Fog at Gilbert Layton Park, December 2023

 It was 6C and rainy; fog settled over the soccer field.                   

Garden on New Year’s Day

 Morning, 1 January 2024.

"The Ship and Her Makers" by John Masefield

John Masefield, 1878-1967

                                 THE ORE

 

Before Man’s labouring wisdom gave me birth

I had not even seen the light of day;

Down in the central darkness of the earth,

Crushed by the weight of continents I lay,

Ground by the weight to heat, not knowing then

The air, the light, the noise, the world of men.

 

                                  THE TREES

We grew on mountains where the glaciers cry,

Infinite sombre armies of us stood

Below the snow-peaks which defy the sky;

A song like the gods moaning filled our wood;

We knew no men—our life was to stand staunch,

Singing our song, against the avalanche.

 

                         THE HEMP AND FLAX

 

We were a million grasses on the hill,

A million herbs which bowed as the wind blew,

Trembling in every fibre, never still;

Out of the summer earth sweet life we drew.

Little blue-flowered grasses up the glen,

Glad of the sun, what did we know of men?

 

                               THE WORKERS

 

We tore the iron from the mountain’s hold,

By blasting fires we smithied it to steel;

Out of the shapeless stone we learned to mould

The sweeping bow, the rectilinear keel;

We hewed the pine to plank, we split the fir,

We pulled the myriad flax to fashion her.

 

Out of a million lives our knowledge came,

A million subtle craftsmen forged the means;

Steam was our handmaid and our servant flame,

Water our strength, all bowed to our machines.

Out of the rock, the tree, the springing herb

We built this wandering beauty so superb.

  

                                 THE SAILORS

 

We, who were born on earth and live by air,

Make this thing pass across the fatal floor,

The speechless sea; alone we commune there

Jesting with death, that ever open door.

Sun, moon and stars are signs by which we drive

This wind-blown iron like a thing alive.

 

                                      THE SHIP

 

I march across great waters like a queen,

I whom so many wisdoms helped to make;

Over the uncruddled billows of seas green

I blanch the bubbled highway of my wake.

By me my wandering tenants clasp the hands,

And know the thoughts of men in other lands.

"The Wood by the Sea" by Duncan Campbell Scott

 

In Ottawa

I dwell in the wood that is dark and kind
  But afar off tolls the main,
Afar, far off I hear the wind,
  And the roving of the rain.

The shade is dark as a palmer's hood,
  The air with balm is bland:
But I wish the trees that breathe in the wood
  Were ashes in God's hand.

The pines are weary of holding nests,
  Are aweary of casting shade;
Wearily smoulder the resin crests
  In the pungent gloom of the glade.

Weary are all the birds of sleep,
  The nests are weary of wings,
The whole wood yearns to the swaying deep,
  The mother of restful things.

The wood is very old and still,
  So still when the dead cones fall,
Near in the vale or away on the hill,
  You can hear them one and all.

And their falling wearies me;
  If mine were the will of God,–oh, then
The wood should tramp to the sounding sea,
  Like a marching army of men!

But I dwell in the wood that is dark and kind,
  Afar off tolls the main;
Afar, far off I hear the wind
  And the roving of the rain.

With music in the background

 

July 1974; Sally McKenzie and Pat McCarty walking to
the tent where Krishnamurti gave his talks in Saanen, Switzerland

From left: Pat McCarty, Sally McKenzie,
and Stephen Morrissey: our last day at Saanen, 5 August 1974

Just after arriving in Saanen, Switzerland where Krishnamurti gave yearly talks, I met Patrick McCarty and Sally McKenzie; it was July 1974. That first evening at the hostel we walked to the Saanen Church to hear a concert; only recently I learned that we had attended an event of the Yehudi Menuhin Festival. Pat McCarty became a good friend. Two years later, in April 1976, we drove from Eureka, where he lived, to Baha California in Mexico; I met his brother and his wife and stayed with them in Oakland; I also met his parents, in Bakersfield. We visited San Diego, San Francisco and Los Angeles, we stayed at Yosemite National Park; we attended Krishnamurti's Talks at Ojai. Pat visited me in Montreal several times, including when I married in August 1976.  Then life intervened and we lost touch and then, just a few years ago, I learned Pat had died in 2008. 

As well, recently, I learned that Pat's birthday was January 21, 1947, the same birthday as my second wife. I have a theory regarding dates, probably not original to me, it is the synchronicity of dates, the meaningful coincidence of dates, especially births and deaths; dates can be a recognition of the importance of certain events or people important to us. When I met my second wife at Dorval Airport, in 1991, I felt that I had always known her and, looking back, I felt the same way about Pat McCarty; both born on January 21. The meaningful coincidence is their birthdate and that both of these people have helped fulfill my life; these are people who give more than they take.

Lucy Worsley is one of my favourite television personalities, she recently presented the life of  Agatha Christie over three evenings. I've read all of Agatha Christie's novels, out loud to my wife, this was a daily time of togetherness made even more enjoyable by what we were reading; unfortunately, when our basement was flooded last summer all of our Agatha Christie novels were destroyed and had to be thrown out, they were all water damaged. Lucy Worsley mentioned that in her old age, when Christie was planning her funeral, she considered having Edward Elgar's Nimrod performed. Nimrod is a deeply moving memorial for Elgar's friend Augustus Jaegar, you can feel Elgar’s grief in this music and feeling his grief we feel our own grief; this music is a deepening of the soul. As well, Nimrod, a city of antiquity in Iraq, was excavated by Christie's husband, the archaeologist Max Malloran, so this music would have a deeper meaning for Christie, she accompanied her husband on this archaeological dig. Nimrod is also a biblical character and it is possible that Nimrod is another name for Gilgamesh, the central character in The Epic of Gilgamesh. I like to tie things together, to see what is significant and what gives meaning to life; The Epic of Gilgamesh deals specifically with the grief of losing a close friend, as Gilgamesh lost Enkidu, as Elgar lost Jaegar, as Max would lose Agatha upon her death, as Agatha would lose Max.

Finally, in addition to Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, and Sherlock Holmes, one of my favourite detective characters is Colin Dexter's Morse; all of the episodes of this television series with John Thaw are excellent, and the subsequent shows, after Thaws's death, Lewis and Endeavour, are also excellent.  An episode of Morse entitled "Dead on Time" features Schubert's String Quintet in C major; like Elgar's Nimrod this is a deeply moving piece of music, it is an entrance way to the soul, to memory and the past, to the ancestors, and to our very existence and history. In the long run it is the soul that concerns us, for we are visitors to this life and our work is the soul’s work, which is to become conscious human beings.

Daily walk, December 28 & 29, 2014

"Intruder" by Glen Sorestad

 

2013

The red fox lolled on the manicured green
of our back condo lawn like any domestic dog –

warm autumn afternoon, newly mown grass
tickling its nose, a fox-nap imminent,

but only if those loud villains looming above
in the shaggy blue spruce would spare their vitriol.

An unruly mob of crows, freshly summoned,
hurled dark invective at the unwanted visitor.

The black gang deemed this their territory,
now under egregious trespass from the sleek sneak,

the protesters alerting all within hearing of their
unmistakable umbrage with the bushy-tailed rogue.

As the clamor reached its acme, the fox rose,
languidly stretched its length, and strolled off

and away in apparent unconcern, from the dark
rancor, now lapsed into sudden, satisfied silence.

Snowstorm on December 27, 2012

 

Christmas Day 2023

 Plus 5C, like a fall day, priceless!

"the measure of a man . . ."

 

the measure of a man

are in his acts

of generosity, kindness,

and compassion--no other

measure exists, not accolades,

not wealth, not achievements;

only in what kindness

a man or woman

shows fellow humans,

animals, and the natural

world do we measure 

the value and meaning

of a person's life.

Christmas at St. Ignatius Church

Christmas at St. Ignatius of Loyola Church on West Broadway Avenue.