Riding in cars with strangers

I wrote a while ago about how common hitchhiking is on Saltspring. It was something that I really enjoyed about the place. It makes such sense in a place as remote as this with inhabitants as interdependent as islanders. I took to it quickly and joyfully.

I learned I like chatting with people, especially in short bursts, say 10-15 minutes. The passengers I picked up seemed to feel the same. Often they led the conversation and I followed along It was a great way for me to ask questions about the local lore. I really grew to love the warmth and civility of these brief interludes.

Now that I am back in the Bay area, the game changes a bit. We don't stick out our thumbs around this city, not as a rule. We also don't pick up people we don't know. But each workday morning from 7 until 10 a.m., the rules are boldly cast aside and casual carpooling, aka hitchhiking, runs riot around the outskirts of town. A person with a car and empty seats stops at a known intersection where people have queued to get into these cars. They are all headed across a bridge into San Francisco during rush hour and they all want to get there faster and cheaper than they could travelling on their own.

This arrangement has definite benefits. The driver legally accesses the multiple occupancy carpool lanes, noticeably less crowded than the regular lanes, and skirts the toll of $4 to $6 depending on the bridge. The passengers arrive downtown faster than if they had taken a BART train (usually), and with $3.50 in their pockets to spend on a cup of designer coffee. There is an unspoken agreement, not to hurt the driver or crash the car. Peace prevails.

There is however, absolutely nothing social about this interaction. Actually it is quite the opposite. As a rule, there is minimal, if any, talking. "Good morning" and "Thanks for the lift" are it. The driver is not available for soundboarding on the weather, the state budget crisis, the intention of the trip into town. At first I found it awkward, but over time, it has grown less so. I find it easy to sit in my own world, gazing out over the water as we head into town, either enjoying or tolerating whatever may be on the radio or the silence of our pod.

The truth is I can easily drift into my own world and actually need more reasons not too. So while I will continue to ride and drive the casual carpool train, I look forward to the smiles and "How do you dos?" and the "Do you think the lambs look a little small for this late in April?" conversations when I return.

p.s. Audi sedans are still the smoothest ride out there -- something I learned when I owned one, back in the day...

Easy does it

Now seriously, how tough could it be? I got in the car, drove south, virtually on the same road for the entire two day trip. No language change, no challenging dietary deviations and a common value system where great coffee is prized as highly as great wine. And yet.

It is day 4 of the road back. Day 6 if you count the travel time, but I don't. I should understand that this is a fresh condition. Skin is still soft, not yet toughened and input dial is still set high and needs to come down in order to filter the cacophony. I know this. Really, I do. And, even more important, I accept this. That doesn't make it easy. Though I think it does make it easier.

So far this is what I have discovered:

Virtually everywhere I go my proprioception is impaired.

I feel safe and warm in only a few places:

-my bathtub
-my bed
-table at Pizzaiolo (twice now, so I am certain it is a good place)
-my car, but mostly when it is in my driveway with the dog in the backseat

Sadly missing from that list are:

-my kitchen
-my Alanon meeting
-talking to anyone face to face

What I have also discovered is a certainty that today is day 4 and only day 4 and today is nothing more than the fourth day. It is not the fourth day of anything though, it is just a day and this is how this day is. I am not thinking of day 12 or day 75, only today.



I feel like a molting turtle - whether or not they do is of no import. In the meantime, I have installed a sentry at the gate.


PS. If it practices long and with heart, can a second degree burn progress to a third degree burn?

Poof

I am sitting in my kitchen. The big one. The one with the incredibly beautiful myrtle butcher table and stainless steel counter tops. The one with the 6-burner stove of my most wished for wish and a view of a back yard garden full of potential. I love potential. I can hear the hum of rubber on asphalt through the open back door. It comes and then goes in syncopation with the traffic light on my corner.

I have emptied the car and then the boxes. Most everything has found its way back into its place of origin. Most, not all. I have to finish this evening. I don't want this hanging over me. I don't like clutter, it really offends me.

Day one of the trip was not as they say, clear sailing. You see, I have this sense that rules and laws don't apply to me. Not only Human Laws, but the laws of nature and physics as well. I needed a ferry at 7:50 on Sunday morning, so of course there would be one. Did I take the simple step of looking at a sign on Saturday afternoon when I was right there or read the schedule I keep in my car or look it up on the internet while sitting right there on my ass? No, I did not, because RULES AND LAWS DON'T APPLY TO ME.

Well, this mild case of insanity dashed the plan to be on the mainland in Washington and heading south at 12:30. It just fell away like the "Except Sunday" sign in my rear view mirror as I tore out of the first ferry launch area. I jackassed my way to another SSI ferry terminal waited an hour for the 9 am and then tried to beat the laws of physics by driving 35 miles in 40 minutes through traffic light filled suburban Vancouver Island traffic. I gave up with 15 minutes til launch and 15 miles to go. I ended up driving back north to catch an 11 am ferry to Vancouver which would add 2+ hours onto my mainland drive. Too bad I missed it by 5 minutes and ended up on the 12. Add 4 hours plus 2 more for hitting the mainland in Vancouver instead of Port Townsend, Washington. I made it to Eugene close to 10. Thankfully I had plenty of snackrels.

Monday was easier. Malcom Gladwell and his outlier theory were incredibly entertaining. I was so engrossed that when I abruptly swung out through the commercial truck lanes to avoid passing through the agriculture checkpoint to enter California, I was genuinely surprised. I thought it was a truck weigh station. Seriously, I swerved out right and went through the un-barricaded far right lane and just kept on going. Hmmm. This is the 21st century and perhaps they took a snapshot of my license plate. Hmmm. I pulled onto the shoulder and backed up 1/4 mile, got out of the car and went to face the officer who had jumped up and waved at me on the first pass. I denied having plants and fruit and animals and was back on my way.

The contraband now sits in jars and zip lock bags next to the mammoth apothecary jar on my counter waiting to be transformed into a SSI terrarium. I lied. I had plants in the car. I won't put them in the ground outside. See, I am a reasonable law violater type. I will arrange them artfully in this jar on my counter to keep my connected to the forest. Some day I will return them to their rightful place.

PS. Chinese food, lovingly and ravenously desired, tastes so, so fine.

Today is Tuesday the 21st. It is not yet Sunday the 26th, departure day. I should strike the "yet" from that sentence if I truly want to stay in the today, which right now is so very hard to do. It is beginning to feel like I can see the headlights of the car driven by the arms that will pull this island away from me. It is getting hard.

Today I said some goodbyes. I did not want to take a chance that I would miss some people on Saturday, so I stopped in their shops and said bye. The man and woman who run the little store that is filled with eastern pickles, sauces, lemongrass and kefir lime leaves and who have the happy meat and lovely sushi. They told me to travel safe and come back. The pet shop owner who thanked me for telling her so that she didn't spend time wondering whatever happened to me and then shared stories of emigrating and returning. She wished me luck.

I left a note for Carol of the Fish and Chips. She is off on Tuesdays as Dee and I discovered a couple of weeks ago. I had to have one more serving of the good stuff before I left. I was doubly blessed because the sun warmed the outdoor patio to about 20 centigrade and I was alone to watch the comings and goings of the Howe Sound Queen.

And I finally found Jana's. She owns my shop. High quality, terrifically executed baked sweets and savouries. Small batch, leaning toward the healthy. I enjoyed my cake and coffee while listening to the conductor, the bassoonist and a choral member laugh and chat about Sunday's concert. Right there, next to me. It may not have been hanging out in a hotel room in Ann Arbor with Steve Forbert, but they didn't smash the chandelier and rip down the curtains either.

So being Tuesday, I have an early and long day tomorrow. Time to call it a day. No "X" on the calendar, no tears on the pillow. There are still trails to hike and whales to watch and I need to be on the top of my game; balls forward and pores open.

PS. Nettle stings do not plump up your lips though they do make them quiver.

Life on "the rock" does

Wow. Such a day I had. Scout and I sat outside and had breakfast and coffee, my favorite breakfast in the whole wide world, bacon and egg sandwich on crusty levain bread with a cup of really, really good coffee. We sat on the back deck. I found the baroque music station on the tv and I cranked it. Then I turned it back down and practiced deep, long breathing.

About 10 a.m. we jumped in the car and headed over to a part of the island I love to walk around a semi developed area of woods, the place that includes that water-front lot on the cove that I fell in love with when Ingrid was here. We had walked about 25 minutes and I turned us to head back and then realized there was nothing I wanted to do more than keep walking on this exquisite day. So we did. We ended up on the north end of the first nation land I like so much (I wrote about it when Spring paid her first visit to the island) and where I go every few days. This time we came from the north. We stopped on the beautiful bench and I chatted with Dee for a while. Then we sat and watched the water and the snow capped mountains and the incoming tide.

This afternoon I had a ticket to a program of Vivaldi, JS Bach and Handel -two oratorios and one piece for two violins - by the on island classical group and choir "Bach on the Rock". They had brought in a couple of vocal ringers which really took it up a notch. It was in a small church and I had the center aisle seat in the front row immediately to the right of the redolent conductor which was mostly great, but at times I couldn't hear clearly through his funk. It was my first time listening to them and I have to say they were really good and when they came to the climax of the second movement of the "Messiah," I was as I always am, moved to near ecstasy.

As I write this and the sun is slipping behind the trees behind me, the neighborhood bats are zipping around the deck. I love bats. I think they are incredibly cool creatures. It makes me happy that spring is here and they have emerged and there are bugs for them to eat and get all fat and fuzzy. I'd have one as a pet if I could. Ten points to anyone who knew that about me before now.

Well, for now, I am avoiding two topics that may make it to posts this week; my looming departure and news that my honey is sick. I can't do much about either tongight, except ask for strength and grace for her and for me. So I do.

PS. Human beings are impressive, often. Mother Nature is awesome, always.

Journey around my room

That is the title of one of my favorite books. Netted out, man under house arrest manages to travel incredible distances inside the 4 walls of his parlor. I wish I could tell you who wrote it. I bet Mister Google could.

Why am I thinking about that? I think it is about this small island and what it means to be somewhere so compact. There are a few ways this comes to my mind, but before I go there I will cop to sounding like a woman in the early stages of dating who cannot believe that the object of her affection also loves walks in the rain and green tea.

You may have sumised that I lost my journal. I'm sure you are wondering how that happens. Well, it is my journal, cum shopping list book, cum stray factoids book and I have taken to carrying it with me wherever I go. It makes me feel grounded. I don't quite get it, but I am very attached to this beautiful book. I wonder if the lovely A knew how attached I'd be when she gave it to me? But I digress.

It dawned on me on Saturday that I had not seen the book since last Friday and no matter how hard I searched, it was not here. I lost sleep over this. It made me anxious. It was hard. Finally, Monday night, I did what I always finally do when I lose something, I prayed to St. Anthony, and even though I never reach out just to see how he is, he took my call. Tuesday morning, I phoned the grocery store where I stopped on Friday and viola, there it was with the silver pen still attached to the strap that encircles it. It felt to me like the smallness of this place kept that book safe and sitting there til I came back to pick it up. Like it was never ever in danger of having something terrible befall it.

And still the island is not too tiny. When I go out with Scout we are still finding new paths and routes and views. Maybe this is a result of there being an actual community which makes it feel small, but a lot of land and not many people which makes it feel huge. Mostly I still can't believe she also likes green tea.

And apropos of nothing, today it hailed for 20 minutes. Pea-size hail, like miniature moth balls. It was really something to watch because we don't get much hail in San Fran. They were a good size, not too big to be threatening and not to small to make this retelling unwarranted. I'd say they were twice the size of the black ants that are trying to set up house and shop in the cabin. Spring is here for sure once the ants come marching two by two. Hurrah.

PS. I was walking high up on the ridge road and quickly turned my head to check out the truck roaring up the hill behind me, only to hear the giggle of the wind.

Places, Roll em' and ACTION!

Some random moments of my time with Dee.

Warning! The following videos may be endearing only to those who love us.











And for the record, yes, her leaving made me sad, but a good sad, like I'll be all right in a few days sad. Sad in a way that should not suggest to anyone they need to call some authority and stage an intervention. I appreciate your worrying about me a little though. Much mush.

PS. Are the contents of a lost journal truly personal if your name is not in the book?

The return of faith

One of the things I struggle with is how to weave a group of disparate thoughts into a coherent post. Sometimes I don't try and just save some of the stories for another time. Often, that time does not come. So today, I am going to try for the comb-over weave and see if I can have you join me in pretending this thing flows.

A long walk in the warm gentle rain woke me up and put me right. Those walks before breakfast are both hard and enriching. The fatigue in my leg muscles starts right at the first small hill at the end of the driveway. It is here I remind myself that I need to eat something so my muscles have fuel, but some mornings I don't want to wait for the egg and toast and neither does Scout.

Worms. Worms live in dirt. They are both the instrument for healthy soil and the sign of it. They are every gardener's friend, whether you have a 18 x 18 foot yard or 18 acres. And while these wiggly guys live in the dirt, they still need oxygen to live. Weird, right? There is enough oxygen in the soil for them, that is until it rains. Then the water, which is only part oxygen and not in a form they can use, displaces the oxygen they "breath" which is why you see worms above ground when it has been raining.

On today's walk there were worms everywhere. I don't mean like 15 or so, I mean I finally stopped counting and started extrapolating. We walked for 30 minutes and I passed over 1,000 worms and 5 slugs of varying style and color. It got so that I had to look down to avoid crushing entire communities. I worried about them drowning, being run over by a car, being crushed by deer hooves and dog paws. Then I stopped worrying so much because there are not many cars out here and really, I can't spend 30 minutes of this day in fear for the lives of worms. But I did wish them safe passage.

The worms, who are mostly safe from tires, reminded me that I am living in the country. The country is the habitat of a mix of creatures. Our human brains make us the rulers, but our numbers and our drive to control are measured enough that we do not dominate. Cities, like Oakland for example, are the habitats of humans. Of course, we have a huge population of domesticated animals, but we can easily go days without encountering something not wearing clothes or a collar or both.

We have birds, but we have to draw them to us to spend time with them. And on those rare moments when we do see other animals, we likely refer to them as vermin. We don't coo and smile at the rats and skunks and racoons, we flash our porch lights and hope to drive them away. We build better bird feeders so the squirrels can't eat the bird bait. And when any of these interlopers refuse to leave our habitat, we kill them. Take that you unwelcome beast.

I guess what I am saying is I like dim sum, incredible carnitas tacos, mortadella that makes me swoon and avocados with tahitian pomellos. I just like living in the country more.

And finally, it is passeaster right about now. A time of faith and saving of souls. These are not my holidays, but I appreciate some of the messages. At this time each year, I like to remind myself that faith can be lost and it can be reborn again. We just need to indicate we are willing. So here is to Spring and the birth of another cycle of life.

PS. Necessity is, in fact, the mother of invention.

The Love Boat

I awoke Sunday prepared for a successful journey to reunite with my love, Dee. I spent the previous two weeks sorting out my feelings, fear, anxiety, glee and by Sunday morning I had gained the clarity I needed, I was so very happy she was on her way.

As I reminded myself the week before, and others reminded me as well, travelling to a new place on a journey that involves planes, buses, boats and automobiles, not to mention immigration and customs is not easy. The first time can be daunting, no matter how clear the directions.

The only travel hiccup involved the alleged smuggling of dog food into the country without a permit, USDA letter of safety and notarized blessing from the Pope. Part of that sentence is true. The border guards were unable to complete an inspection of the alleged contraband since the zipper of the suitcase refused to work. They waved her in anyway. Happy ending, no one in jail and food in paw. A chance for the Canadians to extend the hand of welcome, not missed.

They had a second chance a bit further in the trip --and grabbed that brass ring with a smile-- when I dropped/lost/misplaced, verb of your choice, our ferry tickets as we raced to board the 3 pm crossing and avoid the dreaded 2 hour wait for the next one. It was like they wanted to make a good impression on Dee. They asked if I had really bought the alleged lost tickets, I said "Yes," and he waved us on. Welcome weary traveller, we have been expecting you, here is a nice cup of tea and homemade biscuit to tide you over til dinner.

Dee asked that I remind viewers that gum chewing is a dirty, dirty habit. Just ask Violet Beuregard.




PS. Sometimes having someone witness your experience is all you need. Here's to the witnesses.

Wood that warms me twice

One of the questions I am sometimes asked when I start chatting with people is "Thrifty or CG?" Translation, do you shop at the on-island owned Country Grocer supermarket or the off-Island owned Thrifty supermarket. "The Natch" I say, eliciting a "Huh?" from them --and probably you. "Natch" is slang for the Natural Food Store (thanks IM). So now you get it, but many of them don't.


Why would I knowingly pay more for my food at the Natch when CG sells a bit of organic food and is also owned by nice island people. Easy, food from the Natch feeds me twice.


The owner of this Natch is a young woman named Carol, a transplant from California ironically, who is my Pizzaiolo of grocers. I walk into the place and don't have to ask about the ethics of this, or the growing habitat of that; it's all good. And during the weeks and months when the farmers have no Saturday market and few self-generated customers, Carol buys everything they have. Everything. She is the money in their pockets that helps ensure they are here each spring.

Today was the first day of the Saturday market, a celebration of the food and art of Saltspring. All week I have suffered trying to decide where to buy my produce for the next few weeks. Would I abandon Carol to buy directly from the farmers, or would I stay loyal to Carol, knowing the produce she sells will be coming from them?

So today, with my market bag in my decidedly chilly hand, I charged onto the Park Plaza to cheat on Carol. Right off, boom, a rapid ping pong of emotion as it finally sank in that snow in March means no local vegetables in April. At least not here on Saltspring Island. For now at least, and likely til I leave, I will be shopping for all my grocery needs at Carol's including the veggies from other parts of BC where they grow under plastic and from California.

Please don't tell Carol. I do afterall, have to face her on Monday, empty bag in hand.


PS. Sadly I was not able to find a scratch and sniff applet. The skunk cabbage in the photo comes by its name honestly.

Nudged to hyperbole

Sunday really, finally, felt like spring. She put on a lovely spaghetti strap sundress with a modestly low cleavage and some platform sandals to show off her pink toenails. She was lovely enough to make everyone smile who spent any time with her. She smelled good too.

Scout and I went for a new (to us) hike at the southern end of the island. It was into and through the last piece of land anywhere in the Gulf Islands that still "belongs" to the first nation people. The signs addressed to "Friends" ask for just a modicum of respect for this land -- all within the bounds of commonly understood, decent behavior. They did not ask that Scout stay on a leash. In grateful response, he did not walk through the alter in the middle of the fir grove, but strode around it, turning only once to sniff at the shells amassed on the edge, declining to lift his leg.

We went through the fir, down to the water, up into the massive grove and then down again to the water. We ended up just immediately south of the $1.1 million beach cove Ingrid and I discovered last weekend. I sat on the bench overlooking the water that I had admired from a log on the beach just to the north. The bench was installed, I gathered, by the people who live on the private lot adjoining the sacred ground and was rustically beautiful, all wood and stone and oozing thoughtfulness and noblesse oblige.

As deeply as I was moved to stillness, Scout was a dog recently furlowed from the funny farm. He ran and frolicked on humus, sand and sea. My heart kept gasping at the beauty . This place is 10 minutes from my cabin. Ten minutes. Just right there. A short drive on an easy country road. A drive without getting on a highway, paying a toll, sitting in traffic or breathing deeply to avoid screaming "Asshole!" at a ruthless driver.

When I was a journaling girl, I assigned a grade to every day. I was a depressed kid once I hit 13, so there were not too many scoring better than a C-. But Sunday, what with the sun, the warm, the happy dog, the pink toenails, the graciousness of people and this discovery, it was an A++.

PS. Scout and I both needed anti-inflamatories for our right knees. He took his. As usual, I refused. He may be aging more gracefully than me.

TT may be right

I mostly do not enjoy looking at pictures of myself. This has always been the case, but since I let my hair go grey, it is even worse. Amateur photographers and snap-shotters don't compensate for the wierd, shiny, halo thing that happens when light hits silver hair and then goes into the still photo lens. I mean it is just creepy and distracting. But on video, although there are still lighting issues, I don't really notice. I like the way I come across on video. There, I said it aloud.

Here is a greeting and then a tour.




Now I am going to put 4 pounds of chicken bones and feet into a stock pot along with carrots, onion and whatnot. I am making a big pot of golden liquid love. While that brews away, I'm heading over to Salt Spring Cheese for some fresh goat cheese and some aged sheep cheese. YUMM!

PS. Inviting people into my home is one of the best ways to motivate me to tidy up. You should have seen it before I turned the camera on.

Is it better to have loved and lost?

My friend Ingrid came to visit me this past weekend. I feel like we coaxed every drop of life out of the 69 hours she was here.

I was really excited on Friday morning both because she was coming for a visit, but also because she was coming by seaplane. We decided that a standing mixer full of bread dough sounds more stable than the plane she rode in on. But she made it.



It is here that I wanted to insert the video of her plane actually landing, but alas, I managed to delete it when I was trying to upload it from the Flip to the PC. Believe me it was very exciting - not deleting 5 videos, but the landing.

We spent a lot of time exploring, and everywhere we two Marys went the lambs were sure to be. Their silliness and shenanigans made us laugh and laugh.



This little mottled fuzzy guy was convinced Ingrid was his mom. She called and he came running down the hill. His bleet was the funniest thing we heard all weekend.



We ate good food (chicken pot pie on Friday night, Aushuk with lamb (!) and yogurt sauce Saturday night and noodles with lamb (!) ragu on Sunday night), we drank some nice wine and we sat quietly and looked at the scenery. We found some places like this one that we wished could be ours.





And then, as happens, this good thing came to an end. Boy was I sad yesterday.



I went to a meeting today. Remembered I had a higher power and feel much better for it.


PS. Even on a remote island in British Colombia, reality manages to intrude. That cove, $1.2 million Canadian, roughly $1 million US.

Casting call

I was reminded that since most readers have never been to SaltSpring, showing them video after video of the island, while interesting, is not satisfying the need to see me. Today, I commit to you to tape myself more, talking to you instead of at you. You have to commit to tell me I look good, like I may have even lost a few pounds. Deal?

PS. There is a particular similarity between SSI and SF. If you are not enjoying the weather, wait 5 minutes 'cause it will change.

Non documente

How the hell did this PMS make it across the freakin border? No photo i.d., no birth certificate, no documentation of any kind from a recognized governmental authority. It must have stowed away in one of the boxes I packed, counting the days. It wrapped itself up in a migraine headache for safe keeping. You know what I just realized don't you, there were two of them in that box. The other one is hiding around here somewhere, waiting with gleeful anticipation for the clock to strike mid-April.


The sun has finally set on what I hope is March's nadir. Because really, if tomorrow is worse, I may kick the dog.



PS. Strike anywhere matches are amazing. They will ignite if simply left, with say 100 boxmates, on top of a wood burning stove.

Three Reasons I Love SaltSpring Island

Jun, age 21

Today I went downtown, a name that conjurs an image that decidly mismatches the reality. But in any case, I was there. And so was Jun. I was just standing gently observing one of the harbors, basking in the afterglow of a sugar scrub and tub. --Note to self, DH has ruined me for showers. Must have tub.-- Anyway, back to Jun. I happened to glance left and saw this young man approaching me, certainly about to kill my buzz. I have become fearful of young men, with pen and pad who walk up and say "Hi. How are you?" But as I am discovering, I have some ability to control my reaction. While it is not immediate, it comes more quickly here on the island. I disconnected my ears from my shoulders and smiled and said "Fine. How are you doing?" And the shoulders relaxed and on went the conversation. For 20 minutes. At least.

Jun (his "fake" English name as he calls it) is on sabbatical from university in Tokyo attending an ESL school in Victoria. He is here on SSI for a month with a host family, further perfecting his english. His assignment every day is to walk around and talk to 100 people, learn their names and write down one new thing, phrase or comment in english next to their name. I was number 76 and it was just before noon. He had been very busy already. What a joy. We chatted about all sorts of things and I taught him "I bet" and "Sabbatical." He taught me that there are still places where fear is an inappropriate response to a young man in a big coat walking toward you.


Sunset From My Deck

Scout and I had returned home from the afternoon "stroll" (that is as funny as "downtown" but probably only to me). I had started dinner and turned to see this view out the back of the house. That clump of thinnish trees just to the left of center...I used to think they blocked my view. Apparently, they make it. This totally doesn't suck.



I Heart Lichen

Each day, one of the two walks we take is in the woods. There are some established trails and some travelled fire roads and some thinned out thicketed spaces asking to become familiar paths, so we help them along. This was shot from an area adjacent to the cottage. We'll be going there in a little while. After I talk with DH and before I talk with KP. Boy she must have been tortured at sleep away camp.


PS. Picking up hitchhikers, knowing it is safe, is one of the great secret joys of life. Service, encapsulated interactions and painless goodbyes.

Can't trust that day

So it took just under 2 weeks for the honeymoon to run its course. The pilot marriage has begun. It is the time when if you chose to, you notice the warts and habits and formerly charming pecadillos. It is the time when the real relationship and in my case, the real evaluation begins.

Wednesday and Thursday on the island are a lot like Wednesday and Thursday at home. I get up early, work and think very hard all day and wonder at least once, why it is I put up with this shit. I still contend that I have an amazing deal, but sometimes I think it is only because this pile of poo stinks less than others I know about. Once again, it is about cost and benefit and it is about understanding that I do have to earn money and apparently in portions higher than the average bear. This is the truth about me right now.

Mondays are a work day too, but given my love of Tuesday, Monday has a reflecting halo around it.

I want to talk about gossip. Is that gossip? What if I talk about people who gossip? Is that gossip? Well I found a few of them last night. You can so guess where. Makes me nervous. Especially now that I know there is one meeting a week on the island and 10 people were there. This doubles my intention to get on the right ferry tomorrow and take the short ride across the water to what I hope is the bay area type standard Saturday hootanany. I have hope. I hate gossip. There is just nothing about it that is any good. Especially in an anonymous program.

Today I will go visit quiet Briggitte. I imagine she is only quiet because Bruno seldom is. Funny thing though, he is one of those people who has a lot of interesting things to say, and it is not that I don't want him to share it all with me, but I do get tired listening. Not bored, not annoyed, just tired.

I have pistachios for Briggitte. When we met in October I asked her why her brimming plate of macaroons did not include pistachio cream. "No pistachios" was the sum of her answer. So when I visited the other day and told her I brought some for her, her eyes lit up disproportionately I thought, given her non-plussed attitude of yore. Seems between my visits she had, at the request of a store in Victoria that she supplies, discovered the joy of pistachios. Quiet Brigitte waxed for a full 2 minutes about the sublime quality of pistachio creme and how one could never fully comprehend the bliss until some of the subtle silky essence covered your tongue. But still, for Briggitte, it seems, there are no pistachios. I have to investigate this further.

This is one of her little treasures. She is on to something. I enjoy it while admittedly wondering how I can have some of what she has. A little shop, a superior product, low overhead and the ability to succeed when so many others on the island seem to fail at similar undertakings.

PS. I have discovered a new love of whole wheat pasta. Two years of brown rice pasta will do that to you. Apparently absence does make the heart grow fonder which means April 5th should be the start of a really good week.

Little Rays of Sunshine

Today is Tuesday, one of my favorite days of the week. No one owns me on Tuesday, except Scout who owns me every day. Rain, shine, snow or heat, the dog needs a long walk and he gets one.

I have found a new loop trail that leaves out of the end of the driveway. The first third is down Dubois Rd and is on actual pavement, but the car traffic here is nearly non-existent so it is still pleasant. After a long downhill, we turn west and head up a private road that barely says "Hello, good morning!" before it starts to kick my ass. The first time I mounted this beast, my heart actually hurt. The second time, today, I knew what I was in for and though I went no slower, my head was prepared and my heart caught up. My lungs are still not so sure.

I remember when I was younger listening to "old" people make jokes about how hills got steeper as they got older. "They may be right," crossed my mind, then I chalked up the intense challenge to altitude. ;-)

Scout is also changing. He still runs up the hill, but his recovery time is slower and generally passes out for a few hours after we get home. I find that his compulsion to tag every tree, shrub and post, as is his standard practice when he is a city dog, has abated here on the island. Two long pulls on the trigger and he is good for the entire walk.

I headed into town amazed at how much I still enjoyed the cold weather, even after all these years of blood-thinning life in SF. Frozen pot-shaped ponds with wooden stirring sticks jutting skyward reminded me of skating on the marsh adjacent to my childhood home. I wonder if anyone skates here, other than the rollerblading every Friday night at the south end town hall.

I had my first on-island date with my higher power at noon and for nearly an hour, charaded as an alcoholic. I was brain engaged and butt in chair for 55 minutes when the words "Ellen, did you want to share?" drove my mind clear out of my body, the room and the building.

Palms sweating, I confessed my primary allegience, haltingly declared my love for addicts and alcoholics everywhere and my growing commitment to use whatever part of the program, in its entirety, that could help me. I muttered something to the floor about feeling that these people were my community. Nods, smiles and encouraging "of courses" made their way 'round the circle, reconnecting my escaped mind with my body.

Sitting here at home, I remember 12 of their names and all of their faces. This is how I think about it: I have spent the last 10 days in a lovely, well equipped life boat with food, water and calm seas and faith that I would be fine. Today I saw there is land all around me and that whenever I need to go ashore, I can just paddle in.

PS. How ironic that the first non-Aboriginals to homestead this island were 50 free blacks from San Francisco and in 10 days I have seen nothing but white people.

I set my alarm and had plenty of time to make the 8:50 ferry to catch a 10 o'clock meeting in Sidney. I had decided to take Scout along thinking I would drive down, put the car on line and then walk him around 'til it was time to board. At 8:15 we drove down to a completely empty parking lot. Hmmm. According to the posted time schedule that covered Sept 06 until July 07 (!) the 8:50 was really a 7:50 or a 9:50 but certainly not the convenient 8:50 I needed. In what can only be deemed a blossoming change in attitude, I shrugged my shoulders. Welcome to the joy of island living.

I was awake, dressed and had hiking boots in the trunk so why not explore the island's southeast appendage and the only provincial park on the island. Translate, I could let Scout off leash and not fear a sheep farmer would mistake him for a wolf and shoot him. You think I am joking? You can't shear a dog and use his fur and you certainly can't sell him for $5 a pound, making him expendable if he wanders within 50 yards upwind of a farmer. While Scout's nappy haired body used to elicit questioning glances from 5 year olds who would often ask if he was a lamb,

it is now shorn short exposing the long snout of a vicious killer.


Since it was so early, and so the month of March, we had the entire place to ourselves. I took this video in the hopes it would continue to build the chain of evidence that I have not, in fact, lost my mind.


We came home, delightfully tuckered out and settled in for a little reading, writing and cooking. The sky was mostly clear but the cloud covering was starting to crawl over the ridge. I shot this video less than an hour after waxing poetic with Ingrid about the big blue sky.


It carried on like that for a couple of hours and left the entire forest covered with an inch of snow. We went for a short late afternoon hike and I remembered how much I love the crunch, crunch, crunch of fresh snow under hiking boots.

We wandered up near our neighbor Neil's compound and discovered a little shack of a building with smoke coming out of a chimney. The splashing confirmed what I had already suspected, Neil is a man who knows what matters. I can't help but wonder if the gift of homemade soup might lead to postings about bathing in a warm little shack amid the snowfall and cedars.

PS. Beware the daikon rotting from the inside out and remember that sometimes the vegetables in the store's bargain bin, aren't.

Friday was the day of errands. Like a nesting bird I collected things I needed to make this cabin my home. I combined the effort with a tipsy figure eight sightseeing tour of the island -- the figure eight, not me.

I started out a the bottom and headed up the right side stopping first at the SSI cheese company where David runs one of the most commercially successful food ventures on the island. He has been making goat and sheep cheese for a number of years and it is sold all over BC. He has the quality and the packaging down --citrus adornment on this, truffle infusement in that. The sheep were all about the place with their little lambs in tow. It is amazing that they really do look like the little stuffed animals but I guess less so given the toys are usually MADE FROM WOOL. I bought a chunk of chedder like sheep's milk cheese and a goat feta. On the road out I stopped to see David's chickens and I filmed this for my friend dk.

dk is an encaustic painter and specializes in chickens. you can see her work at www.dkhaas.com.

Next stop, Rendezvous patisserie, but I couldn't find it. How ironic. Rendezvous is a french bakery owned by Bruno and Brigitte whom I met at the farmers market in the fall. They sell yummy little sweets, tartes and crepes. I have some pistachios for them and I am hoping Brigitte and I can hit the kitchen and put them to use. I guess that means I will actually have to call them. Hmmmm.

Next ,off to Vesuvias on the upper west side where I was hoping to find an open sign hanging aside The Seaside Restaurant. I parked and was hit square in the nose with the smell of victory. Crunchy battered fried fresh cod with slaw, salad and chips. I let restraint rule and had just one piece but extracted a personal commitment from my superego to come here again next week.

On the way to my next stop, the Northend Farm, I found a road leading down to the water. I wanted you to see this.

At Northend Farm, 6 very large barking dogs charged the Subaru. Reason told me a merchant would not set free killer-dogs to greet the customers, so I opened the door. Sally had a freezer with 10 of the largest chickens I had ever seen. Stewers for sure. She also had lamb for sale at a great price so I stocked up. Like everyone else I have met, she wondered what I was doing on SSI. People seem genuinely interested in my process, though I imagine some of them roll their eyes as I walk away. But given that so many are here from somewhere else, I think mostly they wonder if my story matches theirs.

As I made my way from the top right of the figure eight I stopped midway home in Ganges to visit the natch and stock up on veggies, spices and other hippie dippie things, many of which came from Califormia. Made me wonder if i knew any of the farmers. Next time in, I am going to chat with the owner, a CA transplant herself, and find out who her suppliers are. At this time of year the only local veggies in the stores come from below the earth. I know they are growing greens here, but I am not sure where to find them. So for now, I am begrudgingly eating California grown. How ironic.

PS. It is important to support the local young artists on the island. I picked up this painting from Liam, age 6, for "0 cents please." It's entitled "Nana's house in the woods."

I had hoped to turn this adventure into a "we" trip, not an "I" trip by sharing videos of my surroundings, my thoughts and my new acquaintances. I have spent 3 days being technologically frustrated. Note to self, check not only the mainsail and the jib, but the rudder as well, before you push off from the dock.


I must admit that technology is not my strong suit (some will recall my inability to work my iphone camera feature due to my failure to remove the protective film covering the lens). Though, sometimes I fantasize that I am as technically savvy as I want to be. Like sewing or changing out an electrical fixture, it is all a matter of desire and some support along the way. Proper motivation also helps, say being on an island far from home with only a dog and a small cloth monkey I call C. George Johnson.


So this posting is dedicated to my peeps who pushed my boat off the dock and then paddled out to the floundering vessel to bring me the rudder. TT and IM, merci beaucoup. To you I commit to yet reclassify myself a technical wannabe instead of a technical idiot.


From my eye to my flip to my pc to youtube to blogger to you, through the lens of my heart...





PS. Today I was reminded to check the mental stability of the people pointing out who is crazy and who is sane, because afterall, everything is a matter of perspective.

Today I received an email from my friend Veronica. It was a link to this video on you tube.

It is both stimulating and suffocating and reminded me of why I am here, looking across 30 nautical miles, ok, maybe it is only 10, of water and rolling forest covered hills. I feel like a walk in the rain might wash off the crystalline energy drops that video left behind on my skin. Watch it when you have yet to consume your third cup of caffeine or you may spin right off the planet.

Today's lesson: Buy Canadian maple syrup, pass on the Canadian Feta Light.

My first blog entry - how original

When I adventure towards a specific physical destination, does the adventure start at the moment the car ignition turns over and I back out of the driveway and turn my intention north, or the first morning at the destination with french pressed coffee in hand made with freshly ground beans thoughtfully provided by the host up the hill?

The reason I ask is I am either getting a late start or a timely start. Hmmm. I think the first thing I will do is forget late or timely and get my body tuned to SaltSpring time.

Since this is posting #1, I think I will explain just a bit about why I am here. Not on the planet, this life, but here on this blogosphere writing about this particular adventure. I won't drown you with too many details, as I am certain they will emerge over the days and weeks I am here. But a bit of background is in order.

I am increasingly drawn to the tall trees, to the big calm water and to the slower pace. I find a certain tightness comes over me when I hear cars honking and deep bass notes resonating from cars idling at traffic lights, one foot on the gas and one on the brake, like neurotic stallions behind the starting gate. I am thinking that walking to the coffee shop is not all I once thought it was. While I love the buzz of the city scene, in smallish doses, I can no longer absorb the cacaphony without feeling like it is chipping away at my being, the way I used to feel about smoking dope. It gets you high, but you lose braincells. In short, I feel like it is time to step back in time and reconnect with the ground up tree bark under foot, before there is not much left to chip away.

While I would gladly settle into a refuge just a short drive from my loves, I cannot afford to do so. So I am north, looking for a retreat I can afford. With that piss poor excuse for a president gone from sight, I no longer have the drive to abandon the US, but frankly, I am not such a believer in connection to the state. No disrespect to those whose blood runs red, white and blue, but US, Canada, whatever.

So I am here seeing what I see and giving myself permission to feel what I feel. The days ahead are bound to be reflective though I hope to abstain from poetic drippings on your monitor. Well, mostly.

So, I am drained for now. I need to go be.

PS. My friend Jane inspired me to share a daily secret or provocative thought. Today's secret, don't fry your eggs in oil you find in the cabinet of a rental property. It is bound to be rancid, a fact you will no doubt learn too late.