Happy New Year to you all, belated, but no less heartfelt.
Once again I've left a long pause between posts. No excuses, really except for this feeling of impotence and paralysis that comes with extremely chilly weather.
There’s something
aggressive about extreme cold with wind, at least as we’ve experienced it here
in Toronto off and on in the past ten days. It’s inhibiting, and a little
scary. “Do I really have to go out?” “Is it safe to drive?” “Will my pipes
freeze?” “Where is my long underwear?”: the questions and concerns range from
the large and general to the detailed-small, but all of them seem to weigh on
us. The result has been, for me, a feeling of being pinned and not independent.
I don’t like it!
I say this even though I have
been out each of the cold days. On January 2, for example, when the wind chill
was 35 below, I walked about three kilometres (not far on a nice day) to a
friend’s place for coffee. I was warm enough, in sensible boots, two pairs of
socks, knitted gaiters to cover the gap between my boots and pants (over
tights); merino wool T-shirt under long sleeved merino (both Christmas
presents) plus a sweater on top of that; a neck scarf and big hat and wool armlets
bridging the wrist gap to my heavy ski gloves; and a not quite knee-length
fifties-era sheared beaver fur coat given to me long ago by the mother of an
ex-boyfriend. Over all that I wound a long heavy silk shawl to cover my face
and help warm the air I breathed a little. That’s a long list of clothing
items, that take more time to put on than they do to be written down.
The encumbrances of winter,
I sigh these days, as I pull on tights, or layer on another sweater.
But I am lucky and so are
all the people who have health and warm clothes. As I hurried along to my
friend’s place the streets were pretty empty. January 2 is not a big traffic
day, and especially not in frigid weather. I even built up a bit of a sweat in
all my garments. But the older man walking carefully across Harbord Street with
a cane, wearing only thin gloves, to pick something up at the corner store,
looked reduced by the cold and very vulnerable.
Others who have suffered -
apart from the homeless, who are in a purgatory that the rest of us cannot
imagine - are those who have to work outside in the cold: postal workers,
garbage workers, and the people who work the ramp at the airport. And also the
police, ambulance, and fire department people, as well as the hydro workers,
who have all had to work overtime to rescue many from crises largely caused by
the weather.
I am grateful to all who do
that work. It takes a lot out of us all to live in the cold; it saps our energy
and we want to retreat into hibernation…a natural animal response. At the same time
we expect life to go on as usual and are upset when streetcars get jammed, or
airplanes don’t fly, or mail isn’t delivered.
There’s a disconnect
between what we are prepared to do ourselves and what we expect others to do
for us. Hmm
On another subject entirely,
I want to talk about reading and books. And that’s because the other day I gave
a talk to a book club. I’d been invited by a friend last summer. The books were
the first two of the trilogy of books by Patrick Leigh-Fermor about his walk
from Holland to Istanbul in 1933-34, when he was 18 and 19. (They are A Time of
Gifts; and From the Woods to the Water.)
I had read the books when
they were first published (in 1977 and 1986) and had been engaged by the
writing, and also aggravated by it. When I reread the books in preparation for
the talk, I was for awhile even more aggravated. Some of the flourishes of
words and images felt show-offy and unnecessary. They made me impatient.
But gradually I came to
think about the writing differently. Yes it’s show-offy. But the cascading
words and images are on the page to do the work that photos now do for us much
of the time. And reading elaborate descriptions and complex ideas takes work.
It’s work we’re no longer accustomed to doing. We are inundated with images,
and tend to rush from one to the next, and to be impatient with stories that
unfurl too slowly for our now-usual hurried pace.
And so I slowed down and
started to try to approach the descriptions in the same way that I like to look
at paintings in a gallery, slowly and carefully. Aha!
In the end, like many
presenters in many contexts, I ended up talking about me myself and I, about my
evolving reaction to the books. I hoped thereby to get people thinking about
what we do when we read, and about how much we lose when we hurry along.
If you have stayed with me
this far, in this blogpost, then you are a patient reader, and I thank you for
it. I enjoy putting these words on the virtual page, working through the
process of communicating my ideas and thoughts as clearly and cleanly as
possible. But if there are no people out there who take pleasure in the effort
of working their way through pages of reading, then books are under threat, and
so is the richness of language.
I am confident, from the
reaction of many who were at the talk, that a lot of us struggle to make the
time to read well. We’re assailed and seduced by our computers and social
media. We are enriched by them, yes. But this doesn’t come for free; it exacts
a price. And that cost seems to be in a loss of free or dreaming or unmeasured
time to get lost in a book.
Life seems to have speeded
up rather than easing off as the decades have rolled by. As I walked along the
icy chilled sidewalk this afternoon on my way back from Kensington Market
(Sanagan’s Ideal Coffee, 4-Life: my basics along with Cheese Magic) I found
myself wondering why there seem to be so few pauses in the day, the week, the
year. I did have some deep-sleeping calm days over the holidays, but they were
rare havens in a sea of rushings-around. And they were helped by my cutting off
from social media and from the computer altogether for a few days.
And so now the new year is
moving me along again. I am headed to New York tomorrow (if the planes are
flying) for a James Beard Cookbook Committee meeting (such great people on the committee, which
oversees the judging of all the cookbooks published in any given year, by a
huge number of judges scattered across North America). And then in ten days or
so it’s time to prepare for this year’s immersethrough session in Chiang Mai,
followed by a food-focussed tour in Burma.
Airplane rides, long ones,
become a kind of pause-place, a time to read and daydream. I never mind a long
flight. It feels like an oasis between lives. And how amazingly lucky I feel,
to be able to have these transitions, these moments to pause and reflect, and
to get lost in books.
