vaneramos | Living the river

It was something Bill and I talked about doing months ago, but we couldn't have picked a finer day, with summer sun casting longing streamers through Southern Ontario humid river air.

The Eramosa River, which I have come to identify with psychologically—alright, spiritually—is a tributary to the Speed. The Eramosa, quiet and dark, even black in winter. The flashing Speed. The Speed is tributary to the sweeping Grand, meandering in the way more mature rivers do. The Eramosa where I walk every week. The Grand, where memories from Bill's early life are sited. We had talked about going to see places that shaped his memories, connections with places shaping my now.

Shared elements: the dark willows over-arching shallows where minnows swarm. How far I wonder from Guelph on Eramosa to Caledonia on Grand? How long does it take a water molecule to follow that course? How long will it take

vaneramos to get where it's going?

Shared images from childhood of the unique light of Southern Ontario, the humidity. The way September lies glowing on the fields like a Turner painting. The plants: Impatiens and Urtica.

Driving through countryside like that always feeds a longing deep inside me. To lie close to the Land again. To dig my hands into soil, get it under my nails, know that I'm drawing my life from it, giving something back in return. We are losing our sense of ownership of the earth, giving up things that will last forever for those that rip and fade, that run out of batteries or simply break down.

We strolled along the river, taking pictures. Wandering down to the edge, looking out, I saw a Monet painting looking back at me.* It was the Seine all over. Every river has it's own character, but in that moment I saw a kinship transcending time and space. I had never walked these reaches of the Grand, but saw my own childhood near Lake Erie arching out of green depths.

Driving back to Toronto this evening, Bill asked: "What do you want to change?"

I wouldn't change much, I realized. Over the past few years I've thought a lot about what I value, have given up material ambitions. I know that pleasure is in the doing, in being reconciled with what is happening right now rather than toiling for some ineffable future.

I would like to get up in the morning and have a few hours to write, to read about things that interest me and learn. Then I would go for a walk, be with nature, which I love so dearly. I want just enough time and money to spend with my friends and children on weekends or the evenings, doing simple things. A pint with Jon at the Pennywhistle. Warm, gentle nights with Danny. A road trip to somewhere beautiful, taking pictures with Bill. With these things I would always be satisfied. I have this life now.

I used to think fame was important. Now I know it is enough to enjoy my writing and be able to share it with others who can appreciate it.

The only problem is it isn't sustainable. I need to be financially independent, and I'm not. My greatest fear is of losing what I have. Or of going back to a career that drains all my love and creativity, leaving me tired and stressed and never being able to keep up with what people expect of me. Of not having energy to do these simple things I love.

I want to hold on to these simple things, but must slowly loosen, pull back, reach with strength for something that will carry it forward.

I would only change a little.

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*Do check the Monet link, which I posted in my journal a few days ago. The resemblance to the photo I took today is uncanny.

bitterlawngnome has posted this image of me.