Way Out Here
We are on a spontaneous vacation in Golden Lake with old friends. We used to live way out here and these friends were the mainstay of our community. They run a 90 year old family cottage business and they invited us to be their guests for a week. It had been 5 years since we were in the pleasure of one an other’s company. Although it took some logistical manoeuvring with work and dogs and house sitting, we were able to pull it together. I guess we have fostered our own nexus of community where we live with friends willing to step in and step up. Maybe they sensed that we both needed a vacation, especially one that involved staying put, staying pretty must unplugged, with nowhere to go, with nothing to do.
The drive here was quiet and beautiful. Neither my husband nor I listen to music much and while I enjoy podcasts when I drive alone, being together in shared silence is music all its own. The music of the spheres begins in silence. It reaches a crescendo in shared silence with the one you love. Our thoughts seem to entrain and while little is spoken, when one of us does express something, it no longer surprises me that the other was thinking of the same things. The comfort of a long term and well worn relationship is like a pair of treasured moccasins. Soft. Flexible. Familiar. As we drove through the Ontario treasure known as Algonquin Park, we were opening up to another time, another place. An a prior field. The granite grandfathers and grandmothers of the Canadian Shield seemingly opened their everlasting arms. As did the towering pines. The pristine lakes. Even a massive bull moose feeding along the marsh lifted his heavy head in our direction as the afternoon waned. This field seemingly remembers us. Remembers us to a time and place that first took us from the City and the life we had crafted there. We became urban refugees of sorts along the river of abundance and time. The Bonnechere River. This river that flowed in our veins for the better part of 5 years. We thought we would make the reminder of our lives here. The last lap. This was not to be the case. We tried. We invested ourselves. And while it hurt to leave, it was not right for us to stay.
So, it is both nostalgic and enlightening to be back here for an extended visit. I listen to the rhythm of Golden Lake rising and falling at the edge of the beach. I read. I nap. I pray. I nap. I write. I type these words into my keyboard to the symphony of this lake chorus and this relaxing rhythm. Waves. Gulls. Ducks, and goslings. Loon. Wind. The rise and fall of my husband’s breathing as he naps in the next room of this rustic and dear cabin. Clouds scoot across the sky and the light on the distant hills deepens my appreciation for the shades of green. I might go into town tomorrow and pick up a sketch book and watercolours. The beauty and silence and softness is stirring deep in me.
We shared a drive and then dinner with our old friends last night. We drove past old haunts and were introduced to new building sites. We got caught up on the wins and loses of the last decade. Half of which we shared with them when we lived on the river, and the other half lived some 5 hours apart. Stories. Oh, stories. Are they not the blessed container that holds the love? Always. “Tell the story…”. And we did. And they did. Stories of births and deaths and sickness and marriages, and miracles. Laughter. Tears. I fell into bed last night with a warm blanket of gratitude; for life, for friendship, for stories.
We now live on our100acre wood. Our friends live on a Golden Lake. In both places, nature and community sit at the centre of our lives. And the 5 hours or 5 years between this place way out here, and ours, stretches us, deepens us, strengthens us. Once a neighbour, in the best sense of the experience, always a neighbour. Here. There. And now, the mid morning rain comes. The Golden Lake turns grey and the demarcation between water and sky is blurred. The book of fiction I brought along for this very type of day, sits at my elbow and calls for my attention. I note the synchronicity of the title, Recipe for a Good Life, by Lesley Crewe. The remembering, the reading, the rain, and the relaxing repose feel very much like a hug. Way out here is where and how I will spend the next few hours. Way out here is what I am immersed in. Way out here is a song that echoes in my memory. As the waves whisper. As the rain hits the window panes. As the gulls scream. As my work weary husband naps. As, nowhere to go, nothing to do, seeps into my sensibilities.
Our houses are protected by the good Lord and a gun
And you might meet 'em both if you show up here not welcome, son
Our necks are burnt, our roads are dirt and our trucks ain't clean
The dogs run lose, we smoke, we chew, and fry everything
Out here
Way out here
We won't take a dime if we ain't earned it
When it comes to weight, brother, we pull our own
If it's our backwoods way of livin' you're concerned with
You can leave us alone
We're about John Wayne, Johnny Cash, and John Deere
Way out here
We got a fightin' side a mile wide, but we pray for peace
'Cause it's mostly us that end up servin' overseas
If it was up to me, I'd love to see this country run
Like it used to be, like it ought to be, just like it's done
Out here
Way out here
'Cause we won't take a dime if we ain't earned it
When it comes to weight, brother, we pull our own
If it's our backwoods way of livin' you're concerned with
You can leave us alone
'Cause we're about John Wayne, Johnny Cash, and John Deere
Way out here
Way out here
We won't take a dime if we ain't earned it
When it comes to weight, brother, we pull our own
If it's our backwoods way of livin' you're concerned with
You can leave us alone
'Cause we're about John Wayne, Johnny Cash, and John Deere
Yeah, John Wayne, Johnny Cash, and John Deere
Way out here
Way out here
Our houses are protected by the good Lord and a gun
And you might meet 'em both if you show up here not welcome, son
Song by Josh Thompson