My world used to be clearer, crisper even, more black and white. Two colors, two options, two lines, no waiting. But now it is not. My crispy edges are smoother and the vision of my life is more complex. It is not a here or there, places or people, proposition for me anymore. The port hole is now a kaleidoscope,* a precious treasure from my last relationship obtained by struggle and at a cost.

It took me a while to figure out how to use my new oculus, but now I can't put it down. Because while it's true that black and white can be so chic, so edgy, so clear, it is also hard and sharp and smacks of final. I see now I prefer a life of swirly color with infinite combinations of beauty and joy. But sometimes, it makes me so dizzy. So many choices, so many options, so many feelings, so many visions of a future. Sometimes the spinning gets me a little sick, but then I find a point on the horizon and I gaze at it with gentle intensity and the colors and shape come into focus. Sometimes the steadying points are people.

I love coming to this island refuge. It is an enlightenment provoking mound of dirt and rock in a beautiful strait. It is a place of stillness, a place where answers come. As I meander about I find them in the redwood and elm grove whispering first nation memories of prosperous summers; in the clarity of the water that goes from blue to green to grey and in the wind that kicked up white caps today all over the harbour.

I packed my new kaleidoscope carefully and it made it here in one piece. I'll do the same on the ride back home. If when I return you see me looking a little wobbly, please, just take my hand, help me steady and I'll certainly find my focus in just a moment or two.

P.S. "i" before "e" except after "c", or when sounds like A as in neighbor or weigh. hmmm

Salt Spring Island Farm Life

When I rented this cabin I did not realize it was on a mini-farm. It is a plus really. I took a few videos of the four legged and winged boarders earlier today. I am multi-tasking and posting these is far easier than crafting some thoughtful missives.

Al belongs to Maureen and used to be part of a trail pack that toured the island. Her business failed as do so many on the island. She had plenty of customers, but she lost her lease on the pasture where she kept the horses. Al is renting a single, shared bath, until Maureen decides what to do next.

These girls are truly free range. They wander all over the property by day and at night they retire to a small coop reminiscent of the cage used by the child catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (queue Ellen swooning over Truly Scrumptious..that hair, those dresses, that name...:-0)
I am sorry to report that this next video is a bit of a tease because, well you'll see.


I will capture the little one on film when I can, but until then this 2009 video of a spring lamb and Ingrid will preview the kid.
Al's flat mates have clearly been to Pavlov elementary. Unlike Al, they love kale stems and we became fast friends.


P.S. Turns out flashy, sparkly lights do make the season and the cabin bright.

Seasonal Reasonals to be cheer full.

I love Christmas. Well actually, I enjoy the few days leading up to Christmas. Even though I don't myself celebrate the day, I do so love all the trappings. Well, all except the rabid consumerism that seems to whirl so many people into a tizzy. What makes me feel all toasty inside are the many kind, warm wishes and courtesies people extend to one another. The kindness glows especially warm on an island where there is a strong feeling of community and where just about everyone is a Christmas celebrant, if even in the secular sense.

I went to a south-end island singalong on Monday night. About 100 people joined in for singing led by a local troubadour who has led the way for 30 years. There was hot cider -- with a little something extra for the adults and an abundance of good cheer. I stayed for about an hour and then, with my tank full, I left "the south end hippies and their kids" to sing into the night.

Every day and night the town center is reverberating with the sound of carols playing from the fire station right in the middle of it all. Anywhere you walk you hear them. There is a huge Santa coming out of the bell tower and decorations of a subtle island kind everywhere, Tigger notwithstanding.

Every person I ran into this week was cheerful. People were moving a bit faster than usual, but for someone used to city life, it still seemed very slow. And everyone I interacted with said "Merry Christmas!" with sincerity.

A long, long time ago I installed a universal translator in my ear drum. When it hears "Merry Christmas!" it uses a sophisticated algorithm and feeds my brain "I am wishing you a wonderful few days of joy and peace and good eating with people you love sometime between now and when you go back to work in January." I love to hear it and return the sentiment using the western hemisphere-biased retort "Happy New Year to you!"

For all of you, turn on your own personal translator and receive my warmest wishes for whatever it is you desire to hear. Just know I am sending it with love. Ho Ho Ho.

P.S. For dogs, Salt Spring Island is the Iran of dental work and the Thailand of sex re-assignment surgery. Next time Scout needs work, we are coming up here and saving 60%.
,

L'enfer, c'est les autres

Scout and I have a deal. I drag his neurotic ass half way to Alaska and I stop from time to time to let him out to pee. And, once we arrive, I take him with me whenever I possibly can and avoid leaving him in the cabin on his own where it is safe and warm.

I've been meaning to clarify some other terms for you, writing terms. When I use the word "we" I am referring to me and Scout and if I say "I," I am referring to me and Scout except when I mean just me. Got it? Like when "I" have a hot stone massage tomorrow, he won't have one. He doesn't like hot stone massage, he prefers deep tissue and Corrie doesn't do deep tissue.

We had a nice long walk this morning with Aju, but I cut it short wanting to leave some in the tank for the daily afternoon outing. Today's adventure on Channel Ridge Trail treated me to one of the moments that have come to define my time on the island. A moment when I say to my furry companion "Oh yes, this is why I do this. This is why I drag our asses this far. And, really, don't you just love this and wish we could do it every day?" Mostly he just stares at me blankly and pulls harder on the leash and reminds me that if I refuse to untether him, I will have to keep up. But today, just for five minutes, I made him just stand there with me and absorb the view, the peace, the quiet, the solitude the incredible, unparalleled feeling of complete safety out in a forest. I come here to remember that there are still places where, if I am just a tad bit sensible, I have nothing to fear. All this to say that women can walk alone in the forest at any time, walk down any street at any time and sit anywhere at any time on this island and fear no stranger.

So there I was today, on the fine-tuned Channel Ridge trail, without water, without a map and without a clue how long it might be before a blinding rainstorm descended. But I was not afraid. I brought my sense of direction with me, the trail markers were unbelievably clever and I was on a ridge of an island of finite proportions circled by roads; an island where heading down from any mountain in any direction long enough leads to civilization. On an island in a country where the immigration officer asks with a smile, how long am I staying and am I bringing in a gun.

It is challenging sometimes for me to accept that I have so much fear; the review of the origins of which would leave all of us longing for a door out of the rabbit hole. It has tinted the lens for me and I realize how important it is for me to clear it often, but it is a bit like horse poo on my boots; bits come off, but the deep stuff, the stuff in the treads of my psyche still stick. This is not the stuff that a good swish in a baptismal puddle will clear out and it is not easily left in the chair in the corner of the shrink's office. This is about shedding a fear that I cannot seem to shake, address, control, mitigate, bear. It is the fear I have when a sound wakes me up in Oakland at 4 am and I realize that I may have forgotten to lock the front door. It is the fear I have when I am walking home from my favorite restaurant after 2 drinks and realize I left my street sense on the bar next to the tip for Kate. It is the fear I have when my friends tell me they walk home late at night from the train, without fear. I hate this fear. And while I am certain, fairly deeply, that anything that could happen would conclude with an "I will be fine," I can't help but hope to never have my faith tested in this way. And since I can't shake it, I leave it at the border with the nice man in the tiny booth who only wants to know if this American and her dog are packing.

I am 3 weeks into a life without this fear. It is a seductive siren calling to me regularly and while I sometimes miss the companionship of my ship mates, I come.

P.S. Sometimes I think Sarte was right.

Last night I went to a Yumm! dinner, Salt Spring Island style in Bruce's Kitchen, an actual restaurant with an actual name so I suppose I should write "at" instead of "in" but given its homey compactness, either will work. You can see Bruce is a big man and his menu as well as his girth reflect his love of all things dairy and pig. His place seats 14 at two communal tables and he churns out lunch most days and once or twice a month he throws a pre-fixe fancy dinner in true farm to table style.

The meal was themed a Quebec Christmas Eve dinner and adhered closely to tradition, at least according to Louise the Quebecois who sat across from me.

We started with a pork cretons (think shredded pork pate in a pot) with house made plum chutney, mustard and brioche. Bruce offered us a little extra treat of a traditional Quebec triple cream cheese that was as rich as butter but with triple the flavor. I cleaned my plate. I am going to say that just once because other than the speck of starch left on my plate after the main course, I left not one bite of anything.

We had a glass of local hard cider with the course and it actually worked very well. Sadly, I forgot to take out the phone to snap this first picture until I was 5 bites in. While most of the evenings plates looked fine, I would love to give the boy a pointer or two on plating. There I said it.

Our second course was a tourtiere -- a small pie filled with ground beef and pork and flavored with onions and celery and warm spices like allspice, cinnamon and maybe some clove. There was a small puddle of homemade catsup and a side of pickled beets which tasted exactly like my beets. And I'll only say this one time also, this was a dinner I could have done, might have done, might just need to riff on.

Our main course was a ragout of shredded ham hock with tiny meatballs made from beef, pork and veal and flavored again with warm spices and parsley. The accompanying gravy was brown, rich and dreamy owing to a technique of dry roasting the flour in the oven until it browned before using it to make the roux. I love it when I learn new tricks!

The ragout was served over a white potato and rutabaga mash enriched with cream, just like my dad used to make when I was a kid. The whole thing felt like Scandanavia meets the Bayou. Bruce served it with this amazing spicy Pinot Noir that was the absolute perfect pairing for the luscious meat and sauce.


And because we needed something aside from cider or wine to cut all this richness, the table was adorned with spicy zuchinni pickles and green tomato chow. Bruce puts these up himself all summer and uses them at his special meals and to give as small sides with sandwiches at lunch. They were super sassy. One of the tomatoes squirted all over my sweater and didn't even blush.

Toward the end of the main course a lightly dressed bowl of local greens was brought to the table. I had two portions in the hope the roughage would actually chisel a path through my arteries. I can't remember having a meal this rich in a long time. I noticed some of the guests cried uncle.

Dessert was served with a small snifter of framboise from right across the water in the Okanagan region. It smelled like it was going to be way too sweet, but like many good distilled and fermented beverages, the nose and the taste take you down two different but adjoining paths. It was only a touch sweet and mostly tasted like raspberries evaporating off my tongue.

The framboise accompanied small slices of sugar pie and buche de noel. It was a buche I would have been proud to present and serve. Maybe I'll have to do another Yumm! dinner afterall, if only to make this beautiful log.

I found myself wishing we were not assigned seats -- I might have enjoyed myself more at the table of 4 rough and tumble lesbians in striking distance of my age than with the older straight couples from a time and mind set to which I had trouble relating. I did my best to stay engaged with the polite conversation about living abroad and large craft sailing and retirement bliss and grandchildren, but I was distracted by the laughing from the other table.

Bruce's kitchen is about the size of mine with a few more bells and whistles, but not many. Today I find myself day dreaming about having a place like his, somewhere, at a time when I don't have to make a lot of money, but need to make a lot of food related joy.

P.S. Out on a lamb hunt today I visited Sunset Farms, one of the large ranches found on the island, and as it turns out, owned and run by two of the lesbians at the other table. Seems they don't raise pigs and needed a fix.

Making a list, checking it twice

Things I brought that I certainly could have lived without:

• The second pair of jeans
• The girly blue and black gauzy scarf that makes my eyes look so blue
• The second pair of flannel pajamas
• The external keyboard and monitor for my pc
• My own telephone set
• The kitchen towels
• 4 avocados
• The phrase aka
  

Things I wish I had brought and did not:

• More towels for wiping off a wet and dirty dog
• My external mouse
• Bags of dog food for Scout purchased at a reasonable price
• A large blanket to cover the couch, aka Scout's living room bed
• 2 forks, 2 knives and 2 soup spoons that feel good in my hand
• A huge bag of red quinoa
• My back washing brush
• A to-go cup for the coffee bar
• My bathrobe
  

Things whose worth I doubted but which have redeemed themselves:

• Jar of homemade canned tomatoes - yummo
  
• 5 lemons - at $2 a piece here I saved $7 - enough for 2 capuccinos
• My puffy down mittens
• Scout's metal food and water bowls
• 15 back issues of my various magazines
• My 3 special pillows
• The sealed package of prosciutto ends for flavoring greens
• My gallon of kimchee kraut
• A half gallon of 'made for me' blueberry kombucha
  

Things I don't use regularly and did not bring and boy I am glad I don't need them:

• Organic cranberry juice at $19 a bottle
• Parmesan cheese - nothing any good here on the island
• Champagne in the $15-$30 price range
• Humanely raised pig salami - nope, not on this island

P.S. Even though I am basically living in the forest, it still makes me happy to have a large vase of greens on the kitchen table.

Free to be or not to be

Thursday was the last day of corporate work for me for the year and the day before I was free of the burdens of obligation. Scout notwithstanding, Friday was calendared as the first day my time did not belong to someone else; no one owned me. Apparently the freedom was a bit more than my unconscious could bear. Meet Aju. Eh-you.



The owners of the B&B left the island for a week. At the last minute, their dog care fell through and they were searching for someone to take her. In a moment of who knows what, I offered to pitch in if they came up short. I would be happy to take care of her except she could not stay with me at the cabin -- because as you can see she carries an extra layer of downy winter fur. For someone with allergies, Aju is a pulmonary cherry bomb. They decided she would stay in the insulated, though unheated garage adjacent to their home and each day I would take her along on walks with Scout, feed and water her and when I left during the day, I would make sure she was free to wander about.

She is a sweet dog who, like many dogs, loves the person who puts food in her bowl and takes her on adventures with her new pal Scout. Every time we meet she bestows on me that OMG, you are the light of my life look and nuzzles me and whinnies til I pat her on the head. This island is 17 miles tip to toe and she is allowed to go anywhere and how does she make use of this opportunity, this free to be wherever I please...



It took exactly 37 hours for me to let her come in. She slept on the kitchen floor, under my chair and snored for 2 hours while the decreasingly neurotic Scout traveled to dreamland via the couch coach. I booted her out when Scout and I left for our errands and island wandering. While we were out I picked up a box of Claritin because in some instances, resistance is futile.

P.S. The Queen of Nanaimo come into port today and my 8 year old Viking child watched with glee. I don't think I will ever tire of the ferries.

Lyrics to live by

I am walking along the backbone of the crest at the top of the driveway from the house that sits above the cabin where I sleep. The road divides the north from the south, the quick descent to one harbour from the slow, long way down to another harbour. There is packed dirt and crushed stone under foot and very few trenches, because this is a road less traveled. While it is signed a dead end, it is a long journey to that end from the start and so sparsely populated with homes that the morning and evening walks are seldom interrupted by cars coming or going. I have wandered up a few driveways and down some paths marking the future driveways of fortunate land owners and most people seem to be somewhere other than here. Given the lawn art, the beautiful landscaping, the largess of the homes and the drawn curtains, I would say they were summer folk, lovers of the fair weather Salt Spring. I am, at times, so very envious.

I was a rock last time I visited this island. It was simpler in some ways. Now I have built bridges and the stay is different, not quite troubling, not quite invigorating, but a place where thinking is being outpaced by feeling. Not a bad thing, but after years of so much of one, the other is hard sometimes.

There is a word I am sure for this thing I have, perhaps in one of the more dramatic languages of a culture with emotion. It is not remorse, it is not regret, it is a sorrowful understanding that things are as they were going to be. I have done right for the me that travels many times even though the me that is this one, this now me, is hurting. The word I seek conveys a sublime though subtle joy that progression is at hand and this small conquerable mountain has been taken and like the bear who went over one, there is another one in view and like all mountains this one is full of beautiful sights, wondrous smells and sounds that inspire the climb. There are sharp drop offs and exhausting trails that dead end forcing me back down and up again, sometimes over and over til I find the one allowing through passage. Character building, ass building, capacity for living building.


It was sunny and blue skied this morning when I rolled over to look out the french doors of the bedroom. I took full advantage and walked that crest of the road for an hour, dropped down til it ended and then slowly, but deliberately strode back up and home, to the December home on the island where I am no longer a rock. I smile a bit as the realization of lessons learned and muscles built sinks in.



P.S. Don't short order cook for a whining poodle. He really doesn't want his own fried egg, he wants yours.

The hoped for shift arrives

As is sometimes the case, this afternoon's much needed shift was delivered in a small package by a person -- the coffee/cafe owner chick who is always too cool for school. While there was no "Welcome back, we missed you!" she did ask with half a question mark, you live here right? Half remembered and possibly mistaken for a local, I rode out of my demi-funk a short distance from the point of slow return. It's been a little hard this first week. The cabin is not exactly right, the host not exactly welcoming and the exchange rate sucks, making it too expensive to not watch what I am spending. Wah wah wah. I know, right?

Let me back track though to let you know this morning I spent a couple of hours in the lovely Solace organic spa sauna and hot tub in the forest. I sat in the dry heat and the cool misty air and contemplated not much of anything. I swung by the goat/sheep cheese farm store for some uber fresh, sweet and barely tangy goat cheese that I'll melt into some brown rice noodles with kale and proscuitto ends for dinner. The nearly custardy cheese is amazingly yummy. While posting, I ate a bit with a fuyu persimmon and the thought of a strudel with these two plus some walnuts or a frozen goat cheesey concoction with swirls of persimmon softness and crunchy spiced and toasted almonds has my little chef's heart a fluttering.

The farm's welcoming committee.



December showers bring mighty runoffs to the Gulf Islands and everywhere I drive there are impromptu waterfalls and rising creeks. I love the sound of charging water and find myself pulling over to just watch and listen. My cabin is at the center of the island, the place where the mountains melt into the sea. Head north and the terrain is mostly flat; head south and it is way up and then way down making scenes like the one below fairly common.



We're home now, getting ready to settle in for the evening. Patti Smith's new book is on the coffee table, a stove full of wood is ready to burn and the sunset is stroking the top of the mountains with its languid tongue. I am watching the light change from pale blue to mauve tinted with fuschia and finally navy blue, gently reminding myself to spend more time observing and less time thinking, allowing mother nature herself to quietly lift any circling funk.


P.S. Clever understated design subtly conveys many messages.

The good news is, the soup doesn't suck

I need an oil can. My blogger fingers are really rusted, and my writing chops a bit rank. But life is for re-learning -- why not do it in public on the internet in front of millions. As if. So, I beg you forgive the stylistically novice nature of these early posts. I commit to improve, spiffy up the look and feel and make it worth the 15 minutes a few times a week it will take to keep up with my adventures.

The drive up was the drive up. The packing was easy, the car loading easy and the saving of space for an extra return trip passenger, her guitar and all the clothes she can carry in that duffel bag super easy.

Scout loaded himself into his seat a good 30 minutes before departure, made sure his tray table reclined and locked and that his food bowl was stowed. He is one of the more neurotic creatures I know and surely the most neurotic I love.

We reached Portland in 9 hours and 20 minutes, a personal best and spent an uneventful night at the Hotel Deluxe -- my go to Portland bed and tub. Down bedding for me AND for Scout.

Day two I re-learned that I can depend on my hubris to routinely foul things up. 5 miles outside of Port Townsend, feeling smug about how I had just the right amount of time, a wave of humility overcame me. I checked the reservation and realized my ferry, the last one of the day, was docked and waiting to depart from Port Angeles, about 40 miles further along the road. Fu - uck. Drive, drive, drive, fast, fast, fast. I am sure I left 15 days of my life on that stress ridden, successful dash.

So now we are here, on the island, at the cabin, on the Long Harbour, high up the hillside. We are settling in and I have started cooking out of a dorm-size fridge on 4 crappy, electric burners (is that redundant?). As soon as I tidy up a bit and get the wood stove cranking, I'll show you the place, all 500 square feet of it.




P.S. EST is not proven to be an effective treatment for canine neurosis and in fact, there is evidence indicating it may exacerbate it.