The Gift.

Why do people hate?

Because they fear.

Why do people fight?

Because they are afraid to love.

***

In the Lakota world-view gift-giving was an important custom. A warrior, a hunter, scout, tool-maker, all had their place in the tribe. Yet obviously a powerful chief could be chintzy, while the lowliest brave, a boy, or even a woman, might lay down their own life to save a loved one, a friend or a stranger.

When struck a mortal wound the Lakota man would sing his death song, a song of defiance.

And a singular act, a man might be so esteemed and honoured that he might be chosen, permitted to stake himself down.

To stake himself down to the earth with his weapons beside him, exposed to the enemy.

Naturally, this infuriated his foes. His fellow warriors allowed him this privilege even as they fought to avenge their injuries, defend their territory, and protect their families and villages.

When the Lakota captured a coward, he was tortured over a slow fire, a lingering and gruesome death. Because he earned it.

If you must, do me the honour of a quick and merciful death. I am not a Lakota warrior. I’m just a guy, a plain and ordinary guy. But I feel that I have earned it.

I ask only one thing from my enemies. (No, I don’t expect forgiveness.)

Before drawing the obsidian blade across my throat, ending my death song in a jagged rattle; ask yourself why this is what you want, ‘wintke,’ a good-for-nothing individual with the soul of a man and the soul of a woman trapped within.

And why this should be so.

Enjoy the gift. And for Christ’s sakes, promise you won’t bore me to death.

***

We despise what we don’t understand.

Be wary of the stranger.

Laugh at the unexpected.

Discard that which is useless.

‘It is indeed a good day to die.’

Magic in a Canoe.

Bird on a canoe.

Something bumps against the bottom of the canoe.

The world has some magic places – Lambton County’s Bear Creek in spring;
meadows ablaze with dandelions.

A snapping turtle surfaces, so close I could pet him. He regards me unblinkingly, out of one beady little eye. The boat eases forward, dead quiet, except a few drops, falling from the blade…

Shadowy recesses. Under clumps of young oaks, the earth lies carpeted with myriads of tiny white, purple and pink flowers. Trilliums abound in patches. Distinctive foliage marks the extent of their territory.

I can smell the soil and it is good.

“Where’s that darned trail, again?”

Only a short time ago, it was winter.

There is magic to be found on a winter’s morn. Drop of water flashes, falls from the tip of an icicle. Sun rays, ardently probing, urgent in the short and precious day.

A place where in summer, nothing ever seems to happen, yet now, the pale parchment that is the ground holds a record of many transactions.

The trails go in all directions. Night or day, it doesn’t matter. Time lasts forever.

Weather means nothing.

Unleash the soul. Let it dance with the breezes.

And now, when night comes, a low orange moon perches among the branches of a big old jack pine. The wind keeps trying to tell me something.

Moist and warm, a spring evening’s twilight.

Pixie glimmer of green, flitters along the half a moment. Cricket noises all around…there goes the green light again. Grass at the base of yonder fence post rustles with some shy newcomer. An owl hoots, far, far away.

Water flows, intent on getting someplace, somehow, some time.

Water talks to herself. She has but one thing on her mind…”Downhill, downhill, downhill…”

Stars watch over me. I watch the trees; which are alive now that they think no one is looking. I stub my big toe on a boulder whom I should have seen.

“Sorry, buddy,” I murmur. Like a golfer I replace the divot, rearrange the moss.

Like a child in a nursery, I play. Life is a game. There are no rules.

The art of observation.

Over the ages painters have struggled to capture the elusive effects of light.


In this image the author would appear to have done so very well. On reflection, the reader may well conclude that almost anyone could get that image with a cheap digital camera and the use of paint packages which are freely available online.

That’s exactly what I did. The odds of me standing there for a couple of hours with a canvas, an easel, and a bunch of half-frozen oil pigments and dirty brushes and cans of turpentine are minimal.

I’m using tools that were simply unavailable to Vincent van Gogh or Paul Gauguin or any other famous painter.

The thing took a little effort, and I had to know how to use the tools. I kind of have to know what’s good because I actually took a number of photos and tried a few different things with some of them. The photos were taken impulsively. It’s the ice pack along the south shore of Lake Huron at Bright’s Grove. When I took them, I had no idea of what I was going to do with them or what the result might be, although the special effects did enter my mind. Yet there is a kind of spontaneity here as well.

I like that unexpected quality, the element of surprise that enters into it.

The landscapes around here in winter can be pretty sublime. It’s also a big, open, flat kind of place where you sort of have to look off into the distance a lot. The light is very angled and the palette muted, and the weather and atmospheric effects generate a random picture that changes constantly.

It’s the art of observation.

Arkona, Ontario.

Digital photo of Arkona, Ontario. Paint effects include sharpening, oil painting and render/stylize ('outline')features as well as adjustment to hues, curves, and brightness/contrast.

Covered bridge, Petrolia, Ontario.

This is a digital photo shot with a Samsung ST-67. I shot 29 images, not all of the bridge, which is located in a park in the middle of Petrolia, Ontario, population about three thousand or so.

The image was manipulated using a free download called PAINT.Net. The effects include adjusting the brightness and contrast, and the 'oil painting' effect, as well as 'sharpening,' located in the 'photo' tab.

It's good to get out of the car once in a while, and the temperature was about four degrees Celsius, a sunny day about 11 a.m. In winter and late fall, the shadows are always angled as we are about...I don't know, maybe forty-four degrees north of the equator.

Interestingly, one of the belts came off the engine, and I drove home with no power steering. We'll call it an adventure and leave it at that.