“Why Featherstone?” Joe asked. “Is that your hippy name?”
Well, Joe, I suppose in a way, it is. I’ve reached a point in my life where I need to follow what the quiet voice inside has been trying to tell me for years. I need to let go and be who I was meant to be all along. The name Featherstone reminds me that it is possible to be grounded and still able to fly.
Inside these pages you will find poetry, photography and a few random thoughts. I hope you enjoy your visit.
“What a lovely surprise to finally discover how unlonely being alone can be.”
-Ellen Burstyn
Sometimes, the loneliness burned so hard
words stuck in my throat,
never alone, always
surrounded by people-
a blank spot
in a sea of faces.
Strange, how everything changed
when I wandered off by myself,
and there,
in my solitude, learned to love.
In the silence of my own being,
I found a way to myself.
I found my voice,
sang to the stars.
The hard ache of loneliness
began to slip away-
gathering momentum as it
picked up speed,
becoming a force
strong enough
to carve a valley,
raise the level of the sea.
We are all rocks
tumbling toward our tomorrows.
I used to fear being alone, or rather, I used to fear dying alone. I’ve reached an age where that doesn’t matter anymore. Ultimately, we all do our dying alone, even surrounded by people we love. So now, apparently, I needed something new to fear, and I found it. I’m afraid of dying without leaving a footprint on this earth. Yes, I know. There are billions of people who will live and die whose names will never be known. From where does this hubris arise? Why should I be any different?
A couple of things happened last week. First, Billie Blue is putting the finishing touches on our second collaboration, “Kelsey’s Garden Party,” which will be available soon on Amazon. I found myself looking over the other children’s stories I wrote when my own children were small, wondering if any of them were worth Billie Blue’s considerable artistic talents. Some of them, I think, are good. They still make me laugh, anyway.
Also last week, I was showing my friend, Michele, a couple of photo books I created a number of years ago. One is all birds, with bird quotes. The other is the first in a series I created called “Under the Big Blue Sky,” a collection of photos and short poems. Maybe I’m wrong to say it, but these are gorgeous books no one will ever see.
Both the stories and the photo books are things I can be proud of, and proved that even in the darkest time of my life, I managed to create beautiful things.
And the voice inside my head says, “Yeah, but what have you done lately?”
And despite the shelf of books in my bedroom, all of which I had a part in, the answer is “Nothing.”
But maybe it’s not too late. Maybe there is still time for me to create something beautiful. I decided it was time to dust off my camera equipment and go for a drive. When I say dust off, I mean it. There are lenses I haven’t used for years.
The plan was to pack a lunch, find a picnic table somewhere off of Bear Lake Main, and test my lenses to see which ones still worked.
On Friday afternoon, I headed out. The day was beautiful – clear and sunny with temperatures near summer level. Fine conditions for a road trip, but concerning for the wildfire season ahead.
Everything was dry, so dry. Thick dust choked the husks of what winter left behind. There was no green here, only the olive-brown of an arid winter.
But there were flowers, Saskatoon blossoms, bright white against the sky of deep blue, and Arrow-leafed Balsam Root, sometimes called the Okanagan Sunflower, bursting forth from the silty soil in pre-formed bouquets of mustard yellow with a slightly orange centre. It pleased me to see them. I missed them last year, just as I missed many things.
Through forest scarred by wildfire, the gravel road continued on. I knew where I wanted to go, and still managed, somehow, to take a wrong turn. The road I found myself on was steep, narrow, and covered in large, sharp stones.
I consider myself to be adventurous, but this felt dangerous. Puff the Magic Wagon was not made for roads like this. With growing trepidation, I continued upward until I found a spot flat and wide enough to turn around. Carefully, with no small measure of relief, I found my way back to the Aspen Trail campground. I unpacked my lunch and lenses, and did what I came to do.
But my heart was not satisfied. The road was speaking. I could hear it as clearly as if it were calling my name. Packing my things, I continued on. Soon I was in territory unmarked by wildfire. The forest was fuller, the shadows deeper.
I stopped at a rogue campsite near a mountain stream and sat for a while on the rocks, letting the sound of rushing water fill me, breathing in fresh.
From there I moved on to Bear Lake, where, for the first time, I was completely alone. There was no one else there. The lake was partially frozen and the air perfectly still. I have never been to Bear Lake where the cold wind hadn’t driven me away. Here was a moment of calm solitude, almost too beautiful to be real.
So, here’s the thing – from Bear Lake it is closer to continue on to Glenrosa Road than to turn around and go back. Having only intended to go as far as Aspen Trail, and with gas prices being what they are, I had only put a few bucks in the tank. I wasn’t sure I could go back the way I came.
What I didn’t consider was the way forward lay mostly in shadow. Things were not dry and dusty here. The road changed from gravel to hard-packed dirt, from ridges to ruts. And there was snow. Not everywhere but in the shadowy places, both on the road and off. Melt-water streams flowed across the road, created mud, shifting and changing, slick as ice. This was the perfect juxtaposition of summer and winter, spring blending the edges.
All my focus was required now, driving a vehicle low to the ground and without winter tires. This was different than the wrong turn I took at the beginning of this journey. That road was controlled by environment. On this road, I was in control.
Filled with exhilaration, I pressed on, knowing even one small mistake could result in disaster. I balanced Puff above deep ruts in the snow.
But I believe in myself. I had no fear of the road or conditions because I know I can depend on me.
Solitude taught me that.
What’s Left Behind
Spring wind and dandelion dust-
the slip and shift of mud,
sun, penetrates the earth.
Arrow-leafed balsam root
bursting golden in sandy soil,
melt-water murmur.
Yellow-pine chipmunk and
Dark-eyed Junco-
pine cones, scattering joy.
It might look like spring – the grass is getting green, there are new buds on the lilac, and you just spotted your first Robin. But it isn’t really spring until you step out your front door and smell it. Some use the word petrichor, but the smell of spring is more than that, a combination of petrichor, geosmin, and who knows what else, that fully engages your senses and makes you feel alive.
Spring, by my definition, arrived in the Okanagan last week, as I stepped out the door to meet up with Jaki and go for a drive. We were on our way to Chute Lake, high in the hills above Naramata, to see about possibly booking a cabin for a mini writing retreat. There is a spectacularly beautiful back road that leads to lake and lodge, but it is unmaintained and the season far too unpredictable to take it on a whim. The last time I drove the full length of the road was a few years ago, in April, and even then, it was too early in the year.
So we took the long way around Okanagan Lake. I say the long way because it’s further in kilometres, but actually faster due to paved roads. The scenery, as always, was breathtaking – I truly hope I never cease to be amazed by where I live – but it wasn’t until we turned onto gravel I began to feel I was where I was meant to be.
The sky was scattered with clouds in various shades of white-blue-grey, but here and there sunlight punctured the cover, slanting invitingly into the forest. We rolled our windows down to inhale the fragrance of bark and loam, and to listen for birds. A gorgeous female grouse stood on the road, unbothered by our slow approach. It wasn’t until I reached for my camera that she hesitated before flying away, her wings thrumming through the trees.
A few moments later, we were assaulted by a fierce squawking from a stand of bushes near the road. Stopping the car, we waited and were soon rewarded by the sight of a Stellar’s Jay, blended blue and black, flitting from ground to branch. A turkey vulture flew overhead, the red of it’s head clearly discernible against blue sky.
We were not thrilled by the lack of snow at this elevation. While it made for easy driving, it does not bode well for the summer months when wildfire is a careless spark or lightning strike away.
There were tiny pockets of snow, and slow moving rivers of thick, sticky mud the closer we got to Chute Lake, but nothing we couldn’t manage. Still, we decided, there was no way the back road would be safe enough to travel.
After sharing our first picnic lunch of the season at a picnic table near the lodge, we turned around to come home.
Not five minutes after wondering if they were awake yet, we spotted our first yellow-bellied marmot of the year. I managed one quick photo through the windshield before he darted away.
And if the day hadn’t been perfect enough, goat-watch between Summerland and Peachland paid off with a sighting – shaggy white and regal.
Yes, spring has arrived in the Okanagan. I am so ready.
turkey vulture
the scent of spring
rising
Looking back over last year’s photos, I couldn’t believe it had been almost a year since my good friend, Jaki, and I had gone out for a drive. I called her.
“I hear there is no snow on Postil Lake Road. Want to go for a drive?”
The answer, unsurprisingly, was yes. We set a date for the following week.
Then it snowed. Not here in the valley, of course, blanketed under a warm layer of cloud, but in the mountains the difference was evident. We didn’t let that stop us. Jaki’s Rav, Jelly Bean, has four wheel drive and we both agreed to be sensible for once, and not try to push it too far.
Although the forecast was for yet another cloudy winter day, the sun was doing it’s best to burn through the ice-fog as we made our way up Postil Lake Road. It didn’t take long for the green-brown of the valley to transform into winter wonderland. The snow was fresh and largely undisturbed, other than the tracks of deer and rabbit.
The sky was almost sapphire blue and the sun slanted through the forest, reflecting off snow-covered branches and brilliant green splotches of moss. Small explosions of crystallized snow rose as the sun warmed branches released their tiny burdens.
Postil Lake Road is one of the busier Forestry Service Roads but quiet enough on this day to accommodate a slow, leisurely drive in the forest.
Jaki, in the passenger seat, closed her eyes and smiled, sunlight streaming through the moon-roof, landing softly on her face. Sometimes we talked, but mostly, we sat in comfortable silence, letting our surroundings do the talking.
Our surroundings had a lot to say.
It’s hard to explain what happened in 2025, although after rereading the posts I did make, it’s clear to see I was already on my way.
2025 was the year I dropped out of the world. Have you ever woken up in the morning and thought, “This is all too much. I can’t do it.”?
I’ve suffered bouts of depression off and on for years, but I’ve never experienced anything so all encompassing. It wasn’t sadness. Sadness would imply the capacity for emotion. It was more like apathy. I didn’t care.
Not only did I not care, if it was something I was obligated to do, I outright refused to do it. So I quit.
I stepped down as Membership Secretary of Haiku Canada. I stopped co-facilitating a writing circle. I stopped socializing, only leaving my house when it was absolutely necessary. I even stopped writing in my journal.
I. Quit. Everything.
Almost.
Fortunately, I am blessed with friends who wouldn’t give up on me, even as I gave up on myself. It’s because of them there was an almost. I kept a toehold on The Solitary Daisy, doing the bare minimum while Michele picked up the slack. Michele and Jaki both kept me writing poetry, at least three days/week, even if it simply sat there afterwards, scrawled in notebooks, unpolished, not submitted anywhere.
I still went for drives occasionally, but I wasn’t blogging or sharing my photos. I was doing it… I don’t know why I was doing it.
Here is a brief photo summary of 2025.
February, Rotary Beach
April, Gillard Forestry Road
July, Bear Lake Main
August, Family Reunion in Alberta
October, Bear Lake Main to Glenrossa
I don’t know what changed. Maybe it was the whispered promise of a new year, maybe it was a subtle change in meds, or maybe my body just said, “Enough.” Whatever it was, it was as if someone, somewhere flipped a switch.
In 2024, in a post titled A Dream of Winter, I wrote this:
Then there were the emotions. I learned how to block them. I don’t know how I did it, and if I could, I would undo it now, but at the time, it was too dangerous. Instead of showing emotion, I just got quiet. No writing, no speaking, just the shuttering of windows before the hurricane. I’d hunker down inside myself and wait out the storm. Eventually, silence became a box restricting even thought until there was nothing left but the automatic motions of getting through each day.
Now, everything is different. I’m filled with a frenetic mental energy, delirious with joy, and moved to tears with a simple breath. Every possible emotion is sitting just beneath the surface, ready to emerge at any given second. Part of me is exhilarated to feel again, and part of me worries this is that final burst of life preceding death. A little dark, yes, but anxiety will do that to a person.
The thing is, I don’t regret the stripping away of everything in the last year. It gave me clarity and enabled me to see what really mattered to me. These are the things I am slowly inserting back into my life. It turns out my wants are fairly simple.
I want to do things that bring me joy. I want to do things that make me come alive. I want to do things that scoop me up, fill me with wonder, and make me feel everything.
For me, one of those things is this.
On a narrow strip of land between Wood Lake and Kalamalka Lake is the tiny village of Oyama, population 995. There is one restaurant, closed in the winter. There is a General Store, which doubles and triples as a liquor store and a post office. In the summer they sell soft-serve ice cream.
It was here my friend, Michele, decided we should spend a weekend – a mid-winter writing retreat. I was absolutely in.
Michele went about finding us an Air B&B, and I began meal planning. Some people might find the idea of planning, purchasing and prepping meals for a two-person weekend to be an unpleasant task, but I was in my happy place. I love to cook, and Michele would be my newest victim as she was subjected to my culinary creations.
We left Kelowna in the early afternoon. Check-in at the Air B&B wasn’t until 3:00 pm, so we had plenty of time to explore along the way.
It was almost like a winter day in Alberta. The temperature was about as low as it’s been all winter – around negative 10 degrees Celsius. The sun was bright, the clouds intermittent, and the sky, where you could see it, was almost too blue to be real.
Once we reached the town of Winfield, we turned off the highway and onto the Pelmewash Parkway, the very definition of the scenic route. The parkway runs parallel to the highway, along the shore of Wood Lake.
It is set up to accommodate cyclists and walkers, as well as people who enjoy a slow drive. There are many pull outs and even a few picnic tables. It’s been a few years since I’ve driven the Pelmewash Parkway, and I was thrilled to see Indigenous art installations dotting the trail.
The first photo was taken by Michele, and the second photo is my own.
The piece is called “4 Food Chiefs,” and was created by Clint George, an artist form the Okanagan Nation Territory. Thanks to Michele for being my research assistant. Who am I kidding? She’s the leader.
The artwork wasn’t the only thing to see. Little pockets of beauty you might not notice on a busy highway. Like this Limber Pine, growing out of the cliff.
And of course, the lake, or rather, lakes.
On the other side of Oyama is Kalamalka Lake. Named one of the ten most beautiful lakes in the world by National Geographic, Kalamalka Lake begins in Oyama and ends at Cold Stream, just outside of Vernon. In the summer, the lake is a beautiful blue-green, teal colour.
Here is the google description:
“Kalamalka Lake’s distinct turquoise, blue, and green colors are caused by the precipitation of calcium carbonate (limestone) crystals, known as marl, during the summer. As the lake warms, these minerals, left by ancient glaciers, crystalize and remain suspended, reflecting sunlight and creating vivid, shifting hues.”
The day we climbed the highway to a lookout point, the only place you could catch a glimpse of the colour was just along the opposite shore. But well worth the drive to see the lake from above.
The angle of this shot makes the frozen water seeping from the stone appear to be quite small, but in truth, this frozen waterfall was taller than I am.
Although our Air B&B was slightly closer to Kalamalka we didn’t spend any time at that beach. The wind off the water was bitterly cold and in our faces. Instead, we spent some time on a bench at Wood Lake, facing out on the water with the wind at our back and the sun in our face. The perfect place to bring out our sketchbooks and draw.
side by side
two birds on a wire
comfortable silence
Yes, I know. I’m not much of an artist, but it’s fun. And yes, I know. This was supposed to be a writing retreat. It was.
We had timed writing prompts, freewriting, writing to quotes, wild writing, micro-memoir, and even a haiku happy hour, where we read, wrote, and workshopped our haiku, all while enjoying finger food.
Even with all the sightseeing, writing, and sketching, there was still time for good food and even better conversation.
Thank goodness for friends who know what you need even before you know you need it.
Oh, and our host? Five freaking stars. Thanks, Carl.
Our last task before leaving Oyama was to climb the forestry road to the Oyama lookout. Due to unforeseen circumstances, we couldn’t get to the top.
This final photo was the one I couldn’t take. Carl Straker generously provided me with a copy of one of his own photographs, so that I might share the special beauty of Oyama with you.
Wood Lake on the left, Kalamalka on the right. Oyama? Right down the middle.
“Faith isn’t a journey beyond doubt: often it is a journey into the wilderness and into the midst of doubt.”
Back in the day, when I was still healthy enough to go to the gym, I remember being told, over and over, to protect my core. It never occurred to me until today, the same message applies to mental health. Regardless of what you’re going through, or what may be going on around you, you have to remember to protect your core. It will be your source of strength when you need it.
Things have been strange for me lately. I’ve been restless, listless, anxious, and overwhelmed. I’ve been having trouble sleeping and find myself ignoring my responsibilities in favor of playing games on my phone. I’m sure I’m not alone. Just reading the headlines daily is enough to send anyone into a tailspin.
But this was more than that. I felt as if I were being swallowed by commitments, facing deadlines I couldn’t escape, and I wasn’t enjoying any of it anymore. I started feeling as though I were slipping away from myself.
So, I went for a drive.
When we first came to the Okanagan and were looking for jobs and a place to live, there was a day I had two appointments in Kelowna, a couple of hours apart. As we were temporarily staying in Penticton, it made more sense to hang out in between, rather than drive back and forth. I asked my phone to direct me to a local park. It led me to a small pond in a residential neighborhood. And there were swans. It was the end of February. Since then, I’ve made it a habit to return every February, just to see if there are swans.
On this day, there were no swans, but four species of duck. Mallard, of course, Ring-necked, Golden-Eye, and one lone Hooded Merganser. I enjoyed a simple lunch of melon and cottage cheese at the picnic table, sun-warmed and welcoming. The day was beautiful, light glinting off the water, still frozen along the edges.
I was thinking about what Julia Cameron said in “The Artist’s Way” about shadow artists – how, instead of following our own artistic aspirations, we instead occupy our time with things on the edge of what we’d like to be doing. That’s what I was becoming – a shadow artist. I was devoting my time and creative energy on things that were artist-adjacent and not investing in myself. Hmmm… This was getting interesting, but I needed more.
I left my beloved pond and headed to another spot – a trailhead along KLO Creek. I’d never tried the trail which starts with a sharp incline, but I enjoyed the walk from the parking area to the creek. This was no place for a walker. I had to trudge through the snow and bracken to reach the thinning ice.
Pushing some snow off a log, I sat down to rest. Immediately, my butt melted the remaining snow and was now cold and wet. But it didn’t matter. The longer I was there, the more in tune with my senses I became.
Through the holes in the thinning ice, I could hear the faint gurgling of water beneath the surface. I could hear the laughter of two girls echoing against the cliffs as they prepared to tackle the trailhead. I could hear melting snow falling from the trees.
I reached out and touched the strips of Cedar bark, the chiseled scales of the Ponderosa Pine, the moss, delicate and resilient, spongy beneath my fingertips. The air smelled of leaf mold and decay, and the fragrance of conifers.
The forest was full of wonders. The more I looked, the more I saw. Here are just a few of my favorite images.
I still had the taste of lunch in my mouth, but just for fun, I scooped up a handful of snow and let it melt on my tongue. It tasted like spring.
Some say the sixth sense is balance, and while I find that an interesting concept, I still believe the sixth sense to be spiritual – the feeling of calm settling over me, the joy welling up within. I knew what I needed to do.
“Today you are you! That is truer than true! There is no one alive who is more you-er than you!”
I started to scale back, reducing the number of commitments to others in order to commit to myself. It’s been hard because some of those commitments involved friends, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. But I am blessed to have friends who understand and support my decisions.
I’m making space for spontaneity. I am holding on to what I love and letting go of that which holds me back. I am protecting my core.
Remember
Remember this day-
the way the moss climbs the trunk of the cedar
in strips of grey-green,
the shelf mushrooms fanning on fallen logs,
the pale green lichen hanging from naked branch
or flowering on stones.
Clusters of electric orange fungi, spongy to the touch.
This world of hope
springing eternal –
life from death from life –
the way it all goes around.
Remember this day
and the singing of stones
beneath thin ice,
bubbling in a rush to spring.
Listen to your heart-song.
You, too, will return.
“Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder.”
–E.B.White
I suppose I really noticed it last Friday, although it must have been building for days. I wasn’t feeling well so I emailed in to cancel my shift. I was also supposed to have submitted my work on The Solitary Daisy to my partner, Michele, and I hadn’t even started it.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do anything. I spent the entire day curled up in my “comfy” chair, covered with a blanket. I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t respond to messages. I didn’t check my email, or any social media platforms. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
When Bear got home from work, I was comfortable talking to him. His presence was unintrusive, and in fact, almost comforting. I must have been quieter than normal, though, because he asked me, “Have you been to the lake lately?”
Strangely enough, I had stopped at the lake briefly after dropping him off at work that very morning. I didn’t get out of the car – I wasn’t dressed warmly enough, but the colours were stunning and I just sat there looking out for a few minutes.
“Not really,” I said, “Why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “I just hate to think of you spending all of your time in this box.” He was referring to the mobile home we live in. Huh. I LIKE our box. But he was right. I do very little socializing outside of a small circle of friends, so that’s not unusual. What was unusual was the amount of time I’d been spending in bed, sleeping very little. That night was no exception. It was after 2:00 am when I fell asleep, and I got up at 6:30. The good news is the guilt of dropping the ball the day before sent me straight to the computer to get The Solitary Daisy done and sent off. Kudos to Michele and her husband, Frithjoff for managing to get the newsletter out with our membership none the wiser.
That morning the valley was cloaked in shadow as I drove Bear to work. Across the lake, there was a break in the clouds, and the mountains over West Kelowna were glowing, each tree clearly defined. I looked at my gas gauge. Empty. I had no money, couldn’t even buy a quart of milk if I wanted to. I was kind of hoping Bear had left his wallet on the kitchen table where I had seen it earlier, but no, he had remembered to take it with him.
Strangely sad, I cancelled another work shift and returned to my chair.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I wrote in my journal, “I’ll go look for sheep.”
Sunday morning came and went under a cover of cloud. I didn’t care. I knew what I needed to do. I’d have to give up one of my Sunday Writing Circles, but the need to feel the weight of my camera in my hands overrode all. Bear had filled the gas tank the night before, so I had everything I needed.
I headed over to West Side Road, taking a little side trip up Bear Lake Main. I didn’t want to climb too high. While I have snow tires on, I don’t have four-wheel drive. I wasn’t worried about getting up the mountain – my concern was more in getting back down.
At first, it was kind of weird to be out. Everything was grey and olive brown. But as I drove and began to sink into the experience, I started to notice more and more. I had to laugh at myself. Just the day before as I was writing my monologue for The Solitary Daisy I talked about The Way of Haiku, that it isn’t always about writing haiku, it’s about noticing the small moments and little wonders and continuing to be amazed by them.
From the tiny brown bird I accidentally flushed from the bushes to the dried flowers and grasses quietly awaiting the renewal of spring, tiny wonders surrounded me. Here are just a few.
Yes, I found the sheep. I was on the wrong side of the light, though, so I wasn’t able to get the photos I wanted, but I amused myself watching the herd use this piece of concrete to scratch their butts.
My friend, Jaki, says she far prefers to see deer in the wild, rather than in her garden, eating her vegetables. I personally like to see the deer wandering through my yard, but I love to see them in the wild, too.
View looking toward Vernon from West Side Road
I couldn’t even pull over to take this shot of water trickling out of the moss and rocks with no sign of where it was coming from.
On my way back, the sheep had moved closer to the road, and this time, I was on the right side of the light!
Balance restored. I admit since the onset of Covid I’ve become very comfortable in solitude. Maybe too comfortable. But sometimes it’s okay to disconnect from the world for a while. I have so many things on the go I can get overwhelmed and start to shut down. On those days, I’m grateful to have family and friends to remind me who I am.
You Don’t Have to be Everything
-after Maya Stein
You don’t have to be everything.
You don’t have to win every race,
be the one to hold up a conversation,
sometimes a heavier load than Atlas
balancing the world on his shoulders.
It’s not always your problem, your fault,
your responsibility.
It’s okay to have an off day, or three.
There are no problems to solve, no
fires to put out.
Other hands can pick up the slack.
Other hands can mend, and stitch,
keep the peace,
buy the groceries.
You don’t have to do everything.
You can have a day
formless as a jellyfish.
Let the tide carry you where it will.
Eventually you will end up
where you needed to be
all along.
“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was within me an invincible summer.”
-Albert Camus
The clouds hung low over the valley, a quilt of impenetrable slate grey. This was the day Jaki, Kat, Michele, and I had set aside to go on our annual Christmas Tree hunt. Normally, when it’s the three of us, I do the driving, but when Kat comes with us, she likes to drive, so I move into the backseat.
It’s not often I get to be a passenger, especially not from the back seat. I love driving but I do have to spend half my time watching for potholes and sharp rocks. Unfortunately, from the back seat, I can’t see through the windshield and end up tilted kind of sideways with my seatbelt doing its best to strangle me. But Kat is very good about stopping on request when something catches my attention.
It didn’t take long for us to leave the green of the valley and find our way to snow on the mountain. This is a road we’ve taken before, and because of the recreation area popular with snowmobilers and cross-country skiers, it’s reasonably well maintained. Beyond that, it isn’t plowed, but as an active logging road, there are still tracks to follow.
Now, before anyone asks, yes, we have permits to cut trees on crown land, and we always take our trees from areas that are likely to be cleared anyway, as they encroach on the road.
The higher into the mountains we went, the thicker the snow was, but we continued. We came out of a deeply shaded area and emerged into brilliant sunshine and the bluest sky I think I’ve ever seen. Although the mood was already celebratory – this being our first Christmassy event of the season – the sight of blue sky turned us into little kids on a snow day. Michele even tried to make a snowball, but the snow was a little too crispy.
I feel a little useless on these trips. Kat drives and helps cut down trees. LumberJaki cuts trees and brings a snack, this time crackers, cheese, and mandarins. Michele brings cookies, collects boughs and helps tie down the trees. Me, I just sit there, maybe walk around a bit, but I’m sort of dead weight. I apologize for my lack of assistance and my friends give me an incredulous look.
“But you’re our official photographer,” they say, and the weight of my guilt lightens.
We lingered in the bright sunshine as long as we could, but eventually, we had to come back. I settled back into my seat in the back of the car. Only this time, I didn’t try to lean over to see out the windshield. Instead, I looked at the view from the side window. It didn’t stop me from seeing the light-infused shower of snow from the tree as the bald eagle lifted from the branch. It didn’t stop me from seeing snow-covered stones dotting the blue river, or the millions of stars glittering on every snowy surface.
I realized that sometimes it’s ok to not be the driver. It’s ok to not be in control. It’s ok to sit back and let others do the work. It’s ok to ask for help when you need it.
Your friends? They’re going to love you anyway.
When we got back into the valley, the sky was still coated in the cold, grey pall of winter. But that’s ok, too. We carried the sunshine in our hearts.
Photo by Kat
That’s it for 2024, unless something amazing comes up. I’ll see you all in January. And as always:
Merry Everything and Happy Always!
“I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now, from up and down, and still somehow, it’s clouds illusions I recall – I really don’t know clouds, at all.”
-Joni Mitchell
November has been a tough month. It always is, for me. When the weather starts to get cold, I don’t want to do anything more than sleep. Huddle up under warm blankets with the cat purring beside me.
It’s not so much the clouds that move in and blanket the valley. I quite like clouds. They provide texture to the sky. I have trouble with the shorter days. As soon as it gets dark, my day feels done, no matter what I still need to do. I’ve been doing my best to snap out of it, but it’s not always as easy as I think it should be.
I didn’t go anywhere this month. No road trips, no grand adventures. Just quiet days of staying home, writing.
My friend Jaki asked me for a photo she knew I had taken, to be used as the cover of a chapbook. The photo is the reflection of sky, clouds and trees in a pond. While I was looking for that photo, I came across several cloud photos I wanted to share with you. These photos were taken at different times, in different places, but they all fascinated me, and it made me think about perspective.
Another friend, Lesley-Ann, did this thing a couple of years ago. Instead of saying she had to do something, she would say she’d get to do something. For example, instead of saying she had to go grocery shopping, she would say she got to go grocery shopping. If you break it down, saying you have to go grocery shopping makes it seem like a chore – anxiety about things like parking, paying, peopling. Not to mention getting them home, carried inside, and put away.
But when you get to go grocery shopping, it implies gratitude, freedom of choice, delight in making selections, trying new things, finding great deals. The opportunity to see what’s new, to feel the season.
It’s a subtle difference, but it’s real. Two completely different mindsets for the same task. I know it’s impossible, unnatural even, to face everything in life with a positive attitude. Life is going to happen. Whether you have to go shopping or you get to go shopping is up to you.
Here is a poem I wrote a few days ago.
Praise
Praise the light
of winter morning
though dark and grey,
still full of promise.
Praise the snow falling
softly from that same sky-
the way it falls
like sifted flour.
Praise the flour
that bakes the bread
that nourishes us
the way the sky and snow
nourish the earth.
Praise the earth, in all it’s
jumbled weariness and wonder
and those who rise
on winter mornings
bringing colour
to the grey of the day.
Praise the day
for all the small miracles-
the tapping of sparrow feet
on the tin roof, the enormous mushroom
growing in what’s left of summer garden,
the rocks you never noticed before
camouflaged by summer, as they were.
Praise you and me
and the miracle of this life,
how it rose from the ashes
and grew wings, carrying us over
this dull, grey winter sky
to where we can see
the coming of spring
on the far horizon.
Praise the horizon,
the colour of hope.
Praise the colours,
even
the grey.
I’d like to leave you with one final thought.
The sky is steadfast and true. It’s only the clouds that change.
“We need to sit on the rim of the well of darkness and fish for fallen light with patience.”
The clouds of autumn are closing in and the morning chill reminds us that winter is nearly upon us. It’s only natural to feel a bit of sadness at the changing of the season, especially here in a tourist town known for its warm, sandy beaches, lake activities, orchard-fresh fruit, and sweltering summer days.
autumn beach –
crowded
with fallen leaves
Maybe it’s because I’m hyper-vigilant of the depression that comes at this time of year, I’m always on the lookout for things to brighten the shorter, darker days. I’m drawn to the Danish concept of hygge.
Hygge (pronounced Hoo-ga)
“A quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being.” – from the dictionary on my phone
Instead of waking up to grey skies and feeling blue, I try to shift my focus. “Today would be a perfect day to curl up with a soft blanket, a cup of tea, and a book of poetry.” Or maybe, “today would be a great day to bake cookies.” Or get together with friends to play with collage art. Anything that can transform the drab and dreary into something pleasant and joyful.
A few weeks ago, my friend, Michele called me.
“I’m sad,” she said.
“Ok. Let’s go to Don O Ray.”
Don O Ray farm is a local fruit and vegetable market that also happens to have a petting zoo.
“Bring a fork. We’re going to eat a pie.”
Michele laughed and agreed.
We invited our friend, Jaki, who agreed to meet us there.
It was a Friday, and there were busloads of children, but no one even batted an eyelash at three little old ladies, two with walkers, as we made our way into the petting zoo. The place was all decked out for Halloween with pumpkins and corn, a hedge maze, and spooky scenarios. Given our mobility issues, it was unanimously decided to skip the hedge maze.
We entered the goat pen. The warm, musky scent of goats and hay rose, filling my nostrils with memories of farm days past. The antics of the goats brought laughter, and the act of nuzzling and stroking the wiry/soft fur was enough to lift our spirits.
autumn blues-
lost in the warmth
of the goat pen
We hobbled and walked our way through the zoo, feeding ducks, petting rabbits, and admiring the peacock and his mate through the wire fencing.
Jaki left us at that point to go run some errands, but Michele and I continued.
Now, I’m a gentle person and I love animals of all kinds, but Michele? Michele is an animal whisperer if I ever saw one. It’s true what they say – that animals are the best judge of character.
Michele and I were in the pen of the Baby Doll Sheep, and within a few minutes of our arrival, the sheep who casually sniffed my hand and moved on had her head resting in Michele’s lap while she casually stroked a silky ear.
shy sheep
lured in by leaves
new friend
Our final stop was to visit the one poor, exhausted pony who could barely keep his eyes open. It had been a long day for him.
Michele and I weren’t finished though. We headed into the market in search of a pie. Unfortunately, with tourist season over, all the pies were frozen. After visiting two more fruit stands looking for a fresh fruit pie, we ended up settling for a frozen one and heading back to Michele’s house.
Warmly decorated in autumn colors with the electric fireplace on, Michele’s home is the definition of hygge. After fifteen minutes in the oven, the pie was ready, and we dug in. Since we were in Michele’s home, we decided to use plates instead of eating it right out of the pan as we initially intended.
peach pie-
an eternity
in this moment
So, if you’re one of those people impacted by SAD or even just feeling the winter blues, I implore you to embrace the notion of hygge. The day is going to happen anyway. You might as well turn it into a cherished memory.
Be well, my friends.
Featherstone Creative 