on my walk...

I had only 24 hours on the island this past week. I said to myself, "Since your time here is so brief, you must go for your walk from downtown to three corners and back; you will regret it if you don't go." But another part of me -- too tired from my journey -- complained and stalled and made up a list of excuses to not go out into the cold, damp world outside. 

In this post, where I borrow the style from Marie-Louise Gay's "On my island," I poke fun at myself revealing the gap between: (1) my predictions about my walk that are so grumpy they could rival those pessimistic grumblings of  Winnie-the-Pooh's friend, Eeyore: and (2) my cold-on-face-tingling, fresh-air-breathing, spirit-uplifting reality while on my walk. There is no question --after the fact -- that a walk was exactly what I needed, but I had to walk the walk before I knew which voice was true.

My inner gloom-forecasting "voice" is shown below in italicized text and my body's "voice" (my feet on the pavement, hands on camera, and eyes looking around) is represented by a series of photographs. I have  made no effort to reconcile the contrast between my two "voices." I only have recorded them as faithfully as I can and let them have their way with each other. I hope you will enjoy coming along on my walk...

Do I really want to go on a walk this cold, drizzly, mid-November morning?
(These were my reasons to NOT walk...)

On my walk, I will be depressed by the absence of summer greens. 

The whole landscape will be grey and colourless. 

The side of the road will be slippery from the overnight rainstorm...

...and all that will remain will be a mix of mud and dead grass.

I will see only rotten, ugly leaves on the roadside.

And the withered branches will look dead...

...and be 

depressingly 

bare.

I will be bored by the "same old, same old..."

... and there will be nothing -- absolutely nothing -- to photograph.

So do  I really want to go on my walk?

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Photo credit: Photos by Jessica at Oceanwood.

Book credit: On my island, written by Marie-Louise Gay, wrote this ironic tale of a child who laments that "nothing, absolutely nothing ever happens on my island" all the while fascinating and fabulous adventures are happening -- unseen by the sulking child -- behind her back.

Oceanwood Chronicles, copyright 2010 - Jessica at Oceanwood. Creative commons attribution, non-commercial sharing only (translation: feel free to quote me in context or use this entry but please always credit me for my work, thanks.) http://oceanwood.blogspot.com/

The Brothers

The two deer in this photo frequented our lawn over this past summer. By the looks of their antlers, they appear to be the same age -- and I am guessing they are brothers. Perhaps they are the all-grown-up, speckled, twin fawns we ooohed and aaahed over on Spring Break?

Most years I see a doe and twins in our neighbourhood. Though, I have never seen those twins stick together as they grow up and hang out as adults-- especially not two bucks. I wonder what keeps these two in each others company.

Deer are everywhere on Denman Island. I find driving the roads at night to be an exercise in extreme vigilance and is more challenging than the typical night time city driving. At least in city driving the usual threats come from other drivers, who mostly -- thank heavens -- stay in their prescribed lanes. But deer can leap out into my truck's way at seemingly random moments and follow zigzag paths that I find unpredictable. I never know from which road-side bush a deer might bound. As a precaution when driving at night, therefore, I am on full alert expecting chance deer encounters. The deer have trained me to expect the unexpected. I like that these beings have force me into greater alertness when driving -- an admirable habit that I wish could follow me into the city on all those very long and boring commutes.

I will tell you a story: 

We live in an earth home which means our roof is covered in grass. We are one of the very few people on Denman who have to mow their roof. One dark, new moon night, I was just settling down into bed, with my baby asleep beside me; my cat curled up at my feet; and my husband away on a business trip. I was still getting used to solo-parenting my new babe and was feeling new-mom-nervous and edgy. I turned out the light and lay down. My feet began praising the sensation of no longer being stood upon while my back started revelling in the total absence of bending, twisting, and carrying, when I heard a thunderous "BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM," from overhead.  Now I have lived in apartment buildings, and stayed in hotels, and I can assure you that these were not those kind of BOOMs. These BOOMs were much louder and scarier.

So ignoring the objections of my wrecked back, I bolted upright, clicked on the light and sat paralyzed, my heart racing so fast I felt like I was having a heart attack. The cat, also, sat up stiff and alert mirroring my alarm. But a few seconds later, I heard a further: "plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk" from above my ceiling. And a few seconds after that, an additional round of "plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk." It took me only a moment to figure out the source of these noises. I burst out laughing: a doe and two fawns -- not unlike the two brothers above -- were taking a short cut across our roof to find some night-time grazing. I was incredulous that our doe's graceful, pencil thin legs could drum up so much deep sonorous sound from our roof top. And I was enormously relieved to hear those fawn-leg echos confirming the exact nature of the wildlife above my head. It took me sometime for my adrenaline levels to subside and for me to get to sleep that night as I lay awake visualizing the family above my head going about their domestic life.

That night, I might have lost some precious mommy-sleep but its an experience I will never forget. Now whenever I see a deer gracefully leap over neighbour's fences looking apparently "light-on-their-feet," I bring to mind the lead-heavy sound I heard overhead that dark night. I marvel at how strong a deer's legs must be to launch that much weight so high into the air. Sometimes, on rare occasions over the years, I have heard encores of deer's drum rolls on our roof; only now instead of fear, I feel only awe at living so close with Nature.

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Photo credit: Photos by Jessica at Oceanwood.

Oceanwood Chronicles, copyright 2010 - Jessica at Oceanwood. Creative commons attribution, non-commercial sharing only (translation: feel free to quote me in context or use this entry but please always credit me for my work, thanks.) http://oceanwood.blogspot.com/

priceless works of art

Autumn is here. Thanksgiving is past. Winter holidays are a long way in the future. More days than not are wet and cold and the fog is growing fond of rolling in and hanging around for a while. When the damp grey outdoors start seeping into my bones and bringing down my spirit, I grab my camera and go looking for colour. A fallen leaf -- perfectly formed -- brazenly brings colour back into my day. Why would I look up into the bleak and sodden sky, when I can look down at priceless works of art that lie strewn upon my path?

Living on an island means that no matter how gloomy the weather, I need to practice looking for Beauty right here, right now. No riding into town, surfing the net, or watching DVDs. Walking in nature, camera in hand, my eyes open for the exquisite contrasts in colour that are so abundant in Autumn, keeps my spirit alive and well and reminds me to be thankful for these natural  blessings.

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Photo credit: Photo by Jessica at Oceanwood.

Oceanwood Chronicles, copyright 2010 - Jessica at Oceanwood. Creative commons attribution, non-commercial sharing only (translation: feel free to quote me in context or use this entry but please always credit me for my work, thanks.) http://oceanwood.blogspot.com/

drupes, druplets, and dreams

It is October and we are savouring the fruits of summer. Though the blackberries on Denman Island this year were relatively small and the harvest modest in size, my family still managed to freeze enough for our winter smoothies. For years we have shredded our bodies and torn our clothes to harvest this late summer bounty so we can enjoy summer sweetness over the long winter.

One reason for the success of the blackberry bramble is that it can keep producing as long as it gets bee visits. The more the bee visits the more druplets -- juice filled berry bumps -- on the berry. Our relatively small berries this year tell us that our blackberry blossoms had fewer bee visits, most likely due to the very wet -- and cool -- Spring and Summer months.

I love the word, druplets. It reminds me of the poetic term: couplets, as in, rhyming couplets, only for a blackberry poetry "jam" we would compose using juicing druplets. A druplet is the petite version of a drupe -- a stone or seed surrounded by fruity flesh. A peach is a classic drupe. I did't know anything about drupes or druplets until writing this blog entry. How could I have feasted on fruit all these years and and never heard of drupes or druplets?

As the weeks of summer finally came to an end, our blackberry bramble continued putting out blossoms "just in case" it was able to grow through a warm and sunny early Fall. The first photo is one such late blossom that I found just beginning its hopeful cycle amid dozens of neighbouring dead stems that have long since dropped berries to the ground or surrendered its ripe jewels to picking fingers. Unfortunately, with so much rain and cool weather this past September, the bees visits no doubt were too few to allow the blossom to form fruit druplets.

Our valiant blossom -- the blackberries' gamble on warm Fall weather -- grows amongst brown leaves and rotting berries but, nevertheless, dreams of what might be. It does not permit what is to silence its perfumed call to the bees and or diminish its delicious beauty. I am inspired by this blossoms optimism in action. Maybe next year we will have an "Indian summer" and the blossom's gamble will pay off? I hope so.

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Image credits: Photos by Jessica at Oceanwood. 

Oceanwood Chronicles, copyright 2010 - Jessica at Oceanwood. Creative commons attribution, non-commercial sharing only (translation: feel free to quote me in context or use this entry but please always credit me for my work, thanks.) http://oceanwood.blogspot.com/

Which came first?

Walking on the beach one summer night, I spotted this gnarly oyster shell covered with barnacles. It was obviously bashed up by countless tides and crashing waves. It had a dull, brown patina left over from various sea weeds and slimes. It was ugly. In different mood or rushing through a different moment in my life, I probably would not have bothered to even glance at it. Even now, I am not sure why I found this shell interesting enough to photograph. Maybe I was just itching to experiment with my camera.

In any case, as I crouched down low to focus on my unlikely subject, I was stunned to see that the vertical patterns of the barnacles in the foreground of my photo were remarkably similar to the ferry dock architecture in the background. Now I wonder, which came first, the dock or the shell?

Because I shifted my perspective and was willing to get eye to “eye” with this humble and homely shell, I have a beautiful image that fascinates me whenever I come across it in my photo library. In taking this photo, I feel I have recorded an age-old "conversation" between the ocean and its shore dwellers. Can you hear what each "speaker" is saying?

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Photo credit: Photo by Jessica at Oceanwood.

Oceanwood Chronicles, copyright 2010 - Jessica at Oceanwood. Creative commons attribution, non-commercial sharing only (translation: feel free to quote me in context or use this entry but please always credit me for my work, thanks.) http://oceanwood.blogspot.com/

moon rise for purple martins

A luxuriously full moon rose over Buckley Bay's resident purple martin birds this past month. As the moment of dusk was upon us, the stubbornly grey day that had been dampening our spirits, finally relented and allowed its moody clouds to slip away on a cool end-of-the-day current. As the final light of the day dwindled, the sky blushed deep violet and russet pink, wrapping us in an atmosphere of peace and beauty as soothing as any velvety duvet. I imagined the purple martins tucked snuggly in their little homes, nodding off as the late summer moon ascended in the evening sky so it could keep watch over the sleeping birds.

That evening, while all we weary travellers waited for the ferry from Denman Island to arrive, I remembered some videos I had taken in the exact same spot the previous year. On that summer solstice day in June, 2009, I had arrived early for the ferry and had some extra time to watch the very busy colony of winged martin families go about their day. I grabbed my old Kodak Easy Share camera from the back of the truck and captured some of the martins' calls and their flights back and forth to their human-made "condos" as they fed their hungry chicks. I have collected together those little snippets of videos into the following 5 minute YouTube.

Though far from ideal, my camera's tiny auto focus motor added many mechanical sounds that sharply contrasted with the gorgeous songs of the martins. Oh well, such is life with an instant camera... I am glad, nevertheless, to have had my handy camera nearby so I could capture this day in the life of these purple martins.

I was very lucky when, half way through my video, a man "who really knew his birds" observed my keen interest in the birds and so taught me ways to identify individuals and highlighted some of their intriguing habits. You will hear some of his comments on this video.

By the way, if you look very carefully into the far distance of this video, you will see a shell fisher harvesting clams at low tide.

I hope you enjoy sharing my visit with Buckley Bay's bustling purple martins.

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Image credits: Photo and YouTube video by Jessica at Oceanwood. See my other videos on my Oceanwood Chronicles YouTube channel: http://www.youtube.com/user/oceanwoodchronicles?feature=mhum

Oceanwood Chronicles, copyright 2010 - Jessica at Oceanwood. Creative commons attribution, non-commercial sharing only (translation: feel free to quote me in context or use this entry but please always credit me for my work, thanks.) http://oceanwood.blogspot.com/

my magic flute

The Spirit of Denman Island has a habit of knowing what I need most and arranging for me to get those needs met. For example, my daughter has started learning to play my guitar that I bought with my bus girl wages when I was in Grade 10. Watching her strum along with the easy D and A chords, and then strain and stretch her growing fingers to get the difficult G chord, has made me very sentimental for all the music I used to play in high school. Of course, like every budding guitarist coming of age in the 70s, I played a heap of Beatles, Jim Croche, and Eagles songs. For some reason, I was really into playing and singing along to the love song, “I don’t know how to love him,” from the musical, Jesus Christ Superstar. Go figure...

I, also, played first flute in the concert and stage bands. My Dad bought me the best flute he could afford but it was a mediocre instrument. I had to wrestle with it just to get a decent sound. A year ago, I found my old flute and thought I would get it professionally tuned-up and give it a go again. But the flute technician declared that it was not worth putting another penny into the relic. So I put my flute revival aspirations on the back burner. Then again, a couple of weeks ago, my inner high school teen said, “I wanna play the flute again.” But since my flute was dead never to be resurrected, I put the thought of playing out of my head for the second time. That's when the Denman Island magic took over.

Last week, driving down East Road, my husband and I saw a yard sale sign. On a whim we decided to check it out. And there IT was -- a shining Gemeinhardt flute -- for sale. With tingling hands and a big-time-dread in my stomach that I might have forgotten how to play, I opened the case, assembled the flute; thrilled at its just-right-fit and perfect balance in my hands; put it to my mouth; and blew. It had a gorgeous tone, in spite of my unpracticed muddling. To be sure the price on that flute -- though reasonable -- was more than we could afford on our very limited budget. With a sigh, I lovingly packed up the flute and returned it to the seller, told her it was a “beauty.” On the drive home, my husband, Mr Wonderful, talked with me about how I had been wanting to resume playing the flute. He said it was important to follow my urge to play the flute again. So with his encouragement, I drove back to the yard sale and purchased the flute. Imagine my finding the flute I always dreamed of playing when I was in high school band right there in a yard sale on Denman Island! What are the odds?

The woman selling her flute threw in a copy of “Flute Method: Book 1” (1936). A week later I picked up 2 more flute books at the Free Store: “World’s favourite easy to play pieces for flute” (1962); and “Elementary Method Flute or Piccolo” (which let's just say is so old it could have been used to play bedtime tunes to dinosaurs). And now, with my three antique music books helping me clear out the cob webs that have gathered in the 30 years since I last played, I am playing duets with my daughter. And just like a cobra that is coaxed higher and higher by a snake charmer’s flute, as I am playing, it feels like my inner teen musician rises up, flashes me a Peace sign, and whispers, “Cool!” 


My new "magic flute" has touched a young place in my heart and helped me meet my need to play music -- and that is definitely "Cool!"

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Photo credits: Photos by Jessica at Oceanwood.
Oceanwood Chronicles, copyright 2009 - Jessica at Oceanwood. Creative commons attribution, non-commercial sharing only (translation: feel free to quote me in context or use this entry but please always credit me for my work, thanks.) http://oceanwood.blogspot.com/

impossible to be bored

I began my practice of "visual journaling" today. I sat down -- right here beside this tarnished maple leaf caught in some seaweed -- and started to sketch, not to be good, not to produce a work of art, but to be PRESENT -- fully present -- a conscious witness to all that was happening at the beach. I sat for two sessions with my book and pencil crayons sketching and Being Present. I loved this practice.

Here is my journal page. The first day I sketched this leaf in the surf and coloured it in with my water-soluble pencils. Then, the second day I used a brush to blend the colours with water and inked in the text with a fountain pen. This one maple leaf is now forever in my memory -- and heart.

I originally wanted to write, "it is impossible to be bored on the beach," but shortened it to fit on my page. I am endlessly fascinated by the beach and its many tide pools. For me, it is truly impossible to be bored at the beach.

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Photo credits: Photos by Jessica at Oceanwood.

Oceanwood Chronicles, copyright 2010 - Jessica at Oceanwood. Creative commons attribution, non-commercial sharing only (translation: feel free to quote me in context or use this entry but please always credit me for my work, thanks.) http://oceanwood.blogspot.com/