THE WRITER'S CHRISTMAS - I AM A PONDERER, A LOVER OF QUIET CONTEMPLATION - AND A SOCIAL OUTCAST
ON BEING THE OBSERVER, AND INTERPRETER
"MY CHAMBER WAS IN THE OLD PART OF THE MANSION, THE PONDEROUS FURNITURE OF WHICH MIGHT HAVE BEEN FABRICATED IN THE DAYS OF GIANTS. THE ROOM WAS PANELED, WITH CORNICES OF HEAVEY CARVED WORK, IN WHICH FLOWERS AND GROTESQUE FACES WERE STRANGELY INTERMINGLED, AND A ROW OF BLACK-LOOKING PORTRAITS STARED MOURNFULLY AT ME FROM THE WALLS. THE BED WAS OF RICH, THOUGH FADED DAMASK, WITH A LOFTY TESTER, AND STOOD IN THE NICHE OPPOSITE THE BOW WINDOW. I HAD SCARCELY GOT INTO BED WHEN A STRAIN OF MUSIC SEEMED TO BREAK FORTH IN THE AIR JUST BELOW THE WINDOW. I LISTENED, AND FOUND IT PROCEEDED FROM A BAND, WHICH I CONCLUDED TO BE THE WAITS FROM SOME NEIGHBORING VILLAGE. THEY WENT AROUND THE HOUSE, PLAYING UNDER THE WINDOWS. I DREW ASIDE THE CURTAINS TO HEAR THEM MORE DISTINCTLY. THE MOONBEAMS FELL THROUGH THE UPPER PART OF THE CASEMENT, PARTIALLY LIGHTING UP THE ANTIQUATED APARTMENT. THE SOUNDS, AS THEY RECEDED, BECAME MORE SOFT AND AERIAL, AND SEEMED TO ACCORD WITH QUIET MOONLIGHT. I LISTENED AND LISTENED - THEY BECAME MORE AND MORE TENDER AND REMOTE, AND, AS THEY GRADUALLY DIED AWAY, MY HEAD SUNK UPON THE PILLOW AND I FELL ASLEEP." (CHRISTMAS EVE)
THE PASSAGE ABOVE WAS WRITTEN BY AMERICAN AUTHOR, WASHINGTON IRVING, IN HIS EARLY 1800'S PRESENTATION OF "THE SKETCH BOOK," WHICH INTRODUCED THE READER, FOR THE FIRST OF TWO BOOKS, WITH SQUIRE BRACEBRIDGE, OWNER OF A LARGE ENGLISH ESTATE, AND HIS VISITOR, GEOFFREY CRAYON, THE FICTIONAL TRAVELLER, WHO WAS FAIRLY CLOSE IN CHARACTER TO IRVING HIMSELF…..AND HIS LOVE FOR BRITISH COUNTRYSIDE RAMBLINGS AND CHERISHED TRADITIONS.
"WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, IT SEEMED AS IF ALL THE EVENTS OF THE PRECEDING EVENING HAD BEEN A DREAM, AND NOTHING BUT THE IDENTITY OF THE ANCIENT CHAMBER CONVINCED ME OF THEIR REALITY. WHILE I LAY MUSING ON MY PILLOW, I HEARD THE SOUND OF LITTLE FEET PATTERING OUTSIDE OF THE DOOR, AND A WHISPERING CONSULTATION. PRESENTLY A CHOIR OF SMALL VOICES CHANTED FORTH AN OLD CHRISTMAS CAROL, THE BURDEN OF WHICH WAS, 'REJOICE, OUR SAVIOUR HE WAS BORN, ON CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING.' I ROSE SOFTLY, SLIPPED ON MY CLOTHES, OPENED THE DOOR SUDDENLY, AND BEHELD ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FAIRY GROUPS THAT A PAINTER COULD IMAGINE. IT CONSISTED OF A BOY AND TWO GIRLS, THE ELDEST NOT MORE THAN SIX, AND LOVELY AS SERAPHS. THEY WERE GOING THE ROUNDS OF THE HOUSE, SINGING AT EVERY CHAMBER DOOR, BUT MY SUDDEN APPEARANCE FRIGHTENED THEM INTO MUTE BASHFULNESS. THEY REMAINED FOR A MOMENT PLAYING ON THEIR LIPS WITH THEIR FINGERS, AND NOW AND THEN STEALING A SHY GLANCE FROM UNDER THEIR EYEBROWS, UNTIL, AS IF BY ONE IMPULSE, THEY SCAMPERED AWAY, AND AS THEY TURNED AN ANGLE OF THE GALLERY, I HEARD THEM LAUGHING IN TRIUMPH AT THEIR ESCAPE.
"EVERYTHING CONSPIRED TO PRODUCE KIND AND HAPPY FEELINGS IN THIS STRONGHOLD OF OLD FASHIONED HOSPITALITY. THE WINDOW OF MY CHAMBER LOOKED OUT UPON WHAT IN SUMMER WOULD HAVE BEEN A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE. THERE WAS NO SLOPING LAWN, A FINE STREAM OF WINDING AT THE FOOT OF IT, AND A TRACT OF PARK BEYOND, WITH NOBLE CLUMPS OF TREES AND HERDS OF DEER. AT A DISTANCE WAS A NEAT HAMLET, WITH THE SMOKE FROM THE COTTAGE CHIMNEYS HANGING OVER IT; AND A CHURCH, WITH ITS DARK SPIRE IN STRONG RELIEF AGAINST THE CLEAR COLD SKY."
A SEASONAL SOJOURN OF THE REINCARNATED
Occasionally, at this time of year, I will talk with Suzanne, at some length over mulled cider, about my family from England. The "Jackson" side of my family tree. Quite a number of the Jackson, including William and Benjamin, who had resided within easy travel of Liverpool, emigrated to Canada, in the mid 1800's, to better their lives, on newly opened farmsteads near Brighton, Ontario. Suzanne is a whiz at family history, and has over the past three years, given us a full tree, instead of the few meagre branches, that we'd been going on wrongly, as gospel, for three decades at least. She adores her subscription to Ancestry.ca. When we begin chatting about our family roots overseas, inevitably we will bring up the possibility that we have been reincarnated into the modern era, from family stock going back centuries…..maybe to Elizabethan times. We both, you see, have particularly poignant feelings, at times, almost as if, like the sudden jerk of a heart-string, from somewhere beyond mortality, we are sent abruptly into some historic ambience, and attire, we have given up trying to explain. We each have different triggers, that will give us that curious, momentary instinct, we were part of another time period. It could be the sensory arousal, from something as simple as a wafting fragrance, or scent of roast beef cooking in the oven…..the aroma of spices or fresh herbs. Flowers as perfume. It can also be a weather condition, the sunrise or sunset, or a motor trip through the countryside, that makes us reflect on something we know nothing (apparently) about. I can tell when she's having some historical flashback, although mine are usually always experienced in solitude situations, and most often the result of two aggressive triggers, sometimes all at once…..which is definitely of the nature of "fantastic."
The first trigger, is when I spend long hours at this keyboard. Tonight, for example, I was supposed to attend a party, my lads were throwing, for their friends and business associates. As I am a true social misfit, and hate small talk with a passion, I opted out with the apology….."Geez, I'd love to, but I've got a blog to write." Even in the few minutes I sat here, trying to put together the basics for a column, I was drawn, to the point of being compelled, to Washington Irving's book in the case above my desk. The reason I enjoy Irving's writing, especially about old England, is that it has, all my life, been the one sure exposure, that will send my spirit wandering the English moors, looking for Squire Bracebridge's estate. Since I began reading Irving, as a teenager, I have made it a regular visitation ever since. Do you know, that even Charles Dickens, admitted, he often retired to bedlam, with a copy of a Washington Irving book, tucked under his arm. For some reason, it is Irving more than any other writer, even Dickens, who has for long and long, stimulated my imagination well beyond the story, such that I can find my concentration taken over by thoughts and memories I can't logically explain. It's as if Irving's work, especially his Christmas stories, open up a portal for my old well-travelled soul, to cross back into familiar history. It has always been a haunting experience, yet remarkable enough, that I can't help tempting the situation, feeling that one day, I may actually discover the truth behind the strange, alluring aura of commonplace, that puts me in the English countryside…..where possibly I once lived in a former life. Is it an over-active imagination? Wishful fantasy? Or just the trappings of a good writer, Washington Irving, doing what accomplished authors are supposed to do…..with any story they write. Take you on an adventure!
The second most powerful trigger, is anything played on a lute. I must have been a musician way back, and it is Elizabethan period songs, that can make me melt into a sentimental whirling dervish, trying relentlessly, to escape my mortal fetters……without knowing why it's is so imperative to break free. I can eventually collect the visualizations, of the same English countryside, almost to the point where I could walk to the place I once resided. I have heard period songs, that hurt my heart. The passion for a return, to those times, being so imbedded in my soul……possessing some meaning and romantic overture, I am at a loss to understand…..at least in this mortal capacity. If you have ever felt similarly, and believe in the possibilities of reincarnation, I certainly don't need to explain this further. You have been strangely titillated by the exposure to something, that acts to inspire thoughts, that may not be your own….at least in this lifetime. In my case, if I was to listen to Elizabethan music daily, I would turn into a jelly of formless sentimentality…..because this is what happens, even when I occasionally hear the music, performed on CBC 2, my channel of choice. I sit there speechless, and let messenger ghosts remind me I'm being beckoned by another century. It's not that I like this period music, but it has a power over me, that makes my knees wobble more than usual. I can feel myself part of a courtyard dance, with a woman I must have known from this same era, and it is definitely not my wife. I can see her face so clearly, it becomes very unsettling, as if the very thought, and dance of which I can't control, smacks of infidelity……unless I turn the music off quickly before anything happens. And yes, it is like seeing a wayward spirits, and no fooling, I'm one of them. I've referenced this before, in these stories, and especially in my Muskoka and Algonquin Ghost blogs….., that I have seen my ghost before…..and it's not like I wouldn't know the chap. When the ghost wanders about, in Elizabethan times, I must admit, the face of the dancer, is not the one I see in the mirror each morning…..but the aura is definitely something I'm familiar with. I don't tell Suzanne about these weird time-travel, deja vu' experiences, because they stretch miles beyond what she has felt similarly; hers always representing a more recent history…….such as from the pioneer years, like her ancestors, working the rocky soil of Muskoka, near Three Mile Lake, at Ufford. I think my reincarnation skipped a few centuries, because I definitely have never managed a plow or used hay fork, even in my wildest dream, or nightmare.
What really gets my spirit travels up and going, is the approach of the Christmas season. There is no other time of the year, as strong for these deja vu' sensations, as the Christmas to New Years period. Even traveling in England, didn't cause much thoughtful recollection, of a previous life, which frankly shocked me.I've had these strange feelings since childhood. I think I tried too hard, to encourage these sudden feelings, because then it would have been easier to follow and maybe even research. If it is actually England or Scotland, in my flashbacks. I think it is, but these are all confusing time travels of the mind. For whatever reason, it is the Christmas season, most of all, that evokes thoughts of a past life. I am able to resolve a lot of these urges and issues, by writing, and when I have my most compelling periods, where I have one foot in an English dance, and the other here at Birch Hollow, I gather up my wayward soul, and set myself the task of writing about it; and anything the thoughts may generate on their own. I can tell you this honestly. I must also have been a writer then, possibly a "less than" great bard, who was particularly sensitive to the natural environment. When I feel this surging sentimentality, I am most prone to writing what I call my landscape pieces, which you can read by accessing my "Muskoka as Walden," blogsite, which I have used for several years, as an outlet, whenever nature calls…..and it most surely does……but I can tell you, it is because the landscape here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of an English moor. For the record, I have never once set foot in an English moor, at least in this chapter of "My Spirit Doth Travel." You will find hundreds of occasions, really without intent, where I have referenced a Muskoka lowland, or bog, as a "Moor," as if it is as familiar as the one that might have been written about, as a backdrop for a Sherlock Holmes murder mystery. It may be a bog, and a typical Muskoka wetland, with ponds, but when I write about it, during one of my deja vu' moments, it is a "moor." Plain and simple. Is this strange or not?
At Christmas, I am an English townsman. I can see the thatched cottages, and the narrow, winding country lanes, with the neatly crafted rock fences, and the hills and valleys in the distance, that are simply not the topography of Muskoka. I can imagine myself lodging in some road house, waiting on a settle by the fire, for my mug of dark ale, and listening to the ice pellets hitting the roof and the wind creaking the old metal sign, on its rusted hinge, hanging above the door, out front. Like Irving's character, the good Mr. Crayon, I can hear and see the traditions of retired Christmases, as if they are new again……and I ponder for a moment, if I might ever be pulled back entirely, on one of these memorable sojourns from the present…..and if so, what would happen to my story right now……if this history became so compelling, as a vacuum, taking me all the way home, many mortal lifetimes from here? What might Suzanne think, upon finding only my slippers and still warm pipe, and the imprint of an old author, still recognizable on the chair cushion?
"It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of religion of peace and love, and has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the caress and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose, of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place, of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood." Washington Irving.
Somehow, I have come to feel that Irving himself, a tireless preserver of British traditions, even as an American, felt the spirit-kind wasn't necessarily confined to one existence alone. Maybe it's why I cherish his work, as I do. There is a validation, to being called to assemble again, "about the paternal hearth, that rallying place, of the affections."
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