OLD Whidbey Life Magazine

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The Not-So-New Kid on the Block || Go Take a Flying Leap

BY LES McCARTHY
February 24, 2016

Lizards do it. Squirrels do it. Even baby lemurs do it. So, I am, too…taking a flying leap, that is.

It’s Leap Year and February 29^th is coming around…so, I’ll be leaping. I’m leaping at the opportunity for change and a new chapter in my life. I don’t know exactly what it will be, but every four years I challenge myself to take something new on—and the time is nigh.

Some might think this crazy or scary—but it’s also exciting. What lies before me? What will this next step bring?

Luckily for me, this extra day gives me time to get my head around this next unknown (yet) adventure and prepare myself to be open to whatever “it” may be. It’ll dawn on me soon enough, but I need that time. Or maybe I’ll just mosey along as I walk the dog, adding some little leaps to my steps while I ponder all that is possible. This time only comes around once every four years—why not make the most of it?

Leap Day…an extra 24 hours…an extra day! However, technically, it’s not really an extra day as much as one we stick into this month to catch our calendars up with the rotation around the sun. It actually takes 365 ¼ days each year to accomplish that feat. What happens to those extra six hours that we don’t count? We put them together every four years to make up an extra day… welcome Leap Day!

It is said that the Egyptians probably were the first ones to incorporate a Leap Year Day but Caesar was given the credit when it was added to the calendar, way back, in 46 B.C. And a little known fact—this added day doesn’t totally correct the offset of the rotation/calendar year as it’s off by about 11 minutes. So, Pope Gregory XIII came to the rescue of time and decreed that Leap Year would be skipped three times every 400 years. I don’t know when we’ll skip the next one…guess we’ll leap over it.

And though Leap Year Day was established to keep our calendar aligned with nature, folklore states that babies born on February 29^th (called leaplings or leapers) are unruly and difficult to discipline. Probably because they only get a real birthday once every four years! I’d be unruly, too! And, if you are a leapling, you are one of roughly 200,000 in the United States and one of the five million worldwide. Your chance of being born on this day is 1 in 1500 and, this year, over 10,000 leapers will join us in the United States. Happy Birthday to you, little leaplings!

Thanks to early feminist, St. Bridget, some 400 years ago in Ireland, love is now associated with Leap Day, as well. At the time women were not allowed to propose marriage to their sweethearts. She complained to St. Patrick about this disparity and he allowed the reversal of proposals—but only on one day. And yep, you guessed it…Leap Day was then noted as a day of opportunity for the women who then were called “old maids” and for love.

In the 1879 opera “The Pirates of Penzance,” the character Frederic is apprenticed with a band of pirates until his 21^st birthday. When that day arrives he goes ashore, falls in love and plans to marry. UNTIL … dun-da-dun-dun… the pirates realize that Frederic was born a leaper and (due to the Leap Year cycle), wouldn’t finish his duties on ship until 1940, when he would be well into his 80s. Poor Frederic had to leave his love and go back to sea. Argh!

A few years back (four years ago, actually) my son and his girlfriend happened to be at the Duke Lemur Center in Durham, NC on Leap Day so they, oddly enough, were surrounded by actual leapers—of a different variety.

You’ve got a few days to think about this—so make a plan and whatever you do on this Leap Year Day—leap into it. Do something you’ve never done before—take a leap at something new, something fun; open yourself to a new chapter. Enjoy these extra 24 hours and, well—I say this with only good will in my heart—go take a flying leap!

Les McCarthy is an author, entrepreneur and IPPY bronze medalist for her yearly “Healthy Living ~ Healthy Life: 365 Days of Nutrition & Health for the Family” calendars. She’s been nearly 20 months on the island and in the NW and loves every gorgeous bit of it (especially the fog). She joyfully tends to her dwindling geriatric fur factory and looks forward to the return of the slugs and snails (and sunshine)! (photos courtesy of Les McCarthy.)

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CLICK HERE to read more WLM stories and blogs. Have a great story idea? Let us know at info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

February 24, 2016
Play That Song Again || Geography, family history and what it really means

BY ERIK CHRISTENSEN
February 24, 2016

“There’s a place/Where I can go
When I feel low/When I feel blue…”
— Lennon and McCartney

This week I’ve been pondering songs about specific places. There are so many classic songs—think “Free Man In Paris” or “Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans.” These are transcendent, captivating works of art. When done badly (I’m looking at you, “The Night Chicago Died” and “Feelin’ Groovy”) there is nothing more cringe-worthy. In previous blog posts, I’ve written about Texas, and magical musical moments that take you away, but let’s go on a real road trip, shall we?

Pack up your sunscreen, comfortable shoes and travel gear. Welcome to the Top Five, All-Time Songs About Places.

Number Five
“Mexico” by James Taylor

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQnHAb_6sOs

More an idea than a real travelogue, I love this because it touches on longing, the pull of a place, the feeling it gives you.

Oh, Mexico
It sounds so simple I just got to go
The sun’s so hot I forgot to go home
Guess I’ll have to go now

It’s an open invitation to leave the mundane, day-to-day behind, and it’s revealed near the end that it really is just an illusion—a dream of what could be. Life is hard, pressures mount, the “baby’s hungry and the money’s all gone,” but…

Oh, Mexico
I never really been so I really don’t know.

Number Four
“Levelland” by James McMurtry

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-D824LHti4

If you’re looking for the next John Steinbeck, look no further than James McMurtry, son of noted author (“Lonesome Dove,” “The Last Picture Show”) Larry McMurtry. Cinematic, heartfelt, this song takes us from the early Texas settlers to the modern day life in “fly over” country:

Flatter than a tabletop
Makes you wonder why they stopped here
Wagon must have lost a wheel or they lacked ambition one…

So they sunk some roots down in the dirt
To keep from blowin’ off the earth
Built a town right here
And when the dust had all but cleared
They called it Levelland

Take all the modern country music, any glossed-over saccharine lyrics of heartland values and throw them right out the window. Baritone guitar, four-piece rock and roll band, and the best depiction of small town life you’ll ever hear:

Granddad grew the dryland wheat
Stood on his own two feet
His mind got incomplete
and they put him in the home

Daddy’s cotton grows so high
Sucks the water table dry
His rolling sprinklers circle by
Bleedin’ it to the bone

From the grandparents to the parents, and the desperation of modern life:

Mama used to roll her hair
Back before the central air
We’d sit outside and watch the stars at night

She’d tell me to make a wish
I’d wish we both could fly
I don’t think she’s seen the sky
Since we got the satellite dish

So many details and specifics, I was surprised to hear (on the excellent “Live in Aught-Three” album) that it’s not really about Levelland, it’s about the nearby town of Floydada, Texas. “But,” McMurtry says, “Floydada didn’t fit the meter.”

Number Three
“Talk To Me of Mendocino” by Linda Ronstadt

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xaH9BnuGH68

Is that a cello crying to set the mood in the intro? You bet. The cello is, as we all know, the sexiest instrument ever. (Close second: saxophone.)

Once again, the idea, the longing for a deeper connection—

Talk to me of Mendocino
Closing my eyes, I hear the sea
Must I wait, must I follow?
Won’t you say, “Come with me.”

This one takes us—literally and emotionally—from the east coast to Indiana and over the Rockies to the California coast. This song came back to me as I was winding north on the California coast a few summers ago, getting nearer and nearer to the small, beachfront town, singing full volume inside my motorcycle helmet, leaning through the curves on Highway 1.

And speaking of musical instruments setting the tone, check out those tin whistles and accordions in:

Number Two
“Dirty Old Town” by The Pogues

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMMgIqW9vso

Coming from everyone’s favorite Irish party band, I just assumed the “Dirty Old Town” was Dublin, or Cork. Not so. Written by Ewan MacColl in the late 40s, it was about Salford, Lancashire. Apparently the line “smelled the smoke on the Salford wind” did not sit well with the Salford town council, who wanted it changed to “smelled the spring on the smoky wind.” Sorry, folks, no can do. Most covers left the original line.

The detail and realism portrayed in the lyric is both laser-beam specific and completely universal. This song takes the grim, Dickensian view of an industrial town and injects it with some bittersweet romance:

I met my love by the gas works wall
Dreamed a dream by the old canal
Kissed a girl by the factory wall
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

And, as rarely happens today, “Dirty Old Town” does not shy away from the hard truth and ultimate degradation of the working class:

I’m going to make me a good sharp axe
Shining steel tempered in the fire
I’ll chop you down like an old dead tree
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

Interestingly, and maybe only to keep one from crying in one’s Guinness, the song doesn’t end there, it repeats the romantic first verse again, suggesting a hopefulness, a willingness to look beyond the smoky skies and industrial wreckage.

And now, the Number One, All-Time Best Song About A Place:

Number One
“Walking In Memphis”by Marc Cohn

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KK5YGWS5H84

Right off the bat, focused detail and a sense of a deeper story within the narrator:

Put on my blue suede shoes and
I boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues
In the middle of the pouring rain

W.C. Handy
Won’t you look down over me
Yeah, I got a first class ticket
But I’m as blue as a boy can be

As with the other songs on this list, it’s really a masterful combination of the real place; you can close your eyes and picture it and, if you’ve been there, it’s familiar. It’s also a story of what the place means, how it resonates in the hearts of people. And that’s what seems to be the common thread—we sing songs to commemorate a certain place, to mark a memory or to explain how that place makes us what we are. It might be a dream of Mexico, it might be your family history in dusty west Texas, a coal mining town in England or Beale Street in west Tennessee. You can go to that place. It speaks to you.

Now, they’ve got catfish on the table
They’ve got gospel in the air
And Reverend Green, be glad to see you
When you haven’t got a prayer
But boy, you got a prayer in Memphis.

Erik Christensen teaches English at Oak Harbor High School, writes songs and poetry, and once ordered catfish in Memphis, only because of the Marc Cohn song.

Erik Christensen Band plays at The Taproom at Bayview Corner from 7 to 9 p.m. on Tuesday, March 1, the Penn Cove Musselfest from 2:30 to 4:30 p.m. on Saturday, March 12 and Front Street Grill in Coupeville from 6 to 8 p.m. on Wednesday, March 30.

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CLICK HERE to read more WLM stories and blogs. Have a great story idea? Let us know at info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

February 24, 2016
Sirithiri || ‘Note-to-Self’

BY SIRI BARDARSON
February 17, 2016

Spring is near. All the harbingers are visible: daphne odora, pussywillows, quince. Racks of colorful primrose are at the grocery store. Next it will be the forsythia, then tulips and the lilac bushes.

And ants.

I made my coffee the other morning and, at first, I thought they were the black feathery floaters in my vision. But no, they were the ants, determined in their scurry, coming out from the seam between the backsplash and the kitchen counter. Of course, they were in the general vicinity of the sugar bowl and the cupboard with the honey.

The ants seemed smaller than usual, not robust and shiny black, but tiny. This will make them easier to swallow when I find them in my tea.

Illustration by Siri Bardarsan

I am not going to kill them because of a book I read with my dear friend who died just the other week. “Ants and Buddhists,” it’s called—how to teach non-violence to children.

The tiny black ants remind me of my friend, always scurrying, always moving toward the sweetness of life. Love bug, love cookie, ray of sunshine, do-gooder, force of nature, positive energy, Mother Teresa, eco-warrior, radical activist. And now she is gone.

Death has such bad timing. It wouldn’t be right for her to die at any time, but now—when the earth is coming alive, activating, rising up to every conceivable opportunity to participate in Mother Nature’s mission: more and improved. That was her vision, too. More love, larger membership in a love’s vision connecting the dots between people, places, imagination and FUN, the 100% sweetness of life’s sugar bowl.

Now she is part of the good soil from which comes all possible bounty—if care is taken. Hmmm, care, careful, loving, nurturing. There is no room for the rabble of knee-high weeds and stubborn invasives if we take loving care. Work, like my visiting ants: good work, hard work, grindy work, many-hands-making-light-work. The opportunity for the work of love is always there, but it’s most obvious right now—now, when it seems like a good idea to get outside and dig.

I don’t have to do anything about the ants. They will be gone is a couple weeks. It’s very short—the window of time for scurrying and the occasional bonus reward of the sugar bowl.

Very short.

A Northwest native, Siri Bardarson is a writer with an emotional hotline to the vibrant natural beauty of Puget Sound. When not writing about the importance of the wild blackberry, daisies and natural time, she practices her cello a lot and sings at the same time. She loves her Whidbey Island home.

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CLICK HERE to read more WLM stories and blogs. Have a great story idea? Let us know at info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

February 17, 2016
Pigment, Perspectives and Pandas || Living with Nature

BY ANNE BELOV
February 10, 2016

Getting outside to garden for at least one hour a day is essential for those of us who spend our working lives seated at an easel or in front of a computer screen. And when I say gardening, what I really mean is bludgeoning nature into submission.

(In the kindest and most loving way possible, of course.)

I live on a five-acre parcel that is mostly wooded, except for the driveway and right around the house. Here in the left hand side of Washington State, we are blessed with an abundance of rainfall—at least most years and at least so far. This means that nature never gives you a break. Spend one winter out sick, or on vacation to a warmer climate, and you are likely to come home to find your entire house engulfed in blackberry vines (not to mention the little critters that use this cover as a clever way to storm the walls of your castle.)

There are three classifications of “garden” on my property:
1) Indulged chaos
2) Benign neglect, and
3) Run for your life.

The indulged chaos areas are the ones closest to the house. Purchased trees and shrubs and a few perennials are included in this area, and it’s the area that most people would refer to as “a garden.” Keeping it at least vaguely garden-like is my aim, although it’s not always achievable.

The Benign Neglect areas are those along the driveway or a little bit further from the house, but still visible from said house. Sometimes I refer to this area as the De-Militarized Zone, and 85% of my garden work is focused here.

Sunset in the not quite Benign Neglect area…

The truth is, you can rarely get rid of blackberries unless you’re willing to hire large machines or use chemical warfare. The best you can hope for is keeping them contained, like ill-humored cats that will whack you on the nose with their claws out, if you’re slow in the morning to fill up their food bowl. With a limited amount of time available, not to mention limited funds for the afore-mentioned large machinery, I prefer to do hand-to-hand combat.

Well, it’s more like lopper-to-vine combat, if you want to know the truth.

The Benign Neglect area: a garden in miniature.

Every year, I make a pledge to spend my hour a day in the area that seems to need it most, making a new assessment every time I walk out the door. This means projects are left started, but only occasionally finished, all over the property, and I’ve learned to be at peace with that.

But garden triage sometimes leads me into Area Three, aka Run for your Life!!!!! These are the areas that have been nominated Most Likely to Need Napalm in the plant world Award Competitions. These are the 20-foot deep, 40-foot wide, well-over-my-head bastions of blackberries. I stand before them with my garden loppers, rake and wheelbarrow and think, “what the hell was I thinking?”

I get this same feeling when I stand before the three-foot by four-foot canvas, on which I’ve started an incredibly complex drawing for a painting.

What was I thinking?

But I start slowly, with some trepidation, working slowly and methodically. One line—one short piece of blackberry vine severed and tossed on the wheel barrow. One brush stroke—another three feet of blackberry removed, until the painting is finally done, weeks or months later. Until the spot where blackberries and nettles partied till sunrise is an empty stretch of dirt.

What was I thinking?

Anne Belov is a painter, printmaker and purveyor of panda satire. Her paintings can be found at The Rob Schouten Gallery at Greenbank Farm on Whidbey Island and at The Fountainhead Gallery in Seattle. Her panda-focused humorous cartoons can be found on her blog: The Panda Chronicles, and her books can be found at Moonraker Books in Langley, as well as on Amazon. At least one hour a day, you can find her standing in front of a large encampment of blackberries, waving a rake and using bad language.

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CLICK HERE to read more WLM stories and blogs. Have a great story idea? Let us know at info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

February 10, 2016
The Chief Milkmaid || Life after farming

BY VICKY BROWN
February 3, 2016

Telling the public that you’re closing your dairy is one thing. Actually getting out of farming—quite another.

Farming is not simply an occupation. It’s a lifestyle.

Farmers don’t just work. They pour every cell of their being into the soil, their animals and their crops, from sun-up to sundown—and often long past then. One doesn’t just give that up.

Our life “after” farming? We still have more than 20 livestock (goats, sheep, llama) on our farm. They still need care, food and water twice daily, supplements, hoof trimming, shelter, fence mending, attention. Only now I’m working off the farm with a vengeance as well as taking care of our farm.

However, the closing of the dairy allowed me enough time to take a “clay class” in October and November of 2015 and to uncover a newfound passion for playing with a new type of mud or, to be more precise, clay.

Ooh la la… let me tell you about pottery! Better yet, let me show you.

Some days we don’t make anything but joy in the studio, and it can look like this:

Kylie Beard, center, and Vicky Brown get “muddy.” (photo by Tom Brown)

Some days it can be spending quality time with your husband (and our amazing instructor, Sharon Warwick of Wellspring Pottery):

Tom Brown at the wheel, coached by instructor Sharon Warwick of Wellspring Pottery (photo by Vicky Brown)

Or working with the rest of the class, watching each other learn and grow:

Gordon Stewart and John Heard listen to Instructor Clovy Tsuchiya of Clovy Tsuchiya Pottery (photo by Vicky Brown)

Kate Nunn, Anna Dozer, Aureya Magdalen, working in Warwick’s class (photo by Vicky Brown)

If you practice what you learn and add your own flair you might just get lucky and get a finished product like this to boast about:

My green bamboo pot (photo by Vicky Brown)

So, life after farming? I don’t know yet. It’s in my blood… I’m not anxious to close the barn door.

I’m grateful I was led to a place like The Paint Escape to land, to soothe me after the heart-wrenching decision to close our dairy. It kept me distracted and offered me comfort in a safe, supportive, creative and fun environment.

I’m heartbroken that this place had to be lost to our community. The loss, while still raw from the pain of shuttering our own business, felt personal and it hurt.

Yet a new spark of joy has hit. One of the tenacious previous owners of The Paint Escape, Tina Beard, is committed to opening a new business: her business, her vision and—if you asked her—the fulfillment of her “calling,” to create this space for the community.

Whidbey Art Escape will be so much more than what started as a paint-your-own-pottery spot in Freeland. It will be bursting at the seams with its delightful, brightly windowed studio for painting bisque-ware in delightful and useful shapes, a fun Glass Escape Studio for glasswork and, of course, the rather large Clay Escape Studio—now with eight wheels, a pug mill, a slab roller and beautiful space for handwork, carving and glazing fun.

There will be classes going on; top talent from our community will provide up to three group classes a week, with even more one-on-one “experience” classes.

If you’re ever wondering about it, come on by when they open (tentatively March, 2016). If I’m not at work, I’ll probably be there—throwing a pot, or carving, or glazing, or maybe just having a cup of coffee with my new studio-mates and friends. Odds are, we’ll be laughing and sharing joy. You’re welcome to come get your dose; we’d love to see you.

A gang of us, creating fun at Whidbey Art Escape, is even forming our own group. (A business that has its own groupies is probably a good thing, right?) Our little gang, The Escapees, are creating and learning and playing and will be soon offering our unique handmade objects to the public.

Stay tuned. I promise to keep you posted.

Beth Ryder helping to move growing baby goats from the nursery to the barn years ago when the farm was bustling this time of year. (photo by Vicky Brown)

So, while I still miss my bucket of baby goats with a very real ache in my heart, as part of my first gang—the Escapees—I know that love is not limited to one thing. I’m quite certain that the more we love, the larger our heart swells to accommodate it. In the arena of passion, certainly less will never be more.

Perhaps your passion won’t be struck by hands in the mud or the dirt of a farm, or even by the mud or clay on a wheel, but I hope you find it, wherever it lies. When you do find it, unharness your constraints and seize it with your whole heart… whether you’re any good at it or not…

My FIRST pot, from my first class in October, 2015 (photo by Vicky Brown)

Thank you for your support along my journey.

Vicky Brown (still a “farmer,” even if she’s milking less often), puts her passions on the page writing about food, agriculture and the tender web of community.

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CLICK HERE to read more WLM stories and blogs. Have a great story idea? Let us know at info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

February 3, 2016
The Not-So-New Kid on the Block || The Art of Being You

BY LES McCARTHY
January 27, 2016

Years ago—eons it seems—I spent my afternoons tutoring elementary school kids.

Whether they needed academic help, enrichment or an enhancement of their organizational or study skills—the one thing they all needed (and got) was the opportunity to just BE.

As in, to be themselves.

Sometimes, in school, a child is tagged as “that kid” or is known only as the “younger/older sibling of so-and-so,” with no identity of their own. Or perhaps she or he is labeled the class clown, the loner, the nerd, the lazy one, the weirdo, the trouble-maker, the…whatever. You get the picture.

At my house, we were just US. We were silly. We were serious. We read under the table. We read to the dog. We did fractions while hanging upside-down. We had fun. And along the way we learned from and about each other.

The tools for learning… (photo by the author)

My memory has always been spotty; if you want to win at a game of “Concentration,” call me over! I don’t remember more than a handful of “my kids” from those years, but there is one I will never forget. Even though I don’t recall her name, I remember, clearly, that she was the purest form of joy and belief—wrapped up in human form—that I’ve ever encountered. Yes, by many people’s standards, she was a quirky little oddball. And, with all that she was, she was 100% lovely.

The first time I picked her up at the playground, I was greeted by a running, panting, giggling mass of copper and blonde curls and snarls; her mane of hair was so thick that many a comb had likely seen its last day. She was a wild, tangled, disheveled jumble of backpack and papers in a (seen-better-days) pink party dress, rainbow-striped tights and well-worn Moonboots.

Did I mention that it was August? How she wasn’t sweltering in that outfit, I have no idea!

And as she easily slipped her hand into mine for the walk home to my studio, my first thought was—she is so trusting; I need to protect this spirit. And so began our dance of breezy conversation of nonsense and fairy dust and clouds and what was for lunch and “so-and-so threw up in the hallway outside the gym!” And that was our first chat.

Wrapped up in that little 6-year-old body was delight and curiosity and belief—in and about everything imagined or unimaginable. She held it all and I was smitten by her whimsy and charm and magic and complete exuberance for everything. Her mother must have been exhausted!

… and the fun of learning (photo by the author)

As our days grew into weeks, which grew into months of being together, it was quite apparent that this little creature was completely incapable of sitting still—or just sitting. So we learned as we skipped or swung or rocked. She was a bundle of energy and intellect and I, for the nanosecond when I wasn’t answering a question, would look at her and imagine the thoughts upon thoughts and ideas upon questions speeding along the pathways of her brain, finding their way to storage or ping-ponging sideways to piggyback onto another query for us to ponder.

I am all things educational. But part of helping kids along is to take the time to just sit and chat. “How was your day? What was the best part? What was the worst? What did you learn in class? What did you learn at recess? How would you have made today a better day?”

And then you sit back and listen. And you let them share their voice, and you let them just be.

All day long in school, kids are told what to do, where to go, how to behave, what to focus on. When it was just the kids and me—we’d get to our assignments and our lessons and they’d learn and gain what was needed. But they also gained what they didn’t know they needed. We talked. We laughed. We giggled like crazy and we did it…a LOT…as we unwrapped the gift of knowledge along our path of study. And somewhere in all that we found…ourselves.

No topic was off-limits; no question was foolish, no thought pushed aside. If I didn’t know the answer, we’d look it up. Sometimes I’d have to defer to mom or dad (for sensitive issues). But, for the most part we were an exploration team and we went to infinity… and yes, beyond. We had a ball, those kids and me.

She wanted to be a pony… (photo by the author)

Early on in our sessions, I asked this sunshine sprite what she wanted to be when she grew up. And she responded that she wanted to be a pony. I knew she was old enough to know that she couldn’t really, truly, biologically morph into a pony any time soon—but the look on her face made me question if it would not somehow happen. She was so sure it was possible.

And as we went along in those months we would revisit the pony possibility and her positivity never wavered. According to her, it was going to happen. When she grew up she was going to be a pony.

A pony with a copper-colored mane—in Moonboots.

She and her family moved. I moved. We lost touch. But, from time to time, she comes to mind and I find myself smiling—and thinking of possibilities.

And, along the way, learning how to Just Be (photo by the author)

And so, as we slide into the end of the first month of this New Year, I want us to hold to that belief that is before us. The belief that anything is possible. We can be ourselves. We can believe in ourselves. We can do whatever and be whomever we want.

It’s a New Year, put some thought to it. Make it count. And then believe. And maybe one of us will become a pony.

Les McCarthy is an author, entrepreneur and IPPY bronze medalist for her yearly “Healthy Living ~ Healthy Life: 365 Days of Nutrition & Health for the Family” calendars. She’s been nearly 20 months on the island and in the NW and loves every gorgeous bit of it (especially the fog). She joyfully tends to her dwindling geriatric fur factory and looks forward to the return of the slugs and snails (and sunshine)!

__________________

CLICK HERE to read more WLM stories and blogs. Have a great story idea? Let us know at info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

January 27, 2016
In Search of Truth and Beauty || Finding Shelter

BY JONI TAKANIKOS
January 20, 2016

Sometimes the past knocks on the door of your present moment and demands attention.

The memory that marched up the walk and knocked loudly on my door was from January, 2007. That was the year I was fortunate to be selected to be part of the WICA Local Artist Series.

I had proposed a multi-media event that seemed like a great idea at the time. But when I found out I had been awarded an evening to pull off this extravaganza, I was not at all sure I could do it. I knew I wanted visual artists involved as well as musicians and poets. In an early meeting with two of the eventual 14 visual artists, we decided upon the theme of “shelter.”

“Winter Happening for Shelter” takes flight. (photo by Eric Nussbaum)

Shelter turned out to have many layers of meaning and emotion. When I think back on the show, it is like a dream with many levels, and if anyone reading this was a part of that night so long ago, thank you for entering the dream of “A Winter Happening for Shelter. ” The idea of shelter is not limited to four walls and a roof. In the end, the show was all about love. It’s what we are made of beneath all of the other rubble.

WICA generously gives free rental of their space for the evening, but to produce a show still requires significant funds. I was fortunate to have underwriting from a patron to cover the other costs of the evening. Thanks to that generous patron and a sold-out performance, we generated a healthy donation to the Family Resource Center. Because there was no local homeless shelter at the time, the Family Resource Center seemed the best conduit to get funds to families in need. I remember someone from the FRC who told me of a family asking for help to pay for their campground fees, so they could afford to stay in the park. This was in the winter and I thought of that family and so many others forced to take shelter in the cold.

Besides the issue of homelessness on our island and elsewhere, I was also interested in shining a light on the commerce behind rental properties. It is well known that rental costs can rise dramatically in certain areas. Homeowners with a mortgage of $1000 might be able to charge $2000 to rent their property.

When it comes to the commerce of shelter, it would be beneficial to find a way to profit without driving away working families and single income workers. I know there are those who do charge less than the market will allow so that they can provide affordable housing. I applaud them and wish there was more encouragement in our society to do this more often.

Joni Takanikos and James Hinkley (photo by Eric Nussbaum)

Here on Whidbey Island we are still grappling with increasing homelessness, as well as a scarcity of rental properties. Many property owners have decided to rent to vacationers only; this is very lucrative but further lessens availability of rentals for families. If you are fortunate to have rental property on our fair isle or elsewhere, you might consider that you can profit by helping someone find affordable shelter.

I admit to having high hopes that we can offer shelter to those in need and we are getting closer to that ideal since 2007. Lori Cavender officially founded Ryan’s House as a non-profit in 2010 but had already been working for 10 years to provide resources for homeless youth on Whidbey. Today Ryan’s House is in the home stretch of a major campaign that would afford them the capability of a full time shelter in Coupeville. To donate or find out more about this heartful organization, visit ryanshouseforyouth.org or call Lori Cavender at 206-356-2405

The South Whidbey Homeless Coalition was founded in 2014 and, in 2015, this dynamic and diverse group of concerned citizens opened the House of Hope as temporary transitional housing for families in need.

They have plans for a Hope Village that will provide permanent housing/tiny homes to serve the chronically homeless. They have also partnered with the Langley Methodist Church in Langley and have opened a Warming Center in the Fellowship Hall at the church. It is open from 6 p.m. to 8 a.m., but only when temperatures drop below 35 degrees. Their hotline is 360-221-5848.

The Warming Center is staffed by volunteers. If you are interested in volunteering or donating, please contact southwhidbeycoalition.org or call the hotline.

Artifact—a part of the program for “A Winter Happening for Shelter” (photo courtesy of Joni Takanikos)

I recently spoke with Joanne Pelant, who is Island County’s housing resources coordinator. County and federal laws mandate that a “point in time” count of the island’s homeless population be done on a randomly selected day yearly. Although the count is mandated, there are no specific funds attached to the count. Island County is seeking 100 volunteers for the count and offers training the week prior. This year the count will be on Jan 28. For more information or to volunteer, please contact Joanne Pelant at 360-678-7962

I confessed to Joanne during our conversation that if I were to ever win the lottery, I would like to build a shelter that is always open—a place with an eye toward beauty that is comforting to the body and soul. I envision a beautiful and comforting environment for those seeking shelter. Joanne said she has a similar vision. Well, sometimes we begin to create change by “dreaming a better dream” and the more of us engaged in the dream, the better.

As I write this from a warm and cozy house I pray that all beings find shelter and love.

Joni Takanikos teaches yoga at Half Moon Yoga Studio in Langley. The theme of shelter is still unwinding in her heart and soul.

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January 20, 2016
Magically Real || Don’t cry for me, oh, South Whidbey

BY STEPHANIE BARBÉ HAMMER
January 13, 2016

A few months ago a Langley acquaintance told me he felt sorry for me because I live north of Classic Road. That is to say, he pitied me because I live in Coupeville, which—if you’re reading this blog and aren’t from these parts—is in the middle of Whidbey Island.

Now friends, don’t get me wrong. I love spending time in South Whidbey. The Clinton Ferry gives me a thrill every time I ride it and I’m a denizen of the Star Store and Star Store Annex, as well as all the Langley bookstores. I’m a huge fan of the Bayview Taproom and the Bayview Famer’s Market.

Kettle Drive will put you on the trail to see the kettles in the area. (photo by the author)

I love that walk past the statues near the bench in downtown Langley where you can see the water. And who doesn’t dig the Music for the Eyes boutique? Last time I was there, I snagged an amazing pair of hamsa earrings that I lent to my daughter and then never saw again; she loved them so much she, uh, requisitioned them. The South Whidbey libraries are gorgeous, and I’ve heard wonderful concerts and attended neat writing workshops at the high school in Langley.

But listen—if you take the time to drive a little bit further up the road, it’s pretty nifty here, too.

Last Thursday is a case in point. I took my usual walk past the kettle in Pheasant Farm Acres. We have a couple of kettles in our neighborhood and they’re super cool to look at. They’re huge bowl-like holes that were created by the melting of detached, buried glaciers. Over time, the holes have filled in with trees. (To learn more, you can check out http://www.britannica.com/science/kettle.)

Looking down into one of the kettles (photo by the author)

Then I turned up the road and took in a view of the prairie that’s managed by the Pacific Rim Institute. The Institute’s volunteers are bringing several endangered plants, endemic to the area, back to health and they have an owl barn that’s home to several BIG owls. You can see them, sometimes, flying around the neighborhood. The birds, not the volunteers. Just to be clear.

I came home, put on some nicer clothes and went off to Thirsty Thursday at the bayleaf wine shop in downtown Coupeville. “Gosh,” my husband said, “hope it’s not too deserted there. It can get pretty quiet here in the winter.”

Here’s a picture of the scene:

Thirsty Thursday wine tasting at bayleaf (photo by the author)

I think it’s safe to report that the joint was jumping. Our friend Sara joined us in this packed-to-capacity tasting room. FYI, Beth, the owner, is an incredible connoisseur of wines from Washington State and beyond (like Greece), and she’s the most nicely knowledgeable person I know regarding what libation to try and what yummy cheese to pair with it.

Then Sara and I drove further north to go see “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” in Oak Harbor. A young dad and his tiny son held the doors for us as we came in from the cold and stood in a line of about six people.

“You see?” Sara said. “It’s not complicated going to the movies here.”

The lobby at Oak Harbor Theater (photo by the author)

I won’t say that the Oak Harbor movie theater is grandiose. But it’s clean, the seats are comfortable and they show first-run movies without a hitch. The sound was great and the projectionist was on point.

And the folks in the theater with us—let me tell you about them.

I’ve already mentioned the man and his son. There was another man with an even tinier daughter. And there were lots of youngish guys who were each sitting alone throughout the room.

I asked Sara about them. “Well,” she said. “Remember, this is a military town.”

Then the movie began. I chomped on popcorn and wished my mom was still alive to see the movie with Sara and me. My mom and I saw three of the original Star Wars movies together and she loved watching handsome Harrison Ford in action. (Sara and I do too, just for the record).

As I looked around the room, I noticed the guys in the audience raptly watching the X-wing star fighters, and realized that many of them would actually know how to fly fighter planes. Or repair them

I probably should confess, at this point, that I’m one of those leftist-leaning hippy-pacifist types, and I’m not crazy for the airplane noise that we get sometimes on my part of the island. But I have to tell you—there was something moving about being in the room with those guys, watching Star Wars. Because—like it or not—they are our Jedi.

So friends, remember this: when you go further up Highway 20, past Langley and Freeland and, yes, even past Greenbank (technically, a central-island community), you’ll see owls and deer, and navy guys and gals. You can also drink some incredible wines, visit delicious restaurants, and still see some inspiring views of the water and the land.

And, by the way, we don’t have a rabbit problem here. At least not yet.

Stephanie is a published poet and novelist who loves teaching. She is offering a class on the origins of magical realism on Jan. 23 at the Writers Workshoppe in Port Townsend. Visit here for more information: http://www.writersworkshoppe.com/workshops.

To learn more about Stephanie, visit: http://www.stephaniebarbehammer.net.

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January 13, 2016
Rock Bottom Line || Hope springs eternal for a Whidbey gardener

BY HARRY ANDERSON
January 13, 2016

It was dark and dank outside, one of those January days on our Rock when I wish we really had bought that condo in Palm Springs, locked up and flown south, like most birds have the good sense to do. But, as I gazed out my window at the wet desolation, my mind would not stop pondering my vegetable garden.

Ah, that wonderful, fertile, 20-foot-by-40-foot space where I spent such happy hours with the sun overhead and my hands in the dirt in spring, summer and fall. Oh, the tomatoes! And the sweet Walla Walla onions! And the Yukon Gold potatoes! And the zucchini, snow peas, beets, cauliflower and cucumbers! All just fond memories now, of course, though some remain embalmed in Mason jars and freezer bags.

I bundled up in flannel, fleece and wool, pulled on the waterproof boots and strolled out to the muddy, half-frozen garden. The winter wind and rain had not been kind. Half stuck in the mud lay the forlorn little ceramic plaque that had been tossed off the post where it once had proudly hung. “God bless this garden and all who enter in,” it reads. Indeed, divine blessings are needed now more than ever.

Over in the corner, I spotted the broken fan blade of the cute garden whirligig that had succumbed after five nasty, windy Whidbey winters. The old sailor in the little red rowboat, so salty with his white beard and pipe and his yellow Nor’easter hat and coat, had pulled his last oar.

I saw the gray, lifeless remnants of the three zucchini plants that kept producing squash even as frost encroached. I blamed myself for not uprooting them and giving them a proper burial in the compost pile, as I had with all the other vegetable plants. I looked in amazement at the many weeds that had sprouted, despite the cold weather, since last I applied the hoe. Why is it that these weeds can grow so heartily even when everything else is dead or dormant?

In the other corner, I saw the plastic basket I had used to harvest the garden’s abundance and cart it into the house. I had forgotten to take it in, so it filled with rainwater during December’s deluge and then froze into a solid block of ice.

Even as I surveyed the devastation, however, something in me began to stir. Next year, I’ll plan more potatoes and fewer beans. More carrots, fewer zucchini. Yes, and maybe I’ll add a raised bed or two, and some drip irrigation hoses. Something about a garden always makes hope spring eternal.

But first things first, I thought. Send the lawn mowers out to get serviced. If you don’t book that service early on the Rock, you may have hay before your mower is ready. Prune the fruit trees now. The hard frost has made them dormant, but who knows how long that will last given the changing climate. And if you don’t prune, your apples may be the size of prunes.

Put on the gloves and get out there and pull those weeds, then add some compost and till that soil. It’s never too early or too cold. You want a good harvest? Get off your lazy winter butt and get started.

Ah, all that day-dreaming really felt good. It’s so hard to get motivated during this dreary time of year. I feel so much better now. I’m eager for spring to be sprung.

Once upon a time, Harry Anderson made an honest living as a reporter, editor and columnist at the Los Angeles Times. He now lives in central Whidbey, where he spends his time gardening and ruminating on things that interest him. (photos by the author)

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January 13, 2016
Minding the Sky || Making Resolutions that Matter

BY JUDITH WALCUTT
January 6, 2016

Whew! We did it! Made it through the eye of the needle of the darkest day, found our way through that tiny door at the bottom of the old year and discovered a lightening sky awaiting us in the morning frost of the new.

What is it about the New Year’s start that is conducive to lists and goals and resolutions for old snafus? Now I’ll burn some belly fat; now I’ll clean my closet, now I’ll find my way to a new and better me! And how about you?

I think we all appreciate a second chance, and a third chance, and another and another chance after that, every year, every January 1^st, another chance to start anew. In fact, thank goodness for January 1^st, to give us all that opportunity to change, clean up the act, house, room, desk, or life.

Go ahead—take a breath, free your mind, don’t judge yourself, just rest in a full and empty, open heart-felt moment, and find the restart button. When you awaken from such a pause, priorities have a way of slipping into focus. Or so I am told—I am still practicing and maybe some day, some January 1^st, I’ll get there.

On a list of things to do along the way this year, among the most mundane of tasks—sorting out socks and cleansing clutter under the sinks—I also wrote a note to myself that said this: Be kinder to yourself and others. Do less harm to yourself and others. Be quiet and listen to yourself and others.

I think we all like the idea of being kinder—it sounds so positive! But what does that look like on a day-to-day basis? Does that mean you buy yourself a jelly donut for finally finishing your paperwork? Or you buy your husband one, for going to cardio rehab three times a week uncomplainingly?

Not exactly.

Does it mean taking yourself (and someone you love) for a walk, while the sun is shining? Or randomly letting the elderly lady behind you in line at Payless go ahead of you because she’s got three things in her basket to your 25? That’s a start and good juju. Do that!

Does it also mean cutting yourself some slack for the fact that the house is still in a mess after Christmas and letting yourself spend the last days of the holiday just being—really being—with your family, before they depart for points east and south? I hope it means that, because that’s what I’ve been all about this holiday season—less about the stuff, and more about the being, just being with my beloveds in the impermanent moment of those darkest days lit up with little blinking lights and homemade pie for a gluten-free tribe, followed by one last game of Scrabble, in a blur of holiday bliss.

Why does being kinder to yourself naturally lead to being kinder to others? Like a natural chemical reaction setting change into motion, it seems that when you are kinder to yourself, it is easier to be kinder to others, if for no other reason than, in cutting yourself a break, you feel freer to cut someone else one, too. In so doing, you set all those you’ve practiced kindness towards free, to practice kindness to others—a domino effect of cascading kindnesses accomplishing who knows what-all in a tsunami of possible goodnesses.

We have such poignant examples of this chemistry in action here on Whidbey: Hearts and Hammers, Friends of Friends and, now, the South Whidbey at Home Project, each putting into action an island-wide, group-focused practice of kindness.

Those on both the giving and receiving sides of these amazing Willeford-conjured, locally supported, social safety-net organizations can attest, the experience is transformative and provides proof-positive that kindness practiced in a team effort and at the community level gives you (us) hope and reason to carry on, get through the dark days, and know that the sky will change, yes, it will change—and we will see it and feel it with our own precious senses, glad we held on and lived to tell the story.

As for doing less harm, all I can say about that is this: it requires both discipline and patience, which I personally am not really good at. But, recognizing my own need for improvement in that area—I put it on my list of resolutions for this year to do just that—generate patience for ignorance, patience for hubris, patience for human weakness of all kinds, my own included.

Patience requires discipline and discipline requires patience—they just naturally go together that way, like beans and rice combining to make a perfect food. I mean, when I want to punch some loud-mouthed, ignoramus of a politician-liar-cheater-fraud in the mouth—what do I do?

Fortunately, I am never in a place where I could actually accomplish that brand of physical violence. But I might yell at the radio or slam my fist down on the front page of the New York Times—and who knows, but that little puff of anger shot from my mouth out into the universe might just kick off a butterfly effect of outraged, emotional smog which, in turn, infiltrates the atmosphere in another part of the world and turns up as a firebomb in a public place. Words are actions, thoughts are actions, and actions are actions—and we are all interconnected! How do we remember that? How should we behave, if that is true in an absolute sense, which, in a way, it is?

I stare at the sky and blister and bubble beneath the surface a bit, like vinegar is meeting the baking soda of my soul. I wait and wait; eventually, the desire to inflict harm to harmful persons passes; whether I act on it with words or deeds, or not, it passes. The same can be said about any bad habit—like cigarettes, for instance. The desire to smoke one will pass, if you wait long enough; it will pass whether you smoke a cigarette at that moment or not.

If there is an antidote to the compulsion to cause harm—mental, physical, or emotional, particularly in the face of outrageous inhuman behaviors by humans towards other humans, animals, plants, the entire Earth, etc., that antidote resides at the micro level of moment by moment patience and the discipline to keep an open heart throughout.

All of the great teachers I have had the good fortune to hear or read have said the same thing, one way or another: Keep an open heart, practice forgiveness moment by moment, practice discipline to refrain from harmful words or actions, practice kindness towards yourself and others, and never give up.

I am trying to do that now, stand square on two feet and let the outrage—at the injustice, the simple wrongness that we see, banally, every day—wash out with the tide, so that the essential goodness we all want to feel, share, and generate, like electricity from the sun, can get through that sooty emotional smog and fill the void emptied of anger.

I guess that’s where being quiet and listening comes into the chemistry—how can I hear myself or anyone, if I fill the available space with my words, words, words—how can I feel what anyone is feeling, even what I am feeling, if I don’t find silence first and rest within it? Find silence and then listen. Is it the wind? Is it the owl? Is it rain on the roof or a distant train passing by? When I am quiet and I listen, the sound of everything, all at once, becomes the silence I hear. It is the sound of one word: Begin.

***

If you want to find out more about the organizations where you can be part of this local tidal movement of kindness or if you or someone you know is in need of such kindness in their lives, visit these sites for more information about where and how to connect.

Hearts and Hammers
http://www.heartsandhammers.com/about.html

Friends of Friends Medical Fund
http://fofmedicalsupportfund.org/

South Whidbey at Home
https://www.facebook.com/SouthWhidbeyAtHome/info/?tab=page_info

AND/OR if you want to find a way to relax your mind—and even change it—I recommend the recent book by Dza Kilung Rimpoche, “The Relaxed Mind,” Shambhala Press, 2015. It is a simple, direct and uplifting way to make a good start for the New Year.

Judith Walcutt has written for radio, TV and stage for most of her professional life. She has lived on Whidbey Island for nearly 30 years with husband and collaborator, David Ossman. Together they have produced some decent work and two excellent boys. Her first novel, “Memoirs of a Modern She-Noodle,” will be published this Spring by NeoPoiesis Press.

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January 5, 2016