West Coast Adventure: Bog and Plane Crash

So... the instructions to find the Canso Crash Site near Tofino go something like this: Park in lower Radar Hill parking lot, and walk about 15 minutes south along the highway. Leave Tsunami Hazard Zone.      (Photo by Markus Roemer.)

Walk until you come to a no parking sign, behind which you will see a telephone pole with drawings of airplanes. Yes. Bring rainboots. We did not.      (Photo by Markus Roemer.)

Follow the trail into the woods...

...the enchanted woods...

Find and enter old abandoned building.

     (Photo by Taliesin.)

Go through the building, exit via the back door, and take the trail down the hill to the right.

After a hike down a hill, you will find yourself on a widened trail... widened by millions of footsteps turning a rich and gorgeous bog into barren mud.

 

Hop, balance, dangle, swing, and slog your way along, and try not to fall in.      (Photo by Taliesin.)

Because if you do, it is deep. And it is mud.      (Photo by Taliesin.)

But never mind! Retrieve your smile, sense of adventure, and carry on!      (Photo by Taliesin.)

     (Photo by Taliesin.)

     (Photo by Taliesin.)

Eventually you will come to a less devastated section of bog,

...in which you will discover a round bomb hole. This is where people cleaning out the wreckage detonated the bombs it carried. Or so we read somewhere.      (Photo by Taliesin.)

Carry on into the trees at the edge of the bog.      (Photo by Taliesin.)

Ta da! The Canso bomber was apparently on a training flight from up north, when one of the engines died, and this is where they crashed.      (Photo by Taliesin.)

     (Photo by Taliesin.)

Parks Canada doesn't really want you to come here. The only official signage we saw was at the plane crash site, itself. Thus it isn't until the end that they give any advice at all. You may see the search helicopters circling directly over the plane. This will be a reminder to you that many people become lost here every year.      (Photo by Markus Roemer.)

     (Photo by Markus Roemer.)

Explore.     (Photo by Markus Roemer.)

 

Go back to the bog. It's full of beauty. Cranberries, labrador tea, bog pine, etc. etc. etc.

This is a good place to consider whether it was a good idea to come down here. Not only have you contributed to the further destruction of the bog, but you also have to hike back out through it. Parks Canada? I think you should put in a board walk. It wouldn't be nearly as much fun, but maybe the bog could be preserved.

You will eventually hike your way out of the bog - much easier, now that you've found the balancing routes already, once.

And you will have mud to show for it. It might be one of the most awesome adventures you take.

West Coast Adventure: Kennedy River

We stopped along the side of the road for a pee, and discovered this unmarked but amazing viewpoint over the Kennedy River Canyon. The many spectacular views were worth a long visit, and many photos.

This place seemed to be all about flow: water, wind, rocks... even needles.

physiology of belonging

Flowers from loved ones. Community is an

essential part of healing. The freesias

came with a note that said "Remember -

when you can't ride the horse, get off and

walk it for a while. The horse thanks you too."

A few weeks ago, my father died.* I've been trying to get warm ever since. I know emotions are tied to body heat, but it's frustrating, anyway, to keep the house at nearly 20C and still to be cold from the inside out, always. I've been dreaming that I'm warm and cozy in a snow-cave. I drink tea and it doesn't warm me. I boldly go out in the sunshine and it feels cold on my face. I don't even sweat at ballet.

Then today, a tiny revelation: I was wrapped up in warm clothes, drinking tea and busying myself about the house to keep warm, keeping the fire stoked and constantly standing near it. Then unexpectedly my daughter mentioned to me that sometimes when people speak, she sees the words going by. What?! So do I!! I've always thought it was an anomaly - just one more lonely trait in my history of being different. I guess in the family aftermath of my father's death, a feeling of belonging somewhere was something I needed very much.

I was so excited by this revelation and the joyful feeling of belonging that I literally jumped with glee, and my daughter instantly back-pedalled: "Wait, no! It's not that exciting?!" Yes it is. "No! I probably only see them rarely! Or just once!" She was clearly alarmed at my enthusiasm, but she didn't understand how much that tiny thing meant to me. So I let it go. Then I took off my jacket. I'm too hot. My house is 20C and I just had a cup of tea, and - for the moment at least - I feel warm right through.

What physiological change was prompted by the feeling of belonging, of joy, of letting go of pain? I'm no scientist, and I haven't researched this, but the experience is a good reminder to me to appreciate and seek out these moments of joy, for whatever they are, and however seemingly unimportant, because my health and healing depends upon my doing so. It's also a reminder to me, as a parent, that my children's (and all of our) physical health depends upon our emotional health. It depends upon our sense of belonging and self-worth, as well as how we are valued at home and in the greater community. This reinforces my firm belief that healing and personal change cannot be provoked as well by external force or intervention as it can be supported by acceptance, love, and a nurtured sense of belonging.

*Further info is in the obituary, which I linked to. I don't have the emotional means to post about my father's death right now, but I promise that one day I will. It's a big family change; a big personal journey, and a very steep learning curve for me. It's going to take some time to be able to verbalize.

Love instead of hatred.

Media is depressing.

On national radio every day I hear fears about homegrown terrorism, Isis- and other radical religion-related atrocities; ongoing and always marginalization and ruination of aboriginal peoples and everything they have left on earth. On alternative news sources: murder by those in positions of authority, murder, torture and rape excused because the victims were voiceless or nameless. I hear about environmental and human devastation caused by the same corporations that also control the economy in the affected areas. Everywhere. Crimes against humanity. But it's news, we say - did we expect it to be positive?

For entertainment we get "reality", where "real" humans fight each other for viewers' support, or for hard-won praise from cruel and obnoxious judges who swear, belittle, ridicule, cut people off mid-performance, break dishes and spit out food. Or how about the mainstream drama that isn't entertaining without some form of visceral brutality, whether it be bloody gore, social or physical domination, emotionally fraught nastiness that at once demeans us as humans and makes us hate each other.

Yes. Hate. Each other.

In the smallest and the most brutal ways.

The latest hot-button hate issue in my feeds is vaccines. The pro-vaxxers vs. the anti-vaxxers. Never mind all those unvaccinating pro-vaxxers and vaccinated anti-vaxxers, and the large number of people just caught up in the hate game, posting vicious memes and catchy sarcastic "quotes", even though they know nothing about the issue. But when they've run out of juice they transfer the hating to whatever fashion trend is currently unpopular. Just pick a topic and start making threats and accusations. It's an easy game.

I'm mad. I'm mad at us all. I'm mad that we're letting hate grab us by the throats and throttle us. I'm so mad that I feel mad about this! So disappointed in myself.

I told myself that the next time somebody got angry with me, I would respond with love.
That was years ago. I keep on trying. I keep on failing.

I imagine myself like a cool wall of water, and let the hate hit me and flow away. But secretly on my side of that wall of water there is a little girl saying "stop it!" "that's not true!" "don't be mean to me!" and "help!" Until my words come bubbling up through the water and I have responded. Given time, and a keyboard, I can mediate my response to make it positive, but in person that doesn't happen. Either I start some accusations of my own, or I cry. Both just as harmful.

It's easy to be compassionate. I can see reasons to love anybody at all. It's reasons to love myself that are hard to come by, and when I'm feeling vulnerable, like when my family members are angry with me, that self-love crumbles, and I end up saying things I've heard in the media. I listen to a lot of music, so the lines usually come out of angry rock songs and bitter murder ballads. Yes, I'm admitting this. It's embarrassing.  

We all emulate what we experience.

So I wonder: if our media was all compassionate - and I don't mean hiding the facts or putting a glossy sheen on everything, but compassionately presented in a way that honoured and valued all people - how would our reactions begin to change? We're all going to get upset. We're all going to be hurt and get angry and feel terribly terribly weak and helpless. But if we surrounded ourselves with people and media that were accepting and loving... then perhaps we could find it in ourselves to feel strength instead of fear, create healing instead of injury; 

love instead of hatred.

Why community radio from the other side of the continent matters to us in BC

So I've been listening to WMMT out of Whitesburg Kentucky since my Aunt introduced me to it a few weeks ago. It's a community radio station, mostly playing Appalachian music and stories: real people, unedited... I listen because they play the music of my soul, and fill my heart with joy.

Click here to listen: http://www.wmmt.org/listen

But not after 3PM. After 3PM, Mondays through Thursdays, they play news from the mountains (because 3PM our time is 6PM mountain time).

Mountain news may not be local to us here in BC, but it's more relevant than our own polished news, sometimes. It's been revelatory for me re: natural gas infrastructure. Every time I hear it they seem to be reporting on various tragedies to land and people caused by NG industry. The industry is never available for comment; the people are: Increased mortality, illnesses, birth defects, contaminated groundwater, drinking water, farmland. The news is ALWAYS devastating. The stories are heartbreaking, and prolific, encompassing many whole towns and cities, and they're interspersed with reports of natural gas industry expansion and job opportunities in various communities in NG or spill cleanup.

I think, as we in BC are having this industry shoved down our throats, but our local news doesn't report on these things, WMMT 3PM is a good thing for us to be listening to.

I'm Sorry I Let You Take the FSA

"They don't test us for French or science or art or humanities. They only test us for math and English. I think they want us all to grow up to be accountants, but they don't realize that if we all grew up to be accountants, nobody would be a farmer, and then all the accountants would die."

~Taliesin

I mistakenly allowed my son to take the FSA this year. Yes: Mistakenly. I forgot to object.

Every year in BC, students in grade four and seven are given the Foundation Skills Assessment. The BC Ministry of Education says that "The main purpose of the assessment is to help the province, school districts, schools and school planning councils evaluate how well students are achieving basic skills, and make plans to improve student achievement. FSA is designed and developed by British Columbia educators. The skills assessed are linked to the provincial curriculum and provincial performance standards." Seems reasonable, if you're a pencil-pushing administrator who wants to see that all the students conform. Not if you're trying to raise a whole and healthy child or community. And isn't that actually what we're trying to do?

Schools are judged by their students' performance on these tests. Teachers are also evaluated with these results in mind. Schools and teachers, who for the most part got into the job for the opportunity to nurture and inspire children to live to their own beautiful potential, live under the threat of not living up to these imposed standards. Some of them might even think the test is valuable, but even our BC Teacher's Federation advises parents to opt out, stating that "It takes valuable time and much needed resources away from the classroom learning and undermines the ability to provide meaningful learning experiences for all students. The FSA results are misused by a private organization to rank schools based on a very narrow measure. The FSA tests do not result in any additional funding or support for students."

The FSA is a part of the system that attempts to mold our children into good working citizens, but not to value them for their own intrinsic passions and gifts. It's a system that not only insults the intelligence of both teachers and children, but leads to generation upon generation of adults who, having grown up in this system, now feel inadequate when we don't conform, instead of proud to be the brilliant individuals we are. It leads us to shuffle our children off into the same system, terrified that our children might also not conform; might not succeed according to the yard-sticks we were held up against, ourselves. The system feeds on itself, but it's not serving any of us, or the evolution of our species, as a whole.

So, in forgetting to send in my letter of objection, I have furthered these issues. I'm sorry. For my son and for every generation to come whose teachers remain as throttled as ours are, today, I'm dreadfully sorry. I will not make this mistake, again.

Assimilation: Passing the Buck

This week in my community two young deer met their demise and were found gory by the side of the road. A community discussion ensued, as people debated what could have happened to them and who could or should be called to clean them up. Apparently this is normally a job for our municipal staff, as the roads are municipal land. But really? Really, can we not just clean up a couple of deer by ourselves? Yes of course it's a grisly job, and nobody wants to do it (and the longer they lay there waiting, the more grisly it becomes), but if those deer were near my house I would haul them into the woods, dig a hole and bury them. I've done this a few times over the years. If it weren't for the stench of them, I'd just leave them to feed the wildlife that depends on just such fortuitous but gruesome circumstances for food. Actually I like to think that if the deer died of something other than illness and I found it soon enough, I'd take it for food, myself! But this hasn't happened near my house.

CBC reports that in Canada, Stephen Harper is more popular among men, and Justin Trudeau is more popular among women. Oh! Justin! Be still my beating heart! My son came back from school, eagerly reporting that some of the students had met Justin Trudeau in the city and had their picture taken with him! (Swoon.) He thinks most kids at his school now "hope Justin wins". But does he know what Justin's policy direction is? Um. No. But it's probably good because he's nice. He would do nice things for us; better than Stephen Harper. Right? And my son says he would vote green anyway, but he doesn't think the Green Party leader (what is her name?) is doing very much.

As a lifetime Green supporter, I was seriously disturbed by this. Because he's right. Elizabeth May isn't towing the popularity line. She's not offering to do stuff for people; she's not out making headlines every day, vowing to support renewable energy or families. She knows she doesn't have that Hollywood flair that will get Harper and Trudeau their votes. CBC also reports about Stephen Harper's little-known electric guitar collection. Oooooh. Elizabeth May just wrote a book. She talked to people face-to-face in our little community. But she doesn't clean up our dead deer.

I'm busy trying to advertise for our local Nature Club's AGM, where hopefully we'll get people to renew their memberships, support the Federation of BC Naturalists, listen to a great speaker, and then go out inspired in their community to explore, engage with, and protect our wilderness. They have to be members to join us on outings, because their membership form and fee means that we're covered by insurance, in case they are injured. Everybody understands this. Everybody knows that it's not safe to run an organization without insurance; that even if they wouldn't personally sue us in case of an injury, their healthcare provider would. So we're all OK with the insurance situation. We know we need protection. Especially in the woods because, you know, it's a wilderness out there.

I've been assimilating these diverse thoughts: Why is it that we (the rhetorical 'we') are so unwilling to take responsibility for our own welfare; our own policy; our own dead deer? And this morning on the way home from dropping my son off for a field trip, with his bag full of gear carefully prescribed by the ski hill he's going to, and he telling me that he knows he doesn't need the extra pair of gloves or snow pants; rain pants are much better... it hit me: They're training him to seek instruction instead of figuring things out for himself. Of course, I do know why the ski hill sends out the gear-list: They're covering themselves in case of litigation, and furthermore, they want the kids to be comfortable. But if he gets wet and cold (he will), that will be a far better lesson to him.

This morning, as I drove home, got the mail, and decided not to put my seatbelt back on for the remaining two-minute drive home, I realized that our choice to unschool is and always has been more about the future than the present. Yes, I'm aware that an accident is just as likely to happen in that short bit of my journey as it was in the longer part, but I wanted to do something on my terms: Take a small risk and feel the consequences (here I am; no accident, thank goodness). Isn't that what all of us are trying to do from the moment we're born?

Drawing by Taliesin

Unschooling is our choice to allow that risk-taking to happen; to allow ourselves and our children to face our own consequences, and to learn to pick up our own dead deer, instead of passing the buck. (Ha ha ha - couldn't resist.) When we raise our children in what is usually a school or other rule-based environment where they rarely have an opportunity to truly need to look after themselves, their own environment, or their own future, we strip them of the knowledge, wisdom, or skill to do that, and they (like we) become dependent upon other people to look after them. They will look for the most relatable or personable leader instead of the one whose policy makes the most sense. They will look for the leader who promises the most goodies. They will want to live on cruise ships, in master-planned communities, and fantasy communities, where no part of their experience is truly self-determined. They will want to sit back and watch life go by like a reality TV show, where the content is managed, the big moments are sparkly and the sad moments are either sappy or hidden.

But PLO's! But grade-levels! But how will I know my child will survive adulthood?! I don't. But for some of us, it is more important to know that we give them the tools to survive it on their own terms, than that we give them a structure to keep safe. Artists have known this always. In school we even give our children such media to read, like A Wrinkle in Time, and 1984. But then we tell them to pick apart the books and describe them according to somebody else's plan, and the point - the truly terrifying message those books carry - is lost. And our children write book reports about the rise and fall of the plot line and the conclusion and the social ramifications of the books, and they are graded and sent off to the next lesson, and here we are: billions of people following the track, waiting to be handed the next lesson; the next processed food item, without very much compunction to get up and drive ourselves.

We complain that we are being taken advantage of by the one percent, by corporate interests; by our bosses and insurance agencies and the rats who eat our chicken feed. (Somebody must be responsible for having introduced rats to this island, after all...) We fear that we are unable to adequately raise our own children, to defend our freedom, to grow our own food, or to properly dispose of some dead deer. And we pass the buck, preferring to watch crazy people on TV take risks we only dream of. It's time to realize not only our potential but our great beauty and wisdom. Each and every one of us has the capacity to be a sparkling leader in some way; to reach into our dreams and follow our passions. Each of us has the responsibility to pick ourselves up after a stumble or even a really terrible fall, and to clean up our own backyards. We don't have to look for greatness in leadership. We can be great.

In the Dark in the Cold

Tonight we all sat out on the porch until our fingers froze, trying to look at comet Lovejoy through binoculars, a bird-scope and Tali's telescope. Well, we did look at the comet, but it was basically a ball of fuzz with a slightly bluish bright spot where the actual comet could be seen through its tail. I felt like I should document, but it was, after all, pitch-black, being a prime comet-viewing situation (dark moon on an island), but I have neither devices nor skill to take photos through a telescope, and anyway this is more recognisable. Here is our good friend, Oh! Ryan! as he was ambling up the field of view, this evening.

Click to enlarge.

My Girl Can Cook!

Rhiannon has always been fond of creating beauty: Beautiful spaces, beautiful stories, poems, and music, and - lucky for us - beautiful food.
 
Thanks to Julie, from Mennonite Girls Can Cook, for the basis of this wonderful recipe. We basically substituted yogurt for the milk, and flax seeds and water for the egg, which Rhiannon blended up thoroughly with the liquid ingredients and let sit while we mixed the flours, etc. It worked very well: voila egg- AND gluten/soy-free perogies!

The recipe-finding and adapting was my job, but, other than a bit of help with perogy-folding (because it's way more fun to do it over a good conversation!), this was Rhiannon's inspiration and effort. She made the dough, created a filling of potatoes, green onions and cheddar cheese, rolled, cut and folded about half of them, and also cooked them for us, for dinner! Delicious! I love that my girl can cook!

fold

press

The flax gave the perogies a warm, pinkish whole-grain look. Beautiful!

Lughnasa ate with us as usual. But kitten food; not perogies.

What do unschoolers do all day?

...AKA Our Unschooling Schedule!

My kids in their most recent fort... with the grandparents' dog!

I thought it time to post again about our unschooling schedule, since the kids are so much older now, and obviously that means many changes.

The 12-year old:
Of course, if you follow this blog then you know that our son has entered school this year - it's an interesting experiment, and means that his and my life are now governed by an actual daily schedule, imposed by someone else. Basically, we get up every day at 7, I make his lunch while he gets breakfast, dressed, hair brushed, etc. and packs his bag, and then he walks to school at 8. Homework included (and Ultimate two days a week in the autumn and spring), he only has about 1.5 to 2 days free every week, and he spends most of those drawing, or playing outside. The colossal amount of reading he used to do during the years he didn't attend school has all but vanished; he reads for a few minutes every night, now -- except when he's drawing. From the outside, it appears that there's just so much to process from school each day that he gets it out with pens and paper, and doesn't have much energy left for soaking in his beloved books.

The 10-year-old:
Here's where things are still pretty flexible! She has quite a few chosen commitments each week, including assisting at a local daycare/preschool, a weekly mother's helper job, contemporary dance class, a children's choir, our weekly (F)unschool outing, and the various visits with friends that she arranges for herself. Then there's the walking and cycling to get to each of those places, and sometimes picking up friends from school (on foot) on the way. And being a member of the family, she also helps out with gardening, compost, house-tidying, laundry, and firewood-gathering. That leaves her with about 3 half-days and 1 or 2 whole days free each week, which she gleefully fills with whichever of her favourite activities she's currently most passionate about or dedicated to:

• building forts and other special spaces outside
• creating magazines, books, games, and other paper-based projects
• running with Auntie and grandparents' dog in their 2-person-1-dog running club
• "training" the cat
• writing her short novel
• visiting the local library
• reading in and reorganizing her own library
• baking, cooking, and creating new recipes
• posting to her blogs (one personal and one about gift economies)
• painting, drawing, and various crafts
• teaching herself to play guitar and piano
• teaching herself Dutch, using books and Duolingo online
• completing workbook pages (her brother never did this, but she loves them!)
• creating workbooks for friends, family, and dolls
• planning, planting, and tending her own garden

Obviously, there's much more on that list than one could possibly do in a week (and I'm sure I've forgotten a few things), which is why some things are left behind for weeks at a time, and then picked up again, later. The beauty of unschooling is the flexibility and opportunity to follow desires. This is how we're working that out at our house, these days!

Perspective

The ferry that usually services our island is in for a refit, for accommodation of more vehicles, lounge-to-ramp offloading, and other such amenities. Meanwhile, we have been gifted with the opportunity to use our usual replacement-vessel, the Bowen Queen.

I don't go into the city often, but yesterday I had an opportunity to take the kids for a town-adventure, and after we drove onto the ferry, my kids went running upstairs to remind themselves of the many delights they look forward to every time we get this ship: three passenger lounges, four outside decks for exploring in the wind and rain - and the view. The view is the reason I stayed on the car deck.

This boat has been our replacement vessel every year or two throughout most of my life. When I was a child, and our regular boat was smaller, I was always so disappointed that the sides of this replacement were taller at the front and back, and blocked the view. Now, by comparison to the behemoth ship we usually have, I'm just so thrilled to have the mostly lower sides of the Bowen Queen. I'm happy to actually feel the sway of the boat on the water, to see the salt spray over the sides, the engine-room doors left open by the crew and the feeling that, because the boat is smaller, the crew pay more attention to fitting cars snugly and carefully. I love this boat.

I turn off the radio, sick of hearing about what makes us different from Islamists; what makes the French different from Canadians; why our racism is better than their racism or why religion is the salvation or destruction of us all. From the vehicle deck I can look straight out across the sound, reach my arms into the wind, and step sideways with the pull of the rocking boat.

It's been foggy, lately. Gulls, seals, and small boats dip and disappear in the infinite grey between water and wind. This is a time when defining lines are blurry, and maybe there are no real boundaries at all.

On our late afternoon return, the fog has lifted to catch the setting sun in the distance; the wake of a burdenless tugboat separates fast, sending waves out in either direction to hook up and lap at the receding clouds. A guy in his rowboat, still a long way from his destination, seems to sit still on the moving drink that fills the pockets of our earth. We're all going home.