Everything we believe in is perception, reality only plays a supporting role​

Think about it. Religion is an obvious example, but how much of what you believe in is based on fact? What makes people sexy - is it the person, or how they carry themself? Ok, I'll give you math, but is physics based entirely on facts or, perhaps how we interpret (perceive) those facts.  And don't even start me on diet - when I was 15 we were all eating tons of sodium and bacon while shunning sugar. (Frankly I have yet to get it right) This is why I think it is more important than ever for us to reconnect with our food. I like to use edible flowers as a great demonstration. If you have a regular salad of lettuce, tomatoes and carrots it is fairly tasty but visually bland, Add some borage or pea flowers and it is a whole new experience. Or think of wrapping some asparagus with a pea vine - stunning. I only wish I had thought of it while I had peas.

Every day people are bombarded by thousands of advertising messages. These messages are necessary for our economy and more - it is how we learn about many aspects of our lives, not just what we buy. Greenpeace does ads just like Heinz does. It is how organizations and companies define their brand. They help define our perceptions. 

Food on a plate doesn't stand much of a chance by comparison. 

life, death and moving on

My husband died three days ago. It was our tenth wedding anniversary. Originally we were supposed to marry on May 28th 2005, which would have marked 2 years from the day we first met. We had to change our wedding date so my late mother's sister could be there.  Maybe he would have lived another five days if we had stuck to the original date. 

He was only 60 years old. He was healthy, a runner, he should have lived longer. We had plans. We thought we had a future.

He was brilliant. Described by a friend as uncannily brilliant. He knew things. Secrets he took to his grave. 

He was the one who had always chastised me for not having a Plan B when I started a project. But he was not prepared to die. He believed that if he prepared for death it would be admitting it could best him. 

He did not believe he would die because he had beaten almost every obstacle he faced in life through tenacity, research and intellect. But death would not be cheated, and cancer devoured him. My son and I watched him wither to a wisp of the man he once was. He was never a big man, he was tall and lean with arms that were stronger than they looked. Watching the arms that had once held me turn to bones with a thin layer of skin clinging to them was the second hardest thing I have done. The hardest was telling him it was OK to leave us. That we would go on after he died.

Cancer stole my son's childhood. It took away a father who never got the chance to teach him how to play baseball, or drive a car, or shave. 

Cancer stole my husband's voice. For years we talked. I remember having philosophical conversations that could last for hours or even days about life, humanity, ethics and morals. He was unwaveringly rational in his approach whereas I was consistently emotional. It made life interesting. When his health took a turn for the worse, he stopped talking. As time went on and the various protocols and therapies did not work, he stopped eating meals with us. When his legs got too weak, he stopped going for walks. When he got too tired, he stopped caring.

Cancer stole my husbands body and now it will die because it has nowhere to live. But it could not steal his spirit. Just before he descended into a coma he turned to the doctor and said, "time to send in the clowns". Shortly after midnight I wished him a happy anniversary. An hour later I was dreaming of baseball when I got the call that he was taking his last breaths. I know it was him telling me goodbye. The next morning I felt him caress my back. I know he was telling me he still loved me.

I know he chose to die on our anniversary to tell me that it is time to move on.

I'm trying.



This is a shot of a river that winds along the logging road enroute to my favourite spot on earth. Bamfield. I have been going there since I was 8 years old. When I can't sleep I imagine walking down the path to Brady's Beach (before it was a road). There was a swamp full of skunk cabbage at the half way mark and then tiny streams that would cascade down the rocks into the ferns as you got closer. I always picked huckleberries. You would smell the ocean and hear the waves crashing well before you could see the beach. And there was this little house right at the end of the  trail. I never knew the person who lived there, but I dreamed of that little house.