Today is Sunday. For some reason this afternoon as I drove home from visiting my elderly mother at her retirement residence (or what she prefers to call the “Nut House”) the traffic on Baseline Road from Carleton University to Bells Corners was bumper-to-bumper, utterly clogged in syrup.  It went on for miles. At first I thought it might have been the Sunday shoppers flooding the malls along the way.  Then I imagined people jamming the highways to get to the Palladium in Kanata where normally there are events like NHL hockey games and rock concerts. By the time I reached Terry Fox Drive (which essentially separates Kanata from Stittsville) the traffic had abated but I still had no inkling of the reason for either the swell or the dip. It had taken me at least an hour to cover about fifteen kilometres at the most.

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Although I aim to steer myself upon smooth roads inevitably I happen upon the grit and gravel of consternation. It’s rather like taking a summer drive in the country hoping not to encounter road construction. I suppose there are some for whom the recurring disturbance of life is not an unbalancing condition – though I can’t imagine why it would be desirable. Perhaps because the alternative of stability and assuredness suffers the perceived want of novelty or dynamism. Some people are born dare-devils and risk-takers. My preference is far less robust; I am not by any stretch an Indiana Jones model. Instead I’ve always opted for a controlled environment (though I hasten to add one based on reason not blind submission or unqualified behaviour).

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One naturally becomes introspective about being Canadian on July 1st, Canada Day (or what in my memory was once called “Dominion Day”). The holiday was renamed Canada Day by Act of Parliament on October 27th, 1982, sidelining the name of the holiday commemorating the formation of Canada as a colonial territory of England on July 1st, 1867.

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It would hardly instil alarm to observe that the bliss of perfection is short-lived (assuming naturally that one has even had the occasion to savour the nectar). Whether one is talking about a superlative meal or a scintillating relationship, a marvellous voyage or a sparkling new acquisition, just about anything we do – no matter how ecstatic – is destined to wane. This is not a dreadful thing. I mean the whole idea of perfection – at least in the kerfuffle of daily human flurry – is all wrapped up in novelty which by definition has a limited shelf life. And further I reckon that even if the initial manifestation were to continue uninterrupted its enchantment and pungency would presently slump, exhausted by time if nothing else. Yet discounting gratification however fleeting runs against the grain. It would indeed be a hard-edged philosophy that dismisses lotus-eating as futile because of its predictable sequel.

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Can we possibly fathom how it must have been for the swashbucklers to set sail in the Mayflower in 1620 “in search of a new land”? Talk about raw travel adventure! Their existing circumstances in England had to have been forbidding to promote the idea of such a voyage in the first place. It speaks to the enigmatic buoyancy of humanity to have looked out upon the unavoidable prospect of uncertainty.

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It isn’t often I succumb to my better judgement and rise above the straitened circumstances of life. Which is to say that introspective levity demands both acuity and unflinching conviction. Seeing beyond the range of what are perhaps one’s trammelled horizons is no easy matter. For one thing the perturbing annoyances of living are always more compelling than any armchair reflection upon the subject. Yet there is I find an unquestionable reward for doing the right thing.

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There are two things I don’t do well – Third World and children. Interestingly they have certain commonalties, like lack of development, general austerity and forbidding unfamiliarity. Fortunately for me (and trust me I am not circumscribing the experience of others by my own confessed dearth of initiative) it isn’t often I am inclined or obliged to embrace either vernacular.

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Reward has forever been for me the shameless upshot of a pleasant day. Seemingly I cannot have the one without the other. I love a celebration! Whatever the reason (perhaps my exuberance is rooted in a bipolar personality) today marks the culmination of a series of personal coups. I have lately succeeded to fulfill what by most standards would no doubt be considered utterly tiresome accomplishments, things like getting through routine medical attendances (though in light of our current healthcare system that may not be an entirely meaningless achievement), at last having adjustments made to tatty pieces of jewellery (the collection of stuff that lingers unnoticed for years in dusty bedroom bureau drawers), handing off a dilapidated heirloom inherited from my grandfather to my niece for posterity (finally admitting it will never work), repairing a scuff on my car (one of those incontrovertible vexations), that sort of thing.  While none of those events amounts to anything much, their performance is nonetheless relieving. Frankly these days my agenda even given the most generous rendition is far short of astonishing. So checking off almost any incident no matter how inconsequential is for me a palpable victory.  If nothing else it constitutes a re-enactment of the days when I had things of necessity to do. The result?  Cupcakes. The combination of artistry and sugar. As I quipped to the chap in the bakery department this afternoon, sweets are an addiction.  What more appropriate response to achievement than a substance that can cause diabetes,  obesity or death! The moment of unrepentant and blind submission!

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Russian President Vladimir Putin recently exhorted the United States, “Don’t worry, be happy!” I doubt he considers the expression purely modern. It is after all traditionally fraught with facetiousness. I am more inclined to suspect him of mocking the United States politicians. Yet the once catchy phrase has some quirky substance to it. Though the adage is principally associated with the popular worldwide hit song by musician Bobby McFerrin released in September, 1988, the song’s title is taken from a famous quotation by Meher Baba.

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