A Place of Restoration - A Place of Contemplation - I Am Home
I have just returned home after a lengthy and vigorous walk through The Bog....the murky early evening atmosphere hangs as a thin veil over the remaining cat-tails not yet cut down by the first few snowfalls before Indian Summer. The wind still washes down mournfully through the dry grasses and against the outstretched border evergreens.....and there are times when the witness stops to listen.... sure that someone is at that moment, walking over the matted vegetation along the tinkling creek which snakes across the wetland. Many times I have stopped suddenly in an attempt to catch the perpetrator in his tracks. Not the faintest shadow of anything approaching. I have stood still, awaiting some vision to all of a sudden appear along the far embankment, as it should have...... as this is where the footsteps seemed to be manifesting. I've waited patiently for some material sign, anything at all, certain I was not alone in these darkening woodlands. At times I would purposely enclose myself in a cluster of trees to avoid detection, sensing whoever was tromping about, didn't want my company. As I watched out over the moor and even back in the abutting woods, to see if the approaching footfall belonged to man or beast, it would all quickly be consumed by the encroaching winter's eve. There is nothing to be witnessed. No animal passing, no neighborhood dog running through the lowland.....not even the several familiar cats that cross over from their homesteads, to catch mice near fallen logs. I will hear the footsteps again. They are the sounds of The Bog. The great Bards might believe it to be the land's own heartbeat I hear. It is above all, a wonderfully mysterious place in which to walk, before a new vigil at this old keyboard.
There is the "Talking Tree," that makes a creaking sound, as it reacts to even the slightest air current, which presumably makes it connect with an adjacent trunk which leans to the west. There are comforting, familiar sounds in the lowland that remind you of the normal tides between sunrise and sunset. Ever since we have lived in this Birch Hollow home, here in Gravenhurst, this enchanting little woods has been a cherished and inspiring companion. As a writer I don't think I could have survived in this house at Birch Hollow, without having the pleasant and healing solitude in which to wander occasionally. There are many times in the writing day that I, at least in mind, throw up the arms of defeat, and resolve to get away from the words that either haunt or elude me. The Bog has always been as much a place to escape and hide out for awhile, until these grand natural resources and cheerful environs can once again restore my interest to return to task.
At this time of great economic peril in our global village, and the stresses many citizens and families will face in the coming months, I do wish they had a place like The Bog, to fall safely and everso gently into nature's strong and forgiving embrace. I can recall an earlier recession our family lived through (1989-1993) here at Birch Hollow, Gravenhurst. When it seemed at times we might be forced to give up our new house because of cash shortfalls and a teetering antique business that was losing money monthly, a nightly walk in these same restorative woods gave me reason to pause and reflect in a most positive way. I would enter the pathway down to the Bog feeling great despair and the weighty responsibility of increasing debt-load, and after even a few moments, the burden seemed so much less intrusive than I had perceived. If I was a million miles from objectivity when I entered its embrace, it was equally true that when I ambled home again, my burdens seemed so much less threatening and unresolvable. These inspiring and relaxing sojourns, however brief, gave me reason to pause and address each of many problems..... without feeling the typical gritty purge of all good-humor from the body that some of us experience just talking about adverse accounting issues. What began with a heaving frustration to the point of chest pains and headache, diminished to simple action plans calmly thought-out. I soon learned how to relax and enjoy the ambience of a heavenly place on earth. I was not judged here. I was treated to a rare sojourn from the urban conundrum of life....which I have always felt was a sort of unholy terror upon the vibrant soul. I still retreat to the woods for inspiration and that sense of healing calm a weary traveller needs today to counter the heightening work-a-day, everyday, all-over-the-place "stresses."
I have always harshly measured and reviewed my writing credits and accomplishments, whether published that year or set aside for future projects, at the end of each year as a matter of tradition moreso than simply routine. It is on New Year's Eve that I either feel good or bad, complete or dissatisfied with that year's output of creative enterprise. There have been a few really bad years when I didn't feel like writing at all. This usually had something to do with the jerks I used to work for, and their meddling and bumbling attempts to make me conform to their plan.....their vision of what a good paper sells to the community. It just never worked and I told them it wouldn't but they had to try anyway. Sometimes their nagging and ignorance did discourage my creative interests for a time......because I started to believe the whole bloody publishing industry was being inundated with bad actors with giant ego problems...... clowns in publishing who set aside good reasoning and sound judgement, in the fruitless pursuit of winning friends and influencing others based on perpetuating faulty logic. I wanted bosses with experience and intelligence.....give me a scholarly overseer please! There haven't been many. So a few year-ends saw me frustrated with less than pleasing annual output and achievements yet always vowing, even in the midst of an admitted slump of inspiration, that I'd bounce back somehow and grasp up that Pulitzer. Never been wrong about that, except the Pulitzer part, since the mid 1970's. Good years, bad years, I'm still pretty pleased to say that by the end of 2008, this will be counted among the truly good years of writing productivity.
I credit this adopted hometown for a good portion of this generous increase in writing interest. I've noted this before in my blog submissions...... but then it's quite true that I have always found my dwelling places in Muskoka (since the late 1970's) have been nuturing to tired old writing habits. I have lived in a few places in my life when it was simply impossible, inspiration wise, to write anything more than an occasional letter to the editor to complain about noise pollution, traffic volumes, neighborhood crowding, bad neighbors and pollution. Moving back to Muskoka after university cost me a girlfriend...... who insisted her beau have city-aspirations. Funny thing is that I was brought up.... for those first dozen years.... in a fairly big Southern Ontario city. Burlington. While I admit to being a little frazzled, when I then got dumped unceremoniously in the hinterland as a result of my father's employment in the local lumber trade.....thank God I had these woods to fall back on for a soft and safe landing. I was glad to leave the city and as far as writing opportunities.....well, I sacrificed those too, especially from the market I could have experienced to the restricted one in Muskoka.....yet it was worth the sacrifice in the long run.....which would be my charmed life now......possessing a freedom to write when I want, about what I wish, and as much as this computer will host without blowing up in my face. I seem to be able to get feature pieces published when I need exposure, and I always look forward to sitting down here and tapping all afternoon long, while the cats curl around my feet for warmth....for them and me, and the historic trappings of an antique book collector/dealer wring around me in so many sculpted, askew piles. It's my art form I suppose. Never a straight stack of books in the whole rickety place. I love it. We look alike. A hobbling, grumbling old writer-kind hunched over a crooked walking stick amidst the wonderous collection of antiquarian texts.....all as a standard but endearing characteristic....., these trademark leaning stacks of books in every nook and cranny of Birch Hollow. I've even written some of the books in these same off-kilter piles that touch the ceiling in some places. I've read a lot. I've written more. Does it show?
There are times in every month when I blow my stack about something or other I've either read in the paper, or found out about local politics, and it immediately effects my writing output. I can go from landscape writing to scathing columnist with a mission to carve out the mistruths....such that I frequently have to employ my resident censor....my wife....to cut it back to half strength to avoid having a lynch mob show up at the front porch. I trace this all back to my years in the news business when as a pesky reporter I found out stuff about local government that made good headlines....but in actuality a horrible reality.....because I knew that whatever we exposed of bad governance, there was too much left....and like quicksand the surface always returned to its predatory stillness; the victim, the taxpayer, left to decay into the particles of sand that swallowed him/her. I liked to find stuff out but I didn't appreciate that no meaningful correction lasted past a council term. With a lesser aggressive press these days it drives me nuts to think about all the crap going on behind the scenes. So when I get an inkling, hear a rumor, or find some act of irresponsible governance, I can't think of anything else but donning that reporter's fedora again, and hitting town hall with some old fashioned investigative reporting. Then I walk in the calming woods and retreat to Thoreau's Walden Pond in thought.......and the ogre is passive once more.
As a writer I adore living in Gravenhurst. As a political activist, let's face it, the work is never done, the problem never truly rectified no matter where one dwells in this crazy old world. But one thing's for sure, when the ire is raised, I at least know where to go for the good of my soul. These healing woods, God Bless.