Frugality I have lately discovered is not only about penny-pinching, prudence and economy. Tragically it’s also about abstinence and self-denial. That isn’t exactly what I had bargained for months ago when I first began thinking about thrift and planning to reverse years of unrestrained profligacy. Adding this element of asceticism to the remedial project goes well beyond mere moderation in my opinion; in fact it transforms the endeavour from what I imagined to be saccharin accounting to something entirely different and personal, and not in a good way.

I have unwittingly unearthed this unforgiving truth repeatedly over the past several weeks. It now appears that I was temporarily insulated from this discovery during the first portion of the year when my disbursement was then marked by mandatory cost-cutting measures, or at least the necessity to spend what modest surplus I had on demanding things like capital renovations. It is a thankful blessing for me that abhorrence of disrepair trumps even my fiery passion for personal indulgences. Now however, with those property management responsibilities behind me, I am once again thrilling to the delight of having some loose change. Daily there are unfolding alternatives for its speedy disposition, just like the good old days! It is utterly remarkable how compelling the marketplace can be to those of us who are open to persuasion and materialism generally! The recipe for this catastrophe-in-the-making involves not only the expected prerequisites of capital and craving, but also such extraneous features as the weather and the regularity of one’s bodily functions. Combined there is a sense of unsurpassed bien être, and before long one is either caressing the latest object of admiration or typing one’s credit card number onto a now familiar web site.

But wait! It is at this critical juncture that sobering self-discipline, like a sudden wave of cold water, spills over me. Actually the awakening is far more intellectual than biological; there is an academic supremacy to this business about saving money. It really is as clinical as I had at first visualized! The higher form of analysis conveniently elbows the inferior instinctive appetites out of the way. Such blunt and superlative rhetoric as “Do I really need this?” comes to mind. Before long one is engaged in even more profound scrutiny invoking hitherto uncharted areas of examination, including for example a summary of the electronic devices one already owns or the recapitulation of the number of sweaters currently burgeoning in one’s armoire. The result is the same effect as dissecting a chocolate pie; viz., it all but kills the hunger, not to mention the enthusiasm.

While I admit that the insight is subsequent only (though happily never too late), it unceasingly astounds me how quickly one is capable of racking up a sizeable overhead on relatively unimportant items. As always it isn’t the grains of sand that matter, rather their cumulative effect, which I suppose is a distinction without a difference though the metaphor more readily affords the lesson. I am reminded of the adage, “One can’t have money and things”, a dire warning to the spendthrift!

Getting oneself into the frame of mind for stinginess requires more than a little adjustment. Overcoming a wastrel’s behaviour is I suspect akin to the alcoholic learning to avoid the drink at all costs. Like most religions, it is uncompromising. Granted the day may come when even economy can bend to the wind of excess, but there is likely as much hope of that happening as winning the lottery. Sadly frugality is a lengthy sentence. Consider, however, the alternatives; namely, being relegated to a lifetime of putting out the fires arising from burning up one’s credit card or line of credit. Eventually that motif becomes more than a bit tiresome. In the end the material world has by definition no attraction or relief. This of course begs the question whether, when all is said and done, is it better to have a fistful of the right stuff or a box with the most toys?

Here the debate becomes decidedly heady, highlighting as it does the dichotomy between the “here and now” and the “there and then”. Who hasn’t heard the arguments on one side or the other for enjoying life today or saving for the future? The question pits the extremists against one another. At times the cause is made the easier for the one by the untimely death of a comrade; at another by the prolonged misery of a destitute vagrant. No doubt there are those who would seek to straddle the boundary by advancing the theory of reasonableness in all things, as though that were somehow a popular commodity.

Having had to come down off the fence in the conduct of my own affairs, I admit there has been a goodly portion of luck at play. On the one hand I was able to indulge myself in the pleasure of my squandering, yet subsequently I was able to exchange the tokens for cash (albeit at a discount). This I interpret as fair compromise. I am keenly aware that not everyone is so privileged to be able to unload one’s misfortunes. Having been given the opportunity, I am now more than ever cautious about pressing my providence. Besides there are new openings on the horizon to which one must be sensitive in order to gain the advantage. Repeating the same blunders year after year is after all hardly advisable. And more than a bit boring.

Mr. Stanley McCubbin, aged 65 years and having a thick shock of grey hair and a ruddy complexion, lived alone with his faithful mongrel dog on a large parcel of land which had been in his family for three generations, from the time his ancestors first came to the Township of Lanark Highlands from Scotland in 1888. While both his father and his grandfather had been in military service, using the property somewhat neglectfully as a place to hang their respective hats between postings, Mr. Stanley McCubbin had opted instead to become a respectable farmer.

In spite of the extremely rocky ground upon which the homestead was built, he succeeded (with the assistance of local hired hands) in cultivating almost the entire parcel. Like most serious farmers of his time, he had also become involved in municipal politics, serving with the continuing respect of his community as both Councillor and Warden. Mr. Stanley McCubbin warranted the term “country gentleman” in every sense of the expression. In addition to being industrious and clean-living (and an active and committed Presbyterian to boot), Mr. Stanley McCubbin was a warm and kind man, who was slow to anger (though he could become recalcitrant at times, but that disposition would eventually melt, even if his opinion did not).

Like most men of his character, Mr. Stanley McCubbin was innately modest. Though he had amassed and maintained extensive land holdings, outbuildings and equipment, though he had year after year dutifully plowed his earnings into investments on the advice of his local bank managers, and watched those investments grow significantly, and never spent money either extravagantly or foolishly, Mr. Stanley McCubbin did not think of himself as a rich man, just blessed and fortunate.

Yet in spite of all these commendable attributes and personal wealth, Mr. Stanley McCubbin daily pondered his state of affairs with no small element of despondency, for you see, he had no one in particular to whom to leave his Estate. Not having married, and being an only child, Mr. Stanley McCubbin felt quite alone in the world. With so much of his time having been consumed by personal business undertakings and work on Municipal Council, Mr. Stanley McCubbin had grown old almost imperceptibly, and, more to the point, without having developed any close friendships or alliances, at least of the nature to compel him to name another as beneficiary in his last will and testament.

As Mr. Stanley McCubbin was an organized man, it was inescapable that he should eventually contemplate the terms of his last will and testament. Had he been married, there is no doubt that his wife would have prompted him to do so far sooner in life, especially if he had had children. But that natural impetus was missing in Mr. Stanley McCubbin’s solitary life. Eventually, however, he recognized that the subject was not to be ignored any longer. Once he set his mind to something, it was imperative that its purpose should be fulfilled, and sooner than later.

Accordingly, one cloudy Wednesday morning in late September, as Mr. Stanley McCubbin sat at his kitchen table after having attended to his regular morning chores, sipping his coffee and absently thumbing his investment reports, he decided to call his lawyer (Mr. Arthur Cameron) to arrange to discuss his last will and testament. Mr. Arthur Cameron, whose office was in the nearby Town of Shipman Mills some seven miles away, could see him the following day at 2:00 p.m., so advised the telephonist to whom Mr. Stanley McCubbin spoke that day.

While for many people a visit to the office of one’s solicitor is not considered anything approaching a formal occasion, for Mr. Stanley McCubbin the exact opposite was so. Mr. Stanley McCubbin had in fact planned his wardrobe for the visit from the instant he gingerly set the telephone receiver back in its cradle following his call to Mr. Arthur Cameron’s office. Make no mistake, this appointment was to be conducted with the solemnity of any other ritual ceremony, much like a wedding or a funeral. Mr. Stanley McCubbin adopted the same sense of propriety when appearing in Council Chambers; and of course it was no accident that in this persuasion his solicitor was of the same mind (and of an age, too).

On Thursday afternoon, promptly at 2:00 p.m., Mr. Stanley McCubbin (dressed in a light grey suit, sporting a blue bow tie and wearing a fedora) appeared dutifully at the office of his solicitor, and as he passed through the old oak entrance door of the historic red brick building, the chimes of the grandfather clock in the waiting room struck the hour. With equal rigour, Mr. Arthur Cameron, hearing his Client arrive, came from the sanctum sanctorum at the rear of the office to greet Mr. Stanley McCubbin. He too was suitably dressed, though he wore suspenders and a large maroon tie. The two had been friends for many years, in addition to having maintained a very satisfactory solicitor-client relationship during the same period. Much of the work which Mr. Arthur Cameron had done for Mr. Stanley McCubbin involved real estate transactions, loan agreements with the bank, and settling the estates of his departed parents. Until now, however, the subject of Mr. Stanley McCubbin’s last will and testament had never surfaced, largely because Mr. Arthur Cameron knew instinctively that reclusive and independently-minded farmers cannot be pushed.

A warm greeting and the usual pleasantries were exchanged between the gentlemen, and they then retired to the office of Mr. Arthur Cameron, where Mr. Stanley McCubbin was invited with the wave of a hand to seat himself in one of two upholstered armchairs, while Mr. Arthur Cameron assumed his traditional (and ever so slightly higher) leather swivel chair behind his desk. As Mr. Stanley McCubbin carefully placed his fedora on the chair seat next to him, Mr. Arthur Cameron eyed him attentively, sensing that what was about to transpire, while not precipitous, was something of importance to Mr. Stanley McCubbin. In the seconds that elapsed before Mr. Stanley McCubbin began to speak, the atmosphere of Mr. Arthur Cameron’s richly appointed inner office became unusually still and oddly expansive. The office housed a collection of stuff which Mr. Arthur Cameron had very deliberately and selectively collected over the past forty years.

Mr. Arthur Cameron was senior Counsel in Town where there were now six other lawyers, though all the others, with one exception, were involved strictly in the handling of family law and related matters, something from which Mr. Arthur Cameron had distanced himself many, many years before in preference for a narrow solicitor’s practice in rural conveyancing, estate settlements and corporate law. Everything about his office spoke confidence and stability, the large black safe with the florid lettering on its door (“The Goldie & McCulloch Co., Limited, Galt”), the thick and ornate Persian rugs, the handmade oak letter basket, the bank of law books (admittedly dusty) against one entire wall and the collection of brass, paintings and artifacts. The place lent itself to the discussion of one’s private affairs.

Not surprisingly, Mr. Stanley McCubbin had not come to Mr. Arthur Cameron’s office entirely unprepared. Indeed, Mr. Stanley McCubbin had spent considerable time of an evening in his tidy study at home, bathed in the cone of yellow light which poured from the ancient floor lamp beside his well-worn easy chair, debating in his own mind what he should and should not do with the disposition of his worldly wealth upon his demise. It was a trickier matter than he had first imagined. Without immediate or even distant relatives to consider, the task was made all the more demanding. His first thought had been his neighbours, who, like many people in a rural farming community, had more than once assisted the elderly bachelor, helping for example to pull his vehicle one Christmas Eve from a snowbank at the side of his long laneway, or bringing him food when he had been ill, feeding the livestock, and assisting (for reasonable compensation, naturally) with annual haying and other field operations. Yet, as much as he appreciated and valued his neighbours, he at times harboured the uneasy feeling that they were very much awaiting his passing and anticipating being remembered. This unfortunate sentiment was likely the product of nothing more than the perfectly human trait of envy of those who are well-off, and the equally understandable hope that one might be rewarded by them for previous kindnesses.

Those who are in waiting for beneficence often neglect to see the need for deeper motivation in the benefactor. As kind and generous as one might be, the rich are seldom prompted to dispose of their wealth without very compelling and often singularly selfish reason. Mr. Stanley McCubbin was no exception.

When, finally, Mr. Stanley McCubbin began to speak, his voice though strong sounded oddly remote, almost detached, and Mr. Arthur Cameron was inclined to wonder whether Mr. Stanley McCubbin was pronouncing words which he had rehearsed for presentation to a larger audience. Mr. Stanley McCubbin began his dissertation with a question, obviously rhetorical (since it was unclear to whom the question was addressed, neither did he appear to expect an answer, nor did he wait for one). His question was, “Who deserves to inherit my Estate?”. Moving along without waiting for an answer, Mr. Stanley McCubbin then engaged for the next fifteen minutes or so in what appeared to Mr. Arthur Cameron to be a denunciation of entitlement by any living person to any particle of the goods and money which Mr. Stanley McCubbin might ever own. Mr. Stanley McCubbin’s enthusiasm on the point rather shocked Mr. Arthur Cameron, who had never known Mr. Stanley McCubbin to speak out so strongly against anything, nor frankly at such length.

When at last he finished the theatrical portion of the oration, Mr. Stanley McCubbin seemed to crumple and expire into the cushion of his chair, as though relieved of a great distress, his left arm limp upon the wooden armrest, his right arm hanging inert and undignified along the other side of the chair. Mr. Arthur Cameron hardly knew what to do at this point, whether to agree with him or whether to offer any opinion whatsoever on the subject. Mr. Arthur Cameron squirmed in his leather chair uncomfortably, causing the leather to squeak and thus break the dead silence which otherwise prevailed.

As a lawyer, Mr. Arthur Cameron felt it was well beyond the scope of his professional obligation to weigh in upon the entitlement of anyone as a beneficiary, except of course within the context of lawful dependency. As has so often been observed, lawyers are mere scribes, charged to take instructions, not give them, and to ensure that those instructions are carried out within the letter of the law, perhaps with some needed cajoling along the way, but seldom to opine upon who might be a deserving recipient in the broader moral context. Indeed the matter of entitlement as anything other than the desire of the testator was really stretching the point as far as Mr. Arthur Cameron was concerned. You might as well ask Mr. Arthur Cameron who deserved to go to Heaven.

Nonetheless it was quite evident that Mr. Stanley McCubbin, though obviously driven to expound upon the subject, was in need of some support from Mr. Arthur Cameron at this juncture. It seemed that years of ignorance of the topic had caused the matter to fester rather more dramatically than was merited. Mr. Arthur Cameron, drawing at this point upon his many years of experience, knew enough to avoid dealing with the subject directly, at least as this point in time. Instead of asking Mr. Stanley McCubbin whom he might prefer to benefit, he asked him what he would like to see happen to his estate following his death.

That question gave Mr. Stanley McCubbin occasion for pause and deliberation. He had never pursued the thread of his initial thoughts about his beneficiaries beyond the point of the bequest, and now he appeared to stumble over the issue of how the proceeds of his estate were to be applied, much less by whom. Remarkably, the question posed by Mr. Arthur Cameron gave Mr. Stanley McCubbin renewed vitality and distinct interest in the debate in a far less emotional context. Mr. Stanley McCubbin actually sat straight up in his chair and fully regained his customary composure. In Mr. Stanley McCubbin’s mind, the question was no longer the finite and even vulgar matter of disbursement, but now a larger and more imposing consideration of possible perpetual advancement, however it might be accomplished.

In the hour that followed this awakening, Mr. Stanley McCubbin confided to his close professional friend, Mr. Arthur Cameron, that years of sober, restrained and dedicated hard work had in the end left Mr. Stanley McCubbin feeling either that he had accomplished nothing of true value in life or that no one was worthy of the fruits of his labour. Mr. Stanley McCubbin accepted that this was an odd paradox, but until now he had been unable to withdraw himself from the internal feud which so manifested itself only moments before. Mr. Stanley McCubbin was also clever and honest enough to understand that much of his success had come at the expense of personal happiness, that he was overwrought by the need to produce and accumulate; while at the same time begrudging the privilege of any other person to inherit the advantages without the penalties. He had unwittingly become a mean spirited and stingy old man, as unrecognizable as it may have been to any other than himself.

Knowing this, however, did not immediately open the gates of generosity. Mr. Stanley McCubbin had yet to settle upon what if anything was to be done about implementing a plan for the ultimate use of his estate after his death. The dilemma had now turned into one of stewardship, not mere entitlement. Furthermore, the uncertainty about the answer which had been raging within him for years, misguided as it was by having asked himself the wrong question, confirmed that he had been travelling down a dead end street, and that all his efforts to this point in resolving the issue had been completely wasted. He would have to start over.

At this point in their meeting, and in conclusion of it, Mr. Stanley McCubbin stood up from his chair almost abruptly. Extending his hand to Mr. Arthur Cameron, he thanked him for his time (and asked that he be billed accordingly), then took his leave without further remonstration. Mr. Stanley McCubbin had by unintended insight, got what he wanted, though of course he had yet to instruct Mr. Arthur Cameron on the terms of his last will and testament. That would have to wait for another day. Mr. Stanley McCubbin was not prepared to finalize either his will or his testament, that he knew.

On a certain level adherence to one’s instincts is almost pathological, smacking as it does of compulsive behaviour and irrationality. It’s as though instinct were a substitute for thinking, not exactly what all that education we’ve had has taught us to do. On the other hand I have yet to meet anyone who dismisses the value of acting upon one’s gut reactions even though at times the practice is elevated to the extreme of psychic analysis (“voices from the past” and that sort of thing). Barring however telepathy and clairvoyance, I have increasingly come to view intuitive behaviour as the best guide, by far more shrewd, insightful and discerning than the alternative (rational deduction).

This may at first appear to be an irresponsible vote in favour of impulse but this is to ignore the depth of the morass in which so-called natural feelings operate. Instinct is after all the instantaneous culmination of years of experience, often hard won on the battlefield not in the classroom. To suggest otherwise is the equivalent of saying that it is the key which makes a car run. Certainly a key when properly positioned sets things in motion, but it is all that other stuff behind the dashboard and under the hood which make it happen. Likewise a well-practiced intuition motivates the deeper behavioural decisions.

Let’s face it if you start by heading in the wrong direction, you’re done. That’s what instinct does – it gets you going in the right direction, even if you don’t know why at the time or even if it takes longer to prove itself correct. It is for that reason as well that one must train oneself to trust one’s instincts because often there is nothing other than that trust to sustain the validity of one’s hunch.

It is this training, this learning to accept the reliability of one’s instincts, which is the real challenge. Of course the reason it is such a challenge is because we are customarily too faint hearted to trust our instincts, and as a result we haven’t the track record to enlist in its support. Because instincts are by definition so highly personal, it is useless to attempt to marshal any sort of empirical data to support the proposition. Nobody would believe it even if there were some sort of scientific graph to illustrate the dependability of intuitive behaviour. We have to live the test ourselves. The initial impediment to doing so is the frequent lack of palpable purpose which supports our instincts. It is as though we were simply being guided by a beacon of light without knowing whence it comes. Such “reasoning” is approaching the supernatural or at the very least extrasensory acuity, a trait we sometimes mollify by calling it a “sixth sense”.

I have learned by reliance upon my instincts that not only are they to be trusted, but more importantly that they form the very foundation of not only proper but also fruitful and far-reaching decisions. I might add that part of the conundrum about trusting one’s instincts is that they often lead us in a direction which is completely opposite to which we might otherwise go. This is especially true when emotion forms a substantial element of the thinking process. Emotion is to thinking what water is to oil – they just don’t mix! Nonetheless we insist upon venting our emotions in the face of what our instincts are telling us.

One mustn’t assume that instinct operates in a vacuum, that factual detail is somehow irrelevant to spontaneous behaviour. The decision-making process, whether instinctive or rational, does not ignore the underlying science of the question. The process is about the application of the correct method of determining what to do in a situation. I believe that instinct is the natural ability to know what to do in a particular situation. Just because instinct is basic, even visceral, doesn’t mean it is to be dismissed as “animal”, meaning undeveloped. Instinct is a natural, unreasoning impulse by which we are guided to the performance of an action. It may often be an aptitude, not a mere propensity. For this reason instinctive behaviour is frequently more artistic and skilful than rationality. I think many of us could do with a bit more imagination in our daily lives. Instinct is inventive.

Young Jeremy Roswell awoke without opening his eyes and turned grudgingly in his bed. The half-defeated ringing of the dilapidated alarm clock restored him to materiality, instantly collapsing and dissipating his reverie, whatever it had been. Another day of school. He moved again, this time stretching his limbs, his upper body sympathetically twitching as he did so. The summer duvet which only weeks ago had been too warm now barely soothed him, and as he moved he felt the cool of the sheets where he hadn’t lain. It was September and autumn had already replaced the sultry days of July and August. He could sense the clammy air pouring like a stream into his stark bedroom on the second floor at the back of the house. He had forgotten to draw the drapes last night before he retired, but there was yet barely any morning light. It was six o’clock. The school bus would be at the end of the long drive to collect him at exactly 7:15 a.m. He had to get moving.

Less than a year ago the Roswells (Jeremy, his mother and father) had been prompted to move from the City to the country by the appeal of a larger residence with more land at an attractive price. They had translated their former comparatively small urban townhouse into a ranch bungalow on two and one-half acres of scrub land along a dead end concession, the third house from the end surrounded by emerald green fir trees. The place was remote even by the standards of his rural and village neighbours. Because of that distance, Jeremy was the first stop for the school bus driver on his morning route. The bus driver, a humorless middle-aged man who disliked his job, had cultivated his own routine which involved rumbling the hollow yellow chrysalis to the end of the concession, then backing it into the long drive of the house at the cul-de-sac and turning back towards the highway. Here at the side of the road he would sit in silence for several minutes with the engine turned off, awaiting the appropriate passage of time before moving forward to his first stop two hundred yards distant. Because Jeremy’s winding drive was sheltered from view by evergreens, and because Jeremy made a point of remaining hidden behind the trees at the end of his long walk from the house until the driver made his appointed arrival, the confluence of their missions was very much a synchronized affair, though ostensibly unintentional. Neither of them ever broached the possibility of deliberation on the point.

Jeremy, an only child, had been obliged to give up his City friends as an upshot of his parents’ relocation though he hardly cared. Jeremy was not a popular boy and he had never had any particularly close friends if the truth be told. Vicariously he was friends with whomever his parents knew, a casualty of being included in everything his parents did. His parents weren’t, however, part of the morning ceremony of preparing for school. In that endeavour Jeremy was on his own. Being a reserved person, Jeremy was thankful to undertake his morning disciplines without interference or contribution.

At fourteen years of age Jeremy was in many respects more mature than most of his peers, another consequence of regularly cavorting with adults. While he wouldn’t imagine himself as either especially bright or knowledgeable, he nonetheless appreciated that he had a keen sense of accountability. Jeremy generally took things seriously and eschewed what he considered wasteful frivolity. Things had to be done properly and on time. The sputtering alarm clock may as well have been a call to arms. While the moments following the last plunk of the alarm clock seemed to stretch to eternity, it was in fact a matter of seconds before Jeremy’s motivation kicked in and he was being drawn as though by a magnet from his lair. His first duty was to do his push-ups, thirty of them, non-stop. Jeremy had read about the Stoics. He relished the cool morning air which spilled upon the floor and bathed him in bracing refreshment. He knew about asceticism too.

Jeremy while not handsome was nonetheless always presentable. There was nothing either fastidious or extravagant about his appearance. Jeremy’s visual aspect spoke regulation and civility. His clothes, which he pulled from the louvered-door closet and veneered drawers, were utilitarian at best. Already at his age he had settled upon the tans and hues of the world, avoiding bright colours. When he later donned his featureless windbreaker and sensible shoes he presented the view of a young man with a plain but purposeful agenda and a hint of the arcane.

The morning breakfast table was perfunctory, everything being a nod to necessity only. There was no effusion or display of delight at the dawning of a new day; rather it was the commencement of a duty to be performed. The sterility of the family’s association was matched by the mechanism of the meal, always the same, never any sugar, and only dry toast. Even tea was off the menu. Jeremy’s parents were very strict about additives, something which didn’t figure in their fundamentalist religion. Jeremy privately counted the days when he would be free to test the waters. Meanwhile Jeremy glanced at the wall clock. It was 7:10 a.m. and time for him to walk down the lane to await the arrival of the school bus.

At the end of the lane, lined with trees, Jeremy Roswell stood erect, painted in his vanilla colours, holding his black school bag and staring directly ahead across the concession road, over the field, into the silvery cloud behind which the morning sun was rising. Momentarily he heard the sound of the school bus engine starting.

It’s an innocent enough question: “What motivates you?” Yet it is almost too innocuous to excite any depth of response, the sort of uninspired question a radio interviewer might ask one’s guest in order to keep the conversation moving. Indeed it was that very circumstance which this morning during my breakfast repast captured my attention while listening – as I always do – to CBC Radio. I can’t recall who the host was interviewing nor about what, but I distinctly recall being intrigued by the question.

The first thing that came to mind was the seemingly obvious identification that we are in fact motivated to do what we do; that is, that things don’t just happen. Mr. Everyman’s progress is sired by incentives or causes. I suppose that for some the unfolding of their lives is nothing more glorious than the toss of a die, but nonetheless that sometimes harsh randomness does not in my opinion extinguish the fervour we may still feel for the controlled conduct of our lives in spite of our luck.

Tuning into one’s private stimulation is perhaps the first step in bringing forth results. I think you’ll agree that acknowledging that there are things which incite one to activity is more likely destined to fruition than merely assuming that knee-jerk reaction to events or going with the flow. This recognition may come late in life for even the most successful of our number. The sometimes overwhelming confluence of social and cultural factors can lamentably direct us in ways which have very little to do with our deeper inclinations. Suddenly twenty-five years into the game we find ourselves sitting at a desk stunned by the inutility of what we’re doing, a rude awakening at times. Yet the realization is never too late as it prompts an acceptance of a sensitivity to the more fundamental features of our make-up which may end by precipitating almost sacrificial though beneficial behaviour.

That was the second point of comprehension; namely, that the distinctive marks of one’s character are what drive us. Identifying them is the equivalent of analyzing a seed to fathom what it will generate. Equally important is the knowledge of how to assist the germination of that seed.

Some people thrive upon repetition and precision; others prefer a less obsessive and more relaxed environment. Either way, what’s bred in the bone will out in the flesh. Knowing what’s happening within oneself allows one the privilege of being able to side-step or ignore useless endeavours, and to nurture and develop what is dearest to us each.

As I have observed before, “There are two ways to get down a river: either you know where to go or where not to go”. Call it a process of elimination. So often we waste time doing anything but what we want to do or what we are suited to do. I suspect nature loves what is ultimately easiest (in the sense of most adaptable) in the end. Life needn’t be an uphill effort to conquer someone else’s battles.

This introspection may, however, be both liberating and limiting. Too often for example we are mistakenly encouraged to imagine that our capacity is boundless (see “The Little Engine That Could” a diabolic and misguided children’s tale of self-discovery with about as much credibility as the American Dream) when in fact it would be more properly expounded that our abilities are governed and controlled by our constitution. Yet even in this more restrictive view of our capabilities I find solace in that it encourages dedication to what one does best, in itself both emancipating and enfranchising, not to mention that it enables one to turn down what you know in your heart isn’t right.

That has to be the third and most important point of analysis. Suddenly knowledge of what motivates you is the authority by which you act. How great is that! Now you have a reasoned excuse for doing what you prefer to do! Talk about cutting away the dead wood! It is no doubt in this spirit that one hears of those who profess to getting out of bed every morning and loving what they do. Put another way, if you do what you like, you’ll like what you do. Granted such a perfunctory adage is more cute than persuasive, but given sufficient reflection upon what exactly it is that one likes to do, there may indeed be a germ of truth in it.

Whether it is a product of wholesome habit or merely an upshot of the recent bent for economy, a simple and effortless jaunt around the block on my trusty Electra bicycle has become part of my prescription for good living. Both healthful activity and austerity share the same attributes of being improving, regular and stream-lined. At my superior age, however, I have discovered that the secret in this as in so many other things is not only not to overdo it but also not to make it disagreeable. For one thing, excess has always been the first nail in the coffin no matter what the undertaking. For another, at a certain point in one’s life it is no longer either convenient or desirable to be driven by Stoic directives such as “Just do it!” We are not after all in the army, much less in our teens! No, the gainful model of behaviour – if it is to be sustained over time – must be more along the lines of contentment (with just a soupçon of ease).

Whenever one infects an activity with an element of glee there is an inclination to presuppose that the task is illegitimate. This inaccuracy arises from the introduction of an extraneous edict, namely “No pain, no gain!” If you measure the consequence of your gratification in life by the degree of deprivation, then I suggest it is time to reconsider the formula. Suffering and dispossession are unwelcome and menacing subterfuges which have no place in polite society.

Reflecting upon this subject (which you’ll admit smacks slightly of the Calvinist Work Ethic) makes me question whether the patterns of my youth were for naught. Indubitably strain was as common as air in my earlier years. Almost everything was a struggle (granted, sometimes of my own doing). Certainly the years have provided dividends regarding what I consider to be wisdom, an advantage which however may be peculiar to maturity only. As a result I am not persuaded that youth can escape the tribulations of rising experience. This is an unfortunate conclusion, as it suggests that all young people must of necessity run the gauntlet. Without the benefit of having been a parent, I challenge any one of you to contradict me on this.

In any event the point is that when one at last sees the light it is time to take pleasure in it. One is encouraged in this partiality by the knowledge that this life is limited, stale-dated and inevitably over.

While I would prefer to think otherwise, it is likely the sign of a small mind to obsess over the picayune details of everyday living throughout an entire night. Such however was my unfortunate condition last Wednesday evening. In defence, my haunting fears were abetted by the peripheral forces of a violent storm bearing lashing winds and torrential rains, made all the more provocative by the scrapping of branches against the side of the house and the concussion of hydro wires. One more thing to add to my list – the arborist!

When, after having brooded for hours upon the tedious refrain of a multitude of tasks screaming for cognizance, I finally revived myself in a numbed and dilapidated state at six o’clock this morning, it was but a heartbeat before I began planning my assault upon the mountain of misery which I had so painstakingly manufactured overnight. Whether driven by impatience or an appetite for consummation, in my aching state of insomnia I had assembled a list of duties which had by now assumed an unquestionable urgency. Suddenly everything was on the table and everything needed to be fixed! I had convinced myself that for too long I had allowed these several problems to slip into apparent oblivion and their compelling nature needed to be revived.

As I had already established a certain priority among my list of things which required application, I jumped in with both feet by telephoning two gentlemen of the many trades with which I was currently engaged. My enthusiasm was betrayed by the fact that I was calling them only shortly after seven o’clock in the morning. I have long been convinced that any tradesman worth his salt is well on the road to prosperity before eight o’clock. I was not defeated in this assumption; and, to my entire satisfaction, I was within minutes able to wrestle two of my more component concerns to the ground, with reassuring words from both gentlemen that they would execute the required feats of engineering.

One by one I worked my way through my register of complaints. Not all grievances were centered on fiddling matters of personal importance. Thrown into the mix were other issues arising from my professional obligations, matters which had – as they so often do – percolated to the top only after a reasonable lapse of time but which had now materialized sufficiently to warrant address. In these potentially contentious circumstances one is never entirely certain of the reception one is about to receive in the cooperating office, which naturally excites the agony. Today however I was rewarded with a favourable response, a fact which nicely lubricated the grimy gears of my midnight demons. Things were noticeably starting to look up!

The real lesson in all this torment is that life is guaranteed to provide a relentless manifestation of challenges of one description or another. It is inescapable. It is equally assured that the slaying of the dragon, when at last it happens, will be an ephemeral delight only. Just around the corner another emergency is about to transpire. I don’t mean to sound defeatist in this, but rather straightforward. Whether it takes a restive night or any other scheme to surmount the current dilemmas in one’s life is a matter of personal preference in the end. It appears that my own tact is to quietly suffer periods of inactivity before becoming agitated enough to line them up and shoot them down.