WALDEN IN THE DRIFTING SNOW
My woodland journeys were on hiatus over the past month and a half, as my father’s worsening health condition kept us close to the hospital in Bracebridge. Today, on the cusp of the year’s second month, is the first opportunity I’ve had to venture to the edge of The Bog, to admire the fresh snow of the night before. It is truly an uplifting scene, and several passersby I encountered on my short walk, seem equally uplifted, as if the new snow was just the brightness needed to carry on into what has been a dull, bleak and rainy winter thus far.
My father, "Ed" died on the 20th of January, after a short illness which followed-up what we believe was a minor stroke in mid-December. It was a terrible period of uncertainty for him and us, and it also meant we had to move his furnishing to our already cramped abode, as it was apparent early on, that this 85 year old veteran sailor would not be returning to his apartment in Bracebridge. While I have stopped at the end of our lane many times, longing to push out into the woods for a wee respite, there never seemed a moment when the demands of health care, moving, transporting and sleep left any loose moments for dilly-dallying around these leaning old birches and gnarly pines that have always been my escape from daily burdens.
We have now finished most of the shifting of furniture and dishware, pictures and ornaments, boxes and boxes of them, and it has thusly left us a few quiet hours to think about the whirlwind Christmas season that wasn’t very merry at all. As for my father, the confluence of medical conditions beyond the stroke, made recovery quite impossible. He had enjoyed a good and long life, and after living almost two years beyond my mother, who died in 2008, it was obvious in those long hospital conversations, that while he was sorry to leave us, he wasn’t frightened of what fate had in store. Ed wasn’t a particularly spiritual guy and yet he was abundantly aware of his wife’s presence...... just beyond the reality of which he was tethered in this mortal coil. When Ed finally passed that early winter evening, we felt that strange but welcome comfort we humans experience at the end of difficult struggles. I can remember standing out on the walk beside our homestead, just after we had received the call from the hospital, and looking up into the winter sky, and feeling such universality and liberation, as if I was also a heavenward spirit in that angelic nirvana of strong faith and unfettered spirit. It was an unearthly but welcome feeling, a subtle validation at that precise moment, that we are foolish to deny experience ends when the body dies.
This morning the woodlands are heavenly, and beg me to trudge through the snow that has drifted over our region during the night. Even a few steps along this path is enough for the watcher to be enveloped by a most striking solitude, as if you are the only one allowed here at this moment in time......and that there is something important within to observe and understand, as if quite frankly, invited into a sort of heaven on earth. Of course this small bit of hinterland amidst the urban conundrum has always been a touch of heaven for me, a place so restorative of heart and soul that on any day of a typical week, I will retreat here seven or eight times each day just to absorb the ambience of this tiny plot of paradise. My family always knows where to find me.
I have not been able to spend much time writing these past few weeks, and I hope now to be able to return to many of the projects that were suspended from mid-December. I had many good visits with my father, before his final serious decline, and I know he would want me to return to the work and travels I adore. While he seldom referred to, or wanted to discuss my work as a writer, unless there was a newspaper column or editorial of which he particularly approved, or otherwise, I was quite speechless, when going through his papers at home, I found many clippings from publications I wrote for, tucked neatly into books and albums on his bedside bookshelf. I don’t think I could have had any greater inheritance, than to have found that he did have an interest in what his son was penning for all these years. To that point, I confess, it was the one question I had always wanted to pose to my father, but the timing never seemed quite right. I suppose I thought he would have offered a stinging critique of my work, and that frightened me dearly. Writers can be kind of fragile, and seeing as we have usually suffered for our craft, particularly in monetary consideration, I didn’t want our relationship to suffer as well from brute honesty. Yet I’m kind of glad I didn’t ask him because obviously, it would have been insulting, based on the clippings he kept. Maybe he would have been disappointed that I had doubts about his respect for my work. Alas, my deepest fears were put to rest. I thanked him in thought.
The scene across the lane is mesmerizing at times, the wind off the lake is shaking the fresh snow from the evergreen boughs, in huge billowy plumes of spiraling ice crystals. The sound of the wind washing down over the Bog is pleasantly haunting but unceasingly calming to the work-a-day mortal, stopping by the forest on a snowy afternoon.....just for a wee glance. I expect poet Robert Frost, my favorite bard, might have found something interesting and profound to write about in this enchanted woodland now, those leaning old birches remind me of the burdens of a long life. Equally, they remind me of the successes and milestones that are both beautiful, and eternal, as one life generates into another. Soon more snowfall will replace what has been shaken from the long willowy boughs. And these few footfalls toward the interior, will be filled in once more, yet I know the nuances of this old forest in my heart, after so many miles and hours spent packing down the trail.....in contemplation of a good life. I will never forget my way, in life or the hereafter of which, in this gentle place, I have found a portal divine, from which a final chapter has been inspired.....but alas, it reads as a beginning just as life cycles eternal, as the seasons caress this landscape......soon to show the emerging heads of spring wildflowers pushing up through the frost.
Godspeed old friend.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
OUR WALDEN IN THE DEEP OF WINTER
Over the past two days Muskoka has been graced, enchanted and so grandly illuminated by a most soothing brightness, the sunglow warmly bathing this little rise of topography above the hollow of "The Bog." After many days of bitter cold and an unrelenting wind, sculpting the snow into deep drifts throughout the lowland, it was so pleasant to just stand for a moment, in this restorative glow......still feeling the chill of winter but not the bleakness of mid January.
Today has already shown a rigorous return to winter with blowing snow and a colder snap to the wind. There won’t be much melting today. Yet what an interesting collection of days to commence 2010. There’s a pronounced solitude this morning that invites the explorer to wander the woodlands. A calm prevails despite the spirals of snow that touch down like whirlwinds, and then disappear as suddenly as they arrive like ghosts of the haunted moor. The voyeur will not be in any discomfort out on this wind-etched ridge, as the temperature is not yet low enough to sting the skin. By later this afternoon, we are warned the climate is supposed to change drastically, and we will all need to beware of exposed skin and the danger of frostbite. Now it is just a magnificent sojourn from the busy day.....a chance afforded by path and nature to observe mid-winter in the snow-laden woods of South Muskoka.
I have had very few walks in the woods these past few weeks, as our family has tended the needs of my father who suffered a debilitating stroke on the 15th of December. He has the same name as this writer, the name also of my grandfather, Edward John Currie, known simply as "Ted." It was my father who first introduced me to the District of Muskoka, on a trip to Bruce Lake in 1965. He liked the region so much, we moved here less than a year later. In the late winter of 1966, I officially became a resident of Bracebridge, Ontario. It was my paradise almost immediately.....once I shook of my urban barnacles, and from an early age I began writing about our adoptive home-district. Despite many set-backs staying employed in the hinterland region of Ontario, my father vowed we would stay in this amazingly beautiful area, even if it demanded extreme compromise and compliance with the jobs available. I think he actually worked a short time as a waiter in a local tavern, before landing a job in his own field of expertise.....the lumber industry, where he was employed until retirement. It wasn’t easy and money in those first ten years, was pretty thin.....just enough to cover food, shelter and not much else. But then our vacations were really affordable. Afterall, we were residing year-round in one of Canada’s historic vacation retreats, well known since the mid 1800's. I had forests, rivers and lakes surrounding me, and for a lad who always had wanderlust coursing through his veins, it was pretty much a dream life. While it wasn’t easy for a transplanted urban kid to fit in, at the local public school, a few rough patches weren’t enough to scare me away from celebrating my new link with the great outdoors. It was the greatest gift my father could have given me because it led to a lifetime’s investment in Muskoka. While I’ve moved ten miles south from my first hometown, our Birch Hollow homestead in Gravenhurst has been an equally inspiring portal, from which to write, and live abundantly and prosperously with my two grown sons, Andrew and Robert (musicians) and my wife Suzanne, a local high school teacher. We’re all pretty committed here, to protecting the nature that nurtures us each day of the rolling year. We’ve been known to join activists to protect wetlands and forests, and maintain the well being of our water resources. That’s our debt to the region that we will continue to pay, happily, for as long as required .......and to vehemently insist, in our own activist perpetuity, that developers and local politicians respect the well being of a healthy eco-system......and place conservation and our global well-being above profit-at-all-cost enterprise.
I have most recently, of course, spent some time thinking about my father’s decision to move his family to Muskoka, and how enlightened he was to see that the city was changing, the stresses of urban life broadening, while the countryside offered a slower, gentler, less aggressive background for all of us to benefit from. Yet he was a Cabbagetown boy who had spent his entire life in one city or another. After one weekend stay at the Bruce Lake cottage, his opinion of city life was far outweighed by all things Muskoka. On a day like this, I can so clearly recall those first winter walks to Bracebridge Public School, stopping on the Hunt’s Hill bridge, to look over the black, winding course of the Muskoka River......one of the coldest spots on earth when the January wind was blowing west to east over the frigid water. Many a young, brave student placed the tip of their tongue on that cold steel railing, being suspended there until some kind passerby would assist. Winter in Muskoka has always offered a profound and generous inspiration for me, and I believe it all has to do with that very first winter in 1966, the year my father made a huge gamble about quality of life for his family. He made the right decision, and even though my mother Merle objected initially, she happily remained here for the balance of her life......enjoying so many walks with her grandchildren along this same stretch of Muskoka River, winter, summer, spring and fall.
It’s hard not to dwell on the possibility that my father will succumb to his illness, and leave in mortal form this beautiful place on earth. I don’t think his spirit will travel too far away from what was his own respite from urban stresses, and I believe that in this enchanted old woodland where we used to stroll, his spirit will continue to step along through storm and calm, beneath sunlit canopy and moonlight, maintaining that eternal foothold on a beautiful life of once. My father wasn’t a poet, an environmentalist, an activist or a dreamer for that matter. Those were the traits of his son, and activities he didn’t agree or disagree with, before his own careful, patient scrutiny. He was keenly aware of how paradise was being threatened by development and tolerated this writer’s penchant for getting involved in the fight for conservation. He was always supportive. He just wasn’t one to carry a placard. And he was always kindly and caring about the quality of hometown life, and he was very much part of the fabric of the community, whether it was in his own apartment complex, or in his daily travels where he enjoyed the company of many friends. There was no question in my mind, that he himself knew the move to Muskoka had improved all of our lives.
In the short time since beginning this little tome, I can already feel the change of temperature and hear the clicking of the radiators trying to keep up with the frigid new reality. The snowfall has intensified, and the dusting of snow has made the woodlands, abutting The Bog, the perfect portrait of a Muskoka winter. It is the postcard image that has long attracted visitors to our region. It is the subtle beckoning of nature, a simple, uncomplicated message, for all of us watchers in the woods, to pay attention to what is most important in life......and when I don my coat and hood, boots and bulky mitts soon after this last paragraph, I will trundle down this narrow lane, and feel again the great sanctuary, the amazing peace and restorative goodwill of the Muskoka lakeland.....and extend a wee prayer, and thanks, to Ted Currie Sr., the chap responsible for our family’s lifetime in the joyous embrace of nature.
Over the past two days Muskoka has been graced, enchanted and so grandly illuminated by a most soothing brightness, the sunglow warmly bathing this little rise of topography above the hollow of "The Bog." After many days of bitter cold and an unrelenting wind, sculpting the snow into deep drifts throughout the lowland, it was so pleasant to just stand for a moment, in this restorative glow......still feeling the chill of winter but not the bleakness of mid January.
Today has already shown a rigorous return to winter with blowing snow and a colder snap to the wind. There won’t be much melting today. Yet what an interesting collection of days to commence 2010. There’s a pronounced solitude this morning that invites the explorer to wander the woodlands. A calm prevails despite the spirals of snow that touch down like whirlwinds, and then disappear as suddenly as they arrive like ghosts of the haunted moor. The voyeur will not be in any discomfort out on this wind-etched ridge, as the temperature is not yet low enough to sting the skin. By later this afternoon, we are warned the climate is supposed to change drastically, and we will all need to beware of exposed skin and the danger of frostbite. Now it is just a magnificent sojourn from the busy day.....a chance afforded by path and nature to observe mid-winter in the snow-laden woods of South Muskoka.
I have had very few walks in the woods these past few weeks, as our family has tended the needs of my father who suffered a debilitating stroke on the 15th of December. He has the same name as this writer, the name also of my grandfather, Edward John Currie, known simply as "Ted." It was my father who first introduced me to the District of Muskoka, on a trip to Bruce Lake in 1965. He liked the region so much, we moved here less than a year later. In the late winter of 1966, I officially became a resident of Bracebridge, Ontario. It was my paradise almost immediately.....once I shook of my urban barnacles, and from an early age I began writing about our adoptive home-district. Despite many set-backs staying employed in the hinterland region of Ontario, my father vowed we would stay in this amazingly beautiful area, even if it demanded extreme compromise and compliance with the jobs available. I think he actually worked a short time as a waiter in a local tavern, before landing a job in his own field of expertise.....the lumber industry, where he was employed until retirement. It wasn’t easy and money in those first ten years, was pretty thin.....just enough to cover food, shelter and not much else. But then our vacations were really affordable. Afterall, we were residing year-round in one of Canada’s historic vacation retreats, well known since the mid 1800's. I had forests, rivers and lakes surrounding me, and for a lad who always had wanderlust coursing through his veins, it was pretty much a dream life. While it wasn’t easy for a transplanted urban kid to fit in, at the local public school, a few rough patches weren’t enough to scare me away from celebrating my new link with the great outdoors. It was the greatest gift my father could have given me because it led to a lifetime’s investment in Muskoka. While I’ve moved ten miles south from my first hometown, our Birch Hollow homestead in Gravenhurst has been an equally inspiring portal, from which to write, and live abundantly and prosperously with my two grown sons, Andrew and Robert (musicians) and my wife Suzanne, a local high school teacher. We’re all pretty committed here, to protecting the nature that nurtures us each day of the rolling year. We’ve been known to join activists to protect wetlands and forests, and maintain the well being of our water resources. That’s our debt to the region that we will continue to pay, happily, for as long as required .......and to vehemently insist, in our own activist perpetuity, that developers and local politicians respect the well being of a healthy eco-system......and place conservation and our global well-being above profit-at-all-cost enterprise.
I have most recently, of course, spent some time thinking about my father’s decision to move his family to Muskoka, and how enlightened he was to see that the city was changing, the stresses of urban life broadening, while the countryside offered a slower, gentler, less aggressive background for all of us to benefit from. Yet he was a Cabbagetown boy who had spent his entire life in one city or another. After one weekend stay at the Bruce Lake cottage, his opinion of city life was far outweighed by all things Muskoka. On a day like this, I can so clearly recall those first winter walks to Bracebridge Public School, stopping on the Hunt’s Hill bridge, to look over the black, winding course of the Muskoka River......one of the coldest spots on earth when the January wind was blowing west to east over the frigid water. Many a young, brave student placed the tip of their tongue on that cold steel railing, being suspended there until some kind passerby would assist. Winter in Muskoka has always offered a profound and generous inspiration for me, and I believe it all has to do with that very first winter in 1966, the year my father made a huge gamble about quality of life for his family. He made the right decision, and even though my mother Merle objected initially, she happily remained here for the balance of her life......enjoying so many walks with her grandchildren along this same stretch of Muskoka River, winter, summer, spring and fall.
It’s hard not to dwell on the possibility that my father will succumb to his illness, and leave in mortal form this beautiful place on earth. I don’t think his spirit will travel too far away from what was his own respite from urban stresses, and I believe that in this enchanted old woodland where we used to stroll, his spirit will continue to step along through storm and calm, beneath sunlit canopy and moonlight, maintaining that eternal foothold on a beautiful life of once. My father wasn’t a poet, an environmentalist, an activist or a dreamer for that matter. Those were the traits of his son, and activities he didn’t agree or disagree with, before his own careful, patient scrutiny. He was keenly aware of how paradise was being threatened by development and tolerated this writer’s penchant for getting involved in the fight for conservation. He was always supportive. He just wasn’t one to carry a placard. And he was always kindly and caring about the quality of hometown life, and he was very much part of the fabric of the community, whether it was in his own apartment complex, or in his daily travels where he enjoyed the company of many friends. There was no question in my mind, that he himself knew the move to Muskoka had improved all of our lives.
In the short time since beginning this little tome, I can already feel the change of temperature and hear the clicking of the radiators trying to keep up with the frigid new reality. The snowfall has intensified, and the dusting of snow has made the woodlands, abutting The Bog, the perfect portrait of a Muskoka winter. It is the postcard image that has long attracted visitors to our region. It is the subtle beckoning of nature, a simple, uncomplicated message, for all of us watchers in the woods, to pay attention to what is most important in life......and when I don my coat and hood, boots and bulky mitts soon after this last paragraph, I will trundle down this narrow lane, and feel again the great sanctuary, the amazing peace and restorative goodwill of the Muskoka lakeland.....and extend a wee prayer, and thanks, to Ted Currie Sr., the chap responsible for our family’s lifetime in the joyous embrace of nature.
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