In the midst of this supremely wearing pandemic – and just in time for a much-needed boost – the first Sunday in May has fortuitously begun with considerable enthusiasm. There was talk on an American news channel this morning about shopping malls reopening for business. The persuasive economic anxiety underlying this venture does however compete noticeably with the more popular though cautious reluctance of the medical community which continues to urge social distancing to prevent a sudden wave of reinfection. People generally have no way of assessing the plausibility of recovery in any manner or degree, and certainly without the benefit of scientific analysis. Considering nature’s diminishing example of purely visceral instinct from the imperilled bison it is impractical to assume we know better when faced with the possible catastrophe of hurtling over the edge.

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It’s Saturday. The sun shines.  The temperature is currently 70°F. The redoubtable ingredients of springtime enliven the day! My being hesitantly awakens and manifests itself as I ride upon my bicycle seat, pedalling cheerfully by the old town hall across the ancient stone bridge above the roaring waterfalls, clad in a lightweight burnoose, my gold rings and heavy knotted bracelet reminding me of my elemental materialism, the uncommon gentleness of the gravel pathway soothing the adventure.  Everyone has suddenly transformed their insolation to cautious publicity.

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So preoccupied are we by the pandemic (and its seemingly unrelieved fortunes) that the monthly alteration of the calendar almost went unnoticed today. But the awakening of springtime with the progress of the season is determined to render its own evolution in spite of the ignorance. Though no one dares predict what is to come it is impossible not to succumb to nature’s timetable and at least hope for a customary turn-around from a harsh though insidious winter. The universality of the virus contamination heightens what for some is traditionally little more than a poetic eclipse. Will we indeed have anything other by which to remember springtime this year?

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Years ago I read the autobiography of British actor Sir Alec Guinness. His story was a marvel for the peculiar reason that unlike the other autobiographies I had read (that of Vladimir Horowitz for example) it was less about him and more about those with whom he mingled. One of the many entertaining accounts involved the singular adventure of flying in a small plane which because it encountered a strong head wind was propelled backwards. The plane had a difficult landing but all were safe. Presumably the passengers were protected by their chrysalis – that is, the fuselage of the plane.  By no coincidence the word fuselage derives from the French fuselé “spindle-shaped”, the main body section to which the wings are attached.

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At six o’clock this morning I was startled from my soothing lair. The preposterous theme of the alarm was “By the Seaside“. The alarm would normally not have been so persuasive but today involved a quest, a tête-à-tête with my automobile dealership. I wanted an explanation of the carbon-coloured drippings discovered on the garage floor beneath the engine and middle of the car. This was not to my thinking normal. Nor did it strike me an especially happy acquaintance with a new vehicle.  It was exactly two weeks ago that I took delivery of the Aviator. Since then I have driven it 2,198 kms.

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The St. Lawrence River is more than a thread of fresh water nosing 1,197 kilometres into the North American hinterland.  It conveys everything from ocean-going tankers and weekend yachts to tiny pleasure craft and toys for the cottagers and riparian dwellers along the length of the estuary. Living inland as we do within an hour of the waterway it is not uncommon to travel southward from Ottawa along Hwy #416 to Prescott and then onto the Ivy Lea Parkway which connects between historic Brockville and Gananoque.

“Gananoque is a town in the Leeds and Grenville area of Ontario, Canada. The town had a population of 5,194 year-round residents in the Canada 2011 Census, as well as summer residents sometimes referred to as “Islanders” because of the Thousand Islands in the Saint Lawrence River, Gananoque’s most important tourist attraction. The Gananoque River flows through the town and the St. Lawrence River serves as the southern boundary of the town.“

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When I moved to Almonte in June of 1976 at 27 years of age it was strictly for professional reasons. I wanted out of Ottawa. I wanted away from those of my brethren with whom I had associated during my brief career as a lawyer. I was then practicing law at 100 Sparks Street, Ottawa with Macdonald, Affleck having been called to the Bar at Osgoode Hall in Toronto about a year earlier. Though my career had already afforded me appearance before the Federal Court and the Supreme Court of Canada, and while my daily undertakings included representation of Drummond Henry Birks and other highly successful businessmen, I hadn’t a personal attachment to the firm. I had begun to make casual enquiries about switching firms within the City but nothing had matured to the point of an interview. Unexpectedly – and serendipitously as it turned out – Senator George K. McIlraith (counsel to the firm) tipped me off that in Almonte his son-in-law Michael J. Galligan, QC of Galligan & Sheffield was looking for a junior lawyer to fill the gap created by the retirement of Raymond A. Jamieson, QC. (who had been called to the Bar in 1921). If I recall correctly Senator McIlraith speculated that the partners of Macdonald, Affleck would linger at their desks until they collapsed on the greens at the Royal Ottawa Golf Club. When I left Macdonald, Affleck those senior partners and Baron Brocklesby, QC were all above 80 years of age and showed no signs of quitting.  Macdonald still walked from Sherwood Drive to work every day – including in the winter with cleats on his shoes.  Brocklesby told me he had his Mercedes washed once a week whether it needed it or not. Robert McLaughlin, QC – a senior but younger partner – ended overworking himself, dictating while standing by his desk, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. He died an untimely death. Jeffrey Lyman DeWitt King, QC, after exhausting the utility of the Liberal Party of Ontario (of which he was a former President) went to work for the Vatican.

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The ritual ceremony of breakfast this morning was interrupted by having to deal with the renewal of my web site’s domaine name. The domaine registration and web hosting are what keep this web page alive. Years ago when I commissioned a chap to create my web site (initially for purposes related to my candidacy for municipal election – an endevour from which I subsequently withdrew) he told me the advantage of using CanSpace Solutions for web hosting and Name.com for domaine registration. I can no longer recollect the reason for the two companies. Meanwhile after altering the site to accommodate its current blog character I have continued using the free-standing hosting and registration providers, one Canadian, the other American.

“Web hosting is the place where all the files of your website live. … When someone enters your domain name in a browser, the domain name is translated into the IP address of your web hosting company’s computer. This computer contains your website’s files, and it sends those files back to the users’ browsers.“

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Perfection is not merely a state of being.  It is also the action or process of improving something until it is faultless. The one is purely descriptive; the other is an active endeavour. But here’s the thing, both renditions are curiously misleading. Nothing is perfect.  Nor will it ever be. Yet people mistakenly assume that by some application of whatever they will be able to achieve that enigmatic result. I prefer to assess any concern regarding perfection by an examination of several factors other than what purports to be the obvious and discomposing imperfection. That is, the overall achievement of anyone or anything is calculable by reference not to minutiae but to substance. I am reminded of the quip, “You say to me, What is the answer?; and I say to you, What is the question?”

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Recently I was recommended a book.  The book was written by a physician (John E. Sarno, MD) and it addressed medical conditions – some of which (like chronic back pain) was not foreign to me.  Oddly the thesis of the work was mental care for physical ailments.

“One thing that is abundantly clear about the cause and treatment of TMS is that it is a striking example of what might be called the mind-body connection. The history of medicine awareness of this interaction is long and checkered. Hippocrates advised his asthmatic patients to be wary of anger, which suggests that 2,500 years ago there was some appreciation of the impact of the emotions on illness. That concept was dealt a crippling blow by the seventeenth-century philosopher and mathematician René Descartes, who held that the mind and body were totally separate entities and should be studied separately. Matters of the mind were the concern of religion and philosophy, according to Descartes. The body, he said, should be studied by objective, verifiable methods. To a large extent, Descartes’s teaching remains the model for contemporary medical research and practice. The average physician looks upon illness as a disorder of the body machine and sees his role as discovering the nature of the defect and correcting it. Research in medicine rests heavily on the laboratory, and what cannot be studied in the laboratory is widely considered to be unscientific. Despite the obvious fallacy of that idea, it remains the guiding research principle for most medical investigators. The spirit of Descartes is still very much alive.“

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