Notes on a tree.

I am taking a few moments away from writing book reviews to meditate on the winter tree outside the front room window at my friend David's home in Maple Bay, BC. I'm not sure what kind of tree this is -- if it were in leaf, I could better identify it -- but it seems an apt metaphor for what it is like to move to a new town, alone, and have to create community all over again.

See all the reaching out in this image?

I used to consider loneliness the most pathetic of conditions; now, it is a fairly regular visitor, and if it sticks around, it can quickly turn to despair. Like this tree, I am constantly "reaching out" to make new connections. It's not easy; most people at or near my age -- and especially most women, I'm finding -- are already thoroughly befriended and busy with their lives. There simply isn't time, energy or space for another. And I understand that. I'm busy, too.

But I'm social, rather ridiculously so, and love to meet and engage with strangers-who-quickly-become-friends. What I especially appreciate are people's stories. Life is just so damn interesting and full of surprise. How good it is when one makes a connection and feels they've been reacquainted with a long lost friend. This is what I have with David.

On Saturday night I performed at an open stage (Hardwick Hall, Ladysmith). I sang "All You Need is Love," and by the final chorus it seemed the entire audience (perhaps 75 folks) was singing along. Wow. Community! I have no great singing or guitar talent, but sometimes I can hit the right note people-wise. I first pushed myself onto that stage back in September 2014. I am thankful for Violet, who hugs everyone at the door. I am thankful for Senni, who joined me on stage on Saturday. I am thankful for everyone who contributed their own music, including David (mandolin), and his friend Dave (guitar).

Sometimes it seems so easy.

Last night David and I walked along the beach in front of his home. We skipped rocks. We swung on the thick, knotted ropes tied to trees. We watched the Harlequin ducks disappear beneath the water.
We are friends.

A few sailboats were moored in the bay. I said: "I can't believe this is my real life."

Today I am feeling grateful for the light rain tapping on a tin roof, and the smudge of clouds obscuring Salt Spring Island. I am loving the two kinds of moss that coat the unnamed tree that reaches out -- toward the water, toward the sky, toward me.

I leave you with a final image. If I were to name it, it would be the opposite of loneliness. "Friend," I would call it. Or simply "Joy."