We moved to a new house at the end of June. We’ve slowly started to hang pictures on the walls. My new favourite spot to sit is at one end of the blue couch, feet up on the old footstool that used to belong to my mother-in-law. I can see the Olympic Mountains from where I sit, through the big sliding doors to the balcony. The mountains are sharp snowy peaks one day, and ghostly shapes draped by veils of cloud the next. Today, the smoke from the Sooke fire smudges the place between land and sky. I like this view. It feels very expansive, big sky all around us hosting clouds and sun, mountains there like a mirage, a faraway dream. Just imagine it…my photos don’t do justice.

I sit on the couch and gaze at the interior view. High on the wall above the plant table we hung Portrait of Marion (1946), an oil painting by Irish American painter Luke Edmond Gibney who lived in the San Francisco Bay area (1904–1960). My mother loved many California artists, particularly those from the Bay area, where she lived for many years and where I and my sisters were born. She collected paintings by Joe Tanous, Robert Moesle, Emmy Lou Packard, Lou Gibney, and Geneve Rixford Sargeant as well as plenty of jewelry designed and made by Peter Macchiarini (jeweler and sculptor). 

I grew up with Portrait of Marion in our houses, and as a child, I pretended the woman in the painting was my mother. I both loved and was slightly scared of her—beautiful, aloof, pale, mysterious. And there is a ghost of a resemblance to my mother in Marion—the straight, very dark brown—almost black—hair. The remote, unreadable expression. Because I couldn’t see her eyes, I felt nervous. What was she thinking? Feeling? The piece unsettled me as a child, but I can be unsettled by a piece of art, yet still feel very close to it. 

The year after my mother died, I precipitously arranged an online auction to sell off most of her art collection, including Portrait of Marion. I am grateful now that only a few pieces sold, and Marion remained in our family for me to reclaim. Sometimes you can be in too big a hurry to get rid of stuff.

These days, I feel great affection for this dignified, unknowable woman.

Another lovely spot in our new house is to sit at the dining room table, where I have views of the water and the edges of Portage Park. The park is both meadow and forest bordering Thetis Cove on Esquimalt Harbour and is named for an old portage route between the harbour and Gorge waterway.

The view from the window invites us outside, across the railroad tracks to the park trails. Trees, plants, birds, and rabbits abound. Fennel towers scent the air liquorice as I pass. Tall meadow grasses and salal, furry thimbleberries, prickly thistles, Oregon grape, Queen Anne’s Lace. Apple trees and blackberry bushes along the trails will yield sweet fruit, free for the picking, by August and September. 

When we walk for five minutes through the forest, we reach the pebbly shores of the cove. Richards Island is before us, with Fisgard Lighthouse to the right. We stand on the beach in the mornings, entering the peace and quiet of this land. At low tide a few leggy herons feed in the shallows and eagles spin overhead. I am privileged to live here, lək̓ʷəŋən Traditional Territory, home of the Songhees and Esquimalt First Nations.

The name of our new road is Hallowell, which makes me think of hallowed or holy ground, All Hallows Eve (Halloween, my birthday), and being well. I like these word associations. 

It took us weeks to get around to smudging our house, but finally, we did. We lit the sage stick and walked from room to room, fanning the sweet smoke, repeating these words: 

May this space be a place of love, peace, and joy. 
Let this smoke cleanse away any lingering negativity from the past. 
May all who enter here feel welcome and blessed. 
With the healing power within, I cleanse and purify my body, mind, and spirit. 

 We like it here.