Oh Those Damn Thumbs

There is a distinct possibility that I am folding in on myself. I’m not referring to the mastering of some yoga pose wherein I become a klein bottle, or manage to bend and twist until I’m small enough to meditate while tucked inside of my wallet. This is a crisis based on the specific detail that I have thumbs. It is my thumbs that are the grandest clue that I don’t live in a nice, downy nest hanging on a tree branch and fly around eating bugs all day. It is my thumbs that distinguish me from a charolais steer, or a wheel-barrow, and it is my thumbs that have me here, clothed, sitting here typing instead of being thought, time, or a molecule in your iphone charge chord. Here now, with two perfect thumbs, stuck inside this human body, I’m finding the world a challenge.

 If there were a kiosk where I could turn in my thumbs and become a singularity, I would be there in a snap. Imagine, some little table set up on a shaded side street where some darling kid was selling lemonade, and/or, the singularity option. You could buy just the singularity option, or the lemonade, but she offered a discount if you opted for both. Of course, once you paid, you would have to tend to your lemonade first. Hard to be the centre of a black hole and enjoy a cool drink at the best of times. Likewise, the same difficulty to face as a steer, or a charge chord, but since I have yet to see any crayoned street signs –

    LeMonaDe 50cents. HuMAn EgresS $1, 

I suppose I must endure, but I do need to develop some kind of plan to combat this folding.



What do I mean by folding? I mean that I am succumbing to stresses of this physical world that previously did not bother me. For example, the road noise that I can hear at night, layered underneath the crickets, and the sounds of the wind through the trees, I find almost unbearable now. It is as if the unnatural sound of each car tire uses my very spine to fine tune itself, like a barber with his strop. Leaf blowers and lawn mowers stress me, to slightly lesser degrees. Grocery shopping in the larger stores with their harsh lighting is a challenge. I feel as though the light enters my retinas and uses the inside of my skull as a skate park, and not in a good way. This, along with my suffering under the erroneous findings of whatever statistics asshole has decided that my shopping cohort likes to listen to Boston, presses me to shop like a ninja–in and out so fast that my shadow struggles to keep up. In a general sense, it feels as if my defenses are crumbling leaving me exposed and more fragile than is healthy. 




What is causing this folding? The foremost trigger is the trauma of the meanness I see on Twitter.  My own fault for exposing myself to it, I know, but I want to be informed. I haven’t listened to news broadcasts since Trump was elected, because I couldn’t control how the journalists doled out the info. I just wanted the specific fact of the action, if I wanted it at all. With Twitter, I could control this by scrolling through at my preferred pace, stopping at my trusted news posts, and following the journalists that I trust. I had already begun to pull away from social media over the past year, since Doug Ford, our own Canadian jerk, was elected. I just couldn’t believe that all of this was happening, then yesterday, while scrolling through, I came upon video footage of a young Mexican man being badly beaten by a cop. That was it. I slammed my laptop closed, and paced around my apartment, cursing my thumbs–the fact that I am a human in this world. 

There have always been terrible things on this planet; wars, famines, and the dickweeds who construct them. I know this. In the recent past, I have marched in marches, and signed petitions, and contributed to the cleaning of the oceans, but lately, I have found myself suffering symptoms verging on those of panic attacks, and have skedaddled into the forest to stand, breathe, and get my bearings. The plan wasn’t to just hug a tree, I wanted to slide inside of the bark layer and hide completely, thumbs and all. This won’t do. 

I’m not sure what’s going to change. I suppose that, letting go, easing up on my appetite for world info, might be a good start. People do, and they appear to lead productive lives, and they’re happy, right? They are, aren’t they? Aren’t they?  I can’t promise to completely look away–that’s not who I am, but in truth, I would much rather experience a blossoming outward instead of all of this folding in, crumbling. Of course. Who wouldn’t?  I’m keeping an eye out for that lemonade stand, but at the same time, I’m on a quest for answers–me and my damn thumbs.

My Honest Wish for You

I miss my tent. Specifically, I miss the glorious reveal of the day it offered each morning that I used it during my trip across Canada. No windows in my little nylon bubble of comfort. The only clues of the world outside were the sounds of the wind, water, and wildlife, and the light levels. Light levels were tricky. Most of the areas where I pitched my tent were treed. Initially, I fell for the shade they threw, and assumed the day I was unzipping myself out to, was duller than it was. There were, in fact, no dull days, not out in the woods. Once I learned this, I found myself excited to throw back the fly, and see what the night had made. It was like having the stage curtain pulled back in front of a set at the beginning of a play. Even in the rain, I stood, delighted, content, breathing in the soft, forest air, and wishing that time would stop so I could stay there, standing, watching, drinking a bottomless cup of coffee forever. 




It’s the awe factor, I think–this feeling of witnessing something remarkable, beautiful, that nudges a starving part of ourselves. I felt this each time I got out of my tent in the morning: several nights in Lake Superior’s Agawa Bay, Lake Louise, Tofino, the Kananaskis Mountain Range, and Dinosaur Provincial Park, near Brooks, Alberta.  To be honest, most of the houses and motels that I stayed in while crossing the country, had great views: PEI, Gaspé on the eastern side, and Quadra Island, off of Vancouver Island, on the west, but the process of looking out a window is different than throwing back the tent fly; you’re part of it when you’re crawling out of a tent–hot, cold, rain, or snow. There’s a tendency toward quiet that comes, and reminded me of seeing the Lincoln Memorial, years ago. Everyone in the room was whispering, if they were speaking at all. There were no signs requesting silence–silence is, more often than not, the natural response when the soul witnesses something tremendous.

Not everyone is ready for the awe factor. One morning, I walked up to the actual Lake Louise from my campsite just outside of the town. The trail was winding and quiet. I arrived, followed the signs and crossed the paved parking lot to the water’s edge. There it was, this glorious, turquois splash of colour set in amongst the mountains. It was pinned on one shore, by a big, fucker of a hotel–a cement blowhard, like the irritating relative who name-drops and eats all of the chips. Then, there were the tourists, taking selfies and talking. Don’t get me wrong, nature belongs to everyone, but I felt, there in that moment, that the lake was under siege and secretly wanted rescue.

Probably the most remarkable example of missing the point, was a mother and daughter I saw at Lower Lake Camp ground in the Kananaskis Mountain Range. I had followed the trail out of the camp area towards a great flood plain full of stone wash, and small rivers that lead to the lake. I was hearing a terrible, grating holler, and wondered if someone was in trouble, or if perhaps a beast was caught in a trap. It was neither. The noise was coming from the mother and daughter as they yelled back and forth at each other, seemingly oblivious to anyone else. The daughter was setting up a tripod and camera at different locations on the plain, while the mother walked nearby. Apparently, the process required constant communication at decibel levels just under the yell you might give at a world series baseball game during a home run, or Trump’s impeachment. There was no possibility that any of us out there that day, was going to see any wildlife. Even the fish were fucking off.

I wasn’t the only person irritated by the pair. Other campers were moving away from them in similar disbelief, but I had the hope that, somehow, this experience out in this rugged, fresh landscape, might be the beginning of a deeper appreciation of nature for the pair. I reminded myself that everyone is on their own journey, and that for this mother and daughter, the achievement of experiencing the awe factor in its fullest, might be closer than before. The process has to start somewhere, right? 

Right?  


Okay, most of this sentiment is an outright lie. Frankly, there in that park, I had secretly wished that the mother and daughter’s noise had attracted a rollicking family of bears that had eaten the pair, and their damn tripod, with gusto.  I would have watched in awe. 


I know, I’m a terrible person. 

The Purity of It

You might wonder at the books on my coffee table right now. I do. There are three David Sedaris books, one copy of The Upanishads, Khalil Gibran’s, The Prophet, two compilations of Annie Dillard’s words, a New Yorker magazine, a collection of George Booth cartoons, several Canadian road maps, and two compilations of Rumi poems. To be clear, I am not telling you this to seem precious. Believe me, this is the last adjective I could own. I have read all of these books as part of my desperate search for a way in to my own humanity; access to the divine, if that works for you; something that makes some damn sense, if it doesn’t. 

 Rumi was the last author on the table whose work I read. I did so while traveling through eastern Canada, and expected to find myself overwhelmed with the beauty of his words, as I was by the breathtaking landscapes I was passing. I had noted the poems of this 13th century mystic for years–seen them posted on social media, or referred to, in various literary works–and there is no question in my mind that his work is important, profound. There is nobody that I know who can describe the intangible light of God as it manifests as love and compassion in us–you’re a fool not to read him, but what the hell? Why was I not feeling that Rumi spark? This may sound arrogant, but perhaps it’s because I already get it. I get it, and have gotten it since the death of my father, the end of my marriage, and certainly lately, in what seems to me to be the very unravelling of civilization.




You can be pissed at me here. I’m a filthy cheater because the book that finally moved me–that offered the words that made me weep–was not on my coffee table, so there was no way for you to have figured it out. It was the first three pages of J. D. Salinger’s, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, that slayed me in a moment, back home in my apartment. I was going to copy sections of the pages here, in an effort to help you understand my sentiment, but realized that there is no way for you to mimic my experience. There is everything different about us, you and I, up to the moment when I was so moved by Salinger. To expect you to be moved to the same extent is a trap that I have learned to avoid, but the basic thread–the admiration and love for another, well, that’s inside all of us, isn’t it?   

Basically, to encapsulate, Salinger begins his novel through the words of his narrator, Buddy Glass. Buddy is the younger brother of Seymour, and second-oldest in the family of seven kids.  Buddy describes Seymour, the focus of the story, as the most remarkable, thoughtful human; sincere, present, and with an almost Taoist ability to see through to the essence of a soul. It is clear that Buddy dearly loves, and misses Seymour who he tells us was deceased in fictional reality, seven years before the telling of this tale. It was the depth of this, the purity of it, that took me down.  In all of the people I have met over the decades, in all of the experiences I have had, I have not yet met this person–my Seymour, in whatever form that takes.  In my fatigue, and in my frustration over this–because it’s not as if I am hiding in a bunker–I feel that time is running out. I feel so utterly empty and fragile, that I risk cracking apart. 



I’m thankful for all of my books. Between reading, film, therapy, and now, travel, I have been able to scrabble together just enough grit necessary to maintain some form of footing and momentum forward. I absolutely understand the soul’s need for love and sincere connection. It is the rest of this game playing that I find exhausting. I don’t get it, and can’t seem to bear participating in it.  This leaves me as an outsider, an observer, which is fine, except for the cracking part.  I carry the Salinger book with me. There is something about having his characters close that makes me feel less lonely–as if I am fooling myself into believing the existence and vitality of the divine within me. Whatever it takes, I guess.

                                ~The Essential George Booth
                                  
                                      

Gasping in Gaspé

Travelling solo takes some doing. There are benefits, like being able to listen to Rosemary Clooney over, and over again if you damn well want to, but when challenges arise, things can feel ridiculously stressful. There is nobody else to talk you down, or impress a different perspective; it’s all you. There have been times, along my route across the country, where I have had to remind myself that the point of the trip was to experience the country and the people that live in it. Simply driving through–racing from on point to the next without any interactions–wasn’t going to offer much in the way of thrilling dinner conversation.  The universe has ways of slowing me down when I lose this focus. 

After departing P.E.I., I drove north and then east along the southern edge of Quebec’s Gaspé Peninsula. My plan was to spend a few days camping in Forillon National Park, at the tip of the peninsula. The route was straight forward on my map, but I was not prepared for how busy, and how slowly traffic moved through on this summer Friday. There were no bypasses, forty towns to go through before Forillon, and nothing I could do about it unless I decided to abandon this effort and turn back.  So on we went–me and Rosemary. We kept a good clip, as much as possible because I was looking forward to setting up camp, relaxing in the trees, and not driving. The towns along the way were nice–some nicer than others. There were a few towns that seemed to feel the need to offer carnival-like attractions, as if they had forgotten that there was, you know, the water right there! 

After a few hours on this route, I kept noticing the sound of someone’s terrible exhaust system on their car. Sometimes I thought the sound was coming from the car ahead of me, and other times I figured the grumbler was behind. It wasn’t until I stopped for gas that I realized that the sound of trouble was coming from my own van. I was horrified–the sound unmistakeable, as if there was a stow-away demon hidden deep under the engine. I sat parked for a few moments, listening. My stomach flipped and I could feel my heart beating in my ears. If this had happened in P.E.I., I wouldn’t have been half as anxious–someone would have approached me, pointed out the trouble, and knitted me a new engine while I sat drinking tea at their kitchen table. I probably would have gotten another week on the island as the family that saved me insisted that I meet all of their relatives. I would have been asked back for Christmas. Here in Quebec, I felt quite on my own. I’ve always felt this here, like an intruder. My French isn’t terrible, but when you’re feeling like an idiot, the words don’t exactly flow, plus I hadn’t heard much French spoken in a while, so my ear was not acclimatized. I wished I had had someone with me at that moment. I wished Rosemary was real. I was past the half-way point to Forillon, so I decided to just keep going, hoping that the engine would not be reduced to a pile of iron filings five kilometres out. Other people drive with terrible sounding exhaust systems, right? I’ve heard them. Now I would be one of them. There, now I had people. 




The stress never abated completely for the rest of the drive, but simmered in the background. When I arrived at Forillon, things ramped up and I figured that I might just have a big, old heart attack, or stroke, because according to the agent at the park desk, there was no space for me. The park was completely full. Merde! The sun was getting ready to kip, and I was wishing, more than anything that I had not decided to do this part of the trip, and that I was, instead, at home in bed. The agent, who was kind enough, directed me to a small, private campground close by. I drove past and saw that it was chock full of R. V.’s, which meant generators and likely boom-boxes, and I was just not in the mood. I turned and decided to make a run for it–drive all the way home. “Screw this,” I thought. 





On the way out, I decided that I had better fill up with gas. I stopped at a small, independent gas station just outside of the town of Gaspé, in the middle of nowhere. An older man, the owner, I assumed, came out and I asked him to listen to the engine.  I popped the hood. He looked, and listened to the demon yowling and grumbling from the depths. In his broken, but wonderful English, he said, 


   “Oh, my girl you should not drive this home.” 


He went on to explain that the problem was that the issue, whatever it was, was close to the manifold and therefore there might be a risk of fire. Anything farther back might not have mattered so much. He explained that he was sorry but that he could not fix it, as he was closing up, this being a Friday night, and suggested I find a place to stay in town. I liked him. He reminded me of some Frank Capra angel. I shook his enormous, grease-covered hand, then drove into Gaspé.

To be honest, I was feeling as if I had gotten myself into a predicament and I was quite unsettled, but knowing that I couldn’t head for home was, in a way, some kind of relief. At least I had a parameter from an objective party.  Now, if Rosemary Clooney had been my mother, here’s where she might have said, 


“Listen, you gorgeous doll, let’s get a swell room and go have ourselves a drink. I’ll give you a shoulder rub and we’ll call the cavalry in to sort this out. This day has been long enough, don’t you think?”  


I knew I was overreacting, so tried to clock towards a better perspective. Besides, who was the damn cavalry that was going to deal with this for me?  

“Put your adult pants on. You can do this,” I told myself.

Gaspé was damn close to being full. The look on the desk clerk’s face when I pleaded for a room did not fill me with hope, but she found one and I was grateful. Later on, when I learned that there were no mechanics working during the weekend, I asked to extend my stay to the Monday night at least. I figured that on Monday, I would find someone to properly assess the demon issue so I would have an idea of how all of this was going to play out. The clerk gave me another look, but found that I could, indeed, have the room for the time I needed.  So? There I was, stuck in a pretty beautiful part of the world for longer than I had planned. Yes, I was preparing myself for what I was imagining to be an enormous repair bill, for the attention of a specialized mechanic using parts that he needed to order from Pluto, and you try getting anything shipped from Pluto on a Monday! There was nothing I could do about it. Not a thing, so I decided to try to let this trouble go and resigned myself to exploring for the weekend.

Gaspé is a beautiful town, perched along Gaspé Bay (Baie de Gaspé) which leads out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence.  There are gobs of history displayed about the area in the Gaspé Museum, and throngs of plaques laid along the boardwalk, but there’s only so much history I can absorb. Frankly, what thrilled me was the discovery of Café des Artistes, and the fact that their coffee was some of the best I had had during this whole cross Canada journey. The staff seemed nice, tolerant. One fella offered me an English menu after I described my weekend predicament. I know he meant well, but I was crestfallen. I thought I was doing well with my French, unless, without knowing it, I had ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with a snow shovel on the side. I quieted down and concentrated on listening to the overall chatter in the room to see what I could pick up. Yes, I imagined them all rolling their eyes over the English, but, again, there was nothing I could do about it. 



There was a pair of clerks in an outdoor clothing store called, Chlorophylle, that were by far, the nicest in Gaspé and helped me with my French.  After a time, one of the clerks went on a rant that I tried to follow. It sounded like she was talking at warp speed. When I signaled that I had completely lost the thread, she laughed. “Yes, we use a lot of slang.” 



My saviour, over the whole weekend, was a woman named, Marie Gaudet. I had gone into her shop of the same name, to look around and buy some post cards. When I explained my vehicular woe, she gave me her mechanic’s number with assurance that he would come through for me. I was thrilled! The idea of not having to find a mechanic on my own was a relief. I didn’t want to end up committing my repair job to some bastard– Charles, le Requin(shark) du Gaspé, whom I had pictured in my mind’s eye–the archetypal smooth swindler. Not this time, Charles! I had a connection. Someone had my back! 



I decided to put on my big girl pants and call Gaudet’s mechanic, Roger Dubé, on the Saturday. I figured that I could leave a message and at least, start the process. I was hoping that he would not answer the phone because then I would not have to struggle to understand him. He did answer though, but in his pretty good English, suggested that I do my best to explain the situation. He would understand what he could and we would go from there. I ended up with an appointment on the Monday at 1pm and felt as if this might all turn out okay.  Maybe I wasn’t going to have a stroke after all. Dubé sounded nice on the phone, and I was astounded to get a slot so quickly. I was still preparing for a giant bill, and possibly a day or two waiting for parts. So be it. 

I spent the rest of the weekend hiking and watching people. While standing at a cross walk waiting for the light to change, a couple in the nearest car rolled down the window and asked me, in French, for directions! They had mistaken me for a villager and I couldn’t have been happier, but I explained that I was only a tourist. I didn’t want to risk giving bad directions; 


“Yes, go left at the slice of bread and continue on until your grandmother sues the cattle.”


 The town lunatic wasn’t unsettling me anymore. He was a harmless fella, all dressed in black, pacing and muttering to himself and kept on his way as long as I didn’t make eye contact. There was another odd man, a fixture almost, on the balcony of my motel building. He seemed to always be sitting out when I passed, no matter what time of day. We nodded to each other. I have no idea what his story was. 



Gaspé seemed to ebb and flow with groups of middle-aged men on very expensive motorcycles. They would arrive, park their bikes in front of their room doors, and then spend the evenings sitting out, staring at them. Most of these bikes were enormous, reminding me of something out of Star Wars: The Middle-Aged Crisis. I’ve never understood motorcycles. I rode dirt bikes as a kid and grok the concept of going fast, but for me, the idea of driving on a highway and not being able to hold a cup of coffee is still an idea that belongs only in a nightmare. 



Generally, I found people in Gaspé to be the same as anywhere else. Some were quick to return a wave. Others gave nothing. Some were full of themselves, and others were just the nicest people you could imagine. Yes, the language thing adds a bit of a wrench, but I think, only if you let it.

I found a glorious beach, La Plage Haldimand, on the way to Dubé’s garage, and spent a couple hours watching people out enjoying themselves. I felt like I was in a Jacques Tati movie–dialogue not necessary, body language was everything. This was good. C'etait bon.

I found the garage and met M. Dubé. He was gracious, and offered me a swinging seat under the trees to wait in while my van was being worked on. I could see the back of the van through the open door of the garage bay, and watched it go up on the hoist, and then down, then up again. Then down. Up once more, before the final lowering and triumphant backing out, her engine singing like it used to, without the demonic yowling. “Ah, good. It’s over,” I thought. I went into the garage and met Sebastian, who had done the work. He gave me the bill. It was just over $56.48! I couldn’t believe it! Apparently there was just a tube that needed a bolt. I explained that I was shocked, and that I was ready for something way up in the hundreds, or even thousands, for the repair. He smiled the smile of a saint. 



Yes, my repair bill was $56.48, but my motel bill, here at the height of the season, was $566.48! I would rather not have spent that much on a motel room, but I think the universe was trying to find a way to get me to stay in Gaspé. I know it might not seem like a big deal; I wasn’t in an accident, and there was no crime involved, but it was, for me, a challenge. I felt completely alone and uncomfortable. Yes, I was overreacting, but I managed to eventually torque things into perspective, find a little self-confidence, and even enjoy myself a little! 

I went back to the beach after my van was fixed and spent a couple hours walking along the surf. I pulled out my binoculars and examined the cliffs, and watched the gannets arching and diving for their dinner. The smell of the sea was intoxicating, and the feeling of the sand on my feet–well, now I didn’t want to leave. 


Hey universe, I see what you did there!

They ARE the Nicest People

I spent my days on P.E.I., with dear friends in a stately old farm house that they had rented just outside Alberton. The house, and its’ fitting, lush gardens, were surrounded by thickets, and tucked in beside crop fields, and an inlet dotted with oyster pans, as they are called; wire mesh rectangular boxes that hold the oysters as they grow in the nutrient-rich ocean water. Every morning, I took my coffee and walk out along the red-dirt road, enamoured by it all. I loved the road. I loved the path down past the potato field to the water. I loved seeing the pans, and the cormorants sitting on top with their wings open, drying them in the morning sun. I loved the fellas out tending their livelihood on the water. I fucking despised the deer flies.

It is possible that you have heard of how kind the people in Atlantic Canada are. Good God, it’s true! One evening I joined my friends for dinner in town. We had oysters, and while we were eating, the waiter leaned down and whispered, “The man there at the next table is the one we get our oysters from!” On the way out, I stopped and introduced myself and we all sat and talked for a bit. The man, Leslie Hardy, invited me to come see his operation.  He's been in business for years, has eight children who are all involved, and thirty-seven grand children! Maybe it's the water. There's just something about that island. When I showed up, Leslie gave me a whole box of Malpeques! I chatted with his son, Allan while Leslie scrounged up a pick for me to shuck these little beauties with! 

These oysters are sublime, and, I'm getting decent at shucking!

During one of my morning coffee walk-abouts, I met the neightbours, David and Angela Brodkerick. David had mentioned that he did a little wood working, and I had noticed some impressive work on their front lawn while I was driving back and forth. I popped in to see them on my way off of the island and David showed me, not one workshop, but three, full of his carvings and a few paintings. He maintained that he wasn’t an artist but I pressed the contrary. Of course, he gave me one of his carvings, because, that’s just what these people are like. 

For no particular reason other than it’s tourist season, I decided to put off Newfoundland until the fall. Now, I’m driving along the Acadian Route towards the Gaspé, which is beautiful. To be honest, I’ve never felt the love when I’ve been in Quebec–always felt like an intruder, but I’m hoping that the next day or two, as I wind my way back to Ontario, will change this. I do want to love Quebec. I do. If I could love it as much as the coast, that would be neato.