Falling leaves

Leaves shook on the branches, causing hushed whispers to suddenly sound all at once overhead. A leaf, slightly curled up and crisp from age and the pendulum swings between an Indian Summer and the frigid chill of deep Winter, fell slowly.  It wandered in mid-air, as if almost hesitant and cautiously eyeing the ground. For a few moments, the breeze carried it. On invisible wings, the leaf blew sideways and almost brushed against me. Then it spiralled, turning and twirling like a ballerina, before it softly landed and became lost among its other fallen brothers and sisters. Falling leaves seem to return to their roots.

I hiked up Mont Royal, which is just behind the law faculty, and a place I frequent when I need inspiration or a quick breather after lunch. Walking on the maze of paths and trails of the mountain is something I thoroughly enjoy doing at any time of the year. Winter strips everything bare, and then blankets everything with a soft coat of white or heavy layer of ice. Spring creeps in with the return of chirping birds, and as the mercury inches higher, the leaves and flowers begin to bud. In Summer, with the intense heat, Montreal swelters under horde of tourists and cultural activities, but under the umbrella of lush green leaves on the mountain it always seems to feel refreshingly cool.

And then there is Autumn. That schizophrenic in-between season when it's not too cold, not too warm, when the weather is as indecisive I am when it comes to what I should wear every time I go out. It is the season when nature unleashes its true colours, splashes them on the trees for a few weeks in an elaborate display before sudden storms sweep all the leaves away.

Under a clear, clear blue sky, through the laziness of the Autumn sun that penetrated foliage, colours of various shades, hues and tones came to light. Some trees were topped with bronze, others crowned with red, gold or yellow. Some trees captured that gradual change of colours, as from the bottom to the top of the tree the leaves were dyed in variations of green, yellow and orange. Other trees were already stark naked, standing there looking embarrassed in comparison with their more elaborately dressed neighbours. Gentle rustling sounds on the bed of fallen leaves alerted me of cute little squirrels. With their bushy tails and little front paws, they scurried around in search of food and in preparation for the harsher weather to come.

Most leaves still clung on tightly, while others easily let go, taking the natural course of falling with the aid of the wind and gravity. It will only be a matter of time, perhaps days, perhaps another week or two, before the inevitable fate of falling catches up with all the leaves.

By then, the mountain from afar will have put on another coat of another texture and colour in preparation for another season.

Tears

I don't think mum noticed. How could she see me take off my glasses and rub the tears from my eyes as I heard her recount her dream? I acknowledged what she was saying, but had to try had so as not to betray the waver in my voice or the sorrow I felt  deep inside.

She was telling me about two dreams she had with dad in it... in one, she was sleeping (in the dream), and suddenly the phone rang. At first, mum could not make out who it was, as the voice on the phone sounded faint and distant. Then she realised it was dad. He spoke in the same way when he was alive. That same voice... Dad said he called to say that he is going somewhere... Where, mum does not know, or has forgotten immediately after waking up.

The same voice... I tried to recall that voice... but maybe I'm recalling it all wrong? What did he sound like?

Oh, how I wish I could hear him speak again...!
How I wish I could hear dad's voice and that his voice could soothe my longing and loss...!

Tears welled in my eyes and threatened to trickle down as mum spoke, as they do now. Salted tears... I could taste them in the corners of my lips...

The next dream, mum said dad appeared before her, and he was crying. He looked so sad and was crying. He had tears on his cheeks...

Hearing that only made me cry more. But I don't think mum heard me cry. A soft, silent cry... A suppressed cry, because I did not want to make her upset or sad to hear me cry, to know that even after almost three years, sometimes when I think of dad, I miss him dearly. Miss him dearly enough to cry.

Mum said she woke up and cried that night. Hearing that, I wanted to tell her that two weeks ago I had a dream about dad, a very intense dream when I was staying at the monastery.

 But I didn't tell her... as the Buddhist teachings go, if it does not help anyone, there is no need to say it or repeat it. Will it bring joy and happiness, or pile more pain and hurt onto an already painful and sad situation? What good will it bring anyone? I did not tell her that I saw dad suffering, that I saw him die slowly and painfully. I did not tell her that I too woke up crying that night. Crying under the moonlight.

I hope dad is alright...
 I hope wherever he is now, whatever he is doing, whether he is with me or with us, he is well, happy and peaceful...

Peggy's Cove

Legend has it that a young girl was on her way to meet her fiancé when her boat ran aground on  rocks near the cove. Local fishing folk rescued the girl, who (according to one version of the legend) was too young to remember her name, so people called her Peggy. She later married a local, and became known as Peggy of the Cove. The little fishing village, which originally began with in 1811 with six families of German origin, eventually adopted the name of its most famous resident as its own.

Today, Peggy's Cove is one of the most photographed and visited sights of Canada. Situated on an outcrop of rock braving the roaring Atlantic, the contrast between the ferocious energy and brute might of the ocean and the tranquil village could not be starker. The village is also home to a Peggy's Point Lighthouse, which is an iconic red and white structure with a beacon that warns ships of the treacherous rocks lurking beneath closer to shore. A dozen or so wooden house dot the harbour area, the paint worn and peeling from constant exposure to the bare  elements. Despite being exposed the hostile weather conditions, and hordes of tourists that crowd the area during peak season, the sixty or so villagers who live in Peggy's Cove are known for their down-to-earth friendliness and good nature.

The wind, the brute force of the wind, was almost unbearable, yet standing there on the hard granite rock, I felt invigorated by the wind. Waves crashed against the coast, sending white foam flying like confetti in all directions onto the rocky surface. Islands in the sea looked like lost whales surfacing. In the momentary stillness between onslaught and retreat of the waves, the water was blue. A dark, dark kind of blue dyed with a hint of aquamarine that coated the depths below in a shroud of mystery. It was this very ocean that brought people from the Old World to the  discovery and riches of the New World. It was this very ocean that ruthlessly devoured ships and planes whole, including the supposed unsinkable Titanic, and more recent Swissair Flight111. In the murky depths hide the souls and hidden treasures of the past.  Centuries later, nestled next to lush forests, are villages populated by descendants of those brave sailors, explorers
and settlers who risked their lives in search of a more fertile land.

I breathed in deeply, sucking in the salted air and letting it fill up my lungs. I breathed out slowly, allowing the warm air to gradually escape and mix with the confused and whirling currents of cold wind blowing all around me. The landscape laid out before me, greyish and cratered, in formations of rock that resembled discarded old mattresses piled on top of one another. Here and there were still pools of water, perhaps collected from the frequent downpour of rain, or perhaps formed by sea water that had before been violently thrust into the crevices in the rocks to be temporarily trapped and tamed. In the still pools of water, at moments when the wind suddenly died or refused to blow, I could see my own wavering face and figure.

This is a wild landscape, raw and untamed, yet natural and filled with beauty. The voice of the wind, the echoes of the splashing waves,  the postures of giant boulders resting on the rocky shores, the flight of seagulls against the strong currents. Everything  seems to come together and paint a picture of a landscape that is barren and isolated. Yet in the barrenness and isolation, a few brave souls have for generations lived off of the land and the sea, even if the land and the sea at times take away their lives.

MORE PICTURES of Nova Scotia click HERE!!