Drifting about the countryside this Saturday afternoon, with temperatures above freezing, the roads dry and shards of light blue in the white sky on the horizon, the car running to ideal standard, it was all I could do to sustain myself from unending proclamation of euphoria.  Granted a particle of this gleeful elation was my sudden release from the stomach aches I’ve endured for the past three days (perhaps those pink pills really work); but the winning effect of it all was a palliative beyond description.

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As the clamour of Christmas finally subsides and we approach the middle of January, we mechanically enter the Winter Wilderness, that uninhabited wasteland of nothingness. The surreal nature of the void is for me compounded by the effects of over-the-counter cough syrup which I have no doubt contains enough “medicine” to seriously distort one’s mental equilibrium, contributing in no small part to midnight dreams of the most bizarre nature.

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A law school crony (now Counsel to a prestigious law firm and a retired judge of the British Columbia Supreme Court) lately emailed me and asked, among other things, “what are you doing now?” My immediate reaction was to disguise the truth.  The truth is that I am not doing anything. Nothing of consequence, that is.

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It’s winter in Canada. The sidewalks are slippery; the roads are amuck with salt and slush; the temperatures are icy cold. Everywhere one goes, one hears account of travel, whether recent, pending, planned or debated. Considering the news from the United States of America that the dearth of Canadian snowbirds this year has caused a substantial economic impact, one wonders what the domestic narrative is. Reading random entries on Substack, there seems to be a persuasion that staying home is not entirely objectionable – neither politically nor culturally. Nonetheless there are unquestionably those hardened to removal from the Northern Hemisphere. Only a moment ago for example a friend wrote of his planned excursions.

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Being as I am, satisfied with inadequacy – or, shall I say less poignantly, satisfied with meagreness – the lapse today into seeming irregularities or patchiness was the repeated production of my ambling directions and purpose. While reading the Essays of Michel de Montaigne I struck upon one who, much to my complete surprise, was reportedly quoted by the Greek biographer and philosopher Plutarch (c.46 – c.120).

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It is unfair to label today’s unadorned and unproductive indolence as wasteful. Wastefully extravagant, perhaps; but not spent unwisely. Nor do I consider the fleeting matters of mind and spirit trifling. Regularly now I am learning that having nothing in particular to do, being at unqualified ease to congregate upon a whim, to spend boundless hours in fitful discussion and hilarity, having no agenda to be heedful of – these are the pardonable affectations that now justifiably and properly absorb my attention. As a result I am equally unrepentant.  Indeed I am inclined to think that if one were not – for some reason that I cannot begin to imagine – disposed to adopt these characteristics for blush or colour, then surely there must be unfathomable difficulty at hand.

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Whenever I am asked, “What did you do?”, my reply is that I was a country lawyer. I am proud to say so. Seldom however do I recall or repeat the connection with my staff, those who are popularly and officially known as legal assistants (though for most of my career were called legal secretaries). The staff of most local (that is, country) law firms became well known because it was they who were most upfront in the association with other firms. Many legal assistants were of distinctive character, some thought to reflect the character of their lawyer employee though naturally this was more common among sole practitioners. Staff were by that singular character and virtue notoriously significant.

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Contrary to intuition, a mist affords clarity.  I was first reminded of this exiguous savvy upon casual reading from my library of predominantly ancient or historic origin (being as they are tomes beyond the impudence of copyright and therefore readily available at no cost – also a contradiction, of art and of price).

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Sitting directly across from me – with her watchful mother à côté – at the long celebratory birthday dining table in the common room was three year old Leni-Rose. It wasn’t her birthday – it was Hélène’s 80th – but the child’s native curiosity overcame me. I succumbed to the delight of appreciating a young and obviously capable child as she launched unhindered into the social atmosphere with her sparkling eyes, rich hair and porcelain skin. Meanwhile Leni-Rose eyed me with a mixture of interest and suspicion. I won’t pretend that our conversation was penetrating. But we touched upon her partly eaten cupcake with its alluring icing; and, with the help of her mother, exchanged our names.  Leni-Rose quickly surmounted any barriers.

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