We were docked in an unofficial pullover near Keys Provincial Park, east of Thunder Bay. All was calm, except for the muffled sound of traffic passing by on Highway 17, until one utility truck, then another and another, passed by the Realta, heading for a bigger cleared area behind us, where they parked in a row. At first we thought they might be workers preparing to do some maintenance on the nearby bridge, then – because of the methodical way they went about their business – that they might be a rescue crew, looking for some poor soul who had fallen into the adjacent ravine. We were confirmed in this guess by the sudden whump, whump, whump of a helicopter that landed in the clearing, one that had a basket on the side used for carrying stretchers.
Ever the reporter, I grabbed my camera, jumped out of the Realta, and started taking pictures.
Turns out the operation was not search and rescue, but a maintenance crew doing work on the nearby transmission lines. Fascinated, I recorded as best I could, as the chopper ferried workers and equipment up to the tower, edged up to the metal arms so the men could climb off, then lowered the materials and equipment they needed to effect repairs. It was an amazing operation, carried out with military teamwork and precision, and an exciting event on our Realta Road.
I didn’t say it out loud, of course – not right away – and can’t determine to this day if the thought was true – I mean sincere in all its dimensions, down to the place where sole meets concrete reality. But it was the best I could come up with on the spot, and even though I didn’t voice the sentiment right off, she heard me. That’s the trick I believe: Think things before speaking. Sometimes keep them as thoughts forever because you’re bashful, perhaps. Or maybe because the person you’re interested in is perfect and you could only detract from that by wheedle-wording your way into their affections.
I had instinctively done an up and down of the sandals’ occupant – that checkout-scan we males of the species do when attracted by something potentially sexual in our peripheral vision. But it was her footwear – and I must confess, her feet –my roving eyes locked onto.
Her toenails were painted pink!
Not gaudily, in that slapdash way you sometimes see and feel embarrassed about – usually for bubblegum teens. The polish had been applied with artistry. Details like that say something, don’t they? She had a conception of self that was bold and subtle, I figured.
So maybe I was indulging just a little. But it’s okay to try and fathom why someone’s special isn’t it? And at first, we have to draw assumptions from observations as seemingly insignificant as pedicure, don’t we? You’re a liar if you say no. The forensics of love are based upon minute chips of evidence, hinting at theories made up as we go.
To me the convex surfaces of her nails were intriguing as conch shells turned inside-out. Can you imagine such a thing? My eyes stuck on the tops of her toes for a breath or two then – without my thinking, without conscious intent – zoomed in on her sandals, recording every facet of those elegant slippers.
Even as my eyes went about their rogue’s work, though, part of me realized there was nothing so very remarkable about Gloria’s sandals… aside from the fact that she was in them. I can think of a thousand movie stars and a thousand more princesses who would have turned up their noses, if asked to wriggle their dainty nether digits into such a pair of Walmart flip-flops. But on Gloria’s feet! Oh my!
“Oh my!” as grandmother would cry when occasion warranted. Of course, her delight was usually over events as homey as cherry pie coming out of the oven, or particularly brilliant works of crayon art, not over anything so exotic as the footgear of a complete stranger. For grandmother agape wasn’t so much about miracles as discovering the miraculous in everyday things – about seeing through the veil of ordinary and triggering suspirations as emphatic as a last-gasp.
By the way, mentioning Gloria’s name right now makes everything from here-on-in non-sequitur. I didn’t know her name at this point in the story. True, I was cultivating an intimate relationship with the bone structure and musculature of her feet, the same way Toto might have got to know Dorothy before they ventured into Oz. But that’s not the same as knowing a body’s name, is it? Love works backwards. We fall into it then double back, tracking down the meanings and consequences of ’til death do us part.
I’ve broken sequence because I can’t bear talking about Gloria as ‘her’ or ‘she’. I have to give a name to those theoretical references. So I have christened her even though a name at that point would have been as naively symbolic as graffiti sprayed anonymously on whitewashed stucco, or rote declarations carved into the trunks of trees or the planks of park benches. At that point in our relationship her name would have been a catch-all of fantasies. A concatenation of dark eyes, long black hair… an aura you could best see through eyes half-closed.
In truth, if Gloria had dematerialized before I got a chance to talk to her – whisked out of her sandals by powers unknown into some sci-fi Nirvana beyond the frequencies of daytime TV – nothing would have seemed remarkable about her footwear left on the corner of Quadra and Hillside. Other than the fact the sandals were there – placed carefully on the cracked concrete as if the intersection were a portico into some alternative dimension, and she had been called away suddenly. Barefoot.
The thing about Gloria is she even stands with her shoes neatly placed, and she never just kicks her footgear off. She’s neat that way. Fastidious. It makes me laugh. And because of her, I place my work boots carefully on the mat inside the vestibule door, too – toes pointing toward the wall, heels knocked together. She’s aware of details like that, so it pains me to bring disorder into our lives, especially when it’s so easy to do things right.
There’s meaning to the precise placement feet on a sidewalk; someone needs to see that. Imagine yourself in the presence of a goddess. You’ve been schlepping your way through life down at the pit, a latter-day Sisyphus crunching stones into various grades of gravel, then suddenly she’s there, and you know sheis a goddess, that she already knows everything she needs to. What do you say to her? What’s your conversation starter?
In a way, Gloria was aware of every rhinestone glued to those bargain basement sandals of hers. Not individually, of course, but as elements of a sensory field, if you will. I wondered which tiny mirror I might have been reflected in, standing beside her, my bike held between us like a barrier. What did she think of this guy? Of his long hair and never-quite-matured beard, his knobby tired bike? She hadn’t even glanced my way – a sensible rebuke. But I did want her to appreciate the nobility of my feelings… that if the sun could be positioned just-so behind me, I would glow, too, with my own halo effect.
I glimpsed her profile, then surveyed the intersection for clues. Perhaps there were points of convergence, shards of data that proved we dwelt in overlapping dimensions. Which of the drab architectural features could I point to and say, There, that’s us. The San Remo Market Deli & Café? The Salvation Army Community & Family Centre, across Hillside? The Money Mart (real people fast cash) diagonally opposite? The Sally Ann thrift store on the west side of Quadra? The garbage receptacles, and bike racks at every corner to dispose of stuff we no longer valued and lock up the things we did?
We were none of that, and perhaps – without knowing it – denial was the point of convergence I had in mind.
“Nice sandals!” I said.
No kidding! I said it out loud. Breathlessly. Disguised as a brash joke, because any second now the light on Quadra would wink green and the little silhouette that says walk would let her get away, and I couldn’t let that happen without at least a memory of me – strange and deformed as it might seem – hankering after her. Things had spiralled into a place where an inkling of madness is the only reasonable state of mind – not stark raving lunacy, but a sort of emotional Pi, never quite defined, always panicked by another incremental digit of yearning.
If only we had it in us to feel that way about every living thing, we would truly be incarnations of our imagined gods.
The light changed. Gloria stepped off the sidewalk into the intersection. I walked beside her, thinking: This is it. It’s finished. She still hadn’t glanced at me. I studied her profile for signs. She wasn’t ready to offer any – and how could I blame her? But I took comfort in the fact that we were walking in the same direction – that the imagined pat of her sandals on the pavement didn’t seem hurried or doubtful. She was willing to abide my company to that extent at least.
Gloria strode on, back straight, black pantaloons fluttering in the breeze, pleated jacket conforming precisely to her slight, angular build. Did I imagine it, the faintest hint of a smile turning up her lips? I’m not sure, but the words rushed out of me anyway when I saw what I took to be a cue, as if I’d waiting to blurt my intentions for just-about-ever. “Maybe you won’t take it wrong if I walk with you a-ways?”
Creep! Is that what she was thinking? She stopped, looked straight at me, her head swivelling round like a security camera on a pole, eyes locking on. This is it, I thought. It’s finished.
Then she smiled and laughed out loud, and… Oh my God!
We plan on having kids someday, but there’s still lots of time to think about how I might answer, if one of the little rascals ever asks, when they’ve attained the age of reason, or at least a mature state of curiosity: “Hey, Dad, how did you and Mom first meet and fall in love?”
Perhaps if I framed it as a joke, I could admit to my temporary state of foot-fetishism at the corner of Hillside and Quadra while I was on my way to the pit and Gloria off to her studio. Or maybe I could fast-forward to our first date, on the evening of that first day, at Caffé Fantastico just a couple of blocks away from our point of departure… I paid; Gloria objected; we laughed at the clumsiness of it all… our perfectly memorable ineptitudes.
To be honest, I was amazed she showed up at all, or that I’d asked her to, when we parted ways that morning, me pedalling down Bay Street, heading for the pit; her, carrying on up Quadra. Gloria walks without making a sound, it’s like she rolls the soles of her feet through each step, feeling the ground beneath her, sensing its contours, its tilt, its flaws and fractures. Silence is what she leaves behind when she walks away from you or out of a room. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not an angel or anything, and I’m not a worshiper. But that silence she leaves in her wake? Your instinct is to fill it with thoughts of her.
The circular patio table we chose on the sidewalk outside Caffé Fantastico had a rippled glass top, so I could still make out Gloria’s feet after we sat down. They became a point of reference – their muscular arch, perfectly articulated toes and meticulously painted nails a sort of permissible zone of psychic gravity, which assured me the rest of her was still there, that she was real in an incomprehensible way… there’s a difference between comprehending someone and figuring them out, I think. Comprehending is like hugging your partner, knowing you’ll always be wondering how amazing she is; figuring her out is like taking her apart so you can adjust the mechanics of her soul – like tuning a bicycle.
A lot of my friends have got round to asking me – in one way or another – why I majored in philosophy at UVic. They don’t come right out and say: “Hey, you could be doing a hell of a lot better than crunching gravel down at the pit, if only you’d go into law or something, or maybe take a few more PSYCH courses, get a master’s? Get into counselling? Or teaching? Heck, why not try for a PhD in something or other; you’ve got the smarts.” And maybe they’re right; maybe I will someday. But all that misses the point – the vanishing point of our existence, you might say. I can’t map things out in a straight line, like I was crow flying from here to there, and happened to land on a lamppost in the epicentre of Nirvana. Life doesn’t move in straight lines or elegant curves that can be described by some sort of derived calculus.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I took philosophy so I could understand the meaning of Gloria’s feet, seen through the rippled glass of a patio table. Intimacy is the sudden awareness that your partner is too beautiful to take in at a glance, that you have to look away, take time to grow-yourself into it, expand your ability to appreciate every facet of her being… now there’s a word that takes me back to the Big Bang of prenatal existence.
There’s a theory I call bracketed infinity. Choose any points as your arbitrary beginning and end, and the information you would need to decode the significant events between will be infinite. We divvy up experiences as if life had a shutter speed and we can string moments together like the frames in a movie. But that’s not how things really work…
Get it?
Can’t say as I’ve figured it out yet myself, so you’re smarter than me if you have. All I know is, when I wake up beside Gloria, and we smile, my future, past and present areright now.
~ The End ~
Hope you enjoyed Feet First in Love There’s more in The Feel of Gravity collection.
What is gravity? When you think on it for a second, that’s not such a simple question, because we don’t really know what gravity is, only how it affects us and the things around us.
So what is TheFeel of Gravity?
What we experience throughout our lives are consequences and effects: the pressure of the earth on the soles of our feet; the resistance of our bodies to getting up when we’re tired or injured; the refusal of heavy objects to being lifted or budged.
But these things aren’t gravity itself, the force that holds the earth in orbit around our sun and impels parachutists in free-fall to terminal velocity… Our emotional and intellectual responses are consequential, too.
Gravity exerts its ubiquitous pull on every cell of our bodies, every moment of every day from birth to death; then it flattens the very dust of our having been into the sedimentary layers of geology and archeology.
What are the spiritual forces that draw us together, tear us apart? What is love? What is hatred?
Gravity is always and forever, yet we only become aware of its influence in moments of change, crisis or conscious reflection. That’s what The Feel of Gravity is all about.
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A recent Facebook conversation triggered by the graphic above has shed some light on why I am a spiritual existentialist, and what that means. Before the concluding reply below, I had described my daily morning mediation, which includes a vow to ‘value life’…
‘Value life’ is an interesting ethical statement, one I affirm daily, even though it inevitably and immediately leads to contradiction. To live, I must kill. How can I square that with my ideal of valuing life?
I think that’s pertinent to the original question: What are the limits of comprehension? Try as I might, I can’t round that square ethical peg. I have to decide, and reaffirm my beliefs in spite of uncertainty. That tension between believing and knowing keeps us questioning and reevaluating who, what and why we are. It’s the essence of existentialism.
My spiritual self is always looking into the world and saying there’s more to life than I’ve learned and experienced so far. There’s a love that’s larger then what I can conceive, an idea grander than anything I can imagine, a sensation more vibrant than anything I’ve felt.
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This morning’s sun dawned on me, a bleed of light in the ambient air, impressing with its metaphor of glory.
And I asked: Is this the shining way… the path?
And I asked: How many dawns have bathed me in their blare of blinding light?
And I say: Dawning’s beyond conception.
I don’t remember my mother’s face, from that first day she held me swaddled in her arms. My earliest memories are assembled pastiches retrieved from jumbled collections, fading images in forgotten albums... Brothers, sister and me in defining moments picked from the scrabble of growing up... Growing old.
And I ask: Is this the past I wanted? My only possible inception?
And I say: Their love was good enough to endure a lifetime.
And what of my own sons, misunderstanding, misunderstood, good as me at finding fault? Is their's a future untold, stories in the making, or a history already that I’m to blame for?
In the midst of this day’s dawning a flight of geese honked and gabbled up our street; our suspiring phalanx of cedars, arbutus, and Douglas fir stood firm, and jagged against the sky; a frog croaked in the yard, awakening my admiration for ants, and beetles… and lowly worms.
My morning mantra harkened, urged me to complete The Circle…
‘We are defined by what we are-not As much as by Who we think we-are,’
The moment I sense my self I disappear, become part of the very nature that shapes my solitude... my joy, my fear.
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LitHits are snippets of prose and poetry. They can be stand alone provocations, collaborations, or excerpts from longer works that encapsulate completely an insight or feeling. Got a LitHit in you? Want to get it out there? Send it my way…
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You've heard about the water wheel, has Chemainus in such a flap? Well, now the truth has been revealed... what turns its forward back.
The culprit's name is Flibber T, that's Flibber T Gibbet for long. He's the one you're gonna see if you listen to this, my song.
Oh Flibber T, Oh Flibber T You're such a curious fellow, your cap's as red as red can be and your shoes are bright, bright yellow
Flibber T is a naughty elf, as naughty as naughty can be. Never thinks of anyone else, out on his troubling sprees.
Turning clockwise the other way for unbelieving eyes is just the sort of trick he'll play to shock, and tease, and surprise.
But when it comes to elfish kind you've gotta believe to see you have to alter your state of mind with the likes of Flibber T.
Oh Flibber T, Oh Flibber T You're such a curious fellow, your cap's as red as red can be and your shoes are bright, bright yellow
These thoughts came to me as my dog Sophie and I did a circuit around the Chemainus Lake Trail.
There are four categories of ‘goodness’ I can identify: Absolute, Fundamental, Conditional and Contingent. I’ll describe each in a moment, but first a little context.
I have long been baffled by the word ‘good’. More to the point, whenever someone tries to define what ‘good’ is, as opposed to what it is not, or what is bad, I find myself unconvinced. Their definitions and my own come up short, seeming as incomplete and arbitrary as castles (aka fortresses) in the sky.
But over the last few days I have been studying ethics from a Stoic perspective, reading an article in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. There I came across the apparently standard definition of ‘the good’, to which “all parties agree”, namely that: “…possession of what is genuinely good secures a person’s happiness.” What tweaked me in that definition is the notion that it’s not what goodness ‘is’ that’s important, it’s what it does, or it’s effect.
It ‘secures a person’s happiness’.
Which, of course, begs the question: What is true happiness? Until we have answered that, we can’t possibly determine what constitutes a ‘good’ thing or event, and will be unable to direct our lives in a way that makes us truly happy. Like a dog, chasing his tail, we’ll only succeed in making ourselves dizzy.
That second variable of the goodness-happiness equation has become more clear for me recently, in the form of a personal philosophy that begins with the fundamental statement: Value Life. I say ‘fundamental’ because for me that is an ethical stance that does not require ‘proof’. I don’t expect everyone to feel the same way, and if anyone asks ‘Why?’ the only answer I can offer is ‘because it’s a part of who I am’. In fact, my recent meditations have led me to the conclusion that valuing life is at the very heart of my ethical being.
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With what’s been said so far, I can hazard a definition of ‘good’ that is meaningful and useful. For me an event, action or thing is good if it allows me and my community to live up to my fundamental principle of valuing life, because valuing life makes me happy. That’s not to say there aren’t other things that will make me happy, or that valuing life isn’t an ethical commitment fraught with contradictions.
However, I know that unless I make choices that do value life, I will not be truly ‘happy’. Worse, when I make choices that devalue life – and despite myself I do – I undermine my own happiness, usually in the pursuit of immediate gratification
So I now have a criteria for determining at least some of what will be good choices for me. Not good because they are laudable from other people’s points of view, but because they bring me closer to my own – let me use the word I prefer – fulfilment.
Now I can attempt a definition of the four categories of goodness I mentioned at the outset of this essay:
Absolute Goodness – I actually don’t believe such a thing exists, an act, or event or thing that everyone would agree was good, if they fully comprehended its nature. If I believed in god, or Platonic ideals, I could speculate about the nature of absolute goodness, but I’m a spiritual-atheist, which precludes a belief in god or any sort of disembodied ideal.
Fundamental Goodness – That is, goods which directly relate to my personal philosophy and set of values. They are ‘fundamental’ because they are essential events, actions or things that express and make real my set of values. Unless I participate in, demonstrate or possess these goods I am not engaged in meaningful and positive ways with my world.
Conditional Goodness – We are conflicted beings, and almost all the ‘good’ we do or experience has side effects or consequences we don’t desire. Conditional goods are directly related to my values, but they are conflicted because, viewed from a different perspective, they are also contrary to them. For example, I value life, but must kill in order to live. That tension cannot be resolved, it can only be mitigated by best possible choices.
Contingent Goodness – These are goods, not directly related to my philosophy or values, but which add to my well-being and enjoyment of life. Most of the good things I experience, enact or possess fall into this category, and if I examined them I might discover that they do support my values indirectly, or at least don’t contradict them. Wealth, for instance, doesn’t necessarily contradict my desire to value life, and it might give me the means to support causes that value life more effectively… or my unrestrained pursuit of wealth might damage life on this planet in irreparable ways.
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On August 2, 2021 a March for the Children, organized by the Penelakut Tribe, made its way from the BC Ferry terminal in Chemainus, through the town up to Water Wheel Park. An estimated 1,500 people joined in the commemoration.
Penelakut Island is the historical site of the Kuper Island Industrial School, a site of the Canadian genocide of Indigenous people. The march was for the children, healing, and reconciliation.
Like many, I have mixed feelings this Canada Day 2021
Canada Day?
It’s become an emotional, moral conundrum for me. On the one hand, I am a grateful citizen of one of the most prosperous, industrious, democratic nations on earth; on the other I am confronted with a legacy of deadly oppression and ongoing discrimination, perpetrated against the indigenous peoples of this land.
So what is it I am supposed to celebrate this July 1, as the tally of children who died in Canada’s infamous residential schools comes to 1,000 and counting – with estimates of at least 6,000 more than likely?
I certainly can’t celebrate a deliberate strategy of containment and re-education designed to enforce European occupation of the land. Nor can I celebrate the present deep rooted biases that are built into my country’s fibre. My only hope is to look toward a future where truth has been disclosed and reconciliation achieved, and make that commitment part of my Canadian citizenship in a meaningful way.
Our only hope as a nation is to accept the fact that a genocide was carried out, and take responsible action to compensate the individuals and communities that have been ravaged by a deliberate, sustained effort to eradicate their culture. I can sum that attitude up in a simple phrase: Take responsibility, or accept blame.
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That mantra has to be put into its modern context. First Nations in Canada have proven themselves resilient. Despite a long history of brutal oppression, they are in the midst of a ‘renaissance’. They don’t need paternalistic meddling in that enterprise; they are entitled to recognition and an equitable share of this land’s bounty, which will allow them to thrive.
They are also entitled to understanding as they express their sorrow and anger. And to respect. Everyone lost when Canada embarked on its genocidal policy. What we could have learned from indigenous peoples about the importance of family and community, and coexistence with nature, is incalculable.
My celebration of Canada Day 2021 will be mixed. What I will be celebrating are the tremendous accomplishments of our history; what I will be condemning is the fact that a cornerstone of those achievements was a genocide.
The full measure of personal and national stature is a willingness to re-evaluate our stories and base our actions upon the truth. Will Canada live up to that standard? Will we become a nation that admits when wrongs have been committed, compensates the victims of those wrongs, and writes a history that ensures they are never committed again?
Only time will tell. For now, I think a token of my determination to that end will be to wear orange and red on Canada Day. It’s a small gesture, but one that tends toward a redefinition of what it means for a nation to be ‘great’.
