Taking Root

Last year I wrote about leaving our house behind for another family to use. Leaving the house was hard. Leaving the yard that we spent years nurturing was really hard.

Len and Pippa on the back deck of the old house

When we bought that house, we were the fourth owners in just over 20 years. Like many houses in our northern town, it had been owned by one family after another who perhaps knew they would not stay. Maybe that's why no one had had put much time or effort into the little yard. There was one spruce too close to the house, a pyramid cedar, and a scraggly lilac. You could see right into the neighbour's yards. The first year we were there, we planted 9 trees. We added more over the years, along with some shrubs and numerous perennials and even a tiny raised plot for tomatoes. By the time we left, our modest and somewhat exposed yard was a green bower, shaded on all sides by growing things. 

Back yard 

Every time we planted a tree in our little yard we would ask, "How big is this thing going to get? Will it be too big for the space?" And then we would shrug and say, "How long are we going to live here anyway? Not long enough for any tree to get too big."  That wasn't true. We stayed for 14 years. Long enough for the apple to produce more fruit than we could ever eat. Long enough for the volunteer mountain ash we dug out of our previous yard to tower over the store bought mountain ash, the amur maple, the columnar cedars and Hart's grade one spruce tree.

We had many failures in our tree planting adventures. A Chinese weeping willow from Hole's Greenhouse was a gorgeous tree for many years until a harsh winter caused it to die back. It kept regrowing from the base but it was no longer a tree- it was a weedy shrub that was impossible to kill. We had a fabulous flowering plum that thrived for years and then faded away and died. A hybrid rose that bloomed for years and then gradually died away. 

The maple thriving in the back corner

Our biggest challenge was in the back corner where a greenhouse had once stood. Try as we might, we could not get anything to grow there. We first tried a silver tip maple that lasted a year, obviously not hardy enough for that zone. Once we planted a Russian Olive, knowing that several neighbours had massive ones. Surely it would live. But no. It was frustrating.  Around about that time, a maple started growing outside our bedroom window. The key must have blown over from the Tange's massive tree across the street. Under the window was no place for a tree since it was in a narrow passageway between two houses. But we let it grow because I loved seeing something green instead of a blank wall. However, it did not take long before it was just too big for the space. "Let's dig it out and stick it in the hole in the back corner," I suggested. By then this thing was a good 8 feet tall. My husband had to hack out most of the root since it was growing right up against the house. "That's not gonna live," we said as we stuck the bare root in the sad mix of clay and old muskeg in the back corner. But if we didn't transplant it, it was going to die anyway. It didn't cost us anything but labour. And it obviously liked our soil and climate. Darn it if the thing not only lived, but flourished. 

Unlike our previous yard, the yard in our new house has not been neglected. Under the stewardship of its only owners, every inch of the yard has been meticulously landscaped and loved. The plants have been fertilized. The well-placed trees and shrubs have been pruned. When Jack and Nancy designed their yard, they designed it for the future. They grew a garden that they could enjoy for years. And now it's ours.

It is odd, tending someone else's garden. But it has also been fun discovering what grows. What plant is this popping up so soon in the front yard? Oh, it's a bleeding heart! The bears seem to like the shaggy nanking cherries-should we take them out? But oh no, look at how beautiful the blossoms are, how sweet it smells, how many bees buzz around. What are these, cropping up all along the retaining wall? Anemones nodding their white heads. Clematis creeping up the wall. The climbing rose. A little patch of rhubarb, nothing like abundant plant from the last house, which pleases my husband who apparently doesn't like rhubarb. Peonies that I was never ever able to get to grow in my muskeg based dirt. 

Peonies in the back garden

At the edge of the property, a patch of native mahonia aquifolium blooms. Oregon Grape. It has planted itself along with a little nanking cherry and a willow. Found throughout the nearby forest, its early yellow blooms have the most amazing smell. Its holly like leaves last year-round and its bitter fruit makes a lovely jelly.

Mahonia aquifolium

Towering grasses and Humpty Dumpty dwarf pines and a massive maple whose red leaves are a sight to behold in fall. There is almost nothing to do with this yard but to enjoy it. 

Sir Isaac and Guapo under the maple

Still we want to make it our own, just a little. We are trying to figure out where to plant an apricot tree and how to protect it from the deer and bears that wander freely through the unfenced neighbourhoods. There was a dead plant out front. "I think a hydrangea would do well there," I said to my husband. As he was digging out the old plant he said, "Did you know they used to have a hydrangea here?" For sure enough there was the old plastic tab of the previous hydrangea, a pink one, just like the one I bought with my Mother's Day gift certificate from my daughter. 

Deer hiding under the mountain ash

One of the clematis in the back is dead so I dug out a wild clematis columbiana- a native species also known as "virgin's bower" - from the wooded lot next door and planted it next to the dead one in the garden. It had an impressive root system and I am not sure if it will survive. It is is a native species, and like that volunteer mountain ash in our old yard, I hope it will take root. But I also know not all wild things can survive in the richer soils of the domestic garden.

Clematis Columbiana in the wild

Whenever I stick a new plant into the ground, I talk to it and encourage it to grow. "Bloom where you're planted' is nice sentiment. But it doesn't always apply to plants. Some plants cannot grow wherever we plant them, no matter how much care we give, any more than they can thrive wherever their seeds blow. But according to the saying plants and people are supposed to thrive wherever they find themselves. 

The McNaught descendents, Beaverlodge Alberta

My ancestors were pioneers. My great-grandparents and their many descendents have transplanted themselves far from where they were born, working hard to flourish in new environments from the Peace Country to southern Alberta to Vancouver Island to California to France to the UK. My husband's family is much the same. Some places are easier than others. Just as it is for plants, some species are best suited for certain environments. Some can adapt better than others. The ground may be fertile for a maple or a mountain ash, but not for a Russian Olive. The weather will be ideal for rhubarb but not hydrangeas. 

Some species will take root, but others will find their environment too inhospitable. They may find their tender new growth eaten alive by animals or insects, mowed down by weed wackers, destroyed by herbicides or even blasted out by a tiger torch. Or they might try really hard for a long time but be taken out in a single season by unexpected events. Or eventually they may succumb to the elements, wither and die. While some invasive and introduced species survive by nature or nurture, sometimes the indigenous species are all that will live. 

Arrowleaf balsalmroot, a native species in the forest nearby

Unlike plants, humans can try to create their own environment, water and fertilize and create their own little microclimate. Sometimes that works. But if you are fighting Mother Earth, eventually the real nature of the place will win. You might survive but you'll never blossom.

I have always tried to bloom where I was planted. Tried to live my best life no matter where I have lived. I haven't always succeeded. Sometimes I wonder if it's not just easier to relocate to a place where you fit in instead of constantly battling elements outside your control. 

Will we thrive here? Right now we are finding the climate and soil pretty sustaining. Let's see if those roots will hold. 

Before and After the Fire

 May 15 2011

If you didn't live there before the fire, you don't know.

You don't know what it was like that day, watching the sky, talking to your neighbours, scanning social media and internet news.

You don't know what it was like to listen. Listen so hard for a voice that told you to go. 

A voice that never came.

You don't know how the news the fire had breached the highway shot through town like an electric current.

You don't know the weird mix of fear and calm as you fled.

You don't know the anxiousness of waiting. 

Waiting to find out if anyone had died. Because surely someone had.

Waiting to find out if your house was still standing. 

Waiting to hear who among your friends was homeless.

You may have heard the stories, but you don't fully understand how people helped save each other.  

And you can't know the stillness in your car when you drove back into your town. When you had no words to describe what you were seeing.

You can't know the devastation that no picture can show, as much a feeling as an image. You can't know that particular sadness.

But you might know. You should know how people came together to try to rebuild something. Something better.

Before the fire. 

After the fire.

A day that defined Slave Lake.

In front of our house. Photo Credit: Len Ramsey

Fire breaches the highway. Photo credit: Bruce Turnbull

Making our escape

Watching the fire burn through town.

Photo credit: Len Ramsey

Where is your empathy?

A bunch of people at my former workplace were let go. One teacher with 14 years teaching at the same school survived the cuts. Another with 12 years experience was let go. The one who kept her job said she was wracked with "survivor guilt".

After wildfires destroyed much of Slave Lake ten years ago, a friend who had lost her home was visiting her sister who had not. As my friend walked up to the house, her sister leaped up from her gardening and dropped her trowel behind her. "What are you doing?" my friend asked. 

"Nothing," said the sister. 

"You are gardening," the friend said. "Why are you trying to pretend you are not?"

"I am just so guilty that I still have a garden and you don't. I don't want to rub it in. I don't want you to feel bad."

Survivor guilt is the term we use when we survive a tragedy and others don't. You lived but others died. You weren't hurt but others were. Your house didn't burn down, but others did. You kept your job and others lost theirs. It can be almost overwhelming. You want to be happy for yourself but at the same time you feel sad for others. But is guilt really the right word?  Don't you feel guilt when you do something wrong- when you are responsible for the bad thing that happened to someone else? Maybe, but it's not guilt when it's not your fault. My colleague was not responsible for her friend losing her job. The gardening woman was not to blame for her sister's loss.  But 'survivors' feel terrible for those who aren't as lucky as they are. They know it could just as easily have been them. In their minds, they have already experienced the loss of job, income, health, possessions, home or whatever, if only in their imagination.  Because they have been so close to the loss themselves, they know the feelings others are experiencing. Their elation at surviving the tragedy while others suffer feels like guilt.

But it's not really guilt they are feeling. They are feeling empathy. Empathy doesn't mean feeling sad for others. That is sympathy. Empathy is something else. Empathy is the ability to understand - to really know- people's feelings even if you are not experiencing them yourself.  Empathy requires compassion and imagination. And in our culture, empathy is often thought of as weakness. Guilt however, is not.

Years ago, I took a bible study course with some ladies from church on spiritual gifts such as faith, prophecy, teaching, healing and so on. My friend Susan and I were both said to have the gift of empathy. "Great," said Susan in her classically cryptic fashion. "Why do I always get the crappy ones?"

Why is empathy considered a "crappy" gift?  Critics of empathy see it as weakness. They believe empathetic people "won't make the hard choices". Empathetic people are "easily taken advantage of". However, that is often patently false. Empathetic people may understand the impact of their decision but that doesn't mean they don't know it has to be made. 

And empathy is hard to monetize. You can't sell empathy. You can't get rich by empathizing with others. Nursing, Child care, teaching and social work -often considered "woman's work" -require empathy to do well. Perhaps empathy is considered a feminine quality and thus has been traditionally undervalued.  

But where would we be without empathy? Our world would be a hard place indeed without people or governments that are able to put themselves in someone else's shoes and by so doing, go on to demonstrate compassion. Because empathy isn't just a feeling. It's also action driven by those emotions. Action that can include short term help for the suffering but also a more far reaching quest for justice. Not only in times of tragedy but also when things are going well. Rather than being a weakness, isn't empathy is a strength?  You have to be strong to repeatedly endure powerful emotions and come up with ways to help.

Empathy keeps you awake at night. Empathy hurts. It hurts to feel other people's' pain. It hurts not to be able to take it away. As one friend said, it can also be paralyzing. Sometimes it feels like more of a curse than a blessing.

So when I hear these "tough guys" refusing to wear masks or stay home or take simple measures to protect others during the pandemic, I don't see strength. I see people who refuse to draw upon their own life experiences to remind them of what suffering is. I see people too cowardly to try to think about what it is like to watch a loved one suffer.  I see people too afraid to admit to the reality of a disease that could easily strike them down. And instead of facing their fears, they deny deny deny, pretending "covid isn't real" or "the economy takes precedence over public health" or "you can't take away my rights..." That's not strength. That's selfishness. That's weakness.

Lack of empathy is confusing. I don't know how it is that some people don't have empathy. Was it how they were raised? Weren't they taught to try to understand what it would be like to be someone else? How is it possible not to care about other people? 

Whatever the reason, I'm sick of it. I've had enough of the covid deniers and anti-maskers.  I don't understand where they are coming from, as much as I try. I have no experience to draw upon to help me empathize with their lack of compassion. 

Image from @BLCKSMTHdesign on Twitter

Be Still and Listen

The philosopher Pascal once said, "All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone."

Pascal was writing from 16th century France. I doubt he was thinking about a pandemic when he wrote those words. But since the advent of COVID-19, his words resonate. 

Awhile ago my husband and I watched the Superbowl, alone in our basement. A far cry from every other year where we have joined a small group of friends to feast and laugh and sometimes watch football. Before the game started, U.S. President Joe Biden called for a moment of silence in memory of the over 440,000 Americans who lost their lives due to covid-a number that stands at 576,000 today.  Here in Canada, our numbers have been better but with over 24,000 deaths at the end of April and rising every day, we have nothing to brag about.

It's no secret that the virus is spread through social contact and governments around the world have instituted restrictions to control its escalation. Yet it continues to spread. In my own little valley our numbers were pretty good for weeks and weeks. And then our 2 cases a week became 14 and then 24 and then 46. My son lives alone in Calgary. Last week parts of the city had 753 active cases per 100,000. How is this happening?

We are social beings. It goes against our nature to be alone. Being alone is hard.

A  2014 study found that people would rather give themselves electroshocks than be alone with nothing but their thoughts for 6 minutes. Perhaps it is that inability to be alone with their thoughts that drives people to events such as the "No More Lockdown" Rodeo Rally recently held in Central Alberta. In today's world, some people will risk giving themselves and others a potentially fatal disease rather than spend time alone.

You might say Pascal's words are truer today than at any time in history, but how alone are we, really?

Today we can still connect with others via technology. We met our Superbowl friends for a little bit of the game. We couldn't share food, but we had a few laughs and there was even a little football talk. Every Sunday, we play D&D on Zoom with our kids who live far away. My husband meets monthly with old friends. I have reconnected with a group of university friends on What's App. Not a day goes by that we don't converse about topics ranging from how to get gummy stickers off glass to religion. My friend Heather started an online cooking class. Another friend started a Facebook group called the Covid Collective Isolation Fun Time Group. In some ways, I feel more connected today than pre-pandemic.

That being said, the pandemic has forced us to be by ourselves for hours at at time. Being by yourself gives you time to consider your life. 

Is it what you want it to be? 

When you can't rush around socializing and doing this and that, what do you DO? 

That empty space may encourage us to re-evaluate our priorities.

Perhaps that re-evaluating accounts for much of what I see around me. I see people making major changes in their lives, as my husband and I have done. I see people changing jobs. I see people slowing down. I see parents-especially fathers-doing more things outside with their kids. I see people moving to communities that represent more of what they value in their day to day lives. I see huge numbers of people exercising, camping, boating and visiting our Canadian parks. My daughter figures it would be easier to get crack than a puppy. I see people taking up new hobbies, cooking better, reading more. 

A grade eight teacher asked her students to describe the impact of the pandemic. Many wrote about the positives of being unscheduled which allowed them to discover their creativity. They experienced a kind of power in learning how to be alone. For many of us, time and solitude has allowed us to prioritize what matters and live with intention instead of just riding out the storm. 

The pandemic has changed the world. But like all personal tragedies, it forces us to think and act differently. Perhaps the thought of our own possible impending doom "concentrates the mind wonderfully", as Samuel Johnson once said.