Forgiveness requires greater courage than apology. If you do not know how to forgive, your apology means nothing.
The other night I went to a movie. While I was waiting for it to begin a very delightful and interesting family sat in front of me. The father was Caucasian while the mother was East Indian. They had four young children: the boy was chinese, one of the little girls was Native Canadian, another was African while the youngest girl was Caucasian. I found it absolutely fascinating and delightful to watch this family rainbow.
I went for a brisk walk through Brandt’s Creek today: soggy, spongy pathway; flooded, fast flowing creek; McDuck reposing on the banks – bills neatly tucked beneath wings. My favourite spot: willow tree: a gentleman: sparse, receding hairline; the usual parade of greying well-wishers led by tightly curled lap dogs (makes me wonder who has whom on the leash.). In short, Brandt’s is as alive in late Autumn as it is in deep Summer. What is the silence like, here at night?
Brandt’s Creek Park. Autumn is truly here: leafs…butternut drifts , cool humid breath, dark limbs emerging, and the tepid sun.
I am not sitting in my usual place opposite the large willow tree on the winding path. I am sitting at the edge of the large pond into which the slow slow creek empties. The island at the centre still shelters McDuck, and as I sit down, a muskrat leaps startled into the still water. He is content to not understand that I mean him no harm.
I like to saunter along a pathway that meanders through our city. It is a narrow oasis of life where I can think, and where I sometimes talk with passersby and the wild ducks that congregate along the fresh, green-water creek that irrigates the Weeping Willow under which I like to sit.
On one occasion it began to rain, so I found shelter underneath my tree. But despite the weather, people continued to walk by: old folks with a Weiner dog, young folk on bikes, lovers arm in arm. It’s a delightful place to be: a random community of well-wishers. Even the constant chorus of birds continued to sing as I watched and listened beneath my leafy canopy. Can so much joy, I thought, be gathered together in one place?
A topless young man declared his virility for all to see. He sported an Iroquois cut and led a brutish Bull Dog to whom he affectionately said, “Pass the ball now, pass the ball.” The Bull crushed the child’s toy between his jaws and throated growling sounds of canine pleasure. He was in no hurry to please his master.
Yellow Iris rose up from green spears in the creek. A red-breasted Robin landed by a few paces, and proclaimed himself lord of all he surveyed. The rain stopped as quickly as it began and trees lazily swayed in the cool breeze. What a magnificent place! I thought. Could Adam’s Eden have compared?
March 1, 1925 (Paris)
Yesterday afternoon we caught the bois in one of its most unusual aspects. Just as we passed the gate, leaden clouds gathered over our heads and poured rain and hail on the startled promenaders. Mothers, children, nurses, lovers, old men and women, students and dogs, all suddenly disappeared. Automobiles rushed homeward and carriage drivers opened their umbrellas. Hugh [Guiler, her husband] and I did the same.
“I’m Scottish,” said Hugh. “I love to walk in the rain.”
“So do I.”
“Well then, let’s go.”
Suddenly the rain and hail stopped short, and gray-and-purple mist fell all around us and over the surface of the lake. We rented a boat, and Hugh rowed us to a little island, where we walked up a gravel hill to a chalet and sat on the porch before a white-top table and ordered chocolate and cakes. Behind us were a pair of lovers discreetly kissing. Before us stretched brilliant wet grass and mist-enveloped trees, from which came the cooing and twittering of birds. Beyond, the hill descended into the lake, and we would have thought ourselves miles away from Paris. We dreamed togther on that quiet and soft afternoon, sipping chocolate and nibbling cakes and turning now and then to look at our little white boat rocking on its chain. When Hugh rowed us homeward, the rain started again. The leaded sky turned the lake’s water black, and on this deep, black, undulating surface, swans languidly floated.
Anais Nin (I&AT)
February 16, 1798
Went for eggs into the Coombe, and to the bakers; a hail shower; brought home large burthens of sticks, a starlight evening, the sky closed in, and the ground white with snow before we went to bed.
Dorothy Wordsworth (I&AT)