Victorian Colours
Noticing with my Sisters
“Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.”
—Simone Weil
My sister Amy and I left the others and walked up the muddy path through the tall gold-flecked grasses to the ridge and along a deer path through the bramble of wild rose hips, wild english ivy, and the first green sprouts of— eucalyptus? Salal? I don’t really understand the BC plants but I know the way the sun through the heavy blue black sky seemed to spotlight the greenest mossy rock in the centre of a tangle of Garry Oaks bearded with the yellow-green-grey lichen and just a few of last year’s small perfect-lobed oak leaves bronzed in that light. I loved taking pictures of Amy in her element taking pictures. At some point there was rainbow which was almost too much.
My sister Leah would never throw out the waxed paper bag that the extra coffee pods came in that she knew we would need, and asked for the night before in her charming direct way to the hotel concierge. Leah lovingly washes every can of beans for the recycling and finds the messages in the scraps of things that other people ignore and really listens to the overly talkative neighbour with the wraparound embroidered trout ball cap. I don’t think there is any such thing as a stranger in her world. No such thing as garbage either. Leah listens and notices fearlessly and asks you when she doesn’t understand and keeps going until she gets to bottom of things and doesn’t get grossed out if the bottom of things is what other people might call gross. And because of all of this she makes me feel like I am living in the real world. She hates lies in all their forms and fights them, but almost anything that is true is worthy, something to grasp, pick up, and find beautiful.
To get to the restaurant in the basement of the Parliament buildings you have to go through a metal detector and leave your driver’s licence with a guard, then wind your way through a series of tunnels. The plumbing in the bathrooms is deep Colonial English. That morning before the final screening my dad ordered and then ate three full breakfasts there.
This is that Garry Oak forrest that I was talking about. Why do I love a tangle of Garry Oak branches so much? As hard as I looked I didn’t find any oak galls. Those ones on the waxed paper bag on the bed of the hotel were from Amy who has been collecting them for me from the tree we found together on a different island ever since the last time I saw her.
Leah’s living room. I came to celebrate The Colour of Ink at the Film Festival. I had mixed feelings about being on CBC where the guy before me talked about quarterbacks at the Super Bowl and the announcer was super into football so I only had time to do quick soundbites which is not my forte, and when I went on stage I felt like I was competing with things I already said in the film but it was a sold-out audience twice, and I felt proud, and it was great to celebrate with my family. Afterwards an antique typewriter repair man cornered me to talk about typewriter-ribbon ink which is made by a single company in Michigan which made me want to go on road trip.
The day before the CBC interview I drove with Leah and her husband Jeff to French Beach and just outside the restrooms I found what looked like a gem that had fallen out of a necklace. It was amber and bluegrey with hairline cracks of electric orange quartz and smoothed into a teardrop shape and glistening in the rain and I was about to show my sister and brother-in-law what I had found and ask if we should try to return it to someone, but then we walked onto the beach where the sky and the sea were all one misty perfect grey colour without horizon, and I looked down and realized that pretty much every single rock and pebble wet from the waves and smoothed over one-another for thousands of years looked like some sort of gem.
I have some more to tell you about rocks but you will have to wait until next week. And, if you are a Colour Lab subscriber, I will send you a Valentine’s day note.
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yours, Jason
Rocks have special presence. Each one has a multi-branching story, tied to the vicissitudes of deep time. They speak of sometimes violent change, but more often, to a patience beyond human capability and reckoning; that patience is tied to a multi-layered web of connections to water, to wind and sky, to living beings (with feet and with roots). I find when a rock (or a piece of detritus/garbage) needs to come home with me, it is often because the transformation inherent in its being is more apparent in some way. I think you'd very much like the beaches at Cheverie in Nova Scotia (if you haven't been there already) ... gypsum and anhydrite exposed on the black and cliffs, Fundy mud and sand and many kinds of stone telling stories to one another about erosion and what living with the highest tides means. It's a place to consider that the stone beneath your feet has been folded and squished in layers, like toothpaste. And you can follow those folds out into the bay, and back onto the beach and into the cliff. Time in three dimensions, all around you. You'd find much to gather in the plant realm too, from the banks and the foreshore. Looking forward to hearing more about your rocks, and what happened to the wee gem you found as well.
Very beautiful.
I look forward to hearing more about the rocks. My favourite rock treasures are from one of the base camps at The Great Wall of China (I would never take from the Wall itself) but in the industrial area behind the bus parking lot, there was a treasure trove of large oval rough pebbles that looked like they could have come from the moon.
Another of my favourites has a little fossil inside it and I found it in Namibia. I remember how delighted I was when I found it - a tiny love letter from God and the universe.
I love how rocks change colour when they are wet or catch sunlight and shadows.
I have a number of very large glass vases which are filled with rocks and pebbles from all around the world, and fragments of found treasures, and I always think I’ll remember each of their stories when I hold them but then I don’t. But they make me happy anyway, because I know that I was happy when I picked them up and carried their magic home with me.
I love the different textures of rocks too.
The other day I had the somewhat macabre but nevertheless appealing thought that if I were buried in a fabulous mauve gown covered in sparkling crystals, then I would become a geode and I quite like that idea.
I love that your sister loves garbage. I often stoop for for a lost friend that needs a home and I get some odd glances from passersby who are horrified that I’m actually touching the clearly discarded thing. Every discarded thing has a story - and it’s my job to tell to it.
I’m so glad the screenings and visit with your sisters went so well.