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Island Guardian


I Am Famous On An Island


Shortly after I moved from San Juan Island to Colorado in 2003, I had a booth at an art show, and I overheard my oldest daughter telling a potential customer that her mother, me, was famous on an island. I think any artist living on this island gets some exposure of their work. People talk, and pretty soon lots of folks know who we are. It is the coolest thing ever.

I moved back to the island 3 years ago and I am never leaving. This is my home and my tribe. I had a booth at the Pelindaba Lavender Festival recently, and the truth hit home. So many people stop by to say hello. “I have one of your paintings from years ago.” “Didn’t you used to do watercolors?” “I was your daughters school teacher and have a few of your paintings.” “My favorite painting is one of yours, and it is hanging in my - kitchen - dining room - living room.” “I had breakfast in town and your paintings are hanging in the restaurant bathroom.” It all warms my heart.

I wonder what comes first, the artist or the island? There are a lot of creative people here on San Juan. My question is this. Do artists move here because they find it so inspiring? Or is it so inspiring here, that they become artists, once they have lived here awhile. Either way, here we are.

I am a full-time contemporary oil painter. I paint the island in an abstract yet representational kind of way. I paint the trees, the bushes, the grasses and the rocks. I paint the distant mountains and islands, forests and sky. I paint the Salish Sea. And to that list, I have added lavender.

Artists have an intimate relationship with the world. Once a person has painted a tree, that same person will see all trees in a new light. “Look at all those colors that I never saw before”, I hear a student say after his or her first lesson. So, is it that I love the trees so much that I MUST paint them, or do I paint them because I love them so much? Good question.

Artists see things, or should I say notice, examine, ponder. Looking at a gorgeous cumulus cloud has me stopping in my tracks, looking at the colors subtly imbedded, and then thinking, “is that magenta mixed with a little cerulean?” “Yes, and the smallest smidge of cadmium orange.” “Look how dark that sky is next to the whitest part of the cloud.” Next thought is “I am going to paint that.”

Trees are my absolute number one favorite subject of all. Whether abstracted, realistic or halfway between. I have an intense love for trees. I honor them. I see all the colors of greens and golds, umbers and reds. I see magnificent interlocking woven shapes. The warp and the weft of the branches and masses of deep dark woods against backdrop of bright white sky. I see patterns in the bark and shapes formed by shadow and sunlight. Besides the shapes and the colors, the trees sway, dance and shiver. The wind whispers, and sometimes roars through the branches. There is always a riot of life, movement and electric charge. The stoic strength of the great trees and their ability to hold on in a nor’easter inspires me. At the same time the delicacy of each tiny lacy frond glistens in the sunlight, like the finest of lace. I am in awe.

I walk in the woods. I paint. I love this island. I love the people who live here. And besides that, I am “famous” on an island.


(On horseback, on foot and with wolfhounds, inspiration and motivation come from being present. The forest with its ambience and aesthetics provide seed for my paintings and stories. I paint what I sense. I write about my experiences, feelings and perceptions of life on our unique island. Teresa Smith B.A. Visual Arts Naropa University www.teresasmith.com )




Beer And A Bleeding Heart


Here we go again. The emergence of gardening season and the compulsion to grow my own luscious, vibrant, beautiful, organic food.

I plant seeds in my garden and planter boxes. Everything is going smoothly. I have beets, arugula and peas, fava beans and rutabaga’s growing nicely. The sun is shining and the soil is sweet. Coast is clear. I plant carrots and lettuce. I wait and wait for the seedlings to show themselves. I see the little sprouts. Yay! Then, they are gone. Vanished. I do not despair because this year, I have back up. My friend Dale, has a greenhouse, and I have filled it with seedlings. They are lush and beautiful.

With hopeful enthusiasm I bring the brassicas out of the greenhouse and put them in the garden. They are the mustard family of plants like broccoli, cabbage, kohlrabi, cauliflower and brussel sprouts. Two days later all are eaten but for a few. Who is the rascal that is eating my lovely, lush little plants? I dose everything with diatomaceous earth, that stuff that is made of lots of sharp little sea creatures that dissuade predators. Next day I find a stealthy slow but sure, culprit. Covered in diatomaceous earth and munching away happily on my plant. A slug. As I see the pillage from the night before, I know for sure there are lots and lots of slugs.

How hard can it be to control this problem? I just need to convince the little creatures that there are better eats elsewhere. I google it. Slugs don’t like copper, google says. So, I go to my friend, Dale and ask him if he has some copper. Sure enough he says, “how much do you need?” So, I take home my strands of copper and commence to making rings that I can put around the plants. Then the slugs will get a little buzz when they slither over the copper. In the morning I notice my plants are still dwindling leaf by leaf. I get an idea to put bark mulch around them. It helps for a day or two. Back to google. Sand is the way to go. Slugs hate sand. I go back to Dale’s to ask him if he has sand. Sure, enough Dale has a sand pile and he says to help myself. I cart home very heavy buckets of sand and put that around my little plants. That works pretty well for a few days but every time I water, little by little, the sand dissolves into the mulch. Same goes for wood ashes. So, this morning, I go out to find a slug draped across the copper wire dipped in sand and wood ash and happily eating my kale.

Little by little I have been bringing plants out of the greenhouse. They are getting big and ready to plant. Lettuce and spinach …. All of which are devoured the first night. I even cut the bottom of a pot off and put that over the lettuce and the slugs climb up the side and eat every scrap of lettuce.

Back to google and now its beer. I need to drown the slugs in beer. I go back to Dale’s house and sure enough he gives me 3 bottles of beer. I take it home. This whole thing with beer is quite interesting. On Friday nights I like to go to the Oar House. Dale goes too. Anyway, I really like the place because it is very cozy and very local. Where the locals go. This is a brew pub. First off, I should tell you I really don’t like beer. I will try to like beer. The slugs like beer and a lot of my friends do too. Every time I go, I try different batches. One that I actually kind of like is called “Earl Grey.” I know why I like it. Because I am a tea drinker and I like Earl Grey tea. It tastes nothing like the tea but none the less, I like the name. I am now a beer drinker. At least until they run out of Earl Grey. There is also Raspberry Wheat and Cream Ale. Raspberry wheat. Doesn’t that sound divine? Nope. Doesn’t taste anything like raspberries and the cream ale, although it sounds yummy, is not the same as the stuff I put in my tea. Trust me.

Meanwhile, back at home the slugs are drinking beer and enjoying my organic produce with culinary appeal. And I think they enjoy their salads even more with a little drink on the side to wash it down. And not only that, while my back is turned, and I am all worried about the slugs and the beer, I notice my pole beans have been chiseled off at the ground. Not all of them. Only about half. Google says pill bugs won’t hurt your garden. Wrong. There are masses of them eating away right at soil level. I am back to the diatomaceous earth and now there are all these little white powder coated bugs wandering around aimlessly.

Every morning I am in the garden picking slugs off plants and examining the pole beans with reading glasses and I discover something. The plants are beginning to grow at a more rapid rate. With the weather warming and conducive to growing more quickly, I notice the plants are growing faster than the slugs can eat them. The key is for the plants to grow faster than the slugs can eat them in their entirety. I am onto something.

I just noticed a deer ate my sunflower. I am going to the nursery to buy a bleeding heart.




Home Is Where The Dogs Are


I moved to Friday Harbor, Washington, in the summer of 2015. Before that, I lived in Boulder, Colorado. I was leaving a 3200 square foot house that was full of furniture, and years worth of stuff. I had to deal with all the stuff, and figure out how to move 2 Irish wolfhounds, a golden chow mix named Teddy, who bit people, 2 cats, 1 kitten and a teenager.

The first thing to do is to get rid of things. Under advisement of well-wishers, I put ads on craigslist. I was told this is the best way to get rid of things. I got to work photographing everything from furniture, appliances, tires and old car seats. People start texting and calling right away. “Can you take pictures from several angles?” “What are the sizes again?” “More pictures please.” “Will you take less money for it?” “When can we come and see it?” After a week of this torture, and several ‘no shows,’ everything is on the front lawn with a free sign on it. Teenager and Teddy included.

In order to move, we need to rent out our house. A property manager is hired, and the work and stress is practically done. After the contract is signed, the property manager says the house is not up to her standards. “It needs new carpet and paint throughout,” she says. I say yes to paint, no to carpet. Several thousand dollars and we are ready to go. Not so fast. The new tenants are offended by the smell of dog. The property manager gets down on her hands and knees, buries her nose in the pile of the carpet and agrees. Not acceptable, and not up to her standards. Carpets need to be replaced. I fork out a few more thousand, begging the universe for the peace and contentment that a good property manager can bring.

The house is empty. The yard is cleared of free stuff and a couple of boys are hired to load the U-Haul. We slept on an air mattress and were ready to go early the next day. Teddy, the wolfhounds, 2 cats, the kitten and teenager pile in the van with me. Former husband number two is reluctantly driving the U-Haul against his better judgment. I gave him the choice of vehicles, but he agreed the U-Haul was safer than the van full of creatures.

We are packed without room for even another tiny thing. The dogs are in the back. Alistair the kitten is yowling her head off with black cat Stella in the over sized dog kennel in the back seat. Kiwi, the longhaired, easygoing orange cat, is wandering around the van checking out the new arrangement. About 10 miles into our trip, Emma says, “I can’t see Teddy.” We stop to secure bags and boxes with bungee cords so that every time I step on the brakes, everything doesn’t topple over on top of Teddy. He now has PTSD and fears around being buried alive. Bungee cords are secured and we are good to go.

Cats stop yowling about an hour into Wyoming. We are now appreciating a mountain pass on a beautiful summer day. We stop for gas in Laramie. Sleepy cowboy town specializing in run down gas stations and liquor stores. The thing I notice about southern Wyoming is that people don’t dress up their homes or stores. There are no flowers or lawns or gardens that I can see. When they get a new trailer, they don’t get rid of the old one. The trailers just keep piling up. Same with trucks, car parts, tractors and tractor parts and parts of things I have no idea from where they came. It’s just a different way of doing things I guess.

Evening comes and we are getting tired. It is time to stop for the night. We are in Rawlins. The hotels are full because there is a Rodeo in town. Of course there is a rodeo in town. We are in Wyoming. “There is one room left in town,” the lady says in the motel along Main Street, but it is a smoking room.” No problem with pets though.” No deposit necessary. All rooms are dog and smoking rooms. Nice. Teenager is not convinced this is a good idea. “Give us a minute,” I tell the woman behind the desk. We go back to the car and discuss our options. The next town is Wamsutter. 60 miles away. There is a one star motel in Wamsutter, the Wamsutter Motel. “Lets look at some reviews,” I suggest. “Don’t stay at this motel” the first review says. “Worst place I have ever stayed,” second review says. “I should have slept in my car”, says the third review. After we recover from our hysterical bout to laughing, we decide on the smoking room. We were all exhausted by this time and the animals need to get out of the car.

The room is actually a non smoking room, after all. I know this, because the ashtrays are turned upside down and there is a circle with a line though it, showing they are not to be used for smoking. Clear as day.

Next, we go out to eat in a not so classy restaurant. The table is definitely crooked. I mean the side attached to the wall is at least 3 inches higher than the other side. We are careful our water glasses don’t slide off. The waitress asks us if we want dessert first. What I really want is a glass of wine. Waitress says, “on the rocks or straight up?” I think beer and whiskey might be the way to go in Rawlins, Wyoming. If I watch the cowboys, that is what they are drinking.

Day two of the road trip from Boulder to Friday Harbor we drive through Utah and Oregon. Over 100 degrees in the shade and the pet areas at the rest stops are never in the shade. Misery. Just plain misery.

There is this thing about traveling with dogs, especially big dogs. When we stop for the night at a motel, it is not a given that we will be welcomed. Like the motel we tried in Oregon. We saw the owner outside with a half dozen Pomeranians. They look exactly like miniature Teddy’s. Surely she won’t be prejudiced. We pull up with 3 huge dogs hanging out the windows of the van. Well, guess what. “No big dogs,” she says. Is that even ethical?

From then on I realize I need new tactics. So, here is my strategy. I walk into the hotel lobby making sure to park well out of sight of staff. I find it is best to straight out say; “do you have a pet room available?” This distracts them, and has them feverishly looking for a pet room, and the proper paperwork instead of asking me the size of the dog. And God forbid they ask how many dogs. Not to mention cats. They almost always assure me, there is one pet room still available. I boldly ask for a room near a side door, and on the ground floor. The front desk person usually says there is a fee of $20 or so for the pet, and hands me a contract to sign. If you want to know the honest truth, I kind of glaze over the fine print because I don’t want to know how many rules I may be breaking. No dog over 50 pounds. Only one pet. I have 3 dogs, 420 pounds total. Six pets total. Size should not matter. That is prejudice, and my animals are very well behaved.

One time I was at the front desk of a motel filling out my deceptive paperwork. Meanwhile, in the van, Emma pushes a button that she thinks turns on the light over the mirror, but what it actually does is opens the door where the dogs are. So picture this. I am in the lobby signing a contract that says I have one pet. Out of the corner of my eye I see a commotion outside. Teddy, Griffin and Fenny, are running past the front sliding glass doors. Emma is running behind them hollering for them to come back. Then there they go back again in the other direction. I am going to have a heart attack.

Deception done. Blood pressure returned to normal. We are in. We peek into the back door and make sure the hallway is empty. Clear. We hustle in the first batch of dogs. Shove them into the room. Go back for the big dog carrier full of cats. Hustle that in before anyone sees us. Then we bring in the rest of the stuff including dog food and water bowls, dog and cat food, litter box and litter, suitcases, snacks, bottle of wine, IV equipment for the dehydrated cat, and Kiwi who needs to be carried in separately because he is not in a kennel. Our motel room seems pretty small by now. Two of the cats are horrified with this new arrangement, and go straight under the bed with only their tails sticking out. Kiwi sprawls out on the bed and takes a nap. The dogs need to go for a walk ASAP. But, we need to take them out one at a time because I told the guy at the front desk that I only have one dog.

We are pretty tired and hungry after all this. We go out to eat and on the way back walk past our room. We know for sure it is our room, because there are 3 cats lined up on the windowsill clearly blowing our, only-one-pet, cover. Bless their little hearts. If that wasn’t enough, Emma says she needs more conditioner and says she will call the front desk. Like room service. “Emma, we can’t have the staff coming here.” “What about the 3 dogs and 3 cats?” You go to the front desk and get it. She comes back without the conditioner and says they will be delivering it to us. Where’s that bottle of wine?

I wake up, early the next morning looking forward to an early start. “Wake up Emma,” I say enthusiastically. I take the dogs out for a short walk. “Time to wake up Emma.” I feed the cats and start packing up. Empty the cat litter, pack up the various pet things and put cloths in my suitcase. “Alright Emma, I mean it, you have to get up.” I make bad coffee and add powdered fake cream. “Emma, if you don’t get up right now I am leaving you in eastern Oregon.” I shower and dress. Pull the blankets off Emma. I go and get three plates of ‘continental breakfast’. This is included with the price of the room. I heap plates with a big pile of micro waved eggs, several soggy pale sausages, toast with peanut butter and coffee with real cream. Bring it all back to the room in 3 trips. The dogs get the continental breakfast and Emma and I drink the coffee.

We are on the road at 9am and racing for the ferry.
By late afternoon we are in the ferry line.
I am almost home and I am never leaving.




(On horseback, on foot and with wolfhounds, inspiration and motivation come from being present. The forest with its ambience and aesthetics provide seed for my paintings and stories. I paint what I sense. I write about my experiences, feelings and perceptions of life on our unique island. Teresa Smith B.A. Visual Arts Naropa University www.teresasmith.com )




Home Again


I got home from Santa Cruz and went straight to work. I am a landlady with lots to do. Shifting of tenants, updating kitchens, painting walls and general hard work. At the same time, much sorting in house and studio alike.

There is something about spring that gets me energized. Growth, energy and birth. The daffodils are blooming and the magical part of this time of year is that almost nothing has gone by. All the lavish flowers and abundance of food from the garden are ahead of me.

I started beans, lettuce and squash in my friend, Dale’s, greenhouse. It is right there next to my studio. There is something wholesome about ducking into a greenhouse on a blustery day. The smell of compost and soil, moist from the morning watering, is nourishing all around. I watch with my nose inches from the little pots, ever hopeful they will germinate soon. I planted peas, spinach, lettuce and kale in my raised beds and the beds I made last fall out of cardboard, straw and manure.

It is funny how the people are, here on the island. I get back after being gone for 3 months and some of my friends are so happy to see me. “Lets get together right away”, they say. Others see me and say, “Have you been gone?” Three months goes by fast here on the island, I guess. I went to the gym 2 weeks after I got back, and was scolded for not getting in there sooner. I was sighted at the grocery store the week prior. My workout buddies missed me I think. I missed them too.

The island smells good and there are no traffic lights. I don’t have to plan around rush hour to go to Market Place, and I can turn left without getting in an accident.

I painted 17 new small paintings while I was in California. The California plein air painting style inspired me. I tied it in with the work of Emily Carr from Victoria, BC and the Canadian Group of Seven who painted in Ontario, not far from where I grew up in Quebec. It took me back to my Canadian roots.

I hung some of the new little paintings in Demeter’s restaurant. It is a really different look. I’m not sure how I feel about the change. Let me know what you think.

It is good to be back on this little island. I miss this place when I am gone. I miss the moist air and the sound of the spring birds and the frog’s tremendous chorus in the evenings. I miss the color of the clouds and the rain on the windows. I am glad to be back to Taco Tuesday, my gym buddies, my friends and horses at plum pond, the Oar House brew pub where the locals go, the world’s best garage sales and the study of trees. I am happy.



(On horseback, on foot and with wolfhounds, inspiration and motivation come from being present. The forest with its ambience and aesthetics provide seed for my paintings and stories. I paint what I sense. I write about my experiences, feelings and perceptions of life on our unique island. Teresa Smith B.A. Visual Arts Naropa University www.teresasmith.com )




California Sunshine & More About Dogs


It is quite common for San Juan islanders to consider a trip south for part of the winter. The island is far enough north, for the days to get very short. When the sun does make an appearance, it is crouched low in the sky. The days are often dim and drizzly, and so … for the second year in a row, I succumb to the urge, and head south.

I pack up the car and leave the island two days after Christmas. Griffin, the Irish wolfhound, is nervously following me back and forth to the car with each load, worried that I may leave him behind. I stuff the last of the Christmas wrap into the recycle bin, put Griffin’s bed in the back of the RAV4 and we leave for Santa Cruz.

The sun is brighter in Santa Cruz. The days are warmer, and a little bit longer. While here, I reside in a most beautiful little house on Twin Lakes lagoon. I look out the windows to a California plein air impressionist painting. Only it is real. Reflections on the lagoon are ever changing. The color of the water ranges from blue, reflected from the sky, and white fluffy clouds, to dark rich greens and browns. The eucalyptus trees cast their shadows in painterly watery reflections, dotted with milky white patterns from pampas grass. White egrets, serene and beautiful, perch on a branch protruding from the water. They share this roost with cormorants, sea gulls and on some days, a huge heron. The lagoon is rimmed with enormous eucalyptus trees that tower above our house. A short walk, and the lagoon meets the salt water of Monterey Bay.

When I am on the Island, I always know the temperature and the basic weather conditions. I wake up to a cold house; means its cold out and I need to make a fire. Up north, there are windows all around and show me if clouds brew. I can watch them, to see which way the wind is blowing; things like that. If the cat doesn’t want to go out, that means inclement weather and most likely rain and wind gusts. I step outside to get an armful of wood for the stove, and then I really know the weather. That is the north house.

Here in the city of Santa Cruz, and in the south house, there are fewer windows, shelter from the wind and no long-range view; it is hit or miss weather wise. The lagoon gives me clues. Today the lagoon is brown and dark green. It looks stirred up and angry. The surface is dappled and pock marked with heavy rain and the sky is streaked. Wooden perch abandoned. Birds must find more shelter in the surf. I will need a raincoat.

It does rain some, but most of the days are bright and feel quite summery. Last weekend was 75 degrees and sunny. The beach was packed with parents with toddlers, young folks playing volleyball, dog walkers and others, just strolling along, taking in the beauty. Roller waves were coming in and crashing on the sandy picturesque beach. Waves are expected to reach 25 to 30 feet in the next few days. Be careful they don’t pluck a person off the rocks. The sound is meditative. It has to be healthy to get a dose of this every day. I think I will live forever. I sent a picture of the sunset to my friends on the island and the reply was, “what is that bright thing in the sky?” Kind of a contract with San Juan winter I think.

Rain or shine, we walk the dogs twice a day. Oswald, Ozzie for short, is a grumpy little Carron Terrier. Griffin is an Irish wolfhound. Tall enough to clean off the kitchen counter with all 4 feet on the floor. During the visit so far, he has absconded a block of cheese, a baguette and a hamburger. Griffin had a run in with a skunk a few days ago. Now we call him stinky. When we go for walks, we keep the dogs on a leash because Ozzie picks fights with all the big dogs he meets. Most hated are pit bulls, German Sheppard’s and especially, the Springer spaniel from up the street. Ozzie is fearless. He jumps up and down snarling and barking and lunging at the big dogs while Griffin plods along oblivious. If Ozzie were to start a fight though, Griffin would have to finish it.

He and Ozzie have an interesting relationship. When we leave the house and leave the two dogs inside the gate, they howl like the pack they think they are. When we return, Griffin and Ozzie get so excited that Griffin jumps and bounds and runs in circles, Ozzie then chases Griffin, going for his neck, barking snarling and growling for all he is worth. Griffin tolerates this behavior for the most part, but now and then grabs Ozzie in his huge jaws and pins him to the ground. So far so good, he lets him go and continues to run circles with Ozzie chasing behind and lunging for him.

I am learning about flea market culture here in Santa Cruz. It seems like the surfer dudes of yesterday, now sell and buy at the flea market. Gary is always there. Long hair, nice friendly guy. He smells of weed and wants to move to Chili. His wife’s name is Janet and she is also friendly and talkative. They are both very talkative. Kind of hard to get a word in edgewise when you are around the two of them. I am beginning to recognize a good deal and I have learned the best transactions can be had, when a storm blows in and it begins to pour. I am not as good at bartering as my companion, though. He knows how to haggle. He says, “Offer the guy ten bucks and duck.” It feels like I am becoming a regular. I recognize the same vendors each week, like the woman we call the white lady, because she sells white linen shirts. I am apparently paying way too much money for them. Maria the plant lady sells plants of all sizes for cheap, but one can still strike a bargain for volume. Then there is Don the food man, stooped over, unloading his truck of goods. Well, maybe not all good goods. Check those dates. Look for mold. Most popular words uttered by the food vendors at the flea market, “That doesn’t go bad.”

The harbor is another interesting spot. We walk by it every day - so much activity. Seals sunning on docks, otter rolled over on his back with cute little feet in the air. Fishermen selling crab, bike riders, dog walkers, tourists, and homies. One day getting drenched in the pouring rain, we stop by the boat ramp to witness a crew pulling a car out of the water. OK so how drunk do you have to be? “Take a right here honey, park over there by that boat.” Oh Boy! Another day, as we were walking to the lighthouse we saw a sailboat keeled way over on its side. The harbor had filled in with sand, as a result of the high wave action and the boat had hit the sand bar, keeled over and lost a passenger. Then, it hit the rocks and was eventually rescued. That must have been embarrassing. Another day, we see smoke and fire crews; a boat blew up and burned itself and another 3 boats. Two of which sank. Adventure in the harbor.

Space is a commodity here in our little south house. I miss my studio on the island, but have made do, by draping the antique furniture with plastic, the hardwood floors and antique rugs with cardboard, and turned the living room into a studio of sorts. I am working on smaller works inspired by the California plein air painters, as I look out at the gorgeous, ever changing lagoon.

This is a good place to spend a few months in the winter; a little warmer, a little brighter, longer days, and with many charms of its own. Griffin and I will be back on the island soon enough. Just in time to see the first of the daffodil blooms. See you then.




Old Dogs and Winter


The animals I live with are getting on in age, but then again, I guess I am too. Griffin is ten, and that is three years past expected for an Irish wolfhound. Kiwi, the marmalade cat is 15 and my horse is going on twenty-five.

It is winter on San Juan Island. There is a fire burning in the woodstove day and night, winds and rain are relentless. It is technically still morning AND it will be dark in four hours.

I was walking with Griffin in the woods today. Glistening green. Can I paint glistening green? It was the highest tide I have ever seen by the lagoon. It started to rain, and with the wind, we got soaked to the skin. Ducked into the wood and followed a deer trail that wove in through the moss covered limbs next to the rain-dappled lagoon. Griffin led the way through a four-foot high trail. After struggling over tree trunks and under branches, we eventually found ourselves back on the main trail. We were the only human and dog in the park today.

I often think of Fenny, my girl wolfhound who passed away last year. She and Griffin were never more than a few feet from each other until the day she died. I wonder if he senses her presence, like I do, when we pass through her favorite haunts.

We don’t walk as fast as we used to. No longer three miles of rugged terrain in less than an hour. Griffin is slowing down and there is a time and place for every action. The slowing down gives me time to pause and consider. I notice colors and shapes, smells and sounds. The moldery scent of leaves gone by reminds me of an eight year old walking home from school in a small town in Quebec. The brilliant fall leaves fallen after a storm. Finches are chirping and hustling in the undergrowth and eagles chortling in the distance. The colors are intense this time of year. Damp brings out the richest and lushest of color. Cedar tree appears green but when I look closely I see alizarin, gold and blue. There are thousands of shades of green. Where sun strikes foliage the light glistens white. The deepest shadows are as dark as raven. I ponder, daydream and make up stories. I meander and walk for the sake of walking, drinking in the grace and abundance of the woods. Just me and Griffin and all the creatures of the forest.

It is winter on San Juan Island. The people are friendly and I can turn left on Spring Street. The bounty of Christmas lights warms my heart. Christmas Eve, Kings closed its doors early; everyone hugged each other and went home to their families. This is the essence of the island in winter.

Back home, the sun is low in the sky and warming a spot in the clean straw. Kiwi and his old bones is curled up there, eyes closed and drunk in the warmth. The garden has been put to sleep and new beds are fermenting and fecund, preparing for spring planting.

It will be dark soon, so I bring in some firewood from the wood pile under the trees. Cut a few years ago and well seasoned. I am protective of the kindling and only use a tiny bit to start the fire. I am not so good with an axe so I cherish what I have. Dog bowls are filled with water and Kiwi, Griffin and I are ready to retreat to the warmth of the little wood house on the hill. Smoke is billowing from the chimney. It is inviting. Griffin takes to his four foot by five foot memory foam, Kiwi curls up by the fire and I begin chopping vegetables for dinner.

The animals are getting older and I take more moments to be in their presence. I sit in the chair by the fire, hold Kiwi in my arms and we look into each other’s eyes. Winter is about slowing down, going inside and reflecting. The colors are richer. Maybe it is because I slow down enough to notice.




Luck and Other Wintery Thoughts


A friend asks me, “How are you?” I say, “I am well thank you,” She says, “Of course you are.” “Your life is perfect.” “Perfect boyfriend, perfect house, get to ride your horse anytime you want, painting is your job.” “Of course you are great.” “You are lucky.”

As I go through my day I ponder my views on luck.

Winter is coming, here on San Juan Island. It is 7 in the morning and dark outside. The wind is howling and rain is pelting against the east facing windows. This is soothing to me. I can relax and give myself permission to sit down in the middle of the day and finish knitting that sweater. The garden is resting, it is too wet to ride and the studio is cold. I make soup and stew, cookies and zucchini bread. Finally, there is a need for a fire in the woodstove to keep the house warm. I have missed the fire in the center of this home.

I am a fan of weather. I hike the trails around Jackals lagoon and mount Finlayson almost every day. I notice the subtle differences. I love the days with the most intense winter weather. The ones where the trees are swaying so hard they look like dancers. Scary, exhilarating and dizzying to stand under. The roar of the wind makes me feel small. The farther I walk into the deep woods the more peaceful and protected I feel. It is usually just Griffin, my wolfhound, and me who venture out on such days. I like the solitude. It is cathartic; just my dog, the woods and me.

I have been noticing how some of the foliage on the great cedars turn ochre during the heat of summer. These fronds fly off in the wind and mingle with alizarin, raw sienna and burgundy leaves from big leaf maple, willow and alder. It looks like it is snowing colored glitter. The glitter falls and lays thick on the path below. When it rains, winding rivers are formed flowing down the hills, scraping away the layers of color to the black earth below. These black earth rivers are contrasted by yellow, umber, alizarin and gold.

After a big rain, droplets of water spill from wet foliage, as the sun streams in through the cathedral of monster cedars. Mist is rising in a thin veil as if illuminating an alternate world. I encounter a dad with his little girl in the woods today. She says, “there are lots of fairies in these woods.” I answer, “yes, there sure are.”

Is it luck, or did I dream it up?

My schoolteachers told my parents that I would have done a lot better in school if I would stop daydreaming. Ha! Yes, I did spend most of my time imagining. I dreamed about the woods and the lake. I imagined myself galloping through the woods on a beautiful horse. I dreamed of gardens and deer and foxes, rabbits, dogs and cats. I fantasized about the house where I would live, surrounded by beautiful pastures and trees and animals. I conceived drawings and conjured paintings of my invented personal paradise. I shaped my future out of sand. I dreamed up this life that I am living.

A few years ago I was not happy. I lived in a desert and I wanted to come home. I felt stuck ankle deep in muck that was holding me in place. I had forgotten to imagine. I had forgotten to believe that when there is a will, there is a way. I started to dream again. My musing brought me home.

I am dining on homemade brothy, root vegetable soup, rich with tomato, cumin and a hint of coriander. Sharing a bottle of 2005 Syrah with a beautiful man who smells of pine pitch and chain saw. My kind of man. Is it luck or did I dream this up?

No. Not luck. I believe in dreaming. I believe in appreciating the small things, and I believe there are fairies that live in the woods.




Summer Going By


The first hint of summer going by is waking up shrouded in fog. I am in a cloud. It will burn off because weather channel says sun for as long as can be predicted. This first misty morning brings the melancholy resolve of fall coming.

I had better plant the last crop of kale, lettuce and Swiss chard. Those tomatoes need to start turning red. I will google, “why are my tomatoes still green?” Squash, beans and cucumbers are coming on strong and that Hubbard is massive.

Dewdrops collecting on spider webs glisten in the morning light, like shimmering diamonds. A string of precious gems sparkling across a tree limb, across the snowberries, wild roses and tall grass. I had no idea there were so many spiders living among us.

The grass on the knoll is no longer green because it has not rained since June. That is the thing about our climate here on San Juan. Moist wet rain drizzle for months then dry dry arid warm for months. Change is good. The grass is not green but it is the beautiful color of caramel with a little cream added in. Dotted in, are happy yellow dandelion like flowers of the cat’s ear plant.

The roadsides are a mass of periwinkle blue from chickory, and tall taupe colored grass, and an alizarin " burnt orange colored sedge. Creamy white Queen Anne’s lace provide backdrop for this seductive color combination.

My first stargazer lily opened today. The sweet scents of the lilies, jasmine and Halls honeysuckle lure me to the comfy chair in my garden. The smells remind me of my girls as toddlers in a tiny kid pool, mid-late summer on Primrose Lane.

The county fair is right around the corner and marks a definite transition into late summer. First nip in the air and the coming of fall.

Winding down. Relaxing. Summer guests have been and gone. Harvest is plentiful. Sharing its abundance with friends. False bay at low tide. Hikes up mount Finlayson and long bike rides in the early morning. Gratitude and appreciation of the beauty of this place. Never ending change and moving forward into the next season.




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