Transition

There is an unmistakable chill of winter
in the air. The palpable fragrance of
impending snow reminds us of what is yet
to come. The urgent wind sends its icy
fingers piercing our fall jackets as we forge
through piled dry leaves and needles.
Where last night's rain pounded the hillsides,
the trails, shorn of detritus washed down to
the valleys, are slick with the clay that comprises
the soil here; now dissolved into rank muck.

Above, a crow familiar with our presence
glides from tree to tree, observing our
progress. Keenly involved in assessing our
purpose this day, he hovers, trailing us. The
anxious activities of squirrels awaiting our
passage informs the cerebral curiosity of the
black-winged sentry. Redpolls and chickadees
emit their syncopated chorus as they flick
into the thickly-needled hemlocks and spruces.

There is a huge crack reporting above the
din of the wind and clatter of tree tops. We
view the slow-motion disintegration of a
desiccated tree trunk, its rotted carcass incapable
of offering further resistance to the season's raw
primal elements, concerned with reducing living
nature to the compost that nurtures new life in
the never-ending cycle of passage and renewal.

Letting It Go

Took long enough, didn't it?
Fifteen years these pure wool
business suits, the Harris tweeds,
the silk ties and pocket puffs, the
trousers and stiff-neck shirts hung
in neat formation, nicely coded for
instant and co-ordinated selection
have hung in your wardrobe.

Fifteen years, need I remind you,
since you yourself retired from
active involvement in the professional,
wage-earning workforce. No real
occasions since superannation to
trot them out, now, was there? A
casual, relaxed lifestyle; nine-to-eleven
replacing nine-to-five; simply
did not require them, did it?

So why the dilatory decision-making,
the irritating procrastination from
your fine mind? Padded shoulders
gathering dust seem so senseless. Wasted
storage room utterly without purpose.
Fond memories of other, seemingly
purposeful times, weighted with
profound meaning, merely an illusion.

The meaning of life and the pleasures
to be had still exist. Has it taken you
fifteen years to finally understand that
you are not measured by what you wear,
by what you were deeply engaged in to
earn a creditable living - but who you are
as an individual; a man, husband, father,
grandfather, gatherer-of-wisdom and
skilled perpetrator of art and artisanship?

Now, finally, have you accepted
yourself sans facade? I did, long ago.
Be assured, in the informality of our
retirement, what those suits represent
is entirely irrelevant. Know this: those
who matter esteem you for your inherent
value to their lives without which there
would remain a miserable void.

Sanctuary

11-11-11...On a day of grave remembrance
when the ceremonies of commemoration
are concluded and the heart is in need of
consolation, a meander into the tranquil
woodlands under a perfect bowl of blue,
the trees standing bare; the spirit of the
forest calms the inner atmosphere of regret
and sad recollection of mankind's endless
strife. A gentle wind favours the near
environment with kinder memories.

The sun, high and bright, illuminates
another kind of reality, that of Nature's
curative blessings. Minuscule sparks of light
glance off the bright green needles of the
coniferous giants whose branches host
dark and silent birds, keenly observing who
passes below. The exuberant yet quiet
antics of squirrels preparing for winter
months provide light distractions.

The woods represent a natural cathedral
of subdued and emphatic life progressing
from season to season, enduring and, like
life, fraught with the unexpected turns of
happenstance and fortune. We, like the
creatures of the forest, are swept up in the
tides of natural form and function, action and
consequences. The tranquility we find there
a balm and a salve to heal self-inflicted and
historical wounds as in the final analysis
nature's entropy has the final word.

"We Will Remember Them"

Remembrance Day ceremony at the Cenotaph in downtown Ottawa.

Photograph by: Wayne Cuddington, The Ottawa Citizen

Austerely solemn, in an austere month, this
11th hour of the 11th day of the Eleventh month,
winter-coat-clad Canadians assemble to honour
their battle veterans of the Canadian Armed Forces
who answered the call to duty on behalf of the
free world's longevity, as we live it to this day.
The singing of Oh Canada, to accompany the
Ottawa Children's Choir, then the sombre play
of The Last Post. As the clock tower of the
Parliament Buildings strike 11, a cannon burst.

From Flanders Fields to the fields of poppies
thriving in Afghanistan, the old soldiers,
physically desiccated, and the stern young faces
of current military, amidst the wailing of the
bagpipes and the volley of cannons, all testament
to the solemnity of the occasion. The Cenotaph,
that proud memorial of a proud nation towers
over the dense gathering under a wide, blue sky
where a squadron of planes perform a flyby
and then return, thundering under the sun.

Canada's new Governor General officiating,
a grave address by Brig.Gen. Forces Chaplain
in both official languages. The bright red poppy;
respect in solemn commemoration pinned over
the heart. The national flag proudly waving
against the broad blue of the sky; the tradition of
wreath-laying commences; first that of the
Mothers of Canada for their sacrifice, the
penultimate, mourning their dreadful loss.

Parliamentarians, diplomats, the Armed Forces
branches and elite, representatives of foreign
countries, civil organizations, the youth of the
country; all present and accounted for. The
beautiful, uplifting melody of children's sweet
voices raised endearingly in chorus after chorus
of hymns and paeans to the search for universal
peace despite the dreadful, soul-destroying
urgencies of war imposed upon the world through
the overarching venal ambitions of tyrants,
dictators and power-hungry psychopaths.

The singing children's red-clad figures a note
of evanescent hope and clarity, ascending to a plea
for the sanctity of life, the sanity of live and
let live; a symbol of Amazing Grace, amid the
cannon fire salutes. The Tomb of the Unknown
Soldier blanketed by fiery-red poppies of
remembrance, and the regiments march by.

"I Will Pray For You"

It must surely have been so very
difficult for her to adjust to life in
this northern-latitude Western country,
so at variance with her birthplace, her
origins with its tribal influences, ancient
culture, civil unrest, poverty and violence.
She doubtless lives in relative poverty
here, too, but she is well fed, and clothed
and housed and a pensive smiles lingers
always on her proud old, dark lips; her
eyes alive with a zest for life and an
interest in all that surrounds her.

Where am I from? she asked, years ago,
already wise to the Canadian reality, built
upon the steady historic migration of
restive, downtrodden and uprooted people
to these vast and prosperous shores
promising a future of freedom and
opportunities to those seeking refuge and
personal advantage. This woman, once
deformed by hunger and deprivation, has
adapted happily. She attends her church
regularly for, she has informed me, when she
had nothing else, she had hope, in her faith.

She travels long, wearying distances on
crowded city buses to her work at this
suburban Salvation Army thrift shop,
through seasonal weather conditions unknown
in sub-Saharan Africa. She endures what we
all do, and more, much more. But she remains
sincerely invested in concern for others; for
example, me, and my loved ones. She asks
always, solicitously, of my familial concerns.

"I will pray for you", she tells me tenderly,
beaming her incomparably beneficent smile,
even as she knows my roots, so unlike her own,
and that her belief in the divine is not in the
remotest shared, my good friend, by me.

Freeze Me! If You Can

Why feel sad on such a fair day? Yesterday's
deep cloud overcast obscuring the sun has
dissipated and the sky is wide and blue
gracefully illuminating the landscape below.
This morning the pair of cardinals that sing us
awake of spring mornings silently returned.
Their bright scarlet plumage glancing from tree
branch to fence, to leafless shrubs, a moving
feast for our summer-mourning eyes.

Bright, our otherwise-bleak garden, from the
rays of the late fall sun, closed for the season,
in a bell-like clarity. The honeysuckle vine,
almost leaf-denuded, defiantly sets its last pink
bloom. The bergenia refuse to permit their crisply
colourful leaves to shrivel. All the heucheras
with their variously pale chartreuse, pink,
green and gold scalloped leaves remain dedicated
to the preservation of form and freshness.

The hydrangea vine, even as the last of its
leaves crisply brown fall to enrich the soil, sets
its buds for spring awakening, and the corkscrew
hazel, no slouch, does the very same, dangling
fuzzy pods. The rose canes have been cut back
and capped with snow-white cones; headstones
in this garden cemetery. Bright red berries
dangle from the weeping crabapple, gaily
inviting migration-tardy birds' attention.

Sad Demeter, standing before our dining room
windows, eyes downcast, is deep in thought of
her daughter Persephone languishing the winter
months in the sere Underworld of Hades. And the
gargoyles on our porch impishly taunt the
coming winter season; freeze me! if you can....

Sigh, House Cleaning Day

The sky is clear, this brisk icy day that
dawned with roofs scaled in silver-white
frost. Few light, billowing cloud wisps
waft across the great blue expanse of sky
to shield our home from the warming sun.
Without its glowing presence, this
large-windowed house in its northern
latitude feels as deserted of warmth
as a heritage-stuffed mausoleum.

A serendipitous concurrence of sun
and natural light, this house-cleaning day.
To entertain me as geared with tools of
housekeeping I flit about this place,
dusting, mopping, vacuuming, washing
oh-so-many floors. The work made
infinitely lighter by exposure to the
familiar endowments and embellishments
ornamenting our aesthetic vision and
utilitarian household needs.

Stained glass windows wink the sun's
passage throughout this home, where
the homeowner laboured to create colour
light and evanescent beauty. Paintings
festooning the walls bespeak a lifetime
dedicated to the delights of discovery
and budgeted acquisition. The comforts we
enjoy of a privileged and earned abode.

This has been our passion to pursue
and surround ourselves with a whimsical
yet classical presence reflecting the timeless
value of creativity, workmanship and
artistic expression. When the sun lights
this interior even the curatorial labour
dedicated to tidy comfort becomes easeful
and a delight to perform, as though engaged
in a weekly inventory protocol, brimming
with amazingly unanticipated gifts.