Not a Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Late August, 2019
Wakefield, Quebec

I went out the other day to check out the milkweed patch in the third field.  It was a golden afternoon.  Because of the recent rains, the cricket population had exploded, and I could see them jumping in the recently mown hay and hear the trilling chirps all around me.  It's funny that such a monotonous sound could be so pleasant, but somehow it accentuates the peace of this moment. The air is crisp, the sun is warm, the trees a sussuration of wind.  Clouds float in the blue, and I am out looking for monarch caterpillars.  We found three on my first day here, but they went away with S:  one jar to her father's house, the other to her grandfather's.  S travels among three households:  my host refers to herself as the unofficial mother, replacing the one S lost close to five years ago, when she was only a year old.  While my host is gone, S is mainly in the care of her grandfather, who also tends to the horses and other details of the house, such as transporting me to the store, a mile away, and to the swimming dock on Lac Bernard.  He and S are due in another hour, and I hope to greet them with the news of a successful caterpillar hunt.

The third field has also been mown, but a small circular patch of tall milkweeds remains in the center of the field.  I have climbed through the long iron gates, rather than attempt to unchain them.  Susha, the husky/shepherd mix, ranges about the fields, coming back occasionally to check on me.  This is the closest we get to a dog walk:  there are no trails here and I don't want to walk her along the roads, quiet though they are.  They are potholed from the freezes of a long winter, and clouds of fine white dust rise from the graveled areas.

Last time, S had her Strider, a pseudo bike my host brought her from the Netherlands.  S propelled herself with her feet padding along the hummocky ground, before abandoning the bike in the second field, where she found the first caterpillar of the day.  Today, I look carefully at the small isolated stalks before approaching the clump, but either it requires 6-year-old eyes, or the caterpillars have gone to ground.  I circle the clump, stopping at each likely spot.  Is there poop?  Are there munched-out holes?

I did not find  caterpillars that day, but a few days later I found two.  I carried them carefully on the broad leaf but lost one climbing through the gate.  I put the other in a tall glass jar, along with milkweed and a long twig reaching up to the screen at the top of the jar.  Within a day the caterpillar had climbed to the screen, secured itself, and created a beautiful iridescent green chrysalis with dots of gold gleaming along the top edge.  I tried unsuccessfully to take pix of it:  the screen fuzzed out the details from the top, and the glass did the same from the side.  But S was happy with it, and I left it for her and my host to enjoy after I left.

I had a lovely sit on this farm near Wakefield, Quebec.  My days were simple and meditative.  I did Tai Chi Chih and read books in the sunny loft apartment above the barn.  I walked the dogs over to the milk weed patch and watched an otter run across the meadow into the safe darkness under the woods.  I spent a fair amount of time with S and D.  The almost daily swims in the deep green waters of the lake were fabulous.  One day I saw a family of loons swimming in a line towards the reeds at the end of the lake.  Another day I floated down with the current, arms curled around the float tube, head propped at the curve, watching the treetops, feeling the cold drifts of clear water brushing along my body.  It was very cold, but did not take long to get acclimated.   After a few hours at the dock, D dropped S off  with me while he went home nearby to cook dinner.  S set up her "stuffies" (mainly stuffed animals, but some dolls) as an audience and played my mini piano.  I think we became friends, and on my last night she slept with the scarf I had knitted her.

The garden was full of cone flowers and other beautiful plants, the sky was a beautiful blue, and when it did rain I sat on the screened-in porch reading and listening to raindrops, feeling the cool dampness coming through the windows.  My host's father was an artist, and her home was full of his paintings (some of her as a child) and other beautiful objects. I sat listening to Agatha Christie and A Gentleman in Moscow, while one of the cats lay along the back of the couch and the dogs lay under the coffee table.

I did explore a bit.  I visited Wakefield and checked out the rebuilt covered bridge over the Gatineau River and McClaren Cemetery.  I walked past the old mill, under the highway, and up into the Parc Gatineau. I took a picture of a graffito on the underpass:  "1st Thing we climb a tree."  I attended evensong at the church in La Peche, next to the general store, enjoying the simple lines of the building and the designs in the tin ceiling.  I bought some marvelous ginger jam there as well. I drove for an overnight in the Eastern Townships (my Louise Penny pilgrimage.)  The evensong at the Abbaye de St. Benoit du Lac was less than wonderful, but the setting itself, on Lac Memphremagog, was peace personified.  I sat listening to the service, which was in French, watching the play of light as the sun set. I'd like to go back and stay over and meditate.  It felt a lot like the Monastery of Christ in the Desert, if not quite as isolated:  there's something about being in a place that is dedicated to prayer, meditation, and good solid work.  You know that where there are people, there is conflict, but somehow it gets transmuted into serenity. 

I spent an afternoon in Ottawa, the day I picked up my car, mainly at the art museum, which had a nice Rousseau and Friends exhibit and a lovely cafeteria.  A service was in session at the cathedral across the way, so I need to return for another look at the splendid stained glass and other artwork.  I also need to return to Quebec to visit Quebec City and Montreal, but that isn't really in keeping with my travel plan, such as it is.  My preference is to stay in one place and get to know it slowly and carefully, as Annie Dillard did at Tinker Creek. Although I lack her philosophical bent, I do find a quiet sort of delight, and when I think back, I realize that my time was well-spent.  At the very least, I found a Monarch caterpillar.

Shifting

The other day some friends invited me to join them at Ten3, the newish restaurant at the top of the Tram.  The old one was built in the 60s, and did not follow modern specs in terms of decor and accessibility.  The food was also exorbitantly priced and terrible.  The new restaurant is modern and light, filled with art from a Santa Fe gallery, and sporting tall ceilings and elegant light fixtures.

The food, while not cheap, is beyond marvelous, beautifully presented, with flavors that are perfectly matched.  And the view over Albuquerque is superb.  The sunset came through with flaming colours and amazing patterns,

and then the lights of Albuquerque formed a shimmering quilt, spread out on the plain at the base of the mountain.  S said he could only think of the light pollution, and of course that is an issue.  But it was so beautiful.

In addition to getting up and taking pictures, we of course talked, and talked and talked.  I had not seen them for some time, and they have traveled and created and explored both inner and outer vistas.  As have I.  Most relevant to my current focus was a discussion of decluttering.  I am spending the next few months in one place, taking care of business and trying to determine next steps.  An important part of that is deciding whether I want to have a home base and spend more time in it. If I do, then I'll take my stuff out of storage and settle it in place.  If I don't, I need to decide what to do with my stuff.  Will I ever use those dishes?  Will I ever entertain again?  Will I wear those clothes, read those books, look at that art, do those crafts?  Will anyone, other than myself, be interested in the photos and letters and travel journals?  Do I want to leave these things for someone else to toss?  S is going through that with his deceased ex-wife's possessions, especially the journals, which are full of pain.  Does anyone need to revisit that pain?  Not that I have much pain.  And I don't have much stuff, compared to what I did have.  But, if I haven't used it in close to 3 years, is there any point to keeping it? 

There are so many books about this, so many theories.  S described a movie that he and N and J saw on a trip to Japan, Samurai Shifters.  It's a comedy, based on historical fact from the 1600s, when shoguns destroyed power bases by making people move.  The main character, a young scholar, was put in charge of shifting the clan, and he determined that they could not afford to take more than one donkey's pack load apiece.   The lord of the clan was appalled and distraught:  his castle was filled with priceless art from around the world.  The scholar, who had sacrificed his books to show solidarity with his people's tough decisions, sent for fabric to cover up all the walls in the castle.  The lord was then told that he could bring whatever he could describe from memory.  90% of his possessions did not make the cut.

And that is as good a way to decide what to keep as any, I suppose. 

I recalled another decluttering technique, which I came across at least 20 years ago.  Some strange person had decided to limit his possessions to 100 items or some such arbitrary number.  Maybe 52, one for each week of the year.  Or 365, one for each day.  Who knows.  The gist is that a pair of earrings is one item.  A toothbrush is an item, a fork is an item.  You can see that it would not take much to make up the count, when you count things like that.  I wonder if pills counted as separate items, or if you could count the bottle as one?  My friends said, that's essentially a backpack's worth, and that's another way to look at things.  Do I have what it takes to limit my possessions to what will fit in a suitcase?  It is, after all, what I have been living with for the last 3 years.  My books are borrowed from the library, online.  My music is played from files on the computer, my art comes with me in the form of digital photos.  I have an aeropress, in case my hosts only drink tea, and a portable piano keyboard (thanks to my sister's generosity one Christmas.)  The bulk of my needs are provided by my hosts.

When I think of decluttering, I get a little gaspy.  It seems like I have pared down as far as I can.  I have gone from a 2400 sq foot 2-story house with a casita and a mother-in-law apartment/addition to a room in a friend's house and a 10-foot square storage unit.  And 10 or so boxes in a Portland friend's basement, mainly filled with dishes and art.  I brought back 3 boxes and two trunks of memorabilia and 3 small boxes of dishes last fall, and the memorabilia is sitting in my friend's dining room, waiting for my attention.  What do I keep?  What do I toss?  Gasp.   And yet, there's a certain lightness of heart at the contemplation of a possession-free nomadic existence.  I have been a nomad for 3 years, and I think I may be ready for the final shift.

Or maybe not. The other day I went to the storage unit and pulled out a few books (a blank journal, knitting patterns, Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain), my violin music, and a few kitchen items (a scale and a coffee grinder.)  I grabbed the Scarpini Tarot deck as a bonus.  And I'm using them all.  I guess I need them?