September 1

A new month thus commences.
The calendar days are so far clear as the empty numbered rectangles
await, empty, and open to possibilities.  Spaces
to be filled with the recordings of the evidence of time being used.

How much of what happens this month will make a mark on the month that follows?
How much of what happens will have no bearing at all on any future happening except in the mere recording of the moment?
How much of what happens will not be a result of our choices?

Will we look back in 30 days on a calendar full of  hastily crossed out mundane activities, or will we look back on these 30 days and realize that each day had a mindful purpose whether it be in terms of knowledge acquired, wisdom shared, a relationship improved, or our souls enhanced in whatever way that word means for each of us?

Perhaps instead of waiting for the empty calendar spaces to be filled by what often is merely the rambling demands of the outside world, we should  insltead take charge and fill them now  with our  own goals and our own needs  whatever  they may be.

Perhaps an appointment of a  quiet time alone with oneself, a  time blocked especially  for  learning to be done,  a dedicated hour or so for a friend  with whom to reconnect, or some other personal unmet want to make this month's calendar be one that, when it is perused in 30 days, will  contain more items that have been checked off with enthusiasm rather than crossed off with relief.

Arc De Triomphe

During one of my Christmas breaks between University semesters a group of friends and  myself went on 'tour' visiting our respective families.   A couple came from Regina to my parents' farm home , slept overnight, and then I joined them on the trip to another friend's home for an overnight stay in another rural community and consequently piled them and their luggage into the ever more crowded compact car and drove again to another community staying overnight and again traveling the next day .  We went from Lemberg, Wapella, Redvers, Weyburn and Halbrite and back to Regina in time for classes to begin.

It was at this time whilst staying in a modest  farmhouse which was probably built in the 1920's and heated by oil furnace that I was privileged to witness a family's literal 'timeless' New Year's tradition.

The morning of January 1 of this particular year my friend's Mom asked him to go find the ladder and bring it to the kitchen.  He nodded knowingly and went outside soon to return with  a frosty wooden step ladder marked with  the paint splatters of many household renovations from the past.  

I watched with curiosity as my friend,without direction or comment, placed the step ladder directly in front of the archway between the kitchen and living room, while his mother was interestingly enough busying herself by ripping pages off of calendars.

It was only when my friend ,  giving a brief knowing glance at his mother, climbed the stepladder that I noticed several calendars tacked to the wall above the arch.  I counted twelve calendars in total.

It was then that I realized what was going to happen.  The twelve calendars from 'last year' were about to be replaced by twelve calendars of 'this year', with each showing their own particular month of the year.  Every calendar was different, from a different place of business or particular theme.  They were different sizes and styles.  Some had tractors or prairie scenes, others were from local grocery stores or drug stores with images of flowers, birds, recipes, or animals. Some had large numbers and days displayed which would be  easily read from the floor, while others  smaller and more compact which would make viewing  more difficult. 

 Much, if not all,  of this melange of pictures, colours, size, and print was 'par hazard'. I do not believe there was a conscious choice made as to which  picture would be  chosen  to rest for the year beside another as calendar pages were ripped off. The goal was merely to have one page of each coming month of the year be exposed.  

The evidence that this was not the first time this was done was not only the almost total non verbal communication between the two decorators, but also by the numerous faded rectangular shapes that dotted the archway along with the telltale holes left by tacks and staples in the  long ago painted pressboard.

While perhaps some of the balance, colours, and spacing was not quite 'right' artistically, there was something 'right' in the son and mother camaraderie as he descended the ladder and  they both stepped back and looked up approvingly at the next year's Arc De Triomphe . 

 

 

 

It is a nice memory.