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

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

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

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

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

Simon Schama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I knew almost from the moment of my awakening this morning that things were not going quite right.  Don’t ask me how specifically, but there was an edge to everything I did.  I suspect part of the reason was my perhaps needless concern about two meetings arranged this afternoon, one with my hair architect (Emerson), the other with John’s Music.  Even as I achingly made my way through the habits of my morning ablutions (I say “achingly” because until I am up long enough to stretch the vertebrae of my backbone I am seemingly made of uncompromising iron), so even as that was going on, I was conscious in my small minded way that the pieces of the puzzle were not fitting together as I would prefer.  In an attempt to right the day, I resolved that I would telephone Emerson’s place of business as soon as possible to ask if there were an earlier time slot for my hair cut.  I was scheduled for 2:30 p.m. and that seemed an unnecessarily long time to wait – until the middle of the afternoon – just for a hair cut.

As I made my way downstairs to the kitchen to prepare my breakfast, I pretended there was nothing amiss, that it was business as usual.  But the wheels were turning; I was caught in a web.  I must have given some private attention to my other meeting with John’s Music (where I was to collect a carrying case for my new electronic keyboard).  Likely my worry on that point was that I wouldn’t know whether the case was suitable until just the day before our departure because I had no intention of disassembling the keyboard from the stand to verify that it was a proper fit.  This was just a small detail but it irritated me to contemplate it.  It was not normal for me to have to accommodate such interests as these in the morning.  My normal routine was black coffee, fresh fruit, the computer, breakfast then bicycling on the beach for the remainder of the day.  Now I had to readjust all that for these two blasted meetings!

I was unable to withhold my patience even until nine o’clock.  At 8:30 a.m. I was on the telephone to Emerson’s salon.  My day appeared about to turn when Emerson answered the phone!  He was there!  When I asked whether he had an earlier opening, he said he would check.  This strategic deferral put me off instantly!  Check?  Check what? What could there possibly be to check at this time of the year!  Each of the past two times I had been there he had been sitting about the salon doing nothing!  Surely he didn’t feel the necessity to feign occupation to improve his status in my eyes!  When he at last reconnected with me on the phone he asked whether 2:00 p.m. would work for me.  My original appointment was at 2:30!  Anyway, I naturally couldn’t say anything but yes, so that was that!  Effectively nothing had been accomplished other than to compound my anxiety.

After all that superfluous kerfuffle I rearranged in my mind the plans I had made to go to the music store, something I had contemplated doing later in the morning after having been at Emerson’s place.  Granted it was a small inconvenience but at the time it was but one more annoyance in my day.  I decided I would go to the music store as soon as possible after breakfast.  I’d at least get that out of the way.  We agreed to do grocery shopping at the same time.

It was an “in and out” business at John’s Music Store.  The carrying case came in a clear plastic bag.  The case had obviously been folded to fit into the plastic bag.  I deposited the works in the trunk of the car, reasoning it wouldn’t be needed again until our departure for Amelia Island in March.

At the grocery store things went passably well though no thanks to the clerk at the self checkout line.  If I am going to condescend to use that self checkout I want to learn to do it myself without the interference of the supervising clerk.  However it does no good to object or to have the appearance of objecting.  The clerks incorrectly assume that people still want someone else to process their order for them even though they’ve chosen this option.

Finally, after returning home, after having had some soup for lunch, after having read some of my current book (“The Age of Innocence” by Edith Wharton – yet another mistake; I should have opted for “The Beautiful and the Damned” by F. Scott Fitzgerald if I wanted something entertaining about the pleasure seeking New Yorkers from the upper 40s), after all that delay I got myself ready to meet with Emerson.

When I got there Emerson as much as admitted that he had screwed up last time.  He blamed our distracting conversation about my new electronic keyboard for having overlooked three weeks ago during our last visit the style I had instructed him about when we first met six weeks ago.  I had to add to my stifled scolding that I also wanted a wash in addition to a mere cut and I again sketched in some tedious detail what I wanted him to do.  In the result he did what he could but the damage done last time would require another three weeks recuperation before he could set in motion what he had initially done properly six weeks ago.  Of course I recognize it’s only hair and that it can’t be at all important in anyone’s estimation, but it illustrates the general frustration that pervaded my day.

After my haircut (which I instinctively knew wasn’t yet right, a sentiment which was later confirmed at home) I drove to a nearby mall to enquire about Top Sider shoes in a double width.  Of course they hadn’t any (more disappointment even though expected), but I was directed to another store in the same mall which might.  On my way to the second store I passed an optical store.  I thought I’d enquire whether they carried the Dolabany line. Though they didn’t carry that line, the pleasant salesman showed me a number of similar frames.  None of them suited me exactly.  I did however find a pair of RayBan frames which I had had before and which appealed to me.  I bought them.  I’ll have the prescription lenses added after my eye exam in the next couple of months.

By the time I arrived home I had made up my mind to unwrap the traveling case to ensure it at least had the appearance of fitting the keyboard.  I did. Thank goodness for that mercy!

For the remainder of the day I attempted to do whatever I might to qualify myself but I simply dozed while reading that horrid Wharton text.  I do however owe it to Chef to observe that hors d’oeuvres, dinner and dessert were superb!  Crudités, crab cakes and fruit cocktail. One really can’t complain!

It were easy to have misconstrued our languid purpose earlier today as the ritual indolence of a weekend Sunday morning.  Instead the cause of our lingering was the tides.  Our Maritime induction has awakened us to the rhythm of the tides so we too can sing in our “chains like the sea” at least that is if we wish to bicycle on the beach.

The early morning clouds rolled out by eleven o’clock revealing the prospect of a brilliant sunny day so our appetite was whetted.  But the tide would not recede until about the same time.  So we had an hour to kill before landing on the beach for our constitutional bicycle ride.  In the meantime we determined to mount our bikes and to go to Harbour Town then wind along the Baynard Cove paths to South Beach and finally to connect with the beach at Tower Beach Club on South Sea Pines Drive.

When we at last made out way onto the vast open beach we were buoyed by the strong wind at our backs as we sailed north along the coast. For the first time in weeks we witnessed the wisps of sand scurrying across the smooth face of the beach, the fine particles propelled by the blustery wind.  It was a dry, clear wind which matched the plain, blue sky.  Out of an abundance of caution we paused at Coligny Park then afterwards sped to Marker 97, whizzing airily by Sonesta Beach at Marker 72.  At Burke’s Beach on the north end of the beach at the breakwater we stopped again, this time lying in the dunes absorbing the radiance of the sun. Then we filtered from the beach through Singleton Beach Shores to William Hilton Parkway and leisurely made our way home.

Reverberations abound in life.  I’ve learned the only way to hear what is in your head is to close the door on the world.  If it sounds precipitous, it is!  The epiphany however was anything but abrupt.  As with everything else I have embraced on the road to perfection, learning to heed my own voice was a prolonged and painful ordeal.  It was prolonged for the very reason it should not have been – namely, I persisted in imagining that the opinion of others mattered.  This may sound harsh and perhaps arrogant but it is nothing more than a logical conclusion.  Deferring to others’ opinions, even if worthy, is a poor compass for behaviour.  One may as well bounce off  posts to get where one is going.  Certainly there can be advantage to listening to others; but until those thoughts are digested their value is temporary at best.  You have to hear it in your own head if it is to have any authenticity; the enlightenment must spring from within not otherwise.

Turning inward was for me a matter of some considerable practice. Being governed by one’s own views was never something which had been recommended to me; in fact I was rather encouraged to seek the advice of more learned people.  Oddly in spite of its inherent value listening to one’s self is a technique which normally escapes either discussion or affirmation; proof of yet another gap in our personal eduction.  I essentially stumbled upon the device after having exhausted the alternative or at least after having run out of luck with it.  It is for example very confusing to allow one’s self to be persuaded by the opinions of others as those reasons are often not even articulated.  Frequently we simply imagine what others are thinking and allow that to influence us.  This is treading on some seriously precarious territory!  When it doesn’t work out, we find ourselves pointing an accusatory finger at the other, suggesting “You thought I should do so and so!” or “You were thinking such and such!”  These accusations are nothing but failed attempts at mind reading; and they are a fortiori guaranteed even further to be failures at instructive guidance.

Becoming introverted about one’s thoughts is actually quite stabilizing.  It has at least  the advantage of removing a multiplicity of variables which of course eliminates a great deal of ambiguity. It forces you to get in touch with yourself and thereby sanctions what one believes, very often a good thing. Even more importantly it removes the perpetual doubt about what one is thinking.  Let’s face it, except for the doubt sown by the perceived opinions of others, we are normally quite clear about our own take on a matter. We are therefore bound to do whatever we can to put our thoughts into terms that we can fully absorb and articulate (if only to ourselves).

The effect of this is to put distance between one’s self and others.  We mustn’t lean on others for any reason even if the objective is disguised as an attempt to understand  another person. This is a round about way of saying we must learn to stand on our own two feet!  Once we satisfy ourselves as to our own perceptions we are thus armed with the mechanics to take a stand and to move forward.  To confound our daily dilemmas by pretending to accommodate what we imagine to be the opinions of others is not only logically unsound, it also puts us in the position of founding strategy upon mere speculation.

By listening to the words in one’s own head we avoid the fiction of fathoming the minds of others.  And who can find fault with a person who follows his beliefs?  Certainly there can be subsequent modification when faced with contradiction from another but at least it will be the evolution of thought based upon more than conjecture.

I have never been mentored but I have certainly been influenced.  And I’m not talking about the starry-eyed craziness prompted by movie stars or popular musicians.  There have been people whom I have met or known who have shaped my behaviour.  All of these people have been men.  With the making of “The Iron Lady” (modelled on Margaret Thatcher, former Prime Minister of Great Britain) the possibility of precedent being set by a woman became a reality equally compelling for both men and women.  My formation however predates such modern legends as Margaret Thatcher and Hilary Rodham Clinton, former US Secretary of State.  My malleable years had long ago passed by and in those days I was subject to the example of men only.

My earliest recollection of a singular influence by another is a Grade VIII school teacher named Hal Lebrecht.  That was so long ago I am surprised I remember his name.  What is even more astonishing is that I can only recall his appearance and his mannerisms, not anything he said or did in particular.  He was what I imagine would have passed for a pleasant looking chap, tall, sylph-like and well dressed.  I remember in particular that he sported French cuffs and cuff links.  I never saw him dressed other than in a suit or sport jacket and tie.  His business-like appearance was matched by his demeanour which was always polite, never wry, and he had a sparkle in his eye which betrayed a perpetual sense of humour.  How these attributes affected me is impossible to say.  I can only assume that having been alive to those traits (in a favourable way) instilled in me the desire to be somewhat the same.

Several years later when I was attending a debating competition at Trinity College School (“TCS”) in Port Hope, Ontario I was (sort of) introduced to Mr. Dalton Kingsley Camp, PC, OC then President of the Progressive Conservative Party of Canada. Mr. Camp was an adjudicator of our debates; his son David attended TCS at the time and also faced off against our school (St. Andrew’s College) during the debates.  When Mr. Camp delivered his views on the respective debaters I was overwhelmingly impressed by him (even though he found against our team). I remember to this day that he wore a dark blue pin-striped suit, a blue and white striped shirt with white cuffs and white collar.  He cut a dashing figure.  He added to sartorial delight an obvious command of the English language, a talent he skilfully projected by standing tall and erect with his hands by his sides.  Mr. Camp’s sway upon me is more recognizable.  For years I harboured the view that Mr. Camp was a lawyer, but apparently not so:

“Camp soon enrolled in undergraduate studies at Acadia University; however, his time there was interrupted by enlistment in the Canadian Army during the Second World War. Following the war, Camp finished his undergraduate studies in the liberal arts at the University of New Brunswick, followed by graduate studies in journalism at Columbia University and political science at the London School of Economics.“

About the same time (1964) I had the pleasure of getting to know Mr. James Carmen Mainprize.  Mr. Mainprize came closer to being a tutor than any of the other personages because he was in fact one of my high school  instructors (History) and he had a pivotal role in the school’s theatrical society of which I was also a part.  Nonetheless it was Mr. Mainprize’s very unique bearing and indisputable presence not his teaching skills which provided the signification. Once again it was the manner in which he distinguished his appearance that spoke volumes to me.  It was the fodder of idle student chatter that Mr. Mainprize came from a well-to-do family and that all his clothes were tailor-made (which I have no doubt they were).  He also aligned himself very properly with the exact usage of language, always characterized by the epitome of precision and elevation, never mundane or coarse.  He was polite to a fault. Mr. Mainprize spoke sophistication and shamefully out-distanced his colleagues.  Even his gait was Aristocratic and he gave himself naturally to a red-faced blush when anyone encroached too greedily his sphere of influence.

During my undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall I fell victim to the persuasion of Mr. Michael Gregory who was our renowned English literature professor.  Mr. Gregory’s impact on me was decidedly in the nature of the Bohemian.  He was lanky, carefree, known to drink alcohol liberally and he smoked cigarettes like a fiend.  He was also a “Lady’s Man” who in spite of not being at all athletic gave even the younger men on campus a run for their money when competing for the attention of the more attractive female students.  Mr. Gregory frequently joined the students at parties where he demonstrated the most utterly preposterous manner of dancing I have ever seen!  It was as though he were a puppet and his stringy legs jerked about aimlessly below him, sometimes mocking the strutting of a large bird.  Oddly this did nothing but contribute to his novelty and the patent weakness further endeared him to us all.  If there is anyone in whose footsteps I have least followed it is Michael Gregory though certainly not from dislike, just incompatibility.  I would welcome a luncheon with him (as indeed I did on one poignant occasion) but otherwise our company was disparate.

At law school there were unquestionably many, many characters.  Some of them were friends, others professors, yet others mere acquaintances from other disciplines and unconnected orbits.  Their idiosyncrasies did not however make them  any kind of role model.  Perhaps by the time I reached law school the cement of my personality was beginning to set.  The suspicion would however have been premature.

During my articles and first year of law practice, through a series of comic events too tedious to repeat, I was introduced to Louis de la Chesnaye Audette, QC, OC.  His credentials bear repeating:

“Louis de la Chesnaye Audette, OC (April 7, 1907 – April 2, 1995) was a Canadian lawyer, soldier, and civil servant.

Born in Ottawa, Ontario, the son of Louis-Arthur Audette and Mary-Grace Stuart, the tenth child of Andrew Stuart, he was educated as a lawyer and practiced in Montreal during the 1930s. During World War II, he served with the Royal Canadian Navy and commanded several ships (HMCS Pictou, Amherst, Coaticook, and St. Catharines) in the North Atlantic and Mediterranean. He was mentioned in dispatches and left the Navy with the rank of Lieutenant commander. As a reserve officer, he was later promoted to commander.

After the war, from 1947 to 1959, he a member of the Canadian Maritime Commission. He was also chairman from 1954 to 1959. from 1959 to 1972, he was Chairman of the Tariff Board of Canada.

In 1974, he was made an Officer of the Order of Canada.“

Like the other men who influenced me, Louis Audette (who is the only one I called a friend – we socialized regularly at his home, my home and his club on nights when his steward Jeffrey was “off”) painted a very colourful picture in matters both sartorial and linguistic.  He sported bow ties (the real ones, not the clip-ons) and was extremely well-read, both voracious and wide-ranging.  Additionally he was perfectly bilingual in French and English.  His command of both languages would easily have qualified as esoteric.  He not only spoke beautifully; he was a ready etymologist (no doubt the product of his classic Greek and Latin studies). His knowledge of social propriety and etiquette was extremely entertaining, such customs as passing the Porto to the left  (never allowing the decanter to touch the mahogany whilst doing so), knowing full well that the guest who is late for dinner is an insult to his host and an outrage to the chef, explaining that tying a bow tie is merely like tying a shoe lace and so on.  When I told him I was writing my autobiography he said, “I’ll believe it when you’ve written the last word!”  He was not a man with whom to trifle and his commentary on others was not for the pusillanimous.  Louis drank more than he ate though he professed that he enjoyed drinking but not being drunk. His small portions of whiskey and soda on ice were renowned so much so that the after-dinner long drinks were called “Audettes”.  He was the only person I have ever known who, when we were discussing fast cars one evening and asked him if he knew what a Corvette was, said, “Yes, I had one but it sank!”  Louis did not tolerate fools.  He never said anything approaching criticism to their face but it was undeniable whom he disliked.

I don’t know about you, but from time to time I run into a snag. Generally snags are of two orders:  those involving things and those involving people. The objective snags are those such as car problems, computer glitches, internet failure, even a bicycle flat or a broken knob on a chest of drawers. Those problems are annoying and inconvenient but, unless you have to deal with a national internet provider, it is usually possible to make arrangements to get them fixed without huge difficulty.  Granted it may require more than one attendance (a disturbing reminder that most people never check the quality of their work).

As for the “people” problems, that’s a different story!  I get so frustrated trying to understand other people when predicaments arise.  Even if I really do comprehend them it is almost as annoying as not being able to fathom them. Either way, the apparent cause of the friction is galling. This however is where the real genius is required.  Whether one does or doesn’t understand the other person it is important rather to recognize that it doesn’t matter. Whatever the cause that motivates the other person, understanding it will seldom make any difference other than to excuse it, frequently a small compliment.  This will however do absolutely nothing to mitigate the aggravation.

To cut to the quick, the way to resolve people problems is by not trying to resolve them.  Better to rise above it and forget about it.  Any time spent trying to rationalize a course of action to deal with the problem is wasted. Initially it hurts to roll over.  There is such a natural inclination to rebut the offensive behaviour and maybe even to avenge it.  But the effort is doomed. More painful is the likelihood that any vengeful conduct will only backfire. And then you have to feel bad about what you did!  A double whammy!

Of course this brilliant insight only comes to those who have already stepped into the pitfalls and made all the blunders.  This isn’t like reading Confucius in your comfortable leather armchair.  It’s a nasty business and you have to get down and dirty before cleaning yourself up and making yourself presentable.  Hopefully the act of redemption will be a private matter and not one that entails crawling.  This all depends upon how careful you were to restrain yourself.  Confining oneself to a wrestling match within one’s own mind is by far the preferred course of conduct.  Resist the temptation to illustrate one’s thoughts.  The reason is simple:  you cannot win at proving others wrong.  They will always have a retort and the best you can hope for is a crying match.

Distance helps.  Often distance is the very thing required even though neither party to the argument would ever say as much.  Distance can of course mean time.  Whether the measure is spatial or temporal, the objective for the time being is to put as much of it as possible between one another.  This will at least vacate the immediate arena which is  contaminated.

I regularly reflect languidly upon things, a pastime which some ungenerously tag as navel gazing. It is however a philosophic occupation I am powerless to subdue. Today I couldn’t help but think how pleased I am with what I am seeing.  This simplistic and seemingly self-congratulatory remark begs the question about the depth and breadth of the observation. It nonetheless satisfies me. It’s an achievement not always assured in spite of its appearance of brazen confidence. There are so many exacting perspectives when considering the question, “Do you like what you see?”  Some are superficial or materialistic, some practical, others psychological and entirely spiritual and introverted.  Whatever the standard  it should be enough if on the balance the answer is “Yes!”  The answer could I suppose be provocative even if “No!” especially if the enquiry promotes analysis and stimulates improvement. But I view that alternative more as a booby prize.  If one were pressed to canvass all the possibilities there may be cases where one likes what one sees, but shouldn’t; and similarly cases where one doesn’t like what one sees, but should.  In the result it theoretically doesn’t matter how one answers the question.  Yet I still prefer to say I like what I see. And frankly I do!

As a measure of its value I am aware that this current state of bliss is not necessarily one which will last forever. The limitation does however more to polish the situation than diminish its intensity.  Driven as I am naturally to confess this supreme satisfaction I cannot escape the further expansion that it represents the culmination of a lifetime prosecution. Like most people I have always wanted the result but I couldn’t have planned it better. In fact I cannot take credit for planning it at all!  This is part of what stimulates my delight; it is so purely fortuitous.  To be specific, until five years ago I hadn’t heard of Hilton Head Island.  My introduction to it was quite by accident through my sister-in-law while lunching at Les Fougères in Chelsea, PQ.  At that time our vacation resorts normally included only Florida and places more southerly.  It would never have occurred to us to have considered Hilton Head Island had it not been so heartily recommended to us.

Once here we fell in love with the place.  I recall my first elated impression upon driving onto the Cross Island Parkway! It instantly captured everything I have always held in high regard, all the things for which Hilton Head Island is famous and which have formed the template for the development of other communities.  Specifically I marvel at traveling though caverns of large live oak trees draped in hanging moss, the avenues bounded by palm trees; cycling on the beach for fifteen miles or upon endless miles of paths throughout the Island; avoiding snow and crowds while enjoying off-season rates; experiencing great restaurants and a superior service industry in everything from agencies to mechanics to dentists.  In short it is a thoroughly beautiful and comfortable place to be.

There are of course moments when my rambling thoughts are less than euphoric, when I question my superficiality and reflect upon the dreadful and inescapable realities of life here and beyond.  One would have to be extremely narrow minded to avoid such perilous diversions from time to time.  We shall never be completely insulated from the unfortunate horrors of the world.  But this is only one more reason to confess that I like what I see!