Come bathe in the forest with me

“In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.” – John Muir

“Let’s go for a walk.” The activity of walking is often compulsive – it’s what our brains yearn for when the chaos of everyday life reaches maximum volume. Many people like to wear earphones when they walk so that they can listen to music or take in a favourite podcast. Keeping up with a dance beat might be good for your cardio fitness, but that isn’t why I walk. I walk to reap the benefits of nature.

Our 200-acre property includes rocky meadow, open field, and forest. My favourite place to walk is in the forest. The Farmer even cut a swath through the woods with his ATV, bush hog and chainsaw so that I can follow a trail in any season on foot, snowshoes or skis. It’s a bit mucky on that trail right now, but soon it will be dried up enough for me to resume my forest treks. At the moment, I stick to the perimeter of the forest.

Turns out there is a name for this blissful walk in the woods. It’s called “Forest Bathing.” You aren’t bathing in water, but rather the energy, scent and sound of the woods. The forest is abundant with life. Everywhere you look, there is evidence of wild things. A pile of droppings alongside the path, a scratch mark on the nearest tree trunk. And then there are the trees.

All around you, majestic trees reach for the sky. Their roots trip you up and their branches tickle your face as you invade their territory. In one remote corner of our property there is a stand of four massive trees, with trunks the circumference of a California Redwood. Someone has built a ladder into the side of one of the trunks, so I climb up. I step onto a platform and survey my kingdom.

According to www.mamanatural.com, Forest Bathing has the following benefits: time.com

·         The creation of virus-fighting cells (would be handy right about now)

·         Decreased risk of heart attack.

·         Protection against obesity and diabetes.

·         More energy and better sleep.

·         Mood-boosting effects.

·         Decreased inflammation.

·         Clearer, more comfortable skin.

·         Soothing relief for sore muscles.

So if you walk in the forest on a regular basis you should be slim, muscular, well-rested, happy, energetic and immune from the coronavirus! (Invalidated).

The practice of “forest bathing” was initiated by the Japanese Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries in the 1980s. It is not a workout. Forest bathing is an opportunity to immerse oneself in the natural surroundings of the forest. Soak up the energy of the trees. Listen to the sounds of scampering rodents, twittering birds and (possibly) bounding deer crashing through the underbrush. Allow your senses to awaken. Breathe in the damp, wild scents of moss, bark and ferns. Feel the difference in temperature as you step into the natural cool of the woods. Allow the dappled sunlight to filter refracted, through the trees onto your face.

Forest bathing is the opposite of meditation, because you are summoning all of the energy of the forest into your being, rather than emptying your mind of all thought besides your breath. Feel the energy of the forest transfer to your own cells. It’s better than an espresso or a Red Bull. For full effect, remove your shoes. Not for the full walk, because you might impale your tender instep on a twig. But stand tall, reach your arms up over your head, extend your fingers to the sky, wriggle your bare toes into the earth. Breathe.

This is the forest. This is life. It’s free, it’s eternal, it’s here for all of us. Why not try a forest walk this week? Bring the whole family. We used to do this as kids. We called it a nature walk. Bring something to collect your treasures: pine cones, coloured leaves, bird nests, acorns, ferns, pussy willow, red dogwood branches. You can make a spring arrangement for your front step when you get home.

During this time of self-isolation, we are all looking for ways to relieve stress and anxiety, work out the kinks, exercise the body and clear the mind. Forest bathing sounds like the perfect solution. The Ferguson Forest Centre is accessible to everyone, as is Limerick Forest. Just remember – if you round a bend in the path and encounter someone else standing there, barefoot, give them a smile and a wave, from a safe distance of 2 metres.

Be well.

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This is our generation's shared experience

Your grandparents might remember World War II. That was the last time something took over the global consciousness this way. We are all affected by this viral pandemic. It’s surrounding us, reaching us at every level, on every media channel. And for good reason. But unlike WWII, we do have some control over how this goes. Each of us is a factor in how this plays out.

A year ago I was packing for a trip that would begin in Italy. How many people did I see in the streets of Rome last April who are no longer with us? Experts say the outbreak there completely overwhelmed their medical infrastructure. It gained speed and strength due to the fact that people were just doing what they always do: meeting in parks and coffee houses, kissing on both cheeks, greeting each other with a warm hug before spending the next few hours discussing the situation at great length over a bottle of Chianti. Italy is not Italy right now. It’s under lockdown measures, in a desperate attempt to stop the spread of this virus that is minor to many but deadly to others. As I write this, 793 people died in one day in Italy. Let’s hope and pray that was the peak. Now that everyone is practicing self-isolation, the virus will not be able to find a host. Spring will come. The warmer temperatures will stifle the virus, and life will slowly return to normal over the course of the summer.

In our part of the world it is more the self-isolation than the actual virus that seems to be affecting lives in a negative way. I know it’s hard, for those who are suffering financially during this time. Some are laid off, others are seeing their livelihood shrivel up as customers stay away, people stop spending, and everyone stays home. But we do live in a country where our interests are protected. It may take some time, but the government will bail us out. Every last one of us. Have faith.

This period of the unknown can be rather unsettling, even for those of us who don’t typically struggle with anxiety. I thought I was handling the situation quite well, until I realized I had cleaned every flat surface in my house until it shone. I am a stress cleaner. You can literally eat off my floor right now. When times get scary, I don’t freak out. I just turn around and say, “Where’s my mop?”

Yesterday I even found a recipe for gluten-free blueberry scones on my phone and took over the kitchen to whip up a batch. I guess I’m a stress baker too. Not a very good one, but it did take my mind off the news for an hour or so. My daughter (another stress cleaner) says we do it because it is something we can control. Well, that makes sense. Carrot muffins are next.

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Surviving the dog days of winter

We have all heard of the expression, “dog days of summer”. In our house, those are the 30+degree days when our Golden Retriever lies over the air conditioning vent on the cold tile floor in the guest bathroom, groaning like a teenager. He hates the extreme heat. I told him the basement floor is even cooler but there are cats down there. He puts up with the cats (they were here first, after all), but he can’t relax around them. They can’t be trusted. So he suffers upstairs.

If the hottest days are the dog days of summer, then the winter equivalent must be when there is so much snow, the Ferg can’t find his favourite item on Earth: Ball. After our last big snow I used the ball launcher to throw not one but three different coloured rubber balls into the same section of the yard. I always throw in this direction. He doesn’t seem to realize I can throw in other directions, and he never actually looks to see which way I am throwing, so to keep things simple I usually pitch in a northerly direction. He uses his nose, you see, to find Ball. He can find it under a certain amount of snow, but if there is too much white stuff, he loses the scent. We lost 3 balls last week. We will find them in the spring. I will buy reinforcements, and make sure I throw them right in front of him so they are easy to find. For Ferg, there is no quality of life without Ball. Especially in winter.

When it’s really cold out, Fergus goes for a quick trip out to relieve himself, then he sits at the door with Ball. He is a creature of habit so he will paw the door and give me the look…but if it’s too cold I will lure him inside with the distraction of a dried liver treat. It doesn’t take much convincing. His favourite spot on these cold days is right in front of the wood stove, on a sheepskin rug. At first, when he was a puppy, Fergus thought that lying on the pelt of another animal was a bit ridiculous. I used to laugh at the face he made every time I lay him down on the fluffy fleece. Now it’s his go-to, especially when it’s in front of the fire. Besides, there are 3 cats taking up his dog bed most days and he is too polite / intimidated to ask them to leave. He really only gets his bed at night when the cats are locked in the basement.

Winter is also a time when trees are bare. To Fergus, this means that he has a much clearer view of the activities at the house next door. He rests his chin on the table and peers out the window for long moments. A chicken will wander past, then a squirrel will appear and Ferg’s ears will perk up. Finally, the door will open and Rocky, the muscular full male next door will strut over to the fenceline. Slowly, all strength and sinew, Rocky will slink along the bare brushes and sniff the air. He is sniffing for Ferg. Our dog’s hair stands on end. He shivers. His eyes are locked on Rocky.

“Oh. I see Rocky is out,” I comment. Ferg turns his head in slow motion and gives me the side eye. Part of his vision is still on the big dog next door. He goes back to his watch. Life can be exciting, even in the dead of winter.

I imagine, being born in Canada, dogs learn to appreciate the 4 seasons just as the rest of us do. If Fergus had a favourite season, for sure it would be fall. The cooler temperatures are perfect for long walks in the woods, and the rich, deep smells of rotting leaves and roaming wildlife are abundant for a sniffer dog’s nose. Winter is devoid of smell. It just smells cold, with a touch of wood smoke. Fergus’ nose gets a bit of a rest in the colder months.

His sense of hearing seems sharper than ever, however. With no leaves on the trees as a buffer, the sounds of deer crashing through the underbrush and coyotes yipping at the moon carry across the acres as if it were happening right in the yard. Then Fergus bursts out of bed and comes bounding up the stairs to bark a warning outside our bedroom door. Sometimes at 3 in the morning I have to turn the fan on to block out the sound and close the curtains so he will go back to sleep.

Spring is at least 6 weeks away, pup. Winter isn’t over yet. You might as well settle in.

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Once again I can hear, my dear...

The Farmer has been deaf in one ear for as long as he can remember. He suspects it is a result of hunting, because it’s on the side where he holds his gun and is most affected by the sound of gunshot. For the most part it has been a non-issue. He doesn’t always ‘hear’ me when I’m in the next room, because he reads lips. But I think he is fairly comfortable in his quiet existence. He sleeps really well, on his good ear.

My husband has hearing aids – the really good kind. But they have to be adjusted to his environment and he has to take the effort to maintain them. And he has to want to hear. I don’t think he feels he is missing out on anything by not being able to hear every little sound. He hears the big ones. That seems to be enough.

He himself must have made a big sound back in August when, after hastily climbing the ladder at our cottage building site to apply one final coat of stain on the trim, he fell. Normally he nails a brace bar at the bottom of the ladder but as it was the end of the day and he was anxious to get home, he didn’t bother. The ladder began to wobble and slide and shake. He shook along with it. Suddenly it flipped, flinging the Farmer to the rocky ground below.

He landed on a rock, bashed his wrist watch, jostled his brain a bit and broke two ribs. He didn’t want to call an ambulance, because not only would they find it difficult to locate him at this out-of-the-way building site, but he might be forced to leave his beloved doggo behind. So he gingerly lifted himself out of the ditch where he had landed beside the cottage, succumbing to dog licks all over his face while he remained low to the ground. He took his time closing doors and turning off equipment before gathering his things and ushering the pooch into the back of the truck. It was difficult to hoist himself into the driver’s seat, but he eventually managed. He drove himself to the Smiths Falls Hospital.

Our daughter is a nurse in Smiths Falls. It was her day off but as soon as he called her she jumped in the car to meet him there. He was a bit disappointed to be informed that if you drive yourself to the hospital, you have to get yourself inside. They do not come rushing out to greet you with a wheelchair or a gurney. The shock of the fall likely kept the pain at bay, or at least under control, until he was safely in the emergency room.

That’s where I found him an hour later. He was quite a sight, with the red wood stain that had spattered his clothing making him look like he had attended a violent murder scene. His hair was standing straight on end, he was topless and he had a Golden Retriever tied to the end of his hospital bed. Fergus was drinking from what appeared to be a plastic bed pan. I was assured it had been sterilized.

“Oh, you look like a hobo!” I cried, relieved to see he was in good hands.

The next week was difficult, as I attempted to work from home while playing nurse to my busted-up husband. He had been prescribed opioids and I was determined to watch over him as he took his daily dose of painkillers. Luckily I had the real nurse at the end of the phone line so I could text for advice when necessary. They don’t bind broken ribs anymore – they want you to take deep breaths to avoid fluid buildup on the lungs. We just alternated hot and cold as per the doc’s advice but fluid built up anyway and we had to go to the hospital to have the lungs drained.

The Farmer suffered through a family wedding that he was loathe to miss out on, and that is when he revealed a side effect of his fall. Suddenly I felt I was in the middle of a National Lampoon movie – or an episode of Corner Gas.

“I may have broken ribs when I fell but you know what? I think I got my hearing back!” he announced proudly.

This is the Farmer’s new response every time I tell him he should be getting his hearing aid adjusted. He says his hearing is perfectly fine, thank you. It’s my mumbling that is the problem.

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The Farm has a Memory

In the winter when there are no crops in the fields, Fergus and I go for walks. I take off his radar collar and he bounds like a deer to the farm gate at the edge of the lawn, where the barnyard begins. He sits and looks at me out of the side of his eye.

“Wait…wait…and….go!” A flash of furry red disappears around the side of the shed, toward the big old barn. We do the rounds before we go on our walk, just as I always did, even though we don’t have livestock anymore. I think Fergus knows that many animals lived here before he did. He can sense them.

As we round the old log barn at the end of the lane, a black squirrel scolds us from the top of the tree. Fergus puts his paws on the trunk and wills himself up to no avail. He whimpers, then gives up, distracted by something in the corn field. I worry that his leaping over ragged wooden cornstalks will cut his feet but he has perfect dexterity and returns without a scratch.

I peek into the log barn. We used one half as a chicken coop, covering the windows with chicken wire to keep the birds in and blankets to keep the draft out. That was before the day some animal decided to teach its young how to kill one night. We lost 67 birds that day. Now we keep our chicks in the shed close to the house. There is enough activity there that a predator isn’t likely to strike.

The other half of the log barn, with its tiny pen, was a favourite of our cow Julie. She wedged herself and her calf in there as an escape from the mosquitoes, I think. The logs have a magical cooling effect as well. That was one smart cow – but the logs suffered a bit as a result of her big butt body checks.

We rounded the barn and I remembered the first time I witnessed a calf being born – in April, 2008. 

Betty hadn’t even looked pregnant. She was such a big Hereford – she carried it well. Sure enough, though, she gave birth to a healthy girl: Mocha – who went on to have calves of her own. We were lucky that most of our calving seasons went off without a hitch – but we did learn that there is no use waiting around the barn for something to happen: the cows always waited until we were gone to give birth. If we were lucky, we caught the tail end of the event.

As we rounded the end of the barn I remembered the first winter with our big Belgian horses, when Ashley stepped on my foot with her big dinner-plate hoof. I just sunk down into the mud and snow beneath her, but she froze, holding her hoof up in mid-air as if she had stepped on something rather squishy and distasteful.

Ferg stops to peek between the barn boards at my daughter’s sports car that is over wintering in our barn. The Mustang is the only animal in there right now. I wondered how many ghosts were watching from inside the structure. Death is just another part of Life on the farm. Over the last decade we have lost lambs, calves, barn cats, one beloved horse and two precious dogs. I wonder if they left anything behind that Fergus can smell. Perhaps not. He is ready to move on.

We follow the diagonal path that the cows’ hooves beat across the pasture, to the soy bean field at the top of the tractor lane. The tiniest rabbit prints I have ever seen – smaller than a kitten’s – have Fergus’ full attention now. But then he discovers a spot where someone ate some soy beans and lay down for a nap. And here is a corn cob that someone carried from the other field. Wild turkey tracks. Deer scratchings. Coyote scat. So many stories to tell. Ferg’s nose can read them all.

As we come to the end of the tractor lane, something darts into the bushes beside the creek. Was that a fisher? A coyote? Or was it a deer? The sight of the dog scares many animals away. I don’t want to encounter a coyote – it might try to attack my dog – but I would love to see a deer. I know they are there. And so does Fergus.

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To the woman in the shelter this Christmas

If you celebrate the holiday, you likely spend the first few moments after waking on Christmas morning basking in the glow of your memories and traditions. But what if, after consciousness fully returns, you suddenly remember that you are waking up in a women’s shelter? Maybe your children are tucked safely into bed beside you, or lying on spare mattresses on the floor. They likely didn’t sleep well. You didn’t either. Your wee ones are a bit frightened, uncomfortable and stressed. You are worried that one of them is coming down with a cold. You are worried about many things. What will Christmas morning feel like to you?

Most moms who have had to take their children to a shelter any time of year will express a feeling of guilt, and possibly shame. Maybe you think you are ruining Christmas for your kids, because they won’t have the usual decorations, celebrations, food and gifts that they normally have at home this time of year. Likely you are hoping that your children are too young to remember this Christmas. Next year will be better, and this year and every year before it will fade into a distant, cloudy history.

But maybe Christmas hasn’t been that fun the last few years, anyway. If you are in a Violence Against Women (VAW) shelter, you are likely there because your situation developed to a point where you just couldn’t take it anymore. You made a very brave and very difficult decision to leave your home with very little other than the layers of clothing on your backs during this brutal season. You left everything else behind. You probably didn’t have control over your money – if you were making any money to begin with. You likely put this decision off for months, and maybe years, because you didn’t have the financial support for a new beginning. Your poverty kept you trapped in your situation. But then something happened that made you realize you just had to leave. The women’s shelter was your last resort. What will Christmas be like for you and your kids this year?

Hopefully, the shelter has connections with a local church, charity or The Salvation Army, so your children will receive a gift on Christmas morning. Depending on your own individual situation, maybe it will be one of the better Christmases in their memory, because they will feel safe for the first time in years. The environment will be calm and cozy, they will be warm and well-fed and you will be able to focus your energies on spending time together rather than just surviving.

But what about you, the woman in the shelter? What is Christmas going to be like for you? My hope for you is that this time of year, rather than feeling like a loss or a failure, you will realize the incredible thing you have just done. You are amazing, powerful and wise. You have done the right thing. Give yourself the gift of Hope. Make a commitment to yourself to make the right decisions for you and your family now, so that you will have a good future. You have already taken the first step. Good for you. That took a great deal of courage and strength.

You are likely emotionally and physically exhausted, because it is difficult to sleep in a new bed, when you are surrounded by strangers and thoughts of an uncertain future. This is your time to meditate on 2020 and what it will mean for you. First, you need to make sure you are safe. Make use of the resources available to you through the shelter to ensure you and your children can get up and go to school or work each morning without worrying about dealing with anyone who is harmful, controlling, abusive or manipulative. This is your life. You get to choose who you let into it now.

Surround yourself with positive people who believe in and support your decisions. You have the right to avoid or eliminate interactions with people who represent an unhealthy relationship for you and your kids.

I will be filling a bag with new socks, underwear, pajamas, toiletries, and a few things for you and the kids, so you will have something that is completely new on Christmas morning. I will be thinking of you. You can do this. I believe in you.

Merry Christmas.

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Cree Autumn 2009

I was once working on a documentary film with the Crees of Northern Quebec. We travelled to Waskaganish to film the fall goose hunt. Because I’m a talkative sort, I got chatting with one of the elders one morning while we were “enjoying” porridge with moose broth (it’s a thing) in front of the fire at the riverside hunt camp. I told him I live on 200 acres, with a mile of creek, and the geese come in hordes to settle on the water at sunset. My description of the Farmer’s happy hunting ground piqued his interest. A few weeks later, Gordon Blacksmith and his hunting party arrived at our farm.

There were 15 of them in total, in several large Ford pickup trucks, but they weren’t all here to hunt. The men consulted with my husband about the biggest flock sighting in the area, and made plans for the next morning’s pre-dawn hunt. The women unloaded bags and asked about where to do Christmas shopping.

A few young people clambered out of the cab of one truck. And then a very old couple were helped down out of the seats they had been in for the past 12 hours. The white-haired gentleman was introduced as Johnny. His partner Annie hobbled over to me on swollen feet and handed me a soft package wrapped in brown paper. It smelled of smoke. I unwrapped a pair of soft moosehide moccasins, hand sewn and beaded. I was told she had made them herself. What an incredible gift.  I thanked her, and led the way into the house, knowing they would be hungry and tired.

I started calculating beds and bodies, wondering where I would scatter them around the house. It turns out I didn’t need to worry – they headed for the largest bedroom at the end of the hall and laid sleeping bags side by side across the floor. Johnny set his up on the couch in the back room. That’s where I found him sitting, staring at my Gustav Klimt collage of nudes and cherubs. He had a twinkle in his eye.

We had lasagna and salad and garlic bread for dinner and everyone turned in early, exhausted from their day of travel. Most of them didn’t speak English. Gordon translated their soft Cree mumblings for us.

The next morning, the hunters left before the rest of us awoke. My husband took them to the St. Lawrence River, where they hunted and had a hot shore lunch and a nap. At the end of the day, the women started preparing things for the goose cleaning. They asked me to lend pots of hot water and old towels. I gathered the required items and watched from a distance as they headed to the shed, chattering to themselves and shaking their heads.

“The women want to know if you clean your own geese,” my husband reported, snickering. “I told them you don’t clean geese. But they noticed I did the cooking last night so now they are wondering what it is exactly that you do around here.” He ducked in time before I smacked him.

My attempt at baking bannock did not impress old Johnny. He attempted to eat it but it was too tough. Dipping it in his tea didn’t help, as it disintegrated in soggy clumps. He laughed and whispered something to Annie, who giggled like a girl.

The hunters went out every morning and approached the landowners wherever they found large flocks of geese. In most cases, the farmers were very happy to have someone ridding them of the geese that were tamping down their fields and eating their corn. At the end of the week, Gordon and his friends had harvested 80 birds. They packed the cleaned meat into 12 coolers they had brought for the occasion, and prepared to head home. A feast was already being prepared in the community hall, where all of the bounty would be shared.

Before they left, I watched as the youngest hunter stood on the porch and squinted at the sky. He put his hands to his mouth and made a call that mimicked the sound of a goose call perfectly. And then, the flock that was flying past turned as if they had left someone behind, and flew straight over us. We stood in complete silence as they rushed over our heads; the only sound was the beating of their wings.

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