‘Easter means that nothing is too dead to live again. Underneath the frozen, barren ground a seed is pushing its way toward the light. We can’t see it, but it’s there just the same. Friday comes and we cry. Saturday we wait. Sunday we REJOICE. 
 This is the DAY. Sunday.‘ (Glennon Melton)

And I can’t help but see Creation nodding vigourously. ‘I’ve known all along.’ she says.  ’Nothing is too dead to live again.’

‘See?!’ she says, turning around slowly, showing off just a tiny bit.

‘Watch, wait, and take hope.’

Lenten Roses (Hellebores)

‘Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad; let the sea resound, and all that is in it; let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them.’ Pslam 96:11

Happy Easter everyone,

Kerrie

I woke up in pain, stupid amounts of pain, and did all the things that I know are kind and helpful to my body. I knew I needed to go for a walk. It hurts to breathe today (very normal part of AS, no cause for alarm) but without exercise everything else hurts more, so I went.

I started to walk, trying to quiet the chatter in my head, take in the beauty of the day, and stop being so angry with my body for how it was functioning.

I came around a bend where the road winds between two small vineyards and saw what looked like a pile of dry leaves suddenly picked up by the wind and tossed into the sky. There was no wind though, and the only leaves around were sodden with spring rain.

??

It took a few moments to realize I was seeing hundreds of butterflies flying up into the air, all at once like they were suddenly sprung loose. I just stopped and stared and smiled as I watched them slowly move toward a stand of trees on the far side of the vineyard.

It felt a bit like holy ground.

I still don’t know what to make of it, I know nothing of butterfly behaviour, except what I’ve read in Flight Behavior, and I’ve seen only a few together at one time.

It’s hard to stay sullen and angry when you see something like that. I came home still in pain, but a little less angry at my body, so that was good.

THEN, if that wasn’t enough, while a friend was over visiting we spotted our neighbour’s cow licking a very new calf. Minutes new.

So of course we went over for a closer look.

We watched it struggle to walk, then nurse, all against a stunning backdrop (in case it wasn’t awe-inspiring enough).

Now – it would be great if I had some sort of profound insight, or even better, my pain left, or at least the pain haze in my brain. Seems something else should have happened, on my end, in response to such a display.

Nope.

Pretty much everything stayed exactly the same, except I became less angry, and I felt I was given something special;  a chance to watch God show off.

and I thought – WE BOUGHT A HOUSE  ON THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING!!!

The first day of spring is certainly an auspicious day on which to buy a house, isn’t it? I think so. I just asked Ryan and he furrowed his brows and looked confused. Whatever, I think it’s cool.

Anyway, I had planned to write a long post about our decision to stay on the Island or move back home; write about all the guilt, and fear, and all the ret, but it was a drag to read, and I wrote it.

But I will say it was a very hard decision, because we have many people we love fiercely back in Edmonton, and I kept thinking that staying here meant I was chosing here over them. I had a lot of guilt about leaving, and fear that I would make the wrong decision and screw up our family entirely.

I was going crazy trying to figure out what the right choice was, until one day I realized both were good options. Right and wrong had no part of this decision. It was a completely brand new thought, and quite liberating, and the decision took care of itself after that.

I miss people like crazy some days. I cry and will continue to. It doesn’t mean I made the wrong decision. I get to miss home, without feeling simultaneously guilty for not being there and that I’ve made a huge mistake. Lots of learning and growing in all this decision making.

So there you have it. Should get to packing, talk soon,

K

I planted you here knowing this wasn’t The Place, though I briefly had thought it could be. But you needed to put down some roots, and so did I, so we settled in the best we could.

Ryan and I needed to wait until we felt ready to look again, discuss again, move again.

We’re nowhere near ready, but these things aren’t always up to me, and now we’ve got fifty-one days in case you want to know precisely. Really ll you need to know is you will flower here, and put on fruit elsewhere.

Before you start feeling badly for me, I must confess that your home was the only thing I liked about living here. I’ve wished nearly every day I could live where you do, out in the garden.

It’s hard to live in this house; the cold, the ceiling critters, the ladder to the basement to name a few, has made it physically uncomfortable to be here. This was the worst house to have a relapse of AS in, and it didn’t do me any favours.

The house made me so angry I screamed at it one morning. I don’t recall every screaming at an inanimate object before however, I am now writing to a blueberry bush, so take that as you will.

Your home has kept me afloat here.  I’ve come often to stroll and think, to dig or prune a little, or just take in your fantastic view.

I’m going to miss that.

I’m taking you with, don’t worry. When I first caught wind we’d need to move I immediatly planned what shrubs to take with, and how to get you all up the steep slope to the road. (I find it helpful to focus obsessively about a small thing when the whole of it seems too overwhelming)

I put you here to help me feel at home, and perhaps you will help me feel at home wherever we live next. Also I really, really love blueberries.

So here’s hoping for acidic, well-drained soil for you and your kin, and a comfortable home nearby for me

K

Boiling sap down into maple syrup has also been, um… that(‘s) easy(?)!

Our neighbours propane stove burned for twelve hours yesterday, about five the day before, with a couple more hours spent inside on the stove today. About twenty hours, for 3 litres of syrup.

That easy!

You can go about your day (never leaving home) barely noticing (every 15 minutes or sooner, you add sap and skim off any foam) the sap boiling away, and suddenly – syrup! Just like that – FREE homemade maple syrup!!

Ryan is keen on making syrup, but wants me to mention that 20+ hours of burning propane is in fact not free, and could cost as much as buying syrup. And I’d like to mention the previous sentence killed the self-sufficiency buzz I had going all weekend.

Free or not the syrup tastes incredible, and we’ve likely got a few more weeks of collecting sap. and then making more syrup. <hooray>

Kerrie

p.s I still think I saved us money (as long as I assume my time is worth zero dollars) and I know that with tweaking the size of pans, and kind of fuel I use, could save us more

p.p.s. If I knew ahead of time a) how long Any New Project takes, or b) the full cost, I would be much less likely to start anything new. This would be bad. I think.

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• I want to be a sapsucker (theurbanescape.wordpress.com)

We had talked about how we needed to tap a few trees this year, but I talk about needing to do a lot of things. As I watched this precious sap drip to the ground, wasted, I knew we needed to tap trees this year.

Now-ish.

It just so happens there’s the Bigleaf Maple Syrup Festival here in two short weeks, but why wait for hands on, detailed information when you can Google something and do it immediately? (also I would have waited two more weeks until I found the Cowichan Valley Sapsuckers – a group I must join if only for the namesake).

When I envisioned tapping trees I thought it would look this the picture below, or perhaps with nice shiny metal bucket.

pretty maple tap

But it really looks more like this….

pretty economical maple tap

which is not nearly as charming will not do for the homemade syrup labels I want to make.

If you’re interested in doing it yourself, download this pdf on tapping Bigleaf Maples, go to Buckerfields and spend 1-3$ for a few spiles, save a few milk jugs and there you go.

Now all I have to do is wait, collect every 12 hours or so, boil off 98% of the volume, and done.

It’s been five hours since I put in the taps and we have ten litres.

Do I have a plan for all of these litres, and the litres to come?

Of course! Google, and maybe the festival if I can wait that long.

One of these wonder women is my very dear friend Becky, aka Little Mama Bee. We met when our first babies were a few weeks old and we had our second babies six days apart. It’s a relationship strengthened by its flow between our children and spouses.

Besides being an inspiring human being, she also creates art that I love. Not because she’s my friend and I should. But because I LOVE her art; the deep, beautiful eyes, the whimsy, the colours, the meaning she layers, literally, into every piece.

Her family was planning to come visit us last year, and early in the planning phase she floated the idea of a barter – child care for a family portrait. We love her kids, her art… YES!! Of course yes!!!

Their visit was a highlight of our year; we camped together at Rathtrevor, showed off our new diggs, then sent Becky and Marc off to Tofino for a few days on their own.

The weather was perfectly sunny and warm so our days with the kids were simple; swim suits after breakfast, eat outside, foraging where possible, hose off as needed, pj’s, repeat. It was a really special time to spend with their kids, seriously I’d do it again without the barter.

Speaking of which, back to it. In December the portrait was ready, and would be part of an art show taking place during our visit to Edmonton (which is as close as I’ll get to being part of an art show).

I rounded the corner at the ArtsHab Art Show – so giddy to see what Becky had done with our family – and gasped, and giggled, and thought of my dad rolling his eyes playfully – because treehugger jokes come quick and easy when you move from Alberta to Vancouver Island.

But seriously, these trees are amazing. They’re poplars. Poplar groves share root systems, like families. Poplars are part of Alberta’s Parkland, where we certainly left some roots behind when we moved. Doesn’t hurt that we also live in the trees.

Seth knew it was our family immediately. No explanation – “I know it’s not literally our family”- needed. Ditto for Silas. They knew which tree they were.

Here’s our tree family in its new home, getting acquainted with the fir and cedars outside the window

I mentioned before the detail in Becky’s work.

There is meaning, upon meaning, upon meaning, carefully and thoughtfully constructed on this canvas. Tiny, beautiful imprints of each one of us carefully laid down by an skilled artist who knows us better than most. What more could you want in portrait of your family?

And of course we all have deep, beautiful eyes.

thank you again Becky, we love it, we love you.

K

(and as I wrote this post I saw Little Mama Bee had published this little post below, which includes a bit about the bARTer…and also I stole ‘bARTer’ from her)

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The first fall of snow is now only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up in another quite different, and if that is not enchantment there where is it to be found?  J.B. Priestley

I have a love affair with snow that I can’t quite explain. I would rage and despair during the painfully late spring in Edmonton, but instantly swoon when a new snowfall blanketed the ground. All was forgiven Mother Nature as long as snow covered the ground.

This is my second winter on Vancouver Island. I adore the mild, appropriately four-month long window winter is given here but I miss snow, and the bright blue winter days. I was lucky to have a bit of both during a visit to Edmonton just last month.

Then I came home a week before Christmas, prepared for rain and clouds, and was greeted instead with snow.  Snow at my house no less!!

I had been trying to prepare the boys for their first Christmas without snow. Yes, there was a small chance it would snow at Christmastime, but it was a very, very small chance. Our oldest son Seth was insistent; when it snowed it would be Christmast. He was partially right, the snow welcomed us into the Christmas season, but it soon washed away with the rain.

Then as though to convince him, and us, of the magic of Christmas, on the very day around ten o’clock the heavy rain started to thicken up, turn white-ish, and stick to the trees.  That wasn’t just sleet, it was snow. Snow on Christmas day! At my house!!

I started madly digging through storage to find my snow pants while ordering the rest to get dressed warmly, then cover with rain gear (Island snow is still just thick, white rain after all). We headed to the neighbours who have a great hill for sledding.

The snow was no good for sliding but perfect for building. In no time Ryan had constructed a replica snow family.

With the addition of a snow kitty made at the request of Silas who I believe hoped it would spring to life like the Robert Munsch sand dog.

It was all just a bit overwhelming fantastic for me.

We took the decorations down this past Sunday to signal the winding down of Christmastime and prepare for Monday back at school. As we left that next morning Silas exclaimed sadly that the last tiny bits of snow in the yard had melted. None left at all.

‘Yup’, Seth said knowingly, ‘Christmas is over, the snow’s all gone’.

Just as he knew it would happen all along

Thank you Mother Nature for obliging my boy and myself, granting us a magical, winter-y Christmas.

Happy New Year y’all,

Kerrie

There’s a good deal of uncertainty floating around our life. This can be exciting, or terrifying, or both. It’s hard to accept uncertainty; to stop trying to figure things out. To sit with uncomfortable emotions without hacking into them trying to decipher their meaning.

But this is what I keep encouraging my dad to do – as he struggles in his own mess of uncertainty and pain  - and it’s best if I’m not a complete hypocrite.

So today instead of my Annual Hyper Over-Analyzing Year in Review (which would serve to highlight aforementioned uncertainties) I took Silas out to the garden.

We planted garlic in a rare morning of winter sunshine. It seems proper to start a new, living thing on the first day of the new year (though still preposterous for a northern prairie girl!).

It was so incredibly satisfying to dig, plant, mulch, and with one of my boys.

I was drawn in to the beauty and simplicity that is barely warmed earth and new buds on a nearby cherry tree. (I’d like to think Silas was even just the teeniest bit smitten)

I’m going to give the Review a skip altogether this year. I am already doing more than enough reviewing, re-thinking, re-configuring; and I don’t get the sense it’s overly helpful.

Not nearly enough being drawn in by beauty; by the simple, good things all around me.

-Happy New Year-

Kerrie

It’s not that I don’t care.

It’s that I can’t do much from here in Canada, and that I can’t care too much or I’ll break.

I can pray, and will do so whenever you come up in conversation, or my thoughts. What else though? I wish there was more I could do, we all do.

But I think I sort wish I didn’t know, which makes me feel like an awful person. But it’s the truth.

It’s just that there is so much knowing to be done, and a limited amount of doing that I am capable of. Too much knowing, and it wipes out my capacity to hold on to what needs to be done around me.

I have been told for years that the most important thing to do is to be aware, to be informed and up-to-date.

Aware=care.

Aware=action.

I bought in eagerly, for years. Sought information out, disseminated it earnestly. Gave of my time, money, self; spreading myself thinner and thinner as the years went by.

It makes sense at first glance – the more we know the more we are able to do. How can you do anything if you don’t know about it?
But all I see around me evidence of compassion fatigue, apathy, guilt, depression. I see the desperation to make a cause, a story, more sensational and graphic so it gets through all the noise and overwhelm. I see us more and more withdrawn and fearful with all this knowing, not more loving and engaged. We may get fired up, but then we fade. Cycle and repeat.

Three years ago I was driving alone in the car one morning. A few evenings before I had sat in an emergency room and been prescribed antipsychotics, antidepressants; a list of anti’s in fact. A lot of people, my self included, were extremely concerned I would harm myself or my then five-day old baby. So as I drove, days later, I turned on the radio to hear that a mom in a nearby city had killed her three children.

It was the least helpful bit of news I had ever received.

My belief in the value of awareness finally trumped my desire for self-preservation. I shut off the radio. I finally, thoroughly, questioned the value of being informed, and the extreme importance of considering what I am informed about.

We know we should limit what our children know about the horrors in the world, but what about us grown-ups? When, and how, do we set those limits?

I want very much to love my neighbor as myself. I think most of us do, regardless of our belief about the guy who said it.
When I’m not so immersed with everyone else’s neighbors, not so aware of their pain, I have capacity to extend love to my own.
Or at the very least my family, and myself.

I would like to think that if tragedy struck close to home, I would have more capacity to love, grieve, and help. I would be healthier and more able because I have been more careful with my knowing, I have tried to guard my heart and mind.

I looked today online to read about the shooter. I had a hunch there would be talk of mental illness. There was, and it’ll be dragged through the media for the next several days no doubt – whether he was mentally ill or not – engendering fear.

More stigma, more fear, more misunderstanding of mental illness to add to the existing heap.

I know your grief, and the flecks of my own that always get muddled in somehow, would lessen my ability to be present for the people right in front of me; people who need me today.

Feels selfish somehow though, feels wrong. But I was told last night, by an eager reporter, that there was wailing when you parents were told there would be no more children shuttled from the school to where you waited. Of course you wailed. But why do they tell me this? How does it serve you, or anyone?

Makes me feel like we are meant to consume your grief; we are impotent in the face of it.
Just sit back and consume, and wait for the weather update in 10.

Your tragedy is not made less by my decision to refuse the details, refuse to be made more aware than I already; conversely it’s not made more by my being immersed in it from afar.

My thoughts and prayers are with you.

in love,

Kerrie