monday grumps: didn’t happen
06/07/2010 § Leave a comment
Being away from a computer all day was enlightening. Skipping on a day of work and enjoying a seemingly seventh was surreal and blissful. For once, I was contentedly still:
The day was hot, humid, and stifling, but the brisk breeze on the island shifted the mood from stagnant to satisfying. The temperature had reached 42`C with the humidex, but the south side wind on Hanlon’s cut the crankiness like a plastic knife through Gruyère. Everywhere, people were enjoying a lifestyle too far forgotten: lounging on towels, dogs diving deep into Lake Ontario retrieving water-logged sticks, the youth creating castles made of sand — which turned out to be 20-somethings constructing a sand-penis&boobs. Life seemed simple in that moment.
As evening gently pressed, the 20-somethings let their guard down on the fort. Silently, a trio of kids armed with large branches from the brush ventured over to the creation, confirming the penis&boob theory through their giggles. Swinging high behind them, they struck down upon the pornographic sculpture. The structure was destroyed, but the foundations remained.
So it was this morning, I laid my foundations: A French-press to start my inspiration and a quietness to begin my day.
Just by performing these two tasks, I have given myself the ability to accomplish what I would like to do or what I would like to build during the day. I would not like to diminish its significance by referring to it as a routine — as each day may begin differently — but I am most at peace when I can start with these two things. A creature of habit, perhaps. Like everything else.
Yesterday, Mr. P and I took a dip in the lake. I stayed in my jean shorts — as I did not have “beach appropriate” underwear. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but standing over our only towel — a face towel — water dripping from my face, the sand accumulating on my toes, I realized that the next few hours would be uncomfortable to sit. Whipping on my over-sized shirt, I crept around the corner to peel off my denims, hanging them on a bush to dry. Something had caught Mr. P’s eyes, something blue hidden in the brush.
There, cradled at the base of a fern, was a nest of unhatched eggs — unguarded, slightly exposed and unquestioningly vulnerable.
Mr. P & I:
– Intriguing. I wonder who those belong to and why they are left unattended? I am a little concerned.
– Yeah, I dunno. Maybe the parents were attacked or maybe its a safe neighbourhood.
It was a bizarre feeling, bordering on violation, to have stumbled upon another creature’s home — its safe haven, its foundations of propagation. With one swooping swing of a branch it could have been destroyed. Just like that, a generation lost. Its fragility, like the eggshell, was haunting to the spirit. We left the nest alone, once again.
Back at the beach, a lone female duck was interested in our crackers, nibbling from our hands, neck outstretched and yearning. She, Winnifred, would not get close enough to pet, snapping back her neck and waddling away if she came within elbow-distance. However, she did manage to bat her second-eyelids enough times, eating half our package of Carr’s. Mouth dry and thirsty, she returned to the water to wade and drink.
She definitely worked us. Perhaps that was her nest, leaving it unattended just to eat from the hands of strangers, we thought. Maybe, at night, she will return to her home, her base.
Everything was making me think: What we create in life is usually based upon something. Whether it is through past experiences or stories of others, journals from your grandfather or inherited tendencies, who we become is a continual process of construction and destruction: renovation. We use the foundations laid at our feet to build our homes around us and to our liking. It is the continual process of remodeling, which is not a bad thing. Foundations provide the stability one needs in order to grow.
The evening continued to press and we both became pensive. Sitting at the beach, feeling the sun go down, we watched the pairs of people gather their belongings — their basic beach gear — to return to the mainland, back to their homes. A couple walked by laughing at Winnifred still nibbling on our crackers,
– There she is! We thought she was ours but it looks as though this girl gets around. Watch out for this one.
Winnifred had worked everyone.
After a few moments, all that was left were a few stragglers and remnants of others once there. Tomorrow will bring another flock of frolickers and, perhaps, they will find a bum nook someone created or use the sand-boobs base for a new castle or, perhaps, it will all be washed away with the tide.
Based upon observation, one thing is almost certain: Winnifred will waddle the walk.