We were away most of this last week — barely two hours driving, another 40 minutes on a ferry, and we were at the edge of an inlet, our backs against a treed rocky hillside, next to a 5-kilometre trail through a 123-hectare provincial park, a forest allowed to grow undisturbed for over 70 years. . . and at the end of the walk, the second-largest saltwater rapids in the world.
One fairly decent sunny-with-cloudy-periods (or was that cloudy-with-sunny-periods?) day before we were assailed by the gusting winds and pelting rains of Fall’s first storm, three days of it. . . Still, we made good use of a few breaks in the weather, and managed a decent paddle together along the inlet (away from the rapids!!) and twice hiked that trail through the rejuvenating air and light of the West Coast forest. Despite the No Service reading on my iPhone screen when we were away from the cabin, and the very erratic Wifi when we were in it, I managed to post a few “forest walk photos”on Instagram . . and I’ve got more where those came from, as you probably suspect.
But I also have a few photos from our first morning, when I conquered my not entirely irrational fears (that current — all the signs that forbade swimming because of it! and that wind that Environment Canada forecast) to join Pater in our jaunty yellow kayaks. . .
I’m making rather light of my trepidations, but they were overwhelming for a while that morning, and there were tears, and I almost sent him off without me (and that in itself was an achievement of trust in his ability to assess safety for himself). . . I’ve written here before, although not for a few years, about my fearfulness in various ventures (climbing, city cycling) — and my determined efforts to overcome it. This post, for example, and then this one andthis onewherein I consider the dubious value of the term “BadAss.” . .
Pater must remember those struggles — and remembered that I did manage to overcome similar fears in the past — because just as he was heading out on his own, promising to be back within two hours, assuring himself that I’d be content with a book in the cabin, he turned back, hand on the doorknob, to insist that I come along. Insisting that I was a strong enough, capable enough paddler. Insisting that we would paddle along the shore, that the current was easily manageable, that the winds were unlikely to rise seriously during the next hour. . . insisting, above all, that I would return exhilarated from getting out on the water, happy that we’d gone out together rather than listening, wistfully, to his account of a solo paddle in stunning scenery.
He was right. Although I was sullen with apprehension as we dragged the boats to the water. As I manoeuvered my way awkwardly into the cockpit, worried (possibly panicked a bit) at releasing my always stiff rudder. Then realized that the current was tamer than imagined, that even when the rudder jammed, I can navigate well with the paddle. . . recognized that I was enjoying the effort of paddling, an effort that was light enough and automatic enough for looking around. Saying hello to the seal that followed my boat, checking out my technique before slipping below the surface again (was that a quick nod of approval before she disappeared?)
I won’t pretend I didn’t keep an eye out for those places we could have pulled the kayaks onto shore if a fierce wind blew up, dramatic TV-series style. . . .
But the more we paddled, the more I relaxed, and the bigger I grinned. . .
Enjoyed myself so much, in fact, that I felt foolish about momentarily succumbing to near-hysteria earlier. . . but also accepting that, given I’m 67 and I haven’t shoved the fears away yet, I might just settle for knowing that this is my pattern, my process. . .
That slogan “Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway” seems too sloppily general to me, too all-embracing. Surely there are instructive, useful fears; surely some activities one shouldn’t “Do Anyway.” But I concede that “Evaluate your Fear and if it’s not objectively reasonable by measurable standards, Then Maybe Try Cautiously to Overcome It in a Series of Small Steps” doesn’t have quite the resounding ring required to incite action. . . I don’t think anyone’s going to call me BadassNana anytime soon.
Anyway, enough of that. Hope you enjoyed the pictures of our brief paddle along the shores of Sechelt Inlet. If you’re ready for a whiplash-inducing change of subject, I thought I could close with a poem my daughter texted me a link to, last week (unexpectedly but delightfully, very much a departure from our normal pattern/subjects of correspondence) with a note that she’d come across Donald Hall’s “The Things” and known I’d like it.
I did, and I think you will as well. And I suspect many of you will understand it as I do, in ways that I’m sure my daughter doesn’t yet (I hope not, at least. I think it would be too hard to really understand that in one’s forties).
The Things Donald Hall (1928-2018)
When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
–de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore–
that I’ve cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial–a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother’s rocker,
a dead dog’s toy–valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother’s souvenirs of trips
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.
You can listen to Donald Hall read his poem here,in a 2011 YouTube post.
My daughter’s text not only introduced me to a poem I hadn’t known, but also prompted me to pull my copy of his Old and New Poems of the shelf. . . and I have another I’d like to share with you, but not today.
Today, it’s time to turn the mic over to you — I’ll welcome your thoughts on any of the topics I’ve introduced here today, including (obviously) Hall’s poem. Perhaps you’ll want to come back later after you’ve thought about what you treasure from your past, and in your present; what you’ll leave behind, and what your children will throw away as “unforgettable detritus.” . . And perhaps what you threw away, and yet it remains with you, those remembered Kodaks and cards. . .
All grist for the mill, right? But since we’re talking flour (see what I did there?) I’m off to bake a pie or two with the apples that grew on our little tree, in a big container, on our 5th-floor terrace in the middle of the city. . .
xo,
f
I am glad you faced your fears and had a wonderful adventure!
I also wanted to say I think your pumpkin sketches in the previous post were wonderful, easily your best. It is fun to watch your skill at painting and composition grow and grow.
That poem made me tear up … Oh my. In spring 2019 I cleared out my mother's apartment, after her move to long term care. So many little treasures I sent away. Some I kept, but I am not certain why. There are three boxes of "important papers" and many photograph albums now in my crawl space, and they will probably stay there until 20 years from now when someone decides what to do with them. A lovely poem.
I am loving the fall, despite our circumstances. I am determined to make it through this time, and to take joy in small pleasures. I am glad you and Pater got some time away. xxoo Brenda
Thanks for this, Brenda. I had the same response to the poem, although it's seven years now since we cleaned out my mom's condo. Like you, I still have many items I've hung onto, not always certain why. . . It seems that a large part of letting go is that prolonged hanging on, at least for me. Not so much, perhaps, for the speaker of Hall's poem, but he's hanging on to memories of things, at least. I agree, a lovely poem, if a sad one. Truth and plain speaking, that confessional, contemplative tone.
Glad to hear you're enjoying the fall and making the most of these days. Hope your Mom and D are both doing well. xo
Frances, your honesty and bravery are impressive. I don’t kayak and probably never will. My idea of a boat is the QE2 and while I love the look of ocean liners, I prefer to admire them from the shore.
I loved the poem. I emptied my parents’ house 11 years ago after my father’s death. Some things of theirs I treasure – a silver and timber cigarette box that I use for jewellery and a large framed photo of my dad with his work table tennis team from the 50s – but most things I was happy to let go. Our memories can be the best treasures of all. I adore a painted plaster hand print that came home with my daughter from pre-school many years ago. I love to look at it and remember her childhood. It truly is one of my favourite things. How I would love to be able to spend time with that little girl again but I can’t. Being with her now that she’s a young woman is a delight of a different kind that I don’t take for granted.
That poem sums up my fear of downsizing. Thinking of taking/packing only the Important Things, when it’s really the small, odd, miscellaneous objects I would end up missing most. Perhaps I’ll stay put for awhile!
I've loved that poem forever – it captures such a universal feeling. My mom passed in 2014, and I was in charge of house clearing. While I tried to be ruthless, there was some decision fatigue, so I wound up bring 3 or 4 boxes back to LA with me, stowing them in the garage for future review and decision-making. Fast forward 6 years, and it has been much easier to look at things, take pictures or scan if I want a more tangible memento, and let them go. I didn't plan to do things that way (really, I had no intention of letting things sit for 6 years!) but it worked out for the best for me. A little distance is a great blessing.
Congrats on overcoming your fears, and I'm happy that you got to reap such a glorious reward. I think as I've gotten older I'm a tad more fearful (heights seem to be a bit of a thing) – I wonder if there's something in the human brain that's trying to protect us?
I give you a lot of credit – pushing yourself like that. For me, I've often wished I wasn't who I am (meaning basically a scaredy cat!). I find that pushing myself when I feel so afraid does not result in me being glad I did. I'm glad you had a happy ending!
I, too, would send you all my gold ribbons, if I’d won any! You overcame your fear…I put my foot down and refused. So, after only two frigid days at a ski school in Vermont, I refused to take the run down from the top of one BadAss intermediate slope. The only recourse was piggybacking the instructor all the way down…and I wasn’t even ashamed! Thus has been my experience with trying to overcome tension inducing activities.
As for reassessing possessions/treasures, I’ve begun the process of selling/gifting things that might one day find their way into a large dumpster! The only exceptions are my books and treasured artworks that have so often transported me to other worlds. As always, your posts make me think and always brighten the day! Congratulations and happy paddling!! Angela Muller
A huge well done on overcoming your fear. It's a fear I share. For a start I have very iffy balance (a miracle I can stand upright!) because of my inner ear disorder. And I may have told you before that a childhood listening to tales of my seafaring family on my mother's side, where the men purposely didn't learn to swim so that if they fell overboard they would drown quickly. Out in the freezing North Sea, high waves, no radar, no radio to alert rescue services (no helicopters or fast lifeboats anyway), wearing heavy knitted jumpers and sea stockings, rescue was not certain, and a quick death preferable to a lingering one. I can now master my fear to canoe on inland waters, but being confined in a kayak at sea is a step too far for me. I did try to address my fear in the autumn by going out for a taster session with the local coastal rowing club on a calm day. I sort of enjoyed it but it was massively hard work! Don't know if coastal rowing is a thing in BC? Here the 4 person boats are often built by the club members, and in normal times there are lots of friendly competitions with the rest of the UK and Scandinavia.
And how understanding of Paul to persuade you out in the way he did. My husband has done the same – sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't, and I well know the feeling of being left behind through my own volition with others heading merrily and fearlessly out, the rage, disappointment and self-criticism that ensues.
Didn't know the poem but it is very timely as we continue to be submerged in small things unearthed in our renovations.
Beautiful poem! And such a wonderful relationship between you and your daughter(s)!
You and Paul are a dream team-you are a very brave lady,whatever you think about it
Spending a couple of days far away from all the problems,news and troubles,in a beautiful nature- what a bliss!
I spent ten days this summer at the sea,but it was not carefree- the numbers started to raise in a surrounding-I think I've mentioned it before- and there were a lot of people around
And now,at home,a walk or two….I'm so sorry that our little house in the orchard is so damaged by the earthquake-we can't stay there and major reparations are planned for spring or later
Dottoressa
Maria: I'd be happy with the QE2 as well! 😉 And thanks for sharing the images that poem evoked for you
Christine: I know what you mean: four years after our big downsizing and subsequent move, I can say that I have a few regrets. But there are compensations for those regrets and awareness of a reassuring resilience. . . I can even see now how much more I could whittle.
Carol: That's been part of my overall process of letting go, as well. Gradually, and in steps. . . I think there's probably something in your theory about fearfulness being useful in protecting against injury in old age. My problem is because I know and have long disliked my own fearfulness, I don't trust its efficacy and push against it as much as listen to it. (so all of the nuisance and perhaps not enough of the benefit) (Shrug emoji here 😉
Jeannine: There are times I just say No as well. I definitely wouldn't have gone out on my own that day, for example. . .
Cleo: Oh, that's a great image! And I applaud your willingness to ignore embarrassment (I have a somewhat similar story from my only two jumps (drops, more accurately) from the high diving board at the local pool when I was in my early teens and annoyed that my younger siblings were jumping and I was too nervous. . . The pool had a very firm No Backing Down the Ladder policy. . . I was hands-and-knees along the last four feet of that board. . .
Linda: Oh, there's a wonderful early 1900s account of a solo row in a compromised boat down our challenging coastline in a(n autobiographical) novel that M. Allerdale Grainger wrote to raise some cash so that he could get back to England and marry his sweetheart (then he brought her back here, eventually headed up the forestry department here — Woodsmen of the West, the book's called. . . And of course before the Coast was colonized, there's an ages-old tradition of paddling huge (up to 20 metres) cedar canoes, week-long journeys for trade or war or ceremonial visits.
Dottoressa: I'm so sorry about your orchard house — you and your mother, especially, must really miss spending time there. I hope you're able to get it repaired quickly in the spring.
What a wonderful post. Thank you for revealing (again) your trepidation over your adventure. I am (now) terrified of anything involved with water, strange considering that as a child at the family cabin I would spend hours alone in the old aluminum boat rowing around the pond. I understand where my fear comes from, so if I do choose to accompany my husband in the canoe, I am bundled up in the newest life jacket I can find in the boathouse.
And responding to the poem, one of my regrets was not approaching Donald Hall at a book signing decades ago. My husband was in a rush and I did not have a book for him to sign, having discovering the book signing by chance. Sigh. And related to the subject of the poem is that I was the primary receiver of antiques & treasured items from both my parents and an aunt. Both my husband & I have a short list of things we want the kids to keep and pass down, but the rest…it's up to them. I spent the summer getting rid of stuff that had no real meaning other than "I may need this someday," mostly related to a career as an art teacher…we use so much stuff! I hated sending so much to the landfill, but it was less than I had imagined, the thought of which had paralyzed me for years. Also, there is an informal practice in rural Vermont. If something is still good but no longer wanted, we put it out at the bottom of our driveway and it is usually gone by the end of the day. Worked for me! Carol in VT
Beautiful photographs and a moving blog post; I am your age and worry more about my physical safety as I grow older; your writing inspires me to examine my particular fears so I don't miss out on wonderful experiences.
Donald Hall's evocative poem has me thinking about how my childhood impacts my view on keepsakes. Living a fairly peripatetic lifestyle–many moves nationally and internationally–growing up, meant that as a family, we could only hold on to a limited number of possessions. One result is that I have very little belonging to my parents, who have been gone many decades now: a few photographs, my mother's scarf and a broach, my father's driving cap. DH's trivial, yes? As for my own children, I really don't care if they hold on to anything of mine. They grew up listening to my constant refrain: The best things in life aren't things.
Carol in VT: You're very lucky that you were able to see Donald Hall in person (did he read any of his poems at the signing?) We had that same practice on our island of putting giveaway items by the road. Even here in our transitioning city neighbourhood (industrial turned trendy condo-residential), some will leave still-useful articles on the ground next to the dumpsters rather than inside, to save scavengers from having to root through. . .
Jumpringer: Fear's a tough one. There are good reasons to listen, but sometimes it gets the better of us to our detriment. Just keep in mind that I might not be writing about the times I succumb 😉
Mary: Such a good point here and one that I've been thinking of for some time. The families that I come from either moved a fair bit (maternal) or lived in a relatively small space (paternal) — and both were big families with not much disposable income for "things." And I think of my friend/former student who grew up in Kenya's huge refugee camp after his mother fled their home in Somalia with him and his brothers and not much else. . .
"Evaluate your Fear and if it's not objectively reasonable by measurable standards, Then Maybe Try Cautiously to Overcome It in a Series of Small Steps" – This is ME in a nutshell!! Why is this not on all the T shirts?? 🙂