Destination: Nostalgia

Beware of the rampage. Consider yourself warned.

I recently visited the drainage ditch behind our place, officially called The Creek. I was awed by the incredible biodiversity. All types of plants, bushes, flowers, rushes, and grasses grow in or along The Creek.  Plus, there are singing insects and their less musical relations; the frogs and their slimy, bubbly noises; and all sorts of watery creatures that I didn't see, but knew were there anyway.

The orderly randomness of nature fascinates me - but it's exceedingly difficult to describe. Essentially, whatever grows best, lives. How can beauty arise from mere competition? 

Parts of The Creek were completely overgrown with flowering bushes. Hidden were the steep banks, hidden were the flowing contours, hidden was the very water. Partially hidden were some sort of red berries that I would have killed for as a kid. And so the journey to nostalgia begins.

Large bushes are a monument to passing time. They never had a chance to grow while certain young boys were on the move. Mighty waterworks we built: large-scale dams, locks, reservoirs, islands, and dredging projects. These grand constructions, however, were products of cognitive maturity. The history of The Creek began years before our brains bloated. The history of The Creek began with a curiously endless succession of muddy pants.

The Creek's entertainment started with its wildlife: both human friends and animals. We were captivated by trying to capturing everything we could: frogs, tadpoles, minnows, crayfish, and even a snake or two. On bold and blood-thirsty days, we armed ourselves with sling-shots and obscure plant bulbs (don't ask me to explain) and set out frog hunting. Luckily for the frogs, our aim was atrocious.

Depending on who you ask, age brought compassion. In this case, it meant tormenting frogs instead of attempting to murder them. We were geeks from the get-go. Cutting-edge technology in the form of odd bits of PVC pipe revolutionized our fun. Bopping frogs on the head grew boring swiftly. A new method involved carefully sucking the pipe full of water and blasting a frog with a tremendous water canon salute. Another favourite was placing the end of the pipe directly beneath a frog and levitating it by blowing bubbles like mad. Fortunately for us, the frogs were too stupid to find a new location along The Creek.

Although summer brought the highlights, winter could be great fun. Well, except for a singular sledding incident. My older siblings constructed a great snow jump on the steep bank - and were too chicken to try it themselves. So yours truly was stuffed squalling into a small sled and shoved heartily down the slope. They thought it was fantastic. My tongue, on the other hand, suffered from a close encounter with my teeth. As you can see, the term "compassion" is rather ambiguous.

The past wasn't without terror - maybe the rustling in the grass was something more than a muskrat! But as I wandered and remembered and relived, I smiled. The memories I have forgotten remain forgotten, for I can't remember that I have forgotten them. My journey ended as I considered nostalgia of itself.

As we know, events happen before nostalgia happens. What would happen if we would switch the two around; have nostalgia before the event happened? What are those feelings of "having been here before" or "having experienced this previously," even though you can't remember when or how?

I have heard the thought that heaven is like earth, only far more real. (And perfect, obviously.) How can something be more real than the reality we live in? But maybe it's this way: maybe the reality we live in now is just the nostalgia. Maybe the love, joy, and peace we experience here feels faded by time in comparison to heaven's reality. Maybe the real event is yet to come.

Am I crazy? Quite likely. But whatever you do, don't hold me responsible for ideas encountered through nostalgia.

Encounter with Water

Water. Lots of it. More excess than you can imagine. Enough to submerge yourself until its cool watery-ness flows over you. It stretches on and on, farther than you can see and glows deep blue: a reflection of the sky. It constantly moves; flows, ebbs, swoops, drops, and splashes. What a unique substance! Thicker than the sky, thinner than the land. Playful and menacing at the same time.

We went to the lake in the middle of the day yesterday, which we don't do very often. The wind created some waves for once, and I could have spent all day bobbing up and down on them. But I didn't. Thank goodness I didn't have to swim for eighteen hours like a pilot did recently after his small aircraft ran out of fuel! 

Did you know that if the water from Lake Superior was spread out evenly over North and South America, these two continents would be covered in 30cm (1 foot) of water?

Hop, Skip, and a Jump

You're probably wondering about the title of this post. Well, keep wondering a little longer.

Ever been an air traffic controller? Me neither. But I've used this wonderful online simulator. Some days, it feels like I'm an air traffic controller for the radar of my life. Mostly when my job and personal life get really hectic and I need to coordinate fourteen random things that are happening at once. "Air Canada one-twenty-two, descent three thousand." lol

The Tour de France is well on its way. This race is so difficult that most of the riders focus on finishing the race, rather than placing first. Only the elite can dream of covering the 3,400 km in the shortest time. The effect this race had on me is amazing, and I'm still elated. A few days ago I managed to maintain an average speed of 30 km/h over a circuit route for the first time! I have a long way to go before I reach the speeds of the professionals. On similar routes, they can achieve an average speed of over 50 km/h!

In some ways I feel sorry for those cyclists, though. As much as I like cycling on the side, I couldn't enjoy it in the amounts they handle it. It seems to be their life. I have to wonder, "What about playing tennis, or swimming, or watching fireworks with friends, or driving to work in the morning, or falling in love with summer, or, or, or." The list stretches on. So I'll cheer them on and not envy them even a little.

I finished Rilla of Ingleside recently. It seems different from many of L. M. Montgomery's books. This one is far from idealistic. It takes place during World War I, and nothing could be less perfect. Yet it captures my imagination. I am so glad I don't have to face the fear and worry that these brave people had to face every day on the home front.

Did you know that William Stephenson was an introvert? Maybe you don't know him by that name. He was also called Little Bill and Intrepid. During World War II this Canadian was one of the most important Allied intelligence commanders. I've only read about two chapters into one of his biographies, but I can tell already.

And now back to the title. I had all these unconnected thoughts. So instead of carefully organizing them, I let them lump together. Happy leaping!

Whale Watching

It's not very often that you get to see whales this far inland, but my whale watching paid off yesterday. I saw one! It came floating over my head, singing it's distinctive song. It smelt a lot like jet kerosene... Um, this whale was a little different than you're thinking... it was flying. To be exact, it was an Airbus A380, the world's largest passenger whale plane.

In simple words, I went plane spotting yesterday and had a wonderfully introverted day. There were a couple of surprises, mostly good ones. The prime spotting location was unusable because the adjacent runway was shut down. So we found a less ideal location, and were treated to all takeoffs and landings (a great many) because of it! Another bonus was an Hainan Airlines A340-600, all the way from China. And, of course, Emirates' A380!

In The Shadows

I am sailing to the leeward, 

Where the current runs to seaward
Soft and slow,
Where the sleeping river grasses
Brush my paddle as it passes
To and fro.

On the shore the heat is shaking
All the golden sands awaking
In the cove;
And the quaint sandpiper, winging
O'er the shallows, ceases singing
When I move.

On the water's idle pillow
Sleeps the overhanging willow,
Green and cool;
Where the rushes lift their burnished
Oval heads from out the tarnished
Emerald pool.

Where the very silence slumbers,
Water lilies grow in numbers,
Pure and pale;
All the morning they have rested,
Amber crowned, and pearly crested,
Fair and frail.

Here, impossible romances,
Indefinable sweet fancies,
Cluster round;
But they do not mar the sweetness
Of this still September fleetness
With a sound.

I can scarce discern the meeting
Of the shore and stream retreating,
So remote;
For the laggard river, dozing,
Only wakes from its reposing
Where I float.

Where the river mists are rising,
All the foliage baptizing
With their spray;
There the sun gleams far and faintly,
With a shadow soft and saintly,
In its ray.

And the perfume of some burning
Far-off brushwood, ever turning
To exhale
All its smoky fragrance dying,
In the arms of evening lying,
Where I sail.

My canoe is growing lazy,
In the atmosphere so hazy,
While I dream;
Half in slumber I am guiding,
Eastward indistinctly gliding
Down the stream.

E. Pauline Johnson

This poem came to mind while canoeing yesterday, and sums up everything perfectly. Except for the part about September. Instead summer ending, it's just beginning! Isn't "Where the very silence slumbers" a beautiful line? I think so.