It’s All About Perspective

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We headed to the mountains this morning in the hopes of snow. We were disappointed in that—there was no sledding to be had, but we did have a lovely walk at Kura Tawhiti/Castle Hill instead.

Kura Tawhiti, with its fabulous limestone formations and huge boulders, is one of our favourite quick day trips and a regular stop-off on our way to other places. For all our visits, though, we have never actually gone to the top of Castle Hill. So today, that was our destination (with many boulder-scaling detours along the way, of course).

The best part of the top of Castle Hill was the massive boulder jutting up from near the summit (I really think they should have put the trig marker on top of that rock—it really is the summit, more so than the ground below). Though I didn’t measure it, I’d guess the rock adds a good seven metres to the height of the hill. It dwarfed us all as we stood in its shadow.

It was a lovely walk to the top, though we were disappointed that we couldn’t actually make it to the top of that big rock. After a few minutes on top, we made our way down the other side of the hill.

Later, looking back toward the summit from a neighbouring ridge, that massive boulder looked tiny.

“The lesson,” my husband said, “Is that until you reach them, all your problems will seem insignificant. It’s only when they’re upon you that you’ll realise how utterly insurmountable they are.”

It wasn’t exactly the lesson I took (I was thinking that big problems, safely in the past, look small), but it’s a valid point. Sometimes we take on challenges or make decisions we know will lead to challenges in the future. At the time, those challenges might look manageable, but when we finally face them down, they could be huge.

Thankfully, we rarely have to face life’s problems alone unless we choose to do so. In fact, many of the big challenges that matter a great deal to us—raising kids, dealing with illness, facing loss—are really only manageable when shared. Sometimes, the hardest part is asking for help.

And then, once you’re past, the problems look smaller again. They look more manageable, because you did manage them.

So, don’t be afraid of those big challenges. They may be bigger than you think, but once you’ve made it past them, you’ll be able to look back from a distant ridge and say, “Well, maybe that wasn’t so bad after all.”

Tūrangawaewae

DSC_0095 smIt’s Maori language week, so I thought I’d share one of my favourite Maori words—tūrangawaewae.

Tūrangawaewae is a place to stand, where a person feels strong and at home. It doesn’t really have an English equivalent. Homeland comes sort of close, but one’s homeland is not always one’s tūrangawaewae.

Though I am not a religious person, I am a spiritual one, and the word tūrangawaewae speaks to me in a spiritual way. I know where my tūrangawaewae is. It’s not so much an actual place, but a biome–the forests of the north eastern US. I am an organic part of that biome. It is wired into my nerves and muscles. Every leaf, animal and rock feels familiar.

I have little use for American culture, and no affinity with the cities and interstate highways that encroach upon my tūrangawaewae. I have honestly tried to find a new tūrangawaewae here in my adopted home. There are many places here I love. Many places to which I feel drawn. But none matches my tūrangawaewae for that deep sense of belonging.

Where is your tūrangawaewae?

Throw the Windows Open

2016-06-29 13.02.59Until we moved to New Zealand, I would have laughed at the idea of opening the windows and doors in mid-winter. When it’s well below zero, a fresh breeze through the house isn’t exactly welcome.

Somehow here, the idea of a fresh breeze through the house at any time of year is welcome.

It helps that the climate is warm—there’s never a day that remains below freezing, even in the depths of winter. But even so, I noted after I flung the house open today that the outside temperature is only 11°C (52°F). I’m sure I never opened the windows at that temperature in Minnesota or Pennsylvania.

Of course, in Minnesota and Pennsylvania, the windows never ran with moisture. Puddles didn’t form on the windowsills every morning (in MN, it was ice, but that’s another story). The winter air here is warm enough to hold plenty of moisture, and without central heating to dry out the air, it can get pretty damp indoors. A couple of hours of a brisk breeze on a sunny afternoon can do wonders for the indoor humidity.

Perhaps that’s part of what I like about living here—the opportunity to invite the outdoors in, even during the wintertime.

As Horace Everett wrote (to Aaron Copland’s music): Stomp your foot upon the floor / Throw the windows open / Take a breath of fresh June air and dance around the room.

Throwback Thursday: Tramping the Abel Tasman

100_1198 smThe Abel Tasman was our first Great Walk as a family. It was also our first family tramp longer than two nights—the kids were still at the stage where they sometimes needed a prod to get to the top of a hill (or more accurately, the promise of chocolate at the top).

The Abel Tasman was the perfect trip—long enough to give the kids a ‘real’ adventure, and easy enough that they didn’t struggle with it. The distances between huts were short enough that the kids could spend hours playing on the beaches along the way and still get to the hut by mid-afternoon.

I’ve heard that the track is miserable in bad weather—all those exposed beaches can’t be fun in the wind and rain—but we were blessed with perfect sunny days. Though it was April, the weather was warm enough for lots of swimming along the way, and the whole experience felt more like a frolic than a tramp.

For me, the best part about the trip was gaining a greater appreciation for tides. The surges of water, so different from the normal waves, that fill the estuaries, bringing schools of fish and rays with them. The rippled and exposed mud flats of low tide. The twice-daily rhythm of inundation and exposure of the coast.

It wasn’t a wilderness experience—the huts were filled to capacity, and boats stopped at most of the beaches—but it was a beautiful chance to explore a rich and dynamic coastline.

 

Adventure on Kaitorete Spit

2016-06-11 11.10.09 smSaturday morning, we took advantage of the lovely weather to take a walk out on ‘our’ beach. Not just any old walk, but one that would take us beyond the lake opening onto Kaitorete Spit.

I can’t believe that in the eleven years we’ve lived here, we’ve never done this before. We’ve walked to the lake opening many times, but always when the lake was open to the sea, to see the dolphins and seabirds that congregate there eating the fish migrating in and out of the lake.

But our goal this time was the wild tip of the spit.

You would think that a mere couple of kilometres would make little difference in the beach, but the change was positively stunning.

On ‘our’ part of the beach, the dunes are covered in non-native shrubs and ice plant. Not a native plant to be found.

An hour’s stroll out onto the spit took us into a different world. Non-native plants all but gone on the dunes, replaced by pingao. Behind the dunes, native broom, Raoulia (vegetable sheep), and Muehlenbeckia.

The shape of the dunes was different. The whole effect less verdant and more windswept.

Naturally, we searched for kātipo spiders among the pingao, as this is one of the few places this endangered spider can be found. We found none, but we did find a number of other spiders, lots of spider egg cases, and a couple of sand scarabs (including an adult, which was a first for me).

We knew all this was out there, but knowing and having experienced it are two different things.

And now that we understand what’s out there, I’m sure we’ll be going back again soon.

Walking Wellington

2016-06-03 10.22.20I spent the weekend in Wellington at a convention, but I have to admit that the best part of the weekend was walking around the city.

I could never live in Wellington—I’m just not a city gal, and it would kill me—but I love to visit. Yes, I enjoy Te Papa, and the Carter Observatory, the World of Wearable Arts show, and all the other indoor attractions. But mostly I like going there to walk.

And I have to think I’m not the only one who enjoys walking in Wellington. The streets are full of people walking—to and from work, during lunch breaks, to shops, to the bus stop…

You can walk along the waterfront, or through the residential neighbourhoods with their many finial posts, through the parks or the botanic garden, or along bustling Cuba Street. You can even walk to the airport, if you’ve got time and inclination—the city is compact enough that nearly everything is within a reasonable walk.

Well, reasonable by my standards.

Of course, when Wellington’s weather turns, it’s not a place you want to walk. I’ve been drenched by wind whipped waves on the waterfront, even when it’s not raining. But on a good day walking Wellington is a delight.

This past weekend’s weather was crisp and clear, with almost no wind. Perfect. I did about 10 hours of walking from Friday to Sunday, and would have happily done twice that much, had my schedule allowed.

So, if you’re planning a trip to windy Wellington, be sure to pack your walking shoes.

A Fondness for Finials

2016-06-05 10.31.13 smWellington is a city rich in finial posts.

And…um…what’s a finial post?

Finial posts are the ornamentation found on the gable ends of roofs. Roof finials have been used for millennia all over the world. They originally served the purpose of capping the point of a roof, where the tiles come together (think of the fancy post on top of a Japanese pagoda). You need something to cover the unavoidable hole where all the tiles meet. Many roof finials still serve this purpose, but they are also ornamental.

2016-06-05 10.29.42 smGable finial posts were popular in the New Zealand villas built between about 1880 and the beginning of World War I. They were just one of the many ornamentations (inspired by the new steam-powered woodworking tools of the time) used in these houses. The style (including the finial posts) was also popular during this time in America and England. Folklore in the eastern U.S. suggests that finial posts were not just attractive, but also prevented witches from landing their broomsticks on the roof.

At this point most of you are wondering why on earth I even notice finial posts. My appreciation of finial posts started when we did a major repair on our own house—a tiny villa built around 1880. The front gable was rotting and in need of replacement. It had been repaired in the past, and in one of the repairs the finial post had been sawn off at the roofline. This is a common fate of finial posts on old villas—re-roofing is much easier without finial posts in the way.

When we repaired our house, my husband insisted on restoring the house’s finial post, and this started a whole-family appreciation of finial posts. Now we can’t go anywhere without noticing good finial posts, or noticing when they’ve been removed.

And so, while in Wellington this weekend, I took several long walks, simply to admire the finial posts.

Of course, the question I have is, with so many finial posts in Wellington, do witches need to land at the airport instead?

Sunrise, Sunset

2016-02-04 05.55.27 smOne of the best things about living in the temperate zone is the long sunrises and sunsets we get much of the year.

When we lived in Panama, the sun would leap into the sky in the morning, and dive out of it in the evening, with little in the way of lingering twilight. It was like flicking on and off a light.

The more gradual appearance and disappearance of the sun in the temperate zone is far more picturesque, and there are few places on earth more picturesque than New Zealand when it comes to sunrise and sunset. Between mountains and wild weather, you can’t beat it.

 

Homeland

Lovely, but doesn't make me feel at home.

Lovely, but doesn’t make me feel at home.

When Europeans settled new lands, they had a habit of bringing all their favourite plants and animals with them. The result has been a plague of invasive exotic species all over the world. It’s easy to dismiss these settlers to as misguided imperialists, and I’ve done so myself.

But being a stranger in a strange land more than once in my life, I have to admit that I understand the desire to bring a little of the homeland to a new land.

Autumn is when I feel it most.

Most native New Zealand trees are evergreen. There are no native autumn colours, no piles of native leaves to be raked and jumped in. No smell of wet leaves carpeting the ground on crisp autumn mornings.

Last year my daughter and I found a lovely little path along a stream on one of our city walks. Dropping down to the stream edge from the street, I was first struck by the fact that all the trees were non-native oaks and maples. Then I was struck by the smell, and the rustle of fallen leaves on the path, and the glow of yellow that suffused everything. The familiarity of that little stretch of path lifted a weight I didn’t know I carried—the weight of being away from home. For the three minutes it took us to stroll through that little patch of Northern Hemisphere trees, I was in my element. The illusion came to an end all too quickly as we stepped back out onto the street.

So, while I still advocate native plantings, and whittle away at the non-natives on our own property as our young native trees grow, I don’t pass judgement on those early Europeans. They carried a weight in their hearts greater than mine—once they were here, there was no going back for most of them. Never to return to their homeland, they needed to bring a piece of it here. I can sympathise.

Any day now…

DSC_0060smOkay, it’s allowed to rain now.

Any day would be fine.

Just a little?

And maybe something a bit cooler than t-shirt and shorts weather to go with it?

Please?

Six years ago, the beginning of May looked like the picture above—we called it the black days of May. That was a bit too much rain, but normally we’ve had some good rain by the beginning of May.

Not so, this year. This year, it’ll be the brown days of May. We had plans to do a lot of landscaping this fall, but the soil is still bone dry—new plants wouldn’t stand a chance, even if we could water them. Almost every bit of promised rain has failed to materialise. The little that has fallen has evaporated within a day under summer-like heat.

2016-05-03 10.26.14It feels like summer will never end.

I’m still watering the garden, though the summer crops have mostly given up out of drought and exhaustion. The winter crops are likely to bolt in this weather, even with watering.

And who knows how long I’ll be able to water. It hardly rained last winter, and last summer was particularly dry, too. Canterbury water is over-allocated. The water table is dropping, and some people have already had to deepen their wells. How long before we run out?

Water is still being managed for short-term profit here—to ensure maximum output of dairy and crops. Environmental concerns and future supply are given lip service. That will come back to bite us. Climate change models predict less rain for Canterbury. If we keep on like this, at some point, we will run out.

Do we have the will to change before that happens? Experience in other parts of the world says no.

I do my best to conserve water here—using greywater to water plants, watering sparingly, mulching heavily, planting shrubs that can handle the dry—but I’m a tiny player, surrounded by farms hundreds of times the size of my property. The water I conserve is just a drop in the bucket.

A drop in the bucket would be nice about now. But the meteorologists are predicting no rain at all for the month of May in Canterbury.