It has been an exciting and exhausting weekend so far. I took the introductory spinning workshop given by Aaron Bush (in the green shirt). Up until now I have been intimidated and thwarted by the eye-hand coordination involved in learning to spin. Today it started to click in. For about 15 minutes at the end of the workshop I actually fell into a relaxing, enjoyable rhythm. Now daily practice is required to fix it in place.

By the time we departed on our field trip I was ready to let someone else drive. I rolled down the window and enjoyed the picturesque New York countryside.

Joe Wilcox, who is also participating in the WordCount Blogathon, is here, too. In fact, he has organized these retreats ever since their inception. Joe is an outgoing, upbeat, funny person with remarkable skills to set the stage for an unforgettable social event. He is a community builder. The world needs more like him.

Can you hear my admiration? I value community, but have limited energy for organizing people. I am an introvert. Fortunately community needs many people to fill different roles. The challenge lies in learning to appreciate and value our differences. Extended social interaction can fray my nerves. At times the energy elevates me; at others it makes me feel vulnerable and agitated. I should honour my desire to move apart from time to time, go for a walk in the woods. Honouring one’s own temperament is key to fulfilling a role. I see myself as a kind of storyteller, needing time for reflection.

For you, what is the hardest part of being in community? How do you handle this challenge? What role makes best use of your gifts?

Friday evening we had show and tell. Most of the 41 men attending brought forward samples of their best knitted, woven and crocheted work from the past year. All received appreciative applause. It was marvellous to see such a diversity of creative output. It mirrored our diversity in community.

I discovered Wendell Berry during a period when I was writing poetry prolifically, attempting to connect with the world of poets and get some work published. Browsing the shelves of the local independent bookstore, I found The Country of Marriage, one of Berry’s books of poems. I connected immediately with his language and deep reverance for the Earth.

For example here is part of a verse from one of those poems, “Poem for J.”:

In the house of the dead the windows shine
with life. She mourns, for his life was good.
She is not afraid. She is like a field
where the corn is planted, and like the rain
that waters the field, and like the young corn.

So profound was the intimacy of his poetry, I was surprised to discover the multi-faceted nature of his career. He has been a significant environmental activitist His gift as a wordsmith turns just as easily to pithy, controversial statements. Apparently he speaks as well as he writes, and the words are easy to remember.

Asked by a reporter why city dwellers should care about land use issues, he replied: “Urban people are connected to the land by their gastrointestinal tract.”

In the tradition of Henry David Thoreau, he has engaged in civil disobedience taking on a variety of issues. As a champion of the simple life, inlcuding small communities and husbandry, he speaks against the industrialization of farming and of life. I have embraced permaculture and urban nature partly in response to Berry’s challenges. City neighbourhoods can honour the Earth, too. We can grow our own food or reconnect with its production. Slow food and the local food movement owe allegiance to his work.

Besides the one book and my admiration for the man, I have not read much of Berry’s work. He has has a huge body of work: chapbooks, novels, short stories, essays and non-fiction books. It is all open to explore, and that is a good thing.

Food columnist Mark Bittman recently wrote a portrait, Wendell Berry, American Hero, for the New York Times.

Similar stories:

• Inspiration: Buffy Sainte-Marie
• Inspiration: Annie Dillard

Next week’s inspiration: friend and fabric artist Lorraine Roy

The Men’s Spring Knitting Retreats have so far all taken place at Easton Mountain Retreat Center. Situated by a mountain lake not far from Albany, New York, it provides a peaceful place close to nature for like-minded men to meet and share their passion for fibre. The retreat includes field trips, workshops and good food. We can use the pool or sauna, sign up for massage, go for a hike or (my favourite pastime) simply sit on the balcony overlooking the water all day. The best part of it all is good fellowship.

Since 2008 the events have taken off and spread. The Men’s Rocky Mountain Knitting Retreat takes place in Colorado in July. The Men’s Fall Knitting Retreat happens in Washington State at the end of August. The Midwest Men’s Knitting Retreat takes place in Michigan in November. The organizers intentionally limit registration to provide an intimate group size.

About 41 men will attend this weekend. Although the event officially began Thursday afternoon, a number of participants arrived early on Wednesday. This allowed us to make an unofficial field trip to Batenkill Fibers Carding and Spinning Mill (photo above), which produces custom yarn from wool, alpaca and other fibres. Just now a number of men are scattered around the large meeting hall chatting, knitting, crocheting, ball-winding and spinning. I have registered to take Friday’s introductory spinning course. About 10 wheels are lined up along one wall.

The sense of community at these events is life-altering. Although Danny and I attended only once in 2008, we have maintained some friendships since then. Many of the same people have returned this year. It feels like coming home.

For me, the peace and closeness of natural beauty enhance the experience. A strong connection with the Earth and with society are two essential aspects of wellbeing. For me, in this place, they come together and synergize.

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On Tuesday morning I was surprised to find many sections of the gardens still in spring disarray. I would expect them to draw peak crowds in mid-May, but Jardin botanique seemed unprepared. The remarkable bonsai collection in the Japanese garden was not open. Most of the manmade streams and ponds were dry. An army of gardeners teamed over the grounds, which was entertaining in itself.

We were happy to find at least the Chinese garden in close to peak form. This large enclave encloses a curving pond. The water had a milky hue, but that did not seem to discourage the wildlife. The air was full of the eerie trills of American toads a-courting. The garden makes employs surprising plants like great white trillium to great advantage. They are accompanied by more traditional specimens. Nothing calms the soul quite like a stone path littered with crabapple petals.

The alpine garden contains a stunning range of species. A huge number were unfamiliar, or I had only seen them in picture books. The landscape includes sections devoted to mountain flora from most of the world’s ranges. This year a new display in under construction to feature species from the Southern Hemisphere, including Africa, South America and Australia. While not as spectacular as the rockeries of Butchart Gardens on Vancouver Island, this collection expresses more about biodiversity. We missed this section on our first visit, but it is my new favourite.

The Aboriginal garden is more of a teaching garden than a designed landscape. Along forest paths, wanderers may view displays illustrating the use of plants by Inuit and other Native Canadian groups.

There are also extensive greenhouses featuring collections such as orchids and bromeliads. A number of smaller garden contain specialized collections. One of the most interesting was poisonous plants. A splendid collection of azaleas and rhodendrons can be viewed in May and June. The botanical gardens contain something for everyone interested in plants.

I began writing my first novel in grade 2. Later I became editor of the high school newspaper. At the same time I was building compost piles, planting gardens, following birds, identifying every wildflower I could find, and researching its useful properties. At university I studied wildlife biology and ecology, and achieved an Honours Bachelor of Science. Then I started writing again and went to community college for a diploma in journalism. A year out of college I was paying my dues as a small town newspaper reporter.

By then I was 25 and had begun a reasonable path to becoming a science and nature writer, hopefully with some fiction writing thrown in. Unfortunately, I did not see it that way. Even in hindsight, the reasons for my confusion are hard to dissect. I might blame over-protective parents, the cult-like church I joined during university, bad relationships, depression or even myself for not believing, not persisting, and being too much of a coward to take risks in pursuit of my dreams. More than any of those long-ago factors, I should blame blame itself.

I have learned two essential lessons about pursuing your dreams:

1. Stop blaming people (including yourself) for your unhappiness; as long as you point a finger to the past, it prevents you from taking responsibility for today; live firmly, unapologetically in the present.
2. No matter how many mistakes you have made, pessimism will only prevent you from turning your life around, so you must have hope.

If you have no hope, act as if you do. Optimism puts you in the path of good things happening. Otherwise, you will sit alone in your apartment while the parade passes by. It takes great courage to turn the tide of a disappointing life. Courage is the only way. Live each single day as if it were happy, and it frequently will be. Then live another after it, and another.

Bad things are inevitable. Someday a comet or supernova will wipe life from the face of the Earth. Meanwhile you or someone you love will die from car accidents or cancer. You cannot avoid tragedy. Each day you must make the most of what you have.

Or you could give up. As far as I am concerned, there is no shame in that, only sadness. Consider your options carefully.

Living “as if” I had hope helped me surround myself with people who believe in me and support my dreams, rather than disparaging them. For the past few years I worked at a job that had nothing to do with writing. Then last December work ran out and I was laid off. Now is my best second chance to pursue the life I always wanted.

I have done some writing for a content farm. It is not inspiring, but it is invigorating to work to deadline again. The flow of words oils the gears and benefits my creative work. I am participating in the 2012 WordCount Blogathon to promote my work as a nature writer. The next step will be to start querying publications about story ideas of my own.

Eleanor Roosevelt said: “Do one thing every day that scares you.”

I recommend making a list every evening before bed of things you want to do tomorrow. Be sure to include something fun, something tedious like doing the laundry, and something that frightens you.

How will this adventure turn out? More to the point, will this path become financially sustainable? I do not know. However, these past few weeks have been happier and more hopeful than any I can remember. All I can do is take one day at a time.

Intimacy with that particular piece of the world grows deeper each day: with the people, creatures and plants who inhabit it and pass through, sights, smells, sounds, lay of the land, weather and change of light from hour to hour. A reader may glimpse reverence for place in works such as Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac or Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

Ancient Romans revered the genius loci or spirit of a place. They often built altars and sought local gods’ protection. Comparable beliefs exist in many cultures. Although the spirit characters in My Neighbor Totoro were invented by filmmaker Hayao Miyazaki, they relate to the nature worship of Japanese shintoism.

Poet Alexander Pope famously wrote about the genius loci as a guide to the qualities of a place:

Consult the genius of the place in all;
That tells the waters or to rise, or fall;
Or helps th’ ambitious hill the heav’ns to scale,
Or scoops in circling theatres the vale;

This idea became an essential principle of gardening and landscape design.

Place may act as a muse to writers and artists. My friend, fabric artist Lorraine Roy, lives with her husband on the Niagara Escarpment in Dundas, Ontario. Many of her works are inspired by the rugged landscape and endurance of trees growing on the cliffs. Hints about growing up near the escarpment also appear in the songs of Sarah Harmer, as in “Escarpment Blues”:

If they blow a hole in the backbone
The one that runs cross the muscles of the land
We might get a load of stone for the road
But I don’t know how much longer we can stand

My knowledge and love grow deeper the longer I spend time in a place. The spirit of the landscape where I grew up on the north shore of Lake Erie has grown the deepest roots into my consciousness. However, Guelph’s rivers have taught me even more about myself and how to get along in the world. This is my first spring living at our current address and already I feel great affection for the backyard and nearby woods. Still, I long to put down deeper roots somewhere, both literally and figuratively. I want to plant fruit trees, but to do so in a garden where we rent would feel like giving away a child.

Although I feel such a deep connection to the Earth where I live, travel continually tempts me. These past few days we have explored Prince Edward County; tomorrow we are off to Montreal. I savour the taste of everything new. Reader, when you have time to relax, do you prefer home or travel? What is your favourite place: a living room chair, your garden, or a destination?

Maybe I am a place whore. Maybe new experiences give me a greater appreciation for what I have. Perhaps the greatest value of travel is it gives greater understanding of others. By others I mean not only different cultures, but also landscapes that shape the way they live and think, and the countless unfamiliar organisms with which we share our planet.

Still, while away we miss growth in the vegetable garden, the daily activity of birds at our feeder, and certain qualities of light that may never occur again. Something is sacrificed. A certain simplicity and depth of living is lost.

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Tamagawajousui

An old sakura (cherry tree) leans over the fence with haru jo-on (fleabane daisy) at its feet. Tsutsuji (azalea) blooms are the latest in a parade of color that begins with sakura’s pale pink in early spring and carries on until maples bright red in fall. The understory is a mix of palm trees, hakuunboku (fragrant styrax), ajisai (hydrangea), hanamizuki (flowering dogwood) and a myriad of others whose names I don’t know. Shirasagi (a general term for herons, ibis, and cranes), kame (turtles), and koi wander the narrow channel below in search of food, a place to bask in the sun, or a spot to nest. Hebi (snakes) traverse the limbs above and occasionally even swim the waters, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. A footpath a meter above the water’s edge as well-worn as mine gives away the route used by hakubishin (civets) and tanuki (raccoon-like creatures) for avoiding the busy streets above.

This waterway, the Tamagawajousui (Tama River Canal), is not in rural Japan, but a western Tokyo suburb. A ten-minute walk from the station where travelers zip to Shinjuku – a hub of urban action – in just under thirty minutes, the canal almost seems odd in a city better known for its concrete, neon, and skyscrapers. Started in 1653, the 43km long Tamagawajousui was an engineering miracle that helped kick-start Edo’s (Tokyo’s former name) transformation into a bustling metropolis for its day.

Sen-Kawa canal

Five major rivers – the Kanda, Sumida, Tamagawa, Ara, and Edo – meet in Tokyo Bay where even now they continue to support trade and fishing. But it is the intricate series of canals built during the time of the Tokugawa Shogunate (1603 – 1868) that charted a new course for this former backwater. Built for irrigation as well as drinking water and sewage purposes, the canals brought water to the surrounding plains making it possible to expand the city’s footprint and increase agricultural land use. Fresh water came directly to neighborhood wells channeled through hollow logs, square wooden pipes, and bamboo. This system included a series of reservoirs that, along with rice fields, also supported a diversity of plant and animal life.

Today, Tokyo remains surprisingly green for a city of its size, although residents still crave a place to stretch their legs and feel the seasons change. These waterways woven throughout the city’s fabric (not due in the least to ardent citizen activism in the 1970′s) provide just such opportunities even in some of its busiest spots, often stringing together parks as well as places of natural and historic interest. Management varies – sometimes water courses along cement between brick walls or wanders freely over the same sandy bottom it has since the beginning. Some canals incorporate manamade islands planted with grasses and flowers to invite wildlife in to these green corridors.

Whether a fully cemented version of their former selves, the canals and rivers remain part of life here as well as a place to glimpse history. Fishermen and tour boats still ply the waters, and gingkan (gingko nut), yomugi (mugwort), and fruit gathering continue along the banks. Others, like me, use them as low-traffic, scenic bicycle routes for weekend adventures. Peddling along above the water past old wooden homes, orchard remnants, the occasional working farm, and neighborhood shrines and temples feels more like being on a country lane than a street in a major international city. As I stop to see what has caught the eye of others out for the day, I can’t help but think that the thrill I find at the sight of a brilliantly colored kawasemi (kingfisher) catching his dinner is the same as it was 400 years ago. The city is still alive.

Joan Lambert Bailey is an American writer currently living in Tokyo where she’s lucky enough to get her hands dirty on a local organic farm. You can read about her adventures at Popcornhomestead.blogspot.jp

Like Point Pelee and Long Point in Lake Erie, Presqu’ile in Lake Ontario is an important staging ground for spring migrants crossing the Great Lakes. The west beach is apparently one of the top places in Ontario to see migrating sandpipers and other shorebirds. To see that I will have to return in late winter. It is fun to take Danny birding because so many birds are new to him. At Owens Point we had a good opportunity to compare common and Caspian terns. We took had a good look at the striking plumage of a yellow-shafted flicker and a scarlet tanager.

The marsh boardwalk presented interesting and diverse habitat. It traverses ancient sandbars that have become covered over the centuries with cottonwoods, cedars and white pines. The open water between them is gradually filling in. Lake currents and streams deposit sediments, anchored by cattail roots. The series of ridges creates unusual biodiversity. Newly introduced species succeed established ones almost constantly. Common cattails from Europe have replaced native narrow-leaved cattails. Mute swans, recent interlopers, chase other waterfowl and disturb their nest sites. Eventually the entire marsh will fill in and become dry land. These processes are allowed to follow their natural progression even at the expense of rare species. For example, the black tern used to nest abundantly at Presqu’ile, but does so no longer. The park offers a lot of ecological interest and I hope to return.

Annie Dillard, photo by Phyllis Rose

The winter of 1995 and 1996 was the darkest season of my life. I was a conservative Christian recovering from debilitating depression. The illness had forced me to stop fighting my sexuality and accept that I was gay. The decision had cost my marriage, church community and all my friends. I feared losing access to my two daughters, who were 2 and 4. I was 31, deeply homophobic, terrified and alone.

However, I happened to be reading a book of supernal beauty. My desire to become a nature writer had led me to Annie Dillard’s Pulitzer prize-winning Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. It is a modern book-length essay in the tradition of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden. She based it on journals kept around Tinker Creek at her home near the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. She reflects on observations of nature in order to comtemplate mystical ideas about God.

I had often done the same. During my own rambles around the Speed River and woodlands near Guelph, I often felt relief from loneliness and fear. My sexual orientation is irrelevant in the big scheme of things. My unhappiness was not a punishment from God but a consequence of brokenness in society, particularly intolerance.

Church had taught me life is worth nothing compared to eternity. Dillard argues living is all we know, and not to be wasted. From the book I adopted this line as my life motto: “These are our few live seasons. Let us live them purely as we can, in the present.”

Much water has flowed under Guelph’s bridges since then. My ideas have diverged from Dillard’s theology. The notion of an all-powerful creator who needs our allegiance seems to reflect human egotism more than perfect love. One February afternoon on the bank of the Eramosa River, it hit me: I do not believe in God anymore. It was another frightening, lonely epiphany. We believe what we must in order to face the brutality of life and death. By then I had enough hope in life itself to guide me.

I have not lost gratitude for survival nor reverance for what happened. I owe my life to the writer of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Her clarity, eloquence and compassion will always inspire me as a writer.

I had the privilege of meeting Dillard briefly. When For the Time Being was released in 1999 to mark the 25th anniversary of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, she gave a reading at Toronto’s Harbourfront. I attended. This beautiful, effervescent, funny woman seemed much at odds with the contemplative, monkish narrator I knew. Writers and their voices often seem like different people.

In the long queue for book signing, I had time to choose my words. Too much time would be unfair to scores of others in line behind me. Arriving at the table, I handed her the new book first and held Pilgrim up like a placard.

“This book!” I said, then repeated it for emphasis: “This book gave me something to believe in at the darkest time of my life.”

Her face shone as we traded books. I don’t remember her words: something about making it all worthwhile.

Then she signed it: “For Van: This book!”

Next week: Poet, cultural critic and farmer Wendell Berry.

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