Time outstretched
By FARHA GUERRERO
Spring has shifted into winter. It’s mid-April. There was snow falling on the tulip bed this morning. I like these spontaneous changes of weather. It reminds me of how our world is always in a constant state of flux and transformation. Dark and cold weather has made my pansies droop, but they’re hardy, like the tulips and daffodils. I’m not worried.
I left a voice message on my sister’s phone this afternoon. She has only 48 hours in Paris. She regrets booking such a short trip. But I told her that even a short span can feel long if we let it. Time is always elastic. As a mother, I’ve tried to teach this wisdom to my children.
Some years ago, we were in Iceland on a stopover. We had one night in the middle of December. We knew the days there were short, and the weather, as we expected, was dark and grey, as Iceland can be. We had traveled there prior, so this time we decided to drift to an unknown place, the kind of adventure we’re so used to back home, a rugged landscape, remote and wild. Canada’s wilderness is like that, and strangely, we’re always comfortable when we are alone.
We ended up on a typical Icelandic coast with large, dark cliffs, black as the basalt can feel on such a volcanic island. The winds were strong, and the waves of the ocean had created a kind of foam that drifted upward, pillowy and weightless in the air. We braved an exposed climb on one of the cliffs, one that rose so slender and vertical. It was a little dangerous, but we knew how to react to the wind, to huddle down so it wouldn't pull us away.
I descended the cliff so that I could appreciate the perspective and innocence of the three men in my life. And it was from that distance that my older son’s reading of Camus’ Myth of Sisyphus came to mind. I couldn’t help thinking about the allegory of the man pushing up a big boulder up a steep hill over and over again, the cyclical repetition of strength, perseverance, and determination.
There was a small lighthouse in the distance, and close to the cliffs, there were many natural geysers, the wind blowing out that hot, bubbly water with the distinct smell of sulphur. We saw only four people outside that day, two men who had gone too close to the rough ocean's edge. They were drenched instantly by a large wave, and I wondered if they were like us, traveling on that flight that would take us back home.
There is something profound about experiencing the unexpected when nothing is recorded except in one’s memory. Just as I stare out the window this early evening, watching large snowflakes fall on my pansies, I am reminded of this unpredictability - this randomness of life. How the story of an hour can feel like an eternity.
That a memory can feel like a painting, an image that I return to in my mind again and again, the memory of that rugged coast. Dark greys and blues and green, so beautiful and arresting.