Home and at Play

This last week was a holiday for me. My wife was not able to take time off in August, so it was a break at home. This is both a blessing and a bane – a blessing because it allows me to shape my day to day life at home with some measure of leisure, and a bane because that is hard work. It is hard to play at home, it seems.

But I tried, and with some success. I managed to sleep in most days, even working on a crossword in bed in the morning with a cup of coffee before breakfast! I did some painting, some leisurely reading on the lawn with the company of some favourite trees. I managed to sneak in a mid-week sail down to Carol’s Point in Hamilton Harbour, where I amused myself watching a young couple learning the art of paddle boarding.

But this last weekend before back to work was especially rich. My wife and I made our way on Friday down to LaSalle Marina for a sail on Santa Maria. It was a glorious time, with lovely and consistent wind, as well as some nice evening light. After that, we drove down the road to dine at Ikea. We often frequent a diner near the marina but felt like something quicker. While in line to divine what to eat of the seemingly Swedish fair on offer, we found ourselves behind a young woman, with two beautiful young children. The older, a son, was able to fare for himself but mom had the younger daughter on her hip. She was so good with them. It was lovely to see. At one point, the little girl lost a shoe, unbeknownst to mom, but Gwenanne caught it and helped the shoe find its foot. Mom mentioned that losing that shoe on that foot was a common occurrence!

We made our way to a table, just beside this young family, and the little girl fixed her eyes, her beautiful shining brown eyes, on me. And she stared. She stared at me through the whole meal. Her mom would coax her to turn her head for her chips, but then back on me. Every now and then a passing family would grab her seeing, but then back to me. Mom was a bit embarrassed, but I told her it was sweet. I felt like a rock star for a minute or two in my life! I asked her name, and was told “Her name is Valeria, the Spanish version of Valerie.” We chatted a bit before we left.

We spent that night and the next day on the dock, where I was Officer of the Day for two four hour shifts. The forecast was for a day full of rain, and the first hour or so of my shift made it look like I would spend the day underneath, in our cabin. But after a bit of very intense rain and distant thunder, then came breath-takingly beautiful clouds as the storm subsided. Against the weather report of all day rain, the afternoon was a mix of sun with soft wind, heavy winds, clouds and repeat,

We made our way home and enjoyed a pizza picked up on our drive, watched some TV, and bed. Sunday will involve laying low, preparing for the race that is autumn – but hopefully with the capacity to bring a modicum of leisure to the swift passing of time.

Maria Ascending

They call it the saddest day of the year,
a bittersweet day as Santa Maria
ascends to the heavens and then descends
to her cradle, where angels settle
her in and baptismal waters
bathe her hull as they bend
in obeisance.

Of course, it’s only a sailboat – or
is it? My soul says otherwise.
The Spirit fills her sails on the Lake of Shining Waters.
And at the dock, she bears us as we break bread
in this nave, this naval and navel
portal to the womb of God.

Now, on the hard she
settles into sleep
to dream until her
wakening on the
happiest day of
the year.

Fall Sails

Our sails are stretched across
our lawn, where they catch
no wind, boast no knots, not
able to fill as they are wont to do.

Everything comes to an end:
some things for good,
some for a time,
sometimes you just can’t know.

I know that Santa Maria will
not race by the grace of the wind
while her sails lay still. But soon
she will fly by the miracle of
technology, and I will lapse into
a time of silent watching, waiting
out autumn’s doldrums.

I settle into a time of quiet, not
quite still, not yet settled.
Spring is far, fall is here while
winter bridges the two like
death – astride hope and despair.

Sabbath and Sailing

Friday night we made our way down to Santa Maria to put on her sails. The boats were late in the marina this year because of some insurance, then crane issues. We managed to get the mast up this last Tuesday and were glad to have finished getting her all ready on Friday, so we were set for our first sail on Saturday.

We started out with a very slight wind from the south-west, a gentle breeze that was just right for raising the sails for the first time of the season. Shortly after the sails filled they emptied of air – nothing moving for about 15 minutes, or so. We decided we would motor back to the marina and do some cleaning and work on the boat. There is always more to do! But just as we brought down the sail, suddenly a solid wind came in from the east. We quickly raised the sails and had a lovely first sail, with the sun shining temperatures in the low 30s – nicely offset by a cool breeze that allowed a great first sail of the season.

I have had that happen before: a lull in the wind just before a complete change in direction. I suppose, in some ways, that might function as a bit of a metaphor for life. Given the way that life is too often altogether too crazy, quiet times often seem like moments for taking a deep breath and taking stock. This much is true, but also true is that these moments are times to get ready for next steps.

Summer is a bit of a lull in the cycle of the seasons. For me, anyways, work’s pace changes a bit. Life has a kind of an ease that is less easily accessed at other times of the year. But these quieter moments are opportunities to imagine what next steps might be.

This is why sabbath is inscribed into our week: a day set aside to ready the sails for what is coming around the bend. Of course, we generally have no idea what that might be. And that too is a sabbath task: not only to ready ourselves, but also to remind ourselves that the ebb and flow of life is rife with moments that cannot so easily be presaged, and those known about cannot be known as good or bad until after the fact, and perhaps not necessarily even then.

After our sail we made our way to a marine supply store, which was closed. But there was a brewery right next door that makes one of my favourite IPA’s, which we bought before making our way home. There, I settled myself in our back yard, under two of my four favourite trees and drank a fine brew that reminded me that lulls are gifts – gifts that keep on giving as they unsettle our obsession with certainty and productivity.

Tiller We Meet Again

When we bought Santa Maria, our 24 foot Mirage sailboat, some 12 years ago or so, her tiller was a mess. The previous owners had not cared for it in any way, and the teak had deep cracks and chips. During the first year she was on the hard I sanded the tiller, and filled the cracks and chips, and varnished it more times than I could count. It actually came up looking quite good, which was quite a win for me since my wife is the woodworker in our household – although I have to admit that she oversaw my efforts.

The tiller is in need of repair again. I spent the other night sanding it and had this lovely sense of connecting to Santa Maria, some 70 kms away from my basement. The tiller brought me closer to the boat and wondered why.

Of course, the tiller itself is an aide de memoire. But there is more. It wasn’t just that I remembered moments on the boat, but I felt a connection to the boat. It might be, in part, the physicality of the work. The boat is a place where I most feel away from office work where I am generally in my head in spades. The boat allows me to get back in my body in a profound way: sensing the play of the wind, and feeling the roll of the waves. My skin, in particular, is acutely aware with the feel of the sun and the spray of waves, the textures of lines and sails, and temperature of the cushions in the cockpit radiating heat or cold.

As I was working on the tiller I thought a bit about this being a non-digital activity, although I was listening to music via my phone while doing so. I generally am suspicious of anti-tech rants but find that a balance of tech, and not, in life generally enables me to find some sense of peace and joy in life. I am reminded of Randy Woodley’s excellent book – Shalom and the Community of Creation: An Indigenous Vision ¬– in which he connects the Indigenous value of harmony and balance to the biblical concept of Shalom, which affirms a kind of wholeness that is instantiated in Torah-living and in the Way of the Reign of God.

I think the joy of sailing is so intense because it affords me another way to balance the kind of work I do day in and day out. We live in a culture in which we value growth and exponential increase. But there is a joy of inestimable value in finding balance in life: body and mind; rest and activity; play and work; and community and solitude.

I am so glad to know that Santa Maria is again, even in the winter, helping me to find a little balance, and with this, a deep joy.

On a Sling and a Prayer

This week Santa Maria made her way from slip to cradle, via a magical flight expedited by a crane. For long-time readers of stillvoicing, this has been described in earlier posts. In fact, I have likely written about it many years, as I do again this year! In part, this is because the sight of a boat floating through the air is quite unlike anything.

Since our marina is a not-for-profit club, members assist on lift-out day. This year I was part of the compound sling crew, a first for me. I have now cycled through all of the volunteer positions on the dock. This crew receives the boats and assists them as they land in the cradle, a metal structure holding the boat upright. Fittingly, my shift began with the arrival of Santa Maria. It was nice to see her settled for a long winter’s nap.

Owners of boats are asked to tie four lead lines to their boat, two at stern and two at bow, about 15 – 20 feet in length. As boats soars from lake to compound, these lead lines stream from the boat like strings from a balloon. My job was to grab one of the lead lines, along with three other sailors-come- dockhands. We would pull a boat this way and that as the crane operator and his helper communicated by radio. Often we would need to spin the boat 180 degrees to get stern straight and bow in place. I have to say that it is an incredible experience to grab a lead line and move a boat thousands of pounds, suspended in the air. It is as easy as a pushing a partly full wheelbarrow, even though I know that this boat would pulverize me were it to fall from its slings.

Once the boat is nearly in place, the cradle was fine-tuned left and right, back and forth. After the keel touches the base of the cradle, the cradle pads are raised to an inch from the hull of the boat. Then the crane operator lets the boat come down with all of its weight and the boat meets the four or more pads. One of us would then jump on the boat to release one side of each sling so it could come out from under the boat. Another would guide the slings as the operator raised them up to the sky to make their way over to the next boat.

A couple of time I remember staring at these slings slipping away into the cerulean sky speckled with spectacular clouds, and my breath simply left me. It was so beautiful, utterly transfixing.

Yesterday we returned to the boat to wrestle the motor off the stern of the boat. This was more of a Sisyphean effort. The gentle tugging at the lines of an airship on their way to their cradles on Wednesday seemed so far removed from Saturday’s cradling a motor close to my core as I pried it from its summer station and eased it into the wheelbarrow for its journey to my house, its winter home.

I am struck by how different these two labours were, and yet they were both labour – both blessing me with the gift of living into my body and being reminded that movement, and sweat, and satisfaction, and even momentary frustrations are gifts of the Spirit that sustains both the strenuous grunt and the bewildered gasp.

Some Straight Talk on Circles

Yesterday we stepped down the mast on Santa Maria, a sure sign that summer has passed on. The days shorten. The temperature drops. The grass grows more lethargic.

I am sad not to sail, but I have to admit that I really do love the turning of the year. I have never lived in a clime close to the equator, but I would miss the cycle of spring, summer, autumn, and winter – although I suppose they have their own cycles of the year with wet and dry season. This turning of the seasons suits me, but I am also mindful that time doesn’t only turn in circles but that it moves forward too.

Scholars sometimes mark the modern era as one with a linear view of time. The study of history in the early modern period, in particular, was one in which timelines sketched the progress of humankind. At an existential level, some might map this view on their own life journey, wherein accumulating wisdom, money, achieving goals, et cetera are viewed to be the point of life. Of course, we no longer read the march of history so optimistically, and we might now too wonder at an existential level whether the accrual of funds in our pension plans is all there is to life. Even the most jaded post-modern thinker might ponder whether there was something lost in the shift from a pre-modern worldview emphasizing a circular notion of time to a modern linear one. What might we learn from a return to the circle?

Many Indigenous voices speak to the power of the circle – concretely as a way to organize a conversation or pattern a gathering and metaphorically as a way to understand the universe. The circle speaks to equality, balance, and harmony, among other things. In the church, too, we map out the times of our worship in a circular pattern moving from Advent to Christmas to Epiphany to Lent to Easter to Pentecost to Advent again. We sing “Jesus Christ is risen today!” every year. Our church year is cyclical because our year is cyclical. Nature is cyclical. And yet the circle is not all there is. I appreciate that I can move from cradle to grave in a way wherein my life can have a meaningful end in both senses of the word: in completion and purpose. Both make their way in my day to day life.

The beginnings of the academic years come and go and come again, but I know that one day I will not be involved in them. The earth makes its way around the sun even while I slowly make my way back to the earth from whence I came. Santa Maria comes out of the water and goes back in to come out yet again. But I know that one day it will not be me caring for this beatific boat. For now, however, I am a part of her circle and very glad for that as we say goodbye to the 2021 sailing season and look forward to 2022.

Walk around the Docks

This last Saturday I spend my day at the marina, in the august role of “Officer of the Day.” Our boat club requires 20 hours of volunteer service each summer, and being OOD is one way to fulfill this obligation.  Basically, you serve as ambassador should any transient boaters come in to stay overnight, or if reciprocal members from other clubs come for a time.  In addition to this, you are to walk the docks, looking for hazards and such, and answer questions people might have.  In my walk-about I generally end up helping people dock their boats, or help send some out on their adventures.

In my experience there are rarely visitors, but I spend a good bit of time chatting with this person and that.  It is a nice way to get to know people a bit more.  Folk often have a skewed idea of a “Yacht Club.”  In my experience, there are very few big expensive boats, but a lot of people sporting modest, 30 year plus sailboats 25 to 30 foot in length. 

On Saturday I chatted with a couple who down-sized in retirement, buying a smaller condo and a sailboat.  The also provide foster care, and currently attend to a six year old who has had brain cancer.  When the weather is right, they bring her aboard the stern of their backed in boat in her wheelchair, where she happily greets all walking by.  Another boat hosts a young man with down’s syndrome who greets me with measured enthusiasm.  Some folk here are chatty, some are taciturn, some are anxious to help and other are heavily pre-occupied.  In a way, the marina is the world.

I think that this OOD program outperforms its purported outcomes.  It allows us to get to know one another.  This is a gift of the first order. The practice of volunteering grants us the grace of encountering others to the end that we get to know our own selves.

Oddly enough, most of us would not serve as OOD aside from our need to volunteer 20 hours at the club.  Of course, some might say that these hours are not voluntary. But you can forgo the 20 hours and pay a bit more in your membership fees.  I am always amazed at how a small incentive to do what you should do results in a exponentially larger pay-back.  This is the economy of grace, the logic of service, one of the ways in which God works wonders in the world.

The sailing season is on the brink of winding down. I have dutifully finished by volunteer hours.  One might say that there is a carrot and a stick to my experience.  But more importantly, I note that both carrot and stick disappear when my experience illumines that other people aren’t hell (as per Sartre) so much as other people are health.

Stern Words

I sit at the stern of my sailboat.
Ducks float here and there. I
speak to them, and they to me, but
in duck tongue. So, no luck there
but still the night is magical.
Masts tick-tock like metronomes,
and the lap of water
against the hull whispers “satis est…”

Night lights are so soft and the
sounds are scrumptious. The
rock of the boat is hypnotic.
Here at the stern I am
speechless, and
the word heard for those
with ears to hear is:
“Listen.”

For the Weal of the World

Thursday saw Santa Maria make her way from the hard to the lovely and oh so wet Hamilton Harbour on Lake Ontario. COVID-19 complications meant that this was not a possibility last year, so it was especially sweet to see her land in the water.

For those who are not familiar with sailing in my part of the world, sailboats have to come out of the water because the lakes freeze, and fixed keel boats have keels thousands of pounds heavy, so a lift or a crane is used. Our marina rents a crane. It is quite the site to see things that float flying across the sky.

When she landed, I was near at hand, and jumped into the boat, started the engine as the pier crew moved my boat down the dock. Within some seconds she was ready to go, and the crew tossed the lead lines into the boat and I was off. It was a feeling… slipping across the water. Boats are mesmerizing. You cannot turn on a dime. There are no brakes. And the feeling of floating is unlike any other. Something stirred.

I didn’t grow up on the water. My mother was afraid of it, but my dad had been in the navy and while he rarely spoke of his experiences in the second world war, he sometimes talked with some enthusiasm about learning to sail as a part of their training. I suspect that some bits of my joy on the water are related to this. My paternal grandmother was from the west coast of Norway, and so it just might be that other bits of my joy come from blood. I’m not altogether sure but being on the water brings me a joy that I can’t quite describe.

I suspect most people have some place, or activity, or perhaps a time that finds them outside of themselves, drifting into the future, the past, the stories in our bones. These experiences are life giving and avoided at our peril. Alas, we too often fail to attend to these in our busyness. I truly feel that these experiences are divine gifts that feed our souls, our minds, and our bodies. Too often we imagine that only “holy” activities ground and grow our spirit. But all that is truly whole is holy, shaped by the Creator for the good of our humanity, and for the weal of the world.

Of course, these may well change and shift with time, but then again, so do we. I should note too that sailing is not the only activity that takes me to another place. Sometime art will do this, or music, or running. The Holy One has given us so many ways to stay alive. Receive these gifts for what they are: given for you.