Whose Bench Is It Anyway?

 

Have you ever noticed how uncomfortable everyone is on the first morning of a two-day course? How awkward the first half-day is as we all get settled and suss out our classmates? The next morning, we each make a beeline for the exact spot we claimed the day before – and panic when the instructor spontaneously rearranges the seating.

Humans are apparently territorial. Every time I visit the park, I sit on the same bench. I even refer to it as “my bench.” Last week, I spied cherry stones scattered in the grass near my feet and immediately wondered, somewhat resentfully, who had been sitting on my bench. Today I arrived to find a paperback novel had been left on the seat – a James Patterson, though I don’t recall the title. Seeing it gave me pause; I actually hesitated before reminding myself this is my bench, goldarnit, so I’m a-sittin’ on it.

So I did.

As I sat there, I wondered how many other people consider the bench to be theirs. It is public property. Anyone can sit on it and for as long as they like, to boot. No one can claim it for their very own. I’ve been lucky having it to myself on a Sunday morning. I won’t mind sharing if I’m there first, but if someone else is there when I round the corner, I’ll keep walking. I go there to meditate, after all, so why disrupt someone else on a principle that won’t stand up in court?

There’s a plaque on this particular bench. It’s placed in memory of a fellow named Timothy, who perished before his time as a victim of foul play (so says the marker). Whether the bench is occupied or not, the plaque is always there. Maybe whoever ate the cherries thinks of the bench as theirs. Same for whoever forgot to take their book when they left. I don’t think of it as mine, anymore.

It belongs to Timothy.

Elements

the view from my bench

One of the many magical things I’ve discovered about Esquimalt is the wilder side of Victoria’s Inner Harbour – this lovely little part of the Capital Regional District features a coastline of tiny mountaintops poking up through the ocean, gusty winds at unexpected intervals, and an up-hill/down-dale topography that provides a better workout than anything I could probably get in a gym. And the same stunning view of the Olympic mountains is as readily available here as it was from the Ocean Room.

A recent flânerie took me, with my Canon, down to Saxe Point Park, the “over the bridge” version of Beacon Hill that features far fewer flower beds and a slightly less cultivated atmosphere than my former stomping ground. I walked the park’s perimeter with the ocean on my right and the urban forest on my left, until I rounded the point and came upon a wooden bench situated with a rock rise at its back and a stunning view of the water out front. By then a rest was welcome, so I sat down on the bench and took a minute to absorb the environment. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, let it out, and noted:

The sun’s warmth on my face;

The air stirring in my lungs;

The rock solid beneath my feet;

The sound of water gently lapping the shore.

In short, it was a perfectly pure mindful moment in which I was acutely aware of the four main elements that makes this world so beautiful. Wood and metal were also present in the bench beneath me, but this Virgo counts them with rock in the “earth” category.

This dimension is fraught with contrast. Life is not designed to be easy, but our loving, friendly and generous Universe has provided a glorious venue in which to find respite from the human experience. All we have to do is pay attention to it, and to ourselves. We are connected to the earth in ways we don’t fully comprehend, yet that moment on the bench at Saxe Point defined my connection more keenly than any book or documentary ever could.

It must have done, because I’ve remembered it.

Red Robin

Sometimes the best photo ops occur when I’m not expecting them.

I was on a flânerie during one of the first sunny days in March. I’d been out with the Canon, exploring the neighbourhood, following the bus route from the stop out front to the terminus at the top of the hill and back around to home again. My mission was primarily to take photos of the water from our new location, and one in particular to use with a blog post (see “View From Another Window”).

Mission accomplished, I’m walking toward the little church outside my building when I notice a lone robin hopping merrily around in the parking lot. At first it doesn’t register, but suddenly I decide the burnished red of its breast against the stone grey asphalt will make a good picture. So I stop. So does the robin. We eye each other for a second. I slowly reach for the camera and the robin, startled, hops away.

“Oh, no!” I exclaim in hushed alarm, “please, wait until I get a picture!”

Amazingly, the robin pauses. I raise the camera, hit the power button and take reckless aim, hoping the bird will be somewhere in the frame since I can always crop the photo later. Click! I lower the camera and the robin immediately bounces on its way.

Relieved, I offer a heartfelt thank you in its wake.

Only when I load the photos onto the computer do I realize the little guy did more for me than wait. He posed.

Did he hear my plea for him to linger?

You bet he did.

My Left Foot

lucky to live here

Flâneries have been verboten of late, due to the rebellion of an ankle injury that went untreated around two decades ago. I stepped off a curb and my foot went sideways. The tendons locked, the bones jammed, and over time, scar tissue has formed and arthritis—sigh—developed. The joint finally seized on me last summer, shooting pain all over the place, so I’ve not been walking as much as I once did. I can do short stints, but I haven’t hiked home from work in months. It simply hurt too much.

My massage therapist suggested orthotics after a number of acupuncture treatments only accomplished so much. I was thinking about where to get them when I noticed a sign on the wellness clinic that recently opened ten minutes from home: “Custom Orthotics”. Below that: “Walk-ins Welcome”.

Good sign for a podiatrist’s office, eh?

So I walked in. Six hundred dollars, six weeks, and six visits later, I’ve got the orthos and am seeing Chiropractor #2 specifically to address the wrecked ankle while my frame adjusts to the new insoles. I can’t believe that I pay my pit crew to hurt me, but you gotta do what you gotta do. He’s managed to get the joint moving again, and after a few hours of it venting its post-treatment spleen, I am winning the battle.

I went for my first “real” flânerie last weekend. I walked all along the water and back through the cemetery, and for three-quarters of the way, I was pain-free.

I was also taking pictures. Technology has also interfered—my lovely little Canon was semi-retired when Mr. Moto came on scene. The phone has a camera, albeit not a very good one, and I had taken it on the final few strolls before my ankle crapped out last summer.

So, on deciding to test my endurance with the orthotics, I also decided to blow the dust off the Canon and leave the cell phone at home.

What a beautiful day! Bright sun, brisk wind, pounding surf, and glorious mountains on the horizon. I was more in awe of my home than I’ve been in months. Now I’m all pumped because Easter is coming and I plan to get up early on the long weekend to watch the sun come up over the water.

I also hope to walk partway home a couple of times a week, just to get back in shape. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed walking through the ’hood, camera in hand, looking at heritage houses and breathing fresh salt air. It’s good to be reminded that I live in a place where other people spend their vacations, that I am alive and healthy and mostly mobile (getting better all the time), in short, incredibly lucky this time around.

Vacation Update

look closely - I think that's an otter

My bum ankle has made me reluctant to work it for any length of time, so my walking has been severely reduced of late. One of the things I want to do on vacation is return to the daily flânerie—that idle stroll with no particular destination in mind (though I inevitably wind up at Starbucks), sometimes with the camera and sometimes not, but always with the intention of enjoying the world around me.

Thank you, everyone who loves to garden. Some of the yards around here, drought conditions notwithstanding, are explosions of shape and colour and glorious scent.

I’ve also missed the beach. Granted, rising with the sun is easier at spring and fall equinox, so I haven’t seen a sunrise since March and likely won’t for another few weeks, but this morning, I went for my first “beach flânerie” since I can’t remember when.

Want to test a wonky ankle? Walk along a pebbly beach. Good thing I was wearing my Nikes; at least I gave the foot some stability, and it held up really well. I sat for a while with my eyes closed and listened to the tide come in. Surf striking shore sounds like the roar of a crowd and surf receding over pebbles sounds like applause. Just thought I’d mention it.

I walked all along the beach at Ross Bay, crossed the road and hiked back through the cemetery. Up ahead, I saw what looked like a big tawny dog and immediately scoped for its owner. What I saw was another critter, equally big, equally brown, soon joined by a third. I slowed right down, trying to look innocent and not smell like I wanted to be chased.

They turned out to be deer. Three young bucks, to be exact, and only one of them gave me the time of day as I passed among them. He looked me right in the eye, shrugged, and went back to grazing. His buddies didn’t even blink.

So now I’m home for the rest of the day. Ter is out on a foodie adventure and I have a date with Bill Maher for elevenses. This afternoon? More writing, maybe. I have a few blog posts in mind and all the time I need to get ’em done.

It’s nice to be back in the real world.

Bird Signs

This fellow showed up in our ’hood a few days ago. There be eagles in the park, but the park is a kilometer west of our house so this guy is either lost or come to tell us something. He appeared in the tree across the street while I was out on a cliffside flânerie last week. Ter met me at the top of the stairs when I got home later than expected. “I have to show you something,” she blurted, already darting down the hall. “Oh, I hope he’s still there!”

I followed her to the Ocean Room. She was on the couch and pointing. “See that? My eagle is back! You have to take a picture!”

I surely did. This eagle is special for more reasons than simply being an eagle. For one thing, I believe implicitly that he hung around for a photo op because Ter asked it of him. She’d seen him a half hour earlier—no, heard him, as she was at the back of the house and only saw him because he made such a ruckus out front that she was prompted to investigate. Birds of prey make the shrillest, most alarming sounds when they put their minds to it, and the alien shriek that alerted Ter sounded, she says, like the raptor equivalent of “Hel-lo, is anybody home?” When she spotted him, she immediately set about fretting that he’d be gone before I returned. Never mind that my cliffside flânerie had become a short bus ride to the cemetery so I could get some peace while I walked (that’s another post), which made me later than I’d planned, but each time Ter checked, he was still there, still waiting patiently out of his element and still, apparently, willing to oblige when she begged him to stick around.

I grabbed the Canon, ran back outside, and took up position on the water side of the road, angling to get a clear view of him through the leaves. My camera has a terrific zoom capacity; I can’t quite believe the clarity of the few shots I took. I may as well have been in the tree with him!

Back indoors, I showed Ter the pictures. In the next minute, we went to see if he was still there … and he was gone. He had taken off as soon as I came inside.

So. Ter had seen this same bird a fortnight earlier, while leaving for work on a particularly bad hair morning. She heard a whistle, looked up, and met the eye of an eagle in the tree by the sidewalk. They held each other’s gaze for a minute, then respectfully parted ways. That’s why I say he belongs to her.

In native lore, the eagle is the spirit keeper of spring who symbolizes illumination, spirit power and creation. Native cultures believe that spirits bring messages in animal form; every critter means something specific, so if you ever find yourself toe to toe with a creature outside his environment, the Universe may be trying to tell you something.

Bloomers

Winter continued to thump the Maritimes while the first day of spring out west was just another day. Nicole emailed me last week with a request that I smell a flower or breathe some air for her. I did better. I took the Canon on a flânerie and here’s what I saw on my meandering:

splash o' red

magnolias

a wall of purple

baby blossoms

clusters of sun on a cloudy day

daffodils showing their frilly undies

So blessed to be out west!

With love,

Girl Friday

the view from my table

The problem, if it can be called a problem, with a day off is that my mind races frantically to jam as much pleasurable activity as possible into a finite number of hours. I ask Ter to drop me at the Moka House for tea and a blog entry, then I panic because I should be doing the bi-weekly dusting.

I can do that when I get home, of course, but that cuts into my writing time. And what about the “spa bath” I owe myself? Or baking the applesauce muffins I’ve been craving? And how many episodes of Ashes to Ashes can I manage before the sun breaks through to create a golden photo op in the garden? I want to read, too, being nearly done with Anne Rice’s latest …

It helps that, while I debated bringing the Canon on my morning tea/blog flânerie, Ter told me point-blank to “slow down, you’re trying to do too much.” It helps, too, that they’re playing Ella Fitzgerald at the coffee house; I pause to listen whenever I hear her smooth, buttery voice. And I am reminded of the Zen saying, “Nature does not hurry, yet all is accomplished.” Still, my “want to do” list is too long, so the next platitude is “pick the most important thing and the rest can wait.” Which is true. The most important thing is a no-brainer: write, write, write. and remember: the weekend lasts for more than one day.

So a reassuring thing happens as I sip my Asian Misto and tap my foot to Ella: I watch traffic speeding through the village and people with their knapsacks and travel mugs pounding along the sidewalk, and I wonder … What’s the rush?

Go West, Young Girl!

it's always springtime somewhere

Got an email from Nicole this morning. Poor kid, seems like every time she digs herself out from under the snow, another dump happens, and with three more storms in the forecast for this week, she’s feeling pretty beleaguered by Old Man Winter.

Much as I sympathize with her, I am also grateful. No matter what it’s like in the rest of the country—or the province, for that matter—spring has arrived in Victoria. In fact, passing the park en route to work last Thursday, I blurted to Ter: “Cherry blossoms!”

Nic’s note inspired me to take the Canon on a photographic flânerie this radiant Sunday morning. Big clouds over the water, the sun glowing overhead, and lingering raindrops sparkle like jewels on every bush and blade of grass. The songbirds are doing their collective nut in the flowering trees, and I was lucky to spy the pictured nest amid the aforementioned cherry blossoms. I was even luckier to need no more than my hoodie and a t-shirt on my stroll; I can always tell the imports by the parkas and raingear they bring from the suburbs, not knowing what conditions await them at the ocean.

It’s brisk but mild, a perfect spring day. With 10-15 mms of rain expected to blow in overnight, this gorgeous morning was an unexpected gift. Strained as her tone was, Nic’s note was also a gift, because it made me aware of how truly blessed I am to be here, where the winters last for weeks rather than months and the last snow “storm” we had was in January 2012.

In no way is this post intended as a gloat—there are natural perils out west, as well. Joggers plague every pavement year-round. Purse dogs perennially skitter hither and yon on the same pavements.  A sweater in the morning is too heavy for the afternoon. When it pours, it literally pours with rain. And best of all, we are sitting in a subduction zone that, when the earthquake hits, will likely send Victoria the way of Atlantis.

But not today.

sailboats off the point

The Line of Fire

alas, not today's - but a reasonable facsimile

I always expect it to rise behind the clouds. A fog advisory is in place this morning, though no fog is in evidence. Ter dropped me in the village on her way to work so I could get my flânerie in early, and as I hiked back the way we’d come, it occurred to me that if I kept straight rather than winding my way through the little side streets, I might reach Dallas Road in time to see the sun come up.

The fog advisory, however, was not issued in vain. A solid bank of steel blue cloud lay thick atop the water, obscuring Port Angeles entirely and allowing the Olympics to play peek-a-boo with their snowy caps. Above the mountains, the sky was smattered with cotton ball clouds of pink, coral, and red. I walked toward the shifting light. The robust red brightened to shades of orange and gold. Though the sun would rise behind the fogbank, the sky above was open so I reckoned I’d actually see it once it hit altitude.

Sunlight, however, is like water. It finds cracks and chinks invisible to the human eye. As I reached Clover Point, the light had intensified enough to convince me that the sun was already up and I stood directly across from where it would peer over the fog. I stopped, faced the bank of cloud separating me from the rising sun, and waited.

Maybe a heartbeat later, a glittering gold spark popped between the ocean and the cloud. My eye dropped to it, my mind surprised into questioning, Is that it? A thin red line leaked outward on either side of the spark, bleeding red against the cloud as if the horizon had been cut. I’ve seen that spark a hundred times by now, yet I stood amazed as it blazed ever brighter then began to fade. I stared until it was swallowed by the fog, then I thanked the universe for the show and continued my walk home.

I kept looking over my shoulder, though, waiting for the topmost arc to breach the cloudbank’s surface, and when it did, the sky turned pure gold. It was gorgeous and miraculous and I am so glad that my wish to catch the sunrise was granted so willingly. Even when I doubted I would get my favourite moment, I got it anyway.

That’s a gift.

Last of the Summer Whine

Back to work tomorrow. I’m not ready. The pace, the paperwork, the people – I like my job and I like the people I work with, but during the past fortnight my life has settled into its own rhythm and it has been heavenly.

Though I’m trying to be reasonable about it, my inner two-year-old is stiff as a board and screaming. I took her on a long beach flânerie this morning, keeping as close to the water as possible to avoid the “pound pound pound, huff huff huff” of the ubiquitous joggers. Good that the tide was out; regrettable that the beach is rocky and tipped at an angle that makes walking more difficult. Every step required presence of mind, which I guess was a positive given that it kept me focused on the moment rather than dwelling on my resistance to the inevitable. When I got home, Ter reflected my feelings with her own, then suggested we enjoy our day rather than waste it fretting about tomorrow.

And tomorrow and tomorrow.

The Calista/Darius story got serious traction during the past couple of days. I’m at the two-thirds point where I finally foresee an ending though I’m yet unsure how it will look for Calista when I get there. I also took another look at the urban vampire series I’d started BL (before Lucius); the character sketch of Rob Browning was taken from it and now I’m contemplating how to rework the whole story because it won’t farkin’ let me go. Rob and Cassie are the star-crossed lovers and Darius is the bad guy. The universal plot portent, I know. I recently watched an interview with George RR Martin wherein he quoted Faulkner’s reminder that the human heart in all its conflict is what makes a story. Whether it is set in the wild west, outer space, 17^th century France or the Amazon jungle, the characters make it real … even if one is a vampire.

Alien Observation

My favourite time to walk along the water is before 8:00 a.m. Mornings are better than afternoons or evenings; if I’m enjoying a flânerie after 8:00, I become an obstacle for joggers on iPods, joggers pushing baby strollers, joggers with big dogs, joggers in pairs, joggers in groups—you get the idea.

Last Friday, the sky over the ocean was so dramatic that I chose to walk home along the cliffs and marvel at the majestic light piercing the clouds. You’d think the prevailing sound would be the surf rolling or the wind singing through my earrings, but more constant than the rhythm of Nature breathing was the staccato “pound pound pound” of rubber hitting asphalt and the accompanying “huff huff huff” of a cardio system under duress.

I wanted to scream at them: “Stop and look at this picture, you idiots; this light on those mountains will never come again!”

It’s kind of annoying to feel like I’m poking along the pedestrian highway and that I should get out of their way, but I get irked when they blow past me, too. The thought occurred that if I was an alien who’d just beamed down from the mothership, I would immediately assume that earthlings run everywhere … and I’d be sorry for the poor beasts.

Chin Up

I sat at the beach this morning and wondered why I felt so down. I watched the waves roll in, one after the other, noting how they hit the shore in increments, how they vary in strength. I thought about how far they come before they reach the shore, if they begin in Japan and cross the whole Pacific Ocean to land at my feet, or if they’ve just tripped up from Washington state. Either way, it shows marked perseverance on nature’s part, just as a crow pecking at the pebbles for its breakfast exemplified a focus I’ve lately been lacking.

On my way to the beach, a cyclist passed me coming the other way; as we came abreast of each other, he called, “Good morning!” I answered automatically and don’t remember if I smiled. I appreciated the greeting, though. He didn’t have to say anything, but he kindly acknowledged my existence and in so doing, reminded me that the world—that life—is wonderful. So I consciously called to mind my favourite Louis Armstrong song and made myself loop it until all the words fell into place:

I see trees of green, red roses too,

I see them bloom for me and you

And I think to myself

What a wonderful world …

It was a start. Hard work to keep it going, but a start nonetheless. Sitting quietly in the glow of the morning sun, I set aside the song for a minute and pondered the weight of my spirit during the past few days.

It’s been heavier than usual, no doubt about it.

I see skies of blue, clouds of white,

Bright blessed day and dark sacred night

And I think to myself

What a wonderful world …

Gratitude, I thought. To which I crossly replied, I’m always grateful. Every day, I am grateful. I say it, think it, believe it.

Yeah, Ru, but are you grateful enough?

Oh, s***, I am so not going there. I am not buying into the brownie point system I was taught in church. Grateful is grateful; there is no pro-rating. If I’m wrong, then the Zen Buddhist/metaphysical spirit stuff I’ve been absorbing these past years is as much a lie as the Christian orthodox crap I abandoned when I set myself free.

The colours of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky,

Smiles on the faces of people passing by …

It’s not a matter of how. It’s a matter of what. Agreed, you are grateful. Now, what are you grateful for? and be specific.

Coming up with a list was harder in my bleakened frame of mind, but once I started, it got easier. Then I realized that the past few weeks have been so distracting that I’ve let my practice slide. As summer months go, July sucked. I had more dental work done and spent a lot of time in pain or on painkillers. The suite downstairs came off the market and went up as a rental. People at work were going through their own stuff, which subliminally affected the whole team. The novel continued to frustrate me. By the end of the month, I had even lost interest in writing. That really depressed me.

I see friends shaking hands, saying how do you do

And really saying,

I love you …

It’s okay, Ru. Yup, life sucked and you lost your focus. You can get it back. Your teeth are fine, you’re off the drugs. You’ve met the folk who will be your downstairs neighbours. Work is work, but that won’t change. The novel will come back online. And you’re inspired to more than write again. You’re simply inspired.

I hear babies cry, watch them grow

They know much more than I’ll ever know

And I think to myself …

I flâneried around the point on my way back home. There’s a monument on the green that’s been in place for years but I’ve never paid it any attention. Today, I was prompted to look at it. It’s called “Millenium Peace” and was a gift to the city from a couple who wanted to honour Earth Day in 2000. The plaque quite plainly states that the piece is—and this is what really leaped out at me—“a touchstone of gratitude”.

There’s that word again. It’s not a matter of being grateful enough. It’s about gratitude for specifics. For the little things as well as the big things. For sun and sea; for love and hope; for my family and friends; especially for Ter; for my little bears and my favourite teacup and an extra day off this weekend. It’s even about the pain I endured during prep and installation of my dental bridge, when I was able to find moments of joy within moments of not. I am grateful for it all.

As I reached the corner of the street where I live, I met another random stroller who acknowledged my existence with a friendly “Good morning.”

“Hello,” I said back—and this time, I smiled.

What a wonderful world.

Flânerie Fun

Had a great time on my Sunday flânerie – I remembered a game my driving instructor had played while teaching me to get speeding tickets. It’s called “Right, Left” and it’s simple: turn right at the corner, turn left at the next, right at the following, left at the one after that, and so on. As it happened, my corners in that order took me exactly from the village to my front door. Had I gone left, then right, I’d have wound up downtown, which would have been okay so long as I had a fiver for an iced tea and my limo pass to get me home.

I took more steps on the winding route than if I’d taken a more direct one, but I’d also have missed the gorgeous gardens, the sound of kids playing their backyards, and shaky chalk drawings on the pavement. There’s a plethora of quirky little streets in Fairfield and no one but the locals use them—a walk through the village or along the water can be a challenge at this time of year because everyone and their literal dog comes down to enjoy the area, but half a block over and you’re in a Trisha Romance painting. It’s marvelous.

I was also packing a full-size bottle of Torani gingerbread syrup, courtesy of the friendly staff at the Moka House. I finally got my weekend Asian Mist and a lesson in making one from the curly-haired cutie working the bar. Use less hot water, he advised, rather than half-water, half-milk; the tea will be stronger—and don’t add the syrup until the tea is steeped. If you add it before then, the tea won’t steep properly. Three pumps of syrup for a 16 oz. cup, or to taste. And darn, I forgot to get the vanilla powder I like to sprinkle on top. It was fun to chat with the staff about how good the drink is, and I really appreciated their openness regarding the one drink that brings me into their shop. So I assured them I won’t be able to duplicate their version and will keep coming in for the real thing. It doesn’t sound nearly as amusing aloud, but my version is likely to be christened “Asian Missed”.

Write or Die

Cook Street Moka House - Home of the Mythical Asian Mist

No Asian Mist today, alas. A sweet milky drink a day for the past week has weakened my lactose resistance, so I’ve decided to lay off the lattes for a bit, at least until my bout of “milk gout” dissipates. I did, however, push my afflicted knee to indulge in my flex-Friday flânerie and got some cool pictures to support future writing exercises. It also gave me a subject for today’s “live” post.

Almost everyone who learns that I am a writer will ask me: “Are you sending anything out?” as in, “Are you trying to get published?” Well, since disqualifying for an online writing competition because the piece I planned to enter was originally posted here at CR, my pat reply is now, “I write a blog, so technically, I am published.” The other day a co-worker asked “the question” and this time, the truth popped out.

I said, “I don’t care about getting published. I write because I’ll die if I don’t.”

There’s a great scene in the film Anonymous where the Earl of Oxford’s wife discovers he’s been writing again and goes slightly ballistic because everyone knows that writers are possessed of the Devil. The Earl’s response is a scary truth for any artistic spirit: the voices inside will drive him mad if he continues to ignore them.

I was also reminded of J. C. Hutchins’ recent post over at terribleminds.com, where he gives all sorts of reasons why unfinished projects can stack up (I’ve got a bunch of the darned things), but counsels against abandoning any of them. Even if a piece languishes for years, eventually it will find its way back to the spotlight. I was vexed with myself because “Black in Back” has stalled, so remembering that advice helped me to move on.

Moving on today means going back to the unfinished novel. Reijo’s romance has been in limbo for so long that there’s dust on the half-finished hard copy. That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned it; in fact, the voices have begun whispering again and this weekend, I’ve decided to ramp it up once more. I might drop it again next week, but as long as I’m writing something, I’ll still be alive.

The Flâneur Society’s Guide to Getting Lost

Wear comfortable shoes.

Remember your house keys.

Bring your limo pass in case you wander so far afield that you’d welcome a ride home.

Put a fiver in your pocket so you can buy a drink should you find yourself near a café.

Have no direction in mind.

Give yourself no time limit.

Start walking.

How easy is that?

Special Event

When the special event is undefined, you invent your own. Mine is a day off – a glorious, sunny, free day to myself. This post is the only writing I plan to do, today. I have no one tugging on my sleeve or whispering in my ear, so it seems that Cristal and Tess and Reijo and all my other little voices are taking the day off as well.

I asked Ter to drop me in the village on her way to work so I could get in my walk early. I’m glad I packed the Canon, else I’d have missed the photo op of a local peahen taking her morning constitutional. In a weird kind of role reversal, I was on the cedar path by the park and she was on the street, but we nodded politely to each other and continued along our respective routes. 

Then I strolled along the cliff at Dallas Road to home. The ocean was no more than a big puddle, the tide being out with no wave action in progress, and the mountains were so shrouded in mist that they might have been erased overnight. No matter. I truly appreciated the peace of the moment.

The pace is picking up outside my window: more traffic is revving past at higher RPMs and the young bucks down the street are hammering away at the outrageously overpriced condo they’re building. I feel slightly removed from it all, though; this is a nice place from which to watch the world go by. Tea is calling—some form of peach, methinks—and I should do something about breakfast. A half-cup of butter sits on the kitchen counter and will find its way into some form of baking later on, between my movie at 10:00 and Bill Maher at 3:00. And maybe, just maybe, today my book and I will make it to the back yard for some early summer reading.

Or not. That’s what makes today’s event so special.

Lilac Time

For me, spring months are defined by flowers. If gardens are ablaze with daffodils, it must be April, if the air is perfumed with roses, it must be June. May is all about lilacs – but you must pay attention or you’ll miss them. Compared to other flowers, they seem to have a very short shelf life.

Fans of purple disagree, but I like white ones the best. The scent is stronger, probably because the blooms waste no effort in pouring out the colour so can apply themselves to enriching their luxurious, licorice-laced perfume. A co-worker of mine has a white lilac tree in her yard and every year, she brings me bunches of blossoms the size of a Beacon Drive-In ice cream cone. My office takes on the heady sweet fragrance of a summer garden, slightly dizzying and somewhat narcotic in its allure. She hasn’t delivered them yet this year, but I bet if I ask her tomorrow, she’ll say she’s watching for the perfect time to pluck them for me. I’m hopeful that they’ll show up this week.

In the meantime, wondering where the lilacs are, I took the Canon on a floral flânerie this weekend and discovered more lilac bushes in the neighbourhood than I thought …

And after trekking through the streets for an hour, I returned home to discover the most glorious specimens are in my own back yard:

Ain’t that the way?

Present Moment, Wonderful Moment

Finally! I’ve wanted a morning picture of the Olympic Mountains for weeks, but the weather has only cooperated on workdays when I’m dashing to the car. The sun sharpens the snowy peaks and shadowy hollows in a way unmatched by any other time of day, and this morning—my day off—I seized the moment.

I am not a morning person. Being forced to rise before my preferred time, however, has taught me to appreciate the glory of a sunrise and the quiet moments before the rest of the world awakens. Now that spring/summer is here, my treasured morning meanderings are about to resume. Sometimes I sit by the water, other times I stroll through the neighbourhood with all senses attuned. I smell the salty tang of the sea, watch the sun pull colour from the gardens, listen to the music of birdsong and the whispering breeze in the leaves. I lose myself in the moment, walking and marvelling until my big joints start to whine. Then it’s time for home and tea in the Ocean Room, where I can sit and watch the world cruise by outside my window.

Or, as in today’s case, do some blogging, listen to some smooth jazz, and decide where the day will take me from here. Writing figures prominently, of course. As I expected, Cristal’s angel story is coming to the surface—I’ve already written a ton of stuff for her, so right now I’m pondering what I can use and what I must dump. I’d rather not dump any of it, since every word represents a flash of inspiration and a bucket of sweat. That said, what I don’t use with her may be useful in another story. It happens, sometimes. Because I write without a definite plan, sometimes two tales begin as one and eventually I have to determine what piece belongs where. It’s as much a puzzle as it is a conjuring and if I relax and go with it, I have more fun. It’s magical when the pieces fall into place and a story emerges. The ending often comes halfway through the project; until then, I am quietly freaking out as I wonder where I’m going. Again, relax and go with it, Ru. Geez. It’s not like I’m defusing a bomb or anything.

I’m just playin’.

Pretty Maids

A girl needn’t be a bride to walk beneath a floral canopy in April. A wedding gown would only clash with the lacy froth adorning the trees along the street—garbed in spring finery, they preen in the sun like pretty maids all in a row.

Don’t get me wrong. I love winter. I love stodgy food, long nights, hockey season, Christmas lights and copious cups of sweet milky black tea; however, by the time spring rolls around, I am ready for the break. Though much of the country is still buried in snow while Victoria is counting flowers in February, I never feel like we’re completely free of winter until April arrives. The winter theme on the blog has needed updating, but I had to wait for sun to coax the trees into bloom. They exploded practically overnight! So last weekend, I took the Canon on a photographic flânerie and was captivated by the apple blossoms bursting on most every branch. They look like they’re covered in whipped cream and the fragrance is nothing short of intoxicating.

The effect won’t last long. April tends to bring gusty winds and sideways showers, often while the sun beams between the cotton clouds, so within a few weeks, pink-and-white snow will collect on the street and be sprinkled over fresh-cut lawns—but that just makes the brief spell of candy-scented glory all the more precious.