I am Canadian.
I'm half German, some Swede, some Welsh . . . you know. A typical non-aboriginal descendant-of-immigrants Canadian. 
And I'm not speaking for anyone but myself when I say that I have struggled with being proud and ashamed as a Canadian. 
I grew up in an atmosphere of subtle and sometimes not so subtle racism. 
It took a long time to realize it, because what you grow up with is your normal and it doesn't occur to you to question any of it until you are a certain age. Plus, I grew up with good people who would be horrified to think of themselves as racist. But in every social construct of my world, racism was a basic tenet. I slowly became aware of the reality of what other people were experiencing in Canada.
For me, it wasn't enough to understand and acknowledge my white privilege. Something inside me still felt like I was lying. I had to acknowledge that I am racist. That felt more truthful. And it made me work harder. It was not enough for me to say, "Yes, I have white privilege." When I admit to myself that I have been infected by the ambient racism floating around me, I am vigilant about watching for it in me. About expunging it. 
Last Thursday, I watched the Prime Minister of Canada admit to the United Nations Assembly - and the world - that our country was/is racist. And I felt relieved. Like someone had finally shouted, "Hey, there is a big ugly elephant in the living room and we are just now deciding to get off the couch and do something about it." I felt hope. 
I don’t pretend to know what it feels like to be First Nations, Metis or Inuit. I see only that this country needs to rethink everything. And the more we talk, the better. Not that there isn't a time for action, but madly off in all directions comes to mind when I think about this huge country trying to move somewhere together. 
So I turn to the Truth and Reconciliation movement. For me, the Truth has been me educating myself about Residential Schools and the ongoing fallout of it all. I hesitate to talk about it because you can't encapsulate this in a few words and it feels so disrespectful to try.  I sat and listened to a member of my community tell his story about Residential School and it was a profound experience. I was humbled by this man's generosity to even share his story with a circle of non-aboriginal neighbours.
But there is also Reconciliation. Moving forward together. We really do have to rethink everything and that is going to take a lot of talking.
But I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to declare my simple desire for change and justice for all of us without getting caught up in the maelstrom of shouting, name-calling, and finger-pointing that has become the norm in this country.
After I listened to the Prime Minister's address yesterday, it took all of thirty minutes for me to feel deflated again. His delivery is too polished, there was no real content, he ignored everything else, he is a hypocrite, he was only pushing his secondary agenda . . .  
I did not vote Liberal, but this is my Prime Minister and since I sure don’t want the job, I’m behind him because he's willing to try - mistakes and all. I don’t always agree with my friends and family, either, but I don’t go on the internet and write diatribes about how evil they are.
I know that I'm not smart. I am not cerebral and eloquent, but I don’t see the constant criticism of others as a measure of intelligence, as many people seem to. 
I also know that I am not an expert in any field and that people are passionate about their particular causes and in this moment, other causes were put aside. But we can't ignore this issue any more.  I wonder what would happen if we could stop criticizing for a moment and just lean toward the light, together.
Thursday, I felt a flicker of hope. And I'm determined to keep that little flame alive in my heart. Maybe just choosing to believe the best once in a while is the start of change.
Maybe that's where reconciliation begins.

When my partner and I moved to the west coast from the prairies in 2003, our world changed in many ways. So much was different. I wasn't expecting culture shock, but you can find it just moving from one part of this vast country to another.
In terms of economics, we left a situation where our two full time salaries were more than enough to sustain us. 
When we relocated to the coast, we encountered a much higher cost of living. We also found only part-time employment and settled into our new lives, learning to live with less.
We discovered Thrift Stores. I haven't bought a brand new pair of jeans in fourteen years. Now I can't imagine why I would. I'm willing to admit I have a somewhat skewed view of the world from over here on my tiny island, but seriously, who pays $90 for something they could get for $5??
Our island also boasts a Free Store and it is exactly what it sounds like. You should have seen me trying to get my mother out the door with the shirt she found. Yes, Mom, you just walk out. Trust me.
We didn't have TV for the first few years we lived here and without being regularly subjected to the barrage of messages about what we needed, we came to realize that life would not end if we didn't wax the floors. Or our legs. And whiter teeth don't impact your social status as much as we had been led to believe. 
Other truths revealed in the absence of constant advertising:
- Chairs that have been sat on by others will still hold your weight.
- Cinder blocks and boards make great bookshelves. 
- You can still be a contributing member of society if you don't own a microwave.
And then there's food. Do we live off the land, you ask? Well, if you could live off blackberries and clams, then yes.  I'd like to tell you that we have learned to grow our own food, but that would be a stretch. We grow greens and tomatoes and herbs. Turns out my thumb is not green. It's big though, and I hitch hike and walk whenever I can.  We drive a small, fuel efficient vehicle and walk to work most of the time anyway. We spend about $25 a month on gas.
We save up longer for vacations or new appliances, and we make choices about purchases  more judiciously. All things we should have been doing anyway.
Then a health crisis shifted things even more. Shifted reality and, thankfully, shifted perception.
On the other side of that crisis, we find ourselves rediscovering life all over again.
And we are both  thrilled  to work only part-time. 
My partner was taken out on the ocean by a friend to do a little fishing last Thursday. On a day that would have been a work day in the past, she saw porpoises swim by, she caught a beautiful (and delicious) red snapper, and she watched the drama of two Orca whales swimming toward a colony of seals. (The seals were all bunched together pointing at each other. Take him, he's fat and juicy.)
The highlight of her day, though, was sitting in that little boat for more than half an hour, watching a massive Humpback whale taking a nap about 50 feet away. It would rise slightly every couple of minutes and expose its blowhole.  Psh. Don't worry. 
Can you put a price tag on such a day?
We capped it off with dinner with friends. We ate in their yard, with deer munching a few feet away. We had fresh salmon, fresh beets, carrots and potatoes from their garden. Fresh strawberries for dessert. We talked about our amazing lives. All four of us work part-time. And we all have enough.
When I am on my death bed, looking back, will I wish I'd made more money? I hope I will be too busy remembering the sound of whales, the feel of sun-warmed cotton on my lake-cooled skin, the curious faces of seals, the great friendships I have enjoyed, the endless wonders I have encountered here in my new life, where I am learning to live with more.

 
In the spirit of Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and all the other ways to share the minutia of one’s life with the general public, I have decided to write a post about going for groceries.
Grocery shopping. Yawn. 
​Hang on.
It was a beautiful morning. September 7 was unseasonably warm and I left the house shortly after 8:30 to drive across Cortes Island and get in line for the 9:50 ferry. As soon as I pulled my little Honda Fit onto the end of the long line-up, I knew I might be in trouble.  I sat on the picturesque rock bluff overlooking the bay and read my novel. After almost an hour, the 9:50 pulled away full, leaving several cars behind, including my Fit. I moved into the car to continue reading for the two hour wait until the next ferry.
With approximately five minutes to go, the truck ahead of me inexplicably pulled out of line and headed up the hill. This left me at the head of the line, the first to load, with a back-of-the-boat, unobstructed view of the humpback that decided to do a little dance about fifty meters away from the ferry.

As we arrived on Quadra Island, I heard a muffled announcement from the bridge but couldn’t quite make it out. I raced across Quadra for the 1:00 boat, only to see it sailing away as I arrived at the terminal. Oh, that’s what the Captain was saying . . . Overload at Quathiaski Bay – the ferry is leaving without waiting for the Cortes Island boat.
I turned around and whipped back up the hill to get one item off my chore list. I completed my task and hurried back to the terminal to get in line. I found myself out of the parking lot and up the overflow hill. How did that happen in ten minutes? I might make it, I reasoned. My Fit could fit. 
Nope.
The 2:00 sailing was overloaded and I waited another hour for the 3:00.
Arriving in Campbell River just before 3:30, I dropped a watch off at a jewelry store for a battery replacement and charged out to Willow Point to pick up the dog’s medicine at the Vet clinic. Then, I sped back to the jeweler to pick up the watch, and ran across the street to the bank to get some cash, since we no longer have a bank on our island. I stopped at the sea food store, got gas, picked up dog food, and headed for the grocery store. I was hoping to make the 5:30 boat, but I would have to be in top form at Thrifty's. Fortunately, my shopping list was organized according to aisles. 
I was smooth. I was efficient. I made decisions with cutting precision. I packed my grocery bags and ran my buggy to the car. Approaching the terminal at 5:15, I let out a sight of relief. I was going to make it!
Nope.
I rounded the corner by the terminal and my heart sank. The line-up said it all. I inched my way forward, bought my ticket and watched the boat sail away.
*Let me add a footnote here for my prairie friends. Pre-ticket booth is the really dangerous part of ferry life. Likely, you are in a rush. Should you take the time to pee before flying to the ferry? If you are the only driver in the vehicle, YES, YOU SHOULD. If you get caught in a pre-ticket booth line, you must stay with your vehicle to inch forward. One. Foot. Per. Minute. I know someone who got caught in a two hour pre-ticket booth line up with a full bladder. They still can't talk about it.
Being experienced (and mildly scarred), I had taken care of business at the grocery store. 
I sat in my car and read for another hour, rifling through grocery bags for those nice nectarines I'd bought. In the rush of getting my chores done, I'd forgotten to refill my water bottle. Desperate, I searched the car for loose change, went to the waiting room for walk-on traffic, and bought some orange juice. (Did you know juice is cheaper than water in those machines? Don't get me started.)
The 6:15 is the last possible boat from Campbell River for cars heading all the way to Cortes, but making the 6:15 does not guarantee that you will make the 6:45 from Quadra to Cortes. I drove across Quadra chanting my ferry mantra. I pulled into line and checked the signal at the entrance to the ramp. Red light. Was that because they had finished loading or because they hadn’t started yet? I began making mental plans for an overnight stay on Quadra. I would be fine, but what would I do with $350 worth of groceries? Why did I pick this month to buy that expensive steak?
The light turned green and my hoot of joy was echoed in the cars behind me. The line moved very slowly. Unusually so. We were being waved around something big parked at the bottom of the hill; an 18 wheeler sat at the ramp entrance with two flat deck trailers carrying huge culverts.
The crew loaded all the cars tight against the outside edges of the ferry and saved the middle space for the truck. 
I will spare you the exciting details of watching the crew help the driver inch the rig onto the ramp. Eventually, the front wheels of the rig came onto the ferry, pushing the boat lower in the water, and essentially high centering the truck on the ramp and trapping everybody on board. 
While the passengers ate cookies for dinner, the crew tried everything they could think of to move the truck one way or the other. They told us maybe when the tide was high, the truck would be free.
​Nope.
​

Around 9:00, a tow truck pulled the rig backwards off the ramp and I thought we were homeward bound.
Nope.
It took the driver (with lots of help) until 10:50 pm to back off the ramp. 
We sailed home (and the Captain had the pedal to the metal; fastest sailing I was ever on) and I managed to get home by midnight. 
I unloaded the car, had a bowl of soup, and went to bed just after 1:00. 
I got up in the morning and cancelled my dentist appointment that was still two and a half weeks away. Wouldn't I be ready to face the ferries again in two and a half weeks, you ask. 
Nope.
​
Grocery shopping. Yawn.

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