Littledoe Lake, Algonquin ParkT
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable…
~ T. S. Eliot
I’ve imagined myself here many times before. Sitting on this rock, this small piece of the Canadian Shield; watching this water lap against this shore; raising my eyes to the far shore, a tree line of pine, spruce, birch, maple, cedar; the smells of all of the above wafting by on a gentle breeze; the sun intermittently shining between clouds of white cotton candy. No, it wasn’t this particular rock, for I’ve never seen this rock before. Yet it was this rock, this landscape, with this pen in this hand drawing meaning onto this blank page. I imagined myself here, I suppose, as this place has been the beginning, the end, and the midway point of so many journeys. A constant in a circle. While it has rained at times, this has always been a place of calm, of clarity, openness of mind, of peace—home. As I’ve imagined it, I should be sitting here in a moment of revelation, self-reflection, epiphany. This was to be a moment in which I would dispel of all my uncertainties for the upcoming year, make sense of the frustrations of the past year, finding meaning in chaos, and be ready to move forward, renewed, more assured of where I am going and why, more settled in where I have been. I have been imagining this moment, this image, this landscape and me in it, for this is something that I want, that I need, a moment where I can finally, once again, be still.
I write this way, describing an imagined scene, because when I first sat down here I was doubtful, unhopeful that this sought-for moment would be found. I was ready to describe the scene, and how however hard it was sought, it still remained slightly out of reach. I was going to write, admit, finally, my self-frustration, and in doing so perhaps beginning to move beyond the anxieties, the second-guessing, the feelings of worthlessness, pessimism, ambivalence, and in this round-about way bring myself to the same point that I had been imagining, yet had not yet found.
But as I write like this, describing a hypothetical response to an imagined scene, I write myself back to here. To this rock. To this water. To these horizons, gentle winds, and hesitantly sunny skies. To this place that never fails to remind me that the universe is alive. Living, breathing, singing. Full of joy and wonder, for those who seek her. У земля есть музыка для тех, который ее слышит. I remember, here, now, what it is to be in awe, most of all this time because I did not completely expect that I could still be moved in this way. Perhaps there is no revelation to be found, there is just to be. No epiphany, but to recognize the beauty of the present. No moment to be sought, but now. And I’m here, now. As I’ve been before, both beginning and ending, and where I will be again. Where, on one level or another, I will always be. Here. And Now.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
~ T. S. Eliot
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