New Life

It feels like a lifetime must have passed.  No longer a northerner, I've found my way back south.  To the coast, where family, friends, and familiarity have wrapped around me so that I don't even notice the layer anymore.  Like a second skin.  Is this taking things for granted?  Maybe.  Where I am right now, the city, Vancouver, seems too loud and too busy to notice the space between these things.  The space between the comforts, where our essence lies.

But today it is raining.  And the sound and the smell slows everything down just enough that I am offered this moment.  To pause.  To reflect. The rain always makes me feel at home - perhaps it is not the rain itself, but how it turns me inward, where home can always be found.

The last several years seem to have raced by, unlike the time up north which almost stood still.  A cascade of changes, events, realizations. Love, at first mostly received and hard to give; then truth, and heartbreak; then love again; then truth again and again, it's loyal companion: heartbreak.  Then once again, Love.  But a different Love. The biggest Love.  A Love I still can't explain, or wrap my arms around, or give or receive, because it isn't a thing.  It isn't mine. This Love that discovered me is a way.  It is life itself.  It is in and for everyone.  And I felt as though I may burst with it.  I woke up.

From that point, the path was clear - and life picked me up and swept me along it.  Reunion. Rejuvenation. Healing. Trust. The faith and companionship of a true and strong partner, who had been there all along, waiting for me.  And now the grandest adventure of all: new life.  Our baby.  Tumbling around my swelling belly, making me smile. Steeping in Love.

After the Storm

There was no storm in Fort St James yesterday, but I certainly felt one rattle in me.  Something sat and boiled inside me throughout the day, and I noted it with curiosity - anger? sadness? anxiety?  I didn't know the source and, as I often try to do, I let it roll through me without the expectation of understanding why.  By last night, wave after wave of emotion rose up and crashed against my insides. And like the bending of trees and the stirring of the sea, it was needed.  I feel different today.  Better.  Calmer.  Emptier on the inside, somehow, but in a good way.  And it is a beautiful day.
     The sun glares across the sky at an angle that makes the horizon awash in pale light.  There is a little heat, but the air is mostly crisp and cold.  Before coffee or even much thought, I dress for a walk and follow the road to Cottonwood Park.  It is usually afternoon when I wander this way, so today the world looks new and different.  Everything is lit from the other side.  Sunlight streams through the Catholic church's stained glass.  It makes me stop and gaze at the red and golden glow.
I want to see the inside of this place.  It looks so beautiful.  Pictures on signage beside the old church depict a chapel that could be found on the Mediterranean or Central American coasts: pale blue-washed walls, with bolder blue and golden accents. The image evokes the effect of a cool clear breeze across a warming summer morning. Simple, calming, yet rich.  I hope I can go in.  Sacred spaces have always stirred me, and it is only recently that I have felt reluctant to enter them.  I am not devout, I am not at home in any one religion, but feel deeply connected to the essence of faith and grace.  In years past, I never questioned the permission to enjoy these spaces built for steeping oneself in this essence.  I was sure that my religious orientation mattered not, as I always entered with deep respect, admiration, and curiosity for the traditions, the rituals, the human expressions of the intangible spirit.  These days, I seem to worry a lot more about overstepping boundaries and the perceptions of others.  When did I start to care what people think?
     When I turn from the church, I head out onto the frozen lake.  The snow on top is shallow and compact now.  The entire lake can be traversed without snowshoes.  It is so inviting, this wide white space.  The mountains across from me look inviting too.  Since I first laid eyes on those hills I have felt their pull.  Something about the curve of their peaks and the texture of their faces intrigues me.  I love the way the sun paints them in the morning.  And this special morning, from my view at the foot of the lake, I can see even further up the channel.  More mysterious mountains curve out of sight.
     Last night's storm seems to have washed me clean and now I can see.  It is not even the most beautiful of mornings, but I notice everything. The sparkle of the crystals on the snow.  The way the surface of the lake has ripples and crests of snow and ice, not so different from its liquid self.  And the ice.  The ice.  It feels so solid.  It is easy to mistake for earth, but then it shudders and shifts and thumps against itself.  Cracks split across the surface as the ice sheet stretches and moves.  The first thump is alarming.  I cannot tell where the sound originates - from beneath? To my right or my left?  I am close to shore - does the ice thump like this in the middle?  Is there any danger out there?
     Along the shore I find where the ice has pushed against itself and buckled, then frozen again.  Now I can see that the ice is very deep - more than a foot.  I feel relief, and I think I am safe to walk its vastness.  And as I do, plodding along one hundred meters from shore, I study the patterns on the snow formed by skidoos, the wind, the movement of the lake.  The Stuart River is not frozen, and water from the lake continues to drain through it.  It occurs to me that under this solid sheet the water flows.  It is like knowing what is beneath my feet is breathing, changing, alive.  I suddenly feel less alone.
Another thump, and the crusty sound of frozen snow crackling and gently falling back into place.  I am walking past my neighbour's carefully constructed rink.  Over the last few weekends, this rink has been the stage for the most iconic Canadian play: young toqued and mitted boys and girls chase the puck and each other all day.  They only slow once the setting sun makes the chase a futile one. The shouts and laughter fall quiet as the players gather their props and make their way into their warm and glowing homes. 
     This morning the stage is empty, but I smile at the scene that is likely to unfold.  I can already hear the hushed scrape of skates and sticks against the frozen lake.  I hope they come to play today.
     As I pass the rink I hear another thump, and this time there is the sound of something snapping. I catch a glimpse of razor thin cracks slicing their way across the rink. The integrity of the skating surface is intact, but I notice that it is decorated with these fissures.  Elsewhere on the lake, the snow insulates the ice's pounding and shifting - it sounds so different without it.
     Although it is cooler than recent days, it is still like an early spring morning.  Birds are chirping and busy, the touch of the wide sun is warm on my face, and there is a sense of newness, of this cold and patient world slowly rounding a corner. I feel like a happy passenger.
     Perhaps what I sense comes not from this bright white morning, but from inside me. Maybe last night was a changing of the inner season, and I see it reflected in this morning.  Perhaps there is no distinction at all.
     The ice thumps again and I smile.

To blog or not to blog?

Blogging.  I've been meaning to be doing this.  To capture my experience up here. To make me write. To give this whole adventure some meaning, more than anything.
But first, I apologize.  These are entirely selfish reasons.  If you are reading this, if anyone is reading this, if I ever actually TELL anyone about this, I am so sorry.  I am assuming most bloggers detest such a blog as this, ringing of such narcissism.  Sorry, Super-Bloggers.  Just another navel-gazing over-analytical 20-something woman spillin' her guts.  Ick.  You can turn back now.  I wouldn't hold it against you.  Hell, cheers to you!  It's taken me months just to get my damn fingers to the keys.

Self-deprecation aside, I need this, and I love that you are along for the ride. For to have an audience, even an imagined one, turns mere expression into art....debatable, I know ("What is 'Art'"??). Basically, I give these words and images to you to do with what you will. It has become not enough to simply live and experience, it is time to share. And that is all the meaning I crave. 

The Fort. 

March 6th will mark a full calendar year in this place that has become familiar but is not home.  It is a strange place.  But it is also like any other place.  People are good, bad, friendly, rude, inspiring, or walking dead.  I am involved in challenging work, consulting on resource development with the local First Nations. I am constantly confronted with the reality of sick, under-resourced communities, cultures of dependency and corruption (I am not just talking about the First Nations), environmental catastrophe,  and blinding short-sightedness.  Resistance, resistance, resistance, to all things.  Some of it good, but some of it inhibiting and exhausting.

Excuse me......today was my first day back to work after a vacation in Maui.  Things are bound to look pretty dark after 10 days of this....

It is not all bad, but I find myself aching for home.  The coast.  The coast.  My beloved coast.  Where I can jog and canoe and ride my bike all year.  Where I can scuba dive then eat all the Noodle Box my belly will hold.  Where I can call up some gal-pals and have a Sex and the City and red wine binge.  Where I can sit in a cafe all day and drink cup after cup of GOOD coffee, lost in a book.  Where I can find a good book at a lovely little second-hand shop.  Where I can visit the sea and just listen to her rush and release.  Where I know the plants....where the trees are still green!!
Stop Carly.  Stop.  Time out.  What about the Fort?  What's good about the Fort....

My insanely generous and thoughtful landlords/next-door neighbours who have made me feel anything but alone.  Every Sunday night.  Family dinner.  It's chaos with the dogs and cats and grandkids and Thomas the Train (so much Thomas), and there's always too much food and Caesars and laughter.  And rent is due whenever I can manage, and my frozen pipes are fixed day-of, and my complimentary TV antenna is installed with much Red-Green-ing without so much as a request from me, and where they share their beloved pets with me because they can see how much I love them.
And they happen to live right in front of the lake and plant a garden as generous as them for the summer. Score.

This is my little house:

And how about that ski-hill?  35 bucks a day for the longest T-bar in history, approximately 20 runs and about 1600 vertical feet.  Can't be beat.
 

My friend and co-worker who actually grew up in Duncan!  He reminds me of home, and his wife lets me ride their little horse whenever I want.



Mt. Pope Provincial Park with a summit that permits 360 degree viewing of the surrounding landscape and numerous lakes.  I've already hiked it more times than most of the people that grew up here.


The northern lights.  Not as often as I'd wish, but a treat all the same.

Skating outside on the Oval under the stars and moon.  Just discovered my neighbours cleared and flooded a little patch of ice on the lake.  I'll be adding that to this list soon enough.

The fresh air.  And the quiet.  When there aren't snow-mobilers ripping through your backyard, which is not every night thank god.

The coyotes and the deer and the bears. FYI, you won't see bears here in the winter.  Apparently they hibernate.  Lazy northern bears.

The lake.  Nearly 80km long and 12km at it's widest.  It is cold...currently frozen...but opens up the sky and invites the most stunning sunsets I've ever seen.  I admit, the Fort is one up on the Coast for sunsets.

Now that I think of it, the Fort isn't so bad after all.
*sigh* Blogging. I feel much better now :)

Let it snow.

Already.
Somehow.
The seasons of spring, summer, and fall have passed.  This enormous lake openned up, the world turned lush and green, and I ran and hiked and swam and rode.  I gardenned and danced and watched two of my best friends get married.  I have photographs and songs and poems and cookies to show the passage of time. 
And already.
Somehow.
The snow has begun to fall.  Gently but urgently, as though it has been waiting long enough, and now it is time.  Time to stop and turn inward.  I am both nervous and curious about what this winter will bring.  So many months of cold and snow, limited travel and hours of darkness.  This is the time that truly distinguishes the north.

Let it snow :)

Wind

At the edge of the lake, I sit and dine in solitude. My company is the snow-melt. A constant, tinkling trickle like rain that suggests the snow is leaving as softly as it came. 

And here comes the wind. All day it has been coming and going, distracting me, rattling the aspen and bending the conifers; those elastic giants that keep their foliage, but remain defenseless. This northern wind, she is intense and demanding. And she has got my attention. 

This is so different from the coastal wind that I know like kin. Those firm, dark winds press down upon me and blow right through me. The wind from the sea is heavy and forceful, hard to face and harder to breathe. But not this wind, this dry urgent air. This wind lifts as it blows. She is alive and buoyant. She pushes up against me and all around me.  She quickens my pulse, alights my eyes, makes my skin hum like a live wire. There is something in this wind, a story, a message. She draws some energy across the land from the east, and I feel like something is about to happen.

This must be spring.  
 

Ode to the 4X4

Friday, the Northern Lights danced me to sleep.
This morning I woke to snow, a foot deep.
To Murray Ridge, my skis and I will go.
Thank god for fresh powder,
Thank GOD for 4Low!
Ha!