirits travelled without bodies attached. May our great big love find you there and surround you continuously. (As you see, we're still feeding the bees.)
August 10, 2013I wandered outside as the sun sank behind the mountains. The flower garden glowed in the tangerine light. A few blooms were withered so I plucked them, which led to a bit of weeding. Perching on the rocks beside the path, I worked my way along amid daydreams tinged with the shifting colours of sky. After a few minutes, I stared up at a luminous pink contrail. A dragonfly zipped past my ear, circled around and flew straight for me. Its flight path veered and outlined my head and left shoulder. The dragonfly then patrolled up and down the rock border, making figure-eights through the cloud of insects forming around me. Whenever it caught something bigger than a mosquito, I heard the crinkling sound of mandibles on wings. A Sesame Street-like voiceover popped into my imagination: "Thank you for tuning in. This sunset was brought to you, bite-free, by your very own guardian dragon." I sent out a big wave of gratitude. Guardian dragons are like guardian angels, except you get to watch them eat whatever is plotting against you. |
Pumpkin Update
August 9, 2013
This ladybug larva is full of aphids and ready to pupate, but it still has time to rest in the green-filtered light of a fireweed leaf. Often when I feel ready to move on to the next phase of something, I get antsy. I pace around, seeking direction. I avoid the discomfort of this heightened energy by doing chores while my mind busily flips through lists of its favourite ambitions.
Considering the radical change this insect is about to make, I marvel at its state of relaxation. I begin to realize how my nervous habits have undermined any transformation. By the time I have my direction, I've lost the energy to follow it through.
The time of the ladybug's change will arrive and it will take the necessary steps when it does. For now, it is only concerned with movements according to temperature or camouflage. It will find an anchoring point and the process will unfold on its own. It has everything it needs. Being present is the only requirement.
July 12, 2013
This year I am much more focused on flowers than veggies. The reason for this is that my garden plots need a major overhaul and I am avoiding doing the kind of digging that triggers nasty headaches. If I could just keep myself limited to small sections it would be done painlessly in a short time.
There is a phenomenon with outdoor manual labour, though, that once started, it is very difficult to stop. This is the kind of work that is deeply satisfying. After seeing ideas take shape in the landscape, I can sit down at the end of the day, happily exhausted. Today I pruned our big rhododendron, which gave me a similar sense of accomplishment without the chain gang aftertaste.
Maybe I'm working up to taking out the tussocks of grass that were a quick but not too smart way to define the veggie garden tiers. They suck up nutrients and grow into the garden faster than the food plants can stretch out and claim space. Thankfully we composted last year's Hallowe'en pumpkins in the manure pile or we'd be practically without harvest prospects.
June 25, 2013
June 1, 2013 The Multiple Guises of the Fluffy Golden Tree Cat -- A Photo Essay
May 29, 2013Rarely seen, metallic green bees do live around here, but don't emerge when I have my camera handy. When they do land, they stomp around, yelling at extremely high frequencies, so the few photos I've taken are blurry. I might be able to pass off some of the extreme close-ups as a flamboyant species of Sasquatch. Not this one, though. It's my best shot so far. Halictid bees are beautiful, tiny bees that seem to love wood. This one came to explore the reinforcement that my dad built onto our deck so that we could attach a clothesline without pulling the whole house down. (He's been working as hard as all the bees at our place.) I've been searching out pictures of halictids on the internet. The closest images I found to this one show the bees sitting on purple coneflowers. The next time I'm at the farmer's market, I will pick up an echinacea plant or two to make sure they have their favourite items on our local menu. Then I will stalk them on a sunny day and get clearer pictures. |
May 28, 2013
A few weeks ago, my dad helped me put up a house for blue orchard mason bees. Within two weeks all the tubes were filled with next year's brood and all I had to do was turn away the jumping spiders that started hanging around the construction site.
The day after this was attached to my house, some opportunistic sparrows thought they might move in. They soon took on a resemblance to quail, question marks dangling over their heads: "Ooh, Neville, isn't it loov-leh? Erm...how does one get in?"
"Well, there's a gap near the top...errrr... Never mind, Edith, dear. It's not up to our standard. Come along."
The mason bees would have loved to be given a whole wall of these houses, but they found other crannies to store a few extra larvae. The wind chimes hanging outside our window now have mud caps on their ends. We may have a few musical bees next year, but if it's a windy winter, they'll hatch as deaf as Beethoven.
In early spring, I can slide the tubes out of the house and bundle them carefully into the little built-in attic. Then I'll put fresh tubes into the holes, ready for the new bees to emerge and fill them up.
These little bees only sting if you try to pick them up like kittens. They are some of the first insects to wake up and start pollinating the blossoms, so fruit crops are enhanced by their presence. I especially love their way of relaxed industry. If I could guarantee honeybees a good life under my care, I would offer them a home. For now this is my gateway hive.
The day after this was attached to my house, some opportunistic sparrows thought they might move in. They soon took on a resemblance to quail, question marks dangling over their heads: "Ooh, Neville, isn't it loov-leh? Erm...how does one get in?"
"Well, there's a gap near the top...errrr... Never mind, Edith, dear. It's not up to our standard. Come along."
The mason bees would have loved to be given a whole wall of these houses, but they found other crannies to store a few extra larvae. The wind chimes hanging outside our window now have mud caps on their ends. We may have a few musical bees next year, but if it's a windy winter, they'll hatch as deaf as Beethoven.
In early spring, I can slide the tubes out of the house and bundle them carefully into the little built-in attic. Then I'll put fresh tubes into the holes, ready for the new bees to emerge and fill them up.
These little bees only sting if you try to pick them up like kittens. They are some of the first insects to wake up and start pollinating the blossoms, so fruit crops are enhanced by their presence. I especially love their way of relaxed industry. If I could guarantee honeybees a good life under my care, I would offer them a home. For now this is my gateway hive.
May 22, 2013While I was busy singing, the flowers decided to form a choir of their own. They've attracted an audience of worms, bees, hoverflies, butterflies, dragonflies, deer, robins, pine siskins, hummingbirds and other fauna. My morning strolls amid their harmony have helped me through some very stressful months. Their colours have guided me back to a more sane pace of life. Now I can hang laundry out on the line and spend the day checking on them and catching up on all the small but important tasks that were swept aside by my busy-ness. I was doing no more than most people and less than others, but it was enough to lose my balance and set my mind into panic mode. That has passed now and I can breathe again. It leaves me with a big question, though. When I go out and experience new activities that I love, why is it that after a while they morph from exciting opportunities into joyless tasks? Maybe it's the same with people whose main challenge in life is finding the right relationship. They're looking for that initial emotional rush and thinking if they're with the right partner that the fireworks will never end. When it does, they move on. My challenge is more career-oriented. This time, I'm not moving on. I'm going to scale down the amount of activity without changing the activity. My love for music hasn't died, but my endurance of commuting stress and performance nerves is at neap tide. One choir is better than two. Besides, it's time to finish one of the books I've started. I'll need to sit down long enough to pick up a pen. If I must multi-task, I can always scribble a few chapters while watching clothes dry in the sun. |
April 24, 2013
The maples are full of birds this morning. I made myself seasick trying to spot them with my binoculars.
Better just to relax and listen to the concert while the morning sun warms my back. A great friend of mine loves this stage of the maples' year. She says they've put on their golden earrings. It IS concert season. Why not get a little gussied up and break out your inner diva?
March 31, 2013
The Easter squirrel was taking a few minutes to sleep in the sun the other day in preparation for all the basket-carrying and egg-hiding. People around here say this species of squirrel would rather eat the eggs itself and then see if it could catch a bird too. I know what havoc alien species cause in the environment and it is a real problem. However, I can't help but enjoy watching the acrobatics of these little ones, leaping and running through the oaks. Don't forget this one has a job to do. Think of all the disappointed munchkins out there today if I hadn't just let it rest and enjoyed the fact that this creature felt safe enough to sleep in my Douglas fir tree. Oh, wait. I'm getting it mixed up with that invasive bunny who spreads the scourge of cheap chocolate in our community. I can't forget that I am part of a race of people who invaded this land and are still wreaking havoc on the environment. However, I was born in this part of the world. This is my home. It nourishes me in so many ways. The challenge is to find a way to give back even a small portion of the support I receive every day. So far the squirrels and I have planted a lot of trees and sunflowers here. Maybe if we rest in the sun together, we can dream away the oil companies too. |
March 7, 2013 Crocuses and rosemary flowers are only a selection of the flowers we've welcomed this early spring. With a few more sunny days, we might start seeing bees. The frosts are still heavy, though, so I hope they'll be wearing fur.
I saw a couple of early rising queen wasps in a bucket of water outside. One was still alive, so I put her in the apple tree to dry in the sun and to try find shelter before night fell. She stalked away, joints moving stiffly as an old matriarch's. |
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Feb. 12, 2013
The light is returning. Soon vultures will come back to drift around in the same updrafts that clear the fog from winter dawn. Then the swallows will arrive, chirping happily as they swoop around, thinning the first waves of mosquitoes. Each day new voices are joining the morning chorus: robin, thrush, flicker, kinglet, chickadee.
At this time of year, I become mired in winterdark. The shade chills my bones and only the sun brings relief. Clear days are rare. Still, bulbs are pushing new leaves into the world: snowdrop, tulip, daffodil, bluebell. These green-clad heralds invite me to drop my gloomy cloak and go out to meet the light.
Jan. 20, 2013
No, it's not a totem pole from an alien world. It's a persistent brussels sprout. The deer have been working it over since last spring and I'm inclined to let it flower and complete its life cycle without any interference from me. Still a few weeks 'til it gets warm enough for that, though. I'm getting twitchy.
We had some sunshine today and I started deadheading rhododendrons. I have a hedge to finish planting, so it's going to be digging for the next month and then I can reward myself with a bit of weeding.
Nobody ever told me just how dependent I'd become on puttering in my garden. I should have known. I'd always walk past houses in early spring and see people with goofy hats working outside as if they couldn't wait to get their hands dirty. Most of them were rosy-cheeked and looked happy. The odd one who grimaced had obviously been coerced into the job by a partner.
When I go outside to work in my garden, time stops. I wander from place to place, seeing what is really there in front of me and interacting with it. I'm not distracted by phone, internet, television, advertising or anything else separate from the natural world. I am often diverted by birds, by cats, by people walking and insects posing. Those kinds of interactions bring me back to myself. Rather than scattering like wasps out of a fallen nest, my thoughts are calmed. The day stretches to a length that invites possibility and quenches fatigue.
New Year 2013
Time to unwrap all those hopes and dreams and work with them!
I was just considering that, for me, the word "consequences" has always had negative connotations. I learned early in life that if I did something bad, there were consequences (usually painful).
This year I'm going to explore the positive connotations. Breaking down big dreams into small attainable pieces that are accomplished each day will bring me either the dream or something better. It's inevitable.