by Al Drinkle
Canadians are prone to thinking that the first nice days of the year might also be the last. When the sun shone assertively this past weekend, we all panicked to spend the hours accordingly, myself included. My four walls closed in on me all winter, and the clement weather coerced me into pursuing the highly unoriginal idea of seeking riverside splendour. I dropped a pair of sunglasses over my dilating eyes and headed down the hill.
This week marks a full year since Covid-19 transitioned from a newsworthy concern to a life-interrupting, dream-shattering pandemic. Like many of you in your own way, at Metrovino we cancelled travel plans, postponed orders from our growers and agitated about our capacity to survive, let alone thrive. The unpredictability of it all was the most unsettling part, and it remains so as I write this. A year later, there's uncanny progress with rovers on Mars, but we're still fighting the pandemic on Earth.
Despite the hordes of Calgarians soaking up the vitamin D this weekend, my spot on the riverside remained relatively free of humanity. In the still air and the glinting light, I had the Heraclitical revelation that the river is different each time I visit, and so is the self that I bring to its shores. The self that I arrived with this time was embittered by winter and despondent from the pandemic, but spending a few solitary hours here proved immeasurably soothing to the soul. Such was my compassion by the end of it that I was ready to forgive the fact that this beautiful place was everywhere sullied by litter and trash. After all, this is merely the mark of sufferers—visitors to the river whose lack of self-love impedes them from loving their environs. Perhaps it's their fault, but only if it's also their fault for existing. At my very best, I can subscribe to these sentiments...
I sat on a rock, staring and reading poetry, but mostly just staring. I marvelled at the ice sheets floating by (“icebergs!”, I would later report to my wife). I people-watched. I couldn't help wondering if the litterbug mentality—the troubling insecurities, the incapacity for love and respect—is prompting our interplanetary advances. Would it be easier to populate a barren, seemingly inhospitable planet instead of taking proper care of the beautiful one that we already live on? And what the fuck do I care if we can land a big fancy toy on Mars if the situation here is such that I can't even eat dinner with my friends and family?
another series of icebergs float by. a
goose lands on one, hitching a ride
in hopes that there is better than here.
Life will always be hard, and bruises on our hearts don't heal quickly. As I sat and pondered things that truly mattered, it occurred to me that a test-worthy definition for a great wine is one that, while drinking it, due to character as opposed to quantity, succeeds in convincing you that everything is going to be alright.
Luckily I had that kind of wine in my backpack. I sipped it as the world melted and crumbled.
