Traced Elements

Category: musings

  • Unexpected Lessons on Permaculture and Community

    Unexpected Lessons on Permaculture and Community

    When I used to think about permaculture, I thought of it more like the “old way of gardening”. Less intensive, lots of diversity, a closed loop system that tries to reduce our impact on the earth. A systems thinking that uses everything in multiple ways. Gut Gardening. Intuitive.

    But, as I was reminded earlier this month during the (FREE) one day course on permaculture by Permaculture Design at Quest University, permaculture principles are rooted in science, and way more complex.

     

     

    Doing the right thing for the planet, for the patch of soil you are stewarding, is backed by scientific research. For my rational Western mind that sometimes needs things to be “scientifically proven,” that goes a long way. Science, fused with community. Science, fused with growing food, shelter, plants and systems that are good for the earth. Science, and changing our thinking patterns. Taught by the dynamic duo Delvin Solkinson and Kym Chi, the opportunity to attend with a carful of amazing girlfriends and kick ass gardeners was the recipe for a perfect day. Yes please.

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    The term permaculture was coined back in the 70’s by founder Bill Mollison. The Permaculture Research Institute tells us that permaculture

    “is the conscious design and maintenance of agriculturally productive ecosystems which have the diversity, stability, and resilience of natural ecosystems. It is the harmonious integration of landscape and people — providing their food, energy, shelter, and other material and non-material needs in a sustainable way.”

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    At the start of the day, fifty-five people sat in a circle – from all walks of life, many young, fresh students, but also many people in their later years. We shared what brought us there. It was everything from wanting to learn how to better compost, to learning more about plants that can help heal the earth. Gardeners who operate more in their heads and want to operate more from their hands/hearts. Pioneers who want to explore the feelings of plants. I admit I was guarded in that space. It had been a while since I had sat in a room with chimes to focus our attention and teachers who ask us to take a deep breath and sit with our thoughts. It took a bit for me to settle into the vibe and be open to the experience. Clearly, I need to re-establish my yoga practice!

    Kym and Delvin said over and over during the course of the day: think about the “problems” as opportunities. Have weeds? How can we use them? (Living mulch, compost, re-evaluate if they are actually a problem. Feed your chickens…) A challenging slope on your land? Why not plant an orchard and incorporate bioswales to manage your irrigation challenges and needs?

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    But what resonated so strongly had less to do with gardening and more to do with community. That, and this statement made by one of our teachers that gave us permission to be OK with where we were, as individuals, and society. “Don’t shit on yourself for not knowing, not doing. Don’t shit on others for not knowing, not doing.” Another yes please.

    But by the end of the day the shift was apparent, empowering, and so positive I was actually  moved to tears. Yes – lots of great permaculture tips that apply to any space. But what I loved the most was the warrior cries from people fed up with bullshit happening on a day to day basis that we all know is wrong. People inspiring each other, revolutionizing on a micro or macro scale. People swapping problems for solutions.

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    At the end of the day we shared what we got from the course, what we wanted to do. A grey-haired lady cried: “I am telling my council that I AM putting a garden on that strata lot!”

    From others I heard,

    “Put the earth first!”

    “I am going to plant a garden in that round-a-bout!”

    “If you listen, music is everywhere!”

    “I am going to make a spiral garden!”

    As I reflect on this experience now, almost a month later, I wonder about the seeds that may have been planted that day, ideas sitting below the soil surface needing the heat, the light, the energy to transform into action. How many ideas passed that tipping point? Who is going to start the permaculture food forest in Pemberton? Turn a strip of downtown Squamish dirt into a haven for bees, food for families? Change the thinking patterns of the stuffy strata intent on ridiculous lines, rules, pavement? Who wants to raise a permaculture “army” with me?

    So thank you from the bottom of my heart to Delvin and Kym. The work that you are doing is crucially important. Absolutely inspiring. For anybody who missed that magical day at Quest, I would like to bring this team to Pemberton in June. (Please get in touch with me if you are interested, or want to help fund this). They also have more free days coming up.

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    And until then, Pemberton – don’t forget about the Women’s Institute Plant Sale coming up soon on a Saturday 5 May, 9am to 12 noon at the Legion Parking Lot – the sign with the date is up at the concrete barren round-a-bout. Oh, did someone say round-a-bout? Warrior-guerilla-gardener-lady, if you are listening, we, and the world, need you!

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Dad’s Cabin

    Dad’s Cabin

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    Boy, oh boy, Dad was mad that night. He arrived home in the dark as per his MO. He was back early from his trip because a Grizzly had damaged his trapper’s cabin.

    He spent a week down in the basement building a snare and talked about what the hide would fetch at the fur auction. It seems it was the insult as much as the damage done and it seemed personal. The Grizzly had come in through the roof, destroyed everything, and, without consideration of the time it would take to fix the place, left through the window.

    Dad took some consolation in the one can of beans that the Grizzly missed in his rage/romp. We have an old cooking pot on the wall of the shop with teeth holes in it that dad brought home to show us the power of his new pal on the trapline.

    My dad had a trapline from North Creek to Meager Creek. I think he started it around 1949, when he came back from the war. Trapping was a pretty common way to make money back in those days in Pemberton, and farming was real tough. He would walk in on snowshoes for 17 miles, spend about a month trapping and skinning, then walk out with the pelts. Once the pelts were safe at home, he would head out and do it again. Usually one of his nephews would meet him on the trail and help pack out. One nephew was eager to show his strength but after dad split the load in half, couldn’t carry the weight. My dad was pretty strong.

    Most of my trips to Dad’s Cabin were as a teenager on spring fishing trips.We would walk the crust and fish for Dollies. One time I took two of my nephews fishing up there and had to crawl a mile out because the snow had weakened the crust and I crashed through every step. They were light enough to scoot along on top and found it pretty amusing.

    He used to piggy-back me on all the slippery river crossings. When I was about sixteen or so, I shakily carried him across, and was pretty proud of myself. We weren’t real huggers, our family, so it was wrestling and river crossings, and it was wonderful.IMG_3066

  • Blank Canvas

    Blank Canvas

    The summer I turned 11, my family packed our camper and set off on a massive adventure that lasted over a month. The leg of our trip that resonated the most with me was the coast of BC. There was something about the mountains and ocean that spoke to me – it made me feel free. I vowed right then that I would return to live in this place.

    Life on the west coast became a reality when my art skills got me into the University of Victoria. However, I quickly discovered I was not like my classmates and had zero desire to become any entity that encompassed being an artist. I lasted 2 years before I bought a car, learned to drive standard in a mall parking lot and set forth for Whistler because it seemed like a cool place to go and get lost.

    Fast forward to my years in landscape construction and maintenance where I learned design and plant knowledge and in time I was let loose to create spaces for clients. These playful experiences naturally paired well with my understanding colour and sense of flow. Eventually I realized that I was still creating; it was just a different type of medium.

    Now I spend countless hours every year drafting my garden plans for the following season. Notes on notes on notes as to what was great, what was horrible, where to plant what, what not to plant, what I want more of. Lots of mindless staring out the window at my plot fantasizing its potential; then scavenging bits of wood and rocks to add into the landscape. And, like clockwork when it comes to planting time, the plans that have come to fruition are loosely used and I stuff seeds and starters in the beds as I see fit.

    Maybe it’s the old artist in me coming out to play and wanting to just be free to experiment with what feels good at the last minute. This is an integral part of the learning process in gardening and I highly encourage it. Sure we can read books and learn what we should or shouldn’t do but at the end of the day if we are satisfied with the results then, who gives a shit.

    Feel it out. Plant what makes sense. Plant what you love. Look at your space and see it as a blank canvas in which to create your sanctuary. It can be whatever you want it to be. Let it evolve. You can always return to your canvas and paint over something you don’t love.

    Eighteen year later since arriving home in the Sea to Sky I have finally accepted that I’m a gardener and a landscaper: an artist after all.

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    Photo notes – The main photo (above) was taken out the window when I moved into our current residence from where I sit every day drinking coffee. The picture below was taken this morning and I can guarantee in a month it will look even different. Stay tuned! IMG_3346

  • Taking the Sting

    Taking the Sting

    I am one of those weird and fantastic people who get really excited about the plants nobody likes. The wild ones, the weeds. The FLOWERS OF TREES. The pesky dandelions old men spend hours picking out of their lawns. The patch of chickweed I found growing in the horse pasture… and made into lip balm and a series of green juices that impressed even my mother.

    I want to share a little about a spiky, prickly friend of mine, otherwise known as Stinging Nettle. Nettle is the star of the show right now. When I filmed the video I was fresh from two hours of editing a manuscript, and an hour of harvesting Nettle tops. The result? One part medicinal plant talk, two parts deep restorative ecology of the human ecosystem, and one part neighbour’s chainsaw as background noise. You can’t get more ‘weedy’ then that!

     

  • Don’t date a farmer if you want to lose weight

    Don’t date a farmer if you want to lose weight

    Riley doesn’t know this, but when we first met, I thought dating a farmer would help me lose weight. I didn’t really need to lose weight, at the time, but I thought, “Oh yeah, this is going to be great…I’ll be eating all these veggies, and helping in the fields. By the end of the summer, I’m gonna be tanned, and I’m gonna be ripped.”

    I was sitting on my butt at a desk in Whistler for over eight hours a day at the time, but a total body transformation over one summer seemed totally feasible.bacon.jpgAs our relationship progressed, my usual breakfast evolved from a green smoothie to fresh duck eggs fried with homemade bacon luscious and sticky from the maple syrup it was cured in. Life was sweet, was it love or the spoonful of brown sugar I started adding to my huge mug of coffee?

    After work, I would change into some old jeans and head out into the field to help with weeding. These golden hours were half “drinks after work”, half chores as we moved down the row side by side, catching each other up on the day’s events, and swigging from cold cans of beer set, sweating, in between the beets.

    Gone were my single-girl dinners of a chicken breast with steamed broccoli, or red wine and popcorn in front of the TV. Now I ate a proper plate, at the table, tucking into pasture-raised pork chops, roast chicken, or lamb burgers with a side of potatoes, beets, and carrots.

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    Anastasia Chomlack photo.

    So, approximately four years here I am, a little “fluffier” than I was before I met Riley. I gained a lot by dating a farmer – a few pounds, a happy life, love and the ability to eat ridiculously well every single day.

    For me, small changes like minimizing gluten and cutting out sugar move the dial in small ways. But this spring my goal is to move the dial in a big way, and I have joined the twice-weekly running club led by personal trainer Anngela Leggett of Evergreen Fitness and Yoga in an effort to get more fit. The women in this group are more experienced runners than I am, but I do what I can and managed to run 10.5km last week.running groupI’m pretty sure running should work out as a better tactic for me to lose weight than dating a farmer. If it doesn’t, I’ll still value my gains as I get outside and explore Pemberton’s amazing trails with a diverse and inspiring group of local women.

     

     

  • Honor Thy Weeding

    Honor Thy Weeding

    It’s funny how life can throw us curveballs when we least expect. Call it coincidence that I have struck out during a season that literally celebrates rebirth and renewal. But as the saying goes; everything happens for a reason. What has kept me sane is my garden.

    When you’re forced to slow down in a life that is typically robust it’s truly hard to cope – every day brings new challenges. Many of which I am not comfortable with and have had a hard time accepting.

    So, what does an active gal do when forced to step outside of her skin and just be?

    She sits with her garlic. She weeds. She envisions where all the little seedling starters will eventually go and thrive. She checks on these seedlings at least 20 times a day. She walks and appreciates the revival of the forest after a long winter. She watches the ants. She buys plants (retail therapy for the win).

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    A calming sensation genuinely lifts me up when I’m gardening. It’s my therapy. No stress involved – just the dirt and me. It has always been this way: before I was concussed, now while I’m concussed, and indefinitely when I’m past it.

    There is something to be said about stopping to smell the roses. Going back to the simpler things gives us a greater appreciation of the bigger picture. Through my minor setback I have learned the importance of this phrase and will celebrate it beyond my recovery. Gardening has an effortless way of healing.

    Spring. I surrender my ego to you… and the weeds in my garden.

  • When your Productivity Impediment becomes your best gardening co-creator

    When your Productivity Impediment becomes your best gardening co-creator

     

    There’s a Facebook meme that has caught my eye – moms asking their kids questions about the mom, gleaning a pint-sized reflection back at themselves. Of course, I wanted to try it and see if I could elicit wry, wise, candid or hilarious insights from my 4 year old. But he wouldn’t play along. He has inherited an aversion to anything overly contrived or calculated from his dad, so shut me down immediately.

    “Hey, I have a question for you. What is one thing I say to you often?”

    “I don’t want to answer your questions right now,” he advised.

    So much for a little bit of insight on how I’m holding up on the job.

    Then one day, while Grandpa was staying with us, Kidlet came home from town and announced: “I got you a surprise.”

    Not for my birthday or any kind of occasion. Nothing that smacks of contrivance, or expectation. Just random and spontaneous.

    Over the course of Grandpa’s 12 week stay, this happened four times.

    The first, the surprise was a peppermint Ritter’s bar. I’d bought one earlier that winter, and put it in my pocket for skiing. I shared a square with him, and I guess that made an impression.

    A few weeks later, he gave me a bottle of cherry red nail varnish. Way louder and more, um, red, than I would have chosen, if I were to ever choose to paint my nails. And yet, there it was, oozing wth genuine intention and sweetness. He painted both our feet the next day.

    The next time that Grandpa was catering dinner, he offered that they had a special dessert. Callan had picked it. “It was all him,” shrugged Grandpa. Peppermint choc chip ice-cream. My favourite! My husband hates peppermint, so we never select this. Never. But once, when I took Callan to the gelato place in Squamish, two years ago, that’s what I got, and I shared with him. And he remembered, and told Grandpa that’s what he wanted to pick.

    “That’s my very favourite flavour,” I told him, when it was pulled out of the freezer.

    “It’s not mine,” he says. “It’s too sweet for me.”

    At the very end of February, the last gift came. Just before Grandpa, his best co-conspirator, returned home and he was back to going shopping with people who did not indulge his whims and wants.

    Callan walked in the front door, yelling, “Help me Mum! I’ve got full hands.”

    And he offered me a bag. And inside the bag was a pack of jiffy pots, for starting seeds.

    And I was gobsmacked.

    Four years I’ve spent floundering in the garden, trying to push aside my desire for things to be neater, more orderly, more productive. Just breathing when he crawled around in the dirt, getting completely filthy. When he ate the soil. Just breathing when as a toddler, he pulled out all the little white stakes neatly labelled with what had been planted. Or when he carefully planted the seeds all in a pile on top of each other. When as a three year old, he ate my first precious strawberries before they had a chance to ripen and then spat them out, “not ready” (yeah, I could have told you that), or when he stomped through the middle of the garden and squished a few seedlings just as they were getting started. I would breathe and say to myself, this is a place for fun. This is not a place for stress. Let him have fun. Let him learn. Let the garden be chaotic and messy and full of squished plants and failures. And love. Most of all love.

    And here he was, at the onset of spring, bringing me pots to get our seeds started in.

    “Are you heartbroken?” he asked, at my sudden quiet.

    “Well, heartbroken means you’re so sad that you’re heart breaks. I’m kind of the opposite. My heart is overflowing.”

    “It’s the same thing,” he says.

    “No babe, it really isn’t. My heart is very happy.”

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    All the time I’ve been wasting in the garden, letting him play and enjoy it and not worrying about whether it’s productive or not, has actually turned out to be quite productive after all.

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    I have a collaborator. A co-creator. A fellow grower. A little nurturer.

    (He also, lest this seem like a portrait of a perfect life, is obsessed with weapons, taught the 4 year old neighbour her first curse-word – “fucker head” – was so silly at karate last night that the entire group was disrupted and I apologized to sempai three times, and is really yet to master the art of saying sorry. Works in progress we are. And yet…)

    I couldn’t be more heart-full. And grateful. For what is growing out of the mess and chaos and cycling seasons of our life.

  • Food and Feelings: Spring Rolls

    Food and Feelings: Spring Rolls

    In July of 2012, I moved to Pemberton. I followed my heart from Vancouver to the magical town of Pemberton where my then-boyfriend (now-husband) lived. I fell in love with the town. How could you not? The only problem that I had when I moved to town was that I had no friends. I did meet a few people through Shayne but I quickly developed three new friendships: Amy, Pauline, and May.

    I love Chinese food. One of the first places that Shayne took me in Pemberton was to Centennial Café and I had such a great experience. I also fell in love with the Centennial experience and the ladies there got to know me and my “regular order.”

    Whenever I would go in to get takeout I felt immediately welcomed with open arms. Because I like to eat my feelings, when I was feeling sad I would order Chinese food. I mostly did this because I knew that when I went to pick it up I would be greeted with smiles and compliments from my three new friends.

    A lot of us had our favourite things to order and I was a huge fan of the deep fried spicy tofu, ginger beef on chow main and spring rolls. In my opinion, those spring rolls were to die for. Sometimes I would go there just for an order of spring rolls. They were so good that there was a 100% chance that I would burn my mouth when eating them because I didn’t have the patience to let them cool down upon arriving at my table.

    After being a regular for a few years I graduated to being greeted with a hug. It’s like I was ordering spring rolls with a side of hugs and I loved it.

    I’m bummed out that they closed down. Aren’t you? I get it. It was time to retire/move on. The owners worked really hard and deserve to retire and I’m excited for them.

    I went for two last meals there (the last-last one was for three spring rolls). After moving here, I would always joke that I had five friends in town and Amy, May and Pauline were three of them. Those ladies, those memories, and those spring rolls will always be a part of my Pemberton story.

  • Telling the Bees of the Legend of Lisa

    Telling the Bees of the Legend of Lisa

    I asked Pemberton’s bee-keeping community if there was anyone interested in contributing their know-how and passion to Traced Elements. Jennie Helmer put her hand up, and offers this first post, of bee-keeper wisdom, in dedication to Lisa Korthals. 

    This community has lost one of the most-loved, revered, and all-around rad women this grateful town has ever seen.  Pemberton will not soon forget the beauty, grace and strength that was Lisa Korthals.

    When I heard the unimaginable news of her death, I sat in stunned silence. Thinking of all the broken-hearts aching in our town. I imagined Lisa’s beautiful smile and her effortless love of all things related to family, friends, wheels and skis.

    Eventually I went to sit with my honey bees, to tell them the story of Lisa’s life and death.

    I sat on the old wooden fence beside the bees. I built this fence to wrap around their hives. It was designed to give them flying space while I sip tea and watch them zip in and out of their little hive-homes. At times, I’m able to mark the changing days by the various shades of yellow pollen stuffed gently into their legs. In the early Spring the pollen is a brilliant, neon yellow, later it turns a dusky orange.

    Today it is an intense burst of yellow, as I sit and tell the bees of Lisa.

    The “telling of the bees” is an old-world tradition, where bees are informed of important moments in their keepers’ lives. In Celtic myth, bees were regarded as having great wisdom and acted as messengers between worlds, able to travel to the Otherworld bringing back messages from the gods.

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    I told the bees the tale of the warrior woman who has died in the unforgiving and indiscriminating arms of the mountains. I told the bees of Lisa’s family, of her phenomenal soul-mate Johnny with his gentle smile, his bravery and unimaginable strength. I told the bees of her son Tye who embodies Lisa’s spirit, who is a kind soul and an amazing ski racer, and who is building into his own legend at such a young age. And of lovely Chris, Lisa’s brother whose spirit she kept alive with stories and photos.

    I told the bees of her daring ascents, her tenacious descents, and the beautiful places she’d been in this world. I told the bees of the other female ski guides in the area whose souls were crushed on this day, whose worlds would never be the same again. A remarkably close group of strong women, they are the queens of an industry where female ski guides are revered, iconic and so undeniably safe in every choice they make in the mountains. This should not have happened to one of them.

    I shared with the bees that the hearts and minds of our community are devastated and tattered and torn. I asked that the bees find these hearts, and gently give them strength to keep breathing and moving and smiling; and then I asked that if they could find Lisa, could they let Lisa know that we will hold sacred her memory, that her family will be loved and cared for and that she will never be forgotten. If they could also stay a bit longer by her side, I asked, could they tell her that we’ll see her in the mountains, on the trails, and everywhere in-between.

    As I told the bees, they told me: be still, be strong, be comforted, be kind, be love in this life, live like the Legend that is Lisa.

     

  • Passion Prevails

    Passion Prevails

    My childhood subconscious began manifesting my green thumb life long before I understood the benefit of my compost chore or using the excuse, “I’m thinning them out” when caught eating baby carrots. When you grow up surrounded by gardeners you’re bound to inherit some level of love for the same hobby.

    Basically, I’m a full pledged geek when it comes to everything plant related.

    For example… I have pulled illegal U-turns moments after spotting a nursery. I carry pruners in my car to pluck wild flowers bouquets from ditches. I save plants from becoming garbage and give them new homes. I take pictures while traveling of unrecognizable vegetation so I can come home and identify them… and so on.

    (Insert crazy garden lady photo here.)

    It was during my years as an on again off again landscaper that solidified my love affair with horticulture. The jobs I held in between seasons never really satisfied my soul. I genuinely missed cleaning dirt out of my nails.

    One instance that really stands out in my head happened while emptying my pockets after a day of work in the city. Out came my keys, my wallet and a whole bunch of deadheaded flowers. A big smile graced my face upon seeing the blossoms. I had visited a nursery on my way home but for the life of me could not remember committing the act. No doubt it was my subconscious giving me a little nudge. I gave my two weeks notice the next day and promptly returned to my happy place slinging dirt.

    Now I’ve really come to realize that I glow when I talk about gardening. I mean I get giddy like a little schoolgirl talking about this shit. (Giggity)! The other side of my coin is that I love to cook and preserve all the wonderful things that come out of my backyard and our bountiful valley but I’ll save that for later.

    In January I figured there was no point in fighting the feelings anymore. Time to take my passion by the reins and just go for it! And although I’m not exactly sure what will grow from this adventure one thing is for sure: I want to share my love of gardening with people, inspire them to grow their own food and experience the simple pleasures that come with the failures and the successes along the way.

    Welcome to my journey back to dirt.