It was 4:30 AM and in the distance but coming closer was the sound of fire-crackers. It was coming from behind and there was a car with three young intoxicated dudes in it. They were driving on a flat tire as they drove by. An hour and a half later, they came around again,pattering on the rim. "When are you going to fix your tire?" I asked. They stopped. "You got a spare tire?" one of them asked. "Yeah, right here," I replied as my fingers pointed to my abdomen. They laughed. From there I broke the ice and made friends with the boys on beer.
In Kentville, I met a gentleman driving a hearse for a funeral home. He told me he had a friend who left for Toronto to be a monk but lost touch with him. We spoke about austerity within monasteries. I told him of our ashram and its simple but fun life. We agreed it was good to prepare for death.
On the bike trail I met quality people. From here I could see the guts of the community- the backyards of people (not bad) and the fields and orchards of rasberries, blueberries, beans and onions. There were wild blackberries and more. It was a break from the highway.
I walked along Hwy. 1 and in a rural area I heard a man whistling. I couldn't see him but only hear him. I stopped to see if I knew the tune. And I did, "Oh when the saints go marching in/ Oh when the saints go marching in/ How I want to be in that number!/ When the saints go marching in." As I walked on I could now see him, a happy middle-aged man loading something into the car in his driveway. He saw me, stopped whistling, responded to my handwave and then reciprocated with a hand gesture and continued whistling. The song wasn't meant for me. I'm no saint anyway but it is agood marching song.
I cooked a feast for Doug, Michel Palmer, our host, and his friend Brian. With mantras the food was sanctified. In the evening, Michel started a big bonfire. Our day ended with crackling wood in dancing flames. Hare Krishna.
40 kms
No comments:
Post a Comment