Know Your Enemy

me and seaweed Hornby, 2019

If you know the enemy and know yourself, 

you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.  

~Sun Tzu

The winter wind on Hornby was as unpredictable as an abusive lover 

and as terrifying as the unending darkness of chronic depression. 

And she’d survived both. 

It was late in November when she was first pushed. 

At Grassy Point, lost in daydreams amongst a palette of the darkest grey. 

Her safe place on the island, a place she went to escape 

the chaos of grief that swirled in her mind. 

Grassy Point Moon Rise

As the familiar presence approach from behind, 

she allowed herself to be 

vulnerable – 

and trusting. 

She'd close her eyes and lean back, 

knowing he'd catch her

if she fell.

She relaxed 

when 

he wrapped his arms around her waist, 

brushed her hair off her face, 

and ever so softly 

touched just below her ear, 

to lean in 

and whisper words 

she refused to understand. 

Grassy Point, Winter 2021

But this time was different. 

She felt the familiar presence coming, but it changed rapidly and 

turned forceful. 

An explosion of fury shoved her hard from behind, 

a shove that quickened her step so she wouldn’t fall. 

When she didn't stumble, he tangled himself between her stride, 

trapping her in his grasp, 

winding around her calves and 

weaving up between her legs. 

Like a hook, the wind 

grabbed at her thigh, 

pulling and 

mocking her 

as he tripped her up as 

she stepped on her own feet. 

She sped up, twisting and turning, thinking she could outmaneuver its force. 

Helliwell Winter 2020

She tried to outstrategize the wind 

like she'd tried to 

outstrategize her abuser. 

Narcissistic abuse and chronic depression turned her into a shell of herself, 

but strength and resilience had pulled her out of both. 

When the wind hit her like it did, it brought on that familiar feeling, and 

she refused to let it crack her again. 

After that first hurricane-force wind walloped her, 

she had an arborist come by and check every tree on her property. 

She suspected the soil was parched from drought and wind, 

and the arborist confirmed it. 

seven-story Douglas fir that'd been hit by lightning beside my bedroom

The stronger winds, 

heat waves, and 

colder winters 

meant a slow death for the trees. 

Their roots left exposed, and all but two Douglas Firs 

on the south side of her property suffered from root rot – 

the trees closest to her cabin. 

She had them removed. 

cedar

The more severe weather caused more trees to come down, 

which meant more power outages. 

If lucky, the blackouts were caused by a branch stuck on the wires, and 

BC Hydro could remotely blasted power surges through the lines to zap it loose. 

It worked most of the time. 

But if unlucky, a tree would fall onto the lines and take down the power poles, 

which meant no power until they were replaced. 

Now, because the wind was so intense during the storms, the ferry wouldn’t run.

There was no hydro crew to replace the downed poles, 

and the island was without power for days. 

The first time she experienced a prolonged power outage, 

she learned her lesson. 

She needed supplies, 

water, 

food, 

and 

means of cooking. 

power outage February 2021

Her water came from a cistern in my backyard that ran on electricity. 

When the power was out, she couldn't flush the toilet, 

and toilet paper had to be burnt. 

Her drinking water came from a 19-litre bottle

that she filled at a dispenser at the gas station using quarters

(and it was empty, and she had no quarters). 

Her fridge was full of condiments, and 

her cupboards were stacked with 

tomato sauce and beans. 

If she had kindling split and 

combustibles to start the fire, 

she'd be fine for heat. 

But she had neither. 

All she could do that first winter on Hornby was stand there and take it. 

The Back 40

my back 40

The wind's cold on my face, but I won't go inside until I can feel the chill deep within my cheeks. 

In my yard, I wrapped myself up in the experience of the changing seasons. 

Stoke the fire, 

drink hot chocolate, 

snuggle with my cat, and 

watch the birds from the bed beside the window. 

Dark-eyed Juncos snacking on Salal berries, 

Spotted Towhees kicking up dry leaves and

Rufous Hummingbirds fighting over the last flower on the Oregon grape. 

fireside good times 2020

My yard's my sanctuary. 

The cedars and firs protect me, 

hold me, 

and help me heal. 

Because 

there are no

arms 

to fall 

into. 

me in my yard 2019

My first autumn on the island was spent clearing my land by hand – the Back 40. I planned to build some raised vegetable beds and live off the land as much as possible. 

I wasn't sure exactly how to make those beds or where I'd get the soil, but that's what I wanted to do. Unfortunately, the only yard tools I had were a rotting pick axe I found in the bushes and a metal lawn rake left by the previous owners. 

back 40 after a few hours pulling crap out -  Fall 2019

trying to figure out how to make a raised bed

The Back 40 – was about half an acre filled with: 

rocks 

sandy soil 

4 ft tall Bracken ferns 

Salal 

Huckleberry 

Blackberry 

Dandelion and 

Garter snakes 

before

the finished product - rocks are under the Fir tree top right

There were a lot of rocks on my property: giant slabs of conglomerate, perfectly round stones, and large boulders. 

I'd choose the spot I'd work on that day by the rock I tripped over. 

Trip 

Curse 

Kick 

Dig 

I'd spend the day digging the rocks out. 

First, I'd kick them to see what I was dealing with, 

and then I'd kick them some more because it felt good. 

The work - physically draining but emotionally satisfying. 

one of my few tools

Once I could see more of the rock, I'd try to pull it out with my stinky work glove-clad hands. If that didn't work, I'd use the head of the pick axe – whose handle broke off the first time I used it. 

Sometimes, the rocks were hidden by thick Salal bushes. In which case, once the snakes vacated, I'd start cutting the Salal back to grab hold of its roots and pull it out while briefly considering business opportunities in Salal distribution. 

stinky work gloves in Spring

My buddy Dave warned me not to pull the Salal out. 

Stace, you can't win against Salal. 

I didn't listen. No matter how many times I failed. 

Salal has a deep and wide root system. 

And most of the time, I'd end up in a tug of war and on my ass. 

Root system still intact. 

Clearing the rocks became an obsessive challenge. 

the back 40 after I pulled out the ferns, salal and threw rocks

adhd hyperfocused back 40 after I was done with it

When the day's battle with the Salal and the rocks came to an end, I'd throw the rocks under the tallest tree on my property—the Douglas fir, which stood over 100 feet tall and whose top twinkled like a star on a Christmas tree when the setting sun caught it just right. 

Sometimes, I'd pretend I was a shot putter; other times, I was back on the softball field, and even more times, I was hurling balls of fire. 

Overhand 

Underhand 

Hurl 

I threw the rocks with my eyes closed. 

Occasionally, over my shoulder for luck. 

With each rock I threw, I released a stuck memory. 

The flat clap of the rock hitting another signified success. 

I never saw where they'd land, and the thick Salal surrounding the tree hid the pile. I'd consider future inhabitants of the land pondering the meaning of all the rocks piled under the tree. 

Is something buried there? 

Yes.

The Back 40 after I cleared it and put in the beds and firepit

Split

My woodpile

I saw it the moment I stepped into the yard. 

The covered pile of wood in the backyard confirmed this place would be my first home. 

The pile was about 75 by 25 by 8. 

I don’t know how many cords it was, but it was a lot of wood. 

A sixty-forty split of Douglas fir and Western red cedar; 

the firewood came from the trees on my new property. 

The trees fell to make room for the cabin, 

and the good ones were used to build it; 

the remainder put aside to be dealt with later. 

On a perfect day in late July, a few months after I moved into my new home, 

I decided to start chopping the wood. 

Alone amongst the trees, 

I took the first swing with the old axe I’d found 

in the shed behind the cabin. 

The blade lodged - 

the wood didn’t split. 

I tried again, 

but with anger. 

Yes. 

Striking with anger 

felt good. 

And even better

when 

I screamed. 

Wood 

Swing 

Strike

Scream 

Trance-like rhythm. 

the first pile of wood I split

Every piece of wood 

a memory. 

Each strike split my heart open – 

again. 

I screamed up to the trees, 

phrases, curses, profanities, 

names. 

The memories were too real. 

I was in it all again. 

But this time, 

I 

took control. 

Some pieces of wood were 

rotten and termite-infested, 

the larvae still moving deep inside. 

Others, when hit with my axe, turned to dust. 

Some smelled so pure

they brought me down from my rage, 

and I could turn away 

- for a moment. 

Some I pulled apart with my hands.

Others were impenetrable— 

knots, 

deep tangled secrets 

that I could only split around. 

Or not at all. 

Trauma. 

The trees. 

I chopped wood for hours on that perfect day in late July. 

It felt like thirty minutes. 

When I decided I was done, 

I walked away. 

A few hours later, I returned. 

Raw but awake. 

Gently, I picked up each piece of split wood, 

each memory, 

and carried it to the back of the covered wood pile

 – the side hidden by trees. 

Private and protected. 

I wanted them kept safe from harm, 

so I could burn them - 

triumphantly. 

My resolved memories 

fueled the flames 

that kept my cat and me warm; 

they heated food that gave us sustenance. 

And then 

they turned 

to ash. 

That first pile of wood I split on that perfect day in late July was 

the first split into myself. 

A Self, close to half a century old - 

knotted branches, 

lichen and moss, 

cracks, 

and stories. 

But in the centre, beneath the drying bark, the first ring - my beginning.

My small wood stove

The woodpile

Summer Breeze

My Kitchen in Kits 2018

I feared falling into depression again. 

It'd been almost a decade since my last episode. 

I avoided everything that might trigger one. 

I stepped around it, turned my back, and disassociated. 

And then it hit. 

It was a beautiful late afternoon in July, around dinner time. 

I was washing dishes in the kitchen of my dilapidated yet perfect Kitsilano rental.

My outstretched arms were warm from the gentle breeze 

that danced through 

the pink sequined fabric 

I'd hung over the window above the sink. 

It was my favourite time of day.

That time of day, my two cats watched me disappear while 

I'd transport myself into the lyrics of Seals and Crofts' Summer Breeze. 

Love is Patient; my kitchen rock. Kitsilano 2018

The sunlight shone perfectly through 

the horizontal window beside the hundred-year-old back door, 

throwing sunbeams on my giant philodendron, 

bouncing off the copper pots that hung on a rack from the ceiling and 

landing on stacks of pottery I'd just retrieved from the kiln – all inspired by him.  

Kitsilano 2018

Seemingly, out of nowhere, my body gave in, and 

I collapsed to my knees on the floor beside the stove. 

The sunlight disappeared. 

The needle dragged heavily across the song playing in my head, 

and everything stopped. 

My reflection grabbed me through the baked-on grease of the oven door, 

I looked myself in the eyes and listened as 

the song's lyrics were thrown in my face. 

Solarium, Kitsilano 2018

He's not going to see the newspaper layin' on the sidewalk 

while a little music plays from the house next door; 

he's not going to walk on up to the doorstep 

through the screen and across the floor. 

He won't come home from a hard day's work - because he doesn't work. 

And his arms definitely won't reach out to hold me when the day's through. 

This is make-believe. 

Nannie's Guitar, Kitsilano 2018

This is reality. 

You let him in the front door late at night 

on Thursdays and Sundays, 

you share a few puffs in the solarium,

you go for a walk on a star-filled beach,

you talk about things only you two can talk about,

you both do all you can to remain detached,

you come home,

you fuck -

like only you two can fuck,

and he leaves. 

Stop living in a fantasy. 

Jared, Kitsilano 2018

And with that, I curled into a fetal position amongst 

the crumbs and random sticky stuff on the old pine floor 

and wailed. 

I know my neighbours heard me because their BBQ chatter went quiet. 

I respect that they allowed me my privacy -

they knew what I was going through. 

The kitchen floor, me, Tilley and Flo

Tilley and Flo - my two cats

Not deterred by my sobs and hiccups, 

my cats came over to the sack of me on the floor and 

stuck their noses in my wet eyes. 

They snapped me out of my mindlessness and 

I conjured up enough strength to crawl to the washroom and puke. 

Exhausted. 

My forehead pressed against the cold base of the toilet. 

My cheek cooled by the tile floor. 

My eyes focused on dust bunnies under the claw foot tub I loved so much. 

My thoughts twinkled like birthday sparklers, then exploded amongst epiphanies. 

I didn't cry during the depressive episodes of my past because 

my brain was stuck in a sludge of darkness. 

I was too numb to move. 

A broken soul covered with a shell of a human. 

A vase I made and a sandpiper skull, Kits 2018

Although I felt like a shell of myself lying there on the cold floor, 

I found solace in the realization I wasn't depressed. 

I was living a moment in time. 

An experience, 

a situation. 

A moment that one day would be over, and 

far enough in the past that I could 

see it as a distant memory. 

me in the wildfire pollution Summer 2018 Kitsilano

That beautiful late afternoon in July, when I was 

washing dishes in a warm summer breeze is a memory now. 

I can watch it like a movie in my mind, and 

I can write about it. 

Not all shit experiences are lessons. 

They're simply shit experiences. They aren't meant for anything. 

There's no need to be bitter. To get drunk, high or angry. 

But there are a lot of reasons to be strong.  

I crawled through my soul's darkest nights until I had the strength to stand.

Sometimes, I lay collapsed on my stomach 

between the thresholds of darkness and light, 

convinced it was the end. 

But then something inside me would flicker—and I'd get up again - 

and again. 

The realization I'd been living in a fantasy was the start of my healing. 

Little did I know that fully healing meant metaphorically dying.

Voodoo

We got together at Dave’s Halloween party, and he died in an avalanche in Whistler in March. 

I was briefly living in Kelowna. 

He was living in Whistler. 

We knew each other for years. We were in the same scene if you will. 

Steep runs, 

deep powder 

and 

adrenaline. 

Both of us painfully shy and awkward, 

too timid for anything beyond a nod and a “Hey.” 

The Halloween party was loud – 

there was some thrash band – 

and clumps of people I’d never seen before. 

I stood against the back wall, 

fur-clad with leather pants and a crotched bikini top. 

He approached me from out of the shadows. 

“We’re supposed to be together,” he motioned his hand at us. 

He was fur-clad, with tight leather pants and shirtless. 

Rock and roll wallflowers guarding the nearest exit. 

Shortly thereafter, we were at my place making “rock star nachos.” 

And shortly after that, I was stopped short by a huge Hendrix tattoo on his right shoulder. 

He stayed with me for a few days. 

We listened to music, 

played air guitar to Hendrix, 

laughed nonstop 

and had a glorious time. 

He was tender, corny, polite and beautiful. 

We made plans for Spring when I’d move back to Van. 

But he died before it could happen. 

I often think of that Hendrix tattoo; the first time I saw it, 

his beautiful smile, 

and our Spring that never happened. 

Last night, I dreamt of him. 

We were riding bikes and had stopped at a crossing. 

He leaned over to me and whispered, 

“I’m going to die soon.” 

But I already knew.

Interdimensional Morning Coffee

morning coffee with Flo - Hornby, 2020

I had a relationship with every tree in my yard. 

We shared stories and learned each other’s touch. 

They were my constant companions, my confidants, and my protectors. 

the East Firs Winter 2021

Every morning, I was greeted by three seven-story-tall Coastal Douglas Firs along my east side fence, 

straight outside my French doors. 

They were always there, arms outstretched to me.

My cat, Flo, and I joined the trees for our morning coffee on the deck. Around 8-10 a.m. in late Spring, the sun broke through the branches that’d held on during the winter storms, casting an amber glow on everything it touched. 

me and morning coffee at my cabin on Hornby 2020

I welcomed the sun's warmth on my cheeks as I slumped against the cedar wall of my cabin. 

Still in my pyjamas, yet adorned with gum boots and multiple layers of old wool sweaters, I closed my eyes. 

I allowed the sun to paint a kaleidoscope of shapes on the canvas of my subconscious while 

my palms cradled a handmade mug full of fresh coffee. 

The mug’s glaze, inspired by the dark winter rain at Locarno Beach, where I'd sat alone so many times.  

Flo taking in the morning air with the trees, sunbeams, some dew and life

The trees watched as the sun combed Flo's dark fur, stirring up dusty dander that sparkled in a cloud around her. 

The sun blanketed her in warmth as she sat on the dewy grass, breathing in the coastal morning air. 

Her little nostrils flit open and closed, barely keeping up with all the new morning scents. 

The sea floor at low tide, 

the warming soil, 

textured salty air and 

the consistent depths of cedar. 

The trees twinkled with fairy lights as the sun touched 

the syrupy morning dew that hung heavy on the tips of their needles. 

Mornings sunbeams in my yard, Hornby

As the sun moved south, it dropped a ladder of sunbeams 

between the two cedars at my front gate. 

The arms of the trees held strong as I climbed the glowing steps to the opaque pale blue sky. 

I climbed past the dew-jewelled crowns of the tree tops 

to seek answers to questions that had no words. 

I had faith in my existence and allowed myself to break apart. 

I scattered myself amongst the palest blue with the hope of being found and 

put back together

— with answers to questions that had no words. 

morning deck

I felt the essence of the trees and my cat's love reach out to me. I climbed back down the ladder of sunbeams before it disappeared, curious about what would happen if I chose not to. 

Returning to the consistency of unconditional love and the comfort of the trees' embrace, it was time for my 

second cup of coffee.

Flo on the dewy morning grass, Hornby 2020

The Wind

Helliwell 2019

The winds show us how close to the edge we are. 

Joan Didion 

The wind was unrelenting during my time on Hornby, 

ramming into my thoughts and morphing into metaphors. 

When the hurricane-force winds started, my entire being was on edge. 

They began in the darkness of November and continued until late March, 

the windy season. 

Galleon Beach Hornby Island 2020

The maddening roar of the ocean 

the piercing howl of a spectral wind - 

and the prolonged shriek of a tree as it snaps. 

Terrorizing me night and day. 

I covered my ears and sang to make it stop. 

And then my house shook. 

It'd start with a low tremble under the floor and 

proceed to vigorously shake the walls. 

Flo was deaf. She loved to watch the storms

More often than not, 

a violent gust would come out of nowhere 

and blast us. 

No trembling of the floor, no shaking, 

just a direct hit. 

And then my mind raced with images burned into my teenage mind: 

The Day After 

Threads

Dancing with Tears in My Eyes 

Flo and me

When the 96km/h winds hit, I looked to my cat for reassurance and 

found comfort in her presence. 

I set up a bed for us on the floor under the stairs, 

thinking it'd be a safe place if a tree crashed through the house. 

mattress ready to sleep under the stairs, Flo watching some hot Viking show

Naively, I thought the winds would stop during the night, 

but they persisted. 

In the morning, they'd drop to around 50km/h, and 

I'd step outside only to have my face stung by 

bits of trees 

sand

dirt 

and who knows what else. 

Fallout.

piles of winter storm debris from my yard

I could only survey the aftermath from my windows. 

Trees, once proud and strong, now broken pieces of themselves 

scattered across my yard, 

branches six inches thick and seven feet long, 

cedar boughs

pine cones 

seedlings

bits and pieces of 

this 

that

and 

the other thing. 

An abandoned battlefield.