Swishing through a bed of leaves in Kitsilano reminds me there's nature in the city, but it's still difficult letting go of the dense, unique nature around the home in which I grew up.

It's dark when I get home from work now. I get to my street, and it's like I'm at the edge of the wilderness. There's only one street below mine on the hill as it slopes down into the water. From street level you can't see the lights across the inlet. Those lights are what make the darkness borderline between oppressive and refreshing. There's just enough of them, and at Christmas everyone lights up their docks and boats.

Moving was easy the first time. I don't know why — I should have been more emotional about it since I didn't intend to move home again. I did two years later; I've been here again for over three. I'm glad of it though: being in my mid-twenties — a mature adult, one might say — I'm aware of my surroundings in a more intimate, celebratory, pensive way, where I revere and require the nature around me. I would have missed out on this if I hadn't moved back.

I know it will be harder the second time. I remind myself that I will be excited about the prospect of having my own place. It's more complicated now, and yet easier: I plan to buy an apartment not solo but with my sweetheart, once his current place is ready for the market and we've had more time to know each other. The only disadvantage of this co-purchase is timing, since we're in agreement about having a bright place near a farmer's market and a bike route, close to nature. (Too bad Trout Lake is a lofty dream.)

But as we've been talking about it more, I've been thinking more seriously about the prospects. Oh, not regretfully. I want to. But I'm nostalgic and I've spent all but two years of my life living in this house, surrounded by trees and looking out onto a scene so beautiful that people always remark about that aspect when I tell them where I live.

The flicker's call can last even longer than in this video, taken yesterday in the back yard.

The past two days, the flickers have been singing and drilling on metal street objects — their loudest instrument. Today, I can hear four or five different species of birds. In a nearby wood, a proper sort of woodpecker made quick work of an old stump. The trees here provide many resting places for migratory and resident birds.

It's warm enough in the sun for a t-shirt. My neighbour two doors down, Pat, is gardening in short sleeves. He rakes the life into his garden, stands tall to examine his work, and leans to tend by hand. People pass quietly by on the street, on foot and bicycle. It's a pleasant contrast against the cars that roar by and mask the bird calls.

I took advantage of today's glorious sunshine and brought my camera with me to Stanley Park's Lost Lagoon and seawall. In case it's not obvious, I have a thing for willows and birds. Don't you just love the word ducks?

"Looking at the world from other species' points of view is a cure for the disease of human self-importance." — Michael Pollan

I was lucky enough to see Michael Pollan speak at UBC Farm in 2009 and I found him terrifically inspiring.

In this fascinating TED Talk, Pollan talks about humans' relationship with, or rather perceived dominance over, nature, corn's dominance over us, and nature's incredible systems at work on a farm.

"...If you think about it, this completely contradicts the tragic idea of nature we hold in our heads which is that, for us to get what we want, nature is diminished. More for us, less for nature. Here, all this food comes off this farm and at the end of the season, there is actually more soil, more fertility and more biodiversity. It's a remarkably hopeful thing to do. ... We can take the food we need from the earth and actually heal the earth in the process."

This daily green blog is in support of David Suzuki's 75th birthday fundraising campaign put on by the David Suzuki Foundation. Please help me out by sponsoring me online now.
Note: I am writing solely on my own behalf, and do not claim to represent the David Suzuki Foundation or its views here.

pausing    the sound of waves sighing, birds humming the tune of spring in winter
i walk seeing the world of the park in poetry
carved bare, a fallen tree is alternately caressed and whipped by the water where it sits
as i sit the late january sun lays its blanket on one side of my face,
the cool wind gently breathing on the other
dichotomy

one day that moss will break down the rock under its clinging feet
the tree bridge will sink into the earth, a nurse log
for future cedars

This daily green blog is in support of David Suzuki's 75th birthday fundraising campaign put on by the David Suzuki Foundation. Please help me out by sponsoring me online now.
Note: I am writing solely on my own behalf, and do not claim to represent the David Suzuki Foundation or its views here.

A day before the official first day of spring, my friend and I sat down on a Coal Harbour bench after a refreshing, sunlit bike ride around the seawall. He pulled out a sketchbook and pen and started sketching out as many sights as possible, as quickly as possible. That strategy, while energizing and capable of branding more visual memories, is not one I frequently employ. In fact, I hadn't done any kind of artistic sketching for months — not since the fall when my visiting nieces, who are nuts about drawing, inspired participation. So when he tore a sheet from his sketchbook and handed it to me with a pen and a book for my lap, I felt a blushing hesitation, a brief resistance. An unfamiliarity with the drawing tool. Overcome that I was left just with deciding what to draw.

There was a large holly with yellow berries just ahead of me that provided the detail to which I'm addicted. I like to draw subjects as close to their form as possible, so botanical drawings are quite ideal, providing intricate and random shapes. I had forgotten this pleasure, as I had forgotten how much I enjoy capturing light and shadow (as much as I do looking at it). It took me a minute to get back into the swing of it, to have some patience and see it as a relaxing exercise with a tangible outcome. It's so easy to just take photographs and yet if I remember anything vividly it's the image of that holly, in full colour, not the pansies and daffodils I photographed two days later. That sure makes one think about the media we use to write memories.

Digital scan converted to greyscale from original blue ink.

the evening with sinking sun beckoned me.
my shiny blue bicycle led me to a tiny paradise affectionately known as
"the little bahamas."
it was unexpectedly appropriate.

shallow water, still as it can only be with no wind, no boats,
slopes quickly downward across the gritty sand, rocks and shells
(a clump of blue mussels clinging to something so thickly it became invisible)
where it tints silver-blue and in its rare clarity, with the welcoming spread of sand underneath it,
it seduces me to explore its depth up to my thighs.

in wintertime i feel the same,
only i do not indulge.
in summertime i cannot fight it, cannot break away and so as i move to retreat,
i turn back to admire it, desire it. it implores, and i wade back in.