Muskoka Is A Spiritual Place: The Allure Beyond The Pretty Face

MUSKOKA IS A SPIRITUAL PLACE - AND I BELIEVE THE AUTHOR WHO CLAIMED THIS WAS TRUE

IT WAS THE ANSWER TO THE QUESTION, "WHAT IS THE REAL ALLURE OF MUSKOKA BEYOND THE PRETTY FACE?"

     On this incredibly sun-filled, warm Thanksgiving Monday, Suzanne and I decided to take a motor trip up to Windermere, along some of the back-roads that snake through the forests and along the lakeshores. Suzanne, with her new I-Pad, took some action shots of the autumn road trip. It was a nostalgic journey back to my wife's home community, and as we walked through the gate of the Ufford  Cemetery, she informed me that "we were here 31 years ago this very day," as she pointed out her mother's gravestone. Harriet died shortly after we were married but before she passed away, we were able to tell her that son Andrew was less than nine months away. I remember her squeezing my hand, and Suzanne, on the other side of the hospital bed, detected a partial smile. Harriet had been unconscious for several days at this point, and died a few days later.
     The trip through this amazing area of the District of Muskoka, is still one of my favorite drives, especially on days like this, which was about as close to perfect as the weather can get. There were a lot of folks doing the same as us, and it was nice to see all the visible admiration for our region. I was madly writing stories in my mind, about our drive, and the stops we made to more fully enjoy the afforded view. I have a short memory these days, so I got down to the business of tapping these observances down, as soon as I got home to Birch Hollow. Suzanne, on the other hand, had to look up her grandparents' house in Ufford, which has just been listed for sale. She'd really like to buy it, but it just wouldn't work very well, considering we'd have to commute to Gravenhurst six days each week, and then back, consuming about two hours of travel time each day.
      If I was twenty years younger, maybe it would work. In winter weather, living out in Ufford would be fine, if there wasn't the necessity of travelling back and forth to work. It would be a suitable retirement arrangement, like it was for Suzanne's Aunt Ada and Uncle Jack. But in their elder years it became a great burden, because they both needed regular medical care, and Jack wasn't allowed to drive. Having had to help them out with transportation, to make it to doctor's appointments, it's why we were inspired to buy a house here, that allows us to walk to work, get groceries, and seek medical assistance without hours spent in transit. The nostalgia of living in the former home of her grandparents, Harriet and John Shea, would of course be neat; but living rurally now, with our commitments here, would put too much stress on day to day living. On a day like this, yup, we could imagine ourselves sitting out on the rock hillside above the house, and thinking about all our ancestors, in their spirit vapor, passing via horse and buggy, and regularly along the foot trail, through the hill and valley farm-fields, stretching heavenly to meet the west. We felt the spirits of a lot of kin folk today, but none of it was particularly spooky. Just little heart pangs more than anything else, as we laughed together, remembering our many visits with her aunt and uncle on Sunday afternoons like this, when Ada would put out her best china, crystal and silver, and offer us a feast in her nostalgia-filled kitchen. Sure would be nice to re-live those times, but it's just not practical. Hate to have a defeatest attitude about this, seeing as I'm  stalwart optimist, but I'm feeling my age. I still look twenty-nine but feel a hundred and nine.  

ON THE SPIRITUAL PLAIN - DO WE RESIDE AMIDST A HAUNTED LANDSCAPE?

      Before I get too complicated here, and lose readers in my backword / forward principles, I want to clarify my own, tediously honed opinion about the "spirit-kind", as would relate, for example to ghosts; and a "spiritual (spirited) place, such as I believe can be attached to Muskoka, as being poetically haunted by the spirits that are kindred to nature. A haunting doesn't necessarily relate only to the wayward, intrusive activities of the deceased, in real time, as we might believe, after a sighting. We can feel "haunted" by a beautiful vista, of an autumn pasture, or painted woodland, an amazingly brilliant sunrise, or firey sunset on a still bay. It is this aspect and degree of "haunted" and "spirited" that most interests me, for the purpose of this short series of blogs, up to and including Hallowe'en. While those who profit from holding ghost-walks, in the urban areas of our villages and towns, trying to find tell-tale orbs and strange other paranormal activities of haunted houses, cottages, theatres and public buildings, I prefer to highlight for my guests, the natural places, where I have benefitted from these "haunted sensations," which I believe are gifts to the perceptive. I have experienced these spirited moments, while on countryside hikes, slow canoe paddles across a misty lakes, and on vigils by campfires, watching up as the Northern Lights illuminated the autumn sky.
    This series is less about ghost sightings and flying orbs, and more about the enchantments of our alluring district of Ontario. It is the voyeur's perception of the scenery, and the immersion you have chosen, to experience the lakeland, that is the most important consideration. Might you feel the spirit of the land, while alone in the dark environs, watching up at the light show of Northern Lights, listening to the howling of wolves somewhere off in the distant; detecting movement in the branches nearby, and the hoot of an owl on the branches above. What comes to mind in those moments of speculation, in such a remarkable position, to perceive what is real, and what is uncertain, and what the imagination might concoct from information garnered from a lifetime of experiences. Each of us deals with the spiritual possibilities based on our beliefs, and what we have been exposed to during our lives to that point of adventure and discovery. Some of us will have no reason to believe beyond the reality of nature. There are no hobgoblins thrashing in the thicket to your left, but maybe there are several deer wondering why the human is intruding. Others still, may believe the activities around, may have a root in the legends passed down to us by the Indigenous Peoples. We are interpreters of the actualities of thriving nature. The spirit we may presume plays a part in this natural world, has no defined character. It is not a vapour of a woman wearing a Victorian gown, or a shadow that passes through the light of a traveller's lantern, on a deserted road. It is bigger than this, and defies characterization, because it is immortally abstract.
    It is known to sensory perception as an energy source, and may or may not provide a haunting chill, based on its ethereal qualities. It is a feeling you get, that something has joined you on a stroll along the lakeshore, but it means you no harm. It is the tide of goodwill that sweeps over you, when, at a turn in the road, you first look down on a picturesque valley, with a crimson crown of hardwood leaves. You feel energized and inspired by what, in essence, is just a pretty view. It is, for us, who depend on inspiration, from the natural environs, an immense reserve of energy. It is a spiritual energy, that we can't quite explain in rational terms; we just have to show it, as best we can, in the body of our work, whatever that might represent.
     I've been looking for interesting Muskoka folk stories since the early 1980's. I've been writing about local haunts and hauntings from about the same period. I've been keenly seeking-out explanations from artists, musicians and writers, as to why they work here, and not some other location in the province or country. The most insightful of many responses I've received, came from a family friend, and well respected writer, Sylvia DuVernet, who cottaged on Lake Rosseau near Port Carling. I wrote a book with her son Tim back in 1983, entitled "Memories and Images," which was a first of many published works for each of us, respectively and we both worked at this time for Muskoka Publications. I was editor of The Herald-Gazette and Tim worked with Muskoka Sun editor, Bob Boyer, as a feature writer and photographer.
     On one occasion, when I was invited to the family cottage, for an evening social, I got an opportunity to talk privately with Sylvia, who by the way, wrote a well received, and scholarly book, on the former "Muskoka Assembly," of writers, that met for a period of time each summer, on Lake Rosseau's Tobin's Island, to discuss philosophy, religion and the arts in Canada; and what was going on internationally. It operated in the 1920's and 30's. Canada's best known poets and writers were part of the Assembly program, and they wrote and read their work during special gatherings.
     I asked Sylvia why the Muskoka Assembly was established in Muskoka, and what made our district so appealing, at this time, to these revered writers and other artists, apparently smitten by the lakeland. She knew what I was interested in, but I think she felt I may have been trying to find a short-cut to a complicated, layered answer, that would have been a university course in itself.
      I had talked to her several times, but always in round-about ways, trying to get a few additional morsels of insight and observation, but always with the same result. Her approval of my investigation was important to me. On this occasion, as we sat side by side in their heritage-laden cottage, looking out over the lake, she stopped my probe for direction, by stating clearly, "Ted, you know Muskoka is a spiritual place; you've experienced it, but it's difficult to define, isn't it?" alluding to what I already knew, while insisting on getting her validation. Sylvia understood, by our dart and weave conversations, about Muskoka, that I had, in the most intimate way, a passion for discovery.
      I had a sincere desire and commitment to seek-out and experience this power, with all the sensory perception I possessed as a young, eager writer. I understood there was much more to investigate, on my own, in order to truly understand Muskoka beyond its picturesque qualities. It was a geographical location on the map, and I examined its boundaries frequently, trying to memorize all its physical realities, think it would then afford me the privilege of a more ethereal approach, which was as if questing for the portal in the most spiritual sense; to look for and gain access, below the surface qualities and quantities, of a region that sparked every molecule of curiosity in my body.
     Sylvia made it clear in very few words, there was no definitive answer; nothing she could tell me that would cut a clear, unobstructed path to my perceived Holy Grail, as to what made Muskoka tick; made it so alluring and powerful for creative enterprise, from its pre-history, occupied as a summer hunting ground, by Indigenous Peoples, to the later coming of explorers, adventurers, surveyors, sportsmen, settlers, investors, tourists, and amongst them, poets and artists, taking full advantage of inspiration, as if pennies dropped by heaven to those of insight. Sylvia made it clear, in clever overture, that because I had experienced this spiritual aura, even in a small, limited way, the fact I was still questioning its existence, meant it would be a pursuit of discovery I wouldn't ever abandon. A quest I would undertake as long as I lived in this region, because it was important to my entire enterprise of creativity; it was why I was delving into the work of regional writers and historians, feeling compelled to answer my own perplexing questions.
     I knew Muskoka was a spirited / spiritual place, even if Sylvia hadn't stated it with such conviction. I'd known this since my first forays into the woodlands as a kid, shortly after arriving in Bracebridge as an urban refugee. I didn't want to be indoors, and would nearly freeze to death, playing road hockey on some of the coldest nights of the year, having to be called in by my mother, when she judged it was too much play and cold on a child's body. It was the same on the hottest nights of the year, when I'd actually fall asleep on a blanket, stretched over the chilled ground, nodding off after gazing for hours off into the heavens; it all being romanticized by the distant horn of the train, and the sound of the iron wheels grinding the silver rails. Hearing the chimes of the town clock, and the occasional squealing tire of a local hot shot, trying to impress the ladies somewhere up on the main street of town. There were dimensions to it all, and I often felt as if I was balanced on the lip of a portal, between reality and the ethereal world, that was like an always changing dreamscape.
    The allure was as powerful as my conviction there was something more to this beautiful place, than what I witnessed on my walks to and from school, and the weekend explorations of every place that had a cluster of trees within the town limits. I don't know what I was looking for, but it wasn't visible. I appreciated the uplifting qualities of the incredible landscapes I witnessed through the four seasons, but the fact I wanted to write about it, even as a kid, meant to me, even before I'd written my first short story, or romantic poem, that I understood that a powerful undertow of energy existed, and I needed to know about it more intimately.
     Long before I had my first inkling, writing might be a worthwhile pursuit in life, I was composing stories in my mind, that were way beyond my capabilities to put into print. For years I let the landscape's energy inspire me, without any corresponding record of my feelings. I just basked in its spiritual force-field, and pondered what it meant beyond creating the urge to stay outdoors and explore. To say I was a child of nature, would have been a comment my mother would have concurred, as being accurate to the fine point of my writing pen. But it was never the case I didn't like being in our apartment, or being at school; if given an opportunity, however, I just wanted to be outdoors more of the time. The reason was simple. My imagination was bolstered outdoors. I was empowered by something abstract out there, that liberated my soul, and directed my adventures. This has never subsided for me. Not once. Except that in modern times, this raw, abundant energy, has influenced me to write and prolifically so! Sylvia DuVernet knew I would find what I was looking for, and she was absolutely right. And it's always in the eye, and mind of the beholder, to be used as a resource as needed. I have always had an insatiable appetite in this regard. What a joy it is then, to never suffer a writer's block, when all I have to do is step outdoors and harvest what I require to fill the void.
     Is Muskoka a spirited / spiritual place? I hope I can portray this, in a number of ways, in the coming feature series, on regional folk stories, legend and lore, touching on the allegedly paranormal and supernatural. I will draw on the work of authors such as Washington Irving, the folklorist author, who wrote The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and who penned the name "Bracebridge," borrowed in 1864, to identify the first post office in the Muskoka town of the same name. A convenient irony. Irving thought the historic Hudson River Valley of New York was a spirited place as well. And he had lots to write about. A lifetime's worth in fact.