Loving the Weather!

It was a drizzly grey late spring morning when I opened the door and poked my nose out. At this time of year the vegetable and flower gardens are always calling. It smelled amazing, awake, and alive and the decision to put boots on and go out made it self. Moments later, as I stood over one of the garden rockeries admiring my handiwork a shift in perspective came through. For years I have worked with these same perennials, shifting the Lily collection from one spot to another, the delphiniums, liatris, daffodils, and tulips, everybody in that rockery has more than once grown legs and transplanted themselves.

And then I knew. I felt how they had taught me, it wasn’t my doing, I had simply acted as their legs. It was the plants, the trees, the weeds and grasses, the dirt and air and water that has been teaching me since the first time I conceived of planting a garden. For forty years the plant kingdom has taken me under its wing and supported my fledgling attempts at working with them. They have taught me where to place each of them in relationship with the others, who is needy and who needs to be ravaged. My mind is rarely involved, though I have a library of gardening books. They teach me through my body, my senses, and mostly they teach through our mutual love affair.

Now with beginners’ eyes I view the scene, the same garden rockeries, the same trees, sky, air, rain, and nothing is the same. The shapes and colors, the smells, everything shone. My heart began beating that gratitude song until it poured out my mouth. Thank you to the nasturtiums and pansies, thank you gladiolas and dahlias, thank you to the peach tree. Thank you Life for the Grace called rain showering down upon me today.


In this part of the world the weather is the first thing we talk about when we get together. These days I hear a lot of complaining, it’s too cold, wet, hot, dry, flooding, windy. Behind those complaints I feel the fear and realize the weather is the recipient of that projected fear. If we subscribe to the idea of Oneness with All of Life we’ve forgotten that we are the weather. We want control but we don’t want responsibility. We’ll believe conspiracy theories about the bad guys using weather conditions as a weapon before we’ll accept responsibility for the weather we’re experiencing. We’ll believe that the Earth Herself wants to destroy us without spending a moment to consider the idea, the possibility that we have a part in creating the very weather we’re complaining about.

Ten Ways for Humans to Work with Elementals

I found these guidelines in a book by Tanis Helliwell called Summer with the Leprechauns. I couldn't resist copying them to share.



1. Believe in elementals. Human belief strengthens elementals and gives them energy.
2. Be happy and enthusiastic. Elementals are not attracted to depressed, sad humans.
3. Go to healthy places in nature as often as possible. Walk in forests, along the seashore, lie in a meadow, listen to birds, sit by a brook. Enter into the right vibration of the Earth and listen to what it wants. Humans will purify their vibrations if they do these things.
4. Appreciate the beauty in nature. When humans do this, elementals will be attracted to you.

5. Cooperate and create with nature by planting trees, growing flowers, feeding the birds.
6. Send energy to elementals, who look after trees, flowers, water and mountains, to keep them healthy. Do this with joy and gratitude.
7. Teach other humans to appreciate nature. Do it with love and joy, and these humans will begin to understand the Earth and her needs.
8. Do things spontaneously; free yourself from overplanning and organizing.
9. Take time everyday to do nothing. Create a space in both your house and head so magic can occur.


10. In order to contact an elemental who wants to work with you on an ongoing basis, sit in a quiet natural place, close your eyes and call this elemental to you. Notice what kind of elemental has come. Ask it what it’s gift is and its name. Listen to this elemental on an ongoing basis; act on its suggestions, and your relationship will become stronger.

Our watershed has changed ever so slightly over this last winter. At first it didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary when Court suggested that he wanted to build a trail around a nearby lake. We’ve often sat on a stump looking out on the lake only able to explore the lake in our mind’s eyes, wanting to go further. This first picture shows our destination across the lake.

Court shared his intention to build the trail with Neale Gustafson, who though it was a great idea (like me he probably didn’t realize it would really happen). It is Water Board land held in public trust and Neal is the Boards chairman. Trail building began in earnest February 2009 with an exploratory trip to begin flagging out a possible route for the trail to take. A few days later with clippers and chainsaw he rendered a section of passable trail. The afternoon he came home and announced there was a trail to a log bridge crossing the stream at the head of the lake I decided I had to go see.

Walking deeper into our watershed was like walking back in time. The evidence of logging from a long ago time that left massive old growth nestled in a canyon sheltered from the winds of these last winters. Here, maybe a mile from our home is another world, a slower more majestic one than the everyday one I inhabit. The sights and smells of an old growth forest mesmerize me. The log that forms the bridge over the creek is blow down. The creek is cheery as creeks are with sweet clean water cold enough to sate the thirst a hike works up.

Over the creek the trail building was more difficult from laying the route out to hacking through dense stands of salal. An attempt was made to come in from the dam side of the lake to find the trail and shorten the work of carrying the chainsaw up the trail. The canoe was also considered as means of getting the chainsaw to the head of the lake. In the end it was slow but steady man power that accomplished what I now realize is a lot.

After a week away from home I returned to hear the announcement that the trail has reached it’s destination at the dam. I have had time to realize how valuable this trail is to me. I learned more of the history of the local landscape, who logged what, when, and how they logged.

Today was an overcast but not raining great day to hike Court’s new trail. The land it traverses is rough and tumble, up and down and Court has somehow wrestled a good trail out of the topography he had to work with. It is exciting to think that we may have a way to access a fresh water swimming hole during the summer months. The trail needs walking to help establish some of the footings on the side hills it traverses and to keep some of the undergrowth back in other spots. I could learn to carry clippers like Court does to help with the undergrowth. He carried clippers today, I carried the camera.

Congratulations Court on a magnificent job and thank you for the blessings you bring into my life.

A Day in the Garden with the Birds

I prepared the potato and onion beds for planting these last days. It was a great gift to find a couple of meals worth of potatoes that had over wintered in the ground perfectly. Today I found the last leeks in a tangle at the far corner of the onion bed. The sweet smell of soil, the hard crunch of rocks under the shovel and then bend to pull a few weeds and breathe out gratitude about this wonderful chore, I love these piles of dirt collected on bed rock. I’m as twitterpated as the birds I hear singing their hearts out about the wonder and joy, the glory of life around us.

Grateful I am for the sound of the male hummingbird announcing himself to the world as a suitor ready and able after he’s climbed straight into the air a hundred feet and more. I have to stop and watch as he goes straight up to arc and swoop down making his distinctive ta-da before doing it all again. What a show, I’m swooning and I wish him well with his own kind. A male red winged blackbird is sounding his arrival song at the bird feeder with his female close behind. A red bellied sap sucker is drumming his availability on the light stand above the garage; every female for miles around can hear him. The deep blue Stellars Jays are trying to chase the red winged blackbirds from the bird feeder with raucous caws that sound like crows. Something, probably the cats have disturbed the chipmunks in their mating escapades and they’re scolding can be heard in the distance. Grateful I am for this gentle natural soundscape.

I chose to focus today on the mantra I love and approve of myself. After a while of such it felt right to move into I love and approve of the whole world. After another while a note of doubt sounded…did I really love and approve of the whole world? That note did not feel right and I remember that most negative thinking stems from ego and I knew that ego was attempting to circumvent a loss of control. I returned to feeling into loving and approving of the whole world and felt how vital it is to hold to this mantra; this viewpoint of the world can and will recreate anything that doesn’t serve the good of the whole without violence, without fear.

Sometimes, in order to remain present and at peace with what is, I have to ask these two questions; am I coming from love around this or am I coming from fear. The easiest choice can be the one that feels good and works as well for the good of the whole.

Blessed be!

Share Your Joy

Two nights ago I found myself enthralled and joyous at the sound of robins singing their robust end of day songs, quite enjoying what would ordinarily be an ordinary sound because I was listening to them in Wisconsin through a teleconference phone line. I felt a moment of trepidation when I realized that I had almost forgotten to ask Mother God the question that was the purpose of this meditation. I remembered I wanted to ask Mother God what I could do to help Her/Us. She assured me with the gentleness of the scent of wisteria on the evening air, that my joy in the robin song was Her joy. She asked only that we share our joy in Her Creations with Her.

How sweet, simple and easy is that?

A Labor of Love : Grand Lord Yew

I was called unexpectedly on Thursday evening with an invitation to go visit my youngest son on the Labor of Love Farm. He was looking for advice on a favorite subject…gardening. He has returned to the farm after years of working around the province…making big money…with little to no goal. It’s my theory that the farm has called him back, and to hear him tell his story, having found a young woman to share the “labor of love”.

Rory’s father owns the property, though he finally put it on the market when he moved away two years ago to pursue dreams of mining and trapping in the North. Over a twenty year period Steve turned the property from a rough chunk of rocky rainforest into an acreage covered with now well established fruit and nut trees and lush green meadows. When Rory and Kat (his girlfriend) returned for a visit and saw the disrepair the orchards, which also happened to be in full spring bloom, were in, it was the call of a broken heart they could repair with some tender loving care.

I’ve lived, worked and visited the property over all these years and know its history. There is a yew tree among a tangle of trees that has sat on a 2000’ bluff overlooking Agamemnon Strait. I realized on the drive down I was almost as excited to see the tree as I was to see Rory and Kat. That evening after a good visit over dinner I grabbed the camera to do a picture tour of the property, heading first toward the Yew tree on the edge of the property.



This picture shows you the height and width of this massive 800 year old tree. Its location has been registered by the “science” types and all yew trees are protected by law. It is surrounded by taller maple trees that protect it from the worst blows from the ocean, but also compete with it for head room. Over the years of visiting I have never taken a picture of this tree. With the first click of the shutter I knew/felt there was a presence, one I couldn’t identify visually, but felt strongly. On impulse, I zoomed the camera in on the area of the tree I felt was speaking loudest and took one picture.

When I download the camera last night after returning home it was the pictures of the Yew tree I was thinking about. As you can see…the Grand Lord Yew allowed me to capture a clear image of him….as I felt he would.



I owe a note of gratitude to Joan Solomon and her book of photographs of Spirits in the Garden for firming up my conviction about the faces, figures and symbols in rocks, trees, clouds and such I have witnessed over the years. It was Joan’s book that finally pushed me to admit to and share Lady Willow from our garden, and now Grand Lord Yew. It is an honor and privilege beyond compare to be able to serve life in this way.

“The natural world is a spiritual house. We walk there through forests of physical things that are also spiritual things: they watch us with affectionate looks." Charles Baudelaire.

A Message from the Garden

How many times have you walked past a tree, rock, or geographical formation and thought you saw something else...a face, an animal, or a meaningful symbol. This picture from the garden falls into that category. There was a time I would have dismissed the image as fantasy, make believe, or an over active imagination. Over a lifetime, and then at an accelerated pace these last ten years the conversations with nature that I have been privy too have taught me to stop and pay closer attention...the natural world around us is purposely and purposefully communicating with humanity.

The first picture was taken on a brilliant sunny afternoon. I did not see the white cloud that is hinted at in the photo when I took the picture.

This willow tree that Court has nurtured in our back garden for twenty something years sculpted herself into this graceful embodiment of a demure Lady Willow (with a very deer like look). It wasn’t until Court gave the Willow a very serious “haircut” this winter that I clearly saw her face. Now as she is sprouting “hair” her exquisite feminine energy has come into focus.

The second shot was taken in a morning light, giving her a come hither look.

A quote from Charles Baudelaire describes these kinds of experiences perfectly: “The natural world is a spiritual house. We walk there through forests of physical things that are also spiritual things; they watch us with affectionate looks.”

I've discovered this story isn't complete without adding my friend John's voice...The (weeping) willow's message for me is, "Weep no longer, though tears inevitably will fall, there will always be new, vibrant growth after the old has fallen away; a time to face the nurturing sun, naked, peaceful, and proud once more." (So let it be).

Today's Garden Visitor

This morning our conversation turned to the subject of the grouse that were once prolific along the ridge behind our house. After lunch this girl was spotted under the same grand daddy Douglas fir tree I mentioned in yesterdays post. She was feeding on the fir cone debris that litters the ground from the squirrels winter feasts.

She wasn't dazzled in the least by my paparazzi like behavior with the camera, feeding calmly. I look forward to the sounds of her mate drumming his spring love song soon. One of these days I'll also finish digging up the potato patch I've been working on...

Frisky and Fast

This little squirrel and his companion spent most of the winter feeding from the grand daddy Douglas fir tree I can see from my window when I'm working at the computer. There were days when we had to be careful of the cones being vaulted out of the tree to be picked up later off the ground. Squirrels can be hard to catch a picture of they are usually moving so fast. Every time there was a scrap of sunshine on the rafters of the chicken coop under the big fir, this little guy would stop work to sit and feast, which is how I got this picture.

Did You Know? - The Life of an Eagle

The eagle has the longest life-span of its' species
It can live up to 70 years
But to reach this age, the eagle must make a hard decision
In its' 40's
Its' long and flexible talons can no longer grab prey which serves as food
Its' long and sharp beak becomes bent
Its' old-aged and heavy wings, due to their thick feathers, become stuck to its' chest and make it difficult to fly
Then, the eagle is left with only two options: die or go through a painful process of change which lasts 150 days.
The process requires that the eagle fly to a mountain top and sit on its' nest
There the eagle knocks its' beak against a rock until it plucks it out
After plucking it out, the eagle will wait for a new beak to grow back and then it will pluck out its' talons
When its' new talons grow back, the eagle starts plucking its' old-aged feathers
And after five months, the eagle takes its' famous flight of rebirth and lives for ...30 more years

A Twisty Hemlock Tree Story

The hemlock tree at the centre of this story has spent a hundred and more years growing into the twisted mass of towering vegetation that sits on the border of the neighbours and our property. Court began clearing by logging the acreage for our house almost forty years ago. Trees that weren’t mature or a danger back then have experienced a growing surge to fill the space left when the clearing was made.

This particular hemlock has loomed over the garage and shop over the years becoming more dangerous because of a spiral in the trunk that curves toward the buildings. Since the wind storms of the last two winters, hurricane force winds unlike any that have been seen in our time, the twisted hemlock has become an increasing threat. Given the four old growth trees that came down last year Court decided last summer to call an expert forester in to cut the hemlock down before it blew down.

The forester came, looked and never came back. This is one dangerous tree to cut, crammed in as it is in a grove of smaller trees. Court has spent hours, maybe hundreds waking and sleeping studying and meditating with this Hemlock. As winter has progressed, other trees have blown down in the hurricane force winds, keeping Court extra busy, first cleaning up the new blow down and then taking down other trees that are threats to blow down. He has jokingly called himself the “Inch Logging Company” because he’s working with a chain saw, a winch and a 1952 army truck hauling 120’ prime old growth fir, two inches at a time, out of the front yard.

When the wind started blowing a week ago Court had only one tree of the four he’d taken down in the front yard left to clean up. The burn piles full of tree debris have been burning off and all winter. One fire burned underground for three weeks. He was planning to finish the front yard before tackling the twisty hemlock behind the shop. Instead, as I sat listening to the winds from my office I heard the unmistakable crack of a large tree. I didn’t get up to look; I’ve had my fill of witnessing trees coming down. When I didn’t hear or feel the thump that always comes with a blow down I stood to look. The impossible had happened. The hemlock was hanging at 1:30 (on a clock) hung up in the grove of cedars it was surrounded by.

I called Court upstairs to look. He was like a man who feels better because his death sentence has finally been revoked. There is still going to be time to serve.

For five days the tree loomed larger than life in our lives. Court spent three days removing a storage building and its contents to prepare the area, so that when the Hemlock fell nothing would be damaged. I was shocked to discover stomach wrenching fear in my belly when I tried to help, and I couldn’t watch. I said a prayer and remembered that the tree will not, maybe can not hurt Court. I have Felt, Capital F his relationship with Trees, capital T. The mature Douglas fir that stands in the middle of the driveway related to me years ago, before we married, that Court is well loved by the trees of our forest. That fir tree relayed the feeling to me of Court as steward of the land. The trees surrounding the log house that Court built (without electricity or machinery), and our log house itself, love that they continue to co-exist.

Almost a week after the tree started coming down, it was time. As I headed out of the house with the idea of helping Court with the job I didn’t feel much confidence in my ability to be of assistance. As we stood looking at the job, Court talking about what he had decided would be the best approach, a good friend and capable woodsmen walked up. I was delighted to see somebody more capable of discussing this situation with Court, somebody with more practical knowledge than I. I headed back into the house thanking our blessed stars for our friend Walter and grateful that I didn’t have to watch the show.

After much discussion it was decided to take down a smallish cedar tree that the Hemlock looked to be caught up in. With Walter watching closely, Court cut down the cedar. The cedar swayed a little and creaked, it didn’t come down. They tied a rope around the cedar and repeatedly yarded on the tree with the truck trying to pull it down. No way. More discussion and a decision to cut another larger cedar tree, this a more dangerous tree not only because the Hemlock is caught up in it, but because its what local woodsmen call a “school marm” or forked topped tree.

From the house I could hear the chain saw cutting on the second tree. Again I waited for the crash and thud of the Hemlock hitting ground but hear instead a few branches crashing and a small thud. Sure enough, the two cedar trees that the Hemlock was hung up in are down but the Hemlock is still standing. The tree has outwitted the logger by resting its leaning trunk on the small tree stump of a cedar at it’s feet, a tree that Court cut down weeks ago. Right from the start, the idea has been to avoid putting a chainsaw into the butt of the Hemlock. The twisted spiral shape of the trunk of the Hemlock makes it impossible to fall in the direction you want with any degree of accuracy. The weight of the leaning tree has been enough to start pulling the roots out of the ground like a weed. Another decision, this time to cut the now exposed roots that are strained and creaking under the weight they’re holding.


Never has the sound of a tree crashing to the ground sounded so lovely. The people, buildings and forest around heaved a long sigh of relief. If you’ve counted, it took removing three trees to get at that fourth. In the end I’m convinced that the Twisty Hemlock and Court had an understanding, a simpatico created by Court’s many years of loving stewardship of the land. That simpatico was at the heart of this perfect ending to a situation otherwise overwhelmingly dangerous.

When Court finally cut into the trunk of the Hemlock to start the clean up, the tree had one last surprise in store. As soon as he finished the cut, the root ball plopped back into the ground standing the remaining trunk up ten feet in the air. I'll let you judge for yourself, it looks like a giant phallic symbol to me.

An Elk Migration - Via Tugboat

So many stories unfolding all at the same time...I'll start with this one.

A few weeks ago Court was called about a once in a lifetime trip on the tugboat as barge man for the conservation authority. The local game warden had long decided it was time to move a herd of elk (part of a larger herd that was transplanted to this peninsula fifteen years ago) that have been feeding for years at the local golf course. The tug and barge would be needed to move a truck full of elk, and several other trucks full of volunteers to a valley some hundred and fifty miles north up the coast.

Several nights have been spent on high alert, waiting for the call. Each time the herd was spooked or the sea conditions were too rough, and the move was cancelled and rescheduled.

As we chatted about this during an early dawn sit in the hot tub yesterday, I suggested that perhaps the elk had some resistance to this move. After all there are grizzly bear and wolves in the new territory, something the elk haven't had to deal with down here. I suggested that a dialogue might be possible with the grizzly and wolves explaining the situation and asking for a remedy. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I knew I would/could/should be the one to engage in such a dialogue via meditation.

I was guided to sit by my sacred inner fire and send an invitation to Elk, Wolf and Bear to join me at my fire. Elk first came on powerful strong legs. Elk depend for life on their legs. Elk knows why I am here and is in accord with my mission. Bear came up behind me as I sat looking into my inner fire, wrapping around me reminding me of the Bear medicine I carry. We swayed together until Bear pulled away and gifted me a bear bone, and then proceeded to install it in my back. This bone will help me stand straight in my medicine and will dissolve away as I build strength to stand tall. (This is answer to a request for assitance with the old habit of refusing power.)Grizzly Bear will not smell Elk as food until Elk has their legs under them in the new terrain

When I next looked to call Wolf I was surrounded by a family of running Wolves. They carried me through the trails they know so well, sharing smells and Wolfish sensations. I knew their hunger. I asked on behalf of an evolving mankind that they not fill their hunger with the smell of Elk. They too agreed to let Elk get their legs. We agreed this is the way.

I was stopped from saying I’d never talked in this way before by being flooded with remembrances of my relationship with animals in childhood. And then I saw Ama (my inner little girls name) step up and take a bow. Though I have stymied her, she has always served life in this way, always recognized oneness with all life, always willing to send spirit forth to communicate with the other life forms that we share this wonderful Mother with. )

Before I returned to regular consciousness I pledged myself to holding a safe and sacred space for this move of the elk…it felt right to make such a commitment only after I realized that Ama has been, is always, there doing just that. I will remember Ama and I are one.

I shared my meditative journey with Court asking him to pass a message of what I'd done along to the game warden if he could. (He did and the news was well received. This man loves these animals and said..."they need all the help they can get.") We weren't surprised when the call came in to confirm they had the twelve elk penned and waiting for the truck. Court took this shot this morning of the dominant female, the matriarch of the herd. The herd had been penned for twelve hours by the time the boat reached her destination. She had stood momentarilly sniffing the air before bolting down the ramp so fast she's a blur to the camera. The next moment the whole herd was a blur hightailing into the bush after their matriarch.

May the elk flourish in their new home.

A Boulder Garden

I was born into a garden of boulders. As a small child, I didn’t know the way, I couldn’t see over top of the boulders and no one around me seemed to see them. As I grew taller the boulders grew shorter, becoming rocks.

Some of the rocks had sharp corners to bark shins on. Some rocks looked solid until I stepped on them. As I grew more I found I could soften the edges of certain rocks, so it didn’t hurt if I bumped into them. I learned where the rocks were on the path so that I could avoid them. Some rocks I bent and removed from under foot, and some grew legs and carried themselves away.

Years have passed and again the perspective changes. Now I walk on a pebble strewn path. The pebbles crunch under foot marking my passage. I’ve learned that tear stained pebbles are glistening jewels washed in stories that look like colors of the rainbow. Occasionally they get in my shoes, and I know it is time to stop and look around for the lesson. As I remove the pebble I sing it’s praises and give thanks for it’s giveaway.

I can still see others walking boulder strewn paths or heavily rock strewn paths. Now I visit among the boulders and rocks when spirit moves me. I stay as long as I see and hold a vision of everyone walking the beautiful pebble strewn path of their lives.

Every one of us is a pebble on The Path. I could be a pebble on your Path. Let us walk softly together, admiring our diversity, glorying in our differences and celebrating our largesse.

If you see a beautiful pebble, wet or dry, it’s calling to you. Pick it up and put it in your pocket that the child in you may once again revel in the Earth wisdom that is our birthright. Soon, if you stop and listen closely, you too will hear whispers between pebble and child. Listen within and you too will find answers to your questions and fulfillment of hearts desires.

Winter Storms Have Hit Hard....Again

This is the first time in three days I’ve been able to get all the pieces together to sit and write anything. What began as a day of hard rains on Saturday and a loud night with almost 100 km winds, took on nightmare proportions after we got up on Sunday morning. Instead of backing off or slowing down in the light of day, the wind gusts increased and shifted. It is sickening to watch 100’ standing trees flailing around like stir sticks in a coffee cup or laying sideways from the force of the wind. The debris that rained on the house through the night was as nothing compared to the hour after we got up. I kept pulling myself away from the windows, not wanting to watch. When a large branch threw itself at the sliding door I was sitting next too, I went to stand in a door jamb to wait for the rest of the tree to follow.

Put together the sounds of hurricane force winds screaming through a forest with the individual sound of one old growth tree breaking away from the ground to crash through it’s still standing fellows to the ground and you’ve experienced something you’ll never forget. The only sound I have to compare it with is of a jet engine taking off.

Our forests have been ravaged hard by these winds again. Three days without electricity and there are still miles of torn up power lines between us and hot and cold running life. Everything revolves around power, so everything changes without it. We had telephone for the first day without power, but there’s been no phone for the last two days. Last winters storms and resulting five day power outage gave us reason to find, purchase and install a small generator. That is why I am able to write about this while still in the midst of it.

We have one old growth hemlock uprooted, it took a couple of smaller cedars down with it. One of those cedars hit the roof of the RV shed...didn't damage the RV. I wrote the above this morning...it's after dinner, still no electric power, but the phone line is working. It's started to rain again, and there are more wind warnings.

Living without hydro electricity at the end of a dead end road is like living with the Dreamspell Calendar...time has no meaning...there is only light and no light.

A Message from a Field Mouse

A mouse dropped by unexpectedly. He was carried in by the tail held between the teeth of the cat. My husband re-caught the mouse by the tail and delivered him safely outside. We conjectured about the stories that mouse would take back to the nest about black cats and bipeds. I wondered what the mouse message was. A couple of hours later this “parable” came in the email…I don’t know who the author is.

A mouse looked through the crack in the wall to see the farmer and his wife open a package.

What food might this contain?' The mouse wondered - he was devastated to discover it was a mousetrap.

Retreating to the farmyard, the mouse proclaimed the warning :
There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!'

The chicken clucked and scratched, raised her head and said, 'Mr. Mouse, I can tell this is a grave concern to you, but it is of no consequence to me. I cannot be bothered by it.'

The mouse turned to the pig and told him, 'There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!'

The pig sympathized, but said, 'I am so very sorry, Mr. Mouse, but there is nothing I can do about it but pray. Be assured you are in my prayers.'

The mouse turned to the cow and said 'There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!'

The cow said, 'Wow, Mr. Mouse. I'm sorry for you, but it's no skin off my nose.'
So, the mouse returned to the house, head down and dejected, to face the farmer's mousetrap alone.

That very night a sound was heard throughout the house -- like the sound of a mousetrap catching its prey.

The farmer's wife rushed to see what was caught. In the darkness, she did not see it was a venomous snake whose tail the trap had caught.

The snake bit the farmer's wife. The farmer rushed her to the hospital, and she returned home with a fever.

Everyone knows you treat a fever with fresh chicken soup, so the farmer took his hatchet to the farmyard for the soup's main ingredient.

But his wife's sickness continued, so friends and neighbors came to sit with her around the clock.

To feed them, the farmer butchered the pig.

The farmer's wife did not get well; she died.

So many people came for her funeral, the farmer had the cow slaughtered to provide enough meat for all of them.

The mouse looked upon it all from his crack in the wall with great sadness.
The next time you hear someone is facing a problem and think it doesn't concern you, remember -- when one of us is threatened, we are all at risk.

We are all involved in this journey called life. We must keep an eye out for one another and make an extra effort to encourage one another.

REMEMBER,,,,

EACH OF US IS A VITAL THREAD IN ANOTHER PERSON'S TAPESTRY;

OUR LIVES ARE WOVEN TOGETHER FOR A REASON.

One of the best things to hold onto in this world is a friend!

Bear in The Blueberry Patch

This picture, (I didn't take it) captures the spirit of this little teaching story.

When Grandmother eased her shoulders and cocked her head in just that way, everyone quieted knowing a story had been sparked. When Grandmother heard this story she had been a girl at the knee of her Grandmother who spoke out of a distant past.

Then, more than now the tribe had followed the rhythm of the seasons, moving winter camp from inland closer to the continental waterways with their thousands of islands full of ripening huckleberries, strawberries, and blueberries. As they had traveled they crossed paths and joined forces with other tribes heading for the Lakes in the Woods and the Numberless Islands. Blueberry Island was renowned among the islands covered as it was half way around with a skirt of blueberries from crown to shore. On a hot day the smell of ripened blueberries reached Great Sky Spirit.

Little Star was holding herself away from the picking women, not joining the chatter, finding the edge of the ring of women as they moved along the hillside. Her sisters and cousins had been snubbed in their efforts to include her and they thought her not worth their efforts. The elder women recognized the signs of a woman who had thrown herself away.

Little Star was the beloved only child of an elderly couple who had filled her every wish. As she had grown toward womanhood she knew little of self discipline often drawing the disapproval of the grandmothers. Her beauty and gifts of spirit, including a genuine kindness, insured that what her parents couldn’t bring to her, she brought to herself without thought about what was for the good of the whole.

It had started at the last camp. Little Star had wanted and found she could not have the host, a handsome warrior and man among men Moves The Wind. When Little Star at last understood that she would not be having her way she was shocked and hurt. That was when it happened; Little Star saw herself hurting out of deep and true love forgetting the twitch between her legs that had initiated this incident. The willfulness that her parents had applauded turned itself on Little Star creating a cloud of discontent over she who had everything. The gregarious good natured self involved young woman was replaced by a discontent self involved young woman.

Though Little Star picked blueberries in body she was lost in thought of ways to get her way. She knew she had hurt her cousins and friends and she held herself away telling herself they knew nothing of her pain. As she moved along she was oblivious to the new and obvious signs of broken and trampled blueberry bushes. Before a warning shout could fly from eyes to the mouth of the nearest woman to witness, a She bear stood on two legs and grabbed Little Star in a bear hug, shook her as if to awaken her, and then let her body drop to the ground.

The picking women had not collected themselves to respond before the She Bear stepped away from the cliff edge where she had been cornered by Little Star and returned to forging as if she had been there first. And so it was. Little Star crawled back to the ministrations of all her relations wearing a new scar on her forehead that her ancestors wear to this day.

It was long moments after grandmother stopped speaking, during which many blueberry stained hands surreptitiously reached to forehead, before grandmother broke the teaching spell she had wove, with a chuckle.

Squirrel Talk

I invite you into the fall garden with me this afternoon. Our B.C coastal sun has come out of the morning fog like a shy young persons smile, a bit thin and wavering to start but once it catches, it holds all memories of smiles past, and hints of smiles to come.

The grandmother spider that was disturbed at somebody’s passage is busy rebuilding with a concentration that is mind boggling. The winged ones are a constant flitting across the ground, through the trees and air, going about the business of their days with a joy and fervor that always lifts the spirits.

The house and gardens are nestled in a deep forest, every door and path out of house and garden leads into a trail in those woods. All of the trails show signs of the four leggeds we share the forest with. Footprints of raccoon, scat of bear, maybe cougar. Saying the names in my head as I walk they come alive and I can sense my wildness in theirs.

Hugging the trees by tracing their shapes with my eyes as I walk by, at times grateful for the songs the wind creates through their boughs, at other times unsettled and disturbed by the wind song. There are trees in these woods whose age and height lend a dignity to the other worldly chaos of a rainforest in a constant state of decay. Again the names, arbutus, red cedar, hemlock, spruce, fir, alder, maple, white pine, and more combined with their smells and sounds returns me to other ways of perceiving.


Countless times a sense of rest and rejuvenated spirits is found by diving in on foot and wearing my body out in a sweat of effort. Reaching the height of land from which to gain a perspective of place is the perfect metaphor for the inner work that is aching to be done. The weight of the world finally falls completely away as my attention focuses on a moment with the squirrel that created the mountain of fir cone debris my feet are traversing. A feeling of myself as the squirrel comes to me and I’m clear that she has felt my footsteps coming her way all day. She knew I was hiking her way today before I knew myself.

A Blueberry Patch 1985

This is a favorite story that I've been saving for a rainy day like today.

An opportunity to travel through the Canadian Quetico National Park and the American Voyageur National Park otherwise known as the Boundary Waters was a once in a life time chance that I could not miss. These parks are comprised of a series of interconnected lakes and rivers that straddle and twine the Ontario and Minnesota borders. As the park name indicates, they mark waterways that were once the superhighways of this continent and form the dividing line between the United States and Canada. Their shores hold traces of those former travelers’ footsteps along side stone paintings and camps of the Algonquin people.

One enticement of the parks is that no motor boat traffic is allowed on the water, nor is air traffic allowed above. The only people you’re going to see are other canoers, maybe kayakers. That was my reason for traveling via plane from Vancouver to Winnipeg to hop on a bus for an eighteen hour ride to Fort Frances to catch a canoe ride. Except for a distant sighting during our crossing of Kabetogoma, the largest lake in the series, there were no other boats for a beauty two weeks worth of days.

Eighty years previous a dam had brought water levels up by twelve feet throughout this section of the border waters, burying much evidence of the past. Painted red oxide petroglyphs with their precious stories had not been lost, having been painted twenty feet above the original water line. The preservation of those petroglyphs was one of the strongest arguments used in closing the parks to motor boats.

It was the last day of my part of my companions cross country canoe trip. We had followed the paddle strokes of the Voyageurs who had been following the Algonquin. Every lunch break, swimming hole, camp site, and berry bush that we enjoyed showed evidence, if you knew what to look for of the previous hosts. As the days had rolled by I found myself half expecting to catch up with the humans who’d left coals from fires hundreds of years old. In places where generations of camp fires had been burned, hundred to two hundred year old trees often grew out of the heart of the old fire and stood as testament to the nourishment from the bones and debris left in the coals.

I would need to go to the Customs Office in Crane Lake Minnesota and check in before boarding a bus to start the trip back to B.C. There was a perfect swimming rock and tiny beach at the campsite for cleaning up the gear and ourselves. With that done, blueberries came to mind. The native blueberries were ripe and had been a luscious source of fruit as we’d island hopped. Like everyone before us, we camped on islands to avoid bears, who, during berry season could be trouble for a camper or more particularly for a campers food stash. We had eaten through our sweet treats except for a couple of servings of maple syrup. The possibility of pancakes with blueberries for dinner was plenty of reason to explore.

My thoughts turned to those unknown others who’d created the barely perceptible path my feet had found. When I wiped hair out of my face I felt the yellow pileated flicker wing feather I’d put there in the morning. It had been on the ground on the same path past the outhouse. The further I traveled the path the more it opened up helping my passage to the other side of the island pass quickly. There was no mistaking the blueberry mother lode when I found it. I was surrounded by the low lying shrubs as far as I could see. And the heavenly smell that was coming from the over ripe berries that had fallen onto the hot rocks under the bushes was mouth watering.

I hunkered down and started picking without exploring further. My container served at first to collect enough berries to throw berries by the cup full down my throat to quench my thirst. As I made my way, picking and eating I knew that this patch of berries bushes had served as manna from heaven supporting life for tens of generations of nomadic hunter gatherer people. Out of the corner of my ear I could hear a young girl telling her cousin and friend that she need not be scared about bears, that’s why they made the stop to harvest the blueberries of Blueberry Island. In my minds eye I was surrounded by a large group of native women hunkered as I was, waddling as they moved to the next bush concentrating on the task to hand. I heard a grandmother gently chide the young girl by telling her an old story of a bear on Blueberry Island from her grandmothers’ time. I listened closely realizing there was a lesson in Grandmothers words for me.

As we picked I listened to their stories of healthy well fed babies, sick and aged aunties, plans for future ceremonies and celebrations, concern for the well being of the hunting men. I listened as Grandmother told another story, an unusual one about time travelers. I listened with a heart full of homecoming knowing she told this story to acknowledge my presence. It was not until the blueberries I’d been picking were overflowing the container that I found myself back from no time.

The only pleasure greater than this experience, is revisiting it with you.

Drewry Lake Symphony 1995

As we pulled up at the waters’ edge, canoe strapped onto the truck, gear for three people and three days it looked like it was going to be a washout camping trip. It was later on in the afternoon than we had wanted to arrive. The high heavy cloud cover reflected a somber dark grey Drewry Lake. A bald eagle was disturbed by our coming. He left his hunting perch and soared away down the lake.

The steep foreshore insured we were all in a sweat before the truck was unloaded and the canoe loaded. We had decided not to look for a campsite in the Provincial campground on our way into the lake, we wanted complete wilderness/privacy. Instead we were depending on finding a suitable spot along the lakes shore.

Within moments of setting paddles to propel the canoe forward we rounded a headland and sidled past a deer browsing on shrubs a few feet away. She was startled by our sudden quiet appearance and bolted a few feet before she stopped and continued feeding. We were immediately good with the clouds. Paddling along the edge of an unexplored mountain lake was the only place to be.

She was a long, almost fjord like narrow lake with mountains 5,000 ft above; there was a beautiful wooded oval bowl along her flanks on both sides unto a stone oval at her heights. At each end the lake opened into valleys wider than the lake itself. The lake shore and bottom were rocky and steep in sections with occasional sandy estuaries where run off ravines carrying silt and sediment came down from the mountain tops. Piercingly clear water made it possible to see into depths of fifty and sixty feet, a hundred feet when a stray sun bolt escaped the cloud cover. The lake edge was littered with trees that had fallen helter skelter into the water rendering the water’s depths a surreal reflection of the shore. At the narrowest end of the lake, an island gave way to a mud bog and swamp that opened into a large grassy valley.

It wasn’t long before we spotted a flat spot for our tent that also had a good landing site. It had been a summer full of camping expeditions and we had the drill down pat. In no time, camp was set up and we were back on the water to explore until nearing darkness and our stomachs forced us back for dinner. As we ate we discussed the sighting of a large predator bird that we’d flushed at close range. Bald eagles were a dime a dozen on this lake, the fishing was obviously excellent, but this had been a grand daddy size golden eagle. When we hit the sleeping bags that night our prayers for sunshine and heat on the morrow were accompanied by the ululations of loons.

We woke to fog. Everything in camped dripped including our spirits. Coffee and a big breakfast helped dispel the gloom and by the time we were ready to push the canoe away from shore the fog had lifted completely. Instead of following the same shore we paddled straight across the lake. Ordinarily you’d stay away from the centre of a lake if there is any potential for stormy weather, but the narrowness of the lake meant a lee shore was always close. As we pulled toward the middle of the lake the lake’s face changed form. Now the lake became small as it reflected the soaring mountains capped by drifting clouds. We neared the middle of the lake and discovered ourselves in the company of dozens of loons.

Loons have always meant summer, at the cottage as a child and camping as an adult. We have swum with them, sang with them, done courtship dances with them. That morning it seemed as if every loon we have ever met was congregated in the middle of Drewry Lake. We stopped paddling, hoping to drift through the gathering of loons without disrupting them. We had heard their calls intermittently through day and night. We had seen pairs and family groups, but we’d never seen the likes of this. We were transfixed by the sight and grateful to have set our course across the lake perfectly timed to arrive for such a gathering. We knew we were being engulfed by a sacred moment and there was no need for words or eye contact between us to validate the feeling, there was only the moment.

The experience was peaking; the loons had unobtrusively opened a path for the canoe to drift through their number. We sat motionless in their midst when they started their ululations as a group. Within seconds twenty, thirty, forty birds added their voices to their chorus. Then…the echoes off the steep stone mountainsides coming back as hundreds and hundreds of loon voices… We were encapsulated by a cathedral of sound. It was an early morning service with a tribe of celebrating fishermen singing praises for the bounty, wonder and glory of All That Is. Today I have only to hear a lone loon call to remember, and revel again in that otherworldly gift from the loon tribe.



This picture is one of a series of stainedglass panels with loons that I felt honour bound to complete. I took this picture with winter snow in the background, a delightful fairy setting for the scene of summer loons diving in blue water.

A Divine Moment with Nature

Toledo didn’t return with us from our morning walk. Our usual routine was altered when we met a neighbor walking her dog, on a leash. We were at a fork in the trail so we chose the other fork supposing Toledo would follow us. He chose to stand his ground at the trailhead making it impossible for others to pass without confrontation. When I looked back to see where the cat was he looked huge in his full “Halloween” mode. It had been sufficient to stop them, the neighbor was grateful when we reappeared and put an end to the Mexican standoff.

Later, on a hunch, I set out looking for the cat. Instead I spotted, from across a meadow, a female bear…with two cubs…grazing grass by a picnic table in the sunshine. They were chubby, shiny, equally sized black balls of fur...born this year. And a good mother, as soon as she smelt me she started chugging and huffing at her cubs to get up the nearest tree…which they did. I returned home for camera and Court knowing that she wouldn’t be moving them for a good while. Toledo popped up at the bog by the swamp...yawning and scratching...he'd been napping in the sun.



This picture of her guarding the giant fir tree her cubs had scampered up like chipmunks doesn’t do her justice. After I crossed the meadow and started taking pictures, it didn’t take her long to start the chugging and huffing noises warning us off. I moved back, took another few pictures and we left them. She is out making her daily bread and I feel uncomfortable keeping her from that business.

It is a safe assumption that she is the same bear that was in the garden the other morning…she must have stashed the pups up a tree before she came in. So far there is no sign of human garbage in the bear scat we’ve seen on the trails…a good thing. If they learn to eat human garbage they become “problem” bears.





Thank you for joining me in celebrating the beauty and diversity of life we share this Glorious Mother with. While it is necessary to acknowledge the end result of so many among us misunderstanding themselves, and their planet, I hold that our One ability to see and act Divinely grows.