A Morning Like This

The Wharf In Gravenhurst - (photo by Fred Schulz)

DAVID GRAYSON, ON A MUSKOKA MORNING LIKE THIS!

A GOOD MORNING FOR PHILOSOPHY - A BETTER MORNING TO WALK THE FOREST PATH

     "MY SENSES, MY NERVES, EVEN MY MUSCLES WERE CONTINUALLY STRAINED TO THE UTMOST OF ATTAINMENT. IF I LOITERED OR PAUSED BY THE WAYSIDE, AS IT SEEMS NATURAL FOR ME TO DO, I SOON HEARD THE SHARP CRACK OF THE LASH. FOR MANY YEARS, AND I CAN SAY IT TRUTHFULLY, I NEVER RESTED. I NEITHER THOUGHT NOR REFLECTED. I HAD NO PLEASURE, EVEN THOUGH I PURSUED IT FIERCELY DURING THE BRIEF RESPITE OF VACATIONS. THROUGH MANY FEVERISH YEARS I DID NOT WORK: I MERELY PRODUCED," "DAVID GRAYSON; ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT."

     THIS BOOK WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1909. IMAGINE MR. GRAYSON OFFERING AN OVERVIEW OF THE INDUSTRIOUS, COMPROMISING WORLD ECONOMY, ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN YEARS LATER! WHAT HE FELT WAS BEATING DOWN THE HUMAN SOUL, WAS AT A TIME IN HISTORY BEFORE THE FIRST WORLD WAR, THE GREAT DEPRESSION, WORLD WAR II, AND THE HIGH TECH ERA OF WHICH WE FIND OURSELVES SO DEEPLY IMMERSED AT PRESENT. ARGUABLY, AT THE MERCY OF THOSE PROPONENTS OF TECHNOLOGY, THAT WHILE IMPROVING COMMUNICATIONS, HAVE OPENED A PANDORA'S BOX OF UNFORTUNATE REALITIES…..LIKE CYBER BULLYING. IMPROVEMENTS WE LOVE AND HATE AT ALMOST THE SAME TIME.  WHAT ARE SUPPOSED TO BE IMPROVEMENTS IN THE WAY WE LIVE, AND CONDUCT OUR DAILY BUSINESS, AT TIMES, REPRESENTS A NEWFOUND STRESS WE AREN'T SURE HOW TO HANDLE. ARE WE BETTER OFF? DAVID GRAYSON'S MISSION, WAS TO RETURN TO THE INNOCENCE OF A HOMESTEAD ECONOMY; WISHING TO SPEND THE REST OF HIS LIFE IN THE PURSUIT OF A SIMPLER EXISTENCE; AND ALL THE SOCIAL NORMS OF THAT TRADITIONAL INDUSTRY, AND RURAL NEIGHBORHOOD.

     "THE ONLY REAL THING I DID WAS TO HURRY AS THOUGH EVERY MOMENT WERE MY LAST, AS THOUGH THE WORLD, WHICH NOW SEEMS SO RICH IN EVERYTHING, HELD ONLY ONE PRIZE WHICH MIGHT BE SEIZED UPON BEFORE I ARRIVED. SINCE THEN I HAVE TRIED TO RECALL, LIKE ONE WHO STRUGGLES TO RESTORE THE VISIONS OF A FEVER, WHAT IT WAS THAT I RAN TO ATTAIN, OR WHY I SHOULD HAVE BORNE WITHOUT REBELLION, SUCH INDIGNITIES TO SOUL AND BODY. THAT LIFE SEEMS NOW, OF ALL ILLUSIONS, THE MOST DISTANT AND UNREAL. IT IS LIKE THE UNGUESSED ETERNITY BEFORE WE ARE BORN; NOT OF CONCERN WHEN COMPARED WITH THAT ETERNITY UPON WHICH WE ARE NOW EMBARKED.

     "ALL THOSE THINGS HAPPENED IN CITIES AND AMONG CROWDS. I LIKE TO FORGET THEM. THEY SMACK OF THAT SLAVERY OF THE SPIRIT WHICH IS SO MUCH WORSE THAN ANY MERE SLAVERY OF THE BODY. ONE DAY - IT WAS IN APRIL, I REMEMBER, AND THE SOFT MAPLES IN THE CITY PARK WERE JUST BEGINNING TO BLOSSOM. I STOPPED SUDDENLY. I DID NOT INTEND TO STOP. I CONFESS IN HUMILIATION THAT IT WAS NO COURAGE, NO WILL OF MY OWN. I INTENDED TO GO ON TOWARD SUCCESS; BUT FATE STOPPED ME. IT WAS AS IF I HAD BEEN THROWN VIOLENTLY FROM A MOVING PLANET; ALL THE UNIVERSE STREAMED AROUND ME AND PAST ME." WROTE GRAYSON OF HIS CITY LIFE IN THE EARLY PART OF THE 1900'S.

     "UNTIL I STOPPED I HAD NOT KNOWN THE PACE I RAN; AND I HAD A VAGUE SYMPATHY AND UNDERSTANDING NEVER FELT BEFORE, FOR TRHOSE WHO LEFT THE RUNNING. I LAY PROSTRATE WITH FEVER AND CLOSE TO DEATH FOR WEEKS, AND WATCHED THE WORLD GO BY; THE DUST, THE NOISE, THE VERY COLOUR OF HASTE. THE ONLY SHARP PANG THAT I SUFFERED WAS THE FEELING THAT I SHOULD BE BROKEN HEARTED AND THAT I WAS NOT; THAT I SHOULD CARE AND THAT I DID NOT. IT WAS AS THOUGH I HAD DIED AND ESCAPED ALL FURTHER RESPONSIBILITY. I EVEN WATCHED WITH DIM EQUANIMITY MY FRIENDS RACING PAST ME, PANTING AS THEY RAN. SOME OF THEM PAUSED AN INSTANT TO COMFORT ME WHERE I LAY, BUT I COULD SEE THAT THEIR MINDS WERE STILL UPON THE RUNNING AND I WAS GLAD WHEN THEY WENT AWAY. I CANNOT TELL WITH WHAT WEARINESS THEIR HASTE OPPRESSED ME. AS FOR THEM, THEY SOMEHOW BLAMED ME FOR DROPPING OUT. I KNEW. UNTIL WE OURSELVES UNDERSTAND, WE ACCEPT NO EXCUSES FROM THE MAN WHO STOPS. WHILE I FELT IT ALL, I WAS NOT BITTER. I DID NOT SEEM TO CARE. I SAID TO MYSELF: 'THIS IS UNFITNESS. I SURVIVE NO LONGER. SO BE IT'."

     The reason I often refer to the work of David Grayson, is that his re-discovery of the better life for body and soul, has paralleled my own life long quest for the same things. When I studied at university, living near Jane and Bloor in Toronto, I spend more than an hour each day, commuting to York University. I lived with several mates, in a charming, 1940's boarding house, and while it was comfortable enough, and was more than an adequate place to reside in the big city, I couldn't write. For the first time in my young life, I had run into something I didn't understand. In my earliest attempts at writing, I was never more than a few steps from a woodland or lakeside, in Bracebridge, in the heart of the District of Muskoka. I would often hike to natural retreats, like Bamford's Woods, and The Grove, but most often, during the summer months, to the rock shelf above Bass Rock, on the Muskoka River, above the Bracebridge Falls. When I moved to the city, I was excited by the possibilities, of being able to write from city cafes, hole in the wall restaurants, and nightclubs, where so many Canadian authors had found inspiration for their novels. I was however, immediately struck by the reality that, while I wanted to write, I simply couldn't. It became so much of an obstacle, that I had to bring my essay work home, to our small cottage on Alport Bay, of Lake Muskoka, to make each class deadline. As it turned out for me, I was quite willing to work through the night, in a place I was comfortable, than try to pen work in that city dwelling. Even on site, at the university, I found myself void of any reason to write…..and the education obligations didn't make much difference. I stuck it out, and graduated without a single failure, except of course, my inability to write in the city. I couldn't tell anybody, even family, that I choked because of something so ridiculous…….and if I considered myself a professional writer, then I should have been able to compose anywhere. It was a sort of rule, I think, or at least that's how it weighed upon me in those years.

     When I returned to Muskoka after my city years, I immediately began writing again; much as if letting someone, who has been confined against his will for years, out into the clear unobstructed horizon of a spring day. I wrote reims of copy, and killed several of my fleet of trusted typewriters in the process…..of being creative.

     There will be times, reading this material, when you will wonder, and rightfully so, why I spend so much time and effort, highlighting the nature of Muskoka, as if I have a genuine fear, that it will soon be seriously compromised by the progress, moving-north, from the cityscapes of Southern Ontario. It is what I fear. But most of all, I fear the changes in attitudes, of my neighbor Muskokans, who have a far less peaked concern, about inviting progress to pave over our paradise……without knowing the true consequence. of  what untethered progress can attract, by its own manifestation of perceived success.  What are the sustainable improvements that would be a boon to life and work in the Canadian hinterland? We're still working on that one.

     I am an old-timer. I don't know how many more stories I will write, and how many more hikes I will take through these awakening woodlands. But I look at my young sons, and worry that they will experience this new era of comprises on their home region, at a much more accelerated pace…….watching more and more forests being felled…..more wetlands being infilled. It is my fear, and it will become theirs, as they love this region as much as their father……sitting by this window, overlooking The Bog, pondering how long it will be left, as this urban greenbelt.

     Thanks so much for joining me here today. Please come and visit again, soon.