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.

The third annual David Suzuki Digs My Garden contest is on full steam ahead this year, with the three winning gardeners featured as bloggers on the brand new DMG website. Each week the bloggers—from Richmond, BC, Edmonton, AB, and Ancanster, ON—post blogs and videos, and help answer questions from the public such as, how do I thwart those pesky digging squirrels? or, how do I get rid of dandelions without chemicals? It's all about being green, too—these gardeners pride themselves on having beautiful foliage without the pesticides.

If you haven't got a camera, paint; if you cannot paint, write.

The weekend before last, I went to the park two days in a row. On the Saturday it was achingly cold, but I didn't notice til I'd been outside at length. Regretting not bringing a camera, I put the view to memory and wished I could paint.

The fog was still on its extended visit; however, it had broken away from the shore and hovered, almost still, above the water, who knows how close to the other shore. As the sun crawled away behind trees and the horizon, it glowed against a ship's bow; reflected off Belcarra's houses and the power station up the Arm; coloured the fog. The water deemed itself a deep blue with hints of grey and purple, and as it met the fog a strong but organic line formed between the two, harmoniously, one disappearing into the other. And as the colour noticeably became fog, it moved from blue into a thick and solid but desaturated purple, then upward increasingly more pastel until it touched the sky in wisps and rolls. Behind it the sky was a pale yellow, white, eventually blue somewhere above. The fog stood out from it, blended into it, touched it and made the dark, jagged slopes in the distance disappear.

You may have noticed I really like adjectives. They're useful, and today they're piling up in abundance: magnificent, incredible, beautiful, bright, amazing, powerful, crunchy, quiet.

This is the most magnificent sight I've ever seen. In my twenty years of living here I've never witnessed such detail of the view across the water. Somehow the snow and sunlight bring out every branch, roofline and curve of the shore.

Sunset snow

This past week it has been snowing in Vancouver, which brings some joy and others frustration. I'm in the first camp. My dear colleague has escaped the harsh and unusual cold by escaping to Mexico; meanwhile I have no desire but to stay here and enjoy it! (I did not inherit my grandmother's snowbird tendencies.) The wind chill is expected to be, well, bone-chilling and when the wind and cold sweep through and suck away all the warmth it is difficult to get it back. So, anyone want to go Christmas shopping with a (*dreadful gulp*) vehicle? I need some warm clothing! Vancouverites aren't prepared for this!

a sign of autumn sails by,
silently suggesting that summer is on its merry way out.
fire in water, the wind-torn edges curled up,
it negotiates the gentle, lapping tide.
reflections steal the leaf from view.

two sailboats, steered from the shore by father
and son,
cut a quiet path through cool, salty waters.
the wakes of speedboats bounce them
as the waves undulate, roll, tumble against the beach,
each tip pushing another in diverging directions
until they ease upon the sand.

crisp whitecaps crumble into sea foam as they
dash the sand, splashing against me.
the heaviest suck back into the swell, dragging
sand and shells out from under my feet.
they whittle a steeper slope from the shore, a sculpture
that dries quickly in the warm sun.

the little girl's blonde hair glows in the light
as she scrambles, shrieking with delight,
in and out of the water, mother casting a cautious gaze.
the thin, tropical sea foam gathers around
her feet and glistens all along the shore, in its slow,
sparkling retreat.
she tosses handfuls of wet sand onto the dry.

huge waves pound the shore and delight me as I skitter back.
I no longer feel at one with the "sea" when my
limbs go numb and the water begins to sting around my calves.
but coot or not, this is bliss and I cannot leave it.
the sunlight curves across the beach, tickling the
water as if orchestrated, the rays singing.

I smile, stall and wait; the wind picks up.
it's time.
as if the onlookers are betting on my decision,
I tip backward and barely move through the
chill before rising and trying once more,
only to get up, not defeated by the late season but
rather, refreshed and triumphant.
I smile up at the spectators and curl a towel
around myself, testing the water with my toes.
it no longer feels warm. the tide has ripped the heat
away and the sun is playing hide-and-seek
with me.
but I did it.

I pull myself away from liquid heaven,
the endless waves that make love to my overwhelmed skin,
as the sailboats head out to sea.

Thank you to Stephen Rees for the photograph to complement.