Surreal

Off Red Island Trail

“Art is the Tree of Life.”
                William Blake
​

Angel on a Mushroom

On Christmas morning, Dominic and I went on our four K walk. However, this Christmas walk felt different. Why? Because I was checking the rain water that was rushing down from the highlands, for any signs of Sue. 

​I thought, what a surreal life I’m living.

Corney Brook

However, I did receive a great Christmas gift. A few weeks ago, when I lost quite a bit of electricity in my trailer, and was feeling rather hopeless that any reasonably cheap solution could be found, an electrician came over, fixed the problem, and then, when I asked him what it was going to cost, said it was free. Now, that’s the Christmas spirit. 

Judy's Puppets

I often find, when I’m reading a novel, that the words expressed seem very relevant to my life. For example, I was reading ‘The Old Curiosity Shop’, written by Charles Dickens, and these words jumped out at me.

​Many of you will understand why they did.

Brook by Homestead Trail

“I rather grieve to think,’ said the child, bursting into tears, ‘that those who die about us, are so soon forgotten.”

​“And do you think,’ said the schoolmaster, marking the glance she had thrown around, ‘that an unvisited grave, a withered tree, a faded flower or two, are tokens of forgetfulness or cold neglect? Do you think there are no deeds far away from here, in which these dead may be best remembered? Nell, Nell, there may be people busy in the world at this instant, in whose good actions and good thoughts these very graves-neglected as they look to us-are the chief instruments,”
​

By Red Island Trail

A blog or two ago I wrote about walking on one of Sue’s favourite trails. I'd noticed a thick decaying branch spread across the ground, and this thought jumped out at me.

“This branch was likely here when Sue hiked on this trail.” 

​It wasn’t that this rumination was so profound, it was the effect of the thought. It was like a deep prayer inside a koan, if that’s possible.

Dominic's Squirrel Hunting Blind

There’s a Celtic parable that says:
“Sometimes when I pray I utter the words,
But I do not feel or think them.
Sometimes when I pray, I utter the words,
Thinking about what I say, but not feeling.
Sometimes when I pray, I utter the words,
And I both think and feel what I say.”            
            Celtic Parable

Plenty of things have changed in my life, and maybe that’s why I was more aware of the overwhelming commercialism that tore through this Christmas season. So, I now have even more trouble watching commercials on television. Because, it seems that the overwhelming pummelling of our brains, is way-over-the-top intrusive. Way beyond what could be called moderate or sane. 

It’s as if our society, in so many suits of clothes, is drowning us in more and more reasons to become morally desensitized, fearful and desperately grasping for the finite resources of our planet. I mean, how many wants, worries, guilt-trips and plain old bull doo doo, can a human brain handle without ending up with some ailment described in those big blue books that sit on specialists’ desks.

At Corney Brook Falls

Frozen Puddle

And what about all those disease commercials where we are told what disorders we should worry about? Don’t get me wrong, I know there are plenty of people suffering from a sickness, but I still maintain that maybe, one way for me to cope with this bombardment of being educated in all the terrible, not so terrible and made-up diseases, is for me to make multiple medical appointments. Cluster bomb the doctor’s with appointments until I reach that idyllic space, where I will finally not have a reason to get poked, jabbed or run through clicking and sucking machines. I will have finally been fully educated and protected from all diseases.

Furthermore, you advertising people, I have read so many articles and viewed so many commercials on the first signs of so many diseases that I have decided not to educate myself. I’m calling it my Ostrich Philosophy. That way I may have a chance to lower my low-grade constant feelings of anxiety into a I don’t give a damn feeling of release. Until something real happens. Not virtual. Not spun. Not implied. Something that is as real as the sun rising every day to nurture and sustain our planet’s real needs. 

“Do what you will, this Life’s a Fiction,
 And is made up of Contradiction.”
                        William Blake

Hiking on Cabot Trail

Salmon Pool's Pulpit