Chapter 131
Yesterday I stepped into Death’s slipstream. The gossamer thread of her passing ran through me and pulled me physically off my path. I turned to see a trail stretching out before me up the hill and into the woods. “Deer” ran through my thoughts and I ran after their tracks… or their story. My feet took me, suddenly bouncing with the levity of deer in flight. As I ran I marvelled at the sudden change in pace and sensation in my body. Just as suddenly, I was called to a halt at the top of a rise and stood, heart pounding, looking around me. The remnants of an old deer kill littered the ground, the sweep of hide and hair, dispersed fragments of a once fleet fawn, by now merely a memory of sustenance for a distant cougar. I retraced my steps considering the sudden impulse that pulled me at right-angles from my track to take this detour.
Moments later Death flew by again, captured in the beak of a Great Grey Owl, she disappeared into the adjacent woods and held her breath until I passed.
Another day. I tramped the woods to step into the slots left by the routine passing of a familiar group. I know their habits… at least for a fraction of their day as they pass through my own life. I do not spend enough time out here now. There are ladies’ slippers in my woods. I wonder where the ladies are at?
On another afternoon of blue and gold; a brief interlude of dramatic flashing lightning, thunder so brittle the edges sound to collide directly overhead. Ten minutes of hail and siling down rain and half-hail that brings leaf fragments and spruce pins clattering across the roof. I record the tinkle plink of ice and rain battering my tin chimney pipe. On further investigation I discover this hailstorm spanned less than a quarter mile, the epicentre, as it felt it, more or less over my house. Mere yards away, barely a passing sprinkle of rain, yet outside my place the hail piled up on the edges of the road.
The expression siling it down reminds me of a gentle walk through south Yorkshire with my Aunt Sue. We were rambling up a beautifully shaded avenue towards an ancient church when I was accosted by an elderly lady who proceeded to engage me in deep conversation, the only element of which still resident in my memory is her description of a recent ant invasion of her kitchen – we were snided out by ants she told me. Ha!
For those of you interested, siling it down, like many other Yorkshire expressions, finds its origins in the Scandinavian languages transported to the northern shores of England with the Vikings. I believe sil is Swedish for sieve – ie. it’s pouring down like water rushing through a sieve. Snided is another northern expression for crowded, commonly used in Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire, derived from sny which can be traced back to Middle English and Danish, although the origins of this one are more obscure.
These reminiscences remind me of my first school days in England after our return from Iran. I stuck out like an extremely sore thumb and I have vivid images of pouring energy into art – head-high fleur- de-lys which I painted, cut out and stuck around the walls of the school for some medieval project. I drew multicoloured viking ships on the blackboard with a plethora of chalk… I guess that doesn’t happen these days, all smartboards and such. The viking ships fascinated me, as did the helmets, the clothing, the runes. The Norse Myths – which my mother read to us many years ago – spill over into English history as does so much else. There is such a smörgåsbord of influences in that tiny collection of islands called Britain -remnants of centuries of invasions, a veritable Mulligatawny stew of cultural histories and influences.
One of the joys of being in Canada is our own vast range of cultures. We are blessed to have the stories, colours, music and histories of so many people brought together, along with the intensely insightful histories and art of the people indigenous to this land. Talking to elders is a great joy – listening to them even more so. Something that sustained, and sustains me in my travels, is listening to the life stories of the people we meet. Each person has a unique story to tell, sometimes it requires a little teasing out, sometimes all it needs is a kind ear.
We are all guests, we are all family. We are all travellers, all at home, all on the road.
With gratitude and love,
Kat Dancer
bodymudra@gmail.com
403.931.3866 (h), 415.525.2630 (c)
