It's been said that writing is hard, that ideas are difficult to come by, that making it all come together is illusive. Writing is simple; starting may be the most difficult thing, but once you are past the first few words it flows like a broken sprinkler pipe. Ideas, as Rod Serling once said, “...are born from what is smelled, heard, seen, experienced, felt, emotionalized.” Putting it together can be tedious, but good things come to those who wait.
I picked up a norovirus or something similar last week and sufferred through the fever/bed/bathroom cycle for a few days. Once it finally left my body it took another two days before I was able to go back to work. I am still feeling the ill effects of whatever coursed through my veins. I tried to complete some light house painting today; what should have been an easy job got the better of me after about three hours.
Writing isn't hard. Being sick is hard. Not feeling well is hard. Being tired all the time with joints that hurt is hard. And while most of us think we understand what it feels like to struggle through another day when we feel under the weather, we really don't.
Understanding is the key. May my experiences, however small and limited they be, help me to remember we all have our burdens to carry.
It is not the destination, but the direction, that is a problem. Flying east seems to vex me, no matter how small the time change. My body rebels against me with pitiful sleep the night before and no desire to adapt to the time zone.
Flying west, on the other hand, seems so natural. I fall into step with the time zone with little effort, likely due to spending most of my life in it.
I look forward to spending the week with my collegues and learning new things, but when it is over I will be heading west again, chasing the sun and looking forward to the sunset over the Pacific.
As residents of Southern Oregon, for years we drove past the "Visit Beautiful Butchart Gardens" billboard in Yreka. While the gardens beckoned, it was farther out of our reach than our normal travels, except those to Southern California to visit family. It was a "back burner" item for when we had time, and that never seemed to happen.
Now, as our days as Washingtonians appear to be waning, there is time. Time to see the sights, time to visit places we didn't expect to, time for strolling around gardens. This weekend Cindy and I took the ferry through the San Juan Islands to Vancouver Island and made our way to the elusive Butchart Gardens.
The trip through the San Juans was breathtaking. The weather was near perfect, with the occasional wisp of cloud along the horizons and the sun shining as it is not often want to do in the land of filtered sunshine. Passing by Lopez, Orcas and San Juan Islands, the ferry made its way steadily towards the line of demarcation in the water that separates the US from Canada. My cell phone altered me to the transfer, as the warning text regarding the increased cost of data hit the phone just as we crossed into Canadian waters.
A chance comment by the Canadian customs agent let us know there going to be fireworks at the Butchart Gardens that night, so after checking to out hotel and dinner, we headed west in search of our destination. The abundant signage made it easy to find and we were able to find a place to sit ans watch the fireworks among the things of others present. Re-admittance the next morning was a scant few dollars and we spent the next four hours visiting the work the Butcharts and their descendants have done over the last 100 plus years. Among the wonders we saw were The Sunken Gardens in what was originally a used-up limestone quarry, an indicator that anything is possible as long as you are willing and able.
Our return trip was through the northern San Juan Islands, another treat of beautiful sunshine and wonderful weather. A stop at Tim Hortons for donuts completed this trip to our neighbor to the north.
There is a sense of permanence attached to large gardens, such as the Butchart. Stone walls, paved paths and statues fill the areas, reminding of estate garden where my maternal grandfather lived and worked when I was a child. While I haven't seen those gardens in over 40 years, visiting Butchart gives me hope that it still remains and is more beautiful than I can remember.
