If I were to give an accounting of what I have lately done for my 89 year old mother it would most certainly include having taken her for a Sunday drive today.  We both remarked as we sipped our respective iced drinks at Neat Café in Burnstown (Renfrew County) that there wasn’t a cloud in the deep blue sky! The temperature hovered around 25ºC and we therefore sat under a large umbrella on the deck overlooking the first sprouts of the English garden.

Our shiftless gaze wandered to a cursory study of the gaggle of cyclists at a nearby table, wondering to ourselves what they did for a living and where they came from. They were an undistinguished group of men and women, middle-aged, clad in the extraordinarily busy synthetics peculiar to racing cyclists and not especially attractive as one might expect of athletes so far removed from an urban centre. They were however all incontrovertibly thin.

After draining our cups (which were really pickle jars – the latest absurdity of these trendy places) and patting our lips dry my mother and I contrived to depart.  Our return route took us along back roads which would normally be unfamiliar to persons not from the area as am I (a forty-year veteran).  My mother tritely observed that people living in cities forget there is so much open space. We traveled quietly, effectively insulated from road noise, listening to classical piano music which complemented the scenic greenery of the fields and trees. From Burnstown on the Madawaska River to White Lake; then onto Pakenham, Blakeney (formerly called Rosebank, a particular favourite of mine), Almonte (once appropriately named Shipman Mills), Carleton Place (originally named Morphy’s Falls) and home to my mother’s place.

On a less social level my contribution to my mother’s well-being has been the institution of what had become for me in the latter years of my law practice stock estate and succession planning.

The introduction to these esoteric legal manoeuvres began in 2008.  While the contortions were never fully assimilated by my late father, he nonetheless yielded (no doubt as a measure of respect for my professional acumen) and my mother followed suit.  She has since lost any recollection of the niceties of the family trust but that is of no consequence as there is no change of beneficial ownership (a detail whose significance is now utterly meaningless to her).  I nonetheless congratulate myself for having done what I did, including the referral of her money management to a professional fee-based financial advisor.  As I am wont to tell both my mother and my sister, “You don’t need me!  The mechanics of management are now in place whatever may happen to any one of us!”  The thrust of this proclamation is that the ultimate goal of each of our personal successions will be realized come Hell or high water. Admittedly not all of the devices are self-serving; there has been in part a capitulation to the perpetual existence of a corporate trustee but the uncertainty of the future is thereby removed.

Naturally these private reflections of mine percolated unknown to my dear mother.  Our project was ostensibly none other than a Sunday drive.

In what is turning out to be another instance of self-imposed governance we have decided to limit our sphere of travel this summer to our environs. This latest asceticism is primarily an austerity measure though pointedly neither of us is despondent about circumscribing our plans.  In fact after spending a comparatively indulgent winter on Hilton Head Island we are quite prepared to restrain ourselves and to wile away the Dog Days (diēs caniculārēs) of summer in our own back yard.  We cannot unabashedly urge upon ourselves an oceanic visit when we have had the privilege to relish spectacular maritime views for four months in the past year.

We also wish to implement our own protestation; namely, that when landing somewhere one mustn’t straightaway abandon it under the guise of adventure.  Aside from neglecting what is under one’s nose, there is the more grievous hazard of having lots going on and nothing happening.  Besides one has to wonder what there is to run from? Speaking of which I have lately been tormented by recurring apprehension about certain of my relationships. Whether I am imaging it or not I cannot be certain, but to my thinking the ties I have to some people are dissolving. I am encouraged in this conjecture by remarks from one close to me that there is indeed foundation for the sentiment; and further the assurance that the loss is one I am able to bear without deprivation.  Admittedly I am frequently the last person to see the proverbial writing on the wall.  My instinctive first reaction – apart from resiling from the offending situation – is to lay blame at my own door for what has seemingly transpired.  With fermentation and the benefit of fresh air on an afternoon cycle, I am willing to concede that a.) What’s the big deal?; and, b.) Since when am I expected to behave according to an unwritten and unspoken code purportedly set by others?  Certainly there are boundaries upon acceptable human conduct but whatever I may have done or failed to do it hardly qualifies as a transgression of minimum standards.  More likely than not, the friction (if any) is the result of something grating the Party of the Second Part and I am for some reason caught in the middle. As I say there is the very real possibility that I am manufacturing differences between us which do not exist. Either way temperance is in order.  One can’t be forever in party mode.  What however lingers is the question why I should be doubting the relationships in the first place?  It is not as though the dilemma is an isolated instance; rather it is almost pervasive.  Surely I can’t be the only soldier in step while all the others are not?

Having said that, the fact remains that all relationships are at times tenuous. The disintegration of bonds is seldom precipitous. Normally distance between people develops incrementally until at last the thread is broken or at least stretched so infinitely as to disappear.  There is the further possibility that given the opportunity every particle of one’s being eventually comes under scrutiny and a host of quandaries may arise from the intense examination. The hours can be long when not occupied upon the business of other people’s affairs. Perhaps the introversion is producing unmerited results.  If nothing else it is worthwhile to remove oneself from the fracas and to avoid unnecessary demarcation which may later prove regrettable.  The many adages concerning the value of friends and friendship spring to mind in this regard and to rebut them wholesale may be irresponsible and ultimately regrettable.

Meanwhile the focus mustn’t continue to be upon such dreary matters. Suffering as I do from an uncommon appetite for approbation it requires some effort for me to disengage without the prospect of its reward.  It quite astounds me how driven I have been historically to please others, whether by casual behaviour, formal acquaintance or professional service.  As I reflect upon the logic of human interaction my absorption in the pleasure and endorsement of others is correspondingly diminished.  It is therefore only natural that the quality of relationships is thus altered.  No longer do the same things matter; and a fortiori new things now matter.  It is emancipating to liberate oneself from habitual conditioning to give way to novel and sometimes unanticipated allures.  I’m not talking about anything kinky, just different, usually less contrived and more naturally connected, springing from genuine motivations, heartfelt as it were.  It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve discovered that my uninhibited personality involves me in discoveries which far surpass the scope of measured and strictly pragmatic behaviour (a conclusion which may be strikingly obvious but nonetheless illuminating).  It speaks to my recent taciturn bearing that I have been consumed by the resolution of this latest mishmash of apprehensions.  There have been some understandable contributors to this state of affairs, minor things relating to what are no more than everyday troubles, but the overriding angst relates to human relationships which as usual are seldom resolved by little more than the effluxion of time.  Apart from that, it is mere guesswork, yet another reason to stand fast upon one’s own sentiments.

The way most people casually toss about the expression “Counsel of Perfection” you’d think they were talking about something unattainable or making reasoned excuses for what they have failed to accomplish.  Either way it is seldom meant to chronicle anything realistic or realizable, rather an ideal only and a remote one at that.  The further castigation is the underlying theme that the urging, though noble, is impracticable.

The three evangelical counsels or counsels of perfection in Christianity are chastity, poverty (or perfect charity), and obedience. As Jesus of Nazareth stated in the Canonical gospels, they are counsels for those who desire to become “perfect” (τελειος, cf. Matthew 19:21, see also Strong’s G5046 and Imitatio dei). The Catholic Church interprets this to mean that they are not binding upon all and hence not necessary conditions to attain eternal life (heaven). Rather they are “acts of supererogation” that exceed the minimum stipulated in the Commandments in the Bible. Christians that have made a public profession to order their life by the evangelical counsels, and confirmed this by a public religious vow before their competent church authority (the act of religious commitment called “profession”), are recognised as members of the consecrated life.

Anything approaching these traditional but archaic monastic vows is seldom considered either enviable or capable of implementation. Furthermore even the gloss upon the expression “Counsel of Perfection” is almost dismissive:

In ethics, an act is supererogatory if it is good but not morally required to be done. It refers to an act that is more than necessary, when another course of action—involving less—would still be an acceptable action. It differs from a duty (which is an act that would be wrong not to do), and from acts that are morally neutral. Supererogation may be considered as performing above and beyond a normative course of duty to further benefits and functionality.

The motivation, at least in the Roman Catholic Church, was that acts of supererogation were “actions believed to form a reserve fund of merit that can be drawn on by prayer in favor of sinners”.  As laughable as it may seem to have been able to purchase redemption, it came at a price, one which was beyond the sphere of most. Counsel of Perfection  included for example celibacy:

St. Paul presses home the duty incumbent on all Christians of keeping free from all sins of the flesh, and of fulfilling the obligations of the married state, if they have taken those obligations upon themselves, but also gives his “counsel” in favour of the unmarried state and of perfect chastity (Celibacy), on the ground that it is thus more possible to serve God with an undivided allegiance.

As a practicing lawyer I was accustomed to reiterating to my clients that I merely provided advice which they were at liberty to take or not.  The original intent of Counsel of Perfection was however far less lax:

Indeed, the danger in the Early Church, even in Apostolic times, was not that the “counsels” would be neglected or denied, but that they should be exalted into commands of universal obligation, “forbidding to marry” (1 Timothy 4:3), and imposing poverty as a duty on all.

Through time this “exaltation” of Counsel of Perfection has been diluted sufficiently to become little more than an apology for anything which is frequently far short of the mark.  While I agree that the strict original sense of the expression is possibly without foundation, I do not however accept that in the modern vernacular settling for anything less than perfection is worthwhile. Indeed I view compromise as virtually valueless even if contemporary.

I want to be clear that my objection is never pitted against concession as a negotiation tool or as a reasonable substitute for what is otherwise unattainable.  Where trade-off is imperative by the very nature of the proceedings, it is of course acceptable.  What irks me is the willingness to reduce one’s target for reasons such as impatient expediency or petty economy.  In those circumstances the deal is nothing other than selling oneself short. And I am convinced that it is inevitable that such conduct is destined to prove unsatisfactory sooner than later.  It is useful to remind oneself that Counsel of Perfection exacts standards which at first blush appear onerous or more extensive than desired but this should not be off-putting.  This preliminary view is but a glimpse of the whole which if seen in its entirety would disclose the utility of the fuller application.

At the risk of extrapolating to the ridiculous, I cannot help but think that the apologetic use of Counsel of Perfection is akin to what is being sold in the many popular department stores – products euphemistically described as “outlet” (whatever that means).  There is a growing trend to favour price over quality and to prefer imitations (“knock-offs”) to the real thing.  In the result we end by surrounding ourselves with trash and products with a built-in early amortization.  We have become willing to accept the price and quality of three synthetic products for the price of one authentic product, all the while shrugging off the subterfuge and bargain as imperative or otherwise necessary or acceptable.  What ever happened to the real wool sweater?  Since when does a toaster have an expected lifetime of two years only? Why do we tolerate fake wooden sculpture?  Were the real things only Counsel of Perfection?

The greatest loss is the diminution of standards generally.  By surrendering to less than perfection we imperceptibly erode the highest benchmarks of our human existence.  Mind and matter have forever been inseparable.  It isn’t purely an accession to the dwindling quality of materialism; it is a contamination of the purity of our world’s physical metaphor.  And this inevitably leads to the tainting of our characteristic criteria, an infection which bleeds into our psychological, spiritual and moral codes of behaviour. If we are not prepared to live by Counsel of Perfection, then by what yardstick or principle are we to measure our conduct and undertakings?  How far below the mark do we allow ourselves to decend? Is aiming high no longer axiomatic?  Have we altered the very principles of science when it comes to hitting the target?

Mother’s Day today began uneventfully.  In preparation for a luncheon rally at my sister’s house in the City at noon we first collected a family friend (an octogenarian widow).  That arrangement has been conducted several times before for other outings and once again it went off with the usual enquiries about one’s health and the weather.  We exchanged some additional intelligence about my mother (an even more elderly widow) before making our way leisurely to my mother’s house to collect her.  There the trend changed from the outset.  It started with my mother relating in no uncertain terms that we were late for the appointed pick-up time of 11:30 a.m.  This she described with some measure of fault as a source of worry for her.  I let is slide. One mustn’t I suppose expect exceptional civility from a mother even on Mother’s Day.

As my mother careered her way to the customary front passenger seat of the car, I redirected her to the rear driver’s side so that she might join our guest in the back seat of the car.  She undertook this modification with palpable reluctance but succumbed when I alerted her that our guest was already in the back seat.  Upon mother twisting herself sufficiently to gain entry to the rear seat of the car, I assisted her with her seat belt.  Mother took the metal bolt from me but ended struggling to insert it in its clip.  At this point our guest wrestled the bolt from my mother and she too then struggled to insert it but again without success.  I quietly observed that the bolt needed to be rotated 180º in order to fit into the clip.  This particular tactic was lost upon my audience.  When I attempted to interfere with the digital gymnastics I was treated to a round rebuff from our guest who insisted that she could do it herself.  This further assurance proved a failure and I therefore turned the bolt and inserted it.  At last we were on our way!

Following this minor power skirmish the conversation was at first constrained but soon the collective tension eased. Aside from detouring around the thousands of people who sought to view the tulips surrounding Dow’s Lake there were no further anomalies in our otherwise pacific Sunday journey.

The first order of business upon our arrival at my sister’s house (apart from suggesting to my mother that she exit from the car through the same door that she had entered it rather than crawling over the centre hump and arm-rest to the other side of the vehicle) was of course drinks.  His Lordship being renowned as he is for the concoction of the finest Bloody Caesar in the land went at it without delay and within moments everyone was sipping pleasurably upon the day’s first eye-opener.  My mother also made a bit of a vocation of the cheese and crackers for as much as she protests never to be hungry she invariably gobbles up whatever is passably tasty.  Our general view is that she doesn’t feed herself adequately when alone but she appears – quite understandably – to make up for lost time when in a social environment.

As always my sister and her husband prepared a superb luncheon. Our feast today was fresh salmon cooked on a cedar plank on the barbecue.  There were two delicious salads and boiled baby potatoes to complement the fish.  And a desirable supply of red and white wine.  Dessert was a fresh fruit salad with only a squeeze of lime juice followed by assorted chocolates, sweet biscuits and coffee.  The table conversation included an unusual reference to my brother-in-law’s business affairs, a salty reminder to the majority of us at table that retirement is a blessing.  This led us onto a tangent about bargaining in the market place generally, a topic from which derived more cherished details of shopping for antiques and a general reinforcement of why my sister and her husband have money in addition to things.  At this juncture of the luncheon the combination of the animated subject of antiques and various glasses of wine contributed to a lively drama about the larger principles of life which invariably emanate from matters of personal intimacy.

Although our departure from the festive board seemed somewhat abrupt, the time was already approaching 4:00 p.m.  Besides our guest is committed to her Bichon Frisée so we bent to that faithful concern and guided ourselves accordingly.  After depositing my mother at her home, we again revisited the gritty details of my mother’s current situation.  This included some frank discussion of familial relationships and the undercurrent of plans for her future care.  While some of the subjects may have been delicate they at least had the advantage of being substantive, no doubt part of my current thrust to avoid ambiguity in whatever I undertake.

We decided to forgo our routine Saturday morning excursion to the Golf Club for breakfast today even though last evening over dinner we had talked of the possibility.  But I knew when I rose from my lair at ten past eight this morning, the opportunity was unrecoverable.  It was just too late to capture the moment.

No doubt Wendy at the Club kitchen would still have been frying her crisp bacon but getting to the Club at a reasonable time presented a hurdle. What with the skies threatening rain, and the weather forecast predicting rain, we had to capitalize immediately upon the current dryness for our daily bicycle ride, a mandatory commitment which we dutifully fulfilled.  So we contented ourselves instead with a healthful bowl of fresh fruit and a cup of black coffee before commencing our matutinal exercise.

Sleeping until after 8:00 o’clock this morning would normally have disturbed me.  I have however done it so often recently that I have adjusted to the once perverse anomaly.  I regret however that the length of the day is considerably shortened by such a tardy beginning.  There was a time when I arose with equal regularity at 3:30 a.m. and set off to wash my car and listen to BBC Word News Service.  But as I can now wash the car at any time of the day I apparently no longer have the early morning inclination.  Yet those somnolent hours between 4:oo and 8:00 a.m. seem extravagantly squandered. I used to enjoy getting a cup of coffee at the gas station, sometimes chatting with the overnight attendant (upon whose mysterious provenance and fate I privately speculated) and still being home in time for a six o’clock breakfast and more coffee before going to work.  Sometimes now when I sleep late my conscience is bothered by whether I am avoiding life by remaining in bed (though I can’t imagine that getting my car washed and having a gas attendant’s coffee is a great accomplishment).

As a result of this morning’s torpidity by the time we visited my elderly mother (and brought her a Starbucks Mocha Frappuccino® that she relishes) and afterwards toured the aisles of the grocery store, it was approaching 3:30 p.m.  The topic of the preprandial cocktail was astonishingly by then already on our lips!  Even more boggling to me was that my subsequent late afternoon congress with Charles Dickens in my soft green leather chair soon ended in my head drooping upon my chest and my hands collapsed with my book on my outstretched legs.  It wasn’t as though I had gone to bed late last night!  And yet here I was, asleep once again!  Anaesthetized by a comfortable chair!  It was only the sharpness of the air-conditioned breeze from the ceiling vent that finally awoke me.  And by then it was time for hors d’oeuvres and dinner!

Once again the paradox is that while advancement in life is almost imperceptible, time goes whizzing by.

Lately I have muddled my affairs by trying to impose some stricture, what I consider to be some much needed restraint. It it paradoxical that I should call upon censorious instruction when in fact what I’m after is a release from constraint. Not surprising therefore that even the best intentions can cause temporary disturbance. Primarily the censure is directed to my free-wheeling behaviour. I’m accordingly reining things in. By the same token, my motive is liberality, almost abandon, maybe a care-free posture approaching snapping my fingers at life! Unquestionably this contradictory bent for late-life modification is the result of having nothing much else to do; however, to continue unaltered is proving to be less than provident. Fact is, these suppressed thoughts have been leaching for some time.  I have decided to confront them!

It is quite remarkable how tied I am to repetitive though fruitless comportment. I’d prefer not to think of it as lack of imagination but considering the Pavlovian nature of the conduct I’m not so sure.  What is more likely the root of the predicament is not intellectual incapacity but rather want of personal conviction.  It requires enormous effort for me to trounce someone in my mind.  My alternative instead has been to walk away. While this puts distance between the parties it obviously avoids addressing the issue.  One’s objective should of course not be to trounce anyone. I use the expression not as a condemnation so much as a purgation. It is a process of removing oneself from unpleasant associations with the added feature of a mental embargo.  This is important because it is purposeful not negligible.

Whether one shares these private sentiments is another matter. No doubt there are those who promote the theory that each of us is obliged to communicate our thoughts about others to them.  I am not so sure.  Even if the proposal rings of fairness and openness I am not convinced I am bound by such codes of natural justice. Besides the frozen truth may not be what others care to hear.  And I can at least rationalize my reluctance by advancing it is better to stay mum in the event that my opinion is incorrect (though I know this is really just a gimmick).

Lining things up admittedly smacks of uninspired regimentation, not what many would consider to be a good thing.  I suppose whatever one does in this regard is more imaginary than real.  Most likely the imposition is purely fictional, maybe even a disguise. But the token order may nonetheless afford the prospect of discernment in an otherwise baffling array of emotions.  The order is a mere tool to facilitate comprehension, perhaps similar to dissection of constituent parts to fathom the whole.  The inner alignment is reflected in external arrangements as well. Today for example we met with our banker to set up vehicles for the management of our affairs in the United States during our winter sojourn.  These thoughts too had percolated in the past year. The organization of mind and matter so often go hand-in-hand.  I flatter myself to think the material manifestation is a reflection of the government of my mind, taking care of business as it were.

No doubt this all sounds like so much gobbledegook and indeed it may be so. But I can tell you in the clearest of terms that I am quite bored withstanding the bilge I get from certain people. First and foremost I can contrive no reason whatsoever to tolerate such bunk.  Any commercial nexus which may have once existed is gone.  Second, I see no utility in pandering to the foibles or whims of others; if the relationship is work, to Hell with it!  I am equally tired of convincing myself that all friendships require work.  They don’t!  And as long as they do, they’re better ignored.

Sometimes abrupt right turns can prove more deliberate than required.  I accept the change like everything else in life must be incremental not precipitous.  Nonetheless the underlying perspectives must be clear and unambiguous even if the implementation is not.  So for starters I’m lining up my ducks and we’ll see where we’re headed!

It positively astounds me how entrenched I become in solving a problem about which I could care less!  It’s a classic case of stewing about an answer without knowing the question, or at least without having first canvassed the relevance of the question before diving into the murky depths to look for a solution. Small wonder I end up going in circles!  Don’t say dog chasing its own tail to me!  It is an utterly pointless exercise to attempt to resolve something that doesn’t matter.

Put that way, it no doubt seems unlikely that anyone would obsess about something that doesn’t matter. But we do it all the time.  If for example we are disturbed by the nature of our relationship with another, we frequently dwell at length upon an examination of the cause of the disturbance, the possibility that the root of the problem is either oneself or the other person, the gymnastics of handling future associations with that person and so on.  All so much pious claptrap!  We have to back up and ask ourselves, “Will it change my life?”  If the answer is “No!” then forget it! Otherwise – to continue the metaphor – the tail wags the dog, a secondary part controls the whole. Certainly it is inevitable that change of circumstances will precipitate divergences; disagreements between people will always arise.  By failing to ask ourselves the relative importance of such change or altercation we risk pursuing a lost cause.

If part of the fallout from an uncomfortable situation is that the parties lean away from one another, sometimes it is best just to let things fall where they may.  It is characteristic of the insoluble problem that people are often driven more by control than goodwill, a bad recipe for any undertaking and certainly one that disguises the objective.  Sadly at times the objective isn’t patching things up, but rather blame.  This too begs the question, “Why bother?”  When it comes to human relationships there are no end of reasons to blame others. In the end it is better to go your own way than to persist in what will inevitably fail.

It is nonetheless not a simple matter to let go. Habit alone is a palpable counterweight to renegade behaviour.  And there can easily be fear of loss, anxiety about looming loneliness, quite aside from the pragmatic considerations of family, friends, security, etc.  Yet equally it is shallow to pretend to rise above an unbearable or unforgivable annoyance for so-called ulterior motives.  Few of us can sustain such strategic behaviour for long or without damaging compromise. If you can’t find a reason to stay then think of a reason to leave.  If the horizon is brighter it is at least worth a try to head in the other direction.  This doesn’t mean burning bridges or inflicting irreparable vitiation, just ignoring the situation. Who knows, maybe the dilemma will resolve itself even if our meddling hasn’t.  Meanwhile, get on with doing what makes you happy and forget the rest!  That way you’ll likely do the least harm until you can recall why you care.

At times I have what seems a flash of insight, a sudden recognition that life is an unbelievable ride and I want to hang on forever.  I don’t chastise myself for not perpetually maintaining this wide-eyed view, it would be too preoccupying if nothing else. When the awakening does occur however it is a welcome unguent.  The gritty alternative is hardly to be desired.

The events of the day began somewhat earlier than usual.  We were on our bikes not much after 9:00 a.m.  The air was warm, summer-like, and after cycling for several kilometres I began thinking about removing my light pullover. We had nothing particular on our minds, just relishing the exercise and being out-of-doors.  We lengthened our customary route slightly by detouring to Water Street along the River to inspect a property we’d recently talked about.  This in turn led us to the Riverwalk, adjacent the roaring springtime water of the Upper Falls. From there we cut down Brae Street, across Farm Street, up the steep hill to Gemmill Park behind the arena then along Bridge Street to our apartment.

My routine attendance upon my elderly mother included a small bit of business, some discussion of household and domestic matters and finally arranging a weekend social engagement for Mother’s Day. This filial duty is becoming more and more like a daily checklist.  At times I wonder who is the primary beneficiary of it.  Certainly it expiates my disquietude about mother’s circumstances, living alone in a large house.  One learns to ignore factual discrepancies, to abide constant repetition, to abandon clinical health matters.  In the end it is a capitulation to the least of the evils of getting old, an accommodation of short-comings and inadequacies.

Going to the grocery store is becoming something in the nature of an outing for me.  At times I think the staff must think I live there.  I diversified my adventure today by visiting the local health food store to collect four bags of Abbott Crunchy Granola.  I made a point of telling the clerk (who I suspect is one of the two female owners of the store) that the Abbott granola makes all the other stuff taste like sawdust.  I am annoyed that the product hasn’t been selling better since I know first-hand that it is superior to any of the others.  It was a distinct deprivation not to have had it when we were in South Carolina last winter.  I can’t imagine why anyone who buys granola would hesitate to go for the best when the difference in price might be a mere three dollars at the most.  The petty compromises that some people feel compelled to make!

We’ve entered what feels like a tranquil period, even tranquillized.  With so many recent matters on our agenda now settled we’re at loose ends.  We’ve decided to spend the summer here, foregoing the initial plans to go to St. Andrew’s-by-the-Sea in New Brunswick.  Besides there is so much right here at our doorstep that I find it difficult to convince myself of the necessity to travel.

After this year’s punishing winter everybody is anxious for the arrival of the warmer months. This weekend – which I shall conveniently call May 1st Weekend – delivered the befitting panacea.  Not only were we blessed with wall-to-wall sunshine and blue skies; temperatures were also unusually high, approaching 24ºC.  We needn’t suffer the further indignity of waiting until Victoria Day Weekend to celebrate.  It appears we have finally exhausted the chilly winter winds; and the 14-day forecast is equally favourable.

Victoria Day in 2015
In 2015 the Victoria Day holiday is on Monday, May 18.

Victoria Day is a Canadian statutory holiday celebrated on the Monday preceding May 25 in every province and territory. It honours Queen Victoria’s birthday. In Quebec this holiday is called “National Patriotes Day” (Journée nationale des patriotes).

Victoria Day is also commonly referred to as the “May two-four weekend” or the “May long weekend” and it marks the unofficial start of the cottage season where cases of beer are consumed by hard working Canadians. Or maybe it’s called May two-four because May 24, 1819 is Queen Victoria’s birthday.

Prince Edward (1767–1820) after whom Prince Edward Island was named was Queen Victoria’s father.

I am taking my liberties describing this weekend as the May 1st Weekend, first because May 1st was on Friday; second because May Day is the usual label for this particular celebration.

Traditional May Day origins and celebrations
The earliest May Day celebrations appeared in pre-Christian times, with the Floralia, festival of Flora, the Roman goddess of flowers, held April 27 during the Roman Republic era, and with the Walpurgis Night celebrations of the Germanic countries. It is also associated with the Gaelic Beltane, most commonly held on April 30. The day was a traditional summer holiday in many pre-Christian European pagan cultures. While February 1 was the first day of Spring, May 1 was the first day of summer; hence, the summer solstice on June 25 (now June 21) was Midsummer.

Aside from the traditional fertility theme of May 1st promoted in particular by the agrarian British, it has symbolized different motifs:

May Day on May 1 is an ancient Northern Hemisphere spring festival and usually a public holiday; it is also a traditional spring holiday in many cultures. Dances, singing, and cake are usually part of the celebrations that the day includes.

In the late 19th century, May Day was chosen as the date for International Workers’ Day by the Socialists and Communists of the Second International to commemorate the Haymarket affair in Chicago.

As the turn-around is so discernible it seems appropriate to memorialize this splendid weekend whatever it may be called. It isn’t however simply the weather that motivates me. I am on the threshold of discovery, a personal awakening of sorts. I feel peculiar at my age rejoicing in something as trendy as a higher dimension of consciousness.  But this isn’t a self-realization ceremony.  It’s just an altered state without the additives.  Essentially I’m having a bloody good time for no particular reason!  Tuning into the inconsequential features of life with gusto is not entirely remarkable but it seldom qualifies for lengthy narrative. Yet it is precisely this element which defines the singularity of the experience.  I would for example be hard pressed to point to any event for which the weekend was notable but I can easily say that all of it has been pleasant.  There were sporadic occasions which tripped me up; but I was able to digest the gristle.  Certainly some resolve was necessary but the hiccups are nothing more than a reminder that life has its bumps however charming the road.

I apologize for the appearance of gloating but this May 1st Weekend signals for me more than an improving climate or the advent of a Season.  It cues what I like to call a “fresh step” (a term I inherited from my former commercial vernacular and which served me well as a milestone and for profit taking).  I am applying similar actions to my introversion (though it coincidentally reflects the external agenda peculiar to this time of year). Inward contemplation is not traditionally what attracts me, but I have discovered that diverting my attention from outer things has afforded me unusual solace. I won’t pretend that this monastic bearing will continue for any length of time; however for the time being it is rewarding and uncommonly pacifying.

This evening at the cocktail hour on the heels of what can only be described as a thoroughly pleasant Saturday we raised our glasses to one another and chimed “Happy Days!”

There are several stock ways to describe the Happy Days of one’s life: the halcyon days, the salad days, the heyday, the days of wine and roses.  The expressions are variously interpreted:

Generally a period of happiness and prosperity;

“Heyday” the time when someone or something is most successful, popular, etc.; archaic: used to express elation or wonder;

“Halcyon” from Latin Alcyone, daughter of Aeolus and wife of Ceyx. When her husband died in a shipwreck, Alcyone threw herself into the sea whereupon the gods transformed them both into halcyon birds (kingfishers). When Alcyone made her nest on the beach, waves threatened to destroy it. Aeolus restrained his winds and kept them calm during seven days in each year, so she could lay her eggs. These became known as the “halcyon days,” when storms do not occur;

“Salad days” is a Shakespearean idiomatic expression to refer to a youthful time, accompanied by the inexperience, enthusiasm, idealism, innocence, or indiscretion that one associates with a young person. The phrase was coined in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra in 1606. In the speech at the end of Act One in which Cleopatra is regretting her youthful dalliances with Julius Caesar she says: “My salad days, / When I was green in judgment, cold in blood”. Queen Elizabeth II during her Silver Jubilee Loyal Address, referring to her vow to God and her people when she made her 21st birthday broadcast: “Although that vow was made in my salad days, when I was green in judgement, I do not regret nor retract one word of it.” In Modest Mouse’s song “Guilty Cocker Spaniels”, Isaac Brock sings this: “Salad days add up to daily shit”.

The Happy Days are not limited to youth and inexperience. Indeed there is a convincing case to be made in favour of age and experience. I won’t suggest that one trumps the other.  The Happy Days are a product of many influences, not the least of which is peace of mind. Certainly the material pleasures of life are not to be diminished but I maintain that without inner satisfaction the external indicia will be forever lacking.  Harnessing that desirable resource has been a subject of endless enquiry; and while what I am about to relate may border on my own prescription for “inner peace” my objective is narrative only. The truth is that I haven’t a clue about the path to inner peace; what I do know however is when I have arrived there.  This is really no less simple and awesome than a sunny day under a blue sky.  Who can pretend to explain its classic splendour?  Yet we know when we are moved by it.

Take today for example. I began the day (coincidentally a beautiful sunny day under a blue sky) shrouded by disquiet. I was battling two opposing forces; viz., perfection and imperfection. This I know is a broad stroke of what might appear perhaps a bit hysterical. Be that as it may, I don’t think it matters. What causes discord in each of us is always unique and none of it necessarily affects others as it affects oneself. What does matter about the malaise is releasing oneself from it.  As axiomatic as that may sound it nonetheless underscores the significance of having the goal to be happy.  It is a given that all of us have problems.  What however is not so clear is whether all of us would like to solve those problems or are we rather content to “enjoy poor health”, to relish our misery?  I say this because the unvarnished truth is that there are some problems that cannot be overcome.  As a result it is only one’s attitude to the problem that counts for anything or that has any hope of approaching something in the nature of a resolution of the problem. If on the other hand one feels strapped to the railway track in the face of the oncoming train then one may as well give up hope now. The answer is not heroics; it may for example involve the portrait of the barreling train (which is after all a serious component of the metaphorical problem).  It is quite possible that that train (as menacing as it may appear) is not as powerful and threatening as it is made out to be.  Many of us fail to seek the most preliminary information about our dilemma – not what is the answer but what is the question?  How we formulate the problem we seek to resolve has much to do with the nature and strength of the problem itself.  And very often upon examination the question is needlessly absurd and therefore negligible.

Leaving aside for the moment that haunting conundrum, permit me to share with you the subsequent events of the day by way of introduction to the ultimate unwinding.  We had resolved several days ago to attend the Golf Club this morning for breakfast.  It was of course one of the first days that the Club was in full swing.  We were not in the least disappointed with our reiteration of this weekend pilgrimage. Granted the best sauce for any meal is an appetite, and in this instance there was enough of that preprandial spirit to spare. It no doubt also helped that we hadn’t had for some time a hearty breakfast of bacon, sausage and eggs. Sufficient it is to observe that we spoke but little following the arrival of our plates of food.  Already the view of the sun and sky over the first tee was beginning to imbue a hitherto unappreciated toxic effect. And my previously tainted thoughts, though they persisted, were correspondingly tempered. Once a thought has got hold like a mussel upon a sea wall there is little that can dislodge it.  Nothing short of prying oneself free of it works. This however required more time.

Compounding my discord today was a further concern which involved of all things a meeting with a friend to look at my bicycle.  It would be embarrassing to reveal the root of this dissonance as it was so perfectly trivial!  But its weight added to the burden already being shouldered and peevishly magnified its influence. This particular matter dissipated upon its fulfillment, a case of fear out-performing the cause.  Nonetheless its relieving effect was instantaneous.

What then followed was a strengthening and invigorating bicycle ride down Country Street, along Rae Road, onto the Eighth Concession and back home, in all about ten kilometres.  My enthusiasm was fuelled by the delight of a newly installed gear cluster which not only removed the issue that previously existed but also improved the capacity of the bike.  We flew alongside the bucolic fields into the warm Springtime breeze of the early afternoon.  And we chatted cryptically as we rode, exchanging summary blurts about inner contemplations and opinions charged with dense import in a manner which only old friends can share so candidly. The extent of my contaminating inner turmoil rolled back incrementally.

Our final sortie of the day was the exercise of filial duty.  The get-together was uncharacteristically free of strife. As we drove home together from the City we rejoiced in our fortune.  It was somewhere along that ribbon of road as we headed westward into the sun that my silly preoccupations dissolved. I abandoned the aspiration for perfection and chose instead to accommodate my once niggling imperfection. To do otherwise was as preposterous as ignoring the blissful sunshine and the blue sky! Happy Days!