Serenity sought, and found, while wearing my beloved Freddies jeans, at Yellow Lake

Outfit details

Royal blue floral print scarf: eBay
White rose stud earrings: Claire's
Emerald green camisole: Ricki's
Mustard yellow cardigan: Loft by Ann Taylor (bought on eBay)
Pink rhinestone rose brooch: eBay
Bangle bracelets: Assorted sources
1940s style side button jeans: Freddies of Pinewood
1950s corduroy bucket purse: etsy seller Rue 23 Vintage Clothing
1940s style black shoes: Thrifted (Salvation Army)
Lip colour: Clinique Raspberry Glace


Photography by Tony Cangiano

♥ ♥ ♥

Relatively few of us live out in the wilds of nature any more. Most, it's fair to say, return home to an address that is either located smack, dab inside of a town or city, or which can reach one in a matter of minutes. Even those who have opted to live far further from the hustle and bustle of a community are rarely without at least a few of signs, stresses, and sounds of modern city life (such as visible traffic, telephone poles, and airplanes flying overhead).

I love city and town living, don't get me wrong. In fact, given the option between living in the backwoods or on the main street of a pulsating metropolis, the city option will nearly always win out for me (I was born a stone's throw away from Vancouver and have adored big cities since the youngest of ages), but sometimes one needs - really and truly needs in the pit of their soul to head as far away from an urban center as possible.

As awesome as a week in the country may be, if that's not in the cards (and it rarely is!), I'm grateful to have a few locations around our part of the province where I can retreat and quietly collect my thoughts, skip some of my worries out into the water along with smooth rocks, and breath in hearty lungfuls of pure, fresh, glorious Canadian air.

Three Mile Beach in Naramata, which I blogged about last summer is one such spot, another is Yellow Lake, located between Penticton and the small community of Keremeos (which houses Bear's Farm produce market). Though a leg of British Columbia Highway 3A runs directly past it, with cars buzzing all the while, there is still a tremendous sense of tranquility to this small, beautiful lake.

In the summer, Tony adores heading here after work or on the weekends to cast his line and whittle away the hours, and I'm fond of visiting it not only to accompany him while he fishes, but to simply decompress and be at one with nature. Something that we all, at times desperately, need to do far more often than we're prone to. An hour or two spent outdoors probably won't erase all of your troubles, but it can usually help send at least a couple packing and give you a renewed sense of energy to help tackle many of the others.

For this overcast afternoon of wilderness zen seeking, I opted to wear my massively adored Freddies vintage style side button jeans and mustard yellow Loft by Ann Taylor cardigan (last seen here), an emerald green lace trimmed camisole, a beautiful floral print scarf in shades of royal blue, green, yellow, pink and white; a sparkling pink rhinestone rose brooch, a stack of bangles, and my trusty 1950s corduroy bucket bag to create a casual, colourful chilly weather ensemble.

In the warmer months, one sees tiny turtles swimming in the water, fish leaping out (especially in the very early morning hours), along with myriad birds soaring overhead or resting amongst the tall grass of the shoreline. Shimmering winged dragonflies rest leisurely on the lake's surface, an occasional fox darts out of the woods, and even a snake or two - hopefully of the non-rattle tailed variety - can be spotted every now and then. It's a slice of the woods, of mother nature's backyard, and of calmness that takes less than half an hour to reach and which never fails to sooth and rejuvenate weary spirits.

With spring not that terribly far off, I'm sure we'll soon start heading down that way more often again, be it for fishing, settling frazzled nerves, or simply sitting on a wooden dock and basking in the sunshine. For while I do love cities and towns, there's a part of me that will always crave the great outdoors as well, especially when my mind needs to unwind and get away from the daily grind for a spell.

The return of silence

Life is noisy and chaotic, a cacophony comprised of layer upon layer of modern and ancient sound alike. Having lived in large cities for much of the past decade, I had at once developed the ability to filter out certain ever-present noises and yet also become acutely aware of others.

Tucked twenty-three stories above the world in Toronto, one might have thought that we'd be free of most of the sounds of the urban jungle, affected only by the tinkerings, comings and goings, and parties of our neighbours, but such was not the case at all. Perched directly above the busiest highway in all of Canada (the 401), our cement tower could scarcely block out a dog's bark at ground level, let alone the incessant stream of harried traffic that hurried past every moment of the day.

There are many elements of city life that I love, but noise pollution is not one of them. Even in other metropolises I'd called home over the years, none had come close to being as clogged with constant sound (at least on my respective streets) as our home in Toronto was. Some days you might find that you barely noticed the honks, tire squeals, whoosh of vehicles, and loud pedestrians, on others - especially if your nerves were frayed or you were ill - you'd find that every last pin drop seemed to be magnified tenfold.

In this deafening environment I yearned for a great sense of peace, for air that was still and sweet, placid and busied only by the rustle of the breeze through a leafy branch. It was with no small amount of joy then that I embraced and relished the fact that our new home is located on a street so hushed, especially at night, that at times it feels as though the whole neighbourhood has taken a vow of silence.

 

{Precisely the sort of uninterrupted, grandly wonderful quietude I missed intensely for many years before returning to the Okanagan Valley earlier this year. “Winter Sunrise, Sierra Nevada, from Lone Pine, California, 1944” by Ansel Adams.}

 

This quaint street (which, having coincidentally lived on it many years ago, I already knew was sublimely serene) has but one lane of traffic coming and going in each direction. It winds it way a tad past our home and continues onto a small retirement community and a golf course, two of the most tranquil places one could ever hope to have as their neighbours.

As the evening grows later and the heady, passionately lovely scent of honeysuckle wafts through the air, I find myself almost moved to tears as I venture outdoors and am embraced by calmness.

A few cars still mosey about, somewhere in the distance a sprinkle plays its tell tale "tis-tis-tis" melody, and the little creek right across the street babbles gently. A black and white cat tiptoes across the grey pavement still enticingly warm from the afternoon sun, and a child scurries past in the blink of an eye on their bicycle, but that is it, and as the night grows older, the quietness that permeates this lovely parcel of the town will only intensify.

There are many blessings in life, but I've come to realize over the years that few are as powerful, captivating, and thoroughly important as being granted (even if only once in a while) the gift of silence all around you.

Alone with my thoughts, the early summer heat, and the creek's exquisite lullaby, I am filled with the sort of joy that stems straight from the soul and which can only be matched by the immeasurable beauty of this renewed discovery of serenity itself.

Seeking summertime serenity

✯ Day 240 of Vintage 365 ✯

 

It's a little hard to believe that this is really, truly, the last Sunday of August. Has summer slipped away from our grasp entirely yet? No, thankfully, but with the return in a few short weeks of autumn, we really don't have to much longer to latch onto and savour the splendours of this toasty season.

This year has seen a summer of ups and downs for me. It was a a juxtaposition of trying days and moments of beautiful happiness. I've squeezed in time to be creative and churned out several lovely (if I may say so myself), scrapbooking pages and cards. I wrote good old-fashioned letters, swapped Girl Guide patches, enjoyed many wonderful chats and days with my sweet husband, and came up with a couple of new recipes that I'm presently smitten with.

There were dark moments due to family issues, tons of medical related matters, and a heat wave that would have made the Devil himself sweat, but as we near the end of 2011's summer season, I already find myself wishing it was June 1st again.

Perhaps that's just it, maybe part of me I want a redo on this summer. Life doesn't work like that though (for better or worse). It's an ongoing series of days that we get through as best we can, always hoping for a bright tomorrow and a today that we can say was regret free and lovely, exactly as it was.

I don't have any major plans in the works for fall, not sure what winter holds in store quite yet either, but that's entirely ok. The older I get, the more I love celebrating each day as it happens, taking it at face value and trying (with varying degrees of successfulness) not to worry too much about what lies on the unknown horizon.

This mindset doesn't give one carte blanche about their destiny, instead it aids in making the present considerably less taxing on your soul. Or at least, that's what I'm learning it means.

So long as summer is still here, I hope to get in some more nights spent watching falling stars, days of eating fresh seasonal produce, and mornings spent embracing the wonders of this magical season.

{Tranquil, lovely 1920s summer sailing photograph via *Kichi* on Flickr.}

 

Though even this past week was quite hectic (!), at the end of nearly each day, I've found myself greeted by a sense of innate serenity.

This feeling greets me as dusk sets and the weight of the day starts drift from my shoulders. It's sweet and oh-so-welcomed, as I'm a rather notorious worrier. Yet fretting, as touched on above, rarely gets you anywhere and robs you of the kind of peace you deserve deeply right now.

So while last the Sunday in August is here, I'm trying to hold onto the sense of calm, imagining myself out sailing on a placid sea, perfectly content in the moment, holding nary a grudge against the tough times this season, and grateful each day of summer we have left.