Chatham, Ontario
Pulling Out Self-Portrait
At 5:20 a.m., I opted to walk to Union Station from our ashram. I was looking forward to the train trip that
would land me in Chatham, my birth place.
It wound up being a three-and-a-half-hour ride, but seemed like minutes.
My sister, Rose Ann, husband, Jim, and a dear couple from
Detroit’s daughter and friend greeted me at the Chatham station, the location
where, forty-four years ago, I shocked my parents by informing them of my
intention to leave college and become a serious monk. It’s an historic place for me.
We drove to Erieau, a fishing village of the past, and a
location where, as children growing up, our dad took us to the beach in the
summer for excellent swimming and catching some energy from the sun. The transistor radio we brought with us and
sat on the sand was our constant companion as teenagers.
Today’s crew trekked the pier. We could not dodge the white poop from gulls
and cormorants on its surface. It was
everywhere. We drove along a portion of
the “Underground Railway” where Black slaves journeyed almost two centuries ago seeking refuge from
the days of onslaught in the deep south.
We dined at the Indian restaurant in Chatham, browsed through
Rose Ann and Jim’s bookstore, where my sister pulled out an acrylic
self-portrait I had rendered at age eighteen, before I committed to becoming a
monk. Yes, that was me alright, with
hair and all. We also lazied at Tecumseh
Park before I embarked on the train journey.
May the Source be with you!
7 km
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