"Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange..."
-William Shakespeare - 'The Tempest'
6:10 a.m.
The rain has stopped. I wriggle out of my sleep.
It has been a tumultuous night - rain, wind, thunder, lightning. My head-burying worked for a while, at keeping out the world, but as the noise and flash of the wildness subsided, as the wind blew itself out, as the tent and fly stopped flapping, the persistent steady rain remained.
For hours I lay awake, full of the old restless energy that often signals spurts in creativity. The downside being sleeplessness, visions of colour, pattern, movement - a creative outpouring that will not allow itself to be ignored.
And so, lighting my lantern, I read.
I arrived.
I dip into my Earth meditations, flip through them, taking in whatever passage is visible in the small dim wedge of lamp-light.
"The winds carry strange smells; this is a day of change." (Chinook Psalter)
"Pushing the crumpled water up ahead..." (Robert Frost)
"Down in the dark and silent loam,
Which is ourselves, asleep, at home." (John Hall Wheelock)
"My words are tied in one." (Yokuts Indian Prayer)
"To lift out the pain, the anger,
Where it can be seen for what it is -" (May Sarton)
I crawl out into the dripping world, a throbbing migraine hangover.
"The winds carry strange smells; this is a day of change." (Chinook Psalter)
"Pushing the crumpled water up ahead..." (Robert Frost)
"Down in the dark and silent loam,
Which is ourselves, asleep, at home." (John Hall Wheelock)
"My words are tied in one." (Yokuts Indian Prayer)
"To lift out the pain, the anger,
Where it can be seen for what it is -" (May Sarton)
I crawl out into the dripping world, a throbbing migraine hangover.
The cloud is high, showing a few breaks, all just starting to lighten. I find my bag of dry kindling and birch bark, and manage to get a tiny fire going on the damp sludge of ash in the bottom of the fireplace. Bit by bit I add more cedar, small twigs, the pungent sweet scent of burning cedar rising up.
Get a fire going.
This seems to be the only thing that matters to me.
I sit for fifteen or twenty minutes, willing my baby fire to grow strong.
Get a fire going.
This seems to be the only thing that matters to me.
I sit for fifteen or twenty minutes, willing my baby fire to grow strong.
Feeding it. Sheltering it.
As I am leaning forward, hovering over my fire, my eyes well up.
As I am leaning forward, hovering over my fire, my eyes well up.
Partly the circling smoke, but more.
I am thinking of the words spoken to me in the night.
"To lift out the pain and anger, where it can be seen for what it is."
*
I pull myself together by getting down to practicalities, getting the fire hot enough to boil a kettle, being number one. I feed it and watch it, add more small sticks, until the kettle (finally) comes to the boil. I put on a saucepan of oatmeal - enough for two good-sized bowls.
I am ravenous after the wet and weary night.
As the sun comes out after breakfast, and with the fire's help, things gradually gradually begin to dry out.
I decide to spend the entire day on my large work, focusing solely on this, thus freeing myself up for a change in plan. By devoting today to my work, I will be able to act on my decisions tomorrow.
The large work, wrapped in its tarp, has shifted slightly in the wild weather.
I unwrap it, have a good look, lay it out in the driest part of the site.
The photographic imagery in spite of the weather, all beautifully set.
*
I pull myself together by getting down to practicalities, getting the fire hot enough to boil a kettle, being number one. I feed it and watch it, add more small sticks, until the kettle (finally) comes to the boil. I put on a saucepan of oatmeal - enough for two good-sized bowls.
I am ravenous after the wet and weary night.
As the sun comes out after breakfast, and with the fire's help, things gradually gradually begin to dry out.
I decide to spend the entire day on my large work, focusing solely on this, thus freeing myself up for a change in plan. By devoting today to my work, I will be able to act on my decisions tomorrow.
The large work, wrapped in its tarp, has shifted slightly in the wild weather.
I unwrap it, have a good look, lay it out in the driest part of the site.
The photographic imagery in spite of the weather, all beautifully set.
Ready for the next stage.
I will need it flat while I work on the photo imagery. This involves pouring water on a roughly 6" square area at a time, leaving it for a few minutes to soak in, then rubbing gently with my fingers to remove the pulp.
I begin work, bent, on my hands and knees, a pot of water by my side, stopping every now and then to dampen an area of the canvas, feed the fire, eat a spoonful of oatmeal, sip tea. The soft faint photographic image begins to take form - the rockface upon which I work, tangled branches, trees reaching skyward - slowly appearing on the canvas, bathed in a misty fog of the papery remnants I am carefully removing bit by bit.
I am here.
And, as if I were looking from somewhere above, I can see the place where I am, a world of its own beneath my fingers, being slowly mapped out, showing me my place in time, here and now.
It is an odd feeling.
I am mapping my own journey. Something rich and strange.
*
September 1967.
And home.
The end of camp, though always a wrench, was softened by several factors. I was to see Dennis and my older brothers for the first time in months, (except for the brief farewell we had had at the end of June).
We had a week together at the cottage before heading back to Toronto and school, a week which was in so many ways a relief for me. My leg was virtually back to normal, though much skinnier and weaker than my right leg. Dennis was my constant companion that week, having, I think, missed me, and we spent a great deal of time canoeing, (though I had to sit with my leg outstretched), building fires, cooking our favourite snacks, and constructing a teepee on a flat spot of the rocky shoreline in front of the cottage.
My parents, just back from a month in Jersey, were in top form. My mother, having completed her latest novel while they were away, a thriller set in Jersey, was relaxed and happy. My father, gearing up for the university term, read aloud Christie Harris, 'Raven's Cry' , primarily to the cottage, none of us forced to be present, though loving the stories and beautiful illustrations, I was again by his side throughout.
The other factor was Ginny. She had said nothing about next year, about returning to camp, (or not). What she did do was invite me to her home for the Thanksgiving weekend. On the last day of camp, she had spoken to my mother for a long time, out of my earshot, the invitation the result.
Her home being in Windsor, Ontario, I was to travel by train from Toronto Union Station, solo, departing on the Thursday and returning on the following Monday. Four nights.
Would I like to go, from my mother, when beckoned to join them.
My reply, an emphatic yes.
It was a cool damp October day when I set off for Windsor. I was allowed to miss school on the Thursday, (Friday, a holiday, being what was called in those days, Teacher's Convention), my train leaving at 11:00. My mother drove me to Union Station, and saw me, my ticket, and my backpack onto the train and into the care of the Conductor.
I was on my way.
On my own.
Other than its length, I remember little about the journey itself. I did have with me, I recall, for entertainment, a number of Archie comics, my ubiquitous sketchbook and pencils, and a pocket full of 'Dubble Bubble'. I ordered, and had brought to me, an orange pop in the old style sweaty bottle with a paper straw, and a bag of chips on a serving tray.
I remember, (as I still have the sketchbook), being astonished by the flat, barren land I had only associated with the prairies. I cynically depicted the landscape outside the train window as
I will need it flat while I work on the photo imagery. This involves pouring water on a roughly 6" square area at a time, leaving it for a few minutes to soak in, then rubbing gently with my fingers to remove the pulp.
I begin work, bent, on my hands and knees, a pot of water by my side, stopping every now and then to dampen an area of the canvas, feed the fire, eat a spoonful of oatmeal, sip tea. The soft faint photographic image begins to take form - the rockface upon which I work, tangled branches, trees reaching skyward - slowly appearing on the canvas, bathed in a misty fog of the papery remnants I am carefully removing bit by bit.
I am here.
And, as if I were looking from somewhere above, I can see the place where I am, a world of its own beneath my fingers, being slowly mapped out, showing me my place in time, here and now.
It is an odd feeling.
I am mapping my own journey. Something rich and strange.
*
September 1967.
And home.
The end of camp, though always a wrench, was softened by several factors. I was to see Dennis and my older brothers for the first time in months, (except for the brief farewell we had had at the end of June).
We had a week together at the cottage before heading back to Toronto and school, a week which was in so many ways a relief for me. My leg was virtually back to normal, though much skinnier and weaker than my right leg. Dennis was my constant companion that week, having, I think, missed me, and we spent a great deal of time canoeing, (though I had to sit with my leg outstretched), building fires, cooking our favourite snacks, and constructing a teepee on a flat spot of the rocky shoreline in front of the cottage.
My parents, just back from a month in Jersey, were in top form. My mother, having completed her latest novel while they were away, a thriller set in Jersey, was relaxed and happy. My father, gearing up for the university term, read aloud Christie Harris, 'Raven's Cry' , primarily to the cottage, none of us forced to be present, though loving the stories and beautiful illustrations, I was again by his side throughout.
The other factor was Ginny. She had said nothing about next year, about returning to camp, (or not). What she did do was invite me to her home for the Thanksgiving weekend. On the last day of camp, she had spoken to my mother for a long time, out of my earshot, the invitation the result.
Her home being in Windsor, Ontario, I was to travel by train from Toronto Union Station, solo, departing on the Thursday and returning on the following Monday. Four nights.
Would I like to go, from my mother, when beckoned to join them.
My reply, an emphatic yes.
It was a cool damp October day when I set off for Windsor. I was allowed to miss school on the Thursday, (Friday, a holiday, being what was called in those days, Teacher's Convention), my train leaving at 11:00. My mother drove me to Union Station, and saw me, my ticket, and my backpack onto the train and into the care of the Conductor.
I was on my way.
On my own.
Other than its length, I remember little about the journey itself. I did have with me, I recall, for entertainment, a number of Archie comics, my ubiquitous sketchbook and pencils, and a pocket full of 'Dubble Bubble'. I ordered, and had brought to me, an orange pop in the old style sweaty bottle with a paper straw, and a bag of chips on a serving tray.
I remember, (as I still have the sketchbook), being astonished by the flat, barren land I had only associated with the prairies. I cynically depicted the landscape outside the train window as
a single straight line.
I arrived.
I saw Ginny on the platform before the train stopped. She looked decidedly un-camp-like, in a beige wool suit and lady's shoes. She would have been eighteen then, in her last year of high school, not surprising to be done up like a young woman, but at twelve, it was a shock to see her out of context.
But her long auburn braid was there, and the Ginny smile.
I jumped off, having stuffed my gear into the backpack,
But her long auburn braid was there, and the Ginny smile.
I jumped off, having stuffed my gear into the backpack,
and into her arms.
As Ginny drove us to her home, I fished around for the note my mother had asked me to give her. When we pulled into the driveway, I gave it to her. Her serious face read it through carefully, then she giggled.
Your mother wonders if your clothing is suitable, she summarized.
This is it, I said looking down at myself.
As Ginny drove us to her home, I fished around for the note my mother had asked me to give her. When we pulled into the driveway, I gave it to her. Her serious face read it through carefully, then she giggled.
Your mother wonders if your clothing is suitable, she summarized.
This is it, I said looking down at myself.
My brother Arthur's striped cotton shirt, shirt-tails showing below a navy cotton v-neck sweater, a grey and blue pleated wool kilt, grey knee socks, desert boots.
I guessed you did the packing yourself, she smiled at me with huge fondness.
My mother, in her typical regal way, had enclosed some cash and asked Ginny to buy me some decent clothes if what I had brought was inappropriate.
I rolled my eyes. Ginny put the money back in the envelope.
You can borrow something. Give her back the envelope, Ginny handing it to me.
Ginny's home was on 'The Drive', Riverside Drive, the long backyard of which ran down to the shore of Lake St. Clair. It was wood and stone, a ranch-style home, and I felt somehow an odd sensation as I entered the front door, that I already knew the look of it, the scent, the earth tones, the wood and stone and fabric textures, the music faintly audible.
As if I'd been here before, or rather, as if I knew I would be here again.
I guessed you did the packing yourself, she smiled at me with huge fondness.
My mother, in her typical regal way, had enclosed some cash and asked Ginny to buy me some decent clothes if what I had brought was inappropriate.
I rolled my eyes. Ginny put the money back in the envelope.
You can borrow something. Give her back the envelope, Ginny handing it to me.
Ginny's home was on 'The Drive', Riverside Drive, the long backyard of which ran down to the shore of Lake St. Clair. It was wood and stone, a ranch-style home, and I felt somehow an odd sensation as I entered the front door, that I already knew the look of it, the scent, the earth tones, the wood and stone and fabric textures, the music faintly audible.
As if I'd been here before, or rather, as if I knew I would be here again.
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