Changing Seasons

This past summer, my garden was mostly flowers, as I only had about 5-6 vegetables remaining in my food repertoire. I still made room for those veggies in the raised bed; surrounding them with marigolds, poppies, and sweet peas. Then, promptly after sowing     the seeds, I had a flare that took most of those remaining vegetables off my list.

As I watched sprouts break through the soil a few weeks later, I resigned myself to the fact that it would all go to friends, or the office, or the food bank, come harvest time.

I started my DNRS brain retraining in mid-June; flowers were coming into full bloom, the lettuce was starting to look like lettuce, the parsley was just starting to get tall. During the summer, I did many of my 'rounds' (the set of retraining practices I do each day) in my back yard, often facing the garden; my bare feet in the cool grass, grounding me and connecting me to nature as I calmed my limbic system.

I was growing vegetables and neurons at the same time.

Iceberg lettuce was one of the vegetables I was still eating; I grew it for the first time this year, and I loved being able to grab leaves at will to add to my meals (also, non-mass-produced iceberg lettuce has so much more flavour!).

The Brussels sprouts never sprouted, so their leafy stalks got yanked.

The rutabaga found homes among my coworkers.

Rhubarb was shared with one friend.

Raspberries with another.

I found I loved having the energy to work the garden, even if I wasn't eating most of it. 

By late summer, the only vegetable remaining in the ground was the carrots. I just couldn't part with them. I pulled them on a warm afternoon in September, carefully scrubbing, slicing, blanching, bagging, and then tucking them into the freezer.

Since starting my DNRS program, I've actually nibbled on small, single bites of a few different foods here and there, though my limbic system was clear each time that it was still outside my training zone. I knew that many people in the program had been able to start reintroducing foods almost immediately, while many others didn't even start reintroductions until after the initial 6-month training period. I was starting to get the sense that my nervous system might be in the latter category.

Accepting this was almost as hard to digest as food.

But I still wanted to try.

A couple weeks ago, I pulled a slice of carrot from one of the bags in the freezer. Mixed it into my meal. And I don't know if it was the love and care that went into growing them, or the new neural pathways, or both, but my limbic system considered it from all angles, and said,

"Okay 🙂"

via GIPHY

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This week, on the bachelor [button]...

Deep Breath and Stretch of Morning

This never. gets. old.

I have a picture of the tulips breaking through the earth for every year I've lived in this house. They rise up along the whole length of the driveway, and the delight never ceases when I spot them that first time each March.

And when I rake the leaves clear, it's like throwing back blankets and taking that big deep breath and stretch of morning.

They're a reminder of life.

Of hope.

Of resilience.

A reminder that we can endure the cold and the dark seasons. That we are not meant to bloom all year 'round. That sometimes we must rest--lie still and wait, conserve our energy, focus inward.

But trusting implicitly that Light returns; always returns. And when it does, then we explode forth our bright colours; unafraid and dazzling.

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It amazes me every spring how such a fluffy explosion will come out of such a small bud.

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Poppy Head, a photo on Flickr by Gina Blank.

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Heart of the Peony, a photo on Flickr by Gina Blank.

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Bug on a a Button, a photo on Flickr by Gina Blank.

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Fiddle in the Evening Sun, a photo on Flickr by Gina Blank

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"A flower's appeal is in its contradictions — so delicate in form yet strong in fragrance, so small in size yet big in beauty, so short in life yet long on effect."

-- Terri Guillemets

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Pretty Little Trio, a photo on Flickr by Gina Blank

Spring is Finally Here (SOTC 96/365)

We have waited forEVer for Spring this year. Days fluctuating between sun and snow. It has made for very sporadic attempts to get my hands in the dirt and work the garden. I put out the hammock stand last week, and then never got to put out the hammock. I frantically sowed the vegetables on a warm day, and finally got the flowers in the ground this afternoon.

But I have been watching the perennials carefully. The tulips poked their way through the ground at the end of March, right on time. They started to bud last week, right on time. And while several are a bit stunted in their height this year, over the last day or two, they have also started to bloom… right on time.

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On Epigenetics and the Drying of Herbs

I have been drying herbs in my kitchen since summer reached its half way mark. Dill, cilantro, mint, basil. Hanging in the windows, the sun has slowly crisped and browned their stems, their leaves. Tonight seemed like as good an evening as any to collect my now-dried spoils; rose hips and chamomile still wait to be tended to on the back porch.

There is something satisfying in the whole garden harvesting process. As I tended the herbs, specifically, there was something additionally comforting in the gathering process. Perhaps it is the rhythmic repetition of plucking each stem from the pile, one by one, the leaves all but disintegrating between my thumb and forefinger that run them down the length of the slender stalk. Fragrances fill my nostrils with positive memories of farm suppers, Dad's pasta, and--in the case of the mint--something like just having opened a new package of gum.

Epigenetics tells me that there are markers on my genes--little protein markers from my parents, my grandparents, and possibly other ancestors that leave a little trace of their experiences on my DNA, influencing the expression or non-expression of those genes as they intertwine with my own experiences.

I garden because I love the earth, and I want it to last; sustainability. Was there an ancestor so impacted by the rations and scarcity of wartime that it has driven my ever-growing preference to live simply, re-purpose, and take the time to harvest not just the fruit but also the seeds from what I've planted?

I garden because I enjoy less chemicals, and more natural products in my body; health. Was there a long-ago relative, lungs blackened by the Industrial Revolution, who witnessed the shortened life of her own working class family and friends?

I garden because I don't need research to tell me it's good for my mental health; well-being. With whom do I share introvert solidarity as I travel up through the family tree--those socially awkward comrades who nevertheless knew that the best thing for their hearts and minds was to spend free time with a book, a hammock, an art project, or with one's hands in the dirt?

Perhaps the comfort isn't so much in the rhythmic nature of the task, but in the connection to the long-ago. Despite technology, despite big-box convenience, the practice of gardening still exists--and, I would argue, is still necessary. Oh, that the DNA of future generations would not lose the markers that bring aromas into the kitchen, and calm the heart in the process.

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Big Beet, a photo by gina.blank on Flickr.
(Nope, not from my garden!)

The Experiment Continues

Earlier this summer, I mentioned that I was engaging myself in a gardening experiment, after learning about and being inspired by the concept of edible landscapes.

I can say with confidence that the snap peas loved growing up the chain link fence this summer. Despite their curling tendrils that self-wrap around the chain link wire, they still grew so tall and heavy that I had to support many of the plants with twist ties. And anytime I took some to share with friends, the comment (aside from "yum!") was, "they're so big!"

The snap peas were pretty much done this week, so I took the warm summer evening yesterday to pull the yellowing plants off the fence and out of the dirt. I filled half an ice cream pail with snap peas in the process--the last harvest.

And then I got a crazy idea.

Well, really, it's the next step in edible landscaping, but while it may seem unsurprising for a small community on Vancouver Island, BC, somewhere, it's a little bit more 'out there' in terms of Edmonton, Alberta.

But I decided to share my snap peas. With strangers.

Because while part of edible landscapes is about viewing my own space differently when it comes to growing, part of it is also about interacting differently with the people in my community, so they might view gardening differently, too.

"This is about sharing, and investing in kindness." -- Pam Warhurst

It was about 7pm when I put out my plate of snap peas. When I brought the plate back in before bed at about 10:30, there were only three peas left.

Whoa.

This may have been several evening dog-walkers or cyclists, or perhaps just a single group of teenagers enjoying one of their few remaining summer evenings before school starts again. Nevertheless, the peas were clearly enjoyed.

This whole thing gives me much anticipation and hope for next year, both in the growing and the sharing. I have already decided to try growing cucumbers again, now that I think I might be successful growing them vertically on the chain link fence. I tried several new plants this year, and have gotten to know how they grow, so I know if/how I want to plant them next year. And I want to look at re-landscaping my front yard to turn a good portion of the grass into garden, so I can continue to share a larger variety of plants with my community.

Maybe it's crazy, but a plate of snap peas can't be wrong, can they?

The Snap Pea Experiment

Last year, I was a little bit inspired by this video:


I mean, not so much in the area of becoming an activist for an Edible Edmonton (though I think that would be really cool, and I would totally participate at whatever level I could). But more in using even my own space differently to maximize the way I grow food.

I already have a raised bed garden. When I saw the video last year, most of it had already been harvested, and the season was nearly over. But it got me excited for what I could do this year.

I've added several flower pots to my back yard to house herbs and vegetables. I cleared the front garden beds of their flowers, dedicating the space under the cherry bushes entirely to strawberry plants. But the thing I was most excited about was the snap peas. I decided to plant my snap peas (and some sweet peas) along the chain link fence lining my driveway, instead of in the raised garden like I've done in the past. It was a bit of a risky venture, given that the dirt is not exactly top-quality potting soil. Sandy with a bit of clay, I added some nutrient-rich compost soil to the mix, sowed my seeds, and hoped for the best.

Everything in the garden has been coming up over the last week or so, and wouldn't you know, the snap peas are, too! ...Looks like my snap pea experiment is a success!

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I sure do love spring at my house.

A Year to Create

How is it that another year is reaching its end, a new one ready to enter in? While each year feels like it passes so quickly, I know that there have been twelve months, just like every other year. Fifty-two weeks of work, play, smiles, tears, adventures and routines.

And opportunities to create.

Create was a word I chose to intentionally consider as I entered and moved through 2012. Not so coincidentally, I believe, opportunities opened up this year to flex my creative muscle in many ways.

In relationships...

I have taken on new roles at work that have me fostering collaborative relationships with educators and caregivers. I am part of a project to build capacity in child care centres to run more inclusive classrooms, and enhance the social and emotional development of the children in their care. New relationships have been created with staff at each of the centres I have become involved with. The project grant we are operating on is for three years. It is exciting to know that I will be growing along with the people at these sites as we create even better environments for young children.

In other areas, I had a chance to re-create relationship with family this past summer. I've also re-created some of the way I do relationship with my friends--old, new, near and far. And, I've created a new sort of relationship with my younger brother, as we live under the same roof again for the first time in fifteen years.

At home...

Oh, how I continue to love my home! Especially in the summer! I continued to work towards setting up  and creating my back yard just the way I want it. Someone once told me it takes roughly 25 years for a person to landscape their yard space to perfection. I'm not entirely sure I will be in this house that long (though, it's not entirely out of realm of possibility), but I really hope it doesn't take me that long to create the perfect space. I'm aiming for somewhere in the next five years--that would be nice.

I set up the hammock this summer, creating a peaceful space to enjoy a book or a nap in the sunshine. I planted a couple new things in the garden this summer, offering a space for God to create His wonderful edibles. I also rustled up all my bulbs at the end of this season, creating a new floral landscape along the side of my house that I hope comes to fruition (florition?) next spring. Only time will tell.

I am looking forward to another summer in the hammock, in the garden, and in the dirt. It is really His creation, not mine; but I love that He lets me muck around a little. :)

Behind the lens...

Ohmygoodness, where do I even start? I have had such fun with my photography this year. I continued to create fun shots with my 365 project, and finished it up at the end of July. I have--s l  o   w    l     y--been working through a second project. It was meant to be a one-a-day kind of thing, but I quickly realized that the quick pace was kaiboshing the creative process, so I have slowed it down. It's not easy to create, some days.

In the spring, I took part in an international photography project, resulting in one of my photos being published in a book! Mine was one of 1,000 (out of 100,000 total) to be selected for the book. I felt very honoured to have been recognized this way.

I also managed to have one of my photos published in a local calendar, which was exciting.

Finally, I have been putting my toe into the artisan market a little bit. I had my art in the gallery at last year's art exhibit in Lacombe. Nothing sold, but it was neat to see my work amidst that of other artists... and to not seem like my work was out of place!

I took the canvas-printed photos to work shortly thereafter, and sold several to colleagues; that was a surprise! I also participated in an On-the-Spot pop-up craft sale, selling several photo greeting cards to passersby. I'm hoping to take in more of the pop-up scene in 2013. On the whole, my photography is in the hole, financially speaking. But sometimes just the richness of the experience is valuable, too. While I am hoping my photography will put me back in the black this coming year, I'm not out there to make a career out of this. I never have been. I enjoy taking photos purely for taking photos. When I have to start thinking about customer demands and quantities for larger markets, I fear the creativity will be lost. Photography will have become an obligation, not a passion. Being able to sell my works is really just a tangible affirmation of my skill. It is nice, but not necessary, to know that what I'm creating is beautiful.

So.

Much has been created.

Thank You, Creator, for making me in Your image, that I might create in this world, as well. May everything I create be for Your glory, in Your joy, and bring Your peace. Amen.