Dunroamin Diaries

Water issues in February

2012-02-17T10:53:00.000-08:00

     Apologies for my long absence.   We've been busy with water issues; rain and our water pipes exploding in early December. This relatively modern cabin with expected amenities has reverted to being a rustic cabin again and we're ready for it. The over sized pails in the kitchen and bathroom are hardly noticeable and we are ever more mindful of how much water we use. Grateful too for the medieval themed outhouse. It's rewarding for us to note that we currently live with 55 gallons of water a week. That's with traditional bathing in the sauna and laundry in Carcross (which turns out to be an unexpected community bonus with random visits). The fortunate thing for us is that we have a clean body of water right outside our front door. It's just a matter of carving out a hole with my new auger through 3 feet of ice, filling the blue jugs and hauling them up the hill. Imagine how buff we'll look by spring! I am so grateful that one of us is home full time to handle the extra work.
     Plus there's been rain in February, in the Yukon. I blame our busted pipes on this warm weather, so much extreme change is too harsh and erratic on this system. Still, we rejoice in the spring-like weather and parade around the wood pile in light fleece jackets, even without toques sometimes. Skiing on the lake, with the sun on our pale faces, has been fantastic.
     But then we encounter unusual icy patches on our paths and stairs and shovel heavy loads of slush. The sidewalks in Whitehorse are mushy and brown. Great for snowman building, not something we have a lot of training in usually. It's the kind of winter misery I left behind in my Maritime youth. Its a hard concept to explain, the difference between a wet and dry climate when it comes to the cold. We are like Arizona with the smallest desert in the world in our neighbourhood. What this means for us is crispy granulated fluffy snow, not the smiling rotund stacked type with carrot noses.
   Part of me wants this mild weather to continue until spring (May) when we can dig up a new trench for a slick new water system but I suffer some guilt too knowing there is a price to be paid. It's just not normal, all over the world we can share stories of disturbing weather patterns. Climate change is here. We, the Skookum minority would relish a steady -15 to -20C weather to give us a sense of peace in the world.

Buddha's Hat & risotto recipe

2011-10-08T17:47:00.000-07:00

View from the kitchen sink.

Dear Kindred Spirits,
I'm not sure if you have a Buddha living at your house, but if he lives outside like ours, it might be time to get him geared up for winter. First, find an acorn squash at the grocery store, or if you're really lucky, at the farmers market. Look for one with a funky stem. Cut the top of the squash so that the circumference is about 3 inches across. It'll look like a flower looking down at it. Now find a sunny windowsill and let this part dry for a few weeks. You'll see over time, how it'll curl in on itself and form a bit of a 'hat'. When it's almost dry, put it on Buddha's head for a form fit. The final results will be very satisfying and make you laugh every time you look at it. Maybe the local squirrels will discover it too, it won't interrupt the joy factor in the long run.
Risotto Recipe; all measurements are approximate. Peel the above mentioned acorn squash, take out seeds and boil or bake until done but firm. You'll know it's ready when you mash it and it'll break down but still have lumps in it. Lumps are yummy. Add vegetable or chicken broth so that you have about 5 cups of liquid in all, simmering. In a large cast iron cooking pot, fry an onion and 5-6 cloves of garlic. When well cooked pour in about 1/2 cup of white wine. Now pour in about 1.5 or 2 cups of Arborio rice (also known as sushi rice), these are fatter and rounder grains. Stir the rice into the wine, onion and garlic mixture until the rice is translucent, about 2-3 minutes. Then add about a 1/2 cup of your squash liquid, keep stirring, as it thickens, add more liquid when it gets goopy. This is the basic combination; keep adding liquid until it's all gone and the rice is tender in a kind of sauce - a long process without a glass of wine. It's good to have and use lots of liquid to make your risotto nice and gooey. As the rice reaches it's right texture, add grated cheese. We like to use Cheddar, blue cheese or Swiss or a combination. This usually makes a large pot so the second night you can make risotto cakes by making patties, dipping them in bread crumbs and frying. Top with pesto/sour cream sauce. Asparagus is a nice side dish.

Amsterdam Sandwich Shop

2011-10-08T17:40:00.000-07:00

Formal entrance way

     Funny where ideas and inspirations come from and how long they steep and peculate before erupting into a new form. In the spring of 2001, I visited friends in Holland who are close to my heart and sensibilities. Karin and Anne-Marie guided me with great care and humour and would routinely say to shop keepers and relatives alike that I lived in a cabin in the Yukon bush, in a community of 24 people. I was grateful for this ready explanation because I often felt out of sorts and discombobulated with the hectic rhythm of the place. Especially in Amsterdam where I could only handle so much before heading south on a train back to Anne-Marie's sanctuary.
     On one visit to the capital city, they took me to a tiny sandwich shop near the red light district bordering Chinatown in Karin's neighbourhood. This place was completely unnoticeable to me, only blending into the many doorways conveniently coexisting in an orderly barrage of chaos. We ordered a type of grilled thing with coffee and we were each served on a different style of plate and cup. This is what caught my attention and I learned that just about every item in this place was for sale; the dishes, the tables and chairs... The owners were collectors of interesting bits and kept an assortment of second hand treasures in a narrow mezzanine overhead, open to the curious and the interested. I came home with a simple plate and idea.
     So in the spirit of that tiny hole-in-the-wall in that place far away whose name I never knew, I wanted to present the same concept here at the lake, with the Curiosity Shop. It's full of things we collect in our travels in exotic locations like Guatemala, Africa, even Holland. When we travel we also collect beads, paper and fabrics to then turn into other things here during the long winter months. Plus the shop has stuff that I've unearthed, collected and loved that other people would call antiques and vintage, that are ready to move on to other homes to be loved and re-purposed.

Searching for our mentor Jim Geenan

2011-09-21T20:09:00.000-07:00

Jim at his 50th birthday party, Las Playas, Ecuador, 1996.

Dear Jim,

It`s really too bad we`ve lost track of each other. There`s so much to tell you, especially in the way you`ve inspired us. I last heard you moved back to the states after all those years away – it must be strange to return. I`d love to know of your adjustment process.

I think of you most often when we prepare for guests at our lakeside home, arranging flower pots, choosing the right linen table cloth, and accentuating our local quirkiness with beaver chewed sticks. I think of your excitement and unregistered enthusiasm when we visited all those villages in the Philippines, how many was it…20 or 30…You were fresh from the conference where you met Robertson in Montreal called `International Institute Promoting Peace Through Tourism`. You couldn`t wait to share the bounty of new knowledge.

You`d have us get up at 3am sometimes, at our little pensione in Manila, to take flights to mountain villages, or beach side ones and everything in between. I remember a moonlit bushwhack without supplies other than clove cigarettes. We got lost, no one around, no food, no water, no clear destination but I felt I could follow you and Robertson anywhere, unafraid. In the end you did not disappoint us, we were proud to be part of your team.

You were a one man show and we were your entourage taking photos and writing inspirational stories focusing on the villages, projects and people along the way. You were desperate to find creative ways to keep people in their homes and not migrate away like the millions before. The first time I ever heard words like bio-diversity, eco-tourism and perma-culture was from you, cutting edge concepts in the late `90`s. You explained it all with giddy patience, waving your arms around adding to the drama to your extra tall stature, as if to draw out the obvious magic of the place. Saying things like `Will you look at this cashew tree and this pomegranate together, alongside this bamboo hut on stilts! Wouldn`t a tourist love to come here and pick these with you, see how you prepare them and hear some stories of your life here…`

Jim, you were untiring with your wisdom and your love of people so different than us. I just want you to know that though often times, you felt that your voice was not heard, that your ideas were maybe considered too radical, someone was paying attention and taking really good notes.

Where did "Dunroamin'" come from?

2011-08-24T21:32:00.000-07:00

     Behind the legislature buildings in Victoria, there is a old humble historical house wedged in tall overgrown trees with a tiny sign above the door "Dunroamin'". This was spotted years ago when I lived there while aimlessly wandering around; I doubt I'd be able to find it now. It doesn't matter, what's important is the feeling it immediately captured for me. The sign read like an exclamation point, as if to say, this is it! It took a lot of searching and adventures to finally decide where I need to be. It's compact stature declared that the residents didn't need much and had their memories to keep them entertained. At least, that's what it told me as I stood there to admire the little house.
     A few years later I met Rob and together we set off of a wild adventure lasting several years; starting in South East Asia and ending in South America. Near the end, feeling tired of living out of a backpack and ready to plant some roots, we were living in an Andean mountain town near the border of Peru. I loved Cuenca, it's cobbled stone streets, the cafes and ice cream parlours, Spanish architecture, the Saturday market when Indegenous people came down from their villages to sell their flowers behind the blue domed cathedral, the quirky characters, even it's dogs that lingered in doorways. I cried when we left there.
     Cuenca was known as a center for ceramics for Ecuador. Longing for a place we knew we had yet to discover inspired me to custom order this plaque. Having it displayed in our adobe house was a mark of serious intention. I knew that someday the right place would come along that would fulfill the same sentiments of that little house in Victoria.
     Back in the Yukon, as we prepared to leave for Columbia, our last posting, Rob found a photo of this house at a real estate office. We were living in his bachelor pad, a wee cabin without a door knob and a giant frost heave directly under the oil barrel wood stove. Ever so casually, he placed the photos on the table and said "I'm buying this". It was 2 weeks before Christmas, during an economic downturn and people were leave the Yukon in droves. The house hadn't been lived in for a few years. The realtor was not eager to drive all the way out here to show it to us, maybe it had to do with the time of year - apparently no one buys houses in December - or it could have been Rob's jacket with duct tape on the elbows. We trudged through thigh deep snow banks and instantly recognized that this was it. Without looking at any other houses, we declared confidently, yes, thank you, we'll take it.

Leaving the Day Job

2011-07-26T09:27:00.000-07:00

Photo: Returning from raiding Jeanine's rhubarb patch. Nice view of the new English garden, eh?

"Retirement" some people are calling it, but to me leaving my day job is more of a re-evaluation, a re-structuring of my time at the lake and to ponder "what's next", while focusing intently on being fully present. Here. Why be anywhere else when it's so amazingly beautiful here?

These are times to visit neighbours (and put their forgotten crops to good use, such as rhubarb compote) and feed on their passions for a while. Time to plant that grapefruit seed I found that was already sprouting or to haul rocks from the local rock slide for a special flower bed or to experiment in the garden or to make a giant batch of pesto from the jungle of basil in the greenhouse. Time to visit with guests who wander by and to tell them stories of why we choose to live in such a remote place so far away.

Personally, as much as I've tried to do the sensible career thing, it never seems to be sustainable, for one reason or another. Maybe it's my attachment to this place, an hour away from the city. Or maybe it's my lack of understanding of retirement, seeing as I've spent much of my life semi-retired anyway. I've learned to live with less, be mindful of money being a tool and not an identifier of who I am. Don't we all need something to do that's uniquely ours? A purpose, some expression of joy? Something to keep our energy juicy? I figure if we've prepared ourselves properly, there won't be the dreaded ailments of aging, such as boredom and loneliness. For me, being creative has been my main salvation and salve that gives me meaning and to be able to share this with other questioning and wandering souls is a blessed opportunity.

Dear Louise,

2011-06-05T23:04:00.000-07:00

     You'd be surprised at how often I think of you. So I thought I'd sit down and tell you of a good memory I have of you. I remember when I first saw you in grade 6, at Notre Dame. You were the new kid in school and you had a certain confidence that comes from moving around a lot. Your French was very mature and different from our dialect. I wasn't sure what to make of you and so I kept my distance. Then one day in class you mentioned to everyone that your brother actually had a stick that a beaver had chewed on! I was completely enraptured by this idea of possessing such a marvel from nature. So much so, that I decided to do a big project on beavers and on my cover page, I glued a nickel. I was impressed by my cleaver ingenuity. Sadly, the nickel did not return with the paper. A nickel back in 1972 meant a chocolate fudge sickle! I blamed Raymond somebody, not sure why.
   All these years later, I find myself thinking of this while canoeing on our lake, doing what I love best - collecting beaver chewed sticks. The plan is to make an awning off the sauna, completely with this harvest. Can you imagine something as beautiful as that? Lately, fat ones have been availing themselves. So there's a fence waiting to be created somewhere. Last fall during a gray, cloudy, misty day, a red canoe pulled up with a girl in a yellow rain coat. She had a gift of many smaller freshly polished beaver chewed sticks for me and she piled them on our dock. I've made a rustic lattice out of it for the new bed of daisies by the shed.
   This year's big project is an English garden, Yukon style. For me it's not so much about what we'll plant there, it's the doodads I'm going to have fun with. A sun dial (ours reads: "Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be"), a memorial bench for my friend and neighbour Gail, a bird bath (made by Gail who was a potter), a funky locally made statue of some kind and an archway made of beaver chewed driftwood. I've been saving some extra precious ones for the rustic elegance effect, reflecting far away lands, yet terraced in front of the guest cabin. This is where I'll pass to deliver freshly made sourdough muffins, neatly tucked into a willow basket, to hang on an old paddle wheeler's pulley, dangling off their deck. Nothing says "Good morning and welcome to Crag Lake!" better than that. "We're glad you're here to catch a glimpse of this wild setting and to be part of what we are literally carving out of it."
     I'm not sure where these massive ideas come from but Rob, this talented marvel of a man continues to manifest them for me and with me. I am truly blessed in so many ways.
     Do you ever wonder about things like that? How we recognize parts of our future selves at a young age and then finding ourselves exactly there? There's a deja vu effect, or a comforting confirmation about choices made and certain directions taken. That's the beauty of this decade of being 50.

The Label Quest

2011-03-19T15:44:00.000-07:00

My grand vision of having a tiny retreat in our back yard was to not only share this amazing and inspirational natural space but to also bring me varied stories in the form of wonderful visitors from many different corners of the world. I figured in my future years, I'd slow down on my personal adventures yet still want to travel vicariously with our guests. So far we have not been disappointed by the many unique, charming and charmed characters who have managed to find us.

Our latest guest is Dirk Rohrbach, www.weltgeschichten.com a German adventurer here to write a book on his latest tour paddling to the Bearing Sea in a birch bark canoe he made himself last summer. Dirk is a good sport who had no trouble humouring me with sending out an alert to his many followers that I was in need of clothing labels to finish my next label quilt. Many people responded and yesterday I received my first significant contribution in the mail from L.A. The challenge is to receive 500 labels during his stay here, until April 3. The official count so far is 79, mostly thanks to Britta. Many of them I've never seen before.

So Dirk and I are hoping to drum up more to reach our goal. Later today, I'll be visiting him with my seem ripper in hand. His generosity has no limits, he's letting me take all his labels!

Much gratitude to Dirk and his many friends! I'll keep you posted.

The English Garden

2011-02-14T10:50:00.000-08:00

"Bloom where you are planted"

Few subjects subdued and quieted her;

big ones like the state of the world, loss of humanity

where we've all turned cold, afraid,

heavily guarded, overly stimulated,

presenting well.

Other thoughts were hedonistic, open, accessible,

approachable, coital;

embracing of all encompassing juices of existence.

Photo: Royal Roads, Victoria, B.C. from our courting days. This was the garden shed door

and is now the main inspiration for our future English Garden.

Scattered

2011-02-06T21:43:00.000-08:00

"The true traveler is she who goes on foot and even then,

she sits down a lot of the time."

- Colette

She seemed scattered at first,

that's 'cos she was, in almost every way.

Still, she liked to think she had it where it counted.

She came from Africa, Acadia, South America;

from the divorce-land of domesticity,

colour schemes and coordinates.

Living in a back pack suitcase

carrying water with him,

even after the traumas.

She grasped what it was to be displaced,

uprooted;
expulsed from home.

Muse written when we first found a place to be for a while, after being on the road a long time.

My Mexican Parka

2011-01-23T12:45:00.000-08:00

Photos: with Ros Oberlyn on the Malecon, La Paz, Mexico & Crag Lake parka

During my brief stint as an inn keeper in Baja, three winters ago, I had one of those amazing Yukon coincidences. One of my neighbours said there was a woman who liked to winter in La Paz who also had a Yukon connection. So when she walked past the inn a few weeks later, I had a vague recollection of her smiling face. For anyone living in the Yukon in the late 1980's, Ros Oberlyn would be a familiar sight since she was a CBC TV reporter. Turned out she had an apartment on the next block from me. Most memorable all those years ago was Ros' outside winter stories because she wore a stunning purple and red beaded parka. This may have been one of the first things I asked her once I found out that soon she would take up permanent residence in Mexico "What will become of your parka?" We negotiated the repatriation of the parka back to the north under a polka-doted palm tree while eating rose pedal and corn ice cream. Quite a surreal and lovely memory.

Soiled Glass

2011-01-17T19:06:00.000-08:00

The sun has returned to us. Living in this deep valley has it's dark sides literally and for a few weeks in winter we don't see the sun directly. But lately it's been blasting in, showing us all the accumulated dust on the logs and surfaces. Who has time to address that, I figure, especially since our vacuum is indisposed for the moment. I'd much rather admire the light shinning thru what my friend Wendy calls, my 'soiled glass' window. It's an inspiration of hers that I adopted last summer and now I reap the rewards. She says she can't afford a real stained glass window, so instead she has a collection of coloured antiques and thrift store finds at her window. She uses these items regularly and rotates the colours to change the mood and the style of her entire kitchen. I really like that idea of function, creativity and environment combined. For up to 2 hours a day now, the southern exposure of the sun shines directly and I'm not wasting such a warm bath on dust but capturing it ever so briefly in old soiled glass.

Each piece hold a souvenir too; the old Sprite bottle discovered in my brother Pierre's yard while digging for the new landscape on Vancouver island. The small red pitcher from Rob on my 50th birthday, a fancy hand blown antique; the broken red measuring cup that Wendy couldn't part with after the tragedy; the odd purple bottle from a huge antique shop in a barn in Ontario near the farmhouse Rob grew up in; the glass chicken from my Memere's kitchen in Cocagne, N.B.; the amber '70's vintage candy bowl from a garage/estate sale, another reminder of adventures with Wendy.

Flaming Vacuum Cleaner

2011-01-09T18:42:00.000-08:00

Photo: Label quilt #1, produced as a form of meditation while in college, 2004 - 2006

On New Years Eve, Rob was eager to welcome the warmer weather so he could clean out the wood stove. It needed a thorough scrubbing from the roof as well as below. In his estimation, this requires a vacuum cleaner but in winter it's a bit more challenging with the odd errant ember. Soon the cabin was filled with thick smoke, cussing, and the scent of burning dust and plastic. The funny thing about this flaming vacuum cleaner, after the initial rush to get the thing outside and the place aired out (again thanks to above zero temperatures) is remembering that we originally rescued it from the dump 11 years ago, when we first moved here.

And now, back to -30 C, we watch the ice form again on the inside window sills and the hinges on the door. Billows of frosty air wafts in every time the door opens. Everything outside has an extra crispness to it and the cabin makes loud creaking thud sounds. Once in a while, the lake too will give us satisfactory groans, pings and moans, while it adjusts to it's new colder environment. It's hard to explain why we love this life really. It's not an intellectual thing but a serious matter of the heart.

Like most cabin dwellers in winter, we read adventure, gardening and cook books, and experiment with new exotic recipes. We keep fit by shoveling, skiing, and snowshoeing. Rob likes to feed sunflower seeds to his critters at the feeders by the windows. In their excitement, the grouse beaks and chickadees throw the seeds on the ground, feeding a lively colony of squirrels that have dug tunnels under the snow. We could watch this action for a long time.

For me winters is a creative time when I take on wild projects like hand sewing a full size quilt made entirely of clothing labels. I also made one out of doilies but it wasn't as satisfying. I'm now finishing up a second label quilt and I'm seriously scrounging for more labels. Any assistance in this matter would be hugely welcomed. Labels are fading out, especially the embroidered ones I cherish, which I'm told are mostly silk. Imagine that, I'm able to say I have a silk quilt that cost me nothing, just thousands of hours of labour!

Add garlic, chocolate, our own blend of Crag Lake coffee and global music blaring (the latest favorite is "Pacifika", a juicy Latino/Canadian blend). Well, there you have it, our formula for a sweet life on a frozen Yukon lake.

My friends Scheherazade and Ana-Maria

2010-12-27T11:07:00.000-08:00

Photo: Ana-Maria and I at the cabin, June 2006, my grad

There are some people you meet in life you just know will be remarkable from the start. To be part of their lives, though on the periphery, has been a powerful joy and delight for me. Soon I'll be seeing them again. Would you like to meet them too? See below...

Ana-Maria was a Dutch volunteer working with the same organization in Ecuador when we met her in the mid '90's. She was coming down a set of office stairs when I first spotted her and she greeted me with open arms, like she knew we'd be friends for decades. I was instantly drawn to her take-charge style and boisterous humour. When Rob and I were struggling in Guayaquil (once referred to as the ugliest and most dangerous city in South America) and about to pack the whole adventure in, she found us an adobe house over a river in what was to become the most beautiful city in the world for me - Cuenca, where she was living. This move extended our stay for a few more years, and they were by far, the richest. I cried when we left there.

When we moved back to the Yukon, Ana-Maria came for an extended visit to sort out what was next for her. She'd been unable to fit in again to her regular life back in Holland. Like us, it felt like everything had been changed forever. After two months, she made a declaration from our hammock in the living room (which was our only piece of furniture in Cuenca), "I had to come to the Yukon to find out that my life will be in Guatemala." And off she went, to quite her job, to sell her house and all her assets, to fund this primal urge. It must have been the ultimate test to be stranded for a stint at the Amsterdam airport, leaving everything she knew for certain behind, about to launch into a fresh new adventure, on September 11, 2001. "Didn't you feel like it was a sign to go back? Weren't you afraid to go on? You were in limbo, there was so much uncertainly!" I asked. "No, to me it was confirmation that I was doing exactly the right thing." This sums up Ana-Maria quite well.

I first met Scheherazade/Arlaine in Antigua, on a cobbled stone street. She was limping mildly and her head was bent in serious concentration. When she spotted Ana-Maria and I approaching her, her face burst open with stories of her recent fall and her determined ideas about life. I took notice of her unusual spirit right away. Arlaine once described herself as a starlet when she was young but the course of her life was altered by the reform school she was sent to. I'm not exactly sure what a starlet is but I know it involves poise and presence, which is still vibrantly visible. As was true of Scheherazade, Alaine's stories shaped who she is today. During my month in Guatemala I watched these two amazing women formulating and creating their new existence there, each with their individual projects in mind, going forward.

Several years later, while recuperating from surgery (on a futon Rob had cobbled together for me out of logs punched out of the guest cabin windows), I got a call from Ana-Maria and Arlaine. They were on a white beach in Mexico thinking and scheming with me in mind. Would I be interested in spending a winter in La Paz, running Arlaine's small inn while she concentrated on the building of her project in Guatemala? Well, let me think about that... A few months later Arlaine picked me up in L.A. and like it was perfectly normal, we drove down the Baja road, fueled on tuna salad and many more stories.

Arlaine's latest update: http://cpss.wistia.com/m/sn10bX
Arlaine's website: www.ninosdellago.org

Ana-Maria: www.losninos.info

Philanthropy 101

2010-12-12T14:23:00.000-08:00

True confession: I've always wanted to be a philanthropist when I grow up. It's a laughable idea considering the state of my finances but is it strictly related to money? "Love of mankind," reads my mini dictionary. In this way I'd agree that my curiosity of people in general has been approached with love, openness and wonder. It's an intrigue to be part of peoples lives for a while to discover their secrets to unbridled joy in the midst of so little. While we seem to suffer under a pile of stuff that remains to be edited, continuing to accumulate mindlessly, so caught up in the constant distractions of our culture.

Recent thoughts on philanthropy brought me to the back of my closet to unearth a custom made sweater from a woman's co-op in Ecuador, that I never wore. This was the stage in my life, my mid 30's, when Rob and I first got together as a writer/photographer team in South America. Part of our job for this child sponsorship organization was to visit projects that had been supported by doners in 14 countries from Australia, North America, Japan and Europe. We were their eyes and hearts for a while, which gave us the honour to be the guests of many villages and to be welcomed to their inner circles. This particular woman's group was typical in that they gathered regularly to create and keep the operation going while their leader, always a man, was away to work in the states. In the vast remote mountain area of Bolivar, this group sat perched on a precipice, chatting, laughing at us, and with us, wearing their specific hats identifying their indigenous group and their status within it. It had seemed to us that the women were responsible for keeping the culture alive with their traditional dress, while the men had to leave in flocks for economic reasons. These women made the best of it.

As specified, the sweater has trees all over it, purple ones with grey fruit and red falling snow. I've decided to give it away as part of my personal wealth; it's time to let go and be selective of the stuff I choose to hang on to. I want to act locally as well as globally. Though few people in my life would appreciate such a quirky and precious item, so loaded with history, who would also be the right size. For a week now, I've been packing the bag around waiting to encounter one of my favorite young women at our local cafe. Here's a funny thing, the recipient of my philanthropy seems to be missing in action.

Mirth-making

2010-11-21T18:04:00.000-08:00

Photo: voyage of self-discovery, 1989, Capacocia, Turkey

Last weekend we had new friends over for Mexican soup. Midway, between spoonfuls, he had a faint recollection of being here 30 years ago. It was the sauna more than the house, that brought back this long ago moment. "It must've been during our partying years," she said blankly, having no such memory.

For Rob and I the sauna has a special heart warming appeal too. It was where Rob declared confidently, away from the Realtor, that this was the place he'd waited a long time for. The classic log cabin on a quiet lake was the perfect antidote for our upcoming last stint overseas, in Columbia, where we knew it would be rough. The proverbial carrot to await us. This was a snapshot I still have of pure love for Rob; there he was making his wishes known to the Realtor (why is this word capitalized?), no negotiations, no inquiries into the water and septic systems. This is fine, thank you very much, we'll take it. He wore an old down coat with feathers leaking out of it and duct tape on the elbows, three weeks before Christmas. The Realtor did not take him seriously, it seems nobody buys a house before Christmas. But there was a rush on, we were leaving soon, the deal was made in a hurry and the rest is history.

But the partying comment stuck with me last weekend. I pondered this at length with my friend Elke a few days later. I blurted out "I think I didn't party enough in my youth!!" Imagine this bizarre statement from a middle aged woman. I was never much of a drinker, especially combining the fine art of mingling and small talk and driving home in one piece. "Maybe you could start partying now - I'm sure it's never too late," Elke eagerly offered. But no, that wasn't it either. I was climbing cliffs with homes carved out of the sides toting my journal and an apple for lunch in the Turkish countryside of Capadocia. That was my idea of a party. Searching out Freud's bust in Vienna, soaking my feet in fountains eating a baguette for lunch in Paris, picking the grapes off the vines in the Beaujolais region, that was deliriously fun to me.

In conclusion, fun is the intended target these days. It's cheap, long overdue and I can't beleive I have to be reminded of this. Today's fun was out on the freshly frozen lake, on skates with a bundle of beaver chewed sticks wanting to scurry home and not play tag with the neighbours. But one tried to grab my precious beauties, taunting me, and I wouldn't let go. So laughing hysterically, I was yanked around by my cargo, on wobbly legs and sent sailing on smooth ice. It was a good belly laugh with tears, catching my breath.

Honouring Bobby

2010-11-15T11:38:00.000-08:00

Don't you hate when you make promises to yourself, like a blog a week, and then distractions and procrastinations creep in completely unexpectedly? Setting a goal should be enough, right? Then it all unfolds magically and triumphantly...tada! You'd think by now at my age that self delusions and reality would have met and had tea to sort out these gaps and patched up their differences.

The thought and image that I can't get past is of Bobby, lingering in my 1977 high school year book. I know, I know, I said I'd torch these things 2 weeks ago, but I still can't let go. Then Remembrance day happened and brought me right back to these three volumes; at least now they are dust free. In my grade 11 class photo, my eyes are averting the camera and I'm looking over at the person in question; Bobby Girouard. It probably was not him catching my attention at the time, we were cordial but not friends. In our younger years, we lived on the same street, but there are no huge recollections of him. He was quiet, like me, and struck me as a gentle being. Still all those years later, it is unmistakable, I am looking over to him.

Fast forward a few decades, Chief Warrent Officer Robert Girouard is the 44th casualty in Afghanistan. He was 46. I've been trying to make sense of this ever since we watched the riveting CBC documentary profiling the soldiers lost in this latest war. It occurs to me that Bobby was one of those kids that stood up to bullies and dedicated his life to it on a global scale. As a pacifist I could never fully appreciate that until just now. The kind of bravery he and many others like him demonstrate makes me marvel and appreciate the peaceful life I am fortunate to have.

This proves it once again, you never know how the past will influence your future.

Festering at Fifty

2010-11-06T16:34:00.000-07:00

Photo: once a single pronged thing, this cactus is developing a character all its own on my kitchen window sill.

As part of my 50th birthday gifts to myself, I went far beyond the norm and the mundane. First it was the Mongolian yurt, then it was the astrological readings; yes, I went really "out there". The natal astrological chart was quite fascinating, even with my limited knowledge of such things. Two points were noteworthy; first the planet Chiron was prominent in the skies at the moment of my birth. Discovered in 1977, this little known planet represents the "wounded healer" and orbits only every 50 years. This explains so much; what's at play here is not merely a garden variety menopausal episode but the very stars are contributing to my ongoing festerings and awakenings. I've decided to take comfort in this sense of powerlessness and see what will reveal itself. Apparently, this is what I've been feeling for a year and I'll continue to feel it for a year to come. Hormone replacement therapy can't touch this.

Secondly, my astrologer told me that I was a nun in a past life. Strangely, this resonates especially with Rob who said I was very nun-like when we first met. I reminded him that at that moment, I was reading his Rune cards at his bachelor pad cabin during a fund raiser for Canadian Crossroads International and I had gotten there in my car painted like a Holstein cow. But the point was that I had carried over some of these nun characteristics with me to this present life. In the past I was obedient to the scriptures, but now, I guide my life according to my heart. Not exactly a giant leap of logic for anyone who knows me but there is further proof.

A few days ago I was flashing my tatoo in my favorite coffee shop. The story of the old thing goes back 20 years when I got a divorce from my first husband. This was long before tatoos became fashionable and common. I needed something powerful to mark the moment, to solidify my decision to choose growth and mystery instead of what I had; stale stability and predictability. What I needed was to travel extensively, to roam around aimlessly, to explore wildly whatever opportunity afforded. First it was the train across Canada and by the time I got to Halifax I had the tatoo well thought out; an anchor with a heart in the middle on my ankle. My brother Pierre was in the navy then so he knew the place to take me on the shaddy side of town. I reasoned I needed something strong to anchor me into a new life, with new outlooks and philosophies. How easily it would have been to slip back into the comfort and ease of my marriage that no longer fit properly, like a sloppy old shoe. The heart was obvious, to give me tender guidance to my soul. Remarkably, all that remains of the tatoo today is the heart; no more need for that cold hard anchor. I am firmly on my path now, only parts of me wishes I knew where it was going.

Slough: to cast off, shed outer skin.

2010-10-31T12:32:00.000-07:00

Photo: 1991 village of Peletoutou, Togo, bathing Georgina, a community event. I'm relieved to see I finally removed my watch.
It happened two weeks after my 50th birthday, when I open my eyes one morning and spotted a thick layer of dust on my high school year books. What was I hanging on to that era for? I survived all that mediocre intensive hormonal training in 1976 but how did it shape me exactly?

I vow that today is the day I finally burn these things and start sloughing off this useless stuff. After all, 50 is a new time for discernment, deciding what is truly important and worthy of packing around. This stuff might even be holding me back, suffocating growth.

I give them the once over before the formal torching and make a few observations; most students are uniformly shaped. The popular kids are holding trophies, microphones, sports equipment, each other... In particular, I see the smiling seductive face of my first taste of baffled betrayal. Lynne was my friend the summer she moved to our remote neighbourhood but in the fall she casually dropped me when she found out I was not part of the "in" crowd. This required some fancy doing at the morning bus stop when she succeeded in avoiding me among the 6 other kids there. One time, she had no choice but to share my seat on the bus, she sat so far removed on the edge it was like I was radiating something fierce. Hurt and confusion was moderated by my curiosity; she was so desperate to fit in, to be accepted, yet my parents would hold her up as the finest specimen of femininity. Why couldn't I be more like her, they'd ask. How could I say she was mean and snooty and had a loose reputation with the boys at school?

So where was I? In my grade 10 class photo I am posing proudly next to my friends Donna and Elizabeth, not only the sole black people at BHS but the only black people in all of Bathurst, New Brunswick at that time. They were political refugees in a time before the term existed. Thirty five years later I can see clearly the evidence of global ideas already firmly planted in the heart of this shy, awkward, self conscious girl. I had a hunch then that soon I'd be far far away making new friends and discovering the world in my way. I see that subtle look of confidence there in my sly grin.

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