Meanderings of a Murky Mind in a Mad Mad World

I've always thought that truth was stranger than fiction but I just learned of a situation that makes my head spin ... and gives me an idea for a piece of fiction ...  Imagine this ...

A very old, very Catholic woman raised a large family of children in relative poverty in one of our poorest provinces.  For many years she has been in the care of one of her daughters. Now that she is at the end of her life, demented and bed-ridden,  her situation is deplorable.

The daughter could not stand living in the same house with her because of her mother's dementia so she moved next door and set up a baby monitor between the two houses.  Other family members have tried to persuade the care giver to get some respite care for the mother in an institution that is better equipped to handle  elderly bedridden patients, but she is adamant.  No mother of hers will end up in a home.

The situation has deteriorated to the point where the old woman is in terrible pain from suppurating bedsores and an allergic reaction to the renovation.  Oh yes ... did I mention that the caregiver, in order to find an income for her unemployed son, got a government grant for renovations to the old woman's house?  One of the family members has forced that renovation to stop and that has created a situation in which the caregiver now refuses to speak to her siblings.

Why don't the siblings force the issue of an old age home?  The caregiving sister has legal guardianship.  Probably the only way to effect a change would be for family members to put the matter in the hands of the authorities, and who wants to do that to a sister?

The caregiver is feeling martyred.  The family members are feeling helpless.  The old woman at the centre of all this is enduring the most horrible end of a life. 

If she were a child, no one would feel any compunction about calling Children's Aid.

If she were a dog or cat living in such conditions, the Humane Society would be contacted immediately.

But she is a ninety-three year old woman whose plight is being hidden away in a bedroom by an entire family whom she raised.

I wish I knew how to do something to help.  The family doctor visits by the way ... and has not forced the issue ...

Someone asked me the other day what I feared most.  This is it: being old and sick and alone.

Creativity

I woke up this morning to the sound of a garbage truck lumbering along the road on the other side of the lake (or maybe it was a lumber truck making garbage of that road). Whatever.

I grabbed my housecoat and ran up the hill with the garbage bag in one hand, the recycling in the other and Kenya, her ever ready stick in mouth, behind me. On my return trip, I slipped, grabbed hold of the railing, and took only a sliding mini-tumble that bruised my heel and ankle.

On my way down, I thought, quite creatively, and optimistically, I realize now, "It's a good thing it's garbage day. Someone will eventually arrive to hear my screams and carry me out of this mess."

I also remembered that I had thought before I headed up the hill, and only momentarily, about the consequences of wearing slick soled slippers instead of taking the time to put on footwear more suitable to using a wooden staircase wet with last night's rain. Of course I had foolishly dismissed the warning.

On a happier note, I read this when I came back in:

"When you create you get a little endorphin rush. Why do you think Einstein looked like that?"

Robin Williams
Comic/Actor

I think I will finish my tea and then go for that endorphin rush. Mud Mama said, when I asked whether I should leave ambiguous the red blob (mother with child ... nursing mother ... unborn child) , that I should do something with it; that a red embryo was a little creepy. I did ask.

I have been playing with that image so long that it never occurs to me that it might be anything but the symbol of exuberant life and nurturing! Good thing I asked!

I have also started working on the next happy cat and wonky woman chairs. First coat of main colour has been applied. Today I will apply the second coat and the real fun can begin. And then just watch those endorphins flutter about and stand MY hair on end!

Dandelion Days

On my counter sits the most beautiful loaf of dandelion bread ... a yummy golden gift from nature. In my fridge is the rest of my harvest waiting for me to liberate more petals. I think, though that I will throw those out and harvest my next lot tomorrow morning, but this time I will wear rubber finger cots on all the fingers with rough skin from painting and washing up. Two thumbs and a finger are now black with a combination of paint and dandelion residue. I hope no one who matters notices! I look like I never wash my hands, not as if I have them continually in water! Does anyone have a remedy ... Mud Mama, do you know what to do???

I love this time of year when the sun shines on fields and woods alive with the brilliance of dandelions and the new growth on all trees. Today is a grey day but outside my window the young buds on the ends of evergreen branches stand out against the older needles and the young leaves on the maple sing a yellow green song.

Inside, the new paint on old bulletin boards makes me happy too. The new paint palette is inspiring different images by the way and I am heading down to work on the ugly table's top.

But first ... some quotes related to solitude ... that I agree with ...

"He who lives in solitude may make his own laws." Publius Syrius

"An ivory tower is a fine place as long as the door is open." Darby Bannard

"There is no companion that is as companionable as solitude." Thoreau

... and a thought of my own ...


Living in a hermitage is fine as long as you know that there are people who care enough about you to respect your need for solitude while at the same time bringing laughter and love to your place in the woods.

Today Sarah is coming for lunch with her dog and her baby. Kenya and I will both be made happy by the influx of youthful energy.

Good thoughts to #2 Daughter who is having the first of her tests today, to #1 Daughter who is traveling in this direction to be with her, and to #3 Daughter who is mourning a friend being held on life support until his organs can give new life to others.

And to all of you reading this today, may it be a dandelion day for you ... one drenched in sunshine.

Deflated but not depressed or dead ...

A couple of days ago I received upsetting news that completely undid me. I shed a great many tears, and then I emerged feeling that battles had to be fought and tough decisions made, but that everything would come out all right.

During my time away I watched movies, painted and knit. When I tried to be sociable I failed utterly. At first the tears intervened making conversation impossible. Later I felt deflated. Not depressed. That's very different. I just felt flat; emptied out. I still feel that way.

When Opa (my father) died, his entire sofa back was covered in teddy bears ... some he had bought ... others he had made. The bear wearing the long tailed hat and mitts is one of his creations. I started this hat for Mud Mama's Wild Thing but I think it will likely fit either her Sprout or the great grand baby expected in our family. The wool is lovely and soft and cozy. The mohair strand creates fluffiness on the inside to trap warmth close to a little one's head or hands.

I have been thinking a great deal about Opa the past couple of days ... and about the importance of family. Even hermits need those connections. Teddy bears, movies, dogs, and hobbies are not enough.

On Fear and Feeling ...

There were several interesting responses to Ann of Annarchy's post on fear. Some people quoted others ("I learn by going where I have to go." Roethke). Others expressed their own thoughts. One of my favourites was this one: "The things that scare me the most often lead the way into a deepening of my heart." Hiro Boga

Fear seems to be a popular topic these days. In her latest blog entry, Marta wrote about fear in quite a different way. She focused on what she realized when she was terrified that she might lose everything; that her life might be over. That was when she understood that there was just one thing that really mattered. For her it was that she must tell the stories of the disappeared.

I want to think about these ideas. It will be a bit of ramble. Be forewarned.

I know that I too " learn by going where I have to go." One of the benefits of "just saying yes" is that you grow through the experiences by facing your fear of the unknown. Maybe I do have to just jump in instead of assuming I can't do that any more. I used to be that kind of person.

Building this house marked a turning point for me. It has been the experience that made me afraid of being alone because self reliance is sometimes just plain impossible here if you are no longer young or you do not have lots of money or you lack the practical skills necessary. Maybe it was the confluence of growing old at the same time as embarking on a young person's project.

I need to do some more thinking about Boga's comment. It rings true on a gut level but I think I need to get into that quiet place where I face my own worst fear and allow myself to follow the thread to the truth that one's heart deepens; that one doesn't simply grow intellectually or psychologically by experiencing difficulty. I am too accustomed to thinking about things. I need to learn better how to feel.

Maybe the movement from writing to painting will help me get there.

In the past I have taken baby steps toward that place ... often helped by children.

Many of the things I experienced while living in Africa taught me empathy ... that unspoken sense of kinship that transcends intellectual awareness. There were all the children who needed to go to school. There were the people I met who needed medical help to survive. There were all those unnecessary deaths. But perhaps the closest I came to experiencing the pain and poverty of others was when I held an African child in my arms while a nurse used a bent safety pin to dig parasitic worms out of his fingers and toes. The tears that flowed down his cheeks made my throat ache.

Here in Canada holding small grandchildren against my heart has opened my heart in a way that goes beyond intellect. Their hearts beating against my own have dried tears ... theirs and my own. Their heart beats have led me into places where words disappear, become irrelevant.

A few years ago I was very frightened. I was suffering from depression and felt very alone. It didn't matter that I was surrounded by people who cared about me. One of the worst things about depression is that you are absolutely alone in the most crowded and loving places.

During that period I went to a house concert at the home of Mud Mama and Papa Pan. The Wild Thing was an infant at the time. I spent the evening rocking him and drawing strength from his warm little body against my own. We communicated through heartbeats and inarticulate sounds. We didn't need language to love.

Fear, like love, is inarticulate, and I am sure that it too can deepen my heart. I think I just have to open my heart to its teaching.

As for Marta's realization that was a gift of fear ... I need to explore that as well. Most of the time I find myself just thinking that there is nothing I really want to do still; that death would be a relief from the fear. But that may be the result of having stopped exploring. Maybe the writing door has closed and another door has opened. Maybe I need to explore other things like painting. Or maybe the writing door will be re-opened by going to the Great Blue Heron workshop.

Paul McCartney said, "Imagination grows by exercise, and contrary to common belief, is more powerful in the mature than in the young."

Maybe I have to start exercising my imagination again and taking chances by just saying yes. Maybe by exposing myself to new worlds and new fears my heart will deepen and I will learn by going where I have to go. And maybe I have to be near children again in order to experience these things. Maybe I have to re-think my hermit's life and open up to the possibility of living closer to people who love me.

The Fearful Hermit

Ann of Annarchy wrote yesterday about fear. She posted an excerpt (far more polished than this post will be) which inspired me to think about my own anxieties and fears.

I traveled alone from a very early age because my only parent lived 1200 miles from my foster home. When I was 9 I began flying by myself between Halifax and Toronto. In those days the plane landed at every airport between the two cities: Ottawa. Montreal, St. John, and Fredericton, and Trans Canada Airlines (now Air Canada) flew people about in DC3's which had propellers and wings that almost flapped. Any kind of storm activity buffeted them about like lone Canada geese who'd flown off course. I was a child who suffered horribly from motion sickness. The manufacturers of Gravol can thank me for their solvency ... all those landings ... all those air pockets. The first thing I checked out when I sat down and buckled myself in was the pouch containing the air sickness bags.

The very first time I flew was in 1949. It was Christmas and I was seated with Commodore Adams who was returning to Halifax to meet his ship, Canada's only aircraft carrier, the Magnificent. He left us in New Brunswick to take the train the rest of the way because the weather was so bad. He offered to take me with him but the stewardess who was responsible for me on that leg of the flight couldn't allow it. I landed in a terrible storm where my father greeted me on the tarmac holding Rudolph, the red nosed reindeer in his hands.

You might think that that experience would have made me afraid of flying in bad weather. The truth is that it didn't. I have one of those fatalistic attitudes when it comes to flying. Once you are aboard you might as well relax. The odds are good that the pilot wants to get there safely just as much as you do and he is the only one who can possibly make a human difference. You certainly can't.

However, I do become anxious when I am traveling. I drop things. I get flustered and sweaty when I am lining up to check in my luggage. I worry about what will happen when I land in a strange airport. I fret about how I will get a taxi; how the shuttle bus system works; whether people will understand English. I wonder if there will be thieves and cheats hovering about looking for nervous white faces to prey on. This may surprise people who know me well enough to know that I have flown many thousands of miles to countries like Swaziland, Namibia, Mongolia and Jordan ... almost always by myself.

I don't worry about the flight itself, or about my well being as long as I have no responsibilities. Indeed I have flown on small planes whose seat belts were frayed, without working buckles or simply absent, where passenger seats held flimsy cages of raucous chickens and whose engine problems forced us to make unscheduled stops.

Once I was confined for half a day in a small waiting room because of weather. Not a word of English was spoken by anyone in charge. Every few hours someone would bring in a vat of tea that was far too small for the crowd. But I didn't worry. I just went about taking photos of the wall murals featuring herds of wild horses moving across a vast steppe. I was in Inner Mongolia ... on my way to Outer Mongolia. I was not supposed to be in Inner Mongolia at all, so I took advantage of the opportunity to explore the limited access I had to the place. I was more concerned about a man in the wheel chair who was kept separate from the rest of us than I was about myself.

Ann of Annarchy said, " Sometimes, recognition of who you are grows into acceptance. And if you're lucky, you figure out how to leverage that weakness."

I realize as I write about my fear here that I have learned something important about myself; something I have always hidden. I have masked that fear of being responsible for myself behind a facade of fearlessness; of being in control and damned glad of it. I have strutted and pounded my chest and declared myself a fearless hermit.

In reality I am scared silly when I have to face new daunting situations alone. I am frightened when my car breaks down or I can't figure out how to stem the water from a flood. I am immobilized by things like water damaged paint and ceilings because I am unsure of how to proceed or whether I have the skill, knowledge, equipment or strength to cope alone. Sometimes I just need to know that I can talk it over with someone. Other times I need their physical presence and their hands-on help. Sometimes what I need is for someone else to take over; to take responsibility; to keep me safe.

I do not suffer from loneliness out here. I am never afraid of going to bed alone with just Kenya in the house. But I am scared of being alone.

I am afraid of being absolutely alone with only myself to rely on.

That's a very important thing to realize about myself. Thank you, Ann of Annarchy. Now I will have to figure out how to use that knowledge of my weakness to make myself stronger.

Black Sheep and Hermits

From 2-5 today Sound the Alarm will be at the Black Sheep in Wakefield.

It is supposed to be a beautiful afternoon ... great for a drive up to the beautiful little village of Wakefield, so I hope if you are reading this that you will come up to enjoy the music.

For those people who were concerned about Julius and the problems incurred by the death of his son ... all is now resolved. Pat and Deb sent enough money to cover everything. Thank you both.

I am looking forward to getting away from the hermitage for the afternoon and then Tamarak and her Carino are coming for dinner.

I have decided that I need to get out more. Hermits need to get out of their houses and out of themselves occasionally. We all need more portals to the outside world than email and the internet can provide.

The Sudden Emptiness of the Hermitage

For ten days the hermitage bustled with activity created by dogs and family. Yesterday it really swelled when the three older children arrived. Then, just as suddenly, the noise, the clutter and the love stopped ... like a clock in mid-rhythm. Everyone clambered up the 39 steps and into the van and disappeared.

Before I even had a chance to breathe a sigh of relief that I had my orderly solitary life of solitude restored to me, I felt terribly terribly lonely. Mud Mama and her noisy brood had been sucked out of my life leaving only a vacuum in their place.

I felt the way Kenya always feels when we give back our dog boarders ... bereft.

The two of us are moping around. Kenya keeps flopping down on a surface near me. I try to fill the empty quiet with spring cleaning.

Three months is a long time to wait for another visit. I wish Mud Mama lived close by. I wish all my children did.

I Have Invented an Oven

I am so excited. Hydro Quebec has been warning about brown-outs during this extended winter freeze period and advising us to use as little power as possible between 4 and 8 p.m.

I wanted to bake fish with a veggie and rice in parchment in my oven, but since it is a recipe that calls for 400 degrees I decided to figure out a way to do it on the wood stove which has been running steadily since Wednesday.

After one false start I used my medium sized iron pot as the oven, popped in the packet, put on the lid and voila! a complete fish dinner in less than 20 minutes.

This may not seem revolutionary to anyone who is "mechanically ept" or to someone who learned over campfires how to bake without an oven, but for me, the least competent person I know when it comes to anything to do with the sciences, it was a source of great pride.

And it was a really important thing to have learned because now, if the power fails again, I will be able to do far more cooking on the wood stove. I could even bake bread or a cake

And this method is much cleaner than any other so I could avoid having to wash the most difficult of the prep items at a time when I have to ration water.

Yesterday I worked on a tea cozy all day, and organized my escape. I have been a prisoner of the cold since Tuesday night with a car that won't start blocking a road that cannot be plowed. Tomorrow I will call CAA to start the car and while I am running errands, charging up my battery and filling my gas tank to avoid any empty spaces for condensation, Leonard will find another tractor and plow my road. His has a slow leak and is frozen solid like my car.

One of the places I will be going is to the pharmacy to find a remedy for the ulcer-like symptoms I am experiencing as side effects of the Prednisone. The pain is almost constant and every two hours I put something into my stomach to sop up the acid. (And of course I am likely stimulating the production of hydrochloric acid by so doing.)

By the time I am off this drug I will be enormous and will have have a pickled and perforated digestive system. A glass of wine or two would allow me to forget my misery but unfortunately wine is one of the the things that causes pain.

Cold Weather Makes Good Hermits

It is bitterly cold. I have started a fire and intend to finish unloading my car when it is light. Yesterday in half light I unloaded the meat and things that would not withstand freezing and carted them in on the sled but when I nearly lost two white packaged cartons of yogurt in the snow, decided the other purchases could wait till dawn. By the time I had cut, sorted, packaged, labeled and deposited everything in the freezer I had no desire to head back out anyway.

Apart from doing that, I just want to huddle around the fire with my dog and my book.

Well, I also want to finish the second slipper sock.

And I want to look through some old notebooks for poetry starters for new tea cozies. And maybe pull up some of Tamarack's Georgian Bay images and copy them for another series of cozies.

Frigid days make for happy hermiting. Is that a word?

Powerless at Pike Lake

November 1, 2008
Sorry I haven't been blogging .... and the photos will come later ...

But I spent two days falling in love and a third getting my life back together and then the adventures started again!

On Tuesday night we had our first snow storm, which turned out to be a howling success. The snow piled up against my back door and froze it shut, but I was snug in my bed and happily oblivious.

Until, that is, a fireball shot across the sky startling both Kenya and me into an agitated state of complete wakefulness. The clock on the radio blinked and died.

Suddenly everything went eerily silent and black except for the wind in the tree barely audible through the closed windows.

I went downstairs to ensure that the floor heating pump was turned off, pulled out a few plugs, gathered flashlights and candles and returned to bed.

I lay there for a while with "must do's" winging their way into my consciousness ... must get a battery for the radio so that I know the time at least ... must keep candles and lighters on both levels from now on ... must get a new cannister of bbq fuel ... must start the wood stove in the morning.

Then the "oh shit's" started. Why didn't I pick up that wind-up radio I saw the other day? I won't be able to have tea in the morning. Hell, I won't have water. I wish I had insisted that O. move the bbq back to its original sheltered spot before he left. I wish I had drinking water stored or that I had got my snow tires on earlier so I could go and get some.

Then a "whew, thank goodness" breeze floated in. I won't freeze. I have sources of light. There is a large bucket of water with javex in it in the utility room that I can use to flush the toilet. I have accessible food. I can heat snow on the wood stove and make bad tea.

And of course Hydro Quebec will fix everything soon. I should phone to report the outage but it's very cozy here so I will wait till morning.

A few hours later I awoke to a cool, still pre-dawn world that was incredibly lovely. I took the flashlight and made a call to Hydro, discovered it was 6:53 a.m. and that we'd have power by 8:15. The electronic voice of the Hydro message was friendly and comforting. I returned to bed and at first light was up taking photos of our first storm of the season.

That's when I discovered that my back door was stuck shut, but a good kick solved that. The fire started immediately and the room temperature V8 juice didn't taste too bad. Certainly it would do till 8:15 when I could make a good cup of tea.

As soon as the stove began to give off heat I started melting two pots of snow. I made the tea as soon as the second pot began to simmer. It was bad tea. Surely it must be nearly 8:15, I thought, and called Hydro. The message was now saying it was 8:11 and we'd have power by 6 p.m. Desolé ... an equipment failure.

A wave of anger swept over me ... don't they know that all my equipment depends on power? Then a deep breath as the realization dawned. Of course I could manage without power for a day.

Once I assured myself that I was okay physically, the day stretched itself out ahead of me ... and it seemed interminable. No real meals. No radio. No computer. No DVD player. What would I do? The thought that I could call Tammy to rescue me with her 4WD flashed briefly and sputtered out. I looked at my to do list for the day. It was all about baking.

Kenya was outside bounding through the drifts and coming to the window every few minutes to invite me to join her.

Yes ... I could go out and shovel and play with her and go for a walk. I could deliver a new movie to Claire. But I couldn't see myself spending the whole day walking around in the snow. I could work on a knitting project that was down to the last ugly stage of sewing in ends and doing seams. I could start a felting project. I could read. I could write ... with a pen.

That is what I ended up doing. Here are some notes from the two days we were without power ...

**************************************
Wednesday, Day 1

Flo came and took a banana and a pair of boots with her.

I received phone calls from different friends, and Kerry and I talked several times.

I poached an egg and made toast on the wood stove. Imagine being able to do that!

Outside, walking with Kenya, my breath was quite taken away ... snow clotted evergreens ... glimpses of the lake through frames of bowed white branches ... huge tree limbs laden with loads of snow-covered ice swaying in the wind. My summer fence around the newly seeded area had been no match for the weight of snow.

Back at home, hovering near the comforting warmth of the fire at 1 p.m., I poured myself a glass of wine, cooked a piece of the very rare roast I'd had for supper the night before and re-heated some squash soup. This is a very good stove, I thought. Everything tasted better than it had the day before.

Hydro's message by afternoon was that they had no idea what or where the problem is. Who knew when we would have power?

By 6:30 it was dark and I was living by candle and fire light. Clusters of candles in the living room and dining room, single tapers in the kitchen and a few tea lights upstairs to provide navigational light. The only sound was the crackle of the flames in the wood stove. It was warmer than usual and Kenya was bunked out in her crate by the front door, the coolest spot in the house.

I realized I would have to try to eat up anything perishable in the fridge. If it continued I would begin to worry about the contents of my freezer.

Sharon and Tammy both offered shower facilities, but I could not drive yet. Besides Kenya and I were quite comfortable with our bodies and their odours.

I thought about how good it was to know I wasn't completely alone, that I had friends and Kenya; that I could write; and that this subdued light made everything beautiful

I made a phone call to a friend in another city who told me they had trouble with their tv reception because snow coated their dish. Hmmn.

I realized I was in pretty good shape because of my wood stove. One of my neighbours had not got her wood yet and was refusing to get any and start a fire until she had her chimney swept. She was planning to eat and sleep in town rather than being hungry and cold in the dark. I offered her a refuge and suggested she get the wood and have the chimney swept later, but she seemed determined to be angry and uncomfortable.

*****************************************

Thursday, Day 2

I began my day at 6:45 by lighting candles in the bathroom and upstairs hallway and calling Hydro. Same message.

I wondered why we had seen no hydro truck up here. Our neighbours a mile away had power. It seemed to be only this little enclave that was still in darkness.

I began to be a little ticked off. Were we less important than Wakefield villagers?

Kerry talked about how hydro is a big grid and little enclaves often get sacrificed for the greater good during an outage. Personally I was still going with the idea that they hadn't found us yet.

However; the annoyance passed quickly. Walking around the lake I realized that we all seemed to be spending less time indoors and more time out on the road with our neighbours.

And this wood stove! What a blessing. I had not been uncomfortable at all yet.

Kenya has eaten her daily dentibone and is out gallumphing in the drifts. She chases moles and pounces when she finds one. She never catches them but the fun is all in the chase anyway.

What was I missing most? The radio. Funny because I often forget for days to turn it on. It is the absence of outside information and of a voice other than my own, I think.

Marta called to tell me how many gazillions of people have been without power. The hapless folks in some places will be freezing in the dark till the weekend.

Everything that was perishable in the fridge has been taken out to the porch and I am treating it as a larder. I am also experimenting with iron and steel pots on the wood stove. The tiniest iron pot is a Creuset I picked up at a second hand store in Grand Pre this summer. The shop was owned by an eccentric woman in her late fifties who loved to talk. The place was a complete jumble but she knew every book and its publication history and introduced me to the story behind Beautiful Joe. It was written by a Nova Scotian woman for a contest run by the American SPCA. As a result it is heavily laced with references to that organization and the Canadian setting is obscured. A few days later, at a used book store in Wolfville I bought a copy for Arrow. Before I finished reading it to her I was gagging on the saccharine sweetness of the prose and the blatantly fawning references, but I remember it as a childhood favourite. It is likely one of the reasons I love animals ... one of those seeds planted early.

The lake is absolutely lovely in a monochromatic and mystical way, and the two of the Mergansers still in residence sail by, dark shapes against grey water in a white world.

I am always fascinated by the stages landscape goes through as its details emerge in early dawn. From the blackness, like a developing photo, come outlines, then shapes, then shades of grey, and finally colour.

The iron pots win hands down because they hold the heat better than steel. At noon I made myself a grand dinner of Greek meat sauce and rice and decided to make a foray out into civilization to buy water and to fill a jug at the spring. After some difficulty navigating my own road, torn apart from Leonard's enthusiastic plowing, I did that.

Home again, in the darkness, I noticed that Kenya was confused by the silence and the flickering ever changing patterns of light we live by. She was also bored.

It is as if the heart of the house has stilled and only our basic needs are being met. We are forced into a routine in which life happens between dawn and dusk. I feel as if we are in life support mode.

I also need a shower, or at least enough water to take a real sponge bath.

And then suddenly the beep of a smoke alarm ...

It is 7 p.m. and life is restored.

**********************************

Friday ... the aftermath and anti climax ...

I went to pottery class, ran errands, did dishes and laundry, and generally got my life back on track. I must say I didn't eat any better than I had when the wood stove was the centre of my existence, and I felt less connected with and grateful for each meal.

Still it is lovely to be able to watch a film and use the computer again. And to have a bath in a tub.

At midnight, exactly 48 hours after being rudely awakened by the ball of fire that took away the power, I was awakened by light flooding my bathroom and hallway. What the...?

I got up. Some big truck with enormous lights was at the top of my laneway.

Leonard? Getting sand and salt mixed because he couldn't sleep and didn't want to be caught unprepared for the next storm?

I put on my pink fluffy housecoat and went to the door with Kenya. As I opened it allowing her to spring outside, ears pricked, voice at full volume, looking like a dangerous creature, I saw two men descending the unshoveled steps.

Who are you?

Incomprehensible mumble.

Where are you from?

Hull.

Not very reassuring.

Are you Hydro?

Yes. Are you 47?

No. That is one of the cottages past me.

They went back up the steps and I ended up following them to tell them that no one lived in those cottages in the winter; that they must have the wrong place. A sort of conversation ensued. It turns out they were lost. At one I returned to the house and they pulled out at 1:15. I was wide awake and Kenya was more confused than ever.

**********************************
Oh ... who did I fall in love with? My wood stove. Reliable, comforting, warm. Not very sexy, but oh my ... just the companion you want when the power goes out, the winds howl, and you are isolated.

************************************

Conclusions

I have learned a few things and re-learned others in the past few days.

Water is essential ... for drinking, cooking, washing and basic comfort. I reveled in the hot water that poured out of my tap onto greasy dishes and pots left from the two days I was without. I was able to deal with melting snow and cooking with bottled water I had on hand. I was fine with one flush per day using water I had stored in a large pail. But the comfort I derive from a shower or bath and the convenience of having hot water emerge from the tap are remarkable. I have a poster in my kitchen depicting an African man carrying jugs of water on his bicycle. I chose the photograph long before I was without power during this storm, but now I understand water on a far deeper level than the intellectual or the sympathetic.

The human voice and news from outside become far more important when you are isolated by weather or a power outage. I didn't expect that since I am usually quite content with being a hermit.

But I also learned that with something as basic as a wood stove you can attend to most of your needs pretty well as long as you have a cache of food and fuel.

I have learned that I must prepare for the next outage by storing water, ensuring that I have such things as candles and batteries, and by learning how to hook up the small generator to run the fridge and freezer if things go past the first 48 hours. And I have to make sure my car is ready to go when needed, and that means parking closer to the public road once winter starts in earnest.

I think the most important thing I learned is that even without power I am not powerless.

Pike Lake After Dark

Kenya and I headed out for our late walk with flashlight in hand and discovered that it felt like Northern Norway in winter, and also like my dad's farm in the Eastern Townships. People living in secluded places have a great deal in common, I realize.

The only time I turned the flashlight on was on my own property so I could see where my feet were as I navigated the hill to the house.

First of all there were only two houses with curtains on the windows. Rowboat Flo's and RoseMarie's ... both older women and both living in houses that are right on the main road around the lake but without being in the tiny hamlet where the houses are clustered.

In every other inhabited house the windows blazed with light allowing glimpses of the life going on inside. At this time of year several houses are empty because they are owned by cottagers, and Luigi is never home in the evenings because that is when his pizza business thrives.

The two Lises were each entertaining women friends. Gerry was visiting Andy and his wife. His own house had only Christmasy green and red lights at the front door. The entire front porch of Barrie's house was lit up and he had company. Claire and Tom were alone, as were Jenny,Tanya, Lyall and the new neighbour with the small child. I saw the blue light of two television screens.

Kenya and I walked our usual two miles all the way to the last house on the lake. The only sound we heard was the crunch of our feet on the leaf strewn road. The houses spilled out their light but the closed windows kept sound indoors.

In Northern Norway it is dark all winter and no one covers his windows. Oh, there are draperies that frame the glass, and candles and other lights in the windows, but walking in the darkness you always have a sense of community, a sense of safety. Even the children's snow forts are lit up, and ice candles line walkways.

My father's last painting was called "The Friendly Little Lights of North Troy". He died before he finished it, but the series of sketches and drafts show a man sitting in his rocking chair looking out the livingroom window of his secluded house in the mountains down toward the tiny lighted community of North Troy, many miles and a country away.

We may like to live like hermits away from people, but we take comfort in knowing that we are not completely alone, that we are still part of a community, connected to the world.

A Sense of Place ...

I realized this summer that much of my happiness is derived from my sense of place. That is not to dismiss or denigrate the importance of the people I spent time with. They gave me a sense of belonging to family that I miss now that I am back at the lake living alone with Kenya.

I spent a great deal of time on Atlantic beaches this summer. I love Atlantic beaches. I love the variety. I love the rocks. I love the ruggedness. I felt happy exploring those beaches, but I didn't feel at home on them.

Kerry and I took the children swimming at the old water source for the town of Wolfville. It was just like Pike Lake, small, calm, surrounded by woods, an oasis of peace. There I did feel at home.

When I visited Rob I canoed the Clyde in a fund raiser for cancer, and the river was a lot like Pike Lake too. I felt at home there too.

In the Muskokas the river was a green place where we swam and the dogs played happily chasing sticks. One day we went for a five hour kayak trip, just five women in five kayaks. I felt at peace. It was not Pike Lake but I felt at home there as the forest slipped by and the water flowed past my paddle.

Yesterday I awakened to a beautiful misty morning here at the lake and instead feeling at peace, I felt a sense of dread. I have not been sleeping well since coming home. I lie awake worrying about all the things I fear I may not be able to handle alone.

The lake has made me realize the importance of place; this nomadic summer made me realize the importance of family.

I left here in July knowing that I would never be happy as a nomad. I came home wondering whether I can ever be happy as a hermit again. Quel dilemme!

Morning Mist on Pike Lake

I

Back to Reality

I am beginning to settle in.

At first everything felt alien and I dashed from one job to another in the manner of hummingbirds or dragonflies, but faster, more erratically, like the skittering water bugs Kenya loves so much. Everything I touched led to another detour, another convoluted path. No task was simple. I had to perform three others before I could attack that one. I felt a bit like my granddaughter who informed me as she tidied her room that she needed me to stay with her " because I always became distracted, Oma."

Part of the problem was that it was hot and sunny and I didn't want to waste swimming and kayaking weather, but I was also being driven by the knowledge that winter was coming and I had to get the porch weatherproofed and ready to receive my supply of wood. I had to arrange with the plumber and electrician to install the boiler and set up the generator. I was also worried about the piled-up bills I needed to figure out and pay. I also had to stock up on food, make wine and go to a medical appointment at the Riverside.

Thursday night Kenya was driven by anxiety attacks that sent her onto my bed, and off again, and took her downstairs and outdoors. When I finally figured out that her craziness was caused by the wind and closed all the windows, she settled down and went to sleep for the night. It took me a little longer to get back to sleep.

When you consider the places I have spent all my nights for two months and compare them to my own supremely comfortable bed here at the lake, it is surprising that I have been more prone to insomnia here than anywhere else. I have slept in motel rooms, guest rooms, on an eight year old's bed, on a sponge on the floor, and in a tent. In many of the places I had to adjust to foreign noises like traffic or aircraft or ATVs, and, in one, the screeches of raccoons making lusty love or war a few feet from my bed. And yet, everywhere, I slept the sleep of the innocent.

On the one hand I feel more peaceful and at home here than anywhere I have been this summer, but everywhere I stayed I was part of a family unit and could relax my guard at night, safe in the knowledge that I was not alone. Perhaps, too, I was comforted by the knowledge that my life and its responsibilities were on hold until I returned home; that there was no point in worrying about such things as preparing for winter or fussing about financial concerns beyond my control, so I could push them aside.

I have also been doing a lot of thinking about my close neighbour who has been diagnosed with cancer and is very ill. Her first surgery was unsuccessful and she faces a battle with chemo and radiation before they will try again.

In fact I have been more concerned about her health than about my own. I had a biopsy done yesterday. It was a painful procedure, and not pleasant, but, despite the serious manner of the specialist, not fear inspiring. I seem to live in a kind of bubble regarding cancer. I think I am so sure I will be killed by heart attack or stroke like everyone on my mother's side, or by something going wrong with my digestive system like my father and my oma, that I can't even imagine that it will be cancer that gets me.

And besides, I am not afraid of dying. For a very long time I have contemplated the inevitable with equanimity. Of course it has always been in the abstract. I am not so sure that I would cope as well with the information that I had a cancer that required months of chemo and radiation; and that my chances of survival were only 30% if I subjected myself to the pain, weakness and nausea associated with the treatment. I can't even imagine facing all of that alone up here in the woods living my hermit's life with my dog.

At any rate, I am now back in the real world. My nomadic summer is behind me and my life at the hermitage resumes.

I need to settle in a bit more before I can write about my long vacation from life. I put 6000 kilometres on my little old car, and subjected Kenya to more experiences than she was comfortable coping with, but I discovered things I would never have learned staying here at the lake where we are both comfortable.

The Hermit Leaves the Lake ... Test Run ...

Such excitement! We delivered the laptop to Tammy and then I dropped Kenya at Marta's and went to the Amakhozi show.

I was expecting more African faces ... but then the tickets were very expensive. (Thank goodness mine came as a gift!) The price didn't stop rather large families from buying tickets, and a large contingent of mentally and physically handicapped people were there. One of the charities had likely donated the tickets ... and a good thing, too, because they were a wonderfully enthusiastic audience. Only the middle section was filled. Perhaps a dozen or so of the the other 2/3 of the seats were taken. Despite all that, the enthusiasm of the players was contagious.

It was a story, but the sound system or the acoustics in the tent distorted the storytelling voice, so I would be hard pressed to give you the plot line. It didn't really matter though. The strength of the production was the performance itself. In many ways it reminded me of Cirque du Soleil productions. Not quite as slick, but also filled with trapeze performances, jugglers, acrobats, singing, dancing, and infused with colour, beauty, and energy.

The costumes were usually brightly coloured and often wonderful. Monkeys with round pink and blue bums cavorted on a trampoline. There were grasshoppers whose wings were made of fragments of thin fabric held together with ropes so that they flowed realistically. The bigger- than-life zebra puppets carried by dancing players were my favourites. Their heads were realistic, but the bodies were made of thin filmy fabric with the stripes merely suggested. There were many elaborately sculpted head dresses. Lots of bright reds and yellows, the colours I associate with Africa.

Other things of note: the ten foot tall stilted men; the cheerful black dancer in an massive beehive head piece who was able to portray great indignation; and everyone's ability to get the whole audience rhythmically clapping with the djembe drums.

I think the thing that impressed me most, possibly because I am a sucker for metaphor, was the subtle way they created effects and made you suspend disbelief. In particular was a night scene in which only the fluorescence was visible; and a stormy night at sea in which a juggler almost made me see the wind-tossed waves. A juggling pair were able to create an aura of silence amidst choral music, and had slowed everything onstage down to slow motion, creating the illusion that the storm had passed.

It was a good show. If I were to judge it against Cirque du Soleil, I would put it halfway between the first and last shows I saw them perform. What this one sometimes lacked in polish it more than made up for it in personality and humanity.

After the show I drove to Marta's to spend the night. We ate and took the dogs for a walk, and then went to bed. On my pillow was the short story she had written for me for my birthday: "Vancouver Can Wait". I love it.

Saturday morning was fun. A good breakfast and then a trip to Bruce Pit. I imagined Bruce Pit to be a barren hole in the ground, but it is beautiful. Woods and paths. And the dogs had a ball playing with other dogs and racing around. Kenya met a dachshund who reminded her of the nasty one that bit her nose, but this little guy had no fear of big dogs and they got along fine.

Back at Marta's I discovered the flat tire.

I spent three hours at Canadian Tire. At first we just stayed in the car. I read and Kenya snoozed. Then, after the car went into the shop, I took Kenya for a walk in the rain, and then decided to sit quietly in the waiting room. An old lady objected so we left and sat on the cement floor in a corner of the parking area where we could see my car when it was driven out. As soon as it appeared, Kenya went back in the car and I paid the bill. The old lady's friend apologized, and I was gracious. She had more of a problem than I did. Imagine being afraid of nice dogs, especially nice, quiet, exhausted dogs who just want to collapse like rugs on the floor.

By the time I got home I was ready to collapse on the floor beside her. Just too much excitement for a hermit and her dog.

To help me on my journey ...

"A verse from the Veda says, 'What you see, you become.' In other words, just the experience of perceiving the world makes you what you are. This is a quite literal statement."
- Deepak Chopra

I must not race through the experience; I must remind myself that the journey is more important than the destination. I must take the time to breathe, reflect, and enjoy this trip I am about to embark upon.

Every other experience has helped to make me the woman I am today ... working in the developing world ... teaching ... traveling ... being a parent ... a friend ... a lover ... and living here in my hermitage. Each experience has allowed me to see something important. I need not fear leaving this place. Of course it is home, a place I love, and the place I feel most secure, but I can welcome the new insights I will have as a result of embarking on new experiences, too.

On Trusting Instinct

Yesterday I was reminded, once again, to trust my instincts, to listen to the little voice that tries so hard to tell me something is not right, to really listen to my sixth sense.

My relationship with my dog operates best when we both listen to our instincts. Kenya knows if I am serious or just playing, relaxed or upset, and I generally recognize her moods and health by her behaviour. We communicate easily. As a result, most of the time we get along without friction.

It always takes a day or so for me to reach a comfortable level of understanding with someone else's dog, but that is usually all it takes. It takes longer to reach the level of intuitive empathy I have with Kenya, so I rely on her to help me with the dogs I board.

Dogs don't like humans who are cruel ... and they seem to know pretty quickly which humans to trust. They recognize danger very quickly. Their noses tell them. I am not sure what tells me these things ... my sixth sense, I think ... and I have to learn to listen to the signals that sense is sending me. I too often ignore those niggling doubts.

Yesterday Kenya suddenly behaved very strangely. She began pawing at the window and screeching. She refused to stop when I told her to. She wouldn't play with Remi. Everything she did constituted aberrant behaviour for her.

Instead of asking myself why she was behaving so strangely, I got really ticked off and yelled insults at her. She bounced out of my way but didn't stop.

Then Remi appeared, blood on his leg. It was his paw. He had cut it badly on glass or something. As soon as Sarah and I began to tend to Remi's wound, Kenya returned to her normal calm state.

Why did I assume that her behaviour meant she had suddenly gone crazy and become disobedient?

Why didn't I realize immediately that she was trying to tell me something important?

I have to learn to trust the two most instinctual things in my life: my dog and my own sixth sense. Maybe Kenya will help me learn to do that.

It seems to me that I have entered a phase of my life in which I am discovering a great many things I need to know in order to be happy. I wonder if everyone is bombarded in the last decade or two of her life with these new insights. Or is only those of us who led terribly busy lives when we were younger, never taking the time to stop and breathe in our environment and really experience life?

Is it because age has finally slowed me down enough to pause and reflect that I am discovering how much I still need to learn? Or is it because I have found the place in which I can be at peace in order to think? Or is it because my closest companion is now Kenya, who naturally lives instinctively?

Contemplation of a Nomadic Summer

Two little tidbits for my traveling summer arrived in my mailbox today.

"Today I drifted [in the floating studio] with Camille on the Seine at Argenteuil. The views materialized and dissolved and I was as contented as a cow in her stall." (Claude Monet, 1874)

"Don't be afraid if things seem difficult in the beginning. That's only the initial impression. The important thing is not to retreat; you have to master yourself." Olga Korbut Gymnast - Four Time Olympic Gold Medalist


I have been dragging my feet about getting things done here. I am not sure if it is my body which is not up to snuff or if it is my mind creating a spider's web of ennuie that traps my body and sucks out my energy.

It is almost as if I am refusing to face the fact that I will be away from my hermitage all summer.

I plant herbs and tomatoes I will not be here to enjoy. I tend flowers I won't see blossom. But I don't pack up my life here and clean away my presence so that the place will be ready for other tenants.

Well ... I will just have to get a new take on things, won't I?

I will have to remind myself that this is an adventure. It is a chance to see the world with new eyes.

It won't be quite as peaceful a way to travel as Monet's. My car won't simply float along so that I can enjoy new views. But I can stop along the way and picnic with Kenya ... and Wild Thing if he travels with us. I can stop when we need a break from the TransCanada, and we can follow our senses to something more interesting ... take a road less traveled ... meander a bit ...

And once I get to a destination, a whole world will open for me. I really am looking forward to a month in Wolfville and to visiting friends and family I don't see often enough.

So ... I just have to get past this initial feeling that things are just too hard ... and focus on what I am looking forward to.

Yikes! Yahoos!

My blissful peace was shattered yesterday. The next door cottager had a weekend party. By noon everyone on the lake could judge the amount of alcohol that had been consumed by the level of noise. Even Kenya was offended, and found an alternate route back to shore with the sticks she was retrieving in order to avoid all contact. Kenya is a remarkably communicative dog, but this was the first time I had seen this particular body language.

Especially hard to take was a middle-aged woman with brassy bleached hair and a laugh like a hyena with lung cancer. Vulgarities streamed from her mouth all afternoon. I kept wishing she'd go under, but her pool noodle kept her afloat until she switched to a rowboat and went to visit the cottagers on the other side of me.

They were pleasant to her and her companion, saying that the noise was not bothering them, but I noticed that Carol Anne and her daughter headed out on an inflatable raft and an inner tube to leisurely navigate the lake until she went back home.

The drinking really stepped up once night fell and all the voices became somewhat intrusive, but hers still managed to stand out from all the others.

I closed the windows and tried to sleep, but at 12 and 1 and 2 they partied on. At 2:30 the crass woman was down to tears and recriminations. I heard some man's soothing voice ... then silence.

I am discovering that I have very little tolerance for that kind of intrusion on my privacy. I was angry that they seemed to be so inconsiderate of anyone else on the lake. This is a lake which does not allow motors because we value our peace. We chose this lake because it is such a peaceful retreat from life. Surely anyone who owns property here would be aware of that. Mind you I am not sure how she is related to the cottager who owns the place. I suspect she is his sister. I hope she lives in Calgary and won't visit often.



My spam filter spat out these headers today:

*Impress all in the locker room
*Replica Handbags
*Last Longer in Bed
*Enlarge
*You look really stupid bjscott
*You look really stupid bjscott
*Naked true. Best proposal of medicines

I understood the first six, but years of reading often illiterate or second language offerings has not been of much help in deciphering the seventh.

Who sends out these things? And who reads them? People like the blonde next door might be interested in the replica bags, I suppose. I overheard her conversation with the woman rowing the boat yesterday ... and it contained tidbits about how many purses and bags women need ... apparently in defence of her disputed clothing allowance. But nasty comments on your appearance? Or all the sexual aid ones?

I've figured it out ... the seventh! The unvarnished truth! The best possible deal on prescription drugs!

Maybe I could get a job editing for the people who send these out.

Today is a grey rainy day ... good thing I rescued the laundry yesterday. Today I will finish the cleaning and light a fire in the wood stove. Or maybe I will catch up on the sleep I didn't get last night. Yahoos till 2:30 and then the birds at 4 ... I may not last the whole day.