The Sum of Meaning

I'm fifteen and leaving my first concert with my best friend. My body is tingling. I am five, swimming in the public pool for my dog tags, with people cheering me on. I'm twenty-five, holding the person I love in my arms. We are a sum of defining moments, perfect in their simplicity, magnificent in their complexity.

The smallest things often end up holding the most meaning. Its not the large 100-person house party that holds significance, but rather, the intimate gathering occurring spontaneously on the night of the brief, great black out. The large, planned out residence formal pales in comparison to the first day of snow, when we took the screen out of the window, and sang Christmas carols.

We are a sum of the moments of our lives, as they reflect our values, desires, sources of pleasure. We choose what has relevance based on our character:

Fifteen years old, clearing the table with my best friend. Under our plates are two tickets to silverchair, which my parents have hidden there. I'm twenty-two, sitting by my window, crying after making the Dean's list. I'm seven, playing mini-golf with my Papa. I'm ten, lying on my back watching the Northern Lights dance across the sky at the cottage. I'm walking across a stage, twenty-three, being handed my degree.

I am the moments of my life, magnificent, and insignificant, summarized and memorized and often forgotten.

I am three, riding on my Daddy's shoulders at the zoo. I'm 23, turning back to see my parents watching me walk through airport security. I see them cry. I am 19 saying goodbye to my sister, not saying a word. I'm 20, leaving a newfound sister, weeping just the same. I am 23, crying on the floor with my dog, preparing to leave my life, and all I know, behind.

I am forever, staring at the stars, on the end of the dock, in the Austrian sky, in the Korean mountains, in Ottawa, in Palmerston. I am the sum of the moments I have lived, a sum of the people I have loved, of the places I've been and the skies I have seen.

I am the moments of my life, in summary.

Exodus

During the summer, on Friday nights, thousands of cars line up on the highway, attempting to impatientienly manoeuver their way up north to their cottages. Horns sound,

cars are cut off; city dwellers already wound tight as a drum from a week of work are further wound on the highway. I, myself, don't drive, but last Thursday I found myself sitting in the back seat of my sister's car while my brother-in-law fought the traffic to our family cottage. Michelle was stressing over whether we'd make it to the cottage in time for sunset, Anthony was mostly just trying to stay mellow in the face of the traffic insanity (he did a pretty good job of it too. Dude is super chill).

Myself, I looked out the window at the scenery passing by. I watched the fields of corn, the swaying of trees, baby animals frolicking with their mothers. I watched as streams cut through fields and bloomed into pools, I saw the beauty of their blue-on-green. I mark the contrast of dilapidated red barns marked against the sky and fields. Soon, rocks could be seen by the side of the road, proud harbingers of Muskoka. I knew we were sitting in stop and go traffic, but I didn't care. I chose to see the beauty, because this entire road is the cottage road, and what's more beautiful than that?

Oh, yeah, actually arriving to this:

I am one of those truly blessed people who was born into a family cottage. More than 70 years ago, my great grandparents decided to build a summer vacation spot for them and their family. My Great Grandfather was a principal at a school, and several teachers bought lots in the same bay. Every summer the families all vacationed their together, with JB leading the way (that's my Great Grandpa. JB Temple).

My cottage was built on the cheap, but it was built by hand. My great grandfather's fingerprints remain on the ceiling from where he laid the boards. His DNA is in the boards that built the cottage, and in me. People who were born to our family, born to the cottage feel like its etched in our bones. My Grandpa, Bud, spent his youth fishing and playing at the cottage. He brought his own six children there every summer. There is a beautiful photo of my mother on the beach in diapers with her curly blonde hair. Many, many years later, there was a photo of me taken in diapers with my curly blonde hair. The continuity is comforting.

The cottage has kept my extended family close. It allowed me to get to know and love my cousins. Every August 1st long weekend we'd have a birthday party for all the summer babies, and this August 1st was no different. In a way, it was a throwback to the long weekends of old, with cousins, aunts and uncles, my Grandmother, and the newest member of our family, my cousin's baby Molly. She's the 5th generation of our family to play in Skeleton lake. This is magical. This place will be in her blood, like it is in her mother's, grandfather's and ancestors.

The sun dips down below the horizon, the sky glows red and purple and orange. The bay is calm and the firey sky is reflected in the waters. We sit and watch the sunset, and for however many we've seen up there, we look at it with new eyes. The beauty never fades. Neither does the love.