More Ghosts
It is the last day of June and the sky threatens a thunderstorm, as though to say goodbye to June. Well, goodbye, then. Goodbye June, goodbye, goodbye. I am not ready to say hello to whatever is next. I am stuck here, in the moment, at the kitchen table with my fingers on the keys, my thoughts approaching from the shadow. I am getting myself ready for the latest summer storm and talking about it.
I have witnessed storm before and know that winds come, darkness comes, the drowning and healing splash of water comes: all of these things come, then go. All that is seems in danger of ending up blown away, everything. At times the wake of a storm is chaos, bent trees, blown away things, lost pets, a smashed past. There is also, always a fresh sky, a different temperature, a greater contrast from the lily against the field. The storm comes, it goes and we go on into new light. The light is a different colour? Maybe the shoes are missing afterward but, on we go. At the moment, it’s getting dark and my eyes hurt. I am in rough conditions. Trying to type under gloom lighting and with unreliable glasses on is a chore.
Brought to us 24/7 now and for another week or so, maybe more are the ghosts of residential schools. The drumbeat of modern media pumps adrenaline urgency into our veins. Ghosts! Shock! Horror! More at Five o’lock! See our webpage for the brutal details! Back to you, Fred! The ghosts themselves, however, wisp about the broad and unmarked fields of Canada as they ever did. The ghosts care nothing about Tik-Tok video or media interviews. They jangle nothing, move nothing, they shout solely with a stilled voice. For their care and keeping, is nothing to do save quiet ourselves a moment, respectfully. There is nothing to do save realize and note the facts. There is nothing to do save take a knee on an otherwise unremarkable summer day. The knee does not dismiss Canada. Putting out the candles for a moment does not dismiss the flavour of the birthday cake. In an offer of respect, an act of comfort, is nothing done away by any Algebra of ‘correctness’.
From across the limitless golden fields of plenty, a pitched-battle thunderstorm is approaching. I fear the brash, green, unfinished things that promise tomorrow may bend badly. The possibility of grievous damage exists. True, tomorrow is a tender green of untested mettle under perilous skies that beg our full concern but the boiling clouds are not eternal. We need not worry long, gray moves quickly and will pass, leaving it’s judgement. That said, for the moment, there is proof plenty that at the edges of all things can be found shadow.
A summer day is not forever spoiled by storm. Wildness releases emotion, freshens what is dry, reaffirms our grip on the railings. The storm roars in but leaves, in it’s time. The ghosts awakened don’t roar, we still have to listen for them. If we take a knee, take a day to hear, we can brace against the clouds/wind/rain. If we lean an ear for the quiet, we offer respect and may, possibly, learn. A single day off from nationalism is a good thing. In taking a knee to glory, to anthems, to conditioned view of what is, we are saying goodbye to innocence of all kinds. Goodbye to innocent belief in the smiling Mountie, the happy beaver, the snow-capped peaks. Those things exist yet in essence but were never really anyone’s to hold forever. When the storm passes, with luck we will find the loose things blown away and other, more durable things in their place.
Robert On The Air 