I’ve been meaning to write a story about our trip to Hornby Island in June of this year to celebrate the life of our friend Ben Banky who died tragically in 2008, but the summer turned out to be exceedingly busy at my Gallery on Mayne so I’ve not had the chance. Now, we are just a week away from a second event to honour the 10 year anniversary of his passing on December the 12th (at the Anza Club with Big Head Project & Snass) so I’m buckling down to capture memories of summer before they fade.
When we received word that a weekend celebration was being planned in June on Hornby Island to honour – what would have been – the 50th birthday of our dearly departed friend – Ben Banky – we embraced the thought wholeheartedly. An opportunity to honour our dear friend Ben, and pay a long overdue visit to his parents, extended family and friends seemed like such a fabulous idea that we accepted the invitation without delay. I was grateful to Ben’s widow Linda, and his parents Jake and Kathy for spearheading the idea – grateful too that a trip to one of my favourite Gulf Islands – Hornby, in late Spring – was now in the cards. It would be sublime.
A subsequent email from Jake in early April – via Linda – almost unbelievable in it’s tragic content, cast immediate uncertainty upon all of our community’s celebratory plans for Ben. His brother John was missing and presumed dead – the result of foul play in Northern B.C. Fairness, evidently, is just a concept – lightning can, and has tragically, struck twice.
The desire for all of us – friends and family of the Banky’s – to assemble on Hornby Island was made more acute by John’s passing. Now we would come to honour the lives of both of their sons. We would bring our support and love and hugs, and would receive the same in return. We would bring food and drink and music and bonhomie – the key ingredients of any good gathering which are always so plentiful at Banky events.
Driving up the inner coast of Vancouver Island on the slower oceanside routes under full sun and warmth in mid-June before tourist season, is blissful. Many of us were making the trek to Hornby on the Friday night to settle in before Ben’s 50th Birthday Bash on Saturday. Cathy and I shared a cottage with our good friend Craig on Anderson Drive – just a short walk from the Banky’s home on Oyster Place, and Ben’s business partner Matt, and his wife Shino & daughter Emma rented a waterfront house – also on Oyster – which created a private enclave where the events of the weekend would unfold.
Friday night was BBQ and potluck at the Breech’s, and was reserved primarily for off-island friends and family who’d travelled great distances – some coming in from as far away as Toronto and Boston – to be there. The above picture was taken from their deck looking east towards Texada Island and the Coastal mountains of the Mainland, and, luckily for all attending, the blue skies and warm weather stayed with us all weekend.
Hornby Island is – without a doubt – one of the loveliest of all of the Gulf Islands, and might arguably be the most beautiful spot in BC. I fell in love with this place when I first hitchhiked here at the age of 14 with two highschool chums, and have been coming back as often as I could ever since. It was here that I met Ben at the first annual Hornby Island Blues workshop in 2000, and here that I would stand as his Best Man and MC at his wedding, and here where we would lay his ashes to rest at the “Ben-der” in 2010.
We awoke on June 16 – the day of Ben’s celebration – with a mind to explore some of the cherished places that Hornby has to offer. For me, any trip to Hornby must include a walk on Tribune Bay, a hike at Helliwell Park, a visit to the Ringside market & Farmer’s Market, and a trip to Ford’s Cove. Luckily we were able to do all of these things – here’s a picture of Cathy & I at Tribune Bay.
Saturday’s celebration of life – of Ben’s 50th Birthday – was being held at the Banky’s home, commencing in the early evening with a sizeable crowd expected to turnout. Jake & Kathy are long-term and well-loved stalwarts of Hornby’s community. Their active involvement in island culture, Jake’s legendary Apple Snake hooch and Kathy’s renowned cooking have earned them well-deserved reputations as warm and inviting hosts. Off islanders have gathered and locals will arrive to contribute food, drink and camaraderie to the festivities. Old friends were reunited, tables creaked under the weight of food, the outdoor bar was well-stocked (until it wasn’t), instruments appeared, singing followed, and maybe, in the midst of the gaiety, tears were shed…how could it be otherwise?
Craig with Ron & Karen Doucette against the backdrop of Texada and the Coast Mountains
If Ben were still with us and if I were still drinking the party would have been noisier and gone later, and maybe some form of mischief might have ensued. Despite this, the rest of the celebrants did an admirable job 🙂 It was a bittersweet and magnificent event.
Sunday morning, early, after a party at the Banky’s – one of those moments where 6 years of sobriety pays off :). Our day would unfold very much like Saturday…breakfast at the Ringside Market, exploring, enjoying and absorbing the natural beauty of this place – and we found time for an additional trip to Whaling Station Bay and a little spelunking of tidal pools and driftwood. Tonight’s wrap up to this glorious weekend would be hanging out on the Breech’s deck for leftovers and BBQ, while the Banky’s gathered their clan next door for a more intimate – and sedate – family get-together.
Our Sunday night gathering at Matt & Shino’s was a much smaller group, as many friends and family had to return to their Monday morning off-island lives…mellow and conversational…a sweet meditation on a busy emotionally conflicting weekend. Here’s a little video of our amphitheatre of bliss with Cathy, Shino, Nick, Craig, Matt, Emma & Cam present.
Up to this point in the weekend, I can’t say that there was anything noticeable missing from an otherwise perfect celebration of Ben’s – and his brother John’s – lives. At least not until the sound of Ben’s deep baritone came to us via Matt’s sound system – it was Ben, singing our dear friend Lolly’s song “Shana Na” backed up by Big Head Project. This song was recorded on a CD called “Great Stuff”…a collection of tunes written by Lolly and recorded by his friends after his untimely demise in 2005. We all paused to soak in the moment…the warm embrace of Ben’s voice like an audible hug. Here’s the tune – have a listen:
As the song was ending, and we were all sitting in quiet contemplation or murmuring appreciatively, I remembered that I had Doug Mollenhauer’s song “Sudden Blue Sky” on my iPhone – a song Doug wrote in honour of Ben after Ben’s passing. It’s a beautiful and powerful song – haunting and poignant – and seemed absolutely fitting for the moment that we were in. As some present had not heard it before I suggested that we play it and everyone heartily agreed…here it is:
With the setting of the evening sun on the shores of the Salish Sea, with full bellies, surrounded by good friends and partners, and feeling connected to Ben through song, we were in a very mellow blissful state – it was quite grand. Then Matt remembered that he had brought a video – the video – of Ben & Lolly playing bongos & guitar on Doug Mollenhauer’s recording of “50 Something Blues”, a song which Doug had written for his brother John’s 50th…videotaped by Linda in my bedroom circa 2002-03. We all convened around the flatscreen for a viewing:
The beauty and serendipity of this moment was not lost on anyone present. The unexpected arrival of Ben – through music – was sweet synchronicity. Watching Ben, Lolly and Doug toast Doug’s brother John at the end of the video – the same name as Ben’s brother who had also recently passed, was one of those Jungian “meaningful coincidences” that cross our paths. I am always grateful when such moments appear, for they are rare – it was a perfect denouement for our weekend of remembrance – it was sublime…
It’s a Sunday evening in late February in the fishing village of La Manzanilla and I have returned to my Hotel to escape the din of the village. I am sitting at a table in the relative cool of the outdoor foyer/patio at Puesta del Sol attempting to cobble together some thoughts. This activity – which is rather solitary – can be challenging in this sociable little family-run establishment. Guests are constantly coming and going, and Loreena the owner and her extended family are always busy running the place or contributing several generations of family activity into the lively mix. And dreams of escaping the noise are futile as there is a Latin band playing at Martin’s Restaurant next door, and EdelMira’s 4 year old daughter Aurora is cranky and letting us all know that her needs must be met. The cicadas will eventually win out with their rhythmic nighttime music, but for now at least, the band sounds just fine, and Garfield the one-eyed alley cat is nowhere in sight.
Garfield is quite skittish, having lost a street fight with another cat which has left him with his cyclopean look. He is also farther down the pecking order than Soul – the little orange kitty who seems to run this place. I am slowly winning his affection with carefully proffered treats and kibble. Perhaps this kindness will help to diminish his fear – it’s not easy being a one-eyed cat in a beach town in Mexico.
…it’s now Thursday afternoon, five days later, Aurora is happily engaged in an art project that Christine from Gabriola has put together for the kids, and Garfield is asleep in the sun
The Puesta del Sol is a small hotel of perhaps a dozen rooms on two floors surrounding an outdoor courtyard full of local tropical greenery. For some reason, the place has attracted residents from small islands off the coast of BC. At one time we had 5 Gabriolans, 2 Lasquetians, and 2 Mayne Islanders – many of whom have brought serious artistic and musical talent to this place. Foremost among these is Rick from Gabriola
who is a wood carver by trade, and has now been commissioned by several local establishments to paint murals on their buildings. Loreena has him creating colourful murals around the doors of the hotel rooms which Is turning this casual little hotel into a playful artistic statement…
(Photo under construction)
…and he has created a series of wall planters and colourful dioramas out of the dried leaves of coconut palms. When not making art he can be found playing guitar and singing at the hotel with other musical guests or at local restaurants – I’ve brought some blues harps and have been accompanying him on occasion. Fred from Gabriola is here with his ukulele and his daughter who is also a great violin player. Christine is making her own art and is also scoring some music to several poems that have been written by another woman in the village, and Darzo from Lasqueti was here with her intriguing voice and guitar, jamming at the hotel or performing at local open mikes. It’s a place full of music, art, the chatter of young Mexican children – and the furtive scavenging of Garfield the one-eyed beach cat.
It is now Sunday, late afternoon and I am back in the cool of the courtyard. EdelMira has stepped away from the Hotel for five minutes with her two children to feed carrots to some goats and I have – briefly – been left in charge of the Hotel. With the children gone I can actually hear the sounds of the village and the birds chirping in the trees. As this is my second year of wintering in La Manzanilla, I have developed a small community of friends and nodding acquaintances who might pass by and say ‘Hola’ on their way to the beach or back to their homes beyond the arroyo.
It seems to be taking a long time to complete this little story. My days are full, distractions are plentiful, and the lure of sitting and writing while sunshine and beaches beckon is sporadic at best. I enjoy keeping a little journal when I travel, unfortunately the app I was using – Day One – lost all my writing from last year so I am reluctant to use it again, and have switched to paper. This WordPress effort at least allows me to post a few photos as well and to share it on Facebook – for whatever that is worth. If reading about Garfield the one-eyed cat, or the creative activities of my artistic compatriots doesn’t satisfy your need for appropriate travel commentary, here’s a pretty sunset… 🙂
Shortly after I returned to Vancouver, in late May of 2013, I called the landlord to find out more about the situation on Mayne, ask questions, and gather a bit of info. The building was indeed zoned commercial/residential which covered my need for accommodation on the island and gave me the possibility of opening a little business, making a little cash, and having a cool project to work on. It was a 10 acre waterfront parcel, with four additional cottages that were rented out either long-term, or for summer vacation rental. John Collinson, one of the original settlers from the mid-1800’s is buried on the property with his first nations wife, several ill-fated children, and reputedly has, growing on it, the oldest apple trees in BC – making this particular piece of land significant from a heritage perspective. Ideas for a business, although unformed as yet, were germinating. What could I do there? As I was completely bereft of skills, talents, aptitudes or business acumen my first thought was…artist studio. As I was also – at the time – completely devoid of motivation, drive, or work ethic my other embryonic idea was “self-serve coffee bar”…these two ideas would have to fall into bed together and germinate further so I could convince the landlord that I actually had a business plan, and was not just another flaky guy wanting to open up an …Art Studio Café. 🙂 I arranged to meet Dave the landlord back on Mayne in early June for mutual reassurance.
As I re-read my Journal during the early days of this exploration I am struck by two things: my wide-eyed interpretation of simple encounters as a kind of magical projection of wonderment (a woman carrying a basket of cilantro down a dusty country road would take on almost mystic qualities) and; the ongoing internal struggle between the two halves of my psyche as I weighed the pros and cons of this decision…uncertainty vs. impulsive commitment, indecision vs. strong desire, – I was having a dialogue with myself on the pages of my Journal as I sorted out my internal tendency to overthink. Problems vs possibilities…I quite literally rejected the whole concept three times before I would ultimately commit. Blessedly, magic & visceral pull would eventually win out over fear and indecisiveness…but we’re not there yet.
The June 12 meeting with Dave went well. As it turned out we had worked together as young guys in the 70’s, so there was a decent cordial recollection of being work chums from another era. Even this diminishes some of the misgivings and creates hints of inevitability. I managed to get inside the space, take some measurements and do some imaginings of what it may become under my tutelage. The cottage is petite…around 600 sq.feet with a cool front porch & ground level rancher-style access. The windows are plentiful heritage multi-plane with tons of light and stellar site lines. The best view is of Galiano Island and Active Pass through which all of the regional ferry traffic travels. The kitchen and bathroom are small but adequate, and, as an out-of-town part-time dwelling it works magnificently for my needs. It’s suitability as a business though, will be determined by the appropriateness of my ideas and the efficacy of “my plan”…(which does not yet exist, although Mr. Journal gives an early indicator of “art – cycle – website – sculpture – café – thing”…I’m good at vague.
As these are my early days exploring Mayne Island, I was still in need of further convincing that this place had what I was in need of ….what I was searching for – serenity & the muse. Although Dave’s commercial property had incredible appeal and seemed perfectly suited to my “vision dream” I needed to unearth the tranquility and unleash “the muse” – that almost indecipherable thing that would allow creative passions to flow.
After years of urban cacophony and living a life that had been turned up to “11” I was in serious need of chillout. The difference between Vancouver and Mayne is vast. Although they are only 30 kilometres and a short ferry ride apart, the sense of decompression one gets upon disembarking from the ferry onto this idyllic rock is immediate. Things slow down, noises abate, enclaves of bliss abound and circadian rhythms tap you gently on the shoulder to remind you when it’s time to eat, or whisper in your ear “lights out…time to shut ‘er down for the day”. Beaches on warm summer days offer moments of sublime delight…the sounds of happy children discovering the magic of oceanside play, while dogs run in slo-mo after tossed frisbees, bathed in a golden light while gentle breezes blow and the tides lap. Forest trails and favourite mountain vistas can provide similar moments of calm and beauty. Climbing the local peak and sourcing out a secluded spot with equal parts sun-generated warmth and the serenade of trees and birds is a fabulous way to meditate. OK….tranquility – check.
Despite my earlier indecisiveness and waffling, I knew from the moment that I saw Dave’s little commercial cottage that this quirky setting would provide a perfect tableau to unleash the creative inspirations which had been bottled up inside of me for some time. Whether suppressed or dormant, they were ready to come forth. My muse needed irony and diversity, and a boatload of new and unique experiences which the Gallery – Studio – Café , and life on Mayne Island would provide in spades. What tragedy and hard drinking had squelched, sobriety, stimulus, serendipity and synchronicity let flourish. Writing the script and setting the stage for this new play, unleashed some hidden talents, and gave creative energy to new roles I would be required to perform. As a creative generalist, they would be many….finding one’s Muse – check.
Despite the seeming perfection of Mayne Island and Dave’s little cottage business for my needs, my indecisiveness dies hard and I needed to return to Vancouver for further pondering, worry and excessive pensive thinking. In fairness to Dave, as the weeks slipped by and I’d not come to a firm decision, I called him to remove myself as a potential candidate for occupancy…but I couldn’t get the islands or the place out of my thoughts so I planned another trip in early July to do a final round-robin of my favourite island contenders…Saturna, Pender and Mayne. Unlike Goldilocks, I have to test each bowl of porridge several times.
After a year without wheels, I am back on the road and it does feel good. Liberating. I use my van as a camper when I am on these road trips for the convenience of being able to pull over and sleep anywhere on these accomodation-challenged islands…especially in summertime. I love all of these islands, and they each have something unique to offer, “They all have their own personality”, as they say. I start with Saturna, as it is the most remote, and will work my way back. Saturna is gorgeous and was one of my first considerations but is sparsely populated (300 people) and consequently is lacking in some key amenities. Pender is also stunning but the cycling felt so-so and I’m not fond of some of the turns their development have taken. Each island will dish out serenity and stunning vistas by the truckload, but there was only one “Dave’s Cottage”… And that was on Mayne.
Fortunately, when I returned on July 8 it was still vacant and beckoning – just like that girl I dated in high school. And the island was still dishing out its charms, despite, or perhaps because of, the uptick in people enjoying their summer vacation activities. Perfect days happen and for me, here, they occur with regularity.
It was on this trip that the ideas for the business were congealing and here that I first made reference to the “Shavasana* Chillout Project”, and also germinated the name I would give to my mask making activities, “Clay and Bone”www.clayandbone.com . My thoughts, creative energy and focus were now being absorbed by this looming commitment. It seemed there was no turning back, so, a few days later I called Dave to tell him I definitely wanted it and was ready to commit. The next day I awoke with serious apprehension & “buyers remorse” … I felt like bailing on the whole project.
But I didn’t. I continued my decision struggle debate internally and within the pages of my Journal…“march forward…explore…evolve..learn”, I exhorted myself, “this project may provide the necessary “raison d’etre” to boost creative energies & passions”…I said, and that I would “need to get in the correct mind space” I told myself, so I could “experiment with the place as an incubator for: website development, writing, creative space, playground, business, & the experience of living in a small community on an island”. I obviously required a lot of convincing, which only I was capable of doing. The two halves of my Gemini brain were fighting it out. And finally, from the Journal, “if not this, what?”. The desire to end the search and begin the creative work was strong – I called Dave to meet up on Mayne and sign the lease…I would reject the place one last time before the ink was dry.
It was all set. I was to meet Dave back on Mayne, the August 1st long weekend to sign the lease and take possession. As friends were vacationing there I came over a day early to hang out with them. Dave had given me keys to the place so I could show it to my friends and also stay there for a couple of nights. As we were all about to walk into the cottage, my soon-to-be new neighbour Billie came over and awkwardly injected herself into our group…acting, I suppose as an unexpected and uninvited “tour guide”. Unbeknownst to me, Billie was also the de facto caretaker, cleaning lady and security guard for the property – and also had a bunch of her stuff stored there for the interim. She was also exhibiting – as I would eventually find out – some old fashioned “island familiarity” (not to be confused with nosiness 🙂 ) which we city folk were just plain unaccustomed to. In a word – it was weird.
And of course, my friends, over dinner après, had to remind me of this and embellish upon it – they were British after all. “She likes you you know”…“She’ll be over all the time”…“It’ll be like Kathy Bates in the movie Misery”…“She’s going to break in and tie you to your bed” and on, and on…..and on. All in good fun.
As I retired back to the cottage for the evening, the clouds had rolled in, the wind had picked up and there was a hint of rain – it was a dark and stormy night. As I got ready for bed, there was a sharp rap on the front window “Who is it?”, I quailed, “It’s me, Billie…your next door neighbour” With trepidation I flung open the curtains and there she was, face inches from the window, wearing a bike light on her ever-present safari hat, “It’s blowing pretty hard out tonight” she said, “sometimes we have power outages and you might need…candles!” She raised aloft a couple of candles in each hand. As I absorbed this apparition I said, “Uuuuh…I think I’m good Billie…I have a flashlight – thanks though” The Brits were right…it was going to be a nightmare.
This thought stuck with me overnight. It wasn’t going to be a relaxing & chill experience…I was going to be pestered, hounded, and it would not be good. I’d be trapped in awkward encounters…badgered by Billie…I’d have to bail. Which I did. I saw Dave for breakfast at the bakery the next morning and – rather than sign a leasing agreement – explained my apprehension, and, once again, rejected the property. He completely understood. The deal was off.
We shook hands, I left, and went for a long walk in the woods and down to one my favourite beaches, and sat there, staring at Mt. Baker. And then I had an epiphany – there are going to be problems, difficulties, wherever you go. There is no escaping them. They are opportunities for growth, and need to be confronted – gently – and dealt with. I can handle this, I told myself, try it for a year and if you don’t like it you can move on. I reconnected with Dave and explained my change of heart. Once again, because Dave is a good guy, he completely understood. We met up and I signed the lease for one year…this time, I let the ink dry.
PostScript: Billie and I have since become friends and good neighbours. She’s big hearted, generous and kind. We look out for one another…and she’s right – it’s always good to keep a supply of candles handy for those blustery nights when the power can go off. I had found Shavasana.
*Shavasana is two Sanskrit words: Shava (शव, Śava) meaning “corpse”, and Asana (आसन, Āsana) meaning “posture” or “pose” and is the last position in Yoga – considered by some, to be the most important part of Yoga practice. Lying on one’s back with arms and legs splayed out, eyes closed and breathing deeply, Shavasana is intended to integrate one’s Yoga practice and rejuvenate body, mind and spirit. Although I would eventually use this Yogic term as a playful name for my Art Gallery/Café on Mayne Island, it was also a metaphoric and tacit recognition of my personal need for rejuvenation & healing after many years of pain.
(Because I have just created a series of rather dark & weighty Journal entries: Death Mask – Troubled Dreams on the Road to Clay and Bone (Part 1) (& Part 2); Embracing Sobriety;andTransient Epileptic Amnesia, which form a personal Chronology of events leading up to the discovery & establishment of my Gallery/Café on Mayne Island, I thought it best to reprint this 2-Part Journal entry from my Gallery Websitewhich chronicles the early days of setting up shop there. Searching For Shavasana (Parts 1 & 2) is – thus far – the “happy ending” to the prior Tragicomic Drama which was engulfing my world. It seems to fit, so here it is…)… January 7, 2017
..If you are about to embark on a journey, or think that you are going to have an experience which may prove interesting, I’d recommend keeping a journal. Besides the reputed therapeutic & cathartic benefits of writing, journalling is a great way to capture moods, feelings and observations, that photos just “don’t get”. In a serendipitous moment, a friend of mine in the AA program (thanks Kelly!) gave me a lovely leather-bound journal for my one-year anniversary of sobriety, weeks before I would make my first trip to Mayne Island…in search of Shavasana. I filled that book and others over the past three years of this journey, and am referring to them now as I write this Blog. I find that reading some of the words that I penned three years ago can transport me back to some beautiful moments and also remind me that my ongoing search has been both outward…and inward.
It is May 22, 2013 and the rather long and arduous Goldilocks quest for a rural property will soon bear fruit. I am on a solo cycling trip through the Gulf Islands to check out lifestyles and amenities on each of the five major islands and to get a feel for the various communities residing there. Galiano just felt a little too close to Vancouver, and, as an avid cyclist, I wasn’t fond of the layout of it’s road system. Salt Spring Island was a little too big and too busy, rumours of traffic congestion and narrow roads made cycling sound awkward and unpleasant. Saturna – although beautiful – was too far way, sparsely populated and had few amenities. Pender Island was a contender, but, when I finally arrived on Mayne, the Fates intervened, the stars aligned, and my Goldilocks quest was over. Mayne Island felt right, it felt like home.
It almost didn’t happen. The prior eight years had been a rather arduous & gruelling journey of tragedy, misfortune, alcoholism & recovery: Death Mask – Troubled Dreams on the Road to Clay and Bone (Part 1). One attempt at relocating outside of Vancouver on the Sunshine Coast in 2011, had crashed and burned (Death Mask – Troubled Dreams on the Road to Clay & Bone – (Part 2)) and my realization then, that I would need to gain my sobriety before embarking on this solo rural life, would prioritize a year of dedicated recovery in Vancouver before I could recommence my search for a rural property. Even the process of gaining sobriety would ultimately feed me an obstacle on this quest for a simpler country life. Within a month of quitting drinking I began having seizures which would eventually be diagnosed as Transient Epileptic Amnesia . This condition prevented me from driving for a year and modified my out-of-town search greatly. Without knowing what the eventual outcome might be (I had no way of knowing if I would ever be fit to drive again) my property search was limited to places within walking or cycling distance of the ferry terminus on each island – which explains why I was on this current bike excursion…although I loved cycling, It was suggested that I not drive until I was six months seizure free.
Bikes it is. The first thing I had to do was learn how to navigate the Vancouver Transit System with my bike. From my point of departure in Kitsilano, it’s a four part journey to get to Mayne Island – first the B-Line Bus down Broadway at 8am, transfer onto the Canada Line at Cambie, exit at Bridgeport Station to catch the 9am # 620 Bus to Tsawassen, in order to catch the 10:10 (10:20) Queen of Nanaimo ferry on it’s milk run through the Gulf Islands – Destination Mayne Island…a gorgeous one hour and forty minute journey through bliss…unless there are crippling windstorms – more about this later. Little did I know, at the time, that this would become my weekly commute for the next 3 1/2 years (and counting!).
Mayne Island is, like most of the Gulf Islands, a hilly proposition for cyclists. As a friend has observed, islands are the tops of mountains…if they were flat, they’d be reefs 🙂 As you leave the ferry your first task is to climb a rather steep hill to exit the Terminus. My first destination was to check in at the Springwater Lodge, a short undulating 10 minute jaunt to “The Village”. As I sped down the hill which approaches the Village, on my trusty old Peugot, I spied a cute commercial cottage on the left hand side of the road which, to my eye, looked like an appealing little coffee shop. I decided to pull in and grab a coffee and get my first sense of the community, as coffee shops in small villages can be wonderful locales to pick up on the gossip and learn of the goings-on of island life. As it turned out, the business was vacant…a hair salon called “Mayne Cuts” which had occupied the space for the past decade had just closed it’s doors within the last several months. The “For Lease” sign indicated a monthly rent of $550 – cheap by Vancouver standards, and said to call Dave for further info.
Friends, who are unquestionably smarter than I, had suggested that I would be wise to rent before purchasing – to try living in the rural setting prior to buying to see if I was cut out for island life. As it turned out, this little commercial cottage which held great visual & locational appeal (stunning views, waterfront property, proximity to the village and the ferry) was also dual zoned residential – I could live in it as well. Although my original intention was just to rent a cottage as a residence – not run a business – I found the concept unexpectedly appealing…”artist in residence” was the first thought that came to mind. Yeah. Perhaps I could use this space as a studio for my ceramic mask making and other creative projects I had pending …I’d have to call Dave the landlord to discuss.
At this point, I was in no hurry. I had an island to explore and the call to Dave could wait – although Mayne felt good I still needed to explore its nooks and crannies to determine its suitability for my needs. I checked in at the Springwater Lodge – which is the oldest continually operating Hotel in BC. – where I’d be staying on this two-day adventure. At the time, the rooms above the pub were available for $40 per night…rustic and worn, it very much felt like staying at a Youth Hostel. There was a shared bathroom/shower, and the rooms were only lockable from the inside…”Don’t worry, nothing ever gets stolen here, Mayne Islanders are very honest” Tessa the affable barmaid assured me. As quaint as this reassurance was, years of urban conditioning had taken its toll – it involved a leap of faith to leave my “stuff” in an unlocked room. But it was charming & I loved it, the strength of the Springwater Lodge lies in its restaurant/pub and the outdoor deck, which may be the sweetest place in BC to grab a meal and watch the sun go down.
Almost everything that I saw on these initial trips to Mayne Island charmed me. Perhaps I was looking at the world through the rose-coloured glasses of those new to sobriety, but in fact, so much of what I saw and whom I encountered fed my enchantment. The Village itself is small – perhaps a collection of a dozen plus businesses – which reflects its rather intimate yearly population of roughly 1,000 good citizens. It seemed to have everything one needs to cover the basics: 3 grocery stores, a liquor store (for those so inclined), a gas station, 3 restaurants, a gaggle of unique shops, ubiquitous realtors, and a fabulous little bakery that opened sprightly at 6am every day. (This thrilled me because I do some day trading and like to hit a coffee shop when the markets open at 6:30am.) Some remaining heritage buildings from the late 1800’s (The Agricultural Hall, Museum, & Springwater Lodge) give it a comforting sense of community & continuity. Other island amenities include a lending library, a Hardware Store, a Community Centre and a second retail gathering in the middle of the island known as the Fernhill Centre. If I was going to rent the little vacant cottage/business from Dave I would become part of “The Village”…how cool is that?
Perhaps the greatest appeal of Mayne though is its natural beauty & outdoor amenities (I would later discover that its citizens are yet another wonderful attribute, but that would come later) The Gulf Islands are a uniquely beautiful micro-climate which has been compared to the Mediterranean for it’s low precipitation & above average warmth (compared to the rest of Canada). As I cycled around this tranquil rock I encountered dense rain-forest woodlands, pastoral heritage farmland, rare stands of Garry Oak & Arbutus, and a beautiful selection of bays and beaches to toss down a blanket and make an afternoon of it. There are some fabulous parks with great hiking opportunities, a heritage photo-op lighthouse, Mt. Parke with its mezmerizing vistas, and an unexpected treasure – the well-tended Japanese Gardens. The fauna is equally varied & enchanting. Deer abound – both the indigenous Blacktail, and the pernicious Fallow…and in fact, the wildlife is just too plentiful to write up in this article – so I won’t try. Whether in the ocean, in the air or on land, if you choose to live on a Gulf island you will be living “in” nature not just alongside it, it envelopes you in a charming & therapeutic way.
My brief Mayne Island excursion was drawing to a close as I had obligations back in Vancouver. Of the many properties, hamlets, and rural communities that I had visited over the last five years of this quest…just like Goldilocks and her porridge, this one tasted just right. I had Dave’s number and would call him to find out the scoop on the vacant business.
It’s difficult to say with any certainty exactly when I developed Transient Epileptic Amnesia (TEA). My feeling is that it began with my post stag-party seizure & collapse in 2010, which was labelled Alcohol Withdrawal Syndrome by the emergency doctor as he was tending to my – first – broken foot. At the time this made perfect sense for I had quit drinking – cold turkey – after a particularly toxic & excessive guys weekend in Vegas to celebrate the upcoming wedding of our dear friend Johnny. “Who knew?”… that you shouldn’t quit drinking suddenly, and that it was better to wean oneself gradually off the booze. The seizure happened at home as I was getting out of bed, a full 3 days after I’d had my last drink. The ER Doc’s explanation made sense, it was viewed as a one-off, and I vowed to never quit drinking again 🙂
Fast forward to May 2012, a full month after I had joined the AA program and gained my sobriety. I awoke disoriented one day but attached no particular significance to this. I was experiencing a brief difficulty with short term memory and was peppering my partner with questions about what had transpired the week prior and what was coming up. Other than a little generalized confusion, my thought was that this was just my brain adjusting to life without alcohol. I wasn’t hungover and this was unusual. After a half an hour of this I shrugged it off as an inconsequential result of quitting drinking. All good.
A month later it happened again. The symptoms were similar but this time it lasted a bit longer – long enough for me to get dressed, leave the house and go grab a coffee. The world appeared slightly changed and both the visuals and the smells were different. I felt like I was a little high, it was slightly hallucinatory but this too dissipated with time, and I chalked it up to further evidence of my post-alcoholic healing. Although I wasn’t overly worried it did register as a unique experience and my level of concern was ramped up to “Level 3”.
The following month, roughly 4 weeks after my previous seizure, I awoke, got out of bed, got dressed, made it to the kitchen and collapsed on the floor. Nothing broken, and I managed to get up quite quickly. This did set off alarm bells however, for myself and my partner, and It was decided that another trip to the ER was in order. What ensued was an impressive trip through the Canadian medical system. Over the next while I was assigned a Neurologist – Dr.Spacey (I kid you not) – and underwent a battery of tests…ECG’s, EEG’s, MRI’s, scans, blood work and conversations with various specialists. I was very impressed with our System and how thorough and attentive it could be – I felt very adequately prodded and poked.
Despite all of this, my Neurologist wasn’t able to come up with a conclusive diagnosis so I was forwarded to an Epileptologist – Dr. Hrazdil. While all of this medical attention and analysis was going on I continued to have these episodes once a month, like clockwork, from May through to December of 2012 – but didn’t suffer another collapse until my final seizure in late December. Throughout this 8 month period , I was more curious than concerned. I had faith in my specialists and was able to witness my episodes more as an observer than a patient. I found the experiences interesting.
In December I was to see my Epileptologist for the last time. Dr H. was 8+ months pregnant and getting ready for maternity leave and motherhood. Despite all the tests, she was uncertain as to the nature of my malady. She had spoken with her supervisor and he was aware of a rare condition called Transient Epileptic Amnesia (fewer than 100 people have been diagnosed with this condition worldwide ) which seemed to fit my list of symptoms, but they weren’t prepared to commit to a diagnosis or prescribe anything as a remedy – just yet – the idea was to “keep an eye on it” and see how things played out. I mentioned to her my suspicion that it may have been predicated on my years of heavy drinking, and the similarity to the Alcohol Withdrawal Seizure I’d suffered in 2010…she remained opaque on this issue and would neither support nor negate it. A few weeks after this final meeting with Dr. H., at the end of December, I had another seizure which resulted in a collapse (my final one) – in the exact same spot that I’d collapsed and broken my left foot in 2010 – the only difference was…this time I broke my right foot.
When you have seizures, collapse, and break things, the medical system fast tracks you, and you move to the front of the queue for further specialist attention. Because my Epileptologist was off having a baby I was plunked back in front of Dr. Spacey – my Neurologist – in rather short order in early January…plastic cast, crutches, contrition and all.
God bless the internet….and Wikipedia. Having received the tentative diagnosis of Transient Epileptic Amnesia from my Epileptologist, I had done my homework and tracked down a bundle of info on Wikipedia, including; symptoms; diagnosis; epidemiology; and treatment etc…and, what finally convinced me that I indeed had TEA was this: “The IQ of people diagnosed with TEA tends to be in the high average to superior range…,” (Courtesy of Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transient_epileptic_amnesia) …yeah, that was it, it wasn’t the alcohol abuse, it was because I was too smart …I immediately curtailed all excessive intelligence and limited my smart thinking to one day a week 🙂
As I sat with my Neurologist in her office on that cold January morning she asked, “What did your Epileptologist say?..”Well”, I replied, “she thought it might be a rare condition, something called Transient Epileptic Amnesia.” …”Really? Hmmm, I’ve never heard of that before” replied Dr. S. “Well”, I said, “there’s a fair bit of info on Wikipedia”. “Hmm, OK, let me have a look” she said as she pulled out her laptop. For a few minutes she was engrossed in reading about this new condition, and then inquired, “Did Hrazdil prescribe anything for you?” “No”, I replied, “it was just a tentative diagnosis so no prescription was given”. “Well, let’s see what it says on Wikipedia” she said. Diving back into her laptop for a few minutes, with a few nods, “uh-huh’s” and the occasional raised eyebrow she finally went “Oh…OK… Carbamazepine…sure, that’s a fairly well known anti-seizure medication, I can prescribe that for you”…!!…I must admit I was a little stunned…diagnosis to prescription within 5 minutes from Wikipedia! I was torn between the relief of having my condition diagnosed with a prescribed remedy and my inherent mistrust of any information gleaned from the net.
As I sit here typing away on my laptop, in one of my neighbourhood coffee shops, 4 years seizure free, I am still in awe of the implications of the Wiki diagnosis. With fewer than 100 people worldwide diagnosed with this condition, the solution/cure would have been unlikely if not impossible in our pre-connected world…great things ahead for remote communities with limited medical facilities…and one more hurdle overcome on my personal journey of recovery.
I attempted to quit drinking in the old-fashioned way – set an arbitrary date, in this case, wait until after Christmas and New Years (classic!) and then quit on January 1st, 2012 – but I failed once again because my resolve wasn’t there and I had not yet – genuinely – embraced “the program”. I had started attending a few AA meetings, but was allowing myself to drink when out of town. This – as I’m sure you can appreciate – resulted in more road trips, holidays and vacations to justify my ongoing habit.
The initial AA meetings were good but I was still only making a halfhearted effort. It’s as if I had observer status but was not yet a member. I watched and listened and even got up and shared, but in fact was continuing to allow myself these out-of-town excursions for the purpose of having benders on the road. A holiday to Mexico with my partner C. did not turn out to be one of my finest performances, multi-day long beer and pot benders with my buddy Dave resulted in the most depressing hangovers I’d ever experienced, and I even found myself “cheating” on occasion by surreptitiously drinking at events in Vancouver that I’d foresworn. It wasn’t until my fateful road trip to the Sunshine Coast in late April that somehow my “Higher Power” stepped in to provide me with the epiphany I need to see the light.
I love road trips. After I’d walked away from the purchase of a property in Halfmoon Bay 6 months prior I decided that Pender Harbour was more to my liking and that I’d focus my property search there. A little 3 or 4 day trip up the Sunshine Coast gave me a chance to have a little adventure and to hit all of my favourite pubs enroute. On April 24, 2012 the last evening of my trip I’d closed down the Grasshopper Pub and had returned to my camperized van to polish off a bottle of wine that I had stashed there. Perhaps I smoked a little weed too, but it really doesn’t matter, I was wasted either way and in no condition to drive. But that didn’t stop me. At some point I felt like I needed to access the internet and I remembered that Wheatberries Bakery in Sechelt had accessible WiFi that I could use, so, I decided to drive the 40 kilometers down the coast to do so. It was late, it was dark, it was a little cold and the road from Pender Harbour to Sechelt is a windy undulating snake that is somewhat dangerous to navigate at the best of times. With the tunes cranked up and a wine bottle in one hand I ventured forth. Now…nothing catastrophic happened dear reader, I made it to my destination in the wee hours, parked the van, and basically passed out safe & sound until sunrise the next morning, where coffee and muffins awaited me just feet away from the van at Wheatberries.
But this time was different. This time, on April 25, 2012, I received my wake-up call, and I couldn’t ignore it anymore. The thought that I might actually injure someone else with my drinking and driving was enough of an epiphany to encourage me to quit for good. I called my sister-in-law.
I have known T. for 30 years and, in all that time, she and her husband – my brother in law – have been sober. I knew that I needed sound advice as to what I had to do next. What did I need to do to gain my sobriety? I was, at that point, convinced that I was facing a life or death situation and was willing to do whatever was necessary, and that T’s learned words would put me on the right path. “Well, George, you’ve got to do 90 in 90”, she informed me in her occasionally stern manner. “What’s that? “, I cringed. “You have to do 90 meetings in 90 days…it’s the best way to overcome your addiction” she said, authoritatively. (She truly knows her stuff). “How is that even possible?” I whined. “Well,” she said, “How often do you drink?”…”Daily” I admitted…”And how many hours a day do you dedicate to your “hobby”? she inquired….”Well…anywhere between 4 and 8 hours, I guess, unless cocaine is involved, then of course all bets are off” ….I got her point. This time, I could no longer put it off. There were no more excuses, no more rationalizations or failure to be tolerated. I would enter the program and embrace it in its entirety. Whatever was asked of me I would do. I knew that AA had saved millions of people from the scourge of alcoholism – I wanted to be one of them. I had arrived.
There are over 100 AA meetings a day in Vancouver. I was fortunate that there were at least a dozen I could attend within walking or cycling distance of my home in Kitsilano. This made it relatively easy to fulfil my commitment to do the 90 in 90 program. During this time, I did not miss a meeting. There is a meme floating around out there that claims it takes 21 days to break a habit. When you are dealing with something as grave as drug or alcohol addiction it makes complete sense to go the extra mile and really purge the urge, with a 90 in 90 program. I now know people who have even doubled up and done two or three meetings a day, and others who, even after years of sobriety continue to attend meetings almost daily. Its a good program, a great program and – as a mechanism that saved my life – I have nothing but the highest regard for it and can give it nothing but the highest praise.
There are many varieties of meetings with a broad array of members. I have found that there is something valuable to be learned & witnessed in any meeting I have attended. If you leave your mind open, an opportunity for growth and learning will enter. I was fortunate when I entered the program that I wasn’t haunted by the desire to drink – it felt like the obsession had been lifted. Despite this, I moved through the days and weeks and months quite cautiously. I didn’t want to take anything for granted and I cherished every milestone & chip along the way to my one year of sobriety. I had a home group and a sponsor (the amazing and wonderful Phil) and I did a modicum of service work where I could. I’ve made some very good friends in the program and have met some incredibly strong & fabulous people whom I admire.
Within a month of quitting drinking and entering the program I started having unusual episodes of disorientation upon waking. These events happened monthly – almost like clockwork every four weeks – and left me briefly confused about the recent past and the near future…I was convinced that it was just my brain acclimatizing to not being hungover every morning and that these episodes would diminish. After 6 months of this, including two collapses and a broken foot I was tentatively diagnosed with a very rare condition called Transient Epileptic Amnesia which kept me fairly close to the medical system in Vancouver while I was also working on my completion of one year of sobriety. Fun times. It was also during this year that my ex-wife – Elaine- was essentially dying of early-onset Alzheimers in an institution that my son and I had her admitted to in 2011.
(The reason I am telling you all of this dear reader is because this blog, Embracing Sobriety, comprises my year of necessary personal transformation & healing following the abysmal previous seven years ( Death Mask Chronicle Parts 1 & Part 2and just prior to the glorious rebirth and ecstasy I would encounter on the next path moving forward, Searching for Shavasana (Part 1) and (Part 2)…Embracing Sobrietyis a bridge between the darkness and the light…a critical requirement before salvation and forgiveness could enter.)
If you are familiar with the AA program you will know about Step 9. Step 9 is one of the pillars of the program and involves making amends or restitution to those we may have harmed during our years of active alcoholism. My ex wife was definitely someone to whom I needed to make amends, and I arranged to do so. Unfortunately, by the time I entered the program, Elaine was in her 11th year of fighting a losing battle with the early-onset Alzheimers that she had been diagnosed with at the young age of 48, and that would soon take her life. But I would try. Although she was confined to a wheelchair in a dementia ward in an institution, and could no longer talk, we truly had no way of knowing what she might be receiving from us through our talks with her. With this thought in mind I went to see her and wheeled her out into the courtyard and sunshine where we could be alone. I must have spoken to her for 20 minutes, basically taking ownership for whatever bad behaviour I had engaged in that may have contributed to the end of our 11 year marriage. She made small noises which I took as some form of acknowledgement, and, I like to think that it gave her some comfort to know that I had quit drinking and that our son would benefit from my reformation in her absence. She died several months later, one week before my first year of sobriety.
Mostly, the experience of gaining sobriety is a positive one. Beyond the fundamental fact that you are likely saving your life and improving the lives of all around you there are very tangible benefits: you gain clear-headedness; more energy; more self-love & self-respect; you are likely saving many hundreds (thousands) of dollars per month, and , if lucky, gain a rosy outlook on the future and life in general. Christmas 2012 though, my first Christmas in sobriety, was absolutely depressing! …the holidays…Christmas dinner…social events…without booze – who dreams this stuff up? I knew that I’d picked up a little S.A.D. (Seasonally Affective Disorder) along the way but this was painful. The skies were relentlessly grey and the thought of having company for dinner was anathema to me. Some things are just meant to be endured. On the road to sobriety there are many such things. One day at a time Georgie, one day at a time.
Three days later, after this most bleak of festive times, I would have a seizure – my last – within minutes of getting up in the morning . As I walked towards the bathroom I collapsed – briefly – onto the floor which resulted in another broken foot – this time my left. I had cracked three metatarsals, a non-weight-bearing injury which would put me in a boot and crutches for the next six weeks. This was the third and, hopefully, final time that I would be hauled out of our home via ambulance.
Most alcoholics bottom out prior to entering the program. I had a moment in January 2013 – a few weeks after this episode and a full 9 months after gaining sobriety – that I consider to be my tragicomic low point. It was nighttime. I had recently come down with a nasty cold and was lying in bed trying to sleep, wearing my protective boot and trying to suppress a cough so as not to wake my partner C. The cough was winning so I decided to go and sleep on the couch in the office…gingerly making my way down the hall on my non-weight-bearing injury…perhaps I crawled. While lying on the couch feeling miserable I could hear – a few feet away from me in the dark – my cat Jet, puking up her dinner and a hairball. “Perfect”, I thought…there was nothing to do but try and clean this up so I hobbled/crawled into the kitchen to get a rag and came back to deal with her mess. While there, in the dark, wearing my boot and leaning over her vomit while on my knees, my nose started to run profusely into her upchuck…I began to giggle…then I laughed until tears came to my eyes. The ridiculousness of my situation and the full realization of the journey that had brought me to this point seemed like the best of tragicomic farce. Hilarious, pathetic, poignant and cathartic…damn, it was just plain funny! And the beauty was that the moment was priceless and necessary…much like my epiphany on the Sunshine Coast, this moment served as a corner that needed to be turned…my foot might be broken but my sense of humour was intact….God I was…lucky! 🙂
It had been a rough three years, but there was more to come. Ben had just been murdered, I was newly unemployed and preparing to vacate the house which I no longer owned. Ironically, despite tragedy and crippling grief the first thing that loved ones closest to the deceased must do is “make arrangements”. For me this meant writing Ben’s eulogy and assisting with the celebration of life event. Ben was an extremely popular man, as a business owner and lead singer of a local funk band – Big Head Project – we knew that his memorial would be well attended. The band wanted a venue where they could rock out in Ben’s honour and also accommodate a large crowd. As fate would have it, one of the member’s knew the owner of Richards on Richards and was able to wrangle this nightclub as our venue before it was to shut down forever. (I believe we were the last show on this well-known stage) …the bagpiper piped, the Rabbi prayed, I eulogized, the people grieved and the band rocked. I played a bit of blues harp with the band, and Ben Banky shut down Richards on Richards. Love you Ben.
Life pulls you along and you must follow. My partner C. and I began the search for new accommodation …winter was heavy that year with much snow. My drinking was also heavy with a new heaviness of heart to go with it. Having lost a couple of key friends who -not surprisingly – loved to drink, I learned how to drink alone if others were unavailable. On a cold January night in 2009 as the snow was falling I decided to make one last fire in my back yard fire pit before we were to vacate the house. I was drinking wine and burning documents. It was nothing for me to finish a bottle and drive to the liquor store for another – which I did – and to fire up a doobie to amplify my inebriation. I was drinking to blackout frequently at this point…which I did that evening…but this time I fell face first into the ashes and embers of the not quite dead fire. I guess that I too was not quite dead, as I awoke quite quickly. One side of my face, from my chin to my nose was burned and scraped in a slight “grill pattern”. My coat was covered in snowflakes and ashes from the fire, and, thanks to my drunkenness, I felt no pain. I went in the house, took off my clothes and crawled into bed next to C. and fell asleep. The next day I told her that I had slipped on the icy steps and damaged my face. It was not the first, nor would it be the last lie told to cover my increasingly damaging & self-destructive behaviour.
As I write this I am sitting in a Starbucks on West Broadway in Vancouver…it is mid afternoon on December 28, 2016. The remains of yesterday’s snowfall are being erased by the rains which have come. To diminish the incessant and glib real estate conversation of the rather loud woman sitting next to me, I’ve donned my headphones & toque & have put my Chillout playlist on loud…it is having little effect. Rain and conversations about real estate…two seemingly unavoidable irritants of living in this town.
There are always several – or more – realities playing out in any one individuals life story. The Death Mask Chronicle is a snapshot and, admittedly, the focus is a little dark. Be assured that joy and growth and love and laughter coexist within this story. Life is, at the very least, dualistic. Where comedy prevailed, tragedy now stepped in. Where I had been Yinning I now Yanged. The seven year period that this story covers (Parts 1 & 2) – between 2005 and 2012 – was notable for the relative difference from what had preceded it. Predictabilty had become chaotic. Weddings became funerals. The intent of this story is not to garner sympathy. We all must go through some pain on this journey, this is just my shit – yours may arrive earlier or be much deeper…and that will be your story.
The last e-mail that I received from Ben on the day that he died was a reminder that we were on the registration list for the 10th Annual Hornby Island Blues Workshop. It was here that he and I had met ten years prior, and, in honour of this, his widow Linda and our good pal “Big Head” Johnny were determined to attend. At this juncture, my drinking was perhaps even more out of control than was usual and my participation in the classes was limited by my bleary-eyed hangovers and urge to leave early and continue boozing. Out of this foggy experience though, I do remember Tempest, a young woman and street performer who stood out for her unique look and brash demeanour. We had some classes together and shared some laughs. She was fun & talented and bright, and, within six months would become Hornby Islands first homicide victim…
If you know Hornby Island, you know that this kind of thing is just not supposed to happen there. Hornby is a small and loving community of gentle souls with a deep well of reverence and compassion. It is a community designed for art & music, spirituality & sustainability, fun & festivals. Sigh. Although I did not know her well, Tempest’s murder, coming less than a year after Ben’s murder – both of whom I met at the Hornby Island Blues Workshop added a further sense of unreality to this already troubled dreamlike state. I started to feel beleaguered and cursed. My ego was placing me in the centre of a solar system orbited by tragic moons.
But here’s the thing…outlier events happen. Probabilities be damned…randomness occurs. At the time I didn’t quite see it. I was sensitized to tragic events and attached meaning to them. Ten friends and loved ones perished during this death storm and I was drenched in sad significance.
Headstone in a graveyard near Banff
By the end of 2009, my ex-wife Elaine’s early-onset Alzheimers had deteriorated to the point that my 22 year-old son was finding it increasingly challenging to care for her and also devote sufficient time to his University studies. Elaine was now nine years into a disease that was predicted to take her life within eight. Her condition had reached a point where she needed full time care so we, as a family, convened and put a plan in place to try and care for her at home with the assistance a live-in Philippina caregiver – Daisy. I took on the administrative role, contacting the agencies, hiring the caregivers and looking after the necessary paperwork. My son was on the front lines of this illness, living with his mother and managing her house & financial affairs. Daisy took care of Elaine’s day-to-day needs, cooking, cleaning & “keeping an eye on her”, and Elaine’s sister pitched in wherever necessary, for this group we called, “Team Elaine”.
Although these new responsibilities which I had adopted would preclude moving out of town until Elaine had reached a point of requiring institutionalization (I had no way of knowing when this might be), it did not stop my property search – I had agents in the Okanagan, the Sunshine Coast, the Comox Valley, Powell River and the Cowichan Valley and the Gulf Islands constantly feeding me listings. Whenever an interesting property would come to my attention I would go on a road trip – to check out the property and also pursue my other hobby – excessive drinking at my favourite out-of-town pubs.
A new day, a new coffee shop. Since I sold my place and left my job (I’m calling this semi-retirement) I spend a lot of time in coffee shops. I like coffee and I like the buzz of people. It is December 29 and I am parked in Artigiano at 24th and Main. Although I want to finish this story – Death Mask Chronicle Parts 1 & 2 – I am having concerns that it may all seem self-serving and fixated on tragedy & bleak events. Today I feel impatient and desirous of moving into the light, as it were. The light will come in the form of additional Journal stories both here, on Clay and Bone, and on my http://www.shavasana.ca website where I’ll be blogging about lighter subject matter. Until that time though, I must soldier on and complete the task at hand…gruelling despair, demoralization and gut-wrenching tragedy awaits! (and perhaps a little self-deprecating humour ;)…
One unanticipated downside to selling ones house and renting is – eviction. The landlords decided to sell the house that C. and I were living in in Kerrisdale and we were – once again – in need of moving. This was an indication of the beginning of the real estate insanity that was to grip Vancouver over the next 6 years. After the near collapse of the global economy in ’08 – ’09, the Asians were coming with buckets of cash. The move proved somewhat fortuitous though as we wound up back in Kitsilano – a favourite neighbourhood where I had principally lived since 1992.
Compared to the previous five, 2010 was a relatively benign year…Elaine was continuing her downward slide, and we needed a second caregiver to assist with her full-time care, and to give Daisy a break. Florence stepped in and now we were six. They say it takes a village to raise a child, the same seems to be true during our decline. Elaine was on 26 pills a day and a slew of medical professionals interwove themselves into her caregiving. Thank you Canadian medical system…thank you.
The medical system was also attempting to give me some cautionary advice but I paid no attention – my Doctor was warning me about the consequences of elevated liver enzymes, and politely suggested that I curtail or limit my drinking – but I wasn’t ready to hear. Following a particularly overindulgent (but fun) stag party in Vegas (where I missed my return flight because I’d passed out at the airport), I returned home in an absolutely toxic state and decided to quit drinking – cold turkey – for several days because I needed to clean myself up before I was to drive down to Burning Man Festival the following week. Three days after stopping drinking I suffered an alcohol withdrawal seizure, collapsed and broke my foot.
Now…you’d think that this kind of wake up call would be enough to convince a hard core drinker like myself to hang up the beer mug for good, and, for a time it worked. It was almost a relief that now, after suffering a seizure & a broken limb, I had an undeniable reason to quit drinking. Unlike the previous four or five times that I’d tried to quit, I embraced this new resolve imbued with the sense that I was now facing a do or die situation. I felt confident that, at last, I had the wake up call that I needed and that this time – unlike the other times – there would be no recidivism….but here’s the reality of the situation. I knew myself all too well and built a caveat into my new resolve. This time, if I fell off the wagon, I’d have to go to AA. …a kind of subtle and sneaky second chance to recommence binging and then have the ultimate punishment…AA
2010 was the year that the Arab Spring began, and also the year that the trial of Ben’s murderer took place. Ongoing momentous changes in the middle east of which I was an avid observer, and court proceedings brought against my friends killer for which I was in constant attendance. It’s a sad irony that Ben had actually hired this guy out of compassion…gave him a job because he’d fallen on hard times. I had met the gunman at a previous staff party…we shook hands and exchanged small talk in the kitchen of Ben’s home. Sigh.
Although the exact dates escape me…it was during this time that three children of friends of mine had also been diagnosed with cancer. Ivy and Ryan were stricken with Leukemia, and Nigel had contracted a rare form of cancer, the name of which I can’t recall. Only Ivy would survive. If you’ve been able to stomach reading “Death Mask” thus far I hope you can appreciate the almost relentlessly bleak journey that I (and so many others) were travelling during this time. Personally, I don’t think it gets worse in this life than the death of a child. Although I was – to varying degrees – on the periphery of these tragic paths, as a caring individual, and a father, I suffered alongside my friends. My heart goes out to them still.
My resolve lasted roughly six months before I fell off the wagon…again. It’s a strange process…it’s as if I’d forgotten how bad it was, or, convinced myself that I was miraculously “healed” and that I could now drink again with impunity. It doesn’t work that way. When I fell off the wagon, I went at it hammer and tongs, diving down down down to where I’d left off. But for some reason I’d forgotten my pledge to join AA. No, I needed to punish myself, and others with another round of bad boy behaviour before I would ultimately find redemption. This next round of drinking would find me getting into near scraps – physically and verbally – with good friends, passing out in parks, and driving while intoxicated…here’s a message from that dark time:
Forgiveness…a good thing to give and receive, and the best outcome that one can expect from heartfelt Step 9 work. I was still many months away from its healing power.
By mid 2011 Elaine’s condition had reached a point where she required admittance to an institution. Soon she would need special lifts and harnesses for bathing, and wheelchairs for mobility. Our petite (yet extremely competent and hardworking) Philippina caregivers would not be up for the task – it was time. Not surprisingly, once we managed to get Elaine into a care facility most of the pressures on Team Elaine were eliminated. We all knew she was in good 24/7 hands and our work, beyond visiting, was done.
By the fall of 2011 I had ramped up my out of town property search – which were thinly disguised drinking trips to “really get to know the community”. I had pretty much decided on the Sunshine Coast for its beauty, affordability and proximity to Vancouver (my partner C. did not relish the semi-rural life that I was proffering, and had obligations in the city). An ex-coworker of mine who suffered from Crohn’s Disease and had a licence to grow marijuana, but nowhere to grow it approached me with the idea of – legally – growing it for her. I agreed to this wholeheartedly, and also decided to have a small version of the home distillery that Ben and I had dreamed about. This vision of a booze and pot-fuelled paradise required at least an acre, with outbuildings, which I found in Halfmoon Bay…I offered with subjects, they accepted.
The day that the subjects were to be removed I suffered from the worst case of buyers dissonance that I’d ever experienced. I’ve owned four houses previously but had never encountered this powerful feeling of dread and remorse before. I was like a deer in the headlights, I couldn’t go through with the deal. Perhaps it was self-preservation. Perhaps some vestigial remnant of my consciousness was trying to tell me that being an alcoholic, alone on a rural property, with a barn full of pot, and a distillery full of Apple Snake was not going to turn out well. This became a path not taken. It would have been a different life – or perhaps no life at all. Whether I would have drank myself to death or driven off the twisting highway of the Sunshine Coast after some late-night bender I will never know. Saved by visceral feelings. After this, any move out of town will definitely need to be preceded by full sobriety.
For most of us death arrives by telephone. For some it may be first hand – the bedside vigil or the unpleasant discovery – but most will get “the call”. I had experienced so much death over the previous six years, that receiving calls from friends or family at unexpected times had left me a little apprehensive. When my dear friend Kris called one afternoon in September 2011 to let me know that his 22 year-old daughter had fulfilled a decision to end her life, I felt stunned and broken. I had know Z. since she was a small child and loved her and her sister as if they were my own kids. She was bright, talented, and vivacious and always added sparkle to social gatherings. I felt lost and didn’t quite know what to do. After I put the phone down, I left my home and walked the 12 blocks to Kris’s house to give him a hug and, amidst tears,…kiss his hand, and then I went home to stare at the wall. On this earth, it does not get much worse than losing your child. Personally, I can think of nothing worse.
There’s a saying in AA that, “At first it’s fun, then it’s fun with problems, then it’s just problems”…I was reaching the “just problematic” phase. There’s no justification for excessive drinking when your doctor has given you the “liver warning”, you’ve had a seizure, and now, hangovers are laced with sad memories of tragic events. I was co-existing with serious cognitive dissonance. Although I was never one to actively consider suicide it was during this latter phase that the thought occurred to me that, “…all these problems would go away if I were dead”. So I get it. Even now, if I am feeling despondent for more than a day I think, “hmmm…I wouldn’t want the rest of my life to be like this”…fortunately, despondency rarely lasts more than a day – or two – and I have developed the tools and techniques with which to mitigate it.
I am now in the final stretch of this Death Mask Chronicle…it ends on April 25, 2012…the morning that I woke up in my red Van in the parking lot of a bakery in Sechelt, hungover, having driven there the night before from Pender Harbour…completely wasted… This was the seminal moment when I was finally able to face the music and enter the AA program. At the end of the day, it wasn’t concern about my own well being but fear that my drinking and driving might actually harm someone else. I didn’t want to be the cause of someone else’s tragedy…I’d already had enough. This thought was the epiphany I needed to “man up” and face responsibility for my behaviour and actions. Whatever it takes…a wake-up call, a moment of fear, an epiphany or the loving guidance of one’s Higher Power…I am grateful…profoundly so. Thanks AA.
It was eight years ago today, on December 12, 2008, that my dear sweet friend Ben Banky was murdered by a deranged employee.
I’m sitting at my desk, at my art studio- Shavasana -on Mayne Island feeling that I have a lot to be grateful for in this life. I am grateful for this sweet creative space that fate has allowed me. I am especially grateful for the engaging, caring, compassionate & loving friends and family that I have been blessed with on this journey. Thank you Ben, thank you all.
Yesterday, as I was beginning to write the story about how I found my studio space on Mayne Island ( Searching for Shavasana – Part 1)it seemed clear to me that the story would not be complete if I didn’t acknowledge the chaotic, tragic and painful journey that led to it’s inception. The finding and setting up of Shavasana Art Gallery, Studio & Café on Mayne Island is a joyous story filled with personal healing, growth and creativity (it is not without its blemishes – more about that later) Stories of this nature will be written up on my gallery website: http://www.shavasana.ca . Stories that pertain more to my personal journey, that is, elements of my experience, thoughts and behaviours that contribute directly or indirectly to my creative expression will now be journaled here – on Clay & Bone. If “Searching for Shavasana” explains how I arrived at this sweet healing place of rebirth, “Death Mask – Troubled Dreams on the way to Clay & Bone” explains why it was so necessary.
I am a recovering alcoholic. I have been sober since April 25, 2012 – thank you AA. In May of 2005 I was in full swing. Although it was beginning to dawn on me that I had a drinking problem, I was having way too much fun to even honestly consider quitting. To celebrate my 50th birthday in June of that year I decided to have a large party at my home in Kitsilano. I had invited over 100 friends, had arranged for some catering and music and it looked like it was going to be, yet another, large boozy event. My favourite kind. One friend was flying in from Germany, and even my ex-wife, who had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimers several years earlier at the young age of 48, was still fit enough to attend. It was going to be fabulous. And then, a week before the event, my father died, unexpectedly, of a stroke.
When an 84 year old man dies while putting on his socks at home, it is not a tragedy. My father had a long, loving and loved, life. He was a wonderful man and we, his family and friends, all loved him deeply. Faced with this new sad reality though, the first things I had to do were deal with my own grief, help care for my mother, arrange for a celebration of my father’s life, and, call up over 100 friends to cancel my 50th. All of these things were done in good fashion, and within a month or so we were all settling down to our new dadless world.
Just as the summer was getting underway, full of its fun activities & distractions, Festivals and weddings, one of my dearest friends, an almost indescribably lovely man – Paul “Lolly” Lawton, ( http://www.paullawton.ca ) was accidentally and horrifically pulled through a wood chipper on July 15, 2005. This gentle, sweet, talented man – this angel – this Juno Award winning drummer who was earning a few extra dollars for his trip to Toronto to be best man at a mutual friends wedding the following week died…in this most tragic way. To those of us who knew and loved Lolly, this incomprehensible event, this new tragic reality shook the personal foundations of many of our collective minds…it was, as they say, a complete mind-fuck. We couldn’t understand this because this wasn’t possible…it wasn’t in the script. Gut wrenching heartache & tears.
As a committed, heavy, social drinker, grieving doesn’t stop the drinking…on the contrary it gives one an excuse (as if one was needed) to engage in even heavier pensive/reflective boozing. Lolly’s death altered my world view and brought so much of it into question. It neither confirmed nor disproved the existence of God. It made chaos more tangible, randomness a stark truth, the shortness of life a palpable reality, and it exposed concepts such as fairness, justice and karma to be just wishful human constructs. I think it was here that I started to drink to the point of blackout, on a more regular basis.
Four months after Lolly died, and fewer than six months after our father passed, my sister received a call from our mother saying that she wasn’t feeling well. Mom had been a trooper during these last months of grieving the loss of her husband of 57 years and we had been keeping a close eye on her. Without ready access to a family doctor, on this day, we took her to the emergency ward at a local hospital and, after a gruelling 9 hour wait/assessment, discovered that Mom was suffering from Stage 4 breast cancer.
Collectively taken aback by this new harsh revelation we, as a small family of three, let the medical system inform us as to our options moving forward. Further medical exams, tests and assessments, left us with no positive outcome. Mom was terminal, had months to live and would not benefit from radiation or extensive rounds of chemo. “Take her home and make her as comfortable as possible for as long as you can” was the message. What ensued was three relentless months of always playing “catch-up” with the progression of the disease. Home care, weight loss, Ensure, palliative medications…(me drinking excessively, daily, despite my new caregiving responsibilities)…and eventually collapse (Mom, not me, on Christmas Eve) hospitalization, hospice, and death – three months to the day after diagnosis. I held her hand as she died.
In case you are wondering, dear reader, why I am writing about all of this misery, I guess my best explanation would be catharsis. I am just beginning to write & journal/blog in my two new websites and I felt it a good idea to explain the recent past and how and why I ultimately came to make quirky masks of human faces adorned with antlers and run an Art Gallery Café called Shavasana on Mayne Island ( https://shavasana.ca/2016/12/11/finding-shavasana/ ). It’s a story of tragedy and despair, substance dependency & healing, and ultimately, just as fate can be random and horrific, it can also be benign and blessed. I feel fortunate to have survived – thus far – on this path …the events of this story notwithstanding.
We all handle grief in our own way. After the initial intensity, life pulls you forward, time provides healing space, and you are compelled to “get on with your life”. All well and good. We have things to do, responsibilities, distractions. Whereas my drinking habits remained undiminished, I began to experience subtle changes in mood & outlook. Depression crept in along with a general sense of meaninglessness. My work suffered, and, what little interest I had in my accidental vocation of “Advertising Sales Rep” – evaporated.
This was not an auspicious time to be in print advertising sales. The overarching power & pull of the internet was shifting the grounds under the feet of print media empire owners everywhere, and the community newspaper I worked for was no exception. By 2006 our parent company, Canwest, was struggling: by 2007 their bonds were given junk status; and by 2009 they declared bankruptcy during the fallout from the Global Financial Crisis of 2008. Canwest’s problems were not all internet related, they had also taken on unmanageable debt just prior to the financial crisis which – in essence – bankrupted them.
All of this drama started to play out at work as they tried to shed expenses at every level of their media empire. We lost our beloved publisher – Peter B. – during this stressful time, which angered the staff and ultimately resulted in efforts to unionize – which failed by one vote.
None of this improved my mood. The staff was polarized. I started to feel depressed, anxious and distracted at work. I approached my Family Doctor with concerns that I couldn’t shake my troubled thoughts and dark moods. I was given a prescription to see a shrink and, for a time, went on the anti-depressant – Zoloft. I found this particular SSRI to be unhelpful and actually worsened my anxiety. The side effects felt speedy and within a month or so I weaned myself off the pharmaceutical and returned to my trustworthy “mood enhancer” alcohol…not that I had ever given it up. It was sometime during this period that I went on my first bout of stress leave.
Stress leave is not guaranteed to diminish or remove your stress. For some, like myself, it provided a kind of unhealthy paid vacation with plenty of idle time to think…and drink. As, they say, “idle minds are the Devil’s playground” and, as a self-professed News Junkie with a degree in Poli Sci/Economics I started to fixate overly on the increasingly glum situation in the middle east and the global economy.
There’s no shortage of doom and gloom on the internet…or perhaps, in the world at large for that matter. The trifecta of environmental collapse, post 9-11 apocalyptic ponderings, and fear of a subprime mortgage global derivative meltdown provided ample ingredients for a potage of worry. Because of my own particular basket of interests & worries (world affairs & economics), family history (a father and grandfather who fought in both wars), life experience (travel through Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan & Pakistan) and education/outlook, I inhabited a dark vision of what was approaching us. I know that I am not unique in this regard.
Headstone in a graveyard near Banff
This was 2006. Iran was actively pursuing it’s nuclear program (and supposed development of nuclear weapons) and the rhetoric between it and Israel had reached -a worrisome intensity. Israel was lobbying the Americans to attack Iran in a pre-emptive strike to take out its nuclear capability. If their sympathetic allies were unwilling they were threatening to do the job themselves, and the Saudis were also applying pressure on the Americans to do the same, to cut off “the head of the snake” as they viewed their Shi’ite rival. At one point the Saudis even suggested that if Iran developed the bomb, they would just purchase nuclear weapons from their Sunni ally Pakistan to gain parity. Fun times. How did it become even remotely conceivable that non-nuclear states could just purchase nuclear weapons like pieces of industrial equipment ? I digress here…, I am relatively certain that an entire military/bureaucratic branch of the US government exists to prevent such an outcome but I am revealing a glimpse of the rabbit-hole thinking that was obsessing me at this time. Ongoing grief, depression, stress, monomaniacal issue-based worries, caffeine overload, and alcoholism.
Since 9/11 Rome has been burning and many of us have been fiddling and dancing on the periphery of the fire. The Empire took the fight overseas (Afghanistan 2001 – Present, Iraq 2003 – Present, Pakistan, Syria, Libya, Yemen, etc;) starting fires, and burning through many lives and vast amounts of cash. Like so much of the world, we in Vancouver have been spectators to this ongoing debacle, watching with a mix of fear, sadness, anger, confusion and disinterest. Fiddling and dancing. Searching out distraction. Cauterizing our consciousness with substance abuse and infotainment. I was no different…until 2005 the problems of the world were abstract visuals consumed between boozy parties and social events. Then my own personal Nakba began to unfold. My world changed. A switch was thrown and loved ones, friends and acquaintances started to die with great regularity. Dad, Lolly, Mom, two beloved aunts, some jolly coworker pals, friends and partners of friends. It was a rough time, I lost 10 friends and loved ones from ’05 to ’12, and – I can’t say if this new sad reality increased my drinking or enhanced my melange of worry/paranoia – but, by mid 2006, both were in full swing. And then war broke out between Hezbollah and Israel.
For me, this war, the 2006 Lebanon War as it is known, represented a turning point in my perception of how things were going to turn out for Israel, Iran, the Middle East, and, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2006_Lebanon_War#Hezbollah_rocket_attacks_on_Israel perhaps you and I- we were fucked . Because the war between Hezbollah and Israel was considered a proxy war between Iran and Israel, it was – in effect – a glimpse of the future when Iran acquires the bomb. …our primitive solutions to communal problems combined with nuclear weaponry were not going to end well. I felt disheartened and hopeless. I started to look for the exit doors.
When you have a strong opinion or belief it’s not uncommon to gravitate to information sources which support your point of view, this is known as confirmation bias, “the tendency to interpret new evidence as confirmation of one’s existing beliefs or theories”. We also have a tendency, within our social networks to create what is known as “echo chambers”… “group situations where information, ideas, and beliefs are uncritically bounced from insider to insider and amplified, while dissenting views are censored and/or ignored”. Our perspectives are thus reinforced through selective information gathering and cloistered opinion sharing amongst like-minded individuals.
It’s 2007. Geo-political instability was soon to be accompanied by the onset of the Financial Crisis of 2007 – 2008 – considered by many economists to be the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression. For those of us who are prone to worry there were legions of pundits portraying the subprime mortgage meltdown as a looming disaster which only the informed and prepared could hope to weather. The crisis did not come into full swing until the fall of 2008. Until then, I read & obsessed. I worried and I drank. I sold whatever stocks I had and went to cash. My stress levels spiked and, in early ’08 I took another round of stress leave. It was during this period that the thought of cashing out and pursuing a more gentle, sustainable lifestyle away from the city really began to take hold of my consciousness. A vision from my hippiesque youth of rural acreage…nature, community & creativity held great appeal. The parent company (Canwest) of the community paper I worked for (The Vancouver Courier)was trying to avoid bankruptcy and, in so doing, was offering select staff members buyouts to help reduce their fixed costs. Because I had a sympathetic boss, I managed to be included in the buyout. (Thanks EJ 🙂 By the middle of ’08, as arrangements for leaving my place of employment and receiving “a package” progressed, I further decided to sell my house and pursue my dream.
As I was preparing to list my house in September of ’08, the news became relentlessly bad and it appeared that the global economy was truly coming apart. Lehman Brothers collapsed on September 15, 2008 – the largest bankruptcy in history – along with Washington Mutual, General Motors, IndyMac, CIT, Chrysler, etcetera. The US subprime mortgage system (Fannie Mae & Freddie Mac) was disintegrating as well as the value of real estate and the stock market. The Dow and the TSX plunged over 50% (May ’08 – Mar ’09) …from Wikipedia: “The crisis threatened the collapse of large financial institutions, which was prevented by the bailout of banks by national governments, but stock markets still dropped worldwide. In many areas, the housing market also suffered, resulting in evictions, foreclosures and prolonged unemployment. The crisis played a significant role in the failure of key businesses, declines in consumer wealth estimated in trillions of US dollars, and a downturn in economic activity leading to the Great Recession of 2008–2012 and contributing to the European Sovereign Debt Crisis.”
For Vancouverites at the time of this writing (December 2016) it may be hard to fathom but in the Fall/Winter of ’08 – real estate had crashed. In the 3 months that my Kitsilano home was on the market, I had in excess of 200 people drop in at openings without one offer. No feverish bidding wars, no “well over asking”, and the invasion of overseas $$ had not yet arrived. By the time it finally sold on December 9, 2008 I had dropped my price – at the feverish insistence of my realtor – and weathered the inevitable “low-ball bottom feeders” who had crawled out from under their various rocks.
Your own private hell will arrive in it’s own time and fashion. The weekend of Friday December 8 through Monday December 11 2008 contains – for this writer – the most hellish, tragic, untimely, transformational, and life altering sequence of events yet encountered. Let me elaborate.
On Friday December 8, 2008, one of my best friends – Ben Banky – while decorating his business with staff in preparation for the annual Christmas party, was murdered by a deranged former employee. This beautiful man, this gentle, bright, loving and kind friend, husband, son, uncle, brother & boss was gunned down by a man who had been fired days earlier for threatening co-workers. The incomprehensible and mind-fucking nature of this tragedy left all of us who loved him, and participated so joyously in his life, devastated, and immersed us in our own private hell which only time and the distractions of life has mitigated.
The following day – Saturday the 9th – I awoke from this nightmare to learn that the subjects had been removed from the sale of my house, and that, this sweet enclave, the stage upon which so much of the joy, tragedy and life of the prior eight years was enacted was for all intents and purposes – gone. Against the very bleak economic outlook at that time, the sale of the house represented an unknown roll of the financial dice. With Ben’s murder the day before, there was no joy to be had in this sale (or anything) and, the discussions he and I had shared – of starting a rural cottage-industry distillery – died with him. As things played out over the next several years, the sale of the house proved to be a very untimely financial decision. The story has not yet come to a conclusion though and ultimately, given some of the rebirth, joy, ecstasy and beauty which subsequently followed this “period of pain”, it may be viewed as a necessary transition on the path to a new life
The buyout from my place of employment was available for pick up from the regional head-office on Monday the 11th. I drove down in a kind of dull emotional fog, picked up my cheque, and never went back to the office. The job, the coworkers, the clients and the routines that gave some kind of structure to my booze encrusted existence were gone. Within this four-day period my universe shifted dramatically – I had lost a best friend, my home and my job. I was hollowed out, glum, uncertain and worried about the future….
It’s December 9th and I’m sitting at my desk at my Art Studio/Gallery on Mayne Island. I’m looking out across my backyard which is covered in snow, across to Galiano Island and Active Pass which separates us. Snow is a rarity here in the Gulf of Georgia, now known as the Salish Sea, after the Coast Salish people with whom I share this clime. Thank you.
Despite having this studio for the past 3 years, I have only recently created this website which now enables me to “Blog” or Journal my activities here on Mayne Island at my little cottage business known locally as Shavasana Art Gallery & Café. As the name suggests, my studio also doubles (triples) as a place to view local art exhibits and drop in for a cup of coffee and hang out. Sometimes on these small islands (population roughly 1,000 kindly souls) it is wise and necessary to wear multiple hats. Providing a business which fills my needs for a creative studio and also gives islanders a place to drop in for a coffee and look at some local art seems to work quite nicely.
The gallery website has also only recently been launched – the idea being that it would be wise to have a stand-alone site for my creative work (as of this writing, primarily masks: https://clayandbone.com/portfolio/ )and another for the ongoing events and activities of the Art Gallery Café ( www.shavasana.ca/ ). Each site has it’s own journalling content needs so my work will be cut out for me. Given that 3 years have already gone by since I started on this journey, I have a lot of existing content which will – over time – be included in either site. I’ve been going through some earlier photos and a Journal that I’ve kept which will provide thoughts and observations about life as an artist/curator on a small, idyllic, tranquil yet complex island in the Pacific Northwest.
Maybe it would be unfair to refer to the length of time it took to arrive at this particular junction on the journey as “procrastination” – I’ve been busy and there have been ……………………………………….distractions……………………………………….so…here I am…there is snow on the fields of this tranquil place, complexity abounds within and without, and there is much work to be done…this feels like a beginning 🙂
I’m just sitting at my desk at my Studio on Mayne Island – Shavasana – trying to conjure up the motivation to continue working on this new website. It’s been somewhat of a struggle as I am not overly fond of the process of building the actual site. I do find that once I “get into it”, it flows a bit more smoothly and the process seems to become more palatable. This is only the second website I’ve created, along with http://www.shavasana.ca which I put together for my Gallery-Studio-Café. The first site was assembled using the GoDaddy platform & templates, and ultimately became a relatively painless procedure. The GoDaddy website builder was fairly intuitive and allowed me to put together the site in relatively short order – once I got a handle on it.
Now, adopting the new and unfamiliar WordPress platform means going through an obligatory tech learning curve…navigating strange new lands without benefit of a map. Once again though, the more time I spend with it the easier it becomes…my needs are simple and already I am recognizing the lay of the land.
These early posts are just mini exercises in the actual act of learning how to post, and to break through some inertia. I anticipate that the writing will become more relevant and meaningful as I continue along this path.
(Photo under construction)
Clay & Bone 