WALDEN AND MUSKOKA, WHERE ONE LOSES PACE BUT GAINS HEART
I watch over The Bog hourly these days of emerging winter.....these enthralling blustery hours that etch frost onto my window pane, and slap tree limbs against the house in those ferocious, unpredictable gusts that bellow from the churning bay, and rip over the wooded hillside, tearing away leaning old birches that Robert Frost found so dimensionally poetic. It is a scene that one moment can inspire fear and trembling, and in another, a sense of inevitability, such that I could see myself surrendering to gale force, and being blown into a winter oblivion. I challenge not, the will of God, of nature, but do suspect failings in the structure of wood and shingles that keep me warm and dry at this precarious moment.
At times the sun pokes out and cascades through the two panes of glass that protect me from the serious cold.....and for awhile I bask, in reward, stopping this mad typing in order to enjoy a respite from creativity......which heaven knows can suck the life out of the most fit and ambitious author if left to run free. Then suddenly the good graces of clear sky diminish and it all becomes very dark and forboding, as if a storm-front has just then announced its intention, to re-create the order of things into a mosaic chaos......which in a strange way compels me to watch closely as this day becomes more interesting with golden light and creeping shadow, vestiges of good and evil.
It might prevail again soon, a settling calm, to allow the sun another opening in the canopy of December cloud, to print brightly upon this old cluttered desk.....of which I mire down in confusion, when not a humble, silent victim of my own freedom. Questing in search of the insightful words to lead myself in memory, down those narrow, winding forest paths I have travelled in this life.....or it could well brighten up evermore, as snow begins to tumble down, and be dashed against this same window pane, affording me a wreathed view of this precious lowland. I will be able to feel the vibration of the wind, if it should dominate this landscape, as it shakes the house awake, and sense the loose grip I have on secure items, should this glass ever break, and expose me to these rigorous, unclenching elements. I’m not sure how I would react if one day, this speculation of doom upon Birch Hollow, should occur in just this fashion, when wind and determination of storm-fist might transform this cabin to rubble, and send me flying forth to settle, unceremoniously in some other locale. In flight might I find a split second to ponder, or rather be delirious to the situation as a result of sudden shock? Me thinks the voyeur would capture the moments for posterity......and then, disheveled, but eager, look for the last pencil and paper on earth to make copious notes, about that most recent and precious experience of survival of the fittest. Unless of course, I don’t survive and then the chapter ends rather abruptly I’m afraid.
For many years now, I have sat in this same spot on winter afternoons, to benefit from a most beautiful dominion, this Muskoka, offering the writer so many different moods and distractions from normal course. Even if it is a visitor ambling up the lane, or a vehicle rattling down the road, every hour is a chapter filled with small but significant occurrences that in their own way represent a punctuation I might not have used otherwise; to paint the scene into a more realistic, navigable landscape. There is more here in this Walden of mine than trees and tiny crystalline cataracts, snow drifts and strange anomalies of all nature. While some might think it odd and a misspent resource of time and effort, to sit here and watch out over a run-of-the-mill lowland in a region known for its bogs and swamps, I might argue that my own connection here is not on a for-profit efficiency but instead, a healthful feeding period of heart and soul. It is this kind of beautiful, dynamic place on the landscape, I find restorative when other functions of lifestyle prove exhausting and depressing. There is no judgement here, no acceptable way to interpret the scene or precise protocol for finishing work. I am under no pressure to produce for any hounding editor and there is no financial promoter demanding chapters for money. While there have been many occasions when I have been forced to work on a writing-to-survive basis, I listen now to the common, basic protocol of sensible proportion and human satisfaction. I wrote for many years without the least contentment and virtually no satisfaction at the end of a work week, other than having felt a wee flicker of hope when my byline topped a story I was particularly proud of.......and many of my writing contemporaries at the time felt the same.
My biggest distress was that, in the evening, when I should have wanted to write for myself, the rigors and frustrations of the day drained all enthusiasm. When I sit here and watch this beautiful world transform in the prevailing weather, I am enthralled to be a witness. There is a peacefulness I can’t quite explain, an ethereal adventure that gives much more meaning to the vigil than what the written page contains in ink. I can’t expect that those who read these pages will be able to recreate what I have experienced, or imagined, interpreting the change of seasons, the evolution of weeks, days and hours into minutes of joyous existence. While some find exhilaration in physical adventures and impending danger, I find it in this ghost hunt for wayward spirits, who will lead me to that elusive truth we both fear yet celebrate as clear vision, and honesty about the meaning of life.
It is late afternoon now, and I must face the necessity of travel.....and the fuss of adorning myself to fend against the bitter winter rattling eerily at this window pane, as if something beyond is trying to get my attention. I shall trundle off down the road and feel as robust as humanly possible for a man of my vintage, having the passion stirring within, to once again return to my office, and rejoin quiet contemplation with all that nature can afford the eager voyeur.
