Its rare for my small corner of the city of Winnipeg, the historic neighborhood of St. Johns, a once bustling Ukrainian migration spot still dotted by the grand Cathedrals marking each corner, and still home of the oldest Public Library in the city, a focal point for the almagamation of this once town into the greater city limits- the entry point for the North End, still famously endorned by the socialist slogan unapologetically announcing itself as a haven for the workers on the roof of a building at the foot of the Salter Bridge, one of the most important points of connection between the city core and the isolated neighborhoods north of the infamous railyards, to be greeted by the smells of the lake 50 or so kilometers northwards.
Today, getting up early with the dogs on a quiet Saturday morning, a strong and welcome breeze was blanketing these square blocks with the recognizable presence of the lakefront. As I was walking, my imagination was being drawn to the water, my senses alive with the draw of its fervent relationship to the broader world. It begins with the river of course. A river that becomes a lake. A lake that becomes a Bay. A Bay that becomes an Ocean. All existing around my quiet enclave, catching a sense of the great expanse.
I’ve restated this in this space a few times, but it was a transformative phrase and idea that has continued to sit with me and form me. It’s the simple idea that we all exist in two spaces- the spaces in which we live, and the spaces to which we are drawn. For me I am drawn to the water. Not to be on or in the water, but to be by the water. While my life has forever hinged on these small but fleeting opportunities for me to live by the water, it has never been the case. And I do often wonder if this is by design. By nature of the spaces that define us. To live somehwere is to be drawn somewhere else. Whether we recognize this or not, it appears to be true to how humans experience the world. In some ways, not living by the water is the very thing that preserves the draw. It allows that breeze to awaken my imagination and gives the water its power, its allure.
It’s intersting too that as I was walking I was listening to a podcast. Summer is upon is, writing this on the day of solstice. As a school bus driver my work is seasonal, with the long months of summer being the pinnacle of our break. As summers go, so do thoughts of time away. Over the years I have found that time away always and inevitably finds its way to the waterfront. It could be to the most landlocked portion of any given space, my planning inevitably brings me to the banks. The podcast I was listening to happened to be about Liverpool. Over the last number of weeks I have found myself once again deep into researching a trip to London. London of course leads to the rivers, and the rivers of course lead to the sea. One of the most direct ways to the sea, a 2 and a half hour train ride from London, was the train to Liverpool. A coastal city looking straight out to Ireland.
Which of course comes full circle back to this space I am occupying here, where I live. Here my imagination is drawn by a simple breeze, awakening me to the grand journey from here to the edges. The edges of the world, which historian John Haywood describes in his history of the Atlantic titled “Oceans,” as holding the cradle of humanity in its comforting grip. Here, at the water, is where the seeds of wonder take root.
The Stories of my Life 