Collecting raindrops

Rain in a dish

I took a dish outside, stood under the front stoop, and collected rainwater. I was tempted to gather it quickly from the gutter spout and go back indoors. To stand with my arm extended into the rain a few minutes was something completely different, closer to what I needed.

Two cars drove past. Embarrassed, I tried to hide behind the tomato vine and purple-flowered sweet-peas.

“How long must I wait?” I asked myself.

“Until the rain covers the bottom of the dish. In processing old sorrow, this will be a lesson in waiting patiently for everything to unfold.”

But the slowly growing puddle revealed an invisible, resistant convexity in the bottom. The rain, at first serious, began to mellow.

A young man in the duplex across the street came outside. He was wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt and nothing on his feet. He carried what appeared to be a small, lime-green pizza box in one hand and was talking to himself or on a phone, I couldn’t tell which. He darted across the lawn, tiptoed through the water sloshing down the driveway, opened the passenger door of his car and climbed in.

Perhaps someone was waiting to pick him up? But no, the car remained in place and did not appear to have a driver. He remained enclosed with his pizza box, his conversation now inaudible while the rain dwindled. I’m not the only person in the neighbourhood behaving inexplicably.

The rain couldn’t cover the bottom today but I was satisfied. Doing this had opened a small door for unexpected joy. It had a slight mineral taste reminding me of the spring where we collect drinking water for the cottage. A few drops of rain is enough to irrigate the soul. The droplets on my arm, forehead, and the front of my shirt are collateral blessings.

Sometimes joy and sadness are nearly the same. The path of grief is not what we expect.

Why cicadas are important to me

Neotibicen canicularis, dog day cicada

Cicadas hold particular meaning for me. We hear them a lot more often than we see them, so I took the unusual opportunity for a photograph today. This one was lying dead on the bicycle path, somewhat the worse for wear. It has gouges on its head and thorax. One of my earliest memories involves a cicada.

I am 3 or 4, running barefoot on stubby legs through the grass at Poplar Bluff where I grew up. Summer sunlight flashes on Lake Erie below the bluff. Suddenly I hear a loud noise overhead that stops me in my tracks. I look up at the sky. It’s an electric drone like a saw. It comes from the direction of some silver poplars and a hydro pole at the edge of our yard.

With this memory, I associate the drone with the electric wires instead of the trees. It is a common sound at Poplar Bluff on hot days in July and August. For a few years I believe hydro lines buzz when heated by the summer sun.

I found out about cicadas later. We had a big mulberry tree outside our door, loved by birds and cecropia moths. Our cats would climb like monkeys through the sprawling branches. It also attracted cicadas. I would find a few skins on the trunk every summer.

2008 08 27

Rarely I observed an adult emerge from the nymph skin and cling to the bark while its wings and body changed. From an insect field guide, I learned cicada nymphs live underground for years, sucking nutrition from tree roots. During warm summer weather they crawl up the trunk, break out of their skins and become adults for a few days to breed and restart the life cycle. Later I realized that noise from the sky on hot summer days wasn’t electrical wires but the song of male cicadas summoning their mates.

Cicadas are notorious in Eastern North America for swarms that emerge every 13 or 17 years depending on the species. However, this species is Neotibicen canicularis, the dog day cicada, so-named because it sings during the dog days of summer. The species name canicularis is a reference to Sirius, the dog star, part of the constellation Canis major, the greater dog. Greek and Roman astrology associated Sirius rising in summer with drought, lethargy and mad dogs. Nymphs of the genus Neotibicen spend only two to five years underground. The adults appear every summer, rather than in cycles.

Cicadas have three simple eyes called ocelli between their large compound eyes. These are thought to detect light and movement. In the detail below they are visible as three amber spots forming a triangle.

Through my office window I hear cicadas droning all day long in Twin Oaks Woods on hot summer days. They bring back that early memory of running barefoot, the simple joy of childhood, the awakening of curiosity, and a humbling reminder that mistaken beliefs can last a long time.

Sometimes we get it wrong. Sometimes we need more information. Sometimes the natural explanation is more wonderful than what we think we know about the world.

Review: A classic in creative career design

Creating a Life Worth LivingCreating a Life Worth Living by Carol Lloyd
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

One of the most valuable things I’ve ever read, Creating a Life Worth Living, provides practical exercises for building a creative life. One size does not fit all, and this book illuminates the different kinds of people who want to make art. Becoming a creative person is itself an act of creativity, and calls us to think beyond normal. It’s subtitled: A practical course in career design for artists, innovators, and others aspiring to a creative life.

Carol Lloyd does not rely on popular systems like the Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator to reveal how you work. She has developed her own tools applicable to artists, through canny observation and thoughtful inquiry. As examples, each chapter profiles someone doing their thing.

My favourite section is a brief one highlighting the different ways artists approach their careers: the project nomad, the interdisciplinarian, the tightrope walker, the whirling dervish, the wood nymph. Although I’ve followed several patterns, the most natural one for a freelance writer is the monocled monk. Knowing this has helped me trust solitude while still valuing my social network and interactive aspects of my work.

I first read the book in 1998 when it was new. It was like having a coach or mentor who encouraged me not to follow their path but find my own. I wasn’t ready to follow through all the lessons. I’ve revisited the book several times over the years. Other books more specific to the craft of writing have guided me recently. However, Creating a Life Worth Living set the foundation, excavating my own values, desires, and ways of doing things. I have been more confident and better prepared to make choices when necessary.

I’ve become a connoisseur of self-help books. I have an entire shelf of them! This is the one I cherish most affectionately. I strongly recommend it for all creative people starting or changing careers, especially those who feel torn between what is expected and what seems meaningful for their lives.

Floral celebration

California poppy 2

I’d like to share this celebratory photo of the first California poppy in my garden ever. For many years I’ve admired this sunny, prolific flower from afar, but I’ve never grown one. This spring I planted some seeds. Yesterday I found the first bud, and this morning it bloomed for admiration. Already it’s attracting pollinators. When I first saw it, a tiny, iridescent insect was crawling in the cup.

I have limited space for gardening: one raised bed under the living room window and a few barrels. For the past three summers since we moved to this house I’ve grown as much food as possible in the available soil. However, I missed having flowers. We can buy an abundance of fresh, local produce from St. Jacobs Farmers Market every week, but flowers feel like a luxury we can rarely afford. Besides, vegetables demand lots of water and maintenance, becoming problematic when I want to escape to the cottage for a week.

This year the garden focus has changed to include mostly flowers for colour, fragrance, feeding pollinators, and even feeding us. Many are edible and delicious: violets and pansies, calendulas, begonias, and California poppies, to name a few.

I haven’t given up my favourite plants: the culinary herbs. Mediterranean herbs are well adapted for the hot, sunny exposure of the front yard. Their foliage adds a handsome, varied texture from big, shiny, lush-leaved basil to glaucous sage and the delicate lacework of thyme. A native herb, wild bergamot, has taken well to being let loose in the garden and will soon provide a profusion of light lilac blooms. Herbs do well in barrels, too.

But perhaps my favourite plant this year is my old boyfriend, ‘Abraham Darby’.

'Abraham Darby' rose

This is a popular variety of David Austen rose. I’m partial to yellow roses, emblems of friendship. It starts with apricot hues and opens to a soft yellow, with a light, delicious fragrance. I had one of these in a garden many years ago, and it’s nice to have him back again. I had qualms about planting it in the hot, dry soil at the foundation of the house. After an initial battle with opportunistic leaf-chewing bugs, the bush appears to be flourishing. This week the Abraham Darby rose opened a second wave of blooms.

A newfound benefit of flowers is they keep me enamoured of the garden. I don’t take the hot, humid summers of Ontario well. With vegetables I would perform my watering duty and then disappear inside as early as possible. This summer as delicate blossoms open their gentle, aqueous answer to the ravishment of fire, they persuade me to linger and admire. Might as well pull some bindweed while I’m there.

Awakening: images from a day in Prince Edward County

Lake Ontario, Prince Edward County

After posting a daily photo journal on Flickr for more than seven months in 2008 I seemed to burn out for one reason, and then another. Over the next few years I often took photos but did not process or share them. I have shared many on this blog since it began in 2011, but photography has often been secondary to the topic of discussion.

A landscape photography course with Rob Stimpson​ in 2013 reawakened my interest. The purchase of a good macro lens opened new vistas in 2015. However, I had difficulty doing photography during an episode of depression in 2015/16.

On one stage of the path to recovery I consciously chose not to take my camera on walks. Photography can provide ecstatic distraction. However, at times the camera impedes a naked, mystical, personal experience of nature I had been missing. The past 14 months have grounded me in a deeper sense of meaning and purpose that was previously lacking.

Abandoned farmhouse, Prince Edward County

This journey has included recovering a spark for creative writing that eluded me for the past decade. Since last year, much of my writing has focused inwardly out of necessity as I become more confident in my writing process, and what matters to me.

This practice in turn has encouraged me to use photography more often in recording experiences, inspirations, and simple beauty. I have begun posting photos more regularly on Flickr again.

I would also like to recover some images and memories that have lain hidden for a few years. Two evenings ago I reviewed a number of photos taken in Prince Edward County on October 25, 2011, a date and place chosen completely arbitrarily. I fell in love during that first visit to The County, which juts into Lake Ontario.

Prince Edward County shoreline

The only photo I ever posted on Flickr from that first day’s shoot was the one above, a bit of rocky shoreline somewhere around Prince Edward Point National Wildlife Area. I took many photos that day. Apparently the others failed to inspire me at the time. However, I have learned a trick or two about processing in the past seven years. I saw potential in many other images. The five here plus two more also worthy of posting to Flickr come from that single solitary day.

During later trips to Prince Edward County I found an idea for a writing assignment in 2013 about a bed and breakfast. However, I have never blogged about it until now.

Self-portrait, Prince Edward County, 2011

The self-portrait above has a story attached. It was a fine day but windy and chilly. Moments after I took the photo, the wind snatched the beloved Outback hat I had bought during a road trip across Northern Ontario in 2010. It landed in the harbour, too far from the dock for me to reach with any implement at hand. It was off season and there was no one else around. The water was too cold and deep for me to go in. I found a stick long enough to try sweeping a current that would drag the hat toward me, to no avail. The wind seemed to carry it closer to shore. Then a current drifted it toward Lake Ontario again.

I must have spent an hour trying to retrieve the hat, but in the end I gave up. I wonder what became of it. I was not able to replace it until August 2016, when I purchased another Outback hat at Kingston Sheepdog Trials.

I still have many unprocessed photos from the intervening years. I will try to process more of them as time allows and see what stories they recall.

Henderson House, Prince Edward County

What gorillas and chimps can teach us about eating well

Adult female and infant wild chimpanzees feeding on Ficus sur

Adult female and infant wild chimpanzees feeding on Ficus sur fruits in Kibale National Park, Uganda.

A new study of chimpanzees and gorillas offers clues about how diet may affect human disease. The research was led by food scientists from Columbia University. Collecting feces from free-ranging apes in the Republic of Congo for three years, they investigated seasonal shifts in the microbiome, the bacterial community of the ape intestine.

While fruits are in season, they make up about 70 percent of the diet of western lowland gorillas. Fruits are rich in easily digested sugars but low in fibre. During the dry season gorillas switch to their regular fibre-rich diet of leaves and bark. Meanwhile, chimps are fruit specialists so their diet changes less. Analysis of microbial DNA from fecal samples showed that the bacteria shift in response to diet.

This study caught my attention because of my interest in wildlife. However some of my writing for Gluten-Free Living has focused on the microbiome and its likely role in autoimmune disease.

By now most of us know what we eat affects our risk for cancer. That probably relates to the microbiome, which helps digest our food and interacts with the immune system. New research is looking at the likely role of the microbiome in autoimmune diseases such as celiac and type 1 diabetes. Celiac disease involves an immune response to gluten in wheat, rye and barley. However, experts believe the rising prevalence of celiac disease relates to disturbances in the microbiome rather than an intrinsic human intolerance for gluten.

The ape story in Nature Communications points out the microbiome in hunter-gatherer societies, such as Hadza people of Tanzania, mirrors seasonal shifts observed in gorillas and chimps. This casts doubt on the notion of a static microbiome. The supermarket diet eliminates seasonal changes and makes foods available all year that are tasty but not necessarily healthy. In ScienceDaily, Brent Williams, PhD, an author of the study, comments many people may be living with constant fibre deficiency.

This research also highlights the importance of conserving threatened species and ecosystems. They deserve protection for their own sakes.

However, from a selfish standpoint, humans should protect creatures that can help us understand ourselves and how to survive. Science is breaking down the boundary between us and other organisms like our close cousins and the bacteria that help nourish us. Gorillas and chimpanzees are our closest living relatives and both are endangered.

They possess essential information about who we are and where we came from. Losing them would threaten our own chances of survival.

Lessons from trees

We experience gratitude in different ways. The other day I was walking along a side street obsessing about the past. On my approach to Twin Oaks Woods, the sight of its trees lifted me suddenly. I could describe that emotion simply as joy, but it arose from a deep updraft of gratitude.

Decades ago, some farsighted city planner elected to preserve this woodland rather than leveling it to make more room for suburban dwellings and plazas. The woods behind our house was a benefit I noted when my partner and I chose this neighbourhood three years ago. Perhaps I believed too strongly that this home would be temporary, because I didn’t readily form an attachment.

Over the past year I have deliberately drawn close to Twin Oaks Woods. This week, busy with multiple story deadlines, I find myself drawn instinctively to the path whenever I can manage a 20-minute break. Exercise for it’s own sake hardly appeals to me, so I’m grateful for any motivation. Recently I discovered I can make a pleasant 0.75-mile double loop through the woods, without retracing my steps, and avoid having to follow the busier surrounding streets.

I’m grateful for the pleasure, exercise, and refreshment. I’m grateful for the numerous saplings of American beech, my favourite deciduous tree for its clear bark and golden-orange leaves that hang on till spring.

I’m grateful for the splendid ephemereal spring wildflowers that will erupt from the ground in a few more weeks. But more than that I’m grateful to be falling deeper in love with the woods during this long, cold, bleak Ontario winter.

Trees themselves offer us many lessons. They communicate with one another under the ground (though not in a language we readily understand) via natural chemicals in their roots and networks of symbiotic mycorrhizal fungi. Sometimes I wonder whether trees speak too slowly for us to hear. What’s the meaning of that baleful howl of winter wind in their bare branches? Tree bark looks broken and pockmarked, but it’s a kind of armour.


Trees in this northern climate provide a lesson in resilience. It’s hard to fathom how a large organism with so much surface area can endure months of turbulent freezing weather, but they do. When a branch doesn’t receive enough sunlight to produce nourishment, they know to let it die. Humans would do well to study trees and how they handle the inherent tragedy of life.

Gratitude seldom comes to me spontaneously as it did the other day. Most of the time I need to practice it.

When we experience emotional pain, we raise walls to protect ourselves. This is natural and healthy. It provides time and space to heal. It’s like the protective bark of a tree in winter. I’m impressed with the knots and gnarls displaying a tree’s life history, how it overcame difficult weather or injury, and sometimes how it died. Meanwhile life continues underground as the roots delve more deeply in the esoteric wisdom of their connections.

But the tree also knows when and how to sprout outside the bark. We must extend ourselves in order to live and work. Progress takes practice, risk, learning from what doesn’t work, and learning to keep doing whatever works well.

Gratitude works well, I’ve learned. It takes practice during the hard times. It displaces grief and disappointment with an appreciation for good things in the present, however small. In noticing them, appreciation grows.

Practice opens the mind for unexpected joy: the kind of gratitude that is deeply felt, but takes nothing for granted.

January afternoon

Depression and the double-edged sword of mindfulness

Mindfulness isn’t an easy skill to learn for anyone. For someone with clinical depression, it can be dangerous. I’m saying this from personal experience.

However, I’ve passed through danger into a better place. Mindfulness may be the most important cognitive skill I’ve learned in my entire life. It has helped me respect my own feelings, but first I needed to understand them better. Mindfulness in itself doesn’t provide the skillful reflection needed to address harsh self-judgment that characterizes depression.

This story has been unfolding for me for over a year. I’ve kept relatively quiet about it on this blog because I needed to write for myself for a while.

One tool I’ve used on a daily basis to develop a mindfulness practice is Headspace, and I’d recommend it for many people. However, the claims made by cognitive apps may not have a scientific basis. Someone with depression must approach mindfulness carefully and with adequate support.

When I launched Speed River Journal seven years ago, I chose the subtitle, “An urban naturalist’s progress.” This referred to the 17th Century testament of Protestant Christian faith, The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan, which I read 30 years ago. Later, around 1998, I became an atheist.

However, regardless of what we believe, life is a pilgrimage. We traverse the landscape of time and consciousness toward some final destination. Now I care less about where I’m going, more about what I learn along the way.

Psalm 84 in the Old Testament says people who have set their hearts on pilgrimage bring water wherever they pass. Ancient people knew their lives depended on rainfall and clean wells. I take this water as a metaphor for compassion, with which a traveler may improve the lives of others.

When I registered for an eight-week course in mindfulness-based cognitive (MBCT) therapy in September 2016, I had no idea what a challenging boundary I had crossed. I received fair warning. The introductory material and the doctor teaching the course cautioned me that it was beneficial for people with a history of depression as an inoculation against relapse. It wasn’t recommended for anyone experiencing active depression.

In other words, it would likely be a rough haul for me. I had experienced depression and anxiety most of my life, and had a serious extended episode during 2015 and 2016. I discussed the risks with the doctor and a counselor who knew me well. I desperately wanted any tool that could improve my quality of life.

So I took a risk and undertook one of the hardest lessons ever. At first I was elated to establish a capacity for calm, one of the essential benefits of mindfulness practice. But we can’t sustain calm without acknowledging all emotions that may arise, when they do.

People with depression have an overdeveloped capacity for rumination and self-judgment. Many emotions relate to hopelessness and a sense of inadequacy. They run deep. In hindsight, I would have benefited from having a skilled therapist enlisted to help me through the process. But I couldn’t afford one, so I did the best I could.

The hardest part came after the course ended and I lost regular support from the doctor teaching, besides a class of about 14 other students. That was November 2016.

Two months later I asked my partner to take me to emergency because depression had become unmanageable. Never had I attempted suicide or seriously considered it, but in January my thoughts crossed a terrifying line.

I requested and received help from both friends and the hospital. That occurred exactly one year ago, and my recovery began in earnest. I have been free of depression symptoms for some months now, perhaps since April or July depending on how I look at it.

Despite its challenges, mindfulness initially provided the most valuable tool. MBCT teaches how to entertain one’s feelings with kindness and curiosity, rather than resistance and judgment. Long ago I decided there’s no such thing as a bad emotion. MBCT has reinforced that belief.

However, we need skillful reflection to be able to endure the painful ones and not get distracted by pleasure all the time. MBCT provided some training, as did the day hospital program where I enrolled for 12 weeks beginning last January. I don’t think of mindfulness as a path to happiness necessarily. It helps us experience any emotion with calmness and clarity, and that’s the key benefit.

For me, the most powerful additional therapy alongside mindfulness has been writing. I’ve kept a private journal on and off for most of my life. I started again in earnest after the trouble last winter.

Journal writing received a boost from a new acquaintance in September when I started a yoga course for relaxation. During the second class, the instructor talked about how people put up walls to protect themselves when others hurt them. This may be necessary for emotional survival. However, in the long run we need to let down those walls in order to give and receive love. That love could be for someone close, a pet, nature, a cause, or something you’re passionate about doing.

After the class I went up and told her my love is writing.

She said, “Be sure to use some of that love for yourself.”

A revelation came over me. All my life I had wanted to be a good writer, so I had even written my journal with an audience in mind. I had never written for myself with a sense of intimate privacy.

By serendipity, the previous evening at a bookstore I had picked up a title by an Australian self-help author I read many years ago and liked, Stephanie Dowrick. Her book, which I brought home on the eve of insight from the yoga teacher, was Creative Journal Writing: The art and heart of reflection.

Armed with guidance from this and several other books in my libary, I began writing for me. The work waded immediately into even deeper water, but this time it brought more pleasure than terror. The journal has allowed me to grasp spirituality more tangibly than had been possible for 20 years since my beliefs changed. I have been motivated by compassion for others, and realizing compassion must begin with myself.

Mindfulness teachers often stress compassion. Guided meditations on Headspace do. The practice encourages us to notice and let go of critical self-judgment. However, in depression the layers of painful emotion may become too thick to excavate so easily.

Ultimately, I have found a kind therapist who knows me better than anyone else possibly could: myself. Years of practicing clarity and metaphor as a writer have helped me explore my own narrative in new light. One can write with a poet’s honesty one day and a journalist’s detachment the next. I can even take someone else’s perspective. It only takes a little imagination.

Some people express caution or even disapproval when I talk about this. They mistrust any process that stirs up pain and old memories. But these are my emotions, they’re related to my life and I choose to investigate them thoughtfully.

Early in life I learned to hide my emotions. That lesson served me poorly when I suffered painful loss and ostracism. Coming out as a gay man in 1996, I was surrounded by people who didn’t want to hear how I felt. Instead of grieving or expressing anger appropriately, I soldiered forward, determined to start a new life.

Now I need to listen kindly to my younger self so he can stop persevering and simply live each day. I’ve had a long journey back to an authentic understanding of what, how, and why I feel the way I do. This is necessary for who I am becoming, not least in my work as a writer.

Natalie Goldberg says writers live life twice. I’ve never grasped this fully until the past few months of journal writing. It requires a lot more than just the words of a story.

Over the past year I’ve used Headspace to support mindfulness meditation almost every day. Andy Puddicombe’s guidance is mostly great, although the important 30-day segment on depression seemed superficial went I tried it last winter.

Today I came across an article by Stephanie Tlalka in Greater Good Magazine casting doubt on the merits of mindfulness apps like Headspace. It questions the scientific evidence that they can make you feel better. I don’t wish to disparage a website that has benefited me, but I agree with the concern that such apps may fall short of their claims.

I have a psychological asset: essentially I like myself and want to live this life. When the firestorm became too intense, I asked for help. Depression isolates people, and some might hurt themselves rather than reach out. That’s what’s at stake here.

For healthy people or those who have experienced depression previously and want to become more resilient, I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend mindfulness training. And in the long run it may provide hope for people who are suffering now. However, beware of the self-judgment intrinsic to depression. It can quickly become toxic when the pain triggers old coping mechanisms. Even with the self-awareness afforded through a journal, I haven’t navigated alone.

If you are depressed and think mindfulness might help, talk to a trusted, knowledgeable person and make sure you have someone at your back. Likewise, if you think someone close to you might benefit, don’t recommend mindfulness training without ensuring they have adequate support.

Drawing water from the spring

Danny at the spring

At our cottage in Haliburton Highlands, Ontario, we collect drinking water from a nearby spring. The water is sweet, clear, refreshing and arises from one of Earth’s most ancient land masses.

I’m grateful for the work of local cattagers who maintain the spring. They have covered the main source to keep out dirt and fallen leaves. A plastic pipe brings the flow conveniently to a platform near the road. This year someone has replaced the old wooden trestle with a secure metal grate.

Whenever we go there, I enjoy reading a simple poem someone nailed to tree years ago.

Poem at the spring

Its fading blue typeface reminds me of the transience of human life—all our pleasure, tragedy, and quest for meaning—overtop a geological history lasting billions of years.

Standing on this trestle
While water fills my vessel
I contemplate with wonder
The water source that’s under

How deep, how wide, how far around
The crystal sea that’s underground

Sustaining life, nourishing health
Praise be given for such wealth

The municipality has also posted a sign, far more prosaic.

The spring arises near the roadside leading to a secluded region of seasonal properties not far from Algonquin Provincial Park’s southwest border. Nearby, ambitious canoeists can penetrate one of the park’s backwoods access points via Dividing Lake Provincial Nature Reserve. A few rare old growth white pines are reported to dot the forest there, though one of their stands was destroyed by a tornado about 20 years ago.

My father and I once hiked the requisite portage from Kimball Lake to Rockaway Lake. It’s 2.7 kilometres long and ascends at least 70 metres. We scrambled through soggy wetland and slippery crevices. I couldn’t imagine carrying a canoe and a week’s supplies, at least not in this body and lifetime.

Haliburton is less famous and more laid-back than adjoining Muskoka, both part of Ontario’s cottage country. In Ontario, Adirondack Chairs are called Muskoka Chairs. With that naming, Haliburton and the Kawarthas got overlooked along with all the wilderness further north.

Popularly called Haliburton Highlands, this is one of the highest points on the Canadian Shield in Ontario. In researching this, I discovered it was named after Thomas Chandler Haliburton, a Nova Scotia politician in the 19th Century, international best-selling author, and a founder of North American humour. I’d never heard of him before.

Geographically it is part of the Laurentian Uplands of Southern Quebec and Central Ontario. This formation extends into parts of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan and New York, where it is known as the Superior Upland. Quebec’s Laurentian Mountains and New York’s Adirondacks belong to it. These rocks were formed about 2.5 billion years ago.

They collided with some even older land masses up to 4.2 billion years old. The resulting Canadian Shield covers most of Ontario, Quebec and Labrador, northern Manitoba and Saskatchewan, all of the Canadian Arctic, and Greenland. It once contained mountains higher than any on Earth today, but they have been worn down by erosion.

Glaciation during the past few million years has shaped the landscape existing today: more rolling than mountainous, with thin topsoil. Thousands of small lakes and rivers dot the Canadian Shield. Young watersheds still haven’t sorted themselves out. Bogs are common, known in many parts of Canada by the Cree word, muskeg. Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven painters made this scenery more familiar to the world. Muskoka and Haliburton Counties are famous for low cliffs of pink granite emerging from serene lakes.

Although the Shield has supported important logging and mining industries, it has resisted agriculture and urban development. For this reason Canada, the world’s second largest country by area next to Russia, has the second lowest population density next to Australia. Most Canadians live in fertile regions south of the shield.

Canada famously contains 20 percent of the world’s fresh water, largely due to lakes and rivers on the Canadian Shield. However, the majority of this is fossil water in lakes, glaciers and underground aquifers that can’t be renewed.

In fact, Canada contains only 7 percent of the world’s renewable fresh water resources. About half of that flows north across the Canadian Shield to Hudson Bay and the Arctic Ocean. It is inaccessible to the vast majority of Canadians living along the southern border.

Our cottage is located on Fletcher Lake, one of more than 2,000 lakes in the Muskoka River watershed, which flows southwest from Algonquin Provincial Park to Georgian Bay, part of Lake Huron and the Great Lakes. This watershed area features relatively moderate summer temperatures and high precipitation, nearly 1,000 millimetres per year. Vacationers come to Muskoka and Haliburton to escape the sweaty heat of Southern Ontario.

And they come for the water. Especially the water. Personally, I go there also for the solitude, wildlife and plant life, but I’m a reclusive botany geek. Even to me, cottage life wouldn’t be the same without that clean, sweet water, a delight for swimming. Fletcher Lake is probably spring fed, perhaps from the same fossil aquifer feeding the nearby fount where we draw our drinking water.

Drinking water

I don’t think I take this water for granted. I’m always grateful. On the other hand, I assume the spring and our lake are too far from anywhere, that no one will ever come demanding our water.

The Ontario government recently raised the fee for bottled water companies from $3.71 to $503.71 per million litres of water they extract from natural resources. However, critics doubt it will deter Nestlé Waters from mining an aquifer near Guelph. They argue that clean water must be protected as a human right, belonging to the commons. It should not be privately owned or commercially exploited.

The flow of water never fluctuates from that pipe someone has kindly set up by the spring. It will probably keep flowing as long as I live, but no one can tell. I doubt anybody even knows where it comes from.

Rights come with responsibilities, as demonstrated by invisible caretakers who graciously share this spring. A right is actually a privilege until we lose it.