“If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.”

• Meister Eckhard

I lived on Vancouver Island for almost ten years, the entirety of my twenties. It was until my mid-forties I began to realize the opportunity I had wasted. As breathtakingly beautiful as the island is, I never took the time to get to know it the way I should. It wasn’t until my family gifted me with a camera and I began to learn the names of the birds and the wildflowers, that I realized how much I had taken living on the island for granted. I didn’t really see.

It happens, right? Life gets in the way. Your perception narrows, and hey, I was in my twenties, after all. I suppose if I had any regrets in my life, that would be one of them – not appreciating what I had while I had it. Sometimes if feels like I’ve been spending my life since trying to make my way back to the ocean.

When I lived on the prairies, it was different. My life was difficult. But at least I became aware of my surroundings. I began to steal time for myself. Daytrips to the mountains, birdwatching outings, volunteering at a wildlife centre – nights of sleeping under the stars, coyotes howling in the distance. I learned to appreciate the beauty of a field of grain, the gathering of storm clouds, and even the sparkle of fresh snow under impossibly blue skies. I admit I do miss the place I lived, with mountain bluebirds and moose wandering through the yard. The sound of chorus frogs, singing in the evening.

It’s been six years since Bear and I landed in the Okanagan. When we first got here, I didn’t know anyone. I threw myself into life in a lake town. Early mornings and late afternoons at the beach and free concerts in the park. I started exploring the backroads. Fruit stands and barbeques, patio dining and locally brewed cider. The smell of Ponderosa Pine.

Eventually, I started to make friends and got more involved in life as a writer. And again, life began to get in the way. Don’t get me wrong, I have the world’s greatest friends, and I love being a writer. But sometimes I get so caught up in writing about life I forget to go out and live it.

This month started out different. Early on, my friend, Michele, and I went out on a ginko to the Maude-Roxby Bird Sanctuary. If you’re interested in the photos and haiku from our ginko, you can access them here:

Maude Roxby Ginko

About a week later, we went on a nature journalling expedition with our sketch books, and even though I only managed one sketchy sketch of a plant, I was reminded how much I used to enjoy sketching poorly.

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But a lot of the month was consumed by deadlines and commitments – and medical appointments. One test I was scheduled to undergo was causing me so much anxiety I was starting to shut down, spending more time in bed than out, not being able to eat, or feeling sick immediately afterward.

The day before the test, I dropped Bear off at work and went to the beach.

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I had my camera, my sketchbook, and my journal with me – just like the early days. I don’t know how long I stayed there but long enough for the fresh air and sunshine to make me hungry. Instead of going home I decided to treat myself to lunch and made my way to the Mission Dunenzies. I don’t know what it is about that place. I don’t even like pizza. But I LOVE pizza from Dunenzies. And as I sat there on the patio, which I consider to be the single best patio in Kelowna, looking out at the mountains and eating my amazing pizza, I realized I hadn’t been appreciative of all that surrounds me, everything that I have. Well, I was appreciating it today.

I decided I was having too much fun to go home. I continued to drive along Lakeshore Road, stopping to take photos of whatever caught my attention. There was nowhere I needed to be, nothing I needed to do.

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Eventually, I found my way to Bertram Park. I unloaded my walker and took a long walk around.

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My anxiety was gone. My stomach felt better. I was tired and sore, but I was happy. The next day, the test went off without complications. The day after that, we learned the place we live has been approved for sale and development.

So we will have to move. It probably won’t come to anything for a few years, but with the cost of living being what it is, we have our eyes open. If something comes along that is a long-term solution, we might have to jump on it. Bear says he wants to stay here as long as possible because he doesn’t want me to have to leave my friends. I am so lucky. For my children, for my friends, for this beautiful land that I love. Regardless of when we might have to leave, I will Appreciate. Every. Single. Moment.

And God, if you’re listening? Thank you.

“Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountain like a flame!”

-William Butler Yeats

After what felt like weeks of uniformly bleak, grey sky, there came a shimmer of sunlight. I didn’t need an invitation. All I needed was my camera, and I was ready to go.

a brushstroke of blue

between the mountains

and the clouds

I chose to take McCulloch Road, for a few reasons. First, it was wide. I could stop anywhere I liked along the road without having to worry about blocking traffic. Second, in the past, there was no traffic at all. Because the Nordic Club was up there, the road was well-maintained, and even though I had winter tires, I wasn’t looking to put myself in a precarious position.

I remembered one of the things that was different about my old life. Whenever something happened, I would stop writing. Just stop. It was as if I was afraid to admit it to myself, or if I believed writing it down made it true, and as long as I didn’t commit it to paper, I could go on convincing myself that everything was ok. Everything was not ok.

My first stop was K.L.O. Creek. I wasn’t sure what I would find there, but I wanted to see if the creek was frozen. Calm wrapped itself around me the moment I stepped out of the car. Deep breath. I could hear water. It’s only a few short steps to the creek and the snow wasn’t terribly deep, so I made my way through the forest to the water. Only parts of the creek were open, the rest still covered with ice and snow. Beneath my feet, I heard a loud crack, and slowly backed up. I hadn’t been able to tell where the land ended and the ice began and had inadvertently stepped out onto the ice.

I could have stayed there all day. The sunlight and shadows in the trees shifted with the light wind, and signs of spring were everywhere. There were tiny shelf fungi sprouting on the trees, and the forest floor was already showing signs of new life.

forest bathing

in winter – the sharpness

of air

Then there were the emotions. I learned how to block them. I don’t know how I did it, and if I could, I would undo it now, but at the time, it was too dangerous. Instead of showing emotion, I just got quiet. No writing, no speaking, just the shuttering of windows before the hurricane. I’d hunker down inside myself and wait out the storm. Eventually, silence became a box restricting even thought until there was nothing left but the automatic motions of getting through each day.

I got back in the car and continued. I don’t really consider myself on McCullough Road until I’ve passed the gate and the sign telling me I’m entering West Bank First Nations land. The road before me curved gracefully and rose, and where there had been signs of spring at the creek, here winter was still deep.

the sploosh of snowmelt

beneath my tires-

thin winter sun

It’s an interesting place to visit, the cusp of spring, when you’re in the mountains and winter isn’t ready to let go. The sky was in a constant state of flux, moving from brilliant blue to light cloud, to middle-of-a-cloud, and I don’t know when I’ve taken so many photos of trees.

burnt-orange

of Ponderosa Pine bark-

nearly spring

I suppose what saved me was learning how to be alone. My camera afforded me the ability to be alone, focused entirely on what I was doing, with no room for outside thoughts. Eventually, like early violets through concrete, my thoughts found cracks and began to seep in. Strangely, this is how I learned I enjoyed my own company, that I was a whole other person outside of my relationship. The best part was no one knew! It was a secret I hugged to myself, maintaining the familiar, subservient persona, all the while I was practicing being alone, becoming stronger.

The sun shone through the snow still on the trees, giving the impression the trees were decorated with hanging crystals or diamonds. I tried, and failed, to capture the image. 

polishing

crystals on the branch…

shining wind

A little higher up, those same crystals, shaken from their branches, landed on the road and sparkled in the sun.

ice-diamonds

cobbling

the mountain road

Before long, I was nearing the summit, and the clouds were closing in. The sky was moody, but I was exhilarated. I hadn’t realized how much I needed this day.

When I first broke free, I struggled. There were too many decisions to be made, and still, his voice, constantly in my head. I couldn’t let myself feel anything at that point – I was in survival mode, and I don’t know, to this day, if I would have grieved if I had the chance. The future I’d imagined, growing old with someone I loved, was lost to me. If anything, I was angry that choice had been taken from me. But when his voice finally faded from my mind, only showing up now in dreams, I started to rediscover who I was. I remembered I enjoyed being alone, sometimes that it was, in fact, necessary. The constant bombardment of news, world events, and worry about the inevitable destruction of civilization needs somewhere to go. I can go to the highest point on the mountain, release it to the wind, and return to myself.

high mountain pass-

dictating haiku

into my phone

I hope, with all my heart, that you, too, have found a way to release the pain, gather joy, and get stronger every day. Thanks for reading.

Early in December, I got a call from Jaki.

“Do you feel like going for a drive?”

She didn’t want to go too far, or get too dusty, but she did want trees, sky, and creatures. I get it. Sometimes you just need to get away for a bit, let yourself reset, especially in a year like the one 2023 has been.

Everywhere you turned, there was a fresh disaster. Some of them were far away and some of them were in our own backyards. It’s hard to look at the news every day, and yet, how can you not?

So, we drove, mostly in silence, but when we did talk, we kept the conversation light.

The street we live on runs along the lake, hence the name Lakeshore. We followed the road south to the end. Along the way, there are restaurants and resorts, beaches, and parks. But the further you travel, the larger and more spacious the private properties become. Eventually, the road ends in a cul-de-sac with many signs warning against trespassing.

Despite overcast skies, the weather was warm and the journey gave us everything we were looking for – trees, sky, and creatures.

As we drove, I found myself marveling at how lucky I am. All of this, literally, just down the street. But it’s more than that.

I can’t remember now if I talked about it before, and frankly, I’m too lazy to read through the posts of the last year to see if I did. On the last day of 2022, I made some lists, as part of an online workshop I was taking. The first list was all the bad things that happened during the year. The second list was all the good things that happened during the year.

I was told to look at my list of bad things. Those were my lessons.

Then I was told to look at my list of good things. Those were the foundations on which I was to build for the coming year.

The final list was a list of everything I wanted to do, big or small, realistic, or impossible. That was my Live list. The goal of this year was to accomplish as many things from my Live list as I could.

These were not resolutions. Resolutions are too abstract. These were concrete things I wanted to do. Instead of things like “be more active,” I wrote, “go ziplining.” Many of the things on my Live list were writing-related, but many more were not. Many were expensive, but many were not.

I’m proud to say at the posting of this blog, I will have achieved exactly 33% of my list.

And what a change this has made to my life. As terrible and traumatic as 2023 has been on a global scale, on a personal level, my life has never been better.

I’ve started my lists early this year. In the lessons category, I can only think of four bad things that happened to me in 2023. The list of good things is three pages long.

Last year’s Live list was 63 items. So far, my list for 2024 only stands at 50. But I don’t mind. I like to leave a little room for the unexpected. Things will occur to me throughout the year, and I will add them to my list; maybe I’ll even accomplish some of them.

Good things begin to happen when you are open to receiving them.

Happy New Year to all, and may this year be better than the last. For everyone.

I canceled my cable a few years ago, leaving Netflix and Prime as my only sources of televised entertainment. It’s no surprise, then, I didn’t discover the series “Alone” until season 6 showed up on Netflix. Instantly, I was intrigued. I’ve often wondered if I would be able to survive alone in the woods. I daydreamed about it.

Not now, obviously, as I have limited mobility and energy. (Although, I did recently take a job as a Designated Delivery Driver for a well-known courier company. I am the first courier they’ve ever hired who uses a walker. But that’s a whole other story.)

Even as few as ten years ago, I dreamed about finding an area deep in the woods and building a life, fishing and foraging-spending my life creating a life. Hell, I was still thinking about it five years ago, only by then, my daydreams included Jaki. That woman knows how to do shit.

While those daydreams have altered (we’re going to start a commune instead), there’s no doubt I still need my time in the mountains, the forest, or next to a cold, flowing stream.

Jaki and I had planned to take a drive and I almost backed out at the last minute due to exhaustion from working the day before. But when I woke up, the sky was so blue I wanted nothing more than to get closer to it.

“Where would you like to go?” I asked.

“Take me someplace with lots of trees and no people,” Jaki said.

Not a problem. Fifteen minutes later, we were on the Gillard Forestry Road, headed skyward, surrounded by trees.

All around us were signs of deepening autumn. Most of the larches had dropped their golden needles, but we found the odd stand still intact.

Wild grasses bent in the gentle breeze.

Due to my exhaustion, I didn’t take as many photos as I normally would, but I did manage to fit in some rocks and moss, because, you know, rocks and moss.

Still, we drove, straight up into winter. Even though the temperature was hovering close to zero, there was plenty of snow in the higher elevations.

The snow was brilliant white, the sky, cornflower blue. We stepped out, breathing deeply of the crisp, clean air. The unblemished surroundings were nothing short of pristine. I could feel my shoulders relaxing and my jaw loosening – tension I didn’t realize I was carrying with me.

One thing was as clear as the sky – mind, body, spirit – they all require regular maintenance.

On the night of August 17, Santana and I stood on the shore of Okanagan Lake, looking across the lake to West Kelowna where the McDougall Creek wildfire burned out of control. Fueled by exceptionally strong winds and a summer of drought, there was no stopping it as it raced across the skyline and down to the shore of the lake itself.

“When this is all over,” I said to Santana, “you know I’ll have to go there.”

“Will you cry?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I probably will, too.”

The smoke closed in on us for weeks. No rain fell.

The summer of 2023 was BC’s worst fire season on record, burning more than three million hectares, a number more than twice the previous record. The McDougall Creek wildfire jumped the lake, setting of additional fires on the Kelowna side. It became known as the Grouse Complex Wildfire.

Overall, in BC alone, more than 400 structures were lost. Almost half of those were in the West Kelowna/Kelowna area.

Six firefighters across BC lost their lives.

And that’s just in BC, a mere fraction of the tragic consequences of climate change, across Canada and around the world.

Yes, I know. Wildfires are a natural and even necessary part of the landscape in which we live. But the speed and ferocity of those flames is growing at an alarming rate.

It was a warm October morning when Jaki and I decided to cross the bridge to West Kelowna. We only drove a portion of West Side Road before turning onto Bear Lake Main. We saw many destroyed properties along the way, but by unspoken agreement, we didn’t stop to take photos. It felt disrespectful to showcase the devastation, knowing families had lost everything to the flames.

Instead, we focused on the landscape and how it had changed, wondering if our resident herd of Big Horn Sheep had managed to escape. The fire still smoldered in places. It was a solemn drive.

The ground was completely denuded (my thanks to Jaki for the $10 word), and looked desolate, barren, as if nothing could ever grow there again.

Of course I know that isn’t true, as evidenced by the following poem from my book, Beauty, Born of Pain

Ashes to Ashes

deep

within the heart of the cone

lies the seed

of the lodgepole pine

it’s serotinous coat

deliberate

in its purpose

rebirth not possible

without sacrifice

soul released by fire

Because the land has been completely stripped down, the process of regeneration will take longer. But there is an entire ecosystem dependent on forest fire, and some species rely on the progression of regrowth.

Burnscape

Fireweed, graminoids,

mushrooms and morels –

seed of a lodgepole pine.

Black-backed woodpeckers that nest

in the burned-out hollows.

Fire-following beetles and the

bats that follow them –

all waiting

for the lightning strike,

for the light

of a nascent flame.

As we followed the road further into the hills, we entered an area the flames hadn’t reached. Our hearts began to lighten with the infusion of fall colours. Cattle grazed along the roadside, giving us hope the sheep had survived.

By the time we reached Bear Lake, it was a picture-perfect autumn day, with azure skies and leaves of gold. It was exhilarating to see this pocket of beauty untouched.

The seemingly random movement of fire – how it can destroy three homes in a row, while leaving the two on either side unscathed, how it can burn the base of a tree and leave the rest looking healthy, how it makes space for new growth – all of it leaves me struck with sadness and wonder.

I know it was a long time ago, but one of the only things I remember from the original Jurassic Park movie is the following line:

“Life…will find a way.”

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their freshness into you and the storms, their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of autumn.”

• John Muir

It’s been a long and difficult summer. Wildfires, drought, and extreme heat had me spending most of my days indoors. While that was productive in it’s own way, there was something missing, and I knew exactly what I needed. I called my friend, Jaki.

“Would you like to go for a drive to…”

“Yes,” she replied before I could even finish the question. I laughed. How wonderful it is to have a kindred spirit living practically next door.

We loaded my walker into the Rav, an impulsive decision I was grateful for later, and headed into the hills. While there are still wildfires burning here in our valley, we headed the opposite direction, taking the highway to Winfield and turning off on Beaver Lake Road.

The skies were a mix of sun and cloud, a perfect day for photographs, and I found so many interesting colors and textures to explore.

We made a brief stop at Swalwell Lake and poked around the beach. The water glistened in the sunlight, and I was entirely captivated by the bark of a tree laced with sap. The sap was mostly amber, but the clear drops shone, reflecting reds, greens, and blues, tiny jewels my camera just couldn’t seem to capture.

There were a couple of older men standing on the shore next to their boats, fishing rods at the ready, so we decided to move on.

The drive was exceptional, and for the most part, the gravel roads were well-maintained.

We found ourselves turning onto the access road to Doreen Lake.

There are dozens of small to medium size lakes on the Aberdeen Plateau east of Winfield. Many of them were named by Wally Sexsmith, an early settler, who ran a fishing camp from Beaver Lake. He named most of the lakes after people he knew or was related to. I find it interesting that the lakes named for women – Doreen, Wilma, Ruth, June, Min, and more – were all named with the woman’s given name. The lakes named after men – Rankin, Brunette, and Ahrens – all used the family name.

A fine combination of colonialism and patriarchy. Don’t get me started.

Doreen Lake was deserted of people. As soon as the Rav stopped, I heard something.

“Did you hear that? It’s a woodpecker!” I said.

I pulled my walker out and began to maneuver it over rocks and roots, trying to triangulate where the sound was coming from. I narrowed it down to a stand of three trees, two alive and one dead. I sat down on my walker and peered up into the treetops. Chips of wood were falling into my hair, but I couldn’t spot him.

“Over here!” Jaki whisper-yelled. I moved over to where she stood and there he was, a cute little Hairy Woodpecker. I haven’t seen one since leaving Alberta.

We also spotted a pair of Whiskey Jacks, but they wouldn’t sit still long enough to have their picture taken.

Not quiet as shy were the Yellow Pine Chipmunks who appeared as soon as Jaki set out a lovely picnic of crackers and cheese, garden-fresh tomatoes, and luscious ripe plums. They entertained us with their antics while we ate, one of them even running across Jaki’s sandaled foot.

After lunch, we wandered down to the shore of the lake, where a small raft of Mallards dove and preened.

I can’t even begin to describe how beautiful everything was, from the road to the lake, to the lunch. I hope my photos will give you at least a glimpse.

And then there was the company, a friend as comfortable in silence as in conversation. Someone who doesn’t mind if I want to stop to take a picture of a rock.

Or a cow.

Someone who knows my secrets and likes me anyway. I am truly blessed.

One final stop on the road home to capture the way the fires across the valley were reflected in clouds and smoke.

Yes, it’s been a long and difficult summer. But with any luck and a little rain, there will be blue skies ahead.

I invited my friend, Michele, to take a walk with me. A walker walk, I joked, as we both have mobility issues. Because Michele and I are both interested in Japanese short forms, we decided our walk would be a Ginko.

“A Ginko is a walk with haiku writers usually held at the start of a season or at a “special” time in the season (blossoms, Equinox, Solstice, Anniversary…) in a chosen place (originally in Nature). There is usually a “leader” who has knowledge of the place (Nature, animals, plants, history, and background). During the walk, the haiku writers talk, take notes, or write haiku.”

-Definition from the home page of Haiku Spirit

We arrived at Rotary Marsh in downtown Kelowna at about 8:30 am, when the air was still cool enough to breathe. The sky was a brilliant blue, and birds could be heard singing from nearby trees.

I’ve visited the marsh many times, but usually in spring, during migration. It’s an exciting time, and the coming and going of so many different birds makes it a birders paradise. I had never visited at this time of year, the beginning of August, when all life teeters between summer and fall.

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We walked slowly, stopping to rest often, talking, taking pictures, and writing haiku. Michele brought sidewalk chalk, as we intended to write haiku on the sidewalk; pop-up poetry for other walkers to enjoy. What we didn’t think of in advance was although we could get down to the sidewalk to write our haiku, getting up again would not be so easy. We settled for writing our haiku in chalk on the wooden railings lining the path and boardwalk.

Michele writing haiku.

While there were not as many birds as there are in the spring, and most of them remained hidden under the cover of thick leaves, the Osprey nest was clearly visible, and the three chicks guarded by a parent, were almost too large to be contained by the badly frayed nest.

The Oregon Grapes had changed colour, from bright yellow flower clusters to dusty purple globes, and everywhere we looked there were signs of both life and death.

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The Osprey chicks were not the only young ones we came upon. Almost close enough to touch, two mule does and a fawn, emerged from the bushes. We sat on our walkers and watched as they grazed from grass and tree, the mother seemingly unconcerned about our presence. We were just another part of this place.

I felt connected, as though my feet had turned into roots, sinking deep into the earth, and my arms were the branches that would one day shelter the birds. It is an amazing feeling to realize how insignificant you are when surrounded by natures’ gifts.

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Thank you for coming on this Ginko with us. We hope to do many more.

quiet pond-

the trill

of a red-winged blackbird

There’s nothing quite like the joy of discovery. Whether it’s a place, or a road, a new way of looking at things, or even something you discover about yourself, discovery can be the opening of your eyes, the sense of wonder we thought we lost as we grew older, jaded, cynical. Just like knowledge, the more you discover, the more there is to discover. Trying something as simple as looking through the pebbles on the beach or finding a place to sit and taking the time to recognize what each of your five senses is experiencing in that one moment, can be just as exciting as travelling somewhere exotic. At least that’s what I tell myself. I would hardly know. I’ve never been anywhere exotic. I prefer to explore the lands around me, my province, and all it has to offer. But that’s just me. You go out and discover what brings you joy. Do it often. Never let your age, your health, your circumstances rob you of your sense of wonder, and the joy that can be found in details of daily life.

I had it in mind to go revisit a road Jaki and I began to explore a couple of years ago. Only this time, Santana was with me. Unfortunately, I forgot to check the name of the road I was looking for, certain I knew where it was.

Well, I didn’t.

The first road we tried was a dead end.

Hmmm… Okay, maybe it was this road? No, another dead end.

After three or four false starts, I gave up on finding the road I had in mind.

We chose a road we had never explored and headed down. Only to reach yet another dead end.

“There was a road that branched off, just a little way back,” Santana said.

“Really? I don’t remember seeing one.”

With Santana directing, we went back to where he’d seen this other road.

I laughed when I saw it. It wasn’t a road. It was a rock path leading into the trees. But it was wide enough for the Chevy, so why not?

We made our way slowly down the path. I had to keep an eye out for sharp rocks and potholes. I barely noticed a steep corner that threatened to turn the van on its side, but Santana’s face had me pull in and level off.

“Maybe we should go back,” Santana said.

“Can’t. There’s nowhere to turn around.”

Yes, it was that tight. We continued to creep down the path. Trepanier Creek was on one side of the path, while the sheer hillside rose on the other.

“Oh, look! The road widens a little just ahead. I’ll turn around there.”

I wiggled the van back and forth until fully turned around. It was a good thing the path was wide enough at that point because in front of us lay one enormous puddle, covering the entire path. I don’t really like going through them when you can’t tell how deep or what lies at the bottom.

I turned off the engine and we got out of the van. Santana decided to go for a short walk to see what was on the other side of the puddle.

I pulled out my walker, so I’d have somewhere to sit, and spent some time just soaking up my surroundings. The creek bubbled beside me, dappled sunlight twinkled through the trees, and a soft breeze rustled the leaves. I was absolutely content.

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So maybe forgetting where the road I wanted was, wasn’t such a bad thing. We discovered somewhere new. Ah, roads! You never know where they will lead. Or what you might find there.