Square 15: Baroque evening

Friday evening we attended a free concert given by Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra and Chamber Choir as part of Luminato, Toronto's Festival of Arts and Creativity. I went with a skeptical attitude, because I'm choosy about Baroque music and the program was intimidating. The first two composers, Veracini and Locatelli, were unknown to me; the next two barely familiar, Lully and Purcell; and Handel I usually leave alone. Arriving half an hour early, we had to take our place in line halfway down the block, and wondered whether we would get reasonable seats at all. Trinity St. Paul's Centre is a renovated and functioning church, and many pews do not provide a good view of the entire stage.

Fortunately, once the doors opened and the crowded flocked inward, we knew immediately where to go: some parts high in the balcony offer a better overall view than seats nearer the front. We found an excellent vantage. Evening sun shone through one of the church's large rose windows directly in our faces, but the effect was glorious. The glass panels formed an abstract pattern of soft lilac, purple and green. During the first half of the concert, a layer of heavenly fire burned slowly across the crowns of the audience.

This square recalls the evening through an impression of a stained glass window. The pale violet yarn imitates the glass itself, yellow Lopi is the setting sunlight, and the variegated brown and green yarn from Fleece Artist represents rich tones of the Baroque orchestra rising in the church.

As soon as the music started we realized we were in for a treat. Francesco Maria Veracini's Orchestral Suite no. 6 in G Minor begins with a ravishing Allegro; overall the suite is a brilliant example of Baroque charm, richly embellished without sacrificing lyrical loveliness. Veracini was a contemporary of Bach and Handel. So far I can't find any online reference to a recording of this composition.

The latter part of the concert consisted of a pastiche of choral night music, assembled by Tafelmusik. It included selections from Henry Purcell's The Fairy Queen and several works by Handel. The music harmonized with the slow drain of dusk to magical effect. Here are some words from Purcell's libretto, an anonymous adaptation of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream:

Hush, no more, be silent all,
Sweet Repose has clos'd her Eyes.
Soft as feather'd Snow does fall!
Softly, softly steal from hence.
No noise disturb her sleeping sense.

Shadows gradually enchanted the upper gallery. During Handel's L'Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato, soprano Ann Monoyios and flutist Claire Guimond performed a lyrical duet evoking the song of a nightingale in the woods. I was vanquished, carried into musical dreams.

Square 14: Daniel

This square is for my friend, Daniel, with the emphasis on the last syllable because he is French-Canadian. I say this to distinguish him from Danny. There has been a series of important Dans in my life, but Daniel was the first.

It was fall 1996. I had come out of my marriage the previous winter, and recently ended my first unfortunate romance with a man. From the beginning I was scrupulous about meeting dates first in a public place. I had once met Daniel briefly on his way from a business meeting dressed in a suit, obviously uncomfortable.

At home I found him in his element. It was fragrant with essential oils from a diffuser, a mixture with a hint of tangerine. For dinner he served a delicious stir-fry with marinated tofu. My previous dining habits had been conservative so it was my first taste of tofu, and Daniel's preparation impressed me favourably.

One of the things I admired most was his wanderlust. He loved traveling, but not the usual places. He had visited the back country of an unsettled Central American country to find a specific kind of carpet. At a roadside checkpoint a guard put a gun to his head. Daniel stared the fellow down and survived to tell the tale. Later in our friendship he would visit the Serengeti Desert and nearly drown in a whitewater incident in southern Africa.

Our romance lasted only a few weeks, but was important in both our lives. Daniel had not come out of the closet yet, but when he heard my alarming tale about the ex-gay movement and church ostracism, he realized he had little to lose by comparison. Here are a few lines from a poem I wrote for him:

Come, set the candles all aflame
to shine away your cryptic shame,
expose the good.

Within a few days of our meeting he came out to his friends and family; all responded positively.

I was affected by Daniel's perspicuity, integrity and literacy. Although the relationship did not last, it gave me hope that the world contained men of quality. A few months later I introduced him to another friend of mine, Martin, and they mark their 12th anniversary this month.

One chilly day in front of the fireplace at Pimbletts pub, Daniel introduced me to Strongbow cider, which is now my favourite drink.

When Daniel heard about this blanket of stories I am making, he went to The Purple Purl and bought me some yarn for a square. To my great disappointment, it has gone missing in the mail. So today I made a square from five different yarns I had on hand. He loves deep blues and purples. Several of the yarns are remnants of favourites from Wellington Fibres. Another is Berroco Jasper, a shade named Mochica Blue after an ancient civilization in Peru. The burgundy border is one of the Cascade yarns I'm using to thread unity through the blanket.

The autumn-coloured yarn from Wellington Fibres presents contrast as tribute to our long friendship. Daniel knows my favourite complimentary colours are blue-purple and orange-yellow. This morning while picking yarns for the square I opened a bottle of sandalwood oil, and the scent immediately drew my eyes to this yarn. Daniel sometimes wore sandalwood.

Square 13: Great Blue Heron

One bright day in August 2001 I took my daughters, Marian and Brenna, out from Tobermory on board the Great Blue Heron for a glass bottom boat cruise around Fathom Five National Marine Park.

There the Niagara Escarpment dips into Lake Huron. Where the underwater terrain drops steeply below dolostone cliffs, Georgian Bay's cold waters are an impossible coral sea blue. The boat toured that drop-off and showed us the sites of several shipwrecks.

But what I chiefly remember is standing on the deck with my daughters, letting the spray wash over us. It was a warm, windy day and the lake was so rough that the boat could not go all the way to see the strange formations on Flowerpot Island. Most of the passengers wanted to huddle inside the cabin, but Brenna in particular wanted to stand on deck near the bow and feel the fullest possible impact of that ride. She was only seven. I stood right beside her for safety, but didn't want to discourage her sense of adventure. Every time the boat hit a wave, a veil of diamond spray washed over us.

It is a day resplendent in memory. Through my child's eyes I am a child again, innocent of danger, knowing only the keen blade of excitment: the sunlight, the water like liquid azurite, the rush. Now I live that day again.

Square 12: Pacific Rim cedars

In April 1987 I had just turned 23 and had two weeks between completing my degree and beginning a diploma program in journalism. With the time available I realized a lifelong dream, flew to Vancouver, rented a car, drove to the west coast of Vancouver Island and camped on Long Beach, facing the open ocean. It was my first big adventure alone. I spent a few days wandering the beach, getting dive-bombed by rufous hummingbirds, poking around tide pools, photographing sea anemones and starfish, and tasting the richness of a temperate rainforest. The entire experience impressed me, and few experiences from my youth have remained with me so clearly, but it was the forest that affected me most deeply.

For a boy from the east, everything there was out of scale. Giant trees sheltered giant ferns and giant slugs. The park trails consisted of boardwalks that wound through an understory so tangled you would not be able to move if you ventured into it. The ground was strewn with corpses of ancient trees, their fallen trunks thicker than my height. Their rotting flesh nursed all kinds of life, especially saplings that had sprung up and matured. I saw giant western redcedars standing on their predecessors, which must have lain there for centuries.

At the time I was appalled at the evidence of so much death and rot. Nature to me had always been splendid and lovely; there I saw a rank and morbid shadow underneath.

I was a devout Christian, and the forest reminded me of a passage from the Book of Romans:

For the creation was subject to futility, not of its own will, but because of Him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will also be set free from its slavery to corruption into the freedom of the glory of the children of God.

For the first time I was struck by the direct realization (as I believed then) that man's fall had brought evil into the garden, nature itself was tainted and plagued by death, and it would not be relieved until the Earth was destroyed and remade. It grieved me so much, I wept.

In this square I used four different yarns to describe the look of the cedars and their bark. Reddish-brown is the wood under the bark, but it still looks that way after rotting for hundreds of years. Several of these yarns came from a stash at knit night, run by my friend Anne at Studio 490.

I hindsight I realize what people believe is too often guided by fear of death. Death is the great unknown, and we do our best to make the prospect more palatable. As a Christian I looked forward to singing eternally before the throne of God.

I don't believe that anymore. Consciousness is a function of our brains, and will dissipate when our bodies die. Maybe that's a bleak outlook, but we better deal with it.

I would like to go back and see the western redcedars again, not as fallen compatriots of humanity's brokenness, but as glories of the earth. Their life is grand and beautiful; so is their death. Their mouldering bodies are fertile and spectacular, giving rise to more life and diversity. I want to celebrate that and see myself, too, as part of a cycle. When I die, I hope my life will count for something here on earth. That is the true challenge.

Square 11: Ged's shadow

My favourite novel since childhood has been A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula K. LeGuin, but it took me years to realize its central theme.

The wizard Ged, in a youthful display of prowess, unwittingly releases a shadow from the realm of the dead into his own world. The creature nearly kills Ged and scars his face before being driven off. Eventually Ged must go in search and undo the evil he has unleashed. His long quest in a small sailing vessel is, for me, one of the most potent images in fiction, an allegory of life’s journey. In the end Ged realizes the shadow is an aspect of himself.

In my youth I, too, was a zealot and tried to prove my worth by an act of wizardry: I repressed my true sexuality and other aspects of myself that accompanied it. I got involved in the ex-gay movement and learned how to go through the motions of being someone I was not. Supposedly living the straight life would bring me closer to God.

Why do people believe it is healthy, moral, spiritual and useful to glorify misery? Unbridled desire can lead to selfishness, greed and abuse, but to deny our natural inclinations altogether only puts us in conflict with ourselves. Evil is not the dark side of the self, but the harm it inflicts when we lack inner harmony. Ged’s shadow itself was not harmful, but once separate from him it waged a war of suffering.

Everyone has a shadow self. It works behind the scenes but often rises to the surface when we experience stress, grief or pain. When you say, “He was beside himself,” you mean he seemed to be acting out of character, but it is really a deep part of the person, vulnerable and alienated, that behaves strangely.

Rejecting my gayness did not make me a better person. It split me into two parts, and both became weaker. At my worst I was compulsive, angry, judgmental and full of despair. Fear of my own shadow led me to a life or death decision. To choose life, I had to accept the shadow as a vital part. Doing so set me on a path of genuine healing.

To depict Ged’s voyage I chose sea-green handspun yarn from The Black Lamb in Port Hope, Ontario. The black and white threads depict the dark and light that must be united within him.

Most of us are afraid of our shadows. What parts of you do you try to hide or push away?

Square 10: Frog song

My favourite time to drive to the cottage is on a May night. In wetlands along the highway the spring peepers pipe so loud they are audible from inside the car. It is tempting to roll down the windows, but best of all, upon arrival we walk to the swamp out back and get the full impact, an eerie wall of sound from tiny frogs. But something is happening to amphibians around the world, and their choruses are falling silent.

Back home it can be equally exciting to walk along the Eramosa River at night, the same time of year. Toads throng there by the thousands to breed, rustling through the forest underbrush and uttering up a collective song that is deafening and unearthly. In a few weeks the spring chorus gives way to other sounds, as bullfrogs fill the summer darkness with their booming calls, and green frogs mutter, “Chub! Chub!”

Sadly, all these souds are growing scarcer. Populations of frogs, toads and salamanders around the world are in decline. Bullfrongs and two other frog species have been extirpated from Point Pelee National Park where they used to be numerous. In the places where I walk the sounds have not yet vanished altogether, but the nights become quieter every year.

It used to be a mystery. Some herpetologists blamed climate change. Pollution was obviously a problem, because amphibians breathe through their skin and are particularly susceptible to impurities in the ecosystem. But even in pristine environments like tropical rainforests, frogs are disappearing, and already a few species are believed extinct.

Several combined problems contribute, but recently one common factor has emerged in many studies. It turns out that a worldwide epidemic is killing amphibians. It is a fungus, Batrachochytrium dendrobatidis, that attacks melanin in their skin. The disease is called chytridiomycosis. Tadpoles do not produce much melanin anyway, so the swarms in ponds may appear healthy, but upon reaching adulthood they soon succumb to the disease.

This disease alone does not account for the decline of all species, but research into its cause and treatment may provide some hope of recovery. Amphibians are vital members of many food webs. In deciduous forest of eastern North America, innocuous salamanders may account for more biomass than any other vertebrate. It is difficult to assess how the disappearance of these and their kin will affect many other species such as herons and snakes that feed on them, but the decline of amphibians represents the single greatest threat to global biodiversity.

I knitted this square to evoke a nocturnal canoe ride at Lake Fletcher or a walk along the Eramosa River. The spangled dark is gorgeous and irresistible, but with each year it falls incrementally silent. If the frog and toad songs disappear altogether, it will be an incalculable loss.

Square 9: Can you guess?

If you live in my part of the world (the Northern temperate zone) and you've spent any time in the garden or park this week, there's a good chance you can guess what inspired this square. Wanna try? The colours are perfect. Even the garter stitch pattern took me by surprise, evoking petals. If only you could smell it! but unfortunately I couldn't work fragrance into the thread. Now that aroma, in a bottle, would be a wonderful thing to pull out of the cupboard on a dreary February day, but at least I will have this square to remind me of my favourite flowering shrub. Oops, that slipped out. By now you should be getting the picture.

The first six squares and stories in this blanket seemed to follow a sentimental path. Maybe I should explore the darker side of yarn, but I could only go where the fibre and my senses led me; where life itself carried me. The death of a friend began to change the tone.

Since then a particular theme has begun to suggest itself every time I root through my stash to find material for the next square. Perhaps this season causes it. Every story that comes to mind relates to nature, our environment, how we're looking after our earth or failing to do so, what will become, and how we might improve the prospects. Will this story blanket become an environmentalist rant?

We are in the midst of the Holocene extinction event, one of the most severe declines in biodiversity that has occurred in Earth's history, and it is entirely caused by human activity. A 1998 study by the American Museum of Natural History found 70 per cent of biologists believe one-fifth of all living populations will become extinct by the year 2028.

Environmentalists usually try to drive home this message (and the one about climate change) and inspire social action by pointing out that this problem threatens our own existence, and that is true. Our actions might harm the biosphere so radically as to render it uninhabitable.

Actually it is more a question of responsibility to other organisms that share this place. How long will we continue believing the world was made for us, it's all about us, and that happiness can be derived from as much as we can take? Admittedly I tend to live indulgently, too, and it won't be easy to stop. Maybe the best thing that could happen to our planet would be if our acquisitive species wiped itself out. Selfishness is bred into our genetic code. Biology didn't consider these limitations when it invented itself.

What does this have to do with lilacs? Because yes, lilacs inspired this square. I went looking for yarn and found exactly what I imagined at Guelph's new fibre boutique, All Strung Out: this hand-dyed confection called "Berry Smoothie" from Lofty Fibres. The creator might have been thinking of fruit, but I saw something else.

An abandoned homestead, its inhabitants long dead and buildings reduced to rubble, still surrounded by a rambling host robed in pink, white and magenta, shedding heaven's fragrance over the graves. Such visions are not hard to find around marginal Ontario farmland. Syringa vulgaris, the common lilac, originated in the Balkan peninsula, but has adapted well to growing conditions in Ontario. It is hardy, frequently becoming naturalized and surviving after other relics of human habitation have disappeared. A few minutes from my apartment, a trail following the Eramosa River upstream passes through a thicket of lilacs covering several hectares. They're probably descended from a hedge that lined the drive to a farmhouse a century ago. I call it Lilac Way, and throughout the year savour memories of May pilgrimages along that path.

At Royal Botanical Gardens in Burlington, Ontario, the annual lilac celebration (Quicktime movie) continues this weekend, May 30 and 31, at one of the world's largest collections of lilac cultivars.

In the midst of habitat loss, exotic species take over from rare indigenous treasures. Many of these—starlings, rats and cockroaches—seem to make the world a duller, less savoury place.

But I can't help cherishing the indestructible lilac. It gives me hope that whatever happens to this world, beauty will survive whether or not we are here to perceive it. After we are dead, I do not doubt these shrubs will carry on shedding radiance and sweetness. It is in their nature.

This might sound sentimental again, but hope is a valuable weapon in the war against apathy. Find something, whatever inspires you, and go with it.