Alignment

By Conrad Beaubien

It’s easy to get how the dimensions of pandemic mode, when added to normal moods of this time of year, are a bit of a pile on. November, the marker of the end of fall, December the first month of winter is now with us. Since all the critters big and small hurry to build comfort for hanging low over winter, this is the time when we want to hang low with them, yet we muster the counterforce needed to stay on top of oft prevailing low tones of the season. My personal effort is to remind myself that there is wonder to be had if we can just double down in efforts to get at it, to see and experience it.

Right now my woodstove and a pile of books to read are my double down direction, and admittedly a seasonal addiction. I watch the squirrels run about making winter homes and only wish they could be trained to split firewood and keep my wood box full. Made in Truro, Nova Scotia Stanfield woollen long johns spill over my top drawer like a prized collection of fine art; A crate of woollen socks has been lowered to the kitchen floor and stands at the ready as a reminder of armour wear for snow-fort combat and sculpting artful snowmen and women with grand kids.

It seems like the whole affair of winter prep, as disorganized as it often feels, is aimed at not denying ourselves the special sauce of the season. Out there toward the cold rolling lake there is a mystery of muted colour. The fields, now churned, the darkened soil roils like the lake itself, bristles of shaven corn stalks hang to the colours for next season. While morning ice has made solid your garden watering can reminding you of yet another detail of preparation delayed, remember the hollyhocks that lit up the fence line and the nasturtium that sang in the window boxes of summer.

And so now it’s late afternoon of this past Sunday; the dampened, unwelcoming sky, the flattened vibe of heavy air pervades as I walk past the km31 signpost of the M trail. Earlier, I attended a pandemic-modelled outdoor event; one in which neighbours had gathered, each one holding up a large letter to comprise the spelling of Happy Birthday in acknowledgement of a special day for an ailing neighbour. There was cake, three helpings worth type of cake; whereas the breeze curtailed candle lighting, a burn barrel was a welcomed stand-in for both warmth and symbolism—fire as the hearth of home and community. Ceremony is a part of who we are.

It’s now past five o’clock, and along the uninterrupted gravelled path, December dark veils many details, yet the blood red dogwood remains striking in contrast to the padding of lime green mosses that are strung along the drainage ditch paralleling the former rail line. Beyond, a border of worn leather-like forest separates the awakening stars from the coffee stained earth.

A string of geese drifts in with the night threading its way into the expanse of marsh and wetlands that holds up under open sky, along horizons of neighbouring Bloomfield. The geese call, their beckoning cry in the most austere of days is also built-in to who we are.

The sound most approximate to me is that of my boot soles on gravel. They’re almost in tune with those of the hoofs of my companion beside me. I glance down to study the legs of Thunder, a standard bred donkey; how his steps are coordinated on each side of his body, two legs working in tandem as one. Sometimes he’ll slow a bit and want to follow, and other times he pulls up beside me in the passing lane as he decides he wants to lead; and also there are times when we stop short on cue. It seems we are both into randomness, a jig of sorts of a man and donkey on a moonless night nearing the eve of solstice.

Walking with Thunder is personal medicine to ward off the effects of isolation. While artists tend to lead a life of seclusion, we respond to the need for socializing and seek it out within our schedules. At the moment opportunities to socialize are at a minimum.

While I hang out with Thunder on a semi-regular basis, as in this very moment par example, there are organized walks with him planned over the months ahead, sponsored walks that I refer to as chapters with small groups travelling in all weather along various sections of the M trail. Each chapter is a quiet reveal of humankind’s relationship with nature while posing thoughts on the effects that alienate us from its entirety, the oneness that we belong to. The chapters are pilgrimage-like pages opening to the mysteries of nature, a re-discovery of the wisdom of the earth as transcribed via the wisdom of a donkey. The chapters are also aimed at fundraising to enable programs to reach others affected by loneliness and depression. Connecting is intrinsic to our sense of belonging. Perhaps all of it is why the donkey is known for its humility in the service of all.

info@walkingwiththunder.com

The photo used with last week’s piece omitted credit. Thank you to Natalie V. Stone for the photo.