We hurried ourselves along to
enjoy our woodland hike, to
avoid predicted warnings of heavy
thunderstorms. The sky already
thick with thunderheads and a
stiff wind shuffling them along
we took our chances and set out.
Blue-flowering chicory and
tiny-petalled Queen Anne's lace,
bugleweed and buttercups,
fleabane and daisies featured
their bouquet presence as we
descended the woodland ravine.
The clanging thrum of a pileated
woodpecker, its primal focus on a giant
hollow pine echoed through the wood.
But another, unidentifiable sound as of
two birds discussing the weather puzzled
as we located an owl and its offspring among
the limbs and leaves of opposite trees.
They were mute, as their presence
was noted, one peering down at us,
confident we posed no threat, then
resumed their intimate musing. The
rain descended, thunder booming, and
the canopy of oak and birch, maple as
poplar, bass and ash offered brief shelter.
The garden, with a mind of its own
at the best of times, has launched
itself into independence, scorning
my fruitless efforts to keep it neat
and tidy, free of unwanted visitors.
I must, I tell myself, exert my
authority, it is my garden, after all.
Is it? the garden sneers.
As though to spite me, the garden
welcomes and beckons aphids, slugs
caterpillars, worms and (horrors!)
earwigs and lily beetles to creep among
its beauties preferring the au naturel
appearance of torn and nibbled leaves
and petals. Clever weeds, mimicking
the very look and growth pattern of
my plants encouraged to invade.
I have been remiss, I groan,
permitting free reign to run amok.
Everything has become untidily
rampant. Excessive growth must be
tamed, snipped back to manageable
proportions. Mistress Nature, however,
has no intention of accommodating
my guilt-laden, stricken resolve.
Yesterday, secateurs in hand, my
determination wilted pitiably in the
overheated atmosphere as rivulets of
sweat saltily stung my eyes halting
the proceedings. And today as I
resolutely set out to weed the garden,
thunder rolled and lightning alternated
with darkness as torrents of rain
sent me swiftly houseward.
The Ethiopian-Canadian woman
who has embraced me, expressed
her interest in me as a person from
another culture and experience,
has told me of her concerns and
fears for her extended family left
behind, the dangers that they face
through tribal strife, malnutrition.
She greets me like an old friend
whenever I enter the Salvation Army
thrift shop she travels hours toward
from where she lives. The softness in
her voice, her tender smile. She is,
in fact now, an old friend for she has
prayed for me and mine, over the years.
I know this; she has assured me that
this is so. She, a good-hearted, hard
working immigrant who has known
fear and privation, and I, a second
generation, privileged Canadian of a
vastly different ethnic background; our
common humanity binds and blinds us
to the background of differences.
She it is who seeks to bring comfort,
trust and a soothing voice of universal
care to others, her own concerns
baked in a hard crust of experience
set neatly aside, compartmentalized
for the moment in quiet emotional
synthesis bringing her qualities of
warm humanity to rescue others.
It's true, that old adage:
"nothing ventured, nothing gained"
but in the doing you ventured to
exploit another person's need
and you gained the epiphany
that you'll remain uncommitted,
after all. Simply put, you're
an unprincipled, egoistic jerk.
Strange, how often that kind
of thing happens, the self-assured
breaching the defences of the
self-doubters, breezily challenging
their hesitation, and when it
becomes abundantly clear that
emotional transfer hesitates on the
cusp of success, the egoist withdraws.
Taken again, by the shock of
social facade lacking depth, with
her own nakedly needy self revealed
and stricken by the casual shrug of
disposal, her anguished self-doubt
deepens into despondency and
despair. Not your concern;
you can remain friends.
The mystery of it all reflects
the puzzle of the conundrum that
an erstwhile suitor need not possess
superior character. Women will
accept and yearn toward emotional
companionship. Not quite what the
male had top of mind. Such gender
matches do exist; meeting is elusive.
The life we live is the only one
we will experience; best
to get it right, if we can.
We're assured we are all
imbued with free will;
choices and their consequences
ours alone. Are they?
Fortune and circumstances then
notwithstanding, we must be
responsible, ipso facto,
for what our life becomes.
And we with it. Those choices?
When we felt it best to embrace
chance, opt for the challenge,
alter the equation, and steered
unerringly toward manifest destiny
then discovered, shocked and
disconsolate, that the beckoning,
shimmering finger of fate was really
a provocative tease that did not
mean to honour its promise and
our naively uncompromising trust.
We have learned a life lesson that
there is a heaven and it represents
our heart's desire which through
diligent search and application we
will ultimately claim as our entitled
birthright. But wait: Hell lingers patiently
backstage to enter and settle us within the
depths of despair and grief as fortune grips
the glittering evanescence of heaven to
tear it from our grasp, inviting
discordance to claim sovereignty.
Ontario highways in the
heat and glare of the summer sun,
set fire the medians, with the
blaze of purple loosestrife, the
fragrance of roadside meadows
with the dangling pink floral
clusters of milkweed, the
white petals of daisies,
lacy-white conceit of
Queen Anne's lace,
perky-pink of lupins,
sinister threat of red baneberries,
the purple presence of viper's bugloss,
radiant yellow of buttercups
returning the reflected
courtesy of the sun.
Hawkmoths and butterflies,
leaf hoppers and craneflies
converge on the offerings.
Above, a flight of ducks,
cresting a gentle wind.
The wall stands
on the Ontario landscape
rough grey granite
drywall . . . no mortar
gluing its oneness
hints of a fireplace.
Now the underbrush intrudes
forest pushing back memory
birds loop the lonely air
and forest creatures
shelter under its shadow.
It could be the
ruins of Ilium
of a Minoan palace
or even Dresden. The
causes as diverse as
a wooden horse . . .
. . . Santorini
or Allied bombers. This
wall speaks of the
inevitability of time
flux wrought by nature
by the nature of man.
Ruins. (Photo - Matthew Farfan
