Chasing the rain

 

I wrote all day today until I was crossed-eyed, then had a late lunch and went for a walk through the boneyard. 

I honestly believed my intention was to clear my mind, and to refresh my memories for something I'm working on in which it features prominently, but the truth is, it's one of the places where my memories of Beckett are most prominent. 

I had my ear buds in, and my phone was playing Rachel Portman's exquisite piano-rich score for THE CIDER HOUSE RULES when the rain started to fall, first lightly, then more heavily. 

It occurred to me that children love the rain—they're taught to scream and run for cover, something they've perfected by middle age, but it doesn't come naturally to them. What's natural to them is being in the moment, and finding magic in it, if there's any magic to be found. 

When you're a little older, and you have nowhere you particularly need to be, the rain, particularly in spring, matters less and less. Beckett loved it. It just sluiced off his coat like it was an oilskin. Maybe that's something older people and dogs share. By the time my walk was over, I was drenched. I had an ache in my right hand, my leash hand, and in my chest. I crossed my arms as I walked, something I almost never do. 

I've written about ghosts and haunted houses, even haunted graveyards, but the sweetest ghost haunts the one down the street. I don't know how many more visits to the boneyard I have left in me. If the rain sluicing down your face and soaking your hair makes you feel younger, as you walk slower and slower, savouring the heresy of utter not caring if you get wet, or how wet you get, the weight of the memories of the people, and the dogs, you've loved and lost has the opposite effect. 

On the way home, far up ahead in the park, an athletic young man walked and athletic young black Labrador. He was wearing a hoodie, so I didn't see his face, but I could imagine his expression as he tugged at his Labrador's leash to bring him closer and get him to focus a bit as the torrent fell straight down from the grey sky. 

I remembered the words of Ecclesiastes: "Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes." 

Good luck getting your Labrador to pay attention in the rain, young man. Do yourself a favour, though? Pay attention yourself. Hold these memories. Cherish them. Every single moment of them is what life is made of, whether you know it yet or not. 

New book news

I'm delighted to share that my third essay collection is forthcoming. I'm thrilled to be back with the good people at Cormorant Books, one of Canada's premier literary publishers, and the team that shaped my second collection, OTHER MEN'S SONS, into a prize-winner in 2004. Apologies in advance to anyone who thought I might have been felled by illness, or other misfortune, or that I might be keeping quiet for the next four years. There has never been a more pressing time for writers, especially Canadian ones, to do what we were designed to do. Many thanks, as always, to my agent, Sam Hiyate, who quarterbacked the deal, and who has always been in my court, and to Cormorant Books for consistently providing a venue for the best Canadian writing—and a belief in its importance.

'Twas heaven here with you

Last night, the Hero MD™ and I said goodnight to our beloved Beckett for the very last time. In the past month, Beckett’s health and mobility had taken a striking downturn, and the quality of his life no longer honoured the life he’d lived. While the decision to release him from pain and fear was the most responsible, compassionate, and loving decision for Beckett, my brain and my broken heart are temporarily misaligned. The gift of having had this gentle, perfect, precious little soul placed into my care and keeping for his lifetime was one of the greatest blessings of my own life. This photo of Beckett drying off on the dock at Gyles Point, chewing one of Chuck’s fire sticks, is from August 2015. The only thing Beckett loved more than snow was water, especially up in Apsley, on Chandos Lake, in the company of my godchildren, Kate and Michael, who adored him, and whom he adored. I hope that, somehow, by some miracle, time itself curves and bends in the afterlife, and Beckett is back there with all of us, in an eternal summer at the lake, feeling nothing but the warmth of the sun on his soft black fur, and our love enveloping him. This grief is vast and fathomless and terrible. The house is missing its soft, warm nexus, and my empty arms ache. Rest well, my sweet baby. You gave us everything.