Weekend Retreat -- Guide Camp with a Difference

The Women's Wellness Weekend retreat was led by EFT guru Sheryl Stanton. Camp Kanaka belongs to Girls Guides of Canada. Memories of my days as a Pathfinder Guider began to surface as soon as I drove through the gate with the trefoil sign.

Each bedroom at the lodge is designed to sleep up to eight Guides, Brownies or Pathfinders in four bunk beds. We women were expected to sleep only four to a room. Just as my girls used to do, I went immediately to check out my room assignment. "I call the window," I said, and plunked my bedding down.

I'd felt momentarily daunted by the thought of sleeping in the same room with three women I'd barely met; there were empty rooms across the hall. Then I remembered how some girls used to complain about who they had to bunk with, and I looked at the lovely view from the top bunk. "You can do this," I told myself.

Just as at Guide camp, we said grace before tucking into the nutritious home-cooked meals that were prepared for us. We worked in teams to decorate our doors and create skits to entertain the other teams. During the weekend we learned and practiced Emotional Freedom Technique, laughed, sang, danced and enjoyed ourselves.

While we had activities, it poured rain. When we had free time, the sun came out and we took walks in the quiet country atmosphere. One of the camp cooks had a four-month-old baby, a happy child who graciously allowed several women to hold her.

All the other times I attended group camps, I went as a Guider. This weekend, for the first time, I enjoyed the luxury of going as a girl.

Gauze Curtains Blowing

The painting on the wall is of an open window overlooking the sea. The gauze curtains blow over the sill -- they seem to be actually moving. The picture is positioned in such a way as to be lit by the late light from the window that looks west onto Burrard Street.

For me, this engrossing painting is the dominant feature of the Bio-energy Healing treatment room. The equipment is simple: a carpet, a stool and a folding chair. The amazing healer Michael D'Alton uses mind, breath and hands to gently remove blocks and allow the client's energy to flow again.

When Michael's ministrations were complete, I returned calm and energized from the magical meditative space of healing. As I walked toward the beach, I became conscious of a ravenous hunger.

I stopped at a tiny Thai Restaurant off Davie Street. There I enjoyed a celebratory feast of emerald broccoli and delectable chicken bits smothered with peanut sauce, fragrant rice and exquisite tea.

I am on the cusp of a new stage. Beginning with the roseate dawn this morning, seen through the arching cables of the Alex Fraser Bridge, every experience seems to presage something new. The final vestiges of the old chrysalis are dropping, allowing me to become...what?

Imagining the possibilities makes me shiver with anticipation.

Folding Back his Sleeves

When he wears a short-sleeved shirt, my husband likes me to fold back the sleeves of the t-shirt he wears underneath. It's something I've done for him off and on though our married life.

He asked me to do it today. As I wondered aloud about folding the surplus material out or in, using double or single folds, he said, "Do it the way you always do it." The tiny trace of impatience in his voice made me smile; he thought I was fussing unduly.

But it had been a long time. Forgetful, I used only a single fold. We had been driving for just a few minutes when he said at a stop light, "It's coming undone," and held out his arm. "Can you reach it?"

By twisting around in my seat, I could. I folded the sleeve outward this time and doubled the fold. It felt right; I knew this was how I used to do it. The t-shirt sleeve would stay in place and wouldn't show. When we stopped and got out of the car, he held out the other arm wordlessly; I knew exactly what to do. As I finished, I could almost feel his relief and comfort, and I was content.

Doing this simple service for my dear husband brought me a moment of flooding joy as the bow of memory drew taut and launched me on an arrow that took me back to the first time I did this, more than twenty-five years ago. We were newly married then, just getting to know one another's peccadilloes, which are so familiar now.

Ribstones near Viking, Alberta

Photos: the Viking Ribstones; below, a recent painting on stone, with offerings of tobacco and coins. A wonderful set of pictures of these can be found on the blog of Heidi Nikolaisen

A few months ago, I was daydreaming about a visit to the ancient cave paintings at Lascaux. Little did I know I was about to see some carvings almost half as old, quite nearby on the Canadian prairie.

Until the last week of August, when I took a trip to Viking, Alberta, I didn't know the ribstones existed. Overall, the prairie is pretty flat, but some places are a little higher, and it was to such a place a few kilometers out of town that I was taken by some local friends to see the Viking Ribstones.

These very old monuments are by no means the only ancient stone carvings in Alberta, though they are the only ones that remain in situ. They express the longstanding reverence of aboriginal peoples for the buffalo. Until quite recently, this animal provided the people of the plains with food, clothing and shelter.

We stopped by the highway to read the sign, and then approached the fenced monument from a tiny parking lot big enough for no more than half a dozen cars. From the rise, we could see in every direction.

The stones themselves are not large. Two remain where a family of three once lay. The smallest stone, representing the buffalo calf, was taken away some time ago. These bleached carvings, with the timothy growing around them, appear to have been created thousands of years ago to revere the spirit of the buffalo.

When we approached the stones, we noticed that a recently painted stone had been left, and people had placed offerings of tobacco and small change around the area. In the nearby grove of poplars, strips of colorful cloth were tied. In the past, offerings were left following a successful hunt; clearly, these places remain important to the Cree.

Until last month, I had no idea these intriguing stones existed. Sometimes we go to a lot of trouble and expense to travel to other continents to see wonderful things. Meanwhile, we may remain unaware of the marvels in our own back yards.

Delphiniums Blue...or Larkspur?

At the nursery yesterday, I was on the track of autumn crocus to fill some gaps in the garden when I saw them. I felt I was falling into a sea of colour as the deep blue drew me in. Larkspur. The name was almost as alluring as the colour, and I had to buy them. It planted some earlier this year, but they've already finished blooming, and I thought their season was over.

Photo: courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org

The first Nancy Drew mystery I ever read -- I was probably in Grade 5 -- was The Mystery of Larkspur Lane. On the cover picture, a cosy little cottage was tucked into a garden at the end of an avenue of heavenly blue flowers. Larkspur. The name sounded exotic.

The pot of flowers I bought yesterday looked identical to the one I planted out in July, but I was sure those had been labeled delphiniums. "Are they the same?" I asked the clerk. "Yes," she said. "They're also called delphiniums."

That word had its own magic, recalling to my mind a line remembered from A.A. Milne's poem, "The Doctor and the Dormouse." Until the nasty doctor imposes his yellow chrysanthemums, the dormouse enjoys "a wonderful view of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue)."

I've got red geraniums growing by the door as well. Makes me wonder.

Basil the Austin Somerset Coupe de Ville

Austin A40 photo www.free-images.org.uk

When I was young, I went through a series of used cars. One was a Morris Minor, "Morris the Donkey." I grew fond of the hardworking little Morris, but he belonged to a friend. After a few months, I had to give him back.

For awhile, I had an Austin Cambridge. Now that had cachet. Cream exterior, red leather seats. A square solidly built car, and an automatic -- the first I'd ever owned. It drank more gas than a standard, but was elegant and smelled lovely inside, like old leather. Can't remember why I had to sell that one. Or did it break down?

I flirted a bit with American cars -- For $175 I picked up a Buick Special two-door hardtop. It was red with a white top and portholes along the sides. That one had a weird feature. You turned the key, then stomped the pedal to engage the starter located beneath it.

At the time I was living in Kitsilano, and when the power brakes started to fail, I was heading downhill on Arbutus toward Cornwall Avenue. I had a vision of tearing across the lines of thick traffic and plowing into the sand at the beach when the thing miraculously stopped just short of the intersection.

Then there was the green Mustang. A friend of a friend returning to France had to sell it fast. It was one of the later years, with a long heavy front and a short light back, which meant, I discovered, a horrible tendency to fishtail in snow. Ironically, it was the ski rack on the back, along with the stereo, that had convinced me to buy it.

My most perfect used car was a 1954 Austin Somerset Coupe de Ville, a bulbous little thing with a powder-blue body that resembled a London taxi. "Basil" had been one of a fleet of 20 blue coupes brought over from England for the 1954 Empire Games. The Empire Pool at UBC and the Empire Stadium at Exhibition Park were built for those games. That year Roger Bannister became the first man to run a mile in under four minutes.

When I got Basil, he was 25 -- old enough for Vintage plates, though I never used them. For me, Basil was daily transport. The two-way convertible top could be pushed back half way (the de Ville position) at a stop light. At the next stop light, if the weather continued to improve, I could reach back and pull two rear handles that caused the top to drop straight into its well.

Basil caused a sensation wherever I went. "Do you want to sell it?" people would call as I drove by. I'd shake my head and smile. I rebuilt the four-cylinder engine, lovingly re-upholstered the front seats in new gray leather, and replaced the worn and faded soft top with a smart navy blue one.

But city traffic was speeding up. Soon I found I had to use the shoulder to drive up the Cut without causing a long line of cars to form behind my sedate steed. When I took Basil to Victoria and he quit on the road to the ferry with my mother in the seat beside me, I saw the writing on the wall.

I brought Mom a takeaway tea and we sat while I pondered. Then idely, I turned the key once more. Good old Basil started up again. When we reached the ferry compound without further incident, I relaxed. There was a slight slope down to the ship and I knew I could jump start him if I had to, to get on board, we'd be home free. Then if didn't start on the ship, the ferry workers would have to help me push him off on the other side.

Soon after that, I sold Basil to the car buff friend who had found him for me. At that stage in life,  I needed something that would cross water and go uphill. Later, he sold Basil on to someone in Ontario. A few years back I found out through the grapevine that the heirs of the man who originally collected Basil were trying to flog him for $10,000.

As I recall, Basil cost me $350 originally, plus the repairs, some of which I did myself. I enjoyed driving that delightful car for about five years.

Driving on the Shoulder of the Information Highway

The generations that were born on the side of the information highway ride that road easily. From the time they were toddlers watching the traffic, they have been observing and learning how it works. Now they travel effortlessly.

On the other hand, those of us born before that road was constructed sometimes have trouble changing lanes, negotiating the on and off ramps, and generally keeping out of the ditch. Like farmers driving tractors along main roads, we can't keep up with the rest of the traffic.

For those of us who remember traveling by railroad, searching for library material in large wooden cabinets full of record cards, answering only our own ring codes on party telephone lines, and listening to radios operated by large batteries, the astonishing speed of moving information can be quite a challenge at times.

Going from the transatlantic cable and Morse code to today's information highway in just a couple of generations has been a leap.

Ironically, it's the ease and speed with which information now flows that makes the system hard for the older generations to handle.