Cold and damp morning, pale sunlight. I woke up in the tent in the yard to the sound of chickens and the damp coming through my mattress. It felt already like a lovely morning - a morning of cedar and pine and blue sky. I quickly took care of the necessities of starting a good day - eat, feed and pet cat, put on socks and shoes.
Even before I started to consciously plan my trip, I became aware of the possibility of completing the Riverbend Drive loop on this day. Riverbend Drive and it's emotional impenetrability have been a source of tension and an obstruction to my travels for 2 years. Completing the Riverbend Drive loop had become a sort of benchmark of my progress. This road was like a wall which I beat against every so often in my slow yet persistent quest to travel all roads leading into, out of and through this city.
Two years ago, once damp morning in August, when the sun was still pale and the wind still fresh before a day of heat to come, I bravely pushed my way up the Guelph St hill just past the underpass, re-breaking new ground that had once been a familiar starting point to adventures in the world beyond - Bloomingdale, Mary Hill, East Kitchener, Breslau, Guelph proper. Alas, no more - this was all emotionally foreign territory again, a significant loss of freedom now forgotten by the terrific sense of accomplishment I experienced as I crested the enormous hill, pushing with all my might, satisfied and tired. Dogs in the runs at the Humane Society, which is located where Guelph St meets River Rd, barked their celebration of my victory, my quest to re-discover the Old World.
Standing with the posture of an explorer who'd just planted a flag in the earth (or the moon) I smiled at the wildflowers bobbing their encouragement in the windy ditch. I had traveled many little roads that summer two years ago and penetrated persistently into many new little worlds. Now, standing at the top of this one, seeing River Road stretch out northwards before me, a long gentle slope into a sea of trees, office buildings and industrial centre peeking out like little islands, and a wide sky over me, hearing the dogs barking in the morning air, it seemed as though the most natural thing to do would be to sweep down that hill, feeling the blast of wind in my face and in my heart, the growing excitement of the road taken.
And - I found I couldn't. I couldn't let go of the brakes and set sail down this hill. I spent quite a while at the top of it, alternately bolstering my confidence by remembering how satisfied I was to be where I was to begin with, and shaken by the feeling that I couldn't go any further. The wildflowers were so beautiful and the wind so fresh and fragrant. Life really wasn't so bad, despite it's difficulties. I had been progressing well. A life of small things, of moving in small circles, of slow progress, could be and was a blessed life. I was happy.
And a little heart-broken. Eventually I went home.
For two years, I occasionally returned to this corner, stood at the top of the hill, gazed down Riverbend Drive, and could not make myself let go of the brakes. One time I biked up from the Lancaster direction for some ways, and then turned around anxiously. Eventually, I began to avoid coming in this direction at all. I favoured other directions, northwest of the city, where I could break through and find new roads. I knew I could travel a little ways south east on River Road, but that held no joy, for I felt I could only go so far in this direction and then turn back. Travelling the neighborhoods leading up to Riverbend Drive began to feel futile and repetitive, like walking in circles in a wall garden. I began to realize how much of the mystery and charm one finds in a place is due to what lies beyond it.
I remained undecided, as I left the house this morning, two years later, whether I should attempt this often demoralizing test again. Since I started this writing last year, I have developed a new perspective on the conquering of roads. I now believe the only reason to explore is curiousity and joy, rather than the belief that if I fear something, I must do it to prove that I can, or to conquer the fear. I refuse to travel any road just because I feel like I can't. If I feel like I can't, then I don't. If I want to try, I try. I do what I want, and this summer has been a summer of light and sunshine and cool forest breezes and quiet gentle roads.
Since I felt curious to try again, I thought, I will, but I'll make sure that wherever I am if I fail is a beautiful place I can explore with a feeling of relaxation and pleasure. I would not like to stand again on top of that hill with only the wildflowers in the ditch and the wind and the wall as my destination. When I aimed this morning, I aimed for something delightful. I decided to go from the other direction, from Lancaster, because then if I failed I could at best work on getting further along the Grand River towards Bloomingdale, and at least enjoy the path along the river behind the office buildings.
As I came down Lancaster and it turned into River, I'd almost decided I wouldn't do it at all. There were whisperings in me saying,"You have not been able to do this, and so you must! If you do not do this, then you are a failure!" I thought, I haven't woken up on this delightful morning in late summer, free for a few hours to roam and delight in sun and wind and shade, to do anything other than for pleasure. I will just turn left into the wooded path and then see what I feel like doing.
And yet - my feet kept pedaling, my body falling naturally into the arc of the road, the arrow of my movement pulling me further along the Road, further and further, enjoying the trees on either side, enjoying the sky, landmarking myself, figuring out where I was, in the sunlight, until I was past the mid-point, that point in every road where you are about to be farther in than out, and you must commit, commit to the road and to your breath, commit to holding the fear if it overtakes you, commit to yourself that you will travel this road no matter what happens. A group of joggers suddenly coming off the trail to the east ahead comforted me. They were people doing things here and I was a person doing things here and this was a place people could just simply do things and nothing more, no stories or dangers or hidden meanings. As the road opened up I saw the trail head park and remembered, suddenly, it's existence and it's beauty and my memories, completely forgotten, of being there, of this being a place to play and be and explore. I smiled with shining delight at finding this forgotten place, of this forgotten part of myself.
I was in deep now, and I felt gentle rush of energy. It was now an uphill road. My legs pumped along with my heart, pushing up the road. I was again Columbus at the head of the ship, heart and mind and limbs totally focused on the new world ahead, body strained and tense, so much pressure on the body to push to survive in this forward motion, but the strength is here, the mind is here, the clarity and stillness is here. Everything I need is here.
I could see the Humane Society up ahead. The road became steeper. I got off and walked, and that was fine. After all, my challenge was time, not energy. Walking might have been a cop-out on muscle strength, but, adding as it did to my time in the uncertain, it was actually an indication of deeper capacity. Many steps, patience, steady focus. I crested the hill and there were the wildflowers and the wind and my corner which was now a lovely home-coming. The trees on the corner whispered, "We always knew you would come here and meet us like this!"
No comments:
Post a Comment