The Last Post, St. Jovite, Quebec November 10, 1978

Today is my 28^th birthday.  I am celebrating it here, in a rental condo in St. Jovite, Quebec.  It’s an elegant place, with tall stainless steel and glass windows and sliding doors to a balcony overlooking, well, more condos.  Apart from the usual amenities (a great thoroughly modern kitchen and bathroom), it also has a lovely franklin fireplace, set on a raised red brick hearth.  I have no wood for a fire, so have put my travelling candle there, for ambiance.   

I am drinking cider out of a wine glass.  I washed before hand, just to be sure, and when 

I set it down on the multi-coloured table-mat I saw that many little soap bubbles had become trapped in the hollow space between the glass bottom and the table mat. They reminded me of the image I had earlier that day, of how the mind’s cells might look – honey-combish, but much less regular than a honey-comb.  Under the wine glass, some of the bubbles were very tiny, some much larger – some four-sided, some six-sided – and interlocking in all directions, distinctly three-dimensional. The constellations were not stable, but kept forming and reforming. 

 

And I thought about how the mind seems to want to form closures – gestalts – to complete things, make them balanced.  And how it will grab any piece of information and use it to complete an incomplete formation. This last piece may be quite inappropriate, may not really ‘fit’ at all, but the mind decides it 'will do'.  And then this last piece becomes locked in, as, quickly, other cells around it form bonds with it, and hold it to its shape.  A constellation forms and crystalizes. And this crystallization is the reason that thought patterns can be so difficult to change. But watching the soap bubbles under the wine glass, it is clear they are in a state of flux. They merge, dissolve, change shape and size. It often appears that they explode.  I wonder, in the mind, could an individual ‘cell’ or thought-bite explode to allow completely new pathways to open, new processes to emerge.

 

The cider, the bubbles under the glass, and the little flame of my candle draw my thoughts inward.  Or perhaps it is the occasion, marking another year on the planet, that leads me to think about who I am, where I’ve been, and where I’m going.  

 

I think of all the things I’ve seen and done and felt on this cross-Canada jaunt, in the five months I’ve been ‘on the road’, discovering Canada, and myself.  

 

I have walked – and run – and sat – and written – in the midst of the forest and on its edges, under the pines and under the maples. I have drunk my tea as I gazed out at the rippled waters of a lake, reflecting in dapples the colours of the hills around. I have brushed my teeth under starry starry skies, thinking all the while of infinity – of just how far away those stars might be – not even really 'neighbours' to each other, though they look to be. 

 

I have pitched my tent in grassy fields where I could see for miles around; in thick forest patches where the ground was soft and the tent pegs drove in easily; in crowded campgrounds where the smoke from a hundred fires formed a smog so thick I might just as well have laid myself out on the pavement in downtown Vancouver – or Toronto; in deserted campgrounds where I always seemed to find water and wood enough; on cliffs overlooking lake and sea, sometimes so windy I thought I might be literally blown away; in places frequented by skunk, racoon, and bear, with big and little noses and paws, sniffing and scratching. 

I have pitched my tent alone, and with others; in the light of day, or in the semi-darkness, sometimes helped by flashlights or car head-lights. And I have pitched my tent in wind, heat, cold, rain, and even hail. And I have taken it down again... 

 

I've learned how to pick the 'best' campsites – their exposure and orientation to the sun, the proximity to wood and water, nearest 'neigh bour'. And I've learned where to pitch my tent within it – the sun, smoke from the fire (against bugs), softness...  And I've learned how to stay dry and warm within my tent, maximizing comfort.  I’ve cut my hands and fingers with slips of axe and knife, and roughened the skin handling firewood and doing the rough chores of camp. I've been bitten by mosquitoes, wasps, and horseflies, and suffered the nigh time itches from them all.

 

I've learned how to make a fire -- and keep it going -- no matter what the weather, or how dry (or wet) the wood.  I've learned which woods burn best and where to find them. I've learned how best to fan the flames when the night is still and no little breeze to help. I have cooked over open fires, tasting smoke in everything I eat – and especially in my tea. My own version of Lapsang Souchong.  I've lost more than one meal to the vagaries of open fire cooking, and I know the crunch of an over-sized cinder in my soup. At times I’ve used the little primus, thinking how to use as little gas as possible, making the heat last. Or not cooked at all, but eaten raw and cold – salads, crackers, cheese, fruit. 

 

I’ve watched my campfire's dancing flames, or its dying embers as I settled down to sleep. And I have dreamt or mused silently there, beside the fire, feeling one side warm and the other cool. I’ve begun to understand the magic of fire -- and its power -- but still I don't really know why it burns. I've shared food and drink with friends by fires too, experienced their cheer. But mostly it's been solitude – just my self and the fire – and perhaps a star or two for company. 

 

I've cruised at 35 or 40 mph, stopping every few miles to take a photograph, a walk, or to play some flute. And I've driven 60, 70, 80 mph, keen to 'get somewhere'.  I've enjoyed the act of driving, moving through the landscape, watching the colours, patterns, shapes, as they change around me. And I've driven in a daze, not caring what's outside the car, drunk with road-fatigue, and wishing I could stop, yet compelled, for one reason or another, to go on. I've driven during the day, in hot hot sun and pouring rain. In snow, in hail. And I've driven at night, when all I could see was the white line on the road, the head lights coming towards me, the tail-lights ahead, the odd illuminated road-sign. 

 

And as I’ve driven I've listened to Randy Newman and Ry Cooder, or Mozart's Divertimento and Vivaldi's Four Seasons -- at least a dozen times. And in all kinds of landscapes. I've driven through spectacular mountain scenery with Paganini's violin concerto blaring, and I've cruised through quiet Ontario towns listening to Mozart's flute quartets. My tapes are old friends now. 

 

I've spent time with people young and old, country-folk, and urban dwellers, with travellers and nomads.  I've been treated with amazing generosity and openness by total strangers who reminded me of the essential goodness and kindness in the world. And I've been harassed by boys and men who made me feel annoyed, at times afraid.

 

I've stopped to walk in forests, or run on beaches, through sand and waves, feeling the sheer joy of movement.  I’ve stopped to take a photo, or admire a view.  I’ve spent hours watching sea-gulls soar, steal food from one another or drop clams on a rocky beach to break their shells open while I gather colourful rocks and muse at their intelligence.  

I've played my flute in prairie fields, on hilltops overlooking lakes and ponds, by rushing streams (we harmonize), in strange rooms, in Sweet Grass barns, in full sun; and in cold, bitter winds. I've played for minutes or for hours. I've played through happiness and loneliness. 

 

I’ve listened, still and quiet, to the 'voices' in the landscapes – the wind, a bird's song, a cricket’s chirp, the rustle of dry leaves, the buzz of a persistent fly – or worse, mosquito – the lonely call of a loon across a lake, the sound of rain-drops on my tent. I have tried to hear more acutely, to listen not just to the sounds, but to the messages they convey. I have looked upon my world intently, and really tried to see – to see the colours, patterns, shapes, and textures – all the nuances and the fine distinctions:  the differences between the redness of a maple and the redness of an alder, how lichens grow on dead tree branches, how little trees poke up amidst the underbrush. 

To see how clouds move across the sky, leaping over mountains, separating from one another and then joining up again. To see how a spider's web catches its prey, how maggots infest a car-hit porcupine by the side of the road, how ants climb and clamour through the forest, into dead trees, making houses deep within the bark. To see the exuberance in Dusty's body when we're alone in a grassy field, or on a walk in the woods – running, leaping, bounding – being dog. 

 

I’ve tried to feel – to really feel how I am affected by all of these things. The ache in my legs and feet as I hike for hours in the mountains.  The ache in my back and neck as I drive for hours.  The warmth of the sun as I lie on a beach.  The cold in my bones as I try to sleep without enough blankets to keep me warm in the Canadian fall. The breath in my lungs as it blows a note within my flute.

 

I've travelled miles without speaking to anyone else, days without seeing another person; weeks without real contact.  I am coming to know what it is to be completely alone, to be somewhere where no one knows you are, somewhere where you don't even really know yourself. 

I know what it is to be afraid – of the aloneness, of the dark, of people unknown, of animals unseen (but heard...).  I have thought a lot about these fears – their basis, their purpose, their usefulness. I have, in some ways, 'conquered' them, or at least relegated them to their proper place – they seldom haunt me now.

 

I've thought a lot about this great nation, Canada – its landscapes, its people, its history.  

I’ve wondered about the incredible forces that have formed these landscapes – heaved up great mountains, cut deep rifts and channels, wiped out huge swaths of forests with awful, awesome lightning strikes. And then ‘stepped back’ and allowed the land to heal itself, the forest to grow again, the animals to return, the birds to sing. About how we, the settlers from foreign lands, have tamed, husbanded, manicured, spoiled, and abused our these lands and waters.  

About how what we have done has affected us, and even more so the First Nations peoples.  How we robbed them of home and heart, culture and identify.  And then blamed it all on them.  I’ve thought about my role in all of that, and how I and we can make amends, how right past wrongs, how achieve some measure of restitution.

 

I have learned how to be with my self – to simply be, not to have to do something, or anything – but to do what and when I please. I have learned the value of doing things when the time is right – and how much more I get out of doing them then. I have begun to understand the tremendous value of relaxation, of letting be, of going with the flow rather than against it.  I have explored parts of my self that I’d lost touch with – and the powers and the ‘forces of circumstance’ that have shaped me, that have made me ‘who I am’, and that I now know, absolutely, I have the power to change.  I am more comfortable in my skin.  I think again of that packet of sugar with the slogan:  “Discover Canada, Discover Yourself”. 

 

And I know I am not finished on this journey of discovery.  Not yet.