Clouds have marbled the autumnal
sky so voluminously there exists
scant light to glow upon the
hushed world below. Bruised
darkly in greys, blacks and indigo
by ferocious winds, the clouds
loiter then ponderously shift,
the landscape below a prisoner
of familiar dark foreboding.
The dynamic duo, tasked by
nature as climate changers take
their stewardship seriously indeed
in their binary relations. Those
ponderously shifting masses of
densely morose shades advance their
purpose with the propulsive wind;
their pact to unleash the violence
of a storm now near at hand.
Stout as an old oak he sighs with the
exasperation of one tiring of chiding the
unbridled energy of a child. The small
boy, in the very temporary charge of his
grandfather, charges belligerently
through the crowd of his playground
peers. Curiosity aroused, demands to
be lifted, squirming to the heights, to
dangle precariously, screaming soon
enough for immediate rescue.
Park squirrels and small dogs are
fodder for his animated, raucously
shrill shouts, rushing headlong
toward the wary animals. Enthusiasm
undaunted by their skillful avoidance
he turns to clambering precariously
on swings and slides, emphasizing
entitlement with emphatic shoves.
Distracted and attracted by each newly
noticed entitlement, the boy rushes hither
and yon, greybeard clumping behind,
breathlessly. Nothing seems to stump the
child. He is rude and unconcerned as only
a child can be who has never taken heed
of gentle reminders from loving parents
that he must be aware of others as they
are of him. There is nothing frail about
this child's overarching ego propelling
him onward to the invention of discovery.
His assured ownership of all he surveys
on the adventure of life, his pursuit of
adept manipulation of objects that pique
his curiosity endlessly consuming
until boredom suddenly strikes. He caroms
off onto another enticing tangent, the elderly
man admiring, wishing he could capture
the passion and the energy, forgetting
that at some distant time he did.
Born and bred to this winter Arctic
wilderness that is Canada, we pride
ourselves in toughing out the windy blasts
that chill one's marrow, the sleeting rain,
dense ice fog and miles upon mountain
piles of unrelenting snow hushing
everyday winter lives in our country,
the Great White Northern region. As the
Inuit did, we wear mukluks and great,
down-filled parkas, finger-awkward
mittens and the coureur de boise toque.
We know the symptoms of frost-bite
and the dangerous plunge of internal
body temperatures. Our literature is
rich with tales of those who, setting forth
bravely in the midst of a raging snowstorm
mere metres from the security of home
never return alive. The danger of lake
and river ice too premature to hold has
seen too many slip into frigid waters,
trapped by an transparently unforgiving
ceiling, intransigent to self-rescue.
Ice fog moves silently and swiftly to
drown a landscape in opaque silver-grey
beyond which lies danger, and within its
unknown depths the innocently unheeding
the carefree unaware become trapped in
jungles of twisted, warped and burning
metal haplessly driven into unseen.
Storms now and again so persistently
unrelenting that frozen volumes topple
great trees, haul down fire-crackling hydro
lines and coat all surfaces with an
amazing layer of smooth, deadly ice.
At the best of times we revel in the
pristine white loveliness of our Northern
woods, traipse wide-legged on snowshoes,
zip freely along on skies and sleds,
exuberant calls muffled by the deep
landscape coverlet of the acquired
snowpack, the winter sun glinting
gold-and-silver through a veil of slowly
descending, starry clumps of frozen
white beauty on Canada's arras.
Humped, jet-black brooding
on thick dark branches,
silently awaiting the moment
monitoring the arras from
its perch on high, wind
blasting through the
dry autumn-bare branches.
The crow, head half cocked,
alert to the entry of those
clothed bipeds anchoring
tethered pets to the forest
trails known by his winged
clan to leave behind them
valued, competitive treats.
A contest slowly ensues
for as the dark sentry signals
for others of its kind to gather,
settling here and there along
the route, mammalian
counterparts also emerge
to scope out possibilities.
And the game is fully engaged
once the winged omnivores and
the furred herbivores vie for the
casual leavings of the quotidian
travellers, brief guests of the forest
occupants, doling out their fee.
Time comes, as it inevitably
does, for those little rituals
that comprise the measure
of our quotidian lives. Urgent
but not too necessary, yet
comforting tasks that reflect
the seasons and the unstoppable
passage of the times of our lives.
Our days are indeed surfeit
with these familiar and homely
tasks that present, urging us to
recognize their timely due.
For everything in life there is a
season and that becomes the
unvarying reason we take to these
persistent tasks. For example,
tidying up the fall gardens,
anticipating winter's arrival.
So we trudge out to perform
such dutiful tasks as cleaning up
autumn detritus. We cut back
perennials, compost annuals, and
we carefully plant spring bulbs.
Then we ruefully replant those same
bulbs after squirrels have indulged
in their witless fall rituals.
One by one they are called.
Set before me the instruments
of my intention. They are very well
aware of the process. They come,
obedient to my behest, but they
silently protest their dismay in the
procedure to be embarked upon,
poor, dear put-upon creatures.
They are dishevelled and
ill-groomed, their coats grown
shaggy, disreputable as unkempt
strays. This periodic required
grooming of their runaway
pelts presents me with no great
pleasure, yet must be done.
They quiver, quail and wail. One
might imagine that I recklessly
wield a surgical scalpel on the verge
of invasive surgery. Patiently, I snip,
murmuring encouragement to my
hairy scamps. Released from their
enforced purgatory they appear as
refined, elegant, presentable dawgs.
How consumed we are by our need
to be singled out, our very own special
qualities recognized and valued,
claimed by one to whom we will
ourselves respond, finding in that
person's choice of ourselves as life
partner a priceless response to our
heart's need to be discovered,
chosen, loved and cherished.
Vulnerable to the insecurity of
confidence drifting astray when we
remain alone, isolated, the exquisite
vitalizing effect of being a significant
half of an ideal pair eluding our
eager expectation in fulfilment of
our destiny. The puzzling unfairness
that no one has yet discovered our
unique appeal, a dreadful abyss.
The misery of an imposed friendless
solitude compounds the grievance.
Loneliness a miserable burden
for a questing lover, when all about
are symbols of that elusive happiness
granted to others surely no more
deserving. The pain and anguish of
unrequited anticipation beyond galling.
Goaded by rash hopelessness,
determined to wait no longer, that the
dream can be fulfilled with lesser
expectations, reaching impetuously
to absorb a promise proffered hesitantly
by another whose urgency of need
matches your own. Sadly representing
scant match; absent depth, perfection.
