I am standing by the harbour, peering past the sailboats and skycrapers into the mountains in the distance. A bar of sunlight lifts the hillside, cold and deep. Clouds curl into flakes and break over waters glistening with the starkness of light. The nip of winter air, sharp and bristling. Black mountaintops dotted with snow. The city in stolid poise, peculiar formation against the carved horizon. All this in the span of one breath, a quiet moment on a nameless winter day.
This is not the cool shadows of the forest, or the silence of a remote shores, where the din of the metropolis fades over the waters. Here in the city, I dwell in the land, in nature, without pretense and qualification. Yes, the city is an odd place where “placeness” is expunged, paved over, dug out, levelled flat. Forests razed and slopes dozed in the effort to maximize utility. Such endeavours are considered feats of engineering. The riverbanks host no horsetail, the Creekside is flush with concrete. It is a miracle that — despite our intrusion — herons still loiter the waters, searching the shallows for mussels and clam. The Golden Eye still paddle the waves, as do the Widgeons and Shovelers. In this agglomeration of steel, glass and concrete, there are creatures who still grace us with their presence. They remind us that we are not the sole inhabitants of land. Despite our technological genius, our mastery of terraforming, there is an otherness that remains resolute. It is this otherness which assures us of a continuity beyond ourselves, a presence that shall outlast us. Fortunately, all of our prowess have not excused us from the auspices of nature. Against convention, I want to say that there is sanity here in the heart of the city.
To this auspice I return and recover my sanity. What does the sky teach today? Perhaps the same as it is always teaching: an invitation to spaciousness, fathomless mystery, silence, impermanence. These are lessons that repeat but are never obsolete. The buildings blot out the sun but cannot wipe away the sky. So long as the clouds fly above, I shall remain a student of the heavens. The waters are no less revealing, uttering secrets with its writhing dance, the surface lights that sway and seduce the shore, the silvery splash that ring the soundscape. I gaze upon the water and forget myself in the play of light and colour. There is enough peace here to make a life, enough happiness to fill a heart.
Why should these mundane moments be touted a triumph? Is the city not a palimpsest of asphalt, a concrete sore inflicted upon a place? Certainly, it is all these things and more. Yet, despite our assault, nature — that which outlives human designs because it was never made by human hands— remains poised, indifferent to plea. The sky that illuminates a beach outing also hosts a storm that flattens the waterfront. Our attempts to placate the land and seasons are woefully inept. The planet turns and churns. Great works of ingenuity are laid waste by wind and rain. Nature is the final arbiter of all human affairs: we entertain other illusions at our peril. But if we peer into this cosmic order, relinquish ourselves to its claim, give ourselves to its mystery, we can find rest in its silent vastness. The vexation of ambition subsides. We let go of the agenda to engineer a world of impeccable function, a compulsion that stems from fear, the denial of our precariousness in an uncertain world. With this denial we multiply our anxieties, growing many hands in defence against imagined threats. But the sky and the waters offer something different. With their changing faces they exemplify ease and assuredness. Even the most tumultuous storms are nothing other than themselves; they do not pretend to be something other, nor do they strive to escape their essence. This world is simply as it is, and in this suchness there is liberation. Breathing the salty air by the harbour, my own grip starts to loosen. Watching the sky and waters be none other than themselves, I have permission to be myself, simply as I am. I can rest in the world, exactly as it is.
This is surrender without capitulation; this is surrender that feels like victory. In relinquishing my preoccupations, I make room for a greater gift – the fullness of life in the midst of the mundane. The city is a frenzy of ambition, but nature remains immovable. My home is with the latter. Watching the flicks of light on the surface, I know where I belong. It is a belonging older than words, older than this consciousness that beholds the world and is amazed. I belong where the winds sweep and the currents roll. I am with the sky that unfurl toward the west where the sun fades over the horizon. There I am still, and the peace of a thousand days follow my gaze. This is the cradle of my inheritance as an earthly creature. There are always agendas to execute, designs to administer. But in the silence of the moment, everything finds its place.
Whatever our predicament, there is reprieve available. We can look up to the sky and lose ourselves in its vastness. Touch the bark of a tree. Smell the rain on a leaf. There is perfection ubiquitous and abundant. Nothing else is needed. We are not mad creatures making our way to sanity; we are sane creatures making our way out of madness.