Ballast To Which I Cling

Ballast To Which I Cling

 By Maryanna Gabriel

The other day, the man who helps me with the garden and whatnot, asked who the prime minister of Canada was. I looked at him with envy. Oh, to be free. Not that I don't like our prime minister, rather, to not be news aware. 

I read once that in these strange times, Pandora's Box is wide open. Aside from the strange goings on geopolitically, each of us also has personal challenges. How we meet these challenges is a test.

Gardening is the best therapy, I find. The former owner of where I live was a rose whisperer and left me with an amazing tree which is now in bloom. The beauty of it astounds me. In a way, it's a ballast to which I cling. 

There is a writing workshop fast approaching, and I'm in preparation mode. More on that to come. For now though, I am hunkered down and madly writing in the summer heat, not only in preparation for the workshp, but because the only way to get to the page is to actually do so. Back, I believe, with more in October. Don't give up on me. Am still here. Sort of.  

In The Closet Again

Stand back. Super high technology on display. 

 

        By Maryanna Gabriel 

I am coming out of the closet. Yes, it is true. Because I have been in the closet once again. I have just completed two productions through Magic Cottage Creations. One is called "Kayaking Solo", a story about a woman who kayaks around Salt Spring Island to shake off a relationship gone awry, and the second is called "Francesca Saves A Unicon", inspired by my family, for the younger set, say less than eight years old. 

Here is what it looks like when I do a reading for audio publication.... the coat hangers are my innovation. Whaddya think? Should I patent them? The idea is to do away with the rustle of the turning page while recording. I also wrap a curtain behind me so the sound stays within.

The closet is the preferred place to do a recording because the hats and coats absorb any reverberations from a large empty room, and this way I have an instant insulated sound booth. So handy. 

Coming to a sound theatre near you... 

"Kayaking Solo" 16 min: Spotify  or   Libro  or  Apple   or  Kobo 

"Francesca Saves A Unicorn" 9 min : Spotify  or  Libro  or  GooglePlay   or  Chirp 

Milk & Honey Pt 3

 by Maryanna Gabriel 


Clearly, I had underestimated the prowess of octogenarians wielding power and the bondage that entailed. The writing was on the wall, er, rather, contract. I needed to be Mistress Of My Own Shrubberies. With the sale, I happily departed from the beige nonsense and ventured forth. I was looking for a new home where the word "freehold" was part of the deal. 

After a protracted wander in the vast and arid desert that was the Canadian housing market, a miracle occurred. Seriously. I was led to a land of milk and honey. And very freehold, I am overjoyed to say.

Land of Milk & Honey
Pictured lower right - "cluster of Windmill Palms".

Hey, and you'll never guess. So, I'll tell you! There are baby Windmill Palms, a veritable cluster of them, planted lovingly by the former owner, healthily thriving in a magnificent garden where roses bloom.

Funny, isn't it?

By the way, the next patio townhome owner lasted ten months. Given the renovations she had made I estimated she also sold at a loss.

In the real estate photos, the palm was gone.

So you see, all is well. And there is quite a lot to be said for being a person of colour, even if it is chlorophyll, after all. Perhaps we may deduce this as the moral of the tale. 

Milk & Honey Pt 2

 by Maryanna Gabriel 


...., but underneath the beige uniformity (inside and out, I might add) there lurked a darkness of formidable magnitude. It took the form of The Committee and little did I understand what was coming.

One Sunday, yes, Sunday, they arrived at 9:00 in the morning on the dot, with shears in hand. The Committee went after the shrubberies out front.

In my nightgown I watched in horror. "Watch out for the Dahlias!" I cried. 

Taking steps to protect my secret garden. 

They hacked and hewed and sheared lovely old things, some of which took decades to grow. The more magnificent were hauled to their death. Slowly, the yard was denuded as I helplessly stood aside.

Word got out about my secret garden and, in fear, I stopped inviting people over. You see, deep down, I was not a beige person. Independent thinking was not welcome. People began to stare. 

A trusted friend who came often for tea loved my palm. She told The Committee about it and demanded one for herself. 

Alarmed by this turn of events, I drove an hour to a Windmill Palm Breeder, a difficult accomplishment, thinking this would put an end to such protracted envy and gave one to her. My friend placed it in a pot on the remaining dirt the committee had left by her door knowing putting her new palm in the ground would endanger it. 

Maybe now, I thought, all would be put to rest and Windmill Palm and I could live forever ever after in peace. But no. One chlorophyll sacrifice was not enough. 

Milk & Honey Pt 1

 by Maryanna Gabriel 

Kind of a funny story. For a time, I lived in what they call a patio townhome. I know. What I didn't understand when I bought it was that I didn't own the ground it sat on. I know. I'm a little slow, but to be honest, the realtor was on holiday in the process which was conducted via long distance and, well, I guess that bit got left out. I just assumed. 

Sorry for digressing. In the back of this townhome there was an eye-catching palm which added an exotic air to the place. I learned it was called a Windmill Palm. About four feet tall, it set off the patio beautifully.

In time, I discovered other exotic planting under years of neglect and I happily coaxed them out. Delighted by my secret garden, the garden thrived and I felt content....  

Being Interviewed About The Camino

 By Maryanna Gabriel 

I was recently interviewed by podcast host, Christine Musser of "The Wandering Pen". How good of a name is that for a podcast? 

I discuss my journey on the Camino along the French route in Spain, the process of writing the book about it, and where I am at today. Here is the link if you wish to hear it.

Solo Travel, Grief, and the Camino de Santiago: A Healing Pilgrimage

Spotify https://open.spotify.com/episode/1dlhAZxpYyG1GLKOGcPxbV

https://wanderingpen.podbean.com/e/the-title-of-maryanna_gabriel_podcast_completed_7120257gpel/

Statue of Saint James along the Camino.

 

Ferry Trauma: Don't Bend Like I Used To

 By Maryanna Gabriel 


Left behind. Frick. Is that a swear? It is a wonderful word. Really gets the feeling out. I was to be car camping. It wasn't good. 

Dash it all anyway. It was a bright sunny day, and it was perfect for a Day Off... tiddly pom. I wanted to swim at one of my favourite places and you know how it is these days... one has to be strategic about this type of thing to avoid crowds. But I had a good feeling and was up for the job. So I boarded the ferry destined for a nearby island and, well... it was wonderful. I had a splendid time. Good job, I said to myself. How terribly clever I am. For the return ferry, I was well in advance because we islanders don't mess around. The ferries wait for no man, er, woman, er, whatever. The wild-eyed look of an islander clearing the room at a hundred miles an hour is well understood in these parts. Everybody steps back understandingly because the consequences are horrific.

Well, I pulled up at the booth, but the hesitation of the attendant was a red flag. Then he announced my doom. "We cancelled the ferry. Today. Because it is summer, it is now dedicated to the Vancouver route." 

Today? There was no arguing with the man. Just because it was there a couple of weeks back does not mean it will run a couple of weeks hence. Right? Silly me. 

Okay, dinner out. Phone battery dying. Internet sketchy. Accommodation? Nil. Accommodation on the only alternate route the ferry took that night? Nil. Well not if you want to drive 30 miles and pay $400. How do all these people have the money to snap up every room, everywhere, at off the chart prices, anyway? I must be from another era. The last minute room at $100 was not going to happen. 

There was no choice. I would sleep in my car outside the terminal. And you know what? It was an endless uncomfortable night. I'm amazed I survived to tell this tale, actually, given I don't bend like I used to. Always, double-check the schedules.

 Gotcha. Sigh....

Coming Up Roses

 By Maryanna Gabriel 

  "We must be still and still moving."   

                                                     -  TS Elliot                                                          

Out on my deck and with my mind careening on some sad trajectory or other, possibly the question of why did God invent slugs, I was drawn to the flash of yellow. 

Oh my. 

Yellow roses curling in voluminous thick golden glory over the railing. You have to understand this is all new. You see, I have become mistress to these gardens only recently so it is unexpected. Immediately, I rushed for the scissors and brought a bouquet into the dining room feeling utterly transported.  

This led to a tour of the grounds. A white lily introduced herself and a series of red roses bloomed in profusion over a curved trellis. Not an aphid in sight. 

It is clear to me there is such a thing as a rose whisperer and if true, the former owner surely qualifies. How could I be so lucky? There are roses everywhere! And all kinds. How could a person possibly remain down in the dumps in the face of such beauty? 

Two Tricky Chairs

 By Maryanna Gabriel


Where there is life, there is hope. The squash starts are in a jury-rigged plant hospital in makeshift pots on the deck. Not much left really, but there is still a hint of green. Interviews with fellow gardeners indicate the slug invasion is pervasive. So, it isn't just me. The eggshells, the diatomaceous earth, even plastic domes have proven to be useless fail-stops. But this post is not about the perils of planting. It is about two chairs. And the two chairs I sold yesterday made me think of a painting my mother did. Where that painting is now is beyond me. 

When I sold two chairs yesterday, I was unprepared for the emotional wallop. They were good chairs, still with labels, and well constructed. The handy practical sort and camping type. Nice ochre colour. They were bought for a vision, a dream, that I would enjoy riverside reveries with someone I love dearly. But that dream, that vision, never came to pass. That someone failed to show. So the chairs were folded and put away. Life went on. 

The thing is, I didn't understand the chairs, the inanimate objects, were the keepers of residual grief. Of course they should go to someone to enjoy. So I was unsuspecting as I took the money. When the wallop came I was unprepared. Grief threatened to swallow me whole.

At first, I didn't get it. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. It took some time but I traced what was coming up to the chairs and hence the memory. Who knew chairs could be so tricky?

The upshot is, that like squash plants, there is still hope. And so it goes. Sometimes we just have to cling to the dear life that is left.

Attack Of The Killer Slugs

 By Maryanna Gabriel 


Somehow, not sure how I got here, I have found myself relaxing. I've heard this happens on holidays and it is unclear how it has crept on me. Maybe it is the rain. Except for the killer slugs.

Very sly slugs they are.

Very sly slugs they are. All over everything, even plants I thought were fine. Turns out they camouflage into a pale colour so they blend into the green. These are so small they are hard to see. The eye is trained for the black ones, you see, who are larger and have been in steady migration from a ditch outside the garden beyond the gate.

Fie upon ye. 

I had a feeling... I went out armed with crushed eggshells in search of the one precious red strawberry I

Eggshells as weaponry.

had recently espied. I was just in time. Saved the strawberry, you will be happy to know, and surrounded the others with crushed shell and bits of straw, the thesis being, this hurts their little slimy selves and so move on. 

Saving the crop.

The truth is, it is the moving on part that is the worry, and when I saw the troop on the march from the garden gate, I upped my ante. Armed with plastic containers from the bin, I made little green houses over the more precious plants.

Then that night a wind blew. Gone was a delphinium. A rare squash. And the potato plants were covered with their puffy black bodies. So Hitchcock.

May showers have killed the April flowers. Goodness knows, I am all in a tizzy. It is slug patrol for me morning and night. 

The Crow Who Could Not Fly

 By Maryanna Gabriel


While Mr. Glinty Eyes flies off and bugs someone else down the road, a friend wrote when she saw my post.

She had a crow story. This crow came to her and her partner when he was injured and unable to fly. He was being heckled by starlings who proceeded to dive bomb the poor thing. Without intervention, it was clear the crow would die. They hoped to nurse him back to health so they decided to rescue him. They built a container for him and named him Chuckie. 

Chuckette, the pet crow. 

My friend who wishes to remain anonymous writes:

...tried to teach him to fly but he was happy walking around in the cage. We went to the zoo which had a crow habitat to learn how to make a house. Chuckie loved Maude [the dog] and would nestle up to her from inside the cage and groom her. He ended up being a she, when she laid five eggs of the most gorgeous blue colour. My neighbors son, who was 5 at the time, took them for show and tell. 

I think that she felt safe in her cage from the outer world. When I would take her out to try to teach her how to fly on the grass, I would use Woody the parrot’s first big bird cage to transport her.
She was very nervous. Unfortunately,no flight, only a dive bomb on the grass. That’s when I put the long boards at different levels in huge 10 x 10 x 5 cage with a top. She would only hop from the different levels and eventually just enjoyed strutting around. 

Crows and Ravens nest so high in the trees that it is rare to see their eggs. Crows and Ravens have a language as you may already know with their caws. Sometimes they will mimic our words. However “Chuckette” never did but she would whinny exactly like the horses. From your garbage experience, you can guess that crows and ravens are omnivores. So twice a day, I fed her a mixture of food. Sadly after she laid her eggs, she wasn’t as strong but also after Maude passed, she wasn’t happy and passed.

I hope and think that it was a good life for her.

Crow eggs.

Conversation With Mr. Glinty Eyes

 By Maryanna Gabriel 


The raven before me was huge. Garbage was strewn everywhere. He had poked gaping holes into the bag. He regarded me calmly. 

    "Caw," I said in guttural tones. My exasperation apparently carried conviction. He lifted into the air and landed a foot away from his previous stance. Good. My attempt at inter-species communication had impact. His stare was bold. Glinting. 

    Damn it. "Caw, caw!" I flapped my arms for emphasis. For a brief moment I fancied he would fly into my face but he if so, he reconsidered, and with an effortless lift regarded me from the safety of the other side of the road. 

    Rural collection has been erratic, and I am still trying to understand how it works. I would have to invest in a protective bin. Clearly. 

    Ravens are supposed to be mystical creatures. That's the theory, anyway. Once, in Byron Bay, Australia, I had a tarot reading and a raven had tapped on the window as the reader interpreted the cards. She was so absorbed in what she was saying she barely noticed. For me, however, it gave credence about a family member. The reading was life changing. The tapping seemed to give emphasis from somewhere beyond. Or someone. 

    However, there was nothing mystical about this saucy fellow. But now it would seem I can keep my caws to myself for the day is saved. I found what I needed on sale. Even more importantly, unlike the mountains where I lived last spring, there are no bears. An unmystical raven after garbage is much more managable. All is well, after all. 

Easter Pastry

 By Maryanna Gabriel

Living on an island, one is not privvy to city nicities. Lately, I have been craving a Danish and it being Easter, I decided to bake.

I thought about healing as I worked the dough. I roll the butter into the flour and it takes shape. Wounding is soothed and abrasion is smoothed by several pats and time out in the fridge. 

The rhubarb filling simmers, its pungent scent fills the kitchen with peace, more powerful than anger. I set the syrupy mixture aside to cool.

Staring past the window, I watch a hummingbird. Chaos is an option. I don't have to participate.  

Back to the dough. Fold the butter, roll, turn. The pastry takes time. Roll. Healing takes time. Turn. Dough, butter, dough, butter. Turn. The more layered, the flakier. Abrasion, peace, abrasion, peace. An umbrication.

The Danish and I become one. Dignity. My layers soften. Out of the oven, and oh so divine. 

Always A Thrill

By Maryanna Gabriel 

Wahoo!!

Just made the long list for a story contest!! Honestly, you just can't imagine! Am jumping up and down. It does not matter if I win. It's just so nice to get this far. This has been a story I could not let go of about a woman who kayaks in an attempt to resolve her love life.

It is the Federation of BC Writers literary contest for 2025. Link

https://fbcwcontest.com/2024-long-list/

Exterior Decorating

 By Maryanna Gabriel

Slowly, I have been collecting pieces of slate. With a promising start to the week, I decided I would tackle covering the ugly brick at the base of the greenhouse, ignoring the dread in the pit of my stomach. Starting a job one isn't certain of is always hardest. Once one gets going, I've discovered, it usually works out. 

Reading the directions to the mortar mix, I stirred. Oh, no. Wayyyy too much water. Half the bag went in to thicken the gray soup. Working quickly before it hardened, the problem became the slate not adhering. Heavier pieces on top caused the lower section to collapse. With a sense of urgency, I bent myself into Houdini positions, reworking the stone puzzle. Almost there. With no time to stop for lunch, my new arrangements refused to cooperate. A sharp pain was a warning. Almost finished - just a little more mortar. By midafternoon, standing upright was a shock. The stone work held and, gosh, it looked beautiful. I crawled into the house. Had the pain been worth it?

A trip to town was in order.

"Do you think you could take it easy for a bit?" My chiropractor was attempting reason. Diplomacy with her clients is her strong point.

I love this woman. I swear, without her, I would be dead. My reply was a muffled, "Might try the next wall a year from now." She adjusted the offending vertebrae.

"Good. And use ice."

On the happier side, the rockery has held. It looks like it has always been there. 

oh beauteous wall...

Thoughts On A Chai Day

By Maryanna Gabriel

It is a day for making Chai. Some days are. Stormy and blustery yet surrounded by the promise of spring. A closer inspection of my garden patch revealed the onion sets had vanished. I looked more closely. So had the peas for that matter. Dang. What critter would do that?

A movie had caught my eye and a trip to town was in order. The Way, My Way was made by Australian, Bill Bennett, about the Camino. It received good reviews. I bought my ticket and plunked down and as I watched, proceeded to bawl my eyes out. The plot was not complicated -  a curmudgeon who does the Camino Frances finishes a better man. Why did I cry? The fact I had done it? How much it reforges one? My book? All of this, I suppose. And an indescribable something more. The mystery perhaps of how miracles and synchronicities work. 

No one has approached me about making a movie. Yet. How did Bennett do it? After his journey, he wrote the script himself. Hmmm, she thought as she  bent to replant her peas, this time under a protective cover. 

A Welcome Slow Walk

 By Maryanna Gabriel

"Watch now how I start the day in happiness..."

Mary Oliver 

Spring in all her glory... there is hope. 

The world falls away when I am in a garden. It may not seem I am resting as I plant, but the hours pass unnoticed. Then I wonder why my back hurts at the end of the day!

With a break in some cranky spring weather, I visited the nearby Japanese Gardens for inspiration. It was built by volunteers to commemorate the peoples that contributed so much. A sign says the zig-zag bridge was a means to prevent evil spirits from entering but it also slows down the viewer.

 It worked. My walk was slow. And most welcome.

Konnichiwa. 

Shielding Oneself With Hygge

 By Maryanna Gabriel

"...if I have faith that can move mountains,
but have not love, I am nothing."
1 Corinthians 13:1

"A Room of One's Own"

It has been an intense week for many with the full moon, the eclipse, political upheavals, tornadoes, and transitions implying goodness knows what.

I have been shielding myself. 

My loving friend died this week with her dignity intact through MAID. She had Parkinson's and was in a care facility and knew it was her time. At the very last, friends gathered around her to recount stories and honour her gifts to us. Her choice is one I respect, but still it has been hard. 

For the living, we go on, such as it is, in these strange times. For me, the best way to counter death is through connecting with the beauty of life through the Danish concept of hygge. Hygge is about embracing coziness with a studied tour de force. This meant having a wood fire, lighting candles, playing inspirational music, and taking extra care with special dinners, a call to a dear friend. It meant hot baths and snuggling with the cosiest of blankets and giving myself permission to go slow and just be. It also meant getting outside and embracing the emerging seedlings and budding trees whilst envisioning serene summer spaces.

One has to make each day count after all. 

What A Way To Go

By Maryanna Gabriel 


Yesterday there was a power failure and I wondered why. A friend had a story around it. One island over lost their power and often when they do, we lose ours, and it was thought this was due to an accident. A car had driven over the cliff at the ferry terminal.

Imagine waking up, having a coffee, rushing to catch the ferry, because nobody catches ferries in a leisurely fashion, presumably having a heart attack, driving through cement pilons, then soaring over a cliff up into the air and landing in the ocean. My goodness. What a way to go. Not quite what one expects when one gets out of bed in the morning. 

They pulled the car out the next day. 

One never knows what is coming next. 

In contemplation of this strange story, I enclose some inspiration for these our precious days. 

Be Kind To Yourself

By Sophie Diener

I hope today you remember that the sky is not humiliated by its vastness

And the mountains remain 

unashamed of their height.

Mother earth and her oceans are not afraid of their size,

And the sun is not concerned if someone has to squint their eyes.

It will shine.

And it will not apologize for its light.

And like the trees that teach us -
it's okay to lose our leaves as the seasons change,

 and then come back to life.

I hope that nature teaches us to look at ourselves and be kind

I hope that we don't dim, or shrink, or fold into spaces far too tight

Yes, today, I hope when look at yourself that you are kind.

- with thanks to Stage Door Johnny

Update: It turns out the fellow was young, not old, was not at a ferry terminal but rather a dock and it was not one island over. That is the grape vine for you. A recent news item stated that the RCMP thought "speed was a factor". 

Given The Uncertainty

 By Maryanna Gabriel



This morning had me scrambling for my insurance documents. The corner of the house rattled. Again. It was a 4.5. This time it was very close. If one was trying to ignore the ominous feeling in one's pit with world news, the geology around here would say otherwise. 

Yesterday, I planted. With the sunshine, it felt like June. I love the timeless feeling as I work. The world falls away while I poke through my seed packages. For the first time in my life, I have graduated from direct planting under remay enshrouded rows to an actual greenhouse so in wonderment, I place the

Putting one's best green thumb forward. 

seeds.

There are two new patches of dirt I am also cultivating and how to arrange it is very much on my mind. Given the uncertainty in the air, it seems prudent to put one's best green thumb forward. Imagine my delight as I stumbled across a patch of pink protruding buds of rhubarb down in the lower forty. 

I also bought an electric composter. It seemed extravagant, but no, it is actually prudent and in the end will save me money. I spend so much on soil, and so much energy trying to understand how to deal with compost and the rules of garbage on a gulf island, without enciting a riot from the raccoons, to say nothing of the mice and rats that it is giving me a complete thrill. 

Jasper, the cat's tail is much better. And so it goes. 

5.2

 By Maryanna Gabriel 

    Yesterday, it started as a rumble from afar that approached at lightening speed. 
        "Is that an earthquake?" I asked myself. 

QuakeWatch: two quakes off the coast of western Canada. 

    The windows began to rattle and the corner of the house where I was standing began to shake. Yup. Then the pause as I waited. Is that all there is?
    For now, it was.
    I was in denial of course. I thought maybe a 4. Then I looked at QuakeWatch. Technically, this was the strongest quake I have experienced. However, a lesser quake in Christchurch, New Zealand, in 2012 scared me half to death when the floor I was sitting on rolled like waves of wobbling jello. 
    That sensory challenge was too much and I got on a bus, and left town as soon as I could with a huge sense of relief. 
    All is quiet again. Love coastal living. 

Love Bug on the Day Of Love

 By Maryanna Gabriel 

Jasper on the furniture. 

Having moved to the country, I often get asked if I am getting a dog. Truthfully, I have been considering it. One day, a furry friend showed up acting like he owned the place. Jasper is a true love bug, and has entered my life without a second thought. He winds himself around my legs with huge purrs and is forever jumping on the furniture. 

Shortly after I moved in, there was a knock on the door. It was Jasper's mother. 

"I was going to try to find you," I said. "Do you mind that he comes?" 

She was quick to reply that it was fine. She gave instruction on how to dispense treats and we are all right as rain. The dog question went on the back burner. In a way, he was like one. 

Late one night, I heard the most terrific cat fight. Gosh, I hope it isn't Jasper. For several days - no Jasper. I worried. Eventually he sidled up with a horrific gash in 

A sore tail. 

his tail. Oh Jasper. Did you get into a fight with a raccoon? He got double treats that day and lately is looking better.

Last night, I wondered where he was and called his name. Looking way up, I found him lying calm as you please, five feet in the air. He was on top of the hutch with his sore tail tucked tidily beneath and looking like he was posing for a photo shoot. Glad I had no Waterford Chrystal. This love bug keeps me on my toes. 

 

Posing for his photo shoot. 

A Day of Breakfasts

 By Maryanna Gabriel 

It has been a day of breakfasts. I looked out the window, and the ground was green. My weather report. No worries, I was headed off the island and into town for some much needed items and a precious back treatment. Besides, I had snows. By 10:00 am I was in a white-out surrounded by cars pulled over with lights flashing. The trouble with the west coast is the slick-wet under the snow.

Will confess. I prayed.

Got great service everywhere I went because... nobody was as idiotic as I was. Made it to a friend, daffodils in hand, who will be dying shortly, (MAID) for I did promise I would come, and thanked my lucky stars. She is so compromised she could not turn her head to see the thick flakes falling outside her window. Daffodils and encouragement for her in place, once on the ferry, I met an old acquaintance who told tales of cars jack-knifing, as I relayed my highway travel was a slow 40 mph. We, in the west, do not do snow well. 

Roses in the snow in my garden. 

Once home, I collapsed. My bones were cold. The next day, my body refused to move. All I wanted was breakfast, morning, noon, and night. No hard stuff. Okay. Done. Besides, omelettes for dinner are my fave. 

On the good side, roses are blooming in the snow.
And that, my friends, is the contradiction of where I happily abide. 

Special Visitor

 By Maryanna Gabriel

In Canada we have Spirit Bears. Here in the Southern Gulf Islands is a spirit deer.

A herd of deer often surround the house and are astonishingly pretty. They have colours ranging from black to brown, red to butterscotch, and are sometimes dappled with tan spots. One is white. She is pregnant. Intrigued, I researched further.

Fallow Deer originated in Persia, Turkey, and Anatolia and in parts of Europe, which seems terribly exotic. I notice in my reading that a zoo in Beijing has two white Fallow Deer, so it is a little startling. In this region, one is usually entreated to the brown Mule Tail Deer. Rumour has it, (and this was told to me at the local hardware store by a landscaper from the Comox Valley, so you will know it must be true,) that an enterprising soul introduced the deer when she brought them to the island to farm. Eventually, they were released.

One day I glanced out the kitchen window and around eight bucks strolled by. Their antlers were magnificent in that the colouration was the same ruddy red as an Arbutus. Others were chestnut coloured. A friend and I wondered it meant the antlers were bloodied from a recent shed of velvet or if this was the natural colour. It feels magical when they pass through, so I move quietly so as not to frighten them. I am glad they are skittish, for they need to be. There is always someone who wants to capture beauty that is spirit by killing it and nailing it to a wall.

Delicacy of Care

By Maryanna Gabriel

They uplift the spirit. The exquisite Annas Hummingbird does not migrate and are a joy to watch in the winter. Their whizzing forms hum and chirp amid flashes of iridescent tropical colour. I just watched a documentary about a man in Victoria who studies and films these hummers. He noticed a change in behaviour with one and went to investigate. At the foot of the tree, the size of a white navy bean, was a tiny broken egg.

He revealed it on his lens cap so tenderly it made me want to cry. In what is often a harsh world, this man was noticing a tiny mother's loss and the most delicate of tragedies. He said, some of the best kept secrets are in our own backyard.

 Such a dear man.

There is good news. The other egg survived. He watched as she fed her chick every four minutes. Such caring. Should be world headlines. 

I must get to the feeders today with fresh nectar. Busy, busy.