Shadows on Snow

Shadows on snow. 

Dark on light. 

Black on white. 

Warm sun, cool ice. 

A shadow is insubstantial.

Snow, ephemeral.

Your hand can pass through both. 

Shadows on snow.

Drawings sketched on a white page.

Baby Jellyfish

Okay, this is a first for me. I am walking along the beach at high tide and I see what I think is a little ball of ice. Shiny, see-though. The first ice-ball of the season, I think to myself, and take a picture of it. Then I touch it, but it's not cold or hard, it is surprisingly flexible, like jello, and cool to the touch. It looks almost exactly like a bath bead; you know, those ones you get as gifts but rarely use. I pick it up. It is the same size and shape and texture. I contemplate the likelihood of a bath bead surviving in the salty ocean. Unlikely. It must be a jellyfish. A baby jellyfish? It is not alone. As I continue my walk along the beach I see several more of these unlikely creatures. A new species? The Bath Bead Jellyfish! Or baby jellyfish.

Rockwalking

Everyone has heard of rock-climbing, and I used to be pretty good at it until I hit fifty, menopause, osteoarthritis, and such-like, with the inherent drop in strength and agility. So since I can't climb up I have shifted to climbing over. I am not talking about bouldering or traversing, which are forms of rock-climbing, usually without a rope, on low areas where falling just means sore ankles not death. No, even traversing is beyond me now, or should I say above me.

My new rock activity is just trying to get from A to B over rocky terrane, and it is more challenging than you might think. As you can see in the map above, a range of low pink and grey granite mountains runs from the end of the beach behind our cottage and away north to Labrador. At low tide you can sneak past most of the rocks and make it to two bays that are hidden not too far beyond. Sometimes, like today, you have to walk through knee-deep freezing water. Other times you can scramble over the rocks to get to the first bay. But to get to the second bay you always need to cross over rocks, unless you have a kayak, or you are willing to swim a good distance in very cold water.

Now these rocks are solid. Mostly. But this is not a sidewalk. There is no clear path. You have to make decisions about the route you will take based on myriad factors: access, difficulty, water, seaweed, flatness, angles, distance between possible footholds, and also, in my case, will the dog be able to follow safely. As I was rock-walking this morning it struck me that it is a very meditative activity. I remember that was one of the things I liked about rock-climbing; you can only be in the moment when you are moving up a cliff-face, the task demands that kind of focus as you choose a handhold and shift your body to the next potential clinging point. And, surprisingly perhaps, rock-walking demands a similar focus. There are places in between first and second bay where I can only look at my feet as I move from one rock to the next. The ground is not level, and the seaweed between the rocks is extremely slippery. If you fall down, the landing is not soft. Also, I walk alone and far from help, and although I bring my cellphone for safety reasons, it would take a long time for someone to arrive.

When I thought about rock-walking as meditation, I also started thinking about what a good metaphor it is for life: you choose what you think is the best path, but sometimes there are surprises, a rock shifts, your foot slips, a wave comes up higher than you expected; sometimes what looked like a good path doesn't quite pan out and you need to turn back; sometimes it looks impossible and yet if you just try, and keep taking one small step at a time, you eventually succeed and it feels great; sometimes your foot slips and you soak your shoe; and when you are done, and you are climbing back down, sometimes the easiest way is to turn around and go down backwards, using "hindsight" to watch your feet while you almost crawl like a toddler, turned around and using you hands to support yourself safely. As I age, I am learning to take the time to support myself in what ever way I need, and I actually think that is a pretty good thing.

As autumn arrives, each time I go rock-walking to second bay I wonder if it is the last time, at least for the year, but maybe forever, as I lose more mobility. And although this is a sad thought, it also makes me fierce about continuing to keep going as long as I am able.

Tidelines

Every twelve hours or so

 the sea reaches its highest point

 then ebbs back, 

pulling away 

from the line that marks high tide. 

Sometimes, several tides in a row

 are lower than those previous, 

and you can see 

a series of lines 

that show the high water mark. 

This line is traced by shells and sticks, 

or sometimes 

you can simply see 

that the sand looks slightly different, 

more packed down, 

or rippled in a different pattern. 

As you walk across these tidelines 

it is as though you are travelling through time. 

Like sawing through the rings of winter's passage 

that circle the trunk of a century old maple, 

or snow-blowing along a wall of white, 

revealing the layers of icy snow 

compacted over the winter. 

Or like an archeologist 

reading history 

from stratifications 

in the earth's crust on the wall of a quarry. 

The tidelines 

show the days that have passed by, 

maybe the last days of summer. 

And then 

a really high tide will rise above them all and start the patterns all over again.

Tree Shadows

Sun comes out at the end of a rainy day,

Slim trunks cast long shadows.

Soft air dances above the mosses

Worries melt in forest silence.

xo

A kiss and hug from the forest just behind my house.

Blueberries!

"O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" she chortled in her joy. 

(Lewis Carroll, "Jabberwocky")

Row Cloud

This strange cloud formation in the shape of a roll, with little eddies forming off of it, was hanging over the end of the lake.

The Picnic Grounds

This beautiful log cabin is built on the site of "the picnic grounds." My mother used to take us here to remind us about our family history. We would walk under the massive pine trees, the wind whispering in the branches above, carpet of brown pine needles beneath our feet, and she would tell us stories. This was where they held the community picnic every summer; everyone brought their own basket filled with bread and jars of lemonade. This is where your grandfather and his brothers would swim, just off these rocks. This is the sheep dip, where they drove the herd into the lake to wash the wool before sheering.

We can't go there any more now that someone lives there, but I can paddle by and breath in history with the scent of the pines.

Lily

Perfection floats in the marsh,

large pure white lily 

'mongst shiny green lily pads.

Kayak

A

kayak,

same shape,

front to back.

A  palindrome

to take you there

then get you home.

It skims the surface

like a water-strider,

drifts through lilies;

gentle reed-rider.

Smooth and slow,

open and free,

water behind

forms a

V.

Otherworldly

Yellow flower

growing in the marsh,

alien growth

from a far off planet.

Islands

There are two small islands that sit in front of the family cottage. Close enough to swim to, if you are brave and in relatively good shape. I have painted these islands many times. They capture my imagination. On the larger, there used to be tiny cottage belonging to the wife of the farmstead beside us. A mysterious place whose windows we peeked into as though looking into the past. These islands are so small you could maybe fit one tennis court in the middle if you didn't mind the uneven ground. You could land a helicopter on them if the trees were gone. They are much closer to our side of the lake; from the other side they blend in with our shoreline; but from our side they stand out and give focus to the view of the lake and the loons as they swim by. The islands do not have names, just "the islands" or the big island and the little island. On the big island, there used to be a tall dead tree the Osprey loved to fish from, diving into the lake and surfacing with a fish in its talons, which it then shifts to a front to back, torpedo position, to make it more stream-lined for flying. The pines on the islands are shaped by the prevailing winds, a century of pressure influencing their branches. I have watched them for fifty years; a half-century of influence on me.

Thistle

Thistle

sounds like

it is;

soft

then pointy.

Beautiful

and painful.

Attracts

then repels.

Canadian Shield

These smooth rocks punctuate my childhood. They mean summer is here and we are close to the cottage. As we drove down the 401 the gray outcroppings let us know we were almost there. The turn off at Picadilly Road, then that one-lane cottage road with crazy curves and inclines so steep that you could not see over the hood of the car to the road below, and drivers would honk to warn oncoming vehicles.

From the cottage we would go through cow pastures, avoiding Nipper, the horse with a tendency to bite (who once bit our car and chipped the paint), cow pies, thistle plants, and Killdeer nests, and climb all over the huge smooth rocks that became castles or forts, boats or houses. Once, walking along the road with my parents, my aunt Irma and the local farm-dog named Bear, we thought we could hide below a cliff-like rock and trick the dog, who liked to run on ahead. We waited and waited, giggling at our clever hiding place, until we started wondering why the dog was not coming back to look for us. Finally we looked up and there sat Bear on the top of the rock, looking down at us wondering what we were doing.

Fish Out of Water

What happened?

I was swimming..

and then

suddenly

here I am!

Four Leaf Clover

I found my first four leaf clover when I was about nine. I was walking across a grassy green sheep pasture on my second-cousin's farm north of Kingston. I looked down and saw that lucky shape and I was hooked. My aunt taped it to a piece of paper and put it in an envelope with my name on it. I still have it somewhere, and over the years I kept adding to the collection. I have trouble resisting the urge to watch the ground. There are more four leaf clovers out there than you would think. Today this beauty was waving at me beside the cottage step!

Wild Srawberry

We have been wandering around the lawn at the cottage searching for these little guys. About the size of the end of your baby finger, wild strawberries pack and amazing punch of flavour. When they are in the sun they are warm and fragrant; when you find one in the shade they are cool and tangy!

Johnathan Livingston Seagull

“It was morning, and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.” 

― Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Stoneflower

What's this stoneflower 

blooming 

in the sand 

at low tide this morning? 

A sun-bleached 

sand dollar 

just showing 

it's decorated crest! 

Horizontal Rainbow

A few years ago we were crossing the Saguenay River on the ferry —this is the only way to get to our town, or, I guess you have a choice between this ferry that takes a few minutes and one from the other side of the Saint Lawrence River that takes a couple hours*— and my son was looking up the fiord at sunset and he said "Regard, un arc-en-ciel horizontal!"

I'm thinking, "A horizontal rainbow? What is he talking about?" But then I checked along the horizon and he was right, if you looked closely you could see red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple stripes glowing in the evening light between the soaring cliffs.

Here on the beach we have horizontal rainbows fairly often as the sun sets behind the hills on the other side of the sky. We see the sun rise over the ocean, but we are not oriented to see the sun set over the water. That's okay, I appreciate our "arc-en-ciel horizontal." And the moon rising over the ocean like the one in the photo.


*You can also drive up the Sageunay and around Lac Saint Jean, but why would you unless the road is closed or the ferry is not operating due to bad weather. Or if you wanted to taste some giant blueberries, or visit some friendly "Blueberries" which is what they call people from that region!

Fragile Treasures

It is interesting that the frequency with which you find a kind of shell contributes to its interest. This one, an Atlantic Razor-Clam, is pretty rare on our beach. The delicate shell is so fragile that they are broken into little pieces before you can see them. Maybe there are less of them around here as well. Anyway, it seems as though you have discovered a treasure when you come upon a complete beauty like this one!

Knock on Woods

Adolescent humour. Driving along the forest-lined roads that skirt town, talking to my fifteen year-old daughter, I mention that I have only taken one migraine pill in the past month, a really good run for me, and then I say, "Of course now that I say that I will need to take one tomorrow; better knock on wood." And I rap on the dashboard, gear shift, my head. "No wood anywhere here!" I lament, correcting a slight swerve caused by my search for superstitious safety. "Well," says my daughter, "You almost drove us into the woods, so that should count."

I had to take a migraine pill today. Just saying.

Robin's Egg Blue

When you look down

 and see a piece of shell 

from a robin's egg, 

it seems as if a little bit of sky 

has fallen into the caribou moss. 

Argyle Sands

You've seen argyle socks and sweaters, well here is argyle patterned sand! 

Gnarly Roots

As I walked along the root strewn paths in the forest this afternoon I started thinking about the etymology of the word gnarly. Yes, I was thinking about the gnarly roots of gnarly roots. So gnarly started off meaning knotted and rugged, and then some Californian surfer girl or surfer boy had the cool idea to call a dangerous, exciting wave gnarly. Then gnarly just worked its way into teen slang; gnarly, dude.

Barnacles

Barnacles cling to rocks in the tidal zone, between high and low tide. Find a tide pool whose barnacles are still under water. If you sit very still and watch carefully, you will be rewarded by the sight of their feather-like "tongue" as it waves gracefully out of the opening and closing crack in the centre. This feather-like structure gathers plancton to eat, but if you move and your shadow crosses over the barnable, it closes up tight to protect itself.

C is for Clam

Arrived at the cottage this evening after supper, unloaded the car and went for a walk on the beach as the sun set. Checked my "Tides Near Me" app on my cellphone and it was exactly low tide; to the minute! Talk about timing. I love clam writing at low tide! Sometimes it looks like the Los Angeles freeway system, but tonight the sand was mostly smooth as far as the eye could see, and then there was this little guy, going back to where he started from.

Walking on Eggshells

Somebody built a really cool lean-to shelter in first bay. And they were good campers because they left their campsite cleaner than when they found it. Often after a group sleeps in the bay I find lots of wrappers, cans and even socks. Once I hauled out a couple sleeping bags, an ax, and a shovel (after they were left out in the open on the beach for a couple weeks, before the mega-tides of autumn took them out to sea). But this group made a shelter by arranging huge beached logs in a half circle, teepee shape against the rock cliff, and then they lined the cosy interior with a few spruce branches. And the only thing they left behind was a bright green piece of raw broccoli beside their very small, minimal ashes, fire.

And then I saw this, and I wondered if they had left their sponge. Or maybe they had found a natural sponge, although it was way bigger than any of the sponges I have found on our beach. Then I looked at it closely and saw that it was a cluster of eggs. If you look at the close-up of the eggs above, you can see that they have all hatched; these are just empty shells. It is really light, and surprisingly, not smelly at all!

Red Crab, Blue Crab

One crab, two crab,

red crab, blue crab.

Dead Fish Poetry (Not the Rhyming Kind) (Or Even the Poetry Kind)

A thousand slim silvery fishes decorate the high tide line on the beach, extending as far as I can see in both directions. Short lives, churning at the waters edge so thick they make the water black. Short weeks, a life cycle completed: the run along the coast moving slowly from village to village, inspiring bonfires and late-night revelry. Laughter and silver beer cans shining in the dark as nets swoop through the teaming rush of surging life. Whales following the schools during the daytime hours, a bit farther off shore; black backs shiny, the sunlight reflects off their glistening surface as they break through the calm water, blowing a puffing breath before they sink below. The Minke circles round and round, creating a whirlpool, trapping hoards of Caplan in its pull, and then rushing up like a SeaWorld performer, mouth ajar for maximum harvest. All that is done for the season. Now, on the beach, there are too many Caplan even for the greedy gulls to devour. The tide will take some away. Others will dry out and get covered by sand, or possibly eaten by my dog, who seems to prefer them desiccated to fresh, crunchy fish-chips rather than fish 'n chips.

Jigging

The old-timers tell stories about Brochu Beach, for example, most of the time you cannot see the mountains on the other side of the Saint Lawrence River because it is so wide here, but on the days when they show their pointy peeks the old ones say that means it will rain tomorrow.

The low mountains that run behind the cottage, starting from the rocks at the end of the beach, are called Les Jambons on our topographical map, and lest you think this is due to the pink coloured granit that brings to mind cured ham, the real story, according to the old folks, is that a truck hauling hams tipped over spilling its goods onto the 138 (le cent-trente-huit), causing that hill on the highway to be known forever after as the "côte de jambon" or ham hill.

The hook above looks like the kind that was used back in the day when the cod were thick just off the beach. The cod were huge,  the old-timers say. You could get into your small boat and sit with your cord dangling into the salty brine, weighted and sporting a nail bent into the shape of a big hook. When you felt the cod playing with your line you jerked it up, catching the fish. This is called jigging for cod.

Ghost Nets and Offshore Clothing

When I found this ghost net today I had mixed emotions, I was happy to take it out of circulation, but dismayed at the thought of innumerable ghost nets floating out there killing as they go. One less is good, but I wish someone would invent a way to collect the others.

The articles of clothing that wash up onto the beach are always weighted with their stories. I try to imaging who wore them, and how they lost them. This red and white striped shirt does not feel like it was "Made in Canada,"  the material is coarse and not stretchy, almost as though made on a loom. You can see the colour has run as it lay crumpled on the sand. the cut is long and narrow, and there are no tags; it might be hand made. Maybe it was worn by a tanker ship sailor from the Philippines. He took it off and laid it on the deck because it was hot and he was working hard. Maybe his mom gave him the shirt before he left port six months ago. And then a gust of wind grabbed the shirt and flung it into the ocean. What could he do but watch it float for a while and then sink. Another piece of home lost.

Blue Flag

At the edge of the beach,

rooted in rocky cracks,

a flash of periwinkle; 

Wild Iris,

a blue flag 

dancing 

in the salty breeze.

Clean Slate

I wanted to use a photo of an impressive spider with a big blue butt that I took today for this post, but I was afraid of two things: 1) I might scare an unwary arachnophobic as they scrolled innocently through their Facebook feed, and 2) people might not come visit me at the beach if they know what is out there. To solve the first problem I have added the spider at the bottom of this post, so if you do not like spiders, refrain from scrolling down. As for the second problem, let me just assure everyone that I have been hanging out on this beach for about fifteen years and no spiders have harmed me as of yet (although a few may have been harmed by me if they ventured into the cottage).

Now for the photo of the beach. I think I have taken a few thousand pictures of this. This beach, those rocks, that sky, that ocean. In the snow, in the fog, in the sun and on cloudy days. I feel like the postal service of beach photos. And as I looked at this one I tried to understand why it is so appealing. There is the geometry of this shot, the horizon line between sky and water, beach and rocks. There is they way the ocean and the treed point echo each other. There are the contrasting textures: liquid ocean versus solid rocks, granular sand(ular) versus lofty air with puffy clouds. Then there are the sounds; can you hear the waves rolling in and the white-throated sparrows calling from the evergreens above? Can you feel the warm sand as it shifts under your bare feet and and the salty wind as it blows your hair into your face? Maybe it is all of that which encourages me to take a photo of this scene over and over again.

But I think there may be one thing more. This is a picture of possibilities. This is a picture of a clean slate. That expression, as you probably know, comes from the times before we recorded everything on an electronic device that stores our thoughts in "the cloud" someplace for ever and ever. A clean slate refers to the blackboard we used to use to record our ideas with chalk (incidentally made from exoskeletons of sea creatures from the Cretaceous period, but that is a story for another blog). With chalk and a blackboard we brainstormed our thoughts and then erased them and started anew. There is something attractively liberating in this. And a beach on the ocean is a similar slate. It is wiped clean twice a day by three meter tides. All of the old foot prints and four-wheeler tracks and detritus of the last half-day are smoothed away and we get to begin again. A fresh start.

For all of us finishing a school year as teachers or students, here is a metaphor for the summer: the beach is smooth and ready for new footprints. And for anyone who wants to see the spider with the big blue butt, just scroll down!

Little White Bells

When I saw these today, this first day of summer after the shortest night of summer solstice, my mind leaped forward into August when the little white flowers will have matured into indigo berries. The small, sweet, wild (lowbush) blueberries that grow in the forest and on the rocks that line the shore. Mmmm.

Ripples

Ripples act like a foot massage when you walk on them in bare feet. This reminds me of a story. When my oldest daughter was around two and just learning to speak, my niece stayed with us for a term of college. My daughter asked her for new feet. My niece couldn't understand what my daughter wanted. Eventually we figured it out; we live in a bilingual household and she was using one word in French and the other in English. When she said, "I want new feet!" she meant she wanted to go barefoot. In French that is "nu pied." She really wanted "nu" feet! 

Fleeting

Time for reflection is fleeting. Someone is often ready to run in and cause ripples on our concentration. It is tempting to be constantly surrounded by visual and auditory stimulas provided by others on our computers, televisions, speakers and earphones. It is difficult in the rush of things to just do nothing. Stand and listen. Just look. Let your own thoughts roll lazily across your consciousness without intervention. But reflection is key to creativity and even productivity. Our minds need these periods of neutral rest just like our bodies need sleep to function.

Horizons

My daughter moved to Quebec City for college this year, and when she returned to the North Shore she noticed how much she had missed seeing horizons and big skies. Don't get me wrong; she loves the urban setting, knows her bus routes and appreciates the tall leafy trees of her new home, but she kind of misses that expanse of blue, with trees in the foreground, layered on rolling hills and a distant cloud bank.

Spot the Exoskeletons

This photo looks like an arranged still life painting to me. I love the colours of purple and orange and the textures of the sand, wood, and flotsam and jetsam. Can you spot five different kinds of exoskeletons? Scroll down for a list of the ones I saw...

• Crabs (5, I think, at least if you count bodies not legs; some are only partially visible)
• sea urchins (2)
• snails (2)
• clams (2)
• barnacles (too many to count)

And no, the feather does not count as an exoskeleton. :)

Model Organism

Scientists chose yellow lichen as a model organism to help them with genome mapping! In the past they used to use it as a remedy for jaundice because of its colour, but some lichens really do have antiviral potential!

(Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xanthoria_parietina)