Getting lost

They say that the best way to find yourself is by getting lost. Mind you you’ll never get completely lost living on an island like ours because sooner or later, one is bound to hit water. No point in waving a flag of distress along the shore in hopes that a passing vessel might spot you. Lake traffic is not at its peak at the moment. And, besides, a beach fire won’t do it either as predominantly westerly winds means smoke sifting inland and anyone spotting it will likely interpret it as a backyard barbeque more than anything. Figure that the County is on the lee side of Lake Ontario and ask any ghost from our maritime past about leeward winds and westerly gales and likely the topic of shipwreck will keep you up at night. If that doesn’t do it, the image of a ten-foot snowdrift against your front door in December will likely have you down on your knees giving thanks for springtime.

Before getting lost, the DIY suggestion box recommends a full tank of gas, snacks, water and a blanket; seems pretty standard for even the most casual of outings around here. I’ve added a map and wooden matches and candle and compass and reading material with a flashlight to enjoy the above at night and maybe some calming incense and a stash of All Sorts ain’t gonna hurt. Come to think, it’s probably why there is no longer room in the back seat of my vehicle for passengers; I mean all of that plus a three-seater toboggan I’ve yet to remove. But who knows, maybe a stranded passenger may find the collection comforting.

Lost is how many of us feel these days. The effects of social isolation, of lockdown, ferment a psychological remoteness, foggy brain and many other symptoms. This mélange of changing perspectives is pretty much de jour is how I imagine it. Personally, it seems to take a lot of warm-up exercises to leverage me out of my den even to go and pick up basics. A few things that seem to help are to dig out old LCBO Magazines to whet the appetite with the perfectly styled food and beverage images. Then again, hauling out my dog-eared collection of New Yorker magazines and re-reading the food reviews has some impact. Sorta like a Pavlov effect where I am both lab technician and dog at the same time. One of the spinoffs of doing so is to remember to toss a few of those mags onto to the back seat heap, remembering that fire starter is a good start for the lost.

Maybe once I manage to head out for groceries and to pick up a few fine dining beverages for around the campfire, I’ll head further out toward South Marysburgh way and take any of the side roads—Ostrander Point, Point Petre, Soup Harbour, Long or Salmon Point Roads. It gives you a sense of the lost thing while also being a bit of a compromise, certainly not the real McCoy with regard to lost, because as long as I remember to gas up, I’ll easily backtrack my way out without the need of directions.

The getting lost thing I am mostly referring to is something I often revert to when I discover that my patterns are becoming stale, routine and repetitious—set in my ways in other words. Habit is something the mind enjoys, I think, as it has lesser work to do than figuring anew at every turn. But figurin’ anew is good for grey matter as I understand it, and I’ve found that changin’ it up can make each day a revitalizing day. I revert to something I call monkey mind, which is to do the most spontaneous of things, especially to go into subjects or places I have not investigated in the past. The first thing that happens is the editor in the brain needs to take time-out, because it’ll be there to want to steer you back to habit and to forget about unfamiliar. It sorta like strengthens the abdominal muscles of the brain, which hopefully might be more attainable than developing abs muscles elsewhere at this point.

I think it’s about stretching the imagination, allowing venture time way beyond any so-called set boundaries; let a little fresh air in. I personally hold optimism on a wider scale because it seems to me, mind you, I’m no historian or social scientist, but going back in time to the first proven pandemic tells a story of re-invention in the aftermath. There have been at least twenty studied global pandemics since the beginning of recorded time that have caused immense widespread suffering and irretrievable loss, as in the case in North and South America where entire civilizations have all but been erased.

The shake-up in the social order has historically shifted new ways of seeing and lessons learned, it appears. At the moment I am studying how the Black Death in Italy marked an end to an era. The impact was great: across-the-board social, economic, cultural and religious changes led directly and indirectly to a rebirth, the emergence of the Renaissance, one of the greatest epochs for art, architecture, and literature in human history. Further, the Renaissance is recognized as having bridged the gap between the Middle Ages and Modern civilization.

So my optimism is one way I try to stop from sinking, and being out here on the open trail with donkeys Joe and Thunder is not something I think of as an escape, but definitely a go-to place for contemplation and allowing myself to be mesmerized by moments of inward peace that animals bring us, especially in a landscape that is immediately at our doorstep. The lesson learned most recently is how isolation can all but bring on the demise of animals. It is a teaching often heard about always having more than one animal especially in a farm setting because, like us, they thrive in company and I’m understanding that more thoroughly these days when I witness how Thunder’s brother Joe will follow through the paddock over to the stable where bridles are kept to ensure that he too deserves to be with us on our walks.

So, coming back to the abs thing; you see, the universe provides. Try hanging onto the separate leads of two donkeys, especially now when rich servings of spring grasses motivate them to want to eat on opposite sides of the trail at once, despite me wanting to keep them close? Being stuck in the middle is like a grounded bird with its wings spread; my latest contemplation has to do with hoping there are no speedy cyclists soon headed our way.