Increasingly I am narrowing my focus. This is not however demonstrative of an enviable concentration. Most certainly it doesn’t represent a frolicking adventurous spirit. It is a product of aging. Whether by virtue of having already attempted all that I dare to encounter; or whether it merely reflects an acknowledgement of my growing incapacity, either way I haven’t a persuasive fervour to remove myself from my current environment. Today for example I have tripped across the North Atlantic Ocean to the Island of Madagascar, then further afield – with more evidence of French imperialism – to Mauritius in the Indian Ocean. It was all terribly exhausting.

The giardino segreto, literally ‘secret garden’, was an important ingredient of Italian Renaissance gardens. It was a small, enclosed garden planted with herbs and ornamentals close to the villa with a more private atmosphere than that of the greater garden.

Yet in spite of these imaginative though fruitless internet searches – none of which tempted me – I happily devoted myself today to all the customary indulgences of my now wearisome existence. We began mid-morning with a jaunt to the County of Renfrew. It comforted me for a number of reasons: 1) the winding (and familiar) roads along the river then up and down through the highlands were reaffirming, 2) the accessibility of our rural objective was incomparable (we literally parked at the front door); and, 3) the overall tranquillity of the outing and the ease of getting there and back left no room for accommodation or regret. Though our venture was with an advisor, it was nothing like the normal drive to work in the city.

I shall always recall the warning, “Lots going on but nothing happening!” It’s a cautionary advice having broad application.  Regarding the vagabond cast of mind, the voyage from here to there is often disguised by our inability to magnify time sufficiently to capture the moment – as we are obliged to do on a daily basis within the elongated sphere of our reality. The paradox is that escaping that reality is impossible. We do in fact end – no matter where we are – by reuniting with that ineludible orbit. It is at that juncture that one might woefully ask, “Is that all there is?”

By contrast the submission to what nature teaches us to do is not without its merit. Early this morning I read a quip about the true nature and fibre of life – that its meaning is to be derived from an appreciation and understanding of our immediate surroundings. It forces one to consider the competing value of seeing the world if you’re blind to what confronts you. I met an elderly man years ago who lived in Almonte.  He told me unabashedly he had never been to Ottawa. At the time I was startled by the abrupt juxtaposition. Now I see it as unrepentant logic.

This is not to undo the vitality of youth for adventure. But it does enforce a modulation of the elderly. Both are natural, both are timely. Reflecting upon the commonality of those who lived but a century or two ago, travel was the privilege of the well-to-do. We mustn’t overlook that the modern conveyances are no competition for the erstwhile private carriages, staterooms or trains. While there remain relics of the luxurious past, they are not for everyone.

Fortuity is nonetheless not to be discounted among hoi polloi (of which I count myself a member). Armed with this sometimes advantageous chance there are the most favourable consequences. The ingredients of beauty, proximity and familiarity are unmistakable and inarguable. It does nonetheless require an element of conviction.  The social fabric for example peculiar to one’s regular niche requires far more formality and intellectual thread than a casual encounter. Such is the penalty of modesty, restraint and commitment. But its nourishment is its mundane though remarkable reward.

I am aware that there is the threat of perceiving these proclamations as mere platitudes, ones that have been used too often to be thoughtful or interesting. But like steel cut oats and fresh fruit there is both substance and flavour – an ordination of the best to come. I am content with the old bromides. On the heels of a lifetime loyalty to novelty, opportunity and acquisition, it placates my enthusiasm for same to reverse my desire and perspective to that which abuts rather than that which abounds. The assessment of a lifetime application is perhaps not something to be trifled or ignored. Too soon one can become frivolous by accident.