Why Am I a Naturist, a Nudist?

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It all began in darkness, when depression became a matter of life and death.

Now that I have started to re-approach nudity as therapy in the container I will continue to call, Nude Psychology, I find that I need to explain something very important – Why? Why nudity? And the only way I can do this honestly is to speak of my own roots, my own initial experiences. Everything grows out of those early years. I have posted most of what follows below more than once, in more than one forum.

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The sky is wild this morning. One minute it is dark with ominous clouds flying by as if they are on a freeway, and the next minute there is glorious sunshine. And the speed at which this is all happening makes the mind swirl. The wind has been blowing all night following a long period of rain yesterday late afternoon and all evening, and is still blowing strong creating whitecaps and pounding waves along the shoreline. Sometimes nature serves as a good metaphor for what is happening within one’s psyche. I know that in today’s case, it is quite the mirror.

Light does emerge from the cover of darkness.

Light does emerge from the cover of darkness.

I didn’t sleep well and it wasn’t because of the rain or the wind. Rather, it all had to do with the stirring of shadow contents within, stuff that lies below the surface of my awareness. I was asked why I was a naturist, why I needed to be naked when the rest of the world, the civilized world was doing well with their clothing on. I wasn’t able to give a satisfactory answer nor did I think that there could be a satisfactory answer in terms of having another person who is not a naturist, understand and accept. Of course, saying that, I open myself to the possibility of being very wrong. I don’t really have an excuse for not finding the words to answer this question, even if it is just for myself.

Because of my long involvement with depth psychology, I knew that the answers did exist, somewhere deep within my psyche. So this morning, I opened up the door to the question during my time for meditation which then lasted longer than usual. It was essential to let the question stew for a while, allow the contents within to become stirred up in the darkness of the unconscious. Later in the morning, after sitting for a while in silence with my morning coffee, not actually thinking but also not banishing thinking, I went for a long, two hour walk along the beach. I refused to force an answer but I also left an opening as if an opening in the clouds, for whatever needed to come to consciousness to have an entry.

As a child I was sexually abused, emotionally abused, physically abused in my family of origin by my biological parents. The sexual abuse extended to include my maternal grandfather and more than one parish priest. I was a docile child, the eldest of a large group of children. It was my job, the expectation that I came to embrace that I was there to please others, to take care of others, to put others before myself. I forgave my parents before they both passed away, enough years before their death so that I would be able to include them in my own children’s lives as grandparents. It also gave them time to acknowledge their part in my wounding – but that never came to be.

The patterns learned in early childhood that continued through to a few years after I was married with children of my own carried over into how I interacted within the family in which I was husband and father. It carried over into my career as an educator, coach and then as counsellor to students, staff and people within my community. I was well trained to put myself behind me and do my utmost best to be a good father, a good husband, brother-in-law, coach, neighbour. This is a story I knew well, one that I wrestled with through midlife and my own course of psychoanalysis. But where does this almost primal urge to naturalism come from?

In the safety of a forest, reclaiming control of body

In the safety of a forest, reclaiming control of body

It was soon after the sexual abuse from my grandfather, the last time I was sexually abused as a youth, that I found myself in a quiet meadow in a nearby small forest with a book of poetry. It was a warm late spring day, about six months following this last incidence. Feeling the warmth of the sun and feeling the words of classical poetry, I soon found myself naked. Over the next two years, my last two years at home, I took every opportunity, weather permitting to hide in this forest and meadow in order to be free.

Leaving home, I found other opportunities, especially the opportunity of sleeping in the nude, to recapture this sense of freedom. A job at the other end of the country found me enjoying social nudity in swimming pools and saunas with my co-workers, other young adults. The exhilaration of  body freedom acted as a sort of barrier that banished my history of being abused.

Alone in nature

Yet now, the pull to nudity is again strong so I look to these roots and it dawned on me that it is being nude where I claim control of my body, control of my identity, control of my sexuality. My body is not about pleasing others, making life easier for others. Do I remove body hair or make sure it is groomed for my own sense of well-being, or do I allow the needs of others dictate what I do or don’t do with my body hair? It comes down to control. Am I in control or do I defer control to someone else?

Now, in my sixties, I am saying this is my body and I will care for it, and my identity, and my psyche as best I can. I will not be a child and give control to another. I am a man, not a child victim continuing to seek approval, seeking to please others while disregarding my self.

I wonder if this is an answer, or just the beginning of an answer?

Who Are the Proponents For Legalised Nudity?

Wishing that somehow it was a bit different.

The sun came out briefly while I was taking care of some business in the house. Now that the tasks are done, the clouds have rolled back in lending a sense of greyness and heaviness. Earlier in the day, I took this photo before the sun made its brief appearance, an image that is wistful in mood.

The draw to naturism sees me outside regardless of the temperature which in this case was almost 5C. If it would have been sunny, the temperature would have been much more bearable. Still, I’m a Canadian and refuse to allow the weather to lock me indoors.

At present, our Federal government is looking at the criminal code with the objective to make it more in keeping with the present mindset when it comes to youth. There are a few aspects of the Canadian Criminal Code that touches on nudity. Surprisingly, the few changes already proposed appear to be lessening the penalties for nudity in certain cases. Since the changes are focused on youth, it is unlikely that there will be an elimination of section 174 dealing with private and public nudity. I wonder if it would be productive to contact the committee to take advantage of the opportunity to make other changes such as legalising the right of Canadians to be nude?

As you may or may not be aware, I am a Board member of the Federation of Canadian Naturists [FCN]. The Board is considering its options with regards to the changes to the criminal code. I won’t be talking about that discussion, as it is still in progress. Rather, I want to look at who would be for and who would be against the legalisation of nudity in Canada – simple nudity that isn’t overtly sexual in terms of activity. As I ponder this topic, I begin to suspect that there are opponents within the naturist community itself to adopting the new standards now in place in the U.K.

Why do I say that? I look at determining who would have the most to lose with changes to the status quo – the answer being the various naturist clubs scattered throughout the country. Our clubs are basically hidden and locked communities which are strict about who they allow to know their locations and who can enter through their gates. They are basically the only game in town. For most single, naturist men, those gates are firmly closed. I visited one of these Canadian naturist sites and found out that all prospective visitors are vetted before the club agrees to allow the guest to experience their site. Yes, I was checked to ensure that I was a valid member of another naturist site. I was welcomed as my home club did communicate the vital information that my wife and I did indeed take part in their club activities. That was important as I was to visit this site on my own while my wife was working.

Others whom I know, are not allowed to attend in spite of the fact that they are married. Without the participation, or anticipated participation of the spouse, the doors remain closed regardless of the spouse’s past participation. With the naturist club being the only game in the province, their membership becomes a captive audience. Inclusion in their group boosts the ego. No one wants to risk losing the only space available for social nudity.

Eliminate the “need” to be part of the exclusive group, and the group typically goes the way of the dinosaurs. Do groups such as AANR or TNS really want to have all the laws change to allow nudity to be a legal choice? The need for advocacy would disappear, and with it, their rationale d’être. The national groups need something to rally the troops, so-to-speak. With that need, membership money flows to these groups, money which doesn’t give a person one hour of social nudity as the groups don’t hold land or operate clubs. Clubs are affiliated. The enemy is clear … but not so clear at all. The textile society is claimed to be the enemy. Yet, below the distraction of pointing fingers at our neighbours, competing groups for the same audience are soon cast as villains as well. Who truly speaks for naturists and nudists?

My intent is not to present an answer but merely to ask the questions so that you can think about this and make choices accordingly. After all, it is your money and your future as a naturist that is at risk.

Celtic Gods and Goddesses Slumming

I am trying out a new approach to a story that I have been researching for a number of months. Abbéville is a real place in Picardy, France, not too distant from a town where it appears my family had its roots. Recent DNA tests highlight the Celtic roots of my ancestors. The characters below in the story are Celtic deities that would have been familiar to people in the 800s and through to relatively recent times in spite of the efforts of the Christian Church. Please, let me know what you think of this opening.

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Chapter One

Lugh

The sun came through the branches to leave a mottled appearance to the almost invisible path through the forest. The morning was promising a hotter than normal day for early June as I made my way towards the village of Abbéville with Cernunnos, Áine, and Brigantia at my side. Abbéville wasn’t our destination, but it was the place where we would rejoin the mortal world in the guise of ordinary people. Our real destination was a village called Longuet. Our journey would have been much quicker had we walked directly to the village, but we didn’t want to appear there without establishing a normal presence in the area.

Áine

The Christian Church was always on the lookout for heathens and heretics.

Áine was like a sister to me, a younger sister. Her red hair stirred with the passing breeze. She wore a green skirt that contrasted with her hair and the gossamer wings that had been folded an made invisible as we walked, the only one amongst us to be wearing any clothing. Her horse, a roan, followed with the others as we made our way down the faintly visible trail. Unlike Brigantia, her pale skin was unmarked.

Brigantia was more like my twin sister with long blond hair.

Brigantia

Her body was covered in blue tattoos that were hypnotic to anyone who dared to stare. She walked holding onto her golden spear that was longer than she was tall. Though beautiful beyond imagining, seeing her left most men quivering in fear. Her horse was as black as midnight

Cernunnos

Cernunnos was my best friend. Like me, he had dark hair, almost black. Like Brigantia, his body was covered in blue tattoos. And like her, he was fearsome in his appearance, especially when he wore his crown of antlers. His physical power evoked both awe and fear among men, and desire in women. Cernunnos was quick to take advantage of these women who wanted nothing more that to mate. Like Brigantia, he carried a weapon, a long oak staff that was stained from battles from the past. Unlike the rest of us, Cernunnos had no horse. When he shape-shifted, he took on the aspect of a stag.

We had left almost two hours earlier from an unnamed hamlet secreted in the depths of the forest. The place was warded so that strangers wouldn’t stumble upon it by accident. The power of the warding came from a krommlec’h in the form of a circle of stones surrounding a raised stone altar. The hamlet was Cernunnos’ home if it could be said that he needed a place to call home.

As we neared the first signs of other people, each of us hid our natural appearances behind clothing and a small spell that would prevent others from noticing us too much. We blended in with the typical physical appearance of others making sure we were non-descript, something that wasn’t too hard for us to do. What clothing and supplies we needed were taken from the packs on the horses before they were released to return on their own to Cernunnos’ hamlet in the forest. The magic needed was activated to disguise my sword, Áine’s spear, and Cernunnos’ staff to look like ordinary walking sticks. Readied, we slipped from the forest onto the rutted trail that led to the river crossing that would take them into Abbéville.

“Loo, I have to say that you look much better as a peasant,” laughed Cernunnos. “You might even find a toothless hag or two actually lower their standards to take you into their beds.”

“Cern, you’re a pig,” Brigantia spoke with a disgusting tone. “All you ever think about is your staff and where you can bury it.”

“Ugh!” Áine added. “Can’t you talk about anything else?”

“You’re such a prissy one,” Cernunnos laughed. “As if you don’t enjoy a good time in the sack as anyone.”

Lugh smiled at the banter that had begun to emerge, talk that made them sound like locals. They had arrived at the river crossing and found themselves in a small crowd that waited to cross the river in flat-bottomed boats that were tethered to a long rope that spanned the river. The convivial conversation of others surrounding them was just as raunchy. A few of the others frowned and shook their heads. Their threadbare brown robes proclaimed them as belonging to the Church. Lugh held out a few coins to pay for their passage to the opposite shore. Since it was a market day, the town of Abbéville was attracting quite a few, a situation that would make it even easier for Lugh and his companions to blend in.

Brigantia was barely controlling her anger when Lugh spotted her ready to strike a large oafish and overweight man who had just fondled her buttocks. Lugh gave a shake of his head in warning. The last thing they needed to do was to have her teach the oaf a lesson which would have him think twice about taking liberties with women he didn’t know. There were too many clerics around who would attribute any such retribution as a sign of witchcraft. Rather that strike the man with her walking stick, she turned and glared at him. Just enough of her fury showed in her eyes to have back away lifting his arms as if proclaiming his innocence. The incident passed and soon they found themselves walking through the market place in Abbéville.

 

Being Fully and Honestly Present When Naked

No Time To Lose – being fully present in self.

As I sit still with my thoughts today, a blustery day with the wind from the east, whipping trees that result in leaves falling onto the ground, I found a moment of well-being that is hard to explain. It isn’t explained away as happiness or sadness, a mood of some sort that could be understood through some sort of psychological or physiological analysis. It is almost as if I can stand outside of myself, and by that I mean step outside of my controlling ego. I took this photo, ostensibly for my journal where I chronicle some of my life, especially anything to do with naturism and being skyclad.

Why this particular pose? It was meant to simply record a nude state of being with the temperature outdoors included. However, now that I see the result, I find something else being exposed. The almost smile is in sharp contrast to the original intent of the photo. Regardless, I had an image for my journal and then retreated into the warmth of the house. Rather than beginning to write in the journal, I opened up a book on my shelf written by Pema Chodron called No Time To Lose. It was a random choice, and just as randomly, I found these words which were originally written twelve hundred years ago, words that I somehow needed to hear.

“What I have to say has all been said before

And I am destitute of learning and of skill with words,

I therefore have no thought that this might be of benefit to others;

I wrote it only to sustain my understanding.”

[Shantideva, Bodhicharyavatarta 1.2]

For some time, my ego has inflated itself with the idea that I have something important to write for the world. Perhaps my wisdom would touch someone through the novels I write, or the poetry, or my autobiography, or even here in my blog posts? Of course I know that most people have never heard of me or will ever read my words. And the truth is, none of that is very important. I mean, I’m just another wounded person wandering around the planet who hopes that he doesn’t pollute the world too much.

I’m not the smartest person regardless of what my ego often tells me when it points out the high IQ scores, scores that don’t comfort me when I screw up doing basic, ordinary stuff. I’m not the most talented in any area of the arts or life. Yet, I am not the worst either. No matter how hard I study myself and the world, I continually come back to the truth that I am just a man, often naked – nothing more, nothing less. So why do I write? For whom am I writing?

As Shantideva said so long ago, “to sustain my understanding.” I get to understand physically, visually, and psychologically that I am me in a time called now, a being that is not to be weighed with judgements. This is something that I need to meditate upon.

Wandering in the Wilderness With My Clothes On

Putting the Buddha fountain away before freezing weather arrives.

The title of today’s blog post could be seen as misleading, especially because of the word, wilderness. I haven’t posted here for some time and it has mostly to do with mood and energy levels. For the past four weeks, the weather has been unseasonably cool with temperatures often in the single digits [Celsius]. Yesterday, there was a break in the cloud cover allowing the temperature to soar to 13 C. I took advantage of the small window of opportunity to spend about a half hour outside without clothing. I emptied the Buddha fountain and placed it in the garage for safe keeping over the winter. Then, I simply sat still in a protected area to soak in the sunshine before the clouds rolled back in which they did before too many more minutes passed.

More than anything, it has been the dreariness and lack of sunshine – cloud cover, smoke-filled skies – that have me coping with a loss of energy. It is almost as if I am suffering a seasonal-affective disorder -S.A.D. The wilderness was an inner landscape that denied me access to a more expansive inner world of imagination, creativity, and connection with the muses. I didn’t even have the ambition or desire to meditate.

The S.A.D. experience left me listless when it came to writing or taking photos. Added to the influences of weather and mood was a road trip to be with my son’s family. My wife and I were baby-sitters for a week for his two children [eight and one] and two dogs. For them, I had enough energy to invest in being grandfather. When each day was done with the last one in bed, I soon followed suit with no energy left to even watch TV. My wife and I returned to our home two days ago and found ourselves immersed in catching up with harvesting the garden and putting up produce for winter consumption. Again we filled our daytime hours only to be drained come the night time.

Today, as I write this just prior to our midday meal, the sky is grey, the temperature is 8 Celsius, and there is a faint hint of a shower in progress. A few moments ago, I took our squash off the garden to store in the protected garage for the remainder of the autumn. I have hedge trimming, and cedar trimming to do before too many more days pass. My hope is that I get a few more windows of sunshine so that I can do some of these yard tasks nude.

I guess I must be getting acclimatised to the greyness as the words are once again beginning to flow.

Naturists as Outliers and Deviants in a Good Sense

The price of being different, being true to yourself . . .

Naturism is a deviant practice in reference to the modern world in which I and many other naturists find ourselves. When I say deviant, I am not declaring that naturism is a state of immorality or evilness. Rather, I am strictly talking about the practice of naturism within the context of the modern western world, especially that of Northern America. The larger society is phobic about keeping clothing on regardless of the weather and activity conditions. Common sense is not a consideration. I like how Thomas Moore looks at the term deviancy as “veering off the straight line.”

“Humans often have a preference for straight lines. We think of evolution and human development as following an uncrooked path toward perfection. We expect our neighbors to walk the straight and narrow”.

Religion somehow, likely through the process of falling into and growing power in a world that was ripe for exploitation, began to believe in its own messages, which were created to increase and solidify its power, messages which basically said to give up personal autonomy in favour of the collective ruled by the Church. In accepting the authority of the Church as the true and only mediator between the Divine and self, people took comfort in having someone else become responsible. Tolerance of the outliers, those who didn’t fit too well into the role of faithful, was lost and in its place, grew a fear that the collective would suffer for the actions, the straying away from the straight and narrow. The Church reinforced this collective fear, blaming all the misfortunes of life and nature on the presence of these outliers.

Today the church has been supplanted in power by the economy where the dollars are doled out to the faithful, those who follow the new straight and narrow, one that strategically keeps the church as ally. Fear of being denied heaven has been replaced with fear of losing all the riches promised and given for following the straight and narrow. Heaven and earth are now both at risk. No wonder there is no tolerance for those unable or unwilling to follow a straight line through life, the outliers, those who deviate.

Some of the outliers find themselves circling through life like the seasons. A different reality, a different heaven catches their attention, a reality and heaven that isn’t based on fear. They know, intuitively that they need to honour the soul of the earth, the soul of humanity, and one’s personal soul. Rather than retreat from confrontation with the dark moments, the tragedies, the storms and winter; we are invited, perhaps even required to get caught up in the seasons of life rather than spend all of our energy trying to go in a straight line to some dubious final destination.

Naked Therapy – Falling Apart and Being Put Back Together

Garden meditation with sunshine

It’s summer, yet somehow I woke up to a temperature of 4 Celsius outside. I woke early as is normal. By 8:45 the temperature had soared to 10 C, warm enough to be outside to capture a bit of sunshine on my body. Today, meditation is not as easy on my body as it has been in the past. My left knee is hurting when I assume a semi-lotus position. With age, it seems my body is falling apart, tiny bit by bit.

“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. . . . The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen; room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”

I am in a good space and place in my life, and for that I am grateful beyond measure. I am one of the lucky ones. In spite of those things of childhood and youth that sought to forever break my spirit, body, mind and soul, I survived and moved on to create a different life. I had thought I had left all behind me in the past. But, I am learning that one never leaves anything. The past is not something left behind. It is always present. I used to think that memories can be safely contained as if it was a photo tucked away in some photo album. But the memories are contained in the body and the senses and as a result are as close as one’s skin.

Even though I am in a good space and place in my life, things do fall apart and I tumble back into the same space and place of past trauma. There are triggers – just ask any military veteran who is diagnosed with PTSD – the war erupts and one is again totally immersed in the traumatizing events. One learns to flow through the falls and the ascents that cycle through one’s life, the falling apart and the coming together again.

“When things fall apart and we’re on the verge of we know not what, the test for each of us is to stay on that brink and not concretize. The spiritual journey is ot about heaven and finally getting to a place that’s really swell. In fact, that way of looking at things is what keeps us miserable.”

These words help me. I stop expecting some pill, some therapy, some guru to give me the answers and the relief from the complexities of being human, of being alive and complicated and complex.

Owning Body, Mind, and Soul

Pensive, and blaming it on the weather.

There is a real need to take ownership back: ownership of one’s body, mind and soul. In the end, it really doesn’t matter what other people think or say. One’s well-being ultimately falls to what we think and say and believe about ourselves.

In the world of nudism and naturism, there is often the same dialogue and drama about the human body as there is among the rest of the human population. There seems to be more should’s and should not’s than one would expect when the clothing falls off. There is a fear, a real fear about the unknown, the person beneath the exposed skin. There is this idea that humans should follow rules rather than respond to their environment of people, place and time in a natural way seems to be non-existent. Humans just don’t trust each other, or themselves. We’ve somehow come to believe that humans are essentially not to be trusted, that somehow humans and their bodies are basically flawed.

With the modern psyche accepting this idea of humanity being flawed, as a central belief embedded in religion, law, and social relationships, with the exception of activities that serve economic interests; there is a built in filter that has us cover up our self-perceived flawed bodies, and our self-perceived flawed characters. Humans work hard to present a self-idealised version of themselves, typically achieved through the clothing they wear, clothing which is carefully selected. Other strategies include exercise and diet. To do any less is to be vulnerable, to give up power over self to others – at least, that is what we tell ourselves. Yet, all of these strategies achieve precisely the opposite. Power remains with the nameless “others” and becomes even more oppressive in spite of our efforts.

We also have built in filters to cover up the truth about our inner selves. We adopt different personae to convince our various audiences that we are okay, worth the time and effort for a relationship. And, we hope like hell that the shadows we are deliberately hiding, stay hidden. We worry that no one would come within ten feet of us if they saw who we really were under our social disguises.

We work harder and harder to keep the physical and psychological truths of who we really are at bay. The harder we try, it seems the more cracks appear in our efforts which force us to up the ante and adopt newer and proclaimed more effective strategies to appear perfect in the eyes of others. Or else, we simply say the hell with it all and go nude letting the self finally become free. Caveat: going nude is problematical in a world that is phobic about human nudity. Expect to be harassed and perhaps even persecuted.

Naked, Authentic, and at Peace with Oneself

Emma

As I sit here this morning wondering what I will write about, with too many ideas racing though my head, I turned to a collection of images that are resting on my desktop, images such as this one of Emma James, a naturist from the U.K. who had become part of Naked Poetry book 2. I was struck by the openness and authentic sense of being at peace with “self” that this image portrays.

I have both taken and collected images from other places to illustrate my blog posts over the years. As I looked back at my archive, I noticed how the expression on my face and the stiffness of my body has changed. It has been only in the recent few years that my own image begins to show the same level of self-acceptance as I see in the image of Emma.

I think back to a number of years when I was constricted, barely able to breathe for the tightness in my chest and the vice-grips that had imprisoned my soul. None of it made sense as I had a good life as a parent and spouse with a good career that had earned me a lot of community respect. What had been responsible for my dark state of being within the embrace of family and community? What had changed between then and now when I can once again breathe without worry of the shadows that are still present on the periphery?

My writing since that time of darkness, a writing that had found its way into a number of formats – discussion groups, poetry, reflective journals, blog posts and stories that acknowledge the reality of darkness that broods with a life of its own, within the compass of my life. As the stories emerged, I found myself battling the emerging monsters and ghosts, never able to defeat them, but finding a way to co-exist with them. I created a space where whatever and whoever it is that I identify with as my self, a legitimate space hard-earned.

As the spaces opened up and breathing returned, somewhat to normal, other images of the unconscious emerged, images of those moments in time when I had previously felt whole. More often than not, the images showed a transparent self, one that didn’t hide in closets or in cardboard boxes. I saw myself without the borrowed clothing of others. Yes, I saw myself without clothing, daring to be exposed to the universe. Of course, I was a child, a youth, and later a very young man when these rare experiences were lived. To be graced with these images bathed in light in a world and life that was otherwise darkness, allowed me to remember, to re-member that child, youth, young adult into a much older adult. And so I dared to search again for those spaces and places where I could risk being authentically and transparently myself.

My life has changed, dramatically because of my work with writing and with my risking being vulnerable. I have learned, perhaps for the first time, that it is okay to be me. I now know that I don’t have much choice but to be authentically me if I am to continue breathing without the power of the darkness once again imprisoning me so that I become only a shell of a man.

Back Home From Another Road Trip

Checking out the Hosta and other plants.

It has been a bit since my last post. I am back home after selling fifty books on the last road trip. I now have a month off until I again hit the road for more grandchildren then more selling of books in Edmonton and Red Deer, Alberta. I have to say that it is good to be home. One of the first things that I noticed was that a hummingbird was taking in the nectar of the flowering Hosta plants.

Now that I am back home again, I have again returned to meditation and to walking in the countryside. Both were set aside as I made my way through hours of driving to, and through, and away from cities.

On another note, I have been elected to a two-year term as a Director of the Federation of Canadian Naturists. I’m not sure what that all entails, but I imagine that it will be an interesting two years with involvement in their magazine goingNatural which now has my friend Alex, a.k.a. HappyBare, as the editor.

Now, it’s time to go and be of some use as a helper so that we can put up a new batch of dill pickles for the coming year. Our children and grandchildren raid our basement shelves [with our permission of course] for sauerkraut, dill pickles, canned tomatoes, and even home-made sausage.

Another Naked Gardening Day

Carefully picking beans so the plants can produce more for another harvest.

It’s time to lighten up a bit here at Naturist Lens. Tomorrow I take my small trailer and head off to Regina, then Winnipeg where I will be doing more book-signing events. I will be staying at the Legacy Naturist grounds near Winnipeg for four nights, my first time to visit this venue.

There aren’t many purple bean plants in our small garden, but the harvest is excellent.

Today, I spent my time alternating between harvesting purple and green beans, as well as spinach, and finishing with the packing and preparing for my camping adventure. The gardening I was able to do naked. The camping trailer work required clothing as it is parked in front of our house, in full view of the passing public.

I’ll write again from Winnipeg.