Life on the edge

I am a water baby. Born under the sign of the crab on the west coast of Vancouver Island, salt water courses through my blood. Rain, salt air and fog are essential life forces. Isolation and standing on the edge of the known bring me comfort.

I am here, next human is here-ish. Perfect. I like my personal space.
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For university, I chose to bust out on my own by moving to Montreal. Rain became snow, salt air was only constructed through the over zealous snow removal and fog was either really steam or self induced through hangover. Isolation was cultural and anonymity, and the were no edges. Montreal is the middle. But I still found the sea. Most people studied at home or the library (or didn't study), but I found my haven at the Biodome. Sure, my intertidal zone was a little too sterile, but it was one of the few places I could ground myself.

During the summers I went back to Ucluelet, back to the edge, to stare off the side of the continent. The summers recharged me, and the lack of anonymity often left me eager to escape to my cultural isolation.

Halifax is a nice balance. There's enough of a population base that you can remain somewhat anonymous, but it is situated on the edge. This past weekend, I craved that edge. Jeff, Finnegan and I went for a walk to stare off the side of the continent. I feel recharged.

We are here, next human is here-ish.  Perfect. We need out personal space.
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And over there is Muxia.  It's a long swim.

The sea at our feet and the sun on our faces.  Batteries are recharging.

Dirt under the fingernails

Summer Columbine - self planted.

I broke myself this weekend. It was one of those stunning fall weekends that allow to cling to summer hope. Sunny skies and 25c. It was perfect for tackling the slightly neglected backyard. In general, I find our backyard an oasis. Sure, it's a little rustic. Yep, that's a patch of buttercups, and over there are some dandelions, and under that tree there is a haven for clover, but you know what, bees like clover. 

Finnegan is a fan of the backyard too.

 

However, in late August, things start to die. And not the pretty fade or the bright explosion of colour die, but ugly death throws die. And in my OCD brain, something snapped. I couldn't handle it for another season, couldn't face the death and decay of the winter until their spindly corpses get covered by the snow, so I started to pull weeds. At first it was meant to be a clean up, but then it became a war. And when to roots went deeper, so did I, and soon it was trench warfare. The roots went under rocks, so I dug up the rocks. And the rocks became small boulders, so I dug up the boulders. And then I tried to pick up my broken body and saw a giant hole. And it was three hours later, and I hadn't had any water and it was 25c, and I'm crazy.

 

Three loads of dirt and rocks galore.

This weekend, I will rebuild the bed with nice, weed-free soil and use the boulders as stabilising walls.  I will plant bulbs that will announce the coming of next year's spring, and save space for a new bunch of perennials that will flow through the summer like a symphony of colour.  But this week, I will ice and heat and take ibuprofen and marvel at the hole in the backyard.

Just Bliss - Chance Harbour

Finnegan and I decide to get an early start to our weekend by escaping the hustle and bustle of the daily grind in sleepy, semi-suburban Nova Scotia (wink wink, nudge nudge) for the utter tranquility of Jeff's childhood home. Much like my own on the other side of the country, the air is bright and clean, scrubbed through a salty filter of the sea. And the sounds carried on the air consist only of nature: chirping birds, rustling leaves, croaking frogs, rolling waves and one manic wiener dog searching frantically for his expertly tossed tennis ball.  There is nothing particularly stressful about sitting in our own backyard oasis, but here, in all seasons, there are no timelines, no expectations, no lingering chores, and it's bliss. Home away from home away from home.