A week ago I stood on the shore of Lake Ahmic in northern Ontario (the near north, as my father liked to say, south of North Bay on Lake Nipissing, north of Barrie), and said goodbye to the loons, a perennial favourite of my mother. A couple of days ago we sat on a strategic bench in the moss-covered wood above New Galloway, in the Scottish borders, and looked out over Loch Ken below as a red kite screeched close by.
Both scenes seemed to exude serenity. It has been a challenging fortnight, but the general peace and quiet of our lives seems to have returned as if a thief in the night has stolen away the bustle. Suddenly we’re back to normality, just like that. I may be late with my ‘joy’ this morning, but it does feel like the routine is with us, or we’re with it.
And there’s a steady stream of writing work to do too. Not ‘work’ as in onerous jobs, far from it. No, ‘work’ as in ‘looking-forward-to-it tasks/assignments’ that in the doing becomes a selfless pleasure. A conscious ascent into a quiet ‘flow’ state.
It is, after all, the beginning of the week. And as long as we can stay cool, both physically and metaphorically, the joys should arrive. Meanwhile, the memories remain. So, in effect, I’m surrounded by joy: front/back/up/down/sideways — and all I have to do, really, is open up to the experience.
Such a small ask, but such a magnitude of wellbeing is available.