Every spring the runoff flows down a slight decline to fill the dugout. It was engineered that way about fifty years ago – a very simple sort of engineering, but an alteration to the natural landscape so that the farm could have water for human and livestock.
So although the flow of the spring runoff past our trees (planted, not native, and thus another imposition on the natural landscape, but that’s another story) is man-made, it seems natural, and it works in tandem with nature’s natural ways. The water flows downhill and collects in a basin – in this case, a deep hole that was dug out of the earth – hence the name, dugout. Simple. Vital.
Runoff time is an exciting event in the year, when winter’s grip finally loosens and the pent up accumulation of a few months’ worth of precipitation with it. Some years the flow is too much, risking flooding the yard. Other years, when there’s not a lot of snow, the flow is minimal, just enough to fill the dugout. This year it’s about normal in my estimation.
Today was colder than the last few have been, and so the water that had started running froze up, its movement arrested. Like time standing still.
One of the reasons I even noticed this is because I’m out at the farm for the time-being, keeping my dad company and waiting out a pandemic. Normal work obligations and hustle bustle have ceased, as they have for much of the western world. Our movement has been arrested. Only what is essential continues to operate.
And because of it, I have the time to wander around the farm the way I did when I was a young girl, watching spring’s unfolding, noticing things, being present. Observing man-made engineering slow to a halt at Nature’s whim.
Where have I been, all this time? A full revolution of the sun, almost, since I last wrote here. Hard to believe, and yet not. Much has changed, both within and without. Hard changes, necessary changes, changes I worked towards, and changes that caught me unaware, forced me to my knees in humility. Changes that took me on a meandering detour away from the path I thought I was walking. It takes time for things to settle.
I was also working, spending my creativity in other ways. And, I was away too often from the gap. Away from the deep wellspring of inspiration that gave birth to this blog. The outside world beckons constantly. It distracts. But I always come back. To this place, to myself. To home. I will turn my attention back to this space soon. Soon.
In the Sun – Earth – Moon system, the Moon represents the container which makes ordinary life on Earth possible, keeps its rhythms going. But both Earth and Moon are subordinate to the life-giving Sun; must turn towards it, honour it. Without the Sun, neither Moon nor Earth could exist. There could be no life, in the terms in which we understand it.
– Anne Whitaker, “The Moon’s Nodes in Action”
Joni Mitchell called us, prairie folk, “sky oriented.” How could we not be, when the sky is everywhere, everything, always?
I am perhaps a bit more consciously sky oriented than most – a longtime fan of the intricate movements of celestial bodies, adherent to the phases of the moon, natural devotee of eclipses.
So of course I knew about the total solar eclipse set for August 2017, where the totality would be visible across a great swathe of the United States. I had vague plans to make the trip somewhere south to see it. But 2017 turned out to be an exceptionally eventful year for me. Time passed, my schedule filled up, my mind was occupied with other things, and those plans just slipped away, though not without regret.
Then, a mere three days before the eclipse, Annie Dillard’s 35 old essay, “Total Eclipse” cropped up somewhere in my Internet meanderings. The essay in its entirety is a gorgeous thing, but somewhere around this passage:
I turned back to the sun. It was going. The sun was going, and the world was wrong. The grasses were wrong; they were platinum. Their every detail of stem, head, and blade shone lightless and artificially distinct as an art photographer’s platinum print. This color has never been seen on Earth. The hues were metallic; their finish was matte. The hillside was a 19th-century tinted photograph from which the tints had faded. All the people you see in the photograph, distinct and detailed as their faces look, are now dead. The sky was navy blue. My hands were silver. All the distant hills’ grasses were finespun metal which the wind laid down. I was watching a faded color print of a movie filmed in the Middle Ages; I was standing in it, by some mistake. I was standing in a movie of hillside grasses filmed in the Middle Ages. I missed my own century, the people I knew, and the real light of day.
my mind was made up. I was going to see the eclipse, one way or another.
It felt important to go, to just do it, even though I had no time to plan properly, even though I didn’t really have the time to spare to drive nine hundred and some kilometres to the closest site of totality (somewhere around Douglas, Wyoming). And who on earth would be able to drop everything and go with me in no time at all, to be away on a Monday morning, which was when the eclipse was going to be?
I don’t mind long road trips on my own – you could almost say that’s what I do for a living. But planning a 2000 kilometre trip in less than two days was a little much, even for me. And as much as I love solitary experiences (quick note – the “sol” in “solitary” is derived from the Latin word sol – sun), some things are just better with company. So I started calling around. There was lots of interest, but no commitment. Then my friend Eve suggested our mutual friend, Kathryn, who I hadn’t seen for ages since she’s been busy living all over the world, and was in fact set to move to Winnipeg to start graduate school just four days after the eclipse. Knowing this, I hesitated to even ask, but I did anyway. She, a Virgo like me, thought it over quickly, mercurially, creating an instant pros and cons list – the biggest con being that pesky time thing. But then she came back with: “fuck it, let’s do it.” That had been my exact thought partway through Dillard’s essay, and is also my general approach to life. A bosom friend, to be sure.
Kathryn met me in Ceylon on Sunday the 20th of August at about noon. She had brought her mom’s fresh baked muffins, sundry other foodstuffs, an 8-person tent, a one person camp stove, and a pack of CDs (which we never listened to because we talked the entire 20+ hours of driving time). I had brought a sleeping pad and sleeping bag, (I had been prepared to sleep in cheap motels and eat McDonald’s the whole time, but Kathryn is, as I mentioned earlier, a Virgo, and a better prepared one than me, so camping it was). We both had our passports. I had managed to scrounge up some dusty old acetylene goggles from the shop at the farm which, Google told me, should protect our eyes from permanent damage. We weren’t sure, due to the last minute-ness of the trip, if we’d manage to get our hands on proper eclipse viewing glasses. Both of us were worried about sight damage – Kathryn especially as she was about to embark on her studies in landscape architecture and needed to be able to draw.
As I write this, I realise I am going into exceptional detail. I didn’t intend this, in fact wanted to avoid it and simply focus on the event itself. But, like Dillard, I find myself wanting/needing to express all the details of the journey and the hours and minutes leading up to the momentous occasion. But, for the sake of brevity, I will restrain myself from describing the whole story – but trust that there is a story. Every hour seemed suspended in time – full to the brim with our conversation, the events – crossing the line and being scolded by border guards for undertaking such a journey, sure to be caught up in huge crowds as we were. Crossing the legendary Missouri River and stopping on the highway to take photos of it. Driving through the hot, dusky Montana evening. Passing a sleepless night in the 8-person tent after laboriously setting it up and eating a dinner of pesto pasta with white wine, cooked over a tiny cookstove. Taking down the 8-person tent in the pre-dawn hours. Watching the sun rise in a glory of crimson and gold outside a greasy spoon diner in southeastern Montana knowing that we would watch it disappear and return once again before sunset that evening. Driving the secondary highways into Wyoming and not running into the hordes of traffic we were warned about – my tendency to take the alternate, backroad route working in my favour once again. Finding the perfect spot to watch the eclipse – on a hill, in a grassy pasture, surrounded by twenty or so friendly and pleasant folks. We didn’t need the acetylene goggles as it turned out, for those same friendly and pleasant folks offered up extra eclipse glasses to us, unasked. The kindly and perhaps lonely sixties-ish gentleman who stood near us, but at a respectful distance, and chatted as we waited for the eclipse. I knew he wanted to share the moment with someone, and was happy to. All of us in that field shared the moment, when it finally came.
And that brings me to it, finally. The eclipse. I knew the crazy last minute drive and the sleepless night and the expense of gas and all of it would be worth it, but I didn’t know how worth it. It’s taken me nearly half a year to write about this, and now I find I still don’t quite know how to do it. Tonight is a full moon, and in a few hours, there will be a total lunar eclipse. I went out for a quick drive earlier to get some thoughts down, because I knew I needed to finally write about the solar eclipse. When I think back to that hot, August day, I get goosebumps. In the months since, every time my mind has returned to that Wyoming pasture, I get goosebumps. It’s not an understatement to say that witnessing the eclipse was life altering. Life goes on, but thoughts of that eclipse always give me pause.
And that’s what it was. A pause. A moment (2 minutes and change, to be exact) I inhabited fully and completely. No other time in my life that I can recall being so. Having driven all that way for those 2 minutes and however many seconds. Anticipating that and being so very ready to be fully present in those 2 minutes. Everything heightened in that anticipation.
It was hot, the sun shining down on the yellowing grass, a haze in the air from all the nearby coal fired power plants we had driven past on the way down. It was like home, but unlike it, too. I wanted it to be as close to home as possible, chose Douglas not only because it was closest, but also because it is the high plains. No mountains to obscure the view. The sky everywhere and everything, always.
We were looking at the sun, carefully, through our gifted eclipse glasses and saw that it had been reduced to a small crescent, and yet the day seemed still to be marching towards high noon. It was still hot, still glaringly bright. It wasn’t until we saw only a tiny fingernail sliver of molten light through the glasses that the world around us noticeably changed. Without the glasses on, it would be hard to notice that an eclipse was underway.
Imperceptibly at first, and then gradually, and then quite obviously, the sky darkened. But before that, the shadows changed. Strange shadows cast across the hills on a cloudless day. The air cooled, suddenly. We put on our jackets – unthinkable a mere moment earlier. The chattering crowd hushed a bit as we all observed these changes in our environment. Knowing they were coming did not make them any less odd. The colour of the grass transformed from golden to silver. And then, beautifully, a bird’s song rang out. This was what I had read about, had hoped for. That confused birds respond to the change in light by singing their evensongs. Since we were in an open field, no tree in sight, I had accepted that we would probably not get to witness that eclipse phenomenon. But somewhere hidden, a grassland bird sang. A lump rose to my throat at the sound, and does again now at the memory. I wish I could recognise bird calls better so I could say what bird it was, but all I know is that it was a prairie bird, one whose call I knew.
And then the shadows deepened and the sky darkened into a colour Dillard called cobalt blue, and I can find no other description to improve upon hers. It was dusk all around the horizon, that gorgeous prairie horizon that always defines our existence, but had never been seen like this in my years of gazing at it. And of course above us, the sun had become that corona we are familiar with from photographs of total solar eclipses. A stunning sight, yes. But sight was not the only sense engaged. The singing bird had hushed. People gasped and cried out. Goosebumps rose from the sudden drop in temperature. And also, they rose from something else. Another, usually hidden sense suddenly engaged. The one that made the ancients believe that eclipses were portents of momentous events. The one that made the bird sing an evensong in the middle of the day and then go silent just shy of noon. The one that makes me believe in something more.
I was filming the eclipse, so I made a quick, jerky swivel with the camera to take in the scene, but very aware of the 2 minutes ticking away, I didn’t spend any longer than necessary. I wanted to just be. Observe. Feel. I looked at Kathryn and I could see that tears stood out in her eyes, as they did in mine. There were no words that I can remember exchanging, or even thinking. Except, perhaps, “glorious.” But I may have tacked that on afterwards, in the memory of the thing. In the moment itself, I was merely a being witnessing something extraordinary. The moon and the sun together in the sky, bringing dark to the middle of the day. I was so fervently glad I had come.
Then, so soon, the light came back. A joyous moment, that. The sun returns. And yet, a pang of regret that the otherworldly moment had ended already. A strange longing for that surreal midday darkness, the promise it had contained – the promise of something more.
Kathryn and I both felt absolutely, physically awful the moment we got back into my vehicle after packing everything up. The exhilaration was still there, but so too was nausea, lightheadedness, dizziness, to the point where I had to pull over for a moment and lay my head on the steering wheel. We’re both Virgos, so we started to worry, irrationally, that something awful had happened. We were just as susceptible as the ancients to this sort of thinking. But after we had just witnessed something so strange, so mystical, so overwhelmingly beautiful, and so beyond our earthly control, in that moment it seemed entirely possible that the world had been altered in some way.
Later, over ice cream cones at a McDonald’s in Gilette, Wyoming, we could laugh at ourselves. Realized that we had slept so little the night before, had been running on adrenaline and excitement, had been driving so many hours, not to mention had driven up into sudden elevation on the high plains of Wyoming. Altitude can do strange things to a person. But, too, there was the eclipse. The scientific reality of why it happens – the moon moving at astonishing speed to cover the sun and then move on again, exposing us momentarily to the dizzying velocity with which the earth rotates on its axis. And then there was the actual experience of being there and seeing day turn to night in an instant. How strange and unfeeling we would be if that hadn’t physically impacted us.
There was a story to getting home, too. A diversion to sight-see at Devil’s Tower, a quick nap in the grass there, a desperation to get home before midnight, the inability to quite get there, the overnight in a modest Montana motel. The endless conversations. The bond that Kathryn and I will always, always share as a result of this experience. Her emphatic statement that it had been “worth every mile.”
Almost 2500 words and I know I have not managed to find the right ones in the right order to even remotely describe the total solar eclipse. And the video I took that day, it too is nothing compared to the real thing. But still, it is something to see. I filmed it in real time and have presented it as such, no fancy effects or sped up bits. Just what it was like. No sound, either. The light changing is what it shows. And at its most basic, that’s what an eclipse is. The light changing in a way outside the usual pattern of things. I’ve written often about chasing the light – this time I chased after a lack of it. But of course, even in the darkest moment of the total eclipse, the light was still there. Obscured for a brief moment to remind us of its total necessity. The sun and the moon together. Us on earth at their mercy. And within their grace.
“No event or mundane circumstance can occur without having first been set in motion by an idea, charged with emotion, and then manifested as an action.”
“…those acquainted with either the esoteric realm or the realm of psychology in its deeper aspects will recognise the fact that there are no coincidences.”
Liz Greene, Saturn: A New Look at an Old Devil
I’ve been reading about Saturn lately. In Grade 3, we all had to choose a planet and create a model of it using styrofoam and acrylic paint. I chose Saturn. I was eight years old and knew nothing about Saturn other than I had decided it was my favourite planet, perhaps because of its distinctive rings. Some years later when I started to dabble in astrology and drew up my birth chart for the first time, I discovered that, with Capricorn rising on the horizon at my time of birth, Saturn “rules” my birth chart, and so, according to the more fatalistic interpretations of astrology, determines my life.
Even those not particularly acquainted with astrology have heard of a few common astrological events, like Mercury Retrograde and the Saturn Return. The former happens three or four times a year and is supposed to affect all of us. The latter happens every 27-29 years for each individual, when the planet returns to the segment of an individual’s birth chart where he was at their birth. According to the astrologers, the Saturn Return signifies the time when we must truly grow up and become adults. Mine just finished.
Saturn is a hard planet. Traditional astrologers called it the “Greater Malefic.” There was a sense of fatedness about Saturn’s placement in your chart – wherever he put pressure on your chart was a part of your life that would always be hard, would offer few rewards, would weigh heavily on you, would represent an eternal darkness.
So with Saturn ruling my whole chart, does that mean I am cursed, fated to always dwell in that darkness? I’ve often thought so. Felt resigned to a certain destiny. People born with Saturn on the ascendant are often fatalistic like that. In a way, it’s a relief to absolve yourself of responsibility for the tough things that happen. When they happen to you, what are you but a victim of circumstance?
But as I’ve been reading more about Saturn, and trying to live my life with my face towards the sun, I’m starting to see things in a different way. Today is the Winter Solstice – the longest night, and Saturn reigns over it. This day marks the sun’s change from Sagittarius to Capricorn. The darkest night must be endured before the days can start to lengthen, the sun start to strengthen. The ancient Romans celebrated Saturnalia around this time – a time when everything was tipped upside down and revelry ruled the day. Kings became paupers and slaves became lords.
And then there’s Janus, the two-faced Roman god of thresholds, doorways, transitions, time – Saturnian things. Janus, for whom January is named. Janus, who “opens the door of the sky and releases the dawn.” At this time of year, we look backward to see what we managed to accomplish this past year, what we failed to do, what disappointments we endured, and what unexpected moments of joy we were blessed with. We take stock, and then look forward to the year to come. We vow to do better, to make our work more worthwhile, to grow in some way. We accept, with however much difficulty, that time moves on in a linear fashion and we all grow old.
After the darkest, longest night comes the slow returning of the light. The sun edges closer to us each day, even as winter grips us firmly in his hand. As I drove through town tonight, looking at all the Christmas lights people have decorated their houses with, I thought about how no matter how bewilderingly the world changes, we still hold to these ancient and primal traditions. We light up the darkest nights of the year. Soon after Christmas, people will take down those lights, let the sun take over the job.
I am never not amazed and humbled by the perfect geometry of the seasons. How, if you let yourself really pay attention, things make sense. There are no coincidences. A life ruled by Saturn might require more work, more dark nights, a heavier load. But its gift is the sure knowledge that even in the darkest times, there is light glimmering at the edges, the margins. Wait, and it will come. Choose to see it for what it is and act accordingly. Let the sun illuminate those latent ideas, charge them with passion, and set them into motion.
Down here in the southern hills, things shift, change, are noticeably different.
The roads narrow and get rougher. The hills rise and get higher. Time seems to slow down, somehow.
Haste has no place here, but urgency can arise, when a fire needs fighting, a calf needs pulling, a crop needs harvesting.
There are spirits dwelling here in these southern hills, deities of some kind that have been here since the last glacier scraped the earth raw, or even before. They are watchful and silent, but if you know where to go, you can feel them, can hear them. If you know how to listen.
Trouble sleeping, and eating, and concentrating on necessary tasks. Scatter-brained, daydreamy, just a touch out of sorts. All the symptoms of falling in love, but it’s not a man who has captured my attention. It’s the land.
Sometimes it’s a Monday evening and it’s been a long day and you really just need to get home, make yourself a proper meal, get to bed early for once, and make a “to-do” list for tomorrow so all the things that need to be done aren’t just rattling around un-tethered in your brain.
But to get home you have to drive through sixty miles or so of prairie in June, when the sun is angling itself down towards dusk. And then you get into the Gap, and you’re almost home and then you see that the twilit eastern sky is settling into a particular shade of mauve behind the creek bank for a few brief moments before darkening to amaranth. What can a person do but stop and be in that moment? And try to clumsily capture a few photographs. But the prairie sky, photogenic as it is, refuses to be held captive by something as aloof and obtuse as a camera, and so the results are never quite what it was really like to be there beside that crick, with all the birds singing their evensongs and the mosquitoes buzzing around with a certain anxious grace, and some cows meditatively munching grass in the nearby pasture. Not to mention the quality of the air – the tenderness it offered, an accommodating softness few human lovers could manage.
Needless to say, my supper went uncooked, my bedtime was delayed, and the “to-do” list didn’t get done. So yeah, it’s sort of like being in love, living through these long June evenings down here in the Gap. It feels like those first blissful moments of a new romance, when everything seems like it’s going to turn out all right after all.
I always thought that crocuses were rare things, endangered things. A source of early spring delight, always, for their brave appearance long before any other bloom is a sure sign that winter is truly on its way out.
I’ve only ever seen crocuses in small, lonely bunches, a few blooms huddled together, half-hidden among grass that has yet to go green. This spring, I went up to the Sidehill to look for some on “the hill.” I found a few, isolated clumps of them, each discovery inspiring a thrill of excitement.
Then I wandered a little farther afield, into the adjoining pasture land, a place of native prairie. And stopped. For on either side of me was a carpet of crocus, hundreds of them. More than I ever thought could have existed in one place at one time. A flower so fragile as to be rare almost everywhere thrives here.
And I wondered why I hadn’t known about this place before. In all my years of wandering in those hills, how had I not known that this was a place of abundance for the delicate, prairie crocus? Had I truly lived through so many dull springs, some of them with an utter absence of crocuses?
Or did they come out just for me just this once, never to be seen in such profusion again? How will I know except to wait through another long winter, and make sure that I get up in those hills at just the right time again. To see if what is rare can be common.
Led by guides, the machine gunners crept out into craters half-way between their own lines and the Germans. There they took cover until dawn. Just before daylight a bold sergeant named Catherwood crawled out to bring them a bottle of rum. A German machine gun crew spotted him creeping back and opened fire, but he managed to roll into his forward trench unharmed.
– Pierre Berton, Vimy, 207.
Imagine if one of those bullets had got him. I wouldn’t be typing this. He would never have met Dorthea Wilson, the Welsh nurse. She would never have agreed to leave her life behind and marry him, taking up a new and entirely foreign life in a small homestead shack in the southern prairies of Saskatchewan.
That “bold sergeant” was my great-grandfather, Sherwood. The one who homesteaded out here in 1905, at age 17. He was 28 at Vimy – the same age I am now. He was born in 1888, one hundred years before I was. I’ve always felt an affinity with this ancestor who died decades before I was born. Perhaps that’s why it was important for me to go to Vimy. Important as a Canadian, yes. But also important for my own roots.
Just a few miles away, in the shadow of the infamous ridge, is the grave of another relative of mine, Reginald Freeman. He died more than a year before Vimy Ridge, his life halted at age 20. I was there to visit him, too, in his eternal resting place far from home. But at Vimy, that splendid monument, the signs warning of mines still buried beneath the strikingly green grass, I realized that if it weren’t for that horrific war, I probably would never have been born.
The Catherwood farm might still be here, but it would be different Catherwoods living on it. Sherwood, without going off to war, probably would have eventually married someone else. So yes, Vimy is important to me, to us. It felt eerie to stand on that ground, on a quiet, hot August day, as tourists (myself included) milled about. To know that Sherwood had been there in entirely different circumstances. No peaceful, green scene for him. No, what he knew of Vimy was blood and muck, those grisly scenes so familiar to us from countless black and white photos.
I remember my dad telling that story mentioned in Berton’s book when I was a kid, though we didn’t know it was noted in the historical record. In my dad’s telling, some of the details were missing, others were added. As I recall, in family folklore, Sherwood went out to do something he wouldn’t expect his men to do. The part about him delivering rum was absent. But the machine gunfire aimed his way and his dive into the trench, that was there.
Years later, as a university student, when I read Pierre Berton’s Vimy, there he was – my grandfather. That story. Meaningful. Something I make sure to mention whenever conversations concerning World War I come up. But now as I sit to write this, I wonder, why, why is it important to me? Because my ancestor was part of something famous? Because the story hinted at his bravery? Because I was proud of his service to his country?
I sometimes grow weary of our society’s endless commemorations of war, even though my family has plenty of reason to remember, to never forget. It wasn’t just Sherwood in those trenches – his brothers were there, too, and Reginald. Sherwood’s son, my grandfather, drove tanks in the Second World War. And it didn’t leave them unscathed. Grandpa Orville would never talk about it, but his years of alcoholism likely came about at least in part because his war experience. We often speak of war in the same sentences as “glory” and “valour.” We speak of sacrifice, too. I think the glory and valour fade away long before the sacrifice does.
Sherwood was shell shocked, as they said back then. How could you not be? So was my other great-grandfather, William (Bill) Cooper. He spoke with a stutter, a legacy of the war, or so I’m told. He served in the British Army. When he returned home to Glossop, Derbyshire afterwards, there was no work for him. So he emigrated, ended up in Saskatchewan, and married a girl named Bernice Freeman. Her brother, Reg, had died in France in 1916. He was to inherit the farm, but now with him never coming home, it was Bill and Bernice who took it over. Their daughter, Joyce, married Orville.
And so again, that war, and how it shaped my family. A sense of pride that my ancestors were part of something so momentous. And the knowledge that, no matter how little they talked about it, the war stayed with them. Had to have. The trauma of it. Clausen and Cashwell, Sherwood’s brothers, were never able to recover. Cashwell ended up in an asylum, and Clausen was a known eccentric, a reclusive bachelor who lived alone in the hills south of our place. Sherwood and Bill managed to go on, to build good lives for themselves and their families. But what demons did they have to face each night when they were alone in the darkness, as we all are in those moments and hours before sleep claims us?
I’m not proud of Sherwood for happening to be at Vimy. I am proud of his courage, certainly, and grateful that those bullets missed him. This battle looms large in the collective memory of (many) Canadians. It’s one of those historic events that has been told and retold so often that the memory of it is more significant than was the event itself. I’m not sure if Vimy Ridge truly did make Canada what it is, as has been claimed. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Vimy has become a symbol for nationhood – one of those things we’re told so often it must be true, right? But even if Vimy’s actual significance is more myth than history, a symbol is a powerful thing. And in my own life, Vimy, and that war, weren’t just symbols of valor, sacrifice, and duty. That war shaped our family in tangible ways.
That hot August day in Nord-pas-de-Calais, as I gazed over the countryside, I thought of the futility of it all. And yet, the utter predictability. Those blood soaked trenches are on ground that has been bloodied again and again throughout time. War after war fought. This great battle just the most recent, and now a hundred years gone. Humans know nothing so well as war. And as I stood beneath the glorious monument, I was struck most by the feeling of grief. I’m not proud of Sherwood for fighting at Vimy Ridge. But still. were it not for Vimy, and for that war, Sherwood wouldn’t have ended up in that Red Cross hospital in Reading, where he met Dorthea, the bespectacled nurse from Cardiff. She patched him up, and somewhere along the way they fell in love, and because of that, I’m here.
In a way, we’re war children. But I don’t want to be proud of that war. I want to acknowledge that it happened, and that it was important. I would rather be proud that Sherwood managed to keep the farm together during the tough, depression years of the ’30s. That he maintained a reputation as a kind and clever man, despite his shell shock. Mostly, I’m grateful to him – that he homesteaded where he did, stuck it out through all those tough years, and created the home I love. My roots are here in the Gap country, and it was Sherwood who planted them. In the end, the war, and Vimy Ridge, were just something that happened in his life, something he was lucky to survive, and something that brought him to the same place at the same time as Dorthea.
It’s one of the hardest things for us humans to do – to accept that we can never know.
Never know what is like to die, and what comes after
Never know what is inside another’s heart, soul, mind
Never know if we made the right choice, or not
Never know if we should speak up or stay silent
Never know if what we have done made any difference at all, to anyone
Never know if things could have been different, if only
Never know if tomorrow’s tomorrow will be better than today
Never know if any of it means anything at all.
And yet, that’s all there is to know. That we can’t know. That there is no real certainty. That life itself is a giant gamble, and we don’t even know the stakes, though the terror that claws at us from within hints that they might be higher than we ever imagined.
Or perhaps the fear is that there are no stakes, never were, and we’re just hurtling around on this planet imagining that we’re here for something other than just to live for a little while, and here we are wasting time wondering if it means anything.
It’s a Sunday night, when that familiar existential dread creeps in, and all the rustling of the desiccated autumn leaves and the golden glimmer of the harvest moon are reminding us of the tenuousness of everything. Soon those drying leaves will fall and even sooner the robust moon will have shrunk away to nothing.
But among these morose thoughts, almost despite my own melancholy leanings, I recognize something else, something that I can know. Whether or not I or anyone I love is here to witness it or not, those fallen leaves will give life to something. And new leaves will grow. And the moon will again appear, first as a delicate curvature of fine silver, and then, without fail, will grow proud and full again, whether the clouds cover her or not.
So I contradict myself, or perhaps return to prove the point. I know so little that it’s almost nothing, but what I do know is enough to recognize what is precious.