Apart from having laundered my bedclothes and bath towels today (as I do here every Monday morning) I have done nothing for the entire day other than eat, read, play the piano keyboard and sleep.  I snoozed in the large tan leather chair this morning after breakfast and again on the monstrous sectional couch this afternoon after lunch.  While I dozed I heard the crashing pine cones, tossed by the unusually forceful winds from the surrounding sea pines onto the wooden deck.  The winds have ushered in clear air to push aside the rain and clouds we had this morning.

The inclement weather was my pretext for remaining indoors but it killed me to do so.  This afternoon after the sky cleared the blue vault constantly beckoned me and wore upon my morning guise.  It goes entirely against my grain to have no enterprise, to divert myself only by my imagination, to separate myself from industry to introspection and thought. I am  however bound to confess I am pleased to have done so.  The piano for example requires time as much as study to foster inspiration.  I am still adjusting to the novelty of the keyboard sounds and the light touch of the keys. I have sadly not enlarged my repertoire.  On the literary front I finally attacked James Joyce’s monumental “Ulysses” which admittedly may in part explain my daytime somnolence.

It is so like me to tie myself in knots about not “doing” anything. I seemingly have to be on the go at all times, jumping from one scheme to another.  At least I can report that I had the anticipated conversation with our financial advisor to get that matter out of the way.  I can use that heroic accomplishment to appease my anxiety.  On the other hand, now that most of the day is behind me and the opportunity to do anything different is all but exhausted, I am content not to have submitted to those unreasoned urges and to have stayed put for once.  Inertia after all is a dichotomous  condition – never moving or never stopping.

Since our arrival on the Island we have relentlessly prosecuted our original plan to bicycle.  The diligence is showing its results but they’re not quite what I would have anticipated.  The sylph-like form is not of what I speak; rather it is the sore knees and back. This persistent exercise has wrought corporeal ruin!  I have reluctantly accepted that a break is a good thing to enable one’s body to recuperate.  It should not astound me not to have known that rudimentary fact as I have seldom engaged in such sustained exercise.  We are revamping our philosophy to reduce the daily jaunts from what are routinely four-hour hikes to something closer to two hours each.

After 2 1/2 months here I am adjusting to the acknowledgement that one needn’t be as frantic as I have been about milking the occasion for everything it’s worth.  It is an anomaly for me to have so much time to myself in a place which is perpetually pleasant. Historically there has always been a time limit upon such pleasure; now it’s a matter of pacing ourselves.

In common usage, the term “inertia” may refer to an object’s “amount of resistance to change in velocity” (which is quantified by its mass), or sometimes to its momentum, depending on the context. The term “inertia” is more properly understood as shorthand for “the principle of inertia” as described by Newton in his First Law of Motion: that an object not subject to any net external force moves at a constant velocity. Thus, an object will continue moving at its current velocity until some force causes its speed or direction to change. Wikipedia

A restless night.  Awake practically every two hours. So much for going to bed early! I turn in my spongy bed with its featherbed mattress to peer at the clock.  Seven-thirty.  Not too late, still time.

Up now, no going back.  I press the buttons on the SoundLink and iPhone to sync the two, then engage Songza classics.  Shostakovich (Jazz Suite No. 2:VI. Waltz 2).  Perfect!  Who was the artist of the album cover? It is whimsical and sophisticated.

Into the bathroom. The 3:00 am Celebrex hasn’t entirely worn off but I take two Tylenol just in case. I’m an addict. Then the ritual ablutions. But first examine the healing abrasion. The zinc is working. Gargling with Listerine. Pull aside the double curtains, climb into the shower.  This house is becoming as hackneyed as my own.  The interior of the shower, familiar as the walls of a prison. Soaping and lathering, the first course, followed by aggressive application of the face cloth especially in and behind the ears. The shampoo.  Done!  Still the shaving, but almost there. The ears with Q-Tips, the drying lubricants.  Mess with the hair. Ready for fresh clothes.

Do we want to go out for breakfast?  Yes.  It’s Saturday.  We always go out for breakfast on Saturday. No need for coffee, I’ll have one there. We’re in the sunshine, in the glistening black car and moving. Going to a marina, close to the water. The place is busy.  Tomorrow is February 1st.  People are arriving on the Island in droves.  They’re tourists, we’re Islanders. The server is exceedingly bouncy.  Is she trained to act like that?  We both have the Eggs Benedict “special” (crisp pancetta, mozzarella cheese, fresh basil leaves). And grits. Afterwards I’m still craving. I require some compensating sugar. We conspire to go to Signe’s Heaven Bound Bakery & Café on Arrow Road.  My favourite is the lemon crumble but I adventurously go for the chocolate peanut butter square. I should have had the lemon crumble.  Too late now.  That indulgence will have to await another moment of calculated weakness.

The day just isn’t going as it should.  It’s not even 10:00 o’clock when we get back home.  I putter about, accomplishing nothing, going nowhere, resisting my creeping fatigue.  At last I submit and crawl back into bed, burying myself among the covers and duvet with my eye shades on.  Only to be awoken by an Amber Alert screaming from my cell phone: Jefferson, SC Alert: LIC/IUF593 (SC) Black Nissan Maxima 4 door sedan.  Who is this guy?  Is he panicking?  Has he stolen his young son from his custodial mother?  Where will he go?  Will someone identify the car?

I might as well get up, start again, to hell with the hair, who cares!  It’s 12:23 p.m.  I have to go bicycling.  The day is just too sunny.  I announce I’m going bicycling.  I dress and go.  It’s cool but sunny.  I draw the hoodie about my neck and tighten it with the collar of my worn Nautica jacket. I’m wearing shorts.

The ride through the caverns of trees is shady and nippy.  Into the sun, warm!  Through the golf club to Beach Club.  The tide is out but the wind is from the east.  I’ll go with the wind. Towards Tower Beach.

Sailing across the expanse of the beach!  Wings upon the air! Into the sun! This is what I meant!  I mustn’t go too far though, the wind’ll be cold going back.  I stop and throw myself upon the dunes, propping my head upon my plastic sandals.  The wind blows across the sand, spraying it into my face.  But the warmth of the sun takes me away as always.  Time to think dreamily again, wandering about my past, wondering how I got here.

Was that a dog? I sit up and see approaching an old, meagre yellow Labrador, looking for a pat.  I smooth her head, asking her if she’s enjoying her walk on the beach?  Her master leads her on.  I stare into the distance, the glittering water, the dazzling sun.  I can go home now and lie in the sun for the remainder of the afternoon by the pool, sheltered from the wind, until the long shadows withdraw the heat from the sun as it descends behind the towering sea pines.

No one disputes the cautionary admonition “tempus fugit” – “time flies”.  It is frequently conjoined with “carpe diem” – “seize the day”.  The message in both cases seems painfully clear – Enjoy it while you can!  However, the original Latin phrase is borrowed from the 4-book poems Georgica  written by the Roman poet Virgil around 29 BC: “sed fugit interea fugit irreparabile tempus” – “but it flees meanwhile: irretrievable time flees”.  This expresses concern that one’s limited time is being consumed by something which may have little intrinsic substance or importance.  In the context of Virgil’s agricultural poems dealing with ploughs, the hostile world of nature, husbandry and the life and habits of bees, the focus of chief importance was the contribution of labor to the success or failure of mankind’s endeavours. Agriculture was a model for human society. Bees in particular were thought to resemble man in that they labor, are devoted to authority and dedicate their lives to the good of the community.

To the modern reader such preoccupation – though not entirely superfluous – is far less compelling.  Quite apart from the assumed and quite unfashionable subservience of mankind we cannot possibly dedicate every moment of our lives to fruitful endeavours (even if one were to presume to identify them). In any event no matter what we do, it is invariably true that the resource will amortize.  The adage is therefore not so much a warning against sloth and procrastination as a mere comment, one which nonetheless bears repeating as it captures the non-stop motion of the world and may at least instil hedonism if not altruism (“time flies when you’re having fun”).  If one were to press the aphorism for meaning it might be extended to remind us that time is eventually lost, that nothing can reverse it and there is no turning back.  As trite as the observation”Time Flies” initially appears, its appeal to our psyche lies in the fact that it freezes what cannot be frozen.  It is paradoxical that the saying stops what never ceases, as though it were a gem picked from the nebulous sky.  As undeniable as it is, none of us is aware of the passage of time except in retrospect and even then our intelligence is less about what it is than what it isn’t.  As a fact it is as edifying as watching the hands of a clock move.

Louis de la Chesnaye Audette, QC, OC was above all a man who by his own admission had his nose well in the air.  It was however a distinction to which most of us who knew him considered he was more than entitled. He was fully bilingual (French and English), a naval commander (HMCS Pictou, Amherst, Coaticook and St. Catharines), a war veteran, one of Her Majesty’s Counsel Learned-in-the-Law, a member of the Privy Council, an adjudicator (Court Martial Appeal Board, Maritime Pollution Claim Fund and the Tariff Board of Canada),  a published writer of jurisprudence, a Member of the Order of Canada, he came from a distinguished family and he had staff. He even once had the distinction of having had the Prime Minister (Lester B. Pearson) as his Landlord.  He had however one trait which was less obvious and perhaps less well-known, and that was his ability to be dismissive. He made a practiced art of it. Generally speaking he lubricated the matter with no small degree of condescension.  For example when speaking of a former secretary who took the liberty of contradicting him upon something he had done or said, he simply waved the matter aside, proclaiming it was the privilege of the masses to mock their betters!

I never had any doubt that his art was any more than a device by which to distance himself from the real problem. When he reported that his physician had informed him that he had prostate cancer he blandly commented that that was not his problem, but his physician’s problem.

It was well known that there were certain people in his life of whose company he was able to bear the deprivation. Seldom however would he engage in anything as uninspirational as name calling; rather, he would elevate the scorn to something approaching literary comment by pronouncing the object of his disdain as “preposterous”.

When confronted with something unsettling, if he were momentarily at a loss to make a reply, he lapsed into his catchall phrase, “There are moments when silence becomes you!”  Always his tactic was a combined effort to diminish the adversary and to raise himself above the throng, but without the appearance of standing on another to make himself taller.

As much as I admired him, I confess that I have never fully embraced his method of shrugging off people or events. Whether, as I suspect is the case, it is because I lack his intellectualism, or maybe even because no one could match his level of arrogance, I am unable to be so skillfully philosophic about the dilemma. I keep getting caught in the psychiatry of it all.

Lately I have contemplated at some length the difficulties I have had with different people. With each of them I have a bone to pick. Fortunately for me the analysis of the separate problems leads me to the commonality of this simple conclusion – they irk me! This in turn leads me to seek a more global resolution, rather than having to devise an individual ad hoc response. I am also bound to observe that my detailed analysis permits me to conclude that in each case there is a possibility that I may be at least partly at fault. In the result I reason that it may be wiser in the end to avoid condemnation at all rather than risk founding my conclusions on a false premise. I confess there is an element of charity in my decision. I keep thinking it may be advisable to salvage the relationship if for no other reason than that family and friends are ultimately precious. Balancing this seeming generosity (which admittedly may be little more than selfishly motivated shrewdness) is the cold reality that there are occasions when argument, reason or charity have no place, and an abrupt dismissal such as adopted by my agèd friend may be preferable.  As one friend has dryly observed, “Caring is at times pointless.”

When asked what he wanted for Christmas or his birthday or Father’s Day, my late father invariably and disinterestedly retorted, “Peace and quiet”.  It was his stock insipid answer. He was besides notorious for abhorring store-bought gifts (a predilection which meshed conveniently with the homemade cards of his beloved grandchildren). Whenever the occasion for gift-giving presented itself I would routinely repeat the rhetoric of asking my father what he wanted, fashioning it an inside joke worth reliving though he characteristically never betrayed any amusement (yet another instance of when my sorry humour was completely lost on him). The repetition at least succeeded to prove he had ascended to a higher reality.  I may have even thought that he was too unimaginative to think of anything else; or, more insidiously, that by declining anything for himself he would escape a similar obligation to others. For the most part however I attributed his monotony to advanced age as though the amortization of his existence had forced the default meditative contemplation. But given that he lived to be almost 96 years of age and that he had had the same refrain for as long as I can remember, it is more probable that his response was both reasoned and intentional.

On reflection (a pastime children are remarkably wont to do after their parents are gone) there is something to be said about a life of serenity and I grant that my father was onto a good thing.  It might easily qualify as a far greater luxury than a lawnmower for example. It may be a purely theoretical aspiration. Without meaning to be blasphemous, it may be right up there with gold, frankincense and myrrh. Whatever it is, it is certainly beyond the power of commercial acquisition.  Coincidentally it turns out to be an advantage to which I have been warming for years.

Traditionally one doesn’t have a yearning for a life of serenity except as a temporary reprieve from the chaos of living.  Unqualified commitment to peace and quiet during our younger years is more calculated to anaesthetize one’s life than to enhance it.  But when the time eventually comes to confess satisfaction with the treasures and toys of the universe, the goal is metaphysical.

Speaking for myself peace and quiet is a welcome resort.  I’m not convinced I have the wherewithal to handle the things I previously did and certainly not with the same strength and enthusiasm.  Rather than test the speculation I am prepared to relinquish the challenge.  Serenity is however a prize not easily won and if it qualifies as a gift it is one which is beyond the capacity of any human being to bestow.  Likely it is an intangible benefit of nature, life’s reward for having endured its distraction.  Nonetheless it is not for everyone:

“The older I get, the more I want to do. It beats death, decay or golf in unfortunate trousers. Peace and quiet depress me.”

Simon Schama

It isn’t often I feel a chill.  After yesterday’s uncommonly warm temperatures and brilliant sunshine I was perhaps unprepared for today’s cooler air and overcast sky.  Our cycle “out” today was against the wind from Beach Club at Marker 38 to Marker 66 not far past Coligny Park.  Neither of us had the strength or enthusiasm to go to Sonesta Beach at Marker 72 as we had initially proposed much less to Singleton Beach at Marker 97 where we customarily go.  We excused our lassitude by recounting that yesterday we had spent at least four hours cycling, half of which was against a smart Ocean breeze. Thus we reasoned a break was deserved.  We paused briefly at Maker 66 in the middle of the length of the beach.  Then we turned back. Of course the ride home along the beach was much less of an effort, having as we did the benefit of the wind at our backs.  On our return however the clouds had moved in and we no longer had even the modest warmth of the sun we had earlier had when we began our trek before noon.  Previously at South Beach I had doffed my socks but I as the grey clouds descended I contemplated putting them on again.

Once back at the house (and my socks replaced), aside from taking my second daily hit of Celebrex for my arthritis, I plopped onto the large leather chair with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Beautiful and the Damned” only to discover a creeping frostiness about me.  Not long afterwards I relinquished my stamina and submitted to the signals. I tripped upstairs and replaced my flimsy synthetic cycling shorts for a warmer pair of sweat pants.  Then I buried myself under the thick covers of my bed in an attempt to warm myself up.  I would no doubt still be there, luxuriating in the coziness of my bed with its “feather bed” feature, had not the telephone rung.  It was my sister calling from home.  We shared all the news we had including the gossip about who is going where and for how long and with whom.

Meanwhile we’ve cranked up the heat of the furnace and slowly the erstwhile chill of my body is melting.  The weather report prediction is significant rain for the next two days.  It looks as though we’ll be able to recuperate in warmth without offending our conscience.

While residing on Hilton Head Island and in keeping with the Maritime aspect of life here, I have regularly engaged in a psychological purgation, a clearing of the decks so to speak.  This act of purification is normally conducted on the beach while bicycling, a pastime which – remarkable as it may seem – consumes about four hours a day on the average.  The cycling (admittedly not strenuous though plodding) is as much a ritual as the cleansing of my mind, perhaps a unification of the mind/body dichotomy. Prompted by the vast beach, the huge horizon and the dome sky, I find the contemporaneous evacuation of my emotional baggage arises both naturally and conveniently.  In less mystical terms the bicycling and the Ocean are an occasion afforded by the current circumstances of my life; namely, retirement and hibernation.  And my awareness of my advancing age and personal amortization.  Reflection I suppose comes naturally to the elderly particularly when there’s nothing else to do.

Even if I were to be more charitable about my tedious philosophizing, the inescapable truth is that this so-called “clean sweep” is historically consistent with my tendency to brush things aside and start anew.  I have applied this activity indiscriminately to people, places, thoughts and things.  Whenever I feel the need for rejuvenation, I engage in a program of “keep and toss”, with the tossing most frequently carrying the day.  It astounds me that one as materialistic and utterly faithful as I can so easily abandon the object of those initial attractions and alliances.  There is almost nothing or no one to which or to whom I am bound for life.

The journey of disinfection began months ago when we first arrived here.  The thoughts just percolated each day, propelling me by degrees to rid myself of distant memories and associations.  I began, as I suppose is quite natural, with the earliest years I could remember (which for example did not include the two trans-Atlantic sailings accomplished before the age of four years).  As one might expect the recollections I had of my early childhood were incredibly sparse (though nonetheless poignant).  The same applies to my first years of school and virtually everything until the age of 14 when I went away to boarding school.  In any event my object was to facilitate the purgation and to do so I found it expedient to summarize years in one or two thoughts.  Most of my undertakings of any consequence were just normal school boy stuff anyway.  With some minor embellishment the same applied to my undergraduate days, law school, articling, Bar Admission Course, Devonshire House and even forty years of the practice of law.  What mattered is that I couldn’t wait to put it all behind me and forget about it!

When at last I had succeeded to detach myself from everything that came before (a process by the way which was undoubtedly aided both theoretically and practically by having sold almost everything of value we had ever owned as part of our “downsizing” venture), I then faced the question concerning what if anything remained?  Technically there was just a carcass on the dunes of a beach in South Carolina.  Any attempt I made to magnify this less than ineffable remainder met with limited return especially after having excised my past.  To distract myself from myself (a strategy I frequently adopt in what is destined to be a failed effort to deny that the universe is ultimately personal) I brooded upon the intrinsic worth of the other nameless human beings who passed before me.  I also reflected upon those of distinction whom I currently know.  And in every case I kept coming up with the same conclusion that all the effort in the world doesn’t matter a damn!  And I knew from prior rumination that very few if any of the youth of this world are visibly moved by likes of any of us who have come before.  Retailing the value of anyone is a hard sell at the best of times; and most often if it succeeds at all it is only because someone else has something riding on it.  Instead it’s just that wretched routine of “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”!

An even greater concern however was that it is impossible to start anew.  The entire project of clearing the decks was at risk of becoming redundant. No matter how distant one is from one’s past, no matter how satisfied one is to let it go, the fact is that we are confined to be the living miracle of our entire past with every breath we take. Whether you remove your past, or even your arms and legs and possibly even more for that matter, you can never squelch the spirit within.  And unquestionably that spirit is peculiar to each one of us.  No two are alike, perhaps a small compliment all considered but nonetheless observable.  We are the original synthetic a priori proposition.  As Immanuel Kant so correctly observed, “The crucial question is not how we can bring ourselves to understand the world, but how the world comes to be understood by us.”  Whatever the answer, clearing the decks doesn’t appear to be it.