Disorderly Piles of Mettle

I was still awake at 2 a.m. when it sounded like the wind would break in through the glass solarium last night.  The accomplice was the hard driving rain drunk on its own power.  My eyelids never fully closed as the threatening elements were relentlessly causing the plate glass windows to reverberate madly.

I had a message on my phone from my neighbor above apologizing for any noise she might have made in the middle of the night.  The suite above ours is the only one on the east side of the building that does not have a glass enclosure.  Evidently our neighbor tore outside onto her balcony to grab at the flower pots being tossed about and the force of the gale lifted her, and like an unforeseen strike from a bully, pushed her partway over the rail filling her with terror.  In a shaky voice she explained how she clung on for dear life and it was a wonder that she was able to make it back inside.

I found out late today that the winds had blown at a ferocity of 100 kilometers.  Something to remember.

Part way through the night the electricity was interrupted.  In the morning it was still off and there had been a notice by the elevator that the water would be turned off at times during the day.  I made a decision to lean back on the pillows of the bed with the covers drawn up so I could read where it was warm.  The heat doesn’t work when these things happen.

I was forced to wear a pair of black woolly gloves to hold up a book I was reading:  Margaret Laurence – Al Purdy:  A Friendship in Letters. (Selected Correspondence Edited by, John Lennox).

Purdy’s Poem, “Interruption” has a part in the first half that reads:  “something sad and old cries down in the swamp.”  This line reminds me directly of Margaret Laurence’s main character in Stone Angel:  Hagar Shipley.  I see a relationship between these two; an analogy.  Hagar Shipley is that “something”! below the barnacles of her exterior.  The swamp is the past in her mind:  her memories.

Memory recall can be good company or it can turn vicious.  We keep our memories in our head.  How we select and arrange them affects our behavior.

When our reflective scrapbooks are imaginatively designed and well cared for we see ourselves in a clear light.

Keeping disorderly piles of mental photographs haphazardly jumbled in boxes, envelopes, trunks, and drawers may find us picturing ourselves in a scrapyard, not a scrapbook.

The landscape of our mind and its condition is sensitive:  it relies on us to provide it with  sunshine and calm breezes to keep us safe from the storm.

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets