This purging of the posts is rather cathartic, seeing the number drop away, this one, that one, gawd no that’s not staying, all into the trash.
Originally dated October 11th, 2014, I had lived here just over a year, and it was days away from the 2nd anniversary of Tim’s death on the 18th, that month of loss and many griefs were upon me. As I’ve mentioned, all my endings happen, generally, in that month of change of light, time and leaves.
Pictures are all from that time at the lake, the last pic was taken exactly 1 month before Tim died.
I’ve been struggling this last couple weeks to define what it is that niggles at my heart of late.
Its that time of year, I suppose. That time of cooler days and nights, of falling leaves and tears. A time of fall colours, and memories. In eight days it will be two years since he died.
Tonight on the bus I read these lines from a book I’m just finishing on the life (and death) of Tom Thomson, and tears began to trickle down.
Pine and cedar grow down to the water’s edge in places; scruffy spruce and tamarack, tall hemlock, popular, aspen, bear-scarred beech, white and yellow birch and maple seem to climb the surrounding hills. Every so often, along the high horizons, a magnificent white pine stabs so far above the forest ceiling that it reminds the eye of what brought loggers to this rugged country in the first place and how, when white pine was mostly gone, the mills and the train soon followed.
[Northern Light, by Roy MacGregor]
Even though the author is referring to Algonquin Park of 1917, he could be describing The Grey Highlands that I left behind.
I can completely understand Thomson’s love of his Canoe Lake, and why he went back year after year.
Thomson left his dove grey canoe, and his heart, that mysterious day in 1917. Whether by accident or design, I know that for which he saw in those still waters, and they do run deep.