Be of Good Courage

Yesterday, I met
a company of prophets
in Kitchener, drumming
hard truths under a
gazebo in
Victoria Park. Their
ceremonial ribbons raged
against justice denied and
their voices took shape as a
chariot of fire
bearing
witness to heaven. And
yet their circle was soft:
they spoke of hatred as
self-defeating, pleading
for our healing. For a
moment the snow receded
and from the winter ground
a lily shot forth like Christ
from the grave and an
odour of hope perfumed the air.
The wind from the south was raw,
but it whispered in my ear:
“Be of good courage.”

Meeting my Waterloo (Street)

This afternoon I went to the dentist, or rather, to the dental hygienist.  She was really very kind to me.  She gave me some floss and a new toothbrush, and after I paid my bill, and collected my things I began my trip home.  On the days I walk, I generally meander down King Street, which takes me through uptown Waterloo, and then across the twin city border, after which I mosey through downtown Kitchener, down Ottawa Street and then home.

 

But today I took a different route, since my normal path would have meant a significant amount of back-tracking.  So, instead, I walked against the one way traffic on Bridgeport, turned right on Moore Ave. N and then took a left onto Waterloo St, which winds through an interesting part of Kitchener that I usually only see from the car.  (These days, when I drive, I take Waterloo because the more popular Weber that I would normally take to work is under construction.  In fact, I have become rather fond of Waterloo, and have started taking it as a matter of course, but only on the way to work.  I tend to take a more convoluted route home. )

 

It was interesting, indeed satisfying, to walk down Waterloo.  You see a street differently when you walk what you normally drive.  The difference is doubled when walking in a contrary fashion.  Waterloo is a mostly straight street connecting, in earlier days, the not yet twin cities.  The street is now flanked by houses from the early twentieth century, brick in the main that are more often yellow than red.  Every now and then you see a house hinting at the German provenance of its builder – the odd flourish reminding me of Black Forest sensibilities.  The ethnicity of the area changes with the times, and the one house that I have taken note of while driving boasts an Italian flag above its grape vine arbor.  In the summer the home vaunts a lovely canopy of green, but in this in-between time, when the earth is hardly clothed, the yard looks vulnerable.  Walking, I noticed a dog-run on the side of the house that came right up to the street.  I wondered it this canine sideline successfully keeps raccoons at bay in the fall.

 

Not far from the yard-come-vineyard is a new home being built, full of sharp angles and strangely placed windows.  I must say I was rather taken by it, taken in by it until the walk along Waterloo dropped me off just shy of the Kaufmann lofts: a once beehive of factory activity making the famous Kaufmann boots.  We would buy these out West, not imagining that one day the factory floor of this profitable business would host halls leading to domestic spaces.  I crossed the Kaufmann parking lot and made my way onto Duke, where I saw down town Kitchener in various states of gentrification, modernization, and obfuscation: a city finding itself.

 

South of downtown I slipped past Kitchener’s Farmers Market, being guarded in its off hours by the Korean Presbyterian Church and the Kitchener Waterloo Racket Club.  Krug carried me to Weber, and I split off at Sterling, which left me at the edge of Sheppard School, where my children attended so many years ago.  I wistfully traversed the playground, a little sad that those days are behind, but proud of my three darling daughters that have never looked back.

 

From there, the way walked me home just as I used to walk my children home, and a kind of peace settled into my feet, my soul.