Knowing who your friends are is important. In the last while I’ve also learned that knowing where your friends are is also important. Please allow me to explain.
In 2007, when darling husband Ian and I made the move to the Okanagan from our life in the Lower Mainland, I had one year remaining to complete of an undergraduate degree at Simon Fraser University. Determined to finish, I planned on commuting between the sun drenched benches of Oliver and the rain soaked streets of Vancouver. Every two weeks. For almost a year.
I was fortunate in many ways. The cohort to which I belonged was incredibly supportive. The faculty at SFU helped facilitate information sharing when I was snow bound in January. Ian didn’t complain too loudly about my leaving him behind every other weekend on my journeys to the coast. The trusty Suzuki held its’ own against the mountain range in icy/snowy/wildlife-crossing-the-road-frequently conditions.
We planned for everything and more. Accommodation (thanks to my cohort friends I always had a comfy bed – even if it belonged to one of their kids), transportation, food & beverage (what happens at wine nights stays at wine nights), and even entertainment. But there’s always one thing that gets missed, even in the best laid plans.
In this case we forgot to plan for what life would be like without me there; the time spent with my friends outside of scheduled classes. No easy gatherings after work during the week for me. No quick stops at someone’s work to grab a book or borrow a paper. I was sequestered in my Okanagan life, and my friends saw me pop in and out of their lives without knowing where I was spending my non-class time. One friend – Darlene – said she couldn’t see me in our new place: she had no visual of what my life was when I wasn’t around, and she didn’t know where I was. Literally.
It’s been two years since our relocation, and many of our friends haven’t made the journey to our new home. Life, work and other distractions interfere with plans of having our friends connect with us in the Montgomery back yard over a glass (or two) of wine.
A request was made of me well over a year ago, and it was a rather simple one: take pictures. I’ve taken lots of pictures over the past two years, and while they reflect our new environment, it’s not a ‘day in the life’ window like that through which we can often see our closest (geographic) friends.
So, this is for you, Darlene. And for all those who have heard me describe my morning walk to work. It’s one day, and only part of one season. But I think it speaks volumes about where I am.
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Ode for Darlene (and other far off friends)
The day begins with sun, rain or cloud
but I always manage to take one
last and long look at the small part of
this world that is ours.
Everything and anything can happen once
my feet leave the gravel of our drive;
today, though, the goal is to walk
and walk toward the light.
I begin at the top of all things, or so
it may seem, and my feet take
me across asphalt and past dogs and
cats until my eyes see an opening.
The valley opens before me and I know that
I am one of many people at the start of a
day, and this day means many things
all at the same time.
The sun hits my side as I turn to the south,
walking along the bench for just a moment
but long enough to see the remains of the
work of my neighbours.
This valley, our valley stretches from south
to north; it snakes through fields and plants
and lives and brick, offering little shelter from
whatever the wind brings with it.
What we think lay behind us really only
depends on our perspective; today
the alley is my companion as we both
are warmed by the late September sun.
Behind the grey stone and concrete of our
forgotten bureaucracy is a life that trumpets
through the summer, sharing a bright tune
as it prepares for a winter of rest.
The early morning light hides many things of
the coming day: barren hills are tricked into softening
their stance, and fields green with irrigation are
humbled into the background.
The valley, our valley brings life to places far
away; work goes unnoticed in the corners,
empty crates awaiting their fruit cargo are seen
by a few who travel narrow roads.
The low structure interrupts a vision of hay field
and vineyard, orchard and desolation; it offers
nothing but what the people inside bring
to it each day.
After shutting the door to the hills, rocks and green
of our valley, I walk to a desk that beckons, drains
and provides - and open the blinds to welcome
the same sun that blankets everything
outside these walls.
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Thanks for reading, to all my friends far and near. OWS is wherever our friends are, wherever my heart is and has been. And it will likely always be this way.
~ Jeannette
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