Kitty’s therapeutic relationship with Varenka is charged by the clarity of what’s most important and what’s replaceable. That’s the peace and freedom of finding hidden treasure and selling all you have to buy the land it’s hidden in. Kitty’s anxiety, like most, is induced when she is tricked by a status grubbing social circle into caring about stuff that she knows deep down isn’t important- that’s why she’s drawn so strongly to the question of what’s most important- that clears the air and gives her room to breath
The critics are legion who maintain that nostalgia is a naive ideal, a dream of something that never existed that way- that the past is a different place where we don’t really have access. They’re right in their superficial criticism of nostalgia as simple kitsch. What so many of them miss in their disdain for nostalgia, though, is that that yearning to recover something lost is all the personal and interconnected lines in the imagination mixed with the redeeming memory of something universal- it’s a timeless refraction of the light charging our lives.
I think there is far too much Latinate academic jargon, which is often a kind of phoney precision, in common cosmopolitan English speech. I want a stronger, more metaphorical use of language that leans more heavily on fusion, pressure, and story-telling to say what is good, show beauty in life, and do hard things.
English is a mongrel language- and that’s its strength: it can draw on all the strengths of the cultures that have influenced it and temper the foibles. I just think we’re missing that early spark when English speakers didn’t have as many conceptual and technical terms to work with, so they had to use metaphor and story with intense effects.
I say LIFE is the best word in our language- and it ain’t Latinate
I’m also fond of these words with Celtic origin: bannock, shindig, spunk, whisky, bog, clock, nook, drum, hooligan, phoney
So, the angling editor wrote about a time when a guide told him his secret to success: he made his sports pick their own flies, because then they cared about them more and they fished with more purpose and the experience was more memorable that way.
Well this really got me thinking as a teacher first. It’s so important for a student to know why something he is learning is important to him personally.
I think I’m also drawn to this little anecdote because I like ‘picking’ with my brother- driving around and finding something interesting.
Then I thought about how it’s very easy to care about something we pick- also how we sometimes care for things we don’t pick, though.
When you love somebody you don’t lose your freedom to pick- it just isn’t as important anymore. You’re happy just to be with that other person, so that everything she picks makes you happy and you care about it.
That’s the mystery, eh? How much do we pick our love and why is it that we don’t care as much about picking afterwards? You can pull at the picking end of the thread or the loving end and you’ll just make that knot tighter, I think.
“There was an eagle’s nest on a hydro tower we passed on our way south on the highway. What is it that drove me away from the physical comforts of my modern life, while that wild, majestic bird chose a manmade structure in the middle of all those wild, majestic pines?
The Flagging Tape Disorientation
When you pull up Google Earth and start zooming in on North America, then onto the Northeast, then central Ontario and onto that park that’s about the size of Vermont and, if the satellite image was taken in early Spring of that year and you can zoom in enough through the trees, you’ll see me and my brother—lost.
We were up shit creek without a paddle, so to speak; or put another way, we were lost in the bush in twilight on an overcast day without a landmark, map, compass, light, match, tarp, bottle of water, or even a knife.
I teach outdoor education, and when I teach shelter building and orienteering I always start by describing a scenario like that one and then ask them what they need to avoid. The kids invariably start with bears or wolves and never put a finger on the thing they need to avoid most—panic. I wasn’t avoiding panic at that moment, though. I was fully, keenly seized by it. I was in its mouth. I also teach the kids what to pack, even if it’s just a short hike. Well, I sure wasn’t a prudent boy scout that day, and I confirmed that silly saying about those who teach.
We had gotten out of bed before the sun was up to drive four hours north, then paddled for most of the daylight against the wind and current on the biggest river in the park. The trip to the cabin was made even harder because our aluminum and foam canoe was flat and wide—slow as molasses to paddle and quick as a wink to get pushed back or sideways by waves. The other two people in our party had a narrow Kevlar canoe, ideal for tripping. The map didn’t show all the contours and little points, so after hours of hope deferred—having seemingly spent all our energy feverishly paddling towards what we thought would be the final point and expecting to see the cabin as we turned only to see more conifers and yet another point far in the windswept distance over and over again—my brother and I did finally see that blessed cabin in a field beside a big marsh.
I flopped onto the beach like Ulysses after the shipwreck and my brother tripped over me. A phoebe bobbed its tail on a branch above us and a bur-reed rubbed my ankle. The fire roaring and the steaks sizzling and our friends with the Kevlar canoe sprawled out smoking and laughing, I opened up the cabin and perused the journal on the table by the stained woodstove. A few people wrote about a pristine spring just off the path behind the cabin. I didn’t expect a long hike. I was thirsty.
The well beaten path forked just past the thunderbox. The path turning along the lakeshore led my brother and I to the mouth of a feeder creek but no cold water spring. In the little plunge pool there were sculpins and leaves spinning around in the foam, red and green and glistening, and the water above it was the color of yellow stained glass. We doubled back to the fork and took the other path. There were pieces of orange flagging tape tied to trees every ten yards and the path was wide and clear. The promised cold water spring was still out of sight, though. As we walked the path thinned out and the pieces of flagging tape were farther apart and we followed the base of a hill to the burnt cornflakes of the bark on a big cherry tree. I considered turning back but pressed on without giving it much thought.
Eventually we heard the creek but didn’t see any more flagging tape. I rush toward the siren sound of the babbling brook and my brother followed me to the unspoiled fern lined banks. I didn’t notice the beauty of the park when I was relentlessly paddling and it all hit me looking at that serene brook, the beauty consuming, without any trails around and miles from the nearest road. Then it hit me that we lost sight of the last piece of flagging tape. The thrum of panic was deafening. I tried to sound calm and asked my brother if we should walk the creek back to the lake where we know it empties or do we try to find the flagging tape to follow the path straight back to the cabin. I don’t think I gave him a chance to answer and rushed back in the direction of the flagging tape—or so I thought it was that direction.
I had led my brother astray and then we were out of earshot of the brook and we couldn’t see flagging tape. I almost broke down in despair and I didn’t even try to hide it. My brother was poised, though, and told me one of us should stay put while the other looks for the flagging tape in order to prevent wandering even farther away from the lake and the cabin.
I saw flagging tape and yelled out to my brother, but my elation was crushed when I got closer and saw that it was purple. I cursed that this flagging tape must be a cruel joke when my brother caught up to me, and we laughed nervously. We used my brother’s bright idea of the searching and holding pattern and eventually found that cherry tree. It looked and felt like night in the bush, but as soon as we saw the light of the lake we heard our friends at the thunderbox call our names.
The steak and beans were cold. I was starving and almost too exhausted to eat, the fork shaking in my hand. I’ll never taste a better steak, though, and I hope I’ll never have to learn my own lessons the hard way again. We ended up finding the lid over the spring the next day, just by the mouth of the feeder creek. I still dream about following that brook to the source—this time prepared like a good boy scout—and catching trout that have never seen an artificial fly. There was an eagle’s nest on a hydro tower we passed on our way south on the highway. What is it that drove me away from the physical comforts of my modern life, while that wild, majestic bird chose a manmade structure in the middle of all those wild, majestic pines?
It’s a deeply moving story, following a young man through the border country of the southwest. You see that wildness is something that you often don’t fully appreciate until you try to trap it, and then when you’re close to it you want more than anything for that good thing to run free again but it seems that ‘civilized’ society won’t allow you to do that. I think it’s one of the saddest, wisest stories.
A wise man introduced me to Edna St Vincent Millay’s wonderful poem. . The opening line and refrain is the best comma splice I’ve read: we were very tired, we were very merry. With the pressure and mystery of poetry I can’t say for sure if it’s tired and merry or tired but merry or something else- I can say, though, the fusion of tiredness and merriment is very moving for me. That’s a worthy goal- to be tired and merry and, like the narrator does in the final lines of the poem, keep only what I need to get back home and give away everything else. I’ll keep working on that goal