Reflecting on the beauty of the changing season while picking the goose poop from the treads of my walking boots, I was drawn back into the day spent at the Toronto Islands; the onshore winds playing the trees like a symphony of indigenous rattles; the onshore gusts whipping up the lake into the rhythms of unfathomable power.
Breakers crashing on the jetty’s black, beaten fingers, and tossed red knuckles of broken boulders. Far out… way out to the horizon and beyond, the day is restless, it is saying, “Move it and lose it, get on with it.” The long grasses wave together, dance in gyrations on the sandy banks and in whispering unison sing, “Move it and lose it, get on with it.”
Even the geese, who leave poop as their proof of existence, their calling card, are moving on. This is an invigorating time of year, the sun is still warm, the flowers’ fragrance still combine in charmed ways, pleasing to the six senses, the leaves are splashing green tones in fin de saison finery, the rhubarb is magnificent!
At a distance, I thought this was a tribute sculpture to the monarch butterfly ; I saw it was possibly a sculpture to the king and queen of, “Move it and lose it, get on with it.”, but as I approached it, it metamorphosed into a rather large and colourful, ornamental rhubarb – metamorphosis is a very spiritual phenomena.
I have been told that the Island is a sacred place to the Ojbiwe, they called it Minising.
I believe it, I have experienced it.